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cyberwavelit · 5 years ago

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Gamer's Debt (Short Story)

"Crap, all I wanted was the gold chest so I can buy some extra lives. If I don't get any more extra lives, I'll lose all my gold when I die. How am I supposed to win if I have to pay for every damn thing?" Joden stepped down the ramp of his Blourgan cruiser and surveyed the alien landscape. It was barren except for the remains of a small village that he had just annihilated with a two-ton necro-missile.

"That's life. People are generally selfish, impatient, and insecure. Game companies use these weaknesses to motivate players. Maybe you shouldn't have blown up the village, is all I'm saying." The pilot of the cruiser, Jershamalama, spoke through his comm.

"But how does anyone get the hell out of this game if they can never win? I've been stuck in this hell hole for thirty days! My body’s back in the real world, rotting away.”

"Hey, you wanted to play, didn't you? Maybe if we travel to a non-npc sector we can trade off some of this junk we get every time we kill an enemy.” His pilot stared at him from the cockpit.

Joden looked back, “I feel like a slave. That garbage is only worth a pinto cent. It’ll take decades to get to the end game. And besides, that's if we can take off with all that junk. It'll take us a few hours to get back into the atmosphere. It's like a Fetch-22."

"You mean a fetch quest?"

"Yeah, something like that." said Joden taking out his cent-o-meter. It consumed his health bar as it scanned the surrounding sector. His eyes darted around his visor interface, looking at all the blips and bubbles that pinged. “I wish I could afford the Super Hyper Gold Jetpack that all the booster players use.”

“They only release that on the first Wednesday of every other month with a sign-on fee, an option to buy stocks in EternaEntertinament, a monthly fee, a mental evaluation, and maintenance fees when your able to grab it from one of the random places it spawns, like the Hell planet Infernum or the planet Madness Descent. Plus, I hear they only give you like a 3 second jump.”

“What?!” He nearly tripped over a crumpled alien body. “You can’t be serious. My mom’s going to kill me. I told her I was going to school. I figured I could just sign up for a few games, try my hand at Galactic Teamslayer, and be back at the rent-a-plex by nine. That was a month ago!”

“Relax. They won’t even notice you’re gone. Most parents have been sucked into this new thing called Binge Child Raising. EternaEntertinament created it too. It’s a simulation where adults can raise children and not have them become reclusive, angst-ridden failures. They’re really gouging everyone for money, real and fake, young and old.”

“You shoulda seen it when it was it first came out. The servers would never load and you had to sit there, in the darkness, watching a timer run out as they patched their simulation. It was like holding your breath under water.” The pilot sucked his teeth. “Hang on a sec. Have to rate the game again—after this ad.”

“Yeah, I hate doing this every hour.” The astronaut picked up a child’s toy from the clutched hand of a sloblarian. ��Wonder what this is worth. I heard that we used to play with things like this, not just video games where you pay to win. Up, hang on a sec, got an ad playing.”

Joden’s reality changed. He was sitting on a park bench. A duck came up to him, honking and pulling at his pants. The countdown to the end of the ad appeared in his peripheral. It quaked and quaked until Joden threw down a few coins to skip it.

Back in game world he was still holding the toy. He threw it down with distain and a lack of remembrance for such physical trifles.

He was then asked to rate the game. He voted as he always had, giving it a one-star out of three. There was a chime and a message: “We’re sorry you’re not enjoying your time in our game world. Perhaps if you were more openminded and understanding of the fact that you may not always get what you want, you might have a better experience with our merchandise. Please lower your expectations. Thank you.”

Joden coughed to drown out the message he had heard a hundred times. “I’m so tired of game companies stealing from us. Don’t they realize that it’ll only make the game suffer?”

“Yeah,” responded the pilot, “let’s go steal something.”

“I’m so tired, Jersh. I just want to go somewhere where we can kill an alien race and grind their bones into dust. What’s so wrong with that?”

“If you only knew, kid. On its launch the game world wasn’t even finished. Eterna used the gamers to construct most of the planets using the build-and-play incentive. Those gamers signed a contract that said that they had to make at least four hundred ‘products’ before they could actually the game. They called it the ‘fix-it-later’ release. The products they were referring to was one galaxy. Those designer gamers are probably still waiting…”

“Four hund--?” Joden held up his fist to the pilot, who had been watching from the ship’s windshield. “That’s extortion!”

The astronaut had disembarked about five hundred meters from the ship. Steam bellowed from its worn exhaust. “Why did you call me kid? How old are you? I mean I know you have the same avatar as me…”

“Age doesn’t matter either. Yeah, I couldn’t afford the customizations either.” Jersh tapped his helmet. “So, I guess we both have the same face.”

“And same weapons, gear, armor, boots, ships, weapon skins, and abilities.” He noticed a large oval blob on his visor’s HUD. It was moving closer behind a small series of stone pillars.

“Oh no, I have the blue-skinned Rigormortis rifle. It’s got this badass blue stripe on the side. Cost me 20,000 gold, 200 platinum, and 4 of my lifesaving’s accounts. If I didn’t have this stripe, I’d probably go insane or worse, color blind.”

“Shut up, dude. Something’s coming. I think it’s a surviving sloblarian. I hear they get angro really quick. I don’t want to die here, man. I never bought a 600-gold resurrection pack. It’ll take sixty days to load back in…”

Jersh responded, sounding distracted, “You’re fine. Just cap it in the head or something.”

The purple blob was twenty meters away. If it wanted to attack it would have to come out into the open and charge him. He could tell there was movement but it was more restless than threatening. Joden took out his rifle and fired at the rock tower. The gun exploded in his hands, sending his obliterated fingers in multiple directions.

“Ah damnit! I forgot about the maintenance fee!”

The figure bounded from the pillar and slunk slowly towards the enemy astronaut. It skulked across the yellow, Phallusian sand with its omni-dexterous flippers. Arriving to the hunched-over human its tugged at his spacesuit and motioned for him to come closer.

“Gross dude, it wants to talk to me. What should I do?” The rounded head bobbed up and down like a rubbery ball. It seemed to be injured or at least miserable.

Joden heard distinct crunching noises emanating from the pilot’s mouth. “IDK. Step on it I guess.”

The polymorphous blob at his feet opened its crevice-like mouth and appeared to gasp for air. But it wasn’t gasping. It was whispering. He leaned down and listened.

“Dunk…prrray…Donk pppreeeey.” It was saying, and gargled as its lips flapped. “Doooonnk plllaaaaay. Chooose nut to pprraaaaay. Fyind sumting essl to do wilth yourg tyhme.”

“Oh, hell no!” shouted the man, as he squashed the creature’s face with his boot. It was like stepping on a water balloon filled with pebbles. He looked at where his hands used to be and screamed into the sky. “What does it all mean? Why do I always have to be punished! I’ve been in the same place for too long!”

"It's not good to live in a dream.” More crunching came from the ship. “You sometimes forget what life is like."

Virtual blood splashed onto the dry dirt from his nubs. A few splatters mixed with the alien’s internal fluids. The reflective pool at his feet showed his avatar’s face, the same face of his pilots. He searched rapidly for any signs of wealth or material possession. There was nothing but ooze and viscera. Tattered cloth around the dead alien’s head was smushed and torn.

He turned toward the ship with a look of bewilderment. “How many gamers are trapped here? We can’t be the only ones. This game isn’t anything like what they advertised. They lied to us! Who would want to be stuck in this perpetual nightmare of pay-to-play, pay-to-build, pay-to-live, pay-to-pay mechanics?”

“I don’t think you get it.” The pilot was still eating. “Companies do this to consumers because consumers let them. The general belief is that consumers are very smart but when’s the last time you heard someone say: ‘I won’t buy that because it goes against my code of ethics?’ None, no one’s ever said that. People like spending money. It’s in our blood. Its our nature to trust rich people. They seem to have all the right answers even when they don’t. They make the truths that we all follow. Besides, how could they get all that money if they had bad intentions.”

The mercenary vessel hovered three feet off the ground and its nose pointed at the runner. Its pilot could be seen through the windshield, “Sorry newb, you’re becoming to be a real downer.”

“I thought you were my friend!” he whimpered, his nubs heaving back and forth.

The ship elevated to ten feet. “None of us are really friends. We’re all just trying to make a living. And I need one more kill for the Slayer Award. We’re all just numbers.”

As he came to the plateau where he had disembarked, he held up his invisible hands to shield his face. “I just want to go home! I just want to go home.”

A cybersonic laser beam burst from the cruiser’s forward cannons. He felt the hot bathing light of the beam and then felt nothing at all.

“I can’t get out…I can’t…” He awoke in darkness. A screen appeared that read the same message he received hundreds of times, “You have died. Looks like you have low gear and feeble weapons. Would you like to buy a booster pack?”

“No.” he responded.

“A looter box?”

“No!”

He said the same words over and over before. The message continued, “You have elected to refuse game-provided assistance. This is a poor decision. In order to continue gameplay without using game-provided assistance please insert thirty-seven-point-one resurrection tokens.”

He wanted to cry but said, “I don’t have any.”

Joden lowered his shoulders and looked at his current debt. It read: “-387,000.” He breathed out, collapsing his chest, and grew red-faced. “No!” he shouted.

There was another pause and the form disappeared. For several moments there was darkness and silence. “Very well.” The automated voice returned. “You have chosen reincarnation. Goodbye.”

“No!” he screamed defiantly. “No!”

Then, all of a sudden, he felt strange. He looked out through oddly-colored eyes. His hands had returned but they had three fingers instead of five. When he tried to speak, he could only gasp through what felt like a straw. The sand that he walked on grew hardened in his webbed feet. An alien girl danced toward him, carrying a toy. She hugged him with pencil-thin arms and turned towards the sky. Tattered robes fell along his arm and he patted the girl’s head. He looked up, to where the girl was gazing and saw a massive fireball break through the atmosphere. A necro-missile came out of the fiery plume, heading straight for their small, stony village.

#shortstory #short story #scifi #science fiction #oc tag

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amuletrebel · 6 years ago

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When We Meet Again Ch. 1

AO3 Link / FF.net Link

Summary: Rachel Gardner, a brilliant archaeologist, goes deep into the jungle to research an ancient civilization. Finding a tomb deep underground, she accidentally awakens a serial killer who was cursed to sleep for eternity. But after he awakens, Rachel discovers she's the reincarnation of someone he knew and swore to protect. She must hide his existence from everyone to ensure his own safety, and maybe learn something about him and her past life.

Rachel Gardner ignored the pleas of her fellow researchers as she ventured further into the Melica Jungle. It was said to be a vast well of knowledge for archaeological research, inhabited thousands of years ago by an intelligent civilization known as the Himates. However, exploring such uncharted territory proved to be quite the feat. Rachel had narrowly avoided snake pits and quicksand. She expertly avoided very well-made traps on her journey. These facts led her to believe she was close to her destination. From her notes, the Himates liked to be an isolated and independent civilization, deterring any foreign presence whenever possible.

She didn't mind going into the unexplored terrain alone. Her many journeys, from the deep slopes of the Grand Canyon to the scorching heat of the Sahara, had toughened her up enough to withstand the harshest conditions and most treacherous threats. Add that to the fact that she didn't exactly fear death. Even stuck in her musings, Rachel managed to tiptoe around a handful of spike falls that were cleverly hidden. She was well-versed in setting traps, for reasons she never discussed with anyone.

The archaeologist treading through the trees carefully, looking back to only see thick foliage. She had gone far off the trail, and her colleagues were nowhere in view. She couldn't hear them, even if she strained her ears. Huffing a quiet sigh, Rachel continued her journey, using the hunting knife she had equipped to cut through extra thick bushes and clearing the way for her. At the end of the tree line, a same cave came into view. Her blue eyes were transfixed on the structure as she climbed her way out of the forest and to open space.

Brushing a strand of blonde hair that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear, the young woman reached inside the bag at her hip to pull out her journal and pen. She noticed the multitude of symbols etched onto the outer lips on the cave. They seemed to give off a hostile aura, warning newcomers of the impending danger ahead. The shapes swirled and curved in waves that seemed to ask the reader of the texts to turn back and never return. They even depicted deadly mythical monsters, with horns and giant claws, and a sort of fire. However, Rachel already made her way past the ancient jungle traps, so she proved to have the intellect necessary to outsmart the ancient Himates. She jotted the symbols down to translate later, then swiftly closed her book and tucked it back in its proper place.

With a firm resolve, the blonde woman walked forward, her dirty brown hiking books stepping from soft dirt to hardened stone upon passing the cave's entrance. She kept silent to listen to the occurrences surrounding her. The breeze from the outside whistled softly as it blew through the entrance, moving tiny pebbles and speckles of dirt around gently. When Rachel made her way a few yards into the cave, she stopped and closed her eyes. In her mind, she could see events that took place thousands of years ago, in this very cave. It was one of her talents; to close her eyes and let the locations and artifacts speak to her with images of their ancient history in her mind's eye.

She envisioned the ghosts of ancient people with slightly darker skin tones than her passing her by as they went about their unknown routines. She noticed the thin white clothing, showing just enough skin to remain unbothered by the elements. A majority of their clothing was white, to reflect the light of the scorching sun. Most of them wore silver accessories, armlets and usekh collars. Only the occasional man or woman had their accessories in gold. They were dressed a little more elegantly than others, symbolizing their possible higher status. It seemed menial labor fell on the lower class; the ones in silver carrying baskets and heavy bowls packed with food, spices, or anything valuable to their cultures. The ones in golden carried incense jars and feather fans; much lighter but equally valuable objects. Rachel deduced the cave held an altar somewhere inside, dedicated to one of their gods.

The archaeologist opened her eyes, the figures gently wisping away with the breeze. She took out her journal again, jotting down images from her visions. She focused further ahead afterward. The cave appeared to go much further. Rachel carefully made her way into the depths, flickering on her flashlight once natural light no longer shone where she was heading. She observed the cave's walls, studying the symbols and artwork that lined that stone. Whoever drew them must have had excellent precision to make sure perfect art. The air around her slowly became colder, the draft nipping at her arms. She nonchalantly rubbed her skin to generate heat and bring down the rising goosebumps.

Rachel reached what she believed was finally the back on the cave. A dusty and deteriorated altar stood atop a small set of natural stone steps. The Himates were intelligent, using the cave's pre-existing curves and slopes to build their place of worship. She studied the room, taking in the exquisite detail. She could vividly picture the room in its original state; flames flicking from candles on the golden candelabras and a white stone decorated in fine cloth with expensive materials sitting atop.

The young woman was entranced by the structure, the technology, the history. She was captivated by the history of these people. She loved getting lost in the past; a much simpler time with everyone doing their part to survive and thrive. She wished the modern world could be more like that. Unfortunately, Rachel was stuck in her musings. She unknowingly backed up as she pored over the drawings and writing on the walls of the cave, trying to decipher the god that was worshiped at this specific altar, possibly learned why it was isolated to this cave. Her elbow knocked into the wall behind her. Oceanic eyes widened as she felt her appendage sink into the wall.

A trap?!

Rachel jumped slightly as the cave began to quake, taken mildly by surprise. The tremors knocked her off balance, causing her to yelp softly when her rear hit the cold stone ground. The vibrations slowly calmed, and the woman blinked, carefully rising to her feet. An opening in the floor revealed a long staircase leading into pitch black. She weighed her options; go further to either make a great discovery or meet her end, or she could turn back and never mention the hidden stairwell in her reports. One foot forward and her flashlight pointed towards the stairs was enough to let anyone know she had chosen the former.

The journey down was quite a trek, her knees weakening the farther she descended. But she wasn't one to give up so easily. Without a proper perception of time, the time it took until her feet finally touched flat land fell like hours. The blonde's eyes widened to see a small room at the bottom, dimly lit by a strange light that seemed to come from within the stone walls. But she couldn't take the time to meticulously explore everything. But she didn't want anyone to find the cave's hidden room and cover the entrance back up without realizing her whereabouts, leaving her trapped.

The walls were covered in dust and vines that seemed to thrive under the conditions the underground room provided. So she couldn't appropriate see what lay underneath. However, one thing in the room caught her eye, and for good reason. A rusty sarcophagus lay flat on a slightly raised platform. It was nowhere near as elegant or sophisticated as one from the Egyptians, for example. It looked as if it was purposefully neglected, as a sign of disrespect to whomever laid within. There were no decorations or symbols to tell of who exactly was inside. There was only a single line of Himatean inscription. Unfortunately, she hadn't translated those specific words yet.

