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phantom-of-decadence · 4 years

Text

God Forbid & the Devil Fears // Chapter One \\

Fandom: Hannibal (TV series)

Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Will’s Dogs, Mischa (mentioned) - more to be added

Pairing(s): Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter

Summary of Entire Works: Moving from town to town is exhausting work to keep your face hidden and your hobbies going, but it's worth it to find that crushing high

Hannibal drags himself all over the country, following specific people to kill and following a strict set of rules he laid for himself, struggling to keep his blood lust under wraps.

He soon finds himself in dreary town called Oak Creek and coming face to face with a local who is too curious for his own good.

Albeit, he intrigues Hannibal too, but he is left to wonder if he wants to kill the local or treat him like a delicate rose, blooming in winter's chrysalis...

Warnings: Blood, gore, description of death, murderous thoughts, hunting, pretentious language

Wordcount: 5,514

Tags: AU!No cannibalism, AU!Bookshop Will, AU!Righteous Hannibal, other tags to be added, Will is autistic, pining, angst, gay panic, subtle flirting, eventual smut, fluff, fluff/comfort, pet names, gay thoughts, hunting, hannibal is the scruffy one, so is will but he has standards for fuckssake, hannibal tries to be polite, he is still a murderer though,

A/N: Because we all fucking love putting religion where it doesn’t belong. Also I tentatively made Will on the autistic spectrum ((I will be doing my best to portray autism correctly and read up on it, please let me know if things need to be fixed. I want to do this right))

The POV is not set in stone, I just wanted to open it with something different, going between first person and second was very interesting and I hope it gives insight on characters. So I will likely switch it to third if the next chapter gets written, or keep it like this. IDK, its a toss up

The title will become so relevant later

Towns all look the same, especially when they were all small and in the middle of nowhere.

I move between them often, just stay long enough to admire my handiwork and then I move on for my next target. Leaving what I had done behind me, before they could figure out who had done it.

Where was the fun in being found?

I try not to show my face in the towns I grace, I play a guise that I am visiting friends, family, relations or on my way to see them.

So I stop in a place to rest, a sleepy village that hides a monster. It’s only for a few days at most, I hardly ever eat in a restaurant unless I am stalking, or I get something quick to sate my hunger. And even then, my stomach will not settle for it.

In all the towns I visit, I find nothing to delight in besides the people that they hold within them, those who have not properly answered for their crimes. They walk among the others with their shoulders unburdened and their minds dark, on the prowl for their next victim, warily searching.

Their faces and names, dragged through the mud and branded traitors to mankind and humanity. Some were even locked up and away from the humanity they tried to destroy. Those creatures were the sloppy and messy, only focused chasing the high.

Others I knew, were more careful, calculated and didn’t get caught, didn’t get their due even though they left carnage in the wake of their high.

I knew that high, I craved it. Like all of them.

The high was something that I couldn’t live without.

Was it an addiction?

Maybe.

I never really thought about calling it an addiction, it was a desire to me. Something I could control, something that I had strength over.

An addiction is an urge that had power over its victim.

I would not let the blood lust that curled in my chest to control me, it tried to. Often times when I looked upon a face too soft for this world, too soft for this time.

I did not often give those rushing thoughts too much consideration in the long run, I knew that I should. When I have the time.

But I didn’t have the time, not now.

I was in a new place, looking for a new face, and finding a new desire.

All these towns looked the same.

They were all sleepy, with aimless people wandering the streets. Disguised in neutral colors, abandoned effects, cobblestones and dirt roads.

Diners, mom&pop shops, locals and hardly hints of modern urbanization. Everyone knew everyone, and they didn’t take kindly to an unkind face they have never seen before.

So you have to smile, blend in, pretend you’re one of them - normal, at least; but on the inside you are screaming endlessly and desperately craving for a rushing, dizzy high. A desperation to see red dripping from a wound you made on their exposed throat as their tongue wagged with senseless words, and to the look of shock and stunned silence on the faces of those that surrounded you, the face in front of you.

The thought of it made my mouth water, my hands shake with anticipation on the steering wheel, and my chest crushed with a weight, like I had been sunk deep in the dark depths and been made to stay there, the pressure choking excited gasps from my lungs until I was drowned by the waves of the ocean.

These are the moments where I was powerless, the crescendo of my high - when euphoria rolled through me in waves, and I lost all sense of control.

It hardly ever reached that point, outside of the smooth slide of my knife against uneven skin.

This town was different. I could feel it the moment I drove past the sign that welcomed me into Oak Creek, or perhaps it was just the sinking unease that trickled through me like an impeded stream when I saw the deteriorating sign of that godforsaken fast food restaurant that so many people fattened themselves at.

It’s yellows and reds well faded over time in this dusty little village that didn’t see fit to continuously update it.

I would’ve considered this place abandoned with its looming and dark buildings that were worn with the years of neglect; but Oak Creek’s residents seemed none too concerned about the gloomy haze and bitter cold that rolled over the sky, holding a threat of snow over them.

They didn’t care. They continued to roam the streets, all bundled in fleece coats. It was almost admiral how people in this dreary town continued their aimless patterns in the cold.

The drive past the buildings and to the motel was a short one, on a winding road that dodged small, nestled grey shacks that remained under maintained.

When I came upon the motel, I took note of how well it fit in well with the rest of Oak Creek with a tilt of my head; sleepy and cold and deteriorated, like the rest of the town.

The roof and grounds covered in a fresh blanket of snow, the dark wooden structure was sparse from decoration, save for a sign that read the name of the motel which I barely registered in the back of my mind.

It was the only lodgings in town, after all.

I slowed my car to a stop in front of the motel, turning it off and slowly resting back against the leather seat as I watched the dreary outside in order to collect my thoughts in a neat line.

I began to wonder why those I stalked, kept to themselves in small towns that were underpopulated. Where people are unlikely to speak about the acts they witness or the people that pass through, because they knew better than to talk about other people’s business.

If my prey wanted a chance, then why not find a populated city?

They would be more likely to be found by someone that wasn’t me, perhaps it was the assumption that small towns like Oak Creek didn’t care. And they didn’t, they kept their nose out of private matters unless it concerned the community directly.

But, I like to think my prey enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of the chase.

Mutual respect, perhaps?

Make it easy to dispose of putrid waste?

Kind of them.

Why do towns exist, little places like these, without much foot traffic or tourism? How do they make their income, how do they willingly feed off of one another and fight their neighbor for profits?

How do they justify it?

Do they?

Or is it something unspoken, untold and unfixed?

No tourist attraction, no myths, legends or killers.

That they knew of.

Towns like this surely had no discourse to them, they were a still lake who never had its surface disturbed by wind, leaf or rock. Intentional or not.

Where was the vibration of enjoyment?

These thoughts careened in my head as I left the warmth of my car and made a hasty entrance into the motel, I feigned a smile as I stepped up to the desk to obtain my key from them, “I’m just passing through, on my way for a baby shower.”

I answered the desk clerk’s invasive questions in a polite manner as they tried to get to know me, a brief guest in a drizzle of visitors.

What was behind the urge to know everyone in these dwellings?

Could I consider it all basic politeness that was due to every human?

They couldn’t possibly know what I was by a singular glance. They were simply ordinary.

I would only be here for only three days at the most, that’s how long it would take. To find him, his pattern and then drag him out of his dwellings and gut him like the senseless and cowardly pig he was.

I almost felt guilty for comparing him to a pig; pigs had more character than this man.

Though, I suppose he wasn’t entirely senseless, he moved often from his crimes, never got caught and made his killings few and far between.

This time, he made an error, he slipped up. Stayed for too long to revile in the chaos that was created, he got a little sloppy. He still retained more intelligence than half of the detectives and pawns for the FBI hunting him, because he crawled away, right under their noses.

He couldn’t crawl away from me, I found him and he didn’t even know.

Yet.

My routine began when I was handed my key and directed to my room.

Once I entered the ‘cozy dwellings’ as described by the advertising, I put the “do-not disturb” sign on the doorknob. Some previously have considered it peculiar how much I value the privacy and discretion in my life.

If they were inside of my skin, shared my experiences, they would understand. A man who soaked their hands in red does not leave hand prints on others uninvolved in their crimes.

I scoured the room, began to measure and map it in my mind. I sat my travel bag down by the bed before I eased myself onto the creaking mattress, listening for how thin the walls were, how much sound would enter and escape.

I could hear the sounds from the road outside of these lodgings; it was mostly silent, no cars rumbling by. Everything was within walking distance, so I understood that people didn’t use gas unless it was completely unavoidable.

No sounds on the road, not many people milling around. No cacophony of noise to cover up the wails of a dying man, questions would be raised.

It couldn’t be here.

I knew the home address of the man I was hunting, I knew a lot about him.

I made that my job to know him, all of his names that changed from town to town and crime to crime; his given name was Peter Martin, not a name that stuck out in a long list of names that the devil keeps.

I wondered why he never kept his name as it was given, too mundane perhaps? Did he want to strike terror into the hearts of others with a frightening name?

Peter Martin would not be giving me that answer, that wouldn’t be the question I was asking him.

I needed to go to his home and watch him, establish his pattern the way a bee would every single day, a drone existing to serve a queen. Existing to serve the chance that a high would be waiting for him around the corner.

Despite having just arrived to my room, I was ready to venture out into the frigid ghost town.

The prospect of a hunt, of a chase - the temptation and soft promise that I would get that depth crushing high in a manner of three days time, was enough for me to rise from my bed and leave the warmth of my lodgings behind.

The sooner I was able to map out Oak Creek, the sooner my hunt could begin and I could move on to the next deserved high.

I stood, staring down my own reflection in the mirror that sat above the desk, trying to assure myself that I looked like one of them.

With the plaid scarf tucked tightly around my neck, leather gloves on my hands, and knit cap pulled down over my ears, I looked less of a killer than what I actually was.

You cannot help feeling what you are in your soul; but for a brief moment of peace, your mind can let you forget what you actually are.

In the end, when it truly matters most, you will always know what you are in the darkest parts of yourself.

I closed the door behind me, taking care to ensure that the “do-not-disturb” sign was on before I left the premise; though left nothing incriminating in my room. I kept that with me, at all times.

Then again, I was a fond of using whatever was within reach of my hands when it came to achieving my high.

Some considered it resourceful, when I used a “Live~Laugh~Love” wooden poster to nearly sever the head of an escaped child rapist. He had struggled too much, knocked the knife from my grip. That was the closest thing I could reach.

The snow crunched under my boots as I trudged along the slate sidewalk that led from the motel and into a graying Oak Creek, it was mostly empty save for a couple dressed in brown and tan winter clothing, too wrapped up in each other to notice that they had passed me.

I didn’t have the desire to quirk the corners of my mouth up when our eyes met for a singular second, I knew my gaze was emotionless and empty even if they didn’t register it, I did.

I found difficulty to fit warmth in my features unless I had reason to do so, a reason that would hopefully benefit me in the end, and people in love is not a reason to show warmth.

We passed each other and that was the end of it.

I passed several stores in the area, none of which I took too much note of. Save for a diner, I would need to eat, after all.

The sky was still as grey and callous, if not more so, from the time I arrived.

Dark skies settled over the horizon, assuring to bring fresh snow and harsh winds that burned my nose and cast tears in my eyes trying to see past the frigid breeze.

I never particularly cared for winter, it was too bitter and gloomy.

Only one aspect of winter was appeasing to me, it was the whiteness of the snow. How undisturbed it fell, the way it gently kissed the earth and how it looked when red spattered over it.

I enjoyed writing my love notes to the earth on pure white.

I continued down the sidewalk for a few minutes longer to take everything in, but I soon found myself looking up at a wooden sign above a shop that read, “Pages and Pawprints, a collection of books and friendly faces to keep you company”.

I don’t exactly remember what called me towards the cobblestone store that was more window than it was building, but I turned my attention to it fully. It looked almost completely desolate, but I approached it all the same as curiosity drove me more than logic.

I knew I shouldn’t be showing my face too much in Oak Creek, thankfully satisfaction brought the curious cat, back from the dead.

I opened the glass door, trying not to notice how the handle was shaped in a dog’s paw; I was instantly greeted by the sound of a bell ringing and a couple of subdued barks from dogs laying down, near a couple of tables and chairs.

My eyes were drawn to the six dogs lying on multiple beds that had been provided for them, they were all of different size and color and all eyes were locked onto me.

Subtly, I wondered what I had been expecting? The owner of this store was clearly infatuated with canines and their hair, whereas, I was not. I considered turning around and leaving, though something kept me there.

Perhaps it was the warmth in contrast to the outside, I paused to loosen my scarf and unzip my jacket. I left the knit cap on, however.

The door closed behind me, ringing out the chime of a bell once more just to announce that I was still there, deciding against the thought to leave.

My gaze remained on the dogs for a second more, but none moved to greet me. I allowed my eyes to wander until I found a man sitting behind a mahogany desk. The only one who wasn’t looking at me, but at the computer in front of him.

I moved in his direction, searching for a conversation, these trips got lonely. Save for the people I gutted; I still valued conversation I could have with people who wouldn’t remember me.

“Hello.” The smile on my lips was immediate as I got close enough to study you.

Your hair was dark and unkempt, tousled, forgotten about. Designed by the way you slept, heavy and slicked in sweat from what I can only assume was nightmares, if Oak Creek was always this cold.

Your head tilted up to acknowledge me, the slightest quirking of your pink lips in response to my spoken word, yet you made no move to respond to me.

Your face was almost the same as your hair, unkempt stubble and a sheen of dampness on your forehead, dark circles under your eyes. Which refused to look up at me.

Your blue eyes didn’t settle, they looked everywhere but at me, darting around in that pretty little skull of yours. Trying to lock on something in your shop that would ground you.

I could smell a lot coming off of you. Most notably, that stink of an aftershave that made me want to wrinkle my nose in disgust. I resisted the urge because I smelled another thing rolling off of you, blatant apprehension of my person.

It would’ve strung my chest with hurt, if I cared in that way.

A quick glance to your hands, in your lap now, were shaking and fidgeting in a looped pattern, told me this is what you were always like with new people.

You got sensory overload quickly, when it came to humans, and their noises, and their energy... you liked your dogs though. That much I could see when your gaze rested on them for once.

I wanted to push you a little bit, I wanted to stare at you and make you squirm with the weight of my gaze until your heart was racing, make you talk to me and answer my buggering questions...

At least I thought I wanted to do that. To test you, see how far you would go.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t find it within myself to do any of that.

I turned my body, my dark and unnerving gaze away from you, and looked into your store to try and figure out the purpose of it really was; dark bookshelves, assortments of books that were organized by color, it looked like.

The walls were a deep maroon and had pictures of people and their dogs hanging from it, small plaques here and there.

I found myself smiling at the ensemble, despite the disdain I held for animal hair - it seemed to complete the look. The shop was neatly kept, it was something you were proud of, something you were deeply passionate about.

I could feel your eyes on my when I turned my back to you, curiously studying the way I held myself and what I wore, too many layers for a local.

Turning my back to people wasn’t something I would consistently do to strangers, but I knew you had no reason to hurt me, that was the last thing you were capable of.

“What are you here for?” You asked me, finally speaking. Your voice was raspy and soft but baritone in your chest, you sounded hesitant to speak because you didn’t know who I was, and I wanted to keep it like that.

To protect you, to protect myself more.

I knew that you were used to the people in your town, you were used to a pattern that repeated itself and I disrupted it. So you were cautious and tiptoeing around me, as if you could sense what I was.

I had to assure myself that you didn’t.

I parted my lips to answer you, politely as my mind turned back to the thought of small town people wanting to know everything, “Nothing in particular, I was exploring town-”

“You’re not from around here.” You stated sharply, prompting me to incline my head over my shoulder to look at you with a brow raised. I was smiling even if you weren’t.

You looked away, apprehensive again.

