#there's also the fact that they have support from specter and phantom as well as sonic and tails

[wereh0gz]

It's oc posting time

Rue has vivid revenge fantasies. Extremely violent ones about the many ways they'd kill Nox if they ever got their paws on him. Crushing his exoskeleton under their bare paws, tearing him apart limb for limb, ripping his guts out and eating his heart while he's still alive- you name it, they've probably thought about it

These thoughts *terrify* her. It proves what Nox has always told her right, that she is a hopeless, violent, uncontrollable *monster*. That the reason she became a beast in the first place is because she is truly evil at heart, just like him

(In actuality, it's just a symptom of their PTSD, but going to therapy and actually unpacking all of that isn't an option to them. They'd rather die than actually talk abt their struggles)

So the thoughts fester in her mind for years. She thinks about it daily. It becomes like an obsession. An impulse. A need. And she begins to think that the only way to free herself from that torment is to do it. To kill him. Even if it proves Nox right

Even if it proves *her* right

So they hunt him down, trying to kill him every time they encounter each other. And every time, Nox gets away, and he taunts them. And the thoughts, the want, the *hunger* for vengeance grows stronger

The cycle continues. The thoughts never cease. She never finds peace

(At least, she *thinks* she will never find peace, but she does. Eventually. After Nox dies from his own hubris lol)

[libraryben]

When their jobs were threatened in a new and acute way in the first few months of the pandemic, many tenured and tenure-track historians were able to recognize themselves as workers, sometimes for the first time. The specter of higher ed’s imminent collapse prompted many of them to ask for solidarity and support from the colleagues they have long refused to fully acknowledge as colleagues. Even as they saw themselves as exploited laborers, few were able to acknowledge—or even seemed aware—that these conditions predated the pandemic for adjuncts. Fewer still were ready to reckon with the ways that their employment was dependent on the continuation of those conditions. The lack of solidarity with striking adjuncts and grad students during this year of labor action confirms this disconnect, and it should not be surprising—the interests of these groups of employees are not the same, and are often directly opposed. The quick collapse of higher education may not have come to pass, but the hollowing-out has accelerated, especially for history, assisted by sustained political efforts from without and within. Anyone who thinks they made it through, that they’re safe, is laboring under a delusion, and reality is swiftly catching up with them. Like all hierarchical systems, adjunctification has always harmed the people in the middle of the hierarchy as well—because, of course, tenured and tenure-track faculty are not the top of this hierarchy. “Burnout” is a serious and growing problem, especially for scholars of marginalized groups; it’s making you all miserable, and leading some to leave the profession altogether. But let’s be clear: this “burnout” that secure scholars are feeling is phantom pain where their colleagues should be. Or, to use a term that every other normal worker in the US uses to describe their workplace under these conditions: you are suffering from the effects of intentional systemic understaffing. Jobs numbers in the field always cause a yearly freakout, but this fall the panic hit a new level. Out of 1799 historians who received a PhD in the US between 2019 and 2020, 175 have full-time faculty positions. 1 To be quite honest, a large part of that was because the numbers were so stark that even graduate students at elite programs couldn’t ignore the fact that they were in trouble—you always were, your department just worked to hide that fact from you.

But it’s not just about incoming faculty. It’s about lost lines, the erosion of departments, the disappearance of majors. And it’s deeply connected to the broader problems facing history as a field of study in K-16 education—the perpetual concern over what majors get jobs, of course, but also the concerted political attacks on the field and its practitioners, most of whom teach without whatever protections academic freedom theoretically provides. And it’s about teaching, which is what every normal person in the world thinks is our main job, and which the field as a whole does not prioritize, train for, reward, or even really understand. The other problem, unfortunately, is that nothing can really change working field by field or campus by campus, and the main professional organization for our field—reflecting the views of the majority of its members, and certainly the privilege of its elected leaders—has chosen to sit this one out. At the most, the AHA does “advocacy”—that is not the same as building power and exercising it, and as a result, it is not often effective. We see this on the individual and departmental level as well, even from self-styled radical activist professors who end up being too scared to do anything more than sign a petition. Maybe the provost who came out of electrical engineering doesn’t respect what historians do, not just because he’s in STEM, but because every cultural signal around him in this country tells him historians are to be used, even humored, but not respected—and certainly not feared. And everything we have done as a field seems to confirm that belief. And now things are very bad, and it’s time to accept that we cannot advocate and petition our way out of this position. Just as efforts on individual campuses and in individual fields can only go so far, piecemeal solutions to prop up various aspects of the profession or compensate for their failures—including all of the things the people up here, including myself, are engaging in—these things will not save the profession.

[scarlettlawyer]

Part 12 of my reaction/commentary to the Phantoms & Mirages Saga, the fanfic series by @renegadewangs​

(Chasing Phantoms): Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

(Haunted Specters): Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

(Vanquishing Mirages): Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Vanquishing Mirages / Lifting Spirits: Part 10

Lifting Spirits: Part 11

We are rapidly hurtling towards the end. Or… the “end”.

--------

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 12

A single line into this chapter and it had already one-hit-killed me (IN A GOOD WAY). What.

Ohhh my weakness, my weakness…!

THIS SONG?? HIM? THIS SONG???

I have such happy and important memories attached to this song, it’s not just a case of “oh it’s upbeat and I like it” for me, it goes pretty deep. I’m BARELY into reading this chapter and was already put into an unbelievably good mood on the power of the song alone and the memories I have attached to it, let alone everything else about the fact that he is the one who is listeni – ohhhhh going straight for my weaknesses aren’t we.

I’ve gone over being so very happy that he has the ability to listen to music and enjoy it before but you went right ahead and, this was a whole other level, suddenly.

He can pick up & enjoy the happy vibes of this song, aaaah…!

He is listening to Wham! on repeat and no matter what you do, no takebacks, I’m cherishing this for FOREVER. XD

IT’S SO GREAT AND SO AMUSING BECAUSE IT’S H

“You take the grey skies out of my way! You make the sun shine brighter than Doris Day! Turned a bright spark into a flame-”

He was going to die. He knew he was going to die.

Honestly GREAT work here with the mood contrast, but I was too busy being blown away/happy and amused by the song situation and shocked that the narrative just did this xDDD like I picked up on this mood whiplash and was like “um whoa” but it kinda passed like a blip when it came to my absorption of this scene/overall mood ahahaha.

Truly though, what excellent contrast going on here simultaneously wherein the reader is drawn into reading of these two threads of such different emotional resonance at the same tiiiime.

And it’s scenes like this where he’s doing stuff like, you know, just sitting and listening to music and the PORTRAYAL and I’m just sitting here like oh my g… s-stop encouraging me… please stop encouraging me… “I’M BAD ENOUGH AS IT IS WHEN IT COMES TO BEING A PHANTOM FAN I REALLY SHOULDN’T BE ENCOURAGED LIKE THIS..!” sdkjnsdnklsd …The rest of this chapter refuses to stop said encouraging. :P

”If, through some miracle, they’ll grant me leniency, I think I’ll spend the rest of my life tucked away in some quiet little corner. That’s the best way for me to stay out of trouble, isn’t it?”

But the image this gave me was so absurd it refused to stick and just bounced right off. That’s just – no, nah, that’s not how this works, you know? There is no good ending. That’s impossible. It’s execution or prison and that’s that. And I was still advocating for execution. Welp. This statement took me off guard and there was this moment of… A sense of… Something. Before I dismissed it. Before it got lost again amidst the other things as I read on.

“One might argue that trouble has a way of hunting some people down.”

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 13

Phoenix Wright would be taking the defense again, as it was just as the Luster trial;

“wait wait wait WHAT – PHOENIX WRIGHT IS DEFENDING? PHOENIX WRIGHT?”

This info is just CASUALLY dropped in this “oh yknow just like with the Luster trial” manner - NO??? THE LUSTER TRIAL WAS A PURE PLOY TO CAPTURE MIRAGE AND THE PHANTOM BEING THE DEFENDANT WAS JUST, BAIT. AND HE WAS ACTUALLY INNOCENT OF THAT SPECIFIC CRIME IN QUESTION AND THE VERDICT ULTIMATELY HADN’T MATTERED ANYWAY AND? IT WAS ALREADY KINDA WILD TO SEE PHOENIX ACTUALLY BEING THE PHANTOM’S DEFENSE ATTORNEY EVEN BACK THEN AND AND AND…!

It’s NOT like the Luster trial it’s VERY different.

Phoenix Wright taking on the defense of Alexander Luster Jr’s case IMMEDIATELY implies a couple of things. Since Phoenix Wright is the posterboy of the entire Ace Attorney franchise, and he has won ALMOST every case he has taken and in each and every one of those scenarios where he won the case, he has indisputably been on the side of good and the side of right and- and he, as a rule, always tends to side with what is right and what is just. He is always ALWAYS striving to be on the side of justice. AND HE IS NOW ALEXANDER LUSTER JR’S DEFENSE ATTORNEY…

The dynamic of the games alone, the Ace Attorney Specific Tropes™ instantly then marks whoever’s side Phoenix is on tends to be a) The Right, Good Side & b) The Winning Side, applying both to the defense of Lex here. That’s what this tells us. That’s what it tells me. Told me. The narrative is directly reaching over and saying “Phoenix is advocating for him, and therefore this is the team you SHOULD be on. This is the team you should be cheering for”. And given Phoenix’s track record, the chances of him losing this are very, very slim.

And I was kind of sitting there like “Hello??? Excuse me?”. The narrative seemed to almost have this… assumption that we should be… Automatically accepting of this. That somehow, we should uncritically want Phoenix to win this trial and for Lex to win his lenience. By bringing Phoenix into this that’s kinda what it appears to definitively tilt the direction in. And I, with a years-old grudge against a character in an ENTIRELY different story written by an entirely different person*, and had been stubborn & adamant from the very beginning that the phantom NEEDED to face execution at any cost when the notion of rehabilitation was raised, was NOT buying it. I was not buying this. The narrative felt like it was making an assumption about the audience’s predisposition – about the audience’s wishes - that still did not apply to me.

*TttP is, for the record, not the only reason I felt the way I did at this point in the narrative. I’ll get into some of the other things fuelling my feelings on the matter a little later. But heh, yeaahhhhh.

Because like, you have characters like Bobby and Athena who are already fully established Lex-supporters, which is totally fine, but Phoenix has barely been in this and we’ve had no scenes at all with him interacting with Lex – there’s been no set-up of “Phoenix wants to advocate for Lex” – we are simply informed of this matter-of-factly, which implies “of COURSE Phoenix would take on Lex’s defense, it’s so OBVIOUS that it’s the right thing to do.” And I was like “oh so we’re doing away with subtlety somewhat on this front regarding the narrative’s agenda?” sdjsdbks. (I MEAN. LEX’S PORTRAYAL AND HOW WE’RE MEANT TO FEEL ABOUT LEX IS NOT SUBTLE AND I ADORE(D) THIS FIC FOR IT, but this was still different – a different angle as it is beginning to tackle the notion of rehabilitation/redemption/leniency head-on. The former was all fun and games but the moment the latter got raised I was immediately in a battle stance).

[Me, pulling up my sleeves: “oh so this is how you wanna play this huh. Bringing in the Big Guns with Phoenix being on his side- you talk a big game but see, not sure if you’re gonna be able to back this up buddy. Biting off more than we can chew, it looks to me.”]

Okay and the other reaction I had to this casual mention of “oh btw Phoenix is gonna be defending Lex”? IT WAS REALLY FUNNY BECAUSE IT WAS THIS SUDDEN JARRING MOMENT WHERE IT WAS LIKE OH, THIS IS ACE ATTORNEY FANFICTION. Okay I want to make this clear – I never at any point “forgot” this was Ace Attorney fanfic, of course. But like. This whole 4th fic so far has been focusing on Lex – now so far removed from the counterpart we see in canon, and Benny, an OC altogether, has also been so prominent and under focus. You of course, still have characters like Bobby and Simon but, see, at this point, this is the fourth instalment of the series, and we’ve been with these characters for so long now. We’ve been spending so much time with them that – these characters – the canon characters that were getting all the focus at this point were just about all VERY removed from the centre of the ace attorney series. It feels so very, very tucked away in this – such a niche little corner of the ace attorney universe with some very specific characters interacting and driving the plot forward, and having spent so much time with them independent of the rest of the ace attorney cast it’s really felt like they’ve well and truly taken on a life of their own that’s attached to this series specifically. Reading so much about “OC”s like Benny and Lex (because in AA canon there is no “Lex”!) and everything and then all of a sudden casually throwing the central character of all of the mainline ace attorney games casually back into the plot like this felt jarring in the best possible way. It was just like “oh, RIGHT. Phoenix. He actually EXISTS in this world. He’s still around, I mean, obviously. This is Ace Attorney Land. Oh my god. In spite of everything – in how much EVERYTHING has evolved and separated itself from and focused on this one tiny little realm of ace attorney characters and canon… he’s still around and can actually get involved in the plot like this. That’s so wild.” LIKE. I MEAN. It well and truly felt like Phoenix Wright was from A Different Universe, so independent and separate from a world where Lex, Benny, Alive & Post-Randy Bobby, and even Blackquill (after how much this fic has focused on him and a specific interpretation of his character) exist. Honestly to even think that Phoenix Wright and Alexander Luster Jr actually exist in the same canon fic verse… whoa.

“The fate of execution does not necessarily mean perfection. If leniency is deserved, leniency is what the prosecution is meant to support,” Simon found himself arguing despite his better judgment.

Me: “SIMONNNNN NOT YOU TOOOOO”

Me at this, on top of the whole Phoenix Wright Defending thing: [resigned, frustrated sigh] “You’re not gonna kill him, are you, Author? You’re not gonna go through with it and kill him off, are you?? I told you like two fics ago to KILL HIM.”

I was a) a phantom fangirl & had been for years (of course) b) “Lex is great how can you not love Lex?” c) Uh… still actively advocating for his execution d) NOT pleased that it looked like said execution was not gonna be followed through on by the narrative.

Okay, but this line from Simon was also frustrating for another reason: it engages with real-life morality, just as Benny’s assessment that Lex being “taken out back and shot” is not something that he feels is “the right thing to do” does.

I was sitting in an ever-so-simplistic corner and not critically engaging with how the ace attorney universe’s punishment system actually functions. The death sentence, as we all know, is so very prominent in this universe. If you kill someone, you die, them’s the breaks it seems. That’s the universe’s rule so that’s the rule we go with, right? Only taking this universe’s criminal justice & punishment system & morality into account, it was So Very Easy for me to sit there and fiercely be all, “the Phantom killed people, and even if he can feel things now, that won’t bring those people back, therefore he gets executed because THAT is justice according to the laws of this universe and justice won’t be served until that’s carried out.” This simplistic stance bypasses entirely any questioning or attempt to consider the actual “justice” of such a system, and flatly refuses to even question the ethics of capital punishment – a topic that can be so very controversial IRL.

It was frustrating to me personally because the narrative seemed to be bringing real life morality into this. In real life, so very many places have abolished capital punishment altogether. It’s a lot harder to flatly argue that Lex should be executed when considering that, realistically speaking, rehabilitation is the far more desirable option and if at all possible should probably be strived for in real world scenarios.

I was arguing for execution on the basis of Ace Attorney Morality and the narrative was retaliating with a taste of Real World Morality which gave me pause. I was so steadfast and convinced of my stance that to have it momentarily shaken like this was exasperating, because “no see, I know I’m right, see, I have to be right, because the alternative is just too far out of reach. It’s too absurd, it’s a pipedream… The phantom was just that sucky that even applying IRL morality… I must be right… right? Yeah. Anything else is just unrealistic. It can’t be done.” I shook it off, and ploughed onwards with my stance.

Leniency from the court system didn’t mean there would be leniency from those outside the courts. With so many people out for the Phantom’s head, there was no telling how fast any sentence that wasn’t the death penalty would lead to a furious rebellion. There was no telling how fast someone might attempt to hunt down Alexander and finish the job that the executioner was deprived from.

“Whoa, very good point. Okay, so maybe there’s a chance he’ll get executed after all since not getting executed is not necessarily being shown as the “better option” in this regard by the narrative. There’s still hope for an execution yet. A nice, clean execution if the alternative isn’t being portrayed uncritically as the “best” option.”

Simon wondered vaguely if he should apologize for all the times he’d thrown a blade at the defense or sent Taka their way. Ultimately, he decided against it.

Sdkjdskj

The scene with Bobby and Palaeno just before the trial begins… How worried Bobby is and how much he truly cares for Lex… It’s just not a joke anymore. It hasn’t been a joke for quite some time. It’s being played completely straight. There’s just nothing to even really laugh at or be amused by here?

Back in Haunted Specters a lot of Bobby’s behaviour towards/concerns for the phantom can largely be written off as Rule of Funny and also accepted BECAUSE of its intentionally surrealist nature & impression it leaves the audience. I readily accepted it because it slots into the character dynamic(s) role and set-up crafted by the story so perfectly, and it’s so much fun.

I, of course, could see the direction Simon and Bobby’s behaviour was heading towards… Yes, they were getting too attached for their own good, to the point where things would become painful. I knew it was coming and I accepted that and, in fact, I was READY for it.

But Lex.

What I did not foresee was the huge, HUGE transformation that took place. Lex changes everything. It changes the dynamic that is subsequently involved. It negates anything about Bobby’s behaviour being “kinda funny in a misguided way”. The existence of Lex changes it dramatically from “haha funny & surreal behaviour from Bobby” to just plain “Bobby is very invested in this man and very worried for him” and there’s nothing funny about it. We just feel plain bad for Bobby and that’s it. I’ve focused on Bobby pretty exclusively here because he’s the one whose narrative thread we’ve been following the most in this particular regard, but. There are many characters (like Palaeno) who care about Lex, and it’s played straight.

It is a scenario that can very much be pulled off and played straight with the emotionless phantom, but Lex’s whole existence throws an unexpected curveball in HOW the situation is played straight and the subsequent impact had on the audience.

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 14

“Quite a long list of murders, several attempted murders, grand theft identity and all the crimes that accompany such a thing, terrorism, vandalism, assault, perjury in a court of law, selling government secrets… To name only a few.”

