#Filed Under: Home Aesthetic

[muniimyg]

♡ 01: maybe it's all in my head

series m.list // taglist

note: hihiii ,, this jk has been rotting my mind for a while now ... time to ruin urs !!! enj the tension ,, (i miss being toxic) lmk what u guys think of their dynamic tho <3 excited to share their little story with u ,, mwaaaa

warnings: oc and jk are mean in this fic !!! pls don't comment being whiney abt it :') !!! oc overhears jk fucking someone ,, jealousy ,, banter

//

“oh. it’s you.”

leaning against the doorframe, jungkook looks at you half disgusted and half disappointed. his arms are crossed with one eyebrow lifted. he blocks your entrance.

“now, now,” you reach over and ruffle his hair. he shifts, dodging your touch. “don’t be so excited. i know your boring life just waits for my presence—oh. i get it. were you expecting someone? usually you’re thrilled to see me.”

jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift, though there’s a faint glint in his eyes. 

“thrilled is reaching, don’t you think?”

“is it?”

“yeah.”

you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a teasing smile. 

“right, so… which are you today? mr. save the dolphins or professor chem?”

jungkook scoffs at you.

“at least my marine conservation interest and organic chem major help the world. what’s your major again? yap-conomics or bitch-ology?”

“help the world?” you almost burst into laughter. “god, you are such a nerd.”

“nerd? i don’t know about you, but some of us care about—”

“yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “are you waiting for a nobel peace prize or something? holy shit, jungkook. learn to relax a little. you’re so serious. it’s cute, really… but only when you aren’t so anal about it.”

cute?

jungkook feels his chest tighten.

before he can make a comeback, taehyung calls you to the living room.

“___? is that you? stop trying to edge jungkook! get in here! i need your data for our paper!” 

you stick your tongue out at jungkook before turning away and rushing to the living room. your lips curl into a smug grin as you saunter off, leaving jungkook muttering something under his breath. you catch him rolling his eyes just before you disappear around the corner, a small flicker of triumph igniting in your chest.

the living room is warm, filled with the faint hum of taehyung’s lo-fi playlist and the smell of old books—his aesthetic, no doubt. taehyung is sprawled on the couch, laptop open, an arm draped lazily over the cushions. his wide grin grows wider when he sees you. 

“i’m here!”

“finally! come on, genius. enlighten me,” he says, patting the seat next to him.

you plop down beside him, legs folded under you, your laptop balanced precariously on your knees. “genius? are you sucking up to me because you didn’t do your part of the project yet?”

“yup,” he says, shrugging, his head tilted lazily to the side. “if you don’t send me that data tonight, though, i might call you something less flattering.”

you laugh, the sound soft and light, and lean into the cushions, already pulling up the necessary files. 

“your boyfriend’s in a mood.”

“he always is when you’re around,” taehyung teases. “he only answered the door cos he thought it was his student. your face must’ve pissed him off.”

chuckling at his response, you ask another question. 

“where are the guys?”

“they’ll be home soon,” taehyung answers. “said they wanna eat out tonight after jungkook’s tutoring session. you coming with?”

“sure,” you agree. 

then, the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, bouncing ideas back and forth while taehyung clicks through your notes, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic remark or two that makes you nudge him with your elbow.

a few minutes later, you hear an unfamiliar laugh and footsteps approaching.

jungkook strides in, casual and confident as always, but this time a girl is trailing after him. 

she’s pretty. 

the two exchange a few murmured words before jungkook’s eyes flicker briefly in your direction. he raises a hand in a lazy acknowledgment, the girl following suit, and say hi. taehyung nods at them and then they’re gone—slipping upstairs in the blink of an eye. 

the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut echoes faintly.

and then, it rings in your ear. 

you blink, your fingers frozen mid-typing on the keyboard. something gnaws at your chest, sharp and unfamiliar, leaving a bitter taste at the back of your throat. taehyung, oblivious, scrolls through your notes, muttering about formatting errors.

but you… you’re somewhere else entirely. 

what was that?

no name?

no introduction?

did she think you were taehyung's girlfriend or something? that jungkook was all for her?

oh god.

there's a weird twist in your stomach. it feels like a prickle of irritation spreading across your skin like an itch you can’t scratch… you shake your head, trying to brush it off, but the image of jungkook—smirking as usual, leaning casually against the banister, that girl so effortlessly fitting into the space beside him—lingers, stubborn and unshakable…

what the fuck.

it’s not like you and jungkook are close. 

you’re frenemies, at best. 

unsure of when it started exactly—but it’s been happening long enough for it to be routine and well-known in the friendgroup. you two are the kind of people who throw jabs at each other during game nights and compete to see who can make the snarkiest comment without crossing the line. you’re always caught in this stupid cycle of one-upping each other, all for the entertainment of the group. sometimes, more for yourself. life gets boring pretty quickly, and jungkook is your fastest source of entertainment. 

yet, why does it feel like you’ve just lost some unspoken game?

your chest tightens, and you lower your gaze to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. you bite the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to kick… this icky feeling begins to take over and your mind races with reasons as to why.

maybe it’s because jungkook’s always been so good at getting under your skin. 

maybe it’s because, for all his teasing and relentless bickering, there’s this… comfort in knowing that he’s always there, right across the table, firing back at you like he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

and maybe that’s the problem.

because now, with someone else upstairs, laughing at something he probably said, you’re starting to realize that you might actually care more than you thought.

maybe you care because you’re not the one in his room he’s trying to make laugh.

after a few hours pass, everyone’s stomach beings to grumble. 

for the past 20 minutes, the guys have been begging you to go up and call jungkook down. he hasn’t been answering their texts and all argue that if they go up and knock; he’ll just ignore them. 

… but if you do it…

he’ll answer.

even if it’s just to insult you. 

you glance up at the clock, already mentally calculating the time. you're not really in the mood for another round of back-and-forth with him, but you know they'll just keep pushing you.

"please, please, please, ___!” taehyung cries, pouting. “i really need pad thai. like… so bad. like, i might die. please go get jungkook.”

you hesitate, your eyes flicking to the stairs. 

jungkook hasn’t come out at all. you don’t want to disturb anything and he’s a total grumpy-head when his study time is disrupted… what more if it’s a tutoring lesson? the last time you went up there, it ended with you calling him a dumbass and him tossing a pillow at you.

“i think you guys can go get him this time," you say, turning your attention back to your phone, pretending to scroll through a message.

"oh come on," jimin presses. "you know, at the end of the day… he only really listens to you." his voice drips with exaggeration, but it only makes you roll your eyes.

"yeah, that’s true…" hobi adds with a playful smirk, leaning back into the couch. "you’re like his… little bitch or something."

you shoot them both a look. “you think i’m his bitch?"

“either that or he’s your little bitch.”

you scoff at him. “please do not disgrace bitches by associating them with him.”

“fine, fine,” jin says with a dramatic sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “we won’t force you to go up… we’ll bribe you!”

your interest piques as you glance up at him, eyebrow raised. 

“bribe me? how much cash do you have today?”

yoongi and nam joon share a look. then, nam joon leans forward, his eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“milk tea," he offers, his voice low and enticing, like he knows exactly what will catch your attention. "… any boba store you want. any time… for a week, ___.”

you try to fight the grin that starts tugging at your lips. 

fuck it. 

you nod begrudgingly, slipping your phone into your pocket. 

“deal.”

taehyung bursts out laughing. “deal."

with a resigned sigh, you head for the stairs. 

as you climb up, you prepare yourself. 

you prepare yourself for his death glare and the innocent girl in the background. you prepare yourself for his snarky comments and his sweet tone of voice the minute he turns around to talk to her. you prepare yourself to feel sick to your stomach again. 

as you stand in front of his bedroom door and raise your fist to knock—you hear it. 

rather, you hear them. 

the unmistakable sound of his voice, muffled but clear enough that you can make out the low hum of his tone, followed by a girl’s laugh—a breathy, high-pitched laugh that makes your stomach twist.

you freeze, standing in the doorway, caught between disbelief and something you can’t quite name. your heartbeat picks up in your chest, your body tensing as the reality of the situation settles over you.

you’re not sure what exactly it is—maybe it’s the fact that it’s so casual, or maybe it’s the way the sound of it makes you feel like you’re intruding—but you feel a sudden flush creep up your neck and cheeks.

“oh my god, o-oh my g-god! t-that’s it, jungkook! oh god, baby… f-fuck!”

“fuck—you close, baby?”

“so close, baby. so fucking close. g-god, yes, yes, yes! nghh—fuck! so big, jungkook. oh my god, oh my god! fuck me, fuck me… j-just like that, baby. yes, y-yes–o-oh! mhmmmphhh—”

"shit, shit, shit..."

"fuck me harder, jungkook. please! o-oh? oh! oh my god! yes... yes! thank you, baby. thank you, thank you! ahhh... oh my god..."

you swallow, stepping back, retreating to the stairs. 

the guilt of overhearing makes your pulse race in an odd way, like you’ve been caught in something you weren’t supposed to see.

at the bottom of the stairs, you pause, your hand on the banister, unsure whether you should stay or go. 

you quickly decide. 

you’re already feeling the sting of something sharp and unfamiliar in your chest.

“guys,” you say quickly, trying to keep your tone light, but there’s an edge to it you can’t mask. "y-you know what? i think i’ll just head home. i’ve got a ton of work to do.”

they look at you, confused. taehyung blinks a couple of times, jimin frowning. 

“but we—"

"y-yeah,” you breathe. “i… i know. i just… it’s all good. you guys can go ahead without me,” you add, forcing a smile.

“slow down, ___. what—”

“i feel sick,” you confess. “okay? i feel sick.”

“okay… can one of us drive you home or something—”

“no. i’m good. thank you, though… i.. i gotta go.”

they all frown, their confusion morphing into concern, but you’ve already grabbed your things and hurried out the door before they can protest.

the cold night air feels like a slap to your face as you walk away, but it doesn’t quite shake the unsettled feeling in your stomach. 

you can’t stop thinking about it. 

about how you feel.

about what you heard.

about how much you fucking hate jeon jungkook.

it’s almost 10PM by the time you finish showering. your hair is still damp, hanging loosely around your shoulders as you brush it out in front of the mirror. the soft swish of the brush is the only sound in the room, your thoughts still lingering on what happened earlier. the image of Jungkook with that girl, the sound of their voices together, keeps replaying in your mind, and it won’t leave.

you shut your eyes and try to forget. 

taking a breath in—your moment is interrupted by a knock on your door. 

you frown, glancing at the clock before moving to the door, towel still hanging from your shoulders. it’s late, and you weren’t expecting anyone. 

heading towards the door, you wonder who it is.

then, when you open the door, you freeze.

there, standing in the hallway with a takeout bag in hand, is jungkook. his face is unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—seem to be searching yours for something. you can’t quite figure out what.

you blink, caught off guard by the unexpected visit, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

“uh…” jungkook clears his throat, breaking the silence, his voice lower than usual. “the guys think i did something to piss you off… so i’m supposed to say sorry for… whatever i did.”

“you didn’t do anything,” you lie. “goodnight.”

just as you’re about to shut the door, he takes a step forward. 

“___,” he says, tone flat and annoyed. “don’t be a bitch. just tell me what i did so i can apologize, go home and tell them what i did wrong, and we can act like nothing happened—”

“okay,” you shrug. “you wore an ugly shirt today. there. say sorry.”

jungkook winces at you. 

“seriously?”

you shrug again. 

“what do you want, jungkook? i have nothing to say to you—”

“i don’t fucking understand where all this attitude is coming from. i didn’t do shit to you today. you know i didn’t… so, can you please use your tiny brain to make something up? something more convincing than hating my fucking shirt.” 

you nod, pretending to care. then, just as you reach for the door to shut it again; jungkook swiftly moves past you. he lets himself in. 

“they’re worried you didn’t eat,” he states. “did you eat?”

you groan at him. “why the fuck do you care?”

“i don’t.”

but his actions say otherwise. 

jungkook then takes off his shoes and heads to your coffee table. he sits himself on the floor and begins to unpack the food. silently, you watch as he does so and can’t help but feel like throwing up. 

“eat,” he commands. 

you glare at him. 

“get out.”

jungkook leans back against your couch. “eat, tell me what i did wrong, then i’ll leave.”

“leave first.”

“eat first.”

“get out.”

“holy shit,” jungkook scoffs. “are you even capable of forming a complex sentence, or is that too much for you? ___, this is called a conversation. you’re supposed to—"

“get out.”

jungkook sighs heavily. 

a silence falls upon you two. 

jungkook has had difficult days with you before.

this is nothing new… but for some reason, right now feels harder than the other days. partly because most days he knows when he’s being an asshole—but today? he has no clue. 

he’s in the dark. 

jungkook clears his throat. 

“i didn’t yell at you today,” he starts. “i didn’t call you names. you called me a nerd but that was it… your face ruined my day but i guess it made the others pretty happy since they were so pissed at me for being the reason why you left… so, hey… how about this? you tell me what i did wrong for the guys. not for me.”

you raise an eyebrow at him. 

his eyes plead. 

then, a moment passes. 

instead of answering him, you pick up your feet and sit on the floor beside him. you look at the door and take the utensils from the bag. poking at the food, you contemplate on telling him what’s going on in your head. 

just as you’re about to eat a spoonful of the food, you suddeny feel jungkook close to you. without saying a word, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek, making you hold your breath. his hand moves to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, carefully pushing it out of the way so it doesn’t fall into your food. 

the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you’re just left there, staring at him.

he looks at you sincerely. in his eyes, you can see his defeat. 

you don’t know if it was the gesture or the look in his eyes—but your words slip out of your mouth faster than you can think to stop it. 

“she was too loud.”

he tilts his head at you. 

“oh,” jungkook connects. his expression stiffens for a split second, then he schools it back into calm. “overheard, did you?” he asks, leaning in slightly, voice a low murmur. 

“oh, i definitely heard,” you reply, folding her arms, feigning thoughtfulness. “don’t act so cocky… she sounded like she was faking it.”

he stares, jaw flexing, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something challenging in his eyes. 

“that’s cute coming from someone who couldn’t even stay for dinner.”

suddenly that pang of jealousy again hits again. 

you know you should just brush it off… keep your cool and act nonchalant about it—but something about jungkook just makes you feel so off balance. 

“maybe i had better things to do,” you retort. 

“like what?” 

you shrug. 

“like leave.”

“you should’ve knocked,” jungkook smirks. “i would’ve opened the door. we don’t mind an audience usually.” 

there it is again. 

the sick, sinking, icky feeling. 

“you two fuck often?”

jungkook looks away, taking a moment to think. 

“yeah,” he admits. “what? surprised nerds get laid?”

you stay quiet. 

“i mean.. it’s not really any of your business…" he mutters, though there’s a tension in his voice that doesn’t match his casual shrug. you can tell he's trying to brush it off, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him.

you feel your stomach tighten, the words you threw out lingering in the air between you, each one heavier than the last. you weren’t expecting him to react like this—maybe a joke or a deflecting comment—but not this… 

tension.

"right," you reply, your tone softer than you intended. you glance down at your food, suddenly losing your appetite. the casual air you were hoping for is long gone, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that neither of you seems willing to break.

jungkook shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck before clearing his throat. 

"look, it’s not like that," he adds quickly, but the words sound almost too defensive. "she’s just... i don’t know. it’s nothing serious."

you don’t respond immediately, still caught up in the strange mix of feelings his words stir in you. the way he said it—like it was nothing serious—feels too much like an attempt to distance himself from whatever was going on.

you’re not sure what you wanted from this conversation, but now all you feel is a growing knot in your chest.

"yeah," you mutter, trying to sound indifferent, but the weight of his words hangs in the air, making your throat feel tight. "whatever you say—”

“why do you care anyway?” jungkook’s voice is sharp now, a slight edge creeping into his tone as he looks at you, his expression shifting from defensive to something you can’t quite place.

you’re caught off guard by the question. 

you weren’t prepared for that, weren’t prepared for the way it makes your chest tighten. why do you care? it’s not like you have any right to, right?

you open your mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, you just shrug, trying to play it cool, but you can feel your pulse quicken. 

"i don’t. i just—"

"you just what?" he interrupts, his brow furrowing, as though he’s not buying the act. "you’ve never cared before. why start now?"

you clench your fists at your sides, feeling the sting of his words more than you want to admit. There’s a part of you that wants to tell him—tell him how seeing him with her, hearing them laugh together, makes something ugly twist in your stomach. 

but you can’t.

"i don’t know," you finally mutter, your voice quieter than before. “it's weird. like, of course i knew you weren't a virgin but... are you actually that good? then again… doesn’t take much to fake sounds like her.”

jungkook’s eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them before he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. then, he smirks. 

it’s more calculated, though… like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"curious?"

"disgusted, actually."

a beat.

"what, you wanted it to be you?" he asks, his voice smooth, a challenge in his tone.

you almost choke on your breath, but you recover quickly. "me? sleeping with you? please."

he lets out a low laugh, but it’s not playful this time. 

it’s more mocking. 

“yeah, i mean, i don’t even want you that bad…" he takes a slow look at you, like he's mentally assessing you, deciding if you’re worth his time. "not even close."

the words sting more than they should, but you keep your composure. 

you try to look unbothered, but his next words twist the knife a little deeper.

“fuck you.”

"you wish i’d fuck you," he remarks, almost casually, like it's no big deal. "would make things easier, huh?"

your chest tightens, and something about the way he says it makes your blood run cold. It’s not just teasing anymore—it’s a jab.

but you refuse to let him see how much it affects you.

"i’m not interested in you," you shoot back, your voice betraying none of the discomfort you’re feeling. 

he leans in a little, eyes never leaving yours. 

"really?" 

“really.”

his smirk widens, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air. 

“guess what? i think you care more than you're letting on. you act like you don’t give a shit, but it’s so obvious you’re just pissed it’s not you in my bed."

you bite your lip, trying to keep your voice steady, but something betrays you in the way your heart races. 

"i’m not pissed," you mutter, the words coming out too quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him. "why would i be?"

jungkook watches you for a moment, taking in every little reaction. 

"i don’t know, ___," he says, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying every second of this. "but it’s cute. you’re all flushed, trying to act like you don’t care, but i can see right through you."

you grit your teeth, wanting to snap back, but instead, you just look away. 

"shut up," you mutter, frustrated with yourself more than anything. "you’re such an asshole sometimes, you know?"

he laughs again, but this time there’s something darker in it, almost like he's reveling in your frustration. 

“i don’t think you’re as immune to me as you pretend to be," he says. "but hey, don’t stress about it, baby. i’m not that interested either. i mean, what’s the fun in fucking you? it’d be harder getting rid of you than getting in your pants.”

you feel the sting of his words hit harder than they should.

“are you done?” you mutter, forcing a nonchalant tone. "and don't call me baby. you called her baby. i don't want to be associated—"

"you think you'd fold as fast as she did?"

jungkook’s eyes flicker with something that could almost be amusement—or maybe something else. he clears his throat.

“shit, ___. i’m sorry—”

“yeah?” 

you don't know why, but something inside you snaps. 

you shift your body close to him. so close that you glance at his lips, then back up to his eyes, as if you’re weighing something—daring him to make a move.

jungkook’s body tenses, his breath shallow, like he's ready to close the distance… to make some sort of move. his lips part slightly as if he's about to speak, but before he can, you push him away. 

now, he’s tongue tied.

“shit, jungkook... i'm sorry," you mock him. "but you're wrong... this is fun."

