#so I flexed that I like bioshock

[gentle-giant-swag]

Edit, uh he told me to talk to a women (I got a part time job where most people I work with are like teenage girls (including me). So I told him to touch grass

[eowynstwin]

I’m so excited! I was so intrigued when we chatted about this AU and seeing it now is just surreal, you’re truly an artist, Lev.

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine.

So, you immediately made me think of Aragorn at the Prancing Pony, and you hadn’t already captured my heart with with concept you definitely would have now.

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club.

BIRDCAGE IMAGERY MY BELOVED!!!! Oh, Lev, you know the way right to my heart. Also, I sense a Bioshock reference.

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves. 

Perfect tone-setting. Price is exactly that man, and this is world that universally spits on what he believes in.

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness.

I will need six to ten business days to recover from this line. Holy SHIT.

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

Ooh, maybe I’m projecting but I’m getting those fatale vibes we talked about. I love a sneaky protagonist.

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable.

I need him carnally

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might.

YES. YES. YES. John who still cares about people. John who is disillusioned and furious at the world for not caring anymore. John who still holds these tiny things like a person’s past precious, even if that person doesn’t.

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own.

I cannot WAIT for the MC/Makarov parallels. How enemies shape each other, how hatred and rage mold you into you are. I feel like this has so much potential and I can’t wait to see where you take it.

"Make the smart choice, love."

The way I can hear his voice perfectly, from the tone to the soft hum even down to the crackle of the phone’s speaker.

I am just blown away with this, with the world you’ve constructed and the story you’re weaving. It’s giving me a real hankering for other cyberpunk stuff, which is really just a testament to your understanding of the genre. Cannot wait to see where this story goes.

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.  Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar. 

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar. 

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots. 

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers. 

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out. 

(Or maybe it's just you. 

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else. 

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow. 

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole. 

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below. 

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. 

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground. 

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin. 

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light. 

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall. 

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat. 

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin. 

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle. 

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made. 

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty. 

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans. 

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights. 

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery. 

And yet—

He stands out. 

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't. 

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger. 

None of them has ever looked so disgusted. 

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean. 

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust. 

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him. 

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota. 

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes. 

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing. 

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking. 

His, you find, is genuine. 

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake. 

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd. 

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are. 

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage. 

But he catches it. 

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass. 

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves. 

A hero. A martyr. A saviour. 

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running. 

For the greater good, of course. 

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice. 

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question. 

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this. 

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power. 

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism. 

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen. 

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality. 

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of. 

They never do. 

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something. 

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here. 

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest. 

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear. 

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar—among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner. 

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer. 

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze. 

He's handsome. 

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye. 

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force. 

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians. 

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple. 

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list. 

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer. 

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open. 

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue. 

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this." 

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins. 

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams.. 

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face. 

If, of course, he even is one. 

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass. 

A hero. Maybe you were wrong. 

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness. 

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much. 

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right. 

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.) 

Still. 

Still. 

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning. 

Interesting. 

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from. 

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink. 

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl. 

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face. 

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders. 

"Then what the hell—" 

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over. 

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing. 

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You. 

Human. Wholly. 

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades. 

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain. 

More android than human. 

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't. 

"I'm not." 

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey. 

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat. 

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor. 

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable. 

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so. 

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his. 

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate. 

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all. 

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last. 

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand. 

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things. 

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same. 

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse. 

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal." 

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?" 

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?" 

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish. 

Dangerous. This man is dangerous. 

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn. 

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience. 

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray. 

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it." 

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy. 

"That so?" 

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him. 

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest. 

Trepidation, you hope. 

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more. 

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'." 

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own. 

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further. 

It doesn't matter. 

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you. 

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care. 

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot. 

It does not matter. Not anymore. 

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might. 

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words. 

"That so?" 

All you can do is nod. 

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot." 

"I'm not." 

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it. 

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you. 

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing. 

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?" 

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon. 

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens. 

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words. 

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?" 

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing." 

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you. 

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it. 

You shiver. 

"You sure about that, love?" 

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart. 

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces. 

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone." 

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs. 

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date. 

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips. 

"Watch it," he mutters. 

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica. 

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life. 

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown. 

"Who is he?" 

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days. 

Something ugly rots inside of you. 

"And you think he's been here?" 

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow. 

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye. 

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting. 

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise. 

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. 

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you. 

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope. 

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation. 

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue. 

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard. 

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out. 

"Who are you?" 

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease. 

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets. 

"Doesn't matter." 

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything." 

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything." 

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation. 

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?" 

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass." 

"Why?" 

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him." 

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?" 

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo. 

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?" 

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance. 

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket. 

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course." 

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now." 

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare. 

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally." 

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to. 

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden. 

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for. 

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you. 

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days. 

Three years. 

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless. 

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over. 

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down. 

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous. 

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive. 

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant. 

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow. 

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet. 

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier. 

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances. 

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes. 

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside. 

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism. 

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline. 

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip. 

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance. 

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund." 

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake." 

An impasse. Uncrossable. 

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will. 

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men. 

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero. 

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such. 

Stupid. How stupid. 

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better. 

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder. 

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man. 

"I won't." 

But he's raised you to be smarter. 

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation. 

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed. 

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four. 

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy. 

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain. 

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market. 

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there. 

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible. 

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still. 

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial. 

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take. 

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda. 

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced. 

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs. 

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on. 

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity. 

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place. 

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you. 

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange. 

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah. 

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt. 

If you were selfish, you would. 

No. 

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage. 

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel. 

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel. 

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so. 

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience. 

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster. 

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision. 

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way. 

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done. 

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high. 

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts. 

Why is interest so high? 

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed. 

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected. 

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge. 

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names. 

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase. 

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy. 

"You hear anything?" 

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing. 

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go. 

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really." 

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him. 

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere. 

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him." 

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same. 

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that. 

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to. 

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills. 

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid. 

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular. 

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is." 

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear. 

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication. 

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek. 

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten." 

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you. 

A debt owed to the Inner Circle. 

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov. 

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said: 

You know how this works, don't you? 

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum. 

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning. 

And you hated him for it. 

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement. 

He owned you. 

Made you whole again. 

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense. 

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die. 

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier. 

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands. 

Born in blood. 

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads. 

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest. 

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own. 

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor. 

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?" 

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all." 

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right." 

"What's wrong?" 

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet." 

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?" 

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?" 

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head. 

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. 

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. 

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head. 

[your-dietician]

Best extended 4th of July tech sales 2021

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Best extended 4th of July tech sales 2021

Yahoo Life has received compensation to create this article, and receives commission from purchases made via links on this page. Pricing and availability are subject to change.

Grab yourself a tech toy; these extended 4th of July tech sales are popping! (Photo: Yahoo Life)

The 4th of July weekend might be over, but its tech sales still remain. That’s right! It’s time to save big on all manner of electronics. Thanks to mid-year release cycles and post-Prime Day overstock, post-July 4th is one of the best moments to shop for all things tech and the sales are still deep.

Whether you’ve had your eye on a new big-screen TV, a cushy pair of premium headphones or a starter set of smart home devices, this post-holiday weekend represents a window of opportunity. The price drops are epic! 

To save you time, we’ve gathered the very best still-alive 4th of July tech deals from Amazon, Walmart, Best Buy, Lowe’s and more. You’ll find products ranging from small (hello, AirPods) to large (70-inch 4K Samsung TV, anyone?) at amazing discounts.

Snap up the best extended 4th of July tech sales below:

Best 4K-TV sales

A massive Samsung 70-inch 4K TV for just $680? Yes, please! (Photo: Best Buy)

Still on sale for $700 (was $750), this Samsung 70-inch Class 7 Series LED 4K Ultra HD Smart TV has a massive 70-inch display with full 4K Ultra HD resolution; vivid, bright colors and deep, dark black levels. That exceptional picture quality supports HDR (High Dynamic Range) movies and TV shows for the best 4K viewing experience around. And shoppers say this 4K TV is great for families.

“…The whole family loves it, especially my husband,” raved a delighted five-star Best Buy reviewer. “He is so glad we got this! Both him and our son love gaming on this nice sized TV. My daughter and I enjoy watching our shows. We are all pleased to say the least!…”

It’s also Wi-Fi-enabled with smart home support for Alexa, Google Assistant and Samsung’s Bixby. Video-streaming capability is also baked into this cake. Translation: You won’t have to buy a separate device to watch Netflix, YouTube, HBO Max, Apple TV+, Hulu, Peacock, Paramount+, Disney+ and much, much more. You’re ready to start binge-watching as soon as you turn it on.

