#the time loop nihilism is kicking in

[theatre-mqn]

A collection of appropriate responses to getting stabbed, by Time Loop!Red:

“Hey— rude.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Not again…”

“Oh, so that’s what a spear feels like. Neat.”

“Ow — why is it always the liver!?”

“So… are you going to want this back, or can I keep it?”

Pulls the sword out by the blade and hands it back to Chloe “You dropped this.”

“I deserved that.”

"Damn, love you too, sweetheart."

“Y’know, it sword of seems like you’ve got a problem with me! …Clocks, Chloe’s rubbing off on me.”

“Hey, I was using that!” (in reference to getting stabbed through the heart)

“I liked that shirt…”

“…a simple ‘no’ would’ve sufficed.”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to run with swords?”

“Huh. Bit worse than a papercut.”

“Couldn’t we have just talked this out?”

“I — ah, fuck, I didn’t have a funny response prepared. Could you try again please?”

“Huh. So that’s where my kidney is.”

[ficandkaboodle]

You know what? I’m pretty sure that there’s a possibility that if Sister just communicated and was honest, Copia’s predecessors might not’ve had to die. Copia could’ve ascended to the antipapacy without much pushback, if any.

Primo, Secondo, and Terzo know their father was a whore, they probably prepared all their lives to hear there was another sibling running around. At most, they’d probably make him take a DNA test because wow, a cardinal in our church claiming to be one of us is just a little too risk, we gotta make sure we’re not being tricked. And this is assuming Cardi was even kept in the loop.

But I don’t really know if any of them would object to Copia taking the helm at the end of the day?? Assuming anyone besides Nihil cares about the bloodline, Copia was just as suited to inherit the position as they were.

Terzo’s far from stupid: He knew his time as Papa had a limit and as far as he was aware, he was the last of the Emeritus progeny. And even assuming he did have a kid, I don’t think he’d want them to pursue a life in the Church. At least not down the path he did. If they had just let Terzo retire with pride and grace, he probably would’ve been okay with passing the baton to Copia. Or ambivalent. He didn’t mind performing too much, but he hated what training to become Papa did to him and what the Clergy did to him. So why would he raise a fuss?

And my personal headcanon is that Secondo never wanted to become a Papa in the first place because it took more from his life than provided for him. It allowed him the money to travel and buy expensive things but he always felt limited in his indulgences because he was expected to instead focus on the indulgence of others. Besides, he’s voiced how he knows he’s expendable essentially, so it’s not like he views the position entirely positively. It’s like baking your favorite cake but only getting a few crumbs while others dig in on it. He really wouldn’t give a fuck who moved in to become Papa, he’s too busy trying to enjoy his retirement because it’s the most free he’s ever been!

The only one I can see kicking up a stink of any kind is Primo but even then, I don’t see him really doing much. He may be suspicious of Copia and how he chooses to perform but it’s not too dissimilar from Terzo’s methods, and he never said a thing about it.

All in all, I personally can’t see them contesting Copia for the position too hard.

Ultimately, Sister jumped and culled the heard for no necessarily good reason. The only things I could possibly see them acting up over would be her decision to boost Copia up to Frater but that’s about it. But for as big a planner as she is, I sincerely doubt she was thinking that far ahead when she had them killed.

She will literally torch the ground when passage could’ve been granted if she just. Communicated.

And now what if Terzo comes back? He’s gonna be pissed and Copia’s going to get killed 😢😢😢

[mosesdumpin]

I really wanted to be a misanthropic little shit. I tried to be a cynic. None of it could last very long. I can't assume the world has fallen ill to evil and the default stance of humanity is malice. I wanted to think like this because I have been mistreated, unloved, damaged, and victimized. I was abandoned and felt a gaping maw where I was told love would be. Telling my stories, explaining my emotions, and sharing my history should enable my turn into heavy-lidded nihilism. But I just love humans so fucking much.

In fact, one of the primary overwhelming and positive emotions I have felt lately have been a deep appreciation of humanity as a whole. I want to be clear, I am not claiming this as a version of inherent compassion or empathy. It is the result of the lack of socialization, hyper-fixations, and nosiness. I was/am a know-it-all little shithead whose entire ego is wrapped up in what I know or do not know. And a subject that requires a steady, risky, years-long, and ongoing study in order to even vaguely understand is Other People. From social behaviors to being introspectively aware its not something you learn from articles or science journals. Sure, you can get the gist or memorize the outline of it all, but the reason this subject (other humans) is so difficult is because, like a rudimentary mirror of quantum mechanics, it is fundamentally altered at every step through the sheer existence of yourself. Knowing yourself should be easy, but it is not for the same reason its difficult to know others. Yourself is fundamentally altered at every step through the sheer existence of literally anyone else. Our identities and selves are feedback loops who are constantly trying to give structure to a dynamic system unfathomably larger than ourselves - like how we choose to draw a wave in the ocean. I sometimes go on a kick watching dance crews and choreography. This is happening more since I got into XG since I find their performance captivating and tends to trigger this urge. This usually always ends in me sobbing; rocking back and forth with the famously ugly cry face as if I've lost a loved one. In reality, I'm overwhelmed with awe and joy at how fundamentally Human dancing and music is. It isn't so much like crying at something beautiful as it is succumbing to the sheer weight of something too huge for me to ever understand. That isn't to say it isn't a GOOD emotion. Its one of my favorite emotions. I know we like to do the whole "blue speck in an infinite universe" thing but to me its like being a flea on a rat musing about the unfathomable scale of New York City when we can only barely conceptualize the rat we are standing on. Humanity taking the accidentally evolved (redundant phrasing, just assume I mean it for emphasis) survival trait of pattern recognition and remixing it with digital (as in, fingers and such) dexterity to create music and THEN remix it again within the boundaries of the bodily dexterity/flexibility we lost when becoming bipedal... while syncing the best of what we have gained with what we have lost to express something we perceive as infinite - cognition and emotion. Above all, since pre-history and pre-pre-history, likely since our pattern seeking behaviors honed to its slightest edge, we did this despite it offering only token or deeply indirect assistance to survival or production. You can argue its a social behavior (which is true) and helps all of our social ties in some way but honestly, have you danced alone before? Have you felt that joy, that eruption of movement to music or excitement? Have you felt joy or peace when you've hit the right note at the right time when you aren't even trying to play a specific song or piece? Sure, this is social, our brains reward us for refining a social behavior blah blah. Honestly I think every time we sing, play a song, create music, dance, tap our feet, bang our heads, move in sync, shake, jump, exult, and CREATE we are riding the resonance of humanity like the surface tension of a rock being skipped across a vast, unimaginable ocean of ourself. This idea is my Eldritch God, my Seraphim, my Infinitely Expanding Universe, and the Face of God. I cower before the knowledge of how small and weak I am compared to it, but I can exult that I am an aspect of it, like a single pixel in a digital photo whose dimensions are so large I can only define it as infinity.

[entwifeexperience]

BrinaPlays: Roll for...Adventure! by MilkyPork

Session 1.

CW: Described Violence, Referenced Addiction

I was really intrigued by this being a full stripped-down functional adventure TTRPG in a 12-Word RPG form. I started this ongoing game as a solo journaling playthrough with a vague cyberpunk vibe as it's not something I've really played or explored as much as I would like.

[d6] 3..Health

I am pinned down in the husk of what must have been a casino or arcade. Blocky cabinets provide cover as I slowly move through the labyrinth of rubble, warped plastic and pools of broken glass that twinkle in the torchlight.

My clothes are heavy and wet. It's not all sweat. I'm definitely bleeding. Adrenaline and whatever shit BY gave me are doing their work. But I'll be feeling it soon.

I need to give these fuckers the slip.

...Adventure! 6. Even: Advance

Ignoring the disconcerting disconnect between absence of pain registering in bmmh brain and my body being all too aware, I slip deeper into the maze.

This place must have been huge. The number of arcade machines and bizarre combinations of plastic weaponry and vehicles is ridiculous. They way some of them stand, shouldering rows of their fellows who at one time fell in succession, looks like a giant's failed domino trick.

I snag a cracked machine gun laying next to a severed cable. It's not even going to be deadly to pixels anymore, but the look of it might give my pursuers enough pause for me to stay alive for a couple more seconds, before...

...Adventure! D6: 4. Even: Advance

Heavy boots on broken glass.

Shit. Shit. Fuuuuuuuck.

OK. OK. Get it together CC!

I head around another broken machine and see rubble. The collapsed roof leaves a dark hole above shot through with twists of rebar. Below it crushes more arcade machines and what might have been some kind of booth. A dead end.

Getting closer and more concerned with how wet my jacket by the moment, I spot a hole. Thankfully when the roof came down, the way two of the came together has left a tiny gap I can hopefully squeeze through...

...Adventure! D6: 1. Odd: Conflict

I don't see the boot until I am extricating myself from the detritus. It's a small mercy that it belongs to a P10. The faceless mask looks down at me and what little I can read from the body-gloved figure shows surprise, seemingly flinching as they draw their Cide...

CC d6: 6 v PIO d6: 5

I manage to kick Cide away and bring my lightgun up. The deteriorated plastic explodes against the face mask harmlessly, leaving me holding cables and chain. Still, the rookie PIECE reels back, giving me a moment to put every bit my malnourished, B3TT4-hooked frame into their knee.

The PIO goes down like a sack of shit, silent behind the matt faceplate, and I am on them before they even hit the floor. My size and this what's left of the arcade gun is all I have.

I lash at blank face, but the chain just bounces off.

I can hear the echoing footfalls of at least two H0Rs and the terrifying distorted incantations of an EL3 getting louder. I don't have a choice.

I whip the chained cables around the faceless pawn and try to not think about the person underneath -- I'm flying. Running on clouds. Golden coins rotate in mid-air... No! I need to be here.

A B3TT4 flashback blazes across my stimulation-starved synapses. I haven't had the juice to Face in nearly a week now and I have to fight my system to reject the glitch-hit...

...Adventure! D6: 3: Complication

I am crouching on a white panel...I phase through it and run behind the scenes...I hit a loop at full speed and spring into the air...I spread my arms and dive from the tower's edge...the winged demons place me before the cathedral city and I feel true awe. I have purpose. I have power. I have agency. My body...

CC d6: 6 v P10 [2]d6: 6

CeramiK spreads my nose across my face and I lurch back into the aching nihilism of reality.

CC d6: 6 v P10 d6: 3

Blood is pouring down my face. I can feel something grinding against my hip socket. I don't want to die.

I throw myself back with as hard as I can. The cables skate across the CeramiK, before hooking in under the chin. I pull with everything I have left.

A moment of stressful silence stretches out. A rotten tooth cracks from the tension and I choke on pus and shards. But something buckles and the chain bites deep into flesh.

[sister-salacious]

Terzo x Fem reader

(New title: Hello my devil)

This is my personal fantasy so take this with a grain of salt 😜

It was a cool evening as I strolled into the viewing hall with a bundle of flowers, its been a few years now since they beheaded my beautiful Terzo. I still didn’t understand why Sister had it done, Copia could have done it without the death of the others. But she decided it had to be done and Terzo had to be beheaded to prove a point. I enter the viewing hall, my head pointed at the floor, the cold air licking my skin. The marble floors scuff beneath the heels of my boots the sound echoing. This room feels so empty these days with out Nihil hanging around his sons. I guess he has joined them now though.

I reach the case of Nihil and place a singular daisy on his coffin. He was a good looker when he was young but time was not friendly to his face. Next I stroll to Primo, he was never my favorite, he never did like me fooling around with his baby brother. I set a sprig of babies breath on his coffin before stepping to secundo. I roll my eyes seeing someone left a print out of a pitbull meme. I set a small day lily on his coffin and move on to my babys. As I near I notice something i should have seen before. His coffin is open, not only that but empty. Is it possible some one stole his body? I know it was well preserved but that seems a bit unreasonable to take a whole corpse. I set down the rest of my flowers inside where his head should lay and look around for any signs of a break in. At this hour of the night it is a little hard to see anything. Especially since Sister insists on keeping the lighting dim in here.

My feet shuffle along the ground, hoping to kick any amount of broken glass. Instead i hit something slick and my foot slides out from underneath me. As my body falls i feel a hand catch me before i hit the ground. I don’t dare to look at who catches me but rather what i slipped on. A small pool of blood sits smeared where my foot was, not old enough to have started drying up but it wasn’t fresh either. Thats when i feel it, the warm breath of a living person, one that was holding me. My eyes wander upwards and meet a very familiar face, and it smiles at me.

“ You.. YOU’RE dead so who are you really!?”

“I wish to explain but thats not something I can do right now, lets stand up yes?”

His voice is still sauve and sweet as it was all those months ago. His hands guide me back into a standing position, i stand there in shock staring at the man in front of me. It made no sense but here he was in his robes, gold thread looped in and out of his neck. A small trail of blood leads from the obvious wound in his neck. My hand instinctively wanders to the thread, Sister at-least gave him one last good thing i suppose, he pulls back ever so slightly. I feel his eyes digging into my skin begging i look up just a little further. I oblige meeting his eyes with mine. His blue eye still looks vibrant, he looks as if he hasn’t actually died and was maybe put on pause.

“I thought i would never see you again my love, death felt so.. cold.. it was empty not having you there with me”

“ i-i I don’t know what to say.. you were dead when i came to visit. Sistor had Copia take pictures with your severed head. How are you even here right now??”

He shushes me slightly as we hear the click of heels going past in the hallway. His eyes intently fixed on the door way as if at any moment someone could walk in and see us there. They grow closer then just as fast disappear. He looks back down at me his hat almost falling off as he does so.

“ we need to leave, do you think they kept my suits? This thing is a little.. obvious”

I nod and break away from his hands stepping to his coffin. Under the skirt was all of his old clothes and items held dear to him. I pull out his suits throwing his performance one to him before tucking the others away in my bag. I look back up as he strips out of his robes tossing them where his body once lay lifelessly, he practically jumps into his suit before looking back at me. I can not get over his face paint, it never seems to smudge or change, even in death. My mind starts to wander before being quickly pulled back to reality.

“Come, we have to get out of here”

His hand grabs mine as we flee out of the viewing room. Our shoes clack on the floor as we are practically running to leave the temple. I don’t dare question it as we burst out one of the side doors to a parking lot. He looks at me expectantly, it takes me a moment to process that he wasn’t looking at me but the necklace that held his key. I take it off and hand it over as we rush over to the slightly dusty black impala.

“I hope they didn’t disconnect anything with you having the key”

“No, they didn’t know I had made a copy of yours”

He jams the key in and unlocks the door before hoping in.

“ get in, i want to get away from here”

I jump in quickly to the passenger seat and he backs us out before gassing it out onto the streets. My eyes afix themselves on the slightly bleedijg neck wound. It has slow down alot but it still seeps ever so slightly. My heart rate quickens in fear as i remember that he was indeed very dead and that i am now in his car with what i can only hope is not some imposter. He flies through the streets of town for what feels like mere seconds before i notice we are now in what looks like the middle of no where.

“Where are we going? Is..is it really you?”

My hand again moves towards his neck but just as before he pulls away slightly.

“ My love i can not explain as i do not know why I am here, we are going to one of my fathers hidden “ritual” cabins.”

I look at him with questions still racing through my head. His eyes stay on the road ahead of him his face hardened with determination as he takes us away.

The time passes by us slowly but before I know it we have arrived out in the middle of the woods to a darkened cabin. It’s exterior was painted a deep black, and looked as if no one has touched it in a few years. He pulls up to it and shuts off his car before stepping out and coming to my side. He opens the door and looks down at me, bending down quickly he steals a kiss. His lips are.. warm, warmer than his hand was moments ago in the temple. I stare back at him with wide eyes still in shock over everything happening.

“ Come, this was the one he had made me in”

He laughs softly and grabs my hand as he pulls me up and towards the cabin. My skin crawls momentarily at the comment but i brush it off as he pushes open the door. The smell of years of sex decaying after lack of use hits my face. Terzo wanders around for a moment before flipping on some lights. The room surrounding me was no surprise to be the remnants of a sex room with the melted stubs of black and red candles littering the holders. The bed dusty and unmade, handcuffs on the floor and the swings tied up out of the way. Terzo looks at me with a soft smile, his fangs peaking out at me slightly.

“ i know papa has never kept it perfect but he leaves it clean when it is not in current use. I dont think he has used this one since my award actually”

“ I still don’t understand whats going on here”

I stare at him expecting some sort of answer knowing that one does not exist in his mind. His smile fades a little as he turns his back heading to the little sink in the back of the room. Its all set up like a crappy studio apartment but i didn’t expect more out of Nihil, he just needed space to get busy and relax. I watch as Terzo gently cleans the blood off of his neck. I watch a moment more before looking around the room, spotting a clean looking chair I go and sit down.

“ I wish i had an answer my dear but i think i am just grateful that you and I can see each other again. My heart ached for you, my body ached for your touch. I longed for you in what felt like eternity”

He strides over to me and kneels between my legs laying his head in my lap. My hand moves to his long black hair gently moving my fingers between the locks. He was so warm, and soft. His breath warmed my thigh, it felt as if he truly was never gone in the first place. I sigh softly as I relax a moment hoping this was not a dream.

“ I missed you.. alot, I visited your body every night. I couldn’t believe you were gone just like that. Copia took over under sisters guidance, then your father passed and Copia became Papa Emeritus IV.”

“ Of course he did.. i did all they needed me to do but was to much of a show pony i suppose. They wanted a new era and that meant none of us stayed around… I wish i got a chance to say goodbye to father once more is a shame he is gone”

“ I know.. how does your neck feel..? You seem surprisingly lucid for a corpse with their head held on with gold strands..”

He sits up slowly and looks at me, his eyes send chills down my spine as they melt my soul. His hands creep into my lap, his golden talons glide along my skin for a moment.

“Not bad considering I was dead, if you don’t mind…….”

My mind fixates on his hands ignoring anything he has to say to me. I forgot how much I enjoyed his touch on my skin. His hands shift to my outer thigh, gripping as he stands himself up. My breath catches in my chest as I now stare infront of me.

“ Beautiful.. look at me”

My eyes shoot upwards and catch his searing hot gaze.

“Ye..yes?”

“ Would you like to see how this place was used?”

My heart skips a beat as i nod slightly, a smile creeps across his face. He stands up more straight and pulls out a small bundle of rope i had over looked. He makes the motion for me to put my hands behind me and winks.

“ i need you to sit still so i can get this cleaned up okay? It wont take me too long my sweet submissive.. slut”

Chills run down my spine as I let him bind my hands. He sets off then shaking off the bedding and hunting down some candles to light. I watch mesmerized by this devilish man. In a few short moments the lights are turned off replaced by the glow of candles, he stands before me with hands out. I reach up my wrists and he grabs ahold of my bindings leading me gently to the bed. In a flash i am shoved backwards into the nest of blankets and pillows. He sides steps me and walks over to the record player in the room, placing in one of his albums, a smile burns across my face as i recognize the intro to square hammer. He comes back over with a devious smile on his face, his eyes screaming lust.

“ Am I to just stare at you Terzo honey? Or shall we preform this ritual”

I laugh softly cocking an eyebrow, my comment causing him to smile a bit more. He pulls on the knot that binds my wrist letting the rope fall slack. He then falls on to me pressing his body against mine, his lips trapse along my neck. I bite my lip and close my eyes opening them to see him looking back down at me. The tension in the air killing me as i wiggle under his body.

“ mm forgive me father for i am about to sin”

He stops for a moment and laughs softly before getting close to my ear whispering.

“My dear.. we are about to sin alot more than we can be forgiven for”

With that he bears his fangs and bites into my neck, hard enough to just barely break the skin. I whimper softly letting my hand work open his shirt, then i pull at his sleeves begging that he removes the jacket and shirt to reveal to me his body. He obliges sitting up for a moment slipping off his clothes all except for his pants, pants that were doing their best to conceal what was being held inside. I drink in the sight of his body, his tattoos being illuminated by the candles surrounding us. With in an instant he has back to my neck his hand crawling under my dress, dragging his nails down my sides.

With in a few mere seconds he has moved on from lapping at my blood to unzipping my dress with his teeth. I pant softly knowing what might come next. As I expected he buries his face between my legs. His tongue laps at my forbidden fruit sending chills of pleasure up my spine. I bite my lip to keep quiet but let my hands run through his hair softly. He was an expert in this part, licking, sucking, nibbling on my cherry. He brings me closer and closer to bliss, making it harder to keep from moaning. My legs are wrapped around his head, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the blankets next to me my body begging to be released. He notices this and stops, i can feel the smile on his face as he moves towards my breasts instead. I gasp softly as he takes my nipple in his mouth, his fangs stabbing softly into my skin. His hands work hastily to remove his pants, releasing his monstrance cock. A giggle escaped my lips as i stare down at what now teases my vulva. His eyes open and I see his blue eye glowing ever so softly, he moves from my boobs to my mouth kissing me with a fire of passion and intent. I can feel it pressing nearer, as if it was begging to be thrusted into me, I wanted it bad and i knew Terzo was drawing it out on purpose.

“ May I?”

His voice sends a chill down my spine as I nod slowly, biting my lip i brace impatiently for it. My prayers seem answered as i feel him slowly push deep inside me. I moan as every inch enters my body, even better i hear him sigh softly as if it is already to much for him. He sits straight up for a moment before coming back down and grabbing my wrists and pulling my arms straight towards my ass. He begins fucking me slowly, teasing me knowing that i want nothing more than him to destroy me in this instant. He keeps a tight hold of my wrists continuing as he wants to. His eyes stay fixed on my face as i try to not show how much i am enjoying this.

“Fuck..”

I murmur under my breath, looking up just intime to see him smirk before he lets of of my wrist and flips me over. He grabs my hips and slams me to his base hard enough for me to let out a small “ah!”. There he continues to fuck me a little faster, i can feel his golden talons walking their way to my hair. Before to long he has my hair in his hand and is pulling gently so that my head moves into an upright position.

“There we go, take it in my beautiful ghuleh, take it all for me”

I can’t help but pant softly and try to nod my head a little as he keeps tension on my hair. His cock hits my cervix over and over making me want to beg. He takes one final thrust and pushes my body flat and changes his leg position so that he is fucking me from behind in such a way that he stimulates my clit as well. My body is nearing climax again when he stops and laughs a little. He knows that teasing me is just going to drive me crazy, and yet he does it anyway. I feel his hands grip my hips again as he turns me on my side, he straddles one of my legs with the other on his shoulder. Slipping his cock in again i shiver and groan softly. His lips leave kisses along my leg as he worships me. I think this is it, i can feel the edge coming faster before slipping away into an electrifying orgasm. I try to bury my face in a nearby pillow as he picks up the pace just a touch to prolong my bliss. He continues to thrust into me, i can hear a growling moan escape from his lips. I take a glance up as he pushes deeper into me one last time before his eyes shoot open and his mouth opens enough for a moan to escape. His blue eye glows a bit more as he shoots his load inside of me. The room feels as if it feels with overwhelming power for a moment. As he moans the candles go out and the only thing i can see is his white face staring up to the sky with his blue eye shimmering. After a brief moment he starts to come back down and pulls himself out and falls next to me. I can barely make out a smile that creeps across his face. He rolls off the bed snd goes to turn on the light walking back over to me. His cock now sitting at a semi and i sitting in a pool of his cum.

“Did you miss me sweetheart?”

I blush and nod as i stare at this magnificent man. He flashes me a smile, his make up unchanged, perfect even. The golden thread that holds his neck has now seemingly become a part of his skin, like a tattoo.

“Good.. i missed you too Ghuleh”

He walks back over and lays with me, pulling my body to his. As we start to pass out my mind races, this better not be a dream….

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

Heya! I'm so excited that your submissions are open again, can't wait to see what you put out! Could I request the Papa's having a SO with auditory processing disorder please? Thank you~!

Aaaah thank you for such kind words!! It definitely feels so good to have the writing bug back again! Hope you enjoy!

For the usual disclaimer with subjects such as these, I tried to write for a broad variety of symptoms and experiences, so this won’t be just one type of APD experience. I also included some that are comorbid to other conditions (as that is where I have the most first hand knowledge of), I hope that is ok! <3 But, I always appreciate feedback so I can better write! :) 

The Papas with an S/O with an Central Auditory Processing Disorder

Papa Nihil: While he knows that it is not the same condition, Nihil understands the frustration it can bring. His hearing hasn’t been well since the sixties, when he destroyed it singing for his band! (Nihil always laments about how he wishes hearing protectors were more common back then!) Nihil sometimes can’t hear too well when his ears are acting up, and has to have things repeated to him constantly. So the first time you apologize for making him repeat himself he waves it off. Nihil rather have someone ask to repeat something a million times to understand what he’s saying than to have them half listen and not care. If you need anything repeated, then he will repeat it as much as you need! After all, he would expect the same courtesy from you! Other than that? This never phases him, as you are still you and he has to reason to give it mind. 

Papa I: One aspect of Papa that surprised you is how quickly he catches on to your condition. Normally, you find yourself having to have a five minute discussion on why “you can’t hear”, which can be so draining! But Papa understood what you were describing almost perfectly when you brought it up the first time. Papa was quick to asked what you would like him to do and he immediately implemented it. As a talented orator and linguist you both have worked for a way that helps you the best when you need. Papa never minds repeating or rewording himself, and even annunciates more clearly when he’s not paying attention. The biggest thing you have come to appreciate is that he doesn’t act exasperated or roll his eyes when you need something repeated, especially if you can’t grasp a specific single word (something you’ve unfortunately encountered with the impatient and rude before.) When you express this to him he shakes his head at how apathetic others are. 

