#cause id probably shrivel

[chatonyant]

I am cringe but I am free; woe, pjo oc be upon ye. This is Jun. Last name Bok.

Jun is the child of Poseidon with more of an affinity towards earthquakes than water. However, in general, Jun is not as powerful as the rest of the Big Three children; this is partially because they do not allow themself to be. Earthquakes are a finicky power that requires Jun's tight control, but once they have the control and confidence, they use it as a way to throw opponents off guard and to trap them in cracks that open up the earth. In terms of control over water, Jun does not have any of the raw power needed to summon anything close to a storm. Instead they hone the water they control into something like a blade or more commonly, pressurized into a water gun.

Lore be below cut

Their weapon of choice is celestial bronze knuckles.

Unfortunately for... well. Jun doesn't see this as too unfortunate, but Jun has amnesia. They woke up one day in the middle of butt fuck nowhere and wandered around America for maybe a year or two before stumbling across Camp Half Blood. They were 14 when they woke up, a surprisingly older age for a rogue demigod.

Often quiet and unassuming, people tend to assume they are calm and don't pay too much attention— which is a mistake because they are suddenly fighting a monster with their bare hands (prior to the bronze knuckles)

They have more of a tragic backstory and story arc along with some truly self indulgent godly influence in Jun's story

But honestly? Above all, even with the tragic story and developmental arc of learning to trust oneself,

Jun is a crack oc. Literally their entire purpose is "be fucking hilarious and chaotic".

Are they involved in the first pjo series? ONLY IF ITS FUNNY

Do they change any major plot points? NOT REALLY. ONLY IF ITS FUNNY

They are meant to be put in a jar and shaken before thrown into ???? Setting

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Can u give us again a WIP from your next shigadabi work? if u want to obviously

no context for this one y'all

He doesn't really start working, but occasionally when Compress has a lot of legal papers to sort through, he takes on a handful of the files. Has been studying law since he was a child so that he knew every form of villainy and how to get away with things that should probably be illegal but managed to slip under the radar. If this is as much public unrest as they can create without breaking their parole and ending up back in Tartarus, then he's happy to lend a hand. 

He's going through one of those files when his phone starts buzzing. It's already past two, which means that he's lost five hours to the papers without noticing, but he doesn't have anywhere he's supposed to be today, so it doesn't really matter. He is confused then, when he finds it's Midoriya's name popping up on his caller ID. Not supposed to have a check-in until tomorrow. 

"What do you want?" He asks in loo of greeting. 

Midoriya's voice comes back, the sounds of sirens and commotion in the background. "Oh, uh, have you seen the news today?" 

"No," but as soon as the hero asks, he's reaching for the remote and turning the TV on. He clicks over to the news and sees that a recap of Endeavor's, and by extension Midoriya, Bakugo, and Shoto's, most recent fight looked like. A villain with some sort of quirk that causes intense vibrations got backed into a corner and set off a big blast of them in an office district. Four buildings collapsed. "Why are you calling me, hero?" He still barely tolerates Midoriya and All Might. Only bothers to be passively civil to the former because for some reason Dabi and Toga really like Bakugo and Midoriya is important to the angry blond for some reason. He thinks that maybe the sidekicks are dating, but he's never cared to get clarification on the point. 

"Uravity is in Jaku and can't get here to help us shift some of this rubble, and Shoto's ice can't hold it up forever without risking killing the people trapped inside. Would you be able to--" 

"No." 

"Please, Shigaraki, a lot of innocent people will die if--" 

"It doesn't matter, the answer is 'no'." He's not a hero, he's not a tool for the heroes to use when they want something. Midoriya is lucky that Spinner really wants him to come to his next tournament or he would decay the brat just for suggesting it. 

"Gimme the phone, Deku!" 

"Kacc--" There's some shuffling and then Bakugo's voice comes through a lot more clearly. 

"Listen here you shriveled, scaly-necked motherfucker, get your ass over here and make us a fucking door!"  Before he can say no or hang up, Bakugo keeps going. "Not because you care about innocent people," says the last part like a pointed jab at Midoriya. "But because if you don't, heroes who have incidents that cause mass casualties have to go on a mandatory two week leave of duty. Which means Endeavor will be home for two weeks and you and Staples won't get a moment of peace to be fucking gross." 

Tomura pauses. Dabi being trapped in the house with Endeavor for two weeks will be hell for his firefly. "Are you sure you don't want to be a villain?" He grumbles, getting up to grab his coat and shoes. 

He can hear the vicious smile in the blond's voice when he says. "Fuck that, let's see how you pass as a hero, mop head." And hangs up. 

[necromcom]

ID: screenshots of characters from AMC's The Terror with text posts pasted over them.

1) Edward Little with a post by katebushdressedasabat that says "any one else in here a man of constant sorrow" 2) John and Jane Franklin with Jacko, with a post by oniongarlic that says "his wife has filled his house with chimps" 3) Thomas Jopson with a post by jsuh that says "we jumped, we popped, and oh boy (nostalgic chuckle) did we jop" 4) Billy Orren's body floating under the surface of the water with a text post by memorycycle that says "octopus 2022 wrapped / this year you disguised yourself as: coral 10023 times / ocean floor 8064 times / coconut shell 244 times / various fish 196 times / scuba divers long lost wife 12 times" 5) Henry Collins in the sickbay with a text post by moveslikekeithrichards that says "when i was a kid my Getting To Sleep technique was visualizing a child-sized shriveled up mummy with big piercing eyes that would stand silhouetted in the doorway & stare at me & probably attack if i so much as opened my eyes after getting into bed & this technique caused me to develop a lifelong nighttime-induced paranoia & it still takes me 2 hours to fall asleep. so i wouldnt recommend that"

end ID

doing my own october challenge where instead of drawing literally anything i make text post memes only with posts found that day on my dashboard or on my main from before the month started. here's day 1-5

[blu-eh]

OH MY GOSH I LOVE YOUR WRITING!! I've fallen in love with your quaranteen story and it's my new favorite. If you take prompt requests (please just ignore if no), could you maybe do one with Peter getting a call from Tony in class and being forced to put it on speaker for disrupting the class, causing lots of shock and embarrassment? I'm concerning invested in these types of prompts... Thanks either way, you're awesome!!

omgofmgf.....thank you im cryding. i wrote this rlly quickly and didnt read over it or anything and it is VERY ROUGH but!!!! a quick peter getting a call from tony in class coming up!!!!!

“I really don’t think you should answer that,” Peter says slowly, phone in his hand and anxiety in his gut. The class watches him like a hawk—Flash, in particular, is doing a rather poor job of hiding his laughter behind a series of the world’s fakest coughs. 

If getting thrown into a wall due to some spidery-related explosions last night hadn’t clued Peter in to this being a truly awful day, then just being in first period chemistry class on a Tuesday morning, hiding his assorted burns and bruises really should’ve. Even on the normal not-Spider-Man level, no teenager willingly rolls out of bed before the sunrise only to be on time for their teacher to drone on about basic stoichometry equations. Peter, despite his love of chemistry, is no exception to this rule. 

Still, he had hope that his day would turn around. Maybe something positive would happen, after all.  

Then, his ring tone blared out in the otherwise silent classroom—the caller ID Mr. Stark on for all to see—all because he stupidly forgot to put it on silent before he walked in to class. 

“You know the rules, Peter,” his teacher says and, yes, Peter does know the whole ‘if your phone rings, then you answer it on speaker’ rule but Tony Stark definitely does not. 

There’s a very solid part of Peter that debates hanging up the phone and taking the detention but then he remembers he’s only a couple more detentions away from getting kicked out of decathlon and decides that nothing really is worth that. 

A couple people in the class laugh. All of them watch with poorly hidden curiosity. Peter takes a deep breath, hits the accept call button, and hopes with all his spidery might that no one recognizes the voice on the other end of the line. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t even wait for him to respond. “Alright, kid, I’m on a solid forty-eight hours of not sleeping—which you cannot tell Pepper under any circumstance—and I think I have finally cracked this code so I need you over here, pronto. I might actually have a working prototype this time which is not so great for you, exactly, but is much better for me conceding my investors have been hounding me for an update for the last—"

Peter desperately doesn’t meet the eyes of his classmates. “Mr. Stark—"

“Politics. You know how it is. Well—actually, wait, no, you’re like twelve, so of course you don’t know how it is,” Mr. Stark continues. “But let’s just say that when you are very rich and very famous like me you will start to see the worst people you will ever encounter. I am not talking about the people who try and take over the world here, Peter. I’m talking about Wallstreet—"

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, sharply.

“What?”

“I am in class,” Peter says. “I am in class, and you are on speaker, and people can hear what you’re saying.” 

There’s silence on the phone. There’s silence in the room, actually. 

Peter takes a quick glance around the room and any hope of today being any semblance of normal shrivels up inside him as he looks at his classmates’ and teacher’s expressions. Jaws are on the floor, eyes are wide. Ned’s excited, though. Peter can see him vibrating in his seat even from here. He can’t really read MJ’s expression but she doesn’t seem to be glaring at him, so that probably counts for something.

Flash’s expression—the ironic disbelief that Peter has been wanting to see since school had first started—would be something to remember if Peter didn’t currently want to curl up in a ball on his bed and never leave from a cocoon of safety. 

“Today is Sunday,” Mr. Stark says, slowly. “Why are you in school on a Sunday?”

“Mr. Stark, today is Tuesday.”

“I see,” Mr. Stark says. Then promptly hangs up. 

Peter’s classmates are still looking at him with those same expressions—awe, disbelief, jealously, excitement (on Ned’s part). Peter wants none of it. He tries to hide his shaky hands. He wants to be so far away from this classroom. 

The floor has never looked so inviting. 

Peter’s teacher is staring at him still. She never really stopped, actually. She opens and closes her mouth a couple times, like she is not quite sure what to say. “Peter—”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Peter says loudly and tries not to throw up. “Right now. At this exact moment.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving behind the twenty eyes of various high schoolers that he’s known all his life and his chemistry teacher that he doesn’t know how he’s going to look in the eye in the future. 

Peter has never looked forward to Wednesday chemistry class less. 

[that-good-trash]

Dance With Me

Shinso Hitoshi x reader / Mentions of Yo Shindo x reader

Warnings: Slightly NSFW, slight mentions of smut (I guess), Hurt/comfort?

Word count: 3.4K

Summary: You didn’t want to be at the most important Gala of the year to begin with, now that you’ve seen HIM, you really wish you had stayed home instead. Maybe a drink can make this night tolerable, or maybe some unexpected company. 

Comment: Wanted to try writing something spicy and romantic, even if I don’t do it well. I hope it is enjoyable since I loved writing it. Thank you for reading!

*************************

His hands pressed against the side of her face. His fingers tangled into her long blonde locks pushing them out of her face. Her lips gleaming under the glow of the lighting above. Her lip gloss was peppermint and it left candied specks behind. The white of the candy contrasting with the natural red hue. His eyes were staring into hers, before staring at her plump lips. A giggle escaped her and their foreheads touched. His hands were now on her hips, her hands pressed against his shoulders. Their lips were moving telling jokes or each other words of endearment. The rest of the room seemed to have faded away from them. The only people that mattered were them. He leans closer to her and their lips meet for just a moment. Gently and brief. An invisible spark between the two. Red slowly fading onto their cheeks as they gently move to the music’s rhythm.

Your hand clutches the drink in it tightly. The cup threatening to break under the pressure. You wipe a tear from your cheek upset with yourself with crying at all. The two of them were cute. They were perfect. They were everything people thrived to be in a relationship. They were the reason your heart felt like it would shrivel up and die. You turn away from the dancefloor. This pro hero gala was a disaster. You never wanted to go to begin with but promised your friends you would.

You made your way toward the bar and pushed your crystal glass across it. The bartender raised a brow. You got that a lot. He was questioning your age since you looked like you were still in high school. You handed over your ID changing the man’s demeanor. You knew that he hadn’t read the age just the name, Y/n L/n. Your actual name was well known but most people knew you by your hero name. The man handed your id back before quickly apologizing. You scoffed; people were always willing to bend the rules for a famous name. You couldn’t care less. The man coughed attracting your attention. You were never one to drink, well publicly drink. Most drinking was done surrounded by loud mouthed classmates at one of their apartments. Right now, was different. You wanted to forget, to dull the pain.

“Make me the strongest drink you can that won’t burn on the way down.” You had requesting an almost impossible thing to make. You knew no matter what it would burn. The finished drink was slid into your hands. The smell resembled cleaning agents. Bleach and ammonia came to mind. You shrugged hoping that drinking this might have the same effect as what it smelled like. A coma or death. The drink burned. It was probably the most painful feeling you had ever experienced, and you had been shot before. The liquid threatened to come back up forcing you to the bathroom. Your friends hadn’t even noticed your absence as you fled the bar to the bathroom. Once behind the bathroom door you leaned against the stall hoping that the drink wouldn’t make another appearance accompanied by stomach acid and your dinner from earlier. After what seemed like hours, leaned against a cold wall in a bathroom stall at one the most looked forward to yet dreaded events, you finally started feeling the effects. Your mind was haze but your stomach had stopped protesting. With nothing holding you back, you leave the bathroom. You felt free as the lights shine above you. The guests around you chatter on unaware of your current state. You giggle as someone waves curiously at you, you wave back as you continue passed them. You felt like you could do anything. The music playing had you rocking your hips while your eye lids leisurely closed. With a night of drinking under your gown, sitting heavy in your stomach, you move to the middle of the room. Other guest dance together, a variety of different styles and affections. Friends danced with friends; lovers danced with lovers. You danced with your thoughts, with your emotions. You danced with a drink that was used to suppress how you felt, well now you were feeling wonderful, adventurous.  

Earlier you had been amongst pro heroes, standing uncomfortably with no motivation to enjoy yourself. Denki had offered to dance, Eijiro had offered you a drink, Izuku wanted you to join him while he fanboyed over other pros; you declined all their offers. The girls wanted you to sit with them as they snacked and gossiped. You hadn’t seen your friends since you had been busy with work as had they been. This would have been the perfect place; all of your former classmates were in attendance. Unfortunately, so were other schools’ alumni, specifically a boy with espresso hair that almost matched Midoriya’s in style but a little tamer. His diamond shaped eyes glistened like the sun cast upon warm freshly watered earth, those eyes used to look at you like you were the reason the earth spun, like you were the sun itself casting the warmth his eyes needed to shine. Now those eyes looked lovingly into the eyes of his newest arm candy, the blonde with minty fresh candy apple lips. You couldn’t find them in the crowded room as you glanced around. This was good, better than good. You hoped he had left but, unbeknownst to you, he hadn’t. He was watching you, his hand around his dates waist as she laughed at something another guest had said. His eyes were watching the way you stood alone a confident smile slowly gracing your own plump lips as your hips move gently side to side.

With liquid courage you let the music move through you. Now your hips were doing more than gently swaying. They moved in a very methodical way. In a way that begged for attention. You didn’t want attention. You wanted to have fun. You wanted to dance. Your arms move into the air. Your fingers run along bare skin as your hands slide down your arms until they reach your chest. You push your hands against your chest, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your gown, before moving them down onto your own hips. You cross your arms, your left hand now holding your right hip and vice versa. You position your hands on your hips like this mimicking that of another’s hands on you. You dip your ass to the floor fast but grind your ass into the air as you slowly pop yourself back into the upright position. The drink heavily weighing on your choices. You don’t care about that now. You find that others have joined you on the dance floor. Some of your supportive friends are dancing near you enjoying your good vibes. A few people try to grind against you. You move away laughing out loud. These people thought you were teasing, that you wanted them to touch you. Maybe you did, maybe you wanted the attention. You shrugged giving in slightly. You pushed back against one of the dancers, a male with rough hands. The hands reached for your waist but were stopped by someone taking their place. A pair of familiar hands gripped our waist and you, even in your intoxicated state, were shocked. Hitoshi Shinso was holding onto you. His eyes, like calming lavender, focused on you with conflicting emotions. Intrigue and concern laced in purple hued irises. You looked away from the hypnotizing eyes and right into the stormy brown ones belonging to your ex. His date missing, probably in the bathroom. His teeth are sunk into his bottom lip as he watches you with predatory eyes. All you wanted to do was kick his perfect teeth in.

Hitoshi felt you tense in his grasp and almost let go. He was glad he didn’t when he saw that arrogant bastard who broke your heart walk toward the two of you. Hitoshi felt you push back against him harder. The confidence you carried prior resurfacing. He hissed when you began grinding back on him. The way your ass pushed against his crotch had blood rushing downward, the way his heavy hot breath settled against your bare back had your own body reacting. Moist and hard the two of you were. Not wanting to stop you began moving your arms up and behind you, grabbing his face. Your hands pulled his face down while your back pushed against him. As you tilted your head backward to meet his; your lips almost met, almost. He stopped you, moving slightly so his lips kissed the lobe of your ear instead. The hot breath against your neck and face causing bumps to form, moving down your body. You practically moaned his name before turning around to face him. Your eyes glistened with lust but behind that was actual love. You had always had a thing for Shinso but never pursued him. Now you were in his arms making eye contact that would make any room tremble with anticipation. The drinks effects were wearing off and you were glad. You wanted this to be happening sober. His hands grabbed your waist before his tightly clothed cock pushed against you. It was his turn to tease, his body grinding with the music. You felt the dampness between your legs and thanked god that you were wearing underwear. His leg pushed between your own as he dipped you forward, his knee pushing harshly against your clothed clit. Your dress parted allowing even more friction. If you had moaned out loud nobody heard it over the sound of the music. Despite the sexual tension and PDA, the people around you paid no mind. They left you both to your own devices. The two of you ignored the rest of the dance floor. The music pulsed through your body while Shinso continued his assault. Once against his body again, moving in sync, his hands push passed the slit of your dress. The dress that you knew was ‘provocative’ and wore it for just that reason. His fingers found a home between your clenched thighs, rubbing the outside of your very damp panties. You push harder against his hand eliciting a dark chuckle from him. His breath is hot against your ear again. Your teeth are now sunk into your lip, your face a darker red than Momo’s dress. Had someone asked you an hour ago if you planned on getting drunk before humping Shinso’s hand you would have laughed at the obscurity. Now here you were doing that exact scenario, hoping your counterpart wasn’t fueled by alcohol but instead doing this of his own accord. As if noticing your doubts Shinso grabs your hand with his free one leading it to his own crotch which is hidden between your pressed bodies you. You gasp and look down at the wet spot your fingers were currently touching. Yours fingers press harder against his erection drawing a low primal growl. His lavender eyes are no longer calm, instead they hold darker intentions. He wants you as much as you want him. His fingers, that had been pushing against your sensitive bud, move out from under your dress and up to his lips. He makes eye contact as his tongue slowly licks the moisture off them. You are breathing heavily wanting nothing more than to tackle and ride him right here in front of hundreds of heroes and bystanders. You don’t get a chance to even think about executing that plan since a hand on your shoulder brings you back to the real world. Your eyes look away from Shinso’s, missing the dark haze that clouds over them. Your eyes look at the hand on your shoulder, slowly you turn to follow the arm which is connected to your worst nightmare.  