“And the defense’s assertion?”

“The defense’s assertion is that every single one of those crimes was committed by the Phantom- WAAGH!” Phoenix broke off into a terrified holler when Von Karma snapped her whip at him.

SDJBDKJSDJK perfect.

Volent smiled, his kindly demeanor at odds with his rather arrogant response. “Instability, Your Honor. The concept is exactly what it implies- the defendant’s emotional state is not stable. To put it in layman’s terms, he suffers from severe mood swings. I couldn’t uncover enough symptoms that would allow a full diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, yet I would daresay that further therapy might’ve confirmed such a thing. … It wasn’t my job to diagnose any sort of disorders either way.”

Whoa WHOAAA SPECULATION OF A REAL-LIFE DIAGNOSIS…!

This was SO good to see. I really REALLY liked – no, LOVED this a lot. It was just like, of course, of COURSE…! It’s not just cartoonish “hehe look at how emotional he is!” THERE PROBABLY WOULD BE AT LEAST SOME LEVEL OF CONNECTION THAT COULD BE TRACED TO REAL-LIFE DISORDERS…! I don’t know how to express how cool I found this kind of connecting-it-to-real-life to be and introducing mention of a REAL-LIFE disorder.

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 15

Benny taking his testimony and turning everything around on its head was SO awesome. So very awesome. Only reason I’m not elaborating is that I have so very much to cover in this post…!

Simon’s. Testimony. My god, Simon’s testimony. I KNEW it was coming but ohhhhhh wow…! I’m still in awe, dude.

“Did you hear, mommy? It must be true love!”

OKAY YEAH OKAY THANKS FOR HAVING WACKED ME IN THE FACE WITH THIS LITTLE REMINDER WHEN I WAS STILL LICKING MY PHANTOMQUILL WOUNDS DFKJSDKLSDNS

BUT ALSO I REALLY LOVED THIS LINE LOL CAUSE LIKE? There’s a kid out there in this fic’s universe who canonically ships phantomquill. But it’s more than that it’s like!!! Phantomquill as a ship is definitely grouped in some of the LEAST kid-friendly ships I know. When I think about phantomquill the LAST thing I think about is a kid being aware of it let alone shipping it – it’s such an interesting juxtaposition to have (presumably) a child, given the information they’ve been presented with, immediately go “Oh True Love!” about what is, in standard practice, an unbelievably dark, twisted and angsty ship.

But in any case, it was around this point that I just kind of started thinking to myself “Oh my god… Oh my god… The author is actually gunning for this, she’s ACTUALLY gunning for a full second chance for him, THE ABSOLUTE MADMAN. BUT WHAT’S EVEN CRAZIER IS THAT SHE ACTUALLY APPEARS TO BE PULLING IT OFF.”

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 16

Crack! Franziska cut him off with a quick snap of the whip. “You must pay due respect to Cohdopian court regulations, Your Honor! This trial has an international nature, thus we can apply international rules. The defendant has recently regained his Cohdopian nationality and this method of questioning is a common occurrence in his home country’s court of law.”

This is ABSOLUTELY allowed, I’m not even gonna attempt to dispute it. Rule Of Drama is in full effect here and I LOVE it, it has my full support.

“Now then, witness. My first question,” Franziska leaned forward, resting one arm on her bench. She was watching Athena with a smug grin on her face. “Do you think the image of your mother’s corpse will ever be erased from your mind?”

OHHH MY GOD. I am… here for the brutality of this direct approach. It’s… necessary.

Lex had turned a few shades paler in a matter of ten seconds.

GET READY LEX. GET READY LEX. Strap in buddy. You WILL sit there and you WILL suffer. You are fantastic and amazing and my favourite character but :^) you’re on your own here.

Franziska shook her head in exasperation. “Tsk tsk. Very well then… Witness, is it true that the defendant took you hostage after he escaped from the federal prison in February?”

As we know, Chasing Phantoms felt like a separate entity from the rest of this series to me, and I had been somewhat less engaged while reading it. This just made me go “oh my god… she’s right… that happened in this series too…!” YOU WERE NOT ONLY TRYING TO ULTIMATELY GIVE THIS MAN A SECOND CHANCE IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING HE’D DONE IN CANON, BUT HE HAS ACTIVELY DONE EVEN FURTHER TERRIBLE THINGS IN THE CANON OF YOUR STORY ON TOP OF ALL THAT. And you WEREN’T even shying away from acknowledging it either. You were shining a spotlight DIRECTLY on this fact as you ploughed forward against the incredible odds. AMAZING. You ALREADY had your work cut out for you and you had gone ahead and actually ADDED to that workload, you absolute madman, this was wild.

But not only this, you were, here, in this scene, drawing a direct link between Chasing Phantoms and Lifting Spirits, with their two such vastly different narrative landscapes. You are reaching out and reminding the audience - having the audience acknowledge the part of the story when the phantom was at his worst while showing us him, a changed person, at his best.

You’re not even trying to hide or gloss over a damn thing.

I don’t even know what to say about Phoenix’s cross-examination of Athena it’s just so good. So vivid. Like, I can picture it in my mind.

It was Lex who spoke up. It was Lex who pushed himself to his feet, his manacles producing a soft clanking sound as he did so.

Oh my gosh… Here it is…

This whole scene where he says thank you. It’s soooooo sappy but I don’t care, I don’t caaaaaaaare I LOVE IT IT’S PERFECT and I will eat it up I WILL eat this sentimentality up forevermore. I’d actually misremembered this scene as being complete with gratuitous tears and big, glistening eyes listen it’s over-the-top and I LOVE it being over-the-top. IF YOU’RE GONNA GO ALL OUT WHY NOT GO ALL OUT? And it DOES do just that SPECTATOR’S COOING I. I LOVE this goddamn series oh my GOSH.

I was so very stubbornly trying to work against my favourite character, but you brought your A-Game. You put in overtime for this character. it felt like WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO RIGHT AHEAD AND DRAW A FLIPPIN’ HALO ABOVE HIS HEAD?! DSJNKSDKJNSDNKJ. So much of Lifting Spirits was me BEGGING you to stop encouraging me to such a ridiculous extent, to no avail.

And noooow it’s AURA TIME.

Enter: Aura Blackquill.

A smile flickered across Aura’s face, but it disappeared again the moment her eyes fell on Alexander. Even from such a great distance, Simon could see it: the raw hatred that was shimmering through. It was no wonder, really, that Alexander cowered in his seat. Most people would think to duck for cover if they were on the receiving end of such a terrifying glare.

OHHHH MY GOD… AHAHAHA… YES.

“I have quite a few things to say to that miserable excuse of a defendant,” Aura began, her tone of voice as venomous as the look on her face. “but such words aren’t befitting of a lady and it appears some clods thought to bring children to this courtroom, so I’ll keep that particular feat of vocabulary to myself.”

Alexander cowered even further. Surely, he understood just how much Aura hated him. Just how far she’d be willing to go to see him hanged. Having her here in the courtroom must’ve been agony on both ends, for Alexander feared for his life and Aura ached to end it.

OMG. GET HIM. MAKE. HIM. SQUIRM.

“What I will say is this. If this monster hopes to be human, he needs to understand that real humans don’t get second chances at life. Especially not those who rob others of their only chance. We live as flawed beings and we die as flawed beings- the size of the handicap makes little difference. Why should he deserve to go on while others don’t? The rules of life and death apply to everyone, no exceptions.”

What a horrific speech. Leave it to Aura to spew something like that.

“I MEAN… SHE… HAS A POINT… SHE RAISES A VERY GOOD POINT…”

The worst part was that from the corner of his eye, Simon could see Apollo Justice nodding.

HHHHHHHHHHHH

Aura slammed one of her hands down on the witness stand, her shackles clattering loudly as she did so. She was addressing Alexander directly, now. “I am not speaking only for myself, I’m speaking for everyone who’s lost someone dear because of you. I’m speaking for everyone who’s suffering because of you. Believe me, we are great in number. We will not forgive and we will not forget. You can’t run from us.”

Ohhhhhh GOOOOOOOSH I WAS 100% CHEERING HER ON DURING FIRST READTHROUGH OF THIS SCENE BUT I AM TERRIFIED OF WHAT TRACKING GHOSTS COULD ENTAIL PLEASE SEND HELP

Alexander shivered and hid his face behind his hands.

PLEASE I JUST. PLEASE. NO MORE. Look at him.

“Hm. No, I believe I’ve made up my mind. Taking all the testimony into account, it’s clear to me what needs to be done.”

The judge raised his gavel. This was it. The moment they’d been working toward. The moment they’d been working for. Alexander’s life hinged on these next words. Nobody dared to speak. Nobody dared to move. Bobby’s hand once again found Simon’s own. He squeezed it in return and glanced sideways to see that Ambassador Palaeno was crossing his fingers.

Me: [Shakes head ruefully] “Well, okay, very well. You did it, author. You earned this, well and truly. Go ahead. You can have this. You actually did it, I suppose. I can’t believe you did it, but you actually earned him his right to a happy ending. So… I won’t object. It’s all yours for the taking.”

I mean, the fact that the trial was ending just after AURA’S testimony was a little foreboding, but… It just wasn’t enough to balance out the rest of the trial and the tone of the entire fic. The verdict felt so clear, I mean, c’mon. C’mon. And the narrative slant, too. The narrative and the POV characters that we are following are so very biased in his favour. This IS what the entire fic had been building towards, and the entire fic had been so terribly biased towards him and the notion of salvation.

So I’m like [rolls eyes], “alriiiight, go ahead, if you must. Give the man his verdict of lenience like ya set out to do. I’m not complaining like I thought I would be. You win again. You set out to do this and I don’t know how, but it looks like you actually got there in the end. If you insist, then he doesn’t have to die after all. I accept that.”

”It pains me to conclude that rehabilitation and civil commitment are impossible in his case. That is why this court finds the defendant guilty and hereby sentences him to immediate execution.”

…Come again?

Um.

Lifting Spirits, Chapter 17

They'd known from the start that there could be only one ending to the Phantom’s tale. They'd known, yet they struggle to accept the bitter disappointment that comes with it.

Execution… Immediate execution. How soon was immediate? Quite soon, apparently, as Lang gestured towards the Interpol escort.

WHAT THE F U D G E

They saluted and made to surround Alexander. To grab him and drag him from the courtroom. The spy jumped up from his chair and backed away in painfully apparent fright, but there was nowhere for him to run. The agents snatched him by the arms just like that. The spectators became even more agitated.

“IMMEDIATE” EXECUTION?! THAT’S… THAT’S NOT HOW THIS WORKS THOUGH. That’s SO fishy. You can’t – you literally can’t just take someone out back and promptly shoot them IMMEDIATELY after a sentence is handed down… can you? THAT’S NOT HOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO WORK. THERE’S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE, PROTOCOLS AND PAPERWORK TO BE FILLED OUT AND SCHEDULING TO BE DONE… DON’T tell me they’re just gonna – WAIT. JUST WAIT. HOLD ON NO YOU CAN’T JUST – NO.

At the very least, “immediate” execution seemed like it would be carried out a few days after the sentencing, not… like… ACTUALLY immediately. BUT THE STORY SEEMED TO BE PLAYING IT LIKE THIS.

Just because it felt unrealistic, unrealistic to the point it was fishy, didn’t mean the story couldn’t be about to implement just that, though.

Yet, even through the chaos, Phoenix Wright’s shouts were heard.

“OBJECTION! Your Honor! The defense…-! The defense would like to cross-examine the last witness after all! Your Honor!”

But the judge was already getting to his feet. He was preparing to leave the trial behind. That was only natural. The verdict had been delivered and once that was done, no one could change it.

This is the bad end. This is the game over. God DAMMIT Phoenix you should have LEARNED by now that if given the option to further question the witness or not, you ALWAYS take it lest you choose not to and get an immediate game over. Okay. You need to listen to me. You DID save right before Aura gave testimony, right? So you need to press the start button and reload at an earlier save point and then when given the option to PRESS you- sdkjdflndslksdkj

“Lex!” Athena rushed out from behind the defense’s bench to block the group of Interpol agents. To stop them from dragging a struggling spy out the back door, towards the prosecutors lobby.

YES ATHENA SAVE HIM. SAVE HIM.

It didn’t do much good; there were five of them and only one of her. She was shoved aside as if she wasn’t even truly there.

AAAAAAAAAH

Alexander… He was attempting to fight back like a madman now. Perhaps he was a madman. He was digging his heels into the ground, moving every which way to try and slip through a crack in Interpol’s escort, yet their hold on him was too great. He was screaming, he was shrieking. […]

He would be taken away to be killed. A fate he’d accepted for himself a few months ago, yet things had changed. His desire to live had grown too great.

NO NO NO NOOOOOO. NO!

Phoenix Wright stood motionless by his bench, head buried in his hands.

The miracle never happen.

“I can’t. I have to… I have to see Lex,” Bobby insisted once more.

“No. Last will and testament need to be compiled and you would only get in the way. We’re taking the Phantom to be executed the moment all the final arrangements are done.”

THAT’S SO MESSED UP. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! THAT IS SO MESSED UP. “LEX. IS LEX IN THERE? IN THE ROOM? WHY CAN’T WE HEAR HIM HE WAS YELLING SO MUCH BEFORE WHAT’S GOING ON.”

“This is the only ending this story could possibly have and you knew that from the start.”

Oh how daaaaare you turn this line back around on me like this, against me. The first time I ever heard the equivalent of this line in the series, I knew it was planted with the intent to come back to bite the audience. I was all “hah, you don’t scare me. Joke’s on you because that ending to this story is EXACTLY what I want, so TRY me.”

Seeing it again NOW was terrifying. It was a threat. I did not truly believe that the story would end like this. But this line… embedded into the narrative as it had been, was effective at convincing me it was plausible… it was POSSIBLE. Recurrent lines like this would destroy me on a regular day when I know that they’re coming. I had done NO preparation to handle this line doing exactly what I figured it intended to do when it inevitably came back around because back then, when it was planted, it is exactly what I had wanted, and therefore felt like I didn’t need to. And in the interim, the narrative had gone soft, so very soft, so very, very soft on him, and appeared to no longer have what it takes to go ahead and kill him off, the arc words laying forgotten. Until now, being wielded with full force. Didn’t like the sound of this at all.

Now I would like to break down different aspects of the scene(s) that unfold in the aftermath of the verdict, because there are so many angles at play here:

1. The verdict is still unbearably painful even when clinging to the thought/hope and possibility that he isn't dead/manages to survive/will not die

Because we've spent the entire fic being shown just how much Lex is brimming with emotion and personality and potential from head to toe, only to be told at the end that all of it was worthless, that all of it IS worthless: that he is unworthy of salvation, that all of the striving was for absolutely nothing and MEANS nothing. That, even if the plot allows him to go on living, even if the characters and the narrative (and the audience!) clearly believe he is worthy of a second chance, the law and the legal system doesn't. That in the eyes of the law, his life and newfound being is not worth preserving.

A solid three fics spent on development - and the verdict declares in one fell swoop at the end of it all that he should die, the verdict declares he shouldn't even get to live and should in fact be killed as soon as possible.

The law does not know and does not care about the things we and the characters have seen, the things that the characters have been through together, or the extent of his suffering and STRIVING all the way up until this point. The law doesn't care.

The narrative seemingly turns on its audience in an instant with a snarl. "Well, what did you expect? You're an idiot for expecting anything more than this. Haven't you forgotten who that man is and what he's done? Don't tell me you were actually stupid enough to have hope. You're naive. Just as naive as the characters are. Even when you could see for yourself they were getting too attached for their own good, what did you do? Did you actually follow in their footsteps? You should have known better. You should have had more foresight than that. In fact, you DID have the benefit of foresight and you WASTED it! You have even less excuse than the characters!"

At least, that's the stunt it TRIES to pull, and momentarily, for a horrible, horrible point in time it almost works. But then I'm yelling my defiance too. It's like, "no, actually, story, stuff you, I wasn't stupid at all for having hope, because the narrative itself was the one to give me that hope and that belief in Alexander Luster Jr in the first place. It's wanted us to believe in him from the very beginning, so it's no wonder. This story has been ridiculously biased TOWARDS him, and I know that for a fact because I've been fighting against his having a second chance the entire time and received nothing but opposition in terms of the narrative's directional slant."

So it's like, okay, it wasn't stupid at all in terms of narrative portrayal. The audience can't blamed; it's no wonder they believed. But were they objectively right in doing so or was their belief misplaced after all?

There's this dizzying moment of "WAS the verdict right in its decision? Is what the judge says really true? Is there genuinely no hope for rehabilitation in his case? Is there something that the Judge can see that we can’t?"

The thought of it is so painful. Are the characters supporting him and the audience just idiots, but the court - the judge can objectively see the "full unbiased picture" that we aren't getting, in order to have reached this conclusion? Is he really not worth a second chance? But how? How?! How can that be!

And then the thought passes, it's shot down. No, no. Rehabilitation - a second chance - is obviously possible. How can it not be possible? How can you tell me I'm wrong?! It has to be, look at him. if you've been paying attention to Lifting Spirits for five minutes-

2. The verdict was not the right decision to make and does not bring about any kind of justice.

The verdict is wrong. That's the conclusion we arrive at. There is nothing just about this situation. There is no victory here.

“No! This can’t…! This can’t be right!”

This is wrong. This is not justice. The narrative doesn't even attempt to say otherwise: that's how it's being portrayed. The narrative AGREES that this is wrong.

“Let go of me! This isn’t right!” she hollered, hoping to free herself from Lang’s grip. “You can’t execute him! He’s not a killer anymore! Let go of me!”

Up until the very end... Even as the verdict was being read and I was convinced it would side with lenience, I wasn't entirely sure of what the right choice was, even though I had finally decided to accept such a verdict of lenience.

In the aftermath of the verdict's announcement, I still wasn't sure what the "right" course of action was, how best to handle his case, or what "should" be done.

But it didn't even matter any more. I didn't - I didn't care. I no longer cared about that. It didn't matter what the “best” decision was anymore, I wanted him to- where, where is his lenience?! Give - GIVE it to him!

