#ropily

[foxofninetales]

Image credit

Cabbages and Kings by fox_of_nine_tales

Fandom: DMBJ | The Grave Robber’s Chronicles and related fandoms

Pairing: Wu Xie / Zhang Qiling / Liu Sang / Wang Pangzi (reader can interpret as queerplatonic or romantic as desired)

Rating: Teen

Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Modern With Magic, Found Family, Hurt Comfort (heavy on the comfort), Domesticity, fox!Liu Sang

Summary:

Wu Xie and Xiaoge are Pangzi's, in the same way that the cottage is theirs, and the cats, and the magic they share between them. 

That is not Pangzi's fox.  

Excerpt:

When he comes out of the bathroom, he pauses to look out the kitchen window. The moon is high and full, casting the kitchen yard into stark light and shadow.  It is not winter yet, but the nights are cool enough that the cats have changed their summertime independence for the comfort of a warm hearth.  There should be nothing living in the yard.  He watches for a moment, then goes into the sitting room and shakes Wu Xie's shoulder.  

It takes a moment for Wu Xie to wake, making a noise like a sleepy cat himself as he finally blinks his eyes open.   "Bedtime already?"  He looks and sounds distinctly muzzy-headed, dreamy and sluggish after eating.  

"In a minute," says Pangzi, keeping his voice low.  "The fox is in the yard, if you want to see it."

Read it on AO3

Bonus extra of pain: In the comments, @xantissa​ made the mistake of asking what Zhang Qiling is, and a minific happened.  I’m copying it below if anyone is in the mood to have their heart ripped out.  (Hurt-no-comfort warning, but *points in the direction of main fic* comfort happened eventually, right?)

It’s dark, and screaming, and everything is pain.

It moves without willing it; the body it is in coughs and gags and drags in a breath, and then another, and another.  There is a terrible sound coming from somewhere; a gasping, keening moan that goes on and on and on.  It’s only when it swallows the blood in its mouth and the sound stops that it realizes it is coming from the body it wears.  

Slowly, the pain eases – not gone, but fading enough that it can be aware of something other than its skin and its bones and the agonizing weight of its own organs.  It lies there, curled on its side in something the same temperature as its body, but slowly growing less so.  It thinks it is blind, until its shaking hands find hair slicked wet and sticky over its eyes and pushes it out of the way.  

Even then it is dark, but now there are shapes in the darkness.  It’s huddled in a mass of something soft and viscous – not purely liquid, but with things in it that squelch and shift or thread ropily through its fingers.  The light is poor, but there is enough for it to see.  Most of the lumpiness is red, and brown, but it sees a flash of white and scrabbles for it.  The thing it raises in its hand is another hand – a palm, five fingers – but hollow and flopping, as if the flesh has been poured out and only the skin remains.  It considers it for a moment, then lets it fall.  

There is nothing else of interest in the muck, but when it tries to move it collides with something it can’t see.  Fumbling, it streaks redness from its hands on something that is there, but not, until it finds a shattered hole in the not-stuff that slices at it so swiftly and neatly that it takes a moment before it realizes it is in pain.   “Glass”, something supplies, and that hurts in its head, worse than the cut on its hand.  

Something is wrong with this body; it trembles and shakes, and does not follow its commands well, the fingers stiff, the feet dragging.   Something is wrong with the air; it bites at its skin, and draws like daggers into its lungs.  Later, he will know that he was cold.  Right now it calls it pain, because pain is all it knows. Pain prickles through its raw, new skin, blinks in tears from its eyes, and makes it cover its ears against the high whine of the wind.  The glass writes pain into its flesh as it pulls itself over the edge of the platform and falls.

It can’t see well in the darkness, and it hurts itself more when it tries to explore.  It is in a space of stone that arches hollowly overhead; down one side, wind whistles through a jagged gap.  There are things everywhere – shattered, upended things – some broken, others whole but beyond its understanding.  There is more glass, and more blood, and more painful words: “book” and “chair” and “blade” and “array”.  Whiteness drifts in through the shattered hole and gathers on everything, only melting when it land on its skin.