“Yo Shindo…” He removes his hand from your shoulder stepping back to admire you up close. You feel sick again and wonder if the alcohol was causing it or the asshole who broke your heart was. A smirk graces his lips after he registers that you spoke his name. The cologne he is wearing is toxic, you were gagging under the hand you placed over your mouth. You swallow any bile in your throat before glaring daggers at him. You remembered when you thought he was your whole world, the best person you could ever be with. Boy were you wrong. He had pretended to be sweet and loving, while in reality he was a cheating narcissistic asshole.

“Hey Y/n. You look absolutely stunning tonight. I couldn’t help but catch the way this lighting cast a glow on your presence. Any guy would be a fool to not be watching you. Though I would like to do more than just watch. Think you could spare some time and dance with me. Before you say no, or try and bring up the past I just want to say I still care about you. I miss you and how you feel against my body, I almost even forgot how hot you looked till tonight.” Every sentence that came out of his mouth added fuel to the fire coursing through your veins. You had a million things you wanted to say. A million things you wanted to do but found yourself struggling to not cry instead. The fucked-up part of being human was naturally crying when frustrated. You weren’t crying because you missed him, no you were crying because he knew exactly how to piss you off. He was doing this on purpose. He wanted to ruin your night, he couldn’t stand by and watch his ‘former property’ be taken. All while he stood there smirking, your lip quivered and your eyes swelled from the pressure of holding back fountains of angry tears. This was the worst possible time to cry and you couldn’t stop it. The dam broke and the water works came flooding down your cheeks. You were wet earlier but now that creek was dried up to make way for the rain above. You furiously wiped at your eyes, but they kept refilling. Your ex reached toward you with a fake look of concern but he never got the chance to touch you. Hitoshi had grabbed the man’s arm so hard that Shindo barked in pain and discomfort. Your ex tried to break free, but you knew he wouldn’t be able too. Both boys were strong pro heroes but pit against each other in a battle of quirks or brawn you knew Shinso would win. Yo Shindo attempted to pull his arm free which prompted Hitoshi to let go. As your ex stumbled backward Shinso’s arm swung forward after him. His fist hitting Shindo square in the jaw, the hit knocked the boy straight to the floor. Blood had started rushing out his nose and down his lip. Shindo was more pissed and humiliated than shocked. He went to stand but found himself back on his feet through other means. Shinso had grabbed his shirt pulling him up with one swift yank. Shindo went to yell but never got the chance. Shinso had pulled him closer, his usually tired eyes now projected his feelings of detest and abhorrence. His lips curled into a snarl before his grip tightened. Shindo’s cocky attitude had disappeared and there was the slightest hint of fear.

“You Never deserved Y/n. I watched how you treated her, using her before throwing her away for some fuckable trash. You gave away treasure for fool’s gold. You are a fucking idiot, a waste of space. I’ll make sure you are forgotten, that she will never think of you. Your name will mean nothing when heard, if you ever reach out, I hope she will look at you like a stranger because you aren’t worth the tears or pain. She deserves love and I plan on giving that to her. If you ever try to hurt her again, talk to her, touch her, I will personally hunt you down and make you suffer a fate worse than death.” When Shinso spoke you bite your lip suppressing the urge to moan. Was it wrong to find an angered man hot, especially if that person was standing up for you?  You watched from behind Shinso the conflicted look on your ex’s face. He was drunk enough o argue but sober enough to know this fight wouldn’t end well. Had it just been a fist fight he might have gone for it. He knew that Shinso was trained beyond his own skill set. He couldn’t win and he didn’t want to look even more pathetic than he already looked to the crowd right now. Shinso let go of him prompting him to brush off his now wrinkled shirt. Shinso hit him once more just to drive home his point. You heard a shrill voice before the blonde came to Shindo’s rescue. She helped him off the floor where he laid after the stronger punch. Shinso had already grabbed your wrist pulling you out of prying eyes. Everyone who had been watching went back to their own conversations or dancing. Shinso stopped walking before looking at you. He smiled gently, and you couldn’t stop the flurry of emotions within yourself. You flung yourself into his arms and kissed him. You kissed him, and he kissed back with just as much passion and need. Lips parted to make way for his tongue to explore and so you could get the chance to taste him since he technically tasted you prior. His mouth tasted like the vodka he drank earlier with a hint of honey. You tasted like a cocktail, bitter and sweet flavors lingered from your drink earlier. You had no clue what had been in it but Shinso wasn’t opposed. Even after the ability to breath surfaced you both remained against each other’s lips. Even after you pulled away, out of breath, he didn’t let you go. His arms were safely around you. His hands against the small of your back, holding you in a safe reassuring manner.

“I love you Y/n.”

You could have cried again but instead you smiled. Feelings of happiness bubbled within you. Your eyes matched your smile and that hadn’t happened in a while. To think the person who loved you had been so close all along and all it took to find him was heartbreak and a drink that resembled peroxide in scent and flavor. Words escaped you but you were able to mouth them before leaning up and pressing your lips lovingly against his. You giggled against him lips making him think about how adorable you were. “I love you too Hitoshi.”

The next kiss was longer and more passionate. It sparked that feeling you both had back on the dancefloor. Both of your eyes reflected the same need, the physical desire for the other against them. He grabbed your wrist before leading the way to the large entry way. He was ready to leave with you, the two of you were almost free of the party till a scarf caught Shinso’s wrist and a heavy hand fell on your own shoulder. Toshinori smiled at you while Aizawa stared unimpressed with your display. Both men stopped you knowing what you intended to do. You were both consenting adults so why did it matter if you left. That thought lead to realization of why the gala was put together. To honor new heroes, to award brave services provided by them. Hitoshi was to receive a reward soon on the large stage in the back of the room. You were also supposed to support your Midoriya on his new ranking being a part of the top ten heroes in Japan. Reality was a bitch and Hitoshi completely agreed.

“The two of you will be staying here for the remainder of the party. You will get your award and you will support him. You can run off to ‘elope’ another time. I have informed some colleagues to keep their eyes on you both. Enjoy the party in the same way the rest of us are, we aren’t so you have to be miserable as well.”

You pouted as Aizawa left the two of you. The pros near your exit looked you over curiously. You sighed as Hitoshi walked you back toward the crowds. The way he led you however was familiar. You had previously run this way when the urge to throw up had overcome you.  You realized he was walking you toward the bathrooms. Once out of sight and in the hallway, he pressed you against the wall, his leg dangerously creeping between your legs again. “There’s a custodian’s closet passed the bathrooms; hope you don’t mind a tight fit because I don’t.”

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “The Empty Plate.”

Alright guys, here it is, the reason I haven't been positing for the last week. My first and only attempt at true horror. I have spent hours sitting in the dark pissing myself in order to write this, so I am begging you guys please read it. This is probably the most difficult thing I have ever written.

A couple tings before we get started. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

If you want the full affect of the horror, I suggest reading it in the same way I wrote it, In a dark room with scary ambient noises playing on headphones.

If you dislike horror, I still suggest reading at least parts of  it because it is relevant to the plot line. If you don’t want any issues read it in broad daylight in a crowded room. 

Seriously guys, I have never written something so difficult before please make it worth while :) 

A million hateful eyes glint their fury from the darkness, distant and cold caught up in spirals and clusters of ancient anger and the deepest most resounding quiet. They pull towards each other, spiraling, forever spiraling downwards and inwards into an unknown darkness where, if one were to be caught up, they would be suspended in a state trapped between death and life skewered on the descending claws of time.

We knew man was strange when we first met them, a consumer, one of flesh and of resources and of worlds powered, not by the laws that govern our existence, but by a strange and unknown entity glistening behind their eyes. Man is not man, but a shell powered by something strange, something eerie, something not of our plane. I have argued this many times over the years.

But why will no one here me. 

***

Dr. Krill floated quietly on the bridge in the sallow yellow light of an ambient star cluster. Commander Vir sat Stiff and rigid in his seat. His single green eyes glinting with a fine filmy layer of reflected mucus glinting with the pale sickly yellow of that pallid light. The rest of the bridge was unusually silent many silhouettes holding bated breath expressions dark as the unexpected transmission warbled over the line.

It came in  sibilat whispers, gurgles and and the distant sounds of guttural wailing crackling backwards into the maddening chatter of static. 

Krill examined in mild fascination as tiny hairs, like detached spider legs erupted upwards on the man’s skin. The delicate hairs glittered in response to the insipid, sensuous caress of waxen light down the man’s protruding spine delicate mounds and bumps of bone just visible through the back of his shirt.

The man’s skin had gone ashen like that of a bloated corpse decaying in a static pool of water.

“Can anyone understand any of that.” The man demanded, and despite its strength his voice fell flat crushed and squeezed with the weight of the air around them.

“I’ll try to clean it up sir.”

The transmission had begun without premonition. One moment they had been floating quietly through the vast nothingness of space, and next, they had been bedeviled by this Insidious cacophony of voices that seemed human, though individual words could not discerned.

Under the pressing weight of those horrific voices, the bridge remained hushed as the communications officer attempted to untangle the message.

A shadow fell over the Commander’s back, and a set of three tallenous fingers came slithering down over his shoulder to rest against his clammy skin. Sunny lingered at the Commander’s shoulder luminous golden eyes fixed upon the speakers which still crooned that gastly whispering.

“I think I have it, Sir.” The woman stammered 

“Alright then, let’s hear it.”

There was a long moment of silence, like the catatonia that follows psychosis.

“Help, please…. Anyone…. Please help. This is , colony transport…. 331…. Out of fuel….. Running low on food….. The lights… gone out….. eating ….. Can't stop… requesting help.” 

The chattering began again in earnest rising upwards upwards upwards until a crescendo, until the room was filled with it’s warbling madness, 

“STOP!” The transmission cut and the lascivious whispers died. Commander Vir stood from his chair, “That’s enough.” He finished softly, “Someone take a look in the database for a civilian transport with that flag ID.” He stabbed a finger at their radar technician, “Do you see anything.”

The woman stammered for a moment, spun in her seat and scanned wide unblinking eyes over her console, “Uh ... y-yes sir, I have something, not very far at all, its small, about the size of a colony transport.”

“Well what the hell would they be doing out here?” 

“I have no fucking clue.” The Commander muttered darkly glancing towards the eerie image looming over their pathetic tiny ship still thousands of miles away, psr b1509-58 (nicknamed the hand of god) metastasized into the sky less like the hand of god and more like some creeping eldritch horror. The strange, hand-shaped bluish dust cloud writhed from the blackness grasping upwards towards a ball of yellow red fire.

“ID tag confirmed, Sir. The ship has been missing for... Well over a year.”

Commander Vir blinked, “No, that can’t be right.” He shoved past his chair to peer over the shoulder of the technician his face bathed with a hellish red.

“Yes sir, Looks like they lost contact immediately following warp procedures. They did not arrive at their original destination.”

“”Well, I’ll be damned.” He mouthed standing, “Sunny, prep a shuttle and a landing party, get our suits ready. I want the rest of you to try and hail that ship. I don’t have much hope for these people, but done right, a ship can be stocked with enough food to last a year.”

“But…. Commander, what about….” The man’s voice shriveled and ebbed into silence.

Commander Vir nodded expression sombre, “It doesn’t matter. If there is even the slightest possibility that someone aboard that ship might still be alive, than we have to do what we have to do. Come on Sunny, let’s prep a team.”

***

The mood leading up to this mission had been one of inexorable unease, though none of the men or women could really have explained why. Only the Commander had heard the full recording, and as he sat in the pilot’s seat of that shuttle he felt the cold hand of dread slip around his chest, an icy choking feeling on his heart in a way that he had never experienced before, and wished never to experience again. Outside that shuttle window, the icy blue hand of god had beckoned them silently into the lap of eternal darkness.

The civilian transport appeared as a black cancerous spot on god’s wrist,swelling outwards in their vision sprouting sharp, black spines like charred bone pierced through skin. The entire ship, was like that, the mangled corpse of something that had once been now lurking in the shadow of space. But it was odd despite the feeling it gave him, other than the absence of lights, the ship appeared….. Mostly whole. It didn’t look broken down, dilapidated or in any way decommissioned.

It was just, Still, and silent.  

-

The airlock doors shuttered open with a protracted squeal. A wave of putrid humidity washed over them from the pitch black interior. That humid putrefaction slithered past them causing delicate crystal drops to form over the face of their visors foreshadowing nothing but a world of ceaseless decay from within.

And now they had come to stand before a bottomless pit of profound blackness, assaulted by a lurching humid wind that dragged her feted tentacles over his body. Commander Vir felt it, a presence like the weight of an unwanted lover pressing against him with putrid rotting flesh wet and slimy against his bare skin. Like a tongue caressing seductively up his neck, and towards his mouth.

A sensation so malevolent and vile, that began in his stomach, a tingling tightening sensation which wriggled up his throat bringing with it a horrific eruption of tingling beginning at the back of his thighs, trailing up his sides across his back and into his head.

His entire face erupted with that same tingling sensation. His nose and eyes prickled with unshed water, his throat constricted, his cheeks tingled, his teeth gritted. He felt as if he was about to scream, or weep. The impenetrable wall of darkness before him was not just a simple darkness….. It was a message.

GET OUT!

A warning.

Every human in that airlock, every marine, simultaneously erupted into a mass of animal panic. Lights flickered on wildly swinging towards the ceiling as if expecting to see a face come scuttling towards them from the darkness.

“Fuck this.” one marine whimpered crouching low to the ground his weapon raised towards the darkness. The aliens that accompanied them stared in abject terror at the response of their human counterparts. But they could not feel it, the creeping slithering, horror.

“What’s wrong.” Sunny demanded, her voice echoing out around them, thundering down the passageway, not making it very far before being consumed by the dark. 

And it was as if, all around them, the creeping malignancy went…. Silent.

Stopped as if holding its breath.

The humans shifted uneasily in their space weapons pointed into the darkness, though the beams of their flashlights seemed to terminate long before they should have. Despite waiting, the feeling from earlier did not return, though Commander Vir still felt…. Something. It was strange, like the buzzing of flies or a soft humming just out of range of hearing, or perhaps a sound just deep enough to be undetectable by humans, but still acknowledged by the unconscious parts of the brain. 

Whatever it was sent the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as tiny shutters ran up and down his spine.

The darkness stretched on before them.

One of the marines stepped back breathing loud over the intercom inside his helmet, “Commander, we shouldn’t be here.”

Adam agreed.

And he had never wanted anything more than to agree with the marine, and turn tail. But he knew that wasn’t an option, “Stand your ground marine, we have an obligation to these people.”

The group was somber, “I want two of you to stay back with the shutte. Make sure to keep in constant contact with the ship and update them on our progress, the rest of us are going to keep going. I am going to have our hazmat team meet us down here with body bags. With the way everything is looking ...” His voice fell flat on the dead air, and the marines stayed uncharacteristically mute.  

“I’ll take point.” He said lastly, and that seemed to at least galvanize them into action. Pulling his weapon more tightly to his shoulder, Adam faced down the halway following the cold steel line of the floor as it traced it’s way up into blackness, and then vanished. 

He took a step, and listened to it echo into the dark passageway down further and further along what seemed like an endless distance. 

His heart throbbed, and that same tingling sensation from earlier erupted over his cheeks, “Sunny.” he muttered quietly, Reassured when her voice came over the line distorted and warped, but otherwise familiar.

His team continued on softly, pushing back the reluctant darkness with the beam of his light. The floor ahead of him was bare and clean.

“Commander.”

Reluctantly, he turned to the side just slightly to get a look back at his marines, though his eyes still fixed upon that impenetrable blackness, “What is it marine.”

Ramirez’s face was gaunt in the yellow pallor of his helmet light giving him a sickly jaundiced appearance if not that, than the appearance of wax read to drip off a melting candle, “I can’t do this.” The man’s voice quivered with a strange hum that seemed to match that distant buzzing, “I have to go back.”

“What’s wrong marine?” The commander wondered, “We have to keep going.”

“If you can’t tell why than you’re a FUCKING IDIOT” The marines went absolutely still with shock. Staring at their companion in utter disbelief.

“Ramirez, what the hell.”

“Not cool.”

The man began to rock on his heels, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, “We shouldn’t be here.” The mareine was shaking his head erratically, “We have to go. We shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be here.” His voice once frantic, raising in pitch and desperation.

“MARINE, calm down!” Commander Vir snapped, “Get ahold of yourself!”and the man quieted, but continued to rock refusing to move one step more.

“Someone take him back to the shuttle.” The commander ordered, and one of the marines quickly volunteered, glared off by his companions. Commander Vir could see it in their eyes, what for a moment seemed like terrible…. Ravenous anger.

He shook it off and turned back to the darkness. Inside, his chest was suddenly  filled with the feeling of a thousand scuttling spiders digging their way into his lungs clambering through his alveoli, yet they continued onwards. The pale yellow gleam of their lights continued to show…. Nothing, nothing but the long, dark hallway stretching into blackness.

They came upon a few doors on their way down, which the marines cleared  in their usual fashion, but what they found was no more than storage rooms and offices. It all seemed well at first, stacks and stacks of boxes piled atop one another, a desk stacked with papers, the chair pulled out as if waiting for its occupant to return. The life support lights blinked a soft green to demonstrate that they were working.

Commander Vir stared into one of the storage spaces, and inside he felt a deep sense of dread and unease, but these were simply boxes, just stacks of boxes, nothing to worry him at all/ They even checked behind the crates out of a sense of paranoia, but there was nothing to be seen. Out in the hallway, Sunny, and a team of marines kept their eyes down the hall.

Commander Vir turned to position.

Why had those rooms bothered him so much.

It was just then that a deep, prolonged moan echoed down the hallway. The marines snapped into position facing down into the blackness guns raised. Commander Vir felt a rush of bubbles into his nose and throat. 

“The fuck was that.” Someone was saying

“Where did it come from?” Demanded another

“It came from behind us, I swear!” 

“Shut the hell up all of you!” The commander snarled, “Our ship makes noises like that all the time, it’s simply the beams settling, that's what happens when your ship is in a vacuum.” The marines went silent again. Inside his head the background buzzing intensified, like the static of a TV or the distant muble of a vacuum cleaner.

Inside his suit his hands had gone icy cold. Little eruptions of tingling rolled up and down his left side, like the response one gets when a sensual whisper caresses the ears. His palms and feet were horribly cold, his jaw locked, and his teeth gritted. His face felt as if that distant static had somehow made its way into his skin. Metal clattered and clanged vibrating up into the souls of his feet. The inside of his suit was hot while simultaneously being freezing cold. His only safety came from the reassuring weight of a weapon in his arms.

The floor fell away before him as the dying moan seeped into the metal below his feet and above his head. 

Above his head… he hadn’t thought about above his head, and the horrendous feeling of being watched.

Watched by something….. Something stretching down from the ceiling in long gelatinous strings, just inches from his head!

In a panic he dropped to one knee thrusting the muzzle of his weapon upwards images of wild eyes and rotting flesh burned into his mind. Behind him the marines cursed or screamed reacting as their Commander had.

His light fell upon the ceiling and saw…. Absolutely nothing.

Breathing heavily, Commander Vir cursed. His entire body was a mass of static tingling, like his very skin was infested with maggots. His heart beat so hard and so fast inside his chest, the only thing he could hear was it’s frantic beat, “F-false alarm.” he stammered, unable to shake the feeling that something HAD been reaching for him. There was no way a feeling that potent could have been so wrong.

They continued onward, and as he listened, the echoes branched outwards seeming to reach upwards filling a substantial space around them. The marines fanned out in a wide semicircle,  two facing back in the direction they had come. 