I didn’t have the time to wonder why I smiled at you, what the reason was that benefited me but it brought a blossoming warmth to my chest.

“No, I’m just passing through. I thought I should find a couple of places to entertain me on my short visit.” I affirmed your suspicion of my ‘wayfaring stranger’ position.

“Oh,” You took a second to try and collect your thoughts before you spoke again, and something stutter in my beating chest as I faced you once more and saw the creases on your forehead, lips pulled into a taunt line as you considered how best to showcase the things you were passionate about.

Your blue plaid shirt was ruffled, coated in a layer of dog hair; pushed up past your forearms, revealing pale skin and faded scarring. You had left your thick jacket and scarf somewhere else, out of reach.

My fingers twitched by my side, not wanting to make you uncomfortable by my staring, but I wanted to touch your skin and inquire how your arms earned those stripes. I remained silent until you spoke.

“I have owned this shop for three years now and I have books imported from different countries and states, I don’t really put labels on what this space is... but you can buy the books, a-and take them home.

“Or you can read them here and put them back, s-sometimes I open it for crafts on certain day.” You explained to me, your eyes still darting around, a smile and a blush decorated your face. For a moment, you met my gaze before you were focusing on your dogs again, “My dogs are friendly as they can be, they like people and it functions as a safe space if anyone needs it.”

As I listened to you speak about your shop, I reflected a bit internally. I concluded that the safe space you spoke of was for you, mostly. You almost looked like you were refraining from telling me every last detail detail of your beloved dogs, you instead turned the topic elsewhere.

My mind turned towards myself after a beat, I wondered what this stuttering in my chest was; it wasn’t the weight that shackled me when a potential high presented it’s face to my keen eyes.

This was something else entirely, like my bones were made of air instead of tension. Hyper fixation sat heavy on my chest, the same way as when the blood lust dripped down my teeth, accompanying the urge hunt, the desire to know you, your soul, and everything under your skin. All of you.

My claws would flex with the want to sink into you and hold you still, only stare into your eyes, your entirety. I wanted to look you in the eyes and see who you really were, but I didn’t meet your gaze.

I followed it to the books, to the dogs.

This feeling was wrong. It wasn’t how I felt when the perfect prey was within the grasp of my talons; perhaps it was the desire of someone innocent, to see them bleeding.

I had not set my sights on innocence for the longest time.

I promised Mischa that I wouldn’t dig for innocent breath or blood, ever again; but these desires made feel stuck and powerless, rooted in one spot as your words tumbled through me.

I only ever knew one way of getting that power back, to take it away from someone else. I didn’t feel the need to take it back from you, I simply let you keep it... whatever made you feel comfortable with me.

I smiled, the corners of my eyes crinkling as you told me about the genres that you carried, several of which, I didn’t even care for.

You looked so enthused, a twinkle in your eye that mesmerized me, so I could only stand there and thank you, telling you that I would go get the books you recommended would entertain me for a spell.

I kept my eyes on you, watching as your face lit up, you smiled and laughed softly, fingers clasping together as if you were shy or astonished that someone would listen to you.

I found that absurd, everyone would listen to your voice if given the chance. I forced myself to look away from your face, I didn’t desire to make you crawl in your skin because of my piercing gaze; somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered why that though struck my skull.

I thanked you again and left my place at the desk, carefully stepping around the many dogs that you owned, they simply thumped their tail on the ground and I feigned a smile to them. If only for your sake.

I disappeared behind on of the shelves so you could no longer see me, and the stutter in my chest slowed down, if only just a bit while I scoured the sections to find ‘drama’, ‘mystery’ and ‘historical fiction’, neatly bunched together.

I could consider these few genres the absolute last thing I wanted to read, but... I was going to grab the books and bring them to you anyway.

I wish my mind would give me a rational answer to why this trembling like a newborn fawn, and sudden airiness of a bird made of feathers came to me.

I should’ve left the store when I had the chance.

This wasn’t the blood lust that coiled within me when hunting my perfect prey, the urge then was unfiltered rage, animistic and primal. The desire to maim as best I could while, keeping my identity restricted at the same time.

This fawn is something else that I don’t know how to care for, a different breed of blood lust that sat on my chest. I knew I would have to do a dissection on myself. I could feel it in the back of my mind, the terror of not being in control of my own emotions.

Mischa in the back of my mind, repeating the words I had said to her, the promise I made to my sister so long ago.

I sighed, defeated, as my hands pulled the four books you recommended, off the shelf and held them in my hands, close to my chest before making my way back to you.

The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Murder on the Oriental Express, The Song of Achilles and of course, Othello. Excellent choices if I were another creature.

You glanced up at me as I came back, your eyes like a lamb’s, wide and curious.

You took a second to look me over as I walked, taking me in as a whole and not a part; I was like a Victorian schoolgirl for a beat, embarrassed I had been caught bathing by the boys as they glanced in awe at me.

I wanted to clothe myself in white satin to hide prying eyes; but in a second beat, I was aware that I was fully clothed and dressed for winter in this dreary town of Oak Creek, standing in front of you.

Nowhere close to what my mind’s eye provided me.

It was jarring to say the least, I almost faltered in my movements under your vision.

Your scrutiny lasted for less than five seconds, eyes finally returning to your computer screen, waiting for me to set the books down on the desk so you could ring up the price.

I didn’t even want these books in the first place, yet you looked joyous that they were in my arms, “I recommend, if you read anything, read The Song of Achilles first, before you leave town...”

You seemed to hesitate on what you wanted to say next, twitchy fingers collecting the books and stacking them neatly, “No-one ever wants to discuss the meaning of it, both within the book or the actual myth.”

You left it open ended, for me. My eyes locked on your wrist, skin pale and almost ashen, and your long fingers stimming below it.

I knew what you wanted, what I was made you curious the same way I had been when I first slunk into your shop. You wanted to find out more about the stranger in your building, like everyone else in Oak Creek.

But you were more forward about it.

“I can come in the day after tomorrow.” My lips parted and my mouth spoke before my mind could finally catch up and remind myself... what rules I was breaking by even offering such an absurd thing.

I blinked, my first solution was to stay away from you, to fight this stutter in my chest and whatever craving I had for an innocent’s blood. If this even was a craving.

I answered your unspoken question and you were a deer in headlights because I gave you exactly what you wanted, you slowly looked up at me, your curls brushed loosely over your forehead and your fingers twitched in uncertainty.

“If you want to talk about the book,” I continued, knowing there was no way I could step back now with my dignity and your feelings intact.

My voice was strained like something was strangling me when I spoke - something invisible to you, but completely seen to me, “I enjoy a lively discussion from time to time.” I offer so it wouldn’t be worse than it was, but I don’t believe it helped the situation.

You stared at me, mouth agape while my chest sunk to the depths against my wishes; then your lips twitched into a smile, “Okay... it’s nice to speak to new people.” Your voice was soft as you accepted my invitation that you prodded from me.

My throat tighten in response, I wanted to verbally agree with you even if I didn’t believe it, I nodded instead to you. I offered to speak with you even though I knew I shouldn’t, I had prey to stalk, catch and gore.

I had to dissect this stumbling fawn inside of me.

Where would I find the delicate time to speak to you?

And why did the thought of not getting the chance, fill my lungs with inescapable breath?

The sooner I left this village and claimed my prize, the sooner I would feel normal again.

I always hated the winter, things were always different and difficult, the ground refused to let things rot no matter how long they had been there.

The amount I owed you for the books I didn’t even want, tumbled from your mouth to distract my thoughts, and I hastily dug into my pockets, pulling out a wad of cash and thrusting it over to you. I hadn’t been listening to you at this point, I just wanted out of this store to cool my buzzing mind.

I needed to retreat from the public and your eyes.

“It’s only twenty-one ninety,” your voice broke through my fog, confusion an undertone in your soft voice.

I blinked in an attempt to get my head right, before I took the money you offered back to me, wanting the right amount because you were a small store who couldn’t cash a hundred dollar bill.

“Oh, my apologies.” I ran through the notes, finding as close as it could get to the total, giving thirty dollars back to you, “Keep the rest.” I struggled out while I gathered my books in my arms and turned for the door.

My pathetic attempt to get away in a haste as if a hunter was on my bleeding trail, though your voice cut me short like a gunshot in a silent forest, “I’m Will, by the way.”

I stopped, my gloved hand on the handle to the door.

I took one moment to look back at you, your cheeks blushing pink and lips turned upward in the smallest smile as you forced yourself to watch me for my reaction.

I let out a shaky breath, preparing myself to break yet another a rule that I set many years previous to keep myself and innocents safe... did it even matter now?

“I’m Hannibal, it’s nice to meet you, Will.”

“Likewise.” You responded immediately, leaving me with your parting smile and I quickly took my leave of Pages and Pawprints, heading back the way I came from, back to my motel where I could brood over the interaction that just passed. Dissect this new, tumbling fawn

I furiously growled under my breath as I walked through the cold, books pressed tightly to my chest and the lingering scent of that horrible aftershave from you, following me all the way to the supposed comfort of my room.

I needed a kill to get you off of my mind.

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secretgiftsforshaman · 3 years

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I was an emotional vampire when I was a child. The memories and pieces of evidence have been slowly rising to the surface, and I think I’ve finally pieced them together. While I still have my moments, I’m (usually) much less of a vampire now than I once was. I haven’t examined how, exactly, I managed to become less vampiric over time without consciously seeking to do so. Maybe I just got used to feeling unfulfilled and unloved and accepted that that’s how it would be. Maybe I just kept putting it off until some future day when hopefully it’d be better somehow. I need to reflect on this more, but right now I just need to get this out.

My grandmother often smothered my mom with affection when she was little – it was one of grandma’s ways of trying to fill her own unmet emotional needs, by treating mom like she was her own personal little cuddly teddy-bear play dolly, and expecting the same sickly-sweet treatment back from my mom, even as a toddler, even when she was her own kind of ravenous black hole and only doled out that “affection” because she expected something in return. I think that mom then reacted to that treatment by swinging to the other extreme when I came along, being overly distant, withholding, and resentful of my emotional needs (they reminded her too much of her own – as her firstborn I was her first experience of another person being 1000% dependent on her, and I think it triggered all kinds of shit from her relationship with her own mother, both where I was her and she was grandma, and where she was herself and I was grandma) and she didn’t want to smother me with affection the way she had been. However or whyever it came about, she definitely went too far in that opposite direction. I have no memories of feeling cherished by my mother, or of cuddling together without her acting resentfully and sending me back to my own bed as soon as possible, or of her ever expressing belief or confidence in me and my abilities (part the root of why I struggle to perform any new or intimidating task, I think). As I’ve said before and will keep saying aloud until I have finished integrating, processing, and healing it: I was emotionally neglected, abandoned, and abused, and sometimes I still am. While I’ve lived in material privilege and had all of my basic physical/survival needs met with some material luxuries to boot, I never felt like I had enough of the love, acceptance, and touch that I needed from the very earliest age. This emotional connection is a vital nutrient for the soul, the psyche, and the body – and an emotionally starving child in need of attention, affection, and approval will latch onto anything and anyone that feels like it/they can give them a scrap or two with which to survive. I’ve felt like a gaping, needy, black hole of pain and rejection eating myself from the inside out my entire life and never really been able to explain why until now.

There are all manner of embarrassing memories I’ve been dredging up of how I acted as a kid, and I don’t have enough conscious detail to explain them like stories, but I can feel the energetic reality of all those episodes. They contain the same patterns and themes, they stretch back as far as I remember, and they occur at every age of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood without intermission. Time and again I latched onto people, be they other kids, warm or parental adults, classmates, crushes, even random strangers: just anybody who was energetically compatible with or susceptible to my ravenous, desperate needs that I might be able to tag along after, attempt to adopt or ingratiate myself to, or mooch off of. If it worked, it worked poorly, and it didn’t work for very long, and as a result very few of my peers wanted to be friends with me for most of my life. I’ve explained away this ‘social awkwardness’ pattern as just part of my Asperger’s for years, but I’ve been coming to realize that while part of it may have been autism-typical misunderstandings of other people’s social cues, the other part of me was manipulative and leech-like and would overstep other people’s boundaries because I didn’t know how to connect to people and receive the attention I needed otherwise (because my own social boundaries weren’t respected – I rarely had boundary honoring behavior modeled for me at home).

This helps account for why I’ve felt so rejected from all quarters. Of course nobody wants to ask the emotional vampire to play with them, or invite them over to hang out, or flirt with them. Of course I fell hard for the narrative that the right romantic knight-in-shining-armor would feed that gaping hungry maw of lovelessness inside of me and got hyperfixated on finding a boy, and later a man, to help me fill in that hole. And of course I am now afraid of expressing my attraction to anyone, especially romantically or sexually: I am both afraid of mockery and rejection, but I also struggle with distinguishing intense attraction from my inner soul-sucking emotional leech.

This is a big part of why I am terrified of expressing my needs and desires: I have hurt people and rightfully driven them away from me with my behavior and treatment of them in the past, and the conflict between wanting that connection with someone, particularly a potential partner, and latching onto them in a way that hurts/upsets/repulses them is what has been agonizing me about reaching out and starting to flirt and date again. The newer loneliness of grief and widowhood feels all too similar to that old gaping hole of emotional neglect, and I fear that I can’t accept ANY connection, affection, touch, or love to fill my need without hurting the person giving them to me. Even in our relationship, while I have gradually become more secure and trusting, I think that this is the root fear that has made me worry at times that I have asked too much from you or taken too much from you.

Maybe I stopped being a vampire because it didn’t get me what I needed so I just stopped doing it, but (as I’m typing this and reflecting on it and realizing) I think I mostly just drew the conclusion that there was something inherently unworthy of love and acceptance within me, and became ashamed of the misguided ways that I had tried to seek out love and acceptance. I started to accept that I’d be better off not trying because if so many people had rejected me then it must be because they could all see my obvious unworthiness, so it would be foolish and pathetic for me to seek something that would never be mine – that was so laughably beyond my reach – like love or intimacy. Let alone acting like someone could actively desire or want me – that would be so beyond the pale as to draw ridicule. At one point or another I’ve managed to convince myself that asking someone for anything (friendship, attention, reassurance, compliments, a glass of water, I mean ANYTHING) is actually me just trying to manipulate or leech off of that person, whether it’s through vampirism or a bald-faced request. So the only solution to this mess is to fulfill as much of my needs and desires as I can for myself, and reject the rest because turning to another person for assistance will only harm them, drive them away, or both.

I know that my younger, starving child self was only acting out of instinct to survive the neglect and abuse that she suffered – that she didn’t know any better and she never fed on anybody in malice or out of any intent to do harm. But I’m afraid of my own inner child, of my own ongoing neediness and hunger for connection. I’m terrified that I’ll hurt someone by taking too much from them, that I’ll ask for more than they want to give, that nobody will be able to meet me emotionally. Or WANT to meet me emotionally. I’m trying to hold out hope that my future mate, wherever he his, will want to love me – will not see love as the scarce, precious commodity that my inner traumatized child experienced it as, but that he (and I) can and will both treat love like the bottomless fountain that it is. That it will bring him joy and pleasure to pour buckets of love back into me, that he’ll bail me in when I’m feeling hollow and dry, and I will relish the privilege of doing the same for him. My closest friends and I have begun to do something like this with each other, and it is such a healing thing.

I am trying to keep faith in my worthiness. I am trying to forgive myself for acting as best as I could in terrible situations where I felt next to powerless. I hope that I can disentangle my inner bloodsucker from my honest needs, learn to express my desire and attraction to others in harmless and healthy ways, no matter how intense they feel, and that I can reprogram all that shit in my head about needing to emotionally starve myself because to slake that thirst would hurt someone.

It’s 1:30 AM and I desperately need sleep. And maybe some garlic, holy water, or a crucifix.

