Live A Little | A Worth It AU | Ralph Penbury x You | Masterlist
In This Edition: The unsinkable ship sinks!
Words: 3.2k
You're recovering from a particularly passionate round of love-making when someone knocks at Ralph's door.
You draw the sheets up to cover your exposed chest with wide eyes. Were you too loud? Has someone reported you? Are you going to be carted away for having premarital sex on an ocean liner? Is it Aunt Molly, here to tell you that she was only joking about not coming back to your room tonight? Is it Victoria, coming to ruin your night?
As your mind goes wild with worry, Ralph reaches for the pocket watch beside his bed.
"It's after midnight," he grumbles, but stands and pulls on his robe. He notices your fear, and his grumpy face softens. "Stay there, love, I'm sure it's nothing. I'll take care of it."
You slink further beneath the covers and close your eyes, hoping whoever it is has no idea you're in here.
"Yes?"
"Sorry to wake you, sir, but the captain has ordered everyone to put on their life belts and come to the boat deck. Be sure to dress warmly, it's quite cold out."
"What's happened?" Ralph asks, but there's no answer.
You come out of hiding when the door closes.
"They want us to put on life belts and warm clothes," Ralph recaps, scratching his head. "But he wouldn't say why. Suppose we ought to?"
You clamber out of bed silently and get dressed as quickly as you can, with the assistance of Ralph. Disturbing first-class passengers in the middle of the night? That decision was not made lightly. Something is wrong.
"I should go check in with my aunt," you say quietly, shaking with fear. Ralph notices, and envelops you in a warm hug.
"And get your coat," he reminds you with a kiss to your forehead. "Let me finish getting dressed, and I'll escort you to her."
"Thank you," you whisper.
Ralph finishes dressing and pulls two life belts from the wardrobe. He drapes the life belts and his coat over his arm, and guides you from the room.
The hallway is bustling with confused passengers.
"One second," he says gently, stopping to knock on Victoria's door. "Victoria!"
"What?!" she snaps from within.
"Did the steward tell you to put on a life belt and come above deck?"
"It makes me look like a damned cow!"
"Are you coming?"
"Do not rush me, Ralph!"
"Let's go," he sighs.
You hold tightly to Ralph's hand as he leads you through the crowded hallways. You open the door of your cabin to find Aunt Molly, already dressed for the cold and wearing her life belt, rifling through the wardrobe.
"There you are honey, I was getting ready to come find you! Here, put this on."
She holds out your coat, and you let her help you into it.
"Are you alright?" she asks. Are you? Your hands are shaking, and your heart is beating much faster than it should be. You can't seem to find your words.
"It's a little hectic out there in the halls, she'll be alright once things calm down," Ralph answers for you. He slips your life belt over your coat and ties the laces while you stand there, shaking uselessly.
"You better suit up too too, darlin', don't want you catching pneumonia out there."
Molly's concern for Ralph brings a smile to your face, and kicks your body back into gear. He shrugs into his coat, and you step forward to help him into his life belt. He smiles in thanks.
"Alright, are we ready? It's probably just some kind of drill, we'll be back to bed in an hour. But it's better safe than sorry!"
Your aunt's calm and positive demeanor makes you relax enough to nod in agreement. Ralph wraps an arm around your back and leads you out of the room. You look back to make sure Molly is following.
"I'm right here, honey," she says.
A crowd has gathered at the end of the hallway. You and Ralph stop, rather than force your way through them. This feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.
"The man said to the deck, people!" your aunt reminds them. She steps around you and starts walking. After a few bumps, people begin to move aside. You and Ralph follow in her wake. There's not enough room to walk side by side, so his fingers intertwine with yours, and you follow closely behind. You hold on to him gratefully; you're never letting him go.
You step out onto the deck, and the frigid air bites at your exposed skin immediately. You hold Ralph's hand tighter and follow him through the crowd. The deck is packed with bodies. Crewmen shout orders all around and struggle with ropes holding up the lifeboats, the crowd buzzes with questions, and something mechanical is making a horrible racket. It's overwhelming. When Ralph finally stops, he turns to you.
"Are you alright, love?" You don't respond, but he pulls you close.
The unsinkable ship is sinking. They're evacuating passengers. They're sending tiny toy boats out into the massive sea, where humans will be separated from the darkness and creatures below by a single strip of wood and a prayer.
The thought makes your knees give out, and Ralph grabs you and holds you to him.
"It's alright," he says into your ear. "It's going to be alright."
You cling to him, trying to focus on his calming presence and warmth, rather than the chaos and cold around you… until a familiar voice sends a chill down your spine.
"There you are, Ralph!" Victoria huffs, shoving her way through the crowd to get to him. "I can't believe you abandoned me in my time of crisis!"
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, although he doesn't need to. She hadn't sounded like she needed any help. She and her girlfriends have opted out of the unflattering life belts, donning fur coats and hats instead.
"Honestly, running off with some trollop instead of looking after your own sister. What's gotten into you?!"
