#✦ 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 * ic.

[99lostsouls]

MEMIES HEADCANNONS // OPEN

[ @s-essha & @espritdediamant sent ❃ : my muse and social media! ]

having nearly every bit of the internet accessible at the touch of his fingers would certainly make it seem ortho was an active participant in it. 

that notion isn't wrong…or exactly correct either. 

ortho is best described as a LURKER across social media platforms. In most cases he uses idia's own accounts for whatever he wants to watch or browse through, all besides one app in particular.

MAGICAM! his most used app by far. though his account @/blueboydreams is as bare-bones as it gets, he makes an effort to follow everyone on campus and frequently check on their posts.

he'll often show idia anything he finds particularly interesting himself, or up his brother's lane. 

ortho gets a kick out of seeing everyone out together, imagining he was playing with them as well, all as good friends! 

each scenario puts him down a rabbit hole of near brainrot, researching about whatever students are doing on that particular day so he'll know everything if he were ever allowed to join. 

he's most frequently liking and scrolling through carter's page of all people. he deeply enjoys all the selfies and food pictures, but he also uses cater's page as a lesson in slang!

seems new words and acronyms are being made every single day. it's difficult to keep up sometimes…but heartslabyul's diamond shows him how to properly use them in sentences.

yes, he has said " slay! " in response to an ignihyde student's finished projects.

you can't blame him for trying. 

just wait, soon he'll be a teen expert!

[cataschism]

continue from here ! / @remediumad.

The nape of his neck tingles with the idea of stopping so soon             /             Utah isn’t close, nearly West Coast, damn Fireflies ( choosing the farthest possible location, of course, possibly to spite joel specifically )             /             but looking back, there’s no way to continue with aching ahead. The only person that matters if they hurt is that squirt             /             &&. he’s not carrying unless she’s dying.

( instructions were clear : the kid is to not die. immunity or whatever. joel’s not one to diss hope, especially tess, but god. this gets more &&. more ridiculous every second he thinks about it. )

�� Highway’s not great, kid. Make it three more blocks, we’ll make shelter, alright ? Some house we’ll clear, barricade. It’ll work for a night. ❜ Activity gets worse everywhere, at all hours, but it’s harder at night, for them             /             lots of crawling, running, not a ton of time to rest if they continue             /             better to make do. Joel used to be a great cook, alas              /               two decades of rations from the quarantine zones doesn’t help a man’s recipes !             /             they’ll both make do with what they have. What he can accomplish, reasonably.

( with any luck, they can siphon gas from a stuck car. some people still have gas stoves, they can make something. it’ll be better than finding rations, possibly expired, in old pantries, or having to rely on whatever the hell they find accidentally. if she doesn’t look, he can make anything edible. rats, birds, whatever. if she doesn’t look, she can’t gag. )

❛ Do kids these days still take afternoon naps, too ? ❜ Joel dodges commenting on the pain ; it’d do them both some good to save on making light — or degrading — comments on each others’ pain.             /             Joel’s not great, but he has some semblance of humanity left, after all. Who can make fun of a kid’s pain ; it’s not like they can help it             /             &&. Joel resists the ‘ girl dad ’ urge to check on her, make sure she’s eaten — of course she hasn’t. He’s been with her the whole damn time. He would know !

[99lostsouls]

MEMIES HEADCANNONS // OPEN

[ @prince-kalim asked : ☾ : My muse and sleep!  ]

ortho doesn't sleep.

that statement was obvious enough. the closest thing ortho has to sleep is going into [ SLEEP MODE ] whilst recharging, even then he doesn't use up all his battery in one day. ( bless you optimization! )

but everyone else laying to rest doesn't mean ortho has to stop being active, does it?

there's many tasks ortho could complete in the night, but the most daunting one being…

GET IDIA TO SLEEP!!!

oh, his stubborn for brains brother. idia regularly insists to do his daily logs and raids well past 2 AM, causing him to wake up groaning out a ❝ good morning ❞ at 3 in the afternoon.

ortho's first objective in the night is always to negotiate or nag his brother into sleeping properly. he doesn't always win the debate, but every one he's secured is surely cherished.

once he's assured idia is sleeping, or about to his main quest is successfully completely!

left to the quietness of the dark, an array of side quests are queued to complete as well. nothing is exactly necessary for ortho to do, but he likes to keep himself busy!

whether that be by tidying up in idia's room or across ignihyde, searching through movies for the dorm's next movie night, testing out his extra functions, recording new anime episodes for idia, there's never a particularly boring night for ortho.

coming up with things to do is particularly his speciality! after nearly 3 years at NRU, only barely able to attend classes how could he not?

when stimuli's at an all time low…work with what you've got!