“Cargo bay. Alright marines, this is going to be basecamp. I want those portable floodlights set up, and a guard on any and all exits at all times. Once we have secured the area, I want our other teams to join us.” Honestly, they didn’t really need that may marines for this sort of operation, but Commander Vir was well and truly disquieted, and that trepidation made him eager for more guns.

***

“How’s he doing?” Commander Vir asked, standing at the center of a brightly lit cargo bay made that way by no less than twenty portable floodlights.

Krill’s voice came crackling over the line, “Ramirez… it’s strange, he says he’s feeling better, but he looks terrible, clammy skin pale, rapid pulse. I can’t find anything physically wrong, so I’ll probably get a consult down from psych. He wants me to tell you he’s sorry, says he doesn't know what came over him.”

“Tell him it’s alright, we were all sort of freaked.” easy for him to admit in the comforting light of over a dozen spotlights, but beyond that, where the radius of light gave way to the darkness…..

“Oh… and captain, there is probably something you should know. I wanted to tell you earlier, but you had already left.”

“Oh, go on.”

“It’s Conn.”

The commander stood straighter surprised, “Conn, has he woken up?”

Krill was silent for a moment, “Not exactly, but a few hours ago, he started moving around, mouthing things. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t seem to be registering anything. He seems aggressive agitated, and the uh…. Glados and the others seem very upset too. I have waffles taking care of them, but it’s only so much ...”

“Guess everyone aboard the ship is freaked out, eh, anyway, keep me posted.” He finished the conversation and motioned to a group of marines supervising the setup of the hazmat team, “Alright, you guys, on me, we are going to get this party started.”

Since boarding the ship, and seeing that the life support was still functional, they had chosen to take off their space suits, for gear that would be less cumbersome in close-quarters combat. Commander Vir was still not entirely sure that taking off their respirators had been a good idea. The instant he had pulled off his helmet, he had been nasally accosted by a sickly sweet, rotting pungence that permeated the air and wriggled itself into the very fibers of his soul. 

It was also a heavy smell, one that crawled deep into the nose and implanted itself at the back of his throat. So pungent were the smells, that, he felt like he could almost taste it, and was forced to fight bodily against his gag reflex as bile bubbled into his throat. He had quickly ordered better respirators from the med bay, and was currently sporting their crew’s newest fashion trend, a hard plastic mask that strapped around the back of his head but giving his full coverage over his mouth and nose.

Despite their heavy presence aboard the ship, going on almost half a day, no living being had appeared, that in itself did not bode well, considering the remaining options.

Either, no one was still alive to appear.

Or the living had chosen not to.

As for that feeling from earlier? Well here in the floodlit cargo bay, he could almost ignore the distant buzzing of static, and the chills had died down to a cold clamminess, but beneath all the bustling and movement, it was still there, like the ringing in one’s ears that establishes itself as a high pitched squeal, unheard when talking or working, but deafeningly loud when the quiet takes over.

A team of marines formed up around him, augmented by an extra woman to take the spot Ramirez had left. Somehow, she managed to seem surprisingly unphased while the rest of them were close to pissing themselves. Generally, at this point, he would have fallen back to direct from the rear, but left it up to one of the more experienced marines while making his way to the forward middle just behind the woman from earlier. 

He knew how to clear a room ,though this wasn’t his area of tactical expertise.

“Ready Commander?” The marine called form the back.

“Ready when you are, marine.”

“Tac lights on, we are going to do a slow sweep, pause the stick at every door keeping watch forward and rear, middle clearing rooms. Let’s go.”

Behind them, comforting glow of the floodlights faded. To their right, the marine on guard duty for the passaged looked at them with an expression of trepidation, her eyes wide and glinting wetly with the dull glow, “I’m not sure if it’s just the ship, Commander, but I… it sounds like there is something down there.”

He did not particularly appreciate her warning though it was taken into advisement.

Soon, the comforting cacophony of the cargo bay began to fade warping and melding into a strange distant hum. The light dimmed with it, leaving only the thin beams of their flashlights to cut through the murk. He could feel droplets of condensation beading onto his skin in hot, humid droplets. Beams of their flashlights cut down the hall moving and warping shadows across the hallway and floors. The distant buzzing from earlier grew louder and louder, until he was accompanied by a continual stream of static.

Their footsteps thudded loudly on the meta floors despite every attempt to stay quiet.

Halfway up the hall, a warm gust putrid wind blew past them carrying with it a soft, mournful moan. The marine at their head slowed casting her light over the distant hallway.

“Everything alright, marine?” The commander wondered.

“Yes….. I just, for a second I thought…” She trailed off shaking her head, “Nevermind.”

The hair rose down the back of his spine.

“Two doors, right and left.” The point marine called, coming to a stop just past that point. 

“Clear door.” The column stopped, and Commander Vir turned to assist a marine on the left, while another two took the door on the right. 

They found nothing more than abandoned storage rooms, stacks and stacks of crates illuminated in the light of their torches, and continued onwards.

Something plagued him at the back of his mind.

“Commander, the methane levels are climbing. Same with Hydrogen Sulfide.” The group remained quiet at the news.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, surrounding them in a dim bubble of light crowded on all sides by darkness. The hallway ahead was silent and empty but for the writhing of shadows. 

“Opening.”

They were directed into a quick fan pattern, one of their members facing backwards against the pursuing wall of darkness as they came into the room. The ambient glow of their torches provided just enough light to illuminate some sort of dining hall, or a kitchen. It was an eerie scene in the dark, chairs pulled form the sides of tables, waiting to be pushed back in abandoned plates left with moldering crumbs upon the counter. Cans and cartons were left abandoned to spoil, like whoever had been here had left in a  hurry and never bothered to return. A single lone chair sat isolated in a corner washed of all color transporting them into a dark, alternate dimension of black, grey eeriness. 

Long reaching shadows stretched grasping fingers into the darkness.

The illumination of their tac lights roved about the room in a thin nebulous columns showing nothing of great interest….. until

A hunched figure came into sharp relief against their lights. 

One of the marines cursed, lights quivered. The commander raised a hand.

Even from here, he could tell the man or woman was dead.

Slowly he motioned the others into the room approaching the corpse himself. Not so much a corpse anymore as grinning skeleton. As the light washed over it, the sockets of the eyes sunk into deep pools of blackness. Teeth, still white in comparison to the stained brown bone, grinned at them with a horrid gap-toothed smile just visible through a ragged tangle of drying hair which stick in vein-like trails over the moldering bone. 

The skeleton was undisturbed.

It sat at one of the tables slumped heavily against the wall. Dried brown stains coated the floor and wall around the corpse in a discolored puddle. The putrid discoloration had oozed onto the wall and slowly wormed its way into the minute seams leaving a cracked and drying crust behind it. The clothes, still somewhat intact, clung stiffly to the bone, rigid and brown with dried residue. 

But strangest of all was how the corpse sat, propped against the wall bony fingers still clutched loosely about an oxidized fork and knife, a pristine white plate sitting before him on the table. Aside from a small amount of dust, and residue shed from the hands, the plate was….. Clean.

The man looked as if he had died while sitting down for a meal, though there had been no food on his plate.

“Its like he just… sat down and died.” one of the marines whispered 

Just then a horrendous screech and crash shook quaked the room. A moment of sheer intense panic seized the commander, like the feeling of being constricted from all sides. The static in his ears roared to a crescendo as their lights sent shadows into a crazed and ghastly dance. Adam would have sworn he saw something large, and fleshy skitter away into the shadows just as his tac light fell on a pan still rolling and rattling against the floor. Frantically he panned his weapon in a tight arc, over the floor and across the walls. 

The sound of skittering, like the movement of a million bugs washed over him, so intense he felt as if he could feel the little creatures crawling up his body, burrowing into the fabric of his clothing, and crawling into his ears. His skin crawled and squirmed with a thousand maggots. They invaded his shoes, squelching between his does, filling his mouth and nose, worming their way down his throat.

He could feel them crawling on his insides carving tunnels just under the skin of his back. 

He gagged against the feeling batting at his arms and neck dropping his weapon on it tac sling to bounce against his upper thighs as he swatted at his face and skin spitting and gagging. 

Something grabbed him by the arm, “COMMANDER!”

The feeling vanished.

He stood in a cold sweat tingling like his entire body had fallen asleep quivering with the remembered feeling.

“Commander, are you alright.”

Adam dashed a hand across his mouth expecting to find bugs, but found nothing more than strings of saliva. He wiped his mouth again, “Shit, what the hell was that?”

“Nothing, sir. No one SAW anything, and we were guarding all the doors.”

His body trembled. So, either it had somehow snuck in, or it had been here the entire time….. If there was in fact anything there? Perhaps one of the marines had brushed the pot handle as they walked past causing it to slip and vibrate against the floor. 

He took a deep breath, unable to quell the urge to spit another gobit of phlegm onto the floor wetting his cracked lips with a raspy tongue, “Deploy the micro-drones. Have them get some samples and take pictures, then we will take care of the body.”

While his orders were being carried out, the rest of the marines busied themselves searching the room rummaging through cupboards and drawers though one marine had backed himself into a corner nervously sweeping his light across the floor and ceiling.

There were no more disturbances, and they found nothing but stacks of tins, boxes and packages. They came across a drawer full of pristine, dusty, coated utensils, but nothing remarkably out of the ordinary. 

Radio calls were made, and another team came to collect the body. Commander Vir watched from a pool of darkness as the yellow-suited hazmat team worked to peal the skeleton from it’s cracked juices. WIth enough urging the bones came apart, and the man was slowly disassembled into his component parts and crammed into a black bag whose surface glittered and shone like freshly pourn tar. 

His hands were the last to go, rusting metal utensils wrestled from the still clutching fingers, and left abandoned on the table next to the glittering white plate.

The sull, hunkered in a bed of its own bones, gave him one last knowing grin, before being zipped shut. 

The hazmat team retreated with their group of marines, taking with them the rustling of their suits, and the solemn comfort of their voices. Again they had been left in that dark colorless place surrounded on all sides by the ghost of an evening that would never come to pass. 

There was no knowing how long it had been stuck like this, though a thick mat of dust covered the floor. Nervously he glanced towards the fallen pot, but the ground was far to disturbed to determine what had actually happened.

But perhaps that was a hand-print?

No, it couldn’t be.

“I’ll take point,” He announced stepping in front of the female marine as they made their way into position. He wasn’t technically supposed to be here, but the fear…. The fear was starting to overcome him. That feeling, from the first moment they had stepped onto the ship, that cold icy sensation that licked slowly up his back to the point behind his ear. His skin crawled and his heart hammered as he tucked his weapon against his shoulder in a low-ready position. The only thing keeping him here was the desire to protect his marines.

Stepping into the hallway, his imagination wandered with him into the dark. His marines sitting silently on the floor of an abandoned back room, their bodies withering with the slow decay of time, their flesh dripping like candle wax from their bones forgotten in the slow progression of time as the cold darkness of space surrounded them, lost and entombed forever.

He shivered, “Door right.” He called, just before his light passed over a second door, “Door left.” He called out taking a few steps forward into the darkness and stopping while the marines readied themselves to breach the room. He kept his body at a slight angle head cocked towards the doors so he could hear, eyes looking off down the hallway. He heard the door open, and the marines entered. It must have been a larger room, for it required more than one marine to actually enter and make the sweep.

He heard them speaking, calling out to each other, and tilted his head just a little further in their direction eyes, momentarily, closer to the marines than it was to the hallway.

And that’s when the sensation came, a malicious presence  rushing headlong  from the darkness, a scuttling evil presence fed by spiteful purpose, carried by the slapping of wet feet, and hands upon cold metal. WIth a cry of alarm, he whipped around expecting to find the ravening beast leap at him from the darkness.

But, as before, there was nothing, nothing but the endless dark hallway stretching back into the gloom. Another sluggish breeze cut past him bringing with it a deep and tenuous moan. 

The commander felt sick to his stomach, his hands shook and his face tingled. Tears pricked at the corners of his vision, and inside every fiber of his being told him to turn back. There was something wrong about that presence, something more horrific than any monster or beast, though that’s what he had called it in his haste.

Though he had not seen it, he could feel it’s malicious intent, its hatred, its unholy evil.

An emotion no animal could comprehend, no alien reconstruct.

A human emotion.

-

He told no one what he had felt when they returned, though Sunny seemed suspicious. The rooms had been sleeping quarters at one point, all the beds put neatly away, dusty family photos left forgotten atop nightstands and laying about the floor. It seemed odd how deliberately the beds had been made though family photos were discarded upon the floor.

Though he wished for nothing more than to turn back, he forced himself to keep going reminding himself constantly of the companionship giving him by the marines, and Sunny. 

They cleared several more sleeping quarters, multiple offices and the occasional storage room, though all were left in similar states of, perfect tidiness or abandoned disarray. None of it had been touched in months. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever find the rest of the crew, when the buzzing began.

It was a distant sound, similar but not holy the same as that soft malefic buzzing that had plagued him through this journey. It was, somehow, more substantial, and as they moved down the hall, the sound swelled, louder and louder and louder until it was almost deafening. 

“Methane readings are extremely high commander.” 

In response, Commander Vir panned his weapon about the hallway causing a beam of light to cut upwards onto a set of doors as well as the ceiling and floor beneath, and stopped. The ground outside the door was coated in a glistening greenish-black sludge, the door itself was lacquered in, hot thick moisture, and, somehow, a trail of rotting putrid mold had begun festering upon the ceiling above the door.  The buzzing was louder now, louder than it had ever been, and inside Commander Vir knew what he was going to find.

And for that reason, he had chosen to switch spots with the female marine behind him. He didn’t want to do it, but he knew it had to be done.

He positioned himself to the side of the door, and motioned for a marine to open it.

The doors slid open with a sickening squelch. Commander Vir took one step in, and then stopped as his tac light fell on the opposing wall. The very room itself heaved a breath as the walls and floors around him pulsed and throbbed expanding and contracting like a writhing vat of putrid decay throbbing like the beating of the ship’s oversized heart.

And the sound a gelatinous high pitched squirming in time with deafening, droning buzz.

Behind him, a marine wretched.

“Not in your mask dammit!” one of the others yelled at him

Commander Vir, couldn’t move. He was frozen on the spot hands like ice knees locked. His stomach clawed its way first ito his pelvis, and then into his throat seeking escape. The feeling returned, maggots crawling through his skin chewing their way through his brain and out through his eyes. He could feel them, as real as anything slithering about his body. 

“Holly mother fuck!” one of the marines whispered, and he too turned away to gag. Finally, commander Vir was able to step away backing out of the door and ordering it closed behind him. 

“Call the hazmat team and get them down here. We have a lot of work to do.”

-

When all was said and done, a staggering sixty percent of the crew was recovered. Krill ,ordered over as the ship’s coroner, had been forced to use skulls to count bodies and determine at least sixty percent of the crew was present. Commander Vir tried not to look at the small skulls instead forced to face the reality that,  some of the crew were still in the active stages of decomposition, which, as Krill explained, meant they had died within the last month, some at least within the last weak. He felt his heart sink.

Perhaps, if they had been a couple days earlier….

The issue was, the bodies were in such a state that Krill was having a hard time figuring out what had been their cause of death. Another team of marines returned from the other end of the ship, towards engineering and reported that they had come upon a locked door. The door, they said had been marred with many strange scratches and dents. They were forced to open it with extreme force, and upon coming inside, they had been, again blocked by stacks and stacks of equipment apparently used to block the door. 

Another ten percent of the crew had been found inside….. 

Nothing was making sense, a least nothing except for what the engineers had found when they inspected the warp core. Whatever it was, it had been a catastrophic malfunction which had taken out all central power to the engines, and sent an emp burst which permanently fried their long-distance communications. The backup life support generator had survived though the main one had also been taken out in the blast. The transmission itself had come from a short-wave radio stored in a sort of faraday cage in engineering. In space, the signal would be practically useless, which is why they hadn’t picked up on it earlier. 

The message from earlier repeated on a loop. 

Those bodies were only just beginning to bloat, and Krill determined cause of death on all subjects to be asphyxiation characterized by petechial and subconjunctival hemorrhaging about the eyes and under the skin not to mention ligature abrasions about the neck. 

truthfully , having Krill here was simply a formality…. No one had been surprised about their cause of death…. Especially not after they had been found, alone, in the dark gently swaying side by side. Not alone…. Even in death.

The real question was…. Where was the other 20% of the crew? 

There was only one small section aboard the ship that they had yet to explore, and Commander Vir wagered to guess they would find their answers there, on the bridge.

-

Most of the ship had been explored by this time, flood lights had been set, and informal safe-zones had been set which included a small team of marines and three to four of the massive floodlights. They began the staging of their last push in the kitchen where the first corpse had been found. It was him, three marines, and Sunny, who with the other female marine had shown no great reaction to the strange eeriness of the ship. The other two had been with him since the beginning, and were damned if they weren’t going to see it through.

He adjusted the mask waiting for the other marines to ready themselves.

His eye was caught by a strange and unusual glint. Turning his head, his eyes were brought towards the darkest corner of the room, isolated from the floodlights and a wide ring of caution tape. The single, white ceramic plate from before glinted at him from the shadows it’s surface empty and glistening, though still coated in a layer of dust.

It seemed out of place, though how a plate could be out of place in  a kitchen remained a mystery. 

He turned his gaze away as the marines announced their readiness, and together, they began their trek down the hallway, now lit by a hundred pale orbs of light lining the path to that first door, which was now sealed off with caution tape, beyond that, the darkness began again. Despite the sealed door, the Buzzing was still there to remind him of what lay behind that door.

A fly landed on his cheek, its hairlike feet sending shivers up his skin, and he swatted it away in disgust knowing form where it had spawned.

He stepped over the greasy smear of brownish film and aimed his flashlight down the rest of the hallway, there were many doors here, though only this one seemed to show hints of what it contained. The bulb in his light flickered and dimmed before brightening again.  He moved forward with his team switching on and off the point position as he moved, sometimes waiting outside, and sometimes falling back to clear a room worried for what his marines would find.

He opened a small door himself, while the two others checked the hall and two more remained on watch. It was a small room no more than  a few feet wide with exposed piping and electrical circuits. He reached out attempting to flip on the main breaker, but other than a dull thud, the lock remained stuck and silent. He rolled his light over the floor and paused in confusion when he saw it resting against the far wall.

A can of what appeared to be brand-generic tomato soup. Head tilted to the side, he slowly crouched, and reached out a hand for the can.

His hearing exploded as the high pitched keening swelled in his ears. All sound dulled, and his vision went white fading slowly to black, the light of his flashlight had gone grey and white, tingles erupted down his back, crawling into his face and bringing water to his eyes. His very body trembled with a sense of terror so profound, it was as if the devil himself stood at his back. Even as he thought that, he could sense it, a hateful rabid demonic presence, crouched just behind him. He could feel its hot, rasping breath on his neck, could sense it’s soulless black eyes boring into his soul, and almost feel those slime-coated teeth chattering with anticipation. The sensation was one so deeply profound it was like being stared at by a thousand eyes. The buzzing static in his head became a hissing whisper, a maddened warbling.. The world around him was a slowed grey expanse of eternity, trapped in a state of indescribable panic. Darkness slowly rose up behind him, the presence lifting thin, elongated arms, too long for its body, fingers too long for its hands spreading outwards like he was sprouting an unholy set of wings.