Before Ralph can reply, one of the officers yells something you can't hear, and the line lurches forward. You hold tightly to him, for fear of falling and being trampled. He gives you a squeeze and keeps you right next to him.
"WOMEN AND CHILDREN ONLY!" the officer bellows.
Before you can start panicking about what this means for Ralph, Victoria and her girlfriends rush forward. They knock into the pair of you as they pass, eager to get closer to the front of the line.
"Victoria?" he asks in a small voice. It's a wonder she even heard him.
"You heard the man, Ralph!" she snaps. He stands there, frozen, watching his sister push her way to the boat.
"Oh! Ralph!" she says, turning. Has she realized that she's leaving her brother to his death? Is she at least going to say goodbye? "Do you have any money on you? Geraldine cleaned me out at dominoes after dinner, and that worthless maid of mine said the purser's office was closed," she pouts.
That's when you see Ralph's heart break for the third time during this short trip.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" You've been struggling to find your words all night, but your rage unsticks your tongue.
"It's not like he's going to need it," Victoria shrugs. Your jaw drops. You'd very much like to push her over the edge of the ship, but that would require leaving Ralph's side.
"You're next, miss!" a crew member announces. Victoria pushes one of her alleged friends out of the way and steps to the front of the line, and a man lifts her down into the boat and out of sight. Ralph's face crumples, and you pull him to you. The line lurches forward again, but you don't care. The only thing you care about is Ralph.
"Come on," your aunt shouts a moment later, waving you toward her from her place at the front of the line she's reclaimed, now that Victoria and her friends have been seated. You can't let Ralph go. You watch an officer help Aunt Molly in, and she turns her attention to you as soon as she's inside.
"Get in the boat," she orders, firmer now. You shake your head.
"Girl, get over here!"
"No," you whisper, knowing she can't hear you. She fixes you with a fiery glare. "I love you, Aunt Molly," you say a bit louder. "Tell my parents I love them, too." Ralph lifts his head to look at you, not quite comprehending what's happening in his heartbroken state. One look at his tear-streaked face is all it takes to know you're doing the right thing.
It's the only thing.
"Don't you dare!" Molly gets up from her seat to come get you, and nearly knocks over the woman climbing in.
You take Ralph's hand and begin backing away. He doesn't put up a fight; he follows blindly, tears still streaming down his face.
"I'm not done living yet!" you yell to Aunt Molly before disappearing into the crowd. You and Ralph keep stumbling backwards until you hit a wall. While it's mostly women at the front, the men stand here in a cloud of cigar smoke, probably hoping the officer will soften or call for a volunteer oarsman.
You focus on Ralph, who's still in shock over being abandoned by the person he entered this world with. Sobs rack through his body, their volume lessened by sound of the chatter and machinery nearby.
"Come on, sweetheart." You wrap an arm around his waist, made bulkier by the life belt and coat, and begin walking away from the crowd. By the time you reach the other side of the deck - less crowded, but more tilted - Ralph has started coming to his senses.
"You should've gotten on the boat. I should have made you."
"Do I look like the kind of person who can be made to do anything?" you ask, looking up at him with a playful smile. He does not return it.
"We're going to die here," he trembles.
"Ralph, we're all going to die sometime," you say gently, reaching out to wipe away a tear. You don't know how or why you're being so calm about this, but a sense of peace has washed over you since dragging Ralph away from the crowd. His face crumples again. You wrap your arms around him and hold him tight, letting him sob on your shoulder until a thought occurs to you.
"Ralph?" you place a hand on each of his shoulders and push him back so you can look at him. Tears stream from his eyes and into the corners of his mouth. You reach up to wipe them away. "I've got a story for you." Holding his face in your hands and staring into his bloodshot eyes, you smile. "It's about a girl who decided she'd rather spend the next ten minutes with the boy she loves… than a lifetime with one she doesn't." His chin quivers. "How's that for romantic?" you laugh, wiping away a tear of your own.
"You're mad," he says in disbelief.
"You're not the first person to tell me that," you chuckle.
"I can't believe you missed your chance because of me," he shakes his head, "You shouldn't have--" You silence him with a warm embrace.
"You're worth it," you whisper into his ear. "I love you, Ralph."
"I love you too," he mumbles into your neck. "Would you really have married me some day?"
"Absolutely," you answer with sincerity.
Ralph pulls back and chuckles darkly, wiping his eyes. "Finally find someone who actually loves me, and now we're both going to die."
"But at least we get to do it together." You share a smile and lean your foreheads together, closing your eyes and savoring each other's warmth on this cold night.
There are worse ways to die, you suppose.
"Miss!"
Your heads snap up and turn in the direction of the shout.
"Come along, miss, there's still room," an older gentleman with a mustache holds an inviting hand out. Behind him, a small gathering of men part to reveal an impatient officer and a half-full life boat.
"Not without him," you say firmly.
"Don't be stupid," Ralph mutters. You don't move.
The mustached man turns to the officer, who waves you forward. "Come on, then." You grab Ralph's hand and rush toward the boat before the officer can change his mind.
"Are you sure?" Ralph asks as you approach. You mentally shush him.
