#i transcribed the post break up conversation that broke me

[wannaliveattheholidayinn]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Simon Haynes, Zoey Clarke & Simon Haynes Characters: Zoey Clarke, Simon Haynes, (mentioned) Max Richman Additional Tags: Post-Break Up, Reveal, (idk that was the only tag that wasn't identity reveal), anyways zoey reveals the powers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, kinda???? i guess, i transcribed the post break up convo i hope y'all like this, :), Mention of polyamory Summary:

And yeah, she still had weird feelings for Max, but that didn’t take away from the fact she also had very strong feelings for Simon and the fact that it felt so goddamn wrong to call Simon her ex-boyfriend.

title partially from ICU by phoebe bridgers

[yooleestruck]

in which lee rambles about how great writers are

I don’t really know what this is. I don’t know if now is the right time to do this, or a really bad time, or if it makes any sense, but I want to talk about it! I feel like a broken record saying ‘the writing matters most, the writing matters most’ but maybe I need to show what I mean by that? So, here is an attempt. 

I’m sorry not all of these are the same length and not everyone is here, because every time I see that someone is a writer I do try to follow but I don’t always know/remember! Also I am weird about this sort of thing and don’t want to tag people in a monster-long post, so I’m just going to link. I also don’t want to make this a producers vs writers thing, it’s not, it’s just, when I say I notice writer-stuff, an explanation of what, specifically, I mean. 

Writers have a style fingerprint. I’m sure someone with an actual creative writing or English background could describe it all academic-ly, but my ex-chemist ass is just going to call it a fingerprint. 

My first game in Lovestruck was Starship Promise - I love Firefly, I’m a bisexual disaster scientist by education, it fit. But I had been REALLY put off by GIL when it first came out (this was back when they released stories in parts? And the heroine, which I will get to) and though I’d glanced at AFK, I mistrusted it after GIL and Medusa, who was who I was interested in, wasn’t out yet. So I resisted a LONG time.  I finally picked up LS and SP and played it explicitly because a friend said, you need to give this another chance, for a list of specific reasons. 

And when Atlas’s route came out, I read it a stupid number of times. I must have re-read his season 1 & 2 at least eight times apiece (he is still my most read route, despite the fact I have not read his last season because I want to leave the story open-ended)  so when I read Neil Dresner’s route, I recognized the fingerprint. Not only that, when I was reading Jett and the episodes with the paint scene (YOU KNOW THE SCENE) came out, my breath caught with how lovely it was, a particular in-between moment and touch, and even though it wasn’t a phrase I had seen, the style of it, had me re-reading (because it was gorgeous) again and again from the log for like five minutes and I thought, “I bet Melissa wrote this” AND SHE DID. 

Physical touch! (& in-betweens)

Melissa-grey has a particular way of writing about physical touch in very emotional moments that is very real and grounded and ironically the effect is just magical. It creates these so skillful “in between” moments, those little things that aren’t dialogue and aren’t metaphor but SHOW you that this closed off person is cracking for their little ray of sunshine. They are SO subtle and so beautiful, like, the heroine noticing the scent of a pillow, or a softening of an aborted hand movement.  She sets up and executes these moments of physical touch as a conduit for emotional touch with characters who aren’t ready to admit he latter and it’s DELICIOUS. Those little in-betweens are what I live for in story - and it includes all the supporting cast moments, who swell up to make the world feel lived in, and balanced (I loathe love stories where no one else exists! That’s a recipe for disaster, people need networks) I noticed when she stopped writing, and because I missed it, I went and bought the entire Midnight Girl series, as well as Rated (I hope that is flattering and not creepy!) and that style of writing is so unique, that without KNOWING, I picked it up in four separate routes (noticed in Sev’s s1, too!) 

Pacing (& friggen heartache)

Another fingerprint! Ripping your heart out! Arthoure has had me in tears, MULTIPLE TIMES and I get very grouchy about it every time because I am the least sentimental and romantic person that I know (I once MOVED STATES to avoid an ‘I love you’ conversation. I once said ‘yikes’ in response to an ‘I love you’ and I once broke up with someone because I thought he was going to propose. I’m a bitch) but I think it’s because of pacing! I know that producers play a role in that, but that actually makes it more impressive, because making each bit of story feel like it fits precisely the amount of space it needs when you don’t really get a say in how much space that is has got to take a MASSIVE amount of effort. Every little hint, every emotional beat, every character tell, they drop at a consistent build so the emotional payoff is just brutal (in a good, cathartic way?) every time a route makes me cry I wait and see and YEAH ITS ALWAYS ARTHOURE. The sweep and sentiment of Remy’s season 2 is unparalleled. Across Time is gutwrenching, and I actually stopped reading Renzei at one point because I was so emotional over it I had to like, LEGIT TAKE A BREAK to recover. Pacing and heartache. I have to stop and wonder - is it because the routes themselves are so gut-punching? OR is it because she knows how to wring every last emotional drop out of whatever story framework is handed to her? Because, Ezekiel’s villain costume is a bit silly (there I said it, it is) I get the cobra helmet shape in theory but in practice, ooof, but POINT BEING despite being skeptical I’d be able to take his story seriously as a result, I was hiccuping from crying so much (and I am gosh darn adult, in my thirties, with three degrees and a high-stress job at pretty major company. I DON’T CRY EASY)

 Dialogue (& heroines!)

Xekstrin is the gosh damn master of dialogue. Clever, witty banter that doesn’t go where you expect it to, meandering but natural topic changes that are delightful to follow and feel real, and--special shoutout for this, okay--the navigation of viscerally important topics like consent, kink, self-worth, power in relationships, self-sacrifice, and apologies in a way that is not stilted or forced at all (listen, I know Viv & Lyris are the most recent and they are amazing but I remember this first hit me when I was reading Astraeus, and I spent half the route with my jaw on the floor going, oh shit,  oh shit. The communication! The navigation of the complexity of emotion going on, chef’s kiss! Casual isn’t the right word, but, natural, maybe?). I don’t actually take that many screenshots of the app--it’s usually single lines that get me--but when I do, they are almost always conversations from one of her routes, because they’re so damn good, and often so unexpected, and yet always make such perfect sense for the characters involved. Dialogue is SO HARD OKAY. Actually try and transcribe a conversation sometime, it’s nuts how people talk vs how most people write people talking. Xekstrin also writes some of my absolute favorite MCs, and going back to fingerprints, I was reading Lyris s1 and right there in the first tavern scene, as we were following along with the heroine’s thoughts I went, ah, yes, I know who you belong to and I am SO EXCITED. Being able to give the heroine unique thoughts and quirks, to make her genuinely relatable, without overriding the necessary template of the genre dictates, is a skill all of its own. But I love her MCs! There is a beautiful balance of compassion, competence, and dash of bratty, wild, fun mischief. I can actually cheer for them. I can actually get behind them. I WANT the love interest to flop at their feet for who they are, not just because the story says so. And that comes from how the heroine’s thoughts are written, from her phrasing in conversations, how she sees situations, not just a producer saying ‘she is a strong lead who is self conscious about her ears and she’s nervous in the council meeting’ or whatever. I AM REALLY STRUGGLING to articulate this if you can’t tell from how long I have been blathering. Maybe this - the heroine is the same across every route, presumably, yes? Everyone has the same base. I NEVER question, when xekstrin is writing, why the love interest falls in love with her. Side note - I had hard written off GIL after a bad experience with the standalone app. I only read Aurora BECAUSE I learned she wrote it, and I would have SO MISSED OUT otherwise.

A complete aside in which Lee grumbles about heroines and not writers!

(Complete side vent: Often, the heroine is, if not a blank slate, a sort of collection of assigned traits, and she often remains so unless the story demands she become otherwise. Which is fine! I don’t personally, but I know a lot of folks self-insert, and so erring towards that makes sense. Almost all the otome I’ve played were originally written for a Japanese audience. When I played original Voltage games, starting back in 2014, I always had to remind myself - different culture, different culture, different culture, and it was not possible for me to relate to most of the heroines. I still enjoyed the stories, but I rarely cheered for the heroine’s romance, especially in some of the slice of life stories. I understood her, but I rarely wanted her to get with the love interest, I wanted her success to come in other ways! Another game company, Cybird, tried to ‘Americanize’ their heroine to IMO disastrous effect - it was such a stereotype, and made no sense since they didn’t also Americanize the context, so she come across as, frankly, ridiculous. And frankly, Voltage’s GIL heroine REEKED OF THAT. When they first posted her on social media I was legitimately annoyed about it, like could you lean into this more? I think not. So when I talk about being able to relate to and cheer for the heroine, it’s a big deal, because my blatant mistrust of Voltage and their ability to craft a heroine I could tolerate was a BIG factor in how long it took me to give Lovestruck a try. I was willing to tolerate it in translated stories, I was so skeptical of -en only ones.) 

