#atla camera framing

[phoenix-king-ozai]

My headcanon is Sozin’s dragon 🐉 name is Raiden ⚡️and it lived up until the Seige of Ba Sing Se before the Lu Ten one. Iroh and Ozai use to love to go flying on his back!

Roku and Sozin flying their dragons towards the camera.

[starfall-calamity]

ignore how many WIPs i have going on shush shush

tmph one year old okay?

[making a piece for each song on its release date, this one his Grew On Me's messy sketch of it :} might post the others wips too]

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A year in illustration, 2023 edition (part two)

(This is part two; part one is here.)

The West Midlands Police were kind enough to upload a high-rez of their surveillance camera control room to Flickr under a CC license (they've since deleted it), and it was the perfect frame for dozens of repeating clown images with HAL9000 red noses. This worked out great. The clown face is from a 1940s ad for novelty masks.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

I spent an absurd amount of time transforming a photo I took of three pinball machines into union-busting themed tables, pulling in a bunch of images from old Soviet propaganda art. An editorial cartoon of Teddy Roosevelt with his big stick takes center stage, while a NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo's official portrait presides over the scene. I hand-made the eight-segment TILT displays.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

Working with the highest-possible rez sources makes all the difference in the world. Syvwlch's extremely high-rez paint-scraper is a gift to people writing about web-scraping, and the Matrix code waterfall mapped onto it like butter.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

This old TWA ad depicting a young man eagerly pitching an older man has incredible body-language – so much so that when I replaced their heads with raw meat, the intent and character remained intact. I often struggle for background to put behind images like this, but high-rez currency imagery, with the blown up intaglio, crushes it.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

I transposed Photoshop instructions for turning a face into a zombie into Gimp instructions to make Zombie Uncle Sam. The guy looking at his watch kills me. He's from an old magazine illustration about radio broadcasting. What a face!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/18/the-people-no/#tell-ya-what-i-want-what-i-really-really-want

The mansplaining guy from the TWA ad is back, but this time he's telling a whopper. It took so much work to give him that Pinnocchio nose. Clearly, he's lying about capitalism, hence the Atlas Shrugged cover. Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights" makes for an excellent, public domain hellscape fit for a nonconensual pitch about the miracle of capitalism.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong

There's no better image for stories about techbros scamming rubes than Bosch's 'The Conjurer.' Throw in Jeff Bezos's head and an Amazon logo and you're off to the races. I boobytrapped this image by adding as many fingers as I could fit onto each of these figures in the hopes that someone could falsely accuse me of AI-generating this. No one did.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Once again, it's Bosch to the rescue. Slap a different smiley-face emoji on each of the tormented figures in 'Garden of Earthly Delights' and you've got a perfect metaphor for the 'brand safety' problem of hard news dying online because brands don't want to be associated with unpleasant things, and the news is very unpleasant indeed.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/11/ad-jacency/#brand-safety

I really struggle to come up with images for my linkdump posts. I'm running out of ways to illustrate assortments and varieties. I got to noodling with a Kellogg's mini-cereal variety pack and I realized it was the perfect place for a vicious gorilla image I'd just found online in a WWI propaganda poster headed 'Destroy This Mad Brute.' I put so many fake AI tells in this one – extra pupils, extra fingers, a super-AI-esque Kellogg's logo.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/05/variegated/#nein

Bloodletting is the perfect metaphor for using rate-hikes to fight inflation. A vintage image of the Treasury, spattered with blood, makes a great backdrop. For the foreground, a medieval woodcut of bloodletting quacks – give one the head of Larry Summers, the other, Jerome Powell. For the patient, use Uncle Sam's head.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/20/bloodletting/#inflated-ego

I killed a long videoconference call slicing up an old pulp cover showing a killer robot zapping a couple of shrunken people in bell-jars. It was the ideal image to illustrate Big Tech's enshittification, especially when it was decorated with some classic tech slogans.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/22/who-wins-the-argument/#corporations-are-people-my-friend

There's something meditative about manually cutting out Tenniel engravings from Alice – the Jabberwock was insane. But it was worth it for this Tron-inflected illustration using a distorted Cartesian grid to display the enormous difference between e/acc and AI doomers, and everyone else in the world.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/27/10-types-of-people/#taking-up-a-lot-of-space

Multilayer source images for your remixing pleasure:

Scientist in chemlabhttps://craphound.com/images/scientist-in-chem-lab.psd

Humpty Dumpty and the millionaires https://craphound.com/images/humpty-dumpty-and-the-millionaires.psd

Demon summoning https://craphound.com/images/demon-summoning.psd

Killer Robot and People in Bell Jars https://craphound.com/images/killer-robot-and-bell-jars.psd

TWA mansplainer https://craphound.com/images/twa-mansplainer.psd

Impatient boss https://craphound.com/images/impatient-boss.psd

Destroy This Mad Brute https://craphound.com/images/destroy-this-mad-brute.psd

(Images: Heinz Bunse, West Midlands Police, Christopher Sessums, CC BY-SA 2.0; Mike Mozart, Jesse Wagstaff, Stephen Drake, Steve Jurvetson, syvwlch, Doc Searls, https://www.flickr.com/photos/mosaic36/14231376315, Chatham House, CC BY 2.0; Cryteria, CC BY 3.0; Mr. Kjetil Ree, Trevor Parscal, Rama, “Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center, Russian Airborne Troops Press Service, CC BY-SA 3.0; Raimond Spekking, CC BY 4.0; Drahtlos, CC BY-SA 4.0; Eugen Rochko, Affero; modified)

[roamingleaf]

"Park Bench"

TW: Public Park, G@ngbang, R@pe, Creampie, age difference, Cnc

You filthy, needy, degenerate little whore. So many different posts, some flashing your perky, Hershey kissed nipples. Others showcasing the sloping curves of booty hiding behind a host of different panties. What a brazen call you put out into the depraved, horny void for men twice your age to tell you how they'd use your curving, hypnotic, canvas like it was nothing more than a Fuckdoll. Could you imagine what would happen when all of these hungry lions cornered you?

It would have been another dimly lit evening thanks to the watchful, chilly eye of the moon being shrouded by the swaying, swooping clouds passing before it. Daintily you would have been strolling along those emptied streets in the thinnest clothes your closet had to offer. Despite the darkness of the night being clutching, your glowing physique beautifully stood out. Why? In hopes of finding a place to pack your camera with provocative pictures of that perky, petite, portrait you call a body. Thankfully your adventure into the violet nightfall would not last too long before a perfect oaken tree stood out to you in the middle of a park.

With hurried breath you headed towards it, unaware of the silver Acura that had been following such a scampering, alluring canvas for a few blocks. Once your scurrying ways had landed you not in front of the tree, but instead, on top of a park bench on your knees your personal photoshoot had started.

Snap, snap, snap.

Went the subtle cold stare of your familiar phone camera all while that silver Acura calmly, as if stalking its prey circled to the back of the park.

There in that empty lot did four, brutish, burly men leave that car with only one intention in mind. As those shadowy monsters crept their way closer towards their prize, you would be foolishly drunk off the thoughts of attention these photos would reap for you. Before that familiar snap could be heard one more time you would feel it.

The sudden grasp of multiple hands clambering for a feel of that summer rain soft skin of yours. This rather bold move done in the middle of such a public place was one to send your head into a spiral. Though, sadly, much bigger things would swiftly start to feel those thoughts in your head. You could feel it, five? Six? Who could tell how many hands in that shadowy park had been helping weigh you down. All that could be told for certain was the long, thick, meaty shaft of one of these strange men had pushed past your pastel lips to invade your soft, dripping mouth.

The fighting spirit that would normally circulate through that tenacious frame was all but drained as you felt your skin, tight shorts being torn from your roaming, luscious hills you call hips. This couldn't be happening, one invader reshaping your throat into a Fleshlight was plenty. How could someone else hope to plunder the silken, sticky, greedy halls of your sacred shrine? But, like the toy they intended to turn you into, they proceeded to do just that. Test the holds of your hungry little body.

Through muffled, breathless, moans you tried your hardest to push with whatever you could. But atlas, these men were too strong for such a fragile doll to fight back. That's when you could feel it, the first of many loads to paint that once uncovered canvas. The first man grunted as he freed himself from the tight coils of your throat to start the painting process.

As you grunted, and gasped for air you could feel the firm grasp of the man pounding into your starved pussy clamping to your hips. With this hold up a delicate work of art you could feel his matching rhythm of his thrust by colliding your hips back into his. Sadly however, this intoxicating daze would be sullied by the feel of your hair being pulled so your regal face would be eye to eye with another hard, shaft that meant to continue the training.

For what felt like an eternity they passed you around between their grimey grasp. Each of them leaving their own bruises, marks, and of course seed planted deeply inside your once fruitful garden. Only once your dainty frame meekly lay sprawled across that park bench leaking from every single hole, and painted properly like a priceless picture would those gentlemen's hunger be satisfied and off into the night would they return.

-🪶

[kaijuno]

'Comet of the century' streaks across the sky above the Golden Gate Bridge.

