#this was such a experimentation piece. it wasn't even supposed to be that

[get-a-snack-at-an-ungodly-hour]

so as its turns out. i'm insane. so have this au idea thing i've had on my mind for a while...

summanary: player gets pissed and decides that they do not want to be controlled anymore

(more in-depth info under the cut jbjkjvkbjv)

so. you know player right? the guy we control? what if they also gained sentience at some point and did not want to be a puppet? yeah thats right, i'm going to call this guy Sentient Player to differienciate from the actual player.

the basic idea is them getting a hold of orby and just going nuts with the power, their main goal isn't to stop the player from deleting the data though, it is to remove your player privilages entirely and somehow make themselves their own person (or npc thecnically). they want you down and away, and they will try to achive this by Any. Means. Necesary.

theres a lot of inspiration from Aware Cashier if you haven't noticed, but those similarities only extend to the general aesthetic and some of their reasonings and feelings, their ways of dealing with stuff and stoping the player from doing what they don't want them to do are very, very different. instead of just trying to stop you like Aware was going to do, Sentient is just activly changing, deleting and ruining the alredy fucked up code of the game in hopes of deleting you, or your ability to control them

Boss fight talk bc i'm actually excited to talk about that! Sentient Player's boss would actually be an actual boss fight, like, actual fighting. i know i know, seems a bit out of character for the game in question, but i don't care :3. some of their attacks would consist of them summoning or deleting stuff, others is them summoning pitch black versions of themselves (seen in picture) to deal with you for them, bad thing though, if you hit them it actually hurts Sentient too! they can only summon two at the time

other details and stuff about them and the idea:

even though they look rather neutral they are actually Really Fucking Pissed

i think they're even more confused and angry than Awere is, like, they are out right trying to delete parts of the game they do NOT know what they are doing

they can talk now btw, their voice is a weird fucked up mixture of every single voice in the game, all of them

you control dummy in this, cashier and kyu are just kind of Guys That Follow You Around and get other stuff done while you fight

if you lose their boss fight you get the bad ending, where they try to remake the game from scratch but fail miserably, leaving it even more unfinished looking than before, lacking npcs and endings. they just kind of follow you around in this state, realising they are unable to do anything about your existence which made thier whole fight an useless endavor that made more harm than good

if you win though dummy and the others manage to get orby back, after apologising (and perhaps a lot of begging to be spared from being just The Player again) they make one of the dark clones be The Player. they just hang around the store from then on, if you talk to them you will be hit with the "..." lol

[boxbug]

A Canary’s Final Flight

My piece for @trafficzine 4th edition! Get it for free here! 200 pages of excellent art and fics, incredible work from all participants and from the mods especially!! huge shoutout to the mods for real

Process notes under the cut! (I struggled a lot so it's a bit of a novel)

So the entire process was a Ride. I knew when I picked this prompt that I was going to have a hard time, because Jimmy’s final death had been illustrated a billion times over by extremely talented artists. But I had a Vision of the snapshot of the second before the impact, when everything is still but you know what’s about happen. It was very much inspired by the clip of Fog by Jabberwocky, bu the thing is, they have the advantage of all the build up of the fall, and that’s when the trouble started.

This was my first version, and obviously it wasn't working. And I was trying so hard, with so many iterations! Small wings, big wings, no wings, different poses, less backgrounds elements. I'd done compositions were everything seemed peaceful but something is Wrong, but it wasn't working this time.

So instead I focused on what rendering I'd like to do - I tried a painterly approach, for that visceral feeling, but it wasn't working either (but hey, I did keep the red sky, so, progress)

At this point I'd been doing back and forths for weeks and I was just as lost as at the start. Now that's my tip for people who make art of any kind, in situations like that, stop thinking about how you can make the best piece possible, and think about you can have fun with it (because when you aren't it's visible). And for that was, 1 - going back to using ink and pen nibs and doing way too detailed inking, and 2- looking at Dave McKean's covers for Sandman (which, funnily enough, was also a reference for my previous trafficzine piece)

And from there I was actually going somewhere! Between the jagged rocks, the red sky, and the increased verticality with the borders, I had hit the vibes I wanted.

I did some experimentation with the border, and even though I really liked the bad boys I drew they were taking too much away from the lonely desolation, so I actually used Red (Unecessary Redstone)'s idea of all of Jimmy's worldy's possessions scattered on the ground post impact, with the idea to make it looks like the central image is his grave being dug.

(and yes for a short amount of time the were supposed to be clock markings on the sun, but there was already enough going with the wings so I scrapped that) (also fun fact the reason why the wings aren't fully material but more ghostly is because my toddler cousin was watching me draw the very first draft and asked why he didn't just use his wings and i went :( so the wings are a metaphor now)

So from there I found a bunch of picture and took some myself, cut and assembled everything together, added shadows in all the appropriate places, and repainted some elements so that everything would look better intergrated (some of the wheats are basically 100% handpainted, the cardboard as well). This took a suprisingly long amount of time, but I was done!

Well I wasn't expecting to have that much to say, but I hope if you're still reading, it was at least interesting!

[jesncin]

Caped Crusader, "Safe Diversity", and Catwoman

We're at a point where it's expected that a new incarnation of any story previously with a white-dominated cast would be reimagined with a "more diverse" cast. This can mean racebending them, genderbending them or making them queer, but for the purposes of this analysis we'll be focusing on racebends. Most of the time, executives will take the "safer" routes with diversifying their cast- pick a couple of unproblematic supporting characters to be incidentally "diverse this time". Other times, there might be "braver" takes where more prominent characters (perhaps even the main character) are racebent. This doesn't necessarily mean racebending prominent characters is an inherently better thing to do.

I've been more than critical of MAWS' portrayal of BIPOC characters but especially their Asian Lois before. Sometimes BIPOC representation is just a decorative palette-swap change for these shows. Caped Crusader however, is different. It's more complicated- but it's rooted in very similar problems. Unlike MAWS (though I can only speak for S1), CC is far more willing to take on political topics: classism, sexism, police corruption and brutality, even beauty standards in the entertainment industry! Yet, in choosing to portray these topics in their stylistically anachronistic 30s-40s set piece- it makes it so the show's reluctance to discuss race intersecting with any of these topics far more apparent.

(spoilers for all of Caped Crusader)

Take for instance, episode 2: "...And Be A Villain". The story is about Basil Karlo, a less than handsome actor who wishes his appearance wasn't holding him back from both love and playing roles saved for better looking people. He makes a deal with Jack Ellman, an experimental makeup artist who turns him into Clayface. This story is set in motion when Miss Yvonne Francis, a beautiful actress, goes missing. Miss Francis is a woman of color (brown skinned, unspecified) played by Lacey Chabert: a white actress. CC goes for a generally colorblind casting what with Stephie (a white girl) being voiced by Amari McCoy (a Black actress) but it always feels icky when a white actor voices a character of color. Prominent characters of color in CC are more accurately casted. However I do think animation should be wary of using their medium to get away with their show appearing more diverse than the actual talent behind it.

The episode's theme is pretty clear on how unfair the entertainment industry is in regards to who it prioritizes in leading roles. Basil is constantly emphasized as a tragically talented actor whose appearance is holding him back. "With your talent you should be a leading man, Basil." Yvonne says to Basil in a flashback. Meanwhile as Alfred is watching through movie clips featuring Yvonne and Basil together, he comments "while lovely to look at, Miss Francis is no Gloria Swanson." So Yvonne has the looks, but not the talent and still gets prestigious roles because that's showbiz. The only time this is weirdly inconsistent is when Yvonne calls out Basil/Clayface in the finale, saying:

"I don't believe your performance. You're chewing on scenery. Relying on makeup effects to enhance weak characterization. It's insincere, Basil. It's not real."

I honestly feel like this scene was just meant to quickly "subvert" Yvonne being a damsel in distress by having her call out Basil's acting. It's a moment that isn't reinforced by anything the episode set up. After all, according to Alfred, she's not as good an actor compared to Basil. That's supposed to be how they foil each other, so this moment feels unmotivated. Again, I get what they're going for, that Basil's performance ironically relies on his newfound appearance so much that even a bad actress like Yvonne can spot his meager acting. But it doesn't work when our protagonists were actually convinced by his imitation of others. She's still a damsel in distress character regardless of her having a bit of attitude when calling her captor out.

What I don't understand is: why make Yvonne a woman of color if this was the story you wanted to tell? It's not like they're paying homage to how her voice actress looks, after all. Why, in your story set in purposely anachronistic 30s-40s era noir, did the character who was meant to represent the epitome of "not talented but gets by the industry because of her conventional beauty and pretty privilege" a woman of color? We're missing the very obvious conversation here where Tinsel Town is a white industry with white biases to what it considers attractive. It doesn't matter how many attractive actors of color exist, they're still pigeon holed into stereotyped and often racist roles (especially back then), and have to work twice as hard to get the opportunities their white colleagues get. Why is Basil, a white man, the only one afforded a marginalized narrative when Yvonne is quite literally a woman of color right next to him? The episode is especially painful to sit through when Basil is afforded so much sympathy compared to Yvonne.

"He didn't have the right look. He didn't have the right face."

"The camera is kind to some, but cruel to others."

This is transparently a colorblind narrative. Yvonne is written and even casted as a white woman. The CC crew just decided she should be a WOC likely because "wouldn't it be neat if the beautiful actress in this story is POC" without thinking about how that would drastically change a narrative already critical of the showbiz industry based on appearances. It's not intersectional and flattens the narrative to being selective of the prejudices Tinsel Town has. This episode is a great example to what CC generally does with diversity. It's not afraid to be critical of society, but it gets oddly squeamish with discussing how race intersects with these topics- opting mostly for a palette-change type of representation.

It's not entirely fair to say CC doesn't ever touch on the topic of racism. It sort of does: if you read between the lines for why the mayor gives Jim Gordon his commissioner role, and more prominently with the Gentleman Ghost (a rich aristocrat ghost that steals from the poor, believing wealth is his right) being offended that his mansion is sold to Lucius Fox (saying "and you would sell it to rabble like this?")- racism is somewhat present in the world of CC. We see the women in this show experience misogyny, but it's ambiguous if any of their struggles are intersectional with that of race. But that's... just about it. Racism isn't discussed more than it is alluded to, whenever the writers decide it's relevant. Because of this, CC has a spectrum of hits and misses when it comes to integrating characters of color in their reimagined cast.

Here's how I would visualize that spectrum using canonized instances of Asian Lois Lane. I should emphasize that representation of people of color doesn't entail the narrative owing us "a racism arc" or what have you. This spectrum is more used to measure how much racial identity was integrated in the characterization of the character: whether that be cultural identity or history. Being a person of color isn't just "person who goes through racism".

This is how I'd personally place the prominent characters of color in CC on my "spectrum of racebends" chart. Generally most of the characters of color (whether reimagined that way or were originally POC already) are fairly harmless in how they were integrated into CC's world, but none of the characters feel bespoke as a reimagining of the character and are interchangeable with their white counterparts. To quote cartoonist Juni Ba (in a discussion on CC):

"...stripping characters of color in these time period stories of any cultural, [a]esthetic or social signifiers that’d make them true to the groups being represented. Instead they dress, act and speak very western."

In my opinion, the only character that is an exception to this is Linton Midnite (or as he's popularly known as: "Papa Midnite"). Midnite is a character so interlinked with Haitian culture and mysticism that even CC couldn't erase that aspect of his identity (important note: historically, the portrayal of Midnite since his creation is riddled in racism, but that's not my place to discuss here). Midnite at most speaks with an accent, dresses more nonconformingly compared to the western standard dress of all the other characters, and practices occultish stuff (though I don't think there was anything culturally specific in that episode, please correct me otherwise if someone has more insight!). That's a lot more cultural representation than just about any other character of color in CC. Midnite can't be changed to a white character, his African identity is too interlinked with who he is.

There are a few characters I consider in poor taste to be POC- that being Arnold Flass, Yvonne Francis (who we've covered already), and Harley Quinn (who will be getting her own post, as her case is complicated). So let's talk about cops, then.

I tend to be indifferent about media choosing to diversify cop characters because it feels like choosing the most "respectable to society" role for a marginalized character to play. Cops uphold bigoted systems of power at the end of the day, so that's a very comfortable place to represent your marginalized characters. It's why we keep getting gay or lesbian cops, which Batman media absolutely perpetuates as well with Renee Montoya. It's hard to cheer for two women of color being allowed to date and kiss in public when one of them is a cop, y'know? But this doesn't mean re-imagining cop characters doesn't have narrative merit.

In regards to Jim Gordon being reimagined as a Black cop, I'm gonna refer to La'Ron Readus' video on "Fixing the Batman's Copaganda problem" where he goes into detail about the missed potential of Black!Jim Gordon from Reeves' The Batman (2022). Generally, I felt that opportunity was missed in CC as well. While I love that Barbara Gordon is in CC, nothing about her being a WOC is integrated into this version of her. It felt like if either character was white, the story wouldn't be that different. The bigger issue here is the choice to racebend Arnold Flass- a previously white, blonde, cunningly smart, and brutally corrupt cop.

