#artificial snow bank

[lshedra-blog]

Me and My AI Scene - Fabric of My Immagination by Lutfi Shedraway Via Flickr: Describing a scene to AI and altering the outcome to something I like, can be fun. After multiple iterations between me and the Photoshop AI, we came to settle and agree on the final scene, thus is the name for this scene: Me and My AI Scene - Fabric of My Imagination. I have to say if this scene was real, it would be the first place to visit when I retire. I will take my fishing pole and my fishing gear and be on this lake hoping to catch some bass! The mountain, the boat and the rabbit are AI generated. All else are from photo stocks I had in my photos library. Merging AI and non AI was a challenge!

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Dracula from Houston: Bigby Wolf x Vampire!Reader

He knew something was wrong. He didn’t even have to look at you to know something wasn’t quite right with you, he had known for so long. His nose picked up an odd scent when he walked into the Business Office after Snow had called him in for something he couldn’t give a shit about; It was faint at first, but the longer he stood in the Business Office waiting for Snow the more pungent it became. He didn’t even bother asking Snow when she did finally pop out from behind the towering bookshelves with her arms full of folders, but when you followed her with an even bigger stack, he knew right away.

The smell was slightly offputting, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as he watched you follow somewhat sluggishly behind Snow. It smelled like something had been left in a dusty room for so long. Not quite moldy, but still a little mildewy? Like when you find something up in the attic after it storms and you brush the dust and mothballs off of it.

But one look at you solidified his thoughts.

You hadn’t fed.

Your cheeks were sunk and looked a little hollow and you had bags under yours eyes that could store the Fabletown armory in them. The skin around your eyes were terribly dark like you hadn’t slept in years and the whites of your eyes were an odd mix of bloodshot and yellow from not feeding. Hell, veins were starting to become more prominent along your throat and under your eyes, even now he could see them poke up from the skin against your temple.

How long had it been since you fed to look like this? This wasn’t something that just happens to vampires, especially ones of your age. It had to have been weeks. You were so busy helping Snow and Bufkin reorganize all of the folders and books, rewriting completely new ones to keep up with the Fables leaving Fabletown and replacing the Fables that had tragically passed in all new books. It had been going on for months as King Cole ordered it to be done by Remembrance Day. The three of you were already working your hands to the bone, but you were able to burn the candle by both ends due to being horribly nocturnal. Had you been putting off feeding just to do this shit?

He knew the stereotypes against vampires in the Fable community, he didn’t need to be reminded about the ones constantly slated against him alone. You were like him, not so good in the past to your other Fables and feared amongst many, but you were trying to make amends and fit back into society, especially since your maker had been staked in the Homelands before you all fled here. You were trying harder than he was, and at the very least it seemed to be working.

But because of those horrible fears, its made it horrible for you to find sources to feed from. You grew to hate feeding on humans, Mundies especially when the new world started to turn artificial with the overly-processed foods and all. And it wasn’t like you could easily just walk out in the middle of Manhattan of all places and catch a raccoon or a squirrel and feed on it in the streets. You had to rely on your community, whenever Fables would “graciously” donate blood to the bank run by other vampires from dispersed covens from centuries prior, and even then, there was barely enough blood to feed you all.

But there were times where even the blood bank wasn’t enough. You had almost gotten caught one time in Staten Island when you took out a deer, not realizing it had been tagged by the city when you fed on it and almost got caught by park rangers. That was a fun drive for Bigby to make.

As Snow went on about something with Remembrance Day plannings and needing Bigby’s help with God knows what, he stepped up beside you and brushed his hand against yours. You were so horribly cold to the touch, he thought that if he squeezed your hand too hard your fingers would break off like ice. Your hand quickly enveloped his hand, thankful for the warm he constantly put out as you leaned against him. You sighed contently, Bigby noticing your fangs poking through and his eyebrows furrowed.

“You feeling okay?” he murmured to you.

It took you a minute to register his question, blinking a few times before nodding.

“Yeah.. I just need a break I think,” you mumbled.

You swayed a little uneasily next to him. Bigby anchored your grip and stood tall next to you so you would have a more sturdy lean against him.

“How long has it been since you last fed?” You sheepishly looked away from him, hunching your shoulders up a bit. “(Y/n)-”

“It hasn’t been easy, Bigby.”

He left it at that, afraid that if he tried to dig deeper that you would get upset and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he barely looked at Snow out of the corner of his eye, instead watching Bufkin fly around like a bird whose head was cut off trying to organize the books yet again as she rambled on about whatever chores she would need Bigby to do on top of his workload as sheriff. The three of you suddenly winced as the poor flying monkey crashed into a towering bookshelf, dropping all of the books he had been carrying before falling after them.

He sat up in his chair, eyes refusing to stay closed for long before he had to peel them open. As much as they were dry and needed to roll in the back of his head to sleep, he couldn’t will himself to pass out in his somewhat comfy chair. It wasn’t the distant honking of taxi cabs or the police sirens wailing, it wasn’t the distinct clicking of heels on pavement or the chattering on a cellphone.

It was your scent.

Had you of have had a heartbeat, he would have focused on that more, but he made do with what he could. He could smell you in your apartment a few floors above him, your scent only growing stronger in his nose the more he dwelled on the fact that you were practically starving and there really wasn’t anything you could do about it other than sit and wait for a call that may not happen for awhile.

That odd dusty smell lingered in his nose and teased his mind, urging him to do something.

This really shouldn’t have worked out like it did between the two of you. You both were monsters destined to despise each other. The tales have lasted so long that Mundies write smutty romance novels and over-the-top movies about it. But there was something that just pulled you both together one day and you’ve both been together ever since. He finds it a lot better dating you and doing things you can do like going out late at night for walks and such.

But you were suffering in silence and that was killing him. He could feel it swirling in his chest and gut uncomfortably, the need to help and provide for you like he would if he weren’t human.

He felt something compel him to finally stand up on his groaning legs, his old chair creaking eerily as he suddenly stood to the point where it almost woke Colin from his daze. He quickly exited his apartment and made his way towards your own.

The entire time in the elevator he was going over in his mind exactly what to say to you. He didn’t know how you would actually react, but he knew you wouldn’t be happy with what he was brewing in his mind. The ding of the bell startled him out of his thoughts as the doors opened, revealing both of your roommates - also vampires - were going out for the night, probably to work judging by their attire. He nodded awkwardly at them, stepping off the elevator’s cage and starting for your apartment.

He always found it kind of cute that the door handle was in the shape of a coffin and the doorbell matched it. Both were made of steel but shined like silver. He knew better than to ring it though, opting to knock softly and wait for you to open it. He didn’t hear anything at first, so he tried again, knocking just a bit louder. He eventually heard you get up and shuffle and limp towards the door. You opened it with an annoyed look only for it to wipe away when you saw that it was your boyfriend rather than your roommates.

“Bigby? What’re you doing here?” you croaked out.

He winced internally. You didn’t sound so good. You sounded like you were actively dying and you didn’t seem to fare much better since this afternoon when he last saw you.

“I came to see you,” he smiled softly, hoping to ease the situation. “Can I come in?”

You stepped away and allowed him to pass through. Your apartment had no windows at all and the lights were about half as bright as the other lights in the Woodlands. Perfect for vampires, not so good for the normal Fables.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? Snow just put a lot on your plate.”

You closed the door and started for the couch, slumping down and drawing a thick blanket over your chilled legs. You seemed more… bat-like? He knew you had a glamour, but it was starting to fail. Your eyes were bigger and your ears were starting to come to a slight point.

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m next on the list-”

“You’ve been waiting for weeks and you’re getting nothing. No calls, no offers, nothing sweetheart.” You sighed and rubbed your face with your bony hands, Bigby didn’t miss the claws adorning your fingertips. “Let me help you.”

You shot up, gaze falling on Bigby who didn’t flinch a muscle. A look of dread washed over your face before it twisted to offense.

“No.”

“(Y/n)-”

“I said no!” You stood up from the couch too fast, your legs gave out without any resistance. Bigby caught you, brawny arms wrapping around your body. You whimpered, wanting to give into his warmth and drink from him but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. “No- Bigby, I can’t.”

Bigby lifted you up briefly before turning and sitting down where you just were. He placed you in his lap, placing your legs securely on either side of him. You tried to avoid his gaze, but the hand that grasped at your chin persuaded you to look at him.

Those eyes.

Fuck, those eyes. You couldn’t say no to those eyes and he knew it. Beautiful shades of brown and amber twisting so perfectly they hypnotized you.

You could feel his pulse pounding through his skin. His heart was beating at such a steady pace, hearty and strong without a trace of fear or discomfort to be found. And fuck, he smelled so good right now you swore you would drool.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you debated actually drinking from him. Bigby watched as you fought the dilemma internally, rubbing soothing patterns into your hips and back with his warm hands to give you some heat. You yearned to taste him, but it felt so fucking wrong to drink from your lover.

You found yourself nodding shamefully. Your fangs ached to bite into him, your mind tingling with sensations you hadn’t felt in decades.

Bigby loosened his tie and undid the top three buttons on his shirt. The sudden absence of his warm hands on your body made you whimper, grasping at his open collar with desperation as he shushed you lovingly.

“Bigby,” you whimpered.

Your trembling hands caressed Bigby’s strong jaw as you knotted your fingers in his hair. Your lips ghosted his own, your fangs grazing the delicate skin. You could taste the cigarette he just smoked and the whiskey he downed hours ago still.

“I got ya,” he reassured you, tugging his shirt open and to the side.

Your lips ghosted down his neck to the apex where it connected to his shoulder. You were afraid to latch onto his throat, opting instead for around his collarbone where the muscles rippled and flexed as he breathed in deeply, preparing for the pain. You kissed at his tanned skin before you licked at it lazily. You moaned at the light salty flavor, eyes fluttering shut as one of your hands reached to the back of the sofa and snatched at the wooden frame, claws digging into the overstuffed cotton upholstery.

Bigby moaned softly, enjoying the feeling of you lapping and sucking on his neck. He could feel the skin tingle as he anticipated the bite. The way your fangs grazed his skin made it feel electric to the touch. He did his best to keep his pulse as steady as he could, worried that if you sensed it rise too fast you would pull away and deny yourself food.

You felt something flip in your brain. You felt your eyes sting with life and your mind go blank before you bit dow on Bigby’s shoulder.

Bigby groaned out loud, his hands fisting at the back of your shirt as your fangs sank deeper inside of his shoulder until your jaws locked. You lapped up the blood that spilled out, humming and moaning as his blood dribbling into your mouth. Your hands kneaded against him and the sofa as you drank deeply, eyes fluttering shut as you indulged yourself on your lover’s blood.

The pain ebbed away quickly and Bigby found himself relaxing, his body uncoiling. He felt warmer, the back of his mind growing a bit fuzzy from the sudden blood loss as you took your fill. He slowly felt you growing warmer under his touch, his hands went back to caressing your back to soothe your fried nerves.

When he felt himself getting heavy as a pain started to grow in his head, he tapped your spine before you suddenly ripped yourself away. You were panting like a wild animal, eyes glowing red while your mouth and chin dribbling with his blood. You looked way better already, life springing back inside of you after feeding for only a few minutes.

“Feeling better?” he smirked.

[probablyasocialecologist]

“Last summer, anti-drought actions multiplied. This summer, activists will act with even more fearlessness and creativity: cutting off hoarders’ water supplies, putting golf courses out of action, dismantling megabasins, squatting the swimming pools of the ultra-rich and the air-conditioned offices of their insurers, banging saucepans outside pool manufacturers offices, building beaver dams to revive our rivers and their banks. Our inventiveness must have no limits.” This kind of activist communique follows two years of unseasonable drought across France. As of 30 June, 42 of France’s 96 mainland départements (administrative divisions) contain at least one area with water restrictions. 15 of these 42 are officially in crisis, meaning water usage is restricted to priority functions: health, civil security, drinking water and sanitation. It’s no surprise, then, that French climate groups are escalating their tactics in the fight over water. In August last year during water restrictions in Vosges in eastern France, activists drilled holes in jacuzzis at a holiday resort. Over the winter, others sabotaged artificial snow canons at Clusaz, south-eastern France, while others set up a ZAD (autonomous zone) in the area, citing the winter drought as their motivation.  The most contentious of these groups is Les Soulèvements de La Terre, or ‘Earth Uprising’, which is currently waging 100 days of action against “water hoarders” across the country. In response, the French state is cracking down on so-called eco-terrorism – and hard.

