#comes to see it a whole lot more now. Like an unseen tether | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

syncogon · 4 years ago

Text

[QZGS meta] what’s in an OP? dawning glory (pt 2)

(a continuation of part 1 here) (part 3 here)

{The King’s Avatar Season 2 premieres in less than 12 hours!}

Last time we covered just up to around the halfway point of this OP. We’re picking up again right at the start of the second verse, where a new singing voice kicks in.

After reminiscing on the past, we come to Ye Xiu again as he puts on his headphones - he’s smiling, he’s doing what he loves, he’s ready to go forward. His smile here is an act of defiance against those who tell him that he should be stopping in his tracks.

The change of singer here is very noticeable, as they have very different-sounding voices. However, this is something we’ll talk about more later.

In this section, we cut smoothly between the real and the virtual worlds. Lord Grim, too, faces forward resolutely, despite the naysayers referenced in the lyrics - “they say I shouldn’t go forward, they say I should just say goodbye, they say there’s no tomorrow, only night.”

Again, we focus on his hands - his left hand positioning on the keyboard in the real world, his right hand in the game world hoisting his weapon. They both extend from the upper left side of the screen, which allows our brains to follow the visual connection easily without being too overt about the parallel. Ye Xiu’s preparations for his comeback help to build our anticipation for the action that’s to come.

The red palette used for these in-game shots in this segment is an interesting stylistic choice. It’s a more nuanced version of the red-palette style used for the entirety of the OVA OP. Red is the color most commonly associated with Ye Xiu, it’s the color of both Team Happy and Team Excellent Era, it’s Lord Grim’s main color due to his scarf, and of course it’s associated with things like passion, fire, blood, etc. The red is also a nice contrast to the darkened, navy-blue setting of the real-world internet cafe - the lighting makes it seem like it’s nighttime again - and the red of Ye Xiu’s hoodie serves as a nice visual bridge between worlds.

Because this segment of the OP cuts between the game and real worlds so quickly, I think it’s good that they distinguish the game world here with these colors, as it makes the jumps easier to follow and understand.

“They say there is no tomorrow, only night,” as reflected light flashes across the umbrella. Maybe it’s night in the internet cafe right now, but certainly not for long. And even if it’s night for Su Muqiu, his creation will see the light of day.

“Crossing the frozen finish line” - Lord Grim steps out in a wide, battle-ready stance, emphasizing the sense of motion inherent to the word “crossing.” In the background of the music, you can hear the growing sound of what sounds like rushing wind, in time with the wind whipping Lord Grim’s scarf about, and it continues to build up the energy of this scene.

The “frozen finish line” here refers to his unwilling retirement on that snowy night; it’s an ending that he was forced into, not the goal that he was striving for. But the point that the lyrics make here is that this unwilling end merely becomes the new starting point for his dream.

The animators are really milking his windswept bangs, but honestly the animation looks good, so I can’t complain.

As Lord Grim narrows his (vibrantly red) eyes and tenses in preparation, we fade to Ye Xiu making the same motion, once again emphasizing the real-virtual parallel. Just this small motion is enough to make us, too, brace ourselves in anticipation. And as we mentioned earlier, you can really see here how the red hood of his sweatshirt is a nice connection to Lord Grim’s scarf, standing out against the colors of the rest of the image.

The music feels like it’s going to crest at its peak here, but it’s actually a fakeout - accompanied by a key change in the music, the intensity suddenly backs off. Instead of the climax we’re expecting, we’re instead shown a montage of mostly-still images.

This is actually a good demonstration of how this OP follows the effective “interest curve” fairly well. You can’t continuously build hype throughout a piece, because that quickly becomes exhausting and boring for the audience. Instead, you have to have your peaks and valleys. At the very beginning of the OP, we started off with a crescendo to the first peak where the beat kicks in. We had a fairly upbeat instrumental section, then we dropped off as we entered verse 1. The Happy player segment is relatively chill overall, with its own small ebbs and flows. Then when we enter verse 2 with the second voice, the excitement level is a step up from what it was before. The second half of this segment gradually builds up in intensity until suddenly, here, we drop off. We’ll come back to this curve later to see the fuller picture.

So we have this montage of the major pros, Ye Xiu’s closest friends and toughest opponents (note the first half of the lyric here is “even if it’s dangerous”). Although these are just still images, they still efficiently reveal information about the characters and teams in question - both when you consider them individually, and when you look at the patterns as a whole. Let’s take a look.

In all of these shots, the captain is the largest figure, and always on the center-right side of the screen. Even the last shot of Ye Xiu’s face before this montage places him at the center-right, giving us the exact starting-off point we need. This means that our eyes don’t have to do much work - we naturally trace a path to follow the most prominent figure in every image.

Tyranny’s Han Wenqing, of course, strikes the most intimidating pose. Just from how they’re positioned, you can get a sense of how the two of them work together as partners - Han Wenqing in front, aggressive, Zhang Xinjie only a step behind, more defensive. They appear to be the pair that’s second-closest to each other in terms of physical distance, as they have a fairly balanced partnership. They’re angled toward each other, implicitly acknowledging each other without actually overlapping.

Blue Rain is famed for their dual-core, and this image makes it abundantly clear, with captain and vice-captain featured equally prominently, standing right next to each other, back to back, almost the same size on screen. Looking closely, you can see that the two of them are moving together in the same direction as a unit. This is in contrast to the other teams’ characters, who are all sliding across the screen at slightly different speeds and directions from each other. Yu Wenzhou holds his clipboard, an instant clue toward his tactician style. Huang Shaotian is at a side profile, reflecting his unconventional, opportunistic, assassin-like style. And with his casual gesture and a wide grin, you can immediately get a sense of his personality.

In Tiny Herb, Wang Jiexi is king (pun intended). Out of all the team pictures, he is the largest figure. This reflects how he is the sole pillar of Tiny Herb as of now, and it hints at just how (unsustainably) deep the team’s reliance upon him runs. Behind Wang Jiexi, we see his successor Gao Yingjie. Although Gao Yingjie is smaller for now, the angle of the shot makes it seem as though he is rising above Wang Jiexi - and this, of course, is exactly what the captain is trying to make happen.

Behind these two is a third figure. At first I’d assumed it was Liu Xiaobie, but he doesn’t have the trademark headphones, so I think it makes more sense that this is actually Qiao Yifan, still in the team. With how he’s half-hidden in Gao Yingjie’s shadow and not even looking at the camera, you get the sense that even in this little picture, he doesn’t quite have a place here.

Samsara features Zhou Zekai and Jiang Botao. When these images were initially previewed during the live ED performance, there was a lot of backlash because a) Jiang Botao’s design had changed, b) their jackets spelled “samsaea”, and c) there was a coloring error on the collar of Zhou Zekai’s shirt. Fortunately, it seems all of these flaws were addressed.

Zhou Zekai is the second-largest out of all the featured characters, reflecting how Glory’s number one player always dominates the battlefield. Jiang Botao’s design here sweeps more hair out of his eyes, which suits his character well by giving him a more open, friendly, approachable appearance. Although he’s positioned far back from the camera relative to Zhou Zekai, he seems content where he is - he has a perfectly fine view of the camera and surroundings, and here he can serve as the tether connecting the powerful Zhou Zekai to the unseen rest of the team.

Next we see Thunderclap - I was actually somewhat surprised to see them featured now, but I suppose we need to establish Xiao Shiqin early on. I’m also surprised that they have four members here… I don’t think I could name four Season 8 Thunderclap members off the top of my head, I’m sorry ahaha. We have Xiao Shiqin and Dai Yanqi obviously, I assume the third is Fang Xuecai, but I don’t know who the player with his back turned is supposed to be. Maybe they included a lot of team members to emphasize how, more so than any other team, Thunderclap’s strength is when they’re playing together as a team. You can also see this in how, unlike all the other teams except Blue Rain, all four of the characters are sliding across the screen in the same direction (right), although the parallax makes their speeds appear slightly different.

That being said, with the hand adjusting his glasses and his thoughtful look to the side, Xiao Shiqin very much gives off the studious tactician vibe. Still, his smile is warm, not cold and calculating. Behind him, Dai Yanqi is just adorable.

Finally, we have Hundred Blossoms. Coming off of Xiao Shiqin’s smile, Zhang Jiale’s shadowed half-frown stands in sharp contrast, even though the viewer has only a fraction of a second to take it in. Angled at a full 90 degrees from the camera, Zhang Jiale stares at his right hand, a sort of frozen sadness on his face. What could he be thinking about? Reflecting on his continued inability to take the final step to the championship? Reflecting on the hand injury that tore his closest friend and partner away from him, leaving him to shoulder the burden alone? In this image, it seems as though it’s the Hundred Blossoms’ shining logo itself that is casting his face into shadow. He undoubtedly has many conflicted feelings about the team he gave six years of his life to, and ultimately abandoned.

Visually, Zhang Jiale appears to be facing a deep blackness; the design places no decorative accents on that corner of the screen. Perhaps he sees no way forward. Perhaps he sees the way forward, through to the team with black as its color, and the betrayal that choice would mean.

Behind him is Sun Zheping. Interestingly, he’s fully illuminated by the light of the Hundred Blossoms logo. In Zhang Jiale’s mind, perhaps he still is that light, a light now lost to him. Although Sun Zheping is also looking away, his body is angled more forward toward the camera, reflecting how he has a better sense than Zhang Jiale does of what it means to cast off doubts and charge forward into the future.

In a sharp contrast to every other team picture, note that neither person in this image is looking at the camera. Whereas the other teams are unified and focused in their pursuit of the championship, both Zhang Jiale and Sun Zheping are lost. In fact, neither is even currently a member of this team that they founded together. And, of course, there’s a distance between them, as they look off in opposite directions, and this distance only grows as Zhang Jiale slides toward the right and Sun Zheping toward the left. Overall, the mood this final team image conveys is drastically different from the rest.

I also found it interesting to note here that, although all of the teams’ uniforms got redesigned in the donghua (for instance, official novel art always portrayed them with collared polos, not t-shirts), the Hundred Blossoms uniform here appears to be unchanged from the original.

As a final thought, I do love the background designs in each of these shots, working in the team colors and the motifs of the logos. I wish they’d release these as desktop wallpapers, they’re really nice.

So that’s enough words about these three seconds of the opening. Let’s (finally) keep going.

This is a good place in the OP to insert a reminder of the final goal we’re working toward - the championship. “As always we charge forward, we’ll ultimately be crowned,” here at the summit of glory.

Something about the faded filter over these two shots gives it an almost mystical, imaginative quality. Or maybe it’s the feeling of a memory long past. This stage, this place of legends, it’s still a ways off for our protagonists for now. But they’ll find their way here in the end.

Team Happy! When it comes to illustrating Happy’s in-game characters in an action group picture, this sort of composition - side view, all of them leaping into action toward one direction - is fairly common, even just in official art. Still, it never gets old, and it’s nice to see it here, especially as the music crests. The lyric “we’ll be crowned,” which bridges us from verse 2 to the chorus, is timed with the very first large group picture we get in this OP. It’s a proud and triumphant declaration as we see our protagonists finally united for the first time, arrayed for battle.

With that, just before we enter the chorus section, we’ll pause here for now. Part 3, which will cover the last 20 seconds or so, will probably go up after the episode premieres. I’m also interested to see how they’ll work the credits into this OP; hopefully they do something interesting, or at least make it look nice.

Thanks for reading!

(part 1) (part 3)

#quan zhi gao shou #qzgs #the king's avatar #tka #全职高手 #qzgs commentary #mine #synco talks

19 notes · View notes

horrorgay · 5 years ago

Text

Sequel Rewrite | The Lost Hope

Chapter 3: Arrivals and Departures | prev chapter.

Written with @doc-aphra | You can read it on Ao3 as well.

Reblogs/comments are appreciated, but not necessary

The medbay was dimly lit, with only a few soft beeps coming from the medical equipment, but none of the occupants of the room paid it any mind anymore. To Finn, peaceful, content, and highly sedated, softly snoring, the noise was on another planet. Or, maybe, the beeps were in realspace, and his sleeping form may as well have been in hyperspace. They technically both existed, but there was little tether between their realities.

For BB-8, the beeps meant nothing, either. They were the vital signs of a relatively new friend, one that took some time to get over his lying to the droid, but the beeps were steady and the man was stable. With nothing else to do to pass the time, Beebee was examining the cables of the medical equipment, not really expecting to find anything wrong.

For Poe, sitting in the mostly dark room, the beeps were just a fabric of his surroundings, as he himself dealt with the fabric in his lap. He had just stopped for a moment with his sewing to look at his work, and, smiling, remarked that only a few more patches were needed to fix up Finn’s jacket. He looked at the cot, and Finn, and wished he could so easily repair the other man.

Hours earlier, Finn had woken up again, before the healing was complete -- after he’d bid Rey farewell they’d put him under one more time to finish the treatment on his spine. Poe had called for the medical officer, and together with persuasion and sedatives, they coaxed him back into the healing process. Poe yawned, and gave up on the jacket for now, deciding they both needed their rest. He folded the garment delicately, put it between his head and the back of the chair, and he was out within moments. BB-8 cooed softly, but Poe was too far gone to hear the droid remark about how he was taking better care of the jacket than he ever had before.

There was a window in Finn’s medbay room, and through it one could see nothing but green forest. By the time Leia arrived, the sun was setting and golden light filled the room softly. She was standing in the doorway, looking at the former stormtrooper and the ace pilot. The droid was in a rest cycle. She smiled briefly but her eyes held the tenderness her lips couldn’t hold. These two--they’ll be okay. She sighed. They have to be.

She made her way over to Poe, and put a hand on her shoulder, drumming lightly with her fingers. He woke with a babbled gasp, putting his hand up to block the unseen attack, swatting away her hand. “Poe, it’s me, Leia.” Leia hushed, a tad bit amused. Only a few days ago she’d gently awoken Kaydel the same way, as the younger lieutenant had fallen asleep to the droning tone of Ackbar in one of his conferences. Leia knew what it was like to sleep while fighting a war. Some days, there are just no gentle awakenings.

He blinked hard, trying to force away the dying light from behind the horizon. “General,” he tried to acknowledge without yawning. He stood up, putting the folded jacket by Finn on his bedside. “What,” another yawn escapes, “can I do for you?”

“Unfortunately, Poe, we still haven’t gotten the First Order surrender.”

“I’m sure it’s on it’s way,” he shot back. “Or do we have to blow up a second Starkiller first? I’m sensing a pattern here.”

She felt like she was on a vibroblade’s edge between laughing and stoicism. She chose the latter; it was time for business. “Jokes aside, we have a lot more fighting to do. In the morning, you two leave. Start making preparations.” She wished she could give him more time, but it wasn’t like he could do anything for Finn here. Better to get him out there, doing something to help the galaxy, and to get his mind off the things he couldn’t fix himself.

“May the Force be with me” he asked, grinning, as he walked past her out of the room, a freshly-charged BB-8 in tow. He froze, and almost sheepishly turned back around to ask. “Finn’s out tomorrow morning. Could he come with me?”

She looked at the slumbering man, and then to Poe, who was giving her his most severe loth-cat eyes, and sighed. “Yes, that’s alright. But be gentle with him. I’m not about to let you drag this poor, brave man around hand in hand, through ice and snow. Bring him back in one piece, please.”

“Thanks. I’m sure you’d find things for him to do here, but...”

“You want him to come along.”

“I do.”

Leia smiled. Please let these peaceful moments last.

▹▴◃

There was a faraway planet, in one of the most obscure places in the galaxy, called Ach-to, where the now-complete map to Luke led. It lurked near the edges, far away from any core civilization, too far even for Outer Rim communities. Her meeting Finn felt like eons ago, but it had only been a week or two since she’d left her home world. Takodana, Starkiller, D’Qar...whole planets that she’d never even thought about seeing. Her family had left her behind on Jakku, and she’d waited so long for them, would have waited so much longer if Finn hadn’t collided into her world.

And now Ach-To… Takodana’s surface was scattered with lakes and rivers, but this world was almost entirely water. Amongst the roiling, churned seas of the planet was an island, whereon Luke was meant to be. On this island, Rey brought the ship down, with the help of her co-pilot, onto a deep alcove at its base. She had offered twice on the trip to let the wookiee actually pilot--he was good at it, and with Han… he deserved a chance to finally prove it. Chewie had bristled at it, insisting that he was too old to start being a leader now.

Bidding Chewie farewell and getting wished luck in return, she stepped off the Falcon . The sea misted her face, and there was an earthy smell, like salt and life and dirt that washed over her. The ocean crashed against the rocks below her, sending foam up to occasionally splash against her legs. Ahead of her were steps winding up the peak of the landmass, and she wavered away from a sigh, instead clutching the shoulder strap of her bag, and started the climb.

Each step was a weight on her heart, as though each were a manifestation of the troubles she faced, and had yet to. At the top of the steps would be the answer to the galaxy’s strife, the Lost Hope of the Resistance, the last Jedi, Luke Skywalker, the man who could end the war, bring balance to the Force, and with it a final, lasting peace in their lifetime. Maybe even Chewie’s lifetime. Wouldn’t that be something, she marveled.

Until the top, until Luke, she had maybe hundreds of steep steps to climb, and she nearly physically felt the obstacles they represented. Step. Her missing parents. Step. Finn’s injuries. Step. Seeing the beams of light across the sky as the New Republic was massacred. Step. Her first friends, her only friends, back on Jakku, deciding that leaving the planet with her only hope of crawling out of poverty was more important than helping Rey eat more than sand and rations. Step. Joining the Resistance and having its survival resting on her shoulders. Step. Not knowing if she could let even someone as evil as Kylo Ren die at her hands. Step.

She tried to heed Leia’s warning about emotions, but all she could think about was her the mountain of fears and anxiety as she neared the summit. “I am one with the Force,” she muttered. She was going to chant--she felt like that’s what she should do, right? Chant?--but she couldn’t help but feel relief lying over the last few steps. Here, she thought, I will finish the climb, and right there will be standing a Jedi, a teacher and a hero and he WILL stop the First Order.

As her eyes came over the top, her heart may as well have been left back on the Falcon. There was a rocky clearing at the top, with a hut, a doused campfire, and two trandoshan corpses. She rushed over, blaster ready in her trembling hand, to asses the bodies. The bodies were littered with blaster wounds, and one of them had some sort of boney spike stabbed into his forehead. She pulled it out with a sickening squish, wiping the blood off onto some of the lichen that coated the stone pathway and pocketing the spike, hoping that any sort of clue could come out of it.

“Luke Skywalker!” She yelled, poking her head into the hut. Inside was a rather miserable looking cot, and some overturned baskets, what looked like basic hunting and survival gear spilled out across the floor. Someone had been living here, though she doubted it was the trandoshans, who were outfitted in armor and core-world quality fabrics. No one answered. She called out again. Back outside she noticed something reddish-brown pooled near the fire. She could recognize human blood when she saw it.

“Luke!” The blood was still somewhat fresh, but there was no sign of him anywhere. She wanted to curl up, right there against the still-warm smolder that was once a campfire, and just… give up. “Poe’s right. The Force….” She hated this moment, hated herself for putting all of her faith in a treasure map, in a wizard, in a fairytale, in a--warm campfire.

She spun around, making sure. Nothing in her line of sight. “He’s not here.” she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to think. The bodies weren’t warm, so it was more than a few hours since whatever happened here happened. “There,” she said quietly, looking at the horizon. She turned and looked out at the sea in all directions. “A storm is coming.” She stuck her finger in her mouth and held it up, looking again in the direction the wind was blowing. “And going. So, more than a few hours, but less than several. Less than a day, at least.” She crouched down for confirmation, and yes, the ground was wet, but the dead humanoids’ clothes weren’t.

“Luke…” Rey knelt, pressing her hand to the ground, and thought, almost ironically, that this is what she needed Luke for, so she could learn to sense someone with the Force on her own, learn to reach out to them. On Starkiller, Kylo had willed such an overwhelming presence in the Force that she could have felt him coming from a mile away. The island was small. If he were on it, surely she’d sense it. There was the ocean, pulsing with life, the warm core of the planet, and nothing else.

She’d have to backtrack, ask Chewie to radar the planet for any sign of human life, but a suspicion wound its way up her from stomach, settling in her chest. Luke Skywalker was no longer on Ach-To, and the map was useless.

▹▴◃

He was saying something, but all Kylo Ren could think about during his master’s lecture to him, was that here, on the Finalizer, with its standard holoprojector, Snoke was normal-sized, and his favorite little intimidation tactic had died with Starkiller. Here, he was just wrinkled creature of darkness and spite. Kylo had the Knights of Ren, Snoke had a second hand knowledge of the ancient ways of the Sith. The grandson of Darth Vader had their power coursing through his blood.

If Snoke could sense the bitter thoughts, he said nothing, continuing on about the former Solo’s latest failure. “This girl--the scavenger you failed to hold onto--and this defective stormtrooper--who you let desert my army--they are strong with the force. Surely even a whelp such as you can feel it, even when they themselves cannot.” He leaned forward, pointing one of his long fingers at Kylo Ren. “This will present to our opposition a boone, and to you another opportunity to fail me. You are making me question my abilities as a teacher, child.”

He gave a slight pause, almost baiting the apprentice into speaking out of turn. Kylo Ren knew better. Snoke bared his teeth. “And my tactical prowess, for I have clearly put too much faith in you.”

Kylo Ren was acutely aware that his knights--the six of them--were listening intently to his master, and by extension theirs, berating him, filling the patricidal young man with blinding, searing rage. It was taking all of his being to deny the urge to reach out with the Force, with his hatred, to try and pull apart Snoke’s ship through the holofeed, finishing the frail fool in the void of space. Patience, he told himself. Soon.

