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feebisart · 7 months ago

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The Door You Don't Knock On (3/4)

(( Trigger Warning: Unreality, Transformation, Body Horror, Derealization, Dissociation, Hints of Past Abuse, Drowning, Death, Existential Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Mental Health Struggles, Surreal/Disturbing Imagery, References to Violence, Grief/Loss. ))

A/N: Please keep in mind the trigger warnings. Thank you.

Billy opened his blue eyes, reflecting the stars and galaxies squished into streams of Saturn's spinning disk. He blinked a couple of times, rubbing at the sleep with the back of his hand.

"Oh." He uttered as he gazed into the surreal sky.

Gingerly, he pushed himself up, feeling the pleasant heat of the couch beneath him. He gave the sofa a soft pat—a habit of thanking inanimate objects. Around him, a haze of heat gently rested over a fiery sea, furniture bobbing leisurely throughout the molten tide as tubes drifted down a waterpark's lazy river.

Peering over the side of the comfortable couch, Billy hesitated before dropping onto a stone slab atop the vibrant sand. Multicolored grains shifted beneath the piece as the foot met pavement. It was, of course, a migraine to look at. However, it wasn't lava. He won't look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.

A giggle bubbled out of his mouth, surprising the young boy. The silliness of it all—the marshmallow-soft cushions and the flaming ocean provided the backdrop to his amusement. Billy had slept on dozens of surfaces before—hardwood floors, tile, rock, and even the branches of trees. Now, he could add roasted marshmallow cushions to that list.

In the distance, the molten rock hissed as if affronted by his laughter. The gurgling mass of creeping lava spewed spectral radiant mist that drizzled glitter over the coast around him. The grains collided with a soft yet strangely metallic sound as the mist met the sand. Curious, Billy crouched closer and spotted a glint amid the chromatic, iridescent particles. The sand wasn't just sand—it morphed between tiny sand crystals and larger metallic jacks.

"That's so weird." He muttered as he brushed some ashes off his sweater. Stretching his back, he surveyed the area. Marble slabs scattered across the sand like lily pads floating across a pond.

Did anyone say Leapfrog?

Billy grinned from ear to ear, leaping from slab to slab like a child playing hopscotch, waving his arms to balance himself with each jump. Nearing the end of the path, he teetered on one foot, almost stepping into the sand before catching himself on the rock's edge.

A large gap loomed before him, filled with kaleidoscopic minerals torn between quartz crystals and knucklebones. A faint cling reverberated as a breeze brushed past. Wind chimes as it weaves through colliding metal scraps or, perhaps, mocking laughter.

Beyond him unfurled a black-and-white checkered pattern floor. The boy drew in a deep breath before launching himself across. He landed and slid onto the sleek, slippery floor, emitting a harsh squeal—grating rubber squeaking onto a slick glass surface.

Flapping his arms with a hint of desperation, he glided to a halt in the middle of an elegant hallway, gasping for breath. Doors were lined in uniform repeating patterns along the hallways, and their handles were in particularly unique places—some were far too high, some were two inches from the floor, and some were just floating in the air—just out of reach. Billy blinked, wondering where he should go next.

The tingling crept around Billy's shoulders, wrapped around the boy's shoulders like a white cloak. A faint, high-pitched ringing stalked him—a persistent mosquito honing into the sting. He had thought the further he walked from the sand, the fainter the sound would get. But apparently not. The hallways seemed to turn and twist sideways, looping into themselves in a never-ending Moebius strip. Every turn he'd been there before, every step left a resounding echo.

The ringing amplified, adding the soprano of screeching feedback, the base of discordant laughter, and rhythmic faint taunts using distorted versions of Billy's voice. It wasn't just his ears but also his taste. Every time his voice screamed into his ear, he tasted the stinging, metallic flavor, tasting the noise itself. An earworm that wouldn't leave gnawed at his thoughts, a continuous spiraling loop. Billy knew plenty of earworms—songs that wormed their way into your brain, settling comfortably to never leave, much like Mister-

No, Billy shook his head quickly, cutting off the thought. He needed to find what It Is Not. The boy could not afford to Spiral. He pinched the bridges of his nose as it howled into his ear, dropping all pretense of subtlety. There was no doubt in his mind—It was getting impatient.

Perhaps in annoyance or wanting it all to stop, he grabbed the nearest door handle and pulled it without thinking. His pale fingers curled tightly around the handle, and with a swift, violent force, he yanked the door open. The panel slammed against the wall, and chips of wood fell onto the ground from the pure force. Static surged into a deafening disharmonious crescendo, an ice pick to the head regarding ear-splitting notes.

All of a sudden, nothing.

The door sealed shut behind him, hissing shut with finality in the form of air decompressing from a pressurized chamber. A faint rush of air brushed against his back before all was still. He concentrated on hearing the ringing, which was still there—faint, in the background, waiting.

The room was quite ordinary, if a bit cluttered. Art Deco flair seeped into the gold and black orchid wallpaper, sleek and aerodynamic furniture, and black and white tiles with gold accents. There was a hint of paint and wood shavings in the air. Open and empty cans of paint scattered across the floor. Baskets and containers of pencils, pens, markers, and chalk were piled on each other. Blank Canvases were scattered around the room with palettes of every imaginable color. Brushes were placed at each art stand, overflowing the holder.

It was overwhelming—every medium of art stacked on each other in a gaudy display of choices. He could see perhaps a faded yellow couch propped up by a couple of sketchbooks, but it was dwarfed by the mountain of yarn balls on top of it. Despite the hodgepodge, there was something quite familiar about the place, a sense of déjà vu that piqued Billy's curiosity.

Billy placed his hands on his hips, clicking his tongue as if affronted by the mess before him. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, using a piece of yarn he chewed off to tie it up. (He would not look for sharp items in that Mess.) He heaved up a heavy bin of rolled newspapers, nudging an open can of reddish-brown paint aside with his foot as he gasped for breath.

At least, it was silent.