I was desperate for him to have this regardless, to have this second chance, it was painful and this didn't feel right.

In a sense, when it came to the question of what "should" be done, or what side I was ultimately on come the end, that alone - my feelings and response to this situation - clearly gave me my answer.

And if he didn't die, if he managed to escape death somehow, that wouldn't truly be good enough in alleviating all the pain of this. No, that's painful and would imply still that he's not good enough. But that is antithetical to what we have been shown, and the idea hurts. He needed to be fully, properly have his second chance recognised in the eyes of the law. It got snatched away when it was so close and I couldn't - it needed to happen.

It’s torturous.

3. The main characters that we have been following are actively invested in his survival and his second chance. They WANT him to live and they do not WANT him to die.

Wasn't this what I wanted?

But the thought of his impending death was hurting our main characters so much more than the alternative. They weren't asking him to die. They weren't expecting him to die. It's a very different situation.

For Alexander Luster Jr, the chance of redemption hinges not upon accepting death, but in being granted life.

This idea of him needing to die... One of the key ideas it comes from is that to give him a second chance is disrespectful to all the people that he murdered and all the people that he's hurt, emotionally and physically.

But characters such as Athena, Bobby and Simon are members of that group of people hurt by the phantom, and they are the ones advocating for him, they are the ones who are desperate for this chance and his survival - for him to have a chance.

There is, of course, a very impressive list of other people hurt by the phantom for whom his death is deemed important and necessary. But we have not followed their POVs. As it stands, when we think of who the phantom has inflicted harm on, many of the first characters that may come to the reader's mind are those who /want/ him to live. So what meaning does "disrespectful to those who have suffered because of him" continue to hold when they are our main point of reference?

It does still hold meaning. But it's far more difficult to uniformly advocate for the man now known as Lex to die when this is how at least some of the phantom’s victims feel.

4. The bar for his salvation is set very low, and the severe injustice invoked by that bar seemingly not being met by the court's standards is portrayed very strongly.

The bar is so low. A) There is no need to forgive the phantom of all his many crimes, but merely to acknowledge Lex as his own person b) lenience. Just. Lenience. Not “all charges are dropped you are free to do as you wish”, lenience.

And in contrast, everything about the fake-out screams injustice, almost outlandishly so. The speed at which everything happens – he’s hastily carried away. Bobby and Simon not getting to say goodbye. The characters, the spectators who were on his side screaming their defiance. Everything is taken to its extreme in a mad rush.

And then, of course, there's Aura.

5. The narrative makes no pretence at ignoring the harsh reality of what the phantom was like and what he has done. There is unabashed acknowledgement.

I'm glad Franziska asked Athena if the image of her mother's corpse would ever fade. At that point I was a little like "whoa, okay, at least we are acknowledging this. We are ACTUALLY tackling this angle, I’m impressed.”

And then Aura just came in and blew me away. Aura came along and put my very own thoughts into words, she said EXACTLY what I was thinking, right at the last minute. Words I thought would be left unsaid, and would therefore leave me feeling somewhat frustrated and unsatisfied. But she voiced them and forced the story to confront the fundamental unfairness of the killer getting a second chance when he took away his victim’s only chance.

6. The narrative fully acknowledges that there is no way to make everyone happy and satisfied regardless of whatever outcome is chosen.

“In light of all the information and all the opinions shared with this court, I believe there is no way to please everyone.”

Through both the wording of the judge's verdict and the extremely divided and opinionated spectators, it's abundantly clear. This was a great signifier for me because to give him a happy ending, favourite character or not... It can be very hard to be fully satisfied when the consequences of his past actions are ongoing (e.g. people who are still feeling the losses of loved ones that can never be replaced) or if it feels like certain perspectives are being conveniently ignored/overlooked so as to justify a happy ending.

I fought against Lex's salvation partly because I was convinced that there was no way I could be completely satisfied with it, and that it would therefore feel somewhat hollow or sour if thought about in too much depth.

But the narrative just went right ahead and said "you might not be 100% satisfied, and that's fine; not everyone is going to be 100% satisfied in-universe anyway. Such a thing is impossible. If you're expecting all of the characters to be satisfied before YOU accept the ending, then I am telling you right now that you're asking for something that's never going to happen, because it's just not realistic."

The narrative also played a sneaky little game of "okay, if you're not happy with this, then here's a glimpse of the alternative. Now tell me, which ending do you prefer?"

I’d already conceded and accepted the presumed outcome towards the end, but the story wasn’t satisfied with my mere acceptance. Ohh no, it was like, “not good enough, you’re going to REALLY want this. You have to REALLY want this.” And BOY, AFTER THIS CRUEL FAKE-OUT DID I EVER.

The ending made itself all the better because it forced me to really work for it. Noooo way in hell was it gonna feel even remotely hollow, no way in hell EVER, I am no way no way gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

The acknowledgement of ANY ending’s inability to satisfy absolutely EVERY angle of every perspective in and of itself made me rush over to embrace the ending in all its splendid glory.

“That’s ridiculous! We’re just as much Lex’s family as Palaeno is!” Bobby blurted out.

There it is. There it is. The conclusion… The inevitable conclusion of what this entire series has been building towards since around Haunted Specters.

There’s only so far you can take a joke before you have no choice but to play it straight.

1. Set up and frame a seemingly absurd/surreal/odd scenario and seemingly play it for laughs

2. Keep playing it for laughs

3. Keeeep going. Keep running with it

And through both escalation and narrative reiteration and reinforcement…

4. It’s not a joke anymore and the audience is invested, Actually. No matter how odd the set-up seemed originally.

I loved that Lang immediately responds with anger to Bobby’s proclamation. I loved that. It makes sense that he would. In fact, it is a completely reasonable response. And we have spent so long building towards this. Lang’s irritation and misgivings about Bobby’s level of investment have been clear as day for a long time – he’s made no secret of it - and they have been building, and right here, Bobby confirms to him beyond all shadow of a doubt that he is too far gone, he is too far gone. He crosses a line. He crosses a line and it is too much for Lang. Two powerful opposing perspectives come to a head in this single moment as they both explode forth at once.

You played Bobby’s investment completely straight… and then you turned it back around on its head again as it is confronted like this by Lang. It is not enough to merely play it straight, but here, the narrative goes one step further and asks “if it is played straight, if it is grounded undeniably now in the character and the narrative’s reality, what does that mean? In what way should it be approached?”

Lang was right; this was bordering on Stockholm Syndrome. They shouldn’t care this much about Alexander.

I am. Floundering.

You are MEAN. YOU ARE MEEEEEAN. XD.

Maybe it was a little bit of Stockholm Syndrome.

No, no. This was a horrible kind of stinging slap to deliver.

Lang framing it that way was fine.

But a character like Bobby potentially internalising it was so very harsh a punch.

For other characters to react to and interpret Bobby (and Simon’s) investment in Lex in a realistic way was one matter. For the characters whose POV we’ve been following the whole way to take up the same line of thinking… felt like a horrific intrusion on some kind of sacred space. An unbreachable, unwritten narrative rule supposedly laid out by the series itself felt as if it were being mercilessly snapped clean in two here.

It seems so very cruel, narratively speaking, because it felt to me like the reader was never ASKED to frame the behaviour and dynamics of the characters in a realistic or critical manner. It was. A JOKE. It started as a surreal joke, serving its specific narrative purpose and then moving on its way. To have ever been realistically critical of the characters’ behaviour felt like it would have only hindered what the narrative seemed like it was trying to do at the time. And of course, it became more than a joke but the narrative has been tailored for the audience to be invested in these characters’ connections. To abruptly rescind on this unwritten rule of “this is fiction and therefore we can have some fun with it and set up some interesting character dynamics!” was like stinging betrayal.

Or rather, we ARE perhaps asked or even encouraged to be critical, but perhaps not in the way it is suddenly portrayed here. The reader does in fact pick up on the fact that Bobby and Simon are getting too invested and that this investment is perhaps not in their best wishes. But that investment seems to be portrayed so as to be compelling, something we are drawn to… not… like this. Or maybe that was just how it felt to me.

For a character like Bobby to be thinking about Stockholm Syndrome… It is not a clear-cut case of Bobby being hurt and grieving. He ponders framing his own grief and attachment in a critical manner. That he “shouldn’t” have been invested or cared this much. That felt so negatory of Lex and his whole existence… It felt negatory of the very plot that the readers had become so very invested in.

Cruel, cold realism.

You finally brought this particular narrative thread to a head, made it so very realised, and then immediately you appear to set about deconstructing it. Through Lang’s reaction. Through the internal thoughts that go through Bobby’s and Simon’s minds.

But my instinctive response is, "no, NO. Your attachment means something. It MEANS something! It's NOT just Stockholm Syndrome!"

If it was the emotionless phantom who had died that they were mourning, then sure, to think of their feelings in this manner... I don't think I would object.

But Lex is full of emotions, he cares!!!!

They can't possibly turn their back on the bond they'd ultimately grown with Lex like this. They can't.

And they aren't. They are just suffering a lot right now, trying to make some sense of this situation - anything, anything to try and make it stop hurting, to force it to hurt LESS. The narrative seems to teeter dangerously close to borderline dismissing the bond they'd grown with Lex through gritty, negative framing tied to a sense of realism. But ultimately...

It didn’t matter now.

Does it, would it even matter, how it's framed at this point? It wouldn't make a difference anyway. What's done is done, what happened is what happened.

The hurt inflicted by Bobby's internal thoughts in this moment and my instinctive objection to them is drowned out and washed cleanly away as we return to focus on the hurt caused by the overall situation and its magnitude. "Does it even matter?". It's like, who cares, who cares about analytical dissection right now, this is where we ended up either way.

It’s something Bobby considers but he’s just too tired to ponder it much because what difference did it even make? That same tiredness to fight back against the framing applied to me, as there was so much else to worry about in this moment.

What was perhaps the most cruel aspect of it all was that Alexander- no, the Phantom had attempted to shield them from this sort of devastation.

Oh no nooooooo. This hurt. Just twist the dagger in some more hhhjghj. It was absolutely true. The phantom had foreseen this. When it came to something like that kiss scene – I was busy focusing on so many other aspects of it, and very distracted by so many narrative threads after that and into Lifting Spirits that I totally failed to seriously register that attempt to shield a character like Bobby from this pain. I should have been prepared for that particular narrative angle to circle back around and I absolutely was not, I had not taken it seriously enough and had been far too distracted. I had been very dismissive of the phantom’s actions in that regard and found him so very stupid for it. Like, “yes, Bobby is too attached, this is apparent, but for GOD’S sake…”

Should have probably expected this, but I did not, and therefore it came as a very harsh shock that the phantom had seemingly been Right All Along.

This was so worrisome. Was the story REALLY about to dump a “this is the best outcome in a sense, as Bobby and Simon’s attachment was too unhealthy anyway, so this was the only way. It’s the best thing for the characters who should never have allowed themselves to senselessly get attached” on us?!

I knew there was one more fic to go in this series. I knew that much, and I did my best to cling to that, to cling to how suspicious and fast this all was, that they didn’t even get to say GOODBYE, but some of the narrative framing was so very scary. I did start to feel a tiny bit of panic, struggled to keep it at bay. But I was on the verge of becoming VERY, VERY upset. I could not allow myself to do so until I finished this fic, because if I allowed myself to become upset – to lose hope over this - it would be all over – there’s no telling how much it would’ve crushed me.

I just needed to power on through and keep reading as fast as possible before I had the chance to become upset. Just… keep reading, keeeeep reading, until I could relax once more… There had to be a reveal that he is okay, there had to be, because the alternative was too unbearable to consider.

The mere possibility of this truly being how this fic ends was way too terrifying.

It was like you suddenly out of nowhere grabbed my arm and BRUTALLY twisted it and just went “oh my god, shut up about phantomquill. Shut up about phantomquill. And will you STOP complaining already about every godforsaken little thing? I’ll kill him. I swear to god, I will kill him. I’ll do it. Do not test me. I’ll do it.”

This couldn’t be the end (could it?!) but there was no way in hell I was going to risk growing complacent and trying to call your bluff. I was terrified. I could NOT risk this all being real no matter what, no matter how small the risk might or might not be I was so scared.

“Please… Just… Just… Don’t do this. Please. Just let him still be alive.”

And he was.

“So… will you finally shut up about phantomquill? Will you finally be GRATEFUL once more and ACCEPT what you are given?!”

Oh, yes. Yes, Meowzy, please, just don’t hurt me.

XD

When there is a defining moment in a story that causes me to flatly deem that moment and by extension everything after it technically “non-canon”, it is VERY hard, nigh impossible, to win me back, because it tends not to matter how fantastic anything that comes afterwards is – because the line of continuity to get to that point had been fundamentally broken in my eyes, usually senselessly so. The appreciation of great stuff from afterwards doesn’t feel “complete” because I am no longer capable of considering it the “true timeline”.

By “win me back” I don’t mean “enjoy the fictional work in question”, because I am still completely capable of doing that if there’s still awesome stuff going on. I mean “restore the work’s claim to being the “true timeline” in my eyes.”

A lot of the Lifting Spirits journey is winning me over and winning me back over. I had already largely gone “okay, okay, I guess… all of this stuff is just so awesome that it’s still pretty much the true timeline. It’s just so good.” Unlike in some other instances where I had made the “non-canon” declaration in the past:

-There is absolutely no drop in writing quality whatsoever. The work demands its place in the true timeline with the rest of the series because it fits in seamlessly

-Just about everything going on is so great and awesome that you’d be hard-pressed NOT to want to fully accept and embrace it all

-The occurrence that I had declared the work was “finished” over (Fake Phantomquill kiss) was so very inconsequential and minor in the grand scheme of things. The declaration loses its meaning when it becomes to seem like just a blip in the radar of all the amazing stuff going on

-The actual goings-on of the scene do fit in fine with the rest of the story, and the scene is not TOO central or relevant to what takes place afterwards so as to be a constant reminder or thorn in my side that I had been baited. The story moves on from the scene after it plays out to far more pressing matters.

But still, STILL, I had withheld its right to Full Canonicity in my eyes. I had been “wronged” XD.

But the fake-out… and then the ending… I was nothing but grateful. True timeline. True timeline. This WAS the true timeline; this is the true timeline and I fully acknowledge it 100%. I embrace it. Why would I EVER throw this golden ending away for the sake of some one-sided phantomquill, if I had to make that choice?! Never.

I’ve much more to say and/or elaborate on, and I will do so… in the next post!

Wow. Looks like one more post and I will have finally done it. That’ll truly take us to the end of Lifting Spirits…

[aspen-arts]

The Price of Freedom Ch 5

Hello again! Here we have the next chapter for “Price of Freedom”!

Once again, thank you to all who read it and support this fanfic! Including @suspicious-spirit and many others! It really means a lot to me and inspires me to continue on! ^^

Enjoy the next chapter!

CH 5

It had been two weeks since Cagney became good friends with Specter. Two weeks they had met up at the grocery store for food shopping and chatted with one another as they shopped. Sometimes they met up outside of the store and just walked around the city to chat and Specter helped Cagney recognize buildings so that he would be able to find his way back home again. Meeting up with Specter was the highlight of Cagney’s day and it gave him a chance to relax, to freely laugh at Specter’s witty remarks and jokes, and also to feel like himself and not worry about walking on eggshells around Nathan.

The nightshade flower was just as condescending and aggressive as usual, but still Cagney put up with it. Surely the fear and uneasy feelings towards his boyfriend was worth the relief he felt whenever he was around Specter.

So Cagney was extremely surprised when Nathan told him that he was going to accompany Nathan to the location of his new job. Cagney had never gone out with Nathan whenever he left the apartment. Usually he was supposed to remain in the apartment when he wasn’t food shopping or anything like that. But here he was inside the car and driving downtown with Nathan at the wheel chattering once again about the new job he received.

“I’m telling ya’ babe, this new job is going to be a lot better than the last one. Great pay, the chance to use my skills, plus the perks aren’t so bad as well!”

Cagney forced himself to smile and gave a nod. “Well, I’m glad you managed to get the job you wanted. Maybe this could be a start of something new.”

“Oh how right you are,” Nathan smirked. “There’s gonna be a lot of changes for the both of us.”

Cagney felt a twinge of unease on how Nathan said that. “What do you mean?”

“Well obvious,” Nathan scoffed, “I ain’t gonna be home as often as I need to be. That’s why we’re going to have to figure out how I can keep an eye on you.”

“But why?” Cagney was not liking the sound of this. “I can—” He immediately trailed off when he saw the glint in Nathan’s eyes. The same glint he saw just this morning. Gulping, Cagney looked down at his leaf hand and said nothing more.

“Look Cag,” Nathan went on, “I know you think you can take care of yourself, but you really can’t. I mean, look at how you burned the toast this morning.”

How could he forget? Cagney had learned his lesson for ruining the breakfast toast. He could still feel the ache around his neck and his back from when Nathan had grabbed him around the neck and slammed him against the wall. It took a lot of apologizing from Cagney until he finally released him and walked away as if nothing happened.

Cagney awoke from his thoughts when Nathan placed a leaf hand on his shoulder.

“I’m doing this for your own good, babe.” Nathan reassured. “You’re nothing without me.”

There was a minute of silence before it was broken by Cagney’s small voice. “I know…”

Satisfied, Nathan settled back and continued on driving with Cagney staring out the window and feeling extremely miserable. Misery was overcome by realization when they passed by a junkyard and then a theater. Cagney knew he had seen these places before and anticipation slowly dawned on him. The car suddenly skidded to a stop in front of a railroad where the red lights were blinking.

“Damnit!” Nathan swore. “It’s gonna take this train forever to pass through!”

A familiar whistle echoed through the air and sure enough the Phantom Express drove past them. Cagney sat up in his seat, eyes darting back and forth as he searched for the familiar ghost.  As usual the caboose was the last one to go past them and from the railing of the caboose wearing a huge grin on his face was Specter, hanging onto the railings and letting his body wave like a flag on a windy day.

Cagney immediately pressed his leaf hand against his mouth to stifle the laughter that was threatening to erupt at the sight of Specter. Nathan however didn’t seem to share the same thoughts as Cagney.

