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ice-magician · 5 years ago

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With Your Conscience As Your Guide

I made another AU off of the amazing AU @spaceiplier! (Go check them out if you don’t know who they are). Last time I did one for Matt, so now I’m doing one for our bud Nate from NateWantsToBattle (and if you don’t know who he is. Youtube.Go.Now.) The first part takes place before the events of Icarus, but soon brings you to our current screaming state. Another possible title for this was ‘The Price of Living’, but I landed on this one since his look is based heavily on the Puppet (conscience, Pinnochio, get it? ;) I have thoughts for a part 2, but idk...) BTW- sentence italics are thoughts, in case someone’s unfamiliar with this writing style. Enough stalling, here it is.

Five years ago

A quarantine- that’s what everyone had been told. For the benefit of the people, Atria was under a strict quarantine. Every known Atrian had been required to return to their home planet. All known Atrian homes were swarming with GAAP agents.

The people were given masks, air secure pods, GAAP’s “deepest condolences for the inconveniences”, and were booted back to Atria. A quarantine bubble was created to cover the entire circumference of the planet, immediately muting the song she sent to off worlders. Atrians didn’t carry some unknown, deadly disease. Atrians weren’t a threat to anyone or anything more than other citizens. Atrians were musicians; they were doctors.

As long as beings could strike a tune, music has been related to the soul. Certain melodies affect how people feel and react. Ordinary musicians can give audiences highs and lows with simple beats, for Atrians even more so. An Atrian’s music flows through the very souls and minds of their audiences.

As scientists linked music to brain activity, many Atrians found their way into the field of medicine. Simple strikes of a guitar could eradicate a tumor, and a complete song rose the deathly ill out of their beds. Atrian music had enough power to heal many of the galaxy’s complex diseases, and it scared GAAP. So, they locked the musicians up, claiming their healing energy had begun to emit deadly radioactive material.

With Atrians gone, medical advancements came to an abrupt halt. Viruses evolved. People needing an Atrian’s precise hand could no longer go under with a 100% guarantee that they would awake in a stable state of mind. No matter what people tried, nothing matched an Atrian’s abilities. Through it all, GAAP never budged on lifting the “quarantine”.

No, there was no disease. Atria had been sealed up because GAAP was afraid. Afraid of what Atrians were capable of. They were afraid of what might happen should the planet ever find the skeletons in GAAP’s closet. They were right to be afraid.

Closing off Atria wasn’t just to keep everyone in, either. Atria’s core is one of a kind. Above ground, she sings and dances to the energy created by her people. The further down ventured, the richer, and older the layers’ energy becomes. The lifesongs of any who live, and lived, on Atria flow through her veins, giving all inhabitants the energy they need to make the music required to survive. Finally, the core of the planet. A beautiful crystal sphere with the power of ten blazing suns. Pulsating with life, the sphere once reached into her world, to her people amongst the stars with crystals of their own.

When GAAP closed off Atria, offworld Atrians began to lose their power, their very energy. Any Atrian who managed to avoid GAAP would be forced to scavenge for their own energy sources. They needed energy to make their music, and their music to live. Music is like sleep to Atrians. Take it away, and the consequences are devastating. Atrians refusing to return home found their calm nature turn into something twisted; mangled into beings beyond recognition as they fought to live.

Nate reclined in his cushioned chair. Red light from fake windows made his black velvet vest almost appear to shine, the red button up underneath the color of blood. Black hair slicked back, black eyeliner, porcelain makeup, and an ornate cane. He really was working the part. An anxious customer sat before his desk.

A kid, late teens, probably. Poor thing’s legs were bouncing up and down so fast Nate was sure one would spring off. The boy’s skin was completely white, almost to the point of glowing. The only color was his practically neon green eyes, and matching green hair. Stark white, with eyes and hair of the same color- a Danacan. He wrung his hands, eyes affixed to the floor.

“So, you’re saying,” the boy began, “if I give you some of my energy, you’ll help me?”

Four tumors, that was how many the boy had left in his body after five medical extractions. The things just wouldn’t stop growing. Over the last two months, the monsters had become more aggressive; all had begun to converge on his brain. Doctors had given up hope on saving the boy’s life, and no one else would see him. Everyone believed he was a lost cause. When sayings like “lost cause”, or “no hope” arise in situations, people find themselves in places never before imagined. For instance, the underground shop of a mysterious healer.

“Look, kid.”

“Dan, my name is Dan.” The boy, Dan, offered a sad smile, for once looking up from the floor.

Poor kid. Nate knew he was Dan’s last hope. The medical field had failed him, so he had turned to a shady (but effective) businessman. It was too bad that Nate couldn’t offer his work for credits.

“Okay, Dan.”

Nate twirled his cane in his hands. The ornate rod held a perfectly sculpted crystal ball- Atrian crystal. Energy swirled inside in mesmerizing summersaults. If songs didn’t entrance you, Atrian energy certainly would. Stare long enough, and the orb’s bottled energy would be the center of your attention, the outside world no longer a bother. It was no wonder people mistook Atrians for workers of dark arts in older times.

Nate silently stood from his chair. His shoes didn’t make a sound as Nate glided towards a wooden shelf full of mysterious objects. Vials, scales, clouded jars, a small wooden box that flowed as a semisolid. Quite an impressive collection of mysterious trinkets Nate had assembled.

Nate spoke to Dan, “Life energy removal is no small matter, Dan. Your condition is serious. Doctors, nurses, therapists, they have all failed you...”

Nate spun on his heels, dramatically half sitting on the bottom shelf while leaning on his cane. A smile curled on his lips, white teeth shining, his eyeliner making his eyes’ devilish twinkle more pronounced, “... which brought you to me.”

Dan nodded. He was trying to look brave, but the flicker in his form quickly erased his false bravado. Desperation, nervousness, and a small sliver of hope. Nate could practically see an aura of energy radiate from Dan.

“Well, my dear friend,” Nate plucked a blue vial from behind his back, “you’re in luck.”

Dan’s eyes widened, “What is it?”

Nate gazed at the sparkling liquid. He held it at his eye level, showing its worth. The room’s red light made the glass glimmer more than it already did.

“This, dear boy, is what you came here for.”

Nate strode back to his desk. He slipped Dan the liquid. Its light danced in the boy’s eyes, but there was something more there. Dan held the vial so carefully, as if moving might break it. Hope; Dan believed the mystery serum would help him. Perfect.

“How much do you need? E-energy, I mean.”

Nate idly sat on the corner of his desk. He tapped his cane to his chin, pretending to think.

“Hmm… four months? Yeah, four months sounds good. Four months of life energy for a cure.”

Nate smiled. He pointed his cane at Dan, “What do ya say?”

Dan looked from Nate to the vial, then back to Nate, “I- I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on, kid! Four months in trade for a cure? It’s nothing! You won’t even need further medical hands for the formula to work. You take it, you go home, get rest, later you find that you’ve been cured. It’s a miracle!”

Nate threw his arms into the air, and winked for good measure.

Dan sighed, “Will it hurt?”

“Not one bit, kid.”

The boy nodded, “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”

“Brilliant!” Nate patted Dan’s shoulder, causing him to flinch, “I knew you’d make the right choice. Just let me get everything set up.”

Nate quickly plucked the vial from Dan’s hand, “Here, hold my cane, will ya? I need both hands for this.” He patted Dan’s shoulder again, and turned to more equipment at the back of the shop.

The boy was still in the same position he had been in moments before, “Wait, what? How-?”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Nate pretended to fiddle with assorted props, “Just hold my cane. Mind checking if it needs polishing? I keep forgetting that.”

“But, I, what… about…”

Nate counted down in his head, Three, two, one.

Nate turned around to a familiar sight. His customer sat rigid at his desk, intently facing forward and holding the cane. From where he stood, Nate could see Dan’s expression trapped in his crystal, dead to the world. All was as it should be. Nate placed the fake liquid cure back on its shelf, along with the other props and knick-knacks he had accumulated over the years.

He tapped an obscure code into the wall. There was a click, and a part of the wall slid open, revealing a sleek blue electric guitar. A giddiness arose in Nate that only came with the excitement of performing. He hungrily plucked the instrument from its hideout.

Nate leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and played. The words weren’t prepared, they never were in those situations, they just came to him like a calm breeze. The air in the room stilled. It was as if everything, possibly even the world itself, had stopped to listen.

When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The hair’s on Nate’s arms stood on end from the dancing white sparks. The guitar’s strings shined and vibrated from the force of his music. Everything was in a shimmering, twisting, beautifully chaotic state of raw energy. He took in a deep, satisfied breath.

Nate strode back toward the frozen Dan. Leaning down in front of him, he could see the boy’s eyes were glazed over, completely fixated on the Atrian orb. His mouth was still open mid sentence.

Nate quickly retrieved his cane from Dan’s grasp. Holding it high above his head, Nate focused on the exact amount of energy he needed. Being drawn in by some unseen force, clusters of Dan’s life energy swam into Nate’s crystal. Four months of energy, to be exact.

Most of the energy was stored into the orb, but a few crackling tendrils coursed down the cane and into Nate’s arm. Energy shot through his veins in twisting lanes. They rocketed upwards to his heart, vocal cords, and face. Finally, Nate felt the cracking parts in his being begin to mend. Lightning bolts of life restored what was crumbling in Nate’s mind. For a while, at least, the energy would keep him whole.

Rendezvous were almost always in public places. With plenty of people, a scene would cause many heads to turn. It gave the customers a sense of security. Of course, while large crowds can be an advantage, it’s easy to get lost in them. A whirlpool of chattering, towering skyscrapers with various programs, and news sprawling across their surfaces. A cry for help would be a soundless scream into a deaf void.

Nate drove Dan to meet his friends. After customers’... operations… they were disoriented, sluggish, their minds easily bent to believe, or forget, certain details. Nate played the role of the customer’s chauffeur; an employee of the mystery healer. With patrons never truly remembering his face upon recollection, he earned the street name of “Phantom”. It was cheesy, but in a good way.

Nate the Chauffeur always wore a mask to meet ups, his cane in the guise of an umbrella. It was a rusted-looking bronze, and covered his entire face. Anywhere else he would have drawn attention, but he was in the center of a bustling metropolis. A rainbow of different colored individuals, all with different shades of hair, numbers of limbs, and amounts of facial features clustered together in a flowing broom of passersby. No one batted an eye.

Only one customer was allowed in Phantom’s shop, but the customer could decide who took them home. Phantom Nate being the one to drive patrons home was too risky, for both him and his clients. A mystery man dropping you off at your doorstep was bound to raise neighbors’ eyebrows. No, instead he created the persona of Phantom’s masked driver. Pretending to be someone that he wasn’t had become disturbingly easy for Nate ever since he became a lone wolf.

Half the city’s skyscrapers were broadcasting on their windows’ holoscreens. Reruns of popular shows, advertisements, statistics on people’s income and more all flashed in erratic motions in the square. Behind him, Nate caught sight of a familiar face. He was on his independent news/theory show, cracking bad jokes at the camera. Nate’s heart sank. When was the last time he had even seen Matt and Steph, in person, of course? Too long, for sure. As long as they were on screen, though, Nate knew they were okay.

Behind his mask, Nate smiled.

Well, at least one of us is doing alright.

“You better not be bullshitting us.”

Dislodged from his thoughts, Nate sighed, “Phantom doesn’t “bullshit” his clients.”

Dan had two friends, both teen Danacans, pick him up. One was a timid, shorter boy with gray hair pulled into a ponytail. The other was rather vocal, with a purple mohawk. He stood before Nate with stubbornly crossed arms, and an irritated look.

Mohawk sneered, “Yeah? Well where is he?”

Ponytail, who was struggling to hold up Dan in his groggy state, shot Mohawk a warning look.

“Come on, we’ve got Dan. Let’s just go.”

So, you’re the voice of reason in the group? Nate thought.

“You should listen to your friend. Give him a few weeks of recuperation, and he’ll be alright.”

Mohawk stared at Nate, trying to pick any information he could off of Nate’s unreadable appearance. Good for him. Always question the motives of others, especially in Nate’s line of work. Mohawk opened his mouth to say something, when one voice rose above the others.

“As many of you know, I try my best to diverge from political topics....”

Nate, and half the street, turned to the nearest news- broadcasting skyscraper. Trillions of pixels made the image of a brown haired man in front of a holographic screen. The spokesman was facing the camera, eyes practically burning with anger.

Matt, what are you doing?...

“Moments ago the planet Atria’s quarantine bubble was rocked with a massive explosion.”

An image appeared behind him- Atria. A rock lodged itself in Nate’s throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Atria; he had been off world when the quarantine was announced. The Atria on the screen he barely recognized. GAAP’s quarantine shield made seeing the planet’s surface hazy; what marked the planet that day wasn’t able to be covered up. A giant scorch mark blemished the quarantine’s western hemisphere. Smoke was traveling fast underneath where the explosion made contact. Someone on ground had nuked the sphere. Without thinking, Nate took a curious step forward.

Matt ran a hand through his hair- a tick, something he did while thinking, “Before the quarantine… good friends of mine were Atrian.”

Nate could practically feel Matt looking at him.

“I have overlooked many of GAAP’s actions, but Atria is my home’s twin planet. For five years now Atrians have been cast aside, out of view. What did we do? We didn’t question it. Atrians are not a violent race, but people are capable of anything in order to survive.”

Matt walked closer to the camera, so close that all you could see was from his shoulders up. An expression unlike any Nate had seen crossed Matt’s face. Anger? Determination? A bit of both? The wheels were visibly spinning in Matt’s eyes.

“I will be visiting Ahtret’s satellite station as soon as I can. If any GAAP agents wish to meet and offer a feasible explanation, that is where I will be, but I will not let this stand. That will be all for today.”

And just like that, the building’s screens went dark. Half of the formerly bustling street was staring up, mouths agape in disbelief.

What was he thinking? Maybe that was it- he wasn’t. Years of not knowing what had happened to his sister planet, subsequently his own, and his friends, had finally pushed the Theorist to defiance. Part of Nate was proud of him, another felt guilty, and the last mortified. Matt might have been doing it for Atria, but Nate could tell he was doing it for him. Nate hadn’t contacted him since the quarantine. Matt probably thought he was dead, or down the broken path for survival. Most likely the latter.

“Damn”, a voice from behind- Mohawk, “if it’s enough to get Theory guy to cover it…”

He stopped, a devious twinkle in his eye. Mohawk turned to his friend, who was losing his grip on the drowsy Dan.

“Do you think this is the start of a space war?”

The smaller boy’s eyes widen in fear, “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, he doesn’t cover it unless it’s serious, right?”

“Space War? But dat’s just a theeory. A space theory!” Drugged Dan booped his friend on the nose.

Nate awkwardly cleared his throat, “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off.”

They weren’t listening.

“Oh, come on, Hosuh! Don’t you want a laser gun?”

“... Stephen, I don’t even trust you to use a butter knife!”

“Nah, nah, nah. Knives are too informal for war.”

“Space war, pew peeww….”

Nate left as quickly as possible.

Two left turns, one right, one left, in through a bakery shop, out the side door, and the twists continue. Nate had truly mastered the art of avoiding capture, but that night his mind was elsewhere. He took the beginning twists and sharp corners, however, somewhere in the mess of crowded concrete and a cluttered head, Nate found himself far off his beaten path.

The sun had nearly set. He was on alone, one way street, apartments hugging the road. With an exasperated sigh, Nate slid to sit on the sidewalk. The glow from his cane/umbrella’s orb beat like a steady heart. He willed the orb to diminish its shine. A sweaty mask would do him no good if his umbrella was glowing suspiciously through the dark.

Nate thought back to earlier, the drop off, a moment that was supposed to be like any other closing for a client. Returning the customer just a formality, an act of humanitarianism on his part. If he wanted, Nate could let his clients wander outside of his shop, confused, gullible, their minds easily influenced. No, instead he went out of his way to ensure he maintained a clean image for his business.