Billy huffed, hands on his hips before he dived into piles of art supplies. He disliked too much mess since it made it hard to think. There was so much stuff—baskets of watercolors, buckets of oil paints, tubes of acrylics, and towers of jars filled with miscellaneous supplies. He began separating the chaos into categories, which made his brain happy—drawing, painting, fabric, knitting, etc.

As he's moving a metal tin of colored pencils, his gaze caught onto something strange: a pair of pointed shoes, brown cap-toe oxfords, still polished with a gleaming sheen. As he moved away a bucket of unopened paint, his breath caught in his throat as he discerned the pant leg of a familiar brown suit.

"It can't be." Billy's voice hitched. "Mr. Dare…"

Dan Dare. The detective.

His stomach sank as he hurriedly clawed into the clutter, his trembling hands scraping against metal tins. Boxes of chalk toppled, spilling pink dust into the air. Bins of sketchbooks teetered precariously—a makeshift Tower of Pisa, while buckets of crayons were knocked over, a few loose crayons tumbling around. Billy's desperate cleaning halted; his breath hitched as he stilled at the sight.

A chair.

It looked normal enough—the sleek, glossy finish of the Beech arms and the soft, supple, genuine leather for the cushion. But the form? Following the curve of the backrest, the cushion flowed into a lower torso with a pair of legs clad in brown pants underneath. They were human. They were Dan.

Where flesh met wood, there wasn't a neat seam or clean cut of timber, but a continuous languid flow. Veins snaked through the beech wood and flawlessly transitioned to the chair's grain in the arms above. The lungs were absent, yet the lower part of the torso continued to inflate as if breathing.

Billy's gaze drew to the legs that twitched ever so often. Feet that stretched and relaxed as if leisurely resting on the ground.

Is this what it means to Become It?

This was not just horror nor the grotesque. This was the annihilation of everything that you are—a complete and total erasure of identity, and for what? To turn you into a tacky chair.

He realized a pivotal point—the Spiral was no longer playing with its food.

In fact, it was Hungry.

What if I stop being me?

Billy choked on inhaling his next breath. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings as he clutched his chest. The Lichtenberg scars underneath his sweater pulled and ached as black crept along the edge of his vision.

The world tilted—skewed and slanted.

Billy's chest tightened further, and he thought his heart would crush his chest with the weight of Everything.

This wasn't about him.

He inhaled a deep, painful breath.

He breathed again to solidify himself, the darkness receded as he took continuous deep breaths in and out.

Back before his job at Whiz Radio, He remembered Mr. Dare.

Blonde, slick-back hair, a sunny smile, and an ear to listen to. "Do you have any allergies, kid?" The man warmly asked, handing Billy a brown paper bag from a sandwich shop. The smell of Cuban cigars and Hawaiian roast on his breath lingered in the cool, wintry air.

It's not fair.

He hadn't seen Dan for a couple of weeks. The kid figured Detective Dare was off helping TV moguls or multimillionaires. Not this.

Never this.

Crouching over Dan with his knees on the floor, the boy's hand wavered over the brown pants leg, hesitating over the fabric. Yanking his hand away, He placed it on his lap.

Billy's voice cracked as he crouched over Dan Dare, "Mr. Dare, I- I don't know if you can hear me, but you were a good person." His fingers scrunched up his jeans, balling into fists.

"I'm sorry you got turned into... this." A quick glance at the leather cushions wrapped between brown beech wood lurched the orphan's stomach. He reverted his gaze to the human part—the familiar half.

"You were a great detective. I'm glad I got to interview you." The small reporter sniffed, remembering the man's animated tales of intrigue, stakeouts, and close calls with Carol over Whiz Kid radio.

"It doesn't get to take that away from you." The boy wiped his eyes. "I'll remember you and make sure Fawcett remembers you, too."

At first, staring at the chair made him disgusted; nausea rose to his throat, threatening to empty into a paint can. But he pulled back; the disgust simmered and bubbled within him into something else—something hot and sharp. A spark ignited within him.

Was this funny? Did it make the Distortion tickled pink from warping Dan Dare to this?

The boy's gaze flicked to where the spray paint cans scattered near Dan's legs. "Fine," he spat, throwing the cap off as it bounced off an elegant black and gold orchid on the wallpaper. "Let's see how you like it." The spray can hissed out a streak of neon yellow across the flower and several phrases such as "STUPID" and "UGLY" right on top of a particularly offensive spiral.

He held the can out as he punted the aerosol container and jettisoned it into the sky with his foot. Anger burned deep within his stomach, churning a whirlwind of anger, grief, and something Else—something that Distorted. The tinkling of bells echoed in his ears, a constant ringing after a concert.

His hair grew longer, dangling over his face in tangled loops as he heaved a couple of breaths.

Shifting his eyes to the left, he glimpsed a hint of black amongst the plastic containers. The ringing sounded like pulsating beats of his heart with every step. Billy grabbed the box, flipping it open to reveal perfectly intact charcoal sticks.

His heart thundered as he held a handful of them to his eye.

The sight of it irritated him for some reason he couldn't explain. Charcoal—dust and ash, all left of a cloudless blue sky.

He crushed the charcoal sticks in his hands, his nails digging in deep. Black dust etched into every crease and line of his palms, leaving dark stains on his skin.

Suddenly, his eyes teared up. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, only making it worse—staining charcoal smudging into his eyes, a blindfold of stinging tears and ashes. Blue and black melded and flowed as if a thumb coated with soot ran across the eyes of a watercolor painting.

Swaying across the room, Billy's dangling arms knock over paint cans and water cups as they absorb into the boy's fluid structure. His hair drips down a waterfall of purple, blue, and yellow pigments. His heartbeat takes on multiple tones as if played over a speaker underwater—muted, warbled, and barely recognizable.

He can't see. He can't see. He can't-

The high note and screeching tingling that hits his ears has his hands brush over a basket. It was powdery, smooth, and circular. Chalk. Where there were colors and almost overwhelming imagery, there was nothing but darkness. Red and yellow dripped over him as a cape, and he felt crushed by the immense pressure.

