#pawn high wired

[high-wiredcomic]

Guys

He’s real

[still-alive-mp3]

Ooooooo you so wanna go read what I have done of high-wired now ooooo I’m enticing you with silly characters ooooo

[logaenhowlett]

THIS NIGHT HAS OPENED MY EYES - L.H.

Summary: Fate isn’t something Logan believes in. So what happens when he crosses paths with someone who has haunted his mind for nearly 50 years?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, A desperate need to hug Logan

A/N: After weeks of pushing this fic aside, it's finally done. I'm happy with how it turned out, hope you enjoy! Title creds to The Smiths.

MASTERLIST

1983 - Alberta, Canada

Logan doesn’t stop running. Even after the soles of his feet turn an alarming shade of purple and blue, marring the once-soft skin with bruises and scars which will eventually fade away. Adrenaline carries him through the dense forest and its unforgiving terrain, but it’s fury - along with sheer horror - that courses through his veins. 

Red is all he sees. His heart thumps in his chest, feeling like an anvil dragging him into the earth. His breathing comes out ragged - the cold air, the newly metal-infused claws burning through skin - it all just becomes too much for him. The constant beat of dog tags hitting his chest echoes as he slices his way through the woods.

A million thoughts rush across his mind, none remaining in place long enough for him to grasp. Logan was never one to dwell on fantasies, always quick to shut down whatever illusions that little flicker of hope within him conjures. But now, he dreams of a world that isn't cruel, a world that doesn't wreck, shatter and destroy this innate sense of good he carries. A world that could never exist.

Glimpses of his childhood fight against the agonizing pain shooting through his body. For a brief second, Logan breaks free from the mental shackles of his survival instincts, enough for his mind to flood with memories he'd believed were lost to the disease of time. His knees falter as flashes of his mother, his father and even his brother momentarily hush the undying streams of insecurity and worthlessness that flow so deeply within him.

It's when he sees himself - that young child who dared to dream of a life worth living, a life he'd be proud to reminisce as he takes his last breath - he thinks it's the end. How would that little boy feel knowing this is what he'd become? A pawn in a game he'd never have a choice to deny.

His vision blurs, stinging in sorrow and heartbreak for his younger self. A tremble runs through his body and Logan wants nothing but to sink beneath the ground under his feet. To scream as exhaustion rips into his muscles, crumbling whatever resolve searing within. He'd give anything for it all to stop. The voices in his head to lull into a silence he desperately craves, even just for a second.

Fear was never something that infected him. Yet, at this moment, he truly is frightened. Terrified that he'd unknowingly sacrificed the only lingering shred of belief he held for himself and all that remains now is but a monster - a machine wired to do the very thing he refuses.

Logan thinks he's on the verge of crashing, to surrender to the plague poisoning his mind, body and heart. Just as he aches to cross that line, a soft gasp from someone nearby startles him. His eyes dart around, strides slowing down so abruptly that the sudden movement leaves his knees shaking. He can't even pull himself together long enough to properly focus on his surroundings, to absorb all the minute details he could once subconsciously catch.

His breath hitches as you reveal yourself, quickly studying you to determine whether you’re a threat. Even as the alarm in his head doesn’t ring, he’s still on edge when you approach warily. There’s just something about you he can’t quite detect.

“It’s okay… I’m not going to hurt you.” You whisper, hands raised.

Logan stares at you, tense and on high alert. Your gaze keeps dropping to the bloody claws between his knuckles, your expression twisting to one of shock and concern. His mind becomes a little hazy, the lucid part of him wants to run away, yet he's rendered frozen.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He hears you murmur once again, your hand slowly reaching towards him. The tone of distress in your words leaves Logan anxious, chest heaving in suspicion. A shiver rolls down his spine as your fingertips brush against his skin, goosebumps rising at the contact. Your eyes find his again, searching for any hint of resistance and when he gives no sign of hostility, you gently rest your palm against his shoulder.

The initial touch sends a current of sensations through his body. Immediately, a wave of calm washes over him and everything around him stills. Logan wills his mind to concentrate on the little bubble you seem to have created. And after what feels like forever, silence diffuses the noise in his head. A sob threatens to escape him as he grabs your wrist, he wants to say something, to question this strength you have over him, but he remains speechless.

He expects to recognise the unmistakable cast of terror across your features, staggering a little when he finds none. Not even the intimidating glare of the adamantium wavers your faith in him. And that realisation overpowers the gentle and soothing aura you seem to radiate. A broken hum cracks through the quietness, Logan drops your hand in an inexplicable panic. He shares one last look with you before sprinting off.

2029 - Eden, North Dakota

As the soft glow of light caresses his face, Logan shifts amongst the heap of blankets delicately wrapped around him. His muscles loosen in relief, finally content to rest after years and years of forcing him into overdrive.

There's a kind of weariness to him now, his movements slow, his healing even slower. He can't recall a time when his body wasn't fighting against him - against the adamantium. Pain becomes such an unceasing feeling that sometimes he doesn't register when one of his stitches pops open, blood staining his clothes with the reminder of his deteriorating state.

He sighs quietly, the conversation with Laura left a heaviness in his heart. Logan couldn't blame her, she’s a little kid after all, one presented with the chance of belonging to a makeshift family. But, he can't be the father she needs. The one she deserves. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's better that way, for her and for everyone who might get involved, to give them a fair shot at life untainted by his cursed touch.

Logan stops resisting his need for sleep, comforted by the fact that Laura's amongst her friends and away from danger for the time being. He drifts off almost instantly, the presence of someone in the room going unnoticed.

Leaning against the doorframe, you watch as his chest rises and falls, his soft breaths filling the air. He looks a lot older since the last time you saw him. Eyes a little sunken, wrinkles decorating skin, streaks of grey twisting into dark hair. Despite the physical changes, you can sense a weight that seeps so far into his soul, this aura of fatigue and defeat he exudes. God, he's so tired.

Feet moving at their own will, you slide onto the edge of the bed, tenderly running your hand along Logan’s arm. The slight shift of his expression as he subconsciously relaxes draws a small smile from you. Nightmares spare him this time.

Logan stirs awake a while later. As reality begins to settle once again, he stares at the ceiling, feeling a sort of peace and tranquillity that sparks only one memory. A brief encounter with a stranger who approached him with nothing but kindness.

The kids rush into the room, eager to see the hero they'd only read about in their comics. When has anyone ever been happy to see him? He wonders, uneasiness creeping into his thoughts.

"C'mon, let him rest."

It's the gentle tone yet one that carries a sway of authority that snaps his attention. The children hurry to leave, brushing past you in a fit of giggles as if they'd been caught doing something naughty.

Logan's eyes lock onto yours. His jaw twitches, chest caving as the realisation sets in. Of course, it's you. The reason why he'd felt such a lightness being here, his mind simmering in a state of serenity. The memory comes back in a sudden, the visions he's had of you throughout the years, ones that provided a fragment of bliss at times when he couldn't bear the misery - all of it comes back, overwhelming him.

Over decades, Logan convinced himself that you were but a figment of his imagination, concocted by his troubled mind as a last attempt at defence. As time went on, the mirage of you slowly dissolved. And now, here you are, standing in front of him - as real as he is. He sits, gradually lifting himself off the pillow, gazing at you in awe. You haven't changed at all.

"I can heal... like you." You offer, foreseeing the question that's lingering behind his lips.

He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, all the dots in his head finally connecting. "You're one of us too." Logan says to himself, astonished, "That day - you did something to me."

Moving closer, you sink next to him on the bed, hand resting on his. A swell of tiredness spreads within him, he gasps under his breath at the sensation. It fades rather quickly, replaced by the inviting embrace of relief. Logan exhales softly, his expression riddled with wonder.

"I can't make you feel anything you don't already feel." Your whisper reaches him, "I can just... amplify it."

The fact sends jolts of shock through his body. Meaning, that day, you had found what little tendril of good he had so desperately clung onto. You saw it. You saw the good in him.

"I thought you weren't real."

Logan doesn't know why he's drawn to you. It just feels so natural to have you this close again - as if he'd found the missing part of himself he didn't know was tied to your soul. The voice in his head crawls to the forefront of his mind, polluting his desire to want you, to have you. He shouldn't be entertaining these wishes, everything he so hopelessly craves would just hurt you in the end.

"I wanted to find you," You tell him, sensing his internal battles, "But... I couldn't risk getting caught."

"Transigen?" He asks, despair slipping into his question.

The sound of laughter outside pulls your attention, "Gabriela. She told me about these kids. What happened... what those monsters did to them? I just - I couldn't let them fight this on their own." You see Laura in the distance, playing along with her friends. "She looks happy."

Logan follows your gaze, "I didn't... I didn't believe her. About this place." His voice wavers, the feeling of guilt clawing at him. He moves his hand away from yours, avoiding the flash of hurt across your face.

"You brought her here anyway. Some part of you hoped she'd be right." There you go again, managing to see the good in him. He shakes his head lightly, ignoring the choking weight in his throat. "You're not coming with us... I heard what you told her."

"Then you know why." He murmurs, eyes turning glassy.

"Logan - " You bring your hand to rest on his cheek, slowly turning his head, "I know you're not healing as fast... I can feel it." His eyes flick down to yours, a tangle of hesitation and longing behind them. "You don't have to give up - you don't have to be alone anymore."

Oh, how easy it would be to give in to you and the future you're promising. Yet, the shadow of agony looms over him. "I'm not meant for this - everyone around me dies." He spits out, angry at whatever higher being molded him this way - a man forever deprived of the simple pleasures of life. "I won’t let anyone else suffer because of me. The kids, Laura, you... you're better off on your own."

He shifts to lie down, too drained to continue this back and forth. The bed dips when you stand, a defeated sigh escaping you. As you’re about to leave, Logan's whisper makes you freeze.

"I'm not... whatever it is you think I am."

Sunlight beams through the windows, Logan scrunches his face as he rouses. It's oddly quiet, he notes, pushing himself off the bed. He takes a moment to focus his hearing on his surroundings - not a single soul around. A fit of coughs leaves him groaning, he stumbles his way outside, the raw intensity of the sun hitting him.

Empty is all he feels. A gaping crater in his heart as he understands what he'd given up by letting you slip away. Even Laura's absence strikes a chord, a small part of him had grown fond of the girl. He lets out a shuddering breath, this is what he intended. So why is every cell in his body yearning for your touch?

A swarm of drones fly overhead. Logan jerks his head at the noise, dread filling him once he sees the logo. He bursts into the room, searching for any medication to numb the pain burning through his organs. A green vial tucked away on the shelf gleams at him, he wastes no time, grabbing both the liquid and a needle before charging through the woods.

Everything within him seems to be on fire as he storms up and down the hills. He's out of breath in mere minutes, gasping for air while his lungs constrict. When the oxygen in his brain starts to diminish, Logan falls to the ground, coughing as his wounds reopen. His consciousness dances around the line between reality and illusion. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles with the syringe, drawing the entirety of the vial - Rictor's warning rings in his head - and injecting the fluid.

It's almost rapid. The way the drug shoots through his bloodstream. Pupils blown wide, he roars, energy rushing into his veins. His legs carry him across miles towards the panicked screams of children and gunfire. Once the Reavers spot him, they direct their weapons at the bigger threat. Logan rips through them, unfazed by the bullets spraying everywhere.

Amongst the chaos and carnage, he spots you struggling against the soldiers' grasp. That momentary distraction sends him flying backwards as the impact of the railgun pierces his body. A primal rage erupts within him, his muscles throb violently, knuckles turning white. The effects of the drug wear off, knees buckling when he tries to stand, he collapses to the ground instead. His eyes glaze over, the wrath that had consumed him earlier now waning into hopelessness.

Laura stills in her tracks, her friends sprinting past her. "No! Run!" He yells, grunting. "Go to your friends, Laura." Logan stammers, knowing she can hear him.

He shuts his eyes for a second, every fiber of his being honing in you. With immense effort, he slowly rises, hand stained crimson while he clutches his stomach. He only moves a couple feet before he's knocked in the head.

X-24 glares at him ruthlessly, drawing his clawed-fist back to strike him again. Logan blinks wearily, catching the terror on your face as you attempt to escape from the soldiers' hold. An angry growl comes from somewhere behind him. Laura launches herself at X-24, slashing at him with all her strength. The clone staggers a little before grabbing her shirt and hurling her towards a tree.

The act makes Logan writhe in anger, but before he can attack him, X-24 lunges forward, extending his claws into Logan's side. Blood gushes out of him and your deafening scream is all he can hear. He doesn't know what's more excruciating - the pain or the look of sheer anguish on your face.

A bang echoes in his head. X-24 drops to the ground next to him, the remnants of a smirk on his half-exploded skull. Laura stands, a couple feet away, pistol in her hands. It's thrown away immediately as she runs to him.

