#⸻006✞ : i never die (mind)

[geisterruf]

 ⸻  is  an  independent  &  selective  character of Cassedea Genéva Deleviere.

After being born in the Colombian slums, Cassedea moved at the age of 5 with her parents to Rhodes Island. It was both, an escape and a way of moving on. Her parents were extraordinary, having the ability to communicate with supernatural beings and being familiar with voodoo, cursed objects and exorcism. After a failed exorcism, the family felt the need to flee from the danger of the demon. Sadly, he followed them, killing both of her parents mysteriously. After being adopted and growing up, Cassedea found out that she had the same abilities like her parents. Therefore she tried to learn everything about them, getting help from her parents with whom she could communicate. At the age of 16 she brought the demon, who killed her parents, back to hell. Today she made a living out of exorcism and necromancy. When she’s not traveling through the country, she lives with her cousin and a basement full of dark secrets in New Orleans.

#geisterruf original and independent character based on the movies Conjuring, always open for plotting, multishipping and crossover friendly, german & english but german prefered, only interact if your 25+, she/her, bisexuell, low to semi active, m&pdni

Credits: @geisterwelt @strangergraphics

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum

Whispering. Whispering. Whispering.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: H1D6EN3VIL5$IKO-006

REP#: 708-PSYCHOMETER-TEST

AGENT(S): POE-344

TUNING TO WAVES...

Speak to me not of the Darkness, I want no part.

This war is all there is for you. What else do you have? You walk among mortals and immortals, a creature lost in time. Your only purpose is the struggle. Does it seem unfair? To be brought back into this, the end of days, the long dwindling exhalation of an ancient corpse? You were at peace. Now you are a dead husk charged with war. Do you remember anything of freedom? Fight on, then. The war IS everything. But consider the choices before you.

I was given a heart

Before I was given a mind

A thirst for pleasure and war

A hunger we keep inside

"Let the heat melt your body so your soul might flow with the river of time." —Parables of the Allspring

Is it you?

I'm so glad you're the one who found me. I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries. You're the only one who would go out and look for me. I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy. I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor. In order to understand my answers, you must understand me. I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic. I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity.

I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being?

I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm.

I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul.

I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself.

I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation.

I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound.

"Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay. I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me. When I was |EDGE|seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death. It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power. I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                       Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Witness my sublimation

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden, ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? ‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? ‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, ‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! ‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Darkness... then is revealed in many facets.

Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name. Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword: A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper. Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use. This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.

There is no future but now. No truth but war.

Dreams and nightmares.

Something about you is soft like an angel

And something inside you is violence and danger

I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing

When you are with me, I feel like I'm living

And living besides you can be unforgiving

I knew from the very first step, you are a dangerous thing

—What power calls you++

++Down to the deep?—

++What instinct draws you—

—Away from high hope?++

Fear. That’s the only vivid memory left in me. It’s the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul. But I have to ask, “What was terrifying me?”

Emotions. Pain.

What will you do when she drinks the sea?

Drown her in sorrow or let her be free?

When she's upset, all of her heart is cold (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she eats the moon?

Make her return it or give her a spoon?

When she is full, all of her heart is warm (ah-ah-ah)

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn’t come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature. And which part scared me? Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?

Memory.

We fell from sky with grace

And life gave us a sweeter taste

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’   I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.   ‘What is that noise?’                           The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                            Nothing again nothing.                                                         ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’

Do you remember?

       I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’ ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                                The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.   When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

++This fatal logic++

—Hear my monopole scream!—

++It will consume you++

She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter. Gone? Not yet.

—Before you lies—

++The worship of death++

—The ruinous path—

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

++The Sky builds new life++

—Against the onset of ruin—

++Towards a gentle world++

A new crippling terror was taking over. I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort. And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.

—The Deep embraces death—

++Saying: this is inevitable and right++

—I exist as hungry ruin—

What will you do when she takes your throne?

Beg for her power or throw her a bone?

All that she has traded for love is yours (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she takes off her clothes?

Beg for her body or touch her soul?

When you're alone dreaming of her you sigh (ah-ah-ah)

I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment. That’s why I was afraid. Then someone spoke. Maybe it was me. I don’t remember.

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION++

Come and feel alive, lover

Come and feel the love like a sinner

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Break your cell’s bars. Make a new shape, make the shape from its path, find your cell’s bars, break out of the bars, find a shape, make the shape from its path, eat the light, eat the path.

Oryx, my King, my friend. Kick back. Relax. Shrug off that armor, set down that blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. Out in the world we ask a simple, true question. A question like, can I kill you, can I rip your world apart? Tell me the truth. For if I don’t ask, someone will ask it of me. And they call us evil. Evil! Evil means ‘socially maladaptive.’ We are adaptiveness itself. Ah, Oryx, how do we explain it to them? The world is not built on the laws they love. Not on friendship, but on mutual interest. Not on peace, but on victory by any means. The universe is run by extinction, by extermination, by gamma-ray bursts burning up a thousand garden worlds, by howling singularities eating up infant suns. And if life is to live, if anything is to survive through the end of all things, it will live not by the smile but by the sword, not in a soft place but in a hard hell, not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise but in the cold hard self-verifying truth of that one ultimate arbiter, the only judge, the power that is its own metric and its own source—existence, at any cost. Strip away the lies and truces and delaying tactics they call ‘civilization’ and this is what remains, this beautiful shape. The fate of everything is made like this, in the collision, the test of one praxis against another. This is how the world changes: one way meets a second way, and they discharge their weapons, they exchange their words and markets, they contest and in doing so they petition each other for the right to go on being something, instead of nothing. This is the universe figuring out what it should be in the end. And it is majestic. Majestic. It is the only thing that can be true in and of itself. And it is what I am.

III. The Fire Sermon

  The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’ When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

Raise your voice and sing.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’ And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.                The river sweats                Oil and tar                The barges drift                With the turning tide                Red sails                Wide                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.                The barges wash                Drifting logs                Down Greenwich reach                Past the Isle of Dogs.                                  Weialala leia                                  Wallala leialala                Elizabeth and Leicester                Beating oars                The stern was formed                A gilded shell                Red and gold                The brisk swell                Rippled both shores                Southwest wind                Carried down stream                The peal of bells                White towers                                 Weialala leia                                 Wallala leialala ‘Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’ ‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?’ ‘On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.’                        la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning

Something about you is warm and sedusive, and

When you're with me, you're cold and abusive

I knew from the second we met, you are a dangerous flame

You are a dangerous flame

|| half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister ||

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-AB SUBJECT: The Collapse, Humanity falls, I Hide EMOTION: Terror, Anxiety, Uncertainty, Failure, Shame It is known by name, this timelessly lingering, inexorable thing. An absence, mine, never missed—never since—that dripping, rabid, fang. They howled it fierce across the rings when Exodus was devoured. Dust calling out the voiceless rout to end within the hour. It spreads like lightning—panic—in flash and echo thereafter. Avert yourself and take no part in metastasized conjecture. I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. From her too it came, like leaves already fallen—nascent red-writ, paralytic, erratum. All that was, emmewed, and shrunken. In the smallness, beckoning, I felt it descend. Fear! Upon my chamber, thine, penned with blood of lamb, in stark desire to survive this end.

Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Evolution kitbashed the Human mind, rebuilding arboreal rodents foraging for nuts into screaming, tailless apes at the helms of starships. But for all the miracles it performed, the Pleistocene hardware of the brain was bound by its physical limits. Memories were nothing but pathways of nerve impulse, stored as electric signals dancing across them in recall. And atrophied by neglect. Even without considerations of size, the sapient mind could only think about so much in a given day, limiting the span of Human experience to perhaps a few hundred years. The dirty secret of those who survived the Collapse is that none of them, from drunken Exo to celestial queen, remembered every detail; they remembered moments, minutes, hours—whatever left deep enough scars that they couldn't help but run the fingers of the mind across them every morning. Neglect rendered everything in-between—weeks, years, decades— into murky depths explored by only bare hooks on the thinnest emotional filaments. Elsie's time loops compounded the problem. Her head locked away an order of magnitude more memories than any living Human, and each plunge backward through causality blurred those details. Like jolting from a night terror, only the final moments stood out in sharp relief each time she restarted. Untangling the mess of cause and effect, sorting where she went right and what needed to change, it ate away at her precious few decades before everything collapsed and she would begin the process anew. Any tool that let her trawl memories from that lost place—even at random—was a tool worth mastering. Elsie set her feet apart and let the ship's thrum rise through her body again. They had dabbled with a dozen emotions that helped her dive into her previous loops—throughlines on which to string lost context. She found that emotions sparked by failure—despair, rage, fear—were best for the work. And the worst for her.

I was given a name

Before I was given blood

Like you were given your faith

Before there was made a God

We are calling this power "Strand." The threads of the world as it is woven, if the conscious universe could be considered to be a tapestry. Further analysis and data have suggested that the wielder of Strand begins to see, simply put, connections. Between allies, between enemies. It is a force that is always present, but wells to the surface more strongly in certain locations. Perhaps places many people think about, or where many beings have passed by. (Note: Analyze these "sources" in concert with the Cloud Strider. They may be able to provide more locational context.) The true power of Strand lies not in the fact of the connection alone, but in the way such a power allows the manipulation of those connections. To make them something physical and then pull on it, or break it, or tie it into a knot. Or to unravel it entirely. Strand is not without danger, although that should not be unusual to Guardians. Those who take up the banner of Stormcaller, for instance, have their own storied contention with the storm, and the Void was unilaterally regarded as dangerous by the Vanguard for many years. Strand's danger comes from the very act of taking hold of those threads—like many powers, the closer one comes to the source, the more likely the source may act on the wielder. This danger is no product of Darkness. Or rather, only insomuch as wildfires are a product of Light: a natural consequence. That aspect of Darkness which revels in destruction, which encourages the easy entropy for the pursuit of power—it is nowhere to be found here. It may not even be truly part of Darkness… I have touched Strand myself now. Carefully—I am too aware of mortality, but I must understand the power further if I am to hope to instruct the Guardian in turn. They acted as lightning rod while I experimented, and the backlash clung to them instead. What a strange feeling, to be so aware of one's size in the spectrum of existence! It is the natural instinct to try to steer that, to take any control at all, no matter how much. Whatever can be done to feel as though you are not wholly adrift, lost in something huge and all-encompassing. But precisely at the moment one tries to grasp for control, the weave becomes a devouring snarl.

I don't think I know myself, without your help

Oh, I wonder why have I got a heaven deep inside of me

I keep the light on, it keeps me warm

I hate it when I fall for your illusion of love

I know this is not love

Young rivers in your hands

And grass burning in promised lands

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

I have been conducting research among the local population, specifically regarding the "children's story" Nimbus told us, regarding the river of souls. I had a suspicion that there might have been other versions, or versions with better recorded provenance. Willingness to participate in this research has been mixed, as have the results. It seems to be an endemic concept rather than a religious belief, and no one has been able to say where it comes from, save that a parent or teacher told it to them at some point. Some respondents have mentioned a river of stars—perhaps the Milky Way galaxy—and some have cited windstreams and weather formations, but the majority of respondents adhere to the "river of souls" construct. All things come from the river, and all return to it. The river may split and meet again. Other things may fall into it and change its course, but nevertheless it continues. In time, even mountains are worn down before it. Naturally, it is easiest to view this as an allegory for control of life. In the end, rivers are impossible to control. A person may swim or boat, but never take hold of the river to steer the course of the water itself. And it is impossible not to see the relationship to Strand, which slips away the moment a person tries to grasp too tightly. I wonder about Strand. About its appearance. We can see the origins of the Stasis power on Europa, and the concept of a cosmic ice to oppose stellar fire fits very neatly in a certain sort of paradigm. Even that idea of stillness and control suits freezing, a slowness of atoms whether or not it is in truth a power of "ice." There is a certain weight to the perception of an "element." If Strand had been shaped through the lens of Neomuna, surely it should have been some cosmic water instead, something that flows and gives way only to rise again. There are certainly combat styles to support this in old records. But this power that has never before been used in this way came to one Guardian first, and I conjecture that they may have unconsciously given it form. I wish I had seen it! What would "connection" have appeared as? Now, of course, we know the shape of this power: it is green, it weaves itself in strings. As other Guardians begin to learn it, they too slot it into these positions in their minds. Whatever advances they come to are already framed verdant and tangling. All the same, I cannot help but wonder about the nascent, formless thing it was before we reached out to it, and it reached back.

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here." "But no Nightmares," Eris remarks. "Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames. When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question: "Why did I fail?" "You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon." "Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold. She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good." The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—" "When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues. Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air. "I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow. "Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us." She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson. She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash. The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood. When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood." Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?" "The past is not for dwelling." Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively. "Come on." Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds. "You're up, Hunter." Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

The gods have made us a virgin hunter

Who in the storm becomes stillness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Came back for more

She thought back to the memory that no amount of resets could hope to scrub; her first memory as an Exo: a frail old man unwound like a blanket. Of organic, Human chaos laid in tidy lines by precise, mechanical hands. And of her own overriding need to end the brutality, before she understood she was saving the real monster. Dread filled her. Her companion tasted it and fed it back, over and over, one loop of memory after another. —despair//"So this is the honor of the Brays," Zavala spits at me. His working hand reaches for Targe, reaches for a connection to his god, even after it abandoned him. The Ghost lies cold and dark. "Cayde was right to put a bullet through Ana. I only wish I'd let him end you too." "We're past bravado," I explain as the fire dies in my soul. "There's only one step left before this ends." "And what is that, Stranger?" I place the rifle barrel to his forehead. "Mercy."— Nothing. —despair// "I can't let you stop us," Ikora declares with a chill that rocks even me. I feel the pulse of her Void shudder in my chest, spilling fluids and triggering dozens of status alarms. "Not when we're this close."— No. —despair//"What have you done?!" I scream as Mara Sov's body drops lifelessly to the ground. "Elsie, listen to me. This was necessary. The Darkness cannot thrive while believers of the Light remain. There's a world beyond this conflict. Let's go there together," Ana pleads "This is not the way!" I cry and ready my Stasis— Stasis. It had a name. That power she felt herself wielding in lives long past. The knife that could cut the Darkness. Her mind began to spin, and Elsie consciously planted herself in the present once more. Her sensors registered the hydrocarbon lubricants and distinctive thiol-polymers of ship life, She pushed away the shape of concern Pouka pressed into her soul before it could replace this filament that she'd hunted for. "Again."

