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saiki-k-innie · 3 years

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Your boyfriend, Denki Kaminari, is the UA traitor

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Anime: My Hero Academia Character(s): Denki Kaminari Legend (y/n = your name): gender neutral reader, quirk not mentioned, y/n is a gamer (not a major plot point) Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: (very) minor angst, invasion of privacy Notes: I wrote this while listening to (this) playlist, originally in the comment section of the video. I decided to refine it and post it here, because why not?

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when you first found out, you were devastated.

Denki? Your little Pikachu? The UA traitor? preposterous. it was almost laughable. almost.

You were chilling in his room, playing on his PlayStation while he was out training with Kirishima and some others when you discovered his secret.

It was pretty common to see you in his room without him or vice versa. You two completely trusted each other with everything. There was nothing to hide from each other, or so you thought.

When you were about to claim a win in Overwatch, (you were KILLING IT as Widowmaker), Denki's monitor went black. No response from the controller or the console. Sighing, you pushed yourself back in his chair and ducked your head under the desk.

"oh my god" you breathed as you laid eyes on the rat's nest of wires tangled beneath his desk. It was absolutely insane. You couldn't tell one cable from another in the gordian knot of cords. You quickly identified the problem (the plug for the PlayStation had come loose) and fixed it. You cringed at the loss of your game progress but you had another problem at hand.

You powered off all of his consoles and settled down to solve the tangle of cables. Laughing, you didn't know why you expected anything more of Denki. He was so lucky that you loved solving puzzles, and knots were your specialty.

Looking closer, you saw that he had taken the wall socket apart and messed around with it to accommodate his quirk and gamer lifestyle. You were surprised that it hadn't started a fire, but decided not to mess with that because you were genuinely afraid of what would happen if you grabbed the wrong cable.

After a bit of untangling, you finally had the cords separated. You identified and tagged all of the cords at the speed of a professional, but one cord that ran straight into the wall remained. You couldn't find what it plugged into or where it went, and it was driving you crazy.

Temporarily abandoning your original task, you swiftly ran your nimble fingers along the mystery cable. It snaked along the base of Denki's desk into the back of one of his drawers through a clearly handmade hole. You wondered why this cable was so concealed while the rest were once so tangled and what it led to.

Extracting yourself from under Denki's desk, you took a deep breath and stretched our your back. You easily identified the drawer it was supposed to go to and opened it up. The drawer was surprisingly organized, containing game cases for games that you hadn't seen him play before, but you definitely recognized the titles. There was still no sign of what the cable led to.

You weren't going to give up so soon, though. If he thought this would satisfy your curiosity, he was dead wrong. Smirking at the feeble deterrent, you promptly removed all of the cases to see what they were covering up.

"Huh," you vocalized as you stared at the empty drawer. Something wasn't adding up. Peering at the back of the drawer, you could see the cable lead... underneath the drawer? No, you were sure that it was this drawer.

Inspecting the drawer carefully, you realized that the depth of the drawer didn't match the depth of the space allotted for it. You were starting to get excited. Remembering what Light did to hide his Death Note, you realized that the bottom of the drawer was probably a fake. Smiling fondly, you remembered how Death Note was the first anime you two watched together.

Ducking your head under the drawer, you saw the hole for the ink cartridge from a ballpoint pen that would reveal the secrets. You shook your head. How did Denki think he could hide something from his weeb s/o??? You swiftly disassembled a pen and poked it into the hole.

Success! the faux bottom popped up.

Nearly vibrating from the excitement of discovery, you carefully removed the thin wooden facade from the drawer.

What- What is this? There were several circuits and wires winding around the drawer, all carefully placed and put together so they covered the bottom of the drawer snugly. You saw a button, a switchboard, a headphone jack, and what looked like a place for a cd to sit in the area closest to you. The switchboard had three buttons labeled "play" "pause" and "record". The button off of the switchboard had no label, but it was significantly bigger than the others, so it had to have some significance.

The excitement slid off of your face and was replaced with a look of pure confusion and disappointment. You didn't know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

Well, the puzzle certainly got a lot more complex but that wasn't going to stop you either. You stared at the labyrinth of lines and wires, like little highways connecting on the circuits and different components. You had completely forgotten your original objective of cable management.

Thinking for a second, you picked up one of the game cases that you took out of the drawer. The title read "Halo 3: ODST". Popping it open with the finesse of a pro gamer, you peeked inside, expecting to see the matching blue disk, but instead saw a grey cd with "021" scribbled on it in Denki's signature scrawl.

Shifting your weight onto your knees, you plugged your headphones into the audio jack. You pried the disk from the case and set it down in the drawer and pressed "play".

Your ears were assaulted with a series of beeps and you instinctively ripped your headphones from your ears. What was this??? After calming down, you sighed and carefully put your headphones back on. The beeping continued, and you realized that it was in a specific pattern. You identified it easily as morse code, and you remembered that Denki had taught you it a while back, just in case you had to communicate non-verbally. You used it to share answers on tests and talk in class more than anything, and sometimes to communicate during training. Jirou was the only other person who knew morse code in class 1-A, but you seriously doubted that she knew about this.

You pressed "pause" and removed the disk from the tray. You grabbed a notepad and reassembled the pen that you had dissected to reveal the bottom of the drawer. Sitting back down, you put the CD back into the tray and played it from the beginning.

Focusing completely, you wrote down the corresponding words to the rapid beeps. After about two minutes, the high-pitched beeps ceased completely. You put down your pen and read the message you had translated.

"Monochrome to Sparks. Bi-weekly report for week 11. Recruit for new members has proved successful. Two new villains by the names “Toga” and “Dabi” have joined us. We are still planning for the next attack on UA. Void has used intel for the specific layout of UA to detect weak points in the mainframe successfully. Crusty has suggested that we wait for the current term to finish to make our next move. We may be able to kidnap students of choice if they end up going on a training trip. That is all. Please send your reply at the usual time. Over."

Your jaw went slack. What- what is this? You shakily took the cd out of the drawer and replaced it. You opened up the other game cases that you had removed. They also contained grey disks, some labeled and some blank.

You placed the labeled ones in numerical order and listened to them one by one. The notepad was filled with all of the messages from months of corrospondence. Some had pre-dated the dorm system, so you figured that Denki converted their format to match the ones that were recorded after moving into the dorms to disguise the timeline.

Looking over your work, the puzzle pieces all fell into place. Denki had been working with the LOV for months, even before he came to UA. He had tricked you and your classmates into thinking that he was training to become the next generation of heroes with his charm and jokes. It all made sense, in a twisted way. Who would be better to be the traiter than him? To stupid in school to seem like he could pull it off, but insanely smart outside of the classroom. Was his academic shortcomings a fake too? No, you had sat there with him for hours trying to help him understand logarithms to no avail. He couldn’t of faked the tears of frustration he had before you agreed to go taste all of the flavors of Monster Energy and rank them instead of studying for midterms.

No matter what he had been planning, he still was your boyfriend. He was still your little static boy. Right?

You read over all of the messages over and over until your eyes blurred from tears. You put everything back and silently organized the cables you had pulled out. Shaking, you sat on his bed, clutching the notepad in your hands, waiting for Denki to come back.

After what seemed like forever, you heard his footsteps in the hallway.

When Denki walked in, you could tell he was exhausted.

You put down the notepad and held out your arms to him. He collapsed into you and exhaled, clearly wiped from training. You love him so much it hurts. He means the world to you, and you would do anything for him without hesitation. You solemnly made up your mind.

"Denki..." you started, rubbing his hair. "Mmmmph" he replied, noise muffled by your body. When you didn't respond, he sat up and faced you, rubbing his eyes.

You smiled sadly at him.

"What is it, my little spark?" he asked, his tone strained with worry.

You sighed and handed him the notebook with the messages written on them.

You watched his expression shift from confusion, to horror, to fear, to resignation. He didn't make it through all of the messages. He knew you would find this one day. He had made it so only you would know.

His gaze slowly panned over to the cords under his desk. When he saw that they were neatly organized, he sighed and put down the notebook. "y/n... let me explain... I understand if you turn me in. I understand if you never want to speak to me again. I understand if-" his voice broke and his eyes welled up with tears.

It hurt you so badly to see him like this. You looked over his beautiful face, distorted from the tears in your own eyes.

"Denki, when were you planning to tell me?" You felt so hurt that he kept this from you, but you knew why. How could he tell you? You both were training to be heroes. How was he supposed to tell you that you were part of the League of Villians?

"I- it all happened so fast, and I wasn't supposed to make friends, let alone be in a relationship. The shit hit the fan so quickly that it felt impossible to tell you. When we moved into dorms because of the LOV attack, I knew that I would have to tell you eventually. I set it up so we would know how to communicate in morse code so that you and only you would be able to find the communicator, and so that you would feel comfortable in my room. I just- I just hoped that maybe you would never find out." As he spoke, he moved his hands around feebly, just to let them rest on his lap.

You listened to him in silence. When he was done, you gazed into his honey-colored eyes that were trained dutifully on his bedspread and smiled. "I would burn down the world for you, Pikachu. I wish you would've trusted me with this sooner." You laughed and shook your head. "You are more important to me than you could ever imagine. If you are the UA traitor, if you are part of the League of Villians, so be it. I will shake hands with the devil if it means I will be by your side."

His blonde head snapped to attention. “Y/n...?” He looked at you quizically. This... didn’t sound like you. He knew that you were determined beyond measure to become a hero, and he didn’t expect you to be swayed so easily.

"Please, please, please don't hide anything else from me. I will always be on your side. Don't ever forget that, okay sparky?"

He looked at you, surprised that you weren't telling Aizawa about him at this moment, not that he would stop you. "Okay, my little spark."

"I love you"

"I love you too"

“... do you want to play a video game?”

“you know I do.”

“okay.”

“Hey y/n?”

“yes Denki?”

“let’s burn down the world together”

#mha #bnha #mha fanfiction #mha fanfic #my hero academia fanfic #bocu no hero academia #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha imagines #mha x reader #my hero academia #denki kaminari #denki kaminari x reader #denki x reader #bnha x you

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panspy · 5 years

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Case #0181501

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Eide Burrows, regarding a man who may not have been her neighbor, and her hometown of Millport, Scotland. Original statement delivered through some folded sheets of notebook paper shoved under the office door while I was on a lunch break. Statement recorded January 15, 2018, audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

In the end, we’re all just shapes. Figures, either soft, angled, flat, or dimensional, all floating through space with only the hint of a purpose. I’ve always thought this made us pitiable. Shapes don’t have a purpose, their only use is to simply be. What is the meaning of a triangle? Any color, it doesn’t matter. How about a square? A dodecahedron? Exactly. It has no right to have that many sides all to itself, but it exists simply because we willed it into being. Shapes thinking of shapes.

Lines connect shapes and connect people. We have no reason to be, other than to just… exist. We think of shapes. Who thought of us? God, you could argue and many do. Argue about God, argue with God, argue in defense of God, argue against God. Argue, argue, argue. Just shapes arguing with shapes.

For the longest time, as far as I was concerned, Millport was nothing but shapes. Old buildings with new paint, old billboards with flashy new signs, old families run by new blood. Old ways and new people. They tried to cover up the old, and bury it like bones in a landfill. Cover it up along with the potholes with new asphalt and cement. Make it shiny and new. They still crack, anyway.

Hundreds of years, that town stood sturdy on soft ground. Founded by confident men with high hopes, big dreams, bigger egos, and empty pockets. Dreams make you blind, but people like to invest in them. Dreams give shapes a purpose, don’t they? Confidence fools others, and eventually fools yourself. Have you ever gone unnoticed in a place you’re not meant to be? If you walk with your head held high and false arrogance, people will believe you belong with them. For either to believe this façade makes them a fool. Not that anyone really belongs anywhere, and we’re all just foolish enough to believe it. Foolish shapes believing other foolish shapes.

I’ve always reckoned that it’s easier to be confident on uncertain legs than to fear falling on steady ground. Watching a frightened child stepping along a wide, even plank at the park is more likely to fall than a tightrope walker on a flimsy wire. Tightrope walkers are triangles, balanced and perfect. Children are parallelograms. Misshapen. Lopsided.

All the children in Millport are parallelograms. Some are flat and one dimensional, others forever rotating on an axis to show off their sides. Never the same for more than a day- I kept track. The adults were a variety of evolved and ever-changing polygons. But for some reason when I was little, looking at all these shapes going about their pretend lives, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a polygon when the world seemed to be filled with them. When I looked at my skin, it was soft and squished under touch. My hair was coarse, dull, and brown, unlike my mothers which was static with energy and never quite the same after you blinked. My face was asymmetrical too, as many shapes are. Eyes that seemed to be too big, ears that poke out a bit too much, bags that never went away… well, I don’t think they did anyways. You have to understand, it’s been a while since I’ve seen it. After a childhood of feeling as though the world hadn’t been fair enough to make me a nice red square, I just accepted it. I learned not to mind my lack of shape, and felt content to be liminal.

The first time I decided to look further into what made the town fit together into the odd puzzle it was, was the Masonic Lodge on the empty lot of Seymour and Drummond. It was always changing, not that it mattered enough to give it a second thought. In the morning, it could be a red trapezoid but by noon it would shift into a cracked yellow octagon. Personally I always preferred the trapezoid. The men who entered in the evening but never seemed to exit in the morning were also known to change. Whether by name, appearance, age, or multitude… who went in did not dictate who went home. Not that anyone cared about that, either.

When I was feeling especially curious, I would watch them enter from the dim car park away from a flickering old street lamp. As nights went by and I felt brave enough to stand directly under it, I found it made no difference as they never even looked at my direction. By the morning, the cars would be gone and the men allegedly returned home to their spouses and families. And I would leave, deciding to return again at the next meeting whenever I felt the disturbing pull in my stomach beckoning me to witness it. The scheduled days varied, but was always twice a week starting at 8:12 pm and ending when the street light flickered, shrouding the building and parked vehicles in darkness, then flickering on again to show an empty lot. They never met on Tuesdays.

My mother worked down the street at the Birdie’s Bed & Breakfast to help Bertha Goodwin when the old woman needed assistance navigating the cottage she’d rented her whole life, it seemed like. Bertha, though we always called her Birdie, was in her late seventies when I was born, and she was in her late seventies when I left for college. She was still in her late seventies when I returned home the next fall with nothing to show for it and a mother who didn’t even acknowledge I had gone in the first place. Not that they even noticed when I was living with them as a child either. When they deemed me old enough to care for myself, Mum would leave in the mornings with a freshly ironed apron, cleaning supplies I never saw opened, and my Dad would leave to work on blueprints of buildings I never saw built. After staring at my ceiling for hours, distracting myself with faded stars stuck up with putty and cracks in the walls, I would leave my blue square of a house and wander the streets looking for a clue to a mystery I wasn’t quite sure existed.

I tried to be academic, I really did. I wanted to leave that old town and its jagged shapes and build something for myself, but the longer I spent away the pit in my stomach grew more and even looking in the mirror hurt my eyes. I couldn’t feel the softness of my skin anymore. It felt like plastic. The faces of my classmates were static and boring-- none of them pulsed with the same energy as the people back home and all sounded the same. After barely a year I couldn’t take it and moved back home. The school didn’t even call to finalize my resignation.

As a child who grew up with strange disappearances monthly (Birdie said Misses Morgan moved to the States, but her car still collected leaves in the drive), stores popping up that never seemed to stay, and the absence of new neighbors, nothing was too out of the ordinary for us. But I’ve read some of the other statements, Jon, and it seems nothing was quite ordinary at all. Construction workers would vanish and it would rarely make the papers. The opening of a new chip shop was a blessing, but no one would ever be able to go more than twice before it was on its way out of town and replaced with some new fad.

Until the year the cemetery flooded and the school gymnasium roof caved in, about 2006 (it’s hard to beep track of the years), I didn’t think extraordinary could exist. Or at least not in any way that mattered. That was the year the Abbott’s moved in to the house on Cowley Lane, a house I had only ever seen out of the corner of my eye. On a street filled with shapes, this was a straight line.

They arrived as most families do, escaping an unpleasant moment in time by “starting fresh” and “turning over a new leaf”. I never quite understood that expression, as turning over a new leaf does not negate the old one. By turning over a leaf with a sullied edge to admire the green underside, it still remains the same leaf. Turning over a new leaf simply means the old one is left to decompose while you find a crisp, untarnished leaf, while the other still has a perfectly acceptable side to be admired. And, as most families do, they leave the unsightly leaf to be buried with the hundreds of others they’ve “turned over” and promise to change. The promises stay, but are never quite redeemed. Sorry, I got carried away… it's hard to find things to be passionate about these days. I'll continue.

The Abbotts integrated as well as they could, two children ready to attend school no matter the construction work in the gym or the fact it was well into November, and a third to stay at home as infants are wont to do. They threw a barbecue to get to know the neighbors, and the whole village attended bringing their own family recipes and baked desserts. I stayed home.

The Abbott's father, Mark, gained a quick job as an iron-worker while his wife (I never knew her name) stayed indoors looking after the baby. I’d see him in the mine, hacking away at rusty cars and rail too old to use and loading the scraps to be taken away. Hours, I’d watch, as he compressed the piles and laid the new framework to keep unwanted visitors from being crushed to death by eroding stone walls. The day he was called to help install the new wrought iron fence where the cemetery flooded and washed away, I followed him there too. Wherever he went, the shapes that once filled the town lost their vibrancy. Instead of fluctuating between tetrahedrons and prisms, they became either stagnant or frantic. Everything at once, or nothing at all.

I watched him dig in the downtrodden soil, unearthing rectangular caskets and hexagonal coffins. The rain that year had brought landslides and sinkholes, most destructive in the cemetery just outside town and disturbing the dead where they slept. Headstones, monuments, and mementos washed away and sank into the soft dirt, the running fence encircling the land broken up and dragged along with it. Once an infinite circle that cut the burial grounds off from the rest of the puzzle, the shape was now distorted and wrong. Without gate to close and make it whole again, I felt the muted shape of the cemetery slip away and become a tangled mess of string.

He dug for hours until the orange circle of a sun lowered itself behind the branches of the forest and their quickly disappearing leaves. Moving from one plot to the other, from the pristine headstones of recent years down to the protruding stones with names barely legible beneath the moss and decades of wear. Digging, digging, digging, all the while the formless fence to-be remained untouched. When the sky turned dark and snow clouds threatened to shed their weight, I finally turned my back on Mark and left him alone with the dead for the first time all evening, the man seeming blissfully unaware he hadn’t been alone in the first place at all.

The next morning when I went to check on his new project, the buildings along the way had lost their shape. No longer were streets lined with sturdy trapezoids, rectangles, and prisms. The colors were off, like a child with a crayon who had not yet learned the concept of limitation. They bled into each other and polluted the air, cracked frames unable to hold them back. The air tasted like static and I couldn't feel the ground beneath my boots.

By the time I got to the clearing, the holes had been filled and the new fence had taken shape in towering columns that crawled and stretched like spider webs across the dying grass. It was the same dirt, the same stone, trees, and air, but it did not feel like the cemetery I had watched be torn away the night before. I felt a chill settle in my bones and leave as quickly as it came like waiting for pain after burning your finger on a hot mug. From all my observing of the town, never once has a feeling ever driven me to run far away until what I was seeing before me was but an afterthought.

I passed by the Abbotts house, static growing stronger until I could barely hear the crunch of leaves or gravel beneath my feet. Only the wife's car was in the drive and a fresh coat of snow indicated there had only been the one all night, and the black pick-up Mark drove was nowhere to be seen. The sign on their door was new, barely two months old, but as I looked at it, truly looked at it, did it appear to have aged to rot. Abbott’s House it said in curvy lettering (with all the determination of a line pretending to be something it’s not) with five handprints beneath for each family member. Five. Mother, three kids, and… now four. The longer I thought about it, the longer I stared, trying to blink away the dots that kept getting in the way of my vision, the more my eyes convinced me there had always been four. Never two cars, never five hands. Through my haze, I barely felt my feet take me home. Even when I layed down to rest in a foreign looking room, I decided that my childhood mystery, a fantasy I had grown to accept, had found another clue and a little bit more of the town chipped away. Mark didn’t show up for work anymore.

Little things were changing, it just took a trained eye to notice. You don’t have to be a detective to see the details, sometimes you just have to be very, very afraid. The sign for Birdies Bed & Breakfast was now spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’, and the apron my mother wore was now a faded lilac instead of a robin’s egg blue. The oak tree that stood tall in our backyard, old as the town itself with a slow swinging hammock tied to the branches, was now a young birch. I likened it to two puzzles cut from the same machine. Different pictures with pieces that fit together only in the most literal sense. The longer I noticed, the more I wondered which puzzle was truly mine, and which one was slowly being replaced.

Each morning the static filled my nose, irritated my eyes, and clouded my ears with a soft dizzying hum that slowly drowned out my senses. The shapes that made up my entire world were broken, dull, and chipping away until everything I knew was muddled and loud.

It was only when I woke up in an empty room, no posters, cardboard boxes, or dirty clothes, I found my feet barely touched the floor. I felt weightless as I wandered down to the kitchen where Mum usually got ready, feeling as though the back of my eyes were filled with cotton. There were only two seats sat at the dining table, and when I tried to open my mouth to speak my tongue tasted like ash.

Before I could blink or even cry, suddenly I was in the street. Red shapes filled my periphery and everything between, and the town was gone. A red sky bled into the houses, cars, and potholes cremating them like the dead. I felt myself falling away from my body and I finally saw my shape. It was a shifting mass of angles and colors and somehow I just knew it was me. When I finally did cry, smaller shapes fell from her eyes copying the drops that fell from mine. Was it out of malice? Pity? Understanding? Was she crying because she shared my pain or was she just a cheap reflection of who I thought I was or simply longed to be?

It’s been a while since I’ve been here, in this black and red. She still mocks me. Radiant and pulsing with color while I exist with imitation soft skin and coarse hair. They’re the only things I can be sure of, as I haven’t seen my face in a long time. Only hers. Now I’m not sure who she is, but she’s the only company in this void. Until I saw your shape, Jon. Blue and black polygons blinking between colors with the beat of a foreign heart. You lead me here to a library of pain that reflected my own, a reprieve from the emptiness I’ve been floating in. Maybe if I tell you my story you can bring me back to the shape of your world? I suppose only time will tell, and I have an eternity to wait.

Waiting for someone to save the outline of a person who isn’t sure they ever existed at all.

#tma #the magnus archives oc #the magnus archives #tma oc #case fic #case file #statement #fan statement #tma fanfic #my writing #the spiral #podcast #eide burrows #fan case #jon sims #jonathan sims

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blackpinklightuptheskyonlinehd · 4 years

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Título original BLACKPINK: Light Up the Sky Año 2020 País Corea del Sur Corea del Sur Dirección Caroline Suh Música (Canciones: Blackpink) Reparto Documental (intervenciones de: Blackpink, Jennie, Jisoo, Lisa, Rosé) Productora Radical Media. Distribuida por Netflix Género Documental | Documental sobre música Sinopsis Documental sobre la banda de K-Pop BLACKPINK.

Films can also be used to convey certain messages from the filmmaker. Some industries also use film to convey and represent their symbols and culture. Filmmaking is also a form of expression, thoughts, ideas, concepts, feelings and moods of a human being visualized in film. The film itself is mostly a fiction, although some are based on fact true stories or based on a true story.

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That’s a little information about the definition of film or movie. The information was quoted from various sources and references. Hope it can be useful.

