#* paramnesias .

[soulcost]

⭐️

send a " ⭐ " and I will list muses I would be interested in throwing at yours

saga anderson — we all know how the story goes, how the draft has changed. but what happens once return concludes? I, for one, could see saga and alan (and casey) working under the FBC moving forward to figure out how to get a certain specific person out of the dark place, as well as investigate on how to mitigate AWE events around cauldron lake. additionally, with the way the alternate ending concludes and saga's general mindfulness and empathetic nature, alan's stuck with a friend now. we both say so.

alex casey — he's still annoyed that he shares a name and profession with the fictional character of alan's acclaimed series, but he's also a little less of a hard ass about it since he has a more nuanced understanding of how these things came to be. they've also both been possessed by scratch and I think that opens the door for some interesting conversations and development.

rose marigold — she's still your biggest fan, alan, and yes, she still thinks that you were the one leaving her hidden messages on how to fight the taken and help the hero in your new story while you were trapped in the dark place. one thing that stuck out to me was that she mentioned the A. WAKE sending her messages also left some recipes to try; imagine if they're the kinds of things alice used to make. imagine if alan puts this together. then imagine rose showing alan all of the messages she was getting over the years and helping bridge some gaps in getting alice out of the dark place. (also, I'm forever thinking about that page from AW1 where she observes alan and alice and wishes she could be their friend, I'm js).

scratch — you know him, you hate him, he's all the worst parts of yourself dialed up to five thousand! there's a lot we can do here and I'm open to exploring all of it. scratch truly exists to make alan's life worse and his work is never done. after all, you can't have light without the dark.

jill valentine — I'm not saying the BSAA and the FBC are two sides of the same coin. I AM saying that it's entirely plausible that there has been overlap in one reality or another and if bioweapon sightings were to end up happening in bright falls or if AWEs were to end up happening during biodisasters, there's more than enough potential for their paths to cross.

max caulfield — both life is strange and alan wake take place in the pacific northwest, both games take heavy inspiration from twin peaks, there are SO many spiral symbols around max at all times and she can quite literally rewind time. also, she's probably a big fan of alice's work. put these two in a room, let them save humanity and never tell anyone a word of it.

[miswaken]

@paramnesias asked: and i’m just- i’m just floating in this ocean of nothing, and i wonder if this is it, if this is what death is. from the depths of my meme tag || spam always accepted

She pays attention to the televisions. The grid-like arrangement in the storefront alongside the alley. The individuals ensconced in quiet corners like they're both waiting for and resisting being found. Even the twin sets in Zane's room -- although those tend to tune strangely, broadcasting channels Alice isn't sure she recognizes.

The others, though, give her glimpses. She sees Alan in other ways -- sees him everywhere in this place, the streets of phantom New York awash with his ghost as much as they are with the perpetual rain. But the televisions are more direct. She's caught him on Door's show, squirming through an interview and dancing like his life depended on it. Those projections are still ones that she'll pause for, drinking in any piece of him she can, but they don't provide much insight. Door, whoever and whatever he is, is playing his own game.

No, what she's really on the lookout for are videos from the writer's room. A chance to mark where Alan is on his journey.

They range in coherency as much as they do tone. He's determined in those early laps of the spiral, confident he can still turn the ship around before it goes out of control. The deeper he sinks, the more he becomes unglued. This one... Alice doesn't think she's seen it before. Ones like it, but not this one. She's clutching her jacket tight around her throat as though it might stave off the constant oppressive chill -- the dry warmth of the apartment feels a million miles away. He's pacing, the image of Alan on the screen, jerky cuts rendering him in stop-motion. One moment he's standing, the next he's in the corner of the room, and in a blink he's hunched over the desk. She's practically pressed up against the window of the storefront façade, breath fogging faintly on the glass. Alan is mumbling to himself but Alice doesn't have to strain to hear it. It comes through as clearly as if he were standing beside her.

"And I’m just- I’m just floating in this ocean of nothing, and I wonder if this is it, if this is what death is--"

The catch in his voice spawns a sympathetic lump in her throat. She's seen what comes after this. Drowning. I'm drowning. I'm drowning. Her eyes remain glued on the televisions, the fragment of the world contained within. After this. There is no after in this place. There is no before, no now. There just is.

She waits there until the broadcast goes to static then cuts out as though every cord was pulled at once. A silent witness to Alan's desperate mania that's happening now and three years ago and god knows how long into the future. Around and around and around. And that's all she can do. Stand and watch. The direct attempts ended in disaster, have relegated her to a guiding hand in the dark, a single flare against the great gaping maw of the unknowable. Not for the first time Alice hates herself for it. For not figuring out some better, easier way. For taking so long to come even this far.

