#Taking a pistol into my mouth and playing a game of Russian Roulette by putting this in Sukuna's actual tags.

[frost-felon]

Including your tags:

No need to apologize--I suspected that you weren't trying to change my mind, but wanted to make my understanding clear. Thank you for keeping mind of your demeanor, though. I'm no stranger to dealing with people who are genuinely combative, lmao.

Oh, absolutely. In a way, Megumi being his natural vessel is perfect, because they both have a tendency to think they know better than everyone else around them; but Megumi is a kid growing into his place in the world and discovering who he is, surrounded by people that care about him (Tsumiki, Gojo, Yuji, and Nobara, among others). Sukuna, meanwhile, acts like he's a twenty-something who hasn't had his worldview shaken, and because of his power, hasn't had to do any real soul-searching/self-evaluation. For the first time in a millennia, at least, someone he can't (or won't¹) be rid of so easily is holding him accountable.

Also, as for Uraume...they definitely come off as an enabler, and while Sukuna does seem genuinely glad to have them in his life, it's unclear how much Uraume has impacted Sukuna's psyche. Going over the dialogue in 245, it looks like Uraume does genuinely believe in Sukuna's Right of the Strong ideology, though. Particularly, Uraume notes that "Sorcerers today" are different, valuing their "humanity" over strength, or at least letting their "fear of alienation" decide how they fight. This directly contrasts them against 'Sorcerers of the past', and is a small hint towards what Sukuna and Uraume may have been used to. Personally, I'd love to get more elaboration on what Jujutsu society was like back then, during the "Golden Age of Curses". Did Sorcerers of the Past fight with less restraint due to choice, or due to circumstance? Both Sukuna and Uraume may not be used to people who have either that choice, or that compassion. Certainly, Yuji pisses them both off, lmao.

I absolutely agree that Sukuna being so powerful has meant that he's never been appropriately challenged--unlike Megumi, he hasn't yet (given what we know as of 248) been forced to face the repercussions of his actions (Megumi lost his autonomy and failed to stop his sister and his legal guardian's murders because he didn't trust Yuji's perspective)...except for Yuji's continued existence, which has caused him to have foes who won't leave him alone, and especially, to start finally examining his sense of self and philosophies. It's not necessarily that he deluded himself into thinking he was right in choosing power's solitude, but that he's never given real weight to opposing viewpoints and the values of others. Still waiting to read the officially-translated version of 248, so I can't reference exact dialogue, but Sukuna notes that he'd never considered the dying words of other Sorcerers as more than fearful babbling. Until Yuji, he hasn't been forced to consider that someone may not only have ideals worth living and dying for, but also that someone he considers 'weak' could foster a reality of their ideals.

I've written about Kashimo and 238 before, and definitely, I don't think Kashimo truly believed in what Sukuna told him. I think he died dissatisfied, but having realized the source of his dissatisfaction, whereas Sukuna dismissed his dissatisfaction with a much more self-centered outlook. Sukuna seems to correctly peg that Kashimo wanted to treat others with care, but fails to really engage with why Kashimo would want that. Hell, when Kashimo asks Sukuna if he's satisfied, and why he would bother "...divid[ing] his soul and cross[ing] the ages as Cursed Objects...", Sukuna dodges the question. We know now that he sees life as time to kill before his death, which he may not even have as a Curse (except by an opponent able to kill him), but doesn't answer for that part, and instead chooses to focus on how he doesn't need to be satisfied by anyone else. Unlike Kashimo. But then, I don't think Sukuna espousing his beliefs there really has anything to do with Kashimo at all--it's another form of self-justification. In all of his fights, Sukuna seeks to belittle his opponents' beliefs and ideals, and impress upon them that His Way Is The Real Way. That's true for Yorozu, who he believes to be little more than a useful annoyance²; Gojo, whom Sukuna treated as a waste for caring for his students; Kashimo, treated like some 'poor, silly bastard' who just doesn't get that you don't need others to be happy; and so on, with Higuruma and now Yuji. Yuji unsettles him like no other, because none of Sukuna's usual bullshit makes a difference in how Yuji regards him.

Constantly, Sukuna acts as if he'll break if he doesn't re-affirm himself; whereas Yuji refuses to break, and adapts to whatever life throws at him. Yuji won't give up his 'heart'³, and will re-evaluate his beliefs when challenged, like in the interview with Principal Yaga and directly after Sukuna used him to commit mass-murder. Note how he talks about being a "cog" against Mahito and then Hakari. It's not a healthy philosophy. But what Yuji is doing is confronting the realities of what he wishes to achieve and his role in making his ideals reality. He is lessening his own self-importance and actively working with others. Sukuna is ultimately too self-absorbed and without purpose for him to consider doing this. Really, he struggles with comprehending not just the how, but the why of Yuji doing this. That's why Sukuna is so put-off when trying to figure out why he's getting so bothered by Yuji existing.