Nature photographer and videographer Shreenivasan Manievannan captured time-lapse footage of the comet C/2023 A3, also known as Tsuchinshan-ATLAS, that appeared to be drifting above the city skyline around 6 a.m. on Sept. 27. To perfectly frame it above the Golden Gate Bridge, he positioned his camera at Point Bonita about 6 miles away, he told SFGATE. The recent heat wave, he explained, made for clear skies and ideal shooting conditions.

[bestworstcase]

Took a look at the image organizer you linked the other day, and MY OH MY is there so much to unpack there. While I think I understand most of it, there's still some stuff I'm unclear about. What are those quotations from? What's Jaune doing here (and I think I remember you mentioning him as the Oz stand-in for the Ever After)? What about those scattered extra panels in the Jaune column, like Bumbleby-Adam and the maple leaf? What're the entire bottom three rows doing, what is the truth, and who is the "she" who knows it? I really need to do a rewatch...

By all means, go as overboard as you want to (or not), I just love hearing what you have to say.

the quotations are all heraclitus (there’s a link to the fragments at the bottom – the Bn tag on each quote is the fragment number) – heraclitus being a pre-socratic philosopher who had a significant influence on plato, and rwby being a story that draws heavily from plato (see also: atlas/atlantis). the philosophical ideas articulated in v9 regarding balance and creation/destruction get at concepts like flux (everything rests by changing; equilibrium is a state of constant motion and transformation, like a top which stays upright only while it spins) and strife (not conflict, but the push-and-pull between opposite forces, like the tension on a string which creates music).

i get very exited about this because it is the basis for rwby’s destruction-is-not-bad thesis; true equilibrium cannot be found without destruction because creation must have its counterweight. conflict is antithetical to balance specifically because it is a rejection of strife—it’s, to continue the metaphors, creation smashing the top because it doesn’t like that destruction causes it to spin instead of standing perfectly upright, or destruction cutting the string to free itself from destruction.

the OP specifically is about my thesis that rwby’s narrative is fractal—reflected aspects of the ozlem story repeating over and over again as this shattered fairytale strives to get it right this time. jaune (like cinder, like ruby) is a mirror held up to salem—the girl in the tower refracted in the “lovable idiot stuck in the tree”—but he’s a funhouse mirror. he’s a salem without her faith in humanity; a salem who is fundamentally cynical (he cheats his way into beacon, he wanted to be the hero to prove himself worthy to his family, he is ultimately corrupted by his rejection of change—which twists him into a reflection of ozpin instead) and thus repeatedly puts himself in the tower. and the point of him with respect to the fractal narrative is that being Good and Kind did not save him from his cynicism, and that the essential difference between salem and ozma is that she truly believes in her cause (that the gods are unjust and humanity must live free) whereas his commitment is hollow and borne of fear.

(likewise cinder is a salem whose tower is her faith, because what cinder believes in is the innate cruelty and injustice of the world and her destiny to be crushed beneath it, and she is in want of something true to believe instead; and ruby is… more or less literally who salem was when she was young)

jaune is also specifically paralleled with cinder in this regard – his time in the ever after mirrors her exile after haven, and both reflect salem’s isolation after the moonfall; he gives into despair and stagnates (like oz), cinder angrily drags herself out of the pit and keeps clawing her way forward (like salem).

(yang and blake killing adam are just there because i didn’t have a better place to note the echoed framing when cinder kills rhodes – different camera angle, but there is a striking visual comparison drawn here. the narrative does not smile on rhodes)

and then the last three rows are my unhinged mumbling about salem having met the blacksmith before in picture form. Ma’am Why Is Your Illustration Of The Human Soul A Blacksmith. What Do You Know.

like the thing is. heraclitus again: fire is arche. it is the beginning. the transformations of fire, first into sea, and of the sea half becomes earth, half whirlwind. from the outside, the tree is earth and air (the holes in the ground, the leaves on the wind) – on the inside, it’s an ethereal cosmic ‘river’ of souls flowing to their next life; and in the center, it is a forge. and this rhymes also with ‘for it is death to souls to become water, and death to water to become earth, but water comes from earth, and from water, souls’ – like

???

before she’s drowned in the fountain, salem is engulfed in dark’s flame – the flame he once used to restore jabber to life. and then she drowns and returns, with aura, now immortal. salem leaps into the pool of grimm seeking change and is transformed – the faunus in the myth she quotes immerse themselves in magical waters and are transformed. and then we have this recurring motif of a character (or symbol thereof) engulfed by flame, trees, katabasis, drownings, spiritual or physical rebirth. and salem waving the blacksmith under our noses since 2014. maple leaf carved into the frame of her family portrait – maple leafs shed by the tree – the maple leaf guiding jaune to pyrrha’s statue. it’s very

it sure is pointing in a direction!

[hypnoneghoul]

Christmas Ghouls 7/10

WC: 1005

Relationship: Swiss & Mountain

Tags: Fluff, gift giving

Notes: For Atlas @ghostlyghoulzzzz <3

Read under the cut or on AO3.

Mountain grumbled and wiggled sleepily when a sudden coldness interrupted his peaceful sleep. It was nice and warm and cozy a moment ago, and heavy, like always, what was–

“Shhh… Relax, big guy,” the earth ghoul heard Swiss whisper and felt his rough, yet gentle, fingers tuck a strand of amber hair behind his ear. “I’m here, my love, sleep.”

“Mmm… S– S’iss…” he slurred, before turning and burying his face in the pillow. It smelled like Swiss and it was still warm. It was nice.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” the multi ghoul chuckled, stroking Mountain’s hair, as he smiled down at his mate, ready to burst with all the affection he had for him. He was so fucking lucky.

After a longer while of blatantly staring at the sleeping ghoul, Swiss finally left their bedroom and headed down to the kitchen. There, he prepared breakfast, containing all of Mountain’s favorites. Pancakes, eggs, a little cookie—or two—and anything the earth ghoul might want to nibble on. Tea, too. Two kinds.

Mountain was still asleep when Swiss returned to their room. He placed a tray with all the food on the nightstand and turned to the closet, pulling something out and laying it down by the earth ghoul’s sleeping form.

He crawled back into their nest, then, gluing himself to Mountain’s back and pressing his lips to the back of the giant’s neck. “Good morning, my heart.”

“Mmm…” Mountain rumbled, a deep purr in his chest. “Mornin’.”

“Such a sleepy ghoul, aren’t you?”

“Mhm…” he replied eloquently.

“I’ve got something for you, darling,” Swiss muttered into his ear, “it’s Christmas.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, get your ass up,” the multi ghoul laughed, patting the ass in question, as he sat up himself. Mountain joined him, but not before mumbling and grumbling out his disapproval about it. When he came to enough, he finally noticed the wrapped up present waiting next to him.

“Go on,” Swiss encouraged, seeing the earth ghoul’s eyes fixing on the colorful paper wrap. Mountain wasn’t a man of many words in the mornings, so he just leaned over to kiss his mate, and took on opening the gift.

“I noticed this year we have barely any tour pictures, you and me,” Swiss said, his chin hooked over Mountain’s shoulder as he ripped the paper. “Rude of all the photographers, truth be told, but I schemed something up. You know that silly little camera I got Phantom?”

Mountain nodded.

“I may, or may have not bribed him to take pictures of us whenever he can,” Swiss giggled, and kissed the earth ghoul’s stubbly cheek when he finally unpacked the gift. It was a big photo frame with a lot of small polaroid pictures of Swiss and Mountain in various situations. On stage, off stage, inside, outside, kissing, holding hands, sleeping, in costume, in casual clothes, without clothes (only one, and nothing was actually out), and many more.

“I– Swiss, it’s… I–” Mountain sputtered, running his fingers over the photos behind the glass.

“I know, love,” Swiss chuckled. “I love you, Merry Christmas.”

“I love you, too,” the earth ghoul finally breathed out.

“Now, breakfast.” He got the tray, everything still steaming, and all but fed Mountain, as he was still astounded with the gift. It wasn’t much, but Mountain’s heart was so big and soft—just like him—and the collage was so thoughtful and romantic and–

“Fuck, Swiss, I love you so much,” he blurted out suddenly, nearly choking on his tea.

“I love you too, my heart, so much, but don’t you cry now, alright? Maybe later, when I get my hands on you.”

This time Mountain blushed for a different reason.

He ate the breakfast in peace, though, unless Swiss stealing a bit of this and that once in a while should be counted as a disturbance. After, the multi ghoul got up and gave Mountain a moment when he left to take the tray and dirty dishes back to the kitchen. When Swiss came back again, the other was up, getting something out from under the bed.

“Oh? What have you got there, darling?” the multi ghoul teased. He stalked closer with a grin as Mountain’s cheeks tinged pink again. “Did you get something for your favorite ghoul?”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling at Swiss’ ego as he pressed their chests together and wrapped his arms around Mountain’s waist. He wasn’t really wrong, though. “You could say so.”

“You know I don’t need anything but you, love,” Swiss purred, nosing under Mountain’s jaw. “You’re more than I could’ve ever wished for.”

