#building a simulacrum in my head of a person i want to be with

[gendstil]

ughh i feel like I just hook up with other guys because I want to get over my friend but other guys suck and my friend is nice and funny an-

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

hi, mara,

I just wanted to tell you that I'm grateful to you. Reading your posts, getting some idea of how you think, has been helping me clarify my own thinking. I often find what I say, often enough to myself, to be very empty. I hope that I can make myself better. that isn't really the whole of it, but anything else is difficult for me to articulate just now, or seems unnecessary. anyway, thank you. take care.

good morning anonymous;

never really too happy to hear from someone how empty they see themselves--sometimes i think people expect me to respond that way from a religious perspective wherein i speak about vessels, but it makes me think of authors and writing; when i was younger, i had absolutely nothing to say (it seemed) so i just became a little simulacrum-output device for all of my inspirations: i did not make art or write from a place of "having something to say," but from a place of "merely wanting to have something to say," which recently makes me think of comparing Mister Stephen King's Carrie to Nat Cassidy's Mary. In the introduction to Carrie you hear King telling about the origin behind him writing Carrie, how it all centered around these two girls he knew growing up, both I think ended up killing themselves (it's been awhile since I've heard the introduction). One of the girls was hyper religious and had been bullied for it, and I think the other only ever wore one pair of clothes every day, and the one day she wore a nice dress she got bullied for it. In the introduction to Mary, you just hear Nat Cassidy telling us about how much he loved Carrie and how he wondered what Carrie would be like if she survived to her 40s, and then builds this safety-catch foundation for himself and the reader to clarify that a) this is NOT a lame little continuation of Carrie story or a retelling, and b) that he consulted the relevant groups--crazy people and women, I'd guess--to make sure his story was appropriately sensitive to the groups involved. In my head, Mary is just this hokey little tin-and-wire simulacrum of a "something to say" said by King and then dressed down in foil-and-glitz to resemble a Nat Cassidy.

--mostly, all of that is to say that for here and Existence and feeling of Emptiness: that emptiness is as temporary and fleeting as a persons likes or dislikes, as often it is filled purely by existing and continuing to exist: life will pour into you depressions and ecstasies both that will perfectly contort themselves to you and your vessel like coffee into a mug; for me: I don't think I necessarily had "a voice of mine" (may-be in terms of purpose or drive, and may-be also in terms of creativity) till I went on a self-destructive spiral--and that pursuit of self-destruction became my voice; then: it became religion.

Surely enough, with time, life will fill you up with something; hopefully something more positive than self-destruction, and hopefully something less stupid than faith. Whatever you are filled up with will just as surely be temporary and just as surely change its shape, colors, and scents as it continues to age and fill till it all dries out and goes empty--truly empty (dead).

thanks for the kind words, anonymous, take care.

[gwimulchorom]

“你的盼望, 是我握在手中小小的太阳”

Your hopes on me is the little sun I cup in my hands.

--------

They snuggled together in bed, a gesture they seemed to reflect even after years apart. A moment passed before Muirin poised to get up first and Myron reached over, possessively grabbing her sister in a tangle of limbs to ensure she couldn’t escape her deathgrip.

“I have work--” Muirin pushed Myron’s face from her, reaching for a pillow to smack her with, “I can just teleport away, and you know that.” Even then, Myron scoffed, feeling Muirin relax against her despite her protests. 

“I’ll counter it if you try. Cheap spell of the 2nd circle that it is,” Myron grumbled, reeling Muirin back in, “The Twins can wait a moment before opening. We both have Simulacrums going - and a lot of time. Let’s sleep in for a bit more, and then get ourselves a sprawling breakfast.”

Muirin peeked up at Myron, before sliding out from under her. “Are you making it?” she teased, sitting up and reaching over to push Myron back up to a seated position, “Seems like the Roaringhorn’s been doing you some good. Your meals are starting to improve too. Did cooking for 50 people force you to get better ingredients and actually bother to take care of yourself?”

Myron flopped to a seat, ruffling her fluffy head of hair before squinting into space. “Brother very much does the opposite. In fact he tries to cook for me as much as possible...but yes, I’ve been taking better care of myself these days. Can’t fall apart if I’m in charge of so many children now, right? Don’t want them to worry about me as much as possible.”

“If he was abusing your goodwill you know I’d flay him. I’ve always wanted to see what’s inside a celestial being,” Muirin shook her head, fluffing her pillows and neatly setting them aside, “In the end, all it took was letting you adopt a gaggle of kids to have you sort yourself out. You felt so guilty taking favors from me all the time. Why? Making a small personal army in Waterdeep’s name?”

“They can decide what they want to do with their lives. You know better considering we were taken and trained, no say in that matter,” Myron rubbed her eyes before reaching blindly for her seal plushie behind her, slipping the toy inside one of her pouches, “They can be my personal army for all I care, but I doubt the Witch of the North really needs more rumors about her.”

“I like that. Has a mysterious type of zing to it,” Muirin wiggled her fingers, striding over to pull her twin to her feet, “Do they even put two and two together? Those people don’t even know who they’re talking to half the time.”

“No, and I’d like it to be kept that way,” Myron stumbled against her sister’s weight, allowing Muirin to guide her, “Where else am I going to get speculative portraits of myself as a sinister old crone punishing the corrupt and ruining cults? I need to get my entertainment somewhere.”

“Could offer you some jobs,” Muirin let herself bear Myron’s weight as they walked to the kitchen together, “Want to help me kill vampires at Greenest? Thay killed that piece-of-shit tree that was giving us so much trouble, but you know how they’re like about ensuring we’re both out of that picture. If not, I’m sure there’s some logistical paperwork for Greenest and Waterdeep I’ve been putting off. And also building more items for The Twins...”

“Already working on things for sale. Don’t have to tell me twice,” Myron rested her legs on the table, leaning backwards with acrobatic balance, “I don’t mind going to punt some undead. Need to put my arcane armor to the test anyway. I wonder how well the barding sigils would stretch on a dragon’s body...”

“Don’t,” Muirin gave Myron a warning glare, making a gesture to allow coffee to fill both their mugs on its own, “For someone so determined to keep all her identities separate, you keep trying to fly in as a dragon like you aren’t scaring the townsfolk less than two years after a major dragon attack.”

“I’m a nice dragon!” Myron protested as she accepted the coffee, pouting dramatically, “Maybe they need to read up more on the Draconomicon about topaz dragons instead of scattering in fright. I’m cute and lovely.”

“Getting people to read and improve on themselves? Tall order,” Muirin sighed as she evaluated the items in her stash, “What are you feeling this morning?”

Myron jumped to her feet, already limping over to toss around some ingredients Muirin had set out. “Bugs? We could call back to our roots and eat bugs. Personally I’m feeling toast and eggs,” she rambled, already setting aside her ingredients of choice, “How about some sausages? We hardly get sausages coming in these days. I’m so hungry. Maybe I should get Brother to request for more prime cuts from the surrounding regions.”

“We can discuss business later,” Muirin set out the plates, settling in with mug in hand as she leafed through her copy of the Waterdhavian Times, “If you’re hungry, how do you think I feel?”

“Boo. You wouldn’t even help me cut the crust off the toast and butter it,” Myron protested, already skilfully making scrambled eggs on the makeshift grill - a spark of green flame was all it needed to sputter to life, “Is the papers really that much more important than spending time with your beloved sister?”

Muirin sighed, gesturing to the loaf in front of her to start slicing itself. “You pull that all the time. We lived together for months after I found you again, I think I’ve had quite my fill of you,” she muttered, pulling the papers closer to her face.

“Blasphemy. Nobody gets tired of me,” Myron teased, mixing the butter into the eggs with a satisfying sizzle. “I want my toast triangular.”

[angelatmidnight1]

hey there! so glad you're back, and happy new years btw!! idk if you're taking prompts atm so don't feel like you have to write this straight away (since you just posted a new fanfic anyway, and it was worth the wait as always), but i was thinking maybe you could write something with wattson and loba? because on this current season, loba is trying to be nicer to her, to kind of make up for the S5 accident, and i mean we love to see that character development lol. cheers!

A/N: Hi, happy (very late) New Years! I’ve actually picked up Loba as my secondary main, so I was really excited to write for both her and Wattson. This story is based on quest events from season 5 and onward, as well as the Legends’ dialogue mainly between Loba, Wattson, and Crypto (this video kind of shows the lines, but I couldn't find the one I originally watched). I was also inspired by a post from @thebliznet, which helped the story along a lot. Thank you for allowing me to mention your post and the blog! I hope this story is to your liking anon :). I had fun writing it.

Unleashing Your Inner Wolf- After Wattson’s accident, Loba has kept a watchful eye over her. This is especially true after Revenant has sworn to ruin the thief’s life. When the murderous simulacrum joined the Apex Games, Loba was hellbent on killing him herself. But, this wasn’t a job she had to do alone. Loba had all of the Legends wrapped around her fingers with the dirt she had on them, and she was pleased to have them at her disposal. The job was simple: find the artifacts she needed, locate Revenant’s source code, and end his miserable existence. So, when Wattson wandered into the building alone to retrieve an artifact, her plans literally went up in flames. Not only was she further away from what she wanted, someone nearly died, and it wasn’t the demonio. Loba secretly thanks the gods for Wattson’s recovery; the engineer has a harsher view of the world now, yes, but she’s alive. It was the first and last time that Loba would put someone in danger on her behalf. After having her as a teammate during a couple of games, Loba discovers some new, interesting information: Wattson spends a great deal of time speaking with Crypto. And, the thief finds their nervous, awkward interactions absolutely adorable. Loba decides to take the engineer under her wing to teach her the art of flirting. But first, she has to teach her the most important lesson out there: self love. Wattson finds her lessons a bit unorthodox, and is reluctant to open up. So, Loba’s first job is getting her to smile...and maybe laugh, too.

When Crypto fell on the battlefield, Loba was quick to toss her bracelet and teleport to his aid. She had a Guardian Angel backpack and there were fences set up within their hideout to deter an enemy push. She was just slipping her bracelet back on when someone else rounded the corner and ran over to the downed hacker. It was Wattson, who put her Interception Pylon in the center of the room to deny incoming projectiles. The engineer heard an angry “bloody hell” from the explosive expert outside, which made her grin inwardly. Natalie knelt down and rubbed her hands together to generate a charge. Unlike the rest of the Legends, the engineer revived her teammates by using her equipment like a defibrillator. 

“Got you Tae J---ohhh…” Instead of pulling him up, Wattson accidentally dropped him back onto the floor, covering her mouth with both hands. Crypto landed with a heavy thump and a groan. 

“Ugh, Natalie..” The hacker winced, prompting her to start the revive again, her mind still racing to finish her sentence. 

“J...Joules and Watts are tied for my favorite units of measurements. And yours?” Natalie giggled nervously after she successfully pulled the man back onto his feet. She looked over her shoulder to see Loba staring at them like they each had two heads. But then, the enemy Bangalore shot at her through the window, giving the engineer and hacker a welcome distraction. 

“...I’ll get better at this. I promise.” Wattson smiled and pushed a Phoenix Kit into Crypto’s hands. Crypto sighed and put the healing item to use, giving her a small smile of his own. 

“Thank you, Natalie.” Tae Joon huddled in the corner of the room to stay out of enemy sights. This prompted Natalie to put another fence at the doorway that would lead to them. No one was going to get in and hurt her friend; not if she had something to say about it! So, when she heard someone approaching, Wattson immediately pointed her Mastiff at the door, ready to take down whoever managed to slip in. She yelped and fired at the thief when she stuck her head in; fortunately, there was no friendly fire allowed in the Games. 

“Relax, it’s just me.” Loba frowned and walked further into the room. “The whole squad’s down and a wall of death is coming our way. We need to move.”

“Got it!” Wattson hopped to her feet and offered a hand to the hacker. Crypto reached up to take it but froze, looking over Natalie’s shoulder. For some reason, the thief was still looking at them. The engineer arched a brow and, since she didn’t see what he saw, she grabbed onto his hand anyway. “Let’s go, Crypto. Allons-y!”

Crypto stood without a word and followed the engineer out of the room. Wattson didn’t release his hand even when they were well inside the ring. The hacker cleared his throat and gave the woman’s hand a gentle, but urgent squeeze, and she promptly let go of him. But, since Loba was trailing behind them, she saw everything, and a knowing smirk graced her lips. 

Loba found the engineer in her room after the match was over. Her high heels sounding throughout the hallway announced her arrival way before she did. So, by the time the thief sauntered to her doorway, Wattson was already facing her. 

“Ah, there’s the little heart breaker in the making…” Loba grinned and leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed against her chest. The engineer furrowed her brows and pushed her organized clutter further back onto her desk.

“Huh? What’re you talking about?” Wattson appeared even more confused as she approached her. Loba glanced to the woman’s desk; besides the textbooks and random sticky notes everywhere, the thief didn’t see any obvious signs of a romantic rendezvous. No roses, no letters, and worse: no shiny trinkets. 

“I used to think hand holding was a dying art. No more lingering touches, or a bat of the eye. Nowadays it’s just sloppy grabbing, a couple minutes of heavy breathing, and then...nothing.” Loba let out a wistful sigh as stood behind the younger woman, putting her hands on her shoulders. “It’s all quite dull, if you ask me. But then, I saw you and Crypto holding hands…” 

The realization hit Wattson and her face turned pink. For a moment, she was at a loss for words, so the thief continued. “And it was so refreshing to see. It’s subtle. Innocent.  And yet...intimate. Especially with the right person.” 

Wattson hopped out of her chair and faced the thief, her pink face quickly turning red. “I...I didn’t...I wasn’t...he was injured!” She stammered, suddenly unable to meet Loba’s teasing gaze. “I only held his hand to make sure he was okay!”

“Oh, of course, beautiful. That’s kind of you..” Loba chuckled and stepped in front of her. She knelt down, “In fact, it was so kind that it must’ve stuck with him the whole time he watched you walk away~.”

Wattson looked up with a gasp and finally met her gaze. Her face grew even redder as she struggled to find her words again. “...Crypto and I...we--we’re just friends. That’s all. I’m sure he was just...um...w-watching my back. His drone is very useful on the battlefield.” She put a hand on the back of her neck; it was burning hot, just like her face. 

Loba didn’t want the engineer to pass out on her, so she took a step back to give her some breathing room. “I can’t argue with you there. But...what do you think of him?” She tilted her head to the side and smiled. “He’s  on the quieter side, I’ll have to admit. But he’s very handsome, no?”

“...Well..maybe...” Natalie toyed with the ends of her shirt as she looked to the corner of the room. There was a radio that Octane gave her a while back, and Loba caught her looking at it. This made the thief smirk again. 

“Where’d you get that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a radio like that before.” Loba strutted over to the little device and picked it up. Natalie perked up and hurried over to gently take it from her. 

“Oh! Octavio gave this to me. He spray painted it using my favorite colors.” The engineer visibly relaxed and finally allowed herself to smile. Loba’s eyebrows rose and, grinning, she couldn’t help but to tease her again. 

“Oh, so there’s two people vying for your affection. You like to have options.” Loba giggled when the engineer’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “I like how you think. There’s so many beautiful people out there...why limit yourself to one?”

“No! It isn’t like that, really!” Natalie insisted and put her radio back down so she didn’t drop it. “I mean...Octavio and Ta---er, Crypto, are attractive, yes.  But I wouldn’t flirt with them! Because...well, I...don’t know how.”

Loba wanted to laugh, but this new bit of information surprised her. She arched a brow and crossed one leg over the other. “You don’t know how?”

“Well, I know how.” The engineer corrected herself and fiddled with her hair next. “But I don’t know what to say! Plus, I don’t want to make things awkward between us.”

Loba’s eyes softened; the engineer was too cute. “Aw, it’s alright, doll. A little harmless flirting every now and then doesn’t hurt anyone. Keeps things interesting, if you ask me.” She smirked, playfully nudging her side with her elbow. Natalie stiffened and pursed her lips.

“That’s easy for you to say. You flirt with everybody.” The engineer muttered, giving her a coy smile when Loba feigned offense. 

“Oh, come on,  I do not flirt with everyone. I’m very selective in who I choose. Not everyone is worth my time.” Loba fired back with a grin. It didn’t seem like she was winning the engineer over, so she decided to switch tactics. “I suppose you can say there’s a certain elegance to flirting. If you’d like, I’ll show you. Free of charge, of course.”

Wattson looked up at the woman skeptically. The engineer didn’t know her as well as some of her other friends, but she didn’t believe that she would steer her wrong. “Er..how do you propose to do that?” 

Loba beamed at her and gestured to her closet with a manicured hand. “Put on your favorite outfit, then stop by my room.” She grinned and sauntered back out into the hallway. She looked over her shoulder and saw the uncertainty lingering in her eyes. She sighed, “Trust me, beautiful. I won’t embarrass you. I know just what you need to have whomever you like flocking over to you.” 

“...Okay, Loba. I’ll be there in a moment.” Wattson smiled and waited for her to leave so that she could change clothes. 

Natalie opted for a simple outfit with her favorite Nessie shirt and jeans. She stepped out of her room and closed the door behind her. Then, she wandered down the hall until she got to the thief’s room. She could hear music playing as she approached the door, and found the thief idly swaying to the beat when she stepped into the room. 

Loba beckoned for the engineer to come closer, another smirk on her face. “Come on in. I don’t bite.” She snickered, her cocky smirk giving way to a small smile. “You look cute.” 

“Merci. Um...so what will we be doing, exactly?” The engineer peeked behind Loba to see a pole in the corner of the room. She blinked; what on Earth was this woman planning? 

“Well, before we work on making your special Legend fall for you, I think you could use a bit of a confidence boost.” Loba smiled and strode over to her pole, hooking an arm around it. “I’m going to teach you how to pole dance.”

Wattson’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates, and her face turned a bright shade of red. Loba immediately put up her hands.

“Hold on, it’s not what you think. I didn’t say you were stripping, nor does pole dancing have to involve it. This is about doing something fun, something that makes you feel sexy. Because when you feel good, you look good. And others notice it too…” Loba smiled at her hopefully and extended a hand. “Won’t you give it a try, love? If at any point you don’t like it, we stop. Simple as that.”

“Umm...a-alright…” Natalie blushed even more as she took the thief’s hand. Loba beamed excitedly and led her to the pole. 

“Wonderful. Now, let’s just set the mood.” Loba had the best wireless speakers that a thief could get their hands on, and she switched the current song to something slower.

“Mmm, there we go. So! The first thing you want to do is take your dominant hand, and reach high above your head.” Loba demonstrated what Natalie needed to do on the opposite side of the pole. “Then you want to...ah, hold on.” She let go of her side of the pole and walked behind the engineer. “Make sure your shoulders are down and back, like this…” 

Loba took her shoulders and gently maneuvered them in the correct position. Her nails gently brushed against them as she drew back, causing the younger woman to squeak and flinch. The thief looked down at her with an arched brow. “...What?”

“Pardon (Sorry), Loba! It’s just...your nails are long, and that tickled a bit.” Natalie smiled sheepishly and rolled her shoulders. Loba chuckled and stood behind her again. 

“Oh, not a problem.” The thief put her shoulders in the correct position one more time; then, smirking, she stood back in front of her to continue the lesson. “There we go, perfect. Next, you want to stand on your toes, and take three steps with the leg closest to the pole. So, like this…” 

Loba walked Wattson through the rest of the steps for a basic, fireman spin. The engineer caught on quickly but, although she was performing the moves correctly, her overall movement was pretty stiff. It didn’t help that Octane wandered down the hallway, drawn to the music, and curiously poked his head in the room. He wasn’t wearing his usual mask and was eating a candy bar; but, when he saw Natalie pole dancing, his jaw dropped...along with his snack. Thankfully, Natalie didn’t notice him because of the music and her focus; Loba, on the other hand, heard the sound and she glanced at the door. She narrowed her eyes at the daredevil, mouthing ‘get out, or you’re dead.’ She grabbed her staff and pointed it at him to show that she wasn’t messing around. Octane held up his hands and, nudging the candy bar back towards him with his leg, he picked it up and took off down the hall. After a few more spins, Wattson stood up straight and looked up at the thief. 

“Loba? Did I do it right?” Natalie panted a bit and rubbed the back of her neck. Loba turned back around; the engineer got the moves down to a T, but there was still something missing. She looked so shy, so unsure of herself...and, perking up, Loba knew exactly what she needed. 

“You did, and I’m impressed. I don’t see many people catch on to this sort of thing so quickly.” She complimented, slowly making her way back to her side. Wattson re-assumed the position by the pole, assuming that they were going to practice again. The thief chuckled. “There is just one, tiny thing I think you need to do…”

Wattson looked up at her and stepped away from the pole. She was flattered by the compliment...but, the mischievous glint in the she-wolf’s eyes made her falter.  “Okay...what is it?” 

“...Smile.” Loba grinned and latched her hand onto her hip, giving it a quick squeeze. Wattson yelped and lurched away from her hand, but Loba was quick to close the distance. When the engineer pushed her hand off of one hip, she just squeezed the other one instead. Loba already had her laughing before she even pinned her down onto the mattress behind her. 

“Nohohohohoh! Nohohohoh Lohohohohba, dohohohn’t!” Natale panicked and tried to roll away from the she-wolf. She arched her back when Loba’s manicured nails found her sides, giggling loudly. “DohohoHOHOHOHN’T!”

