#mentions of slaughter

[hummingbird-of-light]

Okay, here we go, just like I promised. The writing project~ We’ll start with Miss Farie’s backstory (since y’all voted her No. 1 at the favorite OC poll) I really hope I’ll get around to fulfill all the prompts 💪

Prompt: You Don't Understand

(First Story for Angstember 2024 by @ivystoryweaver )

If you were born into poor circumstances like Nomira Farie, there wasn't much hope or dreams on the planet Tyriuk IV.

Every day, Tyriuks spent hours toiling so that they could provide the bare necessities for their families. Every day, every last credit was saved up so that they could afford to eat and drink. Very few Tyriuks had the money to afford cars, travel or luxury goods. The Farie family was no exception. It wasn't as if they were among the poorest of the poor. Not at all. They were lucky that their father had a good job in one of the big factories where the shuttles for the rich and famous were built. Thanks to their wages, they had their own home and could grow their own crops. It was a good life according to the circumstances.

And yet Nomira, the youngest child, dreamed of a glorious future every day. She didn't want to be satisfied with what her family had. She wanted to be famous and respected like her great idols.

There were two celebrities that Nomira looked especially good to.

One of these people was the singer Nomira Zulik, after whom her mother had named the girl. Nomira Zulik was probably the most beautiful Tyriuk woman little Nomira had ever seen. And her voice was like a thousand beautiful instruments sounding at once. What's more, the singer had credits in abundance. She was rich and graceful and stunning.

But Nomira realized that she could never become a great singer. No one gave a Tyriuk woman from a poor background the chance in show business.

Which brought Nomira to her second idol: Miss Welisa Harkem. The woman was one of the most respected Tyriuks in the entire city. She ran a noble restaurant where she offered the specialty that every inhabitant of the planet only dreamed of.

Meat.

Nomira had always felt an incredible fascination for this ingredient, which was so rare on the planet that it could only be acquired and distorted by the richest of the rich. Sometimes poor families were lucky and leftover meat was distributed to them on the national holiday so that they too could enjoy the wonderful treat. The majority of the population subsisted on various plants and minerals. In addition, there were medicines that provided everyone with other necessary vitamins and proteins. Most Tyriuks did not grow particularly old with their way of life. Only those who ate meat every day – a special kind of diet – could live up to 200 years and remain young and beautiful. A great wish of Nomira.

And she wanted to make this wish come true. For this reason, the girl began learning about food and the processes of cooking at a very young age. She tried out different things with the plants that were available to her. She tried baking and cooking.

And she was only too happy to present her finished works to her third idol. There was a Tyriuk who was always there for her. A person she looked up to and wanted to make incredibly proud.

Her big brother Malui.

The young man was a whole seven years older than her, but he looked after his little sister day after day. He comforted her when other children called her dreams nonsense. He started working as soon as he could to buy Nomira things she wanted. Clothes, music, even a PADD.

And Nomira wanted to do everything she could to eventually earn enough money to support both her brother and her parents. She dreamed of opening her own restaurant, which would be just as classy as Miss Harkem's. She wanted to serve her family delicacies every day. Steaks, pies, roasts – there were so many wonderful dishes that could be made from meat. And once Nomira made it to the top, her family would stay young and live forever.

But that would not happen.

It was a very special weekend and Nomira was looking forward to cooking her family an equally special meal. She had waited for hours outside Miss Harkem's restaurant and when she finally drove up in her elegant car to open her restaurant, Nomira had dared to go to her.

~

With trembling hands, the young Nomira handed her PADD to the restaurant owner, who was flanked by bodyguards.

"Excuse me, M-M-Miss Harkem. I-I don't want to disturb you for long, b-but may I show you my National Day recipes?"

Hope was reflected in Nomira's blue eyes, which were framed by large glasses.

The soft smile on Miss Harkem's lips as she took the PADD and looked down at it made Nomira's heart race. What would the woman say? Nomira was just some run-of-the-mill poor girl, after all. The Tyriuk girl’s throat tightened as she watched Miss Harkem nod slowly to herself.

"Very interesting." Green eyes met blue ones. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

The girl immediately straightened up, sticking out her chest.