A silver lock rested on the sarcophagus, seemingly untouched. It wasn't rusted like the rest of the piece but appeared fairly new. A beautiful ruby rested in the center, its gleam beckoning her forward. Rachel slowly reached out, hypnotized by the lock's glow, as if something was resonating in her soul and pleaded with her to touch it. Her pale fingertips barely grazed the surface, but a single touch was enough to completely shatter the lock. It fell to the ground with a loud clunk. The archaeologist instinctively backed away as the lid popped open a crack, a thick cloud of dust pouring out.

Rachel coughed as she inhaled the musky hair, using her arm to cover her mouth and nose. The dust cloud, which reminded her of a fog, slowly cleared. The tomb was wide open, a heavily bandaged arm holding it steady. A figure slowly sat up inside the sarcophagus, heavily bandaged from head to toe. She wasn't one to believe in the dead being resurrected, but as she rose to her feet with unconsciously trembled legs, the impossible was seemingly more and more possible.

Rachel attempted to calm her rapidly beating heart down with observations, facts. Anything to ground her. The figure was definitely male, his frame still perfectly outlined depicted the many layers of wrappings. His ebony hair looked fluffy and silky smooth, as if he handed been risen from the dead. Finally, his eyes opened, revealing they were heterochromatic. One was a hazel brown and extremely dilated; the other was a piercing gold, illuminated even in the low light.

She watched at the...creature turned his head towards her. She slowly calmed herself down, curiosity overshadowing any sense of fear. She looked into his eyes, which bore confusion. Then she watched as his eyes widened the longer their eyes were locked. Beneath those layers of bandages, Rachel could hear a single word escape his foreign tongue.

"Rasella…?"

Who?

To be continued...

Also, HUGE shout out to @galacticpotatoes for sketching some beautiful art of this AU! Which you can find here!

#satsuriku no tenshi #angels of death #mummy au #or rather past and present meet #WWMA #long post

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aalt-ctrl-del · 6 years ago

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ive watched a few other film reviews and comparisons with the 1989 film of Pet Sematary. Spoilers yknow

maybe they rewrote the script a few times, but films usually have cohesion despite multiple changes during filming and rewrites. The pacing felt rushed in the third act, and the Burial Grounds in the Little God Swamp essential became a fast pass for quick-resurrections r’us. I much preferred the suspense of the original film (omit the bad acting because it was made up for with creepy ambiance)

I don’t really get where people go “oh, it’s hard to make a toddler act in a horror film”. Miko Hughes did a great portrayal of Gage, and the Lavoie twins in the 2019 remake did good in the few scenes they caught - I wished they did more with the creepy Gage supernatural psychic child.

But where do people get the “oh, a toddler isn’t that creepy. You just overpower them, and that’s no big deal” Did these asswipes not read the book? Gage post-reanimation wasn’t a legitimate threat to people he encountered, or whoever knew he could’ve been dangerous. He was dangerous because he gave everybody fucked hallucinations and had Churchill to help take out the main threat - Judd. He disarmed his mother with more fuck all ptsd about Zelda, then when grief stricken Rachel goes to hug her baby - she doesn’t really fathom if he’s real or not - she’s RachelStoppedWorking.exe

Yeah, toddlers you can overpower. But how ‘bout we stick a fucked Wendigo monster in this babus body and he’s gonna fry your brain with grief beyond comprehension. By the end of the book and the 1989 movie, after Louis has dealt with all this supernatural bs, he’s a crispy dish of fucked noodles. AND HE WAS A MAN OF SCIENCE AND MEDICINE WITH NO FUCKS FOR OTHER WORDILY NONSENSE. I’d like to see how a brave bro-dude, who can’t handle an open closet, deals with sin-toddler. The entity from the burial grounds has vision into your darkest secrets, and it’s all over that juicy gossip.

But that’s why Gage was a frightening presence in the original film, for one, this beautiful sweet cinnamon bun to pure for this world died, and then comes back to fuck up your day and murder. And there’s an ambiguous edge to that concept, we as the spectator don’t grasp what has possessed those that return from the burial grounds. It’s the Wendigo, whatever, but why did it curse the land, what was it’s initial motive? The burial grounds weren’t initially evil, and they were used to bring back benign if not ultra passive creatures - still eerie and fucked up, but typically harmless until later years as the grounds were - as I call - abused. But the grounds were cursed, and the more creatures (or people) buried there, the more toxic and sour the resurrected become - that was a take I grasped, since people were using the burial site up until Jud and... Spot.

In the new 2019 version, the deceased child is Ellie and her capture of this entity isn’t as potent as the original film. A few, like I, took it as Ellie was pissed and vengeful that she was reanimated against her wishes, and that was the reason for her evil streak. Also, much rage over that Louis saved Gage over her, btw ⁿᵒᵇᵒᵈʸ ᶜᵃʳᵉˢ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵘᵐᵇ ᵇᶦᵗᶜʰ. True, that could just be a misdirection on Ellie’s part, but it didn’t have the ambiguous edge like zombie Gage offered. Ellie’s character was a very explain reasons of her nefarious plot, and I go, “yeah, sure. Don’t really care if you have alternative motives for being an evil bean. Kill these people, I’m done.” I couldn’t really be bothered to grasp IF there was an alternative motive to her evil, aside from recruiting her whole fam into the undead cult.

Another point of the original film and the book, Louis loses his damn marbles. And events surrounding his mission to take Gage to the burial site are more blessed through his journey, rather than he having direct influence. The 2019 film, Louis was very involved, he had to do everything himself, and there was very limited presence from the spirit Wendigo - aside from a hello neighbor cameo out yonder.

In the original, by the Act III, we think - all right. Louis has got his shit together, he’s headed over to Judd’s and he’s gonna end this madness. He’ll fix this. Only for Louis to haul Rachel out to the burial grounds to “third times the charm” this jinx. But in the remake, Louis isn’t ever under the true influence of the Wendigo, and he snaps back to sanity - or stays sane - throughout his confrontation with Ellie. So we don’t really get a fulfilling character ark - he’s dies, anticlimactically. And you expect that to happen, because what else could possibly happen? Louis learned his lesson; what else would there be? Have a riveting action packed adventure of trying to locate and end his own, murder wife, out in the fog filled swamp? That would’ve been exciting and suspenseful, I guess. It would’ve fit the theme of jump scares prevalent in new age horror.

Boo. Loud noise. Scary.

I would’ve been really impressed if, given the changes and build in the initial lead, if more was done with Rachel’s character. Given, that she was a direct influence for Zelda’s death, and how she perceived herself; how death and Zelda’s demise haunted her all these years. There could’ve been great evolution for Rachel, having to be the one to kill her own daughter; after years blaming herself for Zelda. It could’ve been great, the film could’ve had a hay day with that direction. But it didn’t.

That’s why I say the script must’ve been re-written a few times during production. By the build, it seemed they had an idea for a direction and motifs to explore, had a powerful concept to delve through with those original ideals for grief and acceptance due to a quaking loss. But the dissolving climax had this cop out for something so boring and cliche, and I didn’t get the sense of haunting tragedy the original film masterfully conveyed.

The 1989 films acting was trash, but it had impacting moments. And it left me wanting to rewatch the original, with a hope that perhaps this time, the ending will be different.

#pet sematary #pet sematary 2019 #spoilers #books #steven king #if they removed the end then itd be a good movie #its not like i thought there should be survivors I go into a pet sematary film expecting everyone introduced to die #thats not the problem #im bent out of shape over a lot of reasons but main character death isnt one of them

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oneironauto233-blog · 5 years ago

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American Prayer Two

Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike, climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd. The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed condom waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight Sex and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies. Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

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airchain · 3 years ago

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Doom Unblocked

With no means off the moon, and armed with solely a pistol, he enters the base intent on revenge. Gameplay is sort of similar to the the rest of the "Doom Unblocked" collection, except that the first-person perspective is enhanced with the use of VR. Players management the previous physician on his homicide spree as though they were uploaded into the matrix themselves. With all that in mind, it is time to try all the "Doom" video games and rank them from worst to best.

About Doom Unblocked

The graphic violence, in addition to satanic imagery, made the sport the subject of much controversy. The unique Doom offered three.5 million physical copies and 1.15 million shareware copies from its 1993 release up via 1999. Doom II sold 1.fifty five million copies of every kind within the United States throughout the identical period, with a couple of quarter of that quantity also bought in Europe, a total of some 5-6 million gross sales for the unique duology. Doom three sold 3.5 million copies together with many copies of the enlargement pack Resurrection of Evil from its 2004 launch up via 2007, making it essentially the most profitable recreation within the sequence at that point. On April 30, 1995, an updated model of the game, The Ultimate Doom, was released; it included a new fourth episode, "Thy Flesh Consumed", in addition to the original three episodes. In March 2022, John Romero launched a new Doom II level entitled One Humanity.

They designed the monsters to be "nightmarish", with graphics

They designed the monsters to be "nightmarish", with graphics which are realistic and dark as an alternative of staged or rendered, so a combined media approach was taken. The artists sculpted fashions of a number of the enemies, and took photos of them in cease motion from five to eight different angles so that they could probably be rotated realistically in-game. The photographs have been then digitized and converted to 2D characters with a program written by John Carmack. Adrian Carmack made clay models for a few demons, and had Gregor Punchatz construct latex and metallic sculptures of the others.

The technical adjustments allowed for greater flexibility

The technical adjustments allowed for greater flexibility with stage design, such as the power to adjust the geometry of the map during play. Id didn't permit the title to be called Doom Unblocked 3, as the name was being reserved for a potential return to the franchise after the development of Quake. As with Wolfenstein 3D, id hired composer Bobby Prince to create the music and sound results.

To finish a level, the participant must traverse via the area to reach a marked exit room. Levels are grouped collectively into named episodes, with the ultimate stage specializing in aboss fightwith a particularly difficult enemy. While the levels are introduced in a 3D perspective, the enemies and objects are as a substitute 2Dspritespresented from several set viewing angles, a technique sometimes referred to as2.5Dgraphics.

Doom is a high quality sport that works in all major fashionable web browsers

Doom is a high quality sport that works in all major fashionable web browsers. This on-line game is part of the Shooting, Action, Emulator, and SNES gaming categories. A one-shot comedian book written by Steve Behling and Michael Stewart with art by Tom Grindberg was launched in May 1996 by Marvel Comics as a giveaway for a video game convention. Romero confirmed in August 2021 that a second Sigil enlargement using the Doom II engine was in development. Computer Gaming World said in February 1994 that Wolfenstein 3D followers ought to "sit up for a delight of insomnia", and "Since networking is supported, bring along a friend to share within the visceral delights".

The first Game episode and the only one in the shareware version

Knee-Deep in the Dead, the first episode and the only one in the shareware version, is set within the high-tech navy bases, energy vegetation, laptop centers and geological anomalies on Phobos. It ends with the player character getting into the teleporter leading to Deimos, solely to be overwhelmed by monsters. An unnamed house marine ran via a number of army bases in Hell and bases on Mars’ moons. Each dungeon had various episodes, and the final area had a boss struggle.

Doom 64" has a really traditional "Doom Unblocked" feel

Others liked the creepiness —IGN reported that the sport "oozes dread" and that the story was designed to make players really feel "that [they're] actually and truly alone and in a desperate scenario." Aside from a number of improved mechanics and some aesthetic updates, GameSpot noted that the gameplay in "Doom 64" has a really traditional "Doom" feel, in addition to a classic "Doom" storyline to accompany it. After the navy kills the remainder of the demonic invaders by bombarding Jupiter's moons with radiation, a mysterious entity moves in beneath their radar and starts bringing the forces of Hell again to life.

The Ultimate Doom, Doom II, and Master Levels for Doom II.

The 2016 reboot offered over 2 million copies on the PC alone from its May 2016 launch up to July 2017. The Xbox model doesn't require Doom three to play and also contains the complete versions of The Ultimate Doom Unblocked, Doom II, and Master Levels for Doom II. Online co-op and deathmatch play are still continued on fan-created providers. S success for a lot of the rest of the Nineteen Nineties and reduced curiosity in its predecessor . S David McCandless wrote that the game was played by "an estimated six million people throughout the globe", and other sources estimate that 10–20 million folks performed Doom inside 24 months of its launch.

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bibleteachingbyolga · 4 years ago

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For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at doomsday: When souls shall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. —George Herbert, “Death” (17–20)

Do you ever wonder if our faith can really be true? We outlandishly claim, “I believe in the resurrection of the body.” But we never see that happen to anyone. This last week, we celebrated our Easter hope. Jesus said, “Because I live, you also will live” (John 14:19). But the very air we breathe in our culture fills us with dread that this life is all there is.

The message we absorb is to live for now, because when our bodies stop, we stop; there is nothing more. This can seem like brave realism while our faith in life to come seems but a fantasy. How can we answer such reasonable doubts that plague even ardent believers in the midnight hours? I’ve been helped by imagining a literary duel between skepticism and faith. I speculate that this battle occurred between two of the greatest English poets, who wrote just a generation apart.

William Shakespeare (1564–1616) threw down a gauntlet through the graveyard scene in Hamlet. With rapier clarity, Shakespeare evoked our secret fear that in the end the most glorious person ends up as but a clod of dirt plugging a hole. A few years ago, I witnessed the power of Benedict Cumberbatch enacting this scene. I felt my faith reeling. Who could ever write an adequate answer? But not long after, I reread the short poem “Death” by George Herbert (1593–1633). What if Herbert’s poem deliberately took the blow of Hamlet’s realism and then, against the ropes of existential despair, deftly countered with a more triumphant hope?

Follow the Body

Decades earlier, even as a bored teenager enduring an interminable play, I snapped back to attention when Hamlet leapt into the grave and picked up the skull of Yorick, once the king’s jester. We’re fascinated and terrorized to see what lies under our skin. The skull is, of course, necessarily a dead person, and so it has ever symbolized the power of death. It is the emblem of the wisdom tradition of memento mori: remember that you die. As far back as Genesis 3:19, we are reminded, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The bones in a grave grimly demand that we recall how quickly beauty fades and life flees away.

Hamlet remembers the full face of Yorick as he examines the ghoulish, unintended grin of a skinless skull. Once Yorick set the boy Hamlet laughing as they played and joked. But now, “My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed. . . . Where be your gibes now? . . . Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table at roar?” (5.1.194–98). The merry crowd-pleaser has only dirt for company.

This sight and smell and feel of bones in a grave cause Hamlet to consider the fate of man:

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole [a plug in a cask]? (5.1.209–11)

The great conqueror Alexander has decomposed into dust, which may now be but corking a keg. Such is the humiliation of our mortal decay. Hamlet continues, picking up a biblical cadence before slamming into the mediocrity of our common fate:

Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? (5.1.216–19)

We hear an echo of Paul’s great summary of the gospel: “Christ died . . . he was buried” (1 Corinthians 15:3–4 KJV). But Hamlet does not follow Paul to resurrection. Rather, he views our fate as the Genesis return to dust. Further transformation through the centuries means only that the clay that was once us may be used for the most menial purposes. The hard-packed dirt of the plug in the cask of ale at the pub could contain the same molecules as once comprised the body of a mighty king.

Shakespeare’s scene has leveled a serious challenge to faith in the resurrection. It’s as if he says, “Follow the body!” Those who made thousands quake with their power may now be a clump of earth keeping the wind out of a peasant’s wall. Follow the body and see that we do not rise. We merely decompose.

Who has the literary power to answer this scene? What writer can outmaneuver Shakespeare in exposing this primal fear that there’s nothing more than this life?

Beyond These Bones

Not long after attending Hamlet, I happened to reread George Herbert’s “Death.” I jolted with the realization that this could indeed be a direct literary answer to Hamlet’s despair. (In the academic and court circles in which Herbert moved as a young man, awareness of Hamlet would have been as high as what we have of Hamilton today. I think it’s likely that Herbert saw the play, and almost certain he had at least read it.)

