#try this new fucking abyss reset again

[euthymiya]

guess who doesn’t have work tomorrow 😌

[rapifessor]

Wow. I am so fucking mad right now.

Granted, it’s partially my own fault that I’m mad, because I left completing this last rotation of the Abyssal Spire until the last minute yet again. Like LITERALLY the last minute. I was up past 2 AM celebrating New Year’s Eve and I hadn’t done it yet, so I’m rushing to get it done thinking it’ll be fine like last time was. But no. Of course, this one time it just had to be excessively difficult.

I was really struggling to get through the second half of Floor 12 Chamber 3, which is just ALL Rift Wolves, because of course. I don’t have a full Geo team built right now, nor do I know how to play one, so I opted for a double Geo Hu Tao team with Zhongli and Albedo. Which is decent enough DPS against Rift Wolves, if not for the fact that the Jadeplume Terrrorshroom from the previous half of 12-3 takes way too long to kill for my level 13 Elemental Burst Raiden Shogun of all characters. Seriously, what the fuck?

But that’s not the issue. The corrosion stacks up so badly that I have to swap off of Hu Tao early just so that she doesn’t die. This team isn’t exactly great at healing or avoiding getting hit, and I just couldn’t kill the damn wolves fast enough to clear the floor with three stars.

So here I am, desperately trying to get this shit done when I had no idea it would be this fucking difficult, literally minutes before the daily reset, and I’m about to call it quits and take a two star clear of the chamber because I’m out of time and I need to claim the rewards before the reset happens. I finally kill the last wolf, and some weird shit happens, and I realize that it’s fucking 3 AM. I ran out of time just as I finished the floor. Fucking PERFECT.

Cool. Awesome. 600 Primogems down the drain because my stupid ass couldn’t be bothered to tackle this shit until now. Can’t even claim the rewards that I worked so hard to get because someone at HoYoverse thought it would be funny to make Floor 12 unreasonably hard again.

I’m starting to get a little sick of this game constantly demanding engagement from me when lately I find myself wanting to do literally anything else.

[lostonehero]

Ok let's try this again

This is a time travel au

Hopefully I won't accidentally delete it again.

"Checkmate." The man with purple eyes smiles.

The taller man sighs. "Alright, I'll give you this one, father."

"Why the sudden visit? You were just here, Micheal." William sighs, leaning back into the gray setting of purgatory. "Do you want another tragic tale of me being forced by your mother."

Micheal frowns and shakes his head, resetting the board. "I need advice."

"From me?" William raised his brow. "I'm the he last person you should ask."

"Well as you know I'm a demon."

"Of your own making Micheal."

Micheal sighs. "As I am well aware." He smiles, moving a pawn forward. "I can not visit any spirit in the afterlife except purgatory."

"I am aware of that fact." William sighs. "And I will be here for a long while."

"Your sentence is half over." Micheal smiles. "However, that isn't why I'm here. Something is happening two spirits who have moved to their respective paradises have vanished. It's not Lucy's doing, nor any of the angels. Not even the reapers understand. Something keeps trying to summon me, and it's getting stronger. Nobody has my summoning circle to draw from. I'm a new demon. I shouldn't even have one. I'm Lucy's right hand."

"So what's the question, Micheal?" William sighs flicking over his king.

"What do I do when I'm summoned?" Micheal cleans up the board. "I don't want to take anyone's soul well, be stuck for eternity with said soul. I haven't been trained or taught how to accomplish that."

William leans back. "Would you be able to refuse the contract?"

"No, if they make the circle proper, I won't be able to do anything until I agree, or they send me away. I could just return the soul after the deal, but they would be doomed to hell without a choice unless it was a child who summoned me. Consenqueses is infamous for dealing with children to save them from abuse and setting them free after. This isn't a child."

"Stop fighting. I have a feeling something more is happening." William pauses, looking around. "Things have changed here."

"Purgatory doesn't change." Micheal sighs, waving away the board. "Even by the end, it's the same."

"Something is going to happen." William gets up and goes to give Micheal a hug, but he watches his son get dragged down into an abyss.

Demons can't be summoned when they are in purgatory, William knew this. Something was very wrong.

....

Micheal shuddered her and looked down he was in a summoning circle, and a child summoned him. He nearly breathed a sigh of relief before the child spoke.

Speaking in German but Micheal understood. "Micheal David Afton, I have summoned you to forever be bound to my own soul. For better or worse, you shall be by my side for eternity."

Micheal unable to refuse when his full name is used, shakes the boys hand, and they both have matching marks on their chest. He finally realizes he looks to be the same age as the child, but that was impossible even a deal like this wouldn't affect his age.

"Micheal." The blonde boy speaks up.

Micheal turned his attention to him. He recognized the clothing he was in as something Evan had and his mom hated because they... we his old hamydowns.

"Micheal!" The boy shouts.

Micheal finally looks up at the boy, who pulls him into a hug.

"I fucking knew it." It was hard to understand English in the thick accent.

"Knew what?" A German child of his age shouldn't know English nor curse words in English.

"Micheal, it's me, Jeremy. Do you have any idea how many hoops I had to jump through to figure out where you went? After the fire with Mr. Emily, we freed them and moved on. We both learned the truth of the past and about your father, and I'm so sorry."

"But how are you here, and a child? Why am I a child?" Micheal stops. "Why do you even want me after everything?"

Jeremy sighs. "Quiet, my father is in a drunken sleep. It's 1975... I don't know how I got here. I was happily dead trying to sneak into hell. I never loved anyone really like you after you died, even with my head injury I tried. Then I ran into Mr. Emily, and helped with his plan. I still love you even if you don't feel the same."

"Wait, what do you mean it's 1975?" Micheal pulls Jeremy closer, still not used to his small frame.

"Well, it's that, and we're in Germany." Jeremy pauses. "I forgot I don't meet you till I'm 13 when my mom finally escapes from my father abuse. You have a cute tail. Right, right off topic. Anyway... hey, wait, what's with that look?"

A mix of German and Yiddish from the adult blonde woman by them summons a redhead.

Micheal hissed.

Jeremy pauses. "Mom?"

....

Micheal's eyes glow along with the red head crouched in front of him until Micheal whips him with his tail. "Stop it."

The man stands up and looks back to the blonde woman. "I accept your contract. We are bound for eternity." He snaps his fingers, and the woman has a mark on the back of her shoulder. "You were freed of my contract, but this.... you will live in luxury in death."

Micheal growls, and then his expression changes. "Fuck Jeremy your mom is the little girl Consequences allowed her to keep in contact with him. That was suppose to be a myth."

"You come from the future, yet you are here." He pauses.

The woman scowls. "Explain everything now."

Consequences explains what he has done and what he has seen, Micheal fills in the rest.

........

It's a week when Micheal realizes he is missing. The news makes it to Germany in a magazine. He pulls on Jeremy's hand in the grocery store and realizes how fucked he is.

So they come up with a plan. Jeremy convinces his mom, and it works out. Consenqueses easily gets them a place on the same road as Micheal's father and Jeremy's mother Jackie a high position as a surgeon in the same town. For Micheal Consenqueses gives him a survivable scoop injury. He's found by a search party clinging to life, while conveniently Jackie just started at the hospital in trauma.

....

William is frantic, Clara refused to come claiming the baby was more important, saying this wasn't him, wasn't Micheal, but they had the same scar on his face, and his eyes matched. Henry was by his side through this hell of a week. He seemed closer to him more touchy, but he didn't care Micheal his son was ok.

Jackie stumbled forward. She hated operating on children even if he was a demon, and even if he was an adult in a child's body. The tall brunette with piercing green eyes approached her. "You must be Mr. Afton, your son suffered a massive trauma to his mouth and abdomen, as if they cut from his navel to his collar bone and ripped his mouth open at the lips. However, he will live. He's a lucky child to be found when he was. He's in intensive care and you won't be able to visit him until tomorrow."

William pulls her into a tight hug. "You saved him." He was crying. "You saved my little boy."

Jackie smiles, rubbing his back. "He has a very long recovery. I hope you can handle that."

"Of course anything, I'll do anything for his health." William, let's go. "Could I wait here?"

Jackie smiles. "The chairs are bad for your back, but if you so desire, yes."

William nods, rubbing his eyes and heading back to his seat next to Henry. "He's going to be ok. Henry, he's going to be ok."

Henry smiles and hugs William. "Yes I'm so happy for you.

.......

William had fallen asleep in the hospital chair, and Henry frowned. This didn't happen, Micheal never went missing, and he was never hurt like this. He knows what was supposed to happen was Micheal was left on the side of the road by Clara, and a good Samaritan brought him to the diner. Well, he didn't know Clara left him there until after the fact.

He woke up a week ago, alive, and next to his ex wife who he knew now was cheating on him from the start, but Charlie was his, well she would always be his, but biologically speaking. He sighs, crossing his arms. How did he end up in the past? He was going to stop this whole tragedy from unfolding, and he will finally confess to William, he never realized his feelings till after William was dead, but now he had a second chance and he was going to use it. He just had to figure out why the past was different.

Henry was deep in thought he didn't notice the blonde child sit next to him. "Mr. Emily."

Henry nearly jumps. "I'm sorry, are you lost, little one?" He noted the thick accent.

"No, but the plan worked." He smiles. "We figured out who else came back."

Henry pauses. "Who are you?"

"Ah, right, you don't recognize me." He pauses. "I'm not actually supposed to be here until I'm 13, in the original timeline. It's me, Jeremy Fitzgerald, I helped finally put a end to things, and I was the second bite victim."

Henry pauses. "Jeremy? What do you mean we?"

"Well, Micheal came back too, but it's my fault he was in Germany. We didn't realize he was actually missing until we saw something in an American magazine in a grocery store. So we came up with a plan to get him back without being suspicious. He said being scooped would be poetic. I said we should have faked a kidnapping. Micheal got his way." Jeremy sighs and yawns. "Mom fixed him up."

Henry nods. "That's all well and good, but how?"

"Consenqueses." Jeremy mumbles, nodding off he still had the body of a 5 year old even with the mind of an adult.

Henry sighs, letting the boy fall asleep on him. At least he had a piece to the puzzle on why things were different. He just needed more information.

A thick accent pulls Henry out of his thoughts, and the woman who was talking to William earlier was in front of him.

"I'm so sorry, my boy has a way of running off. He was supposed to be in the break room we just moved here and our home isn't set up and he begged to come here I didn't know about the surgery. I'm so sorry." She is still in scrubs with a mask around her neck.

Henry shakes his head. "I have a little girl around his age. it's fine. Granted, she gets into all sorts of trouble, so I understand." He can recall Jeremy telling him his mother was a surgeon.

She sighs in relief. "The move has been a nightmare, and then you're rushed into working, and I'm sorry."

"You can make it up to me." Henry smiles. "My little girl Charlotte is about his age. How about letting him come over. She has a habit of grossing other kids out, so it's been difficult to find her friends with kids her age. Uh, Micheal, the boy you operated on, is friends with her because his father and I are business partners. we run the diner down the road, the one with the animotronics. Your son would like it there."

She sighs and smiles. "We did just move, and it would be good for him. Thank you, you are very kind."

"It's Henry, and don't worry, your son is very kind."

"I'm Jackie, and that's great." She fumbles and writes down her address. "We just moved here."

Henry smiles. "Perfect right down the road from me and then William. I look forward to our children becoming friends."

"As do I." Jackie smiles and picks up her sleeping son. "Thank you for staying with him, and your friend is lucky to have support in this troubling time."

Henry nods. "His wife is home with the new baby, and I don't think I could trust him by himself with the weight of this."

"You are a good friend, Henry. I must be going now, but this was pleasant." Jackie smiles, Jeremy just had to go along, and they could seamlessly enter the neighborhood. She was free from abuse, and even if she was stuck with a demon who followed her every command, and, her son was technically an adult in a child's body. She felt happy like she could finally breathe. Even if she was in a whole new country across the ocean.

......

Henry tapped William's arm, waking him. "Hey, come on, wake up."

William opens his eyes and yawns. "What happened? Did you stay all night?"

Henry smiles. "I did go home for a bit." It was a lie, but William didn't have to know that. "You have to eat something." He had some prepackaged sandwich and a fresh coffee in his hands.

William sighs and takes them. "Thank you, Henry. Has Micheal woken up yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of. However, I did call Margaret, and she'll bring Charlie over in a few hours. Micheal needs something familiar when he wakes up, and" He pulls out the already worn plush fox. "You dropped this while you slept."

William grabs it and holds it close. "Thank you so much." He takes a bite of the sandwich. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Henry smiles and sits down next to him, sipping on his own coffee. "Micheal will be up soon. He made it here."

"You're right." William sighs. "I'm going to make him a bigger foxy, more based on the designs we had planned. Is he too old for plush things?"

Henry shook his head, remembering an incident when Micheal was 11 when he was trying to hide the face he still cared for his plush toys greatly. "He will love it."

William nods. "You're right. He's still my baby."

.....

Jackie comes out again, Consequences did a perfect job with their house. She really shouldn't expect less from a demon. She stifles a yawn. "Mr. Afton?"

William jolts up standing, holding the fox plush close to his chest.

Jackie smiles. "Relax, sir, your son is awake. He just finished talking to the police, and he wants to see you."

William nearly trips over his feet, rushing next to the doctor. "I can see him?" Henry was behind him, making sure he didn't fall on his face.

"You both can." Jackie smiles. "Don't excite him his stitches are new, and I don't need him popping the ones by his mouth." She explains a bit more before they reach the door and she opens it.

Micheal is covered in fresh white bandages, and they changed them first thing in the morning. He is alert, and he stares at the door. "Dad!"

William's heart melts, and his legs nearly give out from under him as he rushes to Micheal's side. "My little fox. Are you ok? How are you feeling?"

The little boy looks up. "Mouth is itchy, and the nurses won't let me itch." He motions to the stitches at the corners of his mouth. He reaches out his hands and grabs his fathers hand he forgot just how small he used to be. "Missed you."

Jackie smiles. "He's on very heavy pain killers, so if he says something odd, don't worry.

William smiles and places the fox plush on Micheal's chest. "I brought your friend with you."

"Foxy!" Michealgrabs the plush and holds them tightly. "Mmmh good friend."

William chuckles. "Yes they are you're best friend."

"Nuh uh." Micheal mumbles. "Charlie is. Foxy is my best bed friend."

William smiles, combing the hair out of his son's face. "Of course, my mistake. The doctors say you have to eat something."

"Not hungry." Micheal frowns. "My tummy hurts."

William sighs. "I know, but it's important."

Henry finally approaches. "Hey there, kid, how are you feeling?" He places a hand on William's shoulder.

"Can uh..." Micheal points at his uncle.

William smiles. "Yes, Micheal, your uncle is here with me. What do you want?"

Micheal frowns, pulling on the stitches on his mouth. "Food." He points at Henry again, getting frustrated. Yeah he was an adult acting as a child, but again he had the emotional capacity of a child combined with his well he wouldn't have a proper name until after he died, but autism spectrum disorder. He didn't want to talk, but he also knew he wanted something.

William smiles softly. "It's ok, Micheal." He turns his gaze to Henry, who looks confused. "Henry Micheal wants you to make him something to eat."

Henry pauses, realizing that. "Oh right, I'm so sorry. If the doctors let me, I'll bring you something from home."

Henry watches William go to the corner and shut the lights off, and he watches in amazement as Micheal seems to relax as the frustration bled out of his face. "To bright?"

Micheal yawns, he never did understand how his father always knew, but he always calmed him down. His eyes felt heavy, and his body started to hurt again. He gave in and shut his eyes, falling back asleep.

William smiles. "Come on, Henry. Micheal needs his rest."

Henry nods he never really got to see this side of William the first time around. It was either Clara or Margaret stopping him from visiting more. Margaret never wanted Charlie to be the Tom boy she was, and Clara, well, she hated him. Maybe he should slow down on his advances he knows Micheal cared for Evan, and he wasn't even conceived yet... actually , Clara was already pregnant. Elizabeth was already four months old.

"Henry?" William asked again as they made it to the lobby.

Henry shook his head. "I'm sorry. I got lost in my head. What did you say?"

"I said we should go home and clean up. I'm going to grab my sewing kit and check on Lizzie. Probably shower in between." William sighs.

"Oh, right." Henry rubs the back of his neck. "I'll see you back here with Charlie."

William nods heading back to his car.

.....

"Is Mikey ok?" Charlie poked her head up from the backseat as Henry parked.

"Micheal is very hurt, and he can't play with you." Henry sighs, looking over to his soon to be ex-wife, he heard a different man in the background when he called last night she said was the TV and he knew they didn't have a TV loud enough to sound that clear. How the hell did he not figure it out before?

Margaret held a bag of sandwiches. Henry stuffed with barbecue chicken for Micheal. "Charlotte Micheal got really hurt from a bad man. He just wants to see his friend."

Charlie frowns. "But can we still be friends?"

Henry's heart melted. "Of course, he just needs time to recover, and then you two can play all the time."

Margaret didn't say another word as she exited the car, and Henry got Charlie out of the back seat.

Henry spotted William with that wicked woman and a small redheaded baby on his shoulder waving behind him. "Ah William."

Charlie ran up to the two adults. "Hi, Uncle William and Aunt Clara. When Micheal gets get better? Can we play again?"

Clara looked like she wanted to snatch Elizabeth from William's arms and didn't even notice Charlie. "Do what you want." She ends up taking Elizabeth before William could speak.

William sighs and kneels down. "Of course you can."

Charlie giggles. "Yay." She runs back to Henry, who picks her up.

Henry sighs, he know how Clara thought of Elizabeth and eventually Evan as her perfect little dolls, and Micheal was the mistake. William did his best to care for the other two, but Clara blocked him at every step. "Alright, remember Charlie inside voice, and be gentle."

"Yes, Daddy." Charlie smiles, hugging Henry as they head inside.

......

Micheal was awake again, and the blonde kid Henry had to remember was Jeremy was in one of the guest chairs. Jackie sighs. "I'm so sorry my son tends to be my shadow if I don't pay attention."

William pauses, looking at his son, who was drawing, then crumpled the drawing and threw it at the blonde kid who did the same with his drawing, making his own son giggle. "No, it's fine." He smiles and approaches Micheal. "Hey, little fox, we're back. Who's your new friend?"

"His name is Jeremy. He has a funny accent." Micheal tosses another piece of paper at him.

Jeremy huffs. "You have a weird voice."

"Nu uh." Micheal sticks his tongue out.

Charlie jumps from Henry's arms and before he can stop her. "You both sound weird."

"Nein." Jeremy mumbles.

Charlie giggles. "You're weird. I like that."

Micheal tosses a piece of paper at her. "Now you have to join."

"Join what?" Charlie is on her tip toes to look over the bed.

Jeremy gets up. "We're drawing, and we throw them."

Charlie nods grabbing crayons and a piece of paper joining them two.

Margaret chuckles. "I don't think I've ever seen her so still."

Henry smiles. "We were worried for nothing."

William chuckles. "Your uncle brought you some food."

Micheal looks up. "Can I share?"

Henry nods, taking the bag from Margaret. "I've made more then enough, oh right. Is it alright, I give Jeremy one?"

Jackie pauses. "What is it?"

"Juat some chicken sandwiches." Henry smiles.

Jackie nods. "Go ahead. Jeremy, be nice."

Jeremy nods and responds in German.

"Sorry, he's still getting used to English." Jackie sighs.

William shakes his head as Micheal laughs. "Don't worry about that."

......

Soon, the three 5-year-olds have fallen asleep. Jackie had just returned to check on Micheal. "Ah, he has, oh, they all have fallen asleep." She smiles.

Clara has long left, which means William will have to go back with Henry. Margaret has wondered off to get the kids' drinks, but Henry knew she was flirting with the male nurses. He sighs. "They have all the energy, then they just crash."

"Ah, that's kids for ya." William smiles, working on the outside of the new plush.

Jackie nods. "I hope my son hasn't been too much trouble. I try not to have here often due to my long shifts, but it's hard to find someone to watch him."

"What about your husband?" William asks looking up realizing that was a bad question.

"That man is dead to me. He hit me once and nearly hurt our son. I'm here on my own with him." Jackie sighs.

William nods. "Good for you. I'm sure you'll be able to find someone, once Micheal's home I have to start working at the diner again."

"William, I told you I have that covered. Take the time you need." Henry sighs and smiles.

"I can't do that to you. It's too much for one person." William sighs leaning back. "I'm just glad Micheal's going to be ok, and that's enough."

The two other adults share a look.

.....

Henry sighs William was in the back with Charlie while Margaret was next to him, spotting a few new hickies. Charlie was out cold drooling on her seat belt. He really didn't know what he could say without tipping off Margaret. He needed to get William alone, which would be difficult. He recalled the growing pains of fazebear during this time. Maybe he could use his knowledge of the future to smooth past that with new. animotronics.

Henry sighs, stopping in front of William's home. "I'll see you later." He smiles as William nods, exiting the car.

Margaret sighs. "I'll put Charlie to bed when we get back I know you have to work on the diner."

"I do. I'll grab my toolbox from the house and head off." Henry smiles. He can't count the times Margaret told him he had to work at the diner, but in hindsight, it made sense. "I'll do my best to get home as soon as I'm done. Hopefully, it's not past midnight."

"Of course, sweetie." Margaret smiles back at him.

.....

Henry wipes his brow as he finishes on the puppet. Having knowledge of the future is making these animotronics go by way faster. He already completed three of the endoskeltons and the puppet entirely. He even updated the software that wouldn't be available for a few decades.

There were a few things he could have William work on, so he didn't get too suspicious. He'll tell him right after Clara is pregnant with Evan, then he can break the news, and Micheal will still have his two siblings he cares about. The clock on the wall told him he didn't make his promises of coming home before midnight.

Henry knew Margaret didn't care. After they divorced in the future, she told him all about her misadventures with other men. It didn't hurt as much as it should. He was mourning Charlie and realized he might have feelings for his best friend who vanished. Coming back to the past, living through it is something else.

He cleans himself off in the bathroom the best he could and drives himself home, but before he does, he notices Jackie, Jeremy's mother, just got home. He slams on his break as a tiny figure rushes in front of his car.

"Jeremy!" Jackie shouts

Henry curses as he gets out of his car. "Are you ok?"

Jeremy dusts off his shirt. "Knew it was your car."

Henry covers his face. "I could have killed you."

Jackie gasps. "I'm so sorry."

"Mom, it's fine he came back too." Jeremy tugs her scrubs.

"What?" Jackie stops staring at Henry.

Henry nods. "It is true, but still you're a child Jeremy, and that was an extremely stupid thing to do." He leans back on his car.

"That means your last name is Emily, correct?" Jackie pauses.

Henry nods. "Your son is quite formal and won't call me anything, but Mr. Emily even as an adult." He sighs, picking up the blonde boy. "You shouldn't even be awake."

Jeremy huffs, trying to hide a yawn. "Mmh, fine."

Jackie sighs. "Is that why you asked for your daughter to come by?"

Henry shakes his head. "No, Charlie needs more friends her age. Even if Jeremy is an adult in a child's body, it's a good cover, and I know Micheal will be here often, so it will be good to have the three in one place."

Jackie pauses, mulling it over. "That is a good idea. What about your wife?"

"In the future, we are divorced, but currently, I know she's having an affair, but that isn't why we divorced." Henry pauses. "It will be this time."

"I apologize." Jackie takes back her son, who has fallen asleep.

"Don't I've realized many things, and I'm ok with it." Henry smiles. "I shall see you later."

Jackie nods, watching Henry drive off. She has to talk to Consenqueses.

.....

After a few weeks, Micheal was well enough to be taken off bedrest. William wasn't exactly ready to let Micheal run around, but he didn't have a choice. The boy was 5, and to his knowledge, he was a hyperactive boy. "Micheal, please be careful." He allowed his first time out to be at Jackie's place because she was a doctor, and Micheal got along really well with Jeremy even if his English was poor.

Henry was there, too. His work on the diner blew William out of the water. Charlie liked Jeremy too, so it helped with his worries having a friend close by. Henry explained how he got there like a fanatic maniac, and William swooned. Henry was a natural, and William loved hearing him talk about the machines. He knew he would never be on his partner level, but he was just behind him and was happy there. He could do the other work he wasn't good at.

The three adults' attention was pulled to a new adult who seemed to come out of nowhere. William was immediately on guard along with Henry but for different reasons.

The man looked exactly like the man who claimed to be his father to Henry. William was worried that he wanted to harm the children.

Jackie freezes and thinks on her feet. "Ah, hello, Fritz." She gives a nervous smile and motions for him to come closer. "He helped me come to America with my son."

The red head tilts his head and comes over. "You have company."

"Ah yes, the children are playing together." Jackie smiles, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. She whispers to him. "I told you not to be around today."

"You gave me a name." He laughs quietly as if she told a great joke. His attention turns to William. "You keep raising my expectations, and I'm more impressed every time." He kisses her hand.

Jackie blushes. "I would appreciate it if you didn't speak in riddles." She sighs. "I apologize he was suppose to be working I guess he got off early to surprise me."

William smiles. "That's quite sweet. I'm William it's nice to meet you, Fritz."

"It's nice to meet you as well, and you are?" He turns to Henry with a knowing gleam in his eye.

"Henry." Henry frowns and looks away to the three kids now whispering to each other.

William lightly punches Henry's arm. "You're the nice one?"

Henry sighs. "Just reminds me of someone. It's fine."

William raises his brow but accepts the answer.

They fell into a nice conversation as the kids played.

.....

William sighs as he gets out of bed, Clara gets what she wants from him with a little motivation from her flat iron. He was in the bathroom looking for his gauze to cover these burns on his stomach and arms. He's grateful she didn't go for his hands again. He sighs, grabbing the gauze and disinfecting the wounds. As he shuts the door and he nearly screams, seeing his reflection.

Older, and his eyes glowed purple. He was guant, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in years. He stared through him and didn't follow his movements. A voice echoed in his head. "You shouldn't use that disinfectant it will make the scarring worse. Just use cold water and keep them clean."

William looked around, worried. "I'm finally losing it."

"No, but I am confused about why I am here." The other William stared at his younger self. "I can recall this night. However, Evan was conceived, and Clara got her two perfect dolls, a boy and a girl." He had an unreadable expression.

"What?" William stared at this twisted version of himself.

"I'll be proven right in two weeks when Clara finds out. Enjoy it, and you'll be able to spend time with Elizabeth."

"B-but Micheal's still healing." William stutters thinking he finally went crazy.

The older version of him now looked confused. "Micheals hurt? He shouldn't be hurt."

"He was nearly killed." Willaim frowns.

"No, that's not right. Clara left him on the side of the road. Someone brought him to the diner, and he is fine. That had to happen a few weeks ago."

"No?" William doesn't know what possessed him, but he took Clara's hand mirror and walked to Micheal's room. His twisted self was still in the mirror as he tilted it down to show Micheal sleeping with the stitches still by his mouth.

"T-that isn't supposed to happen. He's 22 when he gets scooped, not 5, and he was killed he didn't survive."

"Scooped? What does that mean?" William shakes his head. "Why am I even speaking to you, I'm just going crazy from the stress." He puts the mirror back into the bathroom and goes to the couch for a restless night. He could still hear the other him.

......

Micheal stared at his father, who was asleep on the couch. He always woke up before him, well before any of them, to hide the fact he slept on the couch after mom hurt him bad or raped him. He saw a reflection in the coffee table, but that couldn't be right. It was his father as he was more used to. He tugged on his father's hand as he woke up. "Dad, wake up."

William rubbed his eyes. "Sorry I'm up." He realizes his son woke him up. "Oh, Micheal, I apologize. I must have fallen asleep to the TV." The TV was clearly off and hasn't been touched.

"Dad, it's itchy." Micheal huffs, letting the lie pass. He can't act as if he knows.

William smiles and ruffles his hair. "Micheal, you won't get them out till Friday. You have to wait."

Micheal huffs. "Itchy."

"Will breakfast help?" William chuckles as Micheal nods. "Alright, head to the kitchen. I'll make your favorite."

Micheal runs to the kitchen, and he can hear him mumbling something as if he was talking to someone. He had to talk to Jeremy or Uncle Henry, maybe even Consenqueses. "Pancakes." He shouts as his father chuckles.

"Yes, Micheal pancakes with chocolate." William smiles.

.....

"Yes, Micheal, we can go see your uncle today." William smiles, Micheal had much more energy today. He probably wanted to play with Charlie or get Henry's cooking either way. He was fine visiting Henry they had to workshop some ideas on advertising on a budget. He did his best to ignore the new voice in his head. He was just stressed.

"I'm not just a voice. I'm you from the future." The twisted version of him sighs. "I don't know if this is because I passed the halfway point of purgatory, or I'm really stuck in the past in the mind of my younger self, but I honestly don't care. Don't ignore me. I've been through this."

"You didn't even know Micheal got hurt." He adjusts his tie and rolls down his sleeves to hide the bandages.

"Because that wasn't supposed to happen." The supposed older one responds.

"Just be quiet." William sighs. "Micheal, stop running around. I have to get you in the car, and I can't do that if you keep moving."

Micheal smiles and nods. "Uncle Henry's?"

"Yes, Micheal, we're heading to your uncle's." William sighs.

"Oh, what could have been." His twisted version sounded wistful. William chose to ignore that.

.....

William knocked on the door barely keeping Micheal contained in his infinite excitement of a child. "Micheal, please relax."

Margaret answered the door, and Micheal ran through her legs. "Oh, hello to you too, Micheal. Ah William, you're probably here for the diner, Henry is out back with Charlie. I will never understand how you can wear pants and long sleeves in the summer. Come on in."

"Cheater slut." His twisted self huffed.

William chose to ignore that comment and head inside. "I apologize. I don't know what has got Micheal so riled he just really wanted to visit."

Margaret chuckles. "He probably misses his friend. Kids will be kids."

William nods as he makes his way out back to see Henry watching Charlie jump in a mud puddle she made with the hose, and Micheal is quick to join her. That will be a fun bath later.

"Ah, William, I didn't know you were coming over. We're off today." Henry smiles, motioning to the chair next to him.

"Yeah, Micheal wanted to visit. I was also wondering if you wanted to talk about future advertisements to strum up business." William hums as he takes a seat.

"I suppose that is something we do have to work on." Henry pauses his eyes, catching on the reflection in the window. It wasn't William he saw now but older tired and with purple eyes like Micheal described him in purgatory, but he still had some hope in his eyes.

William frowns, looking behind him to follow his friends gaze and sees that older twisted version of himself, but Henry couldn't see that he was just in his head.

"Don't doubt his perception." His twisted self raised a brow. "He is staring right at me, or at the very least, my reflection."

William turned back, pretending he didn't hear or was looking in that direction.

"Are you alright?" Henry's voice is low.

"I'm fine. What do you mean?" William smiles poorly hiding that lie.

"How did I ever manage to lie to him in the first place?" He can hear the exasperated in his older twisted self.

"You are a terrible liar, William." Henry sighs and places his hand on his knee. "Tell me the truth, what's that in your reflection?"

William bits his lip. "You can see them?"

"At least you aren't calling me it." The twisted him sighs.

Henry nods and waves his hand. "Micheal, can you come here for a moment, and Charlie darling, how about you clean off a bit."

"But daddy..." Charlie whines.

"You can make a new mud puddle." Henry smiles, knowing this will distract Charlie long enough as Micheal runs over.

"Fine." Charlie huffs having fun playing with the hose.

William raises his brow as Micheal runs up.

Henry motions for him to look in the reflection. "What do you see?"

Micheal pauses, raising his brow, but Henry nods. "Father from purgatory, and from how he looks, he just realized I'm back as well."

"I keep forgetting how great of an actor you've become." The twisted older version sighs. He looks back to Henry. "You are from the future as well."

Wlism shut his eyes and took a breath. "Impossible."

"Mother was supposed to drop me off on the side of the road a good Samaritan found me and took me to the diner. I-"

"You weren't supposed to get hurt." William's eyes widen. "Just what is going on."

Micheal shrugs. "Dunno how I even got back to the past. Demon summoning doesn't work across time nor inside purgatory." He says this right before running back over to Charlie, acting like a kid again playing with the hose.

"I never did believe how perceptive he became as he got older." Henry sighs. "He got quite good at hiding." He sips on his glass of sweet tea and sighs. "Take your time."

"How..." William frowns. "How do I become like that?"

"I can tell you, but you won't be happy." His older self crosses his arms.

Henry sighs. "I blame Clara. She's such an awful thing, ain't she." He lets his accent slip. "You get a whole new perspective after you die. You get to see the past in a different light, different angles."

William, who has never heard Henry's accent, lights up, then frowns. "Clara isn't bad. We just have our spats like a normal couple."

His older self doesn't say anything. He knows that even now, he only just accepted it was abuse, and he was a victim. Purgatory forces you to face yourself to put you through trials to get through to your paradise. Even still, he can't understand how a man could be a victim. Micheal did tell him he had to accept that before he could move on, probably why his sentence was so long.

Henry smiles softly. "No, it's not normal, I know why you always cover up. It's a shame, too." He sighs. "It's abuse, William. If you were the woman in the situation, what would you consider it?"

Willaim frowns, hugging his chest.

His older self lets out a strangled laugh mixed with a cry. "H-he's right." He takes a breath. "Why the fuck did it take me this long?" Henry always knew what to say. He always knew what to tell him, how to break the news. He always knew him best, and that was probably how he fell in love with a man he could never have.

William shudders he could now feel the emotions from his older self, and they overwhelmed him. "S-stop." He held his head, and Henry got up quickly.

"William, I'm sorry. I know that this is a lot, and I didn't mean to overwhelm you." Henry pauses when William looks up at him, mismatched eyes stared up at him.

Tears spilled from his eyes as he held his head. "Get us-me." His eyes roll back, and Henry barely caught him.

William was asleep, Henry sighed in relief as he turned his attention to the children. He had to get them dry and clean before they both crashed. He could leave William to sleep for the moment.

.....

William shudders, looking around the gray area. His older self was there. "What happened?"

"What do you think?" The older him huffs. A chess board was in front of him. "A game while we talk?"

William hesitates but nods, taking a seat. "I think i..." He swallows as images flash across his mind.

"They are our memories it just hasn't happened for you yet." He frowns. "Do you want to change things?"

"Of course I do!" William knows he shouted this, but the older him merely smiled in response.

"So do I, and it looks like we'll be stuck together until... I don't know." He pauses. "I wouldn't mind vanishing if it meant the future is better. I don't think that will be the case."

William pauses, staring at the board. "It was abuse, we'll is." He bites his lip. "What do we do?"

"I don't know." His older self answers, honestly. "It's been a very long time since I've been alive. Henry is older, well his mind is, and so is Micheal. I can help you with Micheal. But with Henry, I ran away from Henry like a coward as Clara puppeted me."

William sighs, knocking his king over. "Help me through this."

"As I said before, I don't think I'm able to leave." His older self sighs. "Start small."

"How?"

"Get a chess board, Micheal likes our chess games." The older version of him sighs. "Wait till Evan is born, and then start breaking away. I don't want to take them away from Micheal he loves his siblings."

William pauses, shutting his eyes. "It's going to take me ages to go through these."

"You'll get a handle over the memories." His older self sighs.

"Eventually." William frowns. "How many times did Clara try to hurt Micheal?"

"Micheal won't tell me." His older self leans back. "He broke, and he's still picking up the pieces."

"What about this, Jeremy?" William pauses as the area shakes, and he wakes up with a start.

"Welcome back." Henry looks over William. His eyes have returned to normal, and his reflection is still his older self.

William takes a deep breath. "I'm ok."

"You're ok?" Henry pauses.

"Where did the children go?" William looks around.

"I cleaned them up, and they are both taking a nap. Micheal may have the mind of an adult, but he has the body and stamina of a child." Henry smiles. "Are you ok?"

"I'm alright. We talked, uh, me and my older self talked. I have his memories, I think I'm still processing them." William rubs his arm. "I think I need to wear something cooler."

Henry smiles. "I can handle that."

......

"Pick up pick up..." Margaret mumbles as the phone rings until someone picks up.

"Hello, this is Jen Emily. Who is calling?" A familiar voice picks up.

"Jen, it's Margaret." Margaret sighs in relief. "Do you still work at those shelters for women?"

"I do. Did something happen? Is Henry OK? Did he hurt you? I swear I'll beat his ass." Jen growls.

"No, never." Margaret sighs.

"Did something happen to Charlie? Is it the guy who took Micheal?" Jen pauses. "Margaret why are you calling?"

"It's William. I caught Henry and him in the spare bedroom. I figured out why he always dresses so formal. He's covered in burn marks like the ones I see on children from mothers who have a straightening iron or a curling iron. In places I know that man can't reach. Have you've ever seen a man try to enter one of those shelters?" Margaret pauses. "He's really skinny too like he doesn't eat enough, I know the man works for his life, but Henry isn't even that bad."

Jen is quiet for a moment. "Are they new?"

"I only caught a couple of glimpses. But he's littered in scars old new and fresh red burns. Not even just burn marks he has every type of scar I could think of, and I work with children who seek to make it their life goal to surprise me with injuries." Margaret sighs. "I think Clara might be harming him. I think he might be using himself to protect Micheal."

"Fuck...." Jen takes a deep breath. "It's not uncommon for mothers to protect their children from abusive partners, so a man doing the same isn't impossible. I'll look into this, now I've got a new fear for my own boy. Margaret, keep an eye out for him. I never liked the man, but nobody deserves that."

"Of course, Micheal is back on his feet and seems to want to spend more time with Charlie, I'll use that when I'm not working to get close. Tell me what you find out and what I can do." Margaret can hear footsteps. "I have to go, but thanks for believing me."

"Wait -" Margaret has hung up the phone.

Henry pauses. "Oh, who was that? I didn't hear the phone ring."

"Oh, I just called work. Just to double-check my schedule, you know how Martha is with the last-minute changes." Margaret smiles.

Henry sighs. He remembers how scattered the receptionist was mixing appointments and nearly getting Margaret fired a few times. He didn't blame her for calling to double-check. "Did she mix up your schedule again?"

"She double booked two patients, and now I'm going to have to deal with some angry parents." Margaret pauses and looks at William. "What's with the bandages?"