All had gone well. He had his music, his energy, and the customer was satisfied. Then, disaster struck. The screens broadcasted his friend’s face to everyone. Matt’s determined expression, of utter disdain. He was walking a dangerous line.

Matt had always been so guarded with his information. When they spoke so long ago, even Nate had been unsure of everything Matt knew. His team was brilliant, one of the best in the galaxy, but did they know enough? Were they ready for GAAP? Call him crazy, but Nate doubted their ability to take on an intergalactic entity.

“Um, excuse me?” a male voice called from behind.

Nate started to turn, then thought better of it. His mask, he was still wearing the mask. In a city crowd, no one would care, but he didn’t have the luxury of apathetic passersby. He was practically in the suburbs, the close-knit part of town where everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everything.

Nate cleared his throat. He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and readjusted his mask.

“Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be on my way.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s completely dark.”

There was an edge to his voice. He suspected Nate of something, as he should. A stranger idling on your street is something to take note of.

“Oh, nothing. Just got lost. You know how easy it is.” Nate tried to offer a lighthearted chuckle. The man did not reciprocate.

Part of him itched to reach into his coat pocket for the holo-guitar. A small, square object that would instantly project a holographic electric guitar. A few strums would be all he needed to calmly send the man back inside, but no. Survival instincts overthrew his desire to play. All that was needed was a cool retreat into the night.

“Anyway, goodnight, si-.”

Suddenly, Nate felt the muscles in his back tense up like taught guitar strings. Then came the electricity. It felt like the culmination of his entire being was on fire. His muscles started spamming. Nate hit the ground hard as he was sent into seizing convolutions. His mask flew off his face, bouncing until it stopped face down on the concrete, just like its owner.

A cloth was wrapped too tightly around Nate’s mouth. He had lost all use of his limbs. Nate was a rag doll on a side street in the middle of nowhere. His cane. Where was his cane?!

“... mask and a cane. Can’t miss him!”

Wait, who was talking?

A hand reached forward, and pulled down his sleeve. He felt utterly exposed. His veins glowed white in the dark of night, the energy from before still being fully absorbed. It took time for foreign energy to adapt to its new host, sometimes hours, sometimes days.

The sudden reveal of his unique biology caused his attacker to pause, “What are you?” he whispered.

Someone who’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t back the hell up!

Of course, rendered immobile, Nate couldn’t say these things. He was unable to protest as the attacker shrugged off his surprise, and inserted a needle into his arm. He was unable to object when the man examined his mask, then staggered back at the markings it had covered. He couldn’t call out for help as his mind went numb, and the world went dark.

The shop wasn’t as busy as usual. Nate was calmly fixing the newest guitar. He twisted the knobs on the once broken guitar. A simple job, really, but not to modern people. Sadly, Nate found that he was one of the few true music shops around in his town.

Nate struck a few chords. A soothing rhythm flowed forth. It was perfect, all fixed. Nate smiled to himself. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a perfect instrument. As he expertly polished the wooden surface, Nate glanced around. Guitars, electric and acoustic, hung for sale behind him. Various woodwinds remained silent on their stands across from him. The drums in the back waited for someone to strike a beat.

He bit his lip, and glanced down at the guitar. Its newly shining surface beamed back at him, almost in a mocking way. Nate gave the front door a sideways glance. The customer wasn’t supposed to return for another hour. Truly testing out the refurbished work would just be a part of the job, right? Ah, screw it. Nate slung the cleaning rag over his shoulder, and left the glass checkout counter. As he had left it, the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign was still on the door.

Paranoid, he chided himself.

Nate lifted the beautiful instrument off the counter, and rested it on his leg. Outside, the setting sky of Atria wavered with spirals of blue and gray. Music glided through the streets, lifting up on the wind and flowing to all waiting ears. Such a tangible thing, Atrian music.

You didn’t need to see it to know that somewhere a celebration was underway. That was simply the way of Atria. Her energy met every soul, filling them to contentment. Nate closed his eyes, and smiled. He drifted into his music.

Nate wasn’t sure how long he had been entranced. When he opened his eyes the store was swimming with crackling white energy. The guitar’s strings shone and vibrated from the power of his music. Everything was shimmering, and twisting in beautiful chaotic swirls of Nate’s music.

He took in a deep, satisfied breath. Nate put the instrument down, and watched as Atria’s tangible energy danced across the store. It did tangos and ballets to the beat of whatever was playing outside. A large portion of the sparks concealed into a twisting mass. Without warning, the ball launched at Nate, sending him flying off his chair. He hit the wall, the guitar slid several feet away. Nate touched the tender spot, and recoiled from pain. The mass jerked from side to side, writhing, unsure of what form to take.

“What the hell?”

More and more energy was consumed by the mysterious bundle, each spark making its glow brighter. Nate shielded his eyes, and staggered to his feet. He felt the heap watching him as he hugged the wall, inching towards the door.

His hand was on the knob, ready to make a mad dash, when a massive weight knocked him in the gut. Glass and sparks flew in Nate’s vision. His body crashed into the concrete with a concerning “crack!”. Nate tried to get up, but he could no longer see; the orb had grown to completely swallow his vision. It felt like the light was absorbing Nate’s entire being. He let out a gut-wrenching scream.

His head hit the concrete again, but this time it was smooth and cold. Sparks danced behind his stone eyelids. Nate’s body burned with pain. Had someone reached into his body, pulled every muscle out, then sewed him back together? If so, they did a sloppy job. It didn’t feel like his hands moved when Nate called them to action.

Slowly, through the cotton in his ears, Nate began to make out human voices. They were all around him, fading in and out, whispering back and forth.

“Is he awake?”

Spoken in a normal voice, but it felt like the person shouted. Nate cringed from the growing migraine in his head.

“I believe so.”

“That guy really did a number on him, huh?”

Who was talking? What was going on? Curiosity won over pain in the end. Groaning with effort, Nate slowly lifted his head. At first, all he saw were a few blurry figures in a dark room. When his vision cleared all he wanted to do was run.

Nate was in a small room, handcuffed to a holotable, no cane to be found. Four people were in front of him. A man and a woman sat across from him, and behind them stood two very alert, very armed guards, GAAP guards.

Well, shit.

Sitting down, the woman was taller than the man by a few good inches. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, blouse immaculate and pressed. She had full brown eyes, so it was impossible to read her emotions. Her body posture was so rigid Nate was positive that it hurt. Her hands were clasped calmly on the blue, glowing table.

The man’s appearance was exactly the same- neat to the point of impurity. A button up green uniform, thick black mustache, and cold green eyes. His demeanor was more relaxed than the woman’s. The man sat a little more slouched backwards in his chair. The man knew exactly where he was and exactly what was about to happen.

A smug smile tugged at his lips. He held up a small device, “Shock collar. Jolted you pretty fast from dreamland. Hate to interrupt your slumber, princess.”

He twiddled the device, as if it weren’t something that could violently wreck Nate’s neck. Wherever Nate was, there was a good chance that the man was in charge. He was clearly sadistic, and didn’t look like he would be stopping soon; unease bound itself to Nate. He needed out.

The woman spoke up, “Hello, Mr. Sharp. It is Sharp, isn’t it?”

Nate didn’t move, and not just because every molecule hurt. He refused to give these people any kind of satisfaction from his response. GAAP didn’t own him, they didn’t own his people, even if they thought they did. Silence was a counterattack to their pretentious attitude.

A couple of words was all he needed. They had a shock collar, but he could deal. The last time hadn’t been too bad, in retrospect. Nate could subdue them, get his cane, and break out. Underground, deeper this time, maybe even another galaxy? Nihill was the opposite of desirable, but its streets were so crowded that one Atrian could surely make a little nook for themselves. His mind was already searching for the right words to the melody that would release him.

A spark of pain shot through his vocal chords, similar to the jolt from his dream, but stronger. Nate howled in pain. Tears rushed to his eyes while the pain spread up and around his entire neck. He instinctively reached for the injured area, but his hands were still cuffed. Across the table, the smirk hadn’t left the man’s face.

“The brace around your neck is restricting your vocal chords. You may talk, but a single hum will cause an electrical shock. Similarly, if you do not talk, there will be another shock. Each time you do not cooperate, the voltages will increase,” the woman explained.

A grin of deep satisfaction spread across the general’s face, “What she means is simple- you’re our little puppet.”

Nate hadn’t noticed before, but there was something looped around his neck. A metal, light, but a little heavier, and near his voice box.

Nate sighed, “Nice accessory. I didn’t know GAAP was into kinky stuff now.”

The man squinted his eyes. He looked about ready to shock Nate again.

“My name is Marxca. I am apart of the intergalactic crime division of GAAP.”

Marxca shot the man a look, pushing him to an introduction of his own. He sighed, and put down the remote.

“General Jobs. I am the overseer of illegal galactic crimes, and suspicious people.” He pointed a finger at Nate, “That means you.”

Marxca typed on the table. Images instantly sprung up. A birth certificate, his high school diploma, the names of family and friends. Nate’s entire life was being presented to him through an interrogation room hologram. Thankfully, they only had one recent photo- him in the metal mask, hiding the deep, purple Atrian markings that ran like thick tear trails from his eyes. No mentions of his clients, or workshops appeared anywhere on the screen.

“A few weeks ago, we received an anonymous caller informing us about a suspicious man in a mask,” General Jobs said, “but by the time we got there you were long gone. But thanks to that, we had a photo on you to go by. Of course, with a mask like that, we figured you were a criminal. We searched there, and the surrounding cities, until a certain civilian managed to trick you with a taser. Imagine our surprise to find that you weren’t just a crook- you were an illegal Atrian.”

Nate ground his teeth, “I haven’t committed any crime other than living!”

Jobs reached for the remote again, but Marxca stopped him. She typed again, and the images receded. Unlike before, Nate could see her clearly now. She was GAAP, they both were, and GAAP wanted him gone, but where? Back to Atria? No one could get in or out of the planet. Even if he could, with God knows what happening on the surface, Nate wasn’t sure he wanted to. So, where did that leave Nate?

“Exactly what charges are you holding me here for? Being Atrian, is that it? Because of your fake-.”

Time stopped. Nate felt his heart pounding in his ears. None of the people, no one in the room, was wearing radiation protection. Even basic GAAP soldiers wore some kind of protection, the minimum being masks. Everyone in the room- the agent, the general, the two guards, they weren’t protected by anything. Nate knew that the Atrian cover up was deep; it left only a few of the higher ups aware of the truth. If the people surrounding him weren’t basic GAAP agents and police, then who was he dealing with, and how afraid should he be?

“You cannot return to Atria, you know that, Mr. Sharp. However, this doesn’t have to mean jail time.”

Jail time. Oh, God, if someone found an Atrian in jail what would they do? Kill him out of fear? Would the guards muzzle him for the duration of his stay (life, presumably)? Nate wouldn’t just be a fish out of water- he would be a fish on the chopping block, ready to be made into old-fashioned sushi.

“What would be the other option?”

General Jobs grew a wide smirk.

“Then,” Marxca said, “you would work for General Jobs and his scientists. You would help them create new weapons.”

All the blood in Nate’s veins turned to ice, “New… weapons?”

“Yes.” Marxca reached below her seat, and retrieved an old friend. Nate’s one constant, the only thing keeping him alive was right in front of him, in a GAAP agent’s hands. A rag covered the orb, but just being within close proximity to it breathed life into Nate. His body involuntarily took in deep breaths of air. Energy from his previous client, and leftovers from others, sat within the beautiful crystal. The inside swirled as a storm, sometimes energy flashed like lightning in a bottle. Nate wanted it. He needed it. He needed to live. General Jobs chuckled, jolting Nate out of his daze. Only then did he realize that he had leaned so far forward, that he was out of his seat.

“What would you need me to do?”

“Sing for us.” her response was immediate.

Nate blinked in complete shock, “I’m sorry?”

Marxca examined his cane, the orb in particular, “The universe is expanding, Mr. Sharp. New dangers are arising, and we need people to be prepared. So, you can sing, play instruments, whatever you have to. You will create bombs imbedded with the energy that is held inside of this.” She pointed to his crystal.

Nate couldn’t believe his ears. Work for GAAP? Create weapons through his music? It was all so crazy, so beyond impossible, but that’s what made it a GAAP idea.

“You’re joking, right? You- you can’t just recreate Atrian energy! Our music is something we’re born with. It’s apart of our biology!”

Marxca nodded in sad understanding. She took back his cane.

“I see, Mr. Sharp. Atrian music is a part of you, yes? Well, I guess it’s Mr. Jobs’ turn to take over.”

Marxca stood from her seat, and with it a deep sinkhole in Nate’s chest.

“Wait, where are you going?”

She shrugged, “Isn’t it obvious? You say music is your biology. If that is the case, then I suggest that General Jobs’ scientists start working.”

No words, there were no words that came out of Nate. Plenty were locked inside, exploding, reemerging and creating in a mad cyclone of unbelief. Nothing in him could properly connect the dots into verbal communication. Nothing, no complex argument that was boiling. No screaming fit that he just about fell into.

“Why?” was all he could manage.

The GAAP agent smiled, “Because we need you. You may not realize it yet, but your contribution is invaluable.”

Through his inner turmoil, he hadn’t noticed Jobs’ absence, until a strong arm wrapped around his throat. Nate felt something penetrate his skin. His body went limp on the table, his entire life waiting to be shown just beneath its surface.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sharp.”

Nate rammed against the black wall of his cell. His body burned from, what he assumed were, hours of hitting the wall.

He had been blindfolded for the entire trip to his prison, but the trip had seemed to drag on forever. Upon arrival, Nate had been carried out of the containment ship, a little more carefully than he would have preferred. The saying “Don’t damage the goods” arose, and continued to linger in his mind.

Finally, Nate was given his sight back. Two GAAP agents had dropped him in a room made entirely of black crystal, and left him alone with General Jobs.

“This is the most durable, and soundproof, material in the universe,” Jobs had smugly said over Nate.

“You should feel honored. Only a few of these cells exist. They were made just for your kind. You special little Pipers.”

Pipers. Nate had felt like spitting on the man. Paralysis had robbed him of the opportunity, and Jobs had sauntered out the door. Nate had been a crumpled heap, alone in a dimly lit room where no one could hear him. In that moment, Nate had sworn he would survive. He would survive if for no other reason than to see the look on that bastard’s face when he escaped.

As soon as the paralysis wore off, he was in action. First, he screamed at the guards through the small, one-way mirror/hatch in the door. When that didn’t work, he resorted to pounding his fists against the walls, then his shoulders, and at one point Nate used his entire body as a battering ram. Nothing worked.

Nate slumped painfully against a wall. The sad light overhead flickered. Crystalline walls made for a chilly interior. Nate hugged his body, rubbing up and down his arms in hopes of generating some sort of heat. So he was alone, no big deal. Nate had been alone for five years. He would get out.

This time isn’t like the others, though.

No, scrapes he had gotten into before had never involved direct GAAP contact. Dodging local police and curious eyes, sure, but nothing the size of an intergalactic superpower. No, the intergalactic superpower. Nate still had determination, hope that he would escape, but the severity of the situation was finally setting in. Determination aside, he knew, in some way, he wouldn’t leave the base without being royally screwed.

A clatter resounded through the crystal room like the echo of a deep base. Nate turned his head. A small cylinder sat on the floor in front of the door that seamlessly merged into the wall. Small and metal, it could have been anything. Of course, that was before the ends popped off.

White smoke erupted from both ends, spreading like a slick snake across the ground. Nate held his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to hold his breath. He stumbled to the far end of the room, but it was no use. Within seconds, the vapor reached him. It was pooling around his feet, coiling up his legs like a living being. One breath was all it took for the chemicals to do their jobs. Nate’s eyelids grew heavy, and the world slipped away.

The smell of rubbing alcohol. White, everything was too white. Masked forms shuffled around, never staying in one position for too long. The world was cold; its air sterile. His back was frigid; whatever he was laying on was unforgiving to the cold. Metal, Nate was on a metal table. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to get his bearings.