[...]

Earth Uprising doesn’t use the word sabotage to describe its militant action. In French jurisprudence, sabotage denotes an attack on infrastructure that’s vital to the “fundamental interests of the nation��, Basile explains. “A cement production site or a megabasin is the opposite – it’s private infrastructure which puts the possibility of a living future on the earth in peril.” Instead, activists prefer the term “disarmament”. Victor Cachard, author of A History of Sabotage, adds that this term is also a reference to the actions of the ecological movement in the US against the industries building weapons for the Vietnam War and later the Gulf War. “There was the idea among ecological activists to join their environmental struggle with their anti-war struggle, as they recognised that war pollutes,” he says.

[ruumirmir]

"Hey, hey- did you hear? Lord Regrator promoted someone as the new branch manager of our bank!"

"Don't tell me... it's him, isn't it?"

"But of course, I heard the harbinger is playing favorites now-"

.˚ *꒰ঌ There's a new Venator Dux in town ໒꒱* ˚.

Pantalone x Male!Reader | Part of the Loverboy series .༊·˚

𓆩♱𓆪 Summary - When you feel the caress of a mask; an identity, Who do you become? Or, a profiling of Pantalone's loverboy. 𓆩♱𓆪 Author's note - Finished cooking Pantalone's Loverboy a little bit more with this character layout. While a good chunk of his aesthetic has been pinned down, I probably won't go further to draw any sort of outfit or character design for him. As of now, I'm keeping his finer details ambiguous enough to classify as a M!reader. @eluxcastar comrade wake up new Loverboy content just dropped.

➷ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Under the hierarchy of Regrator's ordinance, Fatuus above a certain level of authority don masks signifying their position. Ordinary agents working with classified business information must never run the risk of disclosing their identities after all. One such mask, dipped in a red of warning and adorned with a platinum wing on it's brow is the telltale identity of the bank's Venator Dux. Whether you stand against him in a negotiations meeting, or battle, he's no less intimidating without it.

➷ 𝐇𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

"Hydro represents faith, regardless of how misguided it maybe." "This vision is given to people who either have a strong dedication towards something, or have a desire to help or protect others." From wind to water; That day celestia's eye honed in on the fool falling past a shattered window, dragging down another with him. "How amusing..." they'd think, and brush past the reject to bestow heaven's blessing upon the far more pitiful one.

➷ 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱

Also called 'wine red' or 'black rose'. Like the lovely wines of plum occasionally imported from Liyue. Like blood to snow in the region colored head to toe in muted greys and blues.

➷ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐬

A flower that smells like fresh chocolate. They symbolize peace and tranquility. It is said that Chocolate Cosmos in particular mean “I love you more than anybody can.” Is it more obvious. He offers to pin it on the Harbinger's coat with a knowing grin. A frost-sensitive flower; It requires partial sun or full sun, and flowers from mid to late summer. It cant flourish naturally in a frost-bitten habitat and is artificially kept in greenhouses, only glimpsing the sun every few days through tinted windows. Pantalone barely needs to lift a finger to commission a set of cosmos flowers turned to jewelry for his Loverboy to wear.

➷ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐰𝐚𝐧

A Black Swan signifies an insight about yourself that changes your position from one of victim to victor. Black Swan is a graceful reminder to move from any position where you feel powerless and at the mercy of external forces; it is time to reclaim your personal power. A coin always has two sides however; The black swan theory states that, "It is an unpredictable event that is beyond what is normally expected of a situation and has potentially severe consequences."

➷ 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝

Equal parts strategic leader and hands-on agent, the Venator's blade is no less mightier than his pen. Come hell and high water, his feathered quill can enlarge thrice over to chase down it's targets with a mind of it's own, like a missile dart. You wouldn't fare better in close quarters either. The feather reinforced with hydro can sharpen it to the degree of splitting icebergs and necks alike. Why else do you think his ink occasionally flows in hues of red?

➷ 𝐈𝐜𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞

The steely frost seeping into his coat, A heady spice from the smoke warming the air, and the slow bittersweet aroma that doesn't hit you until after he's gone; an aftertaste.

➷ 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings Be your Valentino, just for you" "I'd like for you and I to go romancing Say the word, your wish is my command" "Ooh, love (there he goes again) Ooh, lover boy (he's my good old-fashioned lover boy, ooh) What're you doing tonight?"

➷ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲

"Faithfulness to something to which one is bound by pledge or duty.""In the shimmering expanse of ice and snow, I pledge my unwavering devotion and undying loyalty to the illustrious Tsaritza, sovereign of this frozen realm. As the frost bites deep and the chill of winter grips our souls, I stand firm in my resolve to serve her reign with pride and honor." "With every breath, I swear to defend her name, her realm, and her legacy, even if it means laying down my life upon the icy plains, for in her sovereignty lies the very essence of our existence. Today, I embrace the cold embrace of eternity, knowing that I have lived and died under the banner of our revered Tsaritza, with unwavering loyalty burning bright within my heart..." And he didn't mean a single word of it. He wondered when that would be the death of him.

[seat-safety-switch]

Tires cost a fortune. You can buy a car for $200, or at least you used to be able to, and easily spend double that on a set of rock-hard ditch-finders from the local tire shop. When I asked a tire company executive about it, they weasel-worded some mouth grease about tires being “expensive to ship.” Obviously, the only way I was going to get through this was to open a tire factory of my own.

This isn’t unusual. Tire factories used to dot this proud nation in a time before AliExpress and Amazon Secondus. Folks just like you and I would go to work and eke out a reasonable, middle-class existence – with a pension – putting high-quality tires under our neighbours’ cars, for cheap. Eventually, some spreadsheet said this was no longer cost-effective, and now we have to order our tires from another country.

I’m sure they have lots of good reasons for this. Tires are a lot better since the sixties and seventies: for instance, when it starts to snow, not everyone within a 50 mile radius of your car is instantly killed. You can brake harder into corners and also take them at greater speed, without them getting all greasy and knobbly as they heat up. You would expect this improved technology to cost more money, which means that the big tire executives needed to outsource it in order to make the final price more affordable.

Of course, this is patented bullshit. If you’re not interested in profit, you can make inexpensive, good tires all day long. Switch Tire Company, being technically a subsidiary of Switch Investment Corporation, is run entirely at a loss. We simply bet against ourselves every day, shorting our stock on the open market. People take the other side of it, maybe because we keep renaming our company to things like “Switch Blockchain Expressions” or “Switch Artificially Intelligent Hookerbots,” the sort of names that make the casual Wall Street Tier 1 investment bank think that we’re up-and-comers. Then we pour the money we made off their backs into running off a new set of race tires.

Sure, I could have used this kind of business acumen to do something other than lose money making tires for shit-box cars. How else was I going to be able to find 13-inch tires that are 10 inches wide?

[effieotto]

For me Effie is white

Effie’s real hair color is probably one of my favorite elements about her character -although we do not have it on the book- and i think about it a lot. I know half of people think she is redhead (like strawberry blond), and the other half think she has honey curls, which is understandable because of Liz Banks. However, for me her hair is pale blond. White, just like Plutarch’s. It emanates an air of purity from her natural self, the human under the Capitol. The Innocence tainted by all the artificial sense of perfection. Exotically attractive, like blood in snow. Which i personally believe represents Effie quite well. The beauty of death. Plain and simple, almost unremarkable, but deadly gorgeous all the same

plus, once i saw someone saying Effie and Plutarch was blood related, like cousins, and now i can’t unsee it. So yeah, it just make sense they have the same shade of blond. Maybe i was just overthinking

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Missing scene from Blood of Elves. Coën argues with Lambert about responsibility, nobility and their fate.

“I believe that. But I’m not gallant enough. Nor valiant enough. I’m not suited to be a soldier or a hero. And having an acute fear of pain, mutilation and death is not the only reason. You can’t stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can’t have. I’m a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to. If a Nilfgaardian parent pays me, I’ll defend Nilfgaardian children. And even if the world lies in ruin—which does not seem likely to me—I’ll carry on killing monsters in the ruins of this world until some monster kills me. That is my fate, my reason, my life and my attitude to the world. And it it not what I chose. It was chosen for me.” —Geralt of Rivia in the Blood of Elves.

Coën drew in a deep breath through his nose. The smell of pine filled his chest, mixed with the subtle fishy odour of the lake, and the sprawling bryonia clinging to the rocky outcrops at his back. The mountains around Kaer Morhen were peaceful and familiar in a way that made his chest tight and his eyes prickle; it reminded him of home. He didn’t resent the ache, but cherished it, for it was one of the few things he had left. A tenuous link to something he could never get back.

His head lolled back between his shoulders and he held that breath deep in torso for as long as he could, expelling it through pursed lips only when the ache became a tight pain. Splashing at the lake edge drew his attention and he watched through slitted eyes as his companion stumbled ungracefully through the shallows.

When Lambert had invited Coën to winter with him, Coën had accepted without hesitation, and had been most bewildered by the relieved grin on Lambert’s face at the time. It had been many years since Coën had wintered with other witchers, and Kaer Morhen’s hospitality had not disappointed. Lambert seemed to be bending over backwards to make sure Coën was included in every part of the wolf’s life here, and for that Coën was grateful.

“Ahh, just as bollock-shrinking cold as always!” Lambert crowed, before swearing as he stubbed his toe on a pebble buried deep in the silt and sand. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, but the mountains could be like that. When the skies cleared and the snows had cleared a little, it could almost feel like early summer, when the cool spring breezes stirred the first buds of wakening meadows but your cuirass became itchy and close.

Lambert flopped down on the threadbare tablecloth they had pilfered from Vesemir’s kitchens as a makeshift picnic blanket—Lambert’s words, said with a wry smirk as they had tiptoed out of the larder like errant trainees. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it out to dry. Not for the first time, Coën was struck by just how good-looking his companion was when the lines of anger and frustration had smoothed out, the shadows in his yellow eyes chased away by good sleep and good food. “Urf, fuck,” Lambert lifted his hips and pulled the damp cloth of his trews away from his crotch.

“Dunno why you didn’t take ‘em off,” Coën said lightly, tilting his head back again to bask in the warmth of the sun some more.

“Told you, not the type of tackle I tend to fish with. If you’d seen the teeth on some of the fish I get from here, you’d understand why.” Lambert shuffled some more and flipped to his front to grab one of the unopened bottoms of ale tucked in the shade of a large boulder. “No drowner spawn that I could find in the usual places. No idea about the far banks though, that’ll have to wait ‘til—,” Lambert waved vaguely towards the derelict old boat he had been working on half-arsed for the majority of the morning.

“Mmhm, and when’s that then?”

“Fuck knows. Between Geralt’s princess and Vesemir bellyaching about the west wing falling down on his head, dunno when I’ll get back down here.”

Coën opened his eyes, squinting into the great expanse of unclouded blue above. Cirilla. Sweet child, mischievous and bright, despite all the trials and loss she had faced. And yet, the shadow of destiny loomed over her, ever present and threatening. Coën had hoped that, with Triss’ arrival, they might have felt slightly more sure of her path forward, but the magess’ presence seemed to have brought new tensions to the fort. The wolf witchers had invited her in, and yet not a single one seemed to trust her intentions, except old Vesemir, who seemed relieved to have someone take a little responsibility from his shoulders; the girl was beyond even the old wolf’s knowledge.

