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grim-faux · 2 years

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3 _ 27 _ Children of the Petrified Forest

First - An Echo Rebounds Through the Silent City

For once, the windows hung quiet. That made all the sounds bounce off the crumbling walls and crash from the ceiling. While she can hear for miles, it felt like her own practiced steps thundered with each stumble. Every single box she struggled with, all crackled with a grating intensity that made her wince as if some monster came tumbling through the door screeching. Eating the scraps was most tedious, she was on high alert and barely let herself tuck down to sample a food thing.

The pickings in the cabinets didn’t go well, either. Most of the food was rock hard, or tangy and chalky. She was usually good with the faded marks on boxes, and it served to spare her precious time for getting into real food stuff rather get hung up on yucky powders or soured goop. A lot of the containers had been gnawed through by other pests, like insects or other creatures. Even the bugs weren’t worth plucking up. The dwelling guarded passive halls and rooms, and even if she wasn't getting a mouthful, her worn feet could take a break from carrying her for the miles she had wandered already.

The abandoned residence made sense, given the body in the other room. That creature had been dead for a way long while, and some bugs made a nest in its chest. From what she could tell, a whole cabinet fell on top of it. Not that it being dead helped any. Only living monsters horded foods, while others… didn’t always care.

She did. It had to be edible. At the minimum, not poisoned.

A blocky tin in a cobwebbed corner stank of rust, but she wrestled the lid off. And immediately regretted that! She scooted the container away, and hauled out the next box, which stood stiff and upright. After prying a side off, she stalled and glanced around the kitchen. Only a lone bulb flashed above the oven range, the countertops sheltered numerous bags and looted jars; she checked a few before, but had to yield and forage on the floor.

Even with her cheeks full of something and with the crunching in her ears, she kept strict focus on the doorway just around the end cabinet. And listened. Sometimes she glared out of the lone window sitting placid above the sink, and glared at the beacon tower further beyond the mottled glass.

Some food, she did pack into her pockets. She’d probably wind up eating half the rations before finding a way out of the dwelling. She rarely—

A sudden but perceivable snort came from her right, and when she tried to spin on it, a mass crashed into her side. Six toppled over with a choked snarl, one lone arm flew free and was already clawing at the shape locked around her torso. On her initial panicked frenzy, she thought a hand and its long spindly fingers looped around her waist. When she finally wrenched around in the tight grasp, and fumbling, she recognized it was only an other kid.

They both collided into the door of a cupboard, and she managed to shove away with her foot and launch back. A dull groan coughed on the air after her knee found the other kids ribs. From there, its more savage slapping and punching. They topple to the floor, rolling through discarded scraps of litter and causing rustling mayhem - complete with wheezing and constrained growls. Many of her swipes missed on account of the trash kicked up, but the few smacks she does land are brutal. And loud. The other kid hissed, prompting her to use more force and go into a frenzy.

So caught up in the mortal combat, Six missed one of the chairs toppled beside the kitchen table. The impact of her spine on solid wood was spectacular, as it was breathtaking. If not for the kid tangled around her body, she would be an unresponsive mess of bones. Her ears rang and vivid globs of color rolled at the fringes of her vision, her whole body prickled and she couldn't hold the kid back from his wild aggression. Though being far from breaking the horrid stupor, she could fumble at the other kids coat. Him on the other hand... chattered and tightened his grip around her shoulders.

That speek… it meant something.

“You-You-You! Find. Am find.” The kid sputtered other noises, but a lot of them came out as garbled squeaks. “Me. N’you! Got fffhhh…ind. S'am'ee! Have find! N'gether.”

After they both spill across the floor and flop around, she does wrangle her bearings into order and untangled from his grip. She and the kid sit on their knees, Him trying to haul her up, and Her being uncoordinated more than cooperative, so she sagged. The instant his full body embrace loosened around her shoulders, she tossed her arms out and flung him off.

This succeeded in throwing the kid flat onto his back, his long legs pinwheeled skyward as he floundered. In a bark or two, the kid bounced back to his haunches and gave his head a shake. The stove’s glaring light doused and sputtered, the thick shadow it cast cloaked the kid with fuzzed and washed outlines; the blurred distortion seared the back of her skull. It made her vision throb with thick shadows and a prick of pain constrict her body.

The kids hair stuck up as he tilted his gaze toward her. Six scowled at this attacker, working through a fractured and tinted puzzle with no border. He was familiar in some way. Only familiar, but it was uncanny. He was a carbon copy of every other kid she’d ran from. None of them ever lasted long.

Vague kid shape, except for the coat. The coat was… important. His eyes almost glowed in the pulsing haze of the oven range. Beneath his unruly hair, he grinned ear-to-ear and chittered. In the flashes of teeth, a gap became visible. He carried the scruffy, shadowed haunt of a kid surviving on water and shoe leather. Despite that, he was animated and excited.

The boy huddled down, hissing in scratchy noises. He repeated some sounds, others have better meaning. She knows that other kid, the one in the… hoody and cloth armor. Six didn’t recall where she last was with him, but there had been other kids too. They bounced speek back and forth. For a brief moment, she thought this was that other kid.

No. She remembered him better. She… this kid, came from somewhere. The door was withered but sturdy, at least, to her exhausted frame. Then the panel blasted into tatters, forming a break only large enough for a brittle figure to totter in. She scooted back, and he shuffled forward on his knees and palms.

“N’you? Um good?” He tipped his head. Six blinked under the cap of her jacket. “Am’ee Mon-O. Speek? Ladder. Make climb?” He shifted on his knees. “Food. Bread. Meat. Me’nh’oo? Hmm?”

To her relief, the kid abandoned her. Not for long, though. She scooted back towards the edge of the cupboard, beside the broken drawer, and the entry. She scrutinized the other kid, when he began to dig through the cabinets she hadn’t gotten to search through. The boy didn’t so much as forage, as haul open one door and rifle through the packages within. He hauled out some tin cylinder and pried it open.

“T’food.” He brought a lumpy bar over and dropped it.

Six tore at it, all while keeping her fixed glare on the boy. He didn’t stick around, but crossed to another door in the cupboard and dug through the rations. It was clear he knew this kitchen, since he hefted out another small cylinder. With some effort, he popped the lid off and scarfed the liquid inside.

“Mm…” he hummed, through full cheeks. Then proceeded to ramble on his speek. “Safe.” She was sure a few other noises meant something, like ‘door’ and ‘sing’ and 'color', but it was hard to be certain if she wasn’t just hearing whatever she wanted to hear.

With the kid being persistently noisy, she should’ve left him. She should have run away already, despite the hush he adopted, while sipping the viscous gruel. But it would be miles before she got another score on food things.

When she began licking the wrapper the lump bar was once encased in, the kid made a point to pad over and take her wrist. Without a sound, she let him yank her up and went with him. Perfectly blank on where or what he intended, content to stumble along as the kid tugged and whispered. His hand felt like an icy shackle with rough chinks digging through the sleeve of her jacket.

The boy was cautious about roaming from the kitchen and shuffling into the living room. He stopped to huddle in the threshold, straining to see under the glossy fog creeping through a gaping window. With her close in tow, he led the way out through a broken door and into the next corridor.

She doesn’t resist and barely took in anything the boy pointed out. He didn’t take her anywhere; all he did was drag her through different rooms in this one corridor, or haul her up to a lift, which let them reach an upper floor. Whenever they happened upon a Viewer, all of the creatures crushed or in elaborate states of wangled disaster, the boy would make some speek and tugged her wrist. She didn’t care. It was dead, she didn’t need to see that. It was like he had a fascination with the mangled bodies.

Sometimes he takes her into a room that has nothing at all worth exploring through, but he makes speek anyway. One of the few noises she picked up on was the, “Hmm.” Or “Hey.” All kids made those sounds. They were the easiest to make, and best to keep low so monsters couldn’t hear. That, and "Shh".

In one place, he shows her a pile of toys. It was the only time he released her wrist. She grimaced at the missing eyes of the crumpled thing he crushed in his arms. He tried toss pass it to her, but she didn't want it.

While wandering around the smaller rooms, he would lead her to an obscure wall and show her picture speek. Some of that she did recognize, the deepest scratches that hinted at hidden passages and hide places. None of that meant anything to her. She maintained her steely glare on the boy.

“Danger,” he would croak. “Hide.” And sometimes, he matched her scowl with a hard, unwavering stare. But he never uttered a sound on that. He jerked at her wrist and they resumed as before, with him in the lead. Deciding where to go. And why.

In all the aimless wandering, she keyed in on his shifty movement and hype tuned attention. The boy was cautious the way all kids were, the way she was. The only difference, the boy was very reluctant to slip through the sheltered gloom, or fidgeted whenever the faulty lights dimmed and pulsed. He kept edging her on, his fingers tightening on her thin wrist. His eyes glittered with a concealed dread, yet whenever he looked right at her, he gave her a smile.

Before they even abandoned the next room, Six shoved him from behind and sent the boy down with a Whump! Something about this kid… wasn’t right. It was in the way he stood, the way he looked at her and carried himself. All these quirks he tried so hard to mask, but failed. Cause she saw through the lies. Something in this kid was off.

The boy didn’t spring back like last time. He whined in his throat and rocked to his side, holding his face with one hand and rubbing at his lower back with the other. His eyes glittered when he dared raise his head to meet her glower. A small, creaky noise burbled from the boy.

“Tricked.” He snuffled and nodded. A brew of jumbled noises came between his sniffles and… growling. “Know. Know-know. T'what did. Was thought... wrong....”

Six took a step back and another, very slowly. She held her arms bent out and away from her sides, while her eyes kept rapt attention on the whining boy. A floorboard or two moaned with each unsteady step. The boy locked his focus on her, his eyes glistened while his shoulders flashed under the mischievous light. He wasn't bawling anymore, but even so, he almost resembled the Shadow that haunted her. The recollection made her squint at him and crinkle her nose.

Never had she seen this boy, ever. He was no one. But something about those eyes, the long coat, the way he sagged on his knees. That was all familiar. He could be any other kid from any corner of the despicable city. If not for the way he looked at her, and the recognition that burst in his expression.

She didn’t know him. She didn’t want—

“Not’am… hurt. Am was-” With a shriek, he ripped around and lunged.

Pivoting on her heel, Six took off. The whispering footfalls kept pace with her, but she was faster than him. She’d always been faster. This advantage would be her saving grace if she didn’t lose her footing or topple over a greasy patch of plastic - these hazards proved to be a brutal peril as she sprinted full force. Her eyes wove through the depressed glow dumped by random lamps, she took reckless leaps over castoff clothing, rubbish, or bones. Throughout the corridor only spare few doors stood open, but none was inviting. At her back, the boy kept unfaltering pace without so much as a blunder.

“You! YouYouYouYou…!” the boy snarled.

The corridor came to an end, and a cataclysmic break. The stairs were gone, but the landing below was still intact! She dropped between the crooked railing and landed on her palms and feet. Some of the steps remained fixed to the wall, but not all. Either she could leap and avoid a small gap, or she had to strafe along the wall and fight with her waning balance. These stalls chewed up her flee, since the boy wasn’t being careful, despite how stunted and clumsy his leaps were; he barely checked his footing with that single-minded focus rooted to her. She hoped he would just fall.

He sort of did. But on purpose.

She dropped to the next flight of steps and stumbled, when her toe caught a splinter. Boney weight slammed into her shoulders, folding her down against the sharp edges. She went straight into hissing and flailing at the limbs clawing at her jacket. And did some biting.

“Leave,” the kid snarled. “YouYouYou! Let! Go!” The boy writhed in her grip, twisting in her arms and shoving his palms into her chin. Both thudded down several steps, nearly going off between the supporting rails and to an uncertain plummet into dark. In the chaos, neither clued in to where they were or where they could wind up. The entire conflict was savage and brutal.

Six lashed her fingernails across the boys face, while he swatted at her hood and twisted them sideways - somehow tugging his spindly form down, and shielding from her blows. He was snorting, chattering through speek gibberish of a frenzied child gone nutty. When he tried pinning her in the notch of a step, she kneed him in the gut. He managed to keep fastened to her wrist with one hand, even with her gnawing on his knuckles. Another sock with her heel, and they went crashing down the steps and gaining speed; the two only stopped when a wall came out of nowhere. The collision didn't register to the thrashing pile of children, didn't ebb the ferocity. Their echoing racket made the wall shudder.

“Hurt,” he choked, while folded sideways beside a lump of trash. It absorbed the impact of his body, after she tried to knock him into something more sturdy. Six fought to yank him back, and throw the boy into anything solid - a challenge with how terrible the light was, and amongst the flying punches. “HurtHurt— BLARGH!”

Smashing both heels into his shoulders, she was able to stun him with a kick and propel herself away. This sent Six somersaulting backwards down the steps, the whole journey banged her head, but for a brief second she was loose. The boy’s thumping steps pursued, but she kept rolling.

By the time she flopped out onto a mostly leveled floor, Six was too distorted for coordinated movement. She succeeded with two steps, but a stupid shirt tangled up her toes and she went down. Then the boy was on her and trying to bite into her back. She swiped back, smashing a fist to his mouth – the kid gargled and rolled aside.

She took a corridor that branched to the left, the only one with light and a few doors hanging open. The barked voice and rapid steps clung to her heels like a leech, but she was pulling away. Across her shoulders, a deep and suffocating shadow filled the space left in her wake. Her skin bristled with each sizzling pop of the bulbs, slithers of glass cascaded across her hood as she ducked forward and urged her legs to carry on. A little further. Her focus was so set on escape, she didn’t have a chance to take a stray glance to any of the doors that swooped by. Her only chance was to flee beyond the boy's grasp, or....

