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anthropwashere · 4 years

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deadfic: welcome the unknown

Another one for @goodintentionswipfest, and the oldest of the lot I’ll be posting by a significant margin! As in written in 2009 old. You’ve been warned.

Gonna put the whole fic under a readmore because JTHM fics have one setting and that’s Upsetting, so have some naval gazing from me first.

2009 was uhhhhh, some kind of year for me. It was the year I graduated high school, and the year I was a little bit homeless, and the year I wished I was a little bit homeless for longer so I could have avoided some bananas shit, and the year I spent waiting on tenterhooks mid-recession before I could run from a ehhh home life off to the military.

18 year old anthrop was working through some shit while writing this thing, is what I'm saying.

This was intended as a prequel to a fic I was working on in high school, while also being kind of a stand alone fic? If you've been with me since my JTHM days (wow) you'll recognize what it might have been for, but otherwise don't worry about it. This is a bit all over the place but there are still a lot of pieces I'm fond of and honestly, it's nice to see where I was as a writer and how far I've come in comparison? Too many of us fandom writers destroy huge swaths of our work out of this terribly sad and unnecessary shame for liking "cringy" things, and to this day I regret doing the same to virtually all the things I wrote for my first few fandoms. Cheesy and heavy-handed as this fic is, it's nice to have around still, you know? I cared about this fic. Working on it kept me sane during an extremely shitty summer. I dearly wish I still had the first draft, which I remember writing in different colored markers on folded sheets of computer paper hunched up in any random little corner I could get some time alone. Alas, like 98% of the rest of my things pre-military, it's gone for good.

Title comes from Robbers on High Street's "The Fatalist," which sure was a song I had on repeat a lot back in 2009.

Everywhere is dirty. Filth and stink and dead particles on everything he touches. He'd fallen asleep, and somebody had broken into his house and poured the offal of a thousand trash cans onto everything and smeared it in deep.

Asshole.

Really though, they are all assholes. Shit-smeared animals groping around on all fours, blind and deaf and desensitized to whatever little good was left in the world around them.

They make so much noise. All they do is scream, and whenever someone manages to gasp out a non sequitur the whole world applauds, casting them into the history books for the next generation to draw penises upon their photographs. It is all a matter of course.

It can't just be him that sees this. One look outside is enough to prove his point. Why else would he board up all the windows? To keep the assholes from looking in, of course.

The assholes are everywhere these days, screaming and fucking. Fucking. They're good at that too. Reproduction. Bucking hips and nails across skin and incredible, terrible intimacy, the exchanging of fluids. Disease of the flesh, fever of the mind. A new generation born in every positive pregnancy test, a new generation dead in every street corner abortion clinic. Babies. Disgusting, germ-ridden things. Oh God, don't let it touch him with its fat little hands shiny with saliva and the green ooze that won't cease dripping from the holes in its face. He doesn't know what'll happen, what he'll do if this thing gets too close, but he has ideas, and none of them are pleasant.

He always has ideas.

He blinks, and the baby and the stinking slut mother cooing at it with too-red lips and salon-styled hair and the bus and the roaring all vanish. He stumbles and knocks an elbow against the dresser.

The smell in here is somehow worse now. Like old vomit in high summer. Is it vomit? Is it his vomit?

He decides it's better not to now, at least not now. He feels a strange mood coming. High tide comes to drown the starfish, already dried by the sun. Perhaps it is a mood he needs, but then again, perhaps it comes too late.

Something cracks, and the edges go soft and drip in a puddle of wax.

He burns his fingers by candlelight.

"Johnny?"

"Bunny?"

His throat burns. It hurts to breathe.

"Oh thank God, you can hear me again. You're back."

"What—" He breaks off, coughing. Blood in his mouth, on his teeth. He licks them clean and swallows. "What are you talking about?"

Bunny sounds small and tired in his ears—

Mind?

—and there was fear, Johnny can hear it licking at the corners of Bunny's—

His?

—voice, but it has faded with time. Johnny suspects he has been asleep for a very long time.

"I've been trying to reach you for… God, I don't even know how long." Bunny trails off.

He looks around, his eyes struggling to see in the pre-dawn light trickling in through a dozen half-circle windows on the floor above wherever he is. More by the smell than anything, he realizes he is surrounded by blood and bodies. A part of him knows he shouldn't be comforted by this, shouldn't find this scene familiar.

And yet.

"I was scared, Nny."

He hiccups, chokes, and spits out three bullets.

The mirror is laughing at him.

He sneers at it. Squints as two left hands do two different things, almost identical but the blur is still visible, still there.

He was wrong, he knows that now. There isn't just one person, one world, one reality on the other side of the mirror. There are dozens, maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands. Not all at once, of course, but there seems to be another pair of eyes staring back, another mouth talking at everyone and no one, each time he looks hard enough, long enough. The edges blur, fingers drag in slow-motion arcs, teeth where teeth shouldn't be, a hundred shades of skin and hair and eyes.

He can't remember the last time he showered.

“You look like shit, Nny,” observes the Burger Boy.

“Yes.”

“You really should do something about it.”

“Yes.”

He drives the pen through the paper and carves something into the wood that later he won't understand.

Greasy. He is so greasy. The others in the mirror bow out of the way to let him see the unwashed, true reflection of himself. He makes a face, drags his cheeks down to his jaw and waggles his tongue, and the reflection follows accordingly. No blur.

Yep, that’s him all over.

Devi screams, her face set in a terrified, furious, how-could-you-you-shithead expression, and smashes his face against the mirror. His nose breaks on impact, glass stabs, digs, and catches, and drags down his cheeks and forehead. Blood everywhere, his blood. A tooth goes flying as his chin hits the dressing table’s pitted surface with a crack that sickens him even as the edges of his sight turn black, and the pain is more than noise can express. Blood on Devi’s knuckles. Fingers ripping out his hair.

No.

Everything pauses, then it all reverses in an instant, and he is left standing before a dirty mirror with too many faces looking back.

That already happened— a long long long long time ago

—and he is better now. Devi is better now too. He hasn’t talked to her in awhile but she is around, she is there, and everything is okay now. There is some blood dried into the floorboards still—was that were the stink is coming from?—but his scars have faded. He has forgiven, and he thought he had forgotten.

He’d gotten a new mirror and everything.

“Hi Nny.”

“Evening.”

Squee leans back on his heels before the underbelly of a machine Johnny has no understanding of and glares. With his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, smears of engine grease on his hands, sweat on his face, and looking like a mix of engineer, mad scientist, and responsible adult, Johnny has no idea how to treat the boy-now-man-next-door.

"How've you been? Whatcha been up to these days?"

There is something unspoken, something furious and accusing underneath the easy drawl of the questions. He can't imagine what Squee could be angry with him about. He is at a loss, also, at how to respond to the heavy questions thrown at him so casually. He struggles under their weight, unable to answer, unable to keep quiet, unable to lie.

Squee chuckles as he stands in one smooth motion centered on his knees and cleans his glasses with a rag from his pocket. "It's okay, shit, calm down. Not like I got a gun to your head or anything."

For some reason, he feels himself flinch. Squee's eyebrows knit and relax in an instant.

"Let's see," Squee muses. "You look like you, I'm pretty sure your car still works, and I'm currently over at Pepito's for some headfuck or another. Okay, I think I know what year this is. Awesome." He puts his glasses on and shares a smile that could cut glass.

"What are you talking about?"

Squee looks surprised, but after a moment laughs a quiet little laugh. "That's right, I forgot. This is the year you do your weird losing-time thing, yeah? Haha, you freaked me out even more all summer. I think I slept on the roof more than I did my own room. Oh God, this is even better!" He laughs again, louder, and claps a hand on the shoulder of the strange machine.

He can't think of any kind of response to this before Squee speaks again. "Fuck, Johnny, you really think seeing me at nine one day and twenty-three the next is normal?"

He thought about it. "Noooot really. No."

"That is exactly—what—How did you even recognize me?" He gestures at himself, and his eyebrows do something halfway between emulating surprise and gut-busting dislike.

"Who else could you be?"

This time his laugh is loud and body shaking, and he thumps the machine as if Johnny has said something incredibly witty. "Wow, okay, if that logic works for you it works for me, you crazy fuck."

He did not just hear that. "What did you call me?"

Squee smiles again, but his eyes remain cold and flinty and full of hate towards something—Johnny suspects—he has done in the future. Goddamnit, future self, way to ruin a good thing. But his hands still clench, his joints lock. How dare Squee? How could he?

But the boy-now-man-next-door acts as if nothing has changed. "So I can't remember how your art or lack thereof is working out in this little slice of time. You paintin' with any other color 'sides red?"

Why was Squee acting like this? "Of course I am."

He isn't.

Squee scratches his neck, scratches at scabs over long, thin lacerations in finger-shaped bruises, and Johnny wonders if what he's feeling now is how the man felt when he had still been a boy, and the scary neighbor man once crawled through the window to tell him a bedtime story.

"You know, somehow I doubt that."

His fingers itch for activity. He hasn't left the house in days, maybe weeks. Does it matter?

He licks his lips and swallows, fighting down familiar urges. He can beat this.

"Do you have a problem with me?"

"Oh god oh god oh god why are you doing this—"

"Excuse me, I asked you a question."

Gently touch the controls, tack the pressure on, oh, just a little more. Just enough to make them scream.

The back of his head itches, and when he scratches his fingers come away red. No pain, just blood. So it isn't his then. But he can't remember killing anyone.