Hands swooped in and held open his right eyelid. A cotton swab stroked away fluid from inside his eye. Nate tried to pull away, only to find that his head was strapped to the table. He tried his wrists, his knees, his ankles, nothing. He was completely imobile.

“What… what’s going on?” Nate tried to ask, but he found a metal gag restraining him from speaking.

One of the people in full scrubs leaned over him, “Mr. Sharp? My name is Doctor Visca. We are going to run some tests to evaluate your anatomy. We haven’t had many Atrians, so if these sensations become too painful, let us know. I will be talking to you, describing what we are doing”

Nate’s eyes widened in horror. Painful? What?

Doctor Visca strode away, only to be replaced by another doctor. They attached a strange metal device over his voice box where the shock collar had been. Out of his view, Nate felt stabs of pain in his hands. He tried to squirm away, but his efforts were once again thwarted.

“The object around your neck is a vocal receiver.” Doctor Visca said, but it sounded like she was talking through a microphone. Was she in another room watching him? Were there other people there?

Doctor Visca continued, “The nurses have just inserted microtubes into a few pressure points on your hands. Most Atrians seem to… ingest... outward energy into their bodies through their hands. Of course, we cannot use music to create energy, but we have a few substitutes. Depending on the level of energy your body receives, you will hum softly or powerfully. The voice receiver will take your excess energy. The more you give us, the sooner this will be over.”

That’s not how this works! There are no “substitutes”, and I won’t help you!

Of course, Doctor Visca, nor the other doctors and nurses milling around, cared. Nate relaxed his body on the table. He closed his eyes, preparing for the pain. None of their tests would work, and Nate knew that there was no easy out for him. However, he would make it out. They wanted to play hard ball? Fine. They’d get hard ball.

Hit me with your best shot, motherfuckers.

A nurse administered the first energy surge.

The battery of a small communicator did nothing. So, they moved to a holoscreen’s- still nothing. The power required to move a cyborg arm, a hoverboard, a small transportation vehicle. After that, the doctors decided it was too dangerous to try higher levels of electricity. The only results they were getting were sudden spasms through Nate, and some subtle laughter that the voice receiver picked up.Nate would have laughed more, if the last one hadn’t hurt so much. GAAP had never had the true legal ability to test an Atrian, but Nate was practically a dead man on Atria, and GAAP didn’t know about his business as “Phantom”. No one would miss a dead man.

Over the weeks, frustration began to overflow. Doctors moved from electrical stimuli, to “biological exploration”. Through it all, Nate refused to sing. Whenever they allowed him to speak, they were met with creative intertwining of expletives, and the occasional bird.

However, despite his tough act, Nate felt himself wearing away. Each visit became more and more blurry. Every time he refused them he was a broken record. The number of people in his room dwindled, and their tests sloppy. Doctor Visca remained when others left. She was determined to find what made Nate tick.

Nate tried to explain, without giving away too much, the necessity of his cane. He maintained his resolve, but Nate felt his mind begin to trickle away. Nate could feel his veins try desperately to pump any kind of substantial energy to his body. Without his cane, he was barely running on fumes. Still, somehow, a little voice would always boost him up. He would get out. He was Nathan Sharp, the musician, the Atrian. He would beat GAAP.

Nate tried to hold onto his sanity, the good in him. He could feel the black hand of chaos, of utter destruction, try to claw its way into his psyche. He pushed his temple against the cool rock wall. He would escape he had to.

Nate had been locked away for weeks. He assumed, of course. Time didn’t pass for the imprisoned, but Nate felt every itching moment. Weeks were eternity for him. He hadn’t touched a guitar. Every sliver of energy a song might generate was absorbed by the traitorous crystalline black walls. Lord only knew where his cane was, the life of Atrian adorning its head.

He was sweating profusely, black hair covering his face. Nate could barely sleep at night because of violent tremors. Nightmares haunted his mind and sanity. The darkness of the night began leaking into his waking world.

Get the cane.

They’ll be sorry.

Insanity became an almost tangible being. It was a speck in the corner of his eye. He could see the outline, its shifting form, but if he focused too much it would fade away.

Nate slammed his hand against the wall. No. No, he would not give into the madness, no matter how much it beckoned him.

Fall into me, into blissful darkness. It’s much quieter here.

No.

It’s just a little ways. They won’t hurt you anymore.

Nate could practically feel the hand of insanity resting on his shoulder. He imagined the void as a humanoid, but made of utter darkness. Its body would sway without it even moving. It reached towards Nate’s mind.

“So, what do you think?”

Ash fiddled with her baton nervously, “You know we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

Barry’s shoes squeaked on the pristine floors of the base, while his comrade floated anxiously. They made their way forward, but Ash’s mind was stuck in the past, to the… event. The video continued its replay over and over in her mind. It was a loop that Ash was confident would never cease.

He scoffed, “Oh, come on. It’s just me. All the doctors are prepping the examination room.”

Ash bit her lip, “I… I don’t… I don’t think it was right.”

Barry’s carefree strides halted outside the prisoner’s room. He gave her a questioning look, “And why’s that? I mean, he was a criminal, and what happened after… I have no doubt that… that monster was on his side.”

Ash’s tail shifted back and forth, and back and forth. She shouldn’t have shared her opinion. Barry could be so close minded and stubborn sometimes. Plus, she had no doubt that he was right. The horrified look on the doctors’ faces before the man lunged. The fact that he attacked after…

Ash sighed. She didn’t want to think about that day, about the carnage, about his death. What was done was done. Be that as it may, Ash knew deep in her soul that it had been wrong. She closed her eyes, thinking of the best way to make her friend understand. Best to dive in head first.

“Because I met him.”

“You what?”

“I met him, him and the entire crew.”

Ash opened her eyes, and turned to her friend. His skin was pale with shock. Would he believe her? They were friends, right? He should trust her judgement.

“Two months ago Iyton and I were sent to out for security. Nothing special, really. Jobs just wanted to ensure that the perimeter hadn’t been breached. So, Iyton and I took a stealth pod and set off.

We circled the area three times, just to be thorough. Of course, no one was there. We started to head back when we were hit. Those ships can be so slow, you know?...”

Ash shuddered at the memory. The ship had tilted so far sideways that Ash’s seatbelt was the only thing keeping her from falling onto Iyton. Alarms had bathed the room in red. Sirens screamed in their ears, as if to emphasize how bad the situation was. The force of the jolt had knocked Iyton sideways. Pink blood oozed from a sizable gash in his head.

They were soldiers; they were supposed to be the epitome of fearlessness. However, in that moment, she had seen the look of despair that flashed in her colleague’s eyes.

Damage to ships wasn’t uncommon in space. Debris and chunks of rock were bound to hit eventually, but that trip had been different. One of those one in a billion chances that crews end up talking about during down time.

“So sad,” they would say.

“I mean, what are the odds?”

Then they would go back to their daily routine.

“Our CO2 converter and left engine had been hit,” Ash continued. “This base isn’t exactly well known and we were in a stealth pod. Iyton and I were practically in dead space. Hours away from a true repair station.

I mean, we tried our best. Iyton checked on the damage while I sent out distress call after distress call, but no one came… GAAP wasn’t there, and, honestly,” Ash gave Barry a stern look, “I don’t think they would’ve risked a rescue even if they had heard us.”

Her friend was speechless. His skin was a shocked gray. She could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew what was coming.

“Then, then they showed up. A cyborg lady, an android, a weird robot, two dogs, a purple lady, a Graeldur, and… him.”

After all this time, I still remember their names: Amy, Ethan, Bing, Chica and Henry, Kathryn, Tyler, and Mark.

“They rescued us, even made us food afterwards. One of the dogs wouldn’t stop asking them how we were, and the other got so much goop on Iyton.” Ash chuckled a little at the memory.

“What happened next?” Barry asked.

Ash shrugged, “They fixed up the converter and engine. He… Mark, insisted on getting us back to base, but, of course, we couldn’t tell him. So, they repaired our ship, and left. They saved us… They’re good people, all of them. So, no, GAAP didn’t do the right thing.”

It was Barry’s turn to stare blankly at the floor. He was silent for a minute, absorbing everything. Recalling that day, yes, she did get a shiver of horror. Those blazing lights, the feeling of utter hopelessness. Then, thinking about the Barrel crew, their kindness, gentle natures, willingness to listen, that almost made the fear go away. Plus, there were the dogs. Ash had always wanted a dog.

“Kinda, kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?” Barry, finally speaking, pulled Ash out of her thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“... I mean, we’re here, guarding a man we’ve never truly met. Why? Because GAAP said he’s a monster. That his kind radiate some awful disease, but you know… in all my time here, I’ve never seen the doctors wear any kind of radiation protection. I don’t even think Jobs wears anything.”

Ash was taken aback by her friend’s words. He was right. Ash hadn’t noticed it before, but hardly anyone on base wore any kind of protection. She and Barry wore masks, which she had assumed was enough. Then again, they were the only two that hauled the prisoner in and out of his cell. They administered the gas. They dragged him out through the smoke.

Was it really to fight disease, as they had been told? Or could it be simply to protect them from smoke inhalation? How had the conversation veered so off track? She had barely expected Barry to believe her, let alone fuel her doubt.

Ash gazed through the small slot in the prisoner’s door. Looks can be deceiving, but Ash could feel that something had changed. He just sat there, head against the crystal wall. The wall made just for his kind.

“His”, “him”, “he”? Ash had guarded the Atrian for weeks, yet she hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. A deep pit of regret opened in her stomach. It was so powerful, painful even. She thought it might swallow her from the inside out.

“Ash,” the same regret in her veins was mirrored in Barry’s voice. “Ash, what if we’re wrong?”

The guard couldn’t take her eyes off the prisoner. His shaking form, the exhausted slump. When was the last time he had even fought them as he was dragged out? He was broken, and part of it was her fault.

“I’m- I’m going to the console room. I need to check on Masters.”

Barry was still talking, but Ash couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t make herself tear her eyes away from the shaking form in his cage. Barry’s words rang like a gong in her soul.

“What if we’re wrong?”

Nate was strapped onto the operating table, like every other day. The guard’s smoke sedative made his soul like it was floating out of his body. He knew it would only last for a few more moments, but he found his muddled mind wander to other things- the guards’ words. Something had happened, something big, but it seemed that only the two guards wanted to talk about it. Inside the operating room there was no sound but the shuffle of feet, and adjustment of equipment.

There were two doctors in the room. Nate had never learned their names, so he settled with calling the bald one “Spot”, and the small girl “Ditsy”. Perched in a viewing room overhead behind a one-way mirror, Nate knew Doctor Visca was there. A deep tug pulled at his gut whenever he looked at the glass. It wasn’t dread, nor fear, but something else. It was something Nate couldn’t describe.

“I wish I could’ve been there.” Spot grumbled as she took Nate’s vitals.

Ditsy sighed, “You would’ve been a red splat on the wall, thanks to that maniac.”

Spot adjusted the overhead lamp. He flicked it on, and the machine whirred on. A blue light spun out, taking a peek into Nate’s insides. If only they had known that the inside didn’t matter. Madness had followed him from his container. The humanoid void was a ghost on the edge of his vision. The more Nate tried to get a good look, the more it inched away, but it was there. Its thoughts itched to fully leak into Nate’s mind.

They’re going to kill you, just like they killed him.

There had been an execution, but who? Who was he, or more accurately, who had he been? Nate had never actually gotten a name through his eavesdropping.

“Who died?” his voice came out hoarse. Nate sounded like a rusted gear grinding noisily along its track. Lack of use, and electrocution had taken their toll on his vocal cords.

Spot and Ditsy froze. Their eyes were wide with shock and fear. The only times the doctors had heard his voice were muffled screams from Jobs’ at their hands. His speaking voice, as far as he could recall, had never been properly utilized between the three. Nate had always been too busy convulsing in pain to make conversation.

“Uh,” Spot glanced nervously at Ditsy, who showed no signs of moving. She started breathing heavily, her hands slightly shaking. Was she, was she afraid? Interesting.

Spot cleared his throat, “No one, um, no one of your concern.”

“Ah, so someone I should be completely concerned about. Things really are escalating, aren’t they?”

A smug smile tugged at Nate’s lips. What was he doing? Speaking still felt like he was gargling wet gravel, but there was something in the way they responded. They were afraid of him. He was weak, had no cane, and was barely running on fumes, but their fear… It sparked something deep inside him. An electric giddiness, like he was a child opening the first present on his birthday. He had nothing, but his very DNA still made them quiver. Nate hadn’t noticed, but his smirk had widened into a mad grin. Insanity was smiling back.

“Sir, if- if you keep talking, we’ll have to put the collar back on.”

Spot straightened his back, but his facade of strength was quite pathetic. Still, if that’s the game they wanted to play, so be it. Nate hadn’t had true entertainment in weeks.

“His name was Mark. Mark Fischbach.”

Ditsy’s words came out timidly. Her face was practically lodged in a holochart. She turned her back to twiddle with the vials on the counter, but her hands were shaking so bad she nearly dropped one. She was obviously doing everything she could to not look at Nate.

Mark, Mark Fischbach. Where have I heard that name before?

“It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and we’re all the better for it. Hand me the-.”

A memory, so dusty it was like an ancient artifact, resurfaced. Nate had almost forgotten about it. A play, no, a musical, the Summer before everything went to Hell....

Nate was in a small workspace. A friend had contacted him about a short series he was doing. A horror musical based on some old Earth story he had dug up. Admittedly, the musical was odd, odd, but interesting. Interesting enough to make him say yes.

Nate gave a deep yawn, a small part of him regretting his decision.

Two in the morning. It was two in the morning. Nate had wrapped on his single scenes forty-five minutes ago, but they were still waiting for his absent co- actor to show.

Nate rested his head on an old computer prop, “You sure he’ll be here?”

The director, AJ, shouted from behind a fake wall, “Yeah. He’s done stuff like this before. Don’t worry about it!”

Nate fought to keep his eyes open. One more minute and AJ’s other actor would find himself working with a rag doll. He had been working all day on the project. His eyelids felt like two ton weights, his body weak from exhaustion. Would one nap really hurt?...

The door burst open. Nate jumped to attention far too quickly. His head swam around and around. Spots danced in his vision. Nate’s groggy haze did nothing to stop the newfound pounding in his head.

A newcomer stood in the doorway. His black hair was in a mad upheaval. He was panting, as if he’d made a mad dash onto set. Donning a snazzy gray wrinkled shirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes it was clear that he was well prepared for a day of filming. Under his left arm was his wadded up costume.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m normally not like this. I’ve just been busy filling out GAAP papers all day, and I didn’t realize what time it was until…”

The frazzled man noticed Nate taking an assessment of him. Nate shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get these scenes done, and we’ll be good to go. Right, AJ?”

“Uh, yeah, but I will need you later for your full scenes.” AJ shouted from behind the wall.

He visibly relaxed, “Ok. That’s good. I can do that.”

Nate held out his hand, “I’m Nathan, well, Nate. Nate Sharp.”

He smiled and shook Nate’s hand, “Mark, Mark Fischbach.”

Nate’s memory froze. He felt his blood run cold as ice. There, in that moment, he couldn’t move. Lively brown eyes looked back at him. He had a crooked smile Nate could tell was used often. Mark, how could he forget Mark?

Mark had helped Nate on a few of his songs. He wasn’t Atrian, but Mark had a voice worth listening to. Up until his acceptance into GAAP’s school, they would collaborate. They weren’t close- knit family types, but Nate considered him a friend.

Nate knew someone who had worked for GAAP.

Nate knew a man who could fly almost any spaceship.

Nate knew a dead man.

He was back in the operating chair, but stuck in the past. How had it happened? Was it painful? Did his friends know? The doctors were talking, Mark was acting, and Nate was caught somewhere hopelessly in between.

AJ yelled, “Action!”