It is ravenously empty inside.  It tries some of the sludgy mass still caked inside the shattered dome, but it is foul, and it spits it out.  There is water in a hollow against one wall, rimmed with something a little like glass; it drinks this frantically, until something goes wrong inside the body and the water comes back out of its mouth in an evil-smelling rush, clotted with darkness, and now it is emptier than ever.  It doesn’t want to drink the water anymore, but hollowness gnaws at the body it is in until it drinks again.  It drinks less this time, and the water settles in its stomach, numbing it.

In the darkness, its hands find something soft: not soft like the slimy things, but soft in a way that is opposite of pain, softness that is a large sheet of some heavy material that gathers in folds under its touch.  It knows this: knows to pull it around itself, to huddle into it until the pain begins to ease.  It still hurts to breathe, but its fingers begin to work better, and it can feel its feet again.  Looking up, it can see through the gap in the stone; overhead there are tiny lights that twinkle, and a bigger light, curved and white.  The lights are the opposite of pain, too, and it watches them.  It falls asleep like that, balled up in the softness, and when it wakes the world is bright.  

It moves again, and there is pain again.  The old pains have eased, or it has gotten accustomed to them, but as it begins to crawl across the floor there is new pain waiting for it.  It learns quickly to avoid the sparkling fragments of glass, but that is hard, when there are so many of them.  The soft material gets in its way, but it is unwilling to let it go and eventually finds a way to wrap it around itself that no longer trips it.  It wants to have the soft material on its feet, too, and its knees, where the stone of the floor is seeping that numb pain into them again, but it can’t figure out how.  

 It finds nothing else to eat or drink, or to tell it what it is or what it should do.  

It sits, wrapped in the soft thing, until the brightness goes away and the darkness comes, and then until the brightness comes again.  

Nobody comes.

The gnawing emptiness returns, and water does less and less to fill it.  The slimy stuff that cakes its skin turns brown and flaky, falling off; underneath, the body’s skin is white.  

It waits, but nobody comes.

It’s that emptiness in the body’s belly that finally drives it as it walks - drags, climbs, stumbles, crawls – to the jagged gap in the wall where the brightness is coming from and clambers out into the light.  

[yasmijn]

Afterthought baca Murakami

Baca novel-novelnya Haruki Murakami mengajarkan w bahwa layaknya kehidupan nyata, closure itu tidak penting, dan juga sering kali tidak ada - terlepas dari seberapa butuh dan inginnya kamu atas penjelasan itu. Sebagai amatir yang sebelumnya selalu baca fiksi cinta-cintaan dan coming of age, kisah-kisah absurd yang ditulis Murakami sungguh selalu meninggalkan w dengan begitu banyak pertanyaan. Kenapa gini? Kenapa gitu? Apa maksud plot yang ini, yang itu??

Novel Murakami pertama yang w baca adalah 1Q84, kado ulangtahun yang w minta ke Mama. Novel Murakami terakhir yang w baca adalah Killing Commendatore, beli di Amazon beberapa bulan sebelum pulang ke Indonesia. Di antara dua itu, w udah baca Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, Sputnik Sweetheart, Hear the Wind Sing, South of the Border West of the Sun, Men Without Women, dan Pinball 1973. Masih ada beberapa lagi yang w belum baca sih, tapi aftertaste-nya mirip-mirip dan ada dua pertanyaan yang selalu muncul. Pertama: kenapa sih aneh banget? Kedua: apa maksudnya? 

Berikut adalah komentar netizen tentang Kafka on the Shore, yang kurang lebih merangkum juga semua pertanyaan yang muncul di kepala w [spoiler alert]:

Unless I am being particularly dim-witted, loose ends remain far looser than in any Murakami novel to date. The wartime X-File is revisited only once, the UFO is never explained, and the spectral village between the worlds serves little discernible function, beyond being a place for Kafka to escape to and then a place to escape from. The mythic motifs also remain frustratingly shady. Is Mrs Saeki really Kafka's mother? (The answer, given to Kafka, is "you know the answer".) Is Sakura, a fellow passenger Kafka meets early in the novel and "rapes" in a dream later on, really his sister? Did Kafka actually kill his own father in another dream using Nakata as an unconscious proxy? Is the Boy Named Crow, Kafka's occasional companion, Kafka's familiar, his superego, or his what? Is a giant evil slug crawling across a Takamatsu apartment an incarnation of Kafka's father trying to enter the netherworld? For Murakami devotees, this fantasy's loose ends will tantalise; to his admirers, they may invite flummoxed interpretation; but for the unconvinced, they will just dangle, rather ropily.

