#WILD TIMES

[iwaasfairy]

Sooooo…. guess whose selfship came home haHAHAHAHHAHHDGF im skirting back to the ol’ me skirt skirt

[starredforlife]

obligatory butchtober post ig !!!

[that-chaoticace]

[srldesigns6277]

Ya know it's wild to live in a world where fucking Andrew Tate called Louis Tomlinson the f slur while trying to insult some random Twitter user who was upset over the US election results. 🙃

[m3tth4ws]

[melodyofthevoid]

The Crane Wives: Beyond, Beyond, Beyond

(The finale, for now. Hard to believe that I've been working on these for almost 2 years. Anyways, enjoy)

Now we arrive at the threshold, album five. The first studio album in nearly a decade, and a testament to all that came before and between. Themed and defined by change in all its forms. The lack of, the desire for, the consequences in both its wake and absence. The price of moving forward and the price of standing still. Even the sound isn’t immune, with the newer tones and style developed over the singles shown off in solos that range from electric to more traditional. Some songs challenge ones from years past, others a continuation, but all part of an ongoing conversation that ends with resolve. A desire to cross through. 

The question is, will you follow through the looking glass?

Scars

How did this happen? It’s a question that comes naturally whether or not there’s truly a reason. Why am I like this? The eternal feud of nature vs nurture, whether the tangled mess of anger and bitter emotions stemmed from a single event or bloom from somewhere within. If the well was poisoned before the symptoms started to show. 

And does the source even know that they left the poison to begin with? 

The first few chords warp those of another song, a crooning cry from a parent who’s severed the ties and left the singer adrift. Their mournful tone twisted and distorted until it turns into the sharp twangs of a guitar, heavy footfalls that drive the song forward. A tired trudge burdened and haunted. 

The singer is not who they thought they were. The refrain that carries over and over again- starting each train of thought. They’re struggling to keep their head above water, aching in a way they’ve always known. Born to in a storm that left them with a piece of itself forever. The anguish hereditary. Or maybe there’s another reason. The effect is still the same. This misery is a constant companion, 

Ruefully they acknowledge all of the effort put towards them, the love and kindness, plans made with all good intentions to guide them towards a brighter and better future. Futile efforts made to no avail. They watched as they failed time and time again, trying to cross the gap to understand where the singer was and give a way forward, but a bridge constructed from only one side is doomed to fail. Letting that hard work near them risked vulnerability and letting the other close. 

And how could they let them close to who they are? Broken in some fundamental way from the beginning. Destined to fail and shatter leaving them scarred, to signal to the outside what was wrong within. 

Then the subject switches from those who’d tried to help, to the origin of their suffering. The piece is a companion to “Never Love an Anchor”, and the one left behind sees only the abandonment, the fact they weren’t enough to stay for. The anguish their parent felt at their personal failings and inability to care for the singer now passed on, a wound to their ego. A tire fire, caustic and toxic that refuses to be put out. 

They were meant to fall apart, to wind up with scars. 

Because isn’t it easier if there weren’t any other options? If this flaw sabotaged all of the work put in and rendered it all futile? Then there’s no fault, no blame to be laid. An easy surrender to the inevitable.

The question is will they continue to live like this. To allow the scars to fester, or seek out a balm despite the pain. For now, they accept their fate as the music cuts all at once. 

Bitter Medicine

Hard truths go down easier with a bit of sugar, you catch more flies with honey, axioms to explain the act. Of using a veil to cover up the unpleasant parts of life. Without it what’s left? Just the ugly, twisted, reality of it all. Sometimes it’s all you have. And it’s stifling. 

The singer looks at where they are. Wasted, inebriated either in a literal or metaphorical sense. Unable to be trusted to take themselves home or to drive their own life. A pathetic state of affairs, one they’re all too aware of. It’s the bed they’ve made for themselves, the consequences of their actions they accept with a blithe and self-effacing smile. They wonder how the one they love sees them. If they’re ashamed or if the front they’ve put on until now. A cheap imitation of some “better” person that isn’t long for this world. 

They could be worse, so much worse. Poison sits on their tongue and they swallow and bite it all back to keep it inside. The toxicity accumulates in their body and slowly kills them inside as it has nowhere else to go. No one else deserves it, to know how corroded and hollow they are on the inside. They’re sick, but they can’t let anyone in. They’ll play the part of everything they’re not in hopes it distracts and entertains but it’s hurting them just as much as the rest. 

And if someone sees through it, what then? Can look past the facade? The singer both yearns for it and fears it in turn. They need someone to clean up the mess around them, the mess they’re unable to touch. The accumulation of a thousand small cuts bleeding out into a river. Each on their own barely noticeable but together they build upon each other. 