He looks away from his hand and out the window, at the outside world creeping in through the cracks between the boards. Outside there is no sun, no moon, no stars, no anything. His breath hitches.

It's raining.

He exhales.

The door is open though he doesn't remember leaving it so, so he takes the hint and walks outside. He inhales, tasting the hot summer smell of wet concrete and the cloying reek of decomposing bodies in his front yard. The million million light bulbs of the city throw their energy skyward, and the roiling clouds eat the light whole. A weird, orange glow from above casts the city into an otherworldly scene, and, feeling a little silly, he wonders if tonight might be the beginning of the apocalypse, and the idea doesn't sound half bad.

In the driveway, the concrete is slick with oil. He stands there a while, letting the rain wash the human grease out of his hair. It takes him just as long to realize his car is missing.

"That's funny," he says aloud, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes. "I don't remember teleporting home. Unless—was it Tuesday yesterday? I don't think it was, but—"

There is a soft, scared inhale of breath, a backwards scream. He turns, and there on the sidewalk is a gray woman in a bathrobe, faded coffee stains and food crusts all down her front. She is pointing at him, her face wide, frozen in a rictus grin of fear.

"What?" he asks, reality crashing into place with a shatter of glass ripping through his ears.

Her mouth moves, but the sounds that come out are backwards and insulting, and her eyes are fish eyes, wide and lidless and staring.

"What?" he asks again, sharply, his voice ugly and tasting of ashes.

"M-mon—" the woman wheezes.

Her throat is in his hands, and he doesn't recall moving from his empty driveway.

"What are you staring at? What do you want?!" he screams.

She gags and gurgles, her tubes for eating breathing talking standing bleeding; all of it collapsing under his fingers—

which hadn't been so thin a few weeks ago

—and the grin on his face is a mile wide.

"Monster!" she whimpers as something cracks in her neck.

Monster? His hands loosen, cradle her jaw, as his mind tries to grapple with this. Why… Why would anyone call him that?

The pounding of feet, and someone wrenches the woman out of his grasp. "Jesus jump-roping Christ, Johnny!"

Dazed, he stares at the newcomer as if he's looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope. The reek and the roaring of the public transit system returns with a bang of pneumatic doors, and Squee's mouth moves in angry shapes but the slut-mother's cooing comes out instead.

"You gonna pay or get off my bus?"

He looks at the bus driver, at the thick rolls of fat ballooning out underneath his sweaty, undersized uniform, a sneer pulling back the heavy flesh around pearly white teeth. He imagines jamming the steering wheel through the man's dislocated jaw and feels slightly better.

It's safe to imagine such atrocities. Imagine, but nothing more. He has to remember that.

"Hey kid! I'm talkin' to you!"

"Sorry," he manages through grinding teeth and a throat hot and restricted with anger. He deposits the required fare into the automated tray and darts across the yellow line before he can act upon his ideas.

He always has ideas.

He stumbles into an open seat as the bus jerks forward with a belch of black exhaust he can't see but can taste, heavy and gritty on his tongue. On his right, a plastic mommy bounces her little dolly on her knees. They are dressed in matching summer dresses. Disgusting.

How long has it been summer anyway?

He glances at the pair again and thumbs the volume on his CD player a little higher, fighting to keep his face neutral. He has never been fond of parents who treat their offspring like objects rather than the people they are going to be.

Something tugs on his sleeve and he recoils, crashing into the metal bars on his left. It takes everything he has not to retaliate against the foreign touch. His headphones are knocked askew by the impact, and Mozart's power vanishes, becomes tiny vibrations around his neck.

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl has the ragged end of his sleeve in its shining, soaking wet hand. Through the fabric, he can feel its dampness, its heat. It babbles at him incoherently, green ooze dripping from its squashed little nose into the gaping, grinning mouth below.

"Oh, she likes you!" The mother cries, swooping in for the kill. Her smell washes over him—of heady perfume, hairspray, hysteria. He can see the makeup creases, the scars of plastic surgery, the shadow of a bruise on her shoulder half-hidden by her yellow sleeve. His mind jumps to all sorts of conclusions, and each one of them sickens him more than the last.

"Uh," he manages.

His hands twitch.

He is sick of this life again. All the old signs are there, everything points to one fact, but he can't bear going down that path, not yet. Later, later.

"'Later,' he says!" Crows the delighted Burger Boy. "Yes, perhaps when the scabs from the old shackles grow over the new he'll get off his scrawny ass and attempt to do something about all this!"

"Fuck you."

The Burger Boy looks at him imploringly, its meaty little hands clasped, its fangs retracted, the perfect image of a concerned friend in hideous checkered overalls. "In all seriousness, Johnny-boy, this is not something you can put off any longer. You must act now, or not at all."

"Go die in a hole."

"We both remember how effective that was the last time you tried that. Now, please—"

"Don't make me get the sledgehammer."

At least it had the decency to flinch at that, the little fuck.

The Burger Boy sighs, obviously frustrated. "I don't understand why you find it necessary to fight me so, Nny."

"Maybe it's because, oh, I don't know, you're trying to enslave me to my own kidneys?" He bites on the straw of his cherry Freezy hard enough to tear it. The plastic tastes like artificial fruit and latex gloves. "And don't call me Nny."

The Burger rolled its eyes, which shouldn't have been possible because it was pretending it was still ceramic. "So I'm no longer allowed that special little privilege, am I? Only the ghost of your dead, levitating bunny rabbit is?"

"Leave Nailbunny out of this."

"And those pathetic Doughboys as well? The very ones that conspired against you to 'serve their master', who, in case you've since forgotten, was the very creature you were charged with imprisoning behind a wall of blood and plaster?"

"That was D-Boy. Eff just wanted freedom. And really, can I blame him?" He bites the straw in half and spits it into the bathroom sink. In the mirror, his reflections mimic him, ten thousand mouths a-grinning.

"You're missing the point, though I'm hardly surprised."

A thought strikes him, and it's out of his mouth before he can think twice about it. "You know, if they ever started talking again, I think I'd still let them call me Nny. Sure, they were both exploiting my ever-increasing insanity and all that, but they were mine in the beginning. Unlike you."

It ignored the jab. "If they ever start talking again, it will be far too late."

There wasn't any soap in the bathroom.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Give me one goddamn reason, one very good goddamn reason you had for strangling my mother, or so fucking help me Johnny—!"

Squee is definitely reminding him of himself now. Great. Fantastic. Fuck.

"Um."

The Burger Boy scowls, its face transmogrifying into the fanged, drooling thing it really is. "You remember how terrible it was to toil under the merciless whip of the System! I know you do because I am a part of you, though you refuse to believe as such! And though you hate what I have to offer, you must realize that I am far more preferable as I am now than what I could become unless you tear free of the System's grip now!"

"I AM FREE!"

With a snap of ceramic he breaks it's right arm off, and the two of them scream in pain and hate, in the same voice, in one voice.

"I." He jabs at his chest with the arm, feeling it squirm under his fingers.

"Am." He drops it to the bloodstained linoleum.

"Free." He grinds the arm to dust under the heel of his boot. His reflections are too blurred, too scattered, to see how many follow suit.

Gripping the hole where a limb had been seconds ago, its ugly face twisted further by agony, the Burger Boy pants, "There is no such thing as freedom! No!" It screams, harsh and violent, as he opens his mouth to retort, "Listen to me. Hear me out. Please."

A heartbeat passes. Five. He closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and nods. The figurine sighs and leans against the faucet, settling its insect eyes on the spilled Freezy in the tub.

"Let's get one thing straight. I don't want you thinking that the puppet masters are singling you out for sport. God knows you aren't anything special. Everyone is a slave to one thing or another." It pauses to laugh bleakly. "Perhaps even those who fancy themselves the masters of this game of Monopoly must bow their neck to the chopping block one day. Who am I to know? I am but a series of chemical reactions created in the misfiring neurons of a sick man's brain. But never mind that. What I'm trying to say here is that there has been no other way. Ever. There has been no freedom, no choice. It is all preordained. This is the way of all things."

Every part of him rebels against this. No free will? Impossible. His life is his own, now more than ever. Yes, he had been a slave, once. But that had just been the luck of the draw, an accident, like winning the lottery or getting hit by a truck. It was… unpredictable, impossible to preordain. Heat in his chest, his jaw tight and creaking. "They told me—" He begins, his voice ready to rise into a shriek.

"It was only temporary. Even stone must crumble, Johnny."

His legs turn to jelly at a terrible, terrifying thought. He grips the sink, licks his lips and tastes salt and cherries and fear. In a soft, weak voice he barely recognizes as his own he finally asks, "Are they going to make me a flusher again?"

"They already have."

"Mom, can you make it back to the house on your own?" As he speaks, Squee performs a quick once-over on the gasping woman clinging like a burr to his chest. His face betrays him, showing the extent of the damage done even as he keeps his voice upbeat, a stream of happy reassurances pouring out with the rain even as his eyes confirm a far more dire prognosis. "Johnny and I need to, um, talk."

"Who—" Her voice fractures in her collapsed throat, and she chokes and dry heaves until her face is purple with strain.

Squee holds her until she calms. "Johnny's our neighbor, Mom. We've lived next to him since—for as long as I can remember."

"O-oh. He looks ni-ice. I-is he a friend o-of yours?"

Squee makes a face remarkably comparable to the one a particularly vehement guest made once after Johnny had made him swallow a pound of nails. "Just—go inside, Mom. Go see if Dad's awake, okay? See if he'll call 911 for you."