The lack of control over his body and form was too much. He retaliated the only way he knew how. He flipped the basket.

It erupted. Pounding, migraine-inducing bass vibrating the very ground, the facsimile of a boy stood. Reddish-brown powder and chalk dust reached the ceiling, unfurling into the shape of a mushroom with an expanding ring of dust and debris that rippled outwards; pieces of crayons and pencils rolled away from the epicenter—ripping his life into pieces.

Strangely enough, he sees with touch. Sensing the colors and shape, the liquid seeped into the pile, bringing up a floating piece of equipment. A microphone was connected to a wooden broadcast console. He wrapped a tendril of water around it, bringing the mic up the last recognizable part of his body—his mouth. He could feel that water was entering his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He was drowning in his own liquid.

He opened his mouth and uttered, "SHA-"

The lips hesitated, closing as if swallowing.

"Go on, finish it." The smug, gloating voice whispered in a sing-song tone reminiscent of a lullaby.

It was inevitable.

The mouth took one last breath and exhaled a word.

"No."

The static rose to a crescendo; it could feel the vibrations coursing through everything, inside and out. An earthquake shaking the very foundation of being. Baskets of arts and crafts tumbled and tossed in a salad, a blender ripping into every sense and meaning.

The water crashed, overturning the mouth, melding it to its giant amorphous fluid. There was no mouth, not anymore.

The shaking gradually ceased, and a stray chalk fell to the ground near the puddle of water within a bucket—streaks of watercolors, paint, marker, and ink swirled.

The Distortion waited for it to finally digest.

It thought it was erasing him, turning him into a fluid to easily digest.

Water can't be erased.

It adapts. It endures. It Becomes.

Transformation was nothing new to him. From street rat to Demigod, from kid to adult, and from life to death—he had faced change, and every change was a journey he would take—a responsibility he would shoulder.

He took a hypothetical breath.

Five things to see. The sense of vision was curious when it was seen through taste. The painted water flowed through the remnants, seeing the flavors amidst the entropic landscape— salty ink pooled into itself as it absorbed, gaining mass; sour paint flowed into thin, vibrant streams, sweet markers bleeding onto canvases; bitter oils floated on the surface, creating an iridescent sheen, and savory, metallic flavor of the colorful mist from a dented spray can. Four things to feel. The gurgling flow of water filling up a container, the drops of water dripping down onto the canvas below, the chaotic splash of the overflow, and the plop of liquid mass pooling onto a fractured ground. Three things to listen to. The plastic aroma of a fresh coat of acrylic as the water rippled, the harsh, sharp odor of spray paint gases mixed into the atmosphere, and the sweet, musty smell of watercolors spilled across a table. Two things to smell. The coolness of the slick surface, the roughness of the jagged edges of broken tiles. The water seeped through the cracks to pool near a slanted tile. One thing to taste. A yellow chalk teetered on a precarious edge of the ground, as water wrapped around it, the rushing force bringing it to the tile.

The Distortion watched as a child would drown an ant in a puddle it created—its fragmenting, twisted body filled with ever-changing fractals and shapes loomed over the body of water.

A chiming, crackling laughter escaped its body, glass shattering from the ocean's depths. The sound echoed, a sharp, discordant symphony of cruelty.

The sound reverberated through Billy. He may not have been able to hear it, but he felt it in his very being. It was a grating, uncomfortable feeling that rippled through his waters.

Still, he awkwardly fumbled a stray chalk to swirl in a faded-yellow spiral.

"Go on," it crooned sweetly, smug with indulgent malice. "Try your best."

The spiral began to take shape on the black tile under his makeshift, fluid-like hand. With each wave, he etched more of the spiral until it was recognizable.

He pushed against the tile with every lapping wave until it stood upright. Vertical with its spiral, menacingly observing the water before it.

He was not going to go through it.

He was going over it.

Expanding his mind, he concentrated on each piece of water. It was like peering around only Not. He could vaguely feel specks of warmth scattered around, or perhaps he tasted their colors.

Stray droplets leaned against the edges of the scrambled room before, fragments of color scattered about the surface. The leaning tower of sketchbooks stood proudly, having survived the tempest of the Distortion's anger.

Erosion.

At the base, a precarious point lay in wait in this game of Janga. All it would take was one move and the entire structure would come tumbling down.

And that was precisely what Billy needed.

The waves lapped at the tower's base, testing it as a school of piranhas circling their prey might.

Water crashed into the structure, prodding at one of the books. It wiggled, teasing the sketchbook loose from the stack with its alternating crest and troughs.

Soggy pages curled up in the edges, torn off by the constant ebb and flow. Water absorbed into the pages, smearing the black ink into a gray shadow.

It Is Not What It Is laughed, mocking the boy's efforts—a discordant melody of metal scraping onto cherry petals.

It only took one slip—a push against a particularly slippery journal binding, and the cracks propagated throughout. It started to sway like a skyscraper in the first tremors of an earthquake—sketchbooks and journals fell like a sudden deluge.

Pyroclastic flows of ripped pages and book bindings descended upon the water, creating deep amplitudes and displacing water in violent shifts.

The distance between the waves stretched further, rippling outwards.

As the crest approached the shallower water, the seabed of paint tubes and crayons slowed the approaching wave—faster water flows and built the wave higher and higher.

Then, the water began receding from the tile. Static churned in the air—a pressure drop and the oncoming storm's sharp, metallic scent.

Red tubes of paint lay scattered like uncovered seashells. Broken paint brushes stuck out of the glittering sand, drenched seaweed poking out. Interference intensified to howling winds through a tunnel.

Suddenly, a prominent crest rushed towards the black slate in a whirlwind of multicolored water. Billy's consciousness was on top of the wave's crest, surfing right on top, perched in the fierce, foaming waves. The Distorted, fractured form grew darker, tasting of soot and ozone.

As he neared the tile, Billy leaped over the upper border, soaring over the bar with droplets glinting like pearls. Fractals overhead roared in thunderstorms, and streams of yarn dangled like string cheese.