"Just an accident at the diner. Machines don't tend to stop when something doesn't go right." William gives a nervous smile.

"The wiring got overheated." Henry sighs. "I told him to be careful."

"I'm fine, just a few burns." William chuckles nervously. "I'm going to check on Micheal. He's in Charlie's room, right?"

Margaret nods. "Don't wake him. He's a growing boy he needs his rest. He's also getting his stitches out soon. Don't wake Charlie either it's hard enough getting her to sit still."

William nods, and he goes down the hall.

Henry sighs. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Henry. Do you think I could chaperone the next play date with the new neighbor? I want to get to know the other mom and see if we could do a girls' night."

Henry pauses he really didn't want to cause suspicion. "Of course, I'm sure Jackie would love a new friend. It can be at the diner so the kids can't run off."

"That's perfect." Margaret smiles. Good, she can keep an eye on William and confirm that it wasn't workplace accidents.

......

The diner was quiet. It was a slow day in the middle of the week. A day for maintenance and small repairs of wear and tear. Clara had pulled William to the side while Elizabeth was in her baby carrier. Micheal, Charlie, and Jeremy were around here. Margaret watched Clara stab something into William's shoulder, and he just accepted it, looking defeated.

"Um, excuse me." Jackie was polite. "Margaret, was it?"

Margaret nods. "Sorry, I guess I lost focused. Yes, I am her. You must be Jackie, Henry told me you just moved in, and my daughter has taken a liking to your son."

"Ah yes, Jeremy, he's a good boy." Jackie smiles.

.....

Micheal rocked Elizabeth in her carrier. He knew she was getting too big for it and should be crawling around by now. He also knew Mother didn't let her until she found out she was pregnant with Evan.

"She's tiny." Charlie frowns. "She can't play yet."

Jeremy mumbles something in German holding onto her hand.

Micheal smiles. "We can play soon, right?"

"Mommy says we have to be careful." Charlie pokes Elizabeth, who giggles kicking her feet. "But she wants to play now."

"Mom won't let her." Micheal huffs. "Lizzie should play with us. We can carry her around on a wagon."

"We could put flowers around her and use her to distract adults." Charlie smiles.

Jeremy giggles. "Our ace."

"Ace?" Charlie looks over at Jeremy. "Weird, but I like it."

Clara returns, waving the three kids away from Elizabeth. "Babies are fragile and should not be..." She covers her mouths and swallows. "Don't touch her." Elizabeth starts to cry as the three kids are pushed away.

William goes up to her. "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

Clara glares, but she knows if she is getting sick, she could hurt her precious doll. "Keep an eye on her tomorrow. I shall head to the doctor on my own."

William nods.

"And change your shirt. I don't need people asking why you have that stain." Clara picks up Elizabeth to soothe her, but she won't stop crying.

William touched his shoulder with the growing blood stain. He nods. "I can get a spare shirt from the back."

Margaret tapped Jackie's shoulder. "I apologize, but I'm a doctor myself for children, but still. Does William shirt seem to be staining with something? I'm used to children coming with mud and various other stains."

Jackie turns her attention to the man who head walking fast to the back office. She mutters something in German and stares back at Margaret. "Help me corner him."

Margaret nods.

.....

William is now in his back office with two women staring at him. He had long lost his button-up and shirt. His older self had no idea what was going on either. He hugged his chest as both women cleaned his sluggish bleeding. "I'm fine. It was just a mishap with the machines, I'm clusmy."

Jackie gave a knowing look to Margaret as she examined just his chest. She remembers her first excuses, and she has never experienced a man in her position before, but this was awful. He was probably too ashamed to even tell anyone. "You have fabric in the wound. Do you know how easily that can get infected?"

William looked down, wringing his hands.

"When did you last change these bandages?" Margaret frowns. "I always have gauze in my bag first Charlie, she plays rougher than a boy does. Let me fix that up."

William is unable to argue as both women take care of him, even giving him new stitches.

The three don't even notice the door open before a male voice interrupts. "William?" Henry shut the door behind him. "Margaret, and Jackie?"

Jackie stands between Henry and William. "Your partner is hurt, and i would rather not have you..." She stops as William speaks up.

"He he helped with the bandages the first time." William's voice is small like he was lost and afraid. He has never been this exposed before, and they were treating him like he was made of glass. He can't remember anyone being gentle with him besides Henry.

Jackie relaxes. "How long has this been happening?" She pauses. "These accidents."

Henry whispers something to her that William can't catch. He, however, notices the shaking and pale features on Jackie.

Jackie mumbles something in German. She takes a breath and smiles. "You have a clean shirt here, yes?"

William nods and points to the cabinet. "We always have spare clothes here. Kids are messy, and uniforms get ruined easily."

Henry grabs the shirt and puts it on William. He knew it was his, and so did his friend. Neither said anything about it. "Margaret, why do you have so much gauze?"

"You know how our little girl is. I swear one day she's going to come home with a broken bone and not notice." Margaret jokes, and Henry can't help but nod, knowing she will when she's 8.

"You're right. William, are you alright." Henry places his hand on the injured shoulder. Both women give a glare he doesn't notice. "Did..."

William smiles at Henry's touch. "It's just an accident. I'm fine."

Henry nods, knowing William isn't comfortable telling the truth of the situation to himself, let alone others. "Come on, I'm sure Micheal is already looking for you."

William chuckles, getting up and fixing the large shirt. "I just hope he hasn't conspired with the others to take Lizzie."

"They're 5 William." Henry sighs.

"Children are crafty, Henry." The two chatter as they leave the office.

The two women glance at each other.

Margaret sighs. "If it happens, I will protect them. Charlie needs her father."

Jackie raises her brow, not really understanding what she was talking about. She takes a breath. "My husband used to hurt me. I escaped to America with my son. He is acting as I did."

Margaret freezes. "He really is getting hurt by his wife."

"The shame he must feel. No wonder he hides." Jackie sighs. "Help me advert suspicion on him. If she figures out, we helped him, let alone know she might go after Micheal."

Margaret nods. "Of course, anything. That poor boy has been hurt enough."

.....

Turns out, none of them had to worry. Clara was in the bathroom, throwing her guts up. She had no idea. Micheal was rocking Elizabeth as the other two kept making up stories of the craziest things they could think of.

William sighs. "Micheal, where did your mother go?"

"Mom went to the bathroom she told me to rock Lizzie." Micheal looks up at his father with his bright blue eyes.

William nods. "I'll go check on her." He can't help but smile as Lizzie just giggles interacting with the other two kids.

Henry watches William head over to the woman's restroom. "Are you three behaving?"

"Yes, Daddy, Lizzie likes me the best." Charlie smiles as Elizabeth rattles her toy.

"Nein...." Jeremy argues in German.

Micheal smiles, looking down at her. "I'm the best because I'm her big brother."

"No fair." Elizabeth huffs. "I'm the best because we're both girls."

Henry chuckles. "I think she likes all three of you."

......

The new broke Clara was expecting, not even a day later, she made sure everyone knew. Elizabeth was handed off to William, and she finally started walking around, given the freedom to not be carried everywhere.

William was next to Margaret, and Jackie Henry was to his other side. This has become a weekly event, and as much as he wants to talk to Henry and his older self, Margaret seems to have a different agenda with Jackie. Thankfully, this combined with the diner meant he didn't have to deal with Clara as often, the new burned stab from a hot knife made his leg ache, but his older self told him that hot knife event took longer and was way worse then it was this time, well last time or what was suppose to happen was he got a paralyzed scare, but this time she only did his legs not his back.

Micheal watched the two women watch over his father as Charlie was busy running around with Lizzie, who had discovered the joys of walking in grass. "Jeremy, why's your mom acting weird?"

Jeremy pauses, standing next to Micheal. "Consenqueses is really nice, and mom isn't used to that in a man... wait, you aren't referring to that. Uh, I think that day at the diner, I think Margaret convinced her to follow your father into his office."

Micheal sighs, covering his face. "That means they both know about my mother and what she is doing."

"Why's that an issue?" Jeremy walks closer.

"We have to reveal ourselves, or else we won't be able to talk to my father or even my uncle." Micheal sighs. "Margaret might be a cheater, but she is overly protective over those who can't defend themselves, and your mom...."

Jeremy gasps. "Oh fuck you're right." He sighs. "How do you want to do this?"

"Honesty, I wish I could include Charlie." Micheal sighs. "She never made it pass 13, though."

Jeremy frowns. "Ugh, me too she's great. Oh, we're going to be a great chaos trio. Just wait."

Micheal chuckles. "Alright, alright, we have to think of something."

Charlie was holding Lizzie up, who was squealing in joy. "Hey, say what I taught you." She ran in front of the adults with the baby.

Lizzie squeals again. "Cha cha!"

"Yeah, Charlie." Charlie looks so proud.

William had a look of shock on his face.

Henry pauses and stares at the two women.

Charlie looks so proud of herself. "Look, I taught Lizzie to say my name."

"Cha!" Lizzie giggles walking to William. "Da! Da!" She clings to his leg, holding her hands up.

William looked close to crying, scooping her up. "Yeah, I'm your dad."

Lizzie giggles.

"Aren't you proud of me, Uncle William?" Charlie smiles.

William nods. "You did a great job, Charlie. You got Lizzie to say her first words."

Jackie covers her mouth. "Her first words, that's amazing."

Margaret chuckles. "She's right on track, unlike Micheal, who took until he was 4 to speak."

William nods, bouncing her on his knee, ignoring the massive amount of pain from the stab wounds. "You both did so good."

Henry motions for Charlie to come over. "You did such a good job, darling."

"I am the best." Charlie hugs Her father, then jumps off the porch to rejoin Micheal and Jeremy.

Lizzie huffs, reaching out for her.

"I think you've had enough excitement." William brushed her hair back. "It's time for a nap."

Lizzie huffs again, but yawns. "Come on, let's clean you up and set you off to bed."

William smiles, heading inside with his daughter.

......

"In my timeline of events, her first words were Mike. Clara was so mad." The older him watched over Elizabeth as William changed her diaper and got her ready for a nap.

"Really?" William smiles, tucking her in.

"Micheal always watched over her while I worked, or when Clara would neglect him caring for Evan. She always made sure Lizzie was cared for, and so was Evan. I believe there were many times when Micheal missed meals because I was stuck at the diner. I should have paid better attention." He sounds quite remorseful.

"Does Micheal blame us?" William shuts the lights off.

"No, he never did." The older sighs. "Micheal actually thinks we did the best we could given what we were going through, but we're his father we should have known."

Wliam frowns. "We'll do better this time. For all of them."

"We have to." The older nods along.

They both curse, feeling the wounds on his legs reopen. "Bloody hell, I just did the stitching."

........

Micheal frowns he can see the three adults swarm his father, and he makes a split decision. "Charlie, how would you like to be friends forever?"

Jeremy gives him a look, but it doesn't stop him.

Micheal knew this was a long shot, but they were already in impossible times. Time travel doesn't exist. There was always something stopping anyone who tried like fate itself refused to be unwound. This was different, like he had something nagging in his ear to try an old rumor. The rumor has it that if you give a child a demons blood, normally nothing happens, but there is a very small chance that, like time travel, something would happen. Lucy always complained about these rumors because she knew of every demon activity, whether she wanted to or not, and nothing came from that rumor.

"Yeah, of course, Micheal." Charlie gets close to him.

Micheal gets closer. "I heard the big kids at the diner say if we exchange blood, we will forever be friends."

Charlie's eyes light up. "I know what that is. Daddy said blood pacts last a lifetime. He says he made one with Aunt Jen to always be family."

Micheal keeps forgetting Henry is from the deep south, especially from a superstitious area in Texas. Of course, he would start Charlie, young.

Charlie grabs a rock off the ground. "We both cut our hands, I think, and shake like the grown-ups do."

"Is that how it works?" Micheal looks to Charlie, who nods and grabs his hand, and damn she is good at picking rocks. He could feel tears prick his eyes as he gets overwhelmed with emotions, and he curses his young body.

Charlie does the same, and they shake hands.

Jeremy watches the exchange, and at first, nothing happens, and he realizes that a lot if Aids reports probably went unreported with children doing stupid shit like this. He goes to defuse the situation before the adults return their attention to them when he saw a flash in Charlie's eyes.

Micheal can feel Charlie's grip get tighter and pull him closer. "Charlie?"

Charlie sighs and pulls Micheal into a hug. "Act natural they are watching."

Micheal pauses and pushes her away. "Nu uh thats not right."

Charlie nods. "Yes, it is."

The three kids run off to the corner following Charlie's lead, and the adults laugh.

Micheal stops holding his arm up. "You became a reaper."

"Not quite, I took the chance to grow up after I was killed through.... dubious means. However what the fuck?" Charlie looks around. "How are we in the past? I was tasked to track down the missing souls from their collective paradises, and then suddenly a soul from purgatory vanishes, and that's no man lands when it comes to the afterlife. Then.... you're the fucking demon that got summoned from purgatory. How?"

"My fault." Jeremy rubs the back of his neck. "To be fair I also don't know how I ended up in the past either I was digging my way out of paradise because I learned Micheal forced himself to be a demon even though he was allowed a paradise."

Charlie laughs. "We all didn't like our placements, did we? Alright, so what do we know, I want to catch up with both of you. Oh and my dad, oh my fuck I can be his daughter again." She shakes her head. "No focus. Micheal, and Jeremy you two are so tragic."

"If I hear a tale of tragic lovers again, I'm going to punch you and scream the truth in German alerting my mother." Jeremy crosses his arms as Micheal covers his mouth, unable to hold back his laugh.

Charlie chuckles. "Nah I was going to say if either of you fucking talked you would of stopped further tragedy, like if you kissed at 13 Evan wouldn't of died."

Micheal pauses and nods. "Fair point."

"Alright, I accept that answer." Jeremy smiles. "Man, we are going to be the best chaos trio."

"Hell yeah. Also, did either you notice that my dad is the product of a demon deal?" Charlie pauses, totally losing track of her focus. The three having adult minds with child focus and energy was going to make this hard to get through.

"Wait, sorry, what did you make a deal with to grow up?" Micheal switches focus, staring at Charlie as they run to the other corner of the yard.

"Well, it turns out the stories about things in the cornfields hold a lot of weight. Also, I didn't want to lose my memories. Becoming a reaper means giving up any and all humanity, so I would start from a blank slate, unable to well ever find any family again. So let's just say I'm basically a mix of a demon a reaper and a secret third thing." Charlie smiles.

"Eh, I still would have probably picked a demon from guilt." Micheal chuckles. "Fuck Jeremy's right were going to be the best trio." He can't help but feel giddy. Childlike excitement overwhelmed him he forgot what he was originally planning to do.

Charlie pulled the two next to her. "Rumor had it you were stronger than old Lucifer, and Jeremy you made a lot of connections."

"Damn right. How did you think I found out what happened to Micheal and how to do the same as him from escaping my paradise into hell?" Jeremy smirks. "Now I'm on track to become a demon attached to Micheal, already improvement on my original plan."

Micheal snickers. "I'm not that strong."

"You still have seals on you, I mean, I do too. Wait, how did you do this?" Charlie stares at her hands.

"You know that weird rumor Lucy hates about giving children demon blood."

"Ohhhhhh ok, huh thought that was fake."

"So did I." Micheal shrugs. "So, new plan."

"New plan?" Charlie raised her brow.

Jeremy ends up explaining what has happened as they pretend to play in the grass.

.....

Finally, Henry had a chance to be alone with William. Well, the three kids were with them as well, but it was a start. Clara took Lizzie with her to her prenatal appointment and refused to let William go. Jackie had a shift and had to work dropping Jeremy off. Charlie was acting off lately she was a little less destructive, but he counted that as a blessing.

The three well, two 5 years old and one 6 year old. Jeremy's birthday just passed. Sat on the couch together as William sat on one love seat and Henry on the other.

Charlie was the first to speak up. "Is now good?"

Jeremy shrugs. "I dunno, what do you think.... oh Micheal fell asleep."

"Mmh, not sleeping." Micheal huffs. "Just tired."

Henry gave a look to William, who sighed. "Micheals been trying to stay up late."

"No, Micheal's been trying to figure out how to get back to his adult body." Charlie crosses her arms. "It looks to be going as poorly as I thought it would."

"Oh hush, you haven't gotten far either." Micheal yawns.

"He won't let me help." Jeremy hums letting Micheal lean on him.

Henry stops. "What?"

Charlie pauses. "Oh yeah, I forgot. So you remember the stories you would tell me about the stuff out at night? Yeah, so I'm that because I wanted to grow up after I died. I think Reaper mixed with demon and other stuff. Eventually, I would have run into Micheal in the future, but the impossible happened instead." She huffs. "Being stuck as a child sucks, I lose focus constantly, and I get so tired easily." She crosses her arms.

Henry's eyes widen as he gets up and scoops his daughter up. "You're back? You grew up?"

Charlie giggles. "I did, not as a reaper I would have to give up all the things that made me human memories included, so I picked a dubious option."

Micheal yawns again. "I can still use my powers, for example." He snaps, and his father blinks.

William turns and rubs his back. "You healed me?"

"Yeah, why do you think you haven't had any nerve damage? I care about you, and Mother is awful." Micheal slides off the couch and crawls onto his father's lap. "I know I'm an adult."

William smiles, his eyes full of happy tears. "Yes, you're my big brave boy." He hugs Micheal, who melts into his father's touch.

"It's rare, but when Micheal wants touch, he will wrap around you." Jeremy giggles. "He's also very tired."

William smiles. "Alright, how about a nap before we talk again. I know we have to discuss things, but you three are children."

"Don't remind me." Charlie huffs, crossing her arms. "I wouldn't mind a nap, I also don't want to get up."

Henry chuckles. "How about I move you after you fall asleep?"

"Yes." Charlie smiles.

Jeremy has already curled up on the couch. "Mmh, you two adults talk... wait three..."

Micheal has already drifted off.

"They are all trying so hard." His older self sighs. "Well, you have your privacy talk to him."

William pauses. "I uh...." He sighs. "Henry, what do we do?"

"Let them sleep, but now for the future." Henry sighs as Charlie curls up.

"Just fucking kiss." Charlie huffs.

Henry gets a red face that matches William. "Charlotte?!"

"We all know." Charlie yawns. "Uncle William can't hide, and you wesr your heart on your sleeve."

"I know Micheal knew, but Charlie just turned 13 when I well.... " his older self covers his face.

William matches the red face. "I uh well, I mean i...."

Henry hefts Charlie over his shoulder and bends down, kissing William. "We'll plan later."

"Y-yes." William hugs Micheal tighter.

[therabbitsmuse]

10

my new first post. i decided to private most of my content instead of creating a new Tumblr from scratch. not sure why i felt such a strong urge to do so. it's not like anyone reads my posts & almost no one from real life knows about it. i was driven by this overwhelming urge to reset, to start over. as silly (& time-consuming) as it was, i did feel a lot better after coming back to an almost blank slate.

I've slowly been shifting into who I'm meant to be. that's probably one of the best things about moving somewhere new, where I know maybe 2 people. I've been really happy with my routines and not having to take anyone else into consideration. but letting go can be lonely, esp when I held onto certain identities and ideas for so long. I'm not quite sure what to fill that space with. But I know it's time to let go. It's served its purpose and now i no longer feel the same.

For the first time in probably ten years, this is the most inconsistent I have been with electronic music. I'm not excited by any of it. I'm even less excited by the prospect of festivals. i went to a few shows in brooklyn but i felt like i was only trying to chase a feeling. it's a strange thing to face. i thought maybe i was in a slump. i didn't want to believe that maybe I'm becoming one of those ppl who outgrow this phase of life. but all the signs are there. I unfollowed all the rave ig accounts i used to watch religiously. I no longer listen to or update my playlists. I can't name any songs that have really pulled me into the depths of layered complexity. It's fucking weird honestly. i don't think electronic music and shows will go away completely from my life, but i think, for the time being, it's one of my last priorities

you know when you have those thoughts that haunt you a little? where you wonder if maybe it's you that's the problem? I've been in that state as I've navigated through this new life.

i'm so glad i didn't choose to live in the city (tho tbh it was out of my budget anyways lol). i love my space. it's old but it's charming. i am surrounded by good food and small local businesses. i loved it the moment i moved in, minus the few dead cockroaches that appeared out of the abyss. however, when i met some people and told them where i lived, they looked at me as if i said i chose to live on mars. i went over to a few apts and wondered if I made the wrong choice. i have no city view. the kitchen was small af and probably older than i am. there's no doorman. no in-unit laundry or dishwasher. and then i felt dumb trying to chase some sort of illusion of what type of place i 'should' be living in. my studio doesn't feel like home just yet but I've always been happy to return back to it and i think that's all that matters

i feel like my old life is dead. i mean, it is in the past. but it's crazy how only four months on the other side will make me feel like there's a bigger disconnect between the before and after. it feels more like four years have passed by.

making friends is hard af. it's like online dating. you gotta meet a shit ton of people just to find a few that you like. and the ones you do like also have a lot of other choices waiting for them. you gotta schedule something again within the next week at least before the opportunity drops off into the abyss. and then on top of it, you gotta deal with ghosting and people who just want to use you for something. it's fucking exhausting. I've met a few cool ppl and a few potentials i think? like there's no shortage of people to hang with but i still feel a bit like an alien when i go to these group things.

life is so short. and everything can be taken from you at any moment.

i can't believe i had a celery juice phase earlier this year. like what the fuck kind of dark spot was i in LOL

something tells me i need to run after these rays of happiness because we're closing in on the end of everything [again].

[lonestarbabe]

Learning to Speak

Chapter 1: Channeling the Noise

[A03]

Moments of TK in therapy.

“Has anything important happened since your last session?” Melody Janson asks, a warm expression on her face. T.K.’s seen her for a couple of sessions already, but he’s still getting used to her therapy style. He’s been to a lot of therapists in his time, some of them good and some of them bad. He isn’t quite sure where Melody falls yet, but he likes her as a person, which is enough that he’s going to take the sessions semi-seriously, even if his willingness to share about himself is still limited. There are still some things that he can’t say and he’s not sure he will ever be able to say. He’s made peace with the antsiness of the things that go unsaid. The thwarted words bounce on his tongue like it’s a diving board and they are waiting to plunge into the icy waters of hard conversations.

“Depends what you consider important.” He pinches his lips together. He continues when she doesn’t say anything. “I don’t know. It’s been the same mostly. For all the action I experience, my life is boring most of the time.” Boredom is one of the things that makes him want to use, so he craves the moments of action, but there are never enough of them. He could tell her about calls he’d had on the job— like the baby in the tree—but he hadn’t done a whole lot in that rescue. The brunt of the work had been all his dad, ever the hero, and T.K. doesn’t feel like bringing up his dad because Melody always hones in on that topic. As nice as she is, she’s a vulture when it comes to certain discussions, which is probably what he needs, but he doesn’t want to need it. Some days he loves therapy, and other days, he hates it.

“Have you still been feeling restless?”

“Since birth,” he jokes. “I don’t know how to keep myself busy. Time is slower when I am sober. I only used oxy that once, but it feels like it’s sent me a million steps back.” One slip up, and he feels like he’s ruined everything. It feels like things will never be back to normal, and how can they be? He’s moved across the country to a hot and stuffy place that lacks the cool veneer of New York City. He misses Manhattan nights already. He doesn’t need stars. The New York skyline has always been more dazzling, and since he was a kid, it told T.K. stories that the constellations could never tell. New York may not be a natural wonder, but it’s a wonder nevertheless.

“Progress can be slow and isn’t always linear,” Melody reminds him. “How have the urges to use substances been?”

T.K. shifts in his seat. The urges are there, and that’s enough to send a wave of self-hate through T.K. It bothers him that he’ll never rid himself of those urges. He can lessen them, but he can’t stop them from existing. “Okay, I guess. They’ve been more manageable lately. I’m still fucked up, but I always will be.” Melody raises her eyebrows at “fucked-up,” and he knows it’s not because she’s concerned about his foul-mouth. He can tell she’s noting that to talk about later.

“What techniques have you been using to keep them manageable?” He has a whole toolbox of techniques that he’s collected from various stints in therapy, but some of them have become rusty, and it’s taking time to make them usable after neglecting them.

“I’ve been able to notice when I feel on edge more.” It’s like looking at the radar to predict a storm. He was never able to do that before. He’d always ignored that feeling of creeping closer to a cliff until he was staring down at the abyss below and gravity pulled him over.

“Sounds like you’re learning a lot about yourself. When I saw you in our last session, you were very on edge. You said you were feeling antsy about being in Austin. How are you feeling this week about being here?”

“It’s never going to be home, but I’m getting used to this place. I’m not getting lost as much, and it has a weird charm.”

Melody understands what he means immediately. “Yeah, it sure does. Have you been keeping up with thought-behavior logging?” The thought-behavior log is a worksheet that she gives him each week to explore how certain situations can lead to beliefs that produce unhealthy behaviors and negative feelings.

T.K. nods. “I’ve been filling it out, but I don’t know that it’s doing anything.”

“You did say that you were more aware of when you felt anxious. That’s progress. Did you make any helpful observations when you were logging your information? Even something small can be important.”

“That distractions are good for me.” Getting his mind off what was wrong with him is the best way to pretend that he was okay. He isn’t sure if that was an unhealthy way of coping or not. Knowing himself, it probably leaned towards unhealthy.

“What kind of distractions do you mean?”

“Anything I can find.” Anything but that one thing that he shouldn’t do, shouldn’t even think about.

“What’s the first one that comes to mind?” She’s persistent enough that she can get past the resistance that T.K. can’t help but have when some tries to get to know him.

“I met a guy— Carlos— and he’s been keeping me busy enough that I can keep my impulses in check.” He adds, “It doesn’t hurt that he’s hot. Between seeing Carlos and my job, I don’t have too much time to think. I can’t be tempted if I don’t have tempting thoughts. It’s a win-win.” T.K. is enjoying the no-strings relationship he has with Carlos. He’s glad they haven’t decided to complicate things by defining a relationship. He’s not ready for a real relationship. He gets attached too fast and that only leads to heartbreak.

“So these distractions are the main tool you use to stay sober?”

“I guess. It’s been working so far. I haven’t relapsed.” He’s thought about substances— a lot— but he hasn’t acted on those thoughts. He doesn’t let himself be proud of that fact because staying sober never should have been a challenge to begin with.

“I think that would be a good topic to add to our session today. But before we dig too deep into that, I want to know what else you’d like to cover today. Is there anything you think we need to talk about beyond this new relationship and the other distractions you may have going on?”

“It’s not a relationship,” T.K. tells her. “It’s… complicated.” T.K. chuckles to himself. “I’m sure you’ll want to unpack that.” So much to unpack, so little time.

“You’re as much responsible for our agenda as I am.” He doesn’t want that responsibility. He wants someone to shove him through this process as quickly as possible so that he doesn’t have to think about it anymore, but Melody has explained how important it is that he takes an active role in the process, so he’s trying to meet her halfway.

“I guess we can add it. It can’t hurt.”

“Okay, T.K.,” she says, “I think we should also touch on how you’ve been feeling about your sobriety.”

“We can talk about it, but I’m feeling fine.” He’s not happy, but it’s not like he’s ready to swallow a handful of pills— again. He wants to be sober. He wants to be alive. I’m good.

“You seem apathetic about most of these topics,” Melody observes. “Why do you think that is?”

“It’s just been that kind of week.” Work’s been hard. He isn’t sure what to think of his new coworkers yet. He likes them, but he doesn’t know them yet. It doesn’t take long for firefighters to bond with how much time they spend together, but T.K. is overwhelmed with having to basically reset his whole life and try to make sense of his new situation.

“What kind of week is that?” Therapy is a lot of questions, so many questions.

“The kind where I don’t want to think.” He wants to clear his mind and forget he exists because that’s easier than having to sort through the influx of feelings that he has. It’s the perfect kind of mood for substances to creep in and screw everything up.

“I see. Is something weighing on your mind?”

T.K. shrugs both shoulders. “Just the usual stuff. Work, getting used to this crazy place. I haven’t slept well.”

“Have you been having trouble adjusting?”

“It’s hard not knowing anyone. I’m good with people, so I can fit in, but it’s still hard. ” He puts on a big smile and acts like his normal goofy self and that seems to endear other people enough, but it doesn’t bring them too close. He’s not sure if he’s ready to get too close.

“That’s something we can explore some more because you’ve expressed in past sessions feeling like you don’t have a good support system here in Austin.”

“Another item on the agenda?”

She nods, a pleasant look on her face. “Does what we have sound like enough?”

“We’ve got a lot on the agenda,” T.K. says with a sigh. “So, yeah, sounds like enough.”

“You always rise to the challenge. Remember that we can always be flexible to suit your needs, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Let me ask, what is the most important of these items for you, T.K.?”

“Let’s start with the distraction thing,” T.K. tells her because he’s not sure where he wants to begin and the first thing on the list seems easy enough. Might as well just knock them out in order. “Or the guy thing. They’re pretty much the same topic.” His heart gets fluttery when he thinks of Carlos, and he’s not sure if it’s in a bad way or a good one.

“Okay, the male distraction. Do you want to tell me about him?”

“His name is Carlos. I met him on a call.”

“What do you like about him?” He’s nice to me. He has the best smile. He was the first person who made me forget that I was an outsider in Austin.

“I think the sex might be better than drugs.” He says the sex part before thinking about it, and then he feels weird because he’s talking about his sex life with a woman he barely knows. He’s always been pretty open about that kind of thing, a trait he inherited from his parents, but it’s different in a clinical setting. The faded, geometrically-patterned chair feels stiff under him like it’s judging him.

Melody’s face doesn’t change from neutral. “What about sex is satisfying to you?” Everything. T.K. doesn’t really believe that sex is better than drugs, but it is close and it helps him to pretend that it is better than drugs. Sex is a release. It allows him to escape his head for a while and give in to his carnal urges. “Like I said, it’s a distraction.”

“What does it distract you from?” Everything.

“If I think about it too hard, that defeats the purpose of distraction, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t like to use the words addict or drugs or substances, which probably doesn’t bode well when drugs are what got him in therapy in the first place, but at the end of the day, the drugs are a symptom of the feelings he has that he can’t deal with. Those stiff words hang in the air and then he keeps thinking about them, and if he thinks about them, he figures that he’ll give in eventually, and he doesn’t want to give in. He doesn’t want to disappoint his dad, lose his job, or hurt anyone else. He doesn’t care much about himself, but the way his addiction impacts other people holds him back when he’s on the edge between resiting and relapsing. Sometimes, it is enough. Other times, it is not.

“What do you think will happen if you talk about it?”

“I’ll lose control?” Control— that sounds deep and pathological, and therapists like that, right? He’d had a therapist who had been obsessed with the control thing, so he ran with the idea, thinking it was something he could hurry Melody through. His real answer is somewhere behind a wall in his mind that he doesn’t want to peak through let alone tear down. He keeps a lot behind that wall, just beyond the point of easy access. It’s a cluttered wasteland, but with the wall, he doesn’t have to look at the mess of life. He can pretend it’s not there, and if he can’t easily access it, he won’t think about it.

“Lose control of what?” she pushes him.

“Just in general,” T.K. tries.

“What is it about control that alarms you so much?” she asks again, and the question is oddly unsettling as flashes of him being high or drunk rush through his mind. He brought this up, and now he’s regretting the can of worms he’s popped open thinking it was just a normal can. He suddenly and ironically feels like he’s lost control of this line of thought. He should have thought this through, but he didn’t. That’s what he’s always done; he didn’t look before he leaped. He’s not afraid of losing control, he realizes with dread. He’s afraid of taking control. Maybe Dr. Bundting wasn’t such a quack about this control thing after all.  There’s something alluring about spiraling. He disarms himself so that no one can do it for him. He hands his life over to substances so that he doesn’t have to take the reigns and navigate through it himself.

T.K. crosses his arms over his chest. “No one likes to lose control.” Except for freaks like me. T.K. feels his chest clench, and his heart is pounding.

“The question seems to bother you. Was there something I said that made you uncomfortable?”

“It’s complicated.” Complicated is the way T.K.’s life works. Nothing is clear-cut, and it makes deciding what the fuck he is doing with his life eight million times harder.

“Can you explain what makes it so complicated?”

“It’s weird,” he tries, but Melody has never been stopped by that excuse before, so he’s not sure why he thinks it will work now.

“Austin is weird,” Melody says with a reassuring smile. “We like weird here.”

T.K. takes a breath. “I used to lose control all the time, and it didn’t bother me. I liked being out of my mind and not caring about anything.”

“And how does it make you feel about yourself when you’re in that state of mind?”

He swallows. “Like I’m defective.” He adds a laugh so it doesn’t sound so pathetic. “But also like I’m alive. It takes away the worries for a while.” He shakes his head. “But, mostly defective.”

“You remember how we talked about core beliefs?”

T.K. rolls his eyes. “I’ve been hearing that word for years.”

“Then you probably know where I am going with this. What makes you think you’re defective?”

“I can’t do things that normal people can.”

“What can’t you do?”

“Handle things in a normal way. When anything goes wrong, I spin out.”

“You’ve been managing your cravings. That doesn’t seem like spinning out to me.”

“It’s more of a feeling, and then the feeling is what makes me want to do things that I shouldn’t.”

“Can you define what ‘spinning out’ means to you?” Wanting to give in and wreck my life just to escape my head for a while.

“I go crazy. My mind starts to race, and before I can think better of it, I’m doing something dumb.” He hates to think about all the stupid things he’s done just because he doesn’t have the mental clarity to resist those impulsive urges.

“What kind of ‘dumb’ actions are you referring to?”

“Relapsing, fighting, fucking up opportunities— those kinds of things.”

“You called those actions dumb, so can you tell me what do those actions have to do with your intelligence?” Because I am an idiot who can’t control himself.

“Because I should know better than to do them. That’s pretty dumb, right?”

“You seem to use that kind of language a lot about yourself. Do you think addiction or mental illness makes someone dumb?”

“I know it makes me dumb.” My mistakes could have all been avoided if I only used my head.

“Okay, so your addiction makes you feel dumb, but if you saw my other patients behaving because of their illnesses, would you call them dumb? Or did your dad’s PTSD, for example, make him dumb?”

“He went through a lot, so it makes sense that he would react in the way he did. He wasn’t acting dumb, not really. He was just trying to survive after a shitty situation put his life in danger.”

“And what’s different about you? When you talk about your dad, you blame the circumstances, but when you talk about yourself, you attack your core characteristics.”

“I made choices. That’s what created his problems. My dad was powerless. Something happened to him while I happened to me.”

“I’m all for taking accountability, but don’t you think you’re showing yourself none of the mercy that you offer your dad or other important people in your life?”

“He deserves that.” I don’t.

“What has he done to deserve that? You’ve talked about how his actions hurt you, so why do you forgive him for those actions that hurt you but not your own actions that hurt you?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. He never meant to hurt you.”

“Did you mean to hurt yourself?” she prods.

“I tried to…” T.K. trailed off. “I nearly died.”

“If you got to choose how you feel, would you choose to hurt?”

“No. Who would?”

“So, that brings me back to the question, why can you forgive others more easily than yourself.”

“It hurts me more not to forgive him.”

“Does it not hurt you more to not forgive yourself?”

“Because maybe he’s not perfect, but I’ve burdened him with my issues, so I owe him forgiveness. It’s not his fault that I’m overly sensitive or whatever. He made mistakes.” But I am the mistake. “But he’s a hero, and the hero’s kid always has to make room for the heroics, but I was always too selfish to see that..” T.K. doesn’t mention how he still has a kernel of resentment for Owen, one that he has never been able to forgive away.

“What about you? You save people every day. Aren’t you a hero? If being a hero is why you are merciful with your dad, shouldn’t you extend that to yourself?”

“Yeah, but it’s my job to save people, and I haven’t sacrificed anything to help others. My dad lost his whole crew on 9/11. That’s a sacrifice.” What about my loss? the childish part of him wants to say, but he’s learned that that part of him is the one that drives him further from his dad. When he lets his inner child say his piece, the tension between T.K. and Owen smothers any goodwill they’ve forced into existence through years of close proximity and the common goal of saving other people’s lives.

“It takes sacrifice to be a hero?”

“Yeah, if you don’t lose anything from doing something, it’s not a big deal.”

“You sacrificed many moments with your Dad. You sacrifice time and energy at your job. Wouldn’t that make you a hero too under your definition?”

“It’s not like I had a choice.”

“Why not?”

“Firefighting was the only thing I’ve ever considered.”

“Okay, and why’s that?”

“Because I knew it was what I wanted.” He didn’t need to think. While other kids his age had been debating what they wanted to be, he never had to make that grueling decision. He just knew. My fate had been decided for me already, and it was nice not to have to think about what kind of future I wanted. It had always been written for me.

“What was it that you wanted?” A dad.

“To be like my dad.”

“And are you like him?”

“Not in any of the good ways.” T.K.’s sure that he and Owen are both headstrong. They’re both passionate and like grand gestures. T.K. knows that he’s a lot like his Dad but not in the ways that would make him proud.

“In what ways aren’t you like him?”

“Well, for one, I’m constantly making bad decisions. I nearly died before I came here, remember? I was so dumb. What was I trying to accomplish by nearly killing myself?”

“You’re back to using the word ‘dumb.’ Do you know the early meaning of dumb?”

“Probably not,” T.K. admits.

“In Old English, it referred to someone who was mute.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And people conflated the inability to speak with the lack of intelligence. Dumb was a word used to degrade and mock those who couldn’t speak because other people didn’t understand muteness”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“While the behaviors that result because of your mental illness may feel dumb as in stupid, you’re conflating your inability to speak with the lack of intelligence. Mental illness doesn’t rob you of your intelligence; it robs you of your ability to speak and communicate your feelings. Your ‘dumb’ behaviors are attempts at communication, but in these sessions, we figure out how you can break your silence.

“So I’m learning how to talk to people?”