"Can't fill a boat with women when there are none," the officer shrugs. "In you get." Two men help you climb into the boat, but you don't sit until Ralph is halfway over the railing behind you. Once he's in place beside you, you survey the crowd. There really are no more women here. It seems they've all gathered on the side where it seems safer.
The officer waves more men forward. You and Ralph cling to each other for dear life as they clamber aboard, rocking the little boat with each step.
"Right then, that's enough. Lower away!" The officer orders, before a great drop makes your heart rise into your throat. Ralph holds you tighter, and you bury your face in his shoulder. You're probably only dropping a few inches at a time, but you're sure that with each drop, the boat is going to tip over and you're going to fall into the ocean. You close your eyes tight and cling to the man you love, feeling sicker with each drop, until you hit the water.
Only then do you open your eyes. You're in the ocean. One tiny little boat on that great wide sea. You look up at the officer, smaller in the distance now. The sky lights up behind him with a flare, signaling for help. The men in your boat remove the ropes and reach for oars.
You want desperately to shut your eyes and block it all out as you leave Titanic behind, but you can't look away. You can't even blink. Are your eyes frozen? You don't know how you were able to stand upright on that tilting ship; her front is considerably closer to the sea than her back. Everyone still on board looks crooked.
You thought the sight of the ship's tilt was terrifying, but nothing could have prepared you for what came next.
You and Ralph hold each other and watch the next several minutes unfold in absolute horror. You can't move. You can't speak. You can't even cry as you watch the sea snap the unsinkable ship in half with an ungodly roar and pull her beneath the surface to claim her.
But you can hear the people she left behind.
The only thing louder than the screams is the silence that follows.
You and Ralph sit together, huddled as close as you can get on the dark and tiny boat, for what feels like days. It's pitch black. You've never been so cold in your life. Your only comfort is knowing that Ralph is beside you.
When the sun begins to rise, you close your eyes for what you imagine is the first time in hours. You feel the rays warming your frozen face, and breathe out a shaky sigh. It's a comfort, despite the choppy sea and the biting wind that had arrived with the dawn.
"Look!" someone shouts. You don't have the strength to turn, but gather from the excited shouts that a ship has been spotted. You stay tucked into Ralph's side as the men with the oars begin rowing faster, with renewed purpose, toward the ship that's come to your rescue.
The Titanic's lifeboats reunite beside the ship. Carpathia, her bow reads. You watch from below as a rope ladder is thrown down, and survivors begin climbing it one by one and disappearing into a hole in the side of the ship. The children, and others too weak to climb on their own, are hoisted up in a canvas sack.
You wait patiently, close to your Ralph, until your boat arrives at the ladder. He begins rubbing your hands between his, trying to get some feeling back into them before you have use them to climb. You'll die before you let them hoist you up like a child.
The men insist the ladies go first. You insist on being the last. The men encourage you when it's your turn, like you've been holding back because you're afraid. You're not afraid. You just don't want to leave Ralph behind. You look at him when it's your turn.
"Go on, love, I'll be right behind you," he croaks out. You squeeze his hand and take hold of the ladder, looking up at your seemingly impossible task. You can do this. This is nothing. You begin your climb, counting each rung as you ascend, until you're pulled into the ship by two pairs of strong hands. You collapse on the floor behind them, summoning the last bit of your strength to crawl to the wall and get out of the way.
A moment later, Ralph joins you on the floor. Your names and necessary information are recorded in a logbook as the hallway fills with people from your boat.
When everyone is out, a steward asks you all to follow him. You and Ralph haul yourselves off the floor and weave through a labyrinth of hallways and stairs, into a lounge of some sort with plush carpets and chairs everywhere. You're each given a blanket, instructed where to find tea and coffee and hot soup, and left to your own devices. You look around helplessly for a moment, not sure what to do or where to go. At least it's warm. Other passengers are curled up in chairs, or shakily drinking tea, or frantically searching for loved ones.
Spotting a quiet corner behind a table and chairs, you pull Ralph toward it. His feet drag as he follows. Neither of you has the energy to hunt for food. Sleep seems like the best option. You begin to untie your life belt, but hesitate with a look at Ralph.
"Why does it feel like we should leave them on?" you ask, your voice hoarse.
"Because nothing will ever feel safe again," he responds, with no emotion in his voice. You give his hand a quick squeeze and begin untying yours.
"I think I'll take body heat over a slab of cork today."
Ralph unties his as well, and you set them aside. You use your coats to create a makeshift bed on the floor, and lie down with your back to the wall. Ralph joins you without hesitation.
He snuggles close in your little nook behind the chairs, and you combine your blankets and pull one up over your heads. After being exposed to the cold wind on the frozen sea for so long, this warm little cocoon with Ralph is the only place you want to be.
"Love you," he whispers, eyes already beginning to drift closed.
"Love you, too," you whisper back, using your last bit of strength to lean forward a few inches and kiss the tip of his frozen nose.
And then, you both pass out in your quiet little hiding place, completely oblivious to the hundreds of people flowing in and out of this room.