With every snuff of light, beneath the crackling shower of glass, the haggard breathing closed in. She couldn’t hear his hammering footfalls against her own, but she could feel him reaching out. No matter how hard her legs worked, or how fast she could go, she was no longer getting away. She was only out of reach.

The boy slapped the back of her hood, and Six staggered. With a hard wrench, she braced to meet the boy head on. Both went down in a mess of knotted limbs and kicking, full of snarling and punching. The boy’s eyes glittered under the scant radiance that peeled away the murky veil, his teeth flashed every time he snapped at her hands. It was just about impossible, but Six could hold off the brunt of aggression. The kid showed no sign of letting up and he probably couldn't. Not with how crazed he was.

On reflex, she snared his hair and snapped his head down. The crack of foreheads igniting, rocketed through the bleak hall. While he was stunned and whimpering, she adhered her hands to his neck and squeezed. The lamps flashed and the boy stammered, his fingernails dug into her knuckles as he twitched and wheezed. Six wouldn’t let up, but instead wrestled him sideways and pinned him, this time fitting a knee deep into his gut.

He wasn’t looking at her anymore, but she kept her narrowed eyes hooked on his face. With each constriction of her tightening, she coiled down, bracing her body onto him. She wouldn't risk a gasp herself, not until his head cracked into a dozen, ceramic bits. The boy’s shoulder and head buckled backwards, until only his chin was visible against his ratty hair. The floor panels drummed as he scrabbled and kicked his knees against her side.

With a croaky hiccup, the boy slapped the side of her brow causing a burst of fire to sprout in her vision. Along with a glimmer of falling embers. She tucked into the floor and lashed at the boy when he tackled her.

But he didn’t pounce and renew the fight. Six could barely see through the cotton smudges in her vision, but she was already yanked to her feet by the boy.

“Come. Come. Shh.” The boy hissed, fists locked into her shoulders. “Psst.” His speek was much lower than previously, and once her vision began to clear, he was not focused on her. The boy kept looking ahead and behind, or his head tipped back to examine the somber haze humming across the walls. “Shh.”

Six wriggled against his hold, but he hauled her with more force than her weary body could contend with. If possible, he carried her along with more ferocity, than when they fought. This reversal bewildered and frightened her.

He hissed, “Come.” And uttered more speek, but it meant nothing. Except that he croaked on every sound, his eyes creased and unfocused. On a guess, he forgot all about her in favor of a greater threat. That suspicion froze all impulses to resist his full body dragging.

While on the tedious trek through the cluttered hall, she became aware of... a steady and distant… clicking. An all too familiar and terrifying tick-ticking, threading through the walls and nicking at her aching bones. Even worse, the rhythmic chime became louder, though it had no real direction in the space around her. Aside from her and the boy, the corridor sat vacant. The stale brush of bulbs dimmed and popped, and the boy grumbled as he moved faster - with her. As the apparent hostility escalated, she began to resist the shackles on her hand, and shove against the boy.

But only a bit. The terrifying hum did hush some when they turned a corner. And fatigue whittled at what shred of resolve she had guarded.

The boy glanced into the open doorways they passed, but he never dallied for long. A glimpse, no more, then he would persist. Six didn’t dwell on his intent or where they might be headed, and she didn’t try to avert his focus. A churn of sounds spilled from him, among the, “Hey.” Or “Here.”

One door they approached lay torn off its hinges and sagged in the entry. This time, when he peered through a crease of an opening, he jarred to a halt. Six tugged on his grip – somewhere in the corridor, the sharp clack of steps had resumed.

“T’is.” He hauled her by the jacket under the gap and into the room. “Come for.” He grumbled more speek, wrangling with her resistance. “Safe. “Ssst.”

It didn’t sound safe. Six could already pick up on the terrible jingle of the television, even before they passed beneath the slumped panel. Every inch of the way she fought the tugging, all while the boy powered through the larger room and into a smaller side room. How was he still towing her like nothing? He grunted and hissed with her flailing, but he made more progress than she was. If she could just….

“Safe,” the boy rasped. “Look.”

Six didn’t want to! She clamped onto the boy’s wrist as he carried on, cutting through a storm of garbled sounds, in and among her violent straining and flailing, and growling. He just wouldn't LET GO! Even kicking or whatever else she could inflict on him, the boy wouldn’t look at her. He kept unwavering focus on the television. NO! Not there! NOT AGAIN!

While she was preoccupied with gnawing through his wrist, the boy somehow swooped around her shoulders and corralled her in his arms. He pushed towards the television, the mindless tunes drowned out by a distorted but whispered melody that sounded so... dreamy.

The kid nearly collided with the screen as he threw an arm out. Keeping the other arm looped around her chest, his outstretched palm dipped into the sputtering surface of the screen – a crackly, wheezing buzz rolled from the glass. In spite of a refreshed assault on his body, the boy wouldn’t budge. Six wasn’t certain herself, but she thought he was fastened to the sleek glass in some way. And with her caught in the middle!

He ground his teeth and snorted, until an image began shimmering somewhere beneath the static. The boy growled, his one arm constricted around her shoulder until she might splint in two.

Forgetting it all and everything in a moment, Six couldn’t break the glassy-eyed gaze she held with the whispering box. The boy huffed against her cheek, and the layers of scratching lines snapped into another fogged and clumsy image. One she thought was that same sort of familiar, but before recognition could blossom among the broken frames swirling in her thoughts, the screen shuddered. Again and again. A torrent of static thrummed, then a sketchy scene, or a creature.

The city loomed in the distance, with skyrises buckled and leaning. A room with a chair. Beds dangling by cords in an endless chasm. Electrical wires tangled up by clothing. Many of the shapes and creatures have no recognition, and mean nothing to her. A suitcase brimming with clothing. Or, what she decided was a gnome. Legs dangling… high above the floor. A dozen or so beds, each with a slumbering occupant.

In the mesmerizing and strobing clips, she missed the boy gripping her wrist and moving her hand to the screen with his.

They did this once. Didn’t they? She doesn’t recall when or where, but she does know of a room somewhere. A room buried within corridors, and the flickering light from a doorway. He made the televisions chatter and croon with voices of long dead marionettes. A dozen eyes peeled from the twisted walls, heaps of flesh rolled across the ceiling, each swollen eye veiny and bloodshot, and hungry.

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̴̧̧̘͌

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̵͈̤̍͗̚M̵̠̑̂͘͠ớ̴̠͕͍r̸̨̛͓͌̂͑͝s̷̡͓̚͠ė̴̲̝̘̜͖͂̃̂l̶̦̆

Beneath the crashing howl of static, the shadowy sculpt of her likeness stared back. But it dissolved into a tapestry of lines, and was soon replaced by a lumbering heap of arms and tattered coat. The abomination huddled under a drapery of hair, retreating from the boy and his vile tricks. She winced when the small figure cleaved down with a—

“Close,” the boy grunted. “Six. For safe.”

A river of crimson ran from beneath his nose, the boy’s eyes glimmered. She can’t take her eyes off him, can’t tear out of his rigid embrace – like long, slender fingers looped around her waist. The whelp of the ache lapped at her forehead, where she struck him. That was after being torn from his grip when he tried to steal her through a screen. He made the screens work, too. Just like....

The glowing eyes of some unfathomable terror loomed above her. That was horrible. And the boy, he was—

A biting surge swept up through her arm and before she’s made a sound, Six tumbled through a cyclone of light. Dozens upon hundreds of eyes zipped by, before she crashed through a mottled cloak that burned her skin, the current swelled through the protective jacket without remorse. Unhinged wailing thundered into her ears, pouring out agony and the dismay of scattered emotions. White pain seared her spine at the crescendo of the cries, the shrieking became deafening to the point all she could take in was an eerie, screeching ring of static. When it all reached an unfathomable peak….

She and him on a long, crooked bridge. A boy with a hat, he glanced back at her and made a gesture with his hand. As they teetered across the unsteady path, she caught the slight glimpses he cast high into the fog, to the hideous Tower winking through the swirling mist.

The rickety bridge groaned with each bounce of her step. When she reached the boy, she lashed out her hand and took his. The boy never looks back, but his fingers molded around hers.

Everything about this place was awful. The corridors conspired with dangers by cloaking everything in black, the air was stale and full of rancid decay.

She huddled under a table with a large stuffed creature. The boy was there, curled up beside her and watching the doorway. Without breaking his stalemate with the murky entry, he reached down and stroked her shoulder. “Shh. Safe,” he cooed. “I keep.”

The calm scene burst into ravenous embers, each spiteful kernel pierced the tender vision she managed to retain, like an ax splitting a door wide. It takes a mere second to work out that it is raining, and heavy at that.

Raining! Icy pellets shatter across her jacket, as she flies from the screen and collides with a puddle bubbling in the street.

Six lay face down, partially submerged with her ears and only the back of her scalp spared from a drenching. The glacier water – loaded with grit – gurgled into her sleeves and sloshed inside her hood, the bullets rumble against the back of her hood. She can’t hear a thing, except for the burbling tirade drowning the city.

At some point she has to breathe, but extracting from the murky water on her weary limbs is almost too much. Six can’t so much as rise from the shallows, as she can shove herself back enough to flip over and lay; the side of her hood shielded her from the downpour, enough that she can gulp in air and collect the tatters of her senses. An underlay of humming throbbed within her ears, and she can still smell the chemicals from the Hospital soaked into her jacket and skin. Even the saturated cloud cover is too bright for her eyes; she doesn't see so much as her vision settled on whatever moved, and everything else was an ambiguous box of glittering lines.

The croaked moan of a creature meandered in close. Prompting Six to coax one eye open, while also laying motionless and partially submerged in the puddle.

A Viewer stumbled over a heap of boxes and some trash canisters, but its crooked legs kept the unsteady body upright as it barreled across the beaten road. The twitchy thing braked to a halt beside the sunken pothole, where Six lay partially beached by a drenched newspaper. She blinked the muddy liquid from her eyes, while the Viewer tipped its head. Aside from blink, Six stayed entirely unresponsive. Playing dead never worked.

Neither did biting.

After a terse ‘stare’ off, the Viewer snapped its shoulders back and hefted its head high. It made another quarter pivot on its heels before careening off, first heading towards the smoking television husk, but made another sharp turn and charged into the dark recess of an alley.

Six doesn’t move immediately. In part, some fear that the Viewer might come rocketing back with a squeal, and another part of her – most of her probably – couldn’t muster the strength. It was only after an exhausting length spent soaking up grime and blanketed from the mirthless gale, wherein she regarded if moving would ever be possible. The wind swept across the puddle, causing the spray of water to twinkle with that irritating, whimsical chitter.

Across the road, the television squatted sideways on a mound of debris, glass lay across the pavement sparkling with the rain clatter. The smoke evaporated a long while back, and now rivers of water gushed from the toothless maw. Even it being dead and silent, the flashes of pictures swirl through the gullet. Nothing is there, but she thinks that is a lie, and even a dead television is danger. She half expected the boy to fly through, or… some other creature to emerge.

None of that happens. Except for her, the street is empty.

Before that can change, she finally rolled over all the way and agonized to drag her body from the silt laden shallows. The water gushed from her jacket, but in the Pale City, dry and warmth was a fantasy. She wobbled, fumbling to hold her weight and focus all with her vision whirring. Further down the sidewalk to the left, a dark blotch she knew too well huddled beside a mailbox.

The shadow didn’t look her way or shift. Yet, when she approached – it shimmered, and was standing as if it had always been. The hooded shape of the head turned to the wall beside it, and held a line of sight with the waterlogged posters dangling on the patchy brick.

Once she was closer, the doppelganger vanished in a sizzle. She didn’t understand it, why it lingered, or what it meant. Now leaning on the mailbox herself, she turned her own gaze to the wall and its collage of tattered posters. Many of the flyers had long been bleached of colors and marks, others flapped in the wind like the clothing falling endlessly from the rains above.

Others though, hadn’t lost color or fortitude for the storm. Some posters clung vibrant and boasted strong curves or angles, asserting a message with marks and compelling pictures. The food inscribed… looked amazing. Plates loaded with chunks of fish, roast bird, and whatever else. Restaurants. They had more food than they knew what to do with. More food than could feed the creatures that sat at tables and demanded attention, with fat hands and grubby, slobbering mouths.

The problem though. She didn’t know where this place was, let alone where to begin searching.

As this predicament sank in, Six let her eyes wander to the wrecked television box, soaking in the fat, shimmery bullets. If she listened carefully beneath the rivers gushing off her jacket and coursing over her numb toes, the sizzling murmur of a sappy channel cut through the flooded roads. The candid speaker chattered about contraptions and devices discarded by an unknown era.

#little nightmares #feral six #six #feral children #the thin man #ln fanfic #ln fanfiction #ln #fanfic #fanfiction #little nightmares fanfiction #little nightmares fanfic #mono #feral mono #shadow six (yo you hungray? I can fix that)#six (its trying to speek to me what is it saying?!?!)

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lemonstars8583 · 2 years

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Poor glitch, it doesn’t really mind its fellow entities and feels really bad for fucking shit up with ambush but also it really need them to stop harassing the players :(

I think the guiding light and it would be buddies if the guiding light could actually see it. They share the common goal of keeping the player safe and alive. Light is the main look out, doing all the things they do in game, whilst Glitch picks up the player and tp’s them when things they really dicey.

There the obvious problem of “well, why wouldn’t glitch pick up the player and books them out if one of the entities starts chasing?” but the solution is that glitch does just under half of the player’s hp with just one teleport. Imagine the damage of it pushes it for another room? Or 80? The player is just a pile of code and very much not going to come back

plus, it doesn’t want the other entities to question it’s alliance. It managed to apologize for fucking up ambush (though their relationship has soured) but helping the player is a big no no and would be unforgivable to the entities.