“Puh!” Nathan snorted. “Look at that moron. Idiot is gonna fall and get himself killed.”

“But he’s a ghost,” Cagney blurted out.

“And how would you know?”

Cagney froze when he realized what he said. Nathan was staring at him in suspicion and Cagney’s mouth became dry.

“Umm…well…”

Thankfully the crossing light turned green and they drove right across the railway. After a while they pulled up in a parking lot and Nathan shut off the car.

“Right through there, that’s where big money is waiting.”

Cagney turned his head and sure enough it was the same entrance he had came upon the day he met King Dice. He didn’t feel as nervous when they both went through the dark tunnel and came out the other side at the casino. In fact he was very ecstatic. But why? Was he hoping to see Specter in the casino? He doubted the ghost would be in the casino at the moment. He was probably still working.

The casino was just as noisy and the smell of smoke was just as overwhelming. Even though it was just his second time visiting, Cagney was able to recognize areas of the casino. He had to thank Specter for that. He then felt a sharp slap over his head and he flinched.

“Ow! Nathan, what was that for?”

“I was talking to you!” Nathan snapped. “Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

Cagney sighed as he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

Nathan shoved a silver dollar into Cagney’s palm. “Go buy me a drink, will ya’? I gotta go talk business with the new boss.”

Cagney sighed. “Sure.”

“OK, see ya’ later.”

Again Nathan tugged on Cagney’s petals sharply before walking off and humming a little tune to himself. Cagney rubbed his petals again and walked off with a groan. Thank goodness he knew where the bar was located.

“Pleeaaasee Marian?”

“I told you time and time again and the answer is still no!”

Specter clasped his hands together in a begging motion and pleaded with the martini glass. “C’mon, just one free drink? I had a rough morning!”

“No can do, kid.” The martini glass sniffed. “If you really want a drink, you gotta buy one.”

“But I don’t have any money with me.”

“Then you can’t have a drink.”

Specter slumped down and scowled. “T-bone put you up to it, didn’t he?”

“Casino policy, kid.” Marian Martini answered. “No free drinks for non-employees.” She paused for a minute and then smiled. “The five dollars from T-bone wasn’t bad either.”

“Oh great…” With a long groan Specter drifted down to the floor and melted into a ghostly puddle of resentment. He had no idea how long he remained seething as a puddle but eventually he heard Marian speak to a new customer.

“Hey there, handsome! What’ll it be for you?”

“Um yeah, what’s the best drink you’ve got?”

Specter poked his head out from the puddle at the sound of that familiar voice.

“Well we’ve got the Southside, the Mary Pickford, the Bee’s Knee’s,” Marian listed off the list of drinks.

“Hmm, well I guess I’ll get the Southside and a glass of water then.”

“Coming right up!”

Marian went off to prepare the drink as Specter slowly drifted upwards. He smiled and spoke softly.

“Hi Cagney.”

The flower stiffened slightly and he slowly turned around. “Specter…I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, same!” Specter smiled. “What are you doing here, huh?”

“Oh, uh…” Cagney glanced around nervously before answering, “Nathan got this new job and he took me along to accompany him.”

Specter frowned at Cagney’s nervous impression. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just that…Nathan doesn’t like it when I talk to others.”

A bad feeling began to form inside of Specter. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know…maybe he thinks I’m going to run off with someone else.”

Specter couldn’t help but chuckle at this. “Well, he doesn’t have to worry. I mean, we’re just friends after all.”

Just friends.

That caused a twinge of discomfort in Specter but he brushed it away. From the corner of his eye he immediately spotted Marian coming back and with a yelp he immediately melted back down to a puddle. Cagney stared down at the ghost as Marian placed a light yellow drink in front of him.

“There you go, sweetie. Enjoy!”

She walked off to attend to another customer and Specter raised himself up from the puddle and blinked up at Cagney. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah, she is.”

Specter breathed a sigh of relief as he reformed in front of Cagney. “Good! Was afraid she was going to spot me again.”

Cagney smiled. “One too many drinks?”

“Too much begging for drinks, actually.”

“Rough day so far?”

Specter groaned and rubbed his forehead. “You have no idea. First we lost some luggage, some of the passengers began to complain because of that so we had to calm them down, then we got held up when we came across a stupid cow who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘move it’ making us late, not to mention T-bone has been cranky all day because of these incidents.”

Cagney smirked. “Yeah, that does sound rough. Was that why you were hanging out of the caboose?”

Specter stared at him in surprise. “Oh, you saw that?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Specter felt himself grow hot. “Must’ve looked like an idiot…”

“No, I thought it was funny.”

“Funny? Like funny ha-ha or funny stupid?”

Cagney took a sip of his water. “Let’s just say you brightened up my day by acting like a flag.”

This cheered Specter and he grinned. “Well…glad I could do that for you.”

“Ahem…”

Specter flinched and slowly looked up to see Marian glaring down at him. The martini glass raised a brow. “Did you manage to scrounge up some money, Specs?”

“Erm…no, not really…”

“Then out of the bar! OUT!”

Specter yelped and flew out of the bar as if Marian was about to chase after him with a bottle. Because of past encounters with the other two bar tenders it wouldn’t have been surprised if she did.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Outside the bar Specter slowed to a stop as Cagney reached him. Specter bit his bottom lip and stared down at the floor, wringing his hands. “Oh, sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s no problem,” Cagney laughed a bit. “Seems like she’s not too fond of you.”

“Nah,” Specter grinned. “Though she’s a lot better than her other two co-workers. Willie once threw a huge beer mug at me once.” Noticing the expression on Cagney’s face, Specter reassured him, “It didn’t do anything. I’m a ghost. It just went through!”

“Do they always treat you like that here?”

“Nah, not all the time. Some are better than others.” Specter shrugged. “Hey, don’t worry about me. It’s all good.”

“Well okay…” Cagney still didn’t look convinced.

Specter placed his hand on Cagney’s shoulder and gave him a gentle smile. “It’s okay Cagney, really. Trust me.”

Cagney blushed and he felt some giddiness deep inside him. Shaking his head he shoved Specter playfully making the ghost laugh.

“Cag!”

Cagney froze at the sound of an angry voice. Turning around he felt his throat close in fear at the sight of a deadly nightshade storming towards him. Nathan stopped in front of the carnation and the ghost as he glared at Specter. “Babe, who is this?”

Cagney swallowed and introduced Specter. “Nathan, this is my friend, Specter.”

Specter gave the other flower a smile and held out a hand to shake. “Hey there! So you’re the famous Nathan, huh? Cagney spoke a lot about you.”

“Did he now?” Nathan asked, glaring at the ghost.

Specter’s smile faded and he put his hand down. Cagney coughed and held out the Southside. “I…got you your drink, babe.”

Nathan snatched the drink from Cagney’s hand and gulped it down in one swallow. Sneering in disgust, he tossed the glass to one side. “C’mon babe, let’s go.”

“Huh?”

“Business with the boss is over. Let’s go…now.”

“But Nathan…”

Nathan suddenly snatched Cagney’s glass of water and smashed it on the floor, shattering it to pieces. Cagney flinched and Specter stared in horror at what happened.

Nathan glared down at Cagney and grabbed his arm. “I said…let’s…go.”

He gripped Cagney’s arm tightly and gave it a sharp tug. Cagney flinched and looked over at Specter, mouthing an apology. Specter gave him an understanding smile. With that Cagney was led away by Nathan. Once outside, Cagney struggled to loosen Nathan’s grip.

“Nathan! What the hell is wrong with you?! He’s one of my friends!”

“Yeah, and you two looked too friendly with each other…” Nathan growled as they went through the tunnel and came out into the parking lot.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Cagney rolled his eyes. “For Cohl’s sakes, we were just talking! OW!”

Cagney was thrown against the car with a thud. Nathan opened the passenger door and glared at the carnation who had sunk to the ground doubled over in pain. “Get in the car, Cag.”

Cagney stared up at his boyfriend, anger and fear blazing in his eye.

“GET IN THE CAR!” Nathan roared.

The anger disappeared from Cagney’s eyes and was replaced by terror. He slowly stood up and meekly climbed into the car.

“Now don’t move,” Nathan threated before slamming the car door shut. He turned and stormed off and Cagney could do nothing except hold himself to keep his panic from rising.

T-bone glanced down at his pocket watch before glancing up. He sighed in relief at the sight of the blue ghost floating towards them.

“Well, you’re 20 minutes early, Specs. That’s highly unusual for you.”

“Mmph,” Specter shrugged as he floated into the train.

T-Bone frowned. Specter being early was highly unusual even for him. What was more unusual was his lack of response to him and his quiet attitude. That wasn’t like the mischievous ghost who enjoyed joking wit him.  

“Hey!”

Both T-bone and Specter turned to see a nightshade flower standing in front of them, fuming with rage.

“Good day sir,” T-bone greeted the flower. “Are you boarding on the Phantom Express?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Nathan pointed towards Specter. “I just wanted to warn that jackass that I’ve seen lots of guys hanging around Cag. They pretend to be friends but I know what they want. I’ve broken every one of those guys in two and I can do the same!”

Specter glared at Nathan. He was liking this guy less and less. T-bone placed himself in front of Specter and pointed a warning finger at Nathan. “If you’re not going to ride, then I suggest you get a move on. I won’t let you threaten any of the crew members here.”

“Well he’d better stay away from Cag!” Nathan shouted. “He’s mine, you hear me? I own him! He belongs to me!”

Specter clenched his fists and made a move towards Nathan. Fortunately for Nathan, T-bone immediately jumped in between them and glared at Nathan. “Sir, I’m giving you one final warning, leave now or I’m calling the cops!”

Nathan glared at T-bone before taking a step back. “Fine then. Hope he got the message.” Without another word Nathan turned and stormed off.

“Wise ass,” T-bone growled as he shut the passenger car door. He turned to Specter. “What was—”

“I hate that bastard!” Specter growled. “I hate him!”

“Calm down, Spec.” T-bone tried to calm the ghost. “He’s just a bastard who thinks he’s all tough. We won’t be seeing him again.”

Specter merely snorted and stormed to his caboose. Entering the caboose, he went over to his bed and curled up on it, rage flaring inside him.

It all made sense now. The nervousness Cagney displayed, the small tidbits he heard about Nathan not letting him talk to others and guilt-tripping him, the displays of aggressiveness towards Cagney, it was clear as daylight. Nathan was hurting Cagney. He was so sure of this, but still there was a twinge of doubt inside him.

He was just a ghost who was pining for someone already in a relationship. What if he was determined to see anything bad in Nathan because of jealousy? Jealous that Cagney was in a relationship with him. Specter pulled his pillow closer to him and buried his face into it. He tried so hard to accept that Cagney was already in a relationship, but for the past two weeks every time he was with the carnation his attraction towards him only continued to grow and the more he heard about the relationship the more he felt a desire to take Cagney away. But was it really because he cared or just selfish jealousy?

Specter groaned and closed his eyes to think. Questions and conflicting feelings plagued his mind but there was one thing he knew.

“Cagney,” He whispered to himself. “I think I’m starting to fall for you…”

[emmagottlieb52]

Not Dumb Phantom Express Headcanons(WARNING:Some of them are Gory)

*Blind Specter

-His real name is the fabled Eyeless James “Jim”,but he is the only one who does not remember that.

-He dislikes being out of uniform for the train.

-He has a nasally voice when he speaks,but can switch to an eerie lucid tone if he needs to.

-When he becomes scary,his eyeballs have slit pupils.

-He is capable of creature and object possession,telekinesis,telepathy,clairvoyance and audience,& hypnosis.

-Dislikes Demon Cuphead and Mugman(he has frequent daymares about them)

-Tends to work even off duty,and you can see him knitting on certain nights. His knitting needles are covered in blood from dr.Kahl’s original son…Yes,he got away with child murder…

-He apparently can see beyond space and time.

-Has a little impediment causing him to talk slowly at times…

-The secondman of the train.

-Not only did he get away with child murder,he got away with theft.

-He plays the piano and less often sings,despite singing like an angel.

-He dons a sapphire pendant that is fueled by natural light and can turn it into magic.

*T-Bone

-His real name is Terry Bones;T-Bone is just a nickname for him.

-He appears to be an excellent singer and often uses his voice to his advantages,even during work.

-He doesn’t hate jokes,he just dislikes bad ones.

-He may appear grouchy with a gruff Southern accent to go with it,but deep down he has a core of gentleness within him.

-He has superhuman abilities in the bones due to eating a lot of metal calcium,and always knows what you’re hiding… He seems to have the “uncanny” ability to produce music from his bones. He can also change his own density at will. he also has telekinesis that can activate when he’s super furious,his telekinesis came into action when he was 12 years old.

-Tends to dislike Phear Lap and Mangosteen.

-He has a weird boat load of relatives and is often seen writing letters to them.

-Whenever he becomes scary,he usually has more cracks in the bones than he currently has.

-He takes care of Jim quite a lot.

-The conductor and half-leader of the Express.

-He got away with murder,assault,and stealing lemon bars when he was a child…He was diagnosed with kleptomania at the time…

-He carries a red diamond wand which actually has magical properties and powers…He had it ever since he was 6.

*Blaze Brothers

-Both are nasty and mischievous,and adore playing cruel jokes on the other people of Inkwell Isle,even if it ends up nearly killing whoever they’re pranking. If a trick goes wrong,then they start fighting and arguing.

-They affectionately address one another as “Brother Blaze” at all times,even when they’re angry at each other. They do this because they weren’t given any actual names in the first place.

-They are incapable of saying or doing things without each other to help. In fact,most of their conversation and activity is with each other,be it arguing,sharing secrets or the news,working together,healing each other’s wounds and ailments,teasing each other,or showing just how much they love each other…

-They enjoy each other’s company,even when fighting. Signs of this include singing each other to sleep,exchanging secrets telepathically,etc. Their affection is toned down to wrapping around each other for a hug,& occasionally exchanging a kiss on the cheek…though they sometimes get romantic and kiss each other directly,sometimes going vampire and biting each other’s faces to swap blood between them;twins have to share everything.

-They are capable of electricity manipulation,telepathy between each other,hypnosis,& weather manipulation. Unlike the Blind Specter,Both are incapable of possession and have limited range telekinesis,though they have shapeshifting ability,and have the unique ability to taste electricity. Their powers have been known to cause mass destruction…

-Both despise Ribby and Croaks and often fight with them when they’re not fighting with the devil or each other

-They are actually thunder and lightning demons created by the Head for power support. Without them,the train wouldn’t run smoothly at all…

-When becoming more scary,their eyes glimmer and lightning froths from their mouths.

-The two fire stokers and cargo loaders of the train…

-They have the rare Pica disorder,causing them to eat things like chalk,starch,metal,paper,people’s hair,and even each other’s blood…Yes,they drink each other’s blood,and yes,they have blood…

-Whenever they fight between each other,they get all out and physical with a tinge of arguing…Yes,they’re tougher fighting twins than anyone in Inkwell Isle when it comes to fighting with each other…

-They got away with town destruction and assault.

-They rarely speak to other people,but when they do,they mostly speak in unison or echo each other,both in a sound term and the last words term. On rare occasions they DO finish each other’s sentences,but mostly they’d rather take turns speaking and share each other’s words.

-They play the theremin together and sing together.

-They are huge fans of Sally Stageplay and often cuddle when watching her.

-Their eyes are capable of magic properties,as they are said to change the world every time they blink.

-Their electricity based powers have given then them tons of brainpower as well,making them very intelligent…

*Head of the Train

-Leader of the Express and engineer

-He also doesn’t have an actual name,but likes to be called Casey Jones Sr.,the ghost train

-Megalomaniac who is also stern around anyone…even those who don’t work for him.

-Has a Transylvanian accent and laughs much like the Count of Sesame Street

-Has so much to say about anything,which is a delight to T-Bone,his assistant. Most of the Head’s conversation is with T-Bone.

-When he becomes scary,his furnace opens and his heart engine literally flares up.

-He is capable of high speed riding,super strength,plus,is capable of doing magic and casting spells,most of which are activated by blowing his whistle.

-Dislikes Captain Brineybeard due to his ship’s sentience

-His mind and behavioral pattern are very simple. When things don’t go his way,he will cry,scream,panic,& sometimes throw a hissy fit. However,if he gets exactly what he wants,he’ll toot his whistle and sing a song…But mostly,he doesn’t exhibit any emotion other than stern blankness at his crew,friends,and enemies.

-Also a classy psychopath who loves tea,sweet foods such as candy,and eating metal

-Has a morbid sense of humor…he will laugh at even the most morbid deaths imaginable…

-Has run over many souls in Inkwell Isle,all cases are deliberate…

-He sings and often uses the whistle as a melody track when he does.

-Responsible for murdering his crew in icy blood before getting killed himself…

*General

-They are nocturnal creatures of Inkwell Isle,the sun is their mortal enemy

-They tend to live and work on the railroad at the same time!

-You’d likely find them chugging around the floor,sometimes going through a wall or two.

-The pumpkins and ghosts are the attendants of the train.

-They are rarely seen during the night,but if one listens closely,they can hear the crew’s laughter,& maybe even a “YEEEEHAAAA!” as they chug down the line.

-Soul was sold due to the lack of its service over the last hundred years.

-They are capable of even possessing toy trains!

-Mess with one crew member,you mess with all of them.

-If you’re still alive and seated on this express,there is no way to escape but to die in there.

-By sundown,there is a specific order to when the crew wakes up. The Head usually wakes up first,followed by T-Bone,then Jim,who has to wake up the Blaze Brothers,and finally the attendants.

-Blind Specter is 238 years old,T-Bone being a close second dead,but is at 151 years of age,the Blaze brothers are 48 years old,and head is 4,561 years of age.

-After the battle,they managed to get back on the rails and start utilizing their powers for entertainment purposes...

[daemominus]

CORRUPTED

[ .personal log ]  [ .entry 04 ]

[ also on AO3 for easier reading ]

Maybe if he'd bothered with precaution, used his head when it really mattered, then he might not have to be going through this right now.