1. TV MOVIE

The first television shows were experimental, sporadic broadcasts viewable only within a very short range from the broadcast tower starting in the 1930s. Televised events such as the 1936 Summer Olympics in Germany, the 19340 coronation of King George VI in the UK, and David Sarnoff’s famous introduction at the 1939 New York World’s Fair in the US spurred a growth in the medium, but World War II put a halt to development until the war. The 19440 World MOVIE inspired many Americans to buy their first television set and then in 1948, the popular radio show Texaco Star Theater made the move and became the first weekly televised variety show, earning BLACKPINK: Light Up the Sky Milton Berle the name “”Mr Television”” and demonstrating that the medium was a stable, modern form of entertainment which could attract advertisers. The first national live television broadcast in the US took place on September 4, 1951 when President Harry Truman’s speech at the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco was transmitted over AT&T’s transcontinental cable and microwave radio relay system to broadcast stations in local markets.

The first national color broadcast (the 1954 Tournament of Roses Parade) in the US occurred on January 1, 1954. During the following ten years most network broadcasts, and nearly all local programming, continued to be in black-and-white. A color transition was announced for the fall of 1965, during which over half of all network prime-time programming would be broadcast in color. The first all-color prime-time season came just one year later. In 19402, the last holdout among daytime network shows converted to color, resulting in the first completely all-color network season.

2. Formats and Genres

See also: List of genres § Film and television formats and genres

Television shows are more varied than most other forms of media due to the wide variety of formats and genres that can be presented. A show may be fictional (as in comedies and dramas), or non-fictional (as in documentary, news, and reality television). It may be topical (as in the case of a local newscast and some made-for-television films), or historical (as in the case of many documentaries and fictional MOVIE). They could be primarily instructional or educational, or entertaining as is the case in situation comedy and game shows.[citation needed]

In 2007, it was reported that television was growing into a larger component of major media companies’ revenues than film.[5] Some also noted the increase in quality of some television programs. In 2007, Academy-Award-winning film director Steven Soderbergh, commenting on ambiguity and complexity of character and narrative, stated: “”I think those qualities are now being seen on television and that people who want to see stories that have those kinds of qualities are watching television.

3. Thank’s For All And Happy Watching

Thank you very much. We tell everyone who is happy to receive us as news or information about this year’s film schedule and how you watch your favorite films. Hopefully we can become the best partner for you in finding recommendations for your favorite movies. That’s all from us, greetings!

Thanks for watching The Video Today.

I hope you enjoy the videos that I share. Give a thumbs up, like, or share if you enjoy what we’ve shared so that we more excited.

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Definition and definition of film / film

Work of art in the form of a series of live images that are rotated to produce an illusion of moving images that are presented as a form of entertainment. The illusion of a series of images produces continuous motion in the form of video. The film is often referred to as a movie or moving picture. Film is a modern and popular art form created for business and entertainment purposes. Film making has now become a popular industry throughout the world, where feature films are always awaited by cinemas. Films are made in two main ways. The first is through shooting and recording techniques through film cameras. This method is done by photographing images or objects. The second uses traditional animation techniques. This method is done through computer graphic animation or CGI techniques. Both can also be combined with other techniques and visual effects. Filming usually takes a relatively long time. It also requires a job desk each, starting from the director, producer, editor, wardrobe, visual effects and others.

Definition and Definition of Film / Movie

While the players who play a role in the film are referred to as actors (men) or actresses (women). There is also the term extras that are used as supporting characters with few roles in the film. This is different from the main actors who have bigger and more roles. Being an actor and an actress must be demanded to have good acting talent, which is in accordance with the theme of the film he is starring in. In certain scenes, the actor’s role can be replaced by a stuntman or a stuntman. The existence of a stuntman is important to replace the actors doing scenes that are difficult and extreme, which are usually found in action action films. Films can also be used to convey certain messages from the filmmaker. Some industries also use film to convey and represent their symbols and culture. Filmmaking is also a form of expression, thoughts, ideas, concepts, feelings and moods of a human being visualized in film. The film itself is mostly a fiction, although some are based on fact true stories or based on a true story.

That’s a little information about the definition of film or movie. The information was quoted from various sources and references. Hope it can be useful.

❍❍❍ TV MOVIE ❍❍❍

The first television shows were experimental, sporadic broadcasts viewable only within a very short range from the broadcast tower starting in the 1930s. Televised events such as the 1936 Summer Olympics in Germany, the 19340 coronation of King George VI in the UK, and David Sarnoff’s famous introduction at the 1939 New York World’s Fair in the US spurred a growth in the medium, but World War II put a halt to development until after the war. The 19440 World MOVIE inspired many Americans to buy their first television set and then in 1948, the popular radio show Texaco Star Theater made the move and became the first weekly televised variety show, earning host Milton Berle the name “Mr Television” and demonstrating that the medium was a stable, modern form of entertainment which could attract advertisers. The first national live television broadcast in the US took place on September 4, 1951 when President Harry Truman’s speech at the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco was transmitted over AT&T’s transcontinental cable and microwave radio relay system to broadcast stations in local markets.

❍❍❍ Formats and Genres ❍❍❍

See also: List of genres § Film and television formats and genres Television shows are more varied than most other forms of media due to the wide variety of formats and genres that can be presented. A show may be fictional (as in comedies and dramas), or non-fictional (as in documentary, news, and reality television). It may be topical (as in the case of a local newscast and some made-for-television films), or historical (as in the case of many documentaries and fictional MOVIE). They could be primarily instructional or educational, or entertaining as is the case in situation comedy and game shows.[citation needed]

A drama program usually features a set of actors playing characters in a historical or contemporary setting. The program follows their lives and adventures. Before the 1980s, shows (except for soap opera-type serials) typically remained static without story arcs, and the main characters and premise changed little.[citation needed] If some change happened to the characters’ lives during the episode, it was usually undone by the end. Because of this, the episodes could be broadcast in any order.[citation needed] Since the 1980s, many MOVIE feature progressive change in the plot, the characters, or both. For instance, Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere were two of the first American prime time drama television MOVIE to have this kind of dramatic structure,[4][better source needed] while the later MOVIE Babylon 5 further exemplifies such structure in that it had a predetermined story running over its intended five-season run.[citation needed] In “DC1&”, it was reported that television was growing into a larger component of major media companies’ revenues than film.[5] Some also noted the increase in quality of some television programs. In “DC1&”, Academy-Award-winning film director Steven Soderbergh, commenting on ambiguity and complexity of character and narrative, stated: “I think those qualities are now being seen on television and that people who want to see stories that have those kinds of qualities are watching television.

Find all the movies that you can stream online, including those that were screened this week. If you are wondering what you can watch on this website, then you should know that it covers genres that include crime, Science, Fi-Fi, action, romance, thriller, Comedy, drama and Anime Movie. Thank you very much. We tell everyone who is happy to receive us as news or information about this year’s film schedule and how you watch your favorite films. Hopefully we can become the best partner for you in finding recommendations for your favorite movies. That’s all from us, greetings!

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lostcybertronian · 5 years

Text

Observing the Apocalypse

My short story final for the flash fiction portion of my Creative Writing class.

Summary: Two astronauts watch the apocalypse from the International Space Station

---

There were no fireworks; no bang or sizzle of fried circuitry. Nothing dramatic, like in the movies. The communications offlined with hardly a pop, their latest spacewalk procedures disappearing from the screen to be replaced by only black, the audio cutting out to be replaced with only static silence.

“What the hell . . .?” Xavier punched a few buttons, his irritation growing as the procedures refused to reappear. He continued pressing buttons in an attempt to bring them back.

“Xavier!” Sara’s voice was edged with urgency. With fear. With some other emotion Xavier didn’t want to identify but sent chills down his spine. He glanced down to see her floating below him. Her eyes were shiny, like she was fighting back tears.

“Unshutter the cupola,” she said. “You have to see this.”

—-

“It’s finally happening.”

They floated together in the cupola, squeezed into the tiny space. Neither cared that Xavier’s elbow jutted into Sara’s ribs when he moved, neither cared about the blank communications screen.

Both were enraptured by the view of the Earth, a brown-blue globe miles and miles beneath them, lit up by millions of tiny pinpricks of light.

Except those pinpricks were going out. Every one of them, extinguishing like snuffed candle flames. Entire countries going dark.

“I didn’t think it ever would. I-“ Xavier let out a shuddering breath. “I thought it was just bullshit put out by the news stations.”

He looked to Sara. She was crying, her tears puddling, floating from her cheeks to drift serenely through the air. Her shoulders shook in silent sobs.

Realization struck him suddenly, along with a sharp pang of heart-wrenching grief: Sara would never get to meet her newborn son. She’d never see her wife. They would never again be able to return home.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. She buried her head in his chest and cried.

“Should we wake up Andy?” She asked, her voice low and gravelly. It’s been a few minutes. A few minutes of silence, of Sara sobbing into Xavier’s bodysuit while he did his best to keep it together, to keep his gaze on Earth, now as dark and lifeless as the communications screen. From this distance, it was impossible to see anything else happening, but he didn’t dare tear his eyes away. For some reason, it felt important.

“Let him sleep,” Xavier replied. “He wouldn’t want to see it.”

“What do we do now? Should we . . .” She paused, fighting for something to say. “Should we evacuate?”

“To where?” Xavier gestured to the windows. “Not back to Earth.”

“But we can’t stay here. We’ll run out of food. We don’t have Houston to send us procedures. We’ll-“ her voice rose, rose, rose into hysterics- “we’ll die here!”

“Better here than down there!” Xavier didn’t mean to shout; it burst out of him before he could stop it, angry and scared and hurt, just like her.

She stared at him, brown eyes furious. “At least I’d be with my family.”

Then she shoved away from him, propelling herself back down, into the Tranquility nodule, and away from him. Xavier presumed to grieve.

He let her go, and continued looking out through the observation windows, watching the world he used to call home.

#original writing #science fiction #sci-fi #outer space #international space station #flash fiction #short story #nasa #lost writing tag #lostandwandering #my writing #angst

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crystalninjaphoenix · 5 years

Text

Chaos Theory

Part One

(We interrupt your normally-scheduled fics to bring you...this ;) )

“Wake up Jackieboy. You have a busy night ahead of you.”

Most people, upon waking up to a strange voice calling their name after passing out in their apartment, would be understandably freaked out. Jackie not so much. Of course this was weird and suspicious and definitely not good news, but it was part of his life at this point. Now he just had to wonder who it was this time.

Jackie opened his eyes and saw he was lying on a bed, on top of red blankets. He noticed two things right away: one, he had a killer headache, and two, he was wearing his super suit, which he distinctively did not remember wearing before...before he got here. How did he get here? The last thing he did remember was heating up some leftover pizza after work and chowing down on it while he watched YouTube. It tasted a bit funny, and he did get pretty sleepy pretty quickly after eating it...oh.

He sat up, looking around the strange room. No windows, only one door. It reminded him a bit of a hotel room. He wasn’t sure why, it was something in the simple furniture: couch, long table against the wall, short coffee table, and armchair. None of the sitting furniture looked too comfortable to sit in. The walls were wallpapered red, to match the red and brown furniture. There was a screen mounted on the wall with speakers next to it.

“Ah, there you are. Right on time.” The screen flickered to life, showing static briefly before clearing to a red screen. “I was starting to worry I messed up my calculations for the dosage.”

“Who are you?” Jackie stood up and addressed his demands toward the screen. “Where am I? How did you get inside my apartment?”

“Uh, lockpicking. It’s a useful skill that most people overlook. As for your other questions...” A map of the city popped up on the screen, with a red dot blipping into being in the northeast part of the city. “You are here. And I’m definitely not going to tell you who I am. At least, not right away.”

“Ooookay...” Jackie’s eyes darted towards the room’s door. It was probably locked, but couldn’t hurt to try. He turned and walked towards it.

“Oh you do not want to leave yet.”

Jackie stopped in his tracks. That was...an odd thing to say. Well, it confirmed that this guy—male voice, higher pitch than his own, American accent—had visual on him as well as audio. Jackie turned back to the screen. “Why?”

“Well, I heard you were a fan of games.”

Jackie laughed. “Okay, Jigsaw, you want to play a game?” He folded his arms. “Let’s cut to the chase, why don’t we? What if I don’t play? Are you going to kill me?”

“I guess you’ve been threatened so much that situations like this don’t exactly phase you, then?” The voice sounded...intrigued. And slightly amused. “That makes sense. Anyway, no, I’m not going to kill you. But it’s in your best interest to play along. Or actually, your friends’ best interest.”

Jackie felt his heart stop, then resume, pumping ice through his veins. “...what?” The word was barely audible.

“Oh yeah.” The map on the screen vanished, four pictures replacing it. Jackie turned to stone as he realized who the pictures were of. Chase, Schneep, Marvin, and Jameson. All the pictures had the look of being taken candidly, capturing them as they went about their business in the city, photos from a distance, around corners, and through leaves. “I know where you live, Jackieboy. You think I don’t know who your friends are?”

“What did you do?” It came out as a whisper, so he repeated the words, louder with rage. “What did you do?! If you’ve done anything to them—”

“You won’t be able to do anything about it.”

Jackie growled and kicked the back of the armchair.

The voice laughed. “But don’t worry! They’re perfectly fine. Or, they are right now, at least. I can’t promise they will be later tonight.”

Jackie’s heart was pounding as if he’d just ran 30 meters in a dead sprint. His eyes flicked back and forth between the photos on the screen. His friends. This psycho had his friends. “What...what are you going to do? What do you want from me?”

“Well, it’s very simple.” The pictures on the screen disappeared, replaced by a white screen with bullet points. “First of all.” The bullet points filled in as the voice talked. “I'll give you a series of puzzles to solve. These puzzles will lead you to locations where your friends are, and tell you which one is there. Second, you have six hours to solve these puzzles and get to all your friends.” A clock popped on screen, showing the time: 12:09am. “If you fail to get to anyone in time, you lose the game and...well, you won’t be seeing them again. And finally, if you get help from anyone, if you go to the police, you forfeit the game. Which is a form of losing. And again, you can say goodbye to anyone you’ve left behind if you lose. Any questions?”

By this point, Jackie had taken off his super suit’s glove so he could chew on his nails. Okay. Seemed simple enough, even if the stakes were high. He could do puzzles. Hopefully. “If—I mean, when I get my friends back, can I ask them for help or do they count for the third rule?”

“Of course. What else are friends for?”

Jackie exhaled, releasing tension he didn’t know he was holding.

“Are you ready to play?”

“I...uh...” Jackie hesitated, then nodded. “How do I start?”

“Look on the table by the wall. Do you see a flat package there?” An arrow appeared on the screen, pointing toward the table. There was indeed a flat cardboard box. “Inside it is a laptop. The first set of puzzles is on there, in the files.”

Jackie glared at the package. He didn’t know if he should trust anything this voice gave to him. But he didn’t think the guy would send the puzzles to his own personal laptop. He walked toward the table and snatched up the package.

“There will be four sets of puzzles,” the voice explained. “Increasing in difficulty, of course. Don’t worry, you can use Google, this is an open-book quiz. Just know I’ll be watching. And hurry up! It is currently ten minutes after midnight. You have until 6:10am to solve all the puzzles.” A timer popped up on screen, reading six hours. “The game starts now. Go!” The timer started ticking down.

Jackie didn’t even reply, just ran towards the door, threw it open, and came out into a run-down hallway, lined with doors with one at the end. He dashed towards the door at the end, pushed through it, and stumbled onto the street. He looked left, right, then ran toward the city center.

Six hours.

The game was on.

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jacksepticegos #septic egos #jackieboy man #brigid writes fanfiction #chaostheoryfic

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toggle1-mrfipp · 6 years

Text

Fractured

On a mission to discover the cause of several recent disappearances, 2B and 9S come across a dying machine, and a dark stain from the past comes back.

“Anemone said the suspicious activity was around here, right?” 9S asked from his position atop the run-down, rusted bus.

“Around this end of the mall, yes,” 2B answered, taking her own stance at the edge of the overgrown road. “In addition to several of her people going missing around here, she also said there are been reports of an unknown entity skulking around, though all attempts to investigate it ended in nothing.”

“Something tells me that those two are connected somehow.”

“I agree, and with frequent the disappearances have become, Anemone is worried how much worse it could become.”

The recent weeks have been busy, to say the least.

YorHa was gone. The Organization that had pledged itself to the Glory of Mankind no longer existed, and 2B was still found herself with a deep and heavy feeling in her gut at the prospect. They were gone and she was still here, even though she had no right to be, but 9S was alive as well. He was here, in front of her, and she knew that he was going to stay there, and never again would get that order.

Sometimes she wanted to cry, that the suffering she had caused had come to an end.

Sometime she wanted to cry because she was afraid that this would turn into a nightmare and the order would still come through.

In the time since they had woken up, 2B and 9S had worked more with the Resistance, who had since begun restoring a section of the city to become inhabitable for the remaining androids. The incidents of hostile machines had drastically dropped, and with the exception of a few stragglers, most of the machines who wandered the city aimlessly had join to either form communities of their own, or join one of the small remaining ones, with even a few joining the rebuilding efforts. The last time she had spoken to A2, she had mentioned that a few machines had taken to staying in Pascal's village.

Humanity was gone, as well as their alien invaders, only leaving androids and machines to pick up the pieces, and she didn't know where this road would lead them.

She was suddenly dragged out of her thoughts by the shattering of glass and metal crashing against the ground. Both she and 9S were quick to draw their weapons, 042 and 153 ready to fire at any possible threat, but what had caught their attention could not seem to be any less of a threat; a machine, a small stubby, had crashed through a glass door of the mall and from the look of it, it appeared as though it could not be a threat if it tried.

It was covered in large gashes, chunks of its armor crudely cut away, a piece of its head missing from the back, as well as missing an arm and a leg, and oil of pouring from its wounds in large rushes.

“H-Help-p,” it croaked, feebly reaching for them, one of its eyes dead.

9S bolted for it, with 2B close behind, keeping an eye out for either a trap of some sort, set by either the machine before them or whoever it was that did this too it.

“What happened to you?” he asked, kneeling down next to it, placing a hand on its chassis.

“K-k-illed-d-d them aaaalllllllllllllll...” The gave a rattling noise as its remaining eye popped in a small shower of sparkles, before it dropped dead, the oil leaking dripping to an end.

“I think it's gone,” he said, standing back up to face 2B. “And with how badly it's been damaged I don't think we could have done anything for it.”

“Ah...” 2B said with a sigh. She turned, observing her environment, trying to spot something, anything that could have caused this, but her attention ended up being drawn back to the door the machine crashed through, and to the trail of oil that lead into the dark interior of the mall.

“You think this could be related to those disappearances Anemone wanted us to investigate?” 9S asked, having already caught onto her trail of though.

“Something tells me that this is too much a coincidence to be otherwise.”

“Yeah, sent out to find out where androids have vanished off to, only to find a near-dead machine crying out that someone killed them all. It's worth a look.”

He was the first one to step through the door, and only a second later did 2B follow him, and travel into the depths of the mall.

000

“So why isn't the mall used by the Resistance?” 2B asked as they walked through the dead mall, passing long empty stores, their pods providing light and allowing them to see. “There's a lot room in here, and it seems like it would better suit their operations better than the lot they use.”

“I actually asked Anemone about that once,” 9S explained. “She said they they actually once planned to have this place be their center of operations, but when they went deep enough in they found a colony of hostile machines, and they weren't able to get rid of them all, so they decided to move shop somewhere else. One of the alternatives was the sewers but-agh!” He tripped, stumbling briefly before he regained his foot.

“You should watch were you're going,” was 2B's response, her path slightly diverging her path as to avoid whatever it was he had tripped over.

“Yeah yeah,” he said as he turned around coming to a halt and looking back the way they had come, eyes turning to where he had tripped. “I hear y-oh...”

“Oh? Is something-oh.” She gave a pause as she looked down at what was at his feet.

“Observation: It would appear to be a severed android hand.”

“Thank you, 042,” 2B replied. “That is... helpful.”

The hand sat there, a pool of dried blood beneath it, staining a titles in a dark coat.

“That's another mood setter right there,” 9S said dryly. “I don't see a body that it could have been attached anywhere, and it looks like it's been here for a while too. You think they might have escaped?”

“I wouldn't get those hopes up.” Taking a looked down the darkened halls, 2B continued on her way. “Stay behind me, there's clearly something in here, so he have to be vigilant.”

“Got it.” He made to follow, and taking one last look at the hand before he walked as close to her as he could.

000

They continued on, and as they did more evidence of the perpetrator began to appear more; machine oil and android blood were more common place, sprayed on the walls and floors, splattered against signs and benches, and according to the Pods there was even animal blood mixed in there as well. More body parts began to strewn about as well, mostly severed limbs from androids, machines and even the aforementioned animals, but never was there an entire body, just small pieces.

Where were the bodies? They had wondered.

Eventually they received their answer.

They entered the heart of the mall, the massive room that acted as the hub, where the rest of what the mall had to offered could easily be accessed, and it was here they found the bodies. Androids, machines, animals, all sorts of bodies and blood littering the chamber, seemingly tossed around with no care of position, pools of blood puddling around. Machines hacked into bits, androids all covered in haphazard stab wounds, and varying animals, from birds to moose that looked like they had been torn apart. The stench of rotting flesh filled the air, the fetid smell invading their sense of small, and behind her she could hear 9S gag. She wanted to gag herself, but she kept that under control herself.

In the center of everything, amongst this massive field of corpses was a tree, ancient and massive, its long dead branches reached for the streams of sunlight pouring through the shattered skylight. More blood was coating the lower reaches of the trunk, as well as marked with long gashes that had been cut into it.

“Warning: Black Box signal detected,” Pod 153 called out.

“What? Where?” 9S answered, quickly turning, trying to find out where the signal was coming. “Friend or foe you think?”

2B already had her sword in her grasp. “I don't know-wait? Up there!”

Her finger extended upwards, pointing to the large and twisted branches above them, and laying down on one of them, face up to the sky, and an arm limply dangling, appeared to be an android.

2B and 9S briefly exchanged glances before separating from one another, moving in opposite directions; 2B moving closer from the left while 9S distanced himself from the right. They didn't know who this was, or if they were a threat, but it was to approach this with caution.

Suddenly the android groaned, their body shifting on the branch, which forced 2B and 9S to halt in their advancements and observe the unknown android's actions.

“Who's there?” it asked. The voice was obviously female, but it was hoarse, with an audio distortion that put a slight layer of static on the words. She twisted her body and fell to the ground, landing on her feet,but not with a stumble that almost sent her crashing forward, but she was able to catch herself before she could fall flat on her face. With her on the ground floor, and stepping into the better a light, and to their horror they could see what they were dealing with.

In clothes were impossible to identify in any way other than the baggy way they hung off from her frame, and this was due to the fact that they appeared to be soaked in blood and oil, caking her in layers that had long since dried and fresh, and everything in between. This staining continued onto the sword she had gripped in her right hand, and with the way her first was shaking 9S wondered just how tightly it was clutched in her grip, or even if she had the ability to get it go; the sword itself was in terrible shape, it was badly chipped along the remaining half of he sword, spots of bloodied rust along its length.

Despite these observations, they were not the more unsettling however; the skin on her left hand, as well as the left side of her face, had been torn off, the layers removed as far down as the black under-plating. Unlike A2, who appeared to have had her skin cleanly removed enough that replacement patches could be easily applied, this android's skin looked like it had been torn away, leaving jagged tears along the synthetic flesh where it had been ripped from.

“W-Who are you?” she asked, her sights turning to 2B. “Do I know you?”