“Swiss, I– I, uhm…” the earth ghoul, naively, tried to spit back something equally teeth-rotting to fluster his mate in return, but, as expected, failed, blushing even deeper than he already had been. “Oh, fuck you!”

“You can, if you want,” Swiss chuckled, now kissing softly down his neck. “We’ve got time.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Mountain sighed, but smiled, shaking his head, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Knew it,” the multi ghoul whispered and tipped his head back in an invitation. Mountain took it and kissed him, as he cupped the back of Swiss’ head, fingers tangling into his curls. “Anyway. What did ya get me?”

“It’s not much, but, uhm…” He handed Swiss the bag. “I made it. From my antler.”

“Did you now, hm?” Swiss took the item out and turned it over in his hands, his grin growing in real time. “Mountyyy… awww.”

It was a very small sculpture, carved from the earth ghoul’s shed antlers. Two hands—their hands—holding each other, two drumsticks and a guitar pick. It was a bit chunky, but it was clear what it really was and Swiss’ eyes brightened. “You are so fucking skilled, love. And sappy. This is so beautiful, Lucifer…”

He kept examining it, fingers dragging over every sharp angle and smooth curve. Swiss wasn’t the one to cry often, but he just might.

“I love you so fucking much, Mountain, my heart.”

“I love you, too, Swiss, darling. Merry Christmas.”

[dieauster-und-diegarnele]

A:tla - fire meta and theories

water/earth/fire/air/general

Zuko and opium

Azula and non-benders

Zuko, Azula and Aang - height

Zuko is not hateful

Fireball in the face

Audience with Azulon

Zuko and Azula's Agni Kai - lightning

Zuko covering his face from the fire

Referring to Zuko as a "prince"

Zuko's pose

Zuko is both cool and awkward

Zuko protecting Sokka

Was Ursa scared of her husband?

Difference between Ozai and Zuko's childhood

On Ozai abusing Azula

Ozai, Parenting, and Abuse

Firebending during eclipce, night etc

Zuko's redemption arc

Azula's thoughts on Iroh

Azula's bending

Abusive father Ozai (pt 1 - Zuko, link for Azula is down there)

A parallel. Just as Roku did with Sozin, Zuko spares his father.

Asian view on heirs, sons and daughters

Zuko & Azula: Eyes

Azula is not the most powerful firebender in atla

Azula’s downfall is foreshadowed

Zuko should just follow the cabbage guy

Zuko is a theatre kid

Azula, conditioned love etc

“The Beach” in terms of Azula

Long meta about Azula

Zuko is not tall (as well as Sokka)

Zuko and Iroh's prison dialoge: the great directing

Zuko is being cared and healthy

Yon Rha and Iroh crimes

Zuko's scar camera framing

The fact that Zuko even considers having Katara heal his scar is probably a red flag for him siding with his sister

Zuko and Ozai camera framing

“You can’t treat me like Zuko!”

Ozai and Zuko - talking with father

About Iroh and Ozai's past and characters in general

Modern!AU Zuko and Azula

Ozai is very concentrated when bending - screenshots

Iroh and Ozai - Azula and Zuko (parallels)

Why does Iroh talk to Zuko in metaphors

Ursa’s departure caused Ozai to become worse

Aang and Zuko talking about Ozai

Iroh: "She's crazy and she needs to go down" line

Do we ever see Ozai actually care about stopping Aang?

How important firebending is to Ozai

Ozai: what having your bending taken from you must entail

Ozai is objectively speaking the worst firelord

Was it just “speaking out of turn”?

"Good" and "bad" guys in Fire royal family

Zuko and Iroh: waiting all night

Zuko Centric-Morality and the Fire Nation

Is Zuko is a better bender than Aang?

In defense of Mai and Maiko. Let’s talk about seashells

Ozai did cared about his family in the past

Iroh and Zuko’s wanted poster; there’s a specific line

Why Azulon had a second son in tags (I personally love the first and the last ones)

Zuko is canonically bisexual

Zuko, Jet and Jin: flirting

Zuko falls for Jin, restaurant scene part 2 (part 1 link is in the post)

Evidence that Zuko looks like Ozai

Zuko can find almost anything, a list

How many places Zuko has broken into (Zuko being competent while thinking he is not)

Iroh spends the whole show vibing with everyone

Why Zuko's redemption arc is so good

Zuko: it is so much easier to believe in the impossible than it is to believe that your father is a monster

About Zuko's trauma

Two Zuko's least popular hairstyles (spoiler: blame Iroh)

And a bit more about Zuko's ponytail

Firebending study: Why Ozai is the top Firebender in ATLA

How sexist is the Fire Nation?

Post-war economy in the Fire Nation

Fire Nation cultural inspiration

Mai can't say "I love you" (but she really loves Zuko)

[jubilantmedusa]

“I See You in the Moonlight” - Inktober Day 26 - Camera

There aren’t cameras in ATLA so those picture frame hands will have to do.

[zeggyzone]

the intimacy of torture | cyphber

chamber/cypher (valorant) tags: torture, psychological torture, cigarettes, kidnapping, gun violence, delirium, unreliable narrator, aftermath of torture, aftermath of violence, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic description of vomit, vomit, whump, cypher whump, torturer deadeye, dead dove: do not eat, hurt no comfort, canon divergence, near death experience, cross-posted on ao3

synopsis: after the events of the SHATTERED strike team incident, cypher is sent out on a reconnaissance mission where he is tasked with understanding just exactly *who* those agents fighting alongside viper were. after two weeks, the trail goes cold, and cypher is a second too late in finding out why. or, cypher gets kidnapped by omega earth chamber (deadeye) and tortured.

sfw? very graphic so idk. 6.3k words.

notes: hello! i’m back, this time with a lot of angst. - i think what i wrote is rather graphic. continue at your own risk. - any, and ALL “accidental uses” of different names are ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL. - canon divergence where instead of simply digging through omega archives via alpha earth to uncover ATLAS, cypher is sent to omega earth to find out in person. everything else is the same. - cypher’s fake name is ‘ Khidae Eak ‘ - it gets horny. really horny. - translations will be provided in the end notes. - cypher is a linguist nerd, french people use arabic curse words (from what i know) - i made this while listening to old romantic music that you’d probably find in your dad’s vinyl collection. most of this playlist, actually. listen to it while reading if you want! happy reading :)

Omega Earth wasn’t everything Cypher expected it to be.

As much as Pearl’s geodome was a beautiful place to reside, he was disappointed. Even if the giant sunfish that swam atop and the comic shop that Cypher frequently visited (despite its harsh propaganda) were nothing short of pleasant, it was still Omega Earth. He could get used to it, maybe– plus, he would’ve loved to buy another comic if it weren’t for the circumstances he was in.

Cypher was put on a recon mission; his only directive was to locate information on ATLAS and their presence on Omega Earth. Killjoy was incredibly against it, given their previous run-in during their time as the SHATTERED strike team, but Cypher insisted on his ability.

He’s been here for two weeks now, and all he’s gathered so far are the locations of different ATLAS operational facilities; A site and B site. The doors were often guarded by security cameras, so Cypher made an effort to avoid them, but he isn’t one for keeping his distance for extended periods. Like Icarus, he frequently finds himself flying too close to the sun, threatening to get burned.

Occasionally, he met with his fellow Alpha Earth agents, oftentimes Yoru, who used his dimensional rift to retrieve and relay information back to Alpha Earth in a stealthy, swift manner. Cypher was supposed to meet with him today, but he was taking a bit longer than usual.

He eventually found himself walking around. He bought a comic for memorabilia, a cup of coffee at the little Pérola Café pop-up, and then a few bottles of cherry brandy from that little winery down by the plaza. He circled back to the Garden of Heroes as soon as he got the memo that things were back on schedule— that was of course, after he returned to his safehouse and pulled on his mask. Pearl can know of Khidae Eak, but they will not see Amir El Amari.

The walk is cheerful, bustling,

and incredibly short.

Cypher doesn’t remember the details. All he knows is that eyes were on him, and evading them was not going to be easy.

The broker; hood and scarf on at the commencement of August, body completely covered. His eyes dart around the barren garden– the occasional tourist here and there– and he spots someone. Familiarity lingers in the air– the same glance, the same frame– it couldn’t be. 

Cypher remembers looking at his PDA, ready to urge Yoru into hurrying up (excuse his phrasing), and that being compromised isn’t something that he’d appreciate. But he decides to start typing a few moments too late.

He remembers the sound of rushed footsteps, the smell and taste of alcohol, and a hushed urgency uttered in Portuguese, the enunciation nasally in essence, almost as if the orator was not a native speaker. The realization made Cypher’s head spin– or maybe it was the chloroform.

– It could be.

That’s how he managed to get ripped from his desired location with his hands and ankles cuffed to an uncomfortable metal chair, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue; his surroundings are dimly lit– or maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark as he wakes up after being unconscious for God knows how long– and his wrists hurt. 

“Attacher ton amant à une chaise,”

Cypher exhales through his nose, the saying all too familiar, speaking honeyed on his dry tongue, – it could be.