Even in the safety of his own home he must be tormented by the demon pushing back behind a mental barricade. Just when he thought he'd been finished with this, it all came screaming back. The burden and the beating in his chest had welcomed pangs he very well imagined he'd be allowed to forget. As if grasping at his chest made any difference whatsoever, he balled his hand into a fist—and maybe, to fool himself, it had made him believe that it eased the suffering a slight touch. A shame to say: it was false hope, and he was well aware of that given the unrelenting pressure his own body elected to put him through. The poor thing, hardly in control of himself anymore while he quaked and wavered where he stood. It was fight enough to merely keep himself on his feet; he had doubled over as he wrestled with the demon he'd chosen to share his space with. And this arrangement was for life, only he didn't think when he'd acted instead. Just as before, when he thought he'd slain the imposter, his spirit crackled at his core; his blood boiled and froze, flesh ran hot and cold. He should have been too weak to stand, but maybe that was the extent of his grit. Just to stand at all, the only thing he could muster when all else failed him. It'd gotten harder to catch his breath, to keep it, and harder still to prevent a total collapse. All of this within a span of seconds. Deep within his conscience, he must have berated his genetics for forming a being too strong to simply black out. Oh, how he craved this human weakness now; to lose consciousness and forget all of this, to go without torment for at least a handful of peaceful hours before he'd wake and live through it all for another round. But, as it happened, he would contend with glacial flames lapping at his flesh, searing and freezing within the same damned breath.

His skin must have cracked at every inch—but, perhaps, the veining visible on his pallid face might have explained the cause of the sensation. Beads of cold perspiration collected upon his brow, and he'd sworn he'd been going through cardiac arrest if not for the fact that he regrettably knew better. His mind had fogged, and yet it was full. Brimming, polluted with smog and sulfur and a haunting voice to drown all of his chaos out. Body and spirit were wracked, and the strength in his muscles had all but crept away. Pain mounted, sensations overwhelming from head to toe. A free hand balled, too, and swept up to join its partner; and he pressed his hardest, believing his heart would bleed out of his chest otherwise. It'd come to vocalizing without delay: grunts and groans, and stifled cries just about all he could manage, and all that he dared to try. Even through this, through damned torment, he would stubbornly seek his pride and composure. A gallant thing, or a sad one? At least it showed he hadn't slipped entirely. Of course, the hollowed part of him wouldn't allow for anything less. It needed him, whatever strands of his awareness were there for it to latch onto. The two formed a symbiosis of sorts—though one was more a parasite, and the other its host—and this Vergil was sure to never forget.

With all of his snarling in a tone most monstrous, he hardly resembled a man anymore. Now, lo, existed a creature to be feared. No more had he a voice smooth, calm, and pleasant. Its pitch descended, degraded itself as if gone back down the abyss from which he had emerged. The noise in his head, the agony all throughout his body and his soul could have smothered him alive. Yet, it hadn't. It wasn't enough.

As if on cue with a sweeping crescendo, the loudness in his consciousness had managed to elicit a roar from lips no longer as pallid as all the flesh upon him, and it was this climax that finally urged balled fists to unfurl and open palms and digits to grasp at a head of white, upswept strands. He roiled within himself, Hell and Heaven warring even here. Legs as stiff as iron had carried him toward whatever support he could bump into, and it was the slightest mercy unto him that he should be stopped by a firm wall. Against it a haggard body had leaned for the simplest reason of keeping the nephilim from falling. He pressed himself ever closer, pretending it may force him upright. His body angled itself askew so his face would bury into the rotting paneling, in part to muffle the only noise heard throughout the mansion. If Vergil only knew: he need only cease resistance for the torment to end. Damned stubborn, even now, the most vulnerable he'd ever been, and he would refuse. Valiant or foolish, it hadn't mattered; in the end, his darkness would prevail. When it really mattered, when so much lay at stake, how could it not? For all of Vergil's strength, he was weak. Ever malleable, ever sensitive.

Fingers might have dug right in to tear at the scalp, but in as much dramatic fervor as seconds before, Vergil's world fell quiet. There was an unbelievable lightness to his chest, any and all tightened knots undone; the flames were snuffed and the frost thawed. Already had his sweat begun evaporating, and much to sought after relief was he able to breathe without so much as a hitch or a stab. Lids opened, haltingly, and the world had flushed into view after prolonged darkness. However, his environment wasn't all that different. Paradise was dimly lit. Rapidly had his ailments withdrawn, likely back to his recesses, but phantom sensations lingered all throughout a body that tingled. Still felt too much. Arms were forgotten momentarily before they'd decided to drop of their own accord. Slowly did his fingers release his scalp, and through hesitation his arms eventually fell to meet his flanks once more—but not without having his hands return to his chest as if to assure himself that he'd remained whole. No punctures or gouges, no gashes or torn pieces of fabric. No blood, no blood. Not a pain or a scent of any nature to indicate the contrary. He attempted a glance at his chest, still using the wall for support, but upon noting his sleeves he felt his breath catching again: no longer were they black, but a light shade of blue, luminous, just as before. His gloves, too, had changed, becoming more white than color. Now it was cemented, though he'd yet to register his power. The mind was still numb, somewhat, and that much was understandable. Out of sorts, Vergil flattened a hand against the wall beside him in an effort to push himself away. His spine demanded straightening, and so it was: he could finally stand at his full height, and there seemed to be some relief gained from the return of perfect posture. How conflicting this all had been: his body was tired, he knew it should have been, but he felt… nothing. No fatigue, no wear, as if he hadn't a reason for it. That must have been the sudden disconnect between mind and body to take hold. He believed one thing while he felt another. An odd grouping of sensations, but it would not last long enough to drive him mad.

Everything felt fine, felt normal. In some ways, he felt better. His spirit would contest that, however, and it was odd indeed that his emotions would come into play so strongly here. What had made this experience so different than the first? Vergil hadn't suffered quite as much then, if at all. He could only chalk it up to his surroundings: Hell was easy on someone almost equally hellish—conjecture at best. It was a hope, nothing more, that this would get easier with repetition. Vergil had yet to realize the glow to his orbs, and how fitting they'd become for him as he stood there in the murk of a house left derelict. His face was softly illuminated as a result, and this would draw eyes toward a sight many would prefer not to see. The tint to his skin, the veining—he resembled a specter. Who would trust something so offensively ghoulish?

The emptiness of the hall, and of the adjoining rooms, had suddenly come alive. While Vergil had been the only living soul to stir within the confines of the mansion, the very vacuum of nothingness had made itself all too present and invasive. It seemed his senses were fine-tuned, sharpened beyond the norm. This—this was his Devil Trigger, wasn't it? Now that he'd begun calming, coming to grips with the situation, the truth of the matter had come to realization. It was no wonder he felt fit and sprightly: his body healed itself at twice the speed, with twice the potency. It was no wonder his pains and his aches had left him so suddenly, and without a trace. He'd not caught the sound or the sensation of his heart beating anymore. With oxygen resupplied to his lungs, and blood flow stabilized, the nephilim found himself in better form than he'd been since he'd left that infernal place. And though, physically, he was fine, in regard to sensibility he had not fared quite as well. Vexed he had remained, at least to some degree, mind working tirelessly to find both cohesion and firm mental footing.

A hand had wandered over his chest, subconsciously feeling for his amulet. Though it'd been felt beneath the sweater he wore, he felt compelled to fish it out just to confirm, to set his mind at ease even if in this small way. The thing carried its usual weight as it dangled from the cord, and Vergil looked it over without any expression to betray his ghostly features. It was fine, and so was he, and in Paradise he remained—no illusion, no trickery, here. No demons to drag him away, none at all to illicit the momentary torment he'd suffered. Well, none, maybe, save for the one harbored within the nephilim. What hell to deal with, this, but no power of Vergil's would change the tide. Sad to say he had no choice in the matter, and rather than dwell on it, he decidedly tucked his amulet away before leaving the hall. His steps were audible thanks to the soles of his shoes and the distinct heel-to-toe filling his ears. That bothersome voice had returned in the meantime to sway his action. Both an influence and an instinct, the demon that resided within him needed little effort to push its host out of doors, as if something out there had awaited them both. Off he went to fetch Yamato from his bedroom, his gait restored as he then capably descended the steps leading out into the foyer. It was the double doors from there, and on to the outside. Cool winds blew against his face, gentle as they greeted him and passed right on by. Ah, the autumn months had come upon him, and that was small cause for an elevation of spirits for a nephilim who'd preferred a chilled climate. The air carried familiar, pungent scents, reminding him that his world had become saturated with demonic essences. A light snarl touched his maw, top lip curling to reflect repulsion.

That damned voice from before decided to chime back in, and it was without hardship that it urged its host to proceed deeper into the city. You know what you want. It's out there, the Hollow would tempt, and Vergil was bound to follow. Undoubtedly, he understood the suggestion, and his mind was sadly still touched, still quite vulnerable to simple persuasion on the part of the Hollow. Nothing and no one could get past his skull aside from the one added consciousness already inside of it. Guided by one-half himself, one-half the other, all still him combined, he left the relative safety of his property to venture deeper into the city. Fortunate that no one else was out at this hour: any mere human would bolt at the sight of him, and he really could do without provocation of any kind. As confidently as he went, appearing composed and ignorant of the world around him, he would just as readily prove that his nerves were hair triggers. His so called composure hung only by a thread, in reality, and if his patience were to be tested now, the end result would not yield grace and glory. As it was, he trod upon this human land with no care. Hell had on him a vice, one practically about to choke its prey, and he hadn't so much as winced under the pressure. Simply enough, he either didn't notice it or didn't mind. Clouds obscured his judgment still, despite how much they'd have cleared away by now. At least the night sky was whole, full, a mess of shimmering points. A vast expanse of nothing, of exactly what it was: space. If an inexplicable lust hadn't stolen his concentration, he may have looked up. Might have been enough to jog his sanity.

The voice in his head told him there was much to be gained further ahead. So very ready and able was he, no less a picture of brilliance and prowess than when he first embraced the devil only a short time ago. A figure of contrasts, a dark vision in the night, but there was a glow faint enough about him. However, with the cover of night sufficient in obscuring his form, and driving home any careless humans out and about, he was perfectly free. The city itself had shed much of its neon and luminescence ever since the demons lost their Limbo. A small inconvenience for Vergil, but no matter where he walked his space would be respected. The city could be explored at his leisure if he so desired. Passing by abandoned buildings, and even traversing over the remains of them, was sure enough evidence that the residential district had been left farther behind. One could determine the heart of the city neared when surroundings degraded with every mile covered. The tapping of his soles as each shoe struck the asphalt reminded him of his aimlessness, but it wasn't quite enough to shake him. At least, for the time being, he knew he was headed forward. Imagine his disappointment when a fresh emergence of ill symptoms returned, and the nephilim's pacing had slowed. And to think he'd walked a handful of miles only. How coincidental that he'd felt tighter pulls and sharper pushes to wherever he chose to go, a nagging and goading in his mind that grew ever emphatic. Despite the desire, his body slowed itself, as if hesitating all the more with mild pain and confusion. His heart gave him trouble again. Perhaps it was ever more gratuitous that a force crept its way into Vergil's consciousness. Something new, something unsettling. With a hand returned to his chest, and a snarl to his lip, the young lord primed himself for a hostile encounter. He'd think he was in no shape, but who was he to run from a threat? Pride would not have him believe he was anything inferior to whatever he may face.

The path ahead certainly reeked of demon, but… only one imprint of said life force had been detected within the immediate zone. This was no half-breed, but a creature purely of Hell. Instantly antagonistic. Hackles rose, hair bristled, flesh and spine tingled. It was close! It was now that he ignored the Hollow's murmurings, and his hand went withdrawn in order to hold the hilt of his blade. Not yet drawn, but the steel itself hungered, hidden in the confines of its sheath. Perfectly synchronized, the two; one animate, one inanimate, both understanding and deserving of each other's respect. An obscure concept, but it was not one to judge by logic. Emotions mattered here; gut feelings, instincts, the twinge of the slightest nerve a perfect means of communication. Even with Vergil at the fringes of his right mind, his trust and his life remained with an ancient blade. No one else could try to dissect his relationship with the one thing he held dearest. And there, just beneath a streetlight bent out of shape (but by no means illuminated), Vergil could perceive the silhouette of a thing organic, and not quite human, but not quite monstrous. Not once had his Trigger faltered since it'd erupted, even with the dissipation of his symptoms some moments earlier. In spite of this, he bravely pushed on out of want to discover the identity of this curious demon. They were undoubtedly outside of the common, both in appearance and in manner, and it was as he bore his eyes into them when they spoke against his lack of tact.

“You would stare me to death,” they had observed coolly, though it was obvious they meant to reprimand. Vergil halted, uncertain and in some pain still, watching them turn toward him with all the ease of one confident in their handling of an encounter so fraught with danger.

“But that's no way to greet my lord, is it?”

“Yours?”

“I recognize your power, if nothing else.”

Damn this one: Vergil could scarcely read them from these words alone, although he did gather that they were indifferent toward any potential reaction of his. Either they were in over their head, or they'd trusted absolutely in their ability to ward him off. He would have preferred the former, but somehow he ascertained that was simply not the case. With brow sunk, eyes gleamed as if incandescent, ever studious as they marked the appearance of the demon opposite him. Weathered, yet of wit; not quite grotesque to the eyes, but rather fair in comparison to the beauties that sickened him, along with the entirety of mankind. Indeed, this demon 's visage was almost of human qualities—but that unusual lens affixed to one side of their face was enough of a confirmation that it was no mere illusion or trick of the mind; that he'd stood in the company of a demon and nothing less or more. And, as such, Vergil's trust would not be extended.

“You've become quite popular in the short time that you've ascended the ranks,” they went on. “Of course, that was determinable given what I knew. I gave your brother a little food for thought, but I wonder if he ever did think—before it all came to a head.”

In Vergil's gut coiled deep resentment, the mere mention of his brother more than sufficient in stirring up the acids. It gave rise to refreshed feelings of abhorrence, to new pangs in his chest, but he resolved to stand before this seemingly omniscient figure without a waver to his being. Still, he winced, struggled against the sensations all about him, and the voice in his head came ringing louder in demand for attention. He's allied with Dante, it hissed, you should kill him where he stands.

“You know him,” Vergil challenged, pushing the Hollow away in the meantime. There was a noticeable growl to his voice, a darkness about his entire manner coming to the attention of himself and the demon. “You're Phineas, aren't you? You helped… him.”

Helped him uncover his potential. What good did that do for either of you?

He remembered that he'd been told about the eye, about the favor his brother had done for the demon Phineas in order to have help returned. More memorable was the name: he'd already known of it, and it was now that he made the connection between these facts, and he struggled all the more to trust one who'd aided his murderer so openly. But the demon appeared far from nonplussed, bothered, or threatening to Vergil. Quite the contrary: he carried himself plainly and mildly, standing before the nephilim with the greatest patience and the most ease, as if comfortable in the presence of a friend. He placed his focus upon Vergil to the fullest as he watched him in turn. Sagacious was the gleam in his one eye; a keenness that showed even beneath the curtain of night. From the lens, less could be determined.

“I helped him help you. Wasn't he sent to Limbo on your behalf?”

Vergil became reluctant to answer, and his silence served as the indicator that allowed Phineas to continue.

“The whole thing was circumstantial for me. I had part of my sight returned thanks to Dante, and you both had your revolution. And through this, I also found my freedom. Actually, the both of you have done me a deal of good.” So genial was he in his speech that it almost felt like inflated deceit; conspicuous, made to show that he had something tucked away that would injure either mind or integrity. But he did not quake, unlike the youth before him. “You're thinking I should be in Hell—I would think so—but when Limbo came apart, I was among the many to join this plane. I've been here since then, observing. I doubt you would ever mind me. l—”

“I mind,” Vergil corrected with a snap. “You're an ally to Dante. I should have you skewered to the floor just for that.”

“I have no quarrel with you, Vergil,” frankly it was said. “I'm a pacifist. I don't care to put myself in the line of fire. I've lived for too long already to risk death by anyone's hand now, yours included.”

“Are you asking me for mercy?”

“I'm only telling you that you have no enemy in me. In fact, I suspect I could help you.”

A neutral party, then? Indifferent toward one brother and the other. Convenient, if he was to be believed—and Vergil was undecided upon that sole point. Phineas could have easily lied to him now, as he was certain the aged demon would have done so in the past. He seemed the type to take advantage; to fit himself in whichever position would suit him best. Unsurprising. But the suggestion of help left a flame to burn a hole through Vergil's conscious mind. Even having himself engaged did not lessen the effects of his symptoms. Whatever ailment plagued him now had persisted, even going as far as to weaken his haunting voice. With minor difficulty he spoke, but he hated that he appeared vulnerable at all. For his figure alone to stir those feelings of pity in another, he must have been handling himself quite poorly. Indeed, his arms grew tired of holding his current stance, with his body calling for reprieve despite the energy pumping through his bloodstream. For the time being, Vergil relaxed as much as he was able, letting his arms fall into their usual places at his sides. Defenseless, open to attack. His body was confused, and his mind in worse straits. There seemed to be a tightness within his chest, and it affected his respiration as before. Shallow breaths were drawn, made frequent for want of oxygen. Lips were parted as if to take in more air, but the solid distrust upon his ghostly countenance, and the bitterness with it, held itself expertly.

“Help me?” he breathed, doubtful. “What good is your help to me?”

“Even a blind man, and a demon, can see that you're in pain. You're suffering.” And even with this putting Vergil on his guard, Phineas merely smiled a mite in amusement toward himself, his own inconsistent vision, and he finally found the incentive to move forward. Calm, paced steps brought him closer to the nephilim, but he stopped well before he provoked discomfort. In contrast to relaxed old age, youth stiffened and steeled itself. Vergil did not much appreciate these intrusive observations. Peeled lips went a short way to prove as much.

“If I had to guess,” Phineas continued, “I would say that you've let a demon come quite close to you.”

“You don't know a damned thing about me!” Inhuman, voice deep and hostile; stance aggressive, quickly shifting, a hand coming to grasp at sword's hilt once more. The Hollow would not take this, and it knew Vergil was of equal sentiment. Teeth clenched tighter, eyes pierced harder as if sharpened daggers meaning to bore holes into someone who had no right to the life of the young lord. His suffering was his own; if he should have anything, it would be this. No scholarly demon would pry that from his cold, burning hands. “I don't need help from you,” he growled, his jaws tightly wound, with marked difficulty to his voice. “And the last thing I want is for you, or anyone, to assume whatever you will about me.”

“You make it obvious, Vergil.”

“Enough of you!” His temper had reached its boiling point, and his patience its end. In one swift movement, he flung himself forward with the unsheathing of his blade, arm swinging from southwest to northeast for a deadly, uncompromising slash. His prowess had been hindered, evidently, as he failed to land so much as a scratch upon his intended target. Before his eyes the demon vanished, leaving but wisps in his wake. Knowing this frustrated Vergil all the more, promoting the hostility in his heart and prompting a harder gritting of the teeth, a meaner snarl to already angered features. It wasn't intentional that he failed, for he had staggered upon throwing the force of his strike too far ahead. A miscalculation in his haste: he hadn't given it the least bit of thought, it was too impulsive of him. In the seconds he realized his folly, he could feel the demon at once behind him, suddenly, and the Hollow within had ushered forth a snarl not alike to any predator known to mankind. But Vergil suffered for this, and he quickly clutched at his chest, scabbard in palm, turning gradually all the while to look at the demon who had bested him. Vergil would rarely miss. Vergil would rarely make a mistake. He was the epitome of precision, of near-perfection. Just the sole thought that he'd failed at so simple a maneuver had him seething. His movement had been impaired, unfortunately, though it was to the favor of Phineas that he had not been cut down in cold blood—and they both knew that very scene would have unfolded otherwise, if it only hadn't been for the thing poisoning the body and mind of His Lordship.

He winced, pain evident upon his features among the wrath that swelled within him. Perhaps it was all the more chafing to him that Phineas should regard him with only a mild expression, neutral, not even the slightest touch smug or relieved, or even sympathetic toward one worthy of pity. But Vergil would never stand for that if it were offered, and Phineas had discerned enough of the nephilim's nature from what little he had observed and heard and inferred from his own analysis. Quite a sharp one himself, much to Vergil's annoyance. Phineas was unquestionably one not to be underestimated. He'd garnered centuries of wisdom, after all. He must have expected Vergil to strike at him…

“You can't even defend yourself,” noted the demon, having secured the confirmation he didn't need (he'd guessed already). He took a step toward the corrupted nephilim, then another, then one more before he'd been urged to halt with a single growl. “I am no enemy of yours,” he repeated, emphasis now applied to each word uttered. “It wouldn't be right to leave you so vulnerable, not while I have a means of alleviating whatever ails you.”

“I want nothing from you!” Stubbornly Vergil insisted, every word straining to slip past his lips. He held up his sword arm, but knew it to be in vain. It soon fell, rejoining his side, and he took this moment to return Yamato to its sheathe, for he knew it now pointless to pretend he could fight. Phineas believed this to be wise, and the demon approached him once more.

Despite his blind reluctance, Vergil had so far not seen harm to come from the scholarly, so called pacifist. But he could not, in good or flawed conscience, trust in whatever sincerity lied behind an affable countenance. His guard remained, what little of it he could hold. The Hollow was mad, undeniably: it might have writhed within him, roiling in its hatred and its fury, the pure chaos that it was. All the fierceness of Hell, of himself, wishing so vehemently to unleash itself, to lash at the fool who dared to stoke and, subsequently, dared to put out the fire. The cause of the nephilim's agony, his torment: a fragment of his mind and his self. Sad it was that he worked against himself. He would drag himself back to Hell, with no chance of escape the next time. There would be no second tries, no lucky breaks—of this he was almost certain. He'd had his other chance, and he was living it.

A hand went placed upon his shoulder, as if reassuringly, and it was unexpected in the extreme. Vergil stiffened at the touch, but he did not shrink away, nor did he snap his teeth at he who offered support. Against this the Hollow protested severely, but Vergil's own conviction overpowered even the transcendental chokehold upon him, and he stood his ground in his best effort to observe and understand. However he may try, and that he'd stopped doing, he could not hold himself upright, the weakness of body, the pain, the power within warring against itself all conspired to render him a mess, and therefore unable to carry himself in his usual manner. He would have to be excused for his curved spine, the stooping he'd done as, subconsciously, he attempted to contract his body as if to ease the suffering. That had not impacted his gaze, however, as eye contact between the pair had not yet broken. “What?” Vergil demanded, his one word a world of questions simultaneously asked.

“If you will trust an old demon,” said Phineas, “then you may find relief, momentarily. I know something of what you're going through—the symptoms are familiar to me, at least—and I happen to know how to stave off the effects for the time being.”

“I'm not playing your game,” Vergil hissed, hackles raised as if he were ready to strike again in spite of his inability to act.

“I'm afraid I don't have the patience for play. I take all things seriously.”

“What makes you think I would accept your help? I don't even know what you'd do to me.”

Vergil's person had been abandoned by now, with Phineas' hand retreating to its twin to lace fingers. “I have foresight. I think you know that. I make conclusions of my own, besides.” That same neutral gleam to his eye, Phineas went on to put Vergil's doubts to rest. “I think anyone in your condition would appreciate a lifting of effects, given what you're feeling. It looks to be quite crippling. I admire your fortitude, Vergil. You can stand there in defiance, in bad health, and yet you are made immediately aware of your limitations. Even that isn't going to stop you. It would be a shame to see a spirit like yours snuffed out this early.” A pause, little room for contemplation, a quick chance to regard any change to Vergil's countenance, before he started again: “I have an incantation for you. I've studied much in my life, and I know things that ought not to be known. Any sensible demon would shrink away from what I've exposed myself to, but the more daring, more intelligent of the bunch would know to learn more than is necessary. So, I have come to memorize an incantation that would ward off… leeches, to put it in a way. A demon sucks the life out of you, and the right words, the right sounds, tones, would force it off of you. For a short time, of course.”

Left with pause, the young lord had little to say, but much to ponder. Naturally, he showed hesitation, and even with a mind clouded, chaotic, he thought over his options. Phineas did not press him to act, and that would go a distance in his favor. The darker shades of Vergil's consciousness had not agreed to any of it, as was to be expected, and it barked ever on, ever loudly within the confines of his mind.

'He's lying to you! He could hurt you—kill you with that!'

He might, he might not.

'He has been with Dante! You can feel it too.'

No… I think you're wrong.

But what would be the wisest thing? To trust in Phineas, to merely take his word for something of which no evidence could be procured was a hazard; but, then, it would be a hazard to ignore whatever symptoms arrested Vergil at the moment, and had done so before, and chances were good that such a cycle would continue. Maybe this was how the Hollow worked to kill him and he'd never know it. Even Phineas, who was no relation of his, concluded that he suffered an absorption of life—of course, this, too, could have been part of the ploy. Such indecision would not last any longer, for death surely would come in one form or another, and Vergil had preferred to take whatever chance at life was thrown at him. If this would come from an incantation generally avoided, then it must.

“...All right. I'll hear it.”

“Brace yourself, Vergil. I think you understand.”

More anguish to come, then. Naturally. In any case, Vergil took heed, ignoring the protests in his head outright. Perhaps it was rash of him, but he desired an end to the troubled breathing, the heart palpitations, the squeeze of his chest, the swirling mind—if he could be rid of it all, if only for hours, he would opt for that chance. Little could be done in the way of preparation, for his mind was halved, and his will was weakened as he shared it with another. The nephilim would not yield to the whims of his demons, as was to be expected, for he was headstrong and had not one desire to bend to whatever endeavoring to defeat him. With mind about as clear as he could make it, the clutter considered, he poised himself appropriately to listen to what he had coming. There was no delay. Phineas extended an arm, reaching for Vergil; hand went to forehead, and this gave the nephilim pause again. He knew not of a touch to be required, but while the Hollow screamed at him, he did not shrink. Instantly did Phineas begin, voice smooth and almost soothing as he recited the words—not Latin, not any language known to Vergil—that were meant to drive off the torment into a corner. If it had not been for a second's delay, the shift in the nephilim's manner would have struck him straightaway. Once again, his eyes shut and the gritting of teeth resumed.

'I told you!'

The tempest returned, throwing up noise all around. Vergil could only curl within himself, doubling over as he cried through restraint—the hand upon his crown fixed. The voice that was not his own roared and shouted and chastised, but, like water down a drain, the Hollow's influence was sent down into the sewers. Still, this left him weak, and from all that he had endured that evening, he found himself finally spent. He dropped to his knees, Yamato falling to the floor beside him, and Phineas had knelt, too, to keep his hold steady. His voice was ceaseless, yet ever so calm; but Vergil was deafened to his noise. With one arm extended to the pavement to support his weight, and another tucked close to his breast, Vergil looked the very picture of defeat. It was his resolve alone that allowed him to stay on his knees at all; he would not be forced onto his face, and so far he could manage that. The clouds in his mind started to clear, and for once since he'd come back to Earth he could feel space. He may even call it freedom—but he knew the truth of the matter was not so generous. His pains left him, and did not take long in doing so; no part of his ribcage compressed when he inhaled, and in fact he could breathe with greater ease with each passing nanosecond. His own voice had shut itself away, creeping toward the very back of his tongue. He'd stopped growling, whining, by now, when the relief settled. It afforded him a chance to peel open his eyelids, and once again the dark of night was there for his vision to welcome. He hadn't realized, in all of the tumult and all of his feeling, that there was quiet even from the demon in his company. Unbelievable—the incantation had done its work, though the very beginnings of its spiritual purge were severe. A reversal of effects, but with initial symptoms too similar for his taste. Regardless, he would rather have this.

He felt better.

Upon his knees he sat. His body pulled upright, neck craning back for a view of the sky. And there, just before him, remained Phineas, with both of his arms now returned to him, and stretched to his usual height. Luminous orbs of light were once blue eyes, still, and the rest of his body had not reacted to the fullest to effects of the incantation. Though his Trigger endured, he would not mind it. The pain and the discomfort from before had dissipated; lingering aches clung to his body, yes, but these were small and insignificant in the bigger picture. However, now he could get a firmer sense of how tired he'd become. Exhaustion of the body, the mind, and of the spiritual kind had now made itself glaringly obvious to the nephilim; one so accustomed to vigor and to vivacity had not known exhaustion of this type. Indeed, he believed that not even in Hell had he felt so impaired. Well, there was really nothing for it. He gazed at Phineas for a time, a short time only, before looking below to pick up his sword, and pushing himself off the ground at last.

“How did you know?” he was obliged to wonder, an air of suspicion about him yet. Upon standing, his other arm fell to his side, and he now carried himself with nearly as much of a familiar stance as he always had.

“As I said, I observed your symptoms. They struck me with a likeness to demonic possession. Wouldn't you agree?”

“You're saying I'm possessed by a demon.”

“My friend,” the elder chortled through goodness of character, “I said that the symptoms you were exhibiting were similar. Therefore, I guessed that the incantation I had memorized would ward off some of them.”

“But it's your opinion that I have a demon in, or on, me, isn't it? I can read this on you. You think I'm possessed.”

And even through all of this, the voice in his head had not retreated to the fullest. Whispers not his own were there, within the depths of his mind, and he could honestly admit that it was to be expected. It would take more, perhaps a heavy toll, to rid himself of the parasite that Phineas had so accurately surmised took hold of him. The truth was ever plain: Vergil got much too close to the Hollow, foolishly let it inside of him. Now, he grappled with it, and his battle would be viewable to anyone who cared to see. Phineas, for instance, had become first witness—and, oh, he was much too wise to play the fool, here. While this may have bothered the nephilim, perhaps it irked him all the more that his company chose to ignore it, or that he preferred to dance around the subject. Phineas' expression had not changed since he'd been charged with harboring concealed insight, but there was definitely a gleam to his eye that was telling in itself. That sagacity of his was one of a kind, but it would be folly to use that to invalidate the youth standing across from him.

Even with all the potential of Vergil's piercing gaze to a burn a hole right through him, Phineas had not backed down, nor flinched in the subtlest way. How composed did he carry himself as he stood in perfect calm. Something like Vergil, back when his psyche had the stability to allow it. A picture of irony painted the two; though, as far as Phineas was concerned, his manner had never really wavered. Not in the past few hundreds of years, at least. “I'm inclined to believe that,” he said at last, his tone not even a mite sharp or hurt. “You seem to feel more strongly of it than I do; why should my opinion be of any value?”

That was meant to infuriate, surely. Hostile lips curled into a snarl, but Vergil fell short of countering. He could see the point made, the sense in what was implied. Rather gently, he was told to accept his truth, whatever it may be, and Phineas had the good sense not to name his trouble, but to let Vergil discern what it was for himself. A lesson taught, if Vergil was willing to learn—and so he would whether or not he liked to. It was self-evident, anyway; he should not be coy, he should not pretend to seek the answers he already had. This discussion was futile, and the Hollow made that clear enough with the snicker it let ring through its host's consciousness. Vergil had reined himself in upon a second's reflection, and he relaxed the scorn upon his countenance in order to tame his beast. If he failed to control himself, his temper at least, the effects of the incantation would prove to be good for nothing. Indeed, he said not a word, and lips rejoined one another. “Maybe I'm just checking,” he came to say, needing the last word even as his voice had gone a lower pitch. “I'm guessing I owe you my gratitude?”

“It's inconsequential to me, Vergil. Thank me, or take me for granted. It makes no difference in the end.”

Vergil elected to keep his tongue. While his manners might have failed him here, he at least harbored the courtesy to forget whatever vitriol he'd spewed earlier. With his eyes upon Phineas once more, he went on to change the subject altogether; to take his leave. “I'll be on my way.” He turned, an air of acknowledgment about him as if to suggest that he did, to whichever small amount, look upon the aged demon with kinder eyes, and that he had reason to be cordial with him for now and ever. However, the calm of that now familiar voice had taken Vergil's progress from him, obliging him to remain at that very area while the demon had his piece to speak.

“Just where are you headed?”

Only a short delay passed between the question asked and another posed in retort when Vergil had turned to face him once more. “Why does that matter to you?” He did not take kindly to having his affairs pried into, even from one as benign as Phineas. They had not known each other even for more than an hour, besides, and it was too soon for Vergil to show him any semblance of trust—yet, within the better part of himself, a predisposition toward amiability had taken root.

“I notice you're heading toward the heart of the city,” followed the usual, mellow reply.

Vergil had not wanted to descend into the details. Among the destruction, it was near impossible to discern the environment anymore: his bearings had unwound, and he oft found himself rediscovering the city he once called home. But none of this really brought about any doubts to what he believed was true. Toward the distance he looked, neck twisting in the opposite direction as he now beheld the path he'd intended on taking. The calling there was loud, or the force that pushed him equally strong. It was cause for some debate, within himself, but he did not question his impulse far enough to dig his heels in and stop. A thoughtfulness came about him, the sharpness to his voice gone dull as he reflected vaguely right where he stood. “I am,” came a reply. “Something tells me I should go there.”

“So you remember what lies beyond here.”

“...I do.” The whole of his body had turned, facing his destination as before. The time had come, now, for him to move on. Without a final backward glance, he bade the genial demon a farewell of sorts; nothing compromising, nothing committal, maybe callous in delivery to some, but by no means something he would come to regret. He was certain of the fact that he was understood, both in word and in manner, and not an utterance of a proper goodbye slipped past his lips. The two parted company at last, Vergil starting off again with Phineas' gaze boring into him. It was nothing to bother over: his silhouette had soon bled into the thick of night. It might be a good while before they crossed paths again; odd, but he felt more or less confident in supposing so.

He had not been rejected, not shunned, not had even a word of contempt spoken to him. The last mistake he could make would be to take a seemingly kindly spirit for granted; to believe in what it appeared to be rather than what potential lay therein. He would not be so quick to find support in any demon, or any thing living for that matter. Circumstances had handled him too roughly for him to become soft. No, it was necessary to be careful, to be suspicious—paranoid to some extent in his case. Trusting in others was difficult, and any association of his estranged brother's would be ever less likely to earn so much as respect from one of the underworld's newest members among its pecking order. Yet, meeting Phineas had occasioned a change, albeit one slight. Vergil would be open toward a second encounter, as he felt he would be open to giving this one demon in particular a chance—be it to earn Vergil's favor, or Vergil's mercy, his respect, anything at all the nephilim could possibly bestow of his freest will. Now, should Vergil find himself wronged in any way, then surely the elder would have hell to pay.

The trot was another lengthy one. Without the benefit of a car, and suitable roads on which to drive it, Vergil had little else left to him. While, in his isolation, he mused upon a good many things, the voice of his Hollow would occasionally creep up behind him, and whisper to him in passing before fading back into the confines of its prison. It was quieter, generally out of the way thanks to the effects of the incantation. It could not be any clearer to him, now, that he made his way toward a tower once belonging to a former despot, which had cast a rope round his legs, and dragged him thither as if by preternatural force. The Hollow had no issue with this, and Vergil himself found no real objection against the direction he followed. The calling was greatest, it appeared, the closer he drew; and so he knew, with full confidence, that the demon encompassing the largest part of him had wanted this, waited for it. With the best of opportunities poised for the nephilim, he was led deeper still into the city. But with every bit of distance lost, reluctance had come to wrest dominance from his calm.

Walking for what felt like an eternity, amid the rubble and the torn streets, he came his closest (for the moment) to the crumbling structure, and from below he peered up to take in the sight of it. Dislike for the situation, the surroundings included, crept up on him from somewhere within, and all the while the effects of the incantation had begun to shrivel. So soon already. He felt a mounting foreboding, and a familiar darkness ever so reliable regaining its strength. He felt his brows inch toward each other, as though even his body, without the use of his volition, expressed discouragement. But the steps would be climbed, the tower would be entered. This place should have been forgotten to him, and he hated the inkling as to why he should bring himself back. It was the fault of the Hollow: it hadn't urged him away, nor had it given him reason to step back. It encouraged him, bent his drive.