2B could now clearly see what remained of the android's face, with her missing skin, exposed jaw and missing left eye, while her remaining right eye had been dull and gray. Her hair was short, and either brown or a dark red, it was hard to tell through the blood.

“I think before I give you my name, you should tell me who you are,” 2B answered, wondering if the android knew 9S was behind her, preparing to strike her at the first sign of trouble.

The android stared at her, the remaining eye glaring, before her head shook and said eye clutched tightly as her free hand suddenly rose up and struck her in the side of the head, a thick clank ringing through the room each time bare metal hit bare metal. “Six. Six. Six---teen. 16.”

“16-what?” 2B asked firmly.

The android remained silent, her arm slowly lowering, eye staring intently at it.

“...e...” the whisper came out. “YoRHa No. 16 Type E. 16E.”

Inside her chest, 2B's black box froze for a brief moment. “16E...”

Behind 16E, 9S raised his arm, palm outstretched and ready to hack into 16E, but 2B gestured with her own hand for him to stand down, and while he did seem to hesitate, he dropped his hand.

“16E, I want to ask you a question,” 2B said, calm and steady. “The bodies around us, did you do this to them?”

“Y-yes, I did,” 16E said, her head slowly nodding. “I had to.”

“Why did you have to kill them?”

“Because I have to.” 16E's voice was smaller, barely above a whisper. “I kill them all because that is what I am supposed to do.” She suddenly cried out, stumbling backwards away from 2B and pointed her sword at her. “You're alive!” With a sudden burst of energy she spun around and aimed her weapon at 9S. “So are you!”

“Wait... Do you know u-?” The sentence couldn't even leave 9S's mouth before 16E screamed and launched herself at him, sword swinging down on him, but he was able to catch the sword on his own, locking the two blades with one another, resisting her as she tried to push him back.

2B was quick, instantly running to them just as 9S managed to throw 16E back, his own sword raised up to cut her down and-

2B kicked 16E in the gut, sending her flying into the air, raised her own sword to block 9S's strike.

“2B?” he cried out in confusion. “What are you-?”

“Do not kill her!” she ordered, her voice firm. “We use nonlethal force to subdue her, do you understand?”

“Y-Yes!” he stammered, caught off guard by 2B's actions. Behind her he could see 16E scramble up to her feet, growling like a feral animal, and for a moment he was worried that she was infected with a logic virus, but even in the dim light he could see that her eye was still blue.

16E let loose another loud scream and charged again, swinging wildly at 2B, who managed to successfully block or parry all her blows.

Executioners were unparalleled in single combat, able to easily overcome any android they were tasked with dealing with, but it was clear that 16E was in no condition to fight, her body too damaged and in dire disrepair, with a broken sword that looked like it wasn't far from breaking even further.

2B managed to hold her still, grabbing hold of her wrist and keeping her stationary just long enough for 9S to hack her and shut her down for the time being, but the moment he was able to hack into her he cried out and stumbled.

“Nines!” The moment of distraction was enough for 16E to pull herself free, and swing at 2B cutting into her arm once, but she managed to dodge away before another cut could be added. Missing her target, 16E roared and swung her sword at the ground.

“Are you okay?” 2B called out, reaching out to 9S as she was sprawled on the floor. “What happened in there?”

“That wasn't pleasant,” 9S groaned, taking her hand and helping himself to her feet. “Her system is too scrambled, I can't get in there and disable her.”

The two of them spun around as 16E let out a strangled cry, clawing at the ground as she scrambled to push herself to her feet, dirt and bits of discarded rubbish flying around her. Struggling to stand up, her legs looks as though they were ready to buckle underneath her, hardly able to support herself.

“16E!” 2B called out, a firm and demanding tone to her voice. “Stop this now! There is no reason to fight here. Just drop your sword and-”

“N-No, I have to kill you,” 16E muttered allowed. “That's what I do, I k-kill. That's my designation. Machines, androids, friends enemies lovers. I kill them all. Type-E Executioner.” She looked back at them, eye shifting between the two of them frantically before it settled on 2B. “You, you, I know-”

2B tensed as 16E's eye widened, stepping back in a panic and raising her sword in a shaking grip. From the corner of her vision she looked to 9S, and from the subtle movements on his face tightened as 16E concentrated on her, she knew he was already piecing things together.

“RUN!” 16E suddenly screamed, lunging herself at 2B, swinging her sword with a sudden strength she did not have previously, enough to almost cause 2B to be pushed to the ground had she not braced herself the moment before their swords connected. Trying to force her back, 16E moved herself, positioning herself between 2B and 9S, trying to keep 2B at bay. “I said run!” 16 cried out, looking over her shoulder and back to 9S.

9S's response was confusion. “What? You're the one who-”

“She'll kill you!”

For a moment, 2B's strength left her, the all too familiar heaviness coming back and growing inside her, deep in her chest.

“She's a Type-E!” 16E cried out, frantic. “She'll kill you! That's what she does!”

“16E,” 2B tried to say, the name feeling like lead on her tongue. “Stop this, he-”

“Please stop please,” cried 16E, a desperate and weak please. “Please don't kill him.”

2B found herself defenseless as she was pushed back, losing her balance as she tripped over her own feet. If 16E had been a better state of body, the following slice from her sword would have been faster. have gone further, cutting deep into her chest instead of just lightly tearing at her dress, leaving a thin cut line across her abdomen.

She had enough time to roll out of the following stab, and jumped back up, landing on her feet afters quick and precise spin. Looking back at 16E, she could see a new found steadiness in her stance, in how she held her sword, and a determined clarity in her eye that had been absent up until this point. When she struck, it was faster, more precise, with more force behind each swing, but 2B it would not be enough to put her down, and even now it would be so easy for her to take the upper-hand, to overpower her...

Still, she finds herself holding back.

16E delivered a quick kick to 2B's stomach, knocking the air out of her as she was flew through the air, crashing against a crumbling pillar before crumbling to the ground as her opponent rushed at her. 9S jumped between them, blocking 16E with his own sword, the power behind her strike enough to send him to one knee, but he still held the sword back from cutting her down.

The damaged android suddenly scrambled back, tripping over her own feet and falling onto her back, pushing herself away from the two of them.

“I told you to run!” 16E cried out between labored breathes. “She's going to kill you! She-”

“I know about all of that!” 9S shouted, resulting in 16E flinching at the sound and volume of his voice. “I know everything about her, how she was supposed to kill me, how she has killed me, how her actual designation is really 2E.”

Only a handful of times had 9S every said the name '2E', and every time he had, it left a the taste of bile in her mouth, a nasty reminder of everything she had taken from him, and her powerlessness to do anything to stop it. How she had failed him, time and time again without fail. She hated being 2E.

“But despite all that,” 9S continued, his voice softening as he took a careful step toward her. “I still don't blame her for any of it, and even if I have no memory of the things she's done, I know I always forgave her.”

She didn't deserve him in her life.

Across from them, 16E shook, her face marred with confusion, as though she had trouble understanding what it was 9S was trying to tell her.

“No...” she whimpered, her head shaking. “No. No, no, no... You don't-You can't-” A pained growled tore itself from her throat as she pulled herself up, her body trembling under the strain of her own weight. “You HATE her.” Her free hand reached up, gripping at the damaged side of her face, and slowly her fingers began to claw into her skull. “She kills you, again and again, and again, and she keeps doing it. You're supposed to hate the people that kill you because they deserve it.” Metal scrapped as her hand raked from her temple to her jaw, only for it to move back up and to keep doing it, scratching at what remained of her face. “She'll keep hurting you because that's what they want, because they won't let it end.”

“16E.” 2B jumped up to her feet, to stand beside 9S. “YoRHa is gone, Command is gone. There is no one left to issue those orders.” Carefully, 2B continued forward, one foot in front of the other as she made her way to 16E, extending a hand out to her. “You don't... WE don't have to follow those order anymore. It's over now.” Despite her best efforts to remain calm and collected, she could hear the hitch in her voice. “So please-”

“LIAR!” 16E screamed, managing to finally get up to her feet. “It can't be over! Not as long as we're here to kill them! Type-Es must be erased. All Executioners must be executed!”

“16E!”

“I'LL KILL YOU 2E!” She launched herself into an attack, swinging her blade in long and winding arcs, forcing 2B back, but even so, the strikes, swung with reckless abandon and aggression, were easy to dodge or block.

Suddenly, with one last block, 16E's sword broke in half, reducing to a measly six inches of chipped and rusted metal, and it was because of this that she lost her balance, giving 2B the perfect moment to make her move. She spun 16E around and wrapped one arm around her neck, holding her in a tight grip while her other hand gripped the wrist of her sword-wielding arm, extending it as far away as she could, holding it with enough force that it would be easy to snap it off.

But she didn't. She didn't want to hurt 16E more than she needed to.

“16E, stop this now! Calm down!”

16E's response was to scream and cry, clawing at 2B's arm while she struggled to free her sword, her legs kicking out wildly in the air.

“We're going to have to find a way to subdue her,” 9S called out. “If we don't do something now she'll-2B! Watch out!”

The air around her began to crackle and fizzle as heat began to gather around her, and a deep red light coming from 16E's body, and in that moment she knew what was happening.

If it was intentional, a subconscious act of desperation, 2B did not know, but 16E had activated her self-destruct sequence.

With only a brief moment to act, 2B tried to throw her away, but she wasn't quick enough before the explosion happened, a minor EMP ripping through the air, knocking her and 9S to the ground while parts of 16E's body ruptured and came apart.

Dead and discolored pixels littered 2B's vision as she struggled to get up, but she fought through the pain and numbness in her body as she looked back to where she had tossed 16E, only to find her in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Self-destruct was a last resort option, only to be used when there seemed to be no other option in a battle scenario, something to destroy whatever enemies that were surrounding the android in question. It left them in a critical state, heavily damage, but not beyond repair, but 16E's body was already damaged before hand, and the resulting explosion was far more devastating than usual.

Her free hand was gone, blown away at the shoulder, one of her legs hung limply on her body, bending at an unnatural angle, and through the blood covering her face, 2B could see that her remaining eye was heavily damaged, and she was almost certain that she had no vision left.

She gasped and cried where she laid, her voice even further garbled, almost unrecognizable. “It has to end...” 16E croaked, using her remaining arm to slowly drag herself over to a bench, her body nearly unable to support itself as she managed to prop herself up against it. “We have to pay...” Her arm shook as she tried to push herself up further, but all that managed to accomplish was her leg collapsing underneath her, sending her back to the floor with a pained cry. “I just-I just...” The wretched sobs escaped her as her body jerked forward, trying desperately to cling to the bench. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” she wailed, her breath choking out of her. “I didn't want too, but I had to! It was my orders, I had to follow my orders! I'm so sorry!”

“It's going to be okay, 16E,” 2B said as she slowly made her way over to the fallen android. “I know what you went though, but we don't have to go through that again.”

“It has to stop, I just want it to stop...” Raising the remains of her sword, 16E pointed it directly at at her, her arm wavering and barely able to keep it us. 2B found herself hesitating, but with how heavily 16E was bleeding, she knew she couldn't just-

16E then stabbed her sword through her chest.

“No!” 2B cried out, dashing to her, catching her body as she fell over.

“I'm sorry,” 16E sobbed, her arm now free of her sword, gripping tightly to one one of 2B's shoulders, holding onto her for dear life, burying herself in the other. “I'm so sorry, 10B. I'm sorry...”

She stopped, no more movement, no more sounds came from her. According to 042, her black box was dead.

000

2E pressed herself against the stone wall, looking over to the large and thick wooden door by her side, while on the other side 16E took her position, hand on her sword.

'The targets should be in here,' read the message on her HUD.

'This is the only entrance to the building,' said another message, this one from 7E, who was just behind her. 'Unless there are underground tunnels, there is only once chance.'

'They've likely set up a trap,' 2E sent with her own message.

'This is the only option we have,' sent 16E. '7E, on my mark, I want you to go first. Proceed with caution.'

Silently, 7E moved past 2E, placing her hand on the door and crouched down, sword gripped tightly while her fist weapons floated behind her.

'Now.'

With a heavy creak, 7E moved the door, shining light into large dark room before them, and carefully stepped inside, her steps echoing through the chamber. The seconds passed slowly, heavily on their shoulders as they awaited conformation, and with a careful wave of 7E's hand, 16E and 2E approached her and began to survey the room.

It was hard to see much, pillars toppled over, large chunks of debris laying around, and it seemed like the windows had long ago been sealed away with stone. 7E's earlier reconnaissance was right, there was only one way in and out of this place.

What was this building called again? A church? Was that what he called them? It didn't matter, not now at least.

'We don't know where they are,' 2E messaged. 'But in this chamber they could-'

“Look out!” 7E cried out, and 2E suddenly found the first weapons striking her in the stomach, sending her flying back in to the wall. Before impact, she saw 7E, arm outstretched as she commanded her weapon, and a spear fly out from the darkness and pierce her head, cleanly tearing through it, and judging from the angle it had been thrown at, its user was aiming for two.

She could already hear 7E's aggravated lamentation as she was once again killed at the start of a combat scenario.

A figure than appeared from above, a sword in their hand as they descended from above, aiming for 16E, but android jumped out of the way and swung her own weapon, catching it on the reacquired spear on their opponent.

8E had already made the first move, and had already terminated 7E, but if she was there where was-

2E rolled out of the way just as the greatsword came down on her, taking a large chunk of the wall she was against, and upon fully recovering, she found herself staring into the eyes of 5K. Not a single word was said between them as he launched another attack.

Approximately eighty-seven days ago, Units 8E and 5K had officially been registered as YoRHa deserters, and a squad forming of herself, 16E and 7E had been formed with the purpose of hunting them down and executing them. It was only five days ago had they managed to pick up the trail and followed it to this church on the northern coast of Ireland, where they had them cornered.

Typically, she's not assigned to missions that are expected to go on for this long, not anymore, but for whatever reason, Command decided to send her. Who was she to question her orders?

For the targets themselves, she knew nothing of 5K, and beyond what was necessary for the mission, she had no desire to learn anything about him. She couldn't say she knew much about 8E as well, only that she was an older android, who has been online than everyone on her squad put together, someone with experience, someone who could prove dangerous.

She also knew that 5K was her continued assignment, and because of that, she felt she knew everything she needed to know. It was also because of that fact that she had spent this whole mission thinking one thing: Why?

As a Type-E, and an older one at that, she would know better than anyone what desertion would mean for her and 5K when they were caught. Trying to run away would never result in anything good, there was only one possible way this could ever end.

The fight between her and 5K did not last long. Her sword cleanly stabbed into his chest, and with one quick pull it exited out through his side, tearing his black box into pieces, and with a pained gasp being the last things he spoke, he fell to the ground, his sword clattering beside him loudly. The sounds coming from the opposite end of the room, the sounds of metal clashing against metal, of battle, came to an abrupt stop. When she glances back to them, it was just in time to see the sword fall from 8E's hand, for her to fall to her knees as a pained wail tore itself from her.

“No...” she cried, falling further, onto her arms, head pressed against the floor. “Not again...”

Immediately, 2E turned her attention back to 16E, who stood behind 8E, sword in hand, completely ignored by their target.

It always ends this way.

'Why', she wants to ask. 'Why put yourselves through this?'

She doesn't ask however, there's no point.

Whatever the reason, it's clear that 8E is no longer a threat, she has no intention of fighting back.

16E stood behind her, sword raised and poised to cut her through the back and through her black box, but instead of the quick thrust 2E expects, there was hesitation. The second dragged on as 16E stands there, 8E quietly sobbing into her arms being the only sound in the room.

“2E,” 16E finally said, after a solid ten seconds of no action. “Secure the door. Now.”

Again, 2E wants to ask why, but 16E was the assigned commanding officer on this mission, and 2E is nothing if not a good little soldier who follows her orders to the word, and so she walks ed to the door, taking her post to observe the outside.

The moments passed, and 2E could hear them speaking inside, but she couldn't hear what it was they were saying exactly, but the words stopped for a short time, and instead were replaced with the sound of them walking across the room. More silence followed, only interrupted by a brief murmuring. A wet crunch, the sound of metal and synthetic flesh being pierced. More silence followed, until the slow pace of footsteps approached her from behind her.

16E stood beside her as she exited the building, leaning against the wall for support.

“Call it in to Command, tell them the mission was a success, the targets executed, and that they'll have to load up 7E's most recent back up,” she said, her voice low and solemn, and before 2E could say anything back to her, she quickly moved away, starting back up the path they took to get here.

She watched 16E's retreating back before she looked back inside the church, and there inside she saw 8E draped over K5's body, her face buried into his shoulder, and a gaping wound on her back.

000

Minutes later, when the call was made, and 2E had returned to where they had landed their flight units, 16E was sitting at the edge of the cliff, looking over the vast sea before them.

“It's done,” she said, walking up to her flight unit. “It's time we head back to the Bunker.”

To this, 16E had not responded.

“I said we should head back to the Bunker.”

Again, no response.

As she repressed a sigh, 2E stepped away from her flight unit and towards her squad mate. “16E, can you hear-”

“Please don't take my memories away,” 16E said, her voice low and hoarse, giving 2E pause.

“What?”

“Her last request. She was okay with being killed, but she didn't want to lose her memories, not the memories of K5.”

“...That's impossible, she would have known that. Even if they don't decommission her, they'll just factory reset the two of them, and they'll never be assigned to any missions where they are likely to run into one another.”

“Maybe that's why she asked to die with him. One last moment together before she faced oblivion.”

“She should have just accepted the reality she had been dealt. It... It would have been better in the end. For both of them.”

“Emotions are prohibited, isn't that right, 2E?”

2E's mouth opened, just slightly for a response, but nothing came to her, she didn't know what to say.

16E however, didn't seem like she needed one. “Yeah, I guess that's what it is.”

Nothing else was said as between them as 16E left the rock she sat upon and entered her flight unit, and in seconds she was already a streak in the sky.

For longer than she would have liked, 2E remained behind before she followed.

000

Not even two full days went by before 2E found herself with the need to seek out 16E to talk to her, to...

To what? She didn't know, but she needed to talk with her.

Though she had not seen her since they debriefed with the Commander upon arrival, she had been informed by 6O, who had gotten in contact with 16E's own operator, that she had not been dispatched from the Bunker yet, though she was scheduled to leave soon, very soon.

She was relieved when she found her, staring out through a window, and to the planet below.

“16B, do you mind if I speak with you for a moment?”

“Hm? Oh, hey 2B.”

Their true designations were only to be referred to during appropriate missions, and in all other instants they were to only one another by their cover ups, as were the same with many Type-Es. As far as most other androids were concerned, they were 16B and 2B.

She much preferred to be called 2B.

“I know you have to leave soon, so I'll try and make this quick, but I want to talk to you about the mission we had the other day. Due to how classified it is, I think we should find somewhere private to-”

“I'm sorry, but I have to stop you right there,” interrupted 16E. “But, what mission are you talking about?”

She was caught off guard by the statement.

“The mission. From the other day. In Ireland. 7E was with us.”

With the blindfold over 16E's eyes, it was impossible to tell just what she was trying to convey, but her tilting her head and folded her arms did not bode well with her.

“2B, I haven't seen you in weeks, let alone be on a mission with you, and I've never worked with 7E on anything.”

Running a number of responses through her mind, 2B found herself unable to find a suitable line. The mission clearly had some sort of effect on her, but now she stood before her, seeming to have no recollection of the last three months. Just what had happened to her in the short time since they had returned?

“Do you... really not remember it?”

“Yeah, sorry I don't remember anything, but if you're saying we were on a mission, I'll check in with maintenance to see if there are any problems with my memory banks. Let's just hope I didn't forget anything too important.”

For some reason, that statement stung.

“But I'll have to do that later, I have to get going for a mission, like now. Apparently they're assigning me a long term partner, someone designated 10B. Anyway, see you later 2B.”

2B was then left alone, 16E jogging down the hall and soon out of sight, leaving her alone in this dull and stark place.

There was nothing new about 16E's partnership with 10B. In fact, the two had been partnered together longer than...

“What happened to you?” she asked softly to herself, turning her attention to the Earth.

However she had no time to further ponder on this before a voice came from behind her.

“Excuse me, you're 2B, right?”

One second. One second was all 2B allowed herself to fully recompose herself before she turned around.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Ah, that's good. I'm 9S, I'm supposed to be partnered with you starting today.”

000

042 gently floated above the stream, though she had no real expectation that anything would bite today, she had tried fishing here several times before, but she had never caught more than a couple of small fish. That wasn't the point however, right how she just needed an out of sorts. From her position on the hood of an old rusted car, she could scarcely make out 9S' voice behind her as he spoke with Anemone, reporting back what had happened exactly. She didn't pay attention to what exactly he was conveying to her however, and it didn't matter, she knew what happened, that's all that mattered.

“Hey,” came 9S' voice after a short time, walking walking up to the car.

“...hey,” was her response, small and dull.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

She pushed herself over, moving along to the side of the hood to allow him a space to sit. He took it, sitting next to her, but not too close, to giver her space, and a comfortable silence came to life, the only sounds being the stream as it flowed.

Unfortunately, it had to end.

“So, that android,” 9S said, calm and gentle. “16E?”

“...yeah.”

“She was a friend of yours.”

“We should get going,” 2B said, jumping from the car, 042 returning to her side and she made her way from 9S. “Anemone will expect us back soon, so there's no reason to waste any time here more than needed.”

“2B!” 9S called with an exasperated sigh. “You can't just-”

“There's no point in being here anymore, we have to-”

2B jerked back as 9S grabbed at her arm, holding her back from trying to run away. It would be easy to tear her arm from his grip, to simply walk away and continue on her way, and for a brief moment she had considered it, but the look in his eyes, a silent plea to know, to learn about her, to just understand her, drained her of that fleeting desire.

“2B,” he said, firmly, calmly. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Biting the inside of her lip, 2B couldn't help but turn away. “I...”

Emotions were prohibited. That was a mantra that she had repeated so many times that she had never bothered to keep count, always said in the futile attempt to steel herself from inevitable heartache and pain. It was hilarious how much those words failed her, time and time again, only causing her more grief.

But it didn't have to be like that anymore, she could be open with 9S about what was on her mind and how she felt, she wanted to more than anything else, and there was nothing to hold her back anymore. She could build her relationship with 9S up from something more than her lies and his deaths, she had every opportunity to be free and truthful.

So why was it so hard?

“I... We...” The words were hard to say, as though she had to pull them out from deep inside of her, firmly rooted in places. “Executioners, like me, we're not known for having a longstanding mental stability.”

The grip on her arm loosened as 9S let go of her, slowly moving away from her, his touch lingering for a brief moment before complete separation. 2B wasn't certain if she was grateful for this or not.

Nonetheless, she continued. “The purpose of Executioners is to dispose of fellow androids for a variety of reasons. In the field, we'll end lives if they captured by enemy forces, or if they are dying and cannot be restored to a fully functioning manner, or we are charged with chasing down deserters or traitors.”

If the previous confession was hard to say, what she would say next would feel like she was hauling boulders up from the bottom of the sea, but she had to say it. Needed to say it.

“Then, there were ones like me, like 16E. The ones who went undercover, posing as different android types, for the purpose of eliminating units who were known to be risks to YoRHa.”

She wants 9S to stop her, tell her that she doesn't have to draw out these old memories, but at the same time she's thankful that he doesn't say anything, letting her continue.

“I can kill a thousand machines and it would never bother me, but killing a fellow android? It's different, it does something to you that I can't possibly describe, and we all had our own ways of dealing with it. Some, they chose to distance themselves to the extreme; for all the remarks I received about how impersonal I could be at times, I knew a few who just seemed entirely divorced from reality, never even registering they were carrying out their orders. There were ones who took to enjoying what they did, who convinced themselves to have fun with what they did and looked forward to their orders. They were unpleasant, disturbing. Some even decided to take their own lives.