"N-Nomira. Nomira Farie, ma'am."

The restaurant owner smiled and handed Nomira back her PADD. Slowly, the teenager's shoulders slumped and her hopeful look faded. Were the recipes that bad? Had she disappointed her idol and wasted her time?

"Nomira. A really beautiful name. So Nomira, your ideas sound very interesting and I love to see such ambitious young chefs, but have you ever cooked with meat?"

The girl shook her head sadly. She had often dreamed of it, but there hadn't been enough money.

"I see. Then let me make you a suggestion." Nomira's eyes widened when Miss Harkem suddenly put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. "My employees will deliver fresh meat to you today and you can conjure up one of these dishes for me. What do you think?"

Nomira's breath caught for a moment. Not a word would leave her mouth. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could hear it in her head.

Then she nodded. Slowly at first, then more and more eagerly. An enthusiastic grin crossed her face.

"Yes, ma'am! I'll be happy to do that!"

Miss Harkem smiled.

"Very nice. How big is your family, Nomira?"

"There are four of us. I have my parents and a brother, Miss Harkem."

Nomira was filled with pride at the thought of how she would tell her loved ones that she was allowed to cook for the great Miss Welisa Harkem. But the lady's next words only filled her with even more joy.

"Very well. Then we'll provide enough meat for you to cook for me and your family. After all, it's our national holiday. If this isn't the right day for good deeds, what is?"

Nomira thanked her idol again and again, having to restrain herself from hugging her effusively.

This would be the best day of her entire life.

~

"Please take good care of my creation. I want it to reach Miss Harkem in one piece, yes?"

The restaurant staff who had delivered the meat to Nomira accepted the wrapped food with a nod.

"We will."

"I'm sure Miss Harkem will get back to you if she likes it."

It didn't sound as if the big man thought his boss might actually like the dish, but Nomira didn't care. All that mattered was that she had cooked a nice meal with a big, juicy piece of meat for the first time in her life.

The restaurant staff drove away and Nomira was finally able to enter the dining room and get everything ready for dinner. She had told her parents and Malui not to come into the kitchen or dining room until she called them.

Nomira's heart overflowed with happiness as she looked at the table set before her. The wonderful aroma of the marinated, roasted meat caught her nose and the young girl's mouth immediately began to water. This was going to be the best holiday ever.

"You can come in!"

When the door opened and her family entered the room, Nomira's chest swelled. Surprised looks fell on the dining table. Tears welled up in her mother's eyes and a hand slid to her mouth.

"What-" Nomira's father also seemed unable to believe his eyes.

"Surprise! I present to you the Nomira special menu."

"But ... what ... how..." Mrs. Farie shook her head in disbelief.

Nomira's words almost tumbled over each other as she recounted what exactly had happened. How she had met Miss Harkem and how she had said that she could cook something.

"Oh Nomira, my wonderful angel. What a lovely surprise." Mrs. Farie wrapped her arms around her daughter and Mr. Farie also patted the youngest proudly on the shoulder.

"A true child prodigy."

Only one remained standing on the spot. The Tyriuk whom Nomira had wanted to impress the most. The person she wanted the most praise from.

When Mrs. Farie let go of her daughter and she could finally look at her brother, he just shook his head.

"Oh, sweet pea. I ... do you even know what you've cooked?"

"Malui," Mr. Farie said in a stern tone. He gave his son a hard look.

"What? Surely she must know the truth! She must know where this oh-so-great meat comes from."

Nomira couldn't help but flinch at her brother's angry voice. She tilted her head in confusion. She was fourteen years old. Of course she knew where meat came from. Her classmates had told her that early enough and teased her for believing that meat grew on trees.

Slowly, Nomira took a step forward.

"Malui, I know. I know where meat comes from. Creatures from outer space, from other worlds, that are weaker than our race are collected and slaughtered according to their species. Each creature tastes different and is special. Each of them helps us to stay young and beautiful forever."

She had read enough about it. She had studied it a lot. It was nothing unusual for her.