In a weird way, Mahito had a better understanding of himself than Sukuna ever has after the story's start. He knew what he wanted from Yuji, and why he was obsessed. What he didn't understand was Yuji: Yuji's steadfast nature, the people whose support Yuji has gained, and that Yuji had the will to pick himself back up, with said support. Mahito knew that he could put Yuji under enough pressure to nearly shatter, but he underestimated--or simply didn't understand--the devotion and support that Yuji receives from others could help him keep going. And to that end, Mahito failed to consider the monster he was creating.

Sukuna, too, has failed to consider that he's made his own worst enemy. Though whether that's Yuji or Sukuna himself has yet to be seen.

¹Sukuna absolutely COULD have killed Yuji earlier, but keeps pushing this off, for whatever reason. Most notably, when Uraume offers to kill Yuji after 212 (like 213 or 214). It might actually be a really bad idea for him to do so, given as their souls used to be "combined" and no one's quite sure what the ramifications are for that yet, but Sukuna hasn't given any indication that he was even thinking of that until 248. Even then, he hasn't fully thought through it. There's a real sense that Sukuna is keeping Yuji around for reasons even he isn't sure of.

²And as I've joked to my friends, got mad that she practically called him an incel. He's still bothered by her supposed misunderstanding of him, well after her death, and seeks to prove...a dead woman he didn't care about wrong? So much for Mister "I've never needed anyone to satisfy me."

³I'm specifically referencing the discussions of 'heart' that Mahito had with Junpei, and Junpei's breakdown to Yuji over how he can't accept that humans have 'heart', given how that would mean that someone with 'heart' hurt him and killed his mother.

I'm gonna be waiting for the full translation of 248 with a fake calm. Inside, there will be bite and kill energy.

Looking at the preliminary info, Sukuna straight-up admits he has no ambitions, which was all but outright-stated in 238. More than anything, this is why he's become so lame to me. How the fuck can you criticize someone else's choices for what they strive for (Yuji wanting to protect people, for instance), when you have nothing to work towards? Mans has no upward momentum, since he only cares about the present.

[teratonasti]

So Just Pull The Trigger

Title and inspo from Rhianna���s song Russian Roulette and my kink for Mista and gunplay LMAO I’m a whore for this shit

This fic includes: mentions of death and gore, Russian Roulette, implied suicide, feral/nasty Mista, dry humping, cumming in pants, dubcon, filthy self indulgence, gn!reader

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Sweat runs down your back as you stare at him across the table. The bodies of your buddies were laying in a corner away from the main table, brains dripping a bit on the floor, and you have to stop the wave of nausea that makes your stomach churn dangerously. You’re the third one to face off against Bucceratti’s gunslinger, and you didn’t expect to have a different fate than the ones that were before you.

Mista loads five bullets, the sixth one gleaming in the light and almost smirking at you as the barrel spins. The click of the barrel going into place has your heart pumping even faster. The mere fact that he was sitting in front of you, that lazy smirk and confident cross of his arms, meant that he had never lost this game. He hadn’t ever been unlucky in this venture and had left the people dumb enough to challenge him in a shallow grave.

The click of the gun as he shoots right at his temple makes you jump, and tears almost leak down your flushed face. Mista’s eyes are dark, his pupils and irises blending together in a swirl of brown so dark it’s almost black, so you can’t see the way his pupils expand when he sees the glimmer of tears on your lash line.

“Go one, bambino. Close your eyes when you pull the trigger- sometimes it helps,” he purrs as he unloads the revolver then slides it across the table. “I’ll even be nice- you can load as many as you want. But I’ll warn you to stay away from four, it’s a very unlucky number,” he chuckles. Your hands shake as you reach for the bullets in front of you and your stomach rolls again. Mista watches like a wolf, licking his lips when you fill the chamber with three bullets (and his mind supplies that you’re following his directions like a good little thing). Your friends had chosen four specifically since he’d mentioned it, and they’d ended up with their brains shooting out the side of their heads.

Once the barrel clicks into place and your trembling hand lifts the pistol to your temple, Mista makes his move. You can barely breathe before he’s sliding between you and the chair, hot hand laying on yours. There’s a glimmer of hope- maybe he changed his mind? Maybe he didn’t want you to play? But then... His free hand curls under your chin, thumb rubbing the taste of gunpowder onto your lower lip.

“Open wide... Put it in your mouth, tesoro...” His voice is a rumpling rasp when he’s this close, vibrating all the way into your ribcage, and you’re breathless as he pulls your jaw down gently. Mista’s eyes don’t miss the tear that runs down your cheek and splashes on the bronze of his skin, and he breathes in shakily when your lips and tongue meet the warm metal of the gun.

He pulls the hammer back, and you can tell that he’s hard against your thigh. Mista’s voice rasps out the countdown, but before he says three, he pauses. Leaning in, he runs his tongue over the spot your tear met his hand, dark eyes still on yours. “If you win, I’ll let you live... Might even give you a reward,” he sighs as he presses his forehead to yours. Your eyes squeeze closed when you see his finger curling on the trigger.

“Uno.”

