#turns out i can trick myself to cycle by reading book while doing it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nosferatvpussy · 4 years

Text

distorted lullabies [chapter XIV]

Word count: 6,791

Warnings: vulgar language, angst (everyone saw it coming)

Pairing: Dracula x female reader

AO3 link

__________________________________________________________________________

“Y/N, are you awake?” Mallory asked.

I closed the book and peeked my head up from beneath the covers to look at her. Light attacked my eyes and I squinted for a brief moment, gathering the covers under my chin.

“Did you really need to switch on that light?” I sat up on the bed and blinked. “This one was doing its job just fine.” I pointed at the reading light next to me.

“You’ll grow wings and turn into a bat any day now.” She laughed, and I glowered. Turning into a bat could very well be a possibility. I hadn’t asked Dracula about that. There was a lot I hadn’t asked, and a lot that he probably wouldn’t tell me now. “A joke, Y/N. You still remember those?”

“Not sure I do,” I scoffed. “You look great. Are you going out with Sean?”

Mallory’s blonde locks laid in large curls around her shoulders – an hour of carefully applied curling iron, I’d say – and her makeup was soft in such a way that her eyes looked more almond shaped than round and innocent like they usually did. A beige trench coat covered her outfit but her legs were on display. Mallory favoured mini dresses so I presumed that was what she had on underneath.

“No, he’s being annoying, it’s just me and the girls. And don’t you change the subject. I don’t feel good about leaving you here.” She sighed. “You’re my guest and I’ll leave you here to go party? That’s not right, but if you come with… It’ll be fun, come on. I’ll wait for you if you go get ready. We’ll drink and dance, and maybe you’ll find someone else.”

Someone else to end up bitten by Count Dracula. Another lesson, like Mallory was, to remind me that I was his.

“No rebounds,” I muttered. “I’ll be fine. I don’t feel like dancing.” She frowned. “Mal, I’m incredibly thankful that you’re letting me stay here but you don’t have to feel like you need to cater to me. We lived together during uni. Don’t think of me as a guest, more like a flatmate, a very brief one. I’ll go back home in two days time”

Staying with Mallory was more her decision than mine. Days ago, she’d bought a last minute train ticket from Gloucester and returned with me to London when the Sun was still up in the sky. When the taxi dropped me off at my house, Mal asked the cabbie to wait and strolled up my stairs on weak knees and packed my bags for me, saying that I needed her. I simply watched as she threw my outfits and shoes inside a large suitcase. While I waited, listening to her go on about broken hearts and that’s what friends do, I’d noticed that my bedroom’s window was open; I didn’t remember leaving it like that. Maybe I was being paranoid but being paranoid was a better choice than being stupid and I’d afforded enough stupidity for a lifetime, so I let Mallory harbour me. Dracula had unlimited access to my house since I had invited him in and closed doors and windows were no hindrance to him, as he had proved. Mallory was my best bet of avoiding him and staying safe, for now, and I could keep an eye on her to make sure she would be truly okay.

Mallory acted like usual, her ramblings, her chipper attitude, her easy laughter at the silliest things. Mallory, as before. Mallory, my best friend from college. Mallory, who had a scar on the side of her neck just like mine and, therefore, wasn’t at all like before. All she’d asked me on the following day after the wedding was how we got all the way from Berkeley Castle to Gloucester and how much she had had to drink. As a test I’d asked how she’d gotten hurt and she looked at me, bewildered, and said “I got hurt?”. When Dracula told me she wouldn’t remember anything, I didn’t expect her to not remember a single thing. I’d prepared a lengthy explanation but threw it away in favour of Mal’s bite-induced amnesia. Even when I went to change the bandage on her neck, she barely acknowledged me and simply stared ahead with empty eyes. She didn’t seem to notice the bite when she looked in the mirror, but every day before leaving the house, without a fault, she wrapped a scarf around her neck as if covering it was instinctive. A useful little trick in Dracula’s sleeve, I presumed.

“Tomorrow marks ten days, right?” She asked and I nodded. She motioned for me to scoot over and flopped down on the bed. “Can I just say that it’s weird that he gave you an ultimatum?”

“I was the one who asked for time.”

“Still weird. I mean, it must have been a huge fight. You said he was massively pissed.” She trained her large eyes on me, like one of Diana’s cats did when it wanted food. “And I’ve never seen you like this, Y/N. I thought you’d open up if you stayed with me. You cried the whole trip back from Gloucester and now you won’t shed a tear. You won’t talk about him. You’re sulking, and you never sulk. For a day maybe, yeah, you’ll sulk and throw a pity party like you did when you broke up with Paul a few years back, but then you’ll make yourself busy.”

Back in Gloucester, during breakfast at my rented flat, Mal, with a wound on her throat and face as pale as her hair, insisted for me to tell her what had happened and why I couldn’t stop crying. I’d told her what I could: that I’d lied to him about something, he found out and did something terrible and wanted me to explain myself in 10 days.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mal.”

“No, you never want to talk but that’s how you’ll heal. You’re on a rinse and repeat cycle of going to work, picking at your food, and then holing up in my guestroom with that poetry book. Where is it, by the way? Did you finally throw it away?”

I retrieved it from under the covers and set it on her lap. The book was warm to the touch. It slept with me, under the pillow or over my chest. Two days after the wedding, Mallory and I went to grab something to eat at a book cafe near our office. The cover, a large red rose overflowing from a jar as moths and butterflies decorated the edges, caught my eye and when I read the title announcing it to be a collection of Russian poetry, I instantly knew I had to have it. To find in those pages the tranquility I found inside Gloucester Cathedral; a moment in which I was wholly unreserved and Dracula had put his relentless pursuit of me on pause. A perfect memory in which I could have lived in forever.

“I thought you liked French poetry better,” Mallory said as she picked it up and opened it at random. “Why are you so obsessed with this book, anyway? Let’s see.” She took a deep breath and spit out the words on the page so fast that they barely sound like verses. “ I love you, I love you and as I rage at myself for this obsession, and as I make my shamed confession, despairing at your feet I lie, blah blah blah, my one reward for a day’s anguish comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss. Okay, that part was nice.” She nodded in approval as her eyes skimmed down. “I dare not ask for love with all my many sins, both great and small, I am perhaps of love unworthy. God, that’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?”

“You found it!” The pages ruffled when I snatched the book from her hands.

“Found what?”

“But if feigned love, if you would pretend, you’d easily deceive me. For happily would I, believe me, deceive myself if but I could!” I completed as I read through the last lines. “You found it, Mal, you’re brilliant.”

“I just opened the book.” She shrugged. “Were you looking for this poem in particular?”

I nodded as I tried to read it from the start but my brain was foggy from sleep and the words weren’t making much sense.

“Oh my god,” Mal said and I looked up at her. “This has to do with Dracula, doesn’t it?”

“He recited it to me once. He told me it was Pushkin–”

“So you bought the book.” Mallory drew her eyebrows together.

“Well, I couldn’t remember the exact words to google them and I was curious– stop making that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make when you watch Pride and Prejudice.”

She giggled.

“Your ten days are up tomorrow. What are you going to tell him?”

I closed the book and let it rest near my knee. “I don’t know what I’ll say,” I finally said in a shaky voice. “I really don’t.”

“Maybe if you tell me what happened, I can help.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

The bond wouldn’t let me utter a word about the true issue surrounding the Count to her; I suspected the loophole I’d found with Renfield and Zoe was because they already had previous knowledge of Dracula’s nature.

Mallory took my hand.

“I wish you’d cry, at least I would know what to do.”

I squeezed her hand as my eyes fell on her neck. A crystal choker covered the bite. She should be the one crying because she didn’t remember, because she had a gash at her throat that she didn’t recognise and because a monster of a man had attacked her. I should be the one taking care of her, not the way around. That’s why I’d bargained with Count Dracula in the first place.

“I do cry but only when I wake up,” I confessed. “The tears just come out of nowhere as soon as I open my eyes and then dry up when I realise I’m awake.” My voice wobbled at the last word and I slapped the pillow next to me. “Oh, now they come. Shit.”

Mallory laughed at my frustration and made me lay my head on her lap. Tears fell in soft thuds to the duvet, running over my nose and eyes as Mallory smoothed my hair.

“It’ll be okay, lovey. He’ll understand if he likes you, whatever you did he’ll forgive–”

“He won’t, Mal.”

“He will, he’s gotta. I saw the way he looked at you.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. He was horrible. I don’t know how to begin to forgive him or if I can forgive him. He was nice to me and now I know that’s what mattered, that he was nice to me and only to me–” But he wasn’t nice just to me, he was also nice to Lucy. My chest constricted. “I don’t know if any of it was real or that he actually cares that he hurt yo– me,” I corrected. “He wants me as one wants precious jewels but that’s all it is. He wants to possess me.” The words were strung together between sobs. I barely understood myself so I knew Mal didn’t either but she still rubbed my shoulder to soothe me. “Why am I crying now? I’m done with crying and I don’t want to.”

I slammed a hand on the bed again but instead of the soft duvet, I found the book’s hard surface, and it hit me why I was crying.

From the moment I bought the book, I held onto it as if my life depended on it, skimming through pages during work breaks, sneaking glances at it during lunch, reading it faithfully yet slowly so it wouldn’t end too fast in search of that Pushkin stanza. I’d buried myself in Russian poetry, those biting words that hung on the edge of everyone’s lips, unsaid but that rang true, so I wouldn’t have to dwell on what to say. Perhaps those words would become mine and I wouldn’t have to say anything, not now or ever, and by some magic Dracula would understand. Then Mallory found the verses and I realised I still didn’t have the words. What did I have left to hold onto now that I didn’t need to search for Pushkin’s poem? The sweetness I searched for amidst the sting of my bitterness was gone and that moment in the cathedral wasn’t worth anything if Dracula killed me tomorrow.

Ten days wasted on poetry and in a moment that I would never have again. I wasn’t even sure if my voice would work when I tried explaining it to him. All I had planned was that I would tell him somewhere public in the hope that he still had enough scruples left to not kill me in front of witnesses.

“Diana called your phone when you were sleeping,” Mallory informed me as my sobs subsided. “Taking naps all afternoon and sleeping early won’t help you come up with an answer, you know.”

“It’s the only time when I don’t have to think about him.”

“You don’t dream about him?” She stopped playing with my hair for a second when I nodded and I felt a tug on a lock of hair. The slight resistance told me she was braiding my hair.

“Just once since the wedding. I dreamt that he was driving and we were holding hands but then–” my hand was nearly crushed in his grip as he raised it to his mouth and tore my wrist open. Blood trickled down to his lap and a scarlet jet stained the windows. I smiled the whole time as he consumed me. “It wasn’t a good dream. Did you get Diana’s call?”

“Yeah. She’s worried about you, told me you only answered one of her calls since you came to stay with me. You have over 10 calls from your cousin, too.”

“My cousin?”

“Yeah, don’t you have a cousin in Manchester named Zoe?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” I hadn’t spoken with my cousin for over two years and her number was saved only as ‘Zee’. “Did Zoe call when I was asleep?” I asked in a neutral tone. I ignored every call from Dr. Van Helsing and if Mallory had answered the phone thinking she was talking to my cousin–

“No, but she must be worried about you. Give her a call back,” she said.

“I will,” I breathed, relieved. Eventually, I would talk to Zoe and tell her that I was done with her – that is, if I survived Count Dracula. With that, rose the question of why Zoe was still alive. Wouldn’t Dracula have killed her?

“Diana said she’s going up to Glasgow for work in a couple of days and that she wants to see you before that. I told her we could all grab lunch Thursday.”

“All right.” I sniffled and started getting up slowly so Mallory wouldn’t accidentally pull my hair. “I’m getting in the way of your night out, Mal.”

“Did you actually think I was going out?” She looked at me in disbelief. “It’s Monday, Y/N, we have work tomorrow. More importantly, I would never leave you here and go drinking.” I frowned as I gestured at her made up face. “I’m wearing PJ’s under my coat. I got ready in the hopes that you would suddenly change your mind when you saw me leaving the house and decide to actually move your arse out of bed,” she explained. I snorted. “A-ha, that was a near laugh!”

“That was a shit strategy. And you knew it wouldn’t work since you didn’t bother to change clothes.”

“Well, I tried everything else.” She jumped out of bed and peeled off the trench coat, revealing butterfly print pyjamas. “Come to the living room. We’ll order hamburgers and watch something.”

She was already leaving the room as I slipped out from under the covers.

“No rom-coms!”

“I wouldn’t torture you like that!” She yelled back from the living room. “Is Harry Potter good enough for you?”

“Great.”

It was familiar enough for me to repeat the lines in sync with the character and keep me distracted. Tomorrow I would figure out how to tell Count Dracula. As I made the bed, I grabbed the book from under the pillow and fingered through the pages. Pushkin’s words didn’t jump out at me and I hadn’t memorised the page number when Mallory found it. For the best, probably.

I set the book aside and went to the living room when Mal called my name.

__________________________________________________________

“L/N, can I see you before you go?”

Talbot’s voice made Mallory and I stop on the way to the lift; my mobile chimed inside my purse and my fingers tightened around the purse’s strap. Another chime reached my ears as I turned back to meet Talbot with Mal on my heels. Whether she had followed me because a partner was summoning me and it was a good opportunity for her to be noticed or because she was fairly acquainted with my phone’s chimes and particularly what they meant today, I didn’t know, but I was glad to have her at my side anyway.

Golden orange sunlight refracting through a window hit my face when I stopped before Talbot and I forced myself to breathe properly. I still had a couple more minutes, an hour if I was being optimistic, before the sun went down and I had to meet Dracula, who didn’t seem to pay much attention to it; he had been texting me since four in the afternoon.

“Yes?” The word was strangled.

Talbot’s severe face didn’t seem to notice my anxious tone and simply nodded at Mallory before settling his cataract ridden eyes on me.

“Do you have anything on your schedule tomorrow at 3pm?”

“No, I don’t think I do, sir. Why?”

“I need you in court.” He handed me a thick manila folder he had hidden behind his back.

“A new case?” I took the file automatically. “But sir, I’m already flooded with them. And court tomorrow? I won’t have the time to prepare–”

“Of course you’ll have time to prepare. You’ll have the rest of the day and night, and tomorrow until three. Pulling all-nighters is part of every good attorney’s job.”

I smothered an offended huff.

“I’m aware, sir.” I paused, and my phone chimed again. I could feel my pulse on my throat. “Unfortunately, I have a commitment tonight and I can’t take this case. Mallory will gladly take it in my pla–”

“I’m sure Miss Nowak would do a wonderful job,” he considered her briefly “but this case can only be taken care of by you. It was originally Miss Grisham’s, your colleague, but she had to go under an emergency surgery yesterday – wicked things, spleens, don’t you think? – and the Judge on this case refused to reschedule a court date.” He scoffed. “Apparently, Grisham had already been granted several reschedules and Judge Llewellyn won’t have it again, which is precisely why this case must be yours. As I understand you have a win inside Llewellyn’s courtroom, which might bode well for you– for us at the firm. Llewellyn is notoriously a difficult man and I hear he’s been mouthing good things about you. No one in this office has ever won before him, except for you and Renfield.”

My phone started ringing loudly and I gave my purse a thwack as if that would shut it up. Talbot eyed my purse.

“Sir, like I said, I have a personal engagement that I can’t dismiss. It’s best that I don’t take a new case. Give it to Mallory, she’ll do as good a job as I would and then this firm will have three lawyers with wins before Llewellyn.”

A new case meant I would have to prepare an opening statement, not to say I would have to spend countless hours studying every small detail to not be stomped to the ground by the prosecutor. The remaining sunlight only gave me a few more minutes to work out my own closing statement – the very last closing statement I would do in my life, perhaps, considering it was entirely dependent on Count Dracula’s verdict – if I took that case I would have to neglect it in favour of my own troubles.

“You’ll take it.”

“Sir, I can’t–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, L/N,” argued Talbot. “If your engagement has anything to do with your phone’s incessant noise–” as if by command, the tune stopped “–then turn it off. Whatever it is, it can be rescheduled. This case cannot.”

Rage built up my chest; I could swallow it down before it reached my throat but the lump there wouldn’t let it pass as easily as it would allow it to burst out. And I didn’t want to swallow it down so more rage could merge with heartache. I’d had enough with rage and I wouldn’t let Talbot bully me into something that I couldn’t do in the benefit of his own interests.

“Any lawyer here would be happy to do it. I can’t,” I said as I offered him the file back. He opened his mouth to protest and didn’t accept the manila folder. “You don’t understand, you absolute c–”

“She’ll take it,” Mallory intervened, squeezing my arm and interrupting whatever name I was about to call him. One of Talbot’s eyes twitched as he evaluated me and he rose his chin, nodding at Mal for the interruption.

“I see Nowak has managed to keep her sense. I hope she’ll teach you some.” He gestured towards the lift. “You may go. Do not disappoint me, L/N.” He turned on his heel and disappeared inside his office.

I started stalking after him, picturing his outraged face when I threw the file on his desk, but Mal jerked me back.

“Are you crazy?” She shook me. “You almost called a partner the c-word–”

“You can say he’s a cunt, it’s not like it’s a lie.”

“Y/N!” She exclaimed, looking around us as if to check if anyone had heard that. “Being angry won’t solve your crap, and you can’t just shrug off work because of a relationship. Focus. Dracula is just a guy but this is your job. If he’s right for you he’ll understand. It’s not like he’ll die if he waits one more day so you two can talk.”

I stared out the window. My phone chimed, and then started ringing. The sun was still up and I wagered it would stay that way until I went home. As soon as it was dark, Dracula would be there. I could propose a meeting spot but I’d made enough demands – he had said so himself. He was done making concessions for me, and if I said one thing, one thing that didn’t please him, that sounded off to his ears, he would probably tear open my neck and leave me to die by myself on the quietness of my home. There were plenty of things in my speech that needed adjustments to prevent that, several things, actually, that I wasn’t sure I had worded properly. And I hadn’t rehearsed anything, either.

“You know you’re not mad at Talbot,” Mallory said, as though she knew I was pondering the situation. “Dracula will understand.”

My phone stopped ringing and then started shortly after.

“He won’t stop calling until I answer him,” I said. But I’d already made my decision. I’d made it the moment Mallory said I would take the case.

“Then turn off your phone. You’ll concentrate better. I’ll even help you,” she offered. I glanced at her. “I can see in your face that you’re dreading going home. You can stay at my house one more night, or how many more you want, and I’ll help you study your case. You’ll worry about Dracula tomorrow after the court session with Llewellyn , okay?”

Working this case was a perfectly reasonable excuse not to answer his calls and texts. It was good enough for me but I knew it wouldn’t be good enough for Dracula. It would give me more time to work on what to say, although I had the feeling that nothing I said would ever be good enough for him.

What did matter if he had to wait one more day? I was dead anyway.

“Okay,” I finally said. Mal smiled at me. I didn’t have the strength to retribute it.

“Text him and say you’ll see him tomorrow.”

I fished my phone out of my purse. The name ‘Count Dracula’ blinking on the screen made me frown. I pressed the button next to the screen until it went fully black.

“My phone battery is dead for all he cares.” I dumped the phone back in my purse. “Let’s go, Mal. Quickly. He’ll come here looking for me when he realises I’m not picking up.”

______________________________________________________________

Count Dracula tilted his head as he watched the man crawl between tables, shoulders clumsily bumping into a table leg as he tried to hide. Sobs escaped his mouth. Dracula pushed one of the bodies at his feet with the heel of his shoe as the man shrunk into the darkness beneath the table. The man’s ragged breathing made the Count’s bloodstained lips twitch. He made a show of looking around the blackened interior of the pub, putting weight into his strides so the floorboards would creak as he stepped over another body, pretending that he couldn’t see him in his hiding place.

This game of hide-and-seek never failed to amuse the Count but it wasn’t as fun in an enclosed space such as this. It made him miss his castle. If it was his castle, he would throw the man into one of the dungeon’s cells to play with him another moment. But here, in a London pub where he had already engorged himself until his cheeks were ruddy, he only had so much time before sunrise. He wasn’t thirsty anymore and he would have to go home soon to rest his head again, only to be assailed by dreams of Y/N.

“I won’t hurt you,” Dracula declared, throwing his head back. The low ceiling had beer stains. The cleaning staff, the one dead at his feet, must not do a very good job of cleaning the place. “You can come out.”

A whimper came from under the table but the man made no attempt to reveal himself. Dracula waited for a few seconds to give him a chance and then crossed the distance between them and lifted the table. Wide brown eyes filled with mindless fear stared up at Count Dracula in a skinny face.

“Get up,” the Count demanded and discarded the table to the side, leaving the man without his illusion of protection. “Come sit with me.” He took a seat at a table at the centre of the pub and snatched a napkin from it. Red gloves of blood left stains on every white napkin he touched. The man – boy, from the looks of him – just watched and Dracula flicked dark eyes toward him. “Now.”

Slowly, so very slowly, the boy stood up and took small steps toward the table. He threatened to snap in half like a twig from all his shaking. Count Dracula motioned for him to take a seat as he wiped his face and hands with napkins. The boy sat.

“I think…” Dracula began. “No. What would you do in my place?”

“W-what?”

“I gave her ten days. Today is Tuesday, the tenth day, and she wasn’t at her house. She won’t answer my calls and my texts. She was at her office today but left early according to–” what was the woman’s name? Caroline? Christine? Camille? Ah, Chelsea. She’d slipped him her number before he left the office at Canary Wharf. He would have considered keeping it, if only to feed from her, but Y/N wouldn’t like that. Ten days could stretch into twenty or a month if he fed from Chelsea. “She’s avoiding me. What would you do?”

The boy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times as he tried to formulate an answer. He glanced at the parade of dead bodies around them and then back at Count Dracula.

“Um, who is– hm. W-why is she av-voiding you?”

Dracula nodded, smiling lightly. He was impressed that the boy had managed to restrain his fear for a while but he knew very well the boy was merely entertaining him until he started bargaining for his life. They always did.

“I did something,” said Dracula.

“This kind of something?” He gestured with his head toward the body closest to them and then his face turned red and shuddered.

“No.” He frowned. “Worse, I think. I don’t know, to be perfectly honest. What matters is that she’s avoiding me. I gave her ten days and she said we would talk. She said she knew not to flee. I can hunt for her but–” He threw the used napkins on the table, giving up on making himself presentable. There wasn’t any point to it with six bodies strewn metres away from him. “I don’t want to hunt what’s mine. She should come willingly.”

“Yeah,” the boy drew out. “But maybe she needs more time? I don’t know what you did, man, but if it was worse than this–”

“I bit her friend,” Dracula admitted.

The boy gaped.

“I– I’m sure you had a good reason to.”

“Are you?”

“I only mean–” he said, hunching his shoulders. “I mean, I… I don’t know?”

Count Dracula tipped in his chair and balanced himself so he could lever his feet on the table and cross them. Black leather shoes with small rounded dents at the tips shone at him. He hadn’t worn another pair since the wedding, when Y/N’s heels left those prints there. He didn’t know what that meant. He only knew that he couldn’t remember Y/N’s smile with the same clarity that he could remember her face stricken with black tears.

“Did she cheat on you?” The boy tried.

Dracula laughed mirthlessly.

“In a manner, but she assured me that she had stopped.”

“So, uh, why did you kill her friend?”

“I didn’t kill Mallory. I bit her, that’s all.” He’d bitten her without Y/N’s explanation, which he still didn’t have. “Do you think I exaggerated?”

“Um– uh, no?”

“I don’t like liars.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry.” The boy rubbed his nose. “My name is Trent.” Dracula’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to understand the relevance of that. “I’m only 19. I live in Whitechapel with my parents and sisters. I’ve got three cats–”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dracula glared at him. And then chuckled. “Oh, are you attempting to sensitize me about who you are so I won’t kill you? I’ve seen that on TV. People have been using that trick for centuries, too. It’s never worked on me. In fact, I think it’s kind of fun. First name basis is important, isn’t it? Makes things more intimate when I kill you.” He bared his teeth at the boy in a grin. “I asked you a question, Trent.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

The words echoed. Y/N had said the same. Dracula massaged the bridge of his nose.