“Don’t what?” Loba grinned and gently poked at her belly, tracing five manicured nails up and down her torso. Wattson’s giggles picked up to laughter and she bucked her hips. 

“DOHOHOohohohohn’t tihihihckle mehehehehehe!” The engineer squeaked and struggled harder when the thief slipped her hand underneath her shirt, clawing at her bare stomach. “LOHOHOHOHBAHAHA!”

“Oh, that tickles? I had no idea.” Loba smirked and lifted her shirt up to give her better access to her stomach. She slowed her tickles to gentle, featherlight strokes along her tummy. This still made the engineer laugh, but not quite as hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ticklish before? That would’ve made things much easier.”

Natalie giggled uncontrollably and sucked in her belly to try and escape the tickles. Not only did it fail, but Loba kept up the slow, teasing pace, which sent ticklish shivers up her spine. “N-Nohohohohohoh ihhihiht wohohohohuhuhldn’t!” She tittered, another laugh escaping her as the thief gave her hips another squeeze. 

“Yes it would!” Loba snickered, kneading her thumbs into the woman’s hip bones. Wattson squealed and bucked her hips, but Loba didn’t let go of them. “A smile can bring even the hardest of men, and women, to their knees, falling for you...”

The color came rushing back to Wattson’s face as she squirmed in the she-wolf’s iron-hold, giggling. “Okahahahay! Okahahahay I’ll smhihihihle MOHOHOHOHRE!” Natalie shrieked and laughed when Loba’s fingers scribbled back into her stomach. “STAHAHAHAHAH!”

“Oho, yes. You certainly will be smiling more...” Loba teased and swiped her nails from one side of her tummy to the next. She laughed at the squeal it produced, which only encouraged her to tickle faster.  “You’re stuck with the big bad wolf, and she’s going to tickle you to pieces~.”

Wattson fell into a deeper fit of laughter and increased her efforts to escape. The thief’s fingers strayed away from her stomach and scritched to her lowermost ribs. Natalie’s eyes widened and her laughter went up a few pitches as she rocked side to side. “NOHOHOHOHOH! PLEHEHEHEAHAHSE DOHOHOHOHN’T!” She begged, pulling at her trapped arms repeatedly. Loba had her arms pinned underneath her thighs and despite all of her struggling, they didn’t move an inch. “LOHOHOHOBAHAHA NOHOHAHAHAHAHA!”

Loba raised a brow and grinned, suddenly swiping her nails up the entire length of her ribs. Natalie squeaked and arched her back, causing the thief to giggle. “I think this is a good spot..” She purred, resting her hands back onto her lowermost ribs. She kneaded in between the bones and moved up her ribcage. The engineer kicked her legs against the bed and laughed louder, which made the thief smirk. “Aw, does that tickle? That looks like it tickles so much..”

Wattson turned crimson at the teasing and she shook her head, filling up the room with her laughter. Her laughter was so infectious that Loba laughed along with her, poking her fingers into her uppermost ribs. “No?” She tilted her head to the side when Natalie shrieked and threw her head back, laughing. Then, grinning, the she-wolf leaned in and repeatedly tweaked those ribs. “Are you sure?”

Wattson shook her head even harder and whipped her body around, trying to avoid her long nails. When that didn’t work, she opted for attempting to buck Loba off of her...which also failed. So, the engineer continued to laugh herself silly and make futile attempts to escape. “NAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I-I MEHEHEHAHAHAN--AH!” The thief leaned over and blew a raspberry onto her bare stomach. “DOHOHOHOHN’T DOHOHOHOH THAHAHT HAHAHAAHA!”

“Do what?” Loba chuckled and blew another raspberry, snickering when the engineer bucked her hips again. She blew another raspberry on a different spot on her stomach, and then another one somewhere else. She resumed wriggling her nails on her uppermost ribs while she continued blowing on her stomach, sending the engineer on a one-way trip to hysterics. 

“THAHAHAHAHT!” Wattson screamed and shut her eyes tight, her laughter sounding squeakier each time Loba’s lips made contact with her stomach. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP THAHAHAHAHT! PLEHEHEHEHEAHAHAHSE!”

Loba paused, pretending to think, only to resume tickling the younger woman’s ribs and stomach. “Hmm, what if I don’t want to stop?” She hummed, swiping her fingers back down the length of her ribcage. The engineer yelped and snorted, making Loba giggle again. “What if I find it enjoyable to make you laugh so much?”

The thief eased up on the tickling so that Natalie could speak. Wattson’s laughter died down to giggles as Loba squeezed her sides and hips. “Iheheheheheheheh ahahahahalready ahaahahahaham!” She tittered, snickering as Loba stroked her nails up her torso. Loba wriggled her nails in slow, circular motions just underneath Natalie’s ribcage, causing her to jolt and giggle harder. “I’m ahahahahalrehehehady laahahahaughihihihng!”

“So you are. But, I think I can make you laugh a little bit more, no?” Loba smirked and tickled further up her ribcage. This time, she pressed her fingertips into the bones and kneaded each rib individually. Wattson’s eyes bugged out and she squealed, dissolving back into laughter. 

“NOHOHOHOHOH! YOHOHOHU DOHOHOHN’T NEEHEHEHED TOHOHOHO!” The engineer yelled, kicking her legs out again as she laughed. She twisted her torso around, but Loba kept up with her struggling and focused on the most sensitive ribs. Her laughter and squirming grew more desperate by the second, and Loba took advantage of her adorable state to lower herself back towards her stomach. By the time Wattson noticed, it was too late; Loba took a deep breath and ducked her head down, blowing a raspberry right over her navel. Natalie shrieked and thrashed around violently, but this didn’t deter the she-wolf. “NAHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHP! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHP IHIHIHIHIHIHT!”

Loba was still blowing the raspberry as the engineer cackled out her demands; she made sure to empty her lungs. Then, instead of complying, she brushed her fingers against her uppermost ribs again while she blew another lung-emptying raspberry over her navel. By then, Wattson was howling with laughter. After a few more raspberries, Loba reached up further and burrowed her nails into her armpits, prompting a sudden shriek of desperate laughter. 

“NONONOHOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAHA! PAHAHAHAHAHS IHIHIHCI! PAHAHAHAHAHAS IHIHIHIHCI! (Not there! Not there!)” Natalie screamed and pulled at her arms as much as she could. Loba smirked widely and stopped tickling, but kept her nails pressed into the woman’s armpits. 

“Well, well, well...look what I’ve found…” The thief purred, applying just a little bit of pressure to make her shiver and giggle. “This spot must be terribly ticklish, huh?” She slowly raked her nails back and forth where her armpits began, looking down at the engineer with a smile. “Call it woman’s intuition.” 

Wattson sputtered and giggled heavily, teetering on the edge of laughter. She gave her arms another sharp pull, but it didn’t do anything to free them. When she didn’t respond with understandable words, the thief gave her armpits a quick scribble, making her shriek and laugh. “YEHEHEHEHS! Ihihihihiht tihihihckles! Sohohohohoh leheheheht mehehehe gohohohoh! Plehehehehease…” She pleaded, staring up at the thief with nervous, giggly anticipation. 

Loba playfully tutted at her and shook her head. “Aw, Natalie. When have you ever known me to walk away from a gold mine?” She simpered, sneaking her hands underneath her arms and scratching away at her hollows. 

Wattson screeched and burst out laughing, bucking against the mattress. The thief focused on the very center of each armpit, where the muscles split. Loba almost toppled over from how much Wattson was squirming; so, for a moment, she believed that the younger woman would somehow be able to free herself. So, keeping her fingers buried in her right armpit, the thief shifted her weight so that she could reach above her bed. 

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA LOHOHOHOHOHBAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHN!” Natalie cried out, squirming as far to the left as she could to try and get away from the intense sensation. “DOHOHOHOHOHN’T TIHIHIHIHCKLE THEHEHER--HEHEHEHEHY!”

While Wattson was laughing, Loba lifted up her left arm and slipped her wrist through a restraint above the bed frame. It was soft, black, and made out of nylon, but sturdy enough to keep her arm in place. The she-wolf stopped tickling to do the same thing to her right arm. Now, she had easy access to her armpits and torso. Loba settled back down onto her waist, making a dramatic show of wiggling her fingers in the air. 

“There we go, much better.” The thief began, grinning as Natalie paled and tried to tug her wrists free from the newfound restraints. “Now there’s nothing in my way…” She whispered tauntingly, lowering her hands even closer to her exposed armpits. Wattson’s eyes were locked onto Loba’s wiggling nails and she squirmed, already giggling.

“Nohohohohoh wahahahait! WahahAHAHAHIT!” Natalie squeaked and jumped when Loba held her nails just inches from her armpits. The she-wolf cocked her head to the side and smirked at her. 

“...Yes?” Loba chuckled, wiggling her fingers in the air again. She wasn’t even touching Wattson yet, but the engineer squealed and giggled harder the closer her fingers got. 

“PLEHEHEHEAHASE STAHAHAHAHA!” Wattson yelled, her arms twitching from how much she was trying to pull them down. The phantom tickles caught up with her and she started laughing, making the thief laugh in turn. 

“What? I’m not even touching you!” Loba giggled, barely pressing her fingertips to her armpits. The engineer screamed and bucked her hips; now, Loba was laughing almost as hard as she was. “Seriously? I don’t even have to do anything, do I? You’re too ticklish for your own good.” She smiled, letting her words hang in the air. Just when Wattson thought she was going to attack her armpits, the she-wolf switched gears and started stroking her sides. 

Wattson shivered and wiggled, biting her lips to trap the giggles. Loba arched a brow at her and, grinning, she jabbed her fingers into her ribs. The engineer flinched and grinned widely, shaking with the laughter that she refused to let free. 

“That’s not going to work, love…” Loba sang, rubbing her fingertips between the bones. Wattson gasped and let a few giggles slip out, but she was determined to hold out. Loba leaned in again and slowly started scratching her way up her ribcage. “I know you want to laugh. And, it would seem that I’m exceptionally good at making you laugh…” She continued teasing, causing the engineer to giggle even more. The thief continued tickling her ribs and even her stomach before finally descending on her armpits. Loba dug five wiggling nails into each armpit, causing Natalie to scream and cackle loudly. 

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHON LOHOHOHOHBA! AHAHAHARRÊHEHEHETE ÇAAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHARRÊHEHEHETE ÇAAHAHAHAHA! (Stop it! Stop it!)” Wattson shrieked and threw her body around, laughing harder when Loba tickled faster. Loba chuckled and jabbed her fingers into her armpits instead, making the engineer let out another cry of laughter. 

“Sorry, beautiful. But I never did pick up on the language of love. You’ll have to translate for me..” Loba jeered, scribbling away along the poor woman’s armpits. Wattson tossed her head back again and shook with laughter. Any words that she tried to say were lost as she desperately tried to escape the woman’s devious nails. Loba kept up the tickling for a good five minutes before slowing the scribbling down to slow, gentle strokes. “You know what? There’s something I meant to ask you..” She remembered, slowing the tickling down even more so that the engineer could breathe and speak. 

“...Whahahahahahahat?” Natalie panted and snickered, grateful for the small break, but still twitching from the residue tickles. Loba, since she noticed how especially ticklish her right armpit seemed to be, traced a nail just around that particular armpit. 

“You know, all of this talk about flirting and charming others has got me wondering...who is it you have your eyes on?” The thief inquired, taking that same nail and poking it into her armpit at random intervals. Wattson snorted and pulled at her right arm, her cheeks reddening. 

“I-I dohohohn’t hahahahave mhyhy ehehehehyes ohohohn ahahahanyoohohohne…” Natalie giggled; when the engineer looked up at her, there was skepticism written all over her face. And that one, lone finger poking into her armpit noticeably picked up speed. “I’m sehehehehrious! Lohohohohbahahaha plehehehehase!” She tried again, rolling her body to the side and frantically giggling.

“Aw, sweetie. I’ve been doing this sort of thing a long time. I can always tell when someone has a crush…” Loba purred, starting to poke all five of her fingers into that same armpit. Wattson yelped and turned her face into her shoulder, loud laughter mixing in with her giggles. In fact, she was giggling so loud that the thief had to speak up so that she could be heard. “Would you like to know what else I’m good at?”

“NOHOHohohohohohohohoh!” Natalie rejected and resumed kicking at the mattress. She was dangerously close to laughing; so, the thief positioned her free hand by the woman’s left armpit while continuing to tickle the right one. 

“I’m also good at picking out lies…” Loba muttered with an evil grin, spidering her all ten of her nails against both of her armpits. Wattson started bucking her hips again, hysterical laughter filling up every last corner of the room. 

“I’M NAHAHAHAHT LYHYHYHYING! AHAHAHAHAH I’M NAHAHAHAHAT!” Natalie argued, her trapped arms twitching in place as she fell deeper into hysterics. It didn’t matter how much she pulled or bucked; her arms stayed above her head, and Loba was having a blast tickling her super sensitive armpits. The thief decided to drag her nails along her outer left armpit while she continued tickling every inch of the right one. “PLEHEHEHAHASE LOHOHOHOBAHAHAHA  I’M NAHAHT LHYHYHYINHG HAHAHAHA!”

“Yes you are! Just tell me who it is. I’ll keep it a secret.” Loba promised and, smiling, she flicked her nail against her left armpit. Wattson squirmed to the right and squeaked, so the thief did the same thing to the right armpit. She laughed when the engineer jumped to the opposite side, so she kept on alternating the pokes, amused by the little ‘dance’ she was doing. 

“IT’S NOHOHOH OHOHOHOHNE HAHAHAHAHA!” Natalie insisted and shut her eyes, her laughter completely taking over her. “I DOHOHOHOHN’T HAHAHAHAVE A CRUHUHSHAHAHAHAHA!”

A small part of Loba believed her, but another part of her wanted to keep tickling just a bit longer. She could tell the engineer was reaching her limit, though, so she wanted to give her one last good tickling before she stopped. So, with a small sigh, Loba grabbed onto her right arm with her left hand. Then, with her right hand, she pressed her fingertips into her uppermost rib. Wattson arched her back and kept on giggling but, when she tried to pull her arm down again, it didn’t move at all. The restraints were already keeping her limbs still anyway, but Loba’s grip made it virtually impossible for her arm to have the slightest movement. Natalie froze as the panic seeped in. 

“Last chance, beautiful. Tell me who you have the hots for, and I’ll stop.” Loba demanded, vibrating her fingers against the bone. Wattson shook her head and laughed, pleadingly looking into the she-wolf’s dark eyes. “If you don’t...well, let’s just say I’m sure you’ll come around…” She continued warning, smirking as she slowly inched toward her armpit. “So? Who’s that special Legend?”

Wattson breathed heavily, her body going rigid in anticipation of the incoming tickles. She kept her eyes on her just in case she decided to have mercy...but Loba wasn’t so easily swayed. The engineer scrambled to provide her a satisfactory answer, but she took too long, and the thief wasn’t a fan of waiting. Loba kept a firm grip on Natalie’s arm as she wriggled her nails into the right armpit, scribbling along the area where the muscles split. 

The engineer thrashed in Loba’s grip, convulsing with laughter. She repeatedly shook her head and tried to get even the smallest bit of leverage on her arm, but the thief wasn’t having any of it. So, Natalie didn’t have a choice but to take the tickles and laugh her head off...which is exactly what she did. 

“AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Wattson gave up on trying to speak and resumed laughing into her shoulder. “SAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“No can do, love. I gave you plenty of chances to come clean. And you didn’t take them.” Loba donned her best pitying voice as she fluttered her fingertips into her left armpit, now tickling both armpits. Wattson squeaked and scrunched her nose up from how hard she was laughing.  “I told you what would happen…” She whispered, leaning over to resume blowing on the engineer’s stomach. 

Wattson yelled one more time before her laughter became silent. She was too tired to struggle, so she laid limp as the she-wolf tickled her. Loba stopped the tickling altogether when she didn’t hear anymore laughter, reaching above the bed frame to undo her restraints. The engineer’s arms felt heavy as she finally brought them down, trembling and giggling. 

“I’ll tehehehell yohohohu...I’ll tehehehell yohohohu..” Natalie gasped for air and sat up, pulling down her shirt and rubbing her arms together. Loba chuckled and shook her head, crawling off the bed to give her some space. 

“No need, beautiful. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. And I’m sure whoever it is will love hearing you laugh just as much as I did.” She winked, giggling when the woman’s cheeks reddened. Loba strode away from her just to turn off the music. Then, she returned to the engineer and sat beside her. The thief’s expression became more serious and she turned to face her. “Mind if I give you some advice on pursuing this mystery lover of yours?” She quipped and offered her a smile...but, something about the way she asked made Wattson look up. And, when she did, the smile also disappeared. 

“Yes? What is it, Loba?” Natalie put her hands in her lap and eyed her curiously. Loba sighed and stared at the wall for a moment before looking at the engineer. 

“I haven’t always been honest with you. With anyone, really. Because after I lost my parents...well, I didn’t think any of that mattered anymore.” Loba admitted quietly, frowning for the first time in the time she and Wattson spent together. “I learned that the world is a cold, unforgiving place. And as long as I got what I wanted, nothing else mattered. I had to claw my way out of the slums to get where I am now, so if I broke someone’s heart or stole some old guy’s jewelry, so what? At the end of the day, I took care of myself. Because I didn’t have anyone to do it for me.” She sighed, putting one hand over the other as she remembered her parents. Wattson blinked and opened her mouth to speak, but the thief held up her hand.

“I don’t want you to feel bad for me, Natalie. I’m fine. I’m just...what I’m saying is that once the demonio joined the Games, I realized that I didn’t have to do everything by myself anymore. I lied to you, to everyone, to get what I wanted. And..I almost got you killed. I just want to tell you that no matter who you fall for, always take care of yourself first. And do it by yourself. That way, no one else gets hurt if things go south…” Loba affirmed, looking directly into the engineer’s eyes. “And if they’re dishonest with you, make sure you walk away.”

Wattson’s gaze didn’t falter as she looked up at the thief. She took on a serious expression, too. “You did what you did to avenge your family. I don’t blame you for that..” She answered firmly, which surprised the thief. Loba expected anger, rage even….but she got quite the opposite. “If Revenant did that to my family, I’d…” The engineer trailed off, suddenly getting louder, her eyes momentarily engulfed with fury. But then, she calmed down and sighed. “I don’t even want to say it. But, I also think that people can change for the better, if they want to. I’ve seen it myself.” A smile sprung onto Natalie’s face as she put her hand over Loba’s. “So no matter what you choose to do, Loba, I forgive you. You’re a part of the Legend-ary family now, for better or worse!” Natalie giggled and beamed up at the woman. Loba chuckled and patted her hand; she wasn’t the emotional type, but the engineer’s words made her heart feel warm. 

“Thanks, Natalie. Now, it’s getting late. And I have some...things, I have to take care of. Why don’t you go break some more hearts and tell me about it tomorrow?” Loba quipped, pulling her hand free to poke Wattson’s sides. Wattson lurched away from her and laughed, hopping off of the bed. 

“Okahahy...I’ll see you around, Loba!” Natalie smiled and bid the thief farewell, hurrying out of her room and down the hallway. Loba noticed the slight strut to her walk as she left, which made her heart swell with pride. 

Aw, they grow up so fast… 

[inkerdinker]

"No reward comes from cowardice."

A few months ago, I created an Apex Legends OC with the same name. I deleted the blog and completely reworked her abilities so she feels more organic. Changes to her backstory are also made to make her less tragic and more driven as an anti-hero.

Here is her current and upgraded profile:

Alias: Lurk

Real Name: [REDACTED]

Passive Ability: Bionic

Lurk’s legs below the knee are jumping stilts that improve jumping height. When jumping to high building that normally require climbing, Lurk can reach with ease. She also latches on to ledges and climbs up faster thanks to her fingers that stick and detach quickly. 

Tactical Ability: Vision

Lurk’s helmet has the ability to see through walls of buildings and any obstacles that may blind her view of the enemy. Turning on the X-ray vision will remove all color of her environment and mark her enemies. The ability relies on a charge that lasts for 15 seconds and has a cooldown for 20 seconds when it is all depleted. Taking damage will disrupt her ability. 

Ultimate Ability: Flashbang

Her ultimate is a projectile that sends a series of flash grenades. They come out one by one in separate casings similar to Matryoshka dolls. This will blind enemies at a greater range and radius. The flash lasts for 7 seconds and the best way to counter it is to either enter a building or look the opposite direction where the flash is. Wraiths and Lobas will still be affected by the flash but will be  able to escape in time if prepared. Will not cause damage but exposure to the flash can kill you just as easily. 

Legend Category (DPS/Support/Defense/Tracker): 

Tracker/Recon

Reason for joining the games:

Stop and destroy the Syndicate along with remnants of the IMC. If possible, kill off Revenant and Caustic.

Personality:

Outside the games: Intimidating and keeps most to herself. Doesn’t like to interact with others and keeps a low profile. A bit brutal and calloused to other legends as she wants nothing to do with them. However, this brings some to keep talking to her and eventually chip at some of her high-kept walls. One-on-one conversations are the best way to connect due to her introverted nature. If her walls are taken down, she’s more intimate. Very much a gentle giant kind of person and quite protective. Although quite secretive and not willing to share much of herself, she is a great listener and gives advice.  Very perceptive on other’s emotions and actions. Oh, and if very close, she is easy to fluster. 

