#an entire year of playing and i still just barely grasp how the pity system works 😭

[pantalonelover]

have : 11 pulls

need : 29 more

[violet-knox]

Land of the Unexpected

Year 6 - Chapter 50

Summary: Taking a lunch break, you and Severus take a walk to a nearby park.

Word count: 3046

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1 

~

Severus grabbed two more copies of The Shining, stuffed them into the new release section before grabbing the box carrying extra copies and made his way to the backroom. His eyes immediately found your figure hunching over several boxes, organizing the pile of books behind you. His lips twitched into a smile as he watched your focus and dedication narrow on the task at hand. These last few weeks had been heaven like for Severus. Spending all of Sundays through Thursdays with you. Sure it wasn’t anything compared to the time you’d spend in Hogwarts but considering the fact that school was out and you wouldn’t be able to go back anytime soon, the time you spent in this bookstore was more than a blessing. 

The argument he had with his parents the day he came home with the news had been one of the worst he’d seen to date. But if there was any fight worth baring it would be the one giving him the chance to work with you. His wit stayed in focus as he watched the spiral of anger his father emitted blast through the living room when he stated the fact that he’d be working at a bookstore rather than take part in the annual tradition of spending most of his time filing box after box of cigarette packs.

His hand went straight to his back pocket where he’d stashed his wand when the man playing his father abruptly stood from his armchair and rushed towards him. His mother’s eyes widened in shock when she saw Severus reaching for his wand, placing herself between them before her only son did something so foolish as to strike down a muggle. 

It was all such a blur now. His mother commanding he go to his room. He’d never seen her so protective before that night. He’d in fact never seen her act so cautious of him before and never had he imagined listening to her actually defend him once he left. It was hard to hear what she was saying at first, her voice strangely calm, or perhaps she was too frightened of the situation to raise her voice. But as the minutes went by, he could hear her stern comments vibrating through the walls. She’d told him off. Standing up for her son, something Severus didn’t think her capable of doing, but she’d done it. And before he knew it, the house had finally settled, his father resuming his act of pretending like Severus didn’t exist, even more so than usual and he’d happily gone to work the next day, loaded with caffeine in the hopes that you wouldn’t catch his lack of sleep and asked what happened the night before. 

But of course, you had. And the truth came stumbling from his mouth as he shared every detail of the horrific event. It was worth it, he’d told you. And he meant it.

“Where should I place these?” he asked as he approached you, gesturing to the box in his hand. You stood up and peered inside before pointing to a corner near the door. 

His parents, his home at Spinner’s End was never a topic he enjoyed discussing, especially after listening to his peers in Slytherin talk about their fortune, their glamorous life outside of Hogwarts. He’d shut down, changed his willingness to talk about his muggle life after that, even around Lily. But it was different with you. His relationship with you was nothing he’d ever experienced before. He felt comfortable with you, like he could tell you anything and be spared from the judgment he knew he would get from others. 

He loved how you’d run your fingers through his hair as he told you about his father's rage and his mother’s neglect. He couldn’t get enough of the small touches you gave when he mentioned how his mother finally stepped forward only to stop him from pulling out his wand. The gentle smile you gave him at the end of his story was something he’d always cherish. 

“Ready for lunch?” he asked as he watched you remove the cap from the marker you held and write something on the side of the box you’d just closed.

“Just give me a few more minutes,” you replied, “I want to finish organizing this pile before we take a break.” You clicked the marker cap back in place before you began going through the last stack of books, placing the appropriate titles in a new box while the others were stashed away in the corner to be organized later. 

Severus stood there admiring you work so hard, putting so much effort into the task you’d been handed by the owner. He had to admit, when Mr.Davis first approached you about reorganizing the entire backroom all on your own, he thought it a bit absurd. The room held way too many books for one person to go through on their own, but lo and behold, you’d managed to get through a little more than a quarter of the room over the last two weeks, supposedly without the use of magic (or so you’d told him).  

“Can I help?” he said, walking towards you, eyeing the three boxes you’d sealed shut. 

You took a moment before you looked up and registered his offer. Glancing over to the boxes you had stacked to your left, you nodded your head. “Can you put those boxes away on the third shelf to the right?” you asked, accepting his helping hand. Severus leaned down and picked up all three boxes at once, missing how easy magic made such tasks. 

It was a shame really you two hadn’t gone to the wizarding world to find jobs, help you stay connected with the community over your summer break. Then again, the convenient location of this bookstore did help strengthen your relationship. 

“In alphabetical order please Severus!” you shouted just as he arrived at the shelves you’d mentioned. He glanced back, your face only just visible through the thin strip of air between the shelf and the books it held. 

Severus placed the boxes on the floor, his smile returning as his fingers lingered over your writing, forever engraved in the box on which it lay. He quickly picked up the first box and slide it in place before searching the location of the second, then the third. 

Just as he walked back over, he saw you putting away the last box before turning to face him. Perhaps you had managed to organize the books without the use of magic. “I believe it’s your turn today, right?”

He stepped forward and pulled you in for a quick kiss, humming as he parted. Severus took your hand and you both made your way to the very back of the room where you’d kept your belongings. Severus leaned down and removed a brown paper bag from his backpack while you removed your nametag. Severus handed you the bag in his hand and did the same before you both made your way out of the backroom and made your way towards the exit.  

Walking up the street, watched for cars as you both made your way across, you headed to the nearby park located behind the bookstore. Others probably would have been sick of spending every single lunch, five days a week in the same spot, but you didn’t mind in the slightest. It was rather the company you kept than the location itself that mattered. The change of scenery and fresh air was a mere bonus. 

You tightened your grip on the little brown bag you held, wondering what Severus brought you today. The system you’d put in place, though convenient, had you feeling a little guilty. Yes, it was only fair to take turns bringing lunch for one another; you on Monday and Wednesday, Severus Sunday and Tuesday while Thursday interchanged between the both of you each week. But he had to get up early every morning when it was his turn to make lunch, careful not to wake his parents. He’d naturally reassured you, telling you he’d been using magic to make lunch and thus cutting the prep time in half. But you still felt so uneasy, as if he was risking breaking house rules all so you could have a bite to eat when lunch came round. 

As you took a seat at your usual lunch spot, placing the bag between you both, Severus took out a sandwich and handed it to you. You smiled in gratitude, unwrapped it and took a bite. 

“Did your mom make these?” you asked before taking another bite. It was a simple ham and cheese sandwich, but you could tell it wasn’t him who’d prepared it because Severus would normally cut off the crust, something you found rather charming. 

“Why? Do you hate my cooking that much?” he teased. 

“No!” you said, lightly shoving him, a small chuckle vibrating against your throat. “I just know your style.”

Severus smiled as he took a bite of his own sandwich. “Yeah, she made them,” he averted his gaze as he shifted a little. “Actually, there’s something I should tell you.”

You looked up from your lunch, wide eyed as his voice dropped. Something was wrong, or rather, something had changed, and you couldn’t tell whether the news he had to share was good or bad.

“What is it?” you asked, giving him your full undivided attention. 

“My dad left us.”

You froze in shock as your hands slowly lowered, weakly resting on your lap. Your eyes desperately scanned his face, instinctively trying to find the sorrow you knew any child would feel at the sight of a parent’s abandonment, but of course, you found nothing of the sort. “Sev-” you whispered. 

“No, it’s a good thing.” He shook his head, noticing the pity in your eyes. “He was a deadbeat anyways. All he ever did was yell at everything. The house is quiet now and my mum is finally getting a full night's rest.”

“That’s good to hear,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile as you gently placed your hand over his. He looked down and tightened his grasp around your fingers, leaning into the comfort you never failed to provide.  

You hadn’t heard anything too cheery about Tobias Snape. The little you knew about him said he wasn’t much of a father to Severus and you’d always resented him ever since the first day of fifth year when Severus had shown up bruised. The happiest memory you’d been told of was the dinner spent in absolute silence the first day he’d come home after working at Mr.Davis’ Bookshop which really said something. Though none of the things you were told would have you believe him to be a deadbeat, you could tell Severus felt much happier with him gone and you were glad his mother was still around and seemingly paying more attention to him. 

“How are you feeling about this?” you whispered as you moved your hand up, resting it under his chin as your thumb gently swept over his cheek. Severus met your gaze and smirked at your compassion towards him. Was it possible to fall in love with someone all over again without actually ever falling out of love? 

“I’m fine (Y/N). I’m happy.” He reassured you and you finally felt the tension in your shoulders lift as you resumed devouring your lunch. 

He sure seemed much happier today and this would explain his mother’s sudden interest in his life, making lunches, asking about his day, investing in his personal life when Severus had told you she’d never had such inclinations before. You began to wonder if something had happened while you were in school, whether his mother had some sort of epiphany causing her to change her attitude, ultimately resulting in the end of her marriage. 

“Mum wants to return to her potions career, now that my father’s gone,” Severus told you as you walked beside him, watching as he threw the crumpled up brown bag in the bin. 

“Oh?”

“She had to stop when she married my dad,” he continued as you slowly walked around the park for some fresh air before heading back to work. “But she has been out of practice for a while so I don’t know how easy it will be for her to get back into the field.”

“Well, if her skills are anything like yours, I’m sure she’ll very easily find a job.”

Severus still got so flustered whenever you complimented him, feeling he was undeserving of such praise. He held back a small smile, taking your hand as you walked side by side. He’d grown rather used to showing small tokens of affection in public. There was no harm in hand-holding, even if some members of the older generation shot them glances of disapproval. He was in love, and proud to have you by his side.  

“I hope she does,” he said, “Then maybe we can find a home in the wizarding world.” His tone emulated disgust, as if the town he lived in, the town you both shared was a burden he’d endured, happy to rid of it at his earliest convenience. 

You frowned, keeping your gaze to the ground as you continued onward. “You don’t like it here?” you mumbled. 

Severus snapped his attention towards you, your shriveled voice burning his ears. He’d upset you at the mention of moving away. Did you prefer living amongst muggles? Would that cause a problem between you after graduation? Would he have to pick between you and the wizarding world?

“It’s-It’s just that I prefer the wizarding world. Besides, my mother gave up a lot when she decided to live here. It would be nice if she regained some of what she lost”

“I know,” you replied, your eyes meeting his as you continued, “Still I’m glad she did. Otherwise I may have never met you.”

Severus chuckled as you made your way back to the crosswalk, heading back to the shop. 

“Speaking of…” his gaze returned to the ground as he spoke,  “She asked to have you over for dinner tonight.”

“She what?” your head shot in his direction and you watched as he uncomfortably shifted in his spot. Sure you’d been dating for a few months now and he’d spoken about his parents each time you’d asked, but you never imagined having to meet them so soon. 

“You don’t have to come” he quickly added as if he’d almost forgotten to take on an escape route to the trap he’d set. But watching him slouch a little lower than usual, you got the distinct impression he’d been forced to extend the invitation he offered. 

That house was nothing to be proud of. Nothing to flaunt, nothing to show any respectable guest. He’d thought his ears had betrayed him this morning when he heard the words stumble from his mother’s lips as she handed him the lunch she’d unexpectedly prepared. It was odd enough seeing her take out her wand to cook but to actually ask him to bring you over for dinner. It was a request he still could not wrap his brain around. What did she care who he dated? 

Better yet, how could she think he’d want to bring you to a house with nothing but bad energy surrounding it. Spinner’s End wasn’t a place locals like you would want to wander down, let alone enter a house located in the area. He didn’t want the impression of a poor neglected and abused boy etched into your brain when you saw him. He wanted to keep your view of him subjected to what you saw of him at Hogwarts; the intelligent, dedicated and loving boyfriend you’d come to accept into your life. 

“No, of course I’ll come. I’d be happy to.” Severus watched as your voice dropped, your hands brushing the worn jeans you wore, your eyes speaking words of worry and discontent. “It’s just.. Unexpected is all,” you said as you turned the corner after crossing the street, the entrance to the shop now in your line of sight. “Do you think we could pass by my place first before we head over to yours?” 

“You don’t have to worry about impressing her, you look fine,” he said, deducing your concern came from the impressionable outfit you seemed to prefer wearing when working at the bookshop.

“Can I change anyways?” you pleaded, hoping that a change of clothing would help ease the nerves prickling your skin. 

“Of course,” he shot you a reassuring smile as he held the door open for you. 

Greeting Mr.Davis, you both made your way back to the backroom to retrieve your nametags before heading back to work. Severus’ home situation went straight over your head as your thoughts filled with what you could possibly say to his mother when you met. Should you thank her for today’s lunch or was that too obviously nice? What would she think if you showed up in a knee length dress? You’d neglected to wash your hair today, would she be disappointed in your lack of grooming? 

