#its my year anniversary at work today and its making me spiral unfortunately | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beenwaytoolongatsea · 5 years ago

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🕺💃💕🎶🤘😎🎶💕

Wise words from Dave Grohl of Nirvana and Foo Fighters:

"Where were you planning to be on the Fourth of July this year? Backyard barbecue with your crankiest relatives, fighting over who gets to light the illegal fireworks that your derelict cousin smuggled in from South Carolina? Or maybe out on the Chesapeake Bay, arguing about the amount of mayonnaise in the crab cakes while drinking warm National Bohemian beer? Better yet, tubing down the Shenandoah with a soggy hot dog while blasting Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band”?

I know exactly where I was supposed to be: FedExField, outside Washington, D.C., with my band Foo Fighters and roughly 80,000 of our closest friends. We were going to be celebrating the 25th anniversary of our debut album. A red, white, and blue keg party for the ages, it was primed to be an explosive affair shared by throngs of my sunburned hometown brothers and sisters, singing along to more than a quarter century of Foo.

Well, things have changed.

Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has reduced today’s live music to unflattering little windows that look like doorbell security footage and sound like Neil Armstrong’s distorted transmissions from the moon, so stuttered and compressed. It’s enough to make Max Headroom seem lifelike. Don’t get me wrong, I can deal with the monotony and limited cuisine of quarantine (my lasagna game is on point!), and I know that those of us who don’t have to work in hospitals or deliver packages are the lucky ones, but still, I’m hungry for a big old plate of sweaty, ear-shredding, live rock and roll, ASAP. The kind that makes your heart race, your body move, and your soul stir with passion.

There is nothing like the energy and atmosphere of live music. It is the most life-affirming experience, to see your favorite performer onstage, in the flesh, rather than as a one-dimensional image glowing in your lap as you spiral down a midnight YouTube wormhole. Even our most beloved superheroes become human in person. Imagine being at Wembley Stadium in 1985 as Freddie Mercury walked onstage for the Live Aid benefit concert. Forever regarded as one of the most triumphant live performances of all time (clocking in at a mere 22 minutes) Freddie and Queen somehow managed to remind us that behind every rock god is someone who puts on their studded arm bracelet, absurdly tight white tank, and stonewashed jeans one pant leg at a time just like the rest of us. But, it wasn’t necessarily Queen’s musical magic that made history that day. It was Freddie's connection with the audience that transformed that dilapidated soccer stadium into a sonic cathedral. In broad daylight, he majestically made 72,000 people his instrument, joining them in harmonious unison.

As a lifelong concertgoer, I know this feeling well. I myself have been pressed against the cold front rail of an arena rock show. I have air-drummed along to my favorite songs in the rafters, and been crushed in the crowd, dancing to dangerous decibel levels while lost in the rhythm. I’ve been lifted and carried to the stage by total strangers for a glorious swan dive back into their sweaty embrace. Arm in arm, I have sung at the top of my lungs with people I may never see again. All to celebrate and share the tangible, communal power of music.

When you take away the pyrotechnics and confetti of an arena rock concert, what are you left with? Just … people? I will never forget the night I witnessed U2 perform at what used to be called the MCI Center in D.C. This was their 2001 Elevation Tour, a massive production. I waited for the lights to go out so that I could lose myself in a magnificent, state-of-the-art rock show. To my surprise, the band walked onstage without any introduction, house lights fully illuminated, and kicked into the first song beneath their harsh, fluorescent glow, without the usual barrage of lasers and LED screens we’ve all become accustomed to. The brilliant move stunned the audience and began an unforgettable concert on a very raw, personal note. This was no accident, mind you. It was a lesson in intimacy. Without all the strobes and lasers, the room shrank to the size of a dirty nightclub at last call, every blemish in plain view. And with that simple gesture, we were reminded that we are all indeed just people. People that need to connect with one another.

One night, before a Foo Fighters show in Vancouver, my tour manager alerted me that the “Boss” himself, Bruce Springsteen, was in attendance (cue paralyzing nerves). Frozen with fear, I wondered how I could possibly perform in front of this legendary showman, famous for his epic concerts that span four hours. I surely could never live up to his lofty expectations! It turns out he was there to see the opening band (cue devastating humiliation), so I was off the hook. But we chatted briefly before the gig, and I was again reminded of not only the human being behind every superhero, but also the reason millions of people identify with him: He is real. Three hours later, as I sat on a locker-room bench recovering from the show, drenched in my own sweat, there was a knock at the door. Bruce wanted to say hello. Having actually stayed for our set (cue jaw crashing to the floor), he very generously thanked us and commented on our performance, specifically the rapport we seem to have with our audience. Something he obviously understood very well. When asked where he watched the show from, he said that he’d stood in the crowd, just like everyone else. Of course he did. He was searching for that connection too.

A few days later, I received a letter from Bruce, handwritten on hotel stationery, that explained this very clearly. “When you look out at the audience,” he wrote, “you should see yourself in them, just as they should see themselves in you.”

Not to brag, but I think I’ve had the best seat in the house for 25 years. Because I do see you. I see you pressed against the cold front rails. I see you air-drumming along to your favorite songs in the distant rafters. I see you lifted above the crowd and carried to the stage for a glorious swan dive back into its sweaty embrace. I see your homemade signs and your vintage T-shirts. I hear your laughter and your screams and I see your tears. I have seen you yawn (yeah, you), and I’ve watched you pass out drunk in your seat. I've seen you in hurricane-force winds, in 100-degree heat, in subzero temperatures. I have even seen some of you grow older and become parents, now with your children's Day-Glo protective headphones bouncing on your shoulders. And each night when I tell our lighting engineer to “Light ’em up!,” I do so because I need that room to shrink, and to join with you as one under the harsh, fluorescent glow.

In today’s world of fear and unease and social distancing, it's hard to imagine sharing experiences like these ever again. I don’t know when it will be safe to return to singing arm in arm at the top of our lungs, hearts racing, bodies moving, souls bursting with life. But I do know that we will do it again, because we have to. It’s not a choice. We’re human. We need moments that reassure us that we are not alone. That we are understood. That we are imperfect. And, most important, that we need each other. I have shared my music, my words, my life with the people who come to our shows. And they have shared their voices with me. Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night. And one that we will surely build again."

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world-without-authors · 4 years ago

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15th anniversary of our madness!

Yes, you read that right. Today, April 13th 2021, marks the 15th anniversary of when I was crazy enough to bring out the idea of a crazy roundrobin crossover on the Moony Witcher Forum.

When on that day, April 13th 2006, I made a post with the general idea for Mai Dire Fine I never thought I would be starting a saga that would be still ongoing 15 years later.

But here we are, with me and Aelit still working on its latest sequel of sorts, The World without Authors. Compared to back then, our writing skills improved a lot (Mai Dire Fine was not a good story) and, while there’s always more we can still learn, we are proud of our improvement.

So, where are we? We published recently the 10th chapter of The World without Authors, which is currently around 69.000 words – we’re already closing in towards Blank Sprite‘s length (77.000) and that’s just part of the first arc, Scattered Shards. Adding in the previous stories, we’re past 320.000 already.

Even with The World without Authors‘s “all-stars” cast, we still only have a total of five characters from Mai Dire Fine, only three of which (Sergio, Nikki and Kathleen) were part of the main cast as the other two (Faith and Virgilia) were introduced towards the end… well, technically there’s a sixth character, the mysterious “Professor”, but his identity is spoilers as of now. I believe there might be enough hints between The World without Authors and my older behind the scenes post for you to be able to guess his identity already, but the reveal is meant to be a nasty surprise that will set up the second and third arcs, Venezia Immortale and The Dove and the Crow. Yes, we’re planning (well… sort of planning) that far!

But enough of that, let’s head to the celebration specials!

Unfortunately, the Q&A session was a complete failure. We didn’t receive any question by the deadline, but the mailbox is still open! Feel free to ask us anything, we’ll make a Q&A post as soon as the question come in, and we’ll keep it updated every time new questions arrive.

We still have a few more goodies, though. The first is a bit of an experiment on my part, I took one of my early PPC missions, A Very Awkward Exorcism, alongside a couple scenes from the interlude set chronologically just before it, Planes, Guns, Clones and other usual PPC Stuff, and gave them a complete makeover into a comic. Yes, I made what I believe might be the first full PPC mission in comic form! You can download it in PDF format (Trigger warning for rape, contains some partial nudity) here. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Another thing I made is a special anniversary illustration, in which our characters, and a few we borrowed, from all over our works enjoy some partying. With all the things happening due to the Unravel they deserve some off time, don’t you think?

Let’s start with the back row, left to right.