“Others chose to run away, to desert YoRHa, some even taking their assigned targets with them, hoping they could just avoid those problems and never have to deal with that again. It never worked out for them however, they were always found in the end.”

“You ever think about that?” 9S asked, his tone slightly uncertain. “Running away, I mean?”

“Once,” she replied as the ghost a smile threatened to appear, but she was quick to squash it. “I thought of telling you everything, and taking you somewhere far away, but...”

“They could have sent someone after us, wouldn't they?”

She didn't want to think about what might be going through his head, wondering if she had been part of of those execution squads, who killed the shared dream others might have had. He wouldn't be wrong.

“What about 16E?” he continued. “What was her deal?'

“Her assigned unit was 10B. I don't know much about her, only that from what I heard from 16E she was exceptional soldier, enough so that Command saw no problem in bringing her back despite their continued orders for her execution. Eventually, to cope with her grief, 16E started to erase her memories, of the things she did, the androids she killed, even of 10B, and she did it often, and every time she did it she lost pieces of herself. I won't claim to know how much she lost, or how it lined up with her back-up saves, but once she forgot I was a Type-E.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It was, and once I figured out what was happening to her, it frightened me, more than anything.”

“How so?”

“Because every time I saw her, I couldn't help but wonder if that would happen to me one day, would I become so desperate that I would just throw away pieces of me like that. I have no right to say this to you, but my memories, my memories of you 9S, are the most important thing I have, and if I ever reached the point 16E did, I think it would have been too much for me. Losing you, losing the memories of you, I think I would have preferred nonexistence to that.”

“Oh 2B...”

Before she can could say anything, 9S already was on her, his arms wrapped around her and embraced her, gently place himself into the crook of her neck. She didn't know how much she needed this, not until she began to return the affection, holding him tightly against her, resting her head on his shoulder, a small stream of tears tracing down her cheeks.

Time passed, she did know how much, and it was of no real concern how long exactly, but eventually it was her that broke their embrace, but not before drying her tears on his coat.

“You okay now?” he asked.

“It felt good to get that off my chest.” It really did, the feeling of a heavy strain on her had been lifted off of her, leaving her to feel lighter, though she did not at first realize how exhausted it had left her. “Just... thanks.”

“No problem, I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here for you.”

“I know, and again, thank you, Nines.”

“Do you want to stay here a bit more, maybe clear your head or-”

“No, I think we should get going back to camp. I just want to be anywhere else right now, if that's okay.”

With a nod from him, the two of them began to make their way back to the Resistance camp, and though it was a trip they could easy make in minutes, neither one wanted to waste the moment. Nothing was wrong with traveling at a leisurely stroll through the city ruins.

“Can I ask one more question? About 16E?” 9S asked after a short time.

“It depends,” she replied back.

“Even though it was dark in there, and she had sustained major damage to her face, I couldn't help but get the feeling she looked familiar. Tell me, was she the person we met in the city? The one with the red hood who didn't know she killed her own friend?”

“...Yes. That was her.”

“Ah, I see, I guess some things make a bit more sense now. At first I thought you were a bit jealous, but you were trying to prevent me from learning about Type-Es, weren't you?”

“That's right, I was afraid that 16E would out me, and if she did...” She was silent then, the words hanging heavily in the air, no real reason to finish the sentence. They both knew what she had left unspoken. “But she didn't, she didn't recognize me at all.”

“I'm sorry we couldn't do anything for her, 2B, I really am, but I don't think there was anything we could have done. She looked pretty far gone.”

“I know,” came her reply, her voice tried and raw. “And from what I saw, if Command wasn't already considering her termination, they were close to doing so.”

Slowing in her walking, 2B looked back over to her shoulder, to glance back at the mall that now served as 16E's tomb, and pondered how things could have turned out had things been different. If the Bunker never fell, how many more times would she have killed 9S by now? How many times before she live with herself anymore and did something drastic? Any number of possible outcomes could have happened to her, none of them good, all of them tragic. Would she have joined 16E in her fate, or something more gruesome?

In the end however, she's alive, even if she has no right to be. She's alive. 9S is alive, 9S is alive and she can live knowing she never has to end his life again. With the decrease in machine hostility, she had been forced to kill only a few machines, a number she could count on one hand, and that honestly made her happy, the idea that could go the rest of her life without taking another life. A strange thought for a Executioner, one that she once thought impossible, but here she was.

Maybe she does not deserve it, but she lived in the end, she has a future, one she can be hopeful about, and now it's up to her to decide what she wants to make with it.

Despite how grim the day had been so far, she's delighted at the prospect.

000

Please be well,

Mrfipp

#nier automata #2b #9s #fanfiction #nier #automata

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nosunlite · 7 years

Text

ap top 25 list: 2k17, a month late

The AP “Audio Popularity” Poll was Ben’s way to get us all to make a list and talk about our favorite songs of the month, back when we were all living in the same house. He describes it here. I have since cut back to doing it every year, with the ever shifting goal of defining “audio popularity” and “favorite” and “best”.

This year’s list, 5 years after Ben’s death, my main goal is to identify 25 awesome tracks that I’d love to talk to Ben about. They are my favorite 25 songs of the year, a focus on new discoveries (tho a few songs from last year’s list show up), songs that I surely would’ve dubbed for Ben back in the day.

25. the rats: the rats’ revenge

60’s punk rager - an era we did not ever go deep into, but now it’s time to eat up those Back from the Grave comps.

24. fluf: stuffed animal

Not their typical noise-grunge, which Ben yeah loved (he lived Sub Pop inexplicably into the 2010s), but a Sebadoh-esque minimal gem.

23. LNZ: blondehairdown

The most quoted song of 2k17 for me. Ben was always into weird local rappers no matter where he was. Sharing this internet-destroying monstrosity with him would be a conversation for thee ages!

22. new kingdom: terror mad visionary

tom waits as MC sounds like a thing ben would love or hate (he rejected lots of undie rappers for their not slamming hard enough) but this stuff is so pirate-vocalled that i’d love to have asked him what was going on here.

21. octa#grape: dirigibles

The most soul-junk of galaxalag’s new group, spinning all sortsa weird beats into their calm noise.

20. wovenhand: golden blossom

16 hp was a shared favorite, and i’d love to go thru these new DEE albums with ben.

19. slim cessna’s auto club: commandment 3

Seeing these guys live was a total revival that was up Ben’s alley. Dwight Pentecost and his doubleneck guitar with hologram switching from Sacred Heart to Marian Immaculate Heart. Munly looking like a straight up ghoul man, gathering us into a circle, and chiding me for screaming the lyrics too loud. Slim just hamming it up preacher style. Rebecca wielding all sortsa kitchen sinks and keeping it together. They encored to “Commandment 3” in a karaoke choreograph line dance. One of the few shows I’ve seen that really produced a spectacle within a minimalist framework.

18. kleenex girl wonder: dont wait up

An alternative bee-thousand.

17. puff pieces: competition

The local DC stuff always seems to be ahead of the rest.

16. arroyo deathmatch: swimming the witch

They acoustic thrash their folk without guitars and just uke! This one sprays rap tropes and references all over the Crassy gender politics. Joyous bleakness!

15. the out_circuit: come out shooting

A wonderful sequel to our favorite Frodus “Year of the Hex.”

14. ramshackle glory: punk is the worst form of music, except for all the others

Anarcho politics and emotions, what drew me into punk.

13. a fistful of dynamite: smoke it, like a cigarette

More acoustic thrash folk with an even worse vocalist. “Write my own favorite songs/ write my own singalongs...you think this is bad? Well it just gets more rough!”. The world’s worst snare sound. Charmed!

12. shellac: riding bikes

He was an albini fan, and we would definitely have spent time jamming his new ones. And what an epic this one is.

11. bradley hathaway: the world is screaming

I could see ben finding it utterly pretentious, but bradley straddles that line of being so serious but also so reckless, so honest and so charming to me. His new album is the best, riotous blasphemy as prayer, but this one does the post rock building ben taught me to dig.

10. lou barlow: try 2 b

Our indie legend put out a great one (years olde already?), oh well, it slams lo-fi.

9. the beakers: 4 steps towards a cultural revolution

Ben downplays a lot of thee weird punk, but weird punk from his beloved Seattle scene? He’d dig! This out Ubus David Thomas. Ultra.

8. ps eliot: the cyborg

Reminds me of so much of the stuff on the ktru tapes, but this struck me very hard this year.

7. lifter puller: mission viejo

Most of their weird stuff has more to discuss, i guess, with the spoken stories and nonsense arrangements, but this is just an indie rock emotion block of thee highest order.

6. defiance, ohio: calling old friends

A classic campfire singalong.

5. henry thomas: when the train comes along

Not Thomas’ most canonical or comp’d performance, but such a stomper. Ben got me into old timey music and the last cd’s he ripped from me were the pseudo-old-timey boxset from Fonotone.

4. ballydowse: sails

An albini-produced christian-anarcho celtic folk/punk group relying prominently on tuvan throat singing. And yet it took me til 2k17 to find it. Ben used to be after a Crashdog CD at Family Bookstore, but this stuff would’ve taken it to a whole nother level. The best band you don’t know!

3. snail mail: static buzz

Woulda been a ktru darling. Local bmore rock girl makes it big - new album gonna be on Matadork.

2. mike knott: double

We always ignored the mike knott stuff, but this year has been all about rediscovering the blonde vinyl roster, and that dip goes deep. This song is an undeniable one, whether live at Cornerstone or with the *gasp* secular Aunty Bettys playing it.

1. showbread: matthias replaces judas

This raw rock was the first new rekkerd i listened to after we found out ben had died, but a song that has only emerged more recently as a post-Pedro emotional cleansing monster. Ben loved “Every New Day” with the Reese Roper vocals, he’d love this too. & it’s the best song ever, so he’d better...

honorable mentions:

Blackbird Raum - Last Legs // Acoustic thrash folk! He’d be thrilled to see Wacko-Hed’s genre is alive ‘n’ well...

Double Dagger - The Lie / The Truth // Righteous at the drive-ining.

City of Caterpillar - A Little Change Could Go a Long Ways // One of the bands that indoctrinated me into punk rock seeing them live - i put off listening to their cd until recently. Ben would talk about how NoU did it better, I’m sure!

William Elliot Whitmore - cold and dead // Ugly blues voice on this Americana death tinged guy.

Pogues - If I Should Fall From Grace of God / Fairytale of New York // We never talked about the Pogues. They hit most of the sweetspots for me emotionally and aesthetically. Ben loved Cordelia’s Dad, and this is their Dad.

Model Engine - Reeperbahn // Ah a CCM classic - I knew we had to listen to Black Eyed Sceva, but unsure how much play this one ever got in the CCM era.

Lift to Experience - to guard and to guide // They post rocked the map to Texas. I remember expecting to find this in the used CD store when I visited Ben at Rice. Now it’s been reissued and is weirder packaged and sounding than ever - really woulda liked to listen to this with him.

Flesh Eaters - Pray till You Sweat // Richard Hell in Violent Femmes skin godsend

EZT - Central Control // Some sorta Neil Young smog. Who knows.

close:

mike knott - rocket and a bomb; one way streets - we all love peanut butter; 3 mile pilot - house is loss; i hate myself - urban barbie, keep reaching for those stars; fistful of dynamite - tribute to castellana; arroyo deathmatch - as an instrument, all the best matadors are fascists, casting into the void; azealia banks - 212; lifter puller - star wars hips, plymouth rock, math is money, 4dix; ramshackle glory - face the void, eulogy for an adolescence shattered against elliot st. pavement; kleenex girl wonder - tendency right foot forward, the sound of paul, why i write such good songs; new kingdom - kicking like bruce lee; slim cessna - commandment 7, hold my head, he roger williams; aunt bettys - speeder mode; shellac - dude incredible; snail mail - thinning; 2 whole Fountainsun and Aesop Rock lps...

#showbread #matthais replaces judas #ap top 25 #best songs #songs I love #mike knott

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v3-killing-harmony-imagines · 7 years

Text

‘What if the guys were given a motive that they had to kill someone or else their S/O would be killed? (Bonus points if they're not allowed to tell anyone)’ part 2

What if the guys were given a motive that they had to kill someone or else their S/O would be killed? (Bonus points if they're not allowed to tell anyone)

Never ever ever ever ever again, nope.

Amami Rantarou:

Amami Rantarou loved music. It was his way to relax, to feel happy when he was sad. As a kid his parents put on the radio as he ate breakfast, they would have to urge him to eat quicker, as he would be late for school.

He had usually listened to pop songs, but some rock and jazz songs were great too. He really just liked a song if he liked the tune, and that’s the way it’s always been.

He had been lucky enough to snag not only a radio, but an mp3 player from the storage room.

They had the arcade of course, but that took Monocoins and he really just wanted to listen to something in his room or in the halls. Still, he would sometimes sit in the arcade, listening to the jukebox as it played it’s tune.

The only problem really was the headphones had a pretty shitty quality, nothing like he had at his home. But they worked all the same, and Amami was glad that he could really get music at all.

He was lying down on his bed, a song playing thought the speakers as he was playing with one of his necklaces, eyes closed as he hums the tune.

There’s a blast of static from the radio, and Amami jumps out of his calming state.

He’s using cd’s right now, there’s no signal in this place for an actual radio. Perhaps the cd is going through a scratchy part?

He stares at it for a few seconds, waiting to see if anything will happen. Instead, the static slowly fades out, a small hum taking its place. The shriek of a microphone resonates briefly before it clears, being replaced with a voice.

“Hell0 AmAmI raNtArO.” The voice is distorted- too low and too gargled. “ThIs Is a mEssaGe fRom mE to yOU. KiLl S0meOne, OthErwise s/0 wiL be KiLLed. I aM am0ng y0u, I shaLL knoW iF yOu tell s0meonE- s/O shalL be KilleD If thiS happEns. ThAnk yOu FoR youR uNdErSTanding.”

With that, there’s a loud click and all sound shuts off. Amami is left sitting in shock of the message.

Just a few minutes ago, he was happily listening to music and now look where he’s at. It just goes to show how quickly the atmosphere can change in this game, one minute there’s a spark of hope then the next it’s crushed with the dreaded despair.

He wastes no time, rolling off the bed and heading out the door to try and find a way to stop you, and anyone else from being killed. He’s not sure what he’s even supposed to be looking for, but he’ll look for it none the less.

He scours as much of the school as he can, looking for anything that might help him with getting out of either situation; the first being the killing game, the second being the blackmail.

He uses as many resources as he can, the library, clues from Saihara (and Ouma, with a bit or bribery), and some other…ones…. Sneaking into the dorms to search for signs of a voice distorter, or something that could be used to connect to a radio. Stuff like that.

He knocks on the door of the super high school level inventor’s laboratory.

Hearing a bit of shuffling, cursing before it swings open.

Iruma meets his gaze with a snarl, “Waddya want?! I’m fucking busy!”

Amami gives a calm smile, “Of course you are, you’re the super high school inventor, naturally someone as great as you would be!”

Ego boosting, cut and dry ego boosting.

It still works, Iruma’s scowl lightens. She lets out a hum of agreement, and Amami continues.

“Since you’re so great I had to ask you something- my radio has been acting up, keeps bringing in some kind of different voice. It seems like someone’s singing in it, one of the 17 students. I don’t really want to tell them to stop singing, So I’d rather try and stop the radio from picking up the noises.” Half of it is pure lies, poorly woven. It wouldn’t fool Ouma if he was drunk.

It’ll hopefully get the job done, though.

Iruma taps a finger on her arm, eyes connected with the ground as she hums. “Hm. If it’d be connecting it would have to be with wires, the creator of the radio could also send signals like that through it. But it would be intentional, and then on top of that it would only be for important messages; nuclear warnings or some shit like that.”

“Alright, cool. Thanks. ” Amami grins, even if he really doesn’t want to. “Oh, would you also happen to know if it’s possible to get a hold of some kind of voice distorter in here? Me and Akamatsu were worried that it might cause…you know… a problem with it might pop up with the whole situation we’re in. I’m afraid someone like Ouma could use it to their advantage…”

“A voice distorter, huh. It’s not too hard to make, for me at least. But you’d need the right tools; I’m the only student with those.” Amami doesn’t want to point out that it makes her the most likely suspect. But in order to do that she’d need to connect a wire to the radio. And Amami is 100% certain that nothing was connected to the radio, it’s battery powered after all.

“I dunno if there’s some lying around here… maybe monokuma has some? No wait, he does have one, Well, he has a voice box at least. That’s why he’s able to talk. A distorter just changes the pitch or octave of your voice, so the two are similar in a way.”

Amami can see why she’s the super high school level inventor; she gets so involved when it comes to machines.

He thanks Iruma, who’s in a better mood than before to his pleasure, before heading back to his room and piecing together some of the clues.

He’s checked out some books, just to prove that Iruma wasn’t lying about anything….not that he doesn’t trust her, but she isn’t the most reliable person at times.

There’s no signal as well the possibility of a person sneaking a cable, plugging it into the radio and removing it. Amami would have seen it if that were that were the case. Someone recording something and then putting in a tape or cd to go off at a certain time is impossible as well. He’s listened to the same cd a couple of times and nothing has happened. He had even played through all the songs a first time over before listening to it again. Proving that the voice wasn’t recorded beforehand.

That only leaves one option….

Amami flips the radio around, the only thing written on it are the words ‘Team Danganronpa’ blended into the back plate of the metal.

Team Danganronpa? Doesn’t that mean Team Danganronpa would have sent the audio clip to him?

And if his theory is correct, that means that whoever organized….this has to be Team Danganronpa.

It doesn’t help him really, sure it’s a clue but what good is a name if that’s all there is to it?

He rises, If he’s going to find something else, it’ll be somewhere else and not in his cotton sheets.

And he better, time is running out.

He asks everyone in the school- “Does the name ‘Team Danganronpa’ mean anything to you?” “Have you heard of something called ‘Team Danganronpa’?”

But sadly, coming up dry. All he’s found from Kiibo is that ‘danganronpa’ means ‘bullet refute.’ In some language that Amami doesn’t remember.

He’s out of options. Tousling his hair with his hands after hours of skimming what seems to be hundreds of books, he realizes it. All he managed to do was to waste precious days that could have been used more wisely. The distorted voice still plays back in his mind, taunting him. Forcing his hand to take the life of another otherwise yours shall be thrown away.

A feeling of dread fills him as he holds onto the knife. It’s soon to be contaminated with the blood of another. The whole situation is unethical and unfair. Being encouraged to claw at each other’s throats while the instigator of the whole procedure lays back happily enjoying a nice crumpet.

“…No.” He declares to the empty room. “No.”

Amami has patience and a temper with a large gauge, but that doesn’t mean that over time it can wear thin.

He’s angry, tired and ready to fight back. Fight back doing the only thing he knows how to do.

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He’s thinking before your death or his.) for the millionth time.

He really should have given it up maybe his talent was ‘Shsl Studier’ when he enters the library (Hopefully not for the last time, after the first night of snooping. But he’s got a gut feeling, and there aren’t really many other options.

He’s got a flashlight, skimming the covers of the books over and over. Looking for something. Anything.

It’s stupid when you think about it, why would there be anything about the assailants in the open for them to read about?

But Monokuma let them explore the school with little restrictions, either the ringleader is confident that they won’t escape, or they want them to escape eventually.

Amami scans the covers; ‘Marine Biology’, ‘A guide to the constellations’, ‘World countries and traditions’, ‘New! Updated weather patterns’, ‘A guide to policing’. One of the books that he’s already read catches his eye yet again, ‘A masters guide to programs, version 3.’ The cover is a bit old like the rest of the library. Brown leather and with green water marks cover the yellowish pages, each page containing processes to code. Diagrams are drawn in with black ink, written in fine handwriting are little notes beside them.

Amami enjoys old books just as he enjoys music, flipping through the pages with a slight hum.

He’s about to close the book when a piece of pure white paper catches his eye. Folded into a small square and shoved between two murky pages. Puzzled and intrigued, he pulls on it. The slip of paper stays firm. He tries again, a little harder and it tears slightly. He grabs his flashlight from the table, holding it between his teeth as he gently pulls on it again. It doesn’t budge, so he tries pulling it downwards, pushing it in before it finally moves slightly when he slides it upwards. He repeats the same upward pulling, the slip of paper moves slowly up the crease between the two pages. The second the square clears the top of the page, the remaining pages and cover unravel themselves and flutter to the ground. The page is attached to a smaller, soft cover book with untainted white pages and a glossy silver cover. The only words written on the cover is ‘V3’Amami’s heart is racing as he flips the cover, fingers trembling and palms sweaty. This could be just what he’s looking for!

The first page is written in neat handwriting. 17 kids trapped put into different classrooms….Monokuma….wait.

This is exactly what happened to them.

He continues reading; Monokuma tells everyone that they need to kill…motives at every chapter…certain students get certain motives….

Is this, the ringleader’s notebook? Because if so, this is huge. Everyone needs to see this.

This book is the difference between life and death, he needs to get it back to-

There’s a hissing sound, followed by a prick in his neck. Amami stumbles forward, one hand on the book and the other at his neck. He tugs hard and it comes out- a barbed dart with blood coated on the tip.

Oh no

He pushes the char aside, stumbling towards the door. No no no this can’t end like this. Not after how far he’s come. There’s a tightening in his neck, a squeezing pressure as he feels poison spread through his veins. The Bookshelves come forward too quickly and he loses his footing. He groans and gasps, shakily getting to his feet. The world has started to spin now, a drum playing in his head that’s picking up tempo. He steadies himself on the wall, feeling like throwing up. He does, only managing to push away from the vile before he falls again.

The drumming gets louder.

He’s wheezing now, crawling towards the door with the book mashed in his fist.

The room is too hot and too cold all at once, he flops to his belly as he withers. His stomach is giving him hell still and the damn drums don’t stop.

His legs find purchase for a brief second before he tumbles on his face, nose crunching as it spews blood.

It hurts, tears are in his eyes and saliva dribbles from his mouth. He claws at his hair in hopes that it will go away.

He yells out for help, yet he can’t. His vocal cords muted, no noises escape him.

He tries to sob, crying mutely before the drums beat faster than his heart rate.

The next day a trial is held for the death of Amami Rantaro. You are found guilty and executed while Monokuma smiles from his seat. A square piece of paper was locked in his grasp, but it says nothing.

The killing game continues.

Kaito Momota:

He returns to his room sweating, having just finished a late night run. He plops down on his bead, running hands through his hair- mixing his sweat and hair grease into one messy combo. It’s warm, so grabs his jacket and drapes it over his shoulders as he walks to the nearest vending machine.

He’s got 9 monocoins, a stupid form of currency at this damn place. Just 1 more and he could have gotten a soda. Ugh.

“Stupid Monokuma and his stupid prices.” He grumbles.

“Here”

An arm swiftly puts 1 coin in with his 9, turning around he’s met with Harukawa’s cold-as-ever look. That girl’s face is like a never ending ice-cube.

“Uh, Thanks?” He punches the button, and the bottle of soda tumbles into the compartment below. “Hey, what are you doing here, Harumaki?”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s glaring. “Call me that one more time and I’ll break your fingers.” “Aha, you’re as cool as ever Harumaki.”

She sighs, Momota picks up his bottle from the compartment.

Maki places her hand on his just as he’s about to open it. “What?”