“Not just how to talk to people but also how to talk to yourself. Your self-dialogue fuels your feelings and behaviors, so if we can change that dialogue, we can change your experiences with the world. What I want to accomplish with you goes beyond just talking.  What I’m teaching you is how to communicate healthily, which can come in more forms than just verbal language. There are lots of ways to speak, and what you need to do is find the ones that work for you.” Melody’s words linger with T.K. as he carries on the session, and he wonders if happiness is that easy. Is it nothing more than learning to speak?

[rainsonata]

Doppelgänger 14/15

Chapter 14: The Cataclysm 

Fandom/Pairing: Elsword; none Rating: T Word Count: 6,968

Summary: It was like looking into a mirror. What happens when one’s reflection talks back and throws uncomfortable questions? El Search Party struggles to find entrance into the Demon Realm, but Dominator has a plan.   

Alternative Title: Dominator fucked up and now everyone meets their alternative selves   

AO3 Link / FF.NET Link

— [Chapter 01] [Chapter 02] [Chapter 03] [Chapter 04] [Chapter 05] [Chapter 06] [Chapter 07] [Chapter 08] [Chapter 09] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] —  

----------------------------

Class Notes: 

Canon Path: Knight Emperor, Aether Sage, Daybreaker, Rage Hearts, Code: Esencia, Comet Crusader, Apsara, Empire Sword, Doom Bringer, Ishtar and Chevalier (Innocent), Bluhen   

Alternative Path: Rune Master, Oz Sorcerer, Anemos, Furious Blade, Code: Ultimate, Fatal Phantom, Devi, Flame Lord, Dominator, Timoria and Abysser (Catastrophe), Richter

Transformation Path: Immortal, Metamorphy, Twilight, Nova Imperator, Code: Sariel, Centurion, Shakti, Bloody Queen, Mad Paradox, Iblis and Anular (Diangelion), Herrscher

---------------------------- 

Code: Ultimate 

Henir’s Time and Space existed in a separate plane of its own, balanced between all dimensions and existed at a point where time did not exist. A portal cracked open from the side, forming an enclave big enough for their group to squeeze through. 

Ultimate entered first. She forced her wings to fold back to avoid crushing the person behind her. It was the same as it was the last time she had visited. They all landed on the familiar blue platform shared by parts of Elrianode. Electric circuits glowed beneath their feet. Blue cubes hovered around their platform among the stars. A dark sun eclipsed by the moon floated above their heads. 

Despite gaining access to knowledge from the libraries and databases from her journey, Ultimate had little understanding of Henir’s Time and Space and its existence. Its architecture bore strong resemblance to that of the corrupted monsters and machines in Elrianode. The administrator of the facility was placed in what appeared to be a form of punishment. Ultimate felt her circuits hum into mild stress at the thought of being locked into one place.      

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE DIMENSION WILL COLLAPSE?” 

Loud chatter disrupted Ultimate’s train of thought. The queen of destruction closed her eyes and allowed her programs to run scans in the background. Glave was nowhere to be seen, but Ultimate needed to update her database on Henir’s Time and Space. 

“I’m sure she was joking.” Knight laughed nervously. The red knight fought to restrain Aether by placing his hands over her shoulder and gently nudging her away from Metamorphy. The elementary mage did not back away and had her staff out with a dangerous look in her eyes. 

Ultimate recognized that expression. It was the one humans had when frustrated and confused. Aether was both.   

“I don’t joke,” Metamorphy said with a bright smile. She was unaffected by her counterpart’s outburst and stepped out of the portal with her arms behind her back. 

Her sensors notified Ultimate that other organic beings were present. Orange and red light filtered through her ocular lens to let her know there were a few dozen warm bodies. Metamorphy was correct in that they were the last group to have arrived. The platform they were on was one of many. Small stairs connected each platform and formed a chain of them to travel in between them. 

Ultimate heard their names being shouted by the others that saw their arrival. It was too much for the Nasod in keeping track of them all. She allowed herself to ignore them and instead watched her friends interact with each other. Their reunion would be short before they learn about their fates. 

A figure appeared from the mass of people. Ultimate’s scans shot up in response to the high energy levels emitted from Paradox. The time traveler’s energy level was unstable, making it difficult for Ultimate’s systems to keep up with the changes. It was as if Paradox wasn’t human.  

“Of course it’s you causing all the noise.” Paradox was in his adult form and covered his mouth to hide a snide smile. He said to Metamorphy. “So you told them your intentions. Didn’t think you would become the harbinger of bad news.”

“I don’t remember asking for your input,” Metamorphy’s expression soured. “I doubt your group took it any better than mine did.” 

“You took us here knowing we were going to react like this?” Knight protested, “You’re okay with us watching the world be destroyed?”

“Reborn,” Metamorphy corrected. 

“Explain,” Ultimate looked at Paradox and Metamorphy with cold eyes. She noticed more people crowding around them and listening in to Metamorphy’s explanation. Did they know about this before they did? “I don’t quite follow what you mean by rebirth.”  

Destruction and rebirth were two concepts humans liked to bring up through history. Their religion and cultures were built around both. When one group had fallen, another would rise, sometimes stronger than the last in ways Nasods wouldn’t be able to. 

Ultimate was placed into deep slumber because her creator feared that his race had once again fallen into the cycle of death. He was correct, but Adrian failed to recognize that humans were just as compatible with creation as they were in destruction. For she had seen her teammates come up with plans and concepts that helped others. However, Ultimate began to understand his sentiment when Metamorphy showed glee in explaining the death of a dimension the Nasod queen had only come to known for a few days. 

“Rebirth makes it sound grander than it actually is,” Metamorphy said. “It’s more like a soft reboot. Having everyone into the same dimension is stressing the system and forcing it to shut down to reset itself.”

“You’re saying it’s going to come back?” Phantom asked. 

“Yes,” Metamorphy hummed. “Maybe not one-hundred percent. It should be restored to the state before the dimension broke down.”

“We’re really doing this.” Bangs covered Knight’s eyes, “We’re letting people suffer again.” 

There was tension in the red haired man’s features. His shoulders rose and a hint of blue flickered over his glassy eyes. Ultimate frowned and questioned the El’s influence over Knight. Did the El have a stronger presence with Knight than it did for Rune? 

“I’m sorry we had to resort to this,” Rage offered Knight an awkward pat on the back. 

“So this is what happens when too many timelines intersect,” Bringer mumbled to himself. “This is the end.”   

Being a few hundred years old, Ultimate wasn’t one to be as sentimental as most were in occurrences such as the soft reset Metamorphy was suggesting. The end wasn’t a foreign concept to her. According to numerous history books, many Elrian civilizations documented the Nasod war as the death of a prosperous era and the end to the benevolent relationship between Nasods and humans. Rune’s sacrifice to the El was the end of their search for the El Lady and the El Masters. A soft reset would mark yet another ending of a story arc in human history. 

Was there truly an end? 

“Resetting will fix everything?” There was a bite to Flame words and sharpness in the look she exchanged to Metamorphy and over to Paradox. Biting the bottom of her lips, Ultimate could see the flame user trying not to get excited. 

“I don’t know about that,” Paradox scoffed. “No one has done a reset before. I’m not sure if Glave can even do it.” 

“Is that why you brought us here?” Abysser asked. “I knew Glave deals with time and space, but do you really think he’s going to agree to helping us?”

“Didn’t he already help you in Elrianode?” Crusader had his arms crossed, “He gave us information about the corrupted Elrianode monsters and about the Dark El.” 

“I suppose it could be too soon to ask for help again.” Empire said, “We’re already here, so we should at least try.” 

Empire had what humans called “cautious optimism”. When Ultimate expressed her confusion, Rune explained that people wanted to see the bright side of something, but remained careful out of the fear of being wrong. The knight captain remained so, putting on a composed mask but smiling as a way to reassure the others. Flame did the same, but her enthusiasm was more overt and offering loud cheers. 

Crossing her legs, Ultimate examined a floating cube reflecting her face back. She hadn’t noticed before, but some of them acted as monitors and showed the viewer different worlds. Each surface focused on a different part of Elrios, but one caught her attention. Ripples formed over its otherwise smooth surface and offered her a glimpse of a moving figure. 

A woman sharing Devi’s face darted across a muddy terrain with a toothy grin. She wore white outfit similar to that of the warriors from Fluone's Northern Empire, followed by a white fox with many tails. Behind her was a blonde man in a white suit covered by equally pristine armor and a destroyer. An elven woman was with them. Her hair was tied back into a long braid and hoisted a sword and a bow. The sky was red and they were fighting a monster several times their size, covered in spikes and baring sharp teeth. 

An emotionless face reflected back at Ultimate from the screen. The Nasod queen froze, waiting for her circuits to process the face of her twin. Pale blue wings sprouted from the back of her counterpart from another world she didn’t know of. Were these people her friends from another dimension?        

“My, my. There are more of you than usual.” A male voice mused, “Your group gets bigger each time we meet, but this is the biggest I’ve seen.” 

A single orange eye peered through the metal mask Glave wore. His voice made it impossible to tell his age, a quiet chuckle followed by a light toned statement that placed many people on edge. The locks placed around his collar were for a man who had committed unspoken crimes.  

“You took your time,” Paradox sneered. “Where have you been?” 

“Hello, Add.” Glave chuckled, “I see you have made use of the knowledge I have given you.” 

“Cut the crap and tell us what we need to do to undo this idiot’s mistake!” Bringer growled. 

“It looks like there’s three of you now,” Glave looked at Bringer, Dominator, and Paradox. “I suspected this day would come. How can I help you?” 

Bringer fumed as Bluhen commented about the brawler being singled out with his other selves. Dominator was less pleased of being grouped with his alternatives, crossing his legs and sitting on Dynamo in a silent sulk. Paradox became a sitting duck as soon as Glave showed up, glaring at the administrator of Henir’s Time and Space with distaste.

“We need your help,” Crusader explained. “The Demon Realm where we came from is falling apart. If we don’t do something, we won’t be able to save Elrios.” 

“Is that so?” Glave looked at the mob, “Is that because all of you were involved?”

“Yes,” Anemos said. “Add said there were too many of us and it’s causing problems for everyone and the people living in Demon Realm.” 

“I expected this to happen for some time,” Glave admitted. 

“Because you taught someone how to time travel?” Nova raised a brow. 

“Yes, but he isn’t the only one learning to open portals.” Glave said, “I’m sure you remember the demon invasion in Velder?”

“That’s right, they were trying to open portals to invade Elrios!” Aether exclaimed, “But what are you trying to say? Metamorphy said you could reset the dimension and return us back to where we were supposed to be!”

“Did she now?” Glave said, “That is a heavy task you are asking of me.”

“Please, Glave. You helped us before and you gave us all the information you knew about the Dark El.” Knight lowered his head, “I don’t know what we can offer this time, but you’re the only person I know who can help us.” 

Ultimate looked back to Knight, trying to understand his intention. He led a massive group, yet maintained the humbleness Rune had. There was no humor in his intonation, coated by shame and guilt. She was confused about where the unnecessary emotion came from. He was no different than Rune. 

“What can you offer this time?” Glave chuckled again, “Resetting a dimension so I can send all of you on your merry way? It will only take time before all of you find each other again.” 

“I know it’s our fault this happened, but that’s why I want to change that.” Knight said, “I only want-”

An arm blocked Knight from getting closer to Glave. Immortal stepped up and shook his head to Knight, effectively silencing his counterpart with a tiny smile. The sword user beamed at Glave and offered the man a forced grin. 

“Yo, Glave! I got a better deal than myself over there,” Immortal nudged Knight to the side. “Why stop at resetting one dimension? You’re right, we might try to see each other again and that means you’ll have to fix our mess again. So why don’t you sit down and listen to what I have to say?”

“Oh?” A smile could be heard in Glave’s raised intonation, “What do you propose?”

“Why don’t you make it so that dimension traveling is stable across our three dimensions?” Immortal nodded, “You won’t regret this because you will never be bored!”     

Anemos once proposed to Ultimate that Glave’s strange requests were done out of boredom. She kept her voice low and hushed with a snide comment that was uncharacteristic of the elven woman. Ultimate couldn’t relate to the emotion as Nasods did not get bored, but she knew that humans had a tendency of finding ways to entertain themselves when placed in isolation. She could see why Glave would go to such lengths to reach out to the El Search Party when his traveling was limited to a few spots. 

“Never get bored, huh?” Nova laughed to himself, “That’s so Elsword.” 

---------------------------- 

Chevalier

In contrast to the cold weather in Varnimyr, there was nothing in Henir’s time and space. It was warm yet cold. Big, yet small. An infinite sea of platforms floated in space, small stairs suspended in midair and connected to one another. Just big enough to fit all twenty nine of them and its administrator. 

The first time he had visited Henir’s time and space was by Glave himself, who had a tendency of showing up at resting spots in Elrios. A strange light in his eyes gave away that the man had plans of his own. He wasn’t one to share his intentions and Chevalier didn’t want to do with any of it. Chevalier didn’t lack strange people in his life after he formed a pact with Ishtar. 

It has been weeks since Chevalier last saw the administrator of Henir’s time and space. With a look of boredom and a shrug, Glave offered useful information on the Dark El and a quick history lesson of the Henir heretics involvement of it. Their dependence on Glave brought discomfort to the half-demon butler. 

“Are we nothing more than entertainment for this man?” Ishtar scowled, “Fixing someone else’s mistake in exchange for our livelihood. What kind of nonsense is this?” 

Chevalier hushed the former demon ruler. He had seen the hasty plan wrapped together by the newcomers as if it was second nature for them to dimension jump at a last minute’s notice. There was no reason to give Glave a moment of doubt in handing over a gift to their group. 

“How would we travel to each other’s worlds?” Apsara asked. 

“I gave the coordinates to the nerd and the musclehead,” Paradox snorted. “I think that’s enough.” 

“This is a good idea?” Chevalier wondered aloud, “Demons have tried to cross into Elrios through portals in the past. What makes you think they won’t find out about our new access to them?” 

“It’s only a problem if you blurt it out in the cold open like the amateurs you are,” Paradox grinned. “With twelve of you, that surely won’t be a problem, would it?”

Chevalier couldn’t make head or tail(s) about the man who shared Doom Bringer’s face. The time traveler had two forms he could use however he pleased. That was how he tricked Knight into believing he was harmless, yet they were expected to take Paradox’s words as truth. The butler’s gaze locked into Bringer, who nodded as a confirmation. 

“That’s right, he gave us the coordinates for each other’s dimensions.” Bringer said, “Is that all you want to say?”

“You’re not the type to have idle conversations, are you?” Dreadlord chuckled, “I suppose it can’t be helped with our situation.”      

Was the Demon Realm they came from beyond saving? It wasn’t their world, but it was the one the El Search Party promised to protect. It was a relief to make amends with the dark elves and the other creatures living there. Despite the poor relation between demons and Elrios inhabitants, there were civilians living in both. Most importantly, it was Ishtar’s home. Behind her sly smiles was sadness and nostalgia for a place that no longer accepted her.  

Chevalier and Ishtar poured blood and sweat into fighting their way into Demon Realm to restore her reign as a ruler, only for all that effort to go to waste. He couldn’t imagine the thoughts going through Ishtar’s mind in watching her world be reduced to ashes. 

“It’s fine,” Ishar placed a hand over Chevalier’s left forearm. She said with a forced smile, “It doesn’t bother me. Everything will be okay.” 

“Are you sure?” Chevalier disliked how childish he sounded when he asked a seemingly simple, yet personal question to the one he was supposed to protect. 

“Metamorphy said it would be reset, so I’m sure of it.” She closed her eyes, “My people are no strangers to rebuilding themselves. We should be thankful Grave is agreeing to help us again. This will be the second time we owe him.”  

“That’s already several times less than some of us,” Immortal gave a light chuckle. “Are you ready then?” 

All this talk about portal and interdimensional travel was a familiar topic that gave Chevalier a migraine. He could understand why the ability to do so was so appealing to demons. With that sort of power, Chevalier would gain access to stronger allies, multiple versions of himself that would likely share the same objective as he did. It took the effort of many people to prevent such power from falling into their enemy’s possession.   

Meeting their alternates added an extra layer of complexity on top of the original intention to seek out the Dark El. The butler knew they wouldn’t hear the last about portals after the first time they attempted to cross a dimension over from Lanox. Chevaliar had doubts that their group would return to Elrios any time soon.  

“You all right, there?” Abysser’s annoying voice popped into his vicinity. “What’s going on in your mind?”

“Nothing,” Chevalier said. 

“No one thinks about nothing,” Abysser snorted. “Hey Ish, what’s he thinking?” 

“Don’t call her that!” Chevalier growled. Why was being around himself so grating? Ishtar gave Abysser a small smile, but the demon monarch mentally cackled at the exchange between the two butlers. Chevalier sent glares at the tiny demon, struggling not to fill his mind with profanities. That only made Ishtar laugh harder.

“Did I say something funny?” Abysser was concerned, “You look like you ate something bad and Ishtar is giving me a weird look.”  

Chevalier stared ahead, focusing his thoughts and eyes on Glave. The administrator’s lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. For the first time, he wished Ishtar didn’t have to share the same mental space as him. The demon monarch was usually good about backing off and giving him privacy, but Ishtar was taking delight in picking at his thoughts whenever Abysser was around. Her Cheshire grin was one that was usually reserved for teasing Bluhen.      

“Ciel was telling me how much he likes you!” Ishtar dared to speak a complete lie. Her lips couldn’t have spread out even further if she tried. The demon monarch bore a mischievous smirk that was more in line with her appearance age. 

“Aw, I think you’re cool too!” Abysser beamed. 

Chevalier groaned. 

He spied a camera shot of Varnimyr from one of the reflective cubes floating nearby. They functioned similar to the Nasod technology used in Elysion to monitor the city. Red clouds swirled in a dangerous haze, obscured by dark portals consuming the rest of the sky. Demons trekked across the fiery path, seeking for shelter in confusion to what was happening to their world. The demon realm was a mirror to what Lanox was weeks before the demon invasion. So this was how Glave always knew where to find them.  

Past his former days as a hitman, Chevalier pondered on how he would use them. How easy would it be to find his target before they realized he existed and... Chevalier didn’t allow himself to complete the thought. Those days were over. He would have easily picked to live in the present than in a bloodtorn past where he too often scraped the bottom of the barrel for less savory jobs.   

“It’s okay if you don’t know what to think about any of this,” Abysser read his silence as uncertainty. His eyes glazed over the cubes. Anger appeared in a short moment before he said, “I don’t think anyone would know how to react.” 

“You think?” Chevalier gave a dark chuckle. At least Abysser’s voice was good at distracting him from those troubling thoughts. “I was questioning my sanity when you introduced yourself.” 

“I can’t be that bad,” he feigned a hurt expression. 

“It’s like a dream,” Chevalier said. “Everything gets resolved as quickly as the problem came.” 

“We must be blessed because we now have three Elswords,” Abysser smirked. “Lady Luck seems to like them.” 

“I wouldn’t call it luck if it means having to sit through the world crumbling before us,” Chevalier said. 

“You’re welcome to join them,” Abysser grinned. 

“I’ll pass,” Chevalier scoffed. 

“Don’t you ever get bored of acting cool all the time?” Abysser asked. 

Chevalier shrugged, wondering what the demon meant by that. While he was troubled by the idea of watching a dimension reset itself, Ishtar did not need to add his premature death to her list of growing worries. Having sympathy for demon realm civilians wasn’t going to make him into a martyr. He was not Knight.  

“What needs to be done to begin the reset?” Anemos asked. 

“Your visit was unexpected, so I won’t be able to start immediately to fix your… mishap.” Glave said. “For saving the dimension, I expect a token of exchange shortly after. I’m sure it won’t be difficult for one of you to acquire it.”  

Chevalier was sure the first part was a lie, but he didn’t have the proof nor motivation to say otherwise. He took Glave’s word for it and nodded in agreement. His mind glossed over the mention of payment, mildly interested in what the administrator of Henir could want. Glave had previously formed exchange services for them running errands. The requested items were often unique objects obtained from strange circumstances and battles.    

“You can tell us about the price after you finish saving the world,” Immortal said impatiently. 

Similar to Knight, he carried weight in his steps and was terse in his words. He had a sharp look in his eyes, hazy from the effect the Dark El had. Chevalier could feel the Dark El radiating from the sword user, yet he retained his reason and intelligence.  

“There will still be limitations on how many can visit different worlds,” Glave added. “Your dimensions will no longer collapse under the new laws, but having large groups together will cause a delay in regular timeflow.” 

“As in…?” Flame squinted. 

“Try not to visit in big groups,” Phantom finished for her. 

“Having big groups does make it harder to avoid detection from the enemies,” Daybreaker remarked. 

Being forced to arrive as small groups sounded cumbersome, but it was more than what he expected from Glave. Impressed by Immortal’s ability to sway the administrator of Henir, Chevalier quietly thanked the redhead and offered a pat on the shoulder. Immortal backed away, as if the young man had seen a ghost. He kept looking at the butler’s face with a careful expression before moving his eyes over to Ishtar. Fear struck across Immortal’s gaze before he apologized to Chevalier for staring. 

Confused by Immortal’s reaction, Chevalier accepted the apology but frowned. Was it something he had said? Did Immortal have a bad relationship with the other Ciel from his world? It took a split second for Chevalier to force himself away from drawing out his gunblade because of the way Immortal looked at Ishtar, an expression he was quick to recognize. It was one of fear mixed with anger. What did the other Lu do to make Immortal respond like that?   

“Forget it.” Immortal rubbed the back of his head, a trait he shared with Rune and Knight when frustrated. “I need to let the others know what’s happening.” 

“I know you have a lot on your plate, but Glave won’t be ready any time soon.” Chevalier said. He wished there was something he could do to help the young man. “You should take the time to rest.” 

“Lucky for us, time doesn’t exist here.” Immortal let out a dark chuckle.  

“So after this, we’ll return to where we were before like nothing happened?” Chevalier asked. 

Immortal nodded. 

Rune’s group would go back to Elrianode before they entered Demon Realm. Would they once again attempt to enter their Demon Realm or would they change plans and remain in the ancient city? Chevalier and his friends would return to a restored Varnimyr with its inhabitants being none the wiser, still in danger because of a strong demonic presence they have yet to identify. Where would Immortal and the others go? 

“Don’t waste your time thinking about the things that don’t exist in your world,” Immortal said. He gave the butler a critical expression, “I’m sure you’re curious about what my world is like, but that’s our problem to figure out.” 

Problem? Chevalier realized he was judging a group of people he had only met a few hours ago and felt guilty. It wasn’t his place to make opinions on something he didn’t understand. 

“Perhaps we’ll meet again under better circumstances,” Chevalier said. 

“Maybe,” Immortal’s expression softened. Despite his young face, there was age in his eyes. Chevalier didn’t understand why, but he sympathized with Immortal’s struggle to hold the team together. That was something he could relate to. “Maybe not.” 

“Can you at least tell me if you found the Dark El?” Chevalier asked when Immortal excused himself. 

The redhead broke into a burst of genuine laughter, “Would I be here if I knew the answer?” 

----------------------------   

Immortal 

Resting his head back against the palm of his hands, Immortal took deep and controlled breaths as Shakti had taught him. He felt his chest hover before deflating, letting his mind wander off into the distance and blocking out the pointless chatter around him. 

More waiting. Nothing he could do to speed it up. Time didn’t exist in Henir’s Time and Space, which was great because that meant the stakes were lower, but made the extraneous delay worse for the sword user. Immortal was itching to get up and find something to do. 

Paradox didn’t trust Glave, but it wasn’t a question about trust. Glave was useful. He had access to knowledge and power that could easily switch their position in their current battle against the demons. Immortal wasn’t going to ignore a viable resource, not when Glave was so eager to offer his services. 

It was torturous sitting around and waiting for Glave to do his thing and send them back. To hell with Glave saying their visit was unexpected. He knew the guy was keeping a careful watch on his group. Something about them having “potential”, whatever that meant. Glave was never confused when his team visited the administrator, often offering them valuable information they needed. There was no reason for Glave to begin being surprised by their appearances.

Immortal’s concentration was broken by girlish giggling. Scowling at nothing in particular, he opened his eyes to see Metamorphy pointing at Paradox while talking to Devi. The magical girl motioned a pair of cat ears with the use of her index fingers. Devi had a similar expression as Immortal, confused by Metamorphy’s chatter. Flame was amused and mouthed a few words Immortal couldn’t hear over the rest of the mob.    

“It’s hard to hear your own thoughts,” Nova commented. The older man settled down next to Immortal. “I’m surprised it took effort to find them.” 

“I’m surprised too,” Immortal mumbled. “We should have let Aisha lead.”

“She would be happy to hear that.” He could hear the smile in Nova’s tone without looking at the former mercenary. “Convincing Glave to let the paths crossover more than once was a bold move.”

“So was letting the Dark El take over.” Immortal balanced one of his blades to see his reflection shine over its glossy edge and smirked, “I’m a bold guy.”

“If you say so,” Nova chuckled. “I understand wanting to restore their dimensions, but why take the extra steps to let them transverse to our worlds?”

Portals weren’t a novelty for Elrios. Humans and demons alike have spent centuries toying with the idea of interdimensional travel, fighting to ignore the barriers placed by the gods to prevent them from mingling. In many ways, demons held very human qualities in wanting what couldn’t be obtained. If it wasn’t Knight or Rune’s teams attempting to use portals, Immortal was sure the demons would make additional attempts to break into another dimension. 

“I like to call it a haunch,” Immortal said. “Just in case something like this happens again. Besides, they could use the extra help.”

“In fighting Rosso?” Nova raised a brow. 

“Not so loud!” Immortal shushed him, “I don’t think they know about him yet, at least that’s what Paradox told me.” 

“Letting them know won’t hurt them,” Nova gently told him. “They already know they will make it because of us.”  

Immortal questioned if it was wiser to let the other El Search Parties know what they were getting themselves into. His team had barely scraped out of the battle with bloodied cuts and bruises that took days to heal. Unlike Knight’s team, they had no healers and relied on potions crafted by their alchemists.

What would he tell Knight and Rune? That they were going to be ambushed by a burning midget with a giant blade? Immortal sighed, frustrated by the dilemma. Their timelines were already tangled up thanks to Paradox. There was no use in hiding knowledge from each other, yet he hesitated.     

Their small team of eight grew at Rosso’s awakening. Paradox showed up when the first blood was drawn. When asked why, the time traveler shrugged with a mischievous smile. Immortal could never understand what went through Paradox’s mind and wasn’t sure if he wanted to. 

It was one of the rare fights that summoned Iblis and Anular from the depths of hell. Iblis’s face was twisted with madness and delight in the pain she was able to inflict on their enemy, dragging Anular along on an invisible chain formed by their twisted bond. Their party was down to the last of its members able to fight when Immortal thought he saw red hair and a claymore before passing out. When he woke up, Bloody Queen was nowhere to be seen. 

“You think our help will be enough?” Immortal pondered on the implications of being able to regularly interact with his alternates. They were just a walking distance from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to face them. 

Nova noticed his hesitance. 

“You should check on them,” Nova followed his gaze over to the two red haired men talking to each other. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for us to leave.”

“What if they hate me?” Immortal was surprised by his own doubt, annoyed by how honest he sounded.  

“Before you finish that thought, I think they’re more concerned about their problems than about you.” Nova said without heat in his words, “They followed you through this plan because they believed in you. I think your appearance might be a breath of fresh air for them.” 

“You sure put a lot of faith into this eighteen year old,” Immortal laughed. 

“If age was a concern, I wouldn’t have followed you when we first met.” Nova smiled. “If they give you trouble, I can talk to them too.” 

“I don’t think that will happen,” Immortal laughed again. Knight and Rune were foolish, but had good intentions. That made three of them. He gave a mock salute to Nova with a toothy grin, “I won’t be gone for long.”  

It wasn’t hard to find Knight and Rune. They sat huddled together like they have known each other for years, speaking hushed whispers that raised Immortal’s radar. He forced those thoughts away, putting on a big smile as he was supposed to. Relaxed, waving at the two as if he wasn’t bothered by the idea of being the bringer of bad news that they were going to have to deal with a half-demon brat in a matter of hours, two weeks in Rune’s case. 

“Yo!” Immortal heard himself speak. He waved to them, “Fancy seeing you two here!”

“You’re the one who brought us here,” Knight waved back with a sigh. 

“I know,” Immortal kept smiling. “I told you I would help you guys get home!” 

“That felt a little too easy,” Rune said. “Do things always go smoothly for you?” 

“No,” Immortal heard Knight’s voice alongside his. He stopped to look at Knight, who wasn’t as surprised. “Really?”

“Yes,” Knight stressed. The look on his face was one of someone who was exhausted from all the interrogating from others. Impatient, he pressed his hand against his forehead when he saw doubt in his alternates. “Maybe the things I went through weren't as long and strenuous as it was for you, but I have struggles too!” 

“Never said I didn’t believe you,” Rune patted Knight on the back. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

Even if Immortal had purposely avoided talking to Rune and Knight up to this point, he was envious of how easy it was for them to talk to each other. Knight and Rune lacked the tension in their shoulders, relaxed and eager to trust others. It wasn’t that Immortal couldn’t relax, but there was a constant nagging voice in the back of his mind. Conwell urged him to take the next step to avoid the uncertainty of death. 

“Did you make Raven worried again?” Rune asked. 

“Me? Worry him?” Immortal smirked at the idea,“When isn’t he worried? He’s going to get white hair if he keeps fussing like that.” 

“Ours already has white hair,” Knight said without humor. 

Having only caught a short glimpse of Rage from a distance, Immortal was only able to recognize the former mercenary by the monstrous arm. It was nothing like what Immortal was used to, a strange mesh of machinery and organic compounds.   

Rune threw his head back and let his hair flop over his face in uncontrolled laughter. Covered in runes, his appearance was a sharp contrast to Knight’s conservative armored look. It was amazing how consistent their looks were to their personalities. If not for their shared names, they could have been different people. 

“Anyway, I think it’s only fair I share some information about what’s coming up for both of you.” Immortal ran one hand through his hair. 

“You mean what was causing the earthquakes in Varnimyr?” Knight asked, “Yeah, Paradox mentioned something about that. Rune and I were talking about that.” 

“Did Paradox mention how strong the next enemy was?” Immortal asked. 

“We’re going to have to fight something stronger?” Rune laughed, “When is that not the case?” 

They were taking the news better than Immortal thought, maybe too calmly. He didn’t like how quick Rune was to accept his word. No hesitance or questioning involved. Maybe Paradox was right about him needing more caffeine. Knight blinked, letting the new information process before nodding in agreement to Rune. He looked at Immortal with interest and ushered him to keep talking. 

Well, that’s why Immortal was here - letting them know what they were getting themselves into. It wasn’t going to stop them from going after Rosso, because they were Elsword and none of them could ignore someone’s cry for help. If no one was going to fight Rosso, who would? The ones who felt the most connection to the El. Good gods, why did all of them have to be big damn heroes?    

“The enemy will be heavily protected from outside its tower,” Immortal explained. “You need to take down the barriers quickly before they overwhelm you. Make use of everyone’s abilities and distribute your strengths. If one person gets shot down, let someone else take over.”

“People died?” Knight looked alarmed. 

“No,” Immortal realized his wording and stepped back. “But you’re going to need all the help you can get.” 

“Is that why you asked Glave to let our dimensions overlap?” Rune asked. 

Immortal cocked his head to the side, “Am I scaring you yet?”

“Not really.” Knight’s brave front was betrayed by his face losing color. Clearing his throat, he said, “Telling us what you know will make the fight easier.” 

“Will it be easier?” Immortal asked more for himself than to the others. “I doubt things will ever be easy for any of us, but you’ll continue?”

“Of course!” Rune bumped his fist up, “Who the hell do you think we are?”

Knight nodded in agreement. 

“Figures,” Immortal smiled. “Then I see no point in stopping either of you from doing what you have to do.”

He sat with his legs crossed with his body leaned back, looking up to the stars surrounding Henir’s time and space. No wonder Glave kept finding excuses to leave this bubble and interfere with his group. There was nothing to see once the novelty in the monitor panels and space wore off. 

“What’s your team like?” Knight asked. 

“You already saw half of them,” Immortal said. “What do you think?”

“Blunt. They have a lot of energy,” Knight after some thought, clearly putting careful consideration into his response. How cute.   

“They have a lot of powers we haven’t seen before,” Rune commented. “Where did Paradox learn to use portals?”

“None of us know,” Immortal shrugged. “Metamorphy thinks Glave is involved, but that’s besides the point. Paradox does what he wants.” 

“You mean he isn’t with you?” Knight asked. 

“Yes and no,” Immortal said. “Our team is a little smaller than yours because we don’t travel together.” 

Immortal saw the wheels spinning in Knight’s head, taking in the new information and forming new questions to throw at the sword wielder. He caught the red-haired knight tongue-tied on whether to probe further. It didn’t matter to him. If Knight asked, he would let the other know that their team functioned differently. Having a smaller team didn’t bother Immortal. It made traveling easier and drew in less attention. 

“It must be hard fighting that enemy if you had a smaller group,” Rune said. 

“We’ve managed,” Immortal replied. 

Although Iblis, Anular, and Paradox had joined for the bigger fights, he wasn’t sure if they counted as allies. Their loyalties laid elsewhere, not in him. Anular followed wherever the corrupted queen went and Paradox had a separate agenda unrelated to the El. It was better than no help at all. He wanted to offer the two El Search Parties more than that. No one deserved to barely scrape by with burns and blisters on their sides. 

“I hope we get to see each other more after this,” Knight spoke up. His voice was quiet, but firm. There was determination in his tone. “Not just to help each other, but to talk. It would be nice to stop thinking about saving the world for once.” 

“You need to come visit!” Rune exclaimed, “Not sure how similar our worlds are, but it would be nice to take a break once in a while.”

“That sounds nice,” Immortal closed his eyes. 

Yeah… he liked the idea of that. When was the last time Immortal rested and didn’t stop to think about the state of the world? Traveling with his friends for the last several years was fun, but it’s been months since Immortal got to enjoy himself. Maybe he could ask COBO services for suggestions. 

“Elsword!’ Nova’s voice forced him to blink and look up. “Glave said he’s ready!”

“What do you know, it’s already time.” Immortal murmured to himself. “Guess it’s time to watch the world end.” 

“It’ll be okay.” Even Knight sounded unsure. He turned to Immortal for help, “Right?”

“Guess we’ll find out very soon,” Rune had an uneasy smile. “We have the front row seats to watch it unfold.” 

Immortal wondered what went through Rune and Knight’s minds as they passively sat there and witnessed a cruel image. Displayed on multiple screens was the same climatic scene of a redden world. Varnimyr was already red from the chaos caused by Rosso, but the portals have crushed the mountains and trees that made up the region. They dissipated into fine dust and sucked into the portals. The inhabitants’ cries were silenced by the light. 

A blinding light flared from where they stood, beaming downward into a distant galaxy containing the demon realm. Immortal watched the light consume what was left of the crumbling dimension with a promise of starting anew. His very being felt electrified in response to the Dark El in the demon realm inverting on itself.

Glave remained standing in silence. His fingers traced over a diagram of portals overlaying between different spheres of galaxies and interdimensional planes. The display of writing and symbols meant nothing to Immortal. 

“I look forward to watching the three of you make use of the reset” He heard Glave chuckle, “Don’t let it go to waste.” 

He watched as Glave manipulated something to make the lines intertwine before his body snapped into shock. Unable to hold his head up, Immortal lost his focus and closed his eyes. Glave’s laughter echoed in his head.    

[obviouslyelementary]

Nightmare - reed900

It was bright.

Everything was so god damned bright!

The chairs smelled like new rubber, the walls were pristine clean, the floor reflected the image of whoever walked by, and it was insane how different it felt from a hospital, even if in theory should be one.

The hallways were quiet and there were bright lights everywhere. There was no peace, no dark spot to hide in, and the longer he stayed in that god forbidden waiting room, the more he felt his insides twisting and turning, his hands shaking and the sweat coming down his temples as he avoided any water from coming out of his eyes. It was too fucking much, and he was alone.

Alone as he always was.

No one to hold his hand, no one there to talk to him. He looked around slowly, trying to find a living soul, but his eyes moved over the glass walls in front of him and immediately drifted back down to his lap. He couldn't look up, he couldn't face his worst fears. The steady beeping was still ringing in his ears as he tried to push himself away from that place.

Why was he always alone?

He let out a sob, small and quiet, and covered his face so that no one could see him cry. There was no one to see it, but even so, he wanted to cover himself up and make sure that nothing, no one, in no way, would see the tears that left his eyes and got soaked up by his jacket. He was tired-no, exhausted, and he didn't know how he was going to deal with all the feelings that stormed through his insides. He just wanted to leave, but he couldn't leave.

He would never.

Days seemed to pass right before his eyes, and there he was, sitting on that same chair, with doctor Maria standing in front of him. She was saying something, babbling about it, but he couldn't hear it at all. He knew what she was saying, he didn't have to hear. When she left, he saw the body in the next room rise, and his legs pushed him up as quickly as they could as he ran inside the glass room, breathing hard as the tears went down his cheeks.

"Nines..."

"I am RK900, the new Cyberlife prototype, ready to assist you" the android responded, cold and stoic, and he felt like he lost his ground, falling into a large abyss, his heart ripping in half.

No, no, no, not this, not like this.

He reached up as he fell into the darkness, while Nines stared at him from the top of the canyon, surrounded by light, a light he couldn’t reach, he could hold onto, and he did nothing to help, Nines just stared, cold, lifeless, as he fell deeper and deeper, screaming, crying, trying to hold on to anything.

 -----

Gavin gasped as he woke up, jolting awake and sitting up in a quick movement that would have left him dizzy if he wasn't with his adrenaline up to the highest degree. He breathed hard, panting, staring forward at the TV, feeling himself all sweaty and gross, a single tear coming down his eye before he wiped it quickly and looked around, desperately looking for something.

His cat meowed in annoyance as he moved over to grab his cellphone, taking a few tries to finally type the right password, before he pressed his emergency contact and closed his eyes as he waited for them to pick up.

After a single ring, there he was.

"Gavin?" Nines' soft voice came through the line, and Gavin let out a gasp he didn't know he was holding, holding his own tank top tight in his hand over his heart as he immediately tried to control himself. Everything was okay. It was just a bad dream. Just a nightmare. "Gavin? Gavin are you okay?"