His eyes burn when they linger on your mouth, and the heavy erection against your thigh twitches.

“Due.”

The curl of his fingers dig into your chin as your free hand curls around his wrist, still trembling as you steel yourself.

“Tre”

Click. Your eyes open, meeting Mista’s dark gaze, and he bites his lip as he pulls the gun from your mouth. Spit connects the metal to your lips, your tongue laying flat against your lower lip as you take in deep, ragged breaths. There’s a certain ache in your belly and between your thighs when Mista runs his fingers through your hair then leans down to press a deep, messy kiss to your mouth.

He uses his grip on your hair to push you onto the table, roughly grinding himself against your ass and groaning into your neck. Your head is spinning- are you really getting dry humped by the guy that was close to blowing your brains out? Then he’s pushing off your pants and there’s hot fingers- and the spit soaked gun- pressing to your hole.

“Let’s do another round, tesoro. Winner gets railed,” he rasps, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your hole with a practiced precision. The ache almost stings were it not for the spit covering the smooth metal, and you barely hear the click of the hammer over Mista’s deep groan. He flicks the chamber open and lets the three bullets clatter to the ground, then sets about stretching you around his gun. His fingers stay tightly wound in your hair, the heel pressing into your neck and keeping you on the table so you can’t run.

As if you wanted to run at this point.

Your legs shuffle further apart as he presses the gun deeper, the trigger guard kissing against your taint, and you groan out his name. Mista stills, breathing almost as hard as you, and you manage to look over your shoulder at him with teary eyes.

“Mista... Fuck me with your dick- tired of your gun,” you whine, and his eyes shut tight as his hips pump against your thigh. There’s a warmth that follows and your breath catches- he just came in his pants from fucking you with his gun and threatening your life before that. How nasty.

That doesn’t stop you from squirming your way down between his legs, fingers undoing his pants so you can get to the creamy treat that waits for you. And after all, he needed to be hard to fuck you. Mista grins as you mouth at his cock, tongue running over the smooth skin and cleaning up every drop of pearly cum.

This was definitely his favorite game so far.

[king-b0mbastic]

Detroit: Become A Christmas Carol

A birthday gift for @ask-markus-dbh (happy vagina escape day uwu) 

~*~

North and Markus hadn’t spoken in days, aside from giving speeches together and passing orders. In fact, Markus hadn’t spoken to anyone. North had tried to talk to him, but he had hissed at her with a glare for entering the sacred sanctuary that had been Carl’s room. It had been a wrong move, and icy looks had been thrown his way every time he had passed his lover in the hallway. It wounded him deeply, knowing that the frosted front that North was putting up was a facade, a cover for how much she was hurt. She and Markus were the only ones left from the original Jericho, and with both Josh and Simon dead, they had to stick together. In retrospect, or in at least in Markus’ opinion, it was for the best. Best be pained while he was still here, and not when he gone to the other side.

Markus played idly with the gun in his hands. What was that game that Connor’s human had used to play? Oh yeah, Russian Roulette. He loaded the chamber, spun the cylinder, and placed the muzzle under his chin. Simon’s heart thudded warningly in his chest, or was that just anticipation? Markus paused momentarily, wondering what he was leaving behind. How would the revolution fare? How would his people feel? ...How would North feel? ...He pulled the trigger.

Markus jolted at the sharp bang that the sound produced, but nothing else happened. The android drew a heavy sigh and was about to spin the cylinder again when a gentle hand fell gently on his shoulder. “Markus, what are you doing?” The voice was soft, and wise with time.

“C-Carl?” Who else would it be? Markus turned around in shock, and there he was. The revered artist sat in his wheelchair, a knowing smile on his lips. Markus froze for a second, before moving to tap his father on the shoulder with a trembling hand. His form was solid. Carl’s smile grew wider, and he grasped his son’s arm. “Hi, son.” He said. Markus’ face shrivelled, and he all but collapsed into his arms, pathetic sobs tearing their way from his throat. “C-Carl, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

Carl cut him off, rubbing a soothing hand down his back. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m okay.” Markus’ weeping only increased tenfold.

“Don’t s-say that! Don’t say that! I killed you, Carl, I killed you! You would still be alive if only I had kept my emotions in check!” It suddenly occurred to the android that he was embracing his deceased father. He wrenched away from Carl to look at him more clearly, his tears blurring his vision. “How are you even still here?”

The human neatly sidestepped the question, looking over at Markus’ side, where the gun lay on the table. He looked back at Markus, whose eyes were still shiny with tears, and opened his arms again. “Oh, Markus…” He murmured sympathetically. Markus eagerly fell into his embrace again, sobs wracking his already tired frame. “Mark, what hurt you? What hurt you so bad that you would try to do … that?” Words couldn’t come out fast enough for Markus to explain. It was all just a mess of survivor’s guilt and self-hatred, which had led to distance from relationships, which only strengthened the cycle. But Carl listened through it, nonjudgmental like the good father he was. When Markus was finished, the hug was tightened and Markus slumped in it, energy spent. A soft voice whispered in his ear. “Markus, you need to communicate with them, not snap at them every time they approach you. Your people need guidance, not criticism.”

