#too lazy to draw anyone who makes sense so blank bob it is

[ray-array]

FAKEMAN FAN EEEE YAYAYAYAQYAYAY IVE BEEN TRAPPED IN THE FAKEMAN-DOM DUDE...

YEAHH DAMN RIGHT HI HIHI FELLOW FAKELIKER !! I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN 😭😭 healpp

[overheardatthecontinental]

Kinktober Day 13: Almost Caught

It was easy to fall into a relationship with John, Helen thinks as she lays in his huge bed, watching the light rise over his property. John’s was already awake, had kissed her good morning, and he went downstairs to make coffee.

John was sweet. And caring. Generous in his attention. He spoiled her mercilessly but it was so much more than that, too. It was the way he made her coffee every morning and made space for her in his closet. The way he installed security over her house and did everything in his power to protect her.

He was paranoid but for the right reasons. He wanted her safe and he was terrified, above all else, that she was going to get hurt because of him.

She understood. She knew what he did. She knew he had enemies.

But that part of their relationship was hard.

The secrecy. The lies. Telling her family she was single but still dodging every date her mother tried to set her up on.

John didn’t really have to lie that much. He had acquaintances but he lacked friendship, outside of Helen. But she was still a secret. Someone he went home to but never spoke about. 

She understood. But it hurt.

Still, she would never let him know. The guilt was already heavy on his shoulders and she didn’t want to add to it.

Helen sighs and rises to her feet. She picks up John’s shirt off the ground from where it had fallen the night before as they collapsed together in bed. She rolled up the sleeves and walked down the hall just as John made his way up the stairs. He’s already dressed and carrying two mugs.

He handed her the daisy mug and Helen accepted. “Thank you, baby.”

“You’re welcome. I need to check my email. Want to come?”

She follows him into his study and leans against his desk as John boots his laptop.

“What do you want to do today?” John asks as he waits.

Helen shrugs a shoulder, “Lazy day? Crap television, crap take out, and amazing sex?”

He smirks, glancing up over his laptop. “Oh yeah?”

“It has my vote. Followed closely by crap television, amazing take out, and crap sex.”

John reaches for her and Helen sets the coffee on the desk, letting John tug her forward and onto his lap. She laughs, softly, as he tickles her sides.

Helen rests her head on his shoulder, "I love you."

He kisses her head, "I love you too."

She smiled and breathed in his delightful scent. Life was good.

“John? You home?” A male voice calls up the stairs.

“Fuck!” John swears.

“Who’s that?”

“Marcus. Fuck!” John says again. “Can you go to the bedroom and stay there?”

Helen rolls her eyes, “I thought Marcus was your friend.”

“He’s as close as I have but…”

“But?”

“Please, Hels. I’ll get rid of him fast?”

“John?” The voice is getting closer.

“Under the desk.” John says quietly.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

“Please, Hels.”

“Fuck.” She swears, looking completely unamused. “Fine, but you owe me so bad for this, John.”

“Whatever you want.” He promises, placing a hand on her shoulder as she slips to her knees and crawls under the desk. Never has John been so grateful to have such a large desk before in his life.

“You home?” Marcus calls.

“In the study.” John hollers back and Marcus appears in the doorway.

“Did Donovan really take a case out from under you?” Marcus asks, walking in. From her hiding spot, Helen can hear the sound of a chair being dragged out on the floor.

John scoffs, “I gave it to him. It was on a deadline and I have things to do this weekend.”

“Yeah, you look real busy. But Donovan is going around telling everyone that he snatched it out from under you.”

John leans back in his chair and Helen smiles as a thought forms. John had put her under a table. Well, fuck. 

If he was going to play this like that then she was going to damn well take advantage of the situation. It doesn’t take much to lean forward and crawl between his thighs. She feels him stiffen, ever so slightly, as she reaches through the opening of his sweatpants and wraps a hand around his dick.

“I’ll talk to him Monday.” John says and she knows that he is slipping into assassin-mode. He is becoming the man who can walk on a broken leg and continue to choke the life out of someone with a gunshot wound. He’s pulling that blank face down and she wonders, idly, if he can really keep it up.

She pulls him out of his pants as John continues to talk.

“But I have to say that Seamus Donovan isn’t high on my list of concerns.”

She runs her hand down his length, bringing his semi-hard cock to life before her. She uses a finger to trace the veins as Marcus speaks up.

“Nor should he be. Winston already publicly called him out about it and he went back.”

Helen is no longer listening as John’s cock pulses in her hand. She glances up, although she cannot make out his face over the desk and she brings her tongue to his length. She licks the head, swirling her tongue around his tip.

A hand grasps her hair and tries to pull her back. He can’t do much, however, without drawing attention to her. And she knows that John would much rather be tormented by her mouth than to have her revealed to anyone in the Underworld.

Jokes on him, she decides, keeping a hand at the base of his cock.

As much as she would like to take him down her throat, to choke and gag on him, she can’t do that silently. 

The next best thing will have to be this.

She bobs her head gently, taking him as deep as she dares while John’s hand tightens in her hair. Again, the joke is on him. As if a little hair pulling will stop her.