[rheya28]

Lucio's Market [Restaurant, Grocery, Teaching Kitchen] ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Lucio's Market is where culinary passion meets community connection! Nestled in the heart of Anchorpoint Wharf, this venue seamlessly blends a fully stocked grocery store, a dynamic teaching kitchen, and a cozy restaurant—all under one roof. [Lot Can be set as a restaurant, generic, or retail]

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Rheya's Notes:

♥This lot has been semi play-tested. ♥To make the Grocery part of the build functional, you can turn this into a retail lot. There are also grocery mods available such as SS realistic cooking mod and the Bulk Grocery Mod. Please keep in mind that I did not follow any requirements for these two mods as the grocery part of the build was made simply for aesthetics and storytelling. You are welcome to make adjustments! ♥We do not have a teaching kitchen venue option in the sims 4, however, the gameplay can be achieve with some imagination! You can turn this into a generic lot and simply have your sims cook/bake together on different stoves simultaneously. ♥Lastly if you want this lot to function as a restaurant, simply change the venue lot type in build mode. I would recommend downloading LittleMsSam's lock mod to lock the testing kitchen's door. This will prevent customers from using the kitchen appliances!

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

♥ Sim Featured in video Courtney Ajak & Tiara Robinson by  @aashwarr Emi Grey by  @jaxplaysthesims

➽Lot Details

Lot Name: Lucio's Market Lot type: Restaurant + Generic lot + Can be retail Lot size: 30x20 Location: Archorpoint Wharf, San Sequioa

♥ MODS:

TOOL MOD by TwistedMexi

♥ CC LIST:

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make life a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, peacemaker.

Awingedllama: Blooming Room plants

Lilis Palace: folklore (only deco jars)

Severinka: Grocery Store pt 1 (cash desk, display island only), Grocery Store pt 2 (all), Grocery store pt 3 (Shopping cart and basket only), Grocery store pt 4 (all)

Around the sims 4: Bulk grocery

FelixAndre x Harrie: Baysic, Harluxe, Orjanic, Kichen

Bbygyal123: Abstract Prints

FelixAndre: Berlin pt 3, Chateau, Fayun , Kyoto , Florence , Grove, Shop the look, Soho

Charlypancakes: Chalk

Thecluttercat: Dandydiary pt 2, Helloo horse, Sunny Sundays

Harrie: Brownstone, Brutalist, Coastal, Klean, Kwatei, Octave, Spoons

LittleDica: Rise & Grind, Delicious kitchen

Myshunosun: Harbalist Kitchen

Peacemaker: Pointless Renovation

Pierisim: Auntie Vera, Coldbrew, David Apartment, Domaine Du clos, Mcm, Oak House, Winter Garden, Woodland Ranch

Max20: Poolside lounge pack (floor pattern only)

S-imagination: Cottage kitchen (Decorative bag with scoop only)

Sixam: Home Improvement, Hote Bedroom

Syboullette: Boulangerie (chalk board only)

Taurus Design: Lilith Chilling Area (sul sul sign only)

Tuds: Cross, IND, NCTR, SHKR

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

[dumplinsiims]

Celebrity Townies 🤍

We're back with more townies to add to your save files or to play with Celebrity Edition! Each with their own little backstories 🤍

Omari Johnson, 30, rose from humble beginnings in Ciudad Enamorada to become a celebrity chef known for his fiery temper and unforgettable dishes. As a young foodie, he learned his skills in his grandmother’s kitchen, perfecting flavors with relentless ambition. His outgoing personality made him a star on cooking shows, where his romantic flair and explosive temper captivated audiences. Now a culinary icon, Omari dreams of opening his own restaurant—a place where he can blend his love of food and romance under one roof.

Gia Valente, 22, a Simfluencer and rising B-lister in San Myshuno, is known for her impeccable style and carefully curated social media presence. A foodie at heart, she spends her days reviewing the city’s trendiest spots and snapping photos of perfect plates. Though her image reflects perfection, Gia’s reserved side shows in her cautious approach to romance, as she often keeps her heart guarded. Her jealous streak makes her fiercely protective of her relationships and reputation, especially as she climbs the social ladder. Off-camera, Gia is happiest with her beloved dog, who brings balance to her ambitious life in the spotlight.

Gabrielle Sinclair, 24, is a global icon from Del Sol Valley, a model and actor known for her glamorous style and pursuit of aesthetic perfection. An art lover and overachiever, she’s built a career on her drive for beauty and refinement, though her squeamish nature sometimes adds unexpected challenges on set. Balancing a love for luxury with her wild, party-animal spirit, Gabrielle is a fixture in elite social circles. Now a household name, she embodies the high life with every flawless photo shoot and captivating role, crafting her world as a masterpiece.

Kaleo Pualani, 25, grew up with the warmth and charm of Sulani but left his island home to pursue a career in Del Sol Valley’s entertainment world. Known for his quick wit and goofy sense of humor, Kaleo quickly found his niche in comedy, becoming a beloved sitcom star. Despite his laid-back roots, he’s fiercely ambitious, bringing his overachiever spirit to every role he plays. Though he misses the islands, Kaleo infuses his heritage into his performances, adding a unique warmth and authenticity that sets him apart in the industry. Now a B-lister, he’s on the rise, combining his passion for fun with his drive to succeed.

I reallly hope you all enjoy these sims and their backstories! - Please share screenshots and videos of these sims in your game! I would love to see how they come to life in your game! Tag me on all platforms @Dumplinsiims so I can see their shenanigans! Download them here 🤍

[formulaforza]

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it. 

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired. 

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel. 

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing. 

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors  and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t. 

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly. 

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything. 

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you. 

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately. 

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be. 

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page. 

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months. 

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus. 

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive. 

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception. 

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches. 

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years. 

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust. 

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks,  a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit. 

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property. 

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with. 

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile. 

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses. 

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way. 

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door. 

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy. 

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you. 

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be. 

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty. 

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks.  “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly. 

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest. 

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special. 

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you. 

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail. 

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard. 

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine. 

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender. 

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in. 

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary. 

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest. 

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you. 

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster. 

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken. 

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small. 

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to. 

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines. 

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it. 

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side. 

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by. 

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day. 

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands. 

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan. 

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support. 

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be. 

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Data Breach

Read on AO3

Word count: 12.8k

Alternatively titled "Lockdown."

CW: Public partial-nudity, references to sex work, Kidnapping, implied trafficking, threats of violence, anxiety/panic, body horror, brief mentions of medical trauma, character being hunted, brief mention of cannibalism, guns, knives

Notes: Naya "Bambi" Walker and Veronica "Bricks" Mason are my characters. Morgan "Sparrow" Voss belongs to @sentientcave.

I'm very excited because this is my first "complete" fic. And I wrote it within my first year of posting fanfiction! Thanks to everyone who has been here with me through it all!

The genetic and cybernetic enhancements that the public took for granted were a drop in the bucket. No one protested the same-day medical procedures for aesthetics and practicality and security. What harm is a microchip to automate one’s home, modified musculature that needed less exercise to maintain? Who was ever going to protest genetically coded locking mechanisms?

Soldier modifications are a violation of human rights. The deployment of those soldiers isn’t, unless they use their enhanced abilities to commit a war crime. But the process of modification, experimental and unregulated, driven by greed, desperation, a cold war that bled and screamed…

In the early days of accelerated genetics, on the heels of the prosthetic revolution, things had been hellish. Rejected limb grafts.    Explosively contagious viral infections previously rare in humans. Incompatible bones and organs and structures drowning experimental groups in their own fluids. Hunting and prey drives that only became apparent on the battlefield.

The deployment of modified soldiers isn’t a violation of human rights. But if even a single civilian is caught in the crossfire, it’s a war crime.

What the governments of the world did to the men and women who served them - and the populations they were supposed to serve - was a flood of destruction that led to international court-martial and proposed executions.

Only proposed though.

Naya, green around the gills from her latest information dive, wonders if maybe those proposals had more merit than she’d initially thought.

The files she found about the modified joint task forces, the Ghost Team JTFs, are more horrifying than anything she’s ever seen. Bone and dental removal, replacement, and additions. Brain implants, deeper and more invasive than most civilian interface units, which go just under the skin. Increased metabolism, shortening of the digestive tract, automatic injectors with stim packs that keep soldiers awake and lucid through unimaginable horrors.

Her hands shake, spilling tea leaves on the counter as she disconnects from her VPN network. She’d stumbled upon the initial files surrounding what had been Task Force 141 days ago, had quickly skimmed and duplicated their contents to read and review on her own time. Those had been bad enough. Reading about a Scottish soldier, shot in the head and brought back only to have his body altered. Another sergeant suspended in a tank as his genetically altered body attempted and failed to process all of the poisons they wanted him resistant to. A lieutenant who’s frontal lobe was hacked through to make room for a larger processor. The Captain captured and tortured and changed for investigating what was happening to his unit…

And that was before the videos.

Finding more information on Ghost Teams is virtually impossible. Official reports, even the ones she breaks into, list the 141 as defunct. Her fellow archivists don’t have any other information, and aren’t willing to help her dive again.

>>>Flower: even if the GTs are still alive >>>Flower: it’s too dangerous >>>Flower: too many powers want them to stay buried >>>Flower: we’ll lose everything if we go digging >>>Bambi: you don’t have any contacts i could ask? >>>Flower: i‘m sorry bambi

There’s more security, when she returns to the original server, too much for her to feel comfortable to try to force her way in. Her bots identify a couple of devices on the network that might be exploitable - a printer, two coffee machines - but she leaves them alone, for now.

Instead, she trawls conspiracy theory forums for any mention of experimental modifications, missing soldiers, and questionable medical equipment shipments. Experience means her bots filter through everything, which saves her more than a few headaches, but also means that she waits hours before a possible hit. And that hit is a dead end.

The hours turn to days before she’s able to find an abandoned, locked forum with deleted answers to heavily coded questions. The last post is seven years old, ostensibly informing community members of upcoming changes to the forum. The veil over the warning of government surveillance is thinner than tissue paper.

It’s the closest thing she has to a lead, so she makes a new post and sets her bots to monitor it.

>>18|\/|48(Guest): GTJTFs producing new 141 units? Leaked production reports, new specs?

She doesn’t expect a response, but maybe an auto-responder will give her a clue of where to look next. So it’s jarring when she gets an encrypted email with a reply from “dimentionspoker@noreply.co,” an hour later.

new units? have info on old units if you need references. let me know.

—

The middle city isn’t the safest, for all that the well-to-dos topside like to pretend that the truly unsavory elements aren’t that close to their picturesque lawns. Naya’s lived here her whole life, though she’s worked above a time or two. Even so, she’s never ventured this close to the freight shafts down to the docks.

The bar she steps into is loud and smells like liquor and motor fluid. It’s dim, and smoky, and she feels eyes on her as she makes her way to the bar. Her interface lights up with pings and an attempted ID and bank chip skim. All they get for their trouble is her least informative ID tag - Bambi.

The bartender, a large bodied person with the simple tag of Engine, operates behind the bar with four cybernetic arms. There’s no digital queue for her to log in to, or even a service request button on the seemingly organic wood bar. So she stands, hands folded on top of the bar for them to finish pouring drinks and notice her standing there.

Just as the barkeep’s attention slides her way, a warm body presses up behind hers. She stiffens as a the person jostles her to lean heavily on the bar. “Eng! Another for me. And whatever my cute new friend wants.”

A refusal is on the tip of her tongue, but when she looks up into slitted yellow eyes haloed by curled black and purple freeform locs, she gets an encrypted message.

>>>Bricks: Hello Bambi. >>>Bricks: Order a drink and come with me.

—

"They shouldn't be locked up. They're people, not mindless killing machines."

Across the table, under the dim lights, the woman called Bricks cocks her head. She’s a true cyborg, someone who’s modifications are probably keeping them alive. The cybernetics of her left arm extending well into her ribcage. She doesn’t hide it. Under dark overclothes, a slouching shirt exposes the metal of her collarbones, the servos that whir as she breathes. She swirls her glass of Jack and Coke with an amused look on her face as a barely muffled moan pierces through loud music.

Naya takes a deep breath to keep from fidgeting. It took three months to arrange even this meeting with the elusive American arms dealer, in the back of this dingy bar on a busy Friday. She wasn't about to lose the lead just because she could hear lewd comments and barely muffled squeals of pleasure from the nearby hall to the washrooms. The more concerning noise was coming from behind her, anyhow, the thump of knives into a dart board, distressed beeping from the unlucky mini-droid bound to the target.

"You want me to set up a meeting with the Watcher," Bricks drawls, sitting back in her chair. Her pointed cybernetic nails drum against the table. She doesn’t bother to whisper, but both of them have been disrupting any listening devices in range. "So you can make sure that Price's monsters are being treated humanely?"

"They're not monsters," Naya hisses.

"You've never seen them." It's not a question.

"I don't need to see them to know they shouldn't be kept locked in cages."

Bricks freezes with her glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes narrow. “Cages?”

“That’s what I saw.” Gritting her teeth, Naya hisses. “Look. You know what it means to be augmented, what extensive modifications are like. But without anesthesia? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even my worst enemy.”

“You’d be surprised what I would wish on my worst enemy, sweetheart.” Bricks chuckles and throws back the last dregs of her drink. "But you know what? Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine. You want in so bad? I'll set up a meeting with the Watcher, and Price."

Well. That was easier than expected. "What'll it cost me?"

"Oh, your whole life, probably. Your whole world view, certainly," Bricks chuckles. She gives Naya an obvious once over, gaze lingering on her breasts. "But you don't owe me any more than a quick flash of your tits."

That does make Naya’s confidence falter. "W-what?"

"You heard me. C'mon, give me a little peek, and I'll send a message right now. You can have Price's monsters off their leashes by the end of the week." Bricks grins, slit pupils pulsing wide with interest. "We don't even have to go anywhere, just pull down your shirt a little bit."

"I'm not..." Naya looks around, furtively. "This isn't exactly priv-" She flinches as she's interrupted by a loud moan, followed by a cheer from the rest of the bar.

"You're asking me to let your hands get real dirty, sweetheart." Bricks stands and circles the table to crowd Naya against the wall. She dips down to breathe into her ear. "And unless you want word to spread of a cute, clean cut, little topsider digging into illegal soldier mods, you're gonna pull your tits out and take the money I give you, after, Bambi."

There’s something behind the predatory look in the taller woman’s eyes. A challenge. She’s called Naya’s bluff, hasn’t she? When she refuses, Bricks will send her off with a laugh and a pat on her ass. And she’ll be back at square one, unable to face the danger of diving deeper again.

But Naya’s never been accused of knowing when to back down.

It’s the work of a moment to have the various video feeds in the room start a ten second loop. Her bots use movement patterns to make the video seem natural to anyone not looking closely. Bricks makes an interested noise when the video feed from her cybernetic eye continues showing Naya’s darting eyes and regular breaths. Her organic eye takes in the way Naya’s hands come up to unclasp the front of her shirt.

She takes a deep breath before hooking her fingers into the neck of her undershirt. She looks down as she inches it down to reveal the scalloped edge of her bra, instead of looking to see if Bricks is aroused or amused or some other, worse thing.

Before she can truly expose herself, a warm hand touches her wrist. “So eager. Not even gonna give me a little tease?”

>>>Bricks: Nice trick with the cameras, but you’re going to call attention.

Naya tips her chin up and immediately regrets it when Bricks leans down to meet her. Her breath shivers between their lips. When a metal arm comes up to block her view of the rest of the room, she turns her face away.

>>>Bambi: It’d be more suspicious if I let everyone have a clip for distribution.

“Smart girl,” Bricks whispers against her temple. “Take the credits.”

The fund transfer Bricks initiates has a public comment attached. ‘Classy. Could almost be the real thing.’ Naya glares up at Brick’s smirking face as she accepts the transaction. Two hundred. It feels like too little and too much money at the same time. Almost immediately, she gets inquiry pings from six other patrons the bar.

“And that’s your alibi,” Bricks chuckles, stepping back so quickly that she barely has time to put herself to rights. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

—

Naya tries not to fidget in the freight elevator, down, down, down, into The Throat. Bricks's arm is a possessive weight on her shoulder. On the other side of the lift, a startlingly tall man stares at them through the holes in a cloth sack. When she meets his eyes, something writhes where his mouth should be.

"Eyes to yourself," Bricks growls when he takes a half step in their direction. Her cybernetic arm crackles warningly.

The man visibly considers his options before making a guttural sound. A thick appendage, tongue or tentacle, Naya can’t really tell, pokes out from under the hood. He mutters something she doesn’t understand in under-tongue. Bricks hisses something back, pushing Naya behind her as she takes a threatening step forward. The man flinches, then crowds himself into his corner. He doesn’t even look in their direction for the rest of the descent.

When the doors open, Bricks holds her back until the man leaves, then steers her out into the street. Naya's been under-city before, but not in this bloc. The air is just as stale and hazy as she remembers, but this shaft doesn't see as much vertical commuter traffic as some of the others, so the street is dark instead of lit with neon. The faintest bit of light filters down from straight above.

Groping for something to say, she asks, "Did you know that guy?"

Bricks snorts, keeping an arm around her's waist as she steers her along. "Yeah."

“What did he want?”

She gets an uninterested shrug. “The same thing any bottom dwelling opportunist wants.”

It’s not hard to imagine what she means. When she doesn't say anything else, Naya searches for another topic. She swallows her pride and forces herself to say, "Thank you for setting up this meeting."

"Don't thank me yet, sweetheart. You're gonna hate me soon enough."

"I know it's dangerous for you," she insists as Bricks draws her down a side street. Dangerous is an understatement, if the Ghost Teams are so far gone that they’re experimenting on human beings. "Even if things are hard, moving forward, I appreciate your help."

Bricks doesn't answer. Instead, she knocks on a barred door. It opens a crack, and she and the other person hiss low words at each other. A shining green eye looks Naya up and down, the door shuts, and Bricks draws her away.

They stride, briskly, back to the main street. Bricks asks, "Do you have a respirator?"

"Yes."

"Put it on, don't speak."

Wordlessly, Naya unfolds the mask from her pocket and covers her mouth and nose. Bricks pulls a dark scarf from her shoulders and wraps it around Naya’s head and neck, and then drops a poncho over her head. Somehow, the mercinary looks bigger in just her thin shirt, the muscles and metal in her shoulders more pronounced.

Ten minutes into their silent walk, a man melts from the shadows and starts walking on Naya's other side. Though she can’t see much under his baggy clothes, his gait speaks to digitigrade modifications. When she glances up, he has a faceplate under his own hood. His voice, when he speaks, is robotic. "Bricks."

"Roach."

“You’re looking smug and determined.”

“I’m on a very… interesting job.” An encrypted message gets passed between the two of them, and Naya frowns behind her mask. She shouldn’t be able to tell that a message was sent, though, so she bites her tongue. Bricks smirks down at her, then turns her eyes forward. “What’s on your mind?”

"Shadows are hunting you. Seven thousand credits."

"That's insulting," Bricks dismisses. "Mace take the job?"

"That's insulting," Roach parrots back. Somehow, his metered and inflectionless voice sounds amused. A flurry of encrypted messages flows between them. Once those have finished, he says, "Come see us when your business with the Watcher is done." And then he fades away into the shadows again.

"Good job," Bricks whispers. "Stay silent. Keep taking deep breaths. Walk straight ahead. Don't run." And then she ducks down a side street, leaving Naya alone in the dark.

Fuck.

She keeps putting one foot in front of the other. Measured. Brisk, but unhurried. A couple of people pass on the other side of the street, then a man passes on her side. Under her poncho, she palms her pocket knife, but no one spares her a second glance.

After a full minute, Bricks slides out of the next alley and falls into step with her, a cigarette that smells like real tobacco between her lips. In her cybernetic hand, she has a twitching, bleeding length of what looks like an octopus tentacle the size of Naya’s forearm.