“I changed my mind. Maybe it’ll change again if you answer me.”

Trent shook violently again and started rocking back and forth in his seat.

“I forgot what you asked me.”

“Do you think I exaggerated?” Dracula repeated. The boy looked around them. “Not about this. I know you might believe this is a bit much but it helps me not to think. However, I’m in need of a good talk now. So amuse me, Trent. Do you think I shouldn’t have bitten Mallory?”

“Uh. This other girl you've been talking about… Do you fancy her?” Trent’s thin eyebrows arched, trying to summon a serious expression. Dracula merely bobbed his head. “And you said she’s, huh, yours.” He looked at Dracula and he nodded again. “From what you’re telling me, you want her back. If she’s avoiding you, maybe she’s scared?” His eyes widened as if he realised he’d said something wrong. “Or, or, or! Or maybe she’s waiting for an apology?” He shrugged. “Did you try talking to her, eh, before you bit this Mallory bird?”

The Count ignored the last question.

“She owes me an apology.”

“Yeah, sure she does,” the boy agreed. “But don’t you think you oughta apologise, too? I mean… uh. I don’t know. I’ve never been cheated on but I don’t think biting someone is the right way to go about it.”

Maybe not.

Maybe if he had asked Y/N about it, he wouldn’t have to wait ten days to speak to her. If he had, she wouldn’t have cried. It could have been a terribly simple explanation and she would have kissed him again. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone on a murder rampage for the last days to keep memories of Y/N from permeating his every dream and thought.

Or, and it was just as likely, it wasn’t simple at all. She had learnt how to lie to him. He was certain that she could have lied about everything. It could all have been an act to fool him – the sudden interest in the taste of blood, her questions about his life before a vampire and after, her rare ability to see through him sometimes, the gleam in her eyes at the cathedral… The kiss. But the utter betrayal in her face, the acrid smell of fear, how her voice trembled as she wept, those weren’t false. When she said yes to him, covered in her friend’s blood with her dress ruined and hair in shambles, he knew she had spoken the truth. She had no other reason to lie after what he had done. And now, he found himself doubting if everything else was not all lies.

It didn’t matter.

He had destroyed it. And he knew that if he could go back in time to fix it, he would have done it all the same. She confused him. She had made a fool out of him like no one else had in half a millennia, and she would make a fool out of him for the next millennia as well. Despite what she had done, she was his, whether she liked it or not. He was willing to wait a few more days for her to come to him.

Count Dracula massaged the bridge of his nose again.

“Thank you, Trent.”

The boy’s heart drummed, his blood streaming inside of him in rapid currents. Dracula could hear the noise it made, like a wind howl against a window.

“Are you gonna let me go?”

“Yes, I will.” He flashed the boy a quick smile. “Although you haven’t been much help, I’m feeling merciful right now.” Trent exhaled a shaky breath and started getting up. “One last thing” – the boy looked up at that, watery brown eyes filled with alarm again – “you didn’t say… what would you do in my place?”

“Uhh–” he paused, panic flaring up and making the drumming in Dracula’s ears become louder. “Show that you care? Apologise if you want her back. She’ll apologise, too.” Dracula just stared. “Or do something nice for her. Especially nice.” Trent sniffled. “That’s what my dad does when my mum is mad at him, and it works.”

Trent waited as Dracula nodded, and then started shuffling across the pub in a slow pace as if he was doing his best not to draw attention.

He eyed the dents on his shoes and felt Y/N’s lips on his. He couldn’t wait five or ten years to feel them again and in order to have that, he would have to make amends. But then he thought of all the lies again and the taste of Mallory’s blood pouring down his throat and all the memories that came with it. A pungent reminder of how unreasonable he had become since meeting Y/N.

Trent was almost at the exit door.

“On second thought!” He called, planting both feet on the slippery red floor. The boy turned around to look at him and Count Dracula bared sharp teeth as he stood up from his seat. “I feel like having dessert.”

The boy ran.

His fingers brushed the doorknob but didn’t manage to grip it. Dracula blocked the way. Trent squealed and his entire body trembled in such force that the Count thought he could hear his bones rattling. He smiled at that and grabbed the boy’s shoulder to stop him from scuttling away.

Trent was as pale as a sheet, so much so that it was difficult to make out defining features on his face, but the shapeless, quivering thing on his face was most definitely a bottom lip moving as his teeth chattered.

“Ah, don’t be like that. I’ll make it quick, as a thanks.” Dracula stroked the boy’s cheek, pointed nails grazing the skin, and he shuddered. “Truly, you gave me quite the idea. But you see, it’s almost dawn, and I need a last bedtime snack to clear my head. You just so happen to be nearby.”

“Please, I–”

“No, no, no, no. Begging won’t get you anywhere and I’ve heard enough of ‘please’ tonight. I’ll make it quick and you won’t beg. Are we agreed?” He cocked an eyebrow. Trent shut his eyes and nodded. Dracula patted his face. “Good boy.”

Dracula turned Trent’s face to the side. He was met with no resistance as he lowered his head to tear through the soft flesh on the boy’s neck. Trent stopped trembling as Dracula’s teeth slashed deep and blood flowed inside his mouth. Memories started materialising but he ignored it and allowed himself to be swept away until nothing else invaded his mind except the taste of blood, its warmth cascading over his body and leaving him no choice but to be inundated with unrestrained elation.

He swallowed hurriedly and, in no time, the flow became sluggish and he began taking it less urgently. If he drank too fast, he would miss it. He waited for it to come as one waits for the first rain to pour, waits for it to wash remains, and to bring restoration. Ecstasy flitted across his deepest thoughts only to be replaced with perfect numbness. Sublime anesthesia and a brief glimpse into the true death he would never feel.

The emptiness he sought, the complete erasure of all thoughts, was the one thing that brought him relief and wiped the image of Y/N’s face. Her rancour and her grief that turned those eyes cruel to cut through him when she saw him with Mallory but, worst of all, the resignation that made her voice docile, almost cowed when she begged him for time. It touched something in him. Something that made him desperate to get rid of it, so abnormal was this sensation, that his only solution was to engorge himself with blood.

Only she had this effect on him. Usually he was picky with his food, choosing when should each dish be savoured and in which order. All it took for that to change was for Y/N to look him in the eye at the Victoria and Albert Museum and say that taking her there was the nicest thing someone had ever done for her. And he simply couldn’t understand that, couldn’t understand he had enjoyed knowing that, that he had enjoyed making her happy, and that he was possibly growing infatuated by her. Not in the way he had grown attached to Agatha or Johnny. It was entirely different; a foreign feeling. It had driven him to feast on a board of directors in an attempt to obliterate the memory. And it had worked for a little while but each time she managed to pull at his control until he wasn’t sure if he had any control whatsoever.

Dracula dropped Trent’s lifeless body.

The anesthesia had faded and here he was, thinking of Y/N again.

He groaned in frustration, wiped his chin and left the darkened pub with its new decor of blood carpets and artfully painted walls.

Taglist: @festering-queen @feralstare @rheabalaur @a-dorky-book-keeper @thorin-smokin-shield @dreamer2381 @illbegoinhome @girlonfireice @deborahlazaroff @saint-hardy @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @iwasjustablur @princessayveke @vampirescurse @crossoverqueen89 @blue-serendipity @sunscreenfeverdream @25ocurer @daydreaming136 @hello-itsbarbie

#dracula bbc #dracula fanfic #dracula 2020 #dracula x reader #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #vampire fanfic #claes bang #claes bang fanfic #distorted lullabies

110 notes · View notes

theyearoftheking · 4 years

Text

Book Seventy-Nine: If It Bleeds

“There’s an underlying truth in it which I believe you will grasp even at your current age Films are ephemeral, while books- the good ones- are eternal, or close to it. You have read me many good ones, but others are waiting to be written.”

This is it... the second to last book in the challenge. I’m really dragging my feet reading Later (although it is a spectacular book). But this challenge is over, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have a ton of books on my shelves and Kindle to read, and writing that needs to be done (characters are all but screaming for me to come back to them); but this project really gave me purpose in a rudderless time.

I had started this project as a fun conversation piece, but quickly turned into something bigger. During quarantine, this challenge gave me a purpose. I’d challenge myself to read one hundred pages a day, and remind myself to drink water between chapters. Sometimes writing these posts dragged me out of bed. In winter months I’m extremely agoraphobic, and it’s tough for me to leave the house some days. And other days it’s all I can do to wash and brush my hair. Mental health is a bitch, sometimes. But I didn’t mean to make this about me... although I’m sure some of my readers can relate, a lot of us took a hit to the mental health during 2020. While I will look back on quarantine fondly (it gave me excuses not to leave the house, or change out of my pajamas), my mental health will not. But just as it’s time to leave the house, I suppose it’s also time to start focusing on new projects once this one is complete. I have no idea what that will look like. Maybe I’ll start with Steve’s movies. Maybe I’ll re-read Joe Hill. Who knows. But I do know I’m going to indulge in some trashy fiction reading.

Ok!

If It Bleeds is a collection of three novellas, and a Holly Gibney story. I shouldn’t discount the other three stories: they’re extremely well written, and thought provoking. But the real star of the book is the Holly story.

The first story, Mr. Harrigan’s Phone turns grief on it’s ear. A lot of people call their loved one’s cellphones after they pass... they want that experience of hearing their voice just one more time. But what happens when the phone is buried with your loved one and continues to ring? And what if you get a text from them after their death? It’s a sweet story, with your typical Steve twist.

The second story, The Life of Chuck is told backwards, and “contains multitudes”. It also has a post-apocalyptic vibes, with California falling into the ocean, and the Midwest burning. It also has college kids storming the White House looking for answers, which is just another example of Steve predicting the future.

Steve was inspired by a random billboard that read, “Thanks Chuck!” along with a guys picture and “39 Great Years”. Again, something mundane with a great Steve twist. He’s proven this is his sweet spot.

The third story is If It Bleeds, which picks up almost immediately where The Outsider left off. There’s a tragic bombing that takes place inside an elementary school, and Holly can’t stop watching the television news reports. There’s something tickling at her brain, and she can’t figure out what it is.

Eventually we find out there are more monsters like the one Holly killed in The Outsider. Jerome makes the best comparison, and says evil is like a bird that randomly flies from person to person, infecting them as it goes. There’s one section of the book when a character refers to the monster as, “It”. So it makes you wonder if this is one big tie-in, where we find out Holly is killing pieces of the monster that plagued Derry for so long.

The mystery itself is secondary to Holly’s larger-than-life character. She is dealing with family issues; her Trump-supporting mom needs Holly’s help putting her uncle in a care facility, and Holly is struggling to cut herself out of the co-dependent relationship she has with her mother. But Holly has grown. She knows her worth, and she doesn’t let people talk down to her anymore. Her evolution is best described as, “Holly would do well to remember...who she is. Not the child who nibbled Mr. Rabbit Trick’s ears. Not the adolescent who threw up her breakfast most days before school. She is the woman who, along with Bill and Jerome, saved those children at the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex. She is the woman who survived Brady Hartsfield. The one who faced another monster in a Texas cave. The girl who hid in this room and never wanted to come out is gone.”

The final story is Rat. And I’m just going to tell you... an actual rat quoting Jonathan Franzen is perfect. He’s problematic enough to be an actual rodent. Yeah, I’m going to say it. The Corrections was absolute garbage, and I don’t know why it was lauded the way it was. He’s a condescending misogynist and he’s not nearly as good a writer as he thinks he is... says the girl writing a blog on her Stephen King musings. But whatever! I own what I’m doing, and the significance of it.

I will gladly re-read all of Steve’s books again before picking up another Jonathan Franzen book. If you want to dive into all the reasons he’s disgusting, this Bustle article will explain it to you. Like, legit explain it. Not mansplain it.

Anyway, Rat explores why it’s not a great idea to make deals with rodents during major weather events. And when you’re at your isolated cabin and a major snowstorm is on the way- heed your wife’s advice and come back to civilization.

This collection included plenty of Constant Reader mentions:

Derry

Shawshank Prison

Castle Rock

Gunslinger

It was an excellent collection, and I can’t get enough Holly. Steve talked about how she started out as a small, minor character and her presence just grew and grew. I don’t know about the rest of the Constant Readers, but I’d totally read another Holly book. Hell, I’ll take a whole series at this point.

So, my final book is Later. I’ve got about 100 pages left to read and then that’s it... until April.

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 48

Total Dark Tower References: 76

Book Grade: A+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

Doctor Sleep: A+

The Talisman: A+

Wizard and Glass: A+

11/22/63: A+

Mr. Mercedes: A+

End of Watch: A+

Under the Dome: A+

Needful Things: A+

On Writing: A+

The Green Mile: A+

Hearts in Atlantis: A+

Full Dark, No Stars: A+

The Outsider: A+

The Bazaar of Bad Dreams: A+

If It Bleeds: A+

Just After Sunset: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

Stephen King Goes to the Movies: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Finders Keepers: A-

Bag of Bones: A-

Duma Key: A-

Black House: A-

The Institute: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

The Dark Tower: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Blaze: B+

Hard Listening: B+

Revival: B+

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Joyland: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

Wolves of the Calla: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Song of Susannah: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

From a Buick 8: B

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon: B

Sleeping Beauties: B-

The Colorado Kid: B-

Storm of the Century: B-

Everything’s Eventual: B-

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

The Wind Through the Keyhole: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Cell: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Desperation: C-

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Faithful: D

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Lisey’s Story: D

Christine: D

Dreamcatcher: D

The Regulators: D

The Tommyknockers D

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights, Rebecca

#stephen king #if it bleeds #constant readers #derry #the dark tower #holly gibney #jonathan franzen #pennywise #it

17 notes · View notes

sinagrace · 5 years

Text

As Pride Month comes to a close, it’s time I spoke candidly about my experience at Marvel Comics.

To date, I’ve always been honest about the joy of writing Iceman’s journey as an out gay superhero, but I’ve skirted around the challenges that came along with it. This is partially because I prefer to give off an upbeat vibe, and there’s also a fear that my truth will affect my career. With more corporations patting themselves on the back for profit-led partnerships wherein celebrities take selfies in rainbow apparel, and with buzz that Marvel Studios is preparing to debut their first gay character in the upcoming Eternals movie, there is an urgency to discuss the realities of creating queer pop culture in a hostile or ambivalent environment. Hopefully, my takeaways will serve as a guide for people in positions of power to consider when advocating for more nuanced and rich representation. In an ideal world, embracing our stories and empowering us to tell them will yield far more profitable (and way less messy) results than what I encountered while writing Iceman.

Stand by your people

It’s no surprise that I got the attention of trolls and irate fans for taking on this job. There was already backlash around the manner in which Bobby Drake aka Iceman came out, and Marvel needed to smooth that landing and put a “so what” to the decision. After a point, I could almost laugh off people making light of my death, saying they have "cancerous AIDS" from my book, or insinuating I’m capable of sexual assault… almost. Between Iceman’s cancellation and its subsequent revival, Marvel reached out and said they noticed threatening behavior on my Twitter account (only after asking me to send proof of all the nasty shit popping up online). An editor called, these conversations always happen over the phone, offering to provide “tips and tricks” to deal with the cyber bullying. I cut him off. All he was going to do was tell me how to fend for myself. I needed Marvel to stand by me with more work opportunities to show the trolls that I was more than a diversity hire. “We’ll keep you in mind.” I got so tired of that sentence.

Even after a year of the new editor-in-chief saying I was talented and needed to be on a book that wasn’t “the gay character,” the only assignment I got outside of Iceman was six pages along, about a version of Wolverine where he had diamond claws. Fabulous, yes. Heterosexual, yes. Still kind of the gay character, though.

We as creators are strongly encouraged to build a platform on social media and use it to promote work-for-hire projects owned by massive corporations… but when the going gets tough, these dudes get going real quick.

Believe in the work

You may be asking if my Iceman book was any good, or if I’m just being sour grapes over a bad work experience. Believe me, I asked that, too. From the get-go, my first editor asserted that Iceman would be DOA if it were “too gay,” while also telling me to prepare for a cancellation anyway, given that most solo X-Men titles don’t last beyond a year. Never mind that my work on Iceman had gotten positive press in the New York Times (in-print), or that in spite of (since-deleted) critical sandbagging, the series nets glowing reviews on Amazon… Marvel still treated me as someone to be contained, and the book as something to be nervous about. Do you know how hard it is to not argue with a publicist when he’s explaining the value of announcing Iceman’s revival via the Marvel homepage? Sis, that’s a burial. Instead of clapping back, I just went and got myself more press from the New York Times. From there, they tightened my leash. I had to get all opportunities pre-approved, and all interviews pre-reviewed. This would be fine if it was the standard, but I assure you: none of my straight male colleagues seek permission to go on podcasts promoting their books.

What Marvel should have done is assign me a special projects editor. They should have worked with a specialty PR firm, rather than repeat a tiresome cycle of treating the book like a square peg, and getting confused when it’s a hit.

Give us a real seat at the table

There was a moment before Iceman was cancelled where I wrote then-editor-in-chief Axel Alonso an email, pleading for a Hail Mary arc. I explained that Iceman was landing with a newer generation of readers who focused more on binge-reading than month-to-month periodicals. The series needed time in the book market before its true strength could be assessed. To Axel’s credit, he was warm to the idea and even gave me an extra month, but when he left Marvel that idea got brushed away. Of course I was right. The first two volumes sold like gangbusters thanks to word-of-mouth, librarian love, and support from retailers big and small.

When the series returned, no one at Marvel asked me: “What do you think landed with readers?” Nor did they ask the question that Axel did: “What matters to your community?” So when I wrote what I thought the fans would be into, a story about a man learning to be a better ally in the war against hate, editorial totally missed its value.

Seat at the table pt II: The Shade of it all

All of the weird drama I put up with crystallized when I created a drag queen mutant, first called Shade, now called Darkveil. I told my editor that Shade would be a big deal for X-Fans, and asked how we should promote her. He said: “leave it up to the reader’s interpretation.” Everyone at Marvel shrugged off two years of goodwill and acted like I’d coordinated behind their backs on an announcement that made headlines. Beyond mentioning on Instagram the queens who inspired the character, I didn’t coordinate shit. Of course, their head publicist can’t admit that my quotes were pre-approved from an unreleased interview. At this point, I stopped believing that there’d be any more work for me. There were so many shady moves on their end that I’m still having trouble putting into language, but it all aligned with an experience I had in retail where a corrupt manager kept lying and moving the goal posts in order to keep me selling in a department I didn’t want to work in. I offered to give Darkveil a proper character bio, and I walked away.

I recognize that some of my complaints can be filed under “this is freelance life.” I am aware that it was not a queer person of color who joked to me that “it’s not a matter of if Marvel fucks you over, it’s a matter of when.” That came from a cis white male. The same-day turn-arounds without warning, the work emails on Christmas week… that’s the freelance bullshit. Truly, I don’t even think of this as discrimination, I call it general ineptness. It is my belief that if we are telling stories about heroes doing the right thing in the face of adversity, wouldn’t the hope be to embody those ideals as individuals? Instead of feeling like I worked with some of the most inspiring and brave people in comics, I was surrounded by cowards.

Truly, I hate writing this. In keeping with Pride Month, I am proud of the work I did on Iceman... I love the book! It sucks that I may be tarnishing its legacy going public about how the cookies were made. That said, the time for self-congratulating is over, and folks should be earnestly listening when they ask: what could we have done better?

3K notes · View notes

symphonyofthewrite · 4 years

Text

Inverted Recurrence

Fandom: Castlevania Symphony of the Night (but with the Netflix series characterizations)

Summary: It's been three hundred years since Alucard saw Trevor and Sypha. When he sees a version of them in the inverted coliseum...he just can't seem to win the fight against them.

So he loses. Over and over.

(The inverted coliseum boss fight from Symphony of the Night, but with the Netflix series characters)

Notes: First of all, warning! (As evidenced by the summary) there will be swearing in this fic!

This is a fic for the game Symphony of the Night. However I used the characterizations of the characters from the Netflix series. (This is also why Grant is not present, even though he's present in the actual fight. I wanted to include him, especially because they took him out of the show...but because they took him out of the show, and because I have yet to play Dracula's Curse, I didn't feel like I could properly characterize him to have him in the scene.)

In case you've only watched the show, but are still interested in reading, I'll put a little summary of the things you need to know about the game in order to read in the replies!!

If you enjoyed this I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog! They make my week, and really help motive me to keep writing multi-chapter fics like this one!

I’ve also posted this on my general writing blog @antihero-writings if you want to check it out there!!

Chapter 1:

Alucard hit the ground of the save room…which happened to be the ceiling, breath and heartbeat crawling through his chest like fire ants.

“Well…fuck.”

******

Fire consumed the werewolves’ snarls, echoing through the stone hall, and he continued up the corridor without a glance back.

Alucard paused to think; count the rooms.

He wiped the blood off his sword—well, not his sword, that is to say, he still didn’t have his mother’s sword back from that dickhead, Death. Due to this, he was using one he had borrowed from one of those green skeletons upon its second death.

“Are you prepared?” he asked his fairy familiar. “If my thinking is correct we’re coming upon the main part of the coliseum. This could get”—he adjusted his grip on the sword and inclined his head to the side. “Interesting.”

She folded her arms and bowed. “I am prepared for whatever comes our way, Master Alucard.”

He grinned back. “Good.”

He marched forward, and, sure enough, the upside-down version of the coliseum center revealed itself. The same room where he had fought the Shaft-possessed-Richter in the right-side-up castle. The sconces spilled blue fire endlessly to the ground, fixed to columns that didn’t reach the ‘floor’, in a circle around an overthrown throne. A throne which held no one now, as if he were a gladiator in an upturned universe, a slave of the games, watched by an invisible sadistic god, hosting this for their own pleasure.

The doors shut themselves behind, and in front, of him with a loud thump, closing off his exits.

Yup. Interesting.

He stood on guard, aiming the sword at the pentagonal spinning coffins in the center of the room, his mind cycling through what might step out;

Let’s see, skeletons? Zombies? Ghosts? No it’d be something more advanced than that. Maybe a dragon would walk out? Or maybe he’d fight the embodiment of emperor Nero himself? That might be fun.

When their lids creaked forward and the first enemy stepped out it did not, in fact, have rotting skin, or a malevolent grin…It looked like a man.

A man with brown hair, blue eyes—one of which a scar fell across—sauntered over to Alucard, the Belmont crest gleaming on his chest.

Alucard froze, eyes widening.

The man groaned when he saw Alucard—but not in an undead way, more like a man who was annoyed—and, unlike many of the monsters, he spoke:

“Well if it isn’t the cockwart, Alucard.”

Alucard fought werewolves and demons, things that spit fire, things that turned him to stone, things that would eat his soul out if given the chance, and he didn’t even break a sweat. Not much could make his heart hammer these days.

But this—

“Trevor! What have I told you about speaking your mind?!” Alucard had been so focused on Trevor he hadn’t noticed the other enemy: a woman in blue smacked Trevor on the back of the head.

“Uhh that it’s what everyone should do it all the time?” he rubbed his head.

She pulled on his ear.

“Okay, okay! Easy on the moneymaker!”

Alucard’s eyes stayed open wide, as if he was afraid if he closed them they’d disappear and he’d remember he was dreaming. The golden irises oscillating beneath waves of memory, the sword at his side twitching.

“Master Alucard?” the fairy’s voice was muffled behind the sound of his heartbeat.

He fought reanimated flesh, and first-animated metal, he fought things straight out of books, things he wished were mere fantasy, and never once did he stand paralyzed.

But this…this made his blood thump cold and relentless in his ears. This made his heart start churning with questions, his head ache with memory. This made his throat tighten with sentimentality long forgotten.

The fairy couldn’t hear the words he breathed.