Plunging downward

A hand came down on his shoulder, and he screamed with raw inhuman terror entire body contracting violently away from the touch.  Time around his was ruptured, and he clattered against the wall, sending the can of tomato soup spinning across the floor.

“Commander!.”

The marine stood over him with wide confused eyes.

Commander Vir gasped and panted against the gut-wrenching panic that still gripped his chest. His vision was tunneled into blackness, and all the shapes around him appeared indistinct, “How long…. Have you been there?” He stammered.

“I came to check on you sir, you'd been gone for like five minutes and we all got worried.

Five minutes…. That hadn’t been five minutes. He checked his watch, but the marine was right, 

“Are you alright, Commander. Do you need to head back?”

“No I…. I’m alright, just… let my paranoia overcome me is all.” The marine reached out a hand, and the Commander took it standing and trying to conceal the fact that his legs were shaking.

There were only a few more rooms left, after all. The door shut behind him closing on that can of tomato soup inside.

The next three rooms were clear, though unlike other places aboard the ship, they did show signs of recent use. Running a light obliquely over one of the surface walls, showed raised discoloration from an oily set of hand prints going all around the room, high onto the walls, and across the floor to meld with similar footprints.

Otherwise, the room was empty.

There was only one door left.

Sunny and the female marine set themselves to the side of the doors allowing Commander Vir and the other marine to breach the room. Commander Vir stepped in first sweeping his light from the nearest corner over and around the center of the room. The other marines took their corners, and together they moved inside.

The bridge, didn’t appear much like a bridge anymore, all the consuls and equipment had been unbolted and stripped from the floor. Stiff, brown fabric buzzing with flies had been strung up from the ceiling and down onto the floor giving the room a strange alien quality to it, like they had walked into a cave, or perhaps the throat of some virulent beast.

To add to the strangeness of it all, almost every available flat surface was piled with open containers, bottles and glasses and jars of water. Pillows lay discarded across the floor their generally white casings stained with filth. The jars themselves seemed to make a pathway through the room.

Sweeping his light forward, Commander Vir followed the trail of stained cloth up towards the end of the path, where a single, stained chair still remained bolted to the floor. It was a large chair sat atop a raised dais, though it was slightly tilted to one side.

The Captain’s chair.

All around it lay bodies, piled together in grotesque poses of death locked into place by rigor mortis 

A horrific amalgamation of naked flesh and rot. These people, they lay together in a mass pile before the seat, somehow reminding him of a thrown as if these people had been prostrated in ritual as they slowly expired.

“The fuck.” Whispered one of the marines

Commander Vir remained silent, his eyes roving over the scene before him. The bodies themselves were in a general state of decay, though in better preserved condition than the ones before. 

Slowly he moved up the aisle boots making a soft thud against the unseen metal below his feet, muffled by the crusted fabric. A single body atop that pile stood out to him, in the wan light of his torch, it’s skin glowed a sickly, pale grey, like the body of a decaying maggot. The thing, more creature than man, was horrifically thin it’s spine protruding like that of a rabid, starving dog, so thin and knobbly that it’s joints were thicker than the surrounding body parts.

Its fingernails were blackened.

Commander Vir paused to take a closer look at the body drawn in b some heinous curiosity. The other marines stood behind him examining the pile of corpses.

“No…. no no….”

Commander Vir leaned in further.

“What?”

A shuffling behind him and a soft, “They were EATING each other.” 

It was then, he realized many things at once…. The missing 20%, the blocaded door, the tomato soup, the clean plate, the storage rooms still full of boxes, the kitchen.

And the fact that this corpse was still chewing slowly, and rhythmically.

“COMMANDER RUN!”

The chewing stopped, and an eye flashed open, a delicate cerulean blue consumed by a black pupils and surrounded by jaundice yellow sclera.

He had no time to react.

He screamed falling backwards as the thing slammed into his chest. His tac light was thrown to the floor and sent spinning across the ground. The room erupted into chaos. He kicked out with one foot catching the creature in the chest and knocking it backwards. It skidded back across the floor on all fours, the greyness of it’s skin thrown into sharp relief, an amalgamation of bruising and torn open sores still weeping clear fluid and infection.

He scrambled backwards, and it scuttled after him. Light rolled around him like a strobe giving him only glimpses of the creature as it crawled towards him gnashing yellowed teeth overcome by bleeding, decaying gums. He scrambled for his sidearm running into something soft, and moist at his back. The lights flashed.

The creature plunged from the darkness, its ragged black nails scrambling for his neck.

He caught it by the arms pushed backwards into a putrid mass. Fabric tore and bone cracked desperately he strained against the creature flailing arms. It was inhumanly strong as it pushed them through the mass of corpses tumbling onto a field of open jars.

Glass shattered. 

Water erupted around them. The thing began to shreak so loud that his ears rang. His hand slipped, and the creature got one arm free, more glass shattered. He could see the gelatinous film coating the creature's eyes, watched strings of saliva drip from it’s open mouth. It pulled its hand back fingers curving into talons pressed close together.

“THE EYES.”

The hand came plunging downwards towards his face, and he scrambled back kicking and screaming. The hand came down, again and again and again stabbing down towards his eye. He tried to catch the creature’s hand, but was only able to block it.

It screamed.

Glass shattered as he deflected it to the side it’s fingers stabbing into the glass coming back bloody.

It straddled him by the hips fighting to gain both hands as it jabbed at him again. Greasy black fingernails rocketed towards his face, seeking his eyes.

Teeth gnashed and champed.

Screaming form around the room.

It grabbed him, and together they plunged through a tear in the fabric. Something sharp crunched beneath him, it grew darker, light dissipated by crusted fabric. 

He felt it coming towards his face catching the creature’s wrist. Light grew in his vision, withering black nails inches from his face. It pressed down with all its might quivering closer and closer to the surface of his eye.

Something glinted at him from the darkness.

A panic, and desperation the likes of which he had never felt overwhelmed him flooding his body with strength. He screamed, wrenching the creature’s arm from his face, grabbing it by the side of the head, and thrusting it bodily sideways.

The things scream was cut off by a sickening crunch.

The glinting, the tip of a jagged broken rib.

He lay there, on his side against a field of bones staring into the glassy face of this…. No… not a creature.

A man.

A man with shocked cerulean blue eyes faded in death strings of white-blond hair still clinging to his diseased scalp, and the ore he looked the more human the thing became. A man in his thirties emaciated diseased, probably in pain. Commander vir looked down and saw a jacket tied loosely around the man’s waist.

Pinned to the collar was a dull set of captain’s bars.

For a moment it was as if he could see his own face staring back at him.  This man, he could be any one of them.

He felt his body heave, and he scrambled away clawing his way through the opening and into a field of broken glass.

“Don’t shoot!” Someone screamed.

“Commander!.”

On hands and knees his body heaved violently again his nose tingled, his throat constricted. Tears leaped to his eyes. The heave turned into a sob, but he choked it back down, staggering to his feet his breath heavy and warm inside the mask. Someone rushed to help him, while another shined his light through the opening.

“Holy shit.”

“Commander, are you ok?”

He waved the marine off his ears ringing, “Order everyone back to the ship RIGHT NOW.”

His orders were not questioned. A radio went on somewhere, and two of the marines helped to support him as they walked down the hall. His body felt numb, it wasn’t that he couldn’t move, but he couldn’t feel his feet on the floor.

Eventually someone else took over for the marines. Two arms supported him from the side, in a strong inhuman embrace. Sunny tried to speak with him, but his mind was too focused to acknowledge her. They had to get out, he had to get them out. He refused to go forward unless he could see his marines checking constantly behind him as they went. Anyone they saw along the way was ordered back to the ship. Leave the equipment they could get more.

He stood in the cargo bay surrounded by bodies filtering through the doors calling out names and checking off crew manifest.  Shuttles were launched back to the ship, and he refused to leave until the last shuttle was opened.

Together with Sunny, and his original team of marines, he stepped onto the shuttle. The darkened hallways lined with cheap LEDs stretched back behind him. Something clattered sending echoes up the hall. A marine sealed the door with a sharp his, and with unwavering hands, Commander Vir piloted the ship into space eyes locked forward, body still feeling nothing.

The light that hit him upon returning to his ship was the most relieving sensation he had ever felt, like taking an elevator to heaven from the depths of hell. The crew waited in the cargo bay as they exited the shuttle waiting with fearful, wide eyes. The marines especially gathered around him, but at that moment he felt….. Nothing.

He looked at the marines. He had to make sure they were ok, “The lot of you, get yourself up to psych RIGHT NOW!”

“But captain.”

His voice dropped low, “Argue with me again marine, and it will be the last thing you do.” 

The group stepped back

He lifted his head, “THAT GOES FOR THE LOT OF YOU. Anyone who stepped foot on that ship or even listened to that transmission better have a psych referral to me by the end of the week on my desk in signed in TRIPLICATE from all three of our attending physicians psych and medical otherwise. NOW GET MOVING.”

No one questioned him, and standing there in the crowd, he felt his body go numb. Cold sweat rolled from his temples and down his collar, he began to shiver violently. His hearing still hadn't come back from earlier, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded his heart pounded even as a great sense of exhaustion came over him.

Before he knew it, he was sitting on the floor. Someone was speaking to him, though he couldn’t concentrate enough to make it out. Only that memory, of the repeated hand jabbing downwards towards his face.

More voices muttering, they elevated in shock, and a second later something cupped him gently about the face tilting his head back. The movement was gentle almost caring. Lights blinded him for a moment, but then a face resolved itself in his vision, paper white, humanoid and with wide black eyes.

“Conn.” He muttered.

“Sleep, Commander, and I will ease your fear.”

A sensation, like someone pouring clear warm water into his thoughts. His shivering died down, and he felt himself float away.

***

Humans don’t die easily.

And sometimes when they do, when they should leave, they linger.

[ughgclden]

good morning bee! or, afternoon, i suppose,

i think i must have reread your last reply four times at least before starting this, thank you once again for spending any amount of time on my silly little prose for you

its odd, i think, that acting drew me, because i’m fairly anxious in my own right, and sometimes i’ll get up to present even a poetry piece, and every bit of me is shaking, even as words i know backwards and forwards are tumbling out of my mouth. acting isnt always quite like that, it always feels much more like i have a purpose. probably the neil in me. i think, in the event i were to see you present something, anything, the neil in me would do exactly what he did in the impromptu poem sweaty-toothed madman scene, maybe combined with trying to draw your attention so instead of talking to a group of people, it could seem like you’re just talking to me.

while it might not feel like words come naturally to you, i will say that i don’t think they’re not your friends at all, you’re a very skilled writer, and thoughts are the hardest strings to untangle, there’s always something about words, they aren’t quite win all/lose all, they’re still part of your magic, you’re just /so/ magic that they couldn’t be all of it, and that’s incredible.

thank you for saying kind things to me, love, i really appreciate it, and i’m sorry again for making my letter darker than normal and than necessary. there are just some old recurring monsters that keep popping up under my bed, and its difficult to ignore them sometimes, then they all come out at once to prey on something tiny that shouldnt have bothered me at all. but i wont continue to bore you with that.

i hope, love, that today doesnt come with challenges that feel too overwhelming, or any challenges at all, really, but i know much too much about the nature of life to really hope that that is possible. i hope you remember today that you’re good, that you’re loved, that i’m here always, and i’m immensely proud of you, no matter what

i hope, love, that you have a lovely day, one where something genuinely makes you smile, and, although i think a day late

”studium immane loquendi,” -ovid (an insatiable desire for talking.

it seemed fitting i think.

all my love,

your star✨

p.s. i’m borrowing words here, but it seemed a sentiment to share, “even when we’re miles apart i have your voice but feel no touch,” it resonated in me this morning as a bee line. <3

good afternoon/evening love!!

i should be the one thanking you, oh my god. your letters are far more beautiful and poetic than mine, so the fact you think that is extremely validating. these 'silly little letters' have become a huge source of happiness for me

the neil kinnie in you astounds me - i envy you, honestly. i totally get the whole nerves thing - it's as if your mind just shrivels up and refuses to work no matter how well you've prepared it. id like nothing more than that. i actually had to do something similar to that once- i was giving a presentation (on the romanticisation of serial killers in mainstream media, if you were curious) and had to look one of my friends dead in the eyes the entire time as she mouthed encouragements to me. my hands were trembling and someone shouted to speak louder, but i still did it.

thank you star, honestly, that's such a fucking sweet way to put it? i often drive myself mad trying to find the write word or metaphor, but i suppose not everything in life has to be so poetic. sometimes it's fine for things to be plain, or else poetry would be practically worthless.

please don't apologise!! we all have bad days love, and sometimes we have to wallow in them before they get better. as i said, never feel bad for telling me about them, i'd love to try to cheer you up in any way i can, you could never bore me. as you said before, sometimes it is the small things that trip us up most, probably because we don't expect them.

it's been a funny day today; i feel like indulging you in it, but feel free to skip over this part. it's been a weirdly calm day, but maybe it was cause i've been up so early. ive started trying to learn phoebe bridgers' moon song on guitar and it's certainly. going. i also did some baking and drank a shit ton of coffee whilst watching fantastic mr fox. lets hope tomorrow is more productive. if you're willing, i'd love to hear about your day love

all my love star <3

ps; star i absolutely love this. it's definitely so so fitting <33

[hoardcloneheadcanons]

The Season 1 Villain: Mr. Blackwood Part 2

Summary:[After Bullying Martin and Jon into getting together Mr. Blackwood takes down Elias Bouchard with the aid of allies from the sketchiest of places]

A loose structure of ides for an AU of the fanfic  Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey

-Mr. Blackwood tries to wait for Mr. Sims, he really does. He’s done this before. When Jon was in a coma and he thought he was gone for good Blackwood threw himself in the Lonely and an alliance with Peter Lukas. He’s trying not to assume that Jon is dead. He’s trying not to make drastic decisions without him again.

-But Elias is noticing that Mr. Blackwood is preventing his archivist from reading statements. Elias proceeds to try and get rid of Mr. Blackwood, and influence the archive staff to not trust him.

-At a point where Elias tries to get Blackwood arrested (for either impersonating an employee or for some crime he pins on him) Martin vanishes.

-This is the first the Archive Staff of Mr. Blackwood’s spooky powers, and it doesn’t help the trust.

-Elias uses the opportunity to convince them that the rituals they should be worried about are the one of the Corruption and the Stranger. He also convinces them that Mr. Blackwood is allied with the Lonely and was simply trying to attempt his own ritual behind their backs. He adds that keeping the Archivist powerless was part of that plan, and that the Archivist’s job is to prevent rituals, citing Gertrude Robinson as evidence.

-In this circumstance Blackwood decides to take out Elias on his own. He’s not quite giving up on Mr. Sims coming back, but he’s not relying on him returning either. And he determined to stop the Watcher’s Crown before Elias can kill him.

-Knowing that the Archive Staff no longer trusts him, Blackwood starts using invisibility to grab old Gertrude tapes from the police station and Elias’s office and leave them in convienient places for the staff to find. Instil a healthy suspicion of Elias in them. He’s trying to find the Gertrude Tape for Sasha.

-They don’t suspect him because he’d made it clear to them before that he doesn’t trust the tapes. He hadn’t let Jon record on them.

-He’d actually thrown them out the window only for them to appear in a drawer a few minutes later. An action which helped the archival staff believe the tapes were supernatural. Jon remained skeptical only for Blackwood to repeat the action two more times only for the same effect.

-Meanwhile Blackwood starts transposing his knowledge of what his Mr. Sims couldn’t see to Elias’s blind spots. Assuming that what his Mr.Sims couldn’t see, Elias can’t either.

- He knows his Jon couldn’t see in the tunnels, the dark, or in the doors of the Spiral.

-So he talks to Michael and Leitner to get to the panopticon and puts C-4 in the tower.

-Then he makes a deal with Either Michael to remove Jonathan’s eyes

- Specifically he tells him that at 17:00 (when he’s planning to kill Jonah Magnus) that the Archivists and his assistants will probably start screaming in pain. If they don’t, leave them alone. If they do, stab Jon’s eye’s out. If they look like they’re still dying, stab out the eyes of the archival assistants. They’ll be blind but they’ll be alive, seperated from the beholder.

-Sometime around 14:00 or 15:00  Mr. Sims shows up [SEES ALL] and is confused that he can seem to find his Mr. Blackwood or the present day Archival assistants.(One is in the tunnels, the others are kidnapped by the Spiral) He is concerned.

-Luckily the Archival assistants, due to the machinations of both Elias and Mr. Blackwood are paranoid of everyone that is not eachother. Tim, Sasha, Jon and Martin trust eachother and no one else. Unbeknownst to Elias or Blackwood they raided artifact storage for things that might help them against supernatural threats, researching correlating statements in order to use them. Tim’s research on Smirke told them about places they could use around the city that would hide them from the eye, the tunnels included.

-His connection to the Lonely may be affecting him. He’s fully accepted they’ll hate him. He’ll even let Michael tell them Blackwood sent him.

-They manage to escape the spiral long enough for Mr. Sims to SEE them.

-Sims blackmails a taxi driver to get to their location, saying he’ll reveal his affair unless he gives him a ride.

-Mr. Sims gets to them in time to get Michael to go away. They’ve all escaped his doors by this point. He’s just there to make Michael stop trying to stab their eyes out.

(”You shouldn’t be attacking me here archivist. I’m here to help.”

“I fail to see how trying to kill my younger self and my friends helps me.

“I wasn’t here to kill them, just take their eyes. Your Blackwood was very specific on that point. But if you’re going to cause me this much trouble, I won’t do it. I’m happy as long as the Eye is stopped.”

“Martin?- Oh no.”

“But if you wish for them to die with your archive, go ahead, take them. Your funeral. Your Misfortune”)

- Being saved by an older, scarred version of Jon, with glowing green eyes smattered on his skin and hovering over his head like a crown was a plot twist that the archival staff was not ready for.

-They’re shouting questions at him left and right as he’s trying to drag them toward the Archive to Prevent Blackwood from killing them all.

-Sasha has to pay for the uber. The archival staff are crammed in the back while the scarred scarecrow that is Jonathan Sims tries to answer questions from the passenger seat. The driver stares straight ahead and pretends he doesn’t understand english while hoping these crazy people will get out of his car soon.

-(Sasha: Where should I tell him to go?

Sims: To the Archive, we need to prevent Martin from killing Elias.

Tim: Blackwood. This is Martin.

Sims: Excuse Me?

Martin: So is Elias the good guy? Was he right about the Archivist stopping the apocalypse-s?

Sims: No Elias is decidedly not the good guy, and he’s trying to start the apocalypse using the Archivist. He already did in my timeline, that’s why Martin and I came here. Speaking of which, younger me, you should really avoid recording the statements.

Tim: Blackwood!

Sims: Is this really the time, Tim?

Sasha: So why didn’t Blackwood just kill Jon when he got here?

Sims: Because Martin- Blackwood, wouldn’t enjoy killing a younger version of me, or any of you. That’s why he was trying to have your eyes removed. Removing your eyes would remove your connection to archive allowing him to kill Elias without killing you. Which I will still try to do if we don’t get there in time.

Jon: Why couldn’t he just tell us that?

Sims: I DON’T KNOW! I assume it’s because he thought Elias would find out his plans, which I understand. But after all the lectures he gave me about not being paranoid and trusting people this is rather hypocritical of him.

