#well. 'answers' is perhaps a misnomer

[singsweetmelodies]

katie katie katiiiiie katiiiiieeee gimme back my special pink colour pls and i wont bribe the bots to fight you. please. also i love you. HI. ❤️

(src)

[overflowchute]

Q. By what mechanism is one who makes contact with an Old One driven insane?

A. "Driven insane" is a misnomer. We will answer this by means of metaphor.

When a human makes mental contact with another human, the intermixing can sometimes be complex. However, it is usually not extremely difficult to "see which puzzle pieces go where", so to speak. In close proximity, the identity components naturally bond their siblings, and so the average mental crossover does not cause major identification issues.

Indeed, the components of a mind are generally drawn together, and naturally reject other minds. While some visualize mental mixing as drops of water, limited human to human mental contact is like shuffling two jigsaw puzzles together. It may not be trivial to tell the pieces of either apart. But if their patterns are different enough, separating the components is relatively easy - it is simply a matter of time and effort. The pieces clearly indicate their source and have pieces identifying where they go.

Even when humans become irrevocably mentally mixed, the result is like taking two balls of differently colored play dough and mixing them together. Eventually the colors will overwhelm and become one, but you can still separate much of them if you want to until then.

The problem with humans contacting Old Ones is a matter of scale. We have avoided using water as a metaphor because it spreads readily and cannot be purified by hand. But it is a useful example in this specific case.

Imagine you have a dropper full of red food coloring and you release it into a lake. Would retrieving the red food coloring be possible? For all practical intents and purposes, the answer would be no. Why is this? Because the scale of the lake is much greater than the dropper. We mentioned that this water metaphor doesn't work very well with small scale interactions, because mixing even very small amounts of different coloring creates an inextricable mess. But it is a useful visualization in this case.

So, the dropper might have been emptied, but that doesn't mean it cannot hold water. Rather, if we immediately try to place our dropper back in the lake and fill it again, what we will retrieve will probably contain only a minuscule amount of the red food coloring we released. Now, because minds are more adhesive than water, it is likely that in the real scenario much more of a person's mind will be retained after contact. But this essentially shows the problem: after contact, what remains in their body tends to equalize towards the average weight.

If a dropper contains 1 mililiter of water, and you drop it into a container with 9 mililiters of water and mix it around, any random sample of the water will be 1/10ths the dropper's water and 9/10ths the container's water on average. Most of what returns is not human.

As stated, this is a simplistic metaphor - perhaps we could extend it by discussing how coloring can stain the insides of the dropper, and other coloring might stick to this stain. Another aspect is that intermixing continues over time - it doesn't simply "drop" in an instant. But eventually, if a human mind is allowed to remain in contact with an Old One for too long, and their sense of self is weak, then their mind will disperse into components scattered evenly across its expanse and their body will be nothing more than part of the amalgam.

I hope that despite this extremely wordy explanation, the actual concept remains easy to comprehend. Such is the hope behind the use of a human's metaphor.

[smallishzine]

Hey! I have a question you don't have to answer if you're too busy, no worries..

Was wondering if people who apply as mods will get a rejection response too?

Hope everything is going well for you!! Have a good day/night!

hello, and thank you for your well wishes! To answer your question, I should perhaps clarify that applications is a bit of a misnomer, as the number of mod applicants is within the limit I set for myself of ‘reasonable number of people to have modding’, so unless I find anything concerning on an applicants blog or their application then they are in. None of the applications I received gave me any reason to reject them, and as so far as I have looked over the blogs of the applicants there has been nothing to make me feel uncomfortable admitting them. It’s possible, though my general sense is that it’s unlikely, that this may change, but I figure I’ll burn that bridge as and if I cross it. I think I got the metaphor wrong but I don’t remember what it’s actually meant to be and anyway uhh arson is in the spirit of Joel smallishbeans.

[cupoftrembling]

Lagrange

There is no word for luck in Mariposian.

Now, of course, there is a word for circumstances outside of one’s control that ends in your benefit, ‘veinard’ I believe it was called. A windfall, being in the right place at the right time. In the proto-Mariposian, which had its roots in the celestial language of the gods, these terms had mostly neutral, or often negative, connotations. One can fall into circumstance, allowing them to come out on top through no action or forethought on their behalf. To earn something not yours, not through force of will or strength or through camaraderie. It was the language one used for finding a crown on the ground. That, had it been anyone else the same situation would have occurred. That it was not due to the specifics of who you are or what you have done. 

And yet, veinard was not how many Mariposian figures are described. Queen Mariposa the Kingbreaker, when her predecessor boarded the boat that would sink during the largest storm that the Askaven Continent had ever seen, was not called veinard. Rosalind Tyra was not a veinard when she won what would become Tyra Logistics in that game of jokers wild. No, they were described in each and every instance as ‘lucky.’ 

Luck. 

A loan word lifted from the eastern dialects of the Confederacy of Eastern Kingdoms. An etymological stopgap that filled a niche in the biosphere of the Mariposian language. The word is, itself, some of the only remaining fae-tongue spoken on the continent still used by the so called mortal races of elf. Scholars argue from which kingdom the word luck was gallicized from. I, personally, believe it was Iji, Mariposa’s closest eastern neighbor, but that is corroborated by nothing but a hunch and blind faith in simple answers. Luck is, perhaps, a misnomer. A mistranslation, as its application within the Mariposian language is more closely akin to the word ‘guile.’ To be lucky is to have schemes and redundancies. To be lucky is to earn what is not yours through skill of mind and sleight of hand. It is to have a grin and a knife behind your back. Every Queen Mariposa had luck in spades, from Litigious to Negligent. The ability to make things the way you wish them to be, with such a skill that, to an uninformed outside observer, it might be mistaken as chance. That only through a close examination of the card up your sleeve or the gun in your hand, such guile might be revealed. 

It makes me wonder; how many Mariposians may be lucky, and I just do not know? Has there been a long string of luck in Mariposa, longer than even history may know about, and perhaps I have just not looked closely enough? Is the veinard who finds the bag of coins dropped simply benefiting from some long laden scheme? What about the cleric who’s rival says the wrong word at the wrong party? What about the winds that brought the Cambion Kings away from the Butterfly Bay, thus saving Queen Mariposa the Kingbreaker from a war in her streets? Was that luck as well? Was the history of Mariposa naught but a long string of wires and webs?

Was it luck that brought Felix Bell Stride to the side of Elias Tvestok?

It is what he wondered as he sat in the Harts of Green that night next to the Vily. The bar was empty, save the two of them and whatever servants manned the establishment. It was a quiet winter's night, with a brutal chill sneaking under the ill fitting door and misaligned window panels. It was a season that Felix had hated. With the whipping winds and it driving men to huddle close to one another next to fire. He was a true Isosian that way, even if he had no faith in the Goddess of Order. The fungal elf looked small in the cool light of the bar, the halogen bulbs reflecting sickly off the birchwood of the walls. Elias was hunched over the countertop, feet dangling from his perch on a too tall stool. 

Next to him, Felix’s bow sat, leaned up against the hardwood counter. It was a massive thing, with quarter-inch copper wire as its bowstring. It dwarfed the Vily it sat next too, thick wychwood ending in burls at either knock. It looked as if it was a young wych elm, cultivated specifically for the purpose of being turned into a bow wholesale. Not hewn, not shaped or carved, but bent in its entirety into a weapon of war. It even still had a few leaves coming from the top, just below the upper nock. The bow looked as if it required a titanic amount of force to draw, too much for any mortal hands and far too much for a man as slender as Felix to draw reliably. 

It was wholly impractical for the modern combat of Mariposa, unwieldy for the streets and corners that his job required him to skulk. But it had been so long by Felix’s side, this weapon of war, that he was loath to let it go. It had been his constant companion, more so than Elias or anyone else in the grand iron cage that was Mariposa. It had its uses too. Hefted over one’s shoulder, the bow could make a formidable weapon. And with a long enough sight-line, with a still enough air, Felix would wrap three fingers around the bowstring. It would whistle as the copper screamed against the still living wood, scraping so hard as to singe and cinder the wych elm. The scent of ozone and soot would fill the air as Felix knocked an arrow. And the wind would sing as his arrow, perfectly straight with no fletching, flown through it.

Felix looked down into his drink sitting in front of him. Something dark green and smelt of wormwood. He glanced over at the copper knife sitting next to it, still sheathed in oryx leather and gold. He had not needed to use his bow today. Somewhere behind the two of them, a spider idly sat on his web. It was the same web it has always made, spun glistening in the flickering halogen lights of the bar. It was night now, and the lights were warm and distracting, making the spider almost invisible to all who might look upon it. 

But not the web

It was so intricate that one would be forgiven for thinking it was weaved entirely from metal and light. Its spirals and fractals covered in a hoarfrost of light, reflecting and refracting throughout its many bends and curves. It was wholly entrancing, threatening to distract or distance anyone who dares to look upon it for just that moment too long. 

Felix smiled and sighed in disappointment, bringing the glass to his lips, his eyes glancing and darting between Elias, the bartender, and Elias. He eventually settled upon his dower companion and continued to smile. “Something on your mind?”

Elias’ face dropped further, like a startled child being scolded by his father. His white eyes darted back between his drink and his drinking companion, the wrists of his suit coat tugged slightly, as if it was not properly tailored for him. A growth spurt during his service to the Rumor Queen. “What are we doing here, Felix?” He finally muttered, running a long nail across the rim of his glass. It was something weaker than what Felix had ordered. Elias always ordered the same drink whenever the two of them went out. Krum’s Rot, an orcish rye whisky  But he would maybe drink two sips of it before they had retired for the night. I think Elias just hated how it tasted, like bile and sweetness.

“You did a good job.” Felix answered, uninterested in whatever game the rich kid wanted to play. “And so you got paid for it. The Rumor Queen might have her schemes, but ours are surprisingly not that complex.”