He’s still talking to his friend casually telling him about some fake plans he has. Such a liar. She almost wonders if she should stop just before he comes. If she should take him to the edge, make him rock hard under the desk, bring him to the moment of release and stop. 

It was a delightful thought. 

And he must sense what she is thinking because he loosens the grip on her hair and tugs her forward.

She must have slowed down, she realizes, because John is fucking her face as carefully as he can.

“I don’t think so.” John says, and she wonders if his friend has noticed the slight change in his voice, “I’m trying not to take any foreign cases right now.”

“Why not?” Marcus asks, “You’re usually the main guy for international.”

Helen almost snorts. Because, she thinks, moving her hand to gently massage John’s balls, he’d have to go days without this mouth. And poor John just can’t do that anymore.

She feels him tighten in her hand and she softly inhales, preparing for what is to come.

His cock pulses and his cum spills into her mouth, salty and thick. She swallows him down without a thought and the only evidence that anything has changed was a momentary hitch in John’s breath.

He’s going to get her back for this, she knows. Good. Maybe if she teases him a little harder, she’ll get his belt. 

She sits back on her knees, listening as John wraps up the conversation, insisting that he’ll be leaving soon himself.

She hears the chair be pushed out and poor John can’t even stand, his dick still poking through his pants.

“I’ll see you Monday, then.” Marcus says, moving towards the door, “Oh, and John?”

“Yeah?”

“Nice try at subtlety, but you got two coffee mugs on your desk.”

Oh yes, she’s definitely earned the belt.

...

Part 2-- John’s revenge comes tomorrow

[oneweekoneband]

I’m slightly nauseous already with knowing I’m going to say this, but what does “self-awareness”  even mean? In modern parlance, as a descriptive phrase, as a comment on art? I’m asking in earnest, like, I’ve been Googling lately, which for me is basically on par with doctoral study in terms of academic rigor. The self is king, anyway, tyrant, so where is the line of distinction between material that intentionally is nodding at some truth about the artist’s life and what’s just, like, all the rest of the regular navel-gazing bullshit. I mean, I’m all self, I am guilty here. I can’t get it out of my poems or even make it more quiet. This is the tenth time I’ve invoked “I” in the space of six sentences. Processing art has always necessitated a certain amount of grappling with the creator, but the busywork of it lately grows more and more tedious. Joy drains out of my body parsing marks left behind not just in stylistic tendencies and themes, but in literal, intentional tags like graffiti on a water tower. This feels an age old and moth-holed complaint, dull, and I am no historian, or really a serious thinker of any kind. I’ve now complained at some length about self-referential art, but didn’t I love how Martin Scorsese nodded to the famous Goodfellas Copacabana tracking shot with the opening frames of last year’s The Irishman? Didn’t I find that terribly fun and sort of sweet? So there’s distinctions. I’m only saying I don’t know with certainty what they even are. I’m unreliable, and someone smarter than me has likely already solved my quandary about why self-knowledge often transforms into overly precious self-reflexivity in such a way that the knowledge is diminished and obscured, leaving only cutesy Easter eggs behind. Postmodernism has birthed a moralizing culture where art exists to be termed either “self-aware Good” or “self-aware Bad”.  Self-referentiality in media is so commonplace, so much the standard, that what was once credited as metatextual inventiveness often feels lazy now. In 1996, Scream was revitalizing a genre. Today, two thirds of all horror movies spend half their running time making sure that you know that they know they’re a horror movie, which is fine, I guess, except sometimes you just wanna watch someone get butchered with an axe in peace. 

This is all to say that in 2020 Taylor Swift looked long and hard upon her image in the reflecting pool of her heart and has written yet another song about Gone Girl.

“mirrorball” is a very good piece of Gone Girl —feels insane to tell anyone reading a post on a blog what Gone Girl is but, you know, the extremely popular 2012 novel about a woman who pretends to have been murdered and frames her husband for it, and subsequently the 2014 film adaption where you kinda see Ben Affleck’s dick for a second—fanfiction. It would be a fine song, a good song, really, even if it weren’t that, if it were just something normal and not unhinged written by a chill person who behaves in a regular way, but we need to acknowledge the facts for what they are. When Taylor Swift watched Rosamund Pike toss her freshly self-bobbed hair out of her face and hiss, “You think you’d be happy with some nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby. I’m it!” her brain lit up like a Christmas tree, and she’s never been the same. If you Google “taylor swift gone girl” there waiting for you will be a medium sized lake’s worth of articles speculating about how Gone Girl influenced and is referenced in past Swift singles “Blank Space” and “Look What You Made Me Do”. This is not new behavior, and if anything it’s getting a bit troubling to think that it’s been this long since Taylor’s read another book. Still, while the prior offerings were a fair attempt at this particular feat of depravity, “mirrorball” has brought Taylor’s Amy Elliott Dunne deification to stunning new heights. And most importantly, Taylor has done a service to every person alive with more than six brain cells and a Internet connection by putting an end to the “Cool Girl” discourse once and for all. By the power invested in “mirrorball”, it is hereby decreed that the Cool Girl speech from Gone Girl is neither feminist or antifeminist, not ironic nor aspirational. No. It’s something much better than all that. It’s a threat. I ! Can ! Change ! Everything ! About ! Me ! To ! Fit ! In !