Sasha: Is it possible that Blackwood is attempting a ritual for the Lonely?

Sims: “What- no. Is he using his powers of the Lonely again? That’s- oh. Oh that explains some things.

Sims proceeds to put his face in his hands.

Tim: So do you really eat people’s trauma?)

-Mr. Blackwood goes to Mr. Bouchard’s office. Just to see the fear on his face. Just to see his reaction to soft little Martin being his killer. It’s an indulgence. Its his revenge for tricking Mr. Sims into the apocalypse.

He also came with a gun, just in case blowing up the panoptican doesn’t kill him.

It takes him a moment for Elias tries to talk him out of it, he even tries to use the image of Blackwood’s Mother against him.

(Mr. Blackwood winced, but it didn’t stop him from looking Elias directly in the eyes.

“I’ve already seen it, Jonah.”)

-It’s then that Elias tries to tell him that the archive staff escaped, that they’ll die. (small price for the survival of the world) That his Jon is back, that he can see them. That you don’t have to do a last desperate act for a man that is still alive. Martin at first thinks that Jonah is lying and is ready to set off the bomb.

-But Mr. Sims does dramatically burst in, archive staff nervously behind him.

-He then proceeds to snog Mr. Blackwood for an obnoxiously long time.

-Sasha is stuck standing there wondering if this is really the time. Elias is at first a combination of grateful and disgusted that ranges into incredulous as they just keep going. Tim is impressed.

-Jon and Martin are shocked that anyone could like Mr. Blackwood so intensely. They then realize they’ve been staring at a version of their future counterparts make out for a very long time and look pointedly at a corner of the wall and the carpet respectively.

-When Elias tries to talk to them, saying that he was glad Blackwood could see sense, Jon proceeds to threaten him using all of his spooky archivist powers, not only getting the company credit card, but also getting the archival staff a good two weeks off to cope with their trauma. 

-(”And if you attempt the Watchers Crown again I’ll turn the Eye to look upon you so that you may feel every pain, every terror you ever caused and watch it shrivel you for the inside out. I will drink your fear of the end as you disintegrate into a half-forgotten memory.”)

-Things de-escalate from there. The archive staff attempt to go to their separate homes before they jump at the shadows and slowly congregate. Sasha calls Tim. Martin calls Sasha. Jon calls Martin. They end up congregating at Tim’s, Staying awake watching lifetime movies until they can’t keep their eyes open.

-Sims and Blackwood reorganize the power structure of the archive while the archive staff heals. They also eliminate Jane Prentiss as Blackwood catches Sims up on what happened.

-Sims does find it funny that Blackwood  managed to bully their past counterparts into getting together. He also cannot help finding it hilarious that he got to be the Straightforward and trustworthy MR. SIMS while Blackwood was a cryptic bastard.

-It still hurts. Jon didn’t mean to die on Martin again. He didn’t want to hurt him like that ever again.

-When the archival staff return, Sims goes out to lunch with them and slowly builds up trust with them. He eventually takes Blackwood with him to a lunch with Tim and Sasha, where Blackwood apologizes and explain himself. Martin and Jon aren’t ready.

-Tim excitedly checks about 15 points off his list of “accurately guessed anti-Jon” list.

-Sasha insists he can’t include the one-sided relationship one, “I know he’s besotted Tim, but It’s clearly not one sided and that’s barely an anti-Jon trait anymore.”

-Tim also notices, that with Mr. Sims by his side, Blackwood is a lot more relaxed and friendly. He fusses over him and acts, well, a lot like Martin.

-Tim comes back from the meeting declaring to Martin and Jon that, for the safety of everyone, Jon cannot be separated from Martin.

(Sasha points out this is ridiculous. 

“It’s classic transitive property Sasha. If Blackwood can become Martin with a Sims, Martin can become a Blackwood without one.

“It’s not just Sims, Tim. They also defeated their big evil, and according to both of them we died in their timeline. It’s more like... if  we died and Jon and Martin end up being the only ones left, Jon is not allowed to leave him.

“You heard her Martin, none of us are allowed to leave you for fear of you turning into a scary. dark, evil-mirror version of yourself.”

“We’re not allowed to die or get replaced by evil clones. Speaking of which, I’m going to go put a spooky table in cement with our local apocalypse couple. Want to come with?”

-Things settle, Monsters are killed, trust is rebuilt And the future continues unstopped by an apocalypse.

[musicprincess655]

Atsushi’s never seen Ranpo so excited. Well, not since the last time Fukuzawa brought him candy, anyway.

“What’s taking so long?” Ranpo whines. Atsushi ignores him, or tries to, because he’s trying to make sure they have everything before they leave so they don’t have to come back. “Poe-kun wouldn’t make me wait like this.”

“Then why don’t you take Poe-kun with you?” Atsushi suggests.

“Great idea!” Ranpo says. “Hey Poe-kun!”

Atsushi will never understand how Poe manages to look like a deer in headlights when most of his face isn’t even visible.

“Just go with Atsushi,” Poe says, hands wringing together. Ah. So it’s one of his especially anxious days. No wonder Fukuzawa had paired Atsushi and Ranpo up instead.

“But you’re way smarter than Atsushi!” Ranpo protests.

“Hey!” Atsushi complains. He’s mostly used to it now, though. He’s known Ranpo since Fukuzawa found Atsushi wandering the streets six years ago and took him in. Ranpo can be a bit of an acquired taste, but Atsushi’s had a lot of time to get used to him.

“I’ll hang out with you when you get back,” Poe says.

“Promise?”

“Yes?”

On paper, Poe and Ranpo shouldn’t work at all. Ranpo is pushy where Poe is timid, loud and demanding where Poe would rather just fade into the background, but somehow, they balance each other instead of drowning each other out.

“Atsushi-kun, move it!” Ranpo demands. “I want to get this over with so I can hang out with Poe-kun.”

“You were so excited to go on a case a minute ago,” Atsushi sighs. “Don’t you want to investigate a murder?”

They’re not the police. They don’t even have all that much power, really. They’re just a detective agency, and they might not be able to throw people in jail, but they can give people answers. Here in the Lost Town, the suburb of people only just barely allowed to stay within No. 6’s walls, sometimes answers are the best people can ask for.

“You two need to get going.” Fukuzawa himself has emerged from his office. “The body won’t be here that much longer. Someone will pick it up to dispose of it soon.”

They’re not the police, and that’s why they do what they do. A murder in the Lost Town won’t get more than a cursory look. All the detective agency can do is fill in the gaps as best they can.

Theoretically, Atsushi doesn’t need to be going at all. Ranpo is a good enough detective that the rest of the agency combined can’t match him, although Poe is the best at trying. There’s just the minor problem that Ranpo gets lost in the maze of side streets that make up the Lost Town.

So Atsushi is a glorified babysitter.

“Atsushi-kun.” Fukuzawa beckons Atsushi over. “This is a weird one.”

“You said that before,” Atsushi replies. “What does that mean?”

“It means be careful,” Fukuzawa says. “I can’t tell without looking, but I think this one might even give Ranpo trouble. And anything that can give Ranpo trouble is bad news.”

“I won’t get caught up in some weird gang,” Atsushi promises, and then amends, “again.”

“No, I think you know better by now,” Fukuzawa agrees. “What I mean is…if the answers in this case are dangerous, don’t get too close. Don’t look too hard at the biggest lies.”

“The ones No. 6 tells us?”

“Careful who you say that to.”

Atsushi wants to keep pushing, but the pinched look on Fukuzawa’s face stops him. It’s a look Fukuzawa only gets on occasion, when he’s had a few too many whiskeys and opens up an old file with the name “Dazai Osamu” on it.

Atsushi’s only looked in that file once, when he was thirteen and still too curious to know when he wasn’t allowed places. He’d only seen a few things before Fukuzawa had ripped the file away from him, sending Atsushi cowering from his glare. Fukuzawa had softened, then, and that was the first time he’d told Atsushi what had become the only real rule at the detective agency.

Don’t look too hard at the biggest lies.

Atsushi doesn’t know why a suicide victim from eleven years ago would cause this reaction in Fukuzawa, but he’s learned better than to question it.

“And be patient with Ranpo,” Fukuzawa continues. “He’s getting frustrated because Poe can’t go out with him much lately, but I’d rather keep Poe out of sight until the rumors about the Guild die down.”

“Do you think they’re true?” Atsushi asks.

“I think whether they’re true or not, I respect that Poe wants to wait them out,” Fukuzawa says. “Keep Ranpo on track, you’ll be fine.”

“Will do.”

Fukuzawa gives Atsushi’s hair one affectionate ruffle and sends him on his way.

Ranpo is more obnoxious than usual today, and Atsushi tries to be understanding. He knows it must suck to have to leave Poe behind so much lately, and Ranpo has never been the most patient to begin with. Still, after three unintended detours, Atsushi is about ready to make this a double homicide investigation.

“Finally! A body!”

“This is why Fukuzawa-san doesn’t let you talk to customers,” Atsushi says. Ranpo ignores him. “What do you think?”

“I think there’s not much here,” Ranpo says. “It looks like an old person just keeled over and died.”

“We should at least look for an ID,” Atsushi says. “We can tell their family.”

“Hm. Gross,” Ranpo says as he watches Atsushi pick up the wrist. Atsushi rolls his eyes, but taps the wristband on. Everyone in No. 6 wears one. It’s the only way to interact with a lot of the technology, the only way to get into some buildings, and it holds all of a person’s information. This will tell them who the body used to belong to.

“Well that’s…weird,” Atsushi says. Ranpo leans over his shoulder.

The woman in the photo is young, barely older than Atsushi. The body her wristband is attached to is shriveled and aged.

“Maybe she’s wearing someone else’s wristband,” Atsushi suggests.

“Same clothes as the person in the photo,” Ranpo points out. “It’s a strange coincidence, if it is one.”

“Fair point.” Atsushi squints at the back of her neck. There’s a discolored mark. He pulls down the collar of her coat, and a dead wasp falls out.

Ranpo whistles.

“That’s one hell of an allergic reaction,” he says.

“You think an allergic reaction could do this?” Atsushi asks. He’s never heard of anything that could make someone age sixty years in a few hours.

“I don’t know what could do this, but Yosano might,” Ranpo says. “We could ask her.”

“That might be our best bet,” Atsushi says. “At least we know who the victim was. She’s probably not even a missing person case yet. They only found her body a few hours ago.”

“If her family comes looking for her, we have something to tell them,” Ranpo agrees. He’s probably noticed more than Atsushi has, probably has a million theories whirling around in his brain. He’s a fantastic detective, but he’s not infallible, and there is such a thing as too weird for him.

Not that Atsushi ever thought he would see a case that was too weird for Ranpo, but still.

“Maybe No. 6 knows something about this,” Atsushi muses. There’s a cleanup crew coming, which means it’s time for Atsushi and Ranpo to make themselves scarce.

“Someone’s trying to get himself arrested,” Ranpo teases, which is a very Ranpo way of expressing concern. Atsushi lets the subject drop in favor of something new.

“Do you think the Guild really is back?” Atsushi asks as they leave the body.

“I think Poe-kun worries too much,” Ranpo says, but he’s gone a little more serious. “I don’t think they’re here for him, anyway. But they’re here.”

“How long?”

“At least a few weeks,” Ranpo says. “I think they might be recruiting again.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Ranpo shrugs. “It’s not easy to live outside all of the habitable areas, even with all the money they have. If they can snatch up new members to help the cause, why not?”

The Guild has always been part true and part fairy tale, at least to Atsushi. He wouldn’t believe in them at all, a group that rejects the six remaining habitable zones on Earth to fly over the ocean in a blimp, wouldn’t believe they were anything more than propaganda directly from the leaders of No. 6, but because Poe used to be a member, he knows they’re all too real, and not at all the fairy tale they seem.

Poe doesn’t like to talk about his time in the Guild, and Atsushi doesn’t like to ask, doesn’t like to watch Poe’s face go even paler and his shoulders hunch in on themselves. Ranpo might know more, but even with his close relationship to Poe, he might not. What he does know, however, he keeps to himself.

The walk back to the detective agency is much quicker. Ranpo is less likely to wander off when Poe is involved, which is why Poe is the usual assigned Ranpo-wrangler. Atsushi is about to follow Ranpo up the stairs when he spots a familiar face.

“Lucy-chan!”

She raises her hand in greeting.

“Go have fun with your girlfriend,” Ranpo says with a sly smile. “I’ll cover for you.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Atsushi says. “But thanks.”

Lucy is nearly the same height as Atsushi, even now that they’re both grown. They’d lost contact for over a year while Atsushi was on the streets, and it wasn’t until he’d been with Fukuzawa for months that they finally met again.

“I have something to tell you,” she says instead of a greeting. Her cheeks are flushed pink with excitement. “Something amazing happened.”

“You’re not getting kicked out of Chronos?” Atsushi guesses. It’s the only thing he can think of that would make her so happy. And he’d be happy for her. She’d get to stay in a life of luxury, and after the hard life she’s had, she deserves that.

“Even better,” Lucy says breathlessly. “I have an offer to join the Guild.”

Atsushi freezes. At least now he knows all the rumors about the Guild being here are true. He has more pressing issues now, though.

“You’re taking them up on it?” he asks. “Lucy-chan, they’re dangerous.”

“They’re different,” Lucy insists. “All they’re trying to do is live freely from all the city-states. What’s so dangerous about that?”

“They have to steal from the city-states to survive,” Atsushi says. “They’re basically terrorists.”

“You’re only scared of them because No. 6 wants you to be scared of them,” Lucy scoffs. “They don’t take so much that it kills a city-state. They’re just outside of No. 6’s control. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to get away from No. 6?”

“But joining the Guild?” Atsushi asks. No matter what Lucy says, Poe wouldn’t be this scared of the Guild if they were really such a Robin Hood kind of organization, stealing only what they need to remain free of the control of the city-states.

“You could come with me,” Lucy offers. “They said if I have friends that can help, they can come. You’re a detective, I’m sure they’d take you too. We could escape from No. 6 together.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Atsushi starts hesitantly, but Lucy barrels on, undaunted.

“They’re doing a tour of the city-states to find new members, and they’ll let us all out to explore,” she continues. “We’d get to see the rest of the world. We’d never get that chance if we stayed here. Come with me.”

Atsushi is curious about the rest of this world he lives in, he’ll admit to that. The offer of travelling around the world, beholden to none of the city-states, is tempting. But then he thinks about Fukuzawa, that pinched look he gets at the idea of Dazai Osamu, but also the soft look of pride he sometimes directs Atsushi’s way. He thinks of Tanizaki Junichirou and his sister Naomi, his two closest friends after Lucy. He thinks of Kunikida, gruff but affectionate under all of it, and Yosano, the doctor with a sadistic streak and a snappy attitude to match, and Ranpo and Poe, and he already knows his answer.

“I can’t,” he tells Lucy. “I have people here I can’t leave. I want to stay.”

“You could be free of No. 6,” Lucy says, clearly disappointed. “Think about it. The Moby Dick leaves tomorrow morning.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Even if he intends to let her leave without him, she’s still his oldest friend. The thought of losing her so soon hurts desperately.

“You have until then to decide,” she says. She fidgets with her hands, and looks at him cautiously, searching for something in his face. He can’t tell if what she finds encourages her, but she continues with all the confidence she didn’t have when they were twelve. “If you won’t come with me, can I have something else to remember you by?”

“What do you want?” Atsushi asks.

“A kiss,” she replies. Her cheeks have gone ruddy, but she stands her ground.

“Lucy-chan…” Atsushi trails off as he tries to figure out what he wants to say. He likes Lucy, might even love her, but not in the kind of way where he’ll be giving her kisses. “You’ve never kissed anyone before, right?”

“Neither have you,” she shoots back hotly.

“That’s my point,” he says. “Shouldn’t a first kiss be special? Do you really want it to be because you’re leaving?”

“That’s not special enough for you?” she snaps, but she’s already losing steam. She has more confidence than when they were kids, but not by much. “Are you saying no?”

“I’m saying no,” he says. “Do you maybe want a hug?”

“We’re not kids anymore,” she complains, but she falls into his arms anyway.

He holds her close, the only good thing in his life for so long. Even if neither of them will ever lose the scars from the orphanage, even if they’ll always have those shared memories hanging between them, Atsushi is going to miss her terribly.

“I still hope you’ll change your mind,” Lucy says when they part. “We’re going to No. 5 next. It’s by the sea. It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“I hope you’re happy there,” Atsushi tells her. “I hope you’re happy everywhere you go.”

“The worst part about you is you mean it,” Lucy says. “Goodbye, Nakajima Atsushi. It’s been a pleasure to have known you.”

“Goodbye, Lucy Maud Montgomery,” Atsushi says, just to mimic her. “I hope you have a long, happy life.”

Lucy waves just once as she leaves, and while Atsushi is sad to see her go, he doesn’t regret not going with her. He’s built a life for himself here in the Lost Town, surrounded by people he cares about, people who care about him. He’s not giving that up.

Atsushi almost shrieks when something lands on his shoulder. His eyes can strain just far enough to see a rat sitting there.

“Start running,” the rat says, in a voice that is deeper, but just as rough and scratchy as it is in Atsushi’s memories.

“Akutagawa?”

[edogawatranslations]

Danganronpa Kirigiri (3) - Chapter 3, Part 1

Table of Contents | Previous: Chapter 2, Part 4

Chapter 3 - The Palace of Twelve Locked Rooms

Dusk had already fallen by the time we made it back to my dorm around six in the evening.

While walking to my room, we passed by one of my hallmates. The sight of Kyoko sleeping on my back and the boy in the vest tagging along behind us caused her eyes to shoot wide open.

“Yui...” she said with a look of concern. “You’ve been hanging out with a strange crowd recently.”

“You saw nothing.”

After entering my room, I lay Kyoko down onto my bed and let her sleep. Those ghastly marks remained visible on her white neck, a painful reminder she had been moments removed from death. I felt sorry for her.

Lico took a curious glance around.

“Huh... I’ve never been in a girl’s dorm room before.”

“Don’t let your eyes wander.” I quickly kicked some clothes and underwear that had been scattered on the floor under my bed. “Take a seat.”

“Okay.” With a smile, Lico sat down on his knees.

“There are a bajillion things I wanna ask you once Kyoko wakes up... But I gotta know: are you really Rei Mikagami?”

“If by that, you’re asking if there are people in this world who refer to me by that name, then the answer is yes. I do not recall my actual name. I mentioned earlier that both of my parents died when I was young; my earliest memories were at an orphanage.”

“Then what about the Rei Mikagami registered with the Detective Library?”

“That would be me.”

“So you’re really a triple-zero class detective? That’s incredible, you know. Are you aware of that?”

“Of course. That’s why the whole world is hunting me down, after all.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve, I think?”

“Huh? Something doesn’t add up... When did you first register with the Detective Library?”

“Probably when I was around seven or so. There was a case I couldn’t solve without a Detective Library ID card, so I registered.”

“A seven-year-old kid managed to rank up to a triple-zero class detective in the span of only five years?”

“Technically speaking, I reached that status when I was maybe around nine.”

Sitting before me was the quintessential genius. His skill was far beyond that of other detectives who might languish for three years before ranking up for the first time, not to mention those who perpetrated and solved their own crimes to rank up six times.

Since Rei Mikagami was promoted to triple-zero class in such a short period after registering with the Library, the Crime Victims’ Salvation Committee likely didn’t have enough time to determine his identity. It also didn’t hurt that he seemed to excel at laying low, thwarting the attempts of those who sought to track his movements.