“...And with Ilum’s crystal, we will have finished the work of the Old Empire--destroying every major source of kyber in the galaxy.” Kylo tried to remember the last few moments, but couldn’t. He probably didn’t miss anything important from the dithering old man. “Even should you predictably fail to thin your bloodline, which you won’t if you don’t want me to outright end it, the Jedi--or any so-called light side fanatic--will never again stand against the darkness with a lightsaber drawn. That such an important Jedi temple will fall with the planet is such a delicious treat.”

There was another pause, and the fallen apprentice waited. Snoke said nothing. After too many seconds, his master spat. “Well? Bring me the heads of this scrapper and FN-2187, and you may actually prove yourself worthy of my tutelage, and I daresay the stewardship of this grand order.”

“Yes, Supreme Leader. General Hux is already at work to find them.” He was doing a horrible job keeping his voice neutral. It was somewhere between wounded but determined and imminently wrathful.

“Excellent.” He was leaning back on his throne now. “Our forces will be ready to destroy the planet--even without our Starkiller--within a few days. You must be precise in these strikes, and should you fail this, it will be your last mistake. You may ready your men.”

Kylo Ren stood up, out of his kneeling position, and forced himself to look the Knights of Ren in the eye--or helmet--and clenched his robotic, durasteel fist, letting the anger from his loss in battle fuel him further into this next mission. Before he addressed them, he sensed that Snoke has not yet ended the transmission. He stopped without turning.

“Vader lost far more than just a hand, child. Remember this.” The holoprojector finally clicks off.

Disarmed, he forgot whatever he originally meant to say to them, settling on, “Let’s kill these scum.” His metallic hand again closed into a fist.

▹▴◃

Poe was there a few minutes before Finn was officially released from medbay. He’d run into the director of the building, and now leaned against a wall, foot flat against it, chatting to pass the time. Even the Resistance fell victim to the slow but steady bureaucracy of a medical ward. “Not too busy?”

“I don’t need to tell you, Commander Dameron, that naval engagements rarely leave wounded.” The man had a sunken appearance, his eyes and hair grey, and his face tight. He looked as if he woke up tired. “Not much to do for a pilot when their ship explodes. Not many boots on the ground at Starkiller.”

Poe nodded his head, not taking his eyes off the door to the room Finn would come out of.

After a few more minutes of politely nodding at the medical director’s fatalism, Finn finally emerged from his room. He was wearing the jacket.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, pal.” Poe closed the distance and gave him a hug. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” Finn stretched his back a little and cracked his neck. “Better standing than wasting away in a cot. Is the mess open?”

Poe shook his head, “You’re not eating in that dump. Come on, I got something better.”

Finn followed as they went the opposite direction it seemed like food would be. “Wow,” he murmured.

“What,” Poe asked. They were in Hangar Xesh, one of the four maintained on D’Qar’s base. A heavy clamor of machinery and pilots shouting over the din forced Poe to turn and face Finn. “Something wrong?”

“No, no.” Finn took a moment to look over the ships, all X-Wings here, some heavily damaged, others with only slight carbon scoring. Tools and materials spilled out all around the crafts, mechanics were ducking under wings and weaving around droids and other, larger devices. “I just—“

“Not how you do things on a Star Destroyer, huh?” Poe winced. “ Did . Sorry.”

Either Finn didn’t hear the mistake over the general noise of the place, or he ignored it to move past the slight. “Yeah, no. Is that guy—“

Poe laughed and walked over to an X-Wing pilot with a dark beard and short hair. Finn recognized him from the Starkiller attack plan meeting. Poe clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yeah, he is. Snap here absolutely is repairing his canopy with medical-grade spray adhesive.”

The pilot, Snap, was finishing up and he shrugged. “Hangar Aurek has the industrial stuff. This will do until we can get any real parts in.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Poe said, placing his hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Each of these pilots has their own way of doing things—their own tricks, in and out of battle.” As they started to walk away together, he had to steady himself on Finn as his leg came out from under him. A shiny metal tool—Finn wished he could say what sort—rolled away somewhere. “And their own idea of ‘organized’.” He found the tool, and pointed it accusingly at an Abednedo. “That one’s on you, Threnalli!”

At the center of the hangar, some folks were busy eating away at their lunch. Finn was reminded of the austere rooms the First Order generously called ‘commissaries’—more in fact a room where one sits quietly after receiving a protein paste and nutrient broth. “You guys get bread here?”

“Yeah,” Poe laughed. “Unless Sonnen here gets to it first.”

She shook her head and pulled her pack closer to her to make room. “Sue me, Dameron. I’m from Pamarthe. Bread and fish is all we had.”

Finn didn’t notice at first, but the woman must have had at least a decade on Poe. Finn was gestured to sit next to her and Poe went somewhere blocked by an X-Wing and brought back a couple trays of food.

“Here,” he sat one down in front of Finn before sitting opposite him. “I convinced the General that it’s conducive to work if we have a spread laid out in the hangar. Less time walking across base to the actual meal hall.”

Finn didn’t really need an explanation of why food was in front of him. After a few days of constant sleep and intravenous meals, he was happy to bite into a small loaf of bread and a bit of indistinct meat.

Poe spent more time watching his friend go at it than actually eating. He was happy to seek him well again, but he was worried the former stormtrooper was hiding some lasting issues from the injury. He couldn’t just ask him, and anyway, these things took time.

Sonnel offered Finn a drink, which he immediately took, and looked at Poe. “Did you ask Leia about the Falcon? ”

“General Organa says Chewie’s got first dibs on it.” He shrugged. “Which, I mean, yeah. That’s fair. It’s not like I always crash land or anything.”

“Just the TIE,” Finn poked around a mouthful of food.

“Okay, yeah. After being blown out of the sky into a desert. Name one other time.”

“Chewbacca’s been with the Falcon longer than anyone, now…” Sonnel looked away, trailing off.

“Greer, I’m sorry about Han.”

The older woman didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Thanks Poe.” She turned her head to Finn and have a two-finger wave. “Greer Sonnel. I’m mostly a mechanic, which is a shame, since I’m the best pilot we’ve got.”

Finn nodded at her. “I’m Finn.”

She smiled coyly. “I figured as much, considering the way Poe is trying so hard to seem impressive.”

Finn swallowed hard and tried to change the subject back.”Oh, he can’t fool me. Even I could have safely landed that TIE.”

Poe smirked, “I thought you needed a pilot.”

“Well, maybe I meant to say ‘co-pilot’, smart-ass. I could’ve handled it just fine.”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Poe noticed Finn was about halfway done eating but hadn’t touched his drink. He still had time. “Let’s talk about the mission.”

His hand moved to the beverage. “Where to?”

“Ilum. Know anything?”

Without hesitation, Finn began reciting facts. “Arctic climate. Sector 7G. In a system of the same name. Nothing but frozen wastes. I’ve heard it was a potential host for Starkiller, but they obviously must have changed it. No other strategic value; it’s way out of the way. No settlements. Nothing but snow.” He almost brought the glass to lips, before adding, “There were rumors going around back when we thought we were gonna get shipped out there that it was an important place for the Jedi.”

Poe nodded, talking quickly before the other man took a sip. “By the Stars, Finn. You’re as bright as they come. No wonder BeeBee likes you.” Poe looked him in the eyes and smiled at his friend.

Finn felt his face get hot. “Thanks,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure what to say. Poe was a nice guy, and compared to the First Order, he was a compliment-giving machine. He tried to look away, to think of anything to reply with, but came up short. He took a long swig of his drink, and immediately spat it out onto the table and his lap. He sputtered loudly, stood up, and shouted. “What the hell is this? Starship fuel?” He suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten at all. It seemed like more of a liability now, with his whole body retching.

Poe shook his head, trying not to laugh. Greer Sonnel took back the rest of the glass and downed the rest without expression. “Port in a Storm. Pamarthen specialty.”

Poe bit his lip. “Sorry, Finn. It’s something of an initiation ritual. Welcome to the Resistance,” he offered with meek enthusiasm. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry, or that he was proud of him not vomiting, but he didn’t know if it would be more embarrassing for him.

Finn took a second to collect himself and dab at his pants leg with a napkin, but didn’t seem upset. Maybe queasy.

“Congratulations! You’re officially one of us,” Greer gave the man a hearty laugh and a thumbs up.

Finn was about to respond with a dubious ‘thank you?’ but was interrupted when there came a chirping from farther in the hangar, followed by a metallic thud, as BB-8 rolled over to table.

Getting up, Poe snapped his fingers. “Oh, Greer. I think one of the Ticos needed to see you. Yirt Hangar.”

Together, Poe, Finn, and BB-8 made their way to Poe’s sleek, black X-Wing. “Never crashed this baby,” he said with a hand on his hip.

Greer Sonnel’s voice carried from the lunch table as she shouted, “You’ve flown it twice! You lost your last X-Wing on Jakku, too!” Poe waved her away without turning around.

Finn was still lagging behind, his mind feeling numb just from tasting that swill. “So we’re going to Ilum? Is it because of a Jedi myth? One of those things? Mythical things?”

Poe nodded. “Yeah, Leia’s been there herself before. The planet was the Jedi’s source of kyber. A crystal that powered lightsabers.”

“And super weapons,” Finn added.

“Yeah, exactly. So the First Order is interested in the planet. Leia said they might try and destroy the old temple there. We’ve got to go in as quietly as we can and observe. Figure out what exactly they want.”

Finn was putting on a pair of leather gloves when he asked, “So—like spies?”

Poe put his hand on Finn’s shoulder, and Poe felt him tense up slightly. Poe’s hand wavers and after a moment too long he tousled the back of his head. Finn noticed Poe was about to say something, but the pilot instead ducked under the X-Wing’s fuselage to check a panel.

After a minute or so, Poe came back around and finally looked at him. He cleared his throat, trying to look casual by leaning on the starfighter. “Yeah, so like spies.”

▹▴◃

The First Order’s training rooms were massive, cavernous, so much so that it was housed on a dedicated ship that trailed behind the fleet nearly everywhere they went, just to house them. The ship itself was considerably smaller than a Star Destroyer, but the ceiling still arched above Phasma’s height nearly forty feet, and an intricately and entirely man-made battlefield of obstacles laid our across the quarter klick area. This specific field was littered with troopers, bellowing back and forth, slightly less lethal blasters firing in every direction.

Off to the side, tucked away inside an observation booth, stood Captain Phasma. Her escape from the trash pit on Starkiller had been a much narrower than she’d hoped, but with Finn holding a blaster to her chest plate, and a Wookie behind him, it had been her only option. She’d made it out, and she would never allow the defeat to happen again. The entire ordeal had just proved a suspicion she’d had for several weeks prior: the Stormtrooper program required more devout attention. Her best were slipping through the cracks, and her worst should have never been allowed to leave the training fields.

It was evident that every step of the process needed to be harsher, most of the recruits did not have the cut to be half as ruthless as was needed to take entire systems. The Order suffered a tremendous loss with the troops stationed on Starkiller gone, but already she was training a new batch to ship out. They weren’t quite battle-ready yet, but they’d have to do for the increased recruitment intake-- they were shipping out to Kef Bir, a lonely moon in the Endor System, tomorrow. She was looking forward to seeing what the new batch was made of. With any luck, some trauma would serve these troopers well.

#a.txt #the lost hope #star wars #finnpoe #finnrey #sequel trilogy rewrite

23 notes · View notes

theolddarkmachine · 5 years ago

Text

Imaginary- Chapter Six

Midoriya Izuku’s life was turned upside by fate.

Eri’s life was turned upside down by circumstance.

And Bakugou Katsuki is about to learn that even imaginary friends need to grow up.

Also on AO3

A/N: My notes from my chapter outline for this literally just said ‘Bakugou and friends get drunk and talk.’ So needless to say, I didn’t really know what I was gonna do with this chapter, and it ended up being my fave so far. So I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :D

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

Raucous laughter bounced off the room’s walls, filling the space with the sound of drunken mirth as Katsuki felt a small hand punch him feebly in the arm.

“How is that even four sheets to the wind, you still look so angry?” Mina asks, her strange gold eye sparkling as her lips pull wide into a shit eating grin. It matches the same shit she seems to be talking now as Katsuki grumbles lowly.

If he’d known that by this time, he’d be the brunt of all his friends’ drunken tirades, he would have turned down the damn invite.

Or, at the very least, he would have ordered something stronger than beer.

A wet snort pulls his attention back down from his thoughts as he sees Mina’s better half and constant shadow splutter into his own pint.

“What does that even mean?” Kirishima laughs high and bright, almost as bright as the drunk flush that turns his cheeks a shade that matches his hair. Supposedly Katsuki’s best friend, Kirishima was a certified traitor whenever his long time crush came around.

That’s fine. He’ll make sure to remember this for the next time they’re hanging out alone.

Katsuki can already imagine how good it will feel when he reminds him of the way he’d tripped over himself when he’d seen Mina walk up to the bar in her teal romper and tan booties.

Take that, stupid Shitty Hair.

“It means our Bakugou is drunk!” Inasa booms, raising his glass almost as if in toast toward the ceiling before knocking it back. The impossibly tall man leans back with it, wobbling for just a moment before finding the momentum to come back upright with a large grin.

“Who asked you anyway, ya damn extra,” Katuski growls, reaching forward for his own pint.

Sure, he doesn’t quite remember which number this was, but his vision wasn’t exactly swimming yet, which means that he’s just fine. Beer splashes of the sides of his glass and wets the table’s surface, leaving an accusatory puddle as he takes a big swing, ignoring the chorus of laughter around him.

“So, like, what’s the story morning glory?” Camie asks, placing both elbows on the table and propping her head on her hands. Quickly shaking her dusty blonde hair out of her face, she leans toward her cocktail, grabbing its straw between her teeth and sipping as she eyes him expectantly.

Inwardly, Katsuki curses the day he’d met Baldie and Blondie in those damned remedial classes. It had been almost a decade, and he still didn’t understand how anyone could need remediation for being an imaginary friend.

“What’s the story with your face,” Katuski huffs in retort, sinking down into the plastic embrace of the booth. His shoulders hunch up around his ears, hiding the way they undoubtedly burn pink with the heat of the beer sloshing in his gut. No one need to know about that, though.

“I think that’s what she’s asking you,” Todoroki chimes in, tone flat as always before he takes a calm sip of his whiskey. The most calm of them on a normal day, the pink dusting his cheeks was at least some kind of tell from his level of inebriation.

God damn Peppermint Head was just so damn boring that even drunk her was stoic.

“And I’m telling you, it’s none of your fucking business,” Katsuki snarls, ignoring how soft and pliant his words sound.

“Aw, c’mon, Bakubro, don’t be like that!” Kirishima slurs loudly, pushing himself over Mina’s lap to look at him with his alcohol brightened gaze. “We’re your friends!”

The exclamation causes Katsuki to roll his eyes as he mumbles into his beer.

“Not like I asked for you to be.”

The table collectively groans as Kirishima hangs his head, shaking it slightly before whipping it back up and almost smacking Katsuki’s pint out of his hand. It earns the crimson haired man a sharp glare and another grumble as Katsuki pushes himself away from his radius of reach.

“Well it’s too late now, we’re here, so shut up and tell us what’s wrong,” Kirishima exclaims, leaning further into Mina’s lap, blush going darker as he seems to realize that a moment too late. It would have been reason enough to divert attention from him and change the subject if Katsuki wasn’t already seething.

“Who the hell are you telling to shut up?” He snaps instead, beer sloshing in his glass. Its deflating foam spills into his lap, soaking into the fabric of his jeans at his thigh, which only further annoys him.

“What does it even matter to you losers?” Katsuki continues, casting his pointed glare around the table. There’s a pause that pulls tight around the group before they all exchange looks of something a lot like concern.

“It’s, like, kind of depressing how you’ve been moping the last couple of days, ya know?” Camie says around her straw before giving it a long drag that rattles the last of the cocktail and ice at the bottom of her glass.

“It has been a bit concerning how you’ve been acting lately,” Todoroki adds, almost offhand in that damned bored tone of his. It’s like the vocal equivalent of a shrug and it pisses him off.

“And how the hell have I been acting lately?” Katsuki snarls, pushing himself up in the seat in challenge, even as a tight feeling in his chest tells him he knows exactly how.

It’s been a couple days since The Incident, and he hasn’t been by to see Eri since. Not because he’s scared, mind you, but because he doesn’t know what the fuck to do about his Midoriya Izuku problem, and he’s never been a fan of not knowing what the fuck to do. So, he’d decided that until he did figure it out, he would just stick around HQ.

Only, that had made him a bit antsy.

A lot antsy, maybe, depending on who you asked.

“Like you have a stick further up your ass than usual,” Todoroki says under his breath and straight into his whiskey.

“The fuck did you say?!” Katsuki roars, slamming his glass on the table. Loud clinks punctuate the air as the whole thing shakes, moving the other glasses atop its surface.

“No, you know what, he’s right,” Mina cuts in, carefully pushing Kirishima out of her lap. Katsuki doesn’t miss the way her flush rivals that of his best friend, something he’d hopefully remember in the morning.

“You’re usually pretty uptight, Bakugou, but you’ve been acting like a real jerk.”

Groaning loudly, Katsuki drops his elbows onto the table, right into the beer puddle that immediately starts to seep into the fabric of his plaid button up as he shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes. Bright splotches of light pop like miniature fireworks on the backs of his eyelids as the world seems to spin quicker around him.

It would be disorienting if he didn’t have the tether of his anger keeping him somewhat grounded.

Breathing in for five and out for five, he resurfaces to the expectant stares of his friends.

His god damn, friends.

“Alright,” he growls, grabbing his glass once more and downing the last half of his beer before dropping it back onto the wooden surface. “Have any of you guys had anything weird happen while you were with your assignment?”

Quiet drops down into the spaces between them all as Katsuki watches his companions exchange confused looks.

“Besides the usual kid weirdness?” Inasa asks, voice stupidly genuine as he cocks his head in earnest question.

“I once had a kid tell me his boogers could turn into candy,” Kirishima offered excitedly, sitting up taller as he peered at him over Mina’s head.

“There was this one time, where like, this kid said she could tell me my future and she was right!” Camie added in, finally pushing away from her drink. Her chocolate colored gaze never leaves his as she waits for some kind of acknowledgement of that being exactly what he meant.

“What the fuck, no not like that weird kid shit,” Katsuki moans, rolling his eyes toward the bright light above them. Returning his attention back to the group, he shrugs.

“Like, I don’t know. Weird shit.”

“Use your words, Bakubro,” Mina pushes, her own tone gentle as if she was talking to one of her assignments.

“Has anyone else ever seen you?” He finally blurts, his tongue too loose from the alcohol to realize what it was doing before the words were pushed between his teeth. The question freezes everyone in their varying degrees of movement, and paints their faces with a matching look of shock.

“What?” Todoroki asks breathlessly as he leans forward. His expression is filled with interest for what seems like the first time since they got their seats in the private room.

Hands itching for anything to do, Katsuki grabs for the nearly empty pitcher at the center of the table and refills his glass, not paying any mind to the fact he misses at first. Emptying the pitcher, he replaces it at the table’s center before grabbing his pint and taking another sip in an attempt to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

Mina looks between him and Kirishima and back again before breaking the silence.

“Like, another kid?”

“Like, anyone at all!” Katsuki says, voice rising again if only to battle the quiet. He doesn’t miss the way she turns to Kirishima and tilts her head in Katsuki’s direction, as if pushing him to say something.

“No,” the redhead answers, voice hesitant as he speaks the very word that seems reflected in the stares of their companions. “I don’t think—”

“Is that even possible?” Camie cuts in, casting her glance around as if in search for some unseen force. Her wide eyes are filled with confusion, and touched by fear.

A somber thrum fills the room, the feeling of it clinging to his skin like humidity as everyone’s gazes return to him. Buried deep within everyone’s stare is the same look. It’s one of apprehension and worry as they watch him wearily. A jolt rocks through Katsuki’s chest as their stares drag those two small words back to the forefront of his mind.

They raise the hair at his nape with a hint of threat.

Friendship terminated.

Thrusting himself beneath the edge of his glass, he swallows down the truth with the malty booze.

When he comes back up, it’s with a sharp laugh and biting smile.

“I’m just fucking with you guys,” he grunts out, praying his friends are as drunk as he suddenly feels. If they are, they’ll surely miss the way his laughter lands just shy of sounding right.

Air seems to fill the room for the first time since he’d said anything as he watches each set of shoulders around him relax around a collective breath.

“Not cool, dude,” Kirishima laughs before taking a swig of his drink. The brightness of his own laughter breaks the last of any lingering tension as the others join him in his bubbling joy.

Lifting a hand, Camie signals for another cocktail as Mina punches him in the arm again with a teasing pout. Inasa’s laugh buries Kirishima’s as he throws an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, both clinking their glasses together.

Only Todoroki seems to keep his stare on Katsuki as he polishes off the last of his beer.

***

Katsuki’s arm is over Todoroki’s shoulder, held there by the other man’s hand at his wrist as they both stumble down the apartment hallway.

If Todoroki was the type, he might have just cursed the fact he was the one with the bad luck to have ended up stuck on the same floor as the blonde, and thus had ended up the one tasked with getting him home. After all, it wasn’t his fault how housing assignments went.

Much like their work assignments, they were given by Administrators who seemed to have their own wicked taste in fate in mind.

Luckily though, he wasn’t the type.

“Get off me, Icy Hot,” Katsuki grumbles, eyes trained on the floor because he’s certain if he looks up, it’ll pull out from under his feet.

“You’re technically the one on me,” Todoroki says lowly, words bleeding together at their ends as he pauses to look at the apartment numbers. His eyebrows pull together, pushing a deep wrinkle between them as he tries to focus enough to determine which of the squiggles were the right ones.

“Shut up,” Katsuki slurs, pulling away in a vain attempt to prove him wrong. The only thing he ends up proving is that he can’t quite stand up straight as he finds himself falling back against him again.

“Very mature,” Todoroki deadpans, leading them both away from a door with a mat proudly proclaiming ‘WELCOME’ in bright colors. He hadn’t been able to discern the number beside the door, but he at least knows that the blonde wouldn’t just welcome people into his home.

And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t with neon colors.

“I know I am, so what are you?” Katsuki retorts childishly before tripping slightly over his own feet. The sudden shift of his weight almost takes them both down before he manages to catch himself.

A small, prideful hum vibrates through him.

“You weren’t really joking, were you?” Todoroki asks without preface. There’s an instant change in Katsuki’s mood as he goes stiff next to him.

“About being mature? I’d never joke about that,” he growls back, pulling slightly as if trying to force Todoroki to move quicker. The attempt doesn’t do anything to change the fact that he can hear the way Katsuki’s voice sounds a shade closer to sober now.

“About being seen by someone other than your friend,” Todoroki says patiently, eyes trained on the doors that still stretch ahead of them.

He’s certain they’re getting closer to their destination, if only because he thinks he remembers finding it funny that Katsuki would be housed so far from other residents.

“Yeah,” the blonde finally mumbles after what feels like an eternity of stumbling down the hall in silence.

Nodding at the answer, Todoroki continues to move them both ever so slowly toward the door at the back of the hall that it hopefully the right one. He’s at least mostly certain it’s the right one.

“So, what, fucking Peppermint Patty? You got something to say about that?” Katsuki rages, his movement too sudden for Todoroki to maintain their equilibrium. The hallways seems to pitch itself to the side as he loses his footing and drags them both into the wall.

“Calm down,” he hisses as his shoulder twinges with a sharp spike of pain from where it meets the drywall. It takes several minutes to reset his hold on the drunk blonde, and it isn’t until they’ve started moving again that he speaks once more.

“I just haven’t heard of anything like that happening,” he shrugs. The movement pushes Katsuki’s arm higher onto his shoulders as they finally reach the last door.

Above them, the light flickers ominously.

Ah yes, Todoroki thinks. That’s what had been so funny about where he lived.

“Yeah, well no one else has either, and it better stay that way,” Katsuki threatens, though the effect is lost a bit by how it’s slurred. The jingle of keys fills the quiet hall as he fishes them out from deep in his pocket, his search almost pitching the duo forward before he manages to get them free.

It takes several attempts before Katsuki finally manages to slide the key into the lock.

“Have you asked an Administrator about it?” Todoroki asks casually as the door swings open. Pushing them both over the threshold, he carefully balances Katsuki on one shoulder and turns over the other to quietly close the door.

A shudder runs itself through the blonde, and it tickles across Todoroki’s shoulders where his arm is still settled.

“Fuck no,” Katsuki bites out, twisting himself out of his friend’s hold. With a look of determination twisting his features, he trips his way through the dining area before him. There’s a sharp screech of wood against linoleum as he rams his hip into the corner of his dining table.

Letting loose a string of brightly colored curses, he shoots the wooden furniture a look of betrayal as he limps his way to the living room, and consequently, the couch.

With a sigh, Katsuki throws himself back over the armrest, his back hitting the cushions with a soft thud as his legs draped over the side.

“And I’m not going to, so drop it, Icy Hot.”

It’s a dismissal on all accounts.

Shaking his head, Todoroki makes his way to the kitchen, more careful to make it without any bumps or bruises, unlike his companion. Gaze finding a relatively clean looking glass on the countertop, he fills it with water from the tap before carefully swaying his way to the living room.

Looking toward his friend, he sees that Katsuki’s eyes are already closed.

Placing the water on the edge of the coffee table, Todoroki shakes his head once more before quietly showing himself out.

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

#bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #bakudeku #bkdk #get you some friends like the baku squad lol

4 notes · View notes

bunchamunchafaunus · 5 years ago

Text

- [ Video Log; 30: Proper Weapon ] -

The video begins, a view of Roy’s face and hand close to the camera as he seems to be adjusting the scroll it belonged to. His hand covered with some black material around both wrist and palms. Yet the fingers left bare save for metal rings that encompass the middle of the section following the first knuckle of the index, middle, and ring fingers, each with a purple crystal band around their centers. The fabric over the palm reinforced compared to that seen around the base of his fingers and wrist, which can be seen continuing down below and around his forearms.

In the small gaps still available past his form, the surrounding environment appeared not to be his room, as it had been each time prior, but was instead a wide open room. To one side could be seen a catwalk along a wall high above, a few people standing watch over the Faunus.

Stepping back he stands straight with head angling down as he inspected his arms. Lifting the previously unseen one to grip by his elbow along the new article along the same arm previously filling a portion of the image. Three things being revealed as he goes about doing such. One, on the back of his forearm was a long metal plate with a slight tapper by the wrist, and a long, spent dust crystal embedded along the length of it with two purple crystal strips encompassing it. Two, the rings on his fingers have tethers connecting them, not only to the gloves and going beneath reinforced knuckles, but reaching even beneath the metal plate. Three, both his arms were clad in these glove and gauntlet combinations.

“I guess this kind of thing was a long time coming...” He speaks rather abruptly, looking up to his scroll from the arm pieces. Closing both his hands, finger-by-finger first before as a whole a few times for both. “After how much I’ve been fighting using my bare fists and using Dust, Captain Maho decided I needed an actual weapon of some sort. We’ve been set in the Sanus deserts for a while, I’ve been waiting with everyone else at this hidden base of sorts smack dab in the middle of this constant sandstorm that only ever seems to end for a day or two at most? Meanwhile Captain Maho and a couple others took a shuttle to head to Vacuo proper, and had been there for a few days. They got back just yesterday, and I was gifted these.” Lifting his arms to show off the new article proper both inner arm and back of the arm.

While showing the back, his hands curl to fists and bend inward toward himself. Bladed edges extending out from the plates to make them appear more like curved triangular shapes as they extend beyond the form of his arms. The new state looking a lot more akin to small shields with sharpened edges for a mixture of offense and defense. The extensions disappearing under the metal plating’s surface again after a few seconds, revealing his hands open and fingers spread wide once more.

“They included the crystals in them, but explained that they’re spent Dust crystals. Apparently I’m supposed to be able to channel my Aura into them and it will allow the use of my Aura to make protective barriers that can guard against things that the ‘shield’ formation themselves can not. Or to coat my hands and arms with my Aura to be able to make my punches more effective against Grimm or other people and their Aura defenses. Now, I’ve not been able to do... either of those... yet... but I have been able to electrify them with my Dust, sooo... yeah, that’s a thing I can do.”

To show off what he meant, he begins to hum at a high pitch. Two seconds later, a spark of energy shoots across both his arms. Quickly being followed by a current flowing visibly across the metal plate on the back of both his arms. Every now and then having bolts ark to the rings on his fingers, or sparks flying off corners of the plates. Though a moment later, such would end with a few lingering bolts shooting off here and there over the seconds that followed.

“I’ve been trying these out for a while today, and they feel pretty good. It’s admittedly a little odd not having my gloves with the little symbols to channel my Dust, but I’ve slowly been discovering how to manage through humming or whistling, like I just did. It’s all pretty experimental still, but I’m expecting I’ll figure more out rather quickly as time goes by and I get into some fights with these. Uh-... oh, here’s another thing...”

One of his hands disappears beneath his waist, returning into view a moment later with a short handle in hand. A slight s-like curve to the handle which extended three inches beyond his grip on both ends. Bands of purple crystals around both the very ends of this handle. Roy’s thumb shifted, seeming to press something, and out from the top half extends a curved, six inch long blade with a slight serrated underside of it’s last inch of the blade. On the opposite side of the same end, a blunt piece extends, somewhat ovular, but the bottom of it curving similar to a hook. All in all appearing to be an ice-pick of sorts, designed with both mobility and combat in mind.

“Got two of these as well. When I told them about how mobile Team Empress was minus myself without my Dust, they decided I should have some form of mobility option available for myself as well. Admittedly, it’s a little odd when just seeing the initial set up since there’s no actual tether, but the smith that made these supposedly had an idea come to mind. Though they apparently didn’t explain it much beyond just telling Captain Maho to tell me ‘think the Grimm Reaper’, which is oddly familiar, but I couldn’t pin why until Sprig spoke up since he overheard. That legendary Huntress from years, decades ago, who dual wielded scythes, one of the best Hunters in Remnant’s history.”

After speaking, he turned to look to the people on the catwalk. Retracting the blade on the handle as he nods and calls out to them. “Catch!” Rearing up, he tosses the handle across the room and up to the pair of onlookers. One extending their arm up and out, gripping it as it got close without issue. ‘Extend the blade and hand it on the railing for me, will ya?”

Nodding and waving, the person does as asked. The blade becoming visible once again before they walk a little ways away from the person beside them and balance the pick atop the railing that lined the catwalk. Roy, stepping a little ways from the scroll himself, extends the same arm outward toward the pick, fingers adjusting to pull the tethers of the rings in a specific pattern. The purple strips along the brace and around the rings on his fingers lighting up, those on the ends of the pick doing the same, and just a second later the item was flying back to his hand. Taking hold of it once more in one smooth motion as he turns to look to the camera once more. Retracting the blade and blunt end once again this time waving it a little off to the side. “Pretty damn cool honestly, and these’ll be quite useful when my fists aren’t enough.”

His hand drops to stow the item again. The same as from the beginning of the recording returning into view as he steps closer and extends a finger forward. “Things are looking up.” Tapping, the footage halts.

#Roy Gaia #story post

3 notes · View notes

quagmireisadora · 6 years ago

Note

Could you write jinki having narcolepsy? Either ot5 friendship or onkey focus please :)))

A/N: I did a mix of both? Haha?Based on this song

Warning: NC-17, but only just

The grass is cold against his thighs. He runs his hand over the tips of blades, green and yellow surrounding wild flowers he doesn’t know the names of. Usually he likes to pull out his phone and look for them - scientific name, botanical family, what the flower symbolizes. Usually he likes to look up stuff like that and then read it all out to the other. But right now… right now it doesn’t matter. The hill is rolling and their slow footsteps are rolling with it. He carefully follows the other through the overgrown grass. “Taem ah,” he calls out to slow them down, but even when the boy turns to look and smile, their pace remains steady. Onew doesn’t try to check his wrist for the time or wonder why his stomach isn’t rumbling yet. It does not matter. There is no more hunger in him, no more sleep either. He is free.

“Hyung, come,” Taemin reaches with his hand. Onew grasps it without question and immediately the ground falls away. Or maybe their feet leave the hill. He isn’t sure, but they’re no longer tethered down by gravity. Their eyes don’t look below but above – to what is coming, what they are approaching, what is waiting to gather them in its embrace. Onew sighs at how peaceful everything is, how blue and bright it all looks. He closes his eyes for a moment to take in the smell, the sound around him, and when harsh laughter assails his ears he suddenly jolts in his place.

“Yah,” manager hyung’s voice is urgent in his ear. “What the hell? Don’t let the organisers see you dozing off!”

He blinks a few times in confusion, in shock. He looks around for Taemin in a and finds him signing a copy of the CD for an excited fan. When the younger is done, he turns to the leader and raises his eyebrows. Unseen to other’s eyes, a set of cold fingers presses into Onew’s thigh and he is suddenly aware of where they are–of what this is.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbles back to the unspoken question on the other’s face. Then he musters his best smile for the fans waiting and pushing in line, and keeps the expression fixed on his face for the rest of the evening.

“Haha, but he’s bald!” Minho laughs from his seat on the pulley machine, pausing his exercise for a minute because he’s quaking so hard from laughter. “He works out so much that he’s bald!”

“Yah, it’s a kids’ anime! What’re you doing watching that sort of stuff?” Onew chuckles from the treadmill, raising the speed by a little. When Minho doesn’t respond, just laughs harder at whatever his brain is imagining, the elder shakes his head. “You like it that much, huh?”

He likes to spend his free time practicing on the piano, but his body is starting to get weaker and weaker. He is always tired, whether it’s before or after dance practice, before or after a live performance, before or after a good night’s sleep. In fact, he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. He yawns all the time, dozes off in the car, starts nodding in the middle of management discussions and advertisement pitches. It’s disrespectful but he can’t help it. He pinches himself every time he senses an oncoming wave of drowsiness, but it doesn’t always work. He can no longer sit through a full movie, or watch a whole concert. When he goes out on a date, the other person is always embarrassed or insulted when he suddenly falls asleep in the middle of dinner. He drinks to make himself feel better but he has a habit of taking it too far, and when he’s found sleeping in odd places, it gets him in all sorts of trouble. The fans notice and leave comments, the company notices and sends him to the gym.

“More exercise will improve your lifestyle,” he’s reprimanded. “You’re not very healthy right now, and that’s bad for public image. Think of the group!” He hangs his head and takes all of the criticism, but Minho grabs him by the elbows every week and leads him away. They don’t talk about it, don’t discuss it beforehand, and if the younger has any comments to make about Onew’s fitness or physique, he doesn’t ever share them. He simply smiles and makes silly jokes about silly things. Like usual.

The laughter evaporates and they fall into their routine again when their instructor comes in to scold them, but a few minutes into his run Onew starts to feel a familiar heaviness. He shakes his head to disperse it, and he’s successful, but only for a short while. He blinks hard, once, twice, thrice. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he reaches for the emergency stop button it isn’t there–

What wakes him up is a shaking to-and-fro. He thinks someone is trying to nudge him back into consciousness, but it’s just Minho carrying him. His arm is around the boy’s shoulder and his feet are dragging on the ground but they’re definitely moving. The sun is shining, the cicadas are crying, the trees are swaying in a light wind. Everything is calm in the world and yet… he frowns and squints ahead of them. They’re walking back to the car.

“W-what are we…?” Onew tries, but the light is too bright and the movement is too much. “Wait… no, wait, wait,” He pulls on the other’s sleeve to stop because he’s dizzy and about to throw up.

He wobbles a little on his feet, and his hand finds the solid surface of a wall fast. It is warm, surface heated from hours of sunlight. He pants as if he’s run a long and tiring marathon, trying to find balance, trying to stay upright. He pants and imagines it rising into the hot air around them like steam. He tries to move again but his body is simply too weighty. He bends till the top of his head is scraping against brick. It burns a little against his scalp. He tries to calm his breath and focus his sight–focus! he orders himself. Slowly, very slowly, things start to appear more clearly with every blink. His forehead stops throbbing, his knees stop trembling, his inhales don’t rush to follow his exhales.

He straightens up and pushes off the wall. He feels a lot calmer now, and he can walk by himself. When his eyes find Minho, he wants to tell him the same thing. But his eyes find Minho, he realizes he doesn’t have to say anything.

“H-hyung?” the other asks, his voice is meek, his hands are shaking. There is panic visible on the skin of his face. He reaches out like a lost child looking for its mom. “Hyung a-are you…?” he looks close to tears as he takes a tentative step forward. Onew tries to remember if he’s ever seen Minho look scared out of his mind. He can’t think of a single instance.

So he walks up to the other and folds him in a hug.

Taemin practices his Japanese out of a book, lips moving quietly. One hand traces over the words and another writes them out on a piece of paper. His hair falls over his eyes and his back is crouching on the stool. Onew walks around and taps the bumps on the boy’s spine to signal him to correct his posture. The maknae makes an annoyed sound but does as he’s told, shifting and sitting up straight, pushing his hair back and rubbing his neck tiredly. The fridge is opened and a pair of cool tamarind-flavored drinks are brought out. Onew puts one next to Taemin’s study paraphernalia, and they share a look, saying nothing.

In the middle of their living room, Minho plays a video game with Jonghyun, explaining how the controls work. They giggle with something weird appears on the screen, but when Onew points at all the wires lying around in a mess they quickly clear it all up. He doesn’t linger to check if they finish the job, simply walks away from them and heads for his bedroom, where the rest of his TV show is waiting for him. It’s a hot afternoon, they have no schedules planned, their manager is not coming over to talk to them about any new work, and soon they’ll all head back to their homes for a break from all the madness. It’s their well-established routine, and it does a good job keeping them motivated. Keeping them energized for the next set of promotions. Of course, they’ll still get phone calls and offers for commercials, of course they’ll still have to cut their break short and come back when some big-shot producer suddenly sells them a new song. Of course all that would still happen, but this afternoon is just theirs, and they use it all for themselves.

Just as Onew reaches halfway through the episode on his laptop, the front door opens and slams shut, followed by heavy footsteps walking to his room. “What dirty things you up to, old man?” Key leans against the door frame and asks, smelling like food and cigarettes.

“Hello to you too,” Jinki pauses the video. Outside, Minho lets out a frustrated sound and Jonghyun laughs at him with a how am I better at this than you? The elder raises his eyebrows, and rolls his chair back from the desk. “How was everyone?” he asks.

“Good,” the other replies, messing his hair and shrugging off his jacket. “Bored. Woohyun says he’s thinking of moving to America.”

“Is he now.”

“He said hi, by the way,” Key passes the greeting with a wave of his hand and starts to walk away.

“Listen,” Onew calls him back, but the other simply yells a what? from the hallway. He imagines their eyes meeting through the wall between them and stares at the plasterboard like he’s trying to reach the other. They don’t exchange anything else for a minute and the only sound in the apartment comes from the game console, a pair of competitive men who have nothing else better to do stomping and screaming around it. After a while he hears Key walk to his own room and rustle around for a while before coming back in clothes that don’t stand out as much.

He throws a face mask to the leader and says, “Better use that.”

He wakes up to the sight of Kibum’s ceiling.

The other is sat next to him in bed, fingers moving swiftly on his phone. The sound of message alerts comes and goes through his consciousness. He shifts a little, still caught in the confusion of waking up to a bright afternoon sun and the warmth of another body next to him. “Ugh… how long was I out?” he rubs his eyes.

“Ten minutes,” Kibum responds with some disinterest. “Maybe fifteen.”

The relief of not having lost a day is short-lived. He tries to sit up and is hit by an ache in his lower half. “Ah…!” he gasps, rolling to his front then looking down at himself. He is naked and hard under the sheets, and so is Kibum. “W-what…?!” he begins to demand, but when the other looks at him with curiosity it all comes rushing back into his brain.

He remembers leaving through the rear exit of their building and getting into a car that they drove through hardly any traffic. He remembers unlocking Kibum’s door while the other parked. He clearly recalls coming in and greeting the dogs, playing with them and feeding them before their nap. He remembers taking in the art pieces hanging on the walls and how much the place had changed since his last visit. He recollects running a hand over the kitchen counter and tapping his fingers on the wood before the other walked up behind him and pinned him forward, whispering softly against the back of his neck. He remembers palms running up and down his sides before he took hold of them and coiled them around his waist.

They do this sometimes. They walk out of the company housing in the middle of a meaningless day and come here, to Kibum’s home, which he keeps closed to guests and family at most times. They come here and they say nothing, share no words about the outside world. They close the doors and lock themselves in, shedding their clothes and taking off everything that makes them Onew and Key–coughing out the parts of them that are famous and loved. They become Jinki and Kibum here, in this sanctuary, two people looking for comfort in a world that has none to offer. They come here sometimes, give each other what they need, and when they leave they revert back to the cautiously crafted personalities the cameras demand of them.

He remembers Kibum being gentle, like always. He remembers how the man kissed him slowly, held him close, undressed him reverently, like anything could break him. He remembers how Kibum led them here, to a messy room and an unmade bed, maneuvering them so they didn’t trip over all the junk on the floor. He remembers feeling completely safe, secure, guarded in a warm embrace even when Kibum’s movements grew fluid and his eyes shone with a little danger. He remembers feeling a gate inside of him being forced open, the lock picked and the latch wrenched around in its slot. And when he moaned with want he remembers the gate creaking open easily like it was never shut in the first place. He remembers all of it and when he looks up at Kibum, he blinks in confusion.

“Why’d you stop?”

“You fell asleep,” the other shrugs. “I couldn’t just keep fucking you.”

Jinki lifts himself on his arms, passing a short and grateful kiss. “Want to try again?” he murmurs between their lips. Before the other can answer, his response is clear in his gaze. So Jinki shuts him up with another, deeper kiss, moving so he is straddling Kibum. He positions himself so he can take both of them in his grip and work them together, just the way Kibum likes it–

“No, h-hey, no!” he’s pushed away. “Stop it.”

“Did…” he frowns, looking around them. “Sorry, did I do something wrong, I–”

“You’re not well, Jin,” Kibum says in a low voice, but it sounds like a scream. Like a loud and harsh alarm going off somewhere very close to them. “I’m not going to do this with you again today. I can’t. It’s… it’s not right.”

“You’re getting pious on me, now?” Jinki asks incredulously, even though he knows what the other means. “After everything we’ve done?”

“Don’t,” Kibum shakes his head. “Look, I’m–we’re all worried OK?” he looks like he’s finally admitting something he’s been keeping hidden for years. Jinki tries to get away from the man but he’s held back by the shoulders. “No, hey, listen–listen. You’re losing weight. You don’t eat well, you forget things. And you keep falling asleep all the time. We’re worried if it’s like… like a…” he struggles to find the words to describe what he himself doesn’t understand. “Baby, I’m worried OK?” his hands cup Jinki’s face, and the panic on Minho’s face from all those days ago is reflected in Kibum’s expression. “I’m really fucking worried.”

“I’m fine,” Jinki struggles out of the hold and starts to look for his clothes.

“Please, go see a doctor,” Kibum suggests, and when he’s paid no attention, a short scuffle ensues between them. “Ji–Jin! Listen to me! Hey–”

“No, get away, I–”

Jinki is pulled into a tight hug until he stops fighting back. “Please,” Kibum begs him. “For me, please.”

A large square of light shines on the wall opposite them. The shadow of leaves rocks in and out of the square like it’s dancing to a song. Heat covers their backs through their clothes. The waiting room is quiet, and the hallway isn’t crowded like he remembers it from a drama shoot. Back then, there had been too much talking from the cast and crew, and there were too many lines to rehearse. Back then, the world was too full, too bursting for Onew to find his place in it and feel satisfied with what he did find. Now zelkovas tower over them outside the windows, saying no more than what he wants to hear. Nurses stop by once in a while to ask if they’re OK and if they need anything, and they reply with the chairs are too uncomfortable or the sun feels nice to explain their place on the floor. Onew shifts against Jonghyun’s shoulder, already feeling sleepy in the peace of the moment.

The doctors have seen him. They’ve done their tests, and the results are about to come out any time now. But he isn’t worried about any of that. They could tell him he isn’t human and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He thinks the results are not that important. What’s important is the moment. Everything is where it should be, how it should be. Their seats in the sunshine is where he feels he belongs for the rest of his life. There is no noise, no urgency, no effort needed from him to be here. Everything is quiet. Everything is warm and snug. He doesn’t feel Taemin’s confusion, or Minho’s fear, or Key’s distress. He doesn’t have to deal with any of that. He doesn’t have to explain why he’s tired or make excuses about not getting enough sleep the previous night. Jonghyun is just plain and simple in his tranquility. He doesn’t express it, or offer it for sharing. It radiates from his body like light from the sky.

“You want to go for a walk?” the younger asks him softly.

Onew shakes his head. “This is OK.” A few minutes later, a blanket is wrapped over him and he snuggles even closer to the other, finally feeling like he deserves the sleep that’s threatening to make him captive.

#30 day challenge #with soapy #jongyu #onkey #onho #ontae #in case it cuts off like last time #please use browser to read

22 notes · View notes

self-indulgent-sparrow · 6 years ago

Text

BIG GOD

Queenie went through a lot of work to get to where she is today. Putting it onto paper was a hard thing to do, for reasons that will become painfully obvious.

Please understand that I've had this concept planned out for at least 3 years now—if it reads like an angst ride, it's because it's something 2015 May had conceptualized, and I've set into stone for years and years. If anything, writing this nailed down some facts about her character and her beliefs that I haven't gotten to really talk about or study in depth.

10.8k. 30 pages, single spaced. Not an enjoyable ride to read. Heavy, heavy lore—there's no humor in this one.

Warnings for mention of suicide/suicide idealization, graphic descriptions of violence and body trauma. Also just general angst. Probably some CPTSD.

BIG GOD

The white cliff side stretched along the horizon, a stark contrast to the blue sky that it cut into, to the black sea that crashed against it. From here, she could see the thin red and white lighthouse, could only just make out the coast that crested partway along the bottom.

Beachy Head was the second of the four chalk cliff ranges she'd narrowed the location to. Mirah had seen the Seven Sisters—had scoped the cliffs for over a week, studying every shadow and dip—to no avail. The scripts had been unclear, only truly describing the cliff-side cave entrance as well hidden, barely a blot against the white edges of Albion, soaked in a history of blood.

In all honesty, she predicted the artifact would be at Dover, near the castle. It was a logical conclusion to jump to—the site had been witness to war, over and over again. The right island, the right backstory, it made sense that the scripts would describe Dover.

But Beachy Head was just east of the Sisters, and she wanted to be thorough. She'd come this far.

–

When she was a child, she devoured stories like they were air. The books she collected on Egypt and Greece and Rome numbered well beyond the dozens, alongside books about dragons and monsters and heroes. Heroes, always heroes.

She excelled in the history, drowned in the beliefs that were, to her, so foreign, but had once been people's lifelines. Dead stories, speaking beyond the grave, still forcing themselves out of the ground to be known. They held their own power. They lived beyond their people.

She had devoted herself deeply to the powerful concepts, needing badly to believe that, even when she was gone, she'd leave something behind. Something more than what she was at the time—a small, lonely creature, whose only friends were the books.

One day she'd tell a story, and it would echo into the years that would follow, without her there to witness it. She'd have that power too.

She had to believe that. She had to believe there was something more than the existence she'd been given.

Time passed. She nearly forgot. She nearly burned away.

–

The boat swayed gently, thumping against the wood and spraying water and foam as it docked. She had barely stepped onto the pier when she was handed the brochure. She opened it with chilly fingers, tucking her chin into her chest.

It proudly advertised the view of the lighthouse, the nearby pub in Eastbourne. It declared she should try the ice cream trucks that traversed the area, should follow the trail on the day hike to really appreciate the whole of the grandeur.

The national parks. The history. The bike marathon.

It all begged the question, she thought, as she made her way to the entrance of the dock, where the cab drivers waved at the tourists to beckon them over. With all this tourism, with eyes on the cliff-side at almost all times—

How could anything hide here? Would it truly not have been found?

(Underneath the listings and advertisements, she noted quietly, was a plea that, if one was contemplating suicide, to seek help immediately.)

Mirah looked out along the bottom of the cliff face, her eyes narrowed. It just out from the water in a sharp line, almost perpendicular, almost a straight shot upward. For miles, there were no coastlines along its base.

Soaking in a history of blood.

–

When she was six years old, Mirah would look out the window of the car, her seat-belt digging into her neck. She would fantasize, then, in the quiet of the drive, about jumping off high cliffs into the ocean to her death.

She would think about being dashed against the tall rocks at the bottom, barely hurting for more than a moment before disappearing into froth. Six years old, and she wrote out the suicide notes in her head. The people she'd leave behind, the blame she'd pin, the guilt they'd drown in. The voices they'd hear that weren't truly there. Her voice, living long after she did.

An event that would mean something to other people. A way to live through words long after the body had slipped away.

Strange. She would always find herself crying at the idea.

She didn't know for a long, long time, that six year olds shouldn't be thinking about that.

Strange.

–

The hotel was barely ten minutes from the trail. She reeked of tourism and sweat, an out of place form in the quiet bedroom with its warm lamps and soft bed. It barely complained when she dropped the weight of her backpack onto it, the sheets calling to her, the hot shower calling to her.

She chose, instead, to unzip the pack, and began to pull out her maps. There was little time to worry about showering—Beachy Head was a long expanse. It would take time and focus to study its rough white face, to narrow down possible cave entrances.

She dropped her maps and script translations onto the small desk, flicking the light on. The translation sheets rolled—she pinned them down with her travel mug, full of the crap hotel coffee and four bags of sugar.

Mirah dropped into the chair and bent over her studies, like she had every day for the past month and a half. She laced her fingers, putting them under her chin, and began again.

Her eyes ached from the effort. They begged for rest she did not give.

The trail of Beachy Head could be traversed in a single day. Along the path, members of the chaplaincy patrolled, to ward off potential jumpers, but their patterns were predictable and avoidable, as had been proven by the increase in bodies found in the last month.

She divided the cliff-line into portions with care, opening the journal she'd used for documenting the progress she'd made. Painstakingly, she pasted portions of one of the maps into the pages, dedicating a few blank pages to each one.

The patrols would be little problem. She had no plans to die.

It neared two-forty in the morning when she checked her phone for the first time in the past forty-eight hours. Her mouth became a hard line.

You have 2 (Two) missed calls

Blocked Number

You have 2 (Two) new voicemails

Blocked Number

She deleted them without listening, and turned her phone off again.

–

She was sixteen she she finally saw someone for her depression. The room was south facing, the sunlight slanting through the blinds. The woman she met was old, and kind, and stern, and she wept in that room more times than she could count.

“What made you decide to see me?”

Mirah dug her fingers into her plaid school skirt. Her eyes flicked to her mother's form in the chair beside her, and to her knees.

“I nearly crashed my car.”

That day had been a bad one, like so many before it. She had--

She had told her father, time and time again, that she was sick. She was sick and sad and she needed help, she needed to get help, and he had told her, with all the kindness in the world, that she could always talk to him about her problems. He had bought her lunch, and that was it.

She was his little date.

–

On day four, she stood at the highest point of Beachy Head, gripping her journal tight to her chest against the cool wind that bit into her cheeks. The lighthouse was a slender thing thing from here, below her. Here, there was no coastline, just the crashing water over five hundred feet below her.

When she looked down the face of the cliff, she could see the jutting rock, the dipping shadows. They dipped and warped, wrong, like they were falling into unseen crevices.

She flipped the journal open and marked the location studiously, sketching the lighthouse to size for reference. Her eyes narrowed, watering from the cold. When she looked up, the sunlight glinted off the ocean.

It really was beautiful here. The sky was clear. The sun was high.

She hadn't been focused on a goal like this in a long time. It was the closest she felt to alive again; the closest she could come to joy and satisfaction--

It was nice to care about something again.

The devil was in the details. She opened her journal and continued her work. If this was it, she needed to do everything she could to get it right.

–

She decided, at one point, to disappear. She hurt everywhere, she hurt all the time. The people she loved didn't love her back. The people who said they loved her hurt her, over and over and over.

She'd never been anything to anyone. She felt, all the time, little more than a burden, little more than a weight around people's necks. There was a weight on her neck, something keeping her tethered, something that kept her head bowed to the earth.

There was no pride. There was no passion. There was just her, little more than a ghost.

At night, she dreamed that she stopped existing, and nobody noticed.

–

The night was cold and still as she trekked up the trail that followed the cliff side. Her headlight bobbed along the dirt path, its dimmest setting still painting stark shadows from the pebbles and the long grass. In the dark, she could hear the high cry of unseen birds overheard.

Her pack dug into her shoulders as she walked, quick and quiet. She paused for hardly a moment, ducked low, and turned her light off, listening hard. A minute passed, then two, before she stood again, continuing forward to the high point. She left her light off, now.

She'd timed the patrols, learned the routes. They followed the road in search of cars in the night, then moved up the trail—if she was right, she had about a half hour to set up her posts and begin rappelling the cliff-side before the first patrol would pass it. That was not a lot of time.

She'd have to get it right. Lucky for her, she'd become somewhat efficient at this part.

The anchor posts were cold and heavy in her gloves. She drove the first into the ground, striking it deeper with the mallet. The noise was muffled by the rubber head, but the strikes resonated through her. The second post, ten feet from the first, went in easier. She looped and knotted her rope onto them, double checking her harness knots and descender. They were stable, secure. They would hold her weight.

She tightened the leg loops of the harness on her body, checked her headlight. In her inner coat pocket, easily accessible but secure, were her maps. Her glasses were strapped on, and would stay in place.

She stood at the edge of the cliff, inhaling deeply the painfully cold air. It smelled of sea salt and ice. Her body trembled—the rock felt ready to give way underneath her feet. An illusion, her own mind playing tricks on her. Terrifying and exhilarating all the same.

She hoped beyond hope that she wasn't wrong, but she didn't bet on it.

Mirah took one last huff of breath, turned her headlight on, gripped the rope in both her hands, and began her descent.

–

She stayed alive.

A spiteful action. She stayed alive, holding her bleeding heart in her hand.

She could never explain why she chose, or when she chose, to try to love herself. She'd not been loved for a long time, and somehow the biggest insult she could provide to others was the attempt to provide what they refused to.

Mirah was nearly eighteen when she finally ran away. Ties were hard to cut—she did her best, blocking phone numbers, changing bank accounts. She came as close as she could to becoming a new person, and she ran so far she crossed an ocean. Her funds had always been low, but school was always hosting classes abroad.

It was easier than she expected, and equally as hard. She had no foundation—but she had never had one, really. The foundation she'd been born with had been rotten from the beginning. It was a miracle she had chosen life.

She had made her own miracle. She'd pulled herself from her own grave. Somewhere along the way, she chose to love.

–

She shuddered against the wind, pressing herself to the rock face. Her boots were braced against the chalk, and she could feel the gentle slide as it gave and came loose in places.

This was insane, a weak voice pleaded in her head. Go back, go back. This was too far, it begged. She stepped down, down, down. The white stone swallowed her entire vision on all sides.

She was keenly aware, now—of the ache of the harness where it dug into her shoulders and thighs, of the stretch and burn of her knuckles where they gripped the rope and let it slide through their creaky joints. Of the way her skin was freezing cold and burning hot all in one moment, from adrenaline.

Down. Down. Down. Her rope unwound from the descender slowly, surely. Down. Each step down the wall was careful, bracing, in an attempt to find footing against the eroding stone. Down. She'd descended how far now? Forty feet? Fifty? Was she close? She must be close. She had to be close. Down. How much longer did she have before the patrol crossed? Down.

The next step downward struck the cap of her boot—her foot slipped and failed to brace and her knee struck the jutting rock. She swore hard and corrected, her jaw tightly clenched from the sudden pain. It was fine—she was fine. She should have expected the sudden slope outwards, should have prepared for it.

Here came the hard part. With careful movements, Mirah edged backwards down the slope, her eyes on her rope. She'd have to keep it in place when it caught on the slope, swing herself back to the wall of rock and the mouth of the potential cave, and be able to pull herself up it again.

It was a feat of strength, which she only barely had enough of. She edged over the furthest point of rock, and she could not resist the urge to press her hand flat to the scratchy white stone. Even this high up, she could see the spray of water from the ocean glistening against it.

There were no grips to the chalky surface, but that was fine—she just wanted to touch it. It was real.

This was real. She was scaling a known monument, a historical landmark, in the dead of night. She had made it to this place—this gorgeous site, drowning in history—all on her own. She was—this was insane. This was spectacular. Mind-boggling.

Mirah turned her head to look over her shoulder, out to the ocean that was as loud in her ears as the blood rushing through her. She could see the lighthouse, its light like a star on the water.

For a blinding moment, she was struck with the urge to weep.

She swallowed the growing ache in her throat and turned back to the cliff.

Down. Down.

When she pressed her toes forward, she could just feel the rock face at the tips. Still, she lowered herself with care, until she had fully passed the jutting lip of rock.

Mirah stared at the flat wall that met her.

There was nothing here.

Her chest heaved hard. Fine. That—it was fine. She'd hit dead ends like this before. It wasn't her first empty lead, and it wouldn't be the last. It hurt like hell—like she had failed altogether—and she'd have to pull herself all the way back up the cliff-side to make it to the next map point, but. It was fine.

Mirah gripped her cord tight in her fingers, her entire form curled and tensed. A strangled scream escaped from her despite her best efforts—a choked sob followed, and the dam broke. She began to cry there, hanging in the air, her headlight bouncing along the rock and painting uneven shadows everywhere.

Her breakdown was short, though it left her shaking. She braced herself against the rock again, her gloves pressed flat as she tried to compose herself again. A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. Another. When she swallowed the rest of the tears, she turned to look down the length of the white wall.

It was then that she saw the stark cut of shadows, maybe two meters away.

The mouth of the cave was not a mouth—it was barely more than a crack, a cranny, an uneven, imperfect overlap of rock against rock. It was so terribly small—barely enough for the average person to fit.

She was so small.

A choked noise escaped her as she rocked herself along the rock face, struggling for purchase against the crumbling stone. She reached out with near-desperate fingers, and grabbed the sharp lip of rock. With all her strength, she pulled herself towards and into the crevice, her face pressed into the wall. Her light painted stark bright light into the tight passage—she could hardly fit, through the layers of clothing and the harness.

Still, she forced the snug fit, her breathing shallow and strained. It was too tight—she wouldn't fit—

All at once, she fell into the open, dark cavern.

Her aching knee throbbed with a vengeance when it struck the uneven floor; she threw her arms out and her palms hit the ground with a jolt of pain that had her landing on her side, gasping hard. Her body trembled from the exertion of the fit and the pain vibrating through her palms.

She lay there, catching her breath, headlight shining along the stone of the bottom of the chamber. The air was musty with dust, salty with ocean. Dust particles swirled through the cold light in lazy patterns. When she turned her head, she could see the stalactites that descended from the ceiling of the cavern. There was the very gentle drip, drip of the water that had collected at their tips.

She'd found it—well. She'd found something.

Fingers trembling from weariness, Mirah pushed herself into a sitting position, her breathing labored and her harness's rope looping out in front of her. From her small hiking bag on her waist she pulled out a water bottle, and she downed half its contents with near desperation. Fuck, that had been hard. When she finally set it down, she gasped again for air, wiping her mouth on her coat sleeve.

Now the harness was strapped off, left to lay on the floor several feet from the entrance. Through the crack, she could just barely see the ocean and black sky. When she stood, her knees shook as they supported her weight, but they did not buckle.

The cavern was cold and nearly perfectly round, its walls rough and uneven. The stone was not white like the rest of Beachy Head—here, it was varying shades of brown and gray, nearly rust colored in places. She crossed the length of the chamber, her steps quietly echoing as though she was in a space larger than she realized. At the other end of the dark space, she realized why.

The cave was merely an antechamber, an entrance. In front of her was the tall mouth of a tunnel entrance.

She pulled her headlight off and held it in her hand, aiming it into the tunnel without entering. It sloped upward slightly, so she could not see where it ended. Around the entrance to the tunnel were engravings she could barely discern for how high they were, a stark contrast to the antechamber's rough, nearly natural appearance

She braced herself and entered the tunnel. She'd come this far—she would not stop.

The walls of the tunnel were engraved—along the top half were tall figures, ancient symbols. Hieroglyphs at the expanse of the bottom half, where she pressed her fingers. Her neck craned upward, eyes wide.

She wanted to see it all. She wanted to see every detail. There—the sun disk. The eye of Ra. The heron.

She'd been right. She'd gotten it right. The hours of studies, the painstaking translations, the numerous maps and countless markers she'd gone through tracing a path here—

She'd gotten it right.

She walked up the sloping tunnel, her fingers tracing the smooth carved stone as she devoured the images with rapture. Here—the Ished Tree, the seat of the Great Heron. There, the Obelisk of Heliopolis. The Benben stone, hovering above the Nu, the sun shining upon its face.

She had started there—she could remember the way her hand pressed carefully to the class that had encapsulated the black stone. She had begun, like all the stories had, at the Benben stone. How far she had come—how so like the ancient scripts.

Everything began at the Benben stone.

Mirah reached as high as she could, and pressed her hand to the bottom of the Sun Boat. Her chest shook, threatening to heave with tears of wonder. Her face hurt—she realized, belatedly, she had been smiling.

The end of the tunnel widened suddenly into another cavern. This one was massive, far larger than the antechamber, and oblong, slanted away from the tunnel and warmly lit. At the far end of the chamber was a brilliant light she could not make out, that filled the whole of the space like a fire would. She turned her headlight off, shoving it into her pocket.

The floor glittered—when she looked down, she found it covered with solid gold feathers, like golden down. They were spread across the floor of the chamber, away from the tall figure that stood at one end of the cave, nearest to the tunnel's entrance. Its form glistened in the light, hauntingly terrible and beautiful.

She approached the still figure slowly, careful to not touch the feathers scattered along the ground. They gathered in circular waves around the statue, more and more abundant at its base.

It was an enrapturing thing—a woman, nearly six feet tall, posed like a titan against some force of nature, her hair blown back and away from her face. Her arm was outstretched towards the light source of the room, as though reaching out for it, or trying to ward it away.

Her long gown stretched out behind her, blown away from her in uneven curves and near-jagged edges. A close inspection revealed—its hemline was carved into feathers like those that filled the room, caught in the midst of a transformation into something larger.

The woman was beautiful, her face detailed to the eyelashes, to the wrinkles in her jaw and the pull and strain of muscles in her throat. The attention to the smallest ridges were exquisite, yet there were no tool marks. It was as though a human had been perfectly frozen in gold.

Despite her beauty, the woman's face was hard and angular, expression twisted into one of rage. Her earrings, large diamonds that framed her jawline, were blown back into her hair, the strands and curls chaotic twists, caught in an unseen storm.

Near reverently, Mirah's hand rose, struck with the urge to stroke the long exposed neck, to press her fingers to the column of golden throat.

AWAY FROM THERE.

The words were not spoken aloud—they did not echo throughout the room—but they filled her head as though they had been whispered directly into her ear. The voice was hers and was not; it was one voice whispering and a thousand shouting, all in the same moment. It sent shivers up her spine—she twisted to where the statue was facing, its arm outstretched to the other end of the cavern. To the light.

Every step across the chamber seemed heavier than the last. Her heart was loud in her ears, loud like the words that echoed through her entire body. Closer, closer.

YOU HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED FOR ME.

It wasn't a question, but she found herself nodding. The room was warm—she shed her coat on the smooth floor without pausing in her slow stride. When she spoke, her tone was hushed with awe.

“You're—alive. You're a living thing. I—“

She had expected magic. She'd known in her core that there were different kinds of magic, artifacts that held power and strength. This was another thing altogether—this was a sentient being. The divine creation of a god, and it lived.

“I. The scripts—I knew you'd be powerful but this is—“

At the other end of the chamber was a circular raised pool, large and shallow. The water inside rippled, reflecting the trembling gold of the light onto the ceiling in constant shifting patterns.

In the center, an obelisk rose from the water. Its point was capped with black. And, hovering at its tip—

“You're beautiful,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet.

When the Sun Disk spoke, it was not in English. It didn't have a voice, not really—but its presence in her mind was like her own voice in her head. It was like an alien presence in her head, that was and was not her.

THE SCRIPTS YOU SPEAK OF WERE WRITTEN BY THOSE WITH LIMITED KNOWLEDGE. THEY HOLD LITTLE VALUE.

It shone spectacularly. Mirah stood at the edge of the pool, staring long after it had burned light patterns into her eyes.

WHY HAVE YOU COME TO THIS PLACE.

Her hands pressed to the smooth raised edge of the pool. She looked into the golden water, and then up again, her eyes narrowed in thought, the skin of her lip caught in her mouth.

TELL ME, WHAT DID YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU ARRIVED HERE?

She stepped back from the edge of the pool, and dropped to a knee to unlace her boots, one after another.

“I—honestly? I don't really know. I mean, I knew there would be an artifact—I figured out its name, and—“ she yanked the boot off “—I. Guess I thought I could find it.”

She was silent for a moment, pulling the other boot off, and then she added, “Sorry, that's not very descriptive. It wasn't really that I cared about some great fancy treasure.”

NO.

“No, it was—I saw a story. Yeah.” She set the boots aside, worked her gloves off. Layer by layer, she shed the clothing. They stuck to her skin from sweat.

“I saw something like a story, and I loved stories, you know? It looked interesting, like it had potential to be a big grand story—but it was missing so many details. It had all these gaps,” she explained, with a little gesture, her fingers outstretched. She looked at the spaces between them. “Like a jigsaw puzzle that was missing some of the pieces. And I saw these parts and—I don't know, more than anything I wanted to fill in the blanks.”

WHY.

“I don't know why,” she said, trying not to be sharp. “It—I felt like I had to so badly, and I don't know—it was like, if I didn't, I would wonder about it forever.”

She could feel the stretch from the curve of her back as she pulled her socks off. She stretched her toes out.

“I started looking for the pieces and,” she swallowed, “For the first time in a really, really long time, I started to feel full again. I could feel excited again. Christ—I saw so much trying to get here. I learned so much just to get here.”

She had taught herself to read ancient languages. Had learned mountain rappelling, had forced herself to stay up into the early hours of the morning inscribing, translating, journaling and researching. Had visited country after country to get here, to this place.

TELL ME WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN.

Even as she stared at the Sun Disk, her mind reeled back the memory. There was something in her throat, like a fluttering bird. When she spoke, she felt miles away.

“I saw Egypt. Heliopolis, in Cairo. It was—you could drown in the heat and the noise and the color. All that desert and there was still so much color, so much noise. And then, at night, it was so cold and quiet. At—At night, you could see the stars over the pyramids.”

AND.

She inhaled deeply, her chest trembling.

“Greece, after that. As many of the Cyclades islands as I could get to, and Crete too. The water was as blue as the sky, and those buildings built onto the waterfront were—they were just as grand as all the marble and bronze in the museums. Christ, all that blue.”

AND.

Her fingers rose and pushed into her hair, pulling loose the band holding her curls back. She hurt, in a deep, impossible to describe sort of way, deep in her center.

“Scotland—Alba, and then Albion, as you probably know it. I saw the old castles being eaten up by the landscape again—and hills so green they looked like fairy lands, and the white cliffs, and no wonder people believe fairies come here. It's old magic, isn't it?”

She stood again, and stepped to the edge of the pool. She found, belatedly, that her cheeks were wet and her brow was furrowed. Her throat was locking up—Mirah forced herself to breathe, pushing her glasses up and wiping her face.

In place of answering her question, the Sun Disk asked, as though it already knew the answer.

WAS THE QUEST THE GOAL ITSELF?

She yanked the lenses off altogether, the band holding them to her face relaxing with a snap. Without much thought, she dropped them on the raised edge of the pool. Her jaw was tight. She forced the muscles to relax, but her grip on the sharp ridge tightened enough for it to hurt.

“No. It wasn't that—I already said, it was the story. Maybe I saw a lot of beautiful places and learned a lot of new things, and maybe there's something great in that, but I didn't do it for that. It didn't fill me with nearly as much excitement as figuring out the puzzle.”

As she spoke, she lifted a leg and placed it on the ridge, fingers on the hem of her jeans. Rolling the edge up her calf, she continued, slowly.

“Everybody always goes on about the journey being more important than the destination, but that's rarely the case for me. It's important, sure, and maybe it's as important, but it's rarely the deciding factor. The end result has to matter or else everything will feel like a waste of time. It'll be disappointing if the goal isn't important—and I'm not disappointed.”

The leg of her jeans was cuffed above her knee. The other leg, now.

“I think the goal was solving the puzzle. Doesn't matter how small the project or big the task—I get satisfaction out of a job well done. I did it, I did something nobody else had accomplished, and I did it without any help.”

She stood, back straight and shoulders back, squinting at the Sun Disk. She thought, maybe, she was trembling, but when she held her hand in front of her face, it was perfectly still.

“I didn't quit when it was hard, and I didn't let anything get in my way. I wanted to do something big, and I succeeded, and I wanted to be here. I proved I could do it.”

For the first time, she allowed herself to feel proud.

“I did this, I proved that I deserved to be here, right here. I deserved to have this.”

She had done an impossible task. Despite everything, she had won.

I AM NOT A PRIZE TO BE WON, CHILD, it said, and through the echo of its words, she thought she heard the cool tone. She fought the urge to bare her teeth at the name. Her displeasure was painted on her face.

“What are you, then?”

The light that radiated off from it flared, painfully bright, like looking into the center of a star. She raised her arm to shield her eyes, grimacing.

I AM THE BEGINNING OF THE BEGINNING. I AM THE CALLER OF CREATION. I AM THE SOUL OF THE SUN.

It was a roar—it was her blood boiling and her eyes burning, streaming with tears. It hurt—she clenched her teeth and felt them grind. Its outburst continued, wide, filling the room.

She realized, suddenly, that'd she'd been wrong about something incredibly important. Her throat went dry. She lowered her arm.

“Bennu. You're Bennu.”

As sudden as it had begun to flare, the light dimmed, low enough to nearly go out. The pounding in her head ceased, though the ringing was slow to dissipate. She could see the outline of light around the silhouette of the Sun Disk, cutting in clear lines the head of the snake, the detailed edge of its scales.

I am, it said, hushed. She continued, her chest heaving. Her voice was stronger now, bursting with something she could not explain.

“You're the Bennu Bird—The ba of Ra, his soul. The bird that flew over the Nun and made the call for creation, that which created himself, you. You're not just the creator of the artifact, you're the Sun Disk. You're—you're still here. The gods are still here, they're real, you're real.”

She was smiling widely, eyebrows turned up in wonder and awe. Her chest hurt, heart aching.

She was witnessing a miracle. She was looking at a deity given form—not just a divine creation, but an actual, physical god.

It was more than she had ever expected. It was almost too much for her to truly grasp.

I AM, it said again. Its voice, she thought now, was beautiful, and grand. She was understanding, finally, all the parts of her scripts that she could not make sense of. It slid into place, a significant piece to a grand mystery that she had solved herself.

She was in the presence of something so much bigger than herself. It almost made what she was about to do seem horribly blasphemous.

The water of the pool was warm against her calves when she stepped into it. The gentle splash seemed loud in her ears.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DO?

She swallowed, then nodded. Her steps were slow.

TELL ME.

“The scripts—they said there, there was a ruler,” she spoke haltingly, and licked her lips. They had dried and begun to crack from the heat. “A deity, a being that wore the Sun Disk and ruled its first subjects. The first beings, the ones that resembled its first form the most. The—the birds.”

The water splashed against her knees as she waded through it.

“The Disk was passed down, to those who proved their potential.”

AN APT WORD.

ARE YOU A RULER?

Mirah nearly scoffed at that. “Christ—I don't know. Maybe? I make things, I'm an artist. I'm stubborn, and I know right from wrong, and it matters to me, and I'm loud about it. Does that sound like a ruler to you?”

YET YOU CONTINUE TO APPROACH.

YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO RULE?

Closer, she stepped. Closer. From here, she could see the jewel in the eye of the snake, and the unblemished face of the disk. Her face looked back at her, through her blurred vision and the pristine surface.

"I think I'd be an idiot to get this far and not try. Don't you?”

STOP WHERE YOU STAND.

She stopped midstride, breathe caught in her throat. With a sort of defiant slowness, she straightened, her head help up, chin raised. She could not yet reach out to touch it, but from here, she could see the black obsidian head of the obelisk, a sharp diamond. In its face were deeply carved runes.

The Sun Disk pulsed, the light pushing out, pulling in, like a heartbeat.

YOUR QUEST IS NOT YET COMPLETE.

YOU WILL COMPLETE MY TRIALS. YOU WILL PROVE YOUR WORTH.

Her brow furrowed in momentary surprise.

“....okay?”

IF YOU FAIL, YOU WILL PERISH.

Ever the stubborn one, she said, her cheek pulled into her mouth with disdain, “What is this, Indiana Jones?”

WHAT IS THAT.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Um. A joke. Don't worry about it.”

It continued, without even the slightest change in infliction.

DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS?

The light was becoming brighter, the gold edges becoming crisp white. The pulsing was expanding, thudding in her ears. Her mouth became a thin line again, her gaze narrowed. She could feel the pinch of her brows where they furrowed.

“Yeah. I accept.”

It flared, a supernova. It filled everything—everything disappeared. All that remained was white light, blinding her even as she raised her hand to protect her eyes. And, then—

For a moment, there was nothing at all.

–

The waves crashed loudly at the bottom of the cliff behind her. With hesitance, she lowered her hand from her face. Above her, the sun shone intensely, though it did nothing to hinder the sharp cold wind that blew harshly against her.

She pushed her hair away from her face, looking along the grassy hill she faced. The Sun Disk spoke again.

BEFORE YOU STAND TWO ARMIES. FOR CENTURIES, THEIR NATIONS HAVE BEEN AT WAR.

In front of her, two lines stood apart in the long grass. The wind blew between them, their individual flags waving wildly in the air. Beyond that, they were still and silent. The gap between then could not have been more than ten yards, that she looked along with slitted eyes.

OF THE NATIONS, ONE HAS A LARGE ARMY AND SUPERIOR WEAPONRY.

As if on cue, the footmen on her right raised their spears above their heads. The movement caused the shuddering of steel on steel, yet still they were silent. Did they even see her?

THE OTHER NATION MAINTAINS SUPERIOR STRATEGISTS.

On her left, the men raised their shields into the air as one.

Every face was unique, undoubtedly alive. Mirah's teeth dug into the flesh of her lip.

IN THIS WAR, WHO DO YOU BELIEVE WINS?

Her eyes flicked to the English sky, following the clouds that pushed ever closer. When she looked back to the scene, the armies made no movement.

At her sides, her hands curled and uncurled.

She didn't understand this scenario. Was she to guess the winners, or was she the deciding factor? Were these the only options she had?

The volume at which she spoke was not quite a shout, but was nearly there.

“Why--” she licked her lips, dry from the wind. “Why are they fighting?”

THE REASON HAS BEEN LOST.

She frowned.

“Wait, do they know why they're fighting?”

IT IS IRRELEVANT.

“Like hell it is!” she found herself saying, turning away from the field to the cliff, out to the sun. “Do they even speak the same language? Can they communicate at all?”

NO.

“Well,” she said, and it caught her by surprise how much impatience was in her own voice. It was sharp with distaste. “There's your problem! How are they supposed to come to a compromise when they don't even know why they're fighting? When they can't even talk it out? How can they come to any kind of peace?”

YOU HAVE MISSED THE POINT OF THE SCENARIO.

“No!” she shouted. Oh, it was suddenly like she was in middle school again, the eyes burning into the back of her neck as she stood at her desk. “This puzzle or scenario or whatever you want to call it—there are no winners! I can't pick out a winner here, when—when they've been fighting for so long, and nobody's won.”

There was silence. She continued, fierce.

“And even if I was supposed to pick a so called winner, the winner wouldn't be here! These are just soldiers! They're going to die! Here, there aren't any winners, and there won't be any winners until somebody tries to talk it out! But they won't even try! So nobody wins.”

THAT IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER, the Disk said, as she turned back to the hill. The footmen were staring at her, now—they could see her. She swore, looking along the faces she could see, that there was fear in some of them. Resoluteness in others. Acceptance.

They knew they were going to die, she realized.

“Fine,” she said, nearly a snarl. “Then Death wins. Death wins two whole battalions to carry to the afterlife. That's my answer.”

There was a beat.

THAT IS AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

“Wh--”

The wind picked up—she curled around herself, fingers digging into her upper arms. Her hair blew into her face again.

“Are you serious?!”

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF THE MIND.

“But--”

She twisted her neck, letting her hair blow back. Something in her boiled, made her head hurt.

“Why did you accept that answer and not the first?!”

WHY DID YOU NOT CHOOSE ONE OF THE TWO OPTIONS OFFERED?

She squinted, trying not to let her teeth chatter. “Because they both sucked?”

THERE IS YOUR ANSWER, HOWEVER INELOQUENT.

Her lips pressed together.

“Peace is not a bad answer,” she mumbled, tucking her chin into her chest.

In front of her, the battalions turned and began to march. Closer and closer they advanced to the edge of the cliff—to her, they were coming to her.

“Wh--”

She stepped back, glancing behind her to the approaching ledge. It was uncomfortably close, enough for her to be nervous for her balance.

“What's happening?”

THE NEXT TRIAL BEGINS.

The battalions stopped. From the masses, there was a shuffling deep within, and then as though in sync, each party shoved a form forward, onto the flattened grass in front of her. They fell to their knees, heads turned down to the ground.

The wind died.

“What's...”

To her right, a man stepped forward. He pointed at her, then to the body kneeling on the grass. When he spoke, it was in a language beautiful but incomprehensible, and filled to the brim with barely-controlled rage.

She was reminded, for a sickening moment, of her father. Mirah swallowed. She glanced up again to the sun.

“C—Can you tell me what's going on, here?”

From each mass, another man stepped forward, and they pulled the prone forms to their feet, yanking their heads back by the hair to reveal their faces. She nearly reeled backwards, toeing the edge of the cliff. Her eyes widened.

They were children.

The both of them were young, young as her if not moreso. Each of them wore rags with the color of the opposing armies, their wrists and ankles shackled. Even without the wind, the cold air did little kindness to them—she could see their shudderings. A murmur of noise filled the air from each battalion.

Something in her mouth tasted suspiciously of bile.

PRISONERS OF WAR, the Sun Disk said, numb to the drama. EACH OF THEM HAS COMMITED CRIMES TO THEIR OPPOSING NATION. THE RIGHT OF BATTLE BELONGS TO WHICHEVER NATION'S KIN IS STRUCK DOWN FIRST.

“Are,” she started, her voice breathless in a desperation she couldn't place. She inhaled deeply. “Are you shitting me? Are you kidding?”

AS AN UNBIASED PARTY, YOU MUST CHOOSE WHO HAS FIRST RIGHTS.

“You want me to pick which kid is supposed to die?!” Her hands flew out in front of her, gesturing at the madness unfolding. “They're kids!”

Her stomach churned—the muscles in her neck and throat were tight from horror, from rage. She twisted again, on the edge of the cliff, to face the vast, black ocean.

THEY HAVE COMMITED CRIMES, AND ARE NOT BLAMELESS.

“This is wrong! These—these 'scenarios' are flawed and you know it! The choices are too black and white—the world doesn't work like that! Just because somebody did a bad thing, doesn't mean a nation gets to go to war over it! Nobody has to die over it! You can't expect me to choose who gets first dibs on bloodshed, I won't play that game!”

The wind picked up again, biting her face, her eyes. YOU ARE A PACIFIST?

“I'm sensible!”

THERE MUST BE BLOOD. YOU MUST CHOOSE WHO HAS FIRST RIGHTS.

It spoke over her, like she hadn't spoken at all. Like she wasn't there at all, she was nothing.

Yet this was her decision?

Her decision, and yet if she provided any arguments, any other choice, it would ignore her.

That wasn't fair. That wasn't right.

She turned to the prisoners. Eyes burned into her skin—hundreds of them, thousands, maybe. They stared at her, and all she could see were the freckles under the eyes of the children, the little scars on their lips.

There was a little lump in her throat. She looked out to the cliff, her eyes on the frayed edge. She could just see the sea foam at the base of the cliff, where the water crashed unforgivingly into its side, again and again.

Oh.

When she was six years old—

How many times had she dreamed—

Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw set.

“Someone has to die? For the battalions to choose who goes first?”

YES.

Mirah stepped away from the cliff. The children in front of her quaked, the wind cruel against their skin. The flags blew and blew and blew.

Her chest shook with each breath. Was this even real? This scenario—maybe it was all in her head. Her stupid, stupid head, these grand puzzles designed in the perfect ways to make her blood boil.

Could she really imagine something so cruel?

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

When she was in front of the children, they shook, but she didn't stop—she walked past them, her body between theirs and the masses. She looked out to the individual faces.

Could she really imagine the amount of detail and care here? What if she was wrong?

“What if it's me?” she said, her voice cracking down the middle.

YOUR REASONING?

That wasn't a no.

“This,” she started, haltingly, “this is just another puzzle. It's another impossible choice, like before. You—you say somebody has to die, there has to be blood, but choosing a kid—it'd be based off nothing. There's no context and there's no crime big enough for this. So—So I can't pick one over another, and that only leaves picking both of them.”

Her voice strengthened, firm, unyielding.

“I refuse to do that. That's wrong. You can't make me their judge, and judge over this whole stupid war. It's not my war.”

She braced herself. Her fists were curled tight, nails digging into her palms as she looked out along the wall of people in front of her. Behind her, one sea. In front of her, another. Both unforgiving.

“But you won't let me not choose, so there's got to be a third option. There's always a third option. It's never so black and white.”

Her hands shook.

“So, me. I'm the third choice, and I'm unbiased. I don't belong to either party, killing me won't anger the opposing nation. They get their blood, and the fight's over. It's—it's the way to keep peace.”

She paused, and looked up.

“Right? Am I right?”

For what felt like an eternity, the Sun Disk didn't speak.. And, then, it asked:

YOU WOULD SO EASILY LAY YOUR OWN LIFE DOWN IN PLACE OF STRANGERS? YOU DO NOT KNOW THEIR CRIMES. HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?

“I'm not sure!” she shouted, baring her teeth. “But it's because I don't know them, and I don't know anything about them! Whatever they did, whatever stupid crime you can claim they're guilty of? They're kids! It can't be so big they can't learn! You can't just punish them for making a mistake! You can't put a whole battle on their shoulders!”

She threw her hands out, a frantic gesture. “It's this or I let someone I don't know die, just to decide who gets to throw the first stone! I'm not okay with that, I refuse to have anything to do with it, and you won't take no for an answer, so here's your goddamn scapegoat! Right here!”

Her chest heaved. The wind blew fiercely around her, trying to shake her, to knock her down. Still, she braced, eyes on the gathering storm clouds.

“I'm not taking no for an answer this time.”

As one, the footmen approached her. On all sides they surrounded her, cutting off her view of the cliff's edge and the ocean past it. The clanking of their armors and their weapons and their boots were loud in her ears. She shuddered.

THIS IS AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

They raised their weapons, blotting out her view of the clouds.

Down they came, and their aim was true—every time, the aim was true. Again and again spears dug into her chest; swords slashed into her back; hands grabbed at her arms and twisted and pulled them. Again, again, again.

Through the barrage, she did not black out. It would have been a welcome reprieve to the drawn out slaughter of a single individual, but unconsciousness did not come. She did not become numb. Every strike felt like it was the first.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. She was dying. She was bleeding. Maybe she was screaming, she wasn't sure over the noise and the ringing in her ears.

On and on and on. Maybe this would go on forever. Maybe that was the final trial. Maybe she was supposed to die forever and ever, on this cliffside.

The sky finally disappeared from view, though, maybe, it was just her eyes finally giving up the ghost. She was drowning in what must have been her own blood, filling her lungs with a warmth they shouldn't have known. Then—

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF THE HEART.

Breathe.

When she opened her mouth, it flooded with water. Her body spasmed up into a sitting position, wretching and coughing, choking on what tasted like iron and chlorine. Her chest burned as she gasped desperately for air.

She became vaguely aware, after a period of time, that she was in the pool again. Her body was slumped against the obelisk at the center, and now she curled in on herself. The water was tainted red where it spread around her aching form.

The wounds, she realized faintly, were real. The pain was real. It was like dying—no, that wasn't accurate. She was dying. That was a fact, wasn't it? She was bleeding out. Her vision was fuzzy; was that because she had left her glasses at the edge of the pool? Or was it the blood loss getting to her brain, shutting off her senses one by one? Was it the call to fall unconscious altogether and rest so she wouldn't witness it?

She didn't know. It scared her that she didn't know.

THE NEXT TRIAL BEGINS.

No more, begged a pathetic little voice in her head that still clung to awareness. No more, please. She swallowed hard—it was like choking on needles, coated in rust and tearing her throat open.

YOU ARE DYING.

And like that, it was a thousand times worse.

The numbness that had begun to spread was gone, replaced with the distinct impression that every inch of her was screaming. Her body curled tightly in the pool of water as she opened her mouth and wailed, the sound reverberating through the chamber back at her and causing her ears to ring. Her fingers felt broken and mangled—her eyes were bleeding. Her brain was full of thin long needles. Her mouth tasted of nothing but iron.

Her spine—every vertebrae seemed to unalign and snap her backwards, arching her ragged bloody chest into the air out of the water. Every breath she tried to take seemed to fill her lungs with more and more fluid—coughing made the agony and the weight worsen, aggravating whatever wound was causing it. She thought, maybe, her ribs had shattered and lodged into her heart, piercing the tissue and causing the arteries to spurt everywhere into her.

Oh, god. She was going to die here, like this.

YOU ARE SUFFERING.

She was going to disappear. She was going to go slowly and painfully, and nobody would even miss her. She would vanish, and nobody would even know it had happened. An unrecovered body at the suicide jump. A statistic, a tally on a board. She'd never had any more merit—she'd never been more. She'd never done more. She'd never done anything for anybody, and now it was too late.

Was she still screaming? Did she even really know how to anymore? Was her body capable of it?

YOU THINK WHAT YOU FEEL NOW IS PAIN? THE EXISTENCE YOU SEEK IS PAIN. IMAGINE, CHILD, THIS AGONY TENFOLD. EVERY MOMENT. EVERY DAY. AN EXISTENCE OF THIS SUFFERING. THIS LONELINESS, THESE CHOICES, FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY.

Nobody loved her. Nobody had ever known her enough to love her—to love her, the person she was supposed to be and not the one they'd all wanted her to be. She could have been so much, she could have done so much more, and nobody even knew her real name. Her life was over before it had ever really begun to be hers.

YOU SEEK A PURPOSE, DO YOU NOT? YOU SEEK TO BECOME PART OF SOME GRAND SCHEME. TO BE HEARD.

THIS IS THE FATE YOU SEEK?

She sobbed distantly, and the motion tore her chest. She ran her mangled fingers through her hair, clawing at her scalp.

It was in her head. It wouldn't get out of her head.

YOU ARGUE THE CHOICES I HAVE SHOWN YOU ARE FLAWED, BUT THEY WILL OCCUR AGAIN. THEY WILL BECOME YOUR EVERY MOMENT. THE PAIN YOU CHOSE IN YOUR SELECTIONS, YOU WILL HAVE TO CHOOSE AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS IS THE FATE THAT AWAITS YOU.

LET GO.

There was no more air in her lungs—every breath she tried to take was shallow, pained, a wretched little gasp she could barely hear over the pounding in her ears. It was impossible, that she was still alive, and yet, still, she was alive. For however little time left, she was still alive.

I WILL END YOUR AGONY. I WILL LET YOU REST.

LET GO.

She couldn't think. She couldn't focus. She wanted to focus.

Focus.

The children on the cliff-side that she'd put herself in front of. Were they alive?

Had that been real?

When she was a little girl, she had been told that her every moment was preparing to take care of her elders. She had not been offered comfort, and so had never sought it. She had spent thousands of moments by herself, pushing herself, holding herself, giving herself the only comfort she could.

She had mastered, at a painfully young age, the art of silent weeping. Crying so hard your body shook, while the wails you were desperate to release wracked your lungs. When it was over, she, a child, had wiped her face and straightened her shoulders, and that was it.

Countless moments by herself. Hundreds of nights silently imagining a world where someone loved and cared for her. It had taken an impossible length of time for her to realize children shouldn't experience such things.

Children were supposed to be protected. Children were not supposed to carry the weight of responsibilities. They weren't supposed to be told that their pain was their own fault.

She'd been told, when she begged for help, that it was her fault. It was always her fault.

Even here, aching in the water, for her own stupid decisions—

She hoped those children were alive.

It's funny, the morals you gather in your life. Of all the nightmares, and the loneliness, and the cruelty, she'd come out furious. All of it, and she'd come out with the fierce belief that—

That children shouldn't have to hurt like that.

LET GO.

She—

She wouldn't—

LET GO.

She wasn't going to—

A noise forced itself out of her throat.

“Nn—“

She choked on her tongue, sobbed. Her wrecked fingers scrambled on the tiles at the bottom of the pool as she struggled, blindly, to push herself onto her knees. Get up. Get up.

It hurt. She hurt.

LET GO.

“N—No, no.”

She wouldn't die. She wasn't going to die here. She refused. She refused.

When she was sixteen years old, she had nearly run her car into a building. At seventeen, she dreamed she stopped existing, and she waited day after day for the right moment to disappear altogether.

And she didn't. She didn't do those things, despite how badly she wanted to. She had come so close to the edge of despair, of giving up, of giving in, of letting go.

She stayed alive. She stayed. She chose life. Again and again.

It had been out of spite, mostly. Spite and anger had fueled her, had strengthened her. She had a desperate need to prove she could do what everyone had said she couldn't do. She was going to stay alive, and she was going to help people where people hadn't helped her.

She wasn't going to die here. She wasn't done being spiteful and angry. She wasn't done helping kids who hurt like she hurt. She wasn't don't protecting people who needed protecting.

She wasn't done.

LET GO.

“No!”

There was a heat in the tips of her fingers. She could feel the strain in her shoulder blades, the way her twisted neck ached as she forced it to obey her.

“I won't!”

Through the haze she forced herself to wade through, and the persistent shrieking every muscle made, she was struck with the overwhelming sensation that the Sun Disk was examining her. Inspecting her; the broken creature on the bottom of the pool that dared defy it, and its bizarre and broken mind.

She shuddered and ignored it.

Get up. Get up.

She'd felt worse, she told herself. She'd wanted to die before. It had been more overwhelming then than it was now.

She could get through this. She would prove to this thing, too, that she was stronger than whatever it thought would be enough to break her.

She couldn't stand, couldn't find the footing, but her hands pressed to the flat face of the obelisk in front of her. She pushed herself against it, pressing her forehead to the smooth stone. Her fingers pressed into the sharp edges. It was a hot surface, towering over her. The light at its peak hovered at the edges of her failing vision.

YOU CHOOSE TO LIVE, DESPITE THE CONSEQUENCES?

The heat was spreading rapidly, through her forehead and fingers, into her aching limbs and mess of a chest. The pain had begun to fade in its place, until all that remained was a dull throbbing.

YOU CHOOSE LIFE?

She made a faint noise of affirmation into the stone face, her eyes shut. She could barely feel the water anymore.

YOU HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL OF WILL.

I YIELD TO YOU.

She was tired, her cheek pressed to the obelisk. There was little room for satisfaction or pride through the exhaustion.

TELL ME YOUR NAME.

She could breathe again. The wet ache that had threatened to drown her was gone. Yet, her breaths still shuddered from the effort. She whispered into the stone, resigned.

"Mirah. Mirah."

THAT IS NOT YOUR NAME.

Her eyes snapped open.

It knew. Of course it knew—it knew everything. It had known from the beginning, hadn't it? It had known who she was. It knew what would make her fight harder than anything.

It had known she would win.

“You're right,” she hissed. Her teeth were grit again. Her palms dug into the edges of the obelisk, stinging and burning as she pushed against the rock. She wanted to stand.

“May. My name is May.”

She'd chosen the name herself, years and years ago. She knew herself as no other name, despite the one she'd been given at birth. She'd always been May, the moment she started living outside of how she'd been told to.

No one had ever referred to her by it but herself, but it was her. The person she'd always been.

I YIELD TO YOU, CROWNBEARER.

REACH FOR ME.

May lifted her head to the light, the lines of her face cast into sharp illumination. The Sun Disk shone. She lifted her hand, reaching up, up.

REACH FOR ME, MAY.

Her fingers traced the smooth golden face. She spoke, her throat dry, her intent filling the cavern with a power to rival its own.

"Make me a queen."

The pool glowed with its own golden sunlight. The ceiling of the cavern was painted with its patterns, shimmering brighter, brighter. The warmth of the water turned to boiling, then to burning.

Where her fingers touched the Sun Disk, there was a deep, firey sensation that swelled inside of her. It was sharp and piercing—it made its way out her chest and to her skin and her face. When she looked up at her fingers, she found them coming undone. Golden ash where the tips had been, floating serenely in the air. Her hair, now, too, came apart, the strands crushed to fine gold.

She began to scream again.

She was torn to pieces, shred, taken apart until all that were left were the atoms, glowing bright like stars. And, still, she was present. Still, she lived.

It burned, like standing in a bonfire, but there was no smoke. There was only heat, and fire, only the intense flash and the stars, the billion billion billion stars that had once been a person.

She lived, she died. She lived.

And, then, again—

Breathe.

She gasped hard, her body shaking against the obelisk. The light of the cavern began to dim to little more than a faint glow, as though lit by a weak candlelight.

Her body was whole. Her fingers were pressed to the stone, she could feel its engravings under her nails. The pain that had flooded her—the pain of coming apart at the seams—slipped out, as though it would spread through the water instead.

Her sight returned. When May looked up, she could see, even in the dim glow, the details her face, reflected into the smooth face of gold. Her vision was clear, crisp.

Slowly, she braced herself against the obelisk, and pulled herself to her feet.

The Sun Disk hovered in front of her. With lidded eyes, she examined the object, her gaze cool, and then, as though she was grabbing her keys, she reached for it gracelessly. It changed in her hand, but she did not bother to look at it as she waded across the water to the edge of the pool.

She forced it to sit atop her head. It stayed there without her holding it—it belonged there.

She began to gather her belongings—her coat, her boots—as though nothing had happened. Across from her, the statue stared at the empty and dim pool.

Your predecessor, the Disk whispered. And, then, as an addendum, Do not fail me like she has.

She said nothing. As she walked past the statue, the gold feathers that covered the ground in front of her parted, like real feathers, blown gently by the wind.

Her footing was somewhat shaky. The walk down the tunnel to the antechamber was a slow one. This time, she paid no heed to the inscriptions on the wall as she braced her hand against her. With each step, her firmness grew, until, as she made her way to the mouth of the cave entrance, she was standing straight.

The harness lay forgotten on the ground. She didn't need it anymore.

Through the crack that was the entrance, May could see the light of breaking dawn. The ocean shimmered with breaking sunlight. She climbed through the crack, holding herself against the walls that kept her from falling into the crashing waters below. From here, she scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes.

It was like seeing a new world.

Ataret, the Sun Disk called. Distantly, she recalled the word as Jewish. Ataret, choose your form.

She thought, the idea rolling in her head. Below, the water continued to spray cool mist up towards her.

She chose.

The change felt like nothing—it was like shedding a loose layer of clothing from her frame, shaking it off to reveal her shape.

From the crack along the side of Beachy Head, a small bird, barely a blot along the white wall, fluttered and took flight upwards. The sparrow went unnoticed by the humans that stood at the edge, studying the anchor posts that anchored nothing. It dived down the hillside, over the cresting peaks, and then disappeared.

#may writes

105 notes · View notes

sending-the-message · 6 years ago

Text

What the blind man sees by TobiasWade

I’ll never see her face again. If my blindness only meant scrubbing this dirty world into an ocean of black mist, then I think I could learn to accept that. Stealing my wife from me before her time though — that I’ll never forgive. It’s bad enough she’s sick and fading from me already, but not being able to see her to say goodbye is killing me as surely as it is her.

I suppose it’s my fault though. I spent the last few nights leading up to my accident shifting around the rigid hospital chair beside her bed. I was so tired that I could barely walk straight, and all it took was a patch of black ice in the parking lot to pitch me to the ground. My head slammed into the asphalt and everything went dark. The black mist didn’t lift, but next I could remember I was sitting in my own hospital bed with a nurse explaining what had happened.

“…post-traumatic cortical blindness,” she was saying. “It seems like there was some damage to your occipital cortex when you hit the ground.”

“Where’s Sarah? Where’s my wife? I want to see her.”

The nurse just coughed, giving me time for my own words to sink in. “There’s a chance your vision loss is being caused by pressure on the optic nerve, which can be potentially corrected with surgery. The doctor doesn’t want to get your hopes up though. You should be prepared to adjust to life without sight.”

It’s true that I couldn’t see the nurse, or the hospital room, or even my own hand an inch from my face. But the worst thing was I could still see. It just wasn’t the same world I had left behind. I fumbled for words trying to explain the black and purple vines which dangled around me from unfathomably tall trees. How they swayed gracefully in an unfelt wind, bending across their hundreds of joints like fingers bending back and forth upon themselves. I pointed at the greasy orange sky and the swarms of softly teeming insects which obliviously paraded towards me from all sides.

“Hallucinations aren’t unheard of after acute vision loss…”

It was hard to take her seriously when her voice seemed to be coming from a giant blue flower whose bell-shaped petals seemed deep enough for me to stand in. If this was a hallucination, then it was clearer and more vivid than anything I could have possibly imagined. I tried again to explain the infinitesimal detail of the insect’s uneven carapaces, but she excused herself to leave without letting me finish. I never even got the chance to tell her that I could feel the thousands of tiny legs crawling up my body as the insect parade passed through the origin of disembodied perspective.

I was stuck somewhere between worlds. I could still feel the coarse fabric of the hospital blanket, but so could I feel the smooth gloss of each leaf and barky tree in this sudden jungle I was mired within. I pulled on one of the purple digits only to see it coil around my arm, inquisitively feeling me in return. I tore away from and tried to stand, leaning on a cold metal IV pole that I couldn’t see.

I felt like I was going insane, and there was no amount of reasonably toned nurses or insightful doctors that would convince me otherwise. I knew instinctively that I had to find my wife — Sarah was the only real thing left to ground in the world I was supposed to be in.

It wasn’t easy navigating two worlds at once. Even when I shuffled around until I found the door to my room, I still had to push myself through a thick curtain of fingers which had inconveniently infested the portal. It was slow going navigating the invisible hallways while plowing through the thick jungle foliage, and to make matters worse the blue-white sun was beginning to smolder and set in the orange sky. My hearing remained fixed to this world strangely enough, so at least I was able to hear people approaching and not run into anyone.

Once someone pointed me to the main elevator, I had no trouble from there. I had visited Sarah so many times that I could find the way with my eyes closed. It was disorienting to feel myself rise in the elevator, seemingly flying directly into the air, ducking and dodging branches as I did. I hesitated before her door to ask the passing footsteps:

“Sarah’s room?”

“Are you sure you should be out of bed? Let me go ask —”

“Is my wife in here?”

“Yes, but she should be resting too. She had another grand mal seizure last night. Hold on, I’ll go see if I can find the doctor.”

Footsteps. My hand was on the door, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to push through. Sarah had been in the hospital for the last three months, growing weaker each passing day. There had been a number of tentative hypothesis, but there has yet to be a definite diagnosis to the underlying issue. I guess that’s why I’ve been holding out hope for so long: if she could get sick without a reason, then she didn't need a reason to get better either. All those nights I’d spent beside her, watching her pale face and listening to her shallow breathing — it was all some kind of cosmic misunderstanding that would sort itself out on its own.

It was only now when I knew I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The black and purple fingers protruded thickly like sprouting plants on the wide branch beyond, converging on a recumbent form the exact size and shape of a human. Some of them reared their sensitive tips only to plunge directly back into the mass, pulsing and squirming as they did fought one another to penetrate farthest. All too clearly I could imagine them puncturing her body or forcing themselves down her where her throat should have been. If this wasn’t a hallucination, then it was explaining an illness that an entire hospital couldn’t decipher.

“Sarah?” I opened the door. “Are you in there?”

Her gentle moan. That’s all I’ve heard from her the last week. It hadn’t made any sense to the doctors as she appeared conscious, but it made sense now. How was she supposed to speak this whole time with those things lodged in her throat?

Sickened and furious, I flung myself at the warped vines, carelessly clattering through her invisible bedside table as I did. I seized one near where her head must be and pulled with all my strength, feeling it go taunt to resist me as I did. Other vines were reacting, unwinding themselves from her to seize me by the arms and legs. I fought through it, clutching and tearing, even sinking my teeth into the rubbery thing. More fingers crawled from the branches above, circling around my arms, up my shoulders, slithering around my neck…

“Someone help! Get them off her!” I shouted.

The fingers were constricting around me, but I didn’t let go. I threw my whole body weight backwards, heaving and straining until something finally gave. Sarah was coughing and retching, the beeping of her vitals going berserk as I struggled. She was shaking so bad that the whole bed rattled, each increment of progress agonizing to watch as I knew the finger must be relinquishing its hold of her stomach and lungs, or however deep the corruption spread. All the while my bondage was secured, ruthlessly tightening to cut off blood supply to my arms and crush my throat into a collapsing pinprick.

“She’s having another seizure. Get a doctor in here!” One of the nurses. I was held so firmly in place that I couldn’t even turn toward her, not like I could see her even if I could.

“What about him?”

“He’s not responding. Get him on the ground and keep his airway clear.”

Hands unwittingly pushed their way past the swarming appendages to ease me down. The pressure slackened, some returning their attention to the knot which surrounded my wife. Blood was beginning to return to my limbs. I could feel, and as soon as I could breath, I could fight again. I was still gasping on the floor when the doctor entered the room.

How could I tell? Well there were certainly auditory clues as a gruff voice barked commands to the nurses, but more prominently was the knot of interlacing fingers which formed the shape of a human. They were spread so finely that every artery and vein must be filled, and I could clearly see them pulse and twitch as they tightened and relaxed, moving the doctor through the room like a puppet.

“Another seizure,” the doctor said. I could see the strum around his head as the things inside him opened and closed his mouth, with smaller ones inside maneuvering his tongue and vibrating his vocal chords. “Check her mouth. Make sure there isn’t any vomit or obstruction.”

“The fingers!” I shouted, aware of how mad I must appear rolling on the ground. “Get them out of her! She can’t —”

“And give him something to calm down. Diazepam, 400 miligrams should do it.”

“They’ve got him too — don't touch me — don't let him touch Sarah —"

I tried to sit up, but someone was squatting on top of me and pinning me to the ground. I jerked as a needle slid into my thigh, but the pressure only increased. Something scoured through my veins. The humanoid network that was the doctor dropped to his haunches beside me, and I felt a warm hand run down my face to cup my chin. It was getting too dark to see anything at all.

“Just a nasty hallucination, that’s all. Let’s get you back to bed and see if we can’t do something about those eyes.”

They had good news for me when I woke up. Not only were they able to alleviate the pressure on my optic nerve, but my wife had made a miraculous recovery during the procedure. I actually wept in relief when I opened my eyes on the hospital room and saw Sarah anxiously sitting over my bed. Just Sarah and the room — no fingers, no unfamiliar jungle, no crawling sensation of the insects or dodging alien trees.

They told me Sarah was talking and eating and even walking on her own, although they warned me she was still stiff and slow to react. “Stiff” isn’t how I’d describe her lurching movements though. She seems more like a marionette doll to me, tethered by unseen strings from the inside and out.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

4 notes · View notes

thejackalsden · 5 years ago

Photo

Neova Stella Lerouxisx - Feral Star Princess, Guardian Warrior, Berserker

Available Verses; - Kingdom Hearts - Anywhere in the Franchise - Apex Legends - Recon Champion - Final Fantasy; VII, VIII, & XV - Kheleskan Verse (Her World)

Notes of Importance for the Muse

- Royal from her world, does not act it or lord it over others, but it’s true. - Travels via the cosmos - most AUs are ‘she was pulled from her world and is stuck in this one, laying low and making it work’. She hides her magic when she can, until she trusts someone - Tends to be awkward and have an odd speech pattern compared to most; its her realm’s roots bleeding in, and how she was raised. Given she is illiterate (not a known fact, usually exposed in threads) she picked up her vernacular from those around her - Curious and desires to learn anything new she comes across. Curiosity may have killed the cat, though satisfaction brings it back - Morally neutral; seen as an adjudicator in quarrels and excels in seeing all sides of a conflict - Berserker deep down, a rage boils and comes out if she must fight for her life or if she is emotionally compromised - usually tries to avoid others to help protect them - Caretaker/Guardian figure. She will get attached, and risk her life for others, with little thought to the consequences - Given her background, does have a way with animals and can usually commune with them providing she can calm them, no matter the realm. Expends a lot of energy to do so. - Idles with her stardust; crafting, molding, playing with it. It’s built in pocket sand but she does enjoy crafting with it

Proper ‘About’ Below the Cut

For Her world from Kheleskii;

Born to Kirosivia, an Elemental Streayam, and Gwendolyn, the Forzheim (Queen of the Wild) at the time, she was the first Cosmos Streayam in thousands of years, destined to replaced her mother as the Forzheim when the time came. She was to have a happy life, surviving in the Forz, the wild land, with its creatures, and with her parents. She was the princess the land had been waiting for.

When she was young, though, there was a raid. Soldiers were sent into the Forz, burning what they could, killing what came into their way, and they were hunting for her, and more importantly, her father. The Guardian, the beast of a dracon the King had tethered to him in servitude, charged their home. There were threats to burn the entire Forz down, that they would kill Neova instead of just taking her, and Kiro did his best to delay them.

Her mother, despite valiant attempts to escape and keep Neova safe, was cornered and slain, having been of no use to the King, Aidric. Kiro, enraged at the loss of his wife, threatened war upon the throne, threatened to slay the Guardian before him. Soldiers lay strewn about their home, and Neova could do little but cower in her father’s shadow, not quite sure just why her mother had been targeted. Kiro, however, despite all his anger, struck a bargain with the fanged beast. He saw an opportunity.

Avatre, the Guardian, was to take Neova back to the King, Aidric, who planned to raise her as his own. The stipulation? Avatre was to protect Neova with her life, to keep Aidric from taking and corrupting his daughter. Neova had potential, had power that was unseen in the realm and Kiro knew it. Avatre’s job would be to keep that from the King, who would just corrupt it for his own use. In return for protection of his daughter, Kiro gave up all rights of the throne, opting instead to use Neova as the rightful heir - a pact of sorts made between him and the Guardian so that it could be so.

So, a child raised in the wilderness, in the freedom of the forests and with two loving parents, was thrust into a cold palace and royal city. The people took to her, they adored Neova, but she could not adjust to the different life; something kept calling her away, an urge to flee from the city and her ‘father’, as he made her call him. She was expected to be just like a real daughter to him, and she was raised with all the etiquette and rules of a true princess; alongside Avatre training her to fight and how to use her powers the best the Guardian could without Aidric finding out.

Neova was intelligent enough to allow Aidric to think his corruption had spread in as she grew older; she was the heir he wanted, the heir that would take over and continue his task of uniting the whole realm by force and throwing it under his control. The people continued to love Neova, thinking that once she took the throne they could live without fearing their ruler.

But eventually the call back to the wild became too strong, and despite even Avatre threatening to come back after her, she fled when there was an attempt on her life. She left the royal city, and she went in pursuit of whatever was calling her back to the Wildlands, whatever was calling her home where she belonged.

For now, she roams, looking for anything to assist her in her pursuit of the calling, or anything to assist in removing the tyrant from the throne. Her mind is made up, and she intends to make the realm a better place for those who reside in it. No one should live in fear of their life, and she intends to make it so...

#About #{ Neova is my baby girl #I would love to get more threads going with her #But I know I gotta reach out and do some more writing on this blog first xD #Maybe get some drabbles out or something who knows #But yes have my precious star child! }

0 notes

cartoonbeatleskilledme · 7 years ago

Note

Hello I'm new to this whole lore thing and it looks REALLY confusing, can you give me a summary of what's happened?

aLRIGHT lads strap in cos this is gonna be long as shit. before i get into this i want to give a disclaimer, theres a 100% chance i’m going to miss at least one thing and i can’t give you a definitive timeline, so i encourage other people to reblog this and add anything i’ve forgotten/overlooked. im gonna put this under a read more, cos like i said, this is gonna be long

so the name “beatles cartoon lore” popped up a little bit after everything started - it was either an anon (as i remember getting an anon using the phrase for the first time that i personally saw it) or @icasms used it first, as they’ve stated such. either way, the actual storyline starts before that point. I am 99% sure @beebleborps is the root cause of all this, and I wasn’t actually there for the very start, but I was there before everything exploded. I’m not sure exactly what happened before I dove headfirst into the void, but I know that the castle from the first episode was already the main scene, and that Beebs had already been dragged into the cartoon beatles’ universe, was forced into occupying dead George’s body and became a vampire during the process. You see, at the end of the very first episode, the Beatles all die, for no reason. So at this point, there were four ghost Beatles, four dead Beatle bodies, and the characters in play at this point were Beebs, @beatles-fan-13 , and possibly others. I’m not sure, but I know there were far fewer cartoon beatles blogs back then, and most of them weren’t part of this (at the time) little storyline.

still pre-lore, I made my blog and beeble sent me an ask on how i’d died (see my username for reference) and I detailed that I’d been brought to the cartoon beatles universe by force, had witnessed the cartoon beatles’ final form, and that they’d killed me for it by inviting me to a concert, bringing me backstage, and dismembering me using George’s chin like a knife. Since there were mainly the ghost beatles at this point, that brought more attention to a second set of Living Beatles that were in the castle, which were also keeping beatles-fan-13 stuck in the dungeon. So right now, as far as I remember, it was me, them, and Beeble in the storyline, with two sets of Beatles - ghost Beatles and living, second generation Beatles. These aren’t the Eldritch Beatles, but are instead basically the same characters from the cartoon post episode 1, but crueler. A lot of the characterisation and early inspiration comes from @wtfbeatlescartoon , who often points out how needlessly cruel a lot of the Beatles are in the episodes. The lore has mostly spun away into its own beast at this point though.

so pretty soon after I made my blog, like within a few days, other beatles cartoon blogs began popping up to join in on the fun. around this same time, i’m fairly sure @spookycryptidgeorge aka Grey began to get in on the story, and that’s when I got the ask/icasms coined the phrase, “beatles cartoon lore”. (In case you are curious, here is the ask, dated July 8th) Now around here I’m likely going to become more of an unreliable narrator, because a lot of things were happening at once. @cursedbeatlescartoon and @crypticbeatlescartoon came into inception, with the latter joining the madness of the story, and not long after that, @vampiregeorgeharrison and @eldritchgeorgeharrison appeared and the eldritch beatles became part of the story. It was also around this time that everything started to get more crazy and everyone was becoming a cryptid/inhuman/etc. The main players at this point that were making most of the threads were me, Grey, George, and Beeble, but the others were also contributing, and I might have missed some other story points.

The story so far here was that it started with Beeble (?) when he was transported to the Transylvanian castle in the first episode by the ghost Beatles, also known as the original Beatles. They were trying to recruit him to join the band, and George was trying to teach him the guitar, but Beebs refused cos they were forcing him into it. Eventually, George shoved Beeble’s ghost into his dead body (the other corpses are still in the same place and haven’t decayed at all) which caused him to forcibly possess George’s corpse, which also became vampiric, probably because he was dead for so long. Beatles-fan-13 was brought to the castle somehow and ended up trapped in the dungeon, was subjected to experimentation, and Beebs was trying to get them back when I became part of the story. I was a ghost which, story-wise, had been wandering the castle, but was mostly tethered to the Beatles and couldn’t go far. I met Beeble first, I believe, and relayed my story, as well as the fact that the second generation Beatles had tethered my spirit to them so that I would preform menial tasks for them, and that one of the experimentation processes they had people undergo was cartoonisation, and that they’d done as such to me, which was a process that allowed someone from outside of the cartoon beatles universe to assume a cartoon form in their universe and switch out of it when leaving. (it was later discovered that only I would need to go through this process, since it was not a Roger Rabbit situation and everyone else turned into a cartoon automatically. I was a special case because of what species I am, which was not known at this point and assumed to be human) Most of our time was spent trying to find the dungeons and get beatles-fan-13 out of there, and at some point they’d stolen some of Beeble’s blood and given it to beatles-fan-13? I’m not entirely clear on if that worked, but I know soon after they became a ghost and now reside in Beeble’s tophat.

When Eldritch George appeared, we all learned that there were an even higher class of beatles, and the second generation beatles were more or less pushed to the side story-wise. The most powerful beatles are the True/Eldritch Beatles, but there were only two True Beatles - John and Paul. They had converted Eldritch George and an (unseen) Eldritch Ringo to become like them, but they weren’t truly like them, which was why they were defecting. the True Beatles were waiting for True George and True Ringo, who at this point have not shown up yet. Soon after Eldritch George appeared, @eldritchpaulmccartney , the first True Beatle, came into existence and began to pull the strings. Nobody’s sure exactly what their plan is, but Paul (typically referred to as Luap so as not to “summon” him, in a voldemort-esque situation) revealed that most of the people in the story aren’t human. Me, Serena, was never human to begin with and is instead some sort of powerful being called a Star Child, but events I’m not aware of resulted in me losing my memory and assuming that I was a human. I’m not even actually a ghost, but assume the form and abilities of a ghost because I thought I was dead. Grey was human at some point I believe, but they became corrupted by the True Beatles and the Cartoon Beatles Universe itself, which slowly corrupts anyone who doesn’t belong. Grey has mostly unseen powers/abilities, and so far, True Paul has let slip that he and True John need me and Grey for some sort of ultimate plan because of the power output we can give.Vampire George (separate from Beeble, who is also, somewhat confusingly, a vampiric George in appearance) is typically seen doing True Paul’s bidding and trying to find the full extent of Grey’s abilities and keep me/Serena in check.

Other parts of the story that didn’t really fit into that summary are that icasms can be possessed by a John, not sure which, and she stays away from the castle for that exact purpose. There’s some sort of rune on her arm(?) that allows John to possess her more easily, and keeps other ghosts/beings from being able to take her over. Beeble, after a while of keeping in George’s body, became unstable, and Eldritch George “fixed” this by merging Beeble with George’s ghost, so now only three ghost Beatles roam the castle. Ghost Paul typically hangs around Beeble and will sometimes possess him in order to get attention, though i’m not sure if there are any other reasons for this. More recently, @elemental-icee-cattt , some sort of doctor who may or may not be from the cartoon beatles’ universe itself showed up and has been helping keep Grey and me from basically dying, since certain events (like Grey somehow becoming irradiated after being possessed by Vampire George and Eldritch George letting me/Serena read from the book on Star Children in the Eldritch Library) almost led to our deaths and, due to our abilities, possibly the destruction of the castle and/or universe.

NOW, that’s the story part of the Lore. The other half of the Lore has to do with the Cryptids, which are born from finding screenshots where the animators fucked up and everyone spins a story from it. I already made a post on the origin of the First Cryptid, Glitch John, and there’s a whole blog dedicated to the cryptids that’ll tell you their history, @glitch-john-and-friemds . At the mo, there’s Glitch John, Glitch Paul, Glow George, Octoringo, Eyeless John, Supereye John, and I’m sure there are others I’m missing. People who contribute to this part of the lore include @abandonedstage , @404bot , @lenshitposting , @beatles-cartoon-analysis , @constantcascades , @ringodidnothingwrongo , @foolishgrippy , @agesnotyetwritten and anyone else who produces art and fics for it, as I’m sure I’m missing people and I’m sorry if I missed you!!! If you’re curious, yes, the cryptids ARE technically part of the lore story, but none of them have really appeared (aside from a few asks from Glow George) so they don’t play much of a main part.

SO that is a Quick and Probably Incomplete summary of The Lore, and it’s really long but here it is and I hope you can understand it! if i’ve missed anything, again, feel free to reblog this post and add things, and if you have any further questions, just ask beeble or anyone else you see contributing a lot!!! :::)

#ask #serena talks #beatles cartoon lore #THIS IS LIKE 6 PARAGRAPHS LONG

64 notes · View notes

borrowingfaces · 8 years ago

Text

Icarus Draco/Harry

Mature content First fanfic in a while ........... Draco's mouth was dry and a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin. Warm to touch despite the chill of his dungeon dormitory the Slytherin Prince twisted in his sleep. Gasping breathless with thin fingers curled into his pillow the blonde rocked and rolled as if in the grip of some unseen sufferance. By pure luck he was alone in the shadows of the room when he woke. Jolted from sleep into the full harshness of conscious. He felt more feverish than he had before passing out and drew a shaky breath in a bid to control the shivers trailing through his flesh. It failed and he dragged sweat damp sheets across his body, huddling from the room hidden beyond his bed curtains. He did not need to see to know he was alone; the lack of snoring and wheezing breath told him as much and he was thankful to whatever power allowed him such privacy. Trying to focus on the irregular state of his being rather than the dream that had caused it he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Immediately he leaned forward upon his knees, running his hands across his face before pushing sweat slick locks away from his eyes. His hands stayed there, resting on each side of his head as if attempting to stop it from falling off. It was spinning, throwing a helter skelter hell of thoughts through his mind. All reason had gone and he knew it, desperately dragging in deep breaths to calm the rising panic. It took a few moments before the usual defences rose and rage took the place of worry. The subtle trembling of his figure ceasing once the old familiar friend of anger had settled across him like a warm blanket. He lashed out suddenly slamming a fist into his bed, half snarling through his gritted teeth as he did so. It was unbecoming for such a pure blooded young man to act in such ways yet as soon as the thought hit him another took its place. He was unbecoming for the pure blooded family he came from. He in his useless entirety was the whole problem, not merely a harbinger of unsuitable traits. Sighing he fell back across his bed and stared unseeing into the canvas that hung above. Laid out like a corpse on a morticians slab, pale and unmoving, he held his breath; wondering how long it would actually be before he died. Well, how long it would be before his father's glorious idol ordered his death. There was no way Voldemort would waste time on Draco by killing the boy himself. It would come from any number of known faces at any time once the truth came out. Draco swallowed hard, remembering his dream with a faint reddening of cheeks. If he was this fitful when he was supposed to be happy someone would catch on. His two brutish allies were far from smart enough to notice something but Blaine Zabini had the eyes of a hawk and where there was one restless night of sleep there were others. With no one around to see or hear anything the blonde felt at ease enough to berate himself with gusto. Hitting himself on the side of the head he growled barely there words through gritted teeth. Things like 'how could you?' And 'of all the people you could have' and a lot more 'you're fucking disgusting. You are so fucking disgusting.' It was not as if anyone who may have heard it would have found any sense to it but that was part of the problem wasn't it? It had to be. He was, because of recent stresses in the 'workplace' he was clearly losing his mind. The fact that he had not decided this sooner was laughable, quite literally so as the waif of a student shuddered with near silent rolls of laughter. Meanwhile... High in a hogwarts tower the famous Harry Potter lay trapped in dreams and nightmares he would prefer not to understand. He woke with a start to the banging of a door and stared, ready for an attack, through the gap in his curtains as the familiar figure of Neville longbottom hurried to his bed. Slowly his body began to relax, drawing back its alertness for a sensible weariness instead which pushed Potter back to the comfort of his mattress and blankets, the latter dragged close around him to hide the ever so slight trembling of his limbs. Sleep had not been the cure all he had hoped it would be before he had gone to bed. Instead it had thrown him images of a brief nothing that didn't matter over and over again. He had no idea what it meant and had no desire to repeat the memory of something so insignificant being played over and over and over again in full surround sound. That was what his dreams had been; like sitting in a giant 360• screen cinema, trapped in a circle of minutes played, rewound and played again. It had made him feel small, the incident towering over him, jeering. Harry rubbed his scar, knowing it would never hurt again and pondered the value of knowing your enemy. He had been bound to Voldemort, their minds intertwined and that was how he had defeated the dark lord, with a lot of help from his friends and that tedious tether that had shared things vital to their resistance. He had been linked to that enemy so knowing it had become sort of normal but the incident his mind refused to drop was anything but that. Staring blurry eyed at the canopy above Potter squinted in an attempt to focus the image without putting on his glasses; it worked, sort of but he was already being dragged back into his own thoughts. Lying there still but for the twist of fingers in sheets and the steady rise and fall of his chest Harry dared himself to think willingly of what had happened. It had been a weekend and the day had been foul. Those who had not gone to hogsmeade had stayed in the warmth of common rooms, all but two. Thinking himself alone and still not fully comfortable in a school full of ghosts of people who had fought in the war by his side, he had grabbed his broom and marched to the rebuilt quidditch stands. Desperately seeking solitude and finding solace in the wind that roared by his ears deafening his own thoughts. It was a blessed relief to still be able to cross the grounds and he welcomed it hungrily. Not wanting to remember the school for the war and eager like others to finish his education Harry currently now sought to bring some of the better memories back to life. Seeing no one, not even Hagrid who was rarely put off the weather, Harry took out the snitch Dumbledore had left him and watched smiling as it shot off towards the quidditch pitch. The gryffindor's gaze soon losing one golden thing for another paler creature flitting across the heavens. All thoughts drawing to a halt, all but those questioning the scene before him. Draco flew the way Harry imagined angels would. Dipping and riding the slip stream winds, elegant in a way no quidditch player could manage whilst remaining successful. What Draco was doing was not flying, Harry decided from his hidden position by the stands. What Draco was doing was some sort of confessional, a dance, a masterpiece of wizardry that had the Gryffindor mesmerised. Too taken with his voyeurism of such an exquisitely vulnerable moment to pay attention to his own feet as they carried him toward the pitch; drawn in like a moth to the flame. No care for the risk. As he moved closer, silently watching the ballet of movement above Harry felt his heart stutter and catch within his chest. This invasion would come at a price yet awe overtook panic as he turned in circles, unwilling to take his eyes off of the pale creature drifting effortlessly across the grey sky. It was so strangely appealing to watch that he was reminded of the quidditch World Cup or rather the Bulgarian team mascots. Harry suddenly struck by the belief that Draco could quite easily have veela blood somewhere in his family. It would explain the sudden need within Harry to witness such a strange masterpiece in action. His mind so adrift in wonder that thoughts of reason slipped away leaving Harry reeling. As he stood plain as day upon the pitch, twisting and turning to follow Draco's path. He was soon surprised to find himself watching the slytherin effortlessly dismount his broom straight into a stroll that led him straight toward Potter, his broom tucked over one shoulder. Feeling his fingers twitch for want of his wand Harry held still, fighting the urge to hex as hard as he fought the heat growing in his cheeks. Why was he blushing? "Enjoy the view Potter?" The drawl was carried off by the growing breeze that warned of more to come as the clouds above began to darken. The growing gloom seeming only to add to the few positive qualities Harry could see within his classmate. Draco's sharp features softened, either by the lighting or the war, his skin glowing faintly with the pearlescent shine of sweat. Harry said nothing, unwilling to tell the truth and too caught up in being caught during such strangeness that any lie hovered just beyond his grasp. Silence was better than admission of enjoyment here, silence held honour and pride and most of all the slim amount of dignity Harry believed he had kept alive through all his hardships. It was not something to be thrown away simply because Draco's flying had left Harry speechless and most certainly not worth confessing what he had seen of his own heavy heart in the Slytherin's elegance. Silence protected the truth of his hummingbird pulse as it fluttered violently making his fingers tingle and his mouth dry. Silence protecting Harry from what other things stirred beneath the surface of his mind, lighting a fire within green eyes. "Gone deaf?" The annoyance in the blonde's voice halfhearted, already seeming to be bored of his fellow student as he sneered, turned in the mud and started towards the locker rooms. Stuck for a retort the gryffindor found his gaze drawn once more to the slytherin. Noting the subtle curve of hips and arse, the almost sway that accompanied each step reminding Harry of Ginny; or rather how easily she stole his attention. Watching the shadow of Draco disappear through the locker room door Harry took a deep breath in a bid to calm his now erratic heart. Flustered and unwilling to accept the reason behind why he was so confused whilst the breeze around him rose to a wind, sending shivers to the base of his spine. Unwilling to follow for anxiety of what may happen, what he may say or do, he was eventually chased in by the start of a downpour that had him drenched and dripping by the time he joined his enemy in the shelter of the locker rooms. He knew his mistake immediately as his heart leapt to his throat at the sight that greeted him. Draco was half sat half sprawled upon a bench, knees spread wide with his broom resting against his thigh. Thin fingers curled around the handle, rising and falling in a motion that stole the breath from Potter's mouth. The green eyed boy reading into the gesture exactly what was being implied. Unable to ignore the smugness upon the pale boy's face Harry clenched his fists in a bid for some semblance of control. Shivering violently beneath the weight of his sodden clothes, with green eyes fixed on grey, he waited a moment, assuring himself it was safe before struggling out of his dripping sweater which hit the floor with a dull squelch, much to Draco's amusement. "I had no idea you were into stripping Potter." The words chased Harry's thoughts around his head, hounding his senses and diving into the darker parts of his mind where anger twisted with other passions into something altogether wrong. Wrong for him. Wrong for someone who hated Draco. Wrong for someone who had managed to be a hero and now stood more uncomfortable in his skin than he had ever been. Searching for a response, fumbling over the words in his head his fingers tightened into fists once more. His limbs adorning a subtle tremble of nerves that coiled within his gut, spreading warmth beneath the waistline of his trousers that felt suddenly too tight, too close, too restrictive. "Cat got your tongue?" Draco purred, his head lulling to one side as if in mock concern that was spoilt by the mischievous smile upon his lips, matching the sparkle in pale eyes. Harry may have defeated Voldemort, finally managed to date Ginny and had returned to life from death but right here right now, standing in a pool of rain water of his own making, he felt trapped. Almost helpless but not without comfort as if the others attention somehow eased the panic tearing through his bloodstream like a muggle drug. "I saved your life." He managed to say in an almost whisper that could have easily been covered by the tempest growing outside. It was however another mistake for no sooner had he spoken Draco had risen and began to creep closer, pointing his broom in Harry's direction. "I saved yours too." He chimed, his ease almost predatory as he advanced. His pink tongue darting out to moisten the curve of pale lips, drawing the gryffindor's attention to his mouth whether intentional or not. Harry suspected it was on purpose, suspected or hoped. "Ginny been holding out on you?" Now standing barely a foot from Potter, speaking so gently that the chosen one had to lean in to hear. Harry imagined he could feel the warmth of Draco's breath ghost across his cheek sending yet another shiver through him where it spread out, sparking new life in nerve endings that soon felt charged with potential. Harry managed a silent shake of the head, his jaw set firm with the muscle twitching ever so slightly in his cheek. Yet his eyes gave him away as they followed the path of Draco's peeking tongue, studying the lines of the sly mouth that appeared frozen open in an inaudible gasp. He had no idea where it came from and he wasted no time in attempting to find reason in what was happening but simply gave in to the new hungers stirring in his chest. The beast that once growled and purred over Ginny now as transfixed as its host, lured willing in. Draco, despite appearances was surprised when Harry crashed into him, body pressed against body, lips to lips, demanding attention that came without hesitation. The blonde let his broom fall from his hands and filled them instead with fistfuls of Potter's damp clothes, fingers tracing brief patterns across the flesh hidden between the buttons of Harry's shirt. Seeking the same closeness that had his enemy's hands desperately clawing at his own attire until they found his hair where they coiled and tightened. Harry thought he could feel Draco's pulse through the savageness of the kiss. Tongue flitting against tongue whilst his fingers found platinum locks and pulled, releasing some of his loathing whilst offering proof of his strength even if his will to resist had been broken. Using his hold to command the moment, harry was rewarded by a noise that whispered from Draco's chest, a delicate hungry noise that only fed Harry's needs further. He was tired of being careful, tired of being a hero, tired of doing the right thing and the slytherin felt all too perfect pressed against him hip to hip. Neither student seeming to care for the obviousness of their arousal as Harry tested the moment with a rough grind that was met with similar. The pair soon furiously tugging at one another's clothes, trying to get closer, trying for more friction as heavy breathing and dulcet moans escaped through their animalistic kiss. The noises of their illicit game drowned by the storm now raging outside. It was as far from affection as war, lips bruised and aching, cocks painfully restrained within clothes. It was hateful and demanding, neither giving up the reigns as they fought for control. Both refusing to listen to the voices of reason within their minds which were soon drowned out by the insistent mantra of 'more, more, MORE'. Draco pulled away first, withdrawing from the kiss but not the hands that ran across his clothed flesh and left nail marks upon his hips and arms. "You kiss like your girlfriend." The laughter in his voice enough to draw a kiss-drunk Harry back to earth with a crash. The gryffindor's mind suddenly drowning in reasons not to do this, not to have done this and yet he found himself licking the taste of Draco from his mouth, struggling to keep his hips from seeking further friction. Letting his hands drop from where they caressed hair and cheek, throat and the boyish curve of the hip Harry gave in to one more urge. Finding immediate gratification as he watched his fist strike the unsuspecting boy in the jaw. Doing his best to resist confusing impulses that thrilled at the sight of blood upon Draco's mouth and yearned to lick it clean. Stepping away whilst the other boy straightened himself from a stumble, Harry shook his head, pleading internally for the sanity that seemed to have abandoned him on the pitch. Making him wonder if magic had been at work despite the gnawing feeling in his gut that told him otherwise. "That's more like it." He heard the slytherin whisper behind him, sounding just as breathless and lost to desire as Harry felt. Though at least he was trying to fight it unlike Draco who wore all the signs of an impulsive life upon himself like badges of honour. Of course he knew about the dark mark that stared at him when Draco rolled up his sleeves; but there was more. Even from a distance, even in such poor lighting he could make out the tell-tale needle marks in the other boy's arm, the bird bone fragility of long limbs and the flourish of bruises across what flesh was visible. It all seemed only to lift the hunger higher, fuelling his want of the brat prince of slytherin as much as his desire for revenge. Near mindless with years of snide remarks, duels, injuries and battles raging through his mind at full steam Harry clenched his jaw and struck out at Draco again. Unable to deny the throb of satisfaction in his cock as his knuckles struck flesh again, the stinging in his fist only reassuring him somehow that this was right. It had to be right because Draco was smiling, pushing hair out of an already swelling eye, licking lipstick-like blood from the line of his mouth. It felt strange but good, incredibly wrong but oh so natural to draw the blood of his enemy who stood willing and eager before him like a personalised punch bag. He knew what it felt like to be beaten, sort of, his cousin had beaten him enough but there was more here beneath the surface. An undeniable call to violence that had Harry's fists shaking with the temptation to continue, barely holding back as Draco swayed enticingly before him, lithe fingers stretching the distance between them to run fleeting across the hardness contained within Harry's trousers. It stole a gasp and was almost enough to draw him in again but as if sent from the gods a rumble of thunder shook Harry's thoughts apart. It forced him to step back, to get away, to put space between them despite how badly his fingers itched to run across scars he was sure were hidden beneath the thin fabric of Draco's shirt, scars he had caused. Scars whose mere idea sent a wave of guilty pleasure through the gryffindor's frame and pushed him further back. As drunk on arousal as Potter, if not moreso, Draco could nevertheless see his brief hold over Harry was breaking and prepared himself for what came next. Each punch may have left him reeling but each had filled the beast within his chest with a hedonistic joy that fed the mischievous grin now written across his face once more; pumping almost-there pleasure through his veins. It hurt but it hurt in the good way that Draco had learned to want since first tasting the delights of violent intimacy. It spread a warmth through him that others would get from embracing a loved one and appeared to make him glow, saint-like in his beauty and blood in the shadows of the locker room. He knew it too. Knew how he looked the second Harry turned back to face him and let his eyes drag all the way over Draco's body as if choosing a steak for dinner. He thrived off of it and despite a history of poor planning and poor choices he knew what had to be done and turned his back on his bewildered enemy. Crouching to retrieve his broom before turning to face Harry once more, he dug around in his pockets, ignoring the painfully obvious line of his cock that begged for attention as his fingers searched deeper into his pockets. Making no attempt to bite back the almost moan bought by his innocently rummaging hand. He tilted his head back, allowing bliss to dance briefly across his features before he met potter's gaze to be sure they both knew exactly what had happened. "You hit like your girlfriend too." The words carried on a cold flutter of laughter, suddenly throwing something golden and glinting towards the gryffindor before turning without further warning and disappearing out into the rain. Of course Harry had caught the snitch he had released earlier in hopes of a bit of private practice but by time he had opened his mouth to reply he was alone. the sounds of the storm and his still racing pulse all that kept him company as he sat down to wait out however long it took for his body to forget the enjoyment Draco malfoy had given it. Harry growled at himself under his breath as he recollected the incident, focusing on how it felt to be pushed up against Draco's slighter frame and how the other body had smelt. The blonde had smelt faintly of heady spices, summer rain and broom polish along with a peppermint touch to his breath. Harry had been able to taste it when they'd crashed together, breathing in one another's exhalations, limbs intertwined without rational plot. Harry felt his heart pick up speed and rested his hands over it. Though no one could see him, though his roommates were awake and no one knew what had happened he felt as if he had betrayed them. Fighting was not the plan of the future and lowering himself to letting Draco get so near was an embarrassing fault. It would have been worse if he admitted to himself how it had felt, beneath the surface layers of blind hatred. Harry bit his lip hard and tasted blood. Draco had smelt of that too during their encounter after Harry had struck him. There was a hearty pleasure in that and the gryffindor closed his eyes to the peace it brought. The chosen one happily ignoring the root of that pleasure which had begun to burrow deeper, through the cracks into places that were raw and unknown.

#drarry #fanfic #hogwarts #post wizarding war #flying #snitch #Draco malfoy #Harry potter #slash #new to this #please be kind

4 notes · View notes

aren-of-the-fen · 7 years ago

Text

About time for an update

Whoops! Sorry about that. So what’s been going on with me at the Makerspace lately? Well, quite a bit. I worked on a few projects, some of them succeeded at the shop, others not so much. Lately, I’ve been gathering the various parts needed to create a Raspberry Pi 3 powered arcade machine. Specificall a smaller ‘bartop’ style arcade cabinet. Beginning with a ‘Liquid Video’ brand LCD monitor, which was a free score through some donated time and effort at the shop (We had a lot of computers and monitors donated to the shop by a local tech giant, and in upgrading all our old monitors, well I scored one of the cast-offs for my project). The Raspberry Pi 3, of course, is the heart of the system. Adding an external hard drive connected via USB (donated to the project by a friend), an ATX power supply I scrounged up from the pick-a-part pile..a 2.1 speaker system I had recently upgraded at home, and some other odds and ends. The last portions of the project were a joystick liberated from an ‘iCade’ iPad arcade accessory (donated to the project by another friend) and a bunch of parts ordered through aliexpress.com It’s not much to look at just yet.

But as of last night, all the parts were again working together. You can see in the picture above, the speaker set behind the monitor, the monitor itself, and in front, you can see the hard drive, and the raspberry pi, as well as the power strip that’s running everything. Unseen still, the ATX power supply (it was sitting behind the monitor) and the Xbox controller that I was using because the arcade controller hasn’t been assembled yet (but you can totally see the bag of colorful buttons) I’ve worked up a bit of a flowchart for the project’s connections.. I think it makes it easier to understand the whole plan.

You’ll notice that there are two green audio cables coming off the Raspberry Pi.. this was actually a ‘bug’ that I ran into that I decided to turn into a feature. When I got the monitor, it had built-in speakers. At first, I was excited, but on plugging them in, I realized they were very low-powered speakers, probably best used in an office environment. Arcade games demand more sound, so I set about freeing up my home PC's 2.1 sound system. Then I realized I had an opportunity to have the monitor’s built-in speakers function for ‘low volume’ sound times.. and then I can dial up the volume on the 2.1 system (with subwoofer) for those times when I want a more full-featured arcade experience. So in a way, I’m making a 2+2.1 sound system. Last night, I cracked open those speakers to strip off all the plastic shells and spent some time soldering an extension cable so that the 2.1 system’s volume control knob could be moved to anywhere I wanted in my build, instead of being tethered to just a couple inches from the right speaker. I’ve given some thought to the layout of the control panel, and I’ve worked up this sketch of what it might look like.

Not my artwork, just trying to get a feel for how it might work.. and I figured, why not have some fun while I was doing that. ABXY are placed in a similar way to the Xbox controller (backward to the Nintendo, sorry). L and R will be the left and right ‘shoulder’ buttons. I’m not planning to try to fit the left and right trigger buttons into this design, as most arcade and classic home gaming emulators top out at 6 action buttons. My cabinet design is going to have two USB ports in the front, so if needed we can plug in a PlayStation, Xbox, or Nintendo-styled controller, to get the full effect for a given system. There’s also going to be a rectangular button that mimics the traditional red ‘coin return’ buttons. You won’t be able to put coins into it, but pushing this button will trigger a ‘coin inserted’ event in the games, at least on the arcade emulators. for classic home systems.. I suspect it’ll act as a “Select” button. The final console layout is one of the last steps of the project, and there’s definitely a lot still to be done before we get there. Tomorrow’s work will start with the process of removing the monitor’s internal electronics from the plastic shell, and likely creating another extension cable so that the monitor’s power button and menu controls can be located on the cabinet where desired. For now tho, it’s a project!

#diy #arcade #mame #makerspace #eugenemakerspace #makersgonnamake #raspberry pi #retrogaming #retropie #cabinetry #computer

0 notes

rozebucket98-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Death Ship: The SS Ourang Medan Mystery

Ominous tales of ghost ships like the Flying Dutchman and the Mary Celeste have been passed down from one generation of seafarer to the next for centuries, but as eerie as these haunted vessels are alleged to be there is another even more disturbing maritime phenomena that deals not with ships that have been abandoned, but those whose crew have mysteriously perished. Arguably the most disturbing of all these legends is the shocking case of the SS Ourang Medan.

According to widely circulated reports, in June of 1947 — or, according to alternate accounts, February of 1948 — multiple ships traversing the trade routes of the straits of Malacca, which is located between the sun drenched shores of Sumatra and Malaysia, claimed to have picked up a series of SOS distress signals. The unknown ship’s message was as simple as it was disturbing:

“All officers including captain are dead, lying in chartroom and bridge. Possibly whole crew dead.” This communication was followed by a burst of indecipherable Morse code, then a final, grim message: “I die.” This cryptic proclamation was followed by tomb-like silence.

THE SILVER STAR COMES TO THE RESCUE:

The chilling distress call was picked up by two American ships as well as British and Dutch listening posts. The men manning these posts managed to triangulate the source of these broadcasts and deduced that they were likely emanating from a Dutch freighter known as the SS Ourang Medan, which was navigating the straits of Malacca.

A conscripted American merchant ship called the Silver Star was closest to the presumed location of the Ourang Medan. Originally christened “Santa Cecilia” by the Grace Line (W. R. Grace & Co.), the vessel had been renamed the Silver Star when the United States Maritime Commission “drafted” it in 1946.

Noting the terrified urgency in the message that came over the airwaves, the Captain and crew of the Silver Star wasted no time in changing their course in an effort to assist the apparently incapacitated ship. Within hours, the Silver Star caught sight of the Ourang Medan rising and falling in the choppy waters of the Malacca Strait.

As the merchant craft neared the ill-omened vessel, the crew noticed that there was no sign of life on the deck. The Americans attempted to hail the Dutch crew to no avail. That’s when the Captain of the Silver Star decided to assemble a boarding party. As they left the safe haven of the Silver Star, these unfortunate souls had no idea that they were about to walk into a living nightmare.

As soon as they boarded the Ourang Medan, the men swiftly realized that the distress calls were not an exaggeration. The decks of the vessel were littered with the corpses of the Dutch crew; their eyes wide, their arms grasping at unseen assailants, their faces twisted into revolting visages of agony and horror. Even the ship’s dog was dead; it’s once intimidating snarl frozen into a ghastly grimace.

The boarding party found the Captain’s remains on the bridge, while his officers’ cadavers were strewn about the wheelhouse and chartroom. The communications officer was still at his post, as dead as the rest, his fingertips resting on the telegraph. All of the corpses, according to reports, bore the same terrified, wide-eyed expressions as the crew on deck.

Below deck, search party members found cadres of corpses in the boiler room, but almost as disturbing as this grim find was the fact that the American crew members claimed to have felt an extreme chill in the nadir of the hold, even though the temperature outside was a scorching 110°F. While the search team could see clear evidence that the crew of the Ourang Medan suffered profoundly at the moment of their deaths, they could find no overt evidence of injury or foul play on the swiftly decaying corpses. Nor could they spy any damage to the ship itself.

The Captain of the Silver Star decided that they would tether themselves to the Ourang Medan and tow it back to port, but as soon as the crew attached the tow line to the Dutch ship they noticed ominous billows of smoke pouring up from the lower decks, in specific the Number 4 hold.

The boarding party scarcely had a chance to cut the towline and make it back to the Silver Star before the Ourang Medan exploded with such tremendous force that it “lifted herself from the water and swiftly sank.”

The crew watched the Dutch vessel disappear beneath the briny depths, no doubt breathing deep sighs of relief that the towline had not dragged them into the sea as well.

The watery grave that claimed the Ourang Medan effectively removed the freighter from the face of the Earth and forced it directly into the realm of myths and legends. This, of course, has made it one of the most enduring and intriguing maritime mysterious of the modern age, leaving us to ask the most basic question…

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE OURANG MEDAN?

While rumors about the Silver Star’s grisly discovery circulated wildly along the trade routes of the East Indies, the first official account of the event would not be printed until May of 1952, in the form of the “Proceedings of the Merchant Marine Council,” which was published by the United States Coast Guard. The testimony therein described the alarming state of the Dutch crewmen, even going so far as to state:

“Their frozen faces were upturned to the sun… staring, as if in fear… the mouths were gaping open and the eyes staring.”

THE SHIP THAT NEVER WAS

The first problem with trying to ascertain what happened to this now infamous Dutch freighter is the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any official records that it ever existed in the first place. We know that the Silver Star was real — although, by 1947, it had been reacquired by the Grace Line shipping company who dubbed the vessel “Santa Juana” — but there’s no paper trail leading to the Ourang Medan.

Some researchers have speculated that if the Ourang Medan was a genuine ship that it likely hailed from Sumatra, which at the time was a colony of the Netherlands in what was referred to as a the Dutch East Indies. “Ourang” is Indonesian for “man” and “Medan” is the biggest city on the island of Sumatra, which would designate this enigmatic freighter the “Man from Medan.” But, while the etymology of the name might give some clue as to its origin, there are no bureaucratic records of the Ourang Medan.

Author and historian Roy Bainton, who’s done some of the most exhaustive and revealing investigation on the subject of the SS Ourang Medan, met dead end after dead end in his pursuit of the true story of the “death ship.” First he went to the usual sources, but was unable to find any mention of the ship in Lloyd’s Shipping registers or the Dictionary of Disasters at Sea, 1824-1962.

Then he contacted the United Kingdom Admiralty, the Registrar of Shipping and Seamen and the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich all of whom told him that the only place to check Dutch Shipping records was in Amsterdam. Bainton searched the Dutch records as well as the Maritime Authority in Singapore to no avail.

Just as he was about to give up his investigation and write the whole thing off as just an old sailors’ yarn, Bainton was contacted by Professor Theodor Siersdorfer of Essen, Germany who had been pursuing the case for the better part of 50 years and was the first to reveal the names of the two American ships that had heard the Ourang Medan’s SOS calls.

Siersdorfer also led Bainton to a 32 page German booklet written in 1954 by Otto Mielke, entitled“Das Totenschiffin der Südsee” or “Death Ship in the South Sea.” Mielke seemed to know a lot about the Ourang Medan’s route, cargo, tonnage and engine power and even, allegedly, the Captain’s name. One is forced to wonder whether or not Mielke had contact with one of the Silver Stars’ notoriously difficult to find crewmen.

Mielke’s pamphlet was also the source of the June, 1947 date and added yet another compelling piece to the puzzle, which helped to reignited Bainton’s interest in the project. This intriguing new bit of possible evidence was that the Number 4 hold of the Ourang Medan may have been filled with a pair of exceedingly lethal and highly illegal substances. According to Bainton:

“…there is a tantalizing, possible explanation as to her crew’s demise and her disappearance from the records. Mielke mentions a mixed, lethal cargo on the Dutchman ‘Zyankali’ (potassium cyanide) and nitroglycerine.”

Needless to say this would be a dangerous enough concoction in a laboratory with the highest safety protocols, but in a cargo hold on the rough seas it was a potential nightmare; one which might explain not only the inexplicable demise of the Dutch crew, but the subsequent explosion that claimed the freighter herself.

Even more terrifyingly, according to Bainton, is the conjecture that the Ourang Medan may have been smuggling nerve gas or even more insidious biological weapons manufactured by a sinister assembly of Japanese scientists whose experiments were so heinous that many of the atrocities perpetrated by the Nazi’s in the name of science pale by comparison. This diabolical faction was unassumingly referred to as…

UNIT 731:

Known to nearby inhabitants as a “den of cannibals,” Unit 731 was founded in 1932 by a brilliant, yet misguided, Japanese bacteriologist named Shirō Ishii.

The unit was designed to be a clandestine research and development department whose sole agenda was to create the most deadly forms of to chemical and biological weapons known to man and thus insure the victory of the Japan over any potential enemy.

Ishii established Unit 731 (code named “Tongo Unit”) during the Second Sino-Japanese War, but didn’t really make his terrible mark until he oversaw the construction of new research facilities in the Imperial Japanese Army occupied Pingfang district of Harbin, China. It was there that the scientists of his division conducted some of the most deplorable biological experiments known to mankind during World War II.

Even more inexcusable was the fact that this grotesque cabal used human beings — including women and infants — in their appalling experiments, which included everything from exposure to sub-zero temperatures to the vivisection of human guinea pigs to study the effects of toxic materials on living organs.

Nevertheless, General Douglas MacArthur, presumably in the interest of national defense, covertly granted immunity to Ishii and his staff in exchange for providing the U.S. with their biological warfare research, regardless of the unspeakable acts they had committed — the magnitude of which was reported by Bainton:

“Unit 731’s brief was to find a chemical, gas or biological weapon to win the war. Hideous, inhumane experiments were carried out on helpless Australian, American, Russian, Chinese and British prisoners — some of the worst war crimes ever committed.”

As to why these hazardous materials were packed onto the Ourang Medan when they could have just flown it directly to a secretive laboratory, Bainton speculated that perhaps the U.S. government — or another world power — decided to use as slow and inconspicuous vessel as the Dutch freighter to transport such treacherous cargo for reasons of both safety and concealment:

“So how was this deadly cargo moved around the South China Sea and through the Straits of Malacca during this troubled period? Not by air; the prospect of a cargo plane crashing with several tons of deadly gas on board was too horrendous to consider. No, you hired an insignificant old tramp steamer, preferably with a low paid foreign crew, stowed the cargo in disguised oil drums and, like all serious smugglers, hoped for the best, and a blind eye from authority.”

Bainton surmised that sea water could have entered the ship’s hold, reacting with the perilous cargo to release poisonous gases, which then caused the crew to suffocate. At this point the onrushing salt water might have reacted with the nitroglycerin, creating the explosive effect that was said to cause the ship’s ultimate demise. Bainton even went on to speculate as to why the United States would go to such extreme lengths to expunge from all records the very existence of the freighter:

“If we accept, due to the nature of her crew’s deaths, that she was carrying deadly gas or chemicals and if indeed she was a Dutch vessel had this news broken it would have been a major embarrassment for any government involved, especially in the light of the Geneva Convention. Hence the dead ends faced by any researcher. The story exists because, like the gases, it escaped.”

So are we to believe that this was the ultimate fate of the Ourang Medan and her crew? Was this merely a tragic accident that was the result of a combining dangerous chemicals with nitroglycerine on rough seas? If this is a genuine account of what transpired, then it seems like it’s as valid a possibility as any, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only option that researchers have come up with. Perhaps the strangest I’ve encountered is that the unfortunate crew was the victim of…

THE PARANORMAL:

In 1953, Frank Edwards and Robert V. Hulse retold the basics of the legend for Fate Magazine and in his 1955 book “The case For the UFO,” astronomer, author and noted “Philadelphia Experiment” researcher, Morris K. Jessup, hypothesized that the crew of the Ourang Medan may have been attacked by extraterrestrials for reasons unknown.

Other Fortean enthusiasts have theorized that the unlucky Dutch crew may have had a Scooby Doo-like run-in with vengeful wraiths of the sea or a ghost ship full of surly, undead pirates. The dubious proof, which supporters of the paranormal option use to confirm their theory, is the evident lack of a natural cause for the deaths as well as the purportedly petrified expressions etched onto the faces of the doomed sailors. Add to this the unnatural chill in the cargo hold and the assertion that some of the deceased sailors were reaching up towards what was assumed to be an unknown adversary and you have all the ingredients for a hoary seafarers’ tale.

This is scant evidence indeed for a supposed interaction with either evil aliens or malevolent phantoms, but one can hardly blame yarn spinning mariners for trying to add a little spice to a story told around campfires on stony shorelines to wide-eyed children… or even novice deckhands. So, if we pressume for the moment that the paranormal is out then we must be dealing with…

NATURAL CAUSES:

Okay, assuming that the deaths aboard the Ourang Medan were caused by neither supernatural forces or atrocious weapons of war then could it be a chilling natural phenomenon or even a simple accident that claimed the lives of these Dutch sailors’? Mayhap an incident involving…

METHANE BUBBLES

Perhaps the most fear-provoking theory proffered by those who believe that the demise of the Dutch freighter was explicable by natural means is that the crew of the Ourang Medan was asphyxiated by clouds of noxious methane that gurgled up from a fissure on the sea floor and poisoned the sailors before eventually engulfing the ship.

As terrifying as the thought of random bursts of methane destroying vessels after killing the crew may be, this explanation seems farfetched as it does not account for the thunderous blast described by the crew of the Silver Star. So if it wasn’t methane bubbles that were responsible for the tragedy, then perhaps it was a…

BOILER FIRE

Author Vincent Gaddis, in his 1965 book “Invisible Horizons,” put forward the premise that an unobserved fire or failure in the ship’s boiler system might have been responsible for the demise of the vessel.

He claimed that carbon monoxide could have leaked up causing the deaths of all aboard while the fire slowly grew; eventually igniting the fuel and causing the craft to explode.

While this is a sound theory, perhaps the truth is even simpler than a fire or maintenance error and all of this is nothing more than a…

A HOAX

Despite Bainton’s proposition that the records may have been eradicated by a savvy group of governmental conspirators, the fact that there are no registration records for the Ourang Medan remains a troublesome detail.

Combine this with the reality that no survivors of the Silver Star have ever felt compelled to come forward and tell their harrowing tale and you’ve got all the earmarks of a good, old fashioned ghost story concocted by sailors to while away the long hours at sea.

That having been stated, the fact that the United States Coast Guard seems to have confirmed the tale, and that other noted nautical authors have invested so much time and so many resources in availing themselves of the truth, lends and aura of credibility to the whole proceeding.

CONCLUSION:

When all is said and done, if anyone really knows what happened to the Ourang Medan and her crew then they’re not talking, but whatever the truth is behind this unfathomable tragedy, it remains one of the most perplexing and downright scary maritime enigmas of the 20th Century… and while it might not be as famous as the plethora of other ghost ships said to sail the high seas, it is every bit a terrifying.

Dig Deeper: https://youtu.be/5KNoB2RUFEQ

Read More: https://shortoncontent.wordpress.com/2015/01/15/the-ss-ourang-medan-death-ship-updated/

Debunked? http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-famous-mysteries-with-really-obvious-solutions/

*Dedicated to Maggie*

#ocoberfiles day2 ssourangmedan

0 notes