Your thoughts swam as you tried to resume your work. But bringing your mind back into focus was surely one task you wouldn’t be able to accomplish. No spell to help you deal with your rising anxiety. You couldn’t even talk to Severus about how you felt. Watching his disappointment at the mention of you meeting his mother was hard enough, you couldn’t bear to see the reaction you’d get if you told him you were dreadfully nervous to meet his mother.  

With a deep breath you turned your attention back to the corner you’d placed yourself in, organizing books as Severus left the room. Peering over the titles of each book, you discreetly pulled out your wand and watched the books you wished to pull fly out of their respective locations and gently land at your feet before you took a seat and began rummaging through them. At least this bloody task would help provide some distraction as you did all you could to push the thought of tonight's upcoming events away and went back to work.

~

Next Chapter

~

@dusk-realm @a-slytherin-sin @trashandshook @sneezy-s @emsdroid @leah-halliwell92 @dellightfullydeceitful @malfoymendes @sparklingkeylimepie @nameless-sovereign @living-in-margins @justanobodyinthisbigworld @soft-slytherin-sweetie @youtube4life10 @scarletmoon83 @fluffymadamina @sleepysnapesnake

[spamzineglasgow]

Bon Iver’s hauntological i,i (William Fleming)

Image Copyright: Bon Iver / Jagjaguwar 

In this essay, William Fleming takes a detailed look at bon iver’s new album, i,i: through acid communist hauntology to oedipal melancholia and the future’s cybernetic fracture. 

> This week I’ve been reading Mark Fisher and listening to Bon Iver’s new album on repeat so I combined the two.

-

> Mark Fisher, in his Ghosts of My Life (2014), laments the dearth of creativity in popular music after the turn of the century, the loss of experimentation and of hearing something New and Radical, and the persistent replication of past methods, sounds and images. Fisher was no Adorno though (I don’t think anyway?). His essays are emotive and developed from a deep desire for a compassionate politics; Ghosts evokes the pathos of his seminal Capitalist Realism (2009). One of the key themes associated with his work on pop culture, is the use of the Derridean term ‘Hauntology’: the haunted ontology of futures that never came to be, the spectral disturbance of time and place as the possibility of political becoming dissipates. As he details in Ghosts, Fisher initially used hauntology as a genre-defining term for music. He identified artists which were 'suffused with an overwhelming melancholy; and they were preoccupied with the way in which technology materialised memory', this results in us being made 'conscious of the playback systems’ and of ‘the difference between analogue and digital’, 'hovering' out of reach behind the media’. Fisher uses this conceptual framework to analyse a raft of musicians and their work but there is a consistent emphasis on the political narratives of class and race which shape these cultural offshoots.

> Despite being one of the biggest records of this summer – and thus perhaps a bit bait for me to discuss? – Bon Iver’s i,i bares all the hallmarks of the hauntological genre: melancholia, the clash of digital and analogue, anachronism, the suggestion of political solidarity, artistic experimentation.

-

> First a confession: I first listened to Bon Iver because, in 2011, there was a girl on twitter I fancied who posted a video to Birdy’s Skinny Love. Birdy’s rendition is a wisp of a song, sad and grasping and completely lost on a shallow sixteen-year old and probably rightfully so. Failing to select the next song, I’m guessing Bon Iver’s original version played. For the first time I felt I’d discovered adult Sad Music. None of the ghd straightened, dip-died, angst-ridden emo tunes I’d gotten into a few years prior to impress my first girlfriend; or the one ballad acting as the penultimate track on one of the indie-rock albums from my older brother’s excessive collection. (- Does anyone know how to recycle these properly?). I would wallow in performative sadness playing immediately gratuitous and instantly gratifying XBOX games, quickly repeating the heartbeating guitar of Lump Sum on For Emma, Forever Ago or the wails of Holocene from Bon Iver, Bon Iver as I pined for my yet-to-be second girlfriend.

> I went off Bon Iver for a few years: these days, the quiet acoustic melancholia of these first two albums doesn’t fit with any aspirational sense of masculinity of mine. Being a man and being non-toxically emotional isn’t about listening to acoustic guitars and barely audible snares whilst you lie sulking in your room or on the drizzled walk to the library or job you hate. Instead it’s about communication, solidarity and empathy – ‘I’d be happy as hell, if you stayed for tea’. And so, when 22, A Million came out I was into it. Everyone thought it was a bit shit the first time few times they listened to it but this gave me cover to pretentiously purvey that they just didn’t get it and listen to it over and over. It was still the same anguished voice of Justin Vernon – but it was finally coming to life. Revived through stretched synthesizers, neologisms which made you question the contributors on A-Z Lyrics, and deconstructed bass. The piano riff on 33 “God” interrupted by alien helium-infused voices and the stammering, looping saxophone of 45 are still highlights. Listening now, 22, A Million initiated the hauntology of Bon Iver.

-

> At times, i,i feels like Bon Iver’s latest album is a playback of their first album, but one done through a signal sent by an analogue walkie-talkie found on the abandoned spaceship from Alien: Isolation – itself maybe the most harrowing video-game I’ve ever played, one which is played in constant anticipation of being found. Listen to the intermittent signal of Holyfields,: the bleeps and radio fuzz a beacon we sent out into space, only for it to sporadically and hauntingly talk back at us – a cultural SOS signal.  

> i,i is the same guitar riffs from albums one and two but cybernetically fractured through time. The same syncopated kick drum but ripped out from the mid noughties and dumped in a Iain M. Banks novel or an episode in Love, Death + Robots. Fisher, quoting Derrida, quoting Hamlet: ‘the time is out of joint’. In these time fractures, it’s not just the music’s original location which is torn into the future, but also objective fragments of past culture: the sax (Sh’Diah) and violin strings (Faith) torn from eras when politics and music were still intertwined.

> The first track on the album, Yi, is garbage. But it is orbital astro-garbage – a notable anthropocenic feedback loop! – sitting uncomfortably at the stratosphere of an album which explicitly reflects on ecological destruction. Yi’s inaudible conversation and the ‘Are you recording, Trevor?’ set it up as a soundcheck for the album too. Including a soundcheck evokes Vernon’s emphasis on the album as a performance piece in the accompanying mini-documentary Autumn. In the doc, Vernon mentions the problem of ‘How is it going to be played live?’. Immediately, we are forced to imagine i,i as more than just another album on Spotify.

> Yi bleeds into iMi, a psychedelic echo of a track built from interspersing a melancholic vocals/arpeggio combo and an encroaching synth/dub beat combo. We is similarly eclectic, digitalised vocals juxtaposing with endearing, major-key sax. Following is Holyfields,, perhaps the most alien but most beautiful song on the album.

-

> Hey, Ma is the headline single from the album. An ode to Vernon’s mother and a sense of the sunrise walk home after the summer party (I’ll try and avoid further seasonal references: the four albums are set up to represent the four seasons, i,i being autumn, but IMO this is pretty naff).

> There is a sense of time passing in Hey, Ma, a nostalgia for the yet to be – ‘Well you wanted it your whole life’ – but with this passing is a sense of desire – ‘I wanted all that mind, sugar / I want it all mine’ – and of becoming or evolving – ‘You’re back and forth with light’. Becoming is the famous Deleuzean postmodern motif; i.e. being is constantly flowing and reforming. Bon Iver’s becoming, however, is not a flow, but a hauntological wrench into the future state. The entire album feels as though you’re experiencing the tech-enhanced evolution of Bon Iver’s music. That skipping between soft indie and futuristic synth reminiscent of the OG Pokemon games when your Pokemon was evolving and it would flicker between its past and future states. But becoming is never complete. As Fisher highlights, ‘futuristic’ no longer refers to a time/space but is now merely an adjective. We’ll never hear the Bon Iver made entirely on digital tech.

> For Fisher, melancholia is a productive force of political resistance. He distances his ‘hauntological melancholia’ from that of Wendy Brown’s ‘left melancholia’ which ‘seems to exemplify the transition from desire (which in Lacanian terms is the desire to desire) to drive (an enjoyment of failure)’. Fisher’s melancholia, ‘by contrast, consists not in giving up on desire but in refusing to yield'. Under scrutiny, Bon Iver’s first two albums fail this melan-test – they are a spectacular, self-pitying self-indulgence. Self-pity as a common form of masochism. For Deleuze, thinking through Jung, thinking through Bergson (yeap, I know), masochism is always regressive, flipping the Oedipal on its head as a form of un-becoming.

> Is Vernon’s song to his mother a masochistic form of melancholia; a self-pitying reversal of the Oedipal? ‘I wanted a bath / “Tell the story or he goes”’; ‘Tall time to call your Ma / Hey Ma, hey Ma’. The type captured by Maggie Nelson in The Argonauts (2015) when reflecting on Ginsberg’s poem Kaddish, which is dripping in, in Nelson’s words, ‘misogynistic repulsion’. Or is Bon Iver’s a hauntological melancholia? One of stubborn resistance. The type of mother-son relationship photographed by Donald Weber in his response to Alison Sperling and Anna Volkmar’s conversation on the post-atomic (Kuntslicht, 39: 3/4). Weber’s photographs were taken over two years in Chernobyl. The, now fetishised, explosion in Chernobyl perhaps the example of the nuclear, a hauntological theme post-WWII, made material. The bursting of a political, biological and biopolitical reality which was never meant to be. Weber’s photo of a middle-aged man and his elderly mother is captioned: ‘Mothers sought to be photographed sitting close to their sons, in domestic scenes of proud companionability. Their eyes signal an unalterable communion. And more – elevation. A man’s mother transcends the material order, and rises easily above even the most squalid circumstances. It is the frank declaration of her biological supremacy: This is my child’. If it is this relationship captured in Hey, Ma, it may promise a spectre which can be made material. An artefact which can continue its evolution, its becoming. ‘Let me talk to em / Let me talk to ‘em all’.

> Finally, that Hey, Ma’s nostalgia is a culturally productive one is suggested by one of its more memorable lines: ‘I waited outside / I was tokin’ on dope / I hoped it all won’t go in a minute’. In Fisher’s posthumously published Unfinished Introduction to Acid Communism, he, when imagining the process of resistance and a new politics whilst citing Jefferson Cowie, writes 'these new kinds of workers – who “smoked dope, socialised interracially, and dreamed of a world in which work had some meaning” – wanted democratic control of both their workplace and their trade unions’. The curious, outdated use of ‘dope' in Vernon’s lyrics then mirrors Cowie’s use of 'dope', echoing Cowie’s nostalgia for a lost working-class culture of 1970s America. Fisher uses Cowie’s argument to piece together an acid communism, which I will return to, but this, surely consequential, similarity further constructs i,i as a contemporary hauntological album.  

-

> Following Hey, Ma comes the Sunday-school piano of U (Man Like). Raising an image of a crisply ironed, white America, like that depicted in Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone (2000), which acts as a reminder that nostalgia isn’t always productive. However, the nostalgia is continued with Naeem ‘Oh, my mind, our kids got bigger/ … / You take me out to pasture now’. Fisher asks ‘is hauntology, as many of its critics have maintained, simply a name for nostalgia?’. However, he argues that it is not a ‘formal nostalgia’ but one of solidarity and of a longing for the process of social improvement. Naeem, despite its nostalgia, continues the flickering between hope and despair. The joyful ‘More love / More love / More love’ and ‘I can hear, I can hear’; the anguished ‘I can hear crying’ and ‘What’s there to pontificate on now? / There’s someone in my head’. The latent and angelic child-like choir on Naeem another hauntological theme. As Fisher declares, ‘no doubt there comes a point when every generation starts pining for the artefacts of its childhood’. However, Vernon’s evoking of childhood is one perhaps linked to the, at times damaging, trope of ‘future generations’ in environmentalism. It is still a political longing though – ‘I’d Occupy that’. Occupy: that great post-2008 political uprising which dissipated into a mere exemplar in an undergraduate geography textbook.

> Next, Faith brings back the aliens from 33 “God” but this time, for attention, they’ve brought their clean guitar and slowly morph into the catholic choir we began to hear on Naeem. God died and, despite the sexy, liquidity of our modernity, we miss him.

> Marion momentarily brings us back from the cybernetically fractured semi-future. Back to the £3-coffee coffee-shop where you’re telling your friend that you think you and that girl will probably get back together but you need the time to be right. The hope is sucked back out; we’re back in capitalist realism and Arctic Monkey’s fourth (fifth?) album. Luckily, Salem restarts the signal to bring us back from our self-pity, dragging us to the obfuscation we were enjoying. Salem’s witches are still here and they’re pretty good at Ableton.

> Next, Sh’Diah grows from an autotuned prayer – ‘Just calm down (calm down) / And she’ll find time for the Lord’ - into a yearning saxophone riff/rift. But, alas, RABi, the album’s final song, returns us to a blues guitar and Vernon’s vocals. If the oscillation between past and future throughout i,i was a dialectic, the depressing outcome is ‘consumer capitalism’s model of ordinariness' (Fisher) of the neoliberal present. As in Fisher’s hauntology, the technologically-infused creativity of i,i is a lost future. Watching Vernon being interviewed feels like this. He’s got the Pacific-North-West hipster look: vegan but drives a V6 truck. Goes to the craft brewer’s bar and talks about that latest public health campaign to encourage men to talk about mental health over a pint but refrains from actually talking about depression. (Maybe serving beer in 2/3rd schooners means you never end up getting to the important part of the conversation?)