"Y-yeah tin can" he said, his voice breaking slightly as he sniffled and let out a relieved sigh. "Yeah... I'm fine."

"Are you having nightmares again? Do you want me to come over?" Nines asked, always worried and ready to help, but Gavin just shook his head and laid down again, reaching for the cat.

"No I'm good now... I just needed to hear your voice" he admitted, quietly, looking down at his purring cat as he held the phone tight in his hand. "Can you come over in the morning? Like breakfast time?" he asked, knowing Nines would want to talk and there was no way he would talk about any of that at work.

"Yes of course Gavin... call me if you need anything and please try to get some more sleep" Nines said, knowing what Gavin meant by coming over, and letting him rest again. Gavin smiled to himself, closing his eyes again.

"Will do. Night Nines."

"Goodnight Gavin."

 -----

When Nines arrived at the apartment, it was seven sharp. Gavin opened the door, still somewhat sleepy from waking up fifteen minutes ago, but he wiped the sleep off his eyes and yawned as he pushed his hair back. Once inside, Nines closed and locked the door and looked at him worriedly.

That look plus the silence that followed was enough for Gavin to simply lean in and steal a kiss from Nines that left his little LED yellow. How had he found himself such a shy little android?

"Morning" Gavin said with a loopy smile, heading into the kitchen where his cat was already making a fuzz about food, and Nines took a second before he followed him, both easily falling into their little places as Nines served Gavin some just made coffee and Gavin made sure to clean his cat's bowl of water.

They stayed in silence during the chores, cooking breakfast and watching the cat, and once Gavin had some eggs and bacon with some side coffee and Nines had his daily thririum dosage in hands, they both sat down and began taking their breakfast together, both knowing the conversation was about to start.

"So... Was it the same nightmare as before?" Nines asked, softly, breaking the ice, and Gavin had to hold back a sigh. In a way, yes. He had been having nightmares like this for a few weeks now. But also no, because he had never told Nines about them, so Nines probably thought they were the same nightmares as in dying alone in the cold winter.

Oh how times had changed.

"No" Gavin said, taking a gulp from his coffee and sighing. "In fact I have been lying to you for... a few weeks" he added, and watched as Nines' LED turned from yellow to red and his eyebrows furrowed. "I have stopped having that nightmare about me dying in the street for a long, long time now. So every time these last weeks when I told you they were that nightmare, I was lying. Sorry about that."

"Gavin..." Nines said, and the disappointment was real in hi voice. He stopped and let out a calm sigh before his LED turned yellow. "Look, as much as I understand your need to keep things for yourself, and I respect it, I also know that lying isn't going to make you feel any better, if not even worst. So please, next time you don't want to talk about a subject, just tell me so. Don't lie."

"Easier said than done" Gavin chuckled but when he looked at Nines, he furrowed his eyebrows, making Gavin's cheeky smile disappear. "Fine fine sorry..."

"So now... do you want to tell me about that nightmare or would you rather we forget about it and move on?" he asked politely, and Gavin let out a deep sigh before shaking his head.

"No I wat to tell you. Maybe that's the answer to stop having them" he said, looking at his eggs before looking back up at Nines. "My nightmares have to do with you."

Nines LED turned red for a split second before turning back to yellow, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Me?"

"Yes you" Gavin said, pointing the fork at Nines with a fake frown and then chuckling. "Don't worry it's not... um... I'll explain it to you. I keep having nightmares about when Ada corrupted your files."

He gave Nines a keep look and the android seemed to relax a little at that clarification.

"What about it?" he asked, and Gavin sighed, playing with his eggs silently.

"Well... there have been different iterations of the same nightmare... in some you just... don't wake up and they have to destroy you. In some you simply stay in a coma forever. The one last night... you woke up, but they had to reset you so you didn't remember me at all" he said, softly, and looked up at Nines again, to see his worried little robot face. It would be adorable if it wasn't making him feel so vulnerable. "Stuff like that..."

"You and your nightmares about things that did not happen" Nines said, with a small smile, trying to lighten up the mood and indeed making a small smile show up on Gavin's face. Then he turned soft and moved his hand, offering it to Gavin, and it slowly turned white and robotic as it always did. "I'm here."

Gavin almost, almost let out a sob at that, but he didn't, simply letting go of his knife and holding Nines' hand back, feeling the cold android surface, the little lines that made his circuits and wiring... he was beautiful, and Gavin didn't know how to deal with that very well.

How had he turned out so lucky?

"I really... really don't want to lose you" he whispered, tangling their fingers slowly, and looking back up at Nines, seeing him giving Gavin a smile.

"And you won't. I'm right here. For whatever you need, Gavin" he said, firm and sure, his LED finally turning to blue. Gavin sighed and stood up, leaning over the table and holding Nines' face with his other hand after letting go of the fork, lifting his head up and kissing him slow and gentle over their food, just because he really wanted to.

He was scared of giving himself so openly to someone, but he felt like Nines was his most secure bet, and the one he truly wanted the most. And he would probably keep getting nightmares, but he would always have a safe place to go, no matter how bad the dream was.

He wasn't going to lose his Nines, not now and not ever.

[paopuofhearts]

I’m dealing with a lot of emotional junk and this is just an absolute projection of all of that. It’s a wild fucking mess, my pals. But cathartic for me, so.

Still Star Trek, still Chekov, still very much on my Scotty/Chekov/Jaylah pairing - but this time with a bit of Spock thrown in.

JewishJanuary [ @jewishjanuary ​], Day 3: Shabbat.

Where has this week vanished? Is it lost forever? Will I ever recover anything from it? The joy of life, the unexpected victory, the realized hope, the task accomplished? Will I ever be able to banish the memory of pain, the sting of defeat, the heaviness of boredom? On this day, let me keep for a while what must drift away. On this day, let me be free of the burdens that must return. On this day, Shabbat, abide. Let me learn to pause, if only for this day. Let me find peace on this day. Let me enter into a quiet world this day. On this day, Shabbat, abide.

Out of all 432 personnel on board, 34 cycled in and out of the designated Friday after-shift celebrations. It was the responsibility of the Alpha shift was to set up in Lieutenant Cohen’s small private room - one of the few to have their own room, for the sole reason of also being a designated rabbi for the ship - and they would light their own set of candles, sing their own set of songs, and feast until Beta shift. Beta shift would support the transition, resetting the room for their own after-shift celebration. Partway through the transition, Cohen would be tapped to take rest and bunk down in another’s room, a volunteered rotation schedule of its own. It was the responsibility of the Gamma shift to clean his room after their own designated celebration, ensuring whatever challah crumbs and wine stains were left spotless for the next day. 

It was a challenge, given that very few of them shared the same backgrounds - not only differences among the Terran branches of Judaism, but the cultural changes that evolved in other species that encountered the religion, whether through marriage with Terran family members of their own or conversion after being introduced to it. It was a challenge, given that some kept kosher and some did not, and some had had to develop their own versions of kosher based on their own planetary and biological systems that were so very different from Earth. It was a challenge, but together, they somehow made it work.

He was supposed to be heading toward Cohen’s quarters, but instead found his feet wandering of their own accord down the other hallway, only a handful of steps behind his superior officer.

He had been working on and off with Spock for several weeks, picking up the ropes of science officer duties out of curiosity more than anything else. Working under Scotty two years prior had been quite an experience - and taking over for him had been a hell he wasn’t willing to go through again. And while Jaylah had gladly taken up the position of Scotty’s understudy, he wasn’t about to entice the possibility of being placed in such a role again. So instead, he shadowed Spock, watching and learning how to apply his knowledge in the sciences to the unknown - though usually, this just meant he was squared away with cataloguing and notetaking new findings, simple and tedious archival duties.

Yet it had been soothing, doing something so relatively mindless, after the larger fallout he had stepped into earlier in the week.

It was hard, feeling like a third wheel in his triumvirate. Jaylah, being Scotty’s understudy, spent almost all of her time at his side. Yet as navigator, he was holed up on the bridge, only seeing them on the off hours of their shifts. It had caused a streak of jealousy to grow, insidious and twisting as it rooted deeply into his heart. It squeezed around his ribcage, thudding relentlessly in his chest, and burst into the world as it poisoned his lungs and wormed its way through his tongue.

It had been the first time in a long time that he had had to retire to his own quarters and laid alone in a bed with nothing but his thoughts plaguing his mind.

“Is there a reason you are following me, Mr. Chekov?” Spock’s voice broke through his thoughts, nearly causing him to stumble into the man. They had stopped at the door of his room, and the Vulcan raised an eyebrow in wait for him to answer.

“Ah - yes, sir. If you - if it’s - I have a question.” It was a deeply personal question, and one he wondered if he should even ask. He looked at the wall across from them, hoping the shame he felt wasn’t visibly burning across his cheeks.

“And what is your question?”

A beat, a moment of silence, as he fidgeted and rocked on his heels.

“Could you - ah - would you - “ He paused again, frustration welling up at his nervousness. “I need help meditating.”

If Spock were more human, more emotional, Pavel was sure the stone faced expression would resemble something akin to shock. It was quickly overshadowed by a tilt of his chin, perhaps the most he would show of inquisitiveness.

“Come.” Spock opened the door to his quarters - dimmed and warm - and Pavel followed close behind.

Everyone’s quarters were relatively minimalistic, but he was admittedly a bit surprised by some of the more intimate touches in the room. A copy of Alice In Wonderland upon the nightstand, a picture of his family, most likely, perfectly aligned next to the computer terminal, with a 3 Dimensional chess set on the other side. A Vulcan lyre and bell set hung on the wall on either side of the bed, and something akin to a lirpa was set above it. A strange collection, to be sure.

“Sit.” Spock gestured to the two flat pillows he had pulled out from a drawer, placed on the empty floor space. Pavel did as told, picking the one furthest from Spock. He watched, entranced, as the Vulcan pulled out two candles from the same drawer, placing them on the small table at the foot of the bed.

“I believe you are more used to partaking in this with the others,” Spock stated, joining Pavel on the floor. “I prefer to do this before meditation, alone. But I will make an exception for tonight.”

He handed Pavel a match, nodding toward one of the candles. Together, they lit them, and once more Pavel was surprised, this time by Spock’s perfunctory use of Hebrew.

“I do not drink wine, or eat before meditation.” Pavel shrugged, still remaining quiet. Spock was not one to ignore such a thing, especially from one usually so energetic and animated. “I presume there is a reason you have asked for help in meditating, even going so far as to seek me during shabbat instead of joining the others.”

“Have you ever been jealous?” Pavel asked.

“Yes.” While Pavel knew Spock carried emotions, he did not expect him to be so upfront with them. “Perhaps not in the same way you understand it, but yes.”

“It is interfering with - everything,” he admitted, frustration seeping through his voice.

“It is easy to let emotions control you. It is harder to let them go.” Spock shifted. “Straighten your spine.”

Pavel did as told, and closed his eyes.

“Breathe deeply.” He did so, feeling his shoulders rise and relax.

“Think of an object.” He imagined the candles before him. They were plain white candles, nothing too particularly special. But he could see their flames in his mind: the thing bound wick, braided and twisted upwards, caught with the brilliant blue surplus of oxygen blending up into the dark crackling of yellow-orange carbon, reaching to the stars in a thin line of bright white molded by the convection of the flame.

“Begin to clear your mind of the details of the object. Shape the object into another object.” He tried to shift the flame, but only pictured it wavering. He squeezed his eyes, trying but unable.

“Now, think of your mind as a dilithium crystal. Concentration must be an intensive focus. Gather your energy, and direct it there. Gather your intelligence, and direct it there. Gather your emotions, and direct them there.” He wiped the candle from his mind, instead picturing dilithium. He could picture the pulsating light, surrounding the clear shard - transparent, like glass, glowing brightly. He imagined wrapping his energy into a tight ball of light, beaming it into the crystal as a transporter. He imagined compressing the books he had read into a line of data, beam it into the crystal as a transporter. And he imagined his hands, unwinding and unraveling that weed of jealousy entwined in his heart. He tried to trace his steps backwards, noting every moment of mistreatment, of coldhearted action, of glacial bitterness, sharp knives that cut a rift between himself and his partners, widening the divide into a gaping abyss as the roots creeped deeper, crushing as it became more rigid -

“Do not hold your thoughts - do not suppress them, or try to control them. Do not center yourself on these thoughts. Do not indulge in these thoughts. Do not suppress them. Observe them, watch them. Walk past them, and let them flow through you.” He imagined his hands dropping the vines, and the vines began to snake around him, choking him.

He opened his eyes, anger pulsing through his body.

“I cannot - “

“You can. Close your eyes and try again.” Spock sat silently beside him, simply waiting. Though his eyes were closed, it was as if he could sense what Pavel was doing. He was unmoving, like a statue - firm, solid, unwavering. Yet it was softer than his rigid jealousy - grounding, patient, safe. And so he tried again, imagining himself in the midst of the vines, lost and untied to anything but for the crystal in his hand.

“Label your thoughts gently.” He imagined thin strings dangling from the vines, small tags attached to their ends. It was reminiscent of the old antique stores of his hometown, small and dusty, with treasures stuffed away on the unreachable shelves of tucked away corners. 

“Cut them off and return to yourself. Breathe.” He stood among the vines, holding a crystal as a knife, and slowly began razing the vines to the ground. Yet no matter how many he cut away, there were always more ready to take their place. It was never ending.

“Breathe.” He took in a deep breath, feeling his hands shake. “Listen. Heed what is in your heart. Accept what lies there.”

He stayed in that place, watching as the vines swayed. He breathed - in and out, listening to his heartbeat. He began to count each vine as a heartbeat - one, breathe in, two, breathe out - slowly walking among them.

“Listen. Heed what is in your heart. Accept what lies there.” He imagined himself holding the crystal - his focus, his center, all that he was gathered into a tiny shard - and imagined a spark of light, reconnecting to where it was meant to be. Down in the depths of the Enterprise, settled into the heart of the ship; the core of their world. It was not meant to be entrapped in this jungle of jealousy, but placed reverently into its holding, where it could use its energy instead of lying listlessly in the middle of nowhere. The thin spark of light pulsated through the vines, guiding him away.

“Walk past your thoughts, and let them flow through you.” He felt the vines fall away as he walked, the ground becoming solid steel as rafters and ladders and walkways sprung up: the engineering room rising before him. Jaylah and Scotty, waiting for him.

“Breathe, and open your eyes.”

His cheeks were damp, and he sniffed, not realizing that he had started to cry. Spock nodded in acknowledgement, the gazed back at the candles.

“Maintaining balance is difficult. In our line of work, we walk upon a narrow tightrope. But that is why we have shabbat: this is our moment of rest, to recenter ourselves on what matters most.” He stood up, and Pavel followed, unsure of what to do. “I would advise you to talk about your emotions with those who you feel such ways toward. As I have learned, open communication is key to maintaining relationships.”

“Thank you.” Pavel wavered, his body thrumming, wired to run back to Scotty’s quarters, to throw himself at Jaylah’s feet, to beg for forgiveness and understanding. But he did not wish to seem ungrateful. “I am - thank you.”

“What is, is. And in accepting that which is inevitable, one may find peace.” Spock placed his hands behind his back, stepping aside to leave room for Pavel to leave. “If you need future assistance in meditating, you know where to find me.”

Pavel nodded and took his leave.

As soon as the door zipped behind him, he sighed, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He did not feel very changed, and yet - and yet he did not feel as burdened as before.

He did not run, as he had imagined, the buzzing feeling beneath his skin fading into a deep seated exhaustion. But he walked, determined, humbled, breathing deeply as he found his way to Scotty’s room, down towards the depths of the Enterprise herself. He carefully coded the entry panel, his hand steadier than his nerves. His mind felt detached; he knew his mistakes, and knew his atonement, and knew that he must press forward and try.

The door slid open, and he saw them, lounging as they compared notes on their pad systems. A tumultuous wave pressed deep within him, but it was no longer the icy spike stabbing through his very being. A promising sign.

They glanced up, Jaylah jumping to her feet to welcome him as Scotty scooted off the bed, hovering in uncertainty. It felt wrong and broken, as if he were stuck in an eternal maze of shattered mirrors and could only see distortions of himself, unable to reach back out to them. Tears began to well in his eyes, dripping despite his attempts to rein them in. His vision blurred, but he could feel their arms around him, and heard their soft murmurs as they led him to the bed.

It was okay to be wrong, for perfection was not an inevitability. It was okay to be broke, for broken things could be fixed and repurposed. He could pick up those shattered pieces of his life and find a way to put them back together - not as it had once been, perhaps, but still made whole once more. He was here, and he was still loved. And in that love, that quiet space between them -

In that love, he found peace.

[spacedimentio]

Save the Light Impressions

I recently became interested in what Hessonite’s deal was and since it’ll be a long time before I’ll be able to get the game, I decided to just watch a cutscene compilation (this one, if it matters: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jy5tOb3gzLY). Dunno why I’m taking down all my reactions, just cause it’s fun I guess. Enjoy

RIP Car Wash

What even is the prism? It's not a gem, right? But it's clearly got conscious thought, even Hessonite talks to it like a person

haha Greg called her a glittery space lady, accurate

it's a little OOC that Greg wanted to come along. at least he's having fun tho. aww, steven's so proud of him :D

actually, what's Hessonite even doing. Why didn't she fuck off back to space once she found the prism

yeah that's totally not a triforce with six arms or anything. it's not the diamond authority symbol either i don't think, the triangles in that all meet in the middle

Mayor of Bummertown

I would have named the boss Dave, zero hesitation

"Our prism is in another castle!" i love you steb

oh no, bad memory time at Bismuth's forge :( I hope she'll be playable in the next one (i would scream forever if there was a playable diamond)

did Steven really just answer the phone with Myello? Oh IT'S PERI. Aaaand we're learning about RPG mechanics. Meta.

frozen donuts are a thing?! :o

it's her. the square. she seems to be almost identical to how our peridot used to be, so i wonder what the difference in personality is. Aside from her favorite insult being pebble instead of clod

ah yes, ye old tennis match

man i love that you can form fusions in this game

oh lord, i don't wanna imagine what chaos would happen with two peridots. also Greg is taking ice damage during the cutscene, help him

oh no, they're meeting. of course the first thing Squaridot says is "WHY ARE YOU NAKED" (and they obvs flipped her sprite cause the gem's her other eye now)

hey look, new insults for my list of gem related curse words

weird, angry mirror indeed. imagine what they could do if they were friends!

oh RIP. why do you get to choose who murders Squaridot. I hope for more multi-peridot action in the future

wait, what machine did you rip that off of and when

i already knew Peri was playable but it's still cool. i love how she flutters her feet when she jumps! i wonder who the DLC character is going to be (lapis, probably. Bismuth would be metal, though)

"Clod-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named" oh my god i love you

"Whatchu talkin' bout Peri" the best, they're the best

Oh so wow, Hessonite is THE Hessonite, huh. Real famous. If she came out as a Crystal Gem, it would sure cause a stir

Yeah I was also wondering why she's sticking around instead of just leaving? and she is kind of leaving her troops scattered all over the place with no rhyme or reason

these are great names. The Great and Terrible Spikey McSpikeball! of course the guy playing picked the most boring one

i love how Peridot just fucking yeets her tablet to attack

sugilite tiny!

you know, i was gonna get this game anyway at some point, but it's nice to know that it's the kind of rpg i like, one where you can participate in the attacking and blocking process.

how dare you switch out peridot for pearl. you know what, next game i hope you can be everyone all the time cause there's too many good characters to pick from

whatchu doing up here pizza lady

yeah they just...all ran right in front of her directly in her line of vision and she didn't see them somehow

oh the prism is resisting. it really took Steven's words to heart last game

Hess my dear, is this prism your only friend (oh my god that's totally it isn't it)

is the wiki sure she can't teleport cause holy fuck is she fast

"Gugh, Peridot, this is just like when we tried to hunt you down. But worse...cause, y'know, she's actually threatening." rude

huh. i don't remember the pyramid temple blowing up and leaving debris, i thought the whole thing disintegrated cause it was a construct of the gem it was housing. looking at screenshots of Serious Steven it definitely did explode

are they really trying to tell me there was a pyramid under the pyramid and no one noticed

call it the Spooky Basement! call it the Spooky Basement! you disappoint me, player, although Secret Temple of Secrets isn't so bad

*steven rolls cheerfully through a skeleton and then everyone jumps down a big hole* um

yo there's a mural of Rose fighting some light warriors! that's rad as shit!

*gets to the hallway with the torches that turn on as you go by* gee i sure wish i could watch this with sound, but alas i am recovering from ear fatigue and it would be a bad idea.

oh my god he reset her preferences no wonder she's pissed XD

HOLY FUCKING CHRIST RIP AMETHYST AND PERIDOT GODDAMN AND GARNET TOO PIZZA LADY STRONK

wow she really is a genuine threat, she forced Rose and Pearl to give ground back in the day

oh no you did not just say that Pearl should come with you. fuck her up, P!

also i just realized that she is really tall. like 10 feet tall at least

aw no fair you can't just flashbang them all you dink

oh it's sapphire. wait has connie even met ruby and sapphire in the show? did we not get to see it?!

where the fuck even are you guys, i could swear that connie and greg fell off the platform into the abyss

wait, they don't have new forms, did they even regenerate? i don't think connie was out cold for that long. did they even poof? i saw colored clouds of dust but no gemstones. i mean, i know this is a game and all but it's also canon so ???

and peridot is breaking the fourth wall by commenting how you can't force her to sit at home at the moment

ancient thingamajig. wow is thingamajig a real word, my spellcheck is not yelling at me about it

yeah connie! kick her ass for me!

since when are gems into riddles. i wonder if anyone has made much headway into translating the written gem language yet, last i heard they hadn't made much progress. apparently only Steven Sugar knows what all the symbols mean

wait steven was watching connie and greg's parties running around that whole time? i guess even the game never leaves steven's POV. where even is he, in the prism realm? oh, the place was turning pink for a minute until he went towards the sparkly thing

steven is always accessing memories isn't he. at least these aren't his mom's this time

you might be getting sick of her steve but i'm sure not!

from far away it really looks like she's chillin' with a martini glass and i was about to scream

corruption beam :(

was he just like passed out on the floor somewhere hallucinating

aww, he picks up the light steven exp by hugging it :o

"Just feeling a little...light headed." i...puns?

the Light Warrior is the final boss of the first game right? ...i should have probably watched a video about that one first

oh i just had a thought! if they make a third one then we get to have Rainbow 2.0 and Sunstone and Obsidian in it! :D

woah, trippy. tbh steven's connection to the prism is kind of strange. i wanna know exactly where that thing came from and why it's so deeply connected to him now. did Hessonite have visions like this when it was hers?

yeah that's... if a place is connected by warp pad, wouldn't it be easy to find by just warping randomly? unless separate warp networks are a thing but still, you'd just have to sneak onto a CG warp pad and go. ....how do warps even work, they can go through roofs and stuff and there's like this whole other dimension with all the warps like stars in the background and ???

how does the forge even do an upgrade with no Bismuth. maybe i should stop trying to fit this into canon details

what makes you think Hessonite could see you? is this some Voldemort Harry Potter connection shit. is that actually how she found the forge, this game ain't explain much

oh that's...that's a big oof. bismuth was working on a huge-ass statue of Rose before they got into their argument

"i saw her again" what no you didn't, that was just a white screen with a text box

"Beats me how any of this whacky prism stuff works!" ...i feel called out

why does that bigger spaceship look like a funky piece of headwear to me

well, at least it's closer than the moon

oh what, Lion didn't come with you? didn't you need multiple roar warps to get to space last time, just above the earth still seems kind of far, also how did he know the coordinates of the ship, he could have easily sent them all into the void

?! and then he's there?!? already asleep? how???????

aww what you're going to tease me with a citrine guard but not let me see her?

freaky. strangely organic looking technology is nothing new but i don't think i've seen stuff oozing through it before

"Look at you, acting as though you have the moral high ground!" *shakes fist angrily* She's like Emerald, but better! I can't

i guess he did kind of steal it, but it was more like finders keepers really

whuh has the prism always been able to talk?

"a Prism" oh no are there more? probably

woah that's a big boy. What the heck does Spectral Conclusion mean. and the prism is inside it instead of it being a separate creation, interesting

aww, it's looking at itself in confusion. Steven reaches out to it with his words, as he does

the prism isn't really...doing a lot of attacking (cause the player is picking the right choices probably). oh nevermind, it has a hugely damaging rainbow cannon

/r/murderedbywords, except in a good way

"Destroy Steven!" huh since when does she know his name? she could have gotten it from several places, really

oh oh oh! it's pizza time! standing in the middle of them is probably not the best idea, but look at her, she's exuding confidence!

wait wait wait, when the player used a healing move, did i just see an option to heal the prism? or at least, it's health bar showed up. is it gonna help later?

can i have like, a full sprite sheet for Hessonite please and thanks

if this was in the show, steven would be dead from that hit

aaand Steven did two points of damage with his shield bash, she ain't even flinch

pearl what are you doing

wow, she also only did a few points of damage

is Hess like, super tough. i love how much of a threat she is, cause most Homeworld gems we've seen aren't all that scary

oh! oh! you can heal the prism! that's probably how you damage her cause you'd be here forever chipping away otherwise

HOLY FUCK, SHE JUST DID 270 POINTS OF DAMAGE, THAT'S LITERALLY ALL OF SUGILITE'S HEALTH. I know the wiki says that attack does massive damage but jeezus!

so far the prism hasn't done anything, they're just chipping away at her slowly

oh, so gems do poof in this game. i guess we're just ignoring new forms because it wouldn't make sense in the timeline if we didn't

huh, does pearl inflict burns in this game? oh and she shoots fireballs, guess that answers my question.

it's kind of sad that the status is doing more damage than everyone else combined

whuh, she just attacked the prism! RUDE.

stop beating up the prism you degenerate! i guess i shouldn't be shocked

hey, Garnet and Amethyst are alive again. ah finally, some damage now that Garnet's lowered her defense

A-Amethyst, you're facing the wrong way. i wish Hess had targeted her with her big attack, then i could have made an "oh no she has airpods in" joke

oh, but the player formed Smoky, so she's not even aiming at anyone in particular anymore lol. she went for Pearl tho, fuckin' eviscerated

is this battle normally this long, it's been almost 10 minutes

this battle would probably be much harder if she didn't waste her turn being a bitch and attacking the prism. gee, and you wonder why it doesn't want to listen to you after encountering steven's kindness. i wonder...what would happen if you let the prism's HP get to zero? it would take a long ass time but...now i really wanna know but i doubt there’s any videos about it!

garnet's rocket fist did damage to the prism cause Hess is standing next to it. c-can you attack the prism, is that how you get the bad ending??

man, they haven't even had to heal because she's just beaten up on that poor thing for the past 10 turns. i mean, really, she could easily murder all of them in a heartbeat if she wanted

ok finally, she is defeato. I'd feel more sad for you if you didn't abuse your subordinates (definitely has detracted from my liking of her, i won't be too hard on her for it though because Homeworld is bad like that and she doesn't know better). at least you’re good at eating your humble pie without complaint

oh, i guess you get to choose your ending? it's kind of weird that it's not like, influenced by your game choices. cause technically like this it's your choice, not the prism's choice. so what was with the prism having health then. was it just to show how awful Hessonite is to it?

also, i can't look at light Steven without thinking of Pink!Steven and hhhhh

"You're a wise creature, aren't you?" Yes, yes he is *nods sagely* I hope you come back someday to learn more from him

You're pretty adaptive, huh Hess? of course, if you've been having these thoughts and feelings for thousands of years you're probably not too shaken up by the realization that they're true. That’s actually pretty great of you to want to figure yourself out.

ha, so Garnet didn't let her leave like the wiki made it sound like, she just yeeted away, and good luck catching anyone who can move at 5 million miles per hour

the gems are running in place in the next scene and Amethyst is backwards again. connie is also facing the wrong way. ...this game's a bit jank, isn't it :P not that i mind, a little jank is fun!

Peridot breaking the fourth wall with her Are Pee Gee again. I wonder which one it is. Golf Quest Mini?

do you get anything for 100 percenting this? oh, i guess there's achievements. no bonus content tho?

Lapis: I think I could use a break.

i for one would like to know what book the prism was reading. also, it's back to not talking again.

AWW YIS! We goin' out for pizza tonight bois!

The gems finally get to stop running in place in the corner

aaww, it's a beach scene reminiscent of the opening. kind of weird that greg is the only one animated but still cute

also someone's last name is Gooch and i feel bad for them

alright now to google Hessonite's VO... Christine Baranski. Are-Are we just hiring broadway singers for everyone now? not only would I die if Hessonite made an appearance in season 6, my soul would reach the farthest realms of space if she sang a song on top of that.

well, that's a wrap! time to jot down all of Hess's dialogue for later reference! It’s a crime that there’s so few fanfics about her, she actually has a lot of potential!

[thundrpilot]

BNHA Fic Rec 1/∞

BNHA Fic Recs:  [1] [2] Here’s a Fic Masterlist for my other fandoms. ( ** =  favorites )

  **Leviathan by rest_in_rip

Word count:  121,939 (16/?)

Summary:  Izuku's only truly used his quirk once. He was four years old. He took thirty-two lives that day. Now, he's sworn never to let that power possess him again. Hiding the true nature of his quirk from everyone, he hides behind the thin facade of a useless, showy quirk, refusing any and all connection to the mysterious creature recognized in a few sparse news reports as the Leviathan. Lies don't last forever, however, and one day or another, his world will have to come crashing down.

Comments:  If you’re having trouble picturing what Midoriya looks like as the Leviathan, in my mind I picture something like this. Also a song that I think set the mood for this fic are Oblivion, Everything Black, and Heroes.

  **The Dark Below by DarthPeezy

Word count:  228,618 (31/66)

Summary:  Izuku was never Quirkless. Sometimes Quirks hide until they are triggered. Izuku died and came back. He gazed into the abyss and it followed him home. Everything he thought he knew about the world is about to change because there are monsters lurking in the dark below. Izuku wonders if he is one of them.

Comments:  Very dark. Playlist recommendations... BLK CLD, Afterlife, and Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by XYLØ.

  RE: Izuku by thecozydragon

Word count:  9,124 (1/1)

Summary:  Wheezing through the pain, staring down at the body of an opponent Izuku should reasonably never have been able to take alone at his current level, Izuku realizes he just discovered a latent quirk.

“Fuck.” Izuku hisses. “That’s the worst fucking quirk I’ve ever heard of.”

It only activates on death. You have to die first.

OR... Midoriya Izuku's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day.

  **Yesterday Upon The Stair by PitViperOfDoom

Word count:  373,609 (55/60)

Summary:  Midoriya Izuku has always been written off as weird. As if it's not bad enough to be the quirkless weakling, he has to be the weird quirkless weakling on top of it.

But truthfully, the "weird" part is the only part that's accurate. He's determined not to be a weakling, and in spite of what it says on paper, he's not actually quirkless. Even before meeting All-Might and taking on the power of One For All, Izuku isn't quirkless.

Not that anyone would believe it if he told them.

Comments:  A song or two to set the mood... Carry You and Nobody Can Hear You.

  U.A. Unsolved by kabukichou (ameliafromafairytale)

Word count:  3,715 (1/1)

Summary:  “Hey there, ghosts,” Midoriya says, “it’s me, ya boy.” The dorms are haunted. Shenanigans ensue.

Comments:  Inspired by Yesterday Upon The Stair and Buzzfeed Unsolved, featuring an Izuku who can see dead people. This fic is hilarious.

  Ocean’s Boy by Cue2You2

Word count:  21,026 (2/2)

Summary:  Inko loved her son with all of her heart. And yet, if she wanted him to live, she’d have to let him go.

Given up as an infant, Izuku is taken in by the Bakugou family and is raised as one of their own. Until his thirteenth birthday unknowingly passes, Izuku lives a very normal life with his mom, dad, and brother, which is when he discovers that he might just have a quirk after all. 

(AKA the AU where Izuku is a merman, and, with his luck, it causes more problems than it should.)

  Equivalence by Stations

Word count:  54,189 (8/?)

Summary:  Izuku learns quickly. He learns he has a quirk when he wakes up screaming a week and four days after his fourth birthday. He learns his mother is sad when he hears her sobs and feels the heat of her tears radiating off of her cheeks. He learns that he can only gain if he first gives up - independence and happiness for his friend, the safety of others for his own, and for heroism, blood, sweat, tears, and time.

Or, Izuku's quirk allows him to attract objects hotter than his body and repel those that are colder, and as a side effect, he can sense the heat of everything around him. This really doesn't make his life much easier.

  and i’m pulling down stars just to make you glow by youreanovelidea

Word count:  3,798 (1/1)

Summary:  Midoriya Izuku is beautiful, he thinks, and any other words get lost in his throat because he could spend hours poring over dictionaries and thesauruses and he would still never be able to shrink the existence of Midoriya Izuku enough to fit into phrases and sentences. Midoriya is simply too bright and too much to be confined in that way, so he avoids trying altogether. He doesn’t know how to say iloveyou in words yet, so he exhales softly in the silence and hopes that it’s enough to send the sentiment into the atmosphere with a shaky release of oxygen.

(or, Kirishima pines with wide eyes and Midoriya responds with even wider smiles)

Comments:  Gives you that warm, fuzzy feeling. Kirishima and Midoriya are both adorable and I think the perfect song for this fic is Always Forever.

  Once Again From Better Days by limesicle

Word count:  47,924 (55/?)

Summary:  Katsuki wakes to find himself reset. It's a time when quirks are just starting, and he only remembers a bit about happened the first time. He remembers enough to know Deku is someone he hurt a lot. He remembers enough to know he had to watch Deku fall. He remembers enough to try to make things better this time.

  but you gotta get up at least once more by simkjrs

Word count:  104,119 (6/?)

Summary:  Izuku’s never run into this problem before with anyone else, but it’s still not much of a problem. “Oh, that’s alright,” he says. “I don’t have a Quirk.” Tsukauchi stares incredulously at him, and then looks at the iron bar that Izuku is currently straightening with his hands.

Midoriya Izuku does not let his lack of a Quirk prevent him from being strong. Also known as that one AU where Izuku follows the ridiculous training regimen of Saitama from One Punch Man and becomes stronger than anyone ever imagined he could be.

Comments:  A good song that pairs well with the Bakugou and Midoriya interactions in this fic is Worst In Me.

  BNHA Fic Recs:  [1] [2] Here’s a Fic Masterlist for my other fandoms.

[armoured-iron-geek]

End of Infinity War Theory FanFic

Based on the theory that this scene was indeed a vision of the future:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxkdS4TfGBo

“You could have saved us. Why didn’t you do more?”

That was the question he had been trying to answer since Ultron. He had tried to prepare for the inevitable by inventing, building, then improving. He wasn’t the only genius in the world, but he seemed to be the only futurist of them that cared to face the unknown, no matter how terribly his hands would tremble. He had been recruiting and negotiating with people, to bring them together as a united front, to face the horrors that the galaxy had to offer. 

And then the Accords and Siberia happened. By his own mistakes and the grievances of others, Tony Stark was very much alone.

Again.

At first, he had tried to hate those who had “deceived and betrayed” him, to allow the anger to burn and fuel his determination. In the end, his efforts to do so were fruitless. It’s extremely hard to steer hate towards others when the majority of it is already dedicated to hating oneself. Tony knew what he had done wrong and his part in the splitting up of the Avengers. He wasn’t stupid, he was well aware of the vigilante group his rogue teammates had formed elsewhere in the world. The fact that they were breaking numerous international laws wasn’t what annoyed Tony in the end.

What annoyed him was that a huge part of him wanted to be with them.

But alas, he never did pick up that bloody cellphone until Rogers had texted him with a very simple question: Do you need us?

And Tony had answered: Always.

One particularly devastating series of cluster fucks later, the Avengers, Guardians and whoever else was brave enough had succeeded in taking Thanos down. He wasn’t dead, but thanks to the combined efforts of Strange and Loki, the Space Stone had backfired on the Mad Titan, sending him to the every edge of the galaxy, weakened and sans Infinity Gauntlet. The threat was over....for now at least.

But...at what cost?

The Gauntlet was in a stasis, hovering in it’s own power, the light of which produced an illusion of a pedestal, making it the centre of a pure nightmare. It was like a sun which possessed rings of devastation, the bodies of fallen heroes laid and poised in the round. The further away the Gauntlet’s light, the bigger the blanket of darkness that draped the martyrs became. They were nothing more than fallen metaphors, a shell of the determination that once fired in their no longer beating hearts.

The majority had been taken out in the final blast that had lead Thanos to his temporary doom. The Soul Stone, however, could still detect one last, flickering life form in the furthest ring of devastation, slightly buried in a crater created quite early in the final battle. The Stone glimmered in interest; who was the last remaining if all the others were already absorbed and locked within her power? She wanted to pitch the question to her fellow Stones, but she could feel their annoyance at being abandoned and no longer being used. 

No, this inquiry was something she would have to partake in alone.

It wasn’t long before the subject of her interest came to, the being struggling to pull himself out from under the debris. She could feel his confusion and physical pain, his metal-clad body slowly making it’s way to feeble freedom. Ah, of course it would just have to be the human that seems to jest in the face of death over and over again. The one known to the galaxy as Anthony Edward Stark, AKA Iron Man.

Over with said individual, with a thick rub of his eyes after collapsing his broken helmet back, Tony could finally see again, his vision adjusting to the new visual circumstances. What he saw was the exact scene that had fuelled his night terrors for many years, with a few additions.

They were dead. They were all dead, Tony realised with awakening horror. He immediately felt tight in his chest, his breathing quickened to a dangerous pace and the armour he had once used as a defence mechanism became extremely claustrophobic. He staggered to his feet, fumbling forward a few steps while simultaneously pressing a pattern into the arc reactor with his fingers. The suit transformed back into the hoodie and tracksuit pants ensemble which Tony took as a cue to collapse back onto his knees.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

He huddled into himself.

They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead.

Clasping his fingers together didn’t stop the trembling.

Why did you let this happen?

The guilt came pouring out with his tears.