But Alice can't let herself sink. Not now. She's the buoy, not the anchor, and she can't afford to get weighed down and take the hope of escape with her. Soon enough things will shift, she can feel it. The pieces are in place. And then everything will be different.

She has to believe that.

Hugging her camera tight against her, Alice turns away from the dead televisions and sets her course for home.

[ruiination]

@paramnesias ♥ ( from barry)

He looked awful. Barry didn't mean it in a bad way. He wasn't cutting Alan down, but he did think it every time he looked at him. 'Man, he looks bad...' An automatic observation. He doesn't say it. There was no point. After all, Al probably felt like shit too. There really wasn't much Barry could do to help him aside from stick by him.

"Hey Al... When was the last time you ate anything?" He looked pale and exhausted. Granted, with all the insane crap going on, it made sense. Adding in that Alice was... gone. Even if Barry didn't know if they would be able to find her, he did know that Al was being attacked by monsters. It made sense to suspend his disbelief about Alice too.

"I know we gotta find Alice and try to survive getting attacked by monsters, but... Well, you look like crap." Oops, he accidentally came out and said it.

[dexdgirl]

@paramnesias @championxfthelight

I remember you said you were scared. And so was I.

[walriding]

@paramnesias asked: the devil on your back, it’s in you. aw2 starters || accepting

It comes as easily as breathing does, a silent transformation in the time it takes Wake to check that his gun is loaded. One moment it's Miles standing there, hands on his hips in a surveyor's stance, and the next it's him but not. It hasn't spoken to the writer yet, not now and not in the time they've had him in custody. Normally Miles isn't so coy about his condition -- the Bureau knows what he is, and he derives some measure of satisfaction in making people uncomfortable just existing as he does. But he's kept a shorter leash on it in Wake's company, half for the other man's perceived benefit and half because it doesn't exactly care for interpersonal interaction.

The inevitable conflict to come is where it excels, and it isn't about to let its Host risk his neck unprotected for the sake of another's sanity.

If the hum in the air isn't an alert that something has changed, the single word -- "Wake" -- is a resounding indicator. A word plucked from a memory, borrowed intonation that makes the bearer of the name start and look up. Fear spikes, sharp and tantalizing. The nerves play plain across his face, but to the writer's credit he manages to swallow it back enough to assess what he's seeing.

"The devil on your back, it's in you."

There's a difference between hearing about something and witnessing it firsthand. Miles knows what it is to have a darkness scratching at the enclosure of his skin, has told Wake as much in terms just as plain, but there's something to be said for showing rather than telling.

"Astute observation, Sherlock." There's a distinctly human cast to the words and accompanying snort, a twitch in expression that settles back to stony stillness like a lake disturbed by a thrown stone. The next words are spoken evenly and eerily, flattened by something that doesn't know how to convey emotion and doesn't much care to learn.

"We're here for his sake, not yours." Not entirely true. Miles is here for Wake, and the bleed between Swarm and Host goes both ways. Against its nature it considers Wake's safety here because Miles does, will run the necessary defense because Miles wants it to. Those facts prickle, somewhat, but that's a problem for later discussion. "Watch where you're shooting. And try not to die in this chapter."

[mime-the]

Been working on something for the past three days…

AU stuff!! Woohoo!

Grrhrhraaaahhh

Song: Hole-Dwelling (English Cover) - Lostparadice

[miswaken]

Nothing captures what a photo does. A paper-thin slice of reality, light and darkness distilled into a singular snapshot. A moment that will never exist again, a place or a thought or a feeling already passed, made eternal. Worth a thousand words, as they say.

Alice wonders if a writer would disagree with that.

There's something yet to be teased out of this particular subject. An angle she hasn't quite found. Too bright, still. He's squinting -- trying not to, maybe, but he is, and she frowns from behind her camera. The photographer returns to him again, tilts his head slightly with the gentle ghost of her fingers. That line had already been crossed moments ago when her posing requests weren't met to her satisfaction. A may I? preceded her intentional repositioning of his figure, and while she could have at least let him fix his own hair, Alice found herself inclined to linger.