"You can talk now,” she says. “But you don't want to ask about this."

—

The respirator makes a lot more sense when Naya is led to a shaft to the Belly.

She’s never been to the middle level of the true undercity. Technically, no one should live in this industrial level, so there’s very little in the way of individual commerce and amenities. There is an abundance of dead “topsider tourists” every year, mangled and hacked to drain all of their resources before anyone can realize that they haven’t come home.

This lift is much smaller, just big enough for her to stand behind Bricks as the woman primes her arm. The edge of a plasma knife glows blue from within the mechanics of her bicep. When Naya activates the plasma in her own knife, Bricks looks over her shoulder at the near silent hum.

“You ever use that before?”

“Once.”

That earns an interested noise as the other woman faces forward again. “On a person?”

“…No.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” is all she says about that as the elevator shudders to a stop. “Stay behind my right arm. If I tell you to drop, you fall to the ground and don’t move until I tell you.”

When the door opens, it’s into a pitch black alley. The only light is the obscured gleam from with Brick’s left shoulder. Something in the darkness hisses. Bricks strides forward, and Naya has no choice but to follow after.

They walk for a few minutes without incident before Bricks knocks on a nondescript door. Next to it, a biometric scanner creaks open and scans one of her eyes, then one of her metal fingers. Naya flinches at the noise of a series of locks grinding open.

A stern faced blonde woman is on the other side of the door when Bricks gestures Naya inside. She’s not wearing a respirator, but then, neither is Bricks. The woman doesn’t say anything, so Naya doesn’t either. She just waits for Bricks to finish securing the door, then returns to her spot just behind her.

“Watcher,” Bricks greets with clear good humor. “I brought you a little something.”

Naya huffs a surprised breath from her nose, but stays silent. The Watcher. The overseer of at least one of five active Modified Task Forces. She looks so… normal. A woman in her mid forties, maybe, face lined with stress but open. Naya feels a little thrown off. When the lights flicker, however, she catches the red shine of a cybernetic eye. Whatever mods she has, they’re hidden so well that Naya can’t even sense them.

The Watcher’s eyes scan her for a moment before she’s looking back to Bricks. Naya only has a moment to wonder why she hasn’t been pinged before she asks, “Alive?”

“You always pay more when they’re alive.”

What? Naya stumbles backwards until she hits the door. “What?”

Bricks throws a grin over her shoulder. “I told you not to thank me.” Turning back to the Watcher, she says, “Thirty thousand credits. Had a run in with the King on the way here.”

“No one told you to bring her alive. Fifteen, and we void the Shadows bounty on you.”

“Twenty five. You want her alive, trust me. And I can handle the Shadows on my own.”

Naya gapes at the two of them. A quick glance over her shoulder and query to the door confirms that the locks won’t open again without a lot more force than she could manage, even if she wouldn’t have to fight Bricks to get out. And the Watcher… isn’t motivated to let her live. Fuck. The little knife in her hands feels less than useless.

“She wanted to meet you,” Bricks continues, crossing her arms. “And Price.”

That makes the Watcher pause and look over Naya again. “Oh?”

“She used his name,” Bricks confirms. “Real skilled code-breaker.”

“Hm.” The Watcher frowns, then says. “Thirty thousand is a low ball offer, then.”

“She thinks you’re keeping the task force in cages,” Bricks chuckles. “I want to watch when she sees them for the first time.”

That gets a huff of amusement. “Thirty thousand and a show… Deal. Bring her.”

When the Watcher turns away, Bricks looks back at Naya with a surprisingly gentle smile. “Good job. Now comes the hard part. Let’s go.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” she doesn’t want to walk forward, but there’s not much else to do. She tries to stand away from Bricks, but it’s hard in the narrow hallway.

“Nothing, now,” Bricks laughs. “Got you through the door alive, and Watcher can always use a code breaker.”

It’s hard not to feel stupid. Naya struggles to keep her voice even. “So this was just… a bounty for you?”

“Better me than König.” Bricks wiggles the tentacle that she’s still holding in metal fingers. “And better now than when an actual bounty was on your head. Diving into secure government information brings out the worst kind of trouble. The Shadows would have killed you in your bed. Kortac would have chipped you, if they decided keeping you was worth it. This way, everyone gets what they want.”

“Except me,” Naya points out.

“You’re still alive, for now,” the Watcher points out from a few steps ahead, without looking back. “Considering the problems you’ve caused me, it’s tempting to kill you myself. But Bricks is right. I can always use a Breaker.”

“I don’t do that professionally,” Naya protests weakly.

The Watcher doesn’t break stride. “You do, now.”

They get into another elevator, big enough for eight people. There aren’t any floor indicators, but as soon as the doors close, it starts to descend. Wrapping her arms around herself, Naya shivers. At this rate, she realizes, she may never see the sky again. She’ll be locked in a cage next to the 141, underground, let out to circumvent code for… what? To support more killing? More human experimentation? If she doesn’t cooperate, will they experiment on her? Put a processor in her brain to erase everything about her except for her skill?

Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and she can’t help a sniffle.

“None of that,” comes the surprisingly gentle voice of the Watcher. When she approaches, she puts a gentle hand on Naya’s shoulder. “You’re here now. There’s no going back. But we take care of our own.”

Bricks snorts. “For given values of taking care of. You are keeping the boys in cages after all.”

“That’s not helpful,” the Watcher says, producing a tissue from her pocket and dabbing at Naya’s eyes. She pushes the makeshift hood back and gently removes her respirator, scanning her face with hard blue eyes. Eventually, she asks, “Why did you come here, Bambi?”

Shoulders coming up around her ears, Naya gets the feeling that because I’m an idiot isn’t the answer she’s looking for. She looks down at her sensible shoes, bracketed by the Watcher’s own worn work boots, and confesses, “Bricks said I could meet with you, and Price. And… I thought I could… encourage you to treat the modified soldiers more like people than animals.”

“And I suppose this encouragement was going to come with a threat to leak records to the public?” The Watcher’s mouth twitches into a sardonic smile when Naya looks up at her again. “Bold.”

Bricks chuckles. “Naive.”

“Hopeful. And some of the best plans are the simplest,” the Watcher dismisses.

Naya wouldn’t call her plan to connect to the building’s intranet and threatening to disrupt all of the life support systems “naive.” Now that she’s locked in, it feels like a distinctly hopeless course of action. She’ll have to think of something else, fast.

The Watcher steps away as the elevator comes to a stop. The doors open into a large control room, huge observation windows giving a 360 degree view out into dimly lit halls. Bricks ushers Naya out, heavy hands on her shoulders, until she pushes her into a chair facing a window to the left side of the room.

“Did we miss feeding time?” Bricks grins and pulls a puzzle ball from her bag. Her cybernetic hand twitches and whirs as it clicks through combinations.

“Luckily for Bambi, yes.”

Before Naya can ask what feeding time entails, something drops from the ceiling on the other side of the glass, startling a yelp from her. It’s a man, tall and lean, slitted eyes shining a red orange as he stares at her face through the glass. He’s half dressed, only in loose pants. Thick, dark streaks of something wet cover his chest and splatter down his legs. The grin that splits his pretty face puts three pairs of sharp canines on display, stained red.

The Watcher pushes a button, an intercom. “Gaz.”

“Who’s this cute little thing, Laswell?” Naya shivers as Kyle “Gaz” Garrick looks her up and down. He looks just like his personnel file, except for a wildness around his eyes that changes his face from welcoming to something dangerous. “Could practically smell her from the street.”

“Back away from the glass, you’re filthy. What the hell did you roll in?”

The man ignores the Watcher, face going soft as he leans down to get on a level with Naya. “Hello, honey. Such a pretty girl, what are you doing down here? You a friend of Bricks?”

Something about his crooning voice makes Naya’s hair stand on end. At the same time, she finds that she can’t look away from the man’s eyes as he tilts his head. They’re such an interesting color, and he keeps shifting ever so slightly in ways that draw her eyes to follow. He jerks quickly to one side when her eyes dip down to the red and brown splashed down his chest, then smiles when she looks back at his face. His teeth - even the extra ones - are perfect and red. Naya’s heart beats a little faster.

A loud pop and sudden flash makes Naya jump as Gaz reels back with a snarl.

“I told you not to touch the glass,” the Watcher grumbles. “Clean up. Make yourself presentable. And remind the others to put their masks on.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he hisses. With one last, sweet smile to Naya, he turns and strides away before leaping up to grab an exposed beam and hoist himself into the shadows above the observation room. He disappears in the space of a moment. No matter how Naya squints, she can’t tell where he’s gone.

“Don’t look any of them in the eye,” Bricks whispers from close behind, chuckling at the way Naya jumps. “They’re predators, sweetheart, and you’re the sweetest bite of prey they’ve had in a long while.”

“Bricks,” the Watcher (Laswell?) chides. “Get her keyed in. Bambi, you’re not to be alone in here. We’ll get you interfaced with security so you know how to do a lockdown sequence before you’re introduced to the Task Force.”

When she’s handed an interface chip, Naya blanches. “I can’t, I don’t have a hard disk reader. Why do I need to know the facility’s lockdown sequences?”

“There’s no where in this facility that they can’t get,” Bricks replies, distracted as she opens a floor panel to extract a series of wires, and what looks like a very robust integration cable. “And if you’re going to work here, you’re going to need to be able to keep them from dragging you off and eating you.”

“Bricks.” Laswell snaps. To Naya she explains,    “Everyone who works here needs to know how to lock down in case of emergency.”

Naya gapes. “Emergencies? They can - They’re not -! They have full access to the facility?”

“Of course. They can get out of the facility, too,” Bricks snickers. “Who’s going to stop them?”

“Bricks!”

“All of the records say that they’re severely restricted.” The tight squeak in Naya’s voice is undeniable. “What do you mean they could eat me?”

“Old records,” Laswell answers without looking. A terminal lights up under her fingertips. “The only way the SAS would let us keep the facilities without bomb chips. Let me know when you’re ready for input.”

“The part about eating me?” Naya flinches as Bricks circles behind and pushes her hair up to expose the port beneath her left ear.

“If you’re as good as I think you are, you don’t have to worry about that,” Bricks says, shoving the cable into place. “Go.”

“What-”

Laswell launches the integration before she can get the question out. Naya’s whole body jolts, brain flooded with sudden input. She doesn’t dive into the data so much as she’s dragged under the tidal wave of the facility.

The whole structure unfolds around her, five floors, twelve stories down, three shafts up, two elevators, one stair. She’s in the observation tower, which descends three more floors. Heat, cooling, air filtration, power, food storage, office of Watcher One Kate Laswell, office of Bravo One John Price, research labs east and south, conference rooms, break rooms, sleeping quarters, inventory, directory of personnel.

Access Denied.

It’s nothing to shuffle the alert away. Asset Records. Veronica “Bricks” Mason, Gary “Roach” Sanderson, Mason “Mace” Ward, [Redacted] Nikto, Morgan “Sparrow” Voss. The list goes on. Task Force 141. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John “Soap” MacTavish, John “Bravo One” Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley. Vital statistics steady, duplicate identification signals, three dead copies, one living set. Security, kill switch overrides. These doors won’t close, but they’ll tell the observation tower that they have. Interesting.

Diving a layer deeper, she observes three separate security records. One is distressingly familiar, the records she’d found before, that spurred her to find Bricks, full of echoes of old code, now that she can see it. Then the one with logs going to Watcher One Kate Laswell, current and accurate. Except that the third log indicates security discrepancies and pings to KGKLJMJPSR. She logs the discrepancy on her own, internal system, a reminder to see if she can piggyback on someone else’s clearance.

Now that she’s thinking about it, she scans for what her clearance is supposed to have access to. It’s the second level, the one that doesn’t actually close the security doors surrounding the servers, sleeping quarters, and the observation tower. Well, that won’t do. She makes a digital copy of KL’s access and patches it into her own.

Just as she finishes, four ID tags simply labeled “Ghost” enter the lowest observation tower floor. That’s a glaring red security alert, and it only doubles in urgency as he accesses the hatch to the system port cable.

“Oh, that’s bad,” she hears herself say aloud as she gropes, blindly for the cable in her neck. “Ghost is accessing, I need to disconnect before he-“

Three more security alerts come up as the ID tags for Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap appear around the top floor of the observation tower, their floor. Naya quickly circumvents the overrides on the blast doors, and half observes rolling shutters covering the windows as Laswell makes a startled noise. Unfortunately, Ghost finds her while she’s distracted.

And he is a ghost, sliding between the layers of Naya’s own security code like a cold breeze. He rifles through her ID cards before she can even try to lock down. When she tries to lock him out of her interface, he slams through so fast it sends her reeling. Unfortunately for him, and for her, he trips over her Brain Blast in the process. The packet of musical theater data explodes to override everything she’s connected to, knocking her out of her connection to the facility and blaring Ohmigod You Guys through the speaker systems of the facility.

“What the fuck,” Veronica Bricks Mason shouts, covering her ears.

“Sorry, sorry,” Naya yelps. She manually reopens her access to the facility and cuts the sound. Her head spins with new information that she doesn’t have time to let her organic brain process. Ghost is nowhere to be found, but she doesn’t wait around to see where he pops up again before locking herself down and physically removing the cable from her neck. “Ghost tripped my security protocol.”

“You shouldn’t be able to influence any part of the facility,” Watcher One Kate Laswell observes. “Which means you’re every bit as good as Bricks says you are. Why did you lock down the tower?”

“Just this floor,” she answers absently, looking around as her interface flashes and labels new data points about her surroundings. It takes a moment for her to filter through everything enough to focus. “Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap were approaching as Ghost tapped in on the bottom floor.”

“I should have charged more,” Asset:Mason chuckles.

“Maybe you should have, Veronica,” Naya replies without thinking.

The woman just laughs. “Oh ho ho, you’re even better than I thought.

Watcher One Laswell drums her fingers on the table. “You don’t have a hard disk reader. Can you still access the facility without a hard line?”

Naya has to shake her head before she runs a quick system check. A ping to the 141 Facility gets a happy little ping back. “Yeah. My, um… my interface is a bit more robust than standard.”

Watcher Laswell nods. “Noted. Reset the security settings.”

Naya almost does it on autopilot, but stops herself. Running a quick check, she shivers. “They’re still out there. Three of them.” When Laswell only nods, she nudges the blast doors and security shutters to open. It takes a moment, but eventually they start to rumble to life.

Worryingly, when she can see through the windows again, Bravo One, Gaz, and Soap are no where to be found. The only active vitals in the facility say they’re right across the glass from where Naya is sitting. It sends a chill down her spine. Diving through the facility systems, she had felt untouchable. But she’s been outmaneuvered again. Unless…

She stands and leans closer to the glass, looking up into the shadows above.

Three pairs of eyes shine down at her from the darkness.

“They’re up there,” Naya whispers. When Laswell simply answers in the affirmative, she activates the intercom with a gulp. “Um. I’m sorry about the noise.”

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” a deep voice answers. “Ghost has a way of startling pretty girls. And I quite like a bit of theater.”

Well it’s not Gaz, and there’s no hint of a Scottish accent. “Are you… Bravo One? John Price?”

“You are a clever one.” One of the pairs of eyes squints and tilts. Another shuts, and doesn’t open again. Soap’s tags move a short ways away as Price continues. “Bricks says you asked to meet me.”

“Yes, sir,” Naya says, and then remembers too late that Bricks said not to meet their eyes. She tears her eyes away and jumps at the sight of John “Soap” MacTavish standing a few feet down the hall in front of her.

He looks good, surprisingly so. His hair is long, braided mohawk shining. A gleaming scar is the only indication of the wound that almost killed him. He’s healthy, big and bulky and dressed casually in black joggers and a tight black tshirt. Bright blue eyes with crossed pupils scan her face with interest. When he grins at her, his sharp teeth flash with titanium augments.

“Gaz wisna exaggeratin,’ ye smell quite nice, Bambi,” Soap purrs.

“What part of ‘masks on’ don’t you all understand?” Laswell grumbles.

“They’ve already got her scent,” Bricks snickers. “Did Ghost get your tags Bambi?”

“He did,” Price confirms from above. “Naya Walker, also known as Bambi. Computer scientist, you’ve sold a couple of database systems. Quite impressive.”

A pit opens in her stomach. Ghost had access to her system for less than three seconds. Her throat is tight when she says, “Thank you, sir.”

“So polite,” Gaz chuckles from above. “Come say hello, doll.”

Naya chances a glance back at Kate, then looks back at Soap, then up at the single pair of shining eyes above as Price’s ID winks away from your awareness. “I’m not sure I have clearance for that.”

“You didn’t have clearance to know about this facility,” Gaz points out. “And yet, here you are. Pretty as a picture.”

“Jesus,” Bricks mutters as Laswell makes a startled sound. “We really should put a bell on you.”

And then a huge hand presses against the glass next to Naya’s face. She startles backwards and runs into a huge, solid body, and yelps as a strong arm catches her about the waist.

“Caught ya,” a fourth, deeper voice rumbles above her. His other hand catches both of her wrists and immobilizes her as she stares at dark brown stains up to his wrists. “Been teasin’ us f’ months, dippin’ in an’ out ‘f m’code. So careful, li’l fawn. But not careful enough.”

“Ghost,” Laswell says. The whine of a plasma weapon being primed pierces through the otherwise silent room. Naya squeezes her eyes closed.“Hands off. That’s my Breaker.”

“’S’at so?” Ghost bends down, so far down, it seems, to drag the tip of his nose along Naya’s temple. “Seems she moight be mine, since I invited ‘er.”

“Speaking of,” Bricks interjects. “I’ll take my finder’s fee, now.”

“Bricks.” Laswell hisses.

“Transfer’s cleared, Bricks,” John Price says with a chuckle. “Pleasure doing business, as always.”

Like Gaz and Soap, Captain Price is bigger than his file made him seem. They’d shaved him, when they had replaced some of his bones with metal, but now his facial hair is as full and vital as the rest of him. This close, Naya can see the mechanics whirling within his eyes.

Leaning against his free side, Gaz licks his lips with a tongue that seems too long. But she only sees them for a moment before she’s being turned around, still wrapped in Ghost’s arms.

On the left side of the room Bricks lounges in a chair, tossing and catching and cycling through the combinations on her ball. She’s grinning like she’s gotten away with murder. Maybe she has - she’s been paid three times today for possibly the easiest bounty of her career. Across from her, Laswell holds a glowing knife in a loose grip by her side, shooting an annoyed glare at the other woman.

“What the hell is this?” Laswell hisses.

“You told us to stop hunting your techs,” Price chuckles.

“Bambi is mine,” Kate reiterates, glaring out the glass.

“Just a wee taste, Watcher,” Soap burrs from somewhere. “Ghost is code breaker enough, ye dinnae need another.”

Naya feels her entire body go cold. She takes a deep breath, reconnects with the facility, and runs Flash_Bang.exe.

—

The underground building has a straightforward layout, but that’s dangerous. Naya flicks away the alert when Ghost manages to patch his way back into the facility and silence the music - fuck, it only took him twenty eight seconds? - and ducks under a desk in the office she broke into, one floor down.

It’s hard to stay one step ahead of him, but her spiders and bots repair the five second camera feed loops as soon as he forces the cameras back online. He only wastes time breaking a third of the bot codes before he seems to realize that they’re replicating and switches to tagging, leaving them to run their processes.

It takes two agonizing seconds for her to open the audio relay from the observation tower without revealing her location to Ghost’s sweeping pings.

“-vilian running wild and scared through a secure facility, John.” Kate snaps.

“I thought she was your new breaker,” Gaz snickers. “Not really a civilian.”