Kalo w cuma boleh pilih satu kata untuk menjelaskan tulisan-tulisan Murakami, w akan pilih kata absurd.

Tapi jujur selalu engaging sih cerita-cerita beliau. Cerita yang menurutku paling ‘normal’ adalah Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki dan Men Without Women. Yang paling ngga normal adalah Kafka on the Shore. Menurutku pasti Murakami nulis semua ini enjoy banget sih, tanpa ada rasa harus menjelaskan ini dan itu, menjelaskan background story, menjelaskan siapa si stranger. Kenapa harus ada makhluk-makhluk kecil merajut chrysalis di 1Q84, loncat ke dimensi lain lewat JPO, manusia pembunuh kucing dan adegan penuh darah di Kafka on the Shore, juga cerita masuk dimensi lain di Killing Commendatore. W bahkan udah ga kaget lagi pas tiba-tiba muncul si commendatore ukuran mini yang cuman bisa dilihat si tokoh utama. Cerita karena ya mau cerita aja, suka-suka. W sebagai pembaca juga baca terus karena penasaran plis ini cerita mau dibawa kemana?

Awal-awalnya masih suka sebel dan cari explanation di forum-forum di internet, tapi makin kesini rasanya makin yaudah. Kalau emang w bingung, ya sudah biarkanlah w berbingung sendiri. Nggak semua harus kita ngerti kenapanya. Nggak semua hal punya rahasia besar yang menjelaskan semua dari A sampai Z. Kadang hal terjadi ya karena dia harus terjadi aja. 

There’s no big revelation that you should be waiting for at the end of the book. And in real life, you shouldn’t wait for someone to explain all the whys behind the things that have happened to you. It might not happen. To me, there is no such thing as closure, it’s just an excuse created by people who still cling to the past. If I did A, then B would not happen. Are you sure about that? Things happened that way because they had to happen that way. No need to assign bigger meaning to things that are not special. You meet tens of thousands of people in this lifetime and each changed you in some way or another. It is not that special. The special and more important thing is that you learn more about yourself.  

The only closure you need is between you and yourself. To accept that things have happened, learn a thing or two from the incident, then move on. The only thing you need to internalise is this: You do not need an explanation. Nobody owes you an explanation. And receiving one would not make your life infinitely better. Because I doubt that the explanation would be exactly what you wanted to hear. It would possibly just make you angry and sad. It’s an illusion.

Let go. And move on.

[solnishkawrites]

S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Fanfic -- Basilisk/Uno

summary: Uno, a down-on-his-luck rookie Freedomer, is asked to perform a funeral service by an ex-Monolithian with a terrifying gaze.

Uno sat in a corner on the Freedom side of Yanov Station, slowly chewing a piece of jerky. It was as tough as shoeleather and didn’t taste much better, and the salt stung the raw flesh of his split lip. He was chewing on the left side of his mouth even though the effort of chewing was making it sore, because the right side was even sorer as well as swelling beneath a bruise left by a bandit’s fist. His supplies now consisted of the food in his hand and a bottle of water sitting next to his foot. Everything else had been taken.

Uno stared down at the dirty floor in front of him, trying to think of a way to un-fuck his life. A solution presented itself in the form of a pair of boots coming to stand in front him. He looked up, saw Basilisk staring down at him with his arms folded across his chest, and immediately changed his mind.

“…Hi,” Uno said, his eyes darting to the door behind the ex-Monolithian’s legs before he could stop himself. Basilisk didn’t react; he was probably used to other stalkers eying the exit when he approached them.

“Can you do a funeral service?”

Uno coughed on his jerky, then managed to recover himself. “For, uh, for who?” he asked hoarsely.

“Havoc.”

Uno had a few vague memories of a red-haired member of Basilisk’s little band of ex-Monolithians, one who crooned songs to his gun as he cleaned it and cradled it against his chest when he slept—like a child with a favorite toy, a talisman against the horrors of the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he lied.