Gone Girl (2012) by Gillian Flynn

“mirrorball” (2020) by Taylor Swift

When the twinkly musical stylings of Jack Antonoff, a man I distinctly distrust, but for no one specific reason, whirl to life at the beginning of this song I feel instantly entranced, blurry-brained and pleasure-pickled like an infant beneath a light-up crib mobile or, I guess, myself in the old times, the outside times, three tequila sodas deep under the disco lights at The Short Stop. Under a mirrorball in my head. I know very little about music, as a craft, and I really don’t care to know more. I’m happy in a world of pure, dumb sensation. I’m not even sure what kind of instruments are making these jangly little sounds. I just like it. I am vibing. We may not ever be able to behave badly in a club again, but I can sway to my stupid Taylor Swift-and-the-brother-of-the-lady-who-makes-like-those-sweatshirts-with-little-sayings-or-like-vulvas-which-famous-white-women-wear-on-instagram-you-know-what-I-mean song, pressing up onto my tiptoes on the linoleum tile of our kitchen floor and can feel for a second or two something approaching bliss. “mirrorball” is a lush sound bath that I like a lot and then also it’s about being all things to all people, chameleoning at a second’s notice, doing Oscar worthy work on every Zoom call, performing the you who is good, performing the you who is funny, performing the you who draws a liter of your own blood and throws it around the kitchen then cleans it up badly all to get your husband sent to jail for sleeping with a college student... Too much talk about making and unmaking of the self is way too, like, 2012 Tumblr for me now, and I start hearing the word “praxis” ring threateningly in my head, but I’m not yet so evolved that I don’t feel a pull. Musings on the disorganized self—on how we are new all the time, and not just because of all the fresh skin coming up under the dead, personhood in the end so frighteningly flexible—are always going to compel me, I’m afraid, but that goes double for musings on the disorganized self which posit that Taylor Swift still thinks Amy Dunne made some points.

Because on “mirrorball” Taylor is for once not hamfistedly addressing some “hater”, in the quiet and the lack of embarrassing martyrdom it actually offers an interesting answer to the complaint that Taylor is insufficiently self-aware. This criticism emerges often in tandem with claiming to have discovered some crack in the chassis of Swift’s public self, revealing the sweetness to be insincere. My instinct is to dismiss this more or less out of hand as just a mutation of the school of thought that presumes all work by women must be autobiography. And, regardless, it is made altogether laughable by the fact that anyone actually paying attention has known since at least Speak Now, a delightful record populated by the most appalling, horrible characters imaginable, and all of them written by a twenty year old Taylor Swift, that this woman is a pure weirdo. To accuse Taylor Swift of lacking in self-awareness is a reductive misunderstanding, I think, of artifice. Being a fake bitch takes work. Which is to say, if we agree that her public self is a calculated performance—eliding the fact that all public selves are a performance to avoid getting too in the weeds yadda yadda— why, then, should it be presumed that performance is rooted in ignorance? Would it not make more sense that, in fact, someone able to contort themselves so ably into various shapes for public consumption would have a certain understanding of the basic materials they’re working with and concealing? Taylor Swift, in a decade and a half of fame, has presented herself from inside a number of distinct packages. The gangly teenager draped in long curls like climbing wisteria who wrote lyrics down her arms in glitter paint gave way to red lipstick, a Diet Coke campaign, and bad dancing at awards shows. There was the period where she was surrounded constantly by a gaggle of models, then suddenly wasn’t anymore, and that rough interlude with the bleached hair. The whole Polaroid thing. Last year she boldly revealed she’s a democrat. Now it’s the end of the world and she’s got frizzy bangs and flannels and muted little piano songs. Perhaps this endless shape-shifting contradicts or undermines, for some, the pose of tender authenticity which has remained static through each phase, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been doing it all on purpose the entire time. I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try...

In the Disney+ documentary—which, in order to watch, I had to grudgingly give the vile mouse seven dollars, because the login information that I’d begged off of my little sister didn’t work and I was too embarrassed to bring it up a second time—Taylor referred to “mirrorball” as the first time on the album where she explicitly addressed the pandemic, referring to the lyrics that start, “And they called off the circus, Burned the disco down,” and end with “I’m still on that tightrope, I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me,” which actually did made me laugh, feeling sort of warmly foolish and a little fond, because it never would have occurred to me that she was trying to be literal there. I suppose we really do all contain multitudes. Hate that.

[curious-minx]

Bob’s Burgers most reliable holiday  provides another lowkey enjoyable, but messy episode. Whereas the latest Simpsons strikes a really sore vocal node.

The second holiday episode of Bob’s Burgers’ 11th season, much like the previous Halloween episode, this one also fails to live up to the series’ even higher Thanksgiving standard

 That’s not to say “Diarrhea of a Poopy Kid” is not a good episode, but it does fall into the category of Bob’s Burgers episode I typically respond to the least: Character-based storytelling vignettes. The writing on these segment driven episodes tend to be looser and  playful bending the show’s reality, but much like every time the other Fox family leaves the Springfield plane of reality into a pastiche styled playground for the writers to plug the characters into.