Thank you for loving and accepting and holding space for me and all of my mess. I sincerely hope that you never feel unappreciated – you do so much for me just by existing as a good, honorable man. Your presence is a healing balm in and of itself. And you are this way because of your integrity and character. Connecting to your energy is calming and soothing even when you aren’t able listen or respond. Never forget how good and powerful you are. I believe in you and everything that you embody and do.

All my love,

My Vulnerable Parts

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cosmonaughtt · 5 years

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how I'd rewrite Danny Phantom

forever salty that elmer glue ruined such a good concept so it’s my territory now

Ghosts are dead, 100%. The science behind it is very paranormal investigation-y but the Fenton family is ten thousand times better than the other “ghost hunters” of their time.

Also, there are some ghosts that come from metaphorical deaths. I.E. Pandora, she technically didn’t exist but when the Ancient Greek culture died out, so did the gods and goddesses. They’re not technically ghosts but they are ectoplasm-based, so they get lumped in with them.

The Fenton family has been a bit dysfunctional for the past four years (10-14 for Danny, 12-16 for Jazz) because it took four years for Jack and Maddie to build the ghost portal. Jazz took over and learned how to really clean the house, while Danny learned how to cook. He’s not the best, but Danny can definitely make some good Ramen from scratch.

Maddie and Jack realized a bit later that the portal had overtaken their life and feel really bad for abandoning their kids, and when it didn’t work they tried to rekindle those relationships. Even with it working, they still do.

We all know what happened when the portal finished; it didn’t work. Because Jack put a switch on the inside that should’ve been on the outside, not the “on-off” button. The switch was loose and when Danny knocked into it, the portal turned on, because it was just waiting for a little spark-- like how when a cord is not totally plugged in.

This was the beginning of summer, around the end of May, and a month after it was technically done. Danny (no stranger to the hospital, he’d been in a few times when he was younger because he was born two weeks premature) was in the hospital until August, a few weeks before school started. He was exempt from his eighth-grade exams and passed all of his classes, so the district let him slide.

Danny doesn’t have an ice core. As cool as it is (pun intended) it makes no sense in the narrative. Like, he was electrocuted, and he’s got the “ghost-stinger” ability, why would he have ICE POWERS? He’s got an electricity core instead (slightly inspired by the electric undead oops).

His ghost sense is less of a mist and more of a gut feeling, and he literally becomes a static electricity magnet.

Danny’s character is a bit closer to the show.

He's quiet around strangers, but open with his friends. Trust thing.

Still made fun of for being the kid of two weird parents, but he’s honestly used to it by high school. He’s also bullied for his autism and ADHD, but he’s been bullied for them for about ten years so he’s used to it.

Still wants to be an astronaut-- science is his best subject, second to math. History is his third-best, he hates English and Gym class.

He’s tiny and scrawny, like a toothpick. It comes from being a sick child, though after the accident he’s able to lean out and gain a bit of “muscle”.

After the accident, he gets a bit paler than he was before and doesn’t tan. There’s also a Lichtenberg scar covering about half of the right side of his body from the accident, going from his fingertips, up his arm and over his chest, neck, about down to his knee.

He’s incredibly self-conscious about it but it doesn’t hurt, weirdly enough. For the “first season” he covers up and wears a lot of sweaters and long-sleeves.

His pulse and body temperature are much below normal. The hospital was concerned with this after the accident, but after a few days of him seeming fine, they had to drop it. Danny can also hold his breath about five times longer than a normal human.

Is he half-dead? Yes, technically. Does he not try and think about his mortality? Yes.

He enjoys puns and jokes still, though he makes them more as Phantom.

Speaking of Phantom, no, he doesn’t go by “Danny Phantom”. Just Phantom. He is trying to avoid dissection from his parents, you know.

Phantom has no scars from the accident, the only thing that he has in common with his human half is the mole on his cheek, but it’s green now (because yes, both halves have freckles!) because of his ectoplasm. He’s much more floaty, and if you don’t focus on him he looks like he’s made of television static. He also has little fangs.

You can see his details better up close, and the longer you spend with Phantom, the more details you can see. All ghosts are like that, their energy is on the fritz all the time and human eyes need to adjust to it to understand certain features. The only reason Sam and Tucker know him right away is because they watched him, y’know...

Danny is asexual, only realizing the identity in the middle of freshman year when Sam literally had to explain that yes, Danny, sexual attraction is a thing and not made up. (Based on my own experience.)

Sam and Tucker are both different in this story, but they still remain Danny’s only friends. They have other friends, though.

Sam is still goth.

She wears all black and even dyed her ginger hair black. There aren’t many surviving photos of Sam with her natural hair, she made sure of it.

Sam is like... punk-goth? Punk-goth-grunge? She identifies as goth, but her clothes can fit all three categories, really.

100% bisexual, has bi pins all over her bag. Out to her parents, who are slowly trying to understand. She doesn’t mind they/them pronouns, either, and her gender identity is just a shrug with middle fingers.

She knows a lot of the LGBT students at school and is the vice-president of the GSA she helped found.

Both Sam and Danny had a mutual crush on each other through half of freshman year and all of eighth grade, Sam decided that she’d rather be friends and Danny realized it was mostly him wanting to be friends.

Sam is vegan. She isn’t as pushy about it as she is in the show (I feel like it was extreme and really made fun of vegans/vegetarians, I know it’s a kids show but still) and all of her family is vegan, too. She’s big on animal rights, but recognizes the line to not cross.

Her family is also Jewish, like in canon.

Though she did campaign and successfully get the school cafeteria to have a “Tofu Tuesday” every other week, so that’s something, at least! (And where Mystery Meat would start)

Still mourns My Chemical Romance, into all music like that.

Tucker is still a “nerd”, but he doesn’t get picked on by the jocks for being a nerd.

He’s pretty hipster, too. His red beret is now a red beanie, and he has naturally curly hair poking out. He loves his natural hair, he just loves the beanie.

His “nerd” seems from his technological abilities. He has the latest smartphone a month after it comes out, and always has a “tablet”/iPad knockoff in his bag. He knows how to take things apart and sell them for money, and is also pretty good at programming.

Tucker DEFINITELY has a gaming channel. He only has about 3,000 subscribers, but that’s still pretty good. His most-popular video is him talking about the Indie game industry. He might try and program some of his own games (ahemPhantomfangameahem)

He loves meat, just like in the show. He jokes about it a lot with Sam, and Sam jokes back. Sometimes they can lead into fights if neither are in the mood, but both of them are pretty good-natured about it.

Tucker is a ladies-man, and a man’s-man, and a nonbinary’s-man-- he’s pansexual. Doesn’t figure out that’s a thing until he stays behind school one day to help Sam with the GSA, but once he does he’s out and proud. Still flirts terribly, though, but now no one is immune from his terrible flirts.

Scared of doctors and needles-- had a bad experience as a child, projects it on everything medicine-related. Tries to avoid taking medicine at all cost, unless it’s really severe. Hates flu season, can be a bit of a hypochondriac/germaphobe. Has one of those Bath and Body Works hand sanitizer things on his bag.

Out of the trio, he’s more terrified of the ghosts, though after a while he gets used to them.

The A-Listers and school remain mostly the same.

Wes Weston is 100% a thing.

The A-Listers are more preppy than before, and definitely try and get away with what they can with modern fashion-- at least, Paulina and Star will. Dash and Kwan are a bit fashion-deaf (Kwan. Owns. Crocs.)

They’re still jerks and Dash still picks on Danny a lot, but the teachers are more competent and he can’t get away with more physical stuff unless no one is looking. Dash is probably a victim of his own domestic abuse at home and takes it out on people-- totally wrong and not moral, but he doesn’t think there’s much of an option. Only Kwan and Paulina know about his situation.

Kwan is pretty smart and strong, but he dresses like a disaster. He mostly sticks to wearing his letterman jacket and a black t-shirt and jeans, but if he ever has to “dress-up” or wears something else, it’s awful. Cargo shorts galore. Crocs. Someone get the Fab 5 to help him, please.

Paulina is pretty prissy, and doesn’t like getting dirty often. She’s a cheerleader and she’s good at it, but she’s only second-in-command of the squad, or however that works. She doesn’t mind, less work for her to do, and the person in charge enjoys it a lot. Paulina tends to make fun of Sam and Tucker’s clothes often, and like the rest of the A-Listers, everything listed above for Danny (sans the Phantom thing). Once Phantom becomes big, she gets a huge celebrity crush on him, probably has ten different Stan accounts for him.

Star is the head cheerleader, and enjoys every moment of it. She also enjoys math, and she’s really good at that too. Of the canon characters, only Danny can keep up. She isn’t good at much else academia-wise, though she does enjoy a bit of biology and forensics. Much smarter than most people think-- it will astound you.

Valerie is a part of their squad at first, only because she, Paulina and Star live in the same neighborhood. After Valerie moves to an apartment, their friendship falls apart after a big fight-- this is entirely not ghost-related, by the way. Vlad only contacts her after learning that her dad was hurt in a ghost attack and Phantom wasn’t there to help, and emotionally manipulates her. She becomes the Red Huntress and hunts Danny, and they do date for a few months before calling it quits. I’m not big on shipping, per say, but if there has to be a canon endgame, it’ll be these two.

Wes Weston. He’s technically canon? I guess? But also fanon? Either way, having a character like Wesley Weston trying to expose Danny as Phantom and always failing is hilarious, but can also introduce other things into the series as well. How does Wes know? Is he like, psychic, or something...?

Oh, and Vlad.

He’s much more emotionally manipulative. Danny was really considering having him train him in ghost-powers and stuff until Vlad made an off-comment about Jack, and Danny saw through the act.

They’re very much enemies. Not frenemies, but enemies. Danny is terrified of Vlad, but doesn’t want him to hurt his family.

Vlad, above all, wants a family. He missed out on those years being in and out of the hospital because of his own, botched accident, and he has scars all over his face from the “ecto-acne” that he hides with makeup.

He’s equivalent to Elon Musk, but less of a weeabo. DALV Corporations has a lot more stock in experimental sciences, though, including paranormal investigation. When he learns that Jack and Maddie had successfully created the Ghost Portal, he puts a lot more funding into their projects and reconnects.

Still got the creepy Maddie-crush. Does get a cat named Matti, though (no connection or correlation, shut up, Daniel). Hates Jack because of his own accident, and begins to despise him even more for not noticing the scars left on Danny’s accident, too.

Less of a vampire in ghost form. He has a fire core, which makes a lot of his ectoplasm heat-based. Probably has laser eyes that Danny desperately tries to emulate but alas, cannot. The only reason he has a leg up on Danny is experience, not strength. He was only blasted in the face, not the whole body, after all.

At some point there’s probably an argument with Vlad and the Fentons and he decides “screw it” and makes an offset of DALV that focuses on ghost-hunting.

No Mayor thing, but he does move away from Wisconsin to live in Amity Park.

Amity Park is... Well, it’s something.

It was already a pretty creepy town before the ghosts get involved.

There’s always been unexplained murders, disappearances, and strange lights in the sky that no one could identify—a lot of hints towards something other-than-ghosts existing, which makes sense.

Amity Park is much weirder after the ghost portal opens. Not because of the ghost attacks and their ghostly superhero, but because the veil was torn a bit, and it was felt throughout the town.

On the moment of Danny’s accident, there was a massive power outage, and they become a bit more frequent to everyone’s dismay. Much of the older residents of the town are against ghosts—if excepting Phantom, on occasion. The younger residents are more open to the undead spectres, though, and are much less afraid of them.

Phantom becomes a youth icon, and his twitter account that started off small and as a joke gets him national popularity.

Tucker, naturally, rides this wave and gets a giant boost in YouTube subscribers, especially after he posted a few videos with Phantom. No one questions this except the A-Listers, who just want to know howhe did this.

Okay that’s enough of an info-dump I don’t want to spoil everything. I’ll probably post this stuff on my ao3—calling this story “Hero Complex” for now, still working on the title.

#Danny phantom #Danny phantom au #Danny Phantom rewrite #dp rewrite #dp #the cosmos speak #hero complex

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thewhitefluffyhat · 5 years

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Feminist Relevant Themes

<-Previous (Introduction)

To talk about Magia Record’s writing in detail, it helps to understand how the game is structured.

Magia Record has many story modes:

Main Story: The main plot, centered on new protagonist Iroha arriving in the city of Kamihama to search for her missing sister. Everyone can read this at any time, and new chapters come out every few months.

Another Story: The events of the Main Story, but told from the point of view of the original Madoka Magica cast. Also always available to everyone.

Magical Girl Stories: short stories centered on one specific magical girl - usually they tell the backstory of the girl’s wish. Can only be watched after obtaining the character in the gacha.

Mirrors Story: A very slowly updated story unlocked by completing many player vs. player battles.

Event Stories: Short stories that come out roughly every two weeks. Sometimes introduce a new character for the gacha, sometimes related to a seasonal holiday. Playable to anyone around during the event (and will be stored in the archive afterwards).

Costume Stories: Tiny story snippets involving a character wearing a special outfit. Implemented one year in and unlocked by obtaining both the character and the outfit in question.

Good

Female Friendship

As with the better side of magical girl media, the game’s biggest feminist plus is its complex female characters and focus on female friendships, including some great examples of female mentors and role models. The mechanics of the setting are even tweaked to facilitate this - gone is the TV series’ lonely, competitive system that isolated girls from each other. Instead, in present-day Kamihama, witches are so strong and plentiful that magical girls are better off forming teams to support one another.

While this change arguably waters down some of the thematic weight of the original (in that this isolation was another example of how Kyuubey’s system is an easy metaphor for other oppressive systems), I find it a worthy trade-off. Allowing for magical girl teams to exist results in much richer possibilities for interactions between characters, especially welcome in a sprawling game with far more narrative content than a one-season anime.

And the game takes good advantage of this - no two magical girl teams are exactly alike, both in terms of internal dynamics and how they interact with other teams.

Doppels

The main gimmick of the game’s story is the existence of “doppels” - a mechanic where a magical girl partially transforms into her own witch to unleash a powerful attack. And from gameplay to story to art, doppels are excellent. They look cool and they’re rewarding to unlock and use in game. From a feminist perspective, I also love the idea of reclaiming witches, the “adult” form of magical girls, into a source of salvation and empowerment for girls* instead of a curse. On a meta-level, it echoes a common magical girl trope of the character transforming into an older version of herself, while specifically to Madoka Magica, it’s a creative way to dismantle the misogynistic implications of Kyuubey’s system!

(*There are supposedly drawbacks to doppels, but that bit of setting mostly serves to make them a ~dangerous forbidden technique~ that shouldn’t be overused.)

Struggling against class prejudice

The tensions between different wards of Kamihama are a key component of the setting, and affect many character interactions. One aspect the Magical Girl Stories are good at is showing how arbitrary and hurtful this discrimination is, and how difficult it is to overcome prejudice once it has become entrenched. It’s made abundantly clear that Kamihama would be a better city without these attitudes - the question is, how to get there?

A variety of careers

Several girls make wishes or have backstories centered on what they want to do when they grow up. What’s especially neat is that most girls ask for the opportunity to follow their passions, rather than having a talent magically granted to them - thus avoiding the pitfall of having a female character’s abilities originate from a power granted by a male character.

The range of career interests depicted isn’t as amazing as it could be (In a cast of 80+, I would love to have more than three girls representing STEM), but there’s some decent variety. Many girls aspire to take over their parents’ family business, for example.

And even some characters who follow more seemingly feminine careers (a model, a chef, an artist, etc.) have serious narratives centered on the skill and effort needed to succeed in those highly competitive fields, which is quite refreshing to see.

Mixed

The many different ways to be a girl

The nice thing about having a large cast of female characters is that it gives plenty of opportunities to show how all of these characters are different. And in general, Magia Record does very well on this front! One aspect I’ve particularly been enjoying is the how the cast has widely varying tastes in fiction. Yes, there are girls who like dreamy romances, but there are also girls who bond over their shared love of a hotblooded shounen series!