Note: The order was "women and children first." Officer Lightoller, on the port side, interpreted this as "women and children only". Officer Murdoch, on the starboard side, interpreted this as "women and children first… then men, if there's room." There were boats with men-folk, from all classes - and several working men, too - and they did not have to bribe their way on. They just had to be in the right place at the right time.
And thanks to our love for Ralph, that's exactly where he was.
This is where you and Ralph spent the night.
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Multilingual 🌍
Fuyuhiko: its beneficial to understand when rivals are talking in secret
Sonia: diplomacy is easier when you speak their language too
Hajime: duolingo library forced speedrun
Akane: worked in customer service
Kazuichi is just more of a Language of Numbera guy 😋
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Ah lads not again
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horrible gift for @hajihiko based on their fic 'salt the earth' bc it broke me and i need a way to cope
read it here :>
og:
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wikipedia editors providing the most important info up top
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I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.
C.S. Lewis
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Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; "In the dark"
[Text ID: "All night long / within my chest / someone panted, panted / in despair / Someone wanted to rise / Someone wanted you"]
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“The one who buried the beloved, was also you.”
—— blade/yingxing x reader (VERY lightly implied dan feng x you)
BACKGROUND: You're a short-lived species who arrived to the xianzhou alongside Yingxing in the merchant ships (perhaps childhood sweethearts??), you've been in a relationship for a few years now and while Yingxing is gruff and rough around the edges, he's nevertheless besotted with you and fiercely in love with you; a happy ending to this story seems likely —— until you get struck with the mara-disease.
AKA this is half-assed narrative and half-assed word vomit, I just want to add more pain and suffering to Blade's past while being self-indulgent trash :D
.
.
yingxing has seen the mara disease so many times before, during the war and within the ships with their citizens, especially once their times passed the five hundred mark and madness slowly creeps in. their faces had mostly been obscured by golden flowers and twisting branches the first time he saw the corpses, but throughout the years he's seen many variations of them.
faces contorted in agony, twisted in fear and despair, or slack and numb as roots wriggled out of their skin and flowers bloomed over their eyes, and most often they would be driven into mara-struck madess and insane bloodlust in their rampages.
yingxing never expects the mara to fall upon you.
if yingxing tries to look back on it, perhaps it had started way more earlier than they'd known — perhaps it was the itching, the little scratches healing faster than they should, the headaches and the daydreaming. it doesn't quite strike either of you until one day you are screaming as golden lines split your skin, as little branches claw their way out of your arms, and small buds blossom from the wounds on your flesh. it's sudden and unexpected and terrifying and you are hunched over yourself trembling and shivering and sweating as he tries to hold you, a hand hovering over the tiny blossoms that grows out of your neck and collarbone, the tiny roots wriggling out of your arms, and it gets progressively worse from thereon.
this can't be happening, you say
i'm scared, you say
please believe me, you say
(because you're a short-lived species, and the only way you could've been struck with mara like this is for you to receive the plague author's blessing)
yingxing believes you (yingxing loves you)
you are frightened and terrified and yingxing can only hold you through the tears and terror and confusion and pleasedon'thatemeyingxing
perhaps, if it had been just the blessings of the abundance, it would've been fine. there are countless individuals within the ship who use the power of the abundance in medicine and aid, after all. but roots continue to wiggle and settle over your skin like bangles and chains, golden flowers begin sprouting from the buds in your flesh, and even your eyes and hair starts losing their colors.
you try to snip the blossoms and the locks of hair and the branches, and the wounds only heal over and over and over again, each time faster than before, the blooms brighter and livelier than the last, and the tips of your hair take on the color of dry blood and your eye color melt into the gold of the mara disease.
you are in pain, you are in agony and miserable, and eventually, even your memories and sense of self start deteriorating amidst a haze of golden petals and blood.
you start asking if it would be better to die "while you still can" (you are afraid of becoming like the mara-struck soldiers in the game), but yingxing doesn't allow you to.
this cannot be happening, yingxing thinks.
it breaks yingxing to watch you like this, but no one else can know. xianzhou will see you dead for suspicions of worshipping the plague author. he can only hold you during the nights and soothe your fits until you settle like a docile beast in his arms, and then during the day, he researches
yingxing puts aside the forgery for as long as he possibly can without arousing suspicions and throws himself into mara research discreetly, but there's not much he can find. access to advanced texts are restricted and he only learns about as much as anyone interested in the mara disease knows, but one thing is for sure —— there's no documented recovery from the mara in the centuries of the xianzhou history.
become mara-struck, and you either die in a flurry of golden flowers or are striked down by the cloud knights.
(there's another thing yingxing eventually finds out, as well —— this is no accident. someone caused this to you)
(yingxing will hunt them down to the farthest reach of the stars, and he will not stop until they are dead. whoever did this will wish they hadn't been born.)
if yingxing cannot find anything about how to recover from the mara, perhaps then he could find a way to control the disease, prevent it from hurting you as it was doing now, prevent it from turning you into a mad creature. it wasn't too late yet, and yingxing refuses to give up on you.
yingxing turns to imbibitor lunae and the scalegorge waterscape — the sacred abode of the vidyadhara, a race devoted to the sealing and guard of the ambrosial arbor, and that becomes one amongst the many mistakes he will have commited.
in the future, the man - yingxing - who will become known as blade will look back on this moment and laugh — madly, loudly, hatefully, as he lives on cursing his life and that of two other sinners.
you are dead, and yingxing could not save you
you are dead, and blade wants to die
.