Papa II: Many are quick to assume he loses his patience with you, as he has a reputation for being short with “incompetent idiots” he has worked with. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth! Papa has rolled his eyes at the very idea, because he would never treat your disorder like it’s the same as being lazy or uncaring (actually, he might punch anyone who implies that!) Papa is happy to do whatever it is you need him to do when the time comes. Lately, and rather unspokenly between you two, Papa just patiently sits when he waits for a response from you during a conversation. Sometimes it just takes you a minute to think about what he has said and form the right words before you reply. In the past this has made you anxious, but you’ve felt comfortable with him. Often you two will talk only for you to respond with, “what?” before suddenly processing everything he has said perfectly. The only time Papa will acknowledge your CAPD is if someone is being incredibly rude and you give him the go ahead to kick their teeth in! 

Papa III: Papa, admittedly, can have his own bad days with audio processing. Being a man with probable undiagnosed ADHD, he has had time to adapt and press through days he cannot hear... but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own bad days! Most of the time Papa finds it funny when you both get stuck in a “what did you say?” loop! Sometimes you misunderstand what he’s said, and when you ask, he complete misunderstands you right back! There have been days when you both have had to stop whole conversations and back track. Papa knows he doesn’t help when he gets excited and talks a mile a minute. You rarely mind, but he hates the idea of you not enjoying a conversation you are having difficulty following! Papa has learned to talk more slowly and thoughtfully (not because you are daft, but so he himself also has time to process what he is saying.) you both are wonderful supports for each other! 

Papa IV/Copia: Copia from the beginning knows about your auditory processing difficulties. It’s something you had no problem being open and straightforward about, as you like to inform your loved ones because it makes conversations easier for you! Copia always tries to be mindful of this! You’ve been able to work through it yourself with minimal help, but sometimes background sound really makes it difficult for you to process. While this isn’t always avoidable, Copia does his damndest to help! When you both have important discussions he tries to keep it during times it is quiet and you two can hear- away from crowds or loud areas. Copia is always mindful to turn off music or television when it helps- as you’ve asked him to do so on days where you find it harder to hear than normal. At the end of the day, he just wants to be accommodating and for you to know he takes you seriously without babying you. 

[thebladeblaster]

Rebirth of A Samurai (Part 3)

Summary: This fic is a what if scenario to SMT4 Apocalypse. I would go into more detail, but I don’t want to spoil too much of what this fic entails. If this fic gains traction I may continue the story on from this one-shot. Warning: This is a long one.

This may be the last I write for awhile with college right around the corner. I won’t stop completely, but it will become a lot slower.

“Shhh...don’t say that Flynn is supposed to be having a nice dream.”, Flynn’s mother said.

“Who the fuck are you? Your not my mother she might have been controlling and overbearing, but she had a good heart. She was never a colossal bitch even to Issachar.”, Walter questioned.

“Your mother? Are you Flynn’s…? No he’s not he’s...we’re...I-I’m not Issachar!”, Issachar said.

“What are you saying of course your Issachar!”, Not-Flynn’s mother said.

“No, I’m not Issachar! And their not Jonathan, Walter, and Isabeau! We’re the fifth son, Flynn Alexander!”, Not-Issachar rebuked.

The prentices eyes widened.

“I’m not…? I’m not Jonathan?”, not-Jonathan questioned.

“Think! Do you know your parents' names? What’s the first thing that springs to your mind? How about where you live?”, not-Issachar questioned.

“I-I...Why am I imagining…? Wait, I don’t know where Jonathan lives. I've never been there. Not even before or after he became Merkabah I just never had time to.”, not-Jonathan said.

“Merkabah? Why does that…? That’s right Jonathan became Merkabah and Walter became Lucifer! I fought them!”, not-Isabeau said as her eyes widened.

“Hoy?! What are you guys...Wait I fought Merkabah too but I didn’t fight Lucifer I helped him!”, not-Walter said.

“That’s right, we're the fifth son. You who looks like Jonathan you chose preservation. You who looks like Walter you chose upheaval. You who looks like Isabeau you chose neutrality. And I who looks like Issachar...I chose to unmake the world. I chose nihilism.”, not-Issachar revealed, after he did there was an audible crack in seemingly reality.

“Hoy, that means there’s a version of me that chose law? Ah gross…”, Not-Walter said.

“The feeling is mutual.”, Not-Jonathan said with disgust in his eyes looking at not-Walter.

“No wonder I thought you guys really were Jonathan and Walter. You sure butt heads like they eventually did.”, Not-Isabeau responded with a light chuckle.

Not-Flynn’s mom’s eyes were shadowed as the world around them went silent. Everyone around them froze in place before turning on them.

“You shouldn’t be here, interlopers.”, Not-Flynn’s mom said.

“I know we shouldn’t normally. Our memories of the previous cycle’s are usually mostly dormant in our subconscious, but you’re tampering with the current Flynn’s mind has called us here, Krishina!”, Not-Issachar explained.

A demonic smile identical to the one on Flynn’s face when he was possessed appeared on not-Flynn’s mom’s face. He dropped the disguise revealing himself as Krishina.

“Get away from us! I mean Flynn! I mean stop!”, Not-Issachar said as he pulled a samurai said as he pulled out a samurai sword from thin air and the others drew theirs.

Flynn's past lives memories were normally kept in his subconscious to prevent them from driving him insane. They are basically the embodiment of his memories of those past lives. He remembers they awakened when Krishna started messing with the current Flynn’s mind. They were awakened to stop him from turning him into a mindless puppet. However, when then entered the illusion their minds were tampered with like the current Flynn’s made to believe they were other people so Flynn didn’t instantly realize something was wrong. He could tell by looking in Flynn’s eyes those times. He was slowly losing his own will. He could feel he was dangerously close to losing what’s left of it. That’s why Krishna had so much power in his mind now. He created this illusion after his fellow Divine Powers tortured him for days to break him.

“My kalki is almost ready for our fight with YHVH and I’m afraid I don’t have much time for you since I’m dealing with another interloper right now. Let’s see if you can defeat your own mind. Well I won’t but...well see you later kalkis.”, Krishna said before disappearing.

“Pfft! Is this the best you can do Krishna? You should know better than to underestimate the king of Tokyo! I can beat this entire village alone!”, Not-Walter boasted.

As if Krishna heard him, demons, angels , gods, and even humans appeared from all around them. Every single person or creature they had ever fought throughout the cycles was here, even the likes of Lucifer, Merkabah, Ancient of Days, Sanat, and Masakado.

“You just had to say that didn’t you?”, Not-Jonathan questioned, with a priceless look on his face.

“Aww man...this is gonna be awesome!”, Not-Walter said.

Not-Jonathan’s eyebrow twitched incredulously.

“How in YHVH’s name did I become you?”, Not-Jonathan questioned in complete disgust.

“You probably got sick of that pole up your ass and decided to actually live a little in your next life.”, Not-Walter replied.

“Simmer down guys, we gotta work together for now. Even if it’s just a temporary truce.”, Not-Isabeau said getting between the two.

“For now, after all it would be a tragedy if I was forced to fight my lord.”, Not-Jonathan replied.

“Your lord is the reason we’re in this freaky time loop. But, I guess I’ll tolerate your high strungness for a bit longer. I’d hate to lose my free will.”, Not-Walter replied.

“Just uh wow…”, Not-Issachar said, amazed to see how extreme some of his other selves were.

“I guess this is what we would have been like had we fallen into ‘monolithic extremes’ as Isabeau called it. But, now is not the time for that, the people need us.”, Not-Isabeau said.

“Uh yeah…!”, Not-Issachar replied, feeling awkward since he chose nihilism.

Even now not-Issachar regretted his cowardice in choosing that choice. Unlike the other Flynn’s he did fervently believe in the path he chose.

They called upon their own demons from their respective cycles. Not-Walter rushed into a horde of demons with reckless abandon, slicing them into bits. Not-Jonathan swiftly beheaded Hope without any emotion. He then stayed back observing their enemies and exploiting their weaknesses. Not-Isabeau used Antichthon which was effective against basically everything, vaporizing low to mid and even some lower high tier demons instantly. For those it didn’t it lowered their overall performance crippling their offense and defense. Not-Issachar rushed to Flynn now that Krishna was nowhere in sight. However as he did he was stopped by his dad.

Not-Issachar froze facing his father still remembering finding his mangled form on that fateful day.

“Sorry dad.”, Not-Issachar apologized, before instantly vaporizing him with Antichthon.

He looked all over for Flynn before finding him unconscious. He ran over to him, shaking him awake. Not-Issachar looked relieved as he started to stir.

“Issachar?”, Flynn questioned sleepily.

That relief faded when he felt a sword get thrust through his chest. He knew that was a bit too easy. What he did expect was for him to transform into a giant fiery snake.

“I-I don’t remember that happening?! It must have been Krishna. You're a decoy.”, Not-Issachar said.

“I am Shesha. I fooled you like I fooled your little dim witted Tokyo.”, Not-Flynn said.

“You did what…”, Shesha nearly flinched when he heard the low angered tone of Not-Isabeau.

He could practically feel the anger radiating off her umm...him? Well he was Isabeau right now kinda. Anyway, Not-Isabeau practically launched herself at Shesha. They flew through the building creating a massive hole in the house.

“Then where’s Flynn?”, Not-Issachar questioned.

He looked around the remains of the house and ran through the battlefield making sure to punch Tayama when he saw him. Throughout the carnage he noticed a calm spot like the eye of a storm. That was it he rush through to see an unconscious Flynn guarded by Odin, Maitreya, and Great Innana. They haven’t personally fought them like Shesha so this was more of Krishna’s manipulation. His demons came to his side Quetzalcoatl, Tiamat, and Orochi. He was having a tougher time than the others due to having weaker demons since his cycle ended prematurely. He was able to defeat Innanna and greatly wound Matrieya, but he was tiring and Odin killed off his demons.

“Heh, despite not being the first, you're definitely the weakest incarnation of our godslayer.”, Odin taunted as he prepared to finish him off.

He closed his eyes as Odin thrust his spear forward and a loud crackle of lightning rippled through the air.

“Odin! You bastard, you embarrassed my current self by knocking him out and kidnapping him! I’m going to tear your head off like I did to the Odin of my cycle!”, Not-Walter yelled as he jumped out from a horde of dead demons and launched himself at Odin like a madman.

Odin was too low to turn his attention to not-Walter as he was nailed in the gut by Deadly Wind. He gasped in pain, flinching and dropping his spear as not-Walter smiled devilishly. Matrieya tried to attack but not-Walter grabbed his face and vaporized him with Antichthon.

“Hoy, get up Flynn!”, Not-Walter said as he kicked the unconscious Flynn much to not-Issachar’s horror.

He cringed as he heard Flynn wince.

“Argh!!! Walter stop! Wait Walter? How do I know your name?”, Flynn questioned.

“Because none of this is real and you’ve gotta get your ass up and kick the shit out of that fedora wearing god!”, Not-Walter explained poorly.

“I-I what?!”, Flynn questioned, reasonably confused.

Not-Issachar tried to explain the situation to Flynn properly, leaving out anything about his past lives letting him believe they were just versions of his friends created by his mind. Reasonably Flynn looked shocked and skeptical, but he also saw Kiccigiori was now a massive battleground full of demons, angels, gods, and humans.

“T-there’s no way it c-can’t…”, Flynn mumbled, tears forming in his eyes looking around at the battle.

“Tough shit! That’s the truth Flynn! Our family is dead, Issachar’s dead, Jonathan’s dead, Walter’s dead and now Isabeau!”, Not-Walter said harshly.

Flynn stepped back looking incredibly shaken to his core.

“Have some tact!”, Not-Issachar yelled at not-Walter.

“We don’t have time for tact! He has to man up and wake the fuck up now or we’re done for good!”, Not-Walter yelled back angrily.

Flynn’s head hung low, covered by his bangs. Not-Issachar put a reassuring hand on Flynn’s shoulder.

“It may seem all dark now, but don’t give into despair like I did.”, Not-Issachar told him.

“You can’t go Flynn! You have to stay here with us! That’s what you want right Flynn? That’s what you always wanted! You never wanted to make the tough decisions! You just wanted to be a follower!”, another Not-Flynn’s mom said with another fake version of his dad by her side.

Tears fell from Flynn's face as he met his fake mom’s gaze. She opened up her arms to welcome him. Flynn shook, walking over to their side.

“You can’t be serious! You're even weaker than that quitter over there!”, Not-Walter roared in rage.

“I’m sorry…”, Flynn apologized quietly.

“Flynn…”, Not-Issachar murmured, sinking his head in defeat.

“...Mom...Dad...But there's nothing left for me here. You guys are dead, so is Issachar, and the village is in tatters. I let myself fall victim to this illusion because I wanted it to be real. I wanted your deaths to all be a horrible nightmare, but it’s not. It’s real and because I bought into this illusion more people...people I was supposed to protect are dead. I have to go back.”, Flynn said, with a steely resolve turning from his fake parents.

“No! Don’t abandon us again! I didn’t raise you to be heartless man who would walk out on his own family!”, his fake father yelled.

“Kiss our ass Krishna!”, Not-Walter yelled back smugly, flaunting Odin’s decapitated head as a trophy as Flynn walked towards them slowly picking up speed.

His clothes started to flicker out from his peasant garb to his samurai garb. Suddenly everything went white.

“Haha! He has spoken! You have now regained your right to create a world messiah Flynn! Let’s see if you fight to keep that right!”, the voice from his dream at the beginning of his adventure said.

When he reopened his eyes he saw a familiar teen with a half shaved head of brown hair and eerie glowing green eyes. He wore a green jumpsuit and had glowing green celtic tattoos, Nanashi. By his side were his own demons Anubis, Shiva, and his own Odin. It seemed he was in the middle of battle with him. He felt the weight of a pink lotus in his hands making him realize he was transformed like before. He was doubled over as Nanashi prepared to strike him down.

“Isabeau...what happened to Isabeau?”, he asked.

“Huh? Why are you asking, didn't I tell you, Krishna?”, Nanashi asked.

Vishnu-Flynn’s eyes were shadowed as he asked and Dadga’s eyes widened in realization.

“Wait there kid!”, Dadga tried to warn in his odd accent.

“I killed her like I did to the others before facing you. Heh, she called out Flynn’s name till the end. She was just another useless bitch like Asahi.”, Nanashi taunted, thinking he’d won.

He didn’t fully mean that he felt a bit bad about killing the others after everything, especially after actually carrying out their deaths, but it was far too late to turn back now.

“Heh, he’s shaking. Krishna must be scared now knowing I beat the others.”, Nanashi thought.

Honestly the whole point of telling him of his betrayal was meant to intimidate him. After all, he knew his former friends weren’t complete slouches. To be fair he died a few times fighting them. He killed them because he knew they would oppose the path he took.

However, Vishnu-Flynn was not shaking from fear...it was unbridled rage. The entire area around them was filled with a powerful aura of bloodlust. Nanashi was going to swing down at him with Masakado’s katana, but he couldn’t feel his arm. He looked over only to gaping in horror when he saw his hand had been severed without him even noticing. His hand still holding the katana stabbed into the ground behind him. Nanashi’s eyes widened in absolute shock.

“You fucked up there kid. That’s not Krishna.”, Dadga said.

Before he could even react his body his head was cut clean off by Vishnu-Flynn’s next strike. Nanashi tried to bite back the intense pain circulating throughout him. Normally no one would know the pain of their head being severed due to dying instantly, but since Nanashi was immortal he felt all of it and he howled in pain.

“You!!! How dare you! I saved you! I trusted you! And you killed one of the only people I had left!”, Vishnu-Flynn roared full of venom.

He stood up to his full towering height with two new detached arms and four new red laser swords.

“Ah, Flynn! He’s Flynn. Did he have to go for my head?”, Nanashi thought as his body started to regrow itself.

Nanashi gasped in pain as he was torn apart by Vishnu-Flynn’s blades again before he could regrow his body fully. A loud crackle of thunder slammed down at Vishnu-Flynn which he blocked with his swords. Which hummed only powered up by the lightning. He turned his attention to Nanashi’s demons. He dodged a Mamudoon launched by Anubis. He swiped his arms not releasing his full magical power which was dormant while under Krishna’s control and used Antichthon on Anubis nearly vaporizing him on the spot and severely crippling him. He finished off the god with a single strike to his blade. Shiva launched himself at him and the two were locked in a dangerous dance of blades. Shiva was skilled certainly, known as the destroyer in the polytheistic religion he was technically apart of right now as Vishnu-Flynn. However, Flynn was very very pissed off. When he was pissed off he didn’t slip up no...he became more skilled and more merciless in combat. Besides he’s already fought Shiva before and he knows the way he fights. Vishnu-Flynn turned the tide against Shiva putting him on the back burner as Odin tried to shoot lightning at him.

Dadga gaped genuinely impressed as Vishnu-Flynn danced around Odin’s lightning and fought Shiva at the same time. The difference between Flynn and Krishna fighting was like the difference between Heaven and Earth. Krishna certainly wasn’t a slouch, but he was primarily a schemer who used what most would consider more underhanded tactics and trickery to win fights. Flynn however was a godslayer in every meaning of the world. Dadga felt he truly understood what exactly made someone a godslayer when he saw Flynn fight. Flynn reacted to and attacked on pure instinct like a demon. However, he attacked with the skill and precision of a human. His skill in question was truly staggering on the level of no...even surpassing the best warrior gods as he was completely overpowering and nearly toying with Nanashi’s demons.

He finished healing up his godslayer who took a deep inhale as his body finally reformed after being mangled badly by Vishnu-Flynn. Nanashi tried to regain his bearings and prepared to attack Vishnu-Flynn. It took much longer and was much more draining for Dadga than usual because usually not as much of Nanashi had to be healed when he revived him. Usually the kid might get stabbed in the heart, decapitated, or even instant killed, but those weren’t as hard for him to fix.

“That man is a real monster.”, Dadga thought, feeling nervous for the first time he started his campaign to kill all the gods and recreate the universe.

This man didn’t have the ability to revive as he pleased and he was merely a human. Well...he wasn’t right now, but he usually was. At least Krishna had good taste that’s exactly why he planned to steal his godslayer from him.

Vishnu-Flynn dodged Odin’s spear strike causing him to pierce Shiva. With a swipe of his hands Vishu-Flynn obliterated the two with Shine More like Anubis not even leaving a trace behind for Nanashi to revive. Nanashi concentrated and launched a Deadly Wind at Vishnu-Flynn. More demons had replaced his fallen ones: Great Innanna, Isanami, and Xi Wangmu.

Vishnu-Flynn dodged his attack shot forward faster than Nanashi could comprehend and sliced him into bits again this time using Dark Nandaka on his bits. His demons turned to Vishnu-Flynn completely stunned at his speed. Before Great Innanna could even act she was decapitated. Xi Wangmu shot a Ziodyne at him which he easily dodged before cleaving both her and Izanami into bits. With a swipe on his hands he vaporized their remains with Shine More.

Fear grew within Dagda as Nanashi hadn’t even fully regrown himself before Flynn slashed him into bits mercilessly. He knew Nanashi didn’t have many demons left to use and Flynn was killing all of them permanently. His slashes grew so fast all Dagda saw was a storm of blades. Before that he could count about 10000 strikes per millisecond, but now all he saw was a blur. He was killing Nanashi faster than he could revive him. Dadga had a hard time keeping track of if Nanashi was dead or alive since he died so fast.

Krishna was extremely pleased. While his kalki had broken free of his contract he was now completely embarrassing Nanashi and his forces which gave him no small amount of satisfaction. As well as having a front row seat to the true magnificence of his kalki. He was content to sit back and let his godslayer do the work in killing Nanashi. Of course, there was the obvious problem that he was no longer in control of Flynn, but he could fix that in time. For all he knows Flynn can go ahead and kill YHVH while he’s at it, then he can swoop in at the right time, steal control, and achieve salvation. So, yeah Krishna was pretty content sitting back and munching on imaginary popcorn while his kalki went berserk.

Dadga was sweating now as he was greatly drained by how many times he had to revive Nanashi in this fight alone. When he told his godslayer he could die as many times as he wanted he was joking. He never thought he would actually have to revive him this much consecutively against anyone besides YHVH. Dagda was a god, but even he had his limits. A limit he was dangerously close to hitting. Even his reserves weren’t infinite.

Nanashi hardly had a second to think before he was continuously violently torn apart by the man his more naive self once idolized. He had time to feel though. Absolute horror and terror. He had honestly thought he was up to Flynn’s level by now after all he’s killed many gods, demons, and angels at this point. Confident he could beat him if Krishna happened to seduce him to his cause like Dadga to him. Defeating his former friends and beating down Vishnu-Flynn only further bolstered his confidence that he was truly unbeatable. However, he now realized how completely wrong he was. He had never been anywhere near Flynn’s level. He was beating down Vishnu-Flynn because that fop with a flute was in control, not the true Flynn. He had his power no...not even all of that he swore when he sensed his magic power earlier it had nearly doubled. Though, that may be because how enraged Flynn currently was. His intense rage may be boosting his magic to ridiculous heights. Finally, his skill...was absolutely monstrous. He thought Isabeau and Gaston were pretty good, but this man was on a completely different dimension of skill from the both of them. He wasn’t exactly educated in such things, honestly he relied more on magic than anything, but he understood that he was kicking his ass worse than anything has in his whole life with freaking swords alone. He shuttered from deep within his soul with unparalleled fear. He wasn’t sure he could get out of this especially since he didn’t look like he was tiring. Tiring was an easy thing for someone like him to exploit. He was basically a zombie so he never got exhausted and Dadga healed his wounds upon death. Stamina and his immortality was his overwhelming advantage against everyone he faced. However, now he was honestly cursing it. This is what he imagined hell was like continuously dying infinitely and instantly with absolutely nothing he could do to get out of it. For an immortal like him this is exactly what hell was like. This was one of the best arguments against having immortality, endless suffering.

A deeper part of him...Akira shuttered in horror at the sight...no the very idea of Flynn’s rampage. What had he done to Ryou? He wasn’t like this. Ryou was always a kind, gentle soul. He was skilled, yes, but not to this...to such an inhuman degree. He remembered how Ryou would feel bad about even killing demons. He was a complete wreck after killing Kiyoharu and Kenji to stop their insane plans. He most certainly wasn’t ever the type to anger. He was more often than not a mediator between the more hot-headed members of the Counter-Demon Force. For such a kind, loving soul to be reduced to this blind bloodlusted demonic rage...It broke Akira’s heart to see his dear friend like this. Any sense of mercy and kindness was gone from the eyes of his incarnation replaced with anger and bloodlust. He still remembered the day he lost him. The day he sacrificed himself not unlike his current incarnation did to save Asahi. He knew then that he was truly his old friend reborn. But now that was all gone...Because of his own actions he turned Ryou into this monster before him. He unsealed Krishna who stole him away and merged with him. He made him completely snap by killing that girl Isabeau. He felt the worst chill down his spine when he heard Vishnu-Flynn start to chuckle. He was enjoying this?! The pure hearted self sacrificing idiot Ryou was enjoying this?!

“What the fuck have I done?”, Akira thought in complete horror from deep within Nanashi.

“Ryou! Ryou! Stop, please! Snap out of this! This isn’t you!”, Akira begged his voice cracking as he did so, knowing full well he couldn’t hear his begging.

No no someone had to stop him before he completely lost his humanity.

Flynn was beyond being enraged that word hardly encapsulated the fire he felt from within his soul. Even before all of this he had lost so many people close to him, his parents and Issachar. He still remembered the deep horror he felt when he realized...he killed his own mother without even realizing it. Once that guy apologized about not being able to help his parents his mind went completely blank. He killed every demon in his way without an ounce of mercy as he desperately searched for them. He didn’t know that one of the camazotzs was his mother. He didn’t know any of the demons in the forest were his fellow villagers at that point. When he found out he completely broke down. It was difficult to hide from the others he had to put on his own iron mask so they didn’t see him completely break down. He realized it when he finally found his father. He was still human, a bit mangled and in serious need of medical attention, but he was alive. But, then his hopes were completely dashed…

Flashback

It was after their first encounter with the black samurai, Lilith. Extreme relief entered his eyes when he saw one of the medics had his father. His fellows were off to themselves right now. He practically ran over to him when he saw him hope that his mother may be alive too bubbled up inside him. He didn’t expect his father. His strong, loving father to look absolutely terrified when he saw him. He was extremely confused when his father jumped back squirming away from the doctor when he saw him. That’s when he knew something was horribly wrong. He looked over his uniform checking for blood which may have spooked him. He gasped when he realized he had quite a lot on him. How did he not notice? He was just so focused he completely blotted out everything else.

“W-wait dad I can explain-“, He stuttered.

“S-stay away from me! Y-you turned into a-a m-monster like your mother did didn’t y-you?! Y-you here to finish me off!”, his father accused completely hysterical.

“M-my mother?! Mom...she….”, He muttered before he completely froze.

He pulled out a wooden sword guard shaped not unlike a flower from his pocket. It was badly worn, cracked, and had blood spattered on it. He recognized it as the one from the toy sword his mother made from him which he used to use to spar with Issachar. His mother may have disliked his friend, but she acknowledged that Flynn as a kid needed a friend to play with. Despite her distaste she made that toy sword full of love hoping he’d have lots of fun with it. He found it after he killed a demon which at the time confused him. He remembered the demon rushing up to him, but it wasn’t attacking strangely. He was too out of it though...when he fought he entered this state where he completely lost control over himself...He was just fighting blindly not thinking of anything else. He had no idea how it happened...it just did. He remembers coldly cutting down the demon that approached him without remorse. Thinking about it now he felt deeply sickened and revulsed by himself. Especially after realizing only now he was covered in blood. This feeling only worsened when he put two and two together.

That demon was his mother. He killed his mother.

He felt extremely lightheaded and nauseous now. His breathing became extremely heavy. His eyes widened at the realization.

“Ah! Ah!”, he gasped in complete horror.