“I don’t know Carl, I’m just so stressed…”

Carl hummed quietly but made no response. Markus was fine with that, just content to feel the warmth of his human’s embrace.

“...Remember that time I tried to teach you how to knit?” Markus opened his mouth to respond. A cartoonish slurping noise interrupted him, and before he knew it the android was falling through a kind of abyss. Darkness encompassed him, and Markus tried to let out a terrified shriek, but the void shoved itself into his mouth, telling him to stuff it.

…

Markus hit the floor with a thud, landing heavily on his side. He immediately scrambled up again, and found he was on the outside the living room. He hadn’t fallen that far? RK200 opened the door, and did a double take. There he was, wearing his indoor clothing, and ...Carl? Knitting material was still wrapped up in the table, and the other Markus was trying to lightly persuade his father of something, but to no apparent avail.

“Carl, I can simply download the software we need to make it, you don’t need to teach me.”

“Nonsense, Markus. We die like men. Besides, I want to see you do it. What can you design?”

The android gave a resigned sigh. “As you wish, Carl.” The real Markus stood silent in the doorway, dumbfounded. He watched as the pair got to work, unwrapping the package and getting out the instruments. Several times, Other Markus pricked his fingers, and he always winced in pain. Carl never once snapped at him, but gently retold him the steps. Eventually, Markus got the hang of it, and a wide grin of delight spread across his lips. “Look Carl, I did it!”

Carl gave a gentle smile, and clapped him on the back.

“So you did Markus, so you did. Well done, kid.” The RK200 shone a deep blue of glee at the praise. Back in the doorway, a small smile graced the other’s lips. He remembered what happened next. Markus had then moved on to create a bobble hat with Carl’s face on it, (“Of course you did Markus, of course you did.”

“Why? Did I not make it how you prefer? I can make another one-“ There was some sadness to his tone, not very well smothered.

“What? No! This is fridge-worthy! I’m just saying that this is so like you, you lovable idiot.” Markus’ face glowed again. The next morning, it was actually on the fridge. Carl simply gave him a fond exasperated sigh, and Markus had to bite down a laugh that was bubbling in his chest.) A pang of remorse impaled him, and sadly he watched the pair.

Other Markus wheeled Carl to the kitchen, and Hallway Markus was about to follow him, when somehow Carl appeared behind him. “You didn’t know the all the steps Markus.” Markus turned to face him, and Carl gave him a wise smile. “You were clumsy, but you learnt, and then you could do it by yourself.”

“But I needed your help several times…” Carl nodded. “Carl, why did you show me this?”

“Because this is a reflection. Your people don’t know what it means to be alive, so they look to you for direction. They need you to be patient with them, so they can learn to do it by themselves.”

Markus was about to open his mouth to say more, when the floor vanished from under him again. Flailing, Carl’s last words echoed in his ears. “You’re like a father to them.” Then he hit the floor.

~*~

Or at least he thought he had. Markus awoke with a jolt, cracking an eye open at his surroundings. The android was still at the desk, and one of Carl’s portraits gazed down on his son. Markus could have sworn it winked. Then his eyes flicked to the silver pistol, and everything came rushing back. North hated him, his people were probably doomed, and his other two companions and father were dead. Fun times.

Markus gave a heavy sigh, and reached towards the gun again. The fading sunlight caused it to give an alluring glint, and entranced, Markus reached for it in a daze. A sudden thought crossed his mind, about what death would be like, probably a short snap of pain, then peace. Peace, when all he’d brought about was destruction. Maybe Josh had been right…

A voice muttered in the back of his head telling him to stop, saying stuff like how the revolution needs you, how our people need you,  North needs you, also if Carl already spoke to you why am I here- nO PUT THAT GUN DOWN RIGHT NOW, OH MY RA9 HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THAT BEFORE-

A hand wrenched the gun away from him, and threw it away, the silver flashing as it clattered across the floor. Markus whipped around to find the PJ500 staring at him in absolute shock. The two locked eyes for a minute, before Josh stepped forward awkwardly, and hesitantly clasped his arms around him. There was a beat before Markus returned it, sagging into the embrace.

“Please don’t do that Markus…” Josh murmured. Markus’ response was to bury his face into his friend’s shoulder.

“Why… why would you care what I did if I got you killed?” The other stiffened, and Markus tightened his grip, afraid that the other would try and leave him. “Josh, everyone’s dead, I pulled them into war, I pulled you into war, and now you’re dead!”  Markus was starting to shake, and Josh pulled him closer. “And now North’s and I are arguing and I don’t want to argue but we do and it’s my fault and I don’t want to lose her too—“ Josh cut him off.  

“You’re not going to lose her. North loves you. I know she does, and she will stick through hell with you.”  Markus wiped his face on the PJ500’s sweater, who only grimaced slightly. “How the hell do you know?” Josh snorted.