Malui only shook his head. His gaze was sad and serious. Slowly, he stepped up to Nomira and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"These creatures you're talking about are living beings. They think and feel. They have friends and families just like us. It is not right what is being done to them. We don't need meat to survive."

There was something in Malui's gaze that Nomira had never seen before. It was something that made her heart break.

Disappointment.

Malui was ... disappointed.

"But ... Of course we need it! We need it to grow old. We need it to never get ugly! Every one of us should eat meat every day. We are more important than any other living being!"

That's exactly why Nomira wanted to become just like Miss Harkem! To give her family what they deserved. To become rich and be able to experience the incredible pleasure of meat every day.

"You don't understand, sweet pea. You're not old enough to see how wrong and cruel it all is."

Nomira felt sadness and anger welling up inside her. How could her brother say something like that? How could he treat her like a little child when she was almost an adult? Tears filled her eyes and she gritted her teeth.

"The way our kind lives is not good. There are other ways of living."

"Stop it! Stop saying things like that!" Nomira could no longer contain her anger. She took a step back and pushed Malui away from her.

"Malui! Your sister is doing everything she can to give us the chance of a better life one day! How dare you not appreciate that!" Mrs. Farie gave her son a disapproving look.

"How can I appreciate something that causes others suffering? That's not possible for me." Malui shook his head before looking back at his little sister. "I really hope you understand some day. And I hope you see that there are better, more peaceful ways to live."

Nomira felt the hot tears making their way out of her eyes. She could not and would not understand why her brother was talking such nonsense.

Did he really want to die young? Did he want to age and slowly shrivel up like her grandparents before they died? That couldn't possibly be his wish.

"I was planning to tell you today anyway and now it seems more appropriate than ever. I have found a group that shares my views on the consumption of meat. We will set out together to find a place where we can live peacefully. A place that is better than this planet."

And in that moment when she heard those fatal words, Nomira's world collapsed.

Her brother, who had always been there for her. Her brother, whom she loved so much. Her brother who had been one of her idols. He would leave her. Abandoned to rot somewhere just because he didn't understand that meat was a wonderful commodity.

"Then you can pack your bags right now and get out of here. I never want to see you in my house again." Mr. Farie's gaze was cool and furious at the same time. He, too, could not believe that his son would voluntarily make such a decision.

"Fine. If that's how you feel, then that's what I'll do."

The last look her brother gave Nomira was filled with sadness and bitterness. A look that the young Tyriuk woman would never forget. A look that would forever be engraved in her soul.

And even the call from Miss Harkem and the news that she was delighted with Nomira's cooking skills and offered her a place as an apprentice as soon as she was old enough didn't help to make the day any better.

A big dream of Nomira's had finally come true. But what good was all that if she couldn't share it with her big brother?

[chloesimaginationthings]

William Afton into the FNAF-Verse is missing one more Afton...

(FNAF the Musical)

EVERYWHERE I GO I SEE HIS FACE…

[gingermintpepper]

So, one of the most interesting things that's come from my recent exercises in writing the Olympians as young deities is all of the very fun and somewhat painful conversations that come from the young deities acquiring and consequently settling into their domains.

Apollo and Artemis especially have been really fascinating under the microscope. They start off identically, with extremely similar interests and similar domains over the hunt and wilderness. They spend their days under the stars and foraging for fruit and dancing and singing in the fields, two rustic god-children exploring and learning together. Then Apollo goes off on his own to slay Python.

Now, a lot of things change when Apollo kills Python. That is the act which transforms the bow from a tool of survival and sport to an instrument of murder, bloodshed and ultimately war. It is Apollo's first act of wrath which separates him from Artemis - both spiritually because she has not yet shed blood herself as a goddess and physically because it leads to his exile. Most importantly however, the slaying of Python is the act that grants Apollo his knowledge.

If violence is what first separates Apollo from Artemis then it is knowledge which keeps them apart.

This can refer to a lot of things; that Artemis continued to be at home with the wild beasts of the forests and mountains while Apollo grew to prefer the domesticated sheep and cattle, that Artemis continued to avoid mortals while Apollo grew to know their ways and endeavoured to teach them more. The point that has been the most interesting to me however has been Artemis, who remains free of slaughter, and thus remains pure and Apollo, who becomes acutely and entirely too aware of it, and thus must be constantly purified.