Elias sighed, putting his hand on his forehead, thumb rubbing the edge of his temple. He avoids eye contact with the barkeep, a young human with short cropped brown hair. Around his neck and pierced in his ears are golden effigies of a stag’s fang. “It was a fucking babysitting job.”

“It was not a babysitting job, Elias.” Felix rolled his eyes, raising his mug of something warm and spiced to his own lips. Elias was hunched over the countertop now, elbows digging harshly into the poplar. Felix’s shoulders were straight, his back arched just slightly against the backrest of the uncomfortable barstool. Behind them, the front door creaks, announcing the arrival of another would-be patron. Felix spots her from the corner of his eye, his head not turning in the slightest. Her horns poke out from beneath her hat. A cambion, perhaps. Certainly bestial.

He wonders if Elias sees her.

“That’s what Alace called it!” The lawyer blubbers, as if he was already drunk. 

“I don’t think-” Felix begins.

“Witch-boss wants ya.” Elias interrupts with perhaps his most unflattering impression of the halfling. He looks up at Felix, his face contorted into a gross sneer. For a moment, Felix almost found it charming. Instead, he smiled into his still warm mug. Elias continues, nose scrunching in mock disgust. “Gotta have the lady’s best babysitter on it.”

“I was there, Elias.” The archer brings his drink back down against the countertop. “And he didn’t say exactly that it was babysitting. And you did do a good job.”

“I sat on a rooftop all night and watched over a warehouse for six hours.”

There is some commotion behind the two of them as another patron, one who must have just entered, pulls a stool out next to the cambion woman. She still was not within proper sightline of Felix, hiding in that spot right between his skull and his eyes. Her presence was still felt, however. Like a hand ghosting over his shoulder, he could feel her there burning like an absent flame. He could see the man, a gray orc from the looks of it, sitting next to her however. He was tall and uncomfortably sitting on one of the stools. Felix motions the bartender for another drink.

“You truly do think so highly of yourself, Elias.” Felix leaned forward on the counter, the rough and unsanded wood digging into his forearms. “Where are we going with this?”

Elias sighed and rubbed his temples. He took, for the first time that night, a sip of his whisky. He made a face, almost instinctively and certainly absentmindedly. “When did Mab hire you?”

Felix’s face did not move, although he did lean closer. “Where are we going with this?” He repeats himself, albeit quieter. He did not want to ask the question again.

“When she hired me, she sought me out.” Elias looked down into his orcish whisky. His reflection seemed to pale in comparison to what he thought he might look like. Maybe a bit longer hair, maybe a bit less pathetic. He wondered if that is how Felix saw him and, for a moment, fought the urge to smile. He ran a hand through his hyphae and looked back up at his companion. “She looked for me, sent me a missive. I was sitting in a cafe, late at night, when a courier brought me one of her letters. Red stamp, fine stationery, the whole deal. She summoned me, called for me. I must have been special enough for that.”

Felix sighed again and straightened up from his position. The bartender placed the drink in front of him with a loud clatter, startling the lawyer beside him. Felix looked up at the bartender’s face. He wasn’t looking at his customer in front of him, he wasn’t looking at Elias or Felix. He was looking at the woman behind the two of them, Felix could see her in the reflection of the bartender’s eyes. Her hat was off now, although through the glassy cornea all other descriptions were obscured. The man in front of them had not gone to serve them at any point since the two lawyers had entered the Hart of Green. And, as such, there were seemingly no drinks in front of them.

The bartender’s eyes shot down towards Felix. An instinct, to watch what was watching you. I am not even sure he knew that he was being observed. They were bloodshot, the bartender’s eyes. Like they had not rested in days. Felix raised the glass to his lips again and, absentmindedly, grabbed the knife on the counter. He was sure no one in the bar had seen him do it, not even Elias. He fought the urge to even look at the Vily besides him. ‘This must be why.’ Felix thought to himself, ‘Our lady didn’t seem to trust you with better jobs.’

Felix did not break eye contact with the bartender. Behind him, the spider wound a strung so taught I was scared it might break.

“She found me, half drunk on vengeance in a glen somewhere off the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms.” He finally responded after a second too long. The bartender looked away, to be busy somewhere else. Felix’s lips curled into a smile. The boy may not understand what the archer is doing, but the bartender did. “Offered me a place within her organization. I guess I was hungry.”

Elias looked up at him, eyebrows raised in an unreadable mixture of emotions. “Half drunk on vengeance?” 

“I made a promise a long time ago.” Felix looked over to his bow, its nock curving like a lyre. The man whose hand had hewn it rested on Felix’s chin. His fingers, supple and spindly, lay against his neck, at the vulnerable point where his jaw met his throat. An arrow knocked, whistling like music as it flew through the air. His arm brought back in recurve as his fingers, three of them, ran along the bow’s one, beautiful string. A weapon of war, beat from some beautiful music. Felix looked back from his memory, now towards the Vily, who was studying the archer’s face with grand consideration. Elias noticed that Felix was now back in the room with him and, quickly, returned to his glass. From behind the two of them, the woman rose from her stool but did not move. “I wasn’t quite done when Mab found me.” Felix continued. “But, ah, such are the follies of younger men.”

“I’m… not sure I’ve ever been there.” Elias muttered to himself in a moment of pure empathy. “So deep in vengeance, I mean. What was it like?”

Felix took a deep breath and did not close his eyes. “You’re good at getting beneath the armor, aren’t you Elias?”

Elias smiled weakly. The door behind them opened again. Felix looked over at the countertop across the bartender and saw the bell that hung above it, broken off. The door shut. Three and four. Another cambion and human. One, the human I believe, had a shotgun with a little charm on the end of it. Another stag’s tooth. Felix fights the urge to turn around. He believes they have come for him, and he would not give them the satisfaction of looking their prey in the eyes. 

“I am good at my job, Felix.” Elias sat up straight for the first time since entering the bar. Did he not see the men behind him? “It’s why Mab hired me.”

Felix looked back at the bartender, their eyes met. After a long pause, Felix answered the Vily’s question. “It poured from the mouth like wine, like a cup overfilled and trembling.” He looked back at Elias. “It was all you could taste, like ash. It was like drowning in ash. Keened your senses into razors and sharpened you into something beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” The bartender interrupted. In his hand was an already clean glass. He glanced back behind Felix, as if the outburst startled someone.

“Beautiful.” Felix continued, furrowing his brow. “I chose the right word.”

Elias quirked an eyebrow. “Then why only half drunk?”

“Because I didn’t give myself to it, not fully.” Felix turned his head, just slightly, to the woman behind him. She took a step forward in acknowledgement. Elias did not follow his eyeline. “That was my mistake. Either do not start or finish it, Elias. Half of a transformation is misery.”

“Sounds lucky that she found you then.” Elias ran his hand along the rim of the glass. 

Felix sneered, disgusted. “I abhor luck, Schemes and warding winter winds. It’s the one thing I hate about your employer, the one thing unbecoming of her station.”

“My employer?” Elias put his hand on his chest in mock aghast.

“Marabell Dayshaper may be your employer, she is my Lady.” Felix rejoins

Behind the two of them is another step. Trepidacous, heavy, and not joined by her companions Felix notices. If the cambion wasn’t so duplicitous, so lucky herself, he would admire her gall.

Elias smiled and turned away from Felix, now facing the bartender. “You sound like the old man.”

Felix also turned towards the human in front of them. Felix is staring at the bartender’s hands. They are worn red, as if they have been scrubbed repeatedly and obsessively. His fingernails were bit back to the stub. “You have a lot to learn from Bernard.”

“Not you?”

“I’m sure I do.” Felix leans back somewhat. He can feel the gun against the nape of his neck, it's cold iron burning against his sinewy skin. Who were they? What grand scheme had Felix Bell Stride fallen for this time. And the kid, Felix glared at him. Would he run? Hide? He oversaw him, Lady’s orders. Several missions, he was clumsy and aimless. Felix was sure the boy was a coward. Even now, he didn’t notice how in much danger they actually were. “But I’ve lived a bit longer than you, Elias Tvestok. And I worry my learning days are far beyond me.”

Elias sat up in a way that Felix saw as mimicry. “Do you regret this?” Behind them, the strand snapped, an errant and cruel wind unmoored the spider.

Another step. She would be on him in a moment. There was a door towards the back of the establishment. Perhaps it went to the kitchen, perhaps it went to some sort of back alley. But it was an escape. He could make it, but Felix would be unable to take both the boy and his bow that sat besides him. He, for a moment he did not have, debated which one to leave behind, stuck between two decisions. 

If Felix could sweat, if the salt could stain his clothing, I don’t think he would have in this moment. It makes him proud to think that. His composure. That came with his position in Mab’s organization. He would have been disgusted in himself if he had broken now. He was unsure of what the boy meant, which part would have he regretted? The vengeance? The schemes, the wires? For the first time in Felix’s life, he felt the desire to lie, to twist some cruel words together in untruth. Although why, I am not sure. 

It is anathema to him. He is a creature of truth, only as good as his word. Another step behind him. He can feel her now, he doesn’t even have to turn around to face his killer. 

“How could I ever?” Felix responds, turning his head towards Elias with a smile. A hammer clicks behind the two of them. Felix’s eyes dilate. The gun is placed to the back of Elias’ neck.

A green hand wrapped around the pistol’s grip. Her hold. Tight enough to draw blood. It smells like niter. Like soot. From its pommel, a small golden stag’s tooth hangs. His heart pounds. A glint of smile from the assailant. Rage drips from between the gaps of her teeth. He can see it. In her eyes. He wasn’t the target.

Felix reaches for the knife.

He is not fast enough.

The room fills with a green flash. Sparks fly, searing phosphorus onto Felix’s eyes. There are stars, bright white spots where the absent flame burns. The ash he smelt the moments before burn his nose. His knife swings around, drawn from its sheath. The boy is thrown forward by the force. His chest hits the countertop. White, fleshy hyphae and cerebral fluid splatter across the poplar wood. Elias slumps over, head hitting the countertop. His body hits the ground like a dead dog. His foot kicks, twitches, trying to find purchase. The projectile went clean through him. Tearing white blood and flesh apart with grand force. The wood beneath him splintered. Singed. Elias’ white blood makes it look like a smoldering fire. 