First one is Ai Minase, from Koikatu. She has the distinction of being the “adopted canon character” of The World Without Authors – while we have other canons working with Strike Dove, she’s the only one who became part of the main cast on a deep level. While Hayate Yagami, her crew, the Razgriz and Long Caster also work with my main cast, they’re more of external allies. Her dress looks a bit like a tablecloth, but that’s a canon-ish outfit of hers: while she never wears it in her route, it is in her character card in the slot that gets used during dates in normal gameplay.

Next to her we have Keiko Caterina Turbo, Sergio and Nikki’s daughter with her own PPC spinoff, Wings of Canon: Second Strike. She is also the only survivor of the Second Strike cast, having lost Shiro and Saki in the Unravel, and as such the role of representative of her series is all on her. She also doesn’t like skirts, at all, why do you ask?

Then we have Hajime Irene Turbo, Keiko’s half sister/alternate incarnation from the timeline in which Sergio got together with Ami instead. She’s an original The World without Authors character, but still related to characters from my previous works. Fun fact: Keiko and Hajome’s birthday, April 13, in indeed based on the day and month we began Mai Dire Fine. If we consider HQ Standard Time (the PPC’s timeline) to coincide with the real world, they turned two years old today.

Next is Hajime’s mother, Ami Tanegashima. Mentioned first in I don’t like luxury cars to pave her way for her posthumous role in Blank Sprite, we can consider her the representative of my Blank Sprite original characters here. She’s now stuck with the absurdity of not only having a daughter she never thought she could have, but also of said daughter being currently only four years younger than her. Considering Ami’s small frame, there will likely be plenty of times in which she’s mistaken for Hajime’s younger sister… also, now that she’s 20 years old and of drinking age in Japan, she discovered she actually likes alcohol. And can deal with it surprisingly well despite her light build (as opposed to Sergio and Nikki who both can’t hold their liquor)… yes, she had more than a few glasses here. Luckily, she doesn’t drink very often.

Toasting with her is Aya Kibokami, the “fragment” that split off Madoka Kaname at the end of Blank Sprite. As such, she’s here as a representative of canon characters of Blank Sprite. Due to a certain scene of Madoka Magica, in which Madoka expresses a desire to go out drinking with her mother (who really enjoys drinking) once old enough, there is fanon of her eventually developing the same taste for liquor. While we’ll likely never know if the canon Madoka would, Aya is the other heavy drinker of my cast and here is depicted finally having a toast (or two… or a few…) with Ami to celebrate the success of their “Save Sergio and Homura from their spirals of self-destruction by making them defeat Vera and save Madoka together” master plan.

And, of course, fussing over Aya’s excessive drinking we have Kuroko Tenshimi, AKA the “split fragment” of Homura Akemi retaining the memories of the Blank Sprite Incident. While her and Aya haven’t featured yet, they did make it to the Unraveled World. However, I don’t plan on making them part of the main cast yet (in fact, I’m planning to reduce the amount of characters we’re following as the cast is getting too big), and I’m actually considering having them star in their own The World without Authors spinoff, but nothing set in stone yet. Oh, and fun fact about them, they did already have a bit of starring of their own as they were the hosts of the Third PPC HQ Hunger Games. How Nutmeg TV managed to get hold of them for that will forever remain a mistery.

Next, a character very few of you are likely to be familiar with. Nina De Nobili, the title character of the Nina, the child of the Sixth Moon book series. Acting as a representative of the Mai Dire Fine canon characters here, she’s been chosen since, as I said in the past, we started Mai Dire Fine on her author’s forum, and even received encouragement from her to keep writing at one point… despite the fact we were basically butchering her work. However, everyone has to begin somewhere, and Moony Witcher (real name Roberta Rizzo) knew that, so I’m glad she didn’t shoot down our hopes – I might not be here now with a 300.000+ words saga under my belt otherwise. Nina is not planned to reappear in the Unraveled Worlds, as she’s from a series intended for children that wouldn’t mesh well with our current plots.

The little guy sitting over the counter doing karaoke is Conan Edogawa from Detective Conan (anyone insisting on calling the series Case Closed can leave now). He’s again a canon character featured in Mai Dire Fine, but there are plans to involve him and some other characters of his series in the third arc. Also, as you can guess by Nina’s reaction, he’s a terrible, terrible singer.

Leaning on the couch we have Hiro Shirogane, our Gundam pilot. He’s a fully original character created for The World without Authors whose original concept was made by Aelit, although I was the one developing his backstory and relationship with Miksa. I admit that for a while we weren’t too sure about what to do with him, but I hope his current subplot will be enjoyable.

And now, the front row. Leftmost is Hanami, Nikki’s alternate from Kathleen’s alternate timeline (and as such a The World without Authors original). She’s been adopted by the Kinomotos (as she’s also an alternate of Sakura) and is now living with them. Something that debuted in this illustration are the glasses: those are her timeline’s Sergio, and she doesn’t actually have a need for eyesight correction. She had the lenses replaced with fake ones, and wears them due to them being one of the few things she has left of him, though they’re also a good way to differentiate herself from her “sisters”.

Then we have Sakura Kinomoto from Cardcaptor Sakura herself. If we go by name only, her first appearance in my works would be Mai Dire Fine, but that particular Sakura ended up becoming Nikki so it is safe to assume her first appearance was actually in the first mission of Wings of Canon, my main PPC spinoff, titled Don’t Forget The Canon, and she has been confirmed alive in the Unraveled World, in which she is now legally Nikki and Hanami’s younger sister. As in the comic I posted above, her hair is actually lighter than Nikki or Hanami’s as most CCS media have her with a light shade, but Nikki and Hanami both derive from the 1998 anime that had a darker brown as Sakura’s hair color.

Next to Sakura is Syaoran Li from the same series, who instead did appear as himself in Mai Dire Fine. He was badly OOC though, and if the The World without Authors incarnation of him does remember Sergio, things might a bit tense between them at first… though, hopefully, just until he gets explained that no, the “Sakura” Sergio was in love with was actualy Nikki and there’s no need to be jealous.

Then we get to Kathleen Leone. She is not the Mai Dire Fine incarnation of the character, but an alternate made for The World without Authors. Despite that, she started considering the main timeline Sergio as her own brother even before he had to kill her timeline’s, due to the latter’s descent into madness. We haven’t been able to give her much space until now, due to the action being mostly in the air, but that will change soon. I won’t spoiler anything, but Chapter 11 will be a big turning point in the story.

Of course, holding arms with her is Faith Leone, Everything I said about Kathleen applies about her too, as they’ve arrived in the Unraveled World together. We haven’t shown much on our plans to develop her so far, but trust us: we’re going to both fill in more of her bakcstory, and give her chances to shine soon.

Cutting the cake together we have Sergio Turbo and Nikki Cherryflower, both of which made their first appearances in Mai Dire Fine and appeared in all sequel works. For as much grief the Unraveled World is bringing them, it is arguable they’ve gained more than they have lost, as they’ve both got their families back thanks to it. Fun fact: their outfits are loosely based on the ones they wore during Chapter 7 of Blank Sprite.

Last but not least, Corolla. Introduced in Don’t Forget The Canon, she’s my most successful character. Defined by Aelit “Kathleen, but written well” way before we started working on The World without Authors, it isn’t a suprise they synergize so well together… much to Sergio and Nikki’s dismay. Here, is she more excited for the cake, or because they are cutting it together like it was a wedding cake? Probably both.

And that’s it, 15 years of writing, condensed in one image. We hope you’ll keep following us in the future!

#world without authors #blank sprite

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not-a-space-alien · 5 years ago

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Anniversary - or the Horsepersons realise they can get together outside of work

Hi everyone, I just realized today that I never posted my work from this past holiday exchange! Here was my entry, hope you enjoy!

Title: Anniversary

Rating: G

Word Count: 6k

Summary: The horsepersons are summoned for a second attempt at Armageddon, but soon an irritating pattern emerges.

A note about my illustrations: I trace stock photos for a lot of my basic shapes because I’m not good at that and really only enjoy the detail work and coloring, so I consider my “art” more like photo manipulation than original artwork, so just keep that in mind! This one is also partially based in TV canon and partially in book canon fyi

On DW

On AO3

“Who exactly summons them?”

“Not my department.”

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

The department that did, in fact, summon the horsepersons was not Gabriel’s department, which was the Department of Earthly Affairs. Summoning the horsepersons, overseeing the signs of the end times, the rains of fish, and all that unpleasant business was a job that nobody really wanted. It was thought of as something Hell was supposed to do, but Heaven had to take responsibility for it, roll up their sleeves, and make sure it was done properly. It was shunted off onto whichever angels were unlucky enough to be assigned to the Department of Armageddon, which Gabriel had actually fought tooth and nail to leave.