Apollo's infatuation with medicine specifically is the place where this becomes most apparent. When he leaves for his exile to travel as a mortal, without nectar or ambrosia, without power, Apollo is without the privileges of the divine for the very first time. He sweats, he smells, he grows weary when he travels, he grows hungry and thirsty. He experiences fatigue and nausea, the fever of sickness, the chill of infection, the delirium of poison. The blood Apollo shed does not only make him impure spiritually, it strips him of the purity of his birth and station. Likewise, medicine is not a divine practice. What use do the unkillable immortals have for something as finicky as medicine when they have nectar and ambrosia? Apollo however, knows of the pains of the flesh and the suffering of the mortal coil. He pursues medicine in all its horrors and difficulties because of the knowledge he gained with blood.

Artemis then, cannot understand the medical Apollo. When her brother returns possessed by this spectre of ill-gained knowledge, she does not recognise him. Who is this boy who scores the deer and studies the shape of their intestines before he cooks them? What good is there in rescuing a chick with a broken wing? The Apollo-of-the-Wild in her memories would have done the correct thing and left the thing for dead - let the forest take what is its due. Who is this Apollo whose hands are always stained to the wrist in the blood and gore of the living? What is his fascination with the mechanics of mortal bodies? Artemis does not know and Apollo does not tell her.

That has, by far, been my favourite effect of the whole Python watershed moment to explore recently.

[geryone]

The Sorrow Festival, Erin Slaughter

[thebroccolination]

I think where I’m at right now with Thai BL is that the fandom as a whole has gotten so immensely mean-spirited and calculating that I find myself missing the fandom environment back during lockdown. So many of my friends from that time have since moved on and most of them point not to the actors or the series but to the malicious attitude of fans.

This whole place needs to lighten the fuck up.

We’re the Gay Hallmark fandom for fucking out loud.

[zebedeezing]

total drama island of the slaughtered game where you play as Sierra or Alejandro and have to keep Chris “safe” while he gets the survivors and you do the forensics and put the bodies on the boat up until the end- and the good ending is where you survive sans Chris like in canon, but the best secret ending is where you collect enough in the timed survival challenges, that you unlock the path to find and retrieve DJs body and put him on the boat. And because you got DJ too all the campers spirits slowly fade away when you leave, again sans chris. They have closure since everyone’s body is going home, and they can finally rest. Anyway may I take your order?

[imissmodernbaseball]

The Summer Ends by American Football // Wasted Summers by juju <3 // Frances Forever by Mitski // Snow by Ricky Montgomery // Summer Dress by Red House Painters // South Elroy by Maya Hawke // 104 Degrees by Slaughter, Beach Dog // Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens

[bonefall]

Can I hear more about Villain Thornclaw? The way you described him is a really cool take on his character.

He exudes a sense of detached ruthlessness, something happened and he just never got over it, most of the time he is a model warrior, but sometimes he says something or gives a cold look, and that hints just how much he is willing to do for his beliefs

The first warrior that Firestar named becomes his most insidious enemy.

He was too young to clearly remember Clawface snatching him and his little sister, but he does remember the way it became an early fixation. His favorite games were always reenactments and play fights, and his father Lionheart and kidnapper Clawface would be characters in them. He often would go too far and play rough, actually biting or scratching his playmate.

We, in the real world, may recognize this as a way kids often process trauma. But they don't have cat therapy here.

And quickly these fixations became unsettling. Brightkit didn't like these games, and their older siblings were disturbed. Frostfur reacted strongly and tried to intervene, but it didn't help the way they wanted.

He got good at hiding it, and he got better at finding other ways to express his fixation. He never knew Lionheart, but he DID know Grandma Speckletail, and she would tell him all about the ways he could be like his dad. When you don't know a person, they can be anything you want them to be.

Turns out if you dress up "I'm obsessively xenophobic of foreign cats and want to rip them to shreds" as "I will ferociously avenge my father and uphold his legacy," suddenly you're golden! It's that simple!