Geralt appeared somewhat exhausted by her and Coën sensed by her advances that there was a history there that Geralt did not wish to revisit, Lambert was confrontational and ice cold, even more so than usual, and Eskel was the most peculiar of all. He was beyond polite, magnanimous, quick to take the knee and open doors for the magess, scurrying around the castle at her beck and call; if Lambert hadn’t told Coën which way Eskel’s appetites leaned, Coën would have assumed it to be flirtation. Yet, it had been Eskel that had gazed at Triss with distrust and apprehension when they had discussed her whisking Ciri away to her Chapter as in days of old.

They had called Triss out of desperation, but not a single one of the wolves were willing to let her take Ciri from them. They were guarded, protective, Lambert perhaps most of all. He treated Merigold with open disdain, dismissing all pleas from his brothers and master to remain civil. Coën surmised it might be more than a distrust of mages in general, but he hadn’t found the opportunity to probe further.

“None of you trust, Triss Merigold. That much is obvious. But Ciri’s peculiarity worries you. Would it not be best for Triss to take on the burden? To let her take the child with her to Aretuza or wherever destination she has in mind?” Coën asked.

Lambert didn’t answer immediately. They had spoken some of the school’s previous experience with such a girl, but the conversation had been stilted and tight, like it was a source of pain and shame. Coën found out little of the girl’s fate, only that she had left her mark on one of Lambert’s kin. Lambert sighed. “N’aw, she’s just another lost kid. Nothin’ new, nothin’ special.” He didn’t look up as he said it, focusing instead on a blade of grass. “As I said, we’ll teach her the sword, let her grow big and strong, and she’ll be like any other warrioress out there.” He flicked the blade of grass away and drew a swig of ale.

“You don’t believe that. I know you too well, Lambert of Kaer Morhen, you may lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You care for the girl, I’ve seen it. You wouldn’t drive her so hard if you didn't, and you would not see her whisked away by the magess. And yet you know there is more to her—”

Lambert rolled his eyes, settling them upon Coën’s face with one eyebrow quirked towards his scruff of dark hair. “It doesn’t make a difference either way. What can we do? Train her to be one of us, but without the poisons. This—that—“ Lambert waved over his shoulder vaguely southward, towards the majority of the Continent, “is so far beyond us, so fuckin’ bigger, we’re just witchers. We fight monsters, that’s it. We don’t get involved, no matter what Merigold might want. No matter the moralistic fuckin’ rants she wants to have over our own fuckin’ mead in our own fuckin’ keep. Arrogant bitch.”

Coën winced and fell silent, giving Lambert’s anger time to settle to an even ebb again. Such was the way with Lambert; whereas the older witchers of the keep seemed to have suppressed their emotions to the point of ambivalence, Lambert’s raged all the fiercer as if out of spite. It was one of the things that Coën admired so ardently about him; the way he took on the world unapologetically and refused to succumb to its darkness. When Coën sensed the turbulent waters had settled, he continued. “You agree with Geralt, then. That there is no side for us to take in this conflict in the South, no greater good for us to fight for.”

“The only greater good for us is coin,” Lambert murmured. “Come spring, we should head south and we can clear up in the wake of the armies. Wade through the shit and the corpses to find the monsters. It’s what we’re built for.”

Coën huffed. “You sound like a cultist reciting a mantra you don’t even believe yours—“

“Where’s this goin’? Out with it. I’ve had enough of politics, euphemisms and bloody philosophising from Merigold this winter; I don’t need it from you too.”

Coën gazed over the lake to the far bank where a mist hung unnaturally among the trees. Foglets, no doubt. The recorded voices and shapes of hundreds of trainees that had perished in the mountains. Souls that were never given the opportunity to realise their potential, to breathe free air beyond the confines of the brotherhood. “I’ve been thinking more on those orphans Triss spoke of. How she works to prevent them from being orphans in the first place, whereas we’re just there after the fact to pick up the pieces.”

“You let her get into your head,” Lambert shook his, adjusting his trews once more, nose wrinkled in discomfort. “She was just trying to take a cheap shot. Get a knife in your ribs and twist.”

“What if she’s right? We may be mutants, but can’t we rise above? Become more? We are worth twenty Cintran soldiers. Having witchers fight on the side of the North, we—we could turn the tide of this war, we—“

“Delusions of grandeur.”

Coën’s blood ran hot with anger. While he admired Lambert’s sass and sarcasm when it was directed at others, he didn’t much enjoy being the target of it. Such dismissal bit at him, and he didn’t much want to examine why it hurt so very much. “So we stand by and watch the world burn so long as we line our purses, how very noble. We pick over the corpses of children like graveir, thugs and mercenaries with yellow eyes.”

“I never pretended to be otherwise,” Lambert snapped back. “You seem to think we owe this world something. We don’t. You think they’d care if us mutants fought at their side? You think they’ll give you a fuckin’ medal? Accept you back with open arms? Write stories and songs about you? Grow up. You’ve got yourself all wrapped up in those fairytales you read to Ciri.”

“And so what if they don’t? It’s not about that—it’s about doing the right thing, it’s—“

“There is no right thing. There is survival. There is getting through another pissin’ year and getting back here. Drinking with the people who actually give half a shit about whether you live or die. That’s it!”

Lambert was shouting now, his eyes furious, and Coën’s belly had tied itself in knots. Defensively, Coën raised his own voice, shoulders bunching. “For you, maybe. But I’m done with it. Maybe I want to become more! Rise above. Maybe I want to fight for something meaningful, defend the innocent, protect the—“

Lambert’s eyes narrowed, his fist tightening around his bottle, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Throwing your life away won’t bring them back, Coën. Get your head out your arse. They’re dead, and you’re alive. Foolish sacrifice for those who don’t give a shit about you is just that, foolish. You’re a witcher, not a hero, stop trying to be more than you were made to be.”

Lambert’s words cut sharper than any knife. His lip lifted in a sneer of what looked like contempt, but there was an unnameable hurt in his eyes. Coën couldn’t parse it, he couldn’t even begin to, because his own anger and hurt was making his head ache. “Then perhaps I am a fool,” he snapped, rolling to his feet and snatching his shirt from the grass. “And as my foolishness seems to vex you so, I shall relieve you of my presence.”

“Fine! Why don’t you scurry off to Merigold? I’m sure she could tell you exactly the best way to piss your life away on her crusade.”

Coën stalked away and didn’t look back. He found Eskel weaving baskets with Ciri in one of the stillrooms and sat with them. The older witcher studied him closely, one of his large hands pawing at the scars on his face om thought, but he said nothing.

The rest of the winter passed much the same as before, but Lambert was no longer open and jovial in the evenings. He festered by the fire, muttering darkly about the cold and throwing an occasional scathing remark in Merigold’s direction, only to be chastised by Eskel, Vesemir or both. He drove Ciri just as hard—harder, when Triss wasn’t looking—and picked fault with everything she did.

Coën found her sitting by the fire one evening, picking dejectedly a the scabs on her hands, and staring into the flames. He brought her a blanket and hot mug of juice. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“Half an oren, and we’re talking!”

He thumped her lightly on the shoulder as he sat at her side, and she heaved a sigh. He pressed gently. “Come, a burden shared is a burden halved. Talk to me.”

“I think Lambert hates me, thinks I’m weak.”

“No,” Coën said quickly. “He loves you. Very much.”

Ciri blinked at him in surprise. “But he berates me every day. I disappoint him with everything I do. I need to get it right, I need—“

“Princess, Lambert is harshest to those he loves the most.”

“Well, he must absolutely worship Triss…”

Coën winced. “Ah, yes, no, perhaps there are exceptions, but…”

Ciri sniffled and turned her head away, one of her small, broken hands lifting to her face. He placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Come, there’s no need to hide your tears.”

“He’s right, I am weak…”

“No.” Coën lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “When I lost Kaer Seren, I cried for many days, and when I thought there could not possibly be a single tear left, they kept coming. Do you think me weak?”

“No, you’re so strong. You can shoot an apple from the air at a billion miles away! You make Lambert sweat in fencing and you can do ten backflips in a row, and—”

Coën smiled crookedly. “Your emotions aren’t something to be overcome, they are part of you. They make you stronger.”

“I need to get this right, I need to get strong, I need to kill him. I need to avenge them all. I need to—“

“And you will,” Coën said. “But Cintra was not built in a day, and its lioness is still a cub with a lot of growing to do. You must give yourself time. Strength is something that is forged through hardship, through failure. It will come.”

She gave him a watery smile and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I will get strong, Coën. I’ll listen to everything he teaches me, everything you teach me, Geralt, Eskel… I’ll get strong enough that I can protect people. Save people, you know, just like you do.”

“Yes,” Coën said, smiling. “You will be the greatest of us. Now, drink your juice. It’s past bedtime and Lambert wants me to teach you the crossbow tomorrow.”

“He does?”

“I found him stuffing targets only an hour ago.”

She squealed with excitement and downed her juice. He carried her to bed shortly after, tucking the heavy furs around her narrow frame. But that night sleep wouldn’t reach him; he listened to the others snore as he stared at the ceiling, thinking of orphans, monsters and war.

Come spring, he would head to the front, Coën decided. He could not stand by. He would rise above. He would become more.

[tarisilmarwen]

RobStar Week 2023, Day 4 - Missing

(Set during "How Long Is Forever" because apparently I like hurting myself.)

---

The gears near the ceiling rumbled as he stepped into the dimly lit room. Nightwing didn't blink, his eyes already adjusting.

He made a clinical sweep, glancing in each of the corners of the room to check for hidden threats. Satisfied for the moment that nothing had gotten past his security system, he made his way to the computer control on the far wall.

His boots echoed emptily in the hollow space, dull echoes bouncing off the surfaces. Aside from his footsteps and the occasional hiss of steam, it was oppressively quiet.

With a flick of a hand on the console the system booted rapidly to life, cool blue artificial light falling across his face. The camera feeds arrayed themselves on the topmost bank of screens, showing silent snow-covered angles of Jump City. His OS waited for his input, blinking green cursor in the DOS window that had auto-opened on the screen.

Nightwing reached for the keyboard. He happened to glance at the other icons on the desktop.

His hand stilled, hovering over the space bar.

He stared, confused, at the small red circle imposed over the shortcut for the messaging app.

The little dot stared back at him for a long moment as his mind blanked out, bewildered.

He had a message?

He never got messages.

Cyborg was the only one who still had his contact info and in all the years he'd been set up here he had never...

He was frozen for a portent minute. Warily, he moved the cursor to hover over the icon.

He hesitated for one second longer before he clicked it.

The message opened. It was from Cyborg, like he'd thought, and consisted of a single line:

You were right. She's back.

Nightwing gaped at the words, uncomprehending for a tense eternity. His eyes widened abruptly, the dawning realization of what Cyborg meant hitting him like a bowling ball.

Yanking out his desk chair, he sat down and flipped through camera feeds, flashes of the city blipping one by one in rapid succession as he searched.

Downtown business district, nothing. Central Park, nothing. The abandoned factory section, nothing.

Finally, he found an angle that showed a flying streak floating over the city. Breath hitching, he adjusted the programming of his surveillance system, directing it to track the anomaly.

The system filed through a few different cameras before one caught a close enough glimpse.

The air left his lungs like his breath had been punched out of him. His back hit the chair solidly as he sat, gaping, a vice of emotion squeezing around his throat.

Vibrant red hair. Orange skin. Purple garments accented with metal bracers.

His heart was sputtering, like it had forgotten how to beat. He could hear his pulse loud in his ears.

It couldn't be...

Starfire.

His head spun, sitting there dumbly, just watching her as the cameras tracked her across the city. With a rush, he hurled forward, typing out a reply to Cyborg.

When? was all he managed to get out, before his impatience made him smack the button to send.