He felt like he was about to have a panic attack as he clutched chest. He shook uncontrollably, hardly able to form coherent words as he imagined his mother’s warm smile. The doctor looked alarmed hearing the incoherent distressed noises he was making. For the first time he felt his soul wail. He completely collapsed on the ground. His father was right, he was a monster. He killed his own mother!

Flashback end

His father was deemed to be under demonic possession and had an exorcism performed on him which killed him. He wasn’t possessed, he was driven insane by seeing the woman he loved turn into a demon and thought the same thing happened to his son when he came over to him covered in blood! He killed Issachar too; he begged him to do so, but he didn’t want to lead his best friend to only suffer more. Then, Jonathan and Walter he knew they were dead from his illusionary Walter’s words. He still wishes he could have done something like awaken them from inside the beings that stole their bodies. However, he couldn’t they died as Lucifer and Merkabah twisted embodiments of their ideals. Isabeau...He didn’t kill her directly, but it was his fault she died. If he had woken up sooner rather than letting himself fall prey to Krishna’s illusion he could have saved her. No he should have never let himself be captured by the Divine Powers! He should have found another way to save Asahi and escape...Everything that has happened over these past few days, everyone who died because of the Divine Powers and Nanashi, they were all on his hands. H-he felt like he was close to snapping a morbid chuckle was coming from his lips as he tore Nanashi apart. Surely he didn’t deserve this even with the horrible things he’s done. He was just a kid, for all he knew that being that made him like this manipulated him into doing all this.

A deep part of Flynn...Ryou didn’t want to believe Akira would do something so horrible. Surely not? It had to be a mistake. Akira would never do something so heartless…right? But...Kiyoharu and Kenji did. They were his best friends since childhood he knew them so well yet they changed into something unrecognizable from their former selves. Then, they committed horrible atrocities for what they believed in before he struck them down himself. He personally saw through Flynn’s eyes the horrible words he would have created if he sided with them. Even that deep part of him didn’t seem sure of anything anymore. Nothing seemed to work. He remembers more than Flynn does. He remembers his past lives where he followed four different paths. He despised most of them except the third path, the neutral path which for some odd reason was going very differently in this cycle. He chose that third path again, but it seems like everything has only gotten worse for some reason. If Flynn didn’t wake up sooner then everything...everything he had fought for, sacrificed himself for would be gone. He knew more than Flynn, he could see Krishna’s memories; he knew the depravity of Dadga’s selfish plan. It was...Childish. He understood defeating YHVH, but that’s where it ended. Destroying the entire world, the world people had out there heart and soul into bettering and protecting just because you wanted the world to be ‘your’ ideal it was...beyond selfish. That plan spat on all the hard work and sacrifices humanity has made to better their world. Krishna wasn’t a saint either; he was nearly just as bad with his forced salvation plan. At least he had some love for humanity...even if it was twisted. But, Dadga’s plan was undoubtedly worse. This foolish god seriously believed that all a person needed was themselves. That’s completely wrong for a god of knowledge he sure didn’t know much. Humans were social creatures by nature; they needed each other to survive. No one is perfect and his world would be undoubtedly polluted by his own biases and cruel beliefs. Besides how was Ryou supposed to honestly believe that someone willing to sacrifice their allies and even the whole universe was going to be a more benevolent ruler than YHVH? He already was like YHVH, manipulating and sacrificing people for his own ends. They were exactly the same...It would be the same cruel world YHVH created just with a new face in control. It completely tore him up that Akira was actually a part of this depraved plan. He wanted to cling onto the idea he was manipulated and controlled but...He remembers destroying Tokyo he sacrificed himself for with his own hands alongside the angels. He remembers filling the world with demons and ruling over the hell on Earth he created. He remembers unmaking the world in a moment of weakness. He made these same horrible mistakes and he did those same horrible atrocities as the others. He had become the same if not worse than them.

Ryou still wanted to forgive, but he could hardly forgive even himself anymore. He felt bad for his current self; he was just as distressed and confused as he was, except he didn’t fully understand why. Despite his past lives memories being locked up he still had feelings and echoes of those lives within himself. From his law cycle he had obtained the ability to completely shut everything else out and focus on a singular goal no matter how depraved. His magic power had carried over and growled continuously stronger with every cycle. His inhuman level of sword skill was also for that life mostly from strangely after his death. After his death he became an angel for a confusing amount of time not even he was sure how long. Something that still deeply revulsed him. He remembers having a divine sword then YHVH gave him. Honestly, he didn’t remember the name, but honestly he just wanted to forget any of that happened. He became YHVH’s sword, cutting down anything that opposed him, even fellow messiahs for other worlds. He understood it was a long time, but he wasn’t sure how long than his ‘forgiving’ god shoved him back into the cycle he decided on as his punishment for saving Tokyo from his wrath as soon as he was done with him. Unbelievable...If there’s one being he truly hated it was YHVH. From his chaos cycle he gained the ability to completely give into his instincts and battle using instinct alone. Along with that rage he didn’t remember having. That alone has caused many troubles for the current Flynn especially what’s...currently transpiring. It even affected him. Making him go completely berserk at times if he felt really angry or got too into a battle. Without that cycle he would have never...Not even in his law cycle enjoyed hurting others. The king of Tokyo enjoyed a lot of things he disagreed with because he didn’t care. His heart had been turned rotten by Lucifer and he stopped caring about anyone, but himself. Honestly, his nihilism cycle didn’t contribute much, but his revulsion with his previous cycles unknowingly affected Flynn’s decision in that cycle to unmake the world. From his neutral cycle he combined his law cycle’s skill with his chaos cycle’s instinct to create a deadly combination in battle. He didn’t have as much time to refine his combat as his law cycle, but he still did improve it in the lifetime he had along with his magic like his other cycles. That first time he chose neutral was the happiest one that he hoped would stick; however, that hope was dashed when after a long and fulfilled life he woke back up at Lake Mikado again. However , that life influenced this Flynn to choose neutral again. He guessed he was still trapped because YHVH wasn’t done with him yet. He suspects YHVH wasn’t happy with him having an enjoyable cycle even if it wasn’t perfect. So, this time things changed he was prevented from removing the firmament and he was captured by the Divine Powers. Now, Akira was trying to destroy the world he once defended like he did. He could practically imagine YHVH laughing in his face while they killed each other.

“Please stop this Akira! We shouldn’t be fighting each other! Please forgive him Flynn! I know you’re hurting I can feel your pain! Please!”, Ryou begged, sobbing uncontrollably.

A less forgiving part of him couldn’t help but take pleasure in tearing Nanashi to shreds. He is the one who killed Isabeau, the last of his original prentice group. His heart hurt more than he expected when she was killed. He was the one who released Krishna and put him into this whole mess. He...He!

“Kill him! Kill him! Make him regret ruining things for us!”, that angered voice in his mind said which reminded him of the illusionary Walter.

[ain-t-bovvered]

14x10 Commentary

Zeta and Giuls scream together, and then die.

Me & Zeta will watch together season 14′s episodes as they come out and we’ll do our commentary while watching.

1 2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9

14x10 Nihilism 

-I did not want to see Jack like that again thanks

Zeta: true

- And there was a need for some wings there honestly .

[ comes back crawling]

HERE

Zeta:  the bar sceeeene

-.....THAT��S A DAMN SQUIRREL WITH A AVIATOR CAP ON ( also I re wrote squirrel four times before getting it right) 

- MOOSE!!! 

-......The Moose has a tag with “FAMILY BUSINESS” written on it----lol Jensen

Zeta: What’s her name

- PAMELAAAAAAAA . Damn woman I went a bit Bi there

Zeta: OH YES.

- [Music: and I’m searching for a rainbow] .....WOW

-[on the counter] Daphne loves Fred.

 my monkey dirty brain: Daddy loves tips. 

-hot. want that.

Zeta: the tequila or the bartender?

Bitch please . both.

- D: “ What are we, savages?”

Zeta: Oh the lips

-Cosmic Cowboy. *chokes*

-FB

-why is it always a ghoul case?

-Lol but who’s the drunk guy tho

Zeta: Bitch, look at her biceps

- some Bi slippage there too I see. FOCUS

Zeta: also indeed. Who is he?

-D:”I’ve never had anything this nice”

Also....I would be like Dean if I had a bar. One for the costumer and one for me! woohoo .

- D: “How come you always have a boyfriend?”

  P: “How come you always want what you can’t have?”

[looks into the camera like in the office]

- D: “This is my dream” 

I kinda see it tho....old grumpy Dean Winchester being the Bobby while running a bar like that. Yes....I like it.

- I knew it . I wanna see someone closed behind that “closet” *wink wink*

Zeta: Oh oh

Zeta: the slo mo.

-NICE .You are welcome for this gif where I let you enjoy the full over the count jump. Nice healthy middle age man over the fence jump ( nevermind this is an italian oil ad ).

-The blood. So cute

Zeta: I’m famous

- mmm

Zeta: shit

-Hello M boi, I missed you fam

Zeta: Changed clothes

- OMFG are you saying that the Archangel Michael macVanity von DramaQueen really just angel mojo changed into his Peaky Blinder wanna be in front of them?

He’s so flamboyant , I love him .

Zeta: The close up

- M making three men kneel with so much as lift his hands.  WHAT A MOOD. WHERE CAN I GET THAT? I WANT 10.

- M : “ I saw everything”  Yeah no shit we kinda see that coming too

-DoN ‘T IntERrUPt mE 

Zeta: Don’t interrupt me

-I’m-

I’m so bothered right now. Dom Michael for the win

-OH WOW

- Sam just “assbutted” Michael lol.

Castiel : Sam....did you just molotov my brother with holy fire?

Sam: uh ....No?

- HE ANGRY

- Dean’s not home right now...

Zeta: Please leave a message

*giggling* I love him

Zeta: His voice GOD DAMN

-yes

- Castiel hair tho.

Zeta: Do you? Cocky much

-but needs to play it cool. Can’t risk to mess up the pomaded hair.

- S:” We the angel cuffs on , Michael is under control”

 M: “Keep telling yourself that “  ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

I *clap* LOVE *clap* HIM *clap*

- S: “Dump him in the trunk of the Impala” ... DUMP HIM .ahahahahaah

-Garth is in the trunk

Zeta: it’s a big trunk

-M: “ It’s a party!”

- J: “ It’s not like any of us can fly”

 M : “ Well one of us can”

 S: “ STFU”

- J:” Sam, are we gonna die here?” ... wow Jack...babe...stfu

-Yes OMG I forgot about the stalky reaper

Zeta: You mess up so many things

- it ain’t wrong

- [in john Mulaney’s Trump voice] we locked Death away and enslaved the reapers

Zeta: Poor Cas

- ok but WHO....death? Michael is asking himself that too.

-Yes , put him in the dungeon. HOT

Zeta: shit

-I can hear you

Zeta: Shit

-Ahahahahahaahah

Zeta: SHIT

-I’m loving this

Zeta: Bring back Crowley.

Zeta: We left Garth in the trunk looool

- that....everytime we don’t see a character for long that’s it...they are in the trunk.

Zeta: Castiel

-CASTIEL . so strange, I love him, he’s such a sarcastic asshole.

- M: “Yes, uh, put a chair against the door”

Zeta: This pretty smile as I rip you apart

-I’M SHAKING. YAS.

Zeta: Control yourself

- S: “Cass this is all we’ve got”

Zeta: Again?

- well it is a loop.

-MORE SHOTS.  (me)

Zeta: The only thing missing is “heat of the moment”

- what if the woman is his conscience trying to get him out and if he sign he’s out? ...like....testing his resolution?

-Little insulting

Zeta: you’re nothing

Zeta: Why is he so perfect in this?

- J: “Dean---is strong”

  M *disgusted face*: “ Is a gnat “ . WOW

-OH SHUT UP OOOOH

Zeta: Emotional abuse.

- M: “ he was not happy, but he didn’t care-- Cause you are not Sam, you are not Cass.” 

[ me looking smiling to the Castiel/Misha hateclub]

-M: “You are a weak helpless thing”

- Jack , babe ....get away tho 

Zeta: LISTEN TO YOUR DAD

- M: “no I’m not and I can still hear you”

Zeta: Prick

- Love that prick..... literally 

- I care so little for the others I swear

- M: “Look at you, play nursemaind for a nephilim”

-C: “You are confusing loyalty and compassion for weakness”

Zeta: Damn what am I watching?

- [looks into the camera like in the office] Sexual tension

Zeta: so done. this. Close up

- M “and now...that I’m in here, I know why” 

-CHUCK

Zeta: He churn our draft after draft

- M speaks like he’s singing and mocking you at the same time. He has this musicality in his speak and I love it

- C: “Why would he do that?”

 M: “BECAUSE HE DOESN’T CARE!”

- good lord I swear all the angels are just brats throwing temper tantrum because they have a trash dad.

- M: “But now , I just want to burn every one of his little worlds until I catch up to the Old man”

Zeta: Even god can die.

- oh ok....overachiever much

Zeta: Hurt Jack

- No no Jack babe...keep your fucking soul .

Zeta: Cool science project

- Michael’s mind: if you mess up my perfectly combed hair Cass I swear-

- M: “ I give it a solid B- .....uh oooh”

 me nervously: .....wtf lol 

- M: *snorts* Oh Cass, I believe in you.

So rude...so nasty 

- j: “ What should I do?”

Zeta: Pray

-Thanks Cas, that’s-......that’s great

Zeta: You are all mine

- ..... YESSIR TAKE ME

Zeta: Dean’s mind.

- ..... if it was a funny episode they could have made so many jokes about being empty lol.

- me looking around haters mind ^

Zeta: This is what you are gonna become

-omg

- THAT WAS DEAN IN HELL.

- Dean’ “NOOOO “ at Castiel death is vibrating into my bones.

- S: “Dean is strong”

- C: “Sam, we’ve been through a lot and Dean is more than strong”

- S: “Dean thrive on trauma.” 

WE’VE BEEN KNEW

Zeta: Smart moose

- Somebody has been reading some meta tumblr posts

- P: “You really know how to talk to a lady don’t you?”

 me already at Castiel’s feet : wha

- That’s us fans watching 14 seasons of supernatural ^

-Bloody Cass is 100. *licks lips*

- P: “get me a shot. With your braaaain”

Zeta: Well hello.

- C:” That was- that....DeAN ThAt WaS An ACcidENT”

Zeta: Babyyyy

- them baby faces

- C:” WE NEED YOU TO COME BACK”

- S:”POUGHKEEPSIE”

- Dean’s mind : [ old modem sounds]

-M [Slow clap it out.] : Hey Fellas

-AND THE HAT IS BACK

Zeta: I’m you

Zeta: He gripped you tight and raised you from perdition

-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAH I’M DYING SO BAD.

-BITCH I’M DEAD AND GIGGLING I CAN’T.

-but also....but the fuck is Mary at?... like wow.

- also....everything that Micheal is saying right now is causing me actual fucking pain.

- Ok and both Sam and Cas faces? well thanks

Zeta: He’s buying time

-WOW. Slow smile, oooooH

-S: “So in here, you are all talk”

- oh that’s why he doesn’t use his powers. Serviceable .

Zeta: So happy. Fuck

Zeta: Prove it

- Um...yes hello 911? 

Michael getting his hands dirty is too hot for me.

-Fucking Tiger man.

-Come on baby 

Zeta: Jack will do something “stupid”

- Well he is his parents’ son *shrug*

Zeta: that

- D:” Then we don’t kick him out, we keep him in”

-oooooh M goes in the closet, lol

Zeta: Oh my god.

- ....Well that was stupid AHAHAHAAH 

- I can’t stop laughing .

- M [ROAR] 

  me: ....

Zeta: I’m the cage.

-HE IS THE CAGE. That doesn’t seem right tho...come on.

Zeta: So now Dean has Michael locked up

-ooooh the magic hurt him. Forgot about that. My baby.

Zeta: Concerned Dad.

- The way Cass say : “you understand?” killed me....so soft...so worried...

- The little smile! Kill me now.

Zeta: He’s not ok.

-Dean is not ok.

Zeta: [henley alert]

-He’s like....naked. ( still has another tshirt under it tho)

-Oh he’s mad 

- I’M CRYING . HE LOOKS LIKE MY CAT WHEN I REFUSE TO LET HIM OUT .

amazing.

( Sorry for the not that clear gifs but I wanted to cut and past all the bits of that because it’s amazing)

Zeta: He’s suffering so much.

-That troat

- That door is not that sturdy tho

Zeta: Oh hell no

- oh hello death . 

-Aw hell naw.

- Death :” Except one”

-AW HELL NAW

Zeta: Which one?

- UGH

Zeta:��No

-NO

Zeta: NOOO so much hurt

-OH FUCK

Zeta: Actual literal pain in my chest

YA KNOW WHAT?....I DON’T LIKE THAT LOOK .

NOT ONE BIT.

.

- lol I don’t even wanna look at tumblr now

Zeta: well you know me....I have

- of course you did

post gifs comment: I didn’t do my crack gifs for now, but they will be done in a separate post.

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If you want to get tagged in the future ones send an ask HERE or to @waywardbaby or a smoke signal, idk whatever I’m tired af.

TAGS: @supernatural-teamfreewillpage  @destiel-honeypie   @mariekoukie6661   @dragontamerm    @closetspngirl @rainflowermoon @mattiecat   @bunnybaby121115  @aliaitee @jacks-word-of-the-day @4evamc

[faegal04]

Second Chances and Half Ass Wishes

SUMMARY: You belonged to Sam in this world but Dean loved you secretly as well. After a hunt gone wrong you were lost to them both. Now that apocalypse you was in this world, what happens?

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester x Past!reader, Dean Winchester, brief mention of Jody

WARNINGS: Angst, violence, blood, some swearing

WORD COUNT: 977

A/N: This is the first SPN related fic that I have written in over a year. I’m not even caught up on Season 14, I’ve watched Nihilism and Lebanon (sigh over that one). But yesterday this idea popped in my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. This will be at least 2 parts, maybe more, I’m not sure yet. I’m going to say that this is set in Season 13 and the flashback will be around the MOC time.  Super nervous because it’s been a while. Please be gentle, but constructive criticism is always welcome! If you would like to be added to my tag lists, send me an ask. Also, there is a song that I played on repeat while writing this. Unsteady by X Ambassadors. On with the show…….

TAG LIST: @ellen-reincarnated1967 @demondean-for-kingofhell @winchesterprincessbride @jotink78 @winchestersnco @iamdeanfknwinchester @skybinx-blog @16wiishes @s4m-w1nch3st3r5287 @chaoticevilanddowntofuck @pizzarollpatrol @mizzzpink @cliffordevious @iliketowrite02 @meganescape @feelmyroarrrr @me-a-unicorn Dean tags: @akshi8278 @anokhi07 @lupine-princess

Dean jerked awake, sweat glistening across his forehead, heart pounding, hands shaking at the nightmare that haunted him. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and took a big drink, hoping, praying for a bit of respite.

Glancing at the clock, he heaved a couple of jerky breaths, “An hour, fuck,” he whispered gruffly. Just one hour this time before he had had to watch you die. Again.

Four Years Ago

Sioux Falls

“I really appreciate you guys coming to help with this,” Jody said gratefully.

“Anytime. You know we’re always just a phone call away,” Sam responded softly. “It’s bad isn’t it?”

Before she could respond, the sound of the door being opened drew both of their attention and Sam smiled as you walked in arguing with Dean about which was better, chili cheese fries versus cheese fries of all things.

“You don’t know what you’re missing, D,” you said exasperated. “Drowning perfectly good cheese fries with that disgusting mess is just wrong on so many levels. Not to mention that it’s Sam and I that have to deal with the after effects,” you shuddered dramatically but your eyes twinkled with laughter as you looked at Dean.

Dean felt his cheeks redden and his heart stuttered as he watched your face tease him. ‘God, I love her,’ he thought miserably. He groaned softly watching Sam grab your hand and pull down to you a soft kiss. The butterflies that permanently reside in his stomach where you were concerned, took flight at your startled giggle when Sam jerked you down onto his lap.

‘Get a grip,dickhead. She’s Sammy’s.’ “Well princess, guess we just ride with the windows down, cause chili cheese fries rock!” Dean snarked. “So, Jody, any idea where Pattinson and his groupies are hiding out?”

Present

He tilted the bottle up again taking another long drink, he wiped his hand roughly across his eyes to try and stop the tears. “Y/N,” he whispered brokenly.

Four Years ago

Vamp Nest

Everything had been going great. The four of you fighting together like a well oiled machine. Then all hell had broken loose when six bloodsuckers appeared out of nowhere, splitting you and Jody off from the boys.

Dean heard Sam growl from across the room as three vamps circled you. Instincts took over for both of the WInchester boys, rage bubbling up from deep within, Dean trying to desperately control his anger and realizing he was failing. Punch. Kick. Evade. Clean sweep with the machete. ‘Get to Jody. Get to Y/N.’ Both mantras playing over and over on a loop.

A sharp gasp from your lips as your body hit the wall behind you, has Sam distracted long enough to catch a fist to the side of his head, taking him to his knees.

“SAMMY!” Dean bellowed.

He’s moving with calculated steps now trying to be everywhere at once. He’s getting closer to helping Jody finish off two of the three circling her. Dean’s eyes flick to each battle raging around him, Sam is still fighting two really big bastards. Jody is holding her own against one. But his gaze lingers on you though. He’s always loved watching you fight, it’s graceful and terrifying at the same time. His heart slows to a more acceptable staccato of fighting when he sees you take out two almost simultaneously, leaving just a small female behind. 'That’s my girl,’ he thinks proudly.

Dean feels pain at his chest as clawed fingers swipe across, ripping his shirt leaving a bloody trail as three things happen all at once. One of the vamps breaks away from Sam, Dean is shoved into a wall and held in a death grip against his throat and your back is exposed as you concentrate on your fight.

Time seems to slow down, every movement becoming sluggish like fighting underwater, except for what’s happening across the room.

Terror grabs deep within him as Sam screams your name when you’re hit from behind, the vamps big, meaty hand wrapping around your ponytail, momentum propelling you into the wall. Your head is jerked back quickly then slammed into the wall disorienting you, making you drop your blade.

Dean sees the terror on your face as your head is jerked roughly to the side, exposing your throat. His eyes lock on yours at the vamp tears into your flesh.

“NOOOOO!” Dean roars, watching the life leave your eyes. Everything fades away as the mark flairs to existence and he paints the world red.

Present

Dean shoves up and off the side of his bed, restlessness pooling in every pore of his body. He can’t help it, he has to see you, not you but it’s your face. He opens his door and slips out into the cool hallway. God knows, he’s trying to stay away from you - for Sam, but right now he’s powerless.

He stops outside the room you claimed and listens briefly, hearing no noise he softly twists the knob and pushes your door open. The light from the hall let's soft light filter in and he breathes a little easier as he sees your chest rise and fall, can feel his hear rate slowly sync to each inhale and exhale you take, feels peace once more as he gazes at your beautiful face. This is all he can ever have of you.

Loving you from afar, because you belong to Sam, even though you didn’t, not really. It’s not really you, but he’ll be goddamned if he takes away any more of Sam’s chance at happiness. He closes the door, resting his palm against it. Accepting deep down that he will never act on his feelings, he slowly walks back to his room. Murmuring the entire time about ‘Second chances and half ass wishes’ that he had met you first.

[matts4-blog1]

track # 3 : sst

Aim

this track did not have an original aim like the rest of the tracks I created for this EP did. this track is objectively just based around the ending of track # 2 : umo, and how that tracks third-part themes progress into its own separate track. i guess that then means that this track is about going out and trying to have fun whilst trying to consciously block out the thoughts nothingness and nihilism as best I can.

so because this song doesn’t have a conceptual aim or any themes that were trying to be displayed throughout it is a pretty boring song to analyse as all of it would be the most pure bullshit imaginable. the only thing that wasn’t bullshit was how much fun I had while making this song.

the existence of this song can be taken as a bit of an insight as of to where alot of my time went into this semester and where I think my downfall was with the usage of DAW’s as I would always open up ableton and just start off by opening a new synth or a new drum kit that I had never tried before , then I would put some effects on it and say “wait this sounds like this genre” so I would try and make that genre and style of music. this I feel is very introspective into the learning process in which I underwent throughout the paper as there was a crazy amount of trail and error and effort put into creating something that would sound similar to the genre I wanted to make. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing to learn about how stuff works, but I feel like it managed to disconnect me from truly expressing myself and getting down my exact emotions onto a track due to the nature of me trying to mold into a preset mold so to speak.

in sst (this track) I tried to create a dance track that had hints of Slavic hard bass thrown into the mix, with a bit of dirty techno elements in their too. that’s why I named the track sst; slanted Slavic tracksuits. as it is supposed to depict the weird culture of Slavic hard bass fans always squatting in their tracksuits.

Elements

due to this track being about nothing the whole mix and primary and dominant features are just to try and make the song sound appealing and be somewhat similar to the genres I was trying to hit.

the dominant feature in this track is the vocal samples I took and I tried to make that apparent inside the mix. I decided to make sure that was well supported by the other elements found within the track like the drums most specifically. this track originally started off with the guitar loop being the focus in the track but I decided to move it to the back as it just sounded pretty bland and boring with a guitar as the lead instead of weird voices.

the other dominant feature that doesn’t compete due to its different frequency values is the kick drum, I felt like it was a good idea to have the kick drum with a high cut filter to cut out any higher pitched noises that would be produced from it so that it would stay in the lower frequency zone. the pulsating beat then becomes less of a focal point and kind of moves towards being a background part of the groove.

Influences

this tracks sound didn’t take too much inspiration from certain songs and artists, but more so towards the genres themselves. as I have not really explored those areas of music I haven’t really had the chance to be exposed to many of the good or great works of them but what I have been able to gauge is the overall feel and some sound of those tracks through hearing them a little bit at parties and clubs etc.

so the main three genres that I feel affected me in this track is: EDM (electronic dance music), Slavic hard bass and a sort of grungy dirty sound that I've only really heard be referred to as dirty techno.