Felix dares not look down. His knife is braced in front of him. The blade catches the light like an absent flame. There are four of them. Five now, with the bartender. The orc has stepped in front of the door. Behind Felix there is the man with the shotgun, next to the other cambion who appears unarmed. The bartender has drawn a gun.

And the woman in front of him stands there. Her barrel is still smoking. The front of the weapon is completely caked in Elias, dripping white blood onto the floor. Onto her boots. He can see her now. She is still turned towards the corpse, not paying any attention to Felix or his drawn weapon. Her skin is verdant and green, starkly contrasting with the white blood on her hands, like she had washed her hands in him.

The woman did not strike an imposing figure. She was shorter than Felix by a couple heads. Her cheeks were gaunt like she had been starved for some time. Her eyes were red and tears were streaming down her cheek. The gun sat trembling in her hands. She lowered the gun, leveling it with Elias’ corpse.

“Who are-” Felix is interrupted by another white flash. She fires again into his still body. His body crumples around the force of the weapon. It smells like burning. And then another, the woman’s shoulder barely recoiling with each round fired, as if she had become a part of that baleful weapon. Felix flinches with each shot, four in total, and drops lower in his stance, pulling the knife in front of him.

“I’m the one holding the gun.” The woman responds, her eyes still locked on Elias’ body. She waits for him to stop twitching, to stop moving. She closes her eyes for a moment and, then, turns towards Felix. “I think that means I get to ask the questions.” Her voice is colder, more distant. Like speaking through a phone.

Felix fights the urge to look at Elias again. Instead, he glances again at the bartender. “Do you know who he worked for?”

The woman nods and speaks for him. “I do.”

“So, you know the trouble you’ve placed yourself in.”

The woman smiles, cheeks still stained with her sublimating tears. “I do.”

“Even if you kill me, you won’t get very far.”

“He was personal.” The woman lowers her gun now, finger still poised over the trigger. He knows, somewhere on the nape of his neck, that if he were to make a move, she could move faster than he could. It is in her eyes. Half drunk on vengeance. An absent flame. “An itch that needed to be scratched. You’re of use to me.”

Felix raised an eyebrow and his voice. “The boy?” He glanced back at the bartender behind him. “What, did he take your candy too? Knock you over on the swings? All of you?” None of the other conspirators looked at Felix. Nor at the corpse laying on the floor, at the exhibition of hatred before them.

“I guess I just have my vices, Felix.” The woman turned towards him, motioning with the pistol. It was alluring, it was more real than the woman holding it, caught the light more convincingly than her. “Should I make one of you?”

“I didn’t think vengeance was a vice of Isosa.” Felix motioned to the chain hanging from the pommel of her gun.

“Neither is indulgence.” She took a step forward, still limply carrying the gun in her hands. “But putting either above duty? But un-vigilance? A vice so low that we don’t even have a word for it.” She smiles in a way she thinks is meek. It was a mouth full of razors. “But I am no paladin, no priest.”

“How low they would think of you.”

The cambion continues to smile. A single bead of sweat rolls down the forehead of the bartender to the side of her. He eyes her wildly. The orc between Felix and the door has his finger over the trigger, shotgun leveled at the space between the two of them. “I am Sorrow Brightwind, and this is my Order of Broken Fang.”

A look was shared between her companions, one that neither Felix, nor by extension me, could decipher. A mix of rage, a tinge of obedience. Felix scoffed. “I have no interest in your sectarian violence. Nor did my companion.”

“Your employer certainly has an affinity for it.”

Felix bared his teeth. Sorrow's hands tightened around her gun. “This doesn’t seem like the crowd for you, miss.”

Sorrow places a hand on the bar counter. “Should I be in some cloister somewhere?”

“You are the one who said it.”

“I chose another path.” Sorrow gripped the countertop, teeth clenching together. Next to her, Felix’s bow, hewn from vengeance much like her. “No more no less.”

“It takes a stronger person than you to choose vengeance, to choose rage.” Felix looked at his bow as well and closed his eyes. He could hear its whistling, its purpose as a tool for violence. It, itself, was not violent in nature. It was a thing of beauty, of no will of its own. “For people like you, it is a gift, something given to you by someone stronger. Something you take in your hands, not something you make.”

Sorrow looked towards Felix’s bow. “People like us, Felix.”

“People like us.” Felix’s eyes shot away from the two of them, the bow and Sorrow, now eying a bottle of Krum’s Rot. There is a moment, and only a moment, dear reader, he could not hear his bow’s constant, droning whistle. For a moment, he feels as if he could walk out of this city. For a moment, he could walk into the sunset. 

And then the whistling creeps back in. 

It crawls in up his shoulder, wraps and weaves its way around his neck and the thought, the word of freedom, dies in his throat. It died right behind his teeth, its corpse now nestled where his tongue should have been. Where he should have had the words to bite Sorrow with. Where he could have had the courage to look down at his feet, at the blood pooling against his shoes. Ah, how distant that corpse had seemed. Elias’ blood ran cold against the leather of Felix’s boots. How he tried to ignore it. How indeed, dear reader.

Felix looked down, for just a moment, and all he saw was meat. 

Felix looked back up at Sorrow, at her white spattered hands, still dripping just slightly. “What do you want from me? What peace do you think I can give you?”

Sorrow looked down at her shoes, methodically thumbing the trigger of her gun. She, too, averted her gaze from the corpse below her for reasons that still escape me. Was it shame? Discomfort? Sorrow had killed once before, three nights before this one. In the dark alleyways of the ruins of the Economic District where the transient and wolfkin lay. Even before then, Isosian thought predicates violence. It is, itself, a cutting knife, carving away pieces of reality to best fit the Grand Weft of their patron god. Sorrow holds it in her hand, cut away the parts of her that made her un-vigilant.

Had she failed by refusing to look at her kill? 

“I have not cut away enough.”

Her finger finds the trigger of her gun, but she does not pull it yet. Felix grips his blade just that little bit tighter. “And you would see me the knife.”

“Your friend here, he has- had- taken something from me. Something on behalf of your employer.” Sorrow walked towards the door, not to exit but to give space for her words. Let them sit in the room between the two of them.

“I’m sure you’ve been following other members, other people who could give you the information you need.” Felix took a step forward, still brandishing that bronze knife in his hands. Beneath him, Elias’ foot trembled. Sorrow reached for his hand, not in malice, not in compassion, but out of pure and fitful instinct. And Felix lets her. He lets her put her palm against his blade. The room fills with the smell of blood. There is a moment that passes, where Sorrow’s companions are unsure of who to shoot, where they just stand there. Sorrow smiles what she thinks is a meek smile, a passive smile. 

It was full of teeth.

“None of them were as hungry as you are.”

And that is when the room ignites with absent flame.

The door behind them explodes into splinters, knocking one of Sorrow’s men to his knees. Wooden shards flitter and fly throughout the room, with one large one striking Felix against his brow, splattering green ichor against the bar. Felix barely has a moment to turn and look at the door breaking apart, barely a second to register who was standing amongst the smoldering ruin that was the door. She was tall, at least as tall as Felix was. With gray, almost ashen hair tied close in some sort of braid behind her head. Her pointed ears and equally gray skin stood out against her imperial garb, with its black fabric and green tint. Her epaulettes demarcated her as some sort of officer. In her hand, a wrought iron rapier, with a pappenheim hilt. It was black and hummed slightly with the song on the elf’s lips.

It was someone who Felix recognized immediately. Anyone in Mariposa knew of the Butcher of Blackvien and Conqueror of Karnata. The woman who stood head to head with the might of the Grand Butterfly and came out victorious. In her hand, a feykiller, this Felix was certain of. A iron weapon, cold steel that was anathema to those from the wyld. She was the only elven officer among the Empire of Night forces in Mariposa. She was tall, and razor thin, with one hand behind her back and her sword was held just before her nose. 

She was Brigadier Delilah Nirdeh. 

Did she know who was supposed to be here? Behind her, shouting instructions and curses, soldiers. It could have been the entire Empire for all Felix might have known. They came from the night, pushing past their brigadier as if she was as razor thin as her song. They began to flood the Harts of Green, with weapons of war keened. Felix was not able to see their faces behind their masks, frozen as he was. But he could see the steam escape from where their mouths would be, see their eyes dart from the slits in their helmets. He could see the cold iron rifles they held between their plump fingers. 

Felix began to raise his knife but he found he couldn’t. For a moment, he blamed his nerves, that his old age and sentimentality has slowed him, gut him somehow. Sorrow seemingly did not notice his hesitation, merely keeping an eye on Felix himself. The archer broke the gaze first, glancing down at his knife to only see a third hand grasping around the blade. The grip was weak, but it is still there. Its fingers wrap themselves around the cross hilt, with half of them on the blade and half of them on the grip. Felix looks down in shock as Sorrow’s companions begin to open fire on the imperial intruders to see that the fingers were blue. Elias looked up at the blade between Sorrow and Felix, now half grasped in his hands. His head split open by the shot, fleshy hyphae singed by the absolute terror of Sorrow’s violence. Felix could see clear through his head to the gore stained bar floor beneath them. Already, the strands of Elias were reforming, attempting to close the wound that was once his eye. But it was a careful process, a laborious process. And on Elias’s face, plastered just below where his skin split and splattered with viscera and gore, there was a knowing and hungry smile. His hand gripped the blade tighter, so hard that, for but a moment, Felix thought the boy was about to break the blade.

There was none of the bumbling, none of the whimpering and sobbing that he acquainted with Elias. Only a sharpness, it was behind his one good eye. It was hidden behind his flashing bioluminescence, which was now dulled and empty. His eye lacked focus. Or perhaps, it was focused on simply everything, taking in every single stimuli at once.  Felix wondered in the moment between moments, how this coward got so lucky?