“You’ve got the new antiseptic, right?”

Mark stumbled over his line, “Uh, what exactly is this scene?”

A wetness slid down Nate’s arm. Something cool touched his skin, then a deep burning sensation. Nate was suffocating. He couldn’t get the lyrics right. The doctors were reaching for metal clamps. Mark had started his lines. Spinning round and round. A cane, a guitar, a martyr.

They’re going to kill you. You’re just a broken music box to them. They’re going to kill you just like they killed him, but they won’t stop. Oh, no, no, no, no. They will never stop. They won’t stop until every one of our kind is bleeding on their own tables.

No, Nate’s mind pleaded.

Yes, Insanity hissed.

“No.”

A screeching halt. Mark’s faces faded into memory. AJ’s set disappeared. Nate felt something in his mind, something dark, almost otherworldly, snap to attention.

The world was sharp, sharper than it had ever been before. White walls, aluminum floors, everything was far too… fake. Nate’s left arm flaunted a deep, precise cut. The skin was clamped open; the bloodied hand of a doctor still held on.

Cold darkness fell over the room. The type of cold when clouds are the color of ash, and the air makes lips numb. Horror, bone chilling, unfathomable horror had fallen over the operating room.

The world around shifted and swirled in consistently darkening colors. Nate felt his eyes go black. His cheeks ached; it felt as if someone had taken a molten rod to the purple lines down his face. Nate found himself enjoying it. Pain meant he was alive.

Dark smoke began a graceful cascade over his eyelashes. A beautiful waterfall of black vapor pooling at his lashes, then falling down his purple Atrian lines. Insanity no longer danced in his peripheral. No, the beast had won over a new home. Unadulterated rage burned inside of him.

Nate saw it in the man’s eyes- the solid panic he was bleeding into the room that was once a prison. The doctor’s soul- twisted, pathetic. A being that tortured and broke simply because he could. Nate felt dirty just looking at him. He turned to the woman.

Similar to her colleague- she hadn’t moved. She was a statue from the fear Nate was exuding. Terror personified, a ghost for the lack of color in her face. Mouth agape, horror racing through her eyes.

“Undo my cuffs.”

Despite the absence of his cane, and barely having proper energy, Ditsy moved towards his table. With quaking hands, she unfastened the wrist restraints, then the ankle ones, the knees, the head. She took several hasty steps back after finishing her work. Nate cautiously removed his right hand, flexed it, then the same with the left. He gave Ditsy an unnerving grin.

A crash, glass flew across Nate’s vision. He felt a dull throb in the back of his head. Whatever had happened, it was enough to push Ditsy over the edge. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a heap.

Nate turned towards his attacker. Spot held the broken end of a glass beaker in his hands. The doctor had assaulted him? Nate touched the back of his head, but was only mildly concerned when his fingertips came back a little red. In that moment, his only focus, his only rage, was centered at the doctor.

Nate stood from the table, rubbing and shaking the numbness out of his once bound hands. The doctor reeled back, only to hit a metal table. He was trapped.

“STOP!”

Doctor Vasca stood behind him at the stairs leading to her observation room. Seeing her, Nate’s heart stopped. It wasn’t because she snapped him out of his stalk towards the other doctor, or the fear in her eyes. Nate stopped because what stood before him was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Held high above her head, Doctor Vasca held Nate’s cane. She reminded him of an Earthen statue he had seen a picture of. Draped in a massive toga, chains broken at her feet, she had held a torch on a tiny island- a beacon of hope for travelers. Frozen in that moment, Nate supposed he felt what people seeing the statue from a forgeign boat had felt- hope. Nate had hope, pure hope, a hope that might was the darkness of his mind away.

Doctor Vasca was in terrible shape. Her hair was undone and in knots. Dark bags showed that she hadn’t slept for nights.

She had probably been up studying your anatomy. What she had done to you.

Nate felt the seething rage boil inside him again. His hands clenched tighter. The waterfall of darkness flowed steadily down his face.

“I-” she stumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what we’ve done to you, but please. He has a family- two daughters. They need him.”

A family. Nate glanced back at the cowering man. A family…

“Does your family know what you do, sir?” Nate spat.

“It- I… I’m under oath.”

“Ha! “Under oath”, that’s a “No”, then. What would your daughters say if they knew what you did today?” Nate held up his bleeding arm. “What if they knew what you have been doing? What would they say? Would they be shocked? Appalled? Too afraid to even touch the monster that had been their father?”

Scenes were visibly playing through the man’s head. Of course his family would see him as a monster. He had cut a man open with no remorse, for weeks. He had cut through skin, ignoring Nate’s squirming to get away. He was a sick, vile monster.

“Tie him up.” Nate told Doctor Visca.

“I- I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Tie him up, and nothing will happen to him.”

Doctor Visca gingerly set down Nate’s cane. She held up her hands as she made her way to the man. Nate watched as she tied him onto the table. He watched to ensure that every strap was as secure as they had been for him.

Without taking his eyes off the two, Nate walked sideways towards his cane. It took everything in him not to snatch it hungrily. He had to be alert; he had to make sure the doctors didn’t try anything. Nate slowly bent down sideways, and picked up his cane. The effect was immediate. Like water from a cool spring, energy ran from the orb, down the cane, and into Nate’s veins. His mind began to clear. The well of emptiness in his mind was being dried up.

“Where is Jobs?” Nate asked.

Brown eyes emerged through the darkness. The black vapors stopped rolling, and his face resumed its natural form. Nate wore his purple Atrian stripes and clear mind once more.

“Fascinating.”

Doctor Vasca’s words pulled him out of his serenity.

“I mean, I knew there was something to the Atrian crystal, but I never expected something so, so, vigorous. I mean, you look good as new!”

She took a step towards Nate, who took one step back.

“You’re right- you didn’t know. You didn’t know because you wouldn’t listen. Now, where’s Jobs?”

Vasca didn’t appear to even hear Nate, or she didn’t care. Still rambling on about the possibilities his cane could have, Nate didn’t pay attention until she mentioned him.

“... and of course, you’d be at the forefront!”

Nate blinked in confusion. “What?”

Doctor Vasca beamed, “This is a whole new level of potential to aid GAAP you have! One without the other is useless, but I didn’t understand the true purity of its power until now! Think of the possible advancements- faster communication, upgraded weapons-.”

“No.” Nate held out his cane as his own weapon. “I will not be used by GAAP anymore. You finally listened to me, great, but you won’t get a single Atrian to do your work. Now, tell me where Jobs is.”

“I’m so sorry, Nate…”

Doctor Vasca reached into her pocket, and retrieved a thin holoboard. With one press, the door leading to the observation room, and Nate’s freedom, closed. The click of it locking felt like someone had slapped Nate across the face. His back was to Doctor Vasca, it didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t escaping. That woman, that, beast…

“I wasn’t just going to give you the cane, Mr. Sharp. You were dying, and I was desperate. But it worked out for the better.”

Nate could feel her smiling, “You’re going to bring in a new age for GAAP. All the equipment you want... ”

Nate’s ears rang. Everything was buzzing. Little dots twinkled in his vision. He grasped his cane even tighter.

She lied to you. Darkness emerged once more, You were going to leave this place. You were going to forget everything, but look what she did! Think of what she’ll make you do! She made you dance like you were a puppet. The question is- what are you going to do now?

“... everything will be set right!” She exhaled, obviously proud of her speech, as if Nate had been listening. “What do you say, Mr. Sharp?”

Nate was on her in a moment. His hand was a vice grip around her throat. The pools of hatred were overflowing again, but he didn’t care. Hate, rage, power, that was how he was going to get out of GAAP’s Hell.

Doctor Vasca’s face and neck were red. Nate wasn’t holding on hard enough for her to suffocate, just enough to be uncomfortable. She gasped for air, and kicked at Nate in vain attempts to escape. Pathetic, just like her friend on the table. These people wouldn’t change. Their kind never do. So far in themselves, their “intelligence”, the belief that the odds justify every mean. All of it blinded them. Nate was going to let them see.

“Hmm,” Nate tapped his cane to his chin, as he had being a phantom healer what felt like decades ago. Phantom, maybe the street name had more weight than he had given it credit for. A shadowy figure, something you can almost see, but not quite. A being always in the edge of your view. He wasn’t Nate. He wasn’t “Mr. Sharp”. He was Phantom.

“You know what I say, Doctor Vasca? You want to know what I say? Well,” Phantom chuckled at her horrified face, “I say GAAP can kiss my ass. Also, I say…”

Phantom swung the top of his cane at the man on the table, knocking him out cold. Vasca’s eyes were wide with terror, “.... I say that was for Atria. Finally,” Phatom flipped his cane around in a quick circle. He dug the orb as hard as he could into the woman’s chest. It wouldn’t penetrate skin, but it would get close enough. Phantom began singing a bittersweet tune. He didn’t go so deep as to put the doctor under, just enough to do the job. He wanted to know what happened when you push an Atrian too far? He would show her.

A few sparks of white emerged from her lab coat, then a few more. The sparks condensed and merged until they formed three lines of raw energy- energy streaming from her heart.

Doctor Vasca tried to scream, but there was nothing anyone could have done. Phantom leaned in, “I say- this is for Mark.”

Her skin shrivelled and hung loose from the bones. Her eyes sunk into her head, the terrified expression in them never faded. Her hair turned gray and brittle. Parts began to fall in clumps onto the otherwise sterile floor. Phantom never looked away as the light, however tainted it had been, drain from her eyes. Doctor Vasca’s mouth hung open in a silent scream through everything, and it would stay that way.

Phantom dropped her mummified corpse onto the ground unceremoniously. He dug into her coat pocket for the holoboard. One click, and his escape route was restored. Phantom glanced at the unconscious man on the table. He wasn’t worth his time. The head restraint Doctor Vasca had secured prevented him from seeing Nate’s healing act. As for the good doctor- she was a smoking pile at his feet. The personnel and cameras? They were no concern. He would deal with the security footage on his way out.

Phantom looked into his crystal. Its once translucent interior swarmed with dark clouds. Gray energy surged off and on.

Stolen energy.

Phantom shook his head. He would have to deal with that annoying “still, small voice” later. Survival came first. Survival, and clothes. Phantom quickly wrapped up his bleeding arm, then turned to the still doctor on the operating table. He undid the straps holding down the unconscious doctor. He slipped on the man’s scrubs, fastened back the restraints, and covered the doctor with his old hospital gown. Might as well let him have some dignity when he woke up.

As Phantom strode out the door, he recalled an old story from Earth. A tale of a man with a magic pipe. It was actually where the derogatory term “Piper” had originated for Atrians. So the tale goes, a man was hired to extract all the rats from a village. When the people refused to pay him, he used his pipe to lure the children away. Some versions say the children were never seen again, others say they were led to their deaths, another that they were returned after the Piper had been paid his due several times the original amount.

Ascending the laboratory steps, Phantom finally understood why Atrians had been branded as Pipers. Not just because of their magical music, or that they used their gifts for work, it was something else. People thought they might end up like the rats, or the children. Racists referenced a potential murderer when they thought of Atrians. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Atrians shouldn’t wear “Pipers” as a brand, but a badge of honor.

“Atrians are not a violent race.” Matt’s voice rang back in his head.

“... but people are capable of anything in order to survive.” Phantom verbally retaliated.

Saying it out loud made him feel a little better about his past. All his actions were justified. He was trying to survive. Adapting to a changing, well, universe, it would seem, was what he was doing. Surviving during war got gruesome. That was what he was surviving- the carnage of battle.

GAAP had called Phantom to war. They had sealed off his planet, killed a friend, and had torn him apart. No, they had torn Nate apart, but Nate wasn’t going to war. Nate had been left in a dark cell where no one could hear him scream. Phantom had risen as the poltergeist to nip at GAAP’s heels. Phantom was the avenger of his people, his friends, and who he had once been.

Phantom would make GAAP sorry for what they had done to all those before him. He would be the hand of justice for those GAAP had wronged. He idly twirled his cane, the smoke from his black eyes slid like ice down his Atrian markings. Fresh, dark energy spurred him onward. GAAP would regret the day they saw his face.

#spaceiplier #natewantstobattle #fan fiction

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ask-the-fox-guard · 5 years ago

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Hey do I call you mod or mun, but anyways my question rn is, am I the only one who sends asks? I'm curious cause I've only seen mine on your blog so far, also has there been any previous desings of the gaurds if so what was the frist?

Either will do, I don’t usually mind but Mun Mangle seems to hit more since I’m the only one in this blog

Right after I posted the ask, I got like 4 asks X”D (that already includes yours) I’m happy either way!

Hmmm, so far there isn’t much change to majority of the guards. The uniforms does receive some makeover, not just having a blue plain long sleeve collared shirt and some black slacks (which is Scott’s style but still personalized in the ‘final’). It is very personalized, not too based on who is the nightguard or dayguard.

Raymond and Gerald’s first arts were certainly on the spot and I haven’t changed them a bit.

Mike, Jeremy and Scott have some changes like

Mike having magic hair now

Jeremy has those parted hairstyle and it’s very curly, he’s not as skinny as before

Scott having a scar and accidentally flipped his bangs to the other side aonugora, also doesn’t look too skinny as before (it’s mostly the improvement of artstyle)

Alfred.... uh... His hair is more tamed than my 2015 art of him and has more personality in his design than just an terrible imitation from a romance cover book I always see my classmates read in terms of posing and many inspiration from polar-bear’s design. That’s a big change.

Oh and also Foxy‘s human design, same kind of treatment from Alfred but I draw him often lmao. There’s a lot of changes. He’s hair is more fluffier and obtains an ahoge/cowlick. He doesn’t look to much like a twink and went 180 in personality. From bright eyes to half-lidded ones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Btw, I’ll try to do the other asks tomorrow since it’s late and my brain kinda hurts rn.

#mangled-schmidtty rambles #fnaf #fnaf au #msverse #ask-the-fox-guard #xxiceywolfxx

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unwoundbobbin · 6 years ago

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Nine Worlds 2018 - Sunday & Homeward

This write up is bought to you by a pack of Nerds, so who the hell knows how coherent it will be by the end.

(Actual footage of me)

From Saturday!

Sunday:

Our Last Best Hope for Science Fiction: 25 Years of Babylon 5

A look at a ground breaking sci-fi series, celebrating a show we love and how it grew from a something set on a space station to something truly special.

(Two Centauri, a starfleet officer, and a Morden(?) walk in to a panel...)

This is the panel I missed the talk on Golems for, and much as I wanted to see the Golems, this was 100% worth the trade, because I’ve never met that many people who are in to B5 before, and it was a really funny and thought provoking panel with some beautiful moments in it, including the moments of silence when we remembered those from the Babylon 5 family who have gone beyond the rim.

There was also discussion of favourite moments from Babylon 5. Mine has to be this, from the Centauri’s final assault on the Narn Homeworld. Peter Jurasik’s acting is superb here, but I love that the writers and director made a place in that episode to show the flipping of Mollari when he realises what he’s done - how out of control and repelled he feels by what should be a moment of triumph. And the moment he starts to work his way back towards some sort of redemption.

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I think my favourite quote of the whole thing was by the person cosplaying as Londo Mollari:

"Behold minbari Jesus - his name is Jeff"

(This psycop lurked for the entire panel. It’s as perfectly creepy and wonderful as it sounds. When I mentioned that on twitter, it devolved in to a Babylon 5 pun war...)

When I came out of the B5 panel, the one person I’d seen with a brain slug had become a collective. And they continued to grow in number throughout Sunday. Props to the person who spent an entire year making brain slugs to give away to strangers at Nine Worlds.

(The frightening brain slug collective. They continued to multiply throughout the day. Possibly the creepiest cosplay of the weekend, just because they continued to multiply.)

History’s Hidden Heroes III

Following two years of back-to-back success, the ‘History's Hidden Heroes’ session returns to its original format of ten to fifteen minute mini-talks by individual presenters discussing their favourite figures lost - or pushed aside - from mainstream history. Introduction by EK McAlpine, with talks from Tara, Avery, and Reiley.