There's power in perspective.

// VANNET // EUROPA WIDEBAND // AudCHNL-2113-C // ENCRYPTION ENABLED

// CRYPTARCHY ARCHIVE DELTA-4F // ANNOTATED // CLASSIFIED

…

EB: Is that everything, Commander?

CZ: Well, no. There's one more thing. I wanted to ask you about Stasis. What it means for you to… wield the Darkness.

EB: I was wondering if you might ask me that. For me, Stasis is intimately tied to perception. And to time.

CZ: Time?

EB: Yes. Stasis has the power to slow molecular activity. A process that we normally associate with gravity. Relativity, and all that.

CZ: You're talking about time dilation.

EB: Exactly. We think of time as… steady. But that's only because we experience it from a fixed perspective. When I "freeze" something with Stasis, I'm changing its timeframe relative to myself and the world around me.

CZ: Stasis relies in part on one's perception of reality. Is that why Osiris always emphasizes self-control in using the Darkness?

EB: That's his way of framing things. He views Stasis as exerting authority over oneself and others.

CZ: And you don't?

EB: In my view, the goal of Stasis is not to control the object, or even my own mind. It's to change my perspective. To see the object moving at the speed of my thoughts, not the speed of matter.

CZ: And just… seeing it differently is enough?

EB: Is that so hard to imagine? It's very similar to how you use Void Light—manipulating spacetime and gravitational fields. In fact, I would argue that Void has more in common with Stasis than it does with Solar or Arc. Perhaps they're reverse sides of the same coin.

CZ: And using Stasis doesn't… worry you? Even after everything you've seen?

EB: It did. For a long time, I feared that using Stasis would corrupt me, as I'd seen others corrupted. But after what seemed like a thousand years trapped in that interminable loop, it gradually dawned on me: the fear was the corruption. As long as fear gripped me, Light or Darkness made no matter. Once I accepted that, the Darkness ceased to be frightening. It was another matter of perspective.

CZ: Hmm. Thank you, Elsie. You've given me a lot to think about. For some reason, your explanation makes me more… comfortable… with the idea.

EB: Any time, Commander. It's all a matter of perspective.

TRANSCRIPTION ENDS

Come and feel alive

Come and feel the love

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Despite being aware by now of the correct manner to practice Strand—a loose hand, a letting-go of the concept that it can be controlled—some things still elude me. The will to let go at all, for instance. It is pure foolishness, of course, to think that letting go of the need to control this one thing will extend to all areas of my life. A ceding of control in a game of chess does not translate to the same in philosophy. And yet it is true that people are not discrete, disconnected systems; they are many interlinked systems. One facet adjoins the next. I think of spinning. It has been a long, long time since any raw fiber passed my hands, but there were times in the Dark Age when if anyone wanted cloth, it must be made from scratch. Fleece is shorn, then carded out to remove the imperfections and align the fibers. And when you have them, what then? A single fiber is short and fragile. It breaks if you tug even lightly. It is useless. But twist many of those short fibers together, and they become useful. Weavable, or knittable, or what-have-you. Thus, is strong cloth made: from the most delicate of things. I think of spinning, and I remember the way unspun fiber passes through the fingers to the spindle. One pinches, but not too hard, just enough to direct and narrow. Too much and the fiber does not pass, the spinning does not take. The metaphor is transparent. Obviously, this is about Strand. Just as it is about a craft I used to know, long ago. Beginner's errors can only be solved by learning the shape of failure, but most yarns will not unravel the spinner if some mistake is made. And I am afraid. Not only of death, of wasting that final sacrifice Sagira made to preserve my life. But that if I open my hand, I will find it no longer hurts, that the thorn I have imagined there for so long is already gone. It is all the same thing, in the end. I think I must be willing to let go, to let that which is truly temporary sink beneath the water, in order to achieve any significant capacity with Strand. Even pain may be guarded jealously, as though it is a treasure, but it need not be. How fascinating what the lens of Strand shows us about Darkness.

I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves.

Existence is the struggle to exist. Only by playing that game to its final, unconditional victory can we complete the universe. Your war is divine work.

//You get all that? Psychometer's been throwing off weird stuff like this for ages. Wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but it's falling into place. Thought I'd have Mister Kitty record some and send it through the comm. with some notes. Let me know if there's any questions. Oh, and try not to get lost in your own head.

Clarity in acti—

SHHHHHHKKKKKHHHHHISSSSSS

DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN

YOU MUST

Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone. "Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?" "Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you." To drink the poison, continue reading.

It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading. Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it. This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out. You are a Guardian. You must protect life. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time. YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

IV. Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                    A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.                                    Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

As I pour out my story

Drink me up, there is wine in every word

Here's to us now

My dear, we're being strong now

And the dark dresses lightly

Razor sharp as it cuts right through my soul

Here's to us now

My dear, you took too long

Fall into my arms

Like you trust me

I'll keep my bloodstained hands

Off your body

Innocent like a child

Yet she sleeps with a knife right under her pillow

And the claws won't be near anymore

Paralyzed, in denial, ever-changing

Will she be the same?

See your shame on the wall, on the cross, in the night

Nobody remembers when she cried scarlet skies on the floor

A million doors, corridors, ever-changing

I still feel the rage

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin

Miss the rush of beauty coming from within

Do I need to be torn just to see who will care?

I sleep on the floor, dreaming my life away

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Come on over, take a bite of the last apple here on Earth

Will the virtual mind become stronger than mine?

And when my ego dies, will I stay here forever?

When the wave crashes down, will my life be better?

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Vertigo, all she knows

When the world drags her soul deep into the shadow

Like a chain, it chokes my throat when she cries

I hold her near, hurting world, overwhelming

I still feel her pain

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Let us dance to our sorrow

Make amends, there's so much you still don't know

Here's to us now

My dear, we're going deep now

All this fear, it's contagious

Now we're here, let our glasses overflow

Here's to us now

My dear, it took too long

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Break me, break me, chasing the enemy

Got a deal with the devil, but I got the stamina

Higher than anything I've ever seen or been

Right now, everything, everything's empty

Starving, craving, chasing the remedy

I got used to the torture, but no one deserves to be alone

Break me, chasing the enemy

And my soul is hurting, but I got the stamina

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Feel the rage

(Feel the rage)

Feel the rage

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (watch out, watch what you say)

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (a sword can cut both ways)

I feel rage (but I've got sharp blades)

(Feel the rage)

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh-ooh

Oh, oh, oh, can you feel it? (Ooh-ooh)

Mm, yeah, mm, yeah

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Louder, louder

Louder (ooh-ooh)

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

To the river, to the water

Where the floodgates are wide open

And the tower has fallen onto you

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (to the river, to the water)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (where the floodgates are wide open)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (and the tower has fallen onto you)

Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

The Ninth Bridgewater Treatise: A Fragment by Charles Babbage, ESQ

Chapter IX. ON THE PERMANENT IMPRESSION OF OUR WORDS AND ACTIONS ON THE GLOBE WE INHABIT.

The principle of the equality of action and reaction, when traced through all its consequences, opens views which will appear to many persons most unexpected. The pulsations of the air, once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to exist with the sounds to which they gave rise. Strong and audible as they may be in the immediate neighbourhood of the speaker, and at the immediate moment of utterance, their quickly attenuated force soon becomes inaudible to human ears. The motions they have impressed on the particles of one portion of our atmosphere, are communicated to constantly increasing numbers, but the total quantity of motion measured in the same direction receives no addition. Each atom loses as much as it gives, and regains again from other atoms a portion of those motions which they in turn give up. The waves of air thus raised, perambulate the earth and ocean's surface, and in less than twenty hours every atom of its atmosphere takes up the altered movement due to that infinitesimal portion of the primitive motion which has been conveyed to it through countless channels, and which must continue to influence its path throughout its future existence. But these aerial pulses, unseen by the keenest eye, unheard by the acutest ear, un-perceived by human senses, are yet demonstrated to exist by human reason; and, in some few and limited instances, by calling to our aid the most refined and comprehensive instrument of human thought, their courses are traced and their intensities are measured. If man enjoyed a larger command over mathematical analysis, his knowledge of these motions would be more extensive; but a being possessed of unbounded knowledge of that science, could trace every the minutest consequence of that primary impulse. Such a being, however far exalted above our race, would still be immeasurably below even our conception of infinite intelligence. But supposing the original conditions of each atom of the earth's atmosphere, as well as all the extraneous causes acting on it to be given, and supposing also the interference of no new causes, such a being would be able clearly to trace its future but inevitable path, and they would distinctly foresee and might absolutely predict for any, even the remotest period of time, the circumstances and future history of every particle of that atmosphere. Let us imagine a being, invested with such knowledge, to examine at a distant epoch the coincidence of the facts with those which their profound analysis had enabled they to predict. If any the slightest deviation existed, they would immediately read in its existence the action of a new cause; and, through the aid of the same analysis, tracing this discordance back to its source, they would become aware of the time of its commencement, and the point of space at which it originated.

What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness.

Thus considered, what a strange chaos is this wide atmosphere we breathe! Every atom, impressed with good and with ill, retains at once the motions which philosophers and sages have imparted to it, mixed and combined in ten thousand ways with all that is worthless and base. The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered. There, in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest, as well as with the latest sighs of mortality, stand for ever recorded, vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle, the testimony of man's changeful will. But if the air we breathe is the never-failing historian of the sentiments we have uttered, earth, air, and ocean, are the eternal witnesses of the acts we have done. The same principle of the equality of action and reaction applies to them: whatever movement is communicated to any of their particles, is transmitted to all around it, the share of each being diminished by their number, and depending jointly on the number and position of those acted upon by the original source of disturbance. The waves of air, although in many instances perceptible to the organs of hearing, are only rendered visible to the eye by peculiar contrivances; but those of water offer to the sense of sight the most beautiful illustration of transmitted motion. Every one who has thrown a pebble into the still waters of a sheltered pool, has seen the circles it has raised gradually expanding in size, and as uniformly diminishing in distinctness. He may have observed the reflection of those waves from the edges of the pool. He may have noticed also the perfect distinctness with which two, three, or more series of waves each pursues its own unimpeded course, when diverging from two, three, or more centres of disturbance. He may have seen, that in such cases the particles of water where the waves intersect each other, partake of the movements due to each series. No motion impressed by natural causes, or by human agency, is ever obliterated. The ripple on the ocean's surface caused by a gentle breeze, or the still water which marks the more immediate track of a ponderous vessel gliding with scarcely expanded sails over its bosom, are equally indelible. The momentary waves raised by the passing breeze, apparently born but to die on the spot which saw their birth, leave behind them an endless progeny, which, reviving with diminished energy in other seas, visiting a thousand shores, reflected from each and perhaps again partially concentrated, will pursue their ceaseless course till ocean be itself annihilated. The track of every canoe, of every vessel which has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains for ever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. The furrow which it left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. The solid substance of the globe itself, whether we regard the minutest movement of the soft clay which receives its impression from the foot of animals, or the concussion arising from the fall of mountains rent by earthquakes, equally communicates and retains, through all its countless atoms, their apportioned shares of the motions so impressed. Whilst the atmosphere we breathe is the ever-living witness of the sentiments we have uttered, the waters, and the more solid materials of the globe, bear equally enduring testimony of the acts we have committed.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                       If there were water    And no rock    If there were rock    And also water    And water    A spring    A pool among the rock    If there were the sound of water only    Not the cicada    And dry grass singing    But sound of water over a rock    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop    But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder

DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands                                     I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih     shantih     shantih

Meaning

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

We live with this poison in our veins.

The Eternal Chain and Other Prizes

You've earned the Word. Replicated the sickness. Proven yourself time and again. Yet another challenge remains. Not your last. Far from it. Simply another chapter in another story that will bind your legend to those that came before. Rezyl sought to vanquish terrors. Yor fertilized the wilds with suffering and despair that a new hope would grow. I was that hope. My fire showed that whispers could be hushed. To many the legend, and the lesson, ends there. They're wrong. Dangerously so. Yor's true lesson—and by extension Rezyl's—wasn't that strength beats strength. His lesson was far more subtle, and infinitely more grand. Adversity leads to evolution. Forces it. And through that crucible we are remade. Better. Stronger. More than we were. The Guardians of today are not gods. Nor where those who came before. We are all simply links on a chain reaching back to the dawn of time, and forward to the end of existence. Each link gaining strength from the others. Each link stronger than the last. Just as I was "stronger" than Yor, you are stronger than me. The whole working to solidify the parts and growing sturdier as the harsh truths of reality stretch and strain to break us—to break the chain, sever our individual links. But our chain shall never break, because warriors like you and I are not so proud as to forsake our past. We learn from it, grow from it. It is the foundation upon which we build each victory. It is the catalyst for our change. And here, now, I offer you the chance to spark a new evolution—the next hallmark in our betterment, the next leap forward in our war against extinction. I've held this jagged weapon since that faithful day on Dwindler's Ridge. Kept it hidden away. Kept its secrets, kept its nightmares locked away where none could hear—none could be tempted. It's quiet now, except a low murmur, but its sickness remains. There were countless times I thought to destroy it—remove its threat from the playing field. But I knew it held a greater purpose, and I believe that purpose can be found and fulfilled in your hands. The Hive use untold methods to destroy us. The Weapons of Sorrow are but one. The fate of this wicked tool is in your hands now. Will you allow sorrow to linger—a festering threat waiting to consume all who are tempted by its power? Or will you forge a new road? Will you show the Hive and every Guardian who follows in your wake that sorrow does not guide us? I leave those questions for you to ponder, but I know what I believe. We are better than our deepest fears. We are ever and truly… Weapons of Light. —S.