The kids swarm around you, their collective powers thrusting the soldiers far away. In the corner of his eye, Logan sees you racing towards him. Weakly, he convinces Laura to go, to save herself. His words barely louder than a whisper as he gazes at her, pleading. She looks at you tearfully, torn between what to do. Muffled sounds of her friends calling her name reach her ears and with a heavy heart, she goes after them.

"Logan!"

You fall next to him, bringing his body to rest against yours. Your touch provides a sense of solace, a comforting warmth enveloping him. Logan knows you're willing your powers to take his pain away, to distract his mind from the agony tearing through him. All this time, even your indirect presence in his life was a beacon of hope amongst the shadows - a reminder that he was never alone. He whispers your name, faintly.

"No. No." You insist, shaking your head. "You are not dying. I won't let you."

Logan feels your hands press against his wound, your sobs breaking his heart. The emotion in your voice is a dagger to his spirit. He wishes to reach up and brush those tears away, to extend the same sympathy you do to him. Desperation fills your mind, your fingers fumbling with his clothes before your eyes shut, trying to channel your healing powers into him.

"Sweetheart..." A soft smile tugs his lips and his hand finds yours, gently intertwining them. "It's okay."

As his mind begins to finally relax, a vision spreads a surge of content through his body. You and him - on the Sunseeker. Tucked away in your own pocket of time, drifting across the seas without a care in the world. Perhaps he'd let you steer if you asked. He'd do just about anything you ask.

"No - Logan."

"It's all quiet now."

Despite only having one memory of you, he'd always cherished the compassion and tenderness you showed him. He realises now that, over the last fifty years, he'd fallen in love with you. In his own way.

"No... please..."

Darkness engulfs him as he takes his last breath. "I love you."

The world shrinks. A broken whimper leaves you, lost amongst the ringing silence. You don't let go of him, even as he goes limp against you. Your uncontrollable tears stain his clothes, everything loses its meaning. It feels like eternity stretches out before you, fuelled by the weight of your grief.

Then, Logan's finger twitches in your hand. You gasp, heart pounding as life returns to his body, a gentle tide washing away old wounds. The soft thumping in his chest makes your eyes widen in disbelief. You hold your breath as his eyelids flutter open, he lets out a ragged groan, matching your stunned look.

"You saved me..."

Hearing his voice again sends trembles down your spine, without sparing another second, you wrap your arms around him. Logan flexes his muscles, bringing you into his embrace, a mixture of emotions consuming his mind. As you whisper his name over and over again, doubting the reality of this moment, he pulls back slightly - nothing but decades of pure longing in his eyes.

His lips brush against yours, pouring every morsel of affection he can muster. Logan kisses you like a man starved, everything he'd bottled up rushing towards freedom. Tears ache to escape when the feeling of love grows within him and he smiles - that little boy would be happy.

"You saved me, sweetheart."

Don't worry, I'm not letting the story end here. Part two is in the works!

[lostwords-found]

Oh god. Okay. SO. The Protocol red string board is going places and I am chewing drywall.

Note: I've been working on this post for a few days and nothing in here involves episode 27--I don't talk about episodes before they're out for everyone, so no worries about patreon spoilers.

Quick recap of some suspicions about Protocolverse I've written about previously:

1. I think this universe runs on a kind of balance of good & bad luck (or suffering and happiness), and that it's possible--under certain circumstances--to pawn the bad stuff off on other people and keep the good that arises to balance it out. I suspect a big piece of Protocol's overarching plot is going to be about the different ways people go about trying to come out ahead in that bargain.

2. I think some alchemists figured out how to attach bad luck and/or other similarly abstract ills into physical form.

3. I think they were trying to use this to cast out bad luck to other worlds (including that of Archives) and get good luck back. I think this is how the Fears got to Archives in the first place.

4. I think the books and coin in the tomb from MAG 23 got there this way, probably with the involvement of Protocolverse Albertus Magnus. The year on the coin -- 1279 -- is the year before Albertus Magnus died.

We'll come back to that stuff in a bit.

There's an apparently minor detail that was nagging at me recently: in TMAGP 22 Hans Berger specifically mentions having switched to silver wires in his experiments, and this change enabling his breakthroughs. It's through these silver wires, implanted directly into Herr Schmidt's brain, that he later receives the desperate telegraph signals that appear to be from a previously unheard part of Schmidt's brain.

By itself, that wouldn't ping any alarms. Silver wires are in fact what Berger used in real life; silver's highly conductive so if you're trying to read electrical impulses from the brain, probably a good choice of material. But the writing is very deliberate about mentioning them, and coming only three episodes after another historical letter about a scientist also working with silver -- Newton's tree in TMAGP 19 was a fantastical variant of a Tree of Diana, dendritic silver -- Berger's wires start feeling like maybe they're not just there for accuracy.

If, as it appears from Newton's work, consuming silver in certain forms can cause a new kind of consciousness to arise--and also, uh, turn you into a tree--what might implanting silver wires in a human brain do? Is the silver contacting or awakening something that was already there, or is it putting something there? Was that desperate OUT OUT OUT message really from half of Herr Schmidt's mind--or from something in the wire itself that was trying to get out?

That would be weird though. I mean--what, Protocolverse silver's inherently evil or something? But then I got back to thinking about alchemists trying to transmute things into precious metals. Gold's the one we mostly think of, but silver was also of interest. Which in real life is where you got stuff like the tree of Diana--alchemists thought that was a precursor to the philosopher's stone.

So... then I start thinking, if I was right in my other post that alchemists were figuring out how to put evil / misfortune / suffering into a physical form that could be used to transfer it somewhere else, what if silver was involved in that? What if they were either turning misfortune into silver, or trapping it in silver that already existed?

What if they did that, meaning to send it away, and some of that silver made its way into use?

Then I started looking some stuff up.

Did you know silver used to be mined in the Black Forest, in Germany? One mine there had a name meaning "Blessing of God." That mine dates back to the 1200s--Albertus Magnus's lifetime.

Did you know that starting in the 1600s, the G strings on high quality violins were typically wrapped in silver wire?

Do you know why movies are called the silver screen? In the 1920s, literal silver was used to make cinema screens. This fell out of favor as other cheaper designs were worked out, BUT in the 2000s silver has come back into use a bit because it works well for 3D movies. I would not be surprised at all if the screen that Tom went to see Voyeur on had silver in it.

Did you know that in the early 90s there was a specific plant in the UK that manufactured CDs covered with a layer of silver? This later turned out to cause some problems as the silver reacted with sulfur (oh hai, another alchemically significant substance!) and slowly degraded the discs. In real life these CDs were manufactured up through 1993. Per TMAGP 10, Mr Bonzo made his debut in '96 (the interview is from 2021 and is the 25th anniversary of Mr Bonzo's first appearance). The two times Mr Bonzo has appeared in person he's been summoned by playing a CD of his theme song. I wonder where and when those CDs were manufactured...

Did you notice the caterer Lady Mowbray hired in TMAGP 15 mentions that his company did silver service events? Betcha that particular feast was served on literal silver platters.

...I'm starting to think it's a really good thing ink5oul didn't end up tattooing Gwen with that silver spoon.

Okay. This all seems like there's maybe a theme here, but let's take a step back. Some materials have just been used for a lot of things throughout history; it could be coincidence. IF the above is actually on the mark--IF these were all intentional majorly-plot-relevant inclusions of Things Wot Involve Silver--where else would we expect to see this cropping up in the story? Because the topic of silver has barely been raised directly at all; I'm extrapolating wildly here, mostly on the basis of a couple episodes.

Well, here's a thought: silver was used in everyday currency for a long, long time. If there was a bunch of Evil Silver floating around surely someone would have stuck it into some money at some point. "Ill fortune" in the most literal possible sense, or whole new meaning to the phrase "bad penny" -- there are various bad jokes there that more or less write themselves. Though whoever was doing this would have had to to mark the bad money somehow so that they could avoid it...

Hey, um, remember how the OIAR's offices are in the building that housed the Royal Mint for like 150 years?

Actually, while we're on that subject, here's a funny little tidbit: Before it moved to Royal Mint Court, the Royal Mint was in the Tower of London for several centuries--its first home after being centralized. Wanna guess what year the Royal Mint was established in the Tower of London? Go on. Guess.

1279.

The same. Fucking. Year. As was on that coin waaaaaay back in MAG 23. Which was a thing I had noticed a while back when looking at the Germany eps, but I hadn't been considering a "what if some metals can be Bad" angle at that point and had just written it off as an odd coincidence.

Which I mean, it's probably still just a weird coincidence, I'm building this entire elaborate framework out of assumptions on top of assumptions on top of -- hang the fuck on, let me look something up real quick, I've gotta be misremembering--

I'm not misremembering! Isaac Newton was the Master of the Royal Mint for the last 30 years of his life.

Cool. Okay. So that's--hm. I think I'm genuinely starting to convince myself none of this is a coincidence.

Then I start poking through Wikipedia, and you wanna know some other interesting things? One, Newton himself apparently saw his work in economics as a continuation of his alchemical work. And two, during his tenure at the Royal Mint, he put limits on how much gold people were allowed to exchange for silver, and this led to a silver shortage. Because apparently, when other countries imported goods to them, the British paid for those goods in silver coins. When they exported goods to other countries, though?

They would only take payment in gold.

And there it is--there's the exact outsourcing scheme I was looking for. Stick all your suffering and pain and misfortune into your money, use that money to pay other countries, and get only the good stuff back. That... sounds really believable for the British Empire, honestly.

So I really think I might have some decent guesses on the historical stuff at play here. That only goes just so far though, because these days, silver doesn't really get used in coinage much.

Know where it does get used? Circuits. Electronics.

Computers.

If I'm right, whatever machinery the Mint used to store the intangible evils of the world in physical coinage for exportation, I would guess the OIAR is now using to instill all of those evils into FR3-D1 instead. One all-containing artifact of misfortune.

What the endgame is there, what the government gets out of it, I'm still not 100% sure--but I can't help thinking about Jonah's line in MAG 160 that Jon is not the Archivist but the Archive. That he is the record of fear, the physical embodiment of it.

There's people wanting to outsource absolutely fucking everything to AI these days, I guess.

SO THAT'S BEEN MY WEEK this is what my brain does when I have to drive all the way across the US alone, apparently. How are you all?

[dent-de-leon]

He’s caged—like a demon. Like an animal. A soul damned over and over; from the Matron’s curse to his own infernal blood, a wretched fate and the wrong family line, the folly of his last fatal mistake—a little trinket shining in the moonlight, a prayer unanswered. 

Was the weight of those chains worth it? 

“It’s just another devil,” an archmage assured him. And Bren is forced to remember all the demons and devils he’d seen since ascending to the city, every creature chained and bound, paraded through the streets for the mages’ entertainment. The way it chilled him to the bone, seeing collars emblazoned with the names and ranks of other wizards, symbols of wealth and status as surely as any finery or crown.

He can’t see what's engraved on the tiefling’s collar, but the cuffs at his wrists and ankles are gold, glinting with jewels and adorned in intricate runes. And it makes Bren's stomach turn, seeing the red eyes branded all over his body—the countless scars he carried—

He starts tugging at the bandages on one arm, nails biting deep into the old fraying rags. Doesn’t think about his own scars still raw and burning, the shards of residuum gleaming just beneath the skin. The pinpricks of pain that never fade. 

In the back of that cage, the tiefling stirs; head frantically tossing and turning, his whole body trembling. Eyes still shut. A nightmare, Bren thinks, knows, can feel it in the pit of his stomach. The anguished, muted cries. The breaths coming too sharp and fast. He’s woken far too many nights in a cold sweat—especially when the scars were still fresh. 

When the tiefling’s tail twitches and lashes, clearly anxious, Bren's heart breaks a bit. 

The Somnovem’s captive was locked away far below the enchanting halls of the Dawn Crucible, one of the greatest wonders of the clandestine, outcast Cognouza Ward. High vaulted ceilings and walls, all luminous with the dancing flicker and flare of an ethereal, azure light—a soft, warm glow suffusing the whole dome. The walls an array of endless shelves, every one overflowing with books and scrolls and tomes as old as memory itself. The threshold crest the crown jewel of it all, a glistening crystal centerpiece to illuminate the whole rotunda in dazzling radiance, a temple worthy of eternity. 

“The birthplace of dreams,” an unnervingly zealous philosopher had promised. Her eyes were hollow, sunken, rimmed with dark circles. Bren wondered how a person could ever love dreaming so much, when they hadn’t slept in weeks—or months. Her magic seemed to spark with a kinetic energy, electric as a live wire. Her voice echoed with a moonstruck fervor, a divine reverence that was surely blasphemy. And wherever Bren turned, he could still sense her unerring gaze.

And here, down below an archive of endless dreams and possibility, the only light was the faint flicker of arcane torches. And Bren was faced with rows of human cages. He tries not to think of all the other prisoners, where they came from or who they were, what horrible misfortune had cost them everything, banished them to the darkest corner of a reigning empire. 