"Okay sweetie." Her voice is wet and crackling, like stiff paper going soft beneath a steady drip of water. He recognizes the sound, and suspects now that he may have squeezed too hard. But she had insulted him, hadn't she? Called him a fucking monster. How could he let that go without proper retaliation?

"And tell Dad I'll be in in a min—oh festering whore tits, your eyes are bleeding."

"Don't swear, honey."

"Sorry. Johnny?"

He can't help but flinch. "Yes?"

Squee swallows, looking almost frightened before setting his jaw and glaring hard at him. "You are going to go in your house, sit your ass down on your couch, and you are going to stay the fu—stay there until I can get Dad to give me the keys so I can get Mom to the ER. See, betcha I gotta do it 'cause Dad is an incompetent, loveless douche with a heart of coal. But I'm gonna do it fast, 'cause you and I? We need to talk."

"I—"

Squee got him off with a sharp gesture. "Uh-uh. Not today. Not gonna play that game. Get in your house."

He got in his house.

"Slavery is inherent in all things, Johnny. It is only a question of to what. Once before you were selected to be a Flusher—"

"And I failed. Miserably, I might add."

The Burger Boy shook its head firmly. "You excelled."

"Clearly we're remembering my experiences in the After Life differently."

"Clearly you forget what kind of monster was imprisoned behind that wall."

"I never saw it. I died before I had the chance."

"It doesn't matter whether you saw it or not! What you had to do to keep it locked up should tell you more than enough."

"I—"

"I think somebody with a say in things liked what you were doing down here. Otherwise, why else tether you to this particular yoke a second time? If your memories of what Satan said to you are correct, you are practically the very antithesis of Flusher material!" It hobbles towards him, it's ungainly waddle exacerbated by its missing arm. Drool spills freely from between jutting fangs that cut at its lips with every overeager exclamation. "Take a good look at me, boy. The very moment the System slapped the manacles back on your wrists it began to take me as well. These changes are the result of your inaction."

His reflections smile bitterly. "You claim to be mine one minute and admit you're not the next. One or the other; it can't be both."

It stares at him with a steady, curious expression. "Can't it? The System is trying to take me from you. That is one truth. Another is that I am fighting it as best I can. Just as your Doughboys did, not so long ago."

He sneers and says nothing.

"I am resisting," the Burger Boy continues, "but I cannot win. The changes done to this form you've assigned me are the result of every foot of ground lost. You must see how much faster the transformation is in me compared to the Doughboys! You must understand that you are no longer a mere Flusher! For the Wall Monster remembers how effective it was to use your own madness against you, and now an eye is upon you, Johnny! The merciless, unflinching eye of the System in its entirety, and the System is more powerful than either of us can possibly comprehend."

He locks his fingers around the lip of the sink to keep from shaking. Slowly, the words trickle out of his mouth, pooling in a pile of warm paranoia in the drain. "Everything you say only goes to prove how much they have already conquered you, taken you from me and twisted you into some… thing. Some monster braying about hope even as it settles its jaws around my neck."

He drops his gaze from the figurine, from the mirror, afraid of the triumph he knows he will find there. "I can't trust you."

The Burger Boy positively beams. "Now you're catching on."

"Nailbunny, what should I do?"

resist

"Who? Who do I fight? Him? The System?"

resist

"Whether I like it or not, he's my only source of information. Even if he's manipulating me, he at least has the decency to forewarn me, unlike his predecessors. If push comes to shove, I think I could beat him. But what—what if he's telling the truth? What if he can help me?"

resist

"Nailbunny?"

resist

re—

"Please! Oh god, this hurts so much! Stop!"

"Shut up. The machine's barely even warmed up."

The sobbing blob tied to one of many torture devices he keeps humming at the ready cringes as his hand floats above the dial. He allows himself a brief smile.

"W-what do you want? Jesus Christ, I just m-met you! What did I even do?!"

He opens his mouth, a speech rife with injustice suffered under the merciless hands of a society dead from the neck up on the tip of his tongue, only to find himself unable to remember who this woman is and why he has her strapped into the Needler.

He laughs, and turns the dial up anyway.

—sist

The baby, the child, the dull-eyed little girl releases its iron grip on his sleeve and forgets him instantly, yet the mother perseveres, eager to speak with another human being. It seems he has no choice but to participate in a conversation with this woman until his stop, as every other seat is taken. And besides, it would be rude to just stand up and walk away.

You could kill her.

He frowns and ignores the voice, but nevertheless finds it unsettling. Meat's all for living and talking and eating and fucking and being an actual human, not murder. This is very out of character. Still pondering over it, he glances at the woman and finds her staring at him, expecting something from him.

"What?" he asks, itching to put his headphones on again. He really likes the piece vibrating against his collarbone.

"Where did you buy your shirt?" the woman asks, as if she's repeating herself. She probably is.

He peels his eyes away from her surgically swollen lips long enough to glance down at himself. Black and gray, with an obnoxious splash of color amid the stripes that makes his head hurt. He doesn't recognize it.

"I, uh, don't remember," he says.

"Oh, that's too bad! My little brother loves that show."

He nods mutely, allowing his thumb to play with the volume of his CD player. The woman keeps talking, and Carl Orff rages at fate in a whispered rise and fall of Latin and violins.

The girl touches his hand again, and he accepts without protest that he will kill these two in their matching summer dresses with an eager blare of trumpets.

"Slavery to a broken machine or slavery to life and all its pains and pleasures." Meat touches his arm with its remaining hand. Through his sleeve, he can feel its dampness, its heat. "Decision time is now or never, Nny."

He laughs. "I am a broken machine."

Sometimes other people appear in the mirrors. Just brief flashes, overlapping the current other-self dominating the rest, and he knows it's foolish, but he can't help but wonder.

What is it like to have friends?

"—and it's being called the worst crime in the tri-county area since the café massacre two years ago. With twenty-seven dead at the scene and another twelve in critical condition, we here at the Channel 4 News Network can't help but agree. What do you think of it, Jeff?"

"It's a real atrocity, Nadine. The man who did this must be a real psycho, a total monster."

"Oh yes. And speaking of the killer, a woman—who has asked to remain anonymous—has stepped forward, claiming to have been at the club when the murders were committed. She also claims to be the one who halted the massacre by shooting the killer three times, despite having already been wounded."

"It is true a thus-far unidentified blood sample was recovered from the scene, as well as the bullets matching the woman's gun, but nothing conclusive has been determined yet. However, the woman has agreed to meet with a sketch artist once she's recovered from the attack, and a drawing of the killer will be sent to all media coverages when available."

"In the meantime, if anyone has any information regarding the killer or his whereabouts, we would appreciate it if you would call the number at the bottom of the screen. Please, don't hesitate—"

The reporter's face freezes for an instant before exploding in a supernova of white noise. Jolted out of a daydream, he instinctively reaches for the remote to mute the atrocious sound, but pauses before letting his hand fall.

The sound is… oddly pleasant.

He leaves it on for three days.

He decides to call it Reverend Meat. It just… seems to fit.

He pauses at the couch only briefly, wondering what happened outside and what kind of reaction he should be having, but his legs give out and once he hits the floor it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Something skitters away, startled by the sound and vibrations of his body striking the wood. A minute passes or maybe five before it skitters back, probing his fingers with inquisitive antennae. His nerves won't respond to the signals his brain sends, to flinch away or crush the insect before it has a chance to grow bolder. He panics briefly, fear and helplessness clawing their way through his chest cavity, but then, as if a switch is flipped inside him, he relaxes.

The insect, whatever it is, takes a cautious nibble at the calloused tip of his ring finger. There is a tiny flash of pain, but no instinctive recoil from the source of the hurt. He is truly unable to move, than. The insect continues to bite, finding the outer layers of his skin tasty enough to merit further excavation. A second insect, crawling out of some unseen hole beyond his limited vision, joins the first, and is quickly followed by a third, a fourth, a dozen, too many to differentiate by feel alone and before he knows it an entire colony of carnivorous insects are biting into him, eating his flesh, burrowing under his clothes, his skin, crawling in his mouth and into his soft, wet insides, and he can't do anything to stop it.

It hurts, God it hurts, and he thinks wildly to himself that if he manages to live through this he will never ever strap a jar of bugs between another guest's teeth, ever again, because this is beyond torture, beyond ironic justice, beyond what words can describe: it just fucking hurts.

But then they reach his spinal cord and, like a city-wide power outage, his pain receptors begin to shut down, and then it's only the sounds of thousands of tiny mouths chewing. Until the insects turn their attention to his face, at least, being eaten alive isn't quite as bad as movies would lead him to believe. It's certainly slower, for one thing, and it lacks the nerve-wracking horror soundtrack, but perhaps that's for the better. The sounds he does hear are far from pleasant: squishing and crunching and gnawing and if he still had a stomach it'd probably be heaving by this point. He can see nothing but the dusty edge of darkness beneath his couch, but it's easy to imagine how gruesome he must look.

He's seen the results of this kind of thing with his own eyes, after all.

By the time they reach his head, they have already chewed through something vital in his chest and nowhere can he feel anything, any ache any pain any sadness any anger any loneliness and God is that an improvement. Consciousness fades to a dull spark somewhere in his increasingly exposed ribcage, perhaps somewhere just behind his collarbone, and he is hollowed out as rapidly as a properly upgraded power tool can scoop the mush out of a pumpkin. He is home to a colony of army ants, or a vast nest of ravenous, newborn spiders. That buzzing he hears could be the many vibrating wings of mating flies, or the first comb of a beehive being constructed among his bones. Certainly this is some species of insect that won't hesitate to swarm over a piece of meat—however stringy—before it has a chance to defend itself. Maybe it's even a school of land-bound piranha. He can imagine all sorts of culprits and has little trouble believing in all of them.