And then, behind them, sat the spider. 

It lay in yet another web, caught in its own contingency. The glisten of this secondary web was even fainter, even daintier. It was a more advantageous, more strategic position than its original webbing ever had been, shadowed by the vast and obvious net it weaved just above it, obscured in shadow. And among its gossamer thin strands, were just so many flies, each unaware of the threads they were stranded in, tugging and pulling against forces they, themselves, could not understand. They had thought they had avoided the web by flying below the first one. They wound themselves tighter with each struggle against the web. Felix could feel it now, even though the whole night he sat unaware of its prying eyes. 

He swears he could feel the thing smile.

And Felix finally understood. He hated how much it made him want to smile back.

Elias grabbed the handle of the knife with a strength not yet seen by his companion, sliding its blade along Sorrow’s hand and driving it deep into her tender and soft thigh. That smell of blood, acrid and metallic, was gone with Sorrow’s separation from the knife, mooring Felix back to the real, back to his understanding of the world. The glimpse of the spider was gone, even if he still knew, somewhere, that he was still there. 

She did not scream when the blade pierced her thigh, did not react in any way typical of a scared housewife or mother. A bullet whizzed past her ear, cutting a strand of her hair that had dared move out of place. It was as if the bullets were haloed around her, as if the guns could fire at anything but her, and that hair had simply forgotten its place in this. The bartender, still fumbling with his shotgun, takes a round to the chin, sending him limp and reeling against the shelf behind him. The clattering of bottles, the dripping ichor of them, spill against the floor. He had no such assurity as Sorrow, no such confidence in her well being. 

Sorrow reeled back, fist clenching in absent flame, her blood dripping from between her clenched fingers. Her body twists, contorts in ugly shape. Her shoulder looks as if it might break, her muscles are pulled taught against her skin, her skin flay at the edges of her. It comes away just where her fingernails, grime covered and soaked in now drying and sublimating blood, meet her skin in strips. In that very moment, Elias reaches for the gun in his breast pocket with a precision that Felix has never seen. There is no fumbling for the handle, no fingers getting caught on latches or cloth. Felix could almost see them micrometers of adjustment that was happening in the errant twitch of the boy’s fingers. It was as if he was made for this, it was as if all the cowardice faded away, washed away in gore and violence. 

It was at that moment, when Elias reached for his gun and Sorrow was mere inches away from behind upon him, that is when Felix began to run. Nirdeh would be on them in a moment, Felix knew that. He did not know how, or why, he knew that. Maybe it was in how she let the others flow around her, like she could give them the first taste of whatever was happening here. Felix grabbed his bow from beside the counter, still desperate for some kind of violence. As he rounded the bar, as his hand graced the wood of the counter, he turned his head to look back at Sorrow and Elias. His bow drawn, arrow knocked in a moment of pure motion and instinct.

She had her thumbs wrapped around the hole she had made in his skull and at the corner of his eyes. Her teeth were barred, her mouth exhaled vengeance. Her brow was contorted and twisted into a mix of cruel glee and drunken fervor. White viscera pooled from the re-opening wound. Her fingers, adorned with talons and claws, cut at his skin. 

Elias had drawn his revolver. It was a cold black thing that always made Felix shudder to think of. His hand was perfectly, calculatingly exact. He could still see the movements, subtle adjustments that Felix only now realized what they were. They were not tremors, they were decisions. He was flitting between which part of her to shoot.

Nirdeh was behind them. Her sword was drawn and swept back. Her gloved hand reached towards Sorrow. Flecks of white blood splatter against the dark gray leather of her uniform. She grips her rapier even tighter. Flecks of song fall from it like rime ice.

All three of them were smiling.

Felix did not know which one to shoot.

He turned around just as a gun’s hammer found its place, as the round fired off. He flies through the door and into the cold, raining night. Elias had just pulled the trigger on his pistol, just squeezed his hand as its barrel was over her kidney. Sorrow’s hand withdrew during its ego pause, in between the moments between action and reaction. The hammer clicked, Elias wished to kill, and then the room was filled with smoke. The E-99 Oscillating Revolver, even this model that Elias had designed himself, had just as much recoil as his workhorse rifle. Elias’ elbow was braced against his stomach and was kicked into it, knocking the wind from the young Vily. His eyes still snapped shut. He had expected a yell, had expected to feel the dripping viscera onto him, he had expected Sorrow to crumble. 

As his vision sharpened, as Elias blinked away the blood, he did not expect to only see Brigadier Delilah Nirdeh. Her long coat blew from the shattered door behind her, with subtle rain plittering down against the old hardwood floor. Her cloak was tattered and torn, singed slightly by the round that Elias let loose. The barrel of his revolver was still smoking. His other elbow was dug into the hardwood as he propped himself up. He turned around, twisting at the waist. Behind him, another open door, this time slamming against the door frame in the whipping wind. Beyond that door, Sorrow was running. A verdant green spot mixing in with the steel, industrial gray of Mariposa in the rain. She was gone, Elias knew this. There would never be a moment where she would so fittingly fall for his trap.

“A keener woman would think you shot at me.” Delilah Nirdeh stood above Elias, her backswept hilt turned towards him, point of her singing sword straight down.

Elias raised his wrist holding his gun up to his nose, wiping away some of his mycelial fluid. It was not blood, as most who were not Vily thought it was, but latex. The Vily form had no need for coagulants, and each cell of their body acted as an ersatz synapse, an isolated and specialized organism that made up the hive-mind that was the sprouting Vily. The mycelial fluid was a deterrent for predation. It made Brigadier Nideh’s nose crinkle in irritation. It flowed from his wounds with no sign of stopping, pooling over her boots and stained her leather so deep that she would never, truly, get it out. 

“How keened are you?” Elias spat out between teeth in a venom that was neither intended nor necessary for the situation. Delilah scowled and extended an arm out.

“You aren’t the prickliest Fleur agent that I’ve met.” She shook her own hand, as if he were a dog and it was an enticing bone that Elias had yet to pick up the scent. “Suppose that counts for something.”

“I suppose I should thank you.” Elias responded, grabbing her forearm in a sort of greeting. “You did save my life.”

Delilah smiled, hoisting the Vily off of the floor. Her forearm was toned, her muscles almost seemed to writhe under his touch, as if she was bristling under his touch. Perhaps it wasn’t something the young brigadier felt all that often. “You seemed to have it handled, sir.” 

Elias stood up, with the brigadier’s help of course, and shook the dust and grime from off his lapel. “I am never going to get this out of my coat.” He looked at the hem of his sleeve, the one that once held the knife. It was splattered with blood, true blood, real blood. Green, verdant blood. He stared at the ichor for a moment that was just too long. Below his hand, the knife sat on the floor, reverberating, harmonizing even, with the song that was still coming from Nirdeh’s lips. 

Delilah looked back towards the flapping door and gripped her sword a hair tighter. “They your friends?”

“Tall one is.” Elias glances to his side. He knew that she would chase someone, could see it in her eyes. That same, starved look that Sorrow had. She needed a hunt. “I’d prefer to keep him intact if it's all the same to you.”

The brigadier nodded and turned around towards her men. “We’re looking for a green Cambion, woman. Ran away from an active crime scene.” As if the soldiers were a part of her, some fruiting body, they filtered out of the bar, leaving only Elias, Nirdeh, and the corpses.

Elias survailed the scene. Not his best work, he thought. A bit sloppy. He glanced down at the bronze knife, Felix’s prized possession. He knelt down and grabbed it. He had gotten what he wanted. “I take it you’re stuck behind a desk too much.”

Nirdeh sighed. “That is evidence, you know. In your assault.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Elias smiled, pocketing the sticky blade in his coat.

“The 81st doesn’t stay in one place for too long. We often leave the actual governing to the auxiliary forces.” She scowled. When the 81st Legion took Karnata, Nirdeh did not stay long enough to see what she had left behind. Nine different legal, judicial, and political legions filtered in to replace the bureaucracy that she slaughtered invading the nation, three times as many as was normal or necessary.

“Bang up job you’re doing here.”

“I’m a soldier.” Nirdeh glanced over to the Vily. “I usually don’t work in law enforcement.”

“What do they have you out here for then?” Elias continued, rummaging around his own gore on the floor for something. Hidden behind the viscera, his torn ear. Inside it, a crystalline bullet. Cracked, leaking entropy, but still working.

“It was my round.”

Elias looked up at her incredulously. “Officers have to take the beat?”

��We were responding to a concerned citizen, Mr. Tvestok.” Nirdeh responded. “Someone said his brother was in here.”

Elias sighed, standing up from his crouched position. His head and ribs should hurt more than they do, should be sharp and warm. He held the bullet in his hand as it began to ring. He did not pick it up. “How patriotic.”

Nirdeh grabbed his shoulder, tight glove digging into the fabric of his suit. They were alone now, even the patter of rain outside seemed to cease. “Should I be worried about a Fleur agent operating so boldly in my city?”

Elias looked over his shoulder with his good eye, head lolling to one side. “Maximillian signed the armistice with us, made us the governing body.” Elias smiled. “If anything, it's our city.”

“The General bought out your contracts from the Corporate Lords so that you may serve in our best interest.” Nirdeh rejoined with a bit more venom than I think she intended.

“Ipso facto anything I do is in your best interest.” Elias continued to smile, his teeth as white as spider webs. “There’s no need for him to sick his hunting dog on me.”

Nirdeh let go of his shoulder and sighed. “I trust you, Mr. Tvestok. I’d simply be remiss if I didn’t ask.”

The Vily raised an eyebrow in shock, unsure of what truly to say. “I.” He paused, the words dying in his throat. He turned around to face her, she stood a good head taller than Elias. Her face was all sharp angles, much like his. “Thank you, Delilah.”