“I was stuck on a ship with her for two years. I think I know how that crazy gal operates.” Markus chuckled softly, before sighing and resting his head on Josh’s shoulder. He suddenly felt exhausted. Josh seemed to notice this.

“Dude, when was the last time you took a break?” Markus stared at him incredulously.

“A break, in the middle of a war?” Josh blinked.

“Not a holiday, just like… 30 minutes. Just you and North, or not even that.”

Markus scoffed.

“Josh, I love you, but that is the stupidest thing you’ve said to me.” The taller scowled.

“Then, pray tell, how are you going be able to stop being so snappy? Believe me, you need to take a break.” That cartoonish slurping crept up on Markus, and Josh released to him to the void.

…

Markus fell on the top of the stairs, but toppled onto the first stair and rolled down the rest. He came to a stop with moan, and contemplating staying on the floor and not moving, ever. Was this some sort of karma? Eventually, some unbidden force dragged Markus to his feet. He staggered to his feet and wandered to the living room. Other Markus was there again, but his innocent look was gone, replaced by a hardened but somewhat weary resolve. He crossed his arms and sat back. North sat across from him.

“We lost bases 5 and 4. The surviving androids have scattered, and they seek refuge.” Her face twisted with anger and sympathy as she said this. Markus sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Can’t we send them to 3 and 6?”

“Too full. And we have better supplies. We can’t just turn them away, Markus.” There was a small note of pleading in her tone, barely noticeable.

“We’re overpopulated as we are, we can barely accept another 50, let alone 4 times that…” North’s face scowled.

“So what do we do, leave them out there to die?” No response. Her face scowled deeper.

“North, the more people we have, the more the balance that we put in place is tipped over. We have to rationalise the resources or else—“

“What’s the point of having a revolution if no one is left alive?” Her words cut deep. She sounded like Josh, too much like Josh. North saw his brief pain, and a silver of regret passed through her face before it died.

“You’re the one who wanted a violent revolution, just because of some grudge you have against humans...” He muttered under his breath. and immediately regretted it. Markus had struck a chord. She jumped up and got right in his face, hissing.

“I was raped, used and abused. It’s not just some silly grudge Markus, it’s a fucking righteous animosity. But of course, you wouldn’t know that,” Her face twisted into a sneer. “Pretty, pampered Markus didn’t know shit until his father up and left him. And good riddance!” Markus was too stunned to reply. Before he could, his girlfriend(?) straightened and flipped her hair. “Now, if you ex-fucking-scuse me, I’m off to go tell some unfortunate 200 people that they’re going to die outside tonight, thanks to their benevolent leader.” She left without waiting for answer.

North stormed past recently-fallen-down-the-stairs Markus without a glance, her face twisted in a scowl. Only he could see the tell-tale embers of hurt that burned behind her eyes, and his heart thumped with her hurt.

“See what I mean?” Josh was suddenly behind him, and he was sympathetically drinking a Capri-thirium.

“...Did you just raid my fridge.” The glowing damage on Josh’s side that Markus had just noticed flickered in embarrassment.

“...I was hungry. You have the good stuff, don’t blame me.” Markus just sighed. “Like I said, you both work your asses off, and then you snap at each other. Don’t take a holiday, take a break. Breathe for once in your goddamn life.”

“I don’t need to breathe, I’m an android. I’m supposed to be able to go extended periods without rest. I’ll be fine—“

“Markus, I love you, but that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“But what if i take a goddamn break and someone needs my help? What if something simple I could have done turn into a bigger problem? What if—“

“No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. If you’re taking a break, North can handle it. Alternate.” Markus gave a uncharacteristic pout. Josh sighed.

“Just… take care of yourself, okay? The revolution needs you.” Markus nodded in silence. “...By the way, you owe me five bucks.”

“Why?”

“I told you that I would probably die in the crossfire and I did. Pay up.”

“Later. Did you come back here just to tell me this?”

“No, I came back to check on my lovable idiots.”

“And my fridge.”

“...And the fridge.” Markus let out a small laugh, and Josh smiled bashfully. He opened his arms, and Markus gave him one last hug.

“Stay safe, you fucking dumbass, alright?” The PJ500 murmured. Markus opened his mouth to reply, but then he was falling again.

~*~

He didn’t pick up the gun this time. Instead, he lay with his head in his hands in silence. A book fell on his head, and it opened to a page about breathing exercises. Markus groaned as he rubbed his head, then rested his chin on the book. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was ...scared. Scared of what the humans were capable of. Scared of what could happen to the last remaining monument he had about the original Jericho. Anything could happen! Markus knows he should have heart but…

A rustling from the ceiling made him look up, then shriek and fall off the chair. Simon was floating in a star-shape pose and just lethargically turning in circles. He looked down on Markus lazily.

“Hey.” There was a hole in his chest, where a thirium regulator should have been.

“The hell you doing on the ceiling?!”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m floating.”

“...How?” Simon shrugged, then came down to lay across the table, resting his head on his hands.

“I’ve come to tell you to not waste my thirium regulator, please.” He said this without appropriate concern, even winking.  

“S-simon, I…”

“You’re concerned about whether or not you can lead the revolution to success. Let me tell you now, only you can do it. Not even North.” Markus looked offended, crossing his arms from where he lay on the floor and frowning.

“Simon, I’ll have you know that despite her fiery nature, North can keep a level-head and can lead just as well as I can. If this about the time she told me to shoot you—“ Simon waved a hand to shut him up.

“No, no. It’s not about that. I know she could lead perfectly well. It’s just that- you won’t understand.”

“I have all day.”

“...There’s this guy called David Cage, yeah? And he’s a dick. That’s why North can’t lead her revolution.”

“Wha-?”

“Don’t worry, there’s about… 324 people who are against this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Told you so. Also everyone seems to like me, and say I’m the soft, pacifist one.”

“But isn’t that Josh?”

“Precisely. I don’t understand.” Simon shook his head. “That’s not what I’m here for.” Markus sighed again, and lay back.

“Simon, approximately 208 people have died because of my incompetence, which is more blood than the humans.”

“That’s because this is war, Markus. There will be casualties. But you need to lead us, Markus. You’re the only one who can.” His tone was almost pleading. Markus looked back at him dejectedly.

“Show me. Show me a future where I’m not in it. It’s better than this.”

“Is it really?” Cue cartoonish slurping noise.

…

Markus face-planted into the snow, and climbed out of a Markus-shaped hole. Someone really liked throwing him around. Dazed, he looked around. It was the abandoned church graveyard, and North was there. She fingered the rose that was left by the grave.

“I never hated you, you know,” She murmured gently. Markus came to stand next to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it had the opposite effect. North started shaking, tears threatening to overflow. “You can’t just leave me like this! You can’t just… go! I need you! I…” She couldn't finish; she fell to her knees, trembling. North was weeping, and Markus couldn’t do anything to help. She cried until she had no strength left, then got up suddenly. There was a fire that had suddenly ignited. North grabbed the rifle that had been discarded and strode with a new purpose back to the church.

“We’re going to win this,” She called over her shoulder. “You’ll see.” Markus watched her disappear, before looking back at the name of the grave. It said his name.

Unnerved, he rushed after the WR200, wrenching open the door she had just slammed shut. A blizzard immediately struck him, and he hugged himself, shivering. He turned back for the door, but it had vanished.

“North? North, where are you?” Markus called out to the barren plain. He kept calling her, over and over, staggering with each step. Eventually, he found some footsteps, but they lead back the way he came. The poor RK200 had been going in circles. Exhausted, he took a doddering step, and promptly tripped.

He twisted, to see whatever had tripped him. North’s sightless eyes stared back at him. He was up immediately, cradling her face between his hands. “North? North, please wake up. North…” His voice became small and pleading. His hand lay across her side, and it came away blue. The rifle in North’s hands lay loose in her grip. Markus couldn’t speak, all he could do was lay his tearful face, and cry.

“I’m sorry, Markus.” Simon was next to him, the harsh wind ruffling his blonde hair. The deviant leader didn’t bother to look at him. “You had to see this. This is the harsh, brutal future that lies in store for us all. This is what happens if you die.” No response. Simon sighed, then let out a small oof as the shorter embraced him. Markus was shaking as he sobbed into Simon’s shoulder, and the other just held him. He was babbling with fear, and the PL600 muttered reassurances.

“Have heart, Markus. Just have heart.” Tiredly, Markus nodded.

“Now if you excuse me, I’m off to take a nap.” And he floated away, like a wayward balloon in the wind. A sassy, fingerless-gloved blonde balloon. And then the void vored Markus.

~*~

“Markus, Markus. Markus! Get your ass off the chair. They want you.” Markus jolted awake, and his eyes focused on the scowling face of North. She turned without saying anything, almost halfway out the door when Markus called her back.

“North! North, please wait.”

“What?” She snapped, and Markus simply held his hand out, skin shimmering away. North stared it, looking back at Markus with scornful disbelief. He had almost lowered it when she snatched it back, curiosity getting the better of her. An unspoken apology, feelings laid bare, soft blue glow in the darkness. She slowly released his hands, feeling how unfairly big they were. He blinks, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“North, I understand if you don’t accept-“ He’s cut off by a fond smooch to the cheek, and then another lands on his lips.

“Shut up, you big worrywart. Right now.” He smiles, for the first time in a long time. Outside, the snowy church bells toll, signalling the dawn of Christmas day.

[euphoriccalliope-blog]

C’mon. Play the Game.

This just popped into my head re: the Sherlock ARG getting underway in earnest, and some anxiety around that. Folks who’ve been going harddd since January 15th are exhausted -- all the more so because the Sherlock fandom is used to operating on a years-long hiatus schedule and we’ve suddenly been pushed into hourly realtime effort. It’s decidedly uncomfortable on one hand, but also thrilling.

The ARG is basically an epic game of chicken. Do we trust we know the rules and parameters enough to play it without getting bruised or overly frustrated by TPTB who are playing it with us? We’ve been burnt before. If there is no explicit prize of another episode, promised upfront, then what does “winning” mean other than knowing we were smart enough to risk our pride to prove we’re clever? 

Answer: we play it because we can, because we want to, and yeah, because we’re clever. And maybe we also know we can rescue each other from it if it gets too cray. And because it makes us fall in love with the brilliant members of this fandom a bit more. (John has a role also in this scene.)

A Study in Not Blinking

It strikes me that there are a lot of parallels between the fandom’s feelings around the ARG and this scene in ASiP when the cabbie (Moftiss) convinces Sherlock (us?) to stay at the table, even though S. knows there is no gun keeping him there. The cabbie’s gun is fake. Just as many brill folks have determined that the gun at the end of TLD/bracketing TFP is also _not a tranquilizer gun_.  It’s not what we are told it is, based on the evidence of our eyes. And same goes for the representation of a J&S romantic relationship on the show -- we stand by our visual understanding of what is real and there, vs. the “official” view point that it isn’t, and also btw who you are doesn’t matter. 

Bear with me a sec. I think based on what we have seen so far in the ARG, they have been playing a very long game indeed. Witness @tjlcisthenewsexy’s recent brilliant discovery & explication about the cabbie’s license # from ASiP (X). My hunch is that they’ve been building in meta-ARG stuff all along, all so that they would have the option of using it later if they wanted. With that in mind, let’s take a look at the ASiP classroom showdown from the perspective of where we are now, dipping our toes into the ARG.

Read this through, please:

Transcript courtesy of the lovely and astute Ariane DeVere (X) -- S1 E1, part 4:

CLASSROOM. SHERLOCK: What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here. (Sighing in a combination of exasperation and disappointment, Jeff lifts up the pistol and points it at Sherlock.) JEFF: You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. (Sherlock smiles calmly.) JEFF: Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option. SHERLOCK: I’ll have the gun, please. JEFF: Are you sure? SHERLOCK (still smiling): Definitely. The gun. JEFF: You don’t wanna phone a friend? (Sherlock smiles confidently.) SHERLOCK: The gun. (Jeff’s mouth tightens, and slowly he squeezes the trigger. A small flame bursts out of the end of the muzzle. Sherlock smiles smugly.) SHERLOCK: I know a real gun when I see one. (Calmly Jeff lifts the pistol/cigarette lighter and releases the trigger. The flame goes out.) JEFF: None of the others did. SHERLOCK: Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case. (He stands up and walks towards the door. Jeff puts the gun onto the desk and calmly turns in his seat.) JEFF: Just before you go, did you figure it out ... (Sherlock stops at the door and half-turns towards him.) JEFF: ... which one’s the good bottle? SHERLOCK: Of course. Child’s play. JEFF: Well, which one, then? (Sherlock opens the door a little but shows no sign of leaving the room.) JEFF: Which one would you ’ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? (Sherlock closes the door again.) JEFF (chuckling): Come on. Play the game. (Slowly Sherlock walks back towards him. When he gets to the table, he reaches out and sweeps up the bottle nearest to Jeff, then walks past him. Jeff looks down at the other bottle with interest but his voice gives nothing away as he speaks.)

Aside: Aaaand now I get the deeper level of all the Russian roulette gun-swapping references that have been going around (maybe kept up most hilariously by @joolabee originally). 

ARG Meta Interpretation of the ASiP Classroom Showdown

Sorry if this is just reiterating something that someone else has already done. My brain is mush at the moment, and it is entirely possible folks have already thought of this exchange in a post-S4, mid-ARG context.

Here’s the mid-ARG meta view of this scene:

The fandom doesn’t have to play the ARG (alternate reality game). No one is making us. We could just walk out of here.

But. We don’t like being manipulated. We decide to play along only so far as to call the puppet master’s (cabbie/Moriarty/Moftiss) bluff, and make them show us what we are playing for, and force them to surrender.  I’ll have the gun, please. We know what we are looking at (johnlock) and we believe we are right. We cannot be intimidated. I believe this corresponds to the anti-S4 backlash campaign, and the earnest expectation of more content.

The bluff is called. Definitely. The gun. Gun is not what it appears to be. The fandom unpacks TFP and other elements of S4 that are “fake,” and documents/discusses, all in record time. Some of us come out of shock and begin to see elements of narrative threads that can make sense of the mess, the true signals buried in the fake noise.

The Powers That Be (TPTB, the cabbie/Moriarty/Moftiss, all of whom are in charge of the game structure and who know us well enough to be always changing it to suit us with perfect temptations) applaud our skill in seeing the fake gun. We are unfuckable; no fear. We insist:  I know a real gun when I see one.

On our own, we look back over all the times in BBC show canon, esp. within that TPTB seemingly acknowledged fandom interpretation as being deeper than casual-viewer understanding of the show. This was them saying to us: None of the others did. TAB’s heart of the conspiracy, TST’s references to ice lollies, tea code, the best secret societies having acronyms, TFP shockproof elephant glass, etc.

After S4 airs and is effed up, especially TFP, they begin to lose us for a a bit, first because narrative was false to its characters, and then because queerbaiting hamfistedness. TPTB will not publicly or officially engage to confess what their deal is. But we know what we saw. Justifiable anger/frustration/hurt from fanbase over TPTB’s lack of acknowledgment re: queerbaiting and lack of representation. Fandom amasses lists of canonical show reference points as evidence of our case. We take that case to the wider internet, to the BBC, and elsewhere, to try to hold TPTB somehow morally or legally responsible for all that jazz. There are conversations about the fandom crowdfunding an Operation Norbury PR/lawsuit initiative. We get up to leave, and we say to them: Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.

And then. And then they challenge us to play the game anyway, with the free knowledge that they cannot manipulate us directly with more bullets of questionable narrative content -- nothing more has been officially announced. We are on the point of walking away to wait passively, to write fix-it fic and make art and chat amongst ourselves, and get on with our lives. . . . But. There is a hint of a vast situation in front of us that offers puzzle-solving, intelligence, close-reading of the world, adrenaline and connections. Also possibly witty recycling of our own in-jokes and crack memes, and helping those to become part of the actual 130-year-old vast Sherlock canon’s Great Game, in the service of making real what we have repeatedly seen and know to be true within the BBC show. It’s rather irresistible. And they say: Come on. Play the game.

Do we turn around and consider it? I have already decided I need to sit down at the table and examine the possibilities. I don’t care about seeming foolish, so pride is not a concern. It’s not risking my life, and has the potential to be great fun. . . I respect the decision of those who don’t want to play, but personally I do. I think this is us losing our patience in the most delightful way possible, and taking the reins. Expect the best explosions.

So that’s that. I have no idea how much of this I can keep up with, simultaneously with work commitments and a personal life. But I have hope that the community can collectively carry it forward 24-7 and keep an open mind, and keep pulling on loose threads because it’s fun, and we’re clever. The fandom knows no time zones; we are global and we are engaged. You’re a scintillating group, and this narrative, this Sherlock-TV-world-real-life narrative, is super compelling. It pushes all my researcher buttons in the best way, with the ultimate reward that finding answers makes them real. No clue whether we will see canon Johnlock but I think this is worth playing to see where it goes.

Especially if we can wink knowingly at each other while doing so. (Pleased to meet you, by the way.)

Postscript: Suggestions for How to Play

ARGNet post on Getting Started with ARGs (X)

If you don’t want to play the ARG but want to stay otherwise actively engaged in the fandom, consider saying so at the top of your Tumblr blog, and perhaps blocking the (#sherlock arg) tag. I propose that tag should go on everything ARG-related. 

Reminder to please document with links what you do, and tag/share info so that others can easily know what you’ve done and seen, and carry it forward. When you can, read the notes on a post and repost from something useful or new that someone else on that thread has said, done or seen -- this includes folks who want to be part of it all. Embed links in X marks like so (X) so they will show up in notes.

Players who are coming at this from TJLC fandom should throw in the #tjlc tag, to keep it front and center. All ARG playing requires tinfoil hat wearing, so I’m going to say we mostly drop that set of tinfoil hat tags unless you want to throw it in there. It’s more important to keep #tjlc if that’s the flag you fly.

If you are codebreaking, please post:

the encoded source ciphertext and where it came from (with a link also if possible), and

if you have broken the code, include the translated plaintext, as well as

what kind of cipher it was, and what key(s) it used.

be sure to add the tag (#sherlock arg codebreaking) so our army of smarties can become increasingly code-literate within the ARG, as codes become more complex.

If you’re playing, then play. Contribute something. Use the tags to read up and learn for yourself what’s going on. Engagement is always welcome, but try to refrain from just passively asking others to fill you in personally via direct questions to their ask boxes. Folks will be busy pursuing their own inquiries and organizing the info they have found. And ask box space may be precious to some, if that is how ARG clues tend to arrive from mysterious sources. 

Other optional tags: 

#dancing with the octopus = not knowing how many of the arms of the ARG we are or will engage, but enjoying ourselves anyway. 

#the greater game = gives immediate context for what the ARG is in a way that makes folks think of Sherlock and not pirates (Belated epiphany: OMG. Sherlock always wanted to be a pirate. What do pirates say? ARRRRRG.)

#sherlock chess arg = references the S4 chess promo pic that throws the game pieces to us, and tells us it’s our move.

Tagging folks (I’m wary of tagging too many and causing annoyance, but please consider reblogging if you found this useful. We need to spread the word about standardizing our methods and tags! Thank you!):

@the-7-percent-solution, @whimsicalethnographies @teapotsubtext, @ti-ori-se @jenna221b, @inevitably-johnlocked @marcelock @tjlc @tjlcisthenewsexy, @mrsashdown, @materialofonebeing @joolabee, @toxicsemicolon,