Like the bar of a long jump,

Billy felt absolute elation as he made it past the surface,

mere inches from the top.

The skim of liquid fell towards cracks and through the broken foundation before the roaring water broke the tile with the force.

A scream pierced through the air, amplified through the water, blood-curdling absent of the Distortion's nauseating imagery.

It was deeply human.

Desperate, almost.

Billy slipped through the gaps in the foundation, falling into darkness. Heat wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Droplets of water hissed as they evaporated, glistening like diamonds. They formed rivulets in the sky—blue, red, violet, and orange rivers.

The water that made up his current form began to foam and boil. Steam rose, transforming into trails of light behind him, like the tail of a comet. Above, the checkered sky framed his descent, starkly contrasting the flowing colors.

As he fell, the boiling water left behind dried remnants of color: red, black, white, yellow, and blue. Slowly, his form simplified, reducing into a watercolor figure. He tumbled through a surreal animation, flipping between frames of black-and-white paper.

The small orphan stretched out his arms, desperate to gain control over the rapid tumble. He slowed, his vision sharpening on a distant sphere—black or white, an inverse of the background behind him.

It wasn’t just a sphere. It was a hole. And he was falling straight into it.

As he drew closer, the sphere grew, consuming the entire frame. Now a speck against its vastness, Billy could feel time slipping away. It moved strangely, bending and warping in ways even the performative chaos of the Spiral couldn't achieve. Wonkier than anything he’d ever felt, not even the peculiar doors of The Rock of Eternity compared.

He tried everything to stop himself. Jumping, swimming, kicking, flying, running—none of it mattered. The pull was relentless.

The numbness began in his legs, spreading upward as they sank into the abyss. Then his stomach, his heart, until the darkness swallowed his eyes. It devoured his memories, form, and every piece of what made him him.

And then—

Nothing.

︵‿︵‿୨𖦹୧‿︵‿︵

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#billy batson #shazam #dc #dc captain marvel #captain marvel #dc comics #dc shazam #dc universe #tma #dc x tma #tma spiral #tma distortion #the distortion

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atamascolily · 1 year ago

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Absolutely incredible Art Nouveau-inspired piece commissioned from the amazingly talented @aptericia, illustrating Mami Tomoe and Castrovalva from Moebius, my Puella Magi Madoka Magica x Bleach crossover fic! Words cannot express how happy I am to see my girls in TECHNICOLOR (well, one of them, anyway--Castrovalva doesn't really "do" color), not to mention all of the wonderful details like the sunflowers, stellated dodacahedrons, and, of course, the cat's cradle ribbons and the lemniscates... it's everything I had envisioned and so much more.

(Oh, and if you look at this and go, "Huh, that's interesting, I wonder what that's all about," you can also check out the fic on AO3.)

In the meantime, I'll be over here screaming at how good this is for the foreseeable future.

#puella magi madoka magica #moebius #mami tomoe #fanart of my fic!!!#art nouveau

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avenger09 · 9 months ago

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Raziel MK1 Guest Fighter

Raziel: You tamper with lives as readily as any would-be-god.

Lui Kang: Only to disarm the wicked and unbound unseen potential.

---

Liu Kang: Your Elder God is no such thing. Merely an exceptionally large parasite.

Raziel: That I have already discerned for myself, "Titan."

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Raziel: Thunder all you like, but you will not be spared if you impead my retribution.

Raiden: Well at least your honest.

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Raziel: What madness drove your "Titan" to place an actor amongst his champions?

Johnny Cage: Somebody had to be the light of the party.

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Johnny Cage: You have a killer voice dude. Ever thought of doing VO work?

Raziel: That... sounds intriguing.

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Kung Lao: Just so I'm sure, are you a zombie or a ghost?

Raziel: *sigh* A wraith, you ignoramus.

---

Raziel: Your bravado reminds me all too much of myself and my brothers.

Kung Lao: Please. I have infinitely more style.

---

Ermac: Your brothers souls cry out for release.

Raziel: Then I shall extend the same mercy they offered me, and do nothing!

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Kenshi: Something about your weapon provokes Sento.

Raziel: Your blade and the Reaver are kindred - two sides of the same bloodied edge.

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Homelander: I already killed you, how are you still alive?!

Raziel: I am not so easily vanquished, wretch.

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Raziel: How fitting that one with the temperament of a mewling child, should have the appetite of one as well.

Homerlander: *Chuckle* When I'm done, your going to look even more like a corpse.

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Peacemaker: Hey, I put the bad guys in ground, just like you.

Raziel: Yes, alongside the innocent, the young and unfortunate.

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Raziel: There is no righteousness here, only the desperate justifications of the fanatic.

Peacemaker: You think I like being this way? It's not easy fixing what's broken.

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Nitara: To tear the wings from a vampire is the gravest of transgressions, in my realm.

Raziel: One I shall repay a thousandfold upon that bastard Kain.

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Raziel: I will devour your soul and restore my wings!

Nitara: You won't find me easy prey.

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Quan Chi: Shinnok will reward me for my faith.

Raziel: Then you will share the same fate as Moebius!

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Noob Saibot: We have both of us been transformed by death.

Raziel: But only I remain free.

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Geras: You were meant to bring an end to all remnents of the vampires in Nosgoth.

Raziel: Instead my pursuit of Kain allowed me to retake by destiny.

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Raziel: I have done your timeline no wrong automanton, why pursuit me?!

Geras: Because history abors a paradox, and I, am its guardian.

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Raziel: In my experience, paths to redemption lead only to further disillusion

Ashrah: Yet you were able to renounce the man you once were.

---

Conan: You corralled humanity into cages!

Raziel: Only that we might feed, they indiscrematly slaughtered vampires out of mere zealotry.

#fantasy #mortal kombat #soul reaver #legacy of kain #Raziel #Banter #crossover #nosgoth

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cantsayidont · 2 years ago

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"So each year, hoping he will return, we set an extra place at dinner...for Superman!"