Nirdeh turned around, towards the door her prey absconded from. “Do not make me regret that.” And, into the night, she was gone, the bullet in his hand still ringing, echoing throughout the now empty bar.. Elias turned away, turned towards the shattered door. He saw, in the rain, a single, purple Vily underneath a street light. He held up a black umbrella and was adorned in a black, tight suit, much like Elias’. He held his hand up to his ear. The bullet in Elias’ hand rings again, this time a bit louder.

He affixed the bullet into his one good ear and tuned it into his brother’s frequency.

“Was it a good sortie?” The smug voice asked him, words cutting and cruel.

“A good evening to you as well, Quincy.” Elias sighed, pinching the bridge of what remained of his nose.

“What have I, what has Dad, told you about going in half cocked?” The figure gesticulates from across the way. This was the only way they could talk, with the distance between them.

“I got results.”

“Oh?” Quincy responds flippantly. “And what result is that? You getting your face blown off?”

“Consider it setting tolerances.” Elias rejoined. “Or, maybe it's better saying that I was setting operational boundaries, if you wanted something that would sound like it came from you.” He turned towards the bar, towards the corpses. Each stamped with an Imperial Mark, a bullet hole in their backs and in their heads. All kill shots. The Empire had no need for the rank in file, so they took none in. “Now I know what these people think of me.”

“You organized your own hit.” Quincy talks with a deliberate cadence, words each implying their own malice. “So you could find out if that boy likes you?”

“You make it sound so juvenile.”

“Is that not what you did?”

“I had to know what he knew of me. Had to know why she was following me.”

There was a break, a pause in conversation. Short as a breath. “You knew Sorrow was following you?”

Elias’ shot a look back at the figure across the street. Above him, the street light flickered. “A friend of yours?”

“I ran into her on another operation.” Quincy mumbled out, shifting in place somewhat. Elias narrowed his eyes. “At Rae Courtyard.”

“She’s that little devil?”

“The very same.”

“So you got me shot.” Elias began to laugh, a choked chuckle cut off by the pain of his mangled face. “I don’t know why you hide such things from me if I’m just going to find them out anyway.”

“Did not.”

“Good thing she didn’t know how resilient us Vily are. Otherwise I might not be walking right now.”

A sigh broke over the radio wave. “I won’t always be around to scrape you off of the floor, Elias.”

Elias looked back down at the corpses and their Imperial marks. He almost muttered out some sort of prayer, some sort of guiding word for their soul. He fought the urge. “You were here rather fast, weren’t you, Quincy.”

Another beat. “I was in the area.”

Elias smiled. Behind him, the spider sat in its hidden web. It's belly full and brimming with squirming flies. A smile, content and proud, plastered across its mandibles. Elias shot Quincy that same smile from across the street, so wide now it might as well have been continents away. Quincy did not know what he saw, or what Elias was thinking, but it made him squirm in his boots all the same. Like a predator late for a hunt.

“I am sure you were.”

[xjmlm]

The moment it becomes a symptom for us is when, as a patient once told me, she was perfectly able to sleep on the sofa in the living room. Once she got to the bedroom her ability to sleep vanished. This has a structure; it says that beds are for something other than sleeping. It poses the question of what beds are for. The most popular of the diagnostic categories that obscure the symptom is the borderline personality disorder. If you read a good description of the borderline personality disorder you will discover that this patient has a representative from all of the categories of symptoms. A borderline is anxious, depressed, phobic, hysterical, obssessive-compulsive, perverse, psycho-pathological, and even has psychotic episodes. In the first place, the category tells you nothing about the patient, except perhaps that the patient has a demand to be taken as Everypatient. Certainly, the use of the word "borderline" is a misnomer since the patient is trying to be everything. Now this is very appealing to psychiatrists because it implies that the therapist will become everything for the patient, assuming that he responds to the demand, something that he does if he accepts that the patient is borderline. The mods of self-presentation is a demand and it is only by refusing the demand that one may arrive at the symptom, to say nothing of the desire. As my supervisor told me when I was beginning to practice, these patients do not have to show their symptom. And if they do not show their symptom you aren't going to analyze anything.

This ought to give an idea of how we see a certain limit in the dialectic of analysis, and how the patient offers material to oppose the analyst, not to consent to his judgment.

The dimension of the symbolic, in other words, is the place from which the analyst directs the reorientation to the real. It would, however, be entirely false to think that this should all be reduced to what Lacan once called a semiotic delirium, the kind of thing that structuralists were doing when they broke everything down into plusses and minuses. It is not that we disparage such efforts, because if there is going to be any gain of knowledge on the part of the analysand in analysis, it will necessarily be in terms of some sort of structure, some sort of ordering of material. Otherwise the material is simply not intelligible.

The idea is that the signifying or phonetic elements of spoken language do not always have a fixed meaning; it is the listener who precipitates meanings through his punctuation or through other forms of responses. The unconscious desire that the patient is attempting to gain access to is present in his speech as well as in his dreams and symptoms. And the only way to gain access to whatever is encoded in dreams and symptoms is through the language that structured them in the first place. That language is present because the patient speaks it, not because the analyst provides a meaning for it. He should be brought to see that his speech is an act, that it produces an effect on the analyst, and this is beyond the idea that by an interpretation the analyst shows the patient what he really means to say. The effect produced in the analyst is represented by all the variations the analyst introduces in the way he acts during sessions. Since the patient assumes that it is he who has produced these effects, his effort to interpret the analyst's gestures, to decipher the enigma, will lead him to his own desire. This means that the analyst's antics, if you like, the fact that he is not always the same from session to session, cannot be entirely haphazard. There is a considerable difference, Lacan said, between reading hieroglyphics and reading coffee grinds. Since analysands have a tendency in the transference to read almost everything, it is an interesting question of how they know which effects are produced by them and are there for them to read, and which are not. In lieu of answering the question, let us say that when an analysand in the throes of the transference reads coffee grinds, what he is looking for is what most analysts are trying their best to give him: love and/or affection. They are, in other words, looking for a sign from the analyst that he is willing to accept as valid some part of their ego, some aspect of their personality, at least one of the several self-images that they present. To vary the theme of a popular song, when you are looking for love you will be looking in the wrong places.

Stuart Schneiderman,

"Affects", from Acts (1988)

[transingthoseformers]

Hmm. So.

How the fuck did they manage to create the RotF sparklings without the Allspark shards?

So, let's think of our options. Sexual reproduction, (which Hasbro continuously denounces), cloning (oooh! I get to talk about the different kinds of cloning!), budding in a way, protoforms that were stashed away on the Fallen's ship in stasis, maybe a previously unknown form of asexual reproduction!

Now, logically speaking, we know that sexual interfacing is probably not canon. Probably, perhaps. Bayverse is the continuity that makes the second most amount of implicating jokes. The first being Jro's work naturally. Anyways. We're temporarily going to forget about Occam's razor. Yes, sadly in bayverse Cybertronians experiencing sexual attraction is canon thanks to you wheelie you little heterochromic shit. But little known fact sexual attraction doesn't mean sexual reproduction, as demonstrated by the lesbian lizards. For all we know, Wheelie could've been ah getting off purely on the psychological aspect alone.

So, there are multiple forms of cloning actually. There's the typical cloning you might be thinking of, which is essentially mitosis but complex lifeforms. Well, errors can occur which allows unicellular organisms to mutate a little bit as a treat and mutation means adapting and evolution. Perhaps the terms eggs and hatchlings is a bit of a misnomer in this case?

There's reproductive cloning, where the genetic material of one creature's somatic cells (body cells) are put into the egg cell of another creature, that zygote is transplanted into a surrogate animal where it's gestated like average, and bing bam boom when it's born there's an almost perfect copy of the original! And, this method means the resulting clone technically has three parents! Though, some catches do occur here. All three individuals involved kinda have to be female, it needs cells, and well gametes have to be involved which are a major part of sexual reproduction. That's why you'll see it in species that used to reproduce sexually, or species that use asexual and sexual reproduction.

There's genetic cloning, which we have precedent for in canon considering Shockwave's predacons,, bayverse's introduction of Galvatron, the majority of the protoform stuff, and tbh tbh the scanning of altmodes in a way. The most popular example of such would be you guessed it Jurassic park, which as someone who plans to major in biology is Highly inaccurate to how cloning, DNA, and dinosaurs work. Less well known. This is how viruses work. The problems we run into is our favorite paradox, which came first the chicken or the egg. "Where did the first set of genes come from???" Exactly. You could argue that Cybertronians are technically derived from an altered genome of a species that sexually reproduced that Quintessa found, artificially creating a biologically asexual race. The catches? It's damn hard to do this kind of reproduction without a container for said genetic material. We see this with the human scientists using Megayron's CNA as a building guideline, and with the protoforms. Iicr, in bayverse we see that the autobots were essentially visually the same before scanning altmodes. This may very well be are most canonically compliant answer right here actually. But... again, this does not explain them being called eggs and doesn't explain where protoforms come from at all. You could say "But Riot, the protoforms are made of Senti Metallico (however you spell that lol) " and my answer is what technically is that and where does that come from? The movies also refer to it as Cybertronium which??? Is considered an element but it's clearly somewhat alive but anyways we get no answers.

Unknown form of asexual reproduction is goddamn unknown, making this category purely speculative. Perhaps as I've mentioned the terms eggs and hatchlings, and are glyphs that didn't have an Earth equivalent so the translators chose the next best options. Maybe cyberforming material is on its own self replicating, which raises questions of its own. Mayve it's extradimensional supernatural bullshit which i don't like this answer as it's equivalent to "suspend your disbelief' wHich I don't like i like answers.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Maybe, if you have any extra time, would you consider doing a continuation of the good villain rehab center prompt??? 🥺

🥺 I loved writing that one. Here you go! Just as a heads up, I’m going to start making prompt fills like this a little shorter, just because they’re starting to pile up a little. I wanna make sure I can answer all of them!

Thank you so much for the request!! Continued from here. This one is fluffy but also just a little sad.

CW//Hospital setting, pill mention, nausea mention, low self esteem

Visiting hours were from one to four.