The overall animation and visual-based gags on this episode offers some of the best moments of the season and series in general. Having the Belcher stories revolve around action movie pastiches of 90’s action movie schlock like Air Force Once, Armageddon, and late 80’s Predator  are extremely punny and really grasping hard for satire. The walk to Louise’s Breadator is succinct and makes total sense for Louise’s character to tell this kind of story, whereas Tina drawing inspiration from Air Force One for her story sags the episode down. This episode also has the gall to bring in Gayle, a character that usually elevates all of her episodes nothing much to do until the third and best segment told by Bob. Teddie is also frustratingly nowhere to be seen and Teddie is one of those characters that really only needs a small scene explaining away  his absence like in the episode “Gayle Makin’ Bob Sled,” which Variety and I consider to be among the best of Bob’s Thanksgiving episodes. 

Nitpicks and reminiscing on past glories aside, what’s most impressive about an episode as conceptual and overstuffed as this one, an episode that’s also poopy and gross-out from the very beginning, still manages to pack undeniable heart. Seeing a character as relatable and sad sack-y as Bob Belcher be passionate about his one favorite holiday reminds me of the everlasting and evergreen Ray Bradbury remark about how everyone is capable of writing poetry as long as you ask them to talk about something they are truly passionate about. Seeing how this episode climax revolves around Gene and Bob’s love of food and proves a powerful sentimental moment. Bob’s Burgers sentimentality works because the show’s core is silly absurdism, light and fluffy gross out gags and quirky twee-ness. Introducing the action movie element feels like the series trying to branch out its audience and try to catch some eyeballs of viewers looking for something more like Archer, American Dad, Rick and Morty, or even Treehouse of Horror style genre exercises.  Bob’s Burgers and action comedy feels like putting garlic pesto on cinnamon toast, but Ryan Reynolds doesn’t think so.

Yes, that’s right. The biggest news out of the Bob’s Burgers camp…probably ever…is that the Molyneux sisters, the writers of this very action packed episode, have been hand selected by Mr. Detective “VanWilder” Pickachu himself to be head writers on the upcoming third Deadpool movie. Seeing that we live in a post Russo brothers world and how Dan Harmon was conscripted to punch up Doctor Strange scripts none of this should really surprise me, but I am still very much surprised by this development. The Deadpool 3 creative team and Reynolds is still promising to deliver an R-Rated Comedy, a rating and promise that is very much why Deadpool is the sensation that it is. 

In the current media landscape the only way a big budget R-Rated comedy can get made is if it’s attached to something like a mega superhero sized brand. At this point in time Deadpool is the closest thing kids have to a Mel or Al Brooks and it is what it is. If anything Ryan Reynolds personally choosing the Molyneux sisters for a project like this makes me like Ryan Reynolds a little bit more. And he’s a man I previously had no real feelings or opinions about. The only other thing about Deadpool I know about is that the franchise has developed a particularly shitty reputation in terms of its treatment of main female characters and literally freezing them out of the plot. The future of comedy is being driven by the significant increase of women gaining these kind of writing gigs and it’s a beautiful thing to finally see witness. Especially when a company like Netflix has been really shitty to both of its own female driven comedies: Glow and Tucca and Bertie.

Sigh. I am thankful for all the sad little boys and girls wearing too much or maybe the right amount of eye shadow that will inherit this flaming Earth.

Three and half pear shaped pals out of an Oedipus Rex Complex. 

////

Nerds! Nothing but a lousy rotten sniveling dweeb! You dorkus-rex! You body pillow huffing geek get over here and let the Simpsons set some things straight for you: A Comic Book Guy driven episode of the Simpsons is often where the show goes off the rails. The Comic Book Guy marriage episode is was one of those late day Simpsons that feel like a bad piece of dreamed up fan fiction that you found on the cutting room floor. Is the show interested at all with the fact that comics and being nerdy have become as mainstream as the Bible? No? They’re still treating geek culture as some sort of low hanging piñata fruit lousy with cheap references in place of actual jokes? Good! I don’t know why I would ever allow myself to think for a second that the Simpsons would challenge its own status quo 32 seasons in, but I keep coming back. 

What I should really do is back up. The title of this episode is “Three Dreams Denied.” Ah, Dream Denial! That’s exactly what anyone watching an animated sitcom hopes for: dreams being crushed. This isn’t some kiddy Davy and Goliath feel good wholesome fable, this is the Simpsons where characters are given dreams, and those dreams get denied. The next part of the title I want to break down is the fact that there are specifically three dreams that being denied. Three! That’s a comedy number! As long as you have three of anything you’re doing comedy. Plain and simple.