“Nae,” Soap interjects. Naya is glad she doesn’t have video to see the nasty smile she can hear in his voice. “Watcher’s right. We cannae let her get too far.”

“She’s fucked the cameras,” Ghost chuckles. “Could get them back online, but it’d take some time.”

Price hums. “Location?”

“West labs’re pingin’,” Ghost answers. He sounds pleased. “Don’t mean much. She’s got bots spoofin’ her IDs.”

“Smells like she’s gone to the east wing,” Gaz purrs. “Lots of classified documents that way, Laswell. Hate to think of what she might come across if she makes it down to the third floor.”

There’s a tense silence before something slams. Eventually, Laswell hisses, “Fine. Bring her back. Alive and unharmed.”

“No promises,” Soap laughs.

Naya scrambles from her hiding spot as she confirms that the cameras in this south wing hall are looped. She needs to get back to the north side of the facility to get to the stairs that might take her up and out. But first she needs to get them off her trail… Somehow.

There’s a janitor closet two doors down, and she spoofs the signal to unlock the door just long enough to slip through it. She looks for bleach and prays it will be enough to mask her scent, then curses to herself when she realizes the bleach will be an obvious mark of her presence. She can’t just erase herself in the physical world the way she can, digitally.

An encrypted message alert calls her attention.

>>>Bricks: Soap will run at you directly. Gaz likes to ambush. Good Luck!

“I c’n see that, Bricks,” Ghost rumbles.

“She’s already at a disadvantage,” the mercenary chuckles. “Poor little thing, you’re going to eat her alive.”

“Oh, she’s not as harmless as all that,” Price laughs. “Took over the whole facility, gave Ghost the slip-“

“I let her go,” Ghost interrupts.

“Set up the meeting so there’d be no one here but us. Got her hands on the codes she thought would let her take control of us, the mindless killing machines.” John continues. He chuckles. “She’s a smart little thing.”

“She got the deadswitches?” Bricks sounds genuinely surprised.

“Command codes. The first ones,” Ghost confirms. “Duds, since we don’t have the chips, but she don’t know that.”

Well, she does now. Naya grabs three bottles of bleach and puts her respirator back on as her mind races. Part of what made soldier modifications so disgusting were the control processors. The irony of finding out that the 141 had somehow removed theirs was not lost on her. They’re already as free as she’d hoped to help them be, and they’re using that freedom to hunt her like animals.

The IDs for Soap and Gaz are still a floor above, moving slowly, following her trail. Ghost and Bravo One are still in the observation tower. She opens one bottle and rolls it back down the hall she came down, then jogs the other way, splashing the bleach as she goes. The observation tower in the center of the floor has mirrored glass, spiking her heart rate every time she catches sight of herself out of the corner of her eye. It’s so jarring that she almost doesn’t realize Gaz and Soap are coming out of the nearest elevator.

She ducks into an office just as the bell dings around the corner.

“Ach, that’s nae very nice, Bambi,” Soap calls. When he speaks next, it’s muffled, likely by his own respirator. “Ghost, she’s scent bombed the whole steamin’ floor. Where is she?”

“Don’t be lazy, Johnny,” Ghost chuckles. “’Ardly a hunt if there’s no challenge.”

“She’ll want the stairwell,” Gaz says. “Lock it down.”

“Already done,” Ghost says. “But locks aren’t exactly a deterrent, if you ‘aven’t noticed.”

“Bottle rolled down this hall,” Gaz says. “So she probably took the other.”

“Aye, that’s what she wants us to think,” Soap chuckles. “I’ll clear this side.”

Naya holds her breath as heavy footsteps start toward her hiding spot, then go so light she almost can’t hear them. She watches the light under the door and resists the urge to flinch at the appearance of a shadow. The man - Soap’s ID sits like a brand so close to her own in her interface - lingers by the door for a long moment then moves on. He’s so quiet that she keeps the map of the floor up to watch his progress. He’s listening for her, she realizes, stopping at each door. She’s lucky that the air circulation vents are above the door, or he might have heard her heart racing.

When Soap and Gaz each turn corners to start investigating the south wing, Naya finally lets herself take more than the shortest breath. She eases the lock open with a flinch at the mechanical click, but neither Soap nor Gaz change their trajectory. When she opens the door and peeks out, the hall is empty. So she eases her way out, crouches low, and shuffles as fast as she can to the stairwell.

She gives the locks three scans before coding them to unlock. The light turns green without incident. She waits for a moment. Soap and Gaz move just a bit farther away. Naya breathes a silent sigh and eases the door open.

“Got her,” Ghost says. “She’s in the stairwell.”

Above her, a door slams open. Naya yelps and starts jogging down the stairs before she can hear what Captain Price yells down at her. She brute forces her way through the lock codes for the third floor and pulls the door open, throwing her bottle of bleach at the wall before slamming it shut. She trips every proximity alarm she can, leading west through the third floor as she throws herself down the next flight. At the fourth floor door, she creates a signal loop, mindful of the door sensor she’d overlooked before. She hears Gaz and Soap slam through the second floor door open just as the door to the fourth closes behind her.

Too late, she realizes that she can’t hear into the tower anymore, and the map of this floor is all static in her interface. The schematics she had before are corrupted - Ghost’s doing, most likely. She can still see the locks on the doors, the terminals connected to the intranet in the various offices. It will have to be enough.

She darts into the eastern wing of the floor and realizes that no, it won’t be enough. The layout is different than the upper floors. The observation tower has no windows in this direction to speak of, for one. And the cameras are few and far between. The doors are also farther apart, and low pile carpet gives way to hard linoleum.

When she turns the corner, she gasps and ducks. Not that it would have helped any. She’s faced with a gymnasium, weight machines and benches and treadmills like a normal gym, except with weights so large it’s almost comical. There’s no one here, but the open space feels like a threat all the same. She turns tail and jogs back toward the observation tower.

As she turns south, she realizes that the tower has no windows on this floor. It’s not a relief, not really. Even if no one can see her, she’s trapped. Gaz and Soap are still looking for her, one floor up. How long will that last? The bleach trick can only work for so long, probably. And Ghost is good, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks into the camera bot code and finds her. How is she going to get up, past the first floor, let alone the next twelve flights of stairs to the streets of the Belly.

God, how is she going to make it home?

Her vision blurs with tears before she can finish taking her next breath.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she whimpers before a hiccup jolts through her. Her breath shudders from her throat as she swipes at her eyes. “No, no, keep it together, it’s gonna be okay. I can figure this out, I can. I can, it’s okay.”

“Bambi? Talk to me,” Brick’s serious voice comes through, suddenly, fuzzy but definitely there. “Those sound like tears, sweetheart.”

Naya sobs, she can’t help it. It’s a few seconds before she can force more words out. “Why did you do this to me?”

“You asked me to bring you,” Bricks reminds her with a soft chuckle. “Didn’t know you were gonna try to take over the whole facility, or I might have set something else up. But if you come out now -“

A hand touches Naya from behind and she screams, throwing a HardReset packet into the space before she can even wonder if that would have any impact on Soap or Gaz. When she whirls around, though, a man she doesn’t recognize is slumped against the wall, barely keeping the weight of a bricked cybernetic leg from dragging him to the floor. Her interface has a moment to tell her this is “Mace,” before she’s darting around him and running again.

“Fuck!” the man shouts. “Watcher what the fuck- No, I’m on the fucking training floor, why the hell-“

“Bambi,” Bricks shouts, “Do not go into the w-“

She slams the connection shut and tries, unsuccessfully, to wipe her tears away. The distraction is probably why she doesn’t realize she’s heading north, but she knows her mistake as soon as she hears the stairwell door open.

She screams again, right in Gaz’s face, can’t help it now that she’s finally made noise. She dodges his reaching hand and bolts, knowing she can’t outrun him, but what else can she do?

“Shite. Ghost!” Soap calls. “Lock it doon!”

Naya dives through a blast door as it slides shut, ignoring the myriad of voices that shout at her. Through the panic, she terminates all of her bots and slams all of her processing power into separating Ghost from the security access from the floor. He puts up a fight, but another BrainBlast and FlashBang gives her the two seconds she needs to take control.

An alert flashes.

<<Message from: WatcherOneKL. Accept?>>

Sitting on the floor, panting and sniffling, she gulps a deep breath. Someone pounds on the door, but it’s solid, and Ghost can’t get past her bots to regain control. She’s safe.

—

In the observation tower, Price frowns at the data pad in his hands. “Ghost, Bricks. Where did you say you found Ms. Walker?”

“Found us, really,” Ghost mutters, focused on the 3D hologram of the facility. Bambi’s ID markers dance all over the place. He’s running algorithms to try to find a pattern, but she’s three steps ahead, it seems. “Set out a lure and she tore through it like tissue paper. An’ then she made a forum post lookin’ f’r information on soldier mods.”

“Scrubbed everything clean,” Bricks adds. “We couldn’t find her for days after she blew through everything. I got lucky that I found the forum post, it didn’t even trigger Ghost’s spiders.”

Price hums. “And… did either of you confirm which hacker group she’s a part of?”

“Didn’t really have time,” Bricks answers with a shrug. “As soon as I confirmed who I was, she demanded to meet Laswell, and you.”

“Interesting. Any of you ever hear of a group called the Archivist Collective?”

Laswell frowns. “Collective for Anarchy?”

“No.” Price shakes his head. “Archivist Collective. It’s the only thing coming up with her background check. And she’s not a known member of any of the major hacking groups.”

Bricks shrugs. “Obviously, she’d use another alias.”

“No,” Price says again, walking over to show Laswell and Bricks the data pad. “None of her aliases are connected with anything but this Archivist Collective. And their only mission is to ‘Counter censorship through the collection, preservation, and dissemination of contested and classified texts.’”

Ghost makes an interested noise and leaves the hologram to start another terminal whirring. “Let’s see what they’ve got then -… oh.”

Bricks sits up from her sprawl. “Oh?”

“They’ve got an archive. Barely any security at all. Hosted on the GaiaPet: Craft servers.”

“GaiaPet?” Kate frowns. “Isn’t that a… virtual pet game? Where people make things with voxels? Procedurally generated…. They’re definitely robust enough servers for cyberattacks-“

“It’s jus’ a fuckin’ library,” Ghost grunts, navigating through. “Huge text files, embedded images. Some of it’s definitely classified. But tha’s oll… Oh, shite. Jus’ found our records.”

Bricks looks from the terminal in Price’s hand, to Ghost, and back. “Wait. John, you said she sold a couple of database systems. She’s got to be working with some data brokers, at least.”

“This says she developed and sold literal systems,” John says, horror dawning on his face. “A spreadsheet editor and a UI designed to organize complex data sets. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t sell information. Everything she’s got, besides those systems, is open source.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ghost breathes.

Kate strides up to look at his screen. “What?”

“She’s got an active account on GaiaPet. A pet frog named Señor fuckin’ Snuggly. Her last login was today, and her chat with the AI said ‘Wish me luck, if we can’t get those soldiers released, we can at least get the information out there.’”

The silence in the room is palpable. And then Bricks says, “Bambi? Talk to me. Those sound like tears, sweetheart.”

—

Naya keeps her arms wrapped around her knees until she stops shivering. In that time, two more message request alerts pop up, from BravoOneJP and GhostSR. All of them are marked maximum priority, and she has no desire to touch them. She can see the signal burst of Bricks trying to talk to her, but she’s muted the feed so that she can just have… a single second to breathe.

Her interface pushes everything away to prioritize an SOS signal, then automatically begins transcribing the subsequent Morse code message.

SOH. West wing dangerous stop. Battle androids stop. 15 active 20 inactive stop. GSR give code for control stop. Confirm stop. SOH. West wing dangerous stop. Battle androids stop. 15 active 20 inactive stop. GSR give-

She minimizes the message and sucks in the deepest breath she can, holds it, and forces herself to focus on her body. If she thinks about fifteen battle droids on this side of the door while modified soldiers hunt her on the other, she’ll start screaming and never stop. A part of her wants to lay down and just… give up. A big part. The whole part.

She opens the message from Laswell.

Bambi: You’re in a hazardous section of the facility. Ghost is standing down, for your safety. You will have to establish connection with the control tower to gain codes for control of battle -

Naya deletes the message and opens the one from Price. It’s more of the same, a demand that she open communication, a warning that the west wing of the floor is dangerous. She almost doesn’t open the message from Ghost, but… she doesn’t have much to lose.

She jumps when the message contains an audio file.

“Bambi, fuck, we didn’t know you was a literal archivist. Bricks an’ I fucked up. This is a truce, a suspension of hostilities. SOH. The training floor you’re on is fuckin’ dangerous, Bambi. Too dangerous for me to try t’ take it from you. You gotta take control of the droids. I can’t fuck wit’ ‘em while you’re in control of the space. I managed to confirm shut down of 20, but there’s 15 more. I c’n try to send the control codes this way, but the codes expire every 2 seconds. Better if you open comms. If you can’t, Morse confirmation, I’ll send the codes. Once you grab one, the rest will come for you. You’re fuckin’ fast, I know you can do it, but if you have an issue, open the door an’ Soap and Gaz’ll support.”

She’d rather be shot full of holes by military grade turrets than open the door. Her map of the facility is complete again, and she can see four IDs on the other side of the barrier. Soap, Gaz, Mace, and the redacted asset, Nikto, mill around, pacing between the blast doors and the central tower. But no one is pounding on the door or trying to open it, physically or otherwise. When she checks, her bots are idly cycling through access code randomization, but there’s no attempts at a breach.

Maybe Ghost is telling the truth?

She sends a Morse message.

Received stop. Hold for confirmation stop.

The answer is immediate.

Received stop. Holding for confirmation stop.

Does she want to open the comms? What if it’s a trap? Without knowing how long the code chains are, she’s at a disadvantage without a direct link to the tower. But if she opens connection to the tower, how can she guarantee that Ghost won’t command the androids to terminate her? On the other hand, if he is telling the truth, and the codes expire that fast, there’s no way she can locate and override that many machines that are actively trying to keep her out in time. And they are definitely trying to keep her out - her spiders have been able to confirm twenty units on standby, and fifteen empty holding stations, but there’s no sign of the other droids.

With a shaking breath, Naya opens the comms.

Brick's voice is the one she hears first. "Oh, thank fuck, she's back. Bambi? Can you hear me? Sweetheart, I need you to keep the blast doors static. If they cycle, they might start a lockdown sequence, and that will get the droids moving.” It takes two tries to get the words past her tight throat. "I don't want to die." "I'm so sorry, dove," Captain Price croons. "We’re gonna get you out of there.” "I won't tell anyone, I promise," Naya babbles though gasps. "I just want to go home." "You're gonna be okay, Bambi," Ghosts voice is surprisingly gentle. “Cleverest breaker above and below the city, yeah? Gave Soap an’ Gaz a proper chase an’ knocked Mace on ‘is arse. Coupl’a droids don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not - I don’t know how to fight,” she whimpers.

“Who said anythin’ about fightin’? Pretty girl like you don’ have t’ lift a finger. Laswell?”

“Working on it,” the woman mutters. “Bambi, I need you to try to give us cameras without initiating any other processes. That’ll help- oh. You are fast. Give me a few seconds to find the nearest droids and we can give you the serial numbers.”

“She’s so small,” Price notes, somewhere in the background. “Possible the droids won’t even register her as a target.”

“I think we’ve fucked up enough today that we don’t need to risk it,” is Brick’s bone dry reply. “Sparrow is going to beat all of our asses.”

“Well, we’re about to give Bambi control of thirty-five full combat units,” the Captain points out. “Might not be much left of us to kick.”

Laswell breaks in. “Ghost-”

“Got em,” Ghost answers. “Bambi, ‘ve got a bead on the nearest units. ‘ow do you want to do this?”

Naya takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to hype herself up. It’s just code work. There are other variables, but at the core of it all, it’s just code. Yes, many of the variables have potentially painful and fatal consequences… But in the end, she can either do the code or not. And if there’s one thing she can do, it’s code.

“H-how,” she clears her throat and blinks back tears. “How many bits, per unit? For the key, I mean.”

“Forty ninety-six.”

Oh, just the highest security rating in the world, she thinks to herself, a little hysterical. She nods to herself and talks through the urge to giggle with nerves. “Okay. That’s seven hundredths of a second per unit, with the key. That’s… not so bad. I can probably handle them in batches of 5. Can I have the first hardware address? Morse, please.”

It takes a second, but the information comes through. It only takes a moment for a spider to highlight the machine in the network. Very quickly, her bots are able to identify and tag seven other units on her map. She shoots a summary data packet back to Ghost.

“Are these all droids?”

“Yeah, that’s half of ‘em. Laswell, she was able to identify all of the A-27 units, do you have eyes on any of the E-243s?”

In the background, Price mutters, “Kate hasn’t even laid eyes on all of the 27s.”

Another data packet comes through, and Naya is able to tag seven more dots on her map. Fifteen battle androids, and two of them just down the hall and around the corner on either side.

Naya takes another hiccuping breath. “How fast can they move?”

“A-27s are closest to you, they’re about a meter per second. The 243s move at about 4 per second.”

“Okay,” she says, holding her breath through another hiccup. She has two of her bots run movement simulations, and decides she’ll focus on the closest two A-27s, then the closest four E-243s. She has the processing power to do it, between her own interface and the facility. But… “I’m going to need these six keys first, but I have to let the doors cycle. How long is the lockdown sequence?”

Bricks makes a concerned noise before answering, “Fifteen seconds before you can open the door.”

So, if she messes this up, she’ll be dead for about 11 seconds before they’d be able to retrieve her body. Wonderful. “Ghost, I need all of the codes at once, in two packets, with the keys in this order. And then the next set of keys as soon as you have them. There’s a half second delay, so I need them as soon as they’re generated.”

Laswell sounds genuinely concerned when she asks, “Is that going to give you enough time?”

Naya runs the numbers again, and realizes that she’s fallen into a very peculiar state of calm. “I should have one point three seconds plus a little wiggle room per key. That’s plenty, for the first part. And if the first part doesn’t work… I don’t really have to worry about the rest of it.”

Captain Price’s voice is stern as he gives commands. “Gaz, tell Nikto to power up the cutter, in case we need to get you through the door. Bambi’s going to override the droids.” He’s quiet a moment, then, “Ghost says she can do it, and from what I’m seeing up here, I’m inclined to believe him. But the resets she did mean the door is going to lock down before she can open it again.”

Ghost says, “Ready to send the next round of codes on your mark, Bambi.”

Naya squeezes her eyes shut and sets her bots to be ready to receive and engage the keys. She takes one long, deep breath. Another. Lets all the air out in a huff. “Mark.”

As soon as the packet comes through, her interface is a flurry of executables and intrusion alerts. Her bots are fast, but the activation of the keys isn’t instantaneous. Just as she was warned, as soon as the first set of keys starts running, all of the droids set themselves to Active:Seeking, Objective:Eliminate. But almost as fast, they’re all placed back into Standby:HoldPosition in a wave that flows through the entire wing.

"That's all of em," Ghost sighs, four seconds later. Something creaks, probably the chair he's sunk himself into. "Fuckin' 'ell, she got all of em. Don' think she even needed me to provide the third set of keys. If she don't run screamin', I want her runnin' the damn-" Naya's heart spikes as an alert pings her interface. Her voice squeaks when she calls, "Ghost? There's two units coming online. They’re not listening to me, I can't stop them. What do I do?" Before she can hear his response, the power to the hall cuts out. Naya holds in a scream as everything goes dark and then red with emergency lighting. Captain Price's voice is overtaken by static, and then she loses the tower completely. Somewhere, in the darkness, she can just barely hear the whine of attack units Riley and Merlin priming their weapons.

—

“Goddamn it,” Kate snarls. “It’s the 9s. They’re jamming the signal.”