Where this falls down somewhat is an overuse of “but look, she has a secret feminine interest.” Sometimes this plot can work, if coming at it from the angle that superficial judgments can be misleading, or that there’s nothing wrong with having feminine interests. But when all the more masculine-presenting girls end up with a hidden fondness for stuffed animals, the sheer repetition becomes rather irksome. It’s as though the game feels the need to insist “but look, she really is a girl!” because the audience wouldn’t believe it without such a trait.

LGBTQ+ characters

In terms of LGBTQ+ content, the game feels rather similar to the original anime and other Madoka spinoffs. That is to say, there are tons of shippable f/f pairings that get teased, but as of the present, only one new playable character (and a tiny sample of minor characters) are explicitly confirmed to be lesbians. No trans or otherwise queer characters either, unfortunately. (Though of course that’s not to stop a good interpretation or headcanon!)

However, as a whole, the game is oddly averse to showing the characters in active, healthy relationships. One of the early frustrations I had with the new character’s portrayal was that the game’s one mutual gay relationship was never directly shown on-screen and gets broken up in favor of more ambiguous teasing. That being said, all the het relationships are treated similarly, either never being confessed and requited or never getting shown on screen. So… I suppose there’s not actually a double standard here, but players hoping for lots of canon yuri content might end up a bit disappointed.

Also, a note on Homura specifically - this game’s version is “glasses Homura,” who hasn’t realized she’s in love with Madoka yet. So despite what you might expect given Rebellion, in Magia Record there’s nothing beyond heavy hints and ambiguously cute scenes between her and Madoka.

Characters with disabilities

A few characters in the game have difficulty speaking. It’s not made clear if this is a speech impediment or something like social anxiety (or autism - I know I’ve seen headcanons for that). There is some depiction of these characters getting bullied, but in each case the character ultimately finds a group of friends who love and support them as they are.

After two years, now there is technically a magical girl who uses a wheelchair. (And it’s a cool custom wheelchair too!) Unfortunately I hesitate to count this as a full positive, because shortly after she appears in it, the character becomes unable to transform and fight for an unrelated reason, so we haven’t seen her in battle since. But who knows - the story’s still moving forward on the Japanese server, and there’s likely to be more content with her in the future.

At the end of the day, though, this is a setting with magic wishes and healing effects. Thus, it’s very common for girls to wish to cure someone’s illness, or to use their abilities as a magical girl to cure themselves, which can easily fall into ableist tropes.

College age magical girls

Yes, really! Although even the oldest characters are only nineteen. However, there’s also a subplot about how two of the nineteen-year-olds are losing power because they’re older, which… hm. The message that we all need to accept passing the torch to the next generation is generally a valuable and good one. Aiming it at older teen girls just on the verge of adulthood is where the implications nosedive into unfortunate. Young girls already get far too many messages that their worth is entirely dependent on their youth/beauty/innocence and that it’s better to stay a “girl” than to be a fully grown “woman.”

The entire reason it’s exciting to see college age magical girls in the first place is that even now, it’s rare to see adult women as protagonists in these types of fantasy adventures. By introducing these young adult characters only to caveat their inclusion with“they’re getting too old to be here”, it puts a very sour note on what’s otherwise a welcome expansion of the Madoka Magica universe.

(It’s also hilariously contradictory to other spin offs in the Madoka Magica franchise, including the implications of the anime canon itself, so… whoops?)

Bad

Lack of diversity

(Particularly racial diversity.)

The only non-Japanese magical girls are from the pre-existing Tart Magica spin-off set in medieval France… and Meiyui. (And maybe Alina.)

Meiyui is a complicated case - her family has ties to both Japan and Hong Kong. Meiyui herself is a fun character, but she also ticks a lot of the checkboxes for a Japanese stereotype of a Chinese person (a la Xiao Mei in Fullmetal Alchemist). As a white person only familiar with US culture, it’s not my place to make a judgement call here, but I’d love to hear from someone who knows more!

The largest disappointment, though, is in wondering what might have been. The Madoka Magica anime implied that there are magical girls all over the globe from every different time and culture, so the game’s narrow focus on one modern Japanese city greatly limits the setting from its full potential. And even within that limitation, the sheer homogeneity of the new cast is starting to get awkwardly same-y.

The arc two’s logo teases what might be girls from several other backgrounds, though, so perhaps this will improve in the very near future. Of course, success will depend on the writers’ abilities to handle other cultures. Which, when given the example of Meiyui, might actually be cause for concern...

Revolutionary Girl Utena, this ain’t

In a game full of decent-to-good backstories, you’ll sometimes hit an unfortunate and very disappointing outlier.

My personal least favorite is the victim-blaming one mentioned in the content warnings. Another low point is a story where a girl frantically diets as a response to another girl’s comments about her weight.

Then there’s the backstory the above picture comes from. It involves a girl who has to drop out of sports because her next school only has a boy’s team - and instead of challenging this situation, it’s the inspiration for her to discover she’s actually happier as a cheerleader anyway. Hm.

This last case is actually pretty emblematic of the game as a whole. Whoever’s doing the writing (the credited scenario team is four people, and from the names at least two might be women?) mostly seems to mean well, but they occasionally step hard into the -isms that come from not actually thinking about the problems with the status quo.

So the game isn’t typically hateful, but it doesn’t push the envelope in any revolutionary directions either. As a result - and it feels weird to say this, but - I really miss having Urobuchi as the writer. Sure, his writing had its own problems, but in comparison, it was at least genuinely thought-provoking. The way that even the adult female characters got complexity and screentime, that whole conversation between Sayaka and the misogynistic men on the train, the compelling exploration of consent and determination that underlies the whole anime – even six years later, these aspects hold up and stand out.

Magia Record is an inversion – far more pleasant on the surface, but without the backbone and depth that made the original so thematically intriguing despite all the suffering.

Next (Other Writing Aspects)->

#puella magi madoka magica #pmmm #magia record #magical girls #feminist analysis #my blog organization tags #magia record analysis #my feminist friendly magireco review #madoka magica #magical girl genre #magia record jp #magia record na #my ramblings #haha this section is so long #nothing else even touches it #and even then there’s so much other stuff I could rant about lol

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cromulentbookreview · 6 years

Text

Every Heart Among Bones Beneath Sugar In An Absent Dream

Have I mentioned how much I love Seanan McGuire’s Wayward Children series? I think I might have but still: I really fucking love this series.

In An Absent Dream by Seanan McGuire!

BE SURE.

Rule One: Ask for Nothing

Rule Two: Names Have Power

Rule Three: Always Give Fair Value

Rule Four: Take what is offered and be grateful.

Rule Five: Remember the Curfew.

In An Absent Dream is the story of Katherine (never Katie, Kitty or Kathy, but Katherine, goddamn it!) Lundy, a bookish, serious and very logical young girl. In 1964, Katherine, on her sixth birthday, comes to the realization that, if other people don’t like her, she’s not going to bother changing herself to become likable to others. If they don’t like her the way she is, then they’re not worth her time. (If only I’d had that realization at six and actually stuck to it - instead, it hit me when I was 14 and rather than going it alone I spent the next decade desperately trying to mold myself into someone people would like. Being a girl with autism sure is fun!). As a serious logical bookworm and the daughter of the school principal, Katherine isn’t exactly miss popular, but when none of the other kids come to her birthday party, she decides “fuck it.”

And so Katherine grows up being the dedicated rule-follower, like a miniature Amy Santiago. Occasionally she looks for loopholes to exploit, like all good rule-following children who know that sometimes you have to stretch things a bit to your advantage, but for the most part, Katherine is the perfect mid-1960s definition of a “good girl” - minus any friends. When Katherine is eight years old, she doesn’t want to leave her classroom at the end of the last day of school - she wants to finish her book, damn it. Her teacher just wants to clean up and go home. Unable to find a suitable excuse to stick around longer, Katherine heads home, dreading being pressed into babysitting her younger sister. As she walks the all-too-familiar route home, she does something curious: at one point, rather than turning right, she turns left instead. If Doctor Who taught me anything, it’s that turning left never ends well.

How are you so pretty, David Tennant?

Ahem.

Anyway. Turning left! Katherine’s left turn doesn’t end in nuclear Armageddon, though. Instead, she ends up at a tree. A really strange tree that seems to be the product of extensive chip grafting, like one of them Tree of Many Fruits, but moving on: this tree has a door. And on this door it says: BE SURE.

Katherine isn’t sure what this is referring to - she is sure that she is Katherine Lundy, though, so she goes through the door, through a hallway with the cross-stitched rules hanging on the walls, and out into the Goblin Market.

Unlike the whimsical tastes-like-diabetes world in Beneath the Sugar Sky or the Hammer Horror world of Down Among the Sticks and Bones, the world of the Goblin Market is one of extreme logic. The Goblin Market is only about 10% whimsy, 90% following-the-rules. Everything is acquired via the barter system of fair value. You want something? You’ve got to give “fair value” for it, and fair value varies wildly depending on your age, strength, skills, etc. It’s not as much fun to read about as Candyland, Hammer-Horror-land or the Underworld, but it represents the logical end of the World Compass. But still, if you’re not into economics and would rather your fantasy stories avoid the debate over what constitutes “fair value”, you might be turned off a bit by the Goblin Market. I hated having to parcel out what was “fair value” when studying economics in college (nothing says “torture” like reading Karl Marx in the original German), and would much rather use the “shut up and take my money” approach to exchanges in the open market.

As a fantasy world, though, I found the Goblin Market to be a bit terrifying – the Market gives off this impression that everything is fair and good and wonderful, but at the same time, when people don’t give fair value and go into “debt”, the Market causes some hard-core body-horror-type stuff to happen to you. McGuire does an awesome job making sure that we never forget this underlying sinister side to that world.

That sinister feeling that we get goes over Katherine’s head at first - to be fair, she is eight. At first, Katherine, who goes by Lundy in the Goblin Market, is delighted to find a world where everyone must follow the rules and where everyone gets fair value. She considers the Goblin Market to be her true home. But as Lundy gets older, she comes up against Rule Five: the curfew. At 18, she must choose between the Goblin Market or her home world. One or the other. She can’t have both. At first, the choice seems obvious: Goblin Market, FTW. But when Lundy goes home to her own world and sees her family again, things get muddy. How can Lundy have both her family and the Goblin Market, while still following the rules? Can it be done?

It goes without saying that McGuire has knocked the ball straight out of the park again with the fourth installment of the Wayward Children series. It’s possible to finish In An Absent Dream in an hour or a single sitting, the same way it’s perfectly possible to eat an entire box of chocolates, but once you’re done...well, now you’re out of chocolate, and you won’t be getting any more until 2020. I took my time with In An Absent Dream because I am a slow reader and because I wanted to savor it. Some of the scenes from Katherine’s childhood hit me so hard for a moment I wondered if Seanan McGuire followed me around when I was a kid and took notes. No kids at the birthday party? Got along better with adults than peers? Loved books more than people? Yes. 1000% yes. Katherine’s dream of becoming a librarian because “she couldn’t imagine knowing there was a job that was all about books and not wanting to do it”?

That’s precisely why I got my Masters in Library and Information Science. That, and all the best jobs required it. But now that I have the degree, though, all of those jobs have disappeared. Because of course.

Again, the worst thing about this series is just how long we have to wait between each installment. These books are oh so good, but so, so short. I do not recommend binging it all in a day - take it in slowly, preferably with the first three books on hand so you can see how all the stories are woven together. Make it last because I swear to God 2018 has felt like it’s lasted for twenty years and it’s still not over. The wait for 2020 is going to feel like an eternity. If the world is even still around by then. Fingers crossed!

RECOMMENDED FOR: Everyone. Just. Everyone needs to read the Wayward Children books.

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: People who don’t read fantasy, people who are the worst, people who definitely bullied other people in middle school...

RELEASE DATE: January 8, 2019

RATING: 5/5

TOTALLY UNBIASED FANGIRL RATING: 5,000,000,000,000/5

TREE RATING: Sequoia sempervirens

ANTICIPATION LEVEL FOR NEXT BOOK IN THE SERIES: Olympus Mons

#wayward children #in an absent dream #seanan mcguire #portal fantasy #every heart a doorway #down among the sticks and bones #beneath the sugar sky #book review #fantasy #feminist fantasy #tor #best books #is it 2019 yet

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deesparrow · 5 years

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Meet the players, again!

Logic - Sage, she/her:

thrived on the praise we got in elementary for being so smart but feels like a useless idiot nowadays.

still gets me out of a lot of messes and is very important.

has become a bit jaded but can get excited if you spark her curiosity.

Optimism - September, any pronouns:

peace and love and live and let live.

she wants me to always think the best of myself and others, no matter how unrealistic.

she's the part of me that is a pacifict and drove me to take that two year course in peaceful conflict resolution as a neutral third party called bridging.

is the reason Im so easily disappointed by life but means well.

Pessimism - Shelly, any pronouns:

war and hate is everywhere and there's no fixing it so we might as well become as bitchy as all these other assholes.

Shelly is also every grudge I ever held onto and even though I've moved on I can't exactly just forget it.

is my aggression and what caused me to literally bite a kid in 6th grade, amongst other things I did before and after that to lots of people.

is the reason I'm so mean recently. makes be skeptical and sarcastic and bitter about the world and everyone in it, even when it creates less than ideal situations, but means well.

Hyperfixation - Cecily, she/her:

is all my fandoms and special interests, but also what I call my inner fangirl.

she is all of my excitement and love and passion.

as such she is also horny on main 24/7 but we love her just the way she is.

especially Sabrina, even if she can't keep up at times.

Imagination - Sabrina, she/her:

she is not only my creativity, but also my dreams (daydreams, sleep dreams, fantasies and dreams for the future).

she is fuled by everyone else but mostly by Cecily.

she likes it when she and Sage can peacefully collaborate because Sage has some great ideas for certain words and dialogues, she's really helpful when it comes to story structure and just the logistics of writing.

when in charge of my sleeping dreams she gets to work with Angelica, who she adores so much.

it can get bad sometimes if Dimi or Salem find their way into the dream.

Dimi and Salem also have influence over Sabrina in the waking world.

they have a lot of power but they are also very easy to ignore, which Cecily and Sage are good at helping Sabrina do.

Sabrina is quite fanciful because she finds reality has disapointed her far too many times, so she'd rather I lock myself in a room away from the world, just reading and writing fanfics and watchingy favorite shows, and maybe occasionally going outside to eat.

she has a lot of support on that idea, unfortunately.

Paranoia - Salem, they/them:

every worst case scenario, legitimate concern, irrational fear, unnecessary phobia, and disproportionate panicked reaction.

the problem with them is that they are not one type of fear, they are all of my fears of all kinds, shapes, and sizes, and they have a really hard time reacting properly to each kind of fear.

it's really hard to categories your fears when you're too busy freaking out about them.

luckily, the rest of the sides have slowly begun to accept Salem as part of the group and are helping them do just that so they can do their job better.

ADHD - Sally, she/her:

kinda the reason Cecily exists, along with Syd.

won't let me catch a break.

hated the Ritalin even more than I did.

a human bouncy ball who wont let me stay still and focused at once, I gotta choose one over the other for a certain amount of time.

(high function) Autism - Syd, they/them:

the other reason Cecily exists, they and Sally are very much like Cecily's parents, even if Cecily is slightly more responsible than they are.

only slightly.

"funny you don't look autistic" buddy boi dude pal I just danced down the street scream singing lyrics what about that ISNT AUTISTIC ALSO FUCK YOU FOR THINKING PEOPLE CAN LOOK AUTISTIC.

Took way too long for me to get diagnosed so we're both pretty bitter about that.

Disturbance - Dimi, he/him:

Every random morbid, scary, and as his title suggests disturbing thought I have.

he escalated into some bad places when I was having a hard time at school.

but ever since he chilled out a bit and only chips in when he wants to suggest

"hey what is you stabbed yourself or jumped out a window"

but I can shut him up with a wtf no and he'll go

"understandable have a good day."