In 1984, the 400th issue of SUPERMAN presented an oversize issue with a series of vignettes about Superman's future, illustrated by a selection of different artists (including Frank Miller and Jim Steranko, among others) and interspersed with pinups and little essays by artists ranging from Will Eisner to Moebius.

The story itself, mostly written by Elliot S! Maggin, is unusual, since unlike most "Imaginary Stories," it's not interested with Superman's future (whom he marries, whether he has children, etc.), but rather with his eventual transformation into a mythic figure.

The most interesting of the vignettes is this one, drawn and colored by Klaus Janson. The narrative captions aren't always very legible, so I'll transcribe them after each page.

"So did the legend wax and wane and wax some more across the ages until, inevitably, the career of Kal-El, the waif from a lost world, passed from the realm of legend into myth… And in the dawning days of the Sixtieth Century--the memory of Superman has passed from reverence to ritual…"

"Meet Riley Benedix-- Even to 20th-Century eyes Riley's mode of dress would appear eccentric… Worry not--there is an explanation. The hat, of course, is the stovepipe of Abraham Lincoln, who lived soon enough before the great age of heroes to be included among them… The eyes wear the distinctive spectacles of Woodrow Wilson, who made the world safe for democracy… The shirt is that of Superman, greatest of all heroes, who fought for truth, justice, and the American way… Over Riley's back is an Eisenhower jacket, reminiscent of the hero of D-Day… On his feet are the highwater boots of Kuhan Pei-Jing, who slogged through the ricefields of Asian negotiating to head off a Third World War in the 1990's."

"Every year Riley and thousands of other history buffs fly hopelessly outdated spacecraft to Arcturus…to the convention of the 'League of Supermen'--for costume parades, sales of ancient memorabilia, parties, and a bit of unabashed fun… Riley's father never understood fun…"

"We join the Benedix family on a night of the year that is different from all other nights…"

"That is a good question, Superman…which you will answer to your own satisfaction soon enough…but for now you are only relatively sure of where you have been. You learned, again, that when the powers you wield are awesome, then the forces that array themselves against you are likewise--when the pulsing blob of chaotic energy nearly entered a star-system close to Earth's…and threatened, but its presence, to skew the orbits of inhabited worlds… Suddenly, not only was the blob of energy gone--but so was the last son of Krypton!"

"Alone, in pain, he found himself swimming through space like a drowning man looking for a life raft…directing himself more through will and instinct than through consciousness--to the blue-green world that has come to be his home. As, not a hundred yards from where the Man of Steel fell…"

"Soon, the stranger opens his eyes, looks around, and wonders…"

"So young Riley Benedix does continue the story of this festive day for his family…and he is the only one who knows that one of the story's main characters is here at the table with them all! It is a story of the days when America was young…and a child who could change the course of mighty rivers came to Earth--to exemplify all that American had and would come to stand for! Some of the story is accurate…some is clouded by the folds of myth and time--but like art and greatness, it is all true!"

"The young man walks the man from four thousand years ago into the sea-breeze of the night, and… For every Miracle Monday after that one, Riley's family set an extra place as everyone else did…but every year through Riley's old age, the food on Superman's dish mysteriously disappeared during dinner! Of course, everyone thought it was a trick--that Riley always teleported it away…but only Riley knew that sometimes legends live!"

Miracle Monday is a recurring holiday in Maggin's Superman stories, celebrated the third Monday of each May. It's explained in Maggin's 1981 prose novel of the same name, in which Superman beats the Devil (in the form of one C.W. Saturn) with some assistance from a time-traveling 29th century historian named Kristen Wells and an unexpected last-minute save from Lex Luthor (who was a very different character in that era and whom Maggin generally presented in a relatively sympathetic light).

(The cover of the novel tends to imply that it's a novelization of the Christopher Reeve SUPERMAN 2, which it's not, despite the glossy center section with photos from that movie.)

Maggin, who was a regular writer of the Superman comics in the '70s and '80s, later returned Kristen Wells in DC COMICS PRESENTS Annual #2 (1983) and #4 (1985), which make reference to the events of the novel.

In any event, the Benedix family's Miracle Monday celebration is very plainly modeled on a Passover seder, with an empty plate for Superman taking the place of the extra glass of wine poured for the prophet Elijah. It doesn't appear they've left the door open for Superman, but his appearance at the open door is obviously intended to evoke that tradition.

There is a lot of Jewish-coded content in the Superman stories of the Silver Age and Bronze Age (from 1958 to 1986) — a lot more than in the Golden Age, unless you really strain, and MUCH more than in the period following the John Byrne revamp begun in 1986–1987, which pointedly did away with most of that stuff — and this is a particularly clear example. In that respect, it's notable that the Miracle Monday seder is expressly an Earth custom; much of what you can most readily identify as Jewish-coded in these stories is associated with the Kryptonian diaspora.

Regarding the story's narrative coda, it may be worth pointing out that while this story has Superman initially thrown through time by a mysterious space phenomenon, the "pre-Crisis" Silver Age/Bronze Age Superman could fly at superluminal speeds, and was capable of both interstellar travel and time travel under his own power. There were some complicated (and irregularly applied) rules about traveling to time periods in which he already existed, but Superman was capable of simply traveling forward in time and then returning to his own time more or less whenever he felt like it, which is how he was able to perform this little parlor trick for Riley. That was one of the abilities that John Byrne removed in the wake of MAN OF STEEL, in the effort to reduce Superman's powers and try to tie them to a specific set of pseudo-scientific rules.

#comics #superman #elliot s maggin #klaus janson #miracle monday #pre crisis

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razielim · 5 hours ago

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Curious about your thoughts on Moebius since you mentioned him as a fave on another ask 👀⏳️🔮🐍♾️

How I feel about this character

He's a fucking bastard, and I could listen to him leading the two protagonist knuckleheads by their noses for hours. Literally my favorite voice acting out of a series lauded for out-of-this-world spectacular voice acting.