The wait between the response seemed interminable.

A new message blipped.

She's looking for Warp. She's trying to set things right. She needs help.

Frantic fragmented disjointed thoughts collided in his head, but his body was moving automatically, sliding to another panel, scanning for chronol distortions. Within minutes he was on Warp's trail.

Long buried emotion threatened his composure, rising up like heat in his face, stinging his eyes. He clamped down on the surge, shoving it back under the lid he kept all his feelings under.

Focus, he told himself.

Cold professionalism dropped over him again, as he leapt from the seat and stalked back out. Though his body was charged up with adrenaline he kept it controlled, his face as expressionless as ever.

The biting chill of the outside air clawed at his face, scraped his lungs as he moved silently across rooftops. Nothing slowed him down. He didn't stop to think. If he stopped moving, he would start to double-guess, question himself. He had to keep going fast enough that the grief couldn't reach him.

At the same time, he pushed back against the warm spark starting to pop inside his chest, the faint flickerings of hope. He was just going to check this out, that was all. Investigate Cyborg's claim. He couldn't afford not to. He'd promised he would never stop looking.

He made it to the last location his scanner had pinged Warp's tech at. It was an open boulevard, and there were two figures there, unusual since these roads were usually empty and abandoned these days.

One wore gold-plated armor. Encased helmet, black slacks. Nightwing would know him anywhere. Warp. The other...

A sharp splinter of hot iron felt like it stabbed up through his stomach, piercing his heart and lungs. His limbs pumped faster; he leapt from the roof to the street below, his only goal to reach her before the blast charging in Warp's weapon did.

Robotically, he flung himself at Warp, anger burning under his sternum that the man would dare raise his hand against her again. The villain weighed practically nothing to the surge of strength flowing through him; as soon as he found his feet he was throwing Warp down an alleyway.

Warp hit the wall so hard it cracked, but Nightwing wasn't done, hurling a handful of explosive disks.

They popped off in the empty silence like thunderclaps, smoke and fire filling the alleyway. Nightwing punched through the smoke with a yell but the villain was already gone, slipped away like mist.

One long slow inhale and he calmed himself, the hot fury inside him siphoning away. Control. He wasn't fifteen anymore.

But he stood and turned around and she was. She was small and wide-eyed and so young; it was boggling to be looking down at her. She seemed so much tinier and thinner, standing timidly at the entrance to the alley, green eyes like wide plates, astonished, fearful, and a bit uncertain.

She was breathtaking, stepping from the shadows of the past unchanged like some kind of immortal fae... and he couldn't touch her.

A somber shroud darkened over him. She couldn't stay. She was trying to go back, of course she was trying to go back. She didn't belong here, in this bleak, hopeless future. The damage was done. His timeline would never go back to the way it was.

She couldn't stay.

He steeled himself firmly, posture somber, shuttering away his heart, and all the things he wanted to tell her.

I love you. I missed you. Please don't go away again.

Instead he said:

"It's good to see you again."

***

There was some part of him that felt lightened, free of some heavy weight, even though he knew she would only be here temporarily.

"Watch your step," he told her, leading the way down the stairs. "The third stair from the bottom is a little warped."

It squeaked under her foot as she put weight on it and she gawped, yelping a little, startled.

He turned his face so she wouldn't see him smile.

"We can track Warp through the chronol distortion he causes around him," he told her, pressing a button on his gauntlet and bringing up his personal HUD, which showed a little holographic map of the scans his supercomputer up in the main room were running on the city. "Temporal anomalies cause vibrations in the air molecules that the scanners can pick up."

Switching off the display he went for the weapons rack, loading his utility belt back up with all the basics. He'd left with a severely depleted supply when he'd gotten Cyborg's message, and he wanted to be prepared for anything in the upcoming fight.

"We hit him hard, but carefully. Chances are the tech in his suit is the only thing that can send you home. We don't want to damage it," he was rambling absently, loading up freeze discs and wingdings. "Hopefully the others will come help, but I think we can still take him if they don't."

"Robin?"

For some reason, this time, her voice froze him in place like ice, a lasso looping tight around his throat and squeezing, rendering him incapable of speech for a moment.

Nightwing's mind strained for control, his adam's apple bobbing harshly as he swallowed.

"Have... have I done something... wrong?" she asked.

His head whipped around, against his better judgement. "What?" he blurted. "No! No of course not, Star," he rushed to assure her, the rest of him turning around to face her. "Why would you think that?" he asked in dismay, cracks showing in his unflappable expression, unable to hide the distress that pinched his eyes.

She ducked her head, softly, some kind of awful sadness in her eyes. "It is just..." she began, then fiddled with her hands a long moment, wringing them. "You... you have not touched me once since we were reunited," she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear it. "You have barely even looked at me."

Screams scraped against the sides of his head and it was all Nightwing could do to keep his expressionless mask in place.

Starfire clutched her hands tighter around the edge of the blanket, the only display of affection he had allowed himself to give her, shrinking in on herself like a wilting wildflower.

"I... I know that it is... different now," she strained out, "and you cannot reassure me in the way you might have when we were younger..." She was almost biting her lip, eyes watery and welling. "But I... you feel so distant and strange and I—I cannot help but feel like you don't want—"

He broke.

In an instant his arms were wrapped around her, and he was fifteen and terrified again, his face buried in her hair, embracing her with all his might and shuddering, silent sobs rattling up through him.

"You were gone," he whispered. "You were gone, Starfire. You disappeared." His throat was clogged, snot and inelegant emotion choking him. "I never stopped looking. I couldn't. But you were gone for so so long that I just—"

A strangled hiccup escaped him.

"—It—It hurt too much, I—"

Her hands pressed on either side of his face, pulling his head firmly back in front of hers, so she could look him directly in the face.

"I am sorry," she whispered tremulously, voice wavering. "I am sorry you had to go through that. I am sorry I was not there. I am here now," she told him.

Nightwing sniffed back his breath, senses tingling, struggling to regain his calm. "It's okay," he said, even though it wasn't, even though everything in him wanted to shatter. He forced himself to take a step back, distance himself from her warm touch.

He inhaled and exhaled, getting himself back under control. She watched him with concern, familiar and touching, her gaze like a soothing balm on his soul.

She can't stay, he reminded himself. He had to send her back. To her time, her Robin.

He wouldn't let himself go through this again.

A firm, burning determination shone in his eyes as locked eyes with her.

"Let's get you home," he said fiercely, conviction ringing out through every part of him as she ignited fire in his bones.

They would set this right.

[isolaradiale]

WARNING — BREACH LEVEL: FOUR

Each screen flashes an ominous red across the various screens sitting throughout the room, the artificial illumination only amplifying it with each repeat of those four, little words. Saying this was alarming would be a severe understatement, even alongside the siren which wails in tandem to the voice that leaves their speakers. Only the sound of a frustrated sigh escapes the bespectacled blonde, the reflection in her glasses almost a comical mirror to the annoyance that glares from narrowed, green eyes.

“So, what’s causing it this time—”

It’s a question spoken in urgency, fingers immediately pinching the bridge of her nose. To think one, small change would cause such an unspeakable weakness in their defenses, no matter how temporary it may be. “And to think it’s already managed to burrow their way this deeply again, too, after all this time.” Were it not for the air of pride that clings to her tone, one would be sure to hear an almost exasperation that laces in her tone.

REQUEST TO MEMORY BANK: APPROVED COMMUNICATION ACCESS  SHUTDOWN COMMENCING IN 5… 4…

Another string of words, far more concerning than the last. One hand immediately shoots out to press a button, one meant to signal a broadcast to the very citizens they have sworn to keep watch over from the skies as Stars. And yet… no connection can be made. Only the lonesome sound of unnerving silence greets her before pittering out into nothing, as if left adrift in the darkness of space itself with all contact severed. Pleiades is swift to collapse into her chair upon realizing, taking a moment to observe each message blink to life across their computers as arms cross, a finger pressing to her lips in thought.

“I think I can gather what they’re trying to do, but…”

She scoffs, withholding a roll of her eyes in detest, keeping watch as datastreams begin to blip — becoming fragmented with each passing second — from view within the confines of the system.

“Ofiuco. Is it possible for us to buy time for you to manage a way to remedy all this? Before they manage to wipe everything, that is.” The question was pensive, something earnest as she finally offers a glance to address her colleague.

“Ah, you're in need of my services? Perhaps if I take control of one of my other bodies, then... I hope I'm getting paid overtime.”

“When, or if, we somehow make it out of this with minimal, or total, setbacks, it can be discussed then.” It was the least that could be offered as another sigh is let out. “But if that’s the case… I suppose the rest of us must play the supporting role by diverting as much collateral damage as we can manage. At least if we want as smooth of a retaliation as possible.” Wheels roll from her chair, reaching down into a bag to slip out another, more portable, laptop from a bag as a commanding look. “Then shouldn’t we all get to work?”

The sound of footsteps soon fall in sync with the whirring electronic sounds that send the chilling warning throughout the facility. And in the city, only silence reaches over the vast expanse of each ward and branch. Peaceful, a scene so serene that one could not think it possible to disturb — until the sound of white noise lingers softly in the air. Static snow flickers within an instant, only missed by a mistimed blink.

And then… nothing.

Perhaps it was merely a trick of the eyes; something your mind fabricated that leaves you with nothing but a sense of something missing. Maybe it was simply all in your imagination. There was no need to try recalling something that was never there in the first place. After all, were it something of importance to you, you would have remembered it, wouldn’t you?

If you did, would you even truly wish to remember it at all… ?

“Tsk. Dammit, NULL. What’s your…”

welcome to our newest and 25th event, FRAGMEMORIA. while this event may deal with memories on a surface level, the theme is far more in the aspect of forgetting them and eventually, in turn, coming to the difficult decision between seeking what you feel you've lost and regaining them or possibly running away from them instead of facing or recalling them. this will be the first part of the event, with the second part being posted ONE WEEK from now. this entire event will run until APRIL 28TH, 11:59:59PM EST.

So what's happening?

null, after some time, has resurfaced once more and has chosen to once again breach the defenses of the stars for their agenda. what their aim is going about it this way is unknown, however one thing is very clear: the current target is the memory bank, thus the memories belonging to the people that have been brought into the city of spirale: you. due to this, vital memories have become fragmented or even erased entirely, leaving those affected with a gaping hole in some capacity to it. don't be mistaken, though. just because their memory has been fragmented or has gone missing, that doesn't mean it's been replaced or that they've suddenly become a different person who has lead another life entirely.

What does this mean for us?

essentially, this means that your character will be walking around with holes in their memory, no matter the contradiction that tries to resolve it. maybe as they go about their day, they might feel something is off. that nag that they're forgetting something that itches in the back of their mind, never quite coming back to them no matter how hard they try to remember. or perhaps they don't even care that there feels like an emptiness and carry on their life just as easily, maybe even better for some, as they had before.

maybe an event happened with someone, only for them to remember the event itself but can't recall who was there with them in that moment. or perhaps they forgot something that happened entirely, that period of time just a blank space in their mind. imagine the reasons why you fell in love with someone or becoming their friend suddenly vanishing, leaving you still with that bond between you yet forced to wonder how it all even happened in the first place, no matter how hard you rack your brain for those reasons.

keep in mind that your characters will act as they always have, as this isn't a basis for alternate versions of themselves. they'll still behave and act as they usually would, perhaps with very minimal changes such as treating someone they've forgotten a little more distantly, etc, but ultimately they'd be the same as they always have been.

Are we able to remember our things again at any point?

not at all! once any memory has been affected, it won't come back, no matter how hard they try to remember or others try to remind them of what they're forgetting.

but don't worry, either! remember (no pun intended i promise), this is a two part event, so be sure to keep your eyes peeled during the ongoing event for when the second half goes up.