“It’ll explode. Here,” she snatches it from his hand, flicking her pointer finger along the bottle until finally she gives it back to him.

He looks at her, blinks, looking back the bottle before shrugging and opening it.

It hisses slightly, but nothing overflows, which is a plus.

“Uh, thanks Harumaki.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Hey, you still didn’t answer my question.”

She huffs at him (huffs up at him because he’s taller than her) “I’m just hanging around.”

“Naw I think you like me- ok! OK! I’m sorry!”

Maki growls, Kaito sips his soda.

There’s a tight tension for a minute, until Maki takes a step forward, a mystified look on her face.

“Is there something wrong?”

Her arm whips out, and Kaito actually flinches and steps back.

“Relax. I’m not gonna kill you.” She’s holding a piece of paper, turning it over.

Kaito sighs,“You’re not gonna kill me yet.” Harukawa’s lips twitch up for a second.

“Anyways, what’s that there?”

“It was on you.”

“What?”

She shoves it towards him, “It was on your coat.”

“What!”

“Do you really want me to repeat it again?”

“NO. I mean…here!” He grabs it from her hands.

‘Kaito Momota

Kill Someone, or else s/o will be killed. If you tell someone then I will kill them. Don’t wait too long, otherwise s/o will be killed as well.

Best of luck.’

“What the fuck?!” He reads the note over again. “Ok, What. The. Fuck!”

Maki frowns, an arm tucked under her other arm as she taps her pointer finger against her lip. “Blackmail. Huh.”

“Yeah but why s/o?! God- fucking bastard!” Kaito crumples up the note and throws it against the wall.

“Oi, pick that up. No one else should read it.”

Kaito grumbles again, but he obeys. Then he stops. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Maki still sounds more annoyed than concerned.

“It said not to tell but- but you read it. Oh fuck.”

“Hmmmm. No I don’t think you should worry about that.”

“Huh?”

Maki tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “It said if you told anyone. I read it myself, before you. You didn’t tell me anything.”

“But what if-”

“Shut up.” She snorts. “Don’t get frazzled over nothing.”

“Over nothing?!”

She sighs, “Don’t freak out over it. We can easily find this person and make them pay.”

“We?”

“Yeah, we. I read the note didn’t I? If I just leave you to do it yourself it’ll just be painful watching you try and figure this out. I’ll end up helping anyways, so it’s a team. Right?”

Kaito couldn’t believe it. “Are you feeling ok Harumaki? Sure you’re not delusional or something-”

A glare from Maki was all it took for Kaito to quiet down.

“It’s late. Get some rest and we’ll start up tomorrow morning.” Maki turned away, twin-tails flowing around her as she walked back to the dorm.

“…man all I wanted was soda.” Kaito angrily stomped back to his dorm, he must have shaken it on the way there as when he opened it the soda sprayed everywhere.

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The next morning he awoke to the normal morning announcement, he said hello and gave you a kiss on the way to the dining hall. You pointed out that he tasted like soda, to which he glowered.

After the morning meeting was finished, Maki , yourself and Kaito were left.

“Hey, do you wanna go check out the pool today? We might as well use it if we’re trapped here...oh, Harukawa, that includes you too if you’d like!” you chirped.

Kaito froze, glancing over to Maki’s blank face before scratching the back of his neck. “Uh Sorry s/o. Me and Haruma- Harukawa gotta do something, uh, alone. I’m sorry, just for today!”

He could see that you thought of the worst, that spending time in private with another person meant he didn’t want you. However you just smiled despite that and nodded.

“Oh of course, sure.” You tucked in your chair and gave Maki and him a little goodbye before leaving the dining hall. Momota smiled back until the door shut behind you.

“I feel terrible for lying….how the fuck can Ouma stand that…”

Maki sighed, getting up from her chair as well. “You’re horrible at lying. Even a baby could tell that you weren’t being honest.”

“I’m sorry ok, I told you I wasn’t good at it…”

She sighed again, “In any case- we better get going. The note said if you waited too long then s/o would die.”

“Ah, yeah you’re right.”

“Then let’s go- your room.” Maki announced, with another rustle of her hair. She was already headed to Kaito’s room regardless of whether he joined her or not.

Momota hurried after her, not wanting Maki to break down his door if she got tired of waiting for him.

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“We should probably start on the time the note was sent, and put the pieces of the puzzle together from there.” Maki had sat herself down on the chair, claiming it for herself.

“The time huh,” Kaito hummed from the bed. “Well it must have been after I left my room to go on my jog; I shouldn’t have been gone for more than an hour. So I’d say anywhere from 7-8pm then.”

“So you went out for a run, during that time someone broke into your room and left the note.”

Kaito rubbed his hand against his neck.

Maki’s eyes snapped up, “What?”

“...Actually I think I forgot to lock the door.”

“…”

Maki took a deep breath, rubbing her temples and mumbling something before she spoke again. “You really are an idiot. But at least we know how they got into the room then.”

“Ouch, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Moving on!” Kaito slapped his hands together, “What do we do now, inspector Harumaki?”

She didn’t bother to glare it him, but he already knew that she was angry. “We go around, ask people where they were around that time.”

“Well what if they refuse to answer.” Momota said.

Maki, for the first time, gave the slightest hint of a smile, cracking her knuckles as she gave a malevolent stare. “Then they answer to me.”

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And they did indeed, ‘answer to her’. Some people were a bit of a challenge, like Korekiyo and Hoshi who both had no intention of conversing with people. Or like Tenko, who refused to say until Kaito left the room. But they did it and Kaito was in one piece, which was a plus.

He was still reeling over the fact that Maki of all people was helping him, and to such an extent almost seemed bipolar for someone like her.

He wonders, is she really helping just because she saw the note? Or is there something more…

In any case, he can’t be bothered to worry about that at the moment.

“These 4,” Maki had slid him a slip of paper after dinner. “One of them is responsible.”

That was two hours ago, he had wanted to talk more but Maki had left the dining hall before anyone else did. She hasn’t been seen since.

Momota sighed, stretching out on the bed. One of the four names; Himiko Yumeno, Gonta Gokuhara, Ouma Kokichi and Toujo Kiruimi, was the one that either wanted himself or you dead.

If he had to bet, he would guess that Ouma was the guilty culprit. He seemed like the type to do that.

Still, what could Harukawa be doing…..

With nothing new happening, and the same thoughts running in his mind, Kaito eventually drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

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When he awoke it wasn’t to the morning announcement, it was too early for that. The air was too quiet, the atmosphere had nothing living moving through it for a long time.

He got up, the bed now cold. Having no way of knowing the time, he slipped out of his dorm room, just to stretch out his muscles somewhat. It wasn’t the smartest of ideas but something about the silence irked him. He needed to hear his slippers on stone. Pap pap pap. As they shuffled along.

The light that peeked through the windows and the ceiling were dark, he could only make out the starting and endings of the hallways.

There was a noise that caught his attention, a slight shifting sound. He froze, waiting a few seconds before calling out into the empty halls. There was no response, so he continued walking, a little more cautious this time. He walked to the end of the hallway, passing by the dining hall and storage room when the door to the gym caught his eye. It was ajar, opening and closing ever so slightly; the lock clicking upon contact with the door frame.

Kaito felt his heart thump in his chest. This was the part in every horror game that the main character would open the door and some monster would be there ready to attack, pouncing on him and ripping his flesh apart….

But running away from something like this isn’t his style. If he can save someone, catch the mastermind…or get killed, in worst case scenario.

He approaches the door with caution, licking his lips edgily as he pulls open the door a crack. It’s too dark to see much so he opens the door a bit more, gasping and lobbing his body to one side as a cloud of smoke blasts out door. Kaito scrambles to his feet, covering his mouth with his arm as he rushes into the gym- not the best option in this scenario but that’s Kaito for you.

He hears a voice- a girls voice. The unmistakable silhouette of Maki, her hair almost seeming to whiz and snap around her. Arm stiff as stone as she holds a handgun in her extended arm.

That arm points to the mage, Himiko, crumpled on her legs and bleeding from her forearm.

His legs extend, screaming out a cry as he runs towards the two. Maki’s head snaps towards him, a look of anger and fear combined as she slams him aside. There’s a whipping sound to his right before he’s knocked back on the floor again, wheezing.

“Humph. Looks like your girlfriend saved you again.”Himiko shakily gets to her feet, clutching her wounded arm. The hand of her good arm holds numerous darts between her fingers.

“What…the...” Kaito begins.

“Shut up.” Maki commands, not looking at him once. “Drop the weapons or else I’ll shoot.”

Kaito regains himself, finally getting a grip on himself. “Hey, harumaki, wha-”

Himiko sighs over him, “Can’t you figure it out for yourself, I knew you were stupid but this is something else.” Her voice is different. The lazy, soft edge to it has been burned away. Leaving behind a strong, solemn tone. Her eyes no longer droop, but are narrowed sharply, irises seeming to literally burn with emotion. Her smile and pushed out lip are pressed into a flat, tense line. No trace of the sleepy, soft girl that he thought she was.

“No…but that means…” Kaito starts.

“Drop it. Now.” Maki cut him off, arm never breaking it’s sturdy form.

Himiko huffs, giving a bitter sigh. “Fine fine.” The darts clink as they hit the ground, she even kicks them towards them with her pointed shoe. “Happy?”

“I’m never happy.” Maki rolls the darts behind her, “Start talking. Now.”

Himiko giggles again, one that Kaito has learned very quickly not to like. “As you wish.”

And she does tell everything, how the set up the note, why she was targeting Kaito, he doesn’t say a word throughout the entire endeavor but instead tries to process the information.

“Why Momota.” You couldn’t tell if Maki was alive had it not been for the blinking of her eyes. “And why did you threaten to Kill s/o? What was your goal.”

Himiko had to sit down halfway through her explanation, her blood soaking through her clothes and quickly dripping onto the floor and her leggings. “I was wondering if Kaito was dumb enough to actually kill, just because of some letter. S/o was only involved because I wanted to see if the thought of them dying would make him do it. Course, I would never kill anyone either way but I just wanted to see.”

“You used him as your toy?” Maki’s teeth are clenched.

Himiko sighs, a tired one. “No no, Just experimenting. You know, I didn’t think this would work anyways.” Her teeth clench and her voice drops to a snarl that could match Harukawa’s. “But I didn’t think you were gonna get involved.” The magician stumbled to her feet again, swaying as her face was loosing color.

“Oi, Harumaki! We need to help her,” He shot Himiko an uneasy gaze, “We don’t want her to di-”

“Oh, fuck off you.” Himiko was already shuffling out of the gym, arm clenched around the wound. “I’m more than able to deal with this myself. I wouldn’t let myself die because your girlfriend got pissy.”

Maki growls, Himiko turns to meet her gaze with a same amount of anger. “Don’t give me that shit. I’m not who you thought I was, obviously, besides.” She porously looks Kaito dead in the eyes. “At least I can handle problems on my own.”

They watch as she leaves the gym, Kaito shaking his head. “What the fuck man.”

“Well, at least no one got killed, though I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.” The gun is gone from Harukawa’s hands, as if it vanished into thin air.

“It’s a good thing obviously!”

She sighs, “Alright, well, if she happens to do anything just let me know alright.” She doesn’t wait until he can respond before leaving the gym swiftly.

Kaito’s left there, smelling the blood and the smoke and heat in the room. Himiko’s words ring out in his mind, At least I can handle my problems on my own. While he’s still shocked at her sudden change of attitude, he has to admit she was right. Maki was really the one to save this situation, doing all of the work while he sat there taking a nap and drinking soda. He clenches his fists, he wasn’t strong enough to protect you by yourself. Men need to be strong, they shouldn’t have a girl help them Dammit!

He slaps his cheeks with his hands, vowing to be better form here on, to take care of his own problems for sure!

He walks out of the gym with a swagger of confidence, unknown to the reason why Maki would help him, not knowing why someone like her would help him.

And if he stayed the way he was, he would never find out.

Ryoma Hoshi:

He grips the letter tightly in his fists, wishing to crush it between his tiny hands. Tiny hands, tiny body, tiny mind, tiny temper. There is only so much he can take, but this is the last straw.

“Kill. Anyone, yourself for all I care. Kill fast and kill tonight or else s/o gets killed. If you try and tell anyone I’ll personally kill them and you in the process.”

He rips up the note, swearing profanities as he slinks down to the ground, curling up into a ball. He tries to stop the tears, but they come anyways, only fueling his heart and making his lip curl.

S/o, the only one he truly does love in this world, the only one who loves him in this world. He refuses to let them die. Not in a million years. He’s going to stay by their side forever and ever, no matter what. Nothing will separate them until the day s/o pulls the trigger on both of them and they walk into death hand and hand.

He will not let anyone take them. He’s not going to live without them. No, it’s not an option. An eternity would never be enough time for him to forgive himself for his actions.

He won’t let that form of despair fill him any longer. No more. Not now not ever.

“Kill someone huh.” He mumbles.

It’s been a while since he’s done that. The shrouded memory that he constantly remembers, despite his best attempts.

Rage, rage filling him as they taunted him. One person said something about his height, it pushed him off his rocking chair. There were more people, their mouths opening but the words just ended up falling flat to his ears. He was boiling on the inside, a volcano about to explode.

He was practicing with the shotput balls, strengthening his tiny arms. The sweat sliding down his body, his strength and resolve slowly, slowly dripping away.

His fists clenched, teeth clamped tight as he tried to let the waves calm down. His blood was pumping both from anger and exhaustion.

Hang on, why should he try to stop in the first place huh? Why should he ever have to be miserable and sad while every other fucking human on this forsaken planet gets to run their own version of their rodeo? Huh?

One person touches him, and his resolves breaks. He lets the hatred take him, lodging the metal ball in the skull of some person. The ball is stained red when it comes back, and he’s left slightly light headed as everyone else gasps.

For a split second he feels a rush, an adrenaline powered high that sends shock waves of joy throughout his body.

It feels…..good. More than good, amazing.

He didn’t stop until everyone was covered in red, including himself. Only then did his thoughts of how sick the whole thing was jolted him from his trance.

God… He shakes his head, pushing his fists tighter into his eye sockets until colors of red and blue and green sparkle. That was a night. He did end up in jail for it, well, holding. He was eventually not convicted. Mentally not responsible, or something like that. Blah.

They’re all insane in the eyes of a believer.

He taps his fingers, trying to focus on the rhythm rather than his own thoughts.

Do it. One voice says. Don’t do it. Says another.

The positives and negatives stack against themselves, creating a scale in his mind of what is moral and not moral; the most human thing to do and the most monstrous.

The beast taps at in his head. He can feel the nail drag across his skin, in his veins, thoughts, the breath he takes. It’s urging him to do it. Let go. Forget about how the world hates you and that you’re useless.

Nothing matters. He doesn’t matter. No one matters.

But you matter.

Since you came to his life, everything was color and happiness and hope.

If he were to lose you….he wouldn’t know what to do. He’d…he’d….go mad. Insane. Scream and kill out of hate until someone stopped him-one way or another.

It’s a smile of pity when he takes Iruma down with little effort. The inventor stands frozen for a second, still as a statue. Then the blood starts flowing, it would be such a pretty picture if you forgot that it was of the wound in her forehead.

Her eyes roll up, her raised arms falling to her side. The only sound she releases is a slow exhale, raspy and desperate. Water wells up in her eyes before her chest slows to a halt.

Ryoma’s smile turn into a something of a sideways smirk. He tugs up at her skirt lightly, the lace of her black thong pokes beneath the skirt.

“Slut.”

He hides his face as their leader, Kaede, gets executed. Not letting any hint of emotion escape him. Saihara cries, and he cries and he cries. The poor boy is broken far beyond belief. Loosing 2 friends in a day, that changes people. Well, maybe just one. Iruma was a bitch to him. (Then again she was really just a bitch to everyone.)

He’s broken, shattered. There’s hope that he can still be fixed with time and therapy- but you can still see the cracks in a broken vase, no matter how much you glue and pray that it’ll go back to normal.

Hope huh.

He turns away from the execution stage before anyone else does, not bothering to bid the late their goodbyes. He doesn’t care.

He catches your worried look, that painful worried look that’s on the verge of tears that he loves so much. He still doesn’t let you acknowledge him, no one can reach him, he’s far too high.

The Harukawa and Shinguiji are the only two to get on before the elevator makes it ascend. No one talks, it’s for the best anyways.

He walks through the halls until he reaches his dorm, locking the door with a miserable click before flopping into bed. What a fucking day.

So much despair, so so so so so much.

Hehe.

He snickers, Akamastu was the actual victim in this case. Iruma got her just deserts.

He chuckles to himself, playing with the ears of his hat, pulling, stretching, breaking, snapping. Pulling until the points round off- just like a bear.

He laughs at his own handwork, calling for Monokuma to get his ass in the room.

Without even a seconds hesitation, the bear pops up. Ready to obey and serve.

Hoshi plops it on his head, “Huh, do ya think I should make 10 000 copies of this for our big reveal?”

Monokuma laughs, “It looks sooooo lame.”

“Hah. Like you’re one to talk.”

Monokuma waddles over, Hoshi grabs him and rolls back into bed. The bear is almost the same size as he is.

“Ahhh, we did good didn’t we.” “Of course we did!”

He snickers again, thinking of how Iruma’s face was wiped clean of her stupid cocky, high horse shit when he pulled the knife. Oh she knew she knew she was utterly fucked.

Ryoma laughs, he laughs and laughs and laughs at the despair that clouds over his eyes. Infecting his system, getting him higher and higher. Despair, oh oh, despair.

The killing, the blood, he controls it. For once in his life he was in power. Control. That rush when he first picked up that shotput….he kept it with him forever.

He squeezes the neck of monokuma, grinning sadistically to himself. “She should have known. What an idiot. She cocked up her own plan by pulling it on the one person. That’s like, a 1 and 16th chance of fucking it up, yet she still did.”

He stares off into the ceiling, feeling the cold, dark despair starting to take over his brain.

“She should have known, messing with the mastermind would have its consequences.”

Gonta Gokuhara:

There’s a buzzing sound that makes his ears perk up. He’s been hunched over a cage of beetles for the past hour, listening to the little patter of their feet and their swaying of their antenna as he observed the movements and dances they preformed.

His eyes surveyed the room, pupils enlarging as he remained quiet as a mouse. His hair fell over his face in tangled locks, but he didn’t bother to fix it. Years and years of being out in the forest had taught him to always remain silent.

There was a dragonfly flying through the air, it swayed with each flap of its wings, weighed down by the tiny scroll of paper on its back. Gonta makes a noise with his mouth, urging the bug to come closer to him. The dragonfly finally comes to a halt on his palm, Gonta carefully removes the scroll and the bug flies away.

He opens up the letter:

“Gonta. Kill someone or else S/o will be killed. Don’t tell anyone or else they die.”

He panics immediately, shaking free from his trance-like stupor. He shakily closes the lid of the bug cage, already starting to sweat and gasp for air.

The words repeat themselves in his mind and he imagines the worst. S/o lying dead on the ground, a monster sneaking up and attacking s/o, Gonta being left alone for the trial, crying.

“Gonta doesn’t want s/o to die!” He trembles slightly, thinking, repeating, praying those words over and over.

He thinks he’s about to cry, Gonta has no way of warning you as well…what can he do? He…..he can protect you. No. He will protect you.

Gonta has to take a stand; he won’t let anyone take s/o!

If he can’t tell them, well he’ll just protect them nonstop! That way he won’t be breaking the rules, and he can make sure that S/o stays safe! Yes! Perfect!

Gonta has been following behind you like a lost puppy for the past 10 hours. At first you thought it was cute enough, you didn’t really mind spending time with your boyfriend for a few hours. But he began insisting that he follows you everywhere, even if you were hanging out with another person he would be by your side, a strange look on his face. Concern? Paranoia? Who knows.

If anyone posed a threat he would grab them and send them flying away as he blocked you with his body. (He ended up sending Ouma crashing into a vending machine, Kiibo screamed, and Ouma had to be carried by Amami to the nurses room.) (You apologized to Ouma later on, repeating how sorry you were as Gonta sat there like a grumpy puppy. You made him apologize as well.) (No one else talked to you or Gonta that entire day.)

He had even asked if he could sleep in your door tonight (Very timidly, I might add.) Nothing obscene would be going on of course, he would gladly sleep on the floor. (“It’s quite comfortable after a while!” he proclaimed.)So with eyes just like a puppy’s, you couldn’t say no. Besides, it’s nice that Gonta actually initiates something like this. Maybe with some luck you two will end up in the same bed by morning.

The time is 2:34. Gonta refuses to sleep.

“Gonta, please, get some sleep.” You yawned.

“I..I will S/o… Gonta just isn’t tired yet…”

“Liar. You’re swaying and your eyes are drooping.”

He tried not to look tired, but he only ended up slumping back with a sigh as he closed his eyes, they popped back open a second later.

“Gonta please,” your urged from your bed. He had insisted on sleeping on the floor, so you compromised and made him sleep on the couch. “Sleep. Now.”

He shook his head, now having to keep his eyes open with his fingers.

You sighed, feeling drowsy yourself. “What’s the matter? Is there something bothering you?”

He stiffened, before shaking his head vigorously. Not very convincing.

You rolled out of bed, stumbling over to the couch. You placed a hand by his face. “Gonta?” You started softly. “Please, is there something worrying you?”

He hesitated, jaw clenched. Then he nodded, slowly. “There is?” You continued with the same pitch. “Do you want to talk about it.”

He bit his cheek, eyes flowing with emotion. “Gonta… Gon… mean…don’t…”

“Hey hey hey, easy does it, ok? It’s alright if you can’t tell me.”

He shut his mouth, tears forming behind his glasses. You removed them carefully, folding them up and placing it on the coffee table. You scooted Gonta over with a hand and then snuggled in his chest, curling into him. He gasped, heart beating faster in his chest. “Gonta, are you scared something will happen to me?” You mumbled from his shirt.

There was a long pause, the only sound being his breathing and his heart. “Y-yes..” He finally answered. “But Gonta can’t tell you why… so… Gonta must protect you.”

You hummed, feeling the material of his shirt, tracing it with your finger. “I’m honored you care so much for me….as long as I have you, I’m positive that nothing bad will happen to me…”

He squeaked as you wrapped his arm around your back, stiff as a board. You gazed up from his chest. “Hey Gonta.” You whispered.

“Y-yes?”

“Thanks for caring about me.” Your eyes drooped, plopping a kiss on his chin before yawning and snuggling closer into his chest. The smell of leather and nature and bark enveloped you as you finally fell asleep.

#can you see where i gave up #danganronpa v3 #new danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #drv3 #dr3 #danganronpa v3 x reader #amami rantarou #rantaro amami #kaito momota #momota kaito #gonta gokuhara #gokuhara gonta #hoshi ryoma #ryoma hoshi #danganronpa x reader #mod saihara

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bibliotecaria-d · 7 years

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White Lies, sidestory #2

#hektorthegecko #Kaon #White Lies

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purestxblood · 7 years

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Nightmare Lullaby • Clay Jensen

Clay Jensen x Reader

Prompt: You wake in the middle of the night, having one of your panic and depressive episodes due to a nightmare and Clay comes to your side.

Warning: Slight discussion on the topic of depression.

982 words x

You woke to the sound of soft static vibrating from the sound of your record player across the room, filling the air with hums. You were on your back when you pried your eyes open, meeting the tiny iridescent stars glued to your ceiling.

They were no longer glowing from earlier in the night and you knew it was nowhere near morning. You rolled over onto your side then squinted your eyes to focus upon the digital clock on your bedside. 2:37 am flashed across the frame and you whined to yourself – you had been only asleep for less than three hours.