-

> But why does it matter? Because it’s about political and cultural (and creative) imagination. Fisher’s last big, and tragically but appropriately unfinished, philosophy is that of Acid Communism. Maybe there is a future !

> Fisher mourned not only the flattening of pop music, but also the ‘culture constellated around music (fashion, discourse, cover art)’. In contrast to a digital album which you never perceive in any physical manner, Bon Iver have emphasised various forms of art in their work, ensuring a communal creativity. There are multiple iterations of the album cover art on public posters and on social media. More excitingly though, is the collaboration with WHITEvoid, a Berlin-based sculpture group/company, which is discussed on Autumn. Prepared for live performances, WHITEvoid have constructed an ensemble of floating mirrors and kinetic lighting made from ‘space-age metal’ and motion tracking sensors. An artistic contribution as ethereal and tech-enhanced as the accompanying music and one which aestheticises our material sciences. The lighting provided by WHITEvoid in collaboration with the experimentation in sound system, similarly shown on Autumn, constructs the performance of i,i as an ongoing innovation and experimentation. The effort put into the upcoming live performances of i,i ensure that it is a music to be experienced not merely consumed. In another discussion on Autumn, Michael Brown, Bon Iver’s Artistic Director, says ‘you have to be in the moment with other people, you have to be able to know that the person next to you is having the same communal experience’.

> In Krisis (2018:2), Matt Colquhoun sees acid communism as a “project beyond the pleasure principle” (2) and of an “experimental” politics. If the sounds of i,i are hauntological, then the spectre it suggests is one of acid communism. The acid is provided by its accompanying artistic experimentation and the communism is its emphasis on the political and the communal.

~

Text: William Fleming

Published 30/8/19

[zoadgo]

Kinktober Day Four | Mirror Sex | day by day by day we’re falling down; but life goes on | Bellamy x Murphy | The 100

Words: 3293

Tags: Mirror Sex, Anal sex, Reacharound, Orgasm delay, Self confidence issues, Insecure Murphy, Canon compliant, Self loathing, Eating Disorder, Mild Starvation/Anorexia, Mentions of Becho, Everyone is poly, Bellamy can’t resist making inspirational speeches even during sex

Note that this is a kinktober prompt fill. It will be explicit smut, and quite likely, kinky. Mind the tags.

ao3

It's always in the dark. Lights off, little foreplay, usually after some fight or another. At first it doesn't bother Bellamy. Why should it? Most interactions with Murphy these days are fights, and sex has never been a huge issue for him. He's good at it and enjoys it, and clearly so does Murphy. Or at least, Bellamy thought he did.

But time goes on, and Bellamy finds himself manhandling Murphy more and more, and it feels like something else is going on, other than them finding a release for their frustrations with each other. It's something in the way Murphy always manages to swing it so he's facing away from Bellamy, or maybe it's his near abusive dirty talk that seems to be trying to goad Bellamy to be more than merely rough with him. Or the way he always kicks Bellamy out immediately, the way he rebuffs any and all approaches that don't start with aggression.

Mostly, in the end, it's the way he always turns the lights out, and how the mirror in his room is covered. Bellamy knows what that means, knows that insecurity that refuses to see pleasure without pain, or to see one's own self in any sort of positive light. It's not a surprise, after everything Murphy has been through, but it saddens Bellamy, still.

Guilt gnaws at him, for having fed into Murphy's cycle of self-doubt, however unintentionally he had done so. It sets him on edge, so the next time everyone’s fighting to avoid being the one to bring Murphy his food, Bellamy steps up. He grabs the dish in silence, and everyone laughs at Murphy’s expense, figuring Bellamy’s going to lecture him again. Well, he might end up lecturing him, but that’s not the plan.

The halls that Murphy has claimed as his own are silent, but Bellamy knows that might not mean anything. Murphy’s gotten very, very good at moving silently, slipping through the halls and stalking them when they come to feed him. He’s halfway to being some wild creature, but he was never far from that in the first place. Always a bit unrestrained, an agent of chaos. It was what had drawn Bellamy to him in this first days on the ground, and now he knows he did a major disservice by feeding into that destructive violence.

Up here, the only thing Murphy can destroy is himself.

Bellamy makes it to Murphy’s actual room without any issue other than the feeling of eyes on his neck the whole time. He grumbles and shrugs his shoulders, barging into the room without announcing himself. If Murphy is in there, which Bellamy highly suspects he isn’t, he’ll have heard him approaching.

The room is dark, unkempt, and most importantly, empty. No angry creature springs at him, so Bellamy steps in, setting the food aside. He needs to talk to Murphy, and he’s more than okay to wait here until Murphy stops playing cat and mouse with him. Crossing his arms over his chest, Bellamy walks to stand in front of the mirror.

There’s still the blanket slung haphazardly over it, almost as if by accident. But it’s always there, always hiding the reflection. Bellamy frowns deeply and grabs the fabric to whisk it away, stopping at the sound of a bowl clattering to the ground behind him. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know what that means.

“You know that’s all you get for the day, Murphy,” Bellamy scolds, voice more tired than angry.

“You know I don’t care.” Murphy’s words carry far more heat than they need to, all the fury that Bellamy gave up on long ago. “Why are you here, Bellamy?”

Bellamy releases the blanket, turning with a sigh. Murphy’s leaning it the doorway, fists balled up, ready for a fight that he’ll make sure he gets even though he always, always loses. At his feet, the slick shine of algae soup. Bellamy would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about just dumping the stuff more than once, but he knows better. They barely get enough to stay healthy, and doing the mental math on the number of days Murphy spills his ration only adds to Bellamy concern.

“I want to talk,” Bellamy opens with, and he gets no further than that. With a snort of derision, Murphy pushes off the doorframe, stalking towards him.

“You want to talk?” Murphy says the words as if they’re the most ridiculous thing on the planet, sneering. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“No, Murphy, you’re not,” Bellamy insists, and Murphy shakes his head, moving to turn away and slip back into his hallways. Bellamy stops him, as he never has before. It’s always been easier just to let Murphy be Murphy; let him walk away, let him ignore you, let him starve himself. So much simpler than the fights, and actually sorting things out.

Murphy reacts to the touch as if Bellamy’s hand on his shoulder were a shock baton. He smacks Bellamy hand away and throws a punch that Bellamy narrowly blocks. Of course, Murphy would take any excuse for a brawl. Bellamy struggles with him, but only for a few moments. In the end, Murphy is half starved, half crazy, and Bellamy’s spent the entire six years training with the rest of the crew.

Bellamy gets Murphy spun around in his grasp, back to chest, heaving breaths as Murphy still tries desperately to struggle free. His movements have an effect on Bellamy that he didn’t intend, his body so used to these little wrestling matches ending up in a very particular, fun way. Murphy picks up on that, because of course he does, and laughs humorlessly, grinding his hips against Bellamy’s growing hardness.

“Oh, now I see why you’re here. What’s wrong, can’t get it up for your little ice bunny?” Murphy teases with a cruel edge to his voice that Bellamy is intimately familiar.

“No, Echo and I are fine. You know we’re not exclusive,” Bellamy explains again as if that’s the important thing to sort out. He tries his best to shift his hips away from Murphy while still holding onto him. “Besides, that’s not what I came here for.”

“Really?” Murphy asks, rubbing his ass against Bellamy’s hips like a cat in heat. Bellamy chokes down a groan; he can’t deny it feels good, and by this point Murphy knows exactly how to get Bellamy going. “Because it sort of seems like it is.”

“It isn’t. Jesus, Murphy, cut it out.” Bellamy grits out the words, releasing Murphy and taking a step back before he becomes fully distracted. Murphy turns on him in a heartbeat, rage glinting in his eyes.

“What the hell, Bellamy? You don’t want to fight, you don’t want to fuck. Why are you here?” Murphy hisses his original question, and Bellamy sees the aggression for what it is. After all, if anyone knows about pushing people away so they don’t look too close, it’s the big brother of the girl under the floor.

“I want to talk. I’m worried about you, Murphy,” Bellamy admits.

“Save it for someone who cares.” Simple as that, Murphy rejects his sentiment. Normally Bellamy would give in just that easily, leaving him to his self pity, but not this time. Bellamy moves closer until Murphy coils as if to spring at him again, sneering, “If you’re not her for anything fun, just get out?”

“Won’t you even listen to me?” Bellamy practically begs.

“No.” Comes the hard answer, and anger flares deep in the pit of Bellamy’s gut. Not wholly at Murphy, although some of it is. But at everything that led to this point, every system that let Murphy down, even at himself. Bellamy shakes his head shortly, staring down the wild boy in front of him.

“Fine, then. If you won’t listen, I’ll show you,” Bellamy vows before crowding forward.

He captures Murphy’s lips in a crushing kiss that Murphy presses up into, greedy, challenging for dominance as if this ever goes any other way. Bellamy grabs his hair to hold him back, setting the pace himself. He takes his time with it, no teeth, just the leisurely shift of lips and tongues. As Murphy desperately tries to urge him into a more violent engagement, Bellamy is struck with the amusing mental image of trying to french kiss a venus fly trap.

Eventually, Murphy calms under his touch, and Bellamy unwinds his hand from his hair. As soon as he relaxes his grip on Murphy, Murphy breaks away, turning to present his back to Bellamy. The way it always goes, and Bellamy wonders if it’s worth it to turn Murphy back towards him, to struggle with him the whole time. He’s going to be putting a lot of energy into this, trying to convince Murphy he can have pleasure without pain, and he knows he’s going to have to pick his battles.

Bellamy’s eyes catch on the shape of the covered mirror as he grips Murphy’s hips, grinding forward in a slow, hard drag that makes Murphy moan. An idea tickles his mind, and Bellamy smiles to himself. Yes, that will do just fine.

Bellamy works them over towards the mirror, his hands keeping Murphy suitably distracted. He slides them up under Murphy’s shirt, over the flat plane of his stomach, the gentle ridges of his ribs that confirm Bellamy’s fears about his nutrition. Murphy arches into the touch, his hands clawing at Bellamy, urging him to do more.

With a kiss to the top of Murphy’s shoulder, Bellamy slides his shirt off of him, throwing it into the general mess of Murphy’s room. Bellamy’s own quickly follows suit, and he crushes Murphy to his chest, delighting in the feeling of skin on skin. Murphy moans, grinding their hips together, his hand sneaking behind to clumsily grab at Bellamy’s ass. Bellamy’s cock throbs, trapped within the confines of his pants, and he grunts in displeasure at the too heavy sensation of confinement.

He sheds them with haste, freeing his erection with a heavy sigh, only struggling slightly before managing to wrench off his boots. At the sound of his actions, Murphy echoes them, his pants being cast aside, leaving them both fully nude. With any other partner, Bellamy would take his time indulging in the sight of them, memorizing every inch of their body. He loves the beauty of the world, inherent and varied in every person.

But Murphy has no such patience, molding himself to Bellamy’s front once more in irresistible fashion. Bellamy grinds against the bare heat of him, dry friction only serving to fuel his passions. Murphy mutters in frustration, reaching back towards Bellamy’s cock, doubtless to guide it into himself with reckless abandon, as he almost always does.

Bellamy swats away his hand and somewhat awkwardly navigates getting them seated on the floor, on top on some discarded clothes. He positions Murphy on his upper thighs, just in front of his erection, which rests heavily against Murphy’s spine. Murphy whines, wriggling backwards until Bellamy is forced to hold him in place by force.

Bellamy licks the palm of his hand which is not currently occupied holding off Murphy’s eager advances, coating it in his saliva to transfer the truly awful lubricant to his cock. He strokes himself a few times, groaning at the sensation, even though the purpose is solely to slick himself up.

“No fair,” Murphy grouses at Bellamy’s actions, so Bellamy takes pity on him.

He lifts Murphy against his chest, letting him get decent footing before lowering him slowly onto his cock. Bellamy meets hot resistance at first, Murphy hissing in through his teeth, but it yields to his advances quickly enough. Although Bellamy knows Murphy would be more than happy to simply take him in one swift thrust, he doesn’t allow that. Carefully, deliberately, he eases into him, dragging out the motion as long as possible. He loses himself in the burning heat of Murphy’s insides, the tight grip around him. Murphy’s thighs meet Bellamy with a mutual groan, both of them momentarily shaken by the intensity.