Story continues

Check out more 4th of July 4K-TV sales below:

Toshiba 43-inch 43C350KU C350 Series LED 4K Ultra HD Smart Fire TV, $320 (was $370), amazon.com

Insignia 55-inch NS-55F301NA22 F30 Series LED 4K Ultra HD Smart Fire TV, $400 (was $500), amazon.com

Sony 55-inch Class X80J Series LED 4K Ultra HD Smart Google TV, $750 (was $950), bestbuy.com

LG 65-inch Class 4K Ultra HD NanoCell Smart TV, $997 (was $1,200), walmart.com

LG 65-inch Class CX Series OLED 4K Ultra HD Smart webOS TV, $1,900 (was $2,200), bestbuy.com

Sony 65-inch Class X80J Series LED 4K Ultra HD Smart Google TV, $900 (was $1,150), bestbuy.com

Best home audio sales

Get these Beats beauties for half price right now! (Photo: Walmart)

On sale for $149 (was $300) for post-4th of July, the Beats Solo Pro Headphones sync to just about any smartphone or laptop via Bluetooth, delivering rich audio and heart-thumping bass. Super sleek, the pro-level headphones come in Gray and Ivory. They’re noise-canceling, so you can block out just about all background and ambient noise to enjoy your favorite music and podcasts.

“These beats are so pretty. They sound amazing and definitely block out background noise,” raved a savvy Walmart shopper. “They charge and are compatible with iPhones….” 

The Beats have up to 40 hours of battery life per charge, so you don’t have to be tethered to an outlet all day long. They pump out a solid stream of music with top-notch audio for nearly two days — impressive, considering that most wireless headphones tap out after about 30 hours.

Check out more home audio sales below:

Bietrun Wireless Bluetooth Earbuds, $26 (was $130), walmart.com

Beats Flex Wireless Earbuds, $39 (was $50), amazon.com

Apple AirPods (wireless charging case), $160 (was $199), amazon.com

Apple AirPods Max, $490 (was $549), amazon.com

Philips Wireless In-Ear Headphones, $30 (was $60), walmart.com

Beats Solo3 Wireless On-Ear Headphones, $120 (was $200), amazon.com

Samsung Galaxy Buds+, $100 (was $150), bestbuy.com

Meidong Bluetooth Noise-Canceling Over-Ear Headphones, $35 (was $70), walmart.com

Best smartphone and tablet sales

An iPad with 40,000+ five star reviews, for less than $300? Is this for real? (Photo: Amazon)

On sale for $299 (was $329), the latest entry-level iPad model (32GB/Wi-Fi model) has the same impressive 10.2-inch display, quick Touch ID fingerprint sensor and 3GB of memory as the last version, but it features a speedier processor. You’ll notice — and appreciate — the speed with any videos, web sites or games. (For the tech savvy, the speed comes from Apple’s A12 Bionic chip). To say this thing is popular is an understatement: It has a ridiculous 40,000+ five-star reviews!

“I love it! It’s fast and easy to use plus it’s super affordable compared to the other models,” wrote a satisfied Amazon shopper. “The display is beautiful and picture quality is great…It’s like I have a mini laptop everywhere I go. Perfect for students, the screen quality is amazing and the battery lasts all day long.”

Check out more smartphone and tablet sales below:

Apple iPad Air (10.9-inch, Wi-Fi, 256GB), $699 (was $749), amazon.com

Core Innovations 7-inch, $54 (was $70), bhphotovideo.com

onn. 8-inch Tablet Pro, $79 (was $99), walmart.com

Samsung Galaxy A11 (Net10), $99 (was $149), walmart.com

Lenovo Tab M10 Plus, $160 (was $200), bestbuy.com

Best video game sales

Save 60 percent on super-popular games. (Photo: Amazon)

On sale for $20 (down from $50), BioShock: The Collection features all three games in the popular franchise: Bioshock Remastered, Bioshock 2 and Bioshock Infinite. These fun-tastic games explore futuristic science fiction worlds underwater and above the clouds.

“One of the best video game trilogies of modern gaming,” raved a delighted gamer. “All three games play and look fantastic, and 2k has done a great job with the attention to detail with all of them. I’ve had zero performance issues.”

Check out more video game sales below:

Luna Gaming Controller, $56 (was $70), amazon.com

NBA 2K21 (Xbox Series X), $20 (was $70), amazon.com

Mafia: Definitive Edition (PS4), $20 (was $40), amazon.com

Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare (PS4), $15 (was $40), amazon.com

The Sims 4 (Xbox One), $5 (was $50), cdkeys.com

Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six Siege (Xbox One), $13 (was $35), cdkeys.com

Minecraft (Xbox One), $10 (was $30), cdkeys.com

Outriders: Day One Edition (PS4), $40 (was $60), walmart.com

Microsoft Xbox Series S 512GB with Xbox Game Pass and Accessories, $636 (was $700), qvc.com

Grand Theft Auto V: Premium Edition (PS4), $20 (was $60), walmart.com

Madden NFL 21 (Xbox One), $20 (was $60), walmart.com

Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order (Xbox One), $30 (was $60), walmart.com

The Pillars of The Earth (PS4), $29 (was $45), walmart.com

Crash Team Racing: Nitro Fueled (PS4), $34 (was $40), walmart.com

PlayStation Plus Membership (12 months), $39 (was $60), cdkeys.com

Playstation Plus Membership (three months), $20 (was $25), cdkeys.com

Best smart-home sales

Start building the smart home of your dreams today, with this discounted bundle. (Photo: Lowe’s)

For this extended 4th of July sale, Lowe’s is giving you a chance to score the Google Nest Mini (second generation) and GE Smart Plug for just $40 (was $60).

The next-gen Nest Mini packs the Google Assistant into a sleek design with really great sound. Enjoy crisp vocals and balanced bass while you stream songs from Spotify, YouTube Music, SiriusXM, Pandora, Apple Music and more. Want a smart home? Now’s the time! If you have a phone in your pocket and a Wi-Fi network at home, you’re well on your way to building a smart home.

Plus, the bundle includes the GE Smart Plug (a $15 value), which can easily pair with the Google Nest Mini. Simply plug into a wall outlet, then plug in anything — a lamp, a TV or even a coffeemaker.

Then connect the plug to your Wi-Fi network and use your phone to sync to the Google Home app (for Android smartphones and Apple iPhones). That’s it! Now you can control just about anything in your home with your phone or just the sound of your voice via the Google Assistant. Fun!

“I am amazed at how much sound can come out of this little bitty device,” raved a delighted five-star Lowe’s reviewer. “The ease of setting this little unit up via Wi-Fi was a breeze. All I have done so far was talk to the device and it does what I ask with the weather even popping up on occasion which is what I was looking at. I like the fact that it sync to my devices with the calendar update with the busy schedule I have…I would recommend this little device for not only sound, but also ease of use. It can make your life simple and up-to-date if you carry a busy workload. Set a reminder and it will remind you even with a little music.”

Check out more smart-home sales below:

TP-Link N300 WiFi Extender (TL-WA855RE), $17 (was $30), amazon.com

Google Nest Mini, $35 (was $49), lowes.com

Google Nest Learning Smart Thermostat, $199 (was $249), lowes.com

Google Nest Hello, $149 (was $229), lowes.com

Lenovo Smart Clock Essential, $30 (was $50), lowes.com

Brookstone PhotoShare Digital Picture Frame, $110 (was $130), lowes.com

Moen 7594BL Arbor One-Handle Pulldown Kitchen Faucet, $289 (was $500), amazon.com

Honeywell RLV4300A1005 5-2 Day Programmable Thermostat (renewed), $10 (was $35), eBay.com

Google Nest Cam Indoor Security Camera, $130 (was $200), walmart.com

Defender Ultra HD 4K Wired Outdoor Security System (1TB), $260 (was $450), walmart.com

Monoprice Wireless Smart Outdoor Dual Socket, $25 (was $38), target.com

XODO Smart Wi-Fi HD Video Doorbell, $90 (was $150), walmart.com

DHcamera Wired Spotlight Cam HD Security Camera, $150 (was $230), walmart.com

Garmin Vivosport Fitness Tracker (renewed), $70 (was $200), eBay.com

Kamep Wireless Wi-Fi Video Doorbell Camera, $75 with on-page coupon (was $90), amazon.com

Best home-office sales

Sleek, thin, and convertible (lapop to tablet), this Samsung Chromebook Plus V2 is $180 off. (Photo: Amazon)

For extended 4th of July sales, the slick Samsung Chromebook Plus V2 convertible laptop is just $370 — that’s 33 percent off.