Sleep had been something you dreaded, for every time you closed your eyes endless nightmares and terrors would consume you, haunting your thoughts until you would wake with sweat beating down your cheeks. Your clothes would stick to your body while your heartbeat accelerated against its cage, pounding for an escape.

Nightmares of you being possessed by your inner demons and suffocated by your depression weren’t random; they were a rare occurrence when you’d sleep. If you slept through a night without waking up clouded by a dream, you thanked your lucky stars because that was one night you felt at peace.

Pulling your phone off your night stand, you brought the phone to your face – immediately hitting the number two on your phone, speed dialing the one person who knew how to settle your restlessness and bring you back to your senses.

“Yeah?” a groggy voice answered, followed with ruffling of bedsheets. For a split second you felt guilty for calling in the first place. It was late on a school night and you knew he had to be up earlier than you; but like every other call, you’d apologize and he’d shush you with reassurance that it was completely okay.

You chuckled to yourself, mentally picturing him sprawled across his bed half asleep with the phone in hand. “I’m sorry to be a bother,” you mumbled and closed your eyes, “it’s just-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, sounding more awake and alert than before, “I’m on my way.”

The right side of your bed dipped, creating a concave of heaviness above the mattress signaling Clay’s arrival. You hadn’t heard him slip through the window since you had your music turned up loud enough to cloud your mind but quiet enough to not wake your parents. You always slept with some sort of audio playing in your room so your parents were synced to the sounds of your television or radio during late hours throughout the night.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he mumbled as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back into his chest. “I’m sorry I woke you,” you admitted for what could have been the hundredth time. Your fingers intertwined with his and you brought your hands to your chest.

“It’s fine,” Clay whispered, placing a soft kiss on your bare shoulder before closing his eyes and snuggling up to you, his cheek rested upon yours. Your body relaxed at the touch of his against yours, his warmth soothing the numbness and cold you felt minutes prior.

You held tightly onto his hand and rubbed your thumb across his skin. This motion always made feel Clay relaxed but really, something about brushing your fingers on his skin calmed you. His breath was slow, inhaling and exhaling out through his nose, tickling the side of your face. Based upon his breathing motions you could tell he was already starting to fall back asleep, and you too tried to close your eyes and sleep but like before, it was no use.

“Clay,” you whispered, squirming in his grasp until you were now facing him. He was only a few inches taller than you, the tip of your forehead meeting his chin causing you the need to tilt your head slightly upward to make out direct eye contact. “Hm?” he mumbled, still dazed within his sleep. You sighed fiddling with the edge of his collar on his t-shirt, ruffling it between your index finger and thumb, “nothing.” Clay’s right eye popped open then the left, his brows wiggling together as one as he observed your vulnerable appearance.

Your eyes were zoned in on the center of his bunched up cotton shirt, watching your own fingers as the fisted and toyed with the soft material. “Hey,” he whispered, reaching out with his right hand to tilt your chin upward to look at him. You peered up at Clay through your lashes, “what?”

Clay pulled your body closer to his until you were parallel: your chest against his, both pairs of legs tangled up in the other, and your faces meters apart. His hand rubbed your arm up and down, creating a warmth of friction between both skins.

“What is it this time?”

You shrugged and buried your face into his chest, inhaling his scent. He may not have showered before bed but you could always make out the faded smell of irish spring soap. “They were coming for me,” you mumbled into the material of his t-shirt then looked up at him, “it was inside me – tearing me apart, and it wouldn’t get away,” you whispered.

“Hey,” Clay whispered, making out the desperation of defeat laced in your tone of each word. His thumb padded back and forth over the skin underneath your eye as he bored his brown eyes into your own. “They’re not ever going to get you,” he whispered and brought his lips to the middle of your forehead, allowing his lips to linger on your skin after his kiss. “I promise, I’m going to take care of you,” he added and caressed your cheek.

You closed your eyes, pressing your cheek deeper into his palm, basking in the touch of his hand upon you.

“Why do you do this?” you whispered.

Clay continued to rub your cheek in circles and up and down motions, “because,” he whispered, “I love you.”

You sighed with a small smile placing your lips softly upon his, sighing in content once you felt him give in to your kiss. Clay’s hand gripped the side of your hip with you wrapped your hands around his neck, pulling him closer to your frame. Pulling on the fabric of your pajama shirt, Clay lifted it up, replacing the material on your skin with his hand. His fingers danced across the skin of your lower stomach while his lips traced yours, begging for entrance. Your singers roamed through his strands of hair, playing with the little ones at the nape of his neck.

Immediately, you allowed him entrance, massing your tongue against his own, moaning softly in satisfaction. Clay chuckled into the kiss then pulled away, smirking down at you. You looked up at clay with flushed cheeks, “what?” you asked with innocent teasing eyes.

Clay shook his head and bit his lip, “nothing,” then pushed your shoulder rolling on top of you and placing his lips once again on yours.

#Clay Jensen #Clay Jensen x Reader #Clay x Reader #13 Reasons Why #Thirteen Reasons Why #purexblood #my work #13 reasons why one shot #clay jensen one shot

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amoretheiwa · 8 years

Text

The Dark Knight and the Boy Scout

Here is all of Chapter 1: A Laughing Man in one place

Prologue

Read on AO3

While meeting with newly appointed GCPD Police Commissioner James Gordon, Batwoman is introduced to the Prince of Crime when a man calling himself the Joker appears on TV, killing a woman. Signs and clues begin to pop up and make sense as wealthy members of Gotham’s elite are targeted and begin to drop dead. Batwoman is officially introduced to the public and the world as Gotham’s personal hero when inmates from Williams Medical Center are released into the streets—but there are still no answers. When Breanna Wayne is targeted, Batwoman finally makes the right connections: but is she too late to save herself, and Gotham?

“In other Gotham news, Arkham Asylum will be reopening next month as a facility equipped to handle Gotham’s most dangerous and disturbed criminals, along with regular patients in dire need of extreme assistance,” the woman on the television screen reported. Batwoman barely spared the story a glance. It was under her advisement and Gordon’s help that Arkham was going to be up and running again. With the appearance of few criminals who seemed to be above average it was determined that the jail just wasn’t enough to hold them and keep the people of Gotham safe.

“I don’t like the looks of these deaths, Batwoman,” Gordon murmured under his breath. She shook her head.

“Me neither.”

They were looking over the photos and case files for a number of eerily similar deaths with no apparent connection other than how they died. With a horrid, twisted version of a smile on their faces.

“CSI got back and none of the toxin screens showed anything out of the ordinary, and background checks showed no connections to any of the crime families or underground.”

Breanna turned slightly to face the Commissioner better.

“Their deaths were random. There was no purpose behind them—just a serial killer playing with some new toys.”

The voice synthesizer she and Lucius had designed had needed a few tweaks to help also change the patterns of inflection when she spoke, now that she was unofficially working with GCPD.

“As much as I hate to say it, I agree. Now, what—”

He stopped as a commotion on screen distracted them both.

The reporter was giggling, laughing, her volume and intensity increasing. Other personnel from the news room tried to get her to calm down, someone even calling for an ambulance. Both James and Breanna knew what was about to happen but neither could do anything to stop it as they watched the poor woman strangle on nothing, her head falling onto the desk with a sickening thud.

Static took over the audio and visual feed until it was replaced by a dark room. One white spotlight came on, and in the light was a figure facing away. He wore a bright purple suit and seemed to have equally bright green hair.

Breanna stepped closer to the television as Gordon spoke into his radio about getting someone to hack the feed, find its source.

“Hello, people of Gotham,” a low voice chuckled. The man standing in the light slowly turned around. His skin was white—not the white of a pale person but the color of chalk or clown paint.

“Sorry to interrupt your afternoon report but I have some fantastic news you may want to be tuning in for.”

Batwoman opened up a compartment on her left arm where a small device connected her to the mega-computer in the cave at all times. She began typing furiously with the one hand, hoping that her pre-made algorithms would be enough to figure out at least the source of the broadcast.

“You see, Gotham has become such a dreary place what with all the people coming and going and being such obedient little worker drones, and the Bat spoiling people’s fun. So I’ve decided to give you a helping hand, and provide some fun! The first person to experience some fun is man by the name of Henry Claridge—some of you may know him! One of Gotham’s rich, I’ve decided that he will be the first to help you and I with our fun! See you soon! Ta ta,” and with that the feed cut to a cartoon-esque image of a clown with the man’s features and one word: Joker.

Batwoman turned around and started to walk out of the office.

“Batwoman! Wait!” Gordon called. She stopped and turned to face him.

“I’m sending some of my men to watch Claridge, I need you to head over to Arkham—they have something they was you to see.”

One of the orderlies who was set to officially start work the next month when the Asylum opened showed her through the winding halls. It was a dark and dreary place on its own little island, and Batwoman hated every second there.

They finally stopped in front of one of the larger cells being prepped for when they needed to hold someone with more than just a few mental problems. On the wall written in what could only be blood was “One by one, they’ll hear my call. Then this wicked town, will follow my fall.”

After taking some pictures and a sample of the material used to paint the cryptic message Breanna was back in the cave. While the tests were finalizing their results, she replayed the video over and over again. This “Joker” had done a good job, as nothing was visible in the footage except for him. Nothing that could pinpoint a location or motive or identity.

Right as the beeping from her machines alerted her to the tests completion she received and incoming call from Gordon.

“Yes?” She said.

“It’s Claridge. He’s dead—just like the reporter. There, there was nothing we could do.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She hung up before he could say anything more and walked over to the lab portion of the cave. It was to her frustration that none of the equipment had given any information. It was pig’s blood, but there was nothing in it pointing at a location or place of sale.

Breanna leaned back in her chair, the cowl hanging against the back of her neck and her eyes closed. Claridge’s body showed nothing but a sickening grin, and the toxin screens showed once again that there was nothing that should have caused the man’s death. As Breanna Wayne, she had vaguely known the man as an acquaintance. One of the smaller screens had news playing while muted but something caused her to look up. With a few swipes and quick taps the main screen was playing the main channel.

“New footage has surfaced from this man calling himself the Joker, this time threatening Jay W. Wilde. Viewer discretion is advised, but, wait, we’re getting reports in about—”

As the woman’s voice began to take on a panicked tone alarms began blaring in the cave. Batwoman pulled her cowl over her face, quickly pulling the ponytail her black hair hung in through its special opening, and was leaping into the car in seconds, already plotting the quickest route in her mind.

Inmates from Williams Medical Center, many of whom were scheduled to be transferred to Arkham once it was open, were somehow loose and roaming the streets of Gotham.

In almost 15 minutes she was leaping out of the car, sending it to a backroad on the outskirts of Gotham on autopilot. Gordon and some other officers were pinned down behind a barricade of police cars and she joined them. No one had noticed her approached and whispered curses and flinching motions were the sum of the reactions.

“About time you got here,” Gordon said without any real bite in his voice.

“How do they have all these weapons?” One of his men shouted in fear. Batwoman peeked over the hood of the car she was crouched behind and narrowed her eyes.

“Someone armed them, probably whoever helped them break out.”

Gordon nodded and popped back up to take a few more shots.

“We can’t just kill everyone. That’d be wrong and most of the inmates are there on fair terms.”

She nodded once and then vaulted herself over the cars. A few bolas went flying, sending the gun-less inmates to their knees and sides. A smoke pellet here and there gave her enough shadow to function, and show she was going hand-to-hand with five different people at once. Three of them held pocket knives in both hands, and her costume’s armor was taking the brunt of it. The other two were holding baseball bats with the same stylized clown that seemed to have become the Joker’s symbol.

A high round house kick, a low flip, a sweep of her legs, an elbow in someone’s gut, a series of punches, and the five were lying on the ground in various stages of consciousness. Breanna headed towards where a group of inmates had cornered some of the guards and workers of the Medical Center just inside the front door. She listened to the police’s comms with half of her brain as she threw two batarangs, taking out two of the attackers. A few lucky shots from both a knife and few fists and that group was down as well.

By then the smoke she had started had dissipated and as she led the frightened but otherwise unharmed people out into the street she was swarmed by journalists and reporters. The police had everyone under custody or receiving medical attention, and James pushed his way through the shouting crowd to stand next to Batwoman.

“Quiet! One at a time!” He shouted. Breanna desperately wished she could disappear but there were too many eyes on her to do so.

“Batwoman,” a reporter from the Gotham Gazette spoke first.

“Batwoman, what powers do you have?”

She didn’t respond, just chose to look at the next reporter,

“Why now? Why are you terrorizing the streets of Gotham and fighting criminals only at night?”

Batwoman took a split second before speaking.

“I was not ready before now. And bats are nocturnal creatures.”

She looked at the next reporter, one who’s eyes were wide and hands trembling.

“Um, B-b-batwoman, ma’am, where did you come from?”

Batwoman waited a beat and stepped back, smoke pellets already loose in both of her hands.

“Gotham,” was her only reply as she let them fall. She said a silent apology to the Commissioner as the people closest began choking. She stepped back and melted into the newly created shadows.

“I found a lead, Gordon,” she said. Driving back to the Manor she had called him. After it was established that there were no hard feelings she went back to business.

“Ace Chemicals Processing Plant has had a few select products go missing in the past month. I’m going to investigate.”

Gordon sighed over the phone.

“Alright, just let me know what you find. Jay W Wilde was just threatened, you know.”

“I know,” she said and then hung up.

Once back in the cave she began to strip. The black cape came off first, draped over the back of her chair. Dark grey material covered her in similar fashion to a wet suit from neck to wrists to ankles, with layers over her torso, upper arms, thighs, and calves made of Kevlar and other materials. Her cowl was connected to the main portion of the costume with a small slit for her hair to be tugged through, and after going through the necessary motions so as to not shock herself she pulled it off. She took each piece of armor and costume and laid it out on a table just for that purpose before turning to face Alfred, who had walked in during the process.

Under the costume, she wore a sports bra and compression shorts, and her skin was littered with bruises, some fresh scars, and plenty of spots where she was bleeding from. Nothing was too serious but she still allowed her butler to clean and bandage what needed it. Nothing needed to be stitched this time and she quickly went upstairs to her personal wardrobe.

“What is it to be now, miss? A costume event downtown?”

Breanna rolled her eyes as she pulled on the plain grey pencil skirt and equally boring matching blouse.

“I need to find some things out at Ace Chemical’s, the plant on the west side. I can’t do that as Batwoman so I need to disguise myself as an inspector.”

“Understood, miss. Which vehicle will you be taking?”

“I’m going to need you to drop me off somewhere downtown and I’ll take a cab the rest of the way. It’s time for their inspection anyway.”

During the drive to Gotham proper, Alfred had the radio turned on and Breanna groaned, putting her head in her hands, at the news.

“So back to our breaking story, Gerald. It appears that Batwoman does indeed exist and is not just an urban legend or some phantom prowling the streets at night. Commissioner James Gordon had this to say on how GCPD will move forward.”

There was a bit of a pause as sound source transferred, and then Gordon was speaking.

“Batwoman has proven that she is willing to work alongside the police at times. No innocents are hurt and no one is killed, so there’s not much ground to keep hunting her. I for one believe that it could potentially be a beneficial partnership between us at GCPD.”

“Thank you, Commissioner Gordon. Now on to our friends at the Daily Planet, to hear some outside-of-Gotham opinions on our confirmation of Batwoman’s existence.”

Breanna leaned forward and turned off the radio with a sharp clack of her new fake nails on the dashboard.

“I would have thought this would be a momentous occasion, a time to even celebrate, Miss. Why the distress?”

“Because, Alfred,” Breanna shifted in her seat, looking out the window, “part of my goal is to make the criminals of Gotham fear me. People fear the unknown, the monster that lurks in the shadows and the dark, and I can’t be that person if I have an interview on Good Morning America and prove that I’m a regular person.”

Alfred didn’t say anything else, just nodded and “hmmed”. In no time they were parked in an alley between some convenience stores and diners. Breanna got out and quickly put on the cheap blue sweater over her outfit and adjusted the fake glasses that covered half of her face.

“I should be back here in a few hours. Feel free to go do other things, don’t just sit here the entire time.”

She closed the door and walked around the car as Alfred rolled down the driver’s window. She looked down at him as he spoke.

“Oh jolly, there’s some motion pictures I’d been hoping to have some time to go see. If you need me miss, I shall be unavailable.” And with that he drove off. Breanna grinned and shook her head before turning around and walking towards the closest major intersection.

PUBLISHING BREAK HERE

While she was inside the Processing Plant, Breanna had heard the newest targets with the rest of the workers. Judge Thomas Lake—and Breanna Wayne. In the car ride back to the Manor, and as she changed, Breanna shared her new information with Alfred.

“Someone has taken a few of the chemicals at night, but none that combined together would create any known toxin or poison. They’ve wiped the cameras thoroughly and nothing suspicious has happened there for a few months. About a year back there was a worker who had just been fired who fell into one of the vats and died, but other than that the workers and employers are pretty much clean.”

She sipped out of the class of water with a lemon in it that Alfred had just handed her. She was lounging in one of the front rooms, sitting in an armchair.

“I’m glad you’re endeavors paid off with at least some information, Miss Wayne, but are you not worried about the threat this Joker made against your life? Nothing has been able to stop or help the other victims and the Commissioner is with the Judge, not here.”

Breanna, dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans with a loose pale blue blouse, grinned up at her butler.

“There’s already a team on their way, and besides! Batwoman will protect me.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and turned to head back to the kitchen.

Once the police officers arrived Breanna found herself surrounded and making polite conversation with them until their radios began to go off. The sounds and shouts formed one conclusion—some of the goons working for the Joker were attacking Judge Lake’s residence, and there was a shootout going on that instance.

Breanna was about to make a quip one might expect of a threatened billionaire when she felt herself start to giggle. She couldn’t stop herself, even when she put her hands over her mouth. Fear stabbed her heart as she and Alfred shared eye contact. She started to laugh and laugh but couldn’t figure out why she was laughing.

The police officers around her were shouting and hands gripped her arms in an attempt to force her to calm down. Alfred appeared in front of her, the spinning room focusing around him now. She grabbed his arms tightly, gasping for breath as the laughter turned hysterical.

“Forgive me, Miss Wayne,” he said before stabbing her with something. She looked down and felt everything begin to slow and still. Her sight became fuzzy, and soon dark, and Breanna Wayne fell to the ground, almost another victim of the Joker.

Breanna was confused. Everything around her was blurry but for right in front of her. It was like looking down a dark tunnel and being blinded by the small amount of light at the end. She saw three figures, two tall and one obviously, that of a child. As she drifted closer the sound became clear.

“It’s not so scary now! Now I want to be just like Zorro,” the young Breanna Wayne said as she waved a crumpled program like a sword. “But a girl Zorro!”

Older Breanna looked with horror at her parents as they laughed and murmured. She stumbled forward, arms outstretched.

“Mother, Father,” she whispered through numb lips.

But it was with horror that she saw the towering man wreathed in shadow appear and raise a glinting gun.

“No!” She screamed and fell forward.

She sat up with a racing heart to see Alfred on one side and a paramedic on the other.

“She’s up!” Someone shouted and Breanna let Alfred push her back down to lie on what had to be the gurney inside of an ambulance.

“What,” she tried to speak, her mouth dry and rough. “What happened?”

“Your butler was a smart man and gave you an injection of a beta blocker, slowing your heart. Somehow that did the trick and you survived. Here.”

The paramedic handed her a glass of water and Breanna sipped from it gratefully, slowly sitting up.

“And Judge Lake?”

The paramedic stilled, and Alfred answered.

“Dead. Gordon’s men told us how he died like all the other victims, and most of the men shooting at them got away.”

Breanna nodded sadly, and made to stand.

“We need to make sure you’re completely of out danger, Miss Wayne! It’ll only take a few tests.”

When she was finally released back into the Manor with Alfred Breanna lost no time. She immediately went to the cave and began to get dressed.

“Going out so soon?”

“I know how he’s doing it Alfred, I know how he’s got each of us.”

“Oh?”

She looked at before pulling on the cowl.

“He’s poisoned the water.”

As her car zoomed out of the cave, the ringing tone echoed inside the vehicle. When Gordon finally answered she wasted no time with pleasantries.

“Breanna Wayne survived, barely. It’s the water—he’s poisoned the water. Get the Water Reservoir shut down.”

She hung up and sped towards the source of Gotham’s drinking water.

She flung herself out of the car and ran inside the closest entrance—Gordon had contacted her and explained that no one was answering at the Reservoir.

In less than ten minutes, after doing something elsewhere in the reservoir, she found her way up to the control and saw someone who could only be the Joker standing there, looking out over the room.

“About time you showed up, Bats. I thought you’d snub me on our first date!”

Batwoman didn’t reply, just walked closer. The Joker was tall but not taller than her with a slim figure and what looked like very little muscle definement.

He turned around and grinned, a wild look in his eyes. Up close he looked just as he had over the television and Breanna was glad that her cowl recorded everything.

“What, no hello? No introduction?” He cajoled, leaning against the control board.

“You’re too late you know,” he said quietly. “I’ve already poisoned all the water you see here! All of Gotham is gonna take a ride tonight—a ride with a smile on their faces. It’s only a matter of time before the effects get to you too.” He sidled closer to her, casually making his way to the center of the room.

“I wonder how that Wayne woman survived, she must have some smart people close to her. Maybe some…creatures of the night on her side.”

Joker leaned forward, suddenly in her face.

“Does she have you at her beck and call? Do you answer like a dog? Tell me, Batsy,” he moved back in a twirl, laughing with raised arms, “What are you going to do when it’s just you and I left in Gotham?”

Batwoman raised a hand, one that had a button or device of some sort clearly displayed, and showed it to the Joker.

“Oh goodie, what’s this? A toy for us to play with? Some maniacal way to stop me?”

She narrowed her eyes as she pressed the button.

“Yes.”

Something exploded beneath them and the room shuddered. The Joker stumbled backwards and anger crossed his face.

“What have you done?” He asked, all the mischievousness and laughter gone from his face. It had been replaced by a violent expression full of rage.

“Blew the viaduct. Now all the contaminated water is stuck in here, with us.”

His eyes grew wide even as the floor started to crumble in the corners of the room before bursting into laughter.

“Oh good one! We’ll have some fun times, I just know it!”

Batwoman jumped forward and tackled him, pushing their bodies through the crumbling ground to the level beneath them. She landed on the Joker without remorse and rolled off of him into a standing position mere feet away as the floor they had just been standing on came tumbling around them. The room they had landed in was roughly the same size of the control room above but empty, except for the rubble and sparking wires littering the ground.

He lay there, coughing and groaning, for a few seconds before pushing himself up causally. He ran towards her, pulling out a gun that looked more like a party prop than the real thing.

“Clever Bat!”

He pulled the trigger and Batwoman rolled out of the way, behind an extra-large piece of cement, away from the very real bullets that seemed to be dripping some green liquid when they hit the concrete wall behind her.

“But clever won’t get you out of this,” and the Joker continued to shoot at her, laughing raucously, even as the support beam holding up the control room collapsed next to him.

Breanna took a quick look at the room as she dove and rolled, staying in a crouch as he took time to adjust his aim. It was more of a basement, really, than an actual room. Not one meant to be occupied let alone at a time when the building and all the water was about to become one. She calculated that they had maybe five minutes, if not less, to get out before they were crushed or drowned.

She threw three batarangs in quick succession at the Joker and did another dive-roll that she came out of with a swinging fist. What had worked on a thug just early that same day did not work on this villain, as he had been cut by two of the three batarangs and grabbed the last one. The punch threw him back some but not before he swiped with her weapon, tearing a deep gash from her shoulder to the inside of her collarbone.