"That's the idea." The scene of him clicks into place, then, and she smiles. Shadowed just so by his brow, the blue of his eyes shifts to something more mysterious, makes him look like the kind of man who would write the noir thriller he told her about. "Perfect. Don't move -- don't even breathe." Only half a joke as she disappears behind the lens once more. Film offers no preview, but she trusts her eye completely. The shutter clicks and she advances the film with a practiced thumb across the lever, rechecks the light levels and the focus, snaps another for insurance.

"Tell me more about the book?" Alice moves to adjust one of the studio lights but keeps her attention on him -- wanting to see the way inspiration looks on his face. A beat, then, "Oh, you can move now, sorry!"

SUBJECTS THROUGH A LENS BIND IN COMPOSITION.   YET UNRECOGNIZED FRAGMENTS SUPERIMPOSED AS A NEW WHOLE;   PICTORIAL GENESIS FROM THE SYMBIOSIS OF ARTIST AND CAMERA.

𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝚃𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚂   𝙱𝚁𝚄𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚂   𝙷𝙰𝙸𝚁   𝙾𝚄𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙴𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁'𝚂   𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER FOCUSES HER   EYE   ON THE WRITER. A STRAND OF HIS HAIR OUT OF PLACE,   BRUSHING IT BACK. AND,   FOR GOOD MEASURE,   TILTING HIS CHIN INTO THE LIGHT.   AN ACCENTUATION OF SHADOWS,   BUT SHE TELLS HIM IT’S ABOUT THE BALANCE BETWEEN THE TWO.   CHIAROSCURO, THEY SAY IN UNISON.   DUALITY CAPTURED ON THIRTY - FIVE MILLIMETER.

he 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘴 against the studio lights.    their unheard buzz billows from a   𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌   in his head.    it shifts and hums like   𝐦𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞   of a tuned - out frequency.    ﹝ 𝘏𝘌𝘓𝘓, 𝘐 𝘕𝘌𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘕 𝘈𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘙𝘐𝘕.    𝘖𝘙 𝘛𝘞𝘖.﹞    white noise,   𝖧𝖠𝖱𝖡𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖤𝖱 𝖮𝖥 𝖠 𝖲𝖨𝖦𝖭𝖠𝖫,   is blinked away   𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙧.

WAKE REFOCUSES, EYES DILATING.   A FADING, RESIDUAL GLOW HALOS HIS VISION AND PRESENTS HER IN A   FLATTERING VIGNETTE.

𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩.    innate ability written under the guise of   𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢   and masked as a tic.    𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗪,   𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫 - 𝗧𝗢 - 𝗬.    with an echoed, incognizant 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖾,    his hand settles in his lap as he smirks,     “  you’re sure this’ll be brooding enough to boost sales?  ”

             ᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟᐟ                 ꩜    𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚆𝙰𝙺𝙴𝙽.

[whoa-where-did-the-pancakes-go]

Paraphernalia is such a fun word

[lovestelle]

OMG I did it!!! I beat Rouland 10 times!!!

It took, like, 200+ hundred Dark Water Potions, 11 Sticky Web Scrolls (in addition to other blocking scrolls), a bunch of Throwing Vials, and 10+ Regenerating Pylonics.

[stellocchia]

NEW FIC, LET'S GO!

Reduplicative Paramnesia

Summary:

As Quackity found himself momentarily laying still, regretting his life choices he heard an ominous creak. He couldn’t move fast enough to get out of harm's way as something snapped behind him. He thought that would be the end of him. While he was falling, time felt infinite.

He had time to regret following Dream there. He had time to imagine Tubbo looking sadly at yet another empty grave. He had time to imagine Fundy’s face dropping at the news that yet another parental figure of his abandoned him with no explanation. If he survived, he promised himself that he would drop this absurd mission he got himself into and he would go back home.

Some god up in the sky must have heard him because he landed with a wet squelch on a pile of soft but putrid material.

It was even darker in there, but he had cleaned up the aftermath of a war for enough time to recognize what the stench was even without any visual hints. All around him were piles and piles of rotting corpses.

-

Reduplicative paramnesia: a false memory or delusion characterized by the subjective certainty that a person has been duplicated.

Or following Dream back to his base Quackity ends up in a death factory full of Tommy clones

-

This fic is a lot darker than my usual. It's the second horror fic I've ever written so hope you guys like it!

[ghstlymess]

𝑃𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑣𝑢

etimologia

emprestado do francês presque (“quase”) + vu (“visto”).

A confusão sutil e recorrente entre ilusão e realidade que é característica da paramnésia (...)

- Joseph Heller

Paramnésia:

delírio ou confabulação baseada na memória, ou uma incapacidade de distinguir entre memórias reais e fantasiosas.