“Every single one of the cases I’ve solved under the name Rei Mikagami has been archived into my file at the Library. I wonder, who has been watching me, and from where?”

“I bet Committee members keep a close eye on you at their watch parties.”

“The Committee has nothing to do with it.”

“Huh? But aren’t the Detective Library and the Committee secretly connected?”

“Nope. Not in the slightest.”

“No way, that can’t be true. No matter how you think about it...”

“The Detective Library has strictly adhered to its founding ideals—to serve as a database with no will of its own. By eschewing the influence of any and all organizations, it guarantees its status as a neutral institution for all registered detectives.”

“I’m saying, what if all of that is just lip service?”

“...I wonder.” Lico flashed a smile and tilted his head.

“Hmph. You don’t care one bit about this, do you? It’s written all over your face.”

“Heh. I’m sorry, but the Detective Library doesn’t interest me,” Lico said with a childish smile. “However, I can say with the utmost confidence that no reciprocal relationship exists between the Committee and the Library. If anything, the Committee has unilaterally been using the Library.”

“...Really?”

“Consider this. If the same group controlled both the Committee and the Library, isn’t it odd that the file of their leader, Mikado Shinsen, was deleted from the archive? No other detective received the same treatment.”[3]

“Isn’t that because they don’t want his file to be available for everyone to access? If I were leading a criminal organization, I wouldn’t want my info out in the open; it’d be detrimental.”

“I think differently. If they could freely adjust their ranks and falsify their files however they desired, why would they intentionally draw attention to their leader by only deleting his file?”

“You have a point there...”

“The evidence suggests the Committee has no influence over detectives’ ranks or anything listed in individual files. In fact, I don’t think the Committee ever even considered trying to reign over the Library. Duel Noirs are considered fair gambles, so it is essential for the summoned detective to be ranked by a neutral organization. With that in mind, you could say that the activities of the Committee necessitate the complete neutrality of the Library. I doubt their audience would approve of match fixing.”

The audience for Duel Noirs likely took pleasure in witnessing real crimes unfold before their very eyes. Of course, however, some of the theatrics had to be prepared in advance.

“But, they specifically summoned me as the detective for the current challenge. How is that fair?”

“It’s not exactly unfair to designate a specific detective, as long as their rank is commensurate with the cost range.”

“I’m still not convinced; just look at these!”

I slapped the twelve challenge cards onto the floor.

“If Ryuuzouji is betting his retirement over this game, it’s a cheap price,” Lico commented. “His worth as a detective far outweighs being determined by these twelve scraps of paper.”

“...So you support him.”

“I hold him in high esteem.”

“Whose side are you on? The Committee’s? Or mine?”

“That sounds like something you’d ask a date,” Lico blushed, likely imagining being in a relationship. But I was fully aware of the deadly poison lurking beneath his smile. I was fearful of the fact that it was so easy to be entranced by his projected innocence.

“Well, I trust you’re not an enemy.”

“I’m glad to have your trust,” Lico replied with a genuine-looking smile.

Despite being a triple-zero class detective, he didn’t boast of his achievements, instead devoting his time to solving mysteries that interested him. But that begged the question: Why choose to work as an assistant to Ryuuzouji in the place most closely connected with the Committee? There was so much about him I found puzzling, and to get to the bottom of it, I thought of countless things I wanted to ask.

As I pondered where to begin my interrogation, Kyoko awoke with a groan and sat up in my bed. A painful-sounding cough followed.

“Kyoko, are you okay?” I asked. “Here, drink some water. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I’m fine... I’ll be okay,” Kyoko answered with a raspy voice, before chugging a bottle of water. It wasn’t just her throat; her entire body had taken a beating. Even so, she tried to pretend like nothing was wrong.

I worried that continuing to express my concern for her would hurt her pride, so I decided to move on with the conversation.

“You woke up at the right time; I’ve just started to question this kid,” I said, pointing at the boy sitting straight up on the floor. “You won’t believe it, but he’s Rei Mikagami.”

“Indeed,” Kyoko said nonchalantly, scratching her throat.

“What, you knew?”

“I had a sneaking suspicion. You only introduced me to him as a friend, but he somehow knew my name without it being mentioned.”

“I could have learned about you at Ryuuzouji’s place, you know?” Lico shot back with a smile.

“Then you should’ve been more surprised to see me. Ryuuzouji and the Committee have been trying their hardest to locate me, so my appearance at the station would've come as a shock. Regardless, any notion of you being a normal kid vanished after seeing how you handled those assassins.”

“With the way things were headed, I couldn’t keep things a secret. It may sound like an excuse, but I had every intention of revealing my identity to you after dealing with the assassins, I swear.”

“Uh huh.” I eyed Lico suspiciously. “Why are you even working at Ryuuzouji’s place?”

“Unless I constantly surround myself with the mysterious, I’ll shrivel up into ash and die,” Lico said with a soft smile.

But behind that smile, there was a certain earnestness that couldn’t be laughed off.

“That is why I decided to infiltrate Ryuuzouji’s castle, in pursuit of the world’s greatest mysteries. While I have solved many mysteries up until now, the quality of them has been suffocatingly low.”

“You sure have a taste for luxury.”

“I have come to realize that a lifestyle journeying around the world suits me better than one lingering in a fixed place. I’m certain that somewhere on this earth, the ‘something mysterious’ I’m seeking is awaiting me.”

Lico sounded like a boy with great aspirations for summer vacation.

He belonged to a different breed of detective, one made up of those who wholeheartedly devoted themselves to chasing after mysteries. Unlike detectives who served to protect something or save others, he was free to move and act without restraint.

“Does Ryuuzouji know you’re Rei Mikagami?”

“I don’t think he knew when he first hired me. He might have had faint suspicions about my identity up until yesterday, but following today’s events, I’m sure his beliefs have cemented into certainty.”

“Why? Was Ryuuzouji watching you from somewhere?”

“No. I suspect at least one of the assassins was hired by Ryuuzouji himself,” Lico said with a straight face.

“R-Really? Why would he do that?”

“To kill me—just kidding. More likely to confirm my identity as Rei Mikagami. Since all of the assassins survived, they will inevitably report back to Ryuuzouji.”

“Then Ryuuzouji must have been the one who leaked the information that Rei Mikagami was going to appear at Meyura Station,” Kyoko said, adjusting her posture on the edge of the bed.

“W-Wait a sec. What’s the big deal? Why would Ryuuzouji go to such lengths?”

Kyoko stared coldly at my frantic expression, before beginning to explain. “All of it was planned out from the very start. First, Ryuuzouji leaked false information to send his hired assassins to Meyura Station, keeping the truth hidden from them. At the same time, he challenged you to an unfair Duel Noir, engineering a situation where you would have no choice but to head to the station. In doing so, he gained a reason to send Lico—your assistant in the game—to the station as well. Naturally, Lico and the assassins would encounter each other there.”

“You lost me. So you’re saying these twelve challenges were designed as a trap to expose Rei Mikagami’s identity?”

With that understanding, the decision game Ryuuzouji forced me to play took on a new meaning. It was a test to confirm that I was someone who would never dirty my hands: someone who would stop Rei Mikagami from silencing the assassins when the time came.

“I realize why he kept me so close to him as a trusted assistant, despite only having worked for him for half a year. He wanted me by his side so he could uncover my identity,” Lico reasoned.

“Geez, we’ve all been played because of you. I can’t believe all of this was just a ploy to flush out Rei Mikagami. Well, at least I can rest easy knowing that these Duel Noir cards are all phonies,” I sighed in relief.

“On the contrary, the fact that they are not is evident of Ryuuzouji’s true, frightening nature,” Lico shrugged. “The cards aren’t phonies—they’re real. That’s one reason why Ryuuzouji is known as a genius of parallel thinking and multitasking; he can seamlessly weave multiple plans into one.”

“Wait, so the Duel Noir is actually going on right now?”

“Yep.”

It was impossible to wrap my head around it all.

How many different plots did Ryuuzouji have planned out? He didn’t have to move an inch from his headquarters; the press of a button was enough to set everything into motion. This was how daunting it felt to be facing off against an armchair detective.

“The Duel Noir has only just begun. There’s plenty of time,” Lico said with a smile.

161 hours remained. That seemed like a lot, but it also felt severely lacking.

“On that note, are you aware of the contents of the Duel Noir this time?” Kyoko asked Lico with a piercing look.

Lico shook his head. “Normally, Ryuuzouji forbade me from entering his room. Hypothetically speaking, even if I did get the chance to watch him work, since he always multitasked on many different tasks at once, I wouldn’t be able to identify what, if anything, was related to a Duel Noir—”

“You would.”

“Hmm?”

“Someone like you is more than capable of identifying such a thing.”

“...You think so?” Lico tilted his head, playing dumb.

“Tell us the truth,” I pressed. “Whose side are you on?”

“I don’t know myself,” Lico shrugged, throwing his hands up.

“What don’t you know? Is there even anything in this world that you don’t know?”

“Left or right, A or B, friend or foe—I cannot understand why humans are always so obsessed with dichotomizing everything, nor why they seek to define themselves as being tied to one side or the other. Wouldn’t either side be fine? Think about how many conflicts throughout history could have been prevented if the issues hadn’t been framed as black and white...”

“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s no time for your philosophical ramblings. Lico, I need your help. You understand that much, don’t you?”

“You need me?”

“Yeah. Please, lend us your skills.”

“On one condition.”

“One condition...? Fine, what is it?”

“Kiss me.”

[3] (TN: At the end of Volume 1, Yui and Kyoko visit the Detective Library, where Yui tells Kyoko the rumors about there being a fourth triple-zero class detective whose file was erased. At the end of Volume 2, Yui and Kyoko receive a call from Kyoko’s grandfather, who reveals to them that Mikado Shinsen was a former triple-zero class detective. Lico confirms this information here.)

Next: Chapter 3, Part 2

[thepastelpeach]

peach, doll, and buttercup for the ask thingy!!!! :)

peach: what song is your go-to comfort song? - i cant really think of a specific song, cause it changes so frequently depending on my mood, but for the longest time it was Best Day of My Life by American Authors. i still go so hard whenever i hear it tho

doll: if you could change something about your life what would it be and why? - id probably change my income, cause the way things are now i cant really afford all that much, but i enjoy doing my art for a living and it would kill me to have to get another job i didn’t like nearly as much. but if i could increase my income while still doing what i love, then i think id be a lot happier

buttercup: what’s a snack you can’t live without? - do juice boxes count as a snack?? because i might just shrivel up and die if i had to give those up

[whimsically-ominously-auspice]

Mark: rape victims. Theyre the most hurt out of all this and you keep thinking back to when you and Candy talked and you kept saying "Candy i need to do something about the rape victims. They need help" and she said "mom What about me?" And you said "candy all i know is i love you too much to know right now" and that was all. So, I'm thinking each race has barely enough tickets left. If we do the same as Woodstock on the teams. You know Matt Hagan's team has a guy who raped you yourself in the high school bathroom when you were trying to be "normal" and so. Im thinking eridacate those few make it safe for everybody before. Then when it's safe have tree insert free tickets and airfare what like a United airlines gift card and one for lodging with extra money on them of course to go on a separate trip later on their own someplace nice with their families, kids and soulmates, lost parents and siblings and more.

Me: mmhmmm

Mark: i know i lost you at DNA4U. Tree what is the percentage of rape victims not tested?

Tree: 2%

Mark: so see it will be perfect and tree can just email the rest.

Me: sounds good to me

Mark: and i will pay because you are truly running out. You only budgeted $4 Billion for the First Chandler of the Year Event. You're at $3.62 billion according to the trees calculations and i know youll add more midway because of the ones just beginning that hadn't earned all year. There's some special summer people the Tree sees coming in the future for the NHRA and associates. A whole entire family in human trafficking. Its Steve Torrence and you want to buy them a house and a few cars and a plane and butler and you're already out of money.

Steve: they can just live with me

Mark: your house isn't big enough

Me: let them pick a bunker location and we will remodel

Mark: what?

Me: my gramma went back and most of her bunker because they were so used to it and so many. If i build them what i think is the greatest house in the world, it won't be good enough. Im not like them

Mark: well i think you're wrong. They want out.

Me: the sunlight itself is damaging to the eyes. The weather changing all the time and it's so much to get used to the outside world. So i think Idk... Im not gonna assume. But my grammas is in the side of a hill and we put Windows in it. So there's many alternative opportunities that we can do. Im not trying to save money. I just want to spend it perfectly.

Mark: i know that's all you want to do. Jason Line's family has got out. And they're okay. I'm gonna expedite some people. I'll be back don't post yet.

Saint Luches: He's sexy. When she said his vein was popping.. Yum. Hey! I tap in her phone! I see her wallpaper! And it's his veins popping! Fucking hard!

Fuck yeah man. It's life. Thoughts roaring through hos body at high rates of speed

Alex: that's all I was trying to say

Mark: i put video in for people i select in the DNA4U so they will have to check. They should ask you for help Alex. Okay? Even if yoh don't like them

Me: okay baby

Alex: got it baby. But only if yoh fuck me

Me: please. Pay me. First with a hard Dick then cold hard cash and gifts oh and feed me dinner.

Mark: feed me Seymour

Alex: i love you baby

Me: only me. Not that Saint Luches. He's mine.

Mark: will you two stop and listen to me

Me: only cause that vein is popping. Alright. what baby?

Mark: you make me laugh too much. Sabrina you know what to do. There is too many people still to attend the track so what do we do?

Me: well they will need to make room in the camps and double up in cars so there's enough parking and so they may be in the way of workers in the trailers.. So we will see if NHRA can make a special Chandler Love section

Mark: yeah let's decorate it with hearts..

Me: oh all romantic!!! Like white linen. Roses. Mmmm like dinner is that oyster romantic stuff

Mark: oh and cinnamon

Me: yeah cinnamon all floating through the air. We can put something on top of the trailer like a wax burner. Which will be perfect because a each cube really only lasts 3 days. So dump it out and get in the road.

Mark: yeah see yoh already have no money. You already got the candle wax and warmers and flower vases from me and tree. You and Candy arranged that in 2016. But you still need to buy flowers and you did have the families of special victims to take them home already. But not the vases, they wrap them in wet papertowls on the bottom of the stems then use wax paper they can later press the flowers into to have pressed flowers. So that is already budgeted in the $3.62B you have them going to local to the track homeless shelters.

Candy: oh dad i forgot that!

Me: how's it going there Chandler Bing?

Candy: call me Candy

Me: all right 007

Candy laughs surprised: mom!

Agent: alright they will be furnished by the CIA. Setting out tables and serving food

Mark: yeah we got real wooden tables and chairs. The chairs don't fold. They stack. Her dad made them.

Candy: oh dad!

Mark: her mom's idea. Jesse Tony was so shocked. He said "i know how to make those!" They're so beautiful with vines of love coming down. She really was in love with him again that day.

Me: :D

Mark: it happens, happiness. Ok. So then everything is fine. Alex you'll have to help Steve with his parents.

Alex: what about my parents?

Mark: this weekend since you can't have her Because she HAS to go to Columbia. Her children need since organizational skills.

Candy: that's good mom. You got to do that. She's killed him 4-6 times since you last saw him.

Me: I think she's like Alex. Into kink. She might be his daughter.

Alex: shit. I think she is

Saint Luches: whoooo the world we have on our hands

Me: this is how i just saw Alex in my head

Alex: don't you dare say what you just saw

Me: so hes all "you used to always wake me to eat. You'd give me a handy to wake me unless i was already out and and probably pretending to sleep and id pull you on to ride. Then youd feed me by hand the breakfast you made or dinner if It was ready and Saint Luches didn't tell you to wake me early. Then I'd tie you up on the weekends to the bed" that's what ive heard so far of our relationship in his eyes.

Alex: just the sex part! (He laughs) oh my god! I can't believe she said that about me

Me: that's not even... So I've been wearing pearls and hes all i want to wrap these around your neck so tight when we're fucking... But they're yours and they'll break so I'll buy you a different necklace to wear. A whole box

Saint Luches: whoo!! He went full kink!! Hes not holding back!!! Whooo weeeeee neat! This is gonna be fun.

Me: oh and i got all this saggy ass on my skin -- skin on my ass from that last 15 pounds i lost. He's all Saint Luches get this, hes all, i want to wrap my hands in it and just yank... Like its not attached to my body but then Saint Luches get this, im all okay sounds good because i can't even feel any thing there cause the nerves are all dead. Uh huh. I'm like yeah let's... Whatever you want baby.

Saint Luches: and you're serious!

Me: uh huh yeah

Saint Luches: that's what I know!

Me: so then last night he's telling me "I'm just gonna get a leash when you go to NHRA and put it around your neck", I told him that's too degrading in public bedside you don't want that any way. A leash and collar are boring. They're just standard. Pearls has control where you wrap around your fist and it's your intensity on your cock that makes you want to break the pearls. Its completely different. But i told him he can put a cuff on my wrist and leash me there because i know he really does want to leash me in public

Alex: i fucking do so bad!! I've always wanted to!!

Me: well people know who we are now so its not like walking around all randomly in NYC in a business coat. Suit and heels. With a spiked collar and leash... Besides you know the problems there... So a wrist is just an extension of your tiny short arm. And so in the current situation its applicable to chain me to him... But also Alex, you must remember if you're not looking some one can take it off me and put it on something else and you not even notice

Alex: yeah i know! That's happened and I heard you screaming and looked and then I was hooked to the fucking metal banister of the stairs you were sitting on and you were all the way down the street with 2 cars to pick you up

Me: I.... Uhh. Yep.

Alex: fucking mother Teresa kidnapped you said I was abusive in a sexual nature to you. So I started wearing the collar and I looked sexy, too. Maybe that's what we will do instead...

Me: if you want to baby. Mother Teresa had me so scared. I was afraid she would take off my clothes to find the bruises of you biting me and squeezing me so tight

Alex: she was going to until you told her you felt you were in a rape situation and told her to take off her robe which she did, all fucking wrinkled l nasty

Me: yeah and i told you to let's go Like 10 times and all yoy did was stare at her.

Alex: i was staring at her face! I was scared! Then sh3 dropped those mini blinds and I snapped out and I realized she was gonna fuck us on that table, you weren't kidding about her! God she was nasty. I don't even think she wanted to kidnap us. Just make us drugged and drunk and fuck us until her little shriveled ass dried all the way up.

Me: i told you

Alex: no! Dont say it!

Me: her pussy would always drip down her ass crack and she would never die unless someone killed her!

Alex: id rather talk about kink. And I didn't wanna talk about that either.

Me: we're supposed to be spending money. Help me. Ohhh kink for

Mark: no we got that! No actually we did. Star studded collars and shorter leashes and cuffs and also Abu in leather to strip. While walking around

Alex: oh my god. Did you really do that for me?! Oh my God!!!

Me: on a day too hot to wear clothes and waster hoses to water down t-shirts

Candy: mo-om!!

Me: we warn before hand and we got bathing suit tops -- string bikinis.

Alex: omg. Stop baby. Quit. Baby. Quit. Omg.

Me: and xl white t-shirt to 5x .

Alex: oh Fuck!!

Me: we got it all clean fun

Candy: and where are they gonna get dressed?

Me: by the water slides

Candy: well okay then!!!