Accepting an offered hand is another question in and of itself. Do they deserve it? Is it a gift given or is it taken? Someone’s else’s good intentions wasted on their act, for their own faults. It’d be a waste on them, and so they continue on as they were. Suffering in their own skin and hiding behind the mask that chokes them. 

In another life, they’d let it all go, but this isn’t that life. The singer’s convinced this is all there is. Convinced that their arsenic laced words are medicine. The truth. But they’ve decided that it is. 

And so it is.

Higher Ground

When you’re lost in the midst of an upheaval, when the earth itself is turning on its head, sometimes the only option, the only means of survival, is to go, to remove oneself from the situation. But there are things left behind, an impact not intended. A decision that can be as consequential as the event itself. 

Such is the singer’s predicament. They’re trying to look out ahead, but they can’t see the horizon, can’t see beyond today. Higher ground could give them a better view, a larger picture and save them, but there’s a cost to that choice. A domino effect is spiraling out after they spoke their mind, let go of the truth. What’s done can’t be undone and now everything is changing, shifting. What once was close drifts apart, what once was parted clashes, titanic shifting of tectonic plates. Inexorable forces that leave nothing untouched. 

And nothing undamaged. Someone’s going to get caught up, hurt. Once they come down they’ll see the full extent of it all and that terrifies them. But again, it’s out of their hands.  

Every warning sign is flaring, ravens and crows are heralding incoming danger. A predator. A threat to everything in sight. But with all that they’ve set into motion, is the warning for them? Or about them? This wasn’t the plan, not to hurt anyone, not to change everything, but they won’t know for sure. Not until the dust settles and they stand above it all. 

They’ve survived, at least. 

Predator

When every shadow becomes a claw, every smile hides a threat, the world becomes an endless hall of mirrors, reflecting back all of one’s fears. Nowhere is safe, not when you’re the world’s prey. 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” The rhetorical question, that to the anxious, isn’t rhetorical in the least. It’s the risk they measure the outside against, the guide to all actions. If they can imagine the worst possible outcome then it can be prepared for, warded against. Because disaster will come, inevitably. Staying on guard at all times, lest their comfort come at the cost of their safety (even if the sky is not falling, it’s easy to panic at every little crack. Perhaps they’re too prepared.) 

When it hits, as it always does, it’s their own fault. They know better. They let in a predator, lowered their walls and their guard to someone who, not for the first time, left them wounded and vulnerable. Signs were missed that they’d seen before, a lesson they should have learned the hard way but failed to truly comprehend. So it’ll happen again. 

Regardless of the fact that someone else took those actions. It’s their fault. It has to be. 

To the prey animal, confrontation is to be avoided at all costs, so the response to danger is to fawn. Follow the path of least resistance and never put up a fight. If there’s a problem, it’s probably their own misinterpretation of the situation, because… If they say no, if they push back, there could be consequences. They could get hurt, cut by sharp teeth and sharper words. 

But there’s only so much that someone can put up with and stand before it’s too much. Gaslighting finally igniting a spark of resistance. They’re already struggling to breathe, struggling with the constant anxiety and fear and this? They don’t need this too. What if they didn’t have to live like this anymore, and they finally said no? 

And at last they confront at least one of their fears. Calling out their treatment, the fact they’ve been used. Trying to better this person, hoping that they’ll see the harm they’re causing on their own, they’ve done it a hundred times and it’s never happened. They keep getting hurt. The predator can’t see the blood on their teeth, doesn’t know their own strength, the bodies in their wake.

But no, not this time. 

Say It

No one wants to be the first to leave. The first to sever ties. Admit defeat. Even in spite of years of change, of what once was withering on the vine, sometimes there’s still hope that the garden can recover, however impossible and slim. A loyal dog that waits, tied to a post, for an owner that won’t come back. Because what if it goes back to the way it used to be? That honeymoon phase where everything blossomed and bloomed. But it won’t. 

The singer wonders where it went wrong? Staring at the person they once considered so close and begging for an answer. Was it them? Was the reality of their personality, their flaws, too much to bear? Erasing the idealized version that their partner once held of them? Were they, are they disappointing to know truly? 

Without an answer, they demand a different one: tell them it’s done. Let them out. Let them stop hoping for a spark to rekindle the flame of passion. Otherwise they’ll remain there in the dark. Pining for better times. 

Because once upon a time their lover gave them everything. Provided a haven and home. A gentle hand that wiped away their tears and pulled back their layers. All of those memories of warmth against the bitter cold of the present call into doubt their sincerity. Did they really care before? Was it all pretend? 

