#nothing beside remains. round the decay / of that colossal wreck . something or other

[lotrmusical]

My high school did a yearly poetry recitation contest (Poetry Out Loud), so Oh Boy do I know some poems. My favorites are Ozymandias and "the world is about to end and my grandparents are in love," by Kara Jackson. Also in 8th grade we had a Poe unit and had a class contest to make the best music video of the Raven, so I still know a good chunk of that.

i hadn't heard of the kara jackson one! just read through it and enjoyed it, particularly these lines > 'grandma returns to her love like a hymn, marks it with a color. // when the world ends will it suck the earth of all its love? /will i go taking somebody’s hand, / my skin becoming their skin?'

[isagrimorie]

Janeway/Chakotay?

for the ship ask game

Ship It

What made you ship it?

I think I shipped them in the first episode of Voyager. But it kicked off during the episode when they were both stranded on the planet.

I’m a multishipper so Chakotay isn’t the only one I ship with Janeway, but Chakotay is the first person I shipped with Janeway.

For the longest time, I remember in the 90s when we only had seasons 1 to 3, my focus was very much Janeway/Chakotay oriented. Most of the fic I consumed were Janeway/Chakotay oriented.

But what re-ignited my shipping for Janeway/Chakotay was Year of Hell and the waistcoat pocket watch Chakotay gifted Janeway for her birthday. She rebuffs his gift out of practicality.

But Chakotay disobeyed her order and kept the pocket watch. Janeway finds it months later, after Annorax kidnapped Chakotay and Paris. I love the inversion where its Chakotay and Tom Paris who are both damsels in distress, and basically playing the honey pot who works over the bad guys for their own ends. .

And then, later near the close of the episode, when Janeway orders her crew to other ships and after saying her affecting goodbye to her oldest friend, Tuvok, Janeway looks at her pocket watch.

Janeway holds the pocket watch and looks at it as she walks towards the command chairs.

Janeway looks at Chakotay’s chair to her right and looks at it, her expression unreadable. And yet, we sense what she is feeling— the absence of Chakotay.

Janeway looks at Chakotay’s chair to her right and looks at it, her expression unreadable. And yet, we sense what she is feeling— the absence of Chakotay.

Still clutching the time piece Chakotay gifted her. For luck. For something else, maybe, we will never know.

And with that Janeway sits down on her Command chair. Her throne. A lone queen in a ruined landscape. She will go down with this ship, a Captain to the end.

Also, I can’t help but think of the Ozymandias poem. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

I do love their mutual respect for each other, but also that Chakotay is willing to be second-in-command to Janeway. It’s really quite a thing for something during the 90s that we know Janeway is in charge and Chakotay is her second-in-command. And even though they would disagree, Chakotay will do his damnest to support Janeway.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

I don’t know if it’s unpopular but — as I am a multishipper— I ship Janeway with both Seven and Chakotay. I wouldn’t mind a story where they manage to work it out.

Also, I wouldn’t mind reading an angsty story about the 23 years in the Delta Quadrant where all three are miserable because Chakotay loves Janeway, Seven loves Janeway and Janeway loves both but because she can’t allow herself to love anyone while she’s a Captain… it does end up becoming Chakotay and Seven. And its a messy, complicated thing they end up in. Especially if Seven died where none of the two realize that Seven also loved Janeway and Chakotay became the shell of who he was because he felt guilty for loving Janeway while mourning for his wife, who he liked and cared for but didn’t love.

And Janeway also has to contend with the grief of losing Seven but also the relief of not seeing both people she loves together. But at what cost?

Or even an angsty story where the 23 years happened but it ends up happily where they do figure out that there is such a thing as a poly relationship. It would be an interesting story where Janeway has to contend with the realization that she loves two people at once and that she can’t choose.

She loves both Chakotay and Seven equally and differently.

But somehow they do figure things out and they live it all out happily.

So… I guess that’s… unpopular as opinions go.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 97: Nothing Beside Remains

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 28. Go to previous. Go to next. CWs for religion, unreality, and delusions.

__________________________

“...Round the decay / Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away.” -- Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias”

__________________________

“Why are we headed to Sutter Grove, then, Sir?”

Angel followed along behind ‘Choly as the pair walked the Upper Level, from the GCC to the southern end of the Concourse. Unlike the near-abandoned Lower Level, the second story of the Concourse housed many residents. Leases didn’t seem to have opened up shop, like an animal in hiding until the coast was clear… or possibly even an animal lying in wait. He bit at his lip for a ways. Eventually, he replied.

“I can’t leave it alone. Consider it bribery if you have to, but I must get more information out of Haidinger, even if it costs me.”

The Mister Handy wanted to hesitate, but resisted what would put any distance between them.

“But we haven’t anything in the way of funds at present.”

“We still have several brokering chips, by my count.” ‘Choly stopped only long enough to wag a mindful finger at it. “Many things are worthless unless the man in possession of them knows exactly what he has.”

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Sir.”

“I probably don’t, but let’s have some faith.”

As they stepped into the entryway for Sutter Grove, they passed the miniature replica of Pheasant Lane Mall on display. ‘Choly straightened in his orthotics. His eyes trailed the odd glowing recessed filigrees of Burlington glass which illuminated the hallways. He quashed his nervous, wandering attention, and pulled his eyes from the architecture.

He didn’t need to locate an Atomite to ask after the Sacristan. Haidinger sat with the door open in an office not too far from the entryway. The glowing, ghoulish priest noticed Angel’s metallic scrabbling and rushed to his feet to greet them.

“Ah! You there.” Haidinger’s shoulders locked square. His gloved hands refrained from reaching out, if even simply to gesture in admonition that the robot risked scuffing the floors by crawling out in this manner. “Atom keep you, cousin. How is your robot?”

‘Choly looked to Angel, then back to the Sacristan.

“It’s still going to take time, but Angel is improving. Thank you.”

Haidinger tried to smile.

“And your hand? How is it?”

“That… will take more time than Angel will, but I’m not snagged up, if that’s what you’re asking.” He held up his still-blistered left forearm for emphasis. “I don’t understand why this was your reaction to the situation, but I want to.”

‘Choly produced a holotape from his pocket and took Haidinger’s hands to place it in them. He clasped his hands around Haidinger’s with an apologetic tenderness.

He also tried to smile.

“We got off on the wrong foot, Sacristan.”

His wandering fingers traced Haidinger’s exposed wrists. Haidinger withdrew his hands, gripping the holotape in one hand while gripping that hand with the other, and with a somber but pleased sigh he upturned his hand to read the tape.

“When you said you had a transcript for your experience during the Division Day storm, I believed it to be a physical text. No matter.”

“It’s a duplicate. I brought it to give to you. Transcribed most of it by holotape. If the holotape proves interesting to you, I could be persuaded to share my physical notes as well. You have a way to read this?”

“I have a way, yes. Thank you.” Haidinger squinted at the holotape at length, almost as though he didn’t understand the gesture. “Something bothers you. Do you wish to discuss it?”

“What, the holotape?” A misleading, distracted chuckle slipped out of him. “I don’t know what about it that I would need to discuss. …No, what bothers me might somehow tie back to that tape, but the tape itself isn’t it.”

Haidinger placed a sympathetic hand on ‘Choly’s shoulder.

“We have quiet, open spaces nearby that will afford a bit of privacy. Come, speak with me in my office.”

“It’s true. I have a motive. I…”

Haidinger led them back to where they’d found him. The tart musk of incense crinkled up in ‘Choly’s nose. Contrasting the dark, holographic corridors of the church, countless specimens of Burlington glass adorned every open surface of this space, drawn into all manner of arcane shapes he found at once oddly familiar and unusual. Concentric rings traced seemingly impossible fluorescent sigils. Shocks of fabric and lengths of fiber intermixed with the glowing artisan glass and incorporated dozens of bones of uncertain origin. ‘Choly squirmed inside that some of the larger ones, used to intimate a more organic concentrism, may once have belonged to a whale. He didn’t give his legs the chance to grow unsteady with grief, and sat in one of the available wooden chairs opposite Haidinger’s low, round desk. Angel parked itself directly next to him and curled up its tendrils to occupy as little space as possible. He set one needful hand upon it, and lowered his voice.

“...We're going to give living at Ant Lane another try. Sticks won't tell me why he’s been reluctant, but I know the one thing that eats at me more than anything. Tell me that any unease I feel around that pit is unfounded. I don’t know why it made sense in my head to seek you of all people about it. I’m no Atomite. I’ve never been much for religious sentiment. It’s just a hole.”

Haidinger sat beside him rather than opposite him.

“You came here seeking reason. May Atom provide. You were right to come to me. You mean the sinkhole caused by the tunneling damage, n’est-ce pas? You needn’t worry. The Hall may have blocked funding for further repairs, but the Mayor has provided the Church with increased funds in recent months. Sutter Grove intends to pay for any repairs our Glassworks cannot ourselves provide.”

‘Choly wanted to sit on his hands to keep from wringing them, but handwringing felt like the only appropriate thing to do at the time. He hemmed.

“My unease goes deeper than that. You misunderstand me. The red and green hallucinations. The things people thought they saw right before the storm didn’t necessarily mean anything, but I can’t stop thinking about what I saw.” His gaze raced over every feature of glass and bone it could find, sooner than make direct eye contact. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

‘Choly only trembled more by trying not to, and Haidinger noticed. His brow pitied the chemist.

“Many have described their Burlington visions to me,” he said, grave but kind. “It sounds as though you believe your visions may have caused you unease. Are you comfortable describing to me what you saw? I have the time for you now.”

As ‘Choly spoke, Haidinger turned the holotape over in his hands. He nodded along softly, calculating what response might best help him.

“I’ve done my best to forget about it, but neither the storm nor flood helped with that. I feel this… horrendous dread deep in my gut over it. I saw some distressing green things, but… I had this red one, too, standing right over the sinkhole, a few hours before it caved in.” He struggled to join his words with his meaning. “Blood red. There was a… spinning. Rot. So much rot. The Clark girl, the younger one. For some reason, I noted on that tape that she personified something about that hole as hunger. Seeing how the ants dragged all those bodies into it… It sounds absurd now, to speak it, but I can’t shake feeling like the ants were trying to feed us to it.” A brief, desperate display of enamel softened the conviction in his voice and squinted his eyes into slivers. “Of course, I know none of this happened. Only a series of images created by my brain in a magnetic field.”

“Witnessing things out of sequence can distress even the most resolute. Some Burlington shifts embody emotions and energies rather than giving us concrete, literal projections in time. It’s more common with ‘red’ ones, as you put it. That said, the spinning did potentially harken to something literal. Years ago, this place once had what’s called a carousel. A riding amusement from the time before. It was one of the last remaining things the Concourse continued to use as a visitor attraction, even after it swore off all other technology.”

‘Choly leaned toward him. Rigor locked his eyes wide open as he gripped the geometrically carved armrest. He rejected any implication he could in any capacity see the future--not after everything Jared had put him through.