I just have many thoughts to the only non-canon entity.

Seek, he’s just, so small. compared to everyone. His family is fucking massive and he fears the time of when screech finally evolves from iPad kid to massive. Yet he’s the unofficial leader djfjjfgjjf

seek: I have no fear

Rush: You know screech is gonna grow a lot bigger right?

seek: one fear

it’s just not ready for it’s baby to grow up to be bigger than itself

everyone (Jack and rush) just puts things just slightly out of reach from seek. It does not like this.

tbh he could probably make himself taller but extending his legs with the goop but he doesn’t bc he likes fitting through doors without banging his head.

yess making glitch a kinda complicated character like that is very interesting i love your ideas

ALSO ZHDSFJKJlvsf THE THOUGHT OF SCREECH GROWING HUGE IS TERRIFYING?????? you just hear a very loud "PSST" and look up and just this terrifying huge whatever-the-hell-it-is is just on the ceiling staring at you. screech would go from annoyance to insta-kill and that is terrifying to think of lmfao

also yes jack and rush would 100% be annoyances to short seek lol. i feel like jack is just a complete prankster (especially considering its role in-game) and rush would love to get in on it too

ALSO ALSO FUN FACT I BEAT DOORS YESTERDAY IM SO SO SO HAPPY ABOUT IT!! and back on the topic of screech as annoying as it was to have like. 5 dark rooms in a row on very low health, now that i think about it, in the high 90s ambush is very likely to spawn. i am not good at dealing with ambush. but like, because of the dark rooms it couldnt so i never had to deal with it???? screech carried me to victory unintentionally its insane

#lemon yells #doors roblox

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distantwoomi · 2 years

Text

"We are comrades and nothing more." Error x Nightmare 1/3

Nightmare smiled sadistically as they heard cries of the tormented. It was like music to their ears. Passive Night semi-enjoyed it. Giving the world its torment back.

Soon a growl erupted, "Who are you to steal MY credit!?"

Nightmare looked around seeing no one. Blue strings quickly ensnared their soul tugging at it lightly. They looked up and saw a dark skeleton suspended in the air by a stringmade swing. The skeleton pulled themself down to face Nightmare.

They made eye contact scanning each other. This would be the start of a lovely relationship team.

-Timeskip-

It had been a week since the two met, they often found eachother in the same crumbling universes. They were sort of work partners. Nightmare was the first to make a proposal.

"Nightmare Joku, I crave a boon." Nighmare stated locking eyes with the new skeleton.

"What boon?" The skeleton questioned in a snappy yet breaking voice.

If you get the reference marry me pls💍💍💍💒💒💞💞💟

Nightmare averted their gaze, "Partnership, I would like to work hand in hand with you."

"What do I get out of it?" The skeleton asked a smirk gliding on their face.

"Shelter and help on making your job easier. I have 3 subordinates, they are extremely agile and strong."

"Alright Nightmare Joku." They spoke in a mocking tone, "I'll join you."

"Welcome to the team er..."

"Error, my name is Error." They chuckled.

Nightmare let out a small smile, "Error, hmm? Fits you."

Error seemed to lighten up, "Exactly why I picked it out!"

Nightmare held their hand out. Errot stared, "I don't do physical contact..."

"My apologies. How about you meet my subordinates?"

Error shrugged it off. Nightmare coated the two in goop and phased through the floor. They went to Nightmare's manor.

"Everyone! Report to the meeting room now!"

-It isn't worth it, leave now.- Error groaned at the voices of creators not wanting to speak so he didn't appear mental.

Three skeletons shuffled to the room. Error could identify all of them.

"Error, these are H-"

"Horror sans from Horrortale made by sour-apple-studios, Killer sams from Killertale made by rahafwabas, and Dust sans from Dusttale made by askdusttale. I have heard of you guys, Killer mostly." Everyone was shocked at the knowledge.

"freak..." Killer muttered.

Error shot him a glare, "Repeat yourself, now."

"Error, relax. Killer is an airhead." Nightmare spoke, everyone agreed.

"I was told. Rahafwabas was correct." Error smirked.

"What do you even bring to our group?" Dust asked, "I don't mean to be rude, just curious."

"The ability to control monsters and crush souls in seconds."

Horror stared with a silent cold gaze, he huffed and closed his eyes showing acceptance.

"You are to all treat Error with respect, he is the co-leader of our group." Nightmare stated.

Error glared at Killer, "I feel so flattered." His voice curved at the end.

Seems like things are going well...

This is my writing! Do not repost! Reblogs and likes are appreciated.

Error belongs to @/loverofpiggies

Nightmare belongs to @/jokublog

Killer belongs to @rahafwabas

Dust belongs to @ask-dusttale

Horror belongs to @horrortalecomic / @/sour-apple-studios

#undertale #undertale au #dreamtale #my work #my writing #nightmare sans #sans au #fanfic #dust sans #horror sans #error sans #killer sans #errormare

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redstainedglasses · 2 months

Text

Experimenting

Glass clinked softly as clawed hands tapped idly at them. Reaper stood at a shelf in the workstation of his garden as he rummaged through his glassware seeking out a proper container.

"That one." Chimed in a voice, giddy as usual but with an undertone of lessening restraint. Vertebrae was getting bored as she'd been watching him fuss between jars for the past five minutes. She sat at his work bench, both feet up on her seat as she swayed to a rhythm in her mind. The eagerness to get up and move was apparent as she sprang out of her chair and skipped toward him.

"Come on, that one's perfect!" She was pleading now to get the experiment started.

Sighing Reaper nodded as he collected the jar from the cabinet and attempted to follow Vertebrae though she had already sprinted deeper into the garden before he would even properly turn around.

Surely if Reaper had eyes they'd be rolling. Walking out from the workstation it wasn't long before he spotted the small jester. Dangling in the air, in the grasp of a vine from a monstrous plant that held her over its blooming flower maw.

"You didn't tell me it had teeth!" Vertebrae exclaimed excitedly, clearly without any concern as she was slowly lowered closer to the gaping maw of the plant monster.

"Not real teeth." Reaper's voice cut through Vertebrae's excitement quickly. He was aware he needed to establish this fact lest she try to harvest from his nursery……..again.

"Torns." He continued. He too was fairly unphased by the predicament his housemate found herself in. Truly in the short time they've lived alongside one another he'd seen her doing much more dangerous activities.

The smile on Vertebrae's face soured for a moment before she shrugged.

Before he could remind Vertebrae once more to not harm the plant, she was swallowed whole by the flower's head. The teeth like thorns weaving together to fully seal her in its maw, ready to begin its digestion process.

"Don-" His words were cut off by a shriek as the plant flailed violently, the maw of its flower beginning to reopen but a slit from the bottom of its head chased it. As it gaped open to release the threat the lower petals burst open as well. Sliced cleanly open from the inside out.

Thick gobs of translucent digestive fluids fell to the floor along with Vertebrae who landed cleanly on her feet, arms up in a triumphant display. As though she’d just completed her final circus trick flawlessly.

"Got it!" She chirped happily as she skipped over to Reaper who simply held the jar toward her.

The plant writhed in agony its leaves shielding it from further harm as it retreated into itself.

"I told you not to harm it." Reaper chastised but Vertebrae tsked back. Scooping up large blobs of the honey consistency fluids coating her arms and plopped it into the jar Reaper held.

"It harmed me first." She remarked, "Besides, it cut my arm so it’ll heal in no time."

Reaper couldn't help but sigh again but remained quiet, clearly aware there wasn't much sense in arguing as unfortunate as it was the jester did have a mild point.

"Smells sweet," Vertebrae commented as she held her slimy hands to her face giving them a sniff before licking and consuming some of the goop. Reaper was much too late to stop her but he still grabbed her arm to stop her from continuing.

"Don't eat that."

Vertebrae smacked her lips a few times as she tasted the substance and made a small grimace, "ugh.....bitter" Releasing his grip Reaper waved an arm dismissively.

"Our deal?" Vertebrae reminded with a wide smile

"Bathe first."

"Aw but you promised"

"Bathe." At her pout Reaper sighed and gave a soft whistle to his familiar. The white and black raven flew to his outstretched arm. Reaper tilted his head to Vertebrae and the small bird nodded causing the jester squeal with delight.

With a quick backflip she fell into a shadow portal provided by The Shade. A splash of water could be heard as she was clearly sent to the washrooms. Scythe followed quickly after and the portal sealed.

Walking back to his station Reaper reflected on how willing Scythe was now allowing himself to follow Vertebrae. Not long ago the small bird feared the jester and would always flee or hide away when she was present. Clearly untrusting of her. But now the two were getting along better with each passing day.

Setting the jar down on his bench he realized he himself was getting along better with her as well. Previously he’d rarely even pay attention to her even if she attempted to engage in even the most casual of conversations, and to think only a few months ago he wasn’t even allowing her access to his secluded garden and yet now? He was continually prompting her to assist him in his experiments. Even making small deals with her in exchange for her service. Deals which Scythe now eagerly agreed with.

When did it change? Was it during one of the fleeting moments of a lonely creature he spotted darting along the hallways at night to whisper soft goodnights to her bone collection? Was it when he saw her cheerful display of whimsy as she giddily chatted and entertained a few lost souls drawn to his Scythe? Perhaps when he heard her soft sobs in the night as the gramophone played somberly alongside her after another failed experiment of hers? Maybe it’s all that and more.

Perhaps he was the one changing as well. He’d never had thoughts or reflections like this previously. Was their shared blessing to account for this or was it simply the fact their shared proximity allowed him to be open to change? He’d spent centuries amongst humans and other life forms but realized he never truly lived with them. Merely around them.

He scratched at his palm idly. Was all this thinking causing him…distress? Wait no.

A soft sizzling broke Reaper from his thoughts as he looked down at the glass jar on his workbench. The glass was melting and the digestive fluids from the plant monster were oozing onto his table. He looked down at his hand and realized the glove on the hand he’d grabbed Vertebrae’s arm with had melted away too. His exposed palm was intact thankfully although mildly itchy.

Ah...perhaps this wasn't good.

As if on cue a shadow portal appeared nearby. Revealing the washroom where Vertebrae was soaking in a bath. She smiled widely at him as she raised her arms up. Gold blood poured down them as she held up part of her intestines with much too much enthusiasm.

"Look! It melted my stomach open!" She laughed as she stood up revealing the gorey mess the substance had left her and luckily her gilded blood was already working to reseal the wounds.

Reaper would only stare for a moment at the scene before sighing and getting up. Shedding his gloves, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and gathering his notepad he stepped through the portal.

"Don't eat that." He snapped as Vertebrae held her organs up to her mouth.

"Aww..."

#[ jester jibber jabber ]#--gore #(( oh shit oh fuck it's me posting a drabble at midnight cause I'm just so good at running an rp blog looool #(( been busy with life and stuff but figured I'd post a lil something I've been picking at for a bit now #(( I'm not sure how active I'll be as I'm still busy with other things but I'll try to poke in here as often as I can o7

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koopzilla · 1 year

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@simiansmoke cont.

Ever graceful, his last step had him wiping his sole on an unconscious DK. A red glimmer had pushed a childish smile to his face. Alas, as he traced the ruby light to its source, it immediately soured. No coconut, just another ugly kong.

The bad news is one impatient koopa does not want to hear it! His greeting is a hacked fireball towards the doors! Though it ignites the lush trim, it failed to cause any damage. The image of the kong was quickly restored and the fires dissipated as quickly as Bowser had spawned them.

Violence failing has the koopa resorting to a hard squint.

"No, I have bad news! I'm taking the coconut and NO ONE is going to stop me!" Skip the pleasantries and warnings: Bowser moves to action! Donkey Kong had worked for the last door, so the prince will work for this one!

The illusion merely observed: expressionless and silent. This temple is equipped to thwart kremling and kong alike. It predicts brute force. The image sighed-- for all of Cranky's efforts, it seemed the kongs had not changed after all. It watched as the monstrous turtle tore its fallen ally off the ground. It bats an eye as the koopa steered the prince's face towards the door like a battering ram. It fades away as Bowser charged, prepared to ram the beauty baby boy's chin into the doors! And he chuckled, as a stone notch sinks beneath their footfalls.

Every stone tile in the room follows the leader. On the outside, the shrine's eyes have sprung to life! The exit doors crawl to a close and tuck away the alarmed shout of trapped prey.

Bowser ran over thin air as deftly as Wile E. Coyote, but never reached his target. Inevitably, his stout legs cease their struggle. He gave a brief look outward... and then dropped like a rock!

SPLASH!

Putrid swampy waters surge up the edges of the chamber! Even with superior height, vile liquid reaches up to the king's breast. An average kong would dangle and drown in the grip of the goop. The room has no exits: the sole entry are several stone faces matching the visage which had greeted them. They hang from the walls; droplets drooping from their dangling maw...

A brisk shake dislodges the muck from his mane. It's followed up by a brief hopeless review of their new home. They'll need to find a way out of here. First order of business though: blame DK. "Great... You couldn't have said the temple is boobytrapped!?"

#simiansmoke #//don't even need ninja kong #//they can get themselves trapped and killed thank you very much #//its a hologram... darn.