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BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO CONTINUE NARRATING:
There are a LOT of layers to what I want to be happening in the premise of this short. For example, I wanted to write that the ones responsible for "you", as a short-lived species, going mara-struck was a result of sabotaging and conflict with Sanctus Medicus (or whatever antagonist there is during the events of Dan Feng and Yingxing's crimes), who wanted to sow strife amidst the Xianzhou. There's a lot of plot going on that my little brain can't be bothered to rationalize.
During his research on mara and trying to find out HOW you turned mara, he begins suspecting of foul play and unearths quite a bit of shit within the Xianzhou. There's a lot of sketchy shit, some not related at all to what he wants to know, and it paints numerous targets of Yingxing.
Their main targets would actually be Jing Liu (who some time later on succumbs to mara and goes on a murderous rampage) and many other higher ups and important figures to different areas of the Xianzhou. In trying to discreetly trigger or infect mara to others, they also partook in indiscriminate damage in hopes one of their targets will be caught unawares and be infected with something that can trigger or coax out the mara disease, and "you" were caught in the crossfire and ended up mara struck (or perhaps you were intentionally targeted as well, can't decide on this) as a short-lived species collateral. Many of the other short-lived species die during this period of time.
By some twist of fate or whatever, your descent into mara isn't instantaneous and is instead painful, slow and with a clear consciense of the changes in your body, but it's only slowed, and your body can't adjust to mara like how Blade and Jing Liu will in the future.
Ying Xing, however, clings to the hope you can mantain your clarity and sense of self, and what he wanted to do in this short is research the vidyadhara's records to see if he could seal away your mara or contain your disease. When that wasn't enough, he will perhaps 1) try to find some other way, 2) try to see if Dan Feng can find a way to contain your mara disease, or at least delay it until something can be done because this wasn't your fault.
Instead, what happens is that Dan Feng kills you.
Dan Feng sees you and you are half consumed with flowers even though you aren't being violent or crazed, you've tanked the attacks of many other cloud knights and mara-struck alike and are covered in blood and tatters while everyone's dead. Your sins are set in stone (are they really?) and your ending is only a matter of time, so Imbibitor Lunae - although pained - decides to put you down and lay you to rest. He tries to kill you - and either fails or obliterates your sense of self so all that remains is a corpse that keeps healing - and then seals/buries your regenerating body into the Scalegorge Waterscape.
Dan Feng's actions are an act of compassion, love and mercy in his eyes. He buries you in Scalegorge Waterscape, where your rest will be undisturbed and none shall desecreate your body, not even the Xianzhou will be able to part the seas of Scalegorge.
But that and what Yingxing sees are different. (they also think differently lmao)
After Yingxing reaches Scalegorge amidst all the chaos that would be happening, he would only know you were hurt very, very badly. Blood, flowers, tattered clothes. Lots of fighting, arguing, etc.
Ending is that - as mentioned - despite his efforts otherwise, Yingxing sees your body cast into the abyss of the Scalegorge Waterscape and sealed there, left to rot in the darkness and cold of an artificial sea.
Afterwards, he himself becomes mara-struck and then is sent of to be killed over and over again by Jing Liu lmao. He wants to die, but he cannot.
At some point in time, he almost forgets that his name is Yingxing and he had loved someone who died unjustly amidst internal conflict and everything, but it comes back to him when he escapes and becomes Blade.
EVERYTHING here is just self-indulgent brainstorming. NGL it could've been better.
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Live A Little | A Worth It AU | Ralph Penbury x You | Masterlist
In This Edition: You and Ralph rest and have a little reunion!
Words: 1.7k
"Oi!"
You wake with a jolt, panicked by the shout in your ear, and instinctively cover Ralph's body with your own. It's bright. Someone has removed the blanket that should be covering your heads.
"Easy, dearie, just making sure you're still alive." You look up, into the concerned eyes of a blonde woman. "How about your fella?"
You ease your body off of him and look down.
Why didn't that wake him? She shouted at you. You'd half-jumped on top of him. How deeply can one man sleep?
"Ralph?" you ask, giving his shoulder a nudge. He doesn't rouse. "Come on, Ralph." You touch the side of his face. Why he still so cold?
"Oh, my stars…" the woman whispers.
"Ralph!" you cry out, shaking his shoulder.
He groans and opens his eyes, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.
"S'wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetheart," you smile, tears of relief welling in your eyes. "Nothing at at all." You lean forward to kiss his temple, and he nuzzles his cold nose into your neck. You wrap an arm around him to keep him close.
"Have you eaten since you arrived?" the woman asks. She's perched on one of the chairs you've been hiding behind. You notice now that she's wearing a stewardess uniform.
