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pengiesama · 4 years ago

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A Log, Carved for Two (Fic, TOZ, Sorey/Mikleo)

Title: A Log, Carved for Two Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Sorey/Mikleo

Summary:

Sorey and Mikleo (and the gang) visit an old inn, with a legendary log. In the process, they learn about life, love, and a certain appreciation for their luck in both.

Part of the Sormik Advent Calendar 2020's Secret Santa challenge! I got @applegelstore's prompt:

"I'm terrible with prompts so how about hot springs but it's a 1000 year old log serving as bathtub (if that irritates you please watch Abroad in Japan, Escape to Mt. Fuji)"

(...well, you'll get what you ask for...)

@sormikadventcalendar / sormikadvent (Twitter)

Link: AO3

Read on Tumblr!

It had, of course, always been Sorey’s dream to see a world where seraphim and humans could live side by side. And it was a dream that he had achieved, through sacrifice and pain and determination. Humans and seraphim now lived in one world, laughing together, arguing together…

…but, well, Sorey seemed to have slept through the beginning years of this glorious new world. Consequently, he didn’t get to see the wonder, experience the discovery, attend any of the cool parties, et cetera. He awoke in a world where it was just a Thing. It was the norm. Seraphim? Of course, there’s one that runs the bakery down the street, and one that lives in the pond out back; perfectly good neighbor, he is, he never makes a ruckus and keeps the mosquito population down in the summers.

(“Mosquitos Steve,” Mikleo managed to comment, through his discomfort, as he and Sorey walked to the bakery as the man they were speaking to had given them directions. “Yes. We all know about Mosquitos Steve.”)

Still, it was more than Sorey could’ve ever dreamed of. This sense of normalcy was a hit of comfort and nostalgia for his days in Elysia, in a time when the rest of the world had marched on so far without him. And, moreover, it was really interesting reading all the literature on the intervening period, and then grilling seraphim who’d lived through those periods to check for accuracies and contrasting viewpoints. And, moreover, it was a pleasure beyond words doing it with Mikleo by his side, with all of eternity stretching out in front of them.

This merging of worlds is what led to the subject of the day’s outing: a cozy little inn near the town (now city) of Lastonbell, tucked away from the city’s lights and avant-garde art installations, and tucked away from the Shepherdsmas bustle and the cold winter winds. Known for its history, and its hot springs, it was owned and managed by a merged human-seraphim family. That would’ve been enough to pique Sorey’s interest, but add in the prospect of great food and a soak in the hot springs with a hot babe…

“…And as for the hot springs,” Mikleo continued to explain to the group as they walked up the lengthy stone steps to the inn’s entrance. “You could, of course, just go to the back and soak in the ordinary springs.”

“Which I will,” Edna quipped. She’d grown weary of climbing steps and was forcing Zaveid to carry her on his back; she was bound to him with vines, seated in a comfortable chair of flowers, while Zaveid huffed and puffed.

“But did you know that there’s a thousand-year-old log that the resident seraphim have enchanted to serve as a private spring?” Mikleo tried to steer the conversation back.

“Wow,” Edna said drily. “An old log.”

“Wow…” Sorey breathed, voice breathless with awe. “An old log…”

“A thousand-year-old log!” Mikleo reiterated, voice brimming with excitement. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means that we’ll get to enjoy the hot springs without having to watch you two canoodle,” Edna said, and gave Zaveid a whack with a vine before he could make any sort of lewd followup. “Giddyap.”

“I’m afraid I’ll also have to take a rain check on the, ah, alternate bathing arrangement,” Lailah said. “I’ll leave you two boys to it, but please fetch me from the sauna when everyone’s finished up, woodn’t you?”

Everyone fell into a pained and eerie silence. Lailah’s eyes darted around, and she cleared her throat.

“Fetch me from the sauna, woodn’t you? When you boys are done with your log?”

As the silence stretched ever onward, Zaveid sighed tragically.

“Guys, I’m gonna have to save my own skin on this one. Have fun with the log and don’t get splinters where the sun don’t shine.”

With that, he summoned the power of the wind and dashed up the remaining steps in the blink of an eye, trailing swirling snowflakes and flowers from Edna’s perch as he went.

Lailah stared at Mikleo and Sorey, expectantly.

“…haha,” Sorey offered a weak laugh. “A-anyway, with the log being that old, it means that this inn predated us by a long shot. And could mean that the seraphim and humans running this place could’ve been doing the same thing back then, too…”

“With much less tourist traffic, but yes,” Mikleo agreed. “It’s something I’d love to ask the owners, after we’re done with dinner and our bath.”

Sorey’s ears perked up, hopefully. Mikleo gave a knowing smile.

“The private suite that has the log isn’t easy to get,” Mikleo said, his tone brimming with pride. “But of course, I pulled some strings.”

Great food, and a soak in a really old log with a hot babe. Sorey was the luckiest man alive.

Sorey’s jaw was slack with awe as he saw it. As he saw The Log.

“Wow…” Sorey marveled.

He and Mikleo both crept up to it as if it was a rare animal, as beautiful as it was dangerous, as if it was ready to roll away and into the winter’s night if spooked. It was exquisitely-carved and preserved, and the growth rings exposed at each end coyly insinuated at it being even older than anticipated. There were no plumbing elements installed to spoil its perfection; it was simply pure wood, pure Log. Truly a marvel worth the long trip, the long stair climb, and the painful sting of Lailah’s puns.

“Would our guests care to have their bath, or should this one leave them to admire it for a while longer?”

Mikleo and Sorey were startled out of their reverie by a low, serene voice. It was one of the inn staff, standing so still and so quiet in the corner of the elegant bathing room that they hadn’t even noticed them in the presence of the magnificent log specimen. Dressed in a modest but striking blue-and-black kimono and wooden sandals, the staffperson slowly glided over to the tub-side, regarding Mikleo and Sorey with an unknowable expression. With a wave of their hand, they summoned hot water to fill the tub.

“Well, at least we’ve found someone to chat with about the inn’s history,” Sorey thought.

The fragrance of an ancient forest filled the cool winter air, and the stream from the bath wafted to the open-air balcony to join the dancing snowflakes outside. The staffperson lowered a hand to touch the surface of the water; ostensibly testing the temperature for their guests. The effortless way they’d woven their artes made Sorey suspect that the gesture was more for guests’ ease of mind, rather than any uncertainty on the staffperson’s part.

“Our guests shall find towels and refreshments laid out for them,” the staffperson said. “Please do not hesitate to summon me as needed.”

With that, they bowed, and turned to fold themselves back into the shadows (or the staff corridors) from whence they came. Sorey managed to shake himself free of the enchanting log in time to call out.

“Wait! Can we ask you a few questions about this place?”

The staffperson slanted a look over their shoulder. Their white-blue hair was tied up into a severe bun that was quite at odds with their youthful features, and their ice-blue eyes showed an ancient weariness.

Sorey scratched at his head, mussing its newly-long (and blond) length even further.

“First, um, I’m Sorey, and this is Mikleo…”

“Yes,” the staffperson said, simply. “Of course, this one knows the names of such famous guests. We hope that you find our inn to your liking thus far.”

“It’s great!” Sorey assured. “We just really wanted to know more about its history. Is it okay if we ask you some stuff? I mean, if you have the time. We’ll share our snacks with you? What’s your name?”

The staffperson paused for a long moment.

“Lithia,” they stated, finally. “Please, ask this one anything you care to know.”

Lithia was not only a font of knowledge, answering any question Sorey or Mikleo threw at them – they were also, as a matter of fact, one of the original founders of the inn.

(“No,” they had to clarify, at Sorey and Mikleo’s insistent questions, they were not the ones to chop down the log.)

It was through Lithia that the inn’s history was told, in full.

One thousand and twenty years ago, a seraph and a human fell in love, but they lived in a world that was not meant for them.

One thousand and twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen years ago, the seraph became weaker and weaker, more and more ill, suffering under the malevolence of the townsfolk and their cruelty towards their beloved human. It was different, back then. Humans fear what they don’t understand. Seraphim, also. Surely, our esteemed guests understand this too well.

One thousand and fifteen years ago, the human left human civilization behind, carrying the seraphim on his back, questing to find a place for the seraphim to recover in peace, a place to call their own.

There was, of course, no such place. Living as hermits in the woods would have to do instead.

They lived quite happily, the two of them. They enjoyed the beauty of nature, and the pleasure of each other’s company, for many years. The human eventually felled a tree and carved it into a lovely bath. The seraph used their artes to make it into a log hot spring. How whimsical, how unique; in another time, the two of them could have opened a lovely inn, and become known across the continent for their hospitality.

But of course, the human eventually aged and died, as humans do.

The seraph was left with the home they’d built together, and their silly little log bath.

The seraph was left like this for many, many years.

Eventually, humans began to see seraphim again. They began to live side-by-side. The seraph watched this from their forest house, with their silly log bath that they’d kept preserved all these years. The seraph was bitter for a while; angry, even. How dare they sort things out now, centuries too late?

The seraph was angry for years, with their house and their log bath. The seraph remembered their human so well, even after all this time. They remembered his voice, his face, his laughter. There was no one else to do so. There was no one left to remember him.

The human had always wanted to have an inn of his own, to host guests (which they could never have, without endangering the seraph) and hear stories from across the globe (which they could never explore, without endangering the seraph). The human had died without seeing this dream fulfilled. Even through the seraph’s anger, they remembered this, too well.

It was not a quick process. Lithia was known as being standoffish, even among the few other seraphim that had settled around their forest territory. It took years, and many meetings and partings. The young human attacked by forest beasts, who left offerings for Lithia for the rest of his life after they – in a sudden fit that even they could not explain – saved him, healed his wounds, and sent him on his way after his recovery. The travelling earth seraph with their team of human workers, who fixed up Lithia’s home after an earthquake finally brought down one of the ancient walls that could no longer be patched. The fire seraph, wandering through the woods, with the light in their eyes extinguished after losing their human family to disease.

It was not a quick process. But by and by, Lithia’s anger subsided, and eventually, they opened this inn.

