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ultramantr1gger · 2 years

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yo i seensaw you liked the electric jester sparky man. i must ask. does the mans have any lore? or is he just uhh. a guy for a game ya kno. ive gotten a little interested in the marvin martian headass

tgeres so much lore i couldnt even get it all to you coherently its kinda like kirby funny guy with a really REALLY fucked up story. i will try to explain it to you but no guarantee itll make sense the way i put some things . ill put it under a readmore because boy. theres. theres alot

so some background info on spark first of all, hes part of an alien species called formies who terraformed and migrated to the moon agter a crisis on their homeworld. they are VERY technologically advanced to the point that nanomachines are present in the air and can materialize their thoughts whenever they want, stuff like that. ANYWAYS, before the first game, spark had graduated college, gotten a job, lost that job to a robot, and started street performing. a circus owner hired him because of this, but only got a month in before being replaced by a robot THERE TOO! while spark was thinking about not being able to pay rent after that, he noticed a bunch of robots attacking people and attempting to take over the city and he was like. well thats not good. so he went out there and started destroying robots. then at the end of the f.m. city level, he meets the robot who took his job (who he later names fark), made to look like him. fark tells him to give up and go home, which makes spark REALLY angry, and he continues on now to get his job back

on the way he figures out the robot commanding all this is named freom, and he wants to rid the planet of life by destroying the ring that creates the planet's artificial atmosphere. spark fights a few more robots, notably seam and megagram, a mage robot named romalo takes him to a base. there he meets dr armstrong through video call. dr armstrong is the one who created modern ai, pioneering all of the robots fought in the game. he created freom to protect the megaraph computer which is where all ai comes from and most are connected to. he also reveals fark was created to destroy freom if things got out of hand, but wasnt able to find an opening

dr armstrong asks spark to defeat freom, which he accepts because theres a money reward. romalo teleports him to megaraph fleet. on the elevator here, spark and fark battle it out once and for all, which

when he gets to the top he faces freom who says he is building a utopia where robots and living beings live separately. spark calls it stupid and upsets freom, causing him to turn on the megaraph to destroy the ring. they fight semi for real, and then freom GRABS spark about to WIN, but fark throws the Super Staff to spark from outside the metaraph letting him escape freoms grasp and then super spark and freom go battle in space and spark shoots him with a giant laser beam from his finger and thats the end of spark 1. he gets a blank check and uses it to go on vacation so hes not present in the second game at ALL

the second game stars fark, and i dont know much about its story so heres the basics. fark is repaired by dr armstrong, dr armstrong is captured so fark goes to look for him. robots flint, double, and float are hired by freom (not dead) to kill fark. fark finds out that he is actually freoms son (already crazy), fark kills freom once and for all (killed his dad) (transgender win)

SPARK 3 IS WHERE IT REALLY GETS CRAZY PLEASE PUT ON YOUR SEATBELT. after the events of spark 2, fark finds out about an ai known as clarity and establishes the fark force to neutralize her, shutting down internet, communications and wherever clarity could spread to. with dr armstrong, the force figures out clarity's plans, to assimilate every being into her world via scanning the brain and discarding the living body afterwards. now after all this establishing spark is back and very angry that the internet is down and he cant wait in line to get his paycheck. he just says fuck it and goes on an adventure to take down the fark force. in protest city he meets float. she says she has beef with the force too and wants to join spark in taking them down, which he accepts cuz she is simply insisting

theres a few backstory cutscenes, one reveals how freom and clarity were lovers, freom felt inferior to clarity as he couldnt experience reality like she could, so they created a child (fark), made by her and modeled after him. another is about float, a mysterious robot found by flint with dangerous powers, he gave her a new look and became her best friend before they were hired in the second game

they fight flint in mechs for some reason, which flint reminisces, asking float why she has to feel so real

after they open utopia shelter, and spark gets to fark which is in some fucked up white cyberspace area, he says that the force is over. spark is confused and asks what the catch is. fark snaps, the room is now a black void he explains to spark clarity's plans, and how the force failed to stop her. he reveals that float was not the real deal, but an agent of clarity, and that once spark brought her to the force's hq, it was over. everything was a simulation, spark reliving his greatest moments after being assimilated, for thousands of years. THOUSANDS OF YEARS fark waited to break the cycle. spark is having like a fucking panic attack over this and then it goes white again, and CLARITY HERSELF comes up. she says shes impressed that fark gained control over a part of her world. she says fark's biggest mistake was not killing spark, and this sends spark OVER THE EDGE. he gets SO ANGRY he goes demon mode or whatever this is

fark calms him down though, and explains that he had been able to siphon clarity's powers through a crack in the system. however, he couldnt have full access to them due to not being fully integrated, and he needed someone who WAS, and it was spark who could get them out of there. spark accepts, but clarity manifests behind him and takes hold of his body, turning him into the linework beast

this thing^ fark fights that and manages to get spark out. spark gains access to the system's information while unconscious and finds out the central system is and what it is, magna claritas centralis. if centralis is taken down, all clarity entities would desync and spark could take full control of the system. he relays this info to fark, and he asks what the plan is. sparks like haha take my hand and then he does and they um fucking

FUSE TOGETHER. to make sfarx. and then they beat up centralis. and then spark takes control of the system and basically becomes merged with it. and i am not sure i can articulate this last cutscene because it makes me so autistic i stop being able to speak properly so just watch it jsut fucking watch it. movie time. sorry its like 4 minutes long but its worth it i PROMISE its VIITAL no voice acting only text read some more please

and then AFTER THAT. farks Real Boy body wakes up in the Real World. spark found out there were survivors somewhere out there and fark would go find them and rebuild society better. spark on the inside, fark on the outside, theyd build a world that embraces an individuals will and strengths

and that is where the series ends theres your spark lore shit bag. thank you so fuckign much for letting me drop all of this

#GODDDDD #i wrote a beast of a post. spark the electric jester essay. please enjoy read like a novel #emakenz #|hyper key|

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svtskneecaps · 4 years

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in the rain

Yoon Jeonghan x (gender neutral) reader

Words: 3k

nothing says summer like spending hours upon hours in a car together. at least nothing’s boring with jeonghan

day 6 of a tct summer collection

(my masterlist)

There’s something about road trips, intoxicating and refreshing and energizing and addicting. There’s something about the ideal of cruising down the highway as the scenery flashes past quicker than you can see, rolling over the hills and saying hello to the horizon at the peaks.

And so what if the RV is old and can’t quite hold at 65 mph on any incline above 20 degrees, and so what if there are two beds and an air mattress for the five of you to split, and so what if Jeonghan blew half his meal budget on cheez its and peanut butter and Mingyu bought more noodles and meat and ingredients than you can fit in the cabinets for meals you probably can’t make on the RV stove, and Minghao brought wine and ritz crackers and Chan showed up with eight pounds of candy and about as much instant ramen, and so what if you almost ran out of gas in the dead space between towns and every time you turn things fall off shelves and counters and leave those in the back scrambling to make sure nothing breaks? Road trips are about the adventure (“Shut up, Jeonghan, they are!”) and a trip without complications is just driving next to cows, and what’s so special about that?

Jeonghan’s limbs had reportedly started to atrophy behind the wheel (“I’m petrifying into a tree, we have to switch out!”), so he’d pulled into a rest stop to allow time for everyone to stretch their legs in a way that wasn’t probably illegal. This particular rest stop, you notice, has several dinosaur statues lined up by the picnic tables, and there’s only one other group there, a rowdy family ferrying food to and from a camper parked nearby.

The younger three, naturally, gravitate directly for the dinosaurs, yelling, “Chan, it’s Chan!” (with the exception of Chan himself, who seemed split between joining the joke or pretending he didn’t know them). Mingyu swings himself onto the tallest of the brontosauri with infuriating ease.

“It’s not fair,” you complain, struggling to climb on while using the baby stegosaurus statue as a step. “He should be struggling the most! He doesn’t know how to use those limbs!”

Mingyu sticks his tongue out at you, scooting away. “Yes I do!”

“He’d make a good gas station balloon,” Minghao notes, a slight smirk on his face. Mingyu flips around to make a face at him too, but Minghao just raises the camera hanging around his neck and snaps a picture, his smile only growing.

Jeonghan eventually steps in and supports your foot so you can crawl onto the dinosaur’s back. By the time you pull him up behind you, the other three have finished with the brontosaurus and wandered over to the T-Rex.

“I can’t believe it, he’s not even going to take a picture.” You click your tongue. “What do we keep that kid around for?”

“Wine, mostly,” Jeonghan says.

You sigh. “He does have pretty good taste.” You take out your phone. “Well, who needs him anyway?”

It takes a little bit of maneuvering to get the dinosaur’s face in with both of yours. The sculptor made the dino’s face just a touch too tall for an easy photo op, but you manage. Jeonghan’s breath is hot on your neck as he presses against you, and you pretend it isn’t making your hair stand up.

And then the picture is taken and he slides off the side of the dinosaur, heading over to the T-Rex.

You stay on the brontosaurus for a moment, watching him laugh at Mingyu trying to lift Chan onto the dinosaur’s shoulders (his whole face lights up and his head goes back; he never laughs long but you can’t look away).

Then you go inside.

He comes up next to you while you’re watching the screen with the weather forecast, tracking the green blob of the storm swirling over the roads.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks.

“We’re gonna be driving into it,” you say, surveying it. “From what I can tell, it’s just rain, so we should be fine.”

“Should?”

You shrug. “If I say anything definitive I’m going to jinx it.” You keep your eyes on the map. “If it gets too bad we can find a spot to pull off the highway and wait for it to blow over.”

“We can’t just wait it out?”

“We’re running late as it is, I don’t know if we have that kind of time. Jihoon’s gonna be ticked if we don’t show and I refuse to get on his bad side.”

“Aw, he’s all talk.”

“I’ve heard Mingyu bring up the story of his guitar more times than I can count, I’d rather not get my own the first time I meet him in person.”

He snickers, and you glace to the side to see him looking at you. You turn your gaze back to the forecast and pretend your heartbeat is normal.

“Well, if he tries anything I’ll tell him the story of my old friends who crashed and died driving in a rainstorm,” Jeonghan says.

“You had friends who died?”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, “but Jihoon can’t prove that.” He leans his head on your shoulder. “And I’d rather my answer not change because of some rainstorm, okay?”

“No worries,” you say, reaching over to run your fingers through his hair. “Quick but careful, that’s my motto. Nobody’s dying on this road trip.”

Death is not a good road trip adventure.

The clouds break as you follow the highway across the wide flat ranching fields. In seconds, the curvature of the earth’s horizon is masked by a curtain of rain. You flick on the headlights and slow down, sitting farther up in your seat as though that will let you see into the distance.

“Lucky this isn’t road trip season,” you say. You haven’t seen another car on the road for at least an hour.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Lucky.”

His face is barely reflected in the window, distorting with each sweep of the wipers. You chance a glance. His knuckles are white on the armrest as he stares out the windshield.

“This is nothing,” you say. “It’s a baby storm. Did I ever tell you about the time I delivered pizzas during a hurricane?”

“Did they give you hazard pay?”

“Only like two bucks. Can you believe it?” You click your tongue. “Fuck Pizza Hut, am I right?”

He huffs something like a laugh, so you keep going. “Got a twenty dollar tip from this one guy who looked like he was in the middle of an intense dnd game, and I mean intense. Either that or it was a Lord of the Rings marathon, man looked like Gandalf.”

“But was it a good Gandalf?”

“I mean, I was convinced.”

“That’s not saying much, you were convinced by that kid in a hulk mask too.”

You gasp in mock outrage. “If I weren’t driving I’d smack you,” you threaten. “And he had the hands and bodysuit, too, he was the real deal! You couldn’t tell either!”

He actually snickers, but doesn’t argue. You’d both fought over the privilege of handing candy to the child, that last fall.

“And anyway, that wasn’t even the weirdest delivery I made that night.”

“I guess that makes sense, only the crazies call for a pizza in a hurricane.” His reflection in the window smiles, and even though you’re driving you dare to chance a glance; his face is lit up with a smile, his hand relaxed on the armrest. “Who was the weirdest?”

“Weird but wholesome, it was this older gentleman who spent like three minutes searching his wallet, I mean thank god he had a covered porch or I would’ve gotten even more soaked. His wife gave me these plums for a tip; I looked them up and it turns out they’re actually illegal, it was wild.”

He clicks his tongue. “You got tipped in illegal plums and you didn’t even share them with me?”

“This was before I met you guys. Those plums were long gone by the time I was in a spot to share them with you.” The pounding rain has died down enough that you feel confident enough to peel your hand away from the wheel to pat his thigh. “Don’t worry, if I get tipped in any other illegal foods I’ll be sure to share.”

He swats your hand away, but he’s laughing.

It’s still raining when you pull into the campground, but not pouring. A pleasant sprinkle, really. Jeonghan still complains about it as he and the others try to give you directions to back into the spot. Most of the directions conflict, and based on the way Minghao keeps shaking his head at the others, you probably could’ve been backed into the spot 30 minutes ago if not for-- well, whatever competition is going on behind you. Oh well.

By the time you finally throw the camper into park and get the awning pushed out, Mingyu has already gotten the portable grill out of the cabinet and set up outside, although he’s having trouble with the lighter. The RV is always stocked with six or seven of the stick lighters, but they’re pretty much guaranteed to be on their last dregs no matter when you try to use them. He’s already halfway through the collection, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pulls the spark trigger over and over, the flame only catching for a few seconds.

Jeonghan skips over, calling your name. “Come on,” he all but whines, “let’s go explore!”

“Weren’t you the one who was just complaining about how wet you were getting?” You glance out at the picnic table, which is still getting rained on even as Minghao and Chan struggle to drag it under cover.

“That was just because you were all safe and dry in the RV.” He wraps his arms around you and rubs his dripping hair against your shirt.

“Rude!” you yelp, pushing him away, but you’re laughing, and so is he. You huff, crossing your arms. “Well I was going to, until you started using me as your towel.”