[cataschism]

@illholy said :  ❛ take it easy. ❜   SLOANE LAUMONIER  has stumbled on a nun,  she welcomes her, come have a rest !

Hand shooting out to her BLADE’S HILT ! as Judith approaches, and then relaxing, keeping an even eye on her & smiling ( lopsided, but polite )             /              Sloane’s own fingers, nimble             /             & spider - like, are relaxed at her waist, fingers spread at the ( eloquent, in the way that one may taste words. )  curve of her figure             /             & she nods a greeting, small. The price of overreaction to the wrong person is death. All it takes is one wrong look to a truly dangerous person, and even if her blade ignited, it would mean nothing in the long run. A sword, JUSTICE’S HERALD ! or not, would mean nothing if its swordsman was dead.

Against her other forearm, she can feel its coolness, the iced breath of its deactivation. So, whoever the woman is, is not truly a danger to Sloane, or anyone else             /             had she been someone at least with a guilty conscience, Sloane’s blade would have recognized it. But it didn’t, doesn’t, so she’s left with this SIXTH SENSE ! of unease, & nothing to show for it.             /             there is blasphemy in this water. ( it soils the rivers, filling them with blood! )

❛ Ah - ? Apologies. ❜ There’s nothing suspicious about the nun in front of her, but she still leaves a sense of unease lifting around the air             /             a possession, perhaps? Something looming behind both of them, these women of justice, ( at least one? and a victim, crucified to her own limbs, a prisoner to this flesh. ) how dare Sloane be suspicious? when there is no guilty mind to be found, no honor - less, blasphemed temple of this woman’s body? Her heart hurts. How could she be so untrusting?

❛ Hello, my dear, let me re - introduce myself. My name is Sloane, but a lot of people call me Parvina. ❜ ( never mind that ‘ parvina ’ is the name she uses to relieve those with guilty minds, the idea of a star burning to remove the guilt from souls. ) ❛ I would love to take a rest at your temple. Forgive me for my earlier misgiving towards you. I assure you, it was nothing personal, just a flash back. ❜

[cataschism]

❝ something else happened last night, didn’t it? ❞

❛ And you’d like me to tell you, why? ❜

The Shogunate : a separate puppet from the Electro Archon herself, and not much too different of her son. Her face, shared & intertwined with Ei herself, but her expression remains dull            /            unbothered by inquiries, sloped & artful in its curves, the high - rise of her cheekbones, the crook to her nose.

The birth of electricity comes in the shape of a woman, elegant & lethal.

The Shogunate is the puppet, the weapon she wields ; electricity to her form making her the shape she possesses, the lightning bolt touching earth, the cacophony            /            when she stares ahead, she is never looking nor has ever looked. The swift & needle - like shape to her katana, of whose reflection shows herself            /            her creator, her energy            /            the pinnacle of being, with a life that is not so readily defined as even extraordinary &            /            as the Shogunate. Two separate callings, one destined to live, & one destined to be without being.

❛ Regardless, it’s no business to you or I, and only Ei herself. Speak to me very little, now, that I’ve already answered. Understand this: I owe you nothing. ❜

Sheathing her katana, she now notices her feet aren’t touching the ground            /            electrical puddles of energy, pure & purple ripple underneath the toes of her sandals            /            & she is neither existing nor has existed, not truly, not to her heart, to the very human ba - dump drum & beat of their hearts            /            the Shogunate does not breathe, does not live.

❛ This is a privilege. Treat it as if I gave you the reward of my presence, yes? I’m glad you understand me. ❜

[cataschism]

➤ continued from here             /             @dontworryduante!

Michel is a funny thing             /             all angles & bones that are uncomfortable to love, difficult to place             /             when he looks at Dakota, he sees all these uncomfortable places & bits of himself into something much sweeter & softer. Dakota was malleable, charmed by nicknames & presences             /             where Michel was unsettled by them, perturbed & disturbed by someone else’s watchful gaze on his. Watching, watched             /             Michel hated being watched, loved watching.