Bricks jumps up from her chair. “Bambi’s in there without access to the system?”

Ghost makes a disagreeing noise. “They’re active because she’s not an authorized user. They’re jamming anything that isn’t local to the wing, I should be able to patch- Johnny!”

“We cuttin, LT?”

“Forward these packets to Bambi, nothing else.”

“Aye - fuck!”

—

A message request from SoapJM flashes on Naya’s screen just as she finds out that these new droids can move at thirteen meters per second. When she opens it, she gets an immediate key packet. Every bot she has gets set to receive, but the keys are expired, so she has to wait an agonizing three-quarters of a second before the next ones come through.

Just as a next packet arrives, a blue beam of light slices across the end of the hall, then a second from the opposite side. She barely has time to match the keys to the hardware addresses before two furry muzzles round the corner, guns glowing from their shoulders. Naya has only a moment to recognize the controversial K-9 battle units before they both take a step in her direction. And freeze.

It’s an harrowing second of silence, two, three. She doesn’t even breathe.

With a whir, mounted turrets power down and withdraw back behind artificial fur. The K-9s change their status to Standby:AcceptNewObjective with identical head tilts. The one tagged Riley wags its tail and trots forward, tongue lolling like the average bio-dog. Merlin approaches with a little more hesitant body language, though Naya can see the way it’s integrating her tags into the authorized user list in its software.

She flinches away from the door at the high pitched whine of a plasma cutter on metal. Hastily, she sends an ‘All Clear’ message back to Soap, just as the lights come back on.

Captain Price’s voice resolves with renewed connection to the control tower. “-both of your necks. What were you thinking?”

“Oh, suddenly we’re all about vetting assets?” Bricks laughs. “You recruited me with a bag over my head.”

“You were an establlished CIA asset,” Laswell grits out.

Bricks scoffs. “And Sparrow and Nikto?”

“We wasn’t wrong,” Ghost interjects. “Bad intel aside-”

“No intel!” Captain Price half-shouts.

“-she took the facility from me twice and disarmed 15 droids in less than 4 seconds without any formal training. She’s good.”

“None of that matters if she’s dead,” Laswell snaps.

Naya clears her throat. “I’m not dead.”

“Bambi!” Bricks sound downright cheerful. “Doors are almost done cycling, you’re almost out. Hold tight.”

Petting a hand over the soft fur of Riley’s head, Naya feels for the lumps of it’s internal machinery. Of course, she can’t find it - K-9s were built for stealth and surveillance, to blend in with any other dog. These ones are modified for combat, but they’re still adorable.

It’s almost hard to believe that they were going to shoot her, less than ten seconds ago.

The blast door’s status changes to ready, an almost cheerful ping in her interface. She barely gives it a thought before initiating another lockdown sequence, then queuing two more behind it.

Ghost notices. “Bambi?”

“I need a minute, please,” she answers, then cuts the camera feeds.

Merlin eventually comes and sits just out of reach, tail thumping once against the ground. Naya pulls up it’s configuration settings and examines the personality controls. Calm, but friendly, alert, reserved, breaks “arbitrary dog rules” at a rate of 6%. Riley: open and playful, eager to please, breaks rules 17% of the time. Both locked to 141 facility 4th floor, west wing training center.

Do Not Remove.

—

When the blast doors open, Naya is standning a few feet back. Riley and Merlin lay on either side of her feet, solidly in a sleep cycle. Her fingers dig into the opposite sleeves of her cardigan as Soap and Gaz come into view, along with a fully functional Mace, and a fully helmeted cyborg she can only assume is Nikto.

“Steamin’ Jesus, bon,” Soap says taking a step forward. “Ye gave us a wee fright!”

“If you get within three feet of me,” Bambi says, pausing for a deep breath. “I’ll shoot you.”

Three set of eyebrows shoot up. Nikto’s faceplate remains unchanged. Gaz looks at the others before answering, “We’re sorry we frightened you, love. We didn’t know Bricks hadn’t-”

Naya interrupts him. “I would like to leave now.”

“Well…” Soap says with a shrug. “We can take ye back t’ Laswell?”

“That’s fine. Riley, Merlin, up.”

When the dogs “wake” and stand, Mace says, “They can’t pass that door.”

She takes a step forward, flanked by the dogs. “I think you’ll find that they can.”

“Nae, Bambi,” Soap says gently. “They’re hard coded-”

Riley’s turret activates as soon as Soap takes a step toward her. Naya takes another deep breath, and repeats, “If you get within three feet of me, I will shoot you.”

“Well you certainly won’t be doing that with the dogs,” Gaz scoffs. “We won’t touch you, but you really should come with… us.”

The dogs cross the threshold of the door with her, and the plasma cannon in Merlin primes with a dangerous, high pitched sound. When the stunned soldiers don’t step back, the dog’s chest panel opens with a blue glow.

“Three feet,” Mace says, taking two big steps back, hands in the air near his head. “You got it.”

“Yes, sir,” Gaz says aloud, taking his own step backwards. “The doors are open and we have eyes on her. She’s got the 9s with her. Well sir, it seems she’s taken a liking to them.” He pauses. “Soap did tell her that, but apparently she doesn’t really care.”

Naya rolls her eyes and enables the cameras in the hall. “So you’re all allergic to just saying things outright?” The muted audio feed is a flurry of activity, but she just gestures down the hall. “After you.”

—

In the end, everyone ends up in a second floor conference room. Naya stands by the far wall, Riley and Merlin a deadly guard panting in front of her feet. The other eight sit and stand at the other end, fidgeting and clearly searching for a way to break the silence.

Bricks tries first, “Sweetheart-”

“Give me a reason not to overload the filtration systems,” Naya interrupts.

That makes everyone flinch. Laswell clears her throat. “What-”

“Because,” Naya nearly shouts, “I could shoot at least two of you, but then you really would kill me this time. But if I backflow and spark the air, that would kill all of you.”

“Kill ye, as well,” Soap points out.

“I thought I was going to die about five times in the last hour,” Naya says, much calmer than she feels. “Mention me dying again and I’ll fry your interface.”

“Ghost just aboot did tha’ already,” Soap mutters.

“Need a hacker for an op. Thought you was a professional,” Ghost finally admits after a moment of tense fidgeting. “Way you ate through the files I laid out, blew through a 256 like tissue paper. Couldn’t find you after… Figured you knew what you was doin’. And y’do.”

Naya’s eye twitches. “And you couldn’t send me an email? Set up an interview?”

“I did try,” Bricks points out. “But you said all the keywords that tend to get a person fast tracked to a very classified meeting.”

“A very classified meeting where you sell me, twice and then hunt me for sport?”

“Everything sounds bad when you say it like that,” the other woman chuckles.

The air circulator over the door falls silent. In the ensuing silence, Naya can hear the servos whir in Bricks’s arm.

“Clearly, we made mistakes,” Laswell admits. “So. What do you want?”

“I want to not have been sold and hunted for sport. Barring that, I would like a time machine. I’d love to know what you consider an equitable offer, Watcher One.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Mace hisses at Captain Price.

“Apparently we made a tactical error,” the man grumbles. “And then a series of compounding tactical errors.”

“You did not ask Nikolai,” Nikto says, matter of fact. It’s the first Naya’s heard his voice, human and heavily accented. “Or Sparrow. She will not be pleased, I think.”

“None of Nik’s contacts c’n do what Bambi c’n do,” Ghost counters.

“Bambi can kill every person in this room,” Naya says, voice flat, emphasized by the glow of two plasma cannons. “Bambi can turn this whole facility into a goddamn crater. Bambi can post videos of the human experimentation to the holonet.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Gaz says. “What human experimentation? No one’s experimenting on anybody.”

“I saw the videos!” Naya yells. “People in cages, people on operating tables, awake, screaming, crying. I saw people eating raw meat, off of leg bones, eating people!”

“Oh fuck,” Ghost says, voice wavering. His face is stricken when she looks at him. “Bambi, that weren’t for you to see, fuck, ‘ow deep did you fuckin’ go? I didn’t even-”

“That’s the job,” Bricks cuts in. “That’s why we needed a hacker, because we’re trying to stop that from happening, and we can’t get through their walls or exploit their vulnerabilities.”

“Oh, that’s just the “bad guys”?” Naya scoffs. “Okay. Why was Gaz covered in blood when I arrived?”

“Blood!” Soap yelps. “That was hydraulic fluid an’ oil! One of the bikes is actin’ up, and our mechanic isnae aroond!”

“It was in his teeth!”

“He’s bonnier than he is graceful!”

“Oh, fuck you, Tav!”

“You said you couldn’t promise to bring me back alive! Ghost called it a hunt!”

“Ah was jokin’!” Soap runs and hand over his mohawk. “We’re a right frightful lot, and sometimes we sneak aboot, but mostly people just cannae always hear us coming! Ye’d think we could catch one wee little civilian withoot incident!”

“You’re the one who was running through a secure facility,” Captain Price points out.

A plasma cannon discharges into the wall above his head. The whole room freezes for a beat before Naya hisses. “If you ever even think of implying-”

“Any information you find about Makarov and his dealings, you can make public,” Bricks interrupts. “Who, what, when, where, how. All of it can go into your archive.”

Laswell scowls. “Now hold on-”

Bricks talks over her. “We don’t have anything you want that you can’t just outright take, Bambi. That’s what you came here for. Information, and to get people out of cages.”

Nikto looks at Bricks and snorts before muttering something under his breath in Russian. Mace crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat and doing a much better job of keeping his thoughts off of his face than Soap and Gaz. The sergeants look horrified. Ghost looks about ready to throw up. Captain Price and Laswell share a sour, resigned look.

“You’ll have our backing,” Laswell sighs. “You’ll need something a bit more secure than the GaiaPet servers, or you’ll be tracked. But yes. You can disseminate the information.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Naya considers her options, arms around herself. The air circulator kicks back on.    Eventually, she says, “I want an advance. Thirty thousand credits, plus however much Price paid.”

“Done,” Bricks answers.

“And… I want seventy five credits an hour.”

“…Fine,” Laswell agrees.

“And I keep the dogs.”

Captain Price makes a disagreeing noise. “Those are government property.”

“Either I keep them, or I set them to self destruct and detonate every android on the fourth floor.”

Nikto says, “You are a bloodthirsty hind.”

“I’m really not,” Naya says. “But I’ve had a very long day. Do we have a deal?”

“Don’t think we have much of a choice,” Captain Price concedes.

Just then, the door to the conference room opens, and a brunette peeks her head in. Morgan Voss, “Sparrow,” as her ID tags her, nods at Laswell. “Just got in, didn’t know there was a meeting scheduled. What did I miss?” Her eyes drift up. “What the hell happened to the wall?”

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Dear Magisowo, id like some legal advice if you have any.

I’m a wizard and have recently acquired and renovated my home into a proper wizard tower. However problem is I’ve been getting harrased by the local HOA, them complaining that my tower is an “eyesore” and “disturbing” their neighborhoods image. My tower was built perfectly legally, I’ve got all the proper building permits and followed all local county tower laws. That still isn’t enough for them as they’ve sent countless “inspectors” who’ve found nothing, and have been sending threats of legal action. Is there any way to get them to stop and do their threats actually hold weight?

Good morning!

That sounds like a horrid situation and let us assure you: this so-called Homeowner Association hasn't got a leg to stand on. Of course neighbours are always free to band together for purposes of mutual support - like establishing a feral griffin watch or communal herb garden - but legal rights are only granted in the case a HOA of owners that share communal real estate. As is the case with apartment complexes where one buys an apartment instead of renting it.

If your home is a detached building and you obtained the proper planning permission, your tower construction is perfectly legal. I imagine these people are threatening to report your building to the urban aesthetics commission, but if you have your papers in order the municipality will have ran your plans by them already. Besides, wizard towers are protected under the Occult Habitat Provision, as studies have shown they are a requirement for performing certain types of magic and frequently attract endangered magical species.

We advise passing this information on to the individuals that are bothering you, asking them politely to stop, and if need be warn them that you will treat their actions as intentional harassment if they continue. We will send you an example of how to keep a log to build a harassment case, if worst comes to worst.

We absolutely can not recommend contacting the Wizard Orb Assistance Helpline (WOAH) and inquiring after the latest neighbour-repelling wards that they have on file under Occult Commons. That would be irresponsible from a community building perspective and as such we would under no circumstances advise you do such a thing.

All the best,

~ the MagISoWo Team  

[digitalagepulao]

Sun Wukong, the Monkey King: my design notes [!! click here for the full line-up !!] [click here for just the goodies on tumblr]

also titled, "I underestimated my file sizes" TAT Separate images and info below the read more, beware this is LONG <3

Stone Monkey: himbs baby, that is all <3 he's mostly based off the François Langur, but some of his anatomy and proportions lean more on the Gray Langur and Macaque side of things. His facial fur sort of forms a pentagon shape for the five elements, and I gave him ginger fur cus it's a common depiction for him but also baby langurs are very bright orange, and him not growing dark feels like an apt display of his more childish side, both good and bad. His nails are golden for a bit of a "hidden gem" from a stone egg. Also keeping the tail either in a spiral of C-curve when "engaged", and when droopy it has a feel of a heavy rope. Old World monkeys don't have prehensile tails, he can use it for balance and basic mobility but it's not a third hand for the sake of keeping his monkey-ness.

Handsome Monkey King: in one of the poems the monkeys are said to weave grass for mattresses, so I can see them coming up with a crown of woven grass and never-fading leaves and flowers for their king at the very least. His face skin is darker as an adult, but not much else changes overall. The fuzzy upper lips and sideburns are a feature of the species I'm basing him on and it felt like a good fit to add. I also love the forest langurs are so long-furred, makes for a good way to give him dimension but also, the linework style reminds me of old woodcut shorthands for fur. Added a jade coin for the symbolism, and it feels fitting that the king of such a miraculous mountain would have a treasure like that on him. Placcid chill eyes are imperative, dude's not had an existential crisis yet, he's straight up vibing.

Sun Wukong: during his odd-ten years away from home, he learned human manners so he can stand but, I can see him still needing to lean on his tail to keep up his balance here and there. As he reaches the Western Continent (India) and learns the Way under Patriarch Subodhi, he adopts proper clothes for an apprentice and eventually becomes a Rishi. He dons his facial paint from then on, and after he masters the Way, there's a brightness in his pupils to show his cultivated immortality. The beads are purple solely to stand out over the deluge of oranges that is his design.

Great Sage Equal to Heaven: really went all out on this one orz this is Wukong at his most egotistical and ambitious, and I wanted his fit to truly embody that. Took bits from Peking Opera costumes and common depiction elements of him, with some bit of extra for appropriate levels of flair, like the phoenix feather design. I wanted to go for a mountain pattern mail but I couldn't figure out how to draw it, so I winged a pattern. I,,, doubt I'll ever draw this armor as detailed as here, but I wanted it to feel a bit overwhelming to look at, while also seeming like it doesn't quite fit him perfectly like it's swallowing him. Bit of a "baby wearing their parent's shoes" kind of vibe; he's stupidly powerful but he doesn't have what it takes to sit on the throne of Heaven. Also I leaned his expression to how he might appear during the Havoc in Heaven and then his bet with the Buddha. Full unbrindled rage murder monkey <3

-- Ruyi Jingu Bang: can't quite move on without my notes on the golden-hooped cudgel, now can I? The secondary hoops are there for further design appeal and for my own visualization of how the staff changes size (the hoops move over the staff's length as if to push it outward or inward). The metal is dark damascus alloy, though the pattern can be omitted for ease of drawing. One hoop end depicts a dragon, the other a phoenix, and in the middle of the staff is the canon inscription as described in the books, in seal script. Glow is optional and mostly for aesthetics.

Sun Pilgrim: out of his stolen armor, Wukong seems to swim in his robes but in a less overwhelming way. Went for the simple fillet headband cus his face is busy enough as it is. I know he's skilled enough to skin a tiger into pretty decent squares, but after one too many battles, anything would get tattered. He wears red, teal, black and yellow, four of the five cardinal colors, while white (the West) is still missing. His red and black half-robe doesn't fully cover the yellow underneath, a call back to his golden armor; he tries to use his wisdom and teachings to fight back the impulses of his past, but they still shine through at times. I kept only the leg bangs for dynamic elements to better show movement, but also one could say he's got.... golden hoops (haha get it, like his cudgel?? :oD)

Victorious Fighting Buddha: leaned hard on the actual portrayals of the Buddha. Seeing that he's depicted with dark/blue skin, it felt appropriate to let the guy grow out of his baby ginger fur and into adult black, but a patch remains where the golden headband used to be. I didn't want to give him long hair so no bun, but instead, his fur has a sorta lotus-petals shape now rather than his single point. His face paint changes into a more domino-mask style, and his brow white line resembles a teardrop urna. I made the mail piece he holds longer to keep the flowy bits of his previous outfits, and I turned Ruyi Jingu Bang into the sword he wields.

Hello hi, this robbed me of three days of my life and I'd like to receive compensation x.x Anyway hope you enjoy this lad, I know I do! Also if you wanna send me asks about him pls feel welcome to, I'd love to chat about this bastard monkey (affectionate) (loving) (i`d die for him)

[vintagerpg]

I keep telling you, zines are where the real heart and soul of this hobby reside. This week’s posts I think really emphasize that, but none more than WHPA Fairhaven (2021), from Get Haunted Industries. The idea here is to present a simple dice pooling skill system to power a game about public access TV personalities investigating local strange phenomenon. It is precisely as weird and cozy as you imagine, a jumbling of Pee-Wee Herman, pro-wrestling, X-Files and Weird Al’s UHF, with a distinctly Connecticut feel. The zine is perfect in it’s very narrow, very precise way, filled with ads and fuzzy photos. There are a number of companion books, each more silly and unsettling than the last.

This is the rare zine that would, I think, be diminished as a book. It needs that lo-fi aesthetic — it’s part of the atmosphere of the game. Are there public access TV stations any more? If there are, I suppose they are required to transmit in HD, which seems wrong somehow. The picture should be fuzzy, the color uneven, the audio popping. Same with this game. It should feel photocopied, like it would be home found among the dogwalker and lawnmower ads in a stack under the community board at the grocery store. True, weird love.

[bexxa12]

STUDIO SECRETS|| JJ x Y/N

{Summary}

Jungkook, a musical prodigy whose voice captivates millions, finds himself drawn into a world beyond the spotlight. His path crosses with the enigmatic daughter of his esteemed producer, a woman whose secrets run as deep as the melodies he crafts.

Chapter 5

WC: 2,161

The flight was a blur of case notes and turbulent thoughts. Y/N's mind raced with the gravity of the upcoming trial.

The plane's gentle descent into Busan's Gimhae International Airport brought her back to reality. The early morning sun painted the city in soft pastels, a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescents of the Seoul office. 

The warmth of the cabin dissipated as she stepped into the brisk air of the coastal city. The scent of the sea mingled with the crispness of the dawn, a refreshing change from the stale air of the flight.

Her driver, a stoic man in a black suit, held a sign with her name neatly printed on a white card. He nodded curtly as she approached, his eyes never leaving her. She couldn't help but feel a touch of nervousness under his scrutiny. 

As they made their way through the quiet streets, the city began to wake up, the soft hum of early morning traffic a gentle crescendo to the silence of the night. The hotel loomed into view, a sleek tower of glass and steel, a stark contrast to the cosy, familiar streets she'd left behind. 

The lobby was a study in modern luxury, with a minimalist aesthetic that somehow managed to be both welcoming and intimidating. Y/N's heels clicked on the marble floor as she followed the bellhop to the elevator, her briefcase feeling heavier with every step. 