"No," you answer.
"You stay right there," she instructs as she rises from her chair, as if you had the strength to go anywhere.
"Who's that?" Ralph asks.
"A stewardess," you answer. "Just checking on us."
"I'm so tired," he whines.
"I know, darling," you sigh.
"My head."
"I know, darling," you repeat. Yours is throbbing as well. Your throat is raw. You ache all over. You place a gentle kiss to his temple. If that would transfer all his suffering to you, you'd take it willingly.
"What's the time?"
"I… don't know." You lift your head a bit and squint into the bright lights of the room, looking for a window that'll tell you if it's night or day, but you can't see one. You let your head fall back to your coat, which is serving as a makeshift pillow.
"Here we are, my dears," the stewardess announces. She sets a tray on a nearby table. "It'll be much easier to eat your soup if you can sit up for me."
You and Ralph drag yourselves off the floor and lean your backs against the wall. The pain worsens when you sit. Your head is pounding. Every bone in your body aches.
"There we are," she smiles. She hands you each a bowl of soup with a spoon in it. "That'll warm you right up. Might even give you enough strength to get to a real bed."
"Thank you," you mumble. Ralph echoes your sentiments, and you both take your first spoonful of soup. It's heavenly.
"My name is Anna," the stewardess smiles. "Might I ask your names?"
You tell her, and she writes it down on a pad you hadn't noticed. She sees your eyes on it, and smiles.
"Lots of people looking for loved ones. We have hundreds of survivors on board, and everyone's all scattered. If someone asks for you, I have faces now. Are you looking for anyone?"
You give her Molly and Victoria's names, and she writes those down too.
"Would you like me to try and find you a room? Some of our passengers have given up their own cabins, hoping to make you poor dears more comfortable."
You look over at Ralph, struggling to lift his spoon, and shake your aching head.
"Here is fine," you tell her.
"That's perfectly alright," she smiles. "Eat your soup, I'll be back shortly."
When she leaves, you drop your spoon and drink your soup in a way that would make your mother die of embarrassment.
"Let me, love," you say as you reach for Ralph's soup. You set his spoon aside and hold his bowl to his mouth, letting him drink as you had. When the soup is gone, you dab at his cracked lips with your handkerchief.
It's the same one you'd used to draw him to his door. How many days ago had that been? It feels like a lifetime ago.
You tuck it back into your pocket with a sad smile, remembering how happy you both were that day.
"Would you like me to take those away?" You return your empty bowls to Anna with a quiet word of thanks. "If you need anything at all, just ask for Anna. Alright?"
You nod, but as she rises, a thought occurs to you.
"Wait," you call. She turns. "What day is it?"
"Today is Tuesday, April 16th, 1912. The time is," she consults a clock somewhere to her left, "7:16 am."
"Thank you," you whisper, ready to fall back on the floor and sleep for another few hours.
And that's exactly what you do. You and Ralph resume your positions on your makeshift bed, holding each other tight with blankets pulled over your heads, and fall back asleep… but a little warmer this time, thanks to the soup.
When you wake up again, you're a little less groggy. You take in your surroundings. A plaid blanket over your head, light streaming through a hole in the fabric. Your coat as a pillow. A pair of brown eyes staring into yours.
"Good… do you think it's morning or night?" you ask quietly.
"I don't know," Ralph whispers.
"Are you alright?"
Ralph's eyes fill with worry. He doesn't answer. You slide a little closer and take his hand in yours, giving his knuckles a kiss.
"We're alive, and we're together. I don't think we could ask for much more right now."
Ralph nods once in agreement.
"I think I need to get off of this floor, though," you groan, flipping onto your back and attempting to stretch. The blanket falls off of your face, and you squint at the light. At least your headache has lessened.
You and Ralph help each other off the floor. You stand stiffly and gaze out at the room. The stewardess from last night spots you and rushes over.
"Good afternoon!" she chirps.
"Is it afternoon?" you ask.
"It is 1:43 on the the afternoon of April 16th, 1912, and you are just in time for lunch. There are lavatories just down that hallway," she gestures to a door, "if you'd like to freshen up first."
You follow her instructions, briefly parting with Ralph to witness the horror of your reflection in the mirror. You do what you can, and return to the lounge feeling slightly more human. You sit at a table and eat quietly, hoping that your bread and soup gives you enough strength to stay awake for more than an hour.
"There you are!"
Before you can even look up, a pair of arms wrap around your shoulders from behind. Molly. It's Aunt Molly.
She pulls up a chair and sits with you and Ralph.
"I've been looking all over for you! Where have you two been?"
"Right here," you say weakly. "Sleeping."
"Keep eating, you need your strength. Are you alright?"
"Considering…" you trail off, having a vague memory of a doctor checking you and Ralph for frostbite sometime during the night. He's doing much better with his spoon now, you note proudly.
"Ralph, I saw your sister yesterday, but I don't know where she got off to."
"Oh," he says between bites.
You remember what she said to him that night at the lifeboats, and your blood begins to boil.