Batwoman did not scream, but a loud noise of pain did escape her throat. She took a step back before spinning in a high kick, holding her shoulder where she was bleeding profusely. Joker fell to the ground and giggled before licking her blood off of the batarang. He hummed and closed his eyes as if in ecstasy.

Disgust filled Breanna in a way it had not in years, if ever. She stepped back further and threw another batarang with her right arm, keeping her left arm as still as possible. This one sliced the back of his hand and he dropped the stolen weapon with a howl.

“Not fair, Batwoman. Not fair at all,” he growled as he cradled his hand to his chest, something akin to hate gleaming in his eyes. He picked up his gun and without warning started firing again. Breanna heard the walls begin to crack and spared a glance behind her, fear of death by suffocation gripping her heart. Distracted as she was, for that split second, that the last of four bullets the Joker had fired actually hit her in the hip.

With a gasp of pain, she stumbled back, looking down in minute horror only to realize that her armor did protect her and that the bullet had bounced off, melting into a pool of metal on the ground. Batwoman looked up at the Joker, who’s mouth was open in a pleased “O”, but before he could say anything she tossed a smoke pellet. The room was quickly engulfed in a darkness not even she could see through, but Breanna knew she could hear through.

“Come out come out wherever you are,” Joker sang before cackling, his voice echoing some. Batwoman moved forward silently until she knew she was just in front of him.

“Good job, Bats,” he whispered before shoving something into her hip, right where the bullet had bounced off her armor. Whatever it was tore through what the bullet could not and Breanna screamed in pain, stumbling backwards, her hands pressing against the wound that was now also bleeding heavily.

“Enough,” she growled when the smoke had finished clearing. In his hands Joker held one of her batarangs and she was ready to just get it all finished and over with when, with a loud crack, water threw her forward.

In that same moment, she fired a grappling hook at what was left of the room above them, the floor almost entirely gone. Her feet were still somewhat caught in the sudden rush and they clipped the Joker on the side of his head of their own accord. She swung there for a second and contemplated the idea of letting this madman die, drowned and crushed by his own doing. The thought left as soon as it arrived and with a roll of her eyes and sigh of exasperation she lowered herself just enough to grab the now-unconscious clown by his armpit.

After waiting on some higher ground with her “sleeping” companion for the contaminated water to stop flooding and begin to soak into the ground—no one would be able to use it for anything for a very long time—Batwoman finally saw some police cars making their way towards her location. From start to finish it had been a long day (a long week, really), and she had field dressed her wounds as much as possible but knew that Alfred would insist on Leslie taking a look when she finally got back to the Manor.

She pushed a button on her belt, summoning her car, and stood as she waited for Gordon and other officers to finish their mad rush up the hill.

“What happened here, Batwoman?” Gordon asked, shouting.

She waited until he was standing next to her and staring wide-eyed at the Joker to speak.

“He had poisoned the entire reservoir so I destroyed the viaduct. Something tells me the building was no longer up to code, as it came down a minute later. We fought right before that and he was knocked out.”

“And is he…” Gordon seemed afraid to answer and Batwoman wondered if she would regret her decision, her new rule.

“Alive but unconscious. I want him to wake up in an Arkham cell, Commissioner. Understood?”

Gordon nodded and turned around, giving his men orders. Clean up was going to be a nightmare but Batwoman did not have it in her to stay and help.

“You alright, Batwoman?” Gordon asked quietly. His blue eyes, set below bushy eyebrows, showed copious amounts of worry.

Breanna began to wave him off, taking a step forward as the unique lights of her car came into view, but stumbled. Gordon caught her, and helped her to sit down. He pushed her cape back and hissed at the very obvious wounds.

“You gonna be alright? You have someone to help you?”

“I do, thank you.” She murmured. The car rumbled to a stop just a few feet away and Gordon helped her get in.

“We’ll handle it from here, Batwoman. Go home, wherever that is for you. Gotham owes you.”

#superbat #dkandbs #amoretheiwa #amoretheiwa writes #breanna wayne #alfred pennyworth #james gordon #joker #chapter 1 #genderbending #genderbent batman

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a-patheticapathetic · 4 years

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Nine Inch Nails/Yaggenhimen - The Downward Spiral: Review

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bY3GGfqp7g

Alright, I think I’ve had enough time to reflect on this album. Time to do a review. And not just one review; I want to go over the original album, as well as an incredibly impressive full cover done almost entirely by one person. Linked above is the cover version. I assume that you can find the official version yourself. I recommend that you get a version with no gaps in between songs, nor risk of ads playing and breaking the flow.

Before you listen to either version of the album, you need to know a couple of things. This album is incredibly dark in both tone and sound. It is at times abrasive, angry, and totally devoid of hope. Depression and suicide are the main themes of the album. If you don’t think you can handle this, don’t risk hurting yourself. If you think the actual sound of this album will be too harsh for your tastes I would recommend listening to these songs, in this order: Closer, Heresy, Reptile, and March Of The Pigs. If the things you heard interested you and did not hurt your ears too badly, you can probably make it through the whole album.

I’ll be reviewing these albums in two parts: First, I’ll go though the NIN version like usual. After that, I’ll go through the Yaggenhimen, but instead of stream-of-consciousness writing, I’ll note down the differences and decide whether the cover is better, worse, or somewhere in between.

Alright. For those who are ready, let’s begin.

(Also, fair warning: The loudest and most abrupt this album gets is at the very beginning and the very end. I’ll put a warning before the last song and tell you exactly where it happens.)

Mr. Self Destruct - 7/10

We begin the album with a looped audio clip of a man being beaten, taken from the movie THX 1138. Fairly fitting, given the journey ahead. Immediately following this is the second-most violent noise on the album, and the start of the song proper. I still can’t tell how much of this is physical instrumentation and how much is synthetic. Things go about as you’d expect up until the end of the second chorus. At this point the volume plummets in an instant, and the strange and eerie noises buried in the background hint at the subtlety NIN is hiding underneath all the violence. Trent is also showing off some serious vocal talent here, managing to sing quietly but still maintaining that feeling of insurmountable rage. When the anger comes back, it does so with more graduality. Listen to how the response vocals (”and I control you”) are distorted; they’re barely even recognizable. As the chorus repeats, a layer of static slowly rises, eventually all but drowning out the rest of the song. This too drops in an instant into the outro, a strange and unintelligible spaghetti loop of distorted guitars. This goes on for a bit, before cutting to the next song.

Piggy - 8/10

After a pronounced sigh, hey pig. The silence of this song relative to the cacophony of the previous is almost shocking. It also gives us more time to bask in all these little samples hidden in the background. The production on this album, despite how dirty it sounds, is unbelievably meticulous. Listen to the drums now; they’re about to change. After chorus 2, a pause, then a second, much louder drum track comes in. This is a solo performed by Trent himself. While it shows mercy at first, it quickly devolves into tempos and random beatings that have little rhyme or reason. And as the mantra “nothing can stop me now” is repeated, a gentle synth line begins, way up high in the background. This is the first appearance of the Downward Spiral motif. Pay attention moving forward; it will appear several times over the course of the album. Lay back as everything but the motif fades away. The spiral has begun; now, down is the only way to continue.

Heresy - 7/10

Instantly we’re hit with a wave of 80s synth, then a punishing programmed drum beat. Trent’s recorded double vocals here; one for each ear, and neither is quite right. More noises appear and we hit the chorus; while it may seem edgy today, this was released in the mid-90s. It drove conservatives absolutely insane because back then not many people were saying things like this so unabashedly. Also, while it’s hard to hear, the rhythm guitars are playing the motif during the chorus. There’s also a sample of a cheering crowd during the solo. Still not sure if it’s a guitar solo or a synth, or something in between. As the last chorus comes around and another, more distorted Trent comes out from beneath the mix, the synths give up and make way for the distorted guitars.

March of the Pigs - 9/10

The beat here is the fastest NIN have ever written, and it fits the panicked mood of this song. This is made clear when the rest of the instruments suddenly jump in, and the screaming crowd is back in full force. Trent is basically just yelling commands through a megaphone here, and there are also stranger voices creeping in the prechorus, seemingly talking about him in the third person. This all then fades as we approach the chorus. The distortion echoes and recedes, giving way to a sinister synth bassline. Then, the chorus. All the pigs are all lined up. And then...

Yeah, it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to last. This time, there is no mercy; the song kicks back with full force, and repeats in the same way through to the chorus. This time, the piano stays for the ride. Somehow this is even more threatening than the loudness of the rest of the song.

Closer - 9/10

The one everyone knows. This iconic drumline is actually sampled from Iggy Pop. The introduction of the vocals and synthbass essentially turn this song into the dictionary definition of sex. Then the chorus, which for better or worse, everyone can sing along to. It’s after this that things begin to get really interesting. A strange, ominous, distorted string line floats just out of reach for the next verse, and Trent’s delivery gets much more desperate than sexy. The next chorus is the same as the first, but the bridge is notably more barren and atmospheric. A heavily distorted guitar line slowly wades in, then vanishes as the final vocals come in. Trent is buried deep in the mix and devoid of emotion, and is essentially delivering prose rather than singing. Afterwards things begin to build up, with more aggressive synths, guitars and drums adding in. Then, the motif appears again, calling out like a hellish chorus line before everything else drops away. The motif is now more like a single string, high up in the sky, under so much tension that the slightest touch could break it. An odd wind spins around your ears as we cleanly transition into the next song.

Ruiner - 8/10

As the last note rings out, we get one of the coolest drumlines on the album combined with some strange, ghostly samples. A quick synth accompanies Trent on the verse, and distortion joins him in the more angry pre-chorus. Then, we get a great wall of shredded synth, almost like the devil’s brass section. Trent is almost muttering here in contrast to the noise around him, but he’s crystal clear above it. The verse and prechorus after are slightly more unkempt, leading into the last chorus. Here Trent has lost his composure and is now shouting along with the world around him. Both he and the song then trail off into a calm bassline and crying synthetic wind. And then... an honest-to-god guitar solo. A pretty fucking good one too, with a very nice bluesy distortion filter. At the end it ramps up into the outro section, a marching drumline, driving bassline, and open synth. As the ending mantra begins, the wall of hell trumpets return. This repeats several times, with Trent getting cut off at the end.

The Becoming - 6/10

Sharp samples are used in this intro as percussion over a menacing piano line. These are replaced with straight synth as some very punchy drums come in. Also, the screaming. That’s gonna be happening for a while. By this point in the album the noises are getting more industrial, as noted by the percussion. We continue in this discomfort through a couple verses and choruses, until the screaming and drums are replaced with a nice little acoustic guitar and strange warped noises that may at one point have been human. This doesn’t last too long until we’re dropped back into the song proper with a nasty distorted synth solo. Then this song’s mantra begins, and it’s not the most uplifting thing either. Which gets even worse when the vocals are suddenly pitch-shifted super high up, almost making a mockery of the message. Then, of course, we end the song by going back to the nice acoustic chords, although some heavily mutated noises are still flailing around. This fades into the clicking beat of the next song.

I Do Not Want This - 6/10

The true beat replaces the clicking heard in the last song, and a somber piano line plays while Trent sings. The verse-prechorus here is much more restrained than we’ve heard for most of this album. Then, after a refrain, the NIN we know comes back. Through the next cycle the drums begin to get more intense. The drop here keeps hitting us with the drumline before we get a “solo” that’s pretty much just distortion beyond the point of instrumentation. Makes some pretty cool noises though. Then, through the remains of that, another mantra crawls out. Increasing in volume with each repetition, a guitar joins in as Trent’s voice gets more and more distorted. Then, the most controversial song.

Big Man With A Gun - 6/10

Right off the bat we’ve got the most unsettling sample over a gunshot drumline. Huge chorded waves of distorted synth come in as Trent gets louder and more violent. Everything starts going off the shit end, and

A Warm Place - 7/10

No, your album didn’t break. That’s actually the transition. Amazing. Here we have the calmest song Trent had anything to do with in the 1990s. There are no lyrics here to analyze; just close your eyes and float away. You’ve reached the eye of the storm.

Eraser - 9/10

This is the point in the album that makes it a masterpiece. This song. The build and pacing here is absolutely impeccable. I hope you enjoyed the respite of the previous song because we are now reaching for the bottom of the spiral. There is no peace to be found here. Need you. Dream you. Find you. Taste you. Fuck you. Use you. Scar you. Break you.

Reptile - 7/10

Here is where NIN puts the “industrial” in industrial metal. Half of this song is basically just machinery to music, especially the percussion. The main message the sound of this song gives off is dread. Dread in musical form. Something terrible is ahead, and behind, and around. Trent’s voice is the only human or recognizable thing left in this soundscape, and even he is becoming robotic. It’s like wandering a mid-fallout wasteland at sundown, with no knowledge of what may come out at night. The bridge here is a cruel joke. A sample of what sounds to be a girl in distress, and the hint of a calming piano, snatched away. This is essentially the sound of the last act of Spec Ops: The Line. At the last repetition of the chorus, another version of Trent can be heard screaming from behind a wall, before...

The Downward Spiral - 9/10

Here we are. This is the end of the spiral. Over a weeping machine and the buzzing of flies we hear the motif, one last time, on an old acoustic guitar. Then some oddly warbled chords come in. After that, we reach the bottom.

Okay. This is your warning. At the end of this next song, the last song, is a jumpscare that turned me away from NIN and all of their works for several years. It comes at the final verse, on the final line. The lines before it are, “If I could start again / A million miles away / I would keep myself...”. Then, exactly at the start of the next line, a sound that was engineered to be the scariest sound on the album plays at the highest volume they could reasonably push. Fortunately the rhythm is consistent and it’s relatively easy to predict when the noise will happen. Hopefully I can lessen the shock for those that continue on. I’d still recommend you turn your volume down at the line “If I could start again”, if not before even starting the song.

Hurt - 7/10

This is what lies beyond the spiral. A song you may know by a different artist. While it may seem calm on the surface, it is designed to prevent true peace. The sound echoes between each ear at the verses, almost as if it’s spinning very rapidly around you. The chords sound wrong, somehow. This is much more apparent in chorus 2, as they seem to whine like insects. Then, the ending. Brace for impact, everyone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Alright. It’s quite a bit later than I expected and this has taken a lot longer than I thought it would. Still, I don’t want to stop for the night and give myself any more opportunity to procrastinate. Let’s finish this now.

Yaggenhimen (BassistBob) Cover Review:

Destruct: +,-

He actually didn’t copy that intro from NIN: He took the same sample and remade it himself, in the same way Trent did. The verse/chorus here is actually WAY different from the original and I think it sounds cool as hell. It’s much more subdued instead of in-your-face, and feels more threatening and insidious as a result. Great work there. The bridge is a very good recreation of the eeriness of the original. After this point it falls flat a bit. He just doesn’t have quite the edge Trent does in the buildup. Also, the distortion wave at the ending is missing, and the guitar loop doesn’t sound as demented. Still I’d love a version of this song that’s the Yaggenhimen version at the beginning, and switching to the NIN version at the bridge.

Pig: ~,-

Very nice work here. There’s some good spooky sampling going on in verse 2. Before that, it’s close to equal to the album version. However, the drum solo kinda loses here. It’s nowhere near as loud and overpowering as the original. Although, he adds a distortion effect to his voice near the end that I think adds a nice bit of foreshadowing. The use of a guitar for the motif at the end is cool.

Heresy: ~~

A really cool rendition of the synths here as what appear to be sampled acoustic guitars. The recreation of the percussion is also top-notch. The break is more minimalist, which really allows the bassline to shine. I do wonder how he got that sound; it sounds sick as hell and apparently came from a plastic flute, of all things.

March: -

Unfortunately, this one doesn’t go so well. Bob’s voice just can’t measure up to the edge required to match Trent’s delivery. The choice to switch the piano in the break to acoustic guitar is interesting, but it really doesn’t have the same effect. The piano in the original is essential in making that drastic shift from NIN violence to safe, contemporary pop song. Nice harmonics at the end though.

Close: =

I mean, it’s just Closer. He almost perfectly and exactly matched the NIN version in every way. It’s absolutely incredible. From the same Iggy Pop sample all the way to the blank tape noise. Every detail is remade.

You know, it’s kind of a shame how this song has come to be known. Even though the chorus is pretty infamous, it’s for the wrong reason. This isn’t meant to be a “sexy” song. When you listen to the lyrics, it’s about the use of depravity to try and fill a soul. But then again, if you didn’t want the song to be sexy Trent, you probably shouldn’t have made the sexiest fucking drum/bassline in the history of music. Anyways.

Ruin: ~

Interesting that he chose to close the transition after Closer. In any case, the synth is a very good recreation, and as are the drums. Verse vocals aren’t quite there unfortunately. Apparently, the hell-brass in the chorus here are actually fucking harmonicas. I admit, they sound a little cheesier, but I can’t knock the man for having the balls to use a goddamn distorted harmonica. The solo is just as dirty as the original, despite apparently being played on an acoustic! Very nicely done. The outro percussion also sounds very grimy.

Become: ~+~

There is some SHIT going on in this version. At the start it sounds kinda silly because the acoustic used for the intro sounds almost like MIDI, but then the screaming starts. This is WAY more fucked up than the NIN version, it sounds like someone poked a microphone into hell and grabbed some samples. There’s one “NOOOOOOOO” that’s just a bit over the top though. The samples used during the acoustic breaks are also very interesting. At the end of each measure, it sounds like a couple of people are just kinda cheering, but in an insane, cannibalistic way. Also the distortion on the ending mantra is much more drastic than the NIN version and I think it works really well.

Want: ~,-,~

The switch from piano to acoustic guitar here works a lot better than it did in March of the Pigs. It feels just as natural as the original. The vocals and distortion during the chorus aren’t nearly as abrasive as the original though, and I think that works to Yaggenhimen’s detriment here. Though I was never a huge fan of this song in the first place; while I think Heresy doesn’t deserve judgement for the aging of the message, this song’s theme just kinda feels overdone. The strange samples before the mantra are done nicely here.

Gun: -,~

The lack of the woman screaming sample here kinda loses some of the momentum the original had. It also spotlights the drums being programmed. Scott provides some good screams for the outro though. Nice work Scott.

Warm: ~

Solid recreation here. The choir-like “aaah”s are a great touch. It really only lacks some of the softness of the original’s production.

Erase: =,~,-

It’s hard to match up to the original, but I think Yaggenhimen really pulled it off here. The fact that he made the buzzing noises with a plastic cup is hilarious. I hope it was a red Solo cup. It is missing the distortion effect as “Kill me” is repeated though.

Reptile: =,-,~

Once again, he used the same sample Trent did for the intro here. The industrial sounds were apparently taken from Robocop but almost sound like the door sound effect from DOOM. Either way, it sounds excellent. Not sure about the sample used during the bridge though, it almost sounds like Elmo. At the end, instead of the muffled yelling from the original, he uses a strange time-distortion effect on another take of his own vocals. A really cool idea.

Spiral: -\+

This version overall sounds markedly scarier than the original. Whether that’s good or bad is probably subjective. For me personally, I like how the NIN version is much more sad than ominous, only really getting unsettling at the ending. Still, this version is very impressive.

Hurt: +

Oh yeah. A straight plus. Blasphemous it may be, I think this version is just better than the original. Hey, Johnny Cash already did it anyways. This one is somehow sadder and scarier than the original. The effect on the vocals during the chorus is such a good addition. Also, somehow the ending is even scarier than the NIN version, and even adds more meaning for me.

Overall this is just about the best cover album I have ever heard and am likely to hear, and it was done almost entirely by one guy. I hope he gets more credit for this because right now the video is only at 36,000 views and deserves so much more.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Okay, that’s it. I guess I’ll wrap up with my thoughts on the album as a whole.

The Downward Spiral is one of the most profound and important albums I have ever heard. It is so full of Trent’s blood, sweat, and tears that I can practically taste it. He suffered for this and that suffering is audible in ever second in this hour and 5 minutes. While I still cannot rate albums numerically, this album is undeniably a masterpiece. Thank you for those that made it to the end with me. For those who are now here at the bottom of the spiral and wish to go back, go listen to Lateralus for instructions on how to ride the spiral back up.

On a scale from “I lost my shit because of you”, to “I’m hard as fucking steel, I’ve got the power”, The Downward Spiral (predictably) gets a “Nothing can stop me now.”