(it's almost like clan culture didnt actually value peace or kindness and just encourages you to channel ur violence towards specific ends)

Thornkit went from Grandma Speckletail to Mentor Mousefur, and she continued to cultivate this. There's a time and a place for aggression. Be good to your clanmates. Use words in camp, not claws. She made a good soldier out of him.

When ThunderClan had a reckoning with Tigerclaw and his ideology in TPB, during his coup, the line of thought that went through Thornpaw and the cats like him was that Tigerclaw was the problem. Who could have known! A shock! Sickening!

...for a while they were "better," devastated by his betrayal, more openminded. But minds don't always trend towards progress.

Eventually, Thornclaw backslid. Let's not throw out the kitten with the tonguewash, here. Yes yes, Tigerclaw was a damn traitor and a hypocrite, but there's worse cats to look up to, you can't deny his nobility, that some of his ideas were great for ThunderClan, that there were lofty ideals he merely took from our grand and glorious history and we can return to those days...

What is so terrible about being a thistle? To lash back when you are attacked? To defend the meadow for you and yours?

We can have Tigerclaw's good aspects without the bad, surely?

And Firestar...

You must understand it's nothing personal. Firestar's a fine cat, for a kittypet. There is no hate for him. But we can't have a leader who stops ThunderClan from engaging in honorable combat. The Clan has become too mixed, and he punished him simply for expressing his concerns. What other choice is there? To do nothing as the clans are destroyed from the inside out?

Bluestar brought wildfire to the forest, to burn it to the ground. Firestar is Thornclaw's natural enemy-- and so is every cat like him.

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[goofy-clan]

The lamb who herds the sheep.

[hummingbird-of-light]

June of Doom 2024 Day 23 (@juneofdoom)

23. “You’re doing great.”                        

| Trembling | Gaslighting | Rules |

~

James T. Kirk's body was trembling. He couldn't tell for sure what the reason was. Anger, exhaustion, fear – so many mixed emotions filled his body.

"You're doing great, honey."

That voice. He despised it. It was haunting him, day and night. And he knew that it would be the death of him.

As Jim watched the blood getting drained from his veins, his eyes were empty. It wasn't just his blood they took from him, but his life. With every drop the will to fight left him more and more.

"New orders coming in, ma'am. We need more wine."

Another voice he hated. This place was full of awful people. Jim just wanted them to die a horrible, cruel death.

"Just a second. The next flask is almost ready."

Long fingers ran through Jim's hair while the voice got closer to his ear.

"Your blood is worth a lot of money, sweetheart. I really hope that we can go on like this for a few more months before the slaughter."

Jim didn't say a thing. His body was far too weak for him to make a sound. All he could do was glare at the woman ... before he lost consciousness.

[felinecryptid]

hoooooooooo boy, tmagp 4 go-

this time its becoming apparent that there are some themes and clues that tmagp wants us to notice, the sections stand out, begging for attention

like the recurring theme of bones, and blood, and gore in general (it might be too soon to tell exactly what themes are leading to, but they are definitely there)

the violin could fit right in grifter's bone with it's affinity to music and violence

(the music feels aligned to circus over spiral or web

tho there are elements of the web what with the mind control, but i fear all fears possess a certain degree of control, as such

the violence feels more of the slaughter variety rather than the hunt, though you could make a valid argument for flesh as the words 'sacrifice', 'payment' and 'creature with needs and purposes of its own' do stick in mind

once again i do not think that tmagp follows the same format as the smirke's fourteen (or 15) , i merely use them as parallels to better explain what aspects of the episode sticks out to me (and for me refer back later on))

as other listeners have noted, another theme that tmagp in general follows, is 'obsession', rather than tma's 'fear'

i feel this is also paralleling (intentionally or not) the audience's own listening habits and motives

we first consumed the magnus archives for its content of horror

and yet we are back for the magnus protocol like we never left, and perhaps

we never did

the statement's first person pov depicts a truly horrific picture of the slaughter, of the violence that the violin demands

and his descriptions of the mania on the audience's faces too

it's eerily reminiscent of the france's dancing plague

enough about the statement, lets talk about my boy sam and his co-workers, and their workplace in general

there's a protocol surrounding the magnus institute? interesting interesting, very similar to the police division daisy and basira were part of, the unofficial supernatural division

is this like the civil servant version of such?