The Department of Armageddon’s entire purpose was to prepare for the end times: to meticulously plan it out and ensure it went off smoothly. As these things tend to go, the least desirable job got pushed off onto whomever was lowest on the command chain, or at least the one too polite or too much of a pushover to refuse the job. And nobody really wanted to interact with the horsepersons. The DoA was filled with poor souls who had been toughing out a job they’d hated for six-thousand years. It would take a toll on anyone.

The reader can probably imagine that Aziraphale is less popular with the Department of Armageddon than any other angels, who unfortunately already find him quite annoying.

But this story is not about Aziraphale. It’s not even about Ambriel, the angel responsible for summoning the horsepersons.

No, this story is about the horsepersons, who lined up for Armageddon in the year of 1991 with great fervor and excitement, giddily straddling their motorcycles, finally able to run wild. The way that one had fizzled out was quite a disappointment to them all.

Adam had banished them for a bit, and that had been no fun, but it’s impossible to do away with Famine, War, and Pollution as long as humans exist. So they eventually reformed, springing from the minds of men and being unleashed back onto the world.

Somewhere in Europe, freshly spilled blood steamed and boiled, and War rose up, with blood smeared over her naked body like a newborn baby. In Asia, in a field covered by vultures feasting on the carcass of an emaciated cow, Famine sat up, looking around disoriented and missing his fancy suits. On the West Coast of the United States, Pollution washed ashore, having drifted for a while after being spawned from the Great Pacific garbage patch. They picked seaweed out of their hair and took a few moments to orient themselves. The last thing they remembered was staring down Adam Young. And as they realised what had happened, they thought the exact same thing their two companions were thinking at that exact moment:

Aw, man!

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

In August 1992, the brave soul known simply as ‘the deliveryman’ had been contracted once again. The request was again from someone named Ambriel, by whom he had been contracted at this precise time last year, and for the exact same reason: To make four deliveries in various parts of the world to varyingly strange customers.

He didn’t really want to go, but it was his job, so there he was braving the quite literally riotous streets of a war-torn country scouring the chaos for a particular woman.

War had gone back to doing her reporter schtick, but it was starting to bore her. She was interviewing an American soldier as he prattled on and on, pretending to write it down*, thinking about what her next possible career could be. Probably somewhere in the American Military-Industrial complex, she thought.

*******

*She was currently drawing a sketch of him decapitated on the battlefield.

*******

This is how the deliveryman found her. He doubled over panting from the exertion of running up to her, but managed to wheeze out, “Package for you, Miss.”

War turned to him, an intensely puzzled look on her face. “What?”

“Package for you.”

War turned her back on the soldier. “You again? Aren’t you the same…. You have another package for me?”

He held it out. It was suspiciously sword-shaped.

“But... “ She took the package and unwrapped it. It was indeed a sword, long and shiny polished metal glittering in the harsh sun. “But this means Armageddon is near. Again?”

The deliveryman held out the signature pad hopefully.

She looked at him.

“I need you to sign for it, miss.”

“But we just did this.”

“This, ma’am?”

“Receiving our artifacts. Riding to Armageddon. The whole nine yards.”

“I do recall delivering this same sword to you last year. Afraid I don’t know anything about it, though. I’m just the deliveryman.”

“Are we doing it all again?”

“Afraid I don’t know, ma’am. I just need you to sign for it, please.”

War held the sword out in both her hands, seeing her reflection in its length. “That was one year ago today,” she realised. “A year was all they decided to wait? It took six-thousand to get ready the first time.”

Hope fading, the deliveryman stretched his arms out to full length to get the pen and pad as close to her as possible. “Just need a signature, miss.”

War relented and took the pen, ripping the paper under the force of her signature. The deliveryman looked a bit put off and shuffled away, unenthusiastic about his next delivery, which would require him to pick along an extremely dirty industrial oil field.

The soldier waited around to hopefully continue bragging about how brave he was, but War ignored him. She simply continued to stare at the sword. All she said was:

“Huh.”

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

“Here we all are, gathered together at last.”

Famine was the one to made this proclamation. He said this to both War and Pollution, who were uncertainly standing around their motorcycles. This time they had been summoned directly to the barren field of Armageddon, which was, as it had been at this time last year, distressingly empty.

“Just saw you last year,” said Pollution. “Not quite ‘at last’ anymore, is it?.”

Famine gave them a dirty look. “Yes, well, it’s what we said last year. Seems only right to say it again.”

“They’re trying to make Armageddon happen again on the anniversary of it failing,” said War. “Is that what’s up?”

“It is significant, isn’t it?” said Pollution. “I was thinking about having some sort of celebration anyway. One year and all that. Seems like we should commemorate it somehow.”

“That’s stupid,” said Famine. Famine usually hated commemorating things because anniversaries and celebrations always seemed to involve good food and drink. Eat, drink, and be miserable was usually how it went for him.

“Anyway,” said War, “what are we waiting for? The Big Guy’s not here yet, but shouldn’t there be, I don’t know, some sort of preliminaries going on? Wasn’t there all sorts of wacky stuff going on last year, storm in the sky, showers of fish and all that?”

A figure could be seen spiraling downwards from the sky, wings spread wide. Pollution shielded their face with their hand and stared up past the sun. “Who’s’at?”

The figure revealed itself to be an angel, a jaunty figure with a halo struggling to keep up with his erratic motion, floating just behind his head as he ran full-speed towards them.

“And who might you be?” said Famine.

The angel huffed and puffed. “The name’s--the name is Ambriel.” He caught his breath and looked around at the gathering. “Where is Death?”

As if on cue, Death appeared with a small pop of expanding air. I HAVE NEVER HAD TO KILL THE SAME HUMAN TWICE, said Death. AND I DO NOT ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE. NEITHER DID HE. WHATEVER YOU ARE PAYING THE DELIVERYMAN, YOU NEED TO PAY HIM MORE.

“Pay?” said Ambriel. “Oh, that’s right.” He snapped his fingers, and the deliveryman’s bank account balance was suddenly a few digits larger, for all the good it would do a dead man.

“So your name’s Ambriel,” said War. “But who are you?”

“I’m the one responsible for making sure the horsepersons are present at Armageddon!” he crowed.

Famine craned his neck towards the empty, blue, peaceful, quiet, decidedly-not-Armageddon sky. Pollution kicked a rock through the soft grass. War scratched her head.

WE ARE HERE, said Death.

“But where’s Armageddon?” said War. “We don’t start it. That’s the antichrist.”

“Ah,” said Ambriel, sweating. “Yes, well, we’re still working on that. It was supposed to happen a year ago, you see…”

“Yes, you summoned us on the anniversary,” said Pollution. “Are we going to do it again?”

“Turn the seas to blood?” said War, shaking her fists.

“Unleash ourselves upon the planet until nothing’s left but bones and bare rock?” said Famine, a sparkle in his eye.

“Bury humanity in the consequences of its own actions?” said Pollution giddily.

Ambriel grimaced as the three of them crowded in on him, pumping their fists in excitement.

THE FINAL REAPING, said Death.

“Yes,” said Ambriel. “Um, yes, for sure, about that…”

The excitement on their faces began to fade.

“Well, you see, I’d thought everything would be ready to go by now. The timeline they gave me for re-setting the Armageddon fittings was one year! It should be well underway by now, but…”

War and Famine looked at each other disappointedly. “But what?” said Pollution.

“But they’re not done with the paperwork yet,” said Ambriel, crumpling. “There’s been delays and delays and delays. Our field agent won’t cooperate. Hell won’t cooperate. The other departments won’t cooperate. It’s a bloody mess!”

“That sounds like your problem,” said War. “What do you want us to do about it?”

Ambriel wrung his hands. “Well, I...I don’t know.”

War pouted. “All right, well, this was a bust, then.” She spun on her heel and marched across the field. “Call me when there’s some action for me, then, love.”

“Wait!” cried Ambriel. “Don’t leave!”

“I’ll be down by the river,” said Pollution. “It’s been looking a bit too clean for my taste. Too many local community day cleanups, if you ask me.”

Ambriel nervously stuttered as Pollution sauntered away in the opposite direction. Then he looked at Famine. “I suppose you’re going to leave me, too?”

Famine checked his very expensive watch. “Well, my flight back to America doesn’t leave until five o’clock, so I might hang around a bit and see if you can kick off Armageddon in the next two hours.”

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

August 25, 1993

Pollution was the first one to show up this time, bearing a wine bottle and a little party hat affixed in their pale hair. They’d worn the crown this whole time, so their head was starting to get a little crowded on top.

