#event; ch0

[faulknxr]

the peregrine soliton.

closed starter ft. @agenthemingway, mentions of @dxckinson.

setting: multiple locations.

timeframe: various times.

summary: the recruitment of a new agent. the beginning of a friendship. the premature end to a mission.

content warnings: none for this part. future content may include depictions of depression, period-typical homophobia, suicidal ideation, etc., triggers will be updated within the tags.

1986. 18th of September.

The clouds by Agent Dickinson’s head roll across the plane’s oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulkner’s eyes. He hasn’t seen the wisps of cirrus clouds rush by like busy traffic since almost a decade ago when this agent last took to the air. And never has he witnessed them in something as dandy as business class. But for his snoozing partner seated by the window, it’s his first time leaving the country on a plane (and boarding a plane in general). From a technical point of view, it is more efficient and discreet to have their trip to and back from France to be as comfortable for them and their guest.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Faulkner slides out the files from his briefcase and reviews them again. He reminds himself to breathe out through his nose after his chest lightly pangs due to a lack of oxygen. His fingers do not tremble, but his vision does, blurring the name on the brief before focusing back into clarity. Dark, dark brown eyes linger on the photo in the file.

He is so young here to the point of unrecognition.

Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.

Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.

The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."

Their contact meets them when the two agents exit Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray Citroën GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, « Savez-vous tous où aller? »

Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, « Òc, n’ai una foura, monsieur. Mercés a ouf. »

The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, « Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. »

Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat — to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks — and goes to place their luggage in the trunk — to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, “No, let me help.” But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.

Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driver’s seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partner’s doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. It’s only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.

According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.

Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.

In the Mediterranean Sea’s grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The sea’s name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare Mediterrāneum, which means the sea ‘in the middle of land,’ or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words ‘middle’ medius, ‘land’ terra, and ‘qualitative nature’ -āneus.

Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.

“Agent, be careful,” Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinson’s deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.

“Is this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you can’t look, but there are nets all over the water over there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe they’re clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.”

Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.

Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, “Ay, n’ombre… Y’know, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.”

Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.

It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small town’s precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.

The rural town hasn’t changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. It’ll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.

If they had more time, Faulkner would’ve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-Sébastien.

The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. C’est l’heure du déjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.

He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, “Agent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.”

“I don’t mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcase’s left side inner pocket, but don’t open the other side ‘cause that’s where my unmentionables are.” Dickinson says.

Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, “But you mentioned it, so they aren’t ‘unmentionable,’ Agent.” But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.

The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesn’t mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesn’t want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.

Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.

Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission — assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.

The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustn’t he.

He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, we’ll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.

Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.

Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.

There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to — Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old man—uh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didn’t take any noncombat missions, so I’m out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldn’t have sent you—us out here if they didn’t think we could do this. So let’s just, y’know, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like he’s not biting, then… I don’t know, we can talk from the heart?”

Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four… What are they feeding you guys in the army that we’re not getting in the other branches?” Agent Dickinson whispers.

Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.

« Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? » Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, it’d be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulkner’s shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulkner’s features dissolve into content placidity.

This time in English, he asks, “Hello, nice to meet you. I am Agent Faulkner. My associate here is Agent Dickinson. Mr. Jamal Bernard Jackson, correct? May we have a bit of your time?”

[faulknxr]

Faulkner presses the tips of his fingers together in a succession of small bounces while considering Agent Hemingway’s prediction. “You are apt with your observation, Agent,” Faulkner recognizes and drops his hands to his sides, ever the fitting sentinel, continuing in his mellowed cadence, “Your suggestion would be the best method of sensible action.”

This Agent will excuse himself and pick up a box of bottled water in the building’s communal kitchen storage after this conversation. Nodding along to Hemingway as his plan unfolds, Faulkner adds, “For the record, I do not expect obeisance from my reminder. After all, our nation did not do so well with Temperance, did it?” He lowly chuckles a rumbly three beats, which fade in and fade out. One could mistake it for a bass drop from the song playing in the background.

Standing to attention, hands behind his back, Faulkner’s fingers gently knead the back of his blazer while Hemingway looks into the gift bag. Fine wrinkles imprint onto the polyester-blend fabric. Faulkner answers quickly, “Yes, I’m aware, Agent. I chose to. Your date of birth is worth celebration, and I noticed the last time I had visited that your cupboard was sparse of this type of glassware…”

Faulkner’s explanation trails when he catches Agent Hemingway’s eyes watering. Had Faulkner misspoke and offended Hemingway by pointing out the lack of stout glasses? He hadn’t criticized too harshly, did he? Should he reach for his handkerchief? A hand hovers up and slinks into the inner pocket of his jacket and pauses —

Agent Hemingway is smiling. Faulkner’s chest warms up. His hand drops down and burrows into his pants pocket.

Usually, water would be Faulkner’s go-to, or seltzer with a slice of citrus in a simulated attempt of letting one’s hair down — figuratively, as Faulkner would never be without orderly style in the workplace — but as Hemingway rinses the glasses, Faulkner decides to take a chance. “Sī fuerīs Rōmae, Rōmānō vīvitō mōre; sī fuerīs alibī, vīvitō sīcut ibī.”

Agent Hemingway knows his Latin, and Faulkner smiles, hoping the agent will approve his response. When in Rome. “I wouldn’t mind what you were making, Agent Hemingway.” He leans slightly, almost on the side of a counter, but doesn’t commit. An inch of air separates his hip from what appears to be a granite-like stone cut. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and so, too, are Agent Faulkner’s casual informalities.

“Your hypothesis is humorous, Agent. The price of fame would be quite a toll, though, wouldn’t you say,” Faulkner inquires, already picturing Hemingway and Fitzgerald as a two-man jazz band reminiscent of the Bebop 40s. “Yes, I can see that you two would be some hepcats… Heh, then we, speaking unofficially for the group, will take you up on your offer. The stage is yours, Agent.”

Faulkner spreads his arm and gestures to a small set-up with a TV and a plugged-in karaoke machine. This Agent is sure that Agent Hemingway has gone through the correct channels and alerted his neighbors of noise before the commencement of this event. Stepping forward and waiting for his drink, Faulkner adds, “Then we can coordinate who goes next and corral the group for the True Colors ensemble piece later. I shall organize it for you, so please enjoy yourself… Birthday Man.”

this is exactly the kind of answer he was expecting to hear and, to be fair, this is the energy hemingway probably should be sharing. supposedly, he's one of the responsible ones so instead of playing bartender, he should be telling everyone to watch it, maybe keep tabs on who's just got their first drink down and who's about to get cut off. and any other day, he probably would but it's his birthday and so hemingway's allowed a little leeway. a night off from all the babysitting that nobody even asked for.

"you could try but i'm not sure how enthusiastic everyone's gonna be about the reminders. maybe we're better off being sneaky about it. just put water bottles everywhere," he says, only half-joking. "or we can just leave them to their own devices. it's a party after all."

when faulkner acknowledges the elephant in the room, namely the giftbag hemingway noticed the second the other agent walked into the kitchen, his smile grows even brighter. he did say that gifts aren't necessary when he invited everyone but who doesn't love a birthday present, come on. "ah, shit, you really didn't have to," he still says as he takes the glasses out of the bag. "these are beautiful, thank you." and just like that, he's starting to feel like he might shed a tear or two—they'd be happy tears, obviously, but he feels like any sort of crying would ruin the whole thing. so he looks up, blinks the tears away. works well enough.

hemingway gives faulkner another smile, just one more way of saying thank you and then clears his throat. "what are you drinking, though?" he asks as he sets the glasses down in the sink so he can rinse them. "i can make you a non-alcoholic something or just ... well, water."