Is bassicaly Syd and Sally's son, and therefore Cecily's Brother.

He's the older sibling.

Emmet - productivity, he/they:

is not having a good time.

really hoping we'll get a callback from at least one of the auditions we did so he can get back to his old self.

is really sick.

and tired.

of my bullshit.

get off your lazy ass Dee.

what are you doing.

what.

WHAT.

Syd and Sally are married, their son Dimi is dating Salem, their daughter Cecily is dating Sabrina, and then you've got Sage and Emmet, who's relationship is kinda like one of those divorced couples in movies who end up back together because turns out they just needed to fucking communicate. Shelly considers herself Salem's big sister, and September just loves her weird delightful family and tries to keep everyone together. Shelly and September have a... Complicated relationship.

Bonus Round!!!

Angelica is my Sleep, responsible of my sleep patterns and schedule as well as my dreams though she needs to work with Sabrina to execute those dreams.

Heather is my insomnia and is a fucking bitch who I hate to death. But Angelica seems to be into her and I can't really convince them to break up so I guess I'm fucked.

#dee writes #sparrow sides #my sides #infodump

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autisticsuperpower · 2 years

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An Autism Acceptance Month Like No Other Before. 💚🧩🎂

Well, here we are.

The end of my favorite month of the year: April.

My birth month and Autism Acceptance month.

And just when I thought I couldn’t be more busier this month, I know May is going to be one heck of a month.

Plenty of huge opportunities and life-changing experiences for all the world to see.

But before I begin to spill some minor details about what’s coming up, I have some reflections to share about April.

I know that I have been away from writing new blog posts lately, I’ve been taking time away to work on myself and my relationships with other people.

I’ve also been taking the time to travel and catch up on things that I’ve missed out on due to the pandemic.

April was busy busy busy.

It started off with a weekend getaway to the Central Coast to celebrate one year with the woman that I love more than anything.

After my first work conference, it was off to Las Vegas to celebrate my day of birth and begin another run around the sun.

April continued by working endlessly at a job I love and celebrating birthdays with friends, and taking part in exciting Autism related projects. #SuperNachosSupreme 🦸‍♂️🦹‍♂️

With all the business and the happiness that came with it, there was also a bit of anxiety and depression that came with it this particular April.

As those of you who constantly follow this page, I made the decision to go back to therapy earlier this year.

This is the first time in 6 years that I decided to go back.

For a lot of reasons, but the main reason is to become a better person and stop pressuring myself all the time.

Through all the happiness in photos and me keeping on my toes comes an Autistic adult who is constantly inflicting too much self-perfection on himself in order to meet societal expectations.

This past April, therapy only intensified.

A recent therapy appointment this past week saw me reflecting hard on one Autistic trait:

Masking.

I’ve realized that sometimes when I’m unmasked, the things that I say and do affects other people.

I’m not a perfect person, but I also have no excuses for inflicting past traumas on others.

And to those people I’ve hurt and you know who you are: I’m sorry.

When I say I’m a constant work in progress, I really mean it.

I’m always going to be a work in progress and not be the perfect Autistic role model people or even myself may always expect to see.

And this month, I learned that it’s okay to still advocate for yourself and for your Autism community while you work on being a better version of yourself.

I don’t see “saying sorry” as a form of weakness, I see “saying sorry” as a sign of growth.

But if I learn from my mistakes and still become a better person, as a result, I’ll be less of a perfectionist and feeling less pressure to mask.

I gotta be honest, masking 24/7/365 is not easy. And slowly, I’m letting the mask go away.

I’m allowing more of the Autism I’m known for to work with me and make me more of a super power than I was when I started this blog 5 years ago.

Viewpoints on Autism, especially MY Autism is not going to change anytime soon, though.

We all go through different life experiences, myself included.

I guess it’s a matter of growth and development from those experiences.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned this Autism Acceptance Month is this:

Let perfection go, let realness and openness overflow.

That’s the lesson I’m taking into this next month and the rest of the year.

I mentioned that there will be major things happening in May professionally, but I don’t want to give it all away, so I will sum May up in three pin points:

Business

Public Speaking

Reality TV

Big announcements are coming, major events are happening, so stay tuned for May.

But to end Autism Acceptance Month 2022, I leave you with this.

A song lyric that helped me through when I first started therapy at 15 years old:

“Don't be scared to fly alone

Find a path that is your own

Love will open every door

Its in your hands

The world is your

Don't hold back and always know

All the answers will unfold

What are you waiting for

Spread your wings and soar” - Christina Aguilera 💙💚🧩

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neurodivergentrebel · 6 years

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I come from a creative family. My grandparents were part of the local theatre group in our small town when I was growing up. When I was little my mom would help backstage, styling hair and wigs at lightning speed during set changes.

We saw many shows at the small local theatre. Sometimes, on special occasions, we would drive to Austin. Musicals, comedies, Shakespeare, and even puppet shows. When we saw Grease (I was in elementary school), I nearly fell out of my chair laughing uncontrollably, and loudly, when the mooners interrupted the prom with their bare bottoms.

For a long time being on stage wasn’t my passion. I enjoyed being backstage, behind the scenes, helping out with set changes and running errands for the crew and cast, wearing all black, sneaking around quietly and quickly, blending into the background.

The actors fascinated me. It was magical when they got into character because, as I had learned growing up backstage, often the actors were nothing like the characters they played on stage in real life. They were playing a role, working from a script.

It would be a few years before my own self-confidence would grow enough for me to move from backstage to onstage. At age eleven, I tried out for, and landed a role in, my first play with a local theatre group. It was a small speaking role. I learned my lines by reciting them repeatedly while listening to a cassette recording of the play on repeat. By show’s debut, I had not only memorized my lines but also all of the lines for each of the roles in every scene I appeared in. It almost killed me.

Learning my lines, attending rehearsals, and pushing through stage fright every day began to wear on me and my health took a dip. Backstage and at home bouts of nausea, vertigo, pain, and disorientation were hitting more frequently.

It is an unknown sickness that often appears in times of change or stress. I’ve battled off and on throughout my life. I’ve had doctors call it many things – IBS, anxiety, a way to skip class. The autistic community would call it burnout.

Burnouts tend to be caused by stressors in the autistic person’s environment. The stressors can be mental or physical. Burnout, for me, has always come when I was taking on or doing “too much” or from putting myself into situations that are stressful too frequently. There are things that can burn me out quickly and there are things that will burn me out more slowly, like masking – the silent killer.

I’m a chameleon, an expert masker. I can be fun and playful, or serious and attentive. I can sit still, with proper posture, and give the impression of eye contact. There are many masks, many characters that all require varying skill levels to pull off. Some costumes are more elaborate than others.

The Businesswoman is the most work. She dresses professionally, uses proper speech and grammar, makes great “eye contact”, and is confident. She knows how to act professional and polished. The Businesswoman is just a character but she a part of me and she is me. Her costume is the heaviest of all because it has the most pieces, rules, and requires the most energy and effort to pull off. I can’t wear her every day. She’s so heavy.

Masking can be hard on your self-esteem. Things you do naturally seem to irritate or be strange to other people. You learn to become whoever the person in front of you expects you to be. When an autistic person picks up the mask it is often a way to blend in, survive, or avoid abuse and bullying. Shaming comments like “That was weird!” “What’s wrong with you?” and “Are you okay?” become cues not to do whatever it was you were doing just before the comment. So you put it away – not now, not here, not in public. Wait till you’re home alone.

The brain is a power hungry organ. Masking is tiring. An autistic person who is focusing all their energy on not stimming, not making noises, not making the wrong face, trying to figure out when to talk, thinking about their posture and wondering if it is correct, trying to figure out facial expressions, trying to while filter out background noise and follow a conversation, is burning up lots of mental energy. Masking from time to time probably won’t hurt most people but continued masking, without rest, day after day, continually draining extra energy adds up.

I’ve hit the burnout phase more than once in my life, but hitting it in adulthood has really been eye-opening (partially because it led me to my autism diagnosis). My most recent burnout has helped me to realize the value and necessity for self-care and forced me to look at myself with more self-compassion. I made my mental and physical health a priority and stopped spending time with people who need me to be the masked version of myself.

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel at ease in my own skin.

Small child with dark hear and hands clasped around eyes making a tunnel.

An Autistic Perspective #TakeTheMaskOff - Masking, Mental Health, & Burnout - How does masking impact mental health? What is burnout, how does it relate to masking? #TakeTheMaskOff I come from a creative family. My grandparents were part of the local theatre group in our small town when I was growing up.

#actuallyautistic #aspergers #Autism #autistic #masking #Neurodiversity #passing #takethemaskoff

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gabriel-gabdiel · 3 years

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Fantasy of Evolution Chapter 1: The Quiet Kid in Class

Throughout millennia, angels and demons have waged a never-ending war against each other as old as time itself. They eventually started picking human proxies to serve as their pawns in a metaphysical chess match that had always ended in an apocalyptic check but never a checkmate. Until now.

My original fiction. You can also find it here. Please enjoy.

First | Previous | Next

Darkness without light is an abyss. Light without darkness is blinding. You cannot have a coin with one side. (Unknown)

***

Fantasy of Evolution

An Urban Fantasy Story by Abdiel

Here's my first-ever original work I conceptualized from scratch. Hope you all like it. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: This work may reference copyrighted material, the use of which has not always been specifically authorized by the copyright owner. It is believed that this constitutes a fair use of any such copyrighted material as provided for in Section 107 of the US Copyright Law. All copyrighted material referred to in this work belongs to their respective owners. All rights reserved.

***

Chapter 1: The Quiet Kid in Class

***

Somewhere inside Our Lady of Fatima School in Mandaluyong, Metro Manila...

Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Azrael. Or was it Uriel?

'Those were the Four Archangels, right?' the young 14-year-old boy by the name of Florante Galang thought, talking to himself in his mind as the rain poured all around him.

What a dreadful month this had been.

Anyway, Michael or Mikhail was the most famous archangel whose name meant "Who Is Like God". He was the greatest of God's angels and the most godlike of the four. With his flaming sword, he was the seraph who ultimately cast the angelic traitor Lucifer out of Heaven and into Hell.

Meanwhile, Raphael, Rafael, or Israfil was the archangel whose name meant "God Heals" or "God, Please Heal". The healing angel who bound the Archdemon Azazel under a desert called Dudael. The Angel of Life and Healing.

Then there was Gabriel or Jibrail. His name meant, "God Is My Strength". The strongest warrior angel of the four. The seraph that was closest to the humans who regularly appeared among prophets and holy persons. He was the Angel of Strength and Righteous Power.

Azrael or Samael, meanwhile, was the archangel whose name meant "Angel of God" but actually had the reputation of being more of the "Angel of Death". He was rumored to be the angel who killed all the firstborn sons of the Egyptians during the time of Moses as part of the Seven Plagues of Egypt.

In Jewish mysticism, he was even considered the embodiment of evil. The most demonic of the archangels who never fell from grace.

Some contend that the fourth angel of the Four Archangels was Uriel instead of Azrael, whose name meant "God Is My Light". The archangel responsible for "changing" the Orb of the Sun as the day wound down from morning to night. The Solar Angel.

Those were the strange thoughts swirling inside Florante Galang's brain for whatever reason as he stared breathless at the strange apparition of a goddess(?) with an hourglass figure, porcelain skin, and growing white wings waltzing across the long hallway of the entrance to Fatima School.

Who was this? What was this? Why was this...?

Actually, he felt like he'd been walking in that same hallway towards the exit forever until that point, with no light at the end of the tunnel. Only a black nothingness that stretched on forever, interrupted by this strange being of light before him.

The only light he could see was from this strange being before him that triggered his flight-or-flight response for merely existing.

She also sported huge dove wings on her back that spread behind her like a long white feathery banner. As though she were a valkyrie or something. Or an angel.

Were her angel wings what made him think of the Four Archangels?

He should've been thinking about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph instead, to be honest.

'Susmaryosep!'

He sometimes wondered if he was seeing the same things through his eyes that the rest of the world was seeing. After all, everyone could see color but couldn't describe them, so there was no way of knowing if the red he sees was the red other people see.

Maybe there was something wrong with his brain. His mother did say she was tempted to have him take an autism test. However, the cause didn't matter. It wouldn't change the effect.

He stood there, transfixed by her gorgon stare and her tall, svelte body. She strode, her form appearing inch by inch with every gliding step.

The feminine silhouette emerged from the shadows, revealing the horror underneath the silken black cloak of darkness.

She said nothing, but he could feel the malice in her every movement.

Her skin gleamed like pearls in the moonlight. A sensation grew inside him inexorably, rising from his stomach to his throat as he felt his soul claw its way out of his body in anticipation and dread.

Was she a "White Lady" or a vengeful spirit from beyond the grave? Was he being haunted on this rainy day (or night)?

His gaze focused right into the shining, mesmerizing eyes of the goddess staring right back at him.

Beguiling. Alluring. Dangerous. It pushed all his buttons, confusing him.

So what the hell was he looking at?

Was it delirium that made him see a strange woman that reminded him of angels instead of the embodiment of death before him?

A Biblical angel. Both awesome and awful.

She... not that gender mattered to angels... said, "Do not fear, child. It will be over soon."

She approached him with every bone and muscle from her swaying body twitching visibly under her skin.

His delirious mind going blank, he asked the apparition her name.

"Who are you?!" he asked, when he should've instead said, "What are you?"

The pitter-patter of the rain grew louder and louder. The wind blew hard, tousling his thin bowl-cut hair.

"This is the end of the line for you. I won't let you hurt anyone else, Flor. Prepare to die."

Oh no. Is she for real? What did he do to deserve this? How did she know his name? Her voice began to sound familiar though.

Was this the end of the line for him? More importantly, did it matter?

The juxtaposition of beauty and beast almost drove him mad. Like a surreal dream that melted into a formless nightmare. Or perhaps vice-versa.

The haze in his mind then cleared. He recognized who that person was. She was someone familiar. Even in her transformed state he could recognize her face.

She then flew towards him with dove wings and the speed of a man jumping from a skyscraper and falling to his death towards the cold, hard pavement.

Faster than he could even fathom or wonder why she was named after the Angel of Healing instead of the Angel of Death.

His life then flashed before his eyes.

***

Florante Galang's story was a typical one (apparently).

The awkward teenage boy who couldn't make friends. The absent-minded weirdo. The outcast who lived in a world of his own. The nerd who loved anime a bit too much.

'You've heard it once and you might as well have heard it a thousand times before.'

How'd he know he was such a stereotype? From the movies and TV shows he'd watch or the books he'd read. He was the "blank slate" awkward kid in such stories. The default.

Perhaps even the background character. Otherwise, a subject of mockery or wish fulfillment.

They were stories made to appeal to someone like him, after all. Or mock someone like him.

He was not someone people wished to be but what they usually ended up as from the start. An ordinary fellow that sat in contrast against the special ones. The greats.

Most everyone in Fatima High School had their own cliques and social circles, but most who studied there had formed them since grade school.

Because he was a socially inept loser and he transferred there as a freshman, he never had a chance to form bonds with most anyone.

He was, in short, the new kid in school, who then became the quiet kid in school.

'Ugh.'

Even his mother, whom he had a complicated relationship with due to their countless shouting matches and arguments that had her shaming him for being a disrespectful smart aleck (in not so many words), was the one person he was closest to than anyone else on earth.

Yes, even the closest person to him was never on the same page as him.

His mother. The woman who kept admonishing him for misbehaving and putting fear in his heart every time she grabbed a shoe or one of his father's belts (his gentle father himself never laid a hand on him) was also the person he interacted with the most.

Him and his family originally hailed from Makati but moved to Pasig around the EDSA (Epifanio de los Santos Avenue) Revolution. He could barely remember his time in Makati because he stayed there when he was 3 to 4 years old, and he only started really forming memories at around 4 years old.