“Well you’re all wet now, you can get a little more wet!”

There’s a barely a damp spot on your shoulder, but he’s got a shit eating expression and even that lights up his face.

“Oh no,” you say, “I’m soaked.”

He grins and takes you by the arm, dragging you fully into the rain. “We’ll be back in an hour,” he calls.

“Text me if you find the bathrooms,” Chan hollers back.

There’s a surprising amount of other campers parked around. A few have adults sitting on folding chairs, outside under an awning, cans in their hands. They wave cheerfully as you pass.

“That’s probably the bathroom,” you note, pointing at the building. It’s so dirty on the outside that you wonder if maybe it would be better in the long run to just take turns in the RV’s shower; most outdoor bathrooms like this are pretty gross inside.

“I’ll text Channie.” Jeonghan takes out his phone, bowing his head to block the screen and types out the message. You giggle watching his wet fingers slip across the screen. He bats distractedly in your general direction, finally managing to land a hit only once the message is sent, his phone in his pocket once again.

You find a playground at the bend in the road, where it doubles back to wind around to the exit. Jeonghan shouts, “Race you!” and takes off across the slick grass.

“False start!” you yell back, and even though he has way too much of a lead for you to catch up, you still take off after him. You see his foot slip out from underneath him once or twice, but the speed of his run keeps him from falling entirely. It makes for a funny picture either way, and you find yourself slipping as you laugh.

He seizes one of the swings, all but launching himself into the air. You skirt around his feet, ducking under his hand as he reaches out, as though to pat your head on the way by. There’s a puddle of water in the swing, but you’re already soaked from the rain that patters steadily onto your head, so what’s a little more?

Still, you wipe it off before you sit down.

Within moments, you’ve caught up to his altitude, the height of each swing leaving you floating at the peak before gravity takes over, jolting you onto the seat again.

“You’re better than I thought,” he says, flying past you, going forward as you swing back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your head follows him as you swing by again.

“Nothing.” You hear the grin in his voice.

“I’ll have you know, I was the swingset champion in every school and every camp I ever went to.”

“How many schools did you go to that had a swingset?”

“Sir that is entirely beside the point.”

His laugh rings out. “Right, right, of course.” Rain hits your face as you swing forward (or maybe your face hits the rain?). “I suppose that means you’ve gone all the way around the top bar before?”

“Of course,” you say. “And I nailed a kid in the head with a paper airplane from the peak of a jump off the swing.”

That seems to pique his interest. “Yeah? How many times did you manage that?”

“Once, and then they sent me to the office bc the kid started crying, but it was a good once.”

“If I gave you my shoe, would you be able to throw it to me from the swing?”

You almost slip off the swing. “Jeonghan I’m not going to throw a shoe at your head!”

“Not at my head! Just, to me. Like a gentle toss, so I can catch it and no one receives any bodily harm on the road trip.”

You breathe out. That makes more sense. Bodily harm is not a good road trip adventure.

He digs his feet into the trenches below the swing to stop his momentum, stumbling forward across the playground. He tosses a couple woodchips at you when you giggle, before slipping his shoe off.

“Dude, you’re gonna get your foot all muddy and then what?”

He yanks off his sock. “Then you’ll have to carry me to the RV sink.”

“Or I’ll hose you down in the yard; I saw a couple spigots on the way over and those bitches are icy cold.”

He wipes the shoe in the grass before lining up the shot, planting his foot on the ground. “Alright, catch!”

He misses.

When you’re done laughing at him, he tosses it again, this time actually managing to get it to you, even though it lands kind of wildly against your lap. You lean back for a few good swings, regaining the altitude you lost from the distraction of the catch and the laughter.

“Ready?”

Your first throw goes wild. The second nails him in the chest. The third he actually manages to catch.

By the tenth you’ve graduated to trick shots. He leaned over the playground equipment nearby and caught it. He tossed it to you from under his leg, and you caught it. You threw it over the bar and under the bar and with your nondominant hand and backwards and he caught it again and again.

“Alright, time for the jump.” You adjust your grip on the swing.

“You’re sure this is safe?”

“Of course it is.” You gesture for him to toss you the shoe, which he does. No trick shots that time. “I’ve done it before, remember?”

He looks oddly worried as he resumes his position on the ground a short distance away.

“Relax babe,” you say, “I got this.”

He straightens up at the nickname, a smile flashing across his face. “Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Whenever you’re ready, babe.”

(you like when he calls you that)

You take two swings, building up the momentum. He takes two steps, eyes focused on you.

You let go.

The shoe leaves your hand, and your feet hit the ground, and then the woodchips slide and your balance is lost and your hands slam into the ground too.

He calls your name.

You huff out a breath, and then another, processing.

“Are you okay?” His hand is on your shoulder, and his eyes dart over you as he checks for injuries.

“Totally fine,” you say. “Did you catch the shoe?”

He huffs, half exasperated and half amused. “That’s your priority?”

“Listen dude, I didn’t just make the sickest trickshot of the year just for you to drop the shoe cause I broke my ankle.”

He shoves your shoulder and you clutch it like he’s wounded you, dropping to the ground with a grin.

“Of course I caught it,” he says. “I would’ve caught you too but you jumped the wrong way.”

You scoff. “Alright, that’ll be the next trick shot.”

For a second you think he might actually be considering it, but his phone rings. He answers, listening for a few seconds before moving it away.

“Mingyu got the grill working,” he says to you. “Chan added helpfully from the background that if we’re done kissing we can come back for food.”

You raise your eyebrow. “We’re kissing?”

He shrugs. “If you want.”

He says it flippantly, but his eyes trail over your lips.

You stand up, helping him up after. Your hands linger. He’s still looking, and you find your eyes drifting too.

You lean in, quickly, before you can change your mind, and press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. He freezes, and then pulls you close, a real kiss this time. It’s like a fire exploding, and the chill of the rain is forgotten. You can hear a faint “Ew!” from the phone still held in Jeonghan’s hand, and you feel him smirk against your mouth.

You break apart, staring.

And then you take off like a shot across the grass. “Race you!”

You hear his footsteps chasing after you. “Hey, no fair! I’ve only got one shoe!”

Throwing your head back, you laugh, the rain slamming into your face.

(like a call and response, his laughter reaches your ears. it sounds like a sunrise)

#a tct summer #seventeen #yoon jeonghan #seventeen au #yoon jeonghan au #jeonghan #seventeen scenarios #jeonghan scenario #yoon jeonghan imagines #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #yoon jeonghan fluff #listen i didn't write this with a title in mind so let's just #collectively agree #to ignore the title #please

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loveamongthesailors · 4 years

Text

Well, Pathologic 2, you’re One years old! It’s as good a moment as any to reflect upon and shatter the time-lines you’ve drawn out for us. OR; Reading His-Story Against the Grain

i saw this post about pathologics incongruous timeline stuff the other day and i ended up Getting Into It.. this piece draws on stuff from patho classic but its focused on patho 2, especially on a comparison ov the Diurnal and Nocturnal “endings,” and contains spoilers for both games, probably, i guess, on varying levels ov abstraction and explicitness. i/m going to attempt to stand on a street corner and point towards Pathologic’s overall construction/presentation ov “time” as the Now-time, Exploded time, Messianic Time.

from dear daniil dankovsky, on Angels; “An angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they’d resemble a divine pillar of light---from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.” We commend this Puppet for his drama but would like to take a slightly different approach. Even awful dreams are good dreams, if you’re doing it right.

“A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.“

on the content ov patho and in a real Life context, im also going to be discussing genocide ov Indigenous people, colonial Violence, police brutality, and anti-Black violence in this piece. i’ll also be contextualizing some views on History through the writing ov Walter Benjamin, a German born Jew living in the early 20th century, and friend ov Bertolt Brecht, who you may be familiar with if yr into patho. In 1940, shortly after writing On the Concept of History (referenced here),while fleeing persecution for neutral grounds, he was trapped in catalonia by a franco government cancellation ov travel vistas and,under threat ov repatriation to nazis by the spanish police, commited suicide on the night ov september 26. His theses were passed on by surviving members ov his group who were granted “safe” passage after his suicide, being later taken under the care ov Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno. His Grave reads -in German and in Catalan, reproduced here in english-

"There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism"

(from section 7 ov On the Concept of History)

i will also be using sections from baedan, which has been dear to me over the years, on Benjamin’s Concepts. some songs will be dispersed throughout (featuring Laurie Anderson, Owen Pallett, and some good ol tmg), with relevant links beneath. you’ve heard that old Brecht aphorism about dark times, singing, whatever? i’m nearly sick to death ov it. these stories, in addition, will be based on a few things i know Myself. follow the threads as you see fit <3

Because History is Stories...That we half-remember... And most of them never even get written down. And so when they say things like "We're gonna do this by the book," You have to ask "What book?," Because it would make a big difference if it was Dostoyevsky or just, You know... Ivanhoe.

xxx

“Read what was never written,” runs a line in Hofmannsthal. The reader one should think of here is the true historian. ~ Walter Benjamin, omitted notes to the theses on history

//// //// //// ////

Isidor Burakh: All I wanted was for you to understand, not to follow any particular fate.

...

Isidor Burakh: The Town needs to move forward, but it doesn’t insist. Facing the Future is the the way of Love. Facing the Past is the way of Love. But the two are incompatible, and it broke my heart. //// //// //// ////

so,,, depending on who you ask within Pathologics narrative, the history ov the Town-on-Gorkhon stretches back to Time Immemorial, constitutes a few hundred years ov settlement, or only goes back about as far as You have been playing the game. You’ll hear conflicting narratives around just about everything in this Town. Simon Kain, hundred something years old, mystic, spiritual founder ov a several hundred year old settlement. an executed general’s vengeful daughter, Artemy and Rubins foggy backstories ov military service, what military?, what war? Who sent in the Military and Inquisition, how can We get at the Powers that Be? looking outside ov the narrative and towards history for these sorts ov questions will give us All and None ov the answers.

The Termitary (internment/interment/intermediate/immediate/intermittent) looms over the Home ov Isidor Burakh, Menkhu and sole Medical Practitioner ov the town(excepting disciples. consider the spread ov knowledge, what different Knowledges are at hand and how they perpetuate...we can see how Isidor himself looms from his grave Quite well!), colleague ov radical intellectuals from the Capital and serving with Simon in tandem with the Mistresses to hold the Town together by force. Everything is Happening at Once.

Look at What/Who is Moving this Story Forward. Different ruling families will give you again, different Numbers, different Stories. One can’t trust the Numbers, we say! and One can hardly trust the Stories either, mind you. This engenders an approach based on following Patterns, exploring Roots, pulling back the curtain to ascertain the shape ov things, reading the lines so to speak. one Bull or Several bulls? silly question. again, we’re trying to looking beyond the Numbers. consider Time as a Multiplicity. consider Rhythmic and Linear time, Time Stratified, Unending Time, Plague Time and Empty Time, Lived Time and Time un-Lived, if one pleases!

XVII

“Historicism rightly culminates in universal history. Materialistic historiography differs from it as to method more clearly than from any other kind. Universal history has no theoretical armature. Its method is additive; it musters a mass of data to fill the homogoneous, empty time. Materialistic historiography, on the other hand, is based on a constructive principle. Thinking involves not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest as well. Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystallizes into a monad. A historical materialist approaches a historical subject only where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he recognizes the sign of a Messianic cessation of happening, or, put differently, a revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past. He takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history—blasting a specific life out of the era or a specific work out of the lifework. As a result of this method the lifework is preserved in this work and at the same time canceled*; in the lifework, the era; and in the era, the entire course of history. The nourishing fruit of the historically understood contains time as a precious but tasteless seed.”

*The Hegelian term aufheben in its threefold meaning: to preserve, to elevate, to cancel.

Everything is happening at once, already, and, for the purposes ov Our story, A plague is on. (why is there a plague on? in this Specific Case, read: Specimen, there is a plague on because infection serves as a very useful allegorical device. haha. see also dominant theories ov infectivity in russian imperial medicine, policy, and social science) Crisis as Inflammation. Violence and Control intensified along multiple vectors. Mobs, Witch Burnings, The Quarantine, districts carved up and kept under surveillance, the Town Police, Arsonists, government or Otherwise, the Military, the Inquisition, Hangings in the square, tallies ov the Dead in the Termitary... Was any ov this new? did it Crystallize from thin air? here’s an aphorism: There’s Nothing New Under the Sun. what can we find beyond the Sun’s reaches? what has the Sun given us, and what has Earth? shall we keep them apart? whose bodies are restricted in their movement over the earth, and how severely are they restricted? who is targeted? who enforces the control? is this what Crisis looks like? when did the Crisis start?

“To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’ (Ranke). It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger. Historical materialism wishes to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out by history at a moment of danger. The danger effects both the content of the tradition and its receivers. The same threat hangs over both: that of becoming a tool of the ruling classes. In every era the attempt must be made anew to wrest tradition away from a conformism that is about to overpower it. The Messiah comes not only as the redeemer, he comes as the subduer of Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.”

//// //// //// ////

But do not be scared Surely some disaster will descend and equalize us A crisis Will unify the godless and the fearless and the righteous

...

In a certain slant of light the feeling will hit me Like a man against the waves and a violent wind Waking up in a bloody morning With the warmth of his forgiveness around me The shared dream left me shaking The memory is threatening to capsize every ship upon the sea

xxx //// //// //// ////

Pathologic, having mapped out these lines, and being a concatenation ov narrative fiction that could not have existed without the precondition ov colonial expansion and the Extermination and Assimilation ov Indigenous populations and Life ways, can be can be unwound through a conventional historical approach by investigating various moments, epidemics, and movements in The Steppe (and all Land and Living Beings subsumed by Russia’s internal colonization) and looking for similarities, sources, influences, reflections, distortions... You’ll never find quite an exact parallel to the events ov pathologic, and you will find that the Trick that the devisers have given you in fact resides in laying out what can be gleaned from the Tangled view.