This session was run by EK, and the speakers were Avery Delany, Tara Brown, and Reiley Daniels who all spoke about people in history who were part of the LGBTQ community, including some who were trans (though not remembered that way), some who were gender non-conforming, some who were openly queer at a time when that was (more) dangerous than now.

Avery spoke about trans masculine people in history, including a pioneering doctor, James Barry (note - while that Wiki article generally avoids using any pronouns at all, there is a source from the time quoted that misgenders Barry, so be careful if that would cause you any distress).

My favourite quote from Avery was “Do some queer history“, but I also really appreciated something I didn’t get the exact words of, but amounted to the idea that someone wouldn’t live as a gender different to the one they were assigned at birth for over 50 years if they did not actually identify as that gender. I really wish I’d got the actual words, because that quote stuck with me as much as anything.

Tara Brown spoke about three women of colour who were pioneers in blues and jazz - and sexuality, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Gladys Bentley.

One of the most interesting, and awful, takeaways from this talk was the brief discussion about how there is some difference in the historical record as to the sexuality women presented, and that this is due to McCarthyism which basically forced at least Gladys Bentley to present herself as no longer a lesbian. It made me so cross to think of a person as comfortable in their sexuality as Bentley having to forcibly change themselves because of the massive risks that being out and proud served in the backwards looking 1950s America.

Reiley spoke about a quack physician called Charles Hamilton (misgendered practically everywhere on the internet), and the importance of checking multiple sources and subjecting them to due scrutiny.

If anyone enjoyed this panel is interested in other hidden heroes from sources that aim at diversity in who and what they talk about (and use content notices), I highly recommend @missedinhistory, Sawbones, and @rejectedprincesses.

The Future of Nine Worlds

It's time for a chat about Nine Worlds and where it's going. If you have strong thoughts about what you'd like to see the event become, and would like to get involved in making things happen, this is your in-person opportunity to talk about the options and understand how we got where we are.

Went to this, and I honestly don’t have a lot to say about it - not a lot a could say about it because I’m very much not the right person to speak about what happened in the majority of the session.

I will say that the announcement that Nine Worlds was re-constituting after this year’s con felt like a blow to the gut.

(This was an incredibly powerful moment, and to know that even though the current director is stepping back a future nineworlds is possible meant so very much.)

(Main point by what may turn out to be the future team was that Nine Worlds is too precious to lose)

CN for discussion of police at con, and a failure act appropriately to the stated concerns of a con-goer (and more concerned people who did not speak about it at the Future of Nine Worlds panel). When this section is over there will be a delightful gif of Wonder Woman deflecting bullets so scroll below her if you will find this section challenging.

What happened next is best summed up by Alecto101 in this post which I urge you all to read (also please read this followup thread by the same person). Her recollection of what happened at that panel is extremely accurate. I was there, and that is what happened. It was not dealt with adequately by anyone there in an official capacity. Most people who wanted to say something in follow up raised the fact that Alecto101 had not had her question and concerns adequately addressed, and when the people on the stage did so, it was in an inappropriate way that put the emotional and intellectual workload back on the person who had rightly raised legitimate concerns.

I have absolutely no patience with the people who immediately strawmanned (Oh, you don’t want police there at all - you can’t exclude attendees based on job) - I was there and at no point did Alecto101 suggest that.

What I’m trying to say is something EK said much more eloquently: “Concerns about how police participate in 9W and the separation of their jobs and their everyday lives as fans are ABSOLUTELY valid and not the same as “ban cops”.“

The developments since have been a little more positive, and I’m hoping that the reconstitution can be used as a way to build in representation of PoC from the beginning rather than trying to add on later. The way 9W works for members of the LGBTQ or disabled communities needs to be the way it works for the BaME community too, or it is not diverse (I’ve paraphrased here. I’m pretty sure I’ve just mangled the original quote. I can’t remember who said it but it wasn’t originally me).

For followup, I recommend reading Avery Delany’s thread here and this thread on the official Nine Worlds twitter account. This web page from Nine Worlds is also very important reading. If you have the physical, emotional, and mental spoons to do so, please consider signing up to be part of the future.

Finally, if you’re thinking about writing to Alecto, please first consider this tweet from the official Nine Worlds Team: “We do not want people to interact with the blogger on our behalf. We do not need defending. We do not want them pursued again for conversations they don’t want to continue. Their opinions are valid and we are glad to have heard them. “ and just DON’T.

After that I had more con crash, and tried to manage it myself in the quiet room, before worrying that my nose blowing was going to upset those who had sensory overload and needed genuine quiet, and ran away to my room where E wrapped me in a blanket and fed me biscuits until I was human again. She is awesome and I’m totally in her debt. (Thread here of what I struggled with wrt the quiet room - I am not saying it should go away BTW - I don’t know what the right answer is, just that I found it challenging for my own particular issues)

The end of the con was then barrelling towards me at a terrifying speed. I went off site for food with some friends, and then we all formed half of a team for the unofficial “The Not The End of the Con Quiz” as team Last Best Hope for Victory, and we only went and bloody won! Massive props to @knittedace and @laalratty who basically carried our team through two rounds pretty much on their own (even though one of our team who shall remain nameless nearly submitted “Aragorn” as the name of the giant spider in Harry Potter, which was caught before we submitted for marking, but they shall not live it down... for a while anyway :))

(Team Last Best Hope for Victory. Actual quiz victors!)

Went to bed at midnight after several rounds of Slash, which was really the perfect end to a great con (even if I did keep crashing).

(Me on my way home. I look pretty knackered there, but it doesn’t even touch how completely mentally (and to some extent physically) exhausted I was, and still am. Completely worth it though.)

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I may have listened to this on the journey home and sobbed. Like I said on my Friday post, it’s somehow become the song of the con for me.

#my stuff #babylon 5 #brain slug collective #brain slugs #nine worlds #nineworlds #Future of Nine Worlds #representation #diversity

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braindamageforbeginners · 6 years ago

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Neuralgia/ADA/GOP-On-The-Run

Cycle 7, Day 19

First of all, next week’s my “week off,” which is usually just a blood-draw, however, because it also marks Dad’s birthday, which he’s intimated is supposed to be A Party of Special Magnificence, so I’ll be in the greater SoCal area during my “off week,” and, with my brother at hand in a festive mood, there’s a chance I won’t come to my senses until November. So, unless something goes spectacularly wrong at next week’s blood-draw, there’s a chance I’ll only update/write about random goings-on, or Dad’s giant, dragon-shaped firework (that isn’t a euphemism, I’ve been explicit that I want to see wizards, halflings, the whole deal).

Today, however, I’d like to draw some attention to my own physical disabilities (such as they are), why large chunks of the country aren’t ADA-compliant (I don’t even mean in a paved sense), and your very corrupt, local congressman, if you’re from a rural area (almost guaranteed).

So, even though I am automatically, federally-qualified as disabled (look it up under “compassionate allowances”). However, 80% of applicants eventually get disability coverage because - here’s a shocker - when people can’t do their jobs or survive normally, that tends to be noticeable, unless you have an extremely advanced neurodegenerative disease (in which case, you get to be president). And when I applied for disability, no one was, shall I say, directly unpleasant, but I got the very distinct impression that everyone would rather be doing something else. It wasn’t until I actually wrote my own condition down and told the social security rep to call their boss and give them that diagnosis that I got a bit of an attitude change. So, most disabled folks tend to be somewhat sensitive about it, because it is a pain in the ass (sometimes literally) and society is very much stacked against us. I actually wouldn’t even have given it much thought unless I had to fill out and file paperwork on it. Again, be kind and patient (that’s the general message), and don’t assume. I prefer to be called “crippled,” because I feel that word accurately captures both what happened to me, and and how it’s effected me.

To that, I also get passing privilege, because I can walk (though steep stairs and long sprints are out), and you’d only tell my left side is off if you were familiar with me. So, a neurologically-mangling injury usually occurs in one of two ways, externally (or externally-derived), which is usually what you associate with disabled vets, or internally (either due to clot, stroke, or cancer/tumor).. In the former type, you’d see nerve damage below the injury point. In the latter type, it’s a little harder. Everything in the brain is integrated - physically - it’s a little harder to keep track of the higher-order, Wile E. Coyote (Super Genius) functions, especially since you develop new neural pathways throughout your life. But, just for the physical functions, damage to the brain occurs on the opposite side of the body, and it’s a half-body thing (most of my left-side is unreliable in the right circumstances, but for day-to-day use, it’s just the lower leg and lower arm). And these can be anything from noticeable motor impairments to, in my case, “diminished sensation.” Again, I’m just speaking for myself, but neuralgia - the reduced/lost sensations and/or pain of nerve damage - is a killer for folks like me. In my own case, if you’ve ever had minor oral surgery or a filling where the dentist got a little careless injecting the novocaine, you’ll be familiar with the numbness issue. Your muscles worked just fine, but without sensation, it’s hard to orient them enough to get them to work. That’s a rather extreme example, and it’s not terribly accurate for me, but it’ll give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Again, unless you know me, it’s kind of hard to spot me (I only hobble on inclines). Unless you knew I’d been trained as a pianist for a number of years when I was much younger, you’d have a tough time guessing my left hand has trouble with buttons. And, fortunately, the legal definition of disabilities isn’t limited to “patient is mostly-functional, but severely reduced by previous-standards.” (I also really do spend an hour or two in the gym every day, if only because I want a body capable of absorbing and metabolizing every last damned drop of marizomib they can pump into me)(which, come to it, is probably some sort of admission of addiction). I am, however, going to start referring to my left arm as “my Grendel arm,” because, if I’m attacked by Vikings, I intend to let that side take the damage (again, it won’t be as painful because of that “reduced sensation” problem I run into when I’m very tired)(and, hopefully, when I’m on fire and being attacked by Norsemen seeking retribution for

Speaking of legal issues, now’s a good time as any to point out that vast swathes of the country are near-impossible to live in if you’re, let’s say, medically-compromised. Now, I realize that I’m a very special, special-needs patient/citizen in that my existence is dependent on technology that’s beyond the ragged, bleeding edge of most hospitals - most states, as it turns out. But that’s going to be true of just being able to access decent care in most places, even for something relatively simple, like the heart disease currently building up in the Boomers. And I bring that up because, in most places, your elected federal officials are actually working against your best interest. Frequently with your consent. And these are, in my experience, always in rural districts. The party of your representative isn’t an issue, I’d bet; the issue is whether you live in a zip code with a population density closer to Los Angeles, or Maine. Americans (or, health-industry lobbyists) made a hullabaloo about Obamacare (or, as it’s formally known, the Affordable Care Act - the ACA). However, for people like me, it did help knock down things that will kill Grandma and Granpa, like lifetime limits (I’ve reached and exceeded those probably ten years ago), and - this is big - prior conditions. These are both weasel terms used by insurance companies to reduce patient numbers. Again that wasn’t a major issue for me until an orange-haired idiot came into office, promising to change all that. At the time - these were in the intertumor years - I was living in Utah. Here’s an important thing to understand when someone is actively working to undermine your life expectancy; they’re not going to be honest about it. And, in my experience, elected officials from rural areas tend to have more in common with Boss Hogg than they do Mr. Smith, but that could be because the first Congressman I met “representing” me was Jerry Lewis (that was his nom de guerre)(but not his real name)(also not his real hair), who was almost hilariously sleazy, and consistently plagued by corruption accusations. Which, uh, I think, describes almost all of the Congressmen who represented that district. So, you can imagine my complete lack of interest at being pushed and prodded and shoved in front of a congressional underling at the sitting Congressman’s office (this was Chris Stewart - or his local office, BTW).

We will ignore the odd decorating decision to include a large photo of a bomber with an explosion on it - I guess it’d been made by a constituent. We were met by - as expected - an office underling. The hiring and firing and promoting of office staff in small districts is usually pretty sordid. That’s not some sort of slanderous accusation; all professional politicians are legally prohibited from directly employing their companies or family members. Most, like Ron Paul, figure out a workaround until those pesky Congressional Ethics reports come out. The assistant in front of us assured us - in the wake of GOP populism that’d swung in just a few weeks earlier, that the Congressman didn’t like his job, only did it because no one else was stepping up, and was all in favor of term limits and revolving door policies - basically, the sort of pep-talk I always look for in the medical industry when looking for a well-qualified specialist (”Yeah, he’s great at his job, but he dislikes it and is only waiting for an opportunity to get out.”). The assistant was not the Congressman’s chief adviser on health care (I can only assume that was some wildly unqualified lobbyist from Pfizer, but that’s pure speculation). You know what really sends out a message of professionalism and receptiveness to constituent needs? When a constituent calls to schedule an appointment to voice concerns regarding health legislation, and the person qualified to answer such things isn’t in the office. Anyway, even though the assistant didn’t have any answers to most of my questions, he assured us that the congressman didn’t want to cut anyone’s insurance, but thought that a free market - the standard BS filler that comes from someone who has never been thrown out of a hospital (yes, this happens, folks, it made headlines in Baltimore a few years ago). Upon later checking, the assistant had actually actively lied about both issues, based on the Congressman’s actual voting record. Again, I don’t think he’s alone, I just think rural Congressman who coast on for a career based on name recognition aren’t used to an informed, angry public making proper inquiries. At least have the guts to tell me it’s more immediately profitable to kill me than to keep me alive; we’ll have to agree to disagree, but I get it. To make a long story short, because of Utah’s combination of hilariously inadequate insurance coverage for people like me, and my stubborn refusal to settle for less-than-best when seeing neurology specialists, I’m no longer a constituent. Thank you, sir, you ran me off your land, kudos. But I’m certainly not alone. Again, the Boomers are at an age where they’re going to be dropping dead of heart disease, cancer, etc. That’s not some dire, emo warning, either, it’s just that they’re all in their 60′s or above, and, until 2013, almost half of the US was either uninsured or disastrously uninsured. I think the HMO system will last two dozen cases of wheeling grandma and grandpa into the cold street before it comes to an end. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a sick person who’s had to learn insane amounts.about the health insurance industry and pharmaceutical companies to make it this far.

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epersonae · 7 years ago

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This has been informally known as the “Mavis and Angus Fix Everything” fic in the WDA discord. It might also be called “epersonae yells at @magcretia about Another Beach Year” because that’s basically how it got started. It ended as the the longest thing I’ve written so far, even though it just covers a couple of days, and mostly a single evening.

Some almost equally long liner notes below the cut....

So this started with two things:

The very first line just sort of popped into my head when @magcretia was helping me work through some writer’s block about something else entirely. Originally, I thought I might use it for an Extreme Teen Adventures fic, so I just dropped it into my doc of random little ideas.

But then not very long after, she was in the discord talking about Another Beach Year and how she thought of something that could make it worse, and everyone (@blue-mood-blue, @emi--rose, and @weatheredlaw for sure) started piling on with more and more angst and I just kinda snapped? And was like: ANGUS AND MAVIS FIX EVERYTHING. [and now I’m trying to remember if I’d already written that first silly little scene where Merle is about to get lost in the woods? Anyway.] Because jeez, these grownups just keep getting deeper and deeper into their own drama, and what about the children?

Which, to start with: how old are Angus and Mavis? In one of several things that I just lifted entirely from Another Beach Year (which, btw, is excellent and you should be reading it), this is set approximately three years after story and song, which makes Angus about 13 or 14, and Mavis 14 or 15. So less children, and more early teens. For sure old enough to be picking up on all the drama going on with the adults around them, and to think maybe they can do something about it.

Speaking of grabbing ideas from other people:

First, this whole damn thing is basically a dialogue with Kath’s post-canon work. It’s perennially interesting to me how we’re working in more or less the same space, and because we focus on different aspects and have different narrative styles, we end up in slightly different places. This one has a lot of little details that I’ve more or less yoinked intact from Sizzled Out and For Old Time’s Sake; I might not even know what all of them are?!