As Murphy sits in Bellamy’s lap, adjusting to him for a moment, Bellamy takes advantage of the pause. He leans over, snagging the corner of the blanket that lays on the ground near them, uncovering the polished glass with one smooth movement. Murphy’s eyes open at Bellamy’s shifting, and he makes an awful, pained noise as his reflection stares back at him. Bellamy looks just in time to see Murphy’s eyes slam closed once more, head turned away from his own visage.

He doesn’t understand it. Bellamy rakes his eyes over the reflection of them and sees nothing to be so afraid of. They look pretty damn good, actually, Murphy spread around him, pretty cock curving up towards his stomach. Bellamy makes a low noise of approval and reaches up, catching Murphy’s jaw to turn his face back towards the mirror.

“Look,” he instructs. Murphy merely screws his mouth into a thin line and Bellamy’s patience erodes a little. “Damnit, Murphy, just look at yourself.”

“Why?” Murphy hisses, eyes still screwed shut.

“Because you look incredible. Because- ‘cause you’re not the bad guy, Murphy. None of us are, and you don’t have to make yourself into that. Come on, just open your eyes,” Bellamy coaxes, holding Murphy firmly in place in his lap, determined not give an an inch until he acquiesces to his demands.

With an annoyed groan, Murphy opens his eyes slowly, glaring at Bellamy in the reflection. Bellamy simply smiles, shifting and grinding into Murphy. Murphy lets out a long moan, cock twitching, so Bellamy repeats the action.

It’s a somewhat awkward position, not allowing for much thrusting, but the view more than makes up for it. Any time Bellamy bodily hefts Murphy, the smaller man leaning back against him to aid in the motion, he can watch every inch of himself appear and disappear. He drinks in the sight of the flush spreading over Murphy’s chest, and the twitches and tremors in his muscles whenever Bellamy does something particularly good.

Murphy meanwhile, barely looks at the mirror. Bellamy catches his eyes in it a time or two, however, and each time Murphy turns an even more brilliant shade of red. It’s clear he doesn’t like looking at himself, so Bellamy sets out to show him exactly how good he really is. He skims his teeth over the back of Murphy’s shoulder, not biting, simply teasing the skin there.

He grinds their hips together, building a slow pleasure borne of friction and heat rather than deep, powerful thrusts. It’s a more intimate kind of pleasure, and Bellamy luxuriates in it. He runs his hand up Murphy’s ribs, which he can see a little too clearly even in the dusk of the room. He toys with Murphy’s nipples lightly, pinching them to draw little gasps and grunts, coupled with flinches that Bellamy can feel at the join of them.

It takes time, like this, coaxing a slow tinder fire between them, rather than their usual quick lived inferno. Murphy squirms under Bellamy’s attention, but he never tells him to stop. Much as he may put up a front, Bellamy figures he needs this. Something in the way he presses into Bellamy’s hands and whines with open need tells him the truth of this.

Although Murphy avoids looking at the mirror for the most part, he doesn’t close his eyes again, except for in brief little flutters. Bellamy notes this, as he notes everything he can see in the reflection. Murphy truly does look incredible, spread out on display like this, taking Bellamy deep within him. His lean body is so pale, such a contrast to Bellamy’s musculature and well nourished glow. Bellamy groans in satisfaction at the picture they paint, eyes tracking the movement of his own hand down Murphy’s abdomen.

He wraps his hand around Murphy’s cock, smaller than Bellamy’s own but still sizeable, delight in the way Murphy half bucks his hips into the touch. He pulls Murphy back into his lap, his grinding and half thrusts growing in urgency. Murphy whimpers as Bellamy drags his hand over the length of him, pumping him slowly. Bellamy releases him after a few dry passes, raising his hand to his own mouth to bestow it with another wet lick.

Slightly lubricated, Bellamy returns to jerking Murphy off; slowly, just shy of teasing. He watches the way the skin around the head of Murphy’s cock shifts, plays his fingers along the prominent veins around the shaft. Bellamy feels near drunk on it, being able to watch himself fucking Murphy as he toys with him. It makes him feel powerful, accomplished, especially when he notices Murphy watching Bellamy’s hand on him, breath falling past softly parted lips.

The sight urges Bellamy onwards, and he feels his orgasm building swiftly. He grits his teeth against it, refocusing his efforts on Murphy. He wants Murphy to see how good he is, how well he responds to Bellamy’s touch, how pretty he is when he comes. He’s certain it’s close, with the noises Murphy makes becoming even louder and more insistent, punctuated by curses.

“You’re not worthless, Murphy. You understand that, right?” Bellamy rumbles. Murphy simply hangs his head, hiding from the sight of them, from Bellamy’s words.

“Please, I’m gonna-” Murphy begins, breathing heavy, a telltale tension setting in where Bellamy can feel him most intimately.

“Not until you say it,” Bellamy growls, fingers forming a tight circle around the base of Murphy’s cock, denying him his climax. Murphy whimpers, trembling as Bellamy holds him still with his other hand on his hip. “Say you’re not worthless.”

“I’m- I’m- Bellamy, please,” Murphy stutters and begs, but Bellamy holds firm, staving off Murphy’s orgasm and his own.

“Say. It.” Bellamy’s words leave no room for argument. He presses a kiss to the slope between Murphy’s shoulder and neck, gentle encouragement. Bellamy will make him feel good, so good, if only he would just admit such a basic truth.

“‘Mnotworthless.” Murphy mumbles, barely audible, and Bellamy shifts his hips slightly.

“Louder,” he demands.

“I’m not- I’m not worthless.” The words sound pained, dragged out of Murphy by force, but it’s important to Bellamy that he says it, that he knows it.

Bellamy nods his approval, releasing Murphy’s cock and giving it a few quick jerks. It only takes the space of a few fevered heartbeats before Murphy is spilling himself over Bellamy’s clenched fist, tightening like a vice around Bellamy’s length. Bellamy groans, deep in his chest, as Murphy finishes, gasping like a fish out of water.

It takes all of Bellamy’s restraint to wait for Murphy to relax slightly, then he releases him in order to lift Murphy up. Bellamy fucks up into him, desperately sprinting after his own end. It isn’t far away, and before Murphy can begin to complain, Bellamy climaxes deep within the heat of him with a breath like he’s been punched in the gut.

When Bellamy eases his softening cock from Murphy’s ass, mess quickly following, he expects Murphy to eject him from the room as he always does. He doesn’t, however, instead sitting there between Bellamy’s thighs, trembling lightly. Bellamy throws caution to the wind, reaching out and placing his hand on the too prominent ridge of Murphy’s spine. When Murphy doesn’t reject that touch, Bellamy pulls him to his chest, holding him securely.

“Sorry for spilling the food,” the words are a ghost on Murphy’s lips, but there nonetheless. Bellamy doesn’t know what brought it on, but he presses a kiss to Murphy’s hair.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Bellamy truly, desperately, hopes it will be.

[rosy-exe]

on the shores of determinism, the existentialist lies

fandom: death note, death note: another note

characters; beyond birthday, A (death note), roger ruvie, mello | mihael keehl (briefly mentioned)

summary: He finds it hard to ponder-why and what, in this situation, are so closely associated with one another that it’s hard to differentiate the two.

Why is life; what is life.

He doesn’t know the answer to either of them, and it’s frustrating beyond belief.

warnings: graphic descriptions, suicide, character death

notes: not going to lie, i've had this written for quite some time now but haven't had the courage to post it. this is the longest thing i've written for a one-shot, and i'm honestly kind of proud of it, considering that at one point this was just a careless project. it took a long while to edit it, and it will probably continue to go through countless more-the curse of a perfectionist. for now though i'm really happy with it!

i want to thank @apocolypticprince on tumblr for helping to beta this around november, and countless more people for helping to read through it and discuss it.

read on ao3!

i.

Time doesn’t exist.

For Beyond Birthday, time has never existed. He’s established in his mind that time is simply a construct that rules everyone else’s lives to keep people planted to this earth with a sense of reality. It’s a fact, really. Time is a theoretical formula that has allowed people to function, as though their life is an equation based on the matter of time and all that it brings. Time is a simple thing that tells a human when to sleep, when to wake, when to go to work. When to eat. When their doctor’s appointment is. When their next meeting is, or when they next have a test.

He’s never understood why he needs to obey this standard rule. There’s nothing in the universe that says he can’t stay awake during the ‘night,’ or sleep during the ‘day,’ other than the melatonin that rids his body of any energy; despite this, he continues to stay awake until he passes out into the next sunrise. He’s come to figure that humans do it just because it’s convenient, for survival. The sun that comes during the ‘day’ that warms the body and floods the planet with energy, filling the plants that he sees erupt from the ground and making them lush and healthy, depositing the oxygen filled air with its dangerous, burning rays.

Time is a simple concept that has taken over everyone’s lives. It’s a creation of man, to tell what the present is.

This, however, has always confused Beyond, for at this time, now, he is outside laying across the small bench in the courtyard, watching the younger children run around and play. He lies there soaking up the warmth, radiating from the storing heat in his black button up shirt. He should be inside taking a test, using all of his useless knowledge to better his competition, so he can, eventually, be a part of, if not greater than, the greatest detective in the world. It’s something that he wants, something that he knows he can achieve, regardless of whether he’s able to do the actual job.

He will do it. In the future, he will do it, because his confidence, hubris, is too large, too sure that he will one day be able to rise to the top; above A, above L, above all of the people who claim to be the smartest.

The future, though, doesn’t exist either. Nobody can predict what can exactly come, not even a second from this time. At any moment, Beyond could witness one of them trip and fall, and scrape his knee against one of the stone steps. Or, perhaps, he could stand whenever he pleases, and he could trip over his own feet. The future, for the most part, is unpredictable.

The future, he knows, can be altered. People’s interpretations can be altered, so they think differently in the future. Anything can be changed, as it often is, so that something won’t happen; such as him stacking pebbles against the arm of the bench. They will fall over, after placing about twelve high. They’re leaning towards him, so he starts to shift the mass of the rocks away from him, so that, when they do fall, as planned, they will fall onto the ground.

And sure enough, with the small plop of stone against stone, the pile topples over and onto the solid dirt ground, bouncing carelessly by the weight of gravity.

Beyond sighs and looks over to one of the doors. The future annoys him. The future makes this feeling of dread, a feeling of unknowingness ring through his body. Time constitutes when things will happen. Time is only real because people made it to be.

So why is it, then, when he looks above the heads of his peers, those numbers can be calculated to a specific date-a specific time of the year?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and he can only assume that this…this oddity is another form of time. That this math he’s able to do mentally, to calculate what he knows can only be death, is in its own, unique form that can be translated less elegantly into human time. The time scares him. The dates make him pity the children who have smaller numbers.

He sees A beginning to approach the door that leads out into the courtyard where Beyond is. He looks thoroughly disgruntled, and almost mad, but at this point in time it’s almost normal for him to always look like that. With his mousy brown hair, and piercing aqua-colored eyes, and that stupid grey sweater he wears all the time. His books tucked neatly under his armpit, and his eye bags prominent against his pale skin.

Typical.

“B, where the hell were you?” A shouts.

B shrugs. “Where does it look like?”

A rolls his eyes. “You know you missed your test. You’re going to fail.”

“No I’m not,” Beyond replies. “I rescheduled it.”

Do you really think I would let myself fail?

“We were supposed to take it at the same time, you know.” A grumbles.

“And?”

A sighs. “Nothing. I just figured you would want to.”

“I was only taking a break.” Why would you figure that?

“Taking a break during a test time isn’t really, well...the time to. They’re trying to prepare us.”

“It’s not guaranteed, though.” B sits up from his lounging position. “It wouldn’t matter if you were A, you could still place below me. They’re just supplying us knowledge that only might be useful. You know that, right?”

A is quiet for a few moments, taking in Beyond’s words.

“I’m not even sure this is something to strive for anymore.” A mutters. His eyes have found something new to focus on.

With all this heavy priming and training and stress, it’s hard to believe that they’ll ever get there. There isn’t a need for some of this curriculum. The job shouldn’t have to name them as backups. B imagines this is what A thinks.

“It’s not like we have a choice.”

A nods in agreement. “I just…hate waiting.”

“So do I.” It’s not just you.

“It’s been years, you know?”

“It’s not entirely useless.”

“I don’t know about that.” There’s a pause. “I can barely keep up with homework, and we’re expected to handle ten times the amount we already have. I don’t think I can do it-”

“Shut up.” B’s voice grows a little louder, “If L didn’t think you-we-were capable, we wouldn’t be the only two for the position. We’re the most intelligent ones here, A, don’t you dare say that you aren’t good.”

A lets out an exasperated noise. “Easy for you to say that. You don’t have to work for your grades.”

There’s a slow tension starting to build between them. B doesn’t bother to say anything to that. He’s learned that it’s better to just leave A alone when he’s on one of these rants. It’s one of those days, B has decided.

He figures they shouldn’t have “those days.”

“You’re stressed.” B says.

“You think?”

I know. “Let it be.”