That was the first thing Villain learned about the Supervillain Memorial Villainous Recovery Center, or, as it was far more commonly known, for the sake of brevity, the RC. That visiting hours were from one to four.

They could not help but hear the fact, echoing in their mind, as they glanced to the clock. Half after noon.

Half an hour.

Lunch was served at noon sharp-- they had learned that, too. Villain glanced down at the plate, sitting on the desk before them. It had been picked clean, to the point of nigh-spotlessness, leaving behind only the smeared residue of sauces and spices.

Two days. Three, they supposed, now, since the clock’s hands had already passed well into the afternoon. Three days, spent at the RC.

72 hours. Not counting the time they’d spent without their consciousness intact.

They sighed, placing down their fork-- a real, metal fork-- and listening to its soft clatter against the porcelain dishware.

Visiting hours were from one to four. Meaning that, in half an hour, Hero would be there. They’d grown familiar with, though not particularly fond of, the knock on their door-- the age-old call: “Villain, you have a visitor.”

Lunchtime had quickly become their least favorite time of day.

Things were peaceful before food was served. They woke up when wakefulness stirred them, spurred by no alarm, human or otherwise. The room was... comfortable. Light coaxed its way between the shades of their closed blind, leaving sunspots on the wood-paneled floor.

Though they awoke alone, when they emerged from bed, it was never long before someone came to see them. Doctor, it had been so far. A face they had learned to find kind and welcoming, even if their movements still made them uneasy.

Every day, the doctor would coax a light knocking upon their door, greeting them with a soft call of ‘good morning.’ They would ask how they had slept, how they were doing.

It was always the less practical questions that came before those of a medical nature. ‘Have you been feeling well?’ ‘Is there anything you need?’ ‘Would you like some tea?’

Then came the medical questionnaire-- a short affair of simple ‘yes’s’ and ‘no’s.’ Yes, their head still hurt. No, they weren’t having any trouble breathing. Yes, they were drinking their water. And their pills. Based upon the doctor’s warm, content smile, Villain’s recovery was going well, though they never mentioned the way that the taste of smoke refused to remove itself from the back of their tongue.

And, finally, the apologies.

To Doctor, Villain’s living conditions must have seemed to be torturous, considering the way they spoke of them.

“I’m so sorry you have to stay in here. Your doctors want a clean bill of health before you move to the main wing. It’s flu season, they say. Something like that could land you in the hospital while your lungs are still weak.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you could come visit with the nurses for a while... Oh, you must be so lonely. Are you sure there’s no one you want to call?”

“You aren’t getting bored, are you? The library is just down the street, are there any books you want? There’s a TV in the employee lounge...”

Yet, despite their countless worries, each and every one went unfounded. Villain’s room was a cell, yes. The door was locked. The window was bolted shut. They were a prisoner, and they knew that.

But, inexplicably, they were happy. On the first day, they had gone so far as to wonder if their food had been tampered with. They’d soon found otherwise, however. There was a far less sinister explanation.

They were simply happy. Perhaps not euphoric. Not overjoyed. But... content.

The time they spent in their cell was serene. Staring out over the window, watching the ocean play, the flowers in the botanical garden flash their extravagant petals. On the second day, when their fatigue had receded, they had obliged one of the doctor’s many offers. A book from the library.

Later that day, a chatty intern had brought in five, jabbering about how they didn’t know how fast of a reader Villain was.

So far, they’d only gotten through one, flipping leisurely through its pages. There was something nearly overwhelming about the experience. Letting the words flow to their mind as waves whorled in the ocean outdoors.

Prisoner or not, they were happy. They enjoyed their cell. There was room to roam, room to breathe. They couldn’t remember the last time they had been able to simply pause. To let every part of them relax.

And, during most of the day, they did relax.

Except during visiting hours. One to four.

Villain’s gaze glanced to the clock. 12:45.

Three days they’d been in the RC. Three days Hero would visit. Even if the hour had no struck yet, there was no doubt in their mind that the hero would be there, right on time, smiling and bringing gifts. The first day, it had been cookies. The second, a handful of candies. Today, they’d promised a brownie.

Villain never ate the food. It went right in the trash, every piece of it. It wasn’t an act of spite, not an act of distrust. But an act of nausea. When Hero left after their visits, they had no desire to eat.

Hero was... nice. That was undeniable. They entered with a grin and left with one, even as it fluttered throughout their meeting. Never had they uttered to Villain an insulting word, an aggressive tone. That was exactly the problem.

Why?

Why hadn’t they harmed them?

By name alone, the RC would have made any villain keep far from its walls. A recovery center was certainly a misnomer, a joke at those inside. Those being held captive, broken down and shattered into fiberglass particles of themself.

Because the heroes were evil. They were in the wrong. Regardless of what they said, regardless of what the public thought, it was the villains who were fighting the good fight. Any facility they had control over was certainly a torture chamber, intent on inflicting nothing but suffering on those inside.

Not bringing them tea and library books.

During visiting hours, from one to four, Villain would hardly speak. They allowed Hero to do that for them-- even as they asked them questions, requested their input, nudged them for anecdotes. There were no words that villain could say that would sound right.

So, they listened. Listened to the hero’s stories, how their day had gone, what stupid think their drunk teammates had done last weekend. Yet, they never strayed to topics of villainy. Never to topics of work. When such things would come up, they were brushed over with professional efficiency. ‘Then we fought downtown, but you’ll never guess how Teammate managed to set off the fire alarm.’

Because they didn’t care. Hero didn’t care.

They didn’t care that they were speaking to a villain. One who had caused untold harm, unending, ceaseless, meaningless destruction. Every time they prompted Villain to speak, they struggled to open their mouth. To let a stream of apologies spill forth, greater than the ocean outside their window.

But, not a single word would emerge. Because it wouldn’t be enough.

In the Supervillain Memorial Villainous Recovery Center, Villain was recovering. That was the problem.

They didn’t deserve it.

[kisarastrife]

Paper Roses chapter 56

Hi everyone, just to let you all know that this chapter is underway and I’m still rewriting the older chapters concurrently and updating them as I go both on FFnet and on Ao3.

As for 56, well it’s definitely the most difficult chapter I’ve worked on, but I’m loving the way it’s turning out so far, so there’s a small snippet beneath the cut.

Thanks for all your lovely messages! Xxxxx

“Kisara, we need to talk.” Her fingers closed around the handle and she shook her head, not able to reply to Seto because her throat was dry and tight, and she was scared that perhaps her grasp on reality was slipping. There was only so much trauma a person could take before it was too much. She heard Seto stand from the table and his footsteps came towards her, filling her with a panic that she didn’t want to face. “N-no, you don’t understand … he, that man … I’ve seen him.”

She wanted to explain that she had seen him before, so many times before. Watching her. Helping her. Just being there as an observer on the sideline of her life here. But Kisara didn’t have those words as her throat choked up and she finally opened the library door. Tonight had been stressful and shameful enough without highlighting just how crazy she might be, and she just wanted to hide away from it all.

“Shadi.”

That word stopped her in her tracks and she paused before the threshold back out into the mansion’s hallway. Slowly she turned around to look at Seto half-way across the library. “What did you say?” Her words were a mixture of fear and a tiny sliver of hope. Hope that she wasn’t losing her grasp on reality. No immediate answer came from Seto, instead he averted his eyes to the crackling fire in the hearth. Why was the fire even lit? That was the strange observation her brain focused on; it was a humid summer night and the fire hadn’t been lit since the depths of winter.

“His name is Shadi, or Shada.” She should have noticed the furrow in Seto’s brow when he finally spoke, or the way he raked a hand through his hair, but instead a single word rang in her mind; Priest. The word popped into her brain as if to correct an everyday misnomer commonly thrown about.

“Y-you’re telling me that you saw him too? That he was really here?”

[renegadewangs]

Van Zieks - the Examination, Part 1

Warnings: SPOILERS for The Great Ace Attorney: Chronicles. Additional warning for racist sentiments uttered by fictional characters (and screencaps to show these sentiments).

Disclaimer: These posts are not meant to be taken as fact. Everything I'm outlining stems from my own views and experiences. I am a 30-something European woman, and therefore may not view the matter from certain angles. That said, I'm always open to more input from others. If you believe that I've missed or misinterpreted something, please let me know so I can edit the post accordingly. If we can make this a team effort, I would love that.

The purpose of these posts is an analysis, nothing more. Please do not come into these posts expecting me to either defend Barok van Zieks from haters, nor expecting me to encourage the hatred. I am of the firm belief that characters are no more than a tool created to serve a narrative purpose, therefore the question I'm posing is whether or not Barok van Zieks serves this purpose. That's all I'm doing here.

I'm using the Western release of The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles for these posts, but may refer to the original Japanese dialogue of Dai Gyakuten Saiban if needed to compare what's said. This also means I’m using the localized names and localized romanization of the names to stay consistent.

It doesn't matter one bit to me whether you like Barok van Zieks or dislike him. He's not real anyway, so he can't suffer from it. However, I will ask that everyone who comments refrains from attacking real, actual people. If you know you're morally in the right, there should be no need for insults to begin with. Let's keep this conversation civil and constructive! As the first post in a series, let’s first start by examining the expectations we would have for a character like this. The purpose he was meant to serve.

1: Expectations

As I said in a different Barok-related essay, the main prosecutor of any Ace Attorney game has been, and always will be, an antagonistic force. Not a villain, not even necessarily someone who exhibits immoral traits. (Hi Klavier!) Just someone who impedes the protag’s goal of getting a not-guilty verdict. In order to have an effective antagonist, they need to mirror the protag's weaknesses back at them. Ace Attorney does this quite well, as the prosecutors represent the obstacle/turmoil that the defense needs to overcome. Often times, the prosecutor is also tied to a pivotal moment in the attorney's past, making sure the strife is quite personal.