With Hamlet in the Grave

Death once again is personified as a skull. The poem opens with words that Hamlet could have spoken:

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, Nothing but bones, The sad effect of sadder groans, Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. (1–4)

For readers in the early seventeenth century, “Death” easily evoked Hamlet in the graveyard. The merry tunes of Yorick were silent in the mouth of a skull. In fact, Herbert’s poem gets more graphic than Shakespeare’s scene. He takes us beyond Yorick’s jesting at a feast to his dying with the moans of terminal suffering, surrounded by the grieving sighs of those who stood by. The juxtaposition between the boisterous laughter at table and the groans upon the bed of death makes this skull become hideous in our hands. To hold the remains of a living person as we imagine his pangs of death seems uncouth: totally inappropriate. In this duel, Herbert will not let Shakespeare best him in horrific realism.

Even in this first stanza, Herbert is already building the foundation of his counter-hope to death. The “sadder groans” remind us of Romans 8: “We know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now” (Romans 8:22 KJV). After the fall of humanity, death entered creation and everything “was made subject to vanity” and placed in “the bondage of corruption” (Romans 8:20–21 KJV). We groan under the futility that everything living in this world must die.

But the glorious twist in Romans 8 is that this subjection to mortality occurred as an act of hope on God’s part. Rather than let our sin be eternalized, God introduced a natural end until the time comes for the full liberation of all creation into new life (Romans 8:21 KJV). So the groans of death are also birth pangs, evoked by our longing for “the redemption of our body” (Romans 8:23 KJV). We groan not just in hopeless sorrow, but precisely because we intuit that there is more to come.

Herbert’s next stanza continues in a way that recalls Hamlet’s gruesome question to the gravedigger: “How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot?” (5.1.168). The sexton’s reply of eight or nine years fits within the poem’s expectation of decay:

For we considered thee as at some six, Or ten years hence, After the loss of life and sense, Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks. (5–8)

Herbert has taken his readers right into the grave with Hamlet, observing what happens to people we know in the decade after they die. We feel the loss of “life and sense.” Hamlet’s reflections looked back farther in time, pondering the results of decomposition through the scattering centuries. That’s why he makes us feel that all human history is encompassed in decay. But Herbert’s next stanza reveals that Hamlet actually had a narrow view:

We looked on this side of thee, shooting short; Where we did find The shells of fledge souls left behind, Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort. (9–12)

Normally, we look on this side of death, the side of material life returning to the earth. That view, declares Herbert’s poem, is shallow. We shoot short. We come up with only a partial answer to what happens to us. The poem wants us to absolutely, realistically follow the body from flesh to dust, from crown to beer barrel. But not to stop there.

Souls Reclothed

Something has happened to give a longer — much longer — and higher view of death:

But since our Savior’s death did put some blood Into thy face; Thou art grown fair and full of grace, Much in request, much sought for, as a good. (13–16)

This is the turning point in the contest. This is the suplex move in a wrestling match, when one combatant uses the full weight of his opponent against him. It is a move that risks defeat and dire injury as the wrestler lifts his opponent, leans fully back, and then flips the other over his head. In theological terms, God created humanity, and humanity sinned, inviting ubiquitous death into creation. But once upon a glorious time, God entered the death-filled world as a man. That God-man died. And paradoxically defeated death. Jesus took the full force of all our dying into himself. He alone among men did not merit death. But on the cross he freely embraced it. He gathered death to himself until it killed him. That appeared to be Jesus’s defeat. Instead it was his suplex. He flipped death in resurrection.

Christ died by exsanguination. It appeared that precious blood was spilled in waste upon the stone and dirt of Golgotha. But Herbert makes us imagine that Christ’s blood was poured into death’s skull, bringing death to life. Paul wrote, “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). Jesus declared, “Love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). But who could imagine that Jesus included death itself as an enemy to be loved back to life? Here is the genius and novelty of Herbert. Jesus by dying made a friend of death for us! Now death is someone on everyone’s guest list as the life of the party — or, more correctly, as the one who ushers us into the life of the party.

Herbert describes why:

For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at doomsday: When souls shall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. (17–20)

He echoes Paul: “Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump . . . and the dead shall be raised incorruptible” (1 Corinthians 15:51–52 KJV). Grim death, personified as a skull, now becomes personified in glad souls reclothed in everlasting bodies. Death’s bones will be transformed from bunghole stopper to resurrected beauty.

So Herbert concludes with a peacefulness in direct contrast to Hamlet’s agitated melancholy:

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust Half, that we have, Unto an honest faithful grave: Making our pillows either down, or dust. (21–24)

Pillows of Dust

Herbert met the challenge from Hamlet’s holding Yorick’s skull. He owned the graphic realism, embraced it, and then exposed how mere skepticism is ultimately a failure of imagination, a narrow response to the reality opened up by Christ. The riches and depth of Jesus’s answer make the realism of Hamlet seem shallow. Our Savior came as a man to the place where all die. He came in such a way that, paradoxically, God could die. His suplex move on the cross not only defeated but transformed death. He put some blood back into death’s face. In a sense, he reconciled with his last enemy. He turned the other cheek and made, on our behalf, a friend of death for those in Christ.

I confess that Hamlet’s challenge has sometimes unnerved me. But I give thanks that I have a literary champion. Herbert took up the skull and embraced death as an agent of transformation from lowliness to glory. Death’s “bones with beauty shall be clad.” And we can lie down in peace, whether on a pillow of down in our beds or of dust in our graves.

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ramajmedia · 5 years ago

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Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D.: 10 Best Moments Of Season 6 | ScreenRant

Every season Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. takes bigger and better risks with storylines. Season six expanded beyond Earth. Not only did a team search for a lost agent in space, but a threat from outside the planet came to Earth with one very big plan.

Though the scope of the show was bigger, a lot of the character moments reigned the story in. There were plenty of lighthearted moments to give fans a breather during the action-heavy season. Likewise, a lot of emotional moments and character growth were there to satisfy fans. All types make the list of the best moments from season six.

RELATED: 10 Times Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. Broke Our Hearts

10 Jemma Hallucinates A Fitz-Monkey

When Jemma and Daisy shared an alien snack dubbed “puffies,” they were in for quite the surprise. They ended up on a not-so-serious hallucinogenic trip. Though the episode doesn’t rank high amongst critics, fans lauded the hour for being a lighthearted departure from the usual Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. storylines.

Amongst Jemma and Daisy’s girl talk was a moment at the bar. Jemma, drink in front of her, saw Fitz dressed in a monkey suit. He wasn’t actually there but appeared to be dancing on the edge of her straw. Fans everywhere thank the special effects department for the sheer fun of that moment, and the nod to Fitz’s love for monkeys.

9 Quake Absorbs An Atomic Bomb Blast

Daisy’s powers grew exponentially in season five, but we didn’t see the extreme version of her quaking in action much in season six. One particular scene highlighted just how finely tuned her powers now are.

It seemed like all hope was lost for Daisy, May, Deke and Snowflake as Sarge abandoned them with an atomic bomb. After exhausting their options, and nearly admitting defeat, Daisy took matters into her own hands - literally. She used her quaking abilities to contain the blast of the bomb between her hands, saving all of their lives in the process.

8 Snowflake’s Girl Crush

The Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. audience had an interesting relationship with Snowflake. Some loved her carefree psychotic antics. Others couldn’t care less when she disappeared for the final stretch of episodes. Most, however, would agree that she had one of the most iconic lines of the season.

After already voicing her admiration for May numerous times, Snow got to see Daisy in action as she quaked a flock of shrikes to dust. She excitedly asked May, “are all the females on your planet this powerful?” May, of course, affirmed they were. The series has always had incredible female characters, but season six reminded the audience of that.

RELATED: Marvel’s Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 6: 5 Things That Worked (& 5 Things That Didn’t)

7 Mack VS. Sarge

In the early days of their working relationship, tension existed between Mack and Coulson. They disagreed on a lot of things regarding S.H.I.E.L.D., but they always had respect for one another. Coulson making Mack director in his absence, and leaving him Fury’s black box, showed how much faith Coulson had in him.

That’s why the appearance of Sarge, a being wearing Coulson’s face, hit him particularly hard. When agents brought Sarge into custody in “Toldja,” Mack couldn’t take Sarge’s smug attitude for long. After trading witty retorts and questions, the two came to blows. It was emotionally satisfying to see Mack let out all that aggression, and Sarge certainly held his own.

6 Fitz And Simmons Reunite

Jemma Simmons started her season six journey searching for a lost Fitz. The two narrowly missed one another repeatedly, only for Fitz to end up captured by Chronicoms when they did come face to face. When the two finally reunited, it was in a mindspace created by the Chronicoms to help them figure out time travel.

While the reunion itself is sweet, one of the best moments is Jemma immediately regressing to her 12-year-old self in an effort to hide parts of her mind from Fitz. Too worried about how he’ll react to things like his season five death, her defense mechanism is to become a stubborn and immature child. A light and funny moment in an otherwise emotionally cathartic episode.

5 Sarge Remembers His Family

Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. built a lot of mystery around who Sarge really was. Daisy was initially in denial that any part of Coulson could exist in the being. She found herself proven wrong as memories of Sarge’s “family” surfaced.

Coulson’s memories provided Sarge with a confusing backstory, but the family he grieved for was revealed to be May and Daisy as the audience saw flashes of his memories. When he called Daisy “Skye,” she allowed herself to hope Coulson was still in there.

Of course, that hope was dashed shortly after, but the moment still ranks as one of the best for the season.

RELATED: Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D.: 10 Best Episodes, Ranked

4 Deke Confronts Nana And Bobo

Deke is a fairly polarizing character for the audience. Some hate his perceived selfishness. Others just want him to be part of the S.H.I.E.L.D. family. In the episode “Leap,” both of those points of view collided as he got the chance to confront his grandparents.

Fitz believed Deke stealing technology from both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the future was wrong, and him making money from it was morally reprehensible. Deke pointed out, in a heated exchange, that he left S.H.I.E.L.D. and started his company because nobody wanted him around. Even Jemma didn’t tell him about what happened to Fitz the previous season. The exchange allowed both the characters and audience to better understand Deke’s abandonment issues.

3 May Saves Daisy’s Life

The audience always knew May was the toughest S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. With the finale, Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. proved that yet again.

After Sarge stabbed her through the abdomen, not only did May take out a few enemies on Izel’s homeworld, but she also returned to Earth through Izel’s portal for another heroic moment. Using the same sword Sarge stabbed her with, May ran Izel through before she could take Daisy’s life. Though May was in bad shape, she still made it possible for the team to save the day.

2 Jemma’s Jewelry Box Opens

“Inescapable” was a great episode for longtime fans. It focused on Fitz and Simmons and their relationship, yes, but it also provided them with a bit of intense therapy.

The episode revealed Jemma had a coping mechanism for all of the trauma in her life. She packed everything away in a jewelry box in her mind, the same tactic her father taught her as a little girl. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with it. When the jewelry box opened in the shared mindspace, she and Fitz were terrorized by all of her repressed trauma in the form of a monster that looked just like Jemma. The monster even had costume pieces from so many major show events for her. It was a brilliant reveal and Easter egg for fans.

1 The LMD Coulson Reveal

Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. got its start on television with the resurrection of Phil Coulson. It seems it won’t end without a version of him on screen. Though the real Coulson’s life ended in Tahiti with May by his side, we’ve already seen other versions. A Skrull impersonated him in Captain Marvel, he had a Life Model Decoy in season four, Sarge wore his face in season six, and season seven will feature another Coulson.

The final moments of season six saw Jemma give Mack and Daisy a choice. She explained that using Chronicom and LMD technology, they created their most advanced version of an android. He would have all Coulson’s memories and be filled in on the events of season six. Without a second thought, or letting Jemma finish Daisy activated him. The audience welcomed him to season seven.

NEXT: Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D.: 10 Things That Need To Happen Before It Ends

source https://screenrant.com/agents-shield-best-moments-season-6/

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mayowriter · 7 years ago

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Chapter 2 the duo's mission

Throwback Thursday. Something I wrote about 15 years ago.

Chapter 2

The Duo’s Mission

The smell of sulfur was strong in the air, mixed with the scent of the myriad gasses that created the shadowy haze of Wardrells. Drake walked along the black stone streets eying the others of his kind as he passed them by.

As a general rule, demons were supposed to be cordial to each other in public. Also, as a general rule however, was the fact that demons hated to follow rules. He knew that most of the others he passed were only living out their lives. Immortals living almost as mortals, day to day. Those ones meant little to him. It was the others like himself that he feared most. Demons that still carried on the war, demons that still fought for dominance between mortals and immortals, angels and demons. Those who chose sides and remained fighting.

It had been three ages since the war between the gods. The time when Tain tried to take dominance over all that his brother had controlled. After those three ages, the demons and angels under Tain’s power still walked uneasily around each other. That had been the reason for the splitting, the time when Wardrells became two. Deliar for the demons and Silivat for the angels. Two miniature realms contained side by side in the vastness of Wardrells’ shifting shadows. Both continually ruled over by the Demon-lord Sher-Tar. The immortal said to be second to none in power, with the exception of Tain and his bride Nasmar.

Time passed faster for beings in Wardrells than those in the mortal realm. Two days would go by before the next time Drace lay down for bed, and the portal was open once more. Four days before Fayrenir, when the Living would be revealed.

Drake stopped walking as he came up to the gate that connected Deliar and Silivat. The guards on both sides eyed each other with looks that made one think they would already be killing each other if not for bars separating them. The gate itself was brilliantly wrought from obsidian and ivory each twisting through the other to form the shape of a frozen flame. Atop the flame was positioned a brilliant golden dragon.

“Where is that blasted mutt?” Drake and Grace were an oddity in Wardrells a demon and an angel who were best friends, though they kept any connection between them secret for protection. When Drake’s patience was almost up, Grace finally appeared strolling casually toward the other side of the gate.

“Been waiting long kitty?” Grace smiled when Drake’s features twisted in disgust.

“You were supposed to be here at mid-day, it’s half after.” He motioned for the guards to open the gate, and the pair proceeded into one of the large rooms making up the guard shacks along the portal wall. Inside they each picked a chair and sat down with the table between them.

“Is everything ready?” Grace was the first to finally speak. His white cloak wrapped around him seemed to push back the drifting shadows.

“We just need to pick up the supplies, meet me here at mid-day tomorrow, if the prophesy fulfils itself, we should be able to get out of here two days after.” In direct contrast to his companion, the shadows seemed to envelop Drake merging with his being.

“What about Drymier? Isn’t he going to cause trouble for us?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less of the cursed pit viper. If he does try anything though we’ll just have to handle him when we get to it. If we get rid of him now Sher-Tar might decide to pay a visit himself, and neither of us can take him alone.” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“So we just have to hope the kid doesn’t get himself into trouble for the next day and a half then. Just bloody great.” The pair each took separate exits from the guardhouse. The guards themselves had already learned not to ask any questions of either of them, it brought consequences.

Drake once again walked the black stone streets by himself. He had until mid-day tomorrow now to wait, and he needed something to occupy his mind until then. Instinctively, his feet lead him toward the dying grounds. He could always pick up a few bets for a fight there, and he could win, usually.

The dying grounds, aptly named for their fights that usually ended in death, were on the southern end of the town next to the Shertheth docks. The roars of crowds and fighting could easily be heard miles before reaching the pit, that noise always provided moral for the downtrodden in the city. Drake had been here many times, he had almost grown up here if not for the trips into the mortal realm, and on business he had to attend to.

Chennet, a demon resembling a gorilla, was sitting out front taking bets for the next fights of the day.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Drake. Come to cheat a few of the local devils out of their hard earned money have ya.” His voice sounded deeper than the gouge itself, and gave one the feeling of a small quake.

“I don’t call it cheating when their arms leave their body before the money does. I call it their own fault.” He removed a few coins of Wardrells black-gold from his pouch and set them on the betting book. “Who do you have for me?”

“I’m not really sure, some fella by the name of Libra. He just showed up in town today.” The Larger individual began to idly count the coins into another pouch.

“Libra? The name sounds familiar. Do you know him from anywhere?”

“I can’t say as I have, he seems like a loner though.” Chennet took the money and placed it inside his podium.

“You know what he is? I don’t want to fight no pansy rat demon now.”