You could have saved us. Why didn’t you do more?

“I tried,” he wept, unable to look up, “I tried so hard, but in the end...”

I’m the man who killed the Avengers.

“Now that’s quite enough, Man of Iron.”

What the hell? Gasping, Tony shot out of his reverie, glistening brown eyes desperately scanning for the sound of that voice, so stern, yet calm. Several moments later, his emotionally fried mind managed to decipher that the voice had not been out in the open, but within himself.

“Who are you?” he whimpered.

“I am the entity that Know’s and See’s....not all....but most,”the voice said, seeming to take time with it’s words, calculating,”And what I See in you, I certainly do not appreciate. I’ve Seen broken and damaged Souls before, but never have I seen one so badly shattered by it’s own possessor. Enough is enough.”

And the Gauntlet lit up brighter than ever before, finally catching Tony’s attention, bathing him in a dense orange light. He was momentarily blinded, preventing him from realising that the Gauntlet was making it’s way over to him. 

He panicked, lurching into his unsteady legs as the Gauntlet came closer to his proximity. Tony staggered backwards, crying out, screaming, “No! Stay away from me! Stay back, please!”

The Gauntlet, unsurprisingly, ignored him, simply continuing on it’s floating journey.

“Please don’t! I can’t touch! I can’t have....,” Tony continued back away, “Please...” Suddenly, Tony could go no further, his back roughly slamming into rock behind him. He cowered into the rough surface, face turning away from the Gauntlet’s glow, “What do you want from me? What could I possibly have that you want?”

“There is a price for everything, but we will get to that,” the Voice responded softly, noticeably feminine,”We have our uses and I wish to offer them to you. They will not mind my brashness. They care not as long as they are not stuck in stasis. Any user is a good user.”

“No! I-I couldn’t possibly-”

“But look around, is this not the vision which has plagued you for so long?”

“.....Yes,” admitted Tony. He braced himself and turned back to look directly at the Gauntlet. All Stones had dimmed with the exception of the Soul Stone. It-She must be the speaker.

“A mere few minutes ago, you were wallowing in your self-guilt over your inability. We can provide you exactly that.” encouraged the Soul Stone, giving a flickering glimmer that Tony took to mean reassurance,“We hold no bias, Man of Iron. The fluidity of our powers bends to no one’s agenda, we merely adapt as we are needed. It seems you are in most need of us at this moment.”

Tony couldn’t stop himself from nodding in agreement. Even then, he retorted, “That’s true, but it doesn’t mean I should. I’m confused though...It was made clear to me that a mortal cannot wield such power-”

“Such a statement is crafted by fools,”snarked the Soul Stone,”And you are foolish to believe it even after witnessing Stephen Strange wielding my Brother of Time without a problem. You cannot physically touch us as a celestial or god can, but if you have enough will and courage, we have no objection to listening.”

Tony considered the Stones words for a moment, staring down at his shoes, taking in the dust and grime. 

“All you need is a vessel to contain us. Your armour would do well.”

“I just...I don’t think I could do it...That I should do it. Go back in time and start all of this again?”

“You doubt our abilities?”

“No, I doubt mine. I screw up nearly everything I touch. Even if I have the gift of foresight, who’s to say I won’t just make everything even worse?”

“You are needlessly doubting yourself again...”

“I have the track record to back me up.”

“Anthony Stark, are you not a mechanic? A tinkerer?” the Soul Stone was beginning to sound rather frustrated now, “You throw yourself into building your armour and technology with no abandon, why could you not build a timeline with the same efficiency and grace?

“With my tech, I know what I’m doing. The variables of...constructing a new timeline....”

“Is no different of a risk, simply on a far larger scale.”

“The biggest scale of all. Literal lives are at stake. If I were to mess up, people would die.”

“And this is better?”

Tony would swear until the day he died thatif the Stone had a physical body, that question would have been accompanied by a gesture to the devastation surrounding him. Taking in a shuddering breath, he shot a glance towards the nearest body, Steve Rogers staring out into the abyss of the galaxy, the shield Tony had returned to him shattered in multiple pieces. A few feet away, Clint and Natasha were draped over each other, having wrestled to cover each other in the wake of the final blast.

In his mind’s eye, Tony could remember the final moments of the kid he had grown so fond of, Peter Parker’s rasping breaths finally receding as he died in Tony’s arms. So young.

So many of them....

“No, this isn’t better....”

“Well then?” the Stone pressed.

“I guess...there’s nothing else to do....but try...” Tony finally conceded with a frown. He momentarily paused, following a random train of thought, “But you mentioned a price...”

“Indeed I did.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a simple trade,” reassured the Soul Stone,”Resetting the timeline of everything that has been is no small feat even for us. Personally, I stand to lose the power of the souls that have fallen due to this conflict. I can handle the loss, but I will want compensation. The trade is simple, Anthony Stark:the chance to rescue those souls.....in exchange for your own.”

Tony knew it would be something along those lines, but the thought still left him momentarily frozen in place, “You want my soul? But you said it was shattered, why would you want it?”

“It’s shattered, but the pieces have yet to disappear from your being,”the Stone clarified,”Your soul is amendable, just like the timeline through our influence. Should you succeed in your mission, I will piece you back together, than make you my own. Bring you into me. I assure you, there is no greater form of rest or peace”

“Rest...”

“Yes, Anthony, rest.”

Several minutes later, Tony was once more in his armour, but this time, there were six new power sources. The Stones had willingly detached themselves from the Gauntlet, the Power and Space Stones now on either shoulder, the Mind and Reality Stones on his hips, the Time Stone on his stomach and the Soul Stone taking the spot of honour, replacing the arc reactor in the centre of his chest.

“You’ve made a wise choice, Man of Iron. By providing the galaxy with peace, you will in turn, finally find your own.”

Tony merely nodded, steeling himself for what was ahead, eyes shut tight. Never again would he have to see all of his friends dead, for that is what they were, no matter what had come between them. The man Tony had been before Afghanistan would have scoffed at the thought of giving up his own life for those he cared about. That Tony was an idiot. The Tony he was now wasn’t much better, but at least he knew this one could improve. It was time to prove himself.

“Let us proceed.”

With a blinding light that stunted all of his senses, a great power reverberated around Tony’s body, spinning outwards, then pulling in, engulfing the mortal completely. The last thing Tony knew was a feeling of great relief before blacking out entirely.

It was his sense of smell that came back to Tony first, the scent of grease and metal immediately calming him down from the adrenaline rush. Over a matter of minutes, he could eventually feel the cold steel under his arms and recognise that he seemed to be bent over on some type of table.As he opened his eyes, his spatial awareness kicked in just in time for his hearing to finally register an extremely familiar voice calling to him.

“Sir?”

Tony groaned and started to wearily stretch his body out.

“Sir, I don’t understand what just occurred. You just appeared out of nowhere with the flash of a bright light, but my scanners failed to detect any energy signatures from said light.”

“Of course not, JARVIS, Infinity Stones don’t-....wait....J-JARVIS?”

“Sir? I don’t understand the confusion. Who else would it be?”

Tony, completely startled, began to take in his surroundings. He was sitting at a desk in a rather large workshop/garage. Expensive equipment was set up in the messy way that only made sense to Tony, a set of stairs lead to the rest of the mansion above, gorgeous sports cars were lined up against a wall of windows overlooking a wonderful view of the ocean.

It was Malibu. It was familiar. It was home.

“Holy shit,” Tony couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across his face in the revelation. There was one question that needed to be asked though, “J, this is going to sound odd, but can you give me the time and date?”

“It’s 9am,1st of May, 2008,” promptly replied JARVIS, “Miss Potts notified me to remind you that you have the flight to Afghanistan to partake in this afternoon.”

“To present the Jericho missile, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony gave a harsh laugh, “Yeah, buddy, not gonna happen. No fucking way. Here’s what we’re going to do instead-”

“But, Sir-”

“Get in contact with SHIELD and alert them to Uncle Obie’s hit order on my life. Hack his computer and phone, grab all the evidence you can. Then, alert the media to a press conference, Stark Industries will not be making weapons from here on out.”

“Sir,are you high again? Did Miss Everheart slip something in your drink that I can’t detect?”

“No buddy. Let’s just say....the future isn’t going to save itself. Are you with me?”

“With you, Sir? Always. Even if you’re not making any sense.”

“Love you too, J.”

[castlehead]

I’LL BE DONE WHEN I’M FINISHED: The Broadcasts of a Shit

“Still even wounded you do not see it. I can tell. I do not see it myself but I feel it a little.”

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms INTRODUCTION, MOSTLY APROPOS OF NOTHING: [One need not be familiar with an entirely new vocal register to understand the random streetcorner persiflage between the two working men echoing down the street, as cross and cross the Citizenry, who slave and slave to ignore it or any such jovial ballbusting.

Pavement radiating with dogday heat—I have engagements with others to get to and so on, one thinks. Harried in the city.

The interaction remains incomplete when the working men decide they must return to work. Attempt to sew up the awkward leave with a middling joke and a strong laugh from one of them echoing. Men as these they perfectly just almost overlook personal space. And then the punchline to take home. Priests that beg we make not too much upon their energies, right now. Not a warm leave but not creating a spat in the street either. Lonely persiflage between two strangers: talking about the amusing circumstance that since they are both stopping between deliveries from to to the other’s destination then nothing will get there!, ha ha ha ha ha.

And about how it must be to put food on your plate among the throngs on throngs of strangers striving for that same thing. And so on. No. One need not heed a variation of the idea to understand a whole language. Nor be familiar with every stranger’s voice in order to recognize words said in English. The ideas of one’s lover if spoken without the face to match them are the same ideas from someone else’s mouth. To these delicacies etc. I think I shall offer, uh, these my shreds of creaking strain, you say. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . It was the first noises of thought or perhaps one thought. Me fighting the indigestion of a death rattle once, at three in the morning. Noise of that was different from the noise I presumed was morning birds and the afflatus. It spoke through the web of obstacles into my wakening. Only first evaluated as a sweet monotony, similar to crickets out in the sticks. But nobler. Crickets that I hear once I am outside and finally smoke. One gets it already! Jeez. Without needing to be educated further, in the monotony. Will recognize it. No worries. Something snatches up from subterranean mind with the pluck of a young mole. It is exactly what one thought. If the thought is important it will quickly catch the verbal expression meant for it anyway, and this can be explained if one simply follow the journey. It is zen to say no destination is required but that is not quite what is meant here. Only, that no destination is required to plan to travel. One can have arrived last week in Baghdad and been introduced to boredom and status quo. A keeping of the peace with the redundant echo of gunfire far off. He remembers July fourth fireworks Ronnie let off when I was back home, he thinks; he travels across the sea back there momentarily, and is massively dissociated, by whatever timeless time he arrives there. Dissociation flares up so as to feel at home with the death and in any case it extends the story with a new and scarier human rhythm. On the other hand: somebody walks a few feet to the john at night, thinking that will be that after turning off the john lightswitch, only to study their issues and continue their own story after hours, for hours: at first they think to pass the time while they poop in silence but soon zone out thinking of whatever gripes in reach, soothed by their cloister. Reaching for toiletpaper. Futility. Environment of solitary misery. But simply follow the journey; that will locate its proper coordinates; the coordinates tell one where the journey will end. Herein is that voyage described till The Last Step that is taken . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .

CHAPTER 1 One already feels inclined to voyage beyond it. One is rightly consumed by the thought, along with other such beyondthoughts. Information rarely happens predictably. Its influence is across the many highways bleeding us in and out of this planet. It is almost respiratory. It is an influence to be loved because it will grow old and geriatric and vibrating, old like we do. Death resets the collective unconscious generation by generation. Squint your eyes a bit and look at it this way, maybe tilt your head. You’ll see that everybody on Earth or anybody at least on Earth who is a little wise is just like the elderly: Because we are eternally concerned with getting our sea legs, floating, and yet weighed down into the abyss by the gravity of years of knowing. This personal evolutionary process will repeat in the hearts of future people with little variation, recycling the same list of bullshit to choose from regarding what to let ruin your life. Imagine being atop a weathervane: it is the single fleeting chance anointed in youth. Anointed in golden drizzle. To hone one’s middle ear in preparation for when you are an oldtimer. Maintaining a frame of reference will be a day’s feat, and traversing a parking lot past all the needless circus will leave you confused at all the saturation of life around you, smacking at the sun’s aftertaste laboring.

If only we lived in Palm Beach Grant! Says your wife. Someplace where you can hear the ocean. You flip the shades up on your glasses and think that cellphones used to do that, mutter something about remaining a faithful luddite, about how literacy in computer coding will become mandatory one day, then try your hand at imitating this sort of fluoride stare you have witnessed in the eyes of many an Ipad person.

For you call them fucking Ipad people. Noticing currently that the virus has made a host of the young. A man can live easy there, you say; he says to his lover, Palm Beach the furthest thing from his mind; and what is in his mind the idea of turning back, at least to remind us where the car is. He says. A voice in the second person emerges suggestively again: you pass a burp from deteriorating lips. Then you regress a little and ask your mom if this is a good idea as if she were there, who has by now been doled back to God these forty years prior? That one sad thing left you almost kind of widowed. There are all these demons in people and all of them are buzzing words to me and causing an autistic scene, thinks one, one as you might be, that is; I find I panic less because at least I know my insanity belongs to me. All this pain of selves that offers no salve, and to which I am slave. They scream of no idea where I am. Demons. Pah. Disorienting like Vegas lights. I should go to Vegas. You think abstractly of some horrible radio song by this horrible band from the seventies. The group was called…America? You think thus: Some guy, you always forgot his name, the jackass, and an especial jackass tonight, you remember thinking, that night, or were straining to think, over that horrible song playing on the jukebox of the local senior honkytonk in a white as bleach neighborhood. He was being as usual a jackass, even fucking worse than a horse with no name, because he had one,—he asked you once if ever you grieve the mother’s milk she never supplied for the sake of her figure, and which she sold, the milk, not herself: she sold it being very poor. The jackass said to him in so many words it was a sacrifice never used to her advantage because it didn’t last long enough to put to any use besides fucking the townies. Because she died. You remember what you said verbatim: I am widower of the purity in fun I used to see, I guess, and then a memory invade your eyes within the memory: me, clutching my mother’s breasts when I was four years, but as one would plump a pillow, and upon worrying a nest together in her belly while she sat prone in an empty bed, falling asleep, and then promptly thinking nothing of any of this for the rest of my life. These past things that mean so much…you are not even halfway there, one thinks. And, panting and scorching, you are not halfway to the market. What is it you consider too elaborately now, and create pros and cons for, your wife saying that her legs are getting sore? Clear the hurdle and think it through once again without running aground: to turn around and brave passing a second time a group of obese children. Not even halfway there. Calling the World a place is a strange thing to do referring to it but it is one though. It is a place of consumers rattling their groceries forth. And children overfed to sallowness and spinning stimuli that destroy human will. Balancing one’s life is an imperative one assumes responsibility for. One does it, wreaks spirit from nothing, or gas, pushing a pedal to move the wheels. One credits it an absurdity to balance perfection. But those are never the cards dealt. The perfect life will live and make problems no matter what. Despite the job not be of any necessity for that perfect life; an imbalance to correct. The pediment will suffer the impediments of its inventor’s chiseling hand. Shaking. This weathervane we do not understand called contemporary culture might have done it. Yet after weathering the trial and error, when we finally find the right dance moves to keep us upright, a gale knocks us off the weathervane, and then we are old and out of the spotlight. People quake at this and also at the million things on the menu that could go wrong if you order the blowfish, which is the most expensive thing on the menu at this new Japanese place in town you’re trying out. Like the apocalypse for example. But that fate seems to remain a distant one for now or at most at a slow yearly crawl towards plausibility, almost offensively intimately close to that plausibility. It knows humanity is that stupid and won’t prepare but also assures us we are not stupid, ironically making us overconfident, and then we end up getting in range of it with the proverbial dick in hands. It crests like an infant’s head from the dilated mothervoid. In life, ‘how it went’ will not be obedient to the assumption etc. And the rustbelt politicos will show no mercy to the liberal elite, and vice versa. Aw hell: even talking about America for just a few tiny minutes is tiresome. Minutes shrunk to iota. Meaning: shadows of the circumference they once were. Minutes still taking as much time to pass as before the decreased radial stretch. Tires me out I think. Like an emotional undertaking or winging a pilgrimage to the girlfriend on a night bus like two hundred miles at the last minute, except in that latter case I do not feel empty getting off, the bus that is, the way I do when trying to have an opinion, which is a thing does not get me off: because nobody here realizes that America as it stands is a natural disaster. While its population drowns in the ocean, the pundit pretends to be embassador and the president a WWE wrestler for some reason, and it is only then ah I see what is happening like a damned Wordsworth who is looking out from bridge at Tintern Abbey. Ah I see. And I realize this is my privileged moment. Though I be not listening to quiet with an owl’s hoot interposing, though I be not sitting my pensive dourness on a rock in the thickets and marshlands; though this all be true of me not experiencing nor having experienced, I myself am, like God, incarnated as those spots of time. With one last breath before water floods in I see what is happening here, die, and then sink to an ocean floor before offered a chance to say what it is I see, instead, how selfish!, sneaking out to be friends with this human otherness of death I had heard so much about while living. One imagines it with delight: the fish and stuff. Oh I beg you watch in delight the placid amble of octopi among herds of bright coral wilderness.— . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . There is rarely a clear glimpse a fortiori before it is come across, what has been prophesied. And one must be sharp about the apocalypse. But this musing has no main purpose or pronoun. Guess it would be helpful to know the proper idiom for it, for what to properly call The Last Step? What to properly call the future that would bring you there in so calling? Something like a code for a safe. Something like, if one has a bondage kink, the safety word a kinkslave use when the endorphins start to dry and the pain is no longer pleasurable. If in the following any of this is made clear, great; one suspects the epiphany will involve backtracking: it will come in a place before, a field of snow you passed yesterday; using as breadcrumbs the indentations of one’s feet in the snow that you made yesterday. One had felt the epiphany there in that lonely field but refused to allow it signify the actual epiphany, because it was not the same as the ideal of it in one’s head. It manifests as something more obvious than one’s vision of it had attributed vast nuance to. Isolated and without fanfare you thought. But the physical manifestation of it yet resembles what the concept of negative capability elucidates. In words. Like, a signifying euphoric power, come upon invisibly and solemn once the place is synchronous with you. The power however is too powerful. Any mortal would be blind to a nuance so huge, and be eaten up. A power of God which probably would not stand for any refusals, especially annoyed if I was as close as my tracks in the field tell, one thinks. Refusals of spirit to maintain the logical familiar. But I now turn my back on that narrow humanity I fed once. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . At first any epiphany or finality will seem evil: rooted deep and tumorous in one and something you think is only for you, only you will find out you are deceived in this. It experienced by both the weak and strong the same way. It I make voyage to. Voyaging I shall reach it where it calls to me. I am created again: as the finality the self was waiting to be. After all this time spent in despair. Assuming I was done and the laurels crushed. God devolves in speech but that is our sole link, so then I apologize to God when I share God with the muse. The Last Step. That eh? Got to be kidding. But one still tries to speak it . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . If one is even to begin propagating a system of one’s rightful own, with any success, one must by then have seen the project through to its end. But where is this end? The last step is crucial, but it might not be the finale. Sure it knots it all up without being asked; knots up the whole conceptual endeavor to invent, not just the practice of inventing. So that it makes sense when the inventor reviews it later. Knots with an embellishing knit bow, striped in calming yellow shades. There were still all these spare parts thrown around the garage though. And the calming colors seemed not to be serious enough for the occasion, almost trying on purpose not to catch one’s eye, the rationale being to avoid the hysterics and cultural hype. Suppose then it must show itself with flair and finesse, at least if the last step has truly been reached. One would need to be assured this was not some ersatz participation trophy. Would need something flashy, not a dull yellow; help to jog the memory of inspiration and find the fact of the last step a fact present now, if it wasn’t when it first was but you hadn’t been, and this leads one to the revelation that the invention has been finalized past all remonstrance. You are there. Remember how the image somewhere hidden so long in the marmoreal sledge had been tunefully cut shipshape? That was now. And that the inventor can do no more is the beautiful reality; unless to risk summary perfection were the point. But then the years of hard work would have been just an exercise right? . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Just one or two pieces of evidence of possible mediocrity need come to the fore, however, to shake confidence that one is done—traveling from someplace far in one’s thoughts to the light of day; in fact, seeming to be from so perfectly remote a distance as to create the impression like it clued into something deeper one could not see. Then more evidence starts swirling in one’s head. But all that is is hearsay to attract the exigent attention of this inventor, you don’t even have your ear up to the door. You can’t know it is the actual truth. One thinks and thinks, with fear of this. This one might admit with no trouble yet by listening closer to the statement itself assume as one’s own the universal praxis supported there, but the other way around, the truth of nothing being true and this invention being the only true thing if of one’s artifice alone, or anything not just humanly made, manufactured, but made by the human that is you particularly, one thinks this or rather says this to themselves, clearer because thoughts are sensations to one usually, yet this in actual words in precarious head.

It might be a good idea. Be doubtful of truth the other way or anything’s truth. One can invent much to answer back in retort. Wrapped up in yourself, you get wrapped up in doubts that multiply when there is no outside objective answerer to stanch the seed, one thinks; in the privacy of one’s garage one thinks. God is not overwhelmingly organized like that though. Tapping the end of a ballpoint pen; it clicks against the surface of this desk I see before me and I making little neighing sounds with my mouth, one thinks: but you knew that already, oh my God who must know all. One must transcend mere certainty regarding when to stop though. Meaning that, like, to have a fight or flight knowledge of this. Hm. Challenging… It is that or to raise the stakes and for one’s own safety not endeavoring further. The options are those two. But the fight or flight stuff sounds more sensible. Like if one hopes the system they have made be christened done. Christened by fame too, that is; must treat the lumpy flaws like lumps of soiled laundry, not pets. But you are obedient to this command because it is easy: have already ushered together all the flawed stuff and left your flaws together in a disarray. All the loose ends and other haywire. One eyed every corner of one’s house for them flawed shits. It is a house more like a sanctuary for empty mousetraps forgotten about and other crap gathering dust. And then you must have pushed all that haywire and other shit up against the outside walls of one’s furnace, in one’s room, but you don’t remember or just the memory is hazy or something. Pin them against the furnace wall; think of it as if you were going to question them about money’s whereabouts. Like that show about drug dealers and bowling and the nihilists ask Lebowski where the money is. Where’s the money Lebowski? One will quickly realize this is useless, which is the point: jetsam and trash are a second and third language, and glory, no shit, one’s first. So, bummed about this anticlimax, the flaws, the lumps and laundry, disappointed and bummed at not understanding, vacate, and in very clear speech of step. Mysteriously almost wanting you to reconsider their death. They foot loudly down the hall to the front door. Ah shit. They are walking on the linoleum with shoes. I forgot to tell them. Fast forward hours later: withal that stressful furnace heat and the threatening of death and the communication barrier, bullying the flaws a sour fucking deed and making you feel bad for hours after,—withal that, by nightfall, one, uh, one thinks: I get to rest easy now: knowing none of the worthy spare parts diminished. On which did feed the dirtier stuff, laundry, and its heart of chaos: feed to the weakening of said worthy spare parts, almost to the point of a last retreat to yon deathbed, themselves and their worth going like the eyesight of a senile. Dirty laundry housed in your soul: rest easy: no, none of anything of worth had been injured by it. And you get why now: the flawed shit didn’t want to leave that sugar momma with you to use. For they wish to meld with your excellence, selfishly unaware that to do so would annihilate it. Later you found it out: because God told you in code through a friend you invited over, to see your invention finally integrum.

That all your pet flaws know this one natural rule was also a mystery, even to God. This rule about how if the dirtier flaws died you would go with them. Ironical duality that it is, you had not been aware of this. Why weren’t I told? But God invade the World in fragments that tell and tell not. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . It was just to give a scare anyway. The threats were. But still how callous. But for other reasons besides this a few miscellaneous fineries will become less fine if now you must stop before fleshing out them but they will be there when you return, for what it’s worth, so no harm anyways.

Good to be cautious of forsaking the sacred last step. Glossed over stupidly when they were spruce and shining, those unfleshed fineries withereth and fadeth. And then just ignored into neglect. One sometimes feels a broken record but this may be just returning to the same mistakes over, like, awhile. Dwelling on past mistakes over the course of years, of less proximity of repetition to make a pulse than a broken record technically; because afraid to mourn their loss once without a daily default to fill the void, or because not thinking of them anymore would assure the same faults of mind make the future a curse not mere benign fate, an inevitable river flowing for anyone the same if death could be considered all fates. One suspected it was in the early days of the system’s conception. When much for the sake of finesse would have been aborted, once the finesse overwhelmed the practical application of something else, as the what the design would be like thing began to take shape, two dimensionally at least. But for all that it was once merely a vision, not come in a dream but coming before sleep each night, right before. One thinks: Well in fact it was so often this imagery recurred in my head, always before sleep, that eventually the intending of a sign by something upstairs was clear.

After many occasions of this happening, I spent one morning doing it out. After the damasked vision with a pencil and paper.

Days passed; it began to take shape; or stuff was in the blueprints written after no sleep and then puzzled over later. Thinketh, one wastes time doing this puzzling until one realizes stuff drawn up in a dreamstate. Diamonds in the rough as these could be, God say, will have become less fine by now. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . But one will get to that when one gets to that, which is probably what was placated unto this inventor, exactly before one glossed over them, ha ha, you think, to yourself. And this thinks one, thinks one speaking it in the third person: in the tired cranium simultaneously focuses and forms a dialogue with the ghostly otherness. The one hinted at or like denoted by these freakish pronouns, and filed away under Interesting Possibilities. And so thinketh that some secret companion should be fabricated in everybody’s head, for their sanity really; I have a hard time believing this not to be in reality true, that people do this—you ‘thinketh’ pointedly. 

Might as well develop my otherness, then; whatever its makeup, since these many unruly threads and rosebuds that once entertained me will soon be on their way in the car bleeding down a branch of a highway not yet adopted by…whoever adopts highways. Has to be rich probably. Sadly they remain hapless, I mean the unruly threads and rosebuds among the invention’s wiring I pursue more, to flesh out thus: despite being told stop it for the sake of the final draft. Hapless, as jetsam of any kind will forever tend to be. Completely hapless. It’s like they think they are going to Disney World! But will be getting thrown into the local dumpster fire. That’s where I am driving now. To keep one in the loop with my looping disorders one might this very thing a’saith. 

My personality disorder will take up that hard job later of explaining death to what has been recently made, created. How alien that must be seen as! A perfection that asks, without a grain of artifice, that asks:

“father where did the flaws go to; uhm will they be back from where they went? [Inaudible] Be back right?” One’s system is a child still in fledge, luckily they are that. All the fucking dirty laundry will be gone: evil will be schooled and scorched for this system I don’t care how long it takes. Scorched off like pimples dried with cream. And then this pesky figuration visits the creating: because a wrench actually is in the machinery. Annoying the cogs. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . I think about it and say the following for any flaws still hanging around: really say, in English, at an actual hearable vocal register, and my voice, the flesh to drape over these words that are not kidding you, reader, now: “Hijack me? What gall you have, you will be taken to some warehouse of doom by my fucking cronies. There is gall even in thinking me weak enough to not need to kill. Because if anyone to kidnap my energies and sap them dry then throws me from the back of the van and gives me the chance to get back to my powers and get back at them, moreover, well holy hell let me tell you. Let me tell you: you are lowered to the status, in my eyes lowered, to the status of a mouse, one mouse. Or more forgiving: you are a cluster of mice in a gaberdine suit pretending to be a detective; it is that subterfuge that is the genetic structure of flaws, and perfection too. Your own genetic passive aggression does not help the obsessing over this mystery because something in the obsessing is not in hurry for the big reveal. That would be wretched. Ugliness in the light of day, and no longer something to pursue. One could die of this, really die. It is this or to have fought them by fighting everything in the World. Ha. Mice in suits…” Perhaps that is God said that. Also yet it is to have fought for them to do the same things to destroy them,—everything Earthly is lowered by reneging to ire. If especially it is welcomed into the heart for any reason other than to admit it is there, like to a friend or something, in the form of an apology. Like to a friend, for a situation or something: for them being the victim, unfairly, of this garbage affect they by happenstance had been at the butt end of. Ire persuasive enough to give one over to a willess moment and cause an argument no one will finish. For being is too tired. Though unlike most of the insufferable, which I am on another level, I do not hold grudges, whether I be misinformed of the fault found or not; on principle I cannot see how someone can bring the ire home. If such a thing happened! Walk not, no way; with such a heavy thing clutched to my chest? It would waste me. Maybe if I had not been angry for awhile. Then maybe I’d give in. And then still never without informing my family. It’s bad luck to lie to your family they say. Or don’t say. Or whatever. Like, it’s hard to imagine me being that fake pleasant sort of fifties era guy, like stuff you see on television from when everyone was afraid of communism. That episode of Seinfeld about the communist Elaine dates opened up new avenues of acceptance for the general public but that is a less obscure story. Command me, o God, that I come not through the door, hang my hat on a hatrack next to the door, and chime to a faceless honey that I am home! Like everything’s alright when the sincere and stupid melodrama of this is that it never was. Alright? Cue the listless sigh looking into the distance while I smoke, again. The habit is getting frequent again, more than before. Worrisome? Shit yeah. But: To preemptively suggest, to those soon to be, will be, in close proximity of your bad mood, like your family,—to do this it at least allows some time to handle nerves; and for someone, probably the mother, to cook up some calm. Surprise. It’s for you; she does it by adding oregano to the meatloaf. Just bought it today while you were out dear. What? Irritation. To the meatloaf, dear; I thought to myself, well, the stringbeans will be fine with a little salt as long as they are boiled right. Surprise! If even the son will not escape a beating. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Maybe if the knowledge of ire is gathered enough in advance, then, I don’t know, prepare a written statement, like Hawaii did with congress about the right to vote they didn’t have even though also a state. Look it up though guy!, on your iwire gadget kids have now. Belch, gurgle. That sounds right uncle Jay but I’m not sure it’s a historical fact. Son of yon drunk, oh, you are too much. Look it up see if that works mook. Ha. Hm. Sounds like something my uncle would say, though; I mean I am fabricating most of this so but it sounds like he’d say that and subsequently fall asleep. He’d be upright in a chair but spend the night on the porch like this when he was drunk and my aunt wouldn’t let him come in the house. Commence snoring loud enough to create voids and find yourself immediately an uncle whether or not you have a sibling actually. Their rhythm is mercifully left undisturbed by the son sitting there next to him who gets up on tiptoe to go inside. Aunt said once he needing similar treatment to a baby. If one hopes keep agreeable company with that man she said. The snores almost in time with the sway of the plastic lawn flamingos assorted on the front lawn in the wind. The snores are interspersed with yawns that kill the tempo yet introduce greater naturality in the diffusion, something like jazz. Flamingos. Christ why’d we buy those I’d hear him say I remember. Memory: I was with him at my aunt’s house. She kicked him out for good for awhile and I never learned why because they are both dead but my aunt was a weird one also. She wore a blue wig because of the stomach cancer. The chemo made her hair fall out,—and my uncle was bald too but that was due to stress and I never learned why that stress was either. The whole house stuck in the back when. Some professional astrologer/psychic from the sixties owned it previously, but that is a more obscure story. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . I myself do not understand wrath and do not inflict it upon others. It is wrong, but still something true. I mean about people. That alcohol consumption is in direct correlation to acts of violence is not surprising. Hyperbolic statements of love as well but that can be its own trauma. And if not that I were a pacifist anyway, nor yet lucky enough to make someone unlucky enough to love me, I would foresee abuse being the probable outcome, statistically speaking, in America. I would not hope for it. Oh America. Oh damn. Now then. I do not want to seem like I doth protest too much but ire I find it repellant and would have it expelled from the souls of people if it could be… But not even God can do that! This is a pessimism goes too far of course but I like its propounding way. So many, desperate for a stance to come from out of the blue, without work. On something they do not understand, no less. Just to be accepted! Do not nurse ire in such a way: and if you weren’t going to don’t get any ideas. And I do not understand how others can carry that with them. I have experienced that grudging pain, I cannot tolerate it nor even fathom how one lives like that day to day. Perhaps I am sickly and have a weak stomach, or something, a tapeworm, is in there, devouring my delicate humours. People live and remain alive though in spite of crisis. But to live and share a bathroom, with the crisis? 

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . A list of demons. We all have kept a list of demons. It helps inspire those who do live in fear of getting clocked over the moral limit, to find a priest. Oh! Exorcise these demons, through awful heinous extremes like domestic abuse. Fuck, probably more often it is an event at some quotidian thing, something to comfortably blow out of proportion with an arsenal of explosives called human artifice. Anger at the quotidian has more gunpowder for the fault being obvious in retrospect, after anger cools, and the one perpetrating, sober enough either to convince themselves of the lie about themselves, like lawyers do, or realize they and their shit personality have done wrong. Again. Maybe even realize they are trapped in how they are, moments before the onset of psyche’s darkness, then, the daily protocol moral amnesia; and then the falsehoods return in full force, like an evangelical getting lazy about saving face and tired of pretending to feel bad about the public exposure and outcry. 

Before the poetic justice of a cocaine overdose the deacon in question goes back to the usual raiding of collection plate to pay for gay sex stuff. He will give in and go downtown to diddle men who are strangers and this is fine but hypocrisy at this nuts level is not. After enough time has passed and some new outrage takes up the baton, he will do this. An event has extra gunpowder for alone the simple fact of being made mountain of molehill. It would not be so bad if it did not hurt anybody. Were it, were the memory of it not at times so twisted up by the drunk to protect an ego itself drunk on being a martyr, if ego can stand on its own as a self in some unconscious form enough to believe it is its own egg of individual experiences. Drunk, on being a martyr: for its vessel’s destructive habits. In the vessel’s recalling, it was right to act such a way. About whatever the problem was; and this tendency can lead one to memorialize oneself like they were dead. And perhaps they are in some capacity: trapped in dwelling. What is dwelled on isn’t important I said Mary! Getting sick of this highfalutin wondering of me, thinking one is better than others, the inventor thinks, then the wondering fades and comes back and then the inventor truly starts to think. The self is a code, not unable to be cracked, but which unlocks no truth without it tinged wrong.

Anyway I need therapist.

I, reeling, wonder at the people, not without some disgust too; the people who will sustain one perspective then ask to get quoted on their statement of another they post on the facebook or something, a statement which does not but they say does most represent their belief system then and now. This politics of absence, more specifically an absence of inner moral reckoning. Reeds who do not think they are reeds. Blaise Pascal. It is said that people are truest to themselves quiet in bed alone but that might also be one of those things people say. The opposite of that seems to be true. In my opinion, to them, the time a statistically normal person has to themselves, in privacy, offers up an opportunity to lie about how one is in the World, value systems, etc. In the mind of even the statistically normal person. Well. I sense most use their privacy; use it to reinforce lies with more lies. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . [Introducing. An androgynous character? Na just lazy writing. Here out, let’s call her, One That. She seems only convinced of how grumpy she is. One awake in early morning following thinking a few minutes still in bed if it is worth it to indulge only aggravation if that’ll be the day. Over some ubiquitous wreckage everywhere around. One that evaluates her day so far when it’s been five minutes since removing from bed. Really it is about waking up in the morning, and this wreckage she sees. Trying to be cute she makes the following complaint in the kitchen to an older friend or parent figure or one of the parents themselves. She says. Everybody bitches about it but nobody torpedoes the sun so there’s no transition anymore and we all can go back to sleep. One person to another person. Boy do they love smacking oatmeal while I talk she thinks, while talking. Click. Change the channel. Family Ties.] . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . As for people lying to themselves in private like they must do in public; or doing this when they have the freedom not to, uhm. Why choose this? Nobody is really listening to that fabricated narrative, anyway.

Who does the math, patents the equation, takes the time to lie to themselves in privacy: that the sincere, and morally better belief, is the one found once the self digs deep?

Believe sincerely what? Asks the ego, candidly. You are not sincere with anything! Falling on deaf ears. Impossible to do but not impossible to convince oneself is done. One does not simply alter one’s own repressed beliefs when to the self they are not known. And once found if they are there usually is no core change. I am not done nor perhaps done, nor are the chores, which the son’s lack of doing would lead to his being done in by father and a belt but that part is only sometimes. Depending on what it is and whether it was demanded of some fifties husband to be done by the time he gets home. O dear. So many are like this so then many victims. Thinketh this. And it be the thought of a moral God: demonstrate the desire to understand it in context. For to use it implies the plan, no matter what is naysaid: to inflict pain. Which is its only use. Ire I mean. And the only reason why one would poison one’s heart like that. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . In the context of that big ultimatum in the sky, nobody, nothing to be had down here, is really The Boss. I can see that now. Figure out how there will always be the other way that works too, sure: if one can ably knife through that fuss and shit about opposing sides. Move on. Think of all the stuff to move on to, like the sidereal shit, will you?, and walk your way onwards. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Here’s this. Ok? Think that you are a bearded fellow, supported perhaps by a wooden staff, walking in the woods, till you are upon unfamiliar grounds. Approaching the shade of a canopy you hear running water. The canopy opens out to the source: a waterfall is there beneath it pouring down. Foaming eternal form. A watery dynamo off the toprock. The lip of the waterfall is fibered round with bushes covered in mist from the spray.

Well, here’s this. If you must visualize something to hit it home, whatever ‘it’ happens to be or how it happens. Or wait: let’s start over. Let’s say: you are a bearded man, ok, and you have instead just found your way to familiar verdure. But only after being lost awhile. So forget the waterfall. So you see this path inclining out of sight, obscured.