Considering the game's plot and settings, it would've been difficult for Barok to be tied to Ryunosuke's past. (He is tied to Asogi's past, funnily enough, but that's a matter I also addressed in that other Barok essay.) So instead, Barok represents Ryunosuke's struggle in more of a figurehead capacity. I've seen people dub him the 'CEO of Racism', and I'm not gonna lie, in a way that's correct. Barok was designed to be the mouthpiece of the harmful sentiments Japanese exchange students would have encountered in the 1900s. By extension, since Ryunosuke is an exchange student unfamiliar with the British courts (or even courts in general), the prosecutor would target the fact that Ryunosuke 'does not understand how things are done here'. Which he does- a lot. This makes it all the more satisfying when Ryunosuke proves him wrong by outsmarting him and using Britain's own laws (such as the closing argument) against him. So yes, you may hate Barok for uttering racist sentiments and dismissing Ryunosuke's abilities, but the ultimate goal here is that Barok's defeat is made sweeter as a result. The narrative end-game is Ryunosuke's triumph and validation in the courtroom.

Was there a different personal struggle Barok could have represented? Yes, but also no. Sure, his vendetta could have been strictly with the Asogi family and Ryunosuke could have admitted to carrying Asogi's resolve, not knowing what it meant. Though that would’ve implied very early that Asogi had a history of sorts in Britain and would’ve destroyed some of the surprise we experience in game 2. Alternatively, there was also the 'parallel' antagonist angle. The sort of villain who says the line “we're not so different, you and I.” The antagonist who shows what happens when someone with the same skills or motivations follows the wrong path, which emphasizes the right path for the protagonist. However, I can't see that working in the plot of this game.

A purposeful decision was made by the writers to have prejudice be a central theme of the plot. This is the matter that hits the hardest in an emotional sense. Therefore, having Barok be the centerpiece of this prejudice ensures he leaves the biggest narrative impact.

---

However, another long-running aspect of the AA prosecutor is the redemption arc, so let's turn our attention to that!

I'm not going to put too much effort into explaining this, I just want to talk about the requirements of a redemption arc. We all know these types of arcs, a lot of Ace Attorney prosecutors have them. We see them in fiction all over. Noteworthy examples of redemption arcs done well include Zuko from The Last Airbender, Michael from The Good Place... For argument's sake, let's toss Edgeworth in there too. I'm not saying Edgeworth's arc is done well, but at the very least it is accepted by most as something that served its intended purpose. I've never seen anyone question Edgeworth's transformation.

See, what we have here is a bit of a misnomer when it comes to what people expect to get out of these types of arcs. Redemption in itself is only 'deliverance from sin' or 'being saved from evil'. It's the thought that a horrible person can still see the error of their ways before it's 'too late'. However, when it comes to absorbing media, often a character gaining knowledge that they were in the wrong isn't enough to satisfy the audience. Would Edgeworth have had a satisfying redemption arc if he'd acknowledged his arrogance and dirty tactics, only to retire as a prosecutor? No way. We needed him to return in the following games to give us an update on his status. Standing in court as a defense attorney, at the risk of damaging his reputation, was the moment we knew he'd grown for the better.

What we require for the arc to come to a good conclusion is atonement. The character in question must not only apologize for their actions, but repent in a more active manner to show that they've changed their ways. Following that, the atonement must be acknowledged by others. So for example, Zuko joins the ATLA gang to help them in any way that he can until even the most skeptical of the group, Katara, acknowledges his transformation into a better person. Now add to this the notion that the character's atonement must be virtuous and sincere. The Good Place is a fascinating look into the debate of 'is it ever too late for a person to change?' and the moral complications of changing in the first place. If you're only doing good things because you want to be saved from damnation, are you being a good person or are you being selfish? There's such a thing as corrupt motivation; only doing good because it is expected. For example, does sponsoring a library make Magnus McGilded a good person? It does not, since he's only doing it to boost his own reputation and have people believe he's selfless.

As a final note, I want to ask: Does a redemption arc require a backstory to justify the character's immoral ways? Personally, I don't think that it does. It's good to have, since it allows an audience to empathize with the character and give them more of a reason to root for them. It turns the redemption arc into a tale about overcoming past trauma. However, it can backfire when done badly and lead to frustration. (I'm looking at you, live action Disney movies!) Some characters are evil just for the sake of being evil and even then, they can turn over a new leaf because they realize it is just so much more rewarding to be good. Just look at Michael from The Good Place.

What's more effective than a backstory, in my opinion, is smaller details to humanize a character. Humanization can also lead to empathy, perhaps even relatability, and helps us believe that they're capable of change. We need to be told that a character has their own fears, their own flaws, their own odd little habits which deviate from the norm... Again, I'll point to Michael from The Good Place for this. Another humanization tactic, which we see employed often in Ace Attorney, is to display a prosecutor's likes and hobbies outside the courtroom. Edgeworth's fanboying over the Steel Samurai, Blackquill's love for birds, Nahyuta's willingness to stand in line for hours to get his hands on a delicious burger... I've feel ya, Nahyuta. This tactic is more readily employed in Ace Attorney because it's difficult to place a prosecutor in a position of weakness before the final showdown. You can show them tending to hobbies during Investigation segments, but you can't show them waking up from a nightmare or wondering whether their father loves them. Well, not until case 5 of that game, anyway. By then, it's too late to serve as the sole humanization factor. Did Van Zieks need to be redeemed at all? The way I see it, the only correct answer is yes. What do we want to see in our world? Do we want people who hold racist prejudice to acknowledge their faults and become better, or do we want them to die clinging to their shitty moral compass? Do we want a world where everyone learns to get along, or do we want a world where people continue to be in the wrong and act like assholes until they inevitably get punished by law for something or another? Van Zieks needed to be redeemed in order to teach that valuable lesson that it’s never too late to be a good person and that it pays to be a good person.

So to summarize, what we needed from Barok van Zieks was the following:

1) Present an antagonistic (possibly immoral) force who personifies Ryunosuke's biggest personal obstacle/weakness, in this case racial prejudice. 2) Humanizing traits begin to show. OPTIONAL: A backstory to justify any immorality he has. 3) Over time, Barok has his realization and sees the error of his ways. 4) Barok atones for his immorality, not simply through apology but by taking decisive steps. 5) The cast around him acknowledges his efforts and forgives him.

This leaves us with the question: Does the game deliver on these points? Well, let's boot it up and find out! Stay tuned for The Adventure of the Runaway Room! (as a warning, it’s gonna be LONG)

[lady-sphinx]

Few things are less understood than the hieros gamos – the “sacred marriage”.

Considered to be the “Holy Grail” of sexual rituals, is it within reach of comprehension and explanation?

One of the most intriguing, nebulous and controversial topics of history and magic is the “hieros gamos”, “the sacred marriage”. Believed to incorporate both sex and ritual, it should not come as a surprise that throughout history, it has attracted many – and often, those who should truly well stay clear of it.

Its fame has meant that the theme was used by Dan Brown in “The Da Vinci Code”, where he described it as how “man could achieve a climactic instant when his mind went totally blank and he could see God”. Brown is not the only one who has linked the experience with tantrism and the withholding of orgasm. He is, of course, also the man who considered Mary Magdalene’s vulva to be the Holy Grail. The quest to define the hieros gamos foremost is one of answering the question who and when it was performed. Some – including Dan Brown – link it to temple prostitution, while others see it as the king of the country who marries “the land” – in the form of a high priestess – to rejuvenate it.

For the Greeks, it was more abstract. They considered it a marriage between the gods and hence apparently outside of the reach of ordinary human beings.

It was only in the Jewish and medieval tradition that the hieros gamos became linked with magic and ritual and it is therefore here that we find the current obsession with it. As such, in 1605, Cesare della Riviera wrote that “in Europe, the tracks of these ancient rituals pass through the Gnostic schools, the alchemical and cabalistic currents of the Middle Ages and Renaissance – where numerous alchemical texts can be read on two levels.”

What is the hieros gamos?

At its core, the sacred marriage is more of a sacrament than a ritual. It is a marriage between husband and wife, but is of a sacred nature: it is a marriage blessed by the gods, with active participation of those deities, present in the act of lovemaking between the two humans. Focusing on the king having sexual intercourse with the high priestess is thus largely a misnomer, as the king was equally a high priest, and the queen… a high priestess.

In the 20th century, Carl Gustav Jung studied the hieros gamos through the Rosarium Philosophorum, a series of twenty woodcuts, printed in Frankfurt in 1550. The images have a clear sexual and royal nature: a king and queen are depicted with the sun and the moon, sharing a bed, performing sexual acts, as a result of which they become one, and are transformed.

And it is with these woodcuts that we come to the core of the hieros gamos: indeed, the primary purpose of the sacred marriage is that two equals, twin souls, a husband and wife, reunite through the hieros gamos. In short: the hieros gamos, or sacred marriage, was not a marriage of just any human beings, but of twin souls.

They – like so many other religions – believed that each human being possessed a soul. That soul was half of one unit, which consisted out of one male and one female half. This meant that for every human being alive, there was a perfect twin soul. The quest in this lifetime was to find that twin soul, and be reunited with it. This was the truest of loves; the greatest quest. If not the Great Work of Alchemy.

The alchemist Nicolas Flamel stated that he was only able to accomplish the Great Work while in the presence of his wife Perenelle, but it was equally accepted that the majority of marriages here on earth, was not between twin souls. Once the twin souls had found themselves, apart from understanding the true depths of love and kinship they shared throughout their many lifetimes together, the hieros gamos would be completed at some point.

What was it? It was seen as God personally “attending” a sexual activity, in which the human beings – male and female – each get “infused” by the divine essence of the male and female component of God.

The best-known historical example of such a sacred marriage is between King Solomon and Queen Sheba. The story relates how the Queen of Sheba travelled from her homeland to meet Solomon, to perform the hieros gamos with him.