– “C’est simple comme bonjour.”

“Vous savez votre français.”

“Et mes mots sûrs.”

“Vous êtes dégoûtant.”

“J’ai appris du meilleur.”

“My double?”

“Yes,” Cypher says, the slightest growl in his voice.

Deadeye exhales through his nose, feigning a laugh, which comes out an amused huff as he closes his captive, compelling his hat down by the rim, so gently that Cypher is reminded of his Vincent back home.

“Why are you here, Amir?”

He puffs, “Careful, I might as you the same thing, Vincent—“

The rattling of a snake,

the breaking of bones,

a groan from a broker,

the taste of iron on his tongue.

“You’re being a pain.”

“But you love when I’m in it.”

“Not you.”

Deadeye’s countenance flattens, his Headhunter spattered with Cypher’s blood as he bears his free hand to tilt Cypher's chin up to face him. His fingers trail down his throat, grazing it like he could tear his skin apart with his fingernails, just until they match the bottom of Cypher’s mask. his breath hitches. His Adam’s apple dips.

“Not the mask,” he almost begs.

Deadeye uses his Headhunter to chuck Cypher’s hat off, allowing it to fall to the floor as he practically shreds off the cuffed male’s mask. His nose is bleeding— bloodied— broken, and the bitter taste of iron sits upon his tongue, his gums an unhealthy brown from the cheap cigarettes he smoked with his beautiful Vincent.

“We’re long past that point, Amir.”

Deadeye speaks with certainty, but his actions speak louder, and they’re yelling in Cypher’s face: “I will kill you.”

But Cypher doesn’t fear death. He never has. Not since then.

Deadeye’s gums are the same color as tobacco, evident as he scowls, teeth yellowed from the smoke that Cypher assumed his counterpart blew into his mouth and forced him to savor, the cinnamon cigars being far too much of a delicacy to waste.

Cypher wants his Vincent.

“How did you know where I was?”

Deadeye strikes his pistol, barrel-first into the side of Cypher’s head, a groan stemming from his strained throat.

“I ask the questions here.”

Cypher is one for witty remarks, “so ask.”

It earns him a muzzle to the forehead.

“Do you want to die, Amir?”

“You want to kill me.”

Deadeye pushes the muzzle further onto Cypher’s forehead, “I said that I ask the questions—“

“No, you misunderstand,” Deadeye’s hand quivers with the beginning, and Cypher feels the ground shift, “it was a statement.”

The more Cypher speaks, the more he feels his heart start to beat behind his eyes– he’s seeing double and it’s like he sees Deadeye and his Vincent in front of him simultaneously. The hallucination makes him feel grounded. He wants to reach out and cup his Vincent’s cheek, rub the scar on his cheekbone, and turn away.

But Deadeye doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone. He’s not Vincent, and he never will be.

The foreboding silence makes Cypher feel like he’s done something he will regret, and his thoughts are proven correct as soon as Deadeye pulls back the hammer of his Headhunter.

“You’re right, my friend,”

Deadeye flicks his hand. Cypher’s ears ring. His throat becomes sandpaper.

“I do want to kill you.”

He shot his fucking leg. He shot him in the fucking leg.

“Because you know too much,” it fucking hurts, “and I need to make sure you don’t tell any more than you already have– one way or another.”

The breathing is heavy in the room, and Cypher feels like he’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t get his shit together. He’s a grown man cuffed to a chair with blood dripping down his leg and bleeding into his baggy gray pants. He loved those pants. The air is crisp, hard to swallow, and hot. It’s as if Chamber’s body heat and musk are forcing itself down Cypher’s throat– it’s asphyxiating.

Chamber’s hand clutches Cypher’s jaw, tautening each time a hic fled his throat, his eyes fleeting tears. Cypher thinks his jaw might give out with the way he’s clenching it so hard– Deadeye slams his skull against the concrete wall. Cypher cries.

“And I’m not opposed to using methods that are considered corrupt, Amir.”

He’s dizzy, he’s losing blood, and he knows he has to survive whatever Deadeye puts him through. He has to. He must. Cypher’s breaths are labored, but his eyes don’t falter– they’re forced open and he just wants to sleep—the intimacy of torture– plagued by your lover.

“I could leave you braindead, do you ever think of that?” Deadeye asks it with a sickening smile as if he’s enjoying it. Cypher would not be surprised if it was some crazy fucking fantasy of his– Cypher feels his face tighten.

“I’d rather not,” he whispers, and Chamber smiles at him, pseuding innocence. Cypher fears what's next. The broker knows everything about everyone but is oblivious and frightened here. He wants to fight back– he has to fight back.

Save your life, Amir– you’ve only got one.

“Imagine what your friends back home will think,” Deadeye tilts his head, twirling a curl next to Cypher’s temple. His lips purse and he pulls his head away as best he can, his brows furrowing in disgust– trepidation– sorrow? Cypher doesn’t even know what. “What would your Vincent think? Will he cry? Will you comfort him?”

Deadeye’s twisted smile widens, “Will you even survive to see him?”

The finger leads down to Cypher’s lower eyelid, his middle finger pulling down at it, his pointer prodding at his eyeball. The feeling is abnormal– the pad of Deadeye’s finger pushes at Cypher’s eye, and he tries to shut them, pulling his head away as sufficiently as he can. His mind blanks.

“You often prattle about being the ‘all-seeing eye’ Amir,” Deadeye’s hand doesn’t halt, but stays put. A hazy breath leaves Cypher’s throat, terrified, “but a spider cannot string its web half blind.”

Wait, Cypher wants to say, but it comes out as a pathetic whine, and Deadeye laughs at him. He laughs in his face. Not like this— no, it can’t end like this. 

“You’re shaking.”

Part of him wants to bite the bullet and talk back, but the sheer fear that displays itself within his clenched jaw renders him wordless as Deadeye’s fingernail digs at his cornea. The bawl that seethes through Cypher’s teeth is piercing; he begs for mercy, forgiveness– anything to spark empathy in Deadeye’s amused stare, and from behind his wet finger, stained with Cypher’s tears (he didn’t even realize he was crying), he sees those same bedroom eyes that yielded him speechless in better ways than this.

He swats his head down, and Chamber swiftly slaps him, grabbing him by his jaw once again; the familiar ache returns. He’s cursing at him, laughing, and it’s demeaning. Cypher is glad that his head is ringing so much that he cannot hear him, and that his eyes are too blurred to even view the face of his love.

Or what it would’ve been, at least.

Cypher then realizes what is at stake here– he could possibly ruin everything the protocol had going for them right now– getting killed by an Omega agent could very well compromise the whole operation, much less get him killed. Cypher could care less about that.

He imagines Chamber wouldn’t, though.

So he forces himself to think. The pain is like sparklers underneath his skin, but he blinks back the hot tears and clenches his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into the skin– he tries to focus on that instead.

Handcuffs, you know how to get out of those. Crime novels might not be the best source to rely on, but it’s all you have, Amir; work with it. Chamber gently traces his jawline and he gulps. Cypher tries not to think about it too hard– if he does, he won’t see Deadeye anymore. He cannot handle that outcome.

To a flick of lighter, Cypher looks up– second nature, really– to see Deadeye lighting a cigarette; filter-tipped Virginia blend. Expensive. The authenticness of his character is uncanny. Cypher wants to throw up.

A London delicacy that has to be shipped in at a much higher price, and Chamber is holding it in his right hand, lifting Cypher’s chin to look at him with his left. His captor blows the smoke out in Cypher’s face, and he inhales– a reflex– as the smoke tingles against his eyes. Deadeye twirls the cigarette in his fingers, and inches the cherry towards Cypher’s neck.

“You’re greedy, Amir.” He says, the heat tickling the hairs that already stand on edge. “These go for fifty-five United States dollars per pack. Specialty blends Virginia tobacco, and you’re taking my leftovers,” Deadeye punctuates with a laugh, “you are pathetic. Très pathétique.”

The cherry makes contact, and the scorch makes him fume. “You’re wasting them–”

“On trash, yes,” Chamber says, “But I’ll relight it just for you, if that is what you want, Amir.”

“No,”

The zippo clicks again. Cypher braces himself.

Three cigarette burns mark his neck, and Chamber looks at them like an artist would his magnum opus, prideful in his masterpiece. He drops the cigarette onto Cypher’s shoe, stepping into it.

Cypher zones out.

Then he feels something against his left thigh. Thin– sharp.

Khra, fuck. Of course, he has to pull it out now.

“You’re ravishing like this, Amir,” you are not doing what I fucking think you are doing, “it feels as if it is my job to impair you,” you are not his, “Vous êtes mon problème, after all.” Focus– one hand to abduct the joint, the other set in place to perform the deed.

Dislocate your thumb and slip out your hand. Dislocate your carpometacarpal joint, specifically. You don’t want to break your hand– that’s one less resource you have– if you dislocate your thumb, you can pop it back into place. Easy as pie? Hopefully. Deadeye’s hand falls. Cypher exhales. He was not aware he was holding his breath.