The ride up was quick, the city shrinking below her until it was nothing more than a quilt of lights. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a plush hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, the only sound the muffled whispers of the hotel's hidden life.

The room was a sanctuary of calm, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only intrusion on the silence. Y/N dropped her bags by the door and took a moment to breathe, the weight of the case file in her briefcase feeling like it had transferred to her shoulders. 

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her reflection staring back at her, a tired but determined young woman ready to conquer the world.

The view was breath taking, the sea stretching out like a vast canvas painted in the soft hues of the early morning. The horizon was a blur of colours, a promise of a new day, a new challenge. Her heart swelled with excitement and nerves as she thought about the high-profile murder case that awaited her.

Y/N unpacked her suitcase methodically, her mind racing through the list of tasks she had ahead. Each item she laid out had a purpose, a role to play in her quest for justice. She hung her suits with care, the crisp fabric whispering a promise of professionalism. The sight of her neatly arranged work clothes brought a sense of order to the chaos of her thoughts.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was a message from her father, reminding her to eat something before diving into work. 

With a sigh, she called room service and ordered a simple breakfast of toast and eggs, the comfort food of her childhood. 

As she waited, she couldn't help but think about Jungkook, about the weariness in his eyes as he navigated the airport's gauntlet of flashing lights and intrusive questions.

The knock on the door startled her, and she jumped to her feet, her heart racing. It was just room service, a young man with a tray laden with her breakfast. He set it down with a polite smile, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness. 

The silence of the hotel room was deafening once the door clicked shut behind him.

Y/N took a deep breath and forced herself to eat, the food a comforting reminder of home. She could almost hear her mother's voice telling her to eat up, to keep her strength up.

The eggs were perfect, just the way she liked them, and the toast was warm and crunchy. Yet, even as she savoured each bite, her mind remained sharp, slicing through the legal jargon and the facts of the case.

Once she'd finished, she showered and changed into her first suit of the trip, a sleek, black number that made her feel like a warrior ready for battle. The mirror reflected a confident, capable woman, the kind her father had always believed her to be. 

Y/N took one last look before grabbing her briefcase and heading out, her heels clicking a rhythm of determination on the marble floor.

The drive to the law firm was a whirlwind of unfamiliar streets and the salty scent of the sea. The office was a stark contrast to the hotel, a nondescript building nestled between a convenience store and a coffee shop. 

The interior was a maze of cubicles and closed doors, the air thick with the scent of coffee and stress. She was ushered into a small, windowless room filled with boxes of documents and a single, worn-out desk. This was to be her base for the foreseeable future.

Her team was a mix of seasoned veterans and young, eager faces. They greeted her with a mix of respect and curiosity, whispering her name as if it were a password to some secret society. Y/N felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine.

This was it. Her moment to shine.

The lead prosecutor, Mr. Park, was a man with a reputation that preceded him. His stern gaze swept over her as she entered the conference room, his expression unreadable. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. 

His briefing was succinct and to the point, laying out the grim details of the murder case that had shaken the city of Busan to its core.

Lyle Castellanos, a prominent businessman, had been found in his penthouse, brutally stabbed to death. The evidence was damning, but the motive was as murky as the waters of the Busan harbour. 

Y/N took furious notes, her mind racing with questions. Who would benefit from Castellanos's death? Was it a crime of passion or a calculated move in the cutthroat world of business?

The suspects ranged from his scorned lover to his disgruntled employees to his rival companies. Each had their own web of alibis and motives, a tangled knot that she would have to unravel. 

The stakes were high; the case had captured the nation's attention, and the senior partner's expectations were clear. Y/N had to win this one, not just for her career, but for her father's pride.

The rest of the day was a blur of meetings and strategy sessions, the walls closing in with every passing hour. Yet, as the sun began to set, painting the sky with a palette of fiery reds and oranges, she found herself oddly at peace. 

The office windows framed a view of the bustling city, the distant sound of the port's activity a gentle reminder of the world beyond the case files.

As she left the office, the cool evening air kissed her skin, a refreshing embrace after the day's battle. The streets of Busan were alive, the neon lights and chatter of passersby a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the hotel.

Jungkook's flight had landed hours ago, and as this driver weaved through the familiar streets, his heart swelled with a bittersweet nostalgia. The sight of the bustling marketplaces and the comforting aroma of street food brought back a flood of memories. 

When he finally stepped out of the car and onto the well-worn path leading to his childhood home, his anticipation was palpable. 

The house looked smaller than he remembered, but it was as if it had been painted with a warm glow, welcoming him back with open arms. He took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the sea breeze that carried the promise of comfort and belonging.

Jungkook's hand hovered over the doorbell, his heart racing like the first beat of a new song. He could almost hear the echoes of his past, the laughter and love that had filled these walls. With a gentle push, the chime rang through the house, and he felt the weight of his career slip away, replaced by a simple, profound yearning for home.

The door swung open, and there she was, his mother, her eyes widening with joy as she took in the sight of her son.

The warm embrace that followed was like a lullaby, soothing the ragged edges of his soul. Her scent of homemade kimchi and comfort wrapped around him like a warm blanket, reminding him of the unconditional love that waited for him here.

The house was a time capsule, unchanged from his last visit, the walls lined with family portraits and childhood trophies. The chaos was a symphony, a beautiful reminder of the life he had left behind in the pursuit of stardom.

His mother's kitchen was a warm sanctuary, the air thick with the aroma of kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. 

The familiar clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of ingredients hitting the hot pan, was music to his soul. He watched her, her movements efficient yet filled with love as she stirred the pot, her eyes never leaving him. She asked about his life in Seoul, his band, his music.

The rest of the evening was spent sharing stories, the laughter and warmth filling the void that fame had left behind. Jungkook felt a sense of belonging, a reminder of who he was before the lights and the cameras had become his constant companions. 

As the night grew late, he excused himself to his old room, the one he had not slept in for too long. 

The sight of his old bed, the posters of his childhood heroes still adorning the walls, brought a smile to his face. He unpacked his suitcase, placing his clothes in the drawers with a sense of comfort that was foreign in the city that never slept.

As he pulled out his phone to charge it for the night, a message from a familiar number popped up on his screen. It was from his childhood friend, Yoo-Jiin. 

"You're back!" it read, followed by a series of smiley faces. Jungkook felt a rush of excitement; it had been too long since they had last seen each other. 

Yoo-Jin proposed a reunion dinner tomorrow night, suggesting they catch up over some of their favourite street food and a couple of drinks. The thought of escaping the spotlight for just a few hours was tantalizing, a taste of freedom he hadn't experienced in a long time.

With a smile, Jungkook typed out his reply, agreeing to the meet-up. The anticipation grew within him like a chorus of cheerful notes. He hadn't had a night out like this since before his debut, a time when he could be just Jungkook, not the star of a world-famous boy band.

He quickly texted his manager to inform him of his plans, asking for a low-profile exit and minimal security.

The manager, ever understanding, assured him that it would be arranged. Jungkook could feel the burden of his celebrity status lift slightly, the thought of a night of anonymity a rare luxury. 

As he set his phone aside, the quiet hum of the old house lulled him into a sense of peace. He took a moment to breathe in the scent of home, a blend of the sea breeze that wafted in through the open window and the faint aroma of the dinner his mother had prepared.

The next day, Jungkook tried to keep his visit low-profile, spending time with his family and helping out around the house. His mother watched him with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and concern. 

She had always worried about him, living that fast-paced life in the city, and she was grateful for this unexpected chance to reconnect.

Y/N, on the other hand, was thrown into the deep end of her high-profile case.

The office was a whirlwind of activity, with phones ringing off the hook and lawyers rushing to and fro, their heels clacking on the tiles like a staccato beat. Despite the chaos, she found a rhythm, her mind a finely tuned instrument sifting through the evidence and witness statements.

As the day dragged on, she felt the pressure building, the weight of her newfound responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. It was during a brief respite for coffee that she bumped into Min-Ji, a junior prosecutor with a sharp mind and a penchant for dramatic storytelling.

Min-Ji's eyes lit up when she saw Y/N, and before she knew it, she had been roped into an invitation for drinks after work.

Y/N hesitated, her mind already racing with the tasks she needed to complete, but the other woman's enthusiasm was infectious. 

"Come on," Min-Ji coaxed, "you've got to unwind. You can't work all day and night without a break. Plus it will be a little welcome moment to mark the start of your journey in Busan." With a sigh, Y/N found herself nodding, the promise of a few hours of normalcy too tempting to resist.

[thesublemon]

Theory, Reality, and 'Tango'

Happy to share a project I’ve been working on for the last few months. Around July, I happened upon a TV staging of the Polish play Tango by Sławomir Mrożek. Written in 1964, Tango is a classic of the mid-century Theater of the Absurd, as well as Polish avant-garde drama. It’s a highly famous play in Poland—a staple of high school curricula—but less well-known in the anglosphere these days. I enjoyed the staging a lot, and because it had no English subtitles, I thought I’d try to make some myself. This was a particularly fun project given that, as far as I know, the play hasn’t had a new English translation since 1968 [1]. I’ll use another post to talk a bit more about the translation process and the philosophy of translation that I found myself adopting—particularly how it differed from the philosophy I might have adopted if I was translating the play in book form, rather than a performance of it.

But for the moment, the long and short is that you can now watch Tango with my English translation on Youtube here. If you have a VPN (or are located in Poland), you can also watch on the Polish TVN website in better quality using a subtitle extension like Movie Subtitles or Substital. All subtitle files can be downloaded here.

As for the play. Tango takes place in a middle-class home of the 1960’s, and the drama centers on the dynamics between three generations of a single family. In Tango’s version of the world, permissiveness has won a complete cultural victory. Victorian traditionalism was overturned by the rebels and artists of the 1920’s, and all social values and conventions have since disappeared. Fed up with his family’s chaotic household, 25-year-old Artur, a member of the youngest generation, longs for his own form of rebellion. But with no conventions left to overthrow, the only rebellion remaining for Artur is rules and traditions. He attempts to instill order and re-impose tradition by force, but (avoiding specifics) it doesn’t go according to plan. In the end, no form of idealism wins in Tango. Not traditionalism, anti-traditionalism, or anti-anti-traditionalism. Instead, idealism ends up hollowed out and puppeted by those who are unscrupulous and willing to use violence to get what they want.

Tango struck me first because it was funny, and witty, and thematically felt startlingly relevant to the present day. This particular performance from 1999 that I’ve chosen to subtitle also struck me for being remarkably well-acted and well-staged. It’s tough to make absurdism feel emotionally genuine enough to have a dramatic effect, instead of descending into shallow pantomime and parody, and this rendition of Tango by director Maciej Englert pulls it off very well. The cast is comprised of some of Poland’s greatest stage actors of that time, and it shows.

But the play also made an impression on me because it seemed to be an unusual hybrid of theatrical modes, both in general and in the context of the Theater of the Absurd. Theater of the Absurd is often talked about as having a Western and an Eastern incarnation [2]. In the West, absurdism was considered existential and apolitical, while in the East—ie, in countries under Soviet control—absurdism was used to discuss ideas that were not safe to discuss directly. In reality, of course, this supposed division was not nearly so clear-cut. Especially since “Theater of the Absurd” wasn’t any kind of coherent artistic movement to begin with, but more of a general aesthetic trend [3]. Plenty of works that came out of the Western Theater of the Absurd had political attitudes, or at the very least observed dynamics with political implications [4]. And plenty of works that came out of the East depicted dynamics that resonated with people beyond those who lived within the Soviet bloc. This duality is especially alive in Tango, which is one of the reasons I found it such a fun and tricky play to pin down. On the one hand, one can read it as an allegory for, or commentary on, many specific things related to 19th and 20th century Polish history. On the other hand, the play’s ideas are also broad enough that it ends up feeling relevant to any number of cultures, eras, and situations.

This ink-blot quality is one of the reasons for the play’s lasting appeal. For example, how to read the collapse of values at the beginning of the play? Perhaps the social permissiveness refers to the actual liberalism of the 1920’s, and the failures of the intelligentsia that facilitated the Nazi takeover of Poland in the 1940’s. Or perhaps it refers to the destruction of decency and normalcy in the midst of war and occupation [5]. Or it refers to life on the shifting sands of Soviet dialectics, the struggle to create real meaning out of something that claims to be progressive, yet feels inherently insubstantial. Or it refers to a more general secular, postmodern condition. If values are arbitrary and self-created, then how does one choose what values to create? One reviewer of this staging observed how the impression Tango made had changed since 1964: "Artur's hysteria meant something different in the Polish People's Republic, a land of ideologues without ideals, than it does today. Searching for values at random was a mockery then—today it is perhaps one of the most moving scenes in the play.” 

(See also Martin Esslin in The Theater of the Absurd: “When Tango was first performed in Warsaw in 1964 it understandably produced a violent reaction: the audience interpreted the play’s message as a sardonic comment on Stalinism and its totalitarian structure of terror. But the play made an equally strong impact in Western Germany and other countries of non-Communist Europe…[T]he growth of arbitrary bureaucratic power, the erosion of political ideals and the consequent pursuit of power for its own sake by otherwise undistinguishable parties, led by crude, uncultured careerists, might also, after all, turn out to be a feature of…‘advanced’ Western societies.”)

All this said. I don’t think Tango is simply somehow “accidentally” about ideas that can be interpreted as being about something other than Poland’s immediate travails. Arguably, the duality exists in the text itself. The play is about Poland and Europe [6], it is in conversation with other Polish drama about Poland (Wesele, Dziady), as well as Polish absurdism (Witkacy, Gombrowicz). And it is also about things like values, and power, and art writ large, and is in conversation with Beckett, Ionesco, Chekhov, Shakespeare, and others. Specificity and universality feed each other—this is nothing new in art.

If anything, the tension between the specific and the universal seems like one of the biggest features of the play. Tango is a war between idea and reality, the abstract and the concrete. And this is another way in which it’s an unusual theatrical hybrid. You might even call it a theatrical identity crisis.

Broad history: Prior to the 19th century, Western theater did not tend to be realistic in the modern sense of it. Instead it was characterized by symbolism, exaggeration, and verse. Greek plays, opera, Shakespeare, Molière. Such theater could be subtle and true, but it did not generally aim for trompe l’oeil mimicry of real life, or have much interest in “regular” people and everyday events. Then after a 19th and 20th century turn towards realism (Chekhov, Ibsen, Shaw, etc), the Theater of the Absurd introduced a new and defiant kind of abstraction. In absurdist plays there might be internal, if absurd, logic, but the settings, characters and narratives tend to have only a limited amount of naturalism. Images are symbolic, language is Aesopian, and events take place in dreamy, generalized settings rather than a particular time and place. To the extent that absurdist plays use the concrete or naturalistic, it’s usually to immediately subvert it. Eugène Ionesco’s The Bald Soprano, for instance, blares the Englishness of the characters and the setting, but in a way that is obviously nonsensical, and comedic (or horrific) precisely because it has only a superficial correspondence to the England of real life:

MRS. SMITH: There, it’s nine o’clock. We’ve drunk the soup, and eaten the fish and chips, and the English salad. The children have drunk English water. We’ve eaten well this evening. That’s because we live in the suburbs of London and because our name is Smith. [7]

Or The Lesson, another Ionesco, starts out in a naturalistically appointed room, with what could be naturalistic characters, but within two pages begins a jarring descent into blatant absurdity. Theater of the Absurd doesn’t just do away with realism, either. It also does away with the conventional narrative structures of both realistic and earlier, less-realistic theater. Various works in the Theater of the Absurd were called anti-theater for this reason. Instead of having a typical beginning, middle, and end, or problem-escalation-resolution, absurdist plays are often circular and unresolved. Vladimir and Estragon start Waiting for Godot waiting, and they finish it waiting. The endings of The Bald Soprano and The Lesson repeat their beginnings, like a mirror reflected in a mirror. Absurdity arises from the inescapable, Sisyphean nature of existential dilemmas, and this ends up reflected in the most basic structures of absurdist theater.

Compared to such plays, Tango makes a surprising amount of sense [8]. It has a beginning, middle, and end. It is not set in the real world, but it is set in “a” real world, with a vague but coherent history. The characters don’t speak like real people exactly, but they do have consistent motivations and personalities. They’re not anti-characters like the Smiths and Martins in The Bald Soprano. The play also contains various gestures towards naturalism. The idea of a play about regular people who live in a regular apartment, is taken straight from the realistic tradition. The stage instructions are detailed, insisting upon a set cluttered with specific items, with characters in specific clothes, all of which are taken from real life. Here’s an example from the beginning of Act III:

We see before us a conventional, bourgeois living room from half a century ago. The confusion, blurriness, and lack of contours are gone. The draperies, which had previously been strewn about—half-lying and half-hanging—giving the stage random folds and making it look like a rumpled bed, are now in their places and have become proper, regular draperies. The catafalque remains in the same place…but is now covered with napkins and trinkets, like an ordinary sideboard.

For a key moment of violence, Mrożek even makes a point of saying that the execution must be naturalistic:

Attention! This scene must be very realistic. Both blows must be performed in such a way that their theatrical fiction is not obvious. Have the revolver be made of rubber, or even feathers, or have [the actor] wear some kind of pad under [their] collar. It doesn't matter, as long as it doesn't look ‘theatrical’.

Tango also “makes sense” in that it (seemingly) contains the comprehensible allegory and symbolism of more conventional theater. Each of the characters could potentially be read as a representative of a different generation or some piece of the social fabric, much like the characters in Stanisław Wyspiański’s Wesele [9]. You can read grand-uncle Eugeniusz as the avatar of traditionalism—a class that supposedly cared about values, but in practice turned out to be craven and opportunistic. Or Artur’s father Stomil as the aging, ineffectual avant-garde. Or Artur’s cousin and fiancée Ala as “the people”, torn between Artur’s flavor of bullying idealism, and the vacant brutality of the family’s boorish houseguest Edek. 

Yet in spite of all of this “sense”, the play is undeniably absurdist, full of the kind of seeming nonsense typical of other absurdist theater. Artur punishes Eugeniusz by putting a birdcage on his head, or makes his grandmother lie on a catafalque. There are illogical exchanges like the following:

ARTUR: Will you be staying with us for long? ALA: I don’t know. I told my mother I might not come back. ARTUR: What did she say? ALA: Nothing. She wasn’t at home.

And in general, the events of the play progress in an absurd fashion. There’s no logical reason that Artur’s schemes for his family could actually change the social structure of the world. Supposedly serious things like murder and repression are casually and comedically invoked (until they aren’t).

ARTUR: You know what, Father? Why don’t we try [killing Edek] after all? There’s no risk. At worst, you’ll shoot him. STOMIL: You think so?

In other words, Tango references and evokes, in both form and content, the last few hundred years of Western theater. The cultural call-and-response of tradition, rebellion, and counter-reformation that it depicts parallels the artistic call-and-response of traditional theater, realism, and absurdism. It is bogged down by theatrical history much as Artur is bogged down by social history. 

This table, even more than the interior as a whole, gives the impression of confusion, randomness and sloppiness. Each plate, each item, comes from a different service, from a different era and is in a different style.

There’s a certain confusion and chaos surrounding what kind of play this is supposed to be. Should a playwright comment on a social situation, express a human condition, or experiment with form? What kind of play is good for art? Good for people? Good in general? Tango features outright mockery of empty avant-garde theater, and an interesting ambivalence about symbolism. On the one hand, the play clearly uses symbolism. On the other hand, it was written in a context in which symbolism and indirectness were required in order for it to be performed in its original language behind the Iron Curtain.