“...Carousel. I know what those are. They have… animals to sit on. Sleighs and carriages sometimes. Lights, and music. And they rotate, but slowly. My vision spun dizzyingly fast. What… what happened to it?”

Haidinger patted the back of his hand with a murmur.

“The winter of 2258 happened. It was the first time in Ant Lane’s history that the barriers lapsed. We had multiple nor’easters that year, after thirteen years without any. At the same time the storms’ resonance did not manage to activate the Granite, some property of the storms seemed to compel the Lane’s denizens to… experience things, behave a particular way. With each storm that season, people further dismantled the carousel. You can still find pieces of it scattered around the property, if you know where to look.”

“How odd. I saw people digging there. In my hallucination. How deep did they actually dig? The tiles in that area were different from the rest of the mall.”[97-1]

Haidinger couldn’t rein in a look like ‘Choly must have grown a second head.

“I’m telling you that your vision was metaphorical. Isn’t that reassuring?”

‘Choly’s mouth hung open as he formed the resolve to insist upon it.

“How deep.”

The sacristan shifted in his chair, and broke eye contact.

“They were trying to breach the barrier. They did not succeed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” He caught himself raising his voice and his fingers went to his mouth in apology. “Why would they upend an entire amusement ride just so they could dig under it? They could have just broken open the gates, if they only wanted the Granite to activate. And the ground is the least effective side they could’ve picked to expose the Concourse to the storm, too.”

“Many things in Atom’s domain are beyond us to comprehend. You’re correct. At the time, I too presumed the Granite begged for its voice. I’ve dedicated decades of study to this place, not just as its sacristan, but as someone troubled deeply by the things I witnessed the Concourse denizens do that winter. I have not seen even the Fog-Lost be so compelled as they were. The Concourse attempted a lockdown, but many found disturbing means to circumvent it that I still cannot explain. Before Division Day, I worried the Lane would fall into the same obsession. The two winters thankfully had next to nothing in common.”

This was the first ‘Choly was hearing of Haidinger dreading any aspect of the storm.

“Almost nothing isn’t nothing.”

“How to put it. You’re aware we monitor the ants, as a means to predict the weather, yes?”

‘Choly carded the fingers of one hand in the air to jog his memory, and raised a finger.

“Yancy. The Lane’s meteorologist. We’ve met.”

Haidinger nodded briskly. He hadn’t expected a full response.

“Right. It’s the ants, you see. Usually we know of imminent storms whenever the ants go dormant. Both in 2287 and 2258, they were active during the nor’easters. Now, they invaded the Concourse and enacted devastating carnage. Then, they were directly responsible for the barrier’s failure.”

“Maybe the intensity of the storm drove the ants to seek shelter, but it frenzied them. If there’s been multiple times the ants have posed this level of risk, why won’t the Lane just exterminate them?”

“I have heard this sentiment come up a great deal since Division Day. I am reluctant to agree with it. Even if it were so simple as to kill a few insects, they are denizens of this structure as well, and they even cultivate a crucial food source for those who cohabit it. Yancy Mercer is adamant that the Satellites would suffer without the forewarning to take shelter. Atom’s Children thrive and endure just fine all throughout this land no matter the weather, but this is the only settlement between here and the Galleria with any protection from the storms for anyone else. I will tell you in earnest: though I want nothing more than for the Granite’s procession to become manifest, I also know it’s not destined to come to be by the relentless chewing of myriad ants.” The weight of the conversation finally shook a haunted look from the sacristan. “No, that hole cannot remain.”

“It should reassure me more than it does that the Atomites’ leadership is in agreement to keep the Granite ‘Quiet.’ You do agree that we must repair the AEGIS, right, not just the building itself?”

“At any cost,” Haidinger replied, a little too quickly. His eyes narrowed in thought before opening again. “In agreement? You’ve spoken with Fresnel about this, too, then. I take it she could not ease your mind much, either.”

About other things, maybe.

“No, we didn’t share many words. We were both focused on our respective tasks.”

“She’s been busy indeed. You know, I confided in her about your crates. I hear she’s done her best to locate them. I’ve beseeched a handful for the recovery effort as well. Thanks to the mayor’s donations, I’ve been able to afford to pay our cousins and siblings for their labor in this. So far, we’ve found only one crate, but the effort is ongoing.”

“You’ve found a crate--?” He barely withheld a too.

“It’s nothing of use. Several dozen of some kind of board game.” Haidinger knit his hands in his lap and trained his gaze on them. “That many more of a holotape of the same name. I loaded one, and it seems to be some kind of… Oh, how is it called. Video game.”

A smile broadened the corners of ‘Choly’s mouth at the absurdity.

“Jangles’ Big Day. Lockreed’s storage was full of them.” His smile plastered a bit as he turned to glance at the Diorama in the hallway still within view. Somehow, it only served to unnerve him further to have the door open. He couldn’t shake the unease that someone, or something, could be following him. “Of course that was the first crate to resurface. Hopefully, the next dozen won’t be more of the same.”

“Atom abound! Still your tongue.” Haidinger steadied his breathing, and settled back into his chair. “Forgive me, though. The subject has wandered. You came to me to ease your worries. Have you discussed everything with me that you wished to?”

As he turned again to face the sacristan, the plaster smile deliquesced into one of misshapen, dopey clay.

“I kind of regret bringing it up, and welcome a chance to change the subject. Say, the Diorama is where you archive the film and holotapes you come across, right?”

“Once I transcribe your holotape, the tape itself will be stored there, yes.”

“I would love to borrow from that library sometime.”

Haidinger whipped ramrod and wide-eyed.

“The Vault is not a lending library. It is an archive.”

‘Choly shrank, if even mostly mentally. He raised a reluctant finger.

“But… what if it were? Humor me. Did you happen to keep the JBD holotapes?”

Haidinger’s brow furrowed.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with them. The crate is still in the maintenance room where I left it. You wish to borrow… a board game?”

“Not as such. They’re not completely useless. I understand being protective of things you might have only one copy of, if that's the trouble. I can use those JBDs to create duplicates of any analog item in your archive. Then, maybe you would be more inclined to allow a little lending? Backup copies.”

Haidinger’s indignant confusion softened into a certain deference. He rose to encourage ‘Choly to follow him to the Diorama. ‘Choly pushed off from the desk to follow the sacristan. Angel unfurled itself to crawl along nearby.

“You come to Sutter Grove for help, only to offer your own. You would do that? For the Church? And how? These Jangle holotapes, they already contain something.” He lifted the lid for ‘Choly. “What do you believe you stand to gain from this lending? What do you hope to find in here?”

The chemist sighed. He didn’t want to push his luck asking for several, but narrowing his selection to a single holotape daunted him nonetheless. Though the film reels interested him most, owing to his offer, he kept to his holotapes. His eyes repeatedly wandered to the model of the large carousel in the back of the Concourse replica.

“Mm, I offer moreso for you. It is selfishness on my part, though. I used to drown out my anxieties with fiction. All the books, television, movies, and radio I could cram into my day. I'm looking for entertainment, distractions. Have you always enjoyed film, or did you only come to appreciate it after the war made it scarce?”

“I take my curation duties very seriously, but I admit it’s as much a passion as a calling. These stories must have been lovely to experience firsthand in the last world, but they have taken on an entirely new value, through surviving into this one.” Giddiness tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he remained collected. “You love films, and you’re familiar with things such as carousels. Society by large, as it existed before the last known Division… it fascinates you, then, does it not? If it’s so, then we share a passion for history.”

‘Choly brightened a shade when he came across a section of radio dramas, and plucked one out at random.

“Ah! You have copies of Lights Out. Lovely.”[97-2] He eyed the episode’s label–’Murder in the Script Department’--sooner than let himself continue to glare off into the Diorama. “Oh, it’s not so much that I’m fascinated by it, as it is that I experienced it firsthand. You’re probably older than I am, especially accounting for the time I spent unconscious, and you certainly got good looks for it where I became laden with health complications, but… To put it simply, I might not be a ghoul, but because of what Vault-Tec did to me, I’m as old as one.”

Haidinger remained still and silent for some time. ‘Choly gnarled up all over again, having just chastised Angel for disclosing his age freely, only to do so himself, and with indiscernible purpose in having done so at that. He anticipated Angel would have cross words for him later, and he’d have nothing to say for himself. As the glowing ghoul pursed together what remained of his thin, sinewy lips, the chemist hung on his every reticent word.

“In strictest confidence, not all of those as I am are as old as the Division.”

“Verity. I know he only got that way somewhat recently. I understand he’s an unusual case.”

Haidinger could only look again to his upturned hands, at a loss.

“Well, I am myself an unusual case. I don’t remember much from before I stayed my valence at the Lane. For all I know, I could have become a conduit of Atom’s Light the day before I stepped foot here in 2205. I’ve always supposed this gift came at the cost of knowing who I was before it was bestowed upon me.”

‘Choly could only stare. His gaze tried to swerve across Haidinger’s body, but a quiet, raging jealousy locked his attention on his face.

“So for all you know,” he quavered, “you might be just like Verity.”

As Haidinger spoke, regret eroded his composure, and any softness in his tone crumbled to an exigent hush.

“It’s common belief that Atom created all of the Undying Glow during the last Division, and none since. I’ve never corrected anyone on this presumption, since I do not know for certain. I don’t know how my congregation would take the possibility that my existence might prove that Atom continues to create more like me. And oh, would I need Her Grace, were I found wrong in my speculation.”

‘Choly loosed a nervous chuckle.

“Surely, they wouldn’t take it any more poorly than learning just how much copper is in this place.”

Haidinger’s bright eyes slashed with grief, and he clutched at his chest.

“May your tongue consume away in your mouth![97-3] You wouldn’t say such irreverent, callous things so freely if only you understood.” With stony revulsion, he reached into the Diorama for himself, to produce a holotape of his own. He caught himself trying to drag ‘Choly along by the wrist, but still pushed him along by the shoulders back into the office. “I won’t stand for this a moment longer. It’s my duty to demonstrate as best I can how you handle a subject so delicate as filigree glass with the callous abandon as though it were mud.”

‘Choly returned to the chair. He and Angel sustained bated eye contact as Haidinger shut the door and sat on the edge of the desk in front of him.

“You’re not in trouble. And the door isn’t locked, I promise.” Haidinger shoved the holotape at him, sneering with pity. “Your Pip-Boy. Use it to play this.”

“I’m sure I could find time later this evening--"

“--You’ll listen to it now. This one does not leave my possession.” The priest laced his gloved hands in his lap. “My reverence for archiving and constructing Ant Lane’s Chrestomathy[97-4] is second only to my upkeep of the building itself. Understand that what you now have in your hands is neither fiction nor entertainment.”

“Should I be more frightened of the nightmare I described to you, or this holotape?” ‘Choly’s attempt at nervous laughter choked to a halt when he regarded the tape in his hands. A deteriorated printed label still legibly read Taskerlands, B. 08/10/2077. He sucked on his teeth. His lips parted but imparted nothing. Shutting his mouth, he huffed with a thin smile. “You’re trying to scare me. It’s working.”

“You have more context than many. It should prove most educational for you.”

He snapped the recording into the tape deck of his Pip-Boy and clicked it shut, then tuned the audio output to the tape.

People chatted in the distance. A register till’s bell dinged. At places, faint music faded through.

‘Hit an impasse.’ The brusque male Canadian voice sounded so lost. ‘Need to talk it out, make sense of it. The blueprint calls for twenty-nine. Been coming up all but empty-handed. Doubtful that replicas would work. And these need to work.’

‘Choly shifted in his seat.

The man in the recording slid from contemplative distress into a scattered call-to-action.

‘Couldn’t convince Dunwich to part with any. Their contacts were actively unhelpful. Maybe... maybe Bysshe. No margin for error. Got to keep moving on fresh leads. Not that there’ve been any. Last expert went missing. What was the name... Need to be able to verify the authenticity of any deathmask that pops up. Why won’t Norliss[97-5] help anymore?’

A gruff growl came, then a crash. Nearby people began to whisper.

‘Don’t know what to do...! Can’t leave the blueprint incomplete. Running out of time. Have to keep it contained here, at any cost.’ The viscosity of his diction intensified as he pressed the device closer. ‘If you find this holotape, you must ensure the design is in tact and to the letter. It’s the only way.’

‘Mister, Mister Taskerlands,’ stuttered a proper young woman, mustering as much deference as she could. ‘I see you’ve... spent the night here. Again.’ An unnerved laugh escaped her. Under her breath, she murmured something about DeMarco-Boyle’s. ‘That’s the ninth time this month, that I’m aware of. Need I remind you that we don’t permit staff or patrons to sleep on the furniture here. Is there anything we can do for you, Sir?’ Deliberate choice in words could not belie her frustration or disbelief. ‘With how you carry on to yourself into that recorder there, well, Sir... It scares the customers. You’re starting to cost Sutter Grove sales. And costing Sutter Grove costs Pheasant Lane, wouldn’t you say, Sir? You don’t want anyone to think ill of your mall, do you?’

A long pause.

‘It’s cost everything.’

‘Oh, good. You can still communicate. Presumably.’ Despite the possible shift in his behavior, his habits still elicited her jaded ire by this point. ‘He’s not going to budge. The annexation has been taking a serious toll on him, you know.[97-6] Harry, get the security detail for an escort.’

‘But it still won’t be enough, will it?’

The recording ended with a mechanical click. ‘Choly stared at the device on his right arm, bewildered. A chuckle cracked out of him tandem to a bewildered, lyrical affect, but he could neither smile nor laugh.

“What exactly is it that you want me to learn from this? That Taskerlands was even more unstable than I thought? What was he even going on about?”

The moment he had ejected the tape, Haidinger yanked it from him.

“The Great Marbled Taskerlands endured tremendous duress to accomplish all he did in the before last world. What more is there to explain to you than what’s come straight from his mouth? This recording is the closest I’ve ever come to understanding the truth of this place. You heard him: we must preserve this space and design.”

A gaunt wetness lingered in Haidinger’s luminescent chartreuse eyes. ‘Choly scanned for meaning in the ghoul’s features, but found nothing unspoken.

“Or else what?”

“I… I don’t know.” Haidinger’s exasperation crumpled into anxious self-consciousness. He turned away from them, to face the neon sigils on his far wall, and his voice once more became a thin whisper. “One might imagine that what transpired on Division Day this year is all the proof we need that he was right to appoint the Aldermen.”

“Alder-- But none of this is real!” ‘Choly tossed his hands out at him, incredulous and in great deficit of patience. “Don’t you see!? Nothing is real! That’s my whole damn problem, isn’t it!”

The sacristan’s eyes shot wide with shock, and he staggered when he whipped around on his feet to face them again.

“Where did you get such ideas,” he uttered. “Say you didn’t find such lies here. There can be no apostate in this house.”[97-7]

“If I’m alone in having Division Day shatter my sense of reality, I would shoot myself in the foot. This whole thing has been fruitless and meaningless. The red shift, that recording… it all means nothing.”

“And I cannot reassure you otherwise? Or sway you from such... abandon?”

“You’re a priest, not a psychiatrist, and it was my mistake to believe otherwise. I don’t know what I thought you could tell me that could possibly quieten my swirling whalefall nightmare.”

Haidinger sniffed, a shallow, damp click.

“I think... that for the moment, unless there is anything else you must discuss with me, you should leave, Melancholy.” Eventually, Haidinger nodded, mostly to himself. “You should seriously consider joining us for services. Sutter Grove can give you the footing and clarity you desperately need.”

‘Choly patted at the drama holotape in his pants pocket, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I told you I don’t mind making copies for you of anything I take out. I’ll bring back the original and a duplicate before the week’s out.”

Austerity defeated Haidinger’s agitation, and he simply drooped.

“Promise me that, cousin. And promise me our chat remains between us. All of it.”

‘Choly’s internal deflation amounted only to the slight slouch of his shoulders.

“You have my word.”

Haidinger went to his door to reopen it for them. They followed.

“Do not mistake my severity for the absence of compassion. You are deeply troubled, but I do not deny you. Just because I see you out of my office now, does not mean I turn you away for good. As you are, you are unable to truly heed Atom’s truths. If in the future you decide I am trustworthy and authentic enough for your regard, my door is always open to you. It is up to you to put this... Nothingness out of your mind. Only then can you accept Atom’s warmth and light, and only then can your vessel heal and grow from within.”

‘Choly nodded with solemnity, for lack of any better reply.

“Thank you for humoring me in all this, Sacristan. For what it’s worth, it means something that you tried to be of comfort. If you’re not here when I bring the holotapes, I’ll deposit them in the Diorama for you myself. If that’s all right.”

“I’d rather you brought them to me, but I also understand if you don’t wish to invite discussion. Just… don’t take anything from it without first telling me personally that you have it. You may have the rare advantage of technology that can access the contents of the Chrestomathy’s hard copies, but remember well: it is stealing to take without permission.”

“I understand.”

The sacristan’s furrowed in a gracious pity.

“Atom keep you then. Atom find… and keep you. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you for your time, Sacristan,” Angel said.

‘Choly nodded in gratitude. They walked out, but he kept glancing back. Before they even crossed paths with the Diorama again, he saw Haidinger prostrate himself in the far corner of his office, uttering some feverish Keb contrition.

They started back toward Anchor Inn. Once he and Angel got to the Concourse, he stopped and opened up Angel’s storage compartment. He glanced around to ensure no one was nearby to notice, then he deposited the holotape for safekeeping. He hesitated, and pocketed the radio drama instead. He pressed shut the compartment once more.

“Mister Carey,” Angel started, as they resumed walking. ‘Choly flinched, but said nothing, expecting rebuke. “I knew there were some understandable stressors at play as of recent, but I had no idea you were struggling enough to consider seeking religious counsel. You know you can always talk to me, Sir.”

He eventually unclenched.

“This is no spiritual crisis, I assure you. In lieu of an available psychiatrist, I had to settle for a priest. That’s all. Besides, I doubt very much that there’s anything you could tell me that would assuage my nerves regarding that damn sinkhole pit. --I have no clue what I said to set him off like he did.” He wiped the sorry off his face. “...You’re okay with us staying, right?”

“I stayed quiet while you chatted with the Sacristan, but I was there for moral support. I’m worried that you’ve been under such stress, Sir. I must tell you. I used to worry about staying in this Hinter area long-term, but things seem much better now. Ant Lane’s denizens will successfully repair the mall. It will be a safe haven again well before the next storm season. Besides,”  it said with an unconvincing lyric to its audio, “as Haidinger said, they don’t get storms like that here every year.”

“...I think I need this vacation more than Bledsoe.” Weary, he snapped his fingers. “Right now, though, I need some air after the morning we’ve had. Let’s go see how Blue holds up.”

“Understandable! Hopefully, we won’t distract them too much.”

Go to Next »»»

__________________________

[97-1] Tile usage in Pheasant Lane Mall. When the real Pheasant Lane Mall was remodeled into its contemporary design, they kept a certain amount of the original concourse facade in homage, including sections of floor tiling.

[97-2] Arch Oboler’s Lights Out, “Murder in the Script Department.”

[97-2] Quoted scripture from the Crater House terminal entries, cut from the final version of Fallout 4.

[97-4] Chrestomathy. A compilation of texts, which in sum serves a didactic purpose. Most frequently, the texts provide a lens by which to learn a language, but the educational value can be for any subject. Here, the archive Haidinger curates is a series of media which provides documentation and reference for the culture, history, and living language of Ant Lane.

[97-5] The Norliss Tapes. One of the earliest examples of found footage horror, wherein the tale is told through a series of cassette tape recordings of an investigator who went missing during a case with occult involvement. It’s a namesake as ever, not a crossover, though, promise.

[97-6] Canadian Annexation. The US declared ownership of Canada for its oil rights and geographic advantages in 2072, and by 2077, it succeeded in fully annexing its territories. The invasion and occupation came at great cost and duress to Canadian citizens.

[97-7] Nothing. [redacted]

Included as unmarked footnote, wrt the mention of replicas: A major tenet of the “Metro men conspiracy” lay in the fact so many of these bronze deco-esque sculptures keep cropping up deep within the earth across the franchise, sometimes embedded in solid granite. It’s been theorized that, since there are asset variants for both “Metroman” and “Metrowoman” with exposed rebar, but none of the aberrant subterranean sculptures have been of the damaged/incomplete variant, those used as architectural fixtures are in fact replicas… and that the buried heads predate any human civilization, or may even be extraterrestrial in origin. It bears mentioning that multiple buried bronze sculptures appear in mines, most notably the Dunwich Borers near Salem, MA, as though the companies involved sought to excavate the sculpture, making their mining operations secondary.

[forthedancingandthethriving]

I met a traveller from an antique land

A crack appears in the sky, and three birds fly through.

The sky is foggy, with no sun in sight. The ground is covered in sand, and large pillars of stone jut out from below. They're crumbling, with stones around. Wind howls around, merciless against the birds that fly through the air.

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

A red harpy eagle, a red and pink eagle, and a yellow and red crowned eagle land on a pillar made of crumbling stone. Their eyes narrowed, watching below. Waiting for something.

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

The crowned eagle spreads a wing, gesturing to a large monument below. The eagle rolls his eyes while the harpy eagle his head. The trio take off into the air and fly down to the monument below.

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

The trio land in front of the monument, the harpy eagle in the middle. All threes' eyes narrow, leaning in to look at the inscription.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

The eagle shakes his head, disgusted. The crowned eagle looks up and around, watching for something. Looking. The harpy eagle raises back to full height, looking around as well.

Sand begins to shift around them.

None take the chance. Powerful wings launch all three high into the air as the sand continues to shift below.

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

A giant snake's head slowly appears from under the sand. Piercing yellow eyes kook up at the trio of birds and a low rumbling hiss eruptes, filling the air and silencing the wind.

The eagles don't take a chance. They take off back towards the crack in the sky.

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

A louder hiss erupts, the ground rumbles and shakes, pillars falling as a large snake's body rises from the sand. It chases the after the birds, eyes glaring.

It shoots up from the sand, jaw unhinging. The snake's scales of code glint, a pale silver. Scars litter its body from a battle long ago.

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The birds shoot through the crack in the sky, which repairs itself behind them quickly. The snake clamps its jaws down too late, missing the birds.

It stays there, eyes staring at where the portal once was.

The snake lowers its head, contempt filling its eyes. Trapped in a prison of its own code, designed by its jailers. The other prison too weak to contain something of its magnitude, so it's jailers had to be crafty.

Make it imprison itself.

Ozymandias turns its body and dives under the sand once more. Once a feared virus, it was lost to history, only surviving in the memory banks of those it contempted.

It 'sympathized' with the king whose name it stole. It, too, was forgotten. No longer feared by the viruses it used to command.

As Ozymandias dives deeper beneath the sand, it hears the wind howl again.

One day, it promised, it would remind its jailers just why they struggled tricking it into even making this prison.

[onewomancitadel]

this is something that's been burning a whole in my pocket about Ozpin, but his previous incarnation as the King of Vale during the Great War was like, almost definitely named or a reference to Ozymandias if it ever comes up, right? The ruler of a great kingdom in a prosperous age who watched the world come to ruin in a way where the text says that modern Remnant still hasn't quite reached the same level as. I feel like it could come up in Vacuo as a reflection on Oz's failures.

Yeah I mean, it's one of my favourite poems:

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

So I wouldn't complain if it's a reference, and it would certainly augment the ideas at play. It would at least mean they're being smart about how they choose to characterise Ozma in respect to Salem.

On the other hand, I'd hope for something more interesting than 'magical kingdom lost to time superior to the present era' regarding Remnant, because that doesn't seem textually substantiated (things are broken and made better). The nostalgic decay of Ozma's rule - and the farce of great empire - is much more interesting to me, and one would hope any reference to Ozymandias supports this idea.

[junophontes]

thinking about this theme that I don't know how to describe other than "futile attempt at permanence". Like those signs at nuclear waste locations that give warnings in different languages and pictures, that people put up in hopes of keeping people away, but that they know will probably prove ultimately futile because of the nature of humanity to forget and explore.

People trying to make something permanent, to acquire immortality, all the while knowing that it WILL NOT LAST. This doesn't include things like emperors trying to become immortal, they still retained the delusion that such a feat was possible. I'm talking about facing impermanence, the ultimate truth that the consequences of your actions will eventually be forgotten and null in the face of entropy, and not ignoring or fighting it, or giving up, but walking directly through it. The acceptance of the two most dissenting states possible - permanence and impermanence - simultaneously. A self-encapsulating paradox.

Immortality and entropy, the greatest lie and truth, respectively, to ever exist - such a dichotomy that they can't even be accurately described as both existing at all - held nonetheless within a single being. I mentioned before that this state is not fighting impermanence, because I think it's more subtle than that. It's fighting, yes, but not fighting against impermanence; rather, fighting in spite of impermanence.

Given that distinction, this starts to seem a lot like Camus' thesis, which I'm not opposed to. The myth of Sisyphus might be another good example, then; a man, clever beyond compare, labors endlessly as punishment, with no hope at anything resembling either success or escape. What does he think? Is he bitter, hopeful, angry, relieved? Camus claimed the only feeling that could sustain such a man would be spite. And perhaps it has worked to some degree; after all, we still know his myth, he has gained some form of immortality.

The declarations of spirit are varied with this theme. Some of my favorites, naturally, come from Kill Six Billion Demons:

"I don't need to win in order to WIN. It's not for you, it's for ME."

"It's never going to end, is it? / All we can do is keep moving forward."

"To break infinity requires only one motion."

"Here is a proper way. Now discard it."

Others are less direct, but approach the same concept:

"Life's a never-ending wheel"

"Memento mori"

"Burn my dread"

"Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! / Nothing beside remains. Round the decay / Of that colossal Wreck"

There's undoubtedly more. I don't know. My poetic attitude has run dry. I'd better quit while I'm ahead. It was probably more of a message for myself, anyways.

Bend all things to thy will. Fight without restraint and rest without worry. Live.

[positivelybeastly]

The monolith of blonde muscle stopped dead, and Hank felt a moment of vicious satisfaction - he was sure it had barely hurt, had probably barely registered for a man as used to pain as Victor Creed, but it had been enough.

He can see the tight muscle, the slow deliberation between fight, flight, and something else, something a little more human that he used to be so very good at drawing out of the other man, but which he's sure is rather more muted now, as evidenced by the slow roll of the man's shoulders, an animal's limber majesty in the movement. Nothing human.

He'd done his best to hurt the parts of Victor that were human, likely made him want to excise them even more thoroughly than before. The damage was done.

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away . . .

A huff. And then a snap of a hand, digging into his clothes, ripping at his buttons and tie, right before he was sent through four bookshelves like a furry blue cannonball. He growled as he flipped in mid-air, landing on his feet in a feline crouch, his retractable claws digging into the floor with obvious intent.

"This is much more your speed, isn't it? This is what you understand."

With superhuman agility, Hank grabbed one of the many books that had gone everywhere, and whipped it at Victor's face with an accuracy and speed that could only come from having watched Gambit in Danger Room scenarios a thousand times - but instead of it exploding into kinetic energy, he was counting on it distracting the blonde as he surged forward and swiped at Victor with vicious three inch claws, carving a bloody swathe through the man's face that even his healing factor would find hard to bounce back from.

It's a surprised grunt more than anything, Victor expecting Hank to droll on and on about the ethics of whatever the fuck as he walks away. But, no, a book hits him instead. He stops, perplexed, shoulders tight and hands half raised. He isn't angry so much as stunned.

There Hank goes again, making him feel things he wasn't used to. He's frozen again, but his mind races through responses. Victor won't walk away, Hank knows that. Hank knows he can goad Victor into a fight as easily as Victor can goad Hank into a lecture. They memorized each other's buttons, and they pressed them with impunity. Victor lowered his hands, shoulders rolling back like a lion showing it's size and might before he turned.

Then that word.

Coward.

Victor huffs, one side of his lips pulled up in a smirk that was anything but amused. Then his hand snaps out, claws digging into Hanks clothes, curling into the fur of his chest to anchor his grip.

They had been here before. But instead of hauling Hank in for a kiss with teeth and tongue, Victor jerked to the left with every intent of sending Hank through the next four rows of bookshelves.

[crymeariveronceagain]

question: why get close to friends if they’re just going to leave eventually and no matter what, you always feel like the outsider? being the introvert in a trio is s o f u n 😃👍🏻 -t1sb

hi, pro tips from someone who felt like this throughout all of my highschool years:

THIS IS NOT NORMAL!

So, here are my suggestions, dearest t1sb.

If you feel like you're the extra friend, notice that. Who does it happen around? Is it consistent? Why do you feel that way?

Is it because of actions you are taking, or because of actions they are taking? Do you always wind up being the friend who walks behind because the path isn't big enough for three, and it's like they're trying to escape you? Do you feel like they don't invite you to enough things, or even that they're just subtly judging you? If it's something you're doing, how can you change it? Why are you doing it? Do you want to be around different people?

What makes you feel this way? Because usually feelings are based on fact. They might not be completely accurate, but usually, something triggers them.

Once you've noticed why and when and how it happens, then, just. Stop.

It's not worth it.

It's taken me as much time as I've spent so far in college to realize that friendship should not make you feel like an outsider, friendship should not make you feel separate and distant and like they're going to leave.

Oh my gosh, you wouldn't believe how much my life has changed since I started figuring out that if someone is making me feeling an outsider, it's probably because I am the outsider.

True friendship isn't gonna make you feel like this.

When I was in high school, I had a group of friends. And for a while, we were all on good terms. And then it just, slowly devolved, until eventually the only two people I cared about only had eyes for each other, and sought actively to avoid me, and I just was sort of their tag-along friend, who eventually they betrayed, and cast aside like I didn't matter.

And look. Sometimes friendships end. Sometimes they last a long time.

One of my closest friends from last year in college hasn't texted me once since I left campus. And that's okay. People aren't always going to be permanent. Because nothing in this world is permanent. There is so much focus, in this world, on making things permanent.

But like.

Nothing is. Not people, not places, not things. Not even rocks, they get worn away by wind and sand and water. Just like Percy Bysshe Shelley said in his poem about a ginormous statue belonging to an ancient king, destroyed and abandoned and shattered by time and the passage of war and centuries, "On the pedestal these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, king of kings! look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Nothing beside remains, round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away."

We are not permanent. Nothing in this life is.

But that does not mean that good cannot exist, even in the non-permanent we reside in, and that does not mean that you should not have friends who value you, who treat you like a treasure instead of an afterthought.

Because you deserve to be loved, wholly and completely.

And even if it's unintentional, you deserve better friends than people who make you feel extra.

That's all <3

[thegirlsthegaysandjackmanifall]

Ozymandias

Empires SMP finale spoilers under the cut! This is Arad’s reaction to this all happening. He’s...disappointed, scared, angry. All of the emotions, all of them...

Arad Freco didn’t get shaken up by most things. Sure, there was the incident with the snow and that terrified him, but only for a few minutes. It was fine. Everything was fine.

And then it wasn’t. Tremors shook the earth and he knew that something was happening. Something infinitely worse than an eternal winter or war between the empires.

Arad didn’t think—he did. He liked to pretend that he only cared about the empires because they were fun places to have fights and cause crime and get in trouble and repeat. The truth was, he loved all of these places. Rivendell. Mezalea. Pixandria. The Lost Empire. Every single one of them.

He didn’t know he was capable of running so quickly. But he went, from empire to empire, using only his two legs and the occasional horse or boat, adrenaline fueling him. Maybe he had some strange genes. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was his own fear.

Arad first arrived in Mezalea. All was well, as it always was. The empire had never been one to be affected by the danger around it. Of course it would be fine. He turned around only to hear the loud swearing of King Joel swearing and he realized that at certain angles, the palace was broken in half.

He went to the Cod Empire. It was chaos. King Jimmy wasn’t there. Gone. The citizens panicked. Arad kept running.

Crystal Criffs and the Grimlands were equally in chaos. Gem and fWhip were gone. He stopped thinking of all the rulers as kings and queens because how can you use such a title when your empires are falling apart and gone?

Arad couldn’t use a boat to get to the Ocean Empire because there was no ocean. What there was, though, was a confused human woman who had no memory of ever being a powerful ruler. Arad left. Tragic, really.

Apparently, Joey of the Lost Empire got what he wanted. Power, love...Arad wondered if it was worth it. The people there told him that it wasn’t.

Gilded Helianthia’s leader was dead. Arad didn’t linger longer than he had to.

Empire after empire, ruler after ruler, citizen after citizen. One tragedy after another.

Arad stopped at Rivendell. He was the first to find Scott and Xornoth. There was no corruption. Only the dirt. What a noble sacrifice to save the others who weren’t there to be saved, where you stop the end of the world when the world was already silently ending on its own.

He sat down between the two bodies, looked up to the sky, and laughed. 

He never did get to fight the leaders of each empire like he’d always wanted to.

I met a traveler from an antique land

Who said, “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert...Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped in these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings

Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains.

Round the decay of that colossal wreck,

Boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

[dreadfutures]

"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay / Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away." from Ozymandias for Dirthamen & Pride?

"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away."

For @dadrunkwriting

Rating: T

Warnings: Gore, horror elements

Characters: Solas, Amarok (Regret), and what was once Dirthamen.

Words: 698

-:-:-

This land is yet familiar to Solas, though its scattered and decrepit state is no comfort to him for that familiarity. He processes solemnly through the wrecked and ruined fragments of Empire, his critical eye discarding each reminder as soon as he sees them: Andraste's crowned head and cupped hands float away from each other, lopsided and akimbo, leaving eddies in the green-tinged air, while Avvar statues collect screams, to sate the Despair and Fear demons who might have otherwise plagued their lands. Fear, or the Nightmare as it had taken to calling itself, had collected these offerings and embedded them all across its lands.

The demon itself was nowhere to be found, and its absence had taken a toll on the harsh ecosystem here in the Fade. No new dreamers found themselves trapped in dark, muddy corner, and Pride and Terror and Despair were more scarce here now than they had been when Solas fell with the Inquisitor into the Fade at Adamant.

But a negative force still lay claim to these lands, a vague awareness following Solas as he journeyed deep into the heart of Fear's Domain.

He pushed away well-meaning spirits who wished to take up residence here, or to come to his aid to cleanse this realm of rot and ruin. He did not need their assistance, but they wished to offer solidarity, comfort, for what they sensed was to come—a confrontation, a culmination, the end of something aeons in the making.

But this was what remains: bloody Regret, crumbling stone, and a vast abyss of Fade-touched rock unfit for inhabitation, unsuitable for growth, poisonous to all things bright and beautiful.

He found it at last amid a river of blood: a singular statue bowed low, posed high above an altar of blood sacrifice. To the untrained eye it might seem Tevinter in make, with its black burnished metal fixtures and shackles, its threatening angles, but Solas knew better. The scavengers of the Imperium had stumbled across only the ruins of Elvhenan, its refuse, and claimed them mistakenly as treasures.

How different might this world have been, had they come across the more precious remnants of the lost Empire—found instead the beauty that Solas also shattered, in saving his people from themselves.

Solas stopped at the mouth of the clearing, his mouth pulled down in harsh, sad lines at the sight before him. The white wolf he had watched grow from naught but a wisp-made-corporeal, into a true Hold Beast worthy of honor, lay limply on the black altar of sacrifice. It had lost a great deal of fur, raw and open wounds left behind, and what remained was soaked nearly black with blood—and Blight. For standing on the other side of the altar was a black eluvian rippling with attention, and from its void-like surface poured filth that fed the red lyrium all around them.

Amarok—or what remained of the wolf who had been Regret—raised his head in an unnatural fashion, as though pulled by independent strings. Its hollow eye sockets glowed with another's intelligence, red and green instead of the blue fire that had once found residence there

"IS THIS WHAT MY DEATH PAID FOR, DREAD WOLF?" a voice rasped from somewhere within the wolf, but no mortal voicebox could manufacture such a sound, like the purest sorrow, and the bitterest regret. That was what had done it, Solas thought. Regret.

"WASTELANDS OF DREAM AND WAKING BORN DESPOTS, THE PEOPLE SCATTERED LIKE MINNOWS STARTLED BY A DISLODGED STONE?"

"I had thought," Solas replied softly, "that was all that remained. But there is more, lethallin. There is more."

A hunger arose then around him, as wide and vast as the sea. Aeons of blindness, darkness, beyond the worst his imagination could conjure, had left his old friend with nothing but itself to eat. And now, through Solas, it might satisfy its hunger with a taste of so much more.

But the shadow remained silent, writhing behind the carcass of Regret.

"You know why I am here," Solas said. "Ir abelas. Malas amelin ne halam. It is time for you to un-become."

The darkness shivered.

"I AM READY… PRIDE."

[aellynera]

Frayed Wires (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

FRAYED WIRES (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

(so i decided i may turn the drunk texts thing into a series? i decided at least to do one with Nathan because...well...it’s Nathan. the poem he quotes is Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was incidentally married to Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein (or: The Modern Prometheus) which is also kind of appropriate for Nathan and anyway i sat down today and this happened.)

Word Count: 2122(ish)

Summary: All you want to do is sleep. All Nathan wants to do is talk.

Warnings: Language, naturally.

(Nathan’s texts are in bold. Your texts are in bold and italic.)

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

You reached blindly for your phone as it rattled on the bedside table. You had no idea what time it was but you did know it was the middle of the night, your phone should not be going off, and you had gotten entirely too little sleep. Like, maybe two hours worth. You were so tired and groggy that you made the mistake of checking your messages before you actually even thought about what you were doing.

Do you ever think about the meaning of life?

I mean like really think about it.

Why we’re here, why the sky is green and the grass is blue?

No wait that’s not right.

You sighed and buried your face in the pillow. It was 3:27 in the morning and Nathan was texting you. Which was just odd anyway, since he knew where your room was and it was much more his style to just walk in and start a random conversation with you in person. 

He was probably drunk.

And now he could see that you had read the messages, so you were going to have to reply, or he really would show up at your door. Technically it was his door, it was his house, you just worked for him and stayed there, but the point was you were not in the mood to deal with him at all right now, and most decidedly not in the flesh.

You rolled your eyes before sending him a reply. You really should just ignore it, but...you were annoyed. Nathan was annoying. And it was now 3:30 in the morning and you were going to push a few buttons. Figuratively AND literally! your sleep-deprived brain cheered.

And things like why is water wet and air is invisible?

YES exactly see that’s why I want you.

I’m sorry?

Your brain. I want to pick you up. Your brain I mean. Pick your brain.

You just want me for my brain, huh?

You have a very nice brain.

Yep, Nathan was definitely drunk.

Not that him being drunk was anything out of the ordinary. But a few hours ago, when you were both in the lab testing some of his most recent ideas about the AI code, he had seemed...normal? Well, normal for Nathan anyway. He wasn’t irritated, he wasn’t condescending, he was actually (you honestly could not believe you were even thinking this) pleasant to be around.

You had been working for Nathan as his personal assistant for a few months. It was a promotion for sure over being a code slinger in a cubicle, but sometimes you honestly wondered what made you say yes to this bizarre existence. It was a beautiful house, beautiful scenery, interesting and highly intellectual conversations...when Nathan was sober.

There was also something you could never quite put your finger on. Something that was shifting as the weeks went on and you spent more time working alongside Nathan in the lab. As you spent evenings eating sushi and steaks and whatever else you were in the mood for that night (most nights, he actually let you choose the menu, you realized.) As you took afternoon walks around the estate, just taking in the scenery. As you debated various philosophies and ideas and theories and tried your damndest to prove Nathan wasn’t always right about everything. He almost seemed like he appreciated it all, but he would never say anything.

And you weren’t about to open that can of worms. Especially when he wasn’t sober.

How drunk are you right now?

On a scale of shitfaced to really fucking blitzed I would say I’m feeling no pain.

Jesus Christ. Well that was obvious. It was obvious just from the fact that he was texting you. Nathan was so uptight about security and data leaks and wiretapping and signals being hijacked (he’d admitted to doing it himself, so he did have a point) but had decided, after much insistence from you, that rigging the cell phones to only work inside the compound was an acceptable idea. It was so vast, you’d said, and what if something happened and one of you was all the way across the house or down in the lab, how were you supposed to let the other person know? It made sense at the time.

Now you were vaguely regretting it.

You could count on one hand the number of times you’d actually considered your boss to be pleasant to be around, and you still had your thumb left over just in case you needed to add to that tally.

At least personality wise. He was definitely pleasant to look at. Very pleasant.

You coughed and cleared your throat. That was not a line of thought to travel right now. The proper course of action was to get him to stop texting you.

A few minutes passed in glorious silence. Maybe a new, shiny thought had occurred to him and he was madly writing it down on a Post-It note. Maybe he just got bored and went to get a new drink. Maybe he’d finally just passed out and---

What are you thinking about?

Dammit. How to make you shut up, your brain snapped back. How to get you to let me sleep. How good your arms and shoulders look in that tank top after you’ve been hitting that punching back and you’re flushed and sweaty and…. Oh no. No no no. Stop it right now, brain.

Nathan hated to beat around the bush. Straightforward was the best policy with him, right?

How to get you to shut up and let me sleep.

Wonderful, glorious silence for exactly forty-six seconds.

Bro...that’s...so not cool.

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Why were you participating in this? Why was he? You narrowed your eyes and looked toward a corner of your room. You hoped he could see you glaring into the camera that you knew was there and that he was watching while he was texting you. If not, you were sure he would watch it in the actual morning and you hoped the look was withering enough to make him think twice. Probably not. Because this was Nathan Bateman.

Your incredibly narcissistic, incredibly intelligent, incredibly attractive...stop it brain.

But he was pushing your buttons right back. Neither of you could ever really back away from an exchange like this..

I’m not your “bro”, Nathan. Please knock this shit off.

Dude, it’s a figure of speech.

I’m not your dude, either. Please just stop talking.

What’s wrong with dude. Dude is a gender neutral term, anyone can be a dude. Guys are dudes, chicks are dudes, dudes are dudes

Yeah, well, you’re kind of being an asshole, dude.

Dude. Chill.

Turning my phone off now.

No, wait, don’t. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.

Now that was...unexpected. Nathan Bateman just apologized to you? For being a drunk asshole in the middle of the night? Your eyes narrowed again. Suspicious.

You’ll stop texting me so I can go back to sleep?

No not that. I’ll stop calling you dude.

Oh for the love of...you closed your eyes and briefly considered the merits of hurling your phone at the surveillance camera.

Nathan, seriously, can we please just leave this until the morning?

A whole minute of wonderful, glorious, blessed silence this time. You couldn’t believe he might be considering this.

You were right.

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away

If a brain cramp was an actual thing, yours would most certainly be doing it now. You could barely even process it. He was drunk as hell and he was quoting poetry to you? You supposed you probably shouldn’t be entirely surprised, he’d quoted Oppenheimer once in a worse stupor (which you could only quantify because he had actually passed out that time.)

Are you fucking serious right now.

What.

Are you fucking quoting Ozymandias to me right now?

I am.

You couldn’t get the color of the sky right earlier, and now you’re just flawlessly quoting philosophical Romantic poetry at me?

I am.

You are not a normal person, Nathan Bateman.

What is normal anyway, besides really fucking boring? Who wants to be normal?

I would like to be somewhat normal, at least between the hours of midnight and 8am.

See, I knew there was a reason I liked you.

That was the second time he said that, you noted. You found it hard to believe. Nathan liked his work, his routine, his own brain. He liked talking about his work and how smart he was. Other than telling you that you were doing a great job, he barely handed out a single compliment, and if he somehow accidentally did, it was so backhanded you weren’t sure you could actually define it as one.

You mean you like my brain.

Well, yeah, your brain is fucking amazing. It has to be if you work with me.

I work for you, Nathan, not with you. But thanks?

No, no, see, that’s where you’re wrong. You work with me. We’re like partners. None of that employer employee bullshit.

Oooookay now I am one thousand percent sure you are completely piss drunk.

I am but that doesn’t make it any less true.

You could almost hear him saying those words in your head. You could see the way his eyebrows went up, the intensity in his eyes, the way he held his finger up to make the point.

The thought made your brain go slightly fuzzy, and not from exhaustion. Because now you were wide awake. Damn him.

Okay, Nathan, I’ll bite. What do I have to do to get you to stop doing this right now?

There was a pause before he answered, and you swore you’d heard a phone alert that wasn’t your own. It sounded like it was coming from...oh no, he wasn’t…

Getting tired of typing. Can I come talk to you for a while?

Are you outside my door right now?!

You heard the phone chime very clearly this time. He was, definitely.

I am.

You sighed, deeply. So deeply.

Is that really a good idea?

I think it’s a great idea.

Nathan, being serious here.

You could have sworn you heard him sigh from the other side of the door. He could have just come inside. It was his house, his keycard worked on all the doors.

But the door didn’t open.

So am I. Please can I come in? My mind just won’t shut off and I really am fucking drunk but talking to you is helping but tired of typing shit out, I’d rather say it to you.

I wanna see you. And tell you how sexy your brain is.

And that I like you for more than your brain.

And you knew in that instant there really was only one way to get him to shut up. And it was to just let him talk. It made sense, in an oddly Nathan kind of way. What’s the worst that could happen, really? He’d come in, you’d talk, he’d eventually pass out, maybe you could get a couple more hours of sleep, and then in the morning you’d either talk about it on a very deep cerebral level or you’d just pretend it had never happened at all. 

A press to the door release button on the side of the table and the latch let go. The door opened, revealing Nathan standing on the other side. Still wearing what he’d been wearing in the lab earlier that night, black lounge pants and that tight white henley he seemed to love so much. The corner of his mouth turned up in the most miniscule of smiles, but it was there.

You were about to toss your phone back onto the bedside table, when the text alert went off again. You shot an exasperated look in his direction, but gamely checked the message.

Did you mean what you said before? About biting?

You glanced up at Nathan and saw that the sliver of a smile had taken over most of his face and his eyebrows had raised to emphasize his question.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t text him back. You just nodded your head to the empty spot next to you in your bed.

You had a feeling you weren’t going to get any sleep tonight after all.

~end~

taglist: @anetteaneta​ @rosemarysbaby13​ @darksideofclarke​ @girlwiththemostcake​ 

(taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for future fics)

[wordlessbabbling]

Ozymandius

A Thomas Shelby x femm!reader story

Requested by @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby

“You are a gangleader at the top of the chain. You’re civilian occupation is being a pub owner. The Peaky Blinders were looking to either make an agreement with you, or kill you, but where’s the fun in that? Today, Thomas Shelby walked into your bar.”

Warnings: none, I think. Thomas Shelby’s a dick? Idk

Masterlist

Dylan, your secretary, slid a small piece of paper across your desk and sat in the chair opposite you. You looked up from the document you were signing and eyed the card suspiciously.

Slowly, you snatched it in your well manicured hand and glanced your eyes over the paper once. Then again. Then once more.

You looked up from the paper and grinned, holding the sheet to your chest.

Without another glance, you immediately left the room to prepare.

You, Ozymandius, King of Bristol, you were going to battle.

Although this time, you were armed with a bottle of whiskey and two drops of perfume.

“Hello.

-T.S”

----

You donned your brown skirt with your creme coloured loose sleeved shirt. 

You scanned the bar and noted the regulars along with your workers who stood idly in case something broke out.

The “King William Ale House”, your pride and joy. Of course you owned about 60 other pubs in Bristol, but this was your baby, your first one. The furniture was black leather with gold linings. It had a gramophone in the corner and often men would come in to request songs.

On Wednesday nights, you always had a slow night, so often chairs and tables would be cleared out and couples could come and dance in the evening. On Sundays after lunch, men came in and often asked for the radio to hear about the latest news or the racing broadcasts.

Today was Wednesday meaning it was slow so it would be easy to eye-fuck the Peaky Blinders.

The doors opened, in stepped one man; then another; then another; then another; then another; and a final one.

If you were a suspicious woman, you would say those were your new business associates; lucky for them, you were because you swiftly greeted them and played the slowest song you had. 

It was time to finesse your way into these gangsters hearts.

“Evening boys, welcome to the “King William Ale House”. The couples booths are in the corner and dancing is encouraged for all. Drinks?” Your accent was thick and sultry. Really, you were teasing them, but you were never one to discriminate.

“Orright. Isiah, Finn, go to the booths-” the one with the burly moustache grumbled.

“-the couples booths?” the ginger one screeched.

Another man spoke up, identical to the rest of them, “for fucks- just go, Finn. Scud can come sit by you if your pride is hurting too much.”

One of the men placed his caps on the counter. In the corner of your eye, you saw the glinting sheen of a blade sewn into the plane and rather boring cap.

So it is true?

“A bottle of Irish and the whereabouts of Ozymandius.” His voice was monotonous and deep.

“I apologise, Mister, but I do not know their whereabouts.”

The man with the burly moustache got very close to your face, “now you listen here, sweetheart-“

“-Arthur, Arthur. Calm down, eh. We’ll wait.”

The men sat at the bar and smoked. Others in the room got up on their feet and danced quietly together. In your opinion, you were rather enjoying yourself. There’s a certain rush one gets when they deceive the arrogant of the world.

You leant your back to the bar and faced the array of drinks and sours; and above the debauchery rested a plaque.

Everyday you read that plaque. Everyday you remembered where you came from and why you do what you do.

“I woulda thought the King of Bristol woulda had a watch on him, Tommy.” The one with the baby face and toothpick sneered, “I don’t like waiting like this.”

“Ozymandius is never late. They need no watch for they know that time is wasted.” You muttered saltily.

“Are you a spy?” The one with the monotonous voice asked, ‘Tommy’ you think.

You didn’t move your head from the plaque, only continuing to stare at the italic writing. “No, not a spy. Though I do like watching.”

The hush fell over the room again as you listened to the slow music playing quietly.

The door opened once more and another couple stepped in. It was Daniel and Lisa, a lovely new couple. They even had a baby on the way!

“Danny! There you are! Ah Lisa, how’re you doing? How’s the baby?” You smiled warmly at the couple.

Daniel used to hang about on the streets when he was a kid, you saw him as useful and put him to work in the local inn. He met Lisa and the rest was history. You were definitely a bit of a romantic

Danny was about to open his mouth when you heard a bottle slam on the counter again, it was the rude man with the monotonous voice. “Are you a whore, then?”

You played nice and told “Tommy” to excuse you and you carried on with your conversation with Danny and Lisa.

While watching Danny and Lisa dance and look at each other, you remembered what your mother used to say to you.

“There are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes, the men—they come with keys, and sometimes, the men—they come with hammers.”

While you were lost in your thoughts, you heard the sound of a fist being slammed into oak: the man with the moustache was having a tantrum.

“Have we been fucking stood up, Tom? Is that it? Lady-“ he took a gun from his holster within his jacket, “-you’re gonna tell us where Ozymandius is, otherwise I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out.”

You trotted around the counter to face the man head on with his gun still pointing at your face. You grabbed the gun directly from his hand and twisted it, listening for the sickening crunch of his finger in the trigger slot.

To avoid hitting anyone else in the bar, you twisted the gun down. You used your right hand to stop the wrist as you used the left hand to bend their wrist, grabbing the gun, and pushing the gun down.

After quickly disarming the man, you pushed his quivering frame to the floor. You took the gun in your hand and like a good game of ‘Simon Says’ all the others with peaked caps took out theirs as well.

You pointed your gun to Tommy who you now understood was the leader, all silent and sneer of cold command. You were no fool.

With one gun pointing to one man and four pointing at you; you liked your chances.

The one with the baby face spoke up, “who are you, eh? Who is she?” His voice was loud and maybe distressed but now was not the time for shock analysis.

You stared and got closer to the man, ‘Tommy’. He made the wise decision to not extract his gun, but his expression looked nearly bored. You admired that in a man.

“Evening ladies and gentlemen, I’m very sorry to disrupt your couples night, but for tonight, the “King William Ale House” is closing early.” Danny and Lisa along with the other couples all scurried out.

All that was left now was you against the blinders. Your men who still sat in their chairs did not move. They knew not to. They were only there in case you died. Unlikely, but you didn’t like leaving much up to chance.

You inched closer to ‘Tommy’, despite his bored exterior, you saw the curiosity that resides in his temple. “I’m not a fucking whore, eh? You hear me?” You brought the gun closer to his face, hearing the tell tale click of it’s metal as you pressed it against his face.

“Who are you then?” His eyes quivered, but his face remained like a stone, eyebrow crooked.

“My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings;

Look on my works, ye Mighty and dispair!”

You pushed the cold metal closer to his face. You sighed again, “I’m very sorry boys, but we’re going to have to cut this short. You were late for our meeting, anyway.”

You clicked back the gun on to safety and instead cupped Tommy’s jaw. You leaned in close, making an effort to fan your breath.

“I’ve read about you in the papers, Shelby. Maybe next time, don’t be late for our evening date?” You felt his spine shiver as you spoke. “Two weeks. Meet me back here. Same time. Bring your cleanest suit and maybe some flowers, just for me? Yeah? Alone and sweet; how quaint.”

Leaving the frozen men behind, you toddled back around the counter and started washing glasses that sat there.

Slowly while swaying to the music that still played, you hummed the tune to yourself. When you looked up again, the men were still standing there like ninnies.

“What’re you lot still doing here? I told you, we’re closed.”

You carried on your work of cleaning glasses while heavy boots shuffled on the ground, and two of them picking up the groaning man with the burly moustache.

You placed down your glass and leaned back against the counter again. Looking up at the plaque, you read aloud:

“I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

——

Based off of ‘Ozymandius’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thanks for the love.

Feedback and comments are wanted.

See ya next time!

[jakey-beefed-it]

Coming up with Necron Dynasty stuff, and resultant fretting about actual names, under the cut

So the first thing to square away is the inspiration: primarily drawing from cosmic horror themes and specifically early cosmic horror/cosmic horror-adjascent writers of the late 19th/early 20th century (Lovecraft, Bierce, Chambers, Machen, Dunsany), the reapers from Mass Effect, the machines from the Matrix, the Cybermen from Dr. Who, and of course a hefty dose of Ancient Egypt as interpreted through Shelly’s Ozymandias.

As such, the basic thrust of my dynasty is that they (at least the Phaeron in charge of them) are actually quite satisfied with biotransference; forsaking the weakness of mortal flesh for undying self-repairing immortality was a solid move in the right direction toward full apotheosis. The royal court have no interest in reverting to flesh bodies, and count their ‘souls’ and the individuality of most of their 'lessers’ as no great loss.

But it wouldn’t be enough to simply *enjoy* the benefits of abandoning the flesh, if they did not share this benefescience with the younger species who have come to fill the galaxy. Their lives are turbulent, troubled both by the weaknesses of their simple organic forms and the ever-looming threat of the Warp that their own ‘souls’ pose. Better by far to strip their flawed flesh, capture their minds in imperishable and warp-free forms. It’s for their own good.

I think I might run with the idea that most of the Necron Warriors and other chuds are in fact biotransferred humans, Cybermen and Husk style to call back to two of the chief inspirations. Consciousnesses stripped from body and soul, assigned to rudimentary machine forms that lack sufficient processing power to retain much in the way of individuality, loosed on their erstwhile fellows.

Maybe because the Tomb World in question saw much harder wear from time than most seem to have- I really like the new more heavily corroded look of the newer necron models and it makes a lovely way to add in various forms of oxidation for visual interest. So lots of their less ‘important’ members (warriors and such) were either ruined or salvaged for parts to repair the more ‘important’ members of the court, and they needed to replenish their numbers quickly when waking up beneath a now-Imperial hive world. Whether this forms a convenient excuse for ‘sharing’ biotransference with the humans, is a happy coincidence, or is some form of portent that the evangelization of necrodermis is The Correct Path Forward depends on who you ask and how cynical or full of quasi-religious fervor they are.

So okay that’s all well and good, a clear ‘personality’ and aesthetic for the army, but now I gotta name the dynasty, its tomb world, and its Phaeron. Fffffuck. Naming things is hard.

Ok. Start with the Phaeron. so far I’ve got a few names jotted down:

Atramenes- sounds egyptian, sounds vaguely Important, inspired by the word ‘atramentous’ meaning dark/shadowy. Downside is that I used this for like the first boss monster in my d&d campaign, a lowly Nothic. Might thus make a better name for a Cryptek of some kind? Even though it’s a cool name? Enh? Not sure though, because lifting ideas from my d&d games, while at least they’re my own ideas generally, still feels a bit like a cop-out.

Khatash- sounds vaugely egyptian, sounds vaguely important, makes a decent dynastic name ‘Khatashic’. Downside is that this is basically just part of the name of one of my d&d setting’s Evil Gods, Bel Katash, the First Tiefling, the Usurper God of Death. Upside is that the basic personality and backstory actually kinda fit for a necron Phaeron.

Khephret- sounds very egyptian as it’s just the name of the scarab god of the dawn, Khephri, with a sligthly different ending. Cool association with scarabs given the necron scarabs, might make a decent Phaeron name? Khephret/Khephretic/Khephretakh dynasty sounds okay. Downside is that Khephri is... kind of a nice dude, associated with light and rebirth and all. Actually that might work? ‘Rebirth’ into necrodermis, ‘light’ from various horrible ray guns?

Akinshekhor- sounds not egyptian at all but sounds kinda Sumerian to me, so at least it still evokes ‘ancient ass desert’? Sounds very important and somewhat intimidating. Downside is it was literally the name of my summoned Doomguard in WoW many years ago and while I was like ‘oh shit that sounds like a Babylonian Demon King! rad!’ and was very pleased with my good luck on the random name generator, fundamentally it’s still a personal MMO reference which rates even lower than lifting ideas from my d&d campaigns.

Ramesekh- sounds very egyptian obviously; Rameses = Ozymandias and all that. Doesn’t sound especially intimidating or important to me, unfortunately.

On to the tomb world. So far the ideas are:

Carcosa- just call it fuckening Carcosa. Maybe it orbits the star Hali. Maybe one of the earliest biotransferred humans was the Planetary Governor Cassilda. Downside: just outright flagrant theft from Bierce and Chambers.

Nephandor- drawn from ‘nefandous’ meaning ‘unspeakable’, ties in nicely with my early ideas for the dynasty name based on something similar but then I ran into the fact that there’s already a canon dynasty called Nephrekh so had to rethink things. Kinda sounds like Nephren-Ka, also, being Lovecraft’s ancient egyptian avatar of Nyarlathotep.

Eidolon- great ominous name for a planet. Eidolon being a word that can mean both ‘perfected form’ and ‘spectre of oncoming death’ and carrying connotations of not-quite-human. Downside of course is that there’s already a chaos space marine in the Emperor’s Children named Eidolon. Bleh.

Ophir- biblical name for a historical place proooobably in India but has the ri ght ‘sound’ to it, making one think of shifting sands and ancient ruins. ‘

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away”

Anyhow this got... long.... but I kinda want anyone who bothered to read this far to weigh in on your favorites because I am having a terrible time deciding anything here besides the basic ideas outlined before the names section.

[riathel]

Thoughts about Shelley and the Unresolved Questions of Season 12

Well, I am writing a meta post about the Timeless Children and why I think it adds such an interesting complexity to the Master’s relationship with the Doctor, but in the meantime, while I process that finale, I wanted to write about something I’ve noticed this entire season.

The connection to the Shelleys and to Byron.

To TL;DR this post:  I think that next season, we’ll get an answer to who the Kasaavin are, it will tie into Percy having had the Cyberium in him (and it having been around Byron’s house), and we’ll get some huge development for Yaz, the Master and the Doctor, as they’ve all been in the Kasaavin realm.

Let’s recap all the times we’ve lingered around Byron and the Shelleys this season, shall we? This includes some very brief history lessons, and I will be including links!

Episode 2: Spyfall Part 2

We meet Ada Lovelace, who has a connection to the Kasaavin. She sees them in her dreams, she’s the one to rescue the Doctor from their realm. Brief history lesson: Ada Lovelace was an absolutely BRILLIANT mathematician and the parent of computers. She was also the only legitimate child of Lord Byron and his wife. She died in 1852 at age 36, taken far too young. I’ll post the scene here for benefit:

[Kasaavin realm] ADA: Please be assured all this will pass. I shall be recovered momentarily. DOCTOR: When you say recovered, what do you mean? ADA: The paralysis will fade. DOCTOR: You don't look paralysed. ADA: Not in this realm, but in my earthly aspect. DOCTOR: Right. What's your name? ADA: I am Ada. DOCTOR: And what do you think this realm is, Ada? ADA: I believe it to be my mind. Though I have not met another here before. DOCTOR: Then what do you think I am? ADA: I presume you are a consequence of my thoughts. DOCTOR: No. I'm the Doctor, and I'm very real. But you've been here before? ADA: Many times. When the paralysis subsides, I find myself fully back in my body, restored in the physical realm. If you are real, do you have your own solution for egress from here? DOCTOR: No exit strategy. Before I leave, I need to work out what this place is. Oh! Those fragments of light or energy, why are they surrounding you? ADA: They are always here with me. They place a word in my mind. Kasaavin? (One of the light creatures appears.) DOCTOR: Ada, step away. ADA: Do not be afraid. This is my guardian. DOCTOR: This is their realm. This is where they're from. But how did you bring us here? Unless... You can't be. But you must be. What, gateways? We go through you and arrive in your realm? I say realm. It's not a planet, not really a void. A separate dimension? Are we beyond our... my universe? ADA: Little of what you are saying makes sense to me, but I am concerned you'll be marooned here. When my guardian has returned... DOCTOR: They're not your guardians. ADA: I can offer you my hand. We may leave this place together. DOCTOR: I don't think that will work. ADA: How will you know if you do not try? Decide, Doctor.

Later in the episode:

DOCTOR: If you're Charles Babbage, then you're not just any old Ada. You're Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron and Annabella Milbanke, one of the great minds. ADA: I am Ada Gordon, madam. DOCTOR: 1834. Of course you are. Well, maybe one day, who knows, you might meet a nice Earl. This changes everything! This isn't an accident. Ada Lovelace in Babbage's house? You're clues. You're important.

Charles Babbage has the Silver Lady (aka the Kasaavin device) in his house, but Ada is the one who has been being visited by them.

DOCTOR: Ada, when was your first paralysis? ADA: I was 13 years old. That is when I was first transported to the place where we met, and I first saw an apparition. DOCTOR: And over the years, the paralysis recurs with the same effect? ADA: Yes. No doctor has ever been able to diagnose the cause. DOCTOR: Well, this Doctor may be able to. An apparition, from this machine. BABBAGE: Correct. DOCTOR: So, they take you, Ada, multiple times from here and they study you in their dimension, which means they can't be in this dimension for long. But maybe they gain an ally, a mastermind who builds them a machine which stabilises them in this world long enough for them to send spies and to spread their work and start a plan. 'Cause I've seen the map in his hut. Multiple Earths. Except not. Not multiple Earths. Multiple time periods. These creatures aren't just alien spies on Earth, they're spies through Time, through history, starting with you.

Or, at the very least, the Doctor assumed they were starting with Ada. Maybe they started earlier - with her parents. Or maybe the Master found out about the events of  The Haunting of Villa Diodati with the Cyberium - but we’ll get to that in time.

Again, Spyfall ends with a neat-ish conclusion as to them being focussed on “computing history” and “human DNA”

DOCTOR: I know what this is. A temporal map, showing every significant person in the development of computers through history, starting with you, Ada. This is the plan. See? BOTH: No. ADA: Wh... what is a computer? DOCTOR: Oh, forget you heard that word, otherwise I've just disrupted the whole of history. Again. Okay. Ah, my brain's fizzing. Good. The Kasaavin posted an agent on every person on that map, because that's what spies do, what Barton does. They gather all the data. Where does the DNA fit in? Kasaavin, technology, DNA. How are they all connected? Oh! Human DNA. That's what they were testing.

Episode 8: The Haunting of Villa Diodati

Gif by itberice.

This is the big episode, where I started to notice it especially. Huh, a bit a coincidence they’re doing Byron when Ada was his daughter. Interesting.

DOCTOR: Okay, so there was a spot of rain, and gale-force winds and a super-long walk. But I got us here, didn't I? And Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, soon to be Shelley, screamed in your face. Quality historical experience, that. Gold. YASMIN: (sotto) On that night that inspired Frankenstein. FLETCHER: If... you'd be so kind. GRAHAM: Blimey. DOCTOR: Excuse me, Yaz. I was very clear about the rules. RYAN: Nobody mention Frankenstein, and don't interfere. YASMIN: And nobody snog Byron.

This is because, as Tumblr has already noted, Byron is a thot/fuckboi.

BYRON: She walks in beauty, like the night. DOCTOR: Of cloudless climes and starry skies. BYRON: I'm intensely flattered you're familiar with my work, Mrs Doctor. DOCTOR: Just Doctor is fine. I'm quite into Shelley's stuff too. He about?

Then enters the Lone Cyberman (aka Ashad). It is scouring the villa for Percy, to obtain the Cyberium, and cannot find him. When it starts charging up, it begins to quote Percy’s poetry (specifically Queen Mab book 2 and Queen Mab book 3)

CYBERMAN (glowing with energy): There's not one atom of yon Earth, but once was living man. (Book 2) The sword that stabs his peace; He cherisheth The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raises up the tyrant whose delight Is in his woe. (Book 3)

As the episode progresses, Ashad gets the Cyberium back from Percy (who has been dying with it). Even more interestingly though - the Cyberium wants to choose the Doctor.

DOCTOR: And it chooses me. Interesting. Time Lord magnetism. Looks like I'm the true Guardian. (The Cyberium passes into the Doctor.) CYBERMAN: Surrender it or I will execute you. DOCTOR: I'd be very careful with those execution threats. I can feel it already, fusing to me. It feels very at home. Recognising great host material. Not to big myself up, but I don't think it'll vacate me without a fight.

But now we know - she’s not just a Time Lord. So can the Cyberium sense that? Did it know? Or perhaps, even if she were just a Time Lord, it would have preferred her... Anyway, this deviates too hard into my other, upcoming post. I think this episode, the Villa episode, was VITAL in determining what will happen next season.

Episode 10: The Timeless Children

MASTER: Look upon my work, Doctor, and despair.

This is an homage to Percy Shelley’s sonnet, Ozymandias, which contains the iconic lines:

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Oh, cute, what a fun little addition, I first thought when I heard it in the finale. (It now occurs to me, while writing this, that the Master might have quoted Shelley to the Doctor because he knows she loves his work. My poor shipper heart.)  

Then I thought - hang on. That’s a lot of “coincidental” involvement with the Byrons & Shelleys in this season, especially when the rest of the plots have been so deftly woven with surprises.

The Master mentions to Ashad/the Cyberium that he has the entire Matrix in his head and then he ends up absorbing the Cyberium into him, linking it with him in ways that will have consequences we haven’t even seen yet. It all sets up such a juicy, interesting thread into the next season.

Summary:

What does it all mean? Who can say? I hope this will give us some answer for what the Kasaavin are, where their universe is (is it beyond the Boundary? is it another Boundary?), how the Master found them (was it in the Matrix? did the Time Lords know about them?)

Most importantly: I think Yaz will play a huge role in the next season, given she was in the Kasaavin realm, as will the Doctor and (I suspect/hope) the Master again. This Kasaavin plot-line is still left unresolved, and I will be incredibly interested to see what Chibnall’s plan contains.

This could all just be a very cute, season-long homage to Byron/Shelley... but... it’s very suspicious. Especially given they have an entire two episodes focussed on them/their progeny.

If anyone has any other examples of Percy & Byron or descendants in season 11/12, please add them through reblogs! :D I worry that I haven’t gotten every single moment, or that I missed a couple of them.

Links to biographies:

Ada Lovelace Mary Shelley Percy Shelley Lord Byron

[thatboomerkid]

OMEGAMANCY

OMEGAMANCY -- for use with the GammaFinder Setting by Owen K.C. Stephens, inspired & informed by Defiling, a History and a Look Ahead & Running Dark Sun: Defilers

... Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-- Ozymandias

The twisted lords of City Omega, it is said, were once served in combat & intrigue alike by vile magicians: depraved & corrupted enchanters who wielded unstoppable sorceries, fell magics that drank deeply from the last flickers of life clinging to our cursed earth.

Where their obscene will was worked, abject destruction savaged the waste.

Although the hideous masters of the Omega Invasion and their deviant catamite-mages have long-since fallen to dust & madness, their blasphemous occult legacy lives on ... echoing, growing in the shadowed wilderness like a iridescent, pulsating constellation of tumors.

This essay brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to read & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon

original image by Jacob Blackmon, available from AAW Games here

DEPRAVED & INFECTIOUS KNOWLEDGE

No character may use Omegamancy until she has personally, directly witnessed another creature use Omegamancy.

Once a character has beheld the raw power of Omegamancy, she is forever-after marked, and she may use the abilities below at-will.

Use of Omegamancy is a strongly evil act.

THE MAJESTIC PERVERSION OF OMEGAMANCY

Whenever a Mystic or Witchwarper casts a spell, she may choose to evoke Omegamancy: scouring the earth around her clean of all natural life.

When she does so, she afflicts an area with a radius of 10 feet per level of the spell cast (5 ft. radius for cantrips): reducing plants & soil-bound microbes to strewn white ash, weakening and killing minor wildlife (creatures too small or insignificant to themselves have statistics), and reducing the rate of live birth among all surviving creatures in the area. If she uses this ability in an area that overlaps a previous use of this power, the radius is drawn from the edge of the previous area.

Omegamancy does not work in utterly barren landscapes, in the void of space, or in other places without enough life-force to steal.

Omegamancy does not kill truly unnatural life. Entities from beyond our understanding of biology are, in many instances, bolstered by the sudden disappearance of their competition: in those scarred places where Omegamancy has been used, forests of alien cartilage & twitching mollusk-flesh often grow, dripping protoplasm evolved under no known stars.

In other places, only dust remains.

An area afflicted by Omegamancy might recover, in time, but if so it has never been observed or recorded.

If she chooses to evoke Omegamancy in this way, she gains one of the following benefits as the spell is cast:

She gains a single temporary point of Resolve. Unspent temporary Resolve Points gained in this way disappear at the end of one minute.

The range of her spell is doubled.

The range of her spell increases from Touch to 30 ft.

She may re-roll any number of damage dice dealt by the spell. 1s on this single re-roll are treated as 2s.

The spell’s duration is doubled. The spell must have a duration longer than instantaneous.

Casting the spell does not provoke attacks of opportunity.

She gains the benefits of the Penetrating Spell feat until the end of her round.

She generates an effect identical to a Wonder Grenade within the area of the spell’s effect. She rolls twice and chooses one of the two effects.

Choosing to evoke Omegamancy in this way is a free action.

It is not possible to evoke Omegamancy in a subtle way: any creature within the afflicted area is instantly aware of this monstrous power’s evocation, and feels a sharp, agonizing tug at their life-force in the direction of the caster.

Those who survive an encounter with Omegamancy often suffer from Deformities.

DARK MAGIC IN A RUINED WORLD

Everyone hates Omegamancers.

No. Scratch that, actually. Everyone hates witches, and one of the reasons is that backwoods hillbillies who’ve never actually seen Omegamancy at work are just clever enough to err on the side of caution: willing to real-quick beat, string-up & behead anyone who might have the capability to unleash such legendary power at some point in the indeterminate future.

Everyone, after all, knows that Omegamancy is “a thing”.

And even at the best of times, normal people don’t handle magic well.

Uninitiated folks react to seeing sharp-edged proof of [2+2=5] the same way they’d react to a rotting clown-baby bursting into their darkened bedroom screaming, thrashing and vomiting spiders. Witnessing raw sorcery unravel & rewrite reality in-the-flesh activates the fight-or-flight response of a normal person the same way that a loaded pistol pointed directly at your own skull does ... while simultaneously pinging the uncanny valley just as hard as the primitive lizard hind-brain can register a sense of wrongness.

Something old – lurking just beneath the tense, stressed-out surface of every hardened apocalypse survivor scraping-together a life in the harsh dust – still believes in magic and monsters; that wide-eyed, blood-caked monkey knows that the best way to deal with wolves, demons & tigers in the dead of night is to wake the tribe with screams, light the big fires and start throwing heavy stones.

Castin' spells?

They’ll come at you with bare fists & teeth, friend.

You don’t even want to know what they do to people who unleash the true, eldritch power of madness.

OMEGA-CORE SUBSTANCE

If a Mystic or Witchwarper evokes Omegamancy while holding an item of power constructed of Omega-Core Substance, she gains two of the benefits from the list above rather than one. In addition, all living creatures in the afflicted area -- except you, the caster -- suffer one hit-point of damage per level of the spell cast (no save). This ability must deal at least one point of damage or the spell fails.

Omega-Core Substance is rare in the extreme, illegal in all settlements, highly radioactive, poisonous, causes unexpected & inexplicable energy-shifts in its surroundings, attracts alien predators and -- worst of all -- is highly valued by remnants of the Omega Invasion, who possess some unknown means of tracking the material.

[vloidunderscore42]

Ozymandias

Tuesday, june 11, 2019

I started to despise seeing the blank page of Tumblr. It gets me feeling weak, like a crybaby, waiting for attention of sorts.

"No one is afraid of heights, they're afraid of falling down. No one is afraid of saying I love you, they're afraid of the answer."

Kurt Cobain

I'm not even sure I know how, or where to start, I haven't posted for so long, just didn't feel the need to, or actually, I did, but I just wanted to ignore it.

Exams are to come in 7 days, first I'll have to take the romanian language exam and then the mathematics exam, I hope for at least a 9/10, but I can never be too sure.

"Forever isn't for everyone, is forever for you? It sounds like settling down or giving up, but it don't sound much like you girl"

Alex Turner

Love, such an irritating subject. I got this girlfriend, mainly to get my mind off someone who I tried something with, and didn't quite work (neither did 'getting my mind off of them', but nevermind), yet she wasan't even into me. Imagine trying to give someone space to get them comfortable with you, try make something work, and they don't even acknowledge your existence when you're near them. I just couldn't keep pushing, and not only that, I didn't want to.

I'm just so sick and tired of caring for people I find it easier to make them hate me, and settle down with some 'friends' who don't care that much about me to actually get mad at me. Didn't plan it to go like this, but once I saw it start, I didn't stop it, can't really see the point. All I'd do is hurt myself more and more, and annoy others on the long term. Short term annoyances and relationship degradation. Sounds like 'fun'.

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Ozymandias, a term I usually use when I think of relationships. Its a tale of perspectives. It tells the story of a long fallen king told through the perspective of a traveller to the poet, which then tells it to the reader. It's also very indicative of failure and something turning into ruins. I liked to use it as "yeah, our relationship is turning into an Ozymandias relationship", but its only something I get and no one else does. Now I don't really use it anymore, cause it feels like some sort of attack.

"Nostalgia is the hearts way of reminding you of something you once loved. It travels in many forms, on a song, in a scen or in photographs. But no matter how it comes to you it will always have the same bitter-sweet taste."

Ranata Suzuki

I feel like I'm rotting from the inside, and I've felt like this the past like 2 weeks. I just don't know what to do. Its like you see a nurse giving you cyanide instead of water, through your IV, yet you're too afraid to tell her she's doing something something really dangerous and should stop, cause she's the expert, so you just sit and let her poison you.

Its been so long, I just don't know what other things I should add, so I'll continue with the songs (more, cause lots of time passed)

Snap Out Of It - Arctic Monkeys

Entice Me - Colourblind

Haat De Stank - Demob Happy

Cleric Girl - Sisyfuss

Cornerstone - Arctic Monkeys

Goodnight.