"why, thank you. in another life, i'm a world famous performer. sold-out shows, all the time," he jokes as he dries the gifted glasses. "or me and fitz start that jazz band he's always talking about." hemingway looks over faulkner's shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they land on fitzgerald, deep in conversation with another one of their teammates; hemingway smiles and then turns his attention back to faulkner. "but either way, the audience here is worth more than any music career could get me. i'll give you guys the opening act."

"oh, you're onto something here," he laughs. hemingway's still talking to faulkner and tending to his gift at the same time—he's finally arrived at the last step, which is pouring his drink into the crystal glass in one, swift motion. there. he gives faulkner a self-satisfied smile. "glad that you didn't suggest girls just wanna have fun, that's my song. and for true colors we should do an ensemble. and i will cry."

[koshka-sova]

on minor parsing of the reverse 1999 timeline: where do events fall?

disclaimer: this post is not meant to provide a decoded in-game timeline. its purpose is to sow discussion about how to make sense of it.

minor spoilers up to 1.9 vereinsamt, and mention of versions 2.0-2.2

months ago when 1.4 prisoner in the cave (Ch5) was released in CN, a user posted her findings of the game's timeline based on the IDM in 37's lab and greta's account in the star. you can find the post here. the scope of her findings was limited to the main story and makes sense. although the theorised timeline only goes up to Ch5, we can easily extend the timeline to include the story up until the storm in Ch7, since the progression from prisoner in the cave -> vereinsamt is linear.

QUERY: where have previous non-main events fallen into this timeline?

the official re1999 account posted earlier today some images of a laplace forum board, and two things stuck out to me:

these two comments. one of them is likely windsong, based on the ID end letter 'W' and her ley line device. the other is (likely) mesmer jr's account, and here she mentions 'researcher ezra.' before talking about windsong, lets clear things up a bit with ezra.

in uluru games, vertin already has a sizeable team, such as bringing regulus, darley, la source, and click when the uluru crew first set foot in the stadium. having regulus around means the event definitely happened after Ch0-4 i.e., regulus recruited, team timekeeper is established. but did it happen between Ch4 and Ch5? not necessarily. although we know the storm has a physical radius, nothing is proven yet on which storms had affected australia. besides, ezra seems to have already been an established member of laplace by the time of the event. so, when uluru games happened is still up for discussion.

with windsong, however, one thing is certain: farewell rayashki happened before the main story. a few points infer to this:

all of farewell rayashki (1.8) happened, and THEN windsong was recruited by lucy to join laplace. this means lucy hadnt resigned.

the radio broadcast at the beginning of the event tells of a storm syndrome that turns people's insides into electrical wires. this syndrome doesnt match any storm directly in the main story (comic book explosions in 1966, money = food in 1929, oil paintings in 1914, people turning into blocks during vertin's breakaway incident; this was 1987, per the previous linked post). this might match, however, with greta's account of the storm in the star.

that's all fine and dandy, and windsong's presence in the laplace forum (which happens AFTER vereinsamt, as the forum discusses a charging station in vertin's suitcase to accommodate lucy) means the timeline is still fairly consistent. but what about the other events?

theft of the rimet cup is likely to be before Ch0 this is tomorrow. regulus was still in 1960s london at the time

green lake. horropedia recounts that the zeno campsite story seemed to have been in 1971, but when exactly is that in relation to the game's main story? still unclear, but should be after vertin establishes team timekeeper...

mor pankh, iirc, was also around 1960s, though whether this means it happened before the main story is up for discussion.

uluru games, as discussed above, should be after Ch4 at least, however it might be even later i.e., after Ch7 vereinsamt.

notes on shuori: no clue on this one... the one lead to maybe making sense of the timeline is yenisei, as it's implied she meets the timekeeper at the end of the event. the status of pei city and the storm is a different topic entirely, as well.

farewell rayashki: before one of the earlier storms prior to the main story (Ch0). see above.

after having finished vereinsamt, im quite excited to see where the story is headed next. although arcana is seemingly out of the picture, the manus still exist. what little i could garner with versions 2.0-2.2, without much spoilers, is the active presence of manus vindictae (or at least, one member) through characters like ms kimberly and ms grace. with anjo nala being a major character in Ch8 tristes tropiques, this might mean events 2.0 and 2.1 happen between Ch7 and Ch8. everything else, i have yet to know, however.

[seth-burroughs]

I did rotate a NDA/Amaterasu swap au in my head a few months back but I just got reminded of it now again soooo, some notes:

(ended up going a bit more loose with the swapping, essentially yuma is the homunculus and makoto's got amnesia, the NDA is Seth/Guillaume/Dominic/Martina with chief Yomi, the (post-ch0) peacekeepers are halara/desuhiko/fubuki/yakou with director Vivia because I sincerely think Yakou is too cringe for that. And just for the hehehe, Huesca is now Makoto's terrible shinigami while Shinigami dumps acid on people in the lab)

Makoto and Yuma change places but their personalities stay pretty similiar. Makoto keeps his eccentricity to #Cope and doesn't really trust others due to the whole amnesia thing. Yuma on the other hand becomes a prey animal after the entire homunculus event

I'm not exactly sure about the other fortes of the NDA except for Guillaume (who can alter the future with the requirement of having to use a plausible horoscope format, though i guess it's good she's having fun with it?) and Dominic (who is like, it's less that he's having a forte and more that he's just a super OP augmented human that has been through surgeries that made him able to shoot lasers out his eyes or something. we can even call him somewhat of an artificially created forte haver. he feels.... a lot of things regarding the whole thing). I do have a few ideas for Seth that I cannot articulate properly, but my mind just draws a blank on Martina. Maybe she gets some persuasion powers? like, if she focuses long enough on unethically interrogating some person or even just trying to get information out of a peacekeeper, they just eventually start uncontrollably spilling the beans via her cool mind control psychic powers affecting their thoughts and judgment and shit. Since that was similiar to her regular hobby in canon. Anyway that's in the works for now

Yomi is the chief of the NDA (for the longest time though it wasn't an agency even he just literally worked alone. not because detectives got discriminated against back then like in canon, but because he thought everyone who applied was extremely annoying for not meeting his impossible standards), and like Yakou in canon he does not have a forte. However, he acts pretty proud of it and how he unlike those other gifteds, actually had to put in effort and work harder for that position. He really hates his coworkers for having it that easy and and never passes up an opportunity to act superior to them and undermine everything they ever do, and invents slurs for people with magic powers. Very visibly actions of somebody that is actually totally confident in their abilities and themselves all along

He wasn't at all prepared for getting new subordinates, the WDO just called him at literal last minute saying they're gonna be delivering detectives to his sub the same week, then just hung up. He spent the next two days furiously vacuuming the place and throwing darts at the picture of master detective wikipedia article he printed out to put on his wall

He's very proud of his incredibly cool, glorious submarine he got with his own money back in the Glory Days. He's a very "stop fucking touching that get your hands off that furniture don't pick that up DON'T MOVE THHSE FFFUCKING SOPOT TRIP MAGNETS if you knock that over im gonna kill you make any mess in my sub and im gonna waterboard you in the shower" type of guy with his belongings. He doesn't appreciate the NDA being there and touching stuff. Unless they wanna sweep the floors in which case put on the maid suit Makoto. But he's still gonna just sit there in his chair and watch him and yell at him every ten seconds that he's doing it wrong

His personal "dead wife moment" was when Dr. Shizuka (Shinigami) ran over his darling boytoy hitman Zilch Alexander with her truck and reversed on him over four times before driving off . it was the night of their wedding

Halara is the chief of the investigations team, and is actually mildly interested in actually investigating the cases themself. Used to have aspirations to become a detective in their younger days, but didn't think it would be more beneficial to them than, say, becoming a peacekeeper. With their cool immunity benefits and pay. They love money, definitely not above bribery either. Still love cats more than humans.

Extremely confident in their strength and superior intelligence, to the point of feeling simply untouchable. They never quite considered the possibility of actually finding out after fucking around for such a long time during the nail man killings, and when director Vivia plainly told them they're fired and going to the chopper for that, their mind just short circuited for a moment from the influx of this incomprehensible information. Of course, they did not let themself get taken away, but are from that point on the run.

They think they're the smartest person in the room, however they never actually went through any training in being a detective or anything like that, and thus can.... severely overestimate their ability to get away with things. Especially when Vivia's around. Oh well!

Director Vivia is. Well first of all are you familiar with dark era Dazai bsd just asking for no particular reason. He allows himself to get pretty silly with it every once in a while, but generally he's just. Personality of canon Vivia with the sadism of canon Yomi, but also Not Really

Doesn't really like shows of power that much, and prefers to stay out of public as much as he can; whenever he is called to take care of a case himself, he will make it very clear he's too pissed off to tolerate any Funny Stuff. Eerily aware of everything that happens in his city, he possesses a lot of knowledge that he realistically just shouldn't even have access to. His subordinates treat him as some sort of powerful eldritch god. He's pretty apathetic to it though.

Yomi acts really weird whenever he's mentioned for some reason.

Nowwww onto Yakou, Vivia's slutty slutty vice-director.... haha just kidding, he's just replacing his wife for the week. She's at home sick <3

Kind of really cringe and not evil enough for this, but Vivia still wants him to get a divorce eventually. He's kind of the only person that isn't batshit scared of Vivia, because they actually did bond over at some rooftop smoking cigarettes looking into each other's eyes one night a few years back. And also he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the many benefits of being the director's faaaaaavouriiite~ a bit.

He's not a good person by any means do not get fooled by his wet rat charm. None of the NDA-turned-peacekeepers are good people now, not even Fubuki who loves to explode things for fun or Desuhiko who's honestly really just an underqualified nepo baby in this au

If anyone is curious about this then my ask box is open. I just kinda got too sleepy right now and left the summary at just that, but there was probably more that I forgot........

[laugtherhyena]

So fun fact about me and the another series; I found out about it back in 2018 just one or two weeks before Ch3 came out and spend the next 3 or 4 years being hooked onto the game until the fixation died down and only returned to me around August or September of lasy year.

Meaning that through 2/3s of Sdra2 i was able to see the chapters as they were coming out and that's honestly something i wish more people in the current fandom could have experienced because it was so fun seeing the hype around a chapter that's soon to come out spike up with all kinds of theories, predictions and people hoping their favorites won't die (i remember i even had a dream once where chapter 5 released and Teruya murdered Iroha by tying her into a train track and waiting for it to run over her after she came to him and told him about being a void and he was like, trying to get rid of all remaining void by killing Iroha himself and wining the class trial, which would in kill Mikado too. Wild shit, but it's a dream you know?). And of course, whenever a new chapter did release the entire fandom would collectively freak out for the entire day as random instagram accs posted Cgs and bits of roughly translated information through the day alongside the deaths and executions and this hype around the newest chapter would sprout all kinds of art, edits and more theories for the following month or two.

All around awesome experience? Not exactly. Because this also means i got to see Linuj's crazy plot twist as they were being revealed and here's where we get to the actual subject of this long ramble/rant; Kokoro Mitsume and how i really wish i could have spoiled myself of what happens in Ch0 because that would have spared me of so much pain.

And let me tell you, when i say pain, i am by no means exaggerating. You people have no idea how much i cried when Ch0 came out. My little 15 year old head was going through the 5 stages of grief over that plot twist, that shit didn't even feel real to me until one or two days after its release.

One thing you gotta know about me is that before i became the Ayame person™ Kokoro was my absolute favorite character of the another series, and if you know me for even just a little while then you know how insanely attached i am to her despite being a minor character who dies 1/3 of the way through the game.

Like, y'all don't understand, i was so happy when i saw that one Cg of her and Mikado in my timeline, so genuinely ecstatic to see more of her after i thought her character done with since the events of Ch2. Can you magine how i felt after watching the character i adored so so much turn out to be a vile human being? I was genuinely so distraught man, i spent a good while being one of those people that ignored everything about the characters irl selves because that twist hurt me so damn much, but even then i was never able to look at that character the same way again, even now she just makes me feel bad.

And it's s not that i think Kokoro is the worst person to have ever existed, i like antagonist/villain characters who've done much worse than her, hell, I don't even think her character was absolutely ruined or anything. When i think about Mitsume nowadays i genuinely find her an interesting case of a good person with big plans who lacked a proper support system or even friends which led her down a path where she became cold and cruel without a semblance of care for her own family so long as she could work on her project, and seeing the difference between the Kokoro we see as a teen and her adult self just makes all of this even more heartbreaking. I still like her, is just that having my perception of this character be completely shattered when Ch0 came out permanently affected how i view her and as much as i still enjoy her character even now I can't help but simultaneously hate her for how she made me feel ❤️

[faulknxr]

Five hundred hours. The dawn rises. Agent Faulkner awakens.

The alarm dies before it can even sing its song, the mock mockingbird silenced by a precise tap of an index finger. Faulkner stretches his arms above his head, wrists chained by a bar of light shining through the blinds. A crick pops in his shoulder, and it’s off the bed. He levels and smooths the mattress, leaving no remaining traces of the body that warmed the sheets.

Five hundred zero-two hours. Light breakfast. End-of-season pomegranate arils, almonds, and a green smoothie. Warm up that shoulder. Remove any tenseness or bumps. Five hundred thirty hours. Run.

The track around the agents’ compound glistens with dew. The March sun sluggishly shakes off February’s chill. With every three odd steps, Faulkner’s breath puffs from his mouth in even intervals, blowing out a cottony mimicry of dandelion pappus.

The name dandelion is derived — corrupted — from the French word dent de lion. Lion’s tooth, by the resemblance of the flower’s jagged leaves. Other common names — nicknames, more like — are Blowballs, Witch’s Gowan, and Doom-head-clock.

(¿Diente de léon? Agent Dickinson would argue that naming a flower after its leaves is silly. He'd propose melena de león. Lion's Mane.)

{Gael, the name, has its roots dug into Breton soil, originating from the term gywn, meaning blessed, and hael, meaning generous. Gael, the agent, once declassified his name's Spanish meaning to his primary partner — gracious. Carried overseas, the epithet evolved, a natural synthesis of its attributes.}

((Faulkner, the agent, has not disclosed to his primary partner that an invocation to God resides within the other agent's name, a theophoric appellation like a secret, inlaid jewel. But it's always there, that faint sheen. A golden halo glowing from his crown. The Asteraceae, star-like as they are, would still pull their own petals out in envy of his shining Grace.))

Pick up the pace. The dirt flies off his soles. The world is a tap, tap, tap closer.

Some of the flower’s monikers are pejorative, a warning of the plant’s diuretic properties. Piss-a-bed, from the English; pissenlit, its French equivalent; and in the northern locales of Italy, pisacan. The can, shortened for cane, cagna. Dog. Flowers at the side of pavements, roadkill weeds in America.

Would it be unbelievable to say that a time ago, these flowers were valuable beyond belief?

(Huh, his partner would hum. That’s interesting. Tell me more?)

Of the genus Taraxacum, there lies a descendent named Taraxacum kok-saghyz. TKS. It found its popularity in the Soviet Union during the Second World War, bred in large quantities between 1931 and 1950. As access to Southeast Asian rubber plants was increasingly restricted, TKS was an emergency ration of latex in a world that could end. However, it wasn't only the Soviets who cultivated a colossal mass. The United Kingdom, Germany, Sweden, and the United States bloomed seas over massive hectares, drowning their green fields in white-blooded yellow flowers.

(And now what?)

As the war ended, the programs ceased. The flowers culled. It wasn’t productive to keep going when the costs of upkeep and the yield weren’t as effective as Hevea brasiliensis. The import rate from Thailand and the Dutch East Indies, now known as Indonesia, was matchless for its time. The United States’ rubber industries boomed.

(Me enfada que son tan chuchos los gringos con su pisto... pero buen, los más ricos son los más codiciosos.)

((Faulkner would almost be tempted to agree.))

Many are unaware dandelions are wholly edible from the top of their petals down to their roots. Vitamins A, C, and K dominate its properties; calcium, potassium, iron, and zinc are in superior quantities for the flora to be considered medicinal. In Korean cuisine, 민들레 makes for a zesty salad when fresh or, when blanched, a savory yet refreshing side dish to rice. Agent Faulkner likes the peppery taste, earthy and punchy and fragrantly bitter.

Speaking of breakfast, Agent Faulkner slows down around the trail's bend to check his watch. Five hundred fifty-seven hours. Like a reflex, he unclips his pager from his wristband and sends a short-form message to his primary partner.

146-6837. 98-6. 10-4? 221? 321-630-4125. 53. 960. :)

He purses his lips when there’s no response by six hundred hours, his sneakers crunching through the cold dirt at the final marker of his circuit. Could Agent Dickinson have left his pager by the living room table instead of his bedside? Is he still lost in slumber?

It is six hundred and twelve hours when Agent Faulkner pulls out the leftover bowl of caldo de pollo from his fridge and warms it up on the burner. It’s true what Agent Dickinson has said: the taste is better later; it’s been resting at least eight hours since last night. In turn, Faulkner’s suit jacket also rests, drying on the laundry rack. He’ll get it professionally cleaned tomorrow. The laundromat is unavailable on Sundays.

Standing over the stovetop, Faulkner’s private smile touches the spoonful of hearty tomato broth. The slight curl of his lips is spurred by the memory of Agent Dickinson against his back, at the soft spring of his curls tickling Faulkner’s ear. Last night, he piggybacked the other agent home from the pub. There were apologies for drinking too much, even though Faulkner had advised not to; admittances of gratitude, of Faulkner staying behind even if it interrupted his plotted Saturday night schedule; and a slurred confession, breathed out quiet but unhesitant: just between us, you’ll always be my favorite.

((This Agent’s preference was un-confessed, but Agent Dickinson is his favorite, also.))

There needs no more significant reasoning for how Faulkner feels beyond philanthropy, or as the Greeks call it, ἀγάπη, something universal that bonds the cell of the self in the body of society. It’s the charitable act towards all of humankind that strengthens Faulkner’s arms to carry Agent Dickinson to the man’s quarters. To carefully comb Dickinson’s hair back when the agent sicked in the porcelain repository of his toilet, ferry glasses of water to rinse his mouth.

Selfless admiration washes Dickinson’s face, each stroke an outline to the cordial shape. Frees him from his work clothes. Slip on a light-hued, comfy sweater over lightly scarred, teetering shoulders. The pastel threads bring out the color of rosewood irises ingrained with sleep.

Crouching, Faulkner smooths the sheets, tucking them around Dickinson’s warm, dozing form. He watches for a moment. Magdalene has Faulkner’s sympathies.

((He’d lay his head by Dickinson’s feet, too.))

Comradery tails Agent Faulkner when, at zero hundred hours, he quietly uses his spare key to return to Agent Dickinson’s flat with the finished caldo de pollo and sneaks it into the other agent’s refrigerator, middle shelf. He checks with a single glance into the bedroom to catch Dickinson’s peaceful rest, but the agent’s deeply frowned brows and white-knuckled grip on his sheets say otherwise. Fellowship spectates Faulkner by the man’s bed. He places a cup of water on the bedside table, drapes a note to cover it from dust, and lays two tablets.

Hospitality watches Faulkner’s hand hover over the man, the handkerchief swiping across Dickinson’s creased forehead, gradually erasing every discomfort from whatever plagues his mind. Following several brushes over his skin, the other agent finally sighs, breaking the tautness and loosening his features to rest.

Faulkner silently mirrors the gentle descent of Dickinson’s evened breathing. It seems the nightmare has passed. Faulkner smiles, and Fondness sees him reach to sweep off the matted curls on Gael’s forehead —

“...In-su?”

— Agent Faulkner snaps his hand back, fingers crushing into a fist so quick his joints pop.

Outside of the reverie, the spoon in Agent Faulkner’s mouth rattles against his teeth. The tiniest dribble of caldo spills from the corner of lips like blood, like he’s accidentally bitten his lip or tongue. Before it gets on his pristine white dress shirt, Faulkner mops it up with a napkin.

His watch ticks six hundred thirty hours. The morning brightens. Agent Faulkner exits.

On the way, greetings are shorn short, like buzzcuts. Hello. Has Agent Dickinson arrived? Good morning. Have you seen Agent Dickinson? The launch is at seven hundred hours. Is he there? Please don’t be late? I understand. I’ll get him. Thank you.

The briefing files, snug in a manila folder and cradled against his arm, jostle when Agent Faulkner stops in front of Agent Dickinson’s quarters. Six hundred forty hours. Time has elapsed backtracking to the housing compound. On the way. They’ll look at the files on the way.

“Agent,” Faulkner calls out, punctuating with a single knock at Dickinson's door.

No response is given.

“Agent,” Faulkner repeats with two knocks. “Agent?”

Accordingly, there remains no answer.

Clearing his throat in an undertone, Faulkner pulls out his lanyard hidden in his shirt pocket, drawing the suite’s spare key behind his keycard. Although he doesn’t like to trespass, the situation finds him choiceless. He goes through with it, twisting the key and the knob. The door closes with a subtle click.

“Agent Dickinson?” he inquires.

Hollow thumps creak through the apartment until Faulkner’s footsteps skirt the bedroom’s threshold. The figure within the room stirs, and Faulkner gives him privacy until he hears a hack. He enters the room, already down to a crouch by Dickinson’s side, and pats the other agent’s back through a cough.

When Dickinson quietens, Faulkner speaks. “Hello, Agent. Good to see you. How are you today? I extend my apologies for barging in. Here.” Faulkner moves automatically, dredging his handkerchief from his suit pocket to sop up the water on the other agent’s face.

Once finished with his task, Faulkner stands tall and relays the proper information. Unfortunately, today’s launch has been relocated to Terminal D, the farthest among the launch areas. They will also need to pick up their USFFs on the way. The clock on Dickinson’s table draws ever nearer to six hundred and forty-six hours. Faulkner clicks his tongue.

He’s composed as he explains, “Agent, I regret to inform you we have less than fifteen minutes to launch. Are you able to get dressed soon? We can brief on the way; I have the files.”

who  :  agent faulkner, @faulknxr

where  :  agent dickinson's living quarters

when  :  march 13, 1994, 6:35 AM

The golden light from the spring sun gently spilled into Agent Dickinson’s quarters through a pair of partially closed curtains. In the still darkened expanse of the bedroom, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls, the light shifting between the warm rays of natural light and the prismatic hues not normally seen by the naked eye. The ribbons of colors shimmered and twirled as if dancing, distorted through a crystal glass wind chime that hung across from the apartment’s central cooling vent. The gentle whooshing of the climate-controlled air and the soft tinkling of the translucent glass beads that swayed in the breeze were both drowned out by the incessant treble of a shrieking radio alarm clock that sat atop a cluttered bedside table.

In the queen-sized mattress next to the nightstand, Agent Dickinson let out a strained curse before he pressed his face deeper into the mattress; the pillow that had been his head rest the night before was folded in half to cover both ears in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. While turning off the alarm would be easier than pretending it didn’t exist, the pounding in his head made the very act of reaching out to shut it off seem utterly impossible.

But he knew he needed to get up; he was running late, and Faulkner was waiting.

Dickinson’s heart clenched behind its cage of flesh and bone, erratically thumping out of rhythm, haunted by some peculiar, misplaced pseudesthesia. The fuzzy remnants of a dream—a nightmare, really—clung to the edges of his subconscious. Stubborn and sticky like the seedpods of the burdock plants that grew in the walking trails he and—In-su—Faulkner frequented in the summertime; those barbed spurs that left a penetrating, stinging itch hours after the intrusion had been removed. The burning sensation of the nearly invisible puncture was the only evidence of a wound. A laughable phantom injury that still hurt regardless.

Chuckling cheerlessly, Dickinson squinted at the time displayed on the green digital screen of the alarm clock. 6:38. He was over thirty minutes late. His chest seized up in a bewildering sob that petered off into an equally mystifying series of sniffles. He couldn’t even remember what it had been that had upset him so much, the fragments of the dream vanishing like wisps of smoke, like fog, when he tried to bring them into focus; leaving behind only the heartache and drying tear tracks as proof that anything had terrorized his sleeping mind.

The only thing he could recall with any certainly were the sound of someone crying, bright white lights, and a cacophony of noises in the distance. But that in itself offered very little insight when it came to narrowing down the memory. All things considered.

“¡Ya! cállate,” Dickinson hissed, eyes closed, as he extended his arm to slam the ‘off’ button of the clock but only managed to bump his fingers into cool glass. He bit back another curse, opened his eyes, and lifted himself on his elbows to reach around the obstruction that had been left on his bedside table. Once the shrill wailing had been silenced, once and for all, Dickinson rolled onto his back and stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

The last vestiges of the nightmare had been blown away by the torrential winds of his waking mind, so it would be pointless for him to continue to dwell on it now. But there was something gnawing at the deepest alcoves in his psyche. An animallike dread made his skin break out into gooseflesh and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A ghostly chill, a creeping horror that had dug its claws into the core of his being. Dickinson wondered idly who had emerged to haunt his subconscious last night. Which one of the many ghosts that trailed behind him had come seeking their toll for the years he had stolen from them?

The thought sent another pang of melancholy through him. Dickinson pressed his hands to his face in response, trying to clear his mind. If this was the penitence he had to pay for letting Agent Fitzgerald goad him into another drinking contest, then maybe this would finally teach him to stop letting things get this far. Everyone knew Dickinson was a terrible drunk; a lightweight who’d get overly emotional—and then embarrassingly clingy. So if he had to bet, Dickinson would suppose the Fitz got a kick out of seeing him turn into a weepy mess, teary face pressed into the side of one of his usual victims (Faulkner, Whitman, or Hemingway) whose side he’d cling to for the rest of the night.

‘It was Faulkner last night,’ Dickinson thought sluggishly. It was usually Faulkner as of late. And since Dickinson had woken up in his own place instead of being deposited onto someone’s couch, it was the only logical conclusion; his long-term mission partner was the only one Dickinson trusted enough with a key to his apartment, after all. Whitman would probably try to pull a prank (or two) and Hemingway’s susceptibility to peer pressure made him a liability even if Whitman didn’t have a key.

Grumbling with no real heat behind the sound, Dickinson recalled the glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand, another hint that pointed towards his partner. Sitting up he squinted at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom before he shifted his gaze to the glass and noticed that there was a square of paper placed over it, and two white circular tablets of medicine atop of that. Dickinson snorted as he carefully pinched the aspirin pills between his thumb, index, and middle finger so he could snatch up the handwritten letter between his final two. Popping the medication into his mouth, he brought the note to eye level and blindly pawed for the cup. Sipping on the water, he scanned the note, which read:

Good morning, Agent Dickinson: I hope you slept alright. Please take these pills with food and water. There is a bowl of caldo de pollo in the fridge. Two minutes in the Radarange should suffice. Our meeting time at Briefing Room A is 700 hours. I shall get you by 645 hours if I do not receive a page back by 630 hours. Cordially, Agent Faulkner. P.S. Please do not worry about my suit jacket from last night. I properly rinsed the discharge.㋡

Dickinson choked on his drink, dribbling water onto his chin and chest. Coughing and pounding at his sternum, he placed the glass back onto the bedside table and looked at the time.

6:43.

Faulkner was probably already unlocking the door.

[aftokrator-official]

hi I can't remember if I asked you this before (I don't think I did but maybe?), is there any good way that you know of to get into the arknights story & characters without having to play the actual games?? like is there an organized database of all the little cutscenes and whatever that I can page through or something..... I like a lot of the character designs and would love to have enough baseline knowledge to potentially get into shipping some girls together (I tend to need a lot of canon familiarity before I can get invested 😔) but I hate phone games and I hate gacha and I don't want to actually play the game >_>

Yes there is! This site has all of the story content archived, including all the images and bgm/sfx, I highly recommend it (and use it a lot myself, because sometimes I just want to read a storyline all at once without playing tower defense stages in between, or vice versa.) The cutscenes aren't voiced and are presented in visual novel format, so there's not really any downside to reading them this way. And the wiki has all the operator files and a lot of nice writeups on lore and background info.

There's also some official manga that's online - I highly recommend the Rhine Lab manga in particular, it's fantastic, and shouldn't be missed especially if you're here for the yuri. Honestly if you read nothing else, read the Rhine Lab storylines, they're that good.

Oh, there's also an anime adaptation that covers the first few chapters of the main story, I thought it was pretty good. I watched it with my best friend who hasn't played the game and she thought it was great, so should be accessible even if you don't know the story. Personally I think the early main story chapters have some of the weakest writing in the game, so I think the anime makes a good alternative, but ymmv.

Aside from the main story, the event stories (Vignette and Side Story in the story reader site) can be grouped into several different story arcs that work best chronologically, but you can read them in any order really and there's no harm in skipping ones you're not feeling.

vague suggested reading order for the different story arcs below the cut cause this is getting too long lmao

anything not mentioned here is standalone. that, or I just forgot about it lol.

Main story: ch0-3/anime season 1 -> ch4-6/anime season 2 -> ch7-8 -> ch9-12 - A Walk in Dust, Darknights Memoir, and Vigilo are good to read before chapter 9 - What the Firelight Casts is best read after chapter 9

Rhine Lab: Rhine Lab manga -> Mansfield Break -> Dorothy's Vision -> Lone Trail

Kazimierz: Maria Nearl -> Pinus Silvestris -> Near Light -> Obscure Wanderer

Abyssal Hunters: Grani and the Knights' Treasure -> Under Tides -> Stultifera Navis

Laterano: Guide Ahead -> Hortus de Escapismo

Acahualla: The Great Chief Returns -> Ideal City: Endless Carnival

Yan/Sui siblings: Ancient Forge -> Who is Real -> Invitation to Wine -> Where Vernal Winds Will Never Blow -> A Death in Chunfen

Siesta: Heart of Surging Flame -> So Long, Adele

[rueria]

well that's chapter 0 to 2. i'll continue reading later

i recently talked to someone comparing the reunion arc and victoria arc and i feel like most of the things i remember about reunion arc are well, ch5-8. i barely remember much of ch0-4 aside from select parts... same for a lot of the early events too. which reminds me, i should prolly also reread OI before ch5 or smth.

really...heartwarming(?) in a way, to see how far AK writers have come, from this to ch8 to SN to LT.

talking a little about victoria arc tho... i really feel like the 6month gap between chapters just diminishes the experience. with reunion arc, ch0-4 were available on launch, ch5 released shortly after that, then ch6. ch7 for first anni and ch8 for 1.5

meanwhile we've been in victoria for 3.5 years. it isn't as bad when you're read the chapters themselves, but god, it really makes things feel longer and sloggier than they actually are. i hope they could consider a faster update pace for the next arc.

[meeblo]

TBWF Reread Ch0

Here it is, the start of my reread of the The Boy Who Fell, with analysis and an accompanying drawing or sketch each chapter. I'm doing this as a combination of a few things I want to do, namely reread TBWF and get better at art.

Not sure how I want to order this in the future, for now I'll do art first and then analysis.

Chapter 0 is fairly short so I don't have much to say. The striking solid red cover does a great job establishing the tone and prevents readers from getting the wrong impression from the majority of chapter 0 before Ren is pulled off the roof. Even while the basic school plot is happening, the reader wonders what that chapter cover was about and what the deal is with the ominous past tense narration.

It's interesting seeing Yuu's characterization here. You don't learn a ton about him in this one short chapter, but he's definitely different to how his characterization is later solidified in Springtime of Yuuth. Visually different as well, not just in art style which obviously shifted over time but in terms of body language and posing as well.

Ren's characterization is very nicely introduced here. Throughout the chapter, the narration in Ren's voice is going back through the events that transpired and trying to think over what he could have done differently. The nervous self-doubt is mixed with self deprecation, as Ren states that he is "simply bad luck". Ren stating that "Yuu had nothing to do with it" and that it was just his own bad luck shows him solely blaming himself for negative occurrences that are—though not entirely out of his control—decidedly influenced by other factors; this stays true of his character up to late in the series, where he finally starts to accept that the things he was pushed to do are proof that he is a victim too, not that he has committed unforgiveable acts. This isn't to say that Yuu is at fault here; the roof edge was precarious, but an eldritch tendril from hell pulling Ren off is the problem, Ren would not have fallen otherwise. This is just an early indication of a larger part of his character. Ren is also shown to be someone with little to no social connections and a pushover when it comes to someone with more self confidence than him, other aspects of his character that are relevant early on though not as long lived as his self-deprecating blame.

My favorite panel of the chapter is the last one on page twelve. The composition is very striking, with the directly top down view as Ren is being pulled off the roof and is now parallel to the ground facing up at the sky. This wonderfully recontextualizes the very first page, the only color page of the chapter, which is devoted to a full view of the sky. Though not the exact view Ren would see when falling, page two (as the copyright notice is technically page one) definitely conveys a different tone with the context of how the chapter ends. Page twelve is also the best view of Ren in the chapter, providing a full body depiction. This is the moment when you see Ren in the most detail in chapter 0: right as everything goes to hell.

My Art

I was definitely overambitious here for my first time ever drawing a scene in a digital art program. The perspective proved to just be too tricky, so Ren and Yuu's sizes don't quite match up; Ren in particular has a massively wide chest, strange proportions I was not intending. I wanted to try and shade things with screentone to replicate somewhat the look of the comic earlier on, but I didn't actually reference and see how star tended to use screentone so it's not quite the same. Overall though, I think I had a good concept for the piece and that the composition is fine even if the anatomy and proportions are all out of wack. There are things I decided to not go back and fix because I don't want to strive for perfection on every piece; I feel like I'm more likely to improve faster if I keep making new pieces rather than tweaking one until I'm absolutely satisfied with it. Real missed opportunity though to just make the sun the sun, I realized afterwards it would have been really cool to have made it the Hell Kitchen logo.

I gained a lot more familiarity with shortcuts and navigating layers, so it's nice to already have noticeable improvement even just from when I started this drawing to when I finished.

[quirklessidiot]

What kind of modern clothes would she wear?

Forgot to add this awhile ago but a lot of y/n’s clothes lean more onto conservatism and anything that doesn’t hug the body (again not her choice but more on the sexist agenda that apparently you cant do or wear what u want). These are some kimono’s that i got inspo from when i think of y/n when satoru and her got married (it was a traditional wedding in ch0), she get’s out of the house to go meet people like in clan meetings or during the new years event earlier (another traditional event)

while the ones at the bottom are the ones she usually wears when she goes out to human society (like um lets say going to sendai) basically any light or pastel ones and usually very feminine to show off a charm so its more of long skirts and long dresses! Even until the clothes she wears she has it planned goodbye color psychology is actually very helpful folks HAHAHAHA its a good subject

[vanquishedvaliant]

... So it is now pretty much confirmed that Ursine students joined in after the Lungmen chapters? huh... huh. The timeline is making more and more sense..

I think so, but not that long. It’s supposedly when the Rhodes Island rescue team arrived in the Chernobog ruins, so it has to be after Evil Time CH0/1, and somewhere between then and chapters 2 and 4. Perhaps in between. I believe it’s supposed to correspond with the Chernobog Ruins Annihilation.

Kind of hard to line up exactly though, but some time has passed since the Chernobog incident as of the latest story events, so there’s some leeway, and the ursus students haven’t had much other direct impact on the plot so far.

[faulknxr]

analog principle.

closed starter ft. @agtbishop

setting: washington, district of columbia / temporal bureau headquarters

timeframe: november 28, 1999 / april 17, 1996

summary: “Barreling through time, the two agents from the current — the past — take aim at the future through the cold barrel of the gun.”

content warnings: descriptions and depictions of criminal activity, including but not limited to attempted assassination, gun violence, and domestic terrorism. may contain mild body harm.

Two dark-suited agents stand on the rooftop of an apartment building in the heart of K Street, Downtown Washington, D.C., overlooking the bleak November slush that has carpeted the road, which has yet to deter the growing crowd. One of the agents, a tall man, crouches. He opens a large deployment case, and a matte-gray rifle emerges in his hands.

Following is a case of bullets, a standard issue for NATO-allied countries, a 7.62 by 51mm. Barrel rifling of 5 radials, with a turn in 11.2 inches, 6-shot repeating; muzzle velocity reaching up to approximately 2,600 feet per second for a maximum effective range of 800 meters. The agent immediately gets to work, setting up the bipod stand and assembling the M24 SWS bolt-action sniper rifle.

Before starting any inspection, the agent performs a routine checkup to clear the rifle and examine for damages. After field stripping the rifle, he adjusts the rifle’s stock, attaches the optic sights, and checks for its zero. He screws on the suppressor. After completing the clean-up, the weapon is ready for service. The agent concludes by engaging the safety in the rifle’s S position.

(This agent cannot see the irony of his beloved typewriter and his bloody sniper rifle originating from the same manufacturer, E. Remington and Sons.)

A slight wind gathers, breezing in from the southeast. It’ll pick up in about thirty minutes, at fourteen hundred and twenty-two minutes, when a lone gunman will come out onto the roof of the Cartwright Building. He will assassinate the senatorial candidate Vernon F. MacMillan, a Republican, courting the lobbyists on K Street, satirically in guns and automobiles. In the wake of MacMillan’s death, someone else will run as his replacement.

In a future far from now, hours and hours away, the forthcoming Temporal Bureau in [redacted year] will send a missive back in time. The current Temporal Bureau in ‘96 will be asked to put their agents with significant military history to the task. Specifically, the quiet and undetectable to dispose of the gunman. Lethal force is allowed, but the agents are encouraged to be creative if they so wish. Just avoid a SNAFU.

Agent Faulkner returns to his full height of six feet and a half and picks up his binoculars hung around his neck. “How is the crowd, Agent Bishop?” He asks his mission partner — correction, primary mission partner as of six months. It has been a month into their cooperation, and operations have never gone through any bumps. Not that Agent Faulkner has expected anything less from a veteran of the Bureau. Agent Bishop is an operative like Stein, one who has had a hand in the science behind time manipulation. Faulkner doesn’t consider himself any bit of an intellectual, so those with genius leadership will forever have his service.

(Weapons are only useful in talented hands, aren't they?)

“According to my watch, we have T-minus twenty-seven minutes before H-hour,” Faulkner states, “would you like to set up your system? In case our proposed plan requires a backup.”

In the United States military, these specialized marksmen are crew-served with a sniper cell of two. The primary weapon operator, the shooter has a support personnel or protective force, known as a spotter or a flanker. As expressed in the U.S. Army and Marine Corps Table of Organization and Equipment, the shooter does not operate alone. A qualified backup shooter is deployed to ensure mission success.

However, what Agents Bishop and Faulkner have in mind do not follow anti-personnel tactics or policy. Instead of assassinating the lone gunman, they are attempting to indirectly apprehend him. In Faulkner’s pre-mission research, he has dug through the gunman’s biography and has given Agent Bishop his report before their launch.

Malcolm Seward, thirty-three, a member of the extremist group the Brothers of Civic Freedom, properly established in late ‘98.

(All groups of terror would never appropriately call themselves as such. The fear they cause is a part of the cause. For justice, when boiled down to it, is to enact the fear of retribution.)

Seward is a poor and uneducated man let go at an Ohio automobile factory in the spring of ‘97 and radicalized through the scapegoating of immigrant workers. He and other disgruntled, disaffected, and deeply disturbed men will take to arms. He will kill senatorial candidate Vernon F. MacMillan and then cause mass havoc while he tries to escape.

In Faulkner’s report, he also notes MacMillan’s opponents, his replacements. Although the Republican nominee does not win the upcoming election in D.C., there must be a reason as to why the Bureau has chosen to spare MacMillan’s life. Further detailed within the pages of the report are all the locations of U.S. Secret Service members dispatched during the incident. The major players are highlighted. The obstacles delineated. All for an optimized run of events.

Agent Faulkner’s standard is nothing less than perfection in execution. However, what he is suggesting means no wriggle room for error. He and Agent Bishop will wound the gunman before he takes his shot, disorient and non-lethally incapacitate him, purposefully misfire Seward’s modified Armalite AR-50 to trigger a response from Secret Service who will triangulate the location of the bullet, and dissemble and depart before detection.

By setting up Seward and implicating he was betrayed by his group, Faulkner hopes that he will cooperate with the Secret Service, give up the names involved with the Brothers of Civic Freedom, and disintegrate the group without the loss of future lives.

He and Agent Bishop will be able to pull it off.

There is a tickle in his throat again, similar to the tiniest twinge of something dragging his words when he had first declared his plan to her in the privacy of his office. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel quite right. He cannot commend Agent Bishop enough; they work smoothly, having gotten to the point of wordless communication during a mission.

(This Agent does not compute his pain toward silence and will suffer in silence.)

Therefore, Agent Faulkner clears his throat and says, “Would you like the shot or the spot? My system has been adjusted to a comfortable median between our MOA, and the scope is good to go.”

Faulkner lifts the binoculars and gazes at the other building. In less than nineteen minutes, their target will bust through the door, dressed in garish camouflage garb despite the environment. He will hastily set up his gun. And, fueled with rage, he will immediately fire when MacMillan stops in front of a stock exchange building just across their section of K Street.

“We will only have a small window of ten minutes to fire and detain Seward, enact the false assassination attempt, and then a smaller window of two minutes while we both dissemble our sniper rifles and evade Secret Services. This is to say, whoever is the primary shooter will have to communicate with the flanker during dismantling. Throat mics are on as we commence operations. I understand these are high-pressure conditions, so as mentioned, I am volunteering the flank position.” Faulkner explains, binoculars down and resting over his protective vest.

Barreling through time, the two agents from the current — the past — take aim at the future through the cold barrel of the gun.

[jc]

Das Beste aus Twitter, September-Edition

Der Sep­tem­ber war auf­re­gend, pri­vat gese­hen. Des­halb habe ich nicht ganz so viel Zeit auf Twit­ter ver­bracht. Ist trotz­dem ein biss­chen was rum­ge­kom­men, glau­be ich.

Klei­ner tech­ni­scher Hin­weis: Wenn du die Tweets nicht sehen kannst, liegt das dar­an, dass du die ent­spre­chen­den Coo­kies nicht zuge­las­sen hast. Du kannst das durch Klick auf einer der Schalt­flä­chen („Click to accept mar­ke­ting coo­kies …“) nach­ho­len (soweit du einen eini­ger­ma­ßen moder­nen Brow­ser nutzt und nicht noch irgend­wel­che ande­ren Block-Plugins nutzt). Tut mir leid, Daten­schutz, du weißt schon, ich wün­sche es mir auch anders.

Start von #Artemis1 ver­spä­tet sich. Na toll.

— Deut­sche Bahn Per­so­nen­ver­kehr (@DB_Bahn) August 29, 2022

Die­se gespiel­te Trau­er der Kin­der über die elter­li­che Abwe­sen­heit am Abend wird durch das zu schnell hin­ter­her­ge­scho­be­ne „sagt doch mal eher Bescheid, wenn ihr bei­de abends weg seid!“ konterkariert.

— 𝙉𝙞𝙘𝙤 𝙇𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖 (@Nico) August 30, 2022

Der Pos­til­lon berich­te­te bereits am 13. Juli 2022: https://t.co/7HySeBqiBf https://t.co/8hzmiXZ5qD pic​.twit​ter​.com/​M​6​a​C​U​P​4​A1M

— Der Pos­til­lon (@Der_Postillon) Sep­tem­ber 2, 2022

nie­mand, der schon mal eine öffent­li­che Toi­let­te betre­ten hat, kann dar­an glau­ben, dass man mit „Eigen­ver­ant­wor­tung“ irgend­et­was erreicht

— E L H O T Z O (@elhotzo) Sep­tem­ber 5, 2022

„Mum, seit ner Wei­le gehe ich mit dem Nach­barn aus.“ „Schatz, der könn­te locker dein Vater sein!“ „Mama, das Alter ist doch unwich­tig...“ „Ähm, ich glaub du hast mich nicht verstanden.“

— Kanz­leret­te (@Netzgefluester) Novem­ber 18, 2018

Und das Leben so „Nimm das! Und das! Und das hier! Nein, halt, gib das wie­der her.“

— Coo­kie Bez­me­now🇺🇸🎗️🏳️‍🌈 (@TeufelsKueche) March 14, 2015

she’s a 10 but Excel thinks she’s October

— Sophie (@netcapgirl) Sep­tem­ber 12, 2022

id like to sche­du­le an appoint­ment pic​.twit​ter​.com/​l​b​i​B​C​8​E​GE4

— Dont Show Your Cat (@DontShowYourCat) Sep­tem­ber 15, 2022

K1 (mit­ten in der gro­ßen Gemü­se­ab­tei­lung des Super­mark­tes, laut): „PAPA? Darf ich mir ein Gemü­se aus­su­chen? BITTE!„ Gesprä­che ver­stum­men. Kin­der ver­ste­cken sich hin­ter ihren Eltern. Die ers­ten wäh­len die Num­mer des Jugendamtes.

— Mar­kus Gei­ger (@markusgtweets) Sep­tem­ber 16, 2022

Nach der Gastro­sko­pie. Ich: „Dan­ke für das Propo­fol, das gefällt mir.“ Kran­ken­schwes­ter: „Ich set­ze sie auf die Lis­te. Die ist sehr lang.“

— Micha­el Stein (@Pixelkurier) Sep­tem­ber 20, 2022

Twit­ter 2019: Urlaubs­sta­tus Twit­ter 2020: Coro­nasta­tus Twit­ter 2021: Impf­sta­tus Twit­ter 2022: Heiz­sta­tus#Hei­zung #Ener­gie­kri­se

— Land­gans (@Landgans) Sep­tem­ber 17, 2022

love hug pic​.twit​ter​.com/​f​9​B​A​I​0​Q​6Vp

— cat with con­fu­sing auras. (@cat_auras) Sep­tem­ber 21, 2022

Allow me to intro­du­ce to you ... The rival! (Wait for It) pic​.twit​ter​.com/​M​M​B​h​A​R​g​XZi

— Gabrie­le Cor­no (@Gabriele_Corno) Sep­tem­ber 20, 2022

It’s still magic, even if you know how it’s done. pic​.twit​ter​.com/​I​G​N​D​t​F​Z​fh6

— Paul Bron­ks (@SlenderSherbet) Sep­tem­ber 21, 2022

Now that we have a king, the­se sorts of events will all take much lon­ger, sin­ce he can only move along the floor one squa­re at a time. #queens­fu­n­e­ral pic​.twit​ter​.com/​3​M​J​0​F​S​2​ch0

— David Smith (@David_Strathdee) Sep­tem­ber 19, 2022

Man kriegt Kin­der und sagt sehr oft „Hä was“, bis man irgend­wann nicht mal mehr mit der Wim­per zuckt, weil „Kno­chi“ beim Zäh­ne­put­zen zugu­cken muss. pic​.twit​ter​.com/​3​b​0​S​I​T​P​OGl

— Foffy (@FoffyMcFoff) Octo­ber 5, 2021

Die Heb­am­me klin­gelt. K2 öff­net die Tür. „Mama, die Gebär­mut­ter ist da!“

— Syne0815 (@syne0815) Febru­a­ry 9, 2021

K2 erzählt jedem, der es hören (oder auch nicht hören) will, dass ihr Opa schon wie­der ins Gefäng­nis muss. Das ist jetzt nicht falsch, aller­dings darf er als Über­set­zer für die Jus­tiz in der Regel auch wie­der gehen, wenn er möchte.

— MiRA­bel­le (@MamaSuiGeneris) Sep­tem­ber 30, 2022

Und wenn ich am drit­ten Sams­tag in Fol­ge im strö­men­den Regen am Fuß­ball­platz ste­he, fra­ge ich mich: Habe ich nicht genug fürs Syn­chron­schwim­men gekämpft?

— Mela­nie Wyssen-Voß (@Mellcolm) Octo­ber 1, 2022

📨 Nie wieder etwas verpassen?

Neue Bei­trä­ge per E-Mail erhalten

💝 Gern gelesen?

Spen­de was für das Spar­schwein der Kinder 🐽

(Original unter: https://1ppm.de/2022/10/das-beste-aus-twitter-september-2022/)

[kairunatic]

Ok i didn't pay much attention to flet cause he only had a small screen time in CH0 but seeing this art made me think otherwise hahaha i can't wait to see more of him in the summer event since he will have a swimsuit alt

Disney princess

[arcanamkg]

mechanic clarifications!

Hi there, folks!

An applicant came to us with some questions about the mechanics today, and we realized that it seems like... a lot to take in! ARCANA does admittedly have a lot of mechanics, and it can be overwhelming. So, to clarify, here’s a quick rundown about the schedule and mechanics!

TL;DR --

We’re not using every single mechanic in every single chapter, and each chapter will be expected to take anywhere from a few weeks to a month. You will NOT be rushed through anything.

-----

schedule --

ARCANA will run for about six chapters, plus a pregame period. We expect chapters to take anywhere from a few weeks to a month, so they’re not rushed at all.

CH0 (Pregame)

some initial maps are released

pregame event to get to know the roster

free RP period

CH1

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

either murder case OR boss battle case (culprit’s choice)

normal case trial

CH2

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

either murder case OR boss battle case (culprit’s choice)

normal case trial

CH3

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

either murder case OR boss battle case (culprit’s choice)

normal case trial

CH4

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

escape room (takes the place of a case)

NO NORMAL TRIAL

oracle trial 1

CH5

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

ten candles event (takes the place of case)

NO CASE

NO TRIAL

CH6

additional maps released

plot investigation period

free RP period

either murder case OR boss battle case (culprit’s choice)

normal case trial

oracle trial 2

-----

mechanics --

MAPS will be introduced each chapter. There will be a hub, as well as several rotating maps - something new for you to explore every chapter.

FREE RP is your normal roleplay time. Take on the threads you want.

PLOT INVESTIGATION is a very casual thing. This is simply when we allow characters to group together to ask questions and investigate their surroundings, so that you can get more info about the setting / plot. While we won’t say it’s mandatory, it’s highly encouraged - you’ll get more out of the story and might get more Seer / Oracle clues if you ask questions.

CASES are an either / or type of thing. Volunteers can choose whether they want to do a murder case OR a boss battle case. We won’t have both in any given chapter. This is to break up the monotony a little.

CASE TRIALS are exactly what they sound like - a trial about the case. You’ll discuss the case evidence, and any plot investigation notes you have. Find the culprit and find the Seer.

ESCAPE ROOM is a special type of case, and will occur ONLY in chapter four. There will still be a trial to find the Seer. There will also be the first Oracle trial - to get your feet wet, so to speak.

TEN CANDLES will take the place of the chapter five case. There will be NO trial to follow.

ORACLE TRIALS are the mastermind trials; we’ll just have a separate length of time for these, so you do not feel rushed to get everything out all in one small trial period.

-----

Hopefully this helps clarify things for those feeling a little overwhelmed by all the mechanics! Please give us a shout if you have any questions.

[craftygeekgirls]

Have you checked out the Sirius Black Preview day happening now on Facebook? Some of our crocheted cutes will only be available at these events so don't miss out. #hogsmeademakers #hogsmeadweekenders #siriusblackfriday2020 #shopsmall #supportsmallbusiness #supportartists (at Woodcrest, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/CH0-4nQjp8x/?igshid=1sqwkkzqc1rye