“How can you say that?” A looks quite bewildered.

“Worrying about the matter won’t change L’s mind any sooner. And you being stressed isn’t helping anyone.” He says, mostly in reference to himself. “Only time will tell, I guess.”

Only time will tell.

A picks at the skin of his lip. “I guess.”

“Do you need a break?”

He nods. B pats the empty seat next to him, and A sits on the bench, looking down at the remainders of the pebble tower.

But time doesn’t exist.

ii.

Beyond has always been confused by religion.

Religion has always played an important role in humanity. It was originally used to explain what could not be explained. It was used to give humanity hope, especially in where they would go after death.

But this world has science now. Beyond can see how a body decomposes into nothing but bone, and knows how saprophytic organisms break down every little organic material until the body is nothing. He knows that this body was once a human, but is no longer living. The body cannot thrive. There is no visible spirit, Ka, soul, or whatever else you want to call it that can be seen.

Of course, he can see death. He can see when it will happen, predetermined, passing the laws of time not existing. He can see a person’s time-when the body will finally fall to the ground, becoming nothing but dead organic waste.

He just doesn’t know what happens after a person dies, and it’s something that has always plagued his mind. Is there a god? Is there a Heaven or a Hell?

Is there even an afterlife at all?

He supposes that the reason humans cling to useless beliefs is to comfort themselves. He thinks others may find it unsettling, the way a human can just disappear, because even though a person may live on by a legacy, or a name, there is nothing left for them to accomplish. Eventually even that’ll fade away. He guesses it must be hard to realize that, or people straight out deny it. Then again, who is he to judge the little blonde boy that grasps at his rosary like a stuffed animal when even he doesn’t know what’s after this.

There is an existing force that controls humans. He’s quite sure of it. He knows that the universe, the Earth, and all its systems are balanced based off an equilibrium, between the physical status of existing and an unseen force that somehow manages to control. It controls how people do things, how people see things, and judges whether a person should die, if a person is bad or good, or, simply, when.

When will this couple get pregnant? When will the child start to grow up and mature?  When will new data be discovered? When will death occur?

Another unpredictable thing, and not one that B has figured out. Natural selection is, well, natural. It happens every day, at unknown times, and it seems that humanity has increased the chances of killing off their own species by accidents and a conscience and dangerous machinery and feelings. None of this is natural. Humanity created these things to adapt, to evolve, so B doesn’t quite know if he should classify these happenings as natural selection.

But he supposes that they must be natural if he knows that that’s when a person dies. Natural selection isn’t just the random taking of a life-rather, a predetermined state of choosing to keep the population in check. Who the person was means nothing. Whether they die by machine or by illness is all the works of where and when.

The scene unfolds in his head as his eyes scan across the paper. A person-a woman-goes to work late that day. She reaches for her coffee as she is driving. It spills. In a quick effort to look for napkins, she takes her eyes off the road, starts going across an intersection without looking and oh, here comes a tractor trailer, well it looks like two people are dead because of this now and many more witnesses to the tragedy.

The universe is a mysterious thing. Because something made that woman look away from the road for just a few seconds. Hell, she didn’t even have to pick up the coffee. The accident, the gruesome accident that B is reading about in the newspaper could have so easily been avoided if the she had just paid a little bit more attention. Hadn’t looked away. B sees things like this in the news all the time. Robbers break in to houses and become murderers, an accident happens and the person whose fault it wasn’t becomes the blame, because they survived. But why does it have to be these specific people? B hates thinking of these things like fate, and destiny, because really, what good comes out of dying at the hands of another?

Nonetheless, the only word he can think of to describe these situations is fate. These people are fated to die. B has seen the numbers change before, drastically even, but the ones he usually sees stay there for a long, long time, set out to die at a particular moment. And in this moment that he’s reading about, it just happened to be these two people. The universe was apparently fed up. Decided it was time for her to go. Decided it was time to look down, speed across, ignore the honking horn and red light, decided that it was also time for the truck driver to go in that split moment of time.

He wonders if that’s just how the universe works.

And he wonders this as he looks up from his reading, across the table at A, who is studying with such fervor that it almost seems unnatural. He wonders what makes him look up from the paper at this moment, what makes him lean over to grab the steaming hot cup of coffee, what makes him take the loudest sip possible just to annoy the fuck out of A.

Well, whatever made him do it worked, as A looks up, looking exhausted and vexed as to just why he had to do that. B smirks. A rolls his eyes.

“I’m trying to take notes, you know.” A’s voice is hoarse from the lack of talking.

B folds the paper mechanically. “Sorry.”

They both know B isn’t sorry.

A shifts so he’s sitting up straight in his chair. The light coming from overhead hits his face at just the appropriate angle, the one where B can see every little facet that contributes to his weariness. He can see the glazed over eyes, the slight twitch of his upper lip, the bags, ever so visible, practically black at this point. The poor boy looks so tired, and for a moment B actually does feel sorry for interrupting him.

It doesn’t last long.

“You should probably go to sleep.”  B suggests.

A glances away from him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re going to die from sleep deprivation.”

(He can’t tell if he’s joking or if it’s a genuine prediction.)

“You’re going to die of a caffeine overdose.” Is A’s reply.

Touché.

There’s a silence between them. B takes it to look at the numbers, which are the same as ever, and A looks sad for a minute. Well, he looks an assortment of emotions-sad, stressed, tired, angry, but content at a second’s thought.

“Seriously, you should go to bed. It’s not healthy.”

A laughs. “Since when have we ever had time for our own health? And since when do you care?”

“Since…right now.” He decides.

“Yeah. Okay. It’s nearly ten at night and you’re drinking a cup of coffee.”

Which is a fair point.

“What’re you studying anyway?” B asks. He reaches for his cup again, ignoring A’s last remark.

“Nihilism.”

That’s not what they’re studying in class. “Why?”

A rubs at his eyes. “I don’t really know. Personal interest?”

B shrugs. “Heavy material for so late.”

“I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair, which looks as though it hasn’t been washed in a few days. “I’m really tired.”

“I said go to bed. I mean if you have no real work to do now then might as well rest.”

A nods and starts to collect his belongings. He closes the book he was reading and a very worn notebook, gathering his pens and stuffing it all into a distressed looking book bag. He finally yawns as he stands up, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“Eventually. I was going to finish this. Need the extra kick.”

A shrugs in response. “See you later then,” and he begins walking towards the doorway, hesitating at the frame for a split second before walking out and around to the staircase.

iii.

It’s almost appropriate for Beyond to contemplate the meaning of life after his discussion with A.

The idea of nihilism-particularly existential nihilism-has always intrigued him. It doesn’t strike him as negative, and he isn’t offended by it like everyone else. To everyone else, life means something. It’s simply hard for him to believe that humans are needed on this planet when all they’ve done is interrupted the environment and on a universal level, they are nothing compared to the complex function of expansion. Humanity has grown far and wide within the Earth, developing things that only actually exist based on their understandings, but it does nothing for the universe. In the largest perspective possible, humans are nothing.

Which backs up the cynical point that really, his life isn’t worth anything. It’s not worth money or science or, hell, it wouldn’t really make a difference to the universe whether or not he was dead. He can accomplish all he wants, and while it makes a difference to this world, to people and their emotions, it wouldn’t make a difference to the vastness of the nullity he and everyone else lives in.

Humans are the only species known to have the ability to imagine; only humans are able to think of things that aren’t really there. It’s how, as a species, they’ve been able to evolve, how they’ve been able to come up with science and technology and math, even, numbers and languages and time. Languages are just noises that signify meaning, technology seemingly random variations of numbers that mean something to another man-made machine, science being used as a mean to explain the previously unexplained.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it-everything has to have a meaning or an explanation, and everything is why.

So, why is it that he is alive? Why has nature created him, his body, his mind that spins like wheels in his head? The little boy that always looks scared out of his wits would tell him that it’s because of God, and he’s set him out on a path to get to an achievement, and the world will eventually need him, which B thinks is a load of bullshit. He’s one person. He has the power to make an impact on humans, and he knows that he can do it, but what does it mean? What does it mean to the universe?

Nothing, absolutely nothing in the long run. It doesn’t mean anything to him, and he doesn’t get why it would mean anything to anyone else; so why is it that he is alive, when he can easily choose not to go forth with actions of any kind?

He’s back to square one.

If he can’t know why, there’s always room for what, which he finds to be just as complicated of a matter.

He finds it hard to ponder-why and what, in this situation, are so closely associated with one another that it’s hard to differentiate the two.

Why is life; what is life.

He doesn’t know the answer to either of them, and it’s frustrating beyond belief.

If life is meaningless, then it means that everything people have constructed-society, conspiracies, government, morals-is also meaningless, and B finds some of it true.

There’s no need for set standards when it comes to people, and conspiracies go with the fact that only humans can imagine. Government? He can understand the need. Otherwise there would be a lot of strain between individuals. Morals? Without them, there would be utter chaos. Morals are important, he’s always known that. But some part of him, like a whisper, wants him to think that humans only find things to do to fill the gap of nothingness of life, living by these just to occupy themselves. Another, almost sickening part tugs at him in the back of his mind, if life is meaningless, and everything humans have created is nothing, then morals are just artificial standards to keep everything from going to shit.

He can’t bring himself, no-he doesn’t want to bring himself to think about that, because it justifies murder and crime and everything he’s being trained against. It means that the killing of a person is neither right nor wrong, when clearly it is wrong, but if humans are nothing to the universe and death to the universe is meaningless and one person dying is meaningless then it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s right or wrong, it’s just in between, it doesn’t mean anything-

“Are you okay?”

B looks around the room for the source of the voice. It’s A. He’s sitting on his bed with Macbeth split open, the spine standing up to hold his place, the same worn notebook next to it.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” B says. He’s sitting on his own bed with his own copy of the play laid out in front of him. He is nearly finished with the book, perhaps five pages left. He doesn’t know the significance of reading it. He assumes it’s only an example to analyze the complexities of people, but at this point, this is child’s play, and this work is simple; a pleasurable read at best.

“You’ve been staring out your window for ten minutes.” A states, and looks out his own window. It’s raining. B isn’t surprised.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?” He wants elaboration. B folds the corner of the page.

“Macbeth.”

“Just Macbeth,” A says, in a slow and unbelieving tone.

“Well,” B takes a moment, leaning against the wall, “Macbeth’s character, actually.” A convincing lie. “Antagonist or protagonist?”

“Antihero.”

“Clarification?”

A smirks. Game on. “Macbeth is very ambitious, enough so that he brings it to the point of murder to reach his goals. He can’t live in comfort knowing that he’s killed people to reach his goal and is psychologically unprepared to deal with it. But he never quite sees it to kill himself like all of Shakespeare’s other villains-rather, when it comes full circle, he pulls out this bravado in front of the English soldiers when beforehand he was an absolute mess. By the end, it was a game-he was fighting and winning in the beginning, dying like a self-proclaimed martyr in the end.”

B nods, “And by antihero…”

“He is the protagonist that does questionable, no-morally wrong doings.” A finishes.

“But after he realizes he’s wrong, he thinks it’s pointless.”

A looks slightly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Shakespeare displays the perfect view of a nihilist through Macbeth at that point-‘ Out, out, brief candle! / Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player / That struts and frets his hour upon the stage / And then is heard no more; it is a tale / Told by an idiot, of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing.’ First we consider he’s in the middle of a soliloquy about his absolute disgust for his life and for what he’s done. Second, these lines demonstrate the current view of his life, that it is meaningless, or rather, that the existence of such life doesn’t quite mean anything.”

“Why would Shakespeare include that if Macbeth was so determined take the throne?” A inquires.

“Think about it,” B says, “Self-doubt. Awareness. Tempted so easily, ready to do anything for his aspirations. It’s supposed to symbolize how this inner turmoil he’s been suffering through the entire play has brought him to his knees, and that murder wasn’t ever the answer. Had he not tried, though, and a warrior could never inherit the position of being a king. At that point it was a lose-lose situation, and no matter what he wouldn’t make it. Being so ambitious, and aware of himself, he saw his fault, and began to speculate the meaning of his actions.”

“It’s possible that Shakespeare was implying these views, but I think only a true nihilist could read into such a passage like that. Taken out of context it can be read-”

“-Just the same as within context of the soliloquy.” B cuts him off. A’s mouth is left ajar for a moment, but he quickly closes it and jots a few notes down in the notebook beside him, as if to end the conversation; a look of defeat washes over his once amused attributes.

I win.

iv.

B has always known that death is inevitable.

It’s natural. It’s normal. It happens everywhere, every day, and not just to living organisms. It happens to the stars above in planetary nebulas and supernovas, it happens to the comets that burn up in the atmosphere of the Earth, it happens to a pen when the ink runs out, finally drained from its chamber and rendered useless to anyone unless the cartridge is replaced.