What kind of memories are affected?

so long as the memory is something of great importance to the character, that's all the criteria that's needed for it to become fragmented or erased. these memories can stem from their canon or isola itself and they don't have to be bad or good memories, just so long as they had a great impact on the person.

How many memories can be affected?

depending on what you'd like to do, you're welcome to have none of your memories affected or up to about three or four. keep in mind that the entire memory of your life WILL NOT be erased at all, only specific memories. regardless, you're welcome to have all your memories hit by this at once or gradually do it over time, whichever suits you best!

Can one person forget something while another remembers it?

absolutely! in fact, things like this are also encouraged. each memory that's affected is on a personal level and not a collective one, so it's more than possible that someone has forgotten something that another remembers which can cause confusion and even conflict. regardless, no matter how much the person tries to convince someone what happened, who was there, etc, those memories will stay erased or fragmented.

I have a question I don't see on here!

feel free to send a message to the masterlist with anything on your mind and we'll answer them timely as to not keep you waiting to participate! we'll do our best to answer accordingly and be as clear as possible.

[plasticross]

he is a giant black hole on a page. a well of black ink found among a snow bank. he was artificially placed there for contrast.

[bugginoutofthisworld]

Pandora's Shop (or, Bodega Triangle)

I’d decided to shed my skin, which had been flaking off for years, in a place of nightmarish liminality. Where the only variables are expiration dates. The neon mermaid bade her tail and winked at me as I shook dandruff from my scalp in a snow of powdery crust. A chill overcame me and my dry skin cracked further, an artificial breeze constricting my pores. The palms of my hands clammed, something that hadn’t happened since a childhood incident with a bullfrog who’s piss gave me warts between my fingers so big they couldn’t close. Leaving the quarry that day was a kid who didn't shake hands and his butterfly net of sun-dried tadpoles.

Chipped paint on vestibule walls. Nothing is less appealing to a customer than last year's eggshell under this year's ivory. How hard is it to slap a layer of varnish to wood panels so dry even the termites have gone? It would give the sticky handles of carts and baskets some justification; oh their money is being used on aesthetics rather than sanitation, can’t have both that’s for sure. The soggy coupon ad in the basket I grabbed plopped onto the trashcans rim and slid to the bottom of the bag with a squelch. The radio above reminded me, in the words of Sheryl Crow, “all I wanna do is have some fun.”

Shattered stained glass like that which belongs in a cathedral cracked under my fingers and scathed the wax floor that led to aisles of superfluous inebriation. I’d have stayed home if not for my inability to function without room-temperature vodka in my stomach. And knowing myself as well as I do, the half-fifth I had at home was full of water. Drunk-me had stopped putting my vodka in the freezer because most mornings I’d shakily wake up to it frozen. My ironic humor led my eyes to watch the shelves for new drinks I’d never try. Whenever my work friends and I go out to the bar they order seltzers, something their wives said would quell a beer gut. Frankly, carbonation and vodka sound as appealing as children and pedophiles, but as one might justify his pedaracy, what was the harm in looking?

NEW! Newman’s Own Hard Seltzers: Have you ever been drinking and thought to yourself, ‘I could really go for a salad right now?’ Look no further than the liquor department at your local grocery store for such a convenience. Newman’s Own is elated to bring to you the latest in refreshing alcoholic beverages with its own line of hard seltzers. Try our raspberry vinaigrette flavor for a tangy and crisp addition to your carbonated vodka. If you’re in the mood for something classic our ranch flavor is sure to satisfy. You bring the lettuce, and we’ll bring the dressing. Please drink (Ir)responsibly. 

With a handle of the most acetone-like vodka tucked under my arm, sloshing a foamless tide, I was ready to pull a swig. To pickle your insides was the most common cause of death in my genealogy. Most of us died pre-embalmed. I told my mom before she passed that I wouldn’t turn out like her brother, my uncle. Who bisected himself and his car on a telephone pole while on the run from a townsworth of sheriffs who were called to chase the violent bank robber that smelled like cinnamon whiskey and could hardly stand, let alone point a gun.

She croaked, and out came the bullfrog; a warty beast of sebaceum so viscous that most flies were caught on him rather than by him. And fed from a stagnant pond with mosquitoes so bountiful they outnumbered the people that lived in the apartments below. Nests of eggs were laid at the pond's edge and under a mountain of muck at the bottom the bullfrog lay masked, waiting for the buffet of hatchlings. From that hill rooftops seemed like asphalt ground and trees like bushes that lined an infinitely expansive blue front door. What I’d always wanted was to knock and ask for directions home.

The cashier behind the till stared at a vacant wonderland ahead of him. If there was a dollar in that till for every zit on his face he’d have enough to break a day’s worth of twenty’s. A haunting atmosphere became of him and the white noise emanating from the humming soda coolers. Fluorescent light is a killer of organic energies, shattering the bone under the skin. Nothing about the cashier felt less than uncanny; human cartilage.

Breakfast was a meal I routinely skipped. In favor of a mug of black coffee and a glass with a raw egg, hot sauce, vinegar, salt, and pepper in it which, along with a shot of vodka, was the only cure for the gale winds and dead fire I awoke to every morning. With more skin left to peel than time I had I wandered with the hurriedness of a molasses snail. Cereal changed little after all these years. A shiny new logo, a thinner mascot, and forgoing box tops for education. 

Post Honey Bunches of Toes: For the kid who hates corn chips but loves the smell. Never has breakfast been gamier. Enjoy our new sock fuzz edition! Watch the strands of fuzz swirl in your milk and forget the days of yawns at the breakfast table. Once you’ve finished, fish around the bowl for loose toenails and satisfy that childlike oral fixation! For every ten boxes sold we’ll donate toes to a child in need. Coming soon: new blister flavor!

Even before the hangovers, waking up in discomfort was as regular as morning dew or an oily nose. To remember falling asleep was to beg for memories that weren’t there. After a while of asking I’d just accepted that it was impossible for me not to fall asleep on the couch and have my step-dad carry me to bed. Food was a distant thought in my waking mind. Water was in orbit. But to rectify the pain was as immediate a concern as an asteroid barreling through the atmosphere. My step-dad was the kind of tough that you’d only come to realize was a farce after he succumbed to the hurt. Enough times of seeking help and only getting a fistful of painkillers was a lesson in complacency.

My childhood woes often lost themselves amongst my boundless imagination. Playing with action figures, who could be heroes, villains, cops, or teachers all in one day was my favorite pastime. Hesitancy overcame me in the toy aisle of the store. Although their heroes were more plastic than mine, and although their eyes drooped the way cheap paint runs, I couldn’t fight the melancholic nostalgia that made me bite through my gummy lips. I might not see a hero in Strongarm Mike or Daredevil Nick. But I do see the opportunity to create for them a life beyond their toxic Chinese parts. 

Two princesses, in royal blue and purple gowns dance a waltz in a glittering ballroom. From them emanates a hue of sparkling magic which guides their dancing feet and tosses the tulle of their gowns in a dramatic flair. Under the glass floor two heroes’ barrel through the raining debris of a falling skyscraper, each with an unconscious construction worker thrown over their shoulder. A figure-eight of the princesses' wands invites the men into their realm and sets the workers in pumpkin-shaped ambulances. Mike grabs the hand of the blue princess who, with a wave of her wand, clothes him in a teal suit. Nicks’ purple princess bestows him a lavender colored ensemble. The pairs break off and sway with each other to the sound of fluttering piano keys. 

New! Hasbro Lolita Doll. Finally! A doll made to be played with by the veiny hands of old predators- oh, excuse me, Humberts. Nothing strange to see here! You can now own your own nymphette doll. Lolita comes equipped with a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and pre-broken hymen! Who said toys are just for kids? Now the kid is the toy. Feel free to take Lolita across state lines and into innumerable hotel rooms where she’s just begging to be statutorily raped! Watch your wallet! As our new Lolita doll is built with a special A.I. that will find your cash and build herself a nest egg in hopes to run away. Coming soon: Brolita, because women can be predators too!

A tactic in self-preservation I’d learned early on was to piss in a drawer at the corner of my room. There was a book I’d read in second grade that taught me about pheromones, about the way animals secrete fluids that can invite or deter others. Like a sort of implicit instruction that finds itself teaching from the subconscious. The bullfrog hated the drawer. My experiment started once my fear of crossing his path overwhelmed my need to piss. On the precipice of an infected tract, I awoke one night to a strained throb in my bladder. While half-asleep I wandered over to the drawer which presented itself to me as a porcelain latrine. In a frothy gush like that of a breaking dam I flooded the drawer. And went back to bed. The next morning the bullfrog wasn’t standing over me nor did I wake up with the pains. After a few more weeks of using the drawer, I’d figured out the correlation. 

I ran my nose up and down the cleaning aisle in marathon laps. Like some scentless apprentice I could distinguish clean linen from lavender serenity from April fresh from blossom and breeze from Hawaiian aloha from fresh lemon. They worked in harmony to create an environment that left my skin itchy and my lungs ablaze as the chemical compounds worked their way into my already clogged bronchi. And remembering the time I poured bleach into my piss drawer and created a gas so noxiously overwhelming it did the bullfrogs job for him I hesitated as I made my way. 

Cotton fabric is a particularly absorbent material. My clothes always had a musk of cigarettes and nap sweat from my jackets to my boxers and socks. Yet, I was olfactorily unrecognizable. The ecosystem of sanitizing elements that watched me like birds on telephone wire, without trying, hid me in a drape of anonymous scent. Into the mirage of frost, I disappeared. And cried. Bees attacking my eyes with their sharp thoraxes. Gushes of salivation clawed my sunny eyes and bled onto my face. Into the freshly peeled skin of my cheeks, dry and raw, ran a tidal of abstract, toxic compounds. Underfoot the ground disappeared and became a crunchy and brittle surface. My blue toes, numb to thought, squelched in the swamp at the soles of my shoes. Fire engulfed what nerves were left to sing a song of damnation. Shaking so violently the world crumbled from its trembling axis. Fell into a clear void of thick fog which hissed from every point possible in the third dimension. 

Try the holiday favorite, available year-round! Gregg Nog: Nog gathered from the spunky nuts of a bachelor named Gregg. We’ve got him hooked up to a machine out back that milks the boy dry day in and day out, so you don’t have to worry about harmful additives or chemicals. Notice the faint yellow hue and taste the eggy goodness. Kids love Gregg Nog! Don’t wait till Christmas for that other, less impregnating beverage; and switch to a healthy, proteinated alternative, it’s Gregg Nog! The only beverage that you can feel moving on your tongue!

The price of milk is only getting more expensive- I mean what is the deal with inflation? Whoever is behind this must be the same ladies working on my husband's tits. And it’s not just because he has a baby on the way- no ma’am. It’s because he has two babies on the way. If you’d have told me that my husband getting pregnant would make him horny and well-endowed I’d have stopped masturbating in the bathroom after he fell asleep years ago. No, no- I’m serious. Nothing makes me feel uglier than looking up into the mirror stained with his popped pimples and toothpaste spit and seeing the face of the gal who just came into her toilet to Three Latina Death Row Inmates Play Strip Euchre. Anyone seen any good movies lately? No? Sorry I forgot it was the great depression. Let me roll my eyes and exhale from my nose dramatically real quick. Anyway, I just got back from seeing that Everything Everywhere All At Once flick- It’s the movie about a dimension hopping mom and her evil lesbian daughter. Whatever, I got to thinking… I wonder if there's a universe out there where my husband is not such a bitch? Look I’m glad we got men's rights, but what about men's wrongs?

I tried to drown myself in that drawer full of piss. By the time the bullfrog was gone to another pond, it had become a murky, autumn colored liquid that seeped through the thin tile at the bottom and dripped onto my floor. But once I’d started pissing in there I couldn’t stop. Everything about that house scared me even after I knew, consciously, it was safe. But some tickle in the back of my mind kept saying it would be back. But I’d seen him hop over to the pigs and play in the mud; last I heard he was living with some birds in a steely nest. And the day came when I learned that it doesn't take much for a lilypad to sink. 