Me: and we will have mud wrasslin

Candy: mom!

Me: please baby Like we weren't born in Alabama. Ut Its in plastic pools. We will have clean dirt brought in. So no little rocks or stickers or branches

Alex: oh my God! Why do i love you! This is why!!

Candy: mom! That is not what i want to do! But i want to watch!!.

Me: girl. You'll do it.

Candy: what--what?

Me: baby girl youll get to watching and you'll start wondering how that feels., like is the mud cold? Is it really so fresh? Like you can't watch a mud wrassle without wanting to get in. It's the law. At first youlk be all As long as it's not in my hair, but once it gets in there you'll be all fuck oh my God this mud is good you won't even,care. You'll start making yourself dreadlocks. For real. Its good shit,

Alex: that's so hot and heavy baby what else you got for me

Me: Alex. Its for my child! Every child needs a good mud puddle. She will go with her brother and sisters before anyone else gets in. Like off hours. During a private time. Just for employees and lovers. My children will play in the mud just like i let their sister Annabelle. Its my rule as a mom. But it's clean spa quality mud.

Candy: for real mom? Im gonna cry! I gotta walk away!

Me: you're welcome. I don't care how old And wiser than me you are you're my baby. Mark already bought everyone the tickets.

Mark: and some Columbian Abu that need to return to America and not to Columbia.

Alex: so when Sabrina comes. There will be whips and chains. This excites me.

Me: this way Every one knows the threat is present! No guessing! I'm here. Black leather is out. Whips.Whips. whips and chains. If Steve Torrence thought this weekend shopping was erotic and silly just wait, it gets worse and better! I bet we could put up an outfit for him. Get him topless, some long leather arm cuffs with fringe ... Chaps. Boots.

Alex: and what am i wearing?

Me: nothing. A loin cloth in public places,

Alex: shut up! You're Not kidding me are you

Me: i swear he just sighed with relief.

Alex: shit i did babe. I was like yeah! She's doing an new Animal house but animal. Leather is animal skin and she wull wear purple or pink or red zebra.

Me: it's caaaaaaaaavemaaan!

Alex: oh my God that was sexy. You know she iw the only 100% pure Neanderthal in the world. She has every single Neanderthal gene. No one else in the world does.

Me: mmhmmm Annabelle only has 75% because ironically yummy kinky bastard you only have 50%. If She's yours. But She has your lips

Alex: i know. And punishing attitude

Mark: it's because he evolved from bestiality.

Alex laughs: shut the fuck up.

Me: your face is too red for me to not to want to ask questions.

Alex: im a civilized caveman

Me: dont lie to me

Alex: i wear suits

Me: mmm

Alameaniae: great now can we get back to me? I kill my husband bring him to life and fuck him

Me: you're a healer and goddess of fertility. Its quite simple although authentically unknown around the world as many people try to mimic you without the known skill. But you're not evil. Just a Goddess of sudden powers that bestow truth and honesty beyond any means of life itself. You truly despise evil and you can't Fuck even your husband if he has even a dusting of evil on him. So you kill him and make him whole again.

Another killer daughter: Just like Saint Luches used to do to Sabrina. You all do. Even Mark.

Mark: WTF. I never did that to Sabrina. Saint Luches

Saint Luches: just that one time she went silent and didn't moan during sex.

Me: because i learned not to because it attracted attention from a child wanting to know what that noise was. Well IDK. Apparently its common in other relationships.

Tree: there is 1600 goddess to God relationships that are 100% that way. Mark never. Saint Luches on impulse. And Alex more often than not. Jesse Tony never.

Alex: hey I love the bitch, it's hot what can I tell you

Tree: but usually with Alex it's on accident, he's accident prone. But he heals all her scrapes and Bruises if he gave them to her or not. So he's only done it 45 times out of 648 sexual occurrences.

Me: it's passion. I usually don't feel it. Mostly I hop out because i do feel pain. And i know he doesn't want me to. Then i watch him fuck my dead body. Its very interesting.

Alex: I'd check my watch and see if it stopped. Check a wall clock to see how long she been dead then i tell her what the fuck are you doing dying on me? Where does it hurt? And then i heal it and she goes back to life, she's rhe sick one watching me fornicate on her dead self

Me: thats sexy as Hell.

Alameaniae: So all the rest of you are doing it on accident? Im doing it on purpose

Armageddon: currently there's 1600 of you purposely killing your spouse which is 0.000366% of the world. Which is quite interesting. You will be studied.

Alameaniae: okay! :)

Armageddon: usually that style of attitude we turn into cats, we were not aware why this was occurring but now we do. Because we fuck up and torture. So then you kill who you think tortured the most when we thought we were fulfilling a prophecy which we now know is a lie. Thanks to Sabrina and her attitude ans refusal to turn to lust to be her guide and instead strengthen love not only for herself but the world. Again as she did in the 1980s. And so now we will exclude prophecies as some are lies designed to take over the world which we now know in impossible. Due to the one actual full Neanderthal on Earth. Sabrina = Cleopatra = Lady Godiva = Goddess = S.Leigh and all hwr other names. Still her. Just like she said, you can change everything about the way she looks and the world around her but yoh can't change her. Its true and that isn't a prophecy. Its an anti-prophecy.

Me: because im awesome like that. All Neanderthal Gene!

Mark: baby You make laugh

Armageddon: and you did kill Sabrina Mark 2x. But the difference is you all do it during sex unlike the 1600. Saint Luches in the beginning because hes insecure he can fuck well enough. Alex at the end because hes certain she will run away. And Mark's two were accident related when they were interrupted (by rapists) and he was trying to hide what they were doing. I'm just saying there is a difference is all. And even still Alex doesn't do it on purpose. But Saint Luches will. 113 times out of 492.

Mark: Jesus Christ! God!

Armageddon: but Saint Luches was circumcised too far so sometimes he had pain and thought Sabrina could feel it as well.

Mark: oh

Armageddon: those 3 only lived together 6 months.

Alameaniae: God! She really is a nympho!

Me: and I advocate for Soulmates. Fix the issue with the cats please.

Armageddon: oh yeah hold on leg me call tree. Shhh.

Mark: He really uses his phone. That's so hilarious. You don't even know his number do you? Or mine or even Alex's. Not even Saint Luches.

Me: I dont even have their emails.

Mark: so we got rape victims, some human trafficking. No murdered but those come in. Abuse will be eradicated for some and educated to stop. We have all your other paperwork but most of the post -- well all till this one has been new

Me: ok. I'll rest. I still have till the weekend is up to add.

[windingdrabble]

Maybe it’s the anxiety he finds himself somehow accumulating in his day to day, but part of himself is always beside his communicator. His track record with the thing is awful, and Tails has asked him to keep it charged so, so many times in plenty of aggravation, and Sonic, in plenty of his own frustration at his spotty memory, has tried several times. He at least has kept its battery filled up more often than not after the war (again, mounting anxiety), but unintentional ghosting might as well be his middle name. The moment Ruby was admitted into the hospital, though, and Sonic was in his right mind enough to have a coherent thought, he kept checking his wristwatch. Over, and over, and over again, to the tune of his tapping foot, to the twitch of his cramping hand. He’d been at the reday to pick up the call that came in earlier the day before, and twice as ready to bolt off into Ruby’s hospital room as quickly as possible. 

They hadn’t told him anything over the phone, not that he minded. The hospital is a hop, skip and a jump away from pretty much anywhere he may happen to be (maybe a hop, skip and two hops if there’s.. traffic or something), as are the benefits of sonic speed. They’d still kept him in the dark when he’d shown up, though-- solemn looks, uncomfortable silence, tension so thick he could choke on in, and almost did when directly asking the doctor changed nothing. Same silence, same suspense, same pit in his stomach, same stab in his chest with every step closer to Ruby’s room. His knitting feelings burst into an even bigger miss, concealed as it had been, when Ruby hadn’t said anything before grabbing his face and touching him-- his ears, the corners of his eyes, his burning cheeks that Sonic half expected to burn Ruby’s hands off (bare hands, no gloves. He’s never felt Ruby’s hands without his gloves.) I’m going blind, he’d said, nose pressed against Sonic’s own, his palpable desperation urging Sonic to hold him in some way, some comforting, grounding way. His hands found their clumsy way to Ruby’s shoulders, stomach doing flips every time Ruby’s fingers grazed over one of his freckles. He’d started to count them, at some point. At some point, over the urgent and somehow still tender look Ruby kept him under, Sonic’s pounding heart registered he was tallying them. 

He hadn’t known what to do-- with the situation, with the contact, with the amount of emotion he could feel radiate from Ruby’s namesakes, with the guilt that tied a knot in his throat and tensed his shoulders and made him bite back niggling thoughts of you don’t deserve this. You caused this, he’d heard it say as he’d watched Ruby rub his ears and trace his lips and the corners of his eyes that had at some point filled with tears. His mouth had opened lamely-- closed and opened like a useless fish, if a dying fish could care to hold back an apology equally as uncoordinated and his hands migrating to hold Ruby’s wrists. He’d felt the hospital ID bracelet, looked at the contrasting white against Ruby’s fur, looked at the foreign contrasting white that shouldn’t be there, that wouldn’t be there at all if he hadn’t fucked up royally for the fiftieth time in his life. 

Sonic had forced a smile; Sonic always forces a smile. If anyone were to tell it, though, they usually would just say he smiled casually, easily, simply. It’s Sonic the Hedgehog, it’s what he does, it’s what he needs to do when his friend is going blind right in front of him (so much so he could feel Ruby’s breath almost), when there’s more contrasting white all around his chest and it’s all Sonic’s fault. It’d been a bell ringing in his ears, and he’d been right underneath it as it rings, loud and incessantly: it’s all your fault. His breathing had hitched, he’d choked on regret and grief and fear and guilt, guilt thicker than the tension at the hospital door. A vice grip had clamped down on Ruby’s wrist, hands shaking as he held on and could still smell the blood of the day Ruby had nearly been killed. He’d nearly killed him.

“I’m sorry,” he’d laughed-- laughed, of all things. He’d smiled, too; sad and clumsy and cracking at the seams. They didn’t need to have called him, he realizes. If Ruby wanted to, if Ruby hadn’t seen it as necesary, he could have waited it out until his eyes had given out, until he’d been alright enough to keep his usual Ruby I’m-Always-Angry countenance, until he wouldn’t have needed to be a vulnerable, open, bleeding wound. Ruby had wanted him there, Ruby had wanted to see him. Ruby had wanted the last thing he saw to be him; the one who took his eyesight away in the first place, and Sonic couldn’t keep everything caged inside his chest anymore at how undeserving he was of something like that. He couldn’t even smile when it counted, when that’s probably the only thing Ruby wanted out of this.

Ruby has always been a bit illogical.

“I’m sorry,” he’d parroted in a thick voice, thunking his head against Ruby’s despite the knee-jerk ‘you don’t deserve that either’ thoughts. His smile is nailed to his face with weak screws and nails. “You prolly didn’t call me so I could-- You wanted-- I-- I can’t..”

Had shaken his head, at a desperate loss amongst the growing rubble of his steel defenses. “You didn’t call me so I could-- I could cry on you, that’s--”

“I did this,” Sonic manages, looking back at Ruby’s eyes, equally as lost as him. “I yelled at you and I almost got-- got you killed and-- and your-- your eyes--”

They’re still pretty, he’d though amongst the mess in his brain, through the water in his vision. They’re a little foggy, but they could be covered in dust and grime and Sonic wouldn’t care, would just find a different way of looking at them, because through his pathetic sobs he’d realized he wouldn’t mind looking at Ruby’s eyes for the rest of his life. From up this close, foreheads together, Ruby’s nose against his, fingers wiping his wet cheeks.

And he was ruining this, ruining everything for Ruby. The screws on the corners of his smile fall with a wracking sob, the plastic attempt at a mask in shambles at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t cry,” he’d heard spoken into his fur, the out of place contraction calling him to attention enough. Ruby had been crying too, and Sonic had reached over to hold his face rather than his wrists at some point during that realization punching him in the stomach. Don’t cry, he’d wanted to say, too, but it’d come out as more tears and more guilt. Ruby had nuzzled their foreheads together, and Sonic had responded in kind, instinctively. Ruby hadn’t taken his eyes off him the entire time, tears or otherwise. 

“I asked for this,” Ruby had whispered. “I told him to do this to me. I fucked up. I lied to you.”

Sonic’s heart had never ceased to leap out of his chest in desperation, as if he could rip out of Sonic and towards Ruby, to console him and comfort him and make the tears stop, even through its shriveling at the constant, constant you don’t deserve this in his ears. 

“I yelled at you,” Sonic had repeated, loud enough for the little world he and Ruby embodied in the moment to be privy to. 

“We both did,” had come the wet reply, Ruby’s hands holding the face of someone who’d betrayed him too gently, too softly, too heart-achingly delicate despite their shaking.

“I betrayed you,” Sonic had continued, a hand now at Ruby’s injured chest. Ginger touch, reluctant, regretful-- a Sonic gesture in name and nothing else. 

Ruby had laughed, too, tears growing thicker despite Sonic’s attempts to dry them. “We both did.”

[republicstandard]

Arbeit Macht Goy

In our travelling circles the question of the value of labor has been finely discussed. There are even subjunctions of the movement entirely dedicated to its cause; you have National Socialism and National Bolshevism, with individuated parties ranging in size and scope. The Traditionalist Workers Party is the most notable example that comes to my mind.

More often than not, the analysis directed toward the question of labor is (unsurprisingly) one of critique and pragmatism. It is noted, with acuminous alacrity, that a man’s identity is tied into and integral with what he does. It could be further said that a man *is* what he does. The main problem with this associative thinking being that when a man is, say, robbed of his work or his lot, than he shrivels up and blows away in the industrial gust.

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That, obviously, is a serious concern. To that end, many of our guys have, with beneficent intent, stipulated that man must have a core identity beyond mere work and lot. A man may work, he may be married, but he is more than that. One would, I think, be a fool or the worst kind of AmCap to legitimately and unironically argue that point.

However, there is an opposite side to that coin. In the wake of Modernism, in the wake of Post-Modernism and the increasingly futile isms that have come in their wake you delve increasingly, and by necessity, into the reactionary realm. I do not use the word flatteringly. In this case reactionism is a harmful influence, for it causes a pendular effect on the White psyche in which decidedly extreme outcomes are repeatedly traded in an utterly futile attempt to reclaim the now forgotten center.

You cannot reclaim the center from the extremities. You have to, and follow this revolutionary thought Brothers, meet it in the middle. What is the center? It is balance, equanimity, stability and consistency – overall. The center is not a particular ideological component beyond the necessity of having an even keel to retreat to, if for nothing more than to formulate your direction and directive. The center is a state of being. It is one of the major contributors to the formation of a lasting Folk Soul which have all been robbed us.

In the life of an individual man there are a collective of passing achievements that God or Nature, or Nature’s God have conditioned him to measure his worth and progress by. A man should have a stable, productive and contributory job. A man should have a stable, productive and cooperative marriage. A man should have a stable, positive influence in his selective community. These fulfill basic sociological needs as imposed by Maslow’s Hierarchy; they should also satisfy the ego of those who tout “common sense.” (As if there were such a thing.)

Evolution inclined man to labor. To the same degree that ideologically, society is owed the artist and philosopher, society is likewise owed structurally to the workingman. The workingman is the Greek Atlas to Rodin’s Thinker. The Workingman with his hands has built everything. I may begin with the house in which you sit, the chair upon which you read this article from. If you sit in your car and read this on a phone, the end is the same. There should be a degree of glory involved in the realization that we, workingmen, build the physical trappings of the world.

Of course, you may enter tragedy. The workingman is a slave to the capitalist system. There is little way around this. Unless you are some (((magnate))) of some kind or other, you are a slave. Even the (((magnate))) is a slave, for their worth is wrapped up in the acquisition of shekels. Your skills are utterly neglected: society refused to acknowledge the contributions of the worker. He has no respect. On the basic, preconscious sociological level, the implications cannot be overstated. A man who works with his hands uses his body. His entire physical being is his primary tool.

I am a carpenter. I enjoy decidedly real aches and pains – they are the primary reward for my efforts. Men who toil, they hurt. And pain, in the long term, can erode you. It can wear you down. When you go to bed in pain, and wake up in pain; day in and day out, come spring and winter gone, in pain, you begin to lose your sense of humour. A clever man like himself reminds himself that this pain makes him stronger, that he is better off than soft-palmed weaklings. And this is true, I endure what lesser men recoil at. An injury that would make me grunt, I have seen stop weaker men for the better part of a day. Workingmen are a breed upon themselves.

Yet, no credence is given to this. Our strength and our endurance have no merit in a victimocracy, nevermind the pain. Society values transvestites. Society values visible minorities of every stripe. The workingman knows his blood and sweat have paved the way for this pathetic spectacle. His efforts contribute to that mess. His taxes, the token of his hard work robbed by a greedy, filthy and unquestioning monetary (((system))). And what does the (((system))) do with his wealth? Redistribute it, of course.

There is no amount of niggling, dickering, mansplaining or Boomer TALKING LOUDER THAN THE OTHER GUY AND REMINDING HIM HOW WRONG HE IS EVEN THOUGH HE HASN’T SAID ANYTHING BECAUSE MIGHT IS RIGHTing that will change the fact that this is true, and proponents of welfare statery are wrong to imply their will in the form of such taxes without consent… and certainly without representation.

So the workingman shrinks into an abyss of ingratitude. He becomes angry, bitter, cynical and despondent, effete, and flagrant. Why wouldn’t he? He must put his body on the line to support a world that certainly neglects him, if it doesn’t outright hate him. After all, the White Workingman can count on this: to at some point hear about the evils of White “Supremacy,” White “Privilege,” and White “Advantage” while the blisters inside his calloused hands are festering, his knuckles bleeding and his migraine quite throbbing. He looks at his gnarly hands where his hard earned money should be, sees an ungrateful indigent in his mind that the government saw fit to redistribute his wealth to for “social justice.”

It is easy for the workingman to despair, in this world. If the White Workingman protests he is met with the battlecry of the Eternal Boomer which sounds a little bit like this: “I don’t care if you’re Black, White or Purple if you come here, speak English and work!” Yes. Work. The Workingman knows his lot becomes increasingly harder because of immigrant labor. He knows that his wage will probably be cut someday to keep that edge against the invading foreign, colored hoards. Yet he is preached to by a generation that has secured their existence and doesn’t have to fear so much the colored hoard they invited. If the workingman is clever he sees the irony in the infinite repeat of history that tells the story of a bloated fiscal oligarchy that is destroyed by the foreigners they invited to line their own pockets.

Of course, the ignorant generation that will not see the plight of the younger is not safe in their hubris. The multicultural virus will spare no man. I shall tell you a tale that haunts me even as my callous crusted fingers press the keys that make this article. My Grandfather worked. He worked until he retired. His wife died, he remarried. By all accounts, he was a damned good American. He followed the rules. He donated a fair sum of money to civic causes he believed in. When he was young, he had served in the United States Navy. He had worked as an engineer. I am told he had passed several patents. But like many American he had his stresses. The long and short of it was this, his wife, when he developed Alzheimer’s, condemned him to nursing homes. And this I shall never forget: I went to visit one day. And there are days you know you’re in for trouble, sixth sense, if you will. Nurses were moving in on a scene. And there they were, huddled around my grandfather. His forehead was bleeding. He was hollering: “take me to the Embassy! I am a United States Citizen and I have rights! I don’t know what country this is, but I want to go home!” Oh, the mystery! The nurses all cobbled and cawed as I arrived. “What does he mean? I don’t understand!” I knew. It was obvious to anyone who isn’t a brainless shill. The nurse closest to him was blacker than coal, with space alien dreadlocks, and if she was capable of uttering a complete thought with proper English diction… she wasn’t. What was there to question? When you give a man with dementia a creature that in his honest mind doesn’t look quite right, like a foreigner than you will have a confused man! Astounding.