A’s dead body is of no use to anyone. Perhaps, when decomposition is allowed, bacteria and fungus and insects will absolutely feast on it. If it were ditched in the wild, then it may have been used as a food source for animals, and still disturbingly enough as an item of unspeakable things. But aside from those rare and extreme cases, the human body is nothing, and it cannot be replaced. The physical form will eventually start to swell, the stopped blood will pool in the position the limbs are left in, and the warmth once produced by homeostasis will make the skin cold and tight as rigor mortis takes over. It will begin to rot from the inside out, just as anything else does, as it was meant to do. Again, it was inevitable for this to happen, and he doesn’t understand the emotions that come along with mourning.

The human body, at a funeral, holds a lot of emotional and personal value. People cry at the sight of it, for it, because once that body was thriving with life, because of how that brain developed a personality, because that brain is now unable to go on. Cell production has stopped in every which way, there are no more thoughts, and all B can think of is nothingness that can be seen by the blind eyes of the dead; a vacuum, perhaps, is what he can imagine takes the space of the once active brain.

So if life doesn’t mean anything-if a person is of no value-and this was meant to happen, then why does B feel so crushed? So upset and sad and angry?

A is gone. A has experienced death, taking his own life with his own hands. B found him hanging from the ceiling, his face deep blue from asphyxiation, swaying slightly from the breeze coming in through the unlatched windows. B didn’t know what to do-whether to scream or cry or whether to take him down, to check if he were truly dead or still slowly suffocating. He didn’t need to check, he could see that the numbers over A’s head were gone, and so was his name, vanished, and B had never seen the aftermath of a death; he knew that A was dead-

And he felt numb. Numb because he knew that eventually A would be dead. Numb because he felt as though the world was lying to him; numb because the day before A was a mess, and he wasn’t eating, hadn’t been eating, he’d started crying halfway through their physics lesson after lunch and B had to comfort him-and it was then that he finally got to see A up close, and he was skinnier and gaunt and absolutely exhausted to the point where he was falling behind, he couldn’t focus on the lessons, and B had thought something was wrong and there was absolutely nothing to prevent this from happening, nothing that he could do. It happened as too much of a shock. A’s numbers hadn’t changed. Not in the slightest, he was supposed to live so long, so, so long, and he doesn’t understand why he wasn’t able to see the change in this supernatural way. Shouldn’t they have told him the truth? Shouldn’t they have said when he was supposed to die properly?

And there’s that tricky word again, fate; A wasn’t fated to die this way. Is that it?

B had slammed the door shut because God forbid anyone see him like that. God forbid anyone see A hanging by his neck from the ceiling, and he ran, ran down the hallway and nearly fell down the stairs and the other kids were staring at him because why, why was B running like that, why did B look so scared, Roger was going to yell at him, but he skidded to a halt in Roger’s office and slammed that door shut too-

“A is dead.”

Roger raised an eyebrow at him, almost alarmed. “Excuse me?”

B had taken a shuddered breath there, and there was a tightness and burning in his chest as he croaked, “A is dead,” those dreaded words; a lump in his throat he hadn’t known was there started to make its way up his throat, and his face was suddenly wet, he was crouching on the ground while notes of anguish left his mouth and he didn’t know why he was crying or why he’s crying now or why Roger had to place those awkward arms around him in an attempt to comfort him.

The funeral has just finished. The priest has wrapped up his funeral rites. It didn’t matter if A was religious or not-it was done. Students are leaving the cemetery grounds, crying, or leaving decently saddened, and it’s only B left standing at the top of the hill. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing at the coffin, which is closed and glossy and black and wet with raindrops. Maybe they’re tears, he doesn’t quite know. He can’t think at this point. Everything has been a blur the past few days, and he is numb and sad and everything hurts.

It’s hard.

This is the most human B has ever felt, and it betrays the fact that this doesn’t mean anything, it shouldn’t mean anything. A’s death means nothing to the universe, and A is gone at his own influence, and who knows where A is now, if he’s in an afterlife of any sort of it he’s simply gone; and yet, A’s death means something to Beyond. He doesn’t want to believe that he had to die, he doesn’t want to think of A going to a heaven or a hell or anywhere in between. He is angry at A, for thinking the way he did, but it makes him feel selfish for putting the blame on A, because it wasn’t him that drove him to the point of ending it all.

He’s weeping openly, god he’s so weak, he shouldn’t be like this right now. He wants to kick at the ground and scream like a child. He’s grieving. And he doesn’t understand why, but he thinks A deserved just a little more time, he wishes L would’ve chosen, he wishes so many things at this moment-that this didn’t mean anything and that he wasn’t feeling because it just hurts like hell. Because A was his friend, and A cannot be so easily replaced as an ink cartridge in a pen can. Because A’s mind was not useless and had so much more to accomplish.

B thinks that maybe the universe isn’t meant to be understood.

v.

Beyond wonders, as he sits on the curb by a mostly empty gas station smoking a cigarette, just who he’s become in the past few months.

Things have changed. A lot of things have changed. For one, he’s in Los Angeles, hot and smoggy, as opposed to the wet and cold of Winchester, England. Two, he’s gone from completely comfortable furnishings to sleeping under an itchy blanket in a rundown motel. He’s worn the same pair of jeans nearly every day since he got here, and he hasn’t bothered to wash any of his clothes. Not that it matters to him. He can’t find the time to care about anything anymore.

He had tried really hard to be okay. He had tried really hard to adjust to the absence of A’s presence, but it wasn’t working. His bedroom felt too empty and spacious, the house itself was quieter, he didn’t realize just how much the simple state of his being meant comfort to him. It didn’t matter that for once people felt sorry for him-he didn’t want the pity from the little boy that always played on his Gameboy. Pity was and is something he would rather not receive, because it shouldn’t matter that they feel sorry. It shouldn’t matter that now he gets the attention, and what really made him go over was now he had L’s attention, even for the slightest of moments; the moment he had L’s attention, the moment he said I’m sorry over a fucking computer, B was done, because all A had wanted was attention from this guy, this fucking coward who couldn’t even see them in person-

B takes a deep breath on his cigarette, inhaling as much of the smoke as possible. It caresses his lungs and tickles his airway, the taste of nicotine settling on his tongue.

He doesn’t care about A anymore. He’s dead, and that’s that. He can’t bring him back, and there’s no point in wallowing in sadness and grief when there’s absolutely nothing he can do. And it’s a little strange, when he puts it into the perspective of the cars passing by him, and the occasional person walking down the road, that all their lives remain unchanged by the death of A. At the end of the day, A’s death means absolutely nothing.

A new emotion has recently arisen within him. Anger. It manifests in ways that he has a hard time keeping control of, like flipping the small table in the motel room and tearing up the skin on the back of his hands and smoking until there’s not a single cigarette left in the box. It’s stupid of him to do things like these because it doesn’t make him feel better afterwards. It makes him feel even worse. And he wonders just when he let these useless emotions take so much control over him, more specifically, why he’s so agitated all the time. Anger is one of the five stages of grief, maybe that’s the reason for it (he thinks for a split second), but he’s no longer grieving. He’s no longer mourning. So if it isn’t A, then it must be L, and that’s the spot, his grip on the stick of tobacco tightens, his teeth grit against each other…

Beyond thinks he’s an absolute asshole. Beyond thinks now that it wasn’t A that caused A’s death, but L, and he hopes the bastard feels awful about it. He wants L to feel like it was him that killed him, physically killed him, because that’s exactly what he did. A couldn’t handle the pressure, couldn’t handle the work that was given to him, he couldn’t handle even thinking of the future position. The position of L, if he were to die. They were just replacements. They shouldn’t have been fucking replacements. What if L had died, and A had taken the position? What if A had died? They would’ve just expected B to step in then, to replace A, but he can’t be replaced, not so easily. A had more emotions. A wasn’t a robot. A understood. L couldn’t be bothered to understand.

God, he’s back to that again. Emotions, he thinks, are going to kill him. He takes another drag from his cigarette.

L doesn’t have anyone to take his place now. It’s quite bemusing, since he knows that L will probably try again to find the closest ones to his own mind. It’s a stupid concept.

It’s all Beyond had to live for.

It isn’t fair. If life was supposed to be so grand, then why did it just give him that? L wouldn’t have died before thirty, at least, he doesn’t think so. It would only leave Beyond to wait and wait and wait for his time to come, but more likely A would be chosen before him out of slight favoritism. And wouldn’t that be boring, just waiting around? So fuck it, he left Wammy’s after a few months of trying to cope, after a few months of more waiting and even a few more after his eighteenth birthday and even a year after that on the streets just waiting for something to happen, He spent over a year waiting and waiting and now, he thinks, fuck it. If life is meant for him to do something, then he’s going to do something that people will remember for a long time.

If he can’t have an impact on the universe, he can at least impact humanity. Besides, it doesn’t mean anything anyway. He can still be as good as L, as smart as L, on his own. He’s thought of getting a job, but that’s too dull. He doesn’t want to sit day after day doing work that isn’t up to par with his own intelligence. If it doesn’t mean anything, and he’s supposed to do something, he’ll try and break L in the only way he can think of.

Beyond never thought he’d end up here. Sitting on the street, his cigarette nearly out, thinking about murder. Murder, of all things, and not in the way he used to think of it before. He used to sit and contemplate and solve cases, but now he’s sitting and contemplating and creating cases. Cases that L wouldn’t be able to solve. Crimes are wrong, they’re supposed to be wrong, but they aren’t right either, it wouldn’t matter if a few people died for the sake of something to do. If that’s what life is supposed to be for him, then he might as well fulfill it.

“Disculpe?”

A voice. A stranger. Beyond looks up from the stub of his cigarette to see an older man talking to him, nervous looking.

“Qué deseas?” His tone is cold. He has no reason to be nice to the man.

“Uh, yo necescito ir a…” He stops. Obviously Spanish isn’t his first language. Beyond feels slightly offended.

“I speak perfectly good English.” Beyond’s voice is cold, and his English-like accent seems to confuse the older man. He reads his name, Believe Bridesmaid-how peculiar that they share the same initials. He’s going to die soon, he calculates. Isn’t that a shame.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I just-”

“Need directions?” He attempts to take a final breath off the stub, but there’s practically nothing of it. He rubs what’s left of it on the cooling pavement and reaches into his pocket to find the pack.

The man, Believe, starts to fiddle with the rings on his hands a bit. He’s trying to act smooth, but the actions and stumbling speech is taking that effect away. “Yes. I’m not familiar with this district, could you tell me how to…?”

“I’m not from around here. Sorry.” Beyond lights the fresh cigarette. It’s sort of a lie, mostly so, but he wouldn’t be able to remember where the house he grew up in is from where he’s sitting. He wouldn’t even be able to remember the area. All he knows now is he’s in west L.A., by some shitty stores and not so good neighborhoods.

“Figured by your accent. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

He starts to walk away. Beyond doesn’t feel bad. Not a bit.

vi.

The skill of deceiving is one he’s picked up in a most artful way.

He starts by observing the people around him. He watches them with a careful eye, picking apart every little attribute, the motions that evince their feelings, what may be considered unnatural in what he’s seen. It’s easy to watch, especially in a little but cramped café. People are walking in and out with somewhere to go, coming here for a brief stop in their journey. For others, this is where the trip took them, thus their sitting down and leisurely enjoying their time here.  

Beyond watches in a state of openness, his body displays a façade of casualty. It’s different from the persona he’s been in for a few days now. On the opposite side of where he’s staying, he sits in the café, sure that Naomi Misora won’t walk in to see someone resembling Rue Ryuzaki drinking coffee in the corner. Eccentricities are what he’s looking for. Rue Ryuzaki is a very strange man, and Beyond needs to crank up the notch on him a little bit. Misora seems weirded out by him already, boy does his back hurt from laying under that bed for four hours, but Rue Ryuzaki needs more improvement. So here he is, a killer in perfectly plain sight, watching movements of people to get a sense on what he can add to Ryuzaki’s character.

It’s strange that if he’s caught (which he absolutely won’t, he’s sure about it), he’ll be called a killer. A serial killer, to be more specific. According to human standards, he is a killer, taking the lives of those who weren’t ready to die. They had so much more to live for, their families would say, the public thinks, but they don’t understand. When Beyond approached those people, searched them, stared at their faces and read their names, he knew, in some nauseating way, that there was no getting around this. These people were going to die on the dates that he had planned on committing his crimes.

The crimes themselves require an immense amount of involvement, as crimes do. He’s only ever worked on the opposite side, figuring out the puzzle rather than creating it. Sending the criminal away rather than becoming the criminal. This side is nearly as interesting as the one he’s worked with before, but he’s not quite sure he was cut out or destined by any means for this side. He’s doing a good job-at least, the police department doesn’t have a single suspect, or any sufficient evidence, but he doesn’t…enjoy these crimes. They don’t fulfill any needs or desires he has, only sate his curiosity with anatomy and experimentation; excuses as to not be bored. The classes back at Wammy’s classified many serial killers as sociopathic, narcissistic, and he knows for damn sure he’s not narcissistic. He’s surprised he hasn’t killed himself.