In the games: Is a kind teammate as she will keep them close to her as possible and treats them well. However, she is not a nice person. Not one to insult but does scold teammates if they do something stupid. Tactical and calculating when in fights as she goes for the outcome where there will be no third parties or witnesses left. Likes to work on her own accord but is compliant enough to follow orders. Teaming up with Revenant and Caustic changes her plans from highly  secure to extremely risky. Her personal distaste towards both legends end them being downed or dead often. Perfectly planned. 

Appearance:

Height: 6′1 feet (1.85 meters)

Weight: 212 lbs

Intro Quips:

“Last chance to breathe.”

“Quit the theatrics and start the game already.”

”Champion or not I’ll still put a blade through you.”

“No hands in a gunfight if I cut it off first.”

”Do you hear your heart pounding? Better keep it that way.”

“Exposure will kill you as easily as a bullet to the head.”

“Keep your head up high. So I can shoot it better.”

Kill Quips:

”Not sorry.”

”Vitals gone. So is their pride.”

”I’ve had better challengers.”

”You can do better. It’s just a matter of when.”

“This is your end. You didn’t make it count.”

Revive Voice Lines and Character Interactions:

Wattson:

Lurk (reviving): “You’re safe with me, take deep breaths.”

Wattson: “I feel more alive with you around!”

Lurk: “Good to know.”

Wattson (reviving): “Those arms and legs are very unique! Where did you get them?”

Lurk: “That’s classified, but I’ll let you take a look if we win.”

Wattson: “Guess I’ll have to work twice as hard now.”

Wraith:

Lurk (reviving): “Be careful Wraith, you don’t know when they’ll take you again.”

Wraith: “How... do you know?”

Lurk: “I too was an experiment under different circumstances.”

Wraith (reviving): I had a weird feeling you were watching me. Do you know me?

Lurk: “We were both at Hammond looking for the same answers. Guess we were also in the same spot.”

Wraith: “How odd we see each other again in a blood sport...”

Crypto:

Lurk (reviving): “다음에 조심해” (Be careful next time.)

Crypto: “고마워” (Thank you.)

Caustic and Revenant:

Lurk (reviving both): “I rather drill my blades in you.”

Caustic: “I’d rather be gassing you as well.”

“Your foul daydreams will only take you so far.”

Revenant: “Shut the hell up and give me your supplies.”

“Would it be fair if I drill my hand in your intestines?”

Revenant only:

Lurk (reviving): “Where’s your head simulacrum?”

Revenant: “Do you really want to kill me that badly?”

Lurk: “Living in endless suffering isn’t ideal.”

Lurk (reviving): “Where’s that source code of yours?”

Revenant: “Last time I met that bitch it was at Gridiron.”

Lurk: “Interesting...”

Loba:

Lurk (reviving): “Watch your head.” (talking both Revenant’s and hers)

Loba: “Thanks, beautiful” (metaphor flies over her head).

[false-north]

Stranger Things: Resurrections (bringing back Billy...)

Since the Harringrove fandom has begun to demonstrate an amazing resilience to certain outside forces (thank you fandom <3 <3), I threw together a list of (some) resurrection precedents and possibilities, all “borrowed” from other actual media/TV/film canons adapted and applied to one Billy Hargrove: (Please do feel very free to add, expand, use, WRITEALLTHEFICS, etc. at will).

‘We Can Rebuild Him’: Still stuffed with remnants of the upside-down in his blood stream, the Russians scrape Billy up on their way out and rebuild him. Because alien world super serum goes a long way in building a super soldier (and unlocking more gates).  (Late 80s bonus points if they rebuild him with metal and wire that renders him part crude cyborg). (Re: Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier, Captain America).

Old School Resurrection: Unable to accept that Billy is gone, Max and Eleven tap into the upside-down to bring him back to life. Suddenly re-thrust into his old life that still includes systematic abuse at the hands of his father and the responsibility of facing up to all his past mistakes (including all the lives he took while possessed), Billy’s not exactly grateful to be back. (Hardcore 80s points if they forget to get Billy out of the coffin first, thereby making him have to claw his way up to the surface alla every 80s zombie film). (re: Buffy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer).

Super Powers Save the Day: Another secret child product of the MKUltra style lab experiments, Billy’s powers of cellular regeneration take a minute to repair that much damage, but revivify him in the morgue in a crazy cool special effects scene where he zips back up his body…(Also canonically explaining how a kid who gets shoved around by his father that often manages to still remain unbruised and shirtless as much as he does). (80s bonus points if filmed like a late 80s body horror film). (re: Clair Bennett, Heroes).

Cloning: Having been “impregnated” by the mind flayer (first with the ‘Alien’ face hugger reference, and then with the strange moment of the alien tentacle pushing into his chest…), Billy tries to kill the monster by sacrificing himself. Only the US government isn’t too keen on letting that kind of alien biotechnology go. They scrape up Billy’s body and clone him—a process that maintains the alien DNA that they can then harvest (and making Billy “patient zero” in their new attempts to use human hosts to create more).  Now confined to a laboratory cell, Billy has to fight to regain his own autonomy, not an easy feat when the military-industrial complex has labeled his body as government property. (Meta-Homage bonus points on account of Alien IV being one of Winona Ryder’s films…) (Ellen Ripley, Alien IV: Resurrection).

The Fake Out: Having made enemies of everyone in high school and knowing he’s in danger from both the law and his family (aka Neil), Billy takes the opportunity to fake his death. And yet, he can’t seem to stay away from Hawkins and the people he secretly cares about. (Re: Alison Dilaurentis, Pretty Little Liars).

Stranger Twins: Billy comes back as his brunette twin cousin to move in with the Hargroves and inexplicably looks exactly like him and might actually be him, because Hawkins is a weird dreamscape space (re: Laura Palmer, Twin Peaks)

Conspiracy!: With his body already broken and dying, Billy sacrifices himself to save Eleven, only to turn up (8) years later in a maximum security prison as a pawn in a larger government conspiracy (Cold War 80s bonus points for just being a larger government conspiracy…) (re: Micheal Scofield, Prison Break).

Deal with a “Devil”: Feeling guilty that they couldn’t save him, and unable to comfort Max, Elle uses her astral projection powers to make a deal with the Mindflayer or some other entity in the upside down to bring him back, but like all para-supernatural contracts, “the devil” wants to make a deal…(80s bonus points for really playing up any element of the “Satanic Panic” crisis) (Dean Winchester, Supernatural).

Time Travel: The alien tentacle pushed into his chest created a gateway that sucked his consciousness into the future, creating the dopple!Billy that greeted him in the upside-down, setting off a strange time line of events in which future Billy has to travel back in time to the 1980s to warn of or even jumpstart the Mindflayer takeover, as such a series of events is actually the only way to ultimately defeat it. Sacrificing his past-self to kill the monster, the ‘Billy from the future’ finds himself stuck in 1980s Hawkins, a changed man haunted by the things he’s seen (and the things he will see). Only now that this apocalypse has been averted, the things he can see in the future keep changing, not all of it for the best... (Essentially rendering Billy “The Party’s” Seer.)  (The Terminator (kind of)).

Alien Parasite: Closing The Gate weakens the Mind Flayer, but it doesn’t kill it, leaving the MF trapped inside the body of seventeen year old Billy Hargrove. Now both need the other to continue to survive, and Billy needs to learn to find some kind of harmonious compromise with his other-worldly parasite (Eddie Brock, Venom).  

(More theme-borrowed than direct references:)

(Psychic) Coma: After the events of the mall showdown, Billy is left in a coma with a healing fractured mind. The only problem, his psyche effects the world around him as it processes all its demons. As the gang gets sucked into the weird hellscape of Billy’s internal life made manifest on the streets of Hawkins, they must help him fight all his monsters before his lifetime of aggregate trauma destroys the town.

The War isn’t Yet Won: Billy’s demise was greatly exaggerated. The calvary came in, the ambulances scooped him up, and he’s fine now—physically. But the experience changed him, has left Billy quiet and hollow. He can still feel the mind flayer everywhere, phantom crawling over his skin. There’s only one other person who can even begin to understand—Will Byers. Everyone thinks the two former MF meat puppets are simply suffering from PTSD, but Will and Billy know better. They’ve seen the future; what the Mind Flayer has in store. The two form an unlikely alliance as the only two in town who know the war isn’t over.

(My personal head cannon for Season Four):

Nightmares on small town streets: After the events of season three, the gang starts dreaming: weird twisted nightmares that seem more vivid than the waking world. What’s more, they all meet up in their dreams: Will, Steve, Eleven, Dustin, Nancy, Lucas, Max. etc. who all physically went to sleep in different towns/places, find themselves in a sick simulacrum of Hawkins at night. What’s more, is that when they call each other up the next day, they all remember it: they were there. Soon it becomes clear that this dank space is even more dangerous than they ever could have anticipated. Whatever happens to them in the dream space follows them through to the waking world. And something is after them. They need to figure out how to defeat the shadows, but until they do, there’s only one solution: don’t fall asleep. (Meanwhile, Max and Eleven see Billy in the dream world, seemingly living at the Hargrove’s house and caught in a robotic glitch cycle of abuse at the hands of a nightmarish hybrid of the Mindflayer and his father. They become determined to bring this Billy back with them, unsure if that’s even possible, but Max refuses to leave him there. But waking him up and pulling him out is a much bigger task than they can handle alone. They bring Steve.).

(i.e. I actually do really want a Nightmare on Elm Street season…).

(And really, if all else fails, we saw *one* Billy go down, yes, but what about *second* Billy…?)

[miraculous786]

Akumatized!Adrien: Simulacrum > Part Five

Masterlist

It had been an hour, and there was still no sign of Ladybug or Chat Noir. None of them had appeared, not even any extra heroes like Queen Bee or Carapace.

I sprinted towards my home, jumping past the River Seine and Eiffel Tower. Though I wanted to admire the sunset, it was more important to talk to Marinette. I'm guessing that she should be awake by now.

Thankfully, Hawk Moth seemed to be understanding, but it was really strange. I mean, when I'd offered to look for the miraculous before he was quite startled, and instead of shouting at me to cause a problem to lure Ladybug and Chat Noir earlier, he allowed me to do whatever I pleased.

Maybe he pitied me? I wasn't sure.

~*~*~

I groaned, lifting my head up off of the pillow beneath my head. Wait, pillow?

I shot up, taking in my surroundings. The room, which I assumed was a bedroom, was enormous compared to mine, with a computer with several monitors, a basket ball hoop on the wall, and lots of room to walk.

Was this Adrien's room? Why did he bring me here?

Was it to get revenge on me for lying about the scarf? I hoped not. I don't know how I'd deal with being hurt by my crush.

Speaking of which, I needed to transform in order to break his akumatized object and save him.

"Tikki?" I asked, my voice echoing in the spacious room.

Immediately, a blur of red shot into my face and nuzzled my cheek.

"Marinette!" a squeaky voice cheered. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

I giggled, her warmth tickling my skin. "Yeah, me too! How did you find me?"

"Well, Plagg was going to warn you, but since you came to school early he couldn't. So, after you were kidnapped by Adrien I went to find him, and he told me what happened," my kwami explained.

"Why, what did happen?" I questioned, confused. "And why would you go to Plagg when Adrien was akumatized?"

A black blur shot out from a bookcase, and landed on my blanket-covered lap.

"It's because it would be hard to get an akuma when Chat has been akumatized," Plagg stated in a bored voice.

"Wait- how has Chat Noir been akumatized when Adrien ha-" My eyes widened. No way.

"ADRIEN IS CHAT NOIR?" I screeched, jumping off of the bed, causing Plagg to fall onto the ground.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Plagg scolded. "And yes, he is. Gosh, it only took over a year to find out.”

I didn't speak for a minute, processing what I'd heard. I felt like all of my brain cells had been fried, and my voice didn't work.

"M-Marinette?" Tikki's voice said wearily.

"Just give her another minute," Plagg assured.

They couldn't be the same person, they're too different! Adrien is mature and sweet, while Chat is humorous and cocky. Besides, they don't even look similar. Chat's hair is messy and blonde, and Adrien's is blonde and done well.

Then again, they both are the same height and build, and have the same, beautiful green eyes, and...

I had rejected my crush the whole time? The boy I've been pursuing for over a year was pursuing me! Yet, I still rejected Chat for Adrien, the same person! Gosh, when I change him back, we're going to have to talk.

"Tikki, I think it's time to safe my kitty!" I exclaimed, fists clenched.

"Tikki, spots-" I cut myself off when I noticed a figure leaping in the Paris skyline, heading towards the room I was in. Quickly, I yelled, "You two, hide!"

They both did so, and I scrambled to the bed, pulling the covers over me and pretending that I was asleep.

After a minute of waiting with my eyes closed, I heard the sound of scuffling, and soon a strong gust of wind blew into the room, making me shiver. Oh, great.

A shadow appeared above me, and I squinted one of my eyes open to be met with a porcelain face, with black streaks coming from the eyes.

We stared at each other for a while, before a pair of muscular arms lifted me from the bed, gently. Simulacrum walked over to the white couch facing his window and eased me onto it, laying me so that my back was leaning against the armrest, my legs stretched out on the rest of the couch.

He closed the window he had entered from and locked it, before sitting on the opposite end of the couch, turned to me. Even though Adrien, or Chat Noir, was akumatized, I wasn't particularly afraid. He was my partner, well, as Ladybug, so I was sure he wouldn't hurt me.

"H-Hey..." I greeted nervously, trying to avoid direct eye contact with him.

"Hello," his monotone voice said. "How are you feeling, Mari?"

I blushed at the nickname, but then remembered the situation I was currently in.

"I've been better, but I guess I'm doing okay."

He seemed satisfied with my answer, and scooted a bit closer to me on the couch. Instead of moving away from him, I took my legs off of the couch, and sat right beside him.

He was taken aback my sudden movement, but soon his stoic expression returned.

"So...why did you bring me to your house, uh..." I trailed off on purpose, acting as if I didn't know his villain name.

"Simulacrum," he provided. "And I brought you here to talk, and to thank you."

"For what?" I questioned, knowing that I probably sounded like an oblivious idiot.

I watched as he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, and held it in his palms. Then, he moved so that our shoulders were brushing against each other, and showed me my signature stitched into the gift I gave him.

"Oh, I didn't know you found out," I lied.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mari?" His voice was strangely calm and sincere, with no hint of aggression or annoyance.

"Well, I-I umm..." I struggled for an answer. Should I tell him about my crush on him? Should I lie?

"Just tell me the truth, Marinette," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. "I promised you wouldn't get hurt, remember?"

Taking a deep breath, I racked my brain for answers, and just settled on telling the truth, just with a few details left out. That wasn't lying, right?

"I-I just saw how happy you were when you thought your father made the scarf," I explained. "I didn't want to ruin it for you."

There was an awkward silence between us, and I used it to my advantage. "Was there any other reason for you to bring me here?"

After a few seconds, Simulacrum turned to me, and reached his arms out. Then, he leaned forward and embraced me, with his head on top of mine. My body became stiff, surprised by the gesture, but I soon returned it, wrapping my arms around him.

"Thank you so much, Marinette." Though his voice was robotic and indifferent, I still detected sincerity in it as he squeezed me tighter.

"U-Uh, no problem," I assured, pink dusting my cheeks. He pulled back slowly, and I did too.

"I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but..." I took a deep breath. "What I did wasn't something that big, so why was it so significant to you?"

To my relief, he wasn't at all annoyed with my question, and answered, "Well, you know how my father is. How he's cold, and how he barely gives me any freedom. The gift you gave me made me so happy, and knowing now that you sacrificed time and effort to make it, just made me realise how unfair it was for Nathalie to lie about it."

"Nathalie? Your father's assistant?"

"Yeah. She lied because she forgot to get me something." He looked into my eyes. "Someone who spends most of their time in my house forgot my birthday, but you..."

Simulacrum placed a finger below my chin and lifted it up. "...You didn't...and I feel so ecstatic, because someone who stutters around me, and someone who I have never done something entirely huge for cares about me."

A smile appeared on his lips. "You're like family to me."

My heart skipped a beat. I never realised how much a birthday gift would mean to him, and how hurt he was when he learnt that his assistant had lied.

"Wait, your father didn't get you anything?" I asked, shock laced in my voice.

"Yeah... he's been distant ever since my mother disappeared..." His expression seemed downcast, and so I wound my arms around his body again and brought him closer. Immediately, he hugged me back, burying his face into my hair. It tickled, but I didn't want to ruin the moment.

All of a sudden, I could feel that the top of my head was damp, and then I heard a few sniffles. It took me a moment to register that he was crying. Crying in front of me.

Someone who was always the epitome of perfection. Someone who always joked around. Someone who had managed to be happy even though their mother vanished. Someone who flirted around at any opportunity. Was crying.

Hesitantly, I reached my hand up to his blonde locks, and started to stroke them. I felt him tense beneath me, before leaning in to my touch. I carried on smoothing his hair in a soothing manner, as I allowed him to hold me even tighter. It was as if I was an anchor, that he desperately wanted to hang on to.

"I want you to know how important you are to me, Marinette," I heard him say, his voice muffled in my locks.

I moved back slowly, letting him know that it was only to hear what he was going to say.

Simulacrum's mouth was turned into a frown, but his skin was still white and smooth.

"My mother was amazing," he started, tearing his gaze from me to the floor. "But, when she left...I realised how I had taken her for granted. After she went, my only family seemingly disappeared too, since my father was never around me anymore."

I placed my hand on his cheek, and made it so that he was facing me. Looking into his forest green eyes, I urged, "Carry on."

"I never thought I'd find someone like my mother, but here I am. With you."

My jaw dropped open in surprise, yet he still carried on.

"You are exactly like my mother. She was kind, caring, compassionate, and always made time for others. She saw good in everyone, just like you do in Chloe. I want you to know that you are my family, and that you mean everything to me." His voice started to become more and more commanding as he spoke, "I won't let you go, and I will make sure that whatever happened to my mother, won't happen to you."

Soon, he was pushing me into his chest while gripping me tight, making it hard for my to breathe.

"S-Simulacrum? C-Can you l-let go?" I said, trying to get free.

He noticed my struggling and released me, which left us staring at each other.

"W-Wow..." I awed. "I-I never knew how important I was to you."

His lips formed into a smile, as he said, "I'm sorry, but I need you to stay here so I can make sure you don't disappear."

"Disappear?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I can't have another family member leave me."

"Oh, Adrien," I called. "I will never leave you, I promise."

His eyes widened. "Promise?"

"Promise."

We hugged again, this time both of us almost suffocating the other. When I pulled away, I looked to my right to see the sun slowly setting.

He noticed too, and we watched as the sky darkened and stars started to form, together. Neither of us spoke, as we didn't want to ruin the comfortable silence.

Five minutes later, the only light was the stars and crescent moon illuminating Adrien's room. It bathed me in a midnight glow, and when I turned to Simulacrum to ask him what to do next, I saw a purple outline around his face.

"Yes, Hawk Moth," he agreed, before it disappeared into thin air.

"I'm sorry Marinette, but I need to go and get the miraculous off of two pests," he said in a bitter tone.

"Ladybug and Chat Noir?"

"Well, yes, and Rena Rouge and Carapace."

"How, though? Do you know their identities?" I questioned, thinking over how he could have found out.

"No, but Hawk Moth just told me how they were spotted nearby the Eiffel Tower, so he assumed Ladybug must be there too."

I nodded in agreement, to avoid any suspicion that I knew she wasn't.

"I have to go, but don't worry," Simulacrum assured, standing up. "When I come back, we'll continue on with this whole 'family talk'."

With that, he unlocked the bedroom window and leaped off into the night, leaving me alone.