Additionally, there was a long discussion in the WDA some months back about a Parent Trap AU with Angus and Fischer in the roles of the kids and Magnus and Lucretia in the roles of the parents. I think there’s a bit of that in here, tbqh, although I didn’t realize it until I was well underway.

Initially, I was thinking of this story as a stand-alone fic separate from my post-canon continuity, but as I went along it made sense to integrate bits of that, and at some point I realized it was set at a very specific point, which is to say right after Back in the Zone.

And in that continuity, I’m pretty certain that Lucretia and Taako don’t really reconcile until Magnus dies. So it couldn’t be “Angus and Mavis fix everything”, so what do they fix? Well: Polyblaster 4Lyfe plus all the Kraagnus I’ve been writing lately means clearing up things between Magnus and Taako, and baby!Magcretia means that it’s all directly related to Angus and his parentage. Which led to: Mavis persuades Angus to try to get his dads to be cool with each other again.

And oh yeah: writing about how much or how little these two young teenagers understand of the goddamn complicated web of relationships? Honestly was one of the most fun things I’ve gotten to write. (“Uncle Magnus likes Kravitz okay?” I die.) Angus saying “I don’t know why they have to be so complicated.” HOOBOY KID, us too. Plus for the hell of it I gave Mavis basically the WDA reaction to Magcretia: she thinks it’s adorable.

I also put a lot of thought into what the characters call each other, especially what the kids call the adults. Per canon, Mavis calls everyone Aunt and Uncle except for Davenport (WINK); I also have her interchangeably refer to Merle by his name, as “Dad”, and as “Pop”, just as they felt right. (This may or may not be true to canon; don’t @ me.) In a previous fic, I asked the crew what Angus would call Taako if Magnus were his father, and the consensus was “Mister Taako,” so I stuck to that here. Similarly, Merle is “Mister Merle” and Lup is “Miss Lup”, with still a lot of “sir” and “ma’am”. By this point, he generally consistently refers to Magnus as Dad and Lucretia as Mom, although there’s often extra ums and uhs around that, because he’s still feeling his way through it himself. Kravitz is just his name, nothing else.

At first I thought this fic was going to be spread out over a much longer stretch of time: I even had a bit of an idea for something way off in the future expanding on something that gets a couple of sentences in Remember. But it ended up coalescing into this single evening: Angus and Kravitz and Taako and Magnus going to Fantasy Olive Garden in an undetermined location while Mavis and Lucretia and Lup go to Chesney’s for karaoke night.

Sooooo, my favorite “Taako finally uses that FOG pass” fic is actually a 10000% nsfw Kraagnus, so that adds to the weird emotional whiplash in my own brain at least.

On top of that, when I first had the idea, I thought “jeez I’ve done this already, should I?”, with Angus trying to get Taako and Lucretia to talk: then I realized that could actually be part of the fic itself. Angus has a Way of Dealing with Conflict, and it involves making people talk over food. And man, this dialogue just kinda happened? (Thanks Kath for encouraging me to give Kravitz’s mic drop a little room around it. And bless Griffin for having Angus say “horseshit” in canon.)

I’m very proud of the chunk of dialogue that got this reaction, by the way:

As for the karaoke: this summer I discovered two things: Sweet Dreams by the Eurythmics is absolutely a Relic-hunting song, and it’s also absolutely my go-to karaoke song. So that was obviously Lucretia’s song. Then, as usual, I asked the gang for opinions. The consensus was that Mavis was going to be amazing at karaoke, and when Kath mentioned 4 Non Blondes What’s Up as being her song, I went to have a listen. (Dang that song was everywhere when I was 18.) And it just fit. When blue mentioned singing “a song about killing a man”, I had to ask, and when that turned out to be Goodbye Earl, we all started joking about Goodbye Merle, and yup, absolutely a duet of Mavis and Lup to give Merle a heart attack. Kath also suggested Alone by Heart, and since I know I want to write a Lupcretia follow-up, that fit nicely as well. Bonus song: I love the Bond movie Goldeneye, and Minnie Driver mangling the hell out of Stand By Your Man seemed like a nice touch for some bad karaoke.

Have a playlist.

It was nice, really, to just let the gals have fun while the guys worked out their issues. Which turns out to be “Taako on the art of apologizing without apologizing” after Kravitz cuts through all the equivocating and bullshit.

I took a couple of stabs at an ending before it really solidified, and AGAIN, suggestion from Kath for both Angus and Mavis to have some separate resolution with an adult, who I realized had to be Merle for both. He’s very Dad in this, and in my fic he’s also tried to do what they want to do and has a lot of sympathy.

I actually wrote the scene with the kids on the roof before either of the two scenes right before it, but even with the additional conversations it didn’t feel like a good resolution, whereas ending with Merle somehow did. (Catch me adding a tiny glimpse of Davenchurch!) I know it’s not “all better”, but I feel like I’m moving towards that “happy ending they all deserve” with this one, which is something I really want to do.

#taz balance #taz fic #my fic #jfc this is all so long

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rileywrites-parker · 7 years ago

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Without You

Peter Parker x Reader As part of my request a prompt, 300 follower celebration.

@not-peterparker requested: 7, 53! Congrats btw! Prompts: “I can’t do this without you.” and “I’m crazy about you.”

Thank you for your request and for following me! Ok, so you didn’t specify what you wanted, so I apologize if this isn’t what you had in mind (in fact, I’m sure it won’t be,) but this is kind of what fell out of my brain for those sentences. Words: 1.9K.

Peter is in his 20s. Peter and reader have been together for a long time.

Warnings: This is a little gory. Or a lot. It’s a lot gory. Angsty fluff.

The tightly woven sheet of clouds outside your window blanketed the sliver of a moon hanging high in the sky, offering none of its luminance to the city below, making the already cold, rainy night seem even more dreary and off-putting in its darkness; darkness that made it difficult to see him in your equally blackened room. The masked form of him had practically fallen into your arms the moment you’d slid the window of your shared bedroom open at the sound of his panicked knocking, the entire weight of him supported by your chest; your back protesting the angle; his wet, sticky arms around your neck as he slumped against you.

When the bridge of his nose found the crook of your shoulder he released a soggy sigh into the skin there.

The dampness of his suit spread over the front of you, your borrowed t-shirt quickly soaking through and warming your skin. He groaned when you shifted, an arm pulling too tightly at his back to prevent him from sliding down your body, chests smashing together as you tried your best to support his drooping, lethargic form. “Hey, c’mon,” you encouraged as you started taking slow, measured steps towards your bed, his booted feet lagging and unintentionally smashing against your bare toes. “Peter, hun, you’re really heavy.”

He nodded, the corrugated material of his suit chaffing against your wet skin. You freed up an arm to pull his mask off, his wet hair sticking to the insides, lifting as you freed the strands and flopping back down onto his ears and forehead, dampened curls sticking to his skin as you dropped the fabric to the ground at your feet.

“Pete?” you adjusted your arms again, looping them underneath his, pulling his face from off of your shoulder, his chin bouncing off of a bony collar, to get a better look at him, “Peter, what’s wrong?” His hands hung limply at his sides, cascading pitifully over the tops of your own. When his eyes met yours, you were startled by how utterly exhausted he looked; the darkness in the room accentuating the bruised coloration beneath dull brown. It was the color of his skin that bothered you most, or really, the lack of; so pale that his skin was nearly glowing, rain water and sweat glistening, his clamminess casting its own ghastly light.

You furrowed your brows, voice escaping you in a whisper, “Peter?”

“I need to lie down,” he muttered, voice soft as he looked away from you and angled his body in the direction he wanted you to guide him in.

“Ok, yeah, sure,” you managed.

You succeeded in dragging him over to the bed, pushing the blankets you had hurriedly whipped off of your legs at the sound of his beckoning out of the way and settling him in onto wrinkled sheets. Satisfied with the way his pillow cradled the back of his head and neck, you turned and crossed over to your dresser, switching on the lamp at its corner.

As the light traveled across the room it brought a shocking revelation with it; a trembled gasp ejected from your lungs, every hair on your body stood on end as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror hanging on the wall above the wooden furnishing.

It made sense: why the dampness on your chest had been this strange, heated, sticky thing that had spread over your skin from Peter’s suit, why your brain had questioned the lack of chill and had alerted you to the tangy, metallic scent in the air.

You felt your stomach hit the floor, felt as it pulled all of the heat from your face and chest with it.

“Oh my god.” You couldn’t help but to begin to shake, nerves quickly winning out over your limbs.

You looked like a macabre scene from an old horror film with the way his blood coated the front of you. A despicably sanguineous abstract painting of Peter’s life decorated the whole of your chest and abdomen, the pale blue color of your shirt unseen as the purpled darkness of his substance continued to leech through the threads.

“Oh my god, P-Peter.” You were full on trembling now, gasping for air as you began to panic.

But it was on your skin, too. All down the length of your arms, tangling with the fine hairs that were at attention. You turned to look at Peter then, hands moving to cover your lips at the sight of his limp form, at the ugly stain spreading beneath his suit; your hands stopping abruptly as they reached eye level. His blood had run into the crevices and channels of your fingers, underneath your fingernails; the skin at the joints of your fingertips sticking as you clenched and unclenched your fists.

There was so much of it and he was still losing.

You were going to be sick; now was not the time.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Your dirty hands found the hem of his old shirt and ripped it from you, throwing the offending thing into the farthest corner of your room. You were nude from the waist up; dewy, pink, plasma-like fluid running down your skin in the places he had most soaked.

His suit had done a good job of hiding how badly injured he was. The thin slices through the fabric alerted you to what you were likely to see. It was only as your shaking fingers rolled the top half of his suit down past his ribs, peeling away gently at the places that had already begun to dry, that you noticed you were crying.

Peter’s chest was mangled, he had been slashed from nipple to nipple one way and from nipple to navel the other. The latter of the two wounds had left his skin flayed wide open, the edges jagged and oozing, parts of it unveiling the pink sinewy tissue of the muscle beneath.

He had two large lacerations on his lower abdomen, flesh torn across his hip where the blade had sunk into his flesh and had then been ripped out; you were relieved momentarily as you realized whoever had knifed him hadn’t managed to penetrate anything vital. Peter had spared himself of that at least. Then there was also the issue of the exposed pearly, white bone of his hip peeking out at you from amongst the red.

But his chest was still moving.

Up and down it moved, in time with the air you could hear him drawing in shakily through his nose; wounds stretching as he did so. A shaky palm found a place over his heart; the fluttery feeling of it beating against your skin helping to calm the frantic pounding in your chest.

You took in another deep, steadying breath.

The watery mess of your eyes made it nearly impossible to see as you dared a glance at his face. He was looking at you, watching you with hooded eyes, his face shockingly white, more obvious now under the exposure of light; his wild, dark hair standing out in stark contrast to the pale color. A wet sob pushed past your lips and a bloodied hand wiped roughly at the tears and snot running down your face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I could only think to get here. I had to get to you.”

You shook your head at him, a wayward tear breaking free from your chin and falling onto his chest, “Peter, look at you, I-I can’t - ” A pale, too-cold hand came to rest over the one on his chest.

“You can,” his fingers squeezed at yours weakly, “Please, [Y/N.]”

You were shaking your head again at his words, eyes closed in an attempt to block out the sight of him broken and bleeding; but you couldn’t un-see it; it would probably haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

“I can’t, you’re asking too much of me, Peter. We have to take you to someone else, a hosp - ”

“No.” He cut you off, his tone firm and making you open your eyes to look at him again, carefully avoiding the sight of his chest. “It has to be you. You know that.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at him then, leveling your gaze; you could feel the puffiness of your eyes against your cheeks, burning; you could feel that they were reddened, moisture still pooling at the corners and overwhelming your eyelashes.

“Please.” You looked away from him, taking a moment to absorb the sight of him lying on the bed in the reflection of the mirror, at his profile and the straight line of his nose and jaw as he continued to look at you; seeing just how pitiful the two of you looked together as you huddled close to his prone form on the blood stained sheets. The color of your naked chest and arms contrasting greatly with the red, inflamed skin of his.

You had smeared some of his blood on your face.

The hand not on yours was clenching tightly at the loosed fabric of his suit, red and blue balled up in his palm, knuckles white and strained against the skin there; he was trying to hide his pain from you. But you knew. His entire being was screaming it at you.

“I can’t do this without you.” When you met his eyes again, they were glistening, brown like mud.

“Ok, Peter.”

It would be a long night.

There would be no erasing the sounds he had made as you’d pushed that needle through his burning skin over and over, or the way he’d choked on his sobs, biting his tongue, his lips, and cheeks to keep them from you as best as he was able as you pulled the thread tight after each pass.

His whole body had trembled and he’d nearly screamed as you’d cleaned his wounds with disinfectant, any color that he had left to tinge his skin with the signs of life vanished, sucked out of him like the air he blew through his teeth as he clenched down on his jaw, sinewy muscles popping along the lines of it.

There’d been a moment where his heart and breathing had settled enough for him to lean a head full of wet hair back into you, your breasts cradled snugly between shoulder blades as he relaxed his tired body against you, face leaning into yours to whisper at the corner of your mouth, “I’m crazy about you,” he’d said, “I hope you know that.”

Your lips had found his temple, pressing a light kiss to the skin there, nose sifting through wet curls as your hands continued drawing the warm bath water up his arms, his waist, his chest, freeing the rest of him of that ugly red.

You’d never cried so much as you did that night. That terribly, horribly long night.

He often asked too much of you.

But for him, you would do it. You would always, for him.

I’m sorry for this.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #spiderman x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman imagine #spider-man: homecoming #spider-man x reader #spider-man x you #tom holland #tom holland spiderman #follower celebration #prompt request #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #rileywrites-93

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okami-cerulean · 8 years ago

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FNAF-Something's lurking in here by wlewis92

*gently clears throat*

SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOU,SCREW YOU, SCREW YOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUU!!!!!!!

sorry, just had to get that out, this pic-no, I can't even call it that after all the bullcrap I had to go through to birth it into this world, this... THING, has been the bane and focus of a large portion of my free time and I had to deal with the file being corrupted when it was nearly completed (all I had to do was place a signature), redoing it painstakingly with a slow as BALLS PC, having it partially corrupted, and now I'm here and barely want to say anything about this thing other than all the effing grief it gave me... but I'll tell you about it anyway, cuz I like to tell this sort of garbage (btw, all that "screw you" stuff was directed at the thing, not you guys, cuz I finally finished it despite itself thus I have defeated the demon that has loomed over me for so gosh dippedly darn long) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anyhoo, this picture is of A FNAF Fan character I set in an AU I was gonna do a comic of, but as I thought about it, I thought to myself what sort of Fan related things I was okay with involving myself with and how, and ultimately I've decided that for now, not gonna go forward with this particular idea no matter how good or bad I think it might be, the Blues are each getting their own series though

anyway, the guard is named Christian and he comes in around FNAF 2, He took the job to save for college, he wants to get into robotics and cybernetics, and has some knowledge of machines and programming from taking apart(someties breakin) and fixing things around his home and such, he's also deceptively strong from alot of heavy lifting(he's recently gone a bit, larger scale with his practice creations). The animatronics don't bother him until his second week, when all the toy animatroncs and Foxy start to come after him, he wandered away from his post and is first junmped by Chica, he manages to get away and franticly looks for anything to defend himself... he finds a broom, but that broom ends up saving him as he uses it and knowlege of the crew's weak spots to neutralize them, once they stop attacking, he goes about trying to fix whatever caused them to attack him, thinking it's a programing issue, temporarily turns off their "brains" however, to his surprise, they turn back on seconds later but appear more docile. Anyway, they all get talkig, and it turns out that the reason they kill in this reality s due to the rogrammig of the machinebodies screwing with the minds of the children, so aslong as that programing is off or even removed, they're harmless, except for Marionnette and Golden who have no prgraming, but are okay with Christian aslog as the others are (though more begrudgingly on Mari's part)

anyhoo, Chris leaves teir programing in, but sets it to turn off about an hour before his shift, as the programing being on during the day is basically the equivalent of sleeping for th kidsas their bodies are basically on auto pilot

and to summarize, basically Chris convinces the company to let him e the mecanic and a night guard (which was easy because he didn't ask for any money) and Chris has the resources to make improved bodies and thus makesbetter models for each of the toys, golden is present, but can't move without basically teleporting when no one would see them appear, they also can only communicate a bit telepathically with chris as he has a human brain eventually Chris makes them a prototype body for her to use to move more freelly (in the G. Fred body she thinks of herself as a they, but in her other bodies feels free to be female as noting defining her but her) anyhoo, eventually they all come around to accepting and loving Chris's presence (even the withered, who he offers to fix, but the refuse) unti one night Mari starts bugging out because of purple, G. using her proto boy fends off the haywire Mari but Chris is bleeding out from massive damage to his left arm, they manage to get paramedics (mangle can make calls when connected to a phone line) and they all hide, the meds take him away, and he has to have the rest of his damaged arm amputated as it's dead weight now, somehow with her proto body, Golden follows to the hospital and visits every now and then

due to the accident, Chris is paid off and fired, he says his goodbyes and him and Golden leave (she's the only one that's able to leave) and they promise to comeback for everyone, a promise he immediately gets to work on as he puts his hush money to good use going through college and getting an internship at a major cybernetics company, the more he learns the more he improves Golden's body, until she's a near perfect replica human(only way you can tell she isn't i from her Bear ears she keeps isisting on keeping for some reason)

eventually, Chris runs the company and can make good on his promise to the others(this is around FNAF 3) and Chris and Gloria (Golden) put the iea in some small minded yet ambitious fellows for a horror attraction, ultimately with the motive of having these fellows help obtain everything that remains of Chris and Glorias faded comrades

they eventually do, and Chris walks into the attraction, he appears different and yet somehow looks the same (all the while he made new and improved designs for Gloria, he was also improving on his own body aswell, and Gloria finds she has telekinesis at some point)