Does that mean he falls under the class of a sociopath? Maybe he has some tendencies. Then again, he has almost the same brain as L, so does that mean L thinks in the same way? Could L himself be a sociopath? L could become a criminal if he wanted to, just as B could become L if he wanted to. But B isn’t equal to L. He’s nearly there, and nearly greater than L.

Was he meant to kill them?

It’s a question left for him to ponder on. Had he not planned on doing these murders, would these people still have died? Did his arrival to Los Angeles influence the date to change, or did he simply decide to take advantage of the dates and coincidental names? His thoughts, his actions, did they influence the universe? Or did the universe influence him to do this, destined him to think like this all along?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. God, does it frustrate him too, because he’s spent too much time questioning the damn universe and just wanting to know reasons. The least the universe could do is give him a simple hint, because that force he’s wondered about for years seems to be controlling him just as it did all that time ago, just in a more brutal fashion. He’s learned to stay so open-minded ever since the unexpected death of A, and he can’t trust what he sees anymore. He can’t trust what he used to know.

God, he doesn’t know.

A woman in the corner is on the phone laughing. She’s very free with her movements, and despite there not being anyone in front of her, she talks with gestures and hands. He can hear her struggle to find words for things she’s describing with her hands. This trait is too common. His eyes flick to the man sitting behind her, who is quite old-his skin is wrinkled and his eyes appear kind and wise, and he looks out the window drinking a cup of tea. It seems he is also observing. He bounces his leg up and down-perhaps he’s meeting someone, or trying to keep himself attentive, for he’s awfully calm in his nature. Beyond takes a sip of his coffee and shifts his head to look on the opposite side.

A killer in plain sight.

How strange that is. He’s spent his time doing things he shouldn’t have, per what morals state. He did it on his own accord, to one-up L, and he’s doing a damn good job of it. So he thinks, anyway. His evidence is purposeful. His signature; there isn’t any. He smiles at it, because he knows L is working on the case, he knows Naomi Misora is working for him, and he knows that L knows B is the one doing it. He just doesn’t have anything to prove it with.

And he won’t have anything to prove it with.

He’s already decided that. He’s also decided that he’s going to die in a few days. How odd to it is to think of it so casually-he’s going to die, going to be gone in a blaze of heat and energy. Fire will be painful, very painful, but it’s the only way to upkeep what he’s going for. He doesn’t want L to be right. He doesn’t want L to see any part remaining of him. If that were the case, he could easily slice open his veins, or force sleeping pills down his throat, but he doesn’t want to be seen. He doesn’t want to be suspected with a face, and the media can’t do that if he doesn’t have a face. Fire will suffice for the chore at hand.

Will it be time?

What if I fail?

He doesn’t have time to think about that. Beyond takes another swig of whatever is left in the cup, grounds swirling in a bitter black mass at the bottom. Focus, he chides himself, you aren’t here for downtime. His eyes start to scan the room again-a father and two children sit at a table close to the counter. The father is too fixated on keeping the younger one sitting down that he doesn’t notice the older one, dropping cubes of sugar into his tea like there’s no tomorrow. The child must love sweets, and B thinks he’s intelligent to take advantage of the situation. He looks so focused on putting as many as he possibly can in there-Beyond has counted seven, eight, nine, ten from the time he started watching, and for a moment their eyes lock; a brief exchange, don’t tell my dad, a nod in reply, the child smiles and goes back to his sly shenanigans. The naivety of the child is all too enticing, so human, and he knows that the child will get in trouble for putting that amount of sugar in his tea.

Rue Ryuzaki can act just as naïve. He’s practically a child anyway, and this mannerism is something he can hone in on in the next two days. It doesn’t require that much skill-perhaps masking the overwhelming sweetness of the drink so it doesn’t show through his body language, but that’s about it.

The bell to the front door rings, and two cops walk into the café. Their presence simply won’t do, and abandoning the cup atop a pile of magazines, he slides out of the closing door.

vii.

Beyond Birthday is scared.

This is one of the only times he’s felt like this before. His gloved hands shake just the slightest, his pulse pounding against the skin of his neck. He’s been waiting all too patiently, taking in the air around him, knowing it’ll be gone soon. The time on the stove-the time that doesn’t exist-ticks away as slow as it possibly can. It’s been hours since he arrived in the apartment, and hours that he’s had this planned.

It isn’t that he’s scared of death. He’s scared of dying.

Death is inevitable. He accepted this long ago. He knows that eventually he, too, will rot into nothing but frail bone, and other organisms will take the place of his body. If he were to die naturally, that is. By the time he’s finished, there won’t be any bone left of him-not a single hair, not a piece of flesh, not even the beating muscle of his heart. He will vanish into the nothingness that may exist, perhaps scarring the mind and nose of Misora, or Bluesharp Babysplit, maybe even the cops. Whoever walks into this room first will find his smoldering body and smell the disgusting fumes of his burning insides.

But he’s scared of dying. He hates to admit it. He hates how he can accept such a normal thing, but not for himself. He wants to die, he wants to die, he wants to win whatever game this is between him and L and he can only achieve that if he dies. The pain will be enough to knock him out within the first five minutes, hopefully, and then he can just lie there, unconscious, and wait until that stupid light or dark or whatever it is finally takes him, but god, what’s after? It will have been worth his death, otherwise he wouldn’t be in this position, and he’ll be so satisfied; he’s afraid.

Afraid because he doesn’t know if there’s a heaven or a hell. He knows for damn sure if there is a heaven, he isn’t going there. He’ll continue to burn in the fiery pits of hell, or maybe he’ll be sent to purgatory, or maybe he will simply cease to exist. Will he see God? Any god? Does he even have a soul worthy enough to be judged? Then again, who is God to judge man for his crimes? That’s what laws are for; he’s broken so many since he arrived in L.A., his entire existence is a broken law.

Beyond Birthday is scared.

What if he can’t do it?

No, he will do it. He can do it; he must do it. He’s already dismantled the fire alarms and smoke detectors in the room. He’s already replaced the lock on the bedroom door, ready to be turned, and he has the canister of gasoline and a box of matches hidden in the back of the closet in a box under some blankets. He has the power to do it. He has the power to end his life, or try to, because at this point he doesn’t know how lifespans work anymore and everything is such a mess-

Breathe.

The shaking of his hand has intensified. He takes a seat on the couch, wary of any fibers potentially getting caught in the woven fabric of the cushions. The makeup he’s wearing is starting to make his skin itch.

What if he doesn’t die?

He can’t see his own lifespan, so he doesn’t know when he’s supposed to die. He assumes it’s just how the eyes work, but it’s shitty now, because he just has to know. He should know if this is his time. Thinking about it is probably making it not so. It’s one of the only things, aside from the universe and religion and time that is confusing him into a point that he just needs to fucking do it to find out, but this anxiety that’s speeding through the roads of his veins and roaring up into his brain that’s stopping him from doing it.

A died. A died long before he was meant to. His lifespan didn’t change. Would his? Would he be able to die with the same causes as A? He’s had this set in his head for months. For months, he’s thought of wanting to die. Is that long enough of an influence? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know and he won’t know until he just does it, and he starts to stand up from the couch and stalks into the bedroom, knowing that he has no choice at this point. He’s come too far to let it all go to waste. He’s going to die and he will succeed and the universe with all its control and fate is leading him to this, but it could also lead to a devastating end; not the one where he dies, the one where is isn’t done dying, and he’ll be put out and dragged to a hospital and maybe thrown into prison for arson because he’s left no evidence for the murders, he’d be fine with just that-L still won’t be able to prove a fucking thing.

He smiles at that.

Beyond Birthday twists the doorknob. Waiting isn’t an option anymore. Waiting had become procrastination. He’s going to do it now, face whatever comes next, because it doesn’t matter. He’s won. He’s won the game, and he’s going to go out knowing this, and L will know it too. L will know it was him that was working with Misora. L will know he lit himself on fire, shrunk into the flames, and he won’t be able to do anything. And if a bone is left behind? It’s not like it can be used for anything. He can’t be arrested if he’s dead.

Beyond steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him, locking the thumb twist lock. The Wara Ningyo hangs on the opposite wall as he enters, and he walks to the closet. His frame continues to shake with anxiety and excitement- he’s about to win. He digs into the tote with the blankets, finding the red barrel of fuel, finding the box of matches, he’s so ridiculously close to finally being gone it’s almost relieving.

A voice in the back of his head continues to question him. What will happen if he does fail?

He can’t do anything then. He shakes his head. Closes the closet door and listens to the sounds of the ticking clock on the wall, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, he feels as though this is the moment he’s been waiting for, for so, so long, even though it’s not been that long at all. He unscrews the cap on the canister, the pungent smell of petrol flooding the room.

He pours the can of gasoline over his head. This isn’t for A. This isn’t for L. This is only for himself.

(The mephitic scent weighs his clothes down like lead weights; the odd yellow color embeds itself between the filaments of his shirt.)

There’s no turning back. There’s no turning back.

Beyond Birthday, with both all the care and none in the world, strikes a single match.

[pandirpus]

INGRITH AND LODR (you wrote fic for them soooOO :D) and also Ati. And Seto (this is ur Ask box after all, so the OTPs won't be broken up in here ;3) @ CHARACTER WRITING MEME

Hmmm, since I haven’t written them a lot yet (shame on me for that though, I need to get that YGO out of my system to return to ToL my love), I gotta think about that for a sec… 

Not aiming to be a profound and complete character analysis, just things I’d keep in mind/would try to focus on to get the character voice right.

Ingrith:

1) Idealistic, but pragmatic. Later, mostly just pragmatic, but despite her disillusionment with the world, and most importantly, herself, she recovers enough eventually to still stand in for what she believes is right. And has a no longer war glorifying opinion on what is right.

2) Might be mistaken as your typical brawly Nord at first and even second glance when younger, but was always pretty sharp.

3) Not prissy at all. Physical. Naturally charismatic, self-reliant and a bit callous even. Always had a bit of a tough love approach as a mother and it got worse, due to, well, everything. 

4) Radiating confidence, back when she still felt like she could rely on herself and that there was nothing that could stop her. 

5) Used to be more cheeky and teasing, now more no-nonsense. Always direct, straight-forward, but later more closed-up.

-

Lodr:

1) Sophisticated, and cultivating that aesthetic and image. Prefers very much not to get her hands dirty, had to do it when she was younger and takes pride in not ever having to do that again.

2) Definitely a bit vain, and takes herself so very seriously.

3) Not straight-forward at all, always thinks about her words and is very aware of her image. Will rather not open up and play it safe so she won’t make a fool out of herself. After her family fell apart, she is this big enigma that no one gets to know, and she almost believes that this is exactly how she wants it.

4) Deliberately uses people for personal gain, and the more she lost any faith in anything besides her ability to influence politics, the more she convinces herself she is entirely self-reliant and superficial relationships is all she needs, and they are mainly there for her to have more irons in the fire. She gets her fun from more casual, strictly about pleasure encounters.

5) Never was a big idealist, and always more of a realist, and opportunistic. Looks out for her own.

-

Ati is answered already over here! :>

-

Seto: Again, not a character analysis, but more of the central things I want to get across while writing and that are integral to getting his PoV/character voice right.

1) Childish as fuck, like an exceptionally angry, maladjusted 8-years-old. He just as gloating, overdramatic, spiteful, emotionally intense and entitled, has zero chill, doesn’t listen to anyone out of principle and has little social competence and control over/understanding of his emotions. His social/relationship “skills” are either him being creepily, unhealthily obsessive or taking his baby brother for granted & being super neglectful. His response to any emotion that is not card game ecstasy or pure anger is basically ???? That also means he’s completely self-centered, meaning he only relates to/sympathizes with anyone when they remind him of himself.  

2) His PoV is super limited, as literally everything in his head revolves about his own wants and his hurt pride and whatnot, and everything is processed through the lense of his warped world view (winner-loser, no weakness, yaddayadda). Which also means he can infer little about other character’s thoughts and intentions, not only because he rarely cares to do so, but also because he’ll most likely be wrong. Everything outside of his little world of a rich card game obsessed duelist CEO teen is p much alien to him, and that makes him so inherently ridiculous and extra. It’s fun to work with that and to highlight how self-absorbed and how out of touch Seto is with everyone else’s reality without Seto himself ever realizing that~  The fun part about that is ofc that Seto is so up his own ass he is completely unaware of any hilarious irony he provides, which is my one goal when it comes to writing him (aside from wrecking him and rendering him vulnerable) - let him unintentionally make a parody out of himself at all times. 