“Nobody is certain, the guy says he’s strong enough and that’s all that matters. He’s done a good job of backing it up so far too, hasn’t left a single opponent alive to second round.” The podium dissolved as a large door opened behind the massive bookie.

“Sounds like I might have a challenge, it’s no fun to finish a person before the transformation round though. The guy has no sense of sporting. Course then again it’s not very sporting when you beat a person with their own claws is it.” Drake looked up at his companion with a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, I remember that guy, took almost a week before the Wychlings had enough scraps to resurrect him. Who knew a palace guard would be that much of a wimp.” That deep voice sounded odd when letting out a light chuckle.

Drake was lead through the halls of weapons and “training” rooms. When finally they emerged into the open again, the pit was littered with the morning’s “losers”. The seating around the dying grounds was almost completely packed.

“Looks like this guy can draw a crowd at least.” Drake removed his cloak, and loosened the tight areas in his clothing to help with movement.

“Anyone who wins a lot draws a crowd. You would too if you didn’t always leave after one fight.” Chennet shoved Drake over the ledge into the pit. “Good luck, see ya if you get back out.”

Drake stepped up to the wall next to him and chose an ornate long sword with a curving single edged blade. Turning to the center of the ring, he could see his opponent standing on the starting block across from his.

The guy was about half a foot taller than he was, which was big considering Drake’s height compared to most other demons who were not specialists. He stood with a confidence that showed he was at least trained well enough to hold his own in the pit. He had long red hair tied back with a cord, and dark reddish brown skin covered in tattoos.

Stepping up to his starting block, Drake prepared himself for the fight. The rules were simple, you had two rounds to beat your opponent into any type of submission you wished. The first round was fought in humanesque form and the second round was when the fighters were allowed to transform. At no time during the fight, were either of the fighters allowed to use any power except physical ability. The spirit gong, an object that when hit released a wail like that of a thousand trapped souls, signaled the changing of rounds. The fight ended when one fighter gave up.

The rules for the dying grounds were among the very few rules ever followed to the letter by demons, the reason being that if anyone broke the rules, the fight turned into a free for all with everyone in the stands becoming involved. This wasn’t really an unpleasant prospect, but it usually merited retribution from Chennet, or Sher-Tar himself in worse scenarios.

The two faced off from stone blocks about five feet apart and suspended ten in the air. When the gong sounded, they both were in the air toward their opponent. Colliding mid-air, Drake twisted around to land on his feet and saw his opponent land hard but still on his feet.

“Good, he’s heavy on his feet. At least I have the agility advantage.”

He didn’t think for very long as a sword thrust toward his head with speed greater than he thought this fighter was capable of. He barely had time to duck and punch him in the stomach, for a small opening.

“Man, this guy is hard as a rock.”

Both men up to their prime now, the fighters danced around each other. Flowing from strike to defend and back in a ballet of death. Blades glinted in the torchlight from around the arena as each fighter tried to get the upper hand in the battle of steel.

“You’re much better than most of the others I’ve fought today.” The demon’s voice was reptilian in tone. “Many of the others were dead by now.”

“Just quit talking and fight, This round is only a warm-up.” Drake’s tone was calm despite the situation.

“A warm-up then? Well in that case I’ll be done with mine.” The larger fighter pressed his attack forcing Drake purely onto the defensive side of the fight. For almost a minute, it was all he could do to block the other’s blows, and sometimes not.

“He’s definitely stronger than me, that’s for sure.”

Regaining his footing by the blocks, Drake launched himself toward his opponent. The sound of the crowd’s roar at his hit was drowned out by the sound of the spirit gong wailing over the racket.

Both fighters stepped back. Drake was bleeding from a gash in his chest and another across his left arm. Libra seemed to pay no attention to the sword sticking in his right thigh. Neither fighter had time to think though, the gong was an instant switch to the transformation round.

Drake quickly changed to his hybrid form, and then let out a low curse as he saw what was now standing before him. Libra was there towering close to eleven feet tall, his form an amalgam of human and dragon physicality. He flexed his large arms menacingly, and then extended the two long claws that came from each forearm and went a foot past the hand.

Drake let out a low curse as he finally realized why the name had sounded familiar. “Shen-Libra, Sher-Tar’s oldest son and the next Lord, why did I have to get into this?”

Drake barely had time to sidestep the claws that went where his chest used to be, but not far enough. As the gigantic hand connected with his chest, he could feel the ribs crack. Landing forty feet away, he coughed up blood when he tried to stand. All he could do was roll over to see the last “loser” lying dead next to him, sword still clenched in hand.

“Hi ya Kendell, didn’t win either I see.”

When his vision cleared up enough to make out the arena, he could see Libra rushing toward him claws outward.

“I only have one chance to keep from dying here.”

As Libra’s enormous form bared down on Drake, he waited until the last instant to react. Rolling across the dead body, he raked his claws on it’s chest and then wrenched the sword from his locked fingers. The blood sprayed into Libra’s eyes, and then all the crowd could see was a dust cloud.

“Stop.” One lone voice rose above the crowd, louder than all the other cries combined. The masses parted as Sher-Tar walked through the stands to the ring, his black armor glistening from the firelight. He was about the same height as Drake, and completely dark, not physically looking, he just let off that appearance.

When the dust cleared, Drake and Libra were standing just as they had stopped. Libra’s claws were pressed to Drake’s chest, while Drake had the sword at his throat. Each had just enough pressure for a single drop of blood. The two immediately changed to humanesque form and went to one knee.

“I see this is what you like to do when Drymier isn’t around to give you your lessons Libra. Now both of you get up.” His voice wasn’t angry, just determined and set.

Both of them slowly rose to their feet. Drake’s expression was unreadable, but Libra’s was one of pure shame.

“I’m sorry father; I know you told me not to fight in the pit. I just had to test my abilities against others besides your own men.” Even though he had the height advantage, he appeared to cower in the line of his father’s glare.

“I told you not to fight for your safety as well as the well being of the family. You are my only son and if you die I will have to name a new successor.” Saving a look for Drake, he continued. “From what I’ve seen here, I might as well pick him.”

“But father, I would have defeated him. Isn’t that good enough for you?” Libra’s voice had just enough strength to sound like a son who was upset and slightly angered by his father’s words.

“You only think you would have beaten him. Just because your claws would have went through his chest doesn’t mean a thing. His blade would still have made it’s mark as he fell. You must learn that strength isn’t the only thing you need to win a fight. Drake here saw that you outmatched him, so he improvised to even the battlefield.” The demon lord picked up the sword that Drake had dropped and handed it to him. “Consider this a present. You may have taught my son a more valuable lesson than Drymier ever has.

Drake inclined his head to both of them before speaking. “Thank you, my Lord, but I only did what I had to.”

“Nonsense, you have a talent. I have heard tales of you before Drake Angelsbane, it’s nice to see that at least some of those tales are true. You are the only Demon who was ever created in the form of a protector, a form strictly reserved to angels. I’m not sure how it happened, neither is anyone else I have discussed the matter with, but it seems to fit you well.” He put his arm around the shoulders of both Drake, and his son. “Come, you shall join me at the feast tonight.”

****

The halls of the great palace were large and filled with marvelous tapestries as well as ornate statues of all shapes and size. Drake followed the crenling who lead him toward the Great Feast Hall, dipping and bowing to an honored guest as they went. He sniffed, annoyed at the fact that he had to follow a low demon. Generats were the most powerful beings in Wardrells, at least as far as demons went; he could have ended the sniveling servant’s life with one finger.

Fires burned in the thirteen obsidian hearths that surrounded the room he was lead to. The largest table he had ever seen was sitting directly in the middle of the hall. The table was built to Sher-Tar’s specifications. Three hundred guests could sit on each of the longest sides, while thirty-three fit comfortably on the two smaller ends.

At the head of the table, Sher-Tar’s throne sat in front of the largest hearth, directly in the middle of that end of the table. To each side were seats for his son, Shen-Libra, and his daughter, Shem-Sansay. Your importance as a guest was measured in how close you sat to those three chairs, with the least important person sitting in the middle seat on the other end of the table. That guest was usually a person Sher-Tar intended to have executed in a manner of hours.

Upon entering the room, Drake choked back an oath. Not because he was the last guest to arrive, not even because his seat was saved next to Sansay, but because next to Libra sat Grace.

“What in the Three Pits is that idiot doing here.” Drake quietly took his seat and tried not to cause too much of a commotion. Even had he been on one of the long sides of the table this was an almost impossible task. Sher-Tar stood at his entrance, in turn causing the rest of the guests to stand.

“Nice of you to finally join us Drake. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” The Lord looked over his assembled guests, and then beckoned Drake to come take his seat. “You are one of the honored tonight.”

The entertainers in the corner resumed playing their music as Drake sat, an eerie mix of Angelic melody and Demonic beats. Sher-Tar was after all the lord of all of Wardrells; it was not uncommon for him to have those from either side of the divide in his presence.

Almost as soon as Drake sat down, Sher-Tar began to introduce each guest at the table. At the center of the other end sat a member of the Underdead known as Crevec. His face had a resigned look of terror; one never knew if the least honored guest would die before the night was done. He had almost been saved, if Drake hadn’t made it. When a guest was absent, it was customary for the next in line to fill in his place so on and so forth.

In a breach of procedure, Sher-Tar introduced his son and daughter first before moving on to Drake and Grace. When all was said, the guests numbered six hundred and sixty five with the sixty-sixth being the Demon Lord himself.

When finally it was Drake’s turn, he was surprised when he and Grace were both asked to stand at once.

“My honored guests, I present to you the two biggest enigmas in our realm. Before you stands Drake Angelsbane, and Grace Demontongue. These two, above all principle and power, are somehow special among their kind.” He turned his head and met Drake eye to eye.

“As the last to arrive, you will be first.” His tone was casual as if stating a natural law that none could dispute.

“As many of you know, protectors are the most powerful of angels, besides those of my own line. Beings who were created to be guards for the Gods and their highest followers, though there has been no sighting of one since the divine war. Drake here is the first demon who has ever been gifted with the power of a protector though he seems to earn it somehow.” Sher-Tar’s gaze shifted to Grace. Almost as an accent to the motion, the hearth crackled loudly behind him.

“Grace is the exact opposite of Drake. To those who are not educated, he seems to have the form of a werewolf. To those who know more, it is apparent that he takes the power of a slayer. Slayers were the exact opposite of protectors, and just as their counterparts, they have also disappeared.” He turned to face the guests once again.

“I am not sure how these two came about, but it is apparent that they are linked and very powerful. I am unaware if you two have met each other before, but I would be honored if the two of you would join my royal guard.”

The hall erupted in cheers from angels and demons alike, a noise that brought even the players to a freezing standstill. When sufficient time had passed, Sher-Tar motioned for silence and acknowledged the two again.

“What is your answer?” His voice didn’t seem anxious, though neither did it seem relaxed. It seemed that he was waiting for the answer that would come as it may, in it’s own time.

Drake’s mind spun around the events that had just happened, trying to decide if this could be a good thing with the coming turmoil. Finally, his mind rested on a solution and he motioned to Grace. The duo went to their knees together, and Drake’s voice was heard along with Grace’s above any murmur that the guests dared make.

“We would be honored to serve you Lord Sher-Tar.” They both stopped themselves before adding the usual ‘to the end and beyond’, but it didn’t seem that anyone noticed.

“Very well then.” His voice sounded pleased, or was it amused. The other guests, including Sansay and Libra, were respectfully informed that the feast was over. As the guests departed, a long wail could be heard ending suddenly with the sickening sound of a body coming to rest on the ground far below the hall’s windows. Sparing a quick glance, Drake smirked when ho noticed that Crevec was nowhere to be seen.

Just as the last guest was leaving, Sher-Tar sat back down in his throne. The table disappeared in a wisp of smoke, leaving only two gilded chairs in it’s place.

“Come, have a seat. We have matters to discuss.” The black armor of the Demon Lord Line suddenly shone around his person; a signal that all festivities had indeed ended, and it was now time for serious matters. The duo did as they were instructed, each in turn being surrounded by their own armor. Drake sat in black worked leather with silver highlights, while Grace’s chain glinted golden to cover the robes flowing underneath. Each had on a cloak to match.

“Now that we are able to discuss in private, I can be frank with you. I have called you two here because I would like your help with a little problem that is brewing in the mortal realm.” His eyes searched over the two, both sitting attentively listening to what was said.

“It seems that a new Walker is rising…. but judging from your lack of reaction, I would assume that you already have at least guessed towards as much. It is well known that Drymier is my favored assassin in dealing with such matters, but he seems to be having a few problems.”

“What kind of problems, my Lord?” Grace was cool as ice, purely business and nothing else.

“He has yet to report back to me. You see, I sent him out about nineteen years ago, to kill Senise, the mother of the Walker. But he has not returned. I do not believe him dead, but it would appear that he has had some troubles in his duties. By this time the child will have grown and he must turn toward that objective instead.” The Demon lord leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the wine that formed to fill the goblet floating above his hand.

“What is it you would like us to do, my Lord?” Drake took the goblet offered to him by the same crenling who had directed him to the hall. He sipped the wine carefully, it wouldn’t be against the lord to try and poison them while they thought themselves friends.

“Specifically, I would like you two to go and find Drymier. Once you do, I would like you to help him finish his mission, if need be. Then return here to report what has happened.”

Grace wasn’t as apprehensive about the whole ordeal as his cohort next to him. “Why don’t you send some of your other lackeys to go do it then? It seems like overkill sending a generat and an asalil to help another generat. Don’t you think?”

“Yes actually that has crossed my mind, and it’s exactly what I’m hoping for.” He held out the goblet in his hand to be refilled by the crenling. Drake finally relaxed when he noticed they were the same pitcher.

“Whatever has been interrupting Drymier’s mission must be extremely powerful. This unknown thing has to be strong enough to thwart a generat and the Draylacks with him. That means that I want as much power out there to help as I can send, and you two are the most powerful beings that I do not have on an assignment at the moment.”

The crenling was finally waved away and the three were in complete private. “I will also be sending my son with the two of you, just in case. Once you meet Drymier, the four of you should be able to handle anything that gets thrown at you. Short of the unlikely event that I face you myself that is.”

“When do you want us to leave, my Lord?” Drake finished off the wine in his goblet and let it disappear in a puff of smoke to match the goblet of Sher-Tar.

“You will be leaving here tomorrow, most of the arrangements have already been made for your journey to the gouge. Gather what other supplies you deem necessary, and then depart as soon as possible. I expect that you will be gone by mid afternoon, will you not?” His tone was more of a command than a question. A command with consequences if not followed.

“Of course we will, my Lord. We will depart at mid day tomorrow.” Grace and Drake both stood as their chairs disappeared, leaving only the royal throne, and Sher-Tar standing before it.

“Very good, there are rooms prepared for you tonight. My son will meet you in the morning. You may retire now.” He didn’t even wait for an answer before he turned and walked out the back of the hall toward the royal apartments.

A fleegans cry finally broke the silence as Grace and Drake looked at each other in surprise.

“What in the Three Pits are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay out of trouble until tomorrow.” Drake turned on his companion who shared the same look he received.

“What about you, going to the dying grounds and accepting a match against Libra. Are you insane?” Neither seemed to admit that any of the present situation was their fault as much as the others.

“I’m a demon, remember. It’s natural for me to go to the dying ground… wait a minute. Who told you I was there?” For the first time since Sher-Tar had left, Grace looked slightly cornered.

“Did you forget that there is a seating section for angels, and not just demons? I was there to relax.” Grace finally smirked at the look he received from Drake.

“I did manage to win ten black-gold though.”

“You bet against me?” Drake’s tone was as surprised as it was hurt.

“Don’t tell me you knew it was Libra before I fought.

“Actually, I’m the one who convinced him to go. I ran into him out at the fort, and he seemed kind of bored. So I gave him some friendly advi…” His sentence would have been finished, if not for the fist that abruptly connected with his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

“I lost money on that fight. You flying faerie. Besides he could have killed me.”

“But he didn’t, and I won back more than the three you lost anyway. Here.” Grace handed Drake a small sack and then rubbed his jaw lightly, with a smile.

“Anyway, you hit like a Spelchen. I’m surprised you lasted that long against Libra.”