They offer their friends new lives and already have new humanized bodies for them, and sense the company Chris now owns has multiple government contracts he has even managed to get rights for sentient automotons, all the ground work is set up, and they agree, and start to blend with society... but Purple still looms and even tries to take over a few machines of mass distruction, so he's a reoccuring issue, but can't affect any of the main crew(Chris learned from his past incounter, and prepared for it)

eventually I was gonna have Baby and such involved too, but like I said, not going forward with this idea (oh yeah, and Chris and Gloria fall for each other eventually, I mean she's like 40 by then, in a body that looks 20, and was put in a position where she was finally able to mature and grow as a person, as they eventually all are allowed to do, and Chris eventually finds out he's one of the offspring of urple and Mar is in affect his brother. also each body has special features like flight for Chica, enhanced speed for Bonnie, etc., however, Gloria only has extreme durabiliy as hers as that's all she requested as she felt she did't need much else, cuz, y'know, telekinesis, and been working with it a looong time) (lastly, in the series you find out that Gloria's life was horrific before the "incident" and just wanted to die, and was enragedby the fact she was kept from death unti Chris)

and that's the abridged version of the entire series I had thought up that I won't do anything with... congratulations to anyone that read all this... and thank you for reading

now if you'll excuse me... I'm gonna go finally work on something, anything, that isn't this thing

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seven-oomen · 4 years ago

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So today’s moments of random thoughts (and attempts at including links) are brought to you by the fact that today they replaced the back office computer at work that controls the store’s music, so it was uncomfortably silent for several hours, meaning that my brain suddenly had to provide the soundtrack again, and that’s always a total craps shoot. Will it be 48 hours straight of “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher”? Will it be some surreal all day medley of AC/DC, Rihanna, and the South Park version of “Pokerface”? Will it be a non-stop Disney sing-a-long? Who knows? Everyday is an adventure with an ADD brain jukebox.

One of today’s tracks of choice was “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, a favorite since long before I was old enough to understand the implications or subtext. And since you enjoyed the last terrible porn scenario so much, why not throw out another classic? Because there is NO WAY they haven’t done this one. Like. Just no way. Oh no, will the brave and daring young hunter woodsman manage to subdue the wily Alpha wolf, or will poor innocent Omega Riding Hood be devoured by the lustful lupine? (I think the only correct answer here is yes to both.) And because part of me wondered if such a thing even existed (I just had to know if I could bring in the plaid), I searched Google and found this (for a more casual approach) or this (for if they’re feeling fancy) for Noah, preferably paired with some tall black combat boots, perhaps (also, just saying, both would be a great option for a chase night). For “Grandma”, I was thinking something along these lines (theoretically demure, yet also highlighting the collar bones, especially if unbuttoned slightly and allowed to slide off one shoulder. Perhaps in the blue to bring out his eyes. XD ) because it comes across innocent in all the ways Peter would very much not be at that point. All Chris would really need is his tightest jeans, deepest v’d henley, and maybe a nice denim or suede trucker jacket. (Have I spent WAY too much time thinking about this? Probably, but in my defense it kept me from snapping at all the idiots out without masks who refused to properly distance. So.) And because why the hell, not, I haven’t confused my Google search enough yet, here’s a couple of options for Chris that are a little more classy, as far as such a thing can apply to an outfit like this. I mean if the other two are getting nice, quality outfits in that scenario, dammit he deserves the same.

Oh, and to briefly segue it back towards the more serious (and god, I really hope this comes out the way I mean it to, I am legit terrible at trying to word stuff like this), I would just like to say that frankly this version of how the physical/biological/however you want to phrase it aspects of the male/female vs alpha/omega spectrums play out makes so much more sense than a majority of the a/b/o I’ve seen. I may not read it often, but I’ve been in fandom too long (and in a few too many small ones) not to have read a fair amount. There have been a number of times where I just end up going “…his body has/did what now?…" Whereas with yours it’s just like "oh, cool, that makes total sense”. It’s natural, logical, and easy to understand, unlike my first few experiences back in the day when I kept having to Google the whole Omegaverse concept (a TERRIBLE idea, btw) to try and figure out how things worked. So, yeah, I, at least, am a fan of this variation/interpretation/whatever.

Anyway…having hopefully managed to avoid cramming my whole entire foot into my mouth, would you care for some more assorted headcanons? Maybe one day Stiles and Noah are in the attic working on sorting and organizing some things (Stiles is about 14 or 15 at this point), and after going through a couple boxes of Claudia’s sketchbooks, he finds one that contains a few mangled pairs of fishnets, a mesh shirt or two, maybe a pair of extremely short black cutoffs, some studded bracelets and collars, and he’s just like “man, Mom was a little more hardcore than I would have guessed." After a couple moments of pointed silence, Noah finally offers ”…that’s not your Mom’s stuff, Stiles" while very determinedly not looking his son’s direction. Cue a hysterical sequence of microexpressions of shock and horror contorting Stiles’ face, culminating in a brief full body flail and ending with him shaking his head with all the intense desperation of someone trying to clear an Etch-A-Sketch, before he just quietly goes back to sorting through the other boxes and they just never speak of it again. Alternately, I would accept this same scenario for Chris and Allison (thinking the box had belonged to Kate), because I feel she would have the next best reaction faces to Stiles (less grimacing, but more internal screaming), with basically the same end result. Or perhaps both had an incident like this, and they use it as some sort of bonding moment. They’re an odd family after all.

Don’t think I didn’t notice that the preview changed again. Just going straight for the feels this time, huh? God, poor Peter. I feel so bad that he’s missing out on all the cuddles (familial and romantic), but I’m sure they’ll all be more than willing to make it up to him later. Really hope he was doing that super speed thing on the way back to the hospital, or the Sheriff’s station might get some strange reports of a naked man running through neighborhoods.

On the subject of the kids and education, I would vote BioChem for Allison. It would be useful in learning about all the stuff hunters use, and figuring out ways to combat them, as well as potentially offering some overlap with Lydia’s degree.

I’d vote Criminal Law for Jackson. It would be both a nod to his adoptive dad in the show having been the D.A. and offer a connection to the traditions of the family he’s just now learning about. And I suspect that it’s entirely possible that if Stiles went after a Criminal Justice degree (or similar, I’m not entirely sure what it would be called), they’d likely have some overlapping classes, which would just piss Stiles all the hell off. So win-win, really.

I think Malia could do really well with either type of Engineering. I want to lean more towards Mechanical, particularly for the auto repair aspect, but part of me really wants Electrical for the Ant-Man connection (speaking of high Intelligence, low Wisdom…) I think she would hate it while she was getting the degree (WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME THERE’D BE SO MUCH MATH???!!!), she’d be so proud once she’d graduated. I feel like I could see Derek partnering with her on the shop (he’s working on a Master’s in Business. Anything Law just felt too close to what he’d lost, but he also couldn’t bear to stray too far. So, business. Eventually I think he’d join in with the artsy side of the family and go after a degree in Design, so he could help build up the shop that way, as well.)

Totally agree on the other two. I can also totally see Kira and Malia coaching some sort of intramural sport for kids one day. Soccer (football), Little League, Lacrosse, doesn’t matter which. They absolutely love it, and the kids love them (they totally get the smaller Pack kids involved, too). Eventually they talk Isaac into creating a team for some of his kids that are looking to socialize more (they make sure that the experience is 100% positive for any of them that play. They refuse to tolerate any bullying or poor sportsmanship of any kind.)

Hmm…not sure about the others, either, but I like the idea of Boyd ending up as a professor of Mythology and Folklore. He was the one that actually thought about whether he wanted the bite, and whether it would be worth it in the long run. He seemed the most interested in the reality of being a werewolf. I can see him learning as much as he can about the supernatural from Peter and Noah (and some of the other side of things from Chris), and utilizing that in getting his degree (and eventual Doctorate). And let’s face it, after dealing with the Pack’s shenanigans over the years, college kids aren’t intimidating in the slightest.

And before I forget, may I just say that “People buy it because it’s Tumblr, why wouldn’t two gay dads run a wolf rescue?” had me laughing so hard I started snorting. Moving on; I know you recently shared a post that featured shots from the episode where Stiles gets his dad drunk to distract him from reopening the Hale case (I have Opinions about that black shirt, and how disappointed I was that it Never Showed Up Again, so I notice when it pops up in Tumblrs I check, okay? Don’t judge me.), and some of the other blogs I try to keep up with have shared some pics of J.R. in glasses, and now I can’t help but wonder if that becomes like a Thing for Peter at some point. Like, once they start to get a little older (once Chris has grown out his beard again, and maybe Noah has retired [my uncle was a cop and retired in like his mid-forties, I think] and started letting his hair get just a bit shaggy again) and his husbands start occasionally wearing glasses for reading, or fine detail work, etc. (I would not judge him if it did, because, uh…, hard same. I blame too many years of anime.) Like, they slip them on and his brain just immediately starts going to more terrible porn scenarios. Stern librarian, called to the principal/headmaster’s office, courtroom shenanigans. Actually, if Peter is supposed to have been a lawyer they probably do that one anyway. The Prosecution and the Defense take turns attempting to sway the Judge/Jury Foreman in their favor. Who is who just depends on their mood at the time, and who feels willing to put on a suit (god help Peter if he gets both his mates in well cut suits and at their persuasive best. He can barely keep it together long enough to stay halfway in character. They are fully aware of their power, and file the information away for use in anniversary/graduation/other celebratory settings.) Wow…that kinda got away from me. Again.

Anyway, I tried to do the reader poll thing, hope my responses went through/made sense. Hope the assorted links I’ve attempted work, I’ve never tried adding them to something before. I probably still have the tabs open if I need to try again, unless my computer randomly decides to close them, which I have had it occasionally do. Glad that you are feeling somewhat better, and that it doesn’t appear to be anything serious (and possibly even somewhat positive, in the long run, at least? If it’s a sign of things trying to heal?) Sorry in advance if some of this makes assisting customers difficult tomorrow. XD I feel like it should just be implicit, like my brain just compels it’s own warning in general.

I think I’ve read through this at least ten times because it’s just so good. I don’t really have the energy to reply to everything, but I do want to leave you with some headcanons of my own.

Mainly Hogwarts houses:

Ravenclaw: Lydia, Melissa, Natalie, Julio, Stiles

Gryffindor: Noah, Derek, Kira, Allison, Boyd

Hufflepuff: Scott, Chris, Jordan, Ben, Isaac

Slytherin: Malia, Jackson, Peter, Danny, Erica

Ben’s super cute playfulness as a wolf pup

Peter definitely wears a pair of wolf ears during sex, although he’s a little sad that he can’t mark up Chris and Noah as he used to. He liked to bite hard and draw blood, but with him as an Alpha, that’s just not an option anymore. Although there are plenty of other ways he can mark them up and he enjoys finding new ways. Even if they’re not as visual and permanent.

Peter also makes time for each of his kids and enjoys being a father. He revels in the role and loves reading bedtime stories to his younger kids, PTA meetings (he rises to the top of the rank really quickly, starts a turf war with a Karen but gets backed up by Mack’s mom. So it’s all cool.) And With his older kids he finds new ways to guide them through life as young adults. He’s there for every homework assignment, every break-up, every report card, and all the little moments he’s had to miss out on.

Also when Noah is pregnant, he’s closely monitored by Melissa and his licensed midwife. (He’s given birth to Malia and Stiles at home, he’s planning to do it again. Chris too, only has had homebirths, although Ben had to be rushed to the hospital because the doofus swallowed amniotic fluid during birth and turned blue after ten minutes. (Which is based on a true story, my brother had that complication after homebirth. Homebirths are very common in my country which is why I put them in my fics.)) And Peter and Chris go into protective overdrive. He keeps working for as long as he can but at four months pregnant with twins, he has to take a step back and only work desk duty until he’s 7.5 months along. He takes some time off after that and gets time to recuperate and rest.

Chris for his last pregnancy also chooses to have a homebirth, Julio comes to work for him to do his arms deals and meetups while Chris takes a step back and works from his office until the day he goes into labor. And even then he’s still trying to get this deal done while breathing through contractions.

Also, imagine Peter getting to experience both of his mates being pregnant again. I like to imagine the smile on his face when he hears the heartbeats for the first time, how he just knows when his mates are pregnant, he recognizes the scent change now. He knows Chris is pregnant before Chris does. With Noah it’s a bit more of a tie since Noah can pick up the twins’ energy signatures and heartbeat at 4-5 weeks. Which is when the scent change happens.

I imagine the three of them curled up together after the youngest has been born, all tuckered out and completely passed out. The new baby curled up in the cosleeper next to the bed. Malia sneaks in without waking her dad and starts snapping pictures for the family album. And at one point during the night, Ben and the youngest twins end up sleeping in their parents’ bed as well. It becomes a routine until Ben is ten and generally likes to sleep alone. (Unless he’s upset, then he comes running.)

Also, the mere image of Chris wearing glasses and Noah wearing his police sunglasses (or regular glasses), like yes, sign me up. Also, Peter shows solidarity and starts wearing glasses later in life too. Which doesn’t only do wonders for their sex life (though that was never bad, to begin with) but also every single parent at Ben’s high school and the twins’ elementary school suddenly have the hots for the three extremely hot dilfs.

It also helps with getting justice for Ben when his son is being bullied at school and Chris has to convince Peter not to kill anyone, Noah shows off the sheriff’s badge and starts suggesting a few things, and Chris likes to remind people that his son (Jackson) is now the youngest DA in the country and works from Beacon Hills and his other son (Stiles) is now an FBI agent who certainly wouldn’t mind digging into the past of whoever is bullying his little brother. (Not that he ever has to get that far, usually he smiles warmly and charms the principal or the teacher with his trademark smile and within a day Ben’s bullies are disciplined by the school.)

I have no idea where I’m going anymore as I’m pretty tired at this point. But these were stuck in my head and I had to share.