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gazellefamily · 2 years

Photo

THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY (2001) “Kinda yucky. Rich hollywood types make a movie about themselves and expect us to be empathetic to their strife. They should skewer themselves more; really go hard on their narcisstic pretensions. Its not that I hate actors, I'm just jealous of their house. I don’t like how Goop is so pretty, makes me annoyed with myself. Phoebe Cates shouldn’t have returned for this. JJL sour as usual. John C. Reilley, no, man. I don’t... no... I don’t like this movie.” -Sonny Gazelle

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nad-zeta · 3 years

Text

Mitsuhide- Mealtime Mayhem

Fandom: Ikesen

Pairings: Mitsuhide x Reader

Genre: Fluffffff

Words: 1700+

Comments: Eeeeep HAPPY BIRTHDAY MINEKO!!!! Whooop Whooop! //dances around ❤❤Hope you have the best day! ❤😳🥺! 🥺😳❤🌈 @mineko811

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ

You reached for the doorknob of your shared apartment, key turning slowly as you went to step inside. Feet aching after the long day at work, you passed through the doorway, excited to greet your lover but instead being met with a puff of white smoke. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as a cough ripped through your chest. You dared to trudge deeper into the apartment, kicking your heels off and leaving the door ajar— in hopes that the smoke would disperse to hopefully at least restore some of your vision.

You felt around the room blindly, cautiously walking to avoid stubbing your unsuspecting toes against any chair legs or counter corners.

You spotted him there— amid the smoke— white hair blending in all so perfectly. That dense mist-like smoke creating an eerie feel of mystery and danger, perfect to disguise the mischievous fox within. You couldn’t help but think it suited him.

You sauntered up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and standing up onto the very top of your tippy toes to peek over his shoulder to see the absolute disaster he was creating. “Whatcha making there love?” you asked curiously, giving him a loving peck on the cheek.

Mitsuhide turned around, a snakelike smile plastered across his features as if there was nothing out of the ordinary— as if he wasn’t there setting your house on fire with his culinary train smash.

He expertly evaded the question— master of avoidance and deception— or so he liked to claim—standing in front of the smoking mess, to shield it from your prying eyes. “Welcome home, my dearest mouse,” he beamed, holding your cheeks hostage between his hands to keep your eyes focused solely on him.

To humour him or not to humour him, that is the question?

Making your choice, you ducked down around him, shaking your head at the scene in front of you. “What in the world? Are you trying to imitate your latest investigation?” you teased, shooting him a playful little grin over your shoulder.

“It’s nothing to be concerned with, my dearest; now pray tell how your day has been,” he hummed out, trying once more to distract you with hands falling onto your hips, nuzzling his nose against you lovingly.

“My day,” you started, sparing the dodgy pan a final glance before turning to shrug off your coat as you took up residence atop a nearby kitchen counter. “ Was busy as usual, nothing to write home about,” you reported nonchalantly.

It was a long and tedious day, filled with the usual work, politics and chaos, certainly not the most ideal way you wanted to spend your birthday. On the contrary, you wanted nothing more than to spend your birthday at home, with Mitsu. Guilt tugged at your heart when you thought back to the morning— being greeted with soft cuddles and golden eyes filled with a dazzling glint of excitement at the prospect of a day off. He rarely got time off, and your heart sank even further, knowing the amount of effort and strings that needed to be pulled to allow it. Yet alas, the universe had different plans for you, as shortly after hearing out all the thrilling plans he had made, you had gotten a call summoning you into work.

“Whiskey?” you sighed out, breaking the comfortable silence that fell between the two of you. Without waiting for an answer, you reach across the counter to take hold of the whiskey bottle and two glasses. You poured the golden liquid into the glasses, adding a few ice cubes before holding one out towards Mitsuhide.

“My, are you certain you would not like to write home about your day? The stiff drink certainly is telling, mouse”, he teased with amusement and hints of concern, swishing the knife in the air casually before cutting up some onions and throwing it with the unidentified contents of the still smoking pan.

“Would you write back if I do,” you met his tease with a tired smile, handing him his drink and clicking your glass with his.

Mitsuhide simply shook his head, chuckling while taking a sip of the golden rye. “If your heart desires it, little one, now wash up. Dinner shall be ready momentarily,” he nodded, turning back the pan and adding some water from the kettle with brows furrowed in concentration, causing even more smoke to rise up.

You hummed contently, hopping off the counter, changing from your work clothes into your PJs— not wanting to linger too long; after all, you did want a kitchen to come back to. You crossed the threshold of the dining room only to see Mitsuhide set out two bowls onto the dining table with a proud smirk plastered across his face.

You swallowed, preparing yourself for the horror that was the meal you were to eat. Making your way closer, you inspected the bowl of goo with wide eyes. “So what do we have on the menu tonight chef,“ you asked, slipping into your seat—hoping to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Mitsuhide shrugged and booped your nose in response, “just a simple meal made with love.”

You hummed, picking up a fork —ooh, you could not bring it over your heart to take a bite— so instead, you just moved the food around in the bowl like a fussy child at dinner time.

“Gracious, you’re not even touching your food, my love. Here, shall I help you.”

He scooped up a healthy helping of the sludge-like substance onto a spoon and held it out for you to taste. Your lips pursed, eyes narrowing at its contents. What in the 7 hells was this supposed to be? He brought the spoon closer to your lips, leaning forward to rest his chin on his other hand.

“Come now, little one, how are you to grow into a mighty mouse if you don’t eat the special birthday meal your husband lovingly prepared for you, hmm."

“I don’t think I will grow at all if I eat that; if anything, I think death will be imminent,” you quipped back.

“My my, how you wound me so, if you keep rejecting me, I may very well just burst into tears,” Mitsuhide sighed out dramatically, bringing his hand over his heart in mock hurt— yet the way his golden eyes shone told you he was anything but hurt.

“Fine! Fine!” you finally huffed out, turning your face back, wrapping your hand around his to bring the spoon to your mouth. Only a little taste, you thought with a gulp. You stopped short of your lips, praying to any and every god that you would be spared from the horrors of food poisoning.

Oh, how he tried, it warmed your heart, really it did, but the culinary genius inside you was screaming. Finally, you closed your lips around the spoon, letting the flavours coat your tongue; whatever it was, it was beyond fixing, so much so that you could almost hear Gordon Ramsay’s comments of the meal echoing in your head. Of course, the texture would be fine, Mitsuhide could execute that part well enough, but the taste, GOD, the flavour was a dead giveaway of a certain someone’s taste or rather lack thereof.

You swallowed the contents, trying to school your features into a carefree smile, only the delicate muscles of your face had not gotten the memo, instead pulling into a sour, scrunched up expression. “Mmm, this is great,” you managed to get out, sounding far less sincere than you had meant it to.

Mitsuhide, on the other hand, burst into a fit of cackling laughter. You realized then, you had been played. The cackling continued even after you narrowed your eyes, sending him an icy glare,” oh dearest, this is precisely why I love teasing you so.”

You crossed your arms and turned your face away with a ‘Hmpf.’

He tried to get your attention, but each time you turned away with a huff. “Has a cat caught my darling wife’s tongue,” came the amused words from the man you loved so dearly as he curled a stray lock of your hair around his fingers.

You dared to cautiously sneak a glance at him, only to see a broad grin littered with mischief. You quickly turned your face away once more, fearing he might see straight past your pouting facade. With mischief marrying his eyes, his hands moved toward your sides to tickle you mercilessly, “perhaps I shall use my skills as a detective to get you talking.”

You held out as long as you could, but the ticklish sensation caused laughter to bubble from your chest, “M-Mitsu s-stop, -stop,” uncontrollable laughter wasn’t the only sound to file into the room as your stomach let go of a large growl in hunger.

Of course, you had not eaten all day and, that, whatever it was, was less than satisfying to the taste buds.

Mitsuhide continued to chuckle as he shook his head, pulling out his phone to give it a sparring glance, “truly you amuse me to no end, my love.”

He leaned forward to kiss the tip of your nose while gracefully swooping up the unfinished bowl of goop. Taking elegant strides back to the kitchen, he shot you a smile from over his shoulder, “the pizza should be here soon,” the confession finally came.

Jumping from your seat, you ran after him. “You massive troll!” you accused, rolling your eyes and reclaiming your spot on the countertop to wait for the ACTUAL food to arrive while watching him clean his mess.

“How you flatter me so,” he purred out, slithering closer to you. That earned him another roll of the eyes, yet, you still found yourself inching closer to rest your forehead against his as you exchanged loving smiles. He met your soft lips in a fleeting kiss, then, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“Happy birthday, my dearest,” was all he said, planting one more kiss onto your lips. You felt him slip something into your hair, and before you could question, his phone rang, causing him to turn on his heel and attend to it.

With a dazzling smile, you gazed upon the bellflower pin he had placed into your hair. His features softened as he matched your smile with one full of love for you. One thing was for sure, Mitsuhide may be an incorrigible tease, but you knew when it came down to it, he loved you with all his heart.

#akechi mitsuhide #ikemen mitsuhide #mitsuhide fanfic #mitsuhide akechi x reader #ikesen akechi mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #ikesen mitsuhide akechi #ikemen sengoku fic #Happy birthday mineko!#Here is a lil sneki boy to make the day a little sweeter

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thewikiplayer · 2 years

Note

(bursts through the wall koolaid man style)

HI HELLO I HEARD YOU WANTED HEADCANONS

BENREY HEADCANONS HERE YOU GO:

Uses He/They/Xe, if you use 'it' they'll probably start crying bc its what the scientists in black mesa referred to him as (hehe angst)

Have you seen those tiktoks where people mix energy drinks, warheads, and a bunch of other ridiculously sweet and sour foods together and then drink it and call it 'battery acid'? xe drink that on a regular basis.

If you quoted the 'its me boy I'm the ps5' meme at them they'd be able to recite it word for word. they have never seen the meme before, it's just innate knowledge.

Sometimes disintegrates into a pile of Goop for no reason at all, it's not xyr natural form or anything, he just thinks it's funny.

WAS gordon's friend when they were kids, but black mesa came to scoop xem up when they were both about 16, and erased all of Gordon's Benrey-related memories via weird black mesa tech. (hehe more angst)

OH THIS IS GREAT

i absolutely love the whole goop concept that just seems like a thing benrey would do for the fun of it

AND I LOVE GORDON-AND-BENREY-WERE-CHILDHOOD-FRIENDS HEADCANONS those are absolutely great because even though benrey's whole monologue was only half coherent there's a type of coherency in the way he talks about a childhood that makes you think about it real hard.........

#also yeah benrey is literally the ps5 meme incarnate #he likes to drink 'battery acid' while staring gordon in the eye as a quiet threat #hlvrai hcs #hlvrai #hlvrai benrey #MILES ANSWERS

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rapeculturerealities · 3 years

Link

Long before she decided to help others eat better by becoming a dietitian, Jessica Wilson learned that the profession was unlikely to offer much to people like her.

Growing up as a Black girl in a mostly white area of Sacramento, Calif., she was bullied for her size and subjected to unpleasant visits with dietitians, who taught portion control with the aid of unappetizing plastic models of green beans and chicken breasts.

In her dietetics program at the University of California, Davis, Ms. Wilson was the only Black student. A single day was devoted to what the curriculum called “ethnic diets.” “It was not, ‘These are interesting and awesome,’” she recalled. “It is, ‘These are why these diets are bad. Next class.’”

Mexican food was dismissed as greasy. Indian food was heavy. Ms. Wilson was taught to prescribe a bland “kale-and-quinoa” diet. When she started treating patients — including many who, like her, are people of color or identify as queer — she learned how much those identities informed their perspectives on health, and how little she’d been taught about that.

“It makes people feel so guilty for not being able to eat what Goop would recommend,” said Ms. Wilson, 38. “I was no longer able to use the tools that had been given to me in school with good conscience.”

As the coronavirus pandemic has made Americans more aware of their health and eating habits, many have turned to registered dietitians like Ms. Wilson (or to nutritionists, who are not always required to obtain a specific education or certification). Yet the advice they get can sometimes seem more tailored to some past era than to the motley, multicultural nation the United States is in 2020.

In recent years — and particularly in the last several months, amid the national discussion about race — many dietitians have begun speaking out and reimagining the practice in a more inclusive way, often without institutional support.

Today, Ms. Wilson counsels many people of color on eating a healthy diet based on the foods they grew up with and love. Hazel Ng, 48, who runs a private practice in Alhambra, Calif., has created handouts for her Chinese clients that showcase produce found in Asian grocery stores, like bitter melon and lychees

In June, Sherene Chou, 36, a dietitian with a private practice in Los Angeles, organized a group letter to the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics — the largest and most powerful organization for food and nutrition professionals — outlining steps it should take to address systemic racism in the field, including antiracism training and more support for people of color. Leaders of numerous dietetics groups lent their support, signing the letter on behalf of 70,000 practitioners and students.

Many of these dietitians say the academy’s research, programs and articles ignore non-Western cuisines, or imply that they are unhealthy. They feel the profession places too much emphasis on consuming less and not enough on understanding individual eating habits. And, they add, it perpetuates an ideal of thinness and gender normativity that can exclude different body types and identities.

“It is a good-old-girls’ club where, as a person of color, you have to do so much to be invited,” said Jessica Jones, a dietitian in Richmond, Calif., and a founder of the inclusive dietetics website Food Heaven.

In response to these criticisms, the academy said it is working hard to broaden its ranks and resources to better reflect different cultures.

“Like other professions in health care and countless other fields, nutrition and dietetics has for many years experienced underrepresentation by persons of color in its membership and leadership ranks,” it said in a statement last week. “The academy knows change will not happen overnight. Still, we are making real progress that will create permanent change in our organization, our profession and our communities.”

The group is influential in setting the United States Department of Agriculture dietary guidelines that Americans are urged to follow; its members make up half of the 20-member committee that oversees those recommendations. In a July report, the committee acknowledged that the dietary approaches it studies don’t “qualitatively address cultural variations in intake patterns,” yet said the resulting guidelines allow a “tremendous amount of flexibility” that allows them to be tailored to an individual’s cultural and taste preferences.