#music #music reccs #music recommendation #album review #track review #nine inch nails #nin #the downward spiral #yaggenhimen

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blackpinklightuptheskyonlinehd · 4 years

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Definition and definition of film / film

Definition and Definition of Film / Movie

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❍❍❍ Formats and Genres ❍❍❍

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vickeyeppunitarj42insurance-blog · 5 years

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kia rio insurance

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occupyscifi · 5 years

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Red state and blue state It was while he was in the bathroom hate-jerking to president Laura bank’s morning address to the nation that American Patriot (formerly named Alex Smith) noticed something weird with his screen. It might have been his imagination, or it might have been the bottle of super power diet pills he’d downed as part of his morning regime – all the better to prepare him for his live cast to his loyal patriotic fellow Americans – but then again it might have been something more. ‘Goddamn Feds, interfering with my feed’ he muttered, one hand on his stars and stripes tattooed member and one hand groping for his Russian issue hacking glove. He’d had that dronexed from a guy who swore he was in deep with one of Putin’s favourite hacking gangs, and it was guaranteed to cut through anything the Feds were doing to his live feed of the president’s liberal ass tirade to the poor working American people. ‘….which is why we have to provide abortion clinics on the corner of every high street’ the president was saying, her sober business suit as always decorated with every goddamn lapel pin from Blue Lives don’t matter to SJW’s united against men but no room for the good old Stars and Stripes. “And remember that our daughters deserve better than…” and at that point the screen juddered again as if hit by old school static interference. But one important thing prevented Patriot from reaching for his encryption scrambler that enabled him to avoid the fakenews networks from making him pay for their fake news biased media sheep feed. For while the image of uber cuck bitch Banks flickered and strobed the background of the Rose garden stayed steady. Her cabinet of assholes, cowards and cucks also wavered – women vanishing and being replaced by older white men before changing back. And yet the security guys required to stop honest Americans from second amendmenting the President to death remained the same. “What is this bullshit?” Said Patriot, sensing conspiracy . After all conspiracy was his trade, there wasn’t a corner of the internet he hadn’t visited in his crusade for the truth. Never mind how many facts he’d been hit with, never mind how many people tried to convince him otherwise once he smelled truth he never gave up till he had the evidence to back up what his gut had been telling him all along. His heart beat faster as he shrugged on the hacker glove. Although his increased heart rate might have been more due to the pills, the bottle of which rested on the cabinet of his palatial bathroom. Its fittings and fixtures had been paid for by the subscriptions of honest Americans upset by the biased expert filled and fact laden un American media. Patriot tapped the glove on the screen that filled most of the bathroom mirror. The reflection of himself, toned muscle and tumescent member, vanished to be replaced by the boring ass stats behind the live feed he had been watching. Unlike a great number of his colleagues Patriot had actually been to college- where he studied computer science- and despite his dislike of experts was something of an expert when it came to deciphering the complex numbers behind the digital images he had been rage-sturbating to. “Okay, so what do we have here?” He muttered, tapping the screen. First he removed the usual subliminal ad routines that were meant to inculcate in him a desire for whatever brands had paid the president's people the highest. Most of them were brands that had sponsored his show, the pill makers and the financial services giants, brands he was happy to use himself. Then he broke the images down into their composite layers and narrowed his eyes. It was a live feed of the White House lawn, that much he could be sure of, and it was also definitely true that the President was there. Patriot raised an eyebrow, he had been hoping one of his favorite conspiracy theories – that Laura banks had died of AIDS before the beginning of her second term and been replaced by a CGI mockup – was true. That theory had got enough traction that her rival in the next election was already using it in his campaign ads. Then again Holden Reston would have used any evidence to try and score a knockout blow against the liberal witch. Not that the lame stream media would ever even give him the time of day. “So what the fuck am I missing?” Said Patriot, grabbing with his other hand a Wellness Super Ass nutrition shake to focus his mind. He popped the can and chugged the caffeinated goodness inside, feeling it fill him with the power of ancient Chinese wisdom and definitely certified brain power. With his gloved hand he tapped more at the screen. There was clearly someone interfering with the source, changing the audio of the address as well as some key visual features – swapping out entirely some figures from the background and making sure that Bank’s face matched her words ‘who the fuck is doing this?” He tapped more and frowned more “and why? Ain’t she liberal enough that someone has to change her words?” He looked closer at the screen, at a chunk of code that seemed to control the whole thing, enabling one of two outcomes. Currently it was stuck on the A signal. Patriot wondered what would happen if he flicked it to B. “Maybe get the goddamn truth for once” he muttered to himself, forgetting that he had always assumed that Banks’ divisive and dangerous liberal rhetoric was already inflammatory enough. With a gesture he flicked the settings onto B, praying that this really was a proper conspiracy and not just his TV fucking with him “here we go. Truth bomb time” “….which is why we have to give every high schooler in America access to the latest military grade firearms” Banks was suddenly saying, her accent having changed mid word from east coast liberal whine to red state cutesy drawl “because folks, the only way to stop a bad eighth grader with a gun is to give a good eighth grader a gun. I mean, c’mon. Giving em recess detentions ain’t gonna cut it, right?” “What the ever loving fuck?” Muttered Patriot, watching in horror as Banks then went on to explain why the US should leave the UN because it was a plot to make honest Americans into gay Muslims. When she began to explain why climate change had been invented by the communists Patriot almost had a joygasm. “Goddam liberal media…” he breathed, a mantra he repeated so often it had almost lost its truth. Well not this time. This time he’d caught them at their game. A game so vast it beggared belief. That they had been changing Bank’s message all the time. That she had been an honest god fearing American, fighting for the red white and blue while all the time the feminazis of Silicon Valley had been undermining her message “this… this is so fucking huge I can’t even…” He scrabbled around for a piece of un-networked media to record this on. Were he in his home studio room in the lower level of the bunker he shared with a hundred or so other survivalists he’d be surrounded by gear for secretly recording data beyond the reach of government goons intent on undermining his constitutional rights. However his bathroom was slightly less well appointed, and as he usually used the place to wash and jerk off in he didn’t like to keep cameras around, even if they weren’t linked online. “Shit, I’m losing it…” he muttered as the screen started to strobe again and the code stream on the right filled with ident numbers that Patriot recognized as being some heavy duty semi sentient subroutine starting to take an interest in what he was doing. The last thing he needed was the cyber Feds sending their digital goons after him. While the bunker – a former minuteman missile silo in rural Kansas- had enough digital protection to match its physical equivalent Patriot had no illusions that it could stand up to a full scale assault. The Fed’s were using the same next gen anti encryption software developed not in the fight against terrorism but the much more lucrative fight against movie piracy. You might fuck with Homeland Security and survive, but fuck with Hollywood and you were going down. Desperately he looked about him, trying to find something with some media storage, no matter how meager. In the networked digital age every household item up to and including the common toothbrush was not only linked wirelessly but contained enough memory to store a record of its users habits, ready to sell onto the highest bidder. However Patriot’s toothbrush was currently out of charge and there wasn’t much else that would be able to record what he needed. Desperately his eyes fell on the box of pills he’d been knocking back. The bottle was pretty much generic, but the smart label on the side had enough computing power to order him more pills every time he had finished the last one. “Shit, shit, shit” Patriot cried, seeing that the all seeing eye of the godless software was about to find out where he was based even through the heavy screens of VPN’s and TOR routers. His thick fingers scrabbled at the label, picking the edge to bring up the contact and slapping it to the screen. With his gloved hand he grabbed at the code, copying as much as possible onto the bottle before the Feds could come crashing through the window “cmon, c’mon” he muttered to himself as he tried to sync the smart label with the screen. As they did so he noticed two things. The first was that the label had changed from ‘PowerBro True American Eagle strength Wake me up to Freedom’ to ‘Earth Mother’s all natural high’ – decorated with a cheery lo fi smiley face and claiming to have been made by hippies in Portland. The second was that the interrupt code was already stored on the label. However before Patriot could make anything of this revelation the screen on his bathroom wall exploded, firing fragments of glass at his unprotected body and blasting him backwards into his bath. His apartment, being fully connected to the internet of things – albeit through enough encryption software to keep a Chinese dissident hidden from his government – then shut down totally plunging him into darkness. The only light coming into the bathroom was from the lounge, where a screen the size of a wall usually showed a live feed of stirring patriotic images from around the states and served as a good backdrop for his casts. Now it just hummed and shone in an unhealthy blue. “Blue screen of death” said Patriot, impressed despite his injuries “now I know that I’m onto some serious shit” “Your system’s fried” said Stetson Cole, fellow bunker survivalist and former Silicon Valley whizz kid that Patriot called in to the ruin of his apartment. He had been thorough in his assessment, and he was certain “and anything on it is fried” “You're sure?” Insisted Patriot “I got backups for my backups. I record everything, you know that” “And they all got fried” insisted the programmer, hitching up steampunk e-glasses and scratching his beard. He’d given up Silicon Valley for the lure of living in an underground bunker and only came to see Patriot because it had been Patriot who’d inspired him to become a survivalist in the first place “dunno what hit your system but it was the equivalent of a nuclear missile. Shit, even those old VHS tapes you got in the back there have been erased. I didn’t even know there was malware that could do that” he shook his head, impressed at the skill involved. “Fuck, I need evidence” said Patriot “if you’d seen…if you could have heard what Banks’ was saying…” “That bitch never said nothing that wasn’t a straight up lie from the mouth of Satan himself” said the programmer, his MIT educated voice sounding skeptical. “No, no she wasn’t like that” Patriot looked around the ruin of his bunker apartment. The curved wall ran along the inside edge where once a missile would have sat snugly, waiting for a chance to end the world that had never come. Patriot had decorated in lots of pinewood and hunting accessories in homage to American survivalist from ages past. The walls had been hung with prints of patriotic martyrs, from Bundy to Mcvee to Jared Kushner. However the explosions of the screens had torn these from the walls too. Patriot gritted his teeth, this was more than a patriotic man could bear. He had paused long enough only to put on a pair of Stars and Stripes undies before calling Stetson on his old ham radio “she sounded honest. Sounded American. Sounded like the kind of woman we should have running the country” “Well she don’t sound like that to me” said Stetson “Cause they interfering with what you've been streaming, Stet” insisted Patriot “they got us all fooled. Even me. Till now” “Gonna need more than your bathroom story I’m afraid, old friend” “Well there is one thing” said Patriot, pulling out the bottle of pills “Earth Mother’s natural High?” Said Cole “my wife takes those, gets them from some liberals pharmaceutical place” he looked at Patriot worriedly “didn’t have you down as the wellness type. It’s all juju berries and hippy crap. Thought you’d be a PowerBro man like me” “I am” said Patriot “and this was a powerbro bottle. Till I tried to interface it with my screen. Now its got all this crap on it” he picked at the side “but I kinda fried the circuit along with the rest of the house. Was hoping you might be able to get something from this” “No chance brother” said Stetson “whatever data was on it is long gone. It’s as fried as the rest” “no, no but that don’t matter” said Patriot “cause whatever code was fucking with my screens was on these pills too. So I guess if we just buy another bunch..” “I got some in my apartment” said Stetson “And I got my wife’s hippie crap if you wanna compare” “make it scientific, yeah” said Patriot, who had long railed against the scientific method as un American. However in moments like this it hardly mattered. There was a higher truth at stake. Cole's apartment was, if anything, even more stereotypically survivalist than Patriot’s. The only difference in the Deer Hunter aesthetic was the nerd shrine that was a requirement for anyone who’d made a buck in Silicon Valley. Ancient Apple II’s jostled with illegally made knockoffs of first generation Star Wars toys. There was also marked evidence of feminine inhabitation, which Patriot sniffed at. Letting a woman inhabit a man’s space was the first step towards being a cuck. Next thing you knew you are acting like an SJW and mailing your balls to the Feminazis. “in here” said Cole, featuring to a room filled floor to ceiling with stacks of computer hardware. Enough cabling to garrote a giant connected to more computing power than had put the Chinese on Mars. He sat and placed on a desk the bottles of PowerBro and Patriot’s slightly crisped bottle “should be able to crack this in no time” However two hours later they were no closer to getting the code, both Patriot and Stetson having taxed their expertise to the limit. Patriot was getting antsy. He had a show to tape and he wanted to be able to bring down the government before the evening. “why the fuck isn’t this working?” muttered Patriot in frustration “ can’t even find the code at all” “Hey, I mean look” said Stetson looking awkward “s'no shame to admit you had a fugue. You know we all get em. I trashed my screen after I took too much PowerBro and tried to complete Call of Booty on dead man mode. I was hallucinating them zombie Nazi strippers, y’know. We’re dudes. Sometimes we fuck up...” “Hey, what the fuck?” said Patriot, looking furious “the fuck makes you think I have breakdowns?” “Umm, cause on your show.. “ said Cole “what do you mean…” began Patriot, then thought again. He did act like he was on the edge of a breakdown, jumping around like a lunatic and spitting as he talked. But that was just the standard Alex Jones rant mode that every shock jock, right and left always used “shit, you know that’s all scripted, right? I don’t actually get so mad I tear my clothes. And I don’t wanna burst your bubble but when I start spitting blood, that ain’t real blood” “I just thought…” began Stetson, chastened somewhat “You know, it’s showbiz. Don’t mean I don’t mean all I say. Now we gotta crack this shit or else the bad guys gonna win. You wanna say that you let the traitors get away with it?” “no I don’t” said Stetson. Looking again at the bottles “Okay, there is one person I can call to help us. But I don’t think you’re going to like who it is” “listen, I don’t care what kinda asshole guy you get to do this. Just call him and get us our code” “We’ll that’s just it” said Stetson “isn’t a him. She’s a she” “Okay, I can deal with that. But she tries some SJW crap then I ain’t gonna hold back…” “nah, she won’t” said Stetson, then raising his voice “honey, could you come in here a moment? We got something we need a little help with” Stetson wife was just about acceptable to Patriot, her only flaw being that she was a hot woman who dressed in a casual way. Naturally Patriot knew women only wore makeup to attract and beguile men to do their bidding, but he felt Mrs Stetson Cole could have worn more. However she greeted him with a smile and a nod. “I watched your show” she said, her voice carefully neutral “it’s pretty… illuminating” she smiled politely. “Ella hate watches it” admitted Patriot “she gets real worked up over it” he looked sheepish, not least because when his wife got that angry the sex was out of this world. For that he could easily forgive the completely opposite views of politics. That and the fact they had been in love since they’d first met at a coding party in college. “well hell” said Patriot, who wasn’t surprised. He knew his demographic figures well enough to know that probably as many people watched him to get angry at him as did to get angry and with him. “one subscriber is as good as another. Keeps the wolf from the door and all that” Stetson explained the situation to Ella and handed her the bottle of pills, she turned them over in her hands. “You know these are the exact same pills, right?” She said “I mean the bottles sure look different but the pills inside are identical” “Bullshit” said Patriot “I been sponsored by powerbro pills long enough to know…” “Identical” insisted Ella “to the point where whenever Stetson runs out of powerbro I just sneak a couple of my bottles into his bathroom cabinet. Label changes automatically” “You’re shitting me” said Stetson “how their fuck does that work?” “That's…that's it. Must be it anyway” Said Patriot “cause, don’t you see? They got a code on there that changes what people see. I read about that” he tried to think which particular conspiracy site he’d seen that had told him. Then he remembered it had been in the Wall Street Journal, a magazine he’d never admit to reading because it was part of the MSM establishment and as close to Satan as you could get. However if you wanted to be a savvy entrepreneur it paid to keep up with things. He took the bottle in his hands “its like with the adverts you see. They aren’t just a bunch of random plugs for shit you don’t need. Every time you pass a smart screen or a smart fridge or whatever it picks up your personal metadata, all those tags you generate every time you buy something online…” “Which is why I ain’t bought on line since I was eleven years old” said Stetson proudly “there isn’t any data that big brother has on me” “Except they’ve got algorithms that can predict with a high degree of statistical accuracy what a man of your age, -occupation and ethnicity would buy” interrupted Ella, idly connecting the labels of the bottles to the nest of machinery. She looked up at Patriot, an annoyed expression on his face. There was a reason he did live casts without a live audience. He hated being interrupted “I did a girl’s guide to semi sentient software programmers” she shrugged “hey, its not all about man hating…” “Yeah, so what happens is that the makers of those bottles see whose looking at them. If its some hippie dippy liberal snowflake it goes all Paltrow. It’s a real honest American patriot then its turns to powerbro” “Sure, okay” said Stetson “but how does that help us show that the US president isn’t some liberal whiny bitch?” “Because clearly she isn’t like that when its some liberal asshole watching” said Patriot “its only red blooded Americans that have to stomach a woman whose feminazi agenda is ruining this country…” “Wait, what?” Said Ella “that doesn’t really make any sense. Why hide the fact of who she is to half the country? Why not just pretend to everyone who she really is?” “Because they wannna laugh at us” said Patriot, imagining his favorite hate image of the east coast liberal elite “in their fancy ass parties quoting The NY Times and talking about how anyone outside a city is a dumbshit redneck. They wanna lord it over us, laughing at us…” “…but what if liberals and conservatives have a conversation about politics? Wouldn’t they find out pretty quickly that Laura Banks isn’t a Liberal? What about…” “Come on darling, you know that don’t happen” said Stetson kindly “you know since the Twitter wars and the social media cleansing people don’t talk about politics face to face. It just ain’t done…” “Yeah, yeah I can see it clearly now” said Patriot, his eyes wide “and it’s just as I thought. A goddamn liberal conspiracy to keep good Americans down and pretend that our president is some godless liberal do gooder. I think it’s about time that the American people knew the truth” he looked at Ella whose eyebrows were raised so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline “can you get me that code? Can you show me how it can change what people see?” “Sure I can” said Ella “but I still don’t get how…” “You don’t need to honey” said Stetson patronisingly “cause Patriot’s gonna explain it to everyone, live at 5. That’s the kinda broadcast that could bring down the government” he started eagerly pottering around his apartment “I better get my best clothes ready. I wanna storm the state capital looking good, you know?” “You’ve done the American people a great service, little lady” said Patriot, as Ella wordlessly handed him an ancient looking non networked USB stick with the data on it “and I hope you’re going to be watching” “Wouldn’t miss it” said Ella, but Patriot was already heading out the door so he missed her sarcasm. It was a great show. Patriot hit all his best notes, he grovelled, he growled, he shouted and went so red he was in danger of bursting something. He told the American people everything he about the conspiracy to hide the fact that Laura Banks was really an honest red state American. He was somewhat surprised however when he left his home studio to find someone in his living room. His surprise only increased when he recognised who it was. “spokeswoman Tori” he said to the smiling face of the regime he despised. Every true American knew to hate Tori Al-Sperring. She had been the one to hector the media, to pour scorn on honourable news networlds like Foxbart and InfoDrudge. To have the audacity to demand evidence where gut feeling should have been enough. Patriot’s surprise though ended when he saw in her hand a slim pistol. Clearly her repudiation of the 2nd amendment ceased when it came to bumping off honest truthtellers like Patriot. He had guessed, and maybe even a little hoped, that this would happen. After the livecast his suddenly murdered body would only add weight to his words “what a surprise. We’ll I’m afraid you’re too late. The word is out. You leave me dead and it’ll only prove me right” “Two things” said Tori, her voice clipped and naturally bitchy “number one, if we wanted you dead we’d have killed you soon as you caught the code. Secondly the word may be out but the word is wrong. So wrong in fact you’re kinda doing us a favour” her smile widened “not for the first time, by the way” “so what’s the gun for?” asked Patriot, wiping sweat away from his forehead this was not caused by the stress of the situation, but from his livecast. He was a very active performer, what with the studio lights, the foaming at the mouth and screaming about how honest Americans were being genocided by liberal hate he was quite exhausted. “same reason anyone has a gun. To look cool. To make people listen” “Okay, so I’m listening” said Patriot, plonking himself down on an easy chair “what are you going to tell me?” “the truth” she said “a concept you may have heard of, but I don’t think you have much contact with” “and the truth is what? That you got the real Laura banks hidden away while we have to listen to the fake bullshit liberal one? Cause I ain’t stupid. I know how easy it is to cook up liberal shit. There’s meme generators on the internet more believable than the liberal crap she comes out with. I could do better. I’m amazed no one but me has noticed that it ain’t the real Laura banks” “Well this might disappoint you” said Tori, idly spinning her gun around her finger “but they’re both as false as the other. There isn’t a real Laura banks. You get a choice, either liberal Laura or conservative Laura. Take your pick” “Wait, what?” “It’s simple. You were half right. We do use algorithms to write her liberal speeches. But we do the same fir her conservative ones. Basic algorithms overlays all the broadcasts she makes, some of them are for a conservative audience, and others for a liberal one. It’s a trick as old as TelePrompter. And saves us a ton of work” “So what you're saying” growled Patriot “is that the Laura banks I been hating on is the one that liberal want to be watching? That I should have been getting gun tooting Laura all along?” “Oh no” said Tori “quite the opposite in fact. You get liberal laura because you’re conservative. If you were some latte sipping liberal on the East Coast you’d be getting wall to wall Mexican hating small government loving god fearing laura” “What's the fucking point of that?” Said Patriot, totally lost. He could get his head around the idea of. A virtual president, hell there’ been rumours of that since Trump’s second term. Some of old orange Julius’ insults had started going on repeat and there were plenty whispers that he’d had one Trump steak too many and died of a heart attack. His aides had just used some off the shelf adobe program to stitch bits of old speeches together and hope no one noticed. As for twitter there were enough random Trump tweet generators to keep the old man’s legacy going forever. But it was just the idea that whoever was secretly running the government was giving people a president they hated was just beyond him “you mean you make sure that everyone sees a president they fucking hate? Why?” “C’mon American” said Tonos “I’ve seen your show. You more than anyone know the power of hatred. You think if on your show you gave thoughtful deconstruction of liberal arguments that anyone would watch? You think if you didn’t pander to the lowest prejudice people would still subscribe?” “Well, yeah” said Patriot “but I give people what they want. They're already angry. I give ‘em something to be angry about. Don’t know why the fuck you make us watch something we hate” “Seriously?” Said toni “you mean to say you’ve never hate watched something? You’ve never deliberately tuned into a channels, viewed a live cast or seen a movie knowing it would make you angry and then just did it anyway?” “I might” he said, his eyes narrowing “And, hand on heart now, how many of your viewers do you think are what you would call ‘card carrying liberal ass wimps’?” “I got a few” he admitted “More than a few” said Tori “remember, I’m from the big bad people who run the Government. We know everything about you, including your show stats. Last time I checked you had more than seventy percent of your audience share coming from locations described as liberal, and from households where average data suggests a heavy voting average towards your hated liberal agenda” “Yeah, I don’t get how that means you make the President an asshole” “Because to be honest everyone wants the president to be an asshole” said Tori with a sigh “look, I represent a shadowy cabal of Silicon Valley billionaires and other dark money industrial barons. When we took over running the government it was the end of the second Trump term – and yes, you were right. We did replace the old bastard, but not because he died but because he couldn’t hack being president any more. Being a businessman he sold the office of President to the highest bidder. Luckily that happened to be us – and we outbid the Russians by a hair only. Anyway when we took over we thought the American people had had enough of hating on each other, they were exhausted by division. Defeated after fighting each other at every turn. They were sick of blue state and red state, republican and democrat. They wanted a uniter and not a divider and so we gave it to them” “What, you mean Buckwheat was your guy?” “Buckwheat wasn’t real” said Tonos “he was a bunch of code and an actor we’d mo capped to get the moves right. But more than that he represented what every focus group, left and right said they wanted. He was the middle bit of the venn diagram where even the most divided American could agree. He was pro second amendment but could talk round the gun lobby. He was anti abortion but he did more for women’s reproductive rights than any president. He was a church going Christian who was at home chatting with atheists. He was…” “The most boring goddamn president ever” interrupted Patriot “no fucker cared what he was doing. He didn’t have no opinions, he was always been the nice guy. Always talking when he should have been kicking ass…” “Yeah, that was what everyone seemed to think” said Tori “Buckwheat had the lowest approval ratings of any president since post 1929 Herbert Hoover. But no one knew why. You asked people on the street their opinion of him and they’d shrug, like yeah, he seemed like an all right guy, but no one gave a fuck. No one supported his policies, but then again no one really opposed them” “Hey, I’d have thought if you'd were running the government that’s exactly the kind of patsy you’d want. Don’t rock the boat. Cause apathy is the real enemy of democracy…” “Yeah, it isn’t” said Tonos “and you forget. We bought the presidency. The presidency is a brand and we need our guy front and centre of everything. If people don’t care about politics they don’t read the news. They don’t share click bait bullshit articles. They don’t argue online for hours. They don’t even buy stupid goddamn shirts and they certainty don’t contribute to election campaigns” Tori shook her head “no, Buckwheat was one of the most expensive goddamn mistakes we ever made. And so when his first term ended we knew we had to do it properly. Cause we’d realized, like you, that hate sells. But the problem was how do you launch a president that no one likes? I mean, sure, we didn’t have to worry about the votes because we just fixed whatever numbers we wanted. But how do we create a president that every American, no matter their creed, thinks is a fucking number one asshole?” “Pretty fucking easily” said Patriot, seeing now how it was done “you’d just have to get access to their news feeds and their social media history. Search for keywords that really pushed their buttons and you get an algorithm to do the rest” he shrugged “hell, I thought about doing the same thing for my show, but you know I’m a craftsman. People start to notice after a while if you get a computer to do your hating for you” “Naturally, and I respect that” said Tori “which is kinda why I’m here and not some black bag assassin ready to shoot you down” “Err, what?” Said Patriot, looking fearfully around “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but Banks is getting a bit repetitive. Hating on the same imaginary conservative fears that no actual liberal believes in. The same is true, if you’d ever watched, about conservative laura. The hate hits are dropping off, the number of people hate jerking to her has gone way down, to almost Buckwheat levels in some places. We need some new writers, because the computers are not enough. In short, we need someone like you to come and write content for our Banks” “and if I say no?” “like I said, I represent a shadowy cabal of silicon valley billionaires and industrial barons. How do we usually deal with our problems?” “I dunno, outsource them to India?” “Funny, but no” tori leaned closer “what will happen is that I shoot you in the face, here and now. Then some of our guys will come in and plug into your network. A CGI version of you will keep broadcasting, so that all your fans and haters think you are still alive. But because we’re cruel we’ll make sure that over time you become less and less believable until gradually all your audience will desert you. Then we’ll announce that you died, and in the most embarrassing way possible. It’ll probably involve cocks. I haven’t thought about it yet” she smiled as Patriot through about his options “on the other hand you can make an ass ton of money and we’ll even let you keep your show. The choice is yours”

#Sf #trumpian

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