(Once again, I adore every single headcanon you’ve send me. <3)

#ben says stuff #once upon a time comments #submission

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tinymixtapes · 8 years ago

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Juiceboxxx reemerges from the darkness with new album Freaked Out American Loser

The saga never ends, people! Wisconsin’s very own Juiceboxxx, a legend of the rap-punk game to many, is back with a new full-length follow up to his slept-on 2015 LP Heartland 99. If you need an introduction, Juiceboxxx has been a consistent presence on the noise/punk/basement/energy-drink-freak-out circuit for over 15 years now. In addition to his tunes, he runs Thunderzone Records and drops a weekly newsletter called “The Boxxx Report” (which has tipped me to some choice new tunes, and I think you’d be wise to at least subscribe for a week too…I mean, your inbox is already full of spam from Amazon, so what’s the harm?!?!?) There’s no official date just yet, but JB’s newest mangling of rap, noise, and hardcore, Freaked Out American Loser, is “coming this summer” via L.A. label Dangerbird, and it’s a highly anticipated release in my household. While we wait for more new sounds and details, peep the video for Heartland 99 opener “Walking in Milwaukee” below, as well as a list his upcoming live dates. (BTW, I saw him open for Big Freedia way back in 2k10, during the “laptop and guitar phase,” which was pretty sick, but now he’s got a full band which, as Dangerbird describes as “like Crispin Glover fronting Bad Brains.” There’s certainly a lot to unpack in that phrase, so do yourself a favor and keep tabs on Freaked Out American Loser and check out the Boxxx live experience.) Juiceboxxx tour dates 2017: 03.29.17 - Brooklyn, NY - Honey’s 04.08.17 - Brooklyn, NY - HECK 04.29.17 - Queens, NY - Trans Pecos 06.19.17 - Athens, GA - Georgia Theater Rooftop 06.20.17 Nashville, TN - DRKMTTR 06.21.17 - Cincinnati, OH - House Show 06.22.17 - Chicago, IL - Empty Bottle http://j.mp/2o7ud4c

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braindamageforbeginners · 6 years ago

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Bane Capital

Cycle 6, Day 9

So, this whole writing project - in addition to trying to bridge that gap between medicine, patients, and healthy people (which is ambitious, I know), is also to provide everyone out there with good, useable information, which means I do have to scrap the planned presentation from time time because of a “teachable” moment. As most of you know, Tuesday is usually my day to get injected with strychnine in the bizarre life experiment to see who dies first: Me or brain cancer. And there will be more than a few days where you have write out a pro/con list to figure out if survival is a good thing. And if someone in your family is going through chemo, treat their (probably bad) decision to get out of bed and join polite society the same way you would a roommate getting in from the Walk of Shame. Namely, just kind of quietly let them collect themselves (again, I describe them as a chemo hangover because that’s pretty much what they are). Dad’s usually pretty good about this, but this morning, we had the following exchange: DAD: I thought I heard someone creeping down the stairs. SELF: It’s not creeping, I’m just moving at the speed of a 90 year old man. DAD: You say those kinds but we both know - SELF: Yeah, right now my biggest, most burning life goal is just to make it 90, I’d rather put off the frailty and associated problems for a few more years. I then skulked off to the sofa to compose myself and double-check which species I am. I was doing this when I heard the sound of the coffee pot clinking against a mug, and one of my favorite beverages being poured, and the effect was electric. I now know a cat feels when they hear the tin opener. Which brings up an important cancer survival tip, you’ll need some sort of “happy” or “hangover-relieving” ritual to get up and out of bed (i know hat’s a little cheerful for me, my fingers burned just typing it). And you’ll be tired a lot, so don’t be afraid to abuse caffeine.

We also had a family discussion on potential wildlife issues Stepmom and Dad might face while hiking to visit my brother on Rattlesnake Ridge. Again, that’s only slightly exaggerating it, he’s stationed near an area nick-named the Rattlesnake Mountains (the word “near” is important; wild animals are not known for obeying zoning ordinances), so the following conversation took place (yes, it did): DAD (reading from field medicine guide): If bitten by a rattlesnake, do not try to suck out venom or apply tourniquet. Instead, if there are two hikers, the bitten person should stay in place, and the other person should seek help. Increased heart rate increases the exposure to venom, so stay calm and breathe slowly. SELF: They say that, but if you’re bitten by a painful, venomous creature in the middle of nowhere in harsh terrain, remaining calm is gonna be challenging. STEP-MOM: isn’t there some sort of deterrent, like those deer whistles you put on your car? SELF: I don’t think so; snakes don’t have ears, they can sense vibrations along the ground, though. Just stomp and make some noise, and they’re nocturnal, so don’t go out at night. And watch your feet. DAD: I think they used to make bite-proof boots using thick leather and steel inserts. Which wouldn’t be comfortable, and the fangs might go in at an odd angle and get stuck. STEP-MOM: I think that’s worse than if they just bit you. SELF: We’ve all had that embarrassing moment when we’ve walked out of a public restroom with some toilet paper stuck to our shoe; imagine that, but with a large, angry venomous creature.

And, since Marizomib’s going on to phase 3 trials in several different brain cancer/spinal cord treatments/cancers, I also thought I’d write about it in a little greater detail. In all the ways that I care about (IQ, memory, personality, “chemo brain”), it has far, far fewer side-effects/detriments than Temodar (I’m still a little mentally “fuzzy” the next day, but that might just be fatigue). And it is three infusions/treatments a month (so far)(you spend 5 days of every four weeks on Temodar, too, which sucks, but I’ve written elsewhere about that), but this has horrific, old school, physical side effects. I’ve written about the hallucinations and/or disturbingly vivid dreams, but there’s also severe nausea (I haven’t puked because I double-fist Zofran those days, but, even with that, you’re aware that something’s not right in your tummy) and pain. The good news is, if you take a large aspirin/Tylenol dose immediately after the infusion, and, like zofran, just take a standard/lower dose every four hours, you’ll do okay. The bad news is, if you’d rather sleep through the night, those chemical crutches won’t be in your system to help you crawl out of bed. Good news though, I did manage to get to the gym with enough energy (thank you, coffee) to seriously injure myself (or it felt that way, anyway) at the gym. It’s oddly cathartic to mangle oneself on the treadmill when you’re in a lot of other pain - both psychologial and physical - that you didn’t sign up for (that’s what I was trying to describe the other day).

Since the drug’s going on to stage III testing, that makes my odds of survival somewhat better (the life-span-limiting factor in GBM cases seems to be how long chemo remains effective, and, prior to this, there’ve only been a handful of them). However, I would think that if some patient got superpowers or something from it, it would have been noted, and quickly. So, my dream of becoming Captain America is dead, at the moment. However, the last year has proven that I am nothing if not adaptable, so I went looking for another role model (I realize I’ve posted versions of this elsewhere, but I’ve done a little research, and there are current events to be discussed).

No superpowers? Check.

Still beefy despite that? Check

Pharmaceutically dependent? Check.

Not fond of the light (that’s just me in a chemo hangover)? Check.

Bent on the destruction of the current political/economic apparatus? Check.

Which brings me to today’s essay topic, “Why Bane is Actually the Hero of the Third Nolan Batman Movie.” Stick with me closely. This was sort-of inspired by another crazed lunatic pointing out that being a billionaire in a time of insane, disproportionate wealth distribution in which poverty literally kills people (that’s not hyperbole, I’ve very, very cunningly gamed the system to get access to treatment, but, again, people get thrown out on the street, and if the state poor-person-insurance program dries up, gets privatized, or defunded, I will die) is indefensibly immoral. I realize I’m a special case, so let’s talk food. one-in-six Americans faces “food uncertainty,” which is the inability to consistently provide enough food for all members of the family. Before we get even more political, to bring that home, here’s a fun experiment you can do: take out a standard die out, and roll it. If it lands on a six, someone in the family goes without dinner and breakfast. Not to say that people who work hard and successful don’t deserve the benefits of that, but by the time you accumulate billions, that’s not “successful,” that’s “money hoarding.”

In the Nolan Batman films, they go to great lengths to establish a similar wealth concentration as the very cause of Batman. His parents are killed in a mugging gone wrong. I realize it doesn’t make a good movie if Bruce Wayne gets a PhD in economics and successfully pushes/lobbies for reforms that eliminate the need for people to turn to crime, and, instead, decides to become a billionaire so he can beat criminals to death (I know the big Batman thing is that he doesn’t kill at all, which is why leaves them tied up to lamp-posts)(Wait, that’s Spider-Man, concussions are actually quite dangerous).

You could make an argument that Batman is a good guy in the first film, because Ra’s al Ghul wants to kill everyone in Gotham, which is much worse than letting a lot of them slowly starve to death. You could make the exact same argument about Harvey Dent and the Joker, who function as apolitical agents of complete chaos and destruction. Stopping them is as necessary - and moral - as stopping a hurricane (BTW, Puerto Rico’s power grid is still offline, more than a year after the fact).

All this time, Batman prefers stopping criminals one-on-one instead of judicial reform or a basic universal income. And, as the Joker points out, the entire appeal of destroying Gotham is as a personal challenge. At this point Batman/the security apparatus of Gotham is no longer a part of the problem, he is the problem because he’s attracting homicidal maniacs. And whatever happened to that big pile of money the Joker just lit on fire? That could fund a children’s hospital (just another subtle display from C. Nolan that wealth concentration is dangerous)(BTW, unlike the comics or other portrayals, we never actually see Bruce Wayne’s renowned charity) . But I digress.

The point is, this sort of continues (both the economic degradation of Gotham and the odd petty criminal being beaten to death, I’d assume) into the third film, by which point conditions have become so unstable that Peter Kropotkin - er Bane - is easily able to colonize the sewer system, and bribe assorted CEO’s, politicians into giving him (Bane) access to all kinds of things. Side-note here, Bane is enlightened as to what real wealth is: the ability to affect and/or remake the world as you see fit. That’s in direct contrast with the usual idea of capital, defined by Hernando de Soto as “anything with the ability to generate more capital” (in that same book, de Soto describes how that modern economic and monetary policy do a great deal of harm by sticking to that policy that “only US dollars or things readily converted to them” are wealth, which keep a great deal of poor people - globally - from being able to invest/participate in the economy.

Yet, with an unconventional view of money and power, Bane proceeds to dismantle Gotham’s elite and the police/security apparatus protecting them. He’s actually almost ethical about it, in that he doesn’t seem to directly target anyone not connected with Bruce Wayne or his (Bane’s) odd vendetta against the man (again, at this point in the metaphor, Batman is the traditional security apparatus that keeps the status quo within Gotham, supplemented by the police). Bane traps the police - the alternate defenders of the status quo - in a cave (but with enough food and/or water or something to survive). This isn’t as bad as it sounds (that’s an opinion, but, screw it, this is an essay on why Batman is secretly a bad guy), as American police aren’t really necessary for law and order. I’ve lived in several other countries where there wasn’t any visible police presence, and I had absolutely no problem or crime, apart from possibly being overcharged for cabs (which I figure might be danger pay, since they also drive on the wrong side of the road at 850 mph). In Miami, FL, I was burgled, and the cops were actually worse than useless, because I had to fill out a crime report, and I didn’t get anything back, at any point. Same goes when someone later broke into my car. The car was still there and working, so I figured I wouldn’t bother with the cops that time, In fact, a third of all murders go unsolved, nationally, and, according to an NPR news report in 2013; national police policies had shifted from “solving crimes” to “crime prevention.” Care to guess how that works? It usually involves hyper policing of minorities and/or non-violent crime. There have been excellent, effective attempts to reform police and policing in places like Las Vegas and Richmond CA (both of those focused on extensively training officers to act more as community mediators (see Peel’s Principles) than as armed guards - the point is, people are self-organizing, and self-policing for the most part, despite what Darryl Gates might have you think. So far, Bane’s bankrupted Bruce Wayne, backstabbed (literally) the corrupt executives who hired him, and removed an ineffective - potentially dangerous if you’re an ethnic minority - element from the city. If he was in elected office, that would all be considered a win. He also frees the inmates of not-Arkham Asylum. Assuming this prison has similar statistics to federal institutions, 50% will be drug convictions, usually possession or intent to sell (I’m not going to argue that such people are harmless, but, having met a mid-level cocaine distributor - my family is very weird and varied and has many bad relationship decisions - it’s actually more of a lucrative white-collar industry than “Breaking Bad.” However, because it’s fiction and this is all an alternate literary/film analysis let’s assume that it’s thousands of Batman villains unleashed. There’s probably some rioting and chaos, but wide-shots suggest no worse than post-Katrina New Orleans. It’s telling that, in order to make the public frightened of this, Nolan evokes the Reign of Terror, presumably because otherwise there’s very little morally questionable acts here (yes, Bane has killed a few people by this point, but, if the word “hematoma” means anything to you, so has Batman). It’s nice to see that mega-white-person paranoia - “if the minorities/poor people gain equality, they might treat you like you treated them.” on film (I may be reading way too much into this, it is, after all, a series of films in which an untreated, mental patient with a bat fetish beats up petty criminals). The criminal court does a really weird and inefficient sentencing/murder gimmick involving drowning judges, attorneys, and detectives who put them in prison. Which is morally indefensible, but, since that’s happening at rate of one victim every twenty minutes, I’d imagine most of the intended victims would die of old age long before the Scarecrow gets them.

During all of this, Bruce Wayne/Batman gets bankrupted (but not really), and meets a nice girl whom he immediately accepts with almost no question (i’d really like to be more charitable here, since “white, crippled, and broke” is now not a totally-inaccurate description of me, but he’s still involved in stuff that’s illegal). The end-play of Bane and Bruce’s Nice Girl (who turns out to be Rha��s al Ghul’s daughter) is to steal a nuclear device from Wayne Industries. Pause for a moment. Wayne Enterprises developed a new energy source that doubles as a nuclear weapon. Moving past that interesting and disturbing idea that a completely unregulated free market eventually ends with nuclear devices in the hands of billionaires (actually, that was disturbingly predictive), this is the moment when Batman actually becomes an international war criminal. Bet you never thought Batman might be an intelligence asset for the ISI.

That’s not some sort hyperbolic statement, the UN very carefully and highly regulates all nuclear developement - even for civilian use (to give you an idea, the genetics lab I interned at had some slightly-radioactive pixie dust that they occasionally used in labeling or sequencing strands, and the door that lab had either be closed and locked, or someone had to be in it -Like, I wasn’t supposed to go for a five minute bathroom break without securing that room) - and the private ownership thereof is, shall we say, frowned upon. So, the starting Good Deed for Batman - the one that apparently costs him a lot - is that he didn’t directly authorize , the development and sale of private nuclear arms. Which seems moral, until you realize that not making nukes and selling them for private use (to be fair, any major fireworks display would be much more interesting) is normal. Call me a snob, but I’d like my superheroes to be better than me, especially when the Hague might be watching.

Also, this turns the whole moral situation on its head. This is now a weird revenge story in which the daughter of the villain Batman sort-of murdered is back with her big, best friend. It’s either “Make-a-Wish” from Hell, or that old idea - again - that those in power will be held accountable (or punished) for all the times they refused to rend aid when it was needed. The only morally pure character in this scenario is Bane, whose ultimate motives are just to protect and aid his friends (You could argue that Catwoman’s more moral than Batman in this film, but that’s another essay, and this film fails the Bechdel Test so badly that I’m not sure how I’d tackle that). Bane and Talia al Ghul activate the bomb (okay, that’s a bad guy move, to be sure, again, though, developing and/or possessing weapons of mass destruction IS NOT MORAL, let alone legal), and Batman fakes his death in the resulting fiery explosion. That’s not a display of morality, that’s just manning up, owning your own mistakes, and correcting them. Again, that’s acting with a modicum of maturity, not some supreme moral courage.

The happy ending is when Batman - defender of the sociopolitical status quo - actually leaves Gotham to figure out its own problems, after learning that he has become part of Gotham’s problems, which, again, strike me as economic and political, not crime-and-justice.

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