Incredibly thin, the Samsung Chromebook is actually more than just a laptop. It has a brilliant 12.2-inch HD touchscreen display (at 1900×1200 resolution) and flexible 360-degree hinge, so it can rotate to any angle for use as a tablet.

“I wanted both a tablet and a computer. I love that you can download apps and use them for both the computer and the tablet form,” reported a five-star fan. “The stylus makes using Lightroom and other creative apps a breeze. Being able to use the cloud is a must because the storage would fill up pretty quickly…The large screen is also good for editing photos, drawing, and taking notes. Startup, web browsing, and apps are quick. The battery life is really great for everyday use…”

Check out more home-office sales below:

Cloud Massage Shiatsu Foot Massager Machine, $250 with on-page coupon (was $350), amazon.com

Renpho Neck Shoulder Massager, $30 with on-page coupon (was $50), amazon.com

Vybe Percussion Massage Gun, $150 with on-page coupon (was $200), amazon.com

DamKee Massage Gun, $56 with on-page coupon (was $110), amazon.com

WorkEZ Rise Aluminum Laptop Stand, $30 (was $33), qvc.com

Samsung 27-inch Smart Monitor, $300 (was $329), qvc.com

HP OfficeJet Pro 8035e All-in-One Printer, $220 (was $249), qvc.com

Asus Chromebook C223, $265 (was $340), hsn.com

Bell & Howell Adjustable Laptop Desk, $32 (was $50), hsn.com

Embassy NanoShred 8-Sheet Paper Shredder, $100 (was $124), hsn.com

OttLite Wireless Charging Desk Lamp, $35 (was $61), hsn.com

Apple MacBook Pro (mid-2020), $1,099 (was $1,299), bhphotovideo.com

Microsoft Surface Pro 5 (renewed), $540 (was $800), eBay.com

Ousgar 47-inch White Desk, $100 (was $266), walmart.com

Hemu Fashion Bamboo Laptop Lap Tray, $38 (was $80), walmart.com

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[raven-wraith]

This is Actually a Completely Subjective List Written in a Completely Objective Voice, so I’m not Wrong, Y’all just had a Bad Year: A Look at the Best Titles of 2020 A.D.

By Orova

I feel like a recap or an intro that encompasses the past year will be redundant to both the reader and the writer, so I just won’t. Instead, I’ll just say that due to circumstances provided by 2020, I had a lot of time to just shut up and play games. And games did I play. I played a lot of good games[1]. I played a lot of bad games[2]. I bought the newest games that came out[3] and I went back down memory lane with some classics[4]. But at the end of every day, I was completely satisfied with how I spent my time and did what I wanted. So this is a list of the games that surpassed satisfaction, pushed the bar higher, and made me reconsider what a truly great game can be in 2020.

The Last Of Us Part II

This game is a beautiful work of art and storytelling. If gripping gameplay is what you came for, then you’ll be staying for the story. Naughty Dog continues to come out with games that push current gen Playstations to astronomical heights, making that hardware and software work overtime to get a game that becomes so overwhelmingly tangible that it cause the player to stop. The Last of Us Part II is no exception to this rule. So often does this game take lefts and rights when you expect it to go straight that it is absolutely insane how much ground it truly covers. Sneaking about before getting into claustrophobic gunfights feels smooth and natural, the new mechanics and enemies are unique, and while the non-linear parts can overstay their welcome at times, the game is long enough for them to not fill in empty space. 

When I first played this, I was with my girlfriend for the whole journey and at the end, I didn’t feel quite as fulfilled as I thought I should’ve from the sequel to one of the greatest games I’ve ever played. It wasn’t until I returned on a higher difficulty did I find just how much this game has to offer, making the story all the more powerful as every fight truly felt like my last and every enemy made me rethink my choices and decision making and every arrow I fired and molotov I threw felt a nice weight to it that I have to emphasize once more. This game is a beautiful work of art and storytelling as the gameplay speaks for itself before anything else.

Final Fantasy VII Remake

To those that actually care, I reviewed this game when it came out[5] and I was shocked to find how many people didn’t appreciate it as much as I did. Final Fantasy VII is one of the most influential titles of my life that being able to see Cloud’s hair rendered so cleanly in this dystopian futuristic gothic fantasy world was a miracle in my eyes. A dream come true. The action comes in spades with enough sword fighting and magic to make Power Rangers to look like a fucking picnic.

The graphical design of the game, the direction of animation, and the cunning take on a lot of depth we never got to see so early on makes me very excited for future titles to come. There are some downsides, lots involving the side quests and voice acting, but that is just some of its downsides to look past to find the content at its core. Shooting moonbeams out of your greatsword at stormtroopers while in chase on a motorcycle. Take down a tyrannical oil monger as an eco-terrorist. Find cats for a little girl. Is this a Bioshock? No. But is it a game I keep trying to remind myself to not replay? Yes.

Tony Hawk Pro Skater 1 + 2 Remake

Superman by Goldfinger played and my sister laughed as she watched me cry. This game brought tears to my eyes, literally. As I got to relive sitting in my grandma’s basement, I was propelled to complete absolutely everything I wanted to do. This game was a complete package and its delivery was spot on with what a remake should be. A collection on a past game with quality of life improvements, enhanced handling and accessibility, and a software overhaul.

The game is simple. Complete challenges, unlock drip, flex on your friends. Usually in that order. But it is finally that simplicity in a new game that makes it such a good title. We wanted the game we knew and loved and they promised that. Nothing more, nothing less, it is exactly what we got. A new soundtrack, updated graphics, and nostalgia not most can achieve is a massive point to play this game.

Huntdown

Contra meets Kung Fury. Why the fuck have you not grabbed a friend and played this masterpiece yet. I mean seriously. If you’ve got a roommate or SO or friend with nothing going on tonight, play this shit. It’s great. Moving on.

Mortal Shell

I would like to address the fact that, yes, this is a souls-like and it isn’t exactly the most friendly game because of it. However, this game came out of fucking nowhere and blew me on my ass. Going back to delivering on a promise, these guys crafted an unforgiving title with little to no hand holding to show that this-THIS[6]-is how you make a souls-like. It is balls to the walls skill based combat where the player has to use what little tools they have to overcome a myriad of enemies. Progress is possible only through rewards and items, meaning there is no grinding or farming, just straight gameplay.

This is a game where I paid half the price for a full game and got, while a shorter title, the enjoyment from a full priced AAA game. It takes no time to complete when the “click” happens and it is a fun, fulfilling title the whole time. There are some incredibly unique mechanics that forced me to break my souls brain and for that, it just makes the experience far more personal. If you aren’t weak hearted, I cannot recommend Mortal Shell enough.

Doom Eternal

When Doom Eternal dropped, my sister was playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons. After we both went into respective video game comas from it, we dubbed March 20th Doom Crossing Day. Doom is Doom. Nothing more to say past that honestly, but I will continue my rambling cause I know it’s what you all want anyway.

These guys keep cranking the intensity knob higher and higher. With Doom 2016 these guys said, “Hey, what if we gave the best first person shooter that requires no thinking whatsoever to completely obliterate enemies and zoom around the map at breakneck speeds?” With Eternal, the guys said, “Hey, what if we did what we did for 2016 except this time, we actually have the everyone (enemies and the player) move faster, hit harder, and actually require them to think?” With that, the gore orgy of Doom Eternal was born. Still very much a fast paced shooter with some extra content to fill the pockets of completionists, it delivers in fucking truckloads exactly what it wants from the player. To let loose and fucking floor every hellish abomination in their path.

And the soundtrack, while a sad story, is still one of the best things to listen to in gaming and probably the world.

Darkwood

The only thing that made me stop to consider buying this game was how reliant on a crafting system it seemed. I hate games that force crafting. I don’t know why, so I won’t elaborate. But, done with The Last of Us Part II and needing a survival horror itch to scratch, I sucked it up and bought it. After all, being an indie title for a genre I admire more than most, it couldn’t have been a terrible waste of time. That was probably the single best decision I made during the last year and Darkwood is not lost on me in that sense.

The fact that Darkwood has not only exposed the horizon of top-down horror, but it has experimented and perfected its use for the camera angle is astounding. The atmosphere rides on that perspective and, between the short days of scavenging and talking to the few NPCs you meet to the long nights crouched in the corner of your (un)safe haven, it is never lost. It’s a game where you constantly hear your heart in your ears. The combat can be sloppy at times but the story is one of a kind and its execution is phenomenal. If you are a fan of horror games or roguelikes, I cannot tell you enough. Get Darkwood.

Deep Rock Galactic

After lots of thoughtful consideration, I have deemed this the number one title of 2020. Not only did it keep me and my friends together and in touch during the hard times, it is a shooter that I support with my whole body. You and your friends play as a team of drunk space dwarves, tasked with a mission that sends you deep into a spider-infested planet, where you will have to use your class sets to fight, plunder, and escape the hostile environment.