another thing that is interesting; how is freddy getting these statements incidents? like sam asked, how exactly does a letter from the 18th century end up in the system?

i don't think gwen's answer is satisfactory (and we weren't meant to either), sure someone might be updating the archives website for reasons unknown but rarely in magpod is something a dead end, every little thing is a clue, a small part of the larger picture

so how exactly does a letter from the 18th century is in freddy's system?

perhaps an 'avatar' or the equivalent (such people are suggested to exist in tmagp universe, like the tattooist from daria's statement)

or maybe the fears themselves manifest in phenomena that upload relevant content to freddy

colin my guy, still being iconic and not trusting tech, hats off to you, the only real character in the whole show

never trust any piece of technology older than paper

the video of lena that gwen got in the end? weird? yeah, fuck yes, but how did she even get it? is there any sort of personal communication available on the ancient system? why gwen?

i have so many questions and so many more thoughts, but this is already so long, im gonna write a separate post about tmagp so far, in general

[elementaskylos345]

Dread Within the Cabin

An Island of the Slaughtered fanfic

In an effort to seek temporary sanctuary from the torment of Wawanakwa Island and its restless and angered spirits, Chris McLean falls head first out of the kettle and into the fire.

|TW| firearms, disassociation |TW|

Chris slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily as he backed away from the door, eventually bumping into a workbench and leaning on it. His eyes flicked to look towards the busted window - wisps of thin light crept around the side closest to the door. All then fell silent.

The light then faded, leaving Chris alone. After at least a minute he finally let go of the breath he was holding, lightheadedness swimming in his skull.

“Fucking hell…” He murmured as he fell to the floor. He groaned and shifted himself, resting his arms on his knees, staring at the ground. His face was dirty, bruised, and cut while his hair was rugged and unkempt. He'd spent… two or so days lost and unable to find his team. Even where he knew they'd be, they weren't there. It's as if the island itself was keeping him away, tormenting him with spirits.

He left them here with a killer, he knew he did, but he was coming to save them now. Doing the right thing in the end is what matters, right? Like living a life of sin but turning to Christ - God will forgive.

He let out a stressed laugh. Then a chuckle. And then more laughter.

Chris didn't believe in God. But he was still right by coming here and rescuing the remaining teenagers. Hell, maybe after they all get through this he could do some interviews and finally get eyes back on him-

Chris jolted as a TV in the corner flicked on. Its screen was cracked and bloodied… as well as the cart it sat upon. He squinted as he slowly stood up and inspected it from afar, not daring to get any closer. It wasn't just blood that was on the TV there also seemed to be… hair… maybe a bit of flesh… on the corner. Chris felt sick to his stomach.

Death was all over this island now yet he hadn't grown numb to it. Maybe it was the constant terror, maybe it was his mind still not being caught up.

Through the static Chris saw… something. A face maybe? Glasses? He couldn't quite tell, not at this distance. The screen then turned off before flicking back on again. He tilted his head in confused suspicion, taking in the now clear image. It was an image familiar to him. A hint of nostalgia surrounding days in the arcade came to mind.

The familiar green vector graphics on that black background with the angular text. Battlezone. He'd spent far too long in the arcade playing this - it was very impressive back then. He snapped back to reality and to the fear he should be feeling. Chris squinted his eyes and slowly approached before stopping, looking out the window… he felt the need to block that off… he just felt eyes on him from over there. Be it Beth or Justin he didn't care either way he didn't want anyone looking at him without his knowledge.

So Chris took a few minutes to crudely cover the window with a nearby tarp, using a few nails quietly hammered into place to keep it up. It wouldn't last but it would do. As he stepped off of the ladder he nearly had a heart attack when he noticed the cart and TV had moved to be next to him. The ladder clattered to the floor in response to him practically jumping off of it. He took a moment to breathe, staring at the ominous mechanical box before him. The days old blood that lined the left side of the TV and pooled at its base made him uneasy.