There's so much to PICK APART. Every time I listen to the cutscenes, I'm paying SO MUCH attention to a) the content of his dialogue, b) the way it is delivered, c) and how that delivery shifts according to the dynamic situation caused by the characters' various power plays against one another. This man lies while sounding like: an obvious liar, nervously honest out of desperation, brutally honest out of over-confidence, a skilled (but not skilled enough) liar, a liar that literally no one will ever catch bc good god that is indistinguishable from some of his truth bombs, a wronged party, an aggressor, a hater, a lover, on and on and on. And he LIES by TELLING THE TRUTH. And he TELLS THE TRUTH by LYING. There's just literally never a dull moment when Moebius is talking. I love him, I love him, I love him, he's like crack, he's catnip, he's everything. He's a feeble old man. He's a sharp immortal who maintains an iron grip on the range of possible actions that he allows his enemies to even conceive of, let alone pursue.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

I'm a big fan of some really fucked up illicit arrangement between him and the human Raziel. Like some grooming nonsense. I want to see that Sarafan Priest used like a cheap whore without knowing that Moebius is doing it out of some petty secret revenge against the wraith Raziel. Moebius knows that someday very soon the wraith will kill the human he's been keeping as a pet, and that's more satisfying to him than mere carnal pleasure.

The concept is FURTHER elevated if the others, Turel et al, are jealous and resentful of this little arrangement that grants Raziel favors. Yes, sure, bc it mirrors them resenting his close relationship to Kain in the future, but also the irony of that arrangement, you know? Raziel being quite pleased with himself, for rising in the ranks, for having a close personal relationship with Moebius, the Moebius, to know his secret kindness that Moebius covers up with a commanding affect around the others so that he may lead them to a glorious and holy victory. Raziel loves this old man, warts and all. Only for all of it to be part of Moebius's sick little joke he keeps to himself.

FURTHER hilarious to Moebius because, until Raziel is disabused of the notion that his human self was some sort of savior of Nosgoth, he comes to the past clearly convinced of the purity of his human past, while also plainly repulsed to find himself in Moebius's presence, like he's something contagious. And Moebius gets to privately enjoy the knowledge that he had personally, with great carnal enthusiasm, ensured that the human Raziel had NO purity left by the time of his death.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Those old-ish fancomics that sometimes float around make me wonder a lot about his time with Mortanius and the others that rebelled. Held in captivity, indoctrinated to serve the Pillars the way the Ancients prescribed, doomed to be made into vampires. What were their days like, when their vampire masters hid from the sun? Did they talk about nothing and everything, curled up together on a perilous roof of the aviary, enjoying a warm sunny day and dreaming of freedom? When they began to be influenced by dark thoughts guiding them towards rebellion and an escape from the looming transformation, did they remain as close? Did they share their nervous excitement with one another, or is this when the dark suspicions start to take hold? Was that the beginning of the rift that would find them on opposite sides to the problem of what to do with Kain...

My unpopular opinion about this character

I just think he's neat!

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

Honestly....... I think I'm good. We got the absolute max out of this character. Any Hennig wrung him out like a sponge. Delicious, duplicitous, lying bastard sponge.

#moebius #legacy of kain #asks #social #cosmic

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sundove88 · 1 year ago

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JUNK-MN (Wall-E Parody Casting)

JUNK-MN, short for Junk-Man, is one of the few last robots left on Earth. He spends his days tidying up the planet, one piece of garbage at a time. But during all those years, JUNK-MN has developed a personality, and he's more than a little lonely. Then he spots Cure Amour, a sleek and shapely android sent back to Earth on a scanning mission. Smitten JUNK-MN embarks on his greatest adventure yet when he follows Cure Amour across the galaxy.

Junk Man as Wall-E (Mega Man)

Kricketune as Hal the Cockroach (Pokemon)

Ruru Amour/Cure Amour as EVE (HUGtto! Precure)

Emiru Kisaki/Cure Macherie as Herself/EVE’s Partner (HUGtto! Precure)

Bobert 6B as M-O (The Amazing World of Gumball)

Mega Man, Proto Man, Bass, Mega Man X, Zero, Axl, and Roll as Themselves/The Robots’ Allies (Mega Man + Mega Man X)

Professor Sycamore as Captain B. McCrea (Pokemon)

Dr. Light as Himself/Captain B. McCrea’s Friend (Mega Man)

Moebius as Auto (Fresh PreCure)

Klein and Northa as Themselves/Auto’s Assistants (Fresh PreCure)

King Dedede as John (Kirby)

Fairy Queen as Mary (Kirby)

Vile as GO-4 (Mega Man X)

Wheelie as Burn-E (Transformers)

GLaDOS as The Axiom's Computer (Portal)

Heath as Shelby Forthright (Pokemon)

Wave Man as BRL-A (Mega Man)

Ratchet as D-FIB (Transformers)

Bulkhead as HAN-S (Transformers)

Storm Eagle as L-T (Mega Man X)

Volt Kraken as VN-GO (Mega Man X)

DustMan as VAQ-M (Mega Man)

Arcee as PR-T (Transformers)

Mets as Rem-Es (Mega Man)

FlashMan as Supply-R (Mega Man)

The Other Robot Masters + Mavericks as Themselves/The Robots’ Friends (Mega Man + Mega Man X)

The Other Autobots as Themselves/The Robots’ Allies (Transformers)

The Decepticons as Themselves/AUTO’s Allies (Transformers)

Various Characters as The Humans

FakeMan as SECUR-T (Mega Man)

Beta!Junk Man as WALL-AS (Mega Man)

Wheatley as TYP-E (Portal)

Various Characters as Various Robots

Here’s your hint for the next casting (It’s for Valentine’s Day):

🦢👑✨

#crossover casting #parody #Disney #Pixar #wall e #WALL·E #mega man #megaman #mega man x #Pokemon #precure #Hugtto PreCure #the amazing world of Gumball #TAWoG #fresh PreCure #Kirby #transformers #portal

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dustedmagazine · 3 months ago

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David Ivan Neil — I Hope Yer OK (Perpetual Doom)

Photo by Emilio Pagnotta

David Ivan Neil is a singer/songwriter out of British Columbia who hoes his own row of outsider folk music in which he seeks the infinite among the wilds of the mundane. For over a decade he has nurtured the flame of creative practice in the nooks and crannies afforded by the life of a working parent, leaving behind a trail of shambling, homespun albums across the internet. His new tape, I Hope Yer OK, found a sympathetic home on the immaculately curated slacker-folk-rock label Perpetual Doom. Rising to the occasion, it is the best produced work in his lengthy catalog, boasting the barest studio sheen and a tight, stripped-back honky-stoner band, the A OK Players, who lend urgency and back-beat movement to DIN’s emotionally zoomed-in half-slurred confessionals.