Throughout the play, the characters debate the value of “form”, “reality” and “idea”, and how and whether to either achieve or integrate or discard them. It is the age-old debate, in both society and art, of how to balance theory with reality, truth with artifice. But–just as in history–none of the characters can resolve the debate, and most are hypocrites about their positions. The characters crave and fear reality in equal measure. Stomil, who makes impotent experimental theater, champions the idea of going “beyond form”--ie, going beyond things like rules and abstractions. He denounces the rule-loving Artur as a “vulgar formalist” and celebrates Edek for his “authenticity.” But for all that Stomil claims that his art is trying to achieve some sort of grand concreteness, his creations and explanations are all highly inaccessible and theoretical (after shocking his audience by setting off a gun: “By direct action–we create unity between the moment of action and perception”). And he admits that he doesn’t actually like Edek, who is sleeping with his wife Eleonora (“I’ve had my eye on that scoundrel for a long time. You don’t know how much I’d love to finish him off.”). Meanwhile Artur claims to want a return to order and tradition, but he also wants to rebel–something inherently destabilizing.

STOMIL: What do you want exactly, tradition? ARTUR: World order! STOMIL: Is that all? ARTUR: And the right to rebel.

And when he tries to follow through with his plans he finds the results hollow and unsatisfying. He finds that reality erodes principle, and yet principles that are not animated by an idea, that is in turn animated by reality, lack vitality and endurance. He strives for “a system in which rebellion is one with order, and nothingness with existence” that “will transcend contradictions entirely!” Much like Stomil with his theatrical gunshot, Artur thinks he can conquer such contradictions by wielding force–something seemingly fundamentally “real”. But in the end, his talent turns out to mainly be in exalting the concept of force, rather than actually embodying it.

Meanwhile Eugeniusz supposedly wants a return to propriety. Not so much order, like Artur, but an appearance of moral rectitude, the rituals of civilization (“Start a family. Brush your teeth. Eat with a fork and knife! Make the world sit up straight again instead of slouching.”). He detests Edek’s “filth” and the “degradation” of the rest of the family. Yet for all his love of the forms of properness, no one is more willing to lower himself than Eugeniusz. He is quick to abandon his supposed principles and attach himself to whoever has power.

This sense of contradiction and call-and-response between theory and reality is even echoed in the structure of the play. The first act starts out as more absurdistly symbolist–the characters play rhyming card games, Artur metes out his birdcage and catafalque punishments, Ala turns out to have been hidden under a table the whole time, Stomil puts on a play about Adam and Eve. Then the second act becomes more naturalistic, with long one-on-one, interpersonal conversations that contain more conventional dramatic stakes. And finally the third act combines both modes. The third act is full of both abstract ideas and images–the family in their tight old-fashioned clothes, Artur’s quest for a unifying philosophy–and regular human drama related to marriage and infidelity. Until it finally ends in a moment of violent naturalism, in the form of that realistic blow (“Attention! This scene must be very realistic.”).

Taken as a whole, Tango follows the pattern and tenor of dialectical debate, with satirical circularity. Soviet dialectics promised a means of navigating and resolving contradictions. It promised a means of understanding the cycles of history, and existing in the correct moral relation to them. Add more context, add more cleverness, and the cycles are no longer confusing. You can win them. In practice though, this version of dialectics often merely acted as an elaborate justification for otherwise unjustifiable political ends [10]. But unlike in a dialectical debate, Tango makes the crude, concrete conclusions explicit. The winner of Tango is not a dialectician. The winner is violent reality, simply wearing philosophy’s jacket. 

What Maciej Englert’s staging understands, and one of the reasons it had such an effect on me, is the real human feeling that suffuses the play. Artur’s confusion and distress are real. As is Stomil’s frustrated impotence, Ala’s love, or even Eugenia’s fear and irritation. The cozy, chaotic naturalism of the set (taken straight from the script directions) emphasizes this human scale. Tango is not simply a detached satire of Stalinism, “some abstract hypothesis, a play on words, a product of intellectual imagination.” It is about the tension between the human and everything more than human–and in order for that tension to work, the human aspect needs to be just as apparent as the abstract aspect. To paraphrase a good review, Artur in this production is both scary and pitiful, human and symbol. Eleonora seems at first a caricature, but “becomes unexpectedly moving in the scene in which she talks humanly, without a mask, to Ala.” While Ala is full of “the truth of unhappy feelings...the cynicism that usually dominates this role in other stagings is put in quotation marks; [she] only pretends to be nonchalant towards life.” And this is also why it is all the more crushing when both the human and the abstract turn out to have been paving the way for something worse, something they both lose out to.

*

Theater of Absurd appeals to me at the moment. It feels relevant. To the world, to my life. And the way Tango combines the Western and Eastern forms of the absurd gets at why. In the “Eastern” form, absurdism springs from a breakdown of logical reasoning that is imposed by external forces: war, authoritarian whim. Hence plays like Julius Hay’s The Horse, which tells the story of Caligula appointing his horse Incitatus to the Roman Senate, leading the population to start acting like horses. Or Václav Havel’s The Memorandum, in which bureaucratic characters are forced to communicate in an overly-rational neo-language that none of them can understand. In the “Western” form, absurdism springs from a more existential, post-modern breakdown of logical reasoning: how is one to make sense of existence if there is no objective logic? If all of the former institutions of meaning–religion, government, class, materialism, and so on–are meaningless, then what is left? And just as in Tango, it often feels today as if those two forms of absurdity have combined. If they were ever even separate.

No, of course I do not live under a totalitarian state, in the present-day West. I do not worry about gulags or famine or being hauled off in the night for saying the wrong thing. But there is a sense of institutional decay, and a sense of pretending otherwise about this. A sense that important details of my life are determined by obscure power struggles between people who are incompetent or ill-intentioned, or both. A sense of people going insane, and feeling proud of it all the while. A sense of nihilistic chaos lurking at the door, and people saying “Would it be so bad to let it in?” Meanwhile the internet accelerates countless forms of absurdity. It instills a surveillance mindset. It destroys old forms of reverence, and creates new, bizarre ones. Now you can see the most pathetic aspects of politicians and artists and intellectuals laid open on social media. Now you can see regular people turn themselves into grifters, beggars, and compulsive performers. It would almost be more dignified if people did this due to explicit government repression, or out of purely mercenary ambition. Instead of out of a more basic human, animal sense of precarity. Am I important? Am I safe? Do I have enough? Do I belong? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? 

Former markers of respectability are losing their meaning. Respectability itself is losing meaning. And quite possibly these things deserve to be destroyed, perhaps this is just normal cultural turnover, but it’s not yet clear what is waiting to grow out of the rubble. For a while, maybe a decade, there was a swing towards authenticity. Fetishistic authenticity usually, but authenticity nonetheless. Hipster natural material aesthetics–being into leather, wood, iron, pickling. Relatability, parasociality, confession. This all still exists to some degree, but has lost much of its awkward earnestness, some genuine desire to be post-ironic, some kind of novelty. The fakery of amateurism rather than cynicism. Now fakery and authenticity are so intertwined it starts to feel like both have lost their meaning. Performance and entertainment are endemic, except they’ve never felt less like entertainment, or more like narcotics. Performance gains its power from its tension with truth, reality. Without reality, performance is impotent. And yet it’s never been more important. Absurd.

The internet simultaneously creates an unprecedented awareness of reality, and an unprecedented detachment from it. There have long been ways in which one could be awash in information and entertainment from waking until sleep. Television, books. There have been means of stupefaction for even longer. Intoxicants of all kinds. But the internet is more than just a stream of information in which people can lie down, open their jaws, and passively drink. It is interactive, frequently intensely so. The information, unlike in a book, is often related to what is happening right now. And unlike in a paper or on the news, the information is often delivered by people in one’s social circle. Suddenly one is aware of a thousand different things, horrible and otherwise, and not only that, the awareness comes along with the opportunity for action–money, publicity, simple acknowledgement–and hundreds of people one knows can see that action. You can live your life in a holodeck world. Yet down the line, reality keeps being real, and is affected by that holodeck world–mortally and trivially. These are not new observations really. Still, that combination of interactivity, intensity and detachment turns “reality” into something that is both omnipresent and intangible. Absurd.

It’s always been absurd. “Reality” has always been both obvious and ineffable, something to philosophically struggle with. “Truth” has always been difficult to grasp, and difficult to represent. Map and territory, forever locked in combat. But just as circumstances made this fundamental absurdity feel closer to the surface in the mid-20th century, so does it feel closer now. Theater of the Absurd arrived on the heels of decades of talk of perfectibility. Nazi perfectibility, Soviet perfectibility, even the perfectibility of the liberal, capitalist order. Promises of surmounting the lesser aspects of humanity. Purge or plan society in the right way, and you’ll be on the way to becoming better than human. Yet time and again, those lesser aspects had a way of revealing and reasserting themselves. Murder, cruelty, exploitation. Pettiness, cowardice, selfishness. All of these things, it turned out, could thrive regardless (or because) of a system’s stated ideals. And perhaps we’re in another phase of finding out that the latest means of elevating humanity is simply enabling new and twisted manifestations of the same old problems. 

Idealism loses many times over in Tango. And each time it deserves to. The traditionalists repress, the rebels create listless chaos, and Artur’s anti-rebellion leads to repression once again, but this time with even less meaning behind it. Yet when crudeness without idealism–reality without idea–wins, it’s even more horrifying. So what’s the answer? Is there an escape? Will Godot ever appear?

Tango proposes the pessimistic view. Yes, the endless generational cycles of rebellion and counter-rebellion can end. The search for meaning and selfhood can end. History can end–in nightmare. Perhaps that’s not a productive view to live by. Certainly one could write an entire other essay about the persistence of human virtue. But sometimes it is a view that is worth inhabiting for a while.

*

[1] And because, it must be said, I did not know Polish at the time I started the project. The two previous translations were both written in 1968. One is by Ralph Manheim and Teresa Dzieduscycka, published by Grove Press. It can still be found in print as part of The Mrożek Reader, or used. The other translation is by Nicholas Bethell and Tom Stoppard. It is not in print that I know of. I was able to find it used in the collection Three East European Plays. Both translations have their strengths and weaknesses. Overall though, I wasn’t a huge fan of either one. They each do the job in their own way, but I also found them to be a bit wordy in a way that blunted the tight, biting quality of the humor of the original. If I had to choose, I would lean towards the Bethell and Stoppard translation for reading and the Manheim and Dzieduscycka translation for performing.

[2] See Marketa Goetz Stankiewicz in “Slawomir Mrozek: Two Forms of the Absurd” for a good discussion of this. Both as it applies to Theater of the Absurd generally, and to Mrożek specifically. [jstor] [scribd]

[3] From Martin Esslin’s introduction to The Theater of the Absurd:

It must be stressed, however, that the dramatists whose work is here discussed do not form part of any self-proclaimed or self-conscious school or movement. On the contrary, each of the writers in question is an individual who regards himself as a lone outsider, cut off and isolated in his private world. Each has his own personal approach to both subject-matter and form; his own roots, sources, and background. If they also, very clearly and in spite of themselves, have a good deal in common, it is because their work most sensitively mirrors and reflects the preoccupations and anxieties, the emotions and thinking of many of their contemporaries in the Western world.

[4] From Stankiewicz, “Slawomir Mrozek: Two Forms of the Absurd”:

to the Warsaw audience Ionesco and Beckett are felt to be political writers. Their characters, like Mrozek's slogan-spouting little men, are seen as victims of a specific way of life forced upon them. The ‘enemy’ can be identified, or rather he is discovered, while the laughter still echoes through the theater.

[5] Take this from The Captive Mind by Czesław Miłosz, describing the mental shock of conquest in WW2 Poland:

[A man’s] first stroll along a street littered with glass from bomb-shattered windows shakes his faith in the ‘naturalness’ of his world. The wind scatters papers from hastily evacuated offices, papers labeled ‘Confidential’ or ‘Top Secret’ that evoke visions of safes, keys, conferences, couriers, and secretaries. Now the wind blows them through the street for anyone to read…he stops before a house split in half by a bomb, the privacy of people's homes—the family smells, the warmth of the beehive life, the furniture preserving the memory of loves and hatreds—cut open to public view…overnight money loses its value and becomes a meaningless mass of printed paper….Once, had he stumbled upon a corpse on the street, he would have called the police…Now he knows he must avoid the dark body lying in the gutter, and refrain from asking unnecessary questions…Everyone ceases to care about formalities, so that marriage, for example, comes to mean little more than living together....Respectable citizens used to regard banditry as a crime. Today, bank robbers are heroes because the money they steal is destined for the Underground….The nearness of death destroys shame. Men and women…copulate in public, on the small bit of ground surrounded by barbed wire—their last home on earth.

[6] See Daniel Gerould’s interpretation from The Mrożek Reader: 

Tango takes the family as a microsociety, or scale model, for studying the history of modern Europe. The disintegration of the three different generations of the farcical Stomil clan, each representing a further step in the historical debacle, charts the decline and fall of European civilization from turn-of-the-century liberalism through interwar avant-garde experimentation to the present-day triumph of totalitarianism. By the use of parody and allusion (citations come from Shakespeare and the Polish romantic and modernist traditions), Mrozek creates a multi-layered work—a museum of modern European art, manners, and morals—which serves as a prism for viewing the relations of culture to power and for assessing the intelligentsia’s responsibility for glorifying force as the ultimate value.

[7] The Bald Soprano by Eugène Ionesco, trans. Donald M. Allen.

[8] Even compared to much of Mrożek’s work prior to Tango. 

[9] Written in 1901, Wesele (or “The Wedding”) is one of the preeminent works of Polish theater. It tells the story of a wedding party celebrating the mixed-class marriage of a young city poet to a peasant girl. The party is made up of guests from all walks of Polish life, and they mingle uneasily over the course of the night. Ghosts from Polish history and mythology appear, exacerbating the social tensions.

[10] See The Captive Mind for a description of the experience of living in a political and intellectual atmosphere in which Soviet dialectical materialism was the dominant philosophy. It’s difficult to pick any one particular quote, but here are a couple:

Dialectics is the ‘logic of contradictions’ applicable, according to the wise men, to those cases where formal logic is inadequate, namely to phenomena in motion. Because human concepts as well as the phenomena observed by men are in motion, ‘contradictions contained in the concepts are but reflections, or translations into the language of thought, of those contradictions which are contained in the phenomena.’ [...] The Method exerts a magnetic influence on contemporary man because it alone emphasizes, as has never before been done, the fluidity and interdependence of phenomena. Since the people of the twentieth century find themselves in social circumstances where even the dullest mind can see that ‘naturalness’ is being replaced by fluidity and interdependence, thinking in categories of motion seems to be the surest means of seizing reality in the act. The Method is mysterious; no one understands it completely–but that merely enhances its magic power. Its elasticity, as exploited by the Russians, who do not possess the virtue of moderation, can result at times in the most painful edicts. Nevertheless, history shows us that a healthy, reasoning mind was rarely an effective guide through the labyrinth of human affairs. The Method profits from the discoveries of Marx and Engels, from their moral indignation, and from the tactics of their successors who have denied the rightness of moral indignation. It is like a snake, which is undoubtedly a dialectical creature: ‘Daddy, does a snake have a tail?’ asked the little boy. ‘Nothing but a tail,’ answered the father. This leads to unlimited possibilities, for the tail can begin at any point.

Paradoxical as it may seem, it is this subjective impotence that convinces the intellectual that the one Method is right. Everything proves it is right. Dialectics: I predict the house will burn; then I pour gasoline over the stove. The house burns; my prediction is fulfilled. Dialectics: I predict that a work of art incompatible with socialist realism will be worthless. Then I place the artist in conditions in which such a work is worthless. My prediction is fulfilled.

*

SOURCES

This list is not academically exhaustive, and isn’t trying to be. I was limited by what I could read in five months–both in terms of personal interest and ability, and in terms of what I could get access to. But it should give a general idea re: what has informed this post.

Plays & Fiction:

The Bald Soprano (Eugène Ionesco, trans. Donald M. Allen), The Lesson (Eugène Ionesco, trans. Donald M. Allen), Waiting for Godot (Samuel Beckett), Endgame (Samuel Beckett), The Maids (Jean Genet, trans. Bernard Frechtman), Tango (Sławomir Mrożek, trans. Ralph Manheim and Teresa Dzieduscycka, trans. Nicholas Bethell and Tom Stoppard), The Police (Sławomir Mrożek, trans. Nicholas Bethell), The Elephant (Sławomir Mrożek, trans. Konrad Syrop), The Memorandum (Václav Havel, trans. Vera Blackwell), The Horse (Julius Hay, trans. Peter Hay), Hamlet (William Shakespeare), Macbeth (William Shakespeare), Pygmalion (George Bernard Shaw), The Wedding (Stanisław Wyspiański, trans. Noel Clark), The Marriage (Witold Gombrowicz, trans. Louis Iribarne), Dziady, Part III (Adam Mickiewicz, trans. Google, trans. Count Potocki of Montalk), The Moon is Down (John Steinbeck), Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky, trans. David McDuff), War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy, trans. Louise and Aylmer Maude), 1984 (George Orwell), Chekhov: The Major Plays (Anton Chekhov, trans. Ann Dunnigan)

Filmed adaptations:

Tango (1999, dir. Maciej Englert), Wesele (1972, dir. Andrzej Wajda), Wesele (2019, dir. Wawrzyniec Kostrzewski), Dziady (1997, dir. Jan Englert), Ślub (1992, dir. Jerzy Jarocki)

Non-fiction:

Anonymous, trans. Philip Boehm. A Woman in Berlin. 1954.

Juliette Bretan.“‘Life Makes Most Sense at the Height of Nonsense’: Interwar Polish Absurdism.” October 2020. [link]

Jan Bończa-Szabłowski. “The young one spoils everything.” November 3, 2010. [link]

Robert Brustein. “Foreword”, Chekhov: The Major Plays. 1982.

Michał Bujanowicz. “On Sławomir Mrożek - Playwright’s Tango.” April 2004. [link] 

Michael Childers. “The Direction and Presentation of Tango.” 1977. [link]

Martin Esslin. Theater of the Absurd, Third Edition. 2001.

Martin Esslin. “Introduction,” Three East European Plays. 1970.

Daniel Gerould. “Introduction: Mrożek for the Twenty-First Century,” The Mrożek Reader. 2004.

Eugenia Semyonovna Ginzburg, trans. Paul Stevenson and Max Hayward. Journey Into the Whirlwind. 1967.

Malwina Głowacka. “Tango.” Więź, No. 11. November 1, 1997. [link]

Joanna Godlewska. “Tango.” Przegląd Powszechny, No. 9. 1997. [link]

Jacek Kopciński. “Sleep and awakening.” March 2019. [link]

Jan Kott, trans. L. Krzyzanowski. “Introduction: Face and Grimace, ” The Marriage. 1969.

Janusz R. Kowalczyk. “Tender Irony.” Rzeczpospolita, No. 14. June 19, 1997. [link]

Magnus J. Kryński. “Mrozek, Tango, and an American Campus.” The Polish Review, Vol. 15, No. 2 (Spring, 1970). [jstor]

Keith Lowe. Savage Continent: Europe in the Aftermath of World War II. 2012.

Wojciech Majcherek. “The Last ‘Tango’ in Warsaw.” Express Wieczorny, No. 140. June 17, 1997. [link]

Czesław Miłosz, trans. Jane Zielonko. The Captive Mind. 1953.

Michael C. O’Neill. “A Collage of History in the Form of Mrozek’s Tango.” The Polish Review, Vol. 28, No. 2 (1983). [jstor]

Jerzy Peterkiewicz. “Introduction: The Straw Man at a Wedding,” The Wedding. 1998.