Within the next strike, play it off. Easy.

Chamber drags down the flat side of the blade against his femur, and as the blade is pushed ever so slightly, Cypher lets out a yowl, his thumb angled at an abnormal angle now– one more to go. He uses his other hand to pry off the handcuffs. He forces his shoulders to stay put– a strenuous task, but he manages, and he makes sure to quietly drop the cuff, avoiding any sound cues that may alert his captor.

They did not die for you to fail to endure.

Cypher’s hair stands on end.

It seems Deadeye doesn’t notice the ploy, as he says something about how he had “barely touched” him and that he “shouldn’t jolt like that.” As if he cared.

Cypher can handle a slashed thigh, and he can handle a bullet to the leg– but either way, he will end up bringing fists to a knife and gunfight. He doesn’t even know if Deadeye has additional weapons on him. He fears the worst, even if he’s too set on persisting to realize it.

The blade digs into his skin, and it takes so much inside of him not to buck his legs while dislocating his other thumb, and a growl burrows itself in his throat, coming out in tragically sputtered speech. His eyes shake, looking down even if his brain told him not to, and he sees the blood seep from the cut, slowly– so achingly slowly– staining his already soiled pants. The blood from his nose has already dried and the smell is rancid. He feels a stinging, putrid, and chunky liquid rise in his throat. He bites his tongue and forces the egregious mixture back down. You have seen worse. this is nothing.

He works his other hand of its confines as best he can, his eyes flittering with every twinge of discomfort. He wants to thank God if there even is one out there, that Deadeye doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe there is one if he’s survived this long.

Cypher’s atheist views aside, he ignores the edge slicing into his skin and the wetness dripping down his thigh, working to pop his left thumb back into the socket. Chamber meets Cypher’s dazed stare. He smiles. Cypher exhales, his breath malodorous as olden remains of vomit rest upon it, the thumb unsuccessful in popping back into place as Deadeye rubs his thumb on the wound– it pricks. He feels small crystals chafe at the serrated edges of the cut, and Cypher realizes that he’s genuinely rubbing salt in the wound.

There is something so intimate about it. Captive and captor. He will never look at that smile the same.

Cypher looks at his ankles, one cuff under the leg of the chair and the other connected to him. Lift the chair. Slide it under. He almost laughs– it couldn’t be that easy, and he’s right; he’s shot, he’s cut, and he’s lost blood. Not to fucking mention that he can’t feel his face, but can somehow feel the sweat dripping down the side of his crown, sticking his curly brown hair to his forehead. The broker pops his right thumb back into the socket, flinching as Deadeye slams the knife in the middle of his legs.

He recounts. His legs have been shot at and sliced. That’s a disadvantage. He has no weapons. If he took the knife, he’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight. He doesn’t know if Deadeye has a quick reloader. Maybe he can get him to waste his bullets. Yes, that seems plausible.

Chamber’s hand reaches up to his jawline again, his thumb parting Cypher’s lips ever so slightly, but his jaw stays clenched– he can feel the simmering of salt on his lips. Deadeye forces him to open up, resting the salt-covered thumb on his tongue, and holding it down. A pathetic, broken sob leaves Cypher’s throat. Just a bit more. Find an opening, Amir. You cannot die here. You cannot let him destroy you like this,

because what would happen if you allowed it?

His breath hitches in his throat as Chamber forces his thumb deeper, “Clean it,” he demands, and Cypher leaps into the breach, the taste of sodium and iron on his tongue, causting– a chemical reaction that Cypher wishes didn’t do things to him. He imagines his actual lover performing and wants to fucking bite Deadeye’s thumb off.

“Watch the teeth,” Deadeye scowls, pulling his thumb with a pop and wiping it on Cypher’s shoulder. He swats his hand to clean it, looking away for just a fucking second. That is all the time Cypher needs. His heart aches for warmth, touch– Vincent– so he stands up, tugs the knife out, grabs the chair, and hurls it at him.

He doesn’t realize how badly his legs want to give out until he’s standing upright (more like glorified perching with the way his knees buckle), his grip on the knife faltering ever so slightly as he catches his breath, feeling the adrenaline kick through his veins. He knows it will be over soon– he is only human. 

He squints as Deadeye tries to recover from the metal hurled at his frame, and he grunts– and of course, he doesn’t have his fucking glasses. His eyesight comes back to bite him in the ass in a life-or-death situation. Maybe God isn’t real. The room is dark, only lit by a buzzing lightbulb that hurts Cypher’s head. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have time to think because if he can, he’s doing something wrong.

A bullet flies past his head and it brings him back to reality– he is the disadvantage, one dislocated thumb refusing to pop back into place, legs ready to give out at any given moment, and Deadeye just fucking shot at him.

Cypher yells, legs flailing as he flies towards Deadeye, firing blindly. He can tell that he is disoriented still, so he uses it to his advantage. One hand reaches to Deadeye’s wrist– the one holding Headhunter– and pins it down to the best of his ability, kneeing his crotch (hard, at that) to further disable him. Deadeye’s free hand balls into a fist, and slams into Cypher’s cheekbone, groaning out in pain from the previous knee, sprawled on the floor as he tries to keep his hold on Headhunter firm, but Cypher tugs it out of his hand, head spinning as it slides all the way across the linoleum floor, clanking against a piece of metal.

An exit route.

Cypher slams the knife into Deadeye’s right wrist, and he wails, a loud curse echoing through the desolate room as his left shoots up to grab Cypher by the scalp. Chamber tugs his head back, harshly, and Cypher growls, kneeing him once more to slacken his grasp, raising the knife from the puncture with a hellish sound. The ridges of the knife dig against Deadeye’s skin, slitting his wrist into a perfect cavern, through and through. Cypher can feel both of their strength diminishing.

The words spoken are lost to CCTV footage, (that’s if there is a camera in here in the first place) and whizzed memory, but Cypher feels his body move on autopilot, rolling off Chamber, even if he can feel the tightened grip on his scalp pull at his hair follicles, and his body follows in the path that Chamber is dragging him in. He headbutts him once– twice– Cypher stumbles backward when his grip loosens, immediately sitting up to grab his right wrist, squeezing it to try and stop the pain. His groans lay low within his throat, guttural.

Cypher feels his head spinning, and the adrenaline starts to wear off– he cannot allow that to happen.

He holds his head, knife laying in his hand as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs wobbling after each frantic step, trying to find the gleam of the Headhunter as a guide towards the metal door. It’s so, so close, and Cypher thinks he’s reaching out to the door, only to fall over.

Deadeye yanked at one of the cuffs dragging behind his ankle, hard enough to pull Cypher down to one knee. Maroon secretion spreads along the floor in generous portions with the pressure, the sensation closer to tv static. Diaphoresis sets in, and bullets of sweat excavate out of his body, heat evaporating into the still air. It’s sticky, sweltering, humid— wet. He hurls himself over, reaching out towards the door.

Every waking thought made his head pound– his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, no, it was the terrible anxiety and realization that every decision he has made in his sad, pathetic life was a total failure and he had to be beaten to death by his lover’s clone to deduce that? Nora. Hadiya.

How could he let this happen? His head spins, this is it.

God forbid you meet at a crossroads with Amir El Amari.

He is the greatest mistake you could make.

Chamber crawls his way towards Cypher, flipping him over and trapping him between his legs, heaving. His hair is disheveled, framing his forehead with a slight glisten of sweat, and Cypher thinks he almost looks beautiful.

Deadeye takes the knife with the smallest struggle, using his right hand to hold it despite the gushing wound, his other creeping up to Cypher’s neck.

Chamber’s fingers graze Cypher’s neck so lovingly for a second, so short that he feels at ease. Chamber tightens. Cypher’s breath hitches. He whimpers. He pleas. Chamber wants to see him squirm.

Because what is more intimate than a captive and his captor?

“You fucking did this,” his words are gruff and are punctuated by the sickening ‘shhk’ of a blade ripping fabric and skin— Cypher doesn’t register the stab below his clavicle; rather, he’s too focused on grabbing Deadeye’s shoulder to push him off. He has one hand clawing at Deadeye’s wrist, hoping it’ll do something, anything, to get him one last breath of air.

Thinking is so hard, but he manages.

“My fucking—“ an enraged huff, “my hand, ayreh feek—“ he picks up Cypher by the neck and slams his head back down into the solid floor. He yowls. Cypher pushes him away, hand right under his jaw, trying to create distance. A growl, “vous ne valez rien.”

Cypher lets go of his wrist, trying to pull the knife out with a cigarette-befouled voice, “I’m going to kill you.”

Deadeye digs the knife in deeper, much to Cypher’s distress, and in response, punches Deadeye in the jaw. His captor shouts, reaching out behind him, throwing something– Cypher’s eyes suddenly fucking sting. Crystalline stabs at his cornea with each blink, like icicles under his eyelids, and he discovers that Deadeye just threw salt at him. Fucking salt. It’s scattered all over his face, catnapping the places where bones dip, and he feels it fall to the back of his throat. He shuts his eyes, hurling upward as he coughs, the hand around his neck uncooperative in his efforts to rid the sodium crystals from the back of his mouth.