"(. . .) Um psicólogo poderia ter chamado isso de

p r e s q u e v u

– a sensação que as pessoas às vezes têm de que algo incrível está para acontecer – mas meu nome para isso era muito mais humilde: uma

h a r m o n i a "

- Stephen King

[miswaken]

@paramnesias asked: i should have met you halfway. from the depths of my meme tag || spam always accepted

"Alan..."

It's novel to be able to touch him. To hold him. To even have him here in this space, so familiar and yet a husk of the home they'd once shared. It feels different with him here. Warmer. More real.

She wants to hear his voice but doesn't want him to speak. One palm cups his face, thumb ghosting across his cheekbone like she's trying to memorize him with her fingertips as well as her eyes. Her hands itch for her camera and a chance to capture this moment in a scattering of silver halide crystals. It would give her something to hold on to when this reprieve has passed because she already knows it will -- the story isn't finished yet. The spiral hasn't run its course. And when she's alone again she'll want nothing more than this.

But she doesn't want to spoil it. To disentangle herself from him long enough to push off the floor and find her camera. Her eyes will have to suffice as lenses, her mind the shutter and the film and the paper all in one. Alice doesn't think she could forget this anyway, not if the shadows themselves came to scour her thoughts clean.

"Me too. I should have... there are so many things I--" She's lost count of how many times she's dreamt of taking all of it back. The stupid fights. The arguments and petty jabs and silence. The lies -- the lie, the Bright Falls trip, the typewriter in the cabin. Just one change, one miniscule adjustment, and they wouldn't be here now. At his side, her other hand curls a tight fist around a handful of suit fabric. Words are failing her -- pictures, images, they've been her language for what feels like an eternity in this place. This is so much more difficult.

"I'm sorry. For lying back then. For not finding you sooner. For making you think that I--" A breath, strained, brings unbidden tears with it. Even as her sight shimmers and blurs she can't tear her gaze away from him.

"Don't apologize. Not to me."

[mintyspinel9hg]

Since I've had artblock I haven't been posting any of my art publicly unfortunately so

ARTDUMP!!!

Plus a couple new ocs teehee

[paramnesiacomic]

uh oh. Previous - Next

[walriding]

@paramnesias i'm never getting out of here, am i? aw2 starters || accepting

The no smoking rule probably extends to every FBC property past the fathomless bounds of the Oldest House, but Miles didn't see a sign when he walked in here. Besides, he'd like to see anyone start enforcing the petty rules now. Underneath the smoldering tobacco the acrid tang of bleach is unmistakable, and to a discerning pallet the lingering hint of copper isn't far behind.

Wake managed to rack up a respectable body count before they hit him with enough lumens to rival a football field. It's cold, maybe, but Miles didn't pay much attention to the death toll portion of the reports he was handed when he showed up. That's a concern better suited for the Director and whoever in the Communications department will sit with her to craft condolence letters to the agents' families. No, what Miles is focused on sits sullenly on the other side of the Black Rock reinforced cell before him, the greasy curtain of his dark hair doing little to obscure his features in the blinding light.

There isn't a shadow in the damn place.

Well, not a visible one, anyway. Not at the moment. The impression of it is there, though, buried somewhere in the miserable mass of the writer. The back of Miles' neck prickles. Itches.

Yeah. I feel it too.

He hasn't said anything to the other man yet. The various notes and files he'd crammed between HQ and here paint his entire picture of Wake. This is their first face to face interaction. Well. Face to hair, as it currently stands. They probably haven't even given the guy shampoo. It's a stupid, meaningless thing, but it makes something clench between the agent's ribs. Miles frowns, ashes his cigarette onto the otherwise pristine tile floor.

Wake ends up being the first to speak.

It's a small question, little more than a whispered mutter, but it might as well echo for how silent the space is otherwise. It hangs there in the empty air for a long moment while Miles takes another drag off his cigarette, weighing his answer. He's not one to offer false hope, always blunt to a point -- age and life experience have only exacerbated that. He can make a pretty solid guess of what a good chunk of the Bureau would like to do with Wake, and freedom doesn't factor into that. And while Faden might have been reasonable enough to let them walk free a few years back, Wake and the Shadow are a different story. A more dangerous and consuming one than Miles and the Walrider ever were.

Miles exhales the smoke from his nose. "That mostly depends on you. Both of you. Based on your last outing, though, I don't think you're looking at parole any time soon."

[mime-the]

Got bored, made this in like 2 hours

It’s so silly, enjoy.