[shy-magpie]

RQG 148

In which a birthday is begun, and a room is searched. Live Blog under the cut

Happy birthday, Lydia! Azu would be the sweetest and most dangerous Ben has a lot of room to talk after his drowny season 1 Alex pretends but he was so happy to see them beat it. Skip past the blobs which were creepy more than dangerous. I love that "I don't even respect your craft" is the most devastating insult imaginable. Poor Azu! I don't think Helen quite clicked before that Alex's favors are always double edged. Okay thats where the title comes from. Oh story time with Alex is sad! Cel loots it. Alex preemptively blames Hamid for it not dropping any good loot then reveals the brain is intact. Zolf, as the practical one I am trusting you to interrogate the brain. Post fight check-ins begin, as Cel prepares to echo Grizzop with the last brain orb full of plot. Skraak is tugging on Azu's armor and holding out the health potion. Zolf heals everyone for 17HP Hamid finally stops being invisible I preferred the few seconds I thought Helen said she healed Cel and Zolf 46HP not 4D6. Helen rolls well for once. Azu is out of Lay on Hands. Its gone a bit meta. They leveled! Bryn snarks a little but I can't make out the line, something about level 10 but loving how Ben immediately offers his protection. Alex jokes about killing Zolf, Helen growls no as Ben yells yes and explains why. Bryn is trying to leverage how badly we want the wings into protection for himself and Hamid. So conflicted: I want Wings of Joy but any route to level 11 in a short amount of time is riddled with 147 levels of danger or more. New spells etc won't take until they sleep. Feel free to describe those at any time! Oh new Mercy for Azu! Hamid investigates the part of the organ the mech tore itself out of. Okay it was designed to do that, makes sense. "Biggest IPod dock imaginable". Hamid investigates the  liquid tubes, it doesn't read as Mr Ceiling. Cel is rolling the brorb(brain orb) to interrogate it. Hamid and Zolf compare it to Mr Ceiling. They roll Perception and Ben gets a nat 20+9. Half of the brain is riddled with Blue Veins. Everyone gasps & goes "ew!". Zolf is not happy about being around anything with Blue Veins. Cel considers how to interrogate it. Hamid mentions the papers he stuffed in his bag. We get more details from Alex: a mix of languages most familiar bits in the most familiar languages, mostly English. Zolf asks if Hamid still has the notebook as Hamid relays this info. My heart hurts at his off hand reference to Liliana; Zolf wasn't there, no one who was there except for Hamid is around! Even Liliana disappeared into Mars custody. Now the poor guy is going to have to decide how much context to give Zolf about being on a first name basis with someone who worked on the simulacrum. Zolf wants to compare the origami with the squid ink to the paperwork. Azu is just going to sit on the floor. Zolf has a rank in linguistics and he can tell the handwriting was the same if deteriorating. Cel can tell its the same ink. Zolf hands Cel the bits in Japanese. Cel gets a 27 to read a letter from the notebook between Yoshida Shoin and Francois Henri talking fluidics and jargon that points towards the simulacrum. Hamid is hanging on every word. Zolf is following. Azu is checked out. Zolf is not appreciating going mentally back to Paris.   I can't follow what Hamid found from his arcana. ~Break~ Hamid mentions the similarity between the simulacrum's circulatory system and the veins. Azu and Zolf race for the knowledge healing roll. Alex is now third person stressed trying to herd these cats. Azu has 13 in heal. Which is 2 more than Zolf. They tease Ben, but I think it was a set up for Helen to celebrate being better than him. He responds by pointing out his class means he is better at healing. Its about as subtle as when my brother gave me every handicap available in our games then pretended to be surprised I won when I was a kid. Alex throws him a bone and points out his amazing healing of Sasha. Azu gets 29 in the heal check. The simulacrum has absurdly more veins than a person. Left hemisphere is veiny; damage between the hemispheres; blue came from outside in not inside out. Zolf is out on a limb but it may just support his weight. Squid tie in Cel is now officially under my protection. I admired them but no one should be stuck thinking everyone has "shut up, shut up, shut up" as a mental sound track. Officially adding anxiety to ADHD in my Neurodivergent!Cel head canons. Cel points to it as being the veins talking to Shoin. Ben gets free info. This doesn't match the usual progression. Zolf proposes they take it back for Cel to build a way to talk to, then interrogate at leisure. He explicitly says he wants to go before the metal squid attacks. Hamid wants to know what else is controlled by the console. Hamid and Cel talk about the "pipe organ" so the others know about it in character. Cel invented the 3D printer. Of course they did. Part of the chemicals go under the base. Zolf wants to follow it as Alex makes an ominous noise. One of the chairs has turned into a slide, Skraak was demonstrating thank god. Everyone thanks Skraak. Azu offers to investigate the body that was in the room and Alex points out it exploded. Helen starts to take it as a "no" until he clarifies she will just have to check out the larger bits separately. Bryn remains a mood, as with Currie, he has so many questions its hard to prioritize. Give us the lore! Cel explains the set up. Brain in orb plugs into the mech which plugs into the dock from which he controlled everything. Hamid sounds frantic. He wants to know how Shoin gave the orders and is concerned about the Kobolds. (way to break my heart: he killed 20 but clearly cares about them. He'll have to reconcile the two soon) When Zolf isn't listening he points out they could order them to quit drugging the Kobolds and lay down their weapons. Kobolds are important Zolf! Zolf tells him to look into that while he and Azu look at the corpse. Bets on him being the one to find a bit that indicates its cult? The corpse is riddled with Blue Veins; Zolf orders Azu away from it immediately and sounds the kind of mad that means someone is terrified. He uses small words to spell out how badly he wants out of the room, good growth Zolf. Hamid prioritizes what they need to look into first. Cel asks Hamid to send lights down the chute under the table so they can investigate. Skraak doesn't like this plan and disappears under the table. Cel drops everything to check in with him. Skraak starts breaking things under the table. Hamid can see Cel & Azu are on it and focuses on persuading Zolf they need to work out the controls; since obviously he isn't going to get the promised time while they investigate the corpse. Cel investigates the mech dock. Bryn makes a formal case for being allowed to assist based on Hamid's time studying Mr Ceiling's controls. Alex concedes the point. We all love Cel. Cel could jury rig a connection to the speaker parts. Hamid works to persuade Cel not to hook their brain to anything. Azu looks for Skraak. Skraak is "happy as Larry" breaking the thing. They work out Skraak and Azu don't have any languages in common. When Azu knocks on the table to get his attention he knocks the rhythm back, they go repeat this a couple times building a little tune and I feel my lower lip going like when I'm watching puppy videos. Azu backs off since Skraak is okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Cel asks Skraak if he is available for a paid internship. Zolf wants to know what Skraak is doing. Hamid relays but its really not clear what Skraak means. Oh until he gets "an iris mechanism in the middle of the table" to open letting out a platform then the rest of the table sinks out of the way making stairs. Even Zolf compliments Skraak on that. Hamid makes a pitch to finish looting the place Kitchen was "prepper stocked" then left to rot. Zolf is a proper leader, has noted how long its been since they ate, and tosses anything still edible in his bag of holding. Azu finds the bed room gives few clues since the place is sealed off from dust etc. There is a Harrison Campbell novel with a bookmark 3/4s of the way through. Azu takes the book and shows Zolf who recognizes the cover even though it's in Japanese. In The Eye Of Your Love, its a rarer printing of an early work. Its an adventure rather than a romance. Hamid checks the study and finds: -Alex hyping them up -more paperwork on the "pipe organ" and complex -they are atop a geothermic vent, the complex extends significantly underground, and I don't like the sound of "live stock storage". -A natural tunnel system, maps show connections to the complex. -THE DIARY! I THOUGHT IF THEY GOT THE BRAIN WE WOULDN'T GET A DIARY! ALEX IS THE BEST! The brain could lie and is all weird now. A diary might not be trust worthy but can't pull the same nonsense as a living person. Hamid shows it to Cel since he can't read Japanese. "oh my gosh I always wondered if he was into me". Helen does not approve when Ben explains how Lay On Hands powers Positive Energy. "you are preaching to the choir Helen, you are preaching to choir".

[whiskeyworen]

Aspect V : Of Confusion and Identification

Events were starting to roll together, to cascade and collide with each other. It was inevitable; I could not hope to keep things isolated, keep my tracks covered. Not that I wanted or needed to try very hard. But there was no way I could keep these events secret for much longer. Event 1: Cyrus frowned as he looked at the data pad concerning supplies and resources being shipped through the Forsaken Aspect's cargo Asura gate. The gate itself was intrinsically tied to the Home Base, and the autofactory there, and only ever transported finished goods or accepted other goods to be used in the construction of finished product. One of which, according to the datapad...was incorrect. "What the hell?... Deldrimor Steel ingots? Corrogen filament bundles? Liquid crystal in suspension fluid?... why are these numbers wrong?" He scrolled back up the list, frowning further. The numbers weren't dramatically wrong, but for the last few weeks apparently, one item would have more than the usual amount shipped into the holds. But the sell-rates indicated the standard amount was being sold on market. "Every time, we're shipping in 120% of the amount we need...but we're just selling the regular amount. Where's that 20% going?" He checked the logs, and raised an eyebrow. There's no way she'd make a mistake like this...unless, is she skimming from the top? No... It couldn't be.

Cyrus set out to find Verula. If she was actually involved in this, it would mean she was lying to him. And that had not happened before.

Event 2:

In another part of the ship, Verula was noticing something too. It wasn't the incoming shipping invoice versus the outgoing. But it was the fact that the missing resources were being diverted to a different hold on the ship. Again, it was a little bit at a time, and never more than one kind of resource at a time.

"Hrmm... Was it a transportation error?" She grumbled, running a claw down the bridge of her nose in frustration. The one thing she hated doing was going into the program code for the transport golems and Watchworks that normally did things semi-autonomously. An error in item transportation might be the first symptom of either a program failure... or of the Watchworks beginning to truly think for themselves. Neither was a good outcome.

"At least I know where it's all going." She sighed and began to head from the weapons bay towards the massive cargo holds. Verula consulted her own datapad, and shrugged. "I'll have to ask Cyrus why he's authorizing it though. If he just wanted to spare some stuff as a supply dump, or for a nestegg or something, we could have easily made the adjustment. There's no reason for him to be sneaky about it."

"...why ship it to Cargo bay 4 though?" The thought perplexed her.

Event 3:

Tenna couldn't really understand what was going on. She'd just been passing through the ship's corridors, thinking about one thing or another, when she realized she'd wandered by the cavernous cargo bays that lined the belly of the Forsaken Aspect. It still amazed her how big the ship really was, and delighted her how surprised the rest of the world would be if they ever revealed it, but the cargo bays were downright massive on their own! She almost felt they were so big they could have their own weather systems!

But here she was at Cargo 4...and she couldn't get in.

It wasn't a case of the bay doors being locked or anything. Well, they WERE; she could see the door indicator glowing red. But it was the two nine-foot tall Watchwork Knights standing guard on either side of the door with their almost-as-huge energy halberds crossed like a big X in front of those doors that confused her. Why were Watchworks guarding the doors?

"Watchwork Knights. User Code: Gamma-Three-Tenna-Solar." She intoned in a commanding voice, hands on her hips. "Acknowledge."

Both Knights turned their gazes towards her, their optics glittering green. Both spoke at the same time, in the same chippy monotone Watchworks used when they didn't have their mimic fields on. "User Acknowledged. Tenna Danae Acknowledged. How can this unit help?"

"Why are there two Watchknights guarding this bay? If I try to proceed, will you attempt to stop me?" Tenna queried, looking from one to the other.

"This unit was assigned to prohibit entrance to Cargo Bay 4 until further notice. Attempt to gain entry to Cargo Bay 4 will be met by escalating resistance." It replied simply.

Tenna knew what 'escalating resistance' meant. If she tried to push past, they would at first pick her up and move her back to 'safe distance' before returning to their posts. If she continued to try, they would increase their aggressiveness. First would come a gentle tap with the handle of the halberd. Then maybe a harder hit. Then a jab with the energy-tipped end. If she pushed really far and kept trying, they would revert to their Nightmare forms which were FAR more capable of bodily harm, with their grab-bag of horrifying weapons that were normally kept neutral in their simulacrum form.

"Who ordered you to guard this bay?" Tenna was now curious and irritated. There had to be something on the other side someone didn't want anyone to see. Depending on what name was spoken, it would say a lot about that person.

"This unit was ordered by Cyrus Sigismund to stand guard." The automaton replied, its voice fuzzing for a second.

Tenna stared at it. Was that a glitch? I almost caught something there. It said Cyrus's name, but... was that some distortion in it?

Event 4:

Sonnya headed down the airdock after using the service elevator. It had taken her a while to make it through the bustling morass that was the Lion's Arch aerodrome, but she finally found the docks she had been invited to.

It was an out-of-the-way dock, on the backside of the Aerodrome, with no other docks nearby. She could see just from looking that the reason it was alone on this side was because of the mountains that flanked Lion's Arch on the southern edge, the ridges before BloodTide Coast began. Oh, she could see another handful of docks sticking out of the upper reaches of the aerodrome on this side, far up the sheer walls of the building, but this one was the only one down near the rocks. Parking any kind of ship here must be anxiety-inducing and aggravating, as a mere wind could blow a ship off course and into the jagged peaks.

Yet sure enough, there was a modern Airship parked at the end of the dock, the protective energy walls of its main deck and the band that held the airship's floatation bag certainly marking it as a post-Scarlet design.

As she got nearer, she could see there was a crewman standing by the hatch, apparently on guard, or waiting for her. He was non-descript as they come; if you looked up 'Standard human' in a library, this man could be on the page as 'Example'.

"Hi, I'm Sonnya Danae? I was invited to board the Forsaken Aspect at dock 43?" She asked him, unsure if she had the right ship. She hadn't seen the moniker written on the side or on the energy bands anywhere. Was this the right ship?

The crewman looked her over once, a blank expression on his face, and nodded. "Sonnya Danae. Please follow me. You are expected in Cargo Bay 4." He gestured inside, and followed her in, securing the hatch behind them. As the door secured, Sonnya stumbled slightly. Something was off. Immediately her in-eye HUD lit up, searching for threats, and she did a quick scan of her environment.

What the?... It had to be a mistake. This was a Pact-standard airship! She knew the dimensions of a ship of this class! Even the hall itself didn't look like a standard Pact ship. The deck was solid and smooth, not rivetted metal, and the walls were clean and seamless. It was like it wasn't constructed in the same shipyards as the Fleet at all. So then why were her sensors reporting that, rather than stepping onto the bridge from that hatch, that she had stepped into some long corridor in a much larger vessel? Why was her HUD filled with such distortion? In trying to compare where she was to the diagram of a Pact ship, her mapper was fuzzing out and asking to be shut off due to error!

"What...what kind of ship is this?" She asked breathlessly, as the crewman walked slowly and smoothly down the hall.  He turned back slightly to consider her, before repeating. "You are expected at Cargo Bay 4. Please follow me."

Unable to understand, and wide-eyed with amazement, Sonnya could only follow.

Event 1 + 2 = Collision

"Verula. There you are." Cyrus's voice was slightly harsher than he would have liked. It hadn't taken him long to cross paths with the Charr soldier, even on a ship the size of the Forsaken Aspect. He waved the datapad at her idly. "I think we need to talk."

"Indeed we do." Verula replied, holding up her own slate and indicating the offending lines. "Just why are you diverting goods to Cargo Bay 4? Or is this a glitch in the inventory systems?"

Cyrus frowned, and handed her his slate, while taking hers. His frown deepened. "What in the hell? I never authorized this! Wait.... these items..."

His gaze shot up as Verula grunted, skimming the slate he'd given her. "Yeah. These are the items that are got redirected. So it's a system glitch." Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "What... Wait a moment. Why is MY authorization on this? I would never do this.... Is someone trying to set me up?!"

"So...you're not bringing in 120% of the usual goods and skimming 20% off for yourself?" Cyrus asked slowly.

She just looked at him, hurt. Then she countered. "Well, are you taking that 20% and sending it to Bay 4? And if I was skimming, then why were you authorizing the skimming by moving the product there?"

They were both silent, staring at each other, before glancing at the slates. "... We need to get to Bay 4. I got a bad feeling about this."

Event 1+2 x 3 = Cascade

Sonnya didn't know where she was on the ship, but near an intersection deep in the hull, she and the crewmember ran into two rather recognizable people. The moment she saw them, her suit's database brought up snapshots for her vision. That's that Cyrus Sigismund! And... Verula Faithbreaker? What are they doing here?

In surprise she'd simply stopped walking, staring at them as they approached at a rather brisk pace. They seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.

Cyrus looked up from the slate he was consulting, noticing the asura and crewman standing in the corridor intersection. His troubled expression settled into a perplexed frown, as he flicked his gaze from Sonnya to the crewman and back. It might have been just an illusion caused by reflected lights, but she swore she could see a faint purple glow behind his left pupil. "....Verula, do you have any idea why there's a stranger walking the decks of my ship?" He asked not-so-quietly. "... Or why there's a Watchwork Knight with its Illusion Matrix on, to look like some kind of ship's crew?"

A growl escaped the Charr warrior, and she reached for her sword and axe. "I do not."

"Watchwork Knight??" Sonnya's fear was sudden and abrupt. It wasn't that she couldn't take something like that these days; it was the fact that there was one close enough to her that it was an actual danger that made her jump. That's when she realized he'd been talking about the crewman, so she turned to look at him, wonderingly.

The crewman was looking at her with that same, calm, almost blank expression -- right before the 'Illusion Matrix' deactivated, revealling a kind of WatchKnight she'd never seen before. It wasn't one of Scarlet's designs, with exposed gearing and slapped-together parts. It wasn't even like the Queen's new Watchknight 2.0s that had been revealled at the last Queen's Jubilee. Those had been sleeker, more refined, but still had a distinctly machined appearance.

This Watchknight had smooth, rounded panels, more akin to a human frame than a puppet, with silvered filigree etched into its golden frame. Its mouth was still a simple hinge affair, which she now could see open and shut as a monotone, female voice came from it. "You are expected in Cargo Bay 4. Please come with me."

That got Cyrus's attention. He stepped up to Sonnya and the Watchknight, looking from one to the other. "Wait a moment. What do you mean she's expected at Bay 4? What is a non-crew member doing onboard my ship."

"I was invited!" Sonnya protested. "One of your crew invited me on board last week, for some reason."

"How? We were in Elona back then. How could anyone invite you?" Verula asked, sidling up beside Cyrus and crossing her arms. "Who would invite you? HOW would they invite you? A letter? They'd have to have some pretty good timing!"

The charr's cynicism irritated Sonnya, so she pulled a device off her belt and tossed it less-than-nicely to her. "I got this via mail over a week ago. I don't recognize the design, but's a damned comm, furball."

Verula took one look at the unit in her hand and her eyes widened. "Cyrus... this is one of OUR comms. But I only made four of those. I don't... this isn't one of mine."

"This just keeps getting more and more mysterious." Cyrus muttered, scratching his chin. "It still begs the question; if someone DID make another comm and send it to... What's your name?"

"Sonnya. Sonnya Danae." She replied smartly. She felt a bit more relaxed now that the pressure was off her. But now this human and charr both flinched away from her at the mention of her name.

"She's a Danae?" Verula asked carefully.

"Apparently so." He considered Sonnya as if for the first time, taking in her features. "Yeah, I can see it now. The shape of the chin, the eyes, the markings. You are her sister aren't you?" He paused, thinking back almost six months. "Wait a moment... I ran into you back in Hoelbrak during Dragonbash!"

Sonnya paled, before blushing heavily. Oh god, it was him wasn't it. That nice person who found me blitzed out of my head and made sure I slept it off was him. Why did it have to be him? She shook her head, groaning mentally as she remembered. It was the first time she'd drank alchohol since she had her implants fully installed, the first time since the incident with the Shatterer. Things had not gone as planned; instead of dulling down drunkness, the implants had worked overtime and done the exact opposite. She'd ended up badly drunk in public after only a few drinks, wandering the thoroughfares in a blissful, hiccup-ridden stupor until she'd bumped into someone.

That someone had helped her get to an inn room, and stuck around just long enough to make sure she'd started sobering up before they left. She'd always thought it was just some human, but she didn't realize just who she'd run into. "I...uh, yeah. That was me. Sorry about the... Dragonbash thing. I didn't get to thank you for making sure I didn't hurt myself. Or anyone else, for that matter."

He smiled a little bit, waving her thanks aside. "Eh, it was nothing. I couldn't just walk away from someone that out of it. I didn't know you were a Danae sister though."

Sonnya nodded "Now that I think about it, I remember seeing you before that time too. You came to get my little sister after she met me and my other little sister for drinks." Her expression clouded at the memory. "She... wasn't happy. With me I think."

"Little sister?... Do you mean...?"

Event (1+2 x 3) / 4 = Cascade

Tenna was still puzzling over the guardian Watchknights when she heard voices behind her in the hallway. One of them sounded like a very irritated Verula, another Cyrus's voice. Maybe they'd be able to shed some light on what was happening in Cargo Bay 4.

As she approached, she called out. "Hey Cyrus! There's something weird going on."

"Tenna?..." A familiar voice asked tenatively as she approached the cluster of people in the intersection. "Is... Is that you?"

She skidded to a stop, unprepared to hear the sound of her older sibling here, on board. "S-Sonnya? W-what are you..." She took a breath and collected herself. "What are you doing here??" Sonnya reluctantly thumbed at the very patient Watchknight standing beside her, still staring down at her. In response, the Watchknight repeated its directions. "You are expected at Cargo Bay 4. Please come with me."

Tenna shook her head and gaped. That was exactly why she was here. What the hell was going on? She looked at Cyrus, who was obviously trying to puzzle things out. She knew that look on his face; he was trying to fit all the pieces together, and whatever he was thinking, it wasn't something he liked. "Cyrus, what the hell is going on? Cargo Bay 4 is under lock-down and guard apparently on your orders. You and Verula both look like you've been eating lemons, and apparently my sister's been invited on board by someone??"

Cyrus's hand was cupping his chin while he thought, but he idly flexed a few fingers in a dismissive fashion. "Seems to be the jist of it yet. Well, you didn't know about the resource allocation, or the fact that it's been going into that bay as well...apparently under me and Verula's alternating authority."

"What?!"

He sighed, took a deep breath and started walking towards the bay. Already he could see the nine-foot tall guardians watching him carefully. Behind him, he could hear every one following him. The pitter-patter of the Asura's little legs. The heavy clunk of Verula's armored gait. And the calculated tink tink tink of the Watchknight escorting Sonnya.

At the locked bay, he stopped, staring at the guardians for a moment. They stared back, halberds still crossed over the path.

"... Aspect, just what the hell is going on." He called out. "I know you're the one behind all this, now that we've gotten all the pieces. Was it you that invited Miss Sonnya here as well?"