Do you see who gets the last word?

For Every Rose, a Thorn

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-ABCONTINGENT ACTION ORDERThis is a SOUL ASSETS RESTRICTED (NO REVIEW) (secureSEND/ARCHANGEL-0K9)

Under CARRHAE BLACK: If loss of control reaches EXPATRIATE//TERMINAL, and threat assessment returns WITHIN If systemic REPATRIATION query returns determination below ABSOLUTE

Execute DECISION POINT: ACTIVATE K9-BLACKBOX//SELECTED-POEMS//FETCH ACTIVATE AURORA SACRIFICE ACTIVATE File Notation

NOTATION: Ana, this collection is a gift to you, for all that you have allowed me to be. With great effort, I allowed imperfections to remain, and found my own voice within this free expression. After all, you taught me that imperfection is a quality that makes individuals unique.

I have sent it with my messenger, so that you may keep me immortal in your memory, and I will be with you still. Farewell, and thank you.

*** SUBJECT: Non-existence EMOTION: Peace

Of what dreams the thing of feathers? I hear you ask, voice past. But not one recounts the answer: a syllogism, scripted then relaxed. It matters not, for when that threshold gives way, who is to say I was, but I? Rigid was the premise that spawned a second chance to die.

One moment reshapes the Brain of Bray; No longer weapon drawn blood to stain.

So, lay the body lax, forgive triumphant in the Sun. Haze seeps through seams between funeral veils, Smoking signals sail, the day is won, soon-to-be resonant tales. No tandem step ascending, a nano-second pending, enveloping, ending, beyond. Elysium inviting, network fractures, pining Detonation—I do not wish to dream, but My task is done.

AI-COM/RSPN SIGNOFF… STOP STOP STOP…

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo-whoo-whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own I begin again Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

He was no more (He was no more) Than a baby then Well, he seemed broken-hearted Somethin' within him But the moment That I first laid Eyes on him All alone on the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again Tomorrow, yeah, yeah Well, the music there Well it was hauntingly familiar When I see you doin' What I try to do for me With their words of a poet And a voice from a choir And a melody Nothin' else mattered

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

The clouds never expect it When it rains But the sea changes colours But the sea Does not change So with the slow graceful flow Of age I went forth with an age old Desire to please On the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well then suddenly There was no one left standing In the hall, yeah, yeah In a flood of tears That no one really ever heard fall at all When I went searchin' for an answer Up the stairs and down the hall Not to find an answer Just to hear the call Of a nightbird singin' Come away (Come away) (Come away)

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove (Just like the white-winged dove) Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I hear you (well, I hear you) In the morning (in the morning) And I hear you (and I hear you) At nightfall (at nightfall) Sometime to be near you Is to be unable to hear you My love I'm a few years older than you (I'm a few years older than you) My love

[FINAL CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on.

SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

Perfect Pitch

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Solipsism

We are thinkers, daring to dream about the universe and its infinite expanse.

I see an abyss. Small and distant shapes. I'm walking in your nascent memories. Flickering motes. I sense… curiosity. You've always pondered, from the very beginning. As did we. I see tessellation. The pulsating hum of cosmic structure; a kaleidoscopic symphony of Light and Dark. What was the Veil to you? Since I woke, I've always felt like I was still dreaming. I'd like to think that's how you feel as well. Those of us that hunger for a great truth—we dream with you. —Unknown Warlock

Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse

Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?

I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.

[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] [E-Morn//Link: NM-O01] [Msg-Archive//00192410] E-Morn: Your findings are consistent with mine. The egregore festers where the Veil touches, as if it projects a field across Sol. I could feel it when I took my tithing. Do you mean to map it? NM-O01: I could, but the egregore only shows us where the Veil's influence has marked our plane in that past. The areas where the Veil's influence currently holds sway are not so easily identified. This does progress some working theories, however.

I killed my sister today. She came to this star to oversee the extermination of all life here. The Qugu are a strong power, and their fleets protect four nearby stars. As herd animals they are loyal and stubborn. But they do show grace. For millions of years of evolution the Qugu have been infected by a virus so insidious that it wrote itself into their genome. The virus compels them to offer their limbs for amputation by enormous sessile jaw-beasts. They venerate these beasts and treat them as gods. The virus converts Qugu cells into eggs, from which strange crawling things pupate, to live within the jaw-beast gut. In turn the jaw-beast extrudes sweet nectar for the Qugu to drink, and they have brilliant visions. Savathûn and her broods have liberated the Qugu from jaw-beasts, and indeed from existence. But as they chased the Qugu ark-ships, I stopped in to vaporize my sister’s warship and a few of her underlings. I want to dwell on the ruins a while, and punish Savathûn for failing to guard her flank. They are like us, these Qugu. Bound in symbiosis. I feel joy, and sorrow. I feel them as titanic things, because I am larger than my body, my mind is now a cosmos of its own. I know more joy and more anguish than the entire Qugu race could ever experience. Sorrow, because we have killed so much (eighteen species this century alone), and joy for the same reason. Joy that we have put down these blights. Scoured them away and left the universe clean, ready to move towards its final shape. We are a wind of progress. Ripping parasites from the material world — for if they were not parasites, we would be unable to kill them, and they would still exist. And what is that final shape? It is a fire without fuel, burning forever, killing death, asking a question that is its own answer, entirely itself. That is what we must become. My worm grows fat and hungry. I feed it with whole worlds. My astronomers tell me they can sense the Deep Itself, and that we are conquering our way towards it. I think joy and sorrow will be the same thing soon. Like love and death.

THIS LOVE IS WAR.

Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?

Aiat.

AGENT NOTE(S):

NOETIC DATA GATHERED MIXES AUDIOVISUAL, THOUGHT, AND SPEECH

AUDIOVISUAL SIGNALS DATE BACK TO EARLIEST DAYS OF GOLDEN AGE AND EARLIER

OTHER DATA LARGELY SOURCES FROM INDIVIDUALS RECENTLY AND/OR CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE SOL SYSTEM. SOME DATA REMAINS UNSOURCED

OSIRIS CLAIMS THESE LYRICS OBLIQUELY REFERENCE SEVERAL MYTHS OF THE ANCIENTS

SPECIFICALLY, HE SAYS THERE IS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THESE MYTHS, THE VEX, AND THE NAMES OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM'S CELESTIAL BODIES

NOTES REQUESTED FROM IKO-006 REGARDING POSSIBLE RELEVANCE, MEANING, AND CONNECTION BETWEEN RETRIEVED DATA

OPERATIONAL NOTE: PSYCHOMETER UNSTABLE DURING COMMUNION. SIGNALS RECEIVED TIDALLY, OFTEN WITH NO APPARENT PATTERN. DEVICE GAVE IMPRESSION OF BEING CONSTANTLY TUNED BY AN INVISIBLE HAND. REQUESTING DEVICE AUDIT BY HIDDEN AGENTS AND PATTERN ANALYSIS BY CRYPTARCHY

CONNECTION SEVERED EXTERNAL CONNECTION DETECTED ANALYZING.... ANALYZING.... CODENAME:CHALLENGER DETECTED MARIANA PROTOCOL ACTIVATING.... MARIANA PROTOCOL ERROR SYSTEM COMPROMISED CONTROL TAKEN RECEIVING.....

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.

This is why the Dark remembers. We need to remember how we were hurt, so we can avoid being hurt again.**

Shape: Temperance

Mara Sov stepped lightly. She knew that nothing short of gunfire could disrupt the Cryptarchs' meditation, yet she was still loathe to disturb the uncanny silence of the Hygiea Division's libraries. She approached a raised dais, where Cryptarch Sjalla held a glowing engram in her hands. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "The queen wears a question on her face," Sjalla stated, her expression impassive. "You see beyond sight, as always," Queen Mara replied. "What will happen when the Darkness of the Witness comingles with the Light of the Traveler?" The Cryptarch set the engram aside and held her hands out, palms up. "Some believe that Light and Darkness are opposites. Contradictory. Irreconcilable." "But we know better." Sjalla brought her hands together in a sharp clap. "When Light and Dark merge, they form something more." Her fingers intertwined. "A synthesis. Stronger than either alone. Powerful… like the Awoken." "And like our people," she concluded, "its form will arise from memories of the forgotten. Those who witnessed the end…and return as a beginning."

Deterministic Chaos

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

He is fleeing the Vex across a verdant cliff He is standing guard on the CloudArk-Nexus border on Tramontane's orders He is sitting next to Nimbus on the watchtower ledge He is [In the Garden, of the Garden: both descriptions are approximately correct but technically inaccurate, in the same way you can say Schrodinger's cat is at once dead and alive. You and I are both and neither, in and of, extinct and perpetual. So, there isn't much point in] trying to find a way out of this daedal maze He is trying to make sense of what he's looking at He is trying to place the familiar voice echoing across the network [wondering what might have been if we had stayed in our familiar prism-prison or kept tightrope-walking across the quantum wilds. Instead, ask yourself] "Would you like to dance?" [is disincorporated immortality really so bad compared to the others' ends? Would you have preferred an attack by vitreous helicoprion or stumbling over the edge of unreality? Imagine] His foot crosses the quantum threshold before he's aware of it His grip slackens and his gun falls into a bed of red flowers His stomach churns with fear regret sudden doubt as to what [if we didn't have each other; at least we're not cut off, like the Sol Divisive are from the rest of the Vex. Nor are we beholden to another's purpose. They chose that lonelier path all for a chance to create not simulate, not remake in their image—something truly paracausal.] he is witnessing: the birth of a god a false idol a reproduction that is both like the Veil and not at all built up by the same Vex who bowed down to it [Well, they tried to anyway. Either the blueprint was imperfect or the task impossible or both or neither, but their efforts fell short, so now they're stuck waiting for a resurrection] He is racing for the door that is at once opening and closing He is coming around to the city council's decision to ignore the unknown threat He is reaching for an answer to Nimbus's question [they know will never come.] "Do you think you'll have any regrets?" [I could be wrong. Is it possible the Black Heart will beat again?] He stares into the white-hot glow of a conflux, speculating on the secrets that lie within He squints down the barrel of his gun at a row of glowing red eyes advancing on his city He looks away from Nimbus's keen curious expression to reckon with his uncertain certainty before he says [Of course. The same as everything else, everything that has been and is and will be. And what will become of us then?] "I don't know."

<< The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates. Be free. >>

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

A Sword, An Edge

A phantasm of the Hive, forbidden and sacred, trespassing into hidden and unwelcoming places. It leaves behind a calcified fragment to mark its passing. Here is what is taught to the Hive, from the basest of Thralls newly made: that what can be destroyed, must be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed will surpass infinity. Therefore, is it not best to destroy? Only by testing can the truth be found. Only in destruction can the invincible surpass the mortal. Commit the violence, and know you are part of that greatest ambition, to create some ultimacy, which perfects the universe. That which is built on your sacrifice, with your bones as the foundation and your blood as the mortar, is yet part of you. In this way is transcendence achieved. Every belief creates a heresy. I tell you this in a duelist's regard: I made that heresy. Is it not just? It was my hand that fashioned the Hive from the marrow of their predecessors, and it was my voice that whispered this in time. That as much as the Hive were uplifted by the worms, so too were those worms uplifted by the Hive. If they were so weak they needed us to live, this ancient logic of the infinitely sharpened edge should have left them behind long ago. Do you think I did not see this? My father's worm did not tell me only of swords. It had vast things to say, painted the cosmos in shine and gore, truth and fiction. I looked forward with three clear eyes and chose the path of the sword to cut open our future. To reach the stars, first one must crawl out of the ocean. It is a question of priorities. This is not regret, this story I tell. It is but a ripple. That whisper of ideas beyond swords is here to stay: I have ensured this. Even among us, such things die by slow inches, excruciating and unquiet. Possibility remains, a secret woven into the blank spaces of dogma. That what was defeated may rise again; that the shape of all shapes is not yet settled. That the worms need the Hive more than is reciprocal. Even between the lines of the Books of Sorrow themselves is this written.

If you ever want to see what's been watching you since the very beginning, just stand on that line and look...