Basilisk’s expression didn’t change. “You won’t do the funeral?”

“Wha… no, no, I meant—I’m sorry for your loss.”

Basilisk blinked, which was rare enough to be worth mentioning. His eyes had earned him his name: they were a very bright green, and had a piercing quality that nobody in Yanov Station could tolerate for more than a few seconds at a time. To look Basilisk in the eye was to get the feeling that he was figuring out a dozen different ways to kill you as well as reading your mind.

Uno looked at the space next to the ex-Monolithian’s ear while waiting for a response. Eventually, Basilisk spoke: “The body is outside.”

He turned and left. Uno grabbed his water bottle, stuffed the jerky into his pocket, and followed.

What was left of Havoc was lying next to one of the train cars outside of the station. A pair of blind dogs were gnawing at it. Basilisk drew the pistol at his hip and killed one, and the other yelped in terror and ran away. He holstered the pistol, unslung his assault rifle, and tossed it to Uno. The rookie Freedomer caught it awkwardly.

“Keep watch while I dig,” Basilisk ordered. He picked up a shovel lying next to the corpse.

Uno was still looking at the assault rifle. “What is this?”

“SG 550.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means it’s a good gun. Keep watch, rookie.”

“Right, right.” Uno held the rifle gingerly. It was a tool and therefore meant to be used—but it was also a type of gun he had only seen a few times before, and was probably worth his life if it somehow broke into pieces in his hands. After a few more seconds of anxious staring he managed to tear his gaze away and start scanning the hilly, irradiated terrain surrounding them.

Basilisk dug. It was a hot day, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun a white-hot hammer against the tired, dry anvil of the earth. There was no wind. Flies whined and buzzed around Havoc’s corpse, which was already rotting and stank to high Heaven. Uno leaned against the rusted side of a train car, watching a mirage shimmer against the horizon. The loudest sound was the shovel biting down into the dirt and Basilisk’s heavy breathing. His face was red from exertion, and sweat had plastered his hair to his head and ran down his face. He had taken off his pack, but had kept his heavy Kevlar armor on.

Eventually, Uno couldn’t stand to it any longer. “Hey,” he said, making Basilisk look up. “Take a break.” He tossed him the water bottle.

Basilisk caught it, uncapped it, and drank deeply. Uno watched as a trickle of water spilled out of the corner of his mouth and ran down his neck, vanishing below the collar of his shirt. When the bottle was empty the ex-Monolithian held it for a moment, looking down at it before looking back up at Uno.

“You gave me your water.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because… you looked thirsty?”

Basilisk kept looking at him. Uno was sweating now from more than just the heat of the day, and he made the mistake of meeting the ex-Monolithian’s eyes—and was trapped.

He drowned in a sea of pitiless green as the whine of the cicadas became louder and louder around him. He drowned, hypnotized, held immobile the way the eyes of a snake might paralyze a bird.

He’s going to kill me, Uno thought, at the same time that Basilisk said something.

Uno flinched and came back to himself.

“What?” he croaked.

“I will repay you,” Basilisk repeated.

Uno nodded dazedly and looked away, gripping the assault rifle tighter. He stared towards the horizon without really seeing anything, breathing shallowly and letting the heat of the day sink back into him. The ice that had somehow crawled up his spine to twist around his heart melted. He heard cloth rustling, and then the reassuring noise of the ex-Monolithian digging. When Uno’s heart-rate returned to normal he chanced a look at Basilisk.

His Kevlar armor was lying next to his discarded Freedom jacket and blue-and-white striped undershirt, and without his usual, bulky clothing he was… very fit. From neck to wrists Basilisk was pale and untouched by the sun, his arms and shoulders ropily muscular and the faint lines of abdominal muscles crossing his stomach. But there was a starkness to his collarbones and a thinness in his fingers that spoke of hunger, too, and far too many scars.

He looked down at the assault rifle that Basilisk had given him, then up at the ex-Monolithian’s unarmored torso. Then back to the rifle.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Basilisk said without looking up. He continued to dig, then walked slowly around the grave while looking down into it.

“How do you know that?”

“You’re not a killer.”