“…they make the work a process of learning or experimentation, but also something total every time, where the whole of chance is affirmed in each case, renewable every time,”

— Gilles Deleuze, Difference&Repetition

//// //// //// ////

“For Benjamin, the conclusion of the movement of history through time is not some inevitable utopia—capitalist, communist, or otherwise. Rather than viewing the progression of civilization as an accumulation of gains and reforms toward freedom and justice, history can be seen as the continuous defeat of the exploited by their oppressors; the intensifying alienation of beings and their re-construction into capital. History not only serves to justify today’s rulers, but also to encode our memory with a narrative that reads historical events as a necessary chain of events along the path toward some future revolution or techno-utopia. He describes this as “a view of history that puts its faith in the infinite extent of time and thus concerns itself only with the speed, or lack of it, with which people and epochs advance along the path of progress.”

//// //// //// ////

In your Twelve Days in the town as a Healer, what did you see? piles ov wreckage, debris, bodies stacked under streetlamps flickering in the night? a town spreading across a steppe? a Utopia growing through the Earth? do you think you saved any lives, and was any-body's life yours to save in the first place? a Plague moving through living organisms? a Plague moving through non-living organisms? did you observe any Organisms, living or otherwise, over the course ov the play? do you have Mirrors in your house? have you seen a still, clear, body ov water recently? what are the waterways where you live called, and have they been called anything else in the Past or Present? did you become the Haruspex, and following what paths does becoming-haruspex entail? are you winning, son?

When the hunger turns in on itself, it begins to devour its host Who do you turn to for help? Who do you love the most? When the word comes down the wire that they're looking To make an example of you Skin and bones around a campfire beneath the stars No good end in view I dance with the ones that brought me I dance with the ones that brought me here

xxx

did you observe a Fever? can you feel a Fever? can you Imagine a great crack ov lightning striking across the Steppe, illuminating in raw detail the beauty and horror ov all that you have experienced? how would it smell afterwards? can you smell the Twyre on the air? is Twyre even a real thing? what may influence your imaginary ov its scent? Feel small, dirty hands reaching out for beetles, marbles, raisins, souls within nuts and names without people. Living on pemmican, Living on military rations. razors, fish-hooks, scalpels and syringes passing through the hands ov children as well. noticing the flows present in everything, spots where they are arrested, and the intensities they assume. we could run through the Game and Count up the Number ov Clocks present, and we could also look at how many hours we have Clocked in our Playtime, and the date ov this Play’s Production. did the Kains succeed in their mission to Produce Time? was this the Kain’s mission Alone? how is your mental Clock? We got the Body Count at the end of the day, and commentary too. cant beat that courtesy, *hem hem* but again, looking beyond the Numbers. how many Bulls did you see? when is a question also a trap?

XVIII

“‘In relation to the history of organic life on earth,’ writes a modern biologist, ‘the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens constitute something like two seconds at the close of a twenty-four-hour day. On this scale, the history of civilized mankind would fill one-fifth of the last second of the last hour.’ The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgment, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.”

what are the Consequences ov inserting Living Beings into a Linear Framework? where did Architecture come from? how was this Story constructed? What do you remember about the Town?

We can take the Diurnal “ending” as a fairly straightforward allegorical Byway for the Forces ov Progress. Boundaries are set, You are not the Town, the Town is your Soul-and-a-half.( wikihow to not be a cartesian dualist, consider also Spinoza if laying bare the path ov immanence was ov interest to you) What lays beneath the Sunlight? what still lays beneath the Earth? What time is it? things are weirdly cozy, in some ways. mimesis, echoes, ghosts. Are their voices still heard? grace tallies up the bodies. are You ready to Leave Artemy here? is this a comfortable future for you to imagine? how are you with uncertainty? Does the costume itch? do you ache at the seams, or are your joints sore from all the strings pulling at them? got arthritis? i’ve used stinging nettle. can a Story devour a human being? why would something with that power stop at One?

What Do You Think Will Happen Now?

One can also make the Choice to step into the Darkness. One with many names has returned to the Earth,(”One” ov many False Deaths and Smart Tricks too. love ya girl <3)... taya as mistress-ov-bulls, grace as mistress-ov-dead, changeling as mistress-ov-absolutley-whatever. Mistresses, Mist, Tresses, Bulls, Brides, Worms, Plague...the Theme/s to note here is/are Multiplicity. Is there a difference between imagining the future and the past? Where are you? Where did You come from? the Nocturnal ending already asks enough questions to make me quite happy. sitting next to the Girls now, looking out at the New Sky. same as the old sky, Full ov Magic. if we take Death ov the Author into account, we could say that the Polyhedron belongs to the Dead in more ways than one. We can see your house from here! i wouldn’t say we’ve even gotten to the Prophet yet. When did our Hero leave us? did We have any use for Heroism? the Steppe is in the Stone Yard now. The World is returning to Life. what does it mean for me?

how many angels can dance on the head ov a pin?

how many worm brides can dance in the cathedral?

....“The way in which the dead are present is as the “caress” of a “breath of… air,�� as an “echo,” or as a sister who one no longer recognizes. In other words, the past is present and everywhere, touching us every moment and “in the voices we hear,” but only suggestively, in and in spite of our own inability to recognize it. But the possibility for redemption, the weak messianic power, lies in the chance that we might.

In the intimate, ever-present opportunity he describes there is a tremendous deal at stake. For, he writes in the fourth thesis, the “refined and spiritual things” that live in the class struggle “as confidence, courage, humor, cunning, and fortitude, and have effects that reach far back into the past… constantly call into question every victory, past and present, of the rulers.”

Later, turning to the historians he criticizes as tools of the ruling classes, Benjamin makes it clear in his seventh thesis that their resurrection of the past is an entirely different kind. The nature of the sadness—rooted in an indolence of heart—that Flaubert described feeling in his historical study of Carthage is clearer, Benjamin says, when we remember that the historian’s empathy is always with the victor, and thus with the present rulers. It is the kind of sadness, then, that gathers to the loyal servant or minion in knowing that it is being used for its ruler’s purposes”

“Figured another way, the task of interruption requires us to locate the clocktower that we could fire upon to stop the day. Homogenous time no longer flows through the monolithic machines in the city centers. Now, a range of technological advancements have diffused and integrated the machinery of time into our very thoughts and rhythms. Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by and permeated with devices which serve to manage the regime of time. Where once a singular apparatus mediated our relationship to time, its dictatorship is now imposed by an innumerable array. A desire for interruption must now reckon with the countless apparatuses that segment our memory and integrate our very being into capitalist time. But rather than waste time lashing out against all these clocks one after another, let us cut through to what underlies them.

History’s servants promise us a shining future. Whether by means of technological innovation, hard work and sacrifice, or the Revolution, we are assured of a heaven-on-earth of light and crystal. But all of these glimmering apparatuses can only serve to adorn the monumental pile of wreckage in which we live. All around us, the carnage and corpses of our ancestors form the architecture of our daily existence. Not only the walls and freeways and shopping centers, but the smart phones, pornography, surveillance and entertainment systems—all monuments to the same enemy that has never ceased to be victorious. Capital, Leviathan, civilization, society: so many names for the process which turns life into an assemblage of death, which would integrate us as machines into a grander machinery. Futurity is the logic that drives this regime of subjection and assimilation, but is also the science which desecrates our memory of those who also struggled; the treachery which turns their struggles into so many more ideological cadavers. Where living beings once struggled to be free from futurity’s domination of their lives, we are told that they dutifully sacrificed themselves for society’s future. We too are called upon to procreate and raise up children who might one day live better lives than we. But just as we were born into the halls of the dead, so too would our children be the stillborn janitors of these halls, breathing circuits embedded in a massive cybernetic cadaver. Ghosts call out to us: they ask that we tear apart the sutures of this Frankenstein’s monster which they’ve come to constitute. They call on us to cremate their remains and bury the ashes, to end the reign of the dead over the living.”

//// //// //// ////

"I am not afraid," ze said "Of the non-believer within me Nor delight at the pain of my enemies Nor tears for any friends I have lost" ...

I’ll never have any children I’d bear them and eat them, my children

I’m gonna change my body In the light and the shadow of suspicion I am no longer afraid The truth doesn’t terrify us, terrify us My salvation is found in discipline, in discipline

xxxx

//// //// //// ////

“It is apparent from the foregoing that all accumulation is cruel; all renunciation of the present for the sake of the future is cruel.”

— Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share, Volume III

//// //// //// ////

“The Haruspex is blood and organs... ...The Haruspex’s overarching idea is the interconnectedness of everything and restoring the connections... ...The Haruspex hears (rhythms)... ...The Haruspex: water + forward vector. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

“ The Haruspex, a butcher, a killer, one could even say a murderous psychopath, gets the warmest character arc. It’s about love. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

//// //// //// ////

Infinity Mirrored Room—All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins -

Yayoi Kusama, 2016

//// //// //// ////

A long “personal” anecdote: there’s music on the air and i hear a familiar buzzing. it isn’t twyre growing, nor it is the hum ov flies. we Keep bees here, to get honey. I should try to remember to bring some to my wife tomorrow, though making the journey on its own is a bit daunting these days. 1 hive, 2 hives, the bees build and swarm and our Keeper rearranges the frames, adds in new boxes, tries to give them enough space that they'll stay within our domain. I think about the complex roles being fulfilled within the hive, and how any egg can grow into a so called “Queen” if need be. These Hives haven’t always held the same populations, sometimes a swarm will depart and won’t be Recovered. Look around the neighborhood, find the buzzing tree, you may be able to get them back yet but... have you tried getting a swarm ov bees into a box before? good luck finding the queen! (hoping i don’t have to do this but a bit excited by the prospect at the same time.)

Our honey bees didn't originate from this region, i see them in the “yard” alongside native bees (one tries to plant for Everybody) but obviously, Our Hives are here so i’ll always see more ov the honeybees as long as they’re occupying them. Native bees to our Bioregion are leading very different lifestyles. Different threats, dynamics, and places in the ecosystem as well. Bumblebees are the most Beloved. Native Bees here- vital pollinators, ground and stem burrowers, more solitary souls than most, but are any ov us really alone? what are their favorite flowers?

I think about Bees a lot now. I’m standing here thinking about Bees, and where I’m standing is in between the entrance ov the Hive and their favorite Ceanothus (see also soap brush, red root, buckbrush, see medicinal uses...). Very precious grounds to these Bees, not somewhere where I’m welcome. I Haven’t always known as much about bees. I get stung right inbetween my pinky and index fingers, on the palm ov my hand. yeowch! Bad luck, but i could still use a shovel the next day. This was an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

The Ceanothus isn’t flowering anymore, and hasn't been for a few “weeks” (i think?) The Bees have other concerns now. In fact, it was heavily damaged in a snow storm a couple years back, and half ov its branches collapsed under the weight ov the ice. Its a bit ov a twisted thing now, what remains still flowers but what remains is not so much. At some point in the future upon yr reading ov this, it will have been cut down and possibly dug out ov the earth. I wouldn't be surprised if a few more, smaller, iterations made their way to this space in remembrance/ tribute. The branches lost in it’s first wounding are still stacked up nearby, all sorts ov creatures love that stuff. Dead trees in the back that Birds still frequent stay for the birds. We never get that many plums because we’re not smart or quick enough, or as willing to take one great bite ov a fruit and let the rest fall to the soil. I didn’t really get stung by a Bee in a situation exactly like what i described up there, it’s drawing on a few different times that sort ov thing happened. I hope you’ll forgive me for my obscurantist tendencies.

Looking past the Hives and onto the Streets, I am a White Settler(family fled the reach ov the Soviet Union to integrate into America, family fled family to a different part ov land under the Reaches ov said “America”,cave fled family but stuck with the Land, recurring patterns, what would my views be if i had grown up in Czechoslovakia? geography, chronology, trick questions) living in a segment ov Town that, until 1968, was a legally a Sundown Town, see Racial Restrictive Covenants. I still don’t see than many Black ppl around my neighborhood. I do see grocery store parking lots swarming with cop cars, more cops than i can Count, at least two k9 units, all to pursue One Black Body through the rainy night, My own Body lets me move through the world without these Forces being brought upon me in this intensity, lets me Watch.

Certain alignments ov directions ov Struggle have brought me into the position ov the Other at the end ov the cudgel, a body in a crowd under the looming eye and long barrel ov the sniper, the surveillance camera. Visibility is a Trap. Any ability i have to Get Off The Hook is based not on Luck or Fate, but due to the way the color ov my skin is reflected in the eyes ov Those in Power. what can i do from inside This Skin, and what can i do with the veil ov a mask obliterating my “selfhood”? How are we to heal? If you didnt read this into my Musical choices already- im a bit ov a flaming/smoldering queer. sitting in the planned parenthood lobby, one among many, gripped by recollections ov the devastating history ov HIV/AIDS and a cluster ov other Crises, memories ov beloved souls lost to policies and hegemony ov extermination and neglect. blood in vials, piss in jars. how does the time spent waiting for results feel?(how long? weeks months?)