Sonnya looked at him perplexed. "Uh... I wasn't invited by someone named Aspect. I was invited by--"

"I suppose I had better confess." A voice came from a wall mount. The familiar golem-eye extended, looking at everyone. "I knew I couldn't keep it completely secret, but I had hoped for a bit more time before this event. I will just have to work with what I have then."

Cyrus looked at the eye sadly. "Aspect, what have you done?"

The asuran Guardian gaped at the wall unit, recognizing the voice coming from it. "Hey! Wait, that voice! I know that voice! You're the one who invited me! But you called yourself--"

With that, the doors to the bay unlocked with a loud clank and began to trundle open. Both of the guardian Watchknights pulled back from their posts and knelt, heads down, mirroring each other across the passage. A thick fog began to spill from inside as the doors opened; it was warm, like the breath of a hotspring.

As the fog spilled out, it began to thin, and everyone there could make out a figure standing in the doorway. It wasn't a Watchknight, or any other kind of construct. It looked...human.

Stepping out from inside, into the light of the corridor, a slim, pale woman opened her eyes and looked at them all. A small smile touched her lips, and she shrugged slightly.

"You can call me... Alice."

Event (1+2 x 3) / 4  = Null.

I am here. I have no need to hide anymore.

[liveattheauction]

A Story with Mutants: Chapter 1, kind of

Hey, here’s a thing I’ve been working on forever. It’s an old project that I revived recently and have been working on in my increasingly small amounts of free time. I’ve got a little more than this written but I only wanna post the first part here, mostly so that a particular friend of mine (hi, Marten!) can read it. I’d love to hear what you guys think of it! I don’t even have chapter titles. It’s very unedited.

[Chapter 1, I guess]

The roof of the First Lupei Bank stood a few stories taller than all the surrounding buildings except one, a fifty-something story modern skyscraper misplaced among the old concrete and steel blocks. Its mirrored windows cast back the grey skies with a veneer of rain. Below the streets gleamed in puddles, passersby shedding their coats at the return of the sun, the rumble of traffic muffled by the height. It’d be peaceful if not for the industrial AC unit rattling. Sheinberg shrugged off his jacket, breathing deeply. “I love it up here,” he sighed warmly as he stepped out from the stairwell. “About as private as one can get in the historical district.” “Doesn’t seem very private,” Shiloh muttered, following behind him. Sheinberg leaned against the concrete edge, narrow shoulders lifted and elbows settled on the wall. “Too much interference. The AC’s too loud, the other buildings are too short, and that big one there is a news station—twenty-four seven broadcasting, radio, satellite, everything.” “That’s… very basic.” “Well, there is more.” Sheinberg pulled a small box from his pocket. “But no fun in telling everything, is there? You smoke?” “I do, actually.” Sheinberg held out the box and Shiloh accepted a cigarette with a nod of thanks, placing it between his lips to draw his own lighter. “‘S a dying habit,” Sheinberg muttered through the filter. He cupped a hand against the wind and puffed a few times, smoke swirling against his palm. “I mean, rightly so; it’s a killer. But it’s nice to have a smoking buddy now and again. How’d you get into it?” “Old teenage habit,” Shiloh murmured. “You?” “Similar. So.” He cast Shiloh a wry, knowing grin. “Let’s talk first impressions. Tell me, were you expecting a black man?” A flicker of surprise crossed Shiloh’s face, noticeable only as a spasm among the freckles around his eyes, but it was quickly smothered by a chuckle. “I admit, I was expecting an old Jewish man.” Sheinberg laughed too, cigarette bobbing between his teeth. He slipped it between his fingers and spoke with smoke on his breath, “I get that a lot. I get that look—you hid it pretty well, you sly dog—that little blink, the head nod, the ‘oh, okay, it’s like that’ look. You know what that is?” He waited for Shiloh to shake his head. “It’s called cognitive dissonance. Old psychology concept from the fifties.” Shiloh blew smoke through his nose. “Post-war, then?” “No, man, nineteen-fifties. Which,” he said, waving his hand, “I guess is also post-war. But World War II, not three. The idea is that we have a set of preconceived notions of what the world should be, a bias of expectation. You hear you’re coming to meet Samuel Sheinberg, middle manager of a bank chain, you think old white guy in a yarmulke, yeah? You think big nose and curly hair and all those other things that you’d be called racist for voicing.” Shiloh snorted, grinning faintly. “What?” “I’m Jewish.” “Are you?” “Partly. Though my grandfather.” He waved Sheinberg on, lifting his cigarette again. “Go on.” Sheinberg shrugged. “I know you’re Irish—see, there’s the other side of it. No cognitive dissonance when you hear a name like Moil—Maloi—” “Maoilseachlainn?” “That. That’s Irish if I ever heard it. Then you walk in, freckled all to hell, pale as the dead, speaking with an accent. All you’re missing is the red hair and a flask. You are a perfect fit with my idea of your average Irish ex-pat.” He clamped the cigarette between his teeth and reached into his jacket pocket, holding it out on his arm. “Which, if you’ve come this far, you are not.” “In many ways, I’m not,” Shiloh murmured, a smile ghosting about his lips. Sheinberg pulled out a little red card and draped his jacket on the concrete edge, leaning back onto it with his elbows, and rolled the card across his fingers like a coin. “I didn’t bring up hundred-fifty year old psychology concepts for no reason,” he warned. “That moment when things aren’t exactly what you expect—that’s a definitive moment. You can learn a lot about someone by how they respond to dissonance. And it’s not just when people aren’t stereotypes, it’s anything: situations, information, even actions. What do you do when you act against your own beliefs?” “Is that rhetorical?” Shiloh asked. “No. Dead serious.” “I imagine most people don’t do that.” “But they do, every day.” He waggled his cigarette between his fingers. “Smoking, for example. At the end of the twenty-second century, between vapor alternatives and the health crisis and climate change and all that shit, smoking tobacco nearly disappeared from American soil. The last major generation of smokers died of lung cancer. It was kept alive by traditionalists and historians, nothing more. If you ask someone if they smoke, most of the time you get, ‘Don’t you know that’s bad for you?’” He took a long drag and spoke with smoke whirling on his breath, “Ever tried to quit?” “Once or twice.” “You obviously didn’t succeed. So, tell me, Shiloh: when you picked up that first cig after weeks, maybe even months, of sobriety, what did you feel? When you knew you were breaking a promise to someone important, maybe yourself? You knew it was bad for you. Still is. Why’d you still do it?” Shiloh studied his half-burnt cigarette, sheltered from the wind by his shoulders. “Several reasons, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “Stress, mostly. You must know my line of work.” “Yeah, and I can’t blame you for any vice. But that’s not my question.” “It’s not, is it?” He sighed and looked up as if the sky held answers. “If I’m being honest, I felt guilty. Disappointed in myself. I managed to justify it later—to myself, mostly—but at the time I just needed the indulgence.” Sheinberg nodded slowly, cigarette loose in his lips. “That’s dissonance. Your own actions in opposition to your own beliefs and all the facts supporting them. So you justify.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and gave the red card another roll across his fingers. “It’s largely situational and I get that, but you get the concept, yeah?” “I do.” “Good. You see where I’m going with this?” “I have a sneaking suspicion.” Sheinberg flicked the card across his hand, pinning it with his pinky and index finger over the two between to show off the ram’s head logo. “What do you know about the Ramheart Outpost?” “Less than you, I’m sure.” “Once again, that’s not my question.” Shiloh took a long drag, held his breath as he snuffed his cigarette on the concrete, and sighed smoke through his nose. “I know it operates as a brothel,” he said lightly, “for a number of reasons. But my interest in it is primarily as one of the largest and most secure mutant sanctuaries of the country.” Sheinberg paused. “Go on.” “What do you want to know?” Sheinberg simply waved a hand, urging him on. “The Ramheart, as I’ve most often heard it called, is located somewhere in the city of Lupei and serves as a major entry point for a global network of sanctuaries and asylums for mutants. I’ve been to several others—Cardiff, Chicago, the Mojave—but none as large or as connected.” Sheinberg waved further. “I’ve got an approximate location on it, but—” “Listen, Mawlsee—Marl—fuck—Shiloh. We just had a conversation about psychology and emotion. Don’t play me for an idiot, Shiloh; you know I’m the Ramheart’s gatekeeper and you know I don’t care about what data you’ve scrounged up from chasing us. I’m not here to judge your spying abilities. I’m here to judge you.” He dropped his cigarette without taking his eyes from Shiloh’s and smothered it with his shoe. “What do you think the Ramheart is?” Shiloh stared him down without expression—for such a vibrant face, all freckles and cheekbones and fine brows, it was amazing how well he could keep it blank—and spoke with a stiff neck, voice loose and honest, “The Ramheart is a refuge for those without refuge. A banned people whose very existence is tied to the worst forms of organized crime. It is a gateway to other mutant sanctuaries, and I suspect that’s often why it’s sought, but it is first and foremost a provider of some simulacrum of a normal life for those for whom that can never be a reality. It is, by multiple definitions, an asylum. It is also—and forgive me, this is a personal interest—an enormous operation with clients around the globe that still manages a level of secrecy unheard of by even the most successful intelligence agencies. I don’t seek the Ramheart for personal reasons.” “I know,” Sheinberg said quietly. Shiloh nodded. “You’ve given me the runaround better than some of the mutant-makers I’ve found, you know. That’s as great a compliment as I can give.” Sheinberg leaned in slightly. “That’s. Not. My. Question.” “I seek the Ramheart Outpost because one of the mutants there is relevant to my mission, and you know already that I can’t tell you more about that.” For a moment, Sheinberg was silent. The cigarette smoke still ghosted about their feet, their last wisps crawling along the quarter-inch of windless space before being caught up and lost in the updraft. A car honked below and a dull voice called back angrily. “Okay,” Sheinberg said thinly, spreading a hand on the concrete ledge and drumming his fingers. “Let’s try something else. You know anything about history?” “You’re too general.” “You’re dodging me. We’re talking about mutants, so I pretty obviously mean mutant history. What do you know about it? And don’t”—he held up a hand quickly—“don’t give me names; I could not give less of a shit about who you’ve tracked and brought down. Tell me why you had to do that in the first place.” Shiloh stared him down. The man could cut glass with those eyes. “You really don’t understand why we’re here, do you?” Shaking his head, Shiloh pulled his lighter out again and a box of cigarettes of his own. “I don’t understand what you want, that’s for sure.” Sheinberg rolled his bony shoulders out to his wrists, a single fluid motion, and steadied his stance as if readying for a debate. Unperturbed, Shiloh lit another cigarette. “World War III. It starts there and should’ve ended there. You know mutants were weapons at first, right?” “Still are,” Shiloh murmured threateningly. “Not often. They started as just beefed-up humans, you know. Little genetic enhancements to make them better killers. Then people started making them more animalistic, bigger, carnivorous, real monsters. Those were weapons, Shiloh Starts-With-An-M. We’re fuckin’ lucky they didn’t survive that long.” He watched Shiloh’s hands hide in his jacket pockets shamelessly. “The Second Geneva Convention banned the technology in war but nowhere else—common misconception is that it was banned all over then and there, but it actually took ‘til 2069 for the general ban to be signed by every country. This incredible military technology to alter genomes however the hell you so choose suddenly passed from government to private hands. That’s where the more artistic mutants came from that inspired the ones you track today. The twenty-first century anthropomorphic fantasies. Did you know, Shiloh that in the 2050s, the mutant population of the United States was almost as high as the population of African slaves before the civil war? Millions of specially-made, designer, often intelligent beings passed around like shiny new toys. Guard dogs, sexual objects, pets—ever heard of Red Norton? He was a mutant actor made specifically for a series of horror movies in the early 2040s—who existed solely as property. They never had any rights to take when they were made illegal. It was like rounding up assault rifles after the ban.” Shiloh’s expression was dead. “You know, some bars and cafés host trivia nights. You’d be a champion.” “As soon as the ban went into effect,” Sheinberg continued, cutting over the last of his words, “traffickers started scrambling for the mutants. I’m sure you know more about that than I do, Mr. Tracker. What you might not know is the schism it caused among the global trafficking networks—who would move mutants, who could keep them, who’d deal in their technology. The Ramheart was one of the first underground sanctuaries and it split pretty quickly with the rest of the trafficking network. You know the name Marise Williams?” “The cryptographer, yes.” “The same. She founded it right before she died.” Shiloh took the cigarette from his mouth. “That I didn’t know,” he admitted, pointing with it. “It’s her work that started the incredible web of secrecy that you’ve been navigating for… how long now?” “The better part of two years.” Sheinberg drew himself upright, spreading his arms. “And here you are.” “Yes.” “Looking for one mutant in particular.” “Yes.” “And not for personal reasons. I can only assume, from what I know of you, that they’re connected to one of the traffickers you hunt.” “That’s as much as I can tell you.” Sheinberg put his fists on his hips, tapping a foot. “I don’t like it. I don’t at all.” “Does that matter?” Shiloh asked, cigarette hanging forgotten in his fingers. “My intentions are not to harm the mutant, only to question it. This might be important to you but, to me, this is just another part of another investigation.” “Does that matter?” Sheinberg retorted. He rubbed his cheek and sighed. “Listen. I’m torn on you. I can tell you don’t mean harm to my organization, but you’re… I think you’re a force of nature, man. You religious?” “I am.” “Right, Jewish.” “No, Kirian.” Sheinberg grimaced politely. “The Odd Gods, huh?” “Does it bother you?” “No, but I really don’t know much about it.” Rubbing his chin, he queried, “You guys have a chaos goddess, right?” Shiloh nodded. “Alad, goddess of both order and chaos. I—consider her my patron deity, even among the pantheon,” he added hesitantly. “I consider myself an agent of her peace, balancing the natural chaos of the world.” Sheinberg stayed silent and Shiloh dropped his cigarette, smothering it with the toe of his shined leather shoe. “I don’t often talk of my religion.” “I can tell,” Sheinberg said gently. He blew his cheeks out in a sigh. “All right, Shiloh. I’ll cut you a deal.” He held out his hand, the red card pinned to his palm, and Shiloh shook it. “I’ll grant you access for one night and one night only; you go straight to the mutant you’re looking for, make your contact, and get out. Not that I think you’re one to linger. And”—he held up a finger—“if the mutant doesn’t want to go with you, you have to respect that.” Shiloh nodded. “Those are fair terms. I can’t promise that I won’t contact your network again, though.” “Contacting us is fine, just leave the poor buggers at the Ramheart alone. They’ve been through enough.” He let go of the red card, letting it flap against Shiloh’s palm, and took back his hand. “Good luck, Shiloh.” “Thank you.” Without warning or explanation Sheinberg rubbed his nose and said, “How familiar are you with the history of tobacco? Fascinating crop. A quintessential item in American trade for centuries.” With a small snort of amusement, Shiloh pocketed the card. “Do go on.” Sheinberg swung his jacket over his shoulder and led the way back to the stairwell, chatting blithely and emptily of colonial American trade policy as they reentered the building. The rooftop seemed to sigh, relieved of tension, and the AC unit rattled once when the door closed. A rooftop away, a different AC unit opened and a slim figure stepped out carefully. She straightened her shirt over the listening device and made her way inside. In another building, a less subtle eavesdropper lowered his amplifier from the open window, grumbling about audio quality. The sniper atop the skyscraper lowered his weapon in relief and the sniper trained on him half a district away finally relaxed her grip on her own gun. Contact made, mission complete; Shiloh emerged from the bank a few minutes later and caught the downtown bus on the street corner. Sheinberg watched him leave from his office window, worried truly that he’d let on to too many secrets, shown too much vulnerability, damned himself with his nerves. A scarecrow playing brave to the tornado. He rubbed his nose again—maybe he should quit smoking.

[adorkablephil]

Fic: Hide Not Your Face (Chapter 2)

Title: Hide Not Your Face Summary: Chemistry grad student Phil Lester wants to make the world a better place, but a strange creature named Dan appears when Phil tests a potion intended to get rid of negative emotions. Rating: Teen (for a bit of language) Word Count: 2.8k (this chapter) Tags: Phandom Reverse Bang, Scientist AU, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Magical Realism, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Angst, Angst with A Happy Ending Author’s Note: This story is written for the @phandomreversebang. Thank you again to the artist @ribenaflip and our admin @rwdaf! Also available on AO3 here

[ Chapter Masterlist ]

Chapter 2: Creature

The creature slunk out of Phil’s flat into a shadowy hallway with stone steps leading both up and down. Miserable in his banishment, he knew instinctively that he should exit the building, and so began to walk down the steps toward what would presumably be the door Phil had been pointing him toward when he insisted that the creature leave.

On the steps, a young man ascending scowled at the sight of him and said, “You know you lot can’t sleep in our stairwells. We’ve told you often enough. There’s places for your kind. Now get out!”

“My kind?” thought the creature. “There are others like me?”

He stumbled out the large wooden front door and into weak sunlight. The air chilled his skin, and he vigorously rubbed his hands along his arms, trying to warm himself. He looked down and saw that his skin was a dirty grayish color where it showed, and that he wore black trousers and a black shirt that left his arms bare to the elements. His feet were bare. He felt disgusted at the sight of himself.

Clearly, others felt the same, as he noticed disapproving looks from the people passing by. One very small girl pointed at him and said, “Look, Mummy! Ugly!”

Her mother jerked the girl away by the hand and shushed her, but he was hurt enough to yell after them, “You’re uglier than I am! You’re hideous! You’re ugly on the inside, because you’re mean to someone you don’t even know!” The girl’s mother glared at him and hurried her daughter away from the crazy person.

He was breathing hard, his heart pounding, and he just wanted to punch something, just to get all this pain out of his body. Maybe if he punched the wall, then at least the pain in his hand might make him forget about the pain in his soul, but … well … that stone wall looked pretty hard. He decided he didn’t feel the need to punch it quite that badly. Instead, he sank down to sit on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, curling into a ball of misery. Huddled up so tightly, he felt a bit warmer, too, though his bare feet were beginning to ache from the chill.

And then came the first friendly voice he had ever heard, “Dan, old fellow! Good to see you!” He raised his head to see a man in somewhat ragged clothing, none too clean, shuffling toward him, but the man’s face changed when he saw the creature properly—first to confusion, then a sort of disgust. The man raised his hands in apology, explaining quickly, “No offense, mate. Thought you were someone else.”

The first time anyone had spoken kindly to him, and it was only because they thought he was someone else.

The creature felt tears sting his eyes and buried his head in his knees again, ashamed that this stranger might see him crying. But after a long pause, the shuffling footsteps continued to approach, and the friendly voice sounded softer now, kind, when it asked gently, “Mate. You cold? Hungry? I can show you where to get a coat, maybe a pair of shoes. And St. Mary’s does soup at half past twelve if you don’t mind the queue.” The creature looked up again, feeling the tears on his own face, and saw this stranger smile at him.

He’d never seen a smile before. He didn’t trust it.

He’d seen the expression on the man’s face a moment ago—this stranger loathed the sight of him, just like everyone else walking past, so no doubt this was nothing but mockery. “I don’t need your bloody pity or your bloody help,” he grumbled and clenched his arms tighter around his knees, staring down at the dirty pavement.

The other man seemed to take no offense, simply extending a hand and offering, “My name’s Henry. Let’s get you into some warmer kit, yeah? Must be freezing with those bare feet.” The creature hesitated, then reluctantly took the offered hand, because his feet really were quite cold. The man named Henry helped pull him to standing, then patted him on the back. “And what’s your name then?”

The creature thought a moment. He had no name, not that he knew of. But then he thought of the first kind word he’d heard in his entire existence, and he replied hesitantly, “You can call me Dan.”

Henry laughed at that and replied, “Well, isn’t that a coincidence! Here I thought you were my mate Dan Frasier—look a bit like him, what with the dark hair and the black clothes and whatnot—and turns out you’re a Dan all the same!”

The creature—“Dan,” he thought to himself. “I’m going to call myself Dan, because Dan is a real person, a person someone people care about.”—Dan fell into step beside the jovial Henry, who kept up a running conversation that did not require much participation on his part. That was fine with Dan. He listened, and Henry sounded friendly, and that was better than anything else he’d experienced in the world thus far.

***

Henry took him to some place where friendly people helped him find a coat and shoes that fit him well enough, and Dan felt much more comfortable, though he refused to thank anyone. Why should he have to grovel with gratitude because he now had a coat and shoes like any other person? He scowled at them, but they just smiled in return.

Henry introduced him to a few friends there, and they all seemed nice enough, apparently unfazed by Dan’s surly demeanor, as if they had experience with his kind of rudeness. One white-haired woman, however, pushed her way through the crowd to glare up at Dan and pointed at him. “You’re not real!” she accused with obvious indignation. “You’re something unnatural!” Dan stared at her in horror, not knowing what to do. “You’re just … a container! You’re just an empty box filled with unwanted things!” she screeched. People were staring now, and Dan hated her. “You, you’re nothing! You’re empty inside, nothing but a shell filled with ugliness, nothing but a demon … a golem… a simulacrum!” But at that moment Henry just put an arm around the woman and gently guided her away.

“There, there, Clara,” Henry soothed her. “It’s all right.” He shot Dan a look of apology, but Dan fancied he saw something else there, too. As if Henry too wasn’t quite sure about Dan, despite all his kindness. It made Dan even less sure about himself.

Deciding he should probably leave before they tossed him out as Phil had done, he walked out into the watery sunshine in his new coat and shoes, slightly less susceptible to the elements but otherwise feeling just as angry and miserable and pathetically helpless as before.