“Ok, very funny. Let’s just get some rest before tomorrow.” The two turned and walked to the main doors. Waiting for them was the Crenling who was ready to lead them to their rooms.

Drops of rain began to fall as they followed the crenling to their rooms. Small at first, but rapidly gaining in size and intensity. A peal of thunder and a flash of lightning split the night, illuminating a dark winged shape in the shadowed sky. The beast let out a long cry, which was immediately answered by three more in the clouds overhead.

“Well, it looks like the zortetch are out hunting. I wonder whose wandering the streets at this time.” Drake’s voice took on an amused tone and he smirked as he let that comment slip.

“They may just be feeding on Crevec. I’m pretty sure they never cleaned him off the paving stones.” Grace’s tone was less amused and more strait to business.

“You always sap the fun out of these things.” He smiled again, and the lightning added a glint to his eye as he turned to Grace again. “You could always ask them for the table scraps, maybe a bone or two.”

“Just remember what dogs love to chase, kitty kitty.” They both broke into laughter as they were finally pointed to two doors opposite each other across a long hall with a blue carpet resembling breaking waves.

Once the Crenling had finally left, they made their way into the room set aside for Grace and barred the door.

“So what are we supposed to do now? Libra will be watching us like a hawk, and Drymier knows that they at least can’t trust me. Besides, now we have to make the trip to the gouge before we enter the mortal realm. That’s a ten day journey if we’re lucky, and by that time the kid will be able to sustain us indefinitely.” Drake’s tone was slightly worried, but more annoyed.

“Calm down. We can go along with Libra until we get to Drymier. We already know he’ll be in Bucks town, so when we get there just tell Libra you have some business to take care of in the city. I can go with him to meet Drymier and see what I can find out. Then when it’s safe, I’ll sneak out to meet you.”

“That still doesn’t solve the problem of making a trip to the portal at the gouge. Remember? Sher-tar is the only one who is supposed to be able to open a portal anywhere else but there. What would Libra do if he saw us open one when the kid went to sleep?” Drake tossed his jacket on one of the heavy gilded chairs in the meeting room of his apartments, and sat down on the floor on one side of the doorway, his sword resting on his knees.

“Don’t worry about that. So what if we give Libra some surprises here and there. He’ll just be more worried about how powerful we really are, which means he’ll be more careful around us.” Grace sat down opposite Drake.

“Fine, we’ll go with your plan for now. Let’s just hope we get to the kid before Drymier and Libra do. There’s no telling what those two would do to him.” They both sat quietly, guarding the door. Neither would sleep much tonight, but that really was trivial to their kind.

#throwbackthursday #writing #writer #writerslife #amwriting

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prowlingthunder · 7 years ago

Text

WIP Meme

So I was tagged by @badwolfgirl01 who clearly doesn’t believe me when I say I have all the projects to do. How do you put nonsense under a cut?

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Title: Deus ex machina, chapter 3 Notes: The partially-finished Chpt3 has been in my WIP for... a long time. I’ve been squinting at it for a while. Poke it once in a while. Read previous two chapters on Ao3

Eventually he got a few fake IDs that said he was a bit older than he was, which was okay because he looked it, and he started tending bar. The owner had been surprised when Desmond mixed up a drink from barely-there memories, mentioning that it had been many years since the man who'd known how to make a Bloody Templar had retired from the scene. Been kidnapped, you see, and then when he came back he'd done a bit of work and then finally gave his resignation.

He asked Aita. Aita told him, “That was you, before. But I couldn't fit into your life. I tried.”

Fandom: Harry Potter, Saint Seiya Title: A Mother’s Love, chapter 6 Notes: Crossover. Not enough to share here. It’s been stalled for years, since waaay back in my FF.net days. I don’t like to let things die, but it’s hard juggling RL and everything else. There’s been some interest shown in this recently and I’ve also found my old notes, so we’ll see where this goes.

Fandom: Harry Potter, Ronin Warriors Title: Harry Potter and the Light of the Moon, chapter 4 Notes: Crossover. Not enough of the chapter to share. See above reasons for hiatus. Unlike AML, there’s been less interest in this, but I actually like the plot for this a trifle better than AML and my notes are a bit better for this one too. I’ve been poking at it trying to resurrect it from the dead.

Fandom: Mass Effect, Gundam Wing Title: Minor Troubles Notes: Crossover, 2/6 posted on Ao3. The other chapters are slow-going but in existence, though they’re all arguing for Chapter 3 and I’m not yet comfortable sharing the hot mess with ya’ll.

Fandom: YuYu Hakusho, Ronin Warriors Title: Roses in Stained Glass Notes: Crossover, Chapter 2 in progress, Chapter 1 on Ao3. I have to do some more research and designing of the grounds, various people on the area, hammer the plot out a bit more. So far the only thing to share is a teaset, which isn’t enough to spoil you guys with.

Fandom: Outlaw Star, Gundam Wing Title: The Ripple Effect: Desert Rose Notes: Crossover, Part 1 on Ao3. I wont call it a chapter because the next part isn’t a direct continuation of what we’ve got, there doesn’t seem to be a directly-after section for the current posted in my brain. Go figure.

Fandom: Fallout 4 Title: The Devil’s Luck, Chapter 3 Notes: Chapters 1&2 on Ao3. Chapter subject to rewrite, because current writing doesn’t feel quite right.

The inside of the Memory Den was lipstick-red, the color women used to press to letters before they sent them to their sweethearts in the war. It was a shade of red that made his heart ache, just a little. His Nora had started wearing it after they had come home from Alaska, partly to draw attention away from her cheeks, partly to fit in better with the housewives who had surrounded them in Sanctuary Hills. A rather failed attempt to make nice with civilians.

Silas tried to ignore the way McCready watched him. There were a lot of questions in that blue gaze that he wasn't prepared to explain, though he thought he knew what all the questions would be if the younger soldier spoke them out loud.

The memory den? Are you sure? You know what they do in there, right?

He was sure. He had to know for sure if it worked like the rumors said it did. He had to know.

Fandom: Fallout 4 Title: Hell Hath No Fury, Chapter 17 Notes: 1-16 on Ao3. 17 is partially written but not enough to be posted, even with HHNF standards.

Fandom: Fallout 4, Fallout 3 Title: Big Town Blues Notes: Oneshot. Doesn’t yet cover enough of what I want it to cover to be considered even half-complete. Still working! RJ takes Duncan to safety, outside the Commonwealth. The only place that’s safe? Big Town.

“Awe-J and his son--”

“Duncan.”

“Awe-J and Duncan awe hungwy.”

Duncan waved a little over Mac’s shoulder. Tewwy blanched and dropped the nose of his shotgun at once, as if just noticing the child for the first time. “You’ve a child?”

“Startled the fuck out of me too,” MacCready tried, smiling as disarming as he could manage. “Didn’t know I’d made a baby until my wife gave birth to him.”

Tewwy sucked a breath, setting his shotgun down on the table while he moved to pull a pot off the fire. “Billy, you should let mayor know as soon as possible. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your friend and his son get breakfast.”

“Save some fow me!” Biwwy cried gleefully, nearly dancing on his way back out the door. Tewwy shot a hand motion at his retreating back that Mac didn’t know.

“Ignore him. He’s always hyperactive before breakfast. Have a sit, let the little one down?” The offer sounded pretty genuine.

MacCready moved to a crouch and started unstrapping Duncan’s harness from his back. The little boy let out a whoop of delight; partly for being let loose, partly for the truly divine scent coming from Tewwy’s pan. He had to snatch him by the harness before he went and got under Tewwy’s feet. “Ma,” Duncan whined plaintively.

“It’s not ready yet.”

“He sounds hungry,” Tewwy commented. Mac winced.

“We ran out of rations yesterday.” That hurt to admit. Especially to a stranger. But MacCready wasn’t above wheedling and emotional manipulation to get food in Duncan’s belly.

“Oh my.”

Fandom: Fallout 4, Fallout 3 Working Title: Radstorm Notes: Oneshot. I don’t like the way it reads, but I haven’t quite managed a rewrite that I like yet. It’s not... floaty enough? McCready gets radsickness.

It hurt. Everything hurt. His stomach roiled, guts twisting into knots, and rolled, vomiting over the edge of the cot. He could feel his clothing cling to him, wet and sticky like the blanket, but even that had chased through his bones to leave him weak. He flopped back on his back, hip aching, and tried to find air that wasn't going to melt his lungs.

People talked, background noise of the clinic, and he listened to them and couldn't make out the words, but the sounds helped. Something cool pressed against his flesh, against his head and against his chest. Lucy tugged at his shirt. He blinked up at her, dizzy; reached to find her fingers. She brushed his hand away.

Lu-- 'm hot.

Lucy paused for several heartbeats-- too fast, much too fast, he was too hot and he had to cool down. He heard her fiddling with something. The coolness on his head was ice against a fire. He could feel it drip into his hair. "You have a fever. Don't worry. We'll fix it."

Missed you. She looked like she had when he last saw her, all kitted up to go help mungos who didn't deserve it, stained white cloth at her throat to hide an old scar. She didn't respond to him, cut his shirt down the sleeves and pulled it out from beneath him. He realized, distantly, that he wasn't wearing his scarf. She must have taken it already.

Hot, he whined, and Lu ignored him in an effort to keep working.

Fandom: Fallout 4 Title: Line-dried Laundry Notes: Oneshot, Lupercalia fic. Incomplete, needs some touch-ups. No porn, promise. Nora and her brother back during soldier-days.

"Do you know why we're here?"

Nora did, and told him as much. The rest of the men were eyeing each other in confusion.

Major Rye dipped his hand to her, offering the table.

"You're evaluating us, and our brothers, sir. You're feeding your sister a heat suppressant to ensure her heat holds off while you judge the roster as worthy or unworthy."

Hawken furrowed his brow. Opened his mouth to say something, and decided to keep his fool mouth shut.

Major Rye had a pretty face; strong features, brown eyes, tanned skin. The crinkle around his eyes was a smile. "Very good. Officer Nedved and his brother are our escorts. The four of us will be spending the next two days with your squad to ease the transition. If all goes well, we'll retire to a breed room."

Nora didn't know if it was BreedCom policy to take a whole team off duty or not. She doubted it. Especially since they were front-liners, were Army not Recon Marines, they were a pack within a pack but it wasn't so tight that they couldn't handle without a member or two...

There was something else Major Rye and Officer Nedved were here for, and it wasn't just to rope them into a heat-shack.

Fandom: Fallout 4 Working Title: N/A Notes: Demon-summoning AU, the next in Every Word a Promise - Sil at a Summoning.

[Is this one yours?] Puck asks, words a whisper of wind through his hair. It's like a caress. A part of Silas resents him for being here; a part of him is exulted. Puck is a spirit of deceptive magic, a woodland sprite for twisting, winding paths that get lost in the woods, shaded corners and cool spots where the snake will strike if someone steps. But he is trustworthy, if the words are asked correctly. He never makes a bargain he will not keep. He never offers his strength if he will not be entertained-- and the dead bring no entertainment, for Puck.

Puck is all smiles and honeyed words, a willow swaying in the wind, or the aspen, quaking, but strong enough not to come undone.

Silas can't say anything to him without seeming crazy, so he nods; this one mine.

The thing about forest-spirits, they're all trees standing alone. The woods only truly exist when they come together.

Fandom: Fallout 4 Working Title: All The Things I Didn’t Say Notes: Oneshot? Y7 fic, because Sevan needs love too. This is my... second or third rewrite of this, and I’m not sure I like it yet. Y7 contends with his human counterpart.

The few people he'd run into the Commonwealth hadn't batted an eyelash at the thought that he wasn't the true Silas King. They had greeted him as if he had been. They didn't know.

Silas King knew. He knew what he was and what he wasn't, and Y7 might have gotten the drop on him if he had been more careful, perhaps, or if Silas hadn't seemed to have been expecting him, or.. maybe a thousand other things. Maybe if the rouge coursers hadn't been in town. Maybe if he hadn't followed him down into the Vault.

Maybe.

He hadn't been prepared to have to outwit an unaware subject. He hadn't been prepared to have to handle Silas King in a verbal chess-match, when he had been trained to deal with him physically. Father had some sort of upset against him, which Y7 was not privy to, was not prepared to ask, and did not care to know. It wasn't his business who Father did and did not have issues with.

My son sent you, didn't he?

Fandom: Fallout 4 Working Title: N/A Notes: The one death fic for Sil I haven’t bothered to finish yet and may have to re-poke...

Last night's dinner wants to revisit him. Silas swallows it back down fiercely, ribs screaming in pain. Plants both palms on the ground beneath him and shoves, pushing himself up, gets a knee under himself. Fire sears across his chest. Bones grind, broken. The pain threatens to swallow him.

I can't die like this. Not like this. The enemy is still alive; he wont let himself die until he's dealt with them, wont lay down like a dog and let them have their play. He wont, he wont, he wont. Damned raiders.

Calculatedly, not the best plan he'd ever had. But he couldn't just let them take his men. The Minutemen trusted him, they were his subordinates, his command. Maybe them being his soldiers didn't mean the same thing, here in the future, but it meant plenty to Silas. He refused to die before he got them the keys, got them their weapons--

Fandom: Fallout: New Vegas Working Title: [Inside Pandora’s Box] Notes: Oneshot, Lupercalia fic, wolf’s perspective of waking up at Doc Mitchell‘s.

"Easy there, girl. You and your lady are safe now."

There is still pain. Pain in her chest, and Hope remembers a bullet taking her there when she'd lunged at cigarettes. She still wears the muzzle they put on her, but she cannot blame the old man for trying. Even the shamans will tie off a wolf's jaws when they or their sibling are injured. A wolf cannot help to bite, in hopes of warding away more pain.

Her sister's mind is a quiet blanket of nothing in her mind. That worry holds more pain than Hope can ever feel in her own body. She reaches out, careful, prodding at the pack-sense, but the man is not of the People, he is a stranger utterly, and Hope cannot speak to him, cannot ask him, does my sister yet live?

He'd said you and your lady. Hope does not often have much of her namesake, but she hopes.

Fandom: Fallout: New Vegas Working Title: N/A Notes: Pandora walks the Divide and bristles a lot. Will continue it as I replay more of New Vegas.

Couriers knew each other, and the Post knew them. A courier from the Legion could march into any Post in the Mojave and ask to kip down in the middle of NCR space, and not only would they get a bed and a hot meal, but they'd get a night watch too. She'd heard-- knew, in her bones-- that the same was true for couriers from the other side of the war, who had business through the Legion. The penalty for harassing or harming a courier in the Legion was death. There was a reason she had been able to walk through Nipton unscathed.

There was a reason she could walk anywhere.

The Legion would protect her regardless of her business, and the NCR would protect her as long as her business was their business.

Fandom: Fallout 3 Working Title: Outsider Notes: Oneshot of Jay feeling homesick and a little like an alien outside the vault.

Jay tries not to be, but he is a bleeding heart and he knows it. Still, he does not give them money. He gives them food, and water, and a change of clothes, and a map. For those who want more, Jay has given enough. For those rest who weep with joy, Jay has given them the world.

And that scares him more than he wishes to admit, because they look up with worship and admiration, or they look on him with curled lips twisted in bitter venom. He does not know these people. He does not understand them, because they are not his people.

His people do not want him.

Fandom: Fallout 3 Title: The G.O.A.T. Notes: Oneshot, going to rewrite because it’s choppy and mostly notes but I do rather love it. What it says on the tin. Likely to contain Jay/Butch porn in the rewrite.

He was given a folder and a passcode to his new quarters, and Officer Mack led him there.

Turns out, Vault 101 had a chapel. Who knew?

(Apparently the Chaplain was supposed to be celibate and chaste, according to the Vault 101 charter-- among other things on the list the Overseer had given him, not all of which sounded like good ideas-- but Jay forgot about that rule the moment the king snake decided to help him move his things and break in the new mattress.)

Fandom: Fallout 3 Working Title: (Best laid plans) Notes: Slowgrow Vault fic between Jay and Butch. We’ll see how long it takes to actually write...

The Doctor would probably kill him in the morning. But damn it, he was so tired of being referred to as Junior, as Little James; at least if he changed his hair, he couldn't look just like him.

He had been thinking about that all week, but all he could think about now was the feeling of Butch's gloved fingers working at his scalp, the echo of nothing a quiet lull. Butch had put a towel over his shoulders, but he'd had to strip down to his waist to lessen the risk of getting it on his vault-suit anyway. Butch had admitted to never dying someone's hair before, when Jay had asked.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Working Title: N/A Notes: The next fic in Suddenly: An Army. So far it’s mostly hand-written notes and false starts, but it is in progress. Prompto takes Ignis to meet his family.

Fandom: Gundam Wing Working Title: N/A Notes: A clonebaby genderbender AU where it’s Dad and Seven Daughters.

There were three ways to keep a secret that Nate knew.

The first was to keep it totally to yourself. That wasn't going to work for Nate, exactly, since his secret wasn't some intangible thing.

The second was to tell only one other person-- get the secret out of your system-- and then kill them. Two could keep a secret if one of them was dead. This was also not going to work for Nate, though he would happily kill anyone to keep his secret secure.

The third way was tell everyone.

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Working Title: Wolflords Notes: A fire-watch child from Gondor dreams of Elves and their wolves

Giayl had known the fable of elven-wolves. Of course he had. Maybe his family wasn’t scholars-- he and his family had been looking after the watch-fire for generations-- but the black land could be seen in the distance, and on especially calm nights, there was claim the orc-wolves could be heard. Giayl didn’t know he believed that one. He much preferred the stories of of the elves and their wolves, sunshine-gold and moon-bright silver, midnight blue dappled with stars, all long-lived and all elegant and graceful like the elves themselves. Eternal.

Fandom: Lord of the Rings: Online Working Title: Caran Dagra Notes: Imorrael’s mortal son joins the American Military. James finds unexpected friends there.

“It's from my mother,” he offered to their silence, pulling out a just-as-new piece of card parchment.

Aeglirann, son of Imorrael, she wrote in her flowing, looping script. He had been reading Elvish for enough years it was easy to decipher. Not that there was a lot of it. Take this and know you are mine.

He sat the card aside, face up, and ignored the trio as they read it. He peered back into they envelope instead, then tipped it up into his palm.

A piece of ash-wood fell into his fingers. A simple oval slice, about as big as a quarter, with a penny-length shard of blue in the center, gemstone fused to heartwood. A small hole had been punched through the wood, and the whole thing had apparently been coated in clear resin to hold color.

Fandom: Mass Effect Working Title: Star-light, Star-bright Notes: Bobby Shepard and her wolf-queen, Danica, deal with the nonsense that is their life.

But then, it was hard to love anything more than she loved Danica, the sun-gold she-wolf that she was. An Alliance wolf from a strong line, a little temperamental but bred for endurance, strength, command. A bloodline that traced itself beyond the birth of the Alliance, beyond the deaths of the last trolls, beyond, beyond, beyond. Back before time. Before space.

Before the first wolves touched minds with the first wolf-brother. Certainly before wolves ever took to wolf-sisters. But Danica had decided that Bobby was going to be hers before anything else, before the chain of command or the loyalty of a pack. Bobby belonged to Danica, and Danica belonged to Bobby.

And when they did get a pack, when they cycled through training and ended up with a team, they didn't... quite fit in, but Danica would duck her head and Bobby would salute their team leader, and they would make it work.

When the Batarians attacked while on leave, Danica glowed bright as a star in the pack sense, and Bobby glowed with her, and beneath them, around them, people rallied under instruction and discipline of a wolf and Danica and Bobby dug in their heels and decided, no more. No one else.

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Title: Black Cats and Broken Mirrors, Chapter 5 Notes: Chapters 1-4 on Ao3. All the actual words I’ve got for chapter 5 is handwritten and everything else is notes. So I’ve nothing quite to share with you for chapter five, except suffice to say, Felix is unhappy.

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Working Title: Wolfthreat Notes: This is going to need some rework and some more polishing, but overall I do like it and so I’m not anywhere near done yet. Why you gotta be frustrating, Soldier Harris? Lupercalia fic.

“Mister G!”

Giles had the good grace not to have been holding a cup of tea, this time. But his smile was wide and a little tired, and the book in front of him for once had nothing to do with demons or magic or anything like that. Not that Alexander accounted Son of None as a good book, but in a world without the Slayer, any literature at all making it's way whole and accounted for to the Hellmouth was a godsend, and comic books took their time making it around the Wolfmount.

Most places didn't want to deal with them.

Other wolfpacks didn't want to deal with them. A wolfpack living on a Hellmouth had to be considered pretty much gone, and anyone who stayed for more than a rotation wasn't considered fit for duty anywhere else, because everywhere else was tame and Sunnydale broke lesser wills to live.

Alexander had been here since he was born. So had Aurore. Neither of them were going anywhere, and if they had to teach the people coming in, that was okay too.

Fandom: Attack on Titan Working Title: N/A Notes: OCs everywhere! Because I couldn’t ever help myself :3

The girl brightens for reasons John can't fathom, except that she looks way too happy her brother is leaving. “Yes!”

Faolan then looks at him, and smiles again. “I'll keep Adam safe, okay kid? You can count on me for that.” John blinks and then nods, slowly, while Adam huffs and punches Faolan in the arm. “Ow! What was that for?”

“I don't need protection; you seem to be forgetting who had better scores!”

“So what? I still kicked your ass in hand-to-hand.”

“Titans are people-shaped, not people-sized!”

John doesn't know what any of it means, but it's not actually that reassuring.

Adam says goodbye to him again before he and Faolan are heading back to the other soldiers. When the bell tolls, the girl, Adolpha, is waving again.

“Come back soon! I'll be waiting!”

John takes the ferry back into Rose and makes his way home, and Adam's right; he doesn't really notice that Adam's not there. Adam hasn't been there for years.

Fandom: Space Pirate: Captain Harlock Working Title: N/A Notes: Logan contends with the difference between love and loyalty, and who is worth either.

The words Mom had said, clear and crisp in his childhood, had been the root of much Logan had done in his life. He had always tried to live by her words; not to never do anything he might regret, but to never regret anything he would do. Never to give his loyalty away to the first bidder-- and Mom had been big on loyalty, true, but the lesson had always struck with him the most, there in her garden.

Loyalty, Mom had said, is not love. Love is different. Love can kill you, if you let it; it can strangle those you care for. It can swallow you, and tear you apart from the inside. Which isn't to say it isn't beautiful or wonderful or precious. Love is... mistletoe. It flowers and blooms, and it only grows bigger with each passing year, so long as it has something to feed off. But mistletoe can kill you, if you eat it.

But loyalty is the most beautiful thing, because love just happens, but loyalty... Loyalty is a choice.

Logan had always loved Nami, he guessed. Like a parasite, they had just grew together. But Nami had married Ezra; Ezra, who had a stable job in the military and was moving up in the world. No one had any doubts he would make it to the top of the command bracket; he might even get a seat on the Gaia Coalition's Counsel. And Logan loved Ezra, the love of two brothers raised together, so close they might have been one person.

But he had been loyal to Ezra, too. He had never taken Nami to bed, even though he loved her. Even though he'd had his chances, every time Ezra was out on deployment. He'd longed every time he saw her that she had picked him instead, but every time he saw Ezra look at her, he just seemed so heartbreakingly happy...

Fandom: Thor Working Title: All the Little Children Notes: Lupercalia fic. Thor deals with the aftermath of Loki’s fall, sheltering his brother’s children from the wrath of their grandfather.

I could have done it.

No, Loki.

Time and time again, their father had charged the both of them with great quests, feats so impossible that they were nothing short of heroic. Feats only the princes of Asgard could accomplish. It was a hard pill to swallow, hearing his own words out of Loki's mouth. Loki, who had never debased himself so far as to say I could have. Loki, who was given impossible tasks, do not let the Giant finish the wall, and Loki who always came through for their father.

Thor failed occasionally. But nothing felt more terrible a failure than watching Loki let go of the All-Father's staff.

He couldn't save his brother.

I couldn't save mother.

The words echoed loudly through his head, sharp and full of piercing pain, his agony put to voice. But he had never called Loki mother. A sharp knocking on his chamber door jerked him from his reverie and he turned his head, blinking at it. He had talked with his father, after the Fall; Thor, listen to me, Loki was a frost giant, you did the right thing. It would not be a servant at the door, for after the conversation he had explicitly told them he would not be bothered. No courtier would risk it, would dare. He was to be alone.

I couldn't save mother. I couldn't-- I tried.

The knock repeated, more urgent.

Fandom: Overwatch Working Title: N/A Notes: McHanzo timetravel shenanigans. Because why not let them timetravel to meet kid!McCree before he’s their McCree...

There was also a frog on the third bench, complaining about the radio station. Jesse was pretending not to hear him talk. There were only two channels this far out in the middle of nowhere, and the only reason Jesse hadn’t picked country was because half of them were nursing injuries and the other half were fatigued to hell and back. New fangled rock and roll wasn’t was good as the classics, but it was still heavy on the drums and guitar riffs.

Mama had sworn by them. Lucio was just going to have to chill.

Fandom: Overwatch Working Title: N/A Notes: McSymmenji fic that’s had several false starts but I think I finally have a good one for. It’s just going to be longer than planned...

Fandom: Overwatch Working Title: N/A Notes: McHanzo Gift-fic, in progress, with a slice of bodyguard and worldbuilding. Probably wont post unless the recipient clears me to, but.

Not that Hanzo isn’t still otherwise. He is. He is the stillest thing Jesse’s ever seen, calm as a frozen pond on a bright-moon’d winter’s night. There’s no wasted movements with the man.

There aren’t many with himself, but Jesse knows when he’s lying and he’s always lying if he says he doesn’t have a flair for the dramatics. Which he does. There is a reason he keeps flash-bangs in his arsenal.

He’s American, after all. Nobody does fireworks like America.

Nobody does Hanamura like Hanzo, either. That’s why they’re here.

Though frankly, Jesse’s getting real sick of Hanamura.

Fandom: Ronin Warriors Working Title: N/A Notes: I’m thinking about a third done, honestly. There’s some more things I want to cover before I post this, even if this section feels complete save for a name.

"Arashinoumi."

Yulie's head snapped his way. "Huh?"

"That's her name. Arashinoumi."

Stormy waters, Mia noted. Like white-water rapids, or seafoam.

"Arashinoumi.." Yulie blinked again, glancing down at her. She sat primly in front of him, dark eyes looking up at him patiently. He stretched his fingers out, careful, aware enough that she wasn't a house pet or a tame dog. "Can I pet her?"

"She's waiting for your name," Torrent gentled. "She says you can pet her after."

Fandom: Ronin Warriors Title: Blood and Ashes Notes: Hariel/Arago Lupercalia fic that’s undergone several rewrites and false starts. Urgh.

“If we should be careful,” Hariel ventured, listening through Inferno’s ears to the fact that Arago had not left. “Then why are we still here?” He knew the answer, but Inferno reaffirming it would secure the knowledge. There were so many reasons.

Because a human and his wolf-brother had slain a dragon and tiger. Because one clanless samurai had slain an emperor. Because there were no properly bonded packs in Suzuran, just Bonded, scattered few and far between. Because this man had killed his blood-brother. Because the pair of them were from beyond the gates; humans from the ancestral home of humans, humans that were short-lived but burning bright. Because Inferno was a bitch, and Hariel was a bitch’s brother. Because it had to be lonely, being a pack of one.

“We want to meet them.” Inferno gave him a wolf-smile and nudged at his elbow with her nose, begging affection. He reached out and rubbed her behind the ear, where she liked it best. “They are young puppies, and they are full of curiosity. All we have to do is wait them out.” Not their tactically best plan, but she was right, and that was what mattered.

Fandom: Ronin Warriors Title: Coal Dust Notes: The next in Ink Stains On Paper, covering Ryo and his role in this world. I’ve had a bunch of false starts on this as I try to find the right way to do it, but I think I’m finally getting close.

Fandom: Ronin Warriors Title: Kagome, Kagome Notes: I need to rewrite part of the first bit, and finish the third and fourth bits. Go figure. Seiji-centric, covering a return to New York, dealing with the events of the OVA.

“Hey man, you ruined my shot!”

“My apologies.” New Yorkers, he thought, moving to the side of the alley; he pressed himself up against the wall, fingers unconsciously finding the ridges between mortar and red clay. It felt rough and filthy against his skin, catching at his clothes and hair like grasping hands, reaching to pull him in and under...

The stranger's camera flashed again and at once Seiji flung himself away from the wall, covered in goose-flesh; sharp amethyst eyes hunted the stained structure for the offending limbs.

There was nothing there to see.

“Hey.. hey man, you okay? You lost or somethin'?”

Fandom: Star Wars Working Title: Supernova Notes: Oneshot. Original Characters, Not A Canon Character In Sight, Eury deals with being a teacher and explaining what the Force is.

“The Force is in everything?”

“Everything,” he confirmed. “They are the stars, and all the space between the stars. The stars make light so we can see them, and the space between stars does not. Sometimes the space between makes stars, and they light up like other stars. And sometimes the stars go dark,” sometimes they explode. Sometimes they turned into planets. But those were things his little girl didn’t need yet. “But they’re still stars.”

“You and mommy are stars?”

“And you.” He leaned down to tap their noses, prompting a sleepy giggle. He hated having to explain it, but better she learn now than later, even if he would just likely end up teaching her again tomorrow. “You are a little star too.”

Fandom: Star Wars Working Title: Monsters in the Dark Notes: Oneshot. Original Characters, Not A Canon Character In Sight

(He remembers: You would condemn an innocent to death? You would cast yourself into the darkest of the dark, the murder of the unborn, and you would do it in the name of the Jedi? You fear the dead so much you do not know to fear the living! I refuse this, I defy it! This is an innocent, and it will live, you will protect it and it will live, Oriole, protection of the innocent is the keystone of Jedi teachings and this one you shall not break!)

(He was a Sith and the same way he would let her fears fester so she would come to him, accept his care, love, and affection, he would break her will to save his child. No matter what he had to do, no matter how Dark it made him.)

(He was a Sith. He did not fear the Dark. He thrived in it. Let any who dared to cross him try and see what monsters it made of men.)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Working Title: N/A Notes: Oh. I forgot I had started this. Zabrak bounty hunter appears on the screen!

At least her father was with the Republic. If he'd have been on the other side of the war...

Well. Jeeri could safely say at least that they did more work for the Republic then they did for the Empire. The crews overall moral compass meant that Republic jobs spoke to the morals louder, and there was also that the Republic usually offered better pay, or at least jobs that were more or less straightforward.

Didn't mean that all jobs were Republic. The lab of horrors was a nightmare in her mind, never shaken. Sometimes Empire jobs were honest. Sometimes Empire jobs were things she would have done on her own, the Republic trying to win their war the wrong way. If she got paid for it... well.

Well. At least they didn't get caught. And her conscious was clean.

Fandom: Sword Art Online Title: This Is A Bad Plan, Chapter 4 Notes: I, uh, have notes on Chapter 4, but nothing written otherwise. Fic is a “SAO becomes real and some players read that book but tried it anyway.” Read Chapters 1-3 on Ao3

Fandom: Voltron Working Title: N/A Notes: The Keith-centric sequel to In The Wind (Or Lack Thereof). I’ve had an unfortunate number of false starts with this one, go figure...

Fandom: Ronin Warrior, Dragon Age Working Title: Dragons Breath Notes: Crossover. I think I’m going to flat-out rewrite this.. Sequel to Sympathy for the Devil

“But if you come with Morrigan and I, who would take care of the mabari?”

Flemeth had wrapped the king in Chasind clothing, which Cailan had kept; a wrapped tunic bound together with a sash, and a loose pair of trousers. The blue looked good on him-- not bright, but not dark either. It managed to make him stand out less then his armor, which had probably been the point. ...not that they did not stand out a good deal anyway, but until they figured out what Loghain had told to Fereldan, it was best they not announce that the king still lived.

A part of Alistair was selfishly glad he was alive. Another part entirely was horribly frustrated by it.

It could have been worse. The Darkspawn could have killed him; he wouldn't have even had the chance to give the other a proper funeral.

“Maric could come with us!”

...it was amazing that he had named the beast after their father.

Fandom: Final Fantasy X, Gundam Wing Working Title: Like Shooting Stars Notes: Crossover. Parts of this I like, and parts of this I’ll cut, but the idea is super shiny and I’m definitely running the whole way with this.

Wakka and his newfound, impetuous (but cute) Blitzball player had brought a young woman in from the surf when they had come back to the village. Yuna had saw her out of the corner of her eye during the Summoning, swathed in white, with hair lighter than Yuna's, but not nearly anything as pale as the young Blitzer's chocobo-yellow. She had watched, Yuna thought, leaning against the posts that made up the door of the Lodge, but by the time the Summoning was over and Yuna could look, the lady in white had vanished. Back inside, maybe.

The townspeople had demanded her attention, after. She hadn't been able to disappoint them, even though she had wanted desperately to rest.

She did see her again later, though, around the village fire.

Fandom: YuYu Hakusho, Naruto Working Title: Foxkids Notes: Sequel to More Precious Than Gold

Gaining custody of an orphan wasn't easy in Konoha. Kurama wasn't sure how he had thought it might be-- maybe because it should have been, because it would have been in the youkai. It would have been nothing; just his desire to pick up a child no one else cared for, scruff him and carry him back to the den. Easy.

Apparently in Konoha it required paperwork, and a large amount of it, and no small amount of Kurama's clever lies.

Fandom: Star Trek, Ronin Warriors Working Title: N/A Notes: ...I have no excuses for this that do not include a lot of things I don’t want to tell anybody. Moving on.

"Spread the word that we're not to use the torpedos, either."

That catches Spock completely flat footed. He stares at Seiji, bright-eyed and surprised, and it strikes Seiji as familiarity too. He looked so much like friends he had lost a long time. Maybe it's the shape of his face. He's not sure. It takes a moment for him to bring himself back to some semblance of control. "It is illogical not to use every weapon at our disposal." Which was Vulcanese for Spock asking why, even though he knew perfectly well why it was illogical in this situation. Bomb an enemy home world? Over a single escaped criminal? That would start a war, no questions asked.

Fandom: X-men, Ronin Warriors Working Title: Dragon Teeth Notes: Kenshin becomes a teacher at a certain school. In need of a rewrite.

Fandom: The Hobbit, Ronin Warriors Working Title: N/A Notes: The one where Seiji becomes Bilbo’s live-in house-guest after the Fell Winter and is still there when a specific wizard shows up to cause trouble.

Fandom: Gundam Wing, Invasion America, Final Fantasy X Working Title: Unlikely Notes: Relena, Auron, and Cale survive the first day of the zombie apocalypse. In theory.

“Do you know where we’re going? You seem quite lost for an earth-man…”

Talking. He’d been doing that since he woke up. Auron kind of wished he’d stop or go back to being unconscious. Certainly he’d been easier to carry. “Steenrade,” because he had figured out already that answering questions gained him some measure of quiet during the march. “The capital of the Sanq Kingdom.”

Cale-Oosha nodded. “Is that the capital of the world? I had meant to go there to meet with the king.”

“Queen,” Auron corrected. And the Queen of Sanq had once been Queen of the World, if his ventures in the local political system were correct. But that was nearly an elected position; like the Maesters. From the sound of things, the young woman hadn’t been Queen of the World in a long time.

Fandom: Gundam Wing, Naruto Working Title: N/A Notes: Shikamaru, Temari, and space colonies.

"Welcome to the outside world, Mister and Missus Nara. I see you have both arrived in civilization in one piece." At Missus Nara, Temari grinned. She produced a pair of paper from the fold of her robe and Agent Chang accepted them, breaking the seals pressed upon the first, reading it over, before then doing the same with the second. Dark eyes peered over at them when he was finished. "So you are the two they sent for the Winner job?"

Which sounded like something the Fifth Hokage would name an op, if they still let her name ops. The winner job. On paper it had struck him weird, but on paper they were going to be sent to protect important person, name undisclosed, delivered upon arrival. Now, out of Chang's mouth, it sounded like a person's name. Which... well. Okay then.

Fandom: Gundam Wing, Pacific Rim Working Title: N/A Notes: Unattached to the Hellfire universe. Dunno what I’ll do with this...

Because Catherine hated kaiju, and she hated the rangers that fought them, and she hated the mess it all caused, but No Name had carried the letter with her name on it for the last six months, the one with an attached but out-of-date photograph by at least a year, the one that had told him that she didn't have a firm address, she worked for the circus that was trying to eek out a living in these times, and make people forget the troubles of giant monsters for a little while.

She picked him out of the crowd for knife-throwing, probably to see if he would flinch. They didn't say a word to each other then, but he waited around outside the tent after her acts finished, and the first thing she did was slap him.

And then she burst into tears, and hugged him.

Fandom: Gundam Wing Working Title: N/A Notes: A GW daemon au fic I don’t know what I’ll do with...

Self-conscious, Jesse drew his hands into his sleeves a bit further, leaving the folder open on his desk. The owl whoooed. Jesse blinked. “Pardon?”

The owl's face pinched a bit, and the creature seemed to twist, becoming horribly small. The new recruit recoiled as it turned itself into something closely resembling vampire horror-stories. “Whooo are youuu?” Female tone and pitch, rolling tones that marked the owl's own accent, after a fashion. All daemon had them.

“Err... Agent Jesse.”

“Ahh. Sooo youuu are the newww boy.”

Well. Yes. But he wasn't sure why he needed to tell her that. “And you are?”

“None of youuur business.”

“Zulaykha, be polite.” The bird hmphed, even as the blond caught Jesse's attention once more. Gone was the business suit, replaced by a proper Preventer's uniform, ZERO stitched into the name placeholder.

I also have scraps/notes for: -- Another part in my Dragon Age Every Warden Ever series called Hounds of Gray. -- Scraps for a Fallout 4 Sil introducing X6 to Sanctuary. -- Notes for a With Bundles of Forget-Me-Nots verse fic, direct sequel to In Memory -- Notes for another part of Differences -- Scraps for an Invasion America fic for Nebrija and Arzu fic, two original characters of mine. -- Scraps for an Invasion America fic for poor Briggs -- The Stan sequel fic to Aitai -- The Hanzo/Yuuma prequel fic of Aitai -- The sequel piece of Quadrature, covering Seiji’s recovery and where Halo is -- Notes for the eight Invasion America prompts I still owe -- A short cutesy few hundred words fic for Fallout 3 character Joan -- Notes for the Ronin Warriors prompts I owe -- The sequels to Le Dragon, Step One, Silence is Golden, Confabulation, Here, There Be Dragons, Can’t Take You Anywhere, Lords of War, Pack and Pups (What’s Mine Is Mine) -- The mission fic sequel to Tango Sigma -- Notes for the Hellfire series, chiefly a vs Kaiju fic -- Notes for Kaiju Blue/Titan Red, Upon the Apple Lotus, Dogtags, First Words, Instinct, Like Good Soldiers, Dirt -- Notes and scrap for several fics inside the Teeth and Pawprints universe -- A hypothetical fic for Stars Which Never Were, as well as a potential second chapter to Of Empty Streets and Seasalt

Things I May Never Post: -- An unfinished pre-Vault Fallout 4 A/B/O fic that feels like it needs an overhaul to be less bad porn and more world-building. -- A couple Fallout 4 fics I was writing with a soul-sister who I am currently going through a rough patch with. -- A Kingdom Hearts fic I started with a soul-brother who is no longer talking to me.

AND IN OTHER NEWS, Things Not Fanfiction:

I have twelve novels in progress, in various stages, but still. Twelve. One of them is mostly finished and will be my July Camp NaNo project. The others are in various stages of disarray and or worldbuilding.

#fanfiction #prowlingwrites #meme #writing meme #my writing

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

Text

[SF] Gamer's Debt

"But how does anyone get the hell out of this game if they can never win? I've been stuck in this hell hole for thirty days! My body’s back in the real world, rotting away.”

"Hey, you wanted to play, didn't you? Maybe if we travel to a non-npc sector we can trade off some of this junk we get every time we kill an enemy.” His pilot stared at him from the cockpit.

"You mean a fetch quest?"

Joden was too focused on the horizon where a few blips were going off. They were purple, which meant that they were low-value targets. Everything seemed to be purple. “I never asked--how long you been here?” “You shoulda seen it when it was it first came out. The servers would never load and you had to sit there, in the darkness, watching a timer run out as they patched their simulation. It was like holding your breath under water.” The pilot sucked his teeth. “Hang on a sec. Have to rate the game again—after this ad.”

“Yeah, I hate doing this every hour.” The astronaut picked up a child’s toy from the clutched hand of a sloblarian. “Wonder what this is worth. I heard that we used to play with things like this, not just video games where you pay to win. Up, hang on a sec, got an ad playing.”

Back in game world he was still holding the toy. He threw it down with distain and a lack of remembrance for such physical trifles.

Joden coughed to drown out the message he had heard a hundred times. “I’m so tired of game companies stealing from us. Don’t they realize that it’ll only make the game suffer?”

“Yeah,” responded the pilot, “let’s go steal something.” “I’m so tired, Jersh. I just want to go somewhere where we can kill an alien race and grind their bones into dust. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Four hund--?” Joden held up his fist to the pilot, who had been watching from the ship’s windshield. “That’s extortion!”

“Welcome to the world. They get away with it because it’s a game world. You can do anything in the game world like gambling, murder, blackmail, forced labor, and forced sodomy. Nothing’s real so nothing matters.” The astronaut had disembarked about five hundred meters from the ship. Steam bellowed from its worn exhaust. “Why did you call me kid? How old are you? I mean I know you have the same avatar as me…”

“Age doesn’t matter either. Yeah, I couldn’t afford the customizations either.” Jersh tapped his helmet. “So, I guess we both have the same face.”

“And same weapons, gear, armor, boots, ships, weapon skins, and abilities.” He noticed a large oval blob on his visor’s HUD. It was moving closer behind a small series of stone pillars.

“Ah damnit! I forgot about the maintenance fee!” The figure bounded from the pillar and slunk slowly towards the enemy astronaut. It skulked across the yellow, Phallusian sand with its omni-dexterous flippers.

Arriving to the hunched-over human its tugged at his spacesuit and motioned for him to come closer.

“Gross dude, it wants to talk to me. What should I do?” The rounded head bobbed up and down like a rubbery ball. It seemed to be injured or at least miserable.

Joden heard distinct crunching noises emanating from the pilot’s mouth. “IDK. Step on it I guess.”

The polymorphous blob at his feet opened its crevice-like mouth and appeared to gasp for air. But it wasn’t gasping. It was whispering. He leaned down and listened.

“Dunk…prrray…Donk pppreeeey.” It was saying, and gargled as its lips flapped. “Doooonnk plllaaaaay. Chooose nut to pprraaaaay. Fyind sumting essl to do wilth yourg tyhme.”

"It's not good to live in a dream.” More crunching came from the ship. “You sometimes forget what life is like." Virtual blood splashed onto the dry dirt from his nubs. A few splatters mixed with the alien’s internal fluids. The reflective pool at his feet showed his avatar’s face, the same face of his pilots. He searched rapidly for any signs of wealth or material possession. There was nothing but ooze and viscera. Tattered cloth around the dead alien’s head was smushed and torn.

“I don’t think you get it.” The pilot was still eating.

“Companies do this to consumers because consumers let them. The general belief is that consumers are very smart but when’s the last time you heard someone say: ‘I won’t buy that because it goes against my code of ethics?’ None, no one’s ever said that. People like spending money. It’s in our blood. Its our nature to trust rich people. They seem to have all the right answers even when they don’t. They make the truths that we all follow. Besides, how could they get all that money if they had bad intentions.”

Joden used his character’s remaining strength to rush back towards the Blourgan cruiser. He felt a draft of air coming in the direction of the ship, and heard the engine roaring to life. “What the hell are you doing?” The mercenary vessel hovered three feet off the ground and its nose pointed at the runner. Its pilot could be seen through the windshield, “Sorry newb, you’re becoming to be a real downer.”

“I thought you were my friend!” he whimpered, his nubs heaving back and forth.

The ship elevated to ten feet. “None of us are really friends. We’re all just trying to make a living. And I need one more kill for the Slayer Award. We’re all just numbers.”

As he came to the plateau where he had disembarked, he held up his invisible hands to shield his face. “I just want to go home! I just want to go home.”

A cybersonic laser beam burst from the cruiser’s forward cannons. He felt the hot bathing light of the beam and then felt nothing at all.

“No.” he responded.

“A looter box?”

“No!”

He wanted to cry but said, “I don’t have any.”

The automated voice paused and spoke again after popping up a sixty-page form. “Well that sucks. In order to continue please complete the loan agreement in front of you. The loan is for $6,000. Sign here, here, and here.” Joden lowered his shoulders and looked at his current debt. It read: “-387,000.” He breathed out, collapsing his chest, and grew red-faced. “No!” he shouted.

There was another pause and the form disappeared. For several moments there was darkness and silence.

“Very well.” The automated voice returned. “You have chosen reincarnation. Goodbye.”

“No!” he screamed defiantly. “No!”

submitted by /u/CyberwaveFiction [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2TlbQXo

#Blogger #Story

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magicwingslisten · 5 years ago