Three hundred years is a long time. Even if he spent most of it asleep, time has a way of weighing heavy on the chest.

They were arguing amongst themselves, while the fairy was asking him questions, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. As if he was beneath many tons of water, the pressure slowly crushing him.

Being immortal has never been the blessing humanity thought. Watching your friends, your family, die is hard enough, but when you know you won’t be joining them wherever they’re going for a long time, if at all, things get more complicated. The pain, then, isn’t just loss…it’s the knowledge of what you’ll never lose. Watching your friends die, while you, standing at their death bed, look the same as you did when you met them sixty years ago, like you’re taunting them, like you’re some cosmic joke… Watching them die, while you have millennia left to spend grieving, making new friends and watching them die too, just living… it isn’t exactly something you’d spend one of your three wishes on.

Sometimes he wished he was mortal. Human. That the blade and arrow would sting more, that words would mean more, that he’d remember the things his friends told long ago, under moonlit skies. He wished he could feel something, that he could feel fear and horror and hope. That the fight would pump in his veins. That he could grow old, and die, and wouldn’t have to live a thousand more lifetimes before death took him away. Sometimes he forgot how to appreciate life; they say death is what gives life meaning, after all.

Seeing his friends from centuries ago, his friends who he had argued with, played games with, laughed, cried with. Friends who he had watched die, who he had mourned, grieved long ago back again…

“What’s the matter?” Trevor put his hands on his hips, noticing that he was standing there dumbstruck. “Cat got your tongue?”

Alucard backed up on shaky legs, biting his lip until it bled.

He was twenty years old again. Twenty years old and they were in a snowy woods speaking of God, mothers, old books, and how lonely they all were, on their way to defeat Dracula for what they didn’t realize then was only the first time.

“Master Alucard!” the fairy fluttered in front of his face—how long had she been calling him? “What’s going on?!”

His lips were sealed shut; he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. His eyes gravitated past her to the two behind her.

It had been so long. So long since those lonely nights. Since those sunny days. So long since he’d seen their faces. Heard their voices. Seeing, hearing, them now was like medicine after years of sickness, like sobriety after spending years drunk. Like reminding himself he hadn’t made them up after all—(because sometimes it felt like he had). So long…So long since he’d been with his friends. So long since he’d had friends.

“I did want to resolve our differences.” Sypha shrugged. “But, we’re going to have to show you what we really think of you now.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. It was nice—well uh…it was something knowing you.”

“…What?” Alucard’s breath made clouds in these snowy woods.

Trevor glanced up at him, unspooling the morning star whip—the one that he had once used to fight the night hordes with together…or at least a version of it…it didn’t look quite right.

“It’s a real shame”—he said like it wasn’t much of a shame at all—“but…we do have to kill you now.”

“We have a reputation to keep.”

“You know, vampire slayers and all. Can’t have the son of Dracula walking around.”

Alucard had to keep his breath from catching on itself and tripping.

He backed up, turning to see Sypha holding out her hands in a combat posture.

He shut his eyes and shook his head quickly, clearing the snow from his eyes, reminding himself the woods were nothing but memory; he was here, in Dracula’s upside-down castle, fighting phantoms of his friends.

They’re not real, he told himself. They’re not your friends. Trevor and Sypha are gone. They’re just one of Dracula’s tricks. He’s using them to get to you.

He felt something wrap around his leg.

“Master Alucard!”

“It’s nothing personal.” Trevor spoke, “Except if you count the fact that we’d only do this to you...because you’re the worst.” He yanked on the whip and swung Alucard by his leg into the far wall at full force.

Sypha held up her arms beads of light before her fingers, then brought them together, making spikes of ice jut out from beneath the walls, stomping towards him.

He pried himself from the wall and jumped out of their way.

Trevor threw a cross at him—one made of bones—but it came back without finding its mark.

Before Sypha could send her jet of flame at him, Alucard burst forward, knocking her down.

“Attacking poor, innocent girls now? So that’s how you want to play it, huh?”

“Who are you calling ‘poor’ and ‘innocent’?!” Sypha crossed her arms, “I can handle myself thank you very much!”

“Oh—I—uh—I didn’t mean it like that!”

Sypha scowled at him.

It was like they walked straight out of his memory. …Were they really not real?

Trevor jumped up, raising his whip.

You don’t have to do this, Alucard wanted to reason with them.

But he knew. He knew this wasn’t them. They were only a shell. A reanimated memory. Empty. There was nothing in there to reason with.

Alucard blocked his attack with his shield, and crouched down, slicing his leg, knocking him down. But before he could send the sword through his chest, Sypha raised her arm and incased him in a block of ice.

The fairy broke him out, but this had given Trevor enough time to get up, throwing another bone cross. This time it knocked Alucard down.

Sypha floated before him, ready to blast him with fire. This time Alucard teleported, slashing Trevor in the back.

“You filthy vampire bastard.”

Why them?! He wanted to demand of Dracula, but that was all-too obvious.

Alucard disappeared in a column of gold, then reappeared, opening his cloak and sending fireballs towards Trevor, who extinguished them by swinging his whip.

He dodged Sypha’s ice spears, but Trevor took this opportunity to power up, and once Alucard was out of their way he began throwing continuous knives at him--which Alucard turned into a bat to avoid.

Sypha incased him in ice for the second time, returning him to human form. The fairy broke him out.

Before Sypha could cast her next spell Alucard turned into a wolf and bowled Trevor over, leaping into the air to bite Sypha’s leg—

But before his teeth clamped down on her leg something caught in his throat—something too close to sentiment—and he fell to the floor, himself again.

In the moment’s hesitation Trevor wrapped the whip around Alucard's neck.

His eyes glinted, and his mouth quirked up. “See you in hell.”

******

“Well if it isn’t the cockwart, Alucard,” Trevor grunted as he sauntered down from the wagon, smirking.

“If it isn’t the bastard, Trevor.”

Sypha ran up to the dhampir and put her arms around him.

“It’s so good to see you again Alucard!” She released him, putting a hand on his cheek and smiling. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

“Well being half-vampire does have its benefits.”

They turned to look at Trevor, who was hanging back, rubbing the back of his head.

Sypha put her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at him. Trevor sighed.

“Good god, I never thought I’d say this but…” He looked at his feet. “I missed you. …You and your stupid, ugly face.”

"I have something to say to you as well.”

Alucard promptly flipped him off.

Trevor made a face, groaning, “I try to say one nice—”

Before they could blink Alucard had wrapped his arms around them, holding them so fast and so tight it nearly made them fall over.

“I missed you too. …You don’t even know how much.”

******

Alucard hit the floor of the save room—which happened to be the ceiling—at full force, the world returning like a punch to the face. Once he regained his senses, he coughed, balling his hands into fists before him, breath harsh in his throat, heavy on his chest.

“Well…fuck.”

“…Master Alucard?”

He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to talk to much of anyone. He didn’t even want to think. To be here at all, in this castle. He half wished this save room didn’t exist so he wouldn’t have to go back there and do it all over again.

She fluttered up knelt in front of him, brushing the hair from his eyes.

Those eyes flicked to her. Eyes often soft and warm…now full of cold fire.

“I hope it’s not rude of me to ask…Who were those people?”

He didn’t reply at first, dropping his gaze, letting his breath rise and fall like ocean waves ripping through him, filling his eyes with saltwater.

“…Nobody.” He murmured low.

“They…” She paused a moment, trying to figure out how to delicately phrase things, “didn’t seem like nobody.”

He sat up. “…They’re not real.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the burgeoning headache. “Dracula’s just trying to fuck with me.”

“Oh, indeed, I understand that.”—He shot her a reproving glance, so she continued more delicately—“…But most of Dracula’s minions don’t look human…not to mention they don’t know you…It appears to me whoever they represent were important to you.”

He looked away. He didn't want to talk about this. Not now. Not with a creature who--however well meaning--could barely begin to understand the horrors of immortality.

“And…they did know you...right?”

He looked down to see her wringing her hands.

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“It’s just…”

It dawned on him and he smiled, shifting to his knees. “That I’m the son of Dracula.”

She opened her mouth to say something, her wings beating and stopping nervously, looking down.

“Well it is a rather strange thing for them to say isn’t it? I mean, it can’t possibly be true.”

He smirked. “What if it is?”

She fluttered up to him, examining his features closely, her mouth open the whole time.

“You are?!”

He lowered his face closer to hers so she could feel his breath, his fangs glinting, “You scared?”

“...Not scared, more confused. I mean how can Dracula have a son? And—”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to go into the details?”

“I don’t mean that!” She smacked him lightly. “I mean…How can you be his son?”

“Why can’t I be?”

“Well first of all you don’t look like him—”

“Oh? And how do you know what Dracula looks like? Have you met him?”

“Well…I…” Her eyes darted between him and the ground, apparently grappling with the idea that he knew quite well what Dracula looked like. “This castle is full of Dracula’s supporters… he seems quite persuasive.”

“I’m not sure I’d say that—over half of them are creatures without reason, or free will, enough to know, or care, who they’re following.”

“Still…he has no shortage of allies.”

“What’s your question?”

“…How are you not one of them?”

He smiled. “I like to think I have a little more sense of right and wrong than mindless beasts.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I just mean…you’re so kind. I wouldn’t think Dracula’s son—”

“I’m not only the son of Dracula.”

She paused, thinking, before looking up. “Your mother.” Her wings fluttered as she gained understanding, floating up to his face. “It was your mother, wasn’t it? That memory we saw. The Succubus. You said that your mother never said those things.”

“Yes, she said quite the opposite, in fact.”

She gave a sad smile. "...It sounds like you loved her very much."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod as he looked away.

"I'm...sorry that happened to her. That's ...awful. Humans can be brutes at times."

"Yes." He agreed softly, before adding, "But not always. And not all of them."

She paused herself, then began fluttering back and forth—the fairy version of pacing—trying to wrap her head around it all.

“Was she married to Dracula?”

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

“Her name was Lisa… and she was mortal.”

“Did he love her?”

He smirked at the innocent and naïve question.

“Very much. ...Enough that he’d destroy the world for her.”

She paused, looking at the ground. “Is that why we must defeat him?”

He gave a small nod.

“It seems such a sad reason to have to kill him…for love.”

He looked off to the side, not saying anything.

“Come on.” He stood up. “It’s time for round two.”

******

Notes Cont.:

For the cartoon, I actually wrote this fic before I watched S3, so when I was trying to come up with memories for after S2 with Trevor and Sypha all I could think of was simply them arriving back at the castle. Then reading it after watching S3 I realized their reunion would probably go differently :'( ...I decided to keep it as-is because I really have no clue how that's gonna go in later seasons, and because I felt people might like reading about a nice version of them coming back to him anyways.

11 notes · View notes

xellshun · 4 years

Text

Feeding The Beast

I stand firm when supporting one of my favorite quotes: Evil is never born, it is created. All things were once good in the beginning, even Satan.

With the developement of my disorder and my descent into becoming a sociopath came many dark traits that I’ve used countless times to calm my urges and impulses. Most of them are fairly common among those with ASPD. But one quality has always stood above all the others.

My desire to victimize as many women as possible.

This post will focus on this trait rather than HOW it came to be but I will share a little bit of my past just to give you a general idea of it’s origins.

Over the course of the last 7 years I went through 3 very traumatic relationships. But before I did, I was a very kind hearted, ambitious, compassionate person with a huge dream of some day finding the love of my life, building a family, and living out the same fairy tale ending that my parents and their parents had before them. I had this perfect image of how my love life would work out and I based it off of what I watched my family build as I grew up. I grew up with a very close, caring, and loving family. So going into adulthood that’s just how I thought things were supposed to be.

I didn’t realize how fucking wrong I truly was and I was no where near prepared for the 7 year long nightmare I was about to go through...

The first of the three stages was when I lost my first true love - the mother of my beloved son. Not only did I loose her along with all my hopes and dreams of having that fairy tale ending. But I lost her while she was still pregnant with my son... So along with the initial pain, my first experience of pregnancy and my introduction to being a father were stripped from me and left me in a state of mind that pushed me into making my FIRST step down the dark I would eventually get lost in. She was what I would eventually call “The First Heartache”

The second stage happened with my next serious girlfriend. She would not only be my second love but would also end up being the girl who would eventually become extremely abusive. Physically, emotionally, mentally - she tortured me. She ultimately become what I called “The Abuser”

At this point, my disorder was born and rapidly growing. Coupled with emotional distress and a newly developed addiction to drugs and alcohol, my next relationship would only escalate the problems. She was a drinker, a drug user, and eventually a cheater. Her betrayal lead me down a path filled with an unending urge to stay intoxicated to cure the pain. And even though I should have left both her and the last girl, I didn’t. I was constantly trying to fill the void in my heart left by the first girl. But this third girl was no better than the last. She eventually became what I called “The Drunk Cheater”

By this point, my son was 5 years old. My relationship with him and my family was greatly damaged. I had come off my ADHD medication, struggled to stay employed, struggled with money, wrecked and totaled my vehicle, got into trouble with the law, did time in jail, struggled on and off with addiction to both drugs and alcohol, lost many of my friends... And above all else...

I lost myself...

And I forgot the feeling of remorse... Of empathy... And love...

The person I became and am now is the total opposite of who and what I was 7 years ago. Me then and me now wouldn’t even recognize each other if they met...

And thus, the sociopath was born... And within the dark pit of inhumane emotions, impulses, and urges.. The strongest one was my unending thirst for revenge...

And with that, the player mentality became supreme. And with it every aspect of my life would shift, change, and become centered around an unending cycle of chasing women. It started out as me just having fun and enjoying the single life and eventually evolved to what I do now.

So what do I do? For starters, I supress the monster underneath, I go out and I hunt women. I will often create several dating profiles, all of which with the same pictures, the same information about myself, and it has quickly turned into a game of seeing how many women I can sleep with in the shortest amount of time.

People would probably tell me “You sound like every other typical asshole player.” And it’s partially true, but in my mind I am a hunter. But I don’t hunt with the goal to kill (or hurt these women). I hunt with the goal of capturing and retaining them. I go out with my sociopathic mask, looking friendly, nice, and emotional. I play the part of a good honest man who just wants to settle down. For each individual girl I would learn her, everything about her, I would research her and read her like a book. I would figure out exactly what she wants and needs in a partner and I’d become that to the best of my ability. Once they are lured in I deceieve and manipulate every situation. Slowly and pateintly I shift the mood and create a large amount of sexual tension. I never come off as the creep, I never make them uncomfortable, and I always wait for THEM to make the first move. Why? Because it makes me feel powerful. And when we finally reach the point of having sex the sexual side of my sociopathic tendencies comes out. You see, I don’t care about finishing. It’s not what I look forward to and I don’t need to finish to be happy. The only thing that matters is HER pleasure. In those moments of intercourse I do everything in my physical ability to fuck them in every way they fantasize about. The porn star comes out and my one and only goal is to fuck them to the point where they are physically sore and trembling from orgasms. I want them to have issues walking the next day, I want to rearange their insides, and turn their intestines into soup. It almost never fails and this newly found dark skill has increased my body count from a pathetic 5 (my son’s mom) to a body count of 52 as of this last weekend.

But do I stop there and leave them in the dust? Hell no! I keep them around, I drag them around, and am constantly looking for new targets daily. I keep them around for many reasons - sex, money, drugs, alcohol, transportation, parties, new friends... And some times I’ll keep them around and create friendships with them so I always have someone to talk to or hang out with.

This way I am never bored and can always feed whatever hunger comes into my darkened heart...

I have done so many messed up things. Slept with more than one girl in a single day, slept with a new girl every day of the week, fucked a girl and then fucked her best friend. I’ve made women cheat on their boyfriends and then turned around and hung out with their boyfriends. I’ve made wives cheat on their poor unknowing husbands. Some would find out and their wives would leave them for me. Others would simply ask me to never mention it. Do I respect their wishes? Of course! Like I said. I never purposely treat any of these women poorly. I do this so that I can retain my image as a good and normal man. But more often than not, it’s the sex that makes them come back. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve dicked down. I’ve been with all kinds of girls. Blondes, redheads, burnettes, thick girls, thin girls, small boobs, huge boobs, some who could be porn stars, some who were covered in tattoos and peircings, some were cam girls, some were strippers, some were partiers, drinkers, some were moms, some were church girls, some were younger, some were older... I think the only type of girl I have yet to be with is an Asian... Gunna have to change that...

I’ve been all over the place too. I can’t go to ANY surrounding town from where I live without knowing a girl I’ve fucked there. It’s hard enough when I’m out running errands too, can’t go fucking anywhere without the chance of seeing one of my victims.

All in all, it’s the thrill of the chase, it’s the thrill of knowing what lurks beneath the mask while they remain clueless, it’s the feeling of being so cold and heartless yet have the ability to bring them so many emotions I can’t feel, it’s about giving them the best sex of their lives, it’s about the satisfaction of leashing them along like pets, it’s about POWER and CONTROL. The two fucking things I had so little of when this all started during those 3 toxic and traumatizing relationships.

And in the deepest, darkest corners of my sick mind... In these many moments of deception and manipulation... I trick myself into believing that these poor girls I victimize are my exes.. In an attempt to feel some type or form of revenge to dowse the neverending burning fires of PURE HATRED that have turned my entire world into a place of devastation that is now just as dark as my heart...

For me, women as a whole, are my newly developed drug addiction. When I see them, I don’t see people, I see prey that I can use for whatever benefit I see fit. And if those benefits run out I simply take them to the slaughter house and use them one last time. Rejection doesn’t faze me either. If a single sheep manages to escape my fenced in prison it doesn’t bother me, the herde always consists of between 10-20 women at all times. It’s as easy as a simple hunting trip, which I honestly enjoy. After all, it’s always good to get out every once in a while.

This is what my life has turned into. A never ending sickening cycle of trying to fill in the void within my heart that they left behind those years ago. But in the end that ONE thing that can fill this whole is the one thing I avoid the most - Love...

Yes, my therapist knows about all of this. It’s great because my therapist is a female so it’s nice to be able to share my stories and brag to a girl who’s job is to help me. She probably thinks I’m a fucking piece of shit and I don’t blame her. But she’s a professional and has to help people like me.

We’ve discussed goals throughout therapy on ways for me to relearn the feelings of empathy, remorse, love, and so on... It’s one of many goals and this is the one I have the most trouble with... Part of me wants to change and go back to being normal. But the other part of me wants to keep doing what I do best because it’s just so much damn fun.

So will this part of me ever change? I think so. I hope so. The only other times I went from being a total man whore to a faithful loving man was every time a girl would come into my life who was strong enough to snap me out of dark ways... So far it’s only happened twice. My body count is at 52 and going up more quickly than ever. I’ve spoken to thousands of women, met hundreds, recieved thousands of numbers, thousands of X rated pictures and videos of these women, I’ve had sex thousands of times, and it’s getting to the point where these women just seem to blur together...

There’s little hope of finding a girl strong enough to pull me from the darkness this time. And honestly, I’m okay with it. I am at a point where the darkness is comforting and feels like home...

So this time around.. Not only does she need to be strong enough to pull me out... She needs to be brave enough to venture into a world of total darkness...

#sociopath #aspd #psychopath

6 notes · View notes

chainofbeing · 4 years

Link

Adam Escapes the clutches of the Anthronesians and finds himself in the company of something far greater

Rhostiran Guard: Adal Rifai

Craiova Iwa: Bettrys Jones

Anthronesian 1: David M. Sledge

Anthronesian 2: Tomix

Sword of Nemesis: Lucy Campbell

Epicurosa: Laura Rogers

Alexander Ashton: Jonathan Aroloye

Sound design, Writing, and Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

An Extra Special thanks to our patrons

Theresa Shiban

Anthony Hyde

email us at [email protected]

follow the podcast on twitter @chainofbeing

Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards!

The music used in this episode was:

A fucking tribute to the mysticism of your fuckin sound - alpha hydrae

Poisson Grêlon - Cuicuitte

violin concerto in g minor rv 315 'l'estate' ( summer )

[a light hum and some music playing over a radio in adams cell]

I can’t stop thinking about the solar system, about earth. It was never my home, that honour belonged to Eden (wherever that may be). It’s such a complicated topic, you think human, you think earth, that’s just how it’s ingrained into the collective unconscious. But there is no earth, not anymore, beacons surround the planet broadcasting warnings to all those who approach, it’s a wasteland filled with concrete thorns bursting from the ground, mazes of black concrete monoliths spread across the landscape, no patch of land left untainted by radioactive waste and toxic pollutants, no ocean not made poison by the calloused hand of corporate greed. No amount of terraforming can heal a planet that broken. The death of earth was not one of glorious nuclear fire, but was instead a pathetic and gradual death rattle caused by willful ignorance ignorance and avarice. No one in living memory is from earth, but there’s still this misguided association with it. I’m sure, over time through a multigenerational game of telephone, all the bad about earth can be forgotten and people would begin to idolize something that never was. That's what I think birthed the Anthronesians, a desire to return to an idealized version of the past because you don’t like the state of the present. There’s a guard outside my cell, he doesn't seem like the rest of the Anthronesians to me, he shies away from those more committed when they pass and does not hold himself with the same menacing demeanor. The door is made of an opaque glass that lets me see their side profile, my cell is filled with propaganda books, nothing I want to waste my time reading, and a short metal desk.

I knock on the door, my back against the wall which bows outward slightly, to get the best view of my captor “Hey,” I say, they ignore me “what’s your deal then, you from the solar system like the rest of them?” they continue to ignore me “come on man I just wanna get to know you,” they move ever so slightly “seems like we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together right?”

“Rhostir Arnofi,” he says finally, seemingly reluctant to offer the information

“That's a hydroponics station right? What’s it like?”

“I don’t remember really, I was born there but… when the Council started relocating because of the overpopulation crisis we got taken to a Veatorian farming colony: Stymphalia,”

“That must have been hard,”

“It was!” they say, a little too enthusiastically ��ahem, it was. They do things so differently and we didn’t speak the language and-”

“So how’d you end up with them?” I say cutting him off before he goes on a rant. I gesture to the group of far more menacing looking Anthronesians

“Well I was on a corsair vessel, we crashed on this planet and so we took up in a small village. We had loads of weapons and stuff so when the Anthronesians came and offered refuge for any humans, I thought ‘it's gotta be better than this’ and it was. I always hated the council, I mean why do I have to share with Veatorians?”

“What about the rest of your crew?”

“Well, none of them were humans and they fought back so… yeah”

“I’m sorry, you must miss your friends”

“Oh I wasn’t friends with them I just worked in the kitchen,”

“Do you think you could do me a favour?”

“I don’t think-” he says reluctantly “Just hear me out, ok?”

“Alright,” he says cautiously

“Can you bring my bandolier? It’s got some medication that I need to take”

“What kind?”

“It’s, uh- immortal stuff, I need it or my bones melt, now go get my bandolier I- I can feel it coming on, quick!”

The initiate runs off in a panic and I pause for a moment, unsure if I actually managed to get away with that before I get to my preparations, each of the heartbeats will be monitored by the ships ai, so using one of the more lethal artefacts is out of the question, plus, I don’t want anymore blood on my hands. Something comes to mind and I wait, the group of Anthronesians leave and the guard returns with my bandolier. He opens the bowed glass door and hands it to me, I take out a white stone icon of a beetle and hold it up, it begins to rattle and emanate a strange smoke like chalk dust thrown up in a breeze, a look of dismay covers his face “you were tricking me weren't you?”