He wonders if honey from a human hive would be any good, but immediately discards the idea, revolted. He's practically thinking cannibalism here! Or, rather, self-cannibalism. Can a person self-cannibalize when they no longer have a digestive system? He'll have to try that sometime.

He wonders.

"Johnny?"

He blinks with magically undevoured eyelids, and is whole.

Sometimes, if he focuses hard enough, long enough, on these days when others flicker by in the mirrors, sometimes these flickers steady, become memorable faces, re-memorable people. And if memory serves, most of these people are dead.

The implications leave him with aching knuckles.

"I am not a monster."

"You just keep telling yourself that. Hey, maybe if you wish hard enough it might even come true one day!" Meat cackles and kicks his toothbrush into the toilet bowl.

"I wasn't always like this. I haven't always lived here. I haven't always been alone."

"How can you be so sure?”

Frustrated. Does he really have to state the obvious?

"No one is born knowing how to speak or read or write, or how to drive a car, or how to use money. Inherent knowledge is limited in humans. I may no longer have the memories of being taught, but the result is still the same. I know how to mix paints because I probably took classes in high school. I know how to use a camera, order dinner at a restaurant, do my own laundry, because someone else was there to teach me. Fuck, someone hated me enough to give me you."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who gave me to you?" Meat's smile tries to appear kind, yet it is condescending, as if it is speaking to a child. "It's a simple enough question, dear boy."

"I—you said it was a girl—that we—" He swears. "You know I don't remember."

"Who gave you an understanding of the English language? Where is the license that proves you once passed a test at the DMV?"

"I—"

"Can you prove that you did not simply read the directions in some art books, or on the camera's packaging, or in a Laundromat? Perhaps, on the same strange whim that made you steal some Styrofoam Pillsbury Doughboy figurines, you came across my body yourself?"

"You said—"

"I thought you didn't trust me."

His knuckles burn white.

"Well, Johnny?"

"You know I can't prove any of that."

Meat's eyes glitter with delight. "Then, dear Johnny, how can you be so sure?"

At the edge of a stage bright with colored lights, he curls his hands around a microphone and smiles. The audience—

so many eyes watching him, and yet he couldn't be more relaxed

—has hushed; yet their screams still ring in his ears.

He is not alone on this stage.

He doesn't dare turn to see who is playing softly behind him, afraid it'll be people the mirrors have shown him that are alive in some other Johnny's life but dead dead dead in his. His heart pounds, and for once the ache in his throat feels good. This is all so wonderfully terrifying, sickeningly familiar. Has he dreamed this before?

He comes to a stop inches from the audience's reaching hands. Good God, he has them right in the palm of his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he breathes into the microphone, and every spark of life in this vast room is shining its light on him, and it is all so beautiful, so perfect, so alien.

"What we have here is a moral conundrum."

"Bunny, I'm worried."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one. But really, there's so much to worry about. Please, elaborate for me."

"I haven't gone anywhere I might run the chance of killing someone in months. Just drive-thrus and that fully automated shopping center. Until recently, the only other people I've interacted with haven't bothered me or have been out of reach. It's only been these past couple weeks I've attempted anything more. Walking in parks, public transportation. You know."

"I know."

"What I can't figure out is how I ended up in that club at all."

The television is on, too low to be heard. In its pale blue glow, he carefully touches his chest, wincing when his fingers press against three tender circles: one on his sternum, another between his sixth and seventh ribs, and the last just beneath his ribcage. Tiny puckered scars ache in the center of each purple bruise.

"If I remember correctly, you recognized something who went inside and followed after."

"Why would—that doesn't sound like something I'd do."

"You stalked Devi for nearly a year."

He scowls. "Unnecessary, Bunny."

"Is it?"

He thumps his boots onto the coffee table and says nothing. Bunny presses on.

"It was a woman. Short hair, glasses, surprisingly compassionate to your… cause."

"Wait, do you mean that one woman with that shitty boyfriend I Tazered once? When I saw that movie—"

"Yes."

"Wow, really? I figured the Wall Monster got her after reality collapsed." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "What was her name? Did it start with a… a T?"

"Tess."

"Yeah!" He pauses. "She… recognized me first."

"Uh-huh."

"She practically ran into the building. They didn't even card her. She must have been a regular."

"Or she worked there."

"Or she worked there," he agrees. "That anyone could recognize me—" he trails off. A beat passes, and he continues on a different vein. "But what set me off? What caused me to break again, after I'd been doing so well?"

"That shouldn't be your chief concern, Johnny."

He looks at the disembodied rabbit head, little more than a skull now, and tiny and fragile-looking without it's maggot-riddled skin. "Oh?"

"You should be asking why you were sent back again."

Those other people in the mirror, those strangers, those friends, those dead bodies in motion, would sometimes pause beside his reflection. They smile, laugh; get mad and fight back and actually live; attack and be attacked; get scared and fight back and die. Some of it looks fun, some of it looks ridiculous. A lot of it scares him, more than he'd like to admit.

He wishes one of them would notice him.

His fingers touch glass.

#jthm #johnny the homicidal maniac #deadfic #my writing #if you know the comic then you know what kind of violence and fuckery to expect #otherwise good grief i apologize to anyone checking this out who doesn't know the source material and just likes my writing #i also dearly apologize for the lack of contractions #18 year old anthrop didn't know what the fuck she was doing

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goblin-gardens · 6 years

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@grimark replied to your post “although she is the only one who is currently a literal goblin, i think there’s actually a strong argument to be made about each member of the M9 being actually more Goblin than Nott is”

if you get the time/inclination i would Love to hear about the goblin energy of the rest of the m9

anything for u grim. and anything to tempt you further into the world of Critical Role. i see you liking my “Caduceus Clay is a twink” posts and the good good fjanart i reblog. i see you.

come. stay a while and listen! read my very long and very scientific essay! i will not be disclosing how long this took me, but there are almost 2500 words under the cut.

okay okay okay so the first thing we need to do in this very serious and scientific endeavor is separate Sam Reigel’s MASSIVE Goblin Energy from his character. that man’s Goblid Quotient is OFF THE CHARTS.

when we look at Just Nott (and Veth, which would be a whole nother section but we don’t actually know anything about her??) does she express clear Goblin Traits at a higher rate than the rest of her party? they are generally a pretty gobliny bunch, or they wouldn’t be killing strangers to take their gold, but do they have true Goblin Traits?

Some key elements of Goblinry: 1) Collection Of Crap 2) Chaos 3) Minionhood 4) Gooey Center 5) Laser Pointer Focus 6) Furious Devotion and 7) Hideous Cackling. what’s that? these seven qualities match up with the seven other members of the Mighty Nein, past and present? what a coincidence!!

1) Collection Of Crap, epitomized by: Caleb Widogast. a fairly self explanatory goblin trait. okay so yes, this is a trait Nott has in spades, and is specifically and canonically an aspect of her goblinhood. Caleb, however has chosen to Collect Crap to be a wizard, filling his pockets with spell components including, but by no means limited to, sulfur, molasses, honeycomb, bits of copper wire, and literal bat shit. it’s all just. in his pockets. being slimy. he has also been Collecting the Crap of trauma in his brain for many years, and no fantasy therapist has been around to help him KonMari some of it into healthier boxes. he has also Collected a whole new family to care about, and in many ways, he views that as kinda shitty. (runners up: Jester, with the animals and haversack of holding, Beau, with her constant wanting to know shit, Fjord, with his balls)

2) Chaos, epitomized by: Jester Lavorre. another Goblin trait Nott shares, but Nott hasn’t built a religion out of chaos. she’s not a high priestess of drawing dicks on things. her magic powers don’t some from a divine mandate to fuck shit up. honestly, i feel unconvinced by the assertion that Nott has a Chaotic alignment, while Jester’s CG status is unassailable. pets also up the chaos meter, though this Collection can be attributed to Laura Bailey and this has been taken into consideration. Jester’s childhood in the Lavish Chateau was sort of like a pandora’s jack in the box getting wound tighter and tighter and tighter past all physical comprehension, and though the lid has been lifted, the spring is only just starting to sproing. we haven’t even reached the Zenith yet! (runners up: Molly, with the egg dick incident, and Fjord, with his need to always....... touch..... things......)