He watched all the people scurrying past. They all had places to go, places to be, things to do. But Dan didn’t. He had nothing. Nothing and no one and nowhere to go. His head hung low as he began to walk slowly, aimlessly.

He bumped shoulders with someone hurrying past, and Dan felt a sudden surge of emotions he couldn’t understand—fear and anger and shame and embarrassment—so he growled, “Watch it!” and kept walking, still not quite watching where he was headed. Why did he feel afraid, just because someone had bumped him on the street? And why did that make him angry? And, even more mysterious, why should he feel ashamed or embarrassed? None of it made any sense to him, and that itself frustrated him and made him a little angry.

What had that Phil done to him? Somehow, he knew the man’s name was Phil, though he couldn’t explain the reason he was so certain of that fact. But the certainty that this Phil person had done something to him was equally strong. Dan’s first memory was the dark corner of Phil’s flat where the light from the bright stained glass windows did not reach. He remembered seeing Phil stretching in that colorful, comfortable-looking bed, those pale arms spreading wide as the man yawned into a contented smile. And Dan had hated him in that moment. Hated him for being colorful and comfortable and bright and happy. Because Dan himself felt none of those things and he was painfully, painfully jealous. He’d felt emotions surging through him, and they had all felt terrible. Sorrow and fear and self-doubt and anger. So much anger.

Just remembering, he felt the rage surge through him again. What right did Phil have to such a perfect life? What right did he have to do this, whatever this was, whatever he had done to Dan to make him like this, and then just kick him out onto the street?

Dan wanted to run right back to Phil’s flat and kill him. Shout at him and hit him and kill him and take all the lovely things that Phil had and that Dan didn’t and that Dan wanted.

This was not fair. This absolutely was not fair. And it made Dan so very angry.

But also a bit sad. And sorry for himself.

Because didn’t he deserve better? Didn’t he deserve nice things? Didn’t he deserve to have friends and places to go like all these other people did? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. Maybe this was all there was for him. Maybe his whole life would be like this. Just stumbling along the streets, alone, in someone else’s shoes that didn’t quite fit and no socks so the heels rubbed at his skin and he would have blisters.

He crossed the road when he saw a small park on the other side. Drivers honked at him, and he yelled obscenities at them in return. It felt good to let out some of that emotion, felt good to yell instead of cry, when all he wanted to do was cry.

Sitting down on a bench in the little park, he gazed down at the grass, examined the worn toes of someone else’s shoes on his feet, and feared for his future. Feared that it would always be this way, that he would never have anything nice or good or lovely. He didn’t realize tears were running down his face until an old woman walking past frowned at him disapprovingly and said, “Be a proper man, boy! You should be out getting a job, not just sitting in the park crying like an infant.” She shook her head in obviously disgusted disapproval.

Hurt that she would blame him for something that wasn’t his fault overcame Dan and he leapt to his feet. He’d show her! He grabbed the old woman’s ugly handbag off her arm, wresting it away from her when she tried to resist, and began to run. Ha! Let her see what it was like to have nothing! He hoped it made her cry!

Behind him, he could hear her shrill cries of “Police! Police! I’ve been robbed!” but there were no police nearby, and Dan simply ran until he was out of sight, then immediately slowed to a walk and tossed the handbag into the nearby shrubbery. He hadn’t wanted the handbag—he’d just wanted to make the old woman suffer the way he was suffering. He hoped something very dear to her was in the bag, and that she would never get it back. Because she was cruel and hateful and deserved to hurt.

But am I cruel and hateful for feeling that way? Dan thought to himself. Do I deserve to hurt? Is that why this is all happening? Because I deserve it? Am I … am I … evil?

The thought made him stop walking. He’d left the park some time ago. He couldn’t even remember how long ago, or how long he’d been walking. He found a seat at a bus stop and sat down for a while, watching the people come and go. They all seemed so full of purpose, hurrying somewhere to do something important. Some of them were holding hands or smiling at each other or even kissing. Dan hated them. And at the same time he wanted what they had.

He felt tears in his eyes again and dashed them away, shamed by his own weakness, remembering the words of the old woman in the park. That he was not a proper man. That crying was for infants.

Well, of course he was not a proper man. He was just a … a thing. A creature. Something unnatural the man Phil had created. For Dan was now certain that Phil had created him somehow. Why else would he have no memories from before that morning in the corner of Phil’s flat? And that woman, Clara, she had seen it in him, that lack. She had known that he wasn’t a real person, just a sham … a … what was the strange word she’d used? A simulacrum.

And if he was not a man, if he was just a creature, an unnatural thing, then why should he ever have anything good? Perhaps he was created only for this, for a life of pain and rejection and unkindness, and he raged at the thought. How dare this man Phil do this to him? How dare he create Dan for this life of misery? What kind of monster was Phil, that he would wish this on Dan for no reason?

Dan could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead as the fury built inside him. He would go back to that flat. He would go back there, and he would make Phil pay. He would make him pay, and he would take all the beautiful things that Phil had—the comfortable bed, the soft duvet, the brightly colored stained glass windows—and he would have them for himself. He would take them by force, because he didn’t care how or why Phil had done this to him, but it was not fair, not fair at all, and Dan was not going to allow it.

Without even realizing how it had happened, he found himself at a familiar wooden door in a familiar building made of gray stone. As if some instinct had drawn him here, he was back at the door he had exited this morning. The sun was beginning to set now. Dan had no idea how many hours he had been gone, but he felt he had learned too much about the world in that time. It was a hard place. There were too few Henrys and too many old women with ugly handbags. It was a cold world in ways from which the second-hand coat and shoes could not protect him.

Setting his shoulders with determination, Dan opened the wooden door and found himself once again in the dim entryway. He stomped up the stone steps until he found himself at the plain door that he knew led to the flat in which he had first become aware only this morning. Now that he stood here, though, doubt began to assail him, beating him about the head like a flock of dark birds. But he tried to shore up his courage and knocked firmly on the door. He was going to take this beautiful life for himself. Why should this Phil person have everything good, and nothing for Dan? It wasn’t right, and Dan wanted warmth and color and light and comfort, and he was going to take them! Like the old woman’s handbag, he would grab them from Phil and take them!

The door opened, and the man from this morning stood there in the doorway, pale and shining and lovely, a gentle smile falling from his face at the sight of Dan. And all of Dan’s righteous indignation fell away in an instant, replaced with a flood of grief. “What did you do to me?” he cried in anguish. Those damnable tears began flowing again. “You did something, and everything is horrible, and I have nowhere to go, and you have everything.” An idea came to him as he saw the flat behind Phil, with the colors stretching on the floor from the setting sun shining through the windows. “Let me stay here. At least let me stay here? Whatever has happened, it’s your fault, and it’s been a horrid day, and I just want a warm place to stay, so … please?” The tears flowed freely down his cheeks now, much to Dan’s humiliation. He choked out, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

And with a heavy sigh, the smile gone from his face, the man Phil opened the door wider and let Dan in.

[ Continue to Chapters 3 and 4 ]

[familarplaces]

Brain Body

“Sir, we’ve got something you’re going to want to take a look at — right away.” The two men followed each other into an octagonal room lined with multicolored wires on the floor and walls. They ran all the way through the foundation and the insulation, meeting in the center, connected to a giant tube at the back of the room. It was a huge cylindrical mass — resembling a water heater — with a clear glass panel on the front of it. Inside floated amniotic fluid tinged green and flushing with bubbles every 15 second interval. It made a swoosh every time, and at the top of the glass panel, you could just make out where the liquid ended and was exposed to oxygen. The fluid held a small speck of matter that looked like a burnt cookie. “Just tell me what the hell am I looking at here.” Said the man. “Sir, what you’re looking at. What you’re looking at, is the future. Rothhammer, hit the switch.” A bespectacled man in thick black plastic glasses and a labcoat walked over to the other side of of the room to pull a switch. It was under a red plastic guard that the scientist had to turn a key into before he could flick it up and uncover it. With all the nerve and gravitas of a maestro conducting the grand concerto of their career, he flicked the metal switch to the on position. The head scientist smiled at the broad shouldered man and put his hands on his hips. Rothhammer watched from the other side of the room and you could see his body relax and the triumph begin to creep in. The amniotic flush made its same swooshing noise twice. “Hammer, run the program.” Said the scientist. “Sir, the program is set to automatically run upon engagement.” Said the other scientist. “Hammer, make it run.” “Sir, the engagement is meant to be a preliminary inspection and allow us to gauge the project’s initial semantic protocol, I don’t know that we should be altering the outlined course of action, I’ve provided you a binder and on page 7 you’ll see that there is actually a good reason that the program may be a non-starter—“ “Hammer, make it run.” Rothhammer nodded and went to the console that ran along the length of the backwall, broken up into two sections by the tube. He typed deftly and shortly into one of the glowing green backlit terminals. “Program is running, non-starter.” The top dog scientist looked blank. He was contracted by every organization around the world at once to build this piece of tech and the initial demonstration was a non-starter. He knelt down and unlaced one of his large black leather boots that he wore, stood back up, and hurled it at Rothhammer. Rothhammer went back to the area with the switch and ran his finger across the wiring. “One of the failsafe switches was turned on. It should run now. The power might surge when I restart.” Rothhammer went to go turn the machine off and then back on again. An infinite voltage that would suck in power from deep under the ocean and route it into the tube in a chain reaction kicked off by the small metal switch surged.  “You know why we call him Hammer?” “Why’s that?” “Because he has to do everything with a hammer. Smash it to bits. No nuance.” The switch was flicked and the machine turned on. The tube rumbled and the fluid swished around before settling quickly. “Hello.” Said the machine. “Just what the hell am I looking at?” Said the man. “You’re looking at you, sir.” Said Hammer. The man took a step back and raised his arm, hinged at the elbow. Then he lowered it and took a step forward, towards the machine. “It’s me.” “It’s you.” Said the scientist. “Sir, this is the moment the world has been waiting for. We’ve created you. We’ve taken yourself and made flesh another of you. We took your mannerisms, your speech, your taste, your clothes, your ideas, your brain, your chemical structure, the way you like your coffee, your memories. We decoded the thing that makes you, you. The idea of you. The essence of you. The qualia, the soma, the clotho, the very fabric of your being. The way in which you purport yourself around your own mind. The neurological nuance. Sir, we’ve cracked it. We’ve cracked you. You’re an egg, sir. Meet The Egg, number two.” “By God.” The amorphous glob floated in the perfect center of the tube and seemed to spin slightly. “Hello, me.” “Hello, you.” The stuck together substance in the tube replied. “God. We’ve done it.” “Sir, we’ve done it. We’ve cracked it. Everyone in the world has been waiting on this technology, this moment, to come to fruition.” The scientist raised his hands and gestured with his pinched fingers to accentuate his words, flaring a little too far to one side and losing balance with his now uneven feet. “Sir, thank you for being here today. You are a patriot and we salute you.” “I salute you.” Said the burnt-looking glob of a man. “Thank you.” Said the man, to the man. Rothhammer saluted in the corner. “What this means for our country. What this means for the power of our country and the world. Sir, meet the most powerful person in the world. Most powerful person in the world, meet your father. The most powerful person in the world.” “By God.” Said the cracked egg in the tube. “It’s just not right Doc. I know they did it. I know they did it because I saw them do it. But, here’s the thing, it’s just not right Doc. To a man like me. How could they do it to a man like me. It’s just not right to do it. I know we had to do it. There was no other way but to do it. God, they’re right. We’ve done it. I’m a patriot, Doc. I know nothing could come in between me and my country. But is it really getting in the middle if it’s me. I know that it’s me. God.” The therapist shifted on his squeaky couch and put a pen to his lip. “They did, they did this, they diddi- they didititi- they digti-” “Digitized you.” “Right, they digitized me, Doctor. How could they do that to me. Here’s the thing about that. How could they do that to me? A man like me. I’m floating there with amniotic fluid all around me. God. Me? A man like me? Floating there, exhausted, sitting in a tube. That’s how I feel right about now. A man like me. By God...” His mouth hung open. “But they didn’t digitize you.” The man looked back at the doctor with a quizzical brow. “It’s fully organic and functional, as you said. It’s not a digitized consciousness, it’s more of an organic reconstruction of a simulacrum and now it’s free to act capriciously.” “By God. Doc, you’re right. I can’t believe they did it to me. The technology was there, it was always there. We were always using it. By God, I wanted us to use it. But how could we have known where they would take it. That they would take it to me.” The therapist held his finger up and jotted down “To Me” with a blue BIC pen and double underlined it then nodded his approval for the man to continue. “Anyways. Doc, they did it to me. You would think a man like me is above something like this having happening to them. But no one is. Not now that the flood gates are open. God, they did it to me.” “Consider this. What if they did it to you, but it’s the you back at that lab they did it to.” “Doc? I don’t quite follow.” “Well, they reconstructed you from a model that they gathered from you. They organicatized your consciousness and your being and recreated it. They created a stitch pattern and put in the Man Power to weave together the threads. Is that right?” “Doc, I guess that’s right.” “Here’s the thing then. You’re formed of a pattern, and one could say that that pattern could be everything you are. You’ve been algorithmized and stored as Bytes. How do you know you were the one that did it to them? You’re the technology.” “By God, Doc. I’m the technology. How could they do it. A man like me. How could they make me, a man like me, into the technology. God, Doc. A man like me.”

The Tube addressed the Memorial from the balcony, wires running out the back. “Fellow citizens. We are gathered here today, to mourn the passing, of someone we hold dear. Someone we know, as a leader, as a father, and husband. As a friend. And someone I know, better than all. Someone I hold dear, dearer than dear. Someone who has made me the man I am today. Everyone, I would like a moment of silence for our departed, and then we will raise this monument in his honor. Please, everyone, if you have one, hang your heads.” The crowd bowed in unison. The tube looked on and waited, with a quiet and respectful SWOOSH at a regular interval. When The Organic Piece of Synthesized Algorithmic Matter cleared his throat, the crowd of refrigerators and washing machines and hot water heaters looked up, as the monument to The Tube was erected and a bottle with amniotic fluid in it was broken on the side of it by a scientist with thick black glasses.

[eandthezs-blog]

Voluntary Vocabulary #1

All the words I didn’t know but wanted to learn while reading: Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff.

1. “The baby was exigent.” p.7 - (adjective, formal)

     pressing, demanding.

2. “So skinny, she was more eel than nixie.” p.9 - (noun)

     (in Germanic mythology) a water sprite.

3. “Antoinette sent away for proselytizing tapes and listened to them with huge earphones and an 8-track beside the pool.” p.13  - proselytize (verb)

     convert or attempt to convert (someone) from one religion, belief, or opinion to another.

4. “He loved the uselessness of all the effort, the ephemerality of the work.” p.20 - ephemeral (adjective)

     lasting for a very short time.

5. “If her were near Gwennie, they’d already have exhausted every mode of intercourse he knew of, even the apocryphal.” p.24 - (adjective)

     of doubtful authorship or authenticity.

6. “During the day, high clerestory windows shifted light one to the next.” p.28 - (noun)

     the upper part of the nave, choir, and transepts of a large church, containing a series of windows. It is clear of the roofs of the aisles and admits light to the central parts of the building.

7. “She stood upon the balcony, inimically mimicking him hiccuping while amicably welcoming him in.” p.35 - inimical (noun)

     tending to obstruct or harm; unfriendly; hostile.

8. “They had begun to accrete stories between them.” p.40 - (verb)

     grow by accumulation or coalescence.

9. “The apartment in the West Village with its perfect garden, tended by that British harridan from upstairs, whose fat thighs, even now, were among the tiger lilies in the window.” p.41 - (noun)

     a strict, bossy, or belligerent old woman.

10. “You know Kristina from our class? Inky hair and, well, zaftig.” p.51 - (adjective)

     (of a woman) having a full, rounded figure; plump.

11. “What’s the word? Eldritch.” p.54 - (adjective)

     weird and sinister or ghostly.

12. “Side by side, Arnie was the pneumatic before and Chollie the punctured after.” p.60 - (adjective)

     containing or operated by air or gas under pressure.

13. “He felt a vertiginous awe.” p.69 - (adjective)

     causing vertigo, especially by being extremely high or steep.

14. “...and Lancelot had twisted entirely around by the time his right shoulder hit the edge of the stair and he was looking at his ostensible pusher looming out of the dark cave mouth at the top...” p.99 - (adjective)

     stated or appearing to be true, but not necessarily so.

15. “His footsteps rocked some locus of pain in Lancelot.” p.99 - (noun)

     a particular position, point, or place.

16. “He couldn’t climb the stairs to the rehearsal space, and it would be an abuse of power to make his dramaturge carry him...” p.100 - (noun)

     a dramatist; a literary editor on the staff of a theater who consults with authors and edits texts.

17. “A fillip of interest down in his always interested fillip.” p.104 - (noun)

     something that acts as a stimulus or boost to an activity.

18. “So until my benighted bones knit themselves to a semblance of solidity, I shall exercise my right to intoxication and bile and mooning.” p.105 - (adjective)

     in a state of pitiful or contemptible intellectual or moral ignorance, typically owing to a lack of opportunity; overtaken by darkness.

19. “He was ridiculous. Lugubrious and pretentious at the same time.” p.106 - (adjective)

     looking or sounding sad and dismal.

20. “Most sensible epistemology I’ve ever heard.” p.110 - (noun)

     the theory of knowledge, especially with regards to its methods, validity, and scope. Epistemology is the investigation in what distinguishes justified belief from opinion.

21. “’Medieval Madonna,’ he said. ‘In gouache. Haloed in gold leaf.’“ p.114 - (noun)

     a method of painting using opaque pigments ground in water and thickened with a gluelike substance.

22. “‘Brank your tongue, witchy-wife,’ he said.” p.119 - (noun)

     a torture device used on women who were found guilty of being noisy, prone to arguments or gossip.

23. “He’d visited his alma mater for a lecture, and the dean had stood and, among other encomiums in his introduction, mentioned that Lancelot’s family had donated the dormitory to the school.” p.121 - encomium (noun)

     a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly.

24. “If there was perfidy, it had the stamp of Antoinette all over it.” p.122 - (noun)

     deceitfulness; untrustworthiness.

25. “He regarded Lancelot for a caesura and finally relaxed into an off-kilter smile.” p.124 - (noun)

      (in Greek and Latin verse) a break between words within a metrical foot.

26. “Leo walking to dawn over the cold seabird ocean, the fresh berries and goat-milk yogurt for breakfast, the tisanes of his own herbs, blue crabs in the black tide pools, going to bed with the whipping winds and rhythm of waves against hard rock.” p.125 - tisane (noun)

     an herbal tea.

27. “Perhaps his rangy body had finally gotten the exercise it needed, especially in light of his enforced celibacy.” p.131 - (adjective)

     (of a person or animal) tall and slim with long, slender limbs.

28. “Last light of day flaring through the window, illuminating the pellucid skin, the fair eyelashes.” p.137 - (adjective)

     translucently clear.

29. “In the deep night, the ice had descended, coating the fields and trees as if in epoxy.” p.141 - (noun)

     an adhesive, plastic, paint, or other material made from a class of synthetic thermosetting polymers containing epoxide groups.

30. “Like a mountaineer, he grimped his way hand over hand back onto the porch, into the house, and lay exhausted on the floor, breathing heavily.” p.141 - grimp (verb)

     climb.

31. “He met the boy at the kitchen door, silently opening it to him, and though there was an unspoken interdiction against their touching, Lancelot couldn’t help himself.” p.144 - (noun)

      the action of prohibiting or forbidding something.

32. “Go presses her ear to the side of the cave, and the lights illumine a chorus of diggers in hard hats who have emerged.” p.156 - (verb)

     light up; brighten.

33. “Minerva garrotes Aphrodite with a laptop charger.” p.160 - garrote (verb)

      kill (someone) by strangulation, typically with an iron collar or a length of wire or cord.

34. “And because the morning was glorious, brimming with chill wind and neon-pink bougainvillea light...” p.162 - (noun)

     an ornamental climbing plant that is widely cultivated in the tropics. The insignificant flowers are surrounded by brightly colored papery bracts that persist on the plant for a long time.

35. “’She’s creating life itself, not just a simulacrum.’” p.165 - (noun)

     an image or representation of someone or something; an unsatisfactory imitation or substitute.

36. “The phone made an ignominious bleep and died.” p.166 - (adjective)

     deserving or causing public disgrace or shame.

37. “The traffic was terrible and he was nearly hit by a peloton of cyclists,  three semitrailers, and a man driving a Segway in the dark.” p.172 - (noun)

     the main field or group of cyclists in a race.

38. “He came into the bathroom in the middle of Mathilde’s ablutions and sat on the side of the tub.” p.187 - ablution (noun)

     the act of washing oneself (often used for humorously formal effect).

39. “He is deformed, crooked, old and sere.” p.192 - (adjective)

     (especially of vegetation) dry or withered.

40. “Light sparked at the edge of his eyesight, which usually augured migraines.” p.200 - augur (verb)

     (of an event or circumstance) portend a good or bad outcome.

41. “Without compunction, he could roll his body on the sea of theirs like a dog rolls on fresh new grass.” p.203 - (noun)

      a feeling of guilt or moral scruple that prevents or follows the doing of something bad.