“Yep,” I say

“You fucking-” I cut him off before he can finish his insult, a line of white stone extends from the icon, strikes the guard and he is instantly calcified, his face frozen in an expression of betrayal and meathead anger. The icon of Saint Tarates is an unpleasant one, under the calcified exterior the guards heart still beats at a regular rate, aside from the lack of movement everything would seem normal to an observing AI. Anyone looking at him would of course see the calcified skin and muscle but hopefully by the time that happens I’ll have done- something, my path is still annoyingly unclear, destroy the dissimulation field, a mantra I’ve been repeating to myself for the past few days in captivity on this vessel, the ASC Barachiel. I don’t know what has happened while I’ve been on this planet, if Dhāra jamīna is still even around, what havoc Ovig Nadal might have caused, It may already be too late, but judging by the fact that concepts aren’t just floating around with no relation to each other, that the laws of cause and effect are still in tact, and that I still recognise the universe around me, that is not the case. I leave the brig and find myself in a corridor. There’s an electronic sign displaying directions to various rooms and systems. The sign cycles through several archaic languages, I see what I’m looking for “armoury”. I head in the direction keeping highly aware of the sounds of approaching footsteps. I don't know what time it is on this cruiser, they certainly won't be using the council regulated settime due to the Anthronesian hatred of everything Nimonean. The reason that I’m so eager to know, as I slink around the long oddly shaped hallways of the super cruiser, is that I don’t want to be caught during a changeover. On a ship this size it makes no sense to have everyone share the same time table, so (depending on its population) a military vessel will have up to 5 different day cycles at once, meaning that all the systems that are physically manned are done so consistently. If I get caught during one of the changeovers, it’s back to square one.

I enter the armoury, one of many I’m sure and find it, surprisingly, empty. It feels almost as if the supercruiser is drastically understaffed, the main runway and essential facilities are well maintained but there are great stretches of empty corridor and seemingly important rooms left unattended, perhaps that explains their keenness to recruit new forces from the surrounding area. I approach the terminal, at least I think it’s a terminal, the screen sits in a thick cylindrical tube with a second metal tube set beneath it acting as a way to navigate the system. In order to work it you must place your hands on the sides and twist, a design so antithetical to how a human expects a computer to work, there are indents for fingers where you would expect but the layout over all is so… strange. I place my hands on the side of the cylinder and navigate through the inventory system. “Sword or gun, sword or gun, sword or gun. Why not both?” I mumble to myself as I select a nice looking sword and a submachine gun from the listing. The printers at the side of the room activate and by the time I go over they’ve printed, I grab the sword, smg and ammunition and go to leave. I exit the room and turn to continue down the hall when I run into two Anthronesians, who have yet to spot me, engrossed in their conversation.

“There’s this new recruit, she seems promising,”

“Which one?”

“Uh, Shiban, Theresa Shiban,”

“Oh yeah she’s great,”

They stop in their tracks as I draw my sword. For a moment we stop and just stare at each other

“If you just turn and walk away-” I begin, but the first Anthronesian draws her sidearm and so I swing at her with my sword. He takes a step back and the second one tries to restrain me, I draw the smg and open fire before he can grab me. The sound reverberates down the hall. My cover now being blown, I turn to the first soldier and swing my sword at the sidearm in her hand, knocking it away. I point my firearm at him and she holds up her hands.

“Aren’t you gonna shoot me?”

“depends,” the soldier glances down at her fallen comrade

“On?”

“How high of a security clearance you have,” Her eyes focus on the gun and I gesture with it, “Well?”

“I was up to become the next dagger of nemesis,”

“What’s your name?”

“Craiova Iwa,”

“Well, Craiova, do you think you’d be able to get me into the chamber at the center of this ship?”

“You mean the Ctenizid?”

“Yeah sure,”

“I’m assuming you’ll shoot me otherwise?

“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the suggestion

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say with more confidence

She turns and we begin to march down the hall, a group of Anthronesians rush down the hall and take stock of the situation. They lower their weapons and let us pass.

“Just shoot him in the back,” I hear one whisper to the other

“I’m immortal dipshit!” I shout behind me, bluffing, if they did fire on me I’d probably collapse from the pain. But they take me at my word and we move out into the large cavernous space. The space is dead silent. Instead everyone in the space stands and watches us pass, the balconies that line the sides of the space holding even more forces pointing rifles at me. Even the scientists hold some kind of weapon. We reach the huge doorway and I nudge Craiova

“Well? Open the door,”

“Oh I can’t open the door, only the sword can do that,”

“So what was your plan?”

“Bring you out here, let you get shot to shit, presumably die in the crossfire,”

“But I won’t die,”

“Yeah but it’ll stop whatever you were going to do and, well, you were gonna shoot me anyway right?” I tighten the grip on my weapon and go to pull the trigger, at least taking a fascist with me before my escape attempt fails, but the door clicks and opens slowly onto an empty lift. I take a step back onto the platform, not looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. I keep my weapon trained on Craiova as the door starts to shut. She turns and meets my eyes. “Good luck,”

The lift starts to rise, moving forward and up, and I ready myself. Sword in one hand, submachine gun in the other. I fear just destroying the dissimulation field will not be enough. So I intend to begin a manifestation and then destroy it, that pillar is what’s creating it. I’m sure.

The lift jolts and the doors open. I tense up and swing my sword down and onto the blade of a halberd wielded by the Sword of Nemesis. She pushes toward me and I step back and fire, her armour absorbs the shock and pauses, I take the moment to bring my sword down at her neck but she recovers in time and jabs her weapon at me. The room is empty as we fight.

[the sounds of grunting, metal hitting metal, scrapes and gunshots]

The lab in the corner of the room is scattered with equipment and a half constructed angel core rifle sat on the altar. The Sword hits my side with the end of her polearm and I hunch down in reaction to the pain. She lifts the strange looking halberd above her head and swings it down. I meet the blade with mine, parry it toward the ground and swing the submachine gun so it points directly at The Sword. Through the mask I meet her gaze and pull the trigger. Blood pours outward from a large bullet hole in her mask. She slumps over. I stand and return my sword to it’s sheath. The console in front of me hums into life after I flick a few switches, remembering what the scientists did to begin the manifestation. I stare down at the golden pillar, an artefact of some unknown origin that generates the dissimulation field. I take a deep breath, open the airlock and, make my way down the metal walkway, the atmosphere around me filled with Noble gasses. I wade through the water. The pillar thrums with a divine energy, I cannot imagine how a bunch of human supremacists that worship earth got a hold of it. I raise my gun and hear a shattering above me. I look up to see the form of the Sword of Nemesis diving toward me. I step away and she lands where I stood. With a ferocity to her actions that I had not seen before, she swings at me, I just barely manage to block and parry. She stops, her breathing laboured “You do not know what you toy with here,” her voice takes on a strange quality “We are blessed, you may slay me here, but I answer to something greater,”

“I’m going to put a stop to this little project of yours, the Anthronesians will die here,”

She begins to laugh

“You think this is it? Our armies are vast, I stand among a faction of untold numbers, we are everywhere. The fact that you think that this small act will impede the inevitable progress of the Anthronesians shows just how unprepared your kind are,”

I pull the trigger and the room fills with a white light.

[a hypnotic tone emanates from the surroundings like an inorganic humming that approaches and retreats just as quickly]

What takes place seems to do so in a vast white space, entirely separate from the world around us. Seemingly in slow motion I watch everything around me disassemble, the walls delaminate, to reveal the rest of the ship in a slow state of disassembly, machines and weapons break apart into their composite parts, wires separate from their casings, railings unweld, the metal frame of the ship shatters. I see people in a similar frozen state unwrap, clothes unstitch and unravel skin separates from flesh, flesh unwinds from bone, bones unjoin and separate. Their internal organs float up into the air like kite strings. In front of me a shape, hazy and unfocused, becomes apparent, it fills me with awe and calms my heart, the complete ruin of everything does not faze me as I stare at this form. The shape solidifies, a tall and slender figure, dressed in grey robes of an unidentifiable material, in each of their eight arms they hold the ornate skull of a different creature, each hollow and wearable as a mask. They place the black skull of a wolf like creature to their face and with their free hand grab the sword of nemesis, who’s flesh has not begun to unwrap, they lift her up and meet her gaze, the ornate bronze mask shatters, the shards slowly floating away, her is face young but rotting, her eyes glow blue, totally and entirely.

“You’ve sworn fealty to something,” the shape says, and I fall to my knees, an inexplicable longing and devotion in my very soul, “To be investigated later,” they say, lifting the Sword of Nemesis, who is pulled through a black hole that forms above her head.

[the sounds of a wet squelch and gravitational forces pulling her through]

The shape removes the wolf skull and replaces it with the skull of a large rodent, they turn to me

[with each new mask the quality of Epicurosas voice changes, each different and strange, while still maintaining the same voice]

“Meet the gaze of your creator Adam,” I lift my head and meet the gaze of Epicurosa in their common form, the only form I had ever known. I feel as if I am staring into a bright light, my eyes sting but I cannot look away. “It’s not often I pry away from my celestial form, you’ve done well here, but your work is not done, as I’m sure you’re aware, it really is a pleasant surprise to find you, it works out quite nicely actually. Come,” Compelled by some internal force I stand and follow Epicurosa

“Might-Upon-Serenity-” I begin

“She is Holden-Hearts problem, she means nothing to me”

As she opens a second, larger black hole for us to step through the white light that fills the world disappears, and the floating components of the ship begin to fall, the unravelled corpses collapse to the ground, alongside weapon parts and scraps of cloth. A strange scene for the scavengers to pick apart.

We are pulled through the black hole and into an office in a whirlwind of corporate toys pens and papers.

[the sound of an office, some banjo music plays in the background, mufflled slightly]

A human receptionist looks up at Epicurosa who swaps their rodent skull mask for a decorated black goat skull, missing a horn. They bend down to the receptionists level. “I believe I made an appointment,” the receptionist nods, The God gestures to the doorway, “may I?”, the receptionist nods again “Thank you,”. We enter the office, the high floor to ceiling window presents a view of Azyl, the artificial stellar system humans call home, the walls of the office are lined with paintings and artefacts, the oldest and most expensive being remnants of earth and the newer pieces being from the various Human colonies. Sat at a desk is the human representative, Alexander Ashton.

“Ah, Epicurosa, how wonderful it is to see you-”

[he switches off the music]

he begins before his eyes dart to me “Adam!? Where the hell have you been? We searched everywhere on Dhāra jamīna and found no trace of you!” I go to speak but Epicurosa holds up her free hand to me and I say nothing. The adoration and enthrallment I felt when looking at them has begun to die down the longer they hold their common form but I still do not dare to interrupt or ignore them. The god says to the senator,

“I have come to relieve you of Adam Delta 5, he has important work to attend to with me”

The senator leans forward,

“His time under the council is not up, he still belongs to us, it was not you who indentured him to us, you have no right to take him”, Ignoring the senators extremely daring move. I look up at Epicurosa who looks down at me through the eye sockets of the goat skull

“What do you need from me that you cannot do on your own?”

Epicurosa looks out the window, seeing more than all mortals have and ever will see, understanding more than all the great scholars and scryers ever have and ever will.

“To me the realms are equal, the physical materials that make you up hold no bearing over the intellectual and moral ones. And so the death of the non-divine such as yourself often holds as much significance to me as forgetting an idea, it is a shame, but another will take its place. But not you, adam delta 5, something has turned its benevolent gaze upon you. Something greater than me, and so I enact it’s will.”

they pause for but a moment, for reasons so beyond my realm of comprehension it wastes time even thinking about thinking about it.

“Our universe exists on a set path, ultimately, one atom bounces off of another at a predictable angle, cause and effect etc. We are all the man locked in the bedroom, we think we want to stay but in the end we have no choice in the matter. One thing causes another with no unpredictable insertions into this sequence. However that is only applicable within the way our universe is constructed. For something that has come from outside of this, the laws are not so binding. By entering our universe, ovig Nadal has provided an unpredictable insertion, he has disrupted the chain of being, the predetermined order of events and entities in the universe. The complex order of orders. For a mortal, chaos is something that can be half imagined and dismissed. But true and utter unpredictability is horrifying to a god. And it would seem you are important to ceasing this edgeless horror.”

“My goddess, I ask that you understand, the council is not in the good graces of the galactic population, our… mishandling of the population crises means we need a win,”

“It’s far more than just that fiasco,” I say, the senator shoots me a look and continues

“To have it be us that solved this universe threatening problem would be… a great triumph to us,”

“No,” The god says tersley and begins to usher me out of the room

The senator, now flustered, bangs his fist on the table

[it slightly rattles the desk]

“Epicurosa, my progenitor, on behalf of the rhetores and the council of nimonea I pray to you and request that adam stays with us!” A dark anger covers their form, they exchange the goat skull for that of a large cat, spins and slams four of their fists, skulls still in hand, onto the white metal desk, denting it in two places.

[the sound of metal creaking and a large crash, shaking the desk massivley]

“You ‘pray to me’? You wish to control me through worship? As you did the forces of nature you worshipped in your early history. You feel that you can sway and change my actions through sheer force of will don't you? I am just as indifferent if not more so than hurricanes and earthquakes and typhoons, for they simply exist, I make the active choice to ignore you,”

“I-”

“If you speak once more, you insolent mortal, I will eviscerate you, you shall be annulled, your destruction shall be so righteous and glorious that evermore the name,” they lean forward, stooping down to read the nameplate on his desk “Alecksander Ashton, will only ever be associated with complete and total annihilation and whatever administrative loopholes you closed and lives you think you have changed by shifting currency to and fro will forever be overshadowed by your wondrous undoing, do you doubt my power to do such a thing?”

The senator shakes his head. Somehow, by some miracle, maintaining his composure. In this moment I feel a newfound respect for Alecksander, even in the face of his very creator he sticks to his principles and tries to serve the council. Epicurosa opens up another portal, before we step through I look up at them “Where are we going?” I ask

“Somewhere I will be able to understand some things about you, a great many forces have coalesced to support you Adam. More than just the Rhetores and their attempted deification. But the true divine, before all that I must see if you are ready,” she opens a portal and steps through, I turn to look at Alexander Ashton one last time, he stands and stares out of his window, watching those he was charged with protecting, they are there in front of him, he is simply unable to perceive it all. In that respect I feel we are alike. I turn back and follow Epicurosa through the portal.

#podcast #podcast transcript #transcript #sci-fi #scifi #audio drama #audiodrama

2 notes · View notes

memoriesofthefuckingbullshit · 5 years

Text

I’d like to preface this with a personal note:

I do not want to write these posts. I absolutely hate that there is a need for it and it’s been chewing me up. It’s taken me the better part of a month to round up all the evidence (I had to be sure and double-check my sources) and to put this together, in bits and pieces so as to not overwhelm my own mental health.

I loved the Underfell Fangame community. I briefly met Mania at ATLANTALE early 2018, before I even knew about the project. I became a patreon supporter because he seemed to genuinely love the community and Undertale and the game he was working on. I joined the Underfell community in March and made a second home there.

I considered him a friend. Looked up to him as a fellow creator, game developer. A fellow community admin. And I thought it was really cool the way he did the whole community server events Ink vs. Error stuff. I loved the concept and have been passionately involved in it since its start over a year ago. I’m closely involved in the development of the comic series based on these server events, called Memories of the Multiverse War and have spent countless hours dedicated to expanding the world our comic takes place inside the Doodlesphere.

I have since learned much is a horrific farce. And I’m really unhappy about it.

But if I don’t do or say something before I go I could never live with myself.

There are so many victims already. And more than a few look up to me like their big sib.

There are good ways to make the audience cry.

This is not one of them.

It hurts me knowing the other Event Masters put their heart and soul into creating fun content, intended for people to enjoy, while Mania twists their work into ways to torment people, and even drags them to emulate his behavior. How much more will get swept under the rug, if I don’t speak up?

It boils down to:

Mania knowingly emotionally abuses server members, most of whom are children between the ages of 13-19.

He shows no remorse for it.

Our Mental Health is a Joke to Him Part 1* (xFrisk debacle; please take trigger warnings seriously)

Our Mental Health is a Joke to Him Part 2 (Fallout from the xFrisk debacle)

Ink Was Never Going to Die (He just liked fucking with us)

No, He Really Hasn’t Changed, And Won’t Be Anytime Soon* (xPapyrus introduction, and all this matters)

*If this much reading overwhelms you, prioritize this post and starred pages above.

Important:

Event Masters are not the ones at fault here. They’re just doing as they’re told to play out the story Mania calls for, and probably do not even realize the impact their actions have on people since they’re told it’s all just for pretend. When they are aware, they’re under threat by Mania to keep quiet.

Abuse through role play is particularly insidious. Yes, the server events are a form of role play, by definition. Pretending to be a character, or otherwise assuming the role of as a way to interact with others is fundamentally role play.

In terms of power balance, the server events are more like a D&D campaign than traditional online roleplay. We even have “Event Masters” to parallel the “Dungeon Master” who has nigh god-like power over what happens in the dice-based roleplaying game.

There are dozens of articles about proper DM etiquette, and how to tell a uniquely engaging story to invoke high emotions in effective ways:

There's no shame in manipulating your players' emotions, because that's part of your job as a storyteller. But, like anything else, it requires a deft hand. Be mindful of how your players react, and be careful not to go too far. If anyone at the table starts to feel uncomfortable about the situation you're presenting, it can quickly start to take people out of the game. Be mindful of your players' limits, and give them the option of saying when something isn't going over well with them. But once you start to get the hang of it, you can turn a night of goofy dice-rolling over drinks into a tense situation, or provide a moving, emotionally honest moment for your characters.

In short: It was mere storytelling until the moment the characters reacted to and responded to the players. At that point, it is role playing and the concept of consent comes into play, because real people with real feelings are part of the story, which, curiously, is canonically enforced:

And it’s it’s our fault for taking hurtful things that characters say and do personally?

Jerking player emotions around for laughs isn’t just an asshole thing to do; it’s straight up bad storytelling.

There is no excuse for choosing abuse.

End of story.

I am hesitant to come forward with this, as I do not have evidence compiled other than the threat itself, and considering the nature of the issue there are privacy concerns regarding the victims. He has a tendency to target 17-19 year old girls, as a 28-year old. This was sent to me while playing minecraft while in server voice chat on June 16th, 2019.

I’m including it because this is a perfect example of how he’ll backtrack and play upsetting things off like a joke. The threat has since been deleted so I’m glad I grabbed a screenshot while it existed. He has a habit of deleting things that could be used as evidence.

hahahahahahaa no sir you do not get to drop a threat like that on someone and then play it off like a joke, particularly when “if you didn’t hear it doesn’t matter”

It does matter.

They matter.

All those kids are important. They matter and so do their feelings and all the grief they’ve experienced at your hands. The event may be more like a D&D campaign setting, in terms of balance of power, but this article does a great job breaking down the cycle of online roleplay abuse.

Here’s an excerpt:

Some people roleplay to heal their wounds, others play for fun or to escape. Any way you cut it, a good chunk of roleplayers have personal investment in their roleplay.

The human brain is a curious silly fickle sort of thing, a person who is capable of empathizing can empathize with anything that has human traits, be it a brave little toaster, a cartoon dog, a character in a book,crying at a movie, or screaming at the little man on playing sports ball on the television. People feel empathic sadness from witnessing sadness of others,people can feel empathic excitement by watching sports, in some cases to the point of violent outbreaks after their favorite sportsball team wins the big game.

Human beings are capable of immersing ourselves in the situation of others, and we are capable of feeling a wide variety of emotions as we endure the human experience of whatever we immerse ourselves in. This experience of emotional stimulation is not just a flaw in emotions or an inability to tell in character from out of character. Feeling this way does not make someone insane, weak, or flawed.

It is, in fact, a physiological chemical reaction in the human body. It’s chemistry, it’s oxytocin, it’s cortisol, it’s adrenaline, it’s dopamine, it’s serotonin, it’s estrogen, it’s testosterone, and who knows what else. When things happen in online roleplay we really feel it. (This is why consent is so important.)

In both roleplay and interpersonal interactions in online communities, and the feelings we feel when engaged in these things are real,are chemical, and they are not in our head.

Online community narcissists engage in their own flavor potentially insidious psychological abuse and manipulation, and it can cause real life distress, depression, anxiety, all in a situation where people are trying to escape, to relax, to have fun, and to heal wounds.

More importantly, this serves to validate the feelings of that the narcissist’s victims, be it ex-roleplay partner or a storyteller silenced.

You are not overreacting to a video game. Your pain is valid. The people you are interacting with on the other side of the screen are real; you are having real interpersonal interaction. The emotions you are experiencing are real chemical reactions in your body not a personal flaw. You are not crazy or stupid.

It is okay to cry about stupid online drama. It is okay to talk to your therapist if you have one. Know that even if you feel isolated and alone, even if you think everyone hates you. The truth is that outside of the narcissist’s circle, there is going to be people who do not even know of you let alone hate you, who do not care or believe the bullshit the narcissist tried to feed them.

—Credit to @zanpyr. Thank you for this wonderful article.

Now. All of you, on the server, who’ve been subjected to all this fucking bullshit over the months or years you’ve been in the community: It’s not your fault. Your feelings and heartache are valid. You matter, and you deserve better than how we’re made to feel through this series of fucking bullshit. You’re not weak for caring about these characters; caring about characters is WHY we loved Undertale so much. You’re not stupid for getting hurt by someone you trusted and considered a friend. You can get through this and you’re gonna grow up and do great, okay?

And any other adults who’ve been emotionally manipulated too: It’s not your fault. You’re no more at fault than the kids for falling for his tricks because guess what: you’re human and you have empathy. Those aren’t bad things.

I know from personal experience that online interactions can be clinically traumatic, as in, diagnosable trauma response symptoms that should be taken seriously. I’ve already been talking people through their thoughts and feelings about this stuff and I recommend you do the same. Sorting out all the self-blame from guilt-tripping is important and if you have signs of trauma related to this event, please please please seek treatment even if it seems silly to be that affected by “a fucking discord event.” Gaslighting from any source messes with your perception of reality and doubting your ability to perceive the world can have lasting effects that topple like a domino effect.

Once you’ve developed trauma response symptoms, you become more vulnerable to developing further symptoms by more common disturbing events. Don’t do like I did and let it go untreated for over a decade of accumulating traumas and Traumas. Many of you are already suffering with depression, anxiety, and existing trauma. The sooner you seek treatment the better.

Outside Sources:

Quoted/Linked in Article:

How To Manipulate Your Players (Into Having Emotions)

Wikipedia - Gaslighting

Abuse Through Online Roleplay

Adventures In Random Roleplay: Safety/Consent Tools in Gaming

Additional Reading:

Lovebombing, Gaslighting, Benching, and Ghosting

Three of the Easiest Ways to Manipulate Someone

Gaslighting Definition, Techniques, and Signs of Being Gaslighted

Emotional Abuse in Non-Romantic Relationships

Signs an Abuser is Twisting Your Reality

Trauma: Big “T” and little “t”

20 Tips For Becoming A Better DM: Lessons Learned At The Table

One final addendum:

As vindictive as I may feel after slogging through so many horrific conversations, I absolutely do not condone any attempts to actively harass him. Hold him accountable for his actions but do not send him hatemail, threats, or any other shit like that. He’s a fucked up human being but he’s still a human being and this whole effort has been to call attention to how much online interactions affect our mental mental health. Don’t do that shit to anyone, even if you think they deserve it. And don’t be a flying monkey, please.

Okay, that’s it.

Stay safe everyone.

#main post

47 notes · View notes

ununniliad · 4 years

Text

Burst Beetle Tweseveny #6: “2007: The Mother of Necessity and a Short Backstory of Time!“

Content warning: suicide, toxic relationships, murder, and just a bunch of depressing stuff! Also, unreality.

<<<*>>>

Tweseveny smiles, watching Time-Waster Lad and Mother Time head down to the LNHQ's cafeteria, and turns to the Time Crapper, rubbing her hands. Time to friendship this motherfucker!

"So," she says, sitting down on the comfy couch next to Time Crapper I - but for now, he's the only Time Crapper she's got, so she'll just call him that! "Can I ask you a few questions, time-travelling net.villain to time-travelling net.villain?" Her disguise is perfect!

"Certainly, but... I figured you'd know all about me, having met me in your past - so you said." The Time Crapper seems just a touch skeptical! Oh shoot! Time to prevaricate!