3) Minionhood, epitomized by: Fjord “No-Name” Swordvjore. in CR, goblins will work together to target weaker and easy opponents, but aren’t prone to individual heroism and rarely, if ever, go out of their way to save a friend. in their villages, little value is placed on familial relationships or education, they’re not big team players, and everyone has a terrible sense of humor. what do they have in common with Fjord? NOT A WHOLE FUCKING LOT, ACTUALLY. Fjord shows the other side of the coin, like how tactics that don’t rely on using yourself as canon fodder are more successful, or like how the power of friendship and diverse skill sets makes your team stronger. though he is currently examining the negative aspects of his own Minonhood, Fjord has spent much of his life content to be a minion. on a merchant ship, climbing ropes and battening hatches as he was instructed, and now a minion of a mysterious and powerful creature. however, he’s realized this arrangement no longer suits him, and he is looking for other options (like being a paladin??) (runner up: Caduceus Clay, committed WildMinion)

4) Gooey Center, epitomized by: Yasha Nydoorin. the Gooey Center is protected by a spiky, brittle, intimidating, crunchy, and/or off putting exterior. Yasha is our big, scary, tenderhearted wlw. our giant soft-hearted, angelic, full-of-boiling-murderous-rage, lightning-punching, funeral-not-having runaway who loves her wife and makes us cry. she shaves her arms with her sword. she uses books in non-traditional ways. she vanishes into the night sometimes in a very mysterious and tragic manner. she is our most Romantic player character, and she is super ripped and super queer, which are all aspirational goblin qualities. in practice, most goblins connect with their gooey center by being squished by someone like Yasha, maybe with a giant hammer. (runners up: Caleb, known glass canon with a very crunchy exterior, Beau, puncher of feelings, and Molly, who rudely showed us just how how close that center can be to the surface)

5) Laser Pointer Focus, epitomized by: Caduceus Clay. related to Minionhood, this is the aspect of Goblinry that the leader uses to achieve goals. the dogged focus of a True Goblin is powerful and direct, but can be redirected with the proper pressure or leadership, or lost when a cause or leader is not compelling enough or doesn’t provide adequate payment. the Laser Pointer Focus has an investigatory aspect as well, gathering little bits of info from every which way in moments, though the information gathered is rarely put to use immediately. Caduceus, who sees all but doesn’t always act on it, and is content to support the Nein and follow their meandering path to his goal, checks many of these boxes. (runners up: Fjord, spiritually chasing a laser pointer at all times, Jester, whose laser pointer always points at chaos, and Caleb, a cat)

6) Furious Devotion, epitomized by Beauregard Lionett. also going hand in hand with Minionhood, this is the trait that makes goblins actually willing to die in battle against adventurers and town guards and shit. but it doesn’t require any comfort with or willingness to follow authority, it’s the more feral side of love that is reigned in by Minionhood in true Goblins. this is the part of the Goblin that drive the Collecting of Crap because it genuinely loves all the shit it finds. Beau is a prime example of this trait, especially because as she gets more and more invested in a person or ideal, her willingness to let go, even in the face of likely death, decreases dramatically. see episode 55 for reference, among others. she also has a rather Goblinish inability to effectively communicate the depths of her feelings, though this is sort of an aspect of her defense of her Gooey Center and something she’s actively working on. (runners up: Yasha, very good at using the Fury to pursue the Devotion, and Caleb, even less able to discuss his feelings than Beau)

and finally 7) Hideous Cackling, epitomized by Mollymauk Tealeaf. this is what a Goblin does when surveying their Collection of Crap and the Chaos they have caused. this is how they communicate with fellow Minions in the know, how they react to seeing someone else’s Gooey Center, to catching the Laser Pointer. this is the easiest way to express their feelings of Devotion. the Hideous Cackle of a True Goblin is un-selfconscious and entirely for the benefit of the Cackler. Cackling Hideously is an act of self love. you can find your goblin group by listening to the Discordant Chorus made by Cackling together, and when you’re all reveling in the cacophony, there you are. it’s a little hedonistic and a little punk and a little queer, disregarding conventional expectations of beauty or family or polite behavior, and all about diving deep into the things that you are and the things that make you happy. an extremely Molly philosophy, truth be told. (runner up: Jester, gleeful agent of chaos)

Now lets use a quantifiable rubric to measure these attributes in each member of the M9. these will be X out of 11 because 77 is more of a Goblin Number than 70.

Nott The Brave Collection of Crap-- extremely. 9/11 Chaos-- FLUFFERNUTTERRRRRRRRRR! 8/11 Minionhood-- not really! her love of Caleb is much more protective (of him and his future abilities) than anything else. 3/11 Gooey Center-- ehhh she’s secretive, but her tender spots are other people, not actually her. 5/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- her main goals are all inwardly motivated and have not changed during the campaign. 2/11 Furious Devotion-- her love is extremely powerful. 10/11 Hideous Cackling-- a surprisingly low score due to her great potential for growth in the self-love department. 3/11 total score: 40/77. not a bad score, but not Extremely Goblin!

how does that stack up against every one else?

Caleb Collection of Crap-- keeps everything in his pockets except for his cat, which is in his heart. 11/11 Chaos-- absolutely creates it, but lacks proper conviction and glee. 3/11 Minionhood-- while formerly a Minion, he has developed his own purpose, and is no longer eager to follow authority. 1/11 Gooey Center-- easily smashed by any large or medium-sized hammer, but maintains staunch denial of inner Gooeyness. 8/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- has goal, will travel. difficult to redirect. 5/11 Furious Devotion-- literally willing to break the world for people he loves. 10/11 Hideous Cackling-- this man has not once consensually Cackled in his whole life. -4/11 total score: 34/77. Not Especially Goblin!

Yasha Collection of Crap-- does have a whole book of pressed flowers! Collected Molly and then stuck with the Nein out serendipity/stubbornness. 6/11 Chaos-- she doesn’t really revel in it :/. 5/11 Minionhood-- serves a higher power and follows along the decisions of others in the group, even when not super enthused about them, like going to Xhorhas. 8/11 Gooey Center-- all the Gooeyer for being well protected, and though her emotional walls are not the most formidable in the party, the amount of protected feeling was unexpected 11/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- loyal to two guides, the Stormlord and the M9, though the Stormlord can pull her easily away from the group. 9/11 Furious Devotion-- very very angry. 10/11 Hideous Cackling-- could stand to be a bit more open about it. 4/11 Total score: 53/77 Actually Pretty Gobliny!

Fjord Collection of Crap-- collection is limited in scope and volume, but high in Strangeness. 8/11 Chaos-- a troublemaker, for sure and certain. 7/11 Minionhood-- Literally A Minion right now, summons demonic minions on occasion. 11/11 Gooey Center-- he is a twunk and he is mad about it. 6/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- this man cannot resist pushing buttons, be they physical, emotional, or likely to end the word. 9/11 Furious Devotion-- still figuring out where his passions lie, but he cares a lot about his friends. 5/11 Hideous Cackling-- too self conscious! loosen up! needs to Cackle in his own voice. 3/11 total score: 49/77 a respectable Goblin showing.

Beau Collection of Crap-- wants to know everything, is building a family. some points lost for minimalist monk aesthetic. 9/11 Chaos-- aspiring member of Nott the Best Detective Agency, punches people to learn about them. 8/11 Minionhood-- would destroy me for even suggesting it. -6/11 Gooey Center-- just! wants! everyone! to! get! along! 7/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- has no clearcut Mission To Complete, tries to be a voice of reason. 2/11 Furious Devotion-- JUST! WANTS! EVERYONE! TO! GET! ALONG! 11/11 Hideous Cackling-- doesn’t give a fuck what anybody thinks, but is still learning to give a fuck about what she thinks. 5/11 total score: 36/77 second-least Goblin!

Molly Collection of Crap-- behold the coat. 8/11 Chaos-- he has that certain je ne se quois. 10/11 Minionhood-- the Moonweaver in not a fan of her followers following anyone’s orders. also he has his own minions and doesn’t want them 3/11 Gooey Center-- loves openly and without reservation. and also…………………… 8/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- Molly’s focus is loving his friends and knowing fuck all. 5/11 Furious Devotion-- found a tall sad lady and made his circus adopt her. gives money to orphans. 7/11 Hideous Cackling-- genuinely personified this action for two years. 11/11 total score: 52/77 not too shabby!

Jester Collection of Crap-- while most of her random shit has potential uses, it’s also a whole lot of random shit. some of its weasels. 10/11 Chaos-- spreading discord is a religious mandate for her. Her powers come from chaos. 11/11 Minionhood-- has limits in what she will support, but is pretty devoted to her friends! easily swept up in other people’s excitement. 8/11 Gooey Center-- physically well-defended, she has the luxury of wearing her heart on her sleeve. 6/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- it might seem like she’s easily distracted, but that’s actually because her surface level attention is secondary. her primary goal is actually Fucking Shit Up. 7/11 Furious Devotion-- gets attached and does. not. let. go. 10/11 Hideous Cackling-- the end goal of everything Jester does is Cackling With The Traveler, and she often succeeds. 10/11 total score: 62/77 Pretty Fucking Goblin!

Caduceus: Collection of Crap-- dude has a swarm of bugs living in his staff. 8/11 Chaos-- NOT a fan of stuff that disrupts the proper order of nature. 4/11 Minionhood-- of all the M9, the one with the guiding principles most defined by another being. a bit of a zealot, by word of Taliesin. 9/11 Gooey Center-- encourages everyone else to talk about their feelings, yet doesn’t talk about his own in the same way. very fragile. please protect this firbolg. 10/11 Laser Pointer Focus-- has a well-defined goal, but not a well defined path. constantly looking for the answers. 11/11 Hideous Cackling-- Cackling is a more intense action than thinking something is nice, but he’s on the right track. 5/11 total score: 47/77 more than a little Goblin!

final ranking (out of 77) 34, Caleb 🐱 36, Beau 👊 40, Nott 🏹 47, Caduceus 🐞 49, Fjord 🗡️ 52, Molly 🎴 53, Yasha ⚡ 62, Jester 🦄

now, 40/77 is by no means a LOW Goblin Quotient, but this single, not peer reviewed study shows that Nott is not, in fact, the ultimate Goblin of the M9. as a goblin of science myself, i absolutely invite further discussion and welcome any additional research into this matter. who do you think is the most Goblin?

happy goblining, friends! it’s thursday!

