#*grabs Noble Red* ur mine now

[rayar32]

oh hey look here it's Noble Red if they survived XV

I think they'd all be different flavors of depression, I mean they kinda are in the show itself I jus brought it to the forefront here-

for the design tidbits, they're all allusions to their monster origins; Elsa gets a Red Riding Hood cloak, Vanessa gets a bigger hairdo for allusions to the Bride of Frankenstein, and Millaarc gets, super sad (I'll be honest I kinda blanked out on Milly sorry queen)

oh also they all have white hair streaks like Elsa because it means they share a design element :]

incredibly important development is making Millaarc a super neet, she's literally me fr fr

also yeah Milly is the vessel for the super sad depression experience because, I don't think she'd hold up well after the things she did in XV-

[fuwafuwamedb]

A Day's Worth of a Life pt 2 (Cu Chulainn, Gilgamesh, Rin)

Previously: Two Dudes, Chilling in Otome Games.

___

“This place is so strange.”

Cu Chulainn glanced up, watching his woman move around their chambers. His daughter was napping in his arms as the woman tossed his spare suits here and there, looking deeper into the depths of what was her husband’s room.

So far, her response to this world was to learn the following:

Ø  He was the servant, bound by a magic contract, to Gudako

Ø  He lived, not as a noble warrior for the kingdom of Moon Cell, but as a servant for Chaldea.

Ø  There was magic here

Ø  He had a hoard of gems in a drawer in his room.

The last fact had been an exciting ten minutes of spluttering, followed by the woman happily grabbing a uniform that Gudako had brought and changing in his bathroom.

Now that she was looking like a master, she was perusing his room.

“How many servants are here?”

Cu shrugged.

His mind was so foggy right now. He’d lived two full lives and was working on this third one. Memories of watching Rin from afar and admiring her every outline was blended with the memories of his teacher and of battles in Ulster and Connacht.

If he could guess, he would say there were many, but a real number was just not gonna happen.

“Well,” Rin grinned, folding the sleeves of her jacket back and tying her hair up into a high bobbing ponytail. “Since you are mine, that means that we’ll just have to steal you away from Gudako’s control. It’d be best for me to have someone I trust at my side and you’re already pledged to me.”

His confident lady, already standing so proudly, despite not knowing the situation; she really was something else. Cu Chulainn couldn’t help the small laugh. He reached out and pulled her into his arms as well, making her relax against him.

“Cu?”

“Give me a bit.”

“Are the memories still giving you a headache?”

He simply leaned into that touch, enjoying the way she began to smirk with her usual pride at being right.

“I’ll hold little Deichtine. You can get some rest.”

He was only too happy to do so.

Resting lasted… a few hours? The night?

He wasn’t fully aware of how long it’d been, but he knew that it was early morning when he awakened. He moved quietly from the bed, deciding to bring food back so that Rin could slowly adjust to the world around them. Deichtine rested quietly next to her, both of them drooling a bit onto his pillow with the same slumbering expression.

“Fool.”

Cu Chulainn had to laugh at the sight in front of him.

Gilgamesh, adorned in one of those tacky outfits, carrying his child in a wrap.

“Bahbah!” the little one in his arms prattled.

The gates around them opened, being promptly covered by newer gates as things moved.

“Ur, we will return to Hakuno if you can’t behave,” Gilgamesh growled, shaking his head. His son was squirming though, looking ready to go.

“His name is Ur?”

Gilgamesh threw him a look, glancing towards his room. “…Hakuno would like to see your woman again. She misses her sister.”

They weren’t truly sisters.

Hakuno’s real sibling had been slaughtered, but the woman had replaced them, becoming a royal in that game. Cu Chulainn glanced at his room, nodding a little.

“They could help one another adjust.”

“Hakuno is adjusted as much as she needs to be.” The king bounced his son a bit, leaning in close as the wee thing cooed up at him. “She has no need to associate any more than she does currently. She’s to stay at our side.”

More gates opened.

More gates blocked them.

“Is he,” Cu began.

“He has access to my gates. It was not a problem until he grew troubled by Hakuno laying him in his crib last night.” The king told him. A small sigh came before he shook his head. “He has become troublesome.”

Why did the king seem proud of that?

Still, he followed after the man, watching him and his son interact. The man all too happily let his son coo to Nefertari and Ozymandias in the hall. The child seemed to enjoy opening the gates and, from the new position, he could see some of the gates pouring out objects.

Weapon after weapon after jewels after tomes; they all poured forth from one gate to another. The boy seemed to have in concern at all about it either, only becoming increasingly bothered by the fact that he couldn’t make more come forth.