"Well, uh, it was clear that we'd talked a lot in your past, so I decided to avoid a time paradox by waiting until I met past-you!" Her logic is flawless!!

"...yeah, that's the kind of nonsense I've been running into." The Time Crapper sighs, leaning back, putting his feet up on the coffee table before them. Ooooh, what a villain move! "Ask away, please."

Yesssss. Let's take it back to where this relationship must've started... "How did you get started off as a net.villain? Did it have anything to do with getting the Ring of Retcon?"

"The what, now?" says the Time Crapper, tilting his head a bit. "Uh, no. I..." He taps his arm. "A lot of my past isn't there anymore. When I used the Rung of Revamp... well, anyway. I still remember why I did this. Still remember... her." He looks longingly off towards the doorway Mother Time walked down, and slips into a gentle monologue.

"We met at a physics lecture. Time travel, of course. She was wearing..." His shadowed face seems to show a soft smile. "This mismatched outfit that didn't make any sense, and these glasses that would have looked dowdy on anyone but her... and Lisa Loeb." He chuckles. "And she was even more beautiful than Lisa Loeb."

"Awwww!" Tweseveny claps her hands! Yes good, cute backstory, excellent place to start!

The Time Capper smiles and nods. "Yes... there was a Q&A at the end, and she asked a couple of amazing questions about what was possible. Things I'd never thought of before. And after the lecture was over, I found her, just wanting to mention how good those questions were... And, well, we fell to talking."

"She was so into the idea of time travel. I was into physics because I was good at it, but she talked about all the things she'd do with it, all the things she'd get. And she seemed like the kind of person... the kind of person who deserved them, because she was forward, and powerful, and beautiful."

"Gosh," says Tweseveny, admiringly. Okay, she thinks, that “deserve" thing sounds like it might go in a bit of a Bad direction, but that's exactly what she's here to help with!

"We started talking a lot... I guess I didn't have a whole lot of other people to talk to, it's... hard to remember, really. And I got... enchanted with the idea of making time travel real. She made the idea feel so alive."

"Awwww." This is super swee--

"So I ended up stealing an experimental pinpoint wormhole generator, and the campus's sample of the Sands of the Ancient Days, and using my experimental physics theories, combined them into the Hourglass of wReamThermodynamics."

...okay, so, that's less sweet, thinks Tweseveny. And stealing is bad. But a lot of net.villain backstories are like this, so let's see where this is going.

"And I came to her and offered to show her all of time. And we had a good time, for a while, but..."

"But?" says Tweseveny, folding her hands on her knee in a 'listening' pose. Okay, getting to the meat of the problem!

"She didn't really want to see things, she wanted to have things." He shrugs, putting his hand on the back of his neck. "I loved seeing the pyramids being built, Florence at the height of the Renaissance, Woodstock from the front row. But she's not like me. She doesn't care about the past. She wants tomorrow." He reaches out, into space, closing his fingers. "In her hands."

"So we started doing some crimes, freezing time, stealing stuff, bringing it back to the hotel. Playing tricks on people. Messing with time, even. But..." He shakes his head. "It wasn't enough for her. And we had a fight, and we broke up, and..." He pulls in a huge breath, sighs. "I realized, or felt like I realized, that I'd been wrong. That she deserved all of the things she was asking for, of course."

"Ah, I don't..." That definitely doesn't sound true - but how to say it without sounding like a jerk? Oh lord, thinks Tweseveny, friendshipping villains is harder than I thought!

And it seems that the Time Crapper hasn't noticed the interruption! "I wished I could just go back and undo what I'd said, the mistakes I'd made. Do it right this time. And then, I realized... I could."

"Ah," says Tweseveny. Oh boy, thinks Tweseveny.

"I went back to shortly after we first met, and found myself, and, well..." He sighs. "I absorbed that timeline. And ended up feeling all those painfully strong emotions again, all the desire and need and hope from when we first met."

"Sounds hard," says Tweseveny, hoping that, at the very least, commiseration will help.

"Yeah. It was." His voice is harsh, thick, but he clears his throat and continues. "Anyway, I found her and introduced myself as the Time Taker, and said I wanted her to be my partner in crime. She laughed, looked me over, took a sniff, and said, 'More like the Time Crapper'. And I said, 'Okay, the Time Crapper then.' And, I don't know, she seemed... impressed by how willing I was to go along with what she said?"

"And we started stealing things, and making plans to steal bigger things, and I just kept following her lead. And it was good for a while, and then she was like... hey, I'm in charge here, the Hourglass should be mine." He shrugs. "And, well, I was trying to give her what she wanted, so I gave it to her. She started calling herself Mother Time, and used the Hourglass to get even more powerful temporal devices. And went up against the LNH, and, well, lost." He shakes his head, lost in his thoughts. "And you know, it happens. We'd been keeping under the LNH's radar before, but her new plans were bigger than that, and she wouldn't just take the loss and keep going. She broke into the Brenton Island Nuclear Power Plant, trying to make the Hourglass more powerful... and she took a lethal dose of radiation and died."

Tweseveny grimaced. "Oh, I'm... so sorry."

"Yeah. And..." The Time Crapper's voice wavered, turned husky. "I knew it was my fault. If I hadn't let her charge off alone like that, she wouldn't... she would still have..."

At least Tweseveny knew what to do here - moving over, and wrapping the Time Crapper in a tight hug, ignoring the screams of protest from her nose.

"..." The Time Crapper seems to waver on the edge of some kind of defensive anger, some net.villainous outburst... but instead, releases it, and relaxes into the hug. After a few moments, Tweseveny lets go, and the Crapper sits up. "I was at my worst moment, and contemplated... well. Dark things. I couldn't see a path forward..." He sighs, that deep husky pain flowing out of him. "But, in the end, I managed to pull myself out of it."

"Ohhhh?" queries Tweseveny, hoping...

"Literally. I-- that is, the Time Crapper-- came to me, to whoever I'd been when I wasn't him, and without speaking, gave me the Hourglass, and vanished." The Time Crapper leaned back, contemplatively. "If not for that... I might not have continued."

...oh. Oh no. It's all coming together now in Tweseveny's head; to avoid the pain of loss, he had sucked himself back into this cycle, again and again.

"So I decided to... well, try and help her with those problems," says the Time Crapper. "Proactively."

To fix her, thinks Tweseveny, watching as the narrative took its terrible shape.

"I got some self-help books, read through them, and realized that, you know, of course I'd been enabling her. I figured she needed someone who would push back on her bad habits instead of enabling them."

"Right, and that's a great idea..." says Tweseveny, voice rising cheerfully... and then faltering into, "...and I'm guessing you're gonna tell me how it went wrong."

The Time Crapper chuckles self-deprecatingly. "You're getting it. I showed up, all dramatic, and introduced myself as the Time Crapper. I told her she was destined to be a powerful force in the universe, and that I would be her mentor. I played up the powerful cosmic wisdom thing." He shrugs. "She didn't really buy it, but she went along with it for the power, you know."

"And, well, it worked for a while, we stole a lot of stuff, fought the LNH a few times, I managed to hold her in check... aaaaand..." He lets out a long breath. "And she tried to take the Hourglass and I killed her."

"...I'm so sorry." Tweseveny squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah, so was I... that was the first time I tried to commit suicide."

Tweseveny winced. "Ah."

"I decided to do the traditional thing and jump off a bridge. The LNH showed up to stop me, of course. All of you..." He breathes harshly, rasping against his lips. "Fucking do-gooders..." He shakes his head, a wave of bitterness passing, and looks at Tweseveny. "Present company excepted, of course."

"Er... of course," says Tweseveny, wishing there was some kind of rock she could crawl under right about now.

"They talked me back from the brink, and I had... some new, stupid idea about how to fix things. And I went back, and did it again, and it failed again. I decided I had been right the first time, decided to jump from something higher. The LNH came in again and I got grief counseling from a kiwi. Got a new idea. Fucked it up again. The LNH came in again, over and over..." He sighs. "I've killed myself so many times. So many selves, and I just kept taking my own place."

Tweseveny stays silent, pinned under the thick layer of pain streaming off the Time Crapper, unable to do anything except Be There and let him vent his trauma.

"Finally, I came up with some kind of ridiculous plan about rebooting the universe and waited for the LNH to get to me again, just so I could have someone to talk to about it. Thankfully, the LNHer who came to talk to me was Cynical Lass."

"Thankfully?" says Tweseveny, grasping at the slender straw of positivity.

"Oh yes. She cut right thru my bullshit, and made me realize - the things wrong with our relationship were things I just couldn't change. They were fundamental things about myself and about Tamela that would make us end in tragedy no matter what parts of the situation I tweaked."

"Ah!" Tweseveny perked up. "That sounds like a very wise thing that's extremely worth listening to. Uh, for a net.hero."

The Time Crapper nods. "Right. That's when I gave up."

Tweseveny smiles! Yes, he'd finally made a breakthru that-- wait. She glances off in the direction Mother Time went. She turns to the Time Crapper. "And then?"

"..well." He rubs the back of his head. "Dismal-Hope Kid was putting me in the holding cells here, and then I appeared to myself again."

Shit.

"I offered myself a source of enormous power. Enough power to change those fundamental things, about myself and about her."

Shit shit shit. "The Rung of Revamp," says Tweseveny.

"Right." The Time Crapper takes a deep breath, and sits up. The weariness and depression seem to fall off of him. Something bigger, older, fills his form. "I took it, and it..." He lets out his breath. "It took away my past. Replaced it. With a connection to entropy. The waste disposal system of the universe."

Holy shit. Cosmic shit. Tweseveny sits up, remembers that she's not just a sympathetic ear, she's a net.hero on a mission. Shiiiiit.

"That's where the smell comes from. It started showing up whenever I used the Hourglass, but now it's become part of who I am. I didn't need the Hourglass anymore - the power was internalized." The Time Crapper looks off again, but not into his own past; into deep space, the fabric of the universe. "I realized how fragile the universe is. That's why I hadn't managed to fix things. Everything is so delicate. People are so delicate. This universe..." He shakes his head. "I don't know how it still exists. How it holds itself together."

"Somehow it does, tho," murmurs Tweseveny. Probably a bad thing for someone who can smash spacetime to be talking about how fragile it is.

"Somehow it does. Maybe it's because of the net.heroes." He shakes his head. "Still... I tried to warn Fourth Wall Lass about all I could see, with my new awareness. She took me seriously, at least. Then I decided to leave the universe to its own devices and focus on Tamela."

"Of course," says Tweseveny. Maybe she can find a new place to help these two from that angle, but God, how's she even supposed to start? "What did you do?"

"I went and I found... the best bits and pieces I could find, from all of the times I've been with her, made an amalgam of those. The Hourglass is holding it together, but it's not stable." He clenches his fist. "If she thought about her memories, she'd realize they don't make sense. But she doesn't care about the past." He looks at Tweseveny, and his gaze is focused, somewhere beneath the shadows. "She wants tomorrow."

Tweseveny swallows. Great, swinging back to megalomania! "And what's tomorrow?"

"...well." The Time Crapper sits back, placing one hand over the other. "Once we get the Rung of Revamp, it will stabilize her timeline, like it did to me - collect her into a new, coherent self."

Oh-- of course. That was the plan all along - use the Rung to "fix" things. Another plan, like the ones he'd already failed with... and he could probably see that, but...

Ugh, thinks Tweseveny. Yes, friendshipping villains is definitely harder than she'd thought. If he's failed so badly at fixing himself, how can she possibly hope to do it?

"Then..." The Time Crapper ponders, gaze still on the superstructure of the universe. "I don't know. Maybe we can evolve past our human flaws, into cosmic entities." He shrugs! "But at least I'll have a version of her that... wants to be around me."

Tweseveny licks her lips. Maybe... maybe she needs to be more blunt! "Time Crapper... may I be blunt?" Okay, a little more.

He snaps out of his reverie, looks at her with that unseen gaze... gives a firm nod. "Absolutely. Seems to be what I need, anyway."

God, what should she say, how should she say it-- just be honest, just open up and say what comes to mind! "Even if you make a verson of her that wants to be with you..." Tweseveny draws a deep breath thru her nose and squares up! "Are you sure you should be with her? Are you sure that-- with everything you could do with this new cosmic power-- that that's what you want!?" She coughs slightly as she gets the earnest plea out.

The Time Crapper looks at her wordlessly for a moment; she can almost feel thick waves of emotion wafting off of him, anger, regret, genuine thought. Then he turns away, his shoulders lowering, his hands on his knees. "I'm not sure, really. You're right. But... after all I've done on this path..." He shakes his head. "Without her, I'm a monster. With her, I'm something. Even if that something is still a monster, for what I make her into."

Hoo boy. Well. That was Tweseveny's last shot. What now?

She wishes she had some way to see what Mother Time was saying. Maybe there's some kind of miscommunication here. Something she needed that he wasn't fulfilling - maybe the reason she wanted to commit crimes in the first place? Maybe. If only...

She feels a little tingle at her belt, and looks down. The little yellow gem on her belt is flashing, and she reaches down and, quietly, presses it...

And suddenly, she isn't in the story anymore. She's reading it - so

rt of. She can see-- feel?-- smell???-- threads of narrative, like

individual pages ripped from a book and taped back together into a

film strip, rolling by the light of her viewpoint and projected ont

o the screen of reality.

Tweseveny reaches out to one of the narrative threads, the one that

tastes like Time-Waster Lad, and starts reading...

<<<*>>>

Author's Note: The versions of the Time Crapper and Mother Time that show up in the Infinite Leadership Crisis and 58.5 are kind of all over the place, often implying mutually exclusive backstories. And honestly? It's more interesting that way - those stories do a lot of fascinating things that don't need to be held back by tying them to a strict canon. But this is my attempt at stitching together Arthur, Rob, and Lalo's interpretations into something coherent. And we're not done stitching yet...

#Original Fiction #Superheroes #Adventure #Drama #Legion of Net.Heroes #Classic LNH #Burst Beetle Tweseveny

3 notes · View notes

bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Laura Miller, Sleazy, bloody and surprisingly smart: In defense of true crime, Salon (May 30, 2014)

This stigmatized genre has much to teach us about the way crime and justice really work

Give me a book that begins with a time and a date and a boring address, something along the lines of "At 9:36 on March 24, 1982, Dep. Frank McGruff of the Huntington County Sheriff's Department was dispatched to 234 Maple Street in Pleasantville, North Carolina, a quiet, suburb 10 miles west of Raleigh, to follow up on reports of gunshots and screams."

There is nothing more generic than this sort of sentence -- which is why I was easily able to make one up on the fly -- and yet there's nothing more seductive, either. In it is promised: the regular-guy lawman (who always seems to have a new baby at home), the horrific crime scene (there is always more blood than anyone expects), the enigmatic object found lying in the foyer (marked with an X in the helpfully provided floor plan), the minute-by-minute timeline of that fatal half-hour, the witness reports that don't add up, the fractal-like multiplication of scenarios and theories and complications.

I've always felt somewhat sheepish about my appetite for true crime narratives, associated as they are with fat, flimsy paperbacks scavenged from the 25-cent box at garage sales, their battered covers branded with screaming two-word titles stamped in silver foil, blood dripping luridly from the last letter. The most famous practitioners of this louche genre -- Joe McGinniss, Ann Rule, Vincent Bugliosi -- come coated with a thin, greasy film of dubious repute and poor taste. (Can there ever be a valid reason to title a book "A Rose for Her Grave"?) True crime is also the mother's milk of risible tabloid journalism, of endless trashy news cycles in which the same photo of a wide-eyed innocent bride (where is she?); a gap-toothed kindergarten student (who killed him?); a bleary-eyed, stubbled suspect (why did he do it?) appear over and over and over again.

Occasionally, true crime is where literary writers go to slum and, not coincidentally, make some real money: Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood," Norman Mailer's "The Executioner's Song." It's not the Great American Novel, yet somehow such books have a tendency to end up the most admired works of a celebrated author's career. Is it because better writers tease something out of the genre that pulp peddlers can't, or is it just that their blue-chip names give readers a free pass to indulge a guilty pleasure?

By contrast, crime fiction has a better rep. It is the most respectable form of genre fiction, the one that even the snootiest literary critics will admit to enjoying now and then. They justly praise the innovative prose styles of Raymond Chandler or Elmore Leonard as vehicles for a distinctively American voice. And crime -- transgression of the social and moral order -- is one of literature's central themes, after all. Isn't one of the greatest novels of all time called "Crime and Punishment"? Plus, from Cormac McCarthy's "No Country for Old Men" to Toni Morrison's "Beloved," many novels by literary titans are crime fiction by another name.

True crime, however, labors always under the stigma of voyeurism, or worse. It's not just unseemly to linger over the bloodied bodies of the dead and the hideous sufferings inflicted upon them in their final hours, it's also kind of sick. Gillian Flynn's second novel, "Dark Places," describes the wincing interactions between its narrator -- survivor of a notorious multiple murder like the Clutter killings of "In Cold Blood" -- and a creepy subculture of murder "fans" and collectors; when she's hard up for cash, she's forced to auction off family memorabilia at their conventions. Yuck.

The very thing that makes true crime compelling -- this really happened -- also makes it distasteful: the use of human agony for the purposes of entertainment. Of course, what is the novel if not a voyeuristic enterprise, an attempt to glimpse inside the minds and hearts of other people? But with fiction, no actual people are exploited in the making.

I love crime fiction, too, but lately I've come to appreciate true crime more, specifically for its lack of certain features that crime fiction nearly always supplies: solutions, explanations, answers. Even if the culprit isn't always caught and brought to justice in a detective novel, we expect to find out whodunit, and that expectation had better be satisfied. A novelist who dares to build her narrative around a murder and then refuses to collar the perp by the last chapter -- as Donna Tartt did in her sumptuous, underappreciated second novel, "The Little Friend" -- will never hear the end of it. Readers of books and viewers of television and film demand not only to know who did it but why, preferably with a tidy little back story about a molesting uncle, bullying schoolmates or a mom who tricked with sailors in the next room. We believe in evil, but we also want pop psychology to explain it away.

Crime fiction reassures us that for every murder there is a sleuth as obsessed as we are with getting to the bottom of the puzzle. There are the formulaic clashes between the committed police detective and the self-serving brass, the feds who interfere with the locals (or vice versa) for purely territorial reasons, the nagging spouse and the occasional sloppy, time-serving colleague who just wants to wrap this thing up before he's set to retire with a full pension. But there's also always someone, the hero -- whether public officer or private dick -- who really, really wants to find out the truth and has the brains (and sometimes the brawn) required to do it.

Because most of us have a lot more experience with crime fiction -- TV and movies, but also books -- than we do with actual crime, our sense of how law enforcement works has been distorted by the imperatives of entertainment. Forensic scientists often complain that the public expects them to possess and deploy the wizardly high-tech tools they see every week on "CSI." Because the "CSI" team's gear is presented as omniscient and infallible, legal professionals must contend with jurors' overinflated confidence in forensic evidence. Even the most appalling news stories of incompetent or corrupt lab workers will never register as deeply as watching Gil Grissom and his earnest sidekicks stay up all night and ruin their marriages for the sake of seeing justice done.

For all their lingering shots of mangled bodies and gooey, maggot-ridden corpses, these TV procedurals paint a too-pretty picture. If Jack Nicholson were a true-crime author, he'd be telling the audience for such pseudo-gritty shows that they can't handle the truth. Finding myself seated next to a criminal prosecutor-turned-defense attorney at a wedding several years ago, I asked him what pop culture gets the most wrong about crime and punishment in America. After a long pause, he said, "I'm torn between two answers: How much police care about getting it right and how competent they are to do it."

True crime is not above trafficking in misleading clichés -- because, let's face it, there's not much that true crime is above. The majority of the genre is cheap sensationalism, deploying the most shopworn clichés: tragic maidens; idyllic small towns; smiling devils; winsome, doomed tots. Much true crime has achieved its goals if it gives its readers something to shiver over late at night or to whisper about at school. (Most of my early knowledge of true crime classics like "Helter Skelter" came from other girls who got ahold of the books while baby sitting and recounted the most horrific details to a breathless audience on the playground the next day.) Plenty of it offers a comforting message similar to that of crime fiction: that, for all the bewildering and seemingly random violence of this world, it is usually possible for us to know what really happened and who's responsible.

But we also live in a golden age when it comes to a more challenging vein of true crime. These books include Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls," about 14 unsolved murders in Long Island; Raymond Bonner's "Anatomy of Injustice," about the wrongful capital conviction of a black handyman for the rape and murder of an elderly white widow in South Carolina; Janet Malcolm's "Iphigenia in Forest Hills," about the celebrated journalist's inability to accept the guilty verdict against a young mother accused of hiring a man to murder her ex-husband; and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error," which is in part a challenge to another milestone in the genre, Joe McGinniss' "Fatal Vision." Coming up next month is another landmark, "The Wrong Carlos," by James Liebman and the Columbia DeLuna Project, an exhaustively researched consideration of a 1980s case in which the state of Texas most likely executed the wrong man.

Even true crime books in which the identity of the killer is uncontested can open up welcome vistas of uncertainty. Recently, Anand Giridharadas' "The True American" examines the lives of two men: the sole survivor of a hate-crime spree, who forgave and tried to save his would-be killer, and the killer himself, who seems to have become a different man before his 2011 execution; who was he, really? Dave Cullen's masterful "Columbine," published in 2009, offers the most definitive account of the infamous school shooting and clears up many misperceptions, but still leaves the reader with a sense that the reasons for such acts may be fundamentally unknowable. Several years ago, when I was interviewing Margaret Atwood about "Alias Grace," her novel about a maid convicted of killing her master in 19th-century Canada, she remarked that murderers themselves often don't seem to understand their own crimes. They describe the acts as something that "just happened" or as if they were committed by someone else even as they acknowledge they did it. The true crime accounts I've read confirm what Atwood said.

Most important of all, true crime reminds its readers over and over again that most detectives aren't fantastically clever, that most investigations make dozens of significant mistakes and that even the most seemingly hard evidence can become as indeterminate as a quantum particle under sustained study. Sometimes the confusion is understandable. Jeff Guinn's "Manson," a biography of the murderous cult leader published last year, recounts how long the LAPD spent pursuing a bogus scenario in investigating the massacre at Sharon Tate's home.

Investigators assumed that because drugs were found on the premises, the motive was probably a drug deal or connection gone bad. Manson had his followers plant "clues," in the form of weird words written on the wall in blood, with the bizarre idea that the police would instantly link these words to the Black Panthers. (They instead assumed it was just crazy druggie writing, which of course it was.) Much time was lost before the cops were put on the right track by an informant. This, incidentally, is how most real-life whodunits, such as the Unabomber attacks, seem to be solved. There's nothing like true crime to dispel the notion that criminals get caught because of a detective's brilliant reading of the clues. Rather, they get caught because someone rats them out.

Nowhere is the danger of investigators' tendency to settle too early on a theory of the crime more evident than in stories of wrongful conviction. As "Anatomy of Injustice" tells it, police decided that Edward Lee Elmore, the simple-minded African-American man who had mowed neighborhood lawns for years, suddenly turned violent. Under the influence of a suspiciously meddlesome neighbor, a local city councilman, they ignored significant evidence contradicting this theory, and eventually resorted to falsifying evidence, while Elmore's own lawyers barely bothered to defend him at all. Finally, thanks to the efforts of an attorney working for South Carolina's Center for Capital Litigation, the conviction was overturned. The actual murderer has never been identified, but at least an innocent man has escaped death row.

Investigations aren't always led astray by deliberate manipulation, however. In "The Wrong Carlos," confused and inept handling of the crime scene, witnesses and hunt for the man who stabbed a convenience store clerk in Corpus Christi combined with coincidence and bad luck to lead to the unjust execution of Carlos DeLuna. He was the spitting image of the likely culprit to the degree that even people who knew either of the men quite well couldn't tell photos of them apart. Under the aegis of Liebman, 12 Columbia Law School students pored over the records of the case, producing a meticulous and highly detailed report on the crime investigation and trial -- which, while sobering, is also catnip for the amateur detective. It strongly suggests DeLuna was innocent and it's so convincing that even the victim's brother agrees.

Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls" and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error" may be the most accomplished true crime narratives I've read in recent years. The killer or killers responsible for dumping bodies along a lonely Long Island road have yet to be identified. The investigation appears to be stalled for a variety of reasons having to do with the personalities and ambitions of local officials. So Kolker's "Lost Girls" focuses instead on the lives and families of the dead, young women who drifted into the world of prostitution and could not succeed at pulling themselves out again. It's a portrait of underclass life, frayed by substance abuse, domestic violence, crime and fecklessness, and it asks not what circumstances create a monster but which ones forge his victims.

"A Wilderness of Error" is remarkable not just for questioning a murder investigation and conviction but also for condemning the famous true-crime narrative written about them. Morris is a master of the genre, albeit in a different medium (documentary film) and can even claim to have gotten an innocent man out of jail by making "The Thin Blue Line" in 1988. Above all, he is preoccupied with how we establish what's true. His first book, "Believing Is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography," dismantles our faith in the facticity of photographed images. "A Wilderness of Error," his second, concerns the case of Jeffrey MacDonald, convicted of murdering his wife and two small children in 1970. The crimes were the center of a bestselling book, "Fatal Vision" by Joe McGinniss, later made into a TV movie, that pressed home McGinniss' theory that MacDonald was a psychopath.

The writing of "Fatal Vision" was the subject of yet another book, Janet Malcolm's "The Journalist and the Murderer," devoted to probing the moral soft spots in all journalists' relationships to their subjects, but Morris believes these murders were insufficiently investigated and that MacDonald did not get a fair trial. Many aficionados of the trial find Morris' arguments unconvincing, but that is partly Morris' point. Just like the cops, outside observers settle on a story about what happened and become invested in it. They then ignore or dismiss any evidence that undermines that story, often with a vehemence that increases as the counter-evidence mounts. Certainty, an emotional state all too common today, is less a testament to the merits of a belief than a measure of how much we want to go on believing it.

At the very least, Morris presents a convincing case that an uncertain McGinniss was pushed into endorsing MacDonald's guilt by his publisher because offering a conclusion would make for a more satisfying book. Later, of course, the author had no choice but to double down on that conclusion, and whether or not he believed it before his editor urged him to declare the case solved in his own mind, he seems to have fully believed it in the end. All this would be meat for an interesting consideration of the nature of truth and whether it can ever be meaningfully detached from desire, but as Morris keeps pointing out, when it comes to true crime, real lives and real justice are at stake. Crime fiction can afford to go on telling us what we want to hear, but at its best true crime insists on telling us what we can't afford to forget.

#media #true crime #ethics #errol morris #crime fiction #crime #society #detective fiction #television procedurals #Joe McGinniss

1 note · View note

duhragonball · 4 years

Text

On “Araki Forgot”

youtube

We were watching these videos before a stream on Kast. (I think @semercury was the one who pulled them up). I’ve only been in the JoJo fandom for about three years, but I learned about the “Araki Forgot” joke very early in, and it was nice to see Hamon Beat take the time to sort through all the supposed plot holes in JJBA. We didn’t get through the Part 6 video that night, but I watched it later on and I think it’s my favorite, because this one gets to the heart of the matter. The video is full of spoilers, though, so I’ll just make my point below.

Hamon Beat says Part 6 is the “most hated” JoJo arc in the western fandom, and he suspects that this has led to a vicious cycle where the haters didn’t pay attention while they read it, and then they turn around and complain about “plot holes” that don’t actually exist. For example, they say “Araki forgot” that Jolyne should have gotten her Stand back in the late 80′s, just like Holly and Josuke and Giorno, except Jolyne didn’t exist in the 1980′s. Stone Ocean starts in 2011, and she was only 19 years old. This is clearly stated in the text of the story.

The entire video is full of examples like this, and I think it becomes clear that a lot of fans are saying “Araki forgot” when they should actually be saying “I forgot” or “I didn’t understand.” I find myself in the latter category when it comes to Parts 6 and 7, because I often had trouble keeping up with all the nutty ideas that were being thrown around. But I try to keep an even temper with this stuff, because I tend to trust that the author knows what they’re doing, even if it doesn’t seem to make sense.

In particular, this video debunks the old fan theory that Annasui’s gender was changed after his first appearance, due to editorial pressure or artistic whim. I always liked that theory, because the whole thing with Annasui seemed odd and it never came up again in the story, and I liked having a possible explanation better than none at all. But Hamon Beat points out that there’s zero evidence for any of it, and Annasui’s transformation could easily be explained by his Stand ability, since he alters his appearance a second time later in the story. Hamon Beat further speculates that Annasui may have only assumed female form so he could infiltrate the women’s wing of the prison more easily, allowing him to keep an eye on Jolyne, since he enters the story already aware of who she is. This may only be another fan theory, but it’s a lot less extraordinary than the first. It plays into Annasui’s character a lot better.

My impression is that “Araki forgot” started out as a joke, an then it became an exercise for fans to try to find as many discontinuities in the story as possible, then blame them on the author. The problem is that doing this encourages readers to seek out flaws where they may not exist, and to ignore any possible explanation for why they may not be flaws at all.

I think Araki sort of invites this sort of criticism with the way he introduces new characters. Annasui first appearing as a woman is a perfect example. Oftentimes new Stand Users are introduced in very mysterious or confusing ways. You might see a demonstration of their powers, but it’s just a small taste of what they can do, and oftentimes that initial demonstration doesn’t seem to line up with their full powers. Like in Part 3, we first meet Kakyoin while he’s painting a picture, and it seems like the painting has something to do with his Stand ability, but as Hamon Beat points out, this is merely a coincidence. He’s just doing two things at once, and the brush strokes happen to to take place while the Stand does its thing. Annasui can probably make himself look like a woman whenever he wants, but he never needs to do it again in the story, so he never does it, which leads fans to think it was a blooper the first time he did it.

Nevertheless, I think most of the problem lies with western fans, who have no doubt been used to reading western comic books, where continuity is either pitch perfect or a garbled mess, with little in between. For example, I’ve been reading the 1992 DC Comics crossover “Eclipso: The Darkness Within”. The concept back then was to do this multipart story running through the annuals for 18 different series. So like, the Superman annual for 1992 was one chapter, and then the Batman annual is another chapter, and so on. Eclipso was the bad guy, and his powers were tweaked to support this premise. He’s a demon who lives on the moon, and he has all these black diamonds on Earth, and if someone holds a black diamond while they’re angry, he can possess that person and control their body. So he could interact with multiple groups of characters without having to run back and forth from one city to the next.

The problem is that you don’t have one writer handling the entire thing. Each annual had its own creative team, and groups of annuals were under separate editorial departments, so it’s only a matter of time before a few mistakes pop up. Here’s an example:

In Justice League: America Annual #5, Superman asks Wonder Woman to help the League deal with the Eclipso crisis. At first, she declines, but then she has a run-in with a possessed cop, and sees for herself just how dangerous Eclipso is. She returns to help the League, but they end up fighting one of their possessed teammates and don’t really get very far.

But a few chapters later, we get to Wonder Woman Annual #3, which sees Wonder Woman meet the White Magician. His goal is to trick Diana into getting possessed by Eclipso for some magical ritual he has in mind. So part of his plan is to give Diana a black diamond, so that she’ll have it on her when she eventually gets angry enough for the possession to happen.

It’s a little odd that she never suspects the black diamond in this second story, since she had a pretty good demonstration of another black diamond’s powers in the first. You can rationalize this by saying she didn’t think the White Magician’s diamond was the same, but that seems pretty weak. Also, why isn’t she still helping the JLA?

If it had been one writer handling both of these annuals, this could have easily been avoided, but that’s not how DC Comics works. Dan Jurgens wrote the JLA annual, and William Messner-Loebs handled the Wonder Woman story. Chances are, both scripts were written around the same time, and edited by different people, and by the time anyone noticed the mistake, it was too late to do anything about it. I guess the best solution would have been for Jurgens to use a different guest star, someone who wouldn’t be showing up again in their own solo book. But as plot holes go, it’s pretty tame for comic books.

So I think that western audiences have gotten so used to this sort of thing that they fail to appreciate what it means for JJBA to be written by the same guy for over 30 years. Sure, Araki could make a mistake from time to time, but he also created all of the characters. How can someone accuse him of forgetting how Hamon works when he invented Hamon? How can you say the Dio flashbacks in Part 6 are out-of-character with the Dio in Part 3, when the same guy wrote both parts?

The far simpler explanation is that maybe there’s other details in play here, which may be things that the reader forgot about, or never considered in the first place. Even the Wonder Woman example I mentioned has some room for explanation. Maybe it’s not a discontinuity at all, and the point here is that Diana is harder to beat in a combat situation, but is vulnerable to quieter, subtler deceptions in a peaceful moment. She didn’t notice the similarity in the diamonds because she’s not a trained observer like Batman. And so on. If I can do that for a story shared among a dozen writers, how much easier must it be for a single writer like Araki? But I guess that’s an easy enough thing to overlook.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #spoilers #stone ocean #eclipso: the darkness within #the bigger plot hole in eclipso is that sometimes his victims have to satisfy their personal grudge before eclipso can control their bodies #but sometimes he's in the driver's seat immediately #but he's more of a plot device than a chracter in some of these stories so it's not worth worrying about #that's probably the bigger moral here #there's all sorts of stories that may be riddled with plot holes or not #but they never get noticed because they aren't popular enough to get dissected to that extent #the strength of jjba is that it's this big complex thing that's worth exploring and analyzing #and that's why so many people do it #and why too many of them do it half-assed

3 notes · View notes

barefootdancinghospital · 5 years

Link

“The world might be ending.

* * *

There’s a commonly replicated piece of anarchist folk art that means a lot to me. I don’t know who drew it. It’s a drawing of a tree with a circle-A superimposed. The text of it reads “even if the world was to end tomorrow I would still plant a tree today.”

I grew up into anarchy around this piece of art. It was silkscreened as patches and posters and visible on the backs of hoodies and the walls of collective houses. It was graffitied through stencils and it was photocopied in the back of zines. It’s a paraphrasing of a quote misattributed to Martin Luther (the original protestant Martin Luther, not Martin Luther King, Jr., although plenty of people misattribute the quote to him as well). The original quote is something like “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” The earliest reference to it anyone can seem to find is from the German Confessing Church, a Christian movement within Nazi Germany that sought to challenge Nazi power. The quote was used to inspire hope, to inspire people to action.

That’s something I can get behind.

* * *

There’s this book that means a lot to me, On the Beach, by Nevil Shute. I’ve never read it. I can’t bring myself to. I think about it quite often, regardless.

The novel describes a nuclear war destined to kill all life on earth, and it describes the last days of people living in Australia waiting for the inevitable death of all things. It describes how they live their lives, how they find meaning during the apocalypse. It’s a book about how to live without hope. It’s a book of resignation.

It’s too much for me, I think, at least right now.

* * *

The world might be ending.

A lot of people will argue with me about that. They will correctly point out that for large numbers of people all over the world, especially in the parts of the world long ravaged by Western imperialism, the world has been ending for a long time. They will correctly point out that the world itself isn’t going anywhere, that change is constant, and even if what is left behind by climate catastrophe and war is a scorched desert, it’s probable that life will continue. Human life, non-human animal life, and plant life will all, in some form or another, survive all of this.

People will argue, correctly once more, that most every generation has believed that the world was ending. The machine gun slaughter of World War I, the genocide of World War II, the Doomsday Clock of the Cold War, the AIDS epidemic, those all must have felt like the apocalypse. For entire peoples, they were. Yet here some of us are today, alive.

None of those arguments detract from the fact that it sure feels like the world is ending.

Mountains are blown up for coal to pump poison into the air, pipelines clearcut the last vestiges of the wild to help us pump more poison into the air. Oceans are swallowing islands, hundred-year storms happen every year, and it feels like every day we break new climate records. A sense of urgency about coming disaster is fueling a rise of “I got mine, fuck you” nationalism, and climate scientists are being ignored to an unconscionable degree.

The world is ending.

It’s always ending, but it’s ending a lot right now. For me and the people I’m close to, it’s ending more dramatically than it was when I was born thirty-seven years ago.

That’s fucking paralyzing.

The news is full of extinction and fascism and death and death and death.

And we’re expected to get up in the morning and go to work.

* * *

For awhile, I coped by means of a cycle of denial and panic. The potential apocalypse was, basically, too-much-problem. I couldn’t wrap my head around it or its ramifications, so I acted like it wasn’t happening. Until, of course, some horrible event or reminder of the apocalypse broke over a certain threshold and sent me spiraling into despair. Then numbness took over once more and the cycle began again.

That didn’t do me much good.

About a year ago, I decided to embrace four different, often contradictory, priorities for my life. I run my decisions past all of them and try to keep them in balance.

Act like we’re about to die. Act like we might not die right away. Act like we might have a chance to stop this. Act like everything will be okay.

Act like we’re about to die

Every breath we take is the last breath we take. You Only Live Once. Smoke em if you got em. Do As Thou Wilt. Memento Mori. Our culture is full of euphemisms and clever sayings that focus around one simple idea: we’re mortal, so we might as well try to make the most of the time we have.

Embracing hedonism has a lot to recommend it these days. It’s completely possible that the majority of us won’t be alive ten or twenty years from now. It’s completely possible, although a lot less likely, that a lot of us won’t be alive in a year.

I used to think, when I was younger, that I was a terrible hedonist. As a survivor of sexual and psychological assault and abuse, I’ve never had much luck with drug use or casual sex. But fucking and getting wasted, while perfectly worthwhile pastimes, aren’t the only ways to live in the moment. Hedonism is about the pursuit of pleasure and joy. The trick is to find out what gives you pleasure and joy.

For myself, this has meant giving myself permission to pursue music, to sing even though I’m not trained, to play piano and harp. To travel, to wander. To seek beautiful moments and accept that they might be fleeting. I’ll rudely paraphrase the host of the rather wholesome podcast Ologies, Alie Ward, and say “we might die so cut your bangs and tell your crush you like them.”

My hedonism is a cautious one. I’m not looking to take up smoking or other addictions. I’m not trying to live like there’s a guarantee of no tomorrow, just a solid chance of no tomorrow. Frankly, this would be true regardless of the current crisis, but it feels especially important to me just now.

Act like we might not die right away

Preppers have a bad reputation for a good reason. The people stockpiling ammunition and food in doomsday bunkers by-and-large don’t have anyone else’s best interests at heart. Still, being prepared for a slow apocalypse, or dramatic interruptions in the status quo, makes more and more sense to more and more of us.

Preparing for the apocalypse is going to look different to every person and every community. For some people it will mean stockpiling necessities. For other people, securing the means to grow food.

One thing I’ve learned from my friends who study community resilience and disaster relief, however, is that the most important resource to shore up on isn’t a tangible one. It’s not bullets, it’s not rice, it’s not even land or water. It’s connections with other people. The most effective means of survival in crisis is to create community disaster plans. To practice mutual aid. To build networks of resilience.

Every apocalypse movie has it all backwards when the plucky gang of survivors holes up in a cabin and fends off the ravaging chaotic hordes. The movies have it backwards because the ravaging hordes are, in the roughest possible sense, the ones doing survival right. They’re doing it collectively. Obviously, I’m not advocating we wear the skulls of our enemies and cower at the feet of warlords (though wearing the skulls of would-be warlords has its appeal). I’m advocating staying open to opportunity and building collective power.

There are infinite reasons not to count on holing up in a cabin with your six friends as an apocalypse plan, but I’ll give you two of them. First, because living a worthwhile and long life as a human animal requires connections with a diverse collection of people with diverse collections of skills, ideas, and backgrounds. It’s all fun and games in your cabin until your appendix bursts and none of you are surgeons—or you’re the only surgeon. Likewise, small groups of people who tend to agree with one another are subject to the dangers of groupthink and the echo chamber effect, which will limit your ability to intelligently meet challenges that face you.

Second, because by removing yourself from society, you’re removing your ability to shape the changes that society will go through during crisis. If you go hide in the woods with your stockpile and your buddies, and fascists take over, guess what? It’s kind of your fucking fault. Because you weren’t at the meeting when everyone decided whether to be egalitarians or fascists. And guess what? Now that rampaging horde is at your doorstep, and they want your ammo and your antibiotics, and they’re going to get it one way or the other. Fascism is always best stamped out when it starts. It’s never safe to ignore it. Not now, not during any Mad Max future.

Tangible resources do matter, of course. Any likely scenario that prepping is good for won’t be so dramatic as an utter restructuring or collapse of society. It might mean food shortages, power outages, water contamination. It never hurts to keep nonperishable food, backup sources of power, and water filtration systems around for yourself and your neighbors.

Still, this is a terrible basket to put all your eggs into. You probably shouldn’t live out your days, whether they’re your last ones or not, over-preparing for something that may or may not come to pass.

Act like we might have a chance to stop this

We can and we should stop the worst excesses of climate catastrophe. We can and should stop fascism by whatever means necessary. Throwing up our hands and walking away from the problem is no solution.

It’s hard to remember that we have agency. Unless we were raised ultra-rich, we’ve had the concept of political and economic agency stripped from us at every turn. We’ve been told there are two ways to effect change: vote for politicians or vote with our dollars. Politicians in western democracies are likely incapable of changing things as dramatically as they need to be changed, and they certainly won’t bother trying unless we motivate them to do so in fairly dramatic ways. As for economic agency, there is a small handful of men with more wealth—and therefore power—than the rest of us combined.

We’ve been told we cannot take matters into our own hands, politically or economically. We’re not allowed to have a revolution. We’re not allowed to redistribute the wealth of the elite.

You’ll be shocked to know that I don’t put a lot of stock in what we are and aren’t allowed to do.

Still, even if we give ourselves permission to undertake it, revolution feels like an insurmountable challenge. We’ve got, optimistically, ten years to completely overhaul the economic system of the planet. It can be done. It has to be done. Yet it feels like it won’t be done.

We’re all running the cost/benefit analysis of acting directly. We all have different “fuck it” points—the point beyond which we can no longer prioritize our immediate wellbeing but instead must act regardless of the outcome. In the meantime, we’re waiting until it seems like we can act and actually have a chance of winning.

All over the world, even in some Western countries, people are no longer waiting. They’re acting. We need to be helping them, supporting them with words and actions, while we get ready to act here as well.

The revolution needs mediators and facilitators, medics and brawlers. It needs hackers and propagandists and it needs financiers and smugglers and thieves. It needs scouts and coordinators and it needs musicians and it needs people invested in the system to turn traitor. It needs lawyers and scientists and bookkeepers and copyeditors and cooks and it needs almost everyone, almost every skill.

One thing it doesn’t need, though, is managers. The people who claim to know how to run a revolution don’t know how to run a revolution or they would have done it by now. The authoritarian urge, to decide what the revolution should and shouldn’t look like, how people should and shouldn’t express their rage and reclaim their agency, will fail us every time. Authoritarian communism is the death of any revolution. Authoritarian liberalism is the death of any revolution. Even the more dogmatic anarchists will get in the way if given a chance. The revolution cannot be branded. Despite Hollywood representations of rebellions, they don’t work as well under a single banner. They are diverse, or they are not revolutions.

The revolution cannot be controlled by a vanguard of activists; if it is, it will fail. The revolution must be controlled by its participants, because only then will we learn how to claim agency over our own lives and futures.

We have a chance to stop this.

I forget that sometimes, but I shouldn’t.

Still, I can’t count on hope alone, or the days when hope fails me would lay me low.

Act like everything will be okay

All the times the world has come close to ending before, it hasn’t. It’s ended for some people, some cultures. Civilizations have collapsed. Ecosystems have radically shifted. Species have gone extinct—including the species of humans before homo sapiens. Colonization was an apocalypse. Some people survived those apocalypses, but plenty more didn’t.

Still, the world is still here and we’re still here.

Capitalism is a sturdy beast, quite adept at adaptation. Marx was wrong about a lot of things, and one of those things was the inevitability of the collapse of capitalism under the weight of its own contradictions. With or without capitalism, the society we live in might stagger on. We might curb the worst excesses of climate catastrophe through economic change or wild feats of geoengineering.

I won’t bet on it, but I won’t bet entirely against it either.

As much as I need to live like I might die tomorrow, I need to live like I might see a hundred years on this odd green and blue planet. Unless things change, I’m not burning every bridge. I’m trying to maintain a career. If I was certain to die under a fascist regime by 2021, there wouldn’t be much point in writing novels: they take too long to write, publish, and reach their audience. I get some joy from the writing itself, sure, but I get more joy from putting my art in front of people, of letting it influence the cultural landscape. With novel writing in particular, that takes time. That takes there being a future. I want there to be a future. Almost desperately. Not enough to bank on it completely.

I’m keeping some small portion of my time and resources invested in the potential for there to be a future is important for my mental health, because it keeps me invested in maintaining that health.

* * *

The world might end tomorrow, and it might not. If we can help it, at all, we shouldn’t let it end. We still ought to act like it might.

We ought to figure out what trees we would plant either way.

If you appreciate my writing and want to help me do more of it, please consider supporting me via Patreon.

“

#climate change

3 notes · View notes

machihunnicutt · 5 years

Text

These Things Happen To Other People (They Don’t Happen At All)

(Or read on ao3.)

1: Barry

Barry was always noticing Lup. He noticed the sly glint in her eye and sideways smile she gave him the day he first met her at IPRE. He noticed how strong her grip was when she shook his hand, and that her nails were painted purple and matched her twin brother’s.

At the press conference, before they left in the Starblaster, he noticed how her knee bounced under the table. Up and down and up and down while Davenport fielded questions. He noticed that when she stood to answer questions of her own she put her hands on her hips and planted her feet. She held the mic with all the confidence in the world. Barry thought, then, that maybe there were two Lups: the one who grinned brighter than the spells she cast and called him a nerd, and the Lup who was made quiet by fear, or expectation, the Lup who put a steadying hand on Taako’s shoulder when one of their co-workers riled him up, the Lup who took a moment to collect herself after the journalists were gone, before she gave Magnus a high five and followed the others to the bar.

When it became clear that they would have to fight, every day, in every plane, year after year to stop the Hunger and protect the light, the list of things Barry noticed about Lup grew.

She hummed when she cooked.

She had absolutely illegible handwriting.

She was usually the last person on the ship to go to bed. He’d find her hunched over a book or rehearsing spells in the latest, stillest hours of the night.

“Lup?”

She startled, for a second, before he saw her shoulders relax. She was at the kitchen table, her legs folded under her as she stared at a map.

“Hi, Barry,” she said, voice hushed and weary. “I’m just—“ she trailed off and he watched her eyes flicker over his form in the doorway. He’d just come for a glass of water. His hair was mussed and he’d traded his jeans for pajamas.

“It’s taking awhile to find the light this time,” she said. “All the places it could be keep buzzing around in my head. Can’t sleep.”

He nodded. “It’s early though. We’ll find it.”

“I know,” she said with a smile that looked like it was more to comfort him than something genuine. “I’m not underestimating my own brilliance. Or yours for that matter.”

“I’m not brilliant,” Barry said. He felt his face heating up. He hoped Lup wouldn’t see, but then he remembered she had night vision.

“You are,” she said, easy, nonchalant, and turned back to her work. “I’ll go to bed soon. Don’t worry,” she said, glancing up at him once more. “Goodnight, Barry.”

“Goodnight Lup.” He said. He wanted to say he thought she was the most brilliant person he’d ever met. But he didn’t.

Barry noticed that Lup took her coffee black, but always remembered to bring him cream and sugar when they were working together.

He noticed that they were working together more often now. It was cycle 15. Fifteen years that felt at once like no time at all and also impossibly long. He hadn’t gotten used to looking at himself in the mirror and seeing the same face that had boarded the Starblaster on day one. Sure, each cycle made them different, changed them. Barry was learning to love scars and bruises because they meant change. If his face was roughed up early in a cycle he savored it: a point of aesthetic newness that disappeared when the year was up.