Chris huffed as he finally gathered himself, more closely inspecting the TV while still not daring to lay a hand on it or the cart. The first thing he noticed was the atari controller sat gently on top of the box TV, inviting him to pick it up and begin playing. His eyes followed the cable downwards to the atari console. Then the consol plugged into the TV. All was well so far.

But the TV wasn't plugged in. It didn't have a cord to plug with and this shack currently had no power.

Chris shuddered at the realization. As if the situation couldn't get more supernatural. His eyes fell onto the controller and how it beckoned for him. It insisted. It was for him. He nearly picked it up… but hesitated. If he's going to be distracted he needs to be able to defend himself… that's partially why he came here in the first place - to arm himself.

So he left the TV and moved back over to the workbench. There were what you'd expect - hammers, saws, screwdrivers, the like… but there were also a few firearms. Hunting rifles and a shotgun. Damn. He'd forgotten to move them into his home before filming… or maybe this was one of the restricted shacks used for set building and such? It didn't matter now and he didn't care to remember. He just picked up a crowbar and walked back over to the TV to grab the controller.

…

“What am I doing?” He asked himself before stepping away. Yeah, what WAS he doing? He huffed. “Playing a clearly haunted game on an island full of ghosts that want to kill you, good job McLean.” he scolded himself before turning his back to the box and moving to the door.

The moment he laid his hand on the handle a sheer noise erupted from behind him, like the dying wails of a beast put through so many filters it came out like garbled static. He whipped around and swung the crowbar, wracking the TV right on its side with a resounding thud. He stared at the TV and the TV stared back, a faint static hum in the air. Sweat rolled down Chris’ brow as he swallowed the lump in his throat - he could swear he saw eyes behind those pixels.

He then noticed the missing controller. He eyed the surrounding area before realizing that the controller was at his feet… this spirit was no longer asking but demanding. He stared into the vector graphics for a moment before finally nodding in agreement.

“Alright… alright… I'll play.”

He shakily picked up the controller before gently pushing the cart back about a foot so he could sit with his back against the door and still see the screen. He was below the TV screen but he had no idea how long he'd be kept here so he might as well get comfortable. He laid the crowbar across his lap and pressed the button on the controller, starting the game of Battlezone.

Chris immediately noticed that the environment was off. A scene of distant mountains and green squares and triangles as obstacles was no more. The background was all but gone and the obstacles now resembled infinitely tall rectangles. Immediately the hair on the back of his neck rose but he nonetheless familiarized himself with the controls.

Not only had it been several decades since he last played but he was used to the arcade cabinet and not the atari version. The arcade cabinet had two joysticks that controlled the two treads of the tank the player drove, using the position of the two joysticks to determine how the tank moved. All that was now condensed into one joystick.

You'd think that would make it easier but all the skill he built up all those years ago was severely hampered. He turned his attention to the top left to see where the enemy tank would be.

[Enemy is to th rigleft]

[Enemy in rangeft]

[Enemy is to the lefange]

[Enemy ]

That was very helpful. His eyes went back to the battleground. He began to scan the area to his left, deciding that maybe the word left showing up in most of the messages might’ve meant something. The background scrolled as he turned, revealing more of the nothing and nonsensical line placements. He also saw more infinitely tall rectangles… but no enemy tank. He also didn't hear any missiles coming. So he continued spinning.

The radar feed in the top left continued to spit out nonsensical garbage as he turned. As he spun around to the right he could finally see some geometry that made sense - a large mountain off in the distance, much like the one on Wawanakwa. He'd now scanned the entire area and still didn't see the enemy tank and his nerves were at a fever pitch. He took a moment to look at his surroundings to see if perhaps all of this was a distraction.

Then he heard the sound of something firing in the game. He jolted and began reversing and his eyes snapped back to the screen, hoping he was being shot from the side. He witnessed the bullet whiz, by the front of his tank. He sucked in some air and began to strafe to the left - where the bullet came from. More bullets flew past the front of his tank. As he continued to strafe he began to dread more and more what the enemy tank might look like, unable to tell if horrifying vector graphics would look better than… whatever else might show up here.