Uno opened his mouth to reply, but there was a rustling from the underbrush surrounding them. The blind dog had come back. It slunk closer, growling softly, and Uno reacted without thinking. He stooped, picking up a fist-sized stone from the dirt at his feet, and lobbed it with all his might towards the dog. The stone struck its muzzle and the dog fled, yelping in pain with blood on its nose and lips.

“I gave you that gun for a reason,” Basilisk said.

“I didn’t want to waste your ammo,” Uno replied, which was at least partially the truth.

Basilisk grunted, dug out a few more shovelfuls of dirt, then appeared to be satisfied. “It’s done,” he said, turning his horrific stare on the rookie Freedomer again. “Say the words,” he commanded.

“Which ones?” Uno asked.

“Any. Just… say them. Havoc liked to listen to that Dutyer preacher. Say some words about God.”

“I… I don’t know religious words in Ukrainian.” Uno knew some. He knew that God was Boha and angel was anhel, but that was about it. He didn’t know the verb for to pray.

Basilisk looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Say them in your native tongue.”

“Okay,” Uno said. He took a deep breath and looked away, up to the blue of the sky, and thought of his grandmother in Zamora praying the rosary. She did that every morning and evening, even as the cancer that ultimately killed her made her hands shake like leaves in the wind. Uno had hated it. Why bother? God hadn’t cured her, despite her faith and her goodness. God had let her die. God had let Havoc die, too, who was Basilisk’s only friend. Now Basilisk was alone and Uno was alone too, and Basilisk wanted him to ‘say some words about God’, that bastard, that utter bastard.

“Okay,” Uno said again. He walked the two steps to Basilisk and took the ex-Monolithian’s hands, feeling the warmth of his skin and the calluses on his fingers. He folded them together gently in a praying position, held them there for a moment, and then let go.

“Padre Nuestro,” Uno began, folding his own hands, “que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre.” He thought of Zamora baking under the summer sun, just as the Zone did, of the closed coffin containing his grandmother’s skeletal, tumor-ridden body being lowered into the grave around which too few mourners gathered. He thought of Havoc, unhinged and violent but as devoted to Basilisk as a knight to his lord, soon to be buried in a dirt hole around which two dirty, probably cancerous men stood.

 “Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día.” Beside him, Basilisk breathed quietly, his hands still folded.

“Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal. Amen.”

Uno took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Basilisk was already moving, kneeling down to cradle Havoc’s body against his chest and carry him into the grave. He curled the ex-Monolithian’s body in on itself, arranging his limbs as though Havoc was sleeping, then stepped out of the grave and began shoveling dirt into the grave. Slowly, Havoc’s body was entombed.

Numbly, Uno gathered two mostly-straight branches and tied them into a cross with a bit of string, driving it into the soft earth at the head of Havoc’s grave. Basilisk nodded approval, then looked up at the rookie Freedomer.

“Your words were good,” he said.

“Thanks,” Uno said. He licked his split lip, forced himself to look into Basilisk’s eyes—and didn’t drown. He handed the SG 550 back.

Basilisk shouldered the gun and turned back towards Yanov Station. “I have food for you, and some other things.”

“What things?”

“Things you need. Now come on, rookie.”

Uno followed him.

[trulycertain]

When I say “I wasn’t into Deus Ex and am somewhat startled at what has happened to me,” I don’t mean “I didn’t know much about it,” I mean, “HR crashed my Xbox five times and I wrote the game off after one level.” Seriously, it wouldn’t even let me get past Milwaukee Junction.

Here’s a condensed thing I sent to a mate in January 2018. This was a rapid and hellish descent. Also, wow, past Tru was judgey.

*has discovered gorgeous depressing ambient music with an air of mystery* ...Oh, it's the Deus Ex soundtrack again. Of course it is. *sigh* Why was the soundtrack of that game so much better than the actual game? *still listens to it and pines occasionally* The soundtrack! The themes! Some of the character designs! The neo-noir aesthetic! And yet, somehow... didn't come together for me. I still mourn what could have been.

[Note: Or you could stop mourning and actually play it. For more than two and a half hours.]

That and the fact it never quite followed through on its story promises. 

But I am very bad at stealth games, so I didn't get far. Weirdly, Dishonored worked for me second time round, no idea why. Still haven't got very far with the sequel, though.