“The two of you enjoy a rare gift,” Lithia stated. “It is not common for the love between a human and a seraph to end happily. I ask only that you treasure the opportunity you have been given.”

Mikleo’s hand had already found Sorey’s. Sorey’s hand squeezed back.

“Of course,” Sorey said quietly.

“And,” Lithia added. “Please refrain from having relations in the log.”

Mikleo and Sorey simply stared, wordless. Lithia tilted their head.

“Um,” Sorey said eventually. “I don’t think. That’ll. Be a problem.”

Lithia made a small noise. “Oh. I was not aware that the former Shepherd suffered such an affliction. I can brew a medicinal tea, should he wish to have the urge fall upon him.”

“We’re good! We’re good!” Sorey hastily clarified. “Um, it’s no problem, we promise. Thank you so much for opening your home to us, and letting us use something so dear to you…”

Lithia gave a small nod. “I only allow guests in this suite that I have personally approved. Ones that I personally judge worthy of it. The rest…”

Through the night air, there came the distinct sound of a vine whip against bare ass skin, and then Zaveid’s pained howling.

“The rest can bathe outside,” Lithia finished curtly. “Please, guests, enjoy your stay. I must take my leave to ensure no blood has entered the waters, lest I add the cleaning tab to your companion’s bill.”

“I think you should probably do it regardless,” Mikleo mumbled wearily. “Lords only know where Zaveid’s been.”

#sormik #sorey/mikleo #soreymikleo #soremiku #suremiku #tales of zestiria #sormik advent calendar #a tenderly crafted fanfiction

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vake-hunter · 5 years ago

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Light Fingers Lore Post

Moon-Misers

Normal Moon-Milk is a poison they use to make their prey walk right into their mouth. It’s not meant to last for long.

Babies are rare, only born about once a decade! “A Moon-Miser can only be born when the stars align. It must also be coaxed from the womb with a Song of Birthing.” Once born it must be fed special nectar extracted from stalactites. Who knows what that’s made of! “At birth, Moon-Misers are wrapped in their mother's silk, forming a protective membrane while their carapaces develop.”

Here, have some NEAT Red Science quotes: “You are forging a new link of a great chain. This is the most impossible and unforgiving of occasions: the creation of something new. In this tent, you usher a brand new species from the vaults of possibility. You are spitting in the face of the gods. You are violating laws written in starlight before the world began.”

This is VERY important Lore: the baby has your eyes.

(If Baby is more human) As the zeppelin ascends, the Hybrid raises its voice in solemn song. As you listen, a thrill runs down your spine. For a moment, swept up in the song, you experience a vision: in your mind's eye, a blazing-bright king unites the tribes of the Starved Men under one banner, and harnesses the Moon-Misers as steeds. He leads his subjects on a crusade against the city below - a city that is no longer London, but that still harbours the Moon-King's greatest nemesis, now much embittered at the failure of its schemes. The resulting war will prove its final undoing.

Mr Fires

Is trying to bankrupt the Bazaar in a way.

If it makes a bunch of fake love stories, that can trick Wines and Spices and the Bazaar, eventually the Bazaar won’t know what love is real and what isn’t, thus, hopefully, discouraging the Bazaar and the other Masters.

“A bitter edge creeps into its sibilant voice. "Once a suitable love story is found, it’ll be the end of London. Can you imagine?" The lamp trembles in its hand. Its voice rises an octave. "The end of London! I couldn't bear it! I love this city. It's my sole comfort, the greatest joy I have discovered in all my centuries. I'd do anything to preserve it."

“In the longer term, the Hybrid's milk is the only thing that can save the city. Once seeded across the populace, all love stories will be rendered suspect. Any love, no matter how pure or moving, could simply be the symptoms of an aberration's venom. Love will be robbed of its allure. The Bazaar will not know which stories it can truly believe in."

"If my plan succeeds, the other Masters will abandon London as a failed venture." Mr Fires holds up its lamp; here at the bottom, the shelves are lined with leather-bound volumes. "They shall depart, and I shall make arrangements to preserve the city."

It is very defensive of what it did at the Orphanage, in a way that almost makes it sound like it's guilty. It does insist it would do it again, and it doesn’t care about the people, just London as a city.

Confirmation Fires likes science.

More evidence Masters can shapeshift to change their sizes and when they are upset, they have trouble staying small.

Its very fucking excited to burn things down and upset Wines.

(Giving the baby to Fires) "One day, London will be a city glutted with love," says Mr Fires, returning its gaze to the Hybrid. "Or at least, reliably-replicable facsimiles of it. The effect will be subtle. A modest adjustment, year on year. Wines won't suspect a thing until it is too late." It glances at you. "You and I, [Addressed As], have saved London today."

Boil of Calamities

Possibly the first Fingerking or at least a very very old and strong one.

Seven Heads like the statue at Irem.

The Sun and the Spire that connects it are sacred places to the Fingerkings and the Boil protects them. “They may allow your kind to trespass across the rest of their kingdom, you slumbering oafs, you mortal morsels, but not here, not the hallowed spire. Insolence! Blasphemy!”

Huge coils that appear in the sky. Black scales, a knot of snakes or just one massive one. Like storm clouds with huge fangs. Tongues flicker like lightning.

It once took tributes and accepted people as servants but the the door to its Chamber seems long abandoned.

The Chamber is found in the shadow of the Dome of Scales. “Inside is a cavern that smells faintly of spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamon. Heavy silk banners hang from the walls, depicting battles between cats and serpents. Seven braziers burn merrily with viric fire. Plates of delicious-looking food have been set out: pomegranates, bloody steak, bunches of plump indigo grapes. At the centre sits a majestic basalt altar, carved with dozens of runes and symbols, a silver bowl waiting atop.”

If you make a Pact with the Boil, you must shed your skin. Don’t worry, there’s more skin under there. Better skin, you’re told. You peel yourself with a Ravenglass knife and it uses the same wording as in my Kingdom for A Pig and the Third City Deal :)

“There is indeed new skin underneath. It is tender and dry, with the faintest silver sheen. The effect is subtle. Only a lover or a doctor would notice.”

“You look up to the Boil, your skin flashing silver, and bow deeply. The overbearing tangle of coils slips apart, separating, loosening. You find yourself breathing more easily.”

Court of Cats

The Duchess is capable of calling a meeting with the Court.

They slew the seven daughters of the Boil.

They have a spear made from a Fingerking’s fang that is capable of piercing the Skin of the Sun. However only cats are allowed to wield it. So if you want it you must become an Honorary Cat.

“The Lord High Seneschal pronounces you the 'Lyon Pursuivant of Arms Extraordinary,' officially a cat, and thus entitled to take possession of one of the cats' greatest trophies.”

“As they fall quiet, you ask why they have never wielded this spear against their enemies in the past? "Because cats do not have thumbs," says the Knight Marshall, with a haughty look.”

“Hephaesta draws back her Herculean arm and hurls the spear of the Sleeping King, putting every hard-wrung ounce of her strength behind the throw. It flies, like a shell from a cannon, cracking the Skin of the Sun and sinking a foot deep. At the point of impact, the glass buckles and twists and shrieks. Hephaesta and the tiger roar in triumph.”

“A great, hollow crack rings across Parabola. A shadow mars the cosmogone sunlight passes over the sun.”

Parabolan Sun (Not strictly Lore just from Light Fingers but Important)

Parabola was not always bright. It seemed to be in perpetual twilight before the Second City Sisters rose the Sun.

“This is a place that is not. It was not always light, though once it was brighter. The sisters found it in twilight and in dreams. The night was thus sacred to the Second City. They would not be pursued here. The ushabti were created to help in the construction of the Palace. The Second City could have lived here forever.”

This also seems to imply there was no moon either, as the moon is a cat. It probably came with the Second City as well. "Look, there are patterns there, just like the surface's moon. Only... these don't resemble a man, or anything else so much as a cat, curled up asleep."

The Sisters of the Pharaoh (minus the Duchess) fled to Parabola when the Third City fell to avoid being killed. “We four survivors fled. One remained with the City, while I retreated here.”

"The Palace of the Rising was to be a refuge from the Masters and the Bazaar. A new sun was raised in the sky so the citizens might walk in light again.”

The thing is. The Sun was built with the help of what appears to be the God of the Fingerkings. "the Boil of Calamities, Lord of the Seething Sky, wept a drop of shining glass..."

The Boil protects the Sun and the Cats hate the Fingerkings. It seems the Four Sisters betrayed the Cats and their other sister, the Duchess, in order to make the Sun. "It also is the mother-father of the egg that is the Parabolan sun," adds a dark-faced tabby. Its reflection is that of a snarling puma. "Though others played a part in that, too." The Duchess' lips tighten.”

Physically: A huge glass dome held to the land by a stone pillar. Even the sky around the dome appears to be glass. (Interesting given how the Second City imprisoned the Masters was to cover the Neath in glass. From The Mind Of A Long Dead God: “Glass Walls Everywhere! They surround me. They reflect one realm inwards and keep me from the other. These barriers should be fluid!” Note that the Neath IS Storm’s corpse.)

NORTH

Rubbery Men plan to fly north. “They take off again in an instant, heading North, waving you farewell. Where do they ultimately hope to go? Again, it's impossible to tell. Perhaps they hope to find their way home.”

If baby is more Moon-Miser: As the zeppelin ascends, the Hybrid raises its voice in solemn song. A thrill runs down your spine. For a moment, swept up by the song, you experience a vision: a blazing-bright king of Moon-Misers leading its glimmering subjects on a pilgrimage across the roof and through a door far to the North. Below, in a city that is not London, the citizens point and murmur in fear as their false-stars crawl into the distance and blink out one by one, leaving only darkness behind.