Lup, Barry noticed, looked different in every cycle. She’d try new hairstyles and colors, intricate braids and buns and in some instances shaving her head entirely. She’d try different clothes: long flowing skirts, fitted tops that showed off her tanned and freckled shoulders, artfully ripped t-shirts beneath her IPRE jacket and robe. She always looked like Lup, though. Beautiful and strong and singular. She looked so much like her brother, but Barry had had nearly 15 cycles to count their differences, to memorize her face and all its minute changes, the things that reset each year and reminded them all of the people they’d been when they began.

The world of cycle 15 was a dense jungle. The people lived in the thick of it, in vast hidden kingdoms that Lup, Taako, and Lucretia had explored with some basic spells for clearing brush and dispelling camouflage. Lup was sitting on the deck of the Starblaster, staring out at the sun setting over an expanse of green. Barry sat down beside her.

“Lucretia has been talking to some of the locals,” Lup said, glancing over at him. As of late he felt like they were always in the midst of one big, yearlong conversation. Lup would pick up topics and Barry would know what she was saying instantly. Sometimes they could speak without speaking at all. “You know that they have millions of plant species here? And hundreds of thousands have been catalogued and studied. They know so much.”

“Wouldn’t that be amazing,” Barry said, trying not to sound too grim. It was a tough year. Most of the time he was too tired to distinguish the plethora of plants in front of him.

“Wanna hear something crazy, Barry?”

“Sure,” he said, caught off guard for a moment by the way she said his name, softer than she usually said it.

“Lucretia told me that the people here worship these gods who are prophesied to exist in constant states of rebirth and—“ She gestured vaguely with her hand, a loose circular motion. “Time isn’t linear for them. It’s a circle, a constant loop and sometimes it twists and turns, like animal tracks or ocean waves, they say. And they worship these gods because they believe that living like that, ageless, formless, with no purpose or certainty—or maybe it’s hyper-certainty somewhere in all that time—is divine. You know who that sounds like? Those gods?”

“Us,” Barry said. Lup’s eyes were wide and expectant.

“It’s just crazy. I get it, but it’s crazy being here. Doing this. Do you think about death,

Barry?”

“Sometimes,” he said. He hadn’t died in a cycle yet, Lup had and Magnus and Davenport. And each time it happened, though he knew it was only temporary, it emptied everything out of him, all the fight, all the joy, and he felt numb until they were allowed to begin again.

“Elves live long lives,” Lup said. “Longer than humans. But death still means something. Not like now. In this plane they think beings like us are divine. But how can we be divine if we can’t stop it? We’ve had 14 tries already and it doesn’t feel like we’re any closer. It doesn’t feel like I know anything more than when I started.”

“Lup...” She was looking out at the landscape, her jaw clenched and head held high.

“And sometimes I just don’t care,” she said. She looked over at him, and his heart spasmed in his chest when she grinned. “Sometimes I love being here anyway, with everyone,” she said. “With you.”

“We aren’t as lost as when we started,” Barry said. “We’re getting closer.” He wanted to reach out and take her hand, to touch her and prove that they weren’t formless or purposeless or anything other than flesh and blood and breath and emotion that seemed to seep out of him on some days and burn within on others. But he didn’t. He just watched her nod, slowly, like maybe she believed him.

But what did Barry know, anyway.

In the ensuing cycles, Barry noticed himself falling completely and devastatingly in love with Lup. At first he tried to ignore it. He convinced himself that he loved everyone aboard the Starblaster in the same way. Lup was his friend, his dear friend who he’d die for, and had, at that point.

But it wasn’t the same.

***

And then it was cycle 47, and they were at the conservatory.

“What should we make?” Lup asked him. The rest of the group had splintered off to make their own offerings to the light of creation. Truthfully, Barry thought he’d be on his own too. He was already dreading the prospect of making something beautiful and creative. He was good with magic, sure, but it was always about survival. The light wanted art, and he wasn’t sure he could manage that.

“I’ve played the violin,” Lup said. “A bit, back when Taako and I were on the road.”

“Oh,” Barry said. He was never quite sure how to proceed in conversations regarding her past. He didn’t want to touch a nerve or say something he shouldn’t. And sometimes he was certain she made up things about her life to trick him. She didn’t, would never, but it still felt that way.

“I wanted to make myself as useful and versatile as possible,” she said. “That was why. I wasn’t very good, for that reason. I wasn’t playing because I loved to; I was playing because I was afraid.”

“Of what?” Barry asked.

She shrugged. “Losing everything. Being on our own again. Taako and I always managed, but it was never easy.”

She ran a hand through her hair (long in this plane, loosely curled and deep brown) and shook her head. “I want the music to feel different now.”

“Should we write a song then? I could—I mean I’ve always wanted to learn the piano,” he said.

“You have?” She said, suddenly playful, eyebrows raised. “Well, I would very much like to hear that, Barold.”

“We only have a year,” he said.

“I think we can do it anyway,” she said, and she put her hand on his knee.

He’d known for awhile now, that Lup had become everything to him. He knew it when she smiled at him from across the room and when she sacrificed herself time and time again to protect the fragile worlds they still didn’t know how to rescue. He knew it when she took the lead in their search, her magic prowess increasing with every passing year (and it had been many years). He knew it when she took his face in her hands, gently wiping away tears when he felt like everything inside him was crumbling.

Lup had become everything.

This cycle moved in slow motion. Every practice, late into the night and the early hours of morning, passed in a dream. Each time Lup played something and then began again felt careful and necessary. She sat next to him sometimes, when he was at the piano and she was too tired to hold up her violin, and she just watched him play slow scales.

“Are you ready?”

Barry was in the kitchen, washing dishes. He looked up and saw Taako in the doorway. He had his arms crossed and was leaning on the door frame.

Barry shrugged. The ceremony was tomorrow. They’d done everything they could. “Maybe I am. I believe in Lup.”

Taako nodded. “You know, Barold, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

“Is that from your book?”

“That’s confidential. But do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Maybe?” Barry said.

Taako sighed. “Look, man. It has been literally 47 years. I know they say not to kiss and tell but this is a bit extreme.”

“We haven’t...Lup and I aren’t...”

“Well then get on it, my man. Life’s too short.”

“Is that also in the book?”

“You two play your little song and I’ll show you what’s in my incredibly brilliant book.”

Barry sighed. “I just...she’s...I don’t know. If something goes wrong it’s not as if I can hide from her. Who knows how long we’ll have to keep doing this and—“

“Barry, you’re my friend so I’ll be honest with you. Literally everything about this mission so far has gone wrong. Everything. We’ve made so many mistakes. And we’re learning, of course, but everything is still hard and bad a lot of the time.”

Taako rubbed his temples, like the sheer exhaustion of his existence was hitting him all at once. “And still, in all of that, you and Lup loving each other makes perfect sense to me. Everything else is on some goddamn shaky ground.”

“Well...thanks, Taako,” Barry said. “I’ll try my best.”

***

“You look nervous,” Barry said. He was so accustomed to the feeling himself that he laughed when she rolled her eyes at him.

“Thanks for noticing,” she said. “You look nervous too.”

She gripped her bow tightly and stood in a wide-legged, firmly grounded posture he’d seen so often it was becoming a cliche. This time, though, she was in a crimson dress that fell just past her knees, with matching heels that had her towering above him. They were next. Magnus had just presented his duck. The audience was applauding wildly and then they were dead silent.

And then the audience disappeared, or at least it felt like they did because all Barry could see was Lup. He’d spent weeks memorizing his part; the learning and the writing and the keeping in time with Lup were hard, but somehow the home stretch, the committing of a handful of notes to memory was the most difficult step.

He practiced alone, in the end, because watching Lup threw him off. Every stumble, every wrong note, every movement that built to nowhere was because he was watching her and forgetting his own part. Lup’s playing was a new kind of magic, separated entirely from the magic she used to save them, nothing like the flames that rose from her hands and yet exactly the same in passion, in feeling, in the warmth the radiated from her as her bow glided over strings, as her fingers moved fluidly and deftly.

And so when they had arrived, just the two of them on stage, the audience an invisible, prickling force, Barry put his hands on the piano keys and realized the song was there in his brain, his fingertips, and all he could do now was watch Lup.

It was a blur, the next moments. Lup had her eyes closed. Her whole body moved with the music, a gentle sway that seemed dizzying from his angle. Her silhouette cut against the sky. The sun was just starting to set: one sun, on this plane, the clouds a mess of deep purples and blues. When she played her last note, Barry held his breath.

She opened her eyes and looked over at him. He knew that they’d done it. The world came back in, around them, and the applause was deafening. And they stood and bowed and Lup laughed and her hand was in his and she didn’t let go.

So he didn’t either.

“Barry,” she said. “Do you wanna go talk somewhere for awhile?”

“Sure.”

2: Lup

Lup noticed Barry sometimes. In all fairness, there was a lot happening on the Starblaster. There was a seemingly infinite multiverse of worlds to save, unfathomable energy to protect, and a bastard of an all-consuming evil entity out to get them and everything in their path.

Still, Lup never thought of her life’s story as a tragedy. She didn’t think it was a romance either.

“I’m not good at talking in front of a lot of people,” Barry said, wringing his hands. The press conference was about to begin.

“It’ll be alright, buddy,” Magnus said at the same time as Taako said “Wow, Barry I never would have guessed,” in his particular sarcastic lilt that made her smile but also feel a little bad for the very nervous Barry who’d taken off his glasses and was now cleaning them frantically with the sleeve of his robe.

“Just pretend they’re all in their underwear, or something,” she said, winking at him. “We’ve got this.”

Barry flushed red and nodded. Lup was nervous too, though she’d never say so out loud. Their work would likely be dangerous, and further from home than she’d ever been...not that home had been all that constant for the twins. That was the other thing: the being part of a team thing. It had been her and Taako against the world for so long. And now everything would be different.

She didn’t know then, how different it would be.

“How long do you think we’ll be at this?” Lup asked. It was the twelfth cycle. She was laying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling of the room she shared with her brother. It was early morning, sunlight was coming in through the window and strange calls of birds that only belonged to this plane filled her ears.

“Who knows,” Taako said, rolling over. “What’s wrong Lulu?”

She turned her head to look at him. She wondered if she looked as tired as he did: dark circles beneath his eyes, messy hair, tight jaw.

“You mean, besides the usual?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know. Barry said something about devoting more time to research on the Hunger and I just...realized that we honestly have no idea what we’re up against. We know zip, zilch, nada, and that freaks me out.”

“So we’ll learn about it, like Barry said.”

“Yeah, okay, like Barry said,” Lup repeated. She closed her eyes. When she closed her eyes and laid flat on her back, sometimes she could convince herself that she was somewhere else: their room at the IPRE headquarters, a caravan during their years on the road, sitting, barefoot on the cool earth at their grandpa’s farm. She didn’t want to return to any of these places, per say, but lately she’d been reaching for any place that felt vaguely grounded.

Hurtling through planes with no rhyme or reason did that to a person. She’d grown up with change, with transformation of body and evolution of mind. She changed her clothes on a whim. She tried new spells with reckless abandon. But now everything was moving too fast. Now the ultimate goal was to make existence halt and bend to their will long enough to save everyone.

“Lu?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about Barry?’

She opened her eyes. “What do you mean, what do I think?” She said, but she realized a moment too late that she was whispering, and that her tone was a little bit defensive.

“Nothing,” Taako said, smile curling at his lips. “Nothing at all, it just seems like you spend a lot of time with him.”

“I spend time with everyone.”

“Fine, dodge the question. That’s as good as an answer.”

Lup rolled over and wrapped an arm around him. She buried her face in his neck and sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s my friend. It’s complicated.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s complicated right now. I just don’t want to be out of the Lup loop.

“You won’t, ever,” she said, seriously.

“I know,” he said. They were still for a moment, listening to the creaks and groans and faint murmurs of the Starblaster and its occupants waking up.

“I think about getting to the end of all this. I don’t think about going back to the way things were, but just finding someplace safe,” she began. “And I think about the things I’ll need when we find that place. I think about a house, or something like it. I think about wide open spaces to do magic where I don’t have to worry about wrecking anyone else’s shit...unless, of course, they deserve it.”

“Natch,” he said.

“And you’re there in the house with me, obviously, and all our friends come visit. But Barry…”

“Is Barry in your house too, Lu? Does he have his own nerd study. Oh! Or a necromancy dungeon?”

Lup laughed. It was halting and a little breathless and her heart was pounding hard, but she laughed. “Maybe,” she said. “The details are still blurry.”

“C’mon,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s make breakfast.”

Cycle after cycle, Lup let herself notice more things about Barry.

He loved it when she made banana pancakes.

He lost his glasses constantly, and broke them at least once a cycle.

His palms would sweat and he’d stumble over his words every time they met someone new. But he remembered every name, cycle after cycle, even though it hurt. Sometimes she’d find him with Lucretia, listening attentively as she read back a bit of writing, which she did only rarely.

Sometimes he’d get angry and frustrated in a way that made him wring his hands and lock his jaw or cry. She found him crying once. She was lingering outside his bedroom with a leftover piece of Taako’s pie. Barry hadn’t eaten much at dinner.

She knocked on his door, gently, and heard him sniffling. “Hey Barry? It’s me. Can I come in?”

She heard more sniffling and then a weak affirmation.

“I brought pie,” she said, holding up the plate and giving him her best smile. He was hunched at the foot of the bed, wiping at his face with his shaky hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He repeated it. “I’m sorry Lup. I don’t know why I’m—“

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “It’s okay.” She crossed the room and knelt in front of him. He didn’t meet her eyes, looking down at the floor and stiffening.

“Barry,” she said. She reached up and took his face in both hands. And then he looked at her, eyes wide and watery. They were quiet for a moment. She leaned in and kissed the top of his head. She wiped away the tears left on his face and she watched him watch her.

Barry looked at Lup like she was more than she was. It was a look that had taken her years to pin down.

“Lup?” He said, quietly, nearly a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

***

When their song was finished, Lup never wanted to let go of Barry’s hand. He tethered her in space, in time, kept her from floating away on days when she was certain she’d dissolve if she thought too hard about who she was and what she was trying to do.

“I love you,” she said. They were the first words out of her mouth when she got him alone. He was still in his suit, tie looser and stance more casual without the stage fright. He grinned.

“I love you too, Lup,” he replied, instantly.

She took both his hands. They should have done this years ago. “No, I mean I really love you, Barry. I’ve been wanting to say something for a while now. I’ve loved you for cycles and cycles, babe.”

He flushed. “I feel the same,” he said.

“Good,” she breathed. “That’s so good to hear. I thought, for a long time, that it wasn’t a good idea to start something. I thought we’d end up hurting each other.”

He looked at her, gravely.

“But I’ve been hurt so much, through all of this, and I’m still here. And I still love you.”

She embraced him, burying her face in his neck and clinging to him. “We did it,” she said. “I got so caught up in loving you that I nearly forgot.”

He laughed. “It was beautiful. You’re beautiful.” They came apart. She realized she wanted to hold him forever. She missed his arms around her the second they weren’t there.

“Lup?” He said. “Can I—?”

“Yes,” she said, before he could finish. And then he was leaning up to kiss her.

“I love you,” he said.

“You said that already,” she said.

“Making up for lost time,” he said.

Lup’s image of home, the distant, distorting one, began to solidify in the coming cycles. Late at night, one cycle, the light of creation’s energy burned too passionately in them for sleep. Lup lit candles and sat on Barry’s bed (their bed now) with a mess of notes and scrolls and half-baked diagrams for experiments. They were working on the whole lich thing, an idea they’d talked about for the last five cycles in clandestine whispers. Every bone in Lup’s body ached but she couldn’t close her eyes. Barry was at the desk beside her, similarly engrossed in his work.

“Babe?”

He looked up and over at her with exhaustion, but interest. “Find something?”

She shook her head, and pulled her knees to her chest. “Nothing yet.”

“It’s complicated magic,” he said.

She nodded.

“What are you thinking? You wanna call it a night?” He asked, voice gentle. Candlelight flickered on his face, casting warm shadows.

“I don’t. But I think we should try, to sleep I mean.”

He stretched, languidly. She cleared away her work and nestled into her side of the bed. She watched him lay down beside her, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

Lup’s imaginary home was full of Barry. His books were on the shelves. His favorite cereal was in the kitchen. And their bed was like this one: soft and inviting and stable. She reached out and they folded into each other, legs tangled together, breath soft, and chests warm.

“I’m worried,” she muttered, eyes closed. “Even if we feel confident to try, there are risks. We could die trying.”

“We won’t,” he said. “I believe in you.”

“I believe in you too, sweetie. But I don’t know about any of this.”

He drew back and met her eyes. “We’re not ready yet, but I know we will be. We’ve made it this far,” he said. “We’ll make it to the end.”

“Okay,” she said, dazed with the intensity of the eye contact, the urge to kiss him. She thought about the end of all of this. She wondered how many more nights she would sleep pressed to his chest, breathing in unison.

She tried her best to commit this moment entirely to memory, to cling to it even as their surroundings shifted and the Starblaster soared through unknown after unknown. Barry had blown out the candles and their smoke hovered: delicate, fragrant, plumes in the dark. He dozed off quickly, holding her tight to him as if she’d slip away in the night. Most mornings Lup had to detangle herself from him, carefully, to go to the kitchen and make breakfast. Sometimes, though, she’d let him keep her from the rest of the day. Gladly, she’d close her eyes against the glare of the sunrise and stay a few moments longer in his warmth.

“Barry?” She said suddenly.

“Mm?” He was half asleep, but still shifted to look at her with sleepy eyes.

“I love you.”

He smiled and kissed her. She’d said it hundreds of times but it never felt like enough.

“I love you too,” he said.

***

“Where is he?” Lup said. Rage tore through her chest, blind and confused. Taako’s hands were on her shoulders. Magnus and Lucretia were standing in the doorway, looking bedraggled and forlorn.

“He’s going to be fine, Lulu. Merle did his best with healing spells but he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s all bandaged up in there, but he’s pretty out of it.” Taako said, slowly. He didn’t break eye contact. She felt her whole body tense.

“What happened?”

“Thieves,” Lucretia said. “They ambushed us. I...I tried to counter their attacks but they had strong magic and we were outnumbered. Lup, I’m sorry.” She looked at the floor and Magnus put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let me see him,” she said.

They’d died before, too many times. They’d been hurt. They’d suffered to the end, clinging on pointlessly only to be reset. But it never got easier, seeing Barry pale and stiff in their bed.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” She asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“I’m fine, Lup. Don’t—” He stopped, because he’d tried to sit up and couldn’t. He winced and Lup felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

His eyes were glazed over and his face was cut and bruised. He swayed against the pillow and gave her his best, clearly strained, smile.

It was like this when anyone got hurt. Her heart started beating out of her chest. Her hands shook. It didn’t matter that’d they’d been through hell and back countless times. It didn’t matter that everything was going to reset.

“I’m okay,” he said. Even incapacitated, he read her expression, she knew, because his eyes widened with panic to reassure her. “Honestly, Lup. Merle stopped the bleeding; I’m just sore and a little dizzy. ”

“Let me see,” she said, crossing the room. She perched on the edge of the bed.

“Lup…”

“Show me how bad it is.” She stared him down until he lifted his shirt. His bandage was already soaking through with blood. It was a big gash, from the look of it, and he frowned as her chin began to wobble.

“It’s fine. We’ve done this before.” She reached out and took his face in her hands.

“How many people attacked you?”

“Six. We got out. It’s okay.”

“Lucretia said you passed out. You could have died. The cycle’s not even half-over. That would have absolutely sucked, Barry.” The words were pouring out of her now. “And it’s not fine. Being without you for most of a cycle would’ve been terrible and it’d be the first time you died since we got together. And, fuck...it’s not your fault babe, obviously, but you scared the shit out of me and I kind of want to go blow something up now.”

He smiled, but she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He was trying to keep himself upright but it was a struggle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know. I won’t die on you this time. But…”

“What?” She said.

He laughed, which consequently doubled him over with pain. He was getting further away from her. Sleepier and loopy with blood loss. “You died two cycles ago,” he muttered, like it was a secret. “And I…” he trailed off.

She remembered. A bad fall off a rocky cliff they were exploring. It was stupid, really. She’d hit the ground fast.

“And, what?” They hadn’t talked about that particular death. Normally, Barry didn’t talk about death at all, unless it was about liches.

“It was bad,” he said at last. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling. “We’ve got to figure out how to stop dying.” He closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll dream an answer,” he whispered.

She laughed. “Maybe.”

Lup asked Lucretia later. Lucretia was at the kitchen table with an ice pack at her temple and her journal open in front of her. She looked up when Lup took a seat across from her.

“How are you feeling?” She asked. Lucretia shrugged.

“Stupid, for not stopping them. Happy, that I’m still here.”

“You’re not stupid,” Lup said. “It’s not your fault.”

She smiled, that gentle smile that Lup noticed was rare. All these years and Lup could only recall catching a few of them.

“How’s Barry?”

“He says he’s fine.”

“Good,” Lucretia breathed. “If he says so.”

“I—” Lup’s chest tightened. “What was he like, the last time I died?”

Lucretia looked down at her journal. “Lup, I write it all down, but I don’t...I can’t—“

“That bad, huh?” Lup said.

Lucretia sighed. “He wouldn’t leave his room for weeks.”

Oh Barry.

“He didn’t tell me.”

“We’re all wrecks, when we lose someone,” Lucretia said. “And you love each other, so much. It’s all in here.” She tapped the journal.

“Greatest story ever told,” she muttered. “Honestly.”

She retreated to Barry’s room a while later.

“Hey, hot stuff. How’s the bleeding?”

He blinked, sleepily. She handed him a glass of water and took a seat on the bed beside him. “I’m just here to tell you I’m going to spend the night with Taako so I don’t accidentally hug you too hard and take you out.”

“Okay,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

He turned to look at her, gaze softer, and more adoring than it had any right to be.

“You could’ve told me about what it was like in the cycle I died,” she said. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“Did Lucretia say something?”

“I twisted her arm.”

Barry sighed. “I worked harder that cycle than I ever have. I...I don’t want to watch you die again.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sick of watching you die, Lup.”

“I know,” she repeated. Her voice shook. “You want to know what else I know?

“What?”

“We’re ready,” she said, softly.

“You think so?” He was wide-eyed again. “I don’t know if I’ll be well enough.”

“Next cycle.” She held out her pinky. “Promise.”

He grinned, and inelegantly linked his pinky in hers. “Promise.”

3: Barry

“Emotional anchors,” Lup said, matter-of-factly. She was cross-legged on the bedroom floor. “I have my list. Do you have yours?”

He was about to tell her that this was another anchor he could add to his list: the image of her, long legs and bruised knees, mess of curls pulled into a bun (this cycle her hair was light and unruly, and always smelled like flowers or cinnamon), toenails freshly painted and wild look in her eyes. But he didn’t. If he wrote down every moment he was in love with Lup, the list would be miles long.

“Yes,” he said, pulling it out of the pocket of his robe. “But you have to go first.”

“If you insist,” she said, retrieving her own list. She grinned.

“When Taako and I think up the same dinner before we even talk about it.”

“Twin telepathy.”

“Of course,” she said. “And the beach, cycles ago, swimming with everyone in the sunshine. And the mongoose family. And the wooden ducks Magnus leaves everywhere. And breakfast. And late nights and…”

“Go on,” he said. “It’s great.”

She got up, brandishing the list triumphantly, as if giving a speech.

“And you. Every memory I have of you. Even the bad ones, the missing you. Waking up next to you. Holding you. Making you coffee. Your brilliant mind.The way you look at me sometimes, like I have all the answers, even though I don’t. Those jeans.”

“Don’t feel like you have to keep going on,” he said, face bright red despite the years and years of sweet things she’d said to him.