[The gameplay is actually great, past Tru. You just tried to play it like a Halo/System Shock style shooter and wondered why you weren’t having any fun, because you’d never played a stealth game before.]

*has just realised she basically wanted a ten-hour neo-noir about body horror and what it meant to be human and coming to terms with great pain and change, with a protag who was actually well voice-acted and more pseudo-scientific detail, not a ropily animated load of sneaking round corridors and throwing vending machines at people...huh*

[In-game animations are... mixed, but cutscene ones aren’t that bad, are actually rather good, and have some clever little body-language quirks. Try the Director’s Cut. Also, the VA is actually rather good, for someone who’s been directed “don’t play strong emotion,” and audibly gets better. This is a Mark Meer situation, Tru. Also, c’mon, the vending machines and the fridge-throwing are great. Stop lying. You just hadn’t got the arm mods yet.]

*realises she's basically been mentally writing the game one of her favourite soundtracks of all time deserves for about three years*

[Just write a book, Tru. Seriously. Just write a book or an IF game. Body-horror sci-fi neo-noir has been on your list for years. Just write it rather than asking Eidos to write it for you.]

I mean, come on... the trailer gives us stuff like "I never asked for this" and "the body may heal, but the mind is not always so resilient" and then gives me... a stealth shooter with a bunch of implied occasional story? What the hell is this, 1994 System Shock?! Also, so does the game. Those are canon lines. And there are a couple of instances of NPCs talking about their fear of augs or "my boss augmented me against my will" and Adam looks at them slightly bitterly, but... nope, we're going to make the story about a generic "take over the world" narrative instead. I mean... gah.

[OK, I mostly stand by this. But past Tru really needed to see the apartment levels, the Taggart press conference, and Mankind Divided. Which she hadn’t. Because she’d got all judgey. After two bloody hours and not even getting to the first hub level.]

Also, all those awesome mythology motifs that were hyped up and never got used. For goodness' sake, the main theme is called Icarus!

...I think I wanted some unholy mix of Mass Effect, Blade Runner 2049 and Winter Soldier, basically. Or that's what my brain is coming up with. Some Third Man thrown in.

[Just bloody write that, Tru.]

I was keeping an eye on the trailers. I never expect accurate gameplay, but I do expect at least a vague idea of themes. Hell, even in the opening cinematic, I was going, "Right, you've got me on board here... oh, wait, more shooty bits? I liked the original Deus Ex, but I swear it was not quite this... shooty...

[It was. It was way more shooty. Stop being disingenuous. HR is a stealth game, but DX1 was a light RPG and mostly a shooter. DX1 was made in the “rocket-jump” era of gameplay. You knew that, it was just 3 AM and you had a high saline content.]

 Oh look I'm dead again because I jumped three foot off a ledge... *sigh* I see angsty gravelly-voiced cyborgs with scotch in neo-noir apartments, I have expectations. Expectations!

[You got them fulfilled. Again: lair-of-misery flat. Taggart. Mankind Divided.]

Also fond of "it's not the end of the world... but you can see it from here." 

[OK, still good. Also, my favourite creepy AI.]

It's like... they had two storylines, which were a wider one about the ethics of augmentation and change and transhumanism, and a character one that would reflect all that on a smaller scale and give us someone who wasn't just a blank-slate protag, who had branching dialogue. They let go of the latter, after implying the odd bit of it when they remembered, to focus on the former, which they still didn't explore in that much detail. 

 It's very good for what it is. But they promised too much. They promised me the Seven Ages of Man, and gave me Call of Duty.

But they gave us trailers like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq5KWLqUewc And then we got... shooty stuff. *goes to find more music*

And you can do atmospheric worldbuilding where you don't explain everything and shove it in players' faces. Dishonored did that pretty well!

[OK, they do get a bit portentious and things get declamatory. But the camp is part of the fun. Remember fun, Tru?]

[anadromeo]

Tweeted:

Lux played today's #2 #RarestWord: ROPILY for 100pts, def'n at https://t.co/YtYMqfxZLx #game #scrabble #playmath http://pic.twitter.com/YmZ9q00Awy

— Anadrome (@anadromeo) September 2, 2017

via https://twitter.com/anadromeo September 02, 2017 at 04:05PM