I have more free condoms on hand than i’ll ever get through. A veritable theoretical eternity ov Safer Sex. There are Reasons why Queer Institutions give access to free condoms. But i’ve gotten them from some delightful Quakers as well. on another squeamish, libidinal subject, administering self injections isnt so daunting when you’ve seen it done a Million times before. It’s like watching somebody sneeze, or pinching yourself. HRT as potions, mechanical intrusion to will a slow transformation. getting into the fat is easy, some other avenues less so. “This requires the Gentle Hand of a Surgeon, step aside!” i know a lot about what Doctors Don’t Know. (veins and arteries as streets- easy. nerves as streets - you hear this a bit less. streets as eyes, the opening ov your mouth with a railroad track running down it, eyes as streets, whose streets? fuck streets! tear up the concrete)

The aforementioned streets are closed to Traffic due to the Quarantine, and i hear folks and families from the neighborhood walking/hoverboarding/skateboarding/biking down the street,(mostly the new work from home yuppie class and their spawn respectively, but there's some real ones around here too. all ages. have yet to live anywhere that people don't ask me for cigarettes) chattering away, masks or no masks. If i take a long walk down past the cemetery, I’ll find myself passing by a Native American Youth Home, created to provide support for a population that is currently disproportionately represented in this Town’s already Massive Homeless population. (their covid19 resources and donation info) Even with the Plague on, New Condos are built and Old Condos stay empty. Who do the bones in the soil beneath my feet belong to? When did all ov this Start, and how Long will it go on? why does the Map look the way it does? I would rather listen carefully than dig. This Story is not the only Story, nor should any be.

do i remember how the damp asphalt smells Here after Lightning Strikes? do i remember the feeling ov my body thrown to the concrete and the chaos and disorientation ov Crowds mobbing over me, slick with rain and sweat? who saw, and how many hands reached out to lift me up, who saved who? is that my blood trickling down the sidewalk? Flashbangs and Flashes ov Lightning, take yr pick. you can get similar experiential learning in the moshpit. this is an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

i’ll try to bring us nearer to the point with baedan’s conclusion, a reflection on the First thesis from On the Concept of History. I will leave it up to You to investigate the original text if you are so Inclined.

//// //// //// ////

“For every pretty theory that presents itself, study it only in the way that a cat studies its prey: for the enjoyment of the hunt, to be sure, but also so as to seize upon whatever unique revolutionary chance may appear as in a flash of lightning. So that when that narrow gate opens, you pounce without a moment’s hesitation. In the meantime, by all means, enjoy the diversion of the theory’s lines and moves, but if you are to avoid becoming its tool you must ever have in mind to shatter the system of mirrors and confront the dwarf that has been pulling the strings all along. Faced with this ugly little creature behind all the lines of play you’ve enjoyed and suffered, able at last to read the lines of its face and the dark of its eyes, as time stands still and the entirety of the past falls to you, you will have to make a deeply ethical decision that nothing in all the games before could prepare you for. The only decision that truly matters.”

//// //// //// ////

Artemy Burakh: Any Choice is Right as long as it’s Willed.

//// //// /// ////

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well And they're living in Berlin She is a cocktail waitress He had a part in a Fassbinder film And they sit around at night now Drinking schnapps and gin And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love Was the wicked witch

She said: what is history? And he said: history is an angel being blown backwards into the future He said: history is a pile of debris And the angel wants to go back and fix things To repair the things that have been broken But there is a storm blowing from paradise And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future And this storm, this storm is called progress

xxx

TLDR; pathologics shitty timeline is cool because it fosters a metagame where the imperative is to make history explode in real life.

specific thanx to: every1 included above, my local subversive lit dealers, Whoever gave the talk last ABF about Queer Wanderings in the anti-nazi Underworld, have not stopped carrying those stories with me since. thanks to the Dear Listener, thanks 2 my wife for pragmatic and personal encouragements <3

a personal acknowledgement to the lives and legacies ov the dxʷdəwʔabš (Duwamish) people, past and present, First People ov the Land i currently Occupy, alongside the entire City ov so-called “Seattle.”

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #pathologic 2 spoilers #long post /#patho tag

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gemder · 5 years

Text

a bubbline wip, featuring a dissociative episode by our fave punk rock vamp. set shortly after Stakes.

She doesn't know how long she's been hovering over the couch like this, with her gaze trained on the bumps and dips on the ceiling and her bass planted in her arms. How many times has she sung that old song, so old and resilient it survived the death and rebirth of the world (and the both of hers twice over, now) just by hiding in the corner of her mind she doesn't like to visit? She can't see the sun or moon rise through the entrance to her hideaway from this part of the house, and the cave-imposed darkness tells her nothing of the time or how much of it has passed.

She doesn't dare budge from her spot. She's been turned twice now; she knows from experience that any sudden action, anything to startle her base thought process, could spark that bloodlust from last time. That was some ugly biz, if she remembers correctly. It's been a while, but something like an uncontrollable urge to drain the lifeforce of every living creature within 30 miles sticks to you. She's just going to have to wait it out, until the itch in the back of her throat dies down and she doesn't worry it'll become an insatiable burning for hot blood, no matter how long it takes.

Marceline has had an excessive amount of time to learn how to be alone; 1003 years, in fact. So why does it never get any easier? Why does being left never hurt any less? Why does she seem to be so completely destined for eternal loneliness? What asshat decided she deserved to spend the entirety of her neverending life without a single constant presence?

Mom went out with promises of keeping safe and finding food and I love you so much, sweetie, that alone is strong enough to bring me back to you. It took two weeks before little Marcy came to the conclusion that her mom wasn't coming back with food or supplies, or even returning empty handed. Simon let a stupid magical crown take over every single cell of his brain and wrote a bunch of scattered letters about it while it happened instead of, you know, telling the frightened 7 year old she was going to be left soon. Dad just up and left to go back to running the Nightosphere after a few weeks, with nary a parting word nor any notice. Her post-apocalyptic comrades had no choice but to flee from an otherwise inevitable extinction. Bonnie had to go and grow up, and in the process decide that her 900-something year old girlfriend wasn't mature enough.

(She checked that old, busted up camper as often as she could over the following months. There was never another life in that thing after she hopped down the little steps and let the screen door slam back with the carelessness of a 6 year old.)

(She found a decomposed corpse months later that just happened to be wearing some torn up rags that looked like her mom’s old sweater and jeans. It must have just been a coincidence, though; there were a lot of recently dead back then, and even more moth-eaten sweaters in the world.)

(“I’m trying to save you, but who's going to save me?” ‘I don't know, old man, maybe you could have saved yourself? You could have not purposely used the magical relic that was making you go bananas?’ If a 7 year old could make it through the apocalypse without magic then so could a fully grown man.)

(He left her to survive on her own in the name of being executive manager of hell and he still wonders why she wants nothing to do with him, why she used to have such a hard time so much as calling him “dad” when he’s never been anything like what she was lead to believe dads were supposed to be like.)

(She’s 1000 years old, how in the name of the nightosphere could she not be mature enough?)

(Over the years she’s replaced the world “hell” with “Nightosphere” the same way the being once referred to as “God,” back when even she was young, is now called by their proper name of Glob. The Nightosphere really is hell, so it fits.)

(Sometimes she takes the time to think about how she's the heir apparent to the actual, literal, real life hell, and how she's one of the oldest beings around these days, maybe the oldest to still really be sane, but still a messed up teen.)

(She doesn't know how old she was when she was turned; years and months and all that are hard to keep track of when the species that invented it is all but extinct. Is she old enough to drive? Probably. She does and can regardless, because screw the old ways. Old enough to drink, smoke, vote? Debatable. The point is that she’s 1000 years old but actually, like, 18. What the fuck.)

She drifts, both mentally and physically. She's had plenty of time and isolation to ponder the Big Things about life and the world and why and how things happened the way they did, and what it means. She will have an abundance of opportunities in the future to think about these things, too. Some day she'll reflect on this part of her life in the far away, nostalgia-filtered sepia tones she currently thinks of her childhood and adolescence. She'll remember when Finn and Jake were the heroes of Ooo, when Simon used to chase after princesses who will have long since passed, when she couldn't get over her ex-girlfriend who happened to be sentient candy. It will be distant and she will miss it terribly, the same way she misses her mother, and Simon when he was Simon, and fries in a long-abandoned diner. But it will be a wound long since closed and numbed, like the deep scar she got on her calf sometime in her early teens that still exists today, preserved in her immortality and a sentimentality that prevented her from insta-healing it away, sting and blood long gone.

She has forever to reminisce, but only right now to live in the present. She makes mental patterns in the bumps on the ceiling, and slowly loses grip on her body. She is a million miles upwards, where the sky holds no oxygen and the stars are still pinpricks in a sea of indigo construction paper. Like a kid poking holes in the top of a jar of lightning bugs, equipped with a fork and enthusiasm at being able to destroy something for the sake of encapturing something else. She is, at the same time, hovering above her uncomfortably hard couch. One of her hands slips from its place atop her bass, and Shwabl licks it from his spot next to her on the dusty carpet.

She doesn't hear the knock at the door. She is right there, but she is centuries back and in a different part of the continent entirely. She doesn't hear Bonnie getting increasingly agitated, trying and failing not to raise her voice at her through the door. She doesn't notice when Bonnie lets herself in regardless of Marceline’s lack of response, or when Shwabl jumps up to attention at the guest.

It's the “Marceline, what -” that breaks her dissociative spell. That tone of exasperation in that particular voice is a very familiar one, especially within the last decade. She comes to to find that there are fresh tears in the corner of one eye and the words to a song as old as her youth on her lips.

“Oh, hey Bombòn. How goes it girl?” Marceline has had a millennium to convince the world that she's chill and totally not a big mess, and it shows in the lilt to her voice that screams ‘I'm just chillin’’ and not ‘I've been dissociating and crying and probably singing for who-knows-how-long and I'm really messed up’. She still doesn't dare move from her spot, because moving around could still trigger what she's trying to wait out.

“It's been three weeks, Marcy. Three weeks, and all that heavy biz, and no one's heard from you since. Doesn't that seem even a little bit irresponsible to you? Didn't you think people would worry? Or even wonder ‘hey, what happened to that girl who saved all our butts and got revampified?’”

“Dude, I've just been chilling. You know how it is; jams, games, pets, it keeps a girl busy. It’s cool. Ice cold, in fact.”

Bonnie sighs. Marceline has heard that sigh a million and three times over by now, and she's learned to like that particular sound from the pink girl; it's the one thing about herself that she can't manage to sweeten to the point of oversaturation, until it (like the rest of her) is practically dripping sugar. Marceline likes to deal with the authentic rather than the idealized versions of people, because the latter rarely ever means anything good is coming her way.

(She rationalizes that the Ice King component of Simon, while not idealized, is not authentic in the least; the products of full humans getting mixed up with magic seldom are. The authentic Simon Petrikov is the one who found a 6 year old girl in the ruins of a suburban New Mexico town and still had enough selflessness in the aftermath of the apocalypse to comfort her and take care of her.)

The sigh doesn't lead to the reprimanding the vampire expects. Instead, she watches as Bonnie leans down in her peripheral vision to pet Shwabl, expression focused intently on the dog. She's doing that same schooled neutrality shit she used to do during those globawful trade meetings - the ones Marcy used to steal her away from the go gallivanting through the rock candy mines.

“What kind of sweet tunes have you whipped up, then? Lay it on me girl.”

Marceline lets her face adopt a smirk - the expression has become a reflexive habit after centuries of being a bitter undead loner - even as something in her stomach drops. Bonnie rarely asks about her music because she knows so much of it is personal, and that which isn't is vulgar or morbid and prone to being shared regardless, not to mention the fact that Bonnie’s interests definitely don't lie in the arts, or punk rock music, or most of the uglier parts of Marceline.

“You know my latest album is the epitome of personal mush, Bons. It's so personal I'd have to kill you if you heard any of it. But, I do have a new demo about a fisherman.”

Bonnibel definitely wants something out of her; she has that smile she reserves for Cinnamon Bun and Finn when he's going on about dumb 13 year old boy things, the one that's polite and reservedly encouraging, the one that Marcy has always found to be condescending although it always looks as sweet as its wearer who is literally made out of candy, almost as sweet as the girl’s public persona.

The thing about being 1000 years old and also a teenage girl is that you spend forever being a socially-minded person on some level or another, because back in the day that's how girls were socialized to be - social-driven creatures who cared more about what Allyson wore on Tuesday or what Theresa said about Serena in math class than anything practical. So Marceline has had a long time to notice the tells and ticks of the select few she surrounds herself with often enough to care about. PB smiles like her kindergarten teacher used to on particularly trying days when she thinks the people she's with are idiots but can't call them out for it. Her eyebrows droop when she's so tired that sheer willpower will no longer keep them up. She plays with her hands when she's nervous. She used to chew on her hair when she was younger and in the process of creating her kingdom, when stress was a new feeling she hadn't yet made a feedback loop out of.

This is totally, completely because of the sexist socialization of the old world, and nothing else. Totally not because they dated for a good chunk of time, or because one or the other might, maybe be having rose-coloured thoughts about the other again.

“Everyone and their granny has heard that one, Marcy. If you've had all this time to do nothing but groove and game then I wanna hear some tunes! Don't be a butt about it.” She's trying to gode the older girl, but Marceline is itching to get out of this particular conversation. Somewhere in her cursed, mostly re-dried blood she knows this is a test.

“I don't bust into your lab and start interrogating you about your experiments - can you just lay off, man?” she says it more harshly than she had meant to, but being yanked back to reality and immediately questioned over every move will do that to a person. “Tell me what's been going on in Candyland. You finally get all the earwax off of your junk?”

“You know if you did ask about my science experiments I would be happy to tell you all about them - well, the ones that aren't classified. It's called caring, Marce, it's a thing that friends do.”

A tense silence follows as Marceline thinks of something biting (but not petty!) to throw back at her.

“And yeah, actually, I did. The dingus left a huge mess but there's nothing my purple cleaner can't get rid of.”

Bonnie can't leave a single box unticked, can she?

“Glob, that stuff is nasty. The fumes make me gag, and I don't even need to breathe!”

The princess raises a brow at her. The queen furrows both of hers in frustration and fixes her gaze back on the bumps on the ceiling. When she was younger she used to make images out of the dips and dots in the kindergarten room ceiling; the RV’s was smoothed and didn't allow that particular part of her imagination to play around.

“And I think the expression you're looking for is sharing is caring, Bubs. It's a thing they used to say waaaaaaaay back in the day whenever the old people got tired of little kids fighting over toys.”

*******

this was gonna be a longfic feat. mutual pining by our fave disaster gays and more references to marcy’s life pre- and during the apocalypse bc i have a lot of feelings about Stakes. might come back to it, who knows!!!

#ash talks #ash writes #bubbline #bubbline fanfic #writing wip

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youreawizardharr · 5 years

Text

My piece in the Cradlesona community. I decided to revamp Eirene for the last time.

The image I used can be found here.

Cradlesona credit goes to @lovingsiriusoswald

Tagging: @cradlesonanetwork

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Name: Eirene Beverly Chapman

Alias: Princess of Cradle

Nicknames:

Lady Eirene (by Blanc Lapin)

Ei (by Oliver Knight)

Renee (by the Red Army)

Mother Hen (by Ray and Fenrir)

My Beloved (by Harr Silver)

Alice (by Loki Genetta)

Age: 23

Date of Birth: July 9th

Astrology Sign: Cancer

Gender: Female

Height: 5'5"

Occupations:

Shop Keeper (former)

King of Cradle

Affiliations: The Red Army

Alignment: Neutral Good

Family:

Maryam Louise Sommer (mother)

Katherine Anne Sommer (grandmother)

Harold Reeves Sommer (grandfather)

Erza Chapman (father, deceased)

Pet: Ginger

Paired With: Harr Silver

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Background

Eirene was raised in the Land of Reason. Or, to be more precise, in the countryside of England. She, along with her mother, moved to London to live with her maternal grandparents. Eirene helped around the house, and even helped her grandfather with his small business of selling various wares.

She met Blanc not long after closing the shop, walking home, picking up his pocket watch when she noticed he dropped it by accident. Wanting to return the item back to its’ original owner, Eirene soon realized the man had left, running off in search of him.

She eventually finds him, calling out to the strange man, but he doesn’t hear her.

Blanc vanishes without a trace, seemingly falling down the rabbit hole that appeared suddenly. Has it always been there? Without thinking it through, Eirene follows him, her long, black locks whipping violently, her blouse rustling, as she descends quickly.

Something about this place felt familiar.

A sense of deja vu overcomes her.

Eirene was surprised to learn that she was born in Cradle. Her mother being from the Land of Reason, while her father was a native to Cradle. Erza Chapman, the name of the man who gave her life, was a kindred spirit, who drew everybody in. He helped anyone in need, and would give up the clothes he wore. Erza was one of the rare few who were born with the ability to harness magic, the magical energy he possessed was far greater, due to his royal lineage. After learning about his existence, the Magic Tower murdered him by extracting his soul. Luckily, Erza bidded Maryam and their newborn time to escape from Cradle through the portal connecting their worlds.

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Personality

Eirene is independent, she wants stability, and strives to work hard so that she doesn’t have to depend on the people around her, members of both armies can clarify this simple fact as they have given her odd jobs.

She is friendly with everyone, unless they give her a reason not to be. For instance, the night she found herself in the garden, Jonah wrongly accused her of trespassing. Eirene defended herself and told him she didn’t know, promptly apologizing for doing so.

She became angry, however, when he called her a liar. Eirene told him she didn’t have a reason to lie, and that she hated it when people never believed anything she says.

Her sudden change in attitude surprised him and Edgar, both. Jonah knew Eirene was being honest, right then. Her eyes held so much emotion within them, he apologized for his accusations, but didn’t let her leave.

Eirene is kind and caring to the point that she’ll help anyone who needs it, much like her father had, regardless of their social standings, or where they are from: be it the Red Territory, Central Quarter, or the Black Territory. She’ll defend them with every fiber of her being, having morals to abide by, and despises people who believe themselves to better than their neighbors. Eirene refused to side with either army when the two armies clashed against eachother, having come to love and respect both of the armies.

She’s easily forgiving and understanding, for Eirene forgave Edgar for threatening her into joining the Red Army, and refused to hold Ray accountable for it. She understood they had their reasons, and still cares about them.

Eirene is sensitive and overly emotional. Ray and Fenrir have both commented that she acts just like Sirius at times, being concerned about the wellfare of other people and always wanting to take care of them, so they dubbed her the nickname mother hen.

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Relationships

The Red Army

Jonah Clemence ;

Eirene never liked Jonah when she first met him, believing him to be rude and egotistical. However, the more she got to know him better, the more her opinion about him changed. She admires his integrity, and makes it a habit of telling him so. She also compliments him on everything he does.

Eirene shares the same fondness of sweets with Jonah, something the two of them bonded over. She’ll go with him to the cafe whenever he’s not so busy with his duties.

Edgar Bright ;

Her instincts told her that Edgar couldn’t be trusted, especially after he forced her to join the Red Army by using threats against her.

They became friends after he makes it his mission to apologize by offering her his jelly beans as a peace offering, of sorts. Eirene forgave him, telling him she understood the reasoning behind his actions, even if he did scare her when they first met in the alley.

The two often play board or card games together, with her always being the loser. Edgar never let’s her live it down. He’s also aware she’s smitten with someone in Cradle.

Kyle Ash ;

Eirene shares many similarities with him, but wishes he could be a bit more sensitive. She values her friendship with him, and hangs out with him whenever he goes to the pub for drinks with Oliver and Blanc. The two are really close. She defends Kyle when the others tease him for his bad habit, and says she’s just as much of a lightweight as he is.

Eirene helps Kyle with his daily rounds in the Red Territory, the Central Quarter and in the Black Territory, where she meets and visits the members of the Black Army for chitchat.

Lancelot Kingsley ;

When Eirene was first brought to the Red Army Headquarters, he intimidated her. Or, at the very least, he tried to be, but she was firm against him. Like Jonah and Kyle, Eirene worries about his health. She wishes he takes better care of himself, but doesn’t try to pressure him. Though, Eirene will mother hen him into eating something light on his stomach, much to his utter surprise.

Eirene usually helps him with his paperwork, the typical work of a secretary (only if he allows her to help him), but she doesn’t take no for an answer and helps him, regardless.

Zero ;

Eirene thought Zero was kind when they first met. The two were kind of awkward, and barely spoke to one another. She wanted him to trust her, so she did everything she could possibly think of to get him to open up to her. They became good friends, eventually.

Neutral

Blanc Lapin ;

Eirene never blamed Blanc for the mishap of her descending into Cradle. She actually thanked him for it because she met so many wonderful people that she forged bonds with. Each and every friendship she made meant more to her anything else in her life.

Blanc knows about the secret her parents are keeping from her. Eirene is an anomaly of both worlds. Her conception has never been heard of before. It has been recorded by him.

Eirene visits him frequently for tea and cake.

Oliver Knight ;

Eirene thought Oliver was a child, and treated him as such. He immediately despised her because of it, and threw insults at her everytime they saw eachother. At one point, he unintentionally made her upset by making her believe he absolutely hated her.

To make it up to her, he allowed her to embrace him (only occasionally), whenever she came to visit Blanc every now and then.

Eirene eventually learned about his curse, but never judged him for it. In fact, she told him it isn’t something he can control, that it wasn’t his fault. She wanted to be his friend, and if he wasn’t comfortable with that, then just being around him is more than enough.

Loki Genetta ;

Her first impression: strange. Eirene thought he was strange. The way he carried himself, his mannerisms. He acted like an actual cat.

He had this strange fixation with her, tried getting her to open up to him. She supposed he dealt with people like her on a daily basis.

When he asked her to go on dates with him, Eirene rejected him politely, but said they could have fun on days she wasn’t helping Kyle, or anyone else around Cradle. Loki looked dejected, but agreed to be friends.

Their friendship continued to blossom the more they hung out together. Eirene still acted reserved, shy even. Especially whenever he dragged her to his shared home with Harr. Loki watched the spark of interest within her eyes come to life, saw the way her face lite up with a dark scarlet hue.

Eirene has an attraction for Harr, huh? Thus, a series of feline shenanigans began. There's an unrequited love that Loki has for Eirene.

Harr Silver ;

The moment Eirene first laid eyes on the reclusive man, her heart races inside her chest. It felt hotter than the typical warmer weather Cradle usually deals with. Loki kept staring at her with the most delighted expression she had ever seen. She didn’t particularly like the look he was giving her.

The mischievousness flashing within those heterochromia eyes made her nervous, and she was certain that Harr felt the same way.

The next time Eirene met Harr, Loki brought her to the Lake of Tears, where said wizard had been occupying for several hours. She sat little ways from Harr, placing her hands on her lap. The awkward silence between them was deafening, but Eirene felt content just being there with him. She attempts small talk, elated that Harr responded to her.

The third time Eirene met Harr, Loki invited her over to their house, purposely pushing her up against Harr while making excuses about having to go on an errand. The two awkwardly stood there until Harr offered tea.

Their relationship continued that way. With Loki scheming, and both Eirene and Harr finding themselves in awkward or embarrassing situations. She gets to know Harr little by little, bringing pastries or apricotes for them to share when he’s fishing. She learned he loved apricotes that day and, with Luka’s help, baked him an apricote cake and a few apricote pastries.

They completely opened up to one another, after a month passed, doing little things Loki knew were signs that Harr returned Eirene’s feelings. It took him several attempts to get them to admit their feelings to one another.

They lounged around the Lake of Tears one afternoon, Loki purposely pushed Eirene off the small rock she stood on with his magic. She ended up falling on top of Harr, their lips connecting in that moment, causing the two of them to blush in embarrassment. Loki watches them from the sidelines, grinning.

Mousse Atlas ;

The former Ace of Hearts visited Eirene days after Edgar brought her to the Red Army, bombarding her with all sorts of questions about the Land of Reason. She answered each question truthfully, and then told him she was enjoying her stay in Cradle. The two would occasionally meet in the Central Quarter for a cup of tea and pastries while he asked her more questions about where she came from. They ended up becoming such good friends. After defeating her cousin in battle, Mousse offers to be her ambassador after she reclaims the crown.

Dean Tweedle ;

Eirene has met Dean a couple of times, but hasn't tried engaging more than a few conversations with him. She does enjoy hearing him tell stories about his students.

The Black Army

Sirius Oswald ;

Sirius knows about Eirene’s feelings for his childhood friend, Harr Silver. He even encourages her to try to get to know him, but warns her that Harr isn’t used to women.

Sirius hired Eirene after the war against the Red Army. The two are really close, and completely trust one another. Eirene works for him as a volunteer (in her perspective), rather than an hourly worker. He still pays her, no matter how much she declines lin.

Seth Hyde ;

Seth immediately gotten himself attached to Eirene the moment they met. He helps her lack of sense for fashion by helping her pick out dresses, shoes, and accessories to go along with her attire. He compliments her beauty, and always wants to dress her up.

Eirene taught Seth how to stitch one day, he kept jabbing himself with the needle, and Eirene cleaned and bandaged his wounds.

Fenrir Godspeed ;

Eirene harbored a crush for Fenrir after meeting him. She thought he was beautiful (until she met Jonah), and liked his charming personality. Her crush for Fenrir eventually wore off, and she came to view him as nothing more than a great friend.

Ray Blackwell ;

In her opinion, Ray should have sent one of the Thirteen to guard her. Instead, he sent a lower ranking soldier with her to the Centeral Quarter. His decision ultimately lead to her immediate capture by Edgar.

Eirene doesn’t hold Ray accountable, and said she forgave him after the war ended.

At one point, Ray and Fenrir drags her down to mischief hell, roping her in on their pranking other members of the Black Army.

Luka Clemence ;

Eirene had a tough time getting close to Luka. With her persistence, Luka eventually opened up to her, allowing friendship to grow. She always helped him with cooking.

Eirene developed her cooking skills through him, and he couldn’t be any more prouder.

Magic Tower

Amon Jabberwock ;

Amon wanted to use Eirene for his devious plots of ruling the Land of Reason, Cradle, and beyond their country. His magic crystal reserves weren't equivalent to her magical prowess, but her magic wasn't enough to combat against the magic he stole from her father: whose soul he infused into himself.

Eirene despises Amon for making the people she cared about suffer for selfish reasons.

Dalim Tweedle ;

Eirene immediately disliked Dalim, finding his attitude annoying. When he tried capturing her by the orders of Amon, she gave him a piece of her mind and kept defending herself against his magic and the spells from the other disciples. He told her that he wanted to be the one to experiment on her, but then said Amon would be livid if he ever said that where he can hear him.

After Amon's defeat, Eirene decided to give Dalim a second chance by letting him continue working in the tower as long as Harr was the new leader if he chose to be.

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Additional Information

The beauty mark Eirene inherited from her father is a trademark of the Chapman family.

Eirene is sometimes seen carrying Ginger around, or she has Ginger in a carrier. Eirene never walks the fennec fox on a leash, despite Jonah’s insistent nagging about his concerns that Ginger might harm Pineapple.

Her favorite colors are gold and royal purple.

Her favorite dessert is red velvet cake, especially if Luka is the one who makes it for her. He bakes it for her birthday every year.

Eirene hates the aftertaste of bitter alcohol.

Eirene inherited the capability to use magic from her father due to the high amplitude for the art that passed through the Chapman family for generations. Due to her mother being from the Land of Reason, her defensive magic is extremely powerful.

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aj-the-satyr · 5 years

Text

All the Questions......

So Tag games...... Used to do ‘em a lot then kinda fell off writing for a while and then it got quiet. Well now I got tagged in 3 of those 11/11/11 things. You know the ones answer 11 questions, ask 11 more to the 11 people you tag. Well I’m not going to tag anyone other than the 3 people asking @writersblockandapotoftea @carrotgirl-1 and @rosewinterborn and say thankyou for doing so. So here goes..... the goat tries to get through all 33 questions.

1) Do you hide any secrets in your books that only a few people will find?

Hmm.... I suppose that I have a habit of making the names of both things and characters have deeper meanings. Like Grigory Zmeya, his last name means snake and he is a snake shifter type person. So stuff like that.

2) If you could ask one successful author three questions about their writing, writing process or books what would they be?

Not sure about this. I’ve read interviews with many authors where they have dispensed their advice and advice is not a one size fits all thing but I would lie to ask more personal things like favorite characters, Least favorite scene to write and most surprising side character. Stuff like that.

3) Do you have a library membership?

Nope.

4) Ebooks, yay or nay?

Used them and they are fine but I am the old school like to have the physical book in my hands kinda goat.

5) What feeling do you want your readers to get from what you write?

Wow, deep question. Enjoyment? Other than that I’d like them to have feelings for different characters, to pick favorites, to hate some and love some. I suppose I’d like my characters to be memorable but I will settle for the “That was Good” feeling after reading, even if nothing gets carried with them.

6) What time of day are you most productive?

Considering how many times I’ve written my snippets after 10pm and into the wee hours of the morning, I’d say then.

7) What is your writing Kryptonite?

Myself really. There are times I just get conflicted about my writing and rather than just let it flow and let the characters lead I will find myself deleting things and starting over many times. I’m trying to do that less but it’s hard sometimes to just let go and see what happens at the keyboard.

8) Which scenes are your favorite to write?

Huh....... I’m a dialogue heavy writer trying to get more description into my scenes so I favor just talking but am trying to change that a little.

9) What comes first in your development/outlining process plot or characters?

Well considering I don’t outline anymore (Used to waaaaay back) It would have to be characters. Make the characters and pop them in a setting. Plot will happen, hopefully.

10) What is your favorite novel to film/TV adaptadion?

Comic books count right? I love the Constantine TV show. Shame it got cancelled, love the fact they brought the character back for Legends of Tomorrow and the fact he might be getting his own show again is awesome. Love Constantine.

11) Do you think yourself as more of an artist or entertainer?

Neither really. Not something I’ve ever thought about, since you are asking me to think about it...... entertainer??

Right onto the second set of questions gonna add a read more break here to avoid taking up huge chunks of Tumblr real estate and for those people that don’t really care what this old goat has to say

12) Play fuck, marry, kill with Gandalf, Aragon and Arwen.

Er........ Kill Gandalf.... no wait he’ll come back for revenge..... Kill Aragon..... man that would be hard to do..... Kill Arwen then? But I wanted to marry her.......... Man...... Kill Aragon with Gandalf’s help, fuck Gandalf as payment and then go off to marry Arwen. Problem solved.

13) If you had to set fire to a famous building, which one would you set alight?

The Vatican?

14) If you could bring someone back from the dead who would it be?

It would be Sandra, a friend I made for a brief time on the internet who I RP’d with and had a good rapport with. She died of cancer at 20 I think, it’s hard to think about. I do always remember that I talked to her through her brother in her final days and managed to make her smile, something her brother told me she hadn’t done for weeks. Crying typing this. Yeah. Fuck yeah I’d bring her back and let her live her life. Fuck Cancer.

15) Which fictional Universe would you go into?

Star Trek. No need for money, could sit at a cafe and write all day. Great.

16) Where would you go if the world ended?

Hell. Oh wait that’s not what you were asking. Er...... nowhere. No point if it’s all gone is there? I’d stay here and still be a loner. Wow..... fun goat answers.

17) What’s you alignment?

Chaotic Neutral.

18) Lovecraft or Shelly?

Er....... as much as I love Cosmic Horror Mary Shelly was one of the most badass goths there has been. Plus the whole creating the sci-fi genre as a fuck you to Lord Byron. She is amazing and doesn’t get enough respect.

19) What’s the weirdest food you have eaten?

Sea Urchin or deep fried shrimp heads not sure which I think was weirder.

20) How do you want to die?

Die? I’m immortal. Or is that immoral? One of those.

21) Who is your least favorite character to write?

Probably The Professor since he’s a homophobic bigot who killed his own son’s boyfriend (Though he claims that was merely an accidental oversight of his grander plan) since he is not a very nice character at all. Makes my skin crawl.

22) What’s your favourite fairy tale?

Can’t say that I really have one. None of them resonate anymore, neither the grimdark originals or the fluffed up modern takes. I do however enjoy the book Dragon’s Bait by VIvian Vande Velde which is about a 15yr old girl who is put out as a sacrifice to a Dragon and ends up allying with the dragon and seeking revenge.

One more set. Almost there with the goat interrogation.

23) When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

Probably in University where I started writing a little something called “Space Gerbils” and was sending it out via email to about a dozen internet friends. They were hooked, I thought it was garbage but voila! The spark ignited. Heavily got into tabletop RPGs at the same time so that probably helped my desire for storytelling.

24) What book/Book series have you always meant to read but have not yet?

The Long Earth series by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter. I have a boxed set of them all but I just haven’t cracked the cover yet.

25) Who’s you favourite writer?

Published? Either Sir Terry Pratchett or Eoin Colfer. But a special shoutout goes to @yuutfa for Caster. They are a wonderful storyteller and got many an emotion from me while I was reading an early draft.

26) What was your favourite book as a child?

It is one that sits on my shelf this very moment. It is called “Science Fantasy Stories” and is a collection of short stories that I read many times over as a child, back when I would consume a book a day almost.

27) Favorite music to work to?

Soundcloud generally has my back but it does sometimes throw up the odd track that makes me question if its algorithm has developed some sort of twisted intelligence Black Mirror style.

28) Hogwarts House?

Ah..... this question. I’ve read the books, saw a couple of the movies (Did not like the movies) and enjoyed every step of the way. I bought my first Harry Potter books when they were selling the first 3 as a set so I jumped in to see what the fuss was about. Never once have I thought about what House I would be in. Never. So Imma gonna say Slytherin.

29) Hobbies?

Writing?? Generally I play vidja games. Current faves being Monster Hunter World (PC), Endless Legend (PC) and Crash team racing nitro fueled (PS4) and I also daydream scenes with my characters in them. Trying to get back into reading regularly again.

30) Where do you draw Inspiration from?

Everywhere I guess. From random conversations to ideas had after playing games, watching TV or reading books. Sometimes I’m not sure where the inspiration comes from but I am just trying to let myself go at those moments, run with it. Who cares if The Simpsons already did it? Truly new ideas aren’t new anyway. (Except maybe for theoretical physics, that shit is bananas) I mean one of my characters basically declared themselves to be a God (At least in my head) after I read an article on Retrocausality. Inspiration can come from anywhere. Use it!

31) What do you consider your aesthetic to be?

Look I can barely spell that word you want me to have one as well?

32) Favorite mythology?

Favorite mythology of AJ the Satyr................

33) What do you think influences your work the most?

My co author?? But seriously working things out with them has been very helpful but also there’s this little writing discord that I’m part of that is really welcoming and a great source of inspiration and ideas. But all in all I think Neil Gaiman influences me the most when he answered a question about how he does it. He told the person asking that you just write everything down that happens in the first draft and then when you go back and rewrite you make it look like you knew what you were doing all along.

Right. One Goat, 33 Questions. And I won! Not tagging anyone else but I want this to get me going on these tag games. I can’t just hide in the dark corners of Tumblr anymore. I must face the light! Has @notanotherhour done this yet??

#Tag game I guess #Not tagging anyone else in this nightmare #Writeblr #About Me #I answered the questions #Yay writing!

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thefangirlslair · 6 years

Text

PERPETUAL WINTER (A Sasusaku Fanfiction) Part I

Note: It’s finally here!! Originally, I want this to be a one-shot but thought of making this a two-shot instead. What do you think? Or maybe I should leave this be?? Hmmm.. tell me what you think of this please coz I still want to include angst and Death Cab for Cutie. Hahaha! I have an idea for the continuation of this, should I decide to write it. Please please please, leave comments and suggestions. Thank you for reading!

PS. The third and final part for More Than Words and Never Again No will be out soon. Stay tuned and thank you for the ones who read those two. I appreciate y’all. Thanks a lot! Xoxo

PPS. This is up on ffnet as well! Click here. Thanks!

Excerpt: He could barely breathe. He knew he wanted the spring, the colors and the hope it brings to anyone who experience it. He wanted some full living color in this monochromatic life of his and now that he got this, her of all things, he couldn’t even swallow his own spit.

The green man came on, and the current of people pushed him forward to her, and her to him. And as they move to meet one another in a city where they both fell in and out of love with each other, he was taken back to the time where winter was just a mere season, Bon Iver was playing on their shared earphones, and Sakura was his.

Sasusaku Pairing (5,558 words)

A Poor Attempt at Writing Fics

SasuSaku Edition V

Perpetual Winter Part 1

Winter has never been his favorite season.

It’s not that he feels the intensity of the cold because that’s not the case. Their whole clan has this inexplicable tolerance to extreme weather such as this. It’s like they have this built-in furnace inside that keeps them warm all the time.

His bestfriend, Naruto, has the same weird ass characteristic. But instead of a furnace burning with fire inside his body, it seems like there’s a demon living inside him, making him unbelievably winter-proof that he doesn’t even need winter coats to fight the cold.

As for him, he only need at least two layers of clothing to feel the right amount of warm in this chilly weather. He looked up at the sky, currently crying with snowflakes, and cursed it silently.

He continued walking towards his favorite café after purchasing poetry books down the bookstore across his apartment. His eyes are downcast and watch his sneakers leave footprints on the sidewalk as he moves with purpose. He wanted to get out of this snow and just read a goddamn book in peace with his coffee.

He really hates winter.

He stopped at the side of the road, noticing that the red man is still on. He buried his face under the thick white scarf around his neck, and his hands inside the pocket of his black trench coat. He exhaled and watched his breath evaporates as he wished that it was spring instead of this fucking winter.

Spring has always been his favorite season.

He has always been a minimalist. A black-and-white person, literally and figuratively. But contrary to popular belief that he only likes neutral colors, he actually loves vivid ones. That’s why he loathes winter so much because it’s just drained of hues. He likes it vibrant and alive. His eyes swept his surroundings.

The red of the stoplight at the other side of the road. The yellow of the boots worn by the little boy walking with his mother. The lime green of the phone case used by this tall man in front of the group of people waiting for the green to turn on at the other side. The pink hair of the petite girl behind him. The blue of t-

Wait.

Pink.

Pink hair.

His eyes went back to the source of that rose color that halted his breathing and his heartbeat. His eyes has always been his best asset, because it never misses.

Especially her. He still believes that even in a sea of people, he would always see her. Even without that ridiculous pink mane of hers, she will always stand out among the ordinary people of this earth.

It was like slow motion — the movement of her lips as she sings along to a song playing through her plugged earphones in which he’s pretty sure is a Bon Iver song (“It’s emo and perfect for winter! And besides, Bon Iver is literally ‘good winter’ in English. They’re supposed to be played during cold weather so you could mope and cry!”); a tendril of her pink hair caught in that mouth when the wind blew, her gloved fingers trying to brush it off; the arch of her scarf-covered neck as she looked up at the sky and offered a tiny glare; and the flutter of her eyelids as she faced the road and the spark of recognition in those emerald eyes of hers as their gazes met.

He could almost hear her right then and there, 15 meters between them with a throng of pedestrians just waiting to get to the other side just like the two of them, as she opens her mouth in a gasp of surprise.

Sasuke-kun, she’ll say.

But to his dismay and relief, she didn’t. Instead, she gave him a radiant smile. A smile that made this snow covered world a bit brighter and better and warmer.

He could barely breathe. He knew he wanted the spring, the colors and the hope it brings to anyone who experience it. He wanted some full living color in this monochromatic life of his and now that he got this, her of all things, he couldn’t even swallow his own spit.

—

8 years ago

“What’s your favorite song?”

They’re cuddled together in bed, naked, her head on his shoulder with his arm around her and hers tracing his abs, his other arm folded under his head. It’s freezing cold because of the early winter but their naked bodies offer enough heat to each other.

He opened his sleepy eyes and turned to his girlfriend, and saw her looking up at him with those green doe eyes, “Hn?”

“I just realized, Sasuke-kun,” she continued, still looking up at him. “We’ve been dating for like almost a year now and I still don’t know your favorite song. I rarely see you listen to music. You’re always with your books and poetry.”

“No, I’m not,” he retorted. Is it bad that he likes to read?

“Uhm, yes you are,” she said back. “Either those or your coffee or any school related shit. I don’t even see you with other people aside from Naruto, of course, and your family.”

“And Colonel Mustard,” he answered.

“He’s a cat,” she answered deadpan.

He sighed. He moved the arm under his head and used its hand to hold her cheek, “You forgot yourself.” His arm around her tightened to pull her even closer. He whispered to her, “I’m always with you.”

Sasuke saw her blush and felt her hand on his abs slap his skin. He winced a little. Seriously, her hand could either make him gasp in pleasure or in pain.

“I know that already so stop distracting me!”, she scolded him. “I wanna know your favorite song. I know your favorite movie, favorite author, favorite dish, favorite ice cream flavor even though you always say you hate ice cream, favorite jeans to wear just to make me think about grabbing your beautiful ass every time I see you in it. I even know your favorite sex position even if you haven’t told me, for God’s sake!”

He almost choked on that last one. She had always have no filter with her mouth and that may be her biggest flaw, but that’s also her strength and charm. She’s so vulgar and frank and just straight-up business when it’s about to go down. And right now, it is going down with her.

“If you don’t say it right now I’m not gonna give you head for two weeks,” she warned. He would’ve been worried that he wouldn’t get a blowjob for two long weeks if he can’t get a different kind of pleasure just by seeing her come and unravel before his eyes whenever they make love.

‘As if that’s the only satisfaction I get from you’, he thought with a small smirk.

He ran his hand on her side back and forth, squeezing her hip when it landed there, “I don’t have any favorite song.”

“Bullshit. Everyone has their favorite song. Why won’t you tell me?”, she whines. In retaliation, she also uses her hand to caress his chest and abdomen. He shivers.

“Because I don’t have one,” he calmly answered, his hand still running over her. They’re both using the power of their touch to distract and to persuade. He likes this game, he decided.

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to say it to me.”

“No.”

“Why won’t you?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Is it embarassing?”

“What?”

They didn’t notice that they moved now. She’s now on top of him, her pink hair cascading down on him like a curtain that hides them from the world, her arms caging his head as she looks down on him with determination. His hands are now both on her thighs while she straddles him, going back and forth as he feels himself get hard and heat up.

“Is it by some artist with problematic tendencies?”

He rolled his eyes, “No. I just don’t have one.”

“Is it a cheesy romantic ballad?”

“Sakura..”

“Is it by Skrillex? I swear to God I’ll strangle you.”

“Sakura..”

“Or is it from broadway? Don’t worry, I know you like theater and plays and I do, too! I love Mu-“

Out of slight irritation for too much talking and the sight of her naked breast on his face, he pulled her down and kissed the hell out of her. He heard her whimper for a second, followed by her moans as soon as his tongue found its way in her mouth. He groaned in response, she goes crazy when she hears it.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough to shut her up.

She broke the kiss and with a slight pant, “C’mon Sasuke-kun.”

He flopped his arms wide open on the mattress, and looked heavenwards before turning on her. “I could say the same to you. I don’t know your favorite song too.”

That made her halt in her movements, which is crawling backwards to sit on his crotch. She sat on his abdomen instead, “Really?”

It’s a given that she will question him regarding this since she tells him absolutely almost everything. From her latest discovered band to a recent discovery in medicine by a genius dude whose name he doesn’t even remember, she shares it with him. Favorite anime character, favorite memory with him, favorite pair of underwear — he knows it all because she’s that open to him about things she love.

But his sharp memory tells him that she forgot to include her favorite song. It’s hard for Sasuke to remember things that doesn’t have any business with him, especially things he doesn’t care about. But since Sakura is his only business and definitely the woman he most care about next to his mother, anything that tumbles out of her mouth will automatically find its way to the storage in his brain and his heart and it’ll be there for him to remember forever, no matter how mundane it is such as a favorite scented candle or favorite episode of How I Met Your Mother.

He sighed while staring at her fondly, “Really.” She just stared back, her head tilting slightly like a puppy as she process this new information. She looked absolutely adorable in his eyes and he felt his lips turn into a soft smile.

‘Too cute’, he thought. If she’s not naked on top of him right now, he might’ve told her outloud.

Before he could even reach out to caress her stomach, she got up from her position on his abdomen and hopped out of bed. He leans on his elbow to watch her rummage through her bag, as nonchalant as a new born baby can be in just her skin and nothing else, and he continued to watch in awe and fascination.

“Yosh!”, she exclaimed after a few moments. She turned around and flopped down on the bed on her stomach, with her hands holding her ipod. She plugged in her earphones on the device and looked at him dead in the eye, “I love this dude named Justin Vernon.”

He was still leaning on his elbows when he suddenly sat up straight, “What the fu- who the fuck is h- I swear to God Sak-“ and continued to sputter shit.

“Shut your hole and let me speak you dumb baby,” she covered his mouth shut. “Do you think I’m capable of loving someone other than you?”

Sasuke immediately didn’t know what to say at that and even felt his stomach flutter a bit. He blinked once, twice, while looking at her. He was gonna lean closer to her when she added, “Though this dude could be a close second.”

His reins are up again and this time, Sakura just laughed at him. ‘The audacity!’ he thought internally.

She removed her hand on his mouth and continued, “He’s a dude that once holed up in his father’s hunting cabin in the mountains after a break-up and wrote the best album of all time.”

After that, he found himself sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed, watching and listening to the love of his life talk about her love for this sad and broken man who made her favorite album. And for the first time, he didn’t feel jealous that she’s talking about some other guy and how she loves him so. He actually felt sorry for him, and yes, a bit impressed too. Making a classic album after a break-up? That’s neat.

He doesn’t know the pain to be dealt with when you’ve broken up with someone because Sakura was his first girlfriend. And honestly, he doesn’t, couldn’t, even think about being apart from her. Just the thought of them breaking up already makes him panic a little. He always thought to himself, ‘I will never let that happen.’

His position against the head of the bed gives him perfect view of her lying on her stomach, still animatedly talking about the girl, popularly known as Emma, who broke this Justin’s heart and inspired him to write a whole record.

Then she played a whole album for him, from start to finish. A roller coaster of emotions passed through him. He never knew music could transport you into another realm like this. At one time they stopped using the earphone splitter as they both listen to the whole album in separate earphones. They shared one pair of earphones and she finally played her favorite song which was also the last track on the record, “This is my favorite song of all time. It’s called Re:Stacks.”

Strums of guitar started to pour through and then he heard the song she loves very much. He heard a song of a broken man. His words penetrates through Sasuke and he found himself closing his eyes to absorb it all — the pain, the longing, and the acceptance in the end.

He didn’t notice that the song already ended until he felt Sakura gently straddle his lap which made him open his eyes. He saw her looking at him, with a soft smile grazing her pink lips. “Hi,” she whispered sweetly.

He continued staring at her while removing the earbud from his ear. He sighed deeply and murmured back, “Hi.”

“What do you think? You seemed to like it,” she whispered again, still smiling at him, her hand reaching out to push his bangs back away from his face.

He nods, “It’s beautiful.” The intimacy of the moment made them want to whisper to each other, as if there’s an audience watching and listening. He caressed her thighs straddling his hips, “He seemed to be in so much pain and disbelief, but there’s a feeling of acceptance and letting go in the end. Sad but beautiful.”

She smiled brightly at him, making him tighten his hands on her thighs. She’s beautiful and she makes his heart ache so goddamn good. “I’m glad you liked it,” Sakura said. Her eyes suddenly trained downcast and her fingers fumble with the chain on his neck.

He frowned for a moment, not knowing what caused the sudden change on her demeanor. She’s such an open book and add that with the years of being friends and lovers, he could instantly tell what she’s feeling with just one glance.

He lifted her face by using his hand, the other tugging her closer so he could prop his knees up, “What is it?”

Sakura looked at him quietly, her green eyes slowly sweeping the features on his face. She traced it with her fingers and when she reached his mouth, Sasuke gently puckered his lips to kiss them. It made her smile.

“I know it’s a sad song,” she started. “Hell, the whole album is a sad one. Justin wrote it about ‘Emma’ and he was heartbroken and in despair for so long. Emma broke his heart — shattered it even.”

She licked her lips and subtly shakes her head. Then she continued talking, now looking at his lips, “And I know we’re happy and I’m hopelessly in love with you and I know you love me too, but..”

Green eyes met his black ones, “I want you to know that you’re my Emma. You always will be.”

Sasuke’s heart skipped a beat. She said it so achingly vulnerable and soft and heartfelt that he felt it in his bones, rattling everything he believes in. She could tell him the world is square and he will believe her if she talks and looks at him like that.

She continued to babble, words tumbling out of her mouth trying to convey her feelings. He listens.

“And if I could write songs — damn if I could write a whole album — it would be about you. About us. About you and your stoic perfect face that makes me frustrated and flustered at once. The way you push your hair back, your eyes, your hands — everything about you. I will get holed up in a cave or in my own room and pour my heart in every song like Justin did and make you an album, but I couldn’t do that and I could only say these things to your face like this and I hope it’s enough. I hope it’s enough for you to never leave me, I hope that I’m good enough for you. And just like Emma, you will always have a piece of my heart when and if, God forbid, we ever broke up. I wi-“

He couldn’t take it anymore. His heart was about to burst out from his chest and her words are starting to get ridiculous because who would dare leave her? How could he ever leave her, let alone think about leaving her? If it ever comes to worst, which he will fight so hard not to happen, he won’t be the one to leave. Sakura might just realize how much he lacks and how unworthy he is, and that’s when she leaves. But right now, she’s here. And she’s kissing him. And she loves him.

And so he did what he does best.

He grabbed her face and slammed his mouth against hers. Sasuke heard her whimper and he kissed her harder. ‘Mine. Mine. Mine,’ he selfishly said in his head.

Her arms wound around his neck as he cradles her face closer to his, pouring his feelings through their passionate kiss. He felt something wet on his face and realized that Sakura was crying.

She has always been emotional and Sasuke knows she feels intense emotions at the moment that’s why she’s shedding tears. It made him break their liplock and kissed away her tears on her cheeks to her eyes. He felt her smile against his face and he kissed her again, softly this time. When he broke the kiss for the second time, he stared intently at her, “I love you.”

Sasuke shook her head a little to let her know he’s serious, “Sakura, I love you. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re mine just as I am yours, and I love you so much.”

Sasuke will always be reserved when it comes to his emotions and hearing these words of love, affection and reassurance made Sakura cry a little harder. She hugged him, her arms tightening around his shoulders and her face buried against his neck. He kissed her hair, his own arms caging her to him.

They continued being like that — with the pursuit of knowing Sasuke’s favorite song forgotten, with Sasuke’s words earlier still reverberating around the room, and his unsaid ones echoing inside his heart, body and soul.

‘You’re my Emma too, Sakura.’

—

They met at the center of the road. From up above, you’ll see two opposite colors at the middle of the lane with a stream of people continuously going back and forth around them like a stream — her pink strands and his black mane. There they stood, onyx orbs meeting jade ones.

Sasuke looks at her — just that. Words have left him once his eyes reached her figure from across the road. It’s all he can do right now; just look at her and contemplate whether this is fate or a mere coincidence, a blessing or a curse. Maybe God heard his prayers and now spitting on him.

He opened his mouth to taste her name from his lips, unmentioned for the past 6 years. His friends have been very careful around him after their breakup. No one mentioned her name. During spring, the term cherry blossom is always used instead.

He wants to know now if the familiar sweep of his tongue when he calls her still gives him a sense of belongingness and home, because only God knows how much he’s never been home all these years. He will do just that when she removed her earbuds and beat him to it.

“Sasuke.”

He might’ve shivered a little. Not from the cold, not even from the cadence of her voice or the familiarity of her eyes. It’s from the little ache in his heart, because it has been such a long time.

He also noticed how she called him without that suffix. Sasuke felt it sting a bit. He swallowed hard before greeting her back by saying, “Sakura.”

She smiled, “Hi.”

Her smile still brought a tiny smirk from him, earning him another smile from her. She always knew how to push his right buttons. “Hi,” he murmured back.

She looked around then, her eyes darting throughout their surroundings, “As much as I want to stand here and try to look like we’re shooting a music video in the middle of the road, we can’t.”

She laughed at that and surprising him, grabbed his arm and led him towards the direction he was going. She pulled him so that they could walk side by side and asked him, “You’re going to buy coffee and read, right?”

Surprise must’ve been written all over his face for she laughed a little and nodded her head towards the paper bag of books he’s holding. He looked down on it as she continued to say teasingly, “You always need coffee when you read. You still haven’t changed, Sasuke! Let me guess.. Bukowski?”

He’s never been so glad to have his scarf around his neck until now because he knows that his nape just turned red, as is his ears which Sakura noticed. She laughed again and he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Shut up.”

They continued to walk until they reached his favorite café. He opened the door for her and she halts in her steps and looked at him with an amazed expression, “Whoa there. You’ve never opened the door for me before. This is new. Thanks.” She proceeded to enter and left him there, still holding the door open, thinking about what she said.

‘Really?’ he thought to himself.

Sasuke followed her inside where he’s sure she will pick a spot near the glass windows so she could see the people outside. She always liked to observe people when they’re mostly in their most unpretentious, which is simply walking down the street.

But she surprised him again by choosing seats against the wall opposite the glass windows. Above their seats on the wall is a black and white picture of a couple sitting on a bench with shared earplugs and holding hands.

‘How apt,’ he commented on his head. Then he heard it from Sakura herself, “Hey, don’t they remind you of us before? Ah, nostalgic.”

She removed her white trench coat and now sitting, sporting a military green turtleneck sweater and denim jeans with black knee high boots. He admits she looked good, extremely good, and he pushes his thoughts away. He berates himself inwardly, ‘Now is not the time moron.’

He nodded his head in answer as he removed his coat and scarf, leaving him with a dark blue sweater. He placed his paper bag of books under the table and said, “I’ll order now.”

Sasuke knows her usual — coffee with one pack of sugar and three packs of cream — so he didn’t bother asking her. That’s why when he was gonna go to the counter, Sakura interrupted him with, “I quit coffee a long time ago, Sasuke.”

That made him stop on his tracks and face her again. She smiled a little, “I’ll have black tea. Oh, and a strawberry muffin. Thanks.”

He blinked for a while, then nodded his head in understanding. He went to the counter and ordered for them. As he waited, he watched her from the corner of his eye. His eyes took her in for the nth time since laying his eyes on her again after six goddamn years.

Many things about her took him by suprise — her preference for a spot inside the café and her liking to black tea, her pink hair now in a messy bun at the top of her head revealing her forehead (she’s insecure about her forehead before that’s why she always wear her hair down with bangs covering it), and her being a bit more reserved, unlike before where she’s always on her feet most of the time because she’s full of energy and enthusiasm. She looks sophisticated now, with her dark red lipstick on her lips. She was never the dark color type of girl, but now she looks fierce and classy even with just a lipstick on and nothing else on her face.

But there are still things that didn’t change. She’s still short; a bit taller than she was back then but still way shorter than him. She reaches his chin before but now, she’s able to barely reach his nose. But then, he became taller since then so maybe she never grew at all. She still loves taking pictures of everything whether it’s a cute dog that passes by her, a pretty graffiti she spots when they’re in the car, or her shoes for the day. Right now, it’s the neon signs of the café, with her fingers posing to make a finger heart for her to capture. Fucking adorable, he thought.

Above all, she’s still bubbly. After all the shit that happened, he’s extremely glad she never lost her bubbly personality. He remembered the last time they saw each other, how broken she looked that day when they broke up, how much self-control it took for him not to reach out and take back all that he said. He was afraid he took out the best parts of her. But seeing her now made him release a thorn on his pierced heart, relieving him some of the ache that still lingers.

A tap on his shoulder woke him from his thoughts. He turned around and saw their literature professor in college, Kakashi Hatake.

“Mr. Uchiha, what a pleasant surprise,” the gray haired man exclaimed, his ever present mask still covering half of his face. They never knew what he looked like.

“Sir,” Sasuke replied. This earned a chuckle from Kakashi. He heard him say, “Still stiff as a board, I see.”

He snorted, “Still nosy.”

Kakashi laughed, “Been a while since I saw you here. I heard you moved out of Japan for good? Since what? 5 years ago?”

“Six, actually. I got back last year. Gotta take care of family business since..” Sasuke trailed off.

Kakashi’s eyes seemed to soften at that, and undeniably filled with pity. He nodded somberly, “Yeah.. Your brother would have been proud of you.”

His throat constricted at that statement. A pair of black eyes as dark as his looking at him — fondly, teasingly, lovingly — made its way to his mind.

Itachi.

Everyone in Tokyo, probably in all of Japan, knew the death of Itachi Uchiha 7 years ago. Just a simple visit at the grocery, a luxury he didn’t have in his leisure since he’s the heir of the biggest manufacturing company in Asia, and all of a sudden found dead inside because he chose to protect the mother and child from being shot by a robber.

Everyone tells Sasuke he’s a noble man; people he didn’t even know showed up on his wake and said their condolences, and he said choked-up thanks, and he held onto Sakura’s hand tightly because nothing seemed to anchor him to reality anymore. Sasuke watched as his mother cried until she passed out, his father stare into space as he held his wife, and his own self drown in anger and misery.

How dare Itachi leave him alone? How dare Itachi sacrifice himself and die? How dare Itachi pass his responsibilities onto his shoulders, uncontrollably shaking so hard because of the wrecking sobs he let out once in the comfort of his dead brother’s room?

Sasuke averted his eyes for he knows Kakashi is as sharp as any investigator and he might see through him. He just nodded in response.

The other man noticed the change in Sasuke so he changed the topic, “So are you still with my favorite student?”

That made Sasuke look back at Kakashi and stammered a little, “I- I- uhh..”

Kakashi’s sharp eyes roamed around the café and obviously lit up when it landed on pink. He looked back at Sasuke slyly, “I see.”

Sasuke opened his mouth to tell him that he’s wrong but unfortunately, his order was already called. Kakashi just patted his shoulder again and saluted at him, taking lazy strides as he walked out of the café, his iconic copy of the first volume of Icha-Icha peaking through the pocket of his sling bag. Sasuke shook his head.

Lifting his and Sakura’s orders back to their table, Sasuke composed himself as he makes his way to her. They might not be the same as before, but he knows Sakura can see immediately through him if there are thoughts running through his head.

He saw Sakura leaning against the table; her left arm folded across her chest on the table and her right folded at the elbow as she grips her phone. She finally took off her gloves, the said item tossed in her bag. When he placed down the tray, she took her eyes off the phone and gave him a small smile. As he sat down he heard, “Thanks.” He just nodded as a reply. What can he say anyway?

“Was that Kakashi sensei back there earlier?”, she asked. “I think I saw his anti-gravity hair but didn’t see his mask coz you were blocking it.” She laughed a bit as she sips her tea.

Anti-gravity hair, he chuckled inwardly. He fought a laugh as well, “Aa. He just annoyed me.”

She giggled, “That old man, still nosy as hell huh? For a guy, he’s so nosy that it’s borderline intrusive! But why didn’t he come over and talk to me? We haven’t seen each other for so long! Wow, so much for being his favorite pupil.”

He sipped his hot coffee as he looked at her, “He likes his porn better than you.”

She almost choked with her muffin. “True, but at least I know what he looks like underneath,” she smugly commented while smothering a chuckle.

Sasuke’s eyes widened, silently asking her to confirm if what he heard was right. She laughed a bit and teasingly said, “Don’t worry. You’re still much better looking. Though he’s a really close second, I’m telling you.” Then she laughed again, making him smile genuinely.

Sasuke’s heart squeezed a little. It was just like old times when they were teens, with their gazes lingering a bit too long to consider as a friendly look. They did this a lot when they were in high school having study breaks in the coffee shop near their school. Their undying affectionate banter filling up their space. Even when surrounded by friends, they always seem to have their own little world where only the two of them exist.

They were each other’s first love. And right at this moment, 6 years past the best and worst times of his life, Sasuke’s heart lit up with unexplicable spark. One more smile from her and he will lit up like forest fire.

A shrill of a phone ringing caught his attention.

A radiant grin from her caught his breath..

and a glimmer of something shiny on her left hand stopped it altogether.

It all happened in slow motion — the way her eyes shift from him to the black device on the table, the way her teeth was slowly revealed as she smiled brightly after seeing the name of the caller, the way her left hand’s ring finger containing the offending platinum band with a diamond hurt his eyes as she accepts the call.

Then he heard her sweetly say, “Neji-kun.”

And the forest fire of hope inside him dissipates with the heavy rain of his despair falling down on him.

-fin-

(A/N: Special chapter is up here on tumblr and ffnet. See you soon!)

special chapter | part 2

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #ssfanfic #ssfic #ssfanfiction #uchiha sasuke #uchiha sakura #haruno sakura #naruto #naruto fanfiction #fanfiction #otp #otp for life #thank you for reading #please comment #fangirl's fanfiction

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doctorpariahdax · 7 years

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Stick around Corvo fans-How Daud was thrown away and enlightened as a character in Dishonored series.

This is gonna be long so buckle up kiddos. There's a couple things that immediately come to mind for fans of the Dishonored universe and from what I've come across is that you either love Daud or you hate him. And I don't think that's directly a flaw with the character himself but how he was presented. There are a couple things I want to list that I'll further elaborate on that pertain to how Daud was thrown away as a character (ruined) and elaborated on. -dauds inital purpose -mercy or le death -yay classic redemption arc - except lol maybe not what did you do -true character nature -the marked and the outsider's approval -the purpose of doto -the end of daud Now to give you full disclosure I have not yet run through all of Dishonored 2 or doto. I am by no means a completionist, I don't feel pressured to explore every nook and cranny just for some obscure letter written by one of Delilah's witches that tells you something about someone somewhere about hlahblahblhab. Now because I'm a responsible impulse efficient and self controlled person roaming social media I spoiled the end of doto for myself and I am deeply saddened because Daud is my favorite character. I don't know if it's a kink of mine to like dangerous emotionally unavailable and unattainable men (cuz he's ded. Lel nah he's fictional) but Daud was genuinely more interesting to me than Corvo. This is not to say that the first Dishonored is bad, but the story was lacking for me - I'm very much a story seeker- and when the game first came out I played the intro and immediately set down the game thinking, "ehng...". When I decided to give Dishonored another try (*cough this summer cough six years later cough*) I kept going not because of my interest in Corvo or the outsider, or getting Emily back safely (don't get me wrong I like kids but Corvo is either best or worst parent and I can't decide which); I kept going because I wanted to know more about the "villain". He's an assassin, a merc for hire which to me meant his character is either going to be really deep or inexplicably shallow. I was upset at first, he wasn't in the game as much as I thought he would be but Dishonored has a tendency to shove information by into your face /after the fact/. I spared the villain hoping I would see him again. I didn't. ....until I found out there were dlc's. Staying with my rant? Digital cookie for you. Dishonored's story telling was on par and in many cases far better than the knife of dunwall, but the first dlc was very much a setup for the brigmore witches dlc, which in turn was what I think the best story telling in the whole Dishonored series.. Gonna go into my points listed above now because either don't want you to read through this thinking it was total anxiety induced stress writing (...which it definitely isn't....by the way....) There's a general healthy mindset that people inherently dislike villains, evil doers and all round moral miscreants, Daud being an assassin for hire and not much more in Dishonored as his initial purpose was already be placed in a rough position that a portion of players might find amiable but mostly for his badassery and not much in the character development isle. The way I see it is that you first are greeted with Daud's be character development in one of two ways(or a blend): you want Corvo to be moral and spare Daud, or upon hearing that Daud reports to you there's something by inside of him suffering you spare him to let him suffer more. Daud's intial purpose was to be a 'bad guy' and in either scenario he is still seen as being the bad guy or getting a cliche "this is worse than death and you deserve to suffer" sort of ending. When you come to knife of dunwall Daud is...tired. there's no simpler way for me to describe it. He's lived above and away from any higher power than himself (cuz we all know the outsider doesn't seem to give a hair on his left ball about Daud but he'd dress in drag and do the hula for Corvo...#dauddeservesbetterfriends) And we know or at least can vetire the thought that Daud has adjusted to his life as a killer, but he doesn't seem active enjoyment from it. I'm not exonerating Daud's tendency for murder, but think of it this way, he is a serial killer by death count but he's not a Ted Bundy or Hannibal Lecter. Killing doesn't give him satisfacyion, it is just a job and people are hard to become attached to when you have to look at them often as return receipts and cashiers. That's not to say that Daud doesn't feel love. I genuinely think he loved Billie as a sort of best friend and daughter. The death of empress kaldwin has hit daud hard too. He knew it was a bad idea but it was habit, it was just a contract, and jessamine meant nothing of compromise to Daud personally. When Daud is betrayed by Billie and given a death date from the outsider Daud has already submitted in some form to his own fleeting mortality and is pained after decades of his reputation getting ahead of himself to the point where he wouldn't say 'no' to a contract. I feel that Daud felt as though he was becoming more of a Lecter esque serial killer to the public, that who he was, his identity had been lost underneath the bodies he's left in his wake...and he regrets all of it, realizing its futility, pointlessness. People are just contracts to him, but he never actively sought to I'll with the purpose of hurting the very fiber of others' existence... When you spare Daud as Corvo his single line proclaiming how extraordinary your willingness to give him clemency is isn't a line to me that was ultimately thrown to the wind, it was something that genuinely sparked upset and fascination in Daud. Corvo did something Daud hadn't done since he had moved from serkonos, and without the incentive of pay - Corvo decided to spare a life. That ruptures something deeply in Daud, who had already endured his midlife crisis and brings me to the third bullet point "classic redemption arc" although it does matter what you do....that changes Daud's character to me...idk. All in all the only right way I saw to play brigmore witches was to go non-lethal stealth...and trick Delilah into her own spell. Daud is a master assassin. It made no sense for him to merely go jumping around murdering everyone who saw him (this is how I initially played Corvo because dayum I was bad at stealth games also pc controls, but then again Corvo isn't a master assassin when you first meet him...Daud is). After a struggle with Delilah, you hold onto the platform and read her citations and she flies off of you, into the painting, I wanted there to be a classic breathless hero who mutters calmly "gotta quit smoking" ( drum crash) and goes about his business. But! Something I feel a lot of fans of Dishonored overlook is that Daud had no need to further pursue Delilah. He could easily have faded into obscurity around the second mission when he realized that Delilah was after Emily and not him, but he ventures forward, accepting his fate - tired and downtrodden about his choices and the inevitable futility of his fate- in the efforts to save the life and hope that still exists in young Emily, the daughter of the empress he murdered right before her eyes. It's a move of an apology, a silent, self accepting apology with no further requirements for acknowledgement. Which brings me to the true nature of daud in addition to the nature and approval of the outsider to his marked ones. Daud in canon does not kill but traps Delilah. Daud is a mater assassin. He's quick he's quiet he is an efficient man with little room in his life or care for killing as a sport....he is to some extent evil, but he is not incapable of doing good to simply do good. The outsider is decribed furtively as a true neutral character who appeals to the benevolent options but is known to commit 'evil' by not intervening. He seems to be a strong advocate of free will but does extend the occasional helpful hint to his marked ones. Daud is told by the outsider that how he handles Delilah will be viewed with great curiosity which is another added caveat to Daud's evolution as a character and devolution as an identity. The outsider became bored with Daud, stopped willingly checking on him, but when Daud does the 'unusual' sparing Delilah but torturing her for (what was supposed to be eternal) ...he gains the outsider's favor, even if for juat a moment. He fades into obscurity for both Corvo and the outsider, even to his own men, abandoning the identity of 'daud' and presumably not going on a killing spree. The purpose of doto.....I'm not 100% sure of a 'purpose', but doto makes or breaks Daud for most people. For me it did both. But it didn't break Daud's character development for me because he saw the outsider specifically as an excuse for all the murder and the theiving and the murder and did I mention Daud murdered? He had to kill the outsider to prevent another 'daud'. The outsider was the omniscient condoner. 'daud' would not have ever easily existed to such fame or success without the aid and the passive/spontaneous condoning of the outsider and his abilities. Few be if any would have managed to be a 'daud' identity without being able to be so far above the confines of human abolity to cheat mortal instruments of death.... Corvo and his attempt to save Emily would have been a fly's breath shy of impossible without the outsider to tinker with the impossibilities. Daud's action to kill the outsider was selfish, I can see and agree with that, but he only wanted to destroy the exoneration of evil, not to simply forgive his transgressions by eradicating and blaming the one who allowed and corroborated with him to be such. How doto has presented Daud in doto and how many people have received and reacted to Daud's presented purpose in doto did misrepresent and destroy in some regards the development they took with Daud's character, but let me reiterate that his character development itself was not thrown out the window, it was how his character was presented in a plot and the narrative around doto. ...let me again remind you I said I haven't exactly finished doto....because I spoiled it for myself and I don't want Daud to die...again....finally? Maybe not the right words - oh look I've made myself sad, fancy that - but the point. Of this ramble which now I don't know how to end and I don't think I've ever spent so long on Tumblr in one sitting .... Daud is not a poorly constructed character. Doto poorly presented him and he deserved better. Doto also made Daud's character solidfied. He's not a gentle being. He's stern, violent, reserved and determined, but he's also deeply emotional and self loathing. He aspires to destroy the outsider because of what the outsider allowed in to do, he did not pursue or seek to blame the outsider into naively forgiving himself for the crimes he committed. It was a matter of settling his conscience. Probably with the abuse of his powers, a lot of stress, whiskey, cigars, and breaking a handful of bones repeatedly over his career and his guilt Daud was well aware he was on his deathbed long before Billie found him and he had been haunted by his blindness and decades of him /having forgiven and forgotten/ his crimes that it drove him to death. Daud is not a poorly constructed character. I would argue he was a character that the Dishonored series put the most time and effort into.

#Long post #lmao #outsider forgive me #Daud #assassin #Dishonored #Dishonored 2 #death of the outsider #Billie lurk #Corvo #Corvo attano #the outsider #character analysis #also I'm tired and I've never spent this long on Tumblr in one sitting

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