The recipe database on MyPlate, the agriculture department’s healthy-eating website, includes 98 dishes classified as “American,” but just 28 “Asian” recipes and nine “Middle Eastern” ones. Though it lists 122 “Latin American/Hispanic” recipes, they include dishes like a “skinny pizza” made with tortillas. The Asian recipes include “Oriental Rice” and “Oriental Sweet and Sour Vegetables.”(A spokesman for the department said that “expanding the recipe database and other MyPlate consumer resources to reflect more diversity is one of our top priorities.”)

If the options seem narrow, they may begin with the narrowness of the profession. More than 71 percent of the nation’s roughly 106,000 registered dietitians are non-Hispanic white, according to the academy’s Commission on Dietetic Registration. Nearly 84 percent are women.

Entry requirements are steep: Practitioners must earn a degree from an accredited program, complete an internship (sometimes unpaid) or a supervised learning program, and pass a registration exam with a $200 entrance fee. Starting in 2024, a graduate degree will be required to take the exam.

“This is an expensive profession, with no guarantee that you are going to have a high salary,” said Lisa Sasson, a professor in the department of nutrition and food studies at New York University. She called the new graduate-degree mandate “unconscionable” and “an even greater barrier to people of color in our profession.”

The academy said that its charitable foundation provided more than $500,000 in scholarships and grants from 2017 to 2019 “for diverse individuals within the field,” and that those funds continue to grow.

Internships are highly competitive, and some even require the intern to pay. Alice Figueroa, 33, who runs a private practice in the East Village of Manhattan, said she struggled to afford food during her internship, even as she was advising others how to eat. Evelyn Crayton, 74, who was the academy’s first Black president, said many of the people in charge of matching students with internships are white, and may be more likely to select applicants who look like them.

Funding for dietetics programs at many historically Black colleges and universities, including Fort Valley State University and Grambling State University, has been cut since the 1970s. The number of Black dietitians fell by 18 percent, to 1,107, from 1998 to 2019, according to the academy’s Accreditation Council for Education in Nutrition and Dietetics.

Even when Dr. Crayton was president of the academy, in 2015 and 2016, she felt out of step with its other leaders. “I have heard that behind my back they called me an angry Black woman, because I raised questions,” she said. Her nominations of Black dietitians for leadership roles, she added, were frequently snubbed.

Told of her comments, the academy responded, “We were not aware of this until now, and we are very saddened to hear that Evelyn was subjected to these inexcusable statements. They do not reflect the academy’s core values and we are moving swiftly to investigate this matter.”

The profession’s exclusivity goes beyond race. Kai Iguchi, 28, a dietitian working at Rogers Behavioral Health in Oconomowoc, Wis., didn’t feel comfortable coming out as nonbinary to graduate-school classmates. “When the program itself as a culture is very cisgender, thin, white and female,” they said, “it is hard to be different and succeed.”

Mx. Iguchi said what they learned at school did little to address the unique problems that transgender and nonbinary clients face — being misgendered by their dietitians and family members, or feeling discomfort with overtly feminine imagery on health materials. Adult transgender people are also at high risk of developing eating disorders, according to a 2019 study by the Stanford University School of Medicine.

Even some dietitians who teach the standard curriculum find it wanting. “I have reached my limit with my textbook,” said Maya Feller, an adjunct professor in nutrition at New York University, adding that it doesn’t take into account social factors that often explain why people of color are disproportionally affected by health issues.

She said she was also unhappy with educational resources like MyPlate, which recommends meals like salmon, brown rice and broccoli, but not the curried chana and doubles served by her mother, who grew up in Trinidad. (After her interview for this article, Ms. Feller was hired as a consultant to help make MyPlate more inclusive.)

“If I saw that plate and then looked at my doubles, I would be like, ‘Well, my food is no good.’”

Ms. Feller, 43, tries instead to promote an “ongoing and consistent education around cultural humility” — not telling patients what they can’t eat, but considering the foods they have access to, and embracing, not stigmatizing, their cultural preferences.

It rankles Ryan Bad Heart Bull, 36, a Native American dietitian who works with the Oglala Sioux Tribe in Pine Ridge, S.D., that many of his peers praise the nutritional value of traditional Indigenous ingredients like salmon and bison, without understanding how federal government policies have made it harder for Native Americans to hunt and forage on their own land. To be ignorant of this cultural and historical context, “and then to turn around and say bison meat is one of the best meats you can eat and here are the ways you can incorporate it into your diet,” he said, “it is insulting and saddening.”

In 2019, he published a guide for the American Indian Cancer Foundation to educate Native cancer survivors about the nutritional value of their traditional foods.

Diksha Gautham, 27, a nutritionist in San Francisco, tells her mostly South Asian-American clientele that a healthy diet can include palak paneer and aloo tikki. As a child, she said, she harbored a blind perception that anything that wasn’t dry chicken and broccoli, including the dal and rice her mother cooked, “was bad for me.” No nutritional database she has encountered includes Indian ingredients, so she created her own guides to healthful Indian food.

A Toronto dietitian, Nazima Qureshi, 29, has self-published “The Healthy Ramadan Guide” with her husband, Belal Hafeez, a personal trainer. It includes meal plans that adhere to fasting guidelines, with recipes like stuffed dates and za’atar roasted chicken, and exercises to give people energy going into daily prayers.

Some of Dalina Soto’s Hispanic and Asian clients in the Philadelphia area have been told by other dietitians that they can’t eat white rice. “They shut down,” she said. “Either they go way to the extreme, where they are no longer eating any of their cultural foods, or the other side is, ‘I am just not going to manage my disease.’”

“My goal is to bring them in the middle,” said Ms. Soto, 32. She’ll suggest a salad alongside their rice and beans.

Still, many of these practitioners feel frustrated as they try to nudge the dietetic establishment toward change.

The profession is governed by the academy’s board. One subsidiary organization, the Commission on Dietetic Registration, sets professional requirements and fees; another, the Accreditation Council, certifies programs. Together, these entities and their majority-white leadership act as gatekeepers, their critics argue, limiting deep-rooted change.

The academy, which has about 100,000 members, funds research and hosts the largest annual conference for dietitians, the Food & Nutrition Conference & Expo. In 2016, it announced the Second Century Initiative, an effort to expand its reach and teachings around the globe.

The academy has had a diversity and inclusion committee since 1987. But, like all the academy’s committees, it is filled by volunteers. Teresa Turner, 37, a member from 2015 until May, said the academy offers the panel few “resources or benchmarks.” “Its only purpose,” Ms. Turner said, “is to make the academy look like they are doing something.”

The academy denied those assertions, saying the committee plays an active role, recommending strategies to recruit people from underrepresented groups to join the profession, and the academy, and promote their advancement.

A group that calls itself Audit the Academy (whose members include Ms. Turner, Ms. Figueroa and Ms. Chou) said the academy research it has seen is largely conducted by white dietitians studying nondiverse populations; if they study communities of color, they often do so from a white perspective. Members also see little representation of transgender and nonbinary people.

“If we are invisible in the research,” said Sand Chang, 42, an Oakland, Calif., psychologist who specializes in the transgender health and eating disorders, “we are going to be invisible in assessment and treatment.”

The academy, however, said it “offers materials, programs and educational opportunities to help its members provide care to a diverse array of clients,” including articles about treating transgender individuals.

In June, the organization responded to pressure from disaffected members by committing to developing action plans to address inequities in the profession. It has created a new Diversity and Inclusion Advisory Group, and conducted virtual forums to hear the concerns of 126 randomly selected members.

Shannon Curtis, 30, a Houston dietitian who helped found a group called Dietitians for Change, attended one of the sessions. “Although it was empowering to know that we are not the only ones screaming about this,” she said, “it was kind of a waste of time, in my opinion, because I am not exactly confident that they will take this information and put it into an action plan they will actually act on.”

Other organizations have emerged to address the inequities in the profession, like Diversify Dietetics, founded in 2018 by Tamara Melton and Deanna Belleny. It offers resources like mentors and educational materials to help students of color pass the registration exam.

In response to criticisms that it is harder for nonwhite dietitians to succeed in the profession, the academy offered an interview with Kristen Gradney, a senior director at Our Lady of the Lake Children’s Hospital in Baton Rouge, La, and one of several registered dietitian nutritionists who speak on behalf of the academy.

Ms. Gradney, 40, said that while the academy “has really missed the mark” in preparing dietitians to deal with diverse populations, it is starting to make progress. Still, she said “true change” would probably not come from the academy, but from grass-roots initiatives like Diversify Dietetics, where she serves on the advisory board.

In 2018, Dr. Crayton, the academy’s past president, hosted a conference in Montgomery, Ala., where she lives, for World Critical Dietetics, an organization that champions a more inclusive approach to dietetics. Panels discussed the role that unconscious bias plays in education, and whether the registration exam was fair to all students.

Dr. Crayton took participants to the Edmund Pettus Bridge, in Selma, where in 1965, peaceful protesters marched for civil rights. “I could never have done that with the academy,” she said with a laugh. She said events like that could help pave a path toward sweeping change.

“I don’t know how to get to people’s hearts, but it is a heart thing,” she said. In a discipline that deals with such a deeply personal matter — one’s eating habits — “there has to be a change of heart, where people really feel empathy for groups who they are trying to include.”

#diet culture #racism #food #xenophobia #colonialism #hostility to bodily autonomy

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iceshard1011 · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders Characters: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Additional Tags: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Separation Anxiety, Misunderstandings, Sympathetic Sides (Sanders Sides), Non-Graphic Violence, Sides As Family (Sanders Sides), Conflict, Protective Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt Morality | Patton Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Imagery, animalistic tendancies, Abandonment Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, all from Remus Summary:

This wasn’t what Janus had wanted. To be fair, it was nothing like he had expected, either.

3k word fic below :)

Remus was not a dog, thank you very much. At the least, he was a snarling werewolf with a snout of a crocodile, bulging eyes, an appetite for carrion and a constant erection, because how much cooler did that sound?

So, no. No matter how he acted, or what the others teased him for, or what the internet labelled him as, he was not a dog.

(“Remus, I swear to god, if this stain on the carpet is from you—”)

Most of the time.

(“What are you chewing? No, stop that. Come back. Remus! Spit it out! Don’t eat it faster—”)

Kind of.

(“Remus, please, it’s three in the morning. Stop screaming and go to sleep.”)

Alright, listen. Remus had… some animalistic traits. Besides being par for the course as his position as a side hidden from Thomas, for the most part, he loved it. It was fun tearing through rooms, deformed jaws salivating, hackles raised, and hearing responding screams (accompanied by Dee’s tired sighs, because not much Remus did ever ruffled his scales).

For the parts that he could control, Remus loved how much of an animal he was. Sharp teeth made Patton shudder, and the tentacles that could shoot from his back were great for latching on and making sure his target couldn’t free themselves.

It was the stupid, grating feeling that came with comparing him to mutts. He didn’t care for the excitement or over-energy or desire to chew interesting looking things on the ground. It was the— the restlessness and the pining and the fear—

He. Hated. It.

Remus could do with drooling but drooling from the sheer overwhelming anxiety pissed off. The way the silver streak in his hair grew, eating up the brown in a minor and selected performance of stress-aging could go fuck itself. The pacing, and the urge to destroy anything in sight, and the instinct to make unnecessary noise weren’t uncommon behaviours for Remus. The depression and anxiety and the damned abandonment issues could leave him alone forever, thanks, just like everyone else he didn’t care about.

That was that problem. He did care. He cared so much he felt like his goddamn chest was being carved out and cracked open and exposed for burning ice and frigid coals to be shovelled in. Ironically, in theory, it sounded a lot more enjoyable than it really was.

It had been a long day. A long, slow, painful day. Initially, Remus had passed time through tearing up the couch — the entire couch — and eating the stuffing. Then he’d replaced the couch he’d just demolished with an albeit far soggier, more stained version that Janus would definitely have replaced when he returned — if he returned — no, shut up, shut up, he is coming back, he always comes back—

Next, Remus had rummaged through his room, then Janus’. After stealing one of Janus’ favourite, fluffiest blankets (knowing full well he’d get a mouthful for it later, if— when Janus found out) he had curled up on the kitchen floor, because it always smelt like Janus and food in there and it calmed Remus’ dramatic heart whining like a newborn lion cub calling for its mother right before a rival male bit into its neck.

That had not helped.

Staying still had allowed for his mind to race too much, bring up too many scenarios, convince himself that it had already been days when in reality it couldn’t have been more than an hour at most.

He hadn’t felt like eating anything, even after a few experimental minutes gnawing at a leg of the table.

Eventually, he had settled for pacing continuously around the hallways and rooms. He had half hoped that he would grow too tired to stay awake, or his legs would become an aching distraction.

When Remus checked the time, he realised with a horrified jolt that the clock on the wall was reading six o’clock. Dee would be back by now. Dee would be back by three. Dee should be home making dinner and throwing the leftovers to Remus and telling him not to eat the dirty bowls.

He was three hours late. He wasn't coming back.

Remus lost the energy that had been bustling in his bones all day. He sunk to the ground against the couch and chewed subconsciously on the end of the stolen blanket. It tasted better than Dee’s boring cooking, but it somehow didn’t help comfort him in the least.

He buried his face into the blanket, wishing the soft bristles were harsh and spiked enough to scratch and gouge his eyes to the point of blindness.

A curse that hadn’t been spoken by Remus made his head shoot upwards. Janus was standing in the middle of the room, rubbing tired-looking eyes. “Those morons don’t stop talking.”

He was caught off-guard when Remus leapt from his spot at the base of the couch across the room in one clean jump to latch onto his shoulders and swing his legs around his waist. Janus staggered, because he wasn’t short, but certainly slightly below average, and Remus was Thomas’ tallest side, and between how much he ate and fought monsters, he weighed a ton.