War had kept her sword. It was slung casually over her shoulder as she picked her way across the empty field where Armageddon ostensibly was supposed to take place. Only Famine had returned his artifact to Ambriel, because he thought modern electronic balances were much more efficient and chic than traditional balancing scales anyway, and he stood waiting to meet her empty-handed.

“Back again,” said War. “I just got a letter in the mail this time, no deliveryman. You?”

“The same,” said Famine. “They’re lucky I got it. Our mail gets filtered pretty thoroughly before it lands on my desk. Pretty rude too, I had to drop everything to run on over...I thin heaven should start reimbursing me for the travel costs.”

Death popped into existence beside Pollution. Ambriel was holding onto his arm, looking frightened.

THERE, YOU SEE? said Death. NO NEED TO KILL ANYONE TO GET A MESSAGE TO ME. WE CAN SKIP THAT AND HEAD RIGHT ON OVER TO ARMAGEDDON TOGETHER.

“Right,” said Ambriel. “Sorry.” He straightened his tunic and marched out in front of the semicircle of horsepersons. “Welcome to Armageddon!” he loudly announced. “It begins now!”

“I don’t see any signs of the end times--” Pollution began.

“Yet!” Ambriel thundered. “They shall begin any moment!”

Pollution popped open the wine bottle. “Yay.”

Ambriel, his hands still raised dramatically, began to sweat.

“The paperwork still isn’t done, is it?” said War.

“The paperwork still isn’t done,” said Ambriel, shoulders sagging.

“Then why did you call us here?” said Famine. “Look, I’m a busy man. I run a corporate empire, you know!”

“I thought it would be done!” said Ambriel, wringing his hands. “We’re just… We’re waiting on our field agent, Aziraphale. He hasn’t turned in his forms yet, and he won’t answer my messages.”

“Should we go find this Aziraphale guy and teach him a lesson?” said War.

“A lesson about punctuality in filling out paperwork?” said Pollution. “Are you sure you’re the best one to teach him that lesson?”

“All right, all right,” said Famine. “Look, Ambriel, is there anything we can do to move things along? This is the third time in a row--”

“The second anniversary,” Pollution interrupted.

“--Right, thanks, White--the third time we’ve done our ride and gone to Armageddon. It’s starting to get a bit anticlimactic.”

“That’s his job, not ours,” said War. “Pfft. Black, what’s next? You want to tempt sinners to Hell? Reap souls after death? Who else’s job do you want to do?”

Famine grew red. “I’m just saying--”

“Well, whatever,” said War, slinging her sword back into the sheath strapped across her back. She hooked her arm around Famine’s head and gave him a noogie. “We can kill some time while Ambriel finishes preparing for Armageddon.”

HMMM, said Death. YES...SINCE IT SEEMS LIKE TIME IS THE ONLY THING WE’LL BE KILLING.

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

August 25, 1994

Famine kept his scales this time. Their home for the next year was the corner of his desk in his office on top of 666 Fifth Avenue, right next to his extremely slim computer.

Famine played with the chain, strangely delicate and cold, when an email popped up on his computer.

To the Black horseperson of the apocalypse:

Please meet us at the appropriate place at the appropriate time. The end is nigh. The four horsemen shall ride and the world shall end in fire and blood..

Famine started to type a response. But before he could, his computer dinged with a reply: all to the previous email, from [email protected]:

Can I bring a plus one this time?

A few days and a few thousand miles later, Famine trekked over the dry ground of Armageddon with his scales in hand. Pollution and War were already standing in the middle of the field, the exact same place Ambriel had appeared the last three years.

War had a demoness hanging off her arm.

“Ah, Black!” said War. “Just in time. I was just in the process of introducing my girlfriend, Ashtarte.”

“Call me Ash,” said Ashtarte. A smile, too broad and with too many teeth that were too sharp, spread Cheshire cat-like across her features. She wore a punk mesh top, red boots, and had a little pair of horns and forked tail, like she was trying to impersonate a Halloween costume of a demon.

“Uh, okay, Ash,” said Famine.

“The Black horseperson of the apocalypse!” said Ash. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Big fan of your work!”

“Big fan?” said Famine. He straightened his tie. “Thanks very much.”

“We met over cocktails in a little bar in Saudia Arabia,” said War. “Making fun of the same reporters.”

Ash held up her hand in a “V” pose.

“None of us have ever really, uh…” said Famine.

“Had a girlfriend?” said War. “You don’t know that.”

Famine fidgeted. “So you have had a girlfriend?”

“Er, well, no, not really,” said War. She hefted Ash onto her shoulder and flexed her bicep; the smaller woman fit snugly into her shoulder. “But you should try it sometime! Armageddon keeps getting delayed, so we might as well enjoy our time here, right?”

“But what’s the appeal?”

“I think he doesn’t understand it,” said Pollution, “because he can’t even imagine how to get a girlfriend.”

Death appeared stormily, his biker boots thumping against the ground a bit too hard. AND WHERE IS OUR SUMMONER?

“Not here yet,” said Pollution, fiddling with the wine bottle they held. “But why don’t we have some drinks first? Enjoy our time here, right?”

They summoned a card table from somewhere, and Pollution pulled up a seat and patted the one next to them in the hope of coaxing Death to sit down. Famine ambivalently sat down next to War, who had Ash on her lap.

WE’RE NOT HAVING A PARTY, said Death. WE’RE HERE FOR BUSINESS REASONS.

“Sit down, big guy,” said Famine. “Nothing wrong with loosening up a little.”

Death remained motionless for a few moments, tense with annoyance. Then, his biker leathers crinkling, he lowered himself into a seat. BUT I WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DRINK.

“Aw,” said Pollution, popping the cork off the bottle. “Do you not like it?”

Death’s helmet visor reflected Pollution’s face impassively back at them as they poured drinks.

“Have you never drunk alcohol before?” said War.

Death didn’t answer.

“You haven’t, have you?” said Famine. “Do you want to try some?”

Death lifted his helmet off his head, setting it on his lap. Then he removed one leather glove, revealing his bony hand. The white stalk snaked out and curled around a glass, bringing it to his skeletal grin. The wine dribbled through his jaw and onto his leather jacket.

Famine grimaced. Pollution thought his jacket looked better with stains on it, but didn’t say so. They passed the next half hour in jovial conversation, the wine warming their bodies and lifting their spirits. Ash withdrew a deck of cards from her pocket, which entertained them as they laughed and joked.

They were all quite drunk by the time Ambriel arrived. He sprinted over at top speed, careening into the table. “What are you all doing?”

“We’re having a drink!” said Ash, waving her glass in the air and sloshing wine.

“Wh—” Ambriel took a second to look very confused at the appearance of a fifth horseperson, then shook it off and decided it didn’t matter. “Whatever! Get up, put this stuff away! Armageddon is starting!”

“For real this time?” said Pollution.

A second angel could be seen descending from Heaven. “Yes, for real this time!” Ambriel exploded. “The archangel Michael is on his way! Now get ready!”

War rolled her eyes and folded up the table. Pollution disappointedly retrieved the half-empty wine bottle, sipping from it as they walked over to Ambriel.

Michael touched down, his impressive dusky wingspan battering them with dusty clouds. “Ambriel, I was told the armies of Hell are gathering here, yes?”

“Yes!” said Ambriel. “The antichrist is coming. He’s on his way now.”

“He’s…” Michael looked over the the horsepersons. Famine shrugged. War examined her nails. Pollution continued to sip from their bottle. Death very stormily crossed his arms.

“He’s supposed to already be here,” said Michael. “I don’t see any of the signs of Armageddon…”

“I gave the antichrist Adam Young a very stern lecture about his role, and demanded he come to Armageddon,” said Ambriel. “And he said he was coming.”

Pollution cocked their head. “He said he was coming?”

“Yes. His exact words were, ‘Okay, Boomer.’”

Pollution choked, wine shooting out their nose.

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

August 25, 1998

“Can we meet at your restaurant next time?”

Famine turned to Pollution, the only other figure with him at the yet again empty field of Armageddon. “What?”

“The next time this happens, can we meet at one of your restaurants?”

Famine sighed. The first few times this had happened, he’d argued that they didn’t know there was going to be a ‘next time,’ but by now, the anniversary of the Apocalypse usually heralded them gathering to stand around for a while and not much else. “I doubt Ambriel would go for that. We’re supposed to be in this spot.”

Pollution shifted from foot to foot. “But the Newtrition corp has expanded, right? It has branches around here now. It wouldn’t be that far.”

“You don’t want to eat at my restaurant,” said Famine, trying to hide his shock that Pollution was so familiar with his franchise. He hadn’t thought any of the other horsepersons had cared about his silly little business. Although it was nice that someone was paying attention. “Why not?” said Pollution. “It seems nice. It produces lots of waste paper. And styrofoam cartons. Love those things.”