Metaphors (& balance)

literacouture writes beautiful metaphors for connection between humans! I’m really bad at keeping track of who writes what, but I purposefully kept an eye out on tumblr after reading Cal’s route, because there were some lines that were pure poetry, and I wanted to keep an eye out for more. It is HARD to spin metaphors prettily without delving into trite, painful, purple prose cringe territory, and it’s navigated beautifully in Cal’s route. There’s a balance between those spin-out moments and things that are tangible and anchoring and make it feel authentic and unique to the two characters involved, instead of just ‘I am trying to make this sound romantic and this is a romantic phrase so here it is’. That balance is really necessary. You NEED the mundane alongside the metaphor or it doesn’t feel authentic. Also. Trying really hard to write this without throwing any authors or producers under the bus, but...listen. I love Sin with Me. But the world logic (or LACK THEREOF) drives me up a wall. I don’t read Cal because of his character traits or sprite or (sigh) his story. I read him because literacouture writes a beautiful romance.

 So anyway...

There are more! When I am less tired and don’t have meetings, I will try and write them up (Please know there are so many routes I love, and so many things I do recognize across chapters! I don’t even HAVE words for what theivorytowercrumbles accomplished with Helena’s story not to mention how much I adore Cyprin,  SummerLightning’s handling of Onyx’s past relationship was so deftly done when it could have so quickly become ‘milk abuse for plot’ and joidecombat gave Sev a fresh, mischievous energy and navigated the dream/reality line with SUCH skill, and so on and so on.)

I’ve written a lot of reviews. And I try to give nods where I feel they’re due - sometimes, it really is obvious that the whole team’s work came together to makes something great, the world, the plot, the arc, the art, the words, and the music all fit into place in a  well-crafted tour de force. And sometimes one piece or another is lacking, and I’ll admit I’ve left some...less than kind reviews to that end (I try and soften it, because I know there are humans on the other side of everything, but I’ve been harsh more than once with my opinions).  I’ve read routes with plots that made me want to tear my hair out because I DO value consistency and logic to a degree, even if I’m going to accept at face value that, say, space travel is a thing or demons turn to sand when stabbed. 

In the end, these are romance stories. So I will let a lot slide when it comes to plot. What sells a story are the words - not the outline.

And if Voltage doesn’t believe that - just remember that Hamlet existed long, long before Shakespeare wrote it. His was the version that lasted, because the people liked it best. The plot, the world, the characters, they all existed a hundred times over. Even just look at fan translations of manga. Why do people keep translating, even if someone else has? Because the words someone else picked don’t do the story justice. 

I don’t know. I’m talking in circles because I don’t know my own thesis! 

Maybe it’s just - the worlds these stories in are nice. But when I say I’m a fan of something, the premise is like. 10%. The rest is the writing. 

[pynkhues]

Love your analysis on Beth’s playing a role to control Dean—but now I’m curious about your thoughts on the ottoman haha

Oh my gosh, thank you for taking the bait and asking, haha. I’ve been thinking about the ottoman all week, because it felt like such a strange and very specific thing for the writers to bring up again in the context of Dean, Judith and Beth in 3.11 after Beth had made the joke about it to Rio in the bar back in 3.08. And hey! I get a lot of asks about writing and about critical creative theory, and how to develop both those skills, and I always give the advice to start by asking why.

So let’s ask why together, because let me tell you: if something in a story feels strange, and it’s specific, and especially if it’s repeated, it usually means the writers want you to notice. And if they want you to notice, that in turn means it’s either a) an important plot point (which, err, I don’t think the ottoman is, haha, unless somebody stashed some money in the thing), or b) it’s important symbolically (and sometimes both! The flashforwards on Breaking Bad in particular did that really well).

So yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about the ottoman, and these two, seemingly flippant references to it, and ultimately it’s reminded me of a post I never actually wrote (classic Sophie, haha), about Beth and Judith in 2.09 and 3.02, and that kind of made a feedback loop in my head and - -

Look.

Basically I think it’s a symbolic rejection of Beth’s old life / Judith’s life; an important character beat for Beth, and an indicator that she’s more than what she was with Rio, and that she won’t ever be more than that with Dean, but that’s a lot. So.

Let’s break that down a bit.   

Mommy Dearest

While motherhood is a central theme of this show, I am perpetually fascinated by the fact that the only mother to the main characters we really know is Dean’s mother, Judith, something that does actually feel like a deliberate choice.

After all, I could write a whole fresh essay about how it seems that Beth, Annie and Ruby each function as mothers themselves in ways that reflect a multigenerational trauma, and, ergo, a damaged mother in their own childhoods – we learnt in 2.08 after all that Beth and Annie’s mother was bedridden with depression, if nothing else, and Ruby’s mother was widowed when Ruby was just a young teenager (to say nothing of the trauma Ruby must’ve faced herself losing her father at that age) – but actually…that’s as much as we do know about them.

Dean though.

Well. 

We actually know probably more about his family and his history than we do about any other character on the show. We know his parents were John and Judith. We know that his father created Boland Motors and that Dean inherited the business from him. We know that John cheated on Judith throughout his career, and that Judith briefly tried to go back to work herself as a shop girl before feeling forced back home.

We know that Judith sacrificed everything – her career, her autonomy, her body, her happiness – to give Dean the illusion of a perfect family. While Dean might not know all the details himself, he’s certainly picked some of the expectations of that up through his parents, because ultimately, he expects Beth to do the same. And she did! And still does, in many, many ways.

There are a lot of examples of this, but the biggest one, of course, is the arc across 2.07 through to 2.10, which culminates with Dean holding their children ransom at Judith’s house, blackballing Beth into caving, and then flat out not caring about her inner life at all in 2.10.

That entire arc hinges on a lot of things, but one of the most integral conversations within that is the one Beth and Judith have at Emma’s birthday party in 2.09.

A conversation that’s pretty sublimely paralleled in 3.02.

2.09 vs 3.02

Beth and Judith’s conversations at Emma’s birthday party in 2.09 and then in the Boland kitchen in 3.02 are in fact two scenes that are also in conversation with each other. They’re different, but they’re the same. They’re circling the same information, while offering new takes, bantering old jokes that pivot into new jabs. They’re great, and I know they’re nobody who watches this show’s favourite scenes, but I actually love both of them a lot, and I think they’re really important – not just for Beth as a character, but for the show’s themes overall.

The scene in 2.09 falls on the back of Dean having taken the kids, and Beth’s grief arc around that. She only gets the invite to Emma’s birthday party because Dean’s put her in a position where she has to ask for it, and within the first 20 seconds of Beth and Judith exchange while they’re cutting up Emma’s birthday cake, we get this absolute gem:

Beth: [Dean]’s a good dad.

Judith: So was John. Not much of a husband though.

Judith goes on to confirm  that John cheated (with enough women she “stopped counting”), just like she now knows Dean did, but that’s not the point, and it’s not the thrust of the conversation.

The throughline is that men might cheat, and you can leave them, but as a mother, your responsibility is to them. You have to sacrifice your own needs to give them the best life you can.

In both Ruby and Annie’s cases, these are moral sacrifices to create financial gains for those children. Ruby’s in a loving marriage and needs to pay for her daughter’s medication, so that’s all literal with her. For Annie, it’s not quite as literal, but explores a parallel morality by way of her empathy – she feels no moral guilt about robberies, but she feels moral guilt by way of Marion and Nancy, in order to provide for her son.

Beth’s not like them.

She enjoys crime. She empathises with others, but isn’t a bleeding heart like Annie.

All of Beth’s sacrifices are felt personally.

She dims her own light, her own passions, her personality, her needs, her ambitions, to fuel the light of Dean’s, or for their children.  

It’s a conversation she has again with Judith in 3.02.

Judith’s been helping out more since Beth went to work. It leads to a few confrontations across the episode, but the one between the two of them in the kitchen after dinner is pivotal. I could actually transcribe the whole conversation here, because it’s honestly awesome, revealing dialogue, but instead I’m going to break it down into three little blocks.

a) The first in that it tells us how much Dean diminishes and doesn’t think about his mother.

Beth apologises for the fight which Dean ignores, and Judith asks a simple question:

“Did Dean ever tell you that I worked?”