Would it be better if it was? 

The guillotine hangs over their head, a blade that could sever and end their suffering but instead hovers. A reminder that it could end at any point but won’t. They wait dutifully, a dog who can’t help but take what they’re given. Loyal and faithful even when that love and devotion isn’t returned. 

But if it was real once, they would do it over again. Wouldn’t they? Or would the one the singer holds so dear choose to avoid their relationship altogether. To alter their paths so that they never met. Have things fallen apart to where it was never worth it in the first place? Is the thought of what they’ve become so toxic, so tainted, that they'd give up whatever good came of it to spare themselves?

The question lingers, and so the singer does nothing but wait, too afraid to take the first step. 

Waiting for them to say it. 

Mad Dog

A fruitless pursuit, an endless chase, the eternal drive to reach for that promised oasis shimmering just beyond the horizon a few steps away. There is no exit condition when a paycheck is all that stands between you and losing it all. Enter the workforce at 18 (or younger), keep working until you’re 72 (or older), then you can maybe lie down. Can’t grind yourself to the bone too early, can’t run out of steam yet. If just a little more money is made, a few more spare coins stuffed away for later, maybe it’ll resemble happiness. 

The singer’s blinders keep them on the same track they’ve always known, striving to achieve when all it’s done is lead them further and further from home. Tunnel visioned and yet it’s never in reach. No matter how far they run. How hard they work. 

But no one else is keeping their bills paid, no one else is going to make them a millionaire, so they keep repeating and repeating. Hoping that they’ll get an answer back that isn’t the same as before. 

Thus, the chase continues, a dog chained to a post snapping after a rabbit it can never catch. Running, and running, and running, yet forever tied to the same spot. Once that leash runs out of room the retaliation snaps back with a vengeance. Punishing the hound for stepping out of its role and putting it “where it belongs”. Daring to yearn for more cannot be tolerated.

As if the empty race weren’t enough, there’s debt to be paid too. A rock burdening every step, forcing those bound to it to step lightly. Any misstep could spell disaster, drop the guillotine, it’s a constant tightrope cutting into their feet. And it’d be easier if someone else, anyone else, could choose which way to go. To give a direction that won’t lead to disaster. To take that burden off their shoulders. 

Because water’s coming in, the debt’s getting worse, and they’re going to go down. The shore’s visible, it’s there, there’s something beyond the current situation, but it’s not getting any closer.

Whatever hope there is, it’s almost manic. The only thing keeping them afloat. Maybe they’ll get lucky and strike it rich, maybe they can make this paycheck go a little further. But there’s no support, no one to wipe their tears, keep them from teetering off of the edge. 

So the race continues. The pull and snap, the desperate clawing up the hill until Sisyphus’ boulder falls back down again. Stuck in a cycle out of their control. 

At least until they can find the one that chains them. They may not catch the rabbit, but they can bite a hand.

Arcturus Beaming

There’s something special about that moment at rock bottom. Not in the state of it, the despair, the agony, no. There’s something about that moment when it changes. Changes from an endlessly growing pit to… simply the bottom. A moment in time where suddenly the perspective shifts and now there’s a way out and up, a perspective changed by a sight once taken for granted. Maybe it’s the leaves changing in the fall, the sound of people laughing and talking in a cafe. A favorite drink you want to have again. 

Or maybe, it’s the sky. That shimmering tapestry. Dotted with a trillion points of light (should you live far enough away from any pollution to see it) it has served as an inspiration for so many. Ever changing and yet… always there. 

Arcturus glimmers as the 4th brightest star in the solar system, visible during summer in the northern hemisphere. Visible to those even in more light polluted areas, reminding them that there’s more out there than the limited vision of the pit.

The singer begins there, thanking that dark place, where despair threatened to ravage them. They hid from the world there, sheltering to wallow in their pain as it became all they could see for a time. It shrunk their view of what could be, leaving a feat that seems all but impossible. Plato describes a scenario in which a prisoner lives their entire life within a cave like the singer’s own, shown only shadows of objects. Those simulations as their only context, all that they know. But the singer is curious, and that fear can only hold them for so long. They may understand the cave, the pain, but what else is there? 

Hurt accumulates over time, sediment that solidifies into a weight that’s carried wherever one goes. It can be an impossible challenge to free oneself of it, to breathe easy after lifting that stone for years. One’s ribs aching from the strain. But stone is not permanent. Not invulnerable. A steady drip of water can erode, a river can carve a canyon so impossibly wide it’s visible from beyond our atmosphere. Those layers, both easily added, can also be worn away. Leaving something new in its wake. 