Conclusions about the track

in all honesty I don’t really like this track, personally I think it just doesn’t hold any emotional value or anything so it isn’t really an inspired track which is made apparent in the fact that there is no intended themes in the track. although I do think that it has a good place in the EP as it does build on from what the third part of umo that is the main reason why I included it. other reasons include the fact that I think this track really does show my learning curve and my habits of using a fully digital work space when working with sound as my unfamiliarity has resulted in alot more exploration rather than expression, which I am in no way saying is a bad thing, just a thinking point raised in my process of creating this EP.

Future iterations & directions

if I were to come back to this track I think that I would try to incorporate some sort meaning that could be related back towards me, because otherwise I feel like this piece is just sorta uninspired and being uninspired takes away from the whole feeling of the music.

[theeverlastingshade]

Favorite Albums of 2017

I can’t help but marvel at the progression of these intro paragraphs preceding my 10 favorite albums of each year. Each year has seemed to be bleaker than the last since I started this blog. This year like any other in recent memory was characterized by wide-spread moral bankruptcy and a pervasive atmosphere of failing self-accountability and disregard for even the most basic tenets of human decency, and that doesn’t even factor in the Trump presidency. Thankfully there was also still plenty of impressive music this year, and perhaps more so than any year in recent memory, as obvious as it may seem for anyone that doesn’t really pay attention to this kind of thing, 2017 was dominated by young, talented individuals that really came into their own artistically this year. Tyler, The Creator, King Krule, Moses Sumney, (Sandy) Alex G, Arca, Oso Oso, Julien Baker, Perfume Genius, Kendrick Lamar, Zola Jesus, Sampha, SZA, Thundercat, Jay Som and many others released if not undeniable career highs, then at least records that are on par with anything else that they’ve ever released. There was truly something for everyone this year, as well as plenty of LPs that pushed the limitations of the form, challenging what an album can still be. Without further ado, here are my favorite albums of 2017.

10. World Eater- Blanck Mass

                 I never thought I’d be talking about a solo record from either member of Fuck Buttons within the same breath as any of their proper albums, but World Eater is far from being just another Blanck Mass record. With World Eater John Powers has created a lean, brutal electronic record that perhaps better straddles the juxtaposition between noise and melody more impressively than anything that Fuck Buttons have done to date. World Eater opens to churning static and the breezy music box of “John Doe’s Carnival of Error”, and glides along unassumingly for a few minutes until double time kick drums and manipulated vocal loops collide into the mix. From there the urgency jumps from 0 to 100 as we barrel into the industrial collision course “Rhesus Negative”. World Eater plays much like this throughout the course of its seven tracks, with a few moments of tranquil relief scattered throughout that act as brief respites from the ensuing chaos. The balance between these dynamics is constantly in flux, and part of what really thrills about World Eater is that it feels as if one side of this duality could give way to the other within any given moment.

                 World Eater has the most extensive range of any Blanck Mass album to date, and it pushes both ends of his sound to their logical extremes. Whereas “Rhesus Negative” reaches for the jugular, “Please” feels more reminiscent of a plea for armistice. The latter fuses manipulated vocal samples, bird chirps, woodwind synths, and woodblock percussion into an uplifting march, and is one of the few songs on World Eater that doesn’t completely divulge into chaos. While the tone almost always suggests despair, “Hive Mind”, the album’s stunning conclusion and high-water mark, serves to remind us that things will not always be this bleak. “Hive-Mind” builds to a frenzied coda over the course of 8.5 minutes, and the melody towards the end has a euphoric quality that seems to approximate the feeling of hope against unreasonable odds. Of course this is all speculative given that the album is instrumental, but the music that Powers has made thus far has yet to suggest he’s one for blinding nihilism. He’s responded accordingly to the times that we’re living in, but for all the menace and terror that World Eater is dripping with, he never once outright rejects the possibility that things won’t improve.

Essentials: “Hive-Mind”, “Rhesus Negative”, “Silent Treatment”

 9. Nothing Feels Natural- Priests

                 While Priests have been active for the past half decade, they couldn’t have chosen a more fitting moment to release their debut album. Released towards the end of January, Nothing Feels Natural was a too good to be true spike of adrenaline fixated on the power of resilience. The band’s music has always emphasized the dismantling of oppressive power structures, but the songs that compose Nothing Feels Natural are richer and more nuanced than anything they’ve done up to this point without sacrificing an ounce of their pointed fury. “Pink White House” presents the band at their most outright menacing; a perfect anthem of disillusionment that finds Greer manically sneering at the façade of choice that we’re made to believe we have within binary systems “A puppet show in which you’re made to feel like you participate/Sign a letter, throw your shoe, vote for numbers 1 of 2”. “Nicki” takes shots at opportunist leeches “You hinge your success on that which you might bleed from me” and thrusts their ambitions in the face of the patriarchy “Got more appetite than a bear or a forest full of mouths to feed/So save your paltry dowry/I’m gonna buy you before you buy me”. On “No Big Bang” the band ponder the accumulated costs of progress, while on “Puff” they outwardly dismiss accerlationism as an acceptable countermeasure for dismantling an inherently broken system.

                  While remaining true to their sound Priests still manage to take plenty of interesting sonic risks, and Nothing Feels Natural succeeds in large part because of it. “JJ” fuses surf rock riffs with jittery piano chords and a galloping tom rhythm as Katie Alice Greer tears into an ex and fantasizes about being a cowboy since Red’s were her cigarette of choice. The opening song, “Appropriate”, juggles punk, noise, and jazz without losing an ounce of the momentum. Closing track “Suck” finds the band trying their hand at tense new-wave, while “Puff” combines shards of distortion with supremely funky basslines and presents Greer at her most animated. The title track balances scorched post-punk and crusty surf rock as Greer delivers a few definitive bleak sentiments “But to people in sanctuaries all I can say is/You will not, you will not be saved” amidst a sea of ambiguous imagery. They’ve never stretched themselves to the extent that they do on Nothing Feels Natural, and we’re all the better for their relentless experimentation. Nothing Feels Natural is far more than a mere call to arms; it’s a manifesto for how to live, and it’s through all the layers of seething contempt that a path towards solace can be traced.

Essentials: “JJ”, “Nothing Feels Natural”, “Pink White House”

8. Arca- Arca

                 For Arca’s third LP in four years he’s released the first one of his records that could legitimately shock those who’ve been onboard since Baron Libra. For the first time since the dream pop that he recorded while in his teens, Arca’s voice was front in center of his music. Following the progression from Xen and Mutant this could have seemed like a disastrous prospect, and yet it’s resulted in, if not his most accomplished work, certainly his most fearless and honest work to date. Here he’s pared down the mind-melting production that’s distinguished his work thus far in favor of sparser, less obtrusive soundscapes that better support his operatic delivery. Instead of trying to outdo the brilliant, otherworldly labyrinths on Mutant, he’s opted for something even more insular but far less abrasive this time around. The music throughout Arca is just as unsetting and unpredictable as anything he’s ever released, but what makes it the strangest release of his to date is how unbelievably human it sounds.

                 “Piel” sets the tone for the album as metallic strings and a trembling low-end approximate the sound of the walls closing in around you while Arca sings off shedding the skin from yesterday and cutting himself off from the mouth of honey. It’s eerie and unfamiliar in the way that only Arca is, but he’s showing far more restraint than he typically allows in his music. I can’t think of many musicians where the notion that more is less couldn’t be further from the truth than it is with Arca, but on his self-titled he’s achieved an impressive balance between allowing the music to take a backseat to his voice while still providing room for him to explore new sonic terrain. “Castration” is a throwback of sorts to the frenzied drum and bass onslaughts that he’s perfected on previous LPs, and it also manages to pack in a surprising amount of melody given the nature of the song. And on album closer “Child” he recedes back completely behind the boards once more to deliver the most tender song of his to date.

                 Arca primarily holds its own within Arca’s discography due to the fact that, despite working almost entirely within instrumental parameters up to this point, not only does he have a surprisingly sturdy, agile voice, but he manages to consistently utilize it in surprising, affecting ways. “Saunter” creeps forward apprehensively while providing one of his most gorgeous melodies to date and lies in wait for his full-throttled bellow to tear it apart from the seams. On “Desario” Arca’s at his most shrewdly populist as he softly makes masochistic pleas and assures us that there’s an abyss inside him, while on the thunderous “Reverie” he takes on a commanding, cathartic tone as he dares a former lover to try and love him once more. There’s an unflinching level of vulnerability coursing throughout Arca that’s always existed in his music but had never previously been articulated so explicitly despite how cryptic the lyrics to these songs still are. With his self-titled LP Arca has managed to vastly expand the parameters of his artistry without having to simplify what he excels so peerlessly at. Here’s to Arca the pop star.

Essentials: “Piel”, “Castration”, “Saunter”

7. Always Foreign- The World is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die

                 Harmlessness is the kind of album that seemed guaranteed to posit a follow-up as inherently disappointing. It’s still an untouchable document of relentless ambition that continues to sound so refreshing in a climate where the vast majority of bands hardly seem capable of or interested in challenging themselves or their audience. On Always Foreign, the spirit of optimism that has propelled the vast majority of their music to date has started to dampen. It’s an album that finds the band thoroughly dissatisfied with the status quo and baring their fangs at a few different targets (primarily Donald Trump and former guitarist Nicole Shanholtzer) without once coming off as outright petty or bitter. It’s easily their most mature release to date, and an album that finds them comfortably settling into their status as elder statesmen of emo’s fourth wave without slipping into complacency.

                 While Always Foreign lacks both the immediacy and the adventurous spirit of Harmlessness, the band has still managed to push their sound forward in a number of different directions that sound both natural and fresh. Both “Dillion and Her Son” and “The Future” explore spiky pop-punk, and find the band at their most concise and accessible. “Fuzz Minor” begins groggily with simmering post-rock and switches on a dime through a few break-neck transitions before firmly landing on charred emo. “Gram” channels deceptively funky baroque pop and “Infinite Steve” calls back to the wistful post-rock that helped distinguish their debut Whenever, If Ever. On Always Foreign the band never lose sight of who they are, and where they came from, but they’re hardly beholden to the past. They’ve managed to tastefully push their sound forward and expand their wheelhouse with the most confident and assured songs of their career thus far.

                   As is the case with each of their other albums, Always Foreign contains a handful of their best songs to date, and finds the band reaching heights unparalleled in contemporary rock. “Marine Tigers” takes stock of the racism and xenophobia that David Bello’s father experienced growing up in New York throughout the 40s, and chillingly addresses how prevalent it remains today, in the process penning the album’s thesis statement “Making money is a horrible and rotten institution”. They reach one of their characteristically blistering codas propelled by a storm of brass and strings, but instead of catharsis the song practically disintegrates at the seams before tumbling into “Fuzz Minor”. “For Robin” is perhaps the most devastating song that the band has penned to date. Over delicate acoustic plucking Bello ponders how we’re able to grieve so openly for celebrities that we admire, but have no actual relationship with, while we struggle so profoundly to naturally process the deaths of those who we couldn’t be any closer to.

                  The album’s crowning achievement, and one of the most powerful songs that I’ve ever ever heard, however, belongs to “Faker”. “Faker” is a perfect song that finds the band at the height of their powers, disillusioned beyond belief, and channeling their collective frustration squarely at Donald Trump. It’s a frank, no-holds barred depiction of life under his administration, positing a procession of horrifying, but perfectly plausible scenarios that could befall the United States while he’s in office. No other song or album in 2017 has even come close to tapping into the grim reality that we face with him as president as “Faker”. It’s the kind of song that in nearly anyone else’s hands could have easily come off too on the nose, too cynical, or too ham-fisted, if not all three at once. But this is the kind of thing that’s been in the band’s wheelhouse since the beginning, and their execution astounds. As awful as the world may seem throughout the course of Always Foreign, the band continue to find strength and solace in one another. The World is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die may have shed some of their optimism in the time between Harmlessness and Always Foreign, but their belief in the power of community as a balm for assuaging the horrors of daily existence remains as firm as it’s ever been.

Essentials: “Faker”, “For Robin”, “Marine Tigers”

6. A Deeper Understanding- The War on Drugs

                 Following up a breakthrough album as ambitious and well-executed as Lost in the Dream must have been a daunting prospect, but you’d hardly know it from the sound of their even better fourth LP A Deeper Understanding. Here is where The War on Drugs have solidified their status as rock auteurs, widening the scope of their shoegaze-inflected, psychedelic heartland rock with elements of krautrock and synth pop. And while A Deeper Understanding is handedly the most accessible LP in their discography, it comes at no cost of the perfectionist sensibilities of bandleader Adam Granduciel. Much in the way that records like Currents and Swing Lo Magellan respectively found Kevin Parker and David Longstreth indulging their populist impulses more thoroughly than ever before while simultaneously writing some of their most sophisticated arrangements to date, A Deeper Understanding has only benefitted from Granduciel’s improvement on the immediacy of songcraft.

                 As far as lyrics as concerned, just like with previous albums from The War on Drugs the emphasis isn’t on specificity, but on establishing mood, and here they continue to exist among the great purveyors of atmosphere in contemporary music. “Holding On” offers little more than the likelihood that it was written about trying to move on following a breakup “No I’m headed down a different road, yeah/Can we walk it side by side?/Is an old memory just another way of saving goodbye?”, but that sense of untamable longing is conjured through the scope of their arrangements with far more justice than mere words could articulate. Lead single “Thinking of a Place” finds Granduciel relying on the light of the moon to guide him to through the darkness and towards a place of love, and the expanse of isolation that Granduciel feels himself rooted in is conveyed in spades. That kind of slight vagueness extend itself to the album as a whole, which only reinforces its dreamlike quality. You don’t have any real idea of where you’re going, you just know that you need to press onward, and perhaps if you’re lucky you’ll be able to retain pieces of your journey after the fact.

                 While The War on Drugs have obvious, undeniable reference points (Springsteen, Dylan, Petty, etc), their take on widescreen heartland rock incorporates far more than such comparisons would suggest. Their music is grander, and denser, each song incorporating dozens of instruments and overdubs that would come off over-baked and clunky in anyone but Granduciel’s hands. The drums draw far more from the nimble strutting of Krautrock than it does from any mainstream American rock throughout the 80s, and the massive array of synthesizers hew much closer to pure synth-pop than any electronica-dabbling Americana that existed within that time frame. Their music continues to retain elements of psychedelia and shoegaze on top of this, further distinguishing them from obvious reference points and their contemporaries alike. While The War on Drugs remain reminiscent of several legacy bands, there’s still nobody that sounds like them, far more so in 2017 than in 2014.

                 Where The War on Drugs continue to noticeably excel are in their arrangements. Lost in the Dream was were The War on Drugs truly locked into their sound, and on A Deeper Understanding the band are perfecting it. The songs on A Deeper Understanding are simply massive, and necessitate a quality pair of headphones or speakers more so than everything else that I’ve heard this year. Granduciel has grown into one of the most meticulous producers currently working, and the level of detail pouring out of each of these songs is just ridiculous. Whether it’s the interlocked electric/acoustic guitar layering in “Pain”, the thick motorik rhythms of “Nothing to Find”, or the sweeping synthesizer sprawl of “Thinking of a Place”, these songs contain a level of craftsmanship that make a strong case for nothing but ambition for ambition’s sake. The further that Granduciel seems to delve inward, the richer and more engrossing his music becomes, and A Deeper Understanding is the band’s most compelling chapter to date, one that further cements Granduciel’s status as one of the most consistently rewarding musicians currently recording.

Essentials: “Nothing to Find”, “Strangest Thing”, “Thinking of a Place”

5. Crack-Up- Fleet Foxes

                 The entire landscape of music had seismically shifted throughout the gap between Crack-Up, and the previous Fleet Foxes LP, Helplessness Blues. From trends, to distribution models, to methods of consumption, Fleet Foxes were entering an entirely different playing field in 2017 than the one that existed in 2011. Thankfully, the music suggested that this didn’t seem to faze the band too much, and they returned this year with their most complex and compelling LP to date. Put simply, Crack-Up is an enormous folk record. Exquisitely arranged and produced, it’s their most gorgeous record as well as their most ambitious, a record adorned in maximalist string and horn arrangements, sublime textures, and those heavenly multi-part harmonies that have been the band’s calling card since their Sun Giant EP. While this is easily the album of theirs most guaranteed to shun casual listeners and alienate many who have been onboard primarily because of the melodic mastery exuded on their self-titled, it’s also much bolder, assured, and dynamic than anything most could have reasonable assumed this band was capable of and/or interested in making. What the band has sacrificed in immediacy they’ve gained several times over in longevity.

                  After just a minute into “I’m All That I Need / Arroyo Seco / Thumbprint Scar” it becomes clear that this is a very different kind of Fleet Foxes record. The band has always contained at least five members, each of which are multi-instrumentalists, but Crack-Up is the first album to completely take advantage of the breadth of their instrumental range. I’m All That I Need” initially lulls you into a false sense of security before an avalanche of acoustic guitars storms the mix. From there we’re taken through several different sections that pile on keys, bass, mellotron, violin, and clarinets as Robin Pecknold begins to take stock of his isolation. The song ends with a snippet of “White Winter Hymnal” being covered by a high school choir low in the mix, emphasizing how the band couldn’t be further removed from the wide-eyed, youthful disposition they fully exhibited just a decade prior. It rings like a sober acknowledgement of the passage of time, and the realities reckoned with throughout the years since. Much of the record finds Pecknold growing disillusioned with those around him and society at large while seeming to harbor crippling feelings of self-doubt and indulging in the impulse to isolate himself. It’s the coldest record they’ve made yet, but due to their refusal to give into expectations or frame feelings in a more agreeable light, it’s also their most honest work to date.

                  With an album this dense and complex it’s easy to dismiss much of it as an exercise in indulgence, but the album succeeds on a number of fronts. Both “If You Need to, Keep Time on Me” and “Kept Woman” pair down the instrumental extravagance in favor of sparse acoustic guitar/piano compositions, acting as breathers that emphasis the band’s rich harmonies in-between their baroque walls of noise; the former a mediation on acting within allocated boundaries in a relationship with a close friend and artistic collaborator while the latter is a longing ballad that seeks reconciliation with a figure named Anna. “On Another Ocean (January / June)” slowly builds from little more than scattered handclaps, cello, and piano beneath Pecknold’s understated croon before the song settles into a groove that piles on guitars, harpsichord, and mellotron with Pecknold delivering one of the strongest melodies that he’s ever written. The pacing throughout Crack-Up is superb, and they’ve achieved a remarkable balance between doing justice to the band’s inherent melodic sensibilities while remaining willing to challenge themselves.

                   This is hardly the kind of album that I ever would have expected Fleet Foxes to make, but it sounds like a perfectly natural extension of their sound. It feels firmly removed, and out of step with the current landscape of music in all of the best ways possible. Everything that made Fleet Foxes a great band since the beginning is completely amplified here, and each risk they take they manage to pull off completely. Whether it’s the nearly 9 minute, 3 movement epic prog-folk lead single “Third of May / Odaigahara” or the ambient-leaning psych folk of “Cassius” or the anthemic baroque stampede of “Mearcstapa”, the songs on Crack-Up are the band’s finest to date because, despite what the overarching tone would suggest otherwise, sonically this sounds like a band falling in love with the act of creating all over again. Before 2017 a legitimately underrated Fleet Foxes album seemed inconceivable to me, but here we are. While it took a few albums and almost a decade, Fleet Foxes have released their masterpiece, having finally carved out a lane entirely unto themselves.

Essentials: “On Another Ocean (January / June)”, “Third of May / Odaigahara“, “Mearcstapa”

4. Rocket- (Sandy) Alex G

                 After several stellar bandcamp releases (and one official LP for Domino under his belt already) (Sandy) Alex G has returned this year with Rocket, his proper breakout LP. Much like Car Seat Headrest with Matador, Alex G has been able to turn a fairly sizable following on bandcamp into a record deal with a major indie. His first commercial release, Beach Music, was solid but a little uneven and rough around the edges, and ultimately failed to completely distill everything that makes him such a compelling artist. Rocket, on the other hand, is an ambitious, multi-faceted record that, while his most accessible, is also just his best period. There’s a staggering level of improvement in nearly aspect of his artistry on Rocket. His songwriting has never been sharper, while the arranging and production are miles apart from even what he was doing on Beach Music. He’s still writing and recording almost entirely himself, and for the most part he’s working within the same parameters, but he’s never taken so many sonic risks on any previous LP, and each of them pay off handsomely. Rocket is the sound of one of the most compelling songwriters of the last handful of years completely coming into his own as a musician, with his fearlessness only matched by his curiosity.

                 This is still singer-songwriter indie rock through and through, but there’s far more happening throughout Rocket than those kinds of parameters initially suggest. The album as a whole is far more twangy than your typical Alex G affair, with songs like “Poison Root” and “Rocket” that keep jangly acoustics high in the mix. “Bobby” is the closest that Alex has ever dipped into full-blown country, and incorporates violin and gorgeous harmonies courtesy of Emily Yacina. “Witch” explores droning psych pop while on “Brick” he opts for blood-curdling noise the likes of which could not be any further removed from everything else found here. That being said, “Brick” still works as an immensely effective segue from the frenzied free jazz plucking of “Horse” to the auto-tune drenched r&b ballad “Sportstar”. While some may find Rocket an incoherent and unfocused listen, Alex manages to not only pull off these stylistic leaps steadily and seamlessly, but he also displays a vast breadth of range previously unexplored this fully in his music up to this point. Nothing on Rocket feels forced or out of place, but it all feels like a perfectly natural extension of Alex G’s resourcefulness.

                 It can be easy to read too much into the lyrics of Rocket as Alex has always been prone to keeping listeners at arm’s length, and he continues to abstain from transparency throughout. “Proud” begins simply enough with proclamations of admiration “Wanna be a star like you/Wanna make something that’s true” before he flips the intention on its head a few verses later “I wanna be fake like you/Walk around with rocks in my shoes” and the tone never provides a straight answer. “Bobby” finds an unreliable narrator eager to destroy aspects of himself, both those he loves as well as those that disgust him, in order to salvage a crumbling relationship “I’d burn them for you/If you want me to” but it’s entirely unclear if Alex plays a role in this story or not. “Judge” finds someone presumably ruing having taken someone once extremely close whose no longer in his life for granted “That day meant nothing to me/A hiccup in my memory/This life will leave you hungry/I am completely guilty” while “Guilty” ends Rocket on a particularly morose note “Have you buried all the evidence of/What you used to be?/Has the question/Become darker than the answer?/Baby, I’ve got news”, brilliantly juxtaposing some of his bleakest lyrics to date over warm organ chords, maracas, and cool saxophone lines. Each song is grounded in reality but contains subtle surreal twists that leave much of the intention up to interpretation. This reluctance to oversimplify or dispense information first and foremost ensures that Rocket is consistently engaging and rewards multiple listens.

                 While easily his most accomplished album to date, the cohesiveness and range of Rocket were hardly unprecedented. He’s been perfecting his craft for years through a handful of bandcamp releases recorded by himself in his bedroom. While Rocket is his most collaborative LP to date, it still manages to not only completely capture the unconventional essence of his artistry, but amplify it. Taken as a whole, Rocket constitutes the most dynamic and confident songs of his brief but prolific career, and suggest that far less is off the table moving forward than one might have reasonably assumed from hearing nothing more than a handful of pre-Rocket Alex G songs. He’s quickly and unassumingly become one of the most consistently compelling storytellers in music today, and regardless of the shape his tales continue to take they’re certain to be engaging. In an increasingly crowded realm of singer-songwriters across a multitude of genres Alex G stands far from the pack through sheer ingenuity alone. With any luck his adventurous spirit will continue to spoil us for years to come.

Essentials: “Proud”, “Bobby ft. Emily Yacina”, “Judge”

3. Aromanticism- Moses Sumney

                 After years of hype from the likes of Solange and Chris Taylor among many others despite having not recorded anything until last year’s understated and gorgeous Lamentations EP, Moses Sumney delivered a debut that capitalized on the potential that his live show and songs like “Lonely World” suggested. Aromanticism is a sublimely meditative record that finds Moses pondering how best to live a life without romantic love. Most of the compositions are fairly minimal, with little more than guitar, synths, and Sumney’s tremendously expressive falsetto. On the whole his songs achieve a serenity through his terrific use of space, and it’s easy to get lulled into the ambience of his compositions without realizing how impressive the arrangements actually are. Like many of the musicians on this list, Sumney has grown staggeringly as an artist since his last release. From songwriting to singing, composition, arranging, and production, Aromanticism is a remarkable leap forward that is at times loud, quiet, challenging, accessible, but it’s never anything less than bold and entirely firm in his convictions. It’s the rare debut that, not only completely lives up to all hype surrounding it, but more importantly suggests a plethora of directions that Sumney could continue to take his singular soul music.

                 Where Aromanticism truly impresses is in Sumney’s ability to convey so much while seeming to do so little. With the exception of the latter half of the album’s centerpiece, “Lonely World”, the songs on Aromanticism are truly skeletal in their construction. The pervading atmosphere is one of smoky ambience, with little more to really latch onto aside from Sumney’s consistently engaging vocals and murky guitar strums, along with the occasional brass flourish, string sweep, or ambient synth tone to help sketch out the compositions. Everything is given plenty of room to breathe and develop organically, and this spartan-like sparsity helps allow details like the extended jazz coda tacked onto the end of “Quarrel” feel like natural and welcome embellishments instead of pure indulgence. “Don’t Bother Calling” is stripped to a chugging bassline, occasional strings, and Sumney’s tender croon. His sparse harmonies cast an eerie shadow over the mix as he gentle acknowledges reservations about a relationship “I don’t know what we are/But all I know is I can’t go away with you with half a heart”. The production throughout seamlessly compliments the richness of his voice, and while he’s proved more prone to deliver his vocals with grace and precision over sheer spectacle, there are moments like the closing track “Self-Hape Tape” where he completely lets loose, gliding up and down octaves with reckless abandon above skittering guitar plucks and a rumbling low-end. There’s just enough on each song to help flesh out his deeply affecting vocal performances, and Aromanticism as a whole is all the better for his tremendous sense of restraint.