No, Beth replies, simply, effortlessly.

A telling thing for a couple who have been together for over 20 years.

b) It builds to Judith telling Beth about having Dean, and then –

Judith: Everyone’s fawning over this new baby boy, while I’m just…nothing. Empty. Flesh and hormones over ice.

Beth pours them both a drink.

Confides that she had post-partum depression too.

c) But that’s not what Judith is saying. Judith’s not empathising with Beth, she’s telling her to go home.

Beth: Your happiness was important too.

(beat)

Judith: How much does the card shop pay?

Beth: You shouldn’t have quit.

Judith: And you should be home for dinner if you don’t want the kids saying grace…what a lie, huh? That we can have it all.

This scene is sharp, and it’s designed as a narrative weapon against Beth, who is desperately trying to keep her family above water, and actually gives Beth the triple duty in terms of protective responsibilities.

She’s trying to provide for her children, of course, and trying to justify her own purpose outside of motherhood to her mother-in-law, while also concealing from Judith how much Dean has failed their family in every way.

Judith gave up everything for Dean, so what can Beth do except placate her?

The thing is, these two conversations have very, very different results. 

In 2.09, Judith’s conversation with Beth was a key part of Beth ultimately quitting both crime and Rio, and trying to revert back to the woman she was – the woman Judith would always be. 

3.02 had a very different outcome.

Beth didn’t quit.

She doubled down.

Not only that, it directly pivoted into a scene where Beth, Ruby and Annie were criming, fucked a part of it up, and Beth’s instant response is “What would Rio do?” trying him into that overall arc.

The Ottoman

Which brings us, finally, to the ottoman!

It’s an offhand joke in 3.08, right? Beth’s dressed up, and she and Rio are in one of their games of eternal bargaining after she robbed him and he replied by stealing literally everything she owned. She’s trying to earn it back, he says he has something for her, she jokes, “My ottoman?”

It’s not serious. She’s not serious, which already loads the term, but Rio’s response is equally light, equally dismantling.

No.

The thing he has for her is Boomer.

And sure, there’s a lot to unpack in that, but what’s important here is that Rio treated the ottoman as something as frivolous as Beth treated it. They were on the same page – in maybe one of the few moments they were all season.

He knew as well as she did that the ottoman wasn’t something she needed.

The scene in 3.11 is really different.

Beth’s literally dressed down, on the toilet, in the robe she wore when she broke up with Rio in 2.09. Dean barges in, tells her no one will give him money to buy the hot tub place, then instantly breaks into a diatribe about how his mother wants to give them his ottoman.

Beth: We don’t have a couch!

Dean: I told her that.

Beth: Good.

Dean: The ottoman will be here tomorrow.

[Beth sighs]

Dean: I know, I’m sorry.

[beat]

Dean: I just don’t want [Rio] involved again.

The scene serves the purpose of, once again, emasculating Dean – showing that he can’t get out from under his mother’s thumb in the same narrative beat that it tells us as an audience that Dean can’t wriggle out from beneath Rio’s either – at least not as long as he’s with Beth.

In turn, the ottoman as an object holds a lot of narrative weight.

It’s something Beth and Rio can joke about, and something that labours on Beth and Dean’s marriage.

On a deeper level, the ottoman is something that holds a purpose, yes, but needs other items to be complete.

On its own, an ottoman is a joke. With a couch, it’s a living room.

Beth wants the couch – she wants the career – she wants the functionality and purpose of it. She wants to build her home herself, not scrape around for leftovers, nor rely on superficial or frivolous function in the way that she did before she robbed Fine & Frugal.

Beth is a character bursting with purpose, utility, passion. She wants to build this new life, not accessorise it, and Rio knows it, and Dean can never offer it to her, and that matters to her, particularly as she tries to untangle her future from Judith’s.

What I’m getting at is that I think Beth made a very different decision in 3,02 than she did in 2.09. She decided she was going to do this. She was going to be less of an ornament in her own life, and it would take her away from her children but hopefully give her more function to provide for them, and notably for herself too, and I think the narrative symbol of the ottoman is that the domestic goddess / Judith image isn’t her anymore, at least not exclusively. It’s not what she needs, and Rio knows that, and can laugh with her as she makes a joke of it, while Dean knows it, but will never fully support or empower her in disentangling from it. 

[snarkyowl]

More SCP au fun

all from B. includes: Reports, emails, and character interaction

Personal report.

Dr. Matthew Patrick.

This seems to be a replacement of a diary entry. Science always seemed to be the one thing that made sense to me, numbers and figures and things that actually make sense.

I’ve been feeling strange lately. While doing tests, while eating, even when I’m away from work, my mind will be buzzing in a way that I can’t understand. My hands shake, and everything feels far, far away. This, paired with leg spasms, makes this nothing like any mental or physical disorder I’ve ever learned about.

Erratic bouts of mania, dissociation, memory loss, leg twitching, among other things, have trapped me in a rather sticky situation, causing me to be kicked off the 3014 case for reasons I do not remember.

It might be a psychosomatic illness of some sort, but I’m not under too much stress as of late. I’m getting my usual amount of sleep and nutrition, and have even upped the amount of vitamin D supplements I take before work. Bim’s also been helping with the stress somewhat, same with talking to Amy and Henrik more. Even the rare company I have with Mark Fischbach during experiments has been a blessing.

Bim has been pointing out that my hairs been graying. It could be psychosomatic. Hell, it probably is, but I can’t let it show.

Whatever it is, I want to understand it. If I can understand it, I can conquer it. I can get rid of it, and keep my intelligence, and I can do it all by myself.

I have decided to call it SCP-MATT-2. I will write reports on it to track how it works. Whatever this mania, this madness is, I will track it down and kill it at the roots. I will do whatever it takes.

A transcription of a conversation, transcribed by Jim C. (me!)

Jim N: You want us to what?

Marvin: I want you and your brothers help me break into a government facility.

Jim N: What? Why?

Marvin: They stole my fuckin’ mask!

Postman: [Signing] Babe, ask him why the mask is in a government facility- ask him where this facility is, what they do-

Marvin: What’s he doing?

Jim N: My boyfriend asked me to ask you why you want the mask back so badly

Postman: [Signing] That’s not what I asked-.

Marvin: It’s… special to me. My Da gave it to me before he… nevermind. I have a friend with a van and another friend with some… special abilities that can help us out.

Postman: [Signing] Special abilities?

Jim N: What’s his name?

Marvin: His name is Jackie. You might know him as Jackieboy Man.

[Jim C- I mean- I dropped the recorder in shock –due to the fact that Jackieboy Man is as cool as shit– The conversation resumed after I picked it up, but I missed some. Actually, I missed a lot. Oops.]

Postman: [Signing] -So after we get the mask from This ‘foundation’ then what?

Jim N: What happens after we help you get the mask, if that superhero is your ‘friend?’

Marvin: Then I’ll pay you back. Somehow. A bit for you, your brothers,  your mute boyfriend-

Postman: I can speak. I just don’t like to.

Marvin: Oh, uh, sorry-

Postman: It’s ok, man-

Marvin: I… I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since my mask was stolen… so, are you going to help me get it back?

Jim W: Hell to the fuck yeah! It’ll be an adventure!

Postman: [Signing] This… this is a bad idea.

Marvin: Please?

Jim N: Don’t worry, my friend, the Jims are on the case!!!

Postman: [Signing] Oh fuck me in the a-

[End Of Transcript]

A series of notes, posted upon Nate’s fridge.

We’re out of milk. -Houseguest.

Who are you, and why do you want milk? -Nate

Your form has fragile bones. I am attempting to enhance them -Houseguest.

I’ll ask again, who are you? -Nate

SCP-3007? I like your form. It’s attractive. Mind if I stay in it for a while? -Houseguest

Attractive? -Nate

Sexually ;) -Houseguest

What do you mean ‘mind if I stay in your form? -Nate

U want som fuk? -Houseguest

No, just answer the question. -Nate.

;( Fine. I’m just going to make myself look like you. I chose you the night I broke out, might as well look like you. Don’t even think about reporting me. I will seize and consume whatever sanity you have, then do the same to any milk in your fridge before taking your place. I am your worst nightmare. -Houseguest.

If you look so much like me, then why didn’t /you/ go out and get milk yourself? -Nate

Fuck off, maggot food. -Houseguest

Dr. Schneeplestein,

While perusing some military records, I found that a Colonel William [REDACTED] (I’m not redacting any information, his last name was already redacted) shares the blood type, bone structure, and speech patterns as SCP-3014. An attempt to salute SCP-3014 could potentially prove this theory if it refuses to cooperate and talk about it. It might just salute back. I have attached several documents with information on this Colonel. I might be wrong. SCP-3014 could be human after all. Human or not, however, it begs the question. How is it so powerful?