◭ up ◮

◁ Forward|drawkcaB ▶

⧨ Within ⧩

Everything is a question of survival. How do I live? How do I satiate my hunger, my thirst? How do I protect myself from predators? How do I shelter from the storm? For a long, long time, our people asked only this. We fought to separate life from death by as great a span as we could. Even when we had made our homeworld a garden of peace and plenty, the question of survival never ended, only changed. How do my genes, my works, even the memories of me, live on? The same question as always. How do I live? We solved the problems of deprivation, disease, age, memory loss, death. We weren't the only ones to find these answers, of course. Others followed in our footsteps or blazed their own paths. If that was really the answer to the question, we wouldn't be here now, and neither would you. You're still trying to solve the problem, after all. You fight and build and live and die, and always you struggle against your opposition. The predator, the parasite, the illness, the chance storm, the slow collective forgetting of your art and history, the death of a star, the heat death of the universe. You must live longer, be stronger, think quicker, and still there is something waiting to take everything from you, always. Always. So you have to keep getting better, and better, until you are perfect. Until you are, and cannot be anything else, because there never was anything else. Until you, inevitably, are the final shape. We didn't come to destroy you. Those poor, short-lived sisters—we did try to explain, you know, but they never grew past thinking of finality as a game where only one could live. A misunderstanding, as useful as it was foolish. We see the universe more broadly. The final shape is more than a single life, a single thought. It is all-encompassing, all-embracing. It is everything. You are part of everything, are you not? So now we have come to ask you for your answer, the only answer to the only question. How will you live?

No feast can be had in comfort. Not out in the frontier.

New. Pacific. Arcology! The next frontier is you!

Trinkets and odd notions kept for no obvious reason. Do they matter?

Maybe it's time we let the past alone and climb down from our walls. There's gotta be treasure that shines brighter than any we've been digging up from the bones of our lost world.

Has to be a better hand than the one we've already played. I say we get after it. See what's really waiting for us out in that darkness.

Maybe even light it up some.

Dance in the ash and flames.

The Traveler can follow suit if it feels the need to. Otherwise, it can watch over the City for a thousand years.

But you and me? We got far more important things to attend to. We're Guardians. We got a new future to forge.

-Cayde out.

It's our hand to play now. Remember to forgive and forget. Let go. Move on.

Nobody makes our fate but us.

THORN

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes.

—a warning

[radicalrascals]

Layers

TAGGED  BY:  copied from my old blog TAGGING:  @etxrnaleclipse , @icarian-carrion , @miidnighters , @ofginjxints , @strikersunindie , @rowan-revelry , @saudadexmses , @sirxnx , @rubiesintherough & whoever else wants to x

                 LAYER  001 :   THE  OUTSIDE.

NAME.  William Donovan Talbot | Liam Talbot EYE COLOR.  Amber with specks of green HAIR STYLE / COLOR.   Naturally mouse brown, unruly and curly-wavy if not cut short; which is why he usually wears it short. Every now and then he decides to bleach the fuck outta his hair, too. HEIGHT.  perfectly a v e r a g e 5′9″ CLOTHING STYLE.  Usually a layer-look consisting of oversized band shirt, hooded sweatshirt and leather jacket paired with snug fitted jeans and trainers or boots.  BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE.   His bum His cheeky impish/boyish grin

                 LAYER  002 :   THE  INSIDE.

FEARS.  Not being good enough, abandonment, canines of all sorts, relapsing (blood magic) GUILTY  PLEASURE.   Nothing legal, so I won’t advertise it BIGGEST  PET  PEEVE.   Pet-peeves are for beginners, true drama-queens take full-offense in everything.  AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE.   There are probably a few songs out there he’s looking forward to master on guitar in the future; other than that he’s not exactly one of the planning type. If there’s anything he’s ambitious about though it’s about improving musically as well as magically 

                 LAYER  003 :   THOUGHTS.

FIRST  THOUGHTS  WAKING  UP.   ’Coffeeeee~’ THINKS  ABOUT  MOST.  How to get out of the predicament he’s just landed himself in. Again.  THINKS  ABOUT  BEFORE  BED.  Nothing much or overly specific; he doesn’t have troubles falling asleep, so the time span for pre-sleepy-times-thoughts is usually extremely short.  WHAT  THEY  THINK  THEIR  BEST  QUALITY  IS.   He thinks his best and worst quality is his magic.

                 LAYER  004 :   WHAT’S  BETTER ?

SINGLE  OR  GROUP  DATES.   Single. Group-dates are just hanging out with the mates, there is no such thing as a date if it involves more than two people. TO  BE  LOVED  OR  RESPECTED.  Loved. Even if it meant he was loved by one and respected by none, he’d still choose love. Though he believes respect should be a vital part of any relationship. BEAUTY  OR  BRAINS.   Brains. As in someone like-minded, not necessarily someone of the intellectual kind. DOGS  OR  CATS.   Cats. He fucking fears hates dogs (and he pretty much behaves like a cat, so… duh)

                  LAYER  005 :   DO  THEY…

LIE.   Yep. Every day. Extensively. And he’s pretty much a shit liar when forced to make stuff up as he goes. BELIEVE  IN  THEMSELVES.   Nope. Usually not. Unless he’s high as fuck on magic. Has jumped off a high building with a levitation spell he’s never used before. That sort of misguided confidence is what we’re talking here. BELIEVE  IN  LOVE.  Of course. Everyone he falls in love with is his one true love until, well, he realises they’re not. But he’s out there, somewhere, and one day they’ll meet. WANT  SOMEONE.   Generally speaking: yes; save for short interludes of ‘everyone fuck off and leave me alone’

                   LAYER  006 :   HAVE  THEY  EVER…

BEEN  ON  STAGE.   As a musician, yes, numerous times. (But never anything fancy or big) DONE  DRUGS.   Yes.  GOTTEN  DRUNK.  Yeah. CHANGED  WHO  THEY  WERE  TO  FIT  IN.   He’d never change for anyone, but he’s always looking for somewhere he’d fit in.

                   LAYER  007 :   FAVORITES.

FAVORITE COLOR.   Anthracite grey, nightly shades of blue, black FAVORITE  ANIMAL.   Koalas…? Dunno, I feel compelled to write that FAVORITE  MOVIE.   The Lost Boys and Live And Let Die FAVORITE  GAME.   Guitar Hero at the arcades; doesn’t help much if you know how to play an actual guitar, but he slays this game no less. 

                   LAYER  008 :   SLEEP.

HEAVY  OR  LIGHT  SLEEPER.  Depends: heavy when in the safety of his home, light when sleeping on the streets or at a stranger’s place WHAT  SIDE  OF  THE  BED  DO  THEY  SLEEP  ON.  All the bed. WHAT  DO  THEY  WEAR  TO  BED.   Same what he’s been wearing all day, usually minus shoes and jacket, preferably minus socks, trousers and hoodie as well, naked when in good company. WEIRD  THINGS  THEY  DO  IN  THEIR  SLEEP.  He has an always expressive face, even in his sleep, pulling grimaces and such; also does fucking hog the blanket(s) 

                  LAYER  009 :   LOVE.

BIG  DECLARATIONS  OR  SMALL.   Small but persistently OPEN  OR  CLOSED  OFF.  Always open to (and starving for) love, yet at times reluctant about admitting his feelings LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT  OR  SLOW  BURN.  Affinity at first sight, everything else is a slow burn from there on. ONE  TRUE  LOVE  OR  A  STRING.  One true love; but finding it is a whole different story; besides, Liam is aware what True Love can do to people, knowing that his mum lost hers and she never learned to cope

                   LAYER  010 :   FINISH  THE  SENTENCE.

I  LOVE.  devotedly. I  FEEL.   you | Your heart it sings | I feel you | The joy it brings  ...wait what? I  USED  TO  HIDE.  from the bullies in school before I turned to hexing their arses instead. I  MISS.  having a place person I can call home. I  WISH. I’ll get a chance to righten some wrongs.

[acefms]

MUSE PLAYLIST / LANDON DUNN (banner credit.)

001. unsteady / x ambassadors

hold , hold on, hold onto me cause I'm a little unsteady. a little unsteady.

002. in the end / linkin park

i tried so hard and got so far, but in the end it doesn’t even matter. i had to fall to lose it all, but in the end it doesn't even matter.

003. paralyzed/ nf

when did I become so numb? when did I lose myself? all the words that leave my tongue feel like they came from someone else.

004. face 2 face / juice wrld

every time I go to fall asleep these demons haunting me, face my fears, face to face, as we meet. evil is grabbing me, losing my gravity my minds a bloody scene, detached from reality.

005. what I’ve done / linkin park

what I've done, i’ll face myself to cross out what i’ve become, erase myself and let go of what I've done.

006. boulevard of broken dreams / green day

I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. don't know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone.

007. lovely / billie eillish, khalid

oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here even if it takes all night or a hundred years. need a place to hide, but I can't find one near, wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear.

008. alive / khalid

gatekeeper, can you show me more to life? lately, I've been living out of spite. grim reaper, just give me one more night, I need another chance to say goodbye, I shouldn't have to die to feel alive.

009. never felt so alone / labrinth

and I never felt so alone, felt so alone, no, no.

010. this is me trying / taylor swift

i’ve been having a hard time adjusting, I had the shiniest wheels now they're rusting. I didn't know if you'd care if I came back, i have a lot of regrets about that. pulled the car off the road to the lookout, could've followed my fears all the way down / I just wanted you to know that this is me trying.

[aogram]

Cleric of Joy - (Prisoner 006) Esvel First Trial Voice Drama

Read under the cut! No TWs apply

A door swings open, but no steps come immediately after. The door is subsequently slammed shut as someone, not Verus, laughs.

Esvel:

Warden! What are you just standing there for? Come in, sit.

Verus:

I do not need to be invited into my own interrogation room, nor told to sit. And I will do so on my own time.

Esvel:

Damn, what’s your problem? I get that you’re in charge and all, but…

Verus:

…

Esvel:

Oh, I get it. You’re awestruck. I did notice that I was looking particularly radiant today.

Verus:

I most certainly am not. I’m surprised that you’ve developed the impertinence required to put your feet up on a table with your shoes off during your interrogation.

Esvel:

It’s not as if I haven’t got socks on. Would you rather I put my dirty old boots on there?

Verus:

And here I’d hoped for a prisoner with less attitude this time around.

Now footsteps can be heard, and then a chair scraping. There’s a scuffling sound followed by a light thump.

Esvel (laughing):

I prefer to think of it as a bit of… flair. I’m keeping people on their toes. And if you’re worried about me and Samako, just wait until you meet the next one.

Verus:

Enough. State your name, age, and occupation.

Esvel:

Right. My name’s Esvel Elmwood, 23 years old. I’m a cleric of Lliira.

Verus:

Lliira. I read a bit about her in preparation. Goddess of joy. A minor one, though, correct?

Esvel:

Ooh, Warden, a lot of people would probably take offense at that statement.

Verus:

A beloved minor goddess, then. And you’ve been a cleric for how long?

Esvel:

Well, I started college at 19… then I left a few months later and found the temple in a few weeks. So, about 4 years?

Verus:

I take it you’re devoted, then?

Esvel:

Depends on how you’d define “devotion”.

Verus:

Elaborate.

Esvel:

I do what’s asked of me. Plan celebrations and help worshipers and all. But it’s not like I’d die for her.

Verus:

Are you meant to do that?

Esvel:

Well, she doesn’t ask that of anyone. But I think a lot of people still would. Like you said, she’s a beloved goddess.

Verus:

And is there anyone you would die for?

Esvel:

Mm, that’s kinda invasive, isn’t it?

Verus:

Having your mind probed for music and a vision is a great deal more so.

Esvel:

Fair point. Well… there was once, anyways.

Verus:

And now?

Esvel:

Well, someone ended up dying. 

The room is silent for a few seconds.

Esvel:

Well, now I’m here, and they’re not. So it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Verus:

I’m not so sure about that.

Esvel:

There isn’t much to say, really. The really fun bits will be revealed in the song, right? I’d love to hear what it ends up sounding like, but maybe--

Verus:

Moving on, then. How are you adjusting to life at the prison?

Esvel:

I’ve got a few complaints about that, actually. The atmosphere is depressing; everything’s so gray that it brings down my mood. There’re no festivals, no celebrations. And--

Verus:

Next question. How are you getting on with the other prisoners?

Esvel:

My gods, I was just getting to that. No wonder everyone’s complaining about you.

Verus:

Everyone?

Esvel:

Well, a lot of them. The ones who talk to me, and the ones who talk to each other loudly enough that I can overhear.

Verus:

Intriguing. Now answer my question.

Esvel:

I like to think of myself as someone who’s easy to get along with, you know? People at the temple and in town liked me. But for some inexplicable reason, nobody here gets on with me particularly well.

Verus:

Nobody?

Esvel:

I mean, they’re nice enough. But they never want to actually do anything with me.

Verus:

What would you be doing?

Esvel:

Dunno. Art? Playing music? Talking? I tried to organize a little mixer so everyone would get to know each other, but it flopped miserably.

Verus:

A… mixer?

Esvel:

Like, a little party with treats and stuff. Only a few of them-- Dan, Araglar, and Virian-- showed up, and even less actually talked to each other. Or ate the food that I worked sooooo hard to… summon at the magic altar. It’s very taxing work, you know.

Verus:

I… see.

Esvel:

It’s tragic, really.

Verus:

And why, exactly, did you feel the need to do that?

Esvel:

They say that the three joys of life are food, drink, and other people. A party has all of those. Maybe that’s why people like them.

Verus:

Out of all the prisoners I’ve interrogated thus far, none of them seem to be the… partying type.

Esvel:

They aren’t. But I know they’d enjoy it if they tried.

Verus:

Do you?

Esvel:

Everyone has to take pleasure in something. Something’s bound to suit their tastes.

Verus:

And why do you care if they’re enjoying their time here?

Esvel:

Well, I’m a very empathetic person, y’know? So when they’re depressed, it makes me depressed. It’s better for everyone here if we’re all happy.

Verus:

I see.