It must have taken energy, he thought, watching the little blond open his mouth in a large yawn and lean against his father. His little fist went to his mouth, his red eyes closing quietly.

“Not bothering?”

Gilgamesh glanced at his child, leaning in. “I look forward to when you can use that mouth of yours for more than a fist stuffer. I’ll make you apologize for every second of sleep I’ve lost last night.”

The wet fist met his cheek, earning a laugh from the man.

“Your apology will suffice this time, Ur, but I know you’re kind. Your mother taught you too well to keep me up.”

“This is weird,” Gudako whispered to him, both of them watching Gilgamesh carry his son to one of the tables and clap his hands for someone to serve him food. The sight of Emiya sighing could be seen from near the kitchens.

“Think of it like a buffer,” Cu offered, watching the redhead fret. “At least this way we don’t have to put up with his arrogance as badly.”

[fenton-bus]

Sagan's Comet

(a prologue)

   ∞

2020

 If there is a causal relationship between the popularity of Barry Eisenberg's autobiography and the complete loss of journalistic integrity exhibited by the Manhattan press no one acknowledges it. In spaces formerly occupied by actual news, one can now find awed descriptions of the fun way the eighteen year old Portland native verbally decimates the Buzzfeed contributor brave enough to cross the threshold of his lair. Articles dedicated to examining the significance of his hoodie collection (consisting solely of secondary colors) are written with the zest and intensity of individuals delivering the defining information of the age. Between covering Syrian conflicts and Zayn's solo career these adults with journalism degrees they allegedly worked hard for print wild speculation about what Barry's digital watch says about him as a person, maps his evolution from monosyllables to making a Newsweek reporter cry whilst thanking him for the opportunity through her tears, and publishes three thousand word think pieces heavily suggesting that he is the voice of his generation.

Two months into his junior year at Columbia, Barry becomes a meme.

According to the lanky, mustachioed Starbuck's barista (who enjoys all the benefits of tumblr fame for two glorious minutes before he's brought down by an old "problematic" Burning Man post.) he waits in line every other Thursday before his Applied Calc class, and one morning he is informed-with an unfathomable regret-that they are currently out of bran muffins.

Barry allegedly makes a face that defies the descriptive power of the written word.

Skylar totally believes in fate. He was meant to come in that day, despite dancing on the precipice of being fired for coming to work after ingesting some "herbal refreshment". He was meant to get dragged behind the counter to fix the espresso machine, meant to turn around to grab the wrench at the exact moment Barry made That Face. He grabs his phone, snaps a pic and before Todd can offer the dude a blueberry substitute, twelve hundred people have added gross looking block text to Skylar's post. That Face becomes a universal constant just as relevant when describing reactions to sexism (When ur in a patriarchal society ) as it is to receiving troubling medical news (TMW UR DOCTORS ALL: GENITAL WARTS!!!?!1) . Kids aim That Face at unprepared parents in the aisles of Toys R Us. Girls just trying to enjoy happy hour with their besties clock the dudes halfway across the bar with The Face and the "you're the only ten I see" dies in the bros' throats. Tired moms schlepping their kids from one hellish interpretative dance class to another collapse against the seats of their Subaru Foresters and That Face all over the traffic cop worried about his quota and are let on their merry way with a stern warning. After announcing a pop quiz in Applied Calculus Professor Bevens is hit with sixty-two different versions of That Face.

The effect is so powerful\disturbing the professor decides to take lunch in his office that day.

When Mike Wallace asks Dr. Josef Stenberg why we, as a culture, are so fascinated the noted historian and scholar replies that The Face "effortlessly and intrinsically captures the depth of the human experience."

∞

There is a three day period wherein The New York Times makes a genuine attempt at substance before all parties involve realize how difficult it actually is and decide that mining Barry's first two years at MIT for scandal is much more creative use of their time.

The seven article series proves so popular the rate of traffic often causes the site to crash, to the point where the NYT puts an ad for a new head of IT in its own newspaper. (An error brought to their attention by the former IT supervisor as she storms out of their office making two very rude gestures with both of her hands.) The articles come dangerously close to reporting the significance of the solar ray that's currently powering the campus greenhouses and the fifteen classroom\lecture halls running on fossil fuels before remembering it's audience and veering back to the good stuff: in addition to campaigning long and hard to get one of his professors fired, (because the individual is a plaintiff in a current lawsuit his name has been redacted from all documentation in order to protect his identity. In any further documentation he shall be referred to as Mr. S.) Barry starts a (still active) war between the physics and computer science majors, stages a ninety-day sit in at Lanctom Hall and refuses to attend class until the United States converts to the metric system, attends seven out of his ten classes in his pajamas, builds a Death Ray, stages his own funeral, and has regular off-campus lunches with Neil Degrasse-Tyson where (according to an unnamed source) they discuss plans to reanimate Carl Sagan.