With PvE at its core and ridiculousness as its foundation, Deep Rock Galactic is a masterpiece of cooperative shooting and procedurally generated dungeon crawling. Blending class play from Team Fortress 2 with unexpected and differing missions from Darkest Dungeon, one will find this lighthearted shooter is an easy, accessible title. With a hint of Risk of Rain to complete its graphics, the game is above all fun. That’s right. It. Is. Just. Fun. Shoot a spider that launches fireballs from its mouth, drink beer that teleports you into the farthest reaches of space, get rich off of gold veins while your team calls you greedy, dye your beard purple, and Rock and Stone in this amazing fusion of PvE and dungeon crawling. 

Thank you for coming. There will be no score. It is simply a list where I feel those that need some new titles after the biggest disappointment of them all[7] should find some great titles in here for themselves. Have a safe next year and be patient. Patience is what will reward you. Practice is what humbles you. Hesitation is defeat. Toodles.

[1] Ghostrunner

[2] Hellpoint

[3] Mafia: Definitive Edition

[4] Silent Hill 3

[5] 9/10

[6] Not you Hellpoint

[7] Cyberpunk 2077 but I mean, we all saw this coming. I had to put it in here somewhere.

[paperpalooka]

Hell yeah hell yeah okay im gonna talk silent hill 2 briefly in service of discussions of camera work. No spoilers. So in 3D games, you have a limited number of ways to see the world as a player. Those ways inherently tint your experience in a game.

For instance, a behind the back character view gives you full awareness of your character's entire body and the environment around them.

Platformers tend to live here, but puzzle games are also very welcome in the space due to it serving the needs of character awareness and environmental awareness.

A first person view is designed to focus and limit your vision. Tense games like to live here, because as the player your information is limited. Sound design is especially crucial here, as you are invited to rely on your other senses with the conceit of it being you in the shoes of the protagonist. Shooters live here of course, but horror is king.

PT works because you have to move your head, and the world ends around you. I would be a fool to neglect story games that ask you to inhabit a role as well, such as Half-Life and Bioshock, where you have a nearly silent protagonist in service of making you, the player, interact with and learn about the world. One could think of this as weaponizing boredom, haha.

Over the shoulder camera work was pioneered by Resident Evil 4, and codified by Gears of War. It results in a very cinematic experience, where the character is detached from the player, and instead is another actor in the art.

This is the most popular camera choice nowadays, which I tend to dislike due to it typically choosing to throw away most of what makes a video game unique as a work (such as player/author interaction and ludonarrative dissonance).

And of course, the very difficult to pull off 2nd Person Camera. I'm biased toward this one, haha. Alone in the Dark invented this practice in a stroke of genius: what if we kept the camera in one place and could put up whatever image we wanted, so long as we layer it properly so nothing covers the character?

This results in a game that only needs to render the protagonist, anything interactable, enemies, and the background image. Trust me, this looked mind blowing on release. In 1996, Resident Evil would take this concept of Fixed Camera Angles and push it further, thanks to better computers to render the backgrounds and character models.

This was, I believe, one of the first deliberate uses of a camera in a 3D game for a purpose beyond functionality. 2D games had explored this concept for years, and is not the focus of this rant.

So, after pushing the Playstation 1 to its limits with Resident Evil 1, 2, and 3; Capcom switched to a fully rendered 3D environment from then on. This switch was almost certainly pressured by what I think is one of the most amazing feats on the Playstation 1: Silent Hill.

None of this is pre-rendered. This could be considered a flex from Konami about how much better they are at programming than Capcom, but this is actually in service of the camera work and overall direction of the game.

Silent Hill 1 gives you no camera control, but instead emulates the camerawork you would see in a movie. These are all gameplay. There are dolly shots, pans, wide lens shots, zooms, and so much more. In the last gif, you can feel the camera switch tracks as it moves from a pan to a crane shot and finally onto a rail in real time. Thats fucking insane. This game wanted to show you itself on its terms, and the heartbreaking story it holds is made even more poignant with how seriously it takes itself as a work.

Needless to say, regardless of anything else, I find it worth it to play Silent Hill 1 for the camera work alone, and how it builds and releases stress in a perfect waltz with the soundtrack.

Now, Silent Hill 2 takes this concept even further using the power of the Playstation 2, but mostly with the added benefit of visual clarity that's to bigger resolutions and more detailed models. The human eye can be pointed to certain portions of a work of art as its focal points, and Silent Hill 2 was able to rely on that a lot more than Silent Hill 1.

I could spend all day talking about the tricks Silent Hill 2 does as a sequel to Silent Hill 1, but the long of short of it is that everything you can see in either game is made to be viewed from very specific angles for an explicit purpose. Learning that purpose is the central point of both games, and any recreation of Silent hill 2 that refuses to engage in camera work will at a minimum lose focus. And the sh2remake did in a lot of ways.

I wish I didn't type this on my phone.

Hang on we need to roll back to water sommelier

Honestly I'm probably most pretentious in regards to game design as an artform. If I try to elaborate I'll sound like a massive douche so I'll spare yall

[erregent]

things a new rp partner should know about me !

fun new meme here ! write 3-5 things a rp partner (or those who want to be) should know about you and tag 3-5 people! it should be related to rp and not to other interests.

ONE ) i work a regular 9-5 job. i am a secretary for a nonprofit that assists families and kids with case management and clinical resources. i am usually very tired throughout the week as i suck at sleeping, and replies and activity tends to happen more on the weekend. EVEN THEN i have a social life i try to maintain, however small it is, and rp is a hobby. my activity is everywhere. 

TWO ) i rp on disco! i’m by no means ’disco exclusive’ whatever that means, but i do have servers with rp partners where we have multiple threads going on at once. i find disco rp to be a lot more relaxing and chill considering there is no formatting i really need to do, no icons, and it’s very much a ‘reply when you can’ kind of vibe to it. if we are mutuals, and you want to look in to disco rp with me, feel free to ask!

THREE ) i have a pretty intense phobia of blood. animated/illustrated to a certain degree, it’s ok. like, i can play bioshock and it’s alright. but i tend to block/blacklist the word and any variations just to be safe. what i tell my followers who ask what my tolerance is, is that “if you think it could potentially bother me, it probably does.”

FOUR ) i have been writing creatively since i knew how to write. and this isn’t some stupid flex because god damn i should be better than i am now if i’ve been doing it so long, but this is more just an insight to how important creative writing is and has always been to me. my first elementary school had this thing where you’d write ‘a book’, fill out this template for it, and submit it to the library. they would take the pages you wrote and press them in a little ‘book’ with a hardcover and everything, and you’d be ‘published.’ i still have some of them from when i was a kid. it’s a dream of mine to eventually one day have a published book. i’m working on two right now, a fiction and nonfiction. 

FIVE ) i am pansexual and proud and i am very in love with my girlfriend jo. you can find her amazing creativeness over on some of these blogs: @fellfoxe (her lovely fox boy oc) @lastdissent (connor!) @panacaeus (a multimuse) @unfourtune (a dusty old qrow)

TAGGING: all of y’all, do it and tag me in it so i can read cool stuff about you.

[melodylnoelle]

A Vision of Paris

For @captain-rogers-beard ‘s  Flex Your Writing Muscles Challenge

Fandom:Bioshock/Bioshock Infinite Characters: Elizabeth DeWitt, Sally Challenge Day Number: 10 (6/10/20)     Inspiration:Below picture of little girl holding a bouquet of balloons Warnings/Notes: I absolutely saw a little girl holding those balloons in the first several times I looked at this, and it was only right as I went to write it that I realized I grossly mistook that... But  the idea was already there Summary: Elizabeth has another vision of Sally in Paris   Word Count: 714 Author’s Notes: For these challenges, I am going to try to keep them all between 400-500 words... Mostly. Any feedback is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy :)   Masterlist Tags- @brightsunanddarkmidnight2-0​

            It was a beautiful morning in Paris, as it had been every morning since she arrived. Elizabeth wandered the streets, admiring the life that she found in its people. Some sat at cafes for morning coffee. Some could be seen painting near the canal. Still others were wandering the streets like herself, selling their bread or other wares to whatever patron walked by. Each person she passed greeted her with a “bonjour,” and she was hit with a warm feeling in her chest.

            She decided instead of going to the café herself today to enjoy a different view. She bought some bread from the travelling baker, and tea from a nice lady at a stall in the market. She chose a park bench right on the canal so she could have a view of the boardwalk. The weather was better than usual, and several Parisians were already out enjoying  the packed stalls and the soft breeze from the water. She knew she would join them later, but it was time to enjoy the morning first.  She sipped her tea cautiously as it cooled. She scanned the group, taking everything in front of her in.