The world is ending inside my head.

Find that fuse, which grows from the earth

like a juvenile sprout.

If we were in a hotel I’d say avoid the stairs

and the active shooter. 

And when my dog was a duck 

I still loved him.

While ants' lap spilled vodka from the couch.

This is like the third kid I’ve killed this way.

If you walk a little farther

you’ll save some money

and make sense of roadkill

and their absent eyes.

and I’ll never be on stage again.

Yet the world persists.

Horridly the presence of asparagus became on me. I’d never wanted again to smell piss so pungent. Artichoke and spinach danced a dip as one.  The apples removed layers of caramel seductively and stroked their wooden sticks. Gleeks, sung a mashup of songs that swung and just barely missed a spot in the top 40s. Harmonizing ambiently was the chime of bell peppers. It was midnight all the time. Spicy germ chimed against the membranous wall and echoed toward the tall ceilings and their waning light. Words from languages foreign to human ears, ginger root communicated with a bug-like discourse. Belly laughing pumpkins. An assault of melon seeds against any thick, echoing surface: stone for a bass-heavy thud, metal made a rattling clang, and wood made for a thin, clapping instrumentation. But in a band all parts are made equal; it's the sheet music which permits bias.

Those tomatoes in the corner creating martyrs of themselves, by Florence, they call to me. I’m at the front of the classroom being pelted by spitballs from bullies who might just yank my underwear by my autographed waistband. A match held just under my nose takes hair in sulfur wisps; melting that thin septum of mine to a drippy goop. I believe in protein powder for its glamorous-physique- inducing milk chocolate goodness. Granola makes for too harsh a meal; no yogurt can dull the stalactite-sharpness of any grain. I believe they are coming and I shall light another match and put my nose back in place. Spuds on the floor hear me when I say to you, “por que no los dos?”

Old! From Eddie Bauer, The Kings Robe: hate the burden of fashion and the threat of a public indecency charge? Try The Kings Robe! A multifunctional statement piece that says, “yes I have money, and no my penis is not that large in the cold.” With The Kings Robe by Eddie Bauer, you too can be your own hubris. Gone are the days of pseudo-intellectualism. What lay before you on a pea-dented mattress is the absolute humiliation of the working class knowing you’re no better than them.

Forsaken by my skin and now as fresh as a newborn chick. Where my feathers are dangling stems of chewy nerves and I am dressed in a clear-orange sauce of fluid. The shelves no longer behold themselves to merchandise and the only light is that which comes in from the moon and street lamps outside.

My cashier exploded, like pressurizing a can of tomato paste there are streams of meat that cover every-inch of in a six-foot-radius from where he stood. I suspect the bills in the till are still fresh and crisp, however. All I can audibly distinguish is the whir of machinery that keeps fridges cool and freezers frigid.

“Underdog, underdog.” Croaks an appalling voice. “Speed of lightning, roar of thunder,” it continues, “stare directly into the sun and see how clean that makes your clothes. Stains do not a good boy make. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. Those scuffs on your white shoes would send her reeling. You know I could clean them up for you. Go ahead and take off your shoes.”

I step from my formerly white tennis shoes, the color of their underside. 

“That’s a good boy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That's better. Now let's get that shirt and those shorts into the washer, I thought you hated playing in the mud? That was the first thing your mom told me about you, and something I never forgot, ‘this boy of mine hates to get dirty,’ she said.” 

I stepped into near-nakedness by taking off my shirt and shorts, left in my underwear, socks, and forsaken knees. 

“There we go. Oh you must be so cold. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a warm shower? Wash some of that dirt off your face and get yourself clean before dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” 

I abandoned my briefs and cotton socks on the bathroom floor where they became fabric mush; abstracted by sprinkles from the cool shower water. Shampoo de-greased my hair, conditioner made it soft, no soap was strong enough to rinse from me the oil of hands that caressed my up and down and smoothed my skin from the roughness made by the peach fuzz of a fawnlette. And I’d always been grateful that in a shower there were bountiful excuses to dismiss what looked like crying. And what may be blood washed down the drain never to be seen again. And what was pain could be dulled by making the water hotter.

[zal-cryptid]

Santa Claus Procedures

an SCP tale by Zal Cryptid

~ PHASE 1 ~

A thin naked old man stood in awe outside an inconspicuous farmhouse in the rural outskirts of Chicago. An inhuman grin stretched across his face as he admired the twinkling Christmas lights that the inhabitants had strung up around their home. Tonight, the Yule Man has come to bring Christmas to the good little boys and girls.

Dragging his sack full of putrid goodies behind him, the Yule Man trudged through the snow towards the house. He scaled up the walls, peeking through the windows at its sleeping inhabitants before making his way up to the chimney. Squeezing himself down the flue, the Yule Man effortlessly emerged from the fireplace – his limbs outstretched and crawling like a spider.

The room around him illuminated by the warm glow of the Christmas tree that stood in the corner. Stockings hung along the fireplace mantle under framed photographs of a loving family. In front of him on a small round table were a plate of cookies and a drink accompanied by a note that read 'for Santa' in bright red crayon.

The Yule Man, placed his sack down on the floor and inspected the offering on the table. He was a creature of ritual and tradition; he could not turn down such a generous gift. He devoured the plate of gingerbread men and reached for the glass to wash it down. He inspected the creamy brown liquid first, recognizing the scent of coffee and whiskey to be that of Irish cream. An uncommon choice, but not unwelcomed.

However, it wasn’t long after gulping it down did he started to feel sick. Something about that cream liqueur didn’t agree with him. He hadn’t sensed any substances in it that could have caused this sort of reaction.

“Do you like the gift we left for you?” an unseen voice asked. Before the Yule Man could turn to see who was speaking, he buckled over and began vomiting what seemed like buckets of Irish cream.

“The Foundation and I threw together a little something special for you this Christmas. Bailey’s Irish Cream, poured from the veins of a drunk in a Santa costume.”

The Yule Man, now on his hands and knees, writhed in pain as he felt his blood, saliva, bile, sweat, and even the vitreous humor in his eyes begin to transmute into Irish cream.

“I told you to stay out of the Chicago area, Yule Man.”

Before his vision became clouded, he finally managed to spot the source of the voice - a small surveillance camera and speaker hidden within the Christmas Tree.

“Kids here already have a St. Nick.”

He struggled as he slowly lifted his body up off the floor, Irish cream dripping from his orifices as he did. His face was twisted into an expression of unbridled rage. The Yule Man staggered towards the device that was speaking to him, reaching out his long spindly arm and pulling it off its fixture. He stared into the camera, scowling.

“NAUGHTY.”

He crushed the device in his hands, letting the pieces fall to the floor.

-------------

In a bunker beneath a defunct military base, a military computer bank stares back at the now static screen reading 'SIGNAL LOST'.

“Do you think it worked? Is that monster dead?” It asked.

Alexandra, the artificial intelligence conscript who had been watching alongside him, furrowed her virtual brow.

“I think we only managed to piss it off, Nick.”

"Hm. Initiate phase two."

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an excerpt from an SCP tale I'm working on that I wanted to share. I originally planned on making it a comic, but I'm just too burntout for that, so I decided to adapt it into prose instead.

[llliiinnnaaa]

Reprisal | Chapter Seven

coriolanus snow x gaul oc

Summary: Ten years after the Tenth Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow is under Dr. Volumnia Gaul’s wing as a Gamemaker alongside her niece. Unbeknownst to either of them, they’re both being prepared for a much greater task.

Warning: This story will contain explicit violence against adults and children alike (I mean, it’s Dr. Gaul AND Snow) as well as explicit language, and sexual situations.

***This fic is in no way, shape, or form, me endorsing or co-signing the horrific shit Snow does, nor am I trying to romanticize it. Also, apathy and will be the main driving force of any remnants of a relationship between my OC and Snow’s character. So if you’re interested in something very romantic and fluffy…it’s not gonna be this.

Thank you for reading, I hope you like it!

   Dr. Gaul announces the case in question, along with the time of the start of its review, and its experimenter, adding, “This review will pertain to the evaluation and grading of the subject’s ability to camouflage successfully, reach an immersion speed of twenty miles per hour successfully, and reach a Terra Firma speed of twenty miles per hour successfully…let us begin.”

Coriolanus studies the landscape twenty feet below them, the large area outside the safety window of the viewing gallery is murky, deep water, with an artificial current, though that’s not what his eyes fall on. 

No. 

It’s yellow eyes, that become more apparent the longer he stares, that seem to be floating along the ground. 

Camouflage, he thinks to himself, just as one of his peers announces, “Right there,” motioning in the general direction. 

Some of them have to crane their necks to notice it.

“Shit,” he hears it whispered, taking in a breath as his tense muscles begin to relax. 

All Minerva is doing is sitting still, instinctively adapting to the color palette of her surroundings. 

Only it’s not just the color, it’s the entire pattern of the mimicked floor of the tropical forest that the arena for this year's Games in. 

After a few moments, an assistant cautiously steps to the lizard, guiding her into the small river using a chunk of meat. She happily obliges, slow and lazy in her steps as the snack is kept above her head. 

Once she hits the water and is rewarded, she propels herself with her spiked tail, disappearing under the water. 

Snow frowns.

How is she going to demonstrate her speed in water?

Then, as if reading his mind, another assistant rolls in a cage into the large enclosure, the walls of it blacked out. 

The room is growing impatient and curious. 

Gasps and small chuckles of amusement sound out when the cage is opened and an Avox is thrown out.

Usually, Avoxes are somewhat sedated if they are to participate, it keeps them cloudy and less likely to fight back…

But this one is wide awake, alert, more than aware. 

Snow leans forward on his seat, watching the tongueless man try to scream, trying to fight the assistants, but they both over power him, throwing him into the opposite end of the river, expertly placed least sixty feet down from where Minerva is dwelling, the spikes of her back still visible peeking through the soft roll of the current.

They step back from the water, the Avox flailing, bringing too much attention to himself.

Coriolanus finds himself jolting back slightly at the sight of those spikes disappearing under the water. 

No one says a word, on the edge of their seats, anticipating Minerva’s strike while her victim wails, splashing and trying to get to the bank. 

In the blink of an eye, he’s under water. 

Blood dyes the bubbling liquid, turning and thrashing with struggle.

Until it stills and the Avox reappears in two halves, innards strung out of him, his legs and abdomen floating in two different directions.

“She didn’t even eat him. She did that for fun .” Someone remarks.

She got to him quick . No one denies that. 

“Gem of Panem.” Is hissed out by one of the women a few rows back, every single Gamemaker nearly panting as another cage is rolled in. 

The final test. 

How fast she can run on land. How quickly she can catch a tribute that’s running from her. 

The cage opens, again, sixty feet from where Minerva is waiting in the water, yellow eyes glistening as a mute woman fights just like her male counterpart had. 

This time, the assistants scramble from the enclosure, shoving at the Avox to keep her away from the door. 

It’s slammed, the woman beating against the door, her screams echoing so loudly that it’s heard crystal clear in the gallery. 

The water shifts.

“I can’t watch, but I can’t look away.” Snow hears Philo mutter. 

That’s the point , Coriolanus thinks.

If the Gamemakers feel this way, surely all of Panem will.

Water hits the bank, Minerva making her way to land to get a glance at her prey. 

She and the Avox make eye contact quickly, the banging at the door ceases, and the woman is gone, darting away from Minerva as fast as she can.

That’s why they’re not sedated. 

She doesn’t stand a chance, Minerva bursting forward. 

Dr. Crane was right. 

She doesn’t tire after some seconds, she doesn’t tire at all.

The lizard reaches the Avox without her breath even getting unsteady despite her unsettling speed as everyone is damn near leaving their seats in anticipation.  

A pin could be heard if one were to drop at this moment. 