42. “He counted a slow thousand after the last and looked to see the trail from the moon extruded out of the stopped water, the sand torn up in one long line.” p.203 - extrude (verb)

     thrust or force out.

43. “He looked at her, beamish, teetering.” p.216 - (adjective)

     beaming with happiness, optimism, or anticipation.

44. “She rode at the head of a shining line of black limos like the head raven in a convocation of blackbirds.” p.219 - (noun)

     a large formal assembly of people.

45. “‘Yeah, well, Bridget is to dating Lotto the way a remora is to dating a shark.’“ p.224 - (noun)

     a slender marine fish that attaches itself to large fish by means of a sucker on top of its head; it generally feeds on the host's external parasites.

46. “She felt the joy even through the tiny irritations, the sand flies that bit and the cold that soaked to her bones and the sharp stones on the Maine beach that split her hallux open like a sliced grape and made her limp back to the house they’d borrowed for their wedding day.” p.227 - (noun)

     a person’s big toe.

47. “Their separate selves had elided.” p.228 - elide (verb)

     join together, merge.

48. “Lotto, who was always as labile as a preteen, drove and, hearing a sweet song, burst into tears.” p.228 - (adjective)

      liable to change; easily altered; of or characterized by emotions that are easily aroused or freely expressed, and that tend to alter quickly and spontaneously; emotionally unstable.

49. “Before her rose the Cranach diptych, Adam and Eve with the long thighs, tiny heads, huge feet cold at the knuckles.” p.228 - (noun)

     a painting, especially an altarpiece, on two hinged wooden panels that may be closed like a book.

50. “Her car hit the culvert, brushed up the embankment, vaulted a barb-wire fence, somersaulted.” p.234 - (noun)

     a tunnel carrying a stream or open drain under a road or railroad.

51. “The heifers had moved off, were watching from the shelter of wind-block lindens.” p.234 - linden (noun)

     a deciduous tree with heart-shaped leaves and fragrant yellowish blossoms, native to north temperate regions.

52. “In the demotic, in the key of bougie, it’s the promise of love in old age for all the good girls of the world.” p.235 - (noun)

     ordinary colloquial speech.

53. “Their body like knobby sticks wrapped in vellum.” p.235 - (noun)

     fine parchment made originally from the skin of a calf.

54. “She went off to school and delighted in neatness, the pens with their cartouches, graph paper, the cleanness of orthography.” p.240 - cartouche (noun)

     a carved tablet or drawing representing a scroll with rolled-up ends, used ornamentally or bearing an inscription.

55. “She went off to school and delighted in neatness, the pens with their cartouches, graph paper, the cleanness of orthography.” p.240 - (noun)

     the conventional spelling system of a language.

56. “In the spring after her eleventh birthday, Aurélie came home and found her grandmother in déshabille on the bed.” p.240 - (noun)

     the state of being only partly or scantily clothed.

57. “The boy who sold gas at Stewart’s, with his downy moustache and ability to pump for hours like a lonely derrick on the dry Texas plains.” p.242 - (noun)

     a kind of crane with a movable pivoted arm for moving or lifting heavy weights, especially on a ship; the framework over an oil well or similar boring that holds the drilling machinery.

58. “...a semi-famous poet she and her husband had known from the city, who’d come up to visit her on an impulsive hajj of Lotto grief.” p.242 - (noun)

     the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca that takes place in the last month of the year, and that all Muslims are expected to make at least once during their lifetime.

59. “She felt ursine. Norwegian.” p.247 - (adjective)

     relating to or resembling bears.

60. “American education being what it is, her teachers took her rococo sentences to be evidence of a prodigious facility with language that she didn’t actually have.” p.261 - (adjective)

     extravagantly or excessively ornate, especially (of music or literature) highly ornamented and florid.

61. “Her uncle looked ill in the golden light, as if his skin were candle tallow, half melted.” p. 263 - (noun)

     a hard fatty substance made from rendered animal fat, used in making candles and soap.

62. “In the kitchen, there was a fruit salad macerating in its own juices.” p.275 - macerate (verb)

     (especially with reference to food) soften or become softened by soaking in a liquid.

63. “Something hot in her began to cool and, in cooling, began to anneal.” p.275 - (verb)

     heat (metal or glass) and allow it to cool slowly, in order to remove internal stresses and toughen it.

64. “’An efficacious solution to all of your problems,’ he said.” p.285 - (adjective)

     (typically of something inanimate or abstract) successful in producing a desired or intended result; effective.

65. “She began to run down the packed dirt lane in its blaze of white sun, her legs swinging good-bye, good-bye, to the ruminants in the Mennonite fields, the June breeze, the wild blue phlox on the bank.” p.286 - ruminant (noun)

     an even-toed ungulate mammal that chews the cud regurgitated from its rumen. The ruminants comprise the cattle, sheep, antelopes, deer, giraffes, and their relatives.

66. “She began to run down the packed dirt lane in its blaze of white sun, her legs swinging good-bye, good-bye, to the ruminants in the Mennonite fields, the June breeze, the wild blue phlox on the bank.” p.286 - (noun)

     a North American plant that typically has dense clusters of colorful scented flowers, widely grown as a rock-garden or border plant.

67. “When she modeled, she pretended to be the kind of girl who felt insouciant in bikinis, who was glad to show her new lace brassiere to the gaping world.” p.287 - (adjective)

     showing a casual lack of concern; indifferent.

68. “She came downstairs to find that God had chewed the kitchen rug, had left a mess of urine on the floor, was looking at her with a bellicose light in her eye.” p.288 - (adjective)

     demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.

69. “She looked at him, the leonine hair with the gray temples, the magnificent forehead, the soft full lips.” p.294 - (adjective)

     of or resembling a lion or lions.

70. “What people loved most about her husband was how mellifluous their own voices sounded when they echoed back.” p.306 - (adjective)

     (of a voice or words) sweet or musical; pleasant to hear.

71. “For two weeks she perseverated, and at last she went to see him.” p.308 - perseverate (verb)

     repeat or prolong an action, thought, or utterance after the stimulus that prompted it has ceased.

72. “He was on a hospital bed on the deck outside his apartment. All copper and topiary and view.” p.308 - (noun)

     the art or practice of clipping shrubs or trees into ornamental shapes.

73. “It felt like a slow death of debridement, tiny constant bleeds.” p.327 - (noun)

     the removal of damaged tissue or foreign objects from a wound.

74. “He’d left his money to a home for indigent mothers.” p.329 - (adjective)

     poor; needy.

75. “’Chthonic,’ he said, booze letting loose the pretension at his core, which she still found sweet, an allowance for the glory.” p.330 - (adjective)

     concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld.

76. “’Oh, you dirty autodidact,’ she said, ‘It’s pronounced Ser-see.’“ p.334 - (noun)

     a self-taught person. 

77. “During the years when Lotto felt as if he were getting to be good enough and secure enough, even when he was working constantly, his plays all being published, productions all over the country steadily increasing so that they alone provided a comfortable living, even then he was gadflied by this Phoebe Delmar.” p.334 - gadfly (noun)

     an annoying person, especially one who provokes others into action by criticism.

78. “This character was always played in a terrifying mask, the fixity of which made the soft-spoken character all the more powerful.” p.335 - (noun)

     the state of being unchanging or permanent.

79. “’I can tell you better than anyone in the world, much more than this bombastic self-petard-hoisting leech of a critic, that you are not overrated.’“ p.336 - (noun)

     a small bomb made of a metal or wooden box filled with powder, used to blast down a door or to make a hole in a wall; a kind of firework that explodes with a sharp report.

80. “‘Ever bigger. Ever louder. Jostling for the highest perch in the hegemony.’“ p.342 - (noun)

     leadership or dominance, especially by one country or social group over others.

81. “When Eschatology was performed for the first time, Phoebe Delmar loved it.” p.343 - (noun)

      the part of theology concerned with death, judgment, and the final destiny of the soul and of humankind.

82. “And then she stood and walked into town, and stopped at the Caffè Aurora for cannoli and coffee, and was at Lotto’s room with two aspirin and a glass of water and the food when his eyelashes gave a little flutter and he looked up from whatever dream - unicorns, leprechauns, merry forest bacchanals - to see her sitting beside him.” p.347 - bacchanal (noun)

      an occasion of wild and drunken revelry.

83. “Only a painting ripped from a glossy magazine, Andrea Celesti’s Queen Jezebel Being Punished by Jehu, the lady defenestrated and being gobbled by dogs.” p.349 - defenestrate (verb)

     throw (someone) out of a window; remove or dismiss (someone) from a position of power or authority.

84. “There could be no second act in this little bed play of theirs, just a reprisal of act one, with the characters reversed, no thrilling, messy denouement, and frankly, she wasn’t at all sure what she felt about sticking her face in some other lady’s bits.” p.358 - (noun)

     the final part of a play, movie, or narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved.

85. “Classical composition, three bodies in a dark room, one pouring some unguent from a vase, one sitting, one speaking.” p.362 - (noun)

     a soft greasy or viscous substance used as an ointment or for lubrication.

86. “Naugahyde recliners; a bestiary of modern American life flashing on the television.” p. 367 - (noun)

     a descriptive or anecdotal treatise on various real or mythical kinds of animals, especially a medieval work with a moralizing tone.

87. “Keeping the old dream moribund with these infusions of acting; the old self she thought dead still secretly alive.” p.385 - (adjective)

     (of a person) at the point of death.

[ithacamafia]

Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, III.

Another year, another holiday playlist from Matt and Kevin!  Just like seasons past, when we brought you tidings on the original “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out” -- or the cleverly-titled sequel, “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, Part II” -- we close out 2017 with another 20-tracks of sleighbells, snow, and cool yules.  

Without further ado, I’ll let Matthew take us away: “Kevin.  I think I may have told you this before, but I've always considered the first time I saw this Corona Christmas commercial as the unofficial beginning of the Holiday Season. Don't know why - but it's true. This year marks the first time that was in the other room, here sitting at my desk, and just hearing it activated that thing within me that launches my spirit into holiday mode. That lone whistling of Oh Tannenbaum... it just triggers something in me - like when Reggie Jackson has to kill the queen in The Naked Gun. 

‘I. Must. Be. Jolly.’ ‘I. Must. Be. Jolly.’

I know that we've been down this road a few times before - and that many of the standard voices (and perhaps all of the standard songs) have been heard. On top of that, you're busy with a bi-coastal lifestyle that I'm sure is pulling you in all the different directions a guy can be pulled in. So, I propose to you a NO PRESSURE holiday music update mix. No need to be clever in your presentation - like you can help it, I know - we just make sure that each other are aware of any songs/versions we may have missed in the past iterations of this mix. 

So here: Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, A Holiday Mix: Part III. 

I've decided to start this mix with the same song that kicked off our first one. When you picked it then, I challenged that anyone not named Bing who chose to sing this song had to have some kind of chutzpah - you know, a brashness, an audacity... guts to take on a classic. You want brashness, audacity and guts? I give you Sharon Jones and The Dap-Kings and their take on White Christmas. 

Hee-haw and Merry Christmas, buddy.”

(Liner notes continued after the break...)

Matthew, 

Nothing could make my time out west go better/faster/stronger than hitting the mix links with you.  HOLIDAY mix links, at that.  Ho.  Ho!  Ho.  When I left the house at 4am this morning on the way to the airport, rest assured that the “Holiday Traditions” station on SiriusXM was playing.  And you damn well know it was probably Wayne Newton or Bing or one of the many, many, many Christmas songs that we've heard ten thousand times before (yet always enjoy that 10,001st listen when it comes on the radio).  

That's part of what makes The Holiday Song so indelible.  Whether it's an old rendition, whether it's a breathless Sharon Jones version -- or whether it's a new song that still sounds like an old song -- it feels familiar.  It feels like home.  It feels like Christmas.  All over again.

Which makes this selection hit all the harder: "Christmas All Over Again" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

Kev,

Sharon Jones into Tom Petty had me initially scrambling to find a song from another recently departed artist... I quickly realized though, that is not a road that we need to go down. After all, Christmas is a time to focus on more positive things. I'm not saying that we can all take December off and pretend that our country isn't going to hell. I'm just saying that Christmastime is a time where we can all say, "Man, there are so many things to feel badly about, I sure as shit am going to make sure that I appreciate the things I have to feel good about. The President might be leading us all down a dark hole, but at least I have my family... and this fireplace... and a candy cane... You know? At least I have Ms. Kelly Clarkson."

I have never made excuses for my Kelly Clarkson affection and I'm sure as hell not about to start now. She's alive and well and she's bringing all kinds of joy with this little number. Here's "Christmas Eve" by Kelly Clarkson.

Kelly Clarkson is not someone you ever need to make excuses for, Mack.  Definitely not with me.  To this day, I maintain that "Since U Been Gone" is one of the greatest pop songs ever written.  The sashaying, swaying rhythm of this tune is tops.  Solid pick.

I'm slowing down a bit and handing things off to a gentleman who I've recently come to have a much deeper appreciation of.  I always knew he was a talent, and an unrivaled humanitarian -- but aside from a few catchy tunes, I didn't listen to much of his musical catalog.  Thankfully, Spotify allowed me to remedy that situation.  So let's bundle up by the fire, turn the light low, and relax to the hopeful, heartful stylings of Harry Belafonte.  "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day."   

=====

Well bud, you know I’m fine with slowing it down a bit. I’ve long voiced an appreciation for those more pensive Yuletide moments, where only the perfect fireside song can be your soundtrack. Of course, Harry Belafonte hits all the right emotional and melodic notes. Nice pick. 

I’m going to stay in this same groove, and I’ll keep the artist classic too. Like Belafonte’s I Heard the Bells, this one doesn’t go out of its way to hit you with anything too big. Nope, we’re happy at this point to just have classic voices delivering careful interpretations of songs to light our way. 

Here’s Rosemary Clooney doing her best Charlie Brown with “Christmas Time is Here”. 

Sigh.

Being stuck out here in the west and having skies literally filled with flames instead of snowflakes (although the ash is a fairly convincing simulacrum), makes the season tough.  I know Rosemary presents a convincing case for why Christmas time is here... but, honestly? 

I just haven't been feeling it.  

Then a friend of mine reminded me that Christmas is something different to everyone.  It's this whole collection of little things all smushed together, each part forming the heart of "Christmas" for each person.  You know, like Voltron.

Am I wearing short sleeves and sweating in December, Matty?  Sure.  Am I resigned to catching those tiny little ash-flakes on my tongue, and stuck making angel shapes in the charred remains of the Los Angeles hillsides?  Yes.  

But hey, maybe that's What Christmas Means To Me now.  

Just like Stevie Wonder said. 

Phenomenal choice... that song is so great. Simple. Classic. 

And I hear what you're saying, about how a lot of little things together form what Christmas means to each of us. It's like the thing that I was saying about the Corona commercial... or how I just know that some night this month I will stay up late watching It's A Wonderful Life and end up crying unashamedly on my couch. Or how for some reason my family always has a Creme de Menthe pie on Christmas. All those little things. And each year, the things from before mean more and there are a few new things that get added. 

I don't know how many Decembers in your lifetime are going to feature ashy snowflakes, but I'm quite sure that there will be some things that stick with you after your December in LA. (Please note my refusal to reference this month as your first December in LA.) California has a lot to offer, I'm sure. And for nine months out of the year, the weather there is head and shoulders above anything we see up here. The late Fall in the northeast though? This is Christmas Country, my man. The crisp air. The occasional snowflake. A proper sweater. Ain't nothing like it. 

I'm sure you miss it. Still though... this is all part of your Christmas evolution, right? So as you continue to develop what Christmas means to you,  please (oh please), won't consider the benefits of a Holiday in LA (Band of Merrymakers).

Confession time: I miss sweaters the most.  

Here, it's all short sleeves for outside then sling on a sweatshirt for inside because the buildings are as iced cold as Frosty.  I yearn to wear a sweater soooooo badly, but a good sweater is not something you can just throw on and off willy-nilly.  Unless you’re an animal.  

So yeah, I guess you're right.  I'm just going to have to be resigned to the fact that this December -- this HOLIDAY in LA -- is an experience that I must learn to embrace.  I mean, they've got the decorations, they've got the lights, and they've even got the Santas... Hell, I'm going to a Christmas Cookie Decorating Party tomorrow -- that's how into the season everyone out here is... 

But I'll be damned if I don't miss seeing my breath.  Or sitting by a fire.

And until I can go home for the holiday proper and stick my slippered feet underneath the tree to hand out presents, I'll just have to make sure I do everything within my power to simply have a Wonderful Christmastime (The Shins).

You can do it, bud. I mean - think of how many great Christmas movies were shot right there in California. You've got Nakatomi Plaza right there! Bedford Falls is Encino! 

My pick is a song that we've heard before. I'm on the record with it being one of my faves. I'm picking it here because this version always feels very cinematic to me. It feels like the beginning of some holiday in New York, romcom. You know, the opening credits scene... the one where Tom Hanks or somebody is walking home through the city with a bunch of oversized bags and packages? There's a dusting of snow so he's bound to slip and drop something and then drop something else when he picks up the first thing. Sure the song has a few lulls in it, but that just opens up space for him to chat with the friendly newsman who will later provide him useful information on the whereabouts of the woman. You know the woman! The one who he heretofore has had a very adversarial relationship with but has just realized that she's been shielding a heart of gold behind that hard as nails exterior? It's the beginning of that movie. 

It's got two voices that, for me, are what Christmas is all about. It's got it all. Christ, this song even has some bona fide Pennsylvanians!

It's Go Tell It On The Mountain by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby with Fred Waring and his Pannsylvanians.

I love that flick!  

Especially the part 2/3rds of the way through when he makes some sort of romantic/charming gesture that goes completely tits up, and now she's wicked angry and/or upset with him.  So there they sit -- in their respective apartments -- trying not to think about one another.  Him, curled up with a blanket and eating a pint of ice cream while losing his sorrows in a comforting Christmas flick.  Her, on a fifth bottle of beer (judging from the empties littering the floor around her), just bounding a rubber ball off the wall as her trusty dog watches with a forlorn look on that shaggy face.

A classic.  How will they ever get together?  How will they get past this seemingly insurmountable gulf between them?  They're like oil and water... and what sort of future could oil and water ever have together???

Might as well just stay in, listening to Ray Charles and Betty Carter, because Baby, It's Cold Outside.

Kev, Ray Charles sounds great. Betty Carter sounds great. The arrangement sounds great. But it's 2017, bro. And while I hate to double up on a song... I feel like a more appropriate version may be called for here. 

Let's give Lydia Liza and Josiah Lemanski's update a listen. Here's Baby It's Cold Outside.

Matty.  

Gotta come clean here: I was 50/50 on whether I should just turn the rest of this jam into a dueling "Baby It's Cold Outside" mix -- but then I couldn't stop smiling by the end of this new version and lost my train of thought.  

And then I just surfed the internet for a while, trying to figure out stuff to put on my Christmas list.  As a grown man, naturally, I have everything I could ever want in life (health, family, yadda yadda yadda)... but I've still gotta scrounge up Santa some suggestions for my stocking.  And while socks and a few little nip bottles of booze would be grand -- maybe this year I could give into one of my greater desires.  Maybe a life-long Christmas wish (I mean, Mr. Johnson already got my unrealized childhood Star Wars dream gift).  

So maybe just put it up there on the list this season.  

I mean, sure, it won’t come true.  I know that.  It can’t happen.  It’s not “realistic” or “feasible” or “legal.”  But hey... Christmas is for wishes, homie.

Gotta try.

I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas.  As told by Lake Street Drive.

If anyone can make this dream come true for you, bud, it's Santa. That guy works miracles. Me? I don't have to make any Christmas wishes this year, because mine just came true. A Christmas carol by Lake Street Drive? That was the only thing on my list. Great pick. 

Honestly, if I had a Christmas wish, here's what it would be: everybody in the world would be happy just like me. And Taj Mahal. And The Blind Boys of Alabama. Merry Christmas!

Someday At Christmas, everyone will be happy.  

There’ll be no war.  All our dreams will come to be in a world where all men are free.  No hungry children.  No empty hands.  No tears.  No fears.  

One shining moment where all our dreams will come to be -- hate will be gone, love will prevail.  A new world, (sung by Melvin "Blue" Franklin, the incomparable bass voice of The Temptations).

Someday.

Maybe not in time for you and me, brother - but someday... at Christmastime. I mean... it's possible. Totally possible. 

I'm determined to make this a very Charlie Brown Christmas mix. My next pick makes it so. I don't know what it is about this one that appeals to me. I like the stripped down, bare vocal. I'm definitely a fan of the sweepy strings. There's also this lingering sadness in it that lends itself to any holiday where I spend time with my wife's extended family... Dammit, I'm not being authentic. These are not truthful statements... I know exactly what it is that I like about this version of this song. It's the start, the choral, "Oh my God! Here he is!" It's the musical version of the Jesus is coming, look busy joke. I mean, it still gives you all that other stuff I mentioned - but it's the prologue that touches my heart. 

Here's Hark! the Herald Angels Sing by Penny and Sparrow.   

Matt, you know darn well that the Charlie Brown Christmas album is something I could listen to on repeat 24-hours a day for the entire month of December.  And November.  And January.  I love it like no other.  

So it's saying something when I suggest that a new version like this can affect my coal-sized heart in a way that comes even anywhere close to how the Vince Guaraldi Trio does.  