#grimark #critical role #cr2 #the mighty nein #nott the brave #caleb widogast #jester lavorre #fjord #yasha nydoorin #caduceus clay #beauregard #mollymauk tealeaf #meta #a cheesecake shitposts #but scientifically!#cr meta #please read this everyone i swear its worth it

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pepperoniwhirlwind · 6 years

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~Honesty Hour~

I was asked by @lovelynhiddenkittens to do all 150 questions in the Honesty Hour tag! 😮 Thank you, lovely and curious stranger~! 😆 But since that’s a lot for one post, I’ll break it up into chunks of 50 questions so it’s easier for all my blogging buddies to digest. 😊 Starting... now! 😝

1. Who was the last person you held hands with? That would have to be Alex. He was warming my hand for me because it was ice cold. Though he doesn’t know that’s because I intentionally held my super cold drink for a really long time with that hand, then casually mentioned how cold my hand was so he’d try to warm it... >//> Introverts are sneaky flirts, what can I say? 😆😏

2. Are you outgoing or shy? Shy, definitely. Though there are alters in the system much more outgoing than me.

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing? Tyler! 😄 I’ve been staying over at her apartment every weekend this past summer, and always enjoy our movie and gaming marathons. 😝

4. Are you easy to get along with? I think so. I’m not very easily angered, a pacifist at heart, and a people-pleaser at my core. 😂 So it’s pretty hard not to get along with me.

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

I don’t know, Alex is a sweetheart so he’d probably help, and Tyler cares but she doesn’t do bodily fluids. 😆 So, it depends. And considering I’ve never been drunk, and seem to have too high a tolerance to get drunk without having to rob a bank to fund the sheer volume of alcohol needed, I doubt this problem will ever arise. 👌

6. What kind of people are you attracted to?

Kind and funny people. 😊

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

I have no idea, but I won’t rule it out. Alex has kinda been cute and flirty towards me lately, so maaaybe~? >//>

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind?

Uh, well, the subject of the last question was Alex, so, him. 😆

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?

A wee bit, yes. 😅 I put up a good facade though, but being asexual, sex is kinda... bleeehhh~ for me. e~e

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with?

That would have to be Tyler. :3 She’s my bestie from my ASL classes~ 💜 We have a looot in common, so we talk for hours at a time, in between movie and game marathons that is. 😆

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say?

Context: I was spamming Tyler gifs of adorable animals earlier today.

The Text: “Aaand now I gotta get ready for therapy, so this shall be the crowning gif of adorable goodness!”

Followed by a gif of two golden retrievers fighting over a tennis ball, with a third retriever (being shoved into the frame by a fourth, offscreen, retriever) resting his head on the two dogs feuding over the aforementioned tennis ball. 💖

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now?

This is rather hard... so I’ll just list the songs that I listen to on repeat a lot.

1. “The Cure” by Lady Gaga

2. “Insomnia” by IAMX

3. “Middle of the Bed” by Lucy Rose

4. “All the Rage” by Allie X

5. “Wires” by The Neighbourhood

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

Yes. No. Kinda? It depends... If I’ve just had a shower and my hair is clean, I love it. ^w^ But if it’s been a bit and my hair isn’t all that clean I just feel embarrassed if people touch my hair. e~e

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles?

Ehhh... Depends which alter you ask really. Me, personally? Not so much. My family has always told me our family line is cursed to have bad luck, so if I believed in such things, I guess I’m doomed. 😂

15. What good thing happened this summer?

I’ve started working on myself and my social life, strengthening friendships irl and online, or, at least attempting to. 😅 Sometimes I’m just bad at not isolating. But this past summer I’ve been spending basically every weekend at my friend Tyler’s apartment and hanging out with her core group of friends. It’s been a nice break from the chaos of the school semester. 😊

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

Well, considering she’s on the other side of the country back in my home state, probably not. She was a lovely first kiss, but I’ll leave it at that. 🤭

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

With how many planets there are in the galaxy; the universe? Not to mention how many planets within The Goldilocks Zone that share a similar atmosphere to earth within the observable universe alone... How could I not think other life exists? At the very least, in some kind of bacterial form, though, I dare to dream a little bigger. ✨

18. Do you still talk to your first crush?

Well, I’ve never really had a crush, per se, though plenty of squishes. :3 But my first squish did not turn out well, so, no. :c

19. Do you like bubble baths?

Yes, especially if I go all out and light candles and play music on my phone. 🕯️🎶😌 However, I don’t do that very often. I take showers mostly.

20. Do you like your neighbors?

Yeah, they’re chill people. The neighbors with the overly-territorial pitbull that kept us prisoner in our car for hours and broke into our fenced-in backyard to take massive doggie dumps out of sheer hatred for us moved away because their dog kept terrorizing the neighbourhood and was going to get put down if it didn’t stop breaking out to chase children on trikes and joggers onto rooftops. So, the neighbors we have now are awesome! 😆

21. What are your bad habits?

Sometimes I’m too honest and don’t know when to stop talking, other times I’m so socially anxious I might as well be a feature of the wall at parties. 😂 I also have trichotillomania, a compulsive disorder related to OCD, in which I get really strong urges to pull out my hair sometimes, so definitely a bad habit... Just talking about it kinda... ehhhh... moving on. e~e

22. Where would you like to travel?

A lot of places. Though Scotland is at the top of my list. Scotland is a huge part of my family’s heritage, and some of my family still lives there. So I would love to visit and spend some time in nature there~ 💕

23. Do you have trust issues?

Yes.

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

Well, anytime I get to de-stress is nice. I know wiping down my face with a face wipe always feels nice and refreshing after a day out running errands and attending classes. It’s the little things that are the most help~ 😊

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

All of it. If I could edit my body, that would be nice.

26. What do you do when you wake up?

Hit snooze on the alarm a couple times, get up, walk to the bathroom... you can imagine the rest.

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

Nope, I’m quite happy with my vampire pale skin, and even my dirty blonde, curly lion’s mane of hair, and my blue eyes ain’t so bad either. I’m not completely hideous, just 97% hideous. 👌😂

28. Who are you most comfortable around?

Myself. My alters. Tyler. Alex. My Tumblr fam~ 💞

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

No, because I usually cut them out of my life after they break my heart. Some have tried to stay friends with me or become friends with me again years later, but... no. I don’t need backstabbers in my life.

30. Do you ever want to get married?

Maybe, someday. When the time is right, I’ll know, until then, I’ll enjoy my singledom~ :3

31. Is your hair long enough for a ponytail?

Yes, it’s in a ponytail right now actually. 😆

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

NONE.

33. Spell your name with your chin.

gtlo nhy (Oh gawd... What a name. 😂)

34. Do you play sports? What sports?

Mi-Suk used to play on tennis and basketball teams, but our spine is a little too deteriorated nowadays to attempt such things.

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

Without TV, hands down. I’d die without music. I bleed music.

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?

Yep. I had a bit of a squish on this kid named Travis in elementary school and never told him. My frenemy told him I had a crush on him, and he never talked to me after that. 😭

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

I either make a joke or just enjoy the silence. Depends what mood I’m in. Sometimes I’m more introverted and just want to sit in silence or listen to music instead of talk. Other times I just wanna connect with people and I tend to crack a lot of darker, self-deprecating jokes as a way to break the ice, or tension if I feel some.

38. Describe your dream girl/guy?

I want someone who is genuinely kind, patient, and funny. It also helps if they are neurodivergent like me, and have similar enough interests, sense of humor, etc. to my own. c: Overall, I just want to feel comfortable and safe with someone. 😊

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

I buy food at Fry’s... so... Fry’s?

40. What do you want to do after high school?

I’m already out of high school, bub. Now I’m in college, and I still have no idea. I have dream jobs, dream homes, dream lives. But none of them seem realistic.

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

Depends on the crime, really. If I hired someone to babysit my hypothetical children, and they forgot to tell the children to clean up their toys, I believe a second chance is in order. If they, however, ditched the job to mack on Paul Puffy Lips next door, leaving my children to starve, I don’t believe I’ll be giving them another call.

42. If you’re being extremely quiet what does it mean?

It means I’m probably really socially anxious at the moment and would prefer to not be made the center of attention. o~o’

43. Do you smile at strangers?

Yes, sometimes to spread cheer and joy, other times because I’m worried they’ll think I’m an up-to-no-good deviant or zombified by depression, which is how I feel at least 80% of the time, and worry everyone notices, even strangers, who probably would not assume such things, but that’s social anxiety for you. 😂

44. A trip to outer space or the bottom of the ocean?

Why not both? However, humans are so preoccupied with space that we’ve only explored 5% of our oceans. I don’t want the oceans to feel lonely, so I’ll visit them first. 💙

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

Sometimes the looming responsibilities in my life, other times I just don’t get out of bed.

46. What are you paranoid about?

A lot of things, but the most pressing concern of mine is that everyone will inevitably leave me because I’m a terrible, horrible human being who doesn’t deserve friendship. 😅

47. Have you ever been high?

Every day, if I can help it. I have a medical marijuana card and have for a couple years now.

48. Have you ever been drunk?

No.

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

No, not really. Nothing is coming to mind.

50. What was the color of the last hoodie you wore?

Well, I’m wearing a hoodie now, and it’s gray, with the Nirvana emblem on the front. 😝 It’s my favorite and coziest hoodie of all.

#honesty hour #asks #tony

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brutefemme · 4 years

Text

Well... here we are again.

Did you miss me?