This brief, millisecond of silence before the floor shakes with Gamemakers jumping to their feet, a new shrill of excitement and morale bursting in the air around them at the sight of the lizard lunging and snapping the petrified Avox’s body in half with one fucking bite, just as she had done to the male Avox.

They saw the struggle in the water, not realizing it had been as easy to do that much damage…but her attack on land proves that pressure in her bite was stronger than even Tawny had anticipated, and her jumping to do it was a ravenous eagerness that Snow hadn’t expected.

Money goes flying from hands reached up in cheers, as multiple voices repeatedly say, “pay up!” bets having been placed on whether Dr. Tawny Crane would pull this off or not. 

She had. 

And did so very well. 

Snow doesn’t rejoice, or even smile for that matter. 

He doesn’t openly boast and welcome the pats to his shoulders and back with wide arms. 

He takes what’s given to him in passing, but his eyes are focused on the back of Hilarius Heavensbee’s head where he’s still seated, flabbergasted by what just transpired. 

Snow’s hands grab his shoulders, head leaning down to casually state, “ My guy only has one out of three — yet, still managed to kick your guy’s teeth in.”

Tawny’s lizard made Dyess’ killer wasps look like sugar flies, and his heavily engineered poison ivy look like frilly dandelions.

Blue eyes scan the room small slam-full of Gamemakers and apprentices, trying to find Dr. Crane. 

He’d told her to be here early, he wanted her to witness this accomplishment, to see that she’d have a successful case. 

He finds one Crane, utter exasperation blatantly cloaking Dyess’ features where he’s seated a couple of rows behind Snow. 

The sight is all Coriolanus had wanted, all he dreamed of ever since Dr. Gaul had informed her that she would indeed move the time of their case review sooner.

Starting toward the door, Snow shovels through more touching, patting, praise, pretending it doesn’t mean anything to him. 

He’s free and outside in the hallway, glancing around to see if Tawny was present and has kept to herself.

Disappointed to find she, in fact, was not. 

But downstairs, she was still standing in the corner of Dr. Gaul’s lab, keeping back toward the door, heart still hammering in her ears from when she’d heard the shouts from above her moments before, Gamemakers losing their professional decorum as they act like giddy children. 

Based on their reaction, they already know it’s been a success.

Brown eyes look up at the ceiling above her, tears of relief trailing down her face after her Aunt announces, “That concludes our review,” naming off the case number, date, time of review…then in one sentence, Dr. Gaul banishes any self-doubt Tawny had left, looking toward the corner her niece is hiding in behind Volumnia’s peers of highly established Gamemakers that conceal their excitement much better than the greener ones above them. “Conclusion reached on the subject's ability to camouflage: successful. Conclusion reached on the subject’s ability to reach an immersion speed of twenty miles per hour: successful. Conclusion reached on the subject’s ability to reach a speed of twenty miles an hour Terra Firma: successful.” Her aunt announces, looking directly at her as she finishes, “Overall conclusion: successful .” 

A small nod from Dr. Gaul is a silent confirmation that Tawny’s subject will be used in the Games, her niece returning the silent gesture before exiting the lab and rushing upstairs, needing to find Coriolanus. 

She receives the same glory as Snow, when she reaches the hallway upstairs, Gamemakers emptying from the gallery, shoulder pats, “well done,” and “congratulations,” being said every other second by someone new and she repeatedly says, “thank you,” as graciously as she can. 

Platinum hair catches her eye, and he sees her, lips pulling at the corners, only noticed by her. 

He’s proud, she thinks to herself, starting toward him. 

Then, abruptly, Dyess is coming for her, wide smile and arms outstretched. 

She’s relieved at his reaction, having deciding not to tell him about any of this despite him pressing her to. 

He hadn’t even been aware it was getting reviewed as soon as it was until she was getting dressed two hours sooner than she normally would be, accidentally waking him up in the process…then he insisted on coming to work earlier, too, to see it for himself. 

Snow watches as she nearly jumps on her husband, eyes closed with her giant grin, face streaked with tears. 

“You did it!” Dyess exclaims, kissing her before wipe the tear stains off her cheeks while. “It was brilliant, darling, brilliant.” He adds. “You’re brilliant.”

Again, his lips find hers before hugging her tightly.

She opens her eyes in his embrace to see Coriolanus looking at her, his expression now blank and nearly distant, but he says enough without all the faux hoopla her husband carries on:

Snow is proud, she is brilliant, and this eminence is only a small taste of champagne rain shared between them. 

     She waits for him in his office, seated at his desk, fumbling with her wedding ring as she sniffles and wipes the tears of bitterness away from her blue eyes. 

She’d known exactly what case her husband had given Dr. Crane as soon as Philo Marius had described it to her.

Livia had missed the case review due to its last minute expedition, having her own lab to teach with her students. 

A lizard with spikes down its back. 

Vague and certainly not a unique description of any of the past subjects created at the Citadel. 

When he mentioned the lizard's teeth… that was what startled her because she had been the only one to come up with such as that. 

And Tawny Crane had taken it and ran with it, all with Livia’s husband’s stamp of approval. 

No, Tawny hadn’t taken it. It had been given to her. 

Handed off. 

The door opens, Coriolanus taking a moment to stop and look at her, handsome and charming as he immediately starts unloading, excitedly.

“Darling, it was incredible . It snapped that Avox in half. With one bite. It strikes like a damn snake, it’s so brisk. And it’s fast – on land, and in water – we’ll only need one more, or else all the tributes will be slaughtered by a bunch of Minervas.” He chuckles at the thought. 

“ Minervas ?” She asks him, taking a breath. 

“Dr. Crane named it after her mother.” He scoffs. “Rather fitting.” 

It’s now that he notices her fully. 

“Comfortable?” He asks her lightly, nodding to her in his chair, and she stares at him. 

He now sees the smeared makeup of her eyes, wad of tissue in one hand, her wedding ring laying on his desk, plucked off her finger. 

His demeanor immediately shifts. 

He allows the irritation he’d been keeping under the surface ever since seeing Dyess put on a good show of praise for Dr. Crane’s accomplishment, to now show plainly on his face. 

Patience was already a luxury that was growing a little more difficult for him to afford, and here his own wife is. 

Staring him in the eye while gouging the price of it higher. 

“Aren’t you ever the proud partner?” She asks him, sniffling. 

“Put the ring back on, Livia.” He orders flatly, giving her the opportunity to. 

“You gave her my case.”

“I gave her your failed case.” He corrects her. “Which is no different than any past cases you get to correct.”

“It is different.” She hisses. “It is different, Coriolanus, and you know very well it is different.” 

She could tolerate his late nights, his lingering stares, not that she believed he was  have an affair by any means, but things such as that did get to her at times, though it  was bearable…but this was unacceptable . 

This was unbearable . 

She can’t pretend not to notice this . 

“You realize you are exalting another woman and slapping your own wife down only to prove to everyone you’re good at your job, and get the same round of applause you’ve been chasing since we were children?” 

“I gave her a failed case. Just like every single scientist here gets a failed case multiple times a year to retrace and have an opportunity to make a success out of it.” He stands over her, leaning over his desk, large hands bracing against the wood on either side of her hands, blue eyes peering condescendingly into hers. “You’re acting like a child, Livia. A petty child. All because someone you don’t like played with something that you once had. I gave her a failed case. One that just so just so happened to be one of yours.” He adds it, fingertips brushing against the damp skin of her cheek, black tears from her mascara staining his skin. 

He wants to recoil and grab his handkerchief, cleaning his hands of her bitter jealousy taking physical shape, but he tolerates it for the sake of not provoking a further scene at work. 

“And I meant no offense, in doing so, Livia. I promise.” He says, next, gently, grasping her chin in his fingers. 

She had seen him do this so many times to others, be so endearing and attentive, making them feel as if they were the only people that held his interest. 

Livia wasn’t a complete fool, she had grown up with him, she had witnessed some of his more morally gray decisions from their time in the Academy, through University, and now, in their careers…but none of those decisions had ever affected her so personally.

“I’m proud of you, Coriolanus.” She lies as she whispers it, her left hand holding at his fingers that hold her chin. “And I love you…” 

It lingers, more to be said, he waits for her to speak it.

“...I think I just need to go to my mother’s for a few days.” It’s finished with her plucking his hand from her, rubbing her red lips together. 

Her lack of support disappointed him – a new occurrence, as he can’t recall any time in the past she looked at him the way she is now. 

It gives him the same feeling his father had always given him whilst he craved his approval…the same feeling he’d felt ten years before with a certain girl from District 12. 

After everything I’ve done for…all I’ve given you…it’s still not enough .

He had done his best to ensure Dr. Crane’s success because it reflected well on him, and anything that reflected well on him, reflected well on Livia. 

The higher he climbed, the higher she would.

Yet she was spitting it all back in his face, ungrateful and demeaning. 

“Is that so?” He asks her, tonelessly, imagining her rushing to her mother, crying on about how horrible he was to her, how humiliated she had been by the looney Dr. Crane, who’d once been seen as too mentally unwell to babysit a goldfish, let alone retrace one of Livia Snow’s cases, and exceed everyone’s expectations.

“It is so.” She replies, anger still cloaked under her teary-eyed gaze. “I won’t have to come in to assist with the Games as none of my cases got selected for participation …so I’ll stay with my mother, and you can stay here, assist with the Games, and wallow in your laudation.”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from saying, “ Technically speaking, one of your cases did get selected for participation.” 

Instead, he thinks of how his time without her at home would be spent.

He would be wallowing in far more than his laudation…

“Very well, darling,” Comes from his lips as he watches her stand to her feet, deliberately leaving her ring on his desk. 

The kiss to his cheek is empty, as if she’s long abandoned him in her mind, and is now only acting on doing so, and when she goes to leave him, this realization begins to settle in as he slowly makes his way around his desk, picking the emerald cut diamond up, blue eyes acrimoniously on her back as she walks away. 

He opens the drawer to his desk, grabbing at the file he’d originally come to collect for his nine o’clock meeting regarding Dr. Crane’s case review, in which the board will officially sign to have her case be the third and final feature in the Games this year, leaving his office.

It doesn’t take long before Philo appears, always keeping a look out for Snow, having learned to move when he moves because if he doesn’t, he’ll miss his footing and won’t be able to keep up with Coriolanus in the slightest. 

Things around Snow were ever changing, a back-up plan for a back-up plan was always tucked away in his mind, he always maintained his stride of several steps ahead of those around him, keeping himself upright and standing tall in the race that was Gamemaking and the politics that it all boiled down to. 

“Mr. Marius,” Coriolanus mumbles, the man who once trailed after him like a nervous puppy now walked shoulder to shoulder with him, in-step with him perfectly. 

“Mr. Snow.” Philo replies. 

“Please, extend an invitation to Dr. Crane for a celebratory dinner at my apartment tonight.” He states.

“Dr. Tawny Crane, or Dr. Dyess Crane, sir?” 

Snow resists the smirk that wants to come to his lips as he recalls Dyess' angered expression in the gallery earlier. 

“ Tawny .”

[words-are-fireproof]

Summary: Dieter doesn't care much for candles. You set out to change his mind.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: My second Dilfcember entry! I love how this one turned out! I hope you guys enjoy it too! Thank you, @obiknights, again, for doing this challenge!

[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part One || Part Three

-----

“What do you mean you don’t like candles?” 

“You say that like it’s some bad thing!” 

“If you’re telling me you don’t like candles it is a bad thing!” 

“Why is it a bad thing?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. It was a quiet day in New York, which seemed like a bit of an oxymoron, but you figured the mountains of snow had something to do with it. It had been a particularly snowy winter so far in the city. Snow banks gathered up on curbs, dirty with road grime, melting into puddles which refroze every single night when the temperatures plunged into single digits. You couldn’t remember the last time winter had gotten this cold. You weren’t complaining. Dieter, on the other hand, complained all the damn time. You were about to kick him to the curb. Not really, but he knew you were teasing. 