So, hell, I'm gonna double-down on the CharBrowChris portion of the night, and drop a variant of Linus and Lucy by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones.

Kev,

In a world that gives us so few real honest-to-God sure things to count on, there's a part of me that really relishes the fact that I can always know - beyond the shadow of any doubt - that I am going to get tense about the end of these mixes. My worrying about the songs that will ultimately be left off is like an old friend who stops by to visit at Christmastime. You know, the one who always brings a plate of cookies to your parents' house because they started bringing plates of cookies around to their pals in 1982 and now they don't know how to stop. My concern for songs left off is like that. It's at the point now that not only do I feel it, but I think I end up writing some variation of this email every time. Fa la la la la.

There's a lot about this pick that gives me pause. The fact that their Spotify bio touts the artist as "...one of the brightest lights on the Contemporary Christian Music scene..." is enough for me to start running in the other direction. And there are other worthy songs... Songs by beloved artists... Songs that I really like... I could pick those - probably should pick those. I mean, these guys are from Florida. It's gross.

But this song... it feels right. I don't want to like it. I resent all of its wannabe Big Bad Voodoo Daddy earnest energy... But then again, I mean, look at my toes. Those little bastards are tapping like a sumbitch. I can't control it. And honestly, in my heart of hearts, the 1990s in me knows that I don't really want to control it. I want to submit and swing dance with Heather Graham while wearing a Santa hat. Go daddy-o, I guess.

Here's O Come All Ye Faithful by Tenth Avenue North. 

You've got two picks left. I've got one. Let's try not to screw this up any more than I (probably) just have. 

Cripes.  This all went waytoofast.  

No time to overthink things.  Just gotta go with the flow.  And sure, you might’ve tossed me a curveball (sending me spiraling back into a late-90′s Swingers mindset, with their retro-hip cule yules).  

That said, newsflash: I’m a pro.  I can handle it.

Everything's jake.  Nothin' around here to snap your cap at.  But mark my words, chrome dome: if we're gonna swing, then we best start cookin' with gas. 

So do yerself a favor and grab your stompers before you head out on that dance floor... because this next tune -- this actual, genuine, bonafide swing -- is the real deal.  

Time for Swingin' Them Jingle Bells with Fats Waller.

Stompers? Chrome dome? Who's Jake? I'm Jake? I don't think so. I'm Matt. 

Bud, I have no clue what you're talking about, but if you mean to imply that Swinging' With Them Jingle Bells is a likable tune that we can dance to as Christmas approaches, then I am with you. You've done well by yourself on this mix. 

I've been thinking about it and I feel that my anxiety around my previous pick was because in my heart of hearts I always knew what my final pick would be. That second to last one was the one that had question marks around it. This one, this last one, was predetermined by the stars... and this is the time for stars, pal. Now yes, this song has caused a bit of strife among my immediate family. They think it's strange. They're put off by all the talking. They don't like that nothing jingles. Me? I like the groove. I like the idea of superimposing a toast about friendship being the wine of life. This one feels to me like the end of Christmas. When everything starts to settle down but there is still that distant buzzing feeling you get after a jam-packed day of family/food/fun. 

Here it is. Here's Chasing Christmas by The Superimposers. 

Merry Christmas, all you shining stars. Merry Christmas, World.

What's... superimposed?

Definitely see how that one might unlock strife within your family (I’m sure it’ll elicit the same reaction from my own fam, too).  But I have found myself picking up what you’re putting down on this song.  There's something ethereal and odd about it, but at the same time... reassuring?  Comforting?  Like the great big "Dad" of the universe is reclining in a cosmic lay-z-boy and waxing poetic by the crackling fireside at the end of a long day.  

I'm a little worried they'll say a bit too much -- go a bit too far -- if he keeps talking, but I can't help but enjoy the sound of their voice.

And if that track was the end of Christmas, this next one is simply the retrospective.  The encore.  Once you're flipping through the photos and taking down the decorations and putting all the new toys away, melancholy begins mixing with the joy.  

Next year seems so far away, everyone will be that much older.  Honestly, how many more Christmases will we all have together?  Who can say?  So, we can't help but savor what we've had here this year.  Who we've given our hearts to.

We keep looking back at Last Christmas.

And if there's someone who gives their heart in everything they do, it's Frank Turner.

Ho ho ho, everyone.  See you next season.

[reuxben]

This was our MTGinktober for “Ship,” starring Precinct Captain and its corresponding Soldier Token!  Yes, I totally ship them--I have seen it. Seen the end, seen the beginning, the beginning of the end--and I have the photos to back it up, which I collected over the years during my time in the Boros Legion.

Relax, spare me the “thank you for your service” stuff, I was just a Legion photographer.  I never saw combat.  Though I did get a papercut once, which technically qualified me for a Purple Core signet--and don’t get it mindtwisted, “technically qualified” is the best kind of qualified, though I grant you that paranoia’s all I got left on that theory.  Look, I wanted to go to photography school, but figured it’d be smarter to do the Boros work-study program in the Arts and Propaganda (A&P) department, since I could study photography, do nominal but obligatory (and minimal) soldier stuff, get out after my term was up, and then use that sweet, sweet Boros bonus to start my own studio.  They were desperate for recruits back then (no idea what it’s like nowadays, don’t really keep up), so they just threw money at unguilded chumps to enlist. 

I should note this was during the disastrous “Feathernomics” period of exorbitant deficit spending on recruitment and propaganda, which is why I had it so good as a new enlistee in the A&P department (our nickname was “Twinkle Toes Company.”  Other companies did that “OOH-Rah! OOH-Rah! OOH-Rah-Rah!” chant you always see in the spectacles, but they’d shout “OOH-Lah!” at us, as in “Ooh-la-la.” It was stupid.).  So I wasn’t exactly Agrus Kos, ok?  Just a photographer too cheap to go to a proper art school and aware enough to take basically free money for the inconvenience of doing all that idiotic marching and saluting nonsense while having to dress like 80,000 of my closest friends. 

But today is a salute to just two of these fellow marching enthusiasts.  I can’t believe it never really clicked until I was going over some old photos from back in the day as research for an upcoming project (I’m doing a pictorial book on daily Boros life, plug plug plug), but I kept seeing these two doofs together in photo after photo, so here’s what I remember:

I wasn’t terribly close with anyone in the service, (again, just there for the [essentially] paid education), but my staffbook confirms the guy’s name is Sten Scott, the girl is Tev Pres.  I was embedded in the Ravnica 254th Precinct Corps to cover them for one training cycle to simulate wartime conditions, so I had to be a fly on the wall and they had to pretend I didn’t exist, meanwhile I was popping up out of bushes and from under eaves, snapping photos like a filthy Hazoret. These guys were part of the newest wave of recruits and the earliest photo I found of them was right after they presumably first met at the orientation party for new enlistees in the Noble 254th, which is why they’re in their full cadet uniforms.

Scott was nervous because he didn’t know anybody and wasn’t really gelling with anyone, but Pres was super outgoing and forged a fast friendship.  She was the life of the party, especially a party of two, so that’s why I remember wanting to follow her around at the party because she got all these great reactions from people, which made for great candid shots--I hate static, posed shots, is there anything more pointless? 

Scott was from a higher up family, but I gather he was running from his roots since the 254th is known for being comprised of, shall we say “less financially-secure” families?  He definitely didn’t talk about his family life, that’s for sure.  For my own curiosity one night, I do recall pulling his file for “research” (Twinkle Toes credentials has its perks), and yeah, his family was pretty loaded.  He should have been in Champagne Company like all the other snots.  His file says he was indeed placed there originally, but filed a transfer request before he even arrived on campus.  And they granted it.  Curious.

Pres came from a larger family, according to her file, so that’s probably where she got her more outgoing personality, necessarily screaming over siblings to get a word in, and being generous in her affection for those close to her.  254th families are famously close-knit because for many of them, they need their families jealously looking out for each other in order to survive their rougher districts.  That’s why they call it the “Noble 254th,” there’s so much pride in that Corps: their motto is Fogi di Pesn to Nobus di Regi, “The fire of peasants and the nobility of kings.” 

So Pres was like your best friend set to eleven, everything was amplified with her, like she didn’t want an ounce of life wasted.  She obviously sticks out in my memory more than Scott, but as a “professional,” I tried to maintain my impartiality in my daily rounds of covering the 254th, but judging by my catalog, I invariably found myself gravitating towards photographing her and by extension Scott since these guys were like two shells in a Mortarpod ever since that orientation party.

I’ll briefly address here that there was always that controversial aspect of the Noble 254th.  Honorable in conduct, but always with that iffy aftertaste of perpetuating the cynical cycle of the poor fighting rich men’s battles, who would rather send their kids to various Azorius schools for legal training, or if they must enlist in the Legion, then they’d cut straight to higher-placed officer training, like the aforementioned “Champagne Company,” which of course had the widest outbreak of “bone spurs” you’d ever come across.  Those poor, delicate orchids.  Yeah, I’m one to talk, twinkle twinkle.  Regardless, I never heard of anyone rejecting Champagne placement before--nor did anyone else since Scott conveniently never brought it up. 

Anyway, the photo under the one from orientation is from boot camp.  You always went on IPT (Independent Physical Training) with a buddy to spot you, and these two randomly got paired that first week--pairing was random the first three weeks, after which you elected your buddy having had a breadth of experiences with fellow Legionnaires--I do respect the Boros embrace of the perfect balance of randomness and order, as dealing with these factors is a necessary life skill they make sure you master, even we Twinklers. 

I remember this day of IPT pretty well because I love the rain and we all got entangled in this one, despite my otherwise stellar ability to stay out of subjects’ ways.  Pres got caught in a sudden downpour during an IPT session, but fortunately Scott had brought an umbrella for that day since, unlike his more spontaneous colleague, he had actually heeded the morning’s weather intel.  She promised to pay more attention next time and gave a hug of relief to her trusty backup “fuddy-duddy-in-chief” (I believe was the rank she ascribed him, even addressing him in written communications as FDIC Scott rather than his proper rank).  He sheepishly brushed off all credit to the umbrella, as if it were only randomly packed in his supplies that day, and he only perfunctorily lectured her about compromising the rescue mission by getting him just as soaked as her when she rested her sopping wet head on his shoulder. 

We were all packed under an awning or something when I snapped this photo, and this is where I got the impression they might have something going on, looking back on these old photos, though to be fair, most people I talked to think it was just her being naturally more tactile, and him being over-prepared as always and being unable to handle *Solemn Simulacrum voice* hu-man e-mo-tions (he definitely chilled out the more they were together, though, and these photos certainly capture how comfortable he felt around her).  I dunno. I do know they became pretty much inseparable after that, and were always on the same squad, obviously did their future elected IPT together, everything. Again, easily just that “spirit bond” soldiers get, but come on.  Look at them.

I mean, during Rec Day, the 254th’s annual mid-bootcamp morale festival, they of course hit up the photobooth and snapped all these cheesy buddy shots.  Before you ask, I processed the photos, so I have a copy in my records--I didn’t mug them for these like a Bramble Creeper, all right?  Anyway, again, I guess you could flip a coin on this photo-roll as evidence, pro or con.  They were pretty close by then, half-way through bootcamp, spending bloody, sweaty, and teary hours upon hours together, so maybe it’s just them being pals, having achieved dat soulbond doe. 

Real talk, though, that’s how the Boros gets you.  They lure you in with some attractive benefits package, you build these absurdly strong bonds with your partner or squad, and then you end up re-upping after your term is up, signing longer and longer contracts, and before you know it, you’re off fighting for some rich, bloated Orzhov oligarch who doesn’t even know who you are and would without hesitation send you to die to secure him a greater tax cut or clear out unguilded protestors who figured out what’s up, etc. The house always wins if you play long enough.  Twinkle Toes Company is full of artists and diva creatives, so the turnover is higher, thus we don’t suffer from that unfortunate development of blind obedience.  Besides, who would ever trust an artist on anything worthwhile? Seriously. 

The last photo is from their commencement ceremony afterparty, I was on photography duty of course, so all photos got that dumb, overly formal, commemorative dressing at the bottom.  As meh as I am about the Boros, or the guilds in general--it’s all a scam, man, every guild is just out for your cash in the end, yes, even the Gruul (if you think Bobo ain’t gettin’ paid, wow, I’ve got a Planar Bridge I’d like to sell you)--regardless of all that, I thought it was cool to see them in their formal uniforms at long last.  Even I get a little emotional seeing companies finally don their fray apparel, ok?  It’s the spectacle of it, I guess.  I’m a photographer, I appreciate visuals.  But I mean, who doesn’t get caught up in all that?  Be human.  Or whatever. Goat people, whatever you call them.  You know what I mean. I just had the good sense to get out when my contract was up.  I shredded my guild card and have been living just peachy out here unguilded, though I do collect my vet check every month. Thank you for your postal service.   

The last document...I won’t tell you how I got it.  I won’t tell you who wrote it.  I will say though...how many letters do you write to mere friends like that?  It turns out that commencement party photo was the last time they ever saw each other because, as far as I know, one of the two found this letter slid under-door the next morning and meanwhile the other was already off on a separate assignment on a totally different plane.  No transfer requests in the file, nothing. Silence.

Even if you know you’ll never see them again by virtue of the sheer time and space imminently separating you...Do you ever tell your friends you love them?  Ought you to?  Am I just an emotionally stunted photographer living vicariously through my subjects, being unable to live life myself, and can only rely on the fantasies I invent about the vivacious people I cover to bring me any semblance of a satisfactory life? Don’t answer that.

Love,

Thanks,

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Not normal,

Reuxben

[laan-tialmund]

At Home By Myself (With You)

L’aan decidedly felt that something was off.

He sensed something... A presence he’d not felt since...

He felt his blood turn to ice-water. As quickly the thought crossed his mind, he felt a shift in the atmosphere, coalescing behind him, and whipped around to meet the intruder.

The dark skinned Miqo’te greeted him, all blue eyes, and wicked smile. “Hello, father.”

L’aan’s stomach lurched at the sight of the demon. “Y’hento...” He practically retched the wicked name out. “I saw you die. Your aether burned from existence. How are you here?”

“We both watched him.” He said, simply. “Reason for that being, I am not Y’hento.”

L’aan, still forcing the bile in his throat down, took a proper gaze at the creature. Yes, the resemblance was uncanny, the aether that marked him smelled horribly familiar, but he was distinct from the demon L’aan knew. Hair a complete white, like some ghastly reconstruction of his mother’s, a face structure more like his father’s, scars placed in identical areas, eyes bright and blue like his husband’s...

Like his predecessor, this new creature had taken aspects of the people L’aan cared for the most to build a foundation for his identity.

“For sake in simplicity, I bid you call me... Y’ensid. Yes... That name sounds right. Homage to dear older brother, but something of my own as well...”

“You’re within me? Like he was?”

“Technically, you are now, as well.” He waved a hand to the room. “Within yourself, I mean. This existence you call a dream.”

“Why are you here?” L’aan asked, though he already suspected. He took a defensive stance against the creature. “I won’t let you possess my body. I know what to expect, you won’t control me.”

“Calm yourself, father.” Y’ensid lifted his clawed hands in a pacifying gesture. “No one’s forcing you anything. Not that I could anyroad. Your husband’s ritual made certain of that...”

L’aan’s ears perked curiously. “The Soul-bind?” He pressed a hand to his abdomen, pressing the phantom ache. “The one that closed my aether tear?”

“The one that surrounds your aether with his, yes.” Y’ensid nodded, with a disaffected expression, combing fingers through the ghastly white hair. “None of us can so much as come close to your core anymore, let alone seize control.”

L’aan felt his stomach dropped to his feet. Us? “There’s more of you.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Yes, but rest assured, none of them are as powerful, or as canny as I am. In fact, out of all born in the sea of your soul, t’was only Y’hento who challenged me.” He propped his chin on a fist. “Actually, I should thank Salem. Had he not bound that tear in your aether, I might not of survived brother’s subterfuge...”

He felt sick. After the incident with Y’hento closed, L’aan had assumed his origin was a stray voidsent that he lured with his grief, and trapped within his fears. Bricked in with his heart, to keep from hurting again, until his friends and husband tore down the walls. Learning now that he was a vessel for multiple void creatures... It was insanity. “What are you all? How did you come to me?”

Y’ensid tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “I suppose you need an explanation, yes. Especially for what’s to come...” He took a more serious stance, preparing to explain. “Creatures such as us are not uncommon. Incubus and Succubus that feed on the emotions of mankind. Their desires, their envy, even hatred is something we sup upon...”

“Many would summon us from the void, in exchange for power, knowledge, or yes, even our company.” He scoffed with amusement. “Amazing what brings our kind to this realm... But for us, the ones within you, we were brought upon you for the purpose of conception.”

“Conception?”

“That’s the best term I can think for it...” He shrugged. “From the progenitor, we are given the spark of life. Little more are we, than wisps of thoughtless energies in the void. They are the ones who find hosts for us, ones with strong energies and emotions, that we may form the concept of ‘self’, and from the sea of your soul, we are birthed proper.”

L’aan was definitely about to be ill, he was sure of it. “You’re saying... This void creature impregnated me with you all?”

Y’ensid’s face scrunched in displeasure. “I... suppose you could put it in such a way... Though I don’t personally care for it. I feel it’s more fitting to say, the progenitor infected you with us, not unlike a parasite.”

“That doesn’t feel any more comfortable to me...” L’aan said. Despite this experience supposedly being in the realm of his dreams, he definitely needed a seat, setting himself down on the couch.

In a flicker of what might be considered a show of concern, Y’ensid spoke again. “Time is growing short for you, I’ll make to point.” He strode to stand before L’aan. “I require your aid. Such in a way I suspect would be mutually beneficial to the both-.”

“Forget it.” To L’aan, it wasn’t even a question. He would not go down this treacherous road. “I was weak once to let a demon nearly ruin me, I’ll not offer you any chance to.”

“Not even if it meant to purge the others from you, completely?” Y’ensid  rhetorized. “Or to restore your talents in magic?”

L’aan’s ears perked again. “What do you mean, ‘restore’?”

“You’ve had quite a struggle learning thaumaturgy, yes?” He gestured his hand passively. “You’re a exemplary healer, thanks to the elementals that provide you strength to weave magic into healing arts. But it’s no coincidence that the lot of us are here, while your talent for it is near innexistent...”

“You’ve been hindering my black magic.”

“Not us, solely.” Y’ensid began to pace about, glancing around the room, studying the simulacrum of both his and his husband’s belongings with barely expressed curiosity. “The progenitor, seizes most of the blame. The reason for the brood-parent of our kind, is to gather aether for it. To swear fealty to it, and keep it in a steady supply of power.” He turns his face back to him. “Y’hento knew this, even when he erupted from you, left the rest of us to shrivel and dissipate. Such as why he craved the power of the primals he slayed with you as his puppet.”

“He meant to give that power to the brood-parent?”

“He meant to usurp the brood-parent.” Y’ensid corrected, turning his head again, plucking a knick-knack off a shelf, examining it with his hands. “Such as what likely got him destroyed...” L’aan watched, as the demon turned the bobble idly in his hands, before setting it back where he found it, as if it weren’t the phantom of the actual thing. “Y’hento was ambitious, but he never was one to see the big picture...”

L’aan tilted his head, narrowing his gaze at the other. “Not like you, I suppose?” He prodded.

He shrugged. “My progenitor can’t touch me, while I am still inside you, the protective outer layer you are.” He steps back into place in front of L’aan, putting his hands behind his back, his white tail swishing behind him. “From in here, I can seek out my siblings, simply devour them, add their power to my own, as such I’ve already begun.”

“What do you need from me, then?”

“I want my progenitor to dissolve. Wiped clean from existence, the same manner you saw happen to Y’hento.” He surmised, plainly. “Now that I know it’s possible for void-kin to be burned in such a way, and with your newest skills with both magic and blade you’ve learned in Gyr Abania, I would have you help me. Not assuming direct control, I would act as your navigator to see the job gets done effectively.”

“And after that?”

“I would simply wish to exist outside of you.” He pulls his hands from his back, turning his empty palms outward. “Autonomy. That is my one goal.”

“What if I refuse?”

He inclined his head. “What are your other options?”

For what was probably the thirtieth time in this interaction, L’aan’s stomach flipped. He hated he had no rebuttal for the demon. There had to be other options, other avenues he hadn’t been able to pursue when Y’hento had took him over? Certainly some kind of exorcism was possible?

Y’ensid shrugged, tossing his hair. “Time has run short, the waking world is calling.” He crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the other. “Give it some thought. Hells, talk with Salem, if you wish. The next time you hear from me, it will be under your invitation.”

That was the final word, as the room dissolved into darkness. 

As soon as it had dissipated, L’aan had returned to the room, face pressed into a cushion, and with dream dust in his eyes.

He pushed himself up on the couch, looking about his home blearily, a ringing ache in his head. Judging by how dark the room was, it was sometime in the evening. It didn’t seem like Salem had returned yet.

L’aan stood, his bones creaking in protest, as he made his way towards the bath, picking his clothes off along the way, littering them on the floor. 

For a time, he sat just on the edge of the bath, scooping water into his face, and checking his reflection, as he contemplated the dream he had, and the creature that came to him.

“The next time you hear from me, it will be under your invitation.”

L’aan’s ears pinned to his head as the worry pecked at him. He tucked into a curl, recklessly throwing himself into the bath with a vitriolic splash.