“Not if I do it first.” He says through a laugh tainted with mockery, “I will crush your eyes,” he dips down to Cypher’s ear, “Amir,” Chamber says. Cypher doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.

His grip is unforgiving, irritated, and deadly. He wants to break Cypher’s neck.

For once, Amir El Amari fears death.

Cypher hears melodies in his ear, ringing ever so slightly. Jazz– romantic jazz, at that. Songs that Chamber played for him late at night after romantic (or less romantic) scenes, or a long day out in the field, and all they needed was a meal and a nap. Trumpets and pianos, saxophones and bass, played upon an old stereo with antique reverb and a low pass filter that seems to become more muffled the tighter Chamber squeezes– he squints, free arm reaching outwards beyond Deadeye’s acknowledgment.

He’s talking. Cypher can’t hear him. He just needs to extend his hand.

His vision is blurred. He feels the room starting to get darker. His heartbeat is slowing. Why so aware? Why now? In his final moments, he sees his lover and not his captor– why?

A twisted fucking way to go out, and Cypher doesn’t consider himself twisted.

A grip. Finally.

Cypher’s shaky finger pulls the decorated nano-carbon steel into his grasp, and a huff of air leaves his nose. His hands tremble in his wake, Deadeye, so focused on staring him down, that he doesn’t realize the limb snaking under his own and aiming the radianite-infused firearm right under his chin.

Cypher weakly smiled, mustering up whatever strength he had left. 

Through broken breaths, “Laila sa'ida, habibi.”

The trigger is squeezed. The grip extricates. Cypher breathes. He pushes him off. Blood seeps onto his white collared shirt. Cypher brushes his face of bloodshed. He looks at the ceiling.

He just wants to sleep. But he can’t. So he won’t.

Cypher looks at the steaming gun, discarding it to the side, his back, head, – hell, his whole body aching as he shimmies his way towards the knife. He looks at Deadeye; his eyes are blown wide open, twitching ever so slightly, jaw slacked. He lies there, unresponsive as Cypher holds the knife in his dominant hand, cutting his left sleeve at the shoulder seam, and pulling it over his gloves. He leans over, grabbing the leg of the metal chair, and setting it up straight as best he can. Cypher puts his left foot up on the chair, looking at the cut. He furrows his brows, recovering from the blackness in his eyes, placing the knife on the chair. Cypher pops his right thumb back into its socket. He jerks his hand, getting used to it.

“Sorry for ruining your shirt,” he mutters, picking up the cut sleeve and unrolling it, “but you destroyed my favorite pair of pants,” Cypher ties the tourniquet, “so we’ll call it even.” He reaches over to cut off Deadeye’s other sleeve, repeating the action and looking at the bullet wound. He looks at the chair, then his thigh. Straight through. No bullet to pull out. That’s good.

It had just missed his bone. He’s one lucky, unlucky guy.

As soon as the deed is done, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, the whiteness sullies with dried blood, pulling out a few hairs from his face. He sniffs. It is unpleasant. He elevates his legs on the chair to regulate his blood flow as best he can, lying next to the corpse of his former captor. He nicks off another piece of fabric to stuff in the stab wound below his clavicle. He writhes.

He feels the familiar reverberation in his lower stomach, then the gurgle in his throat. 

Of course. Why now? Nonetheless, he uses his arms to push him up off the floor, scrambling and clawing towards the corner for purchase. The sick noise in his throat materializes and before Cypher knows it, vile liquid exerts itself from his mouth, throat salty as the bile fans into the corner, painting the walls with its projectile and splattering onto his knees. A sharp, caramelized, nutty stench paired with butyric acid fills the air. It’s fucking putrid. He does this twice, retching violently as his body hurls over like a cat, legs shaking as his left hand begs the wall for acquisition.

By the end of it, his body feels ten times lighter, but he feels as if he threw up all of his vital organs. He might as well have, given the way his body almost slumped into his puddle of puke. He pushes himself away from the wall, falling backward onto the floor, careful enough so that he won’t harm his head any more than it has been. His very alive head lies upside down next to Deadeye’s very much unalived one.

Now it’s just Cypher, his thoughts, and Deadeye’s corpse.

Help should be on the way, yes?

So, kick back, smoke a cigarette, and find a way to contact Alpha Earth. Yoru should have picked up that something is wrong, reported back to HQ, and they’re sending people— probably not a whole strike team, but people— to retrieve him. It’s that easy.

He lies there for a minute– then five minutes– then ten minutes pass until he exchanges his gaze at the ceiling for Deadeye, then his vest. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to search him.

He grunts, pushing himself off the floor, head still buzzed from the previous beatings, sitting with his legs straight next to his cadaver, keeping the tourniquets from loosening. He reaches over, twisting his hips to look over Deadeye, first checking his vest pockets.

A speed loader, eight bullets. It seems Deadeye was ready for a fight. Obviously, he did not prepare well enough.

A zippo lighter. Majestic Eagle– 1990’s vintage. At least he’d have something to occupy him.

A handkerchief. Sunset in color swirled in design. It matches his tie. The crimson from the bullet has seeped its way into it. Cypher grimaces. It’s still wet.

Cypher wants to hope that there’s water. There isn’t even a flask. Apparently, Deadeye doesn’t have the same habits as his lover.

His pants now.

An art deco, 1930s-themed cigarette tin with seventeen treasurer cigarettes left. He might as well put them to use if it meant he’d be stuck here for a while. Chainsmoking is a very good use of your time if you don’t think about it too much.

An Altoids can. Open it? Around 60 mints. He might have to survive off that for a bit.

Cypher pockets the Altoids, quick to crack open the cigarette tin and flip open the zippo, lighting himself a coffin nail, savoring the specialty tobacco. He flips the lighter closed, the cylinder resting between his lips as he digs around for anything else– maybe his old belongings.

The broker manages to pull himself to his feet, his eyes still blurred to a manageable degree. A black plastic bag is what he’s looking for– his comic, his brandy, and hopefully his biscotti is in there. He hears plastic rustle by his feet, along with a clinking of glass, and he almost laughs in victory before he realizes that there could very well be people outside his escape route.

He picks up the bag and trudges his way to the metal chair, resting the plastic bag in his lap as he sits. He cracks open the bottle of brandy after desperately searching for his PDA (it hadn’t been in there– a shame; at least Omega agents were smart enough to do that, though), pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a strong swig to wash down the taste of vomit residue on his teeth and tongue.

His eyes dart back to Deadeye’s lifeless body, skimming his body for any part he forgot to search, hoping for a PDA, a homing device, something that could help him relay his location.

Then he feels a vibration.

It’s well known that Pearls’ power source runs underneath the city like its veins– its life force. Cypher has a feeling that it’s a hint as to where he could be situated.

If he remembers correctly, within the past few days he’s been here, the metro roars to life at around four o’clock in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. By that math, he’s been in here for six hours. How he slept that long? Cypher has no fucking idea. 

And, if he takes into account the fact that it takes one large rumble (that lasts half a minute, from what Cypher gathered) across the city of Pearl to send the metro down to the city of Opal, he should be at least somewhat far from the metro, established that the rumble lasted about ten seconds for him.

Maybe reading the briefing was a good thing.

Cypher takes a bite of his biscotti, downing it with a swig of brandy, setting the bottle onto the floor with a tiny clink, holding the cookie in his mouth as he kneels next to Deadeye with a grumble of discomfort, lifting him and rolling him as needed to search.

He handles something solid, and upon a few taps, he confirms that it is, in fact, a communications device. Cypher prays it's his own.

It is.

Cypher doesn’t realize how fucking lucky he is as soon as he pulls it out. It dawns on him a few moments later (after staring at the PDA, wide-eyed, and enduring a painful giggle fit of disbelief) that he has a get-out-of-jail free card, and that maybe God does exist.

He scrambles to turn it on, and even if the signal is spotty, he still has signal. He will take what he can get.

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:07 PM ALIVE DON’T KNOW LOCATION POSSIBLY A SITE CAN TRY RELAYING

AGENT-15 [YORU] // 4:13 PM TOUCHED DOWN RELAY IF POSSIBLE WE WILL FIND YOU

AGENT-01 [BRIMSTONE] // 4:17 PM STRIKE TEAM INBOUND STAY WHERE YOU ARE DO NOT ENGAGE

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:21 PM WAS NOT PLANNING ON IT HURRY

Fourteen minutes to relay twelve messages. Cypher didn’t think they’d send in the first place. But that’s beside the point; he has a job now– press down on his relay system and pray that the signal is strong enough for the strike team to find him.

But to kill time, he’s going to chain smoke, drink, and read his comic book.

What a wonderful way to spend his afternoon as a 37-year-old man.

The cigarette stays pressed between his lips as he takes a drag, digging through the plastic bag for the flimsy bundle of paper, setting it in his lap as his fingers flip the pages one by one, tucking the stick into the corner of his mouth, taking another swig of brandy.

If he was going to be in pain, he was not going to be sober.