"Look at you, getting some color back in your cheeks already," Molly smiles, reaching out to pinch one in a way she knows you hate. "When you're feeling up to it, I'd like you to come to my room."
"Your room?" you question.
"They've moved some of the first-class passengers into cabins. I'm sharing one with Hettie - one of the gals I met in the Turkish baths. We can double up and make room for you. It's little, compared to the last one, but you're sure to be more comfortable in there than in here."
You look to Ralph. His eyes meet yours nervously.
"I'd rather stay here with Ralph."
You reach for his hand under the table and give it a squeeze, hoping he knows that you're never letting him go. Not now, not ever.
"Ralph's invited too, sweetheart," she says gently.
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. Yours matches.
"It's settled, then," she says, leaning back in her chair. "Eat up, then we'll get you to a real bed."
A real bed? Your back spasms at the thought.
You finish your soup, gather your coats and blankets, and follow Molly to a small cabin.
"Hettie and I can share this one, if you're alright here?"
It's a tiny bed, meant for a servant or traveling companion. Just like the one you'd occupied on Titanic.
"I know it'll be tight, but it has to be better than sleeping on the floor in a room with a hundred other people."
"It's wonderful, Molly, thank you," you say gratefully. Ralph nods in agreement. You want desperately to fall into bed and stay there the rest of the day… but shouldn't you go find his sister? See if she cares that he's alive?
"I'm gonna go see what I can do to help, but why don't you two get settled in? Rest a little more? I'll let you know when it's dinnertime."
You nod, unable to argue with the suggestion of more sleep. Aunt Molly exits the room, leaving you alone with Ralph.
"How does she have so much energy?" he asks, blinking slowly.
"Not a clue," you yawn. "Bed?"
"Bed," Ralph confirms.
You ditch your shoes and a few layers of clothing and crawl into the tiny bed. You have to lie on your sides in order to fit. Ralph pulls the covers over your heads, just like you'd done in the lounge, and you drift off with a satisfied sigh.
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Truth & despair
"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."
Synopsis: In an attempt to tackle his grief, Sam rifles through the bunker footage to discover the truth of Castiel's death. The footage leaves him with more questions than answers. (The one where Dean's recollection of events...does not match the footage.)
---
Focus: Supernatural post-15x19 fic, TFW grieving badly, Bad therapy attempts with Mia Vallens, False memories, The Shadow is in love with Cas, Jack and Amara are AWOL
Characters: Dean/Castiel, Dean & Sam, Sam & Dean & Cas & Jack, Eileen Leahy, Mia Vallens, Chuck Shurley, Becky & the Rosen-Baron fam, Donatello Redfield, The Empty, Amara, Jack as God, Rowena MacLeod, Sam POV and Sam is blessedly annoying
Content warning: Major character death (Castiel), poor coping mechanisms (Dean), and encroachment of personal boundaries (Sam). Eventual happy ending.
Updates every weekend!
Proofread by @minalblood & finished for @tenderthunder
❤️
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Ch 01: (~4200 words, ~17 minutes) - In an attempt to tackle his grief, Sam rifles through the bunker footage to track down Cas’s last moments. The footage leaves him with more questions than answers.
//
Ch 02: (~5700 words, ~23 minutes) Mia admonishes Sam for his breach of boundaries, and Dean suffers his first meltdown.
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Ch 03: (~5200 words, ~20 minutes) Sam leans into unhealthy coping mechanisms that nearly get them killed.
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Ch 04: (~4700 words, ~18 minutes) Snapped out of Chuck’s grand finale, Sam and Dean wonder what’s next.
//
Ch 05: (~5250 words, ~21 minutes) In need of Becky Rosen’s laptop, Chuck and the Winchesters track her to a safe house in the recesses of the Wallowa Mountains, Oregon. En route, the roadways are riddled with mysterious sinkholes. Dean admits he’s drawn to them.
//
Ch 06: (~7500 words, ~30 minutes) - Chuck shows his true colors, but Dean’s the real problem.
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Ch 07: (~7200 words, ~28 minutes) - Dean takes a leap of faith. Sam follows.
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Ch 08: (~7100 words, ~28 minutes) - Sam and Dean tunnel their way into The Empty. It's not empty.
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Ch 09 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Unable to rid Castiel of the cooling Empty gunk, Sam and Dean transport him back to the Barons’ house and attempt to free him.
//
Ch 10 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Hoping to track Jack and Amara, Team Free Well returns to Washaway Beach to perform a potent locator spell.
///
Ch 11 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam and Chuck crash-land in a lush landscape and run afoul of Amara. She taunts Sam, promising that Jack will never return, at least not of his own free will.
//
Ch 12 (~10800 words, ~43 minutes) - Jack's got everything he needs right here. Why would he ever leave?
//
Ch 13 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam awakens in the shallow waters of Washaway Beach...alongside the prone body of Jack Kline.