I guess I’ll always come back here. I’ll always be just a sad girl on the internet, and honestly, I’m here for her. (Although, I do use they/themme pronouns now.. wassaaaaap post-binaarrrryy!) I always come back here when I need to speak in a way that feels good; a way that I constantly ignore because I still think people don’t care (but here’s the secret: it doesn’t matter if no one cares. It only matters if I do.) Also, I haven’t had a working laptop in over a year because Apple really has all of us by the balls. I digress. I’m rambling to avoid as per usual. My mouth is always too fast while my fingers are painfully slow. My mind is a cosm traveling in no direction in particular. Well, maybe it is traveling in a direction... inward, toward itself.

I have a lot to say. No one is surprised.

It usually takes me a while, but I always find what I’m looking for by looking back. I would say it’s a cool little trick, but it’s not -- it’s kind of fucked up.

Ehhh, I’m working through it.

I did run into this post though and really fell into it.

So... five years ago to my five years ago. Here we go.

Hey Kirsten,

You actually did change your name finally. You found it so beautifully too, like it was made for you. You’ve emerged into this new world you’ve built for yourself as kali diwa, and it fits in every possible way. It was right after a free POC Yoga class at the East Bay Meditation Center (Yes, you still do yoga, yes, you only do it with other brown folx around, and yes, seriously fuck yes, you live in Oakland. And bitch, you fucking love it.) where your teacher chose to honor Kali Ma, imploring her to burn all things that no longer serve you. It struck a chord, a strong vibration of both nostalgia and enlightenment, then you went home to watch Bourdain go to the Philippines again and that fool showed you exactly what you wanted to see: Kali - the ancient Filipino martial art that is intrinsically tied to the resistance of your homeland and your blood. How you could say no when revealed itself to you. And the best part? It’s yours, fully.

You’re in Europe now, you as in 2015 you, and I know you feel so many things right now, but it’s okay. These are lessons you need to learn. You’re always exactly where you need to be at all times. You say that a lot now in 2020 and people kind of hate it, but they also love to hear it so... you’re gonna keep saying it. It’s a good reminder. This trip will be unpacked over and over and over again. So keep those eyes wide and that heart open - it will show you truth.

After Europe, you come home with nowhere to go, but back to LA. You lived in a hostel again, which you didn’t want to do after living at that atrocious AirBnB situation, you know the one where there the host used a completely different name than what was given to you on the website, where you were told to tell people that you were “just a friend staying,” where there was no doorknob when you moved in, where the upstairs roommate had to walk through your room to get to theirs, where you only had a broken hot plate and lived off of sardines, and the windows had a privacy film on them that was made entirely of scotch tape, and that weird landlord that smelled homeless wouldn’t stop asking you if you were a lesbian (FYI, you kind of are so that fool clocked the shit out of you -- also never do that again). But after that, you lived with a slew of equally, if not more, horrible roommates that made you really question what the fuck you’re doing in LA, being unemployed, doing comedy, and generally just end up feeling like a loser.

It’s okay. People find you and it's very kind. You end up dedicating a few years of your life to Philz, yes that Philz, New Manhattan Philz. It’s amazing until it’s not. They sell out hard. You didn’t even know what a Mint Mojito was before you started (which makes sense, there would be no reason for you to have ordered it before) but bitch bet you know what it is now.

You finally dump stop talking to Colin, but then you tie yourself to some weird men. It’s gonna suck, but you do this a lot. You needed to, they were important to your growth and how you relate to your self worth. You’re also just horny as shit so, fuck it the fuck up. You really lean into being sexually liberated in a different way. It’s still really hard and confusing.

In a year, you’re gonna spend Valentine's day realizing that you’re falling in love with yourself. Amidst the chaos of your love life, you find you.

You find good homes that teach you so much care and kindness that it makes you want to scream. You and Yadira (one of the best roommates you’ve ever had) spend a wild summer together and then both end up living in the Bay - she inspires you to move back. She literally just texted you back right now so you can FaceTime tomorrow. It’s sick.

You spend a year listening which doesn’t make sense now, but it will. It saves you, creates a new world for you that actually feels good and real. People hold you here, hold you how you needed it then. It’s as full as you can muster and it feels good until it doesn’t. So you do what you do best, you move.

I know right? Again? This is the part where you go back home. It’s the best decision you’ve made so far.

Honestly? Honestly.

You come home to go back to school. City College of all places. Wild, I know. But you know education has always been a pillar in your life. One of your favorite feelings of all time is actively feeling your brain take in new information. Learning is like magic and you want to experience it constantly. Also it’s free, which makes it socialist as fuck. You dive deep into social justice, a place you never thought you’d be, but honestly after Europe, after that last year in LA, it all makes so much sense. You are supposed to be here. The classroom is a fucking stage and you live for it. Nothing makes you hornier than a good debate and the sound of your own voice. Everything just feels better when you do it with your mouth. You join the sexual health educator program, end up being a healthy relationship counselor (I know - healthy relationships - this is where you do that learning thing), and working in sexual violence. It’s like Law and Order SVU, only not at all. It’s healing, it feels like good work as a survivor. You realize that comedy was never your girl, sex was. (Honestly, it’s both - it can be an “and” statement; you’re very complex. You also say that a lot now, again still annoying, but good reminders, so people can’t really get mad at you… right?) You also dive deep into gender stuff, racial stuff, all the good things. You start to become full.

You feel yourself becoming a whole human being and then the world rewards you with a sweet lil queerbb. You’ll like them, they’re from Hawaii and came back to SF by way of Portland. It’s gay af and you’re into it. It’s kind, the healthiest relationship you could muster in puppy love. You feel how young it is, how it’s mostly about sex and suddenly, it doesn’t feel as good. It didn’t have the longevity to match you. You break it off kindly, and you’re thankful for it. A gentle experience for your first relationship ever, at 25. But then you spiral a little. The queer scene in Oakland is good but also a complete mess, but so are you. You go back to Spain, it feels like torture. You run into that pub crawl dude you fell in love with (read: made a fool of yourself in front of by getting ostentatiously drunk and throwing yourself onto him. Remember? It would have had happened like… last week) and it is sufficiently awkward. And you cry. You cry literally everywhere.

26 is the year that you definitely just lean into tears… and it won’t stop. *insert thumbs up emoji*

You get a therapist, you lose a best friend, and you find yourself again and again and again. You only take what serves you.

You realize that sex, your favorite girl, has deceived you for years. She has told you that this feeling is the one you crave, but it’s empty, housed in the desires of men and nothing for you. You have had enough. You have had a taste of what healthy sex can look like and nothing else is as sweet. It’s unfair. After 12 years of having sex, it’s only at 26 where you know that this is true. It’s so fucked up. So you stop.

Really.

It’s the most rewarding and devastating journey you’ve ever taken and it’s still. so. fucking. hard.

You create bonds with people who live close to your soul in a way that has never felt as real as it does now. You find connection everywhere and it’s electrifying. You feel powerful all the time.

Once, you had a full moon ceremony in your backyard in Oakland (this is what you do now because you’re so annoyingly and unbelievably queer) and your friend Tiara, who you instantaneously knew you needed in your life, looked you in the eye and said “You’ve spent your entire life being fire, it’s time to become ocean.” It changed you. You listened.

You have your dream job, working in the gayest place on earth, besides Disneyland, cause you already did that one. You work in a queer sexual health clinic, fully tied into the make up what makes San Francisco great, but also so fucking complicated and it feels good. Your job is driving a huge RV bus and swabbing buttholes all over town. It’s brilliant. You’re on the precipice of change. You feel more alive than you ever have in your entire life. You feel in control.

Everything has felt so special and complete, growing every day. And you’re just so goddamn thankful. You feel lucky, which I bet is super weird to hear considering you drunkenly just considered having sex with that short German guy in a suit who wants to be Barney Stintson. (Do you regret that? Yes. You do.)

And in the face of all this gratitude, the world is still so unbelievably hard.

We are in a bizarre time where you’re currently stuck in a pandemic quarantine with the funniest roommate and some kid who walked on to your bus one day to get his asshole swabbed. You just spend your 28th birthday in lock down. It was weird, and beautiful, and kind. You cried like you always do on your birthday, but it might be one of your favorites. It was complex, just like you.

And you currently feel like your body is betraying you in ways that you did not at all foresee. And it fucking hurts.

You’re reckoning right now. You’re doing a lot of reckoning with things you thought were done, things you thought you’ve laid to rest years ago. Things that felt fine, but they surfaced in spaces you didn’t expect. It’s unkind, but you don’t have to be. You are full like the moon. Just because you can’t see her wholly, does not mean that she isn’t always full. You are always full.

Authenticity is the key to being taken seriously. Remember that one, you’re gonna need it.

Love you, boo boo

kali diwa

P.S. You don’t bone as hard as you did before, but there’s more days to be had... it’ll find you.