Janus cleared his throat pointedly. Remus didn’t so much as look at him.

“Remus,” he said. “I need to make dinner. That will be so incredibly easy with you behaving like this.”

Remus shook his head, his face rubbing back and forth against Janus’ chest. “Not hungry.”

Janus frowned. That was both a lie and completely true. Odd.

Nevertheless, he allowed Remus to act the way he wished and awkwardly went about fixing himself something to eat.

Janus didn’t expect repetitions of scenarios like being clung to by Remus. He figured it was a one-off — he had returned late, and Remus had been panicking. Janus seldom strayed from his plans. Coming back at six rather than three o’clock had not been his intention, and if not for the light sides and the way they seemed to be far too eager to discuss seemingly random matters with him, he would have been back much sooner.

In fact, that was what continued to happen. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted and left the mindscape strictly when he was supposed to in order to return on time.

For some reason, this didn’t seem to be helping.

At first, it wasn’t much. Remus being a bit more affectionate, a bit clingier. Janus had never minded much of Remus’ shenanigans, partially because Remus actually listened to him when he told him to do things. He didn’t ask much of Remus, and he dealt with his chaotic nature far better than anyone else ever had, so perhaps Remus felt like that was worthy of being listened to.

It didn’t mean he always listened. It certainly didn’t mean he always did as Janus asked.

“Remus, let go of me. I need to work” and “Remus, don’t chew on my cape, that’s my good one” and “Don’t you even think about tearing up my pillow while I’m gone” all came to mind.

Janus suppressed a sigh. He knew Remus sensed his frustration, because he tensed, but he didn’t stop trying to eat Janus’ shoe. He was getting slobber all over the carpet, and it was soaking into the bottom of Janus’ pant leg. It had been easy to ignore at first, but Remus hadn’t stopped, and it was beginning to grate on Janus’ nerves.

Now, it had reached the point where Janus couldn’t concentrate on the book he was reading, and it was thinning his strong patience. He pulled his legs in from where they were stretched out and interlocked at the ankles — or at least he tried to.

He didn’t count on Remus to grip his ankle tighter and growl possessively. As if it was his leg.

“Stop it,” Janus snapped, yanking his foot away. Remus bared his teeth, growling quietly to himself. Janus tucked his ankles in close and continued to try and read, though his mood was soured, and he still couldn’t concentrate.

It wasn’t the only time Remus’ behaviour had both caught Janus off guard and made him bitterly uncomfortable.

Once, he had scurried back from the Imagination, a goddamn hydra-chimera on his tail. It had gotten as far as pouncing on an unsuspecting Janus exiting the kitchen before Remus had torn it to shreds with his own teeth.

Usually, Janus paid no mind to Remus’ aggressively gory tendencies.

This time, lying vulnerable below a dying creature, being splattered with its blood and guts, was enough to unsettle him. Just a tad.

Another time, Remus had walked into the kitchen where Janus was trying to get a cup of coffee, had looked him dead in the eye, and sprayed him with a foul-smelling grey goop that had both stained Janus’ comfy clothes and stuck in his hair for days after.

Janus let it slide, though he wasn’t impressed. That turned out to be a mistake.

The next time Remus threw an unknown substance on him, it burned. It stung like acid, and at first Janus figured merely cleaning it off would clear it away but it didn’t, and it was slicing through his arm and a part of his cheek and his scales were screaming and melting off his face and at this point he had started to scream because goddamn it hurt, why was it hurting so much? And Remus wasn’t much help and even he didn’t know what to do or how to fix any of it and the pair of them were stuck with each other panicking.

In the end, Janus had locked himself in the bathroom and soaked in the bathtub, ignoring Remus’ plaintive pleas to be let in. Janus had figured if he were desperate enough, he'd simply break the door down, but he hadn’t.

The pain had faded, over time, leaving Janus exhausted, pale and shaking, saturated with bathwater and sweat and tears. When he’d emerged from the bathroom, Remus had been curled on the ground by the door. He’d tried to speak, but Janus had practically fled before he could. He had avoided Remus for days after that.

Janus, for as much as he shared the one brain cell with Logan, should have realised after that that something was going on. Something far more serious.

He didn’t.

Initially, Janus hadn’t seen a problem with bringing Remus into the conversation. Thomas knew his other creativity existed, and the other sides had already been subjected to Janus’ presence several times over. Really, he hadn’t thought that bringing Remus with him into the mindscape would be so bad.

He was rarely wrong.

This time he was so, so terribly wrong.

He had expected Remus to rise and take a swipe at an unsuspecting Roman.

He hadn’t counted on Roman noticing Patton and Virgil’s tensed reactions and ducking to avoid the morning star swinging over his head.

Janus had been too busy being amused. Being amused over Remus’ pouting, and mildly disgusted at Patton’s excited gushing over Roman’s evasive manoeuvre. He’d been too busy catching Virgil and Logan’s shared eyerolls.

But then Patton had clung to Roman’s arm, and Remus’ grip on his morning star had tightened. Logan and Virgil shared an exasperatedly fond eyeroll and Remus’ lip started to curl. And maybe Janus was smiling too much because that was the last thing he remembered happening before everything went horribly, horribly wrong.

Janus did not often consider himself to be particularly clueless or unresourceful. He could adapt and flex to situations, and bend scenarios to his advantage. It was part of the way he presented himself. There was truly little that could ever take him off guard. He had lived with Hissing Teenage Angst and Chaos Incarnate.

Remus suddenly lunging forward, a snarl on his face and bloodlust in his eyes shouldn’t have been one of them.

Remus connecting his weapon with Patton’s chest certainly was.

In reality, Janus wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. He remembered his feet being frozen to the ground. There was shouting, and blurs of colour.

The only moment Janus remembered in full before he caught up with everything was when Virgil, face pale and practically drowning in eyeshadow, looked up at him with wide, petrified eyes and screamed something. Janus hadn’t heard what he’d said, but it shook him enough to jolt into action.

Remus threw Roman into the television and launched for Logan.

The sound of Janus’ snapping fingers cut through the ruckus.

Remus froze, and when Janus waved his hand, he disappeared soundlessly, tucked into the quietest corner of the Subconsciousness. Janus hadn’t been quick enough, though, and the room was still but in no way silent.

Patton’s breaths were loud and harsh, and he was trembling in Virgil’s hold even as the anxious side murmured reassurances and tried to get his panicking friend to calm down. Logan, on the other hand, looked furious. If Janus weren’t so stuck in place, he was certain he’d be shrinking under the cold-eyed glare. He opened and closed his mouth.

“I didn’t—” Janus started.

“You’re leaving,” Logan said, and Janus’ voice left him.

“It wasn’t Janus though,” Patton protested with a small cough, and was then quietened by Virgil. “And— and I want Remus back.”

“You cannot be serious,” Roman hissed, only a little nastily. Janus could see the frantic fear in his gaze; he wasn’t being harsh on purpose. He never was.

“He’s obviously hurting,” Patton said, and Janus got a sudden surge of anger flooding the apathy; what could have possibly possessed Remus to attack the moral side? Patton winced and shifted, pulling away from where Virgil was experimentally poking at his side. “Blocking him out isn’t going to help.”

“That is a stupid idea.” Janus jerked and looked over at Logan, startled. The logical side had turned his furious gaze to the light sides curled on the ground. “You want the crazy maniac back in here? What, so he can attack Virgil next?”

The anxious side flinched, looking wildly uncomfortable. Patton frowned disapprovingly which Janus found hysterically amusing.

“We wouldn’t leave you alone,” Patton pointed out to Logan.

“I wouldn’t be so barbaric,” Logan snapped back.

“He’s rambunctious but not cruel,” interjected Janus, stepping forward. He met the logical side’s furious gaze steadily and coldly. “He is not your concern.”

“He just attacked Patton,” Logan said, close to seething. “That is concerning enough for me.”

“I will take care of it,” Janus assured. He nodded Logan to his friends. “You worry about your own family. Patton's ribs could be broken.”

Logan’s clenched fists shook, and he shoved unnecessarily roughly past Janus, but he did drop the conversation, instead now focusing on what he could fix. Janus just had to do the same thing.

With a deep breath like he was preparing to plunge into frigid ocean depths, he sunk to the Subconscious. Remus wasn’t in the living room. In fact, even more worryingly, there was no sign he had been there in the first place. That was… slightly disconcerting.

There was evidence of Remus’ presence, however, the nearer Janus got to his bedroom. Dents in the walls, pools of questionable substances that Janus dutifully avoided, an abandoned summoned fish flopping uselessly on the carpet. Janus gave that a wide berth, too, not entirely trusting it not to snap and grow an unhinged jaw in an attempt to swallow him whole.

He didn’t bother to call through Remus’ bedroom door. Chances where he would be refused entry or attacked once revealing his presence.

Though, he figured when he walked in and found the creative side, neither outcomes would have been incredibly likely.

Remus was curled into the smallest ball he could make himself, so much so that a few of his limbs looked bent and snapped awkwardly to fit himself as tight as possible. He looked paler than usual. Janus couldn’t see any familiar glints of Remus in his gaze. He swallowed the sick feeling rising in his throat.

“That was exciting,” he remarked, moving to shut the door and sit on the unmade bed. Remus didn’t respond. “Patton is alright, by the way. The others will probably fuss over him far too much.”

Remus made an odd keening noise, sounding like a mix between a beached whale and a dying dog. When Janus sidled a sidelong look in his direction, he could see the creative side blinking over at him, something unreadable and alien in his eyes. He didn’t look like he was contemplating more murder.

He looked petrified.

Janus regarded his gloved fingers. “So.” He leaned his elbows to his knees and looked darkly at Remus. His voice was just as dangerous. “What was that?”

Remus opened his mouth, looking to respond, and only make another peculiar whining noise. Janus narrowed his eyes and Remus snarled at himself.

“I don’t— It wasn't—” Remus growled and shook his whole body without moving from his ball. His hip clicked and popped, and Janus arched an eyebrow. “I don’t remember… doing anything. Until— until I was… Until you silenced me.”

Janus bit back the guilt that met that statement. It was necessary, he wanted to defend. You deserved it, he wanted to lie. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted.

Remus scoffed, but he was nodding like that made perfect sense. “I wouldn’t either,” he confessed brokenly, and Janus had to blink a few times to see clearly.

“Anything on your mind?”

Remus grated his teeth together so hard one creaked under the pressure. “You leave,” he started, slowly, after a long pause. “You leave all the time. And… you come back, but not every time, and you always look like you like them more, and…”

“You were jealous,” Janus said, with a hint of disgust in his words. Remus hissed through his teeth, glaring at the ground. He looked frustrated, but at himself. He shook his head, but Janus didn’t think he was disagreeing.

“You can’t leave,” Remus said, looking up. One eye was bloodshot to the point that the tears on the right side of his face were red-tinged. “You said you wouldn’t leave.”

“That was years ago,” Janus said, and Remus made a noise like he was trying to gnaw on a chainsaw. He buried his face into his arms. The vertebrae running up his neck strained at the pressure and popped out of place. Janus stood and moved to crouch beside the creative side. He prompted Remus’ head to tilt up and fixed him with a softer but no less serious look. “And I will continue to stand by it, for however long it’s relevant.” Remus whined at him. Janus opened his arms. “Come here.”

When Remus fell into Janus’ arms, the embrace was accompanied by a wet-sounding squelch, and Janus’ left sleeve grew dark and heavy. He chose not to look at it. Remus’ body shifted in his arms, fixing and mending itself. Remus didn’t make any noise throughout the horrifically painful sounding process. Janus supposed he was used to it, and then felt further disgusted at that idea.

When Remus stilled, his breath warm against the scales of Janus’ neck, the deceitful side rubbed his back and leaned away in order to meet his gaze.

“Patton is okay,” he reaffirmed, and Remus seemed to be decently comforted now. “But really, let’s try and not make this a habit, hmm?” Remus nodded, pushing his face back into Janus’ shoulder.

The pair would sit there for a little while longer, quiet and peaceful, as odd as that would be for the embodiment of chaos. Then Janus would leave Remus to clean up his room and himself and return to the light sides. They would already be mostly recovered, even if Logan were still slightly pissy. Patton would ask for Remus, and the next day, Janus would lead the dark creative side back into the mindscape, even if he would sulk behind Janus’ back like a stray puppy.

Patton, limping only slightly, would brighten immediately and slide them warm mugs of coffee. Remus would gnaw on the mug handle, and Janus would coax Roman into casual banter. Logan would separate himself from the conversation with a newspaper, and Virgil would be quieter than usual… but it was better than what Janus would have expected.

Remus would be more softly spoken for a few more days after that, but then the pair would be invited to a few more movie nights, a few more dinners. Patton wouldn’t be uncomfortable around Remus, and Roman would begin asking for help in storytelling. Remus would ask Logan to infodump, and he and Virgil would share music tastes.

Then, a few months down the track, when Janus finds a green door appearing next to the red one upstairs, Janus wouldn’t call himself proud, because that was too dramatic, but… he was always a liar, anyway.

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trashyinferno · 3 years

Text

my life goes on in endless song (raise the seventh, lead me on)

This is a WIP I've been working on off and on for a month now, but I wanted to share a bit of it just to get something out there!

Enjoy some Wilbur Soot and Philza found family... fluff? I think?

No warnings needed :)

From the beginnings of his life in the orphanage (tonic to a minor subdominant) to the moment he ran (minor submediant to a major dominant; raise the seventh, lead it somewhere when you’re running to), he remembers vaguely.

He remembers his caretakers (calm and gentle but not quite, not his – not his tonic). He remembers his playmates (only in sleep, their faces blank). He remembers the guitar he got for Christmas one year (and there’s the beginnings of his melody: one chord, then the next, and then his bass no longer plays in pedal).