That time spent has a cost, of course. Dreams left abandoned, relationships broken, so many avenues that could have been simply… gone. That grief will linger, and that’s alright. But what exists beyond that? What happens when we look up and dream? 

Beyond what we know, beyond what we understand, are there others who look at our sun and wonder? Beyond ourselves are there others crawling out of their caves and seeing more. Maybe we could all dream more

It’s not too late to do something once the revelation hits. To forfeit is the only ending, when we resign ourselves to suffering. But that’s not all life is, it can be changed. We just have to do it. Have to take the steps to push past the indulgent self-flagellation of the cave, and resolve to keep moving. 

This experience rings true for myself. I found I’d dug into a mindset where I feared so much. The future, stagnation, the impossibility of becoming anything other than what I was. Littered with the half started remains of failures, hesitant half starts cushioned by a numb resignation. Couldn’t be disappointed if I never hoped. Cycles of self defeat. Overwhelmed, I laid on the deck outside and stared up into the same sky that inspired this song. Clear inky darkness pinpointed by a million specks of light. I laid there for some time, the same music I’ve detailed in these pages my only companion to a realization that felt so obvious in hindsight and yet I… I needed to come to the conclusion myself.

I can start again. 

It doesn’t matter if I’ve tried a hundred times and the patterns didn’t stick. I can try again. Old behaviors, failed coping mechanisms, they can rear their ugly heads but there is tomorrow. There is a future that I can find. A me I can guide with new tools if the old ones don’t serve me. It may take time, it may hurt. But that’s my decision to make. 

Nothing will change until I change. And we can. 

Time Will Change You

The constant, the inevitable, the sensation of sand slipping through fingers and waves wearing down a shore. A metronomic beat follows the sound of a rusted hinge, thudding footsteps from a never ending march that never relents even as a guitar twangs above it. A companion in the flow. 

The singer too is dragged along with it, pulled along as they almost gasp out the words. It hurts, some part deep inside them finally gave way and broke. It aches and it won’t end- They’ve loved and lost, planted the remains of their heart into a grave, a seed watered by their grief that may or may not bear fruit again. 

And yet there is a twisted comfort on the horizon. Time will continue as it always does, seasons will pass, and with it, things change. For better or worse the singer will change. Everyone will change, and as they do they’ll leave behind what remains stagnant. Phases and traits that once defined are now locked in amber. No longer a part of the present. 

Time doesn’t affect all equally, there is no system that doles out appropriate fates, some can swim and survive the current while others are subsumed entirely. The rush overwhelming in the moment, and it’s impossible to tell which way is up. But the tide will ease, nothing is forever, good or ill. Relax, let time move you and you’ll float along it. 

And you’ll be changed. Like the stone smoothed by a river, edges worn away, the place you once rested, now far in the past. 

And letting go takes effort, make no mistake. Healing even more so. If the grief never grows, doesn’t evolve, doesn’t become more than what was put there before, then it can stay where it is. Left to fade into nothing more than memory. A step along the winding path to the end. 

The journey no one leaves the same.  

Black Hole Fantasy

The concept of a black hole needs no explanation nor introduction. The complete and total collapse of a star, pulling in all light and substance. The basis of many a metaphor for endless hunger, destruction. The end of all things. Yet- they’re often theorized to contain more. Maybe the end of one thing could lead to somewhere else entirely. 

For her part, the singer finds herself stuck in place, whether by some inexorable gravity or circumstance. Repeating the same orbit, going through the motions of life and losing sense of herself. If there’s more to living, a chance or opportunity for a different path, it’s fading from view. The longer one stays complacent, the harder it becomes to move. To find that missing piece that their soul longs for, but doesn’t have the words for. 

Every day blends into the next, the walls of their home becoming smaller as their world shrinks. At the center lies the Black Hole, the gnawing yearning, the pit of absence that they’re ignoring. Hoping it will go away, but it won’t. Ignoring hunger won’t fix a want of food, pretending not to hear a leak won’t prevent the damage. 

And they know what they’re yearning for, or rather- who. But it’s- surely it’s nothing. Nothing more than a chemical reaction, serotonin and oxytocin playing tricks on her. It’d be easier if she could suppress it. She doesn’t know if it’s real, and so what if it is? Confessing, taking a chance… There’s a cost. The foundations she’d build could all crumble to ashes. 

That is if the hole in their chest doesn’t collapse it all first, the time lost to routine is getting longer, time speeding by even faster, with whole weeks passing in an indistinct mass. 