During the Robert Zemeicks arc of the Blank Check podcast Griffin Newman, co-host and comedian extraordinaire and someone I generally admire a lot, has been bringing up the fact that he’s been spending a lot of his Quarantine rewatching the entirety of the Simpsons. By the episode of Used Cars Newman has already gotten past the Movie era and is in the 20th seasons. One observation he made about later day Simpsons is that these episodes have a tendency to end abruptly on a pile of unusable and reality bending plots still in the process of tying themselves up. And there’s no better/worse example of this than this episode. 

Comic Book Guy goes to a comic book convention. Bart becomes a voice actor after befriending the comic book guy’s temporary replacement. Lisa feuds over her saxophone chair in the school orchestra with a new pretty boy voiced by the underwhelming Ben Platt. One of these plots is not like the other. This used to be the signature of a quality Simpsons episode that managed to tweak and divert expectations from the typical A & B sitcom storylines. This episode fundamentally fails to deliver on any of the three storylines and what makes it worse is that it’s an intentional choice. 

Now I know I have spent this review harping on Comic Book Guy, but he’s not even why this episode for me is such an abomination. And it’s not because the cutesy, flimsy Lisa subplot either (although I do find it noxiously amusing that a week after an Yeardely Smith took issue with the Queer Interpretation of Lisa would feature her going moony eyed over a boy voiced by a defiantly queer actor), no, what tips this episode into the territory of the truly terrible for me is the Bart becomes a voice actor subplot. 

The only defining quality of season 32 that I can discern is that the flagrant trolling on behalf of the writers. Can you believe we had three vignette driven episodes of the Simpsons in a row? Can you believe we would have meta reality breaking voice actor related moments back to back? When Lisa Simpson’s voice actor Yeardley Smith voiced the real world character of herself in the previous Podcast based episode it was clumsy and awkward as hell. Having Bart become a voice actor that ends up voicing a character of the opposite gender is the sort of kind of a funny thing that resembles a joke that the latter day Simpsons revel in. The characterization of voice acting work in this episode is downright insulting and explains exactly why this show suffers. 

The character of Phil that serves as the Comic Book Guy’s replacement is a working voice actor. He let’s Bart know this by doing a series of completely basic, broad and unremarkable impersonations that Bart is seemingly impressed by. All you have to do to become a successful voice actor is do a silly voice and you’re golden. Maybe from the perspective of a series as lazy and indulgent as the Simpsons is when it comes to voice acting. The complete denial of Julie Kavner’s deteriorating voice that at this point sounds like gentle elder abuse. There are times when Kavner is downright incomprehensible at times. The other oldest member of the Simpsons voice talent, Harry Shearer was wrongheadedly trying to defend his right to voice Characters of Colors because  in his words, “the job of the voice actor is to play someone who they’re not.” Obviously these words were not spoken by someone that thinks very highly of acting either. There is no one job an actor has to do, because the job  of an actor is always changing from job to job. The character of Phil is not even attributed to anyone! I have spent over thirty minutes getting testy with IMDB search engines and reading another website’s recap and no one can tell me who did the voice of the Voice Acting Character on Simpsons. Lovely.

Much like the Comic Book Guy the Simpsons heart is in bad shape. This is a show whose entire existence seems to be made out of spite. Or to garner enough funds for Matt Groening to prevent him from ever having to serve any prison time for his exploits on the Lolita express. Great, see I’m bringing up the Lolita Express at the end of a Simpsons review. This episode really left me in a bad mood, but thankfully that’s what Bob’s Burgers is for. 

SKIP. The only people that should watch this are people teaching a screenwriting class that need examples of what happens when you break your episode by haphazardly shoving three plots into one episode. If you can’t tie up one story in a satisfying manner then you really shouldn’t be telling a story at all. There’s also one really magnificent visual joke involving Homer and beer tea that is absolutely wasted on this episode.

[izaswritings]

all that’s left in the world | chapter six

Title: all that’s left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku’s been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

Warnings: cursing, implied death/erasure via Inversion; mentions of gender dysphoria and a variation of body dysphoria/dissociation. Nothing very graphic, but be warned!

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AO3 Link is here!

Previous chapters are here!

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part six: rhyme

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It’s funny, Rhyme thinks, how quickly life can change in a day.

There’s a saying about that, they’re sure of it— but it’s gone, at the moment, all the words and quips and sayings gone kind of quiet in their head. It’s hard to think positive at a time like this. Neku’s gone and Beat’s in the nightmare city (and shaking, Rhyme thinks, Beat was shaking and they’ve never seen���they’ve never—

Or have they? It’s like a dream, maybe, but they can almost recall it: their brother bowed over and trembling, fingers curled tight around their pin, his eyes red. They’d hated it. They’d hated all of it. Somewhere in the Noise and non-being, something in Rhyme had seen their brother cry and wanted to scream.)

But! That’s not important right now. Rhyme has their job, and Beat has his; besides, finding Neku is probably the quickest way to making him feel better, right? So this works. Beat gets to find Neku and beat (hah) the girl that did this, and Rhyme…

Rhyme has their own job to do.