It’s not until Cypher has reread the comic five times (which takes a while– approximately fifteen minutes per read, making him stuck there for nearly an hour and a half) that he hears sirens going off and shit hitting the fan. He stays put, however, the blaring noises are just a tad bit discomforting to his already tinnitus-symptomatic head. It then occurs to him that maybe he should put his mask back on. But that means he’d have to stop smoking. And drinking.

Shame, he was already getting buzzed.

Even worse, he expected them to take longer.

Cypher pushes himself up from his chair, the comic falling onto the floor as he reaches down to pick it up and pack his pathetic plastic bag, his legs stumbling from his sluggishness, body heavier than it should be. At the expense of his liver, he made it through whatever the hell this was. He tosses Deadeye’s Headhunter into his bag.

He sloppily pulls his mask over his head, dismissing the way his sweaty curls stuck to the insides, too drunk and in need of a bed to care. His hat still lay unmoving on the floor from events he’d rather not recall, the way that dried blood found its home on the rim from where Deadeye pushed it off sending chills down Cypher’s spine. The bottle of brandy is 75% done, (Cypher didn’t realize that either; it was good brandy, as expected from Omega), held loosely in his hand.

The footsteps and sirens blare louder within Cypher’s ears, and the white, piercing noise grows with it, much to his distress. He’s stumbling, covering his ears– he’s tired, he’s drunk, and he needs a fucking doctor. These wounds aren’t going to heal themselves and he just wants to get out. He wants to see sunlight, and fuck, the anxiety is setting inside of him again. Fuck you, Omega brandy.

The door flies open, he turns his head.

Cypher almost falls over at the sight– dark, flashing red lights on the outside make him want to fall asleep in the warmness of his coat (which probably wasn’t even warmth, given the blood he’s lost) and never wake up. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.

Blue. Orange. Yellow. The colors are a blur.

His knees buckle, and he tumbles.

His captor.

“attacher ton amant à une chaise” = tie your lover to a chair / french

“c’est simple comme bonjour” = it’s as simple as hello / french

“vous savez votre français” = you know your french / french

“et mes mots sûrs” = and my safe words / french

“vous êtes dégoûtant” = you are disgusting / french

“j’ai appris du meilleur” = i learned from the best / french

“très pathétique” = so pathetic / french

“khra” = shit / moroccan arabic

“vous êtes mon problème” = you are my problem / french

“ayreh feek” = fuck you / arabic

“vous ne valez rien” = you are worthless / french

“laila sa'ida, habibi” = sleep well, my love / moroccan arabic

apologies if any of the arabic is incorrect. i’m on my second year of french as well, so that may be an issue too.

thank you for reading, i hope it was worth the hours i spent in a custom game as cypher on pearl to worldbuild and the time i spent scouring valorant archives to find plot devices.

huge thanks to the practice range discord server for keeping me sane during this (and giving me feedback when i was in the process of writing it)

another thanks to my beta reader, you’re a real one fr.

a follow-up chapter of the aftermath MAY come out within the next few weeks if i am feeling it. if not, maybe the next few months if i regain the motivation to work on this again :)

any questions can (and will most likely) be answered in the comments!

as always, my socials twitter tiktok tumblr

and our valorant lore-centric discord server! we’d love to have you! 人´∀｀)

[fabrickind]

📸Want to do cosplay photoshoots but don't know how to find that perfect place to shoot? This tutorial covers how to brainstorm a location for your shoot, logistical and cost concerns with shoot locations, and how to actually find your dream location.

📸This tutorial can be applied to shoots of all types, including but not limited to self shoots, shoots with friends, and shoots with hired photographers. Self shooting or shooting with friends only requires a camera (a phone works!) and possibly a tripod.

Part 2: Finding Locations

Now that you have a shoot concept in mind, it's time to find the location itself. If you don't already have a location in mind, you will need to do some searching to find one.

The Detective Work

Whether you have a type of location in mind or not, you can poke around online to find the ideal place. If you have a type of location in mind, Google Maps or similar can help you find locations if you search for your location type, such as "beach." If you don't have a location type in mind, you can look around at websites like Atlas Obscura or at your local parks district websites. If looking to rent a location or use an indoor location, Peerspace is a site where you can rent photography studios and event spaces, often with equipment of their own for you to borrow, and you can usually shoot in hotel rooms or Airbnbs if that suits your character. If you are out of ideas, look around at what other people in your area use. Other cosplayers are a great resource, but I also recommend looking for engagement photos or graduation photos in your area for ideas on where non-cosplay photographers shoot. Finally, there's a tool called Cos-Map that contains user-submitted locations and detailed discovery tools; it doesn't have a lot of use yet because it is still in beta, so if you have locations to submit, please do so and help other cosplayers!

Cos-Map link: https://experience.arcgis.com/experience/556b7aba7e984c94b7054c405d640635/

Brainstorming

​When brainstorming your location types, think of all aspects of the character, series, and your shoot goals and try to match these aspects to real-life locations. I've also worked backwards a few times and chosen one character over another on my list of possible cosplays because I had a shoot location already in mind! Knowing who the character is, what genre of series and shoot you want, and where the series takes place can help you to find somewhere that your character looks good in.

I also have here a list of location types that you may find helpful, and hopefully it includes types of locations you hadn't thought of. This isn't exhaustive, and not all these location types exist in all areas, but this is to give you a jumping off point for thinking of your cosplay shoot locations. Locations like studio shoots, a beach, or a forest may seem obvious, but also look at places like local tourist attractions, areas with graffiti on the walls,  and keep an eye out for any selfie museums in your area or touring pop-up museums for unique cosplay shoot locations.

As always, check the rules of anywhere you shoot, and be sure to get permission to shoot there. Part 4 covers this process in more depth.

Getting Creative

If you really can't find a location that suits your character, get creative! You can do anything from a printed backdrop or solid color drape shoot in your own home to a shoot against a cool-looking wall. Often, tighter framing works best with this type of shoot, as you only want to showcase the area directly around you and not the full area that may not be suitable. A wall or some hedges work well for medium shot distance portraits, and some ground or a piece of furniture work well for reclining shots. You may only be able to get a few photos with this type of background, depending on what the background and cosplay are, but if you want to show off a costume now and get a different type of photoshoot later, you can.

Links to other parts: 1 Location Types, 2 Discovering Locations, 3 Indoor vs Outdoor Locations, 4 Location Permissions, 5 Location Logistics

[lesbianalanwake]

The Atlas changes form, but resists observation when doing so. No visual observation has been made during its change, and it only ever occurs between frames when monitored by surveillance cameras. A previous theory was that this change corresponds to House Shifts and that the Atlas is a [REDACTED] of the [REDACTED] itself. However the shape changes do not occur at the same time as the building shifts, which makes this theory doubtful. Structurally the Atlas is made of the same [REDACTED] material as the rest of the Oldest House. Further observation will hopefully aid in discovering its purpose.

[todds-rwby-liveblog]

I NEED TO DISSECT THAT SEQUENCE UNDER A MICROSCOPEOREN S NADJSDLKS:DS I love just. I already mentioned the voice acting and the model comparisons before but OH MY GOHOHOHOHOOD. The Atlas designs really do feel like matured versions of their Beacon counterparts I am SHOOKETH that was so fucking GOOD I VLOE UP Also I'm just now noticing the shot contrast between the Beacon girls posing the offers and the Atlas girls rejecting them. The focuses on their mouths and the deceptiveness of what they're offering at first contrasted with the eye closeups and the determination/soul that comes with them. It makes me so god-damned EMO

And also Can I just

BLAKE PULLING OUT GAMBOL SHROUD'S KATANA RIGHT AS SHE SAYS "MY LIFE." THIS WEAPON HAS BEEN WITH HER THROUGH EVERYTHING. THE WHITE FANG THROUGH ADAM THROUGH HER STRUGGLES WITH HER PARENTS THROUGH TO THE HEALING SHE GOT THROUGH MEETING RWY AND YANG. FRAMING THE GOLDEN MEND RIGHT IN THE CENTRE OF THE FRAME/LIGHT. AND BC EVERYTHING ELSE IS PURPLE LIKE THAT IT JUST STANDS OUT SO MUCH EVEN THOUGH IT'S SO TINY. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THAT MEND ON THAT BLADE IS SO FUCKING KEY TO BLAKE AS A CHARACTER. OH MY FUCKING GOD. EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO BERSERK OVER THIS. FUCKING HELL THIS WAS GORGEOUSLY DONE.

The way Yang doesn't lash out or gets aggressive but just. She's being firm but also tries to be a guide to her younger self. She knows that the way she was normally taught would be either through rushing into it and finding out the hard way or from... Tai! And that method is not ideal to say the least. He tries but pushes her in the wrong way, with a lot of insults involved in some form (lost a brain cell along with that arm, your semblance is a temper tantrum, groaning at her hesitance at wearing her arm for the first time, I wanted a better goodbye than a letter etc.). I feel like she's using this opportunity to be the type of guide she's always wanted to be for others (namely Ruby) but also the kind she wishes she had for herself in life. Her life's always set her up to be a risk-taker and rush into things head on (all the way down to her semblance) and I'm realy happy that, in a way, she's finally taking the time to tell herself that what she really needed was to slow the fuck down. It's so fucking sad but also so good I'm OUGHHGHGH. The difference between Yang and Tai is empathy and it means the world.