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the future foundation probably trained the survivors in self defense and hand-to-hand combat after they were rescued. because they're heroes now, in a way - in the eyes of those who were watching, they are symbols of hope, they survived despite it all, they are made noble through their suffering. and i think of makoto, whose hands are probably soft and has never even thought of hurting another person in his life, being handed a weapon and taught how best to disarm, how best to kill, how to see a room as a battlefield and a person as an enemy and do whatever it takes to protect yourself, kill them, survive, survive, survive. because he is too important now, the Ultimate Hope; he cannot afford to be lost. he cannot afford to die
i wonder if he took to the training easier than expected. because while he is being taught to take a life with his own hands - to utilize an environment into a weapon, to swing without hesitation, to kill when necessary - he has already killed before, in his own belief. the deaths of his classmates hang over him like a yoke. it doesn't matter if all he did was say a name or push a button - he carries a guilt as sure as if he was the one who murdered them himself
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There's been an idea rattling around in my head, vaguely inspired by this post (can't find the original for the life of me): angsty Steddyhands/Stizzy/Gentlebeard soulmate au, where you cannot physically hurt your soulmate - as in your body simply won't let you.
Prepare yourself, this is a long one.
Izzy, increasingly irked and unsettled by Bonnet's influence on his captain, challanges him to a duel like in s1e8. Stede accepts, the duel commences - but as it goes on Izzy cannot shake the feeling of wrong wrong wrong which follows, making his movements sluggish, blows weaker and heartbeat fast and anxious.
Finally, he has Bonnet pinned - only when he tries to run the other man through with his sword, he can't do it. He freezes mid-thrust, muscles of his sword hand seizing, the blade of the rapier an inch away from the blonde's stomach. They stare at each other in shock, and soon commotion starts as the crew tries to see what exactly is going on, and did Izzy actually stab the captain? Ed hovers over them both in panic and confusion.
Izzy drops his sword at his captains prompting, and backs away with a "What the fuck did you do to me, you bastard?!" aimed at an equally flabbergasted Stede. While they bitch at each other, the crew wonder aloud what has happened and how odd it was that Izzy just froze (Izzy's never done that before!), and Lucius goes with a mocking "aww, Iggy actually likes the captain and doesn't want him hurt, how sweet!"
Buttons comes around then, takes in the scene, eyes Izzy with an unreadable expression, and goes "Nay, Mister Spriggs, more like cannae bring hisself to. I reckon 's only one reason fer it."
Everyone's like 🤨🤨 and Izzy's about to retort something scathing and awful, but suddenly he gets an inkling in the back of his head, a flash of a memory and words actually fail to come out of his mouth.
And Buttons just easily goes with "you cannae hurt yer soulmate, can ya?" and all hell breaks loose. Obviously everyone is laughing the idea off, cause come on, Stede and Izzy? There is no way, what an idiotic idea! Buttons, no more moonbathing for you, you're talking more nonsense than ever!
Both interested parties are strangely quiet though.
Frenchie - who's well informed on the soulmate matter, ofc - suggests they can simply test it out: all Stede and Izzy have to do is touch (skin to skin) to see if the soul marks appear.
Before either Stede or Izzy can reject that idea, it's Ed who does, there will be no fucking checking or touching; there's an aura of danger coming off of him in droves and his dark eyes are trained solely on Izzy.
Long story short, he throws Izzy off the ship (figuratively, just orders him to leave), Izzy's hurt and sells out Stede to the British (the only soulmate he has is Blackbeard and he wants him back), the whole shenanigans with act of grace still happen - Stede still leaves Ed and goes back to Bridgetown; and Ed spirals even harder in his absence because now he additionally thinks Stede left cause they're not soulmates (Stede actually could and did run him through with his sword, and if they were he wouldn't be able to, would he?)
He goes into the Kraken mode, taking most of his anger and hurt onto the person who is obviously responsible for this - Izzy.
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Untilted Katamari Reflections
Preamble:
Content considerations for the following include:
Parental abuse
Bigotry
Worldly anxiety
You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.
I.
It’s fall of 2015.
You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.
We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.
Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.
Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.
Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.
. . .
Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.
Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.
In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.
Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.
Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.
You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.
At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?
For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.
Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.
You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.
II.
It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.
Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.
As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.
One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.
Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.
Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.
Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.
“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.
He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.
“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.
“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?
You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.
A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.
III.
It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.
Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.
It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.
You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.
At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.
. . .
It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.
Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.
. . .
The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.
There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.
. . .
The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.
On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.
There are more than two things to fix, you think.
. . .
The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”
. . .
A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.
Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”
The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.
IV.
It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.
You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.
You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.
Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.
Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?
You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.
. . .
It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.
There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.
You cry because you know where this goes.
It’s just a single tear.
Don’t worry.
Nobody sees.
. . .
There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.
In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.
Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.
Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.
. . .
It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.
“Just keep walking,” he says.
Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.
V.
It’s 2023.
We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.
There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.
Everything matters and nothing is safe.
You are loved enough to sleep.
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O Machine!
How have I longed for love, from the fire of the Sun to the hands of a false lover, from the stars and the bright Moonlight to my own lustful touch...
huge fan of the whole "Gabriel worships V1 as a deity" ship dynamic so uh yeah finally made something with it (albeit a sketch only)
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