#thoughts

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juushika · 7 years

Text

travel to first city > get out of habit of playing Zelda in sleep-deprived travel and recovery days > stall out > pick game back up same day we started playing Dark Souls III again and wow the games do not mesh > oh well > travel to other city again, can’t play Dark Souls while here > tl;dr finally beat The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time

My liveblog from ~50% to the end: game events, Navi as mechanic, time travel???, so much metadata, Gerudo are the very best, cyclical narrative are fascinating and I wish I wanted to play the other games, etc.; it is very long!

me: hello dark Link is in this one 1) this is the 1.5 things i was not really spoiled for (in context of Ocarina) 2) oh my god i have so much fanart of this scene what a well-done sequence! really subtle and eerie effects/use of reflection and clever combat and like not skillful combat at all “don’t lock on, try and sort of flail until you get around him then stab his butt wildly” but pretty and the fade-out is really effective! so much really good subtextual-to-the-point-of-not-existing narrative; fights with shadow selves are best trope?? i looked at that art again and! it v good! i remember finding this dynamic compelling even before familiar with canon in any way! but it’s not explored, just, “you could explore this yourself, if you want”

me: where is Link keep iron boots when not wear that they don’t effect his weight just curious

Missy: don’t ask they magic also it really amuses me that your biggest connection to OoT is “i have sexy pics of Link and dark Link”

me: what is the logic of traveling BACK to kid Link??? (there is no logic, i know, i know) “you picked up the sword and were too young for it so we incubated you until ready” implies that Kingdom Hearts-esque he grew up in the jar, time passed but he wasn’t there for it but then no! and he can go back! and i get it would be awful to put collectables/shortcuts and then be like ARBITRARY UNPREDICTABLE CUT-OFF POINT being able to pop back is polite; and having offered that, tying it into plot is clever but ……..how???? it work?

[future Juu: Spirit Temple is best dungeon b/c it makes the time travel mechanic part of the core gameplay, aka the dungeons; but the time travel still fails to make sense, here or there or in the ending. maybe I read too much into chrysalis imagery b/c of my KH background? but the original wording, “we put you in sacred realm until you growed up,” just conflicts hugely with everything else time travel does in this game]

Missy: in the room with the rolly boulders HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY GODDAMIT NAVI I GET WE NEED TO AVOID THE BOULDERS YOU DON’T HAVE TO YELL ABOUT THEM NONSTOP hey navi. you don’t like getting squished. i don’t like getting squished. HOW ABOUT YOU STOP SAYING HEY SO I DON’T JUST SQUISH YOU.

me: i am so 50/50 on why everyone found Navi so annoying i have this strong “it not her fault” feel “it the limit of her programing”

Missy: normally she fine but sometimes HEY HEY HEY HEY

me: some of [the boy’s] retro game adventures in the time before waypoints are… interesting like it’s super immersive which is great more active exploration, less “mindlessly follow waypoint” but they forget that in the samey-textured-fucking-identical-rooms you just … can’t pathfind naturally i come away with this really strong sense of “oh that’s why we handhold” when actually! we could handhold less now that we can have unrecycled textures/assets and rooms that aren’t just boxes! but you still spend the whole time (in retro games) wishing for a waypoint or a fucking HUD or anything in the world that tells you how go where [examples of retro games that fit this matrix: the original Thief series, the original Deus Ex] and i feel like Navi is that “in such a sprawling and potentially non-linear game, player needs an aid” Missy: esp when HEY WHERE DO I GO? HEY HEY LISTEN sorta useful me: yeah she's good for "how to begin next dungeon" stuff but for stuff like "what do these magic seeds do" "chickens????" she useless and then she breaks out the advice for "DID YOU KNOW BOULDER MAKE THE SQUISH" thanks navi, i had guessed

Missy: hehe yahh

me: there’s actually--and, let us still preserve my overall ehhhhhhhhh opinion of Undertale, but--there’s a great sort of hat-tip to that trope when helper NPC interrupts you while doing a puzzle so that you are forced to “fail” it (need to push three buttons; NPC: “I’ll help you with timing!!”; reminder re: timing forces you to fail timing lol) god aren’t vidya games cool they’re like 50% experience/feelings/narrative and 50% mechanics/game design it’s so interesting!!! i have feelings!!!!

me: Bongo Bongo actually fav boss so far WITH savestates without, probably hell but with, save stating becomes another mechanic, another move to time, like saving after stunning second hand so i can make sure eye of truth + counter eye + dmg, and then reset to save state if i miss one of those steps which happens a lot pacing great with savestates, very tense without, probably just ragey

Missy: yes and yes

[future Juu: this became a consistent theme. I started using save states to avoid the constant walking back each time I returned to the game, but they universally made combat feel more strategic and dependent on my actions, and less flaily and dependent on ehhh controls]

me: hello yes the Gerudo are extremely interesting is very Amazons

Missy: yes except Ganondork

me: like in any single-sex society, even those created by feminists (Joanna Russ, Nicola Griffith) i want more interrogation of sex=gender, how gender binary works when part of the binary is super unrepresented, characters forgoing binary entirely, etc. esp. interesting here b/c they 1) do have very rare males 2) have contact with non-Gerudo men, so they’re exposed to a gender binary, but how does that impact their culture “occasionally a man and then he becomes king of everything” is super icky for obvious reasons but i wonder what the on-the-ground view of that is, like, they have their own leadership roles, 100 years is a long time to be periodically self-sustaining, does the average citizen even care is it a figurehead monarchy “they just wear the pretty crown and look important; meanwhile, we rule ourselves” system fucked up every cycle that Ganandorf shows up to be ~evil~

me: obviously they do enough breeding outside their race to sustain it, but their culture is actually pretty self-contained/even xenophobic, so how does culture sharing work, how does race work???? Gerudo have distinct skin tone, but are breeding with whiter people presumably a lot, what does mixed race look like??? or b/c ~magic~ is that not a thing, are the daughters all just Gerudo wiki says we unno if they have contact with bio fathers, is there any cultural sharing??? what does Gerudo family unit look like; j/k it’s a “a lesbian and her extended lesbian family”

Missy: Keep in mind Historically speaking *every* Gerudo male in known history is Ganondork Following every game And every timeline So the king of everything may not be so much icky political as Gerudo + triforce of power = Ganon king of Gerudo/evil = harbinger of end of world and Hyrule reset

me: so, Dark Souls-like, we’re sort of stuck in a timeline/event loop, looking at same sort of events in different times/iterations (maybe it’s a reverse Jesus, like, they had this prophecy indefinitely but it didn’t effect daily life, but when it’s realized via Ganon we begin a sort of cycle of the game series) Missy: Most interesting bits there are the Twilight Princess stuff Where the n64 Link is a shade waiting for end of world to pass on his knowledge before disappearing Because yeah--Ganon loop seems like public Gerudo knowledge But Link loop is less talked about. The hero of time is just the legend

me: i’m sort of mad that aesthetic/the plot is just hero’s journey/here have the same narrative 2023842 times makes me not want to play others while iterated narrative is such a great trope and does make me want to care

Missy: Zelda future is open world The narrative is apparently partially taking back seat So the future lore from Twilight Princess would be tasty for you (esp. since Hyrule is bigger and more history has been written) But then the open world of BotW is a different allure. You write your own story etc

me: but open world just so ……………tired the dumb shit one can do in BotW is interesting, i just i like, you know, a narrative or sense of purpose

me: i finish Ocarina i have questions so Zelda sends him back to original time, everyone happy in future, life beautiful, sages together & everyone seems to know what’s occurred or at least that evil gone now child Link shows up at temple, Navi is like bye bitch, child Link goes to see child Zelda does he tell her to not fuck up > Ganondorf doesn’t come to power in new alternate timeline???? b/c either she’s like, hey, i know you want to be an adult now, but time to be a child and live through the reign of terror until future you saves shit, OR they’re alternate timelining it and everything sages etc did won’t really exist, so why so long an epilogue focused on them either way the time travel still doesn’t make sense since all the sword does is pop Link in chrysalis until old enough to use it??????/ Missy: Ocarina -> timeline split the adult saved timeline is the one that leads to Wind Waker, i think tl;dr Link saves world and then goes poof oops

me: “Regardless, Ocarina of Time has always been one of the centerpoint games in the chronology, with the events at the end of the game, where Zelda sends Link back to his youth, splitting the timeline.” (source) okay okay that’s a thing

Missy: yeah so Twilight Princess is the other branch

me: Zelda: still fucking things up sorta gj Zelda she is the center of everything isn’t she, i guess, like, thus the title

Missy: yes she is Ganon-Link-Zelda triforce

me: “When the official timeline was revealed in Hyrule Historia, the placement of Ocarina of Time in the series was revealed to be of even greater value, as the events of the game actually split the series’s timeline into three branches.” (ibid.)

Missy: oh yeah third branch we fucked up branch as in you lose to Ganondork and then.. snes game?

me: god i love iterated narratives it really is a pity i don’t care about the worldbuilding (except lesbians obvs.) and also characters and also aesthetic and also hero’s journey and also gameplay “Link is sent back to his childhood, leaving this branch without a Hero, as told in the prologue to The Wind Waker. Ganondorf eventually overcomes the Sages’ seal and attempts to take over Hyrule, but with no Hero to face the evil,” GJ ZELDA JEEZE like tbf, Link telling Zelda > child timeline is also Link’s fault and Link failing to defeat Ganon > grimdark timeline is also him so he is central, triforce, etcetc but Zelda is actually interesting and Link is mostly fridge horror so, shrug that said, it some good fridge horror i propose alternate timeline for another fanfic i never gon’ write child Link almost warns Zelda, goes, wait, what about timeline shit, nvm, decides to just wait it out seven years of increasing darkness watching bad shit pile up actually seeing it from the ground instead of in summary, it worse than he thought, “i done fucked up”

Missy: do a triforce swap Ganon comes out with wisdom Zelda has power Link still courage

me: Ganon wisdom = grimest dark b/c he would be smart enough to succeed wisdom is power really, it’s more effective longterm than brute force then Hyrule rip

#Juu metadata #conversations with Missy #Juu plays #The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time #too many to tag #but uh:#Undertale #The Legend of Zelda #Dark Souls #Juu watches other people play #Thief #Deus Ex #Juu reads

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