            That was until one sight caught her eye.

            A bouquet of balloons was drifting over the wooden planks, father off form any of the stalls. In its center, though, was not someone selling them off to other customers as she had expected.

            It was a shadow. A ghost.

            Sally.

            Elizabeth jumped up, spilling the forgotten tea on the ground and made for the small figure. She thought she had lost Sally a while ago to Comstock’s gambling and arrogance. But there she was, distant but very much alive.

            She was sprinting by the time she reached the boardwalk. “Sally!” She called out. She was expecting Sally to run, but there was really nowhere for her to go. She would catch up to her this time, she was sure of it.

            Only Sally didn’t run when Elizabeth approached. What she saw instead was a shadow, floating where the outline of Sally had been, holding the balloons in place. It felt less like a shadow and more like a void, causing the air to leave her lungs and for her to stop in her tracks.

            “Sally?” She asked when the air could flow back through again.

            She got no answer. The mass just sat there.

            But she could feel Sally there, staring at her. “Sally, I’m so sorry. I should never have left you in there like that. I thought if I took care of the last Comstock, life would be better for both of us. I thought…” She trailed off, not sure Sally was even listening.

            Apparently, she heard something as the void started moving closer. Alarm bells were ringing in Elizabeth’s ears, telling her she should leave.

            But this was Sally.  How could she leave again?

            The balloons flew away, but the mass stayed behind, inching ever closer to where Elizabeth stood. She could start to see how the mass had taken the general shape of her face, of her form. She could still feel Sally, but she could also feel something that was decidedly not Sally.

            And it seemed like that side was winning.

            She waited as it reached her, both for wanting to speak to Sally and because something was keeping her in place. When the void reached her, what should be a mouth appeared to open, and Elizabeth’s ears were flooded with noise. Her hands flew to her ears, trying to block it out to no avail. There was no way to understand what it said.

            “I don’t understand!” She tried to plea, but the noise only got louder. “I’m sorry!”

            The noise grew louder still, until Elizabeth could not bear it. Just when she thought the noise itself would be enough to end her-

            She awoke, and was back again in the toy department of Fontaine’s. She shook out the ringing in her ears, the weariness from her arms. Was that a dream? No. Surely it was a vision, or a tear… Something.

            It didn’t really matter in the end. She stood, shaking off the dust that had made lines on her skirt. She clutched the radio that held Booker’s voice, trotting off to Suchong’s lab. 

[sawyersthot--a]

Subject Apex

Summary: Evelyn is reunited with her mother

Warning: Heavy gore and violence

a/n: This is basically a re-telling of Bioshock 2′s opening, replacing Evelyn with Subject Delta.

Evelyn awoke with a violent screech, thrashing in the darkness, her helmet’s porthole blazing red. Rough breathing could be heard beneath the mask as her head snapped side to side, realizing slowly that the events she experienced were only memories re-manifesting as nightmares. She crawled backward on all fours, staring out the window to the ocean. 

She'd created this little hiding spot for herself some while ago, a nest was messily organized in the corner of tattered curtains, pillows and blankets. Scattered on the floor were various crayons and markers that the little sisters who visited her used. As well as some various empty or half filled ADAM and EVE tubes. The hideout was safely nestled into the very back of one of the larger vent passages, one entrance blocked completely by boxes so the only entrance was directly in front of her. Tilting her head, she listened to the various noises of the ocean and Rapture. The porthole had faded to green now, signifying she had fully calmed after her distressing memories. A gentle, feminine groan lifted from Evelyn as her lithe body began to crawl out of the rusted, coral overgrown vent.

Her head popped out first, peeking around for any sign of potential assailants but with a certain lack of real concern. Who in their right mind would dare to attack the apex predator of Rapture?

She crept down from the vent slowly, pushing herself off of the ground and then swiftly darting down the hallway. Only the green blur that resonated from the porthole was visible now as she traversed the halls she'd been roaming since she was young. It was only a short walk for her to one of the other vents, her hand placed on the side as she pressed onto the tips of her toes to poke her head in. 

A soft howl echoed down the tunnel, trying to crawl up a little further into the vent. But, she didn't get the chance before the dark-haired, yellow-eyed little girl poked her head out to Evelyn, nose-to-nose with her. "Hello, Evvy!" She chirped to the elder girl. Evelyn gave a soft purr in return as she backed down from the vent and held her arms out to the girl. With a few grunts, Eleanor managed to push herself out and jump down into her arms, where she was promptly set on the ground. Eleanor grinned broadly as she held up a small doll that appeared to be dressed in wedding attire to her.

"Look, it's you, Evvy!" The creature's head tilted, purring curiously as she reached a hand towards the doll to brush over its veil. "Let's go play!" She squeaked, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Evelyn's gloved fingers and dragged her down the opposite hallway. Evelyn followed obediently, like a dog walking after its owner. She caught a brief glimpse of her reflection in the window, but was distracted by a giant squid as it roamed right past the window with not a care in the world seemingly. 

"Angels, Evvy!" Eleanor grinned excitedly, bouncing in place before releasing her elder sibling's hand and darting down the hall.

Evelyn called after her gently with a series of purrs and growls, porthole suddenly taking on a shade of yellow as her anxiety grew over not having Eleanor in her direct line of sight. She began to follow after the girl, peeking around the corner of the hallway and calling down it with another purr but she got no response. With the lack of notification on her little sister's current whereabouts, a dis-pleased groan rumbled deeply in her chest. She turned the corner, walking towards what was one the ballroom but was now partially flooded from busted pipes and cracks in the windows.

A piercing scream rose throughout the air and made Evelyn alert, fear struck her swiftly upon recognizing the voice as Eleanor's. She raced down the hall after the sound, calling out a loud, ear-bleeding screech as she rounded through the doors she presumed Eleanor had gone through. It was at the very top of a balcony, two stair wells down either side. An ADAM filled body in the center of the floor which she presumed is what lured Eleanor here in the first place. 

Splicers surrounded her, wrenches and pipes in hand. A deep, angered scream ripped from the Big Sister's lungs, the sound causing the group below to yell out in pain and grab at their ears as they became disoriented by the sounds. 

"HELP! It's mean!" Eleanor yelled out promptly, tripping over herself to get away from the splicers. A snarl tore from Evelyn as she leapt from the balcony. The harvesting needle on her arm extending upon flexing her bicep. 

One of the former humans screeched as he foolishly tried to rush her and slam the wrench in his hand into her. Her hand shot out to wrap around his neck before he could land the blow, lifting him into the air as if he were nothing more than a paper weight. He gasped and clawed at her hand, trying to get it off of him but failed to do so before Evelyn put down more pressure and heard a vomit inducing snap as he went limp. She tossed the body to the side before lunging for the other splicer, needle penetrating through their torso and draining the ADAM enriched blood into her.

"Try this on for size, bitch" the comrade of the now deceased man and woman growled. 

Evelyn had just looked up when the hypnotized big daddy roared and barreled into her. Its large hand wrapped around her helmet and lifting her off the ground. A crunch was heard before the glass of the porthole cracked into spider-web formations. 

Evelyn screeched in pain and heard Eleanor scream in fear, "Evvy!" The young girl tried to race to her protector’s but was promptly grabbed by a blonde woman she didn't recognize and yanked backward. The daddy proceeded to groan loudly and slam her smaller body down into the ground, watching as she flopped across it and clawed at her face. With a cracked helmet, her oxygen supply went down significantly, one of her blazing yellow eyes just barely visible now.

"It's alright, she's harmless now" a voice that was all too familiar spoke to her, eyes tearing over to the owner of said voice. Sofia stared down at the monster she had created, the being that was once her daughter. "My dearest Evelyn...", she began, shaking her head and kneeling down before her, "what have you become, my child?" 

Evelyn screeched and weakly reached an arm out towards her, collapsing just in front of her, not phasing Sofia in the least. "You have failed to do the one thing I entrusted you with. But then again, that's always what you've been, hasn't it? A failure, a...", she paused, looking for the words, "my first project. Not unlike an artist's first true painting. Messy and grisly." Sofia shook her head as another weak, broken noise pulled from Evelyn while she stood. "You've out-lived your purpose", she turned away, taking Eleanor's hand as the little girl still looked on in horror at her sister, reaching for her helplessly. "Kill her" she spoke to the Big Daddy who groaned as he walked forward, bringing his large, metal foot up over Evelyn's head. The teen futilely tried to squirm away now. Right when the Daddy brought his foot down onto her head, she caught a glimpse of Eleanor lunging out of Sophia's grip and toward her, screaming loudly.

"EVVY!"

[trashboatprince]

Here’s another bioshock-au drabble I wrote! This one I posted in the chat between me, @inkspottie, and @thedobermutt about what happened after Allison took Bendy to her hideout.