The entrance being familiar you are not too scared, but what lays beyond the plaiting, a great, green folding of some interwoven trees you and your beard cannot determine because you have never taken that way. A dog is there. It is your dog. But the path, you follow it with your dog, thinking of certain complex things you think of. Dog hollers to snap you out of some forgetful revery. And you smile: you see the town off there, in the distance. Leave it to the Lord you say to the dog, who has no idea what you are saying because dogs cannot speak English. But the beard, it understands. You live in this town, by the way. Lifted from your daydreams lifting your head up. The World is fresh enough to appear fully. But like before for the entire life of you it was not full if it could be like this. O perfidious dialectical laze. Distractions only, daydreaming. Cool your addiction to it. Head is leant against your stick to shift the weight of thoughts to there. You examine the surroundings, head lifted up. That you are up out of the woodlands at the brink of a field. It is the only thing separates you from home. You and your beard seem to have known the way wouldn’t get steeper; it hadn’t. Let’s backtrack: Some agreement was made, somewhere, at the brink of somewhere, yes: to risk a steeper incline or worse getting lost again, both seemed likely. At the start neither of these possibilities are good and daunt the impractical choice when one thinks about it but you go and risk it walking out of sight into the mouth of the green growth in search of the porous spaces of wisdom that soak us in. You know, somehow, this being verified following some intuitive proof, to follow the path likewise. Follow it long enough that the highest point, not even too bad, once reached, gives you the relief of a decline from it to salvation: the air pressure returns to normal, and the village is in sight! That is how it went. Now back to the present engaged before: you think of your pastoral cottage there. A path that was a sky littered much with stars and the wisps of stars, but not too lofty and not for long. More to handle in a day than one is able seems a striking euphemism for death. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . So far one is open to taking serious all the friendly, mostly friendly, admonitions provided here. One in doing so will at least know to remain humble. The Last Step is for reeds who know not they are reeds. Believe instead that nobody inhabits those spiritual straits nor can. To put one ahead of God is to put words in the mouth of The Creator. Please. Nobody should feel enamoured with, or rather immured within, their own confidence like that: enough in love with themselves to start preaching the way to accomplishment, before accomplishing it. As if a human right were all personal and professional success! The concept is to be spoken of. Thereby not preached, but spoken of: a pursuit, or it is the chasing, of accomplishment. The roles of desirer and desired, usual principals to be played considering anything like ambition; are confused and shuffled up though.

Are aggravated, by the flurry of incidents befallen one who thinketh. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The accomplishment stagnates behind an idiot in the left lane: this sort of example or typification of an idiot preacherman. Idiot loser who does not get it. Like how is this supposed to work? Suddenly, at intervals between cruise control, a fleeting moment of torque and rev. Speeding; unpredictable like any idiot is. Speeding, only enough to but force the very divinities each that provide for the concept behind the invention, like a boat ribbed by the keelsons, each one keelson one that may linger behind this unvindicated asshole—forcing them heel, the divinities just trying to go to work, at just about the length of a tailgate, behind the idiot, who asks why they ride his ass so. And this is ignorance!

This is ignorance personified to show how ignorant it is the need of getting ahead of what is desired; and then, well, the asshole just remains squarely at that cruising speed! Forever. Maybe even desiring nothing in any case. Only yet another asshole on the highway. Meh. One who would be exampled on Earth among the mortals better, nor here in the figuration alone be an idiot, to be publicly characterized as an asshole by the civilians on the road about him who are not divinities in cars that are not divinities. Just to cover all the bases, I refer to most things as a metaphor for divinities. They are an unwilling audience nonetheless: to this holocaust of cluelessness’ bad manners. A torrent of highway idiocy. At least it comes with no torrent of rain they say: the highway is looking like it’ll have a rush hour for the ages later. And so on so on.

Cuts off the other cars, might cause an accident, the bastard: irresponsibly out of a recordbreaking degree of vanity in one recordbreakingly otiose. That seems to be it. Without ambition moving thus to escape having no dreams. Or does that cut too close you idiot loser? The wheel unconsciously clenched tighter by the handless hands of one divinity herein.

But without the chops to do anything beyond shoving a way in front. Only managing to slow down the moving traffic of these other divinities in their cars, accomplishments, in their cars, some fuming, some remaining aloof and sarcastic, some just as idiotically slow I guess—but, at least aware of this fact: who drive just behind and want no part of this idiot’s day.

Generally accepted as gospel: fear of the gaspedal usually ends up causing accidents, instead of actually abridging the recklessness also a cause, for sure—and this fear of the gaspedal is reckless for not being actually of the gaspedal; being in this case the sum of many kneejerk fears placed as one in a slot in the heart reserved for safe keeping. Fears, or a fear in the heart, so then within, as to the sanctity of their idiot owner’s soul. This idiot driver’s soul, how laughable!, who feels them all; and of a quality, ironically like the soul in question, of no such temperance, temperance as goes dutifully discarding all the fallacious nonsense, leaving only the essential nonsense.

And in this following a similar strategy of wanting it all and getting nothing as the idiotic contortions that subvert God: spoken of here is not just a loser on the highway. In being ahead of what is pursued so as to trump it. That’s what is spoken. And this is an illness of pride, of one’s own pride.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Where after all will finality be before it can arrive at where it is discovered by the pursuers and inventors out there? As if a location mutually agreed upon before a meeting of enemies: and there is something thuggish and paranoid about this comparison. How does one assume who will win before scanning the immortal challenger, compiling a dossier, so as the proper reaction be measured, in figuring the ratio between its size and the sizable fact its pursuers are mortal? 

To be ahead what is chased! An absurd idea for metaphor to detail. A job that really needs consistent proximity with what is chased; to be ahead of it implies that any objective is degrading if it is desired. Though ironically the objective falls deaf on human cries, cries of frailty,—cries that the objective be brought to one who in the end is pursuing nothing. This is the reason there is no accomplishment, on the side of hubris at least, in the first place. Yes, yes, the Titanic has enough lifeboats, not to worry. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Yet what a sad history this is to choose for repeating, and what a silly cliché,—air jets gathering dust accorded to the Taliban or someplace or other that is corrupt. Still dwelling in hangars.

Stocks of weaponry unused and like new and when to be given a chance at the purpose for their pathetic making will kill off the resources of others, as many as possible: some resources with minds and souls even. Actually most of them.

So then, where are the supplies, the resources needed to make the whole world a damn paradise? In a tastelessly excessive surfeit, somewhere hot, like in Arizona or New Mexico. Someplace home to miles of unpopulated desert. No, none have died in vain, not to worry; just don’t bring down the banner yet, with the specious statement on it, if to do so is only to sell reassurance via the daily news. Do not be so impatient. It is not important to capture a photo of the president at a podium right now, in front of his banner with the specious statement.

Tell the photographer to forget about a front page anyway: such imagery will only ever avoid the predictable ironies preemptive absolutes attract, if the specious statement not specious, ends up proleptic actually. But if jumping the gun ended up being correct we’d have less guns. And which ended up not being correct at all. These ironies are God’s sarcasms, cropping up organically around all the examples of human folly there have ever been. Absolutely. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Kill the thing to life? I must, must, must have sunk in the weapon then, all the way in, thinks one, using a somewhat diffuse metaphor. Well it made sense in the moment thinks one, hearing the voice that was his dear criticism.

Looking on: with the obsessive unreadable blankness of beautiful love. Capturing the entirety of one’s attention. Understandable that it’s a feeling too a feeling for the public to see from the outside. Nothing faded that would cross visages like tears when it’s not too deep for them. A’saith Wordsworth. Inner dispute is a toughie; or perhaps a feeling not too much one is automatically in need of a facial cue for lacking being recognized inwardly. If it’s faded. To make the faded thing less faded and more a reality reality for engaging the naked eye. Not of that do I speak but a sincerity realized fully without epileptics. I look on blankly. On, at the invention before my naked eyes. It had come to seem, well, like a child. Or maybe was. A summation of all that work. But still the question remained whether the thing was futile or not, unlike a child—if the expected efforts are put in that is. Or unlike a good Christian child at least if the womb is pure of sin and sloth. Thinks one: I want to give up. As to this a pure assessment seems impossible. Both realities, hung in precarious balance and counterbalance as validation overtakes despair and vice versa. One had tried to recollect it: any final actualized event of completion. One thinks now: The problem is you are tentative to approach proof of any kind if it’s from a distance. Keep to your cautious, vague outskirts, then: something someplace between expectation and physical hunger. You are in fear of approaching it: the dangerous ‘no’ reverberating back. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . But now I, one thinks to oneself, in the way one speaks to oneself, in one’s head, a conspicuous ‘I’ silencing for some few seconds the familiar otherness taking up space in one’s being, one’s fatigued being; and which was suspected broken, or even if in the best condition yet obsolete. So, hah, one thinks: but now I am inflating dilemmas again.

But such a worry would come to be just measly, an echo without a source. It is only that the danger of this I cannot see but anyway it is not there. Otherness must have knifed it to life: into that seriouser, stranger heart of some animal. A rodent maybe. In any case it is an animal curbed there behind every conclusion possible to draw from the finishing. One then continues to remain. To battle each animal on the path. To those layered reaches of improbability one thought one had covered before,—going on like so till there are none left to lash out at one, no gripes from whatever anomaly had not been heeded because now all of them had been heeded, certainly were done with being heeded. 

See thing is the idea that the invention, if it is to actualize itself, needs some semblance of uh wholeness and completeness, no matter if it be the invention of a memorable idiom, or an innovation, or rebellion’s first seed,—is an idea it would be more beneficial to make too clear, even way too clear. Forget how farfetched, or stretched, or strained, or ugly one is afraid it might become. One thinks to himself a thing. Again one goes about resuming the soliloquy, or maybe call it an inner, or an interior narration, sans any voice but for the soundless, toneless voice in one’s head, of the blessed ‘I.’ I think to myself a thing. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The cuttingfloor will always fill up with things that get lost in the clutter you wish hadn’t, one thinks; at the other end of the problem, eliminating the spare metal can lead to everything being extraneous, and then the result clipped together is too scanty and stiff and anemic. Both still are for my consideration solely and made by my hands and thus both are the bedfellows of the same flawed creating. No matter the gallons of sweat I lose in poring over the details for a fix. The dialectical hammer hammering. It is figurative though and if I bang a finger that also is figurative and no blood is lost. One accepts this. One is also forced and bullied by their genius, and in this way do I suffer something more like the dizzying pain of blood loss. 

Yet what is spilled is not my own blood but my lifeblood. Something very different this is but also is something figurative. I think of my signature there, on the contract I hold with surety. Skeletal hieroglyphic script. I think my very ordinary name is a sort of ontical doodling: or, to say it in a different way, a sketch of my pure being: done out of boredom, or the product of an anxious idleness that is anxiety at staying so idle, and that crinkle up one into their idleness like a trash idea on paper thrown in the wastebasket, missing the novelty basketball hoop hanging above it but only by a few inches.

The way a sickness gives one to hunch their back in a chair and retire from society to the World of their room. I am in trouble. I have forced my deliverance. Hark! I have my hand crammed up the length of this cornucopia! In the asshole of a cornucopia: my left hand. At a deep spot within the sweet smelling loam, there. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Say this just get it out of the way already. One will say, or might say, this: I am parable, or should be. Listen to me: I will be learned from, so that none ever again live so broken. And will inform posterity on my own time; do not think it is not your problem too. But as I grow old I will lose sight of the future and this invention that is my very child shall start to arm up, being programmed by me to arm up for a threat at the time of my death either antiquated or solved; arm up for something forgotten by then after all the scrutiny of history and passing time, after all, that I thought would remain a problem and should be happy by considering it possible to one day not be. But I am not. But I am made the fool by these fatal ironies of the original predicament. Guiding life until it doesn’t simply put. Or anything bad as may come of this youthful eagerness or impatience to fix.

My invention, still without a last step, I am not sure. Will I say: when I was young and the future was clearer. And was it also even more questionable than a lucid dream: I will not be foiling anymore what I have created. Swear it now. Already enough a shitstorm in my tampering with what was fine before. I scorn it happening, of course, now: it is like being shoved just right into the smallest space a crack in the wall has, a crack that is getting worse. But I will do nothing about my behavior. Am downtrodden: my work ethic alone shalt not sustain me unless sanity is sacrificed and a numbing mania introduced. Yet I am having trouble with whether it is really sanity or something else in the cornucopia that I can’t loosen my grip on.

It is absurd to do this. Oh my God this has got to be some heavy metaphor for something: or perhaps just the usual retribution…because my life is hell. It’s useless to do this: I mean I am wholly without the ability to deliver to the air what I am mired to, am stuck holding on to. Only was venturing coyly to reach, went in for its stash. There in the void. I do not caress opportunities like a big pussy but grab them with the language of my clenched fist. Yet it is the clench that somehow suctions my hands there stiff at present. My left hand is stuck: but still my arbitrating what shall finish up this weary little confluence of inspiration does its job without relent, and I wipe my plate clean. That necessity sings, it has been vigilantly singing out of tune a little now, though muffled it be. But my made sense is stubborn like that and it does its job to preserve me and who I am in the heads of those I know and love. Hopefully others, one day. The reasoning behind any sort of preservation, no doubt, will always stink of ego. Like old tobacco residue to be scrubbed from the counters, where it thickens and yellows for a decade. Along with the rest of the doublewide, it has not been cleaned.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . There beneath the waxing and justifications is the stink of preserving a shit status quo: though too the ego is a healthy selfishness that literally everyone has and which requires accepting. Accepting that you need to escape the acedia, one thinks to himself, talking of himself in the third person like if right in front of one. Besides when he was needing another voice tell him advice, to least simulate the objective view. Then second person: acedia encroaching by the day and that flares up at night for a skirmish with you, then it ebbs as you sleep. It is ubiquitous like the sun’s creeping all over everywhere as the sun itself encroaches. Sailing across the same new boundaries of sky each day. This need is ego and is useful just to you, while others perish without an antidote and without themselves. In fact, everyone perishes, as a rule; also, as a rule, an antidote can only work if it is your personal antidote. It makes sense: each of us after all is given a distinct ego we use to exercise our hobbies and interests. Yet all interests can be reduced to an interest in will, or focus upon it.  There will be different meanings for life that each of us will test out, exercise, as they come and go; after the workout, returning them in a neat yet severe pile to their home in your head, someplace rosy and remote in there. Thing is you were created by God for just such selfish use, and anything else one is asked to purchase, a wack scam, crap to sell, idols to the paranoia that is castling more and more, gradually; the paranoia one feels as to one’s human worth, wondering if they are deluding themselves. To be dogged like this! Forget delusions of grandeur, that’s easy shit! What about delusions of delusions of one’s decency and inherent value, sans all the bells and whistles that can only drily indicate value’s outline, distracting us from a soul’s actual quiddity, with a skill. Yet what shall I say: that I am he who stinks of selfish desires? Ones that chemically mirror those of poor white trash for the tasteless guido possessions, but is for something more cultivated, which probably makes the whole thing worse: that is, transcribing one’s physical memento mori, an elite keepsake that no one understands and no one will, there among the forgettable crap in your bureau. That no one could understand—and, as if it could be done!, making that, accurately, into the dynamism of a text. Reality but on the page. Or if I am not so deft a creator to do that, then maybe just life, a concept of life that is found in a thing. Life stocked with all its numerous hassling fears of death. Able to be printed and circulated, immemorially. One will at last get to leave one’s mark.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The procedure here, one used to find the holy finality I am aware I have ruined, and rescue it—before yet another hasty action, on my part, that would cause its further ruin—it is a procedure whose aim is to sandwich the original desire for finality, almost to preserve it and keep it in place, between the euphoric rush in accepting this foreknowledge, a usual ecstasy for me and probably a lie, that I have done something momentous in engineering the face of that desire, that drama; the procedure sandwiches itself adroitly between that, and my own sense of accomplishment I feel upon reaching the end of the mental errand, whatever it was for. This sense of accomplishment, moreover, is in direct proportion to the accuracy of my depiction. Of that face. Whatever piece of art you can name, and the most of it which you cannot even pronounce, is made unalterable—not necessarily when the last step has been reached, but when it is known for certain, by the artist, to have been reached. That in itself could be the justice needing be given to the depiction, the one in front of you that one looks for, that one waits for when it is right there proximate you, one thinks. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . To keep myself stubborn will not sustain me, and my will to keep stuck here, reaching way up the asshole of this mutant cornucopia, does not sustain me now. Yet my dastard thoroughness will not let go those fruits and now they are rotting, and will not sustain me at all. I have gathered most of my tries at sanity in my hands. Which has been limiting. So far the message that wants to leave itself behind in me, one that I am ignorant of,—because, after all, it is not mine to own—has for awhile thought it best to reveal itself in its different forms of the same synaptic music. What is now too deep in to hear from outside the cornucopia. And now it will suffocate in this gagged, airless cornucopia. Well take some of its fruits you wanted, had wanted, of the genius, take them and accept them as marred by your cruelty. A genius thing is perhaps located in this mixed metaphor. I just unleashed it, irresponsibly, one thinks; it was that or words of two different lexicons at least. Mixed together and left there. I shrugging for what is good enough, though if dissected it turn to something confusing, to visit upon one’s mind out of sequence and out of sorts. A euphemism for the editing process in filmmaking, in using the term cuttingfloor; and something about Thanksgiving. There is a vast space between these two things I created in the interim, tying up loose strings, threads. Four pages to be exact. This I do without destroying much of the seasonal assortment however. And how disorganized is the cuttingfloor! It must be cleaned. Especially if it is the floor of one’s garage. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . I’d rather be visited by some little extra thoroughness, I to buff it out presently, than be not clear enough and leave it at that: this maxim will be the saving grace. Your sacred wish you tell no one though: that is, to put on a last drape, a final drape, of burnished flesh over this design. This invention of thought I stare at, blankly. Well: examine the situation in light of knowing physicality is just an added varnish to any reality, and by that I mean the physical reality of what you made depends not on an arbitrary added layer, thinks one to oneself, in conversation with oneself. Oh your silly wish to put on that last drape of burnished flesh, over this design of thought I stare at, blankly. So long have I been crabfooting at the steps before the last step: but the invention, being here now, must take it for me, my progeny, towards being. Alas, at times the thoroughness will be an adverse reaction. I have worried creations into mess. I often slowly witness my distracted engineering turn a stuck lock into a broken door. I fear for the invention: I beg it not muddy up with additional guts of wiring. Lest some percentage of the body politic, made up of all my thoughts together, be weakened, and made homeless and destitute, by some halfass theory I toss in somewhere tiny and odorless: but my intuition seems to eventually sniff it out, one thinks. Some deformity in the guise of a theory. A wart right there in the middle of the logic to be; and to be made better, incubate into something fuller, if pierced to the root and fundamentally removed. Really it is like the behavior of a weed. One thinks: my mental garden, if it is that. I visualize it as a small space of flowers on the façade of my bedroom window, except thrust out from my forehead and providing my eyes with shade. Whatever is thorough is prepared to last if it is truly driven by thoroughness, which is humanity’s only outlet it was provided, thrust into being surrounded by a cloud of divine emissions that will never leave the perimeter of the human body, and always pushing on us the possibility of God being visible to the naked human eye. For being so focused, it is surprising one does not need a microscope to see God; but then again, thoroughness begets vastness ultimately, and thoroughness after all is the divine outlet, where we can plug into the Most High, and momentarily conduct light from all these sensed purities hovered just above our skin. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The creation, invention, should be factoryready before it is even ready to be put into the hands of strangers; nay sometimes I think even before one’s family touches it, one thinks, one thinks. One makes the thing, most times, without a prototype. It will have its sickly charm. It will likely be susceptible to viruses at first, knockoffs. But one should remember this, if nothing else, for it holds especial gravity: that in terms of the concepts one must teach, the directions one must give, for handling it, the invention, are the same. The creation that you made, thinks one; and that made you God. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Concepts, which are things, real things, need too their wholeness if to truly exist as an argument is the goal. For they inspire actions from real things that alter the culture, or mood of life at large, of still more real things. Anyway be sure to have it finished to a ‘t.’ Also: teach not the creation itself to others, but the passion of ego that inspired one to spread the creation, further, to the further reaches of people: others, beyond nations and across borders. If none of this works of course, one usually does better just to guess blind and then make the claim to whoever will listen: that it is as true as true can be though

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . Until, right, an eon tips the final domino into yet another ‘new’ millennium. Strips of the truth anybody’s claim to it, inevitably, and abandons the warped truth thought of it so long accurate—by a warping culture.

There are those of course who might still be surrounding its ghost out of respect or something. But then these tribes are abandoned too, by progress, by The Progress made of a merest minute, the only minute in life important to one: between the problem and its solving.

Progress, which is an expression, likely one of many, of God’s plan, venerated periplum of manias. If you prefer. I think of a record of all the change in the universe, and wonder if the record knows what’s left. Simply in that the record lives not in time but simultaneity if that is the record is omniscient. Hm some holes there. The record is able to encompass future records, then, if only perception of time be transmuted from one to another locale. So, rush it our way, way down the factory line, made to fit our loose commandments of time, like a pair of shoes not bought until one of them gets there to your left foot. Yet even footwear though too a general human conceptualization and also something universal and mysterious, is not something nobody knows why it is mysterious; nor how for this long what with all the lackluster bureaucracy implicit in requiring organization, and at that An Organization, enough for a record be kept by somebody at least. But perhaps the mystery is, there is no chaos. Thus there is no freedom, and then all us will dash our longstanding denial of it and succumb to the fate, no, I mean accept our fate, that the nature of all being is inherently boring, and lackluster, like plain eggs; and will only be something wonderful if proven the only Bible of God’s word, the one that points most to the truth behind things, has itself some relative thoughts on the truth, but more importantly, ties in the idea of nothing being behind it all, or at that the idea of nothing being behind, at all; as in, that all of us are ahead of ourselves, can only get more ahead of ourselves, and the hierarchy a sort of dependable chaos, one that would sooner jive with the founding supposition that all of us are usurpers, criminal takers of the throne, an abstract throne, a disappearing throne, a throne that is too complicated and that is not there.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .

Beings on Earth go at each other and could make sense of it by supplying the empathy where empathy will be allowed give; but make sense of it by saying instead that everybody is in a constant occasion of furtherance, movement, thus, it is only natural. I say however it is only natural to think we transcend on more occasions than we do. In reality. In reality: ha. The greatest of all caveats, reality. Know and follow me, saith The Progress. For though what you believe has been dispelled by now and was before you came back to say the finality it is among other things dispelled that at one point had been proven with equal vigor: laws at the time thought to be always vital parts of the World of humanity and the World of universe; laws that will merely expose a stupid soap opera love affair humans will indulge. 

Like a law to be in love with touching up dead things, that is, with all our vitality we seem to have in surplus, stockpiled like government weapons. Doing this attempts remove the insincerity we see in things from things probably more sincere than us if in the first place they are not conscious. Like how the self has frowned itself out of existence, in choosing its keepsake be the resting bitch face of pessimism. 

Oh, how much good we think we do in damasking pillars of marble: the blushing frolicsome chains of roses and tulips seem to dance. What drives this, we all know, however, is the absurd hope of witnessing a momentary cognitive flicker in the stone. It is an open secret and we only conceal it more desperately each time we beautify senseless carbon. This goes for words too. Predictably it becomes harder to prevent the reactionary overflow of bile from a psychological place in us we strike down, without fail, in making blush the suitable pale of things that just want to be their organic coldness, not play pretend with organisms who despise their fathers, their fathers with their throats of brass. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . But no World is eternity. None of them are, none of the Worlds: this is true no matter how much one of the Worlds does this less or that more. Take note. Here are some examples . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . One example of a World out there. Equivocality is its pollution. It seems and seems and seems, it is a repulsive mobile that will keep turning with deceptive strength until finally it all blacks out. Without warning I would guess, but how much can be suspected studied predicted and then prepared for in a World made of indifference? This redundant twilight gyre. It is a planet in motion now solely to keep up appearances before its cosmic wake. No diurnal ebb and flow anymore though seasons wheel through Arctic night. The inhabitants of this World ontically mirror the stasis of where they are. Because they are afraid of its desertion. They start to die off. At the least wane of hope no less. which would be fucked up of their planet. But bathos and bad timing is an unfair ‘law’ of the land. Unfair considering it is not a law followed by the land itself. And reality would be no such prodigal at The End. It would leave them all myths, being as all nothing. So people go ahead and live up to their only duty for lack of anything better to do they say but mostly because that duty is all the chips they have when it comes to a cosmic downsizing. Best chug ruthlessly for a small say on the council after all than deny a heritage of stasis just to be different. This is bad besides the fact one is ultimately denied a chair on the council so to speak and thus a chance to draft up input the night before the council meets. Once again the council’s hour will be taken up by discussing the coming week’s survival strategy, probably. But the strategies have all been joylessly rehashed in a cycle spaced over a long enough time to almost trick one into thinking that things could be freshly built of change, not merely revolving in orbit growing nauseous at the many vibrating frictions that, uh, that in those parts is such a commodity! But to the universe nothing is a commodity. Nothing is sold it just is. Run it by the mercurial chiefs of neighboring galactic tribes and note of any misery to their collective peasant body and see the truth of this in what their orders given highlight as important, maybe food related. It is some strange misguided effort to them, even as a system of bartering; money was even forgotten by the aforesaid people of that imaginary World of what seems. People who do the job despite they do not understand it. They do not understand the commodifying because there nothing is rewarding. Guerdons and wreaths. Pah. Forgotten at the end of the last millennium this was. Now all that interests anyone who lives there are new mandates for rest or better, death. I indulge the scoff. Me and my insipid nihilism, o. Who knows but at The Rapture it might well be a World reserved for evidence of some erosion to the universe going on behind William Blake’s closed doors of perception. A tragedy, like brain damage. And that is too harrowing for toughest carbon. Not to be eventually smoothed. And will prove the death of certainty. Kill that one alive will you. It is a World in that pathetic state, a unique breed of pathetic familiar to the place, resultant of some owner’s neglect, something unacceptable and inhumane like that hamster you won at a carnival that started eating its own pellets of shit because you were too lazy to feed it, and which ended up being flushed alive down the toilet. Not even monitored by God anymore; yet it did not experience a slow moral regression, unlike other planets on the list, other Worlds that were provided with a sacred text, yet suffering a quicker moral atrophy. Or it is some farmlands for raising to mature certainty the farfetched things scattered in spacetime. The universe does not have time to parse out all the karma though and no evidence this is the case exists. Of the turning them into believable things at least one wishes. By adding a use to them would be preferable, since practicality seduces the naysayers. Say this place is for the lone wolf, the unclear statement. Passive Aggressions. A heavens for souls leftovers lifted from a doubt that has been buried or some other, emotionally or with shaken hands and some eye contact. Doubts that float from elsewhere in the universe migrate here. To this World. Karmic balance must be involved somehow. Else why would it be acting this way? Though I would stop short of calling it a heavens for doubts, thinks one. Who knows: maybe this World disappeared when it got too comfortable with seemings, every fact a loaded fact; the people tired after too long exposed to all the seemings. Like the way one is exposed to radiation; people too comfortable with lack and boredom and pause to even surreptitiously try again. Even if the reward is like catching yet one more breather in footing the bill when yearly Progress lags behind its quota. Thinks one: I mean like footing the bill, malingering home to rest precious rest. Let me speak to these people. Of course it is restful but it is not for your health if you have any old shred of empathy. Malingering is bad anywhere but is generally accepted on Earth to be bad. One must experience a moral amnesia, quote unquote; not literally amnesia. And deny one has done this to the detriment of all the rest of the staff at work. Deny it like Big Oil CEOs deny climate change. With that sort of vigor. But no the halflife of their energy gets snipped, more exacerbated the dose of fatigue per hour per capita. It is a World defends having no responsibilities: by always bringing to light the same former blast of Progress in its history that was the own creation of this World itself. But it says it was not that long ago. All is illusion or close to the cliff. O World of seeming. And it that but then slinks away all pouty disappearing to be alone once and for all. Motheaten hand me down hood of moody pith all left the inhabitants to stave off Winter then go and perish in the endless imaginary night there. It is a mood slathered as fuck. On and on by a selfish cosmos unable to separate Ghandi and Hitler because teleologically it’s all the same state from the top. Just it is fractured once shrunk by these differentiations called morality got cropped up over time there in people of a World away at the corner of the Milky Way. As this would in the conscious mind of any World’s conscious inhabitants, who themselves are an anomaly of God. This cosmos would have a martyred World for doubt be if destroyed, then excessively: a mind quicker than daylight goes off the frigid alien poles of Earth; a mind that knows icy distance like the poles. Let us say I am of this rhetorical World forever, though it will be just for now. That I put the onus of my own improvement there, tucked away, a pitiful dirty sock shoved down the side of the bed, a temporary solution: deep in there: some swampy place among the mushrooms. To linger and rot among responsibilities of a different World’s population. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . These scores of persons to consider on Planet Earth think, for for the moment there exists no large scale alien invasion to sway one, that there is only Planet Earth to make the list of themselves complete. It is only one list and Moulder says we are not alone but that is a more obscure story. End of X Files reference. The universal list is limited to what is pulled by gravity moreover. The merit of a youtube video like by its number of views. But there are myriads out there and more ways to consider merit. Populations bound to their terrestrial housing projects. Populations of wanderers up and down a planet mentioned so far or not yet or not to be. Scores of them nobody knows about not limited to the all of us on Earth like that were all of everybody, and further than that as if that number were representing all in a given galaxy! The population of a World is its makeup. They are the soul of the place and we are. Essentia. And God’s thoughts each are planet and individuals each are neuron. Yet some individuals are barely able to handle duties the size of an atomic particle. Something was said about this already. Strung out on stale worries that turn the new day edgy. Subsequent comedown resembling the effects of too much coffee or meth. I or God maybe gives out past circumstances and cultures to populations: like flyers to the disinterested mob. Flyers handed out by cosmos that must have gotten into their hands: the inhabitants of aforesaid seeming World. Looking for someplace not so coded or seeming; or would be happy, thanks, with a holy proverb brought down to shed some holy light. Would chance it must have been that the flyers, though casually accepted by these individuals as they walked away, were seen the last step for them and their strifes of tiredness. Casual but hiding how desperate for disappearance, to have it be at an end. For only so long can one conceal it though, I’d imagine: how discomfited about living so pathetically pisspoor. A hamster consuming its own feces to live. No wonder this neutralized World, sterile World, suffered so explosively before it disappeared, if the cherished makeup of selves up and down on it took advice from a flyer that came down like a message in a bottle, across seas of universe; but not known whether its author be venerated or deranged or even still alive. That habitual seeming implodes is no surprise. I know it not, thinks one. I know not seems. If only whole populations feeding on it need not be so pathetic to the degree of experiencing an increase in confidence and seeing illness: going to the doctor’s office like a diabetic must there to it because blood sugar must be wonky. Confidence at following the advice of a simple, pathetic ass flyer. Hoping maybe it was the proverb so long in search! It won’t be. Whether from me or Moses the population will call it from Moses if the flyer truly got handed down from the sky to whoever lucky recipient, who said I don’t want to buy anything man and walked away. This population of people to consider! From the land of seems! Witnesses each, not agog, to a heavens for doubts dead that still shine their ghost on at the speed of light like a star in the night sky does which might already have snuffed into a supernova or chilled to what is termed a white dwarf. But no star ever disappeared without some ripple. But this disappeared into dread vortex, into what never was, like. This population of people to consider! Thankful for the relieving of self called introducing confidence in one’s reality like it were a luxury car to an uncivilized tribe of pygmies. Into one’s routinest mortal gestures introduced; and calm into the stride. But finally it falls apart. Riding on the wave of confidence in being situated precisely in the hellscape of God’s plan, blaming the deceit of Moses, the makeup of that World dies out. Its inhabitants do before the planet itself. One is reminded of instances on Earth in helplessly gaping on at the quiet carnage: like that giant bolus of plastic that floats around the ocean, or that barge of garbage that floated around nobody wanted that somehow entered the World stage and became an international problem. The immense mileage of this orb will not save it. Topography made sorry by the ploys and subterfuge received it by the rest of the universe, and told to inhale. A World a patsy for the moral pollution emitted from all that is and the token cosmic dumping grounds. Everybody at school ignores the guy who transferred there this semester. The core of the planet grows colder until it is as cold as the crust, being all alone, with no remaining witnesses to feed on the clods of a dry crust. Discarded more is each day by a mediocre ecosystem in the first place that was too comfortable with its dying, such that God or some other observer, like me, if they were to observe, would not be able to figure out whether this was ignorance or extreme denial. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . So then death goes on with its wear and tear, too busy with its own docket but to coordinate an evaporating whisper be the apocalypse given for the place, and one almost hears an audible washing of hands somewhere, though death itself has no limbs; though it helm itself through one then another galactic mess and through all the swamp of time for the sake of its job quenching fates, many other straggling dots out there still to go, all careering in space just the way it does, death does. Yet death is shielded from death: it is a dialectical rule of thumb to apply to any germ of a negation caused, in the contact of void with void, or whatever it may be: that only without the power to die may one enlist the power to kill. 

No there is no at last, and was not, for that World of seeming, which is but slow death, or if stretched is equivalently the hasty reducing of existence to a pair of temples between extended stupor or what was just some random blockage, trashy void, patient and prone keeping within its supernatural coffin, obeying the expectations of what seemed to come from outside the coffin, an emptiness speaking its emptiness, its charge, to sleep, without changing guard, and sometimes few extremities available to hold all the realities, and a few dropped, and some damaged when balled together, of necessity, into a handful. Goodbye evaporating dunce of a planet, forever: forever may its deluded and dead families of consciousness be conserved beneath it, or scattered around it in trashbags, which happened once infrastructure fell to ruin across the board.

And these were families, you know; and their lives not mere numbers given seatholders to assure no ire for the vacancy, seatholders who are more like usurpers, and so then ‘harbingers of death’ in their own way and would pretend the number given them is for all the previous reincarnated lives of their own that they truly owned once. Themselves given to spread around a greater circumference with greater freedom, sycophant to none till the vacancies return and they the seatholders realize this is all for a limited time. A circumference more than these vacancies do transit, these numbers, privileged with the time and money to essentially buy a stairway to heaven and go without reproach for a selfish detaching from God into incurable twain. Whoring out their life like that: any vacancy does not appreciate properly the ease with which it is allowed to exist. It is a life without retribution for snubbing God. They do not even know they gamble with a mutinous possibility, nor seem all fazed with worry at the indication of incident to come; nor would a vacant seat, which became what all those on a dead planet would ever be, really be stoked by any sort of intrigue to get up and leave besides going to the bathroom. Intrigue or standoffs calling for the involvement of the authorities. Perhaps jealousy on the part of the seatholders does not mesh with murder in the first degree, necessarily. Or even with a nasty power struggle. It is just an empty seat, no matter it held on cosmos or council or even for a wedding, the plans were to fill it with that person. And now it’s not. Is it indifference to the divine privilege does this? Hm. Cosmic privilege would be less a threat when if used to endorse the actions of a mortal human it were not perceived indifferently by mortal humans. All the colors in the rainbow, speaking metaphorically, would agree. If only such a bitter gift were given to those cognizant of what they had, just enough would want more to get enough and be satisfied, with at that some extra divinity to pass around. But this shit is not a joint rolled out of weed that was stuck to the fabric of a stoner’s couch.

And the emptiness of empty seats pounds to boredom one’s pair of temples, and makes one turn to drugs. Well they will be vacancies as still suffer the bad look of conspicuous absence. At the wedding, or council meeting, or meeting at the foot of the universe. But be clueless about it once you arrive, so that to need not be present at your son’s Briss is no big deal because you didn’t know, one thinks. There are these delightfully aware celestial families too, ok with snubbing because they do it, who delight in the expanse when it shows up, and know also they cannot hold all the expanse on their shoulders anyway, nor be put up for awhile in the mind with a few theories for roommates. Interesting that mind and shoulders both can be made independent visions of what consciousness might be. Meanwhile may vacancies made by the dead be kept by seatholders without comment, without a need on the part of the bride and groom to decry the sudden absence: a terrible thing, to hold death against one, but hard not to do if it’s the reason they miss the life event and Grandma always wanted to see you married. Nothing, as in the entity, or called The Nothing, controls who holds that seat in their place, a man or figure assembled of stuff the most real in the concept of it; a picture hung up on the wall, or something. ‘Being’ and ‘selfhood’ are perishable: these cannot be applied to the present moment that encapsulates all one’s life truths living at rest in chambers of memory, memory only; and death the reason the chair is empty. And what if so to speak all things not quite sensible then met neatly in this here eloquent irony, and these dunces really conserved like wax collectibles somewhere more vibrant than they could have taken advantage of when alive and clueless, for Pete’s sake. Let all of them, this army of empty chairs, of empty seats, who actually without knowledge of it are dead and peopling these areas of paradisal sunrise and sunset, there in the wherever, well, let all of them calm the rest of us down, for there is too a place for their lax little reclining souls, a place in the heaven in need of balance, too enslaved to the speedy resolutions that the bigger problems that need deliberation unravel and loosen into chaos. But this cleanup is no job for the lazy, nor then might it be solved by these newcoming swathes of emptiness, to a land for the angels strictly, angels remaining in disguise, so as not to be treated any differently by their visitors, but mostly just to fool them all into believing they were not yet close to the harvest of cosmic death, who sings his nails into the coffin with talk of a last step, and in that case thank the freed piss of the incontinent powers that be upon this village of vacancies, freshly erected and done with, at last, to the gravelly tone of hands clapping off their dirts and dusts of effort with the friction. It is easy to fantasize about a risk at benevolence met with understanding, despite wounded pride at being kept in the dark about a spiritual harness upon that mediocre one who would naturally in this situation be the more dependent and bound to their home. It is easy to think the vacancies will get around to figuring it out with a shrug, at most an entrylevel discomfort shrouded behind pleasantries, which is the universal language for no harm no foul. Somewhere this has got to be true, yes; and everywhere there will be parts of the falsity that light up in beauty enough to distract one from the falsity, though in space truth is all we have, thinks one, catching up with the angels, on leave, for a week, while the archangels assume that lesser throne built of miniature laurels, placation, since God is to his children both coddling and condescending as a parent, and whatever merit as one would think oneself into feeling for them likely a hallucination of political sway in a World above all the rest, where every absence ever is and will be ever loved. This love is not along the lines of those same equivocal congratulations, stickers on the refrigerator for all the good they’d do to raise the rank of an angel. Though why care besides to be a radical in the face of proven emptiness, proven at this point? They are not there if they are not there, these impressions of things that play with chairs and fight for control over pressing the Divine Button, which would annihilate everyone, on top of that, make suddenly weightless all the banqueting reality that scoops humanity in and leaves us at the bottom of this bowl of soup called either existence or the meaning of existence, but not both; for one of the two of these only the other one not it, for the other of the two both. Expect disappointment if one is expecting the checks and balances of that Unreal Mind upstairs to be in being the finger that pushed as infallible as God. As should be so, should, but isn’t. If given that responsibility in the first place? Imagine it: connected to the Divine Button where the senses collect as sediment, leaving time the last thickness, and time, thus, with the ability now for others to enjoy touching it, though maybe not enjoy what the touch is, its fiberlike gelid structures no sort of banquet compared to the heat that would radiate from its chugging assertion of time’s kindling of minutes of heat and fire, and passing on and on. The time visible and surreal in smoke helpless risen in plumes that once were alteration and now represent all Worlds at once in static frames of an apocalypse, an apocalypse gifted to us by a God sick of the suffering, and to which all humanity must make obeisance and die in before facing the last glorified step, when nothing is left to measure but a flux of physical law as the clockwork of the universe stammers and then wheezes back into sync at increasingly shorter intervals, and more audible each round the desperation of being doomed to live in the lightless meanwhile of some hell ruled by myth, a myth that tantalizes with blurry prospects of deliverance without delivering, or delivering the wrong gift of apocalypse to whoever bows down in greeting, head tilting away from seeing it, and they in the end punished for their good manners towards The Grand Thing, which is a name for something else, and not the finger that pushed, one wagers; or at the very least that will push, definitely, the Divine Button, which symbolizes I know not what at all. But the inventor had picked the worst moment to indulge their karmic knack for bad timing, which they did when aware more than usual of the creeping dread of time, usually bowed down to in lieu of averting gaze at The Grand Thing, maybe death, offending him thereby, death, whose visage of love and transcendence and all that new age spiritual mishmash was meant for all to see, which by the archangels was preferred, for the sake of better harmony once all the sardines, numbers, and numbers for chairs, were neatly expatriated to their state after: for according to the divine statistics people who saw the visage would not be so mad about dying once they picked up on the fact that nothing at all anymore was fact, save that moment of visage before the mandatory extinguishing of life. To be savored, a tender memory. The chance passed, one would have to be doled their medicine without having seen The Grand Thing, stirring up only discontent, in one, or anyone stupid enough to not drink up the last sight of their life, life, which is a name for something else. Life, like the way a touchable time was made the quick substitute for a reality crumbling before nobody’s eyes, became as it approached the finest degree of a last step a place before that where one had felt nothing but even then still not The Nothing. It depends upon its thickness, thinks one, underscoring a maybe there, but lightly, not wanting to wake up the universe when she has just fallen asleep, like a babe, out of a fear for life, a babe. One accidentally revealing the limited brain capacity of life, to this romantic partner, named the universe, which is, more than anything else I might’ve listed so far, a name for something else.