                 Aromanticism is a concept record centered around learning to live with the absence of romantic love. The songs on Aromanticism never take on a chiding or condescending tone; they simply challenge some preconceived notion about romance until Sumney’s gaze veers towards some other element to fixate on. They draw their power from Sumney’s heartfelt, engaging inquiries into the very nature of our psychological impulse to co-habitat. “Plastic” draws from the Greek myth of Icarus as he compares his emotional state to the malleability and deception inherent in plastic “My wings are made up/And so am I”. “Quarrel” explores the nature of romantic love as a political device used as a further extension of control over people. Here he breaks down the difficulty of being in relationship with someone who won’t recognize the legitimacy of their problems “With you, half the battle/Is proving we’re at war/I’d give my life just for the privilege to ignore” before reflecting that due to the inherently discriminatory nature of the world there can never be an equal relationship since someone will always be “othered” by society more so, even if marginally, than the other person “We cannot by lovers/Long as I’m the other”. On “Indulge Me” Sumney seems to find solace in silence, having grown comfortable with all his old lovers moving on “I don’t trouble nobody/Nobody troubles my body after/All my old others have found lovers”.

                 While there isn’t a single song here that does anything less than astound (interludes and all), it isn’t until “Doomed” that everything finally clicks into place. The first song that Moses Sumney released for Aromanticism, while perhaps as unorthodox as singles come, is the best song that he’s ever released and easily one of the best songs released all year. It’s an ambient-soul lucid dream that finds Moses at a croon-whisper over smoldering synth tones as he questions whether it’s even possible for him to live a meaningful life if romantic love perpetually eludes him. It moves along at a crawl, but by the time we reach the coda his delivery conveys nothing short of pure devastation. There are very few musicians who can, or even care to summon the courage to ask these kinds of questions in the first place, and although by the time that “Self-Help Tape” concludes we don’t seem any closer to answering the questions that Sumney posits throughout Aromanticsm, it feels like a reward in itself to hear someone so talented and thoughtful grapple with these dilemmas. There wasn't another debut released in 2017 that was as singular, full-formed, multi-faceted, and engaging from start to finish as Aromanticism. So far, Sumney has been asking all the right questions, and making all the right moves.

Essentials: “Doomed”, “Lonely World”, “Don’t Bother Calling”

2. The Ooz- King Krule

                 Archy Marshall’s return to form as King Krule is a remarkably cohesive voyage into the dark recesses of his mind. Following the muted lo-fi trip-hop that defined his last LP, 2015’s A New Place 2 Drown, The Ooz is far more in line with the more sonically adventurous music that he records under his King Krule moniker. 6 Feet Beneath the Moon still holds up as a great record, but it does sound somewhat reserved in retrospect, like Marshall was slightly hesitant to completely push against the boundaries of his artistry. The Ooz is the first album that Archy Marshall has made that completely lives up to the full scope of his talents. It’s a more fully-realized vision of the bleak dystopia he’s been depicting since he first started recording while fully incorporating sonic elements from everything that he’s done up to this point. He’s achieved a sound that incorporates indie rock, post-punk, punk-jazz, and trip-hop, and there’s nobody that sounds anything even remotely like him. His distinct baritone warble is front and center, but he’s never sounded as dynamic as vocalist, shrieking manically with as much ease as seamlessly transitioning into a tender croon. The Ooz is long and can be a fairly challenging listen at times, but the sonic variation, stellar songwriting, and rich production ensure that it’s a consistently rewarding listen. Everything that Archy Marhsall has released up to to his point has been impressive, but The Ooz is a particularly remarkable achievement that owns Marshall’s singular talents, existing entirely in a class of its own.

                 The sound that Marshall cultivates throughout The Ooz is more impressive than anything he’s attempted on previous records. Opening cut “Biscuit Town” sets the tone perfectly as Krule’s weary rasp lays waste to a slithering tom/snare rhythm and bleary organ chords while he begins to make note of his desolate surroundings “I seem to sink lower/gazing in the rays of the solar”. From there we begin to descend further through the gunk. “The Locomotive” continues what is handedly the strongest four song punch on a 2017 LP as Krule’s forlorn wail cuts through the fog alongside a whistle aimlessly trailing off into the void. By the time we reach the first interlude, “Bermondsey Bosom (Left)”, it becomes immensely clear that Krule has made his riskiest and most ambitious LP to date. Here he’s managed to tastefully fuse the instrumental trip-hop he explored on A New Place 2 Drown with the punk-jazz blues rock that he’s been recoding under King Krule from the start without falling prey to awkward growing pains. The Ooz is the most immersive record I’ve listened to all year, and masterfully sustains the distinct atmosphere throughout the course of its runtime despite such immense variation. While certainly on the long side, The Ooz avoids devolving into a joyless slog through his deft sense of pacing. There are a few instrumental interludes scattered throughout that help round things out in-between the more substantive cuts, and nothing overstays its welcome.

                 There’s an immense diversity present throughout The Ooz, both sonically and compositionally. The first two singles, “Czech One” and “Dum Surfer”, are not only two of his most impressive songs to date, but they could hardly be more different from one another while still completely adhering to the album’s sensibilities. The former is hushed and solemn with Krule gazing through an airplane window recounting life on the road over somber piano chords and unimposing snare taps. The latter trades the nuance of the former for something far more brash. “Dum Surfer” barrels forward courtesy of a propulsive low-end, thick saxophones, and jittery snares as Krule snarls about vomiting on pavement slabs and getting into car crashes while riding in a cab. While these two songs exist within the same sonic parameters, they suggest a scope of vast range that Krule more than lives up to throughout The Ooz. The chugging sleigh bells and theremin wails that define “Slush Puppy” are miles away from the reverb-drenched, jangly lounge blues that Krule exhibits on “A Slide In (New Drugs)”, but at no point could you ever mistake either song as the work of any other musician. King Krule continues to thrill as a producer, and throughout The Ooz he demonstrates an impeccable use of texture that elevate each of these compositions beyond what they could have been in the hands of most other producers. Whether it’s the storm of brass and saloon piano chords that dance in tandem throughout “Cadet Limbo” or the slippery, sinister basslines that aggressively creep forward throughout “Vidual”, Krule consistently manages to keep things interesting.

                 As is the case with everything that Archy Marshall has released up to this point, The Ooz is an unrelentingly bleak record. “I wish I was people” Krule pointedly warbles on “The Locomotive”, providing one of the album’s few conceivable thesis statements, matched only by “I don’t trust anyone/Only get alone with some” off of “Vidual”. Krule’s commitment to unwavering solitude has only seemed to increase with each release of his, and here his isolation has reached a new peak. “In soft bleeding, we will unite/We ooz two souls, pastel blues/Heightened touch from losing sight/Swimming through the blue lagoon” he offers up on the title track, and it seems to convey an inability to move on after having lost someone that meant the world to him. For all the gruffness that he’s prone to front, vulnerability has always been key to his work, and here he comes closer than ever to exposing the tender seams that compose his aloof temperament. As is to be expected, he provides no legitimate closure for his torment, but does offer a few thoughts on how he may find solace moving forward on “La Lune”. “They found reasons to try/Clone the sea at night/Brave waves bathe the eye/Well I crave ways to dry” he intones solemnly, seemingly vowing not to fixate on trying to find love. Whether that holds true is yet to be seen, but what’s certain is that our generation’s self-proclaimed greatest poet has delivered his as-of-now opus; a sprawling teatise on how to navigate such a horrific, unredeemable world.

Essentials: “The Ooz”, “Dum Surfer”, “Czech One”

1. Flower Boy- Tyler, The Creator

                  I haven’t followed artistic growth across any medium within my lifetime as astounding as that of Tyler, the Creator’s. Since the release of his seminal mixtape, Bastard, it was clear that Tyler was an immensely talented individual with a singular perspective and an unparrallelled imagination, but it was hard to imagine how he would, or rather if he would be capable, of maturing gracefully as an artist when his sound was tethered so strongly to such juvenile impulses. With each release following Bastard Tyler began to shed this careless fronts, allowing his introspective inclinations to begin dominating the proceedings where off-hand quips about murder, snorting coke, and worshipping satan previously took precedent. Tyler’s fourth LP, Flower Boy, is by and large the most accomplished, cohesive, honest, and fully-realized release of his to date. By fusing the Neptunes indebted synth heavy hip-hop he’s been perfecting from the start with lush neo-soul, warm baroque jazz, and elements of psychedlelia, r&b, and pop he’s managed to land on a sound that evenly distills his passions into fluid, and unconventional, but undeniably sturdy structures. One get’s the feeling that he’s released the album that he’s always wanted to make having finally reached the height of his creative powers. By responding faithfully to his imagination alone, Tyler has made an album that bleeds with intimacy and identity, one that’s elevated far beyond the sum of its components.

                  In many ways Flower Boy is simply a massively refined take on what Tyler was trying to accomplish with Cherry Bomb. While Tyler was definitely on to something with the latter record, the execution was too volatile and scattered to really leave much of an impact beyond the cult of OF. Flower Boy retains the marriage between the melodic and chaotic that Tyler was reaching for on Cherry Bomb, but improves it on every font. On Cherry Bomb he had grown visibly disenfranchised with the art of rapping, and was hurdling towards growing pains with awkward vocal deliveries in place of traditional rapping akin to Kid Cudi’s unfortunate trajectory. His rapping throughout Flower Boy is the tightest and most concise of his entire career, with flow change-ups and various masterfully implemented inflections that help punctuate the tone of each song throughout. He’s still trying to distance himself as a rapper, and he actually sings on a few songs throughout Flower Boy. When he opts to sing he recognizes the limitations of his voice and operates accordingly, remaining well within his range and using other voices when necessary to bring his colorful compositions to life. There are 11 features on Flower Boy, and each guest is given plenty of room to provide their talents on instrumentals that perfectly complement their sensibilities. This is still Tyler’s album through and through, but never before has he demonstrated such an impressive utilization of an eclectic and well-balanced ensemble.

                 Production has always been Tyler’s primary draw, and Flower Boy is the most superbly produced record in a discography defined by eclectic, forward-thinking production. Consistently layered in a rich assortment of strings, brass, keys, and synths, Flower Boy is a dense orchestration of disparate sounds, but unlike Cherry Bomb it never actually suffers from Tyler’s maximalist sensibilities. “See You Again” is tender baroque r&b that finds Tyler harmonizing with Kali Uchis, penning the most genuine and thoughtful love song in a discography ripe with them. “I Ain’t Got Time” and “Who Dat Boy” mark returns to the chaotic, unhinged sensibilities that defined Bastard and Tyler’s debut Goblin. “Who Dat Boy” is the only song on the album where Tyler doesn’t seem to even remotely challenge himself or his audience, but it’s saved from pure caricature thanks to Tyler’s tight delivery, his sinister, trunk-rattling production, and a surprisingly solid A$ap Rocky verse. “I Ain’t Got Time” bangs in a more traditional sense, and proves that Tyler can still raise pure hell when so inclined. On “Droppin’ Seeds” Lil Wayne spits another late-career gem over understated cool jazz and on “Garden Shed” Tyler tries his hand at psychedelic r&b that finds him and Estelle harmonizing with one another before a thick wall of distortion signals the arrival of Tyler’s most heartfelt verse to date. Nothing here feels all that unprecedented if you’ve been following Tyler’s trajectory closely, but the execution here simply dwarves all past efforts of his.

                  Tyler has always provided fleeting glimpses of sincerity beyond the veil of irreverence on each release of his since Bastard, but on Flower Boy he exudes an unflinching level of transparency that shocks more than anything else about this album. From the opening cut, “Forward”, Tyler establishes the album’s earnest tone on a bed of lavish synths while providing a legitimate breakout moment for Rex Orange County. “Boredom” finds Tyler continuing to grapple with loneliness and contains the most impressive string arrangements that Tyler’s ever assembled, while “Glitter” has one of the best melodies he’s ever written and offers a glimpse of the potential pop album Tyler recently suggested would follow Flower Boy. “Pothole” initially scans as a stealth re-write of Wolf’s “Slater”, but fixates on the disappointment of being ignored by old friends while trying to help them achieve their goals and contains a bafflingly well-executed hook courtesy of Jaden Smith of all people while “November” showcases some of his tightest flows to date as he raps about a series of concerns regarding his fame, creativity, and relationships that ends with him leaving a voicemail to someone he’s fallen for, the voicemail being “Glitter”. The album’s most powerful moment, sonically and lyrically, arrives on “Garden Shed”. Speculated by many to be his official coming out of the closet “All my friends lost/They couldn’t read the signs/I didn’t want to talk and tell them my location/And they ain’t wanna walk” and despite never confirming whether that’s what it’s supposed to signify or not it’s still the most open that he’s ever allowed himself to be on record.

                  With Flower Boy Tyler has blossomed into the musician that his potential has always suggested was within range. The record’s second single, and perhaps his finest song to date, “911 / Mr. Lonely”, completely distills everything that makes Flower Boy such a compelling listen, and made it immediately apparent that we’re dealing with a markedly more assured and accomplished artist than the one who recorded Cherry Bomb. The first half is dreamy, soulful boom-bap with Tyler copping to intense feelings of loneliness despite the success that he’s had “I got a sold out show but it don’t matter cause you not front row”. On the second half he lets loose with his sharpest verse since “Rusty” over demonic trap that’s tonally in-line with his past work but constructed far more impressively. The additional vocals of Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy, and Anna of the North are utilized brilliantly, with Tyler wisely allocating plenty of space to his guests so that no one really dominates until “Mr. Lonely”, which in turn only further amplifies Tyler’s verses. His willingness to push all aspects of his artistry coupled with a heightened transparency and an increasingly collaborative approach have allowed Tyler to make the best project of his career, and the most consistently compelling 2017 album that I’ve had the pleasure of listening to.

Essentials: “911/Mr. Lonely” ft. Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy, & Anna of the North, “See You Again” ft. Kali Uchis, “Garden Shed” ft. Estelle

[cyclonusngalvatron]

Love, Time and Pain

A rewrite of an old TF:A themed drabble.

A sad/emotional fic if the title isn’t warning enough. Enjoy

You had been resolute and steadfast, never wavering from your core values since the day you came online.

You had aligned yourself with the Decepticon leader; Megatron.

Although for you he was wrong.

All wrong.

This was not the Decepticon leader. Not in your optics. Never.

He was not the proud powerful warrior you had sworn allegiance to.

The one who stood before you as you all stood beneath the watchful gaze of an entity far stronger than the universe dared know.

No, this was a snivelling, manipulative creep that paled in comparison to the glory you knew.

You hated it.

It twisted your internals up into a fit of disgust.

Even when you stood in front of the grey disgrace, hand on your symbol swearing loyalty to the fool.

So wrapped up in his own ideals he barely noticed how you looked at him with cool contempt.

The event that brought you here and put you in this situation...

You had ended up falling a great distance into a place known as New Kaon, your damaged body being repaired by those who resided there.

Centuries started to go by.

Senseless, purposeless centuries.

Cyclonus noted just how nihilistic he had started becoming.

Distaste of your current situation and knowledge of certain futile events had begun twisting themselves into deadpan barbs spat at those you were made to work with.

Centuries became millennia and Cyclonus watched himself become a dispassionate mess.

Where did his passion for the Decepticon cause go?

Probably eroded away after spending so long with these primitive 'cons.

And being without the charismatic lead you had so eagerly followed, the smiling purple plates that had lead you to victories and so much more.

Instead of being lead by a grey menace whose callous smirk was one of a mecha looking for his own fulfilment rather than that of his cause.

You didn't get along well with Oil Slick but that was okay.

You knew what was going to happen to him.

The rest of Team Chaar was manageable as long as you avoided prolonged exposure to them.

So it probably didn't come as any surprise that when that foolish leader Megatron failed, and Team Chaar broke up. Everyone bar Strika and Oil Slick were replaced.

Including you.

Though by that time you had developed a rather apathetic personality and you weren't at all bothered by it and accepted the decision with a cold nod and a small grunt, reminding them their fate will remain the same.

Although the abnormal flatness of emotions bothered you more than being kicked out of the team.

Even then it didn't bother you enough to be bothered enough to do something about it, and that bothered you further but now your processor hurt.

A loop of disinterest and gnawing anger clawing through your spark.

You had to do something about it.

You were proud and strong once, leading the charge against Autobots at your true leader's command.

Feeling there was no hope for yourself now, the only hope you had was to prevent any of this from ever happening.

Prevent yourself from becoming this.

Prevent this set of churning, confusing emotions from ever taking root in your tired fed up processor.

You chose to wait.

It was all you had right now.

Nihilism and apathy threatened constantly to take back the twinge of hope you had at altering your situation.

It was hard to hold them back from smothering the tiny bit of hope left in you.

Especially as there was no one there who understood. Just misguided fools.

You were alone here.

You watched from afar as attempts were made and thwarted at freeing Megatron from where he had been imprisoned.

You had even been brought along on one.

It failed.

Not that it mattered.

Time was a cruel mistress and the term 'life cycle' felt appropriate as Cyclonus felt his life cycling through the same days, over and over again on a non-stop replay.

The same morning, the same refuelling, the same rations, the same fights and arguments.

So long had passed that by now even your swords had rusted away until nothing but the hilt remained of them; replacing and repairing parts on them a fruitless endeavour.

Although you had left a majority of one sword's blade in a small Autobot's back. That was a good hit, you actually felt a smile creep back when that happened as you watched the howling, bleeding mess get taken down.

Before you knew it, missions became fewer and fewer.

Free time for a mech such as Cyclonus was numbing his processor.

It was not for a proud warrior such as yourself.

Though now you were a warrior to none.

A warrior in a sea of despots and fools, waiting for your true lord to return and restore what was right.

You were not so sure why other Decepticons had started sneering at you.

Or why such young ones started crowding around you and asking about tales of survival and stories of battles since passed.

Shooing away or threatening them didn't work, and when it did new ones filled their place.

You wanted to tell them stories sometimes.

Why wouldn't you?

Tell them the tales about the TRUE and PROPER leader of the Decepticons, and the glory that awaits them.

They didn't want that though.

Little brats.

You were now practically bound to the base.

Never leaving it halls, left to stew in your own emotions.

So what? You didn't care, quite befitting a bitter, apathetic fool such as yourself.

Eventually, for the first time in aeons, your apathy began to fade away long enough for new emotions to flow through your systems.

It had been so long since you had felt any of them that it practically hurt as eager hope and happiness pulsed through you like a raging fire that bled through your very being.

For the first time in many, many years you felt… alive.

Transforming had started to hurt now but you didn't care you had to go.

NOW.

A massive battle had occurred on the other side of the known Universe as a new planet glimmered in the sky leaving nothing but a void in its wake.

Along with it, someone new had arisen to take the Decepticon throne and in their wake Oil Slick's corpse joined others in a gory culling of unfit Decepticons.

There was only one reason for this.

The journey took twice as long as it should have.

Engines struggled to put out adequate levels of force as you streaked through the stars.

Cyclonus regretted not going to the medic in such a long time, maybe he should've gone to that regular check-up...

It was a new gleaming citadel.

Glimmering, shining, beautiful.

Tall buildings built with large doorways and high ceilings designed for all to use.

Streets wide for walking or driving whichever locomotion a groundpounder desired with plenty of space to spare; while tall the buildings curved and branched out creating delicate airways for seekers to swoop and glide through, stretched balconies available for easy landing allowing access for fliers straight from the skies.

A Decepticon Utopia, just as you remembered it.

Transforming and landing on one of the main streets, many Decepticons looked at you with a dash of confusion but mainly indifference as Cyclonus spent a few seconds stuck in a crouched position.

The landing had caused something to pop in one of your knee joints. Cold pain sensations washed over the affected area but self-repair systems did nothing in response.

The Orns spent travelling here had obviously worn down on your systems. Nothing more.

The memories of this place flooded your processor with such force Cyclonus felt as if his optics and spinal strut were going to melt from the building heat as his spark thrummed stronger than ever before.

Ignoring the damage to the knee joint you power down the city streets as fast as you could with such a limp.

As you ascended through the buildings, forced to use slopes and elevators to ease the pain on your ailing joints the entire city was spread out before you.

There was a sight that made your spark clench with sharp fear.

A bright green Death crystal was in storage, it was being prepared for use in a giant cannon.

You remember that.

The crystal… it was so hard to get.

Guarded by monsters and a group of aliens with their slaves.

It undoubtedly drew the attention of the Autobots who didn't need much prompting to know for what kind of purpose the crystal was being taken for.

The clue was in the name.

But if it was already so close to being ready for use, then you barely had any time left.

Joints sent screaming pain notifications to your processor as you started running, alas by now what you called running was more of a hobble.

When WAS the last time you went for a check-up?.

The highest room in the tower seemed to be days away at this rate.

It wasn't guarded, there was no need.

Anyone foolish to go in there with the intent to kill was going to join Oil Slick.

Cyclonus wasn't sure when his air intakes became so bad at cycling air through his systems.

Pushing through the door you fell to the floor, body way beyond exhausted.

"Whoa, steady on there fellow" A calming voice cooed in a concerned, friendly manner.

That voice.

That voice.

It was just as you remembered.

Nihilism melted away in an instant as tears streamed uncontrollably down your faceplates.

"Oh my" The voice cooed again, a hand was held close to you.

Cyclonus was shaking as he touched the outstretched hand.

It was real.

"Galvatron…" your aching vocal unit croaked as you were pulled shakily to your feet.

Taller than Megatron with a tri-pointed crest, Galvatron smiled at you with sincere optics.

"Indeed, to what do I owe the honour, Sir?" Galvatron smiled, his charm had helped him win so many Decepticons over when you both had appeared, along with Scourge.

"S-sir?" You gasped, no, not you, you were not worth being referred to as 'sir', not from him. Not from your master not after you dared to stupidly lose hope in him.

Galvatron was still smiling at you. Concern across his faceplates.

There were not any words in your processor that you felt adequate for this situation.

It had taken so long for you to hear about this event finally occurring, and then so long to reach here it had left you with such little time.

You had not even noticed you were still holding his hand.

Tightly.

As if he would vanish at any moment.

Just being in his presence.

The presence that was everything you remember it to be.

A presence that had made you happy. Made you feel energized.

A presence that you had cared for so deeply that even your most closest of touches had not come close.

It left you speechless to be here after so long.

The tears wracked your body as it offered no resistance to the shuddering shakes that ran through it, shaking with enough force to make your wings rattle.

"Are you alright?" Galvatron helped you stand up in a sturdier position, propped up against him "A basic scan does show you to have damaged your knee joint?"

"I'm fine" You weakly protested, the urge to warn him melting away as desperation made you lean into his hold "It has been so long" you murmured barely able to prevent yourself from losing yourself in his touch.

You had waited, longed, for this for so so long.

Galvatron smiled and nodded, confusing you, why was he not reacting to you?

"S… Sir please…" you gasped "Don't stay here! Don't stay!" Galvatron cocked his head

"Ah do not fear venerable Decepticon! This city is under my rule, a safe haven for us to reside in until we can conquer the rest of the Universe! And with the Crystal Cannon near completion, we will have an empire to rule!" Galvatron gestured to the city below, spread out before them through a wall-sized window and balcony.

"No! Autobots!" You gasped angrily and sharply, the mention of your enemies caused Galvatron to snap round to look at you "Sir, please! It's not safe! They have a trap set up! Just leave, please! Why won't you listen to me!?" You yelled desperately confusion and panic coiling around your spark.

"Autobots!? You know of their trap? Where? Where is it!?" Galvatron clasped your soldiers

"Just leave! Please! Why won't you listen to me!? Am I not your second? Why?" Desperation made you bleat pathetically.

"What? My second?" Galvatron suddenly started laughing "Oh my I am sorry! You are low on Energon too! You're delirious my good sir!. Cyclonus is right here! You are most certainly not him old mech!" His voice almost seemed to growl out the last part as if you had disrespected him.

Sure enough Cyclonus, you, glided in through the window and bowed

"My Master" You heard your own voice croon in your smooth manner "The weapon is almost ready for your use"

He, no, you, looked at you.

Your own optics staring back at you.

Your own tall, dark frame standing fresh, new and proud not jaded by years of loneliness.

It was something that you knew would happen, there was a big chance of meeting yourself but it was incredibly jarring in-person and the mental preparation you had done failed as you panted, worried.

"Please" You gasped hoping you would listen to yourself "Leave! Save yourselves! I Beg of you! Don't you recognize me!?" You limped forwards towards yourself, you would listen to yourself surely. "PLEASE!" It took most of your energy to yell that at yourself.

The other Cyclonus, the other you, took a step back.

"Do not mind him" Galvatron came over and wrapped his arm around the other you's waist. Just how you remember it, firm, warm and caring "This mech appears to be hallucinating it seems, don't be so harsh on him, he has been living a long life and has earned the rest we can provide him in our soon-to-be empire! He will feel better and calmer once he has been looked after" He smiled.

And you smiled.

You were being smiled at by yourself.

"No please!"

"He thinks there's a trap set by Autobots" Galvatron explained and the other you nodded as if that explained everything.

"No… no…. please don't let it happen…. I don't want to live this life…" Joyous tears had long since turned to tears of desperation, sorrow and sadness.

"SWEEP!" Galvatron barked and one promptly trundled into the room. A Sweep was never too far away.

"Yes my lord!" It obediently saluted.

"Take this elderly mech down to a respite chamber, I'm sure the climb up here has worn him out. Oh, and make sure a medic can see to him soon"

The Sweep bowed so far and quickly it looked as if it had bent to ninety-degrees.