“It doesn’t serve actual food,” said Famine. “Just a bunch of nonsense. It has no nutritional value.”

“Well,” said Pollution. “We don’t actually need to eat, do we? Back in the forties, I went a good decade without eating. Too busy with the mills in Pittsburgh to stop and eat.”

Famine opened his mouth to deliver a snappy retort, only to find he didn’t have one.

“‘Course that was before I took the crown from Pestilence, so I was just a minor horseperson then. Well, my point is, it’s not like we’ll be affected by malnutrition. As long as it tastes good, right?”

Famine lit a cigarette. “If you want to look at it that way, I suppose.”

The rumble of a motorcycle filled the air, and War pulled up with Ash perched on the back of her bike.

“We can’t meet at my restaurant,” said Famine. “That’s inappropriate.” He wasn’t sure why the idea made him so uncomfortable, and he turned to greet War. “Red.”

“Black,” said War, dismounting. She put her bike helmet on the saddle as Ash fell off behind her. “Hey, you don’t have to call me ‘Red,’ you know.”

Famine stopped. “What?”

“I have a name.”

Famine bristled. “Whatever. Where’s that stupid little twig of an angel this time?”

“Geez, who pissed in your cereal,” said Ash, dusting herself off.

“I’m just getting a little tired of this!” said Famine. “I have to fly over from America every year in August only to be told to go right back home!”

Pollution opened a bag of crisps, savoring the grease. They looked disappointedly into the bag. “Black.”

“What?”

“Don’t ruin my crisps!”

“I’m not ruining your—” Famine suddenly realised he was ruining the crisps, because he was so damn frustrated by how inefficient Heaven and Armageddon and this whole thing was. He was used to running things like a well-oiled machine, and this….

“Black, stop ruining the poor kid’s crisps,” said War.

“You’ve never appreciated my work,” Famine snapped.

Ambriel chose this moment to appear. “All right, everyone!” he said. “This time I’ve really—”

“Black, I was very much looking forward to my crisps!” Pollution said.

“You all only notice how hard I work when it affects you!” said Famine. “I’m the only one putting real effortinto building an empire—”

“You’re the only one?” said Pollution.

Scared, Ambriel hid behind his clipboard, unsure of how to wrangle them.

Famine suddenly realised that War was gleefully egging on the fight between him and Pollution with her horseperson powers. “Red!”

The tension in the air immediately dissipated, and War slunk back, looking chastised.

His head more clear now, Famine smoothed out his tie. The booted footsteps of Death reverberated in the air before he made his appearance. AND HOW MANY ANNIVERSARIES IS THIS NOW? I’VE LOST COUNT.

“You’re late,” said Ambriel snootily.

Death turned to him. Even though he had no face to speak of, and still had his helmet on, everyone could clearly imagine the expression he would make.

“Seven,” said Pollution through a mouthful of crisps.

A second angel descended from the sky, this one unhurried, dragging its proverbial feet.

AND DO I HAVE ANYTHING TO BE LATE FOR THIS TIME? said Death.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Ambriel. “Because I have with me the field agent who was responsible for delaying Armageddon last time. So now he’s going to kick it off.”

A chubby angel with oodles of curly hair touched down, looking around guiltily. “Er, hello...I’m Aziraphale.”

“Oh, you looked nicer in a dress,” said Pollution.

“All right,” said Ambriel. “Let’s go, then. Go on.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet.

“Don’t we need the antichrist?” volunteered Famine.

“The antichrist is unavailable,” said Ambriel icily. “We’ll have to make do without him.”

“Unavailable?!” exclaimed War.

“He means Adam Young doesn’t want Armageddon to happen,” said Aziraphale, who then shut up right quick at an elbow jab from Ambriel.

“You can make it happen without the antichrist?” said Pollution, crunching through a mouthful of crisps. “Thought was the whole point of him. So how does it work?”

“Ahem,” said Ambriel. “That is none of your concern. Just worry about your own part. Now, let’s begin.”

Ambriel stepped forward to direct the horsepersons. War kept looking up at the sky, noticing Armageddon didn’t seem to be happening. Pollution licked their fingers, other hand firmly stuck in their crisps packet.

“And now Aziraphale will--Aziraphale?”

While Ambriel had had his back turned, Aziraphale had scuttled off, wings drawn wide and flapping erratically like a prey animal running from a fox. “Ahhh! Get back here!”

Ambriel went off chasing him. War stood where she was, sword poised, and watched him go. “Um…”

Pollution finished their packet of crisps and dropped it on the ground, wiping their hands on their shirt. “Is he coming back?”

They stayed there for about half an hour waiting for Ambriel, and decided he wasn’t coming back. Ash sweet-talked War into hitting the bars after that. They managed to convince everyone but Death to come along, too.

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

August 25, 2001

“Hey, why does it take an apocalypse for us to get together?” said War.

Pollution picked idly at the tablecloth on the little picnic table they had summoned. They were trying to decide if ketchup or mustard would make better stains on it. “Hmm?”

War straddled the bench, picking at the picnic basket. “I mean, I know not everyone likes to spend time with their coworkers outside of work, but there’s nothing stopping us from getting together outside of Armageddon, right?”

Pollution stopped. “Hmm?”

“She’s saying she wants to spend more time with you guys,” said Ash.

“We can do that?!” Pollution said.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” said War.

Pollution’s eyes sparkled.

“Come sit down and enjoy this little basket you put together,” said Ash. “It looks lovely.”

The weather was fabulous, once again with no signs of the inclement weather heralding Armageddon, and a delicious breeze tugged at them and whipping waves through the dry summer grass. Pollution fished out some plastic utensils and set them out on the table.

Ash took a sandwich from the basket. It definitely had worms of some sort in it, but being from Hell, she was used to such things.

“Where’s Famine, anyway?” said Pollution, setting a pile of napkins on the table and watching them immediately blow away in the wind.

“Oh, he’s coming!” said War. “And he said he was bringing a plus one this year.”

“A plus one?”

“Sounds like he’s got a girlfriend too. Or boyfriend. Or what-have-you.”

Pollution scratched their head. “Wonder who it could be.”

With a rustle of grass, Death stood beside them.

“Come sit down!” said War. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

Death looked at them contemplatively. I DIDN’T RECEIVE A SUMMONS THIS YEAR.

“Huh,” said Pollution, letting their sandwich wrapper fall to the ground. “I just realised, neither did I.”

“Yeah,” said War, waving her hand dismissively. “But after doing this annually for ten years, I think we get the point, right?”

Death stood like a silent sentinel. Death was rarely the type to display any emotion at all, but to War and Pollution, it looked like he was fighting to not indulge in some unconventional display of sentiment.

A smile spread across War’s face. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF I WAS NEEDED THIS YEAR, said Death.

“Well, Armageddon is probably delayed again,” said War. “So you’re not, really. You’re free to leave.”

Death stood still.

“Come sit down,” said Ash, patting the bench. “You’re always so serious.”

Death clomped over and swung his enormous legs over the wooden bench.

“Heard Famine’s got himself a new squeeze,” gossiped War.

OH, said Death. YES…

The grass in the field next to them dried up, swirling brittle pieces making a small tornado, and with a mournful nicker, a skeletal horse materialized. Its emaciated frame was oozing with dripping wounds and festering decay. Atop its back was a figure in a white robe with a long, beaked mask.

Famine pulled up on his motorcycle. “Fellas, good to see you again!”

“It’s been a very long time,” said the newcomer, although no, he wasn’t new at all…

“You brought Pestilence!” Pollution yelled. “He’s not a horseperson anymore! I replaced him!”

“Tsk tsk, you young punk,” said Pestilence, dismounting. “No respect at all.”

Pollution glared.

“He’s not here as a horseperson,” said Famine. “He’s my plus one.”

“That’s cheating!” said Pollution.

Pestilence winked, which was absolutely infuriating.

Pollution crossed their arms as Famine and Pestilence took their seats. “This looks delightful,” said Pestilence, taking a crisp from a bowl.

Pollution grumbled. Famine was a little disgruntled that they had set up a nice meal, but he muttered an echo of Pestilence’s praise.

“It’s just weird,” said Pollution. “It’s like you’re dating my dad.”

“I’m not your Dad,” said Pestilence. “We barely met before you kicked me out.”

“I think you just don’t like Pestilence,” said Famine.

Pollution bristled. “Maybe.”

Famine shrugged. Somewhere in the world, the minor horseperson of Awkward Interpersonal Issues felt their power surge.

“It’s because they’re afraid I’ll wrangle the job of horseperson #3 from them,” said Pestilence. “The anti-vax moms in the United States are making them nervous.”