This story is discussed by Kathleen McGowan in her fact-based novel “Book of Love”. She relates that ancient traditions stipulate God had both a male and female aspect: El and Asherah. Tradition relates that they desired “to experience their great and divine love in a physical form and to share such blessedness with the children they would create. Each soul who was formed was perfectly matched, given a twin made from the same essence. […] Thus the hieros-gamos was created, the sacred marriage of trust and consciousness that unites the beloveds into one flesh.”   

Echoes of the sacred marriage can be found in the Song of Songs, directly linked with Solomon and describing love making. The title highlights it was the holiest of all songs, underlining its importance. Margaret Starbird has pointed out that there are strong parallels between the Song of Songs and poems to the Egyptian goddess Isis. Of course, both Solomon and Sheba and Isis and Osiris were twin souls, and hence able to experience the hieros gamos.

The Song of Songs became very important for the Kabbalists, specifically following the Book of the Zohar, which saw the Song of Songs as a prime example of the hieros gamos. It is in the Zoharic Kabbalah that God is represented by a system of ten spheres, each symbolizing a different aspect of God, who is perceived as both male and female. The Shekina was identified with Malchut, which was identified with the woman in the Song of Songs. Her beloved was identified with Yesod, which represents God’s foundation and the phallus or male essence.

Within the Jewish religion, Malchut and Yesod are El, the fatherly creator god, and his consort, Asherah. He was identified with the bull and She with the mother goddess. Indeed, women who have experienced the hieros gamos note that they have experienced this mother goddess energy, some even mentally visiting some of her sanctuaries during the experience. The imagery also reveals how long our ancestors have been familiar with this sacred marriage: the link between the bull and the earth goddess is visible on the walls of Catal Huyuk, built in the 8th millennium BC.

The hieros gamos should therefore be more appropriately labelled the reunion of twin souls, while incarnate in the body, through sexual activity, involving the active participation of the male and female aspect of God: “What God has put together, let no man separate.”

Those who have experienced such union find it largely impossible to describe – “beyond words”. They are, however, capable of breaking down the experience in some components. The man will become one with El, while the female melts with Asherah, the “Queen of Heaven”. During this union, it is entirely possible that Asherah or El is more prominent in one partner than in the other.

During these encounters, the sexual activity exceeds – and is different from – a normal orgasm; it is normally more intense, prolonged and multiple, whereby the orgasm itself is more energetic, rather than physical. However, the presence of this divine energy should not be seen as a form of possession; normally, the human sexual energy is equally present, and the sexual experience is a balance and interplay between both energies. To put it crudely: the hieros gamos is a foursome: two human beings, and El and Asherah operating with and through them.

Where does this leave the reputation of the hieros gamos as a form of temple prostitution? Asherah has been linked with the Mesopotamian Ishtar, whose cult did involve sacred prostitutes. However, should we perhaps see in these women initiatrices: women who prepared and taught certain methodologies as to how sacred sexuality should be experienced between partners, so that their union could lead to a sacred marriage?

Interestingly, the world’s oldest poem, “The Epic of Gilgamesh”, relates how when Gilgamesh discovers the wild man Enkidu, he sends him to Shamhat, a priestess of Ishtar. She was instructed to teach Enkidu how to live as a cultural human being, suggesting that our ancestors identified culture specifically with how to make love properly – the hieros gamos way.

These examples, and the example of Solomon and Sheba, make it clear that the quest of the hieros gamos is not open to anyone: it is only the bailiwick of twin souls. It is why Flamel noted that it was only possible to be performed with Perenelle, clearly not only his wife, but also his twin soul.

It is also not so much ritual, but total union of body, mind and spirit: the two parts of one soul become united in the body, thus accomplishing in the body what they were at the beginning of time: a unity. The Great Work. And this union was “blessed” by the sacrament of the hieros gamos, in which God themselves, present at the separation of these souls at the beginning of time, reunited and blessed the two lovers.

So even though tantric yoga as such has nothing to do with it, tantrism does know about this state of perfect union and has labelled it Samadhi. It is the state where the respective individualities of each of the participants are completely dissolved in the unity of cosmic consciousness – the two units are reunited. For tantrics, the deities are not El and Asherah, but Shakti and Shiva.

Because it is “restricted” to twin souls, the hieros gamos might not hold the sexual and ritual appeal that many would like to give it. But it is nevertheless the most important sacrament of all, as it was the completion of the quest of the soul in life: to find his twin soul and reunite, and within this love, continue their life, combined.

People who have experienced the hieros gamos agree that this is a unique experience. One person stated that during the hieros gamos, both partners experienced total orgasm, though this was without any physical activity – through a physical connection, the other partner experienced perfectly the sexual stimulation the other person was sending in the mind – in short, the partners were both not only reading the other person’s mind, but interacted within that mind – as one unity of cosmic consciousness. Another person described it as “utter bliss” or what “heaven” must have felt like.

The feeling of “heaven on earth” may indeed be what the hieros gamos was all about: the twin souls in heaven, experiencing their divine union on earth.

As above, so below?

[nightswithkookmin]

RE JIKOOK IS ESTRANGED

Them

Me

Lol

JUMP CUT ALERT: This is a continuation of an ongoing discussion behind the scenes.

DISCLAIMERS:

Article 19, UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights: Every person has the right to freedom of opinion and expression which includes the freedom to hold an opinion without interference through any media.

Misinterpretation of my opinion, my words constitute a violation of my human rights. Please do not take my words out of context, share it on another platform in furtherance of your own agenda. If you do hold yourself accountable first. You are the author of your own intentions and interpretations.

I do not intend malice by my words nor do I seek to be disrespectful of any member mentioned in here. I simply enjoy mentally stimulating conversations and thought provoking discussions.

Let the records show.

MATTER OF THE DAY

Thanks to everyone that's shared your thoughts on this matter with me and thanks to that person that brought this matter to my attention.

I haven't looked into it and I don't know how severe this issue is.

I think people have the right to believe in anything they want to believe in. Personally, I don't think Santa is real but clearly others do, doesn't mean I'm sane or that they are crazy.

I don't think discussions of this nature should be about who is right or who is wrong. Everyone's opinion is valid and holds true to their own delusions. Lol.

Frankly, I prefer this kind of ship wars to the slurs and abuses and they are distributing hard core porn now?? What is going on! Chileee.

I have never believed JK and Tae to be anything more than friends. At one point, I wondered if they were even friends at all lol but since they admitted to having had a falling out themselves at one point the topic is now moot.

Tae and JK have- had- have a really special bond. To me anyways. I always saw them as the evil power twins of BTS due their ability to come together to wreck havoc especially on Bang PD's scripts. Lol. I think I have mentioned this a few times now.

I smiled to myself when I heard them call themselves partners in crime. The bond is there no two ways about it- you either appreciate it for what it is or you don't. personally I love their bond. Can't stand their shippers but I love their bond. They keep the drama going for me- love it. Lol

The question has always been whether their bond is as profound as their shippers make it seem. I argue it's not and I will always argue it is not. Lol

I think it's only fair that they also question whether Jikook's bond is as profound as we make it sound. I really can't be mad at that. All is fair in love and war- at the very least we can agree to disagree.

I mean even Jikookers themselves question the extent of JK and JM's bond. Some think they are just very special friends and nothing more. I think I talked about this in my is Jikook real post when I mentioned labels and the degree of love between JK and JM?

We know JK and JM have a unique bond. The question then is how far does that bond go. Is it just platonic, romantic or something in between?

This is the question I was aiming to answer with my is Jikook real post. My objective was to try and dismantle all the nuances that keep us from seeing the 'truth' about Jikook- that they are real. At least the way I see them.

I talked about unrealistic expectations we have of Jikook, false conditionings that often leads us to see Jikook as something more than they are- the amplified Jikook. We get used to highlight reels of Jikook's interactions in edits such that we feel there is something wrong with them when we see them in real time.

I mentioned that Jimin's nurturing nature often also estops people from reading more into his relationship with JK. He is nurturing of everyone, JK ain't special- they argue, just as this person is doing.

I talked about Jimin's Idol persona, the facade of the boy in love with JK- Jimin's role within BTS since debut and how that can equally blind us into thinking Jikook is something more or less than they really are. I have a post dedicated to this topic sitting in my drafts so I will not go into the details of it here. Please look forward to that.

But this person's post touches on another aspect of Jimin's personality that I feel is one of the things that often keeps us from seeing his relationship with JK for what it really is- his inclination for professionalism.

I keep saying this, several times now, that Jimin's Idol persona to me seems well developed, elaborate and very elusive.

I have mentioned a few times how I think during Jikook break ups that they keep it civil and professional for the sake of the team and that you might not even notice the difference especially if you place high value on their skinship.

The skinship would be there, the cordiality and civility would equally be there- except for moments when they are fighting, that gets bloody. Lol. They are best friends at the very least. It is why it's important to reevaluate the metrics we use to determine whether or not they are a couple.

I wish I could dialogue with this person to understand her assessment of Jikook and what she is using to determine whether or not Jikook are a couple and what makes her think Tae and JK are. Know what I mean?

What makes her think Jikook were a couple before 2017? What makes y'all think Jikook are a couple at all? I would like to hear from y'all- but come at me with the skinship bit and I'll block you deadass. Lol

So on this person's post, I think I agree with her assessment of JM's persona but I don't agree with the Jikook have been broken up since 2017. And I think I understand where this is coming from... I think some of us do. Yes they had a few fights that year especially leading up to Jimin's birthday- August was it? but we all know JK more than made up for it with the damn GCFs. Lol. kindly visit the timeline, peruse as many content as you can and form your own opinion on it. This is just mine.

Are Jikook Jikooking all the time? Absolutely not. They are human too. They fight, they make up, they break up they get back together, they have introverted, extroverted moments, they go up, they go down- have bad hair days, it's all part of their dynamics I'm afraid. From my point of view of course.

I feel some people notice these things too and when they sense Jikook aren't in a good place they bow out and Jump ship- I don't blame them. They are shippers not supporters. What Jikook need are supporters not shippers- or maybe both, do you.

Could this person be one such people? DNF shippers? Given up on Jikook before the end of their story? