#or an urban legend from a mechanic’s shop

[accio-victuuri]

xiao zhan elle september issue cover story

Xiao Zhan believes in simplicity. But in acting, he increasingly likes multi-faceted and complex characters.In other words, this is an authentic state of human existence. At a time when everything is being simplified, Be willing to admit that people are different,Seek communication possibilities, Be sensitive and defend complexity, This must require love and courage.

01.

After entering the entertainment industry, these things quickly became part of his daily life - cameras, spotlights, display screens, shields. Due to his profession and popularity, countless "Xiao Zhan" have emerged, including huge portraits on the facades of high-end shopping malls, the projections of an astonishing number of fans, or the appearance of characters in the film and television dramas that have been released one after another.

Right now, in the dressing room after the shooting, Xiao Zhan is holding his box of whole grain salad, vividly imitating the scene of meeting director Zheng Xiaolong.

"I was a little confused, so I asked the director whether he wanted me to be thinner or stronger. He said, 'Thinner, of course thinner, it will look so good and sharp.'" After a while, when we were taking the final photos, Zheng Xiaolong saw him again, "He said, 'Wow, you look good like this.'" From then until now, he has lost more than ten pounds.

Xiao Zhan, the source of all fission, is decent and relaxed. The glamour seen by the outside world is an added value for him. Sometimes he even forgets about it, "Really no one will care about you." Then he continues to talk about his work.

The most recent one is "Legend of the Hidden Sea", which was filmed in Hengdian for 5 months. The previous one, which also took 5 months to shoot, was "The Legend of the Condor Heroes: The Greatest Hero" directed by Tsui Hark. This is often the case with large-scale movies and long TV series. Once you join the crew, it takes four or five months. In 2022, his main filming work was "Where Dreams Begin" and "Sunshine by my Side", in 2021 it was "Yu Gu Yao", in 2020 it was "Ace Troops", and in 2019 it was "Douluo Dalu" and "Oath of Love".

There are constant offers for plays, so sometimes I can’t decide whether to lengthen or shorten the time between plays.

In the second half of 2019, when filming "Oath of Love", Xiao Zhan filmed during the day and recorded the variety show "Our Song" at night. Both were very challenging. The former was his first time to play the leading role in an urban drama, with little experience and great pressure; the latter was difficult because of the harmony, "You have to memorize all the harmonies that are different from the tune of the song and not be carried away."

"At that time, I felt it didn't matter. I would sleep for an hour or two and wake up feeling healthy again. But now my mind says it doesn't matter, but my body is protesting."

This year, he was filming in Hengdian. Later, one day, he found that his tonsils were inflamed and swallowing was very painful, but he went to work as usual. It was not until the director came over and asked him, "What's wrong with your eyes?" that he saw his eyes swollen in the mirror. By the afternoon, "I looked like a frog."

He had to go to the hospital. The symptoms themselves were common and could be stopped by taking medicine. But what he couldn't do was exactly what the doctor advised most: you need to rest.

More importantly, "My perception will become dull. I am really afraid of this, afraid of becoming mechanical and formulaic." He put the emphasis on the word "really". He chatted with his seniors, "They also said that you have to live and experience life."

In fact, a life in the spotlight is somewhat contrary to the life of ordinary people, but the profession of an actor requires him to touch as many wrinkles of life as possible.

A while ago, he watched a monologue in a variety show that depicted the current workplace situation of young people. Before entering the entertainment industry, Xiao Zhan had a studio and worked. He could understand the depression brought by work, but the new vocabulary and new tools that appeared in the workplace weakened his sense of resonance. He found that he was gradually disconnected to a certain extent.

02.

In early June, Xiao Zhan had a short vacation and went back to his hometown Chongqing. He likes to take walks very much, and one night he walked for several hours, visiting the old street, Jiefangbei, and the place where he used to work.

In 2014, 23-year-old Xiao Zhan graduated from university and worked as a designer in a design studio. Every weekday morning, he would transfer from Line 2 to Line 3 at Niujiaotuo Station, push through the crowds, and squeeze onto the light rail. Several times, he was pressed so hard that his face was pressed against the glass window.

He simply leaned against the glass to look at the Jialing River below, the strange reefs exposed in the dry season and the various people, some swimming in winter, some jogging, some fishing, with a very optimistic spirit.

He still likes to observe the people around him——

"Why are you still here so late?"

"People walking hurriedly must have just got off work and are in a hurry to go home. Their expressions and behaviors are just like when I used to catch the subway. It's the last one and you have to run. They are very panicked. Some takeaway guys are rushing forward regardless of their own safety. There are also some very leisurely people who sit there drinking beer, and then go home and start a new day."

"Everyone has their own wonderful story. It is everyone's life that makes up our society. So it's wonderful. Everyone is the protagonist. We are all filming our own biographies. What will the story of tomorrow be like?"

At that moment, he was like all those who have been busy working in a foreign country for a long time, and finally found that "I haven't been here for a long time, and there have been quite a lot of changes." "In fact, I am not particularly happy, and I don't have any other feelings. I am living, that's all."

Two and a half days later, Xiao Zhan left Chongqing for work and returned to Beijing, then to Shanghai, and then to France. This time he also called his parents. This was a long-awaited family trip, from France to Switzerland and back to France in a week. Every detail of the trip was magnified, their happiness, quarrels, or just ordinary walks, "all very vivid."

On the day they parted, they finished their meal at a restaurant in the south of France. The car that came to pick him up arrived and he had to leave first. Before leaving, his mother hugged him and told him to take care of himself. Rarely, his father also hugged him awkwardly.

"I used to think that work was everything and life wasn't that important. It was nothing more than having a place to sleep, getting up, going to work, finishing work, and resting. But now that my parents are older and I haven't lived with them for a long time, you feel as if each other's lives, even family members, are getting further and further apart." He especially doesn't want this to happen.

The way to avoid suspension and regain a sense of reality in life is not difficult to say. "When you have time, go out and take a look. The important thing is to feel life and the world. Even if it is something terrible or cruel, it is life, and it will burst out with energy when you need it."

03.

Halfway through the interview, Xiao Zhan suddenly said that he had a conflicting attitude towards long interviews. On the one hand, he was worried that he was not growing enough and would appear timid during the conversation. On the other hand, he wanted to unearth some subtle feelings through the conversation because he felt he was not good at recording them in words.

Observation, feeling, understanding and expression are the key to an actor's creativity.

"Dialogue is also muscle memory." Xiao Zhan said, "Although I am very i, I am not autistic. Because I think actors need to learn to express, express your inner thoughts, and digest the content handed to you by the other party."

Before the filming of "Sunshine by my Side" began, he met with the main creators and held several script meetings to deepen their understanding of each other and the characters. In the early stage of "Legend of the Hidden Sea", the producer also mentioned that he would discuss the script in detail and talk about a scene with many of his own understandings.

Xiao Zhan is not a professional actor. When he first entered the industry and filmed "Fights Break Sphere" and "The Wolf", he had strong doubts and asked himself, am I suitable for this? Constantly denying and overthrowing himself made him lose confidence.

Sometimes he is asked what he would be doing now if he had not participated in the talent show, debuted, or entered the entertainment industry at the age of 23. He has thought about it, but he has not looked back.

If you can't act well, then spend extra time taking acting classes, watching the monitor more often, and asking seniors for advice. With your full strength and hard work, you will slowly find the way.

Later, when the filming of "Sunshine by my Side" started, Xiao Zhan played Xiao Chunsheng, a child of a Beijing compound, who was completely different from him, even his accent was very different. He felt insecure. Before filming many scenes, director Fu Ning ran over and whispered to him, Zhan Zhan, don't be afraid, just speak bravely, if you feel it, just say it, in fact, the audience can feel your emotions and what you want to express.

He also gradually gained more self-awareness: "Technique may not be my forte, it depends more on feelings. Only when I have my own feelings can I have the confidence to interpret it. If I rely purely on some techniques, I think it is not moving enough."

It has been 8 years since Xiao Zhan made his acting debut. Looking at his resume, he has played leading roles in various TV series and movies. But he still feels that he is a newcomer and hopes to work with more experienced production teams in the future.

He doesn't think too much, and he doesn't actually know the work plan divided by year very well. He only cares about what the work arrangements for the next stage are, rather than "asking about things too far ahead."

"I still feel like a child, but actually I'm not anymore. It seems like I'm still in high school, but actually I've grown up." A child's mind means having curiosity, desire to explore, and imagination.

He puts these curiosities and explorations into the characters. "I mean, for me, when I dig into the character's background and past, I discover the complexity and contradictions of the character as a person and present them. In this way, some of his choices and motivations may be understood by the audience, and the work may be good, and you will have the current audience, right?"

source

[an-au-blog]

Vashwood au where Vash is just some guy and Wolfwood is a car mechanic who (in fast and furious fashion) goes to illegal races. He usually doesn't race but he loves looking at the engines and giving unsolicited advice. Some of the racers are his clients but he tries not to get too involved but business is business.

One time during a race, Vash just walks in the middle of things by accident, as he usually does. He's not sure what was going on but this handsome black haired guy with sunglasses and a buttoned down shirt started mansplaining to him and he just rolled with it. By the time Wolfwood realized Vash was a random passer by, there was sirens starting to surround them. Wolfwood hopped on his motorbike, Vash in panic followed, squeezing the breath out of Wolfwood the entire time.

They barely got away and Wolfwood vowed to never be swayed by a cute face again.

A week later one of the neighborhood kids comes to pump their soccer ball on the car repair shop's tire pump. It wasn't unusual, and neither was it unusual that they asked him to play with them. What was odd was that they said "so we have equal teams" and the equality came from the fact that Vash was on their other team.

After a few conversations Wolfood finds out that Vash is actually the urban legend people called "Stampede". The racer who never entered "formally" and had a car that looked older than time but always finished with massive advantages. He's only been in three or four races and he never stopped at the finish line. No one had seen his face but people say he had blond hair and a bright red overgarment.

And it turns out he was just late to pick someone up from somewhere, and another time he was in a rush before his favorite donut place closes, and the list of reasons grow more ridiculous.

[anitabyars]

Book description

From USA Today and Amazon Charts bestselling authors Kerrigan Byrne and Cynthia St. Aubin, comes their latest Romcom featuring a quirky cast of characters who represent the hilarious absurdity of life while making you fall head-over-heels in love. This steamy, laugh out loud, opposites-attract small town romance reminds us that we don't have to be perfect to deserve our own happily ever after!

Gemini "Gemma" McKendrick knows just about everything about everybody in Townsend Harbor. When she's not serving on one of the many civic positions or leaping headlong into another hobby, she's hosting the Sunday Stitch 'N Bitch at her yarn and craft shop, Bazaar Girls. With her quirky boutique in big financial trouble, she makes a snap decision to rent out the basement of her cozy craftsman to Townsend Harbor newcomer Gabe Kelly. A man with a past as colorful as his tattoo sleeves, who has become an urban legend since he blew into town. And who better than Gemma, Townsend Harbor's own gossip guru, to answer the rumor mill's most pressing questions? Like whether the silver-tongued mechanic is as good with his hands as he is with a socket wrench.

Gabriel "Gabe" Kelly wasn't born into a family so much as a criminal enterprise. Taught to lift, chop, and rebuild cars since before he could tie his own shoes, he's obliged to pay his debt to society before deserting South Boston for Townsend Harbor, Washington. Surely he can stay out of trouble here, right? He immediately finds the only position an ex-con with prison muscles and neck tattoos could easily find in a town like this, and buys the vintage car mechanic shop from it's retiring owner . Moonlighting as the only tow truck in a thirty-mile radius, he rescues the absent-minded hottie who runs the local yarn shop. But he quickly discovers that a toy-sized car with a dashboard lit up by Christmas isn't the only thing in Gemma McKendrick's life desperately in need of maintenance. Gabe, who is uniquely qualified to diagnose and fix complicated mechanisms, finds his sexy landlord is impossible to figure out. Looks like he'll have to take a peek at her undercarriage to find out what makes her purr before he hits the road again.

Because women of her caliber don't take home guys with his make and model...

But he knows she wants a test drive.

Order link: https://amzn.to/47rIQSV

My Review

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

One of the most entertaining series I’ve read in a long time! So many laugh out loud moments, sexual innuendo, secrets and with a great group of strong-willed, independent, women, who all have their own unique problems. These women have bonded together to support each other, any way they can, as they find their way through life…and love! Townsend Harbor seems to be the perfect place with its quaintness and quirkiness for all these characters to blend and live in. This is Gemma and Gabe’s story and I never saw this sizzling relationship coming!!!! And it is an eye opener! Just saying Gemma really surprised me in this opposites-attract romance!

Gemma McKendrick lives in a constant state of clutter and disorganization due to her inability to stay on task for any length of time. Thanks all to her ADHD’s delightful bonus, of body betrayals but also because she constantly overextended herself in Townsend Harbor. But when her father and sister start questioning her, regarding her quirky boutique and its profit margin, she suddenly decides to rent out the basement of her house to Gabe Kelly. The same Gabe Kelly that happened to be the most soul-crushingly beautiful man Gemma had ever met. But when her identical twin Lyra and her fiancé Harrison shows up unexpectedly, and catches her in a rather awkward position, what will her family think of her attraction to the hot bad boy? Her family surely wouldn’t approve of him, if she brought him home for Sunday dinner. But she wants so much more out of life and she was willing to finally reach out and take it.

"If experience is what you want, I'd be more than willing to help you with that. Anything you want to know, anything you want to try, anything you want do. No strings attached."

Gabe "The Babe" Kelly was an old friend of Darby's from Boston, who had made his Townsend Harbor debut in a duet on aerial silks that left neither eyes nor panties dry. A man with a past as colorful as his sleeves of tattoos. Born into a family of criminals, he’d learned at an early age to lift, chop, and rebuild cars. Gabe was full of a past filled with darkness and danger, Southie trash with a rap sheet to prove it. As an ex-con he decides to buys a vintage car mechanic shop from it retiring owner in hopes of staying out of trouble in Townsend Harbour. But when Gemma McKendrick offers him her basement to rent out, he knew he was in deep trouble. Because he hadn't been able to get the image of her out of his head, since the night of Darby's benefit. Which was exactly why he couldn't get tangled up with her. Gemma was sweetness and light, the girl next door with a heart of gold. Until she needed him!

"I'm attracted to you," she said, her voice barely audible above the waves. "Like, a lot. Like, so much that it's basically an obsession”

These two are so…HOT! Sexy, charming and totally head over heels in…lust with each other. Their relationship is so sweet and captivating, I loved watching these two opposites come together and be exactly what the other needed. With Gemma, Gabe was starting to imagine a real future together. But when trouble shows up again, will Gemma and Gabe get their HEA? Or will family cause the end of their future together? You will want to read this one to get all the spicy and sexy details!

I received an early copy and this is my honest review.

[jacksandlopes]

HI!, just saw that u followed my art blog and now I’m very curious about your slutty murder children!!! What are some basic lore stuff of them and also what is each of your ocs favorite ice cream flavor?

BLORBO FACTS, GO!!

(-mossymenagerieart)

warning for sensitive content; toxic relationships, murder, abuse, cannibalism - these characters and their world are 18+

oh my god okay- so the slutty murder children are Nicolas Moreau and Célestine Corbin, the two main characters of a universe tentatively titled Dog Teeth. The setting is New Orleans circa 2014-2015, though we occasionally bounce to Manhattan

Nicolas is a doberman shapeshifter in his mid-late 20's who works as a mechanic at an autobody shop and moonlights as a semi-cannibalistic serial killer, taking advantage of one of the oldest urban legends in the city, the Rougarou, to further his reputation Some side effects of his.. condition are protanopia (red color blindness), an incresed sensitivity to noises and scents, and an extremely limited diet, which he follows about 80% of the time Occupational hazards resulted in him losing his right leg, just above the knee, and his prosthetic is a DIY project, built from Definitely Legally Acquired car + motorcycle parts

His partner in crime, Célestine, is a former college student in her late teens, and the problem middle child of a very large immigrant family. She also has an uncanny predisposition to getting kidnapped- Célestine's life has been an interesting cocktail of familial neglect, religious pressure, and what could very likely be considered an undiagnosed case of histrionic personality disorder. After a taste of freedom in the form of adulthood and college enrollment, she decides to skip town and head South She's also the embodiment of a 2014 Tumblr girl in all the worst (affectionate) ways; she'd blame all her actions on being a Gemini and she's a die hard Arctic Monkeys fan despite never having listened to a single song

Honorable mentions from the Dog Teeth universe are - Mateo "Buck" Cervantes, the cop set on tracking down Nicolas - Cadianne Moreno, a yandere urban explorer who attempts a prison break - and Jeffrey Declan, a one-man cult dedicated to the mysterious figure who saved his life as a teen

As for favorite ice cream flavors; Nic isn't much for sweets, though given the choice he'd take butter pecan or praline. Something reminiscent of the deep South Cél would enjoy something fruity, generally cherry vanilla or some variation, like a Garcia that includes chocolate

[gallowsheart]

@alwaysxinxtrouble

Devil's Holler didn't get a lot of new faces, and certainly none as pretty as that. It wasn't exactly a tourist destination, although they did get their serious hikers or curious urban legend seekers, enough to keep the town's one small inn in business. Most people didn't stay long. The cell service was spotty, the internet even slower if a place had it at all, and most of the town thought social media was some sort of commie plot.

Maybe Jed would have handled that first encounter differently if he hadn't already been mid-conversation with Gladys Wilson about what to feed her pigs. His answer hadn't changed in ten years, but she insisted every season that old Mrs. Johnson's were bigger, and she wanted exactly what he gave her. (He already gave them exactly the same things, as he patiently explained every year.) This time, he was distracted by pretty eyes and a shy smile, and he knew he blew it when he sent the stranger off to the mechanic without even offering her something to drink or, hell, to take a look at her car. He wouldn't have been able to fix anything major, but he knew his way around a motor.

Goddamn.

He must have looked as disappointed as he felt because Gladys practically shoved him out the door with instructions to ask her to dinner. Was he so rusty when it came to dating that he needed that much help? Yes, apparently. Most of Jed's dates didn't last a week in Devil's Holler, and no, it wasn't because his brothers killed them. He was shocked she said yes after he fumbled his way through that invitation, but he supposed the odds were in his favor as far as timing. Unless it was a flat tire or a broken fan belt or something equally simple to replace, her car was unlikely to be fixed today.

He had time after work to go home and shower and put on a clean shirt--"a nice one with buttons" per Gladys's instructions. It would be all over town before he ever left the shop. He was a little surprised not to find noses pressed against the glass outside the window when he arrived. It was the nicest restaurant in town, which wasn't saying a lot, as the other options were a diner, a gas station, and the barbecue from his own shop.

"Nonsense. The mechanic's a bachelor too. Why do you think I ran out of my shop to ask you first?" He gave a soft chuckle, returning the hug. The mechanic also had at least twenty years on her, so that was pure teasing. "You look great. No flower shop in town, sorry. These were the best I could do." He offered a few purple irises cut from the flower garden. It was overgrown and half weeds, none of the Ashworths having the time or inclination to tend it, but a few of the flowers still stubbornly persisted every year.

Her car breaking down outside of Devil’s Holler had led to her having to walk into town for help, checking her cellphone every so often to see if she had service again but it never came back. By the time she reached the center of the small town, she swore she would kill for a drink of water after walking so far in the summer heat and headed for the first open store she saw; the butcher. A  man behind the counter customer was already there speaking to a customer and when he looked in her direction, for a second she forgot why she was there to begin with.

Robin gave a shy smile and stuttered through her way through of how her car was broken down and that she was looking for the town’s mechanic. Her gaze never left his, missing how the customer looked between them with a fond smile, able to see the chemistry. Biting her bottom lip, she left with directions he - Jed - had given her and began heading towards the mechanic shop.

With how her day had been going, the last thing Robin expected was for the butcher to abandon his shop and run after her to ask her out. Even more so that she would say yes. She wasn't in town for anything more than to find the mechanic and get her car fixed but now she had a date that night at one of the local restaurants.

The stars seemed to align in Jed's favor; while the mechanic was able to send his tow truck to get her car, it would be almost a week before part that was needed would arrive and then it would be another few days before her car fixed. Week or so in a town in the middle of the mountains with no cell reception. But yet she had a date with the butcher and the local motel wasn't a far walk from the mechanic. It felt like the beginning of a Hallmark movie.

A workaholic woman stuck in a small town and learns how to calm down and enjoy life.

Laughing to herself at the thought, Robin slid into a chair as she gave a small glance around the restaurant. Small town Italian. It was quaint and charming, A far cry from the city but she appreciated that. Having grown up on a homestead on the side of a mountain, the restaurant was considered high class compared to what most of her neighbors had ever seen.

Face lighting up with seeing Jed making his way between the other tables, Robin shifted excitedly in her seat and tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. She was lucky she had packed well for the trip, a cream colored blouse with black slacks and matching heels with a dash of her favorite perfume didn't seem too formal. She hoped.

"You came." Robin teased, standing to give him a small hug. "I was worried the town's only bachelor might have stood me up. I don't think I could ever show my face here again if you did."

@gallowsheart

[giorno-plays-piano]

The Hollow

Pairing: monster!Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: yandere, horror, stalking, kidnapping, death of minor characters.

Words: 2137.

Summary: You were finally going mad. Apparently, it was something in the air, right? Something the management told nothing about that caused hallucinations and all those scary things. Obviously, all those people who worked in the assembly shop #4 before you left because they knew that. That was the reason behind the stupid legend and all those rumors.

_______

There’s a man inside the wall behind you.

This was what the factory workers told you as soon as the manager left, forcing you to question people’s sanity. At first you thought it was a bad joke or something. A man inside the wall in the assembly shop #4? What the Hell was that?

You thought they wanted to scare you away because they didn’t like you: your colleagues were simple people who lived in this godforsaken place for ages and knew each other as if they all were one big family. You, an outsider from somewhere far away who didn’t even look like them, weren’t the same kind, they probably thought. Of course, they didn’t take a liking to you and tried to make you leave so that you wouldn’t become an eyesore.

However, soon you found out they all were pitying you. You could feel their eyes on you each time you left the shop where you worked alone, and all you saw on their faces was fear and regret. A couple of women tried befriending you, sitting at the same table as you during lunch, and the next day they all told you anyone who had been working in the shop #4 left in less than a month. Naturally, you didn’t believe that crazy talk about the man in the wall - it’s not like the factory was built in those times when people were buried alive inside the walls for good luck. Then the women tried convincing you to work facing the wall - you were now standing behind it because of how the rusted pipeline with a barrel shifter was placed. You almost rolled your eyes in irritation: you wouldn’t risk losing your job because you couldn’t stand where you were told by the manager. You desperately needed money.

The day after you received a letter in your locker: somebody asked you to leave the assembly shop #4 immediately if you valued your life. It was starting getting scary. Were these people schizophrenic's? No, there were far too many of them who believed in this creepy urban legend.

At some point you got so fed up with this stupid talk that you headed right to Andy, your manager, to ask him why on Earth people were bothering you with this. The man spent half an hour talking about employees who had nothing better to do other than slacking off and telling silly stories when they needed to work. Yes, rumors had it that almost a hundred years ago there was a man, an talented engineer, who entered the assembly shop #4 and never came back, but it had nothing to do with this ridiculous legend. The wall behind you was all solid blocks of stone that were never moved since the day this factory was built. Even if the engineer was killed - although Andy believed the story wasn’t even real - how would somebody hide the body of a grown man there without dismantling the wall? 

The story should have put you at ease, you thought, but instead it only made you more concerned: now as you knew about a disappeared engineer, every time you stood with your back facing that cursed wall you felt the shivers running down your spine. What if there were a ghost or something? You didn’t believe in them, of course, but the dim light in the shop #4, its rusted pipeline, dirty floors and dust balls were hardly making you feel any better. And that disgusted lunch bell... it sounded almost like Silent Hill siren.

You worked in the shop for 8 hours every day, having no time to literally visit the bathroom. Assembling metal parts that always looked ugly over and over again could make anyone go nuts. By the end of the day your body ached as if you carried a giant stone on your shoulders, your back hurting, arms heavy as you barely kept standing. You didn’t even have strength to smile at Dean, an elderly night guard, but he just nodded to you with understanding, knowing well what it meant to be a factory worker here. This shitty job could kill anyone if you stayed long enough here.

Was it the reason why everyone kept talking about that man in the wall? This was the only way to liven up things here, you guessed and decided to talk about it more with the women who you befriended.

They were happy you finally started asking questions. They talked about the legend of the engineer vanished into thin air: you had never heard so much nonsense, sitting quietly in the bus and waiting for it to bring you home. Somebody said the engineer made a pact with the devil himself and merged with the wall, becoming immortal within the stone; the others claimed the engineer went mad because of his loneliness and buried himself in the wall; one woman argued that the engineer, on the contrary, was a ladies man and got sealed up there by a relative of his former lover who committed suicide. There were far too many rumors for you to remember, and soon you abandoned the idea to use the-man-in-the-wall topic to "liven things up" in the factory.

The two weeks had passed since the time you first started working here. You hated this rusty place with all your heart, but this job kept you afloat. It was still better than nothing. Biting down on your dry lower lip, you exhaled tiredly and lifted a particularly heavy detail, trying to fit it in the right place.

The next moment it fell down the dirty floor as you heard an awful sound behind your back as if the heavy stones were moving. It was just for a second, a mere second, but it was enough to have you on edge as you stared at the wall with your eyes wide open. It was some kind of an auditory hallucination, right? There was nothing different in the wall behind you. It looked just like it always did, a nasty grey stone with a tint of orange from the rusty hooks. The wall couldn’t open up just like some Narnia’s wardrobe, could it? It was far too old for any sort of mechanisms like that. Besides, it wouldn’t be able to close so fast, leaving no traces. It was some hallucination from your lack of sleep.

Your coworkers didn’t think so when you told them about it. It was the man in the wall, of course. It always started like this - with an awful, frightening sound. Soon you would be hearing things and feeling the stare of that man all the time, they said. The room #4 was a terrible place, and you should leave it immediately, they said. One woman even offered you to stay at her place if you couldn’t provide for yourself until you found a better job. Of course, you declined her kind offer.

But you did start hearing all kinds of things while you were working. Stones moving, metal clinking, some weird rustling out of nowhere - it was all making you insane, especially since every time you turned around only to see nothing but the wall behind your back. Everything was as it should have been, but you felt something was happening when you didn’t look. 

You were finally going mad. Apparently, it was something in the air, right? Something the management told nothing about that caused hallucinations and all those scary things. Obviously, all those people who worked in the assembly shop #4 before you left because they knew that. That was the reason behind the stupid legend and all those rumors. Obviously, you - and all those people who ran away from here - lacked money to do all the necessary medical tests to prove anything.

Shit, you really needed to find a better job if you didn’t want to spend the rest of your days in an asylum. 

Now at night you were sending your CV and cover letters, but you couldn’t stop working, nonetheless, forced to constantly look behind your shoulder or turn around just to make sure you weren’t totally crazy. You tried ignoring the noise once, but when it grew louder instead of disappearing in one second just like before, you realized it was a big mistake. Every day was turning into a nightmare.

Grey stone, rusted hooks, dust bunnies on the floor. The same picture you saw over and over again when you were turning back. It was simply unbearable. At one point you even wished to see something different there, something that would prove you weren't going insane.

You had to be careful with your wishes. When you came to the shop #4 the next time, you saw a face of a man cut in grey stone.

You didn't know what happened after that, coming to your senses in the resting room with your coworkers giving your water and some pills, your body shaking so badly you barely managed to sit. Was that a hallucination? A face of a man in the wall? All people around you kept saying it wasn't, describing this face to you so vividly as if they saw it themselves.

You needed to get out of here. Even if it meant becoming homeless and begging for money on the street, it was still a better option than staying in one room with that thing.

It was the next day you prepared to give Andy your letter of resignation, turning back to face the wall nearly every minute. No, you weren't going to stay here and watch how your life was becoming a living Hell - damn, it already was, wasn't it? You no longer slept peacefully, barely eating, constantly trying to keep a bottle of cheap wine you kept in the kitchen out of your reach. No, no, no, you weren't stupid enough to work for a minimum salary in a place like this, risking your own life.

It happened when the lunch bell rang, making you cringe - the next moment something had exploded with such a defeaning boom you almost fell down to the floor. Shit, you knew this sound - an omen of a great catastrophe that certainly disfigured somebody, if not killed. Something went horribly wrong in the assembly shop #3.

The blood drained from your face. Oh God. Were Shirley, Agatha and Simon alright? No, they weren't. Judging by the horrible screams coming from the metal door, they weren’t.

You moved as if in slow motion, your legs suddenly giving up on you, the siren wailing so loud your head could burst, forcing you to forget all the emergency instructions you were given. You needed to open the door. You needed to get this people out of there, those who were screaming in pain, cursing, and pleading for help.

"You can't go." A soft voice somewhere behind you said, and you froze. "You will die out there."

Someone's hands wrapped around you like a rope, making it harder to breathe, not letting you take one more step to the rusted metal door and dragging somewhere back instead until you felt the cold grey wall with your back. It was him, wasn't it? It was the man who had been watching you for a month from inside the stone, waiting for his chance.

When the realization hit you, the fear became suffocating. You couldn't move, couldn't even speak or cry out something to make others know you're trapped here, with a man in the wall who was taking you with him. But nobody would hear you anyway: the unstopping cries of people from the assemble shop #3 were earsplitting, and the siren didn't get silent either, making your efforts futile.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured so gently as if he was your lover, making you want to puke, "I won't leave you here."

The wall behind your back moved with a sound you knew well. Although you expected to bump into cold stones and rusted hooks that would tear your skin apart, instead, you felt darkness embracing you, wrapping around you like a cocoon. The picture of the assemble shop #4 looked so far now, so little as if you were staring at the tiny photo in an old album. It felt surreal.

You were behind the stone wall - or inside of it, you couldn't tell - looking at the real world through the looking glass. They were right. All those people who were constantly telling you about the man living in the grey stone wall were right.

"I was waiting for you a long, long time," the voice behind you said, and you felt somebody - or something - lowering their monstrous head to your shoulder, making a quiet sigh, "but you finally came to share my solitude... Thank you."

________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherub @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @melodie-rin @iheartsebandchris

[rotworld]

23: Machine

your left arm is a robotic prosthetic, a model so old and outdated that most engineers refuse to work on it. but you’ve heard of a place that might be able to help.

->explicit. contains medical examination/procedure.

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.

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Nebula Repair is like a ghost story. It’s not in the Clavion Business Database. It’s not on any maps. It spreads by word of mouth, mentioned by that adventurous friend of a friend who’s always venturing out into the wastelands and tempting fate. “Did you know there’s a repair shop out there?” they’d say. “Just out in the middle of nowhere?” The urban legends paint a vivid picture in your mind’s eye; a storefront forgotten by time, a converted auto repair garage rusting away in the dusty wilderness where machines go to die.

You’ve never been. You’re not even sure it’s real. But it comes to mind instantly when your left arm starts acting up, the nerves circling the end of your flesh and the start of synthetic-coated, industrial strength metal giving you painful warning sensations. Time for a tuneup, you suppose. Everyone you know tells you to bite the bullet and get the damn thing replaced, but all the new prosthetics require a neura-link and you never got the brain chip surgery that’s all the rage these days. You don’t need your arm to perform biometric scans and wake you up in the morning, you just need it to move when you tell it to. 

So there you are, driving out into the wastelands on a whim. Maybe not the brightest idea when your left hand is half-numb and your fingers spasm on their own now and then, but you couldn’t convince anyone to come with you on what might be a fool’s errand. Just get the damn neura-link, they said. You roll your eyes. Those new prosthetics are built to fall apart. You’ve had this arm close to five years now and you’re not about to give it up when all it needs is some adjustments.

Part of you is surprised to see the sign, “NEBULA REPAIR” in all capital, glitzy neon with a looping arrow directing you to a junkyard just off the highway. You don’t even see a shop at first. Just a sea of scrap metal, gutted cars, vintage appliances, old world electronics rotting in the rust-colored dirt. You can barely see the ground through the valleys and hills of old steel. Driving through the mess will shred your tires, so you find a spot off to the side to park. In the distance, you see a figure picking through one of the garbage heaps. You still don’t see the shop so you approach, jamming your tingling, uncomfortable left hand in your pocket.

“Hey,” you say. “I’m looking for the repair shop.” 

The figure startles at your voice and stands up straight, turning towards you. It’s an android. She’s built like a young woman, petite with small, delicate-looking hands and wearing a mechanic’s blue coveralls, but there’s a bulky monitor where her head should be. One of the older models, you assume, because she displays the text “WELCOME TO NEBULA REPAIR” across her screen. The message fizzles out, replaced by “PLEASE FOLLOW ME.” She points in a seemingly random direction and starts walking, stepping easily through and over the scattered road signs and refrigerator doors. You do your best to keep up.

“How long have you guys been out here?” you ask curiously. “I kept hearing about a repair shop outside of town but I’ve never stopped by.”

The android turns her monitor towards you, easily keeping up her brisk pace without so much as a stumble. Her text scrolls slowly. “GOOD QUESTION! I ARRIVED APPROXIMATELY FOUR YEARS AGO. HOWEVER, TH30 HAS BEEN RUNNING THE SHOP FOR MUCH LONGER. YOU CAN ASK HIM WHEN WE GET THERE.”

“Theo?” you read. She nods her monitor. She leads you around the skeleton of an all-terrain vehicle and a pile of light fixtures, and you glimpse the shop for the first time. It’s not far from how you pictured it, worn and weather-beaten but charming somehow.

The mess thins out the closer you get, tufts of grass and even a few hardy wildflowers growing up through discarded tires and tickling the sides of the building. There’s a repair garage with four shuttered bay doors, each large enough to fit a tank. The shop name is emblazoned in a collage of bent metal scraps, the word NEBULA painted over with glittering chrome. 

The monitor android leads you around the back to another building, a separate garage with the door open. It’s a crowded office. Android bodyprints and complex schematics are papered across the walls, and various unfinished welding projects litter the ground. The sharp chemical odors of oil and lubricant hits your nostrils. You hear metal clanging, the piercing hum of a laser cutter. The android taps your shoulder. Her monitor says, “PLEASE WAIT A MOMENT.” She tiptoes through the mess and pulls a cord dangling against the wall. You hear an electronic chime ring out in the back of the office. The sound of the laser cutter stops.

“TH30 SHOULD BE WITH YOU SHORTLY,” the android tells you. “HE SPECIALIZES IN HARDWARE ISSUES. I ASSUME THAT’S WHY YOU’RE HERE. ORGANICS DON’T COME TO US FOR SOFTWARE PROBLEMS MUCH.” She displays a laughing emoji.

There’s movement in the back of the shop, a dragging sound as cords stretch and slither over the concrete. A human face peers around the corner. This android is much newer, or he’s been modding himself. His face is expressive, the silicon skin stretching naturally to allow a wider range of movement. There’s a faint blue glow of circuitry along his forehead and his eyes are unnaturally bright, text and symbols displaying across his irises. He has black hair made of a shiny material in a tousled bob cut, bangs parted down the middle.

“Sorry, Anna, I was distracted,” he says. His modulator is a little crackly, static overlaying the words, but he has a soft, pleasant voice. “Is there a customer—?” He cuts himself off when his gaze abruptly shifts to you. A smile stretches across his face, just a little too wide to climb out of the uncanny valley. “An organic?” he says, sounding just a bit too excited. He comes fully around the corner and you can’t disguise the stunned look on your face.

He’s enormous. You expected a standard android body, something human-shaped and human-sized, and he is in some ways. His synthetic skin ends at his jaw, where flexible black plastic begins. His neck and torso are what you’d expected. He has four vaguely human arms with extensive articulation at the joints, allowing for movements that would be impossible for you. But the rest of him is utterly alien.

You think for a second that all of those cords in his back are connecting him to the shop, but it’s more likely that he is the shop. Every big, bulky assembly line arm along the wall, soldering parts and carefully disassembling sensitive equipment, is controlled by him directly. His lower half is a skittering mechanical mass, almost like a spider, a cluster of metal pincers that quickly and easily maneuver through the shop.

He’s right in front of you in the space of a breath, looming, studying your face carefully. He cups your jaw too roughly, turning your head one way and then the other. You try to shove his hands away but he’s too excited, grinning too eagerly, and doesn’t even notice.

The smaller android with the monitor, Anna, comes between you and he freezes. You can’t see what her monitor says but it makes him pout. “You’re right, I’m being rude,” he sighs. “But can you really blame me? We never get organics out here. I’m just curious. I want to see how they’re put together.” There’s something incredibly suggestive in his gaze when he looks at you, his gaze sliding up and down your body. Anna stomps her foot and must say something else, because he rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, “business first. So, organic. How can I help you?” He crosses two of his arms in front of his chest, the other two grabbing an electronic clipboard and stylus.

It takes you a second to remember how to speak. This android—Anna called him TH30—is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. His face is so high off the ground that you have to step back and crane your neck. He’s in constant motion, some part of him going through cabinets or picking things up off the floor at every moment. “It’s, uh. It’s just my arm,” you manage to say. You take your left hand out of your pocket and extend your arm in front of you, turning it for him to see. “It’s a little old, probably just needs a tuneup. I don’t want to get it replaced.” 

“Of course,” TH30 says easily. You blink. You were expecting more resistance, maybe some more shaming for not getting a neura-link like everybody else. He bends from his towering height, running his long fingers over the synthetic skin. “Here, have a seat. Let’s have a look,” he says, producing a metal chair from somewhere in the back and depositing it in front of you with one of his larger arms. You settle in, watching him crouch lower so you’re almost at eye level. “May I deglove you?” he asks. You nod. He’s extremely careful, two hands peeling back the synthetic skin while a third steadies you, a fourth resting on your shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. You’re impressed. Most people just start poking and prodding without asking permission. 

“Have you ever seen this model?” you ask him. 

“A few times, not much lately. It’s a good one, I hear,” he says, setting the synthetic skin sleeve down on a shelf behind him without looking. A fifth arm unfolds over his shoulder, tipped with a tiny screwdriver. “I’m going to disable your sensors. Let me know if there’s any discomfort.”

“Sure.” 

He works quickly, unscrewing the plate on the underside of your arm and quickly adjusting the settings. You get an instinctive flare of anxiety when he starts disassembling your arm, but he starts talking to distract you. “Tell me about yourself. You from Clavion?”

“Yeah, kinda,” you say, trying to relax. Your eyes wander the shop, glancing at android spare parts and LED lights. Anna slips out at some point but she keeps coming back, carrying things in from the junkyard and organizing them in the proper cupboards. “I moved about a year ago for a job. Uh, tech rental.” 

“Mm. I know a gal who does that,” TH30 murmurs. It’s strange seeing him jam the screwdriver into your wrist joint and not feel anything. “They work you guys pretty hard, don’t they? Crazy hours. Pay’s good, I hope?” 

“It’s great,” you say. “Almost worth the trouble.” 

TH30 chuckles. You’re startled when he twists a few screws back into place and shuts the metal plating. Sensation returns to your arm, a dull ache. “Move your fingers for me,” he says. “One at a time, thumb to little finger.” You do, relieved to see the immediate response, no delay, no stiffness. “Good. Now make a fist. Feel alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say, flexing your hand. “Is that it? You’re done already?”

TH30 retracts the screwdriver arm somewhere behind him, a different hand returning your arm’s synthetic skin. He rises to his full height and drifts over to the counter by the front of the shop. “Yeah, you’re all set. Come back if it gives you any trouble, but you should be good for a while. Those models are pretty reliable.” You amble over to the counter and get out your wallet, expecting to pay, but TH30 just stares at you. His empathetic display must be switched off because he doesn’t blink or simulate breathing, just staring dead-eyed until you get distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Uh. What do I owe you?” you ask. 

That unnerving smile returns. “Well,” he says, lowering himself so he can lean against the counter, “that’s the thing. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t charge for tuneups, so you’re free to go. However,” he pauses, leaning in a bit more until you hear the hum of his internal processors. “I confess, I’m fascinated by organics. We don’t get many of you out here. You’re the first I’ve seen in far too long. You have no obligation to do so, but I was wondering if you’d let me have a look at you?”  

“Have a look at me?” you echo, confused. You jump when hands slam down on the counter beside you. Anna is back, her screen bright and text scrolling more rapidly than you can read it, but you catch a word here and there, “TH30” and “INAPPROPRIATE” and “HARASSING ORGANICS.” 

“Oh come on, this is purely scientific curiosity,” TH30 insists. “Look at them! So squishy and...wet.” He’s leering at you, leaning over the counter even further. “What if we get more organic customers? How can I possibly know if I’m treating them right if I’m not more familiar with flesh?” 

Anna’s monitor makes a humming sound, her processor heating up. She shakes her head and turns to you briefly. “IF HE GIVES YOU TROUBLE, JUST CALL FOR ME,” her screen says. “I’LL UNPLUG HIS POWER SUPPLY.”

“No, you won’t,” TH30 says, but he sounds a little nervous. Anna flashes an eye emoji, and then walks out. One of TH30’s human-like hands lands on your shoulders, fingers thin and spider-like. “So?” he urges. “Can I?”

You can’t deny that you’re curious. Thinking about how TH30 looked at you when you walked in, the firm, unbreakable hold of his hands on your body, does things to you. “Sure,” you say. TH30’s smile turns into something closer than a smirk. You yelp when all four of his hands surround you, seizing you by the waist, scooping up your legs, and lifting you easily off the floor. TH30 brings you further into his office. One of his assembly arms shoves a pile of scrap off a table, clearing it to gently deposit you onto it. He directs you to sit up and circles you slowly. 

“Where to begin?” he murmurs. You swallow hard at his staticy murmur, the low, sensual pitch of his voice. TH30’s exploration is cautious at first, as though he’s afraid to hurt you. His hands are the same black as the rest of his body, but there’s a rubbery coating to each digit and his palms and a faint warmth in the material. He slides your shirt off over your head and leans in embarrassingly close, tilting his head, examining your bare skin. “Interesting,” he murmurs. All three hands smooth over your skin, processing unique tactile information. The caress makes you shiver. You hope he won’t notice, but he absolutely does. “Cold?” 

“No, uh, just,” you trail off, mortified. TH30 dips into your line of sight when you try to avoid his gaze. 

“What are you experiencing?” he asks. “Discomfort? Have I touched somewhere I shouldn’t?” 

“No, you’re fine, I’m just…” You can’t finish the sentence. Does he really not know what he’s doing to you? He must have a temperature sensor, something to track your heart rate. “It feels good,” you mutter. TH30 mulls over the words in silence for a time. Tentatively, he brings two hands to your chest. He palms your flesh, squeezing and massaging in testing motions, searching for places that get a reaction. His eyes light up a bit brighter when his palms graze your nipples and you gasp.

“Did that feel good?” he asks. You nod. He smiles and repeats the motion, more deliberately. You swallow nervously as he moves behind you, his arms folding around your body to touch and tease your nipples. He rests his head on your shoulder, feeling your every shiver and gasp. You’re writhing soon enough, arching your back into the pleasant shocks he sends through you. He can read you like an open book, quickly catching onto what you like and what you don’t. He pinches your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling and pulling at the hardened nubs. It’s not long before you’re rubbing your thighs together, in desperate need of more direct stimulation. TH30’s gaze flickers lower, than up to your face. 

“And there?” he purrs. “Between your legs? Would that feel good if I touched it?” 

You nod helplessly. TH30 stays where he is, plastic chin resting on your shoulder, as he rests his hands on your hips. He helps you remove your pants and undergarments, a hand under you to keep you steady, another tugging at your clothes, yet another sliding teasingly along the curve of your ass. He cups your thighs, spreading them apart gently. You can feel his gaze burning into you, can hear his amused little hums as you gasp and squirm expectantly. 

“I’ve read about all of this. But the real thing is always more exciting.” TH30 muses. He lowers his hand between your thighs, gently massaging your sex. You’re embarrassingly sensitive from his teasing touches, gasping, grinding against his palm. “Look at that,” he says in quiet awe. “So sensitive. That’s too cute.” He encourages you into more obvious reactions, a hand sliding down your spine soothingly while he starts to explore your heated flesh. “It looks like excess skin. Unnecessary. But this is very necessary, isn’t it?” He slides just the tip of his finger over your slit and you buck into his hand. 

“Can you…” You bite your lip. You’re so embarrassed. TH30 retracts his hand and you almost whine. “Can you just...a little more…”

“What do you want me to do?” TH30 asks, caressing your sides. “Give me directions and I’ll follow them.” You think he must know, that he must be teasing you, but he sounds completely serious. When TH30 offers his hand, you guide it back between your legs. You curl his fingers, show him how to touch you the way you want. That first stroke is heaven, just the right pressure and firmness. You beg him to keep going, harder and faster. He rests a hand on each of your thighs to keep them open and still. He works you mercilessly with his fingers and you whimper for more. 

“Losing fine motor control,” TH30 mutters, more to himself than to you. “Tremor in the fingers. Heightened endorphin production and elevated heart rate. You’re endlessly fascinating.” Your thighs ache. He’s got you spread wide open, straddling the table, grinding helplessly against his fingers as he rubs you closer and closer to orgasm. You can hear slickness, the squelch of your own pleasure. TH30 is entranced by the sight and sound of it, deliberately smearing it all over his fingers. It’s just what you need, the extra glide and smoothness to offset the hard friction, and you’re shivering in his grasp, trying to tell him you’re going to cum but all that comes out are gasps and half-words.

“Are you going to cum?” TH30 whispers excitedly. “You can do it. Show me. Cum on my hand.” Somehow, he moves his fingers faster. It shouldn’t be possible. A human couldn’t do that. It’s like a vibrator, ceaseless sensation against your sex, and it sends you tumbling over the edge with a scream. You’re convulsing, seeing sparks, everything whiting out before you come crashing back down and realize he’s still going. Your orgasm is long and almost painful, every shivering pump of your hips driving you against his hand. 

“Stop,” you gasp. “Can’t...need to stop…”

TH30 stops so fast it’s almost disorienting. That incredible vibration stops, releasing his hold on your thighs. You slump over, clutching the table as the tremors in your body subside. TH30 helps steady you, hands on your shoulders. He doesn’t let go until your breathing evens out and your heart rate returns to resting. “That was incredible,” he gushes. He’s scribbling notes on two different clipboards simultaneously. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We can simulate orgasm, of course, but the biological process is completely different. Amazing. So many chemicals, so many muscle movements, it’s just so interesting.”

You can’t manage an intelligible response. Blearily, you look for your clothes. TH30 wipes between your legs with a slightly damp cloth and then helps you down from the table. He gives you your clothes, letting you get dressed on your own. “You should come back again tomorrow. There’s a lot more I’d like to know. If you don’t mind, that is,” he adds, a hopeful edge to his voice.

You smile at TH30. He doesn’t know it yet, but you’re about to become a regular.

[fatehbaz]

Non-places; strange allure of eerie landscape and liminal space:

Spectacular message.

Part 1: Ghosts, transgressions, thresholds, ecology, empire etc. Me being annoying.

Part 2: List of sources and reading recommendations.

Part 3, some excerpts I think you might like, here:

de Certeau, whose writing influenced Marc Auge’s work on non-places, from: “Walking in the City.” In: The Practice of Everyday Life. Translated by Steven Rendall. 1984.

Escaping the imaginary totalizations produced by the eye, the everyday has a certain strangeness [...]. [P]roper names carve out pockets of hidden and familiar meaning. [...] Ultimately, since proper names are already “local authorities” [...], they are [in the modern space, the non-place] replaced by numbers: the telephone number, [etc.] [...]. The same is true of the stories and legends that haunt urban space like superfluous or additional inhabitants. Their extermination (like the extermination of trees, forests, and hidden places in which such legends live) makes the city a “suspended symbolic order.” The habitable city is thereby annulled. [...] Objects and words also have hollow places in which a past sleeps, as in the everyday acts of walking, eating, going to bed, in which ancient revolutions slumber [...]. Travel (like walking) is a substitute for the legends that used to open up space to something different. [...] There is no place that is not haunted by many different spirits hidden there in silence, spirits one can “invoke” or not. Haunted places are the only ones people can live in -- and this  inverts the schema of the panopticon.

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I think Giggs said it well, too. [From: Rebecca A. Giggs. The Rise of the Edge. 2010 Draft.]

Unlike the sublime, with its axiomatic relationship with nature and its place in a history of “the outdoors,” the uncanny is more readily associated with anti-natural concerns - degrees of deadness; animated corpses, ghosts, and artificial beings; dolls, automatons, and doubles. [...] Modern shopping malls that replicate identical layouts, and retirement communities wherein every residential unit is built in the mirror-image of the unit  opposite – right down to the pearly patina of the laminex on the bench-tops. [...] The uniform architecture and visual   parroting of W/a/l/Marts, Apple/bees, Best/Buys, Starb/ucks and Borders [...].  This doubling of place not only arouses the unnerving suspicious -- “I’ve been here before,” and “am I here, or am I in fact elsewhere?” -- but additionally reaffirms the underlying unnaturalness of all place-based experience. The local is eerie on account of it being familiar. In other words, it is precisely because the local is “homely” that it is capable of being shot-through with the “unhomely.” The uncanny exists because there is an environment. Many of us may be struck by the uncanny compulsion to repeat in these self-same environments -- to return in search of the small dissimilarity, the idosyncrasy that distinguishes the “here” from the “there.” [...] Standing in the aisles of I/kea, frozen to the spot, you are seized by an alarming vision; you are split prismatically, and somewhere else another you is holding another flat-packed  E/ngan storage box in walnut [...].  As multinational corporations seek to comfort and disarm through their “commonplace” design, they also run the risk that such places become indirectly disturbing in their duplication. [...] Things are are ambiguous where there is too much multivalent, ambient information coming in from all angles. Human-animal-machine. Everywhere-anywhere-nowhere. Alive-dead-stimulant. Evolve-devolve-mutate. The uncanny concerns a dislocation of time [...] the resurfacing of intuitive misgivings into a space where there is no longer a clear language or psychological register within which they can be articulated. Hence, the uncanny does not disappear, but becomes more condensed and potent in societies where there is little room apportioned for the public acceptance of the pre-logical strangeness of experience. Where uncanny dubiety persists, it can no longer be assimilated into the hinterlands of the sacred or the mythic.

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And from Tim Edensor: “The ghosts of industrial ruins: ordering and disordering memory in excessive space.” Environment and Planning. 2005.

Within the interstices of the city there are a host of other spaces, part of a “wild zone”, a “[…] site […] which avoids the objective processes of ordered territorialisation […]”. What Ford (2000) calls the ‘spaces between buildings’, the unadorned backsides of the city, the alleys, culverts, service areas, and other microspaces, along with wastelands, railway sidings, spaces behind billboards, and unofficial rubbish tips, as well as the ‘edgelands’ or ‘urban fringe’ (Shoard, 2003), are spaces “where aesthetics and ethics merge and where there are no defined boundaries and constant ruptures […].” [T]his collection of marginal sites [...]. Staged […] through the intensified mediatisation and commodification of popular sites, myths, and icons […], mediated imaginary geographies circulate through adverts, soap operas, ‘classic’ rock stations […]. But […] the modern city can never become a wholly Appollonian, seamlessly regulated realm for it continues to be haunted by the neglected, the disposed of, and the repressed, most clearly in marginal sites where ghostly memories cannot be entirely expunged. [...] And yet their absence manifests itself as a presence through the shreds and silent things … a host of signs and traces which let us know that “a haunting is taking place.” […] Movement in ruins becomes strangely reminiscent of childhood […]. Crawling through dense undergrowth, scrambling over walls and under fences [...]. Such spaces might be compared to the ‘felicitous’ and ‘eulogised’ spaces – primarily the protective, inhabited domestic spaces, the ‘corners of our world’ – which provide the basis of feeling at ‘home’ […], but are also analogous to the dens of childhood, where the sensual experience of texture and micro-atmosphere are absorbed, “nooks and corners” which became “a resting-place for daydreams” that may reemerge during adulthood. [...] Being haunted draws us, “always a bit magically, into the structure of feeling of a reality we come to experience, not as cold knowledge, but as transformative recognition” […].

----

Also, from Bob Cluness: “I am an other and I always was…”: On the Weird and Eerie in Contemporary and Digital Cultures. University of Iceland MA Thesis. 2019.

On a material level, the eerie is often not located in the humanistic confines and locales of the family and home. Often, it is located in marginal spaces, in landscapes, sites, and structures where there is either a distinct lack of human presence, or there was once a human activity which has since disappeared. Various ruins, such as the ancient sites of Stonehenge […] to more modern locations such as abandoned buildings […].

Where society is increasingly on the move, movement turns a place into a passage of space, and therefore non-place. […] To facilitate the semblance of frictionless movement and exchange, the layout, design and production of non-places tend towards a structural homogeneity […]. Non-spaces therefore create a disavowal towards exhibiting any particular cultural roots or an innate historical connection with the surrounding area. […] The basic layout of a shopping mall or an airport is the same whether it is in Reykjavik or Rio de Janeiro. [...] Through their overriding spatial conformity, and the mechanical nature they invoke in the individual towards consumerism and social control, non-places invoke forms of eerie alienation [...] they allow the individual to psychologically disconnect, to drift […]. Such places (or non-places) are often where there is an absence of humanity, or where there is something or some agency at work that is just beyond our realm of understanding; “The eerie concerns the most fundamental metaphysical questions one could pose, questions to do with existence and non- existence.” As such, the eerie “is constituted by a failure of absence or by a failure of  presence. The sensation of the eerie occurs either when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there nothing present when there should be something.” This becomes evident with the use “eerie” as descriptive terms, such as there being an “eerie silence,” or an “eerie cry”; at the heart of the eerie, it talks of an absence of something, or the presence of something, but something that is unknown and outside of our normal frames of knowledge and reference. [...] Fisher asserts […]:

It is about the forces that govern our lives and the world […] In the case of the failure of absence, the question concerns the existence of agency as such. Is there a deliberative agent here at all? Are we being watched by an entity that has not yet revealed itself? In the case of the failure of presence, the question concerns the particular nature of the agent at work. We know that Stonehenge has been erected, so the questions of whether there was an agent behind its construction or not does not arise; what we have to reckon with are the traces of a departed agent whose purposes are unknown.

[nqturlist]

{  trans  male  ;  he / him  ;  homosexual  }          –          𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐓   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋    who   comes   from      supernatural       has   been   spotted   in   sydney .      they   are      twenty - three   years   old      and   are   a   human .      they   have   been   called         +  𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 ,    +  𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ,    -  𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 .      it   seems   like   their   memories   are   faded .      i’ve   also   heard   that   they   are   a   dead   ringer   for      elliot   fletcher .

hey  guys ,  gals ,  and   non - binary   pals !      i’m   jack   and   i   share   the   same   birthday   as   neil   patrick   harris   meaning   that   the   universe   decided   that   i   could   only   be   gay .      in   other   news ,  from   what   i’ve   been   noticing   is   that   y’all   are   pretty   lax   for   your   intros   and   well   that’s   not   gonna   be   the   case   for   me .      i’ve   some   loud   thoughts   about   my   second   favorite   minor   character   in   supernatural   and   if   i   don’t   write   them   down ,  i   will   combust   on   sight .      i   don’t   apologize   for  the   500   page   essay   you’re   about   to   read .

𝐴 𝐸 𝑆 𝑇 𝐻 𝐸 𝑇 𝐼 𝐶 𝑆      :           beanies  always  paired  with  over - sized  jumpers .      fascinated  with  anything  remotely  dealing  with  the  supernatural  -  superficial  legends  that  capture  speculation .      “  here  for  a  good  time ,  not  a  long  time . ”      wire - rimmed  glasses  edging  closer  to  the  tip  of  a  nose .      perpetual  bed  head .      the  clicking  of  a  mechanical  keyboard  way  late  into  the  night .      caffeine  addiction  but  it  shows .      the  smell  of  tea  tree  oil  and  lavender .      bruised  knees  and  torn  up  hands  from  investigating  abandoned  buildings .      child - like  wonder  upon  learning  something  new  that  enraptures  the  soul .      the  sound  of  rain  on  pavement  while  it’s  pounding  against  your  face  as  you're  laying  down .      lo - fi  beats  blaring  from  headphones  as  a  soft  hum  accompanies .

𝑇 𝐻 𝐸 𝑀 𝐸    𝑆 𝑂 𝑁 𝐺      :          come  along      by  cosmo  sheldrake .

𝑃 𝑅 𝑂 𝐹 𝐸 𝑆 𝑆 𝐼 𝑂 𝑁      :          part  time  streamer ,   part  time  barista .

eliot  was  only  in  two  episodes  of  supernatural  but  i  love  him  so  much .      if  you’re  curious ,  he’s  in      season  14 ,  episodes  13  and  16 .          and  here’s  a  link  to  his  wiki  if  you  wanna  read  it  but  it’s  pretty  lame .      and  now  begins  the  full  deep  dives  into  the  apple  of  my  eye .

right  off  the  bat ,  i  do  want  to  say  that  eliot  is  annoying .     if  your  character  has  anything  to  deal  with  the  supernatural  please  know  that  i’m  here  for  him  hounding  your  character  with  questions .

eliot’s  trans  and  has  been  out  since  he  was  15 .      coming  out  as  homosexual  was  pretty  recent  however  with  it  only  being  when  he  was  20  when  it  changed  from  bisexual .

has  a  pretty     “ normal ”     family  with  two  siblings  and  parents .

obsessed  with  anything  supernatural  related  including  cryptids ,  urban  legends ,  etc .

this  obsession  started  when  he  was  a  young  child  when  he  first  read    “ scary  stories  not  to  tell  in  the  dark ”    and  there  was  no  turning  back .

always  was  a  little  weird  growing  up  but  never  really  cared .

currently  a  college  dropout  with  no  intentions  of  going  back  and  supports  himself  through  being  a  streamer  and  having  a  part  time  job  at  a  local  coffee  house  whether  it  be  locally  owned  or  a  chain .

when  he  was  in  college  he  was  going  for  investigative  journalism  and  cryptozoology .

visibly  looks  like  his  always  running  on  the  last  bit  of  caffeine  and  spite  most  likely .      his  eye  bags ?      a  mile  long .

always  ready  to  talk  about  local  legends .      it’s  his  jam .

ya  know  those  slightly  cringey  ghost  hunting  tv  shows ?     that’s  all  he  watches  with  the  new  horror  movie  thrown  in .

he’s  a  sweet  baby  angel  who  has  a  weird  obsession  with  the  supernatural  and  the  occult .

eliot  pretty  much  can  be  found  either  at  work ,  his  apartment ,  or  the  local  sandwich  shop  doing  research  on  another supernatural  figure .

if  you’re  his  friend ,  please  know  that  you  have  an  assigned  supernatural   /   cryptid  assigned  to  you  in  his  phone  and  be  prepared  to  hear  about  it  as  well  as  other  random  facts  about  pretty  much  anything  else .

with  being  a  streamer ,  his  favorite  games  to  play  are  horror ,  survival ,  and  adventures  but  then  throws  in  a  cozy  game  like  animal  crossing  or  stardew  valley .

if  he  had  to  describe  himself  in  a  few  words  it  would  be   :    new  age  mystery  inc  with  some  spice .

𝐶 𝑂 𝑁 𝑁 𝐸 𝐶 𝑇 𝐼 𝑂 𝑁 𝑆      :          exes  would  be  interesting .      streamer  friends .      coworkers .      coffee  shop  regulars .      college  friends .      people  he  annoys  with  questions .      friends .      apartment  neighbors .      bar  acquaintances .      drunken  hook  up ?   mayhaps .      someone  who  tolerates  him  with  his  interest   info  dumping .      who’s  gonna  be  the  one  who  lets  him  into  the  college  parties ?      poor  sandwich  shop  workers  that  deal  with  him .

[rabbitcruiser]

Grand Central Terminal, Manhattan (No. 2)

The Main Concourse, originally known as the Express Concourse, is located on the upper platform level of Grand Central, in the geographical center of the station building. The 35,000-square-foot (3,300 m2) concourse leads directly to most of the terminal's upper-level tracks, although some are accessed from passageways near the concourse.The Main Concourse is usually filled with bustling crowds and is often used as a meeting place.

The terminal's ticket booths are located in the Main Concourse, although many have been closed or repurposed since the introduction of ticket vending machines. The concourse's large American flag was installed there a few days after the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center. The Main Concourse is surrounded on most of its sides by balconies. The east side is occupied by an Apple Store, while the west side is occupied by the Italian restaurant Cipriani Dolci (part of Cipriani S.A.), the Campbell Palm Court, and the Campbell Bar, a former financier's office-turned-bar. Underneath the east and west balconies are entrances to Grand Central's passageways, with shops and ticket machines along the walls.

The 18-sided main information booth — originally the "information bureau" — is in the center of the concourse. Its attendants provide train schedules and other information to the public; in 2015, they fielded more than 1,000 questions an hour, according to an MTA spokesman. A door within the marble and brass pagoda conceals a spiral staircase down to a similar booth on the station's Dining Concourse.

The booth is topped by a four-faced brass clock, one of Grand Central's most recognizable icons. The clock was designed by Henry Edward Bedford and cast in Waterbury, Connecticut. Its mechanism was designed by the Self Winding Clock Company and built by the Seth Thomas Clock Company, along with several other clocks in the terminal. Each 24-inch (61 cm) face is made from opalescent glass, now often called opal glass or milk glass. An urban legend, which arose in news reports in the 1990s or even earlier, claimed that the clock faces were actually made of opal, a precious gem, and that renowned auction houses had estimated their worth at millions of dollars. This myth was spread by tour guides in the terminal, by its presentation as fact in Wikipedia from 2006 to 2013, and by major news publications into the present day. It was debunked by Untapped Cities in 2020.

The clock was first stopped for repairs in 1954, after it was found to be losing a minute or two per day. One of the four original clock faces was damaged in 1968 by a police officer's bullet, while he chased members of the Youth International Party who staged a protest inside the terminal. The cracked face was removed in the 1990s during the terminal's restoration. It was replaced with a replica; the original is now part of the New York Transit Museum collection.

Along with the rest of the New York Central Railroad system's clocks, it was formerly set to a clock in the train dispatcher's office at Grand Central.Through the 1980s, they were set to a master clock at a workshop in Grand Central. Since 2004, they have been set to the United States Naval Observatory's atomic clock, accurate to a billionth of a second.

Source: Wikipedia

[satoshi-mochida]

Geofront, a group of fans dedicated to bringing non-localized Falcom games to western audience “at the highest possible quality,” will release its translation mod for the PC version of The Legend of Heroes: Zero no Kiseki on March 14, the group announced.

The mod is based on the fan translation completed by the Heroes of Legend team, which consists of members Guren no Heya Kara, Flamethrower, Yangxu, and Zero Monkey. Geofront took the base translation and edited it “into a form that reaches the high standard set for Trails in the west.”

To use the mod, which will be available as a free download here, you must own a PC copy of The Legend of Heroes: Zero no Kiseki, which can be purchased through retailers such as DLsite, Falcom Shop, or Amazon Japan. This version of the game was first released in China in August 2011, followed by Japan in June 2013.

Here is an overview of the mod, via Geofront:

About

The Legend of Heroes: Trails from Zero is the fourth game in the Trails series and the start of its second arc—colloquially known as the Crossbell arc. Trails from Zero takes place just months after Trails in the Sky and concurrently with Trails of Cold Steel. The game is set in the autonomous Crossbell State, located between Zemuria’s two superpowers: the Erebonian Empire (setting of Trails of Cold Steel) and the Calvard Republic.

Lloyd Bannings, Elie MacDowell, Tio Plato, and Randy Orlando comprise the newly-formed Special Support Section of the Crossbell Police Department. Together, these four heroes will face the realities of Crossbell’s seedy underbelly as they work to restore the CPD’s damaged reputation with Crossbell’s citizens. However, behind Crossbell’s criminal underworld and political corruption lies an even more sinister conspiracy brewing since the Middle Ages. It will be up to the SSS to uncover the truth behind Crossbell’s mysteries and get over the many barriers placed in front of them.

Key Features

Quality of Life Enhancements – Exclusive to the Geofront mod of Trails from Zero are several quality of life improvements never before seen in the Crossbell games, such as turbo mode, auto-saves, and a message backlog. The mod also supports resolutions and frame rates higher than those in the base PC version and provides several fixes for bugs that were once present.

Classic Trails Combat with New Mechanics – Trails from Zero features the Trails series’ timeless turn-based combat and original tactical orbment gameplay from Trails in the Sky. New to Trails from Zero are mechanics such as field attacks, Team Rush, and Combo Crafts.

An Immersive World – Learn the ins and outs of Crossbell City and the surrounding countryside. Unlike other Trails entries, the Crossbell games center around an urban hub. Players will come to know the city streets like the back of their hands, and are encouraged to get to know Crossbell’s colorful NPCs.

The Trails You Know and Love – Trails from Zero is a localization made by some of the most ardent Trails fans in the world. Experience Trails from Zero at the same level of quality and lore consistency as the six officially localized Trails games.

Find a trailer and set of screenshots for the translation mod below.

Trailer

Screenshots

[morethanaprincess-a]

@the-taboo-king​ asked:  ☀ [and of course Gundham will be wearing all black and his scarf]

Summer themed starters

☀: Insanely hot day starter

She knew she was lingering inside far longer than any customer had a right to. But Sonia couldn't stop herself: the shops near Hope's Peak were some of the few places outside of the dorms that had consistent air conditioning. While plenty of students enjoyed their days off holed up in their rooms, she began to get cabin fever, as she did every summer spent in Japan thus far, about two weeks in. With several weeks left to go before she was due for an extended trip home, complete with temperatures that never broke 29 C, she had to find ways to amuse herself that didn't require much physical exertion or time outdoors. And so, she'd invited Gundham to the only place she could think of that would give her hours upon hours of lazy entertainment, guaranteed to not break a sweat: the bookstore.

"Thank you for waiting. I admit I was a bit selfish there, I just wanted a few more minutes of cool air before we walk back to school," Sonia approached Gundham with a bright smile. Even the oppressive humidity couldn't deter her joy from obtaining a new biography featuring female serial killers, several volumes of manga, and an urban fantasy series featuring vampires, witches, and time travel. As it had taken them nearly forty-five minutes to walk to the store with the best selection, she was hardly looking forward to their journey home. Joining him on the sidewalk, Sonia reached into her tote bag for her parasol: mint green in color, to match her eyelet lace sundress. She opened it carefully, away from him before holding it above her head for a little bit of shade and to take advantage of its light-reflecting nature. "I'm just at a loss of how to spend the next few weeks without feeling like I'm melting. Novoselic is spared from such heat and humidity and I'm afraid I'm still not used to this. And well, I'm not comfortable using the Hope's Peak swimming pool...I'm sure you know why."

She hadn't wanted to bring it up, considering the class had known and discussed it at length. Kazuichi and Teruteru had, somehow, joined forces for the Mechanic to commandeer some of the Chef's old refrigerators for parts, installing them into the pool during off-hours. They'd pulled it off, as no amount of blazing sun would warm up the water, but at the same time Kazuichi had made a proclamation that if any girl wanted to use the pool, the dress code was a bikini, no exceptions. And he'd looked Sonia straight in the eye when he'd said it, causing her to grimace then and now as she fell into step beside Gundham. "Just with the lack of places to keep cool on campus, I thought it better to stay far away from the pool. So, reading and watching films is what I've come up with!"

It was too bad that the school wasn't near any water parks, or a beach, or any of the other ways Sonia had read about that normal students participated in during the summer to beat the heat and forge bonds of friendship and more. All she was truly looking forward to now was the Tanabata festival. Not only did she enjoy the legend behind it and the tradition of writing down and tying wishes, but festivals always had cold udon, shaved ice, fireworks, and the entirety of Class 77-B enjoying traditions away from the classroom. The latter was what Sonia found so special about the night, smiling even as Peko and Hiyoko helped her dress into her yukata and bicker over what type of obi bow to tie.

But Sonia's small smile was short-lived as she looked over to him, raising an eyebrow. Gundham did not look particularly well, and unlike her, he didn't seem to change out of his normal non-uniform attire once the temperatures and humidity had begun to soar. "Gundham," Sonia spoke hesitantly, sweating from both the sweltering heat and a little anxiety. She did not want to criticize him, but so much black and his scarf had to be uncomfortable considering the weather. "Are you feeling all right? Should we maybe try to find a bus or a taxi instead?"

[drivaer-a]

CURRENT VERSES:

V // 001 - MAIN: Takes place during the events of Drive, from the time Driver establishes himself as a respected stunt Driver in the industry and gains respect as a getaway driver in the underground circles. He gets his jobs hanging around the same bars in LA, he turns down more jobs than he takes, only takes jobs from pros and people he knows.

V // 002 - SECONDARY: Takes place after the events of Drive. After killing the gangster Nino and Bernie Rose, Driver must leave LA and go on the run. He migrates back to Arizona, eventually takes the name of Paul West and becomes the legitimate owner of a mechanic shop, restoring classic cars for movies. Verse is available for plotting and au's.

V // 003 - NIGHTCALL: Urban legends talk about it, the ghost car riding the streets of LA after midnight. The Driver will approach you on an empty street, offer you a ride when you need it the most. That night you were walking home alone, as you're running away from danger. They say the Driver is a quiet man, cursed to lurk the streets of LA in which he died. Patron saint of thieves and victims alike, a figure as neutral as the city itself.

V // 004 - POST APOCALYPTIC: Living with Irina and Benicio, Driver slowly stopped picking up jobs as a getaway driver, worked on sets and was home by the time Benicio came home from school. He believed life could go on like that forever, then the outbreak came. The LA traffic made leaving the city impossible. For a time the three of them stayed in their apartment building along with a group of survivors.

[sailor-cresselia]

Try and Re-Build

They can't stay here.

This version of Touto is so, so much better off then the one they left. (The one they... replaced? Repaired? … erased?)

But it hurts to be here.

It hurts so, so much to encounter these people, to even see the strangers carrying names and wearing faces that they met and knew, that they fought against and alongside.

They thought about meeting them, and trying again, at first.

But it would be cruel.

Not just for themselves, but for the others too.

Sento and Ryuuga both know full well that they wouldn't be able to separate their friends who lived there from the people who live here, and that’s not fair to these familiar strangers.

It's just too hard, seeing a laughing farmer and his friends, who never had to give up their humanity so their families could live, but who can joke and cheer and relax.

(And isn’t it strange that he still falls for the same girl?)

Seeing politician and his son, who hadn't been worn down and torn to pieces by a war, but are thriving and whole.

Seeing an engineer and a reporter who didn’t have their lives planned, but who got to choose their own paths.

(And isn’t it strange that the dynamics shift, but the choices are still so similar?)

Seeing a pair of goofs with a band, and a successful one at that.

(And isn’t it strange, that even after endangering him, they never thought to tell Tatsuya that Sento wasn’t Satou Taro, did they? They probably should have… but how do you tell someone that? And there was no time. Just one more mistake.)

Seeing a father who runs a booming cafe.

(And they never even knew him the first time around, did they? It was never really him back then.)

Seeing a daughter who goes shopping and sings karaoke with her friends and smiles, who doesn’t carry that awful weight and guilt of being used and tricked on her shoulders.

(And why couldn’t they have seen sooner that she blamed herself? Yet another mistake.)

Seeing a woman who got treatment and recovered.

(It hurts so much that she won’t know him – not this version of him.)

Seeing a man who never had to throw a fight.

(The monkey jokes are harsher looking back – and also couldn’t have been further from the mark.)

Seeing a scientist who openly loves his parents.

(Did she know it was him? Even when he didn’t know who he was, did she?)

(Did she know his father was still alive, too?)

~ ~ ~

Identities are a problem, too. Sento has one mans face and memories for another two, and Ryuuga has a fully-human double born seven months after him. They don’t (didn’t?) exist here – not in a way that fits the shape of this new world.

They have a phone that's a bike, and a mechanical dragon that hasn't woken up. (Ryuuga hopes it will, someday. He grew fond of the little guy.)

They've got two belts, and two bottles - one silver, one gold.

(Neither has tried using them. It feels like it would be bad luck to try, but that it would be even worse to get rid of them.)

Kiryu Sento and Banjou Ryuuga cannot stay in Touto, which is properly a city again, not a war-torn city-district-region-country hybrid.

WAS it a city in their world? They aren’t really sure anymore. Neither of them remember much of politics before the Skywall. Sento only ever really picked up (was given?) memories through Takumi's days in high school, and what happened after Katsuragi Takumi ‘woke up.’ Besides, Takumi was focused considerable more on science than… well, pretty much anything else. Banjou was 13 – he was just a kid! – when the wall went up, and a lot of his youth was blurred and smudged and faded by Evolt.

(Back home, it was Quite A Day when he realized that Misora was the only one there younger than him. Kazumin called him a kid for a week.)

~ ~ ~

They can’t stay here.

So. they leave.

They leave the city that they remember but don't know.

~ ~ ~

And finding work is hard when you don't have a past that doesn’t and can’t match the world you’re in, and everything down to the roads just isn’t the same compared to the ones you know/remember/knew.

History is one of the biggest differences.

~ ~ ~

They look up the history of the other Earth, to see how far back it diverged from their own. They go back 25 years, and there hasn’t been anything that returned from Mars. So that's a good sign, they guess.

(They hope.)

They go back further, to make sure they don’t say the wrong things, and start looking up cultural changes as well, to make sure they can pass for people who’ve been here all along.

They come across something weird.

It's an urban legend fansite, sure, and neither of them is sure how they actually GOT to that page. But that picture is…

It’s a photo from the early 1970’s – discolored by age and grainy from being digitized. It’s off center, and crooked, and looks amateur, but there’s no reason to think it’s not real.

A photo of two men on a cliff, doing posing next to a pair of motorcycles.

Wearing full masks and armored bodysuits.

And captioned as the “first known photo of Kamen Riders 1 and 2 together.”

~ ~ ~

So. That’s not something they had either.

~ ~ ~

The pair who fought as Build and Cross-Z dig deeper. And as they get closer to the present, more and more warriors of justice fighting under the name (title?) of Kamen Rider show up.

There's a period after the early 1990’s where the records sort of stop, and no new heroes show up for a while, but around 2000 the Riders start appearing again.

Some of them are rumors, and urban legends, but others are definitely on record as being real.

And they keep reading, and the closer to the present the more familiar things get.

8 years ago - rumors of a Rider in black with a partner who didn't QUITE pass for human.

7 years ago - a high school that focused on space and science, with sightings of a Rider in silver.

Ryuuga has been to that school, and been rescued by the warriors in those blurry, hastily shot photos.

5 years ago - an archived site for a dance competition that turned into monster fights that turned into battles between members in armor that then stopped reporting, then followed by accounts of describe a city turned into a war zone.

That first armored rider helped get Sento to Ex-Aid’s world. To what might be THIS world.

Neither of them have wanted to talk about the nagging worry they've both had the past month, living here on this other earth.

3 years ago - a temple that has never gone out of their way to confirm the rumors of a Rider in black and orange, but has never gone out of their way to deny them, either.

The concern about what happened that brought them here, alive. What brought them here when neither expected to come out of that last battle with Evolt.

2 years ago - news footage and reports from this worlds Seito, about a digital viral outbreak and the Riders that fought it - and the press conference covering the aftermath, led by a doctor with a face that appears in two sets of memories in one persons head.

The fear that “they didn't get it right.”

7 months ago - News articles about a resurgence of the virus and a giant mechanical hand reaching to the sky.

That “maybe they didn't fix anything.”

7 months ago - terrified social media posts about another earth in the sky, one that had a jagged red scar.

That “maybe they just left home.”

7 months ago - still frames from amateur videos of two Riders fighting a gear themed enemy.

That “maybe they just took themselves out of the equation.”

7 months ago – two riders, a constant and an unknown,

That “maybe they left everything behind -

7 months ago - a rider in gold, with a name and reputation to put to the mask,

“- left everyONE behind -

7 months ago - and a rider in blue and red, never seen before or since.

“maybe everyone else is gone and the people here - these same-but-different people we know-but-don't - are just the alternate versions, not merged or remade or saved, but just preexisting familiar faces that will never, ever replace the ones that I just ran away from and left behind to d--”

And Sento didn't even know he was talking until he couldn't get the words out, until he was choking on fears and doubts and grief and guilt, and sobbing at things that were “all his-and-my fault and he-and-I did this and brought so, so much suffering and then just ran away and I didn’t even have the decency to remember-”

And Banjou grabs him, holding him close in almost a death grip to keep this stupid, egotistical, terrified genius from shaking himself to pieces - physical, mental, emotional, whatever. And he’s shaking too, because he hasn't wanted to think about these possibilities, either.

Hasn’t wanted to think about how maybe they messed up – that he's the one who messed it up, because if nothing else, the other him shows that black-hole bastards or no, he is consistently a muscle-headed fighter, and if anyone that was there that day screwed up the creation of a literal world it would be him…

So, he keeps saying quiet, ragged reassurances to his best friend - only friend now that the others are strangers again - both of them red-eyed and hoarse and SCARED, because they just. Don't know what really happened in and after that gap in reality where space and time and energy were colliding and tearing apart. And that not knowing, that's terrifying, for both of them but neither have dared bring it up for just this reason. It’s so, so terrifying to have so much information and yet still have nothing but questions.

He doesn’t say it, but he can see. It's awful for Banjou, the not knowing. But not understanding isn’t really NEW to him – confused has kind of been his default state since they met and he hasn’t hid that at all – but Sento? Kiryu Sento had really only existed for a year before they met at a factory and a fight, and been manipulated and lied to and trying to find himself and coming up with nothing. He made so much of his identity out of his smarts and on Build and just kept hiding anything that didn’t fit the person he was or could have been or could be – that didn’t have a place in the puzzle of his past. He hid whatever he could fit behind the mask of a grinning nerd and the helmet of a warrior for love and peace.

Then they were thrown into war, and so, so many awful things had happened, and Banjou hadn’t said anything back home, hasn’t said anything here and still doesn’t, but he’d been seeing it for months. He’s seen his friend shouldering worry and stress and doubt until he broke and then hid that behind the same smile and behind his work and the fighting. The war dragged and grew and got worse and more personal and Sento had just kept taking it on himself and bearing it and breaking and kept going anyway.

This is definitely not the time for that talk. It’s even less time for anyone to bring up that half of those fights… that both of them kept going in with no plans for making it out after.

It’s not the time for that, but they’re at a park, the one they stayed in last night, and they should probably find somewhere else for this because they’re two sobbing wrecks who can’t explain this to anyone else. They can barely explain it to themselves.

“We're out of our element here, aren’t we? Listen, man, you can't lose yourself to this, okay? Who else'll be the brains of this outfit? Pretty sure we’re both screwed if it's me.”

He chuckles, half-hearted and hoarse and so, so tired. Looks like he’ll have to take the lead for a while.

“This is messed up. I know. So just… take your time and breath, okay? When you’re ready, we can go and… I dunno, find some of these other Riders, maybe? And we can try to get some answers.

“Just don't GO, okay? We're in this together, Sento, we have to stick together.

“We're all we've got."

[reinstotheworld]

Now that I’m home, I’m finally getting around to posting my Stancest holiday exchange. This is for the lovely @ficksuck, who wanted some Christmas cookie shenanigans. 

Rating: PG/PG-13 (for some implied naughtiness)

Featuring: Holiday cookies, first time kisses between old Stans, and a boat that I keep changing the layout of to suit my own purposes.

Stan brushed the cookie crumbs off his stubble, then spied a large piece of what had once been a snowman resting on his belly. “Oh, thought you could get away from me, eh?” He picked up the snowman midsection and popped it into his mouth, hearing a soft tutting from behind him as he munched away on the black icing button.

“Did you have to eat the whole box?”

He held out the opened box, colorful wrapping torn at the top, and gave it a shake to prove its contents. “Despite my well-known opinions on sharing, I saved you some.”

“I thought you didn’t even like the holidays,” Ford murmured, sitting down across from him at the table. “Yet here you are, neck-deep in holiday cheer.” He peered into the box and selected a cookie that was in the shape of a dreidel, taking a bite of the frosted gimel.

“That’s a nice way of saying I’m stuffing my face. But no, that’s you, ya Scrooge. People spending lots of money on useless junk? What’s there not to love?” Stan chuckled to himself and picked up another cookie, biting into Santa’s head unceremoniously.

“Ah, seasonal greed. That makes sense.”  Ford took another bite of the dreidel cookie, finishing it off with a satisfied hum.  He picked up another from the box, a blue snowflake, and picked off two of the branches to nibble on first.

“Plus, ya know, family and all. I may not be peddling cheap crap anymore, but when you’ve got a niece sending you a box of homemade cookies it’s hard not to….I dunno.”

“Be less of a cynical bastard?” Ford supplied.

Stan snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s the one. Less of a cynical bastard.”

Ford pulled off another branch of the cookie-snowflake, chewing quietly and making a face that worried Stan. It was his ‘I’m overthinking again and about to ask my brother an uncomfortable question’ face, and as he lifted his gaze from the box Stan braced himself.

“Do you ever think about what the holidays were like at our house when we were children?”

Yep, there it was. Stan scoffed and sat back against the chair, which let out a tired squeak from his weight.

He had to admit that he did sometimes think about his childhood in New Jersey. There were happy memories to be had there. Their parents would light the menorah and take them for Chinese on the 25th, and they would trek down to the beach in their winter gear and watch the fireworks over the bay for New Year’s. Pops would save some of the weirder things in the pawn shop to give to them for Hanukkah, old maps for Ford and weird masks for him, and Ma would get them chocolate gelt that Stan would always be too impatient to use. Ford always let him play with just the empty foil shells though, never complaining when his winnings didn’t include the candy that his brother had already eaten.

“Nah,” he lied. “Never look back, I always say.”

“Stanley, you never say that.”  

“Well, I’m gonna start now.”

Ford was obviously skeptical.

“What’s with the reminiscing anyway?” Stan deflected. “I thought holidays weren’t your thing.”  

“Why would you say that?”

Stan reached for a glass of bourbon he’d been using as a cookie chaser. “I always figured you were too busy jerking off to Popular Mechanics to care about the traditions of us mere mortals.”

Surprisingly, Ford let out a laugh. He reached into the box and pulled out a Kwanzaa kinara, candles iced in three different colors. He let out a soft, impressed-sounding whistle. “Mabel really went all out.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. Mabel doesn’t do anything half-assed.” Stan stuffed the rest of Santa into his mouth and made a noise, suddenly remembering that something else had come with the care package of cookies.

“Ford--” He picked up a small bundle of papers and waved them in front of Ford’s face obnoxiously.

“Ah,” Ford muttered, taking the papers and flipping through the handwritten pages quickly. “Dipper’s notes on urban legends along the California coast. Mn...thorough, as expected.”

“Merry Christmas,” Stan said dryly. “Cookies for me, and dry, boring research for you.”

Ford smirked and tucked the letter into his coat pocket. “Cookies for us, and fascinating and useful research for me.”

“Whatever.” Stan grunted, shifting in the chair to get more comfortable. The gentle rocking of the Stan O War, combined with the lump of cookie-bourbon mush now sitting in his gut, was beginning to make his head nod.  Ford continued reading his gift from Dipper at the table, the gentle rustling of the papers adding one more soothing aspect to lull him to sleep.

“Stanley. Stanley.”

“Huh? Wha…”

“Stanley,” Ford sighed. “You’re falling asleep. Go to bed.”

Stan blinked in Ford’s direction and hauled himself up slowly in response. He paused, then picked up the cookies and tucked them under his arm, box rattling as he shuffled towards the boat’s sleeping quarters.

He fell asleep with a cookie on his chest, waking only when felt the bed move beside him. Ford was sitting on the edge, snorting in the dim lantern-light at the state of the other man. He reached over and plucked the cookie off of him, Stan groaning in protest.

“Hey, I was saving that for later.”

Ford crunched on it and wiped the crumbs from Stan’s shirt.

“You snooze you lose.”

Sleepily, Stan reached up to grab the remnant from Ford’s hand, but he was quickly and deftly swatted away.

“What’s with the cookie theft?” he grumbled, rolling onto his side.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. How holidays ‘weren’t my thing’.”

Stan squinted. “And what’s that got to do with waking me up from my drunken stupor?”

Ford finished off the cookie. Stan wondered if he’d gotten into his bourbon as well, as his eyes looked a little glassy. “Maybe...maybe in the past I had been a little too focused inwardly,” he reasoned quietly. “That’s not something I want for myself anymore, Stanley. Not when I have family who goes out of their way to send me gifts for the holidays.”

“Persistent knuckleheads,” Stan yawned. “You’d think being halfway across the world would stop them from tracking down a mailing address.”

“Yes, persistent.  And, of course, not when I have someone I can share the holidays with.”

Ah, he must be drunk. “Grammar, Ford,” he snorted, trying to do his best nerd impression. “Ending a sentence with a preposition.”

How many times had he been corrected in the same way? He didn’t even know what a preposition was.  But Ford found it funny and they both chuckled for a moment; another pleasant surprise for Stan.

After a moment of comfortable silence Ford leaned in, placing a hand on Stan’s chest to push him onto his back. “Hey now,” Stan murmured, but Ford continued to move closer.

“You have a sprinkle on your lip. It’s distracting,” Ford whispered, but he did more than just wipe it away. His lips touched Stan’s, tongue darting out to lick away the spot of sugar.

Stan moaned automatically in response, heart thumping wildly in his chest as Ford continued to hover his lips over his. How long had he wanted this? He hadn’t realized Ford had felt the same way. “Ford….”

Ford didn’t move an inch closer, but he didn’t pull away either. It was as though he was suddenly too shy to do anything but freeze right there.  

“Dammit Ford,” Stan groaned in frustration. He’d finally gotten the balls to kiss him, and now he was just going to sit there? He reached up to grab him by the gray patch in his hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Are you gonna keep kissing me, or what?”

That seemed to do it. Ford let out a strangled moan and pressed his lips against Stan’s, pushing his tongue into his mouth. He could taste the bourbon on his tongue, and Stan smiled and greedily deepened the kiss.

Ford fell onto him, limbs tangling in the small bed as they slid their bodies together. The box of cookies tipped over as Stan tried to roll Ford underneath him, but as the other man was a little more on the athletic side all he succeeded in doing was smashing the cookies into the bed. For a while they didn’t notice though, moans filling the room as their hands and mouths roamed over each other.

Stan wasn’t sure when they’d fallen asleep, but he woke a few hours later to the sight of Ford with cookie crumbs stuck to his bare back. He licked his finger and dragged it slowly down his spine, sucking the crumbs off with a smirk.

“Mfnph...Stanley...”

“Go back to sleep, Poindexter.”

He chuckled to himself and curled up behind him, too exhausted to care about the mess.

[chicagoindiecritics]

New from Every Movie Has a Lesson by Don Shanahan: MOVIE REVIEW: The Short History of the Long Road

(Image courtesy of FilmRise)

Official Selection of the 7th Chicago Critics Film Festival

THE SHORT HISTORY OF THE LONG ROAD— 3 STARS

When you watch the family drama The Short History of the Long Road, you would never guess Sabrina Carpenter is the same bubbly Disney Channel presence she is from Girl Meets World or Adventures in Babysitting. For this displaced character of Nola living off the grid and figuring out her life, there is no fizz. Only stern realities push this young woman. Equal to her privileged bully character in The Hate U Give, you would never guess Sabrina is also a vivacious pop star beyond the TV and movie screens in this type of film role requiring zero showy stages. This festival darling and award winner debuting June 16th on streaming platforms is a deeper test of potential magnitude.

When some charismatic personas go, as some would reductively call it, “unpretty” or “ugly” for a more natural or dramatic role, the results feel forced. With a little less makeup work and some shoddier clothes, the performer might put on the outer facade of adversity and expect the look to be enough. They will fail to exude the narrative hardship as if it manifested fully from within a true soul. For The Short Story of the Long Road, that is most certainly not Sabrina Carpenter. This film is a wonderful opportunity to celebrate her evolving talent.

LESSON #1: THE LOW BUDGET HIGH EXPERIENCE— The livelihood of Nola is one created by her father Clint, played by the silvered Steven Ogg of Snowpiercer and Westworld. They live off of the highways and by-ways inside of a 1984 Volkswagen Westfalia (van consultant Ryan Sellmeyer is a silent MVP of this movie). The familial duo does odd jobs and squats at parks and foreclosed houses. With skeptical takes on normal society, Clint values the practical, unrushed, and experiential as an education money can’t buy. Clint sees this personal culture as going back to the human roots as a migratory species and preaches “society would be much better off if we build an army of self-sufficient agitators.” He’s not wrong in many, many ways.

The ever-moving years of this rustic rambling have been formative for Nola. She couldn’t be closer to her father as they observe the world with different lenses and sing old road songs like “Come Along” by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs without a cellular device in sight. The Short History of the Long Road does not always have the bounce of that song, but it does have the spirit. 

The origin of this automotive adventure comes from Clint splitting away from Nola’s mother Cheryl (Maggie Siff of Billions and Sons of Anarchy), a woman Nola doesn’t remember and secretly longs to meet. As Clint laments “she zigged and we zagged.” There is most certainly freedom to be had under the stunning Southwest skies of New Mexico featured in the film and captured by cinematographer Cailin Yatsko, but Nola is at an inquisitive age to discover more traditions and personal history.

LESSON #2: THE ISOLATION AND HAZARDS OF TRAVELING OR LIVING ALONE— That said, living this way is not always easy and becomes much harder when Clint leaves the picture. Pearls of wisdom like “we wouldn’t get very far without knowing how to fix things” serve her only so far with an ancient and oil-bleeding motor home and her trusty makeshift jug-and-headlamp combo lantern. Soon, she is siphoning gas and trying to dine and ditch when the money runs out.

LESSON #3: THE ARRAY OF PEOPLE YOU MEET ON YOUR PERSONAL JOURNEY— At those challenging lows, beneficial people enter Nola’s life. They include the caring churchgoer Marie (Rusty Schwimmer) who offers an adoptive family, an auto mechanic named Miguel (Danny Trejo) who lets her trade work hours in his shop for vehicle repairs, and a potential peer in the abused fellow teen Blue (Jashaun St. John) who envies Nola’s freedom. Each of these intersections, from the one-time passersby to the long-term relationship attempts, become character-building experiences for Nola. 

The performances from Schwimmer, St. John, and especially Trejo, a professional movie tough guy, become endearing treats. Thinking back to Lesson #2, most would expect a pretty girl like Nola to be an easy target for accosting violence straight out of urban legends and crappy road movies and, thankfully, writer-director Ani Simon-Kennedy never considers exploitativeness on that level. In this writer’s opinion, optimism that more people would help a traveler rather than abuse one is a fairer worldview and welcome stance. 

LESSON #4: THERE ARE NO EASY ANSWERS— Each new human connection for Nola outside her father shows her slices of life beyond the looseness of her own. She can have a different way of doing things that others find reckless. New friends (and soon her own rediscovered mother) teach her a better course instead of taking momentary advantage of innocent and giving people. However, it’s not about fixing people, forced conformity, or removing brainwashing of any kind in Simon-Kennedy’s film. Forming empathy is the truer goal. Learning to accept charity and compassion doesn’t chip away at independence. They simply support and enhance the flexibility of that autonomy.

Guided by calm direction from Ani Simon-Kennedy, Carpenter, while green, never overacts. She’s not screaming for the balconies to show off. She nails the introverted pitch of her reserved Nola character. In scenes shared with the people Nola meets along the way, many of whom are more seasoned actors, Sabrina gives and takes with flow and patience. With a large enough reception, folks may come back to a film like this someday and point to it as a genesis point for Carpenter. She deserves that praise.

The title of The Short History of the Long Road is plain, simple, and true. This is but a small jaunt of a bigger journey for this broken family set to a steady score by M83’s Morgan Kibby. The flashbacks are just that: flashed for mere seconds. They show enough to throb the heart and that’s plenty. Any extended testimonials and cherished memories come out in small talk and stay small talk without a grand speech in earshot. What’s personal is personal and not for crowds. Big and lofty is the sky above it, not the grounded individual. Once again, that’s the wavelength: plain, simple, and true. Those are fitting and admirable qualities.

LOGO DESIGNED BY MEENTS ILLUSTRATED (#889)

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