Quote

The Reluctant Pixie Poole (A Recovery of Helen Adam's San Francisco Years) by Kristin Prevallet In October of 1923, the Dundee Advertiser published an article called "Scot's Prodigy" which announced: "Scotland has given birth to many infant prodigies, but surely none has given more promise of future greatness than little Helen Douglas Adam gives."1 And indeed, the child's future would be great, not as Scotland's heir to Tennyson, but as America's godmother of the San Francisco Renaissance. She perplexed the beats with her persistence of writing nothing but ballads, and embodied for the San Francisco scene the spirit of Romanticism. It is not difficult to find the sources for the ballad tradition that became ingrained in her and that fueled her energy and creative passion during her entire 83 years of writing. She grew up in Dundee with her younger sister Pat, daughters of a country minister, in a thatched house surrounded by the fairy pools and haunted woodlands of old Scotland, and a library filled with the great Victorian eccentrics like Andrew Lang, George MacDonald, and Arthur Rackham. Her Grandfather on her mother's side, William Douglas Dunn, was a famous Evangelist for the United Free Church of Scotland, who developed a unique conversion technique involving not just preaching, but picking up a hoe and digging, or taking a rod and casting, thereby winning the confidence of even the most stubborn fishermen and gardeners. Then, he would discuss his teachings using their own imagery. "Before ingrafting. . .cut the vine and then cut the little scion or branch; bring the two bleeding or wounded parts together. . .and tonight, the life of Christ is flowing through this little scion or branch to you."2 In 1924 her uncle, Theodore Douglas Dunn, a scholar of the "Orient's Influence on Shakespeare," was appointed to the prestegious position of Minister of Education in Bengal, India. That same year in February, he was crossing the Hoogley river and had a seizure which threw him over the edge of his boat. He drowned and his body was never found. A monument was erected at that spot to mark his passing, and there can be no doubt that the event had a profound effect on the 13 year old Helen. Images of drowned sailors and creatures lost at sea continued to haunt her writing and art for the rest of her life. By the time that she was 20, Helen had published three books of poetry with a major English press, Hodder and Stoughton: The Elfin Pedlar and Tales Told by Pixie Pool (1923), Charms and Dreams from the Elfin Pedlar's Pack (1924), and Shadow of the Moon (1929). Her first book, The Elfin Peldar, was published when she was 14 years old, and includes 120 ballads composed from the time that she was two, at which time, according to the book's forward, the child "talked to her dolls in rhyme. She would tell them stories of fairies and flowers all clothed in beautiful language and in faultless rhythm."3 The 35 odd columns from different newspapers throughout Scotland and England that reviewed the book loved recounting certain anecdotes about the child's precocious mannerisms: "Sometimes, her mother, overhearing this casual flow of dainty rhymes would say 'Helen, can you repeat that? To which the child would answer, Oh No Mummy; but I shall say some more."4 The book was met with enthusiasm, and Helen was hailed as having "an extraordinary sense and handling of rhythm and rhyme."5 with a "perfect ear and a delicate imagination"6 and "a mind elect"7 which was "entirely free from self-consciousness or any thought of posing."8 Indeed, for whatever reasons that a country needs its prodigies, whether for the pride of Nationalism or for the moral support that comes from a strong youthful spirit that re-embodies the rhythms of its history, Helen Adam became the pride of Scotland. The Elfin Pedlar was graced even by a note of praise from the Queen of Scotland herself. Her younger sister, Isabella Theodosia Patrick, later known as Pat, was a remarkable illustrator, and also known as a prodigy. In 1932, at the age of 20, Pat wrote and illustrated a book called Letters to Teg,9 which tells the story of a young woman's search for sophistication and ladylike manners, in spite of her fascination with playing tricks and games on the people she meets, who are all dumbfounded by her audacity. This book also was met with favorable reviews, one remarking: "the book is a splendid tonic for anyone who has become a victim of our modern depression."10 In 1934, the year after their father, the Reverend William Adam, was tragically hit in the head by a golf ball and died (karmic retribution, according to Helen, who despised her father for being more interested in golf than in writing his sermons and preaching),11 the sisters along with their mother, Isabella Douglas Dunn, packed their bags and moved to London where Helen and Pat became successful journalists. They collaborated on a correspondence column for the Weekly Scotsman called "Jottings from London" which informed everyone back home of all the news from the big city: the latest film scandals (like the censorship of Snow White based on its potential to frighten children); the whereabouts of flower shops, gown sales and boat races; and reports of the Royalty's various outings. In one article they remarked, without any irony of course, that "both the King and Queen love a country life, if only in contrast to their crowded and hardworking days in town. . . ."12 In 1939, for reasons that still remain unclear, the Helen, Pat and their mother, left Europe for Hartford, CT to be bridesmaids in a cousin's wedding. Because of the war, they never returned to live in Scotland. They settled in New York, and had some luck finding work: Helen as a governess, Pat as a publicist for Variety Shows, and Isabella for Cheeney's Silk Mills, which had converted its operations into making wool for the wings of fighter planes. Seven years later, after they tired of life in New York, they all packed their bags and headed West, finally settling down in San Francisco. * * * Another story of Helen Adam begins here, one that is entirely severed from her past, if only because she was embarrassed about all the fuss that was made over her as a child.11 But her strong ties to the magical folklore of Scotland were never lost. And for Helen Adam, San Francisco in the 1950s could not have been a more perfect place to settle down. There, poetic majesty and the mastery of form were combined with the breaking free of social expectations and rebellion against the mundane. She was among the oldest of the poets living there and may have been the "team godmother,"13 but the magic and knowledge she brought to San Francisco startled the young wild sages of its Renaissance with a special kind of madness. "Dear Helen: This letter is more to exclaim. That we found you all-the Adam family such a special revelation. It is the kinship one feels with those however and wherever that live in an enchantment of the imagination-antiques, we are, of the 19th century?" Robert Duncan.14 The kinship that Duncan, Jess and Helen formed was one of creative inspiration and mutual support, and the Adam sisters were frequent guests at the Jess/Duncan household. Duncan claimed that it was her 1954 reciting of Blake's "Song's of Innocence and Experience" at a poetry reading that changed the direction of his entire sense of poetics. Helen claimed his play Atlantis as the major inspiration for her play San Francisco's Burning. And when Duncan would write to her of critics that were harsh on his writing, she would threaten to put curses on them, saying of one "if I ever meet this character I am going to put a spell on it to rot its bones. Daring to condescend to Duncan, the cheap, trashy, brainless rat."15 And judging by her reputation as an expert tarot card reader, her seriousness can hardly be doubted. Her circle of friends and confidants extended throughout many different groups of artists and writers in San Francisco during the 1950s and 1960s. She was very fond of Jack Spicer and was a participant in his Magic Workshop, and yet judging from the notes she took in it, was sometimes skeptical at his claims to understand magic, just as he perhaps was of her theatricality. She wrote a short play called "Initiation to the Magic Workshop" in which most of the participants, including Spicer himself, had a part. In it, Spicer is usurped by his students from his status as mage because he is a demon from hell, and is then cooked to a crisp: "Before the circle can spit complete / My burning babe you must cook and eat. / Will it taste nicer / than roasted Spicer?" Upon thus exorcising him, Duncan is hailed as the true magician. And when Spicer comes back to haunt his mutinied ship with the intention to command it, once again he is met with resistance. "Some things magic does not dare to mock. / It's time for Duncan to stop the clock. And call up Kore with his earth-quake shock." 16 She also collaborated on experimental films, one in particular called Daydream of Darkness with William McNeill. The film was thought lost until Ernie Edwards, friend of McNeill, resurrected it from his closet. The Poetry Collection is now working on its restoration. It is a grand menagerie of dream images, such as statues of mythological animals from Golden Gate Park, a candle-lit deer's head, and the trademark "moon-maiden" head. Helen plays the seer/witch who is beckoning the viewer to follow. It is a silent film, and the script was spoken by Helen live, while the movie was being projected. The debut for this performance was Nov. 22, 1962, at the Peacock Gallery, the very day that Kennedy was assassinated. It was performed in spite of the audience's complaining that it should have been canceled to observe the tragedy.17 The "moon-maiden head," mentioned above, was the symbol of the Maidens, a group that formed spontaneously on January 6, 1957 and included Jess, Madeline Gleason, Duncan, Eve Triem, Helen, James Broughton. Robin Blaser would occasionally attend as an honorary guest. This was a group that met sporadically for elaborate dinners and evenings filled with discussions and readings, with the intention of creating a vibrant, childlike and imaginative communal space in which the ideals of poetry could be made manifest. Blaser wrote a poem about the group called "Harp Trees": "the cast-iron moon on the wall / vibrates a kind of speech / at the edge of thought / in the dark."18 All the various friends she made in San Francisco, from poets to actors, sustained her passion for folklore, ritual, and the ways of the "old religion" (witchcraft), which constitutes the theme of so much of her work. Indeed, the pixies and warlocks of Old Scotland, the fairy stories from Andrew Lang's Blue Fairy Book, and the complete set of George MacDonald novels that she had partially memorized and often read out loud-all of these she brought with her to San Francisco where she found a community that incorporated the significance of ancient folklore, primitivism, and magic into an approach to poetry that was radical in its attempt to, as Michael Davidson wrote, "use language to go beyond language" by creating poetry that "'performs' what it describes."19 In spite of this seeming ideal poetic flurry of energy, the San Francisco Renaissance was plagued by the quest for authenticity. It was as if there were a need to distinguish the real magician and the true dictator of the voices of the muses, in order to separate pure inspiration from charlatan fakery. Helen Adam, who was adored by everybody, was unfortunately caught in the middle of all this. Although there were many conflicts in San Francisco at this time, the one that most involved Helen was the tension between Duncan and Broughton. Primarily, their rivalary was based on aesthetic differences involving Duncan's intolerance for Broughton's theater space, The Playhouse, featuring Kermit Sheets as the main director. Helen was extremely close with James Broughton, was the godmother of his child, and was very active with his theater, especially since it was where her play, San Francisco's Burning, premiered. Broughton helped Helen and Pat revise the play, gradually turning it into a musical, which Duncan detested. He made very clear his outrage of Broughton's revisions to the play, claiming that they altered the purity of the original. In a letter to Helen, Duncan wrote: "Gail [Chubb, one of the main actors], Broughton, Sheets and that 'composer' [Warner Jepson] are gnenues of the porne imagination that stood against song, in ignorance-but also, struck out, altered, 'improved' the authentic."20 This cross-fire in which Helen was forced to prove her loyalty to both Broughton and Duncan simultaneously could not have been easy. This period of her life was further complicated by her getting fired from the filing job she had held for ten years, as well as the torment she endured from the failure of the "composer" of San Francisco's Burning to create the music that perfectly corresponded to her vision. Partly as a consequence of this stress, in January of 1962, at the age of 53, she was hospitalized for several months where she received four shock treatments to heal her of thoughts of suicide. Three months later, in March, San Francisco's Burning premiered at the Playhouse, and this was an event which must be regarded as a one of the most significant productions to come out of San Francisco during this time. This is a play in which the dialogue is written entirely in ballads. Later, taking Broughton's suggestions, it became a musical in which Helen played the Worm Queen, a mysterious presence who lured men into its cove, gave them the best love they ever had, and then let them die. "I am the Fair Forgetfulness/Whom men seek only in pain./Who sleeps in the bed of the Worm Queen/He never will weep again."21 It is a story centered around the San Francisco earthquake of 1906, and loosely portrays a mythical rendition of the contemporary scene. As Michael Davidson wrote, the play "is a play not only "about" the mythical city of San Francisco but about the historical community in which that myth was played out."22 It would not be easy to match the various characters with their contemporary counterparts, for the play has a unique cast of characters, among them, Spangler Jack, the gambling man who breaks the ladies' hearts; Neil Narcissus, the dilettante, who will never love anything but his reflection; and Susan Pettigrew, who falls in love with the ghost of the drowned Scotch sailor whom she met while sleepwalking. The play was a glorious success, ran for 12 weeks, and sold out every night. The euphoria of this, along with Broughton's urgings and a much needed grant which Duncan helped secure from the Merrill foundation, would push Helen and her sister to leave San Francisco for New York in 1964. The desire to see the play break Broadway would obsess them for the next 20 years. The fate of the two sisters, who never parted or married for their entire lives, is one of both tragedy and admiration, of Scottish determination and mad complexity. When they left for New York in 1964, they had only $4,000 from the Merrill grant, and being in their late 50's, had hard times finding work. Helen at one time had a job at a jewelry carving store, sorting on her hands and knees the gold and diamond flecks out of dust and cockroach shells, while Pat was signed up with a secretary's temporary agency. In a letter to Duncan Pat wrote, "I sometimes brood very darkly on the thought that if it hadn't been for San Francisco's Burning, we wouldn't be here."23 San Francisco's Burning was finally staged in an off-Broadway production, where it was received enthusiastically in spite of the Village Voice critic, Michael Smith, who bashed the play. However, contrary to the sister's wishes, the play was never picked up by a major composer who had contacts to Broadway. Even with this disappointment, Helen did go on to achieve some success in New York. She met the filmmaker Rosa Von Pronehim who featured her in several of his films, became close friends with many artists and writers, including Samuel Delany, who based the main character of his now famous story "Time Considered as a Helix of Semi-Precious Stones"24 on her. Helen also acted in many other small theater venues, and published many books, notably Stone Cold Gothic, published by Lita Hornick. And of course, she put a curse on the Voice critic, writing to Duncan "I hear from several sources that he is badly frightened, and it serves him right. Let him watch out, for I have never before been in such a splendid position to curse."25 She was known among her friends for her delight in "giving you the grue"26 (a spine-tingling shudder) and it was this that she attempted to conjure up in her ballads, short stories, plays, and collages. If there was one theme that runs through much of her work, it is that the body is only a vehicle for all sorts of magical transformations and rites of possession that serve the purpose of liberating their victim from worldly and social limitations. Her ballads, which remained for her entire life her primary passion, may be rigid in their form, and yet their subject is always the breaking free from worldly constraints, casting aside mortality, and accepting the unknown: "She dreamt she walked in the forest shade, / Alone, and naked, and unafraid. / The bonds of being dissolved an broke. / Her body she dropped like a cast off cloak."7 From its roots in pagan festivals, the form of the ballad is a gradual building of rhythm, that pushes the narrative into frenzy, ecstasy and chaos.28 We should not assume that this form is any less radical than the more experimental ones being written in her day. For in her determination to perpetuate the ballad tradition, she became the master of her form, passing its magic to others not only in her dynamic performances, but through her entire persona. This assertion influenced many others in the community to write ballads, which became an inevitable affirmation of some of the political ideals that poetry was to take in the 1950s and 60s. Helen Adam was the passer-on of the knowledge and tradition of forms, that, like the tales of transformation in so many of her ballads, adjusts its significance from antiquity into a contemporary usefulness. Helen Adam was not an "aside" of the San Francisco Renaissance-she was a vital and central figure who had a unique influence on poetry and the way it was performed during that time. As Norman Finkelstein so eloquently stated, "it is not only the poet's intense devotion to the visionary experience that makes her work so vital; it answers a historical necessity, completes and extends a poetic need that has arisen within the tradition. . . .One is almost tempted to claim that had Helen Adam not existed, Romanticism itself would have had to invent her."29 Hers may be an existence marked by desire and residing within the imagination, but luckily her mark has been left, not only with her ballads, but with her scrapbooks and collages as well. The collages mostly depict images of women undergoing various processes of transformation, always to the complete surprise or utter ignorance of their male counterparts. "In the world of the imagination," Finkelstein wrote, speaking of Helen's ballads, "desire, when it cannot achieve its object, will transform itself into a terrifying supernatural power."30 In the case of the collages, the imagination, no matter what its motives, is made manifest in images that tell tales, either actual or imagined, of inhabitation by weird or disgusting creatures such as preying mantises, spiders, snakes, and bats. All are captioned, some with fragments from the multiple poems that she had entirely memorized, others with strange proclamations, as seen in the examples. The collages are erotic while at the same time hilarious-terrifying as well as compositionally stunning. To read them psychologically, which is exceedingly tempting, it becomes apparent that the women who are in the contact with these creatures are not afraid of them in the least,31 and have reconciled them as an intimate part of themselves. Many of the images come from fashion magazines but unlike the original pictures, the women in Helen's collages are not looking for male approval or fulfillment. Rather, their desire is fulfilled through the power that comes from their ability to control and accept their own fears. The collages may be humorous in the way in which they deal with larger social issues for women in the 1950s, and yet they do reveal a personal side of Helen that was serious. Namely, that she had the sense that tangible love with a mortal man was impossible for her, because she, being both mortal and a creature of the other side, could only love a being who was also a visitor of both realms. The impossibility of this may have been her madness, and yet, she created, genuinely and without presumption, a realm of living and writing, of eroticism and passion, that was all her own. "The sharp stars swing around I get a slip beyond The wind & there I am I'm odd and full of love."32 NOTES: 1 The Dundee Advertiser. October, 1923. 2 "Gods Husbandry" Church Leaflet. c. 1920? 3 Adam, Helen.The Elfin Pedlar and Tales Told by Pixie Pool. Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., London. 1921. pg. 2. 4 Glasgow Evening News. October 11, 1923. 5 Manchester Guardian. December 5, 1923. 6 Glasgow Evening News. October 11, 1923. 7 London Chronicle. October 5, 1923. 8 Glasgow Record. October 5, 1923. 9 Adam, Patrick. Letters to Teg. Hodder and Stoughton, 1932. 10 "The Weekly Scotsman," December 14, 1922. 11 Interview, June 1995, Ida Hodes. 12 The Weekly Scotsman. December, 1934. 13 Robert Duncan as quoted in The San Francisco Renaissance: Poetics and Community at Mid-Century by Michael Davidson. Cambridge UP, 1989. pp. 176. 14 Letter from Robert Duncan to Helen Adam, April 8, 1955. 15 Letter to Robert Duncan from Helen Adam. Saturday, 1956. 16 "Initiation to the Magic Workshop." Unpublished. c. 1956. 17 From the research of Kevin Killian. 18 Blaser, Robin: The Holy Forest. Coach House Press, 1993. pp. 155. 19 Davidson, pp. 21. 20 Letter from Robert Duncan to Helen Adam, May 22, 1962. 22 Adam, Helen and Pat. San Francisco's Burning. Oannes Press: San Francisco, 1963. 23 Davidson, 184. 24 Letter from Pat Adam to Robert Duncan. 25 From the research of Kevin Killian. 26 Letter from Helen Adam to Duncan and Jess, January 19, 1968. 27"The Fair Young Wife" in Turn Again To Me. The Kulchur Foundation: New York, 1977. pp. 13 28 Interview with Jess, June 1995. 29 Graves, Robert, English and Scottish Ballads. Heinemann: London, 1957. 30 "Helen Adam and Romantic Desire" by Norman Finkelstein. "Credences," Fall 1985. pp. 130, 137. 31 ibid, 127. 32 Conversation with Maureen Owen. 33 Unpublished fragment, c. 1960. Acknoweldgement: All photographs and quoted letters used by permission of The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, SUNY Buffalo, where the Helen Adam Archive is located. My thanks to Robert Bertholf for graciously supporting my research. © 1995 Kristin Prevallet

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