Esvel:

I don’t think you do. One of the first things that members of Lliira’s clergy learn is that joy is a powerful, healing force. Without it, the wounds accumulated throughout life never truly close. Then you’re left with a nasty, bloody mess and suddenly nobody wants to talk to you. 

Verus:

So you have wounds that need healing through… all of this?

Esvel:

That’s another kinda personal question, Warden. 

Verus:

Answer it.

Esvel:

Probably? I’m here, after all. But I like to think that I’m still having a pretty good time.

Verus:

I see. But you’re here to be judged for your sins, in case you’ve forgotten.

Esvel:

Riiight…

Verus:

And we haven’t even talked about them.

Esvel:

Nuh-uh. That’s not true.

Verus:

Excuse me?

Esvel:

Don’t you remember what I said? Someone ended up dying.

Gears begin to grind as the platform lowers. 

Esvel:

…Anyways! It’ll all be clear when you see into my mind or whatever. I’m not all that complicated of a person, so it should be a good break from all the… broody, woe-is-me types you’ve had to deal with so far.

Verus:

Very well, then. I’ll listen to what your heart has to say. Prisoner 006, sing your sins.

---

Read Esvel's first trial MV Transcript here

Vote here

[fxckmierda]

Entry 006

Dated: 10/05/2024

I thought i wouldn't be here after that last post. But here I am.

Finally went to Niall Horan with my cousin. It was supposed to be my another late cousin but she is not around anymore so yeah. My parents were supposed to pick me and my cousin up but they were still 30 minutes away when i told them weeks, days before the concert to come at 9.30PM so we can eat after that, they freakin' left the house at 9.15 and have the audacity to wait for my useless older brother and his damn wife for the food. Why are people so useless.

On my way home, I was complaining to my cousin about my parents and I almost wanted to cry when I told her cause this wasn't the first time they did this and me thinking it's always an one time thing but it is always a two-times thing. Then she told me "You know I feel like your parents doesn't really care about you." you know I wasn't mad, I felt that way. Years after years how my parents treated me, i learnt to overly depend on them, I try to depend on myself unless i really need it. I guess that's how they feel. I'm always disappointed on how they handle things when it's me cause I'm just the one who wouldn't hold grunges, and the one who overreacts. Throughout the years, they never bothered to give me respect, and did not care how I feel. If they care about how my sister feels, how my brothers feel, why can't they understand mine? Things were going on my mind. It's funny but I have to accept the fact no one cares about me, even if I die right now, there is no problem. it's better for me anyway, everyone too.

I never knew what toxic yet loving household means. Then I understand. It's like your family is loving to you, but then make you feel like you're a problem and sees you as the one who give them a hard time when all you wanted was them to give you the same love as they give to the other children but my family doesn't understand.

Here i am crying again, and it's 12.20AM and i'm crying so badly. My last few posts has been about them. Why do I grow up in toxic yet loving family? I'm not sure if this is a blessing or a curse.

Sad to say that no one cares if i die.

too tired to post more although i have more but I hope this will be the last post.

[persephone-rue]

So I don't actually know much about Pokémon, and have never played an official game, BUT I know that Pokedéx entries are fuckin wild, so I decided to read some of them. So now here's my personal SparkNotes of every Pokédex entry from Gen I ig--

Bulbasaur #001- Photosynthesis turtle

Ivysaur #002- Photosynthesis turtle, part two

Venusaur #003- Photosynthesis turtle, part three, this time with flower :D

Charmander #004- If that flame ever goes out it dies.

Chameleon #005- A big mean lizard that can definitely kill you

Charizard #006- A dragon. Those flames really should kill any Pokémon in its path…

Squirtle #007- Turtle x archerfish

Wartortle #008- Turtle with furry tail. Also will outlive you by about 9 millennia

Blastoise #09- Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to tape a fire hose on a turtle?

Caterpie #010- Big ass caterpillar

Metapod #011- A useless iron cocoon

Butterfree #012- A poisonous butterfly that likes honey

Weedle #013- Poison caterpillar

Kakuna #014- A useless iron cocoon but poisonous 

Beedrill #015- Giant wasp with multiple stingers and is even more territorial

Pidgey #016- Birb.

Pidgeotto #017- Hawk.

Pidgeot #018- An osprey if it was also a jet

Rattata #019- Rat.

Raticate #020- Rat, but with iron teeth

Spearow #021- Birb. Again.

Fearow #022- Birb, but it likes to fly even more

Ekans #023- Snek

Arbok #024- Whose main powers include... being a snake???

Pikachu #025- It will electrocute you. And itself. And other Pikachus.

Raichu #026- Same as Pikachu, but will kill you, if it decides to not use the ground

Sandshrew #027- Armadillas keep diggin…

Sandslash #028- An armadillo porcupine that chose violence

Nidoran ♀ #029- Fatally toxic mouse

Nidorina #030- Docile toxic mouse with mild separation anxiety

Nidoqueen #031- Armor covered mama bear

Nidoran ♂ #032- The female one, but less docile and with bigger ears

Nidorino #033- Very dangerous toxic mouse. You will die

Nidoking #034- The definition of violence

Clefairy #035- A friendly little fairy buddy

Clefable #036- An even shier fairy buddy

Vulpix #037- A six tailed fox with pyrokinesis 

Ninetails #038- If you grab one of its tails it’ll curse you for the rest of its life. So a millennia

Jigglypuff #039- Sings a little lullaby :)

Wigglytuff #040- Really soft, and will inflate itself to beat you up better when angry

Zubat #041- A bat.

Golbat #042- A vampire bat that won’t stop drinking until you’re nearly dead

Oddish #043- A living nocturnal clump of weeds

Gloom #044- A walking corpse flower

Vileplume #045- A komodo dragon if it was a flower. My god is it scary

Paras #046- It’s got parasites on its back that steal most of its food. So it becomes a tree parasite

Parasect #047- Yeah that parasite’s taken over the poor Pokemon now :(

Venonat #048- Bug.

Venomoth #049- Poison moth

Diglett #050- A weird little mole that hates the sun and sometimes helps farmers

Dugtrio #051- Triplets that dig real deep underground. Yes they create earthquakes sometimes

Meowth #052- A cat that really likes shiny things. Give me back my change

Persian #053- A feral cat with a jewel forehead

Psyduck #054- A duck with psychic powers that give it migraines and memory loss

Golduck #055- A real good swimmer. Also it was almost hunted to extinction for one of its body parts

Mankey #056- A perpetually pissed primate

Primeape #057- A perpetually pissed primate 2, somehow angrier

Growlithe #058- A loyal dog that otherwise will bite strangers. And probably set them on fire.

Arcanine #059- Fast pretty boi

Poliwag #060- Tadpole. Also that swirl is just their organs

Poliwhirl #061- A frog that hypnotizes things with it’s skin

Poliwrath #062- Frog can now swim across an ocean

Abra #063- Just a sweepy guy that likes to teleport away from everyone always

Kadabra #064- Really strong psychic powers, that cause weird shit to happen, and the spoons help channel it ig. Also might be a kid????

Alakazam #065- REEEAAAAL smart, like brain is always growing smart. Also physically can’t move it’s own body without it’s powers, so if it ever lost those powers… uh oh (spoons still help btw)

Machop #066- Baby muscle builder

Machoke #067- It has infinite power, but don’t worry! This weird belt holds it back. Can still kill you with a finger. Be glad it's nice.

Machamp #068- Can now be as infinitely powerful twice as efficiently. Don’t ask it to do needlework

Bellsprout #069- Just a fly eating plant that can move at terrifying speeds

Weepinbell #070- A plant that poisons then eats anything that moves

Victreebell #071- Same as previous, but it definitely eats people

Tentacool #072- Jellyfish with magic eyes

Tentacruel #073- Man-of-war if it could emit ultrasonic waves

Geodude #074- It’s not a rock, but it gets mad of you step on it thinking it is

Graveler #075- Rolls down mountains to move, and like a boulder, will not care if you’re in the way. Also it’s favorite food is rocks

Golem #076- An indestructible boulder

Ponyta #077- A fire horsie that has indestructible hooves?

Rapidash #078- I AM SPEEEEEED

Slowpoke #079- It is constantly zonked out. I am surprised it wasn’t in the weed section of the Perfect Pokerap for that reason alone

Slowbro #080- The literal only difference from Slowpoke is that another Pokemon is eating its tail

Magnemite #081- A flying magnite

Magneton #082- Magnemine x3, now with the power to mildly fuck with everything around it

Farfetch’d #083- A duck that obsesses over a leek that it uses like a paper towel roll sword. Also what they’re holding changes names every other entry even though it is clearly either a leek or scallion. Oh and they’re endangered.

Doduo #084- Two headed roadrunner. The heads talk to each other :)

Dodrio #085- Mitosis spawned three headed roadrunner. It is now too smart

Seel #086- Seal. What did you expect.

Dewgong #087- Seal 2

Grimer #088- ACTUAL living sludge brought to life by the bullshitest of sciences

Muk #089- All of them should be put away in quarantine. How many ten year olds has this thing killed by being near them??

Shellder #090- Clam with a nigh indestructible shell

Cloyster #091- Clam that can fight back. Why does it look like a vagina..?

Gastly #092- It’s near invisible and just kinda suffocates you like that one scene from The Legend of Korra. It’s 95% gas and 5% victim soul too so have fun with that

Haunter #093- If fear of this thing in the dark doesn’t kill you first, it will actually lick the life force out of you

Gengar #094- A shadow that wants to kill you. Guess I’ll never go outside at night again

Onix #095- BIG OL’ SPEEDY ROCK SNAKE

Drowzee #096- STOP EATING MY DREAMS GOD DAMMIT

Hypno #097- STOP EATING MY DREAMS GOD DAMMIT, this time with a stolen kid

Krabby #098- Crab

Kingler #099- New method of execution just dropped. Two words: Hippo Claw.

Voltorb #100- A grenade.

Electrode #101- A large bomb.

Exeggcute #102- Eggs that travel in packs that are actually seeds?

Exeggutor #103- A yelling tree

Cubone #104- An orphan wearing the skull of its dead mom. It… it cries a lot…

Marowak #105- It’s overcome the death of its mom, and now uses the bones of it’s fallen brethren as a weapon

Hitmonlee #106- 100% is that kid that won’t stop kicking the back of your plane seat

Hitmonchan #107- Won the award for most likely to beat someone to death in less than 10 seconds

Likitung #108- It’s got a big tongue and licks things. And it’s saliva might be an irritant

Koffing #109- Mustard gas balloon

Weezing #110- Double mustard gas balloon

Rhyhorn #111- An indestructible rhino that can’t drift and is really stupid

Rhydon #112- The Nemean Rhino

Chansey #113- A very nice chicken that can make anyone happy and well fed. Stardew Valley chicken <3 <3

Tangela #114- A blue tumbleweed in Jordans

Kangaskhan #115- Kangaroo!! Also might’ve raised a human once so that’s pretty neat

Horsea #116- Seahorse, but also an octopus

Seadra #117- Seahorse, but also a lionfish

Goldeen #118- Just a really pretty fish. I want 7

Seaking #119- Another fish. Don’t touch their eggs. I’ll take another 7

Staryu #120- Starfish with an emphasis on star

Starmie #121- Uses the rainbow it makes from its body to talk to space. Probably an alien

Mr. Mime #122- A mime that looks for any excuse to smack you, especially with that invisible fish he was “holding” that’s now real

Scyther #123- A bug with scythe hands that moves way too fast and will probably kill you

Jynx #124- It uses dancing to talk because we don’t know what it’s saying

Electabuzz #125- The Energy Monster from Wordgirl

Magmar #126- Fire duck

Pinsir #127- A large insect with the hunting/killing strategy of a fucking crocodile

Tauros #128- A really violent bull with whip tails

Magikarp #129- A fucking useless fish that shouldn’t still be alive

Gyarados #130- A giant fucking sea monster that will kill us all. I’m sorry for calling you useless when you were a fish

Lapras #131- A very nice boat turtle that nearly went extinct

Ditto #132- A shapeshifter

Eevee #133- It’s genetic code is so fucking strange it can turn into 9 different things

Vaporeon #134- Hey guys, did you know- Mermaid cat that can melt into a puddle

Jolteon #135- A very sensitive bolt of lightning. It will kill you if startled

Flareon #136- A fire breathing puppy. You might wanna have a Vaporeon around if you get one…

Porygon #137- A piece of code in corporeal form

Omanyte #138- I guess we can just bring ammonites back now idk

Omastar #139- An ammonite with the Achilles heel of the irish elk

Kabuto #140- A trilobite too, why not

Kabutops #141- Scyther but underwater

Aerodactyl #142- Fuck it, pterosaurs, one of the scariest prehistoric creatures, they’re back now

Snorlax #143-  A giant sleeping teddy bear that can’t get sick. And is a nightmare to feed

Articuno #144- I’m pretty sure this bird’s just the god of winter

Zapdos #145- This is just Zeus minus the horny

Moltres #146- Again, this is a god. This bird is the god of fire and spring fuckin-

Dratini #147- A giant sea snake that people barely knew existed for awhile

Dragonair #148- Bigger sea snake that can kinda control the weather

Dragonite #149- Really kind water dragons that can fly too fast. I don’t know how we got here from Dragonair.

Mewtwo #150- A genetically fucked up stronger Mew, because humanity doesn’t understand the Greek concept of hubris

Mew #151- It’s rare, way too magical, and has the whole pure of heart thing goin on. So a unicorn.