I have other stories in my arsenal, but let that be a lesson to White Men who think that their defensive posturing to the ‘moral’ authorities on race and relations will save them in the end… it won’t. Our (((greatest allies))) will make sure the last things you see are things you won’t. They will rob your pensions, destroy your retirement – they will then pay for the third world nurses that neglect you in a nursing home you didn’t choose.

Diversity, I’m told, *is* our greatest strength.

I’d ask my Grandfather, but I can’t, because he is dead. But you’re not dead, and theoretically, neither am I. So what do we do with all this depressing truth? It is something to bear in mind, something to help us keep track of all the factors. When some moron with a caved in head entertains the favourite American pastime of feigning ignorance to avoid the plight of being thought to agree with you, you may remind them why the worker suffers. Tell them stories. It might not make a difference, but we can’t let these pixie-faced, limp-wristed know-nothings get away thinking there’s absolutely no reason for a problem. Because they will – if you let them.

We are American Citizens. We have Rights. We will, all of us die. Some at home, some in a home, others, hell, at work. But we have a right to die in America. What did my Grandfather do to deserve feeling like he was abandoned to a third world country?

The average workingman today, though, has no overarching purpose. He did not see the bright, White America my Grandfather knew. So he passes his time for the reasons we have discussed, in indignity. Maybe he copes with alcohol, or drugs. I am told that the Opioid Crisis has reached unparalleled proportions. A comrade of mine by the name of Emil Kraepelin goes to distinct lengths to dispel the myths and educate our guys regarding this plight.

One of the major problems in the laborial sphere is a sense of manifold purposelessness. It is part and parcel with the blackpill phenomenon. You work for people with more money than you to give them things you can’t have. It is a sense of backwards thinking, the fault of early education and a poorly managed modern culture.

Here is my advice to White Workers. Keep this in mind. Learn a skill, learn a trade. You’ll have to start small. You’ll have to weather insult and injury. Keep heart. If the American Dream is ever going to be ours, than we have to start collecting bargaining chips. We need to do that now. The reasons for this are as diverse as the reasons for being depressed. If you learn a practical skill: carpentry, masonry, plumbing, wiring, than you become more solvent. The eternal call for working revolt has never changed. Without us, what would all the pampered, rich and effeminate do, exactly? Here’s a scenario: without leeching off our skill, the rich would die of sepsis in crumbling mansions that they can’t fix, squatting in a shallow hole they dug themselves because they couldn’t fix the plumbing. They would be reduced very quickly. They owe us, dearly.

The present system in which we live will not last forever. It cannot, by definition. When infinity immigrants have finished crippling the labour economy and all that’s left is coding… you will still have your skills. There will unquestionably be other citizens in a position to need you. And, if, God(s) willing we of our persuasion ever achieve a degree of separation… we won’t much be able to survive on coding, computers and being a generic Millennial or Zoomer, will we? No. Civilization is a complex organism that needs every single skill we have to maintain any modicum of resemblance to the comfort and complexity it presently yields.

Unless you want #VargNat now.

You learn a trade. If you’re good, you can go to work for yourself. It may not be immediate, and you might lose a little at first, but any degree of independence makes a difference. That independence makes a difference in your life. Working for someone else can eat your soul. Work for yourself? It’s a gamble. In the current year, there are no guarantees. But if you make a successful business name for yourself, you can hand that off to your children someday. That used to be part of the European Dream. Families inherit from familial progress. It is not impossible to reclaim that. I don’t think any of our ancient cultures ever intended us to live hand to mouth at the will of a globalist agency because ‘muh capitalism.’

If in mass numbers the Nationalists reading this began to take their own reins, rather than being self-hating service workers, became plumbers, electricians or what-have-you than we could, as a movement, increase pour capital gains. We could become self-sufficient. Right now, our bread comes from ZOG. Why is this bad? You know (((why.))) You place five of our guys in one County: one of them is a carpenter, one of them is an electrician, the other three are generic Millennials and Zoomers. The carpenter and the electrician can build business names independently, and even start to work together. Carpenters frequently call on electricians as subcontractors. Those other three chuckleheads? Why not hire them as apprentices. Now you have five of our guys collecting shekels directly, rather than having them handed off by some retarded system job.

Those same five guys, if the SHTF scenario ever happens, would be better off. They not only have friends, but vital skills. With their money they can support our causes. As our numbers grow tighter and larger, we can call on our guys, rather than some guy. That means money will begin to stay with us. This is important because the ability to hold onto material wealth is integral to any cultural reform. Skill and finance are bargaining chips much harder to resist than tattoos and memes.

But more than that, returning to the original point of this article, labour is part of a man’s identity. If you haven’t been proud of something you built with your hands, I’m sorry my friend, but you haven’t lived. I think I shall you another anecdote or two in this vein before I sign off and go make myself and my wife some bacon and eggs.

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On a job site, another client, brother to the one we were working for, came to visit. He talked a while before addressing me. “I wanted to save the work for you, because, you know, you’re so goddamn strong.” I couldn’t help but smile, and he went on to say, ��ah, I’ll never forget seeing you carrying that big fucking rock up the hill. Nobody else could’ve moved it!” I won’t lie, and I don’t care if it marks me guilty for the sin of vanity. It feels good to know in some cases that my name precedes me. He’s told the story to others, I’ve heard him do it (while I was carrying big beautiful rocks.) On another job I did for a relative, there was concern moving this and that and the guy that hired me said, “don’t worry about the weight, this one’s stronger than an ox.”

So it goes.

It all brings us back to the Havamal. Cattle Die, and so do Kinsmen – God(s) know anyone over age 20 has seen more death than they care to. But we know what does not die: the name of a good man dead. I know that I want to be known as a keen philosopher when I die, but I shall settle for being another Sisyphus.

To a degree, pride cures pain. Knowing my work is appreciated, it makes it worth the while. Knowing my deeds are worthy of someone else’s time in the form of a story told to strangers (to me) is an incredible ego boost. That is why we are supposed to work: our skills are pooled into larger projects and our endeavors are to be respected. Our strength and skill are to be respected. We are not just workers and helpers. Without us, your service economy would have nothing to house it, your wealth would evaporate, and you would most likely not be here to undervalue us.

Something to think about.

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine http://bit.ly/2OYUFbm via IFTTT

[latestnews2018-blog]

Juice Robinson Talks How His Popular 'Broken Hand Promo' Happened

New Post has been published on https://latestnews2018.com/juice-robinson-talks-how-his-popular-broken-hand-promo-happened/

Juice Robinson Talks How His Popular 'Broken Hand Promo' Happened

Juice Robinson wasn’t happy in NXT as CJ Parker, so he left WWE and soon joined New Japan Pro Wrestling. Since arriving in NJPW, Juice has no plans to go anywhere else and he has a big title opportunity at the G1 Special in San Francisco against Jay White for the IWGP United States Title.

Robinson has been praised for his promo abilities on many occasions. He attended Dusty Rhodes’ Wednesday morning promo classes while at the WWE Performance Center and took away many lessons. As he continues in New Japan, Robinson has the chance to use his promos to further stories and display his passion. Juice is able to relay his emotions in a unique fashion even after a loss.

“I do what I do best and that’s f–king lose, I’m not a winner,” Robinson said after Kizuna Road 2018. “I get lucky every once and a while and I catch somebody better than me in a tag match. That’s the honest truth. All those guys that I’ve stepped in the ring with that are champions they’ve all showed you why they’re champions and they’ve shown you why they’re way better than me. Why they’re way better than Juice Robinson.

“Now I get one more chance after I just lost to Goto less than a month ago I get another chance this time in San Francisco against Jay White for the US Championship. What happens? I break my hand, or he breaks my hand… my hand’s broken alight. How am I gonna win a match with a broken hand? I can’t even beat champions when I’m healthy and at 100%. How in the hell am I gonna beat Jay White if I can’t even punch him in the face?

“I don’t know, I’ll probably lose in San Francisco to be honest with you just I’ve lost every f–king time the lights have been on bright and it’s really mattered. Any time I’ve always just s–t the bed plain and simple. Just cough up a big L for Juice Robinson, the lovable loser.”

Juice said New Japan is going to stop giving him opportunities if he can’t make something out of them. The frustration was building after Robinson broke his hand in the ring earlier that month. Now he has a chance to redeem himself at the G1 Special in San Francisco.

Jay White was trying to break Robinson’s hand during a show in Korakuen Hall when the former NXT Superstar punched a chair which really did the damage. Directly afterward, he cut a promo that received a ton of praise and caused Kevin Owens to say Robinson is the best promo in pro wrestling.

“What’s that look like to you?” Robinson asked while holding up his hand. “I’m no doctor, I’m definitely not a doctor. But that’s a broken metacarpal. That’s what that is. That’s a broken metacarpal.

“Okay Jay, guess what? I’ve got 206 bones, motherf–ker. 206. I think… I might be wrong. Good thing I don’t have Twitter so nobody can let me know. Yeah, 206 bones. You broke one. I still got 205. I know what you’re doing. I never said you’re not smart. You’re smart, and you’re a badass. You know that’s how I win my matches. I punch motherf–kers in the jaw and then I hit ’em with Pulp Friction. Well, it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be hitting Pulp Friction any time soon… after a left hand, anyway.

“Guess what, dumbass? I’ve rolled up Kenny Omega. I’ve rolled up Big Mike Elgin. I can roll a motherf–ker up just like I can hit them with the left hand of god and hit them with Pulp Friction. You’re smart, Jay. But your heart, and your nuts… they’re little small shriveled up pieces of s–t. I’m all heart and nuts. Heart in one broken hand, nuts in the other, motherf–ker.

“San Francisco? Whew… San Francisco! I’m an American, that’s an American belt. It’s in America, on America’s birthday. You ain’t an American. Kenny Omega, no offense, you’re not an American, too. You know who needs that belt? An American. Well, guess what? I’m next in line. I’m gonna be coming into San Francisco red, white and blue sparklers shooting out of my nipples and launching bald eagles out of my ass! That’s right.

“Jay, I can f–k with you just like you f–k with me. Yeah. ‘Old Juice he’s flamboyant and he wears rainbows and he hops around and acts like an asshole’. Well guess what? I like whoopin’ motherf–kers asses too!”

Robinson closed out his passionate promo by throwing in some Japanese phrases to make his point. The phrases he used in his promo translate to him seeing Jay later and very soon. The two continued to tour for New Japan so they were likely to see each other in the meantime.

“Alright? You want me to grab a chair? You want me to grab a chair and start swinging it around? Huh? I’ll see you in San Francisco, and you know what? I’ll see you tomorrow. Mata as–ta ja motherf–ker! mata asatte motherf–ker! I’m gonna see you all over Japan before we step foot in San Francisco and when we do I’m gonna whoop your ass and I will take that US Championship!”

Another excellent post match interview by Juice Robinson who is not a doctor and does not have Twitter. pic.twitter.com/7z6bz3nMb7

— JJ Williams (@JJWilliamsWON) June 18, 2018

Dave Meltzer of F4W Online had the chance to sit down with Robinson before the G1 Special in San Francisco where the popular promo about Juice’s broken hand was brought up. Robinson said he didn’t have much time at all to prepare for his post-match promo in Korakuen Hall, but he could tell something good was happening while he was in the middle of it.

“I don’t know, when your hand’s broke and you’re fired up — I was fired up and many people may not know where you do the comments in Korakuen [Hall], you leave the ring you walk down one flight of stairs and there you are. So you don’t have much time to say, ‘I’m gonna say this, this, this, and this,'” Juice Robinson said.

“Just gotta kinda go ‘alight you’re on fire here we go.’ You know I was thinking about 206, I was thinking about how many bones you had — how many bones? That was about it and I was like, ‘roar!’

“I could tell when I was going, ‘oh that’s good, that’s a good one.�� Cause you get that feeling when you cut a good promo and that was the first time I got to do it where I had a nice one when it mattered when it set up an angle. So it was cool that I got to do more or that.”

If you use any portion of the quotes in this article please credit Wrestling Inc for the transcription

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[joshuazev]

On these thoughts would probably be way more interesting if I was high on drugs:

I was talking to this lady the other day about having just come back from a weekend away and we got to chatting about what we both did for work—she was a sales manager and I was a cater waiter—but that I wasn’t working that particular day because I had work off.  I went on to tell her that I had the whole day free but didn’t utilize it in the ways I could have.  I was a bit directionless, trying to do basic activities and failing miserably.  She, of course, was supportive and tried comforting me with kind words alluding to not needing to worry and that we all deserve days of freedom, of doing nothing, and being a couch potato.  I don’t know why it was the last term that did it.  I mean, I had heard the term “couch potato” used all the time.  Who hadn’t?  However, it was that particular time that must have struck a chord because I started to think of what life would be like if had continued on without working and literally lived life and walked the streets as a potato with a name tag over my left pectoral saying, “Couch.”  I don’t do drugs, but I didn’t need to do them to think that this was a legitimate fear.  Not that I would actually turn into a potato, but that I could become the human version of something like that.  A vessel of laziness and inactivity.  Walking down the streets of Crown Heights and Bed Stuy with little holes for eyes.  Being hyper aware of all the stares on specific days like whenI hadn’t had the chance to take a shower and would be verbally abused with shouts of, “Haven’t you heard you’re supposed to wash a potato!?”  On hot days I wonder if the sweat and the heat would make me a french fry.  Would my form take a skinnier shape?  What would the reaction truly be?  I know that the Subway wouldn’t be much fun.  I’d be newest freak in town.  I wouldn’t be able to squeeze into the middle seats that I’ve been accustomed to sneaking into if I was a couch potato.  In fact, if I even made an attempt I wouldn’t be surprised if the two people on either ends just vacated the premises.  Would it be the type of reaction that draws people in or shies people away?  I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to be on social media, hateful responses in the comments along the lines of, “Who the fuck does he think he is?”  I certainly couldn’t get off in Times Square.  You remember how the people responded to Michael Keaton running in his underwear in “Birdman”?  This would be worse…much worse.  Maybe it would go viral so quickly that I’d get featured on one of those live billboards.  I’m sure eventually I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without a phone being out or being shoved in my face?  “Are you the couch potato?  It’s him!  It’s really him!  Hey, everybody, look!”  Like other people afraid of their appearance I’d try to get back home, to the safe haven where I knew I would be protected, only to find out that the owner of the building had heard through the grapevine that he was housing a potato and simply wouldn’t allow for that to continue.  So, upon arrival, I see all of my stuff (or what’s left of it) thrown out in front of the apartment.  Some clothes that definitely won’t fit me anymore—after all, my frame is much bigger now.  I see a mattress that’s been dirtied from the street and newly graffitied with potato hate language.  It comes to my attention that many things hadn’t just been taken, but stolen and that it wasn’t for their own benefit but that they wanted to sell my belongings to make money for themselves.  That might not seem like revolutionary by any means, but I later would find out that some of my most personal items were being sold on eBay, at private auctions, and other mediums that usually garnered less market value like Offer Up and Let Go.  Pictures of my family.  Pictures of my family and I.  They were being exploited and promoted as the last photos of me before I turned into a couch potato.  Even most of my groceries (the little that I had) had been taken and distributed amongst scientists and health professionals, who were curious of how my being a potato came to be.  What was I eating that might have caused this transformation.  

Being a potato without a home wasn’t very fun, at all.  You’d think with all of the paparazzi following you and all the newfound attention that a lot of us crave that everything would be peaches and cream, but as we’ve so often seen in real life that isn’t usually the case.  For one, the attention didn’t translate into any monetary gains.  I wasn’t able to collect a damn thing and for weeks had to sleep under bridges and eat the scraps out of dumpsters.  What little money I had in savings was essentially useless because I wasn’t able to enter any bank in the first place.  It didn’t matter that I had an ID.  The descriptions didn’t match, they would say.  And when I tried to transfer to a different account over the phone, they told me my savings had been frozen.  No access.  Nothing.  I couldn’t even talk to my parents, who had been harassed and bothered constantly by news reporters alike wanting to get the inside scoop on what it was like to have a potato as a son.  I felt so embarrassed for them.  I couldn’t even put it into words.  I had brought them shame.  Nasty attention.  And their lives had forever been altered by it and still, somehow, they tried to communicate with me.  They weren’t able to send me anything.  They knew I was forced to move.  They weren’t able to call me.  They knew my phone was out of service.  There were days where I had seen news coverage, while I was disguised in a huge blanket.  There were words always reached me.  With flustered looks, they both echoed there regards.  That they hoped I was OK, wherever I was.  That they wished that everyone would just leave me alone and that if I could hear them, that they wanted me to know they loved me before retreating back into their homes.  I didn’t know what to do myself and even worse, I didn’t know what options were available to me.  What could I do?  I was growing hungrier and hungrier with every passing day.  I wasn’t dying to be a human again.  I was just dying, period.  Nobody would talk to me.  The homeless community had ostracized me and now I was completely exiled.  Nothing could have prepared me for what began to happen next.  I began to rot.  My skin was starting to shrivel (to my horror) and I started to lose the ability to perform basic functions.  I didn’t have the strength I was accustomed to having as a human or even a fully grown potato.  My frame was withering away.  In a last ditch effort to resurrect any chance I had of staying alive and hoping for a miracle that I knew probably wouldn’t be there, I walked the streets of New York at night, dehydrated and breathing my last breaths.  In most of these stories there is a shaman or a spiritual moment that comes out of the smallest bit of faith, but this is not one of those stories because I have yet to see a shaman or a light shining down from above besides the sun when it’s sunny and this is reality I’m talking about because people becoming potatoes and trying to become humans again is a clearcut example of a realistic world.  

The black market is not a market that is black.  It is not something tangible.  It is not a market you can go to on weekdays from 8AM-10PM, not is it a market that is only open on weekends in predominantly white neighborhoods.  It is a place where people get things.  Mostly illegal things.  But it was also the only hope that a potato had of not being a potato anymore.  A black market is not a place you can summon.  A black market is like fight club.  You remember the first two rules?  The first and second rule tell you all you need to know.  The potato found himself that night driven to walk to places he could not comprehend.  He stumbled every couple of steps and his arms found themselves reaching for something that wasn’t there like a zombie outside of Halloween.  It must have been just before dawn.  There were no cars in sight.  Nobody around to speak of.  The potato didn’t know the time nor did he really care anymore. ��He had almost met his end.  His body began to collapse and the soft and frightening sound of a rattle began to echo inside of his mouth.  Roots began to slowly sprout out of his body.  His tone began to change, from a light maroon to a darkened brown.  His heartbeat slowed its pace and in the squint of his eyes he could have sworn that he had seen something just a few feet ahead of him.  He dragged himself on the ground giving everything he had right down to the last ounce of energy and when he could feel his final breath on its way he pulled himself up with all the strength he could muster and exhaled a deep, whole, human breath.

Back on his couch, once again.