Pollution’s cheeks went red.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” said Pestilence. “I don’t want to be one of the Main Four anymore. It’s quite dull. The humans’ attitude towards smallpox ruined the fun for me. Some of my best work, all down the drain. Feff.” He sipped some cola. “But you seem to be doing a splendid job. I hear nowadays everyone’s mad about straws, of all things.”

Pollution perked up. The atmosphere at the table was much lighter after that.

“Isn’t Ambriel going to show up?” said War. “Usually right about now is when he comes down, babbling about how Armageddon is really going to happen this time, and how we need to get ready.”

Pestilence scratched his head. “Ambriel? He’s the one who had to come tell me they were swapping me out for Pollution. He still works in the Department of Armageddon? Poor sod always got the worst jobs pushed onto him.”

Ambriel did, in fact, show up eventually. He had none of his usual bravado. He dragged his sandaled feet through the dirt and flopped down to join them at the picnic table. The four of them shared a look, then looked back at Ambriel. “Hey, kid, what’s wrong?” said Famine.

“Useless,” said Ambriel. “It’s all useless. Nothing I do ever works. No matter how hard I try, Heaven can’t get its crap together to make Armageddon happen. Oh, pardon my language.”

“Hey, cheer up,” said Pollution. “The first time we tried, the four of us got beaten by little kids with sticks and rocks. That’s way more humiliating than anything you’ve had to go through.”

Famine glared at Pollution. Pollution unwrapped a lolly, enjoying the crinkling of the wrapper.

Ambriel thunked his head on the table, groaning. “No use, it’s no use!”

“Well, we’re all having a lovely time anyway!” said Ash. “August 25 is my favorite day of the year now!”

“It’s supposed to be Armageddon,” moaned Ambriel. “It’s not supposed to be a celebration.”

War stabbed a little cocktail weiner with her Bowie knife. “We’ve been known to celebrate in unconventional ways.”

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

Present day

“1845.”

“No, that was you?”

Pollution sucked on their choco-whippy milkshake, eyes bouncing from War to Pestilence.

“Yep,” said Pestilence, leaning back, looking very pleased with himself.

“I thought for sure that was Famine,” said War.

“I wish,” said Famine. “I had been working in Ireland for a few years at that point, but hadn’t had much success.”

“Phytophthora infestans,” said Pestilence. “One of my favorites.

“He refuses to lend it to me,” said Famine. “Greedy bastard.”

“Not your jurisdiction.”

They all shared a hearty laugh.

“Oh, Pollution,” said War, snapping her fingers. “I just remembered. That science project we were talking about the other day, the bacteria that humans were cultivating to break down plastic.”

Pollution’s face screwed up in displeasure.

“I was working on trying to divert some of the NHS’s funding into more bioweapon applications. Maybe if you do me a little favor in return, I can get their funding pulled?”

Pollution nodded happily, sucking through their straw.

“Hey, here he comes!” said War, throwing up her hand.

Death strode over, standing at the edge of the table.

“Sit down,” said Ash, patting the seat. “We’re having a lovely time.”

I HAVE… said Death. If it were possible, he seemed embarrassed.

“What?” said Pollution.

I HAVE ALSO BROUGHT A PLUS ONE.

“What, a boyfriend?” said Pestilence.

NOT LIKE THAT…. said Death. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small bundle of fur, which blinked and mewled.

Ash had stars in her eyes, putting her hands on her head as though to keep her brain from exploding out. “Is that a kitten?”

I FOUND IT OUTSIDE.

“It’s so cute!” said Pollution.

I HAD NEVER NOTICED THEM BEFORE, said Death. THEY ARE...NICE.

“Well, nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of the world,” said Famine. “Since it seems like we’ll be here for a while.”

Death sat down, putting the cat on the table. The minimum wage employees scrambling to make the food didn’t have the time to notice or care.

“We were just discussing some of the other anniversaries we have besides August 25,” said War. “Turns out we have quite a lot of them! We should share.”

Death was silent.

“February 14,” said War. “The start of the first War in Mesopotamia. That was my favorite one. I find the date so deliciously funny with what they’ve done with it now.”

“September 27,” said Pollution. “When the first mass-produced automobile left the factory.”

“What about you?” siad Famine.

“Black’s right,” said Pollution. “You must have one.”

Death hummed for a minute. Then: NOVEMBER 16. THE DAY THE FIRST MAN DIED.

“And kicked all this off,” said Famine. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked their glasses against each other’s.

“Hey,” said Famine. “You guys have been calling me ‘Black,’ this whole time, and while I guess it’s technically what I am…. Well, I picked a name. A more human name. You could use it, if you like.”

“Would you like that?” said Pollution.

“I think so. It’s Sable.”

“Raven Sable,” said War. “That’s right. I like it.”

“What about you?” said Sable. “Don’t you have one?”

“Oh, yeah!” said War. “Wouldn’t that just be great! Call me Carmine.”

“It’s such a good name!” said Ash joyfully.

Carmine beamed. She’d never known this would feel good, but it did.

Pollution shyly tapped their fingers on the table. “Chalk, please.”

All eyes turned towards Death.

“Well?” said Chalk. “Only if you want to.”

AZRAEL.

“It’s perfect,” said Ash.

Sable snapped his fingers. “Guys, hold on a second, I just remembered something.”

“Hm?” said Chalk.

“August 25. Armageddon.”

“So?” said Carmine. “That never happens anyway.”

“Well, we were so excited to meet we forgot we were supposed to go to Armageddon first.”

Carmine choked on the pickle she had been eating. “Oh yeah,” said Ash, very slowly. “I guess that’s fine, though. But, oh dear… Did anyone tell Ambriel?”

Azrael grinned, moreso than a regular skeletal grin. I’M SURE HE’S DOING JUST FINE.

“I’ve got it! I’ve finally got it!”

Ambriel, almost tripping over his robes, waved his papers in the air as he sprinted towards Armageddon. “I finally have all the departments in accord, the stars have aligned, the paperwork is signed, the—”

Ambriel stopped and beheld the field of Armageddon, butterflies floating by and flowers bouncing merrily, very conspicuously empty and peaceful and not trodden by the harbingers of Armageddon.

“Oh, dear…”

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic #gohe

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theladyaurora · 5 years ago

Text

Orgasmic Power Supply

A story, maybe to be continued, mostly written by ar-tis-t, with a bit of influence from me. The tech had been developed during the technology explosion of the '20's right before the big flare ruined it for everyone. As a result of the massive and utterly destructive energy from the cataclysmic solar flare, all electrical generating stations stopped working and the technology was rendered useless overnight. Society returned almost immediately to a state resembling the dark ages. Slowly but surely we recovered but the means of generating sufficient energy to return to the greatness of the past eluded us. Until now. The details are pretty sketchy and all but incomprehensible to any save the imagineers but suffice to say that technology had finally found a way that allowed the storage and use of the electromagnetic energy produced by the body at sexual extremis.

In a nutshell. Your orgasms produce as much energy to power the average home. For a month.

As with all tech, it started innocently enough, toys created to feedback the excitement they created. The better they felt the more intense they operated. It created feedback loops, More excitement = more power. Ultimately it was the adult entertainment industry who broke the barrier. At an exhibition demonstrating the newest toys, the performer had such a powerful orgasm that the resulting discharge of energy blew not only all the lights but every electrically operated device within the immediate area. Coupled with the newly developed Shortrange Phyche Transfer technology or ShPhT (Hooking your mind directly into cyberspace commonly known as Shifting) it opened the door to some truly pantwettingly realistic porn with some truly mind melting orgasms. I'm not kidding. As with all new technologies, some people when presented with it took it too far and ended up as slaves to their computers. Pleasure puppets as it were. These poor unfortunates became the first “Batteries”.

That was years ago. At some point the government began to take notice and it wasn't long before “power stations” began to appear. Then the law was changed. On the advent of a citizens coming of age (and every year after on the anniversary of their birthday) they are to report to their local generating station, there, to be milked of orgasms for three days

Sounds like fun yeah?

Sounds like the best birthday present ever yeah?

To be strapped in and locked down. To have your mind sucked into whatever reality your pornprofile dictates and to be made to cum. Over. And over. And over.

Not only that but the pay was excellent, and after all, who wouldn't want to get paid to come.

Happy Birthday.

Not.

What they didn't know (that first time) was that once they signed on that dotted line, then that's it. No respite. They are inserted into the extractor unit and the orgasms are wrung from their bodies

Over and over

At first it's good

Then it starts to hurt

And they start to beg

Eventually

Some very few people don't survive. They literally come themselves to death. Others come back changed. Addicted to to shifting. Addicted to cumming. But the energy that is produced powers our society and everyone turns a blind eye to the few downsides.