Item Rewards

Lyon Pursuivant of Arms Extraordinary: For the purposes of having legal custody of a famous war trophy, you have been made an honorary cat, with the associated title, privileges, and dignities. [Affiliation; Shadowy +3, Persuasive +6, Dangerous +2, Respectable +1]

Tatterskin Shawl: Once, you offending the Boil of Calamities. To make amends you offered up your own skin as a gift. The Boil was thoughtful enough to return your old skin to you, though it no longer fits as snugly as it once did. [Clothing; Shadowy +6, Persuasive -2, Dreaded +1, Bizarre +1, Mithridacy +1]

A Loyal Nightmare of Poor Edward: You married what remained of Poor Edward. Now he is a nightmare, bound by the miser-milk to the dreams of the Orphanage. Sometimes, you visit him there. [Affiliation; Shadowy +2, Persuasive +1, Dreaded +1]

A Kitten-Sized Diamond, Liberated from the Mountain: It was torn from the Mountain that looms on the Elder Continent. If set near wounds, they heal. If left in one place for too long, flowers bloom around it. If left near lesser diamonds, they will hatch. [Home Comfort; Persuasive +10, Respectable +2, Artisan of the Red Science +1]

A False-Star of your Own: Above London, false-stars shine. One is your bastard child, a Hybrid, a diamond the size of a cow. It is a hundred times brighter than its fellows, a blazing pinpoint; every month or two, for just a few days, it passes directly over the city. For that brief period, London's gloom eases into a velvety twilight. (In addition to the stat advantages, this Companion allows you a unique opportunity while zailing.) [Companion; Watchful +6, Shadowy +12, Shapeling Arts +1, Bizarre +2]

#fallen london #mr fires #parabola #light fingers spoilers #lore

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the-voice-of-hell · 4 years ago

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The Septagram

- Previous - First -

***

The demons had thinned out but the blackberry vines had thickened. Some other plants were affected too. The trees at the side of the road were impenetrable from a combination of blackberry tree trunks pushing up roots, and ivy ground cover that had blown up into tangled curling stacked sheets. The blackberries were too heavy to stand gravity working on them and dropped on the street, creating huge slime traps buzzing with horseflies. Bees and hummingbirds zipped in the flowers above.

The cops and Iphigenia walked their bikes, lifted them when necessary, and all slowed to a modest walking pace. Only the concrete that remained visible at their feet let them know they were still on the right path, with no other signs of civilization visible through the growth.

Jelly Sue remained quiet and unperturbed. Iphigenia wondered about her more. No one had actually seen her eat in the morning and Ippy was starting to remember the blood flowing into her feet. Had it rolled beneath the plaster, over her skin, up into the mouth? Had it absorbed into her skin at its first point of contact? She was worried for her. Someone who needed that much blood spilled around them to wake up - that was a person with a problem.

“Hey Jelly, are you OK? You hungry? Thirsty?”

“No, thank you. How are you, Ippy?”

“I’d feel better if you felt better.”

She flashed a smile. It struck Ippy like a bullet, but then faded into nothing. It was like she was unpracticed at smiling and couldn’t sustain it. Or like it had been a figment of Ippy’s imagination.

They finally got out of the weeds, out of the interminable rise and fall of hill-skirting roads, and were able to mount the bicycles again. At last Martin Luther King Jr. Way South leveled out. The light rail tracks connected with the middle of the street and flowed parallel to them. They would reach Oregon Street very soon.

There were scattered demons everywhere. Some were in houses, some on lawns, some just trucking from point A to point B through the neighborhood. There weren’t any lumped up into crowds, but there were enough to really give the idea they’d replaced the people of this major city. Jelly Sue offered no reaction. Infante definitely had his nerves jacked up.

Park remembered something, as he planned ahead to their debrief. “Iphigenia, Jelly Sue? I haven’t really talked much with you, but these cops we’re going to meet will have some questions. I just wanna know if your answers are going to make us look… suspicious or something.”

Ippy said, “What’s that got to do with us? We can’t control what cops think.”

“I know. Just a few things. So I get that you lost some people, wanted revenge on the murder clubs. It’s the wild west out here, so no one will begrudge you that. But Jelly Sue. What happened to you? Why were you alone in that house, covered with that stuff? What was killing those demons in the hall, outside your room?”

“I didn’t see that. I don’t know.”

“OK. It just seemed like whatever was killing them had to be inside the room where we found you. You were over on the bed, your eyes… covered. It was probably about ten, twelve feet away, by the door. Did you hear something?”

“No.”

“Were you awake?”

“No. Iphigenia woke me.”

Ippy butted in. “Back up off her, Detective. She doesn’t know anything. Satisfied?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not really. They’ll want to know who her family is. How to contact them.”

“I don’t care. She should have all the time she wants to tell us whatever she wants when she wants.”

“Bullshit,” Infante said.

“Cool it, Sergeant!” It felt silly getting all hard-nosed movie cop on a stolen bicycle next to a dolled-up weirdo riding some handlebars.

Ippy pursed her lips to avoid confronting Infante.

Park continued, “If you want to minimize her plight, I don’t care if you lie to them. Say you’re her sister and she’s autistic or something. But hope she doesn’t say anything that blows the story, or things could get annoying.”

“They already are.”

“Am I artistic?,” Jelly asked.

“You’re a work of art, Jelly.”

Park rolled his eyes again, then rolled his tires away from that mess. Then he shot his hand up. “That’s Oregon Street. Let’s announce ourselves, let them call us in.”

No one dissented so he radioed it in. “Tacoma PD to local police. Do you copy?”

“... … ... Copy. Are you here? Over.”

“Should be in your sights, middle of the street. Are you aware of the demons out here? Over.”

“... Copy. Southwest corner. South alley. Knock. Over.”

“Copy.” He gestured the travellers to the right building, as if they hadn’t all just heard it loud and fuzzy.

They rolled into the alley and set down the bikes. There were two dead demons in a heap near the door, blood trailing this way and that. Both wore the marching band outfits. One was a barely humanoid fox with sheep horns, twisted in death. The other looked like a seven foot tall man shrunk to four feet without changing his proportions.

They’d clearly been shot. Everyone knew there’d be corresponding dead cops somewhere around. They were silent as Park knocked on the door.

It hadn’t been as tense as Park suspected. The irregular force within the walls had been too focused on the aftermath of the demon invasion to question any kind of humans in any kind of state. Park and Infante were swept away from the ladies quickly, becoming ensconced in the command situation.

The top floor. Big open spaces, large glass windows. Someone had actually cut out interior walls to make the biggest apartment easier to use as a command center. There were police, soldiers, support techs, and DHS on hand.

The boss was a bit taller than everyone else, taller than Park and more thickly built, with a salt and pepper flat-top. He had a short-sleeved blue uniform shirt mostly concealed by a darker, duller blue bulletproof vest. They contrasted poorly with his pale khakis. He shook their hands with meaty paws.

“Abraham. DHS.”

“Detective Park, Sergeant Infante, Tacoma PD.”

”We finally got boots on the ground in the region and it degenerated into this.” Abraham gestured out the window. “But we’re getting a fix on things. We’ve got some intel that’ll bring a smile to your face. But first I’d like to personally hear your debrief.”

“I’d like to know if people are making it out of lockdown. I was personally responsible for most of the people left in Tacoma when the first wave rolled out.”

“Well… I’m sorry to hear that. It isn’t necessarily bad news, but I haven’t heard about any specific large groups making it out of the state.”

Park sunk in on himself. Infante touched his arm.

Abraham continued, “Some people have been making it out. But that’s part of my debrief for you. Tell me what happened to pull you out of Tacoma.”

“Let’s see… The first wave was those musicians, followed by the soldiers - the most goat-like ones. They have some kind of protection, so that when they’re attacked the person who kills them also dies.”

“We’ve gathered. Fortunately only lost three to it this morning, not long before you got here. A big distraction, we almost forgot you were coming. I had hoped you’d have more men.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Continue.”

“We had to plan quick. Everything was happening at once. I left Colonel James - Army - to follow the demon wave on a motorcycle. Hopefully he lived to give some good intel.”

“Hopefully.”

“Communication was touch and go, but I think Lieutenant - no, First Lieutenant Alameda was going to handle evacuating the civilians. But something else came up right then. Murder clubbers.”

“Their usual MO?”

“No, they were on a parade, heading north. Like they wanted to join up with the demons. On a snap decision, Infante and I followed them. But they did meet up with some demons quickly and then caught us. Infante was taken prisoner, brought to somewhere near the IKEA in Tukwila.”

“I sense I’m missing something pretty dramatic here.”

“I met the woman - the thinner one. She helped me find and free Infante. We killed a lot of murder clubbers and goat demons. I don’t really know how.”

The man turned, arms folded behind his back, and walked to the window. He looked down at the things walking about the streets. Infante and Park followed him but couldn’t see his expression.

“That’s very interesting indeed. Who killed them? Most directly? I need to know.”

“Infante killed at least one, but was detained most of the time. I… didn’t… I killed something like a minotaur along the way to Tukwila.”

“Really?,” Infante asked.

“Yeah. You think I can’t kill a-”

“Focus. That leaves the women, and however many murder clubbers and demon soldiers. Who did what?”

“The thin one. Iphigenia. She killed almost all of them.”

“With guns? Her bare hands?”

“Mostly with a hammer.”

Abraham was quiet facing out the window. A few nearby personnel overheard the exchange and were eavesdropping in a tense zone of quiet. Finally he turned around, smiling.

“That’s quite good of you to bring her to us. Ready for your own debrief?”

“Very much so.”

“The Department of Homeland Security sent me here because I have occult knowledge. The supernatural is real, gentlemen, and some of us have been doing our best to stay ahead of it.”

“Good to hear,” said Infante.

“...So I can bring you up to speed. The murder clubs committed great evils here. Nothing so enormous as World War Two, but something about their souls, this moment in history, the stars… Hard to say, but something about their evil broke open a portal to Hell.”

“It figures!,” said Infante. Park was sober, almost entranced.

“That’s where the other factions came in. It’s my understanding that this Queen Bymaan has generals named Bybaal and Abalaam. Bybaal is disloyal and hoping to take over Seattle, dethrone the Queen. And to do so, he’s enlisting the murder clubs.”