The soldier quickly scooped you up in its large wing strut and claws gently wrapped around your weeping form as it gently manoeuvred you from the room.

Tears made your optics blurry but you saw Galvatron return to the other you, holding onto his hands as he did yours not so long ago.

The touches you would come to remember so longingly while crammed into a dingy Decepticon barracks with curs who didn't even know the name 'Galvatron'.

It was doomed to happen now.

You failed.

A miserable failure.

You turned to the Sweep, hoping that maybe, just maybe it could help you. It couldn't. It was merely a lowly member of the pack and was following its orders.

"Leave me" You found yourself begging. It didn't, orders were orders.

Powerless to do nothing but to follow it's lead you chanced a glance in the reflective surface of the well-polished walls.

No wonder he didn't recognise you.

The shock made you stumble and the Sweep paused, it's familiar pink energon-stained claws remained upon your spinal strut holding you steadily as you regained balance shuffling towards your reflection.

Paint job, practically gone.

Horns bent and crooked beyond recognition, when did they get so blunt? So worn down? When did one lose a chunk?.

Wing Struts crumpled and worn.

Lines etched deeply into your faceplates.

Oh.

You had vowed to wait an eternity for your chance at redemption.

And you had.

The Sweep carefully moved you away from the wall and you could barely process what was going on let alone protest.

Soon he placed you gently upon a resting chair.

"If It puts your processor at rest, you do have a familiar scent to you" the Sweep finally spoke.

You didn't care and it left.

There was nothing left to do but slowly creak outside to watch the horrible event that caused your misery happen all over again.

Right on cue.

The fighting.

The Sweep swarms dismembering the first few waves of Autobot troopers before many Decepticons even got a chance at them.

The Cannon was rushing to a startup in an attempt to use it before the Autobots got to it.

There was you and Galvatron fighting alongside each other, just as you remember.

In sync, your strikes were perfect and wonderful.

The kind of exhilarating fight for glory you were denied as waited.

Buildings fell and people from both factions whizzed past you.

You were transfixed as it all happened again.

The Space bridge the Autobots had hidden to bring most of their forces through once the attack started began activating again.

The Cannon glowed green as it powered up but Autobot charges detonated at the base and sent it toppling into the bridge.

There you were.

Screaming through the sky, smoke and ashes, watching yourself repeat the event that turned you into a dispirited fool for aeons.

The bridge exploded and the Cannon fired.

Even viewing it from a different angle you saw only what you had seen the first time around.

You watched yourself get enveloped in the explosion and buzzing tachyons and Galvatron… Galvatron got engulfed by a green shaft of energy from the Cannon.

It was worse now.

You saw it happen in full, not just a brief flash before you slipped through time and space.

While you screamed helplessly a few Sweeps quickly grabbed your arms

"Yes, this one is familiar" One spoke a few others muttered something in agreement.

"Let's pull him away before that explosion destroys us all!" You were now being flown away by a small flock of Sweeps.

Watching the smouldering remains where the few survivors still fought.

Maybe you could try to catch a glimpse of Galvatron once more.

Maybe he survived.

He had to have survived.

He couldn't have...

The Cannon might have misfired.

But you couldn't see.

Old weary optics stained by tears and clouded by ash and smoke saw nothing but the battlefield get further and further away as you were brought along with the retreating Decepticons.

Now to live, forever knowing you failed with the one chance you had left.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 14

On Ao3 | My ko-fi

Its finally done!! You guys have all been so great through this whole thing, I’ve never attempted anything this long or complex before and it went so well, largely thanks to all of you who came back every week to read it and to my amazing and wonderful beta readers @childofdustandashes and @minky-for-short who I don’t have enough time to tell you how brilliant they are, as well as the continued support of my beautiful and treasured friends @purearcticfire @oversaturated-ocean @brainypaperbullets @lookatvanessasface @arya-durin-51 @kilocurican @hollywoodx4. You guys are the reason I do this!

The boat itself had been Eliza’s idea. She wasn’t ever going to let herself forget that. That wound was never going to close.

Philip and Theo’s first year at a college halfway across the country had been difficult for all of them. Watching them first disappear into the crowd of people at the airport, waving over their shoulders, hands securely joined, until the brightly coloured shapes zigzagging across the busy concord swallowed them up, it had felt to Eliza like they were taking her heart with them in the tight clasp of Philip’s large, tan hand and Theo’s slim, delicate black one.

Little Liza and even littler Rachel had been, respectively, indignant and heartbroken. Every morning Rachel would wriggle free of her daddy’s arms as he carried her down to the kitchen, she would pad over to the older boys’ room and carefully count the still sleeping shapes, bursting into tears when she could only count two, when it hit her that her beloved older brother hadn’t snuck back home in the night. Liza would slam her fork against the table at breakfast and scowl, demanding to know why Philip was being such a ‘dork head’ and when he would come home. Will and Johnny quickly found, to their dismay, that their scrabble games weren’t half as fun without Theo to invent fanciful made up words to make them laugh and get into long winded arguments with Alex over whether they counted or not. Jamie couldn’t shake the habit of making far more banana cookies than the family could hope to eat without Philip and his seemingly bottomless stomach. Angie was a drooping flower without her brother to lift her spirits and pick her up on the days her legs felt too weak to stand on their own and even AJ, self-proclaimed heart of stone, far too aloof to ever admit to having any emotions deeper than a vague nihilism, paced restlessly every Friday evening, frantically refreshing the screen of his laptop, waiting for Philip’s skype call.

Alex, though, Alex was the worst. Eliza seized the opportunity to divert her attentions away from her own pain by focusing on her husband’s and she tried so, so hard but for those first few months, he was inconsolable. He slept restlessly, went on long meandering walks that often left him huffing and shaking, half in panic, when he wandered into a storm. He didn’t even write much, his desk no longer the refuge, far away from everything eating away at him in reality, that it used to be. And what scraps he did write were rambling and disjoined, all about having lost something precious and pieces missing and edges torn away, that got sent back with Jefferson’s looping handwriting in the margins asking if Alex could ‘lighten up a little?’.

Eliza had sighed and fretted over him, every time he would fail to muster up the strength to give anything more than a thin smile at one of Johnny’s jokes or AJ’s witticisms, to return Eliza’s kisses with the same fierceness she gave, to do anything but shake his head exhaustedly when she offered herself to him. She read books and websites that told her of seals’ distress when their pod was broken up, when pieces of their family unit wandered away, how it tore at them and drove them mad.

But her resolve to help the people she loved when they needed it most was steel, for Alex it was diamond.

It took days of suggestions and leaving books and websites open for him to stumble across but eventually, finally, she saw his eyes brighten and his frame pick up one morning as his eyes slid over the open laptop on the coffee table and something on the screen made them catch. He didn’t say anything, not right then, and Eliza didn’t do anything more than smile languidly as she returned to her newspaper and treat herself to a thrill of hope in her chest.

That’s all she’d felt, hope. In the days after that when Alex had gone into town and come back with an armful of scrap wood, drawing surprised glances as he walked home at just how much an apparently slight, wiry man could carry, when he started spending most of his free time out on the pier with nails between his teeth and a hammer pounding an industrial beat out across the beach, when the skeleton of his distraction began taking shape, Eliza only felt hope. A sense that things were getting better. So, certain that she knew what was best for her husband, that all he needed was a project to take his mind off missing their eldest son and by the time he was finished it would be June and Philip would be home and everything would be okay again. Since he was a tiny little thing with more hair than sense, Pip had harboured a daydream after seeing illustrations in his story book of the owl and the pussycat and making it come true, bringing it into reality, would fix Alex’s broken heart. She’d been so sure.

It made her feel sick, to think of that now. Sickened and nauseated by how stupid she’d been, wanting to push her hands through the leaden years separating who she was and who she’d been and shake her younger self in fury.

But Eliza could scream and cry and dig her nails in all she wanted but those years would stay concrete and impassable as they had for every other grieving person willing to give blood and flesh to turn the clock back and change things. All she could do now was watch the wrenching movie of herself moving through halcyon summer days so blindly, see the memories behind her eyelids of that boat taking shape, of her doing nothing to stop it, bringing Alex an umbrella in the pounding rain and a tin mug of hot coffee when the evenings slipped in under the horizon when she should have been taking the pieces of oak like the brittle bones of the earth and snapping them in her bare hands or else kicking it’s threatening carcass into the waves. That damned rowboat painted the same green as their fort because the tins of paint were still in the attic, a beautiful pea green boat just like in the book, brought into reality for their children to play on.

That fucking boat.

It even fell to Alex to voice the slightest concern, that first time they stood on the front doorstep of their house the morning after Philip and Theo came home, in the surprisingly intense morning light, like the sun itself sensed what little time was left and decided to throw everything it had into what precious days remained.

“Sure it’s safe?” he murmured, his voice cracking with exhaustion from driving to the airport at one in the morning to bring his son and the girl who may as well be his daughter at this point back home.

Eliza gave his hand a fond squeeze as it rested in her own, both of them held casually in the small of her back. Her warm brown eyes watched their children gambol and tumble like puppies turned loose from the barn, animated and lively with almost too many moving parts and smiling faces to follow though practise made perfect and Eliza could settle her eyes just right to see Angie dangling Rachel’s legs alongside her own off the edge of the little jetty, Philip weighted down with Will and Johnny, trying to keep his balance with the two of them flinging their arms around his neck, AJ sat in the boat, his hands gripping the hem of Liza’s pyjama shirt so she didn’t topple into the water with her eagerness to peer over the side, Jamie talking animatedly with Theo about all the different navigation books he’d read.

She knew how to keep them all in sight.

“We’ll make sure they wear lifejackets and they all know how to swim, they’ll never take it out without one of us there, never when the weather is bad and never past the bay,” she ran through the already established list in her head.

Alex chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes still wary and sharply focused on their children, clearly watching a parade of potential disasters and boat related dilemmas pass by between him and them.

“They’re sensible,” Eliza sighed reassuringly, not liking where his brain was spiralling to, resting her head on his shoulder in the little nook of his collarbone, “I mean, they’re our babies.”

“That’s not very reassuring, little miss ‘lets climb up on the roof when my husband isn’t home to tell me I’m risking breaking my neck’,” Alex mumbles, not enough under his breath.

“There was a leak!” Eliza rolled her eyes, hiding a guilty and unrepentant smile, “I saved half your library from turning into a swamp!”

“I’d rather have my one and only with an un-severed spine,” Alex nudged her with his elbow, making her giggle, knowing exactly where she was most ticklish.

“Shut up,” Eliza squirmed, her smile breaking out like sunlight from behind clouds, like a lighthouse beam slicing shadows into fragments.

Alex was placated; the looks on his children’s’ faces, their excited chattering at the prospect of adventures and games out in the secluded little bay by their home, left his worries as nothing more than whispers in the back of his mind. Philip especially made the decision concrete when he wandered up from the jetty with a smile as wide and as achingly simple as it had been since he was small enough for Alex to hold him in one hand. No matter how big he got, how tall he grew or who he gave his heart to, that was always going to knock the wind out of his father’s chest with sheer gratitude for its existence.

“You actually built me a boat?” he laughed in disbelief, jerking his thumb over to the neatly painted black declaration on the prow of it, his own name in his mama’s delicate, effortlessly neat hand.

“Well yeah?” Alex shrugged with feigned nonchalance, like this was something he did all the time, like he’d spent his life randomly building rowboats for the sheer hell of it, “I needed something to do now I wasn’t stuck doing your homework for you and beating all the boss battles on your Gameboy you couldn’t get past every night.”

“You’re nuts, Pops,” Philip grinned, aiming a solid but friendly punch to his father’s forearm in the kind of very teenage boy, companionably violent gestures that Eliza would never understand no matter how many kids she raised.

“Hey,” Alex’s eyes softened a little, “I just wanted to make sure that I’ve always got a way to get to you, no matter what stupid corner of the world you end up in.”

Their eldest was clearly disarmed by the sudden sentimentality, spluttering in a way that made Eliza’s heart melt, blushing and giving them both a tight, sudden hug before bolting off back down the pier with hurried thanks left in his wake.

Alex chuckled fondly and pressed his front against Eliza’s back, winding his arms around her middle, burying his nose in her hair and it’s gentle morning scent, telling himself that he was just being paranoid. There was nothing to worry about. What could happen to them?

What could possibly threaten his family that he couldn’t guard them from?

-

The worst, most poisonous, most blistering thing about last times was that you never knew they were the last time until it was too late. Details couldn’t be grasped desperately; the little things would be stolen away by time and distance before it was even known that they were an extinct species. It just wasn’t fair.

Alex and Eliza’s last time was a lot like their first in a bitterly ironic way. Rushed and frantic without much planning or forethought, the sheer desire to just be together driving them into a single moment snatched up indulgently and impulsively. Like their love was nothing more than a chocolate eaten at midnight to try and bring on sleep.

That wasn’t how Eliza would have chosen it to be, not that she’d ever even briefly entertained the idea of her and Alex ever having a ‘last’ anything, let alone a last chance to make love, what business did thoughts like that have in her head, her idyllic life?

But no one asked her. No one gave her the opportunity, everything was just ripped from her without warning.

So, Eliza would take what she could get and remembered everything she could.

Rachel usually went to bed easily and with minimal fuss, so much so that Alex commented brightly how it only took them eight tries to finally have a baby that knew how to sleep. But tonight, she wasn’t having it. Like her father, she was a creature of habit and any upset to her balance left her drifting unhappily.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl, we’ll have to find him tomorrow,” Eliza murmured soothingly, cocooning her distressed little daughter in her blanket.

Rachel’s lower lip jutted out miserably, “No! Need Megs!”

“Oh, honey bee, I know,” Eliza brushed her thumb along the underside of her dark, weepy eyes, “But it’s so late, can you do without for just one night?”

The idea of going to bed, of facing hours and hours of darkness and dreams without her beloved cloth kitten, made Rachel slump unhappily but she was so tired, there was no fight left in her.

“I guess…”

“My brave little girl,” Eliza pressed a kiss to her forehead, wiping away the dark plum lipstick smudge it left, nearly perfectly matching the birthmark that blushed across her left eye and had always done since she was born, “I promise we’ll find Megs tomorrow. He won’t have wandered far, he’s your best friend.”

Rachel gave a little nod, clearly unconvinced but even her toddler stubbornness got sleepy by nine pm. She accepted her mama’s goodnight kiss and snuggled into her bed, looking so small in the vast expanse of the covers it made Eliza feel a little sad. The way the storm outside kept roaring and pacing, throwing an angry shoulder against their stretch of the coastline, wasn’t helping at all, throwing harsh patterns of muted light into the room like alien figures climbing the walls. AJ had joked in a slightly nervous way as he’d been halfway up the stairs to his own bed that clearly the sky wanted to welcome Philip and Theo back home with a bang. It didn’t seem like anyone was going to get much sleep tonight.

But if Eliza could change the weather to make her family happy, she’d have done it a long time ago. She could only stroke Rachel’s hair and murmur that everything was going to be okay, doing the same for Liza over in the other bed across the room, tense under her space patterned blankets and trying to pretend she wasn’t as scared as she really was.

“I love you both so much,” Eliza whispered as she closed the door, always wanting that to be the last thing any of her children heard before they drifted off to sleep.

She came back into the living room to be confronted with her husband’s legs sticking out from under the sofa.

“Um, you need some help?” she smiled bemusedly, noting how he was wearing odd socks.

“Huh? Oh, hey baby,” he grunted as he squirmed free, kneeling and brushing dust from the front of his shirt, “I was looking for Megs.”

Eliza’s eyes softened, reaching down and stroking his loose hair, “Don’t worry, honey, she got to sleep okay. I’m sure he’s just in the car or maybe we left him at the library, Eli will grab him for us.”

“I swear she had him when we went for a walk…” Alex murmured fretfully, unable to stand the cold, awkward knowledge that one of his children was unhappy, but he let Eliza pull him to his feet and thread her arms around him.

“We’ll find him,” Eliza pressed her lips along his jaw, more than aware that the storm would be setting his teeth on edge too, happy to divert and distract.

Alex began to smile, feeling her warm lips and the gentle tickle of her breath across his skin, his own hands moving to respond in kind, clasping across her tailbone so her hips are pressed against him just a little fraction more than they were but it was enough, “Sleepy?”

“Not so much,” Eliza shrugged, eyes darting up to his with that delightful crinkle in their corners she got when she was being playful, “You?”

“I could stand to stay up a few more hours,” Alex tilted his head, leaning in without another moment’s hesitation, their lips meeting like the natural movements of the tides.

They had to move quickly and quietly, their children asleep just upstairs but fortunately they were practised at this, at stealing moments together in the quiet pauses of their lives. Eliza found her shirt and her jeans on the floor almost without any prompting from either of them, Alex found his bare back against the couch cushions but didn’t remember losing his feet. All either of them were aware of was each other’s hands and mouths and the pounding of each other’s heartbeats pressed flush against each other, so close it was like there was only one. Eliza could have stayed upright, let his hands hold her at the hips, ridden him until he broke but she didn’t. She wrapped her arms around his neck, staying as close as she possibly could even when it limited her movement but neither of them could spare the effort to care. Everything went into the pulling of their tendons, the tightening of their fingers, the clenching of teeth, into heat and salt and sweat and low moans muffled against Eliza’s hair and Alex’s collarbone. Eliza begged him brokenly not to stop, to never stop, Alex just moaned her name deliriously like that was the only word he even cared to know and they finished hard and bright and in perfect beat with each other, shuddering and collapsing and finding themselves again in each other’s arms.

Eliza had no idea that this time would be their last. But maybe Alex did, in a vague kind of way.

Because as he stretched back lazily, smiling in perfect and blissful satisfaction while Eliza gathered her clothes, a strange look interrupted his admiring the firm muscles of her shoulders and gorgeous curves of her thighs.

Eliza caught it over her shoulder as she turned to make a wry comment, the words extinguishing as they met the cold air, replaced with a gentle whisper, “Alex? Are you okay?”

He blinked, almost startled by his own emotions, having the look of a man just waking up. Running a slightly uncertain hand through his hair, he just said what was pounding through his veins like it had replaced all his blood.

“I just love you. I really, really love you, Eliza,” Alex murmured, his words and their intention sure but his voice strangely weak.

She was more than a little thrown by it. Not that they never told each other that, they did all the time, at every opportunity. Eliza would murmur it sleepily whenever Alex set her morning tea in front of her, Alex would chuckle it in the moments Eliza padded up behind him and slid her hands over his eyes while he sat at his desk. It was like the simplicity of the words could be overcome with volume, like if they both said it enough they could come closer and closer to describing how they really felt.

But there was something different in Alex’s eyes here, in the way he looked at her as he mumbled the words. There was something that could almost be described as fear.

“I love you too,” Eliza answered, coming up and holding his face gently, forgetting her clothes in the sudden need to kiss him one more time.

It was just the storm, she told herself when she failed to lose herself in the familiar texture of his lips. Storms made him nervous, they always had and for good reason.

It was just the storm.

-

Eliza’s dreams that night were disjointed and panicked, emotions with no grounding, fear without cause, hammering hearts but the danger was always too far out of the corner of her eye to see. So she didn’t realise at first that those frightened voices, the thin, rattled cries weren’t just in her head.

“Mama! Pops! Please wake up!”

Eliza was half asleep, almost like her brain didn’t want to face what it would find when she really opened her eyes, trying to drag her back down under the surface like the silent voice that told her to look away in revulsion from open wounds and weeping sores. It was Alex who was bolt upright, eyes wide and body thrumming with tension, to face a sobbing, shivering Liza at the foot of their bed.

“Mija…”

“It’s Rachel! I told her not to go but she remembered where Megs was and he was out on the boat and she said the storm would scare him so she went to get him but I said don’t, I said no but she went and now and now- “

Alex was gone, nothing but his warmth left in the bed next to his wife and their daughter’s terrified tears.

“I told her no, I tried, I told her it was dangerous,” the little girl wailed, dissolving into hysterics.

It tore Eliza’s heart in two to stagger to her feet and run right past her and her panicked but she was a slave to the bile rising in her throat and her heartbeat so wild and sickeningly fast she could feel it behind her eyeballs, those few gasping words of Liza’s enough to send her spiralling.

Little Rachel. The storm was still howling outside, so fierce it shook Eliza’s bones and seemed to tip the hallway around her as she sprinted through it, throwing her, bucking her, until she couldn’t tell if she’d ever really woken up.

Please let me still be dreaming.

The door was open, Alex far out in front of her, Eliza ran right into a wall of rain so cold and solid it stung her bare skin and had her half drowned in seconds. The night was thick and she could feel it in her throat when she tried to breathe, like it was alive and insidious and deliberately hiding what was going on from her, wanting her lost and panicking.

“Alexander!” she cried, feeling the wind pluck up her voice and carry it away like a finch in the claws of an eagle, “Rachel!”

She staggered down the beach, sharp stones hidden in the ice-cold sand cutting the soles of her feet, taking small spattered sacrifices of her blood as she fled, searching frantically and in complete vain as the darkness remained impenetrable. From muscle memory alone she found the beginning of the jetty, the creaking path out past the writhing shore, out closer to where she could vaguely sense Alex was, just by following the thread between their hearts as much as she could over the sound of the earth being torn open from the inside just as her chest was.

Eliza felt the floor drop out of her stomach as her eyes told her a truth she didn’t want to believe. The end of their cottage’s little pier had been torn away, leaving only four or five steps worth ending in a jagged, broken wound like snapped bones.

The boat was gone along with it.

No.

Only as a human did Alex really feel the cold. And he felt it now.

He couldn’t breathe, he could only fight to move forward, throwing himself against the raw force of nature, pushing aside everything that stood in his way. He could see it up ahead, even through the storm, like a beacon dragging him ceaselessly forward. Of course, it was hard not to see the green against the black. Or miss the terrified sobbing, somehow louder to Alex’s ears and heart than the screeching of the storm.

He had to keep going.

And then, somehow, he was there, his hand (with claws that bit into the rain soaked wood with a visceral splintering) gripping the edge of the boat with a sensation like trying to hold on to a handful of smoke as it spiralled through the air. Rachel’s screams shifted in pitch and tone as what looked to her like a monster from the deep coming to drag her down below the waves as tall as towering cliffs reached through the shadows, hauling itself over the edge of the boat.

But then there was a voice, a voice she knew, a voice she’d been begging and begging to hear ever since the boat had come loose and she’d been set loose and tossed across the bay as if between careless hands playing a cruel and vindictive game.

“R-Rachel, it’s okay, it’s m-me…I’ve got you, mija, y-you’re safe…”

And then the tension none of them had realised had been building, that had climbed unseen by them both, turning Alex’s reassurances into a lie, it finally broke. Both Alex and Rachel were blinded, deafened, felt pressure on all sides, lost all sense of direction, his grip on her hand was broken.

And something pierced his chest, sliding in between his ribs like a whisper in his heart though it had no words.

Just a solid, silent farewell.

The storm was gone but the one in Eliza’s heart only got worse. The whole world around her was grey, grey and flat like the textures were still loading in after the whole system had to reboot, but Eliza felt so red, so alarmingly red, it pulsed like the desperate, searching beam of a lighthouse. Some time ago, who knew how long, she’d sank to her knees, leaning forward like if she could just reach out far enough, she could bring her husband and daughter home safe. Blood still beaded at the soles of her feet, running down and dripping into the dark, slate grey waters but Eliza couldn’t have cared less.

In the eerie silence left after the end of the world, the only sound was Eliza’s whisper, her plea to whoever was listening.

“Please, please, please, please…”

“Mama!”

The cry was faint and pained but it was the sweetest sound Eliza had ever heard and she burst into wracking sobs as it found her through the nauseating peace. She jumped, shin deep in freezing cold water but not feeling it in the slightest, moving through it like it wasn’t even there as she sprinted over to the small, sodden shape scrambling its way out of the water like had the reluctance of tar to let it go free.

“Rachel, oh baby girl…” she sobbed as she pulled her daughter into her arms, needing to feel the fluttering heartbeat in her chest, needing to know she was really okay, “My baby…”

Rachel’s teeth were chattering so harshly she couldn’t really speak without risking biting the tip of her tongue off but she tried to grind out words with a lot of effort.

And of all the things her youngest girl, her little baby, could say after nearly losing her life, all she said was, “M’so…s-s-so sorry…s-sorry…”

“Oh,” Eliza’s heart turned to dust in her chest, “Oh Rachel, no, no. Please don’t be sorry.”

“B-but…Pops…”

Alex.

Where was he? The bay was still and silent so Eliza felt like she could see all the way to the end of the world. A world without her husband in it.

Philip was coming running up, so was AJ holding a terrified Liza, Angie in tears, Jamie shaking and trembling, the younger boys huddled together on the doorstep. Rachel was being moved from her arms, her eldest making firm, commanding instructions that masked his own fear, for blankets and his keys, they were going to the hospital. Eliza felt removed from it all, staying kneeling and trembling in the shallows, her eyes darting, heart pounding, staying mute and stoic to her children’s tears and questions.

“Just…just go with Pip,” she whispered, sounding like her vocal chords were made of marble, “I’ll bring…I’ll find your father. Just go.”

And then she was alone on the beach, Philip sensing it was best to listen and to take his siblings with him.

Though she felt as if she was alone in the entire world.

She moved up and down the beach for what felt like years, like she was in her own bubble of time, more of a character in a book, something old and with a desperately sad ending.

And there was a sense of it having been written into existence when she finally saw all the red, how could she have missed it? But that thought was for later as she pounded across the sand towards the growing stain on the shoreline, the shape that looked like driftwood until she got up close.

But no. No, that was wood.

Bisecting her husband’s body like a glitch in reality, like something that should never be, a jagged piece of pea green wood, dripping wet like a shard of the sea had solidified into a weapon and broken everything that made her happy just out of sheer spite. Eliza knew with a cold, bitter certainty that she could hope and pray all she wanted, this was a death sentence. Her Alex, her heart, was pinned like a butterfly to a board.

But Eliza was stubborn.

“It’s okay,” she choked, tears streaming down her face like rain as she collapsed by Alex, pulling his head into her lap, “It’s going to be okay, I’ll call the ambulance, we’ll get you fixed, just breathe for me…”

Alex’s brown eyes opened, the clouds of pain and dizziness in them like amber. He took a breath that sounded so painful it made Eliza sob out loud and more blood bubbled up from the wound.

“Betsey…” he rasped vaguely, a shaking hand reaching up for her face.

“Shh, shh,” Eliza murmured, trying to sound soothing even as her tears fell and splashed against his cheekbones, “It’s okay, don’t talk. You need your strength, just stay with me, baby.”

“Betsey, it’s not…there’s not…” he gasped, shaking his head.

“No!” Eliza interrupted him with a sharp cry that broke and left her crying so hard she couldn’t make a noise, bent over him like she could hide him from the fates and keep him here.

“There’s a way,” she cried, as soon as she found her breath, “There has to be a way, Alex, we fought off so much, I will not lose you to this! I will not, it’s not fair!”

Alex tried to swallow and it ended in a harsh fit of agonised coughing and a low groan, “Betsey, I’m sorry…even if…I’d still have to…”

Eliza latched onto that with fierce, white knuckled fists, “What? If what?”

Alex’s skin turned ashen and convulsions began running down his body but in amongst the raw moan of pain there was a word. A hope.

“Skin.”

Eliza didn’t remember running back to the cottage to get it, it was as if she’d left her consciousness back with her dying husband as she scrabbled through the trunk at the foot of the bed, flew down the stairs, across the beach with the hem of her nightdress flying about her thighs like she was the ghost, but there it was, she had it.

Even marred, even old, even with all the years it had lived writ across the surface, his pelt was still so beautiful. Eliza felt her throat close up.

She held it against her chest, at second glance, her Alex’s wounds were more visceral and she felt her stomach turn over at the sight of that blood, looking ebony in the pre-dawn light, like a horrible tarry glue was keeping that wretched spear in his ribs.

“This will heal you?” she gasped, hope painfully raw in her throat, “You’ll be okay?”

Alex gave a limp nod, the light nearly entirely gone from his eyes. The knowledge was there, undeniable, the change would be enough that the injury would be only just survivable in a way it would never be on land.

But, as these things often did, as life often gives, the hope came hand in hand with a price.

Eliza didn’t understand why her husband was shaking his head as she shut off all her emotions to jerk the stake from his body and the howl of agony that came with it and moved to sweep the seal skin around his shoulders, why he scrambled weakly away from it even as his lifeblood leeched into the hungry sand.

“No…B-Betsey, no…” he groaned.

“What?” Eliza nearly shrieked, “Alexander, for god’s sake!”

He coughed the bitter truth up along with a mouthful of blood.

“I c-couldn’t come back. I’d have to…to go.”

Eliza didn’t hear what he’d said at first. It didn’t sink in, it was just another breeze of sea air moving past her ear. Because god damn it, after everything that had happened, surely that couldn’t be true.

But Alex kept talking in that wheezing, hurt rasp, talking about how the piece he’d cut for Philip, he’d damaged it, the change was only one way now, it would have to be permanent, there was no way out…

“No,” Eliza began to murmur, “No, no, no, no…”

“I’d r-rather die, Betsey,” Alex whispered through his tears of agony, his palm pressed to his chest, “I’d rather die than leave you all. Please…I w-won’t…”

“You will.”

Eliza somehow made her voice certain, her words a command and it shocked them both.

“You will go, Alex,” she spoke loud enough to be heard over the surf, even as her heart broke in ways it would never heal from, “I won’t let you die. I need you alive. And if it means I can’t have you, then…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence but her eyes said it all.

And Alex’s held his answer, his mouth opening to process, wasting precious time with arguing. Of course, he was Alexander Hamilton after all…

“You gave your skin to me the day you married me. It is mine and I decide what you do with it,” Eliza spoke in a voice as tired and sad and grieved as a voice could be. But it was sure.

“I need to know you’re alive somewhere, Alexander. Even if it can’t be by my side. I need the other half of my heart to be out there.”

Alex looked at her, ageless sorrow in his eyes, eyes that had seen far too much sadness and had actually believed for a short time that their pain was over.

“I know, baby,” Eliza murmured, her hand against his face, wanting to wring every second of contact she could get, hearing all the words that were crowding Alex’s fevered mind that not even the best poet of the modern age could understand, “I know.”

She would always know.

“I won’t r-really remember,” Alex struggled for breath, “It’ll just be…dreams…”

“Then let us be dreams,” Eliza whispered, the tears rising like an unstoppable force, “Life sucks. It fucking sucks. We were always too good for it anyway. I’ll be your dream instead.”

Alex’s expression broke into pure, broken glass sorrow, grief and anguish and every emotion that brought with it a rush of nausea and a wish to have never been alive to feel this kind of pain.

Eliza shook her head, not wanting their last moments together to be like this. But it seemed like she never got what she wanted, not really.

“The kids…” Alex wailed as she determinedly wrapped the broken seal skin around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Eliza whispered, her face contorted like a theatre mask.

Alex bowed his head, choking on the words he would say to his precious little ones if he had them in front of him now. But he knew in his torn, bleeding heart that he wouldn’t have even been able to look at them.

Some goodbyes were too painful.

“Tell them…tell them how much I-I…every day.”

“I will, I promise I will Alex.”

“Don’t let them forget- “

“I won’t, I won’t ever, how could they, they love you so much- “

“I’m so, so sorry- “

“Oh, Alex, no…”

“Please be strong, Betsey, for me. They need you.”

“I…I will. I don’t know how but…I will…”

The lines were blurring, Alex’s shape was twisting and warping as his voice grew somehow stronger and healthier but at the same time fell away into something unknowable, something that was no language of earth. Eliza squeezed her eyes shut, not just because she couldn’t bear to watch the light of her life be taken from her but because she knew somehow that she just wasn’t meant to see it.

“I love you, I love you so much, Eliza Hamilton, I love you.”

If Alex did have to choose words to be his last spoken as a human, those would do as good as any.

“I love you too, Alexander. I love you…”

Eliza didn’t know if he heard her, for when she opened her eyes there was nothing left of Alex but a piece of bloodied wood, a rusty stain that was slowly being claimed by the sea and, unnaturally cold in her palm, a silver sailboat on a chain.

All she could do, as she broke down and beat her fists against the sand and scraped her nails across her arms and screamed in grief until her voice was gone to the sea breeze, all she could do was pray that he heard her.

The world never did regain its colour. Not for Eliza.

-

It was a cold day, kind of a grim grey day. All the days felt like that since…since everything.

As Rachel carefully picked her way across the rocks, not really caring if where she put her feet was particularly stable, not caring if the path she chose got too precarious, if she went further than Mama and…Mama had never said she could before.

She was finding it hard to live around these pauses, to narrowly avoid and stumble over just like did with these boulders that fringed the beaches like some giant had just been wandering and had them tumble out of their pocket. Except more than a broken ankle or bruised knees were risked with the holes in their lives, the cavernous gaps where…

Rachel forced herself to think it. Where her father had been. Where he’d filled the fissures in their world before they’d even known they were there, carrying them and warming them and looking over them.

Even though it stung, even though it sparked a deep and dizzying hurt, Rachel stopped right on the apex of the biggest boulder and thought of her father. Of his smile that made a shy, nervous little girl believe everything was going to be okay. Of his voice, animated and not too low, dipping and soaring with life and energy when he spoke, when he sang, when he picked her up and swung her around and made stories for her. Of his soft hair that would fall within her reach and she’d get to hold onto it and wind it through her fingers, of the way his eyes glittered when he had a joke or good idea, of the way she would always believe him when he rubbed the tip of his nose against hers and tell her she was his mija, his beautiful girl and he would love her forever and ever.

But then he went away. Or rather, she made him go away.

Rachel took a deep breath and continued on her way along the rocks, taking a fierce kind of pride in going where she wasn’t supposed to go, of breaking the rules. She just needed to put distance between her and that house, that cottage that was missing one of its beams. Pretty soon they would all just crumble under their own grief and slide into the sea.

Philip was burying his grief and guilt in trying to take care of everyone else. Theo was trying to pull him back to himself and meeting only iron resistance. Angie wasn’t coming out of her room. AJ was angry all the time, like if he only broke enough things and tore enough books, he could turn everything back to normal. They all knew he broke down in sobs once he was behind closed doors and in Eli’s arms. Jamie didn’t sleep, he turned his music up too loud and hid from what would rise up when he closed his eyes and was left at the mercy of his own thoughts. Johnny, Johnny who hadn’t stopped talking ever since he’d first reached up out of his crib towards his father’s face and happily yelped, “Dada!”, he hadn’t said a single word in days, like they’d buried his voice box along with that sailboat necklace. Will searched for a narrow, slight face with a charmingly scruffy goatee and an easy smile and a tangle of dark hair in every crowd, in every room, like it would just be a matter of time before he found it again because surely this just couldn’t be how things ended up. Liza was half wild, refusing to do anything, to eat, to sit still, to go to bed, to wake up like there just wasn’t any point to anything at all.

And her Mama. Her poor, desperately brave Mama, taking every step forward like it broke her heart all over again but taking it nonetheless. All because she’d promised him she would, finding little ways to just pull herself along that little inch more even though there wouldn’t be anything better on the horizon, folding his old, unfinished poems into paper cranes, wearing his jumpers to sleep in, going to see a councillor on Auntie Angelica’s recommendation. Sobbing into her pillow on a night when she thought her little ones wouldn’t hear.

And Rachel just went for her long walks along the rocks.

What else was there to do?

She had his coat on, his old grey fleece that he’d loved to wear on cold days like this and still smelled a little like him in a way that comforted and hurt in nearly equal measures. It was necessary, that storm seemed to have taken the whole concept of summer away with it, as well as just their happiness. It came down to Rachel’s knees like an oversize dress. She was older now, in more ways than just age, but she was still small. Still the baby.

Really, she should be frightened into a statue by the mere sight of the sea, after everything that happened to her. She’d have every right to be, Rachel realised, as she felt the sea spray on her face.

But then that would be like letting it all win.

She kept on going, aimless, wandering, like a little lost soul on the shore, a ghost. Something out of a story her Pops might have made up for her on a stormy night. So, lost in her own mind, Rachel barely noticed the spray getting stronger, the roar of the waves breaking and dying their deaths on the sea wall getting louder, the water line getting nearer until it was just a little too late. Her sneaker slipped on the slick rock, suddenly there was nothing underneath it at all and that’s when she began to fall, fall towards the churning foam, she didn’t have time to be scared-

And then something firm, something powerful was nudging her back and she was sprawling on the pebbles, out of harm’s way but very confused.

Rachel blinked, looking at the frankly unbelievable sight in front of her but choosing to believe it anyway with a five-year-old’s calm acceptance.

“Oh. Hey there,” she murmured, finding the odd intelligence in the seal’s black onyx eyes amusing, “Thanks.”

She got no reply, of course. The sleek, dark animal disappeared back into the water but it stayed circling the little reef Rachel was walking along, almost like it was showing off, trying to catch her attention as she leaned her front against the damp rock and dangled her arms over the edge to watch.

He moved so cleanly, more like flying than anything else, anything as mundane as swimming. The sunlight, even muffled by the water, caught on his dark, black but not quite, fur, showing the patches of blue and deep green and purple that were hidden in it. Rachel found herself smiling in a way she hadn’t done for so, so long as her fingertips stirred the surface of the inky water, watching the seal dive down into the caverns and mazes underneath her that she could never hope to reach. Every so often, the animal would resurface, bump his nose against her curious fingers, get a look in the black moons of his eyes that was too human. Too…familiar.

Something angry and jagged in her soul was soothed by that hour she spent playing with the seal, replaced by an urge that tugged at the pit of her stomach, a nostalgic longing that wasn’t as painful as the grief. It could be handled and carried without risking lacerated palms and a broken heart.

Rachel couldn’t even find it in her to be sad when she heard Philip’s voice calling her name from down the beach, calling her home, calling her back to reality, looked up in recognition and glanced back down to see the seal gone like it had never been there. As she got to her feet and began the journey back, there was a new sensation in her heart. Something healed. A loss with its raw edges cauterized. A comforting hand on her shoulder that would always be there whether the person attached to it was or not.

A sense that everything was going to be okay.

They would all see that seal, all be mesmerised by its bright eyes and comforting easiness, the familiar look in its narrow face. They wouldn’t talk about it, they’d never say it to each other. But something would spark in their chests whenever they noticed it again, out in the bay like it was keeping watch, forgetting in the gaps between each sighting, not noticing that in the years that went by, he should have moved on long ago.

But he stayed. He stayed and he kept his guard.

-

The people in the village, even when those who’d come before had stopped their talking and been replaced by new voices, new faces, new favourite seats in the bar, they admired the slightly odd, slightly lonely but respected Mrs. Hamilton. Some had been taught by her, some had attended the elementary school in the years she’d been headmistress, some were young enough that they only knew her as the elderly woman with tired eyes and a wry smile who went walking all along, who sat at the end of the pier near her home and looked out across the water for hours. Whose neatly painted lips seemed to move like she was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

Her many children were a memory, all of them moved away and seen only on holidays or on odd weekends, the grip of the town apparently only having it’s claws in their mother, her sisters who would sweep into town on city air were an oddity talked about in the past tense, her father and mother recognised by the few who regularly read the national newspapers were ancient history.

And the man who’d walked beside her. The man who’d kissed her cheek and pushed her hair back from her face on windy days and danced lazily with her down the street when the playful mood took them, who’d unnerved and startled and bemused them all.

He was legend.

And in time, once far, far too many years had gone by, Eliza would be one too.

-

Eliza Hamilton was so, so tired.

She’d come so far, seen so much, enough that it had started feeling unfair a good while back.

But now she could finally take a deep, last lungful of air, close her eyes and let go. Whatever happened, she just didn’t care anymore, she had just had enough.

…

What Eliza didn’t expect was to open her eyes again half a second later.

Much less to see pale, warm light dappled through water from a source in another world that she couldn’t see. The tips of seaweed fronds swaying gently in an underwater breeze but not the roots, the roots were somewhere either side of her head. Murmurings from faraway in her ears, whispers of a song, so strong and resonating so deeply she could see them moving past in the eddies, the colours that moved by her eyes.

She went to breathe but she didn’t need to. She wasn’t scared. She felt alive.

And then there was a voice. A voice she’d been aching to hear for far too long, a voice she didn’t just hear in her ears but in her bones, in her chest, in her blood, in her heart.

“I missed you, Betsey…”

THE END

[magnetar1]

Presence of the Dead

Entering Baltiasa.  Town of my birth - Vestiges of a former life.  A soul darkly seasoned in this place for all time . . . I did not wish to return, but felt there was little choice.  These last couple years the old violence I felt as a younger man was returning & the only legal way I knew to neutralize  it was by drinking more & writing less - From a fairly young age I knew I wanted to be a writer & had modest success, but now felt the urge leaving me.  All I did was drink & pretend.  Waking up too early, staring into the fog in my mind, counting down the hours before I could start drinking again.  Getting on the bus,  going to a job I hated, fantasies of snapping the necks of those who sat around me.   My tyrannical mind leading me here, to the source of the violence that has stayed benign for most these years.  While many kinds of violence or forms of rebellion might be regarded as youthful nihilism. Seek & destroy, burn the school, rob a gas station.  Horrible acts by society’s standards, but generally no one gets hurt.   Unless, of course, things go terribly wrong.  In my case, an understatement. - - - Walking up to my old house with tears in my eyes.  Practically a hovel when I left.  Now little more than a pile of sticks, collapsed in front with some of the structure still standing in the rear.  Windowless frames boarded up, graffiti scrawl over weathered plywood, symbols that are a mish-mash of other known symbols: swastikas looping out into flaming spirals until becoming scrawled names of made-up heathen gods.   My old house was near the high school.  Besides this, a cemetery. Alongside the main road leading to the edges of town.  On one side a slough winding its way behind it, toward the ocean.  Sludge of mud, bullheads & discarded animal corpses; human too, I imagined. On the other side there is a place called Indian Legends.  Miles & miles of unkempt wilderness right in the backyard.  Shot through with a  transit of trails snaking their way to the ocean.  Or ending abruptly in a tangle of dense forest.  My two best friends & I spent entire summers exploring & getting lost.  Up all night drinking the cheap, shitty rum that David liked to drink.  While Bryan & I got stoned, tripped & look at stars.  David was fourteen, a couple years younger than us, & already preferred alcohol to psychedelics . . . Suddenly, a shape lurking in the corner of my sight.  A cold feeling I recall from living here.  Best not recall too much, though, as I’d need to conserve my strength.  Taking a flask out of my shirt pocket to ward the spirit away.  I still remembered some of them by name even after all these years.   Making my way to the shed out back.  A trail winding through a dense thicket which in those days seemed like primordial lands.  Toward a canopy of trees that eventually connected to a secret entrance leading to Indian Legends - On night journeys, with burning torches, in search of spectral portals to demonic realms.  Things I now ascribed to a steady diet of D & D, heavy metal & horror films. - - - Sitting on a cracked stool stunned by how intact our temple seemed. Other than a few more weeds growing through cracks in the floor it was as we’d left it.  No longer the upturned cable-wheel we used as a table.  Nor the homemade bookshelf sagging with stacks of comics & porn: a secret compartment built in back where we could stash joints & hits of acid . . . I thought of all the acid I took in those years & now it makes me shudder.  Getting ripped apart without even leaving my room. Listening to record after record on my headphones in total darkness. Opening my eyes to strange shapes in the corners.  A palpable resiliency that never left.  In the house.  Town.  Inter-dimensional.  I want to forget it all over again.  My muscles tightening just thinking about . . . I get back up to pace in the tall grass outside.  I drain my flask. Walking back to the car a friend let me borrow - To fix my head, I’d told him.  He had it in his mind that I was going to a retreat or something so wanted to help. I was beyond that, I thought, refilling the flask with a fifth from behind the driver’s seat.  I tugged from the bottle itself & pocketed the three hits of acid I’d brought. - - -       No one pays me any mind as I continue to pace outside.  I think about breaking into the house, but did not have the courage.  The house, itself, situated on the edge of a precipice that I did not quite understand.  Leaving a trace after it crumbles.  Sealing its flagrant energy back into the soil which erected it.  All terrible things that have happened inside. With a history of violence before we got there.  My father got it for cheap much like in a classic horror film scenario.  The entire town was starting to degrade rapidly at that time due to the waning logging industry.  A rather large house could be rented for practically nothing. Less, even, for a house like this.  Even though they were all rimmed by a kind of destitution.  Still, citizens of Baltiasa would not mourn the death of their town.  A shift so gradual they never acknowledged it, or were too dumb to care. I didn’t care either.  I wanted to make my peace & get out.  Suddenly, the grinding mechanism called the city didn’t seem so bad.  Only it was existence itself, bane of life, that had forced me to accept this as some kind of metaphoric suicide mission. Unable to say what I needed to say & trapped between worlds.  All secrets buried deep making me sick.  Many resided in this house. Haunted traits & a disdain for familial settings - Waiting for my father to leave for work every morning.  After which, hearing footsteps approaching my bedroom door followed by a thing’s ragged breathing. I never turn around to see what is there.  I don’t turn around now.  I try to keep my mind on what it is I came here for.  Still, I remain aware of their correspondence.  Voices I heard in the basement telling me to kill them all.  To cut off their heads in their sleep.  To cancel their dreams with bloody screams: I am the last thing they see.  Blind Incubus . . . For a moment I feel the same demonic power I felt then & I am nearly repelled back into a sane state.  Tears once again mounting in my eyes.  I feel the weight of car keys in my pocket & am crushed by an urge for escaping.  Instead, I pace harder & wait for the sun to go down.  Dusk evaporates into night as the wind picks up & tosses the trees around. It never occurred to me that it could rain this night.  While the town itself hunkered in a low slung valley.  Hills sprouting far & upward before sinking down.  Creeks wind their way across beds of silt & stone, leading to the slough or out into the harbor. I’d cut across these many hills toward the Pacific.  Tidal waves of soil rippling ahead to where it meets the ocean.  It’s where ghosts of my past will meet.  An undisclosed location fixed above a long stretch of beach.  A cave burrowing through a quarter mile of sheer rock. Station for our secret ceremonies: Fortress of Leviathan. - - - Bryan & I discovered the cave together.  Rumored as a spot for ritual sacrifice.  Shamans in the old world went there to enter darkness & come out reborn: To sacrifice their own meandering spirits toward more evidence regarding the afterlife.  Since, they say, it was a hive for local satanists.  Mostly living in Cascadian foothills above the town line in burrows worse than mine.   These were the poorest neighborhoods.  A grey zone of  meth-heads & veterans living off meagre pensions.  Single moms who’d given up hope.  Detritus of a third world nation beginning to show.  Hid in overgrown places, nestled deep as worms.   David came from this place.  And although Bryan & I came from poor families, he was a different breed.  Some kids at school referred to him as ‘the vampire’ at the beginning of his freshmen year because of his pale skin & frail demeanor.  Always in black wearing headphones. He rarely talked to anyone but himself.  Bryan & I became friends with him because we listened to a lot of the same bands.  Smoking pot in the cemetery.  David passing a cheap bottle of Rum around.  Ditching school to wander the hills: the triad . . . Now, as I look down at those three tiny hits of acid in my palm, I think of David.  It hits me hard & heavy.  Nearly hurling the doses to the ground & getting out of there.  Instinct becomes focus as my brutal emotions abate.  Having trust in the moment. I swallow them down, unthinking.  A grand meditation reduced to an afterthought. Realizing I’ve never been afraid to die & the flashes of fear I suffered are spectral.  I was so young.  Scarcely do I remember exactly what it is I saw.  Writing it down from various angles.  Snapshots of Hell. Waking up in the middle of the night with total entropy on the mind. To see it all burn for a chance at freedom.   Meanwhile, returning to the wellspring of my nightmares for another look. - - - The acid kicking in.  I stood with residual trepidation: At the foot of The Portal . . . Everything Bryan & I did was epic.  The real world faded as we delved deeper into more truant manifestations - Beyond the shroud of the town.  Our sensitivity toward what was considered the ‘normal’ world greatly dimmed.   Holding my breath in my room every morning so I could summon the thing I was too frightened to face.  Force of violence assumed in the form of its wraith-like stare.  A messenger, perhaps.  Or guide.  A combination of the energy surrounding the place co-mingling with the synaptic edge that we were experiencing from the drug. One might argue it all away with this very excuse, but I awaken cold in the night to this day with the feeling that it’s never left - Bryan & I. Unafraid to die.  Sorcerers.  Spending morning hours after we’d endured the long night talking about how reality was changing for us. No longer devotees of spatial reasoning or fenced logic. Everywhere we looked there were signs of the other world.  It is this feeling that has never left.  Even as it’s the first time I’ve dropped in all these years.  I’ve been unable to undo the retooling my consciousness received when Bryan & I were taking it every day & getting lost in the ghost-like radiance of it all. Procession of past lives into shadowed lands.  I hear the dirge as I followed.  Much sadness in the final days of my youth: a violent crossroads where I might have become a different person.  A shrink, perhaps.  Businessman.  Or serial killer.   All the ugly things I might have become.  I keep them at bay by starting to write.  All the demons & the ghosts.  Everything gets in. Every relationship I’ve been in & each alcoholic nightmare.  Family that’s abandoned me & so I’ve abandoned them.  Still murdering them in their sleep after all these years - Weakened side.  A sick return to my base person . . . Standing at the foot of the Portal about to go in.  Wind howling around me like it did the night Bryan & I led David to the Fortress. Lifting my gaze to gathering clouds overhead & the dense haze of the night sky’s hammering thoughts.  Rain comes hard at first before settling into a whispering drizzle.  At tail-end of the procession they are taunting me. All the town’s dead shadows co-mingling with ancient spirits that lived here.  Standing in the rain above a pale, flickering light.  Irreal fog packs densely across its shimmering back. Rise of the Wyrm.  When warm rain comes.  All spirit clings to her.  All moving along Leviathan’s course . . . - - - The howling winds made me think of my last few months here.  I was nineteen & gaining on becoming a full fledged burnout.  I rarely saw Bryan anymore until, finally, he held up a gun-shop with one of the shop’s own guns.  Shooting it out from behind the counter with a couple of rednecks who’d walked in during the middle of it.  Soon cops busted in to finish it: one clean shot to the head.   Suddenly, I wish Bryan was here.  He always knew how to talk me through.  It made me feel bad, though, that I’d thought of him as evil in the end.  Now, feeling evil myself, with hatred becoming clear & concise.  I fought back the urge to turn it loose on Baltiasa itself.  A point in space where time is stalled by lethargy . . . That’s how it happened.  All the energies swirling up in that place at once, getting inside the collective mind - Wind howling around me. Nature’s screams co-mingling with the guttural cries of the dead.  In place of shadows I saw faces. Now I could see beyond the hills, across galaxies, & I no longer felt human.  Somehow, the grid of all existence was grasped.  Turbulence of spirits at the moment of rebirth.  I look into the heart of the town from above.  It struggled just as I had struggled.  It could not get past the point of remission - Disease without consent.  Breeding ground for old serpents dropping seed in veiled & foetid gardens.  Blind, slithering masters of forlorn kingdoms. - - - I follow Leviathan to her grave.  The ocean.  Alive with her strength & law.  They couldn’t make her abate even as the world went on. Civilizations thriving & fading where time could still pick them up & tear them asunder.   The shore slips off the edge of the world & into her widening maw.   That’s what I feel like entering the cave of my youth.  Momentarily, I feel the sublimity I used to feel when Bryan & I came here.  Quickly, it withers away . . . So why had I come?  To face an evil that was as much a part of me as I was of it?  Or to sever my spirit from a violence that might take over at any time?   I embrace the feeling before I’m able to move on.  To see past it: shapes flickering to life. Crawling on hands & knees careful not to stumble.  The cave’s not as big as I remember, but just as long - The moon does not penetrate so deep.  Instead, a ghost-light is seen, hiding forms in its murky translucence.   Electrical glow from that charged night.  At the peak of our elemental powers . . . I hold back retching as I watch the image of Bryan take out his sacrificial knife.  Glinting off cave walls to reveal all the symbols that have been scrawled there.  Some that are similar to those on the side of the old house - Gateway, connecting ALL private underworlds, horrors that have followed me for years.  A sanguine propensity for death over life.  My inability to re-imagine it any other way.   - - - I’ve lived through it every day, shadowy but prospective.  Return trip: on the first day I forget the world I left behind.  Burning around a dark seed we left.  Everything else scorched in its wake.   Stumbling through ashes toward the goal.  David, on his knees, in a halo of smoky light . . . I swear that Bryan is burning from the inside out.  He often talked about feeling like he was on fire while tripping.  I could feel it, too, but on a current adjacent from his own. Poles meeting where David lied unconscious.  His face streaked with vomit & blood.  He drank too much & lost his balance stumbling along. Bryan is freaking out.  He says there are spirits inside the cave that are trying to possess us.  He explains the spirits are even older than those of the shamans who came here for night journeys &, when necessary, sacrifice. To the spirits themselves, both caustic & liberating.  The only way to save ourselves was by absorbing one who is weaker; liberating his weakness with our strength. Bryan’s eyes as big as saucers as he waits for the child to go limp.  Mad, inhuman,  nature’s frenzied look. Later claiming to have had an obscure vision: raging ocean below a pregnant moon.  Bilious forms in the undercurrent.  Nauseating & serpentine mass.  Tumorous . . . Afterwards, I never did experience those same evasive manifestations in my room & considered it a powerful sacrifice.  However, taking harder drugs, drinking more.  I spent the months following the 'disappearance' of David in a brilliant stupor.  And yet I was content to see old demons replaced by new ones.   The entire town (outside this experience) dissolved & I was eventually able to consider some mode of suffering to call my own. Ghosts of my youth became the internal grief of my adulthood as I tried escaping it through artistic means: to distance myself from the eventuality of my own mortal breakdown.  A Sacrifice, to nothing, in the morning . . . - - - I look in Bryan’s eyes & understand that he’s done with this life.  In many respects, I am too.  Is that considered evil? Cutting David open with his sacrificial knife.  Bryan feeds me parts that are both revitalizing & repugnant . . . Across the divide.  I look back on my life from a vantage point of strangeness & grief.  Baltiasa & its aftermath; mythic, cannibalistic fortune. I’ve survived with these rites in my personal canon.  While the rest of the world sits & waits for instant communion - Vital force at center. Shaman’s gift.  Nature’s everlasting council.  Demons prey, but never attack.  Benign to the ever expanding universe. Harboring true reality’s conquest.  That we were never meant for this. False agendas of the weak.   Sacrifice becoming necessary when rot awakens.  While under the surface is a percolating dawn.  So easy to see, yet out of reach.  When we are are not the thing we aim to be. When purity of vision becomes a nightmare . . . Hunched, broken, grinding my teeth.  Welling tears in darkness, I impress all my will on growing past it.  How else will I go on with my life?  Keep murdering until the feeling goes away?  Drown myself in alcohol until the last drop takes me?   Pounding a fist against the cave floor until my hand is raw & bleeding.  I taste my own blood &, unsheathing the knife I brought along, consider going all the way.  Letting my guts spill across. Uncoiling.  Opacious.  A serpent awakens.  Possibly to let me pass without devouring my spirit, suffering no cognition of a world beyond its own.