So she goes to confront it head on, driving to confess on the doorstep. But then she stops. What happens next. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if they lose them forever? What if they don’t feel the same? How could they feel the same. The singer doesn’t believe in a happy ending, frankly. Why would any dream of theirs have one? Even in the best case there’s so much that could go wrong that it’d be safer to leave the car running. To leave. Retreat back into themselves where they won’t get hurt. 

But the world keeps crumbling in around them, their room is suffocating, as they’re consumed by the limitations they’ve put in place. Months, years, what does any of it even mean? None of it means anything… and the temptation to look into the black hole finally wins out. 

Instead of a small, enclosed world, there’s more on the other side. She catches a glimpse of herself and there’s light in her eyes, laughter on her lips, and- is she even capable of that? Could she be? Can she find what could bring that life, that joy, that love- 

No, she does know. 

Stars shining above, the singer returns to the dream she shows away from once. But this time she’s turning off the car. This is what she wants. Throwing away the keys and the fear and running up to the door. And it opens. Their love is there and every doubt is gone as arms reach out for her. 

Wrapped in an embrace, the singer can finally catch her breath, and when she pulls back, she smiles. Laughing at how complicated she made this simple moment. Maybe she wasn’t alone in that, as her love joins her. They were waiting on the other side of the door, after all. Twin stars pulled into each other’s gravity, destroying what was before and starting something new. 

Gentle guitar replaces the singer as she walks towards her new life, no longer bound to what was. Closing the scene, rolling credits. 

Red Clay

Work harder, just put more effort into it, the struggle makes it worth it, nose to the grindstone, phrases that are ingrained into the zeitgeist. The more pain experienced, the better the outcome. 

Right? 

An endless climb up a clay mountain, never fully able to get a grip, a Sisyphean struggle that feels like reality. With the Sun beating down, the top never coming closer, the question occurs: what is this for? Why keep pursuing this path that’s only lead to more suffering? Suffering that’s self inflicted no less. 

That one pause is all it takes to break through the tunnel vision, for the singer to take in all of their surroundings. Another path, shaded and just within reach was there all along. They don’t need to do this “the hard way”. It may be all they’d known, but they can see beyond that mound now. 

Their struggle wasn’t for naught, they were afraid for many years, yes. But they understand their fear now, they can be brave, even with that fear. They don’t have to keep on this path. 

The shaded trees beacon. 

River Rushing

Something finally gave. The frustration mounting day by day, it’s too much. Dammed up and now the singer’s had enough. They’re breaking down the walls, the barriers, everything that keeps them crushed under the weight of their regrets. They’re going to change. To let loose their desires and follow the river. 

The singer craves freedom, the person they once were buried under layers of concrete and expectations. If they hold onto these regrets, all the grief of time wasted, then they’ll never grow. Beneath every thought is the phrase they know is true: that there’s no shortcuts here. The only way out is through, charging ahead no matter what. 

Maybe they hesitated before, waited too long and lost something. Someone. But a voice reassures them to hold themselves steady. To go when they’re ready. Because they are ready now. 

Just believing that everything will work out kept them in place, they’re full of defiance, they have bite, a voice that demands to be heard. They’re going to pry the hand around their throat off once and for all. They’ve set their mind to it. 

They’re ready to go beyond. 

[theperksofbeingstupid]

idk if u guys remember , it was a p long time ago but like.. there was this guy yeah? a streamer and he would like. go live right. roughly at 17hr utc-4 but usually later right. and . and he would play games (terrible no good horror games) and talk to his chat. it was awesome. idk if u guys know him tho his name was cellbit? its been a while

[cjlouwho]

my bucktommy breakup story is that I ended up taking a whole month off from the gym after being consistent for over a year with it. lmao I just couldn’t do it. I was TOO SAD.

I didn’t eat a full meal for 2 days, and didn’t sleep well either 😭 and in a fit of rage I deleted the tumblr app from my phone at like 5pm on Friday and then redownloaded it at 8am the next day because I had too many things to rant about 🤣

Ohhh and I also said I didn’t know if I’d ever write again LMAOOOOOOOOO

[twosomeofcuteness]

Imagine how many times Sutekh had to watch River and the Doctor flirt. Or make out. Or have sex. Cause with the two of them being, well, them, I'm betting there were numerous times they never made it in the Tardis before taking clothes off.

[not-a-fool-entire]

The napoleonic wars basically

[ananke-xiii]

cackling because I just saw a tiktok talking about hannibal, the cattle prod and the masons and one person replied with a "OMG I thought this show was JUST about cannibalism".

realest comment ever. to this day knowing that hannibal actually aired on tv is still so wild.