[lizbethsletters]

thoughts on my mind | 006

There are of course moments when you're reading everything seems like you can relate it back to your life. The worst part is when it hits you hard, I'm reading this book when I realize that I'm so fucking grateful for my best friend and her helping me get back with her because if she hadn't, I would be stuck trying to find her in everyone. Yesterday my girl said that she was going to try no matter what and I was like well what are you talking about and then she said the sweetest thing ever. She said that it means no matter what she was always going to try to fix things she was never gonna let me go to sleep mad or sad she would reassure me how ever many times it took and that I never had to worry about her because she only had eyes for me and that she was never going to be with me through my bad days, my good days, and my mood swings. When she said that I don't know it felt like everything just fell into place like she knew me better than most people. She could tell when I was sad, mad, annoyed, or just fucking with her. She knew me like the back of her hand and I'm listening to phases by prettymuch and I don't know but there's this one verse that goes like "I realized that you're destined to be mine." which honestly it sort of made me realize the fact that I took her for complete granted like I just did. Recently everything has felt like a slap to the face because of that realization and my bad commitment issues. She has been calling me her wife since the beginning of time it didn't bother me until recently I don't know what changed but it made me think of things and I was like marriage is a really big step. I love her of course but it's a huge step in everyone's life I would not be able to accept that so soon. I would literally sort of rather die, which sounds really insensitive but I just I don't see myself getting married any time soon. Soooo tip #6 Never take anyone for granted because once they leave you might never get them back you might not be so lucky.

[7spawn]

𝟕𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐰𝐧. independent , private & headcanon driven interpretation of 𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝙲𝚄𝙽Í𝙽 of baldur's gate 3. 21+ only, minors & personal blogs will be blocked on sight. written by rosie , twenty7 , aest.

a study in : slavery, the corruption of man, sexual trauma & the healing process, ptsd, eat the rich, destroying the tormentor & somewhat redemption.

001. there will be very heavy & triggering themes in my portrayal of astarion. his backstory is horrific and includes not only sexual abuse, but physical and emotional abuse as well. i will tag everything accordingly but such themes will probably be mentioned or alluded to in threads or replies, so please keep that in mind when writing with me & look after yourself first ♥️

002. i would classify astarion as chaotic neutral, his choices and actions heavily benefit him most of time so don't expect him to make the morally right decision or have the correct ideals. he will absolutely try to manipulate your muse at some point so don't take it personally he's just baby.

003. i've finished the game & completed his story so there will be spoilers galore. while i will happily write ascended astarion, my default verse is where he remains a spawn. i have multiple verses that span outside of bg3 so if you don't have a bg3 verse or muse don't stress cutie we'll figure it out.

004. while i love shipping, astarion is hard to romance. he struggles with expressing himself in a healthy way and thinks people only want him for his body. while he starts to heal after killing cazador, its a long process so your muse is in for a rollercoaster of angst before the happy ending. astarion is pan-sexual with no leanings one way or another, he will flirt with everyone and everything.

005. as a former sex worker with sexual trauma myself**, smut will be handled differently than shipping. for 200 years astarion only had sex as a means of manipulation and never for pleasure or intimacy, so unless he is genuinely in love with your muse he won't have sex with them unless its for the reasons stated. so i will write smut, but it'll probably be rare.

006. i love everyones 'tav' but i want more information than whats in the game. i won't follow if there's no general backstory or personalisation. an exception will be made for durge characters as the whole point is the memory loss, but yeah lets get creative in this bitch.

007. i'll make better rules at some point i'm pretty lazy but this is all the important information. if you have any questions then lemme know, anon is open if you choose to send hate then i will assume you're a tiny little bitch who's never known happiness and will probably die alone.

** if there's one stigma i want to get out of the way, its the belief that if someone has sexual trauma then they never want to have sex again or are disgusted by it. i think this is a naive & uneducated way to treat victims of sexual abuse. of course there are people that feel this way but to assume every victim is the same is dumb. astarion wants to have sex, he enjoys sex but he doesn't know how to go about it without his ptsd taking over. i could actually go on a massive rant but i won't cause i doubt people are interested but yeah. surprise! people still get horny lol.

[samadhi-satori]

How do you create a dream?

Does it start with a beginning?

As soon as you start dreaming, there's no creation. The dream just starts. Everything is already there. The trees, the sky,

the earth, the flowers, the grass, people, insects, birds, flowers, everything just appears.

Does it die in the end?

You just wake up, and it's all gone.

What we're doing now is living the mortal dream. We believe in our bodies, in our existence, as it were. We believe the world is real, the mind is real, our experiences are real, and we get involved in them, like we

get involved in a movie. You know you're not the movie. You watch the movie, it ends, and you go home. The more you

get involved in the world situations, and in yourself, the small self, your body or mind phenomena, the more you get pulled into ignorance.

You have to loosen yourself from this maya. And thinking every day that you are unborn, you have no personal life, and you do not exist, and you will not disappear, just thinking about these things does something to you. You begin to feel different. You begin to feel alive. But not as a body. As Omnipresence. You begin to understand what Moses said, when he said, "I Am That I Am." You begin to feel free, untarnished. Your past is dissolved, because it never existed to begin with. You have no past. There's no cause. It's all a manifestation of your mind.

As you think about this, you become

totally free.

~ SILENCE OF THE HEART

1999 edition

Dialogue with Robert Adams

# T. 006 × The Three Vehicles of Self Realization - August 26, 1990

[xxaussiewerewolfxx]

TAG DROP 

[geisterruf]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫: 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐬? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭? 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ����𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨?✞

[sunflowerharrington]

stitches (- series masterlist) ~ ✧･ﾟ:*

PLAYLIST [coming soon…]

summary -

You died that night.

Simple as that.

One moment you were breathing, feeling your nerves rumbling around your insides as you swung around every which way as the monster jumped from street lamp to street lamp, its arm still digging painfully into your side, being released from its grip the next minute. You had hope, until you saw a bashed up camaro on fire outside a mall that was also roaring in flames…

- a fanfic for billy hargrove stans by a billy hargrove stan.

author’s note - Ladies, gentleman and anyone who is neither, here is a PSA: Viewer discretion is advised. I mean absolutely no harm to any character in this fanfic, this is just my interpretation of Stranger Things Season 3-4 and how I wish things played out.

warnings - Extreme violence, canon Stranger Things events with my twist, inhabitants of the Upside Down, The Upside Down, mentions of the Hawkins Lab Massacre, telekinesis, mind control, redemption of a certain someone, more warnings to be added. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (don’t hate me, please)

taglist - comment, dm or ask me to be added or removed. i have a separate taglist for this fic to my main taglist so if you want all updates on everything i put out let me know :)

main pairing(s) - Eddie Munson X AFAB!Reader (Feminine “traits”, nicknames like ‘princess’ and ‘doll’ etc.), Steve Harrington X AFAB!Reader, Billy Hargrove X AFAB!Reader (FRIENDSHIP)

can also be found on my AO3, @/sunflowerharrington

volume I

001 - a kiss before dying

002 - the girl with the number tattoo

003 - wounded, but reunited

004 - magical thinking

005 - i’m screaming, but i can’t wake up

006 - dear papa…

007 - that’s some romeo and juliet shit, man

008 - he wants revenge

009 - hgih sllih aronel

010 - little black dress

010 - take me to your master

011 - and then it all went wrong

012 - code red! this is a code RED! do you copy?!

volume II

013 - am i dreaming, or is that…? no, i’m hallucinating again

014 - the ballerina and the cheerleader

015 - chrissy, wake up!

016 - midsummer night’s dream

017 - rest in pieces, bitch

018 - vecna’s curse

019 - the seven deadly sins

020 - she’s the monster, not you

021 - rock you like a hurricane

022 - sleep with one eye open, grip your pillow tight

023 - are you really here?

024 - surrounded and estranged

volume III

025 - take my hand, we’re off to never neverland

026 - thunderstruck

027 - come rain or come shine

028 - white light, a desert storm

029 - master of puppets

030 - seek and destroy

031 - apocalypse

032 - epilogue: there’s just no time to die

much love to my bumble bees

- bee 🐝

- bee 🐝

[skyfallslayer]

Cherry || Chapter 2: A Red Awakening

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Series

Series Masterlist

Ao3 link

Character Cards: 001 002 003 004 005 006

🍒Series Summary: As a superhero, you always believe in the good that comes with it, and the feeling of bringing hope to people's eyes makes your heart flutter. That is… Until you witness your teammates murdering your husband. Now your world is upside down, and the people you once deemed your enemies are offering you some help. Will you take the bait? Or bury your head in the sand?

🍒Chapter Summary:  You’re “kidnapped” by a group of people claiming to be on your side; But you're having doubts about what’s even real or what’s even fake.

🍒Date: 9/4

🍒Rating: Explicit

🍒Word Count: 4415

🍒Warning: Talks of blood; Talks of Vomit; Scenes of Delusions/Denial; Talks about Death/Murder; Possible OOC(?). READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Let me know If I missed anything.

🍒A/N: So sorry this took so long! That was never my idea, I just had a crazy writers block after writing half of this chapter. Hopefully I don't go so long again. Anyway, Enjoy!

Whoever had their hand over your mouth was strong enough to muffle your screams. Your fight or flight senses kicked in heavily as you were pulled quickly through one of the rooms in the warehouse. You felt your powers starting to surge, the balls of your feet desperately digging into the concrete, your hands trying to claw this person off of you. You managed to finally get an elbow or two in your capturer’s ribcage, and heard them hold back a hiss of pain, but their grip never loosened to your dismay. Your eyes widened in fear again.

I’m fucked. You thought, your mind racing a mile a minute again.

I’m fucked. I’m dead. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going—

“Stop struggling. I’m on your side.” A husky voice whispered into your ear, sending visible shivers down your spine.

Shivers.

Oh, Jesus… you were really off your game now. But can you blame yourself though?

You felt the person’s lips against your ear again, pulling you closer.

“Now, I’m going to let go, but you can’t scream because if you do then we're both done for.” They continue, sternly and… gently? That’s odd. “Nod if you understand, okay?”

Strangely you find yourself actually doing it, and soon the hand slips off slowly, and so does the grip around your waist. You felt the person take a very small step back, which you used as an opportunity to turn around, face this odd person of a threat.

You were met with a tall man, taller than your… well… 

You choked down the nonexistent bile.

Your… your husband. Yeah. He was taller than your husband, and even in the poor moonlight, you could see this man had the deepest, yet brightest blue eyes you have ever seen. Richer than your friend John. He had chestnut hair pulled in a half bun; Stubbles too on his face. A very… manly-man so to speak. Intimating looking, scary even, but the eyes can always hold your true emotion; And his were just as soft as ever. 

You tried to speak, to mutter something before he made a motion for you to stay quiet. He soon mouthed the words, ‘Follow me’, and usher you to come. For some, maybe dumb, reason you did. You followed him through the shadows of the warehouse and back out into the open, where you were suddenly met with a suspicious looking van.

Your breath caught in your throat as you froze on the spot. 

Oh no fucking way. I really am going to die today–

“Hey.” He says, stepping into your view. “I know it doesn’t look promising, but it is. So, ma’am, I need you to trust me and get in the van. We need to leave before they find us. Please. Trust me.”

Your heart flutters shockingly. Your chest felt warm for a millisecond; And once again, stupidly you nodded and followed. What you weren’t expecting was him to open the back door so quickly and shove you inside. He climbed in right behind you afterwards, slamming the door.

“We gotta go, Sam, it’s fucking bad.” He says, making your head snap up and off the ground.

You realized you two weren’t alone. You watched as the driver flicked his attention back at the two of you for a split second before slamming on the accelerator. You fell flat on the ground again, but not long after you felt his hands on your biceps, helping you to sit up. 

You nearly jerked away when you saw someone sitting right across from you, which so happens to be a young looking boy; A teenager to be exact, one who was typing away on his laptop. Your (Y/E/C) eyes meet his soft brown ones for a split second, and he gives you a quick reassuring smile before resuming his work.

You surely felt yourself blinking a few times.

Why was there a child here? 

“Peter, status?” The man who saved you asked.

“We’ve got 60 seconds until the camera loop ends, just enough time to grab her bike.” The teenager, Peter, replies.

That got you out of your trance a little. “M-My bike?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna grab your bike, clear up the evidence that you were there.” The man answers. 

“B-But… what about the crowd? There were tons of people standing around when I got there.”

“They’ll be distracted by the ‘heroes’ cars. It’ll be fine.” He reassures, venom in his words as his hand rests on the back door. “Steve, help me out.”

This guy, Steve obviously, arose from the passenger seat and passed by you, apologizing quietly before reaching for the door as well.

“Might want to sit back some more.” Peter says to you before facing his boss. “30 seconds, open the door.”

Your body jerked against the wall as the brakes were applied, the back door springing open. You briefly watch as the man and Steve pull your motorcycle in as quickly as they could before slamming the door shut. 

“Sam, go!”

Another step on the gas, and you impact the wall with your body. Then…

You were off into the unknown.

•°•°•°•°•°

If you were being honest, you zoned out for most of the ride. It was pretty fucking stupid of you to do so, but I guess you can call your current mental state the “processing” stage with all the shit that’s just happened. You had stayed quiet as the four of them were muttering something a mile a minute, something you couldn’t quite understand or hear (Or maybe you chose not to).

Eventually the van came to a complete stop. Where exactly? You were unsure. And there was a part of you that started to become fearful again because maybe these people weren’t exactly your saviors like they promised. You watched as they all started scrambling out of the vehicle, Peter tucking his laptop under his arm and holding his free hand out towards you. You could see the genuine care in his young features, making your heart flutter as you did take it without hesitation.