[therisingtithes]

The Reeducation of Rare Pepe

On The Transferrence of Communicative Abuse, and The Phases of The Moral Turn

I didn’t plan on writing this one. 

First of all, my fiction has been kicking me in the rear lately, so I haven’t been doing a lot of long-form blogging because I know I’ll get so intensely focused on its premises that it’ll take four hours or more to craft one piece and I could use that time literally finishing a short story right now. 

Second, even the thoughts I had about the last few PBS Idea Channel videos were overwhelmingly boiled down to ‘wow!’, even when I had questions to ask. Like, what do Bee Movie technical memes say about diligence? Doesn’t Westworld essentially include the premise that one doesn’t ‘find’ a self, but that the act of making one directly proceeds nihilism? Why does everyone automatically assume that artificial intelligence will be the future state of Rawls’ original position even though not only did Mike explicitly state that systems bear their designers’ biases but recent digital history has proven that those biases are literally self-maintained and self-replicating institutional kyriarchy with a side of mismanagement? (Okay, that last one is less of an interesting tangential discourse and more of a heavy frustration, but still.)

And then there was the fact that I didn’t really want to talk about something related to this for a while. 

(By this I don’t mean ‘Pepe’, but the looming threat of white nationalism in the wake of the Trump administration.) Because we’re going to talk about things like this a lot. And it will be tiring, and it will be valuable for all actors in this discourse to be well versed in pacing themselves. 

And because I already wrote one of the myriad pieces you’ll see online about punching Nazis. Hell, I have a Twitter bot, if anyone cares. 

And I want to be sure: I think it was a less than ideal way to engage with the discourse. 

I am not saying I don’t agree with punching Nazis. Or that the post did a bad job of illustrating why one should punch Nazis. 

I’m saying it because there is so much room to talk about why one should be willing to physically resist white nationalist speech, among other speech acts, 

namely the fact that there is a moral, philosophical, and legal framework that already exists to challenge violent speech acts, 

but in order to empower violent speech acts, it’s so underutilized by the existing power structure that people literally have said that they didn’t know it existed. 

So I want to talk about Pepe as backdrop to answer one of @mikerugnetta‘s final questions at the end of the latest PBSID video: 

... can you ignore those extremists, as the Rare Pepe Directory people suggest? 

But... I don’t care about Pepe. Or at least I don’t think I do? I care about the history of the swastika, a bit, but people have been split on how to proceed with that as well. So I’m not asking if we can ignore their treatment of Pepe. 

I’m asking if one can, or should, ignore extremist speech acts at all. 

a. There’s A Rule For This Sort Of Thing (And It’s Already Broken) 

It’s worth opening with the acknowledgment that it is perfectly politically possible for the United States, like other nations, to not be in the position of having to ask itself how white nationalist extremism and fascist sympathy came to fester in its space. 

In fact, legally, the United States has an antidote for just this kind of problem. It just hasn’t refined that antidote or bothered to adequately administer it in quite some time. 

That antidote is the fighting words doctrine. 

One of the things that I found most alarming in the growing discourse about the threat of white nationalism in the West is that many people seemed to look over the irony that there is a philosophy-of-language idea called hate speech but that it is legally unobserved for not being a solid enough concept to critique. That is, many people insisted that there is no hate speech legislation in the United States, and that the fact that there is none means not that the US is legally incapable of being critical enough to punish hateful speech acts, or that the US can become so legally incapable, but that hate speech is not a real speech act. 

You know. The speech act that has uniquely identifiable characteristics, like the intent to dehumanize, incite prejudicial action against, or threaten imminent violence upon a marginalized individual or group? 

Not real. 

Which means that when a man writes an article within which he argues that it may be a valuable question to ask how much better the world would be if the US eradicated Black people, it as a result is minimized to the status of merely ‘an idea’ - or worse, ‘just words’.

Part of that difficulty, of course, is directly related to Americans’ strict--and, resultingly, quite lax--understanding of harm. R.A.V. v. City of St. Paul and Snyder v. Phelps both seem to lean toward the notion that what constitutes a violation of fighting words doctrine is whether those words actually lead to violence. That is, words are only fighting words if people do fight. 

But it’s because no one has ever had any more serious conversations about institutionalized violence against marginalized groups that very few have considered the impact of simply the threat of inciting discrimination can have. 

What’s interesting is how it proves the philosophical weakness of the present approach to freedom of speech in general--that the legal limitations that are observed regularly have such a privilege because we are clear about what kinds of things have consequences upon their uttering, but when those consequences affect the lives of others in long and harrowing ways, we are slow to actually engage. 

This is the crux: no idea is worth more than a life unless that idea values life. There are lots of ideas that constitute no value, and we have no problem challenging their value publicly. But when those ideas are fundamentally about the destruction of others, they are not merely of no merit--they are considered intensely unjust. Some statements are not ‘ideas worthy of debate’, they are threats to persons. Suffice it to say in comparison that if an agent of ISIS writes a blog post which says that they wish to destroy America, the intelligence community doesn’t head up their briefings by first going ‘Let’s hear them out first’. Treating ideas such as white nationalism as defensible speech on the merit of being speech means that it is defensible to commit any speech act on the merit of it being a speech act, which the law already doesn’t permit. But more deeply, to argue that a person’s dessert of dignity under the law is debatable as a result of their identity is already a lie--your Constitution says so--so is arguing that they shouldn’t have it any more legally or morally defensible? 

If a group says something to signal to marginalized people that they are viewed as lesser, as physically disposable, as people whose physical destruction is in fact a moral imperative to that group’s political ends, then as a rule their act is concerned with an incitement to violence. If it being imminent is the primary concern, then a threat would only be illegal if they acted on it immediately, and would only be punishable if the victim actually suffered. 

If it’s not true for small threats, why is it true for large ones? 

That is the thing which we are not ignoring: the threat of consistently looming violence, the threat of a widening conspiracy to commit violence and prejudice, a threat which is at the root of every related connection of violence which is born from it. 

In some US states, the crime of calling a bomb threat is penalized by twenty years in prison and a fine of $50,000. 

In the month of January 2017, there was an undeniably concerted increase in bomb threats made to Jewish centres across the United States. 

That spate is therefore punishable. But that spate is directly related to festering antisemitism. And that antisemitism can so fester precisely because it cannot be observed for what it is: an incitement to prejudice and violence against a marginalized group of people. 

b. The If/Then on Nazi Pugilism Theory And Praxis 

It should follow immediately, then, that discourse on punching Nazis should be equally punishable, no? 

That if talking about the destruction of socially marginalized groups is an offense to open communication and the dignity of all men, then talking about breaking the noses of those who talk about such aforementioned destruction is equally offensive? 

Because I’m inclined to insist that it is. Philosophically speaking, it should be equally criminal to punch, or discuss the right of punching, a Nazi. 

... hence the loop? Observe, as a result, that said loop is not closed! That if I should be punished for discussing the moral right to punch a Nazi, then the Nazis should already be in cells, already emptying their pockets of the same thousands that I don’t have! And if they’re not, and not going to be, then the moral bankruptcy of holding me accountable for challenging other people’s lack of moral accountability is visible in neon. 

(This loop also exists re: discussing white nationalist speech as hate speech. Inevitably someone will say that this means that saying that Nazis shouldn’t have the right to threaten people removes their free speech, which means I want to deny people rights, which has already been stated above as the reason we’re here--ignoring that there is already a philosophical, moral, and legal framework under which white supremacist speech is indefensible.) 

There is an antidote for widening abuse against marginalized groups for some time now, and it is visibly apparent that it will spread more rapidly and more violently in the coming periods. If you’re really going to tell people that it is more of a moral nonstarter to wish to physically resist violent ideology than it is that violent ideology can intimidate and prejudice and not be considered fighting words uttered in public, then the flaccidity of free speech ordinance makes its efficacy in protecting others moot. 

That is to say that, in order to avoid a chilling effect placed on actual racist speech and their speakers by punishing it as fighting words, you have instead enacted a chilling effect on Jews and Muslims, among so many other marginalized groups. Which signals less that you care about preventing chilling effects in general, and more that when pressed to choose the system is empowered by its biases to prioritize the prejudice of Jews and Muslims (among so many other marginalized groups) and delegitimize the imminence of threats of violence against them. 

If that system cannot rightly protect Jews and Muslims,  and if MLK’s words that “one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws” can even be considered worthy of debate,  then it must reasonably follow that any law, or enactment of law, which delegitimizes the imminence of threats of violence against marginalized persons must be broken. 

And that means that one should be able to say that they want to punch a Nazi until and unless the law finally penalizes white nationalist hate speech. It means that one who is opposed to the political idea that destroying people of colour would be good for society should not stand for being punished for saying they’d punch a Nazi before white nationalists are punished for their hate speech. 

Not that they should never be punished. Only that if a system doesn’t punish a consistent trend of terrorism, then its decision to punish those who oppose it is nothing but another arm of terrorism. 

It also means, though, that in the wake of a threat of violence, one should be willing to physically resist aggressors precisely because the law is unjust, and as such will not defend marginalized people in such an instance. 

c. The Phases Of The Moral Turn 

A brief segue--not really a segue, because we get to the meat of engaging with unjust systems and their objects--into a critical tool I have become fond of applying. 

Think of every moral and political act that one takes as the turn of a game called Civic Activity. 

Your opponents are those whose moral and political decks--the ideologies which they value and stand for--are so at odds with your own and their goals that the act of their play puts them in a position for you to counter. (This is a moral principle in general; it is neither left nor right, neither moderate nor extreme. Political acts interact with opposing acts and their actors.) 

In a trading card game like Magic: The Gathering, considering the ideal moment, the proper layer, within which to play a card is the strategic foundation upon all the complexity of its play is based. At some moments it is a matter of whether the card can be legally played--sorceries are available only at particular points in one’s turn, for instance. At most others, though, it is a matter mostly of effectiveness--the awareness that if you do not pay close attention to the state of the field of play, do not know deeply the best moments to play certain cards, or forget to ideally act in those moments, your best shot will be lost, and it will cost you the progress required for victory. 

There are, then, phases of a moral turn. At its simplest, it is knowing not only what kinds of actions are played at what ‘speeds’--phone calls and social media awareness are cantrip instants, but some other acts cost more and must be played only upon their triggers, like the commitment to voting--but also knowing that one has a moral responsibility to play the best card for the best moment at any moment where victory is not assured. 

If the state of the field of play then threatens to disenfranchise and physically abuse marginalized people, and if the opponent has had a very good turn to establish their foothold on such a field, 

then one of your essential best plays is any play which counters the loss of marginalized lives long enough for you to remove the enchantments and equipments they have played to promise such losses. 

It means not only challenging and undoing the legal structures that threaten marginalized people. It means confronting enemy plays which threaten to imminently cause such harm. It means being willing to stand in front of the people who wish harm, and it also curiously means being willing to physically resist them. 

Now, in this analogy there is a clear difference. In Magic terms, there is a difference between ‘target creature cannot attack’ and ‘tap target creature; this creature doesn’t untap during its owner’s untap step’. There is also a difference between these two and ‘destroy target creature’. 

In the real world, people cannot be regenerated. 

So by the most basic assumptions of ideal play, any action which can tap people who wish to cause harm should be taken before they cause harm. It follows that, if you can assess such a threat early on in the turn, before they have even begun to cause harm, you should take that action if you can, so no harm can ever be done. 

The state of play encourages white nationalists to publicly preach tenets of their ideology which specifically delegitimize the concerns of people of colour, among other marginalized groups. 

What is your best play,  and when shall you deign to make it? 

d. End Step 

So, to close: we cannot let hateful speech continue to be played in a landscape if we want that landscape to value and protect marginalized people. A system which ignores obvious harm to others on the part of white nationalist fighting words possesses no power to then use that system as a defense from resistance without tacitly confessing to valuing white supremacist terrorism. 

... oh right I should mention Pepe, shouldn’t I? Argh. Okay, I’ll say this much: 

Much of the things Mike says about Pepe and polysemy are things I have thought for some time without finding words for, and I’m sure even smarter people than Mike have written reams about the transition of the swastika long before today. But I am not sure, to that final question, whether it is valuable to ignore their extremism precisely because others are not. Others are being rallied by such extremism, which is deliberate and well-crafted to a fearsome degree. 

I guess my question is that it is not enough to try to redeem Pepe, but to find ways to confront the Pepes that are simulacra of truly terrible people. Those people will continue to rally, after all. Unless those people and those Pepes can be rightly considered unjust speech actors and unjust speech acts respectively, we will continue to have this problem of what worth it has in pop culture discourse and how we should respond to it. 

This is not the same as countering their speech, of course, and I can see attempts to ‘reclaim the Pepe’ as potentially valid. But I’m also valid because while I care about the discourse, I don’t care about Pepe. I can’t talk to you about how to ‘separate’ what are simply multiple frames of one character, because I don’t care enough about that character or those frames to see them as such distinct creative objects; and seeing as I didn’t care for the meme at its inception, I can’t say I’d miss it if it died as a result of its present association. Neither of these things are true of my critical assessment of the swastika, something fundamental to some people’s understanding and practice of faith. 

I will say that I do think it’s just overwhelmingly hard to do. Its growth as a meme is directly related to its prevalence as a white supremacist symbol; if it weren’t Pepe, some other anthropomorphic memetic would have taken its place. Would you really want to imagine it? A parallel universe where we lost Doge instead? Nah, I’m good, fam. 

Which means that it would probably better, to preserve the purity of the character as designed, to... put it out of its misery. To acknowledge that the rot has spread, tell Pepe goodnight, and move on. Because as long as there is a Pepe, and as long as that Pepe is beloved, people will corrupt it knowing that it will remain visible in pop culture. They’ll do it for spite. And this conversation will live longer than we are. 

Either ideas mean things or they do not.  If they do, either they are stated with an intent toward action, or they are not.  If they are, any idea which is stated with an intent toward devaluing people of colour with an intent to guide imminent prejudice and violence is indefensible. 

But then citizens have to challenge so much more speech acts than just Pepe, and because history hasn’t been challenging these speech acts, this mess persists. 

[teachanarchy]

By now many have seen the video of an unidentified man punching white nationalist Richard Spencer in the face during inauguration weekend. Much in the way that the new president's vicious campaign rhetoric gave voice to the deeper resentments of some of his supporters, the assault on Spencer seems to have offered a cathartic and even comedic outlet for those on the left who were angered by thoughts of Trumpians goose-stepping through the streets of DC as Trump entered the White House. Since the video emerged, social media users have set the footage to Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA" and the Hamilton soundtrack, and comedian Tim Heidecker even wrote his own tune to celebrate the bashing. Former Obama speechwriter Jon Favreau tweeted, "I don't care how many songs you set Richard Spencer being punched to, I'll laugh at every one." Journalists for the New York Times and other major outlets were soon mulling over the question at hand: "Is it OK to punch a Nazi?" A website, isitokaytopunchanazi.com, answered with a gleeful loop of the attack, with one neon-yellow word superimposed atop it: "Yes."

Yet, this was more than just a morbid social-media sideshow: The attack on Spencer is part of a perennial conflict that may again be escalating. For decades, far-right extremists have faced the militant wrath of "antifas" (short for anti-fascists). With Trump's campaign having summoned all sorts of white supremacists and other trolls from under their bridges, the old war—which I first got a front-row glimpse into a decade ago—appears ready to re-ignite.

This beef goes back to before World War II, when in Europe, a nascent authoritarian movement inspired by Hitler, Mussolini, and Francisco Franco squared off against a popular front coalition of liberals and radicals. At the Battle of Cable Street, in October 1936, Oswald Mosley brought 2,000 members of his British Union of Fascists to march through London's Jewish East End neighborhood and 100,000 anti-fascists showed up to oppose them. In the resulting melee, Jews, Irishmen, Communists, anarchists, and socialists beat Mosley's men with sticks, rocks, and sawed-off chair-legs. Local women dumped their chamber pots out of windows onto the heads of Mosley's men.

Similar conflicts played out several decades later in America. In 1979, in Greensboro, North Carolina, the Communist Workers Party organized a rally called "Death to the Klan." TV crews filmed as a nine-car caravan of Klansmen and neo-Nazis suddenly showed up and shot at marchers, murdering five participants, though no one was ever convicted of the crime. (In 2014, one self-proclaimed participant, Frazier Glenn Miller, went on a shooting spree at a Jewish cultural center in Kansas, murdering three people. The 74-year-old had just been diagnosed with lung cancer; he said that he "wanted to make damned sure I killed some Jews or attacked the Jews before I died.")

In 1982, a street gang in Minneapolis named the Baldies began committing what they described as "righteous violence"—a term apocryphally attributed to Henry David Thoreau to describe John Brown's attack at Harpers Ferry—against neo-Nazis who had started to appear in the city. The Baldies and their opponents both adopted the fashion of British punks—bomber jackets, bald heads, boots and braces—and kicked the Nazis, quite literally, out of town. On one occasion they even collaborated with now Congressman Keith Ellison, then a law student at the University of Minnesota, to lead a protest. "I remember he and the rest of the [Black Law Student Association] were friendly with us," a founder of the Baldies told the Minneapolis City Pages. "I think they were just intrigued because we were so young and because we were anti-racist skinheads, which was weird to them."

The battles in the Twin Cities were followed by a wider spread of neo-Nazi violence. In 1988, three members of a gang called White Aryan Resistance beat a 28-year-old Ethiopian student named Mulugata Serew to death in Portland, Oregon. In 1998, skinheads murdered Daniel Shearsty and Spit Newburn, a pair of anti-racists and best friends from Las Vegas—one black, one a white Marine—in the Nevada desert. The next year, a member of the racist cult World Church of the Creator went on a shooting spree in Indiana, gunning down nine Orthodox Jews, an African-American man, and a Korean graduate student before killing himself.

Anti-fascist groups like Anti-Racist Action, Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice, and the Love and Rage Anarchist Federation fought back. Their members advocated "direct action" against white supremacists, eschewing legislative efforts in favor of physically preventing Nazis from organizing, distributing literature, and speaking in public. To their supporters, these groups merged the moralism of America's abolitionist tradition with the nihilism of punk rock, and boiled the culture wars down to their most primal element: vicious brawls over racism, sexism, and homophobia. The logic of their direct action was that, if a white-supremacist leader inspired someone to commit a hate crime, police couldn't intervene until after a violent action had taken place. Anti-fascists wouldn't wait. "Racism is an idea," one anonymous ARA member said in the 2000 documentary Invisible Revolution, but "fascism is an idea mixed with action. It took fascism to establish Jim Crow and before that, slavery….Anti-Semitism has been around a long time but it took fascism to [make] the Holocaust….When you cross that threshold, you negate your rights to a calm, collective conversation."

Everyone laughed as Joe pantomimed his victory over the man by stomping the floor of the kitchen with his steel-toe combat boots: "How does it feel to get your head kicked in by a faggot?"

My own introduction to what anti-fascism looked like took place in South Philadelphia in 2004, where I attended a house party arranged around a half-keg of High Life in the kitchen. At the center of the gathered crew of mohawked kids was a man named Joe, whose skinny crimson suspenders strained over a swell of jiggling belly. A leader of ARA's Philadelphia chapter, Joe regaled us with a story about a stranger in a pub who'd once called him a faggot. "So I grabbed this motherfucker by the collar," he said, "and I dragged him outside." In the parking lot, Joe explained, he beat the man unconscious. The tale was horrific. But it was also surprising—because Joe was gay, it turned out, as were many of his Philly ARA comrades. He wasn't insulted by being called a faggot; he was insulted that someone would think there was anything wrong with being one.

"How does it feel!" Joe thundered, when he'd gotten to the climax of his yarn, in which he knocked his antagonist down and kicked him in the head repeatedly. Everyone laughed as Joe pantomimed his victory over the man by stomping the floor of the kitchen with his steel-toe combat boots: "How does it feel to get your head kicked in by a faggot?"

With the dawn of the Trump era, the Joes of the country may be stirring, and Spencer and his fans seem to sense it. On Tuesday, Spencer's supporters offered a $3,000 bounty to anyone who could identify the alt-right leader's assailant, and Spencer called for the formation of alt-right vigilante squads to prevent future attacks. "The ANTIFA thug who violently assaulted Spencer hid his face behind a mask," an anonymous commenter said, "but some think they caught a glimpse of his face. There's not much to go on—but let's identify the ANTIFA criminal who punched Richard Spencer."

Meanwhile, the same day that Spencer was assaulted, a 25-year-old anti-fascist was shot in the stomach during an inauguration protest at the University of Washington, allegedly by an alt-right sympathizer. New groups adopting an anti-fascist outlook such as Redneck Revolt, John Brown Militia, and the Bastards Motorcycle Club appear poised to revive the direct-action tactics of the 1980s and '90s in order to confront white supremacists emboldened by Trump. Anti-Racist Action's 20 or so chapters around the country have also promised to join the fray. The day after the inauguration, ARA's branch in Louisville, Kentucky, posted on their website:

For decades, [white supremacists] were the face of the enemy and only a minute few dared show their true colors in public. This made them easy to dismiss, easy to ignore...However, recent events have proven that the fascist ideology has not only survived but thrived…Now, their labors of hatred have been rewarded with a sympathetic President-Elect and a federal Congress that is, at best, indifferent to their evil.

A warning to those who wish to destroy what we hold dear; We will resist you in the streets, in the poll booths and in the townhouses. Whether it's in the bars, the concert halls, the conference centers or even City Hall, we will not allow a platform for your dangerous and divisive ideas. We will not allow history to repeat itself. We will shut you down everywhere you go. We will block your marches. We will interrupt your speeches. We will protest your legislation. We will be the thorn in your side. The glass in your bread. The pain in your ass.

Trump's presidency is already promising to turn back the clock on American progress in multiple ways, with women’s rights, racial justice, and environmental protections under siege. The return of the war between fascists and anti-fascists is another expression of our current political atavism. This time, given a uniquely pugilistic president of the United States, the battle may rage hotter than ever.