It was a slow process but he eventually moved backwards enough to see the enemy at the left side of his screen. It was a lot tamer than he was expecting as it was just a corrupted tank model. That being said, considering how simple the graphics are this felt like an abomination from hell.

Nonetheless he was still in a terrible position. Like first person shooters after it, in Battlezone you can only fire from the center of the screen. The enemy was to the left. Not good.

Thankfully, he hadn't fired once in this whole process and there's a firing delay, about half a second. It'd be tight but he might be able to turn the tank after the enemy fired and hit it before it can shoot him. It's far more likely he'd die but it was worth a shot. He then backed into an obstacle and died. He blinked. He forgot that could happen.

Once he respawned he turned to the right and saw the corrupted enemy model. He made sure there were no obstacles in the way before lining up the shot and fired. However, the enemy moved out of the way. He hummed and moved forward to make chase. Now that he was in the prime position he was able to close the distance and destroy the enemy, causing the enemy “tank” to explode into corrupted vector chunks.

With his death and the death of the enemy tank leading to no horror brought him some comfort. A small part of him considered that maybe this spirit just really wanted to play some Battlezone. So, the back and forth continued. Playing against an intelligent being was certainly very different from playing against ai. There was even a moment of peace where the two of them “danced” by driving forward and reversing rapidly before continuing the battle. It was… nice.

After constant torment this moment of peace and, honestly, fun was refreshing. He'd almost forgotten the danger he was in, the nostalgia and newfound comfort in the game lulling Chris’ anxieties.

Honestly, after a while, he was convinced that this spirit - who he figured was probably Harold - just wanted someone to play with. It was so strangely wholesome… though, he should probably leave soon. He'd lost track of the time and still had to find out how to get back to his crew.

But he just couldn't pull himself away from the game, enthralled by the activity, he and Harold now trying to see if they can shoot each other's projectiles.

Shoot

Shoot

The image of one of the hunting rifles popped into his mind, almost as if he was looking at it at that moment. He blinked, a fuzzy feeling filling his mind, causing him to lift his thumb off of the controller and stop all movement in game. He groaned and rubbed his eyes… his hands felt full… like a weight was in them. He looked down at the controller then past the TV to the dark environment around him. It suddenly didn't feel real.

He rubbed his eyes again and shook his head, fully dropping the atari controller. What the hell was going on? He felt detached from himself and from the things around him, like he was floating in a void. He looked back to the screen only to be met with the barrel of the enemy tank, his eyes half lidded and confused. He waited for the tank to shoot.

Shoot

Shoot

Chris blinked into awareness, his body once again feeling like his own. He was standing in front of the workbench, staring at the ceiling. He furrowed his brow and looked around to catch his bearings. Everything was as he left it - tarp on the window, tools displaced from his rummaging, haunted TV in front of the door to the outside… but one of the hunting rifles was missing. He looked down at his hands, quickly dropping what was held within them.

Well, he found the rifle. He was holding it to himself, clearly with harmful intentions. Chris just stood there for a moment to catch his breath. How close was he to death just now? Was Harold just toying with him?

After a moment he steeled his gaze with a huff before turning to leave. He grabbed the cart with the TV and thrust it aside, just barely throwing the TV to the ground. Turns out he'd lost at some point while he was hallucinating. Chris waved his hand dismissively towards the box and picked up the crowbar before leaving, slamming the door behind him.

As he left he reminded himself that he was doing the right thing. He was saving who was left. The police were here combing the island for the killer. This anger was justified - maybe - but his conscience would be clear. These spirits would NOT kill him.

They would NOT be the end of him.

He refused to die on this island.

[prettyboyjohnny]

you dont even care about his little gift from grandpa?

[cassandragemini]

a few weeks back me and some friends talked about adding werepandas to my werebear lore and i realized i had a untapped comedic goldmine

[enjoljeacharlichele]

No, but how can it be a choice for Odysseus? How can he possibly not choose to go home, when to do so he has seen hundreds of his friends die, has renounced his principles - which he defended in the face of a goddess - and has killed people in their beds, a child?

What Zeus gives is not a choice and he says so. It's just a quicker way to get to a set course of action