They’re still in Shibuya, for the moment, elbowing their way through the streets, trying to get through the crowd. They left Beat behind maybe thirty minutes ago, and they’ve been running ever since. They always forget—and yet, also, are always aware—of just how big this city is. Shibuya is so much. There are so many people, and so many roads, and…

Patience is a virtue—Rhyme knows that better than anyone! But for the second time in the hour they find themself stalled by a crowd, and they slow, tapping their fingers in a restless beat against their leg, a tempo one-two-three. They’ve been to Mr. Hanekoma’s cafe a few times, enough to know the way by heart; they should have arrived by now. But the crowds are heavy, and all the roads on the way are full. Molco is a mess of people. Is someone having a sale?

Rhyme sighs, slumping a little. Beat could have skateboarded through; Neku shoved and Shiki slipped by… but Rhyme is too small, and some part of them is convinced they’re smaller still. A nearby stranger draws too close, and Rhyme skitters back before they can think better of it—then stops mid-retreat, makes a face, and sighs again.

They put a hand to their pocket, almost self-conscious, fingering at the pin. It’s smooth under their hands, warm. Soothing. Rhyme rubs their finger across the blank face and draws themself up tall. Okay. No crowds. Long way around it is.

Slow and steady wins the race, Rhyme reminds themself. What’s another way to the cafe… Center Street, the Scramble, then through the Department Store?

They track it in their head. It could work. They back away and turn to run.

It’s been ages since Rhyme was in a Game, since they’ve raced across a city with time ticking down around them—but this thrill is all the same, the fear and the rush of breath in their lungs helplessly familiar. Some things feel odd: the thud of their feet on the ground, the breathing, the being—but the more they run, the more settled they feel. Rhyme is still here. They are still them.

Center Street down, and turning into the Scramble—they take one look at the size of that crowd and edge around it. They keep having to rub at their arm to stay grounded. They miss Beat. It’s always easier to navigate crowds with their brother there, tall and loud and larger than life, leading the way through like there’s nothing to fear.

Without him, the crowd is crushing, and Rhyme feels small, displaced, settled wrong in their skin. Smaller than they should be. Distantly, they wonder: is this how Shiki felt, in the Game? Like her skin never fit quite right? Like every reminder of her reflection was a sickening surprise?

Rhyme is intimately aware of that feeling; Shiki is too, they know, even before that whole mess with Eri and the Game. But then… mm, well, maybe not. Shiki and Rhyme have a lot in common, especially with the gender thing, but on second thought this feeling isn’t quite the same at all. It’s more like floating away—like being elsewhere. Like the memory of being small and helpless is overlapping on this happy present, and Rhyme keeps forgetting which one they’re living through.

Rhyme bites their lip, hard, and reaches for the pin again. It’s grounding, to have it in their hand. The echoes all settle, quieter than before. They take another deep breath and push determinedly onward. Okay. Okay! They can do this.

Wildkat café, survivor, and then… something. Rhyme isn’t quite sure what they need to do when they find the girl, but that’s neither here nor there, and Rhyme puts it out of mind, slipping around the sidewalk and down towards the Department Store. After all, they haven’t even found the Shinjuku survivor yet! There’s no use getting in over their head.

Besides, all things considered, there’s probably not much Rhyme can do. Maybe call Mr. Hanekoma? Hopefully the survivor is okay; Rhyme doesn’t know much first aid. Everyone always says hindsight is 20/20. Hmm, though, Rhyme might still have some chocolate in their pockets to share, if that helps at all…

Something to think about.

They round the corner, heading up Cat Street and nearing the café, and slow a bit, leaning over their knees, breathing hard. Made it. There’s the café, all boarded up and closed, and there’s the street, leading on out…

Somewhere near here, right? Though, if she’s coming from Shinjuku… that’s a lot of ground to cover. Hmm.

Rhyme rocks on their heels and beelines for a bystander. A college teen with a brown bob cut and a piercing in his ear, Jupiter of the Monkey clothes. He reminds them of Neku, a little, and for that they give him their best smile. “Hi! Sorry to bother you, but…”

“Oh, um, it’s no problem.” He tilts his head. “What’s up, kid?”

“I’m meeting a friend from Shinjuku, and she said she’d meet me around here… but I don’t really know the area. Is there a way to Shinjuku from here by the streets? I’m hoping to run into her!”

The teen blinks. His brow furrows. “Like, Akihabara? That’s a bit far, you might need…”

“What?” Rhyme frowns. “No, Shinjuku!”

“Shin…”

“The Tokyo district.” Rhyme is starting to get alarmed, now. “It’s… it’s just up north?”

He’s quiet. Then he shakes his head. “Sorry, kid, I missed that. What did you say?”

“I…” Something has gone quiet in them. Rhyme steps back. “N-never mind. Sorry. Um, thanks for your help!”

“Wait, but—”

Rhyme backs off and scatters to the streets. The teen is lost behind them. They feel unsettled, shaky—small, again. So that was… okay. Okay. Mr. Hanekoma had said something bad had happened to Shinjuku; it makes sense, given UG logic, that that means Shinjuku is now a… non-thing. It makes sense.

But still. Rhyme swallows hard. All those people… the whole city… are they just—gone? From everyone’s memories, everyone’s lives? Rhyme has an aunt in Shinjuku. If they call their mom, and ask—is their aunt still…?