“Not a problem now, are they?,” Park said.

“There are still at least a few hundred left. If they have the mark of Bybaal, the legions won’t be able to attack them unless directed to by Bymaan herself. So that, plus an element of surprise, could be enough for them to accomplish that goal...”

“Great,” said Infante.

“-If they were able. We can’t count on that. They add an element of chaos that complicates my own directives, so I want to take them out.”

“That works for me, too.”

Park said, “Wait, with all due respect sir, what about the chaos out there? I don’t understand how attacking them can help and I can think of a lot of ways it could go wrong.”

Abraham tapped him in the chest. “Don’t be such a sourpuss. We have a few aces in the hole. My occult knowledge, and some heroes.”

“Heroes?” Park’s voice was weak. He had a bad feeling he knew what that meant, and it was more danger for Infante and the civilians.

“Some people have unusual strength, above and beyond the rest of us. It allows them to overcome the power of the death shield. There is no question the woman is one of these people, and Infante may be as well.”

Infante folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head in pleasant surprise. “Nice.”

“Do we have any other heroes, sir?”

“No. But we have a prophet. She’s sequestered at the moment. As there are heroes, there are also people with visions of the future, the present. Technically speaking, clairvoyance.”

Infante and Park looked at each other. Infante understood Park didn’t want to mention his own abilities in that moment and kept it quiet.

Park said, “That’s interesting. So if we didn’t happen in here by chance, you wouldn’t have any of these ‘heroes’?”

“Relax. There are other ways to get things done...”

***

Iphigenia and Jelly Sue dodged the military treatment. A lady soldier showed them to the second floor. The apartments had all had doors removed for ease of being used as barracks. The doors had been bolted over some windows to add a little protection. Ippy didn’t like the idea of a lack of privacy, but it seemed like there were only two guards left on the floor, out in the main hall.

She hoped they couldn’t hear too well. She was thankful the power was on, providing a hum of white noise, but the building was terribly quiet a few floors below the command center.

The apartment they’d been shown to had been previously occupied, and the owner left behind some clothes. They’d be essential. Ippy walked Jelly Sue into the bathroom and leaned against the wall, looking at her.

“We need you to get clean.”

“It’s good to be clean and pretty.”

She smiled. “You’re pretty no matter what, but yeah.” Her smile weakened. “Do you need help? I don’t want to...” She looked around uncomfortably, “...You’re very good at balancing on handlebars, and standing for a long time. But can you take off your clothes? Turn on the shower? I don’t know if you have some problems, I’m sorry.”

Ippy had the most earnest expression in human history, Jelly was blank as ever. But she did glance away and back, as if thinking about something. Remembering? “Helen took off my clothes and put them back on me.”

The tension left Ippy’s face, but now she was surprised, interested. “Was Helen your mother?”

“I belonged to Helen.”

“Mm, OK.” She didn’t know what to think, shook it off, and started unwrapping the lady. Iphigenia became aware of her own dirtiness. The bright daylight wasn’t beaming directly in the window, but still lit the room well. It had a power that revealed details hidden under lamps at night. She could tell the difference between the blood of the murder goblins, the blood of the angels, white plaster dust, plant waste, grotty dried sweat, and more general filth.

She hated it, but her hands were clean enough to do this work at least. Jelly put out her arms dutifully and Ippy removed the angel’s military coat, casting it into the hall. She pushed and pulled her lightly and she complied, turning in place. She unzipped the pink dress but didn’t let it drop, pulling it up over her head and tossing it into the hall on top of the thick black jacket.

Out of the box Jelly Sue. What would it reveal, removing those wrappings? Iphigenia did so with care - especially when she felt she was closest to skin. Some of the wraps had been partially solidified by the plaster, so she got sharp knife-like bangle from the angel’s coat and came back to work it with that.

It came off. In most places, plaster went all the way down to the skin. How could it breathe? She was covered in that stuff, but her skin didn’t become wrinkly and mushroom-like as a normal person’s does beneath a cast. It was perfect, dark brown, smooth beneath the remaining white dust.

Ippy got the wraps off her arms and legs. While she was on the floor she set Jelly on the toilet and tried to find the laces of her boots. She broke up the plaster with the duller end of the knife. It took an agonizingly long time.

Again, the boots came off to reveal flawless feet. Dark brown to a pleasant rosy copper color on the ends of her toes and the bottom of her soles. There were barely any lines to feel, no wrinkles save where Ippy had turned something too far in her prodding inspection.

She isn’t human. Well, you knew this.

Ippy’s head began to swim. This wasn’t great. If she was some kind of blood-draining monster, people would try to hurt her. She bit her hand from the stress of it, squeezed her eyes.

Then she sat up tall, cut her own palm, and asked her, “Are you thirsty?”

Jelly Sue looked from the wound, up to Iphigenia’s face. Her eyelids snapped between the positions like a folding fan, her eyes sparkled with reflected light. “No thank you. I don’t need it yet.”

Ippy squeezed her eyes shut, set the knife aside, flopped back onto the floor. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”

She sat back up, stood up, helped the vampire to her feet. “OK. Almost done.” She almost turned to go get herself a bandage, but decided she’d just use the padded cotton body suit on her wound when it came off.

It seemed like it had been glued shut with a small amount of the plaster, rather than seamed. Ippy pulled it apart easily, now that the ends weren’t tied with wrappings. The pads and sheets fell aside like leaves revealing her white-dusted nudity.

There was nothing there. Her breasts were the barest rise, no nipples at all. She had no navel, no pubic hair. Ippy crouched quickly and looked between her legs. To her embarrassment, Jelly spread her legs for a better view. She was smooth, no orifices of any kind.

Iphigenia withdrew and stood on shaking legs, clutched herself. Was this horror she was feeling? Revulsion? She broke out in a crazed smile. “Jelly Sue, are you a doll?”

She put her legs back together and raised her head to look at Ippy. Her eyelids were slow to catch up, like those kind that were meant to close when the doll was reclined, but when they get old, start to stick and click. Her face was impassive. “Yes. I was Helen’s doll but she isn’t here. Am I your doll now, Ippy?”

Iphigenia hugged her close, arms wrapped around her so tight they almost touched her own sides again. “Yes! You’re my doll now and you’re perfect!”

“Thank you.”

***

Abraham led Infante and Park to a whiteboard. Occult symbols were scrawled all over it, with inscrutable notes. A few were familiar, from the pennons and badges of the troops.

“What does it all mean, sir,” Park asked.

“It means you’ll have backup this time. This is the seal of Bymaan. It’s well known in the kind of occult lore you can pick up at Barnes & Noble.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it tells us she’s a highly ranked queen of Hell. The spiel the heralds rattled off, about Lucifer? She’s right under him along with some other characters we haven’t seen yet.”

“Ugh.”

“Not to worry. I’m ninety percent certain we won’t be seeing them. She seems to be the ruler of one of the cardinal points of Hell - the Northwest. Unless portals open elsewhere in the States, this is probably it.”

Infante gestured to the other, less complicated sigils. “What are these ones?”

“Her two generals. Abalaam, Bybaal. Bybaal is the treacherous one we discussed before. This seal will keep the other fallen angels from attacking the murder clubbers. The seal of Abalaam can have a similar effect, and I want to set it on all the officers in this building.”

Infante shook his head. “Oh no, that seems like a really bad idea, sir.”

“Oh? Are you an occult expert?”

“No, but this is all from the bible, right? You don’t wear the Mark of The Beast.”

“It’s the Number of The Beast not the Mark. I could lay out the numerological correlates for all these symbols, explain to you how this is different, but I don’t have time to give you a master’s degree in demonology. Can you accept a commanding officer’s orders?”

He glanced to the side but didn’t say anything.

Abraham leaned close. “I’ll let you out of it because you’re a hero, right? But don’t let the rest of these guys know. This is challenging enough as it is. New territory for everyone.”

“Yes sir,” he said with no enthusiasm.

Park looked at him sympathetically, then back to the boss. “So we’ll all get this protection, take our ‘heroes’ to wherever the other murder clubbers are, take them out… Then what?”

“We’ll gather more intel at that citadel. See if we can find a way to reverse this. Or at least, understand how our country can come to deal with it. Militarily.”

“Of course.”

Infante flexed his arms then winced, touching his thigh. He quickly tried to play it off, but he’d been caught.

“What’s going on, Sergeant? Wounded in action?”

“Yes sir. Afraid I got bit by one of those snake tails. I don’t…,” he spoke more quietly, “I don’t know what to do, if it’s a problem or what.”

Park said, “God, I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing we told you. Do you have an infirmary?”

“Yes, by all means. Come with me...”

Abraham snapped out some orders and they were whisked down to the third floor, and medical assistance.

***

Bybaal couldn’t rest. He had his queen’s orders to attend, and his own designs as well. But by early afternoon he’d finished casting spells to the corners of the land, causing the alien plants to grow into massive barriers, finished the works that had been commanded of him. He needed only to put the finishing touches on his own workings.

The big IKEA building was streaked in white and crust from top to bottom. Feathers swirled in eddies around it, bits of eggshell joined the grit of asphalt. Pigeons, starlings, and sparrows flew in and out constantly - a great cloud forming above. Some were abnormally large, grown crazed, snapping smaller birds out of the air.

Inside, Bybaal knew they were fucking. It was an unnatural orgy leading to magically-enhanced incubation. He was breeding a force of servant beasts for his own ends. Of course, if discovered, he would pretend it was for his queen. But that wasn’t going to be a problem.

He held up a hand and the invisible demons set him down on the ground. He walked past them, paying them no attention, his eyes drawn to the spectacle. “What have I done? Hahaha. This is reprehensible.” He whistled high and loud.

A freakish parade of demons in electric blue IKEA shirts and khakis came bustling out of the nearest door and hopped around him in ecstasy. “What would you have of us, Great Bybaal?,” they cried.

“Stop this capering. Line up.”

They tried to comply, but their feet tapped and bounced, hands jiggled. These all had bird heads - a thrush, a shrike, an osprey, an ostrich.