The Times receives countless emails from current and former MIT professors the content of which ranges from "Come on guys" to paragraphs of legal jargon, but because facts are annoying and can easily ruin a good time, they only publish one. For Mr. S who is, at this very  moment, teaching a remedial chemistry class in a Hoboken public school, seeing his words in print gives him the necessary courage to take out an entire page of the Op Ed column for the sole purpose of calling Barry an "odious, mouth-breathing cretin" (among other, more foul monikers) and insist that his time at MIT is "the most convincing super villain origin story I've ever seen." Buried in the seventh paragraph under piles of incoherent rage is a fairly lucid comparison to Lex Luthor, which all things considered, Barry rather likes.

At six-thirty the following morning,

Don't you have young minds to compromise?

appears in the comments section of Mr. S's article. The user name is something banal and forgettable, but the 25 x 37 armadillo icon is responsible for the overjoyed intern's giggle snort and the frantic search for a 2013 Scientific American article in which Barry mentions that armadillos are often underestimated because of their size and deceptively docile demeanor.

∞

2017

So.

Barry wakes up in Naldo's body, which because he invents time travel when he's fifteen and perfects localized teleportation over summer break his freshman at year at MIT isn't even the weirdest sentence he's ever had to type. It isn't even the strangest thing that happens that year, (that literal prizes goes to Sergey Abermoff a stunningly mediocre marine biologist who wins the Noble Prize for his contributions to Alaskan Puffer Fish research. From March to August Barry is engaged in a furious letter-writing campaign to the Academy because seriously? Dr. Gloria Hernandez discovers and isolates what appears to be a second God particle but generous funds are being allocated to his dad's favorite Red Lobster entree? No.) While he makes a concentrated effort to document his daily experiments, and somewhat less dedicated attempts to record his thoughts about more personal subjects (he objects to the use of the word "personal" in this context because it implies a mutual exclusivity between the personal and the scientific where no such distinction exists, but he digresses) spontaneous ionic transference is apparently unworthy of documentation. Reading through the accounts of the incidents of that spring, scholars and historians alike are surprised to find only the briefest, most perfunctory outline of events.

It's an odd, tangential footnote in most textbooks, and even the larger more expansive biographies tend to refer to it transiently. One of the foremost examples of this phenomenon being Edgar Chen's Event Horizon which glosses over the events in a way Joan Collins of the New York Times calls "whimsically dismissive". Of the archived articles, research papers, essays, books, films, digital recordings and miscellaneous sundries that number in the thousands only two hundred and eighty-six contain references to the events of the spring of 2017. Of that number one hundred and thirty-seven are passing references, eighty-five are footnotes, five are visual references ( two screen grabs, a gif, and two vague scenes in the Cern documentary and the feature film Singularity, all of which are subject to intense and varying interpretation) forty- two are allusions in popular fiction,  twelve are auditory, and seventeen are references to supplementary reading material that contain descriptions of the events so vague they border on unintelligible. In chapter four of Jackie Iron's (famed director of the Crabnormal Behavior Octo-thrilogy) tell-all Shellin' Out, Barry writes:

"I've never been fond of the "body-swap" trope. At best it's a cheap device used to create a sense of empathy between two characters possessing diametrically opposing viewpoints. At worst it's a study of the traumatic power of unrelenting body horror, a state of such brutal, paradigm-shifting physical and emotional dissonance that it's difficult to imagine surviving the encounter without constantly testing the tensile strength of  reality for the remainder of one's natural life. Why would a writer subject their audience to something so terrible?"

Strangely, Barry's autobiography makes only a passing reference to the event. He glosses over his years at Columbia (there are a few offhand references to a Washington think tank he attends in the summer of 2017) but expands upon graduate school in such unrelenting, excruciating detail that chapters forty-seven through fifty-three are known to make a few students nauseous. The clinical, almost detached narrative  prompts  Melanie Fung, freshman human interest columnist of the Columbia Daily Spectator, to write: "The text habitually  bathes Eisenberg in the soft light of scientific heroism, but the more personal, and possibly, more interesting threads of the narrative are glaringly absent."

It isn't until Jill Suarez publishes The Eisenberg Principle that the personal elements of Barry's life-coming out to his parents, the bullying he experiences in school, the two week period he spends in Renaldo Montoya's body-are recounted in detail.