[crash-c0rpse]

What a time

[agapintheskin]

just dudes being bros

[holyshit]

nothing like the weird ass dash energy of a stunt reveal night lol. feels like the dash always encompasses such a wide range of the human emotion spectrum ranging anywhere from upset disbelief to complete neutrality to dizzying hysterical laughter

[desperatecheesecubes]

People talk about the series they fell in love with as kids and I need you to understand how much Avalon Web of Magic rewired my brain as a little girl. I loved the stories, I loved the animals, I loved the ART, I wanted to be a magical girl Just Like Them. I own all of the editions I grew up with now and I have zero regrets about it

[d-issent]

Botched. (Dissent AU.)

Peter Sam encounters Proteus. Having had the Sad Story of Smudger in the back of his mind for decades, he wishes on a whim for Smudger to be restored. Months later, after a remarkable discovery at the Mid Sodor, rebuild!Smudger is indeed - well, rebuilt - but has seemingly lost all of his memories in “exchange.” He loses his personality, his quirks, everything, he’s completely reset.  Peter Sam doesn't do well with guilt. This is part of the Dissent AU! So these guys are all robotisized - robofied? Robotified. Hell if I know. I could've written this with them as their normal engine selves that you see in the show but uhhh I didn't want to! Enjoy!

After days and days of a stalemate, on a hazy, muggy summer evening, Peter Sam finally spoke up, with no one around to hear him but the root cause of his grievances.

“I just feel so guilty,” he blurted out to his shed-mate, “I feel responsible. I feel like I’m the only one at fault for the state you’re in, and I can’t speak about how I feel without someone dismissing everything as ‘just an old fairytale.’ I can’t get closure like that.”

Silence followed his words, at least at first, but soon enough a gentle, almost melodic, metallic ticking of well-oiled parts began to sound, as the second occupant of the shed slowly stretched his arms up to the ceiling. As he moved, the cylinders in his shoulders and elbow joints clunked, releasing a few short, sharp jets of steam, and with it, the tension of the day’s work judging by the sigh of relief that also left him.

“Dunno how I feel about that wording of yours, Peter.” He finally replied, blinking rapidly as the fading daylight from outside prompted the automatic lights in his eyes to flicker on, bathing the shed’s dull, wooden ceiling beams in soft, golden light. Even on their lowest setting, they still illuminated the dust, the cracks and the spider webs stretched across the wood.

Another pause, then his voice sounded again, a twang of something that almost resembled humour mixed into his usual monotone.

“I like to think that I’m in a far better state than some of them poor bastards in the scrapyard at least.”

“That’s setting the bar pretty low if you ask me.” Peter Sam mumbled, his eyebrows pinching together in distress, a crease forming in the soft silicone of his face. “Anyway. My wording’s the least of my worries, God’s sake, Smudger, I’m pouring my heart out to you here, mate.”

“I know, I know. Sorry, I’ll try to be a little more compassionate.”

With another muffled cacophony of clicking and ticking, Smudger hauled himself up into a sitting position, more steam hissed, warming the already humid air.

“I don’t wanna sound like everyone else when I say this, I really don’t,” he began, “but aren’t I enough closure for you? I’m back up and running again, right?”

“Not all of you.” Peter Sam retorted, his voice deepening into an almost pouty, sulking tone. It was a wonder he hadn’t stuck out his bottom lip. “Sure you’re working, Percival even said he’s never seen a re-hauled engine operate so smoothly, but that’s all there is. So what if you’re a ‘miracle of engineering’? You’re not you, Granpuff said so.”

“Duke hasn’t made you feel like this, has he?” Smudger asked. “Because from what I’ve been told, he’s never had the best opinion of me.”

“He hasn’t done anything like that. He never wants to talk about the Mid Sodor anymore.” Peter Sam said defensively, proverbial hackles immediately raising at the thought of the tension between Smudger and his mentor. His hands twitched and twisted in front of him anxiously, wearing down the already peeling, plush grey silicone a little further down his fingertips, revealing the smooth metal beneath. 

Smudger eventually spoke up again, his shoulders pulled up around his head in a tiny shrug. 

“Eh. That’s his cross to bear, I guess. Anyway, even if I’m not all there as you said, I’m not sure if I even wanna be the ‘me’ I was back then if just the thought of that ‘me’ gives our fellow engines a headache, Peter.” 

The older engine tilted his head, eyebrows raising, bringing a little bit of life into his usual plain, weary expression.

“Leave your dang fingers alone. You know it’s not easy for management to get hold of that material. You wanna look like the Terminator?”