He could barely remember anything about his previous residence in Makati except maybe that one time he allegedly fell down the stairs as a toddler.

He'd become acrophobic ever since that happened even though he could barely remember the event.

Every time he walked on an overpass or at the higher floors of the mall, he had to move himself far away from the railings and he never looked down, feeling a tingle from head to toe until he got back down to earth safely.

However, the phobia he had over heights was nothing compared to the dread he felt when going to school.

His family, the Galangs, arrived in Pasig around the time Manggahan Floodway... an artificially constructed waterway in Metro Manila... was first built.

He had spent most of his childhood in Pasig, watching his mother and father invest in half of a bungalow that they then slowly built into a whole house over the years by saving up for it.

His memories were hazy, but he did remember when he was about 6 or 7 years old that every Friday, from 7:00 to 7:30 PM, ABS-CBN Channel 2 would air the show, "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles".

TMNT originally aired in the U.S. from 1987 onwards while ABS-CBN went back on air in 1986, right after Ferdinand Marcos was deposed. ABS-CBN got the program later on at a time when local channels imported programs about 2-3 years late.

Nonetheless, he distinctly remembered watching it at that timeslot when he was a kid.

Even before that, he vaguely remembered watching programs of his youth that helped shaped him and his imagination, from Voltes V to Bioman and Maskman as well as Voltron and Saber Rider and the Star Sheriffs.

He remembered playing with clothespins and putting them together to form his own Voltron toy.

Programs that made him dream of a time he could become a hero himself, his imagination looking like a vague hodgepodge of pop culture references and shows he watched from childhood to his teenage years.

His father was a curious man. The Galangs had ashtrays all over the house but they were never used. He used to be a heavy smoker but he quit around the time Florante was born.

Florante never met the cigarette-smoking version of his dad, who judging from old pictures, was a thin hippie with long 1970s hair and pants to boot.

His Dad also regularly waited for him with their family car, a Mitsubishi Lancer, to take him home during the first few weeks of school. His school service wasn't ready yet and he didn't know how to commute to school as of yet.

To the good people of Pasig, his father was Engineer Galang. To Florante, he was the home tinkerer. He fixed everything in his home from leaky kitchen pipes to Florante's broken toys.

Even if was something as simple as super-gluing the broken arm of his toy Bioman toy... Blue 3, to be more specific... his father would do it.

It felt relaxing and comfortable to drive around with his father back and forth to school, but Florante took it too much for granted in retrospect. The man had office work to attend to as well.

Then again, Florante was a bit of a sheltered spoiled brat who didn't know how to commute to and from his home. He depended on his father or a school service to take him back to his residence.

Regardless, the jeepney service soon came through and his father was free to go straight to work instead of being bothered by driving his son from home to school and back again.

The thing Florante missed the most when being driven by his father was the small, inconsequential talks they had about life, school, and the future.

Small talk about what he wanted to do when he graduated high school, what his career would be, where his passion lay, and if his love of drawing and art could lead anywhere.

They also talked about what sort of games could or couldn't be played on his work laptop (Duke Nukem from Apogee, apparently). Or how Florante should stop sleeping with his work laptop in his room, replaying the Simpsons After Dark Screensaver program.

Or whatever happened to that floppy disk (the really big and floppy ones) he had containing a videogame involving a cat that might've been custom-made by one of his coworkers.

Florante also discussed with his father his dreams of becoming an animator who worked at Disney and the like.

He was even closer to one of his older sisters, the one closest to his age. The middle one. His other sister, the eldest of the three siblings, was the one with the strong, abrasive personality. The aloof eldest sister to her two younger siblings.

The middle sister was the one whom Florante talked to the most.

She was usually as meek and kind as a sheep yet sometimes as stubborn as a ram. She was the one he told his made-up stories about angels and demons. The plot he wanted to turn into his own comic book or manga or anime TV show.

He, like many other teenaged boys his age, wished he could draw or write his own stories. After reading snippets and summaries of Dante's Inferno and Milton's Paradise Lost, his mind went running wild regarding the prospect of a series about angels.

God's so-called messengers.

This was why he knew so much about the Four Archangels. He researched about them for the sake of writing his own (fan) fiction using "original" characters.

Sure, his middle sister might be patronizing him by listening to his puerile action stories of super-powered beings duking it out that she'd soon forget a day or two later, but he appreciated her effort in listening to him regardless.

Also, as lame as it sounded, making that story in his head into reality as a comic book or TV show (and making money off of it) was his biggest dream for the longest time. Again, it was a typical childhood fantasy from someone who regularly obsessed about cartoons and comics or anime and manga.

Meanwhile, he didn't have anyone to talk to at school at all. He had no friends at school. He was a friendless loser.

He could talk about almost everything to his father and sister. However, he couldn't talk about "that".

He wished he could talk to them about the bullying and shunning he suffered from school but he was too embarrassed to do so. He was already 14 years old. He should be able to handle things on his own by now.

How could he possibly reveal that he got bullied so bad that he had to act as his own snitch to the teacher just to get them to stop?

Had a teacher not seen the bullying firsthand and told his bullies to cut it out, he wouldn't even have the list as his means of mitigating the flow of abuse from what seemed like everyone.

Even then, he had a hard time making friends with any of his classmates regardless. His social life was dead. He could only make friends with his fellow "Dead Kids" and nothing more.

***

Fatima Grade School and High School of Mandaluyong was also right beside a church, since it was a Catholic school that was founded by Franciscan capuchins.

The church sat atop a hill with a steep, sloping road wherein cars can drive through. The parking area was at the foot of this hillside road. Right below the church was the back of the canteen—the kitchen area—and outside of it was a bricked walkway full of tall trees and what little dirt they were allowed to grow on.

The unexpected benefit of enrolling in Fatima School was the nearby shopping malls. They were within walking distance. Florante was no mallrat but he regularly made a beeline to these malls every dismissal time. He went there to kill time while waiting for his school service to take him home.

The actual entrance of the school was a narrow hallway with concrete pillars and seats enclosed within a chain link fence. The security guard's job was to check your I.D. before letting you inside. Right beside the walkway a separate glass door entrance to the Faculty Room and the Principal's Office for Fatima Grade School.

You needed to travel further within the campus, past the quadrangle, open-air basketball courts, tennis court, soccer field, and tree-lined park in order to reach the L-shaped high school building.

It rained that day, so he had to walk on the covered walkways to spare himself from the muddiness of the soccer field and the wetness of various puddles on the concrete ground.

It was a proper, well-funded private school. With the ached looks of his parents at the start of the year where they had to pay the tuition fee, Fatima should give them their money's worth.

Inside the high school building, beyond the muddy floor mat and within the vicinity of the hardworking custodians mopping up the soppy shoe prints of the milling students, everything was nice, warm, and dry.

Or it would've been nice, warm, and dry had the air not been so muggy. This sort of humidity was to be expected from the Philippine tropics.

What wetness he left behind on the floor mats he could feel from under his collar.

He had felt his breath gradually creep towards hyperventilation as he approached the door to his section. He then held his breath while following two of his classmates through the door.

At any rate, here he was. Back to hell he went.

There was mustiness from the hallway that reached all the way to the classrooms.

This gloomy air all around him reminded him of his first day in Fatima High. He remembered it like it was yesterday.

***

During his first day of school at Fatima High...

His enrollment into Fatima High School was a bureaucratic blur.

He had gone through the motions of waiting in line in a small, brightly lit office in order to get his papers containing his schedule before being directed to his classroom.

At the time, he pulled his hood over his face (he wore a hoodie since it was cold) as he walked through the dour campus full of milling, bright-eyed teenagers and kids, thankfully blending in with the rest of the crowd before being "outed" as a transfer student.

He was an introvert though, so he couldn't muster the courage to talk to any one of them as they all formed their little cliques and social circles.

Meanwhile, he ended up in the company of total strangers because he was the new kid in school.

Regardless, he used the map given to him at the faculty room along with instructions on how to get there.

He checked the room number on the paper slip that the office gave him, and then checked the names on the list pinned on the board hanging on the door. Sure enough, he found his name there.

This was the right classroom.

He took a deep breath (perhaps more of a prolonged sigh) before opening the door to his classroom.

The people in front of him were chatting it up, their school bags beside them. They had no lockers to speak of even though they were supposedly a private school.

He glanced at the multiple gatherings of unfamiliar faces, identifying only two of boys as students he'd seen during enrollment.

With a gulp, he held his own bag in his arms and clutched it close to his chest like a pillow. Or a security blanket. This was a move taught to him in order to avoid getting his bag snatched in places like Divisoria in Quiapo.

His eyes traveled further across the room, avoiding the gazes of the students around him and only looking directly at them if they were staring elsewhere. Otherwise, he ended up staring at the floor or his shoes instead while his head was bowed.

Since the first day of school was a time when the seating plan hadn't been planned out yet by their designated advisor, he silently searched for a seat at the back while other students who were a mix of graduates of Fatima Grade School and newbies like him started to mill inside their classroom like herded sheep.

It was there that he met her. A girl with silky long black hair and a shy smile.

The bell rang with such franticness that like in a game of "Trip to Jerusalem", he ended up sitting down on a seat right beside her.

***

Their homeroom teacher, some forgettable 40-year-old guy serving as their class advisor, did a roll call on everyone present.

He waited and raised his hand when his name was called. He then made a mental footnote to wait for the name of the girl beside him to get called.

Philippine private high schools, unlike those from the U.S., had classes held in the same classroom for the same section instead of multiple classrooms with assigned subjects and teachers.

It was the teachers that moved from section to section and room to room instead of the students. The latter setup where students went to Math or Science class was more of a college thing in the Philippine Islands.

In between classes and within the same room they'd been staying in the whole day, Florante attempted to chat up the pretty girl he ended up sitting beside with, first by introducing himself and then calling her by her name as revealed by their homeroom teacher.

Her name was Laura Reyes, by the way.

"So Mandaluyong is a lot different than Antipolo, huh?" he asked her after she mentioned where she was from. My, their school sure was a long way from her home!

"Very different," she said, not quite looking at him.

"The roads there go high up on an incline, right? Since you're near the mountains or something," he added, referring to the highlands where Antipolo was located. "Must be a long, tough commute."

"I guess," she replied vaguely. "Well, not really. It takes about 30 minutes if the traffic is clear. It's not that far away."

"Oh. Okay," he said before both went silent once more.

Uh-oh. He was running of topics to discuss with her. Dammit.

She wasn't quite giving him the cold shoulder, but she wasn't the one keeping the conversation going either.

Also, he couldn't believe Laura of all people didn't know about the tale of "Florante and Laura" by Francisco Baltasar or made the connection between their names when he joked about it earlier.

Or maybe it was for the best that she didn't, since making such references to a stranger you just met was kind of cringe-inducing.

Someone else cleared their throat. 'Her' throat.

"Hey, Laura!" said the bespectacled girl in front of them as she did a sideway glance at the two. "Who's your new friend?"

"Oh. Uh, this is... what's your name again? Flor?"

He sighed then said, "Florante."

He winced whenever people shortened his name like that. "Flor" was a girl's name, for goodness's sake!

"Oh, sorry. Florante it is." Laura smiled at Florante vaguely then turned towards the other girl. The cute one with the glasses.

Laura and the bespectacled girl had an easier time with their small talk, presumably because they attended the same grade school and weren't transfer students like he was.

He also couldn't help but feel like the other girl was giving him a wary side eye. He hoped it was his imagination. The last thing he wanted was to look creepy to the girls on the first day of school.

"...Nah, I'm staying with some relatives in Metro Manila," Laura replied to the nerdy girl asking her the same question Florante did earlier regarding the commute from Antipolo to Mandaluyong.

"Oh really? Cool. I'm from Makati," the nerdy girl replied.

Now wait a second. Why did Laura answer her question but when he asked the same thing, she didn't tell him about staying with relatives in Metro Manila? Ugh, this girl.

Beautiful as Laura was, she was also quite rude!

She didn't need to pretend to be nice to him. If she didn't want to talk to him, she could've just given him the cold shoulder like many of the girls from his old school!

"Hey, Flor!"

"It's Florante," he automatically corrected before noticing it was the girly nerd who beckoned him by name. "Uh, yeah. What is it?"

"Where are you from? What class were you back in Grade 7? Or are you an accelerant from Grade 6?"

"Accelerant?" he repeated. He was familiar with the term.

The girl later explained that when at Grade 6 or 12 years old, a student with good enough grades could skip Grade 7 and go straight to first year high school as an accelerant.

He clarified, "No, no. I'm a transfer student. This is my first day at Fatima."

"Right. Welcome to Fatima High, then!" the girl with the glasses said. "The name's Jenny, by the way. Jenny Tolentino. I'm an accelerant from sixth grade."

He nodded absently. "Florante Galang," he reintroduced himself to this mousy girl with short hair, noticing her baby doll face behind coke-rimmed glasses for the first time.

She looked of East Asian descent, but Florante couldn't for the life of him tell if she was part Chinese, Japanese, or Korean. Chinese was a safe bet.

***

The rest of the morning of his first day in school passed in the same fashion as before: With him engaging in awkward small talk with either Jenny or Laura that was interspersed with introductions, note-taking, and discussion of lesson plans galore.

The homeroom teacher had Florante, several other transfer students, and "accelerants" from Fatima Grade School introduce themselves in front of the class full of Grade 7 graduates who already had their own cliques and friends by now.

His social anxiety got him to stammer an introduction to the class, blush tomato-red, and trip over himself on his own two leather shoes as he made his way back to the seat.

He cringed and didn't meet Laura's eyes. He looked so uncool.

They then had their next class with a strict middle-aged woman for a mathematics teacher covering one of the most boring subjects of all time.

Their advisor and home economics teacher was a young woman straight out of college by the looks of it, dealing with her first teaching job and showcasing a strong aura of "substitute" teacher even though she wasn't one.

Her name was Cathy, if he recalled correctly. Or Miss (Cathy) Estrella. She was kind of cute, if a bit goofy and had a tendency to pronounce her Ls as Ws like Barbara Walters or Elmer Fudd.

After three classes had passed, he began recognizing several of the faces in their first-year section.

More and more people ended up talking to Laura even though she herself was an accelerant from the sixth grade amongst mostly seventh graders. She was particularly popular among the boys in the group: No surprises there.

Her beauty hadn't only caught Florante's eyes, apparently. The rest of the class's male population wanted to talk to her. Even the females wished to chat her up as well. She had that aura of friendliness around her.

There were several brave enough to ask her about how much she liked Fatima High so far and why she decided to go there instead of a school closer to Antipolo. Maybe even an all-girls school.

Most of her answers were mostly terse and diplomatic, like with him.

She did reveal to Jenny that she already went to an all-girls school in elementary, which was part of the reason why her parents had her transfer to a co-ed one: To help her become more prepared for a co-ed college life.

This then led him to curiously tell Jenny, "Hey, I thought Laura and you were accelerants with how buddy-buddy you two were acting. But didn't you say you were an accelerant?"

Jenny shrugged. "I am. But I met Laura earlier when our families came over to school and paid the tuition fee on the same day. She's a nice gal." She then whispered to him, "She's cute, isn't she?"

He turned away, his hand holding up his lightly blushing face while his elbow rested on his desk. "She's all right," he mumbled.

He heard Laura giggle at Jenny and say, "Hey, I'm right here! Don't talk behind my back!"

Jenny herself laughed. "No, we weren't! We were talking right in front of you! We don't backtalk! Right, Flor?"

Florante forced a smile at the Chinese-looking girl and nodded.

The Galang boy then got a better look at the nerdy Jenny. Aside from those huge tinted glasses that looked almost like goggles and seemed to belong in the 1970s, she had short, neck-length curly hair.

She wasn't bad looking herself.

She talked to both him and Laura in between subjects and lessons, but mostly to Laura, who at least talked to her in return and wasn't as evasive with her answers as she was to him or the other boys in class.