3) Seto is pure 100% distilled issues & denial. What he thinks he wants is basically never what he needs, and what he says is mostly bullshit. Like, 99% of the time, he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about when it comes to himself or others, but he’s 110% convinced he does. (I did the numbers on this, trust me!) While he thrives on success and power trips, what he actually needs is someone fucking showing him his limits, and he’s pretty desperate for something he can’t quite grasp and won’t ever consciously accept. Not too deep down though, he just really physically craves getting his ass kicked. Making these things Seto barely ever acknowledges or understands about himself evident to the reader at least is what I mostly focus on :>

4) Vulnerable, raw and desperate Seto is love. Self-destructive Seto is life. And Seto’s behavior is self-destructive 24/7, since he combines delusions of grandeur with zero love for himself, tries to earn/measure his self-worth through success, is unrelenting on himself, and in many ways utterly unable to live a healthy life and to take care of himself. Tthat he’s living in a physical body that has inconvenient bothersome needs and limitations has to be ignored as much as it can be ignored, and he hasn’t coped in a healthy way with any of his issues ever in his life.

4) Ace&aro, but turned on by a lot of questionable shit. As in, dragons. And card games. As in, power trips. As in, getting utterly wrecked.

Combine both him being a sad, miserable lonely issue-ridden self-destructive teenager with him being a twisted, creepy, obsessive, jealous, selfish, controlling, power hungry, dangerous, vengeful dickbag, to balance his pitiful and ridiculous ways with his douchebaggery so he is both tragic and very deserving of the things I throw at him. ….Profit! 

[the-short-stouts-tavern]

Tiny Problems

Far from the cries of an upset business entrepreneur and his duo of elvish lackeys, in the central tower of Dalaran, stood a human mage perusing a collection of books. The Council of Six, the rulers of the city, were quite intrigued by the Broken Isles, temporarily transforming its central tower into a sort of end-all collection of tomes regarding the small continent and its multitude of unique flavors of history. From the bountiful knowledge of the elven ruins to the vrykul’s storied kings to the kind of berries the Highmountain tauren ate centuries ago, it was most likely found here. A little outdated, sure, but the knowledge to learn here was vast.

The human brushed her hand over her robe, making a sound from her teeth. She was no doubt collecting a lot of dust from the lesser-read sections. Far be it from her to make comments about how underprepared the city was in its hasty teleportation over the shores, but she’s just a small cog in a system. It’s not Khadgar’s mission to study the plant life.

That job falls under Sareva, budding alchemist and herbal expert. What a job for her to have procured. As if mages don’t already do alchemy on the side.

Illegal kinds.

“Whatcha doooin’?”

Sareva smirked. “Oh, I’m just attempting to understand this situation that Kegoc’s mentioned to me.”

“Ah! Keggy is having problems?”

Sareva turned around and smiled, seeing a small gnome standing in the doorway. Her eyes hidden underneath a large-brim hat. Her robes were dark purple, a far cry from the blues Sareva is commonly around.

“Don’t worry, Liteena. It won’t be much of a problem once they’re back. Just need to study up on magical extractions of various liquids.”

“Ooo, like poisons or something?”

“Not just anything, Liteena.” Sareva moved her hand out and, utilizing a small incantation, summoned an image of a giant teardrop. “The Tears of Elune, a Pillar of Creation.”

Liteena walked forward, hopping up onto a stool nearby to examine the image closely. “Iiiinteresting.”

“The Tears were said to come from the Moon Goddess herself. It and the other Pillars were used to create the very ground we walk on....when we’re actually on the ground, mind you.” Sareva looked at a small map laid on the table nearby, then pointed at it. “The boys were there when it had somehow been consumed.”

“Just like Keggy...always ending up in some weird situation.” Liteena sighed. “Leaving me out of everything.”

“Were the Pillars to stay in the hands of the Legion, it would surely spell doom for our world.” Sareva continued, still focusing on her reading. “And it’s up to us mortals to...”

She blinked. “Why were you able to get in here, Liteena?”

“Huh?” Liteena frowned. “Whadya mean?”

“This hall is for mages only.”

“Pfff...oh, that.” The gnome smirked and moved her hand out, sparking a small red flame. “Just need to show you can cast fire and boom, Magetown! It’s actually a pretty egregious ID system, you know. Demons can do that, too!”

“I’ll...be sure to mention it.” Sareva frowned, leaning back on the table. “I’d be careful, ‘Tina. Most mages would...frown about-”

The two were interrupted by a shout from the hall.

“Sir, this area is for mages only.”

“Ah! Do not worry, friend! I am pure Mage and these are honored guests!”

Sareva frowned, moving her hand over her eyes. This isn’t going to be good.

Liteena, on the other hand, had her eyes sparkle with anticipation. Her toothy grin spread ear to ear as she moved her hand to her mouth, stifling a small giggle. “He’s heeeeere!”

“Mm....he sure is.”

The hall’s commotion began to get louder.

“Sirs, please stop.”

“We, uh, need to get to the Isles Library. Lady Sareva is there and we, need to see her. We have an appointment-”

“I don’t care, sirs, standard protocol states-”

“Ach, yer protocols are gonna git th’ lot a us killed, ya daft moron. Let us through, we ‘ave a child wit’ us!”

“Right, of-...is that a tauren baby?”

“Do not question our lifestyle, please.”

“Yeah! Baby tauren is rock in relationship, so please be moving.”

“Sirs, I don’t th-”

“Do ye want a hammer t’ yer face or are ya jes’ DUMB? Let us and our baby bull in!”

Sareva grumbled, then shouted from the hallway. “Tenus, it’s fine! Just....it’s okay, they’re with me.”

“......right.”

Kegoc walked into the library, grumbling. “I swear on me tavern in th’ bowels a hell, I will smack yer guardsman.”

“Please don’t, Kegoc.” Sareva sighed. “How was the trip?”

Nysian walked in next, muttering. “Long.”

Nittenook walked in, having fastened the tauren child onto his chest with a bunch of rope and cloth. “We have made many friends! Many-”

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Noooooookie.”

ba bump

Nittenook’s jovial grin was paralyzed on his face. He slowly turned his head to where the voice laid. There he saw Liteena smiling at him. “Been a while...<3″ She hopped off the stool and, at a very unusual speed, ran up to give the draenei a big hug.

Nittenook’s face contorted into sheer horror. “...eeeeeeeAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH” The tauren cried out, shaken by the loud yell from Nittenook.

“AAAAAAHHHAHAHA! <3 <3 <3″ Liteena giggled as she held the blue oaf still with her tight grip.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH”

“AAAAAHAAAAAAAHAAAA”

Sareva frowned. “DOES HE STILL HAVE A PROBLEM WITH GNOMES?”

Kegoc shouted back. “NAY! HE’S JES’ A BIT ANNOYED BY ‘EM! I think...”

“Well they’re both annoying me.” Nysian sighed.

“WHA?”

“I SAID THEY’RE ANNOYING ME.” Nysian spoke up.

“OH.” Kegoc nodded. “Aye.”

“WHAT?” Nysian shouted.

“I SAID A-”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU FROM THE SOUND OF THREE CHILDREN SCREAMING, KEGOC.”

Ten minutes later....

Liteena frowned, floating in the air in a small bubble. “Hmph....let me go...”

“Oh no, I won’t.” Sareva sighed. “We both know what happens when you do that.”

“Aww, it’s fine. He’s just playing. I know he’s hiding his true feelings for me.” Liteena smiled with a giggle in her voice.

Meanwhile, Nysian was hushing the child gently while Kegoc was patting the back of the whimpering Nittenook, hunched over in a corner making the most pitiful of pot noises.

“There..there, lad.”

“Her grasp...it is......unnerving. Monstrous.” Nittenook spoke between gasps.

“I...feel as though that’s an exaggeration, lad, but....sure.”

Nysian sighed. “If we’re done, I have a mission from the priestess to fulfill.”

Sareva frowned, noticing an odd shift in leadership at the moment. “Very well, Nysian. I have found a few odd and ended remedies we could reproduce.”

“...remedies.”

“Well, we need to get the liquid out of the baby somehow.” Sareva shrugged.

Nysian frowned. “I could easily find plants to induce vomiting. I’m a druid. The child flew up to Grizzly Hills! We need some sort of magic-sucker.”

“Hmm...” Sareva frowned. “I’m not, entirely sure what we could do. Most processes we have in terms of draining magic tend to leave children at a bad state.”

“...as in...”

“Well, in order to produce some sort of effect on the power drain, it may...drain life essence from the child.” Sareva winched as she said it.

Nittenook’s ears perked up as he heard that. “W...wait, that is...not considered, yes?” He stumbled up from the ground, looking over at the two.

“Well, it’s not...completely off the table, no.” Nysian spoke first, which shocked Sareva.

“I....yes, I suppose we shouldn’t deny it could be a potential solution.”

“Never!” Nittenook shouted, walking over and putting his hand on the baby’s shoulder. “This...will not be debated.”

“Nit...” Nysian’s eyes narrowed. “The fate of the world is hanging on our procuring these artifacts an-”

“An’ if we were ta’ do this, then we ain’t no betta’ than th’ Legion.” Kegoc spoke up, walking over to the druid. “The option is off th’ table.”

Nysian’s eyebrows furrowed, then his eyes closed. “Then what do you plan to do?”

Kegoc frowned, then looked over at Sareva. “That’s what th’ mages are figurin’ out, aye?”

“Mm...” Sareva nodded. “I can’t exactly give a good estimate, but I feel as though, so long as the child stays in Dalaran, it’ll stay safe from the Legion until I find out a better way.”

“Then until then, we’re stayin’ in Dalaran.” Kegoc nodded.

“Very good.” Nittenook nodded, his voice sounding slightly more chipper. “A good plan, to rest!”

“Mmm, maybe we can rest....together.”

Nittenook winced as he looked over at the floating gnome. “A...ah, no. Not likely.”

“Hmph...” Liteena grumbled, then looked at Sareva. “C’mooooon, let me down.”

Sareva stared at the gnome, then brought her down to the ground.

Liteena moved her hand over her robe, flattening out the wrinkles. She then smiled and began to run.

Sareva was about to cast the spell once more and Nittenook slowly began to cower as Liteena ran past him and jumped up. “Keggyyyyyyyy!”

With a tackle, the gnome pushed Kegoc back as she began to giggle. In response, Kegoc smirked and lifted the gnome barely a foot smaller than him up in the air, “Haha, I thought it were odd that ye didn’t even register me, lass! Good ta see ya!” The dwarf moved the gnome down and gave her a warm hug. “Ah, lass, last time I saw ye was at th’ Brewfest last year. Ya never even saw yer pappy’s tavern.”

“Ah, it’s fine. I heard it blew up, so whatever!” Liteena smiled wide, patting the dwarf on the back. “Besides, your ale didn’t taste as good as Thunderbrew‘s.”

“I will throw you off th’ city. I know ye can’t fly yet.”

“I’d like to see you try and not get dragged down, too.”

Silence.

Kegoc and LIteena laughed, Kegoc smoshing the gnome’s hat on her head. “Ahh, I missed ya, lass.”

Nysian sighed, watching the two from afar. Inch by inch he noticed Nittenook walk over, then sighed again as he continued watching.

“Friend Nysian, if I may...will Kegoc not explode in mighty blaze from gnome contact like that?”

“Well, Nit, that is what is known as ‘correlation is not causation.’ That means that just because two elements are similar, that does not mean they are related. In this case, gnomes and spontaneous combustion is not one of them.”

“Ah.” Nittenook nodded. The child also noded, mimicing his gesture.

..............

“Are you sure?”

“I mean, I know it’s Liteena, but still pretty...pretty sure.”

“Mm...well, despite the monster over there...I’m glad things are kind of coming our way.” Nittenook smiled, patting the tauren child on the head.

Meanwhile, far to the southeast, in the human kingdom of Stormwind...

A scream echos through the darkened nighttime streets. A human female stood in horror.

On the ground laid a lifeless form of a male draenei, his once glowing eyes now darkened. His mouth was wide open with blood spooling out onto the concrete ground beneath. From the look of his weapons, it seemed as though he was a paladin. However, the hole in his chest makes it look as though a sword had run clear through him.

Nay, it even seemed like it was bigger than a sword.

The human stumbled back, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh...by the Light, no...no...” She looked around, then gulped. “I....I need to go and find a g-.”

No, no, that won’t be necessary.

.................................

Within minutes, there laid two bloodstains on the ground. But no bodies.

Where did the blood come from, people may ask as they walk by in the daytime. The guards will be informed. SI-7 will investigate.

They will find nothing. They search for missing people, but find nothing. Even families in town, they would search, but find nothing.

The families are gone, too.

Maybe one day the entirety of Stormwind will be eaten up. Devoured.

One day they’ll be there, too. One day they’ll be devoured as well. Oh what sweetness they will be.

Oh what sweetness I will indulge.

Oh what sweetness He will consume.

TO BE CONTINUED