DIN’s music, like that of his north star inspiration Daniel Johnston (name-checked in the liner notes of the physical product) has never had trouble getting its point across even under the most minimal recording circumstances. This album, however, demonstrates that sweetening that pot never hurts — the locked in rhythm section and touches like keyboards, woodwinds, strings and backup vocal arrangements push things further into a zone of accessibility and beyond the immediate Daniel Johnston “outsider” association. Hints of past literary anti-folk heroes such as Jeffrey Lewis and David Berman, whose Silver Jews jam “K-Hole” is covered here, pop up, but DIN is determined to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground in the dirt-patched yard with the cigarette butts and beer cans rather than let his head float too high into clouds of verbose metaphor.

I Hope Yer OK begins with what feels like a thesis statement for the album, “Drums,” a love song about frustration that centers on the almost shouted refrain “I wanna play the drums, I wanna play ‘em loud.” The band engages in a string and woodwind backed lope here that recalls a less restrained Woods band when they assumed the role of David Berman’s backing unit on Purple Mountains. However, where Berman’s fire for life seems tragically all but put out on that album, DIN sings with an unhinged, manic glee, clearly “happy to be alive” — a line which is found later in the song “Haircut” — despite the madness inducing moebius strip of disappointment that a regular life can feel like. You can always bang on a drum kit, listen to the cymbals sizzle, that beautiful noise and physical exertion has the potential to bring everything back to center.

The song “Haircut” continues this theme, covering a bleary hungover day that requires a couple different restarts and revisions over a lo-fi country ramble with accents of mandolin. Fatherhood and house maintenance, getting old and hangovers hitting harder, observing with resignation that the relentless march of time is a reminder that life has been worth living. Something as simple as a haircut can be a transformation, or maybe it can’t. You’re the same person, you could never be anyone different, and that’s ok. You’re alive, you love, and you are loved, and all this stuff that’s pissing you off, all this work you must do, proves it.

The lead single from I Hope Yer OK and its penultimate shot at the windmill of the indifferent universe is the joyous and fatalistic “Used to Only Win,” an unanswerable demand to the void to give us back what we think we deserve when the petty losses and indignities of life keep adding up. It’s darkly funny subject matter that contrasts with the bouncy piano, electric guitar and woodwinds that float it along. The sweet, polished music combined with sour, reeling imagery is another nod to Purple Mountains, which seems to loom large over the full-band approach DIN takes with the A OK Players. It works as a thematic mirror to the statement made in the title of the album – we hope we’re all ok, we all know we aren’t, we know no one is getting all of what they need or deserve. The best we can do is hit the drums or sing at the top of our lungs, or maybe “drink until my piss-bag is full up,” until it all feels little bit better.

Joshua Moss

#david ivan neil #i hope yer ok #perpetual doom #joshua moss #albumreview #dusted magazine #singer songwriter #outside folk #daniel johnston

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shadow-coolness · 1 month ago

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Tangle: You ever wonder about alternate universes Whisper?

Whisper: Not really.

*Meanwhile in alternate universe where Shadows an Echidna*

Knuckles: Hey thats-!

Shadow: That red Echidna again of all places.

Knuckles: I found you! Faker!

Shadow: Faker? I think you’re the fake echidna around here. You’re comparing yourself to me? HA! You’re not even good enough to be my fake.

Knuckles: I’ll force feed you those words!

*Meanwhile in an alternate universe where Tails is evil*

Sonic: Look its a…..kid?

Dr.Vulpes: Silence! I am Dr.Vulpes, the greatest scientific genius in the WORLD!

Sonic:….Ok but seriously how old are you?

*Meanwhile in an alternate universe where Amy is Sonics sidekick*

Amy: Oh Sonic, isn’t this great? You and me going on adventure together, Going to many places, Saving the day, helping the innocent, getting closer and clo-

Knuckles: You realize im here too right?

Sonic: Wait what were you saying? I was too focused on this Chili Dog.

Amy:…..*Inhale* Forget about it.

*Meanwhile in an alternate universe where Infinite and Whisper swapped*

Silenced: I can taste your terror, lemur. All that anxiety and doubt... it's delicious

Tangle: Oh thats not fear~

Silenced:….Im going to blast you now, not sure when i’ll stop.

*On the flipside*

Zero: Me? Shaking? Dont be a fool, i never show fear.

Gadget: What about that time you thought i died?

Zero: That wasnt fear that was annoyance at having to save your ass again.

Gadget: Sure bud.

*Meanwhile in an alternate universe where Sonic never lost the Werehog form*

Werehog Sonic: Alright EggHead! Come out and fight!

Eggman: HoHoHo!! Lets see you get a load of this Sonic!

*Summons Metal Sonic*

Werehog Sonic:….Well? Is that it? Or is there mo-

*Metal Sonics eyes glow purple and he starts to change before transforming into a…*

Werehog Metal Sonic: *Howls in robot*

Werehog Sonic:….Alright then.

*Meanwhile Moebius*

Mangle: You ever wonder about alternate universes Screech?

Screech: Dont care.

Mangle: Well you’re no fun.

Screech: And you’re an idiot.

Mangle: You say that but i know you secretly wanna kiss me under the moonlight.