Until today.

She came in. It was obvious that this was her first time even though she was far older than you'd expect. It wasn't completely unprecedented...different people, different cultures view the age of majority differently. Hell there was even a small cult up near the lakes who determined it by some kind of weird method that nonone else understood. She could belong to one of those.

You could always tell the newbies. There was no fear in their eyes. She would learn They all learned. Eventually.

I looked at her profile….

Surprised, I read through the whole packet. She was a new experiment. They'd kept her "New In Box", that is, she'd never had an orgasm before. I looked at her basic info - 35 years old? Hmmm..... Interesting. I started setting up the protocols as outlined in the schematics. It wasn't too different than usual, just a few tweaks.

She is apparently one of a group of experimental subjects that are hopefully going to revolutionize our power supply system. I remember reading about it a while ago, but didn't know they were so close to production. The theory behind it is that edging for a sustained amount of time before cumming would yield higher results.

I checked her chart again. She's been on an edging plan for the last week. I made a mental note to put on my protective gear before setting her off. Safety first, you know.

I kind of wondered how they kept people from cumming on their own. Seems like in that many years, one would have figured it out. Flipping through to the Methods section.... Ah! Mind Control. They just... do something? To their minds? That makes a person not be able to cum? Huh, glad I wasn't picked for that!

I smiled. Aurora. Bringer of lite. An apt name. I wonder if she had any clue what it was that awaited her. Scanning down the list of her stats, looking for the code for her personalised pornprofile. As soon as she was fixed in place we would fix the headset and she'd be plunged into the world of her fantasies, whatever they were.

I shouldn’t really admit this but once they were immersed, it wasn't unusual for the technician to "listen in" as it were. We could... remotely view whatever it was that was running through the subjects minds at any given time. Just a quick adjustment to the carrier wave and we could shift into their fantasies and become an observer.

That's all it was. Observing.

Honest.

It was always a surprise what it was that turned people on. We had a guy last week who got his jollies from food. And i don't mean eating.. Seriously. You don't wanna know.

"Ok. Ms Aurora if you just like to step this way we'll get you situated and comfortable, there's nothing to worry about. The inflatable cuffs hold your arms and legs in place.... if you could bite down on this... i know... its a little uncomfortable but its there to stop you biting your tongue. Yes.... it does stop you talking but it's preferable to biting the end of your tongue off when you orgasm" Ok??? Comfortable??

Good... now i'll just plug you in. This is inserted just...... there. Don't worry about it being too small. It will adjust itself to the optimal size and will syphon off the energy as it is created. OK.... now if you'll just take a deep breath in. That's it. And release. And another....

there. That's it. we need you to be nice and relaxed.

Now. I'll just pop on this headset and we are good to go. If there is an emergency, the system will automatically shut down and an orderly will come and release you. Now.

Sweet Dreams.”

I shook my head as I walked away.... wondering if there would be anything left of the poor girls mind at the end of the three days. I flicked the switch to initiate the Shift and closed the door. (Switching off the lights as I did so. can't be wasting power now... can we?)

She shrugged her shoulders, trying to find some give in the restraints but as soon as they were inflated they had become as unyielding as steel.

Damnit, how was she supposed to play if her arms were restrained. I thought they wanted me to play. That was the whole point, surely. To play and play and play. That was what you did wasn't it? You played and teased and stroked and tormented yourself and that generated power.

It made perfect sense to her but how on earth was she supposed to do it when she couldn't move her damn hands!!!

Suddenly the headset flickered to life and a voice, a woman's voice echoed in her ears. The shift will begin in ten seconds. Please relax, any discomfort will be temporary. PLease follow the numbers as we count you down.

10 Breathing in

9 And out

8 In

7 And out

6 Noises starting to fade

5 Mind going blank

4 Breathing in

3 Breathing out.

2 Mind blank and ready to receive.

1 Shifting.

A sudden spiral sucked her consciousness out and DOWN. Lights flashing, images flickering before her eyes… faster. Faster. Words dripping and dropping into her consciousness

deeper

faster

farther.

Layers of voices ... twisting in upon each other whispering talking…. discord mixing blending into a coherent whole……

then

Nothing....

You have been successfully inserted into the hub. PPF loading.

loading…..

loading….

Hypno orgasm addict playlist selected.

Repeat selected.

And play....

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ghost-chance · 6 years ago

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PTSD confessions - Panic is contagious...and it’s not your fault.

When I was first diagnosed with PTSD, I never imagined all the unanswerable questions it would give me, or all the dilemmas it would bring. Today brought a reminder of one such dilemma. Since my ‘anniversary’ is coming up soon (in May) I’ve been posting and talking more about PTSD than usual. It’s not always easy, but I remember what it was like when I first started fighting it. I remember having all these questions and being afraid to ask them...and if opening up about my experiences helps even one person feel less like they’re alone, then it’s worth the struggle of recounting it.

Panic attacks aren’t exclusive to PTSD - they can occur with other problems like phobias, anxiety disorders, and more - and though this post literally has PTSD written all over it, it applies to other causes of panic attacks, too.

I’m not the best at wording things at times - an indirect result of PTSD, unfortunately, is attention, focus, and concentration difficulties - so please understand if this comes across as rambling or a little off. If you read this and want to talk, I’m up for it - just PM me or Ask with your name attached. (No anonymous Asks, please.)

Panic attacks are overwhelming.

When you’re having a panic attack, you can lose sight of what’s going on around you. It’s not because you become blind to it, but because you become too attuned to it. Every little detail, from the vital to the most trivial, grabs your attention at the same time and shakes it like a dog playing tug-of-war. Everything swarms you at once - the trigger for your panic attack, the smell of the burger joint nearby, the song playing on someone’s radio, the color of the sky, the pounding of your heart and the crawling of your skin - it’s sensory overload.

Your panic attacks don’t just affect you.

With all that tactile information registering at once and all the chemicals and nerves firing off in your brain, it’s easy to lose sight of the people around you and their reactions. You don’t necessarily see if people are concerned about you or if they’re frightened by your behavior. You don’t consider how other people might be affected by your panic, or how they might respond, or what problems they may be fighting themselves. You’re trapped in a state of fight, freeze, or flight, frantically wavering between the three and constantly second-guessing and berating yourself; other people are the last thing on your mind.

Your panic response can trigger others’ panic response.

It’s Spring in Missouri, and Spring means storms. Earlier today, I got a frantic call from a relative out of the blue. There’s a tornado warning out - you’ve got to get home, you’ve got to get to safety. There was much more to it and I could hear this person trying to hide the physical symptoms of the panic attack they were tipping into. A racing heart-rate makes your voice shaky, an adrenaline boost raises the pitch and volume, hyperventilation leads to talking faster to get words out in your limited amount of air - the signs are all there if you know what to look for. There was no tornado warning for our city or county - it was off to the southeast of us - but there’s still the possibility for tornadic storms to hit our area. It is, after all, Spring in Missouri, and we both have varying degrees of PTSD due to the same monster storm. A large portion of my hometown developed PTSD after that storm, and even years later, people are still affected by the trauma they endured.

Contagious fear can cause relapses in your recovery.

Before that call, I was already aware of the weather and possible threat - I was out in the rain and had just checked my phone for any new warnings. I had my discomfort under control even after finding the “tornado warning for X county” message and catching a glimpse of cloud-to-ground lightning in the distance. After that call, I started getting shaky and losing grip on my own calm; my heart-rate, adrenaline, and pulse spiked, and I found my eyes darting from cloud to cloud in search of a threat that was several counties away. Fortunately, this ain’t my first rodeo - I know how to handle it. I sat my ass down, dropped my head to my knees, dug my nails into my wrist to block out the fear with physical discomfort, and took several deep measured breaths. A few minutes later, I was level again - irritated at myself for being swept away, sure, that’s pretty normal for me - but I managed to avoid spiraling into an actual panic attack. I managed to cut it off before it got beyond a low-four on the 1-10 high-low anxiety scale.

People don’t heal at the same pace.

If this relative in question is willing to do the necessary work, they can learn to cut off their panic attacks as well. For now, they’re stuck in the denial stage; they may never conquer their trauma because they may never be ready to admit they need help. It breaks my heart...but it’s not my right to demand they take care of themselves, and it’s not my place to try and ‘fix them.’ When they ask for help, I do, but I’m not going to butt in unless they begin literally endangering themselves and others.

Panic attacks don’t happen in a vacuum.

When you have a panic attack, it doesn’t just affect you - you’re not a fish in a bowl in a room full of other, separate fishbowls. The symptoms of your panic can and usually do affect others no matter how hard you try to prevent it. People will be uncomfortable, they’ll worry; some will be irritated or frightened, mistaking your behavior as stupid, irrational, crazy, or even threatening. They may assume you’re a danger to yourself or to others, or even become confrontational. Aside from these reactions, there’s another messy fact: fear is contagious. When your fears take over and your panic symptoms become visible, others in the area with anxiety of their own can be triggered by your panic...and you may never realize it until long after it’s over...when you do realize it, you’ll want to kick yourself for not noticing. DON’T. Just don’t even go there, it will only hurt you in the long run.

You are responsible for you - no one else, just you.

Although your symptoms can affect those around you, that is not your fault. You can’t control the reactions of others, especially not when you’re struggling to control your own reactions. You aren’t responsible for the way others respond, only for what you do. Eventually, when you begin to get your panic attacks under control and become able to calm or stop them before they get out of hand, you’ll be able to be proactive about how you may be affecting others. You can teach yourself methods and habits to protect yourself and others, and keep your fears from spreading. In fact, I highly encourage that...but if you can’t manage it, or you aren’t ready, pushing yourself to do so will only set you back. It’s like trying to put out a skillet fire by smashing a lid on it - you’re trapping the fire (your panic) inside with the fuel and air (the triggered responses and your body’s physical and chemical responses.) You have to cut off what feeds the fire before you can put it out.

You can’t stop panic by adding to it.

Your fears, however irrational or illogical they may be, are still valid fears - there’s a reason you’re afraid and chances are it’s not your fault. You owe it to yourself to focus on you when your world feels like it’s falling down. If you react to a building panic attack by worrying about how you’re affecting others or focusing on what they’re thinking, that’s focus you’re not putting toward using your coping skills and stopping that panic in its tracks. If your house is on fire, you don’t have time to worry about your neighbors being bothered by your smoke detectors going off - you do what you need to and leave it at that. The rest will fall into place once your life isn’t in danger.

Forget the neighbors for now - your priority is putting out the blaze. Need a hand? I have a fire extinguisher to spare.

#PTSD #actually ptsd #PTSD recovery #panic attacks #mental health support

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arplis · 5 years ago

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Arplis - News: The Day the Live Concert Returns

Editor’s Note: This article is part of Uncharted, a series about the world we’re leaving behind, and the one being remade by the pandemic. Where were you planning to be on the Fourth of July this year? Backyard barbecue with your crankiest relatives, fighting over who gets to light the illegal fireworks that your derelict cousin smuggled in from South Carolina? Or maybe out on the Chesapeake Bay, arguing about the amount of mayonnaise in the crab cakes while drinking warm National Bohemian beer? Better yet, tubing down the Shenandoah with a soggy hot dog while blasting Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band”? I know exactly where I was supposed to be: FedExField, outside Washington, D.C., with my band Foo Fighters and roughly 80,000 of our closest friends. We were going to be celebrating the 25th anniversary of our debut album. A red, white, and blue keg party for the ages, it was primed to be an explosive affair shared by throngs of my sunburned hometown brothers and sisters, singing along to more than a quarter century of Foo. Well, things have changed. [Read: Dave Grohl’s pandemic playlist] Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has reduced today’s live music to unflattering little windows that look like doorbell security footage and sound like Neil Armstrong’s distorted transmissions from the moon, so stuttered and compressed. It’s enough to make Max Headroom seem lifelike. Don’t get me wrong, I can deal with the monotony and limited cuisine of quarantine (my lasagna game is on point!), and I know that those of us who don’t have to work in hospitals or deliver packages are the lucky ones, but still, I’m hungry for a big old plate of sweaty, ear-shredding, live rock and roll, ASAP. The kind that makes your heart race, your body move, and your soul stir with passion. There is nothing like the energy and atmosphere of live music. It is the most life-affirming experience, to see your favorite performer onstage, in the flesh, rather than as a one-dimensional image glowing in your lap as you spiral down a midnight YouTube wormhole. Even our most beloved superheroes become human in person. Imagine being at Wembley Stadium in 1985 as Freddie Mercury walked onstage for the Live Aid benefit concert. Forever regarded as one of the most triumphant live performances of all time (clocking in at a mere 22 minutes) Freddie and Queen somehow managed to remind us that behind every rock god is someone who puts on their studded arm bracelet, absurdly tight white tank, and stonewashed jeans one pant leg at a time just like the rest of us. But, it wasn’t necessarily Queen’s musical magic that made history that day. It was Freddie's connection with the audience that transformed that dilapidated soccer stadium into a sonic cathedral. In broad daylight, he majestically made 72,000 people his instrument, joining them in harmonious unison. Left: Rolling Stones fans get excited during a concert on the group's 1975 Tour of the Americas. (Christopher Simon Sykes/Hulton Archive/Getty); Right: Freddie Mercury performing at the Live Aid concert at Wembley Stadium. Duncan Raban / Popperfoto via Getty) As a lifelong concertgoer, I know this feeling well. I myself have been pressed against the cold front rail of an arena rock show. I have air-drummed along to my favorite songs in the rafters, and been crushed in the crowd, dancing to dangerous decibel levels while lost in the rhythm. I’ve been lifted and carried to the stage by total strangers for a glorious swan dive back into their sweaty embrace. Arm in arm, I have sung at the top of my lungs with people I may never see again. All to celebrate and share the tangible, communal power of music. When you take away the pyrotechnics and confetti of an arena rock concert, what are you left with? Just … people? I will never forget the night I witnessed U2 perform at what used to be called the MCI Center in D.C. This was their 2001 Elevation Tour, a massive production. I waited for the lights to go out so that I could lose myself in a magnificent, state-of-the-art rock show. To my surprise, the band walked onstage without any introduction, house lights fully illuminated, and kicked into the first song beneath their harsh, fluorescent glow, without the usual barrage of lasers and LED screens we’ve all become accustomed to. The brilliant move stunned the audience and began an unforgettable concert on a very raw, personal note. This was no accident, mind you. It was a lesson in intimacy. Without all the strobes and lasers, the room shrank to the size of a dirty nightclub at last call, every blemish in plain view. And with that simple gesture, we were reminded that we are all indeed just people. People that need to connect with one another. One night, before a Foo Fighters show in Vancouver, my tour manager alerted me that the “Boss” himself, Bruce Springsteen, was in attendance (cue paralyzing nerves). Frozen with fear, I wondered how I could possibly perform in front of this legendary showman, famous for his epic concerts that span four hours. I surely could never live up to his lofty expectations! It turns out he was there to see the opening band (cue devastating humiliation), so I was off the hook. But we chatted briefly before the gig, and I was again reminded of not only the human being behind every superhero, but also the reason millions of people identify with him: He is real. Three hours later, as I sat on a locker-room bench recovering from the show, drenched in my own sweat, there was a knock at the door. Bruce wanted to say hello. Having actually stayed for our set (cue jaw crashing to the floor), he very generously thanked us and commented on our performance, specifically the rapport we seem to have with our audience. Something he obviously understood very well. When asked where he watched the show from, he said that he’d stood in the crowd, just like everyone else. Of course he did. He was searching for that connection too. A few days later, I received a letter from Bruce, handwritten on hotel stationery, that explained this very clearly. “When you look out at the audience,” he wrote, “you should see yourself in them, just as they should see themselves in you.” Not to brag, but I think I’ve had the best seat in the house for 25 years. Because I do see you. I see you pressed against the cold front rails. I see you air-drumming along to your favorite songs in the distant rafters. I see you lifted above the crowd and carried to the stage for a glorious swan dive back into its sweaty embrace. I see your homemade signs and your vintage T-shirts. I hear your laughter and your screams and I see your tears. I have seen you yawn (yeah, you), and I’ve watched you pass out drunk in your seat. I've seen you in hurricane-force winds, in 100-degree heat, in subzero temperatures. I have even seen some of you grow older and become parents, now with your children's Day-Glo protective headphones bouncing on your shoulders. And each night when I tell our lighting engineer to “Light ’em up!,” I do so because I need that room to shrink, and to join with you as one under the harsh, fluorescent glow. In today’s world of fear and unease and social distancing, it's hard to imagine sharing experiences like these ever again. I don’t know when it will be safe to return to singing arm in arm at the top of our lungs, hearts racing, bodies moving, souls bursting with life. But I do know that we will do it again, because we have to. It’s not a choice. We’re human. We need moments that reassure us that we are not alone. That we are understood. That we are imperfect. And, most important, that we need each other. I have shared my music, my words, my life with the people who come to our shows. And they have shared their voices with me. Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night. And one that we will surely build again. Metallica fans screaming in the audience at the heavy metal Sonisphere Festival in 2009 in Nijmegen, Netherlands. (Paul Bergen / Redferns)

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/the-day-the-live-concert-returns

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