“Ugh…”

Peter Sam threw his mauled hands down with a groan of frustration, but the itch to do something with his hands just wouldn’t leave him, and soon enough he was back, almost stealthily picking at the peeling silicone, hoping against hope that Smudger wouldn’t notice.

Silence fell between the two of them, in which the air around them hung heavily with troubles yet to be spoken about, grievances yet to be aired. Peter Sam really couldn’t stand it, he knew that the night was drawing in, and with it the other engines, all groaning and complaining half-heartedly about the day’s work, yet all of them still content and chatting away, filling the shed with noise and stripping away all privacy. He wasn’t sure if he could go another day without getting this off of his chest, he feared his boiler might explode.

“Look. I know how silly this sounds, I know it’s nonsense!” He blurted out, voice high and wavering with misery. “But I know what I saw and I know what I did. I wanted you to be found, I wished for it, I asked Proteus to save you and he said, consider it done! Should’ve known that it would’ve been too good to be true; that it was a botched deal; look at what he’s done to you!”

He turned in his seat, gesturing wildly towards his bemused friend.

“You’re a total blank slate! I know everyone is all cock-a-hoop about your re-haul, everyone’s always talking about how good a job they did and everybody’s always saying how well you run and how bright and glossy your livery is, but what does it matter? You get up; you do your work; you come back here and that’s it! You hardly talk to anyone, you barely react to anything, it’s like you’re sleepwalking through life. Is that really what you want?”

“Sleepwalking through work doesn’t sound so bad.” Smudger quipped.

“God above, Smudger…”

Peter Sam ran his patchy hands down his face, the last remnants of steam leaking out from his ears, covering his face in a misty halo, obscuring his expression for a moment. 

He continued on.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you to be so apathetic about everything, I asked for you to be given a second chance, but what does that matter if he didn’t bring you back? You’re completely rebuilt, you don’t have a single original part left, save for your chip, and even that got completely overwritten! It’s like you’re still lost under the Mid Sodor. You don’t remember what happened, you don’t remember who you were, you couldn’t even remember your name when you first came here, for goodness’ sake, and it’s my fault!” 

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward with a creak of metal, his head in his hands, shoulders hunched, a truly pitiful sight to behold.

“I hate sitting on all of this, and I hate that no one believes me.” He grumbled. 

Outside, the muggy, sticky heat was finally given a period of reprieve. From the murky sky, raindrops began to fall, thick and fast, peppering the ground and the buildings of the Skarloey Estate with much needed water, a roll of thunder sounded in the distance, deep yet muffled, a promise of a stormy night yet to come.

From the gaps between his fingers, Peter Sam saw Smudger tilt his head towards the sound inquisitively, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the older engine’s first storm since his retrieval from the Mid Sodor, and his suspicions were confirmed as he spoke;

“Man. It ain’t just you. Dang sky’s yelling at me and all now.” He muttered, his voice almost lost in the white noise of the rain.

Peter Sam grimaced.

“… I’m sorry,” he sighed, finally lifting his head out of his hands, an uncharacteristically haggard expression on his face, it made him look far older than he was, “didn’t mean to shout, really.”

“S’fine. Feels good to yell sometimes. You’re just lucky Handel ain’t around to make a fuss about the noise.”

Another lapse, and outside the rainfall turned into a deluge, pouring from the sky in a great sheet. The temperature steadily dropped, and the scent of petrichor lingered in the air; the sight and the smell normally would’ve brought some sense of comfort to Peter Sam, but tonight the gloomy weather just made him feel boxed in. He gazed reproachfully up into the dark hills that surrounded the estate, eyes narrowing.

Was Proteus up there right now? Skulking around, refusing to interact with anyone, human or engine, loyal to no railway, answering to no man; spreading his spoiled wishes across the island, duping silly little engines like him into thinking they could make a difference.

Oh. If he found him again… 

“Think you’re beating yourself up about this for nothing, y’know.” Smudger said, bright eyes watching the rain, blinking slowly, lazily. “All that spiel that came outta your mouth was great and all. But you didn’t actually stop to ask me how I feel about all of this, the uh… So-called victim of the hillbilly and his faulty lamp.”

Peter Sam drew his knees up to his chest, his face pulled into a sullen, moody arrangement, feeling for all the world like a student being reprimanded by his teacher. It was a weirdly familiar sensation, one that he really didn’t care to look into at the moment.

“Alrighty. Penny for your thoughts?” He asked, doing his best to lighten his tone.