Screech: There are a lotta things i wanna do to you and thats not one of them.

Mangle: Oh? Tell me more.

Screech:…..I will strangle you.

Mangle: Dont threaten me with a good ti-

Screech: *Aims her wispon at her*

Mangle: Alright Alright.

Screech: Good.

Mangle:….In an alternate universe you’re definitely more social.

Screech: And you’re smarter and less annoyingly reckless.

*Meanwhile in the original*

*Tangle and Whisper sneeze at the same time*

Tangle: *Sniff* Jinx!

Whisper: You did not just jinx a sneeze.

Tangle: Yes i did! What’re you gonna do about it?

Whisper: Well guess i gotta take you on a date now.

Tangle: Now i like the sound of that.

#sonic #sonic idw #incorrect quotations #incorrect quotes #incorrect sonic

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written-in-sunshine · 5 months ago

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Title: A Matter Of Public Safety

Author: Keith

Fandom: Sonic Comics

Setting: Moebius castle war room

Pairing: Scourge the Hedgehog/Sonic the Hedgehog, Anti-Tails & Scourge the Hedgehog, Anti-Tails & Sonic the Hedgehog

Characters: Sonic the Hedgehog, Scourge the Hedgehog, Anti-Tails

Genre: Romance/Erotic

Rating: E

Chapters: 1/2

Word Count: 4,149

Type Of Work: Two-Shot

Status: Incomplete

Warnings: Slash, MLM, M/M, Established Relationship, AU - Scourge Is Still King, Intersex Character, Intersex Sonic The Hedgehog, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Okay There’s A Vague Plot Sorta, Makeouts, Kissing Fetish, Philemaphilia, Grinding, Intercurial Sex, Sorta, Light Dom/Sub, Dom!Sonic, Sub!Scourge, Bottom!Scourge, Top!Sonic, Handjobs, Anal Fingering, Scourge Is A Horny Little Shit, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Dry Humping, But It’s Actually Really Wet Because Scourge Is Drippy AF, Praise Kink, More To Be Added

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Sonic is based on how my friend Bug writes him.

Summary: It really was a matter of public safety.

#sonic fanfiction #sonic the hedgehog fanfiction #sonourge #sonic the hedgehog #scourge the hedgehog #november sierra foxtrot whiskey

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superscourge · 1 year ago

Note

Can you tell us more about the Childhood Friends AU?

yeas

i guess i'll give some lil details abt it. this is gonna be long so under the cut it goes

sonic and scourge (also sonic at the time) meet each other when a portal opens up between their dimensions when theyre both about 10 years old. they both are pretty attuned to changes in their world, so they find it at the same time and are like "What The Heck You're Me!" but they hit it off pretty quickly bc they figure out the other one is just as fast as them and they race and a bond is formed.. they decide to call each other nicknames (buckles for prime sonic, shades for alt sonic bc at the time he's wearing the leather jacket + boots + shades) just to make things easier

for a little more context, in this au moebius is more like just. mobius but a little to the left. its not an opposite world like it is in canon, its just kinda...Different? if that makes sense? so shades isnt Nice, hes kind of a dick and he's rude, but he's not evil or malicious

buckles finds out after a while that shades has...not the best home life. his dad fuckin sucks. so shades stays with him and his nonna a lot (buckles' parents are gone already and he ends up staying with this sweet old cat lady he calls his nonna). this eventually culiminates into an awful thing when theyre about 14--shades ends up being pushed to the point of where he actually kills his dad. he doesnt show up for weeks, and buckles is worried, but he eventually shows up again, but hes different. hes not okay. and suddenly hes talking about how they cant be friends, how hes going to leave and never come back. and they have their first fight, which ends with shades leaving and buckles being left alone and devastated

they dont meet again until a couple years later when theyre both 16. shades had eventually returned to mobius and had been crashing there for a while, but he was stirring up trouble under the name of sonic. prime sonic finds him on angel island--apparently he had caused so much trouble that even sonic's enemies were targeting him now, so he wanted to use the master emerald to gain power so they'd stop messing with him. of course this goes south when he powers up with the emerald and knuckles defends it by slashing him across the chest during the transformation, interrupting it and putting him in a permanent half-super state (the green). he proclaims his new name is scourge, and they fight again, but scourge ends up using the master emerald to chaos control away, and once again they dont see each other for a while after that, bc then sonic is dealing with the Worst fucking year of his life (shadow, unleashed, forces). they basically dont talk again until theyre 19.

when they do talk again, sonic's really messed up from forces--the torture from infinite on the death egg really fucked him up and was making him question his reality even after everything. but scourge runs into him and knocks some sense into him (literally punches him in the face LOL) and sonic realizes this Is real, the war Is over, and everything fucking sucks. his nonna died while he was away. scourge doesnt take this well at all, and neither does sonic when he realizes its real, and they both kinda have a mutual breakdown moment because Neither of them were there when she passed and they both majorly regret it. but scourge still doesnt end up staying; he takes sonic to a nearby village when he falls asleep and then he leaves again. but that lets sonic know that scourge still does care about him, despite pushing him away for all these years. so hes going to figure out why, and bring back his friend.

they finally meet again post-frontiers, when sonic has a clearer head and has healed a lot. they fight again Of Course, but it ends up with scourge finally confessing why he'd run away so long ago, why he'd been trying so hard to push sonic away and drive a wedge between them to make sure sonic would Stay away--it was all because of the thing with his dad. he was ashamed of himself and didnt want his only best friend to see him as a murderer. but yknow what? sonic isnt fazed. he doesnt give a Shit. in fact he literally tells scourge that if scourge hadnt done it? sonic would have. jules was awful and beyond saving and the world was better off without him. scourge is shocked by all this, not really understanding...but they end up making up and finally, Finally becoming friends again

so thats the whole story LOL. ive been developing it w jester behind the scenes and while it isnt a Long au story its a fun and angsty one hehe. might be a little sonourge eventually. you know how it is

#childhood friends au #arealscourge.txt #heres the Entire AU laid out. have fun

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