“Why this one?” He can’t help but ask, even as he kicks himself for letting the words slip out. It’s foolish—dangerous. You were never this stupid before, he chides himself, Clever as you are, with things like this—you’re stupid. 

The philosopher, Elatis, smiles warmly. It makes his skin crawl. 

“Of all our research subjects, he has the greatest potential. Within his soul lies the key to eternity,” she said with a wondrous, contented sigh. “We are all of us the enemy to death, to suffering, to grief. But for all the horror she’s wrought, the Matron has also given us the very thing we need. She has planted the seeds, and now it is time to harvest.��

Fate touched, Bren realizes. Forever bound to a fate he could never hope to fight, strung up by the Matron like a puppet, the threads of destiny already woven. A prisoner, a pawn, another doomed soul to be sacrificed for the gods. 

And for an archmage, a soul touched by the divine was a powerful conduit for otherworldly magic. Enslaved like the devils they bent to their will, the very essence of their life siphoned away. Mages bathing in their blood for just a taste of the divine. 

With a whispered word and a wave of her hand, the cage door swung open, and Elatis stepped inside. She moved with a certain grace, as dignified as any noble. And when she knelt at the broken tiefling’s side, reached out a hand to embrace him—her touch was almost gentle. Kind. 

“Shh. Hush, Nonagon. You were destined for this,” Elatis soothes, her voice washing over him in a soft, lilting lullaby. 

She combed back a lock of hair to revel a crimson Eye branding his throat—a voracious hunger reflected in her own haunting stare. 

She beckoned for Bren to join him, and he was helpless to do anything but follow. Gaze pointedly averted as he crossed the threshold, forced himself to enter the tiefling’s prison. He can’t bear to look too closely, to see just how much the poor thing suffered. He could only bite his tongue and shudder, willing himself not to see. 

Beside him, the philosopher kept petting the long, dark locks of the tiefling’s tousled curls. It would have been comforting, perhaps even maternal, if not for the iron bars that caged him, the golden chains that bound him body and soul. 

“Aeor and Zemnias are the last remaining bastions of mortals,” Elatis mourned, her dark, piercing gaze softening for but a moment. “It was good of your master to send you here to learn, to join us in this time of so much war and strife. All are welcome here, in our design. You have but to ask, and we will open your mind to the Dream.”

My master wishes to see you fall, Bren thought darkly, Trent’s words still echoing in his head. “Join them. Learn from them all you can. Aid them, obey them. And steal whatever secrets you find. Bring back a weapon worthy of the Empire, one that can bring an end to Aeor.” 

“The tiefling you chose. He…was he alone when you found him? Has he no family?” The words taste like ash on his tongue, hanging heavy on his heart. Merely speaking them was tantamount to treason; any soul claimed by the gods, bound to their will—in the eyes of Aeor, their lives were already forfeit.

And when Elatis let him rifle through his personal artifacts, all that was confiscated from his person when they bound him in chains, Bren didn’t miss the shining little trinket of a crescent moon. The prayer to the Moonweaver foolishly scribbled on a bloodstained note. 

Another voice cackled, dark and gleeful. An elven archmage stood on the other side of the bars, teeth far sharper than any elf Bren had ever seen. His skin was a sickly pallor, and his eyes were rimmed by heavy circles just as dark and deep as Elatis’. 

When Bren looked at him closer, he swore for just a moment the man's eyes turned red.

Culpasi. He had seen the philosopher only in passing, but already loathed his company. 

“Oh, don’t you know where they got him?” The elf asked innocently, his smile sharp as a knife. “Some little troupe of traveling performers, in some shithole little town back on Exandria. A happy family of tieflings, putting on plays and nunnery. Quaint and adorable, I’m sure. Well, until someone looked into the caravan, and found out one of the kids was a walking corpse. Parents handed him over to some hag, if you can believe that. And the things they made their other son do, well…let’s just say, he’s far better off in here. Rather lucky we found him, really.” 

“He…struggled, the first few years,” Elatis admitted sadly. “Lashed out whenever someone got too close, afraid of our gifts. But we helped him to forget, the poor dear; opened his mind to the Dreams—cleared his troubled head a bit. And he’s been quite docile and tame ever since.” 

“Lost all the fight in him when we emptied out his thick skull,” Culpasi said, with a knowing grin that made Caleb’s heart twist. 

The way the philosopher looks at him, it’s like he knows, and it makes Bren sick. 

There’s this…hollow emptiness, that lives deep inside him, some vital part that was cut out and carved away. Excising the rot, so the rest of the tree can grow—that’s what they told him, when they took it. When he woke with weeks and months and years just gone, all of it slipping away. He doesn’t remember who Bren Aldrich Eremund was before he boarded his first skyship, the boy who lived in the world below. They took it, when they broke him. Reforged his soul in fire and brimstone, dug deep beneath his skin and tore him up from the inside. 

Did Bren have a family? A home? Did someone miss him, somewhere far below the sky and stars down there? 

Or was he like the tiefling, all alone? Abandoned? Forsaken by family and the gods both. 

From within the cage, a soft, mournful cry echoes. Inhuman, but so innately mortal. Anguished. Heartbroken. The kind of hushed, choked back cries that escaped Caleb in the midst of his own night terrors. 

Bren had seen his victims beg. Had heard the words, alien and distant, discordant—as if submerged deep beneath dark waters, drifting and drowning and fighting for breath. The rest of the world a distant memory. He hears it, sees it, but he’s choking and gasping, can’t move, can’t breathe, pulled under by the current. He suffocates, and everything burns. 

They were traitors, enemies to the Empire, Caleb told himself, chanting the mantra over and over, shutting out the sight of all those fearful eyes and agonized screams. But…if he was ordered to partake in this creature’s torment, to torture this being whose only crime was being born to a wretched fate—

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t the enemy, a killer, a poison, a betrayer—

He had a family, Bren thinks, and for some reason, that more than anything breaks him. 

In Elatis’ arms, the sleeping tiefling continues to tremble and shake, thrashing in some subconscious attempt to break free of her grasp, twisting and writhing with a plaintive, desperate cry. “Empty,” he chokes out weakly, voice soft and slurred by sleep. He echoes the word again and again, a breathless litany, a hollow chant of shaking breaths. “Empty. Empty. Empty—” 

“Shh. Come now, dear. No more of that.” 

Elatis runs her hands over a single red Eye, and all at once the tiefling’s shaking body falls still, an eerie, disquieting calm falling over him like a shroud. As another dream claims him, the tiefling smiles faintly, as if finally at peace.  

“W-What did you do?” Bren whispers. 

Elatis pats the boy’s head fondly. “I merely let him have the Dream his heart desires. You see? Through dreams, even the most haunted soul can heal. It is our blessing, a gift—one that we wish to share with the whole world. Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

It’s cruel, Bren thinks. You’ve done nothing but carve out every part of him. You’re toying with him, pulling at his strings just like the Matron. “It certainly seems…useful,” he says, and lets the rest die on his tongue, choking it back like bile. 

Elatis’ smile is purely tranquil, beatific. “Whenever you wish, we will always be there to welcome you home. Now, forgive me, but I must attend to other matters before tonight’s ritual. I look forward to working with you, Bren; I can sense you have a wonderful imagination, one I’m sure will create the loveliest dreams. Sleep well.” 

She glided down the dark corridor, humming a soft, soothing melody as she disappeared into the dungeons’ depths. 

Culpasi made to follow her, but not before getting far too close for Bren’s liking, and resting a deathly cold hand on his shoulder. 

“A word of advice, friend,” he said, still smiling bright. “Maybe don’t do anything stupid, alright? I mean, really—letting a wild animal out of its cage? What do you think will happen?” 

Before Bren could stammer out that he had no idea what the mage was going on about, the elf turned on his heel, and vanished in a cloud of burning smoke. 

As the searing heat and choking taste of ash began to fade, Bren stood alone. There was only the darkness, the cage—and the hollow, empty soul who laid still before him. A sudden impulse seized him, desperate and foolish. Suicidal. What the hell are you thinking, Eremund? What in the world are you doing? He was reaching out to the tiefling before he could stop himself, acting on sheer instinct, compelled by some force more powerful than any charm or curse. 

Bren’s hand hovered above him uncertainly, hanging over the tiefling’s shoulder for but a moment. Verdammt. In a snap decision, he shook the tiefling roughly, enough to wake him from the mage’s spell.

“Hey! You—ah, you are, the traveling player, ja? From the little caravan troupe? Do you remember?”

The creature stirred from twisting dreams, tossing and turning as his tail lashed with every shaking breath. Bleary eyes blinked open wide amidst the charm induced haze, peering out fearfully into the darkness, glowing with a feral light. Eyes as red as the brands upon his skin, but…softer. Full of longing. 

Though Bren’s words didn’t seem to reach him, there was a waking intelligence in his piercing crimson gaze, the stirring remnants of a soul that had not yet been broken.

“Can…can you hear me?” Bren whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, looking him in the eyes. Bearing a part of his heart he had long since buried. “I…I feel empty too. I know what it is, what they did to you…And I swear, I—I won’t hurt you.” 

A flash of fear flickers in those hollow, empty eyes, a brief spark of something in that vacant, glassy stare. You’re in there, somewhere, Bren thinks, latching onto it like a lifeline, seizing that single thread of fading consciousness. Reaches out and pulls until it all unravels. 

“You don’t want to die down here, do you?” He whispers, bending down to gaze right into the tiefling’s burning carmine eyes. “You want to live.” 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Taylor Lorenz at Substack:

We need to know who is funding the creator economy

Yesterday, a federal indictment revealed that a Tennessee media company working with right-wing influencers including Benny Johnson, Tim Pool, Dave Rubin, and Lauren Southern, was receiving significant funding from the Russian state-sponsored network RT to push Russian disinformation. The indictment is absolutely wild and WIRED has a great rundown on the details, including how the propaganda efforts worked. The case serves as the latest high profile example of how “independent media” on the right is anything but independent, and underscores the need for more transparency around funding models in the creator economy. It also shows how disinformation efforts have increasingly focused on penetrating U.S. media through content creators, and how lucrative being a pawn in these schemes can be. While right wing content creators position themselves as scrappy upstarts, leaning into anti-establishment and populist brand positioning, they frequently accept money from far right interest groups, extremist billionaires, and even foreign actors.  Tenet Media received nearly $10 million, distributed out across a network of YouTubers and podcasters. As part of the disinformation campaign, Tenet Media influencers published hundreds of videos on social media that promoted Kremlin talking points. The videos were shared across platforms including YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, X, and TikTok, reaching tens of millions of viewers.

[...] The far right recognized the opportunities in personality-driven media decades ago. After boosting talk radio stars in the 80s and 90s, when social media proliferated, they began to invest heavily in news influencers who seamlessly blend entertainment, news commentary, and far right political messaging into YouTube videos, Instagram memes, podcasts and more. 

[...]

Ben Shapiro's Daily Wire has been heavily funded by wealthy Republican donors, including the Wilks brothers, Texas-based billionaires known for their oil and fracking fortune. Charlie Kirk, founder of Turning Point USA, has benefited from significant funding from conservative mega donors including the Koch network.  When right wing creators began getting deplatformed more frequently on mainstream social media apps in the second half of the 2010s, an entire ecosystem of alternative platforms aimed at helping extremist influencers monetize and amass audiences, cropped up. Rumble, a video sharing platform similar to YouTube backed by billionaire Peter Thiel, began paying far right influencers and anti vaxx content creators hundreds of thousands of dollars to create content on its platform in 2021. Locals, a newsletter platform owned by Rumble, allows influencers to monetize through newsletters in a similar way to Substack. DLive, a right wing Twitch competitor, allowed influencers storming the Capitol building on January 6th, to make thousands of dollars off their live streams. Kick and Cozy.tv, two other right wing live streaming platforms, permit nearly any far right extremist the ability to create content and start earning money. And X, under Musk, has paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars to right wing influencer accounts.

The robust financial backing the right wing content creator ecosystem enjoys, allows extremists the ability to fund professional production teams, social media ad buys, and marketing initiatives that give them a competitive advantage online. In contrast, progressive creators are left to rely on meager donations and crowdfunding efforts to sustain their work. This financial imbalance has made it nearly impossible for left-wing content creators to match the reach or production quality of their right-wing counterparts. Already, several Russia-backed Tenet Media influencers, including Benny Johnson and Tim Pool, have been doing damage control. They've publicly stated that they had no idea about the origins of the money and claimed that they were merely unwitting victims who were misled by the company. 

Right-wing media influencers like Nick Sortor (even though he wasn’t named in the indictment), Benny Johnson, and Tim Pool aren’t “independent media” in any way.

[the-slasher-files]

BARBED WIRE THAT BINDS US — Ghost Among us (I)

NIKTO X ANDREI KULOKOV [oc]

M x M — ENEMIES TO LOVERS

WARNINGS: Intense gore, violence, Andrei is a slasher, menitons of rape and sa, torture, war, death, angst, PTSD, 18+ language, eventual smut (?), slow burn

MASTERLIST — SERIES MASTERLIST

Shells smoked as they burned the dead grass around black boots. Another round in the chamber and fired at the set of wooden targets posed to look like breathing individuals.

They were just targets.

No blood and guts spilling to soak the soil this time. But he recalls it. Blue orbs of light now reach the dull reflection of the dead as he shoots another round. Pouring the bullets into splintered wood, emptying a magazine, the third one today. Always reaching the images of the dead around him, blood on his hands and teammates howling as he stands. A broken mind lost in a fight reaction. Not present, yet doing his job with a barbarous edge. Stepping over the corpses and cocked with the gun in his hands; A picture of his current state, except there were no bodies, no war, no danger. Just a field outside of the army base where he could be alone. Blue sky above and birds silent from the cracking of a gun.

He was the only soldier allowed to leave the high walls lined with barbed wire for target practice. Having credentials — medical and psychological — suddenly the gates opened with his therapist's words, "It will be good for him to get out and be alone. Let his mind process the world and feelings around him.". Treating him like a child who is unable to understand the words strewn in front of him. At least they acknowledged his mind and tried to ease him, unlike the Russian army that used him like a pawn— Something from a book, hidden away until they needed a blood-soaked berserker with a mind stowed only for the brutality of man.

"Nikto! Colonel wants to see you!"

The large masked man sends a gaze over his shoulder before fully turning to the origin of the voice. Evgeni. A short man with the heart of a lion.

"Heard?" He questions, knowing Nikto's disorder and simply receives a nod in response. "He wants you quickly, soldier!"

The other Russian turns curtly and disappears into the concrete maze that was the base.

Gloved hands set down the Kastov; Hot barreled and safety on, locking it up and making his way to the Colonel's office. Nikto walked with his head high, but shoulders tense. Paying no mind to the others that sneered and mocked him, wolves in packs ready to pick, nip, and spill the blood of a weak one. However, they were all talk. They knew what the masked man could do and would not dare to grip the scruff of his neck — That was unless they wanted to have a knife split their flesh, ear from ear.

The large body stopped before an oak door, a sigh passing his scarred lips as the guard dressed in black opened the door quickly. Shoulders turned to slip into the office with eyes keeping watch on the guard until he closed the door. A soldier's hackles raised from being in a small room, knowing he'll be safe, but the body remains lost in old habits.

"Nikto. Pleased to see you." The man spoke clearly and strong behind a large desk, watching cautious steps approach a dark leather chair. König — His colonel, leader of Kortac and a king on the battlefields — extended a large hand, "Sit."

Nikto grasped the armrest and did as he was told with keen midnight blue eyes, fingers tightening between raps. The hulking hooded figure reached downward to grab a folder from his desk, one that was thick and held together with a large clip.

"I'm not one to keep my men long so, you have a new mission soldier." The Austrian accent was thick but Nikto understood every word, raising his brow beneath black fabric. "It is a solo mission. One I give to you and you only due to the location and subject."

His teeth caught what was left of his bottom lip, grazing over the scars and his eyes pointed to the folder pushed before him. Konig could feel the unease only briefly until the emotion was placed with hardened steel.

"That— he, is your mission..."

"Andrei Kulokov," Nikto mouthed under the deep timber that was his Colonel. His head met every word that Konig spoke.

"A ghost of the North..."

"A wolf..."

The Russian shifted within his chair, sitting up stiff, intrigued, and tongue darting against his lips. This man was a legend they tried to erase from modern history.

People said he died drugged up and shot in the head, brains blown out against the stones of Russia's most highly secured prisons. Legend says the wolf murdered 20 men in the back of a convoy during the transfer to said prison.

But he was alive.

"Highly dangerous and armed. Andrei was spotted in Norway, Ukraine, Slovakia and Belarus. He goes wherever he is asked or wherever his desires take him." Konig took a breath, standing from his chair and taking a few steps to the window on his left as Nikto opened the file. Gloved fingers run across papers covered in black redacted ink and blurry photos.

"This... "Wolf" is rumoured to have some sort of home or shelter near the smaller, northernmost regions of Russia." He continued to explain, "...Wanted for war crimes, killing his own men, possible kidnapping of women and men,"

There was a sudden break in the sentence, blue eyes snapping to Konig's fist that was beginning to destroy the plastic cup within his deathlike grip.

"And now, he hunts soldiers like us." The hooded man turned back to the Russian, eyes meeting under shadowed masks.

"Dead or alive?" Nikto read aloud, questioning his superior.

"Affirmative. Study up on the target, and anything you need is at your disposal... Wheels up at 0630, soldier."

▪︎▪︎▪︎

The thick black boot was forced upon the man's trachea. Bubbles, muffled screams barely passed the waves of the water. A thrashing body tried to break the surface. Fingertips bloodied, clawing at the tiles and the man above who played god.

Piercing icy blue eyes seemed to fade into black. Any sign of a man was left behind for a predator as the crimson flooded into the clear. Like ink, it spread. A knife tearing apart a struggling carcass from the navel to the collar bones.

The face of a man with the teeth of hounds fell away into darkness. In a brutal, final act. The wolf pressed his full weight down with his other boot against the man's thighs, literally splitting the man in half. Splayed open like a deer carcass with ribs up and open, spine protruded beyond the flesh. Cracked open over the edge of the tub. Motionless. Dog tags sunk to the bottom of murky water. And the weight was removed from the body, letting it slump and spill out within the Latvian hotel.

Another one dead for some cash and a favor.

'It's done'

[sanvirtheobserver]

Taking Flight, Chapter 57: They Are Here, Part 2

The air grows still just beyond the town of Bloopersville, with everyone having barricaded themselves in their homes. The vapors from the crater have expanded to a thick fog. Tari and the others keep their weapons at the ready as they enter a circle formation. FM makes sure to keep Minion close as he racks a fresh shell into the chamber of his shotgun.

Tari: I'm starting to think Mario was onto something.

Everyone remains on high alert, keeping the formation tight as they carefully scan through the haze.

Meggy: I just hope it's not angry. Or hungry.

Mario: Now I want barbecue.

Rapid footsteps can be heard as a shadow darts through the mist.

FM: HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE OR I'LL SHOOT!

Minion: Wait! Maybe it comes in peace. HELLO? MR. ALIEN? ARE YOU HERE TO EAT US?

There's the footsteps again.

Minion: Huh. Maybe he's just shy.

FM: Sounded like it was heading for the town. Minion, you stay here with Tari. Meggy, Bob, on me!

The three venture out of the formation and head towards the town. Bob is starting to get a little tense with every peak around the corner.

FM: You see anything?

Bob carefully looks across the street. A slimy trail leads behind one of the houses.

Bob: This way!

The three close in on the corner. Bob primes his guns as he gets in closer. A shape can be seen coming into view.

Meggy: What the hell?

Back at the crater, Tari examines the hollow shell. The inside was coated in a pale green oil with an extremely strong stench. She breaks off a piece of the shell. It was much softer now as it crumbled in her hand like old wax.

Tari: Hm........

Meanwhile, Meggy and Minion are having some Uncle-Niece bonding time with a board game. Mario rolls a die that lands on the number five. prompting him to move his knight in front of his row of pawns. Minion draws a three-of-diamonds, allowing her to gain an extra queen on the field. Looks like she has the upper hand now as she rolls a three and places a rook on the front line. But Mario manages to draw a king before getting a six, allowing him to instantly claim Minion's king.

Minion: D'aww.

Mario: HAHA! Better luck next time!

Meggy: GUYS!

Tari pops out of the crater in time to see the others come back. She's surprised to see a familiar little Mushroom boy with them, covered in slime and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

Tari: Oh my goodness......... Shroomy?

Mario: What's he doing here?

Meggy: We found him like this in town. Looks like he was what came out of that thing when it hatched.

Tari walks up to the wide-eyed and shaky boy.

Tari: Shroomy? It's okay. You're safe now.

Shroomy: They........ they tried to take me........

Tari: Who did?

Shroomy: THEM! Ancient deacons from the deepest abyss of creation, who bend the stars to their will!

He begins running around the group like a maniac, frantically screaming to the top of his lungs.

Shroomy: THEY ARE COMING FOR US ALL !

He stops for a moment before collapsing onto his back out of exhaustion. The group gathers the collapsed boy scout with an air of confusion and concern.

Mario: Well, he's lost it. Anyone wanna grab a burger?

FM: What the hell was He even talking about?

Bob: We all know damn well what! As much as I hate to say it....... Mario was right. Boopkins has been abducted by aliens, and now they've set up shop in his house!

Shroomy rears himself up and grabs Mario by the collar.

Shroomy: Be careful my friends, lest they imprison you in cocoons to save you for their Jumbalaya!

Mario: Oh, that sounds tasty!

Bob: THAT'S IT!

He reloads his SMGs and immediately starts looking for a car to hot wire.

Tari: Bob, wait! Where are you going?

Bob: To save my best friend! I'm gonna bust down that front door and blow those extraterrestrial asshats full of holes! I don't care how many there are, I'll kick as much ass as I have to!

Meggy: Okay, let's say there ARE aliens over there. Do you seriously expect to take them all on by yourself? The only thing you might accomplish is winding up like Shroomy........ or worse.

Bob: What the hell do you expect me to do? I can't just leave him there! Either you load up or step aside! I don't care which.

FM: Alright, alright! Let's calm down. Now, as much as I like your attitude, I gotta agree with Meggy here. Whatever is in that house, we have no idea what these things are or what they're capable of. We're gonna need more expertise on this matter.

He brings out a cellphone and makes a quick call.

FM: Hi. I'd like some assistance with a potential alien invasion, please?............ Somewhere on the coast, at a friend's house......... Alright, meet me here in Bloopersville and I'll lead the way........... thank you sir.

A spectacular sight unfolds on the freeway as a campervan barrels down the road, crashes through a barricade of police cars, ramps off a cliff with a 360 degree nosedive top spin, lands on Old Man Hobo, breaks through the gates of Argent D'nur, kneecaps a Balrog, and erupts out of the ground before slowing down and coming to a stop right in front of the group........ and then explodes. Now everybody's just confused.

Meggy: What.......... just happened?

From the smoke and flames emerges a Soldier, Heavy, Spy, and Engineer all clad in tacky monster hunting paraphernalia and weird gadgets that do NOT look stable nor safe to use. Clearly, these aren't your average Mann Co Mercs.

Tari: Um.........FM? .........Where did you find these guys again?

FM: I saw a commercial earlier about this "ANTI SPOOK SQUAD" on the TV. Apparently they're experts on the issue. Dirt cheap, too.

Meggy: So you guys are supposed to be monster hunters?

Soldier: That's right!

He steps aside to introduce his colleagues.

Soldier: This is Spy! He's great at going "all sneaky deaky like."

Spy: Finally, some recognition.

Soldier: This is Heavy, our Russian death God!

Heavy: Sanvich.

Soldier: And this is our toymaker Engi!

Engi just stands there with an oddly menacing grin. If you listen closely, you can hear something along the lines of "FETCH ME THEIR SOULS" in that head of his.

Soldier: We take ghost heads and crap em back to Canada! Ghosts, wizards, robots, mutants, we know how to crap em because we INVENTED and PERFECTED it so that we are the best in the world! They said we couldn't do it, they said we shouldn't do it, they begged us NOT to do it, AND WE DID IT ANYWAY! Any questions?

Bob: Yeah. How are we sure you bozos actually know what the hell you're doing?

Spy: AHEM. Engineer? If you please.

Engi: Alrighty then!

Engi proceeds to pull a whole Scout out of his pocket and places it in the center of a conveniently pre-prepped pentagram before plunging a dagger through his chest. He square dances to the Scout's agonized screams as a rift to the abyss beyond darkness opens. As all of this is happening, Tari once again feels a vibration in her pocket. The compass is acting up again much to her curiosity. A spectral hand emerges from the rift. Engi offers up a pile of metal, and the hand's fingers proceeds to clutch around its tithe. The hand opens again to present a fully built toolbox before disappearing into the rift as it closes. One tap of a wrench causes the tool box to open up and reveal a fully operational Level 3 Sentry. Bob was........ at a loss for words, and no longer eager to question the "experts."

Bob: Alright. So what's our gameplan, here?

FM: I'll go find a babysitter for Minion. We'll meet back up at the house by sundown.

Meggy: Me and Mario will be over at the Showgrounds. If anything goes wrong, we'll need backup.

Tari: I'll need to drop by Omnia.

She looks down at the now dormant compass.

Tari: There's something I need to look into. Something we might be able to use.

FM: Alright, Bob. Lead the way.

And so the crew sets out and prepares for the raid ahead, not knowing what kinds of surprises may be in store for them as they set out to save their friend........ and perhaps the world.

[talentforlying]

NINE NIFTY THINGS YOUR MUSE CAN DO.

01. write & read music. not that punk band mucous membrane was churning out grammy-winning material, mind you, but knowing where all the notes go on a sheet of staff paper, which ones sound good together, and a handful of things about tempo and rhythm aren't half-bad skills to have. of course, constantine's process for writing music would make professional composers cry, but these days he most often puts this skill towards creating new spells, since he finds the principles remarkably similar, so the music world is spared his endeavors for now. ( underground single venus of the hardsell excepting. )

02. miniature-scale arts & crafts. he's really gifted with his hands, and with any activity that requires fine motor skills: intricate ritual-carving, cutting his own hair, braiding other people's hair, restringing an instrument, rolling insanely long joints, fixing jewelry, sewing, threading a corset, building a detail-accurate small scale model of a chair out of matchboxes for an ex-girlfriend's miniature house.

03. electrical work. another useful application of his excellent fine motor skills. he's lived in enough shithole apartments and had to hot-wire enough cars for friends to know his way around a wiring issue or two, not to mention the fact that electricity can be a handy supplemental power source in certain spells and it's helpful knowing how to get to it wherever you are. it stands out because he's pretty terrible with most other forms of household maintenance; there's just something uniquely mind-boggling about a guy who can't unclog his sink but can install a circuit breaker like a pro.

04. tie a cherry stem with his tongue. natch.

05. get anywhere in london, and cite almost anything in its history, from memory. a big bloody city with a big, bloody history attracts a lot of unearthly creatures with a lot of different emotional, spiritual, psychic, and physical fancies; it's been useful for him to know where significant events have happened, and when, and why, in case something starts up and the symptoms strike a chord. it's also useful to know where to go when he needs to gather specific kinds of information: the seedier pawn shops, gang territories, high-end clubs where celebrities and politicians go to hide from the press. on top of the strategic reasons, he's also spent a significant amount of time being homeless under a few different circumstances, and keeps his accumulated knowledge of last-ditch shelters, times that the police patrol the sewer tunnels, and safe places for a meal close at heart.

06. gamble with a 100% win rate. two of his best tricks are synchronicity wave traveling and probability manipulation, where he basically feels out the flow of luck in the space around him and shifts the current to go his way. it's incredibly dangerous on a larger scale, since it can cause a butterfly effect — too risky to use on avoiding a hit that would have killed him or sabotaging a villain's scheme, for example — but as long as he sticks to small-scale, short-term events like horse races and poker games, he cleans up easy. it's his primary source of income, since he doesn't have an actual job.

07. melt the face off a vampire. specifically the former king of the vampires, but supposedly any. demon blood is a nasty thing to have in your veins, and incredibly corrosive upon ingestion/absorption, for unknown reasons. if anyone wanted a snack they'd have a bad, bad time.

08. semi-fluently sign in & understand BSL. he credits his reason for learning to a deaf ex-boyfriend he dated in the 90s and has continued to brush up on his skills over time, although his preference to learn languages from the people who use them, lack of consistent lessons, and geographically-wide variety of friends has resulted in a . . . frankly nightmarish hodgepodge of dialects that can make him harder to understand.

09. play electric guitar, bass guitar & harmonica. he was lead vocalist and bassist for mucous membrane, and although they were only together a year before the newcastle incident, he'd been learning both electric and bass for a year or two before. it took him a long, long time to pick it up again, given the circumstances, but he managed to get his hands on a fender 1962 jazz bass a few years back and has been slowly but steadily working on getting the old feel back. the harmonica started as a joke gift from gary after constantine and chas got arrested for a pub fight in '77, so they could play it to pass the time when they inevitably got shafted by the system ( they didn't, constantine talked their way out ) but he became quite genuinely good at it, and now it's his shameful secret.

[kelyon]

Live Wire 4: Living Together

Belle is a ghost haunting the electricity in Gold's house.

Belle and Gold share a life together

Read on AO3

Being a ghost was so much better when someone knew you were alive. For the first time in decades, Belle’s existence had meaning again. Gold and Bae lived in her house and Gold knew about her! She knew their names because he had told her! Gold had understood that the flashing lights and unusually active electronics meant that something was there. He had seen her reaching out--the first person in over a hundred years who had noticed her. He had made an effort to communicate with her. He had called her by her name! 

For so long, Belle had been lonely, lonelier than a living person ever could be. She’d watched a family live their lives--grow up and grow old around her--and none of them had ever known she was there. But Gold knew. He had figured it out. Until the end of time, or whenever she stopped existing, Belle would be grateful to him. Him acknowledging her gave her a purpose. Now, all she wanted to do was help her Gold and his son. 

****

It was difficult at first. Electronics had changed since the days of the family. Bae and Gold both spent most of their time staring at devices. Not only the television and Bae’s video games, but portable computing machines and strange, flat telephones that apparently served as windows to the entire world. A world that she was still locked out of. Belle’s abilities were connected to the house, to the wires and outlets in the walls where she’d died. These new marvels only had to be plugged into the wall some of the time--usually when they weren’t being used. There was no way for her to enter a battery and spend the day in Gold’s pocket. 

Often, Bae forgot to set the alarm on his cell phone. Belle could only make it ring if he had plugged it in to charge--which he didn’t always do. When this happened, she would try to wake him up some other way, by flashing the lights or turning the filter on his aquarium on and off. Sometimes he would sleep through those, which meant Gold would have to walk up three flights of stairs on his bad leg just to tell his son that breakfast was ready. 

This infuriated Belle. There was nothing worse than having no effect on circumstances around her. It defeated the whole purpose of existing! These occasions were when she truly felt like a ghost--unable to do anything but watch people she loved suffer.

Quickly, Gold learned Belle’s limitations, and even more quickly understood how much she hated them. To accommodate her, he brought a pair of clock radios from his pawn shop into his and Bae’s bedrooms. Gold told Bae that it would be better to keep their phones downstairs, to limit screen time for both of them. Bae complained, but eventually conceded that the clocks were “retro,” which was apparently satisfactory.

Now Belle could wake them up in the mornings without any problems. She tuned the radios to music they would like, woke them in ways that suited them best. Gold liked classical music played at a slowly-increasing volume. He could ease into a morning like a sunrise. Bae, on the other hand, would sleep through anything less subtle than a Klaxon Company automobile horn. Over time, Belle found that if she blasted classic rock and roll music at a high enough volume, Bae would be out of bed and halfway through brushing his teeth before he’d even opened his eyes. She made his bedroom lights a little dim on dark Maine mornings, so it would be easier for the boy to blink himself awake.

Belle loved the hustle and bustle of their morning routines, especially in the kitchen. She was there in the grinder for Gold’s coffee beans, and heating up the coffee itself. Bae’s Pop-Tarts never burned and were never too hot in the middle. If they made oatmeal on the stove, Belle balanced the heating element to make sure the milk never scalded the pot. On weekends, Gold would fry bacon and eggs or pancakes on the electric griddle, squeeze oranges in an electric juicer. Everything came out perfect. Belle made sure of that. 

These were, mostly, the same services she used to do for the family. The appliances were more advanced, but she figured them out. It was nice to have a challenge again, something to occupy her mind. 

Gold made all the difference. He didn’t talk to her in front of his son, but he let her know he knew she was there. He would mutter words of thanks under his breath, knowing she was always listening. The way he touched his appliances was almost a caress, and she was sure he only did it because of her. He would wipe the machines down after each use, keeping them clean on the outside, while Belle maintained them on the inside.      

He never officially told Bae that Belle existed. He did speak openly about the “spiritual essence” of the house and how “benevolent forces” were watching over them. Bae seemed to take such statements in stride, believing Gold as much as any teen-ager believed anything their parents said. 

Belle didn’t blame the boy for not believing in ghosts. Nor did she blame Gold for being cagey about her existence. Even with proof, the idea that the soul of a woman from a hundred years ago was haunting the electricity of one’s house was a lot to ask someone to accept. She had hardly believed it when Gold had first spoken her name.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe he had kept talking to her once she had made her presence known. 

****

Through a lengthy process of trial and error, they developed a way of communicating together. At first, everything had been very one-way. Gold would speak and Belle would flash the lights to answer yes or no questions. Attempts to utilize Mr. Morse’s telegraph code ended up being too cumbersome for a regular conversation. Gold would lose count of the dashes and dots, or Belle would be so excited to say something she would hurry through her flickers. She’d make a long blink of the lights too short and a short blink barely visible at all. Gold would get confused and they’d have to start all over again. 

The breakthrough came when Gold brought home a magnetic tape recorder. He kept it in the office he shared with Bae, telling his son that he was recording a daily journal. That was just a cover. The real purpose of the tape recorder was something he could pretend to be talking into, while he was giving Belle a long monologue of his thoughts.

He told her about his day, about Storybrooke and the world outside the house, the daily hassles and minor celebrations of a small town. He told her about history, what had changed since she had been alive. He told her about himself. About Bae. About the wife he was now divorced from and the journey of self-actualization he had undertaken that had led him to where he was now. 

Belle took in every word. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was for new information--for stories as well as facts. Gold had so much to speak about, including things he had never told anyone before. 

If only she could reciprocate! Belle had as much to tell Gold as he had to tell her. She wanted to give him knowledge from her time, little details that didn’t get written about in history books. She would tell him more about the house, of the family that had lived their lives here. She would tell him of herself--all the thoughts and feelings, joys and sorrows, that she had never been able to express to a living soul.

She would tell him how much it meant to her that he treated her like a person.

****

For a few weeks, Gold made his “recordings” at night, after Bae had gone to sleep. One night, the boy suffered from a bout of biliousness and sought his father out. Gold directed his son to the stomach medications, then sent him back to bed. On his way out of the office, Bae had pointed out that the plug for the tape recorder was dangling from the table, well away from the outlet. To save face, Gold hastily plugged in the cord, then went to bed himself.

Leaving Belle alone with a tape recorder that was--for the first time--connected to her. 

She settled in, exploring the machine as she did every new device. She manipulated the buttons, made the spools of tape spin around at varying speeds, played back the ancient recording that was on the tape. She even went into the microphone Gold spoke into. For a lark, Belle swooped around the wiring, finding it particularly sensitive to vibrations. She jumped back and forth along a thin ribbon of metal between two magnets.

She did this for a while, until the tape ran out and the Record button snapped back into place. The sudden change got her attention. Had that button been pushed down the whole time? Had she been recording something?

Carefully, Belle rotated the spindles that were in the center of the circular reels of tape. That wound the tape backwards from one spool to the other, so it was starting at the beginning again. From inside the machine, she pushed down the button marked Play. 

She tried not to get her hopes up that the recorder had actually captured any sound. She was merely experimenting. She just had to make sure that her hypothesis was correct. Besides, what else did she have to do with her time?

For forty-five minutes, Belle listened to the crackles and whirs of the recorder playing back the silence of an empty room. Then, towards the end, there came a barrage of strange sounds of varying pitch. It was so loud, Belle had to turn down the volume for fear of waking up Gold or Bae. As she listened more, she understood what she was hearing. 

If she breathed, her breath would have stopped.

Belle was hearing the effects of her presence in the microphone. Playing back and forth with the ribbon of wire, doing that had made noise.  

Noise.

It wasn’t sound yet. 

But it was a start. 

****

She spent the rest of the night refining her understanding of the microphone. She recorded her efforts, rewound the tape again and again, and listened to the results. Through this process, the noises turned into sounds. Then the sounds became a voice. 

Her voice.

For the first time in over a hundred years, Belle heard her own voice.

“Hello?”

Her voice sounded on the edge of tears--though she had no eyes to cry with, no throat to close up with emotion. 

“Gold? Gold, I’m aware of the incomprehensibility of these circumstances, but you have my absolute assurance of reality. This is me.” The voice from the recorder was almost sobbing. “This is Belle French, speaking to you.”

Her words began to speed up, as the gravity of the situation lifted and all that was left was the euphoria.

“As I speak, it is twenty-seven minutes past four in the morning. There is nothing in the world I want more than to wake you this minute and bring you into your office to hear me. I--I’m so… overcome, to share this news with you. To share myself with you.” She gave out a chuckle, a breath that she didn’t have. “I hope you can appreciate the twofold blessing of this event: That at last I have the ability to speak to you, and that I can share this accomplishment with you. There is the joyous discovery itself, and then the… the communion of joy, I suppose would be the way to put it, though that has a ring of religiosity that may not be appropriate given my supernatural circumstances. I never gave much credence to spiritualism, but…”

She babbled on until the tape ran out. It was tempting to rewind the reels and record over her first message in the hopes that now she might be more coherent, but there was such sincerity in her first attempt. Belle had no desire to deny the depth of feeling that had gripped her at the first thought of sharing her voice with another person.

And the thought of sharing her voice with Gold, specifically. 

Nervous and excited, Belle burned off a little power by zooming through the house and revving up every device one by one. From outside Bae’s room in the attic, down to the basement chest freezer, she gave a boost to everything she touched. 

It wasn’t enough. Her happiness burned so brightly, there was no bulb that could contain it. She could power a spotlight, a searchlight, she could rival the sun.

She couldn’t wait anymore. It was close enough to Gold’s regular alarm time. Waking him now wouldn’t spoil his day.

Belle burst into the radio at full volume, turned on every light in his bedroom at once. Gold groaned and cursed and covered his eyes. At least he had been aware of her for long enough to instantly understand that she was trying to get his attention. 

“What?” he croaked. His voice was always rough and deep when he first woke up. “What is it, Belle?”

She blinked the lights in a path leading to his bathroom, signaling that she wanted him to get up and get ready.

Still in bed, Gold looked at the clock. “It’s early.” He complained as badly as Bae did. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Belle retraced the pattern of light bulbs leading from Gold’s bed to the bathroom--one by one, deliberately, to signal that she was being very patient and repeating herself for his benefit. 

Groggily, infuriatingly slowly, Gold got out of bed and began to dress. 

Over the years, Belle had made a habit of turning away from her inhabitants during private moments. Curious as she might be about Gold’s body, she was no peeping tom. Today, however, she was sorely tempted to make an exception--just to make sure he hadn’t gone back to sleep. 

Finally, Gold  appeared in front of his bedroom, fully appareled in one of his modern suits. Belle lit a path of lights down the hall to his office. She had to blink the desk lamp several times before he understood that she wanted him to sit down. By no means could she begin the recording while he was still standing.

As soon as her voice came out of the speaker, Gold’s lingering irritation melted away. The hard lines of his face went soft, and he put his hand over his mouth. His other hand shook as he reached to stop the tape.

“Belle?” he whispered. He directed his question to the tape recorder. There were tears in his eyes. “Belle is that really you?”

She started to blink the lamp, then thought of something better. She re-wound the tape, and went into the microphone. It only took her a second to record her answer, then she pressed Play.

“Yes, Gold. It’s really me.”

****

After that, everything changed. Gold found more recording devices and placed them all around the house. The kitchen, the living room, his bedroom--anywhere where they might want to talk to each other. He even acquired a portable ‘boom box’ that he could plug into an outlet on the front porch.  Bae was out of the house more often nowadays, spending time with his friends or at extracurricular activities. More evenings than not, the two of them were alone together.

“If it weren’t for you, I might lose myself in work again,” Gold told her one evening. He was alone in the dining room, savoring the supper he had made for himself. “I’m so glad I have you.” 

Belle knew what he was going to say, so she had her recorded answer ready: “I’m glad I have you, too.”

Now that they could really talk to each other, the closeness that had begun to grow between them blossomed into a deeper intimacy. Belle could ask questions of her Gold, she could offer her opinions. Gold would invite people from town into the house for dinner or a party, and then spend the rest of the night talking to Belle about them. When Bae’s friends and girl-friends came over, she would tell Gold who she thought was a good influence on him. He wanted to know what she thought, about everything that happened and everyone she met.

“I always wanted a man who would listen to me,” Belle told him once. “Back when I thought marriage was inevitable. There weren’t many men who would, in my day.”

Gold was in the process of taking off his shoes and putting his feet up at the end of a long day. The cold of a Maine winter played hell on his bad ankle, so he plugged in a heating pad and propped up his leg before he went to bed. Belle touched him through the insulated wires, rubbing and warming him, easing his pain. 

“I’ve always thought of love as being a home,” he sighed. “When you love someone, you should feel comfortable, and safe--” A yawn broke through his sentence. “--and warm.”

Belle couldn’t devote her attention to the heating pad and the tape recorder at the same time. It took her a moment to make a reply:

“You almost sound like you’re saying you love me.”

Gold smiled. That soft, sweet, almost-silly smile that he only wore when they were alone together. “I think I do, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Yes, Belle, I’m sure of it. I love you.”

****

The power surge blew every fuse in the house’s breaker box. Once Gold replaced them all and the electricity was restored, Belle was able to tell him that she loved him too.

****

Now that they had declared their love, Belle no longer felt compelled to look away when Gold dressed or bathed. Instead, she drank in the sight of him--though he was always a little embarrassed to be seen naked under  full lights. She told him how handsome she thought he was, the little details she found charming, how curious she was about the male body. Man of the world though he was, it made him blush to hear such sentiments played on a recording at full volume. 

It was much more comfortable for Gold when he could lay on his bed underneath an electric blanket. Darkness and closeness were more what he was used to in lovemaking. Through heated wires, Belle felt the shape of his form--the width of his shoulders, the grip of his large hands, the bulge of his sex. 

Both of them hesitated for her to get too close to his flesh. He said that there were ways--that there was equipment he could purchase for ‘electronic stimulation.’ Apparently some people sought out the sensation and accepted any potential risks. Belle said it wasn’t necessary. She couldn’t bear the possibility of hurting her Gold. And who could say if she’d be able to control herself in the midst of an erotic frenzy?

Safer by far to stick with the blanket. If he drew it up over his face, she could trace the shape of his lips, press into him like a kiss. Without any risk of injury, she could seek out all the parts of him that were sensitive. His nipples, his throat, the insides of his arms--she pulsed flutters of heat over his body. She touched him, while he touched himself. He whispered his fantasies of how beautiful he imagined her body was, of what he would do to her if she was with him, what they would do together.

There was, Belle could not deny, a little pang of loss every time he spoke about her body. At this point, she knew Gold in every way that mattered, and he knew her in every way but one. Was that enough?  Would their bond be stronger if she had skin for him to touch? Would they be any more intimate if she had a pulse that would quicken at his bold words? Would his passion increase if he could feel her labored breath against his ear? Would her existence matter more if she could physically experience the joys of the flesh? 

She could convince herself that the answer to these questions would always be a resounding no, but there were other matters that tore at her heart. Might they love each other more if they could have a child together? If they could have a life together? Was it wrong for the dead to love the living? Was Belle hurting Gold by keeping him a homebody, keeping him from seeking out a living companion? She had always wanted to see the world, to travel and explore. Just because she was trapped in these wires, there was no need for him to be bound to her.

He told her how he loved her, how happy she made him. He whispered nothings to her as he drifted off to sleep. Belle rested in the wires of his blanket, pressing herself against him like a spooning lover. If he rolled onto his back, she would form herself on top of him, the shape of the girl who had last drawn breath before Gold’s parents and grandparents were born. 

Her dearest love had so little time, all living people did. How could she ask him to waste it with her?

“Because I love you,” he told her once when she brought up her concerns. “Because I’ve already lived a life full of events but empty of meaning. The only things I’ve ever done that were truly worthwhile were to raise Bae and to find you.”

“But--” She had a reply recorded, but Gold stopped the tape.

“I was already resolved to spend the rest of my life in this house.” His voice was unemotional, but certain. “The only difference that meeting you makes is that now I don’t have to do it alone. And neither do you, sweetheart.” He stretched his hand wide over the recorder. “I don’t want you to be alone anymore. I’m never going to leave you, for as long as I can help it.”

****

As Bae grew older, Belle met Gold’s desire for companionship more and more. Their boy moved out of the house to go to college. On summers and school holidays, he came back with bags of dirty laundry and complaints about the school’s facilities being on the other side of campus from his dormitory. Belle took special care with his clothes when they were in the washer and dryer. She wanted her efforts to last until the next break. She wanted to take care of him, even while he was away from home.  

One break, Bae arrived with a girl he wanted his father to meet. Belle watched with envy as the couple sat beside each other on the sofa, as they held hands and shared secret smiles. Gold wasn’t sure about this girl, who had come from what he called “a rough background,” but Belle convinced him that this stranger was good enough for their Bae. Emma Swan made him happy, that was what mattered most.

It was a small wedding, small enough for them to host the ceremony in the house. Belle shone in the soft lights. She trilled in the lilting music from a portable keyboard. Gold typed out a speech on the old electric typewriter, and Belle pressed her agreement into every word. Night after night, she told Gold about the love she had for these children, the hope she had for their future, the determination that she would do everything in her limited power to make their lives easier. He knew, and he loved her more than ever for it.

After the ceremony, there was a party in the backyard, and the DJ hooked his amplifiers up to the house. In her own way, Belle danced the night away with everyone else.

Once he was a married man, Bae moved out all of his possessions that hadn’t already made their way to his and Emma’s apartment in Boston. It seemed so little time since he had first moved into his room in the attic, since Belle had first felt the glug of his aquarium filter.

“There will always be a place for you here.” Gold told his son what they both felt. “For you and Emma--and your family.”

In the empty room, Bae scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, that family might be coming a little sooner than we expected.”

“I know,” Gold smiled. 

Several times the night before, Emma had woken up to vomit in the bathroom. Belle had turned on the plug-in deodorizer, kept the lights from blinding the girl, then rushed off to tell Gold. 

After Henry was born, they came up to visit at least once a month. Often enough, Gold told them, to justify having a nursery fully-equipped with every conceivable electric convenience. Bae and Emma thought that this was just Gold spoiling his grandson--which it was--but it was also a way for Belle to take a turn caring for the baby. She warmed his bottles and his wet wipes. She worked a singing light-up automaton to soothe him and make him laugh and give his parents some much-needed sleep. Bae and Emma both said he never cried when he was in Storybrooke. Belle watched over Henry through his nightlights, as she had the children and grandchildren of the first couple who lived in her house. 

****

She watched over Gold too. She watched as his hair grew gray and thin. She watched as he leaned on his cane more and more. She watched when he coughed and couldn’t catch his breath. She watched him age and decline, the only man she had ever loved. 

She tried to help. He told her the schedule of when he had to take which medications, and she always reminded him. She also stopped him from taking too many, if he became forgetful and tried to make up for a dose he didn’t remember taking. When his hearing began to go, Belle looked after his rechargeable hearing aids. She made the house lights brighter, to help him see. As she had with the old woman in her last days, Belle kept Gold’s food fresh in the refrigerator, kept it from burning on the stove. In a normal house, the amount of electronic devices he kept plugged in might have proven a fire hazard, but not here. In this house, the machines were Belle’s tie to him. They were everything she could offer to him.

He met with his lawyer in the dining room, to hammer out a living will, along with everything else he would need, for the end.

“I want to stay in this house,” he told Bae once. “I don’t care if going to some facility would give me another six months, I want to be here. For as long as possible.”

“I know, Pop,” Bae said, patting the old man on the knee. “You’ve always been obsessed with this place.” 

“This is home,” Gold closed his eyes and leaned back to doze in his easy chair. The lights dimmed around him, too subtle for Bae to notice, but Gold did. He smiled. “Love is home.”

True to his wishes, the house became a hospital. Home-health nurses came and went, to monitor Gold’s condition when he became too frail to manage doctor visits. At first it was only visits during the day, but soon someone needed to be there overnight as well. New machines were plugged in--oxygen tanks, heart monitors, a newfangled hospital bed. Belle made sure all of them worked perfectly. The bed had an engine that moved the inside of the mattress and prevented a patient from getting bedsores. Belle was able to ease Gold’s muscles, keep him from aching. She touched him and soothed him as best she could.   

The tape recorder was still in his bedroom, shoved away into a corner but still plugged in. Belle could speak to him only briefly, when the nurses were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear her. Gold spoke to her as much as he ever had, muttering under his breath so the nurses wouldn’t think he had dementia. That was the one great gift of her Gold’s decline--as frail as his body had become, his mind was as sharp as ever. 

“My will is very clear,” he told her one night when he couldn’t sleep. “No one can change it, not even Bae--though Bae knows my wishes and he’s promised to abide by them.” He took a shaking breath. “I’ve set up a trust for you, sweetheart, a trust to preserve this house in perpetuity.” 

Another breath, labored. She shouldn’t let him talk so much. Everything he said were things that Belle already knew, that she had helped him plan. Telling her again was just him reassuring himself that she’d be taken care of.

“I’ve already had the house put on the National Register of Historic Places. It will never be torn down.” A wheeze. “I’ve bequeathed it to the town, instructed them to turn this residence into a museum. You’ll like that, won’t you, sweetheart? Always meeting new people--always learning new things--”

His speech was interrupted by one of his horrible, hacking coughs. Belle would have given anything to help him, even just to put a hand on his back or offer him a tissue. It was cold comfort to think that anyone would be helpless in this situation. That Bae or the nurses could do no more for Gold than she could. The fact that she was dead didn’t change how hard it was to see the death of someone she loved. 

“It will be alright,” she murmured  through the tape recorder. “You’ll be alright, my love. I’ll be alright. A-a museum will be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Belle,” he whispered. He was drifting off again. “The Belle French Museum. Just for you, sweetheart. Forever.”

Forever.

He meant it as a promise, but Belle could only see it as damnation. To exist forever--aware but not alive--alone--unloved--again. She could not bear it. She couldn’t bear the thought of it. 

****

When Gold faded into final unconsciousness, Belle hunkered down in the heart monitor. Every beat of his pulse went through her. The steady beeping was the only thing that tethered her to reality.

She would not be without him. She couldn’t go back to being alone, unseen, helpless. Gold was her world. Gold was her life. When he died…

The machine she was in could monitor his heart rate, but couldn’t control it. All of the devices meant to preserve his life were powerless when it mattered most. The beepings became erratic, infrequent. Belle felt the end happening--felt it with the whole of her being--and she couldn’t stop it.

Heartbeat by heartbeat, her Gold’s life drained out of him. Beep by beep, the hope drained out of Belle’s soul.

Please, she begged him silently. Please don’t leave me.

But no matter how she pleaded, the line still went flat. 

The time of death was called. The nurses pulled the plug. Belle was disconnected from Gold. He was gone. Forever. 

No.

No, it couldn’t happen. 

She couldn’t let it happen.

Belle didn’t think. She couldn’t think. Her despair and her rage and her love were so great, all she could do was feel.

And act.

Gathering all the electricity in the house--every wire, every bulb, every charging port and circuit--Belle pulled herself together and let her power overload everything.

****

The world was light. Brighter than any bulb Belle knew, with no place for shadows. At first, all she could see was the brightness. Then, suddenly, he was there, and he had always been there. 

“Gold!”

He was alive! He was young again! He was healthy and beautiful and he looked completely stunned as he looked at her.

He looked at her.

Belle blinked. Her eyelids lowered to cover her eyeballs and her vision went black for a moment. Her breathing was heavy and--

She was breathing!

Gold was staring at her. For the first time in all their years together, he could see her.

Belle couldn’t  believe it. She had to make sure. She looked down.

She looked down. The muscles of her neck stretched to move her head so her eyes could see her hands. 

She hadn’t had hands since she’d died.

“Belle,” Gold whispered. “Sweetheart, is that really you?”

She looked up to see him, see him with her eyes instead of through a light bulb. Heat gathered at her face as her emotions flowed out from her brain. Her lips parted, her throat contracted. Air passed through her esophagus over her larynx and she spoke.

“Gold.”

He ran to her. He didn’t limp, he had no cane. He ran to her and he threw his arms around her and she felt his touch. He pulled her close.

“I knew you’d find a way to me, sweetheart.”

He kissed her. For the first time. She kissed him back. And all they knew was their love. 

Love and light held their souls together in perfect bliss. 

Forever.  

[still-alive-mp3]

Don’t ask me why I made this

[inactivebcthiswebsitesucks]

Her Royal Highness Princess Marjorie Iona Friseal of Scotland

In the eye of a hurricane When I got one foot in the grave I’ll dig my boots into the dirt And face the rolling thunder

I’m five generations of blazing a trail Through barbed wire valleys and overgrown dells I’m barefoot and bareback and born tough as nails Whoa, whoa, whoa

I’m four-fifths of reckless and one-fifth of jack I push like a daisy through old sidewalk cracks Yeah, my kinda crazy’s still running its courses with Wildflowers and wild horses

It’s in the water in my veins That bread of heaven falls like rain So I’m taken care of either way Make something out of how I’m made Until I hitch a ride on glory’s train

I'm barefoot and bareback and born tough as nails - Early Life

To put it simply Marjorie was never born to be a lady. She loved the skirts and pretty dresses that adorned her but her love for the effeminate stopped there. From the moment she could notice the young princess resented the difference with which she and her brothers were treated. Marjorie wanted to learn the dance of swords and how to show a bow. To get muddied exploring the crags and moors. Instead she was held inside. Lessons on needlepoint and how to act like a proper lady. At aged eight she had enough and began sneaking out to the training yards in the dead of night. Wiggling from the warmth of her featherbed she trudged stolen garments in hand to have a go at the training dummies. Her first attempts were hilariously disastrous. It was only after her brother Caelen followed her one night that she began to improve. With his tutelage she began to become adept at both sword and bow. She took hits from him that would leave bruises and welts. When asked about the injuries she would simply claim she fell. Her governess was even fired under suspect of abuse. Once good enough, she would often swap places with her brother William. Disguised as him underneath training armor she would get lessons from the masters at arms themselves. It invigorated and enthralled her. On a good day she earned her little brother praise on his improvements. On a bad her father would be called down to give them both a lashing.

When her eighteenth name day came, she was offered a horse of her choosing as was custom. Rather than choose the dainty Arabian, a true lady's horse, that was presented to her, Marjorie picked out Fargus. A draughty war horse colt. He had been reserved to be a well-respected guard's personal mount, but the princesses insistence meant that Fargus became hers.

When I got one foot in the grave - Before the Alliance

Marjorie's adventurous spirit did not quiet as she aged. It soared as her parents gave up on trying to control her. She even shed the love of pretty dresses that had carried through her childhood. Now she adorned herself in more practical clothing, still finely made but better suited to a fight. The bodices clung to her figure, adorned in mail and the breaches that completed the look were fit for any princess. To complete the look a longsword was a constant companion at her hip. When out riding a bow at her back. Marjorie participated in tourney's and fought alongside Scotland's men against the Vikings. Many men proposed to her and she refused them all. They wanted a trophy, the youngest princess of the kingdom to show off their own power. Marjorie would be no one's pawn. Her power was her own, not to be shared with those who had not earned it.

Despite familial nagging she chose to remain single and at twenty-seven was practically considered a spinster. Her love was for the wildness that ravaged her soul. Of course wild adventures led to remarkable circumstance. Such is the tale of how she fell in love with a warrior of one of Scotland's enemies; a member of the Madsen Clan. Their love burned hot and fierce, brought upon by an initial skirmish between the two. Swords had been drawn and minor blood spilled. When they came away panting for breath, neither having gotten advantage over the other, it was as if their souls collided.

Though no maid, the news of Marjorie's pregnancy shocked the royal family. For her own protection she was kept out of the spotlight, her absence explained away by sudden illness. Nine months passed with a plan for the babe to go to his father. A bastard in Scotland and a son of the enemy Marjorie feared for her child's life. She wanted him to be raised to know his own power. To be a true warrior like his father.

The child's father disappeared right before the birth. Left with no other option, she snuck the babe to Hal. As leader of the clan he would protect the child. Her son. Baird.

Until I hitch a ride on glory's train - Present Day

Marjorie strives to become in a position of power. She wants to rule. Not as princess or queen, but as a leader deemed worthy in her own right. Six months have passed since Baird's birth. The family mourned the 'death' of her child and Marjorie herself spent weeks locked inside her rooms. She mourned for the lover she had lost and the son she would never know. Slowly she began to pick the pieces of herself back up. Vowing that once she ruled she and her son would be reunited as kin.

Currently the only contact she has with the babe was through the occasional visit carefully planned and hidden. Those stolen moments were never enough, yet they had to be. For her son's safety as well as her own.

Her experience in battle has earned her a place at the table with her father and brother. From it she is able to argue that her interests and ideas be present. With that ability she has been able to gain a bit of control. Enough control to keep her son hidden and occasionally help Hal Madsen. Marjorie does not believe in the total nihilation of either party. They can each get what they want through sacrificing lesser empires. She resents Scotland's alliance with the the clan of Ragnar Eskilsen. With the formation of the alliance she believes Eskilsen clan has grown weak. Painting a target across Scotland's back.

Misc. Facts

Like many men, Marjorie has frequent affairs. While she doesn't share them with the other kingdoms her family is well aware of her trysts.

She seeks to have a hand in the current politics and uses conversations and the like to better her position and is slowly trying to build up the amount of those loyal to her.

The longsword Marjorie currently carried was forged with steel from her lover's weapon. It was all that was returned to her after his disappearance.

Frequently wanders off to wherever she pleases. Often goes looking for bandits or trouble to keep herself entertained.

[chesterleprince]

Delirious Samson

//

seamless strings pull me, bulling.

senseless maid, my senses made,

the endings waste, I sense a nay.

raiding my empty state,

lay in my letters, saint.

strangely I'm set in ways,

raging like "miss you babe".

magis mace is laced,

laced, but her love is late.

waiting, the dove is fake,

why is this oven caked?

her size like above me raised,

I cry for her substance, mamed.

Im the mime that is sullen, lame,

so lame, see me ruptured cased,

cased in a lustless lake,

submerged under rain,

allure is above the cain.

the sinner stands,

look into a mirror,

see that the mirrors damned.

leave me, I'm in the sand,

little lamb, her glasses hiding her face.

a face ready for war,

her face, one that heaven adored,

she's truly jeshua born,

over me sentinals walked.

I'm not ready for anything,

but Ill be dead if you want.

If you desire I'll be your pawn,

I'll be your dwarf,

I'll be your sword,

that cuts nothing, except every liar you saw.

But I'm a liar, I'm a fire that burns you,

If I find you I hurt you.

involuntarily,

my skin crawls just forget me,

never miss me.

I'm the bricks that drown you,

a foul fool just listless.

kiss me, don't kiss me.

kill me but don't kill me.

strip me of my insides,

catch my heart in your palm,

stab my love, it is yours.

light me on fire,

just don't fight me I'm tired.

not alive in this quiet,

cut my wire Im silent.

only silent for you,

cut my rise into two.

gold is your iris,

cold in your eyelids,

hope that I'm dying,

a pool that I dive in.

you're soothing lightning,

If I make a move just strike me,

since I'm doomed, fucked, bite me.

feeling the pain that I'm causing,

stealing your faith like I'm lawless.

you're a goddess, I am only sawdust.

since I am so appalling,

live your life like I'm no cause in,

the cause to your demise.

If I'm the prophet paul,

just scavange my organs, and write it copper gone.

sell these valuables,

dwell in a dragons home,

heat you can't fathom, nope.

seizing, I let you go.

shaking, my rope it is quaking.

dangerous, loathed by,

the famous, approached.

if you want I am taking an oath.

Should I be racing towards,

you like a rhino?

am I just casing your home, or beside you?

You changed me to job since your arrival.

a cape or a cloak? I cant decide. You?

lately Im roped into sailing your boat,

I am tailing your hope,

close to where it leads,

but you rose above me,

or so it seems.

it seems like it.

leave me and see me turn into a cheap lycan,

Justify the means like this,

the end it just seems frightening.

I seek guidance,

and you might just be the type to,

keep fighting,

Achieve highness.

or better put you're god and I'm just a leased sideman.

but the lease is running out,

never been this fucking proud,

but it seems like time is running out.

running quickly,

rummage this fucking city,

till I find something simply.

simple and nice, like me but not quite.

siege the last castle,

appear before me like that's that,

the last laugh.

but yours is never the last.

my corpse is steadily smashed.

merrily manned, as married as man is, Mary is man.

stirring my casket,

scratching, she's curing my madness.

delirious samson,

until the day I die,

I'm like the curious cat is.

I'm a murderous manic?

the only thing I've ever done is murder our marriage.

so nervous,

nervous around you.

in earth sitting like turnips I'm serving.

her allure's hitting me like scalpels from surgeons.

I know no one,

a damaging person.

it's sad but hilarious.

unearthed from the dragons den,

necropolis, darius.

I'm searching for remington,

bullets of adamantium.

silver the dagger that's piercing my lariat.

licked clean?

there's nothing on that dagger.

only her hope,

slowly, very slowly I'm laid.

the cloud that carries us,

only for angels, she's carried up.

burn if I go there,

surely I'm nowhere,

appear clear,

in my lair, that's rare.

omen is unopened,

only elope if sun's stolen.

sleeping silently,

dont believe in lionry,

only feed feats, I feel cyrusly.

demise is rising,

sir rye is ryeless.

halo of paper,

ceylon is savoured.

the mason is mayoured.

raise mo to mayham.

elate rope, reaps razors.

goodnight and a bye,

survive not arrive.

constant cold core,

warring woes, walled,

the wows wrought.

I vow force will never blind me,

my course is seeded blindly.

no remorse, my weeping sightly,

so sighlty but silently.

I'm rising out the advisory,

revising my effort rhymelessly.

I seek a better livelihood,

I unsheath my dagger silently,

achieve that my letters, milelessly.

no reason for my debauchery,

I'm seasoned at the fire of shaytans lava leak.

I reak of my sire, his chains are comradery.

free is the wire that hangs me at the waterwheel.

sinning still praying,

stilled by your sacred.

satiated by your famous faces.

race against mace.

the lady I love doesn't want me anymore

the lady I loath is still the lady that won't.

[roleplayolyhedrons]

Simulating the World (Pt. 1)

I might as well confess from the beginning that I did not grow up playing tabletop (pen and paper) role-playing games. I was a war gamer from an early age. I played behind grand armies, rolling dice to decide the fate of entrenched enemies, and even my soldiers, for that matter. I came to role-playing games at a critical juncture in my own life—a time when I was bored with war games and needed some form of mental stimulation that went beyond what television and video games could offer me at the time. Role-playing games, to me, signify a significant step in a process of self-exploration through games and gaming—a sort of natural progression from one gaming genre, such as war games, to the next, role-playing games.

Mage Knight

I roll the dice—they’re high numbers—what exactly, I can’t recall after nearly fifteen years. Probably a six and a five on the six-sided dice. All kill shot, I remember. I also remember the ugly orange carpet of the room and the dozen or so people crammed into the tiny spare room in my junior high school. My opponent’s face, a fuzzy, easily forgotten face, scowls at the loss of her Mage Knight miniature, her prized soldier on the battlefield. She removed the plastic warrior from the table, which is decorated with sand table terrain—i.e., stone masonry structures, such as fortified walls, square towers,m and sagging buildings with thatched rooves all of which are fashioned from painted soda box cardboard. I’m winning at a game that is, at its heart, very much like chess, although it’s different. In other words, it’s hard to say it tastes like chicken, when, in fact, it isn’t chicken, doesn’t even come close, in many respects. The endgame is the same as chess: Kill off your opponent’s pieces until s/he capitulates. It’s a game my pubescent self prefers over chess because of the options available to one playing the game. No more strict movements on an undecorated board. The pawns of war move in ways that chess pieces only dream of, duking it out over neatly modeled sand table terrain. Dice rolls act as the great equalizer, as much as a good strategy. (And good strategy doesn’t hurt either.) Chess, after playing Mage Knight, feels anachronistic and tastes bland.

There’s a catch to playing Mage Knight: I have to keep it secret because it is one of those things forbidden in my household. It’s far too similar to a game called Dungeons & Dragons in my father’s eyes. When he finds out that I want to play this game with my friends, and on a Sunday of all days, he flips out. My old man decides the best punishment is to force me to read aloud Bible passages. He thinks, hopes, that this activity will purge, scrub away with an intellectual version of a wire brush, any interests I have in such games. My father hands me an old Bible and says, “Here, read this. Make sure I can hear you reading this from in the living room.” I ask him why. He says, “Because I told you to. Now read!” My father truly believes the rumors and theories surrounding the connections between devil worship and suicide among those who play games like Dungeons & Dragons. This is strange to me. My father doesn’t treat my younger brother in the same way. He can play with his friends on a Sunday, and so can my sister. Instead of playing with my friends, instead of playing a harmless game of Mage Knight, I read from Judges, and the fantastical stories from this part of the Bible only serve to kindle my interest in playing out such stories in game form. I can almost imagine reenacting the battles with my miniatures, bought with earned and stolen quarters, all in the name of G-d.

War Games

Military modeling and simulation is the technical term for what hobbyists call war gaming. M&S, as it is more commonly known, has been around for millennia. Human beings, from ancient Egyptian pharaohs to Mesopotamian kings to Prussian military officers have all tried to simulate combat without the risk associated with actual warfare. The answer to this dilemma of simulating a part of the real world was not what we would call LARP-ing—live-action role-playing—, complete with mock swords and shields and cheesy acting to boot. Instead, ancient and modern civilizations alike developed board games using intricate and not-so-intricate playing pieces, along with wooden, clay, or stone boards. What started as a training tool for the ruling and military elite soon became a pastime of those who had little interest or knowledge in the affairs of war and peace.

War games are a permanent staple of modern-day gaming hobbies. Popular war games fill the shelves of big box stores and hobby and specialist shops alike. Entire conventions are dedicated to the wargaming hobby in the civilian world. Names like Avalon Hill, Games Workshop, and Fantasy Flight Games (FFG), conjure up images of miniature warriors duking out over sand table real estate. Players rely on dice and pre-established statistics to determine the odds of combat and movement on the board. In some cases, war games are quite elaborate, with miniatures, realistic, war-torn landscapes, and complex formulas as part of the overall gaming experience. However, other war games are quite simple, with said games being fashioned from inexpensive cardboard cardstock or plastic tokens. Nevertheless, whether it is elaborate war games or cheap cardboard ones, many civilians know war gaming simply as a hobby they love and spend countless hours on. Few know about the origins of war gaming, the grandfather of role-playing games, especially when it comes to its political and military origins.

War games have been around for as long as human beings have fought wars against one another. Such games offer players a chance to experience combat against an opponent without the risks associated with real war. War games, like chess and Go, have become permanent fixtures of the civilian world, as ultimate games of strategy, patience, and mental endurance. Entire libraries have been written on games like chess. However, the war game as we know it is a relatively modern invention. The wargaming hobby is in debt to the likes of Prussian military strategists, who first developed and used the game Kriegsspiel (i.e., literally “war game”) to train military officers in strategy and tactics. This pedagogical method is pregnant with possibilities and problems. Officers, and even the political elite, are better able to get a grasp of combat, which is fraught with unknowns, unknowns that must be anticipated by the commander in question. These same games, however, can create a sort of myopia within those who play them, allowing the officers in question to believe they are best prepared for the situation at hand, when, in fact, they haven’t.

Jackson Kicked My Ass

I’m at my friend’s, Jackson’s, house, an old riverfront Victorian. Jackson is this tall, lanky character, with combed hair, a goofy smile, and the mouth of a sailor on shore leave. We’ve brought together a collection of Warhammer 40K miniatures my grandmother, on my father’s side, bought for me, along with some old hardbound books, clean coffee mugs, and a handful of six-sided dice. The books and cups serve as ad hoc terrain, the best we can come up with, considering the circumstances. Cups serve as towering mountains, and the books are grand mesas, tableland on some alien desert world. The books and cups are organized in such a way that the middle of the table is the narrowest point, with the top and bottom ends widening out enough to allow for our troops to be placed in their start positions. I play a small squad of Space Marines. Jackson plays a squad of Tyranids, an alien insectoid-like race. We’re using our own rules this time because I’ve forgotten the rulebook at home, which is hidden from my father’s prying eyes. I position my Space Marines in a firing line, just before the narrowest point on the table, getting ready for Jackson’s insectoid swarm. Once it’s his turn, he unleashes his horde, charging toward my Space Marines. Both sides are equally matched, considering. It’s my turn again. I roll to fire on the Tyranids, killing three off the bat. Jackson curses under his breath. It’s his turn again. His alien horde attacks my Space Marine line, full force. He rolls and kills two of my Space Marines. It’s my turn again. I find that my Space Marines are in an optimal position. Jackson’s troops are being bottle-necked by the terrain and my soldiers are ready to take them on. I decide to roll an attack against Jackson’s troops. I roll low, really low. So low, it is laughable now that I think about it, some fifteen years later. Jackson laughs. It’s one of those laughs that sounds like monkeys fighting one another over forage. He knows his troops are safe, for now. It’s his turn. He rolls for attack, and he manages to kill four of my courageous Space Marines. I wince as this takes place. Jackson feels victory coming.

“You ready to surrender, bitch?”

“Fuck you, man,” I retort.

“You kno’ I’m gonna fuckin’ win,  bro. Just admit it.”

“Fuck off, Jackson.”

It’s my turn. I roll. Again, the numbers aren’t in my favor. I don’t manage to kill or wound any of Jackson’s horde, which appears to be more ferocious than it did a few minutes ago.

I move my Space Marines back some, giving myself breathing room. Jackson moves closer. I roll for an attack, and I only manage to kill one of his hordes. I feel the sweat dripping off my brow, my hands are shaky, and my heart rate is through the roof. I can’t let this cocky fucker win, I think to myself. Jackson moves in for the kill. He manages to finish off the remainder of my Space Marine squad. In my mind, I can hear the shrill screams of grown men being torn apart by an alien horde. They cry out for their God-like emperor to save them, but their cries fall on deaf ears.

Jackson’s smiling at the end, all of his front teeth, pearly whites even in the dim light, are showing. He reaches over to shake my hand. I take it.

“No hard feelin’s, bro?”

“Sure, no hard feelings.”

“Another round, dude?” Jackson asks.

I nod, and we begin setting up our soldiers on opposite ends of the table for another battle.

[finitevoid]

in case you couldnt tell i bounce back and forth between making this a sitcom where soren gets driven to school by his mom and a bleaker proper translation of tellius into pittsburgh. also i dont have this stuff thought out or written down my train of thought is literally these asks. i like the idea of a pittsburgh streets version of tellius. cyclical nature of poverty and violence in a modern urban setting would be an interesting retelling of you know. war. and obviously racism in a modern and urban (>pittsburgh >urban) context. in this version i do want them to be high schoolers though so they would still be a little younger than in canon. lets see... greil gets shot and killed in the beginning of the plot and sheltered ike goes on a journey. soren is in the system with stefan, the branded remain the same. no almedha just yet. ikesoren greil childhood stupidity is still canon yes ike was mowing the lawn for that switch. but then i go past that and it gets kind of corny. i do not want a word for word reimplementation of street politics of pittsburgh into a tellius au. thats in bad taste. as well as recontextualizing said politics into being one where races are pit against each other any more than they already are. or taking pittsburghs racial issues but making them about laguz. what do i take from pittsburgh besides its appearance and destitution? Maybe it shouldve ended at being silly. there is good room for exploration though pittsburgh is a bit too specific of a setting. tellius ends on a pessimistic note in my eyes where ikes only solution was to leave and i appreciate that since there cant be a winning over a jrpg bad in a place like pittsbrgh ummm...

ive been watching the wire (@ your dad... its not just a cop show wahhhh) and i find the portrayal of how the institutions that created the problems and cycle in the first place will implement solutions to their own creations that people will cheer for only for those to come with their own baggage interesting. children failing at school because of the lack of relevance the subjects they learn at school have, them in a lot of ways already being adults, not just for what theyve lived through, but also already being made to be perfect pawns in a system that can only perpetuate itself and its own problems. that show is on my mind a lot lately "its unsentimental, cold eye-- is captured in this scene. These kids aren't really kids; they just look like it. Really they're just raw movers of capital, training for optimum efficiency. They don't take school seriously because they're already full-time workers." oh...

prumano worked well since it was just exploring european immigration into a predominantly american born white city descended from european immigrants and its like. this is straight forward. i have to commit to actual worldbuilding instead of whimsical bits for ikesoren eventualyl

we have very different ways of approaching this. i can have like entire lore bibles for my work but when prompted to describe it stream of consciousness like this my entire train of thought derails itself and im just like Ummmmmmmmm. Uh. ?

i like that you call your darker ideas corny. i write melodramatic fanfiction nothing you tell me will seem corny. and none of this is silly anyway. retelling a jrpg in the context of an urban city from the perspective of those trapped in cycles of poverty and violence could work really well but yeah i agree there is also a lot of room for that to go badly

i dont think my father calling it a cop show is meant as an insult. He likes cop shows. but i trust your opinion over his anyway . Im glad its thought provoking media that you are enjoying. what you describe paints a vivid picture of children forced into adulthood by circumstances. ive never watched the wire

tellius complex worldbuilding vs [problematic anime] being about real life europe

[audio-luddite]

Listening......

I watched a kinda redneck guy who is also an audiophile? He had some interesting thoughts some of which I agree with like magic wires being bullshit.

Key in on his five absolute favourite audiophile LPs. His YouTube name is NRD.

After saying he is not a particular fan of Jazz he named 4 of the five as jazz albums. So hey check them out I had heard of 4 of them. Number 5 was Miles Davis kind of blue. I have that on iTunes and have considered getting an LP.

Number 1 is also Jazz. "Jazz at the pawn shop." Heard of that, but never heard it. So I am listening now on Apple Music. It is a live session from a jazz club and all those things I like are there. Audience noise, even ice in drinks. Really cool actually. But do I like it? The recording even on Apple is clear and clean promising vinyl bliss. But do I like it?

That is always the question. The band is not big name or at least big enough for me to have known them. Competent, but do I like them? The recording is top notch. Right now on first listen I am not anxious to buy an LP. Sound is first rate, performance err really good, err but.... Doubts are a bitch. I mean some stuff first listen is gotta have it, not this. I have to like the music don't I?

Oh my wife just sat down and says she likes it. Wife Acceptance Factor is high.

Life is complicated. Gonna keep listening.

/// Further thoughts. Doing the Wikipedia thing and the club was in Sweden so the band is from there too. Okay so that's why I had not heard of them.

The recording is high quality. But it doesn't create an accurate image of the stage. The drums are full width for example. Everything is there and clean but they are mixed into place. This is not a binaural recording. Those are spooky real but only on headphones.

Yes listening to the room ambience is cool but.....

There are a surprising number of LPs available. I looked into a boutique pressing made in Quebec, but they didn't ship out of province. Many "mint" collector copies for stupid money but you can't play those, too precious.

For now and maybe forever Apple music will suffice. ////