-Dr. Patrick.

Dr. Patrick,

Excuse my language, but what in the fuck? You were kicked off the 3014 assignment. This theory could potentially hold water, but your little stunt with the test tampering makes me think this is a way for you to worm your way back in. I will look at this idea, however.

-Dr. Schneeplstein.

Dr. Schneeplstein,

I’m sorry, I am mistaken. What tampering? I remember performing tests upon SCP-3014, and I also remember getting reassigned. I don’t remember much about SCP-3014, honestly, it’s all a blur. Please, look into the hypothesis as much as you want, but the test could be as simple as a salute. Studying SCP-3014 or not, I am fascinated by where its power could possibly stem from, especially if it started as human.

-Dr. Patrick

Dr. Patrick,

You don’t remember anything? You need to take a break from this. I know Amy has told you this several times, but you need to go get a psychiatric evaluation. I’m worried about you.

-Dr. Schneeplstein.

–Another freaking— update on SCP-3022 Dr. Amy Nelson.

SCP-3022, also known as Chase Brody, has breached containment –for the eleventh fucking time– due to his teleportation. I suggest reclassifying him to safe, and allowing him free roam since he’s pretty nice and doesn’t seem like he’d cause much harm.  due to the fact he does not seem capable of causing much harm.

Requesting Permission to reclassify SCP-3002 as safe the little sweetheart couldn’t hurt a fly

Dr. Nelson,

Permission granted. Just get him out of my office and back into the facility.

-Director Knutsen

A crumpled up piece of paper from the ‘personal journal’ (diary) of Tyler Schied

I’ve been having the same nightmare, over and over and over again. Surrounded by shadows, a Voice whispers to me. Every morning, I wrote down the things he said- well I wrote it in one of Ethan’s journals, and he copied them in a ‘gossip log’ of his. He thinks I’m collecting them for blackmail, which I am, but I also want to see if the things said to me by the voice are right.

The prediction of Amy and Mark being together was correct, and I knew even before I met Mark. The knowledge of Dr. Patrick releasing Google was given by the voice, along with most of the other information in the ‘log’. We did collect some information ourselves, but the Voice would typically tell me a more in-depth version of the knowledge a few hours later.

I have been trying to keep this information from Ethan- I’m not an SCP, I’m not one of those monsters that they have to keep in cells- well, I’m in a cell, but I’m not a monster. That I know for certain. Unfortunately, I’ve begun to notice my hair darkening and my skin becoming paler, more veiny, after first listening to the Voice, but it also could be because we’re underground. Probably. Wherever we are, I’m not getting much sun.

The Voice once told me that the two of us were bound together, and that separating the two of us could be apocalyptic. I don’t know what it is, but it is giving Ethan and I information we can use to get out of here.

All I have to do is listen. Then, we’ll be away from here. Both of us.

Update on SCP-[REDACTED]

Pulled From Archives- Author Lost

SCP-[REDACTED] seemingly breached containment through Dr.[REDACTED], who had been pregnant while observing SCP-[REDACTED] and its effects on biological matter. A few weeks later, Dr. [REDACTED] gave birth, and the baby began to double, and triple, and quadruple. The exact number of these clones are unknown, but there are 5,000 estimated to exist, each with a different skill set but around the same intelligence level- low. The ‘Jims’ as they are called seem to have no plots of any sort. The effort and manpower that would be needed to corral all of these Jims would be tremendous, so I suggest we just do nothing at all.

[iahr-khighi]

Reblog with transcribed panels and notes because when I added them to the post, they messed it up

Note for the context:

[it's a part of a DC/cyberpunk au, not really tied to any canon, just lore and vibes]

Tim and Bernard are ex lovers

They worked for the same corporation and that's where they met.

As for their backgrounds:

- Tim comes from a corporate family, his father was actually a higher up in Arasaka but then he messed something up (big time), which got him dismissed and later killed. Since then the Drake family name is disgraced in many parts of the corporate world

- Bernard doesn't have a corporate background but he always dreamed about pursuing a career in journalism (to be more specific - investigative journalism)

They were very much in love and very happy together.

But then one day Bernard got a chance to go to and interview for a job in media corporation (WNS), his charm and writing talent got noticed so he got accepted.

Everything goes downhill from there.

The media corp wants Bernard to cut ties with Tim because they are tied to Arasaka and can't let someone who has any sort of connection to Drakes work for them. Bernard chose (but also was forced) to listen to them and broke up with Tim.

In the comic, they are having a first (and last) proper conversation since their break up

PAGE 1

Panel 1

B: So much has happened... You have no idea. But how would you know all that, I was never given a chance to explain it... Until now, I guess. I never wanted to lose you. But they made me do it. You know, the corporation. If I knew it would end like this, I would have never gone to that damn interview

Panel 2

*some heavy topics are discussed here so I won't delve into that on everyone's feeds - what you need to know is that Bernard was blackmailed by the corporation he was working for and forced to break all contact with Tim; he also discusses how the industry broke him and the abuse he faced from the people in the position of power*

Panel 3

B: I can't even be happy about the job... I just wanted to write, not to be on tv...

T: Bernard...

PAGE 2

Panel 1

T: No, Bernard. I can't.

Panel 2

T: Lots of things happened in my life as well. I met new people. Started a whole new life. And... I could say that I'm happy now. We... I... There is no going back to that. I feel like we both know it.

Panel 3

B: You're right. I am sorry.

Panel 4

B: After today, we probably won't meet again, right? If so... I... I need to know one thing, Tim.

Panel 5

B: Can you forgive me?

messy late night art post

cyberpunk au timber angst with (almost) no context

(or, as i like to call them, The Victims of Circumstance)

Read the notes below first for additional explanation or just vibe with the comic on its own

This au has been stuck in my brain for over a year now so... bringing it to life by making such little comics feels nice

[robert-emmett]

So Others May Live, a Coronavirus Story: Part Two

As promised by the mysterious author last week, another , manilla envelope wrapped package arrive at our editor’s doorstep yesterday. After taking the necessary precautions to clean the package, as the virus can live on cardboard and paper for quite some time, the editor went about transcribing the included written work. 

As it was written in colored pencil and partially in hieroglyphics, this was no easy feat. 

Part Two

Shortly after they’re seated in the corner booth, Brendan heads to the restroom, with a bag full of cleaning supplies and disinfectants that Terry imagines are carried by only the biggest germaphobes, or the most immaculate serial killers. 

Apart from the old man in the VFW Post hat sitting at the counter, a group of high school children at the other end of the row of booths, and the serving staff, the restaurant is entirely empty. The short order cooks wait behind the counter, watching the road for more customers. When they first arrived, the waitress seemed so excited to see Terry and Brendan, for a moment they both thought she recognized them from somewhere. There’s an anxiety in the air that Terry can’t quite place.

Terry’s hands hover over his phone. In his text conversation with Jess, the last message is from her, asking when she can call next. 

“Whew! This bag came in handy after what I did to that bathroom!” Brendan says, returning to his seat across from Terry.

“Brendan, could you do me a favor? Could you not loudly announce how badly you’ve wrecked every restroom you use? It stopped being funny two days ago,” Terry says.

“Wow! Okay...I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the uncomfortable motel room twin mattress…” Terry says, eyes widening as he chortles to himself.

The waitress approaches with menus. Brendan quickly puts out a hand to stop her.

Slowly, he removes a claw-shaped device from his belt, and unfolds it. The grabber extends to exactly six feet. He pushes it forward, grips onto the menus, and precariously arcs then over to their tables.

“Can’t be too careful!” Brendan says to her, awkwardly seating the claw next to him, and pulling out disinfecting wipes to clean the menus’ surfaces. 

“Sure,” she says, with a forced smile, before checking on the kids at the other end of the restaurant.

“You know, if you wanted a cleaner place, we could’ve gone somewhere other than Waffle House,” Terry says.

“We’re going on a cross country road trip, and there are no Waffle Houses in the North. This was never not going to happen Terry.”

“How do we infect her?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How do we infect Betty White with the Coronavirus?”

“Oh. Well, we’ll just have to find someone who’s sick, and get them close to each other.”

“And what happens if she doesn’t die? That’s the whole point right? She can’t just get sick, she has to die so that everyone can mourn her loss and actually quarantine themselves.”

“We’ll figure that out.”

“Brendan we’re driving across the country, breaking quarantine by the way, to kill a beloved American figure. You should have a more solid plan than ‘we’ll figure it out’.” “She’s 98 years old for God sakes! I’m sure it won’t be that hard. And right now the only planning I’m trying to figure out is which kind of Waffle I want!” Brendan says, perking up as the waitress returns.

This time she stands far away from them on her own.

“I will have this!” Brendan says, pointing to the menu. 

“I can’t see what you’re pointing at because I’m six feet away,” she says.

“Right! I’ll have a pecan waffle and a coffee.”

“And I’ll have a Bacon Chicken Cheese Sandwich,” Terry says.

As Terry slides the menus back to the waitress, he looks up to find Brendan staring at him with a look of horror.

“...what?” Terry asks.

“You came to Waffle House and ordered a sandwich?”

“Yeah. It’s noon.”

“But it’s Waffle House. Would you order a burger at IHOP?”

“Brendan, I can make my own decisions.”

Brendan’s eyes narrow. He leans across the table.

“You haven’t told Jess that you were coming with me on this trip,” he whispers.

“No...I did.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?”

“...I didn’t tell her that we were driving, and that it could take a week and a half.”

“I knew it! I knew something was going on! And why not?” 

“Because I knew she wouldn’t approve.”

“That’s ridiculous! You already had this week off of work before the quarantine. What’s so wrong with me that she doesn’t want us spending a week and a half on the road together?”

The waitress returns, holding a serving tray with their food in one hand.

Brendan gets his claw out, and grabs the tray. It’s heavy. The grabber buckles awkwardly. Water cups on the surface dance and spill. The entire restaurant is almost breathless watching the heavy tray rotate in the air until it arrives at their table.

The water has spilled into both of their food, making both their dishes soggy.

“Hey! I’m getting better! Didn’t drop it this time!” Brendan says.

With the sound of a pneumatic hiss, Brendan takes off his respirator, rolls it to his forehead, and begins to eat. More than once when he leans over to take a bite, the respirator on his forehead bangs into Terry’s glass of water.

“You never answered my question,” Brendan says when he’s almost done with his waffle.

“I think you answered it for me.”

Terry looks away, scanning the restaurant, the wait staff, the kids in the corner, before he takes a sip of his water.

“This tastes weird…” he says.

“We’re in the country Terry, don’t be impolite.”

After they’re done and Brendan pays, Brendan perks up at a sound. 

The kids in their faraway corner booth are flicking rubber bands at each other. Brendan’s eyes look from them, to the old man sitting at the counter. He puts his respirator back on, dramatically throws the napkin on his lap to the floor, and stands.

“Jesus Christ, we can’t do this every time we stop at a - “ Brendan cuts Terry off by making a shushing sound.

He walks, slowly, across the restaurant, towards the kids. By the time he arrives, they are all looking up at him.

“Whoa,” the tallest one says, “you look like a broke - ”

“- Bane. Yes, I know. It looks like you all are enjoying a nice lunch.”

“Sure, I guess…”

“Having a good time now that school’s cancelled, I see. Just out and about with nothing to do.”

The kids exchange glances, not sure of what to say.

“Bro,” the one in shorts chimes in, “are you ok? You look high.”

They chuckle for a moment. 

This is quickly silenced by the sound of Brendan slamming his fist into their table.

“I am high! High on responsibility!” he screams. 

Brendan points to the old man sitting at the counter.

“What would you like him to be wearing?” Brendan asks.

“What?” the tallest one asks.

“What would you like that man to be wearing when they give him an open casket funeral because you’ve killed him WITH THE CORONAVIRUS!?”

Whatever fun the kids thought they were going to have with Brendan is gone. Maybe it’s the mad look in his eyes or the fact that he actually does sound like Bane, but they are afraid.

“We didn’t mean -”

“- didn’t mean what?! Didn’t mean to give a fuck about your fellow man!? I hope to God that one day there is a virus that only infects teenagers, whose symptoms include jizzing your pants and screaming ‘Nancy Reagan!’ everytime you’re near a girl you like! Because when that day comes, I will break quarantine as you have today!”

Silence.

“...who’s Nancy - “

“-GET OUT!” Brendan screams.

They leave in a hurry. A few of them give hushed apologies to the old man on their way out. 

There is a quiet in the Waffle House as there probably never has been before. Everyone watches Brendan as he nods proudly to himself, and approaches the old man.

“Thank you for your service sir. It’s a pleasure to protect you, and all elder Americans,” Brendan says.

The old man nods before speaking.

“Son...I would prefer it if people such as yourself did not speak on my behalf. It’s a bad look for me.”

Brendan isn’t sure how to take this, so he nods deeply in return.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

---

“No mom, I can’t be immunocompromised if I broke a bone as a child…”

Jess digs around the clothes in her room. She knows her gloves are somewhere. 

“But the health website I’m on says that any trauma can hamper your immune system,” her mother says, calling out from her room next door. 

“Mom the Fox News Website is not a health website.”

“That’s not what I’m looking at.”

“You’re not? You’re not on Fox’s website right now mom?”

“No,” her mother says.

There is a long silence, as Jess waits.

“...I’m on the Fox News Youtube Channel.”

“Mom!”

“It’s not a big deal honey! I want to get out and walk around!”

“No mom. You stay in your room while I get groceries.”

Her eyes scan the bed, the floor. Finally, top shelf of her closet, she spots them.

“Ok I’m heading out!” Jess says, pulling on her gloves.

“Remember to buy Bleach.”

Jess puts on her coat, stops herself before she heads down the stairs.

“...is the bleach for cleaning or for drinking, because that website told you it’s a cure?”

Silence.

“...why not both?”

“Mom!”

---

With a rubber gloved hand, Brendan rings the bell at the front desk to the Motel while Terry gets the luggage out of their car. 

Brendan hasn’t fully expressed his financial situation to Terry, but he’s starting to think that maybe Terry has an inkling of how bad it is by the motels Brendan is choosing to pay for. Most of the places they stay in are in tiny, one main street towns just off the highway. This one is called “Falston”. According to the town’s sign near the post office, it has a population of 526, and it’s known as “The Home of It”.

“What do they mean by it?” Terry asks as they pass the roadsign.

Brendan shrugs.

The motel they pull up to has a parking lot cracked open with weeds, goldenrod and dandelion sprouting up in the parking spots. Every time Brendan walks around on the lobby carpet, he hears squelching beneath his boots. 

There is an overwhelming sense of something ominous here.

A man emerges from the backroom, the voice of Sean Hannity screaming the word “China” on TV while a blonde woman across the desk from him nods along, occasionally chiming in by saying “ISIS”.

“Can I help you?” the motel manager asks.

“One room with two twin beds please,” Brendan says.

“Hmmm. The only room we have like that is Room 207,” the motel manager says, with concern.

“That’s...fine. I guess,” Brendan says, not sure what the issue is.

From beneath the desk, the motel manager pulls out a basket. It’s filled with apples, oranges, and incense sticks. He pushes it towards Brendan.

“...thank you! Never gotten a complimentary gift basket at a motel before!” Brendan says.

“Your total for the room is $25.”

“Wow! Good for you for doing Coronavirus specials to drive up your business.”

“What are you talking about? Those have always been our prices.”

“Oh...ok! By the way sir. What precautions are you taking to ensure that the coronavirus isn’t on any of the surfaces in your rooms?”

“Peg wrings out the cleaning towel every once in a while after the rooms are wiped down.”

“Who’s Peg -”

The motel manager is already pointing over Brendan’s shoulder. When Brendan turns, he almost jumps backwards into the check-in desk.

A man covered in tattoos, with long, black and white hair draped over his face, wearing a leather vest without a shirt and ripped, oil covered jeans, stands near a mop and bucket by the lobby exit. Other than everything about him, Brendan finds it unusual that the man has a peg leg. Slowly, painfully, while he stares directly into Brendan’s eyes, the man wrings out a yellowed towel into a bucket filled with murky, brackish water. 

“You thought ‘Peg’ was short for ‘Peggy’ didn’t you? Common mistake,” the motel manager says.

Brendan nods.

“The reason he’s called ‘Peggy’ is because he has a peg leg,” the manager says.

“Yes, I understand.”

---

As with all of the ratty motel rooms they’ve stayed in, Terry waits outside of the room while Brendan, almost literally, does battle with the inside of the room. Terry wanders around the internal courtyard area of the motel where the rooms face inward towards a pool. He walks around their motel room furniture, most of which Brendan has moved onto the lawn so he can fully clean the room.

Terry’s phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime request from Jess.

“Oh I am giving this room a deep clean!” Brendan shouts from inside the motel room, “Getting all up in those nooks and crannies - what’s this...oh wow...Oh god! I think I’ve disturbed something!” 

Brendan screams.

Trying to decide whether or not to answer his phone, Terry’s finger hovers over the screen. Thudding sounds from the motel room suddenly stop.

“Ok. Ok. It’s fine. I don’t know where it’s gone but...oh sweet Jesus! It was behind me the whole time, just waiting! Terry my god, it’s intelligent!”

There’s crashing sounds and roars inside the motel room. Terry returns his phone to his pocket without answering. 

He wanders over to the pool area as the sounds of Brendan’s yells quiet, and Brendan shouts something about a truce or an alliance with whatever he’s been fighting. Surprisingly, the pool is clean, the water crystal clear, shining lattice patterns on the stucco sides of the motel building.  He stares into the water for a long time, well after Brendan has told him that the coast is clear and that he can return to the room. 

A part of him doesn’t want to have to defend Brendan to Jess again. He wants to have his best friend in his life, even if Brendan is “strange”. No matter how many times he's tried to explain it, he feels that Jess doesn’t really understand. The fact that having Brendan as a roommate is the only thing keeping Terry and Jess from moving in is also a sore subject, one that he knows she’s going to bring up again. His friends have mostly moved away and he’s become what expected of an adult in almost every facet of his life. What’s wrong with keeping one last thing in his life that reminds him of what it’s like to be young? Everything in his life is ordered and routine. Brendan isn’t. Brendan is the kind of friend who proposes a cross country road trip, a spontaneous outing in the middle of the work week, investing in Theranos because it sounds cool. Terry doesn’t want that to be cut out of his life. 

It’s been weeks since he and Jess have seen each other, and he can't be sure if the questions he’s having about the relationship are because of the situation, or because of the relationship.

---

Even though it’s over sixty degrees outside, Jess wraps her face in her scarf. Her walk to the Trader Joe’s is short. The line, however, stretches out the door and wraps around the block. No one in line is keeping their distance, and everytime she tries to keep far away from the person ahead of her, someone tries to cut her. So she has to get close. She’s bumped multiple times and brushed up against. When she enters the store, it’s so crowded that she can feel the people behind her breathing on her neck. Even though she knows she’s just being paranoid, she can feel her heartbeat getting faster.

At this point she has her process for shopping down perfectly. When she was young, her mother said that as soon as Jess could learn to write she was keeping lists and making plans. She shops for the things that are far away from the line first. Vegetables, meat, dairy. Then she gets into the line that snakes around all the store aisles, and picks up the rest of what she needs along her way. Olive oil, pasta, rice, canned food. She gets ugly looks as she slows down to pick things up, but she ignores them. An itch develops on her cheek below her right eye, and she spends the entire time in line trying to ignore it. 

It’s only after she’s checked out she realizes that she can’t use Lyft anymore. By the time she’s dragged the groceries to her mom’s townhouse, her hands are stiff and her shoulders are on fire. She enters the house, takes off her outer layer and clothing, puts it by the coat rack in the foyer, goes to the bathroom, washes her hands, takes the groceries upstairs to the kitchen, washes her hands again, and then uses a disinfecting wipe to clean the surfaces of the groceries before putting them away. 

When she steps out into the living room, she notices that the door to her mom’s room is open. Jess comes up to the ajar door and peeks in. Her mother is seated on the bed, back against the headboard, watching TV.

“Mom why is your door open?” Jess asks.

“It must have just come open. By the way, I’m waiting on a package, so if you see one, it’s for me,” her mother says, looking at the TV.

“Mom, did you go outside of your room?”

“...Someone rang the doorbell.”

“You went outside?!”

Her mother does not answer. She changes the channel.

“Mom, you can’t go outside, you might -”

“Jessica I have been alive for 72 years, and I will not be talked to like a child! I will go where I please!”

Her mother’s voice is loud in a way that Jess hasn’t heard in years. As embarrassed as she is to feel it, Jess is a little frightened.

“I’m closing the door…” Jess says.

“Leave it open!”

Jess does not listen. After she pulls the door shut, she goes to the kitchen to begin preparing lunch for her mom. She tries to ignore the sound of the door to her mom’s room reopening. 

After she’s done making lunch, she slides the food tray into her mom’s room. Jess pauses before she leaves, and decides to close the door yet again. As she’s walking to the dining room with her lunch, her mother yells something through the door about Jess being as stubborn as her father. She keeps walking.

Jess eats her sandwich alone in the dining room. She has a sudden urge to either cry or curl into a ball beneath the table. The anxiety that creeps up into her throat is something she hasn’t felt for years, something she thought she’d dealt with. It feels ridiculous to be getting worked up over something like this, but being so isolated is making her feel crazy. She decides that she’ll call Terry. That would make her feel better. Terry is so even that no matter what she feels, he can always calm her down. It’s been a few days, so they should be back from California by now. 

The phone dials a dozen times. No response. 

She takes in a deep breath, puts her phone away, continues eating. Jess doesn’t consider herself to be the kind of person who checks her phone constantly for messages or calls because she wants to feel relevant. If she’s honest with herself, she hates those types of people who are desperate for attention. She considers herself to be above them. But more and more she finds she’s desperate for anything from the outside world. She finds herself counting how long it takes for friends to respond to her texts. It’s been a feeling that's been growing in her, and she hates it. 

Down the hall from where she’s sitting at the table, she can see the door to her mom’s room. The door stays closed. For now.

------

With nothing to do in their motel room and nothing on TV other than college basketball reruns and the news, Terry and Brendan go for a walk. Out here, with nothing but fields and wide open spaces, they can walk around freely. It’s the first time they’ve been able to in days. It’s calming.

Around the other end of the motel’s lot there are some chairs set up at the top of the hill that overlook the highway. Peg is sitting in one of the chairs, smoking. 

“Hey there! You boys wanna come over and chat?” Peg asks.

Brendan realizes that it’s the first time he’s heard Peg speak. The man sounds nothing like he looks, which is to say, “normal”.

He and Terry exchange looks.

“Sure!” Brendan says.

On his belt is a length of measuring tape which he takes out. The chairs next to Peg are about 5 and half feet away, so Brendan carefully moves them an additional six inches further. 

“Pennsylvania?” Peg asks.

“Sorry?” Terry asks.

“Your plates say ‘Pennsylvania’.” 

“Yeah we’re from Pennsylvania.”

“Philadelphia to be more precise,” Brendan says.

“Never been. I’ve traveled a lot but I’ve never been there. Used to be Army, so they had us move around a lot.”

“Army? I would’ve thought you were Navy because of…”

Brendan stops himself.

“Because of what?” Peg asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brendan can see Terry looking at him, shaking his head slightly.

“I would’ve thought you were Navy...because you have a peg leg..” Brendan says.

Peg stares at them. His jaw goes slack, as he leans forward in his chair.

“I have a peg leg?”

Neither Terry nor Brendan know what to say. Peg looks scared, confused.

Finally, he breaks into a laugh.

“God I got you!” he wails.

Both Brendan and Terry laugh, uncomfortable.

“No, no, I lost it cause I got a bad cut on a piece of metal years ago. Didn’t have insurance so I just sort of treated it myself. Bad idea. Ended up having to go to the ER. Damn thing was so infected they had to cut it off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Peg,” Terry says.

“That’s life man! Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Same thing I think about this Chinese virus. I’ve survived worse. Everyone’s making a big deal out of it. But come on. Really? I’m not gonna change the way I live. If I want to go out and have a beer, I’m gonna do it. You know what I mean?”

“Peg, you’re talking to a man in a respirator and a lab coat. We are taking this very seriously,” Brendan says.

With a wave of his hand, Peg dismisses the comment.

“It’s not gonna be a big thing. We’ve been through worse and we’ll be through worse. Sometimes you younger people don’t know that because you don’t have perspective. I do. This will all blow over,” Peg says.

“I hope you’re right,” Terry says.

Out here, without as much light pollution, the stars stick out in the sky. The further they crane their necks back, the more the sky spreads out above them to show the shape of the cosmos.

After a few minutes, Peg gets up and goes to what looks like a shack tucked away behind a copse of trees. Neither of them ask, but Brendan and Terry assume that this is where Peg lives. When he returns, Peg is carrying a small portable radio. He puts it down by his chair and starts playing something.

“- I just believe that we as people have to understand the magnitude of this virus, that it’s scope is far beyond - 

- Hold on a minute *marijuana cough*...we have a word from our sponsors. ‘Are you tired of your workouts being shit and your penis being small? Try Bone Broth by BoneZone. BoneZone, you're not really a man, not yet.’ What were you saying?

...what I was saying was that this virus can replicate in ways we haven’t even conceived - 

-do you think we have aliens at Area 51?”

“I didn’t know they played Joe Rogan’s podcast on the radio!?” Brendan says.

“It would be great if we could listen to something else,” Terry says.

Peg shrugs, turns the dial.

They land on a station playing a Sturgill Simpson song. None of them speak for a while as they watch the stars.

 After they say their goodbyes and Peg stays to finish up a few more cigarettes, Brendan and Terry return to the motel room.

“Hey Brendan.”

“Yeah bud?” Brendan says.

The only time that Brendan does not have his full get up on is right before bed. He still wears a facemask and gloves, but they’re toned down, making him seem human. 

“This has been an interesting trip so far,” Terry says.

“You’re having fun?” Brendan asks.

“I did not say that. I said it’s been ‘interesting’.”

“In a good way I hope?”

Terry thinks about this, then nods. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to places like this. It’s interesting to see how people live,” Terry says.

“Right?! I actually grew up in a town that does not look too dissimilar to this, and let me tell you, it’s a whole different world out here. They are not prepared for what’s coming. It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

Terry nods, looks out the motel window towards the hill where Peg is sitting.

“Yeah...I guess so…”

They both get into their beds. Before Brendan turns off the light, he turns over to face Terry.

“Hey Terry?”

“Yeah Brendan?”

“When the lights go off, make sure they stay off. It doesn’t like to be disturbed as it roams.”

“...what is ‘it’?” Terry asks.

Brendan shakes his head.

“I wish I knew Terry. I wish I knew.”

The lights go off. 

At some point, late in the night, Terry swears that he’s woken by the sound of Brendan whispering to something, saying that it’s an honor that they have been allowed in it’s room, and that it deserves to be treated like the deity it is.

---

The street is narrow, lined with brown and red brick townhomes, small, painted car garages, white blossoms in early bloom. In the very near horizon the Comcast Center and Liberty Place loom.

It’s so quiet. People may break quarantine during the day, but in the very early hours, well before dawn, it’s different. The emptiness feels oppressive, almost scary. It’s as if the virus has already wiped out the city’s population.

He waits at the end of the street. He’s wearing a leather jacket, jeans, boots, gloves and a surgical facemask. His head is shaven. After a deep breath, he takes off the mask and gloves, and puts them in his pocket. It comes up on it’s own, he doesn’t even need to force it. A fit of coughing. He coughs onto his hands, making sure to cover both sides. 

With a quick pace, he walks down the right side of the street. Every door he passes, he touches the doorknob. Every railing that leads up to an entry, he rubs his hands over. Every early package delivery that waits at a doorstep or welcome mat, he makes sure he has his fingerprints all over. When he’s done with the right side of the street, he moves over to the left side, and covers those houses as well. 

Everyday he does it, he gauges how many blocks he can hit. Some days it’s less, some days it’s more. Today he’s feeling ambitious. He walks over to the next block. 

---

Before they leave the motel room in the morning, Brendan carefully arranges the oranges and apples from the gift basket in a pyramid shape by the side table near the window. He lights an incense stick and writes a note beneath the offering:

“To only be consumed by it.”

They pack up their car, and this time, Terry lets Brendan drive. He’s in a good mood today. 

The moment he gets in the passenger seat he opens his phone. Jess has texted him. She says that she tried to FaceTime him, she’s asking where he is. He lies and says that they're on their way back now, that he loves her, and they’ll facetime soon.

“My guess is about a day and half more driving and we’ll be in California bud,” Brendan says.

“Can’t wait,” Terry says, and for the first time, actually meaning it. 

Brendan pulls the car out of their space. As they’re driving across the lot, they see Peg, standing at the end of one of the open corridors, pushing his cleaning cart. Peg waves to them as they leave. The moment they wave back, Peg breaks into a fit of coughing. He almost doubles over. They can both still hear the dry, rattling coughs long after they’ve pulled out of the parking lot. 

Brendan and Terry exchange looks, but say nothing. Neither of them mention this again on the trip. 

---

Before her 8 AM call with her offshore coding team, Jess has to make breakfast for her mom. She barely slept the night before. Being indoors all day has thrown her circadian rhythm off. She feels awful.

After she cracks a couple of eggs and puts them in the pan, she remembers the package her mom was talking about. It might be some of her meds. She goes downstairs to check. 

There’s a box waiting for her on the welcome mat at their front door. It’s not her mom’s meds. It’s an Amazon package, probably some books by Bill O'Reilly or another writer that would be just as equally annoying to Jess. She picks up the package. Before she goes back inside she takes a moment to get a breath of fresh air, look up at the white blossom trees on her narrow street and the looming towers that make her feel like she’s right in the middle of the city. 

After she goes back inside, she’s going to wash her hands in the guest bathroom by the foyer, but she’s interrupted when she hears her mom calling her from upstairs. Something about a smell. 

“Oh shit,” Jess says.

Jess drops the package and runs up to the kitchen to find the eggs just about to burn. She turns down the stovetop. After making toast, she puts together a plate for her mom, opens the door to her mom’s room, and slides the tray in. Her mom does not look in Jess’ direction when she enters. They haven’t spoken since the fight yesterday.

Jess then has to make breakfast for herself. She throws a plate of eggs together without toast and makes it to her computer just in time to get on a conference call. It’s not until much later in the day that she remembers to wash her hands, well after it’s too late. 

End of Part Two

[mittensmcedgelord]

The Truth Will Set You Free

The truth will set you free, but lieu of truth a different kind of lie can suffice.

Exhausted of vague plans and repetitious assurance, Mim seeks out Mikhaila in the hopes of getting answers no one else will give him. What he finds are more questions, ones with far sharper edges than he bargained for.

(This is so long. I am so sorry. This update has been sitting in my documents, waiting for @wandering-chronicler-blog to edit it for the 25th time before I posted. And somehow it kept getting longer. )

You’re a good human.

 You’re a good person.

 You’re as good as Morgan.

 You’re better than Morgan.

 It’s not that I’m not flattered, but I’m starting to think everyone is reading off of the same script. Igwe. Sho. Alex. Especially Alex. I’ve had that conversation with my brother so many times it’s starting to feel like part of the old sim. I used to think it was guilt over Morgan, but it isn’t just him. Almost everyone has the same thing to say to me. I haven’t spoken to Elazar yet, not privately, but the group emails and security memos were enough. It’s strange, to say the least. I haven’t been out of containment long enough to make that much of an impression, unless they’re all going by my responses in the sim. The Morgan I was in there probably deserved all the compliments I get. There are too many holes in that theory, though.

My sense of self-preservation is screaming at me. It picks threads out of the weave and tries to tie them together into something more solid. There was something in Alex’s office that hid his thoughts and brought me crashing down into myself. I can’t blame him. I’m a Typhon. I’m wearing Morgan’s skin, but I know what I am. He has every right to be afraid after what happened on Talos. It’s a reasonable, human response to a potential threat and I could ignore it if it didn’t feel like déjà vu. I’ve had that disassociated, claustrophobic feeling before. I didn’t tell Alex. If he’s going to keep things from me, I might as well return the favor. From now on, any new memories or feelings that surface are mine alone.

 I’m halfway down the shaft to the cafeteria when it finally hits me what that feeling was: The psychoscope. I put it on once. Only once. It was like having my thoughts wrung out of me until there was nothing left. I remember shaking, fumbling at the clasps to get it off. I blacked out at some point. That isn’t in any of my notes, though. All of the emails I found about psychoscopes are just Alex telling the people in the lab that I don’t need to wear one when I come down. I watch the lights, consider just hitting the button to take me back up to my room, and let it keep going.

 I’m walking out of the grav shaft mechanically. I’ve fallen into a routine again, even without the sim. At least it’s a routine of my own design. Every midnight I come down for udon and a can of coffee. I sit by myself near the vending machines. I listen to the other voices and absorb them. I know a lot of movies now. I know how to use chopsticks. I breathe in the collective consciousness of Talos 2 as if it could sustain me. Typhon feed on thought. In a way, I still do. I’m learning how to blend in. It’s a type of social mimesis, when you get down to it. I pick an employee at random, a young woman in a researcher’s uniform, and copy her affect. Before long I’m at ease, moving my fingers to a song I’ve never heard and humming. I look up from my noodles every few minutes, a second after she does, and stare expectantly at the nearly empty cafeteria. I’m not sure if I’m actually expecting someone, but I see Mikhaila out of the corner of my eye and something clicks.

 I need to talk to Mikhaila. She might not tell me everything, but she’ll tell me a different lie than the others. Maybe between them I can find the truth. I wish I could read her. I want to know why she tries so hard to look through me. Is it Morgan? Alex? Was she there when they put me together and did she see something they didn’t?

 “Doctor Yu,” she greets me as I sit down. One of the employees next to her, another researcher, looks away before leaving the table. His eyes never meet mine. I hear whispers. The people at the table are gone. Mikhaila continues to watch me. I’m shaking when I set the notebook down. My suit ripples along my hands like water and she’s polite enough not to say anything, though I see her clench her jaw. The weave is filled with her coworkers’ thoughts, hazy memories of a newscast about Talos 1 and the evacuation of earth to the martian colonies.

 “Still putting off your doctors’ appointments?” Her tone is accusatory. It’s a welcome change, though I wish it was from anyone but her. I don’t have to answer. I guess the look of shame is enough. Her lips tighten together and the corners of her mouth drop. Her eyes are soft. “You can’t keep doing that. You know there is a very good reason they schedule those.”

 She catches herself and bites her lip. Anger and embarrassment blossom across her face before fading. I wonder who she’s wearing. Whose skin got pulled on over Mikhaila Ilyushin’s? Her eyes move to my hand and I scramble to make the fingers divide into individual digits again.

 “And this is why you go to your appointments.” She drums her fingers on the table, spinning strands of gold thread where her emotions leave her. I touch one and pull it towards me, only for it to break. Mikhaila is staring at me, mouth open and a million silent words spilling out. I pick up my can of tea to make sure my reflection is still human. It is. When I look back up her jaw is set. “How many psi hypo do you use per day? On top of the water filters you have. Do you know?”

 “One or two. It depends on what I’m doing. More interaction with the crew means more hypo.”

 “You need them to be human.” It sounds like it’s a question, but her expression says she doesn’t want me to answer. She knows. I do. I run out, I stop being Morgan. I stop being Morgan, I become something else. Something that is going to have to actually feed instead of just drink a pitcher of tap water infused with psychotropic particles every few hours. I try to maintain eye contact, but her gaze is piercing. “You know what those hypo are, don’t you?”

 “I know. And I appreciate the irony of consuming typhon material in order to stay human.” I attempt a smile. It’s too wide. Too many teeth. I can feel how wrong my mouth is. Her fear moves beneath the surface of her face and I stop smiling. I come apart near her. I think Morgan did too, but in a different way. My hands move through the table. I don’t feel the bench under me anymore. Something whispers inside my head. I used to know the language it speaks, but now it’s nothing but a scratching noise and empty light. I nearly jump out of my seat when something slams against the table next to my hand. The can of green tea is crumpled in Mikhaila’s fist. The fear is gone. Anger. This one is anger.

 “You have no idea what you’re doing here, do you?”

 “Talking to you.” I run my tongue across my teeth, feel them smooth out and arrange themselves in order. My body is heavy, more solid than it’s been in days. I don’t like it. It has to stay this way until I leave, though.

 “On Talos,” she amends. “You have no idea what you’re doing on Talos.”

 “Alex said I was some kind of bridge between species. We’re working the details out.” I smile properly this time. It doesn't help.

 “When did you learn to write?” The question comes out of nowhere. She must have seen me taking notes on what she said. When I don’t answer the first time, she repeats herself. This time her words are bright, sharp. They burrow under my skin and give off sparks. I stare down at the notebook in front of me, the endless list of things that I think I know alternately underlined or crossed out. “You can’t use chopsticks, but you have Morgan’s handwriting. Do you know why?”

 “The cell lines?” Unsure. I sound unsure. She has a point and I don’t like it. I have to fight to keep myself as me. I imagine Morgan. I replay his voice in my head, telling Alex about growing a pair and committing. I replay his sense of self-assuredness and resignation. I take a deep breath as I straighten my posture. “Phantom memories aren’t the best studied side effect of Typhon modification, but they’re known to happen. It’s likely I only got a fraction of what Morgan knew from the experiment, the things that were important to him.”

 “You can’t fake his arrogance,” she snorts. “Morgan was arrogant because he was smart, because he worked hard to use that intelligence. And because he wouldn’t understand humility even if you installed it in him with a mod.”

 My thoughts are screaming. They warp everything in my vision, pulling away at the threads I try to carefully gather around me. My glove stops existing. She notices it, but her expression remains the same.

 “Ask Alex why you know how to write. And while you’re at it, ask him why he goes along with your insane desire to live in a simulation still.”

 “I don’t.” I hear the hum of the coral and, somewhere deep inside it, I hear my own voice echoed back to me. It sounds different than Morgan’s. Arrogance, but without the barbs. “I turned it off. Broke the clock. Reset my transcribe to sync with the station’s calendar. I spent too much of my life in a simulation already.”

 She smiles, but it isn’t kind. I’m getting the idea that Igwe’s Emotional Intelligence flashcards are full of lies. Every time I’ve seen someone smile, it hasn’t been happy. I don’t copy her. I feel my jaw tighten and my eyes lose focus. There’s empty space around her where the weave should be, those intangible threads that haven’t been made into solid coral yet. I can feel myself pulsing through them, my thoughts an invisible heartbeat for something much bigger than I am. And I can feel the threads tangle together. I exhale. She’s still smiling. I’ve decided I don’t like that expression. Humans have it all wrong. Animals bare their teeth to display a threat, but here they are thinking that it means friendship. The cards are lies.

 “What did I do to you?” There’s an echo in my voice, a crackle of static electricity. I shut my mouth and hope it was too quiet for the rest of the cafeteria to hear. It sounded like a phantom’s speech.

 “You? Nothing. Not this time. Not this you.” She regards me with the same rigid smile, the same bared teeth. Just once, the weave pulses around her and I hear the darkness move. “But maybe you should ask about the other ‘Mim’.”

 I want her to be lying. I want to tell her that she’s lying, that I know she’s saying this to hurt me because of some unfinished business with Morgan, but I remember the dreams.

 “You are so much like him, you know that? Maybe you can’t fake his mannerisms, but he’s still part of you.” She scoffs and glances at the table where Sho is. I should be over there with her, splitting a plate of eel rolls and talking about the latest batch of Fatal Fortress recordings I found. My feet won’t move, no matter how much I tell them to. Mikhaila turns back to me. “So quick to believe you’re a savior, that ends justify means. I’m sure they’ve told you otherwise. They always do. But how quickly did you believe them when they said you were the only one, the last great hope of humanity?”

 “Did anything I did in that simulation mean anything, anything at all to you?”

 There’s a pause. The world hums, gets desaturated. All I can hear is the first time I saw her outside of the sim and the way her voice sounded when she called me ‘Dr. Yu’. A thread breaks somewhere. My vision refocuses and, even though I know I haven’t shifted, I see the way I used to. There’s too many angles riding too close to each other. Starbursts of thought radiate around her, none of them hers. When she finally speaks, it’s deafening.

 “It meant that we tailored the testing variables right and adjusted your composition accordingly. You were a very receptive test subject.”

 “If you don’t like having a…” I stumble, my thoughts flicker away into the coral. I breathe in deep through my mouth and focus on Morgan. “If you’re so set against a Typhon based replica, why not just use an operator like April?”

 She doesn’t reply. Her eyes widen slightly and any emotion on her face disappears. As soon as I open my mouth again, she gets up and leaves. Her half finished dinner is left behind, along with her TranScribe. I shouldn’t have mentioned April. What did I think she’d do, sit back down and tell me a tragic story about a rogue operator? No. That wouldn’t be reasonable. I know she won’t tell me and that’s why I don’t follow her. I know enough to know that.

 I pick one of the blini from her tray as I wait for my body to forget Mikhaila’s presence. The threads are still moving, straining under the weight of my own scattered thoughts. I knew there were others. She told me nothing I didn’t know. So why does it bother me?

 I pick up the box of blini and stare at it for a while. I never learned Russian. I couldn’t have, not in the few weeks I’ve been awake. The Cyrillic letters come to me naturally. The names of the ingredients, the information, the slogan, and the Russian regalia are all familiar. I have never eaten blini. I never learned Russian.

 I don’t remember learning how to write either.