Jenny acted more like the nice girl she described Laura as, at least.

As for him, he could only smile and nod as she prattled on in between classes and teachers, telling Laura about the Fatima campus. He didn't try to keep up and figured he'd learn more about Fatima on his own.

During lunchtime, Florante ended up sitting at the far end of a full lunch table with Jenny and Laura along with several of their other new "friends", their classmates.

Florante forgot their names as soon as they spoke them, his mind focused more on Laura.

He debated to himself whether she was waving him off the same way she waved off the boys who were probably hitting on her back at their classroom.

One of their classmates, he did remember.

The one who brought up the "Florante and Laura" connection they had that made Florante's eyes light up, only for his shoulders to then slump when he turned and saw Laura tell the guy off, "Gross! Stop fooling around, Gerry! I just met him! C'mon, you're embarrassing Flor!" with a giggle.

'Gross'? Aw, come on, Laura!' Florante thought to himself, his heart sinking while he did a nervous chuckle at the cruel joke. Did he actually gross out Laura after all?

Laura and "Gerry", the jester who brought the "Florante and Laura" connection up, then laughed at the thought, all the while reassuring Galang that they were just kidding.

"No hard feelings, bro," said the tall guy named Geronimo "Gerry" (pronounced "Jerry") Jacinto who made the joke in the first place. Florante did his best to laugh things off, hiding his quivering lower lip with his hand.

Galang took a good look at the smart aleck who brought the subject up.

This person was the size of a tall rock with the mind of a sock. Comfortable to wear but once taken off, easily lost. He was also the kind of man who looked like he'd spent the last decade worrying about his penis size.

No, no, Florante was being needlessly mean to the jokester. He was big, tall, and had a huge head. Not exactly a good-looking guy but a witty and confident one. Also, among the boys there, he seemed to have the most rapport with Laura, if not the most memorable one of the bunch.

Gerry was more of a "Florante" to Laura than Florante was. Although they just met, they were already getting along famously.

On the bright side, he was glad he never made that Florante and Laura joke to break the ice with Laura.

As the chatterbox Jenny talked the ears off of the crowd of boys and girls surrounding Laura, the withdrawn Florante saw them arrive at the cafeteria.

"What are those weirdoes doing anyway?" someone at their table asked.

***

Sitting at the corner of the cafeteria, as far away as possible from where Florante Galang and Laura Reyes's group sat, were these pale-faced, dark, and brooding Fatima High students.

The term "Goth" was more of an American trend than a Philippines one, but that was the best way to describe these people.

'What was their problem?' Florante thought to himself. He wasn't the only one staring holes at those people though.

They weren't gawking at Laura, unlike most other students of the first year class of St. Francis of Assisi and even other classes.

Instead, everyone ended up gawking at them for a change, including Galang and Reyes.

By the way, in Fatima School, all of the sections were named after saints. Florante belonged to First Year St. Francis. As for those other people, he overheard Jenny stage whisper to Laura, "They're from St. Valentine, right?"

One of Gerry's friends confirmed, "Yeah, some of them belong to St. Valentine," referring to First Year St. Valentine of Rome.

There were five of them, four boys and one girl. They weren't talking to each other. They weren't eating either, with each of them holding trays of untouched food.

Apropos of nothing, Galang noticed they were an eclectic and diverse group from multiple high school years.

The shortest male of these Fatima students had spiky hair standing up like a black bush or a shadowy fire. He was also the most boyish one of the group.

Another one, the girl, had hair in a bun with side bangs as long as her back ponytail. She was about the same height as the bush-haired boy and had an almost elfish or pixie-like quality to her smallish face, body, and gait.

Still another, the one with the tanned skin and brusque physique, had shades colored light enough for him to claim they were glasses. Not only did he wear shades indoors—he also sported a jacket indoors too.

The happiest, smiley-faced one of them with the long, thick hair just also happened to be the palest one of the group, even though both the girl and the "midget" boy had alabaster skin themselves. He also looked like a serious weightlifter for someone supposedly so young.

Finally, there was the really tall, lanky young man. Taller than Gerry. Skinny as a rail yet as tall as a basketball player. Maybe 6'9". Maybe even seven feet. He might as well be eight feet high from the looks of him and his lengthy arms and feet.

Look at the height of that human being. If he was a human being.

However, there were in the Philippines with a height average of 5'1" so he was probably just 6'5" or something.

He definitely didn't appear like a high school student for sure. More like their guardian or butler. "He looks old for a freshman," remarked Florante.

Gerry himself corrected, "Tanga (Stupid)! Only the midget and girl are from St. Valentine. The rest are from different years. Celestino is a fourth year student."

Florante frowned but did not dare glare at the bigger Jacinto.

Instead, he repeated the name, "Celestino..." as his words trailed off while he stared the tallest student of the weird bunch.

Now that he got a better look at him, he identified that this Celestino person had half-Caucasian or "mestizo" features.

He might not even be half but full Caucasian by how white he was and how sharp his nose got.

He might even be of Spanish descent, which was a sought-after attribute among Filipinos, whether they wanted narrow noses that were "matangos" as opposed to flat noses or "pango".

It rooted from the colonial days of the Philippines when it was a colony of Spain for 300 years then of the United States of America for almost 50 years. The foreigners intermarried with the natives, and their half-white, half-Spanish, or half-American offspring tended to be treated better than the rest by society.

It came to the point that looking like a mestizo by surgery and skin whitening procedures resulted in better treatment by everyone else at large, which in turn led to such appearances being part of the standards of Philippine beauty.

It was "Colonial Mentality" in action, if you would.

Then again, if Celestino hadn't been born with that (Spanish?) family name of his, Florante would've sworn he picked that name himself because it sounded cool.

Speak of the devil, as Galang said the name, Celestino suddenly met eyes with him.

Celestino initially had shut eyes that opened into narrow slits and seemed to glow underneath his bangs that formed a curtain of hair over his face.

Florante balked at the tall, scary dude with gangly limbs and a weird stringy hairstyle that parted to the side and formed a bobcut with hair moving outwards from his head like antennae, giving his head a diamond shape.

Celestino looked at Jenny for a second before his sharp eyes flickered back to Florante.

Florante looked away first, a flush of crimson embarrassment making him drop his eyes with a shudder.This also had him almost bump into Gerry, who then jibed, "Oooh, does someone have a little crush on him?" with a pat in his back like the asshole that he was.

Jenny herself giggled with an unsure smile, looking at Florante as she asked, "You okay, Flor?"

Galang nodded to Tolentino with a nod. When the ruckus was over and people stopped staring at the strange "circus" troupe, Florante stole glances at all the five strange high school students.

Aside from the shortest kid of their group and the pale-faced girl, the rest of them looked like they could be college students instead of high school ones, or even outright teachers around the same age as Ms. Estrella. Or even older.

Even the shorter people of their group looked a bit too old to be freshmen or high schoolers. Like they were 30-year-old actors playing the role of teenagers in a Hollywood high school movie or something.

Just as they were different they were also the same in a strange way.

They were walking contradictions of themselves in terms of their inhumanly beautiful appearance that verged on the uncanny.

Uncanny because they looked like the airbrushed or manipulated photographs on a fashion magazine. Or walking paintings from the Renaissance. Perhaps even sculptures shaped from marble, silver, or bronze.

Aside from the tanned "moreno" or "kayumanggi" one that served as the black sheep in their white-fleeced herd, they shared chalk-pale alabaster skin that bordered on being albino, dark eyes with shadows underneath them, and gangly limbs that matched them more with each other than their high school uniforms.

They looked like they hadn't slept a wink for weeks or months. In fairness, all five shared perfect, straight, and angular features carved straight from marble.

Who did they remind Florante of?

"They look like The Addams Family," whispered Gerry to his friends, which had them erupt in laughter.

To Galang's chagrin, he agreed with Gerry. Took the words right out of his mouth, even.

He himself might've said, "Children of the Corn", but he doubted that present company would even be familiar with such a reference.

However, their appearances weren't the reason why Florante couldn't look away from them.

He felt something familiar about them. Déjà vu, perhaps?

They group of five then looked away from them. From all those stares.

They looked away from one another and from the other students. Like there was a bird or a plane in the distance that caught their attention had there not been a wall or a ceiling obstructing their view of the sky.

The girl rose from her seat, her tray of untouched food and unopened soda remaining still as she walked away with a stride and sashay of a model before she glided up the steps of the exit, her silhouette across the light permeating from the outside creating ghostly afterimages behind her.

Florante's eyes darted back to the four remaining males, who sat like statues or students posing for a group picture. Unmoving. Like the famous painting of The Last Supper at another angle.

After a couple of more minutes, all four of them left the table altogether in unison. They strode with the grace of dancers or athletes, including the muscular one.

The one named Celestino never looked at Florante's way again. Like he was a bug who was below his notice.

He'd later learn their names. The short guy and girl of the same age were fraternal twins: Kalantiaw and Dalisay Hidalgo.

The bronze-skinned one with the shades was known as Alonzo Estanislao. The extra pale, extra jacked one with the creepy smile and caveman hair was named Jacob "Benjo" Benjamin.

Finally, the tallest, lankiest, and oldest one of them was called Francisco "Kiko" Celestino.

What strange, old-timey names. The nicknames sounded about as goofy, cutesy, and silly as a typical Filipino nickname, but the actual names themselves sounded old. Almost ancient.

From the Year "Nineteen Kopong-Kopong", almost. Or a time before the Philippines went from a Spanish colony to an American colony.

***

Florante Galang remembered how his eyes flickered back and forth from his worn leather shoes to the table where those five weirdoes sat during his first day of school at Fatima High.

He wanted to learn more about those—for lack of a better term—Gothic or Goth kids who wore jackets and trench coats in the tropics unironically.

They didn't have a name for their "gang", but the rest of the school did.

They were called the Dead Kids mostly to make fun of them and their cringy, pretentious lifestyle. Like the way they sat around and didn't really eat during lunchtime.

He wanted to ask more questions about the Dead Kids and their gangly cult leader Celestino, but both Laura and Jenny were themselves newcomers to the school and Gerry intimidated him.

He'd eventually get additional information about them through word of mouth and small talk from the rest of his classmates as the rest of the school year unfolded.

Like info on whether or not they'd always lived in Metro Manila, Mandaluyong City, Cainta City, Quezon City, or Pasig City all this time. Maybe they moved from Makati to Pasig like his family did.

They'd apparently been around since last year. They were transfer students.

Last year, Celestino was immediately moved to his third year in high school, Estanislao and Benjamin entered first and second year respectively, and the fraternal Hidalgo twins joined them only this year as freshmen in high school.

Because the Galangs themselves recently moved to Pasig, Florante was unaware of how recently Celestino himself moved in town.

Rumors had it that they were all foreign exchange students, hence their half-foreign looks. The only one who remotely looked native Filipino was Estanislao.

The rest looked like the typical half-Chinese, half-American, half-Latino, or half-European models Florante would see on television. Come to think of it, the tan Estanislao could be half-Mexican or half-Moroccan for all he knew.

After all, the Philippines was itself a melting pot of cultures, with it being a colony of both Spain and America for years. Even centuries, in the case of Spain.

Regardless, he felt a curious surge of relief and pity for these beautiful people. As pretty as they appeared, they were considered as the outsiders of Fatima High. They were perhaps even ostracized or bullied by the rest of the student body.

Something that Florante could relate to.

The way the people around them reacted to their strange mannerisms reminded Florante of how people back in grade school treated him for being such an asthmatic crybaby.

He was relieved he wasn't the only newcomer in Fatima. And he wasn't the most interesting spectacle among all the newcomers to arrive in the high school either, so everyone's bullying was more "spread out" and such.

Thank goodness.

As the first quarter of the school year neared to a close, Galang started moving predictably further and further away from the Reyes and Jacinto group for various reasons.

He started eating more and more by himself instead of their group.

He could barely talk to any of those quick-witted smart alecks, except maybe Jenny, who probably talked to him out of pity or to help him save face. Or maybe because she was just that talkative.

During one of those numerous lonely lunch breaks, as he gazed as the supposed Dead Kids, he froze as one of them... Kalantiaw this time around... looked up and met his gaze.

At the time, Florante was actually staring at the cute wallflower Dalisay, who did remind him of Wednesday Addams from the Addams Family, only for him to get caught snooping by a set of sharp, angry eyes of a certain midget brother. The Pugsley to Dalisay's Wednesday.

Those eyes shooed him away from staring any further at the cute Goth chick sister.

Dalisay's twin brother didn't appreciate all his staring. If looks could kill, the short boy with bushy hair had flying daggers for eyes.

'Ow, the edge.' What would that midget do to him anyway? Chop him to bits? Burn him to ash? All with a stare? Jeez.

As sarcastic as Florante's thoughts were, he still stood down from the stare down like the little bitch that he was.

Come to think of it, what sort of name was "Kalantiaw" anyway? It was almost as pretentious of a name as Celestino, but at least Celestino was a family name that was passed down for generations.

Kalantiaw's parents didn't have the common sense to pick a better name for their son that wouldn't lead to teasing and bullying.

Ah, but Florante quickly realized that wasn't one to speak about being called names, teasing, or bullying. It wasn't as if he could pick on the shorter kid in real life or anything: Only in his mind.

As his wandering eyes returned to the group, he noticed that Estanislao was also staring at him. his glance holding some sort of unmet expectation.

'Oh no, not this again,' he thought, afraid of a confrontation with the Dead Kids.

He quickly ate the rest of his lunch when he should've eaten the rest of the bitter words swirling inside his head, deciding to wander around the bleachers or the tree park near the children's library where he sometimes hung out (alone) as well.

However, the lithe and agile Estanislao caught up with him.

"AH!" Florante yelped.

"Hey, you know it's rude to stare, right?" Alonzo said to Florante.

Galang gulped, stuttering, "S-Sorry, I won't do it again!" cringing as he said the words.

The taller second year student with sunglasses smiled at the shy kid. "I heard of what happened to you and your classmates. Must have been rough, huh?"

Florante's lower lip trembled, his gaze not meeting Estanislao's, only for him to meet the piercing stare of Kiko Celestino.

The "leader" of the Dead Kids had the strangest expression on his face. A furious, almost hostile one. What did Florante do to deserve such a look?

He noticed that Celestino's eyes were as pitch black as midnight in the deeper parts of the province. In places where urban development had not yet started and electrical posts, much less lamps, were at least 30 minutes away.

Bewildered, Florante looked away again in time to almost stumble face-first into the canteen floor. He caught himself with the assistance of Alonzo grabbing him by his arm.

"Whoops. Careful there, kiddo," the shades-sporting lad said. Strangely enough, Florante could hear the "grin" in his voice. "You don't want to add ammo to all your classmates' teasing of you, do you?"

Unbidden, a flashback of him playing alone in the playground while the basketball varsity team snickered at him miming Rambo putting on his red bandanna flashed in his head, making him shudder and cringe.

A basketball varsity team that included the promising tall freshman, Gerry Jacinto.

He shouldn't have done it anyway. He looked stupid, playing by himself, pretending to be Rambo in the intro of his cartoon series (he never saw the actual R-rated movies).

"SorryIwon'tdoitagain," he mumbled in one breath, apologizing once more just short of doing a Japanese bow and backing away.

"No need to apologize for that," Estanislao reassured, letting go of Galang before lowering his polarized sunglasses and giving him a cheesy wink. "But remember, Flor Contemplacion, I've got dibs on Hidalgo's sister."

"I wasn't...!" Florante said, wondering how he knew his name (kind of) when this was the first time they had talked, but Alonzo cut him off.

"You sure, Flor? Hidalgo caught you staring. Better watch out for him. And me."

As the Dead Kids again left as a unit and barely dug into their lunches, Florante surprised himself by calling out to Estanislao, "My name is not Flor! It's Florante!"