If the Divine Button has been pushed then will humanity, a bickering tribe of hermits in essence, have to learn the bad news from others, what had happened, and not to have noticed it at all without others, before disappearing? The ubiquitous baggage of existence, and the all but faceless universe quite peaceful now without all that population. The burning of minutes would go on and persist wheezily as timber lessened and then everything would be futile and silent once again and all would sleep. The mechanism thumping on and on: like a lilywhite blondehaired foot, sans a sock on for, keeping time with the music, the other foot thankfully covered, which he usually did to hide the varicose vein: and then one remembers fully: for no reason, one remembers it with tenderness their smelly avuncular contra, keeping time wailing at his smelly banjo. The one whose visage too close to your face often lent with it a whiff of bad breath. Did you did remember seeing him as a child, and up through adolescence, to even just the last few days prior no less? Futility this is a fact of human makeup that now you have barely any time to turn over in your chagrined head before the apocalypse, and didn’t as a child. Before you die you will not know the invention, one thinks; nor when you and perhaps your mother traveled to visit him.

Stooped down he got too close to one’s face in greeting, then he, your uncle, telling a story between his coughs and vague digestive trouble. Though he lived in a coal mining town in the case of the avuncular the story was not of time, not of the coal burned by time: that accumulated in sheddings of ash once around some managerial ultra clock that got broke and was removed without repairing it, a failure which is another name for time, something powered by its otherworldly sourceless mechanism, and meanwhile having all us whisking barely through the mud of such harsh gonging sounds of the hour. All the beefs of time in time will be confessed, and the whole sick plight of its shorn wastrel at the lever, who pulls open the flue or something or serves some menial purpose to the mysterious perpetuum mobile, which is another name for time’s going. Beefs swallowed until nobody anywhere is real, they must have gone on to that last place by now and by now past all the caved in theatre of meanings after meanings assaulting its coordinates. The sound of clucking tongues comes from all these other niche realms out there of cosmos. Blessed with a reality better than theirs, but, propelling into no such earnest future for The Nothing, it should have known better than to think the reality would lead anywhere, if the same Button pushed, oh, planet that once yearned: to if not be there, imaginary people in that imaginary place, at least not lose the precious strands of ambition emitting from the people there. Of that ghostly dot in the cosmic notation. And endless trails of gas, and the clouds of dust trailing off asteroids once themselves planets, and now the remaining volcanic bones divorced of all those false starts. Be ye not, almost into that shitty realm or some ruthless indifferent death, a deathly indifference? One dies no matter the barricade made, and however much one be the pith of certainty, sometimes so strong almost to make death live. One dies having crawled so long from out a hellish muddle, then failing, surprise; and then to wither back painfully and prodigal as but discharge of that new batch of things and certainties or whatever in one’s place, as had been cooked up from that World, that planet, hopeful intrepid and ambitious and foaming at its ambitious mouth of World to go and there from its ignorant place with everybody else. And since nothing else wants to be anything other than what seems, at this point, time, ironically the most seeming thing, will be, at least, that exact last gauge for falsehood left. And time left craved for by Progress; by the real prophets and fake truthers alike. And this is reassuring. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The Last Step—a misunderstood phrase, or maybe just too easily simplified by people. The tragedy of this it is almost cute. And how else to go about accepting such vileness? Such entropy? So many folks on the outskirts of one’s handsome daily orbit,—idiots, or hopefully just blithe at heart once gotten to know,—but so many folks, they are ok with it, they are patently ok with leaving a statement where it is, forever, and what something means exactly where it is, and every orphaned statement at its furthest, quaintest dilution. Thinks one: you would not be surprised if these people at the start were fools, and fools to that complacence, eking out the minimum argument only when they have to: each one a slouch, a linguistic anodyne. They are even of this character when forced to admit a principle, even just one: the words they say take up the responsibility to question them. These anodynes: when nothing else works. And when that fails, rob them of the power to communicate anything: a single irate bubble of gas erupting somewhere within breaches their lips as drool instead of words when they try to speak. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The Last Step—a phrase, nearly identical, phonetically and syllabically, to a vault of others. But with special affinities!, I think, thinks one, but this time speaking in the brains only, a voice to themselves and with it the gift of an I. Affinities, to this one phrase you have in mind out of all the rest, thinks one: Besides that both are and have been reliable clichés, so far,—cultural workhorses when the culture has not enough time,—and the second phrase of the two, to be mentioned soon; and besides that they mostly fuck with separate duties to definitions at partial variance,—still, it remains true for any phrase, even for the invisible ones like this one, which is staying invisible, so far, because, well, it has not been mentioned yet, the words put down here so far in willful wait of such an astounding gravity as could carry the latter half of this argument without the arguer needing to mention it almost at all, and anything more than that, all but parting the red curtains for a tasteless obviousness,—and whatever the phrase be called, still: it feels, admittedly, obliged and awkward to say, stepping forth as uncertain royalty into the spotlight and into recognizing, an unnecessary gang of footmen, sans faces, towing along behind.— The phrase thereof is as royalty, a royalty to be met not with the usual flourish of trumpets but ponderous silence, which then magnifies the sound of the dumb shuffling feet around the phrase, faceless men searching for their stage directions. These damn unnecessary lackeys are unnecessary: suddenly it all seems an embarrassing hubristic display, and the idea of royal footmen silly nonsense. One thinks all the rest of these gaudy, chaining gildings a waste of space and resources, and altogether a brutal expense, even worse for the fact it was for the good of the phrase, for the wellbeing of the dignity of the phrase. But in this the true jerk is the phrase itself. Called too early a thing that exists by you yourself who is ironically a partial existence in the writing. Less than mere words exist, requiring more reality than that to exist, for after all it will be a self: one made of voices, strange, inner ones, and the words must live up to that dignity of being and of name. It is as of now though still a halfhearted self. One as you took it straight from your inner litany, shrugged and took a risk on it, and began your molding from parts of the inner litany. One day you woke up and considered this your own challenge to this human devotion to the state of being; now, one prays that one not lose focus before abandoning the mold in utero essentially, as a mutant, who will dream his poor dream of at one point in the narrative sequence herein, attaining enough a physical otherness, perhaps collected from all the stunted logical threads, into some patchwork, over years of starvation, enough, and though walled at first within these miserable paragraphs each, scrounging for his own able threads there in the imaginative poverty, so to finally make his being himself and ditch the words of his creator without himself also disappearing—words that, almost like a drug, so long sustained the unfinished reality that kept him an abomination. This thinks one. Before your throat could prepare all the way to clear again to shout that you did want this the same as he the embarrassment comes full circle: that is once everything is revealed centerstage and all the subtlety fails, and, the only confidence in uncertainty, as to the phrase, and as to what predictably will always come out of the woodwork regarding it, which generally is something darker if it was hidden in the woodwork, but especially bad if created from the rib of your own bad character. Yet it is an entrance still and meant to be an entrance: and if it lingers long enough before coming on strong, perhaps till the end of a civilization but obviously not of a language, it inherits something more by whatever graces of English, the phrase does, whatever’s appropriate,—something like the connotations as live within different qualifying camps of theory but that say the same thing. Else to blow God’s plan and stoke the shredded orange fire of God burn us all were a better fate than to strangle the organic process of metamorphosis a language must undergo, or remain where it is and be abandoned, and the right to talk robbed from fools who die without having once doubted what they say.— . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . The Last Step: a phrase nearly identical, that is, to The Big Sleep, which will follow it, this by all accounts the unequivocal case for all human beings—and this exact location by the way now so infamous, at least among the cavalry of inquisitors who think they wear white coats, and not Klansmen, but the ones like you, who will bother over the coordinates, fix the math—and one thinks: What is it, what do people mean when they say they are taking The Last Step in their process; was it a slog or a breeze? Or will it not really end at all? Or, one thinks: it is one lastness out of them all that is the most agreed upon, you say? No. Nothing like a science riddle, a fucking science riddle, to make you get crusty as hell, about all the fancy science, one thinks: and your pitiful person to rage over it in private, and not understand, for hours, one thinks. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . It is an intellectual coldsore you get during the Winter that you prod with your tongue despite your mother’s intercessions: this verifiably compulsive behavior in combination with the frigid weather leaves the whole inside of your left cheek damaged raw eventually. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . One thinks: in the sole context of a finite universe this would be enough of a riddle to tolerate, much less if applied to what is surely an infinite universe in any case. But words are weak, of weak constitution, lighter than dust. I mean they are literally flimsy paper and maybe some graphite too. That’s it. And even worse, this riddle is one about a thing said in words, with language, not with words, in a language—it should be obvious, unless you literally cannot read English or are not familiar with Germanic languages, that I write in English—anyway, you, in all likelihood, will give up, reflexively. Give up answering the riddle, that is: as humans do when mentally cramped, cornered, past the point of their will’s sway—well this, and also, they succumb to madness—give up, that is, and discard these certain implications before solving anything, because you need to sleep, one thinks. But all night you will dream of questions as to words as being. Any exact location overstimulates the mind with clarity so that the location becomes relative and fractal, much less one to be considered on an infinite plane. Yet for all herein you expect to live through of the mortal, or planetary, onslaught, still, the tired eye will want to open.— . .  .   .    . ��   .      .       .        . And this^ is an image you have quickly sampled, herein, for lack of another image at the ready. You find it floating in anonymous clutter, orphaned, and pluck it out for the wanting expression. You cannot help but feel the proximity of the next one in the roster though: what your mind by chance will face and detect, and then fix itself to there, in the celestial makeshift of your imagination, as its satellite,—yes it will want to open, the wide eye will, when the eye thinks it is in sight of an answer clearly through all the semantical wilderness and weird, and then, all options for the metaphor will be at the ready. This answer is for you: maybe it is even still a riddle, the answer only what first few rearing spoils got plucked at the end of the first act, before half the story was ripe and the stakes alive and burning, and the answer, because not pushed to be more, dead. And not by you or any of the other squares seen as more than dead, whether it is or not in reality irrelevant, just as should be what is the true last step that will quell the machine, will only properly unfold if given a narrative sequence. It will not be watched bloom nakedly. It is no naked heartflower bleeding out from a leak in the stent and will not reveal its soul for that waste of plasma. For the image being simply what it means, sans a theme, and nothing more given to transcend the audience of watchers, till all comes to a bitter putting on of gloves and a corralling of the afflatus to dirt. It is too shy for that and without the narrative it stays in bud. For the answer must have its story and lullaby. Else it will get all fidgety and act like an infant up too late: though as the hours creep on this infant will never once be out of immediate sight of the father and his tired eye. The answer I myself do father. It is an eye too tired in fact to know he has made an answer, or many, his babe, and he himself now the one handling all the many stillborn questions as they are transferred to a different line to fill out the form wait in the next line again for authorization and the line to existence or an upwards landslide to St. Peter: but nonetheless it is the job of the father to care for his lot regardless of the lot. He fingers lightly each question, tests the surface of each one, some prickly, some smooth, all treated as if in possession of a single, fragile piece of nostalgia. Yearning for the right horoscope to make it past the bureaucracy one day and deliver itself to the World as yet another thing of answers, one to delight the planets with its system, which manifested here, as it should be, through good works of the system once solely his own, now neither his nor the answer’s but a purgation of both. Like browsing for snippets on T.V., it always seems to be an answer that goes to commercial at the worst parts. In the end, thinks one, the story has barely explained itself anyway, either because you forgot some detail or the story explaining itself did. Tantalizing us always with a fragmentation even more annoying if it was purposeful. Perhaps crucial to its art then but not satisfying; on the other hand if it is purposeful it is controlled, no matter if the effort is or is not towards an ideal that is obscure, most likely the creation will have a better future. Thinks one. Definitely it is a more than primitive creature, though no person, nor even daresay spirit. With enough wit to meddle with human desire—and definitely cognizant enough if it turns out the creature is acting alone.— I imagine a strungout gremlin or something, unfamiliar with human life, but of a certain facility regarding the maneuvering what humans hate, to its sharpest precarity, one that might fall with the single further degree of an obtuse into an acute angle, of grief, of all the grief. Something what who crawled out from under the bridge where the kids shoot heroin.— Something, whose job is to insert the omissions right there in the very development most needed witnessed to ease us, but forever; at that precise moment it is about to be witnessed reconciled, and left neatly, or at least left ugly with a beautiful concept somewhere in it. But instead one is left to piece together clues with more clues. Anyway. Comb through infinity’s bigness for an apex and find just more infinity of cosmos without the question of a first or last at all. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . I do not have a kosher sort of empathy for this however. Its demolishing back to finitude,—so as to bring back to life the possibility of a last step,—I visualize as not so rough a thing, compared to what had been lost with the introduction of endlessness or of something incapable of limitation. What exactly is put together out of this morass of sums? It is of such loveliness though: this thought on ends: so much that it requires no arranged deadline to be, obeys nothing but the master sketch of its own terms, which it will study and use to give up, and then, well, the last step exits us incognito, with the schematics rolled up under its arm, without anybody picking up on the change in the air. Exits into the heavens, a monotonous omniscience, which the last step, a deviant, had cheated out of deciding its birthday for it. The heavens tried to without even asking…and the angels became furious: to know when exactly the guests would arrive, so to speak. But they were not to know when: and once such a precedent is initiated on high by the low, the inflexibility of the concept of God’s deeming goes axiom to particle. The heavens had always been able to know everything else before, if just they followed the wishes of God and continued being in divine good favor: ultimately were surprised, no, they were shocked: by that lush apotheosis: of an eternal whittling of lastness. A last step evades the pressures of needing be appraised with an equivalently earnest pair of eyes, tired though they be. Though it is final when it happens, final is relative, depends on the quality of the shoes one is walking up and down in. Even in a finite universe, one begs for arch support, if that is one happens to have taken up this responsibility to travel to the wrapup, the horizon, of…time, time maybe? To colonize the horizon when this planet is finally gone wack and rotten? Eventually one soldiers on and toughens up though and gets to playing along with the knot in my back I get from lifting garbage too long; you need not launch out of bed early to get a jump on this school project with a foregrounding hypothesis, just need space to move and time to enable the move there. If my last step, one thinks, is to be considered taken, or is close to that point,—besides that, of necessity, it is followed by a step after, well, before that, my travels, my peregrinations, so to speak, one thinks, must have had to develop muscle, on their way, or something more like a common thread to the experience: a thread starting to beef up with more other threads discovered, between the problems baffling one and the problems baffling another, and through which we listen for an answer to how such a thing of nature can be so intricate, yet fragile,—even though that's pretty much how everything is and we shouldn't be too surprised: holding an empty tomato can to our ear from safe up in the treehouse, one thinks, though this image be somewhat comical, even jejune, even naïve.—And, please, this time, have it, it, the last step for the first to reach their true last step, be more for that person than a location transmitted via radio signal to those venturers of  deliverance, out to get a thorough briefing to the public—saying we have been let in on the life after: the media will say it is something like a gratifying meltdown of all the striven and scratched, whether for or in, in or out, but always out of arrogance, though we only have really dreamt it so reductively at particularly woke moments. See, thing is, and this is at most at the outskirts of obligation, to say nothing of what we actually need—again: to have truly made one’s last step one must have judged the matter closed with a strong sense of place in mind at the first, really. One must know it had even begun if now it can properly end, with at least a better understanding of, if it cannot reach, its ‘where’—or else it might just be one of the many lies there are about finishing up we will make it seem to others and ourselves like one must accept believing, o, it is imperative for us as the human byproduct of a shit culture to, of course, keep that scheme afloat, when it is culture that should have always been the byproduct. Just as we did with Christianity, the afterlife and shit, so shall we with whatever genius we may find in the things not at first religious. Like this belief in summing up a place to give it being. And you know, the many other attractive unproven possibilities probably impossible, or just thoughts to get through this life, here—amiably. So then we call the job finished when it is not, and wake up to find that when putting to use once again what you repaired, it falls to a shambles and is quickly deformed by that original impatience to finish. Progress becometh easily a focus on the need for a status given to something, which itself transposes to a need for a status given to ourselves, and this is the disastrous result of a strange and sickly moral amnesia one might observe in people overwhelmed by either their bad deeds and the desire to start over, or by an artificial imperfection seen incorrectly by them as a given, a natural part of the world. Abortive efforts of interest are a symptom of that discontent: they are a vile ouroboros. These human efforts to really own the nurturing of one’s own ideas are really all idols to human desperation. All of it is forfeit anyway if you clearly do not know where you are going. The skill is knowing this in direct proportion to your ignorance of what the destination will look like, how you envision the destination, which is called the future and which if one were not ignorant of it, one would be quite easily bored with knowing. The ‘last step’ is not this sort of strange epiphanic sorcery and is not the result of enlightenment at all. People will remain angry towards most of the imposed limitations, yet first and last are not schemes like that, to them, would not dog them, are the same as them: a code in unison with the laws conjured up by whoever has put their shoes on. But geographically, at the time the line is crossed, the line is crossed. It is nobody's fault. In this case, here: a symbol is introduced, manufactured. An old man with a mind long ago run ragged: he has thought each precious thought in his head past all conclusion. It was to reach some weird heavens of insight he thought he made out from afar.  A certainty at the end of a hair. Has he run out of thoughts, then, cloistered in his mortal place? Stages are set up, between first and last, confining the offroad notion where it is not fully itself, and people often mistake this, a lag in energy for the notion, to be the end of the notion. Where it starts to rot is where it is yoked upon a series. This, it is said, is for the sake of organization. One might see and know the intrepid wandering notion as a sort of innocence similar to the freedom one once had, and its fate the same also: wandering through its hidden country and picking the daisies or something like that for garlands later. The notion is a child: anticipating the least chance at rousing nature to speak for nature, beyond the usual pastoral hymn and beyond a versified humanity really an abasement of both perspectives. The formalism of verse, destroyed by the unstructured greed of people; and the rawness of people made cold by verse. Well, we yoke it all upon a series—or an arc—or some other premature hierarchy, of enjoyment. This child is the father of the res, or just some dun and filthy ancient on a train. He is the fiction here: yet who knows if the fiction is real, or if he is the only fiction? Perhaps all of humanity is a flatness of projected film upon the screen, and people, the mere spawn of a whim, or even just one poor decision; and we to bring with us as our baggage a heady, thickheaded solipsism that is invader unto God. The old man is a composite of selves, and lacks those familiar unities of one individual self we all recognize and which rule us well enough to make our minds, words, and actions, as people, somehow make sense to some cackling voyeur upstairs, or some cosmic Other, who may just be watchdogging the replete timeline for any mistakes. The ‘old man’ is a mirage, but a reality; he is a collection of microscopically personal stuff one could not even hope to relay a fraction of to their therapist within the hour slot, and I mean a fraction of the evasions and buzzings that knock around and die over the course of one mere day, nay hour, nay minute, and the which God will have promptly insured your secrets you do not even know for very long be packed away in some closeted oblivion you can return to, and review, yourself, if you want, upon the moment of death, though God does not promise any deceased an immunity to headaches or anxieties, just an increased, or vastly matured, wisdom to help deal with those mortgaged emotions given back to us, you, in the afterlife. However, God had assured, made sure, that you, and all the hustling human race, for that matter,—had, probably long ago, by this point, had definitely assured, if not 1,000’s of years before you or anyone were born, or something ridiculous like that, that nobody, nobody mortal would be able to listen in to another mortal’s narrative: nor for you specifically that anyone too warped by their urban privacy a privacy to such people something more like an alienation as leaves and will leave them raw enough to blow up a building, or work for HOME DEPOT—that, no, no, for you, nobody too pale and surreptitious could ever pick up on and shadily file in your dossier they keep of you that inwardness, despite what you think the neighborhood obsessive across the street must have accrued by now, of a better facility, you suspect sensibly, than the way less dangerous stray catcaller who may lean against his nihilism on a streetcorner at 2:00 A.M. and call you ‘pig,’ but at least lets you know you are in his sights, in that moment. “Don’t be silly,” God saith: “Such a carefulness, such discrete, devoted surveillance, would be required as to go beyond unhinged and rather breach the realms of a psychic intuition approaching the liminal Divine of my own: like, Santa ain’t always watching, honey: and if he was, like I am you, now…o tragic morph of Icarus…if that was the case, it would truly baffle me why this newlyminted God would choose to listen to your thoughts and not trouble me with mine!” Moreover: God is not of that shitty caliber of person, not the uncasual lecher, who will watch you undress through your window without saying a word about it at work the next day, thanking his creeper stars that your apartment happens to be at the floor adjacent his own, offering a view of you, through your window, from his perfectly inconspicuous bathroom window, no less. One might say this offers a bit of excitement light up his evening schedule in his famished domicile, number 6 on a floor of the building asleep nearly, besides the cockroaches that dutifully scrounge somewhere unseen, in a building falling apart, across the street from your own shit building, with its own affinities to his, affinities the man exaggerates and romanticizes to feel not as alone in a new state, away from mother and living in his horrible, famished domicile, infested with bad vibes, yet that is always too quiet: and the floorboards have weakened bad and creak atop the shifty trust of the old foundations: and when the man even pads to the kitchen at night the noises and his inability to figure out which floorboards to avoid to avoid them eventually stir the cobwebs off a boyhood fear of ghosts. It lights it, and him, up. As ugly and as pathetic as it is. Yes. A consistent opportunity to see you naked lights up his glum fucking hermitage, with its least semblance of conceptual human contact, you know, to beef up the evening schedule. Something to tell mother. It lights it up with its benefit. Its gloriously confusing benefit: it happens to be just enough therapy for him that he never goes postal and kills everyone. Thus go the subtle acts of God. Thankfully mostly he isn’t able to take too much advantage: most of the time it’s just you popping your boyfriend’s blackheads in the mirror on the opposite wall, also visible from his perch at the bathroom mirror, at least, with the help of binoculars. That, and every now and again, allows himself to be mesmerized at you laughing at your boyfriend’s jokes, or offhand comments, wishing with all his weirdo self that he was able to be so verifiably offhand. O oddity, ye who cannot hear the punchline your own life delivers to an audience of strangers, all of them looking at you and laughing for a reason you cannot understand: o irony of ironies, haha, o delicate voyeur. One could use this information against him, if they knew it, some of it, about him, but nobody he comes in contact with regularly returns the favor, nor even will know him, period, for very long, much less his inner shadiness. So he ghosts the parties of acquaintances that he invited himself to in the first place, getting into his fickle head that it’d be less stressful just to go home and jerk it. No, nobody has any proof, outside of feeling like in parting ways from him, they are extricated by him, let us even say it is to his great relief, both to be in full control and to have different human people get out of his hair: removed from his presence. As if by giant invisible tweezers: as if to him, in the feeding eyes of his undiagnosed complex, they had shrunk to the size of a tick. Though of course nothing is said during the given exchange here and there that would back up the feeling each of his ‘friends’ have had. Until they all get together and have a powwow about it in secret once tensions build to the point of espousing suspicions as to his sanity, and then they all, all of his ‘friends,’ learn they share an experience of the same phenomenon of their goodbyes and wellwishings. Yes, each time they, but really anyone, even bids him a simple adieu, there is a feeling like one needs to itch, or wash oneself, like an annoying nag telling the child that the child smells a bit ripe and should wash their underarms, ass, and crotch while you’re at it. There is a feeling with anyone who is by nature antisocial of being thrown off but with him that is always temporary and is never substantiated with the, in reality, infinities of circumstantial proof there would be, if there was really a Big Brother Government monitoring us for seditious activities, or maybe even just for jerking it too much. But that would be crossing a line into territory more fascistic. If we haven’t gotten there already: when really, it is the benevolent God all of us know when things go right and none of us know when a random earthquake, deciding it wills to just go ahead and off hundreds of people, mindlessly jigs its tectonic plates a sec for the laugh and fucks up everything…well, well, well: it is and who knew the benevolent God all this time logging us down so we can revive certain destinies we in life had been too dense to tax our memory further with, actually a more nuanced instinct of selfpreservation, especially if with time and additional context that happy moment of the past that was forgotten is to turn sour with a fresh experience of trauma or something, precluding us that feel of any bit of happiness about it. O though there is not much business in keeping track of certain tiny facts, the thinking a thing here and there that becomes something you forget maybe, besides that it felt important to remember before you went to the store. Sadly you could not locate a pen for the napkin you snatched quickly, chasing the momentum of recollection and finding only that and the kitchen surface in time, before things slowed when the likelihood of juggling both finding a pen and keeping the thought in your mind diminished, and then you yourself became unlikely and fleeting as half the thoughts you never think again, and from there you tunneled home, knowing the rest of the way, to your sweet deep darkness and brine, your home, in existential sewers. Your rudest of privacies. But some of that information despite its tininess could still be used to summon up anger in other people, and misplaced at that, because an anger at themselves; or is of things coaxed from the depression of folks; or is the same old focus on the latest proof of one’s perceived questionableness, and the insights made into that during the celebrity interview, once the ballgag of their own fatigue is removed and people realize the truth of their own celebrity, which is even more in the troubled nobody than in the actual celebrity, for the former’s very reaction to any semiserious allegation of such a thing: “A strange little scoff, I’d imagine.” God saith. “Jovial but filled with rue. A scoff as might tend to say again and again in their hearts what is their slant on themselves, to themselves, fearing that criticism will not have the last word. As if the convincingness of that were even more convincing, were some consuming revelation all about how they are actually shitty and wrong and bad in their daily life. As if anyone whose aim was simply going about who they are were not the decentest, most sincerest schmuck alive! Negativities, am I right? At the hand of which, we are made the sap or witless proxy, and dethrone our very ego from the kingdom of ourselves, just to get the negativities away from us—but we do it by giving them the throne, the negativities, and banish ourselves from the region, hauling our ass and ego with us by mule: a region where now dwell, in a castle once ours, the bearded members of a senate, each one kept alive only by the shelling out criticisms to peasants like us, fixing them up in the dress of compassion, a tough act of guile to succeed at seeing through to the end but made easier if there are none in the bunch compelled to moral maintenance—as a weekly given; nor is it made harder if those who will rule our emotions once we relinquish them are openly shitty and see nothing in persuading anybody of the opposite. The rubric, then, is inaction in the face of assaults on scruples that at most are a hallucination of any ever there, good or bad; or they were fabricated in the attempt to bring this senate of negativities closer to what are our human stakes in life: vulnerability and such. And yet not anything done to rectify this or that atrocity, nor a string of words made at a public function that waffle over the resulting outcry, but as is the rubric and code in this circumstance of senators, these bloodless figurations, when it comes to any assault on scruples, the answer is detachment, like something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers,—when it comes to confessing the piling eternity of evils any given person has ticking in them, you can be sure that person fills no senate seat in their cruel minds, but might thirst for confessions of older, obscure cruelties they maybe have only imagined remembering, so to soothe some remote masochism in their hearts that are not bloodless, though the usurpers in their brain might feel nothing as they continue on and on with their torments as if each torment were to be filed and the bureaucracy maintained, the one that is religious or not religious, but probably the former, if one, having been forsaken by these men of the senate who might water their unalive beards out of vanity like starving flowers, flowers that each one are the cilia of the guts of the world, going on awhile now,—if one, that is, causes in themselves gestating a repentant grief at criticism that has smitten ego to the quick too quickly to mean that it comes purely in peace. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . He is an old man without vice and without virtue, and he was made just to move one past hating the regularity of that one or other small, miscellaneous annoyance, as will emerge, if we take the misplaced time to play therapist silently to ourselves, dangerously, while driving, you got it, to therapy, so as to decompress, and so as to burn a stray stash of energy while driving, or say, so as to shut off our fatigue with a mental emergency switch we can only use sparingly, with our own spite to connect it, to some deeper issue, as would usually tip the day overboard into ruin. One extra thorn that wants to be a thorn too much, sometimes, is one that is especially detested, heatedly living out the fidgets of this aporia, this malady, one of the soul, thwarted soul, and to place us, as in all people, in a beginning, manifest at least a beginning; a thorn in a consolidated ‘where.’ In what crazy region of this old man's head might this infamous last step officially be delineated? Is it a hieroglyph only he has decoded? Directing the arrival of a change? Even if it is just for him to know, forever: a solution given to him for the sake maybe of some unreasonable preemption? And alienated from all the other people who are not a fiction: a change in the atmosphere is recognizable to all, nonetheless, at the exact spot the hieroglyph had indicated to him alone.— A change. Not even many but just one, to be plucked from the senile ravel, which is the job of God, and then made all of the creation. The bordering space earmarked before he forgets. Then he will move on. Perhaps he has been making a pilgrimage to the sacred end of the story since he began himself to fester in the cranial soup. To him it feels a little less complete an end with all this help, but no matter: connoting a start or an end, but usually both, works as an impetus to go on; that, and the lifting his legs within their filthy boots, and the bringing down of them, to precede whatever next flawed human action as could bring him forth into but then past it, past the last step, maybe even into more keener, vegetable finalities. In any case, delineating a clear change, that is, of one place from another place, so that one senses it, almost like magic or, more apt, a placebo,—with the first step into it senses it; and also depending on the exact distance still to be covered before meeting that delineation, nay even that last step before the ‘now’ of having arrived, before his two feet are firmly planted on the platform—before he made his last step off the train he wondered if ever he had really moved anywhere or changed at all, or moved anyone, ever. But he need not have measured to there from the spot he got up from his seat to linger at as the train neared home: to feel a proper escape from the stasis. Or like it was official. So then he asks for nothing when the traindoors open straightaway and he sees the challenge clearly before him. He is to most of the public, maybe—or maybe they are indifferent—an elderly transient or some elderly yaya who went and mismatched his pills that morning, thoughtfully waiting to traverse the precarious gap. The rubber hazardyellow lip extending over to the opposite concrete perimeter and a little beyond so as to root itself sufficiently on the station platform, like a bridge, and this extra last step now exposed and plain to him by the maw of the opening traindoors. Sure, it provides easier access to the platform of the station, created mainly for the benefit of the elderly or lamed, but this easier access is to one day be for the benefit of a different elderly or lamed: Some sort of inhumane people, youth, who fled to these suburbs, these towns which are all with their own vacant stops a train might stop at for nobody or few. Fled to avoid hearing their boomer father use the word ‘bootstraps’ ever again, or ‘responsibility.’ For we are wounded by this defeat. In the eyes of we the young it is a defeat and almost evidence of a selfdeluding millennial nature. I guess in response we became walking mysteries. An olderlooking man, going Alzheimer’s on the commuter rail. We were indifferent to whatever mystery they said we were, and yet shamed the earnestness of those horse’s mouth statements so as not to feed the egotism possible to bloom from some few words being so true. Thinks one. We go on consuming the starved plenty to this day: a fleeting culture’s bled out, fleeting products, of irony and meta; perhaps we are even punks or goths that will become tolerators of plaid and khaki, are other bad priests of the norm who mainly cannot use their walk too well, well enough to get to finishing up, and need more than intuition to figure out where change ends and change begins. Out of a certain laziness of presence, we youth develop the needing of a presence, whether with us as one we do not quite understand or one as us that we must understand or else be rendered meaningless and absurd. O we youth who walk our usual walk to the neighborhood coffeechain looking to become caffeinated enough to free some manner of beast,—and expectedly find nothing. This lip or perimeter or halfway bridge or a public aid, exposed once the train inches to a stop, extends, with a pneumatic hiss. This sound, the hiss, is almost expressive; it has its own subtle characterizing awareness, as if glad to rid itself of its numinous anxieties of machinery. Or whatever other griefs as would undermine a locomotive machine with the pressured gas, released when the doors open. The old man, his muddy eyes, what they see, having betrayed him past help, this time. And suddenly, for the old, or older, man, or transient, a foot or so more of extra last steps still to cover to get to that sweetspot, that delineation,—well, that he hadn’t seen from where he was standing, at all. He a bobbing blur on the train, infinitely waiting. So hadn’t been able to judge whether or not to hurry from where he lingered, further off than the old man preferred, once given his mundane chance to arrive at the end of something, like, the mundane; or to go home, or both: go back to a home, his, that is a vagary or fluke somewhere in nervous aether. And lastly, this, this ‘last step,’ depending, also, on the ground covered between one and his next individual step of his old feet, though this anyway to be negligible, with each individual step taken by this poor transient fellow. . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        . He with his many odors that travel into the next room probably when he goes indoors anywhere. Individual steps. Generally speaking, the approximate length of them, that is: each shuffling and slight step to be predicted based on a record of every move this old transient has made dragging a pendulous ghostliness in trash bags, because he had had nothing else, across the Earth: in search of a life in which to throw the garbage, or liveliness, or something—he now for sure as one sees it happen from outside of this reality, having really intended to get off the train, off this clanking hooked-up chaining of big metal parts that look like XANAX on wheels: in frank need of repair: and the fake wood siding and posters for events longexpired and uncomfortable seats and all of it a holy dissociating: it is all there, in there: Having arrived at his stop, or his stop, so could one only presume,—before taking his last step off the train: an olderlooking man, or transient, with these very brown and sightless, almost suffering eyes, suffering, and drowning in, and blinded by, and steeped in prophetic mud,—an olderlooking man there, before exiting the train, silently faltered, and he, silently blocking the doorway; in his head, but who knew, multiplying all these processes like distances and other quibbles, through time itself: though the traincar was not at that time populated by more than a handful of riders: and the hassled hump of his spine, going stiff upright, though he in his tacit universe without speaking. Or was just maybe a haggard diviner for some higher spiritous language.]

INTERLUDE He was about to take his last step off the mostly empty train, or so could one have only presumed it the last.—

He then blinked twice, quickly; then stopped at the threshold of the doors as they opened, and remained standing there inbetween them, for awhile, stockstill and lifeless. If one had chanced to observe him entering the train, if he really did, and sit down, till about prior to this moment, if he really did, one would have found that he did not move much, even when he moved at all, or whether a little or a lot; but, rather, appeared to be here, and then there, without any visible explanation. A man of a series of slides. Yet there was a smaller, a microscopic way of him, and which, by those means, he located all of himself in everything at once. In the farthest cracked ubiquity of the scene, he was there, the old man, without moving, with moving; he was on the train and outside of the train; and as well there was a strangely microscopic Name his presence indicated was there but which he did not spell out. One got the feeling it was a smaller way than could be described, to one another, without the words getting clumsy. It was a way of him, that somehow defied physical laws, and made airlessness be emanated like it was something full all along. Like a cartoon; almost lifeless, almost. Surely there was a reason this trick was done so well by the old figuration. Some learned trick of presence, or of carrying oneself, learned way before having arrived at his very elderly state—a way to cope the old man, poor, absurd old man that he now was, had developed early on, perhaps to adapt to something horrible, or something perhaps not horrible. But still it should count as following along life’s roads, unless he truly was nothing more than figuration,—and still then, if that were not the case, a thing made of traumas.

CHAPTER 2 [I have one, single hunch about this old, elder man, one thinks: and at that, a bottle of single malt scotch left to burn, tonight, so hear me out before I lose that hunch to drinking, and my wallet, and also what I will order at McDonald’s later on tonight, before I lose my wallet, when I happen to stop by a bench outside the park afterwards to sit down for a moment and put my head in my hands, trying to sober up, thereupon getting up again and leaving the bag of food out there like a forgetful ass: See: it is some personal avoidance trick he uses, or something. Ain’t that this movie? Haha. Maybe he developed the trick over the course of his tour in ‘Nam fighting the damn gooks. Haha. Right Gramps? Ain’t that movie Platoon it’s called? Is it realistic? My hunch is I think it’s this or some shape in him he harnessed as it strolled by, which then the old man carefully studied, and which now guides the old man, who last time he remembered had left it, the shape, tucked away, a bookmark in a book: a book he bought that explained all the origins of geometric stuff: an easy purchase, if indeed he could know better from it his beloved shape, perhaps quell his rising curiosity: and in other ways: a hunger for even stuff like the etymological background, of course, of this thing called Tesseract. And it was a shape that was changing and fevered but also would redundantly get to floating back through the town in the old man’s mind, again, after a week on its own scraping by, and by now somewhat overcooked in the same role as prodigal son. Returning, once again, to the nice quarters in him, in the elderly, uh, man. Now see: an oddity, an odd geometric form would be the only thing to work: it was indeed the only possible twin of his own shape, and must have prompted his interest, the elderly fucking man’s interest, when seeing how oft it shadowed, and so closely, his own form’s unbroken daily routine. It is a shape that haunts him, as in literally, like a ghost. It is not without the usual shades of anomaly, with even some advanced shades, as any fascinating thing has,—anomaly, after all, ever hopes to draw the smart people in. But crucially: it is only the one shape, just the one, for his convenience. Tesseract. He needing only rely on one consistent shapeshifter after all if it be consistent though of course it be still a shapeshifter. Moreover the elderly old man might have done well to notice this consistency before losing his lunch of processed burger and fries at the fact of it. It, a theoretical flower let’s say, budding a too abrupt surprise, for him: too much for his ancient health. But: a Tesseract fitted almost like a suit around the skeleton and meat of himself he found. But sadly he could only get a hold of a rental one, or maybe it was used: the old man owned enough of it, then, to squeeze himself, or parts of himself, out of the third dimension with it as once again the shape left Worlds behind. So: this fugitive shape this elderly little man studied, if I were to guess, thinks one. Thinking, or hoping, he would manipulate life, or rather light,—so as to have itself grow into his preferred way for the given angle of a shadow, whether from a lightbulb or the moon, to be thrown upon him. In such a way as might enhance the arthritic hassle. Yet if even it was during the day and he going about his day innocently, I’m sure the most objective observer would sense that something was darkening him always, like a shadow; it pursued the contours of the old man’s body, a body that seemed to hang even though it was not hanging from anything: his body, suspended and looming over victims in its motionless motion, like a silly damn Dracula upon just morphing from a bat. He must have wished so hard to defer his body to the shadows. What a legend: the first old fucking man to have instilled in each of the twitchy workings of his loose intermediary parts, the valid appearance of an optical illusion. And most importantly, to have left the conclusive whole form of himself a perfection, and at that automatically wherever it was supposed to end up, depending on his schedule that day. But what do I know? I’d imagine there are times he wages the full capacity of the Tesseract, when he can do it, in front of people who have no idea, and, well, maybe I am one of those people, maybe I am just hallucinating the damn thing, one thinks, or might think, or might have thought. I do know however: a man can’t move that way. If this old man is real and in the universe then reality has faltered. But then, thinks one, this aim I devise of his is so pedestrian and mortal: that it’s all for the avoidance. Well, he uses it to cope, probably. . . . . . . For example: it might have been something cultivated by shame, originally: the pesky immortality of an alienating look, recalled a decade later for no reason; sour grapes that end up fundamentally being your fault, one’s fault, generally speaking, one’s fault; all the rest of that damn juiced up, permeating trauma,—it will be fodder enough, whatever the event of shamefulness in example. A trick of the light or rather of darkness, a darkness, made glued together: out of all the horrors he an old man and brave enough still would rather not brave if one result of doing so was yet another complicated coping mechanism drawn out to the point of, this time maybe, rending apart, for real, the fabric of spacetime, which he may even be too afraid of doing to risk angering with continued perturbations against the thin screen. Yeah. Whatever divinities he did not know about, much less would he rob them, and along with them all the horrors from before that had got him, the old man, to this skyey lost place of his own invention, he on the verge of getting lost himself, in realms of his own invention, or at least where his own invention led him in splitting the screen between Wrathful God and Wrathful Man, the latter too dangerous to make as Gods, and anyway our humility at knowing ourselves the frail reed outpaces the greatness of angels. No he the old man would not rob from these elements, these higher elements, that universal respect for their standing, as prophecy or as the equivalently impressive combustion of all of time, every time, within the present moment, and each present moment. No he the old man would not rob from these elements their own omniscience, nor could do anything but bow in deference to them, his face to the floor, if out of pride he must conceal his awe at their exquisite baffling parts they pick up as but lowly rocks and hurl thunderously from the perpetuum mobile, at we systems of flesh who try to untie ourselves from a humanity that every mote of dust in space wish it possessed. Do not disrespect these titanic, wandering mysteries sans a face, who throw their rocks of order from echelons above where is the World; which stoke all the universe as time and change and form, and yet they are these, the way an elderly old man, man of paper, with his paper ambitions: he had not the tools and cannot have them. And actually these are these, these rocks are form, and change, and time, and are how they are made and unified, and how they are done: the mysteries have the tools: so, then: he will let himself be scared off at witnessing some heights, ordinary, after all, to what is divine, just as the people of the World, and life, to any mystery at all, is more an answer than any as could be found instead by them who would have more access to it, because they breath in dust and exhale fire, and yet would suffocate if left to breathe the air. A’Saith Wrathful God [the absolute]: “Being itself is all the actual tidings of his life to come he needs to know, well that and how to get along with finishing up what’s not yet glued together: whether it blossom as existence alone without glory or concept without focus will depend on whoever helps me glue it together. Then I will make of it a gigantic boat to play with in the gutters in the rain, the gutters reefs, the rain oceans. Let us just hope you do not leave my description here to rot, forever, for for that forever I will be, and how poignantly lain waste, a barge of shit, plotting against our hero, bitter enemy to the lover of the shapes made by the clang of rocks of time. Our old man he should quit his archeology.” . . . . . . Yet with just a little cosmic teamwork might it be so: that whoever these mysteries are, they have created a franchise around divinity. Many will be the usurper to come, after me, after my anomaly gets out and throws the Scientific Mind into the same gaol of chaos as everybody else: everyone struggling to figure out who stole God’s chair for one fracturing like ice shales of the minutes without minutes, without truth, that had all the World in chains. It might just be the Tesseract, protected as a star witness for the divine lawsuit God’s wrathful ass is in for if he lets humans get that close again without blowing them up. If it be no such elderly who touched the thinnest part of the screen between intelligent mortals and the liminal rocks radiating deeper intensity, then perhaps the rocks of a fourth dimension were the ones dumbly toiling alongside wrathful God. . . . . . . Imagine to be ashamed for just being. It is called the human condition. To have shame that—simply put—puts the self on trial and cites original sin in its defense, asks one of a being and existence already what right one as you has to get one's own presence when good citizen shame has presence not; and being, well, the concept of shame perhaps is, ironically, or maybe it just makes sense, a being that is merest out of all in the pecking order of things to be considered in the living of one’s life, and the least thing of being itself, given barely a slice of it, being, to make it so that shame may exist on its own, without being a virus needing a host and to be by definition exorcised. I guess, depending on the rock thrown, shame could always have had being to its concept, without it needing be necessarily about or related to someone, anyone, internal to external or vice versa, outside of all the secondhand turmoil behind its purpose, but rather in fact only a summation of its definition in such wholeness as to imitate the wholeness of flesh and of existence, beyond the little free rides given by some God,—thinks one, scoffs one. The Human Condition. It is the guilt that one is. Anybody who has lived long enough in the World will understand this. However there is also the idea it relinquishes a sort of wisdom after a long period of abuse, that is, and this insensible, unwashable guilt as comes with the package of simply being is suddenly quite worth it: The prize is the wisdom of diligence, a diligence verging on obsession: a diligence that is learned through failure—but as to maintenance of ego, it works. Embarrassment is a catalyst for this wisdom, this diligence that is also a kind of funhouse representation of selfrespect. One takes the most showers who is told the most times they stink. Embarrassment is something of a similar rub as shame, it is the shame of a tested ego that has failed its test. It is of that same wrecked ken as one having no ability to see and being barred from seeing just but the color of just but one friend’s iris, without seeing some nefarious other aspect in them I guess there for good; nay the iris as all in the eyes of everybody to meet eyes with in a lifetime. An iris as one hopes and prays always to see, and to alone see,—and yet sometimes it is not even that that is given—and instead, with the same moody brown vagary in them, there becomes a kind of hate in them too, the eyes there, that soon has one digging beneath the eyes, infinitely, for something, a connection, clarity of any kind, or at least a pupil in the center, somewhere. Though it is shaded past darkness, one must know that by now. All this digging gets one no clarity but only will ever reveal a fresh layer of confusions, which will be read by the digger as judgments they will force themselves to see as insights: stuff and dirt and revelations as to the flaws and anomalies of themselves. Alas. That poor, poor one who is attuned to this, and has so sensitive a mental scale: on which to weigh what one may think constitute the particularly lasting judgments.— A scale: which one thinks will tell them an accurate number, each time, when all it does is break down, each time, beneath not you but an exaggerated heft made up mostly of this girth of anticipation collected around all the disputable portents, like fatty tissue, and waiting to be doled out by a scale which for all anybody knows could have slammed a member of a drug cartel, who would really be carrying weight, literally and morally, with as punishing a sanction, or, notpunishing, as one, or you, received just yesterday. You, one thinks: who lives in his parental hovel and shyly eats oatmeal in the morning before his parents wake up because he is too embarrassed to admit to them he likes oatmeal, which was his favorite as a child, but which also, he being in his twenties, is not a fact of his personality that would reinforce any idea on his parents’ behalf of him being mature enough to leave the nest soon.— In any case, if one with their, uh, scale is so preternaturally able to retain in their minds for so long the least proof to signal the grandest virtue, from cradle to grave, and not only that but then stir it back alive on the web, until every good deed one has ever done is thrown a parade for, paid back, because, well, it’s only fair; but only in direct relation to one’s awareness of the bad deed that was having it so easy, expressed in groveling before the bad deed as the popularity chips rain down upon ye, but first upon the masterminds who figured out this moral bilking, then the dregs of that upon the sheep, who all are out of breath, who want a ride, then none for the antisocials who don’t see the big deal about it, about both sides, and shrug at both having it so easy and being so aware of that. But the sheep are always looking for a chance at turning in all their own past guilts and sinning and shit, via internet confessions, and all the weeping their digits upon the keyboard: each teardrop a stain upon the Information Superhighway. But maybe that’s too mean. But there will be a point no doubt when all this conditional letting of blood is made a sea, coagulated monstrously into something alive, becoming a consciousness of shit that shouldn’t have been, caused by all the bougies’ unnatural balancing of the imbalance, like forcing an inedible binky into your infant’s hungry mouth once again because one happens to be too far away from the formula to get it right now. A sea that yet to the gardenvariety backpatter must be replete with, somewhere beneath its waves, or perhaps encrusted upon its coral floor,—with the pure gold of so much contemporary sacrosanct, because who cares as long as there will be yet more others, strangers, to see them walk the streets as one with the little guy, going in tempo with the swing of all their martyr cred they have, in the form, god help us, of something tasteless, let’s use the word bling, even though it is kind of out of style. Fugazi chains hung round their necks to show off all the woke they have. And these sheep will flock like birds anywhere, but not until after the latest Rick And Morty episode is over, and in preparing for travel, making sure to pack as many Che Guavera Tshirts as they can into their luggage, they will set out to purchase a scale specially for themselves. So as they might get to weighing all of what’s the garbage and trash, receipts and broken smokes, on their moral person, that are in the pockets of their selftokened lair of shitty, the deeper in the lair the more precious popularity chips to be had. But: this already feels like something that should have been a science that is now dismissed as alchemy because made into alchemy, provided by an ignorant culture with that path to take, which it did, way back, at a time longer back than anyone can remember. There will be those who feel the same as I do inevitably, will begin to see this, and they will, I have no doubt,—as a commodity and skill, which is retarded; but not an entertainment, of which it is the most, and which to admit would prove the least humility in that person admitting who would extort such as even their own tears, as unworthy, something disingenuous, for the sake of appearing to be Aware Of Things. And this absurd detecting of the slightest judgment, it becomes a skill, a profession, well, like owning at fidget spinners, and each old sadsack a new guru of guilt, at once, and the sadsacks of guilt with their insights a source of awe in the eyes of a few others who want a ride backseat, with one and their marvelously sculpted dog, Guilt, a woofing dog, Guilt, going and barking like crazy, with her chops flapping in the wind, and her head out the window. Guilt that is really a misinformed hatred, and which then, in all its fire and fury to curse oneself before anyone else, ignites a subculture of depressives all who look for insights into their own hidden flaws now, insights that will be in high demand,—as if a natal chart and the whole of astrology wasn't already a thing for this and also really hip. But this, it would be a skill, for those who try hard at their grief enough, but hang acceptance out to dry. One thinks: they do not know if they are for or against the very old idea of the unhealthy scamming of a people, called a stereotype: and that makes every personality a punchline. Too used to it the youth is. Best get down on knees anyway and exonerate oneself through shittalking oneself, so as to not feel so gagged by society: well to shut them up their room has so far done nothing.] . . . . . . There is something transcendent to the discipline of keeping apart one’s sense of mortality, which ebbs and flows, and one’s simultaneous sense of infinity, which consumes, and leaves parched—both feed and pressure the ego and enter from an opposite border of the ego, with different lengths to their rivers each time, and sometimes clash, hence, the need for an everchanging distance, one from the other, when one tide is out and the other in. Maybe this old man, this ancient man, maybe, he was so beaten by life’s lurid contraries and life’s amoral nonsense, and all of it, caused by these nonsensical clashes of being,—that he could not help but, after years of shame, involving in even the least, muscular twitch, an avoidance of presence. Like those afflicted with polio might lose the purity of a limb—but this butchering done, not by God’s megrim, but as a form of penance. That is, could summon perfectly his existence as a nonexistence; the way someone with polio might easily hide from view a disabled arm, so that the fact it is marred is not even brought to light, anytime, nor brought up, among acquaintances and friends, not for it being a taboo subject but for it being an unknown problem. And this trick of stillness performed even as he did actuallymove, while waiting stockstill for something,—shifting around to discreetly clean the dirt from his hands by wringing them together briefly and dazed and then clapping them to his pants. And even then, he remained still in all other respects, like a picture, almost tired. As if his whole tired being and self were stuck in a form of time comprised of many motionless frames that slid him into actions like dominos but at the same time robbed the man of any oomph or torque or spring to his stepless steps. . . . . . . So: the old man blinked twice, as was said, and paused, and he wavered there, at the threshold of the opening doors, for who knows how long, to allot time enough for him and his senility to catch the musk of why he might have paused. This is a fairly common strategy among the sane. Especially among those elite among the sane, who do not believe at first what they see as a matter of course, no matter how sane it seems for how long. Those for whom their own scepticism is the best possible meteor to have hurdle through space straight into the turf, if there has to be an end to this World. They would rather that than the air be poisoned by the contaminating bias of others, opinion’s argumentative cousin. Though really it is a hard worn strategy by cognizant people around the globe, who might always be on the trail of their own thoughts and visions; or even just harried, gangly people, forgetful of certain easy, daily responsibilities while they build castles in the sky. Though in the case of this old man the rapid blinking and aboutface and moment’s pause could not have been acted out in a worse spot on a train usually. this train had not departed from the city five stops ago and now was riding through remote suburbs. When they must clear their heads to notice what they did not before, or had allowed only peripheral attention for, and that yet asks to be noticed, somehow, in the heads of people, usually wordlessly, for if what was to be scoped was pointed out by another explicitly there would be no need for a momentary pause, just to assemble one’s wits enough to prove something there to observe at all. Usually people will do this and see if it is of some importance to them within a second: sort of a way to rub one’s eyes when one has full hands, though I could tell the old man he did not rub his eyes with his hands because he was too weak. He just stood there. He would have held up the line if there actually were any other civilians, pedestrians, folk, on the train itself. Then he became more lucid, then stopped where he was. Gauging his surroundings, or perhaps it was just reality itself. For all of where his eyes wandered it seemed so. As if taking in the entire map of the World just looking around him on a train; or it was a gaze not drawn to one thing in particular but overwhelmed by something all around him, ghosts unseen but by the damned maybe, or a truer, rarer reality than this that if the old man focused got itself captured in his pithy glass. If he focused, perhaps sniffing out some newly realized horror. Perhaps not. It looked like whatever he thought at that moment was not pleasant, pleasant like the weather was today; nor did it seem to have come upon him in a mundane pattern, like a chain, the way one would usually experience their mind in transit among strangers. He hesitated again: then turned his head slowly, with one hand cautious on the guardrail, towards a younger man who was sitting a few seats away. The whole pantomime seemed needlessly dramatic, but nobody had noticed. The younger man at present did not notice the older man nearby. The ancient there at his threshold sniffing out for the varying portents everyday life begat. The patiently idling train’s doors were opened to a station not to be specified here, fully precluded from the narrative, here. But perhaps is somewhere else living out its possible story. An anonymous destination somewhere in a World of the more abstract details.

[crushingonrazz]

React

This is not part of the OT3 timeline, I just felt like breaking some hearts with this ship. You're welcome.

I love the headcanon where Red has only had the human come through once, just with a bunch of saves and loads, because they are genuinely kind and they don't want to hurt anyone. Then, of course, Blue has never been through a reset (because that's the Orangey Asshole's job XD) So that leaves Sans alone with the experience. Fun fun fun for everyone!

Violence and self-harm warnings. Everyone is a dick except Blue, as usual.

Support Me

Sans slammed his plate into the sink, spinning around to face Red. He was sitting at the table, and he didn’t immediately seem to notice the other’s outrage. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Red looked shocked at his outburst, eyes wide as he reveiwed what he had said. He didn’t seem to find any immediate fault in it, his brow knitting in confusion.

And damn it if that didn’t piss Sans off even more.

“Just...don’t even bother!” he yelled, stalking out of the room and passing a very confused Blue on the way.

“Sans? What--”

“I would tell you to ask him --” Sans gestured at where Red had appeared around the edge of the doorway, looking absolutely flabbergasted. “--but he can’t even figure out what he fucking did!”

Blue stood still for a moment, watching him stomp up the stairs. “...Then why don’t you tell him what he did so that he can--”

“Because if I try, I’ll say something I’ll regret!”

He slammed the door shut behind him, and after a moment, Blue slowly turned to look at Red, raising a brow.

“Dare I even ask?”

Sans wiped angrily at the tears leaking from his eye sockets, trying to force himself to stop crying. To say the least, it didn’t work. He was curled up in bed, facing away from the door with his knees tucked up into his chest.

They had no idea. Neither of them. They had no goddamn idea what it was like, how it felt to--

The door creaked open, a stream of light accompanying the new arrival. “Go fuck yourself,” Sans mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“I’m not Red, so I won’t make a poorly-constructed joke out of that.”

Sans choked on a snicker as Blue stepped into the room, closing the door carefully behind him and coming to sit on the edge of the bed. Sans was reminded, suddenly, of days back underground, when he had woken up and immediately wanted to go back to sleep. He’d been...not tired, exactly, though exhaustion was almost always pulling down on his body in those days. He’d just not wanted to be awake, to have to force a smile anymore, to escape back into the abyss of his dreams and never come back. On those days, Papyrus would come into his room, sitting on the edge of the bed just like Blue was doing now, lending his semi-silent companionship in a usually fruitless attempt to help him get out of his own mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, blocking out the memories as best he could.

“Please tell me what’s wrong?”

Sans hesitated for a moment before he cracked his eyes open, glancing up at the other. Blue was looking at him so earnestly, so full of hope and love, just like he always did.

Sans sighed, turning back over and burying his face into his pillow. “You wouldn’t understand.”

There was a beat of silence, then the bed creaked as Blue pushed himself up to lay next to him, wrapping his arms around Sans and pulling him in close. “I can try?”

Sans tensed slightly in the hold before making himself relax, taking deep breaths as he willed himself not to cry. “D-does your brother ever...does he ever have nightmares? Like, really bad ones, where he wakes up screaming?”

Blue stiffened slightly against him, and Sans took that as a yes, pushing onwards. “I used to get those. Really bad, I would just...Paps said my magic would all react to it, and it looked like I was on fire. But then…” he paused, searching for words. His tears seemed to have disappeared, a cold sort of emptiness replacing it as he found himself half-lost in his memories. “Then the resets started. The bad ones, where the human k-killed everyone. And it sort of started to feel like maybe it was real life that was the nightmare. It didn’t even feel real , sometimes. So I thought...you know...maybe I just needed to wake up?” His voice broke, which confused him. He felt Blue’s grip on him tighten, and he glanced down at where he could see the other’s arms wrapped around him, reaching up to trail his fingers along the bones, grounding himself in the act and the feeling of his lover pressed so tightly against him. His mind started to come back, and he shook his head slightly, pulling himself out of the past and into the present.

“Red thinks he...he knows how I…” he took a shuddering breath, then continued shakily. “He keeps...making comments, like he...like he understands it. Like he knows what it felt like, because he’s had a different sort of...of pain. Do you...am I making sense?”

“...What did he say?”

Sans blinked slightly at the somewhat unexpected question. He’d honestly expected Blue to just kiss the side of his head and tell him that Yes, of course you make sense. It’s all going to be alright, I’m sure you’ll feel better!

“He made a pun about resetting. Something about how I should re-set the table before you “took a page out of our book” and judged me.”

There was a strangely uncomfortable silence, then Blue loosened his hold slightly before saying, “Don’t you think you might be overreacting a little bit?”

Sans stiffened completely, his eyes narrowing. What?

Blue hugged him tighter again, backpedaling quickly. “I’m not saying that what you just told me, about the resets, isn’t something to be upset over. Not at all, I completely...I just...I don’t think Red meant to--”

Sans pulled away violently, pushing himself up to sit and glaring down at Blue. The other looked extremely uncomfortable, as though unsure how to dig himself out of the hole he knew he had just dug himself into. He sat up slowly, looking at Sans as his face flushed slightly. “Sans, I know you don’t want to hear it, but he’s sorry, I’m sure. If you told him what you just told me, he would--”

“And how the hell would you know that?!”

Blue flinched slightly at the tone of Sans’ voice, looking as though he was at a complete loss for words.

“You aren’t like us! You have even less of an idea of how his mind works than I do! Y-you’re just...a perfect little version of us that’s never had a hard day in his life!”

Blue’s mouth dropped open, and his sockets darkened slightly before he pushed himself off the bed and stood, walking quickly out of the room and slamming the door behind him. Sans felt an empty sort of satisfaction at the action, proof that the angel wasn’t perfectly happy all the time.

Then guilt washed over him, and he brought his knees up to his chest, lowering his head and beginning to sob.

Red was sitting on the couch, wringing his hands and staring blankly at the floor, when he heard the door slam. He glanced up, surprised to see that the angry one was now Blue. He stood cautiously, worried, for a moment, that he’d accidentally done something so horrendous that now everyone was mad at him. Blue spotted him, his eyes immediately flooding over with tears, his vulnerability all too apparent as he began to cry quietly, descending the stairs quickly and disappearing into the kitchen.

Red just stood there for a few moments, trying to decide if it would make things worse to try and comfort him.

He was still standing there, stuck in indecision, when the bedroom door creaked open and Sans peeked through, his face streaked with his blue-dyed tears. He came downstairs cautiously, looking around uncertainly for a moment and avoiding Red’s eye. Red took a deep breath, then crossed the room, bringing his arms up to offer a hug.

Sans shot him a glare, and he dropped them immediately, his face falling. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, looking down at the ground before he got up the courage to speak in the face of his very angry boyfriend.

“Sans, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I--”

Sans huffed, looking away. “I’m not down here to listen to your apologies. I’m here to apologize to Blue.”

Red narrowed his eyes. “What did you do to Blue?”

A look of extreme guilt passed through his face before he ducked his head, folding his arms against his chest and staring blankly down at the floor. “I...I told him he didn’t understand. B-because he’s not...like us?”

“ Excuse me?”

Sans glared up at him, any trace of guilt gone at Red’s tone. “Shut the fuck up, he was taking your damn side! Of course I got upset!”

Red’s mouth was hanging open, unable to believe that the other had taken out his unexplained anger on the kindest person in the multiverse. “What the fuck did I even do ?!”

“You were making puns about the damn resets!”

Red snorted slightly, throwing his hands up into the air. “Are you kidding me?! That’s what you’re so pissed about? It’s not even a problem an--”

Sans stepped forward suddenly, getting into Red’s face and causing him to take a step back. “Why the hell would you think it’s okay to joke about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?”

Red glared at him. “Shut your damn...Everyone’s makin’ jokes about my damn LV, or jumping out from around corners and scarin’ the ever-living shit outta me, thinking they’re hilarious! You get used to it!”

Sans pushed away the tears threatening to reform in his sockets. “That doesn’t make it okay for you to--”

“No, it just makes it okay to fuckin’ hurt Blue! What the hell is wrong with me ?! Seriously?!”

“You have no idea what it’s like!”

“Do I have to? My life was as shitty as they come! You couldn’t step outside without getting dust in your damn mouth!”

“At least you never had to watch Papyrus die! At least you didn’t have to live in a world that kept repeating, over and over and over again!” Red opened his mouth, but Sans kept talking, yelling over him. “At least you n-never...broke your own damn fingers, just to see how far you c-could push your HP, just for one thing to be fucking different! You’ve never had to murder the same damn demon in a child’s body a thousand times in a row just because they couldn’t seem to dodge your fucking blasters, even though you know they’ve done this a million times by now!” His chest was heaving, and Red looked as though he’d been stabbed.

Behind him, there was a small noise, and he turned to see Blue standing behind  him in the kitchen doorway, his arms wrapped around himself. He was staring at Sans blankly, perfect little angelic tears running down his face.

Sans hesitated, then took half a step forward. Before he could make any move to comfort him, however, Red was there, tucking Blue’s head into his chest and shushing him softly as he started to sob. Something in Sans’ soul hardened, and he folded his arms across his ribcage, glaring at the floor as he came to a decision, somewhere in the irrational part of his mind.

“Fucking fine, then. It’s not like you need me.”

He spun around, snatching his coat off of the back of the couch and throwing it over his shoulders. Behind him, the others stared after him blankly, not piecing together exactly what was going on. It was as he wrenched open the front door that Blue cried out, “S-sans, no, wait--”

Sans slammed the door behind him, the tears that had been filling his eyes for some time finally pooling over and streaking his face.

They would never understand.

[timetravelingbarista-blog1]

I Found the 11 Mile Road

I found the 11 mile road. I had first heard of this journey while fucking around online after finishing my homework for the day. Ya know, school always comes first. Anyway, I read the entire story, and while being horrified, I was also very curious. So with the semester finishing up, I had decided to check this place out.

Let me tell you, I prepared for this journey. The story, well, ritual I guess, said that supernatural beings would be pelting whatever vehicle you took, and warned against taking a nice new car. With some spare cash, I bought a cheap as shit little red 1998 Miata with a manual transmission and hardtop. Why a Miata? I used to drive one in my early high school years, and I’d beat on it like crazy; throwing it into corners, doing burnouts, and all that other shit high school kids do to impress their friends and potential lovers.

Having studied the ritual for a long time, I decided to beef up the little car a bit. I had added a roll cage, quality tires and breaks, I disconnected the radio completely, added an upgraded battery that would hopefully make it through the brutally cold final miles, and last but not least, I added some padding to the doors and roof to help retain heat. After all of these modifications, I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was about to risk my life on. After some thought, I decided on something I found pretty interesting; once I hit 27, that my body will stop physically aging.

Not only did I prepare my car, but I also wore the warmest clothing I had, coupled with a thick coat, disposable hand warmers, and those cheap little neon orange ear plugs, to help block out the screams I would hear.

Now, in the desert I live in, there are hardly any trees. But, as the guide did say to find a not so busy road, I decided on a desolate farm route. Just before leaving, I texted a friend of mine that if I didn’t contact him by sunrise, to call the police. I set off in the little car, donned in my thick clothing to build up some body heat.

About 20 minutes of uneventful driving later, I turned down onto the two lane two way farm road, and just cruised for a while. A little later on, I had been momentarily blinded by the full moon suddenly peaking out from behind a tree, and that’s when things got a bit weird.

That tree, along with another, seemed to be standing guard to a thin oncoming, nameless, exit. I shivered, and knew this was the 11 mile road. Just before turning onto it, I stopped my car, and put in a set of those cheap disposable foam earplugs; help keep me from getting distracted.

I reset my odometer’s “trip A,” to show 0.0 miles, shifted into first, and took the exit. Once I passed the two trees, the entire sky and landscape transformed into a thick and bustling forest; the moon hardly penetrating the thick canopy of leaves and foliage. I wasn’t sure what to expect, as the guide said not much change would occur once the person turns onto the road, and that thick forest would continue. But seeing how I started off with a desert, I never really expected for a lush forest to suddenly appear.

I had looked in my rear view mirror, and all I saw behind me was empty space, almost a void that cascaded into pure darkness the further I got from the entrance. I looked up into the sky, and it was as if I had driven hundreds of miles away from civilization. The Milky Way painted the sky with such beautiful designs, and it had distracted me from the torment that would surely await me as I drove through the remaining 10 miles. I turned on the heater to “2” and pressed on.

The first mile done, I began to feel kind of confident, but I knew it would get much worse. Not much had happened on the second mile, but as a touched the driver side window, I noticed how much colder it was from when I first started.

Just like the guide said, the third mile was marked with the start of a dirt road. It wasn’t as smooth as the pavement I was on beforehand, but it was in moderately good condition for a dirt road; not many bumps yet. It was then that I felt dozens of eyes on me, and in my peripheral vision, I spotted thin white silhouettes. I knew I had to avoid looking at them, but I contemplated doing that thing people do when checking someone out; kind of taking a quick glance and then blinking, but I figured it might not end well for me. These figures were also in front of me, but much too far to see in detail. The air grew colder.

On the fourth mile, the road got a bit rougher. Not quite unbearable just yet, but I did have to slow down a little. The guide said to keep your speed below 30 miles an hour, but I wasn’t really sure why, other than just safety reasons. Knowing my car was more than capable of taking just about any turn I threw it into, I still stayed around the suggested speed. Not far into this mile, the echos started. They sounded like far off banshee cries, even with the earplugs in. I took one out, and the cries grew louder, I was glad that the cries didn’t penetrate them fully.

The second I transitioned into the fifth mile, the woods to my left completely vanished, displaying a massive moon lowly hanging in the sky, and an equally large lake below it that was as still as glass. It was impossible to not see it out of the corner of my eye, but I kept my eyes on the dirt road, swerving small potholes. Frost started to grow on my side windows, and at the edges of my windshield, so I turned my heater up, and set it to blow hot air directly on the windshield. The last thing I wanted right now was to be blinded. I did notice that the banshee-like echos had stopped, but only for a moment.

I had grown even more determined once I passed the clearing and made it to the sixth mile. Instantly, the sky vanished, and it looked as if the tree tops were being sucked into the endless abyss that was now the night sky. I saw not a single star, and this is when my feelings of invincibility faded. I had disconnected my radio in preparation of this mile, as the guide said a demonic voice would blow through the speakers and try to send me into chaos. Well, despite there being no power to the radio, it still happened. About a fourth of the way through this mile, my speakers pounded with a sharp squeal, and what sounded like a hundred voices of various tones spoke to me. Despite the earplugs, I could feel the voices pound around in my head, and before I could start to decipher it, I started to sing “Helter Skelter” by The Beatles at the top of my lungs, and tried to hear the music in my head; anything to defeat whatever atrocity was trying to break me. I somehow managed to do all of that while swerving around on the increasingly shitty dirt road.

The sound stopped right when I crossed into the seventh mile, and all I heard was a dull ringing in my head. A couple seconds later, the banshee screeches from earlier returned, and started to cancel out the ringing. This time though, they were much louder, and sounded like heavily tortured souls begging for something to come end their eternal suffering. At this point, the guide said said one of them would get into my car, but seeing how I had no backseats, I was at least safe from that happening. Considering sound had come from my disconnected radio earlier, I half expected one of these silhouettes to sneak into my passenger side, but none did. I was slightly shivering at this point, and started to do this deep breathing exercise I learned long ago, as it helps keep your core warm.

At the start of the eighth mile, the dirt road began to twist and wind up and down, almost as if I was driving down a mountain side. I focused on each turn, breaking, shifting, and applying gas as need be in order to get through this mile alive. The tortured screams continued to penetrate my ears, and the silhouettes were all but lined up about 20 feet deep into the surrounding woods, approaching me like a starved pack of wolves. It grew insanely cold; I had never felt such a bone-shattering freeze up to that point in my life, even when my travels had brought me to the North Pole. Even with my beefy car battery, my headlights flickered slightly, unnervingly so.

Probably a hundred meters into the ninth mile, the road straightened out a little, then my car started to shake, and all power was lost. I knew this would happen. The second the power died, the cries and screams grew far louder than they had been, I assumed my car headlights weakened whatever these beings were, dampening their cries. I came to a quick stop, shifted into neutral, and powered the car back on. It took two attempts for ignition, and I instantly slammed the gas. When my headlights came back, I saw both sides of the road filled with white silhouettes, just missing me by probably a second or so. This was the closest I had ever been to a brush with Death.

Momentary bliss came as I entered the tenth mile. It was still painfully cold, but the road had returned to something that looked like it was at least constructed by humans. The white beings filled and lined the sides of the road, but I kept driving. I kind of unfocused my eyes so they would grow a little blurry to help prevent me from getting shocked into paralysis from their appearance, as the ritual suggested. The growing pit in my stomach had began to subside on this mile, thankfully.

My car died again the moment I hit the eleventh mile. No headlights, no gauges, nothing. This didn’t shock me very much, as I knew it was going to happen. I just sat back, grabbed the wheel loosely, and let my car drive itself. I did see a red light in the distance slowly growing brighter; it was all I could see, and it seemed to be emitting darkness into the surrounding area. Acting like a negative sun. Just before approaching it, I took off my thick coat and zip up sweater, for the Hell that was to come.

I moved through this negative sun, tilted my head down, and used my hands to cover my eyes. What I heard, smelled, and felt was as unholy of an experience that anybody living could possibly encounter. The scent of what can only be described as burning rubber and melting flesh molested my sinuses. I dry heaved several times, expecting a flood of vomit to pour out of my mouth. I somewhat hoped that would happen, as the resulting scent would probably be better than whatever smell was coming into my car. Every inch of my body felt as if it were being blasted in a crucible, drying out my throat and almost instantly chafing my lips. The sounds were equally despicable, like the intensity of the screaming silhouettes multiplied by the amount of sand grains on Earth. Deep and legionous laughter almost split my head in two while whips cracked and petty sobbing assisted.

If I had known how much this experience was going to test me, I wouldn’t have gone on this trip. As the guide says that some call this area the “transmission from Hell,” I fully believe I was flying deep into the bowels of Hell, more treacherous than even Dante could have imagined.

This mile ended as the 31 seconds did, and I knew I was back on Earth, or pretty close. My car kicked back on, and I drove a short distance before coming to a stop. I felt my skin to make sure I wasn’t burned, I breathed in deep gusts of pure air, and thanked whatever force that was protecting me for existing. I shifted into first, and pressed on.

I came to the dead end, and stopped once more. I closed my eyes, and pictured myself in some far off year, looking exactly what I thought I would look like at 27, and then opened my eyes. I had been transported back to the start of the 11 mile road, but facing the opposite directing, leading back onto the farm road.

I looked at my phone, texted John saying everything was okay, and saw the message sent one minute after the first message I sent him, telling him to call the cops if I didn’t contact him.

So where am I today? 17 years have passed since that night, and every bit of sleep brought me lucid dreams of what my mind thought it would have seen while in Hell. I’m currently 38 years old, and I strangely haven’t aged a day since my 27th birthday. Will I live forever? I have no idea.

Latest Amazon Publication: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01K37N2U4#nav-subnav

[punkpal]

Hiya! I hope you’re doing well today ❤️ I was able to sit in the sunshine for a bit and I’m going to try yoga next (first time so it probably won’t go well lmao) I hope that you are able to take some time to relax and not worry about anything. much love! ❤️❤️

Hey i am so sorry for my delayed reply. And that because of my late response you got worried and anxious it wasn’t sent anonymously. Don’t worry both messages were via anon i just had a busy and hectic morning hence why i haven’t gotten around to responding to them until now. 

I am doing mediocre to say the least. Had my mum come visit me this morning which started off fine but as is often the case turned to shit real fast. Basically after she turned her attitude of semi decent to downright abusive i kicked her out. So its all over now which is a relief, its just a shame that what could have been an okay, potentially even good day turned into a shit show. But hey thats just the way it be in my life and in my family. I need to learn to be a little less optimistic that people will change for the better because it only ends in disappointment. But at least i have learnt that once i smell some bullshit to just stand up and say fuck right off because i won’t let you continue treating me that way.

Glad to hear you have had some sunshine today and even are going to try yoga for the first time. I don’t have too much experience with yoga but from my own personal experience i can say that it’s pretty hard to fuck up so i fully believe you’ll do just. Have some faith, after all yoga is designed to be flexible in regards to its gradual approach with new comers who are less experiences. And i can only hope that it will feel therapeutic and relaxing as we are all in much need for some relaxation and an anti stress method like yoga sounds to me like a great place to start in filling that need. 

I am about to go on my daily walk which will hopefully be a good opportunity to clear my head and try to press the metaphorical reset button and start this shitty day fresh. Lets hope that that is the case. I guess that short vacation away from bad luck is over for me. But hey it was good whilst it last. And at least my shitty day was once again savored by the kindness expressed in your daily message. So again thank you so much. My world started to descend into darkness once more so it was nice of you to come along and shine light into the abyss reminding me once again that its not all bad. And as always i am oh so thankful and grateful and hope for nothing but the best for you. Enjoy the sun and the yoga and i look forward to chatting with you again soon!