It wanted this, the Hell Gate—that infernal thing which he'd taken great pains to shut down. It remained whole, slumbering within abandoned walls. Vergil had known this plainly, and the prospect before him, he also knew, was one to be avoided. In surest spite of that, Vergil would go where he was beckoned.

At this time of night, with the electricity knocked out thoroughly in the tower, he could not so easily scale its great height without the use of its elevators. Improvisation was due, and only one idea came forward. A single Summoned Sword was flung a generous way's up onto the structure itself, and to it he would be pulled by the grace of his gifts. However, all that followed would require speed. Hovering in the air was not a talent of his, so he was obliged to skid the soles of his shoes against the perpendicular surface of the tower, and with greatest effort on his part, for he had no manipulation over gravity. At the very least, he had his Devil Trigger to enhance that which he used, and so he was nimble even as he stepped in direct opposition to the forces that dared to ground him. One, two steps upon the wall, then a jump, and another projectile thrown—such was the cycle, and one that demanded his concentration or else he would make a fatal mistake. Tripping and falling would be disastrous if he did not react fast enough to save himself. Thankfully, the nephilim was sprightly even off of the ground, and he did not tire through repetitive movement—he couldn't have afforded it, anyway.

He had remembered, roughly, where the gate resided, and even in the impenetrable dark he was able to see what he'd been doing. The lad must be praised for his aptitude, as well as for how he hadn't once loosened his grip over his sword. It was much to his relief that the summit lay within his grasp, the voice breaking his concentration to tell him it was there. Now, the flexibility of his frame would make itself apparent. Though he had no audience, he would at least impress himself. A Summoned Sword was driven into the wall just a pair of floors above him; not a second had passed when he was pulled toward the point of impact, and upon using his feet for the briefest moment of balance, he threw his arms out to anchor himself to the ledge that a broken window had provided. It was rather desperately that he clung, though shards of glass still attached to the pane had dug into his skin through his clothes, and he raged against the biting pain for the sake of remaining suspended. His hold was secure, his body pressed against the exterior wall; but he could breathe no easier until he was safely inside. He'd clambered through, minding the shards still stuck to the framing of the window as well as those littering the floor. Oh, this was all more trouble than it was worth. At least exiting would prove simpler by far.

Hardly breathless, the nephilim stood within the chamber all too familiar. It was only in recent weeks that he'd come here; had it been so little time already? Wetness was felt on his arms, even through his sleeves, but the cuts were swiftly remedied with his regenerative prowess, and they were forgotten as, thankfully, no shrapnel had become embedded. Eyes frigid had settled upon the Hell Gate upon his first setting foot into the room. He didn't like the feeling possessing him any more then when he'd been outside. In fact, it grew oppressive, and the voice that had been relatively out of the way thus far had abruptly chimed in with renewed animation.

'There it is. Go on.'

Ridiculous. No.

Thick was the atmosphere, bedeviling in its emptiness, as in the blackness all around. Untouched the room had been left, up until now, with cool winds blowing in through broken windows. They depressed the stuffiness, even stirred the hair atop Vergil's head. The breeze ghosted across his face, a welcome sensation that reminded him of the life that was to be found outside—quite the contrast to the likeness of death that had come upon this room in particular. No life here, not even vermin. The Hell Gate had remained ever inactive since the day Yamato was thrust into its swirling belly. It was quiet; dead, but… not quite. Not if Vergil felt an urge to awaken it. His legs moved, carried him forward, but at so slow and measured a pace that it was made clear this was no idea of his. Hesitation, unease—any man, any demon or angel would not falter with their goal just out of reach. The darkness that enveloped him, the sheer quiet had made it all the more discomforting, and it struck him with a sense of intrigue, of mystery and suspicion; and, with less prominence: danger, fear. A fear of the unknown, of what lay hidden in the dark, of the dangers that awaited him just beyond the threshold of the Gate.

For one accustomed to conditions as these, he'd certainly looked the spitting image of inexperience. While there were no demons near, this place had offended Vergil with how it reeked as if an active den. Traces left over had undoubtedly impregnated the very walls, every inch of the chamber formerly belonging to a familial relation he hadn't the slightest regret in having had killed. Even with him deceased and this chamber left unoccupied for days, it felt heavy and toxic to the mind. A generally unpleasant place to be, and more so with no light of any kind to at least give the room a semblance of the everyday. It felt worse to him now than when he'd first entered, but perhaps he was too absorbed by his motivations, back then, to really concern himself with the atmosphere in the room.

Regardless of his inhibitions, he felt himself inching ever closer to the Hell Gate. It did not matter that he stopped a moment, considered his actions, then drew back—he would always go again, swaying in one direction or another, or taking two steps forward to pause again. His hesitation was exemplary, but it was not his will to proceed. He was thoroughly confounded by the movement of his body, and upon taking the hilt of his sword without so much as a thought to it, he was struck with anxiety. I'm not doing this!

An unfortunate realization came about: the incantation offered to him had lost its power. He resisted against himself, and yet he did not comply with his wishes. So, it was true: the possession was upon him, within him, and it struggled against him for control. He'd moved, but he was made to move—and all this time, too, ever since he'd first entered Devil Trigger. The uncanny pull toward this place was nothing remarkably obscure, but only the work of the damned voice in his head, playing games with him as it ever had. And he was gullible enough to fall for it; he was so vulnerable still that he'd allowed this to come to pass. His eyes had widened with a panic taking hold. He'd tightened his muscles, doing whatever in his power to anchor himself, but his will was contested by that of the Hollow's.

'Vergil, come on. Just let go. I'm trying to help you.'

Fuck, he hated that it was his voice. He hated that it mimicked his diction, that it sounded so calm and sincere, reassuring, just as he would. And he knew it was all a facade. This parasite was after something, but it would not get it by way of its host. Naturally, as was his luck, when his resolve had been its strongest, the weight of his attachment came to crush him from head to toe. The voice insisted, grew impatient, incessant, and finally drew from Vergil a declaration of his weakness. He shouted aloud for the thing to stop, in all of his frenzy and his anger; oh, he sounded pitiable, crying, “Enough! Enough of you!” in surest vain. He knew had no way out, and yet he yelled and snarled and gnashed his teeth beneath the pressure in his head, his mind filled with noise.

Anyone watching would have thought him touched. But he was alone, with no human around for even a mile. He could speak to his demon, not merely think to it anymore, although he would still hear it in his mind, no matter how much he wished it out of him.

'I don't think you mean that. I'm the only one here for you.'

“I'm not doing this! I'm not opening it for you.'

'For me? It's for you, or for us. You remember what I told you: we're one and the same. The Hell Gate would do so much for us.'

No, no… Vergil clutched Yamato close, as if meaning to save it from what he would do with it. But this worked against his favor when he'd been pushed to start sliding the blade from its scabbard. With every jerk of his own, he was made to jerk harder. But this was tiring, exhausting, and any patience within Vergil had met its end here and now. Though he had attempted to withdraw into himself in some effort to repel, or at least prolong, that which he fought against, he now found all attempts hopeless; and upon fully drawing his blade, he could not help a whimper.

But this the Hollow had not foreseen.

Pain, crippling pain that it had not caused.

Vergil doubled over, hand upon hilt with the blade sunk into his thigh. He cried again, a fire on his tongue with agony burning throughout his body. Through lids open only ajar, he could see red seeping into his pant leg. A growing stain was what he'd needed to see before plucking his own sword from his body, and this hurt like hell—one of its deepest layers, even. Never in the habit of injuring himself with Yamato, he'd forgotten how terribly deadly his weapon of choice had always been, and the pain from slicing into his own body with a blade so fine and precise was unlike any other. By no means had he fatally wounded himself, but he dropped himself to his knees—this, alas, sent another wave of fire across his leg. All this to take his mobility away from the Hollow for the time being. The pain alone, not even the damage done to his person, was enough to cripple him, and for this he was reprimanded.

'You idiot! What are you thinking?!'

“You're a liar,” he hissed in response, teeth clenched and the whole of him wincing. “I don't need the Hell Gate, but… you do. And you're not getting it.”

'Just take a look at yourself. Do you see how you're bleeding? You could have thrust that blade into your chest, your neck—what would save you then? But you could be immortal! Then nothing could kill you, Vergil. Nothing.'

“Immortal!” The word came as a scoff, almost a laugh, even as Vergil resigned himself to the floor with his head drooping between his shoulders. He'd let go of Yamato, unhindered by the demon; even went as far as to slide it away from him for fear of grabbing it involuntarily. He was not worried for his injury, for it would heal in due time. He'd survived worse, though the hurting was impressively intense. “I'd never wanted that.” To watch the world around him die while he lived ceaselessly was more of a horrific situation to be in than a fortunate one. No one sensible would wish it, and even Vergil, with his peculiar sense of self and all the attributes which made him a little too unique even for mankind's discriminating eye, had never once hoped to live forever, but instead that he lived a full life, no matter how short that would be. However, at this rate, with present circumstances taken into account, he may have neither a full or long life to look forward to. If it was to be of any consolation to him, he at least had known that the Hollow would need him alive. It would make certain that he would not fall, and subsequently leave it to its own demise.

'Don't be naive. Just imagine how much more you could be with the Hell Gate at your command.'

It tried to persuade him, but he hadn't an interest in responding. He shifted where he knelt, putting his weight upon his right hip as he relaxed his wounded leg, carefully stretching it out; and he shifted again when he took to his backside, with his unaffected leg bent at the knee and drawn toward his trunk. He would sit there until he was healed, obstinate, yet closely resembling a kicked puppy with nothing left to him. He could already feel abating the fire in his thigh, and from this he gathered that his healing powers were reliably at swift work repairing the damage. Soon, he would be able to move, and his Hollow would try again to move him where it wanted. If Vergil was anything, he was determined. No demon would have their way with him, not even one born of his own psyche. Even as the Hollow carried on, Vergil looked toward Yamato, and then toward the scabbard that lay even closer to him. He hated that he had to treat his most treasured belonging with such disrespect, but he felt it necessary in order to prevent something likely to occur if he was not careful.

'Vergil.'

If he were to make it easy for his own body to be manipulated against his will, then he would have failed. Defeat was not, now nor ever, an option. In fact, it was adroit of him to have injured himself. Perfectly unexpected of him to do, and it was what drew his demon's attention away from its motive. Vergil could gather resistance as he healed, to reinforce his mental fortitude. It was weakened, he was vulnerable, and the Hollow easily exploited this. He must not plan, but act upon first instinct; to blindly do, not think, or else he would have given his adversary time to thwart him. A successful gambit, resulting in more equal odds. Vergil had yet the chance to claim victory from all of this, and in the face of all that culminated to seize opportunity from him, he had defiantly stood—or sat, in this case—his ground, dug his figurative heels in, and mustered his best effort into pushing the unneeded voice from his mind. Even this was hard, as he expected it to be, and it seemed he was spoken to all the louder, with the voice nearer to him now than he could recall.

'Nothing you do is going to separate us. I've always been here for you, that's what you don't realize. You can't accept it, but I would never lie to you. I won't abandon you, Vergil, unlike the people you thought you could be close to. Even your brother: he left you for dead, but I was there to guide you when you were left helpless.'

Just stop.

'I'm the only one who really understands. Think about it. I'm the only one you could have ever turned to, and now you can. You think a gnarly old demon like Phineas will help you? He's not even loyal; not to your brother, and much less to you. He takes no sides, you've heard what he'd said.'

The very last of his hopes were dashed with the Hollow more active now than at any point in the day. He thought he could beat it—perhaps foolishly so, and in trying the demon became wise to his meager attempts. It did not mock, nor did it chastise him for doing so. It urged him, through sensation alone, to look once more upon the sword, and gave him the thought of picking it up. Encouragement was provided through words, and that paired with an abundance of feeling, of impulses and instructions made it all too probable that something within the nephilim would come undone. His mind was unraveling, slowly; he'd felt it slipping, and all because he showed resistance. Gloved fingers weaved through the strands of his hair when they found a place whereupon to latch, the ends of every digit pressed into his scalp as if out of some animalistic need to tear into what caused him so much misery. He would have peeled the skin away and dug into bone and tissue to give himself the relief he desperately craved. But he believed himself above this. He was no animal, no mere man.

Vergil did not look at Yamato, nor at the Hell Gate, nor did he even glimpse at the blotched crimson now adorning his person. In fact, he looked at nothing, but shut his eyes tightly in defiance. He appeared a youth insane, in the process of losing grip with reality; wild clamoring and curling over into his abdomen, even going as far as to cut through his own body, right at the brink of forcing his fingers, hands included, through his crown. Even through this, the Hollow's voice was deathless, muttering something about the Hell Gate, or about Yamato, and anything else sufficient for persuasion. It was calm, however, and did not shout, though its voice was persistently audible; not angry, but maybe disappointed. Of course, level-headed like Vergil, who exemplified the opposite at the time.

A return of difficulty in breathing and pangs in the chest had been the final straw for the nephilim, who found himself punished for denying the will of his darker half. It seemed as though it would not rest tonight, desperate for Vergil to give it what it brought him here for. If that meant taking his breath away, beating him into submission, then it may very well give itself the excuse—but, of course, not going so far as to risk his life.

Through the tightening of his chest, and all of the pitiful snarling he'd been doing, he managed to carry his voice, his demands above his demon's, and it was in spite of aches and all present hindrances that his words erupted with vehemence in his best effort to put that infernal beast in its place.

“Get out of my head! I don't need you! You have no reason to be! You're fucking nothing without me! I'm not opening shit for you. Just leave! Leave!” Stop this! Shut up, get out!

And even then, it must have been something of his demon he channeled to have roared so furiously; so much anger and hatred and exasperation and aggression had come about him as if something completely different took possession of him. He'd have taken Yamato out of sheer impulse, feeling as though he'd have an enemy to slay in the flesh. It would have surely helped him, for he heard the loudest calls to violence within his right mind. Blood hotter than fire would have burst from his weakest points, and it was fortunate that the gash in his leg had healed itself perfectly long before the shift in his demeanor (else it would have bled from his passion alone).

There was, however, a space of inaction following his demand for release—rather, a quietude that Vergil had not taken note of until a few moments' delay. Subconsciously, he'd let go of his head. The air was still, save for the wind blowing in, even with the thickness of the room in which he'd remained. But, no, none of that was as equally important as the quiet. He could not have had a good enough chance to question the sudden turn, for another shift must come swiftly to rock his already shaken foundations. A diminishing of strength and hyper-sensitivity, along with a brutal exhaustion crashing down upon him, had signaled his departure from so elevated a state of body and ability as his Devil Trigger. Even his appearance had made it clear to him: hair had fallen upon his brow in shabby bangs, and his sleeves returned to the color he'd almost forgotten they used to be. And, still, all this through haunting silence. Where had his companion gone? Its voice was absent, any possible residual influence nonexistent. Vergil preferred not to think, but rather ran his hand through his hair again as if for confirmation. His Trigger had gone, previously forced upon him by the Hollow, but now he was left weakened, battered and vulnerable beyond compare. Exhaustion took no time to settle, taking root within Vergil's core to spread through body and mind. The whole thing—from the very beginning until moments go—was a severe expenditure of energy, and it could not be felt until now, when nothing veiled the truth of what his body could take. His Devil Trigger fooled him, made him feel invincible; it healed remarkably, boosted his powers of perception, and dulled adverse effects from any given source.

If the boy had suffered even in Devil Trigger, he had scarcely been prepared for how getting out of it would leave him.

This welcomed a familiar symptom, and it was quite enough to draw his hands to his heart. With his voice returned to its normal pitch and tone, he'd groaned more like a man and less like a demon when the knives within his chest demanded a form of vocal expression. Vergil could do nothing but oblige, and in spite of his effort to fight against sounding out, the pain within was really all too defeating. He curled into himself, ultimately falling to his flank with his hands fixed upon his chest. The Hollow would not leave so contently—nor wholly—it seemed, and decided to leave a reminder of its endurance for Vergil. Now he writhed, face to the floor and legs stretching and retracting in protest against the pain in his chest. Through nostrils his breath had warmed the flooring just beneath his cheek, though it came hard and haggard as his lungs were quite unable to expand. The right arm had peeled itself away from his person, now planting itself upon the floor with gloved digits almost grasping at the surface. He lay misshapen, more upon his front and less on his side; left leg drawn toward him and its twin only halfway bent. As if a dagger had lodged itself into his heart, twisting this way and turning that, he had come to believe that, perhaps, this was where he would expire at last. To order the demon into retreat, he had mistakenly tested its might—but he was not allowed to die, or else he would have gone long before now. His torment was not meant to last, as only a handful of minutes of anguish were needed in order to let him have his peace. Subsidence had come to relieve him relatively quickly—though, to his mind, it took almost an eternity.

With his cringing and wincing and gritting of teeth, his eyes shut tight, a snarl stuck to a pallid face, Vergil had not ventured to move. Even with a heart, already beaten, now abandoned by the blades that bore into it, the apprehension of riling it all up again was foremost upon a tired mind. The lungs could fill, now, and he breathed gently, slowly. But he was left terribly battered, and he had not one bruise to show for it. Every inch ached, the muscles stung, bones burned. And his spirit was wounded. It had done fierce battle against a renegade portion of itself, and it had now the opportunity to recover after a victory hard earned. His mind had suffered for it, too, and took the brunt of the blow. When it was once chaotic and full, abuzz with noise and weighed by oppression, it was now that a mind obviously resilient had really felt like it was his own. Strange that it felt vacant, comfortable.

So miserable was he, left brittle, even lying upon the floor as if defeated in humiliating fashion. Never in his life had Vergil felt worse, and he wished simply to curl further into himself, to retreat somewhere that would soothe him, maybe allow him to lick his emotional wounds. Rawest instincts had drawn from him a longing for protection, something akin to the safety of the womb while he lay like a fetus, withdrawing ever closer into his own frame. The pain in his leg, as in his heart, was long forgotten, but there were a dozen aches to replace it in a dozen other areas. Devil Trigger alone consumed so much, and that coupled with all else he'd had to contend with only succeeded in an absolute draining of his might.

He was inclined to crawl across the floor to take Yamato into his clutches, and to tuck it against his frame for some comfort. But he was far more inclined against moving, as spent as he was, and he merely kept to himself in the exact spot he'd lied down upon. Alas, the nephilim was no longer able to fight the frailty wracking his vessel. He resigned himself quite simply to the floor upon which he rested, no matter how cold, hard, or dusty. And to think that the much fought-over Hell Gate resided within the same room, only mere feet from him. It might have stirred to life had Vergil not thwarted himself. It was hard for him, still, to fathom that he had been drawn all the way here; to open that which he had put in every effort and every resource to close. Everything that he had put himself though, the sacrifices that he deemed worthy of making, would not be forgotten so easily, nor would he put it all—himself included—to shame by allowing such a thing to reawaken. Never a thought of his, never an urge, when it was all the motivation of his darker half assuming control it had no right to take. Vergil had entered Devil Trigger, had come here, had unsheathed Yamato to sinister ends.

It was frightening. The poor thing had been made weak, and therefore an easy tool to command. Hell would have broken loose if he had not made himself a distraction, and ultimately proved himself no simple thing to manipulate. Even with this victory to his name, he felt pitiful. He felt uncertain. He felt a great many things, all of which formed a flood he could have easily drowned in—and so he gave it no thought at all, for he was worn and weary, and the whole of him demanded repose.

In silence, accompanied only by the blowing of the wind, Vergil slipped into a state like sleep with the last of his consciousness robbed from him by mind, body, and spirit all in harmonious agreement. If he should vex himself mentally again, he must wait until he next wakes, when he takes leave of the tower to return to Paradise. The Hollow would let him be for a time. For now, he must succumb to his fatigue. He hardly noticed he'd been lying on the floor anymore.

[video-drone-blog]

No Cartridge: Everyday Conspiracy

((Hi all! as we move into our final piece on Firewatch, a reminder that you can support No Cartridge at patreon (www.patreon.com/hegelbon), paypal (www.paypal.me/hegelbon) and on twitch (www.twitch.tv/hegelbon). We also will soon be moving to another, singular website, so keep your eyes peeled for that! Onward and upward, thanks to your support!

Oh, and spoilers, as always.))

One of the more underreported weirdnesses of the American wilderness is just how many damn people go missing on a yearly basis in our national parks. Well, underreported may be unfair -- it’s not as if there are a lot of misconceptions about the dangers of parks, how easy they are to get lost in, and what can happen if one veers off the trail. But the cavalcade of paranormal stories -- some along the lines of r/nosleep style fiction, others in the realm of true conspiracy theories -- are a bit more subterranean.

Popularized largely by David Paulides Missing 411 series, the nefarious reasons for disappearances in our national parks have gained steam in a national moment where frankly most of us would rather learn about aliens, conspiracies, and the occult than actively engage in the world surrounding and vexing us. So whether it’s just the deeply fatal quality of the wilderness, tragic missteps, or something darker, we’re drawn to stories about the events we can’t readily explain that happen in areas we more often than not don’t really think about. Is it any wonder then that some of these theories end up looking more like questions about shadow governments, surveillance, or unseen forces? No, of course not -- but what’s underlying those theories, anyway?

The most gripping storyline in Firewatch, as I discussed in my previous piece, is the story of Brian Goodman and his father, Ned. Ned, years ago, had the job of the player’s avatar Henry, and Delilah, his friend, confidant, and psychological lover in the tower across the way, grew to have a fondness for Ned’s son, Brian. Brian was in the Shoshone National Park in defiance of state rules banning minors from the park during forest fire season. Delilah knew about Brian, but said nothing as he seemed to be enjoying the outdoors and was getting some time with his (fairly bad) dad.

You end up learning about Brian in fits and starts, first finding his backpack full of ropes that allow you to rappel down steep cliffs, and then hearing stories about his (importantly generic) Dungeons and Dragons campaigns that he played with Celia. By the time you reach the fort Brian had set up outside the cave systems that undergird the Shoshone, he’s almost like a third character in the game, a phantom that refers metonymically to the world outside of the park, the past and future of all the world spinning outside of your own personal soap opera.

And as it happens, you need a phantom to keep the massive complexities of the park and its residents in perspective as your own massive problem and conspiracy unravels in front of you. After finding two girls firing off fireworks and lecturing them to mixed results, you find your guardtower trashed, the phone lines cut, and a taunting set of panties left to identify the vandals. Unfortunately, the girls are missing when you find their trashed campsite, and they go missing completely.

Immediately, you are a suspect, as your character is the last to see either of them alive, and even Delilah delicately asks what happened to them and if you know...anything at all. You don’t, and suddenly the specter of disappearance is brought up -- a sheer drop, a drowning, a murderer. It’s unclear, but it’s also potentially incriminating to Henry.

And this is exacerbated by the discovery of “Wapiti Station”, a seemingly abandoned research station that is surrounded by a massive fence and is inaccessible to everyone, including rangers. The discovery comes after the girls go missing, and directly afterward, Henry is assaulted from behind after finding notes that dictate his and Delilah’s conversations, copying routes and exact diction. Suddenly, the two realize they’re being watched, and the teens disappearing seem like an harbinger of future danger than an isolated tragedy.

The danger continues to mount as both Henry and Delilah start to doubt each other, begin to see the entire forest as a sinister set of unspoken threats or misrepresentations. Quickly, after the introduction of Day 75, where Henry is sitting, legs dangling on a rock face eating a sandwich, the whole relationship unravels under the force of the threat of Wapiti Station, one part Paulides, two parts the spy novels littering the rangers’ stations in the Shoshone. The facelessness of your confidants suddenly become deeply suspect, and no one can be trusted -- the conspiracy is too wide to comprehend.

At the point at which Henry and Delilah decide to explore the caves -- convinced something must be down there that will lead to the Truth -- they think they are being framed for setting a fire at Wapiti Station, they assume they are being surveiled by sinister forces, and they fear for their lives. The conspiracy has deepened to an incredible degree, and the stakes have risen to levels that, had you asked in Day 1, would seem absurd. The cave, our firewatchers and the player all think as one, is where the solution will be found, the thread that unravels this entire terrible puzzle.

And of course it is. They find the dead body of Brian at the bottom of the cave and all intrigue stops. In quick order, the fire ravaging the Shoshone requires extraction of our protagonists, and we find out that Brian’s death has been the moving factor of the whole campaign of conspiracy. Ned, Brian’s father, has been trying to scare you and Delilah off the trail of his dead child, a child he has left to mummify in a cave while he hung out away from the law in a national park. The girls turn up in a local jail, and the intrigue of the game turns into nothing more than dueling codices -- trying to connect all of the dots while Delilah begs you just to leave it all be and get out before the forest burns around you.

But in the end, anything but the true conspiracy underlying the game is a disappointment to Henry and to the player, one that requires concerted effort to re-litigate. In the end, there’s nothing there but a body, but the conspiracy masks this much more tragic banality with the promise of horror and barely speakable governmental darkness. Killers, creatures, aliens, spies -- it all comes down to a kid who didn’t keep his balance while his dad forced him to climb.

This let down is natural, and a part of what’s at the core of all comic book, videogame, or otherwise “nerd” culture. There is no cabal of rich, callous murderers in Ciudad Juarez, there are just banal and horrifying killings of women. The loss of a child in a park is not an abduction by an alien or a cryptid; it is a deeply unfortunate and unavoidable moment of tragedy. Pop culture helps us to believe that the banal moments of our life that impact us the most are not base trauma -- the things that keep us from owning or engaging with our lives to the fullest -- but mobilizing forces to our continued revelation of a more profound world. There is no tragedy here, in other words, that isn’t a door to perception.

But this is also what conspiracies do for us. We use them to convince ourselves that there is some sort of deeper logic to the world around us as opposed to a series of unknowable tragedies. And who would a conspiracy appeal to more than a man who lost his wife to Alzheimer’s and a woman who lost everyone she ever got close to. The protagonists of the game need a conspiracy in the same way many lonely people through time have needed one. As The Last Podcast on the Left has surmised: people need the Hollow Moon to fill some sort of deep hole in their lives.

But what Firewatch shows us is that there is nothing at the end of the narrative other than a dead body and a lack of explanations. Videogames for ages have been teasing massive conspiracies only to provide let-down compromises, the actions of a few crazy men or women read into larger significance in order to justify the machinations of a larger videogame narrative. Firewatch seems to be going that way, and while any seasoned gamer is probably ready to be disappointed, the gut punch full-stop of the actual truth is worse. There’s nothing that can steel us for the actual truth, the fact that there is no darker secret to most of our lives than the fact that none of them ride on a clear narrative.

Firewatch gives us a ton of narratives, too -- Henry’s relationship with Delilah; the missing teens; Brian and Ned; the notes found throughout the park; the research center; hell, even the fires themselves -- all of which resolve into dust by the end of the game. There’s no ultimate point to anything Henry does in Firewatch, and that’s certainly not for lack of trying on Henry’s part. It’s due to the fact that, despite our best efforts, the banality and everyday randomness of life is more likely to hit us than a true novelistic arc. Far more common in real life, and far rarer in fiction, Firewatch gives us a look at what happens when we turn over all of the rocks and follow every lead to its very end: we feel cheated by the materiality of the real world, that ubiquitous presence that reminds us of the solidity and the unremarkable quality of life.

Conspiracies, in the end, are nothing more than a set of snapshots taken by a stranger.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: After President Donald Trump’s detestable performance at the United Nations General Assembly last week, the New York Times had an opportunity to counter the president’s heedless belligerence with a message of diplomacy and dialogue. What it did instead was publish an op-ed from discredited former ambassador to the United Nations Samantha Power, Obama’s unforgivable appointment and one of the principal arm-twisters that convinced an irresolute president to get behind an invasion of a sovereign state (Libya) on the basis of manufactured lies too incredulous to believe. This unrepentant jackanape had the temerity to pen an article calling on Americans to heed George Washington’s ancient warning to be “constantly awake” to the specter of foreign influence, a prelude to the establishment goal of outlawing foreign media and exerting a stronger grip on the information flow in the digital space. With any Power essay, her smart media handlers make sure that her photo is always a central element of her pose. She perpetually appears in a posture of earnestness, her face displaying a kind of inveterate sadness born of too much knowledge of humanity’s dark side. Her somewhat emaciated cheeks, particularly in black and white photographs, lend her the self-abnegating glow of an ascetic or religious eremite. Having absorbed the image of this saintly spirit, readers then move to her missive. Shuttering Dissent Power, whose presence in the UN was a carmine monument to hypocrisy, quickly summons the hysterical phantom of Russian election interference as her theme. As any good paid propagandist would do, Power tells us we can focus on the technical details of the hacking, influencing, meddling, and manipulating, but we shouldn’t overlook other vile means by which foreign powers ruin our democracy by “aiming falsehoods at ripe subsets of our population–and not only during elections.” Here Power reveals her multiple goals. First, she aims to shift the narrative away from the collapsing scenery of the Russian hacking allegation, since the technical facts now show that DNC emails were leaked by an insider, not hacked by a foreign agent. This is what the mainstream press has been slowly doing for months now, moving the debate from the phantom hack itself to the influence of so-called propaganda platforms funded by Russian government, namely RT and Sputnik, and several thousands bots of unknown provenance on social media. In truth, the majority of the intelligence community’s report on the hacking was forced to point fingers at RT and other sources, which proved nothing but adequately deflected attention from the false claims of hacking. The narrative thus moves from hacking to influencing, a softer accusation but one that will be enthusiastically peddled by the likes of Power. The influence narrative is also easier to sustain, since it is quite possible that RT influenced some voters, though its impact on the outcome itself was likely benign given the extraordinary weight of domestic propaganda that overwhelmed the American mediascape through the electoral season. But RT provides a much-needed counterpoint to Washington media, which all peddle the same caricatures of the world at large, in which America is a shining city on a hill, the envy of nations, noble in intent, a just arbiter of disputes, ever hopeful, yet ever disappointed by the chronic recidivism of ‘developing’ nations. Second, Power seems to support the false dichotomy that some of us are vulnerable and others are not. Those in power have the full knowledge required to separate the wheat from the chaff, while average citizens haven’t got the requisite toolset to the do the job themselves. Not only is this false, as progressive independent media outlets demonstrate daily, but it is deeply elitist. It is also the foreground of her third and ultimate aim: to outlaw foreign news media in the United States that doesn’t parrot the State Department’s shapeshifting of reality. Demonizing the Ruskies Power provides some tasty bits about former USSR leader Yuri Andropov’s ‘active measures’ (as opposed to static measures) in the Eighties. Had Andropov, a smart Soviet who lasted only 15 months in power due to illness, survived in power, the Soviet Union might still stand. But he was up against the tidal force of Ronald Reagan, a vicious anti-communist who declared the USSR an “evil empire” (points for phrasing if nothing else), launched a Star Wars initiative, and explored first-strike options as Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) dissolved in the cold past. Having dutifully dissed the Soviets, she assumes that Russia information aimed at American audiences is de facto propaganda because she assumes that Russia is an adversary. She sadly relates that citizens get their news from social media more than ever, and concludes that they probably can’t decipher real from fake news without the assistance of “umpires” that, ostensibly, would not teach them to separate fact from fiction, but would simply elide what they judged factitious from the news stream altogether. Power then seconds the Facebook claim that Russia may have spent $50-100,000 in paid media to spread anti-Clinton stories, although the social network offered no evidence. She makes similar claims about Russian activity in Europe. “Russia “appears” to be using the same tactics abroad and is “believed” to have committed cyber attacks and has been “accused” of fabricating stories. The Bane of Partyism The former ambassador, who once rightly called Hillary Clinton “a monster”, comically laments the loss of “mainstream consensus” of the sort that existed during the McCarthy era, when groupthink had its firmest grip on the American conscience. She blames “partyism”, apparently an inelegant replacement for “partisanship” as another cause of our fractured corporate narrative. (Note that ‘partisanship’ is consistently derided and is a pejorative term in the corporate press. Lockstep is preferred.) One can see Power’s fingers trembling as she hammers out the incredulous news that Republican voters’ esteem of Vladimir Putin rose 20 percent in the last two years. (Perhaps here she hurled her wireless Apple keyboard at the wall of her well-appointed DC loft). She finds it “worrisome” that a majority of citizens now question the veracity of corporate-sponsored mainstream news. To her credit, Ms. Power does call out the fact that, in their brief and scurrilous prime, ISIS produced 38 pieces of media a day. All governments and would-be governments will produce pro-government propaganda, Russia included. But they will also report facts. Michael Parenti, in his book Blackshirts & Reds, has a chapter detailing the terrible collapse of social supports in Eastern Europe that immediately followed the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the happy introduction of cutthroat free-market capitalism. Nearly every source he uses comes from American mainstream media. The question is how the facts are spun, what facts are omitted, and what falsehoods are introduced. For much of the mainstream media, the collapse of social infrastructure and the violent suppression of communist organizations after the fall of the Wall were presented as forms of “democratization” by the west. A look at RT will quickly demonstrate that it is comprised primarily of principled Americans exposing the lies of their own corporate media, and providing much-needed facts and insight into the actions of the U.S. government. This is necessary and useful counter-check on the false narrative constructs of the corporate-owned media, which citizens rightly distrust. The channel may be funded by the Russian government, but that doesn’t mean all of its content is propaganda. It should be cautiously approached, just as a corporate-owned venue like the Washington Post should be cautiously approached. But each claim should be received on its merits. The New York Times and Washington Post have truthful articles all the time, but they also produce enormously influential propaganda. We have to take an evidentiary approach to what we read, noting its source, its sponsors, and its context. This is the essence of democratic ideal–people deciding for themselves. But Power thinks we need umpires to make these decisions for us. The Virtue of Skepticism Unsurprisingly, Power proposes what social philosopher John Stuart Mill warned us to question. He said the freethinking mind should be characterized by, “…an extreme skepticism about the right of any authority to determine which opinions are noxious or abhorrent.” We have lacked this skepticism for decades, but it is finally on the rise. Still, we are still often guilty of placing our complacent, lazy faith in the op-eds of mainstream publishers, largely because we think they are independent. The Russian-created RT, formerly Russia Today, is considered to be an alarming propagandist front for Kremlin mischief mainly because it is openly funded by the Russian state, an undisguised concession to the likely slant of its coverage. But all our corporate media need do is peddle its dogmatic rubbish under some private masthead for the masses to buy in. This is the astonishingly low bar one needs to cross to convince the public of one’s autonomy. But nominal independence from the state does not mean genuine independence from capital. It is the corporate sector that controls the narrative in the United States. Power calls out the “bipartisan” nature of the new Alliance for Securing Democracy, a thought-cleansing front established as an unconvincing nonpartisan defender of democracy. The Intercept calls it a well-funded national security advocacy group” that further concretizes the Democratic Party’s alliance with “extreme and discredited neocons” from the Bush era. The group is led by Clinton and Rubio advisors Laura Rosenberger and Jamie Fly, respectively, and sulphurous spin doctors like Bill Kristol and establishment hawks like Michael Morrell, Michael Chertoff, and the noxious Mike Rogers. This formation is a good indication of how corporate parties react when pushed from the left: they try to discredit the left-wing and secure right-wing support. In sum, the former ambassador’s perspective distills to this: social media and partyism have created narrative gaps through which foreign media may slip. This is bad. We need umpires to decide what we read in order to re-establish mainstream consensus. It is bad when people lose faith in the corporate news. We must all be vigilant against foreign powers practicing “the arts of seduction.” This sounds like a lot like censorship and a subtle effort to undermine the first amendment, which few, if any, people in positions of power truly support, Rand Paul excepted. Obama, who oversaw spying on the Republican presidential campaign, prosecuted whistleblowers with a vengeance, sanctioned mass surveillance of Americans and outsourced it when it violated standing laws, was perhaps the most anti-free speech president of the last 100 years. In fact, this alliance is a natural outgrowth of the dissembling Countering Disinformation and Propaganda Act built into the 2017 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) and signed by President Obama. Power is a vestige of this regime of control and, ironically for a supposed feminist, shares its paternalistic ideology. She ought to be laughed off the op-ed page. Unfortunately, the papers she writes for are peddling the very imperial falsehoods she pretends to care about. http://clubof.info/