CC follows some of this in their version of Arnold Flass- he's paired with Harvey Bullock (also a corrupt cop). While Bullock is the brawns of the duo, Flass is the smarts. He's cunning and even implied to be willing to frame Bullock if the worse comes to it. It isn't an inherently bad idea to racebend a corrupt white cop into a Black cop. If the writers want to tell a story about how the police force assimilates people of color into the system and forces them to be just as if not more brutal than their white counterparts, then by all means tell that story.

But that's not what CC gave us. By rarely acknowledging race, we don't get to have a conversation or themes surrounding that delicate intersection of identities. We just have "diverse Flass". Look at these panels from Year One for example, can you imagine how Flass' casual disrespect for Gordon by constantly calling him "Jimmy" could be re-contextualized with a race change? Unlike other characters who just feel like missed opportunities for not integrating race into their characterization, Flass is an elephant in the room. To not acknowledge his race in themes of police corruption and brutality is to white wash the narrative with diverse paint.

I personally think the stronger narrative decision would have been to racebend Bullock as Black instead of Flass. Flass could still be the conniving cop, but he encourages Black!Bullock to be the more "violent brute" who does the dirty work for him. It would put a newfound racial layer to how Flass considers Bullock disposable. Then we could have some kind of commentary on how the police force encourages a system of abuse that makes even fellow POC turn on each other. It'd also make it so a certain scene would be better in optics.

I have many criticisms for the scene where Batman holds a gun to Flass in the finale of CC. It's a narratively unmotivated (see my criticisms for CC's Two Face here for elaboration) and weak moment that relies on metatextual shock value to cover up how underdeveloped this take on Batman is. But it's also just very uncomfortable optics-wise. It's a common and valid criticism that Batman as a character can very easily fall into copaganda, with his status, goals, and collaboration with the police force. In many ways, Batman is often written to be committing his own kind of vigilante police brutality.

Caped Crusader wants to be a deconstruction of a Batman tied to power and hellbent on his mission to eliminate crime. But because CC occasionally omits race from its narrative, the scene where Batman holds a gun to a Black cop-a man stripped of his ability to fight back-just falls flat for me. There's no acknowledgement in this scene that Batman basically gets to be an anonymous cop, "warning shots" and all. Batman shoots at an unarmed Black man several times. It's meant to be shocking to us how Bruce is willing to stoop to such a level and indulge in gratuitous gun violence, but it honestly hits too close to real incidents where this is racially the case for me to enjoy the narrative point of this scene.

You know a character who would be perfect for calling out Batman's many privileges? Selina Kyle. Let's talk about Caped Crusader's biggest downgrade.

I've heard just about all the arguments in favor for CC's reimagining of Catwoman and none have convinced me that this was in any way a good take on the character. I see people saying that this Catwoman is a return to her golden age roots, and there's a lot of misconception surrounding that assumption. So bear with me as looking at Catwoman's history is necessary to discuss race and how a character evolves.

Catwoman debuted in the 1940s as a jewel thief who disguised herself as an old lady. She was just called "The Cat" and would not don her more feline appearance until later. True to the mystery woman femme fatale trope she was inspired by, her backstory was left unknown for a long time. 10 years later, in Batman #62 it is revealed that after a plane accident bonked her head, the now named Selina Kyle got amnesia and went on a crime spree. Giving her leeway to reform and be an ally to Batman. This would historically inform how Selina Kyle toed the line between good and evil as an anti-hero.

Her origin would be revisited in 1983, in the Brave and the Bold #197. Although not canon to the mainline universe, it is still a crucial development for her character's history. In this story, Selina reveals that she lied about having amnesia to get out of facing punishment. Her true story was that she entered a life of crime to escape an abusive relationship with a rich man. The only loss her husband understood was material loss, loss of property, so stealing was how Selina fought back.

This crucial re-examination of her character transformed her from shenanigans inducing femme fatale, to a marginalized fighter. Shortly later in 1987 in Batman Year One, Catwoman is reimagined as a street-hardened sex worker in poverty. She is inspired by the Batman to become a vigilante for her own goals and gets annoyed that she's assumed to be his sidekick.

The moment Catwoman became marginalized by power, was the point where she became worthy of solo-character status. She was not only a compelling foil to Batman-capable of going toe to toe with him and make him question his motives even though she did not share his privilege-she could lead her own adventures reflecting a side of Gotham Bruce Wayne's perspective doesn't. She actively makes the setting of Gotham stronger because of how she's evolved as a character.

Catwoman's character would continue to evolve, with some iterations reimagining her as a latina woman and others where she's canonically bisexual.

While Catwoman has been portrayed by Black actresses before, I want to focus on the most recent and prominent iteration of a race-swapped Catwoman. When Matt Reeves' The Batman (2022) featured Zoe Kravitz as Selina Kyle, an explicitly biracial character within the text of the story, we see another step this character evolves. I think La'Ron Readus' video on "Why Race-Swapped Characters Are Not The Full Story" does a fantastic job of explaining why this is a narratively great race swap. To summarize (though I do encourage watching his video as he goes into depth about 2022 Batman's Jim Gordon as well among many other examples) and add analysis of my own: Selina being the byproduct of an Italian crime lord and a Black sex worker is a brilliant marriage of her original backstory (being connected to and abused by powerful men) and her modern backstory where she's poverty stricken (and tangentially related to a sex worker if we're talking about Batman Year One).

We understand why someone of her background would have an affinity for stray cats because of how she lost her mom at a young age, she is sympathetic to fellow people from the lower class, and explicitly calls out privileged white people- including Batman who attempted to over moralize Selina's partner as a sex worker.

"All anyone cares about in this place, are these white privileged assholes."

It's especially that last line that makes it so Selina's character isn't interchangeable with her white counterpart. She's a textually rich character to contrast Bruce in Batman 2022, and we can see how years of history and evolution has brought such an empathetic character to the screen. Interestingly, Readus feels that while 2022 Selina was an example of a race-swap that works, he believes it was great by coincidence, because of the miss that was Gordon's characterization in the same movie. I think with Reeves as a collaborator on Caped Crusader, that assumption was correct.

Selina in CC is back to being a rich socialite, but (unlike her Golden Age counterpart) she's not married into wealth- she's got generational wealth (with a dad serving jail time for tax evasion). Worse yet, she's taking what little remains of her money and spending it on superficially imitating the Batman to create her Catwoman persona. She even has her own reluctant Alfred, a Catmobile, the works. Selina steals things because. She likes shiny things. And is something of a kleptomaniac. Catwoman is instantly discovered to be Selina because of course she's not as good as Batman is with keeping a secret identity (another key difference from her Golden Age counterpart, whose backstory was shrouded in mystery for a decade).

It is laughable to me that CC touts that their version of Harley Quinn has an origin of her own outside of the Joker, only to turn around and make a Catwoman that is completely tied to copying a man as her origin (did they decide Harley's goofyness as a character needed to be replicated in Selina for some reason? In their supposed dark and edgy show?). What a strange choice to fixate on the part in Year One where Selina didn't like being mistaken for Batman's assistant despite being inspired by him and turn it into a quirky bit. It feels like such a regressive take that frames Selina as a sillier, whimsical version of Bruce that just spends money on a whim because women just aren't smart enough to know how to keep track of their money. They're too busy looking for shiny things to steal. The fact that both 2022 Batman and CC have a scene where Selina is looking through her many bills she's yet to pay is wild to me. How am I supposed to care for a Selina that has the expendable wealth to create a Catwoman costume, car, and gadgets, but delay paying her maid? One of these versions of Selina is far more sympathetic than the other.

Again, I get what CC is going for. Batman is characterized to be hellbent on catching criminals, Catwoman is supposed to serve as some kind of reflection of his obsession. They're both self destructive in their goals, but one is vengeance and the other is chasing thrills. But is that really as interesting a foil as having Catwoman be marginalized, just as skilled, and making Batman second guess himself? Is it a take that strengthens Gotham as a setting by shedding light on its lower class characters? Is it a take that makes her worth revisiting as a perpetual rogue and not a one off episode where's she's basically a shenanigans-inducing nuisance to Batman? Evolved takes on Catwoman have talked about her desire to seek thrills and paired it with how she dismantles power. So it's not like CC's take is particularly unique, it just lacks all the depth that usually surrounds Selina's thrill seeking.

In a show that is frankly desperate to make it so Bruce doesn't have a personal relationship to his rogues gallery because he's too busy being "A cold, remorseless avenger of evil, seemingly more machine than man. Forged in the fire of tragedy, every fiber of his being is dedicated to the eradication of crime." (according to promo) that's how we end up with Barbara as the foil and humanity to both Harvey Dent and Harley Quinn. How the show focuses on the police force more than Bruce. It feels especially pointed that Catwoman is characterized this way. When she doesn't contrast Bruce, she becomes less personal to him as a character that is poverty stricken but still matches up to him in skill. She can't challenge him or his worldview, he can't find her fascinating as an equal, all of their chemistry and intrigue is erased.

All this to say that of the characters revealed for CC, I was honestly surprised that Selina wasn't one of the many characters racebent. CC followed up on a Black Jim and Barbara Gordon, two characters that have been race swapped before in previous media. Most prominently! Harley is Asian in this iteration, something never done before. So why is it that Selina doesn't follow up on the many times she's been portrayed by Black actresses?

It's because it's an actual good racebend if written well. It wouldn't be a "safe" racebend because writing Selina this way means you'd have to acknowledge racism, and it would be much more noticeable if you didn't. There is no canonized version of Asian Lois Lane that parallels her relationship to Superman as an immigrant. But there is a version of Selina as a Black woman who directly calls out white people and is aware of systemic power. It's in something as prominent and mainstream as Matt Reeves' 2022 Batman. So instead it just reads as cowardice to me that CC couldn't follow up on this evolution of Selina.

Not only does it weaken Catwoman and Batman's relationship to regress Selina this way, but it actively weakens Gotham as a setting and the very themes of Caped Crusader. I personally think all the energy that went into Harley Quinn should have been shared with (or straight up gone to) Selina Kyle. Because unlike CC's take on Harley, the way Selina Kyle's marginalization intersects with race and queerness would have actually critiqued Gotham's class corruption effectively. As a Black queer woman, Selina would be among the most vulnerable people in Gotham. We don't have prominent characters in CC that truly reflect the lower class, there are these unnamed characters Harvey Dent sits next to on a train. There are some orphans with Batfam names. A proper Catwoman reimagining that takes advantage of her evolution would have filled this gap in their narrative.

But that's not how "safe diversity" works. CC would rather racebend and canonize the queerness of a character like their take on Harley Quinn. A WOC who gets to kiss a cop and call out powerful men, but not in a way that makes white people uncomfortable.

If I could edit the Sandman quote that "The great stories will always return to their original forms" for Superheroes, I'd say "The great stories will always return to their most resonant forms" because without iterations we don't get characters like the Kents, Alfred or Catwoman as we know her today. Classics are good to look to, but we like these characters because they evolve. In my opinion, none of CC's takes on these characters of color feel resonant. They're not definitive to the level of Mister Freeze's tragic love story in BTAS, among many standout narrative choices in BTAS that continue across media iterations.

In my opinion, CC isn't as thoroughly clumsy as MAWS is in regards to POC representation and race-swaps (all characters of color in MAWS get put in the left side of that chart I made. In the Sunken Place. Where they all Missed The Movement). However, I can't help but see Caped Crusader's take on the world of Gotham as nothing more than an anecdote in the evolution of Batman's story for the modern era. "It's BTAS but superficially more diverse and with less compelling narrative choices."

[ilexdiapason]

(part one here) (part four here)

Oli doesn't try to broach the subject again until the pizza is delivered and the ice cube is a soaked-up puddle in a napkin on the coffee table.

When he does, though, it's with his hands in his lap and his best efforts to not sound like a scolding teacher. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Martyn, in lieu of answering, pulls open the pizza box and wiggles a slice free from the still-stringing cheese. His fingertips bounce it between them, ginger; he bites down and clearly regrets it. Still, he chews, mouth caught in a conflict between ventilating the heat and keeping his secrets sealed tight shut behind it.

"Come on," Oli continues, gentle as he can push it. "I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is."

Martyn swallows. He looks like he's deliberating.

He must decide, whatever the stakes of this crisis are, that Oli's worth it, because he does reply.

"You know," he says, quiet, "I wasn't kidding when I said you should keep your computer away from me."

"Do you want me to take it upstairs?"

"I mean - bit late now. But yeah, that'd probably help."

So he probably has the conviction that something, somebody, is listening in through the machine. That's understandable; if whatever his situation was involved him being able to join some random strangers' games, he probably had a computer, and it was probably monitored, which would explain why he's so terrified of being tracked. It makes about as much sense as anything else in this exchange does. 

Even if it didn't, though, Oli still would have taken his laptop back upstairs, tapped out a quick notice that he'd be unavailable for the rest of the day, and tossed it on his bed - and his phone beside it, after a moment's thought. Martyn's comfort is what really matters here.

"There we are," he says on his way back in, "the highest-tech thing in the room now is probably the microwave."

Martyn offers him a thin smile, which feels more like progress than anything else.

"Right." He sits back down, takes his own piece of pizza (which by now is a far more edible temperature than it must have been when Martyn tried it), and gets the whole thing down before he takes another shot. "You want to start, or shall I?"

Martyn exhales amusement. "Go on then. Tell me what you know."

"Not a lot," Oli admits, "apparently. You don't make a lot of sense. You fell out of the sky, you still seem fairly surprised that things are real, you didn't know we’d been playing Minecraft - and you were calling me CHEST agent, which isn't a job title my company offers, as far as I'm aware. What, were you born in a video game?"

"I told you I was born in Nottingham."

"That might have been a cover story!"

"Nah. Wouldn't lie about that. I am a real boy, Gepetto, you can believe me on that one."

"Well, there's one thing I know for sure about you," Oli says. "All this talk of being in there, though. I don't know. VR?"

"Something like. You -" he hushes his voice, even though it's the middle of the afternoon and the neighbours won't be home "- you're, like, a normal CHEST employee, then? Front end stuff?"

"Yeah. I told you, I'm a software dev. If it's a front, I'm not in on the secret."

"God," says Martyn, "okay, so you're still not safe, but… okay, telling you this now, you're not getting the whole truth. But your company sucks and you should quit your job."

"Sucks like questionable QA policies or sucks like torturing teenagers in the basement?"

"I - shit," says Martyn, "a lot of those agents might have been folks like me, huh. Damn. Least I never killed anyone."

"I seem to remember you being pretty handy with a knife."

"Yeah, 'cause none of that was real, I was a bloody rat in a maid dress. You can't be on at me for killing people there."

"Suppose Jimmy killed the gardener."

"Exactly!"

"So, what, CHESTCorp have figured out how to turn VR into R, and you got caught up in it?"

"Not CHEST," Martyn takes another go at his slice of pizza, "just Doc. It's real experimental stuff. You're lookin' at test subject number one, I'm pretty sure."

"And now that you're not a test subject any more," he finishes, "you're having trouble readjusting."

"I guess. It's just… y'know, like, it's nice to be back, but… weird. Incredibly weird."

"Two and a half years would do it," Oli nods.

They take another lull to properly eat. Oli hadn't realised before this how starving he is; he would have thrown something together from the groceries he'd picked up if he hadn't had a guest to entertain. Martyn, too, seems fairly intent on ingesting an entire pizza by himself. His mother’s voice sounds inside his head, urging him to slow down, but Oli ignores it. If Martyn ends up with stomach problems it’ll just be another stark reminder that he’s not… trapped in a virtual reality simulator, he supposes.

“So, er,” he picks back up, once they’ve cleared the wedges and made more than a dent in the pizza, “what now?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve gone through all that. Nobody’s going to believe you, I assume, if this stuff’s as top-secret as it seems to be.”

“Kinda thing you’d need a two-hour primer with your therapist for,” Martyn nods, “and a lot of faith in doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“But, what, do you just… go home?”

“I’d like to,” he says. “I would really, really just like things to go back to normal.”

There’s a silence. But they can’t rings clear as a bell in the air between them anyway.

Martyn looks down at the last three slices of pizza. “You should take me home.”

“You’re sure?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I’ll just… I’ll be a big surprise for my parents when they get back home from work. And then I’ll add you guys on Discord, and hopefully we’ll be able to talk more on there?”

“Hopefully,” says Oli, meaning it more than anything. His entire life’s been pretty much flipped on its head by this encounter. “We’re always wondering about you, y’know. Or, I mean, I am. Owen probably thinks you’re there from Apo, Apo probably thinks you’re there from Owen, all that, but… Hard not to wonder who the hell you really were, when you would never act like it was actually a game.”

“I mean, it’s all a game, isn’t it, really?” Martyn muses, half-distant. “Just in the long dream now.”

“Is that from the End Poem?”

“Is it?”

Oli shakes his head. No time for all that. “So I’m driving you back to Nottingham, and… you’ll DM me when you can?”

“Yeah.”

It’s the best he can ask for.

Martyn refuses to tell Oli his exact address, just asks him to drive close enough that Martyn can walk the rest of the way home. It’s understandable - a CHESTCorp employee knowing Martyn’s exact location is, apparently, an incredibly dangerous thing - but still a little concerning. He’d at least like to be sure that Martyn won’t be getting poached back by this Doc guy at the earliest notice. Still, Martyn’s comfort remains the most important thing, and so he leaves his Google Maps at home.

It’s a bit of an autopilot drive, even without directions. Oli feels the wheel under his fingers, the pedals under his feet, like they’re abstracts. He looks over once or twice and sees Martyn glued to the window, to the mirrors, hypervigilant; he hopes that Martyn feels a little more real now than he did before.

They’re idle at a semi-populated roundabout when Martyn straightens his back. “Second exit, then pull over,” he announces.

“Almost there?”

“Pretty close.”

Oli obliges.

Martyn, with just the barest tremor in his fingers, pops the car door and steps out.

“You’re sure you’re gonna be okay?”

The words leave Oli’s mouth in a rush, the emotion behind them probably more visceral than Martyn is expecting, if the way he startles at them is any indication.

“Because - ‘cause if you need a hotel, or cash, or -”

“No,” says Martyn, “no, I’m fine. Promise.”

He hesitates, hand on the open car door, a few more seconds.

“And thanks,” he finishes, “I don’t - I’m not - I don’t know. Appreciate it.”

Oli understands what he’s getting at. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Nah, I’m gonna throw myself right in the Trent when you’re gone,” Martyn smiles, and Oli dutifully ignores the crack in his voice. Blame it on the last vestiges of teenagehood.

“And if you do end up needing to - I suppose erase all traces of your old life online… then it’s been an honour.”

“Yeah.”

“... Good luck.”

“Talk to you later,” Martyn says, and slams the car door closed.

All Oli can do, once he’s ambled out of eyeshot, is mechanically drive back home.

So that was InTheLittleWood. Friend group cryptid, unethical experiment, man with more trauma than Oli could ever begin to help him deal with… but man he was able to feed, and house, and walk through an emotional response, which is better than nothing at all. The one person in the world who Oli could almost hit with his car and have that be a better situation than the one he’d just escaped from. Still a mystery, too; he’s left Oli with far more questions than answers, left him returning to an empty house and wishing he’d been selfish enough to make Martyn stay a little longer, talk a little more.

Oli picks up his phone where he’d tossed it in the bedroom.

He has one new email to his work address.

Human Resources 3:04 PM

to me ˅

Subject: Performance Review

Dear Oliver,

You have been scheduled for a performance review. You are required to report to our Shoreditch location by 09:00 tomorrow, Tuesday December 12th. Failure to comply with this request will result in disciplinary proceedings, which may lead to your subsequent termination.

Regards,

Dan

Human Resources

CHESTCorp UK

Ah.

That’s… well.

The word termination is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that threat.

… Okay, so they’re working to a deadline now. That’s fine. He can deal with that. Martyn’s been dealing with far worse, right?

The friend request, at least, flips through from pending to accepted.

TheOrionSound — Today at 16:14

[Attachment: Screenshot_20231025_161408.png]

InTheLittleWood — Today at 16:14

Shit.

(end! now on ao3, if you’d like to leave a comment slash kudos slash bookmark!)

[nyxsealia]

When I was 17 and trying to figure out what the heck my sexuality was, the main, if not only, piece of advice I found online, even when I directly asked people, was to go out and experiment sexually with various people and see what gender I enjoyed sex with most. And years later, that still seems to be the advice most of us give when someone is trying to figure out their sexuality. And there's nothing wrong with doing that, and if that's what helped you, great. But I do think there's issues with this being the most prevalent advice.

There are a lot of reasons someone may not want to do this, various personal or religious reasons, comfort levels, a lack of interest in sex, not experiencing much or any sexual attraction, or simply being too young for this to be applicable.

I found the advice unhelpful for many of the reasons I just mentioned, and it left me feeling lost on how I was supposed to find out what my orientation was. It also left me with thoughts like how can I be a part of queer culture if I don't want to experiment sexually or be sexually active? Even looking at articles with advice on dating as a queer woman I saw bullet points like "It's okay to have sex on the first date!" there was so much emphasis on how it's okay to have very active sex lives that it left me feeling like if I didn't want that, I'd never be able to have relationships because there'd be an expectation of sex right off the bat. Don't get me wrong, sex positivity is important and we shouldn't shame people for their sex lives. But I feel like we don't don't talk about not being into that kind of thing enough.

I also didn't know at the time that I was asexual, and while I'm sex neutral and open to the idea of sex with a trusted partner, I don't have any desire to seek out sexual relationships. Not experiencing sexual attraction made figuring out my attraction a thousand times harder. I still don't know if I'm bi/pan or lesbian. I do refer to myself as gay or lesbian in some instances, but sometimes I say queer or just shrug and say "I like girls" or "I'm not straight" and some days I'm okay with the vagueness of that, but other days I feel the stress and pressure of having to pick an identity in order to have a community to belong to and be accepted. That stress and pressure doesn't get better when all the advice I can find on the subject just tells me to have sex and that'll clear everything up.

We put a lot of focus on finding out exactly "what" you are. And I don't think sex is the best way to do that. Lots of people have varying interest in sexual or physical intimacy, not just queers. My cishet friend told me she got a boyfriend but she wasn't entirely sure if what she was feeling was romantic, and that the idea of kissing made her uncomfortable. She doesn't identify as ace or aro, and she shouldn't have to. People can have a lack of interest in these things without a lack of attraction.

Another issue with this advice is that sexual and romantic attraction doesn't always line up for everyone. You may enjoy sex with all genders, but find you only have a desire to date one. So sexual experimenting wouldn't necessarily answer the question for you. Orientation is really complicated. I did mostly consider myself lesbian, but I occasionally find men aesthetically attractive, and I'm honestly starting to wonder if I'm actually bi but still feel uncomfortable using the term.

All this needlessly long and ramble-y text to say, this advice is simply useless to a lot of people. And while I can't speak personally for this part, I'd bet at least some people who enjoy sexual experimentation still weren't sure of their orientation at the end of it. This advice shouldn't be presented as the one size fits all solution.

If you're uncomfortable or uninterested in figuring out your identity this way, there's nothing wrong with that. There's also nothing wrong with not knowing. You don't have to know right now, or ever if you'd prefer that. It's okay to use vague terms. It's also okay to use whatever label feels closest even if it's not perfect. And remember, you're not locked into anything. You can always change labels.

There is no right way to determine your orientation. Everyone discovers themself in different ways and at different ages. It's not a race or a checklist. The most important thing is to be kind and patient with yourself and whatever you do to figure yourself out, be safe.

[cherikdogfood]

For the Cherik, thing, may I offer this prompt? 'The light at the end of the tunnel.'

@crystalshard First of all I am so, so sorry it took me this long to fill this ask! I loved this prompt so much that when I was writing it I just, spiraled out of control... This was supposed to be short, but I ended up writing a lot more than I thought I would and I think this could be a full-blown fic. I'm not sure yet.

I really, really hope I did your prompt justice and I hope you like it! It's pretty dark and angsty so I'm so sorry if that wasn't what you were looking for. Thank you for the prompt and enjoy reading!

(I'm planning to post this on ao3 and gift it to you, please tell me your ao3 username? only if you want to, of course. no pressure).

Trigger warnings: #experimentation #drug use #mentions of death and torture #sensory deprivation #abuse #dehumanization #dubcon/noncon (not explicit, barely mentioned) #shaw

***

Keep Running (You're Never Safe)

[It's the end of the world. The earth is a wasteland, ruined by nuclear wars, and humans struggle to survive the effects of radiation. Several mutants, on the other hand, are able to thrive and become leaders.

One such leader, Sebastian Shaw, has been the self-proclaimed king of Westchester for decades, and his settlement is supposedly the richest and most prosperous in the world. No one knows, however, that this prosperity has come at the price of mutants being enslaved and experimented on.

Charles Xavier -- no, Subject X, is Sebastian's favorite test subject. He manages to escape, bringing along his greatest secret, but Shaw's men are getting closer, and he is quickly losing hope...]

He's running.

He's been running for hours, and he's still running.

Yet he can feel them getting closer, they're never far away. He's never safe, so he has to keep running.

Even if the uneven ground makes him stumble, even if the pebbles and bits of glass on the ground make him wince, even if his bloodied feet leave a trail of bright red blood --

It doesn't matter.

He has to keep running.

He will either run until he's safe, or die before letting them get their hands on him again.

If he was all alone, he probably wouldn't worry too much. After all, his actions wouldn't harm anyone but himself.

But after the incident with Raven, he knows that his actions have consequences... Even if he is alone, his actions could bring harm to others too.

Charles tried not to think about it, but Shaw used to remind him every other day that what happened was his fault. If he hadn't told her to escape, if he hadn't frozen the guards to help Raven escape, if he had done anything differently, then she wouldn't have died.

Your sister died because of you, Shaw had said. Charles did not believe it at first, but the words had been repeated and drilled into his head countless times until he believed it.

Truthfully, he can't even remember what Raven looks like anymore. He remembers vague flashes: a hint of red hair, shining eyes, the scent of warmth and happiness, and her tinkling laughter.

Most of all, though, he remembers her disfigured corpse, the one that Shaw held in front of him, sneering and tutting when he cried out in anguish.

Before that incident, Charles hadn't known that emotional pain could manifest as physical pain, one that tore his heart into pieces and left him empty and broken.

He wasn't broken, then.

He is now.

***

Charles knew that his plan was terrible. Hell, he didn't actually have a plan. Breaking out of his cell, grabbing the treasure in his arms, and making a run for it had been completely impulsive.

He had been captive in Westchester since he was ten, and Shaw made sure that he never ventured out of the stone walls. Charles did not remember his age -- Shaw wouldn't allow that, of course, since test subjects weren't supposed to think -- but Charles guessed he had been here for about fifteen years, which made him in his twenties...

Charles had heard stories, of course, from the new mutants Shaw had captured from outside Westchester. He had even tried to read the minds of Shaw's warriors, hoping to glean valuable information from them, blackmail them, perhaps, or to get a glimpse of the world as it was now.

Of course, given the amount of drugs and experiments Shaw had put him through, Charles could never properly use his powers. He did catch small strands of thoughts, though, and over the last few years he had pieced together the bits of information that he had to make a mental picture of the outside world.

Westchester was ruled by Shaw. Somewhere in the north, there was a settlement run by a mutant, Shaw's ally and one of Charles' frequent tormentor, Nathaniel Essex. The east was unknown territory, and then somewhere (he could never quite catch the name of the place), there was, supposedly, a mutant community that directly opposed Shaw.

And this "community" was his goal.

Charles had no idea what that community was like. Perhaps it was just a group of nomads, mutants who traveled frequently to avoid getting caught by Shaw. Or perhaps this was a large-scale settlement of mutants, powerful and unwilling to bow to Shaw's rule.

Perhaps, a traitorous part of his mind suggested, this community doesn't even exist.

It was a terrible thought. What if, all this time he had been running towards a community that didn't even exist? Or perhaps it did exist, in the past, but Shaw had long since destroyed it, like he destroyed everything else that stood in his way...

Charles did not have a plan. He didn't know if he was running in the right direction. He didn't know if he would reach his "destination". He didn't even know if his so called destination still existed.

All he knew was that he had to keep running, because Shaw's men were still chasing him, and he would rather die than get dragged into the walls of Westchester again.

And if he could not run anymore, if his legs gave away and his body betrayed him, if his feet could only twitch uselessly and the blood on the soles of his feet flowed freely -- what then?

Then he would crawl. He would crawl forward and keep going.

Not just for him.

But also for the treasure in his arms.

His son.

His David.

***

Charles Xavier was no stranger to experiments.

At five years old, his powers manifested, and his father, a scientist, was enraptured. He would have Charles complete "tasks" in the lab ("Answer me in your mind, Charles" or "Tell me what I'm feeling, Charles" or "What number am I thinking, Charles?").

After completing the tasks, his father would be immensely pleased, and Charles reveled in the warmth of happiness that enveloped his father. He adored his father, and seeing that he could make his father happy, little Charles was, of course, ecstatic.

There were days when his father was happier than usual, after a set of "tasks" in the lab, and he would take Charles out for ice cream (it was the end of the world at this point and nuclear wars had destroyed the landscape -- simple ice cream was considered a treat). It was lovely.

Then his father died abruptly, killed in a fire, and his mother remarried Kurt Marko. Kurt was his father's friend, but his mind was sticky with greed and anger and so much hate. Charles did not like him.

It was around this time that Charles found a girl in his house. Raven. He was seven or eight at the time, and Raven was six. She was blue and oh so lovely, and Charles was glad there was finally someone else like him.

He wasn't alone.

He gave her food and told her to stay, and she did. The war had taken away her parents, and she had barely survived, hiding and running when people were scared of her.

Charles wasn't scared of her. And she wasn't scared of him either.

He convinced his mother that Raven was his sister (and this was really easy, considering she didn't care and was drowning in alcohol), and that was that.

Raven became part of the family; of course, he told her to turn into a blonde girl to "blend in" -- otherwise, he didn't know what would happen to her.

The problem here was Kurt. He could use his powers on Kurt, yes, but Kurt was familiar with Charles' father, Brian, and had read his files on Charles. Kurt knew that Charles was a telepath, and as strong as Charles was, he was young, and not cunning.

Kurt found out that Raven wasn't his biological sibling, that she was "just a stray he picked up", and threatened to throw her out. Charles was mortified. She was his sister, even if they weren't related by blood, he had already accepted her as such. He had to protect her.

So Kurt proposed a deal. He would keep quiet about Raven, pretending that she was, indeed, Charles' sister, and Charles would listen to him.

He wanted to continue Brian's experiments on him.

Charles was rather hesitant at first. But then Kurt reminded him that these "tasks" from his father were what made him happy, and Charles wanted to make his father happy, right? Besides, it was a fair deal for both of them.

Kurt would pretend Raven was part of the family, and Charles just had to do what he had been doing with his father.

"You can protect that girl and fulfill your father's wishes at the same time, isn't this hitting two birds with one stone?" Kurt had said.

So little Charles agreed to continue the experiments. It was, after all, a fair deal.

But with Kurt, the "tasks" became harder. Kurt would start slowly, blindfolding him and making him sense Kurt with his mind only. And then Kurt would use earplugs, so he couldn't hear anything. And then Kurt used both the blindfold and the earplugs, depriving him of his senses and making him rely solely on his telepathy.

Next came the needles. Kurt would repeatedly draw his blood, claiming he needed more samples for the labs. Scientists were using his blood to understand human genes, he said.

It kept going on and on and on, slowly turning from harmless tasks into full experiments where he was merely the subject of the experiment, not a willing volunteer. He had less and less say in how the experiments were conducted, until one day he realized it was no longer Kurt who was doing the experiments, it was a man named Sebastian Shaw.

It started as a slow process, really.

When Kurt was doing experiments with him, Sebastian Shaw would come and watch. Then, as weeks passed, Sebastian would start giving "suggestions" on how to conduct the experiments.

Soon, Charles spent less time with his tutors, less time playing with Raven, and more time in the labs.

Raven was indignant, of course. She was eight years old and he was almost ten; she wanted to run around and play with him whenever she got the chance, especially since she could only turn into her real form when she was with him.

At this point Charles disliked the experiments, it was nothing like the mini "tasks" he had done with his father, and Kurt kept pushing his limits, leaving him worn and tired.

So when Raven burst into his room one day, complaining about his lack of attention for her ("You spend so much time with your stepfather, what's so good about him, huh? Charles, I want to know what you guys are up to, bring me along with you the next time you go with him!"), he snapped at her.

Raven was upset and fled the room, crying. Charles was too tired and aching to chase after her.

...And that's when disaster struck.

Raven's disguise slipped up, and Sebastian Shaw and Kurt Marko saw her blue form.

They wanted her.

And Charles... he couldn't let them have her.

He didn't remember what exactly happened that day. He only remembered feeling the greed in Kurt's mind and the sick curiosity in Shaw's... He remembered Raven's surprise, Raven turning an even paler shade of blue when she realized she slipped up...

He remembered seeing in Kurt's mind the things he wanted to do to her: wanting to cut her open, watch her bleed (was her blood even blue? it would be fascinating if it was...), rip her scales off, gouge out her yellow eyes (how did the corneas work? would she see things in yellow, and what about the retina?) cut her hair for samples... all the things he could do to her...

And Charles screamed. Whatever they had done to him was fine, he often told himself. He was fine with their experiments on him, after all, wasn't this what his father wanted, too?

But doing all those things to Raven... no... no... no...NO!!!

Charles could feel his mind stretching out tendrils of psychic powers to seize Kurt and Shaw's mind, rip away the image of Raven in her blue form, erase the memories. It was easier with Kurt, but Shaw's mind was difficult, was resisting--

Make him forget, forget, forget--! There! He found a sliver of thought, a small seed that was growing rapidly, and he yanked on it.

Shaw wanted him. He was filled with morbid curiosity regarding Charles' powers, the things he could do with a telepath... Changing minds, manipulating minds... it would all be so easy if he had Charles...

He wanted Charles. That thought was embedded in Shaw's mind, and he would get Charles.

What I want, I will get.

Charles, inexperienced as he was, blew on those particular thoughts. Like a dandelion flying in the wind, spreading its seeds, Charles used those thoughts in Shaw's mind to make him forget about Raven. Use his pre-existing thoughts to cover up his discovery of Raven... Make him forget...

"Get out of here," he told Raven in her mind, and for once, she obeyed. He was glad that she did. The outburst of his powers had consumed too much energy, and he fell down, bleeding from his nose and ears.

When he came to, he was no longer in his house. Shaw had paid Kurt a substantial amount of money to buy him, and he had been moved into his new quarters.

Shaw's labs.

Kurt took great care of his appearance, wanting to act like a kind stepfather to the public, but Shaw had no such qualms.

To him, Charles was not Charles. He was Subject X.

Charles could only take comfort in the fact that Shaw and Kurt held no recollection of Raven's blue form.

She was safe.

If he was the one they experimented on, it was fine.

After all, Charles Xavier was no stranger to experiments.

***

Looking back on it now, he was very naive; a man like Sebastian Shaw... How could he be fooled that easily? Not to mention he himself was a mutant (of course, at the time Charles had no idea).

Raven was safe for only a year.

That moment when he ripped Shaw's memories away, he didn't do it gently, so there were traces of his meddling... As for Kurt, Charles' telepathy scarred him, making him get into frenzies several times a month.

Shaw was suspicious, guessing that Charles had done something, so he found himself another telepath, Emma Frost, who was weaker than him but had more experience, and she pulled the memory of Raven out of the haze, making Shaw remember.

Within a few months, Shaw had captured Raven, brought her to the labs, and smiled gently as Charles hugged Raven, sobbing.

"Tsk, what a sweet reunion between siblings..." He had said.

It was a reunion under the worst circumstances. Charles, who had never begged or pleaded even when Shaw cut open his head, found himself kneeling and begging the man to let his sister go.

Shaw just laughed.

Raven cried.

Charles' heart broke.

He and Raven were close, and his mind was more attuned to hers, so when they sliced her open, when they prodded her with needles, when they beat her, he could feel everything.

Her pain, her rage, her despair, her exhaustion, her numbness... Her screams were his screams, too.

It was worse than when the scientists cut him open.

After two years of torment, he finally found a loophole and managed to send Raven away... told her to run, escape...

Charles wanted to laugh at his foolishness. What was the result?

He had sent his own sister to her death.

He was useless.

***

Back in the present, Charles' feet were numb and his arms ached from holding his baby for too long. He could hear his rough pants and heavy breathing, as well as David's small breaths against his chest.

Behind him, he could feel the team led by Shaw's right hand man, Victor Creed, getting closer. He thought that running like this would save him, would save them, or maybe if he ran fast enough, he could shake off Shaw's men.

Of course, Charles wanted to laugh bitterly. Of course, that was wistful thinking.

He was carrying a baby, running on foot, malnourished and worn down with wounds, both physical and mental, and his brain had been repeatedly drugged.

Whereas Shaw's men were healthy, happy, probably enjoying the thrill of the chase, and, most importantly, riding their vehicles.

It was easy to think of who had the upper hand here.

God, what would Shaw do to him if he caught him? Charles swallowed hard, stumbling as he continued moving.

Beat him? No, Charles was numb to that already, and Shaw knew it. Sensory deprivation then, or depriving him of his telepathy.

Or worse (and at this point Charles wasn't sure which was worse, really), hooking him up to Cerebro for months on end, his mind addled with drugs, muddling through a haze of thoughts and feelings and connecting with so many beings until he forgot who he was.

Would he forget his own name? It had happened several times before, he got mixed up with other people's minds until he forgot who he himself was.

Oh god, if that happened, would he forget David?

Charles gulped again and held David tighter, still moving, always moving. After he gave birth to David (well, it was more of a C-section anyways), he had had a period of rest, Shaw reluctant to torture him or experiment on his weak body.

He was a useful asset, after all. Not only because of his telepathic abilities and extensive range, but also because of his lovely face that Shaw loved oh-so-much, his cerulean eyes that Shaw wanted to keep ("They're like sapphires, Charles, they make you look like an angel," Shaw had said), and his secondary mutation.

Thanks to that, the past few months had been a brief, but much needed reprieve for him, where he could hug his son and kiss him lovingly without worrying that his mind would be too frazzled to operate properly.

"I don't want to forget you," he manages to whisper, tenderly brushing his son's cheek.

He's not sure if he's running, walking, or floating at this point, but it doesn't matter. He sees David's eyes flutter open and senses a small presence in his mind, familiar and welcome.

It's David, of course, and he's proud to know that his son inherited his abilities instead of his father's.

David is hungry now, Charles knows, but he has nothing to give -- no milk (his body can't produce it, much to Shaw's annoyance) -- and no formula (he couldn't have stolen some without risking getting caught).

"M'sorry love," he whispers, "I'm afraid I've got nothing for you, so just, hang on for a while, yes? I promise I'll find something soon."

He knows it's an empty promise -- he likely won't even make it 'till the end of the day, but he has to pretend. He has to pretend it'll be alright.

"It's alright," Charles whispers, his throat is raw and dry and he can't talk anymore, the wind is scratching at his throat like blades cutting him open.

"It's alright," he says again, this time to David's mind.

David gurgles and beams at him, lips curled up gently. David sends love and trust his way, and Charles receives it, wanting to cry but knowing he can't.

He hears the roar of engines -- a familiar vehicle. It must be Victor and his men. They're getting closer.

Maybe he's going to die here.

He stops moving. Cradles David's head gently and plants a kiss on his head.

"I love you," he sends, knowing David will hear it but not understand it.

He closes his eyes and a stray tear falls unto David's cheek with a 'plop'.

David starts fussing, sensing his distress, and Charles soothes him.

If this is really the end...

Charles feels a lump in his throat and swallows hard. It doesn't go away.

He hugs his son against his chest, steel resolve burning in his eyes.

Even if this is the end... He will keep fighting.

Even if he's broken beyond repair... He has to keep going.

Not for himself.

For David.

Charles runs.

***

"There he is! I can see him!" He hears a voice behind him.

If he can hear the voice, not just sense it, then they must be very close.

"Keep running, Subject X," he hears the familiar sneer in Victor's voice and flinches.

The revving of engines behind him is making his heart pound, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can't see properly, sweat and tears blurring his vision.

Keep going, keep going, keep going--!

His legs are burning, he pushes them and keeps running. Faster, faster, please please please--!

Bang!

The sound of a gunshot.

He can't dodge it. He can only keep going.

He's going to get shot. Victor Creed never misses.

His legs collapse underneath him (useless, his mind supplies). He turns around.

Right in front of him is a bullet, stopping inches before his face.

He hears a startled cry. He hears shouting. He hears the sound of metal groaning in anguish.

He watches, stupefied, as the bullet falls to the ground. Harmless.

He feels new minds pricking in his consciousness. He blinks slowly, trying to see properly...

Mutants, he realizes.

A red-skinned man puffs on top of the vehicle -- or what used to be the vehicle anyway, now it's just a mass of metal -- and starts stabbing people.

Victor kicks open a door and emerges, roaring in fury. Another man leaps at him, claws emerging from his hands, and the two growl at each other, engaged in a ruthless fight.

"Are you alright?" He hears a voice by his side and jerks.

It's a man, wearing a black turtleneck, grey-green eyes staring at him with worry.

"Don't worry, you're safe now," the man says, voice low and gentle.

Charles just stares at him and pulls David closer to his chest. This man's mind is powerful, beautiful, enigmatic.

He wants to delve deeper.

He knows he can't.

Just because this person speaks gently doesn't mean he won't stab him to death later.

"Please stop trembling," the man says, frowning a little.

Charles looks down at his hands and realizes, belatedly, that he is, indeed, trembling. His hands are shaking so much that he has trouble holding David steadily.

"Who are you?" He asks, unable to use his voice.

"My name is Erik," the man smiles, teeth gleaming in the sunlight.

"You're safe now," he adds.

Charles just stares at him before he collapses, falling limply to the ground and losing consciousness.

"You're safe," the man repeats telepathically, and Charles tries to believe him.

The last thing he remembers is to hug David tighter, because maybe, maybe the man wasn't lying.

Maybe they're safe now.

Maybe... he can finally stop running.

[made by cherikdogfood]

[team-sanvich2]

Is it Speeding Bullet O'clock? No?

Well too bad, I can't sleep and these two are in my head now, so, ENJOY!!

Riffle to the heart, and a bat to the knee.

Tagging @kombucha-enjoyer

"It is a simple mission I believe you can handle" the mysterious woman spoke from the TV Screen at both Team BLU and RED'S base, explaining their latest task...that was simply a made up plan to test the limits of the two she felt were lacking in their own ways in their fields. "Do this flawlessly and I shall take back my latest employee reviews of your performance, I know yhat family means a lot to you in particular, but it cannot be something you should LET take over your thoughts in this line of work, after all, you don't want them to see you in a casket once you're out of here, right?"

"Yes ma'am" both men said but at opposite sides of the territory.

Starting with Mick, the RED team's Sniper, a man of few words, takes his position and work very seriously, and won't let the opinions of others dictate wether or not he'll succeed in it. However, familial issues are hard to simply not ignore, specially when everytime you look into making contact, the people that were supposed to love you unconditionally now take every minute to criticize your choices, even if nowhere else was open for you, not even your dream profession.

As for Antonie, the BLU team's Scout, his own struggles were more direct, his father had been a victim of torture and experimentation at the hands of the RED Medic, his head had recently been retrieved from the enemy base, but his body remains unresponsive, Dell and Fritz are doing what they can to make sure their leader can go back to being his former self, even if their options were running low. Antonie had retrieved the head after discovering it in the abandoned hospital, Antonie brought him quickly to his team's Medic to wake him up from his coma, he was successful...but what is a functional head when there were no arms and legs to move around with it? Worst of all was that the Scout refused to see his own father wake up and visit him, it felt like it was his fault for getting himself killed by the RED spy, it was his fault for not doing enough, and it was his fault that his dad was almost lost forever.

"Here's the scene, in a abandoned Mann.Co field dubbed "harvest", a piece of important information was lost there due to my...late Assistant, Mr. Bidwell was his name, being too careless, but seems like Mann.co decided that moving him upwards in the company was the better option...But enough about old grudges, retrieve that document, Ms Pauling will be waiting to pick it up in the morning, you have the entire night to find it, I heard the enemy team has their eyes on it, do not disappoint me". The TV was turned off and both mercenaries went on their own to the abandoned field.

The Scout arrived on a scooter provided to him by Dell, he made sure to take his lessons with soldier to heart and explored the area for a back entrance, or at the very least, a hole on the fence. The Sniper however was more calm about it and simply drove over and parked somewhere he wouldn't be noticed, and immediately jumped over a fence, he searched the property on foot, taking note on his gut feelings, that he wasn't alone, but that in that very moment, he was being watched, prompting him to pull out one of his recent crafts, the cleaner's Carbine.

The Aussie man could take a few guesses on who it was that was stalking him, the enemy team was almost a copy and pasted version of his own, perhaps their spy was back in action, maybe the traitorous Dell was building some sentries to try a ambush, perhaps they sent over their Pyro, but he was not expecting that they sent out their own speedy "force of nature", as a couple of gunshots caught him by surprise, forcing him to crouch around the scene.

Antonie held similar thoughts, he was relived he wouldn't have to see the RED Spy again, or their Pyro, hell, he thanked whatever being was watching over the earth that it wasn't the Medic, but their Sniper? He had forgotten about their interaction, at least until he saw him again. Their last encounter almost repeated itself if Anotnie did not dodge a literal bullet from his riffle, what was worse? It was a quieter version. He needed a different approach, he knew the Sniper was aware of his presence, he knew he could get taken down ANY MOMENT, so what to do? He rummages through his bag, and finds a old friend, just what he needed.

Mick had settled in a safe zone that allowed him to view the entire property, every blind spot was now in his sights, that Scout would not get through him...Although, he thought about it for a moment, unless team Blu employed a new one, Scout was much different, maybe it was his countless encounters of being met with bullets, blades and explosions that made them pick someone more adapted to the job...Or he BECAME that someone, fact was that...it was too quiet, at least until he hit himself with his riffle thanks to a baseball hitting the tip of the lenses that were now broken, making him realize that this was the same Scout with the bloody sandman baseball bat.

He runs downstairs with his submachine gun in hand and from time to time he hears the running steps of the runner, he doesn't talk much, at least not anymore if what the Soy said was to be believed, he doesn't call much attention to himself, in fact it made it seem like he was merely part of the wind blowing outside, and he seemed to be more...experienced, perhaps team Blu found his match made in heaven, professional versus professional, and that was solidified by getting hit by a spiked baseball bat right om his back, making him bleed.

"AUUUGH! YOU BLOODY-" And he was gone again, thankfully, Ludwig was kind enough to lend him some spare medkits, after one sip from the bottle, Sniper gathered his stuff and changed the lenses on the riffle, and while doing so, he hears something climbing on the roof, he quickly tosses the ball back as a distraction and was met with the dark blueish shadow, who collected the ball and was ready to jump to the next roof, only almost get his foot shot, and the chase was on.

Antonie doesn't jump Into battle immediately, he runs off while delivering shots with the Soda Popper, it doesn't scare off Sniper from his spot, but he got his attention, signified by the many bullets that destroyed the walls of the wooden buildings. It was like both were stepping comfortably out of their comfort zone, Scout was using his speed in the means of blending in the darkness and not being noticed, and Sniper was now more on the move cause his only target knew where he was and was taunting him, but not in a way that felt like mocking, more like two similar minds playing a game of chess.

Eventually, both men run out of bullets, and thus, the chase has to stop and both meet at the center of the "Harvest". Their melee weapons were drawn, both shocked that they had the same idea of packing more than one blunt object, Antonie had equipped the Boston Basher, and Mick had a Prinny Machete, they give the other one look and charged towards each other like two Demoknights, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Antonie used his speed and smaller build to his advantage to slip through but Mick’s longer limbs were also a advantage and he pulled the younger male and almost gave his neck a second scar.

"Running around like a coward will get you nowhere!"

"Is called preserving energy Moron, you should try that since you seem to use most of it on headshots"

The Aussie man charges at him once more, "I am a professional with standards, I need to be efficient! Besides, at least I'm doing my part! You just run around and go back to your team with nothing!" He gets a punch on the stomach but blocks the bat with his blade.

"I am TRYING to Improve! And is not like any of them cared, and the only that did probably stopped after I ROYALLY SCREWED UP!" He gets pushed back but tries to strike the Sniper repeatedly, in the same motion, hoping to hit him.

"A price to pay in this industry! Those are still your coworkers! If you don't trust their abilities then you might as well not trust yourself!"

"Easy for you to say! You probably get praised a lot for, let me guess, sitting still, shooting asshats all day long, and having the most calm time of your life!" At this point, neither are using their weapons, seems like the fight became more psychological...or...it was a weird...bonding moment.

"Says the one that probably strokes his own ego that might as well be 12 feet tall!"

"OH I WISH! All I have is the weight of failure slowing me down! And my team underestimating me DOES! NOT! HELP!"

"WELL I WISH MY WORK WAS MORE RECOGNIZED! I have done plenty for those Poggers, and do I get a thank you? No! SLEEPLESS WEEKS OF SURVIVING ON NOTHING BUT COFFEE AND FISH CAKES ALL DOWN THE FUCKING DRAIN!"

"AND I WISH I WASN'T SUCH A BIG SCREW UP THAT I ALMOST LOST THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT FUCKING BASE THAT SEES ME AS A PERSON AND IS MY ONLY FUCKING FAMILY..."

"...family?" He dropped the Machete in hopes the Scout would trust him.

"...Look, we got off track...what are you looking for? Folders? Weapons? Food? Just grab it and get out! I'm...I'm not in the mood anymore..."

Antonie feels his shoulder grt grabbed, but not Ina way that felt forceful, it felt...warm...welcoming, he turned and saw the Sniper had taken off his hat as a sign of a truce,

"Please...I insist, you have no obligation to tell me the rest but...you fought good, dare I say this was the most fun I had in a while" he let's out a chuckle at the end, followed by the muffled giggles of the Scout, who finally takes off his gas mask.

"The feeling is mutual, good to see a Sniper that actually puts up a fight unlike Ke-..My Sniper"

"Hehe, and is nice to see a quiet Scout for once...I think that spot has a nice view"

"Lead the way then".

Once both were on the roof, Mick offers a bottle from the Medkit, taking notice of some bullets that left some cuts on the runner, he made a expression that looked outrageous after kne gulp.

"Why is this stuff so bitter?" Antonie said, while trying to find a label with anything written on it that could shed some light ton the Ingridients,

"Trust me mate, you DON'T want to know what they put in there, just chug it with your nose plugged" the poor guy follows his instructions, only to feel his nose burning up,

"FUCKING HELL! AAAH!"

"Pffff, HAHHAHA! Bloody hell, I can't believe you fell for that!"

"Oh haha, very funny...you wanted to talk about something or just mock me?"

The Sniper adjusted his posture and took a deep breath,

"You had mentioned family...I couldn't help but...find your situation similar to mine...my...relatives aren't that fond of my position"

"Well, at least they aren't here...As in, not in the base...cause...that's where my...Person is...and he went through a lot...it was my fault and...I can't face him! What am I supposed to say? "Sorry I tripped and got myself killed as well as getting a scar as a memento?!"...I...can't even look at him..."

"...seems like you are going through a lot"

"Says you, you put up a good fight but...I don't remember your team saying anything"

The Sniper scratches the back of his neck, "I might have exaggerated, is not that it NEVER happens...but I see your Sniper and think..."I want that"...tho I guess if he's actually some lazy asshat then I guess I shouldn't compare myself"

"Yeah...same...your Scout is...Loud but...the team at least acknowledges that he's there...and they don't seem so harsh on him too...weird how the other person seems to have it better"

"But you don't know the whole story...it is weird"

Both look at the night sky for a while, Antonie had also taken off his goggles as Mick did with his glasses, it took a hour but they eventually went back to looking for what they were there for, oddly enough, there were two safes there, they open it with their IDs and find the folders they were looking for, the weird part was both were copies, not the original.

Antonie decided to let Mick drive him back to his base along with his scooter as the gas was down to zero, both talked some more until they were close enough for Antonie to go back safely but also far enough so that Mick wouldn't get shot by the sentries.

This odd friendship developed more and more as both would randomly see each other during matches, Antonie accidentally finding where Mick is hiding to chat or to share some sandwiches or to even nap on the same spot. Other times, Mick would see Antonie looking over the territory and use the light on the riffle to show him where there's ammo and medkits.

It flew under the radar to both teams, even Anotnie’s father...but Ms. Pauling had other plans with that information, after informing the administrator, she tried to pull the same stunt she did with the RED Demoman and the BLU soldier, but no matter what, the two seemed to be back together, soon enough she just gave up as those two were selective on what to tell the other, and Pauling even has a feeling both men never believed her words.

Unlike her and the Administrator, Mick and Antonie seem to talk their loudest in silence...but also in each other's company, maybe this would inspire some old friends to reconsider their hate if they were to be found out...and maybe the lines of like and love would get blurry for the Blue Runner and the Red Silencer.

[flowersforal]

"Art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”

Some headcanons today about Crypto and his art :) I know it isn’t mentioned much, but when has that ever mattered?

☆ I picture him having a really loose, sketchy kind of style. He draws in a free, exploratory way a lot of the time

☆ Because of the way he's grown up, he’s used to using minimal supplies and making what tools he’s got last as long as possible. It’s always been more about the art than about what supplies he uses to make it, because art is a means of expression and regulation for him

☆ Even though he could get better materials now, I think it would take a bit before he felt like getting something nicer or working with a wider variety of things. He’d have to warm up to the idea over time and probably some encouragement from others

☆ There’s this Tiktok that I really like, I love the way this artist creates. Park’s drawings and paintings are like this a lot—quick, free, not much thought, doing it to relieve stress not to create more sitting on details

☆ I can imagine him having drawn and painted so many things… like Paradise Lounge, Game locations and events, other legends, buildings, animals, etc. Pencil, then ink in some places, brought to life with a color or two using watercolor or pastel in a messy way

☆ Picturing that wherever he keeps his art and supplies would be about as cluttered as everything else… Pencils used down to the very nub, dirtied erasers, pastels that smudge onto each other, watercolors that have hit pan but still contain usable color in the corner…

☆ Honestly, if his area was too clean, he would probably struggle to get started again. Looking at a blank sketchbook or a new set of paint would make him stare and stress about getting started—having everything already used and familiar and worn makes it easy to hop back in

☆ Does lots of experimental work… Testing different color combinations, testing art styles… Anatomy practice from books and other references, practicing light and shadow and positioning with various objects like fruit and such. Has probably drawn his own art tools many times because it’s an easy way to play around with the way things sit and look in a 3D space

☆ He has a couple different kinds of art, the more rough sketches and then bigger, cleaner pieces… Most of it is rough and for fun, but sometimes he’s proud of something or really spurned on by an idea, so he’ll take the idea and redo it/make it better on a larger scale

[lavender-evening-fog-podcast]

Big feels about the ending...

I [Victoria, LEF showrunner] have been putting some of the work on the final episode off because I am not ready to be done. That is, of course, not the same as the story not ready to be done, because, well, it is ready. But I wasn't ready. This summer, I got the idea of expanding to a fifth season, which really was just about my inability to let go and not because the story needed it, but I was talked down from that idea. The story was always supposed to be 24 episodes, corresponding with 24 parts of the school, and any attempts to stretch beyond that are just my emotions, not what the story needs.

Now that I'm finished, it is bittersweet. Certainly, there is a sense of accomplishment to being done. I consume a lot of audiodrama, and I've come across many projects that are abandoned or on indefinite hiatus, or do not maintain a regular production schedule. And knowing the work that goes into making an audiodrama, I don't say this as a judgment, because I tell anyone who is interested in starting an audiodrama podcast to take the number of episodes they reasonable think they can do and find a way to cut that in half (be that fewer episodes or more time between them, etc.,) because it will be more work than expected, even if you already expect it to be a lot of work. But knowing how many audiodramas I have seen get abandoned and knowing myself and the number of projects over the years that I have abandoned, putting out LEF for almost 4 years on a consistent basis with no major delays feels like a huge accomplishment.

Today, I uploaded the final pieces of the episode to the drive that the team shares so that Nick [our sound engineer] can work his magic. This meant that my part of the episode was done. When I finish an episode, I move the episode's folder on my laptop to an archive folder. Because this is the last episode, I renamed the archive "Lavender Evening Fog". And I cried a little.

As for what's next--I hope to announce the timeline for my next audiodrama project (which will be shorter and more experimental) around Halloween. I have started writing short plays, I am doing dramaturgy for an Unrehearsed production of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew and Nick and I are talking about doing a short guerilla film this fall.

Finishing up has felt weird because in many ways LEF has already begun to feel a little like juvenilia-- not in a disparaging sense, but that it is clearly a starting point and I have been learning so much-- but it was the project for which I really started to think about myself as a writer and an artist, and to approach my creative work seriously.

I think I'll probably do some posts about what I learned and storylines I ultimately didn't include, fun easter eggs for the tumblr crowd.

Now, to cry some more...

[thethistlegirlwrites]

🛁 - A nice, relaxing bath

💤 - A few extra hours of sleep

🌸 - Something that calms them

🤗 - A warm hug

For Emmett

These are great! Thank you!!

🛁 - A nice, relaxing bath

Sometimes it's still hard to believe hot water is so easy to come by on the other side of the wards. Emmett is still getting used to a dozen ways Rime was trapped in its founding era, and the kinds of technology that have been developed outside the magic that would have stifled them or rendered them inert inside the wards, but one of the most surprising is the fact that out here, all it takes to get warm water is turning on a tap and waiting a few moments.  He'd feel like he was wasting it if he filled the tub, so he turns it off after the water is a few inches deep and starts hunting for the soap. He jumps when the bathroom door opens and Rory walks in. "You need more water than that," she announces by way of explanation and turns the tap back on. "Especially if it's your shoulders getting stiff again." She knows him unfortunately well.  Thankfully, by this point, she also knows him well enough to know when he wants to be alone. After testing the temperature of the water with her fingers and slightly adjusting the taps, she backs out of the room. Their relationship is all sorts of odd and confusing that Emmett really doesn't have the mental energy to think about right now. He's just glad Rory's sticking around. He has to admit, she was right. When he finally shuts off the water and steps into it, it comes up just to the back of his neck when he leans back. The tightness in the old scars across his shoulders starts to fade, and the headache that's been throbbing in his temples all afternoon eases. He can't stay in the water too long, he'll get dizzy again and they've learned through painful experience that Rory absolutely cannot lift him off the floor if he falls. But for now, this feels amazing.

💤 - A few extra hours of sleep

Emmett seems a lot younger when he's sleeping. He almost looks his real age when the worry lines fade out and Rory can't see the years of hurt in his eyes. Now that they've dyed his hair to make it less evident he's gifted, it's even more jarring. If Marcus wasn't dead, Rory would want to go back and kill him again for all the damage and trauma he's inflicted on someone who did nothing to warrant that kind of pain. The best she can do now is picking up the pieces. And at the moment, that means letting Emmett have a little more rest. They have nothing pressing to do, nowhere to go, nothing that has to be done right away. Carlo's sleeping over with a friend. She leans back carefully, not wanting to disturb Emmett, and glances out the window at the sun coming up. It's still strange for her to see it. Emmett shifts when the warm band of light creeps across the blankets and over his shoulder. He blinks a couple times, but settles deeper into bed, wrapping his arms around the pillow the way Rory is familiar with Carlo doing when he's tired. She ruffles a hand through Emmett's hair, and he smiles in his sleep.

🌸 - Something that calms them

"What'cha makin'?" Rory leans on Emmett's workbench. "You'll see soon enough." "You said that twenty minutes ago," Rory whines, poking the piece of wood experimentally with one finger.  "Making something good takes time," Emmett replies.  "It just looks like a knot," Rory says. Emmett taps it with the chisel a few more times, and then the whole thing falls apart into a dozen disconnected chunks. "Oh, sorry," Rory says. "I didn't mean to distract you and make you break it." "I didn't break it," Emmett says."Well, only sort of. It was supposed to do that." He picks up the pieces and hands them to her. "And now you get to put it back together." She's good at that. He watches her flip the pieces over a few times, forehead crinkling like it does when she's calling on her gift to show her a solution. "Okay," she says, and then fits the pieces back together seamlessly. "Now what?" Emmett takes it back and twists it slightly, watching the pieces fall apart again. "I thought maybe you could...you know, do this instead of pulling on your hair or scratching the back of your hand." A new patch of lichen marks appeared there recently, and Rory's picked it bloody while they were waiting for Carlo to have his broken arm set last week. "Oh." Rory looks a little confused. "If you don't like it..." "I love it. And this was...really thoughtful." She smiles. "Definitely worth the wait."

🤗 - A warm hug

Emmett hangs his coat in the entryway and shakes water from his hair, shivering slightly. The storm kicked up without warning, and he got drenched walking the last mile home from town. Rory appears from the kitchen, a knife held loosely in her hand. To anyone else it would probably look like she'd been interrupted chopping vegetables for dinner, but Emmett knows she was fully prepared to use it on any potential intruder. His fault for not announcing himself, probably. "Hey. I was getting worried when I heard the rain," Rory says. Emmett nods, not really trusting his voice not to shake if he speaks. Rory steps back into the kitchen, but only long enough to lay the knife down on the counter, judging by the sound. She steps back into the hall and reaches for Emmett's arm, hissing slightly when she feels how damp his sleeve is. The warmth of her wrapping her arms around him is unexpected. Emmett still isn't used to people voluntarily touching him. "It's warm in the kitchen," she mumbles into his shirt. "And I think you'll be better at not giving Carlo food poisoning from dinner than me." Emmett nods and mumbles into her hair. "I think you're probably right." "Come on then." Rory twists her fingers into his and pulls him through the door. "Because I have absolutely no idea what to do next."

From this ask game!

[number1villainstan]

19, 22, 34

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

My writing journey? I'm not sure if it can be called that, but if it can be then it started young. Very young. I've always been an imaginative child, and I believe the story I have of mine is from third grade. My writing journey is my entire life, really, jumping from fandom to fandom, daydreaming and writing and daydreaming and stopping and starting in fits and bursts in a chaotic waveform with no overarching pattern except for forward and getting better. "When" and "why" I started are useless questions--I've been a writer since I learned enough language to be a writer. There have always been stories living inside my head. I am a writer because I am a writer. I was born that way. It is a core part of me.

That being said, there are certain specific milestones to remark on:

When I was 11 or so, I often had the constant urge to write down the stories that were in my head, but I ignored this urge too often. I don't remember why. ADHD task initiation struggles? Lack of access to a computer? An unclear path to accomplish the task? This isn't to say that I ignored that urge 100% of the time--this was around the age when I started making Google Docs with story names, or perhaps I did that earlier. I can't quite remember. But the fact of the matter is--I ignored that urge too often, and now it's gone and I do not know how to get that fire back. It would help greatly with my own productivity now.

When I was 12, I found FF.net and subsequently made an account. A lot of old, terrible fic is still on that old account.

When I was 14, in August of 2016, I decided to do a little writing challenge for myself--or rather, "so that my readers know I'm not dead" (even if I didn't really have any readers): I wanted to write a short piece every month. And I am still writing a 'short piece' every month. The earliest of those tend to be 300-500 words; nowadays they're upwards of 1000 words, and I believe the longest out of all of them is a solid 3k words. And while I've skipped a few months by accident here and there, I'm proud to say I've been quite consistent with this series.

When I was around 16 or so, two things happened: number 1, I decided to switch from FF.net to Ao3, and number 2, I got a cellphone. When I switched to Ao3 I decided to port only my monthlies, because I had a lot of basically-abandoned multichapter fics on there that I had no idea how to finish, and I made switching to Ao3 a new start--I was a chronic pantser at that point, and still am in many ways, but that was the point when I started actually writing out notes and small outlines and doing prep work for my stories. Getting a phone was also a notable moment because it enabled me to work on my stories away from a computer, and because of a little journal app called Day One, in which I began to do daily writing practice that wasn't working on a specific WIP.

As I started to close out high school, I wrote and published on Ao3 my very first finished (and currently only) multichapter fic: start living when your heart stops, which was originally supposed to be 5 chapters and ended up 9 chapters. It was my first proper exercise in plotting out a story, and it was made possible in large part by an enforced and regular routine that I lost when COVID hit and when I went to college.

(There were probably certain milestones that I hit while in college--such as participating in my first (and currently only) bang/fic-and-art exchange event, or switching from Google Docs to LibreOffice--but none are jumping out at me as important.)

As for where I am now? I'm still working on prep work, and I still don't have a good routine for writing. But the ideas that I have are evolving. I've entered an experimental era of sorts, dipping my toes into things I'm not practiced at writing, even with my extensive history of wild AUs, such as symbolism, real-world critiques, longer narratives and more complex narrative structures. I am also attempting to (at least sometimes) force myself to write more than one draft, because I know full well that my writing improves dramatically with more than one draft, but without a solid routine for writing (and with ADHD on top of that) it's difficult to make myself do so. Still, I'm hopeful.

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

Not incredibly. I use mostly my computer and LibreOffice to write my stories, and my usual method of organization is to have an Outline/Notes section at the top of the document (or Brainstorming, if it's an MSP) and an Actual Writing section below that, with subheaders for different chapters or scenes. It allows me to make notes of things that may not be said outright in the story but would still inform character's decisions or plot events and to jump around and write scenes out of order without messing things up or losing track of the story.

I also have Day One, a journal app, which I use for daily writing practice--a lot of random ideas and snippets get written down and stored there, and the consistency of writing in it has (I believe) greatly improved my writing-related microskills, like sentence structure and word choice.

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

I love it. Can't get enough of it. It adds so much clarity and conciseness--why isn't it mandatory?

[culturenosh]

Is Róisín Murphy transphobic?

On Wednesday, the Twitter feeds of internet-pilled LGBTQ+ people across the world lit up with a dismaying piece of information:

Róisín Murphy had gone full transphobe.

It's not clear yet if this is real - as of this writing, Murphy hasn't commented, and this kind of screenshot is pretty easily faked. Still, the screenshot was enough to send certain segments of social media into overdrive. Her comments and replies have been inundated with disappointed, angry fans and transphobes who are thrilled to have found a new public figure to latch onto.

For at least two decades, Murphy's musical output and public persona have been centered on campy performances of diva-dom. Her voice communicates arch, haughty reserve even at her most emotional, and her work fits squarely within a post-disco dance-pop tradition that has been pioneered by queer people; her aesthetics play with superficiality, glamour, and gender in ways that feel particularly attuned to queer culture. The video for her song "Movie Star" literally shows her strolling around town with an entourage of drag artists.

Aside from the dismay, this comment seemed like unbelievable self-sabotage. She's spent her entire career cultivating a fanbase of people who do not fit within gender norms, pulling inspiration from the work and lives of queer people. Where did this come from? How could she have missed the point so spectacularly?

Yet, while I'm on record as a fan of hers, I watched this all unfold and felt... nothing. A little disappointed, but mostly numb - and, somehow, totally unsurprised.

In 2020, much was made of the supposed "disco revival." Artists like Dua Lipa, Kylie Minogue, Jessie Ware, and - yes - Murphy released records that nominally played with the sound and imagery of disco. I'd argue that, as a whole, this moment was more indebted to house and techno and turn-of-the-decade electropop - and, above all, the postmodern distance that characterized French touch. It wasn't disco; it was "disco." Rather than reflecting the physical thrill of real disco, it drew on the flattened, 2D aesthetic that has come to characterize that musical movement in online spaces. It was about nostalgia, not euphoria; and nostalgia is not depth.

While Murphy's Róisín Machine was easily the best album of this mini-wave - the most considered, the most well-written, the most sonically playful and experimental - it was still, at its core, backwards-looking. It was less interested in updating its influences than it was in projecting Murphy into an imagined past where her arch posture could still scan as transgressive. To her credit, the record did this very successfully! But while she took inspiration from queer music of the past, she also gracefully elided the need to pay attention to queer people of the present. Her allyship only ever extended as far as an aesthetic feature in a music video. She is a pop musician, not an an activist. She is not that deep.

In the past, I've been an enthusiastic booster of the gay-pandering-popstar-industrial complex. (I am, after all, a longtime Charli XCX fan.) This mode of listening encourages a parasocial connection between me and my chosen diva - I imagine that, because of our shared aesthetic taste, we must also share the same values and experiences. But aesthetics are just surface level, and pop stars lie. Their job is to appear the way their audience desires them to appear - to anticipate and direct those desires - so that the audience will give them money.

I'm tired of diva worship and popstars and glamour and beauty. I'm tired of rationalizing a good feeling in my body - the bouncy, stomach-dropping thrill of a four-on-the-floor beat and a catchy hook - as moral rectitude. I'm tired of idolization, tired of the music industry, tired of these predictable outrage cycles where everyone must grandstand on the internet. I'm tired of finding out, over and over and over again, that some famous musician that I will never meet thinks that I should die. But I'm never surprised. Surprise requires faith, and I have no faith in popstars.

[invisibleraven]

I really want to see what your brain does with "you bought me a SWORD? OH MAN IM GONNA BE SO DANGEROUS " for PeterPatterLina

"Come on Peters, keep up."

Reggie's head swerved this way and that, taking in his surroundings. Despite growing up in LA, just a stone's throw from Hollywood, he had never imagined himself on a film set. Yet, here he was, the up and coming star of a new bodice ripper romance action film.

All around him were the pieces of the set, costumes, people reciting lines, people checking lights, noise and bustle. Plus one annoyed looking PA who was supposed to be fetching him from his trailer to go get some measurements done. He gave the poor harangued woman an apologetic smile and dashed off after her.

The next hour was a series of little tortures as he was measured and pinned for his wardrobe, had various shades of make up tested on his skin, and had his hair nearly yanked out as they played with various styles. Thank goodness this movie didn't require prosthetics like his last film, sitting still for hours only to be covered in latex and silicone was not in Reggie's good times book.

"Alright, time for props," the PA said, and then thrust a rapier into his hands.

"Y-you bought me a SWORD? OH MAN IM GONNA BE SO DANGEROUS!" Reggie exclaimed, giving the sword a few experimental flicks.

Suddenly the blade was on the floor and no longer in his hands, and there was another at the tip of his chin. Following the line of steel, he saw the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on. Wild brown curls tied back in a fluffy braid, soft cocoa skin, and eyes that were flashing both fury and passion. "No you will not," she said, her voice akin to a seraph. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Reggie Peters, meet Julie Molina. She's the sword master here on set, she'll be training you and your co-star how to use these things to avoid loss of limb or life," the PA said.

"Where is the worthless layabout?" Julie asked, scanning the set.

"Aw boss, you really did miss me!" a cheeky young man said as he popped up from behind her, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

"Patterson, what have I said?"

The man sighed, rolled his eyes and then said, "Not on set boss, I know, I know." He turned and winked at Reggie, making him blush atomic red. "So, you my dashing hero?"

"This is your co-lead, Reggie Peters. Peters this is..."

"Luke Patterson," Reggie breathed. "I know who he is, I think I'm responsible for half the gross on his last movie."

"You a fan of the space westerns then?" Luke asked, his grin wide and cheeky. "Julie here did the gun work for that one."

"Are there any weapons you don't know how to use?" Reggie asked the woman.

She hummed, thinking. "I'm not great with a flail, and I have yet to master the lance. But otherwise? No, I'm pretty damn deadly with everything else." Her words made Reggie shiver, but not as much as the sweet smile she sent him did.

The shiver and his rapidly pinkening face didn't go away as Luke threw an arm over his shoulder. "Don't worry, she's a good teacher, firm but fair. And I'm a newbie with the blade too, so we'll be in this together."

"First lesson starts now then," Julie said. "Grab your swords and we'll work on your forms in the practice space." She sheathed her sword with flair and started walking off, a slight sway to her hips. Both men watched her go, only scrambling for the swords as she looked over he shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting boys!"

Reggie and Luke ran off after her, and he wasn't sure how none of them managed not to get hurt that first day. He slowly got better, and even came to enjoy learning how to use the sword, even if he wasn't sure it was something he ever would do again.

But by the end of the film, Reggie came away with a credit to his name, a new skill, and two partners on his arm for the red carpet.

Pretty good job, all considered.

[masschase]

Rowvember Day 14: Brain

Just a short little written piece about a moment I've mentioned happening before :)

-------------

Matt watched the readings spike up and down rapidly and dramatically, showing no signs of calming or slowing. He stared at it for quite some time, it was an oddly hypnotic pattern. This was different from a lot of the sample data he could find, but he was no psychologist, so he was reliant on what he could look up about it.

He glanced over at his fellow tech expert, who was currently looking bored out of her mind as she leant on her hand, watching the Boss fight a warden on her own screen. He was kind of terrified to ask. He was kind of terrified of her, truth be told, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Kinzie... have you seen this?” he said before gazing back at it once more.

“What?” she asked in a displeased manner, not even looking up. She still wasn't entirely happy working with him and she made little effort to hide it. He remained fixated on the screen, however, because he was a little perplexed by it. When he didn't answer, she glanced over, rolled her eyes at him and slid her chair closer. She took a moment to watch before commenting. “An EEG?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah...” he said slowly. “It’s... data from the some of the checks I run on the simulation... Do you... know anything about them?”

“Hmm...” she replied. “I mean, a little. The FBI was working on some experimental stuff around brain fingerprinting before I had the joy of running into you.”. The sarcasm in her words was twinned with a great deal of bitterness.

“Oh... right...” he muttered. “S-sorry.”

“You know it loses all meaning when you apologise 5 times a week, right?” she criticised in response.

“But you just-“ he began. He could hear himself speaking in the whiny tone he downright hated hearing out of his own mouth but couldn't seem to do much about. “Never mind, look... can you help me?”

She sighed and looked his screen over. “OK, so there’s... a lot going on there. A lot of activity.” she said with a shrug.

“That’s what I thought...” he replied, nodding slightly.

She gave him a look as if to ask why the hell he’d bothered her if he’d already worked that out. “So... a faster neural network function?” she asked. “From what I’m aware, that could be a sign of high IQ.” She paused and a look of disgust quickly overcame her slight interest as she shifted away from the screen. “Oh god, this is a recording of yours, isn't it?”

He shook his head lightly. “No, it's... it's from the simulation I’m running right now.” he explained. He looked at her pointedly. “It's the Boss's.”

“Oh.” Kinzie remarked, raising her eyebrows ever so slighly. She didn’t look quite as surprised by him by the information. She took a second to mull it over, and shrugged again. Then her expression did turn a little. “Oh God, do not tell her.” she warned.

“What... why not?”. He honestly thought it was an interesting topic of discussion, even if he had no solid interpretation of it. He’d only been here for a few days and for various reasons he was really struggling to talk with her. She’d always seemed polite enough in their brief dealings at the White House but now things were sort of... tense... between them.

“Matt, have you met the Boss?” she protested. “It’ll go straight to her head!”

“Yes, but-“ he protested, then realised this probably wasn’t something worth dealing with a pissed off Kinzie for. He sighed. “Fine. I suppose you’ve got a point.”

“I just think... we want confidence to take down Zinyak, not overconfidence.” she explained a little more gently.

“Alright I... I get it...” he replied a little disappointedly.

“You’re on your own for the last few minutes anyway, I’m going to get lunch.” Kinzie told him. “Luckily for you, it looks like she’s almost done.”. She turned and walked over to the door which slid apart with a soft mechanical noise.

“If she’s not, could you um... maybe bring me something back?” he called out.

“Probably not.’ she called back matter-of-factly just before the door slid closed again behind her.

“...Sounds about right...” he mumbled. It wasn’t like he didn’t still punish himself for it all at times. He looked between the Boss fighting on the screen and the EEG thoughtfully. He didn’t have to wait long before the warden was defeated, and the Boss sprinted her way to the nearby gateway.

The pod opened and the President- or perhaps former President would be more apt- emerged from it, stepping out confidently and shaking out her wavy hair a little with her hands. “Did you fuckin’ see me in there Kinz, it...”. She seemed to realise her friend wasn't there and stopped herself. “Oh, uh... hey Matt...”

“Hi...” he responded, his eyes fixed on her. Very fixed. It was hard to take his eyes off her in that bloody spacesuit, she was just... so... “Your brainwaves!” he blurted out.

She seemed completely taken aback by what he meant by that phrase out of context. “...My what now?” she asked, perplexed, frowning at him.

“Your... I um...”. He felt so stupid for having said it. “I saw your... your brain activity while you were in the simulation and there was just, there was so much going on-“ he began to ramble. “I mean I've not seen many of these things but it was really quite remarkable, I-“

She shook her head, laughing incredulously. “Sure, whatever Matt, blah blah FUUUUCK...” she complained, clearly unimpressed at his rambling. God she really was a bit of an arsehole at times. Kinzie was right, he shouldn’t have fucking said anything. But then there was an awkward silence as she seemed to hesitate for a second, putting a hand to her forehead as if embarrassed by her own response. “Uh... shit... I’m sorry, I... I’m just fuckin’ starving...” she admitted, shaking her head slightly and blinking like she was perhaps a little woozy. “Uh... you wanna go get some lunch?”. She gave him an oddly gentle smile.

It brought a slight smile out of him too. “Yeah...” he said. Suddenly the whole brainwaves thing was kind of... gone for now. But it would forever colour his perception of her. “I’d like that actually." he replied.

-----------

I hope she doesn't come across as irredeemable here I really don't...

Honestly too tired to make any other notes 🥲

[lightandfellowship]

Replying to @tea-and-finalfantasy in reference to this post:

i tend to assume it's for aesthetics esp when considering kh1 as like. square not quite knowing what they wanted yet (i saw someone refer to it like that and i was like yeah it kinda makes sense) and just wanting to throw the aesthetic in for edginess/mysteriousness BUT it's interesting to bring up the chapel in HB bc there's also the one in traverse town? one could draw contrasts between the two! in a guidebook? maybe? so i'm not sure how canon that is or (1/2)

if we should only adhere to the in game content as official canon, it mentioned that traverse town is made up of pieces of worlds lost to darkness so like maybe the chapel in TT is also referencing a chapel somewhere else?

You know, that's a good point. KH1 was a somewhat janky (affectionate), experimental beast and a first of its kind for Square. So it makes sense that Square would be throwing various things at the wall to see what sticks, and perhaps one of those things that didn't end up sticking was the suggestion that religion exists in KH's original worlds. And yeah, I suppose the chapel aesthetics would perfectly fit with the gothic atmosphere they were going for, even if it wasn't intended to mean anything. (The Stations of Awakening, come to think of it, are made of stained glass after all, something that's often associated with chapels).

You're referring to the Gizmo Shop's facade looking like a church and even having a church bell on top, right? (I didn't even consider that, so thank you for pointing it out). Yeah, I think if anything the fact that it's been repurposed as a "gizmo shop" hints to the fact that it's probably from another world, rather than something the residents built. Because why construct a church if you're just going to turn it into a shop anyway? I guess the refugees of Traverse Town have no need for a church? Despite the apocalypse happening all around them? (Maybe the end of the world actually made them less religious rather than more...interesting!)

[gamekids-firewolf]

also since I forgot -- it's been a few months since book 3 got published, so. here's the whole first chapter!

--

Play: Origin_02_Inferno.mry

Error: File corruption. Rerouting.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Vektor was no stranger to loss. His parents defended their Kingdom from the Mainframe with their lives. His whole Kingdom was taken from him by that Thief. Certain memories were kept from him behind restricted access.

He used to believe those were simply his own doing. Painful truths he wished not to face; he witnessed the moment his parents were destroyed, after all.

Now, however.

There was no running from it anymore.

The Rabbit Hole was much kinder to him than it was his parents. They were deleted when struck down, yet he was spared. He belonged to two realms now, not just simply the Rabbit Hole alone. He forged bonds outside his home and became more familiar here than he ever was inside his Kingdom. He had more reason to protect this realm than he had for his home.

Change. This influence Inferno brought was simple, yet it infected all of them down to their core arguments.

Fitting for the overwhelming power he held inside him.

If Vektor was certain of one thing, it was that these restricted memories held some sort of key. Some information that they desperately needed in the wake of what happened to Inferno.

Their realms were separate. They had to be, lest they warp one another to obscurity. Yet Inferno landed himself in the Seventh Circle through his own means. Inferno defied all of Vektor's knowledge and tore through both realms as if the barriers between were mere suggestions.

Inferno was bound by shadow. It dripped from his fingers when he wasn't paying enough attention and marred his face when he grew hostile against himself. He was absolutely coated in it when they retrieved him from the Rabbit Hole and Vektor could scarcely believe what the code there told him.

There was no other way to look at it. Inferno was one of them.

Inferno was the same as Vektor.

"That should make sense, though." Jonathan said in reply to Vektor's fearful ramblings. Jonathan was the only one he could trust with such vulnerable information. Jonathan wouldn't bite his head off like Wolf or completely brush him off for thinking so hard on this, as everyone was prone to doing when it concerned Inferno. "You said he's got something like your. You called it Create, yeah? You said he's got something more powerful in him than everyone else combined, so it makes sense that he's got a hold in this system, same as you."

It did make sense, but there was still a piece that didn't quite fit. Vektor frowned at the incomplete picture it left before him. "Everything makes sense when I look at it as though Inferno helped build the Rabbit Hole. But that can't be the case." He said, pacing restlessly along the linoleum floors.

Jonathan's favourite place was this lab where his desires for experimentation were free to go wild. A free study he was allowed due to his classes and his studiousness. He and Vektor weren't usually this bold, hanging out together before the cover of night, but Vektor needed the company and Jonathan didn't mind giving it. Jonathan never minded giving it, much as he put on airs otherwise.

"Inferno said he isn't one of the Creators, that his hands don't reach that far into the system's origins. If he's not the one behind everything, then why is he so inextricably tied to it as he is?"

"It is quite the head scratcher, huh?" Jonathan said with a hum.

He pressed a hand to his chin as he thought. His dark eyes (black, like Vektoria's Void, but fading to grey around their edges) darted to his notebook, where he kept all his notes on his chemical concoctions and the like. Each formula was elegant, if a bit unrefined. Just like the man himself. Vektor slowed in his pacing just to watch him a moment, noting the way his posture and even his forefront code read as Jonathan and Jonathan alone.

When Hyde had kissed Vektor, he never expected he would grow so fond of the man. He never expected to find himself so undeniably full of adoration for another that it broke past every threshold for these values tying him to all of his friends. His friends were his friends, but Jonathan — Jonathan was his everything. Jonathan could ask for his heart and Vektor would dutifully remove it from his own chest to hand right over.

That sort of bond should have been cause for alarm. Should have made Vektor recoil from it entirely.

And yet, against logic itself, Vektor could only think of basking in it as long as he was allowed.

"Would you prefer I call you my boyfriend or my datemate?" He asked.

Jonathan startled, face going a bit darker with his embarrassment. "Uh. That came out of nowhere."

Vektor strode over, closing that distance between them to look directly into his eyes. Darkness, the antithesis to Vektor's Gold. He was creation, was light, yet this darkness drew him in. It drew him in so powerfully. "It's a rather important question to ask." He said. "Our relationship is very important to me, as is your comfort."

Jonathan ducked away, closing off that connection momentarily. "I-I don't know. Ask me later." He said in a huff. "We were talking about Dante and the game, don't distract me."

Distraction.

It was deeply interwoven through Inferno's code.

Vektor reached out to cup Jonathan's face and though the man made a show of resistance, Hyde resurfaced to lean into it. Hyde always desired touch, overriding Jonathan's own fluster when they wished to give more tactile shows of this affection glowing in their chests. "He was programmed to deflect." Vektor mumbled. "Programmed to keep attention away, to keep us guessing on less important matters."

Jonathan eyed him in confusion. "You mean. You talking about his code or whatever?"

Vektor was so close to something. He scanned through that mess of Inferno's code, knew all it held, and yet it was still such a mystery. Why program him in such a manner? Why grant him that boundless Create, that overpowering Change, yet interpret both as a curse? Vektor pulled away and said, "Perhaps. It might be cruel, but we should consider everything Inferno has ever told us to be a lie."

Jonathan shoved Hyde back down as he watched him carefully. Still confused, but growing annoyed. "That means you were filled with lies, too." He said.

A cruel truth. One Vektor wished to reject immediately, but pushed past that instinct and really assessed it. Inferno agreed with him, after all, on the myth of his Kingdom's creation. Inferno agreed with him when he gave explanation after explanation and none of it was satisfactory enough to settle any matter. "Both of us were given the same lies." He mused darkly, looking down at his open palm.

The gold he produced was not dissimilar to Inferno's flames, but vastly inferior. There was something missing, something more than just the way their powers never added up, the way they butted heads and still couldn't deny fondness for one another.

Inferno advocated for his personhood. Vektor did his best to similarly encourage him to do the same. Allowing all his code to tie him down as he did, it made Inferno more volatile. More likely to pop.

To pop?

Such an odd phrase. As if Inferno's only purpose was to burn down his surroundings, to prove some point of the capabilities of the Rabbit Hole.

But that was ludicrous. Why would the Creators give a child like Inferno such an awful end?

Why would they write such cruelty for their—

Vektor winced and recoiled from the thought. Access denied. There it was again. It was becoming much more infuriating now than it was previously. Jonathan hopped up from his seat and rounded the desk in concern, but Vektor held up his hand to stop him.

"You forget we're somewhere completely public and in broad daylight." He reminded his (boy?) (date?) friend.

Jonathan shied away a few steps, chastised. "Right. Thanks." He mumbled in his embarrassment.

Vektor closed his eyes and allowed that pain to ebb away. He couldn't get too close to such truths. He couldn't even grasp how that thought was supposed to end. He had to distance himself from this line of thinking, had to restart from the first point in their gathered data and follow it to a more plausible explanation.

His head snapped up as a foreign scent came to him. From the way Jonathan's expression twisted from concern to disgust, he noticed it, too. "Do you. Smell smoke?" He asked.

Smoke.

Where there was smoke, there was fire.

Where there was fire, there could only be—

Vektor gasped. "Inferno."

Jonathan's expressions switched straight into a wide-eyed horror. Wordlessly, the two of them sprinted out of the room (Jonathan being much faster, of course) and into the halls. There was, indeed, a billowing fire fighting its way out of a classroom just a few doors down. It was viscous and could only read Inferno, rooting Vektor to the spot as its waves of heat lashed over him. Jonathan winced and shied away, but Vektor was frozen by the sight, by that half-formed thought of earlier.

Inferno was meant to pop.

They were all such imbeciles. Such fools.

There was no other purpose to the Rabbit Hole.

"What are you two doing?" Puppet screeched at them.

Vektor flinched, as did Jonathan, breaking the both of them from that stupor. The flames clawed their way out of the room, desperate and hungry, but couldn't find hold in the floor or the walls despite their attempts to burn everything. They were kept at the centre, kept from blasting outward, no doubt by Inferno himself in his unwillingness to show his danger for what it truly was.

Puppet was just as wide-eyed, just as breathless in her panic as they were. Her less comforting black eyes were much more similar to Vektoria's (pretending to be lifelike, an endless pit filled with their fury and hatred), but she still grabbed both of their arms and dragged them away from the stomach-turning sight. "There's a goddamn fire, we need to evacuate. Call the fire department, the police, a teacher for all I care. Get someone here so they can stop that idiot from burning this place to the ground."

Her words reached Jonathan and he fumbled his phone a moment, saying distractedly, "Right, right, we need to call someone."

Vektor was too overwhelmed by this fact presented before him. Too overwhelmed by knowledge he never desired.

Inferno was at this centre.

Inferno was trapped in his own fires.

Inferno was the only reason the Rabbit Hole existed as it did.

He pulled against Puppet's hold as those values screamed at him to take action. "We have to get him out." He said through his stressed teeth, his better judgements. "We can't just leave him. We have to get him out of there."

"Are you crazy? You'll die if you run straight into that." Puppet spat at him.

Her reason did nothing to dissuade this terrible instinct. She dragged him struggling and kicking away from his friend, those fires, and the hallway stretched before him in some trick of perception. Though they made it outside soon enough, this school was tiny in comparison to his kingdom, the length of paces separating him from his friend seemed nightmarishly exaggerated. Was it a bug in his perception? Knowledge of his own lacking Speed? Either way, she continued dragging him further and further away along the less flammable stones lining the path of this realm. He was forced to watch the building grow farther, the smoke climb higher into the dark blue of the afternoon sky.

Almost evening, but not quite. Almost supper, but without the proper rosy golds which came with sunset.

Jonathan made some call and none of it was comforting. Inferno had popped, had finally shown his hand, yet they ran away from it. Why did they always have to run from Inferno's truths?

Inferno was distraction. He was designed to keep others away from the reality they all found themselves in.

This end was always meant for him.

It was written even before Vektor knew just how much Inferno would end up meaning to him.

He let out a guttural scream, the only outlet for all this anguish available to him. Even as others gathered and steps were taken to extinguish that blaze, Vektor couldn't shake away this encompassing truth.

It was never about him and his Kingdom. It was never about getting back before the worst could occur.

It was always about Inferno.

Well played, Creators.