There is one thing he remembers very well.

When he left, the melody soared.

And as he took one last look at the cold stone walls that had been his home (not quite, not ever, not his tonic), he knew that his symphony, wild and raucous with the thrill of the unknown, had finally begun.

----

The swirling cacophony of excitement fades a few days later when he realizes that his food stores are dangerously low. He figured he’d find something, but other than the occasional traveler, he hasn’t found anything remotely useful.

(Minor. Minor. Minor.)

He tries not to notice the way the progression sours when he steals a loaf of bread from a campsite someone’s left unattended. He can’t fight the way his gut twists and contorts as he takes the first bite.

(Tonic to major mediant. Push forward to half-diminished supertonic. Thrust into minor dominant. The progression is wrong, all wrong, defying every rule.)

Stealing comes easier after that.

(The people who wrote the rules are all dead, anyway.)

----

He realizes that he’s made a big mistake when the winged man - too big, too tall, wings stretched wide (no escape tone, no appoggiatura) - lands in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. The man’s eyebrow rises up his face, and Wilbur isn’t shaking. He’s not.

(Plagal cadence. No way to move. Finality.)

This is his end. Wilbur drops his gaze; his knees shake.

A hand enters his vision. “Just give me the sword,” the man says with unquestionable authority in his voice. “Keep everything else. Give me the sword.”

The apple in Wilbur’s hand glitters brightly beneath the sword's soft purple glow. He’s never seen a gold apple before, but he’s sure that it’s valuable - maybe more valuable than the blade. He worries at his lip with his teeth.

The hand stretches slightly.

Wilbur drops the sword into its palm.

“Thank you,” the man says as he yanks the hand back. Wilbur watches with curiosity as the man carefully, worriedly, examines the blade with narrowed blue eyes. His shoulders visibly relax when the blade passes its inspection.

Wilbur wants to leave. He should leave, but he’s rooted firmly to the ground when the man swipes at the air experimentally with the suddenly very dangerous looking blade.

(Sharp. Very sharp. Ear-shatteringly sharp.)

The man nods and tucks the sword into a sheath hooked to his belt. He looks at Wilbur thoughtfully, his head cocking ever so slightly to the side. His blue eyes glitter beneath his green and white bucket hat. “You look hungry.”

Wilbur blinks.

“You’re hungry.” The authority is back, and Wilbur can’t help but follow obediently when the man motions for him to follow.

He gets a good meal and an even better full night of sleep for the first time in weeks.

The man, Philza, doesn’t comment when Wilbur trails after him the next morning, but the boy doesn’t miss the small smile on the man’s face as he makes camp for the night.

----

“Do you play?” Philza asks the second night, gesturing to the guitar at Wilbur’s feet with his spoon. Dinner is mushroom stew, again. Not that Wilbur is complaining.

Wilbur glances down at the guitar and lifts his eyes to stare at the man with his best wry expression.

Phil’s hand goes up in surrender. “Just curious, mate.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, shoving another spoonful of soup into his mouth with a scowl.

“Y’know, you could play, if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind the music.”

Wilbur ignores the hopeful tone in his voice. He’ll play when he wants to, and not a minute sooner.

(But he wants it. He wants it so badly, the chords flashing through his mind - tonic, inverted supertonic, dominant - almost too quickly to catch.)

His fingers itch with the need to press against harsh wire for the rest of the night.

----

It’s the fourth night when he finally breaks.

(He plays a melancholic progression of A, f#m, and F7 just to spite Philza.)

His guitar hums softly over the crackling of their small campfire. Wilbur’s fingers ache painfully - he hasn’t played since that first night on his own - but the relief (D, A, D7) that he can even play without fear of attracting some mob overrides his sense of self-preservation. He needs the callouses, anyway, especially since he’s going to be playing more often.

(A, f#m, F7.)

If he’s going to be playing more often, he corrects mentally. If.

The twang of carefully tuned guitar strings rings in the quiet forest. Somewhere nearby, a cricket sings along. A soft breeze ruffles Wilbur’s curly brown hair.

Philza is careful to hide his smile when Wilbur looks his way. Wilbur pretends he doesn’t see it.

If.

(f#m, E, D, A.)

----

For some reason, Philza seems to take this as permission to start babbling at him as they walk the next day. Granted, the man had tried to make conversation multiple times in the past few days, but Wilbur had shut that down with non-verbal responses and lots of eye rolling.

Apparently, that tactic isn’t going to work anymore.

“Y’know, I’m quite surprised you haven’t asked where we’re going.”

Of course he hasn’t asked. He’s not sticking around to see Philza’s final destination.

“I’ve got a little cottage a couple days journey from here - right in the middle of the forest. I think you’d like it. Lots of little nooks and crannies for you to hide in.” Philza glances back at Wilbur, a soft, almost wistful, smile on his face. “And you’d like Techno, I think.”

Wilbur doesn’t bother to stifle his snort of disbelief. He’s not going to like this man’s cottage, and he’s certainly not going to like some person named Techno. Seriously, who hated their kid enough to name them Techno?

“If you want to join me the rest of the way, that is,” Philza adds quickly. “You can stay a few days, maybe get some food in you before you head out again?”

Even Wilbur has to admit that the man’s suggestion makes sense.

If his stomach rumbles in response, no one mentions it.

--------

The sound of wood cracking loudly behind Wilbur cuts through his mellow chord progression like it’s butter. His hands still as Philza shoots upright, his hand thrusting out in a stopping motion toward Wil.

Wait. The hand tells him. Let me take care of this.

A fuzzy feeling warms Wil’s chest. He feels… He isn’t sure what he feels.

Philza pulls his sword - purple, shimmering in the night, but not the one Wilbur stole, which still hangs in its sheath from his belt - from the other sheath on his waist and glares over Wil’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right back,” the man murmurs. His black wings flare out once before they tuck tightly at his back, and then Philza is noiselessly creeping around Wilbur.

He hears a moan behind him, a soft chk, and the sound of something thumping against crunchy brown leaves. There’s a soft sigh, and Philza walks back into view. Hideous green goop coats the deadly purple blade in his hand, but outside of that, there’s no indication that anything might have happened.

Philza settles back into a comfortable seated position. He smiles at Wilbur warmly, like there’s something Wilbur did in the past couple minutes that helped him. Wil raises a curious eyebrow.

“Zombie,” the man says with a shrug. “The adults aren’t a big deal, but the babies can be a bit of a problem if they catch you off guard.” His face scrunches in distaste as he looks off into the distance. “Learned that one the hard way,” he says bitterly. “Techno still hasn’t let me live it down.”

Wilbur isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond to this, so he returns to playing.

(D, G, A7.)

Philza’s expression softens. He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it after a moment of thought.

The feeling of warmth returns with a vengeance, and this time, Wilbur thinks he has an idea of what it might be.

He feels protected.

#mcyt fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #i think haha #wilbur soot #philza #dream smp #found family #work in process #sbi #sleepy bois inc #i have so many music nerd things in here #this shouldn't surprise anyone lol

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 24 _ A Collapsing Grave

First

It was much harder than expected to relocate where in all the place that one bay door was situated, though it hadn’t been that far from where he first found the controls to drop the chain. Most of his travel consisted of trying to get around, while hefting the cumbersome fuse through or over obstacles, and getting stuck when he was met with a dead end. After much wandering and getting a little lost, he made it back to the shutter door and slotted the fuse into its rightful space beside the lever. With a sultry thrum, vibrant current coursed through the cables, alighting the bulbs along the frame above the bay doors. A sure sign all was in order.

Despite all he had been through, Mono couldn’t help but bounce in place. It wasn’t quite static, not the controlled and melded electric current the Thin Man conducted with such ease. No. But it felt right. The door was alive, it would work for him.

Hauling down the switch compelled the doors to shift, with a somber creak the shutter lifted a margin. Flint and silt drifted from the ceiling, drumming over Mono’s hat. When he released the switch, the doors descended. But slowly. Good! Nothing could crawl in. But when he was ready, he could go out.

A last puff of the soggy draft rolled through the passage, as the shutter clinked into its crease. Everything was in order, he’s certain. It was safe to go find the Thin Man.

Traversing through the entire factory was much easier, without the constant lurk of the Mechanic drifting among the vapor. The catwalk doesn’t extend the full length of the factory; on the floor, ruble and discarded machine parts obstructed pathways. Some disarray he has to bypass completely, while other barricades are at least traversable (without the clumsy fuse) by climbing, or scooting beneath. He doesn't recall the place being this littered with junk, but everything was already coming undone before he started. He must've remembered wrong. At one point he does recall he was very lost, but somehow in the mess, he’s at last able to return to where the first fuse was that awoke the factory.

From there, the room he left the Thin Man in was wasn’t far away. It had been a while, maybe a day or more? Nothing was out of place, aside from the air being dry and the noises clattering out of the factory. Somewhere, one of the machine parts whistled, and the fog was more gray. It was so more different now from when he first left, he’s certain this is the same place. The body that fell from the cabinet is right where the Thin Man left it, the door was not far. He’s not lost anymore.

Peering up at the tall door, he forgot he needed something to reach the handle. The Thin Man chose that place to stay, Mono never opened the door. He gave the area a look over, seeking a crate or something else he could drag on the grainy floor. When his search failed, he thought he might have enough energy to just pass through the solid door.

He tried and tried, pushing at the solid panel. Even struggling to pull on his remaining energy, but failed. He moved away and gave the area another browse, walking around the side of the building where it jutted out from the wall. Some cables anchored vertically to the wall looked scalable, like storm gutters. He inched up those thick lines to a narrow protrusion that was flat and stable, just beneath a steep incline. Shuffling one way, he only found the ledge ended at the wall. Scooting in the other direction, he located a break in the cement, which he could squeeze into. The splint went deep and cut into a metal box, beyond the narrow crease the din of the factory faded out.

This looked familiar, and promising. Light peeked in from one end, along with a sound. He could sense the diluted thrum, soft and gentle compared to the booming explosion of the factory. His ears rang with the familiar tenure.

The vent dipped down and the opening peered upon the desk below. It wasn’t too high. Below, the Thin Man was doing something. Throwing something? Mono twisted around, then lowered his feet to the opening. He caught the edge of the flue, when the grate popped off beneath him. It’s not that high. It’s not that high.

He let himself drop and plopped onto the desk. Not too bad. He looked up, before glancing over to the Thin Man sitting in the chair.

“Come on in, why don’t you.” The Thin Man wound back his arm and… threw something. Another dull thunk followed.

Mono collected himself and went to the side of the desk. It was a little harder dropping from the lesser height to the floor, but he was all right. It was nice leaning back on the chilly cinderblock wall. He still felt braised from all the running and huddling under blistering pipes. Sitting down felt so good. Quiet. Cool. Let his eyes slip shut. Dark.

“Did you hear my message?”

He opened one eye. “Mess-eng.” He didn’t know anything about that. Lifting his gaze a little higher, he watched the Thin Man flashed, the lights pulsing, and he appeared on the other side of the room. The picture board hanging on the wall looked sort of like an eye, but not like the warning speek. It had rings and rings with splotches of color. The Thin Man took some things stuck to it off and swept to the other side of the room.

“Did you get that urge to explore out of your system?” He inspected one of the small, stick things, before throwing it at the not-eye.

“Ss… n’toy?” he pondered.

The Thin Man held up the bunch of branches, or pipes, feathers? in one hand, and tapped a finger on the tip of one. “Ah-ah. Not for children.” He threw one, hitting the not-eye. Mono didn’t get it. “Are you ready to leave? I can’t imagine you finding a stash of food in that place.”

It would be safe to go now.

Mono climbed to his feet and gave his coat a shake. Okay, he was good to go. The Thin Man set whatever the things were down on the desk, and went to the doorway. Mono is a little disappointed when the tall figure flashed and dissolved, like he typically does. At first Mono waited, confused. Was door to open? Follow? Is wait? Wait?

He was back at square one. But there was the chair to the side of the room, by the tall cabinet. He hurried to grab it by the legs and hauled it across the coarse floor, back to the door. He got it close enough that he only needed to leap from the seat to snare the latch, and the panel swung open.

Back into the choking, acrid atmosphere of the factor; heaving and chugging through its forgotten purpose.

Mono wandered around the building for a bit, trying to find the bristling pick of the static in his nerves. It could be the factory blundered through his senses, overpowering everything and crowding out the gentle touch of the Thin Man’s aura. Or the Thin Man was just gone.

The only way out was the bay doors. He thinks. Somewhere, he’ll catch up with the Thin Man. He’s sure.

It’s another difficult trip from one side of the factory to the other. He almost knew the path too well by this point, and he hated that. Along the way of climbing and leaping – from chain to conveyor belt, crossing the catwalk – he did keep an eye out for the other kid. While he was on his own. The trek feels more perilous despite the absence of the Mechanic. Something about the calamity lair felt off, the steam spewing from gaskets more intense. Beneath the platform he scurried across, a gear burst loose and clanged against the trunks of the pillars below

He… still doesn’t know what the Thin Man might do if he caught an other kid. The tall thin man stole Her, but let him chase. The man in the hat wanted company? But other kid might be scared, and that was okay, he understood. The Thin Man was scary and hard to really understand, even with share speek. The biggest thing to remember was the Thin Man is unpredictable, and there was no way to guess what he might do with an other kid.

Even if he wanted to keep an eye out – while crawling under some squealing pipes. A good hide place, an area where he liked and other kid might like for hide too – it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t safe. He has to leave and take the Thin Man with him. But the Mechanic was tricked, the other kid is not locked up. They got a second chance. That was good.

Where was he?

Mono was forced into a retreat, beneath a low grate. A hose burst loose and spewed foul goop across the floor and walls, the retching had a vile noxious scent that burned his eyes and stung his nose. He nearly lost his hat in the haste to get away, before the thing could lash him with sputtering droplets.

Somehow in his blind scrambling through the pipes, he got free without suffering injury. He squeezed from a wire cluster and looked around, uncertain of where he was. The fence to his side was crushed by a rectangular chunk of metal and ruble, but while inspecting it, he caught a dull but ominous creaking from somewhere. He was already moving before he checked overhead, then, ran faster.

One of the shrieking pipes attached to a giant cylinder vat burst, igniting with a black ball of fog. The tendrils of a fire lashed at the breached opening of the container, and elsewhere, more screeching and explosions began rocketing throughout the depths of the machine.

Mono got through a mostly standing portion of the fence, before wreckage from a metal beam slammed into the floor. He kept on the trail as the uproar increased by ten, the thick and sour scent of smoke burned his throat and eyes. He tugged the side of his coat up trying to stifle the intensity, and while it did help, it was a struggle to search the undergrowth of hostile tubing while keeping it set over his face.

In his effort to find a stable pathway to crawl through (a feat that looked impossible now), he nearly missed the lash of color and heat before a patch of fire hit the cement. It was as he described it, a patch of fire. For a brief moment he stood and gaped, mesmerized as the liquid splattered across a vent and a vacant patch of the path; burning under the bidding of some caustic liquid. The flames writhed in an animated fashion, purple translucent tendrils prodding the scenery for unwary prey.

He stumbled sideways and aimed for a set of cement steps, the only thing within sight that shouldn’t outright blow up under him. Barely on his third step, in a full dash, he’s snared roughly from behind and hoisted right off his feet. He fights immediately, clawing at the fingers locked around his waist, his legs pinwheeling at open air.

“Ẅ̵ͅh̵̺̀a̶̳̽t̸ͅ ̴̰̂h̸͍͝a̴͍͆v̴̲̀ę̴̄ ̷̦̉y̸̱̕ọ̴̆u̸̙̽ ̶̰ḓ̶̈o̸̢͊n̸͍͘ḛ̵͝ ̵̲ṫ̶̢h̸̲̿i̶̲̅s̷̮̓ ̸͎̈t̵̓͜i̶̛͓m̵͎̾e̷͈̚?̸̰̽”

Mono wilted when the Thin Man rotated him around to give him a glare. He didn’t do anything. It’s not his fault.

“I̸̘̿ ̵̦͝C̶͔͊ȃ̸ͅn̸̮͋’̶͌͜t̶͈̂ ̸̥͛Ľ̶̺ẻ̸̬ḁ̸͌ṿ̷̔e̵̲͑ ̶̳̄Ỳ̶̰ö̷̞́u̵̟̽ ̸̻̋A̶̟͠l̵͇͌ŏ̵ͅn̵̞̽e̷̪͠ ̸͈͑F̸̹̓o̸̢̒r̵̻͒ ̴̩̉F̴̟̅i̶̪̓v̴̮͐ĕ̷͎—̷̹͐” The tall thin man recoiled when a collision of pipes anchored to a massive scaffolding ignited off their moorings.

The Thin Man tucked Mono into his suit and stalled time. Carefully, he maneuvered away from the trajectory of destruction, weaving around fresh debris cast to the floor. It might have been easier to swipe aside the barrage of concrete and metal, but the entire place was coming undone. He made certain the child was secure and properly shielded, while he navigated the uproar with careful steps. The last time he attempted to manipulate the boy with his powers… it did not go well.

Time reclaimed its turbulent droll, but he was clear before the clattering pieces scattered. Another eruption expelled a gush of hot smoke, black as ink. A spray of embers burst against the Thin Man’s hat and suit; he cringed low, coiling his arms tighter across his chest. Mono was practically soldered to his ribs and quaking, despite the inferno the place had suddenly become. Flames bloomed rampant among the conveyor belts, the once diligent trackway now rushed like water off their skeletal frames. The platform above bent and drooped, everywhere shoots of metal or rock scattered through the smog.

“B̴͍̀e̵͍͊à̶̗r̶̭̈ ̶̰͐W̵̢͛i̶̦̊t̸̪̎h̷͔͐ ̸̮̎M̸͚̒e̴̩̕.” This would not be pleasant for the boy. It might even…. If he—

The Thin Man teleported to the top of a stable section of scaffolding, above a network of cables stretched across the factory. The structure was already tipping before the tall figure supplied his weight, but it endured as he clicked along delicately. He kept a firm hold on Mono through his suit, and kept his other arm braced around his side. In case he needed it for an unforeseen event. Which was becoming an increasing possibility, as the sections of the factory and all its parts ruptured beneath his shoe soles. The sound of it more deafening than when the construct was alive and well. With a potent draw on his powers, dipping into an untapped pool he had not tampered with since he-himself was a small child. He tempered the drag of time and manipulated the structure, for a brief while he insured the fabric of the place wouldn't come undone. Not completely, but he would prepare for anything left amiss. The worst.

Thick plumes bellowed through the inner workings of cables and support braces; concrete pillars blackened and chattering against the driving heat, flaked away or disintegrated. He tempered time further and braced himself, before shifting to a lower section of the floor. Solidifying his grip on the boy, and with a vague curse about the whole machination coming undone, he moved swiftly among the toppling limbs of charred metal. Faster than he had moved in many decades.

If there was a time to bend the world to his whims, this would be it. Draw the wall to him and form a way out of this oven. However, some thought lingered in his mind, from during the time he chased Mono before the Tower. The man in the hat did not manipulate the city, to acquire his younger-self. For what reason to not? He did so, only once beyond the walls of the Signal Tower, to reach the doors and mend fractures. His powers were not omnipotent, and the stress… the boy.

He needed a way out. An escape that didn’t end them both.

Another structure of metal and demolished ceiling plunged to the grounds, where the Thin Man weaved along. He made a short dash and teleported beneath a collapsed portion of pipes, all appeared steady despite the chaos frolicking abundant. After shifting away to a clear area among thick red waves, he latched onto the tinge of fresh electric current. Despite the interference and broiling air, the Thin Man had a definite course.

The static interference about his monochrome form surged, as he raised his free arm to an interlocked mishmash of pipes and gears, fused tight. With a slight tilt of his palm the ruptured sections burst apart with the same dignity and power as a tsunami crashing upon jagged sea cliff’s. Tempering time and flashing in brief bursts, he did not wait for the cinder to clear completely.

In his mind the mantra chattered over and over, “Į̵̈ ̴̤̅Ê̶̳x̸̱͑i̶̥̇s̵̢̚ẗ̴̳́,̴̳͌ ̶̹̂T̸̼́ḧ̵̩ë̵̻ ̶̨͆B̶̥̒o̸̳͑ỵ̵̌ ̶͍̓I̵̳̿s̴͙͑ ̵̹̽Ā̶͈l̵̫͊i̵͖̓g̷̩͝ḥ̵̇ť̴̟.̸͖ Į̵̈ ̴̤̅Ê̶̳x̸̱͑i̶̥̇s̵̢̚ẗ̴̳́,̴̳͌ ̶̹̂T̸̼́ḧ̵̩ë̵̻ ̶̨͆B̶̥̒o̸̳͑ỵ̵̌ ̶͍̓I̵̳̿s̴͙͑ ̵̹̽Ā̶͈l̵̫͊i̵͖̓g̷̩͝ḥ̵̇ť̴̟.̸͖” Until it was a dull, obscure hum. Even if he didn’t know if he believed that still.

Time insisted it must resume its correct spool of ticking, but he resisted to release it. He bided by different laws, nothing of this world could bend him. Unless he was receptive. Unless he gave in. Unless he surrendered. He resisted the typical ticking of the gnarled clock hands and threaded through a barrage of drooping metal infrastructure. He reached a mostly clean path, and with another phasing, arrived beyond the boarder of the collapsing beast. The constricting coils of the machine gave a forlorn wail at his back, while he continued his brisk stride toward that enticing draw of electricity. He followed the wall, noting a portion of gear embedded with the cinderblock, among scorched plastic, and other tidbits of ruble peppered among the brick.

A guiding light shimmered in the smog above a tall, tattered frame. The bay door was partially demolished, its shutter slates gutted by a section of cylinder metal. With a firm temper on time and a rushed teleport, the Thin Man skipped through the passage unimpeded.

The air outside the factory hung foggy, a thick vapor clung to the greasy, gray brick. Swells of inky clouds bellowed from the top of its roof, turning the usually gray clouds into all colors of midnight thunderheads. A vicious sizzling arose from the solid bullets smiting the brick, while another agonized howl rumbled from within those thick barriers. The place might implode yet.

The Thin Man only paused to check his whereabouts, this location completely alien to him, the scenery unknown. A road extended from the ramp, leading from the large – traumatized – doors. An assortment of imposing buildings bordered the street, though, none offered sanctuary. He followed the motorway, only looking back to verify that the factory was not following. In all the madness of this world, it seemed a possibility. High above, a portion of the roof groaned and caved into the structure; allowing more smog and plumes of red flames to tear out.

With his strained influence and powers withdrawn from the the imposing building, the barriers shielding the outside world from the ravaging inferno began crumpling like parched sand. More rabid flames tore loose, the solid black fumes intermixed with the tepid wash of gray showers, the watery prism unlike anything he'd ever witnessed in all his lives. As more of the factories guts dissolved beneath the unrelenting heat and weight of ruble, the fires suffocated. None of it was fast and less of it was clean, but soon, the tall thin man could make out nothing through the swelling vapors clogging the roads.

It wasn’t until he reached an intersection in a distant alley, and came to a location he could force his way into with minimal resistance, that he risked stopping. The din of the dying factory was out of range, anything unleashed he could mitigate at this distance. The anguished cries still clawed through the sky (horrendously similar to a certain Tower), while the sky choked with a thick smear of toxic smoke. Best to stay indoors for a time.

He forced the lock with his power and shouldered through the door. The place was musty and neglected, but it wasn’t collapsing. As for the tall thin man, he did fumble and toppled when he misjudged his footing. He did get his free hand to catch a shelf before he laid out completely, and let himself down to sit. He glared at the door, and the fortified structure slammed shut with a clack of finality.

For a moment he sat trying to collect his wits, the airwaves buzzed as his static tinge thrummed. Hauling the child out of a collapsed skyscraper was one thing, trying to drag them both out of a ravenous bonfire was entirely different. By the Eye, he was not equipped for that. If it was him alone, the strain would be nonexistent – with the interference the child put out, conflicting despite his tampering with the transmission. He did not expect to walk away. It took everything to keep his form stable, keep the threads of static from dissolving completely into a crumpled heap.

Then Mono would never have reached the Tower.

Gingerly, he pried away the lapel of his suit. “M̷̬̓ǒ̸̘n̶͖͋õ̸̳?̴̼͝” The child’s breath came in wet, strained puffs. But still breathing. With Mono knitted into his dress shirt, he couldn’t decide if the child was conscious or not. “Mono?” He touched the back of his head, in all the haste and confusion, the lad's hat was lost.

“Mmh.”

The Thin Man let his shoulders slacken. Mostly alright, a little sooty, and whatever else before he claimed the boy. He tried to grip him, but the child was being difficult. As always. “Get out of there, you’re going to smother yourself.”

A muffled, “Nh.”

He looped his fingers around the child’s middle and pulled. “It’s safe. Let go.” It didn’t take much force to haul the boy loose. He held Mono firmly between his palms and gave him an intense scrutiny, checking his face and chest over for burns or cuts. The boy flailed, yowling about the indignity of it all. This valiant protest set the Thin Man more at ease, despite how close it had been.

“You brought this on yourself. Getting corralled like that in the midst of an inferno.” He plucked at the knee, where blood soaked through the pant leg. If that was the most of his damage, then overall the child was fortunate. “What would you have done had I not come along? I don’t go looking for you, boy. You know this!”

Mono blinked but didn’t utter a sound. The vicious trembling started up, so the Thin Man set him down. Once released of all nitpicking, the child scooted in close and nestled against his thigh. The face gawked at him, stained gray, with twin shimmering orbs, the hair all spiked and crazed. So placid and unbothered, never mind almost being broiled a few minutes ago.

“Go do something. Find some food.” The man in the hat examined the area he had come into more clearly, and found it was shop of sorts. By a glance he couldn’t decide if provisions would still exist, but usually Stockers kept snacks available. It appeared unassuming and calm, no hostilities in the immediate vicinity. “I need to… rest a bit.” He pushed his hat down over his eyes, and leaned back onto the edge of the shelf.

“Aam watch?” chirped the faint voice.

“No. I am rest,” he sighed, all suffering and weary. “Entertain yourself elsewhere. This area seems safe enough.” The little hands patted his knee.

“Watch. Aam watch’n,” the boy rasped. “S’rest. Sce'er dreem hant. Pro’tekt. M’do. Y’get’n rest. T'n ll’keep safe.”

He fumbled for the child’s head and ruffled his hair. “Sure. Just don’t get into anymore trouble.” That request seemed too tall an order for one so small. He tipped his hat up and peered at the ash smeared face, still gazing. His frown deepened.

At last, the child got the hint and backed away from the hand he left draped over his knee. Mono turned and scurried off, it sounded like he headed into the inner store to forage for something.

“Ductile little brat.” The reprieve would be temporary, no doubt he’d come to with the boy nestled on him as typical. For a while he would let the static interference scrub away his thoughts, all recollections, numb the alarming events. As soon as he could manage, he needed to leave the child somewhere and find a secluded television. That would be for a time later. The Tower would croon to him once more, but it could wait.

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