Takes place after this one-shot. Enjoy! --

"Okay, this is the place." Allison said as she pulled a key from a small pouch she wore on her leg. She looked around, glancing back at Bendy, who quietly sat in her cage. He seemed okay, but looked nervous. 

She sighed, unlocking the  door, hidden away in a darker area of the studio, before stepping inside. Bendy peeked around through the open bars of the cage, taking in the room. 

It was fairly large, looked to be an abandoned archive of sorts. Lots of books and such scattered about. There were two offshoots of the room, leading to who knows where. In the center of the room was a table, with some items and such on them, and by some of the shelves were makeshift beds. 

 Allison removed the cage from her back, setting it down to let Bendy out. He quietly set his syringe aside before walking around the room, taking everything in. He glanced up, void eyes staring in awe at the glass ceiling above his head. It looked out into the ocean, and in the dim lights that circled the glass from the outside, he could see a shark swimming overhead.

"Is dis yer home?" He asked quietly. 

 "Yes, it's where I live with my friend, Tom. He's out on patrol, looking for any trouble to stop." Allison replied as she moved to one of the other rooms. "Would you like a snack, Bendy?"  

"I have INK." He replied as he looked over at his tool. 

 "I'm sure you could do with some soup, might be a little nicer than INK, don't you think?" She asked as she grabbed a can. 

 Bendy thought about this for a moment, nodding, he wouldn't mind some soup. He's been living off of whatever he could find for a long time now. "Okay, Miss Allison. Uhh... when we're done here, can we look fer mah dad?" 

 The Sister Angel frowned as she started the stove. "We can try, but I think you should rest, you look exhausted."And he was, he's been awake for a long time, about two days now, but he was also so hungry. 

INK was good for him, but he liked human food. Delta would make him food when they had access to kitchen areas. He sighed as he moved to the table, sitting on a chair. He bit his lip, shutting his eyes tightly as he prepared himself for what he was about to do. 

Bendy removed his glove and flexed his fingers a few times, little, black claws forming at the tips of his fingers, before he plunged them into his side. He hissed and pulled on something inside of himself and pulled it out with a wet pop. The ink on his side quickly repairing itself. Being an ink demon was interesting, to say the least. 

Like in the cartoons his inspiration came from, he too had 'pockets' that could hold items he pulled out of. Except, in a Little Devil's case, they weren't cartoon pockets, he kept items in his body, and it hurt to take them out. But it was worth it, it kept his little Delta doll safe when he was running away. He use to just keep the toy at his and Delta's old home, but after splicers destroyed it looking for him, Bendy's had to carry the doll with him in his 'pocket'. 

 Allison returned with a bowl of soup in her hand, finding Bendy sitting at the table, fiddling around with a plush toy of sorts. She set the bowl down before sitting down herself. "What do you have there, Bendy?" 

"It's a doll of Daddy, made him mahself." Bendy mumbled, looking upset. He set the toy aside to take the bowl with a small thank you, before beginning to eat. 

Reaching over, Allison took the doll, looking it over. It appeared to be of a man with brown hair in a diving suit, from what she could tell. He has some sort of triangular part to one of his arms, a drill? And his button eyes were two different colors.

The sound of the doorknob being fiddled with caught both of their attentions and Allison reached for her sword as the door opened, only to relax when she saw who stepped inside. Bendy looked away from his soup, nearly screaming when he saw who stepped in. 

 It was a tall man in a old, yellow and black diving suit, different from the one Delta wore. His hands were larger, one was holding a rivet gun, the other seemed to be made of pure metal, and he wore a diving helmet, one that had dog-like features designed to them. It was a Boris Wolf, and Bendy did not have a lot of good interactions with them. He screamed and scrambled away from the table. 

"Bendy!?" Allison cried out, seeing the devil scurry up a bookcase, hiding at the top, staring down with wide, glowing eyes. 

"What the hell was that?" The echo-y voice from inside of the helmet asked. 

"Possibly the last Little Devil." The Sister Angel frowned, crossing her arms as she looked at the man. "You just scared him, should have taken that off before you came in." 

 "I wasn't expecting a guest..." He scoffed. 

"Mind telling me what the hell is going on?" Allison sighed, looking up at the shelf, seeing that Bendy was hiding his face, shaking like a leaf. "I found him, he almost was killed by a splicer but I stepped in. Tom, he's the first Little Devil I've seen in two years... I thought that Alice killed the last one." 

"I thought so too. So you brought him here? If word gets out that we have the last one, the splicers are gonna tear up this place trying to find him!" 

"I had to bring him here! Unlike you, I took my job as a protector seriously!" 

Tom growled and reached up, removing the helmet, shaking his head a little. "This is stupid, if you get us killed, I will blame you for the rest of eternity." 

"Fine, whatever." She walked up to the bookshelf, looking at Bendy. "Come on, little one, it's okay."

"Mmmm... no." Bendy shook his head, keeping his face hidden. 

Allison frowned, reaching up, her finger tips just barely brushing his side. "Come on, it's okay, I promise he won't do anything. He'll complain, but he's a good guy." 

Bendy shifted, peeking over at the man Allison called Tom. He had the helmet off, and looked at Bendy with a curious expression. He was of a dark complexion, kinda like Norman, but his face was scarred up in places, exposing old and recent wounds. 

As if he had been experimented on... 

Bendy blinked, eyes black, until he blinked again, returning to their normal void-like state. He frowned, letting Allison take him down from the shelf, clinging to her as they approached. 

"Tom," the protector spoke up, "this is Bendy. Bendy, this is Tom. He's a Boris Wolf, but a good one, he's not a mindless drone like the others." 

Bendy quietly waved his hand, before hiding his face against Allison's shoulder. He was starting to feel exhaustion take over and he knew that he didn't need to stay away, this lady would protect him. He wasn't sure of the man, but in due time he will come to trust him. 

But for now, he was in good hands with Allison, so that was enough for the time being.

[viralarcadian]

think i figured out the mystery of how the hell i pulled a tendon in my hand

so ot started hurting after i woke up from a nap last monday and im pretty sure I was like. trying to activate a plasmid or something bc the dream was once again "rapture but more fucked up and the ghosts are real now"

you know how in the first bioshock the idle animation for electro bolt is jack repeatedly flexing his fingers like they're spasming? pretty sure i was doing that with my hands in my dream and my brain kicked in too late to stop me from doing it IRL and that's how i pulled something

[ask-demon-princess-astarte]

Snippet Saturday

So, to try and keep up with my writing, and keep ideas fresh in my mind. I figured I would start posting little snippets of fictions I am working on at the moment here again.

This piece involves my Bioshock OCs Patches and Kappa. Do please enjoy. Trigger warnings for mentions of violence, death and threatening behaviour as well as injuries.

A loud, eerie, inhuman groan that bounced off her walls. And it appeared to be getting closer. 

 "Did one get out again?" She murmured, turning the audio diary off and standing. As she moved, she heard voices shouting at each other as a loud roar echoed around them, ending in a sobering wail. 

 "You said the damn thing was sedated!" The first voice yelled.

 "I thought it was! They assured me it was!"

 "Well it clearly wasn't! And Lenny lost his head to its drill because of those bastards! Now tighten its restraints!" The commotion was right outside her door now. She paused, walking towards it just as it slid open. Being pushed in on a medical gurney was a thrashing alpha series, fighting against its bindings. 

 "What the hell is going on here?!" She demanded as the two arguing men pushed the prototype in. 

 "This stupid beast won't form a bond." She rolled her eyes as she heard Suchong, frowning as he shoved his way past her and stood in her lab. 

 "And, what exactly does that have to do with you dragging the poor thing to me?" She asked, watching as the two men fought to tie the alpha series to her examination table. 

 "Little girl is to force a bond. That is your purpose here, yes?" Suchong snapped before leaving with the two men. The door slid shut behind them, leaving her with the angered prototype. 

 "What an asshole." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. A low groan caught her attention, making her look at the alpha series who seemed to be staring back. 

 "Oh, not you." She said, walking over to him. She walked around him, watching him wrestle against the bindings. "Well, if I am to even start trying to create the bond, I need you to be calm. And these certainly aren't helping." She mused. She leant over, undoing each of his bindings. As she freed his wrist, his hand shot up, wrapping around her neck. But he didn't exert his strength. 

 Her eyes widened, looking at his helmet's visor as he stared at her. He moved his hand slightly, making her head move before he released his grip. She paused, looking at him. He could have easily broken her neck without exerting much strength. It was almost like he had been examining her, trying to decide if she was a threat or not. 

 "Well, this is intriguing." She murmured, scribbling a note down. "This alpha series shows an incredible amount of intelligence, despite the splicing they have undergone. Perhaps, we can use that to help with forming bonds?" She murmured to herself before stepping forward. She stood in front of the prototype, her hands out before her to show she was unarmed to him. He continued to look at her, following her every move. 