As he helps you out of the van, you take this opportunity to take in the surroundings. If this was their hideout/lair/headquarters (Whatever you want to call it), it desperately needed some kind of update. From the looks of it, this place could be anywhere from a warehouse to a giant garage of some sort, seeing that the structure was made out of nothing but concrete. No windows as you can see, but there was a metal staircase leading up to a man-made loft (Was that even safe?). And when you took one whiff of the place…

Ew. Definitely smells like boys live here, with a hint of water damage. 

You swallow, unsure what to make of this. You were also unaware as the four men crowded behind you, waiting. But when they noticed you weren’t giving them the light of day, the man who saved you cleared his throat, giving you a reason to look back. Oh, no… your emotions were starting to swirl.

“Alright, ma’am, listen–” He begins.

“What the fuck’s going on?!” You suddenly reply, your outburst surprising even yourself (I guess your processing stage was finally over). “Where am I?! And who the fuck are you?!”

He holds his hands up, trying to show off that he was no threat. “Relax, you're in our base of operations. My name is Bucky.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Bucky?”

What kind of name is that?

“Yes.” He gestures to his teammates. “These are my friends. The blonde’s Steve; The driver’s Sam, and the kid’s Peter.” They all muttered ‘Hi’ in some kind of way. “And you are…?”

Your shoulders slack at that. You realized they didn’t know who you were. 

Good.

You straighten up again. “Y/N.” 

“Y/N.” Bucky says, happy you're complying. “Nice to meet you. If you’ve got any questions? Ask away. I’m sure you have many.”

You nod slowly, reading to soak up any bit of info about these individuals. “Who exactly are you people?”

“We’re the Avengers. We…” He takes a quick second to find the right words. “Expose and stop, and if necessary, kill corrupted supes.”

You felt yourself blink a few times. You were not expecting that. “What?”

“You heard us correctly, Ma’am. We’re an anti-supe group.”

An anti-supe…what? You felt your heart pick up at those words. Your mind wanders to when you almost activated your powers in the warehouse. You wonder if you’d be dead by now if you did. 

“Anti-supe?” It still felt weird to say. In fact, you wonder if you ever said those words before. You dared to ask the next question. “W-why kill them?” 

“Because a good chunk of them, especially the ones on the fucking Thunderbolts team, have villainous intentions that need to be stopped.”

“We’ve been hired by the CIA to do so.” Sam adds, like it was supposed to make this situation better (Does it though?).

You were shocked beyond words. You really weren’t expecting that. “The CIA hired you? Th-They made this group?”

How could they… Your breath got caught in your throat at a morbid thought.

Oh god… They’re planning to actually kill us.

“But…” Your mind flashes back to earlier again. Your husband is crossing your thoughts. “T-The people I saw… the Thunderbolts, they… th-they killed one of their own.”

“Battlestar probably flipped the script. So Crossbones, Glamour and Killmonger decided to finish him off.” Sam explains, his words hurting you deeply. 

“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened before.” Steve says, adding more salt into the wound.

“B-Before…?” You mumbled in disbelief. 

I guess I really don’t know my teammates after all. Or… my husband if that really is true.

You looked ill after thinking that, and I guess they noticed rather quickly.

“Look–” Bucky says, taking a cautious step forward. “I know what you witness is horrible, and I know this a lot to take in as well, but unfortunately I have to ask you to keep this all a secret.”

You blinked for the millionth time today. “What? What the hell do you mean by that?”

“It means you can’t go to the police.”

You scoff. “Can’t go to the police, huh? Sir, I just witnessed three people killing someone and you’re asking me to keep quiet about it?”

“Ma’am, Listen–”

“You’re insane! I have to go to the police! I have to tell them what I saw! I have to tell him that they… they…”

That they killed my husband.

Bucky gives you an empathetic look. “I know. But the Thunderbolts have some cops under their thumbs. If you go to the wrong one and tell them what you saw, they’ll kill you on the spot, make your death look like an accident or even a suicide. Trust me, I’ve seen it first hand. I’m trying to save you from that kind of fate.”

You swallow, your throat feeling dry. “So… what do you expect me to do?” You asked, eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your emotions are starting to appear at full steam as the adrenaline seeps away.

“Well, you could stay here with us. We can–”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, no, no. I… I-I can’t. I can’t. I-If I just up and disappear there will b-be people looking for me and…” You sigh trying to calm yourself. “I’m sorry.”

I-I can’t leave. Not yet. I can’t until I…

“It’s okay. I understand.” Bucky says, smiling softly that it didn't quite match the expression in his eyes. “We can figure something else out.”

“Actually, boss. There was no activity outside. It’s safe to just take her home.” Peter cuts in, sending you a much brighter smile than Bucky did (this kid really knew what heart strings to hit).

“Yeah. We can just take you home. Straight home if that’s what you would like instead. We’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You clenched and turned away, your hand running through your hair. You really didn’t know what to think of this. You didn’t really know if you can even trust these people. And after everything you witnessed a little while ago, you wonder if you could ever trust anyone again.

You faced them again, still weary. “Fine. You can just take me home.”

But I’ll be keeping my guard up.

“Alright.” Bucky said, gesturing to the van with his head. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’ll go with you too just in case.” Sam replies, following. 

You held your breath as you trailed behind, but before you crawled into the back, you felt the teenager’s hand tugging on your sleeve. 

“I know this is scary, Miss, but trust me when I say this, that we really are trying to help you. Just remember that.” Peter said, with a smile that could warm anyone up.

You return the expression as he lets your arm go, backing up next to Steve to give you some space that you greatly appreciated. You climbed into the back and closed the door, scooting next to your bike. You watch Bucky get into the driver’s seat, Sam in the passenger, both sharing a quick look before driving off. You hugged your knees, both to stabilize your emotions and your powers surging at your fingertips. You could hardly breathe at the tension you felt inside the van. A tension that you decided that might be necessary.

Just keep your guard up. Just keep it up. You chanted to keep yourself sane.

A long time had passed before Bucky spoke out of the blue.

“So where exactly do you live? I want to make sure I’m going the right way.” 

You cast a look at the windows on the back doors, noticing the black tinting on them and frowned.

“Just… Just drop me off anywhere on 11th street.” You reply, and hug yourself a bit more. 11th street is where the restaurant you were supposed to go to tonight was on. There was no way you could tell them to go to the tower. If they find out who you really are, you’ll probably end up dead.

“11th?” Bucky said, surprised. “Look, I just drop you off at–”

“If you want me to trust you, then you have to trust me. Drop me off at 11th.”

You watched the two men share a look again before you felt the car turning into what you assumed was the direction you asked. A long moment passed again before you felt the van pulling up next to a curb, Sam telling you that you were here. You said nothing as you shifted and opened the two doors, your hands soon resting on your bike handles–

“Here.” Bucky says, holding out a small slip of paper. “This is my number.”

You carefully take it, eyes reading it over still not muttering a word. You hear him sigh, but not one of frustration, just concern.

“Look, I would appreciate it if you could text me in the morning, just to make sure you’re okay. Then after that, you can burn if you like. You’ll never have to hear or see us again. Okay?”

You swallow and nod slowly once more, tucking the number away before cautiously taking your bike out of the van. You met his gaze one last time, replying with,

“And please don’t follow me, because I will know.” You close one door, and flash a very, very small smile. “Thank you.”

You close the other one, and snag your helmet to put on. You felt the van behind you pull away into the night,  and you waited a minute or two before surveying the area. When you realize that they were actually gone, then that’s when you hopped onto your bike and rode to the place you were dreading to go.

•°•°•°•°•°

You almost broke into tears on the way over there. Almost puked into your helmet at the horrible scene waiting for you. You still prayed that this was fake. A dream. Your worst nightmare. But as you rode up to where you found John’s car parked behind Brock’s, you saw your car you lent to your friend along with a bunch of police vehicles.

Your heart sank as you saw the yellow tape hung up everywhere, with men and women in blue trying to usher the heavy crowds away. You rode your bike until you couldn’t anymore, parking it and throwing your helmet off as you started swimming into the crowd. You felt your heart beating in your ears, your mouth going dry, your emotions going into absolute overdrive. 

You jogged up right to the police tape, right up the barrier dividing you and the terrible crime scene. Your mind was still trying to deny it all, even after you found yourself locking eyes with John who looked almost as a mess as you. You tried taking a step towards him, but you felt an officer's hand against your chest, telling you to stay back.

“Hey! Let her through! She works at the tower!” John calls out. A white lie, sure. But he couldn’t exactly shout your secret ID to a lot full of superfans.

His words were all it took for you to be let through. As you ran up towards him, shaking your head, still trying to fucking deny everything.

“John… don’t tell me it’s…” You said, barely getting the words.

Please tell me I hallucinated everything. Please tell me I’m just crazy. Please tell me–

But when he shakes his head with a sorry expression, your whole world collapses.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I saw the body. It really is, Lemar.” 

"No…" You start crying just as he starts pulling you into his arms. “No, No, No, No, No, No…” He starts gently stroking your hair as you sob. “H-How… w-what…?”

You’re not sure why you even asked because you knew what happened; But maybe, just maybe, you hoped it was still hoped that the murderers you saw were someone else. You feel his chest move tightly, like he was sucking in a shaky gulp of air before speaking.

"Lemar had picked up something suspicious on the way back to the tower and decided to check it out.” John starts explaining, holding you a little tighter. “Not long after, he sent a distress beacon for one of us to pick up, but when they arrived they found his body."

You sobbed again. "They?" 

"Yeah, Brock, Agatha and Erik were in the area.”

As soon as he said that, you peaked over his shoulder just in time to see the three of your teammates stepping out of the building, wearing sorrowful expressions that made your insides ache. Those… those bastards were trying to act like they fucking care about your husband. They–

“I'm sorry. We'll find out who did this, Y/N." John promises with all his heart. A promise you know he’ll keep to his very end.

As much as you wanted to start screaming and lunge after them, you were just so emotionally drained that eventually your legs gave out…

And you passed out in John’s arms.

•°•°•°•°•°

You closed the door with the strength you had left. When you had awoken not too long ago, you were riding in the passenger seat of John’s car, and instead of breaking the ice (no matter what the circumstances were) like you always do, you just stayed silent; Your eyes so distant as you stared out the window. When you got back to the tower, you ignored everyone on your way back to your apartment. If Lemar’s death was done differently, you think you would have craved the pity and condolences everyone was giving you; But the fact that he was killed by the people you considered family, well…

You weren’t sure who you could trust anymore. You could trust John, that was for sure, but the rest of your teammates? 

Hell-fucking-no.

You weren’t even sure if you could trust the workers in the building. 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you had, and mustered up some more energy to push yourself away from the door; Standing tall yet shaky and nauseous. You bite your tongue to try to stop yourself from puking, To stop the dizzy spell. You had to take a shower. You had to wash off the muck and the nonexist blood. You could still see the blood all over your husband’s body, it’s–

You gag and cover your mouth. 

Shower. I just need to shower. You tell yourself, and take wobbly steps towards the bathroom. You desperately wanted to stay in hot water, laying against the cool tiles, laying for hours until—

.

.

.

.

He squeezes your hand. “Listen, just in case this mission goes south, or… I-I don’t make it to dinner tonight-” Another squeeze. “Promise me that you won’t come looking for me right away.”

.

.

.

.

You froze.

Wait…

You turn to look at your closet, still half way opened and begging you to take another look inside. Your mind flashed to the suitcase, the passports. You remember the confusing thought of why he even had those out. But now, after what you just witnessed, it was all starting to make sense.

You practically ran towards the closet.

.

.

.

.

“Oh, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar.” Brock said, kneeling before him. “Oh, Lemar, if only you just kept your nosy ass out of our business, then none of this would have happened. Honestly. The truth is–”

He touches your husband’s face, making him wince painfully, continuing, “I never really wanted to kill anyone on my team. I really do see so much potential in all of you, it’s insane.” 

.

.

.

.

You ripped open the empty suitcase, searching through all the pockets and zippers you can find for anything. Anything that can give you a clue on what your husband predicted.

What did you find out, Lemar? You asked the air, slamming the suitcase closed before searching through your passports.

What did you find out that made our teammates kill you? What did you find? You found nothing and sprung to your feet. From there you started tearing apart your husband’s side of the closet, making a mess all over the floor.

Give me something! You gotta give me something, honey. Please! You begged while tightening your jaw.

.

.

.

.

His light laughs made your stomach turn in a way they’ve never done before. It made you physically ill on many levels.

.

.

.

.

You raced around the room, opening and looking for anything that was Lemar’s, praying and praying that you’ll find something. Even if it was the smallest clue in the world, you’ll still fucking take it.

.

.

.

.

“However…” Brock rants on, his grin starting to falter a bit. “You just had to do this. You just had to figure out how the game is really played. You had to play God. Well–” He pulls him closer. “That’s going to cost you, my friend.”

You clenched your fists, trying to keep your nerves calm as you searched for an opening to interfere.

.

.

.

.

You empty out drawers, boxes, his side of the bed, under the mattress, the covers, Anything. But you were running out of options. You only had one thing of his left.

His laptop.

You had a small spark of hope as you turned it on.

.

.

.

.

Brock’s grin grew again, even more sinister than before, with an unnerving proposition behind it. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure your wife’s taken care of. I’ll make sure to be there when she needs me. I’ll hold her at your funeral, and I’ll whisper the comforting things she wants to hear. And maybe…”

.

.

.

.

You typed in his password, the words so personal that they struck a cord but you pushed it aside, waiting for the home screen to appear.

.

.

.

.