“Oh, but I want to.” She leapt onto the bed and kissed him.

“Your turn,” she said. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Barry.”

He took out his list, but suddenly his hands were shaking and he couldn’t get them to stop.

“Barry,” she repeated, putting her hands over his.

“Maybe you could read them,” he said, voice quivering. “I’m sorry Lup. I...it hits me in waves, you know? What we’re doing. What this means. The risk.”

“We’re ready,” she said. “You said it yourself.”

“I know,” he said. And he meant it. “I just never want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, sweetie, and I won’t. Because we’re ready.”

She squeezed his hand, in the way that made it an item on the list.

“And we’re gonna look sick as hell as liches,” she said.

***

It felt strange, at first, being formless, intangible. And then she was there, radiant, red-robed, grinning as much as a skull could, and the euphoria hit.

And Taako was laughing, tears in his eyes when Lup dabbed. Only she could make something entirely terrifying feel ridiculous and light-hearted and beautiful.

Barry reached out to hold her, but he couldn’t, neither of them could because their bodies were somewhere else.

“We did it,” he breathed. If he could cry he would, out of relief or joy or both.

It was freeing to feel disembodied after years and years in a body that remained so static it was like it didn’t belong to him. It was freeing to look at Lup, with her robes billowing and fire at her fingertips, and recognize her perfectly, even in this new, frightening form.

It took time to process, living out the rest of the year as ghosts, hovering above the rest of the crew while they had meetings, spending all night researching because they didn’t need to sleep.

But it felt good, after awhile, to be made of power, energy, might when they never felt mighty. Lup was a force of nature. She radiated. She struck fear in the hearts of her enemies. She was incredible.

It still felt better to be embodied, beside her. And a year spent as a lich made it all the better to be a body. It made it all the more electrifying to hold her hand.

They did a lot of hand holding in the next few years, when the Hunger got closer and yet more elusive. And when they created the relics, a decision that kept Lup up at night, arms curled around her knees, staring off into some place he couldn’t reach.

“We’re doing the right thing, right? It’s hard but…”

“It’s the best solution we have right now. We’ll keep working. But this plane is safer.”

“For who? For how long? People are dying because of something we made.”

“The Hunger would’ve killed all of them,” Barry said, as gently as he could. She was right, he knew, but there was nothing else they could do, not now when their existence was stable enough to stop spinning, to give them a moment to breathe.

“I know,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. They were on the deck of the Starblaster, again, again, again for the thousandth time, looking up at the stars from earth that didn’t belong to them. They were sharing a bottle of wine, which was in theory romantic, but in practice had brought thinly veiled sadness to the surface. Barry didn’t know it yet, but this was their last date—for a long, long time at least.

“I’ve thought about settling down,” she said. “Really settling down.”

“You have?” He said, struggling to contain his grin.

“But I can’t, in a world that we’re hurting. No matter how much I love you.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He’d spent 100 years close and yet infinitely far from the future they both dreamed about, the one they spoke of softly, in the thin space before sleep. It was a future where they slowed down, where they lived in a warm house together, and friends visited. They threw dinner parties and danced in the living room and grew old. Adventures were chosen, not forced upon them by cosmic rule. They became attached to some place, a new home after years of saying goodbye to worlds, communities, people they’d grown to love. The future was safe and open and theirs, together.

“We’ll get there. We’ve made it so much farther than we thought we would, already.”

“We have,” she said, softly, nearly a whisper. She was quietest with him. She could be so loud, so charismatic and self-assured. But now he could see fear in her eyes. And sadness. And exhaustion. All the things she ordinarily liked to keep hidden.

“We just have to keep working,” she said, putting her hand over his.

“Together,” he said.

“Together,” she repeated.

***

They weren’t together for a long time after that night. And time was slow, excruciatingly so, without Lup. Back soon. Back soon. Back soon. It cycled through his brain late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come and he laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

And when it happened—when the past was pulled out from under him, when his home tumbled away—back soon became a mantra, a hope half-remembered in bodies that were his but not quite.

The years of planning, of getting somewhere and then missing his chance, of finding the boys and then losing them again. Remembering and forgetting and remembering again and sometimes, he’d look up at the stars late at night and miss the Starblaster. He missed the movement, the purpose, and the unity of their team. And missing Lup took root in his soul. It was a dull ache that never went away. In his lich form he’d talk to himself, looking over his shoulder expecting to see her there, expecting her advice or a smile or joke or eye roll. Anything.

And when he didn’t remember he still had the faint traces of her absence, an emptiness that filled up every room and made it feel cold.

Then he found them, his dear friends who looked at him with such blank eyes, and convinced them to trust him again. And Taako broke the umbra staff.

He’d forgotten how it felt to look at her, to find her looking back and to understand her every thought from that look, even as a lich.He’d forgotten the brilliance of her power, the fury with which she attacked the Hunger, the defiance in her stance.

Back soon. Back soon. Back soon. Back.

“Hear that, babe? We’re legends,” Lup hovered just above him, looking out at everyone who had joined their fight, the fight that had gone on for more than 100 years, the fight that had consumed so much of them, even their bodies, making them spectral.

“Let’s end this,” he said, grinning at her, weary but overjoyed, overcome with love for her.

4. Lup

When it was all over, and a year of settling down had settled them down (and given Lup a new body), Lup got her dream house. It was a cottage, really, but they never wanted any place big. It was a quick commute to the Astral Plane (though technically everywhere was a quick commute to the Astral Plane.) Best of all, though, was that it wasn’t going anywhere.

Lup was in the kitchen making crepes for brunch. They were lemon with blueberry sauce, Barry’s favorite, and fragrant enough to fill the whole house with sweetness. Barry was still asleep, and it had been tough to remove herself from his grasp that morning, when she felt she could lay there in his arms for hours, exhilarated by the gentle steadiness of his breathing when she’d spent all those years trapped in the umbra staff, alone, until Taako found her.

But another freedom she’d missed was of movement. She flipped a thin, golden brown crepe in the pan. She missed cooking. She missed long walks, like the one she’d taken with Barry the night before. She missed stretching out on a couch, feet tangled with Taako’s, catching up on all the things she missed and grilling him about his dates with death (both in the sense of evenings out with Kravitz, and untimely demises she’d heard second hand from within the umbra staff.)

The house made her calm. It was becoming a home she could trust to be there, not one that flew away year after year or confined her. The kitchen was small and bright, with big windows that looked out to the forest beyond. They had a campfire outside for when Angus visited and wanted to make s’mores. Inside she had a full set of appliances, a stand mixer from Taako’s new cooking line, a blender Barry had bought her as a “welcome to your new flesh body” present, and a set of dishes, pans, and measuring cups from fantasy IKEA.

The living room was connected to the kitchen. It was cluttered with mismatched furniture: a chair Magnus had built them, a coffee table Lup had bargained aggressively for at an antique sale, the massive pull out couch that many a drunk friend had crashed on already, one of Lucretia’s new paintings on the wall (a landscape of the moon base), and an upright piano in the corner for Barry to practice. He’d taken music up again, as had she. She was considering writing some more music...with badass violin solos. She had plenty to write about.

Down the hallway was their bathroom, laundry room, and a study, which they shared, though as of late most of their studying consisted of day long conversations about everything they missed, studying each other in a way that felt brand new, despite the many years behind them.

And at the end of the hall was their bedroom, the room from which Barry Bluejeans was now emerging. Their bed was big and warm and they had a record player in the corner for nights when they felt like dancing (and Lup felt like dancing a lot now). When she has nightmares he’d wake her up with gentle hands on her shoulders and she’d fold into him, as close as they could be.

Barry would wake with bedhead, like now.

“What are you making?” He asked, glasses smudged and grin wide. He took a seat at the kitchen table. She already had coffee waiting for him: two sugars and a splash of soy milk. “Can I help with anything?”

“Am I not a master in this kitchen, babe?” She said, turning to wink exaggeratedly. “Thank you, though.”

“To be honest, I’m sure I’d ruin any crepe I tried to make.”

“Oh, so crepes are harder than necromancy?”

“We’ve all got different skill sets, Lup.”

She laughed, and she was happy, so much happier than she ever thought she’d be. She finished off the last of the crepes and split them into two piles, drenching them in the berry sauce and garnishing them with a few mint leaves from the plant in the window sill (a housewarming gift from Merle.)

“Brunch is served,” she said, placing the plate in front of him and plucking the glasses from his face to clean them on the corner of her apron. “Nerd,” she added, with the utmost affection.

They sat in silence for awhile, eating and taking turns filling in clues in the newspaper crossword puzzle. Soon, Lup rested her chin in her palms and just stared at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked, expression puzzled and bemused in the mid-morning sun.

“No reason,” she said. “I just like looking at you.

These Things Happen To Other People (They Don’t Happen At All)

1: Barry

When it became clear that they would have to fight, every day, in every plane, year after year to stop the Hunger and protect the light, the list of things Barry noticed about Lup grew.

She hummed when she cooked.

She had absolutely illegible handwriting.

She was usually the last person on the ship to go to bed. He’d find her hunched over a book or rehearsing spells in the latest, stillest hours of the night.

“Lup?”

She startled, for a second, before he saw her shoulders relax. She was at the kitchen table, her legs folded under her as she stared at a map.

“It’s taking awhile to find the light this time,” she said. “All the places it could be keep buzzing around in my head. Can’t sleep.”

He nodded. “It’s early though. We’ll find it.”

“I know,” she said with a smile that looked like it was more to comfort him than something genuine. “I’m not underestimating my own brilliance. Or yours for that matter.”

“I’m not brilliant,” Barry said. He felt his face heating up. He hoped Lup wouldn’t see, but then he remembered she had night vision.

“You are,” she said, easy, nonchalant, and turned back to her work. “I’ll go to bed soon. Don’t worry,” she said, glancing up at him once more. “Goodnight, Barry.”

“Goodnight Lup.” He said. He wanted to say he thought she was the most brilliant person he’d ever met. But he didn’t.

Barry noticed that Lup took her coffee black, but always remembered to bring him cream and sugar when they were working together.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing,” Barry said, trying not to sound too grim. It was a tough year. Most of the time he was too tired to distinguish the plethora of plants in front of him.

“Wanna hear something crazy, Barry?”

“Sure,” he said, caught off guard for a moment by the way she said his name, softer than she usually said it.

“Us,” Barry said. Lup’s eyes were wide and expectant.

“It’s just crazy. I get it, but it’s crazy being here. Doing this. Do you think about death,

Barry?”

“Lup...” She was looking out at the landscape, her jaw clenched and head held high.

But what did Barry know, anyway.

But it wasn’t the same.

***

And then it was cycle 47, and they were at the conservatory.

“I’ve played the violin,” Lup said. “A bit, back when Taako and I were on the road.”

“Of what?” Barry asked.

She shrugged. “Losing everything. Being on our own again. Taako and I always managed, but it was never easy.”

She ran a hand through her hair (long in this plane, loosely curled and deep brown) and shook her head. “I want the music to feel different now.”

“Should we write a song then? I could—I mean I’ve always wanted to learn the piano,” he said.

“You have?” She said, suddenly playful, eyebrows raised. “Well, I would very much like to hear that, Barold.”

“We only have a year,” he said.

“I think we can do it anyway,” she said, and she put her hand on his knee.

Lup had become everything.

“Are you ready?”

Barry was in the kitchen, washing dishes. He looked up and saw Taako in the doorway. He had his arms crossed and was leaning on the door frame.

Barry shrugged. The ceremony was tomorrow. They’d done everything they could. “Maybe I am. I believe in Lup.”

Taako nodded. “You know, Barold, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

“Is that from your book?”

“That’s confidential. But do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Maybe?” Barry said.

Taako sighed. “Look, man. It has been literally 47 years. I know they say not to kiss and tell but this is a bit extreme.”

“We haven’t...Lup and I aren’t...”

“Well then get on it, my man. Life’s too short.”

“Is that also in the book?”

“You two play your little song and I’ll show you what’s in my incredibly brilliant book.”

Barry sighed. “I just...she’s...I don’t know. If something goes wrong it’s not as if I can hide from her. Who knows how long we’ll have to keep doing this and—“

“Well...thanks, Taako,” Barry said. “I’ll try my best.”

***

“You look nervous,” Barry said. He was so accustomed to the feeling himself that he laughed when she rolled her eyes at him.

“Thanks for noticing,” she said. “You look nervous too.”

So he didn’t either.

“Barry,” she said. “Do you wanna go talk somewhere for awhile?”

“Sure.”

2: Lup

Still, Lup never thought of her life’s story as a tragedy. She didn’t think it was a romance either.

“I’m not good at talking in front of a lot of people,” Barry said, wringing his hands. The press conference was about to begin.

“Just pretend they’re all in their underwear, or something,” she said, winking at him. “We’ve got this.”

She didn’t know then, how different it would be.

“Who knows,” Taako said, rolling over. “What’s wrong Lulu?”

She turned her head to look at him. She wondered if she looked as tired as he did: dark circles beneath his eyes, messy hair, tight jaw.

“You mean, besides the usual?”

He nodded.

“So we’ll learn about it, like Barry said.”

“Lu?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about Barry?’

She opened her eyes. “What do you mean, what do I think?” She said, but she realized a moment too late that she was whispering, and that her tone was a little bit defensive.

“Nothing,” Taako said, smile curling at his lips. “Nothing at all, it just seems like you spend a lot of time with him.”

“I spend time with everyone.”

“Fine, dodge the question. That’s as good as an answer.”

Lup rolled over and wrapped an arm around him. She buried her face in his neck and sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s my friend. It’s complicated.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s complicated right now. I just don’t want to be out of the Lup loop.

“You won’t, ever,” she said, seriously.

“I know,” he said. They were still for a moment, listening to the creaks and groans and faint murmurs of the Starblaster and its occupants waking up.

“Natch,” he said.

“And you’re there in the house with me, obviously, and all our friends come visit. But Barry…”

“Is Barry in your house too, Lu? Does he have his own nerd study. Oh! Or a necromancy dungeon?”

Lup laughed. It was halting and a little breathless and her heart was pounding hard, but she laughed. “Maybe,” she said. “The details are still blurry.”

“C’mon,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s make breakfast.”

Cycle after cycle, Lup let herself notice more things about Barry.

He loved it when she made banana pancakes.

He lost his glasses constantly, and broke them at least once a cycle.

She knocked on his door, gently, and heard him sniffling. “Hey Barry? It’s me. Can I come in?”

She heard more sniffling and then a weak affirmation.

“I brought pie,” she said, holding up the plate and giving him her best smile. He was hunched at the foot of the bed, wiping at his face with his shaky hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He repeated it. “I’m sorry Lup. I don’t know why I’m—“

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “It’s okay.” She crossed the room and knelt in front of him. He didn’t meet her eyes, looking down at the floor and stiffening.

Barry looked at Lup like she was more than she was. It was a look that had taken her years to pin down.

“Lup?” He said, quietly, nearly a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

***

“I love you,” she said. They were the first words out of her mouth when she got him alone. He was still in his suit, tie looser and stance more casual without the stage fright. He grinned.

“I love you too, Lup,” he replied, instantly.

He flushed. “I feel the same,” he said.

“Good,” she breathed. “That’s so good to hear. I thought, for a long time, that it wasn’t a good idea to start something. I thought we’d end up hurting each other.”

He looked at her, gravely.

“But I’ve been hurt so much, through all of this, and I’m still here. And I still love you.”

She embraced him, burying her face in his neck and clinging to him. “We did it,” she said. “I got so caught up in loving you that I nearly forgot.”

He laughed. “It was beautiful. You’re beautiful.” They came apart. She realized she wanted to hold him forever. She missed his arms around her the second they weren’t there.

“Lup?” He said. “Can I—?”

“Yes,” she said, before he could finish. And then he was leaning up to kiss her.

“I love you,” he said.

“You said that already,” she said.

“Making up for lost time,” he said.

“Babe?”

He looked up and over at her with exhaustion, but interest. “Find something?”

She shook her head, and pulled her knees to her chest. “Nothing yet.”

“It’s complicated magic,” he said.

She nodded.

“What are you thinking? You wanna call it a night?” He asked, voice gentle. Candlelight flickered on his face, casting warm shadows.

“I don’t. But I think we should try, to sleep I mean.”

He stretched, languidly. She cleared away her work and nestled into her side of the bed. She watched him lay down beside her, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

“I’m worried,” she muttered, eyes closed. “Even if we feel confident to try, there are risks. We could die trying.”

“We won’t,” he said. “I believe in you.”

“I believe in you too, sweetie. But I don’t know about any of this.”

He drew back and met her eyes. “We’re not ready yet, but I know we will be. We’ve made it this far,” he said. “We’ll make it to the end.”

“Barry?” She said suddenly.

“Mm?” He was half asleep, but still shifted to look at her with sleepy eyes.

“I love you.”

He smiled and kissed her. She’d said it hundreds of times but it never felt like enough.

“I love you too,” he said.

***

“Where is he?” Lup said. Rage tore through her chest, blind and confused. Taako’s hands were on her shoulders. Magnus and Lucretia were standing in the doorway, looking bedraggled and forlorn.

“What happened?”

“Let me see him,” she said.

They’d died before, too many times. They’d been hurt. They’d suffered to the end, clinging on pointlessly only to be reset. But it never got easier, seeing Barry pale and stiff in their bed.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” She asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“I’m fine, Lup. Don’t—” He stopped, because he’d tried to sit up and couldn’t. He winced and Lup felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

His eyes were glazed over and his face was cut and bruised. He swayed against the pillow and gave her his best, clearly strained, smile.

“Let me see,” she said, crossing the room. She perched on the edge of the bed.

“Lup…”

“It’s fine. We’ve done this before.” She reached out and took his face in her hands.

“How many people attacked you?”

“Six. We got out. It’s okay.”

He smiled, but she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He was trying to keep himself upright but it was a struggle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know. I won’t die on you this time. But…”

“What?” She said.

She remembered. A bad fall off a rocky cliff they were exploring. It was stupid, really. She’d hit the ground fast.

“And, what?” They hadn’t talked about that particular death. Normally, Barry didn’t talk about death at all, unless it was about liches.

“It was bad,” he said at last. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling. “We’ve got to figure out how to stop dying.” He closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll dream an answer,” he whispered.

She laughed. “Maybe.”

Lup asked Lucretia later. Lucretia was at the kitchen table with an ice pack at her temple and her journal open in front of her. She looked up when Lup took a seat across from her.

“How are you feeling?” She asked. Lucretia shrugged.

“Stupid, for not stopping them. Happy, that I’m still here.”

“You’re not stupid,” Lup said. “It’s not your fault.”

She smiled, that gentle smile that Lup noticed was rare. All these years and Lup could only recall catching a few of them.

“How’s Barry?”

“He says he’s fine.”

“Good,” Lucretia breathed. “If he says so.”

“I—” Lup’s chest tightened. “What was he like, the last time I died?”

Lucretia looked down at her journal. “Lup, I write it all down, but I don’t...I can’t—“

“That bad, huh?” Lup said.

Lucretia sighed. “He wouldn’t leave his room for weeks.”

Oh Barry.

“He didn’t tell me.”

“We’re all wrecks, when we lose someone,” Lucretia said. “And you love each other, so much. It’s all in here.” She tapped the journal.

“Greatest story ever told,” she muttered. “Honestly.”

She retreated to Barry’s room a while later.

“Hey, hot stuff. How’s the bleeding?”

“Okay,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

He turned to look at her, gaze softer, and more adoring than it had any right to be.

“You could’ve told me about what it was like in the cycle I died,” she said. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“Did Lucretia say something?”

“I twisted her arm.”

Barry sighed. “I worked harder that cycle than I ever have. I...I don’t want to watch you die again.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sick of watching you die, Lup.”

“I know,” she repeated. Her voice shook. “You want to know what else I know?

“What?”

“We’re ready,” she said, softly.

“You think so?” He was wide-eyed again. “I don’t know if I’ll be well enough.”

“Next cycle.” She held out her pinky. “Promise.”

He grinned, and inelegantly linked his pinky in hers. “Promise.”

3: Barry

“Emotional anchors,” Lup said, matter-of-factly. She was cross-legged on the bedroom floor. “I have my list. Do you have yours?”

“Yes,” he said, pulling it out of the pocket of his robe. “But you have to go first.”

“If you insist,” she said, retrieving her own list. She grinned.

“When Taako and I think up the same dinner before we even talk about it.”

“Twin telepathy.”

“Go on,” he said. “It’s great.”

She got up, brandishing the list triumphantly, as if giving a speech.

“Don’t feel like you have to keep going on,” he said, face bright red despite the years and years of sweet things she’d said to him.

“Oh, but I want to.” She leapt onto the bed and kissed him.

“Your turn,” she said. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Barry.”

He took out his list, but suddenly his hands were shaking and he couldn’t get them to stop.

“Barry,” she repeated, putting her hands over his.

“Maybe you could read them,” he said, voice quivering. “I’m sorry Lup. I...it hits me in waves, you know? What we’re doing. What this means. The risk.”

“We’re ready,” she said. “You said it yourself.”

“I know,” he said. And he meant it. “I just never want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, sweetie, and I won’t. Because we’re ready.”

She squeezed his hand, in the way that made it an item on the list.

“And we’re gonna look sick as hell as liches,” she said.

***

It felt strange, at first, being formless, intangible. And then she was there, radiant, red-robed, grinning as much as a skull could, and the euphoria hit.

And Taako was laughing, tears in his eyes when Lup dabbed. Only she could make something entirely terrifying feel ridiculous and light-hearted and beautiful.

Barry reached out to hold her, but he couldn’t, neither of them could because their bodies were somewhere else.

“We did it,” he breathed. If he could cry he would, out of relief or joy or both.

It took time to process, living out the rest of the year as ghosts, hovering above the rest of the crew while they had meetings, spending all night researching because they didn’t need to sleep.

It still felt better to be embodied, beside her. And a year spent as a lich made it all the better to be a body. It made it all the more electrifying to hold her hand.

“We’re doing the right thing, right? It’s hard but…”

“It’s the best solution we have right now. We’ll keep working. But this plane is safer.”

“For who? For how long? People are dying because of something we made.”

“I’ve thought about settling down,” she said. “Really settling down.”

“You have?” He said, struggling to contain his grin.

“But I can’t, in a world that we’re hurting. No matter how much I love you.”

“We’ll get there. We’ve made it so much farther than we thought we would, already.”

“We just have to keep working,” she said, putting her hand over his.

“Together,” he said.

“Together,” she repeated.

***

And when it happened—when the past was pulled out from under him, when his home tumbled away—back soon became a mantra, a hope half-remembered in bodies that were his but not quite.

And when he didn’t remember he still had the faint traces of her absence, an emptiness that filled up every room and made it feel cold.

Then he found them, his dear friends who looked at him with such blank eyes, and convinced them to trust him again. And Taako broke the umbra staff.

Back soon. Back soon. Back soon. Back.

“Let’s end this,” he said, grinning at her, weary but overjoyed, overcome with love for her.

4. Lup

Barry would wake with bedhead, like now.

“Am I not a master in this kitchen, babe?” She said, turning to wink exaggeratedly. “Thank you, though.”

“To be honest, I’m sure I’d ruin any crepe I tried to make.”

“Oh, so crepes are harder than necromancy?”

“We’ve all got different skill sets, Lup.”

“Brunch is served,” she said, placing the plate in front of him and plucking the glasses from his face to clean them on the corner of her apron. “Nerd,” she added, with the utmost affection.

They sat in silence for awhile, eating and taking turns filling in clues in the newspaper crossword puzzle. Soon, Lup rested her chin in her palms and just stared at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked, expression puzzled and bemused in the mid-morning sun.

“No reason,” she said. “I just like looking at you.”

#the adventure zone #blupjeans #barry bluejeans #taz balance #lup #taz #mcelroys #the zone cast #taako #lup/barry #taz fic #blupjeans fic #awi's fic

14 notes · View notes