 "So, may I look at your hand?" She asked him. He didn't make a sound, still watching her as she approached. She raised his hand, having to use both of her own to lift his. A large "K" symbol was marked on his glove. "Ah, you must be Subject Kappa. Well, it is nice to meet you. Shall we work together on forming a bond for you?" She asked him, smiling as his hand flexed in hers for a moment. 

 As she moved away, she spotted a small tear in his suit. Immediately, she moved to his side, looking at it. Within the suit, on the flesh beneath, was a small injury. Bits of suit debris littered it. 

 "What did they do to you, big guy?" She asked as she looked at him. She stepped away, moving over to one of her cupboards and rummaging through it. "I can clean and stitch up the wound for you. And I will explain everything I am doing, but it will sting a little. Do you trust me?" She asked him. Silence reigned between them, with him staring at her as she paused. "Do you even understand what I am saying?" 

 She pulled out a needle and thread, along with some saline and some gauze. She stepped forward, watching him move to the edge of the table. "Hey, hey, no need for that." She said, taking his hand again. "It will sting a bit but I will try my best to make it as painless for you as possible." She explained. She moved to his side, putting some saline on some gauze and wiping the injury. The alpha series let out a grunt, grabbing her wrist. 

 "Hey!" She yelled, watching his hand flex slightly. "I know it hurts but I can't help if you don't stay still." She argued. The two of them stared at one another, locked in a silent contest before he released her wrist. She sighed softly. "Thank you Kappa. Now, I'm going to wipe this clean then stitch it." She explained, continuing her work. 

 After a few moments, she sat back, examining the stitches. "Well, it's not perfect, but I fixed that tear in your suit as well. It should hold though." She added, watching him look at it. A strange, whale-like moan came from him as he looked back at her. She laughed softly before standing up. 

 "So, they want me to force a bond for you, yet they haven't given me a little one to work with?" She mused, one hand on her chin as she thought. She paced back and forth, not noticing the alpha series watching her intently. "Well, this could give me an opportunity to find out a way to create a bond between a protector and multiple gatherers." She added. She turned to face him, smiling at him. 

 "So, I guess you and I shall have to figure it out together." She added. She walked towards him, standing before him. "I imagine you'll be a little more open to helping me after I helped you, right?" She grinned as he slowly nodded. "Excellent. Now, let's start with what could form a bond to begin with. Come on, big guy." She said happily, leading him to another part of the lab.

[elementroar]

This is cute. Is that suppose to be a 'gotcha'? It would be, if I was the kind of person who can't face 'difficult things' in your stories, and try to devolve them into a moral reasoning to excuse my own lack of imagination and fear of anything remotely contrary to the norm.

Luckily I'm not that kind of person. I would almost say, I revel in it. So lemme educate you on the subject, this is gonna be fun. Now keep your vomit down your throat, you gonna need this education sooner or later, considering how young you are.

The following material about incest in mainstream media (which I limited to video games mostly because I find it ironic about using examples from a medium ‘meant for children’ having more balls than the average Loki watcher apparently)

Bottom line is that admitting you can’t stomach the first episode of Game of Thrones is not the flex you think it is, neither is admitting Disney of Mickey Mouse Club is apparently more daring than you.

Example of actual incest: The Ashford Twins of Resident Evil Code Veronica fame. The result of their father already 'incestuously' combining his DNA with that of his great-great-great-aunt in order to replicate her brilliance in his own offspring. Resulting in the opposite sex fraternal twins Alexia and Alfred. Their incestuous relationship is used to both repulse players and the other characters, and to ironically humanize them.

Alexia and Alfred are shown to be uncomfortably close since childhood, thus overriding the Westermack Effect that would usually stop them seeing each other romantically. Alfred is in love with his sister in a manner meant to invoke the idea of male drones who are devoted to their sisters in ant colonies because the motif behind Alexia's philosophy, design, and viral infection being that of a queen ant.

Alexia herself is humanized at one point by her lashing out after finding out her brother had been killed, despite her inhuman transformation.

Another famous example: Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Not sure if you ever bothered watching Game of Thrones, you seem a bit young for when it first started and like I said, you would have run and cried after the first Episode 1 of naughty on-screen fucking.

Suffice to say, Cersei's attraction is mostly tied to her own narcissism, while Jaime's is treated more as a true tragic love; both naturally overcame/disregarded the Westermack Effect, and are also themselves the result of their father marrying his first cousin (which I should point out IRL, is not uncommon for keeping noble bloodlines 'pure').

Example of alternate reality opposite gender pair and 'genetic' incest: The 'Lutece twins' from Bioshock Infinite. A pair of alternate reality opposite gender people, stated by Rosalind as only have a 'chromosome apart'. Despite calling Robert her 'brother', it's implied they started a romantic relationship not long after Robert crossovered to her reality (a single double queen bed in their quarters, the fact they were discussing about losing their Schrodinger powers to settle down and have children etc.).

Similar to the Ashford twins, their relationship is mostly around humanizing one via their relationship to the other. Rosalind doesn't care all that much about the morality behind her actions or that of Comstock, and is just happy to have Robert and their Schrodinger powers. Robert leverages her desire for him to make her do the morally upright things, such as threatening to leave her if she doesn't help with Elizabeth's mission etc.

Unlike the Ashford Twins, the Westermack Effect doesn't come into play. They are not siblings or true twins, and never grew up with each other although they did grow up in similar environment (same level of intelligence but their personalities diverged) Rather Rosalind calls Robert her 'brother' initially for lack of a better term, before it becomes clear they do not regard each other purely as alternate reality siblings.

There IS the implication that Rosalind manipulated Robert more than a bit for this outcome, due to the way crossing over actually hurt Robert so badly physically that Rosalind had to help heal him for quite a while, possibly in isolation. The mental effects were also shown with Booker where he had a completely wrong recollection of events for why he was doing what he was, until near the end of the game.

Thus, you can read into it as Rosalind in all her narcissism could only actually have desire for her opposite gender alternate reality counterpart because that's the only person she can see as her equal; all the while manipulating Robert while weakened mentally and physically into being more accepting of the situation (tho by the DLC he realizes he can leverage the dependency Rosalind has towards him, and it was he who initially suggested about having children). It's unsavory, it's fascinating, and it makes two creepy-yet-good side characters stand out even more.

Example of alternate reality opposite gender pair, unsure of genetic similarity, but sex is definitely on the table: From freaking Crash Bandicoot 4 we get the N.Tropies, and I'm mostly adding them here cause the similarities between Loki and the game's plot was so fucking hilarious.

So you have Doctor N.Tropy (male) who uses time travel tech as his shtick, runs into his opposite gender counterpart and they hit it off really well and they decide to just destroy all reality to remake it with themselves as gods. They are both blue-skinned (time tech related), have green and gold in their costumes, are extreme narcissists, use pointy weapons, and the female counterpart has the more impressive killcount.

It's just really funny this has happened twice within a year because Crash Bandicoot 4 came out within a year of Loki lmao!

In the context of the story, their relationship is mostly used to show how narcissistic they both are, and that they would only ever respect themselves as a partner in anything. They have absolutely zero shame about their mutual attraction and openly show it. By that I mean they literally flirt every single time they're on-screen and *ahem* clockboners. Also for the fun reactions from Crash and company which quite literally spanned the whole list of possible reactions (disgust, denial, disbelief, confusion, Dingodile laughing at the absurdity).

I think there's really nothing much more to it other than to gross out people a bit, and make it a joke. But there's some legit relationship goals thing going on there - being mutually appreciative, giving suggestions (even when it backfires) to each other, being comfortable enough to openly flirt regardless of audience etc.

Anyway, now onto Loki and Sylvie.

Example of alternate reality pairing, no genetic relation proven, no Westermack Effect in play

Yeah so, the previous examples above are to demonstrate I have extremely detailed knowledge of the spectrum that incest, selfcest, alternate reality couplings can go. I didn't even touch literary sources because I doubt any detractors are old enough to read them. And I find it all fascinating and analyze it without qualms. Everything related to a character's relationship are just tools to tell a story. Either you have the gut for it, or you don't, but limiting other people's work by your own lack of a stomach, please children, grow up.

The funny thing is apparently, it takes a gamer like me to tell you when incest isn't even in play? Nice logic, uh?

Here's the thing, MCU set up its own rules pretty clearly, and anybody yelling 'incest' clearly didn't even bother using their brain because they just want the narrative set, so they can keep screaming.

I think it all started from Loki falsely calling Sylvie a variation or 'copy' of himself in Episode 3. By Episode 5, we have seen proof that all Loki's of any kind and of any reality , are allowed to exist until their actions would cause a new Kang variant to spawn. That is the TRUE MISSION of the TVA. The prevent of more Kang variants from spawning.