They are still asking themself this, still panicking, when they turn a corner on the Shibuya city limits and see a flicker of a black wing.

Something in Rhyme’s heart goes still.

They don’t mean to stop, or stare, but for a moment it all feels just so far away. The crowds and the talking and the city—and the wings, wavering and thin as gossamer, the finest flickers in the sunlight.

And then they realize someone’s staring back.

“Oh, hey. Skulls Jr, right?” The man is tall, lanky and thin and sharp in a way that makes Rhyme tilt up their head and take notice. He has a lollipop, bright red and shiny, in one hand; beside him a smaller woman looks down at Rhyme with a sullen expression, pink hair cut short and her shirt frilling like a skirt, kept neat by a corset. “Fancy seeing you around here.”

Rhyme tilts their head further, considering; their eyes widen. Oh. Oh! “You’re Reapers, right?” they check, bobbing their head. “Beat mentioned you. How you doing?”

Pause. The two exchange glances. They look a little surprised. Why? Did they think Rhyme wouldn’t know them? Or… that Rhyme would react differently, maybe?

Oh, well. Not much Rhyme can do about the expectations of others, as the saying goes.

“We’re doing just fine.” The man spins the lollipop through his fingers, head tilted, eyes watchful. “You sure seem in a hurry, though. Got somewhere to be?”

Hm.

Rhyme stops. They link their hands behind their back and look the two up and down, the man with his lazy grin and the woman with her narrow stare. They think about it. The stories their brother and Neku cobbled together—Kariya and Uzuki, right? —and who these two are and the things they did. They erased Rhyme, that first week. They tried to help Beat and Neku, sort of, in the last one. They tried to keep their word.

“Um, hello?” The woman—Uzuki, probably, definitely, right? —is saying, fingers snapping in front of Rhyme’s face. Rhyme blinks at her. Nods. Makes a choice.

“Neku got shot,” they say, seriously, and take note of the way both of the Reapers go still. Good reaction? Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. “A Reaper called Coco. Do you know her?”

“What!” Uzuki says, but it’s Kariya who Rhyme watches—he’s paused, recalibrated, and now he’s watching Rhyme back with sharp eyes.

“Coco, huh?” He sticks the lollypop in his mouth and shrugs. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Hmmmm. Rhyme sighs. “I don’t really know much beyond that. Sorry!”

“Oh?” His head tilts. “So what are you doing?”

“Trying to find the survivor of Shinjuku,” Rhyme explains, and when they both go stiff, blinks. “Oh. You didn’t know?”

“Survivor?” Kariya hisses, the first visible reaction that feels genuine. Uzuki’s eyes are wide. “What happened to Shinjuku?”

“That shockwave,” Uzuki mutters, from beside him. “Kariya, you don’t think…!”

“It happened only a bit ago,” Rhyme explains, watching them. “Um, well, I don’t know what happened, but… the person I’m trying to find, I think she’s involved. She’s somewhere between the Cat Street area and Shinjuku, but…” They trail off, gauging the looks on Kariya and Uzuki’s faces, and slump. “You don’t know anything, huh.”

“Sorry, kid. This is the first we’ve heard of it.” Kariya shakes his head. “Shinjuku. Shit. It’s gone?”

“Um, that’s what it sounded like, anyway.” Rhyme tilts their head. That teenager on the street, the way the words had just slid off him, like Shinjuku itself—its name, its reality—was being rejected by all the world. “I think it’s because of this thing called ‘Inversion?’”

Rhyme looks up. Uzuki is frowning, but Kariya has gone pale. “Oh. Is it that bad?”

“What?” Uzuki’s eyes snap to the side and then narrow. “Kariya?”

“…It’s impossible. It shouldn’t be—” He cuts himself off. “You’re sure?”

“Mm, pretty sure.” Rhyme bobs their head. “Why, what is it?”

“Bad news.” He bites at the lollypop stem and then shakes his head, laughing quietly. “Very bad news.”

Uzuki looks peeved. “Are you going to give an actual answer or just keep being cryptic?”

“Slow down, Uzuki. This isn’t exactly easy info. Pretty sure it’s classified six ways to Sunday, but hey, if it’s already happening…” He sighs, and when he speaks again, he’s addressing Rhyme directly. “It’s a distortion in the rules of the world. Something’s unbalanced the whole system and sent it crashing down. The city, everything it stands for, everyone who lives and breathes and beats with it…” His lips thin. He snaps his fingers.

“…the fuck?” Uzuki says, sounding stunned.

Rhyme stares off into the direction of the city, feeling hollowed. “That’s awful,” they whisper. “What could do something like that?”

“Inversions usually start in the UG. My guess is whatever happened, it started there. Then it just started bleeding over to everywhere else.”

Rhyme frowns a little at that. “In the UG… I wonder what it was.” It must have been big, to unstable the whole city. It must have been terrible. They wonder if Coco had a hand in that, too. It’s a little uncharitable to think, but…

Neku.

As Rhyme sits in silence, Kariya and Uzuki exchange looks. Uzuki grips her hair. “The hell is happening?” she says in a fierce whisper. “First the Games last month… and now this!? Argh, the brass never tells us anything!”