“Good enough. Now. I would like a steed. Have you a bird large enough to ride?”

They shook their heads and looked at each other in terror. Would he take out his rage on them?

“Hm, I do not love that. But I can accept it. I will at least need many thousands of your little birds then. Let’s make it starlings.”

“Right away, Great One!”

They bounced and scampered and hustled out of sight.

Bybaal waited, then waved goodbye to his invisible demons. “Meet me at the Cherry Hill Citadel. Have a nice trip.” He smiled as the starlings swarmed all around him.

Some held his red coat in place to avoid drag, others formed a roiling mass about him, slowly lifting him into the sky. He felt them brush and scrape against him. This duty might break them, but the IKEA demons could have just made him a bigger bird. It was hardly his fault.

They flew him to Seattle.

***

Clark woke up with taut muscles. It was that feeling from the day after a good workout - the feeling of the body making itself stronger. He had to look at himself, at his arms and legs. Yes, they were more firm, but the idea he was simply becoming young again was sadly not borne out in his skin. Still, revitalized muscles and super dance powers were nothing to sneeze at.

He did lots of stretches like a good boy. It wasn’t as thrilling as running up the side of a building or leaping over a car, but it was fun to see what he was now capable of. He put a leg back and his head back, standing on one set of toes while the rest of his body formed an extravagant loop. He whipped around and dropped low, spinning one leg below him while hopping over it with the other on each rotation, then switched legs.

A cramp almost formed in his thigh, muscles trembling, ready to seize up. He should have stayed with slower stretches. He dropped in place and waited for the tension to break.

It was still daylight. Perfect. The pre-furnished luxury condo was lifeless and sterile, despite the warm touches it incorporated - the colors and materials. The design was too modernist, in a bland corporate way. But he didn’t feel too horribly out of place. He had always walked among the rich, even if he wasn’t quite one of them, and over the last few decades this had been the look of it.

At last he was able to stand. He sat on a barstool at a granite-topped island near the kitchen. Room service! Nope. It is you who must be of service, Clark. He downed a glass of water, put himself together, and went to meet the people.

He knocked on doors with a few responses, but almost everyone seemed more sleepy than him, was still trying to rest. More evidence he was still a senior citizen. The young man he’d saved from the worm-thing powered through his exhaustion to join Clark as he walked the halls.

“Hey man! What a night! I just wanna let you know how grateful I am that you saved me, so I could have a chance to help save all these people.”

“I know. You said that last night, Charlie.”

“It’s Caden.”

“That’s great. What are the odds anything is still edible down in the kitchen?”

“Already checked. But I can take you to where we got the supplies stashed.”

“What’s this?”

“While we were gathering the people, we raided all the vending machines and better things we could find. Got it in duffel bags.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound five star, but it’ll have to do. Last thing I did before leaving my apartment was flooding the place.”

“You had food?”

“A nice little kitchen, and enough of the kind of things that last.”

“I’m totes jelly.”

“I gather that means jealous?”

“Yeah, the microwave dinners I had were sooo small. No wonder I was always going out to eat. They didn’t last a minute.”

“A pity, friend.”

“Here we are!”

Down a floor and tucked in a tiny lounge at the end of a hall, there were several duffel bags and sports bags jammed with food and supplies. Depending on how you define food. Clark reluctantly ate his fill.

They found Thurston in the equivalent of that lounge two floors down. This one was shadowed by a tree outside the window. He was sleeping flat and slightly askew on a comforter stolen from one of the pre-furnished units.

“Just like an angel,” Clark said.

“You’re a sweet guy,” said Caden.

Clark gave him a funny look, then poked Thurston gently with his foot. He had to clean his shoes after a night of monster kicking, but they had mostly dried.

Thurston’s shirt was spared besmirching, but he did have to lose all dignity for a moment as he was jarred to consciousness, flapping arms and bulging eyes.

“Dem com fi’ we?! J-- hrm,” he sorted himself out, “Excuse me. Clark, Caden, I see there is no emergency, by the lack of urgency in your stances respective. Why awaken me so?”

“Trying to head off an emergency by making good time,” Caden said. “We got a bunch of people to evacuate, right?”

Clark said, “I just missed you. Didn’t sleep well?”

Thurston had half pulled himself up on a chair, but stopped to rest his head as he remembered something. “I bore witness some time after dawn. I saw the Queen.”

“Oh?”

“No way! What happened?”

“She was riding on the highway. We were on the roof. We saw her ride that camel all the way up to that castle. The farthest north on Capitol Hill.” He pushed himself up into the chair and relaxed.

Clark sat down beside him, leaving no chair for Caden. “That sounds like quite a spectacle. How could you see her through the trees? Was she even bigger than they say?”

“Mm, I’d say the camel itself is twenty feet tall at the hump and she adds five or six feet to that? Also it could leap as if gravity wasn’t an obstacle. When it leapt, she broke the treeline. Whatever the case, I saw her headed that way, but don’t know with certainty she went inside.”

“I bet she did! That one is up by Brandon Lee’s grave,” Caden said. “Hallowed ground to, like, defile.”

Clark cocked an eyebrow but otherwise ignored him. “You should take a shower again, put on some fresh clothes.”

Thurston observed Clark’s purloined clothing. They were an ill fit - big loose collared shirt, baggy navy blue dockers cuffed and tightly belted with a tanned braid. He had black athletic socks and his dancing shoes on again. “I do not have any.”

Caden said, “Not a problem! I think there are some spare clothes downstairs in the employee areas of the building. Like, uniforms.”

“Loathe as I am to resemble a bellhop, take me there, sir.”

Clark was annoyed at the prospect of the young man taking his friend away and stood up to tag along. They didn’t get very far. A teenage girl came into the hall, her cell phone in hand, mother trying to calm her down.

Girl said, “Everyone should know! They should be able to decide, with all the facts!”

Mom said, “What if they choose wrong? It isn’t safe!”

Girl said, “Mr. Clark!”

“Mr. Upton, dear, but Clark will do.”

The mother looked uncomfortable but came along. “Sorry, Guenevere is excitable.”

Caden looked cross. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Thurston put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

Clark said, “New developments in the mayhem?”

“She’s on the internet now!”

“Some kind of hacker powers?”

“I don’t think so?” She pushed a few buttons on the phone and turned it toward the men.

The news anchor said, “...is what we know. In an effort to legitimize her occupation in Washington state, Queen Bymaan is releasing propaganda on the internet and to news agencies. Understand that MSNBC does not broadcast this to endorse its content in any way - only to help our audience understand what their friends and family in the occupied territory may be going through. You can also find a link to the video on the front page at msnbc.com.” The camera cut to

Queen Bymaan was strolling through a cavernous room with tall, wide open sides that let in bright daylight. It made her flesh glow. The place could have only been one of the towers around the city. She was being filmed by someone or something of human height. A few people stood around, taking in the spectacle. Bare arms displayed her seal. Pigeons flew around, perched here and there, and seemed to also be following her with their heads.

“So this is the garden,” she walked out into a courtyard. It looked like a decent park had been ripped up and planted on a rooftop. Then all the weeds and ground cover had been given cartoon fertilizer to blow up the place. Dandelions and scotch thistles the size of watermelons stretched on thick stalks out of the ivy. The centerpiece was an apple tree, branches bent with cantaloupe-sized apples in metallic gold. The demon queen plucked one and showed it to the camera. “In honor of Eden and the special times we shared there.”

Clark said, “I don’t understand.”

The girl said, “It’s like ‘Cribs.’ She’s making herself a celebrity.”

From the phone, her voice continued, “...onders and more you may behold in The Septagram, once tourism opens. I am very eager to establish a treaty between your empire and ours. For more information, go to our internet site at WeLoveHell.com. Because here in The Septagram, we love Hell and you will too!”

Thurston said, “Has anyone visited the website?”

“It’s down. Too much traffic.”

“See?,” her mom said, “It’s just more propaganda. We shouldn’t be looking at it. It’ll make people think it’s safe to stay here.”

Thurston said, “As long as there is still power to recharge phones and service to bring them the internet, I do not believe anyone will be able to keep this a secret.”

Caden said, “It gets weirder the longer we stay here. We gotta go!”

Clark said, “Hm...” and everyone turned to him, expectant. ‘’Maybe I should pay our new queen a visit.”

Caden said, “No! We need help getting out of the state. What can we do against the monsters? Please, Clark! Mr. Upton!”

Thurston said, “He’s absolutely right, Clark. You know it.”

The girl and her mother just stood there, looking at him expectantly.

“...Fine. But we get you folks out of Seattle and I just might double back. Somebody’s gotta let that lady know the score.”

Thurston’s sense of relief was wrenched. Maybe Clark would take an old guy nap and they could get far away enough to change his mind.

***

#The Septagram

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kuwaiti-kid · 4 years ago

Text

Simple Steps to Navigate Your Midlife Crisis

This past month I turned 38. Some would say this is not midlife and that 40 is more fitting. I don't care what you have to say. It feels like midlife to me. I have felt older in the last year then I have previously in my life. Maybe it was the fire, or the toddler, or just a midlife crisis.

I think this hits most people and kids make it more real. The teens and twenties are spent figuring things out. School and careers. Meeting potential partners and maybe getting married. Then the thirties come, and you start falling into more of a routine. Perhaps you are married now and have a kid or two. Work is often past the excitement point and now, routine.

Often I think it is kids that do it. Kids make life, well real – and complicated. Plus beautiful. I do believe they are a part of the human experience. Raising a little human is way different than raising a dog (and I have done that). It's also more limiting. While I know some families travel in RVs or even on boats, that is not what we want for our kid (at least not full time). We want him to have a base and friends that he grew up with.

Anyway, life feels real now and not the adventure it was when I was five or even ten years younger. And that is okay. Perhaps it's time to set some new goals. That gets us to the point of this post.

Why Midlife Crisis

Seeing that my life may be halfway over (I mean, hopefully, I will live an independent life until I am 100, but let's be honest with ourselves), I want to rethink where I want life to go. I share these goals with you for two reasons.