'Flor is a girl's name,' he added to himself.

***

As luck would have it—whether it was bad or good luck was anyone's guess—Florante ended up in the same club as three of the Dead Kids.

He had decided to be part of the Art Club for this school year.

The others elected to go to other clubs like the Computer Club or the Science Club. There was even a Literature Club, which was where Benjo and Kiko ended up in.

Oh sorry. Benjamin and Celestino. Why was he thinking of them in such familiar terms? He barely knew them.

Regardless, the Hidalgo twins and Estanislao ended up in the same club as Galang.

The thing about high school clubs was that anyone could join them regardless of their year. Whether they were freshmen, sophomores, juniors, or seniors (or first to fourth year) of high school, they could mingle in one class as long as they passed the initial exam.

The Art Club had the motherly figure of Mrs. Marisol Mancenido as their advisor. She looked 20 years young even though she was actually forty-something.

Her approach to proctoring the Art Club was encouraging, hands-off, and motivational.

Her "detractors" would probably claim she was too soft on the kids with the way she babied them and let them do anything they wanted in the Art Club for the sake of their "creative freedom", but she had no such detractors at Fatima High.

Everyone in the high school loved Mrs. Mancenido. She was like a Filipina Julie Andrews mixed with a young Gloria Romero.

She was the nicest teacher Florante had ever met. This was probably why he ended up in the Art Club in the first place despite having no talent in art to speak of.

It was his way to get away from First Year St. Francis. Away from the withering, cold looks that Laura gave to him after she rejected his romantic advances.

How embarrassing.

After all the nice things he'd done for her, like help her with errands like getting her photographs developed or hold her lunch tray out for her, she ended up rejecting him.

If she never saw him that way, then why'd she take advantage of him and turn him into her gopher or something? It wasn't fair.

Then again, the only connection he had with Laura was that their first names coincidentally matched the names of the romantic couple in a Filipino literary classic. The Philippine equivalent of Romeo and Juliet.

With that in mind, he found himself longing for the companionship of another female. Perhaps another one who'd also reject his advances, but at least she was much nicer about it than Laura.

Ah yes. Dalisay Hidalgo.

The Goth chick with the surprisingly soft-spoken voice.

He introduced himself to her in the clubroom one day, saying, "Hey, I'm Florante Galang. I'm from Section St. Francis."

She looked at him and nodded with a thin-lipped not-smile, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. "Hello. I'm Dalisay Hildago. From St. Valentine."

"Oh okay. Hi."

"...."

So he barely knew Dalisay and it was apparent by their awkward silences when together.

Perhaps starting with a more platonic relationship with Dalisay was in order, yes? He should learn from his mistakes with Laura. He was never popular with the pretty girls. They found him either too wimpy or too creepy.

However, an obvious obstacle kept him from getting close to Dalisay.

First, there was her overprotective brother Kalantiaw. Second, there was another guy from their "friend circle" who was also after her.

They should lay off of him, man. He only wanted to be friends with Dalisay, for goodness's sake.

'Susmaryosep,' he thought, remembering the way his mother would say the same thing whenever she was frustrated before he continued with the current Art Club activity they had for that day.

They had to make their own painting using watercolors. He frowned at the way he used too much water, nearly ripping the bond paper he painted on.

Meanwhile, Dalisay's brush strokes were all clean and perfect, like her. The way she instead used black-colored paper and white paint was a stroke of genius on her part.

Nevertheless, he kept concentrating on his work and stopped himself from peeking occasionally from the screen of his hair bangs at the mysterious yet lovely girl next to him.

This was because during the whole class, he could feel the same girl's brother not relax from his stiff position on the edge of his seat, sitting as far away from them as possible yet telescopically staring holes at them like a hawk hovering over his prey.

A tiny hawk but a hawk nonetheless. Or an angry rustling black bush.

He then peeked at Kalantiaw, regretting his decision immediately.

His crimson eyes glared back, making him feel like a newspaper left out in the rain. A messy sopping pulp not even fit for wrapping around dried tinapa (Filipino smoked fish).

As he flinched away from the male Hidalgo, slinking back against his chair's backrest, Mr. Cool Kid with the tan complexion and sunglasses lounged right behind them (since there was no set seating plan).

Alonzo Estanislao was quite... smiley that day for some reason.

What an insufferable bunch. Was it too much to ask for him to make friends with one pretty girl?

The school bell then loudly rung, which made him jump. From there, the trio of Dead Kids was out of their seats. They fluidly rose and turned in their work to Mrs. Mancenido.

He stared blankly at them, with Dalisay giggling at whatever weird remark Alonzo said, only for the taller kid with sunglasses to strangely reel back from the glaring short, petulant kid brother between them.

They barely talked to Florante and yet he felt more comfortable around them than he did most of his classmates in St. Francis of Assisi.

He had his suspicions on his first day of school, but the first-year class he ended up in was a whole class full of bullies and class clowns. Galang was more often than not always the butt of their jokes. Especially when it came to Gerry Jacinto.

Gerry made fun of everything about Florante, from the way he dressed with an unironed uniform to his old undershirt being practically see-through and threadbare that one time they were changing to their P.E. uniforms during gym class.

Jacinto was so mean. It wasn't fair.

Florante felt more at ease at the Art Club than in his own class and with his classmates.

Regardless, he started gathering his things and turn in his own almost finished work.

He suppressed the anger and frustration that filled him inside, fearing that his eyes would tear up and then one or several of his classmates would notice their redness, leading to more bullying and teasing.

Or he tried his best to do so. For whatever reason, his tear ducts were linked to his temper, which made his angry outbursts come off as tantrums.

He had no other outlet for his resentment. Dammit.

***

In fairness, it was kind of his fault why the boys (and it was mostly boys) from his section were bullying him extra hard.

The outcast of First Year Section St. Francis ended up doing something he shouldn't have done to their class idol Laura Reyes earlier that year

He cringed, wishing again that the ground would swallow him up as he remembered the embarrassing thing he did.

One of his bullies dared him to draw Laura from memory, which in and of itself wasn't so bad. However, in his desperation to win over his classmates, he ended up drawing her in the nude.

Well, that wasn't exactly what happened. Perish the thought.

They had dared him to do it and he teased doing it by drawing a rough sketch with blocky shapes for her body that looked nude but was actually just how artists "built" a drawing through sketching.

Like drawing a circle first before drawing the rest of the face. Or drawing a "nude" body first before drawing the clothes.

However, one of them told (snitched to, really) Laura about it and she caught him red-handed with what looked like him drawing her nude.

"Ew. That's gross, Flor. Stop that."

"N-No! You got it all wrong, Laura! It's not what it looks like...!"

No amount of frantic explanation was enough to keep Laura from thinking Florante was a disgusting pervert, and he even had to explain himself at the principle's office afterwards when several teachers got involved in the mess.

Naturally, the many admirers of Laura Reyes dog-piled him for his cringe-inducing antics, even though it was all his bullies' fault for making him draw Laura nude and then telling on him.

Ever since then, his bullying got so bad that he had to list off names of those who bullied him to get some of his teachers to intervene.

His listing of names mitigated the bullying but made making friends in his classroom or outside of the Dead Kids difficult due to his reputation as being a snitch.

He was looked down upon for snitching on bullies he couldn't fight back against.

***

He wished he was dead. To end his suffering.

If only he could die in the place of someone else. Someone he loved. Like family or friends. Even a lover. A girlfriend. At least that would've been something noble. He'd be a hero. Instead of a bully victim.

What if he died for nothing? What worth would his life be then?

If he were to die now, he wished he could die a nobler death.

However, from his experience of having deaths in his family, death was almost always sad or embarrassing. Nothing remotely romantic, gallant, or dignified about it.

Also, a lonely, sheltered teenaged boy like him had no one to love romantically, to be honest. He barely had friends at his new school, even.

He should've never moved from one school to another. If only his old grade school had a high school to graduate to. It just got worse, though.

For most of the first and second quarter of the school year, he opted to sink deeper and deeper into his Art Club activities with his kind-of friends (more like acquaintances) known to the rest of the school campus as the Dead Kids.

The Art Club tasked them to do any sort of major project for the class as their final test, be it a children's book or comics. Florante opted for comics.

He drew the comics on his sketchbook. On the back of his notebook. On any sheets of paper he could get his hands on. He copied characters and backgrounds from published comic books and posters before he felt confident enough to create designs of his own.

He mixed and matched the clothes he copied from his big sisters' fashion magazines unto the characters he made that he based on the shows he watched and the people he interacted with.

He even drew comics made of stapled-together scratch bond paper from used printouts, drawing at the blank parts of the paper with pencil sketches and panels made with rulers and whatnot.

Not just for the Art Club. But for himself. For fun. For the attention it got him every time he drew someone's favorite anime or cartoon character.

He even featured some of his, well, acquaintances, and classmates in the scratchy, sketchy comics he made with sparse backgrounds and honestly questionable anatomy.

It was his only way of connecting with people, since he was such a socially awkward kid.

Because they belonged in a quite religious high school founded and funded by Franciscan Capuchins, the superheroes and protagonists of the comics Florante made were all based on Christian mythology, particularly about angels.

He got the idea of making comics about angels one day after reading "Paradise Lost". Or the condensed CliffNotes study guide version of it since he didn't have a copy of the original book and he found reading passages of the poem to be quite boring.

It was part of the series of CliffNotes available in Fatima High's library, which also included novels like "The Pearl" and "Canterbury Tales".

Inside "Paradise Lost" (or its complete summary, at the very least), he learned about the four most famous angels. Archangels, to be exact.

He fell in love with the idea of angels battling demons through the centuries, from the infancy of man to the present.

He also read about demons since every angel needed a demon to fight, right? Even though demons and angels were two sides of the same coin.

He then incorporated many of his classmates in his comics. He even dreamed of them becoming angels and demons in his so-called works.

Some of the characters were his friends, the Dead Kids. Others were his acquaintances and classmates he knew of but barely interacted with. Many of them were his bullies portrayed as antagonists. As demons.

It served as his way of coping. His only method of venting.

He dreamed of the stories concerning all of them in their angel and demon forms and then put them to paper. Even though some of the girls in his class chided him for drawing girls with huge boobs and questionable anatomy.

His quaint little comics served as his dream journal of sorts. His bullies ended up becoming the demon antagonists of his made-up stories, even though he never revealed their names or drew them too accurately enough for them to notice his use of their likenesses in his works.

His comics was one of the ways he dealt with the constant bullying he got from his classmates or even his so-called friends that treated him more as their mascot or gopher for drinks and odd errands than an actual comrade.

They were treating him no different than Laura did, actually.

***

Back to the relative present...

Tonight, Florante dreamed.

He dreamed of doing things he normally couldn't do. Out of wishful thinking. Dissatisfaction. Despair. Hope.

He did it to vent his real-life frustrations elsewhere.

It was during these dreams that his innermost desires were realized. Embarrassing ones he couldn't verbalize since it involved admitting to himself some shameful things.

Like the fact that he didn't have any friends in his classroom. Or the fact that he felt more like a gopher than a friend to the Dead Kids, who were supposed to be his fellow weirdoes, in his desperate bid to belong.

Or the fact that he was one of the most heavily bullied or perhaps the most heavily bullied kid in their class. A "Dead Kid" in his own right.

Regardless, his dreams served as painkillers or Novocain to his bitter, nerve-wracking reality of loneliness and despair as a friendless outcast in his own school.

He was the new kid on the block who couldn't adjust to his new school, but then again he was also bullied back in his old school as well.

Tonight, he could pretend to be "normal" for once, while his brain had clocked out and his consciousness drifted to slumber, his tears staining his pillows at memories he tried to block out.

Traces of these traumatizing past events remained in his psyche, as evidenced by the things that he dreamed about. This allowed him to connect the dots on why he was dreaming what he dreamed.

For example, the beautiful visage of Dalisay Hidalgo quickly crossed his mind, with her smiling at him and actually talking to him while ignoring her brother and Alonzo.

Like that would ever happen. But it was a harmless dream, so it was okay for him to indulge in his fantasies.

She looked so cute. Like an angel, really. A Gothic Lolita angel with a defiant fashion sense that rebelled against their plain school uniform of plaid skirts and cotton button-down blouses.

She was much nicer than Laura, whom he once unwittingly sang a sarcastic happy birthday to thinking it was her gay best friend's birthday instead. When he found out it was her birthday instead, he wished that the ground would swallow him whole.

He inwardly cringed. She must've thought of him as such a loser.

He also dreamed what any 14-year-old boy would dream about.

He dreamed about girls. He dreamed about romance. He dreamed about naughty things.

However, in between those dreams of passion and desire were dreams about his countless regrets.

He dreamed that his bullies would leave him alone. He dreamed about getting real friends, or at least getting closer to the so-called Dead Kids. Even they seemed ashamed of hanging out with him, and they were the school's designated weirdo group!

He dreamed of never doing that cringy thing with drawing Laura's face and placing it unto a nude body (or a rough sketch of one) like some sort of thirsty stalker.

He dreamed that Laura would forgive him or realize what had happened between them was a simple misunderstanding.

He dreamed of him and her becoming friends instead of her giving him the cold shoulder since that fateful day.

He dreamed that they'd fall in love, get married, have babies, and die old together.

Even if none of those dreams happened, he still wanted to become a normal high school kid that wasn't the butt of everyone's jokes, dammit!

But tonight, his dream was different.

More intense. Stranger. Like it wasn't a dream at all.

But somehow, he was aware it was all a dream. A lucid dream, perhaps?

Regardless, it was in this dreamscape where he acted upon his most violent fantasies. He was in control of himself and the events surrounding him this time around, so he got to boss around his bullies for once.

He did in the dream things he couldn't do in real life or even draw in his comics against the so-called demons of his life.

He punished them. Humiliated them.

He then murdered them. He had the power to do so now. In his dream, he had the same powers as the protagonist of his comics. The power of a lightning storm or one of those raging typhoons that regularly battered the Philippines.

Better he do it within the confines of a dream than in real life, right? He could "vent" better that way. It was a healthy, therapeutic method of venting.

However, when he woke up, his dream became horrible reality.

What he had taught had happened during midnight in his dreams had instead occurred in the early morning while classes were supposed to be going on.

He looked down and saw that his hands were covered in blood. Not his own.

'...Eh? What's going on?'

Right before him were the bodies of people on the floor. Many of them his classmates. Some of them not. Several of them burning to a crisp. Like something out of Pompeii when Mount Vesuvius erupted.

'Susmaryosep!'

Wait, what had happened here?

No, he hadn't woken up! He was still dreaming, right? This was all a nightmare!

He then saw her.

The angelic winged beauty made of floating water that reminded him of one of the four most famous angels appeared before him.

She was a breathtakingly gorgeous, angelic woman. Or the huge statue of one brought to life. She looked really familiar, though.

Faintly, as if his half-awake mind was still dreaming in shock and in pure disbelief of what had happened, he wondered what the person before him reminded him of.

He was at the mercy of a terribly beautiful sight from the ether, her strands of hair flowing upwards like they were underwater or a bonfire, her fingertips engulfed in dancing tendrils of water.

Looking at her was like dying from a siren's song, but more visually impactful rather than visceral. So like staring straight into the sun. Or Medusa's eyes.

Except this time, Medusa was an attractive young woman instead of a monster with snakes for hair.

"This is the end of the line for you. I won't let you hurt anyone else, Flor. Prepare to die."

Man, his mind was such a mess. How did he get there? What happened? Who was this beautifully horrifying creature? This biblical angel?

Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Azrael.

Or was it Uriel?

Anyway, those were the Four Archangels, right?

...Right?

***

To Be Continued...

The first chapter is finally done. My first completely original work not based on someone else's idea. I've had this title and this work in my head since the 1990s. I'm glad I now have the opportunity to make it into reality.

Farewell, Abdiel

#fantasy of evolution #angels #demons #gods #gabriel #raphael #philippines #original fiction

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