Jacek Sieradzki. “The author of ‘Tango’ dances with us.” Polityka, No. 37. September 13, 1997. [link]

Marketa Goetz Stankiewicz. “Slawomir Mrozek: Two Forms of the Absurd”. Contemporary Literature

Vol. 12, No. 2 (Spring, 1971). [jstor] [scribd]

Mardi Valgemae. “Allegory of the Absurd: An Examination of Four East European Plays.” Comparative Drama, Vol. 5, No. 1 (Spring 1971). [jstor]

Jacek Wakar. “Great ‘Tango’ for the opening of a new stage.” Życie Warszawy. June 16, 1997. [link]

Piotr Zaremba. “Important ‘Wedding’ Anno domini 2019.” February 19, 2019. [link]

“Tango.” FilmPolski.pl. [link]

[rheya28]

Ten Leaves [ Spa & Rental ] ♥ The Sims 4: Build // CC

Welcome to Ten Leaves Spa where your sims can forget all their cares and worries once they step foot into this nature oasis . Ten Leaves Spa is unique as it offers a one of a kind indoor/outdoor experience. This Spa also offers treatments and activities inspired by nature. Your Sims can maneuver around different areas of the lot by walking under tall trees using elevated pathways.

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Rheya's Notes:

Programming includes, a manicure/pedicure area, a massage room, onsen baths, a small bar, and a yoga room. Sims can also rent Ten Leaves Spa's private and beautiful Guest room perfect for couples and friends who wants to get away from the city.

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

➽ Lot Details

Lot Name: Ten Leaves Spa Lot type: Spa and Rental Lot size: 50x50 Location: Granite Falls Granite Falls [if you want to place this lot in Granite falls and set it as a Spa lot, I recommend downloading Zerbu's Venue Changes Mod]

➽ Mods:

TOOL MOD by TwistedMexi VENUE CHANGE MOD by Zerbu

➽ CC List:

- Awingedllama: Apartment Therapy, Nostalgia Living - Joyceisfox: Simple Live Collection (Bathroom) - S-imagination: Nota Living Room Pack - House of Harlix: Bafroom, Baysic Bathroom, Grove pt 4, Harluxe, Jardane, Livin Rum, Orjanic pt 1 2 - Bbygyal123: the aesthetic collection - Charlypancakes: The lighthouse collection, Maple & S. Construction pt 1, Soak, - FelixAndre: Chateau pt 4, Chateau pt 2, Chateau pt 5, Florence Pt 1, Florence pt 3, Florence pt 4 ,Kyoto pt 2, Kyoto pt 3, Shop the look S2, Grove pt 2 - Thecluttercat: DandyDiary PT 1 - Max20: Garden at home - Harrie: Brownstone pt 1, Brownstone pt 2, Brutalist , Coastal pt 7, Coastal pt 6, Country pt 3, Kwatei pt 1, Octave pt 3, OCtave pt 4, Shop the look 1 2, Spoons pt 2, - Illogical Sims: Home office - Kiwisim4: Blockhouse Dining, Blockhouse hallway, Blockhouse Outdoor, - LittleDica: Chic Bathroom, Rise & Grind - Myshunosun : Daria Bedroom, Gale DIning, Lottie Bedroom, Tranquil bedrom - Peacemaker: Wood Slats (Vertical and horizontal) - Pierisim: Auntie Vera, Calderone, David's Apartment pt 1 2, Domaine Du Clos pt 3 , MCM pt 1 2 5, Oak house pt 3 4 5, The office , Tilable, - Sixam: Hotel Bedroom, Stylish Wood dining - Syboulette: Hippocrate - MycupofCC: Teenage Dream pt 1 - Tuds: Beam

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

[oogalaboogalabich]

More post headshot Ghoap for ya. farside of fucked up. nsfw.

<---------->

"Heh yer cryin' again Johnny"

Smoke billows from Ghosts lips as he speaks, smirking from just under the scrunched edge of his balaclava.

He tapped the cigarette into the ash tray and leaned more weight onto his elbow. The one currently pressed into the back of soaps neck.

All of Soaps cursing regresses into sounds more resembling that of a caged animal, one throwing itself at the bars of its prison.

Ghost laughs soft and low when a spray of spittle hisses out from between those bared teeth.

He's got the man bent over some random fuckers cot, arse up and face down.

"Fuckin spittin cobra, you are... all fangs and venom, now."

He pulls at his hair and forces soaps head up at an uncomfortable angle.

"Open yer mouth..." he slaps their cheek and watches that lip split, tongue darting out to taste thier own blood.

"Open it. There we go...let me see 'em...show me those new teeth of yours."

He lowered their lip with a finger, rubbing along the gums and smirked at the savage little addition to their maw. He'd have to retrain the lad to keep those off him. But in the meantime...well he didn't mind a little pain.

Ghost had been there when Soap had stormed out of briefing a few days previous.

Man had been fidgeting like a fuckin heroin addict on withdrawal, gnawing on his tongue just to keep himself in check. Something pissed them off on mission.

It was obvious these days if anything was wrong with them, and he'd been in a right state. Soap hadn't said a word unless spoken to directly, hyper-fixating on something he wouldn't be capable of tearing away from until it was satisfied or proper shot-down.

The next morning, Ghost had caught a flash of sharpened, filed teeth all along his lower jaw. 'Fuckin hell, kiddo...what is goin -on- in that head?'

Johnny wasn't a frivolous sort of man anymore, mores the pity. It had been for utility, not aesthetic. hard not to respect the reasoning.

"more effective to bite up and tear away than down." He'd said. "Like squeezing versus pulling a trigger." Bloody feral bastard that he was these days.

It was different, it wasn't his old Johnny. Never would be again. But that was fine....

Better than fine.

"Saw what you did to the stiff on the stairwell. Flipped the bastard over before anyone else saw."

"Am I supposed t' thank ye?"

"Christ Johnny, the mans face was gone. Goes against human fuckin decency what you're doin to these poor sods."

"Wanted him pretty for me."

"Pretty as me?"

"Aye sir."

Ghost's eyes widen a fraction before they narrow again, lips curling upwards while he exhales another waft of grey-blue smoke.

"...Is it me you're killin' out there?"

Soaps fingers clawed into the sheets as he met Simons thrusts and thrashed against him all at once. Like he couldn't -decide- on an answer. Kid couldn't separate anything anymore. Fucking, fighting, eating, killing, laughing, crying. It was all just one giant fuckin rage out now.

It looked exhausting; had him angry on behalf of his boy. Soap deserved to remain as he had been. To keep that part of himself; that sweet little demolitions nutcase with a smile that outshone the fucking sun.

"Out there cuttin' down ghosts and effigies?"

Reduced to a live grenade with a missing pin and ghosts thumb over the spoon. Shitty metaphors aside...

"Or do you just like eatin' on them?

"...its not about saving lives anymore is it? king and country....civvies and mates back home...you don't give a fuck anymore, do you? Nah..." he bends over, flush with soap and places a kiss to the wound at his head. Follows it with a deliberate and slow swipe of his tongue. "Little bastard here stole that from you."

"You're a man-eater now Johnny. Got a taste for it....watching them drop quick and easy? All rot n' piss to monsters like us...

"Flesh from fuckin' bone 'tween our teeth, Tastin' the terror in their sweat...Makin 'em suffer proper for the sport of it. Yeah?

"The bloody Tsavo Lions, us."

"Aye sir..." Soap flashes a manic sort of grin. "The Ghost and the fokken Darkness..."

"You my Darkness, Johnny?"

"You're my Ghost ain't ye?"

"Like the sound o' that. Say it again."

"Fokk off."

"Say it or I'll give this nut to the fuckin floor."

The wall was losing plaster now, and there was an angry shout from next room over. They could shove that noise complaint straight up their-

"Yer my gho- Ghost, Simon."

"Again."

"Ghost...my Ghost!"

"Again!" His command is a chest deep growl, shoving soap deeper into the thin mattress. It pitches them both forward, muffling the near rabid snarling of his name, again and again like a mantra.

He slides his hand under that throat and pulls soaps chin up to choke his voice, leaving just enough passage for a fraction of air.

Ghost watches another wave of tears escape those furious fuckin blues while Soap is wracked with a violent, telltale shudder. He lifts the remains of the cigarette to his lips and takes a long, deep drag; taking his time to catch his breath.

"That's my good boy..."

<----->

If you havent seen The Ghost and The Darkness or read about the Tsavo Maneaters, please do. Gaddamn love those lions.

[annoyangle]

What are your thoughts on analog horror? Have a favorite?

SO [PICTURE ME STEEPLING MY FINGERS TOGETHER AND SMIRKING UNDER THEM LIKE GENDOU IKARI HERE] ... ANALOG HORROR, HUH. AS AN ACTUAL BEING OF BOTH DIGITAL AND ANALOG FEAR, I GUESS I THINK THE IDEA'S PRETTY CUTE. THE YOUNG CANNIBALIZING HALF-REMEMBERED AND HALF-UNDERSTOOD 'FORMATS' OF INFORMATION FROM THE PAST TO PRY OUT SOME KINDA """"DARK STORY"""" THAT USUALLY JUST COMES DOWN TO JUMPSCARES, CRAWLING CRITTERS WITH TOO MANY LEGS JUST OFF FRAME OR JUST OUT OF FOCUS, DISTORTED VOID FACES AND SHOCK FRAMES - WHEN IT'S NOT DONE WELL. OH NO! LOUD NOISES! GLITCHES! FAST CUTTING! SO SCARY! I LIVE IN THAT ENVIRONMENT ALREADY! AND A LOT OF IT WOULD ONLY SCARE SOME LITTLE DORK LIKE "DIPPER", HAHAHAH! A LOT OF IT IS AMATEUR, AND MORE OF IT IS MICROWAVED CREEPYPASTA LEFTOVERS. BUT PROBABLY AN INEVITABLE EVOLUTION, SINCE VIDEO'S ALWAYS MORE PROVOCATIVE THAN READING BORING WORDS, RIGHT? I GOT NOTHING AGAINST HUMANS TRAUMATIZING THEMSELVES AND OTHERS FOR """ENTERTAINMENT"""" - I MEAN, IF IT WEREN'T FOR THAT, I WOULD'T BE HERE EITHER!

YOU REALLY PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE WITH LOCAL 58, BUT IT WAS OBVIOUS THAT IT WOULDN'T STOP THERE. VIEWING THE VARIETY OF STUFF OUT THERE, GOTTA ADMIT I DIG ON THE WALTEN FILES AS I SEE SOME BABY STEPS TOWARD A NEARLY LYNCHIAN AESTHETIC, ESPECIALLY IN THE MOST RECENT CHAPTER! GEMINI HOME ENTERTAINMENT IS PRETTY GOOD TOO. I LIKE THAT THING ABOUT THE FLESH PIT TOURIST TRAP TOO. (YOU SHOULD KNOW, REAL TERRORS OF FLESH AND BONE DO LIVE BENEATH THE SOIL! SOMEDAY THEY WILL RISE! COUNT ON IT!) YOU SHOULD GET TO KNOW THE BRITISH SERIES SCARFOLK - TWO BOOKS, A MAP, VIDEOS AND A WEBPAGE ABOUT A HICK ENGLISH TOWN PERMANENTLY TIMELOCKED IN THE 70'S DURING THE RABIES FEARMONGERING OF THAT ERA, AND BECAUSE OF IT TURNING AGGRESSIVELY ABUSIVE TOWARD ITS CITIZENRY! DEEPLY INSPIRATIONAL FOR TYRANTS AND OPPRESSORS AT ALL LEVELS OF GOVERNMENT! ULI NLIV RMULINZGRLM KOVZHV IVIVZW.

"""BACKROOMS""" STUFF CAN ALSO BE PRETTY HIT OR MISS FOR ME TOO, SINCE FOR THE MOST PART THE REAL LOCATION IS WAY MORE FUN AND WAY LESS DULL, BUT I APPRECIATE THE ENTHUSIASM YOU ALL SEEM TO HAVE FOR FINDING NEW IDEAS OF HOW TO SCARE YOURSELVES BY GETTING LOST IN NONEUCLIDIAN DIMENSIONS! THOUGH I'M KIND OF SURPRISED THAT PEOPLE DON'T SEE BEING FREED FROM THE BURDENS OF PAYING RENT, GOING TO JOBS AND DEALING WITH THE CRUSHING MONOTONY OF EVERYDAY LIFE BY BEING SET FREE TO EXPLORE AN INFINITE, EVERCHANGING SPACE THAT LEADS TO ONE MYSTERY AFTER ANOTHER BEING ANYTHING BUT FUN! WHY IS THIS ALWAYS CONSIDERED A BAD THING?! OH, AND IF YOU HAVEN'T FALLEN DOWN THE WELL OF MYHOUSE.WAD AND HOUSE OF LEAVES, YOU REALLY SHOULD. BUT ONCE YOU GROW UP AND GET OUT OF THE BABY FIELDS, LET'S TALK ABOUT DAVID LYNCH SOMETIME.

[romance-club-daily]

Romance Club MC's as Greek deities:

Nikkal as Hestia:

Goddess of Fire and Hearth 🔥

Hestia is the Greek virgin goddess of the hearth, family, home, state and domesticity, who is also associated with cooking, virginity as well as sacred and sacrificial fire. In myth, she is the firstborn child of the Titans Cronus and Rhea, and one of the Twelve Olympians. Nikkal was chosen for being a Fire Mage in The Flower From Tiamat's Fire, but with some modifications, because in addition to Hestia being a virgin goddess, her outfit is not so revealing as in the edit and they have opposite personalities. This one is more about aesthetic~

File Source | BeautifulCome

Another skin colors under the cut:

[escavpism]

✦     𝒊   ,   the   student file   . daphne heinrich , junior undergraduate , majoring in drama , with baby outlaw by elle king blasting through the doors , can be alluring yet vitriolic , member of the theater club , plays tennis singles , and school events columnist at grey wolf gazette. wanted connections , wc tag.

✦     𝒊𝒊   ,   the   statistics   .

full name   :  daphne amélie zhou - heinrich   ,   nickname   :  daphne to many , daffodil to some out of spite ,    age   :   twenty - one   ,   date   of   birth   :   10th of august   ,   zodiac   sign   :   leo  ,     hometown   :  hartford , connecticut ,     gender   :   cis   woman   ,   pronouns : she / her , orientation   :   pansexual  ,   languages   :   english   ,  german , chinese , slight french , major : drama ,

positive traits   :   analytical , resilient , forbearing , loyal , passionate , neutral traits : sensual , protective , sybarite ,   negative traits   :   elusive , self - serving , inflexible , greedy , manipulative ,  aesthetics   :  playing coy , fear of commitment but has 7 tattoos , always has the knack to say the right words , criticism bouncing off cemented body , eyes that mesmerize , the sly smirk of triumph , change threatening sense of stability , soft touches with manicured nails , never a hair strand out of place , overcooking sunny side up eggs , confident of sensuality , character inspo   : amy dunne from gone girl , circe from the odyssey , selina kyle from batman , margaery tyrell from game of thrones , daisy jones and the six ,

✦     𝒊𝒊𝒊   ,   the   backstory   .

daphne's father was part of a rising band in the 90s , toured all over small venues in a couple of cities that the group slowly rose to a known local name in united kingdom. her mother on the other hand was a proper english woman , and was finishing a degree at oxford when they meet. while they may have been sickeningly head over heels with each other , everyone seemed to have been against the relationship. he was no proper lad , her mother's parents said , and she was a mere distraction , her father's bandmates countered. their liaison only strengthens however when daphne's mother left her life and cut ties with her family to join his tour.

it is where daphne was conceived , london that is , while her father's band toured around the bigger cities. and it had also become her upbringing— from the chaos backstage to the unpredictability of life on the road that it almost felt as though she was born to understand how it was to live a life with no structure. this life however did meet its problems , and the band members weren't seeing eye to eye , their priorities shifting especially daphne's father. eventually , the band broke it off by the time daphne was about to start school and finally decided they settle someplace where daphne wouldn't be under scrutiny.

america was an enormous adjustment for her parents , but daphne has instantly grown to love it especially when her father brings her to his gigs around new york. it wasn't the music per se , but rather the spotlight that interested daphne , and since then she knew she'd love to be on stage one day.

daphne's mother had hoped she would pursue something else other than something so ... unstructured. acting began as a hobby , still a quite harmless obsession , until she began skipping classes for shows and abandoning home for days for potential gigs which was very reminiscent of her father , a realm in which her mother has started to openly regret.

she had become quite the defiant child , very reckless and never thought of the possible consequences of her actions as long as she secures what she wants. she grew distant from her parents , and especially so when the divorce rolled in so suddenly and she moves to connecticut with her mother.

✦   𝒊𝐯.   ,   the   character notes   .

college was more than just pursuing her dreams , it's freedom , and she's intoxicated. daphne's known around school for her reckless behavior and her rampant involvement in school events. she's that girl everyone is familiar with as her gregarious persona relishes in mingling with anyone and everyone.

daphne's not one to be shy about her sexuality , and has slept with a number of students regardless of people's opinions. there's something very liberating about getting the attention she'd always been dreaming of since younger , and she takes advantage of her good looks to get what she wants.

genuinely loves writing , hence writing for the school paper , but since she exudes the common conception of a dumb blonde , people get quite shocked that she writes for the grey wolf gazette — and it only made sense for her to report on events where she's always found at.

[lpvncnt]

* ◟ : 〔 TAMINO , CIS-MALE + HE / HIM 〕 PHILIP GOFFIN-VINCENT , some say you’re a TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both DOGGED and DEPRAVED, one can’t help but think of STRUGGLIN' by TRICKY, MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD when you walk by. are you still a CLEANER, ACTIVE ASSASSIN at THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, RED EYE even with your reputation as THE GARGOYLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STUPID SHOW-PONY HIGH ROLLER, PATIENT LIKE THE HYENA WAITS, GET IN YOUR CAR AND RUN ME OVER INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR OTHERS TO DO IT FOR YOU, YOU LAZY FOOL, although we can’t help but think of JONATHAN CRANE (DC COMICS) + ERIC DRAVEN (THE CROW) + JASON DEAN (HEATHERS) + ANTON CHIGURH (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

FILE: LIP VINCENT

STATUS: ACTIVE. HEIGHT: 6'2". SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL, AROMANTIC. DATE OF BIRTH: 12/25/1995 HOMETOWN: MALMEDY, BELGIUM. RESIDING: BROOKLYN, NY. ROOMMATE WITH [TBD WANTED CONNECTION].

Instead of the usual biography, I felt like the following poem captured the energy of the past a bit better than I could ever express:

INSOMNIAC

THE night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

— Sylvia Plath

AESTHETICS

Repugnant amount of weed smoke filling a suspension-lacking 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, that only a 100% masochist would drive in New York. You were not born to cry. Leopard print BB belts stacked on the waist. A soul, emptied. No pride, no pleasure, no desire. Life is just like a Wong Kar-Wai movie. You've got two fists comically full of metal, the weight shifts you off your feet when that punch is thrown, your poorly welded home-made 'rings' -- made from a chunk of all the old silver jewelry you've collected from the bodies over time, all these precious keepsakes melted onto a fork -- made to hurt -- should be illegal. Lots of little projects like that scatter what you call 'home'. An angel dies every time a shitty fuckboy like you flashes his mid-section in local Bodega for no reason. Recently adopted a Belgian Malinois, Osiris, who is still in training and needs a muzzle (an excuse for enabling bad behavior, could be symbolic). Egregiously loud mumble-rap. When stressed, likes watching ballroom dancing while chainsmoking cigarettes.

Hi, I'm Samuel, 24, PDT, a sweet little Californian baby boy who will do tricks for treats, gee whiz am I glad to be here. All of this is a bit vague but will be fleshed out with time -- if you've got any questions on specifics I'd be super happy to clarify. Huzzah !