First, so that I can be held accountable, in Buddhism, there is a saying that karma is built on different levels. A thought creates some karma, verbalizing it builds more, and doing the action builds the most karma. So today, I will be verbalizing my goals in the hope of creating some karmic energy and move things forward. Additionally, this is why you should say nice things to each other. Not only is it polite and hopefully right, but if karma does exist, then you are banking the good kind.

Second, I want you, the reader, to think about where your life is now and where you want it to go for the next 40 years. That will change and get adapted over time as the Mad Fientist recounts after his second year of retirement, but just think about it.

No matter how you define midlife crisis, it's something many people endure.

My goals during a midlife crisis

So without further ado…my goals

First are the simple ones to state, but not necessarily to do.

Continue building my relationships with loved ones and close friends.

As time has gone by, my need for an extensive social network has diminished. Don't get me wrong, I like meeting new people and getting to know their life stories, but I do this all day at work as a doctor. Thus in my personal life, I like to keep my group of friends to a small but reliable group. Weed out the people who do not improve you and keep the good. Same with family. Continuing to build on those lifelong relationships is vital.

I am trying to be a more patient husband and father.

I think I am getting better at the husband's part since I have had years of practice. The father part is more complicated. As my son has turned three and is more defiant, I find myself needing more patience – much more patience. So now, I am trying to slow my roll and breath before addressing his resistance. Resistance is futile (his or mine, I am not sure, but either way, it is pointless), so I might as well learn a new way to handle it. That is likely also something I need to work on as a son and brother. We tend to take the people closest to us for granted.

I am finding joy in the small things at work.

By this point in life, I have pretty much figured out the doctoring thing except for the occasional crazy diagnosis. There are many things I love about this job, particularly when I have a great talk and connection with a patient. Thus my goal is to focus on making more of these connections and less on the frustrations (medical records systems, administrative mandates, etc.). I can control what I can, and the rest is just noise. Since this is a job I may be doing for 30 more years, I need to continue improving my experience with it.

Continue writing, whether it is for this site or a book, doesn't matter. Just keep writing.

I do enjoy putting my thoughts on paper. I have found some modest success with this site. About 200 people visit it per day and from all over the world. That is a pittance compared to many other blogs out there, but I think of it as if I am giving a college seminar. If I were lecturing in front of 200 people every day, I would feel pretty successful. So I want to keep this up.

The number of posts has decreased from 3 a week to 1 a week since the inception of the site, but that is because I am busy doing other things (like building a home, dealing with insurance, trying to be the best I can at my day job). Still, I will keep writing. I have dabbled in writing a book but am not motivated to get through the outline. But who knows, maybe one day.

Keep pursuing financial independence.

I do think financial independence makes life easier. The fact that I am now debt-free has allowed me to make some life choices I would not have made a year ago. That is compelling stuff. So my goal is to be financially independent by the time I am 50. Whether this will be through saving and investing in index funds (my current plan) or if I start investing in real estate (which I am debating currently) has yet to be seen.

My family spends about $100,000 a year (lots of travel), which means we would need about $120,000 a year to account for taxes. That is $2.8 million to be considered financially independent. I am currently above $1 million, and hope to be at $1.5 million by the end of 2019. So I am getting there. The reality is if we cut spending, we will be there sooner as I will need less money to be considered financially independent and have more to invest each month. Food is our most significant source of spending, and I do think we can cut back on dinners out. Oh, and in this calculation, we will need to own our home outright, which we currently do not.

Kids' college tuition.

That is already taken care of. He is three and has $60k in a 529 plan. I suspect over the next 15 years, it will be closer to $200k. So I can take this off of my list of things to worry about.

Now for the more task-oriented ones.

Lift and get fit.

The best shape I have ever been in was 2004 when I was doing Jiu-Jitsu regularly. I was thin and healthy. Since then, I have continued working out in some capacity over the years. I have run, lifted weights, done kung fu, and, most recently, yoga. I do think flexibility and strength training are vital, so I want to continue yoga, but need to focus on building my muscles too.

Thus I think I am going to invest in some free weights and a bench for my garage. For me to work out, it needs to be comfortable, and nothing is easier than working out at home. I am not sure this will happen, but I want to put it out there. I would also love to get back into martial arts, but the schedule has to be conducive to my work and family life. That is why yoga has worked. I go to class at 6 am and am home by 7 am to shower and see my family before going to work.

Learn a musical instrument.

I have taken trumpet and Arabic drum lessons and can keep a rhythm but do not feel proficient in either. I really would like to learn guitar or piano but never have gotten around to it. That is a goal, though, and one I hope I can do in the next ten years. It would be fun to be able to jam. For now, I am giving my son access to all of these instruments and lessons. If I never learn, hopefully, he will.

Conclusion

So there you have it. Nothing crazy. Just some simple goals for a 30 something-year-old man. I am sure I have lots to learn, and people in their 50s probably scoff at my thoughts, but that is okay. I'm getting the work done, and the karma is rolling. Let's see what the next 38 years bring!

The post Simple Steps to Navigate Your Midlife Crisis appeared first on Your Money Geek.

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thewrosper · 5 years ago

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If covid-19 takes hold in India the toll will be grim

It is poor, crowded, short of doctors and equipment and rife with exacerbating diseases. It was called the Spanish influenza, but given the number of Indians it killed, the flu pandemic of 1918-19 should perhaps have carried a different name. Some 18m are thought to have died, or 6% of the country’s population at the time. A century later, with covid-19 lapping at India’s now far more crowded shores, fears are rising that the world’s second-most-populous country could again bear a disproportionate share of the global agony. Until now, India has been lucky with this coronavirus. Despite the proximity of China there is only modest human traffic between the Asian giants, a result of chronically strained relations. Nor do many travellers visit India from other early centres of the pandemic, such as Iran and Italy. Partly as a result, India has registered fewer than 200 cases so far, and only three deaths. Most of those testing positive acquired the virus outside the country. Indian governments, both central and state, have also been strikingly forceful in their response. They were quick to restrict travel from afflicted areas and apply basic screening at airports. India has also airlifted—and closely monitored the health of—hundreds of its own citizens from stricken spots such as Wuhan, Tehran and Milan. Public information campaigns have saturated every television channel; recorded messages even interrupt calls on India’s 900m mobile phones. Across most states, schools and universities have been shut and public events cancelled. Kerala in the far south, a state with a record of excellence in public health, has gone further. Volunteers now deliver free school lunches directly to homes, while kerbside basins have been installed at even the remotest rural bus stations to encourage hand-washing. To enforce adherence to individual isolation orders, health authorities farther north in Maharashtra are stamping hands in indelible ink with the word “Home Quarantined” and an expiry date. Health officials insist that they have managed to limit infections to people who were exposed to the virus abroad and their immediate contacts within India. In some places, they have been assiduous in finding and isolating those at risk. One case in Kerala, where success in stemming an outbreak of the far deadlier Nipah virus in 2018 has built institutional expertise, involved tracing nearly 1,000 people who had come in contact with a single family. But not all states are as efficient. Border screening varied between entry points and never amounted to more than taking the temperatures of passengers—a dragnet a covid-carrier could slip through by taking paracetamol, a doctor grumbles. Many also note the paucity of testing data. Due to the cost and relatively small supply of testing kits, plus the limited capacity of government labs and a commendable desire to control the complex testing process so that it does not itself become a vector for the virus, India has so far only tested some 11,500 people. This compares with 270,000 in South Korea, a country with a fraction of the population. And because the testing protocol has focused so heavily on travellers, it has become what one expert calls a self-fulfilling prophecy, detecting only cases with foreign origins. “I suspect that if we did 20 times more tests we might find 20 times more cases,” says Ramanan Laxminarayan of Princeton University. “I personally think we are already in the thousands if not tens of thousands.”

Should the virus have indeed slipped past India’s barriers, there is little reason to think it will follow a different course from elsewhere. That would put India’s epidemic about two weeks behind America’s and perhaps a month behind Italy’s. That is alarming, given how poorly prepared India is. Decades of under-investment in public health—recent budgets have averaged a meagre 1.3% of gdp—have left it with a thin and creaky system (see chart). There are not enough doctors, not enough beds and not enough equipment for the country’s 1.3bn people, even in ordinary times. Moreover, these scant resources are unevenly distributed. Excellent private hospitals and prestigious public medical schools mean that big cities such as Delhi and Mumbai may be reasonably served. But in 2017 some 63 children suffering from encephalitis died when the oxygen supply ran out at a state-run hospital in Gorakhpur, a drab provincial city near the border with Nepal. India’s 100,000-odd intensive-care beds, which cater to perhaps 5m people a year, could be faced with that many in a month. The public is not well prepared either, particularly for a disease that primarily afflicts the lungs, and is more severe in patients with pre-existing conditions. The prevalence of both extreme air pollution and drug-resistant tuberculosis do not bode well. Indians also account for an estimated 49% of the world’s diabetics. Widespread poverty not only exacerbates such diseases, it makes it practically impossible for many Indians to leave jobs or to work at home. All too often, anyway, those homes are too tiny and crowded to allow for “social distancing”. In many cases there is not even any way to wash properly: some 160m Indians do not have access to clean water. The potential for a dire outcome is glaring. Yet as Mr Laxminarayan notes, India has a talent for pulling together for colossal “non-routine” events, such as massive weddings and political rallies. Others hope that the novel coronavirus will take a battering from the looming and ferocious summer heat. (That is true of some other ailments, but may not be for covid-19). On the streets, meanwhile, it is common to hear the whimsical opinion that Indians are already so toughened by hardship that this virus won’t hurt them. Then, for the truly fervent, there are magic cures. At a recent event in Delhi, members of a fringe cult celebrated the curative properties of cow urine. “It should be served to all tourists on arrival to cure them, for the protection of India,” enthuses Rajeev Kumar of the All-India Hindu Mahasabha, a Hindu nationalist group. “We are even sending a little pack to President Trump, to keep him safe from corona!” Read the full article

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empirestateofmars · 7 years ago