“I ain’t that cheap, sorry,” Smudger sighed, barely disguising a yawn, it was clear that the older engine’s lack of steam was winding him down for the night, but still, he spoke, “look, I just reckon you’re thinking about all of this the wrong way. Sure, I don’t remember anything about Duke, or the Mid Sodor, but from what I’ve been told, I’m not sure I want to.”

“I can understand that.” Peter Sam nodded, though an awful, sour feeling now sat resolutely in his throat, a need to tell Smudger that he should at least be a little curious as to his origins, but he stayed silent, letting the older engine speak on.

“Even if I could remember all of my misfortune, all of my spills, all those decades spent as a generator, I’d probably wanna forget all that crap anyway.” Smudger said simply. “Wouldn’t you? Growing and healing from horrible stuff that’s happened to you is cool when it’s a plot for some cheesy novel, but it sucks in the real world. Would you wanna do it if you didn’t have to? I wouldn’t.”

“Depends on the engine.” Peter Sam pointed out. “Some of my friends wouldn’t be who they are today if they hadn’t gone through the hardships of life.”

“Guess you could argue that, yeah. But I’m not interested in working through everything that’s happened to me,” Smudger replied, “if I was given the choice, and I have been; I’m fine with not knowing. That’s good enough for me, and that should be good enough for you too, right?”

Peter Sam didn’t reply, but it was clear that Smudger’s words hadn’t sat well with him. He was frowning mightily, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and when he finally spoke again, that sulky edge was present once more, rough and grating.

“Being told about who you were and what happened to you isn’t the same as remembering it.” He grumbled. “It’s hard to think about the past, of course it is, but how are we supposed to grow if we don’t? We need that experience and those life lessons, otherwise we never learn anything, we end up doomed to repeat the same things over and over again.”

“Peter, I’m not stuck in a loop, you know.” Smudger said sharply. “I’m not an idiot, man. I’m not doomed to make mistakes and then immediately forget why and how I made them.”

The older engine sighed, a short and sharp exhalation of breath, a frustrated sound.

“Maybe I haven’t started growing yet,” he went on, “maybe you, and Duke have just gotta give me a chance to figure some stuff out first. Maybe this right here is gonna lead me to become whoever I am in the future. ‘Cept this time the world’s a kinder place, this time I’ve got a bit more sense and this time, I’ve got a couple hints as to what I shouldn’t do under my belt. How about that?”

“What happened to you on the Mid Sodor wasn’t right.” Peter Sam said doggedly, and in his anxious fidgeting, an entire strip of silicone was peeled away from his thumb, earning a grimace form him. “Fiddlesticks. You shouldn’t have been put away like that because of a bad track record, no engine who was treated like some object with no sentience did. What humans did to some of us back then was draconian, you know that, right?”

“That’s not what I’m getting at,” Smudger replied with a shake of his head, “I don’t wanna be a victim. I’m tryna reassure you that this is a far, far better start in life for an engine like me, and knowing what little I know about who I was back then is enough to make me wanna be better. Useful, if you want, that sounds like a second chance. Sounds like you got your wish to me.”

“But…”

Peter Sam struggled to think of another point to make, another angle at which he could approach this, all of what Smudger said made sense, but it still did nothing to appease the squirming, nauseating feeling of guilt inside of his stomach.

“Think what this all boils down to is you worrying that after all of that effort to restore me, I’ve ended up as some miserable prick. A bit like Duke,” Smudger snorted, casting a glance at the deluge outside, “contrary to what you think, I’m pretty happy right now. I’m not out in that mess at least. That’s a cause for celebration if you want my opinion.”

Peter Sam finally found himself cracking something like a smile, a wobbly expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and from across the shed, Smudger appeared to notice this, as with a groan of metal, he sat up a little straighter, fixing the younger engine with those intense, yet warm eyes.

“Peter Sam.”

“Smudger?”

“You did a good thing, alright? It’s fine.”

Peter Sam swallowed a retort, a retort that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to make. Something about the way Smudger spoke worked to calm the storm howling away inside of his head, after such a hard conversation, it was strange how just that simple sentence was enough to quell the unease plaguing him.

It’s fine.

Directly above Smudger’s head, the lamp hanging from the wooden ceiling beam suddenly fizzled, the lightbulb buzzing and dimming almost to the point of popping, before it flashed back up again, bright and warm as if nothing had happened.

Smudger glanced up, an eyebrow cocked.

Peter Sam held his breath, hoping against hope that nothing would come of it, hoping that it was just a faulty lightbulb, hoping…

“Someone’s gotta check out the wiring in this shed tomorrow.” Smudger commented, his eyes sliding closed. “Reckon I might know a thing or two about that.”