All other timelines were railroaded to set events, and as long as they followed them more or less, and that their actions never cause a Kang variant, they are allowed to exist. Hence Classic Loki, Boastful Loki, Alligator Loki, and the myriad of trash-goblin Lokis.

I dare you to say that all of these Lokis are exactly the genetically the same. Other than President Loki who at least looks like Tom, the rest do not. Even Classic Loki at Tom's age would be young Richard E.Grant.

The confusion came from people taking Loki's insistence that Sylvie is a copy of him at face value in Episode 3 when he literally didn't know the whole truth. And somehow some fools deliberately keep their thought process at that point despite Episode 5 proving otherwise.

Thus instead of seeing Sylvie as distinctly a separate person as much as the other variant Lokis, she is lumped in as 'just Tom-Loki but with an X chromosome'.

Which not gonna lie, comes off pretty sexist, the outdated method of defining female characters by their relationship to their male counterparts, in this case quite literally.

These same people also get real quiet when it's pointed out that Tobey/Andrew/Tom Holland all play Spider-Man and are they genetically identical? Even better, their Uncle Bens are also not identical, which means those using the 'same parents' argument have no ammunition either.

Naturally there's also no Westermack Effect in play either. It is the effect that even non-genetically related children raised together would see each other as siblings and not as romantic partners. Loki and Sylvie literally just met each other 3 days ago, and Loki never had a sister and Sylvie may have had a sibling but it's been so long ago that she doesn't remember them well. The psychological wall that comes between children raised together and which has nothing to do with genetics anyway literally isn't there. So no genetic relation, no Westermack Effect, Sylki is an easy sexy ship to get into, not even an inconvenience.

@shadow-turtle-234 'Pro-incest'? Baby boy/girl, for the right story why the fuck not. Isn't Flowers in the Attic required reading for your grade level, or did you refuse to read it on delicate stomach grounds?

The audience of Crash Bandicoot 4 reacted with more maturity than folks like you in regards to Loki. How truly laughable.

If some more 18 year old prudish children want to censor the goddamn literary and creative world because of their disappointing vanilla sex/relationship knowledge and drives, what a truly disgustingly blah world it would be.

I gotta be honest, I just really want Loki and Sylvie to bang in Season 2

Implied, cutaway, off-screen, I honestly don't care. Cut to them just staring into the ceiling without their clothes on, that's good enough.

It's partially cos duh, I ship them, they're hot and hot for each other, I wanna see that happen. But also partially because of spite. I want to see the meltdown everywhere, all of it. I want to drink all the goddamn 'moral outraged' tears.

And if Disney just goes 'fuck it' and have them genderswap and bang all ways too (again it can be implied, you just gotta show the possibility that it's happened), then I will buy a Disney Funko Pop every month for a year (hey, gotta be realistic with my budget).

Hell, it's a win-win if they do a genderswap episode, and female-presenting-Loki looks nothing like Sylvie and vice versa for male-presenting-Sylvie, then the 'genetically similar' argument becomes nothing. I think the only limit is finding an actor and actress who look and can act like Tom and Sophia to be honest.

I am absolutely not even going to disguise this desire with some florid self-love reasoning. This is Tumblr, fetishes and pairings were once born here. In my best He Who Remains voice: "We're all horny on main here."

[athleisure-aesthetic]

Workouts and Basketball

Ugh I’ve been so bad at tracking this week. So now I’m gonna try to do a recap. Lolz.

March 10 Friday we went out to dinner for Ani’s birthday and I didn’t work out because I came home early to hang out with people. The Nova game was on before we went, so we made some amazing spinach artichoke dip and proceeded to eat most of it out of stress bc that game was legitimately awful. We somehow pulled out the win even though Seton Hall totally deserved to win lol. But it’s ok because the dinner afterwards made everything better - they had alcoholic milkshakes, so essentially I died and went to heaven.

March 11 T slept over and bc she’s a freaking nut, she convinced us all to wake up super early before Erin’s and do a round of Speed 2.0 T25. Poor Mikey did it with no shoes and that’s easily the worst one on your feet and knees even if you have the CORRECT shoes. Woof he was a mess that day. We got to our pregame and left an hour later after chomping on mims and pannies (mimosas and pancakes) and jamming to Galway Girl. When we got to 30th, it was so freezing you couldn’t feel your face, so we tried to scurry from bar to bar to limit our outdoor exposure. We ended the day exhausted with Wendy’s and Wawa, which is really the proper way to conclude your day drinking. Thankfully the Nova game was much less painful to watch and we won the Big East Tournament 🙌🏼 bless.

March 12 Lazy Sundays are the best, but I had a benchmark run to do, so I got out there and fought off the cold at the pier. Fortunately it was a pretty day!  It was also Selection Sunday, aka the day everybody starts really loving college basketball even if they’ve never really watched.  Villanova came out on the very top for the first time ever, which is a pretty badass thing to do the year right after a championship.  Go.  Cats.

1.55 mi 9′48″ min / mi

March 13 Monday I left work a little early because of the impending doom of the Nor'easter on Tuesday, but I had a recovery run to do.  I finished again on the pier, and took a cool down jog around the block to get that pic of the waters before the storm.  My selfie is my face despite my boobs hurting because of how cold it was when I stopped running.  Woof indeed.  I like that I’m not tied to tracking every time I run though, because I ran back home as well without putting it on the Nike app.  #fit for the sake of being #fit.  But also because when I was walking back to the bridge, I got a snowflake in my eye and I was like oh, time to go back I guess.

2.01 mi (but like probably more) 9′27″ min / mi

March 14 Next to nothing to report.  I worked from home, made those beautiful pancakes, and gave up on work midday to beat Bioshock 2.  Spoiler, the first Bioshock has a better ending and better story.  I’m partial to that one, sorry.  I barely took 1,400 steps the whole day and did not leave the apartment.  It was a disgusting mess outside so.  I didn’t feel that bad about it.

March 15 I had a Nike Training Club workout on the way, so I brought my sneaks to work to do a workout in our gym.  Wore the black Nike Flex 2016s for the first time in a while, and when I did a bit of a warmup on the treadmill, I was like holy shit, now I understand why going to a running store to get fitted is actually super helpful.  Those shoes hurt my feet and did not support me whatsoever after wearing the Brooks’ for a few weeks.  Damn.  Shoes make all the difference.  Instead of focusing on cardio, I did some shoulder / arms work for a bit before getting into the NTC workout.  Unfortunately, my half marathon plan thought I needed a slow boring stretching workout, so that’s what was on the docket.  I finished barely sweating.  Blech.  Sometimes I hate working out in a gym because I feel like I’m wasting my time.  I need to find time efficient circuits so I don’t feel like I’m not getting enough done.  My arms looked big af and not in a good way, but I liked the shirt I was wearing so meh.  Progress pics amirite.

When I got home, Ani and I decided to make a post-it note bracket on our wall in our kitchen so we did that while I ate that beautiful salad.  Cats all the way, obviously.  And we really just love Northwestern’s story so we love them a lot too.

March 16 The madness begins!!  Clearly I was mostly preoccupied with games all day at work.  I even ran my longest run on the treadmill for the first time in a while (!) without headphones (!!!!) so I could flip between games on the tv. The first mile recently has sucked for me - sometimes my heels hurt, sometimes it’s my shins, sometimes it’s my ankles.  Yesterday it was my left shin and my right heel.  But then it goes away once I run for a little while longer.  Wtf.  I make sure to stretch all the things after each run, so what am I doing wrong?  I wonder if my form is wrong somehow.  Like I know I’m a heel-toe runner, which isn’t great, but like most people run that way and I’ve never had problems like this before when I like actually ran more so what is going on.  I know I should probably build up my leg strength and lose some weight to help the pressure, but like.  I do that by running and putting pressure on it.  SO.  Idk.  I pushed past what I was supposed to do and ran a 5K just because I was feeling it.  Endorphins were kicking in which was awesome, since I definitely felt like I could go for longer if there wasn’t a guy waiting for me to get off :/ that’s the other thing that sucks about gyms.  You gotta be like courteous and stuff.  Can’t wait for my goddamn gym in my building to be finished!!!!!  Even though they said it was supposed to be done when we moved in (October) and they just started working on it a few weeks ago (March).  Bye apartment building management.  You blow harder than Villanova in the first half yesterday.  Good thing we came out on top bc we’re a second half team and Jay must’ve screamed their ears off at halftime.

3.31 mi 9′30″ min /mi

This post was a clusterfuck.  Oh well.  I’m bored at work bc half my team isn’t here and basketball isn’t on yet.  Once again, go cats.