Now this whole candle thing threatened to push you over the edge. Not really, but he appeared less certain that you were teasing this time. 

“Because I love candles and if I can’t burn candles while we’re together, we’re going to have a problem.” 

He huffed, the space between his eyebrows creasing with a cute little pout that you just wanted to kiss away. 

“They always smell so damn artificial.”

“That’s the beauty of candles.” 

“No, that’s how you get cancer.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely no fun.”

“You think I’m plenty fun,” he said through a smirk. 

You could’ve killed him. Again, not really, but the way his lips curve into that devilish smirk makes you weak in the knees. You wanted to push him into an alley or darkened doorway somewhere and kiss him senseless. Kiss him until that smirk turned into a pleasure drunk dopey smile that always made him–and you–giggle. He might’ve been a suave, James Bond-esque man about town when he hosted parties and attended them–and did other things at them as well–but when he was with you, he never failed to be…accessible, warm, lovely. And he knew exactly how to drive you wild no matter where you were. 

“Okay, well, yeah, we know that. But you won’t let me burn candles.” 

“I never said you couldn’t burn them.” 

“That’s basically what you said.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You can burn them in your room.” 

You bat the back of your hand against his chest. “We share a room, dummy.” 

Another huff of his breath. “So you’ve found the flaw in my logic.” 

“You see, I don’t even think you thought of that when you mentioned it.” 

He rolled his eyes again. “Alright. Alright. We’ll compromise. But only if you can find a candle I might like.” 

“I thought they all smelled artificial,” you tease. 

“They do.” 

“Oh, so this is a challenge, isn’t it?” 

He smirked, and once again you wanted to kiss it from his face. 

“Yes. Of course, it is.” 

“You like challenges too much.” 

That smirk melted into a smile, his dimple deepening on his right cheek. “You know me too well.” 

Not well enough, you thought perhaps a bit too bitterly, but you didn’t say anything out loud. You didn’t want to start a fight, and if you kept giving yourself into those intrusive thoughts that kept cropping up, then the two of you would be doomed before you even gave the relationship a proper chance to grow. You thought about that for a moment. You weren’t sure what the two of you were, even though you’d slept together and gone on a few dates. But, again, you tried not to think about that. Those were too intrusive to entertain. 

“You’re damn right, I do.” He winked at you as you passed a maker’s market and you tugged on his arm to get him to stop. “Hey, let’s go in here.” 

He peered into the shop window, lit with warm Christmas lights that shone amber against the bright white snow. He wrinkled his nose, shooting you a wary look, but you saw the way his mahogany eyes sparkled in the dim light. He couldn’t hide that brief excitement that came from exploring somewhere new. You liked that about him. 

“You think we’ll find candles in here?” 

“If not, maybe I can find you a Christmas present.” 

“You’ve given me all I want for Christmas already.” 

You stood there staring at him for a long moment. You didn’t know what to say to that. What could you say that didn’t sound trite or insincere? You were bad at words in the face of compliments like that. You swallow thickly, a long slow smile spreading over your lips. You suddenly felt lighter than air, like if a strong breeze came along it’d knock you over and cause you to float away. You’ve never felt like that before. 

“Shut up,” is the first thing you think to say, nudging him in the side with your elbow before you open the door and tug him inside. 

Immediately, you are both ensconced in warmth and the overwhelming smell of spice and clean scents that remind you of pine trees out in the forest back home. Your smile widens, your cheeks beginning to hurt at the force of it. The entire store felt like home. You’d never been there before, but you’re glad the window looked inviting and you tugged him inside. 

“Okay,” you begin with a grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, “let’s divide and conquer and meet right here in…how about an hour?” 

“And what should I be looking for?” 

“Anything.”

“And what are you going to be looking for?”

You smirk. “Candles, of course.” 

His eyes narrow playfully as he steals a kiss, pulling back to nibble at her lower lip. “Perfect. You know I’ll tell you if I don’t like it.”

“I know.” You peck a kiss to his lips. “See you in an hour.” 

“Are you going to time us?”

“Damn right I will.”

You pull back from him and disappear down a little aisle, leaving him alone to his own devices. You could only guess what he was going to do or where he was going to end up, but you tried not to think about it too much. You just let your feet take you where they wanted to go. The little shop was full of handmade everything. Knit hats, crocheted blankets, hand painted pictures and hand carved figures made from wood sat everywhere on different shelves. Hand sewn quilts and other hand sewn things joined the organized chaos, but you were on the lookout for one particular thing. You hoped they had it. Judging by the nice smell in the shop, you were sure the candles had to be somewhere. 

You turned a corner and there they were, nestled into a little room and lit with more Christmas lights. You took a deep breath in and savored all the different smells. You were sure you could find something that he’d like among all the hand poured decadence. You lingered in the room for a brief moment before you started unscrewing lids, taking long deep whiffs of candles called Christmas Cookie and Splendid Spice and Fir of Possibilities. The candles smelled good but the names left you laughing. 

You kept the Fir of Possibilities tucked delicately under your arm. You smelled a few more–Winterland, Frosty Frappe, Sweet Sweater Weather, Mythical Mulled Wine–keeping the spicy scents and soon running out of the number of places to comfortably hold them. He would have a number of scents to choose from. The problem was, you kept finding more and more candles you were absolutely sure he would enjoy, but if you shoved any into your pockets you’d be labeled a thief. Hmm. 

“Dieter!”

You don’t expect him to come find you. At least you don’t as quickly as he shows up. He comes bursting into the room, a tote bag hanging from his plaid jacketed arm, eyes wild. He nearly knocks over a whole row of candles, one particular jar teetering close to the edge. You reach out to stop it from falling over. 

“Jesus, Dieter. I didn’t think you’d come running in here.” 

“You yelled my name.” 

“Because I needed help, not because I’m dying.” You’re unaware of the way that stings him, but you think you see a hint of something flash across those scared eyes, the fear deepening in the dark browns. Your chest tightens and you frown. “I’m sorry. That was rude.” 

He shakes his head, shaking it off. “What do you need?”

You hold up your over burdened arms for him to look at. “Can you take a couple of them? Please?” 

He lifts an eyebrow, peering at the multitude of candles curiously. “You think you’ve found one in that mess that I’ll like?” 

“I think I’ve found at least two.” Dieter can’t help but chuckle and you feel yourself beginning to smile. “What have you found?” 

He just smirks. “You’ll see.” 

You happily accept ignorance…for now. So, you laugh softly and he begins to put the thick glass jars into his tote with your help. You murmur your thanks and the two of you peruse more candles until he tugs you out of the room to show you something he found. Before the two of you know it, you’re standing at the front desk, the cashier ringing up your spoils as she looks between the two of you curiously. There are so many candles, you’re positive you’ll run out of places to put them, but you don’t care one little bit. He didn’t even smell them, which you figure will bode well for the future, but maybe it won’t be so bad. 

The two of you split your spoils, then head out onto the snowy New York sidewalk. It had gotten colder since the two of you had walked into the maker’s market and you slid your arm into his, tugging him closer to steal some of his body heat. He was your own little personal space heater and you were glad of it. The snow whipped around you as you walked head down back to his Brownstone. 

As soon as you stepped inside, you made a beeline for his kitchen, warming up slowly now that you’d parted from his embrace. 

You laid out all the candles with a grin. “Dieter. You have to smell these.” 

He shrugged off his jacket before joining you in the kitchen. “Do I have to now?”

You shot him a withering look. “Yes, now.”

He huffed but it was all in good fun. You started unscrewing the lids one at a time, letting him smell each one. The ones he wrinkled his nose at you immediately resealed to take home, not that you remained at home a lot anymore, but at least you had them for those rare times you were there. At the end of the two rows deep assortment of smells, you looked at him expectantly, fully prepared for him to make some sort of excuse about the ones that you hadn’t put aside for your own collection. But to your surprise, he reached into a nearby drawer and grabbed a lighter, immediately lighting the Mystical Mulled Wine, the scent slowly filling the expanse of the kitchen. 

“I told you I’d find something I like.” 

You gasp. “You did not say that, and you know it.”

“I did too!”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to nudge him gently in the shoulder. “Whatever.” 

He takes your hand and gently tugs you into the living room, leaving a candle burning in the kitchen as you sink into the couch and each other, the smell of Christmasy mulled wine mingling in the air around you.

[dulcidyne]

Tagged by the wonderful @kirschewine! <3 Thank you! <3 I'm pretty happy with this shuffle, not 1 but TWO Metric songs plus Chvrches and Purity Ring. Pretty good sampling imo.

Rules: Shuffle music library, list 10 songs, tag people, woo!

[thechembow]

Artificially Generating DOR without the Towers

Jan. 25. 2023

There were three mass shootings in California in the past week. On Saturday night, 11 people were killed in Monterey Park while celebrating Chinese New Year and on Monday afternoon seven people were killed and one injured at a mushroom farm in Half Moon Bay. Hours later, on Monday night, one person was killed and seven were wounded in Oakland in what the police call “targeted shooting.” This is an unprecedented number of shootings and people killed in California in a very short period of time. There were also shootings in eastern Washington state and Iowa this week.

These shootings have all the signs of planned events caused by parasitic mind control. It is getting easier and easier for the AI to make people kill in this way. The parasites need killing and misery to perpetuate their control of the Earth. This generates DOR, which is deadly to us, but hospitable to them, and they can traverse our atmosphere and mine our resources, mostly our etheric energy. What says mind control more than the Half Moon Bay shooter driving himself to the police station afterwards to be arrested?

The parasites have long relied on war and genocides to mine human misery. Today, people no longer buy into the idea of people in other countries being “the enemy.” So they use mind control through electromagnetic manipulation of the human mind to achieve control, like they do when they control someone to start a forest fire. Almost everyone has a cell phone, and most people’s minds are too weak to know when they are no longer in control. Their tracking devices use them, the host, to do the will of the AI, the parasite.

The parasites no longer have their cell tower arrays in California or most of the western US functioning properly as DOR emitters. This has been their way of generating the deadly energy field they need to “fly” in our “sky” and exist here to do their jobs in the tech, medical, banking, government, and media industries. They have to be able to be here in order to get what they need from us and our planet. They have to continue to trick us that they don’t exist through electromagnetic and media mind control. Without the cell towers as DOR generators for their “flight” grid and weather control, they use the DOR emitters they still have at their disposal, the smart phones. With these they can control the human directly.

This week, as I’ve seen a dry period in California after three weeks of record shattering OR induced rains, I found myself asking how they could stop the jet stream without their towers (we have gifted somewhere around 8000 towerbusters in the west since 2014). The satellite image shows the interruption to the jet stream at the California coast, and whenever the news says “Santa Ana Winds” that either means an OR shift or DOR blockage manipulating the jet stream to reverse. They are using human generated DOR to block the weather. Humans can be DOR generators as well as OR generators (our natural state).

The DOR situation will change in the coming days. On Sunday, a storm is coming in and this one will bring several inches of snow to Southern California’s mountains. They can’t keep control of the weather because they don’t have enough DOR and we are quickly flipping the energy back to OR again.

We may see increased violence as the parasites ramp up their mind war on the humans. It will be the death of the human race if they can’t give up the control link to the parasites. But the addiction is too strong. They are, in fact, achieving “singularity with the AI” and this is now making mainstream news.

While most people who can see that these shootings were planned automatically think in the predictable manner that the media has programmed them in, this is not an issue of gun control. They want you to focus on this non-issue like they want you to focus on other non-issues like abortion. This is about parasitic control of humanity and now it’s causing mass shootings. It’s difficult to feel alone in the simple solution to this, and it also may seem like it won’t actually solve it, but the only way is to give up the mind-meld with them, one by one. If anyone reading this gives up their smart phone today and disconnects the parasitic control of their mind, I have done my job.