“Oh, I think that’s because the Composer left,” Rhyme admits, and watches with mild alarm when they both choke. “Are you okay?”

“The fuck do you mean, the Composer left?” Uzuki snaps, and then a weird look crosses her face. Her expression darkens. “And how do you know about it!? You aren’t even part of the UG! Ugh, this is a disgrace!”

Rhyme flaps a hand at them. “Sorry! I’m sure it’s not that… just, Mr. Hanekoma mentioned he couldn’t leave the city because Joshua’s gone, so I thought…” They trail off again. The words don’t seem to be computing. Rhyme pauses. “Um.”

Kariya has his hand up. “Are you saying—you know who the Composer is? His RG form?”

Uzuki looks like she might be dying inside. Rhyme feels kind of bad for them. It is a bad look, huh? “Eh… well… I think he tried to get Neku to shoot him. And Neku didn’t. And then told us. I, I haven’t met him personally, though…” They scratch at their cheek. “Sorry.”

“Phones did— nope, never mind, don’t want to know.” Kariya slashes his hand through the air. “Not important right now. The Composer’s gone?”

“A lot’s happening.” Rhyme considers them, then nods. “I’m looking for the Shinjuku survivor. Beat, he’s looking for this Reaper girl, Coco…” They chew on their lip. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about her?”

Uzuki and Kariya exchange looks again. “Later,” Kariya says, and at Uzuki’s nod, turns back to Rhyme. “No, but we can find out. Coco, was it? Leave it to us.”

Rhyme smiles. “Thanks!” They think about it. “Um, if you want to know more, though… Mr. Hanekoma, he runs the Wildkat café on this street. He’s not there right now, but maybe later? And he knows more about what’s going on than I do.” Rhyme offers the two Reapers a smile. “He’s trying to keep Shibuya safe too. He might know a place you can start.”

“More names I don’t know, hmm?” But Kariya is grinning. “Well. Better informed late than never, I guess. Sure, we’ll stick around. Might as well get some foot in the door here, given the stakes.”

“Ugh.” Uzuki looks away. “Honestly. Why are Reapers always the last to know?” She eyes Rhyme. “But I guess we know now.”

“What she means to say is, thanks for the info.”

“Like hell I did! Thanking even a former Player—ugh.”

Rhyme giggles, unable to help it. There’s so much character to them, it’s rather funny. It’s hard to believe these people erased Rhyme.

Maybe Rhyme should invite them along—ask for these Reapers’ help, their protection and their powers. But the fact remains they did erase Rhyme, and also if Beat found out he would freak, and… and its better this way, Rhyme thinks. They aren’t one to hold grudges. But though Rhyme might believe in forgetting the past, that’s not the same as forgiving it, is it?

This is okay. This is just fine.

So Rhyme nods at them one last time and turns away, ready to keep going. There’s no time to waste on pleasantries, so they don’t bother—but when Kariya holds out his hand, a twinge of power beckons, and bids them to stop. Reluctantly, Rhyme looks back.

He tilts his head at them, something knowing lingering wry in the curl of his lips. “Hey, Skulls Jr. One last thing.” He pauses. Rhyme waits. “Your eyes keep flickering. I don’t suppose you’re looking at our wings?”

Rhyme hesitates. “Is… is that a bad thing?”

Uzuki is still. But Kariya smiles. “…No.” His hand draws back, tosses forward—something glints in the air, and Rhyme catches it without thinking. Then they blink. “Just double-checking. Hey, it might be useless for you, but if not…” He shrugs. “Put it to good use, yeah?”

Rhyme studies it. It’s a pin—bright gold, with a skull and serrated edge like a key. “What is it?”

“A Keypin. Highest level, too. If you can see the wings, still… who knows if there’s walls about out there, but just in case, this baby should get you through.” He grins at Rhyme’s cautious look. “I like to cover all my bases. This survivor is important, right? Then it’s in my best interest that you find her.” He raises an eyebrow. “Just, ah… keep this loan on the downlow, you hear?”

Rhyme considers him. Then they smile back. “Sure, no problem.”

They tuck it away in their pocket, rocking on their heels, watching the city. The crowds, the murmur, the sunlight bright in the air. But it feels stranger, now. Like even Shibuya is starting to hold its breath.

Rhyme watches the sky for a long moment. It remains blank and blue. They smile, relieved and not sure why, and turn away, back to the road ahead. “Goodbye,” they call back. “And good luck!”

Kariya waves. Uzuki calls out, “Don’t die again, brat.”

It’s a rude thing to say, probably, but something about it makes Rhyme laugh, instead. Their heart feels a little lighter. They smile at the Reapers one last time, and then take off towards Shinjuku.

And for a moment—for an instant—in the echo of their footfalls and the rasp of their breaths—there is a ripple in the air. As they slip away from Cat Street into the unknown, Rhyme closes their eyes and hears a distant call, distorted and thin.

Pleas              — hel              — me—

“I’m coming,” Rhyme promises between breaths. “I’m coming for you. I promise!”

And they run.