Weiss' section oh god Weiss' section. Her speech has been sung about to death by now but it's just so iconic of her tbh. But can I just say I freaking LOVE the way she just has so much SASS. Honestly the best way to shut down pre-Beacon Weiss is with her own poison. But a detail I spotted that I really enjoy that's kinda hard to focus on at first cus big camera movement is her head movements when she say "I am" that was peak sass. I love that so fuckin much here it is timestamped: https://youtu.be/8eoazsK1n8k?t=103

But fr tho, I love the way she points her sword right at younger Weiss' nose like that.

Also the differences in the two's silhouettes and colours is some of my favourites, I love the contrast between the white laced with that tiny bit of red for rebellion and really faded Blue, only to over time gradually gain much bolder, more vibrant colours and a bigger form. Her v1 design is my favourite shape-wise still but if this isn't a massive parallel to how Blake's designs have evolved over the years idk what is.

Also I love the way she looks so confident when she plants Myrtenaster in the ground. Reminds me of Arma Gigas planting its sword to the ground in this context. She really reclaimed it so fucking hard in this scene I am going to blow up

Like look at them and tell me which one is the stronger individual here. Bro

Framing Ruby like this

FOUL. VILE. EVIL EVIL EVIL.

Single spotlight of silver light. With the Indomitable scene, the track Miracle, the talk with Maria, her mom... from her eyes, everything rests on her and it all starts with those fuckass iris pigments. Qrow told her she was destined for the life of a warrior but oh god why did it have to be like this. She's completely overtaken by her failure to her legacy as a continuation of a literal fucking myth in so many different ways I'm gonna snap

[zerm2v0hg]

Ok here is another what if scenario RWBY enter Vacuo andnupon entering are ambushed by Huntsman and Huntresses. The Vacuo and Atlas people had been preparing for their arrival and considered every contingency to bring them down.

They're eached locked up in cells specifically designed for them. Yang to restrict her strength, Ruby so she can Rose Petal her way out, Blake so she has cameras on her at all angles, and Weiss so she can use her Glytha without hurting herself in the process. Jaune is kept his Aura suppressing Cuffs and locked in a jail cell.

RWBY finds out that the Vacuo council and the Atlas refugees are not forgiving of the crisis they started and plan to hold them accountable for all that happened. With no way to break out they are effectively trapped.

Qrow, Ren, and Nora are unable to help since no one wants to listen and Vacuo has methods to bring them down as well. RWBY are all forced to listen about what their actions had caused and are unable to avoid the fact its all their fault.

Jaunes sister and her partner are in prison for their part in helping RWBY and JNR steal an air ship. Their son is likely in the foster system at the moment if he's not with any next of kin. Faunus relations have taken a nose dive because of Blake. The Schnees' reputation is at an all-time low because of Weiss. Yang is being viewed like a feral animal ready to snap at the slightest hand. And Ruby is forced to see that she was the cause of it all and no delusions can hide this from her.

It'd made worse when Ruby and Yang find out that an angry mob had burned down their home in patch with Tai and Zwei's location unknown. Rwby and Jaune are viewed as the enemy of the world and no one is willing to listen to their delusions on it.

Interesting. I like this all-out brutal deconstruction where RWBY/J emerge from the Ever After, and the Idiot Houdini Warranty expires with all the several volumes' worth of karma and consequences just catching up to them all at once with the speed and brutality of a bullet-train collision.

I quite like how Yang's global bad rep from Mercury and Emerald framing her in V3 before communications were crippled is suddenly coming back on a bus here.

I wonder what Winter and the remaining Ace-Ops are doing during all this. Would the angry mob in Vacuo be able to stand up to a Maiden if Winter was still actively on RWBY/JNR's side?

[maybeamiles]

My favorite part of an anime opening is picking it apart for spoilers/predictions SO THAT'S WHAT I'M GONNA DO FOR ONE PIECE HERE WE GO

As of writing this I'm caught up to Ep 1093 and know of a few manga spoilers for Law, Kid, Kuma, and Bonney, but everything else here is gonna be predictions. SPOILERS MAY BE AHEAD, BE WARNED.

Starting with the first thing that caught my eye, Luffy looking at someone standing on the ruin of a giant metal thing! Who is this person? Is that a giant's suit of armor? It looks like it was cut down with a giant axe. Why is this part of egghead so worn out? Can't wait to find out cause I cannot piece this one together from context clues!

Next there's all the Vegapunks. Looks like there's 6 of them, and they seem to work in pairs like Lillith and the guy who told her to be careful (can't for the life of me remember his name tho)

Of course we can't forget about CP9 and the return of Lucci. Can't wait to see what that bastard gets up to in the future.

Next there's a set! The Vegapunks, Garp's Marines, and Cross Guild. I think these are simply flashes of characters that will be important for this arc. It is interesting that Cross Guild is paired with these two. The Vegapunks used to be allied with the marines, but I have a suspicion that they'll become a neutral party in this upcoming arc. I'm pretty sure CP9 is after them, and they've been set apart from both pirates and Marines in the opening.

Now HERE'S WHERE IT GETS INTERESTING. We know Coby was kidnapped by Blackbeard, and we know that he's going to have to escape, presumably with the help of his fellow marines (especially if this opening is anything to go by). But pairing Coby with the question "Are your dreams still pure?" 🤨 Are they still pure, Mr. Marine? And is that old man Luffy and baby Jimbei? And who is the glitchy hand high-fiving Atlas? A hologram or something more thematically relevant? Are the Vegapunk's dreams still pure?

Anyways shout out to the Heart Pirates and Fem Bepo especially. Everyone talks about Fem Law but I can't wait for the Fem Bepo appreciation to start rolling in. He's so cute! Let's talk about Fem Bepo and not the fact that the Heart Pirates are definitely 100% fucked by the foreshadowing here.

Another set, this time of Coby's marine crew and Kizaru's asshole nephew. The marines are paired with the evil pirates they're facing and the civilians they want to save, and Kizaru's nephew is paired with a line of Pacifistas all aiming past him at the viewer. Perhaps showing the difference between them. Coby's crew can distinguish between enemies and allies, the pacifistas see only enemies?

This next set is with three characters. Kizaru, Kuma, and Seraphim Jimbei. They're all following the same movement arc, and from the way Seraphim Jimbei falls into the water, some later frames in the opening, and (manga spoilers), I suspect that these characters *might* not survive. Not completely sure about this cause I don't think Seraphim Jimbei will die too easily, but Kizaru is probably screwed.

Oh yeah, Kizaru's definitely screwed. Anyways, this particular analysis gets into manga spoilers, but I think these frames are about those left behind if I'm right about Kizaru, Seraphim Jimbei, and Kuma not making it thorugh. There's no third character though, so maybe Seraphim Jimbei means something else.

OOOOooooo its the guy Lilith was paired with, sitting behind a really creepy-looking wall with handprints. He looks sinister as FUCK. Can't wait to see what happens here!

This sequence was interesting. It's the Seraphim, being comforted like children. Especially Boa. There's DEFINITELY some symbolism being captured here when Boa looks at the camera, a star drops, and we cut to Luffy. Something tells me that the Seraphim are more human than the Navy would have us believe at first, and maybe Boa's affection for Luffy carries on to her Seraphim self? (hopefully in a non-romantic context cause that'd be weird as fuck).

OOOH BOY A BIG BATCH HERE. I think these are all the fights in the upcoming arc. Luffy rematches with Lucci. Kid battles (Manga Spoilers) (interesting that he's the only one who's deliberately obscured, kinda like how we don't know anything about him really). Law fights Blackbeard. Garp fights Kuzan (which will be interesting since he used to be a marine and now works for blackbeard), and if Zoro's not fighting Seraphim Mihawk I'm gonna eat my shirt.

Now I rarely say this about anime openings, but I think this opening has a theme, and I think it's going to be reflected across the entire egghead arc. "When random contexts / start to make sense on their own" something will happen. These random contexts are all the different fights across this arc, and this opening is deliberately drawing parallels between them. All of these fights are driving towards the same goal, they're all fighting for the same end. They may be separated by space, but they're allied against the same thing. The world is moving and these will be the people who move it forward.

AND APPARENTLY I'VE RUN OUT OF IMAGES I CAN ADD SO GUESS WHAT I'M SPLITTING THIS UP INTO TWO PARTS SURPRISE

[h3ad-quarters]

[Atlas appeared in frame. they were shaking, staring directly into the camera. the video quality got significantly worse as they approached.]

[they said something, but the audio quality was too distorted to understand what it was..]

( @atlas-hate-posting )

HQ watched as Atlas approached the camera, frowning a little when the audio and video quality dropped as they got closer -

"Step back from the camera - you're distorting the feed" he wasnt sure if his voice could be heard properly - but it was worth a shot