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A thriller by Hakim, Terminale L

Fairies and Old Age

Hakim TL2

Rope around my neck burns my skin. As ashes fall over my lethargic body, my hand will not kneel before my fear. It keeps on writing my life, scared it would fall into oblivion seas. You, who reads my words, you have not read what comes before this last eulogy. You would have ran away, people tend to do that. You should as well. There will be no redemption, no innocence, no happy-ending and, alas, no more fairies for me. On this day, I, Cynishy Kidiur, hereby pledge to retire in his deathbed. There remains one story to tell, one ending to suffer…

Once upon a time, there was a dandilion, subsisting in a yard, that had never dared to cross the garden wall. The lonesome house the flower lived in was as far away from civilisation as anything could. Its owner had the unhealthy habit of running back and forth in the yard, crossing over the garden wall many times. Each day, at noon, he would sit, a teddybear in his arms, and wait for flying lights to appear. Screaming « Please, fairies, come again ! », the way his joyful face turned into sweet sorrow within a short amount of time, when he understood no fairies would come today, was a hearthbreaking scene the dandilion could not stand anymore. A sacrifice had to be made. When the man came to receive his tribute, he held the flower with tender firmness, thanking it for its support. The man kissed the white flower goodbye and blew it away, covering the garden with a warm coat of snow. The wish he made matters not, for in seconds, he shall receive a kiss of his own from the grim reaper. I said, that day, I wished fairies would take me to their realm. My mom, my dad, my sister, my dogs, my cows, my field, my tree-house, my sky and my stars… Each stated no fairies would unveil their saint body and expose it to my disgusting person. At eight years old, I contemplated fairies, or dull trick of the light, as my village judged. This is not the story I will tell you, nor an introduction of anykind. This is how faith flee my soul, how I have to euthanize myself.

Used to work as private investigator, tracking people. Feed my with gold and I could find anyone, anything, anywhere. For over fifty years, kindness kept me on the right path. I searched for missing children, needed to tell the parents good news when none was to be broken. Two months ago, a man posted a letter. Poorly written, sadly decorated, I knew peasants did this. It filled me in with valuable details about the missing Cando, ten year-old boy. I adorned a horse and galloped straight to the house, not understanding what to make of this. They had a modest home in Green Pineapple Street. I looked at it for an instant. I was warned by my expert intuition. It was necessary for me to abandon feelings, faith and hopes, dreams and expectations, otherwise, detectives wouldn't be as good as humanly possible. I knocked on the door. A feminine voice yelled and opened the door. She was a middle-aged woman, ferocious look, clever look, she threw at me. Behind her, threatening, over protective, the husband and another man. Vilinshya, Cando’s six-year old sister, held her mother’s hand, shaking, frightened. We came in. I sat on an aged gnawed wood chair, facing them. When she offered « wine », I knew how dangerous it would be to refuse. Piscivorous smile, teeth out, threat of an injured animal. She had the maternal instinct to step back when I took the cup. I forced myself to gulp down the bitter beverage. We discussed important matters such as weath for an hour and a half. I went straight up to the point : Cando. During the night, the mother heard her child's bloodcurdling scream. As soon as she could, she entered the room. Nothing. Cando was gone. The mother lead me to the bedroom, like a shepard would with his sheeps. If they get lost, or dare deviate course, the shepard punished, for he sees all. She saw all. Nothing in Cando's bedroom. Clean... Window not broken, lock untouched. The floor was as clean as a peasant house could be. I hurried to find something, anything, a clue... No note under the bed, no blood stain. To focus, I paced around. I suddenly felt a difference between two planks near the bed. I removed one, desperate to escape the stiffling house, full of whispers, expectations and hopes. I didn't have it in me to break another disappointing news and see parents fall. A ticket ! To Disubo Village, about a hundred miles from Green Pineapple Street. It struck me. Disubo Village was known for its offer of safe house, asylum, without distinction of race, religion or age. I hid hit in my backpocket, the safest place I knew. I escaped the spotless bedroom, rushed out, babbling insecere apology : « I haven't found anything, sorry. I will be back soon. » As the Sun was tired, and prepared to bequeath his daily duty to the Moon, I dashed. Wind in my hair, sweat on my forehead, racing all around the city... I was a panicked unstoppable force of thinking nature. In one hour, or less, I got to an inn. Three bedroom, undrinkable muddy beer. Would do for now. A hundred pairs of eyes, hitting me with smirking look, judging how rich I was, where I came from. Then, they remembered a drinking man in an inn as no more origin, skin color. The discussions resumed. Mistake. My work started now, with some spying. All whispers, all discussions, all secret schemes I heard that night. I drank myself to death with apple juice. At last, I could drink something that would not kill me after three gulps. « Unhappy » was a recurrent term to define Cando's behavior. Sick, pale, distracted. This was Cando at his best. Despite the neighbor's warnings to the family, nothing was done. The child wandered during daylight as if a snake bit him perpetually. He had no ennemy. Rage filled my body, I took a sip from the bottle of apple juice, thoughts of horrible suspects appeared. The Sun shone on my shaking hand, a ray of light drew a line for me to cross : wheather or not I was ready to accept the truth. And this truth has never been that painful, that real for a man to hear, alone, in a bar, apple juice in his hand. To be a good detective, forget hope, beliefs, expectations. Drown them in alcohol, burn them and reduce them to the nothingness of mankind. I knew the culprit. I knew where Cando was. It did not occur to me before due to a shield I built for myself. Can't accept human beings as they are, so you see fairies, create the illusion of a « good man ». There is no such thing. I stood up. Touched the floor. Crossed the damn line. I was the carcass of a man, the remains of my childhood. If someone had called me, he would have found no answer to the name « Cynishy ». I sprinted to the family's home, concerned with the possibility I might be forced to interrogate them. I knocked, talked and fought with logical arguments. Three hours passed, I convinced them of the interrogation. I first spoke to the husband and the other man. They were playing chess. Two suspects confirming each other's allibu wouldn't do... Hope the mother had a . She unwillingy sat. No reaction when I mentionned her son could be cut in pieces, dismantled, his cadaver raped and devoured. My experience told me such things happened. But then mothers would cry, flooding the husband's shoulder with tears. Nothing. Hours passed, and with words we battled. Each time I approached the truth, she pushed me away with comments on my private life, my inability to be detective or my mental health. She put up a good fight, outstandingly turning things to her advantage. I, sadly, never have the chance to be wrong. With a magnificent strike, I cruelly put my master card on the damn table : the ticket. There. She smiled with pride. I won. And she knew I won. And all the skies of all the worlds knew I won. However, I lost, on that day. More than my serenity, it was a part of me that broke, turned to dust. When you solve this type of crime in two days, when you accept the truth you are given... End is near. I know I will never see lights flying in the night, breaking the darkness with me, warming my cold dead heart. No more fairies for me. She lost, or won. It was a draw. She had no allibi, asleep in her bed. When she opened the door, screaming at the males, I knew something was wrong. I was trialed with another test when she passed me the beverage. Was I a threat to her ? Then, Cando had the main traits of a beaten child, which I had the misfortune to experience myself. From there, it is easy to say she was beating him. He attempted a first escape. That night, to join Disubo Village, he took the ticket, cautiously hidden under the floor. I learned later Cando was a bastard, born of the union between the mom and her dead fiancé. As the father's purse was full of gold, she kept him : that's the « other » man. The « father » held a grudge toward Cando. All it takes is one bad day, one moment when moral codes fall. The mother was the carcass of a civilized human being. She hated her child as he reminded her of the fiancé. When she got married again, she had two minions to obey her words. In years, the men were slaves. A room was discovered when police searched the body. They found it, along with torture tools, weapons, knives and poison... I couldn't take it. I knew I would find no point in living, working, breathing, eating, sleeping. When I left, wet eyes glanced at me. Innocent, confused and tormented. Tiny drops fell on the ground, washing the soil of the blood, the events and the memories. The half-sister, against a tree, held her head with both her hands, as if she was afraid it would fall. I tenderly took her in my arms, preventing her head to fall and I said : « Don't worry about a thing, every little thing is going to be all right. Cando went to a marvellous place called : « Fairy's Realm ». I went there myself, flying on a white dandilion. There won't be any screaming in the night, nor red scars on his skin. Every little thing is going to be all right. Kind people have accepted you, you are to go to them tommorow. Before that, come. We will drink apple juice all night, celebrating your brave brother. »

There remains no more air to breathe in the world. Changing it could be compared to trying to drink the see in one gulp. I am trying to escape it with a little dignity. The livid shadow of my childhood and I are standing in a madding crowd, both drowning in broken dreams. Isn't it the way ? A haunted detective, drinking, smart, clver, decrepit... Finding burried clues ? Until he breaks the case ? My mast desire is to look at the starts, try to see those lights, those fairies...Pity. No stars. I hoped there would be stars. All I see are lights, spinning. How worthless. No fairies. I thought so. A thousand shining stars are rushing toward me. When my time had come, all I can do is hang myself on a tree, give back everything Earth gave me. For there be no fairies to light up the sky again. To bad these lights in the sky are not fairies. They should stop rushing now. It will only exhaust them. I am Cynishy, the Man Who Saw Them. If you are reading this, I comprehend you have not seen what comes before. You would have run away. Farewell, friends...

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lostpensioner · 7 years ago

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Low Achiever.

Lately, for some reason, I find myself giving over a lot of time to thinking about why neither I nor others seem to have much admiration for me. I was recently told by a close friend that she found it hard to have any respect for me. What surprised me most about her comment was not, as you might suspect, that she had said this to me. Instead I was much more struck by how easy I found it to empathise with her point of view. In fact. I am surprised that more people haven’t expressed such an opinion. The truth is that I have, for a long time now, being coming around to the view that I have, very gradually, turned into someone who is hard to admire.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t believe that I am a totally morally repugnant person. I still cling on to the hope that I am basically, despite my faults, a decent enough person. It’s just that, as I get older, being decent doesn’t seem to be enough of a selling point. I would very much like, in the event of an untimely death, that people would be able to find something more to say about me than: “He was a decent enough bloke.” It seems to me that, for most of us, basic human decency should be a given. It shouldn’t even warrant a mention at our funerals. What we would like to feature in our eulogies is the extra stuff, the stuff that sets us apart from our contemporaries. I suppose, if I’m honest, I would like that those who will be left bereft by my passing will comment on the many ways in which I’m vastly superior to the vast majority of sentient beings who’ve ever existed. That’s not a lot to ask: is it?

But I think I can see where the drawback might lie. It seems to me, now that I’ve given it a little bit of thought, that there is some connection between superiority and achievement. Boiling this matter down to its bare bones we can say that superior lives seem to mainly revolve around doing stuff. For some reason, we’ve gotten it into our heads that the best people in the world are the people who’ve done most good stuff. Even though I am constitutionally not cut out for a life of action, I’ve noticed that even I have bought into this unthinking worship of doers. Much of the shame and inadequacy I feel are a result of constantly comparing the real me to some imagined version of myself who is more active. This other me resembles me in many respects. He has pretty much the same moral values, the same talents and the same desires as I have. But where he differs from me is in his desire and ability to turn his dreams into reality. This other me is a high achiever. And because of that simple little difference I have put him on a pedestal so that I would have someone to feel inferior to.

It’s a frightening thought really. My feelings of inferiority do not come about as a result of constantly comparing myself to other people who have outstripped me in achievements. Instead I have been made to feel bad about myself by a fictional version of myself who has never actually done anything, but the things he has not done are so vastly superior to my actual achievements that I feel unworthy to have him as an alter-ego.

What exactly are the achievements of this other, better me? Well they are too numerous to go into in detail. But I can give you a few examples just to point you in the right direction. He has evolved over the years from being a high achiever in all areas of human endeavour to being mainly exceptional in his artistic ability and achievement. As a child, I was possessed of an Other Me who was very successful in the sciences also. He, among his many achievements invented a cure for all cancers. He could have made a fortune from this wonder drug had he not decided, such was his benevolence, to give the patent away to the whole world. (In fairness, he could afford to make such extravagant gestures, such was the income he derived from his many successes in the business world.) These days he has narrowed the focus of his endeavour mainly to the arts. But even in that one area of human endeavour he is in danger of spreading himself too thin. His artistic talents are many and varied. I mainly envy him his musical ability. I have many of the qualities one would associate with the successful musician. For instance, I have the overweening ego of any rock star. I have the need to be admired and loved. I have a willingness to make myself sexually available to hosts of adoring nubile women. I have a desire to travel. I have an all-consuming passion for music. Really all I’m lacking is musical talent. Other Me, on the contrary, has more music in his little finger than I can ever hope to muster in my entire being.

I have long since come to accept that I have not been genetically equipped with the wherewithal to pursue my main artistic passion; music. Instead I have come to recognise in myself a modest but very natural flair for writing. Reluctantly I am coming around to the view that, should I decide to fully apply myself, I could develop that talent and realise some form of literary achievement which could maybe weigh in on the positive side of mediocre. Meanwhile, Other Me has chalked up an oeuvre which has left Joyce and Proust feeling totally inadequate. Without breaking into a sweat, he has revolutionised the novel to such an extent that most of his literary peers wonder if there is anything left for them to achieve.

Look, there’s no point in me going on too much about the achievements of Other Me. I would end up sickening you as much as I would sicken myself. Suffice it to say that his life, from a very early age has been one of action, of achievement, of success. And while I have no choice but to accept the blatant fact of his superior talent, I suspect that his success is also built on other pillars, pillars of temperament, energy and know-how, of patient and disciplined application of his arse to a chair.

Fuck that for a game of soldiers!

#humour #old age #creative writing #lostpensioner #meditation #spirituality #counselling #mentalhealth #therapy #writing

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franpaccio-blog · 8 years ago

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1UP Reblog: Four Reasons to be Excited for Pandora’s Tower

Pandora’s Tower was released in the US a couple of weeks ago. Just as I suspected, It didn’t make a lot of noise.

But If you own a Wii (or a WiiU) that’s just sitting there collecting dust, stop complaining and get it. It’s really good. If I had to review it, I’d give it a 7.5/10. A real 7.5/10, not a fake one that you give games nowadays to say they’re bad without saying it.

Anyway, here’s a thingy I wrote for 1Up a year ago. I thought editing it a bit and reblogging it would have been a nice idea. I hope it gets you interested in the game.

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The Last Story is about to thunder across the U.S. skies; the beautiful Xenoblade Chronicles has struck. While the incredible community effort of Operation Rainfall probably isn’t entirely to credit for the U.S. release of these games, it certainly didn’t hurt. Operation Rainfall comprised three games, and unlike the first two the third – as yet unannounced for American audiences – has met with a tepid reception in Europe: Pandora’s Tower. The Last Story and Xenoblade came from established creators Hironobu Sakaguchi and Tetsuya Takahashi, men who built their reputations with titles like Final Fantasy and Xenosaga. Next to such legacies, Pandora’s Tower seems comparatively diminished and unattractive – and its clearly limited budget certainly doesn’t help.

But beneath Pandora’s Tower modest looks beats the heart of a great game.

The Scar

The game’s plot revolves around two lovers, Aeron and Elena. The former is a deserter, running from the horrors of war. The latter is a kind girl who has been struck by a horrible curse that transforms her into a beast that feeds on human flesh and is thus wanted by the Elyrian Kingdom army.

For an action RPG, Pandora’s Tower has quite an immense and detailed world… one that you won’t visit but throgh well written dialogues and forgotten documents retrieved during your adventures that will certainly tickle your imagination, making the tale’s setting unbelievably genuine.

The game takes place entirely in a very small environment, a complex called “The 13 Towers”: A forgotten fortress held afloat by 12 chains pierced into the surrounding cliffs. These chains prevent a huge chasm that scars the land of Elyria from widening and opening a path to the netherworld.

The tale starts when the two fugitives find refuge in a observatory used in ancient times to monitor the arcane experiments taking place in The 13 Towers. Little do they know that their escape has kindled the flame of war across the entire continent. And even if these events are nothing but a distant echo, the story will change significantly according to the couple’s actions, leading to multiple unpredictable endings that will not only affect the fate of the main characters, but also the balance of the entire world.

The Hunger Game

Pandora’s Tower is a very delicate game, but it can also be brutal. It knows how to reward the player, but at the same time knows how to punish mercilessly, and Aeron and Elena are the ones who pay for your mistakes.

The cursed mark on Elena’s back slowly sends her through a horrible transformation that seems to have come straight out of David Cronenberg’s nightmares. When she mutates, even the plants alongside her suffer, becoming grey and sickly. To keep his beloved sane and stop her metamorphosis , Aeron has to explore the tower and obtain monster flesh to feed her. The detail that went into creating realistic pieces of dripping monstrous meat and the cutscenes that show Elena consuming them are hands down the most disturbing thing that you’ll ever see in a video game. Some are so horrible I had to skip lunch while playing – and meatballs, my favorite food, were served that day.

What’s worse is that, as the game progresses, the heroine begins to enjoy her meals, leading to sickening moments that almost outdo the famous scene from eXistenZ in which Pikul enjoys his Chinese “special.” According to Toru Haga, the game’s director, this idea came while eating lunch on a train to work. Eating is, after all, such a normal action, part of everyone’s daily routine, and transforming it into a disturbing, painful experience is a smart way to both impress the players and help them empathize with Elena.

The game is a love triangle with death.

Aeron can interact with his belle in a variety of ways reminiscent of dating simulations, but Elena is not the typical damsel in distress, and does her best to fight her disease, while hiding the anguish of being in such a state to avoid burdening Aeron further. She even has a central role in the gameplay. Give her presents, and instead of just greedily accepting them, she will convert them into useful items: She can cook, sew bigger inventory bags, even translate documents from unknown languages.

Elena is a vivid character, beautifully portrayed by the numerous cutscenes…and these change depending on how your bond with her develops. It’s hard not to care about her, and developer Ganbarion succeeded in transferring the drama of the couple onto the player’s shoulders. You will want to make sure she’s okay.

But make her unhappy and… Well, you don’t wanna end up devoured in the name of love, right?

The Silent Protagonist

Aeron is a man of few words. His actions speak for his heart and cut through his silence. His feelings are always clear thanks to his body language, and particularly his deep, expressive eyes: Note his kind love and determination with each intense stare at the suffering elena, or the modesty that surfaces when he looks away away shyly when she is happy and grateful.

And yet, Aeron is as lethal as he is sweet. He can cut a path through horders of enemies using a variety of weapons with exquisite expertise - from swords to scythes, each with a distinct move set and stats that can be improved via forging.

The gameplay is simple; you can combine basic attacks together or unleash a number of special charge moves that differ from arm to arm. But what makes it fresh and original is the Vestran chain, a sub-weapon capable of interacting with enemies in a crazy amount of ways. You can bind monsters’ legs to make them fall, then drag them or strangle them; you can tie them to pillars to stop them from advancing, or even steal their weapons and lash back.

The game gives its best in the battles against the tower masters, often peaceful Shadow of the Colossus-like creatures – have fun with the moral implications – with interesting patterns to learn to expose their weak points via chain interaction.

Exploration is equally inspired, and the game doesn’t handhold the player, but lets him free to explore the environments and solve Zelda-flavored puzzles, often forcing him to rely on mere observation to understand the level layout and how to proceed. It makes Pandora’s Tower harder, but also gives the player the thrill of understanding every riddle on his own. If Castlevania’s developers would try this game and see how Gambarion made wise use of the Vestrian chain’s whip-like gimmick, they’d finally get an idea how to create a 3D title worthy of the series’ name.

Pandora’s Tower is a game with a lot of heart, and it makes up for its limitations with inspired art direction, a superb story, and pristine level design. Let’s hope that Nintendo presents the game at E3 so everyone can give it the chance it deserves.

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Of course, last E3 is long gone. But the game is out, why haven’t you bought it yet!?

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