He loved being the first one to notice a group of men under a tent in this rare October heat was out of ice             /             all melted down, someone leaving the cooler lid casually unhooked           /                &  although this noticing meant very little to either he or them, he liked the power             /              & the knowledge that he was the first, the first, the first.

❛ You don’t want me to answer that ‘bout you, sweetheart. You look cute, though. ❜ Charm & charmer             /             that was Michel’s life motto, takes the blame off from being creepy             /              & no one ever suspects the guy everyone likes to be a freak. ( oh how’d they be wrong - don’t people know their statistics anymore? )

❛ Salesman? Why, I never. That’s an insult to injury, dove. ❜ Dakota’s so clean & unhurried, languid in his movements             /             Michel considers ending the nickname with - soap.

[cataschism]

➤ closed starter for @hcsuffered.

Terror, Six believes, comes hand in hand with life. There’s no amount of living that can beat this world in all of its horrors             /             its unfairness             /             its cruelties. Never pausing for breath. Six is the last person to believe that truly & without losing everything, the world can change for one person, or because of one person’s heart. Six has seen its own limbs grow to enormous, horrifying lengths, much like one would expect more of fungal parasites than of a living person. ( eat, eat, eat. )

Double - digits. What a far away concept.

Even more so, in a world full of things             /             things like Six, without being Six, being more Nines or Twos or things of that nature. They had horrible faces and unfaces, features without features and skin that’s so raw & bleeding it’s unlike the fabric of reality itself. Six does not truly exist without being in the mind of people that fear Six, and without those people, Six cannot be sure its truly alive or breathing. Even with the knowledge that its body is concrete, that its real & tangible             /             without sight or fury, it might just disappear.

Such is the way.

In the open plains of the world as it’s come to exist, with the Alternates such as Six roaming around freely             /             stealing people’s identities and their livelihoods from underneath them, forcing suicide after suicide among the masses for looking at their faces             /             their voices even cause discreet harm, replaying & replaying & replaying with such an insistence that it’s hard to ignore. Impossible, even. Calling out from the voices of loved ones to beg you for mercy             /             to come inside the house, please, Mark, the last thing you need to do is get caught by one of those things           /           why aren’t you listening? don’t you trust the sound of my voice? ( eat, eat, eat. ) stupid boy. idiot boy. didn’t you always know you’d be found, eventually?

Six has covered its eyes with a yellow raincoat, although muddied now by the cross country journey of its wanderings, aimless and never ending, it has done its part. Unlike the other Alternates its witnessed and laid hands upon, all Six remembers is this pronounced feeling of starvation             /             terribleness & terror & negligence of the self all mixed into one             /             Six is not without feeling, but without fullness, like narcissists begging for more attention.

Unlike other Alternates, as well, Six cannot speak, but translates through intentions. Actions, as one might say. Intentions to hurt, to eat, to turn invisible. But, much like all the rest, hungering beasts devouring prey, songs numbing pain             /             Six can feel the presence of non - Alternates. The presence of a victim, waiting to be caught. ( eat, eat, eat. )

Six doesn’t think the victim has noticed it, yet. It’s still small, only taking the appearance of a nine - year - old child, gender both undetermined in its intentions and in its exterior             /             with a muddied yellow raincoat, brown & red. In the rain, it might even just look odd, out of place             /             but not dangerous. who could fear such a little, pathetic wet thing out in the rain, tummy rumbling, practically crying for help ?  ( eat, eat, eat. )

Those who would consider Six not dangerous would not survive the night. ( eat, eat, eat. )

[cataschism]

➤ closed starter for @katikis.

Magic, when nothing else is left, is what people turn to when they’re afraid.

It’s the experience of the unusual that guides them through their fear, the mystical, the unnatural. The oddity of the ‘ other, ’ the supernatural, monsters             /             & the tyranny of men are what guides people through their own dark corridors, the things that make them afraid of the mirror. Bad luck & unfortunate coincidences curdle the soul in terrifying ways, beginning with their sleep             /             & then the quietness of their loved ones as they distance, distance             /             & distance themselves farther away. Terror is only one head of the hydra of true fear. Guilt & remorse, loneliness             /             burying one’s self in their own pity.