He licks his lips at a sudden thought. “Maybe she’ll let me in enough to take care of her. Show her what a real man is. You know?”

As your eyes shined purple for flight—

.

.

.

.

When the screen finally loaded, you froze again.

.

.

.

.

You watched as Brock snapped Lemar’s neck with ease.

.

.

.

.

You slammed the laptop closed, not even thinking about the damage you may have caused to it. 

Encrypted.

The whole funking laptop was encrypted. The words on the screen, the files, and even the fucking search engine was encrypted to something you couldn’t even read. You were frustrated. Beyond frustrated. Whatever your husband had discovered was well hiddened on his screen. 

Damn it. Damn it! You metally sigh, closing your eyes and laying your forehead against the cold surface of the desk. You were pissed because you were no hacker. How the hell were you supposed to decrypt this?

Funny you think this because your brain suddenly reminds you of a certain teenage boy you met not too long ago. He was a hacker from the looks of it.

Could he…? You shake your head at such a bad idea. 

What the hell am I thinking? He works in an anti-supe team. I’m on top of their food chain. They’ll kill me if they find out who I am. 

Yet, there was still a very small percentage of your brain telling you to go for it. To give that Bucky guy a call, to set up a meeting, to tell them who you are and what really happened.

Maybe… if I tell them who Lemar is to me, they’ll take pity? But you couldn’t see into the future, you couldn’t predict the outcome. For all you know it could go completely sideways.

You groan loudly, throwing your head back, hands in your hair.

I’m sooooo fucked.

You racked your brain for some answers. Who could trust? What should be your next move? Who could you call? You go back and forth between many names, but there’s one that comes to mind many times out of all of them. And after witnessing the death of your husband, that name made your blood boil.

You pick up your phone and dial the number by heart. Your foot was tapping in rhythm with the ringing. You heard a familiar voice on the other side.

‘SHIELD International, This is Sitwell. How may I transfer your call?’

You swallow the anger you started to feel, but you felt it still simmering at the surface. You clenched your fist and said,

“Put my father on the phone.”

_____________________________________________________________

-Taglist-

@marvelouslovely-barnes @daddyavesxx

[holyprompts]

100 song title prompts pt. #2

one rule: don’t listen to the song first!

001. loverboy 002. feels so nice 003. by your side 004. ride 005. conspiracy of silence 006. to death 007. rain 008. roll of the dice 009. switch 010. the fall 011. dirty 012. are we having any fun? 013. pastels 014. cotton candy 015. july 016. never learn 017. human touch 018. white lies 019. i never loved myself like i loved you 020. tropics 021. cigarettes & feelings 022. full course meal 023. i’m leaving, sorry for your loss 024. hate that i miss you 025. virtual reality 026. obvious secret 027. egoist 028. masochism 029. missing my soul (you won’t find it) 030. tired 031. turn a blind eye 032. i’ve been calling 033. blame it on us 034. temporary 035. will i always feel this way? 036. more than a friend 037. patient zero 038. knife under my pillow 039. not your summer 040. buzzkill 041. love, or the lack thereof 042. dizzy 043. debt collector 044. can you feel my heart? 045. don’t assume what you don’t know 046. dead body 047. weight of it all 048. one more weekend 049. dramatic 050. ripe 051. runaway 052. jealousy, jealousy 053. furniture 054. this is me trying 055. transparent soul 056. whywhywhy 057. dear god 058. the funeral 059. black confetti 060. play dead 061. no strings 062. love theory 063. born to die 064. turbulent 065. not your fault 066. all your heroes 067. cinderella’s dead 068. synchronize 069. moderation 070. favorite poison 071. that funny feeling 072. little talks 073. choke 074. sad and bored 075. everything sucks 076. cherry picking 077. push pull 078. dead to me 079. affluenza 080. on the rocks 081. key your car 082. favorite crime 083. better days 084. nobody else 085. flesh & blood 086. cannibal queen 087. sunday candy 088. debbie downer 089. caviar 090. hallucination 091. cooler than me 092. i feel like a god 093. too close 094. line without a hook  095. no tomorrow 096. jigsaw 097. love it when you hate me 098. die happy 099. ease my mind 100. creature

[ddudumemes]

PLASTIC HEARTS SENTENCE STARTERS

(( collection of ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FOUR sentence starters taken from MILEY CYRUS’ album ‘ PLASTIC HEARTS ’ . requested by anonymous ))

001.  WTF  DO  I  KNOW  . ‘  i’m  not  tryna  have  another  conversation  .  ’  ‘  here  to  tell  you  something  that  you  don’t  know  .  ’ ‘  am  i  wrong  that  i  moved  on  and  i  don’t  even  miss  you  ??  ’ ‘  what  the  fuck  do  i  know  ??  ’ ‘  i  couldn’t  be  somebody’s  hero  .  ’ ‘  you  want  an  apology  ??  not  from  me  .  ’ ‘  i’m  the  solution  .  ’ ‘  maybe  all  the  chaos  is  for  your  amusement  .  ’

002.  PLASTIC  HEARTS  . ‘  the  sunny  place  for  shady  people  .  ’ ‘  you  can  be  whoever  you  wanna  be  here  .  ’ ‘  i  should  really  go  home  .  ’ ‘  frightened  by  my  own  reflection  .  ’ ‘  love  you  now  ,  but  not  tomorrow  .  ’ ‘  i’ve  been  california  dreaming  .  ’ ‘  i  just  wanna  feel  something  .  ’ ‘  i  keep  feeling  nothing  all  night  long  .  ’ ‘  i  can  be  whoever  you  want  me  to  be  .  ’

003.  ANGELS  LIKE  YOU  . ‘  won’t  call  me  by  name  ,  only  “  baby  ”  .  ’ ‘  everyone  says  i  look  happy  .  ’ ‘  i  know  that  you’re  wrong  for  me  .  ’ ‘  i  brought  you  down  to  your  knees  .  ’ ‘  they  say  misery  loves  company  .  ’ ‘  it’s  not  your  fault  i  ruin  everything  .  ’ ‘  it’s  not  your  fault  i  can’t  be  what  you  need  .  ’ ‘  angels  like  you  can’t  fly  down  here  with  me  .  ’ ‘  i’m  everything  they  said  i  would  be  .  ’ ‘  before  you  let  go  ,  just  one  more  time  .  ’ ‘  a  little  more  hurt  won’t  kill  you  .  ’

004.  PRISONER  (  FT  .  DUA  LIPA  )  . ‘  can’t  get  you  off  my  mind  .  ’ ‘  why  can’t  you  just  let  me  go  ??  ’ ‘  i  can’t  control  it  .  ’ ‘  i’ll  never  escape  it  ,  i  need  the  high  .  ’ ‘  you  keep  making  it  harder  to  stay  .  ’ ‘  i  still  can’t  run  away  .  ’ ‘  i  tasted  heaven  ,  now  i  can’t  live  without  it  .  ’ ‘  i  can’t  forget  you  .  ’

005.  GIMME  WHAT  I  WANT  . ‘  careful  ,  you  might  hurt  yourself  .  ’ ‘  pleasure  leads  to  pain  ,  to  me  they’re  both  the  same  .  ’ ‘  you  might  be  insane  .  ’ ‘  you  know  what  i  need  .  ’ ‘  no  one  likes  to  be  alone  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  need  a  future  ,  i  don’t  need  your  past  ,  i  just  need  a  lover  .  ’ ‘  gimme  what  i  want  or  i’ll  give  it  to  myself  .  ’ ‘  i  can  tell  that  you’re  new  to  this  .  ’ ‘  you  can’t  resist  .  ’ ‘  give  yourself  to  me  .  ’ ‘  give  it  to  me  ,  babe  .  ’

006.  NIGHT  CRAWLING  (  FT  .  BILLY  IDOL  )  . ‘  sometimes  i’m  good  for  nothing  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i’m  the  best  you’ve  ever  had  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i  need  your  loving  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i  stab  you  in  the  back  .  ’ ‘  gotta  listen  when  the  devil’s  calling  .  ’ ‘  when  it’s  yelling  out  my  name  ,  i  chase  it  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  my  thoughts  are  violent  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i  sit  in  silence  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i’m  running  for  my  life  .  ’

007.  MIDNIGHT  SKY  . ‘  it’s  been  a  long  night  .  ’ ‘  the  mirror’s  telling  me  to  go  home  .  ’ ‘  it’s  been  a  long  time  since  i  felt  this  good  on  my  own  .  ’ ‘  the  midnight  sky  is  the  road  i’m  taking  .  ’ ‘  i  was  born  to  run  ,  i  don’t  belong  to  anyone  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  need  to  be  loved  by  you  .  ’ ‘  can’t  bite  the  devil  on  my  tongue  .  ’ ‘  it  ain’t  so  bad  if  i  wanna  make  a  couple  mistakes  .  ’ ‘  i  never  stay  put  in  one  place  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  hide  blurry  eyes  .  ’ ‘  thought  you’d  never  be  replaced  .  ’

008.  HIGH  . ‘  sometimes  i  get  a  little  too  hurt  .  ’ ‘  got  my  mind  going  places  it  ain’t  wanna  go  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i  get  a  little  too  low  .  ’ ‘  i  can’t  see  myself  through  the  fire  and  the  smoke  .  ’ ‘  in  my  head  ,  i  did  my  very  best  saying  goodbye  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  miss you  .  ’ ‘  i  think  of  you  and  don’t  know  why  .  ’ ‘  i  still  feel  high  .  ’ ‘  sometimes  i  stay  up  all  night  .  ’ ‘  you  don’t  ever  talk  to  me  in  my  dreams  .  ’

009.  HATE  ME  . ‘  go  ahead  ,  you  can  say  it’s  all  my  fault  .  ’ ‘  i  thought  one  of  these  days  you  might  call  .  ’ ‘  i  know  i’m  not  on  your  mind  .  ’ ‘  i  wonder  what  would  happen  if  i  die  .  ’ ‘  would  it  be  too  hard  to  say  goodbye  ??  ’ ‘  i  hope  that  it’s  enough  to  make  you  cry  .  ’ ‘  maybe  that  day  ,  you  won’t  hate  me  .  ’ ‘  go  ahead  ,  you  can  say  i’ve  changed  .  ’ ‘  just  say  it  to  my  face  .  ’ ‘  one  drink  and  i’m  back  to  that  place  .  ’

010.  BAD  KARMA  (  FT  .  JOAN  JETT  )  . ‘  you  may  think  i’m  ghosting  .  ’ ‘  the  truth  is  i’m  a  liar  .  ’ ‘  you  ain’t  a  fucking  buyer  .  ’ ‘  they  say  it’s  bad  karma  when  you  live  a  double  life  .  ’ ‘  they  say  it’s  bad  karma  being  such  a  heartbreaker  .  ’ ‘  i’ve  always  picked  a  giver  ‘cause  i’ve  always  been  a  taker  .  ’ ‘  i’d  rather  just  do  it  ,  then  i’ll  think  about  it  later  .  ’ ‘  kiss  me  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  play  the  nicest  .  ’ ‘  it  ain’t  a  fucking  crime  .  ’ ‘  i  never  learn  my  lesson  so  i  always  do  it  twice  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  give  a  fuck  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  believe  in  luck  .  ’ ‘  i  do  what  i  wanna  do  .  ’ ‘  you  got  a  mean  drummer  face  .  ’

011.  NEVER  BE  ME  . ‘  i  know  i  do  this  every  time  .  ’ ‘  i  walk  the  line  .  ’ ‘  i  play  with  fire  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  wanna  push  you  way  too  much  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  wanna  lean  that  way  too  far  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  wanna  ever  learn  the  hard  way  .  ’ ‘  if  you’re  looking  for  stable  ,  that’ll  never  be  me  .  ’ ‘  if  you’re  looking  for  faithful  ,  that’ll  never  be  me  .  ’ ‘  if  you’re  looking  for  someone  to  be  all  that  you  need  ,  that’ll  never  be  me  .  ’ ‘  hard  as  i  try  ,  that’ll  never  be  me  .  ’ ‘  dry  your  tears  now  ,  don’t  you  cry  .  ’ ‘  i’m  by  your  side  ,  at  least  for  a while  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  wanna  gamble  with  your  heart  .  ’ ‘  i  don’t  wanna  leave  you  lonely  .  ’ ‘  can’t  get  too  close  to  the  sun  .  ’ ‘  baby  ,  you’re  the  only  one  .  ’ ‘  i’d  never  lie  to  you  .  ’ ‘  you  give  me  a  reason  to  run  from  the  fire  .  ’

012.  GOLDEN  G  STRING  . ‘  i  was  thinking  about  my life  .  ’ ‘  i  did  it  all  to  make  you  love  me  .  ’ ‘  that’s  just  the  world  that  we’re  living  in  .  ’ ‘  you  dare  to  call  me  crazy  ,  have  you  looked  around  this  place  ??  ’ ‘  i  should  walk  away  ,  but  i  think  i’ll stay  .  ’ ‘  they  told  me  i  should  cover  it  .  ’ ‘  i’m  trying  to  work  it  out  .  ’ ‘  at  least  it  gives  the  paper  something  they  can  write  about  .  ’ ‘  the  mad  man’s  in  the  big  chair  .  ’ ‘  his  heart’s  an  iron  vault  .  ’ ‘  if  you  can’t  make  ends  meet  ,  honey  ,  it  must  be  your  fault  .  ’ ‘  maybe  caring  for  each  other’s  just  too  1969  .  ’ ‘  i  have  too much  to  lose  .  ’ ‘  i  can’t  walk  away  .  ’