Magic is what they turn to. Endeavor knows this well & clear from his own experiences with his children, & the public he serves on the daily              /             he believes Jujutsu Sorcerers are charlatans wearing the disguise of ordinary men, but even he won’t underestimate power, & guts & the masses’ belief in the people who rise & exist above them. Even the most famous magicians rely on the beliefs of their watchers, their fans. Endeavor must rely on himself             /             without strength, there is nowhere else to turn.

Satoru is the Sorcerer in charge ( the most powerful, the only ‘ in charge ’ title that ends up mattering in the reality they both live in. ) of the Jujutsu Sorcerer corner of the world, and Endeavor, the heroic. Justice turns yellowed & old at the price of magic, where unfairness takes its toll. Even the magical bear the brunt of unfairness / the term ‘ heroic ’ must bear it as well, & it does so with pride, unable to hide its own gruesome history             /             when children take the brunt of the heroic world, Endeavor must wonder to himself what the fighting’s all for. If it’s not to protect the future at large, children & those yet unseen still accounted for             /             then what is it for? & who exactly is he protecting?

Not Satoru, who’s supposed to be able to handle themselves with relative ease.

Endeavor mentally flicks through the case details that he’d been given. Bodies disappearing out of thin air             /             strange, almost whale song noises as a believed luring mechanism ( not quite angelic, as he’s been told. but something akin to a sound - equivalent of an anglerfish’s light. )               /             strange people, maybe copies or decoys             /             could be human, could be a curse             /             unknown, unknown, details always unknown. Endeavor’s eye twitches.

Alley in the dingiest part of downtown a few miles east of Musutafu, and several miles west from Tokyo. In a happy coincidence, the last victim had been taken somewhere in the middle of both Endeavor and Satoru’s locations. 

He braces himself before parting the sea of cops, detectives, and black - uniformed Sorcerers             /             ❛ Where’s Satoru? I was told they’d be here. ❜

[cataschism]

➤ continued from this ask! / @lifesliced!!

Kaminari is intentionally, what his kindergarten teachers used to call him, a booger jones. That is, boogery, ( he was an extremely snotty child, in the most literal sense ) flamboyant, and conniving ! His master plan unravels in front of his eyes: Kohler’s confusion, twisting his knickers. Kaminari’s tongue through his teeth almost against his cheek, eyes shut with a pleasant little joy radiating from them              /             he’s so funny !

Cracking an eye open, Kaminari retracts his sticking out tongue, and grins back at him. This guy’s for - real a cutie !             /               ❛ You want a kiss on the cheek, Co? We can also go to my dorm and play video games! Or both. Whaddya say? ❜

Score !

[cataschism]

➤ closed starter for @luxcruor.

Everything seems so much brighter at night, when the stars refuse to go out without screaming the whole way down ! Peter dances with bent elbows and twirling fingertips, over the top of some rooftop in the Apple             /             brows furrowed &&. mouth singing along to some unpaid Spotify song, reeling in the emotions and holding them close before the dang ad plays. It’s something by Ethan Gander, something that he’s begun to associate solely with himself and Electro, although said boyo hasn’t been out of the Raft in months, so all of the daydreams he’s been finagling with have been almost half a year old by now.

❛ Put your hands up, this is your last chance !! So boy, prepare to die ♪ Get ready to meet your make before I ♫ - ah, ad. Shucks. ❜ Dancing by himself on the concrete roof nonetheless, he danced to the Spotify ad like it was something that he’d done before, is doing, and will do again. He’s been waiting for the Shock, as he’d been calling it. As worlds fell apart              /             & their debris forced bridges between them, he was waiting for it this time. Something in all of his suits has been massively screwy, so he’s equipped his oldest suit without the new fussy technology and has been waiting, waiting, waiting !             /             for the new Shock to come and go, to see if it went, to see what happened, if at all. ( probably though - nothing can go easy when you’re peter b. parker !! ) 

Looking up at the sky, there’s almost nothing that he doesn’t expect. Peter’s been at this Spider-gig for so long that even the most absurd, extremist villains are nothing compared to his own. Memories upon memories of his villains             /             that he now knows on a first name basis ! How crazy is that, forreal ??              /             going after him in trenches, dragging their own busted ass technology along, without a care that the boy underneath is no older than fifteen. He was fourteen when he started             /             fifteen when he started to get noticed             /             and about a month and a half later he started apprehending his bigger, tougher, badder guy villains !!

It all seems like a millennia ago.

Waiting for the crash, the spark, the Shock !             /             he’s overly anticipating himself, in the end !! It’ll probably seem like nothing shabby or too big at all, nothing important ever looks like it is on the outside ?!             /              all he can think about is that Power Rangers villain, Rita Revulsa, and her motto ; ‘ make my monster grow ’ man, that show was somethin’ else !! 

But as he begins to look down back to his phone and see what song is playing, he hears the boom             /             &&. crackle             /             &&. pshew - ptooey - ( thwip so to speak ) of lightning ! Of storms calling, farther than the stars themselves, in an alternate dimension             /             pink & blue & white & red all bursting like cosmic fireworks as something manages to breach Peter’s world as he knows it ! 

If Peter had predicted everything correctly, whoever is landing ( and someone is, definitely, definitively. peter knows, because peter’s very smart. also just the energy output was so insane, it couldn’t have been anything but a portal ?? could it ?? no way !! ) should be landing in a properly giant spider - web Peter constructed for them to fall safely into. ( and hopefully, if dangerous, be stuck in. )

As he watches the sky alight like daybreak, fire like sun & moonlight like a still - wet canvas, another song comes into play into his headphones. No biggie or time ! He has to go see what’s going down before something or someone goes down like big time, & hopefully it’s not a villain this time !

[cataschism]

previous.      mark cursed at himself for not saving enough money for proper shelter   ———   just short of a few dollars for some nights at a motel room. at least he wouldn’t be concerned for FOOD as the necessity for such is seemingly absent from his being entirely. head lowered, mark hadn’t realized that he had passed a PECULIAR SIGHT. a presence that existed as an odd shiver down his spine. he blinked once then turned to notice the figure within the yellow raincoat.      a child? NO   ———   the flowers that grew within his lungs elicited the same shiver. any sight seen within mandela county should be taken with a CAUTIOUS approach. decades have already passed since that night yet the memories are FRESHLY INTACT in his mind’s eye. “…Are you alone?” mark finally uttered out in a monotonous voice.

The only gods left in the world were the temples of the people they struck down             /             inside of their bellies & their minds will the gods’ mold - ridden artifacts             /             the remnants of their THRONES, sniveling & childish will remain. Six knows God by the strength of their bloated belly, pudgy             /             & full, and has not met him again since their first day awake. Wandering the earth, remembering God’s sweet melody             /             & the feeling of their belly when they last ATE ( eat, eat, eat. ) what a wonderful feeling!

Raining in the country - side adjacent             /             the kind of town that’s got everything & nothing that you need ( no safety, all empty homes. we’re coming to you live, )              /             densely packed & not, not after the Alternates             /             Six waits and wears for meal after meal, finding nothing, not even a rat in the garbage             /             their stomach shrinks & shrinks, unable to deny its hunger!

Almost too good to be true, when a living person approaches              /             isn’t it? What hope is there left in a world where justice no longer matters, & it’s end all - be all ? Truth & fairness, those things died with the temples of bodies, ( bodies, bodies, eat, eat, eat. ) still rotting in their living rooms, necks loose             /             news cast after news cast, & nothing changes / no one can truly identify an Alternate before their mind’s CRACKING apart             /             & waiting for the sweet movement of getting out of bed to find their release             /             anything that stops the smiling, incessant             /             & just like ‘ you. ’ mark, mark. EAT, EAT.

❛ …mm? ❜ The child’s             /             the not - child, the CHANGELING ’s voice is small             /             an unbecoming trait of something so lethal. Six dare not turn around             /             they know their face, eat, eat, they know its consequences             /             a smile ever so present & a body ever so wilting, defiant, wilting, alien, alien, alien.

<<look away.>>

Hard to bring to the fore - front their INTENTIONS             /             how to make him look away? in the end, no way             /             he has to trust his intuition, & if his intuition tells him to get closer, well maybe             /             maybe             /             they’ll eat? finally? please, please, they’ve never been so hungry. ( mark, mark, mark. )

<<turn away. go away.>>

❛ …mm, ah. ❜ Their vocal chords weren’t made for speaking, and truthfully even these moans of noise hurt their throat. It feels like agony.              /               Anything for a meal. A duel in its head: it doesn’t want to eat him, but it wants to eat.             /             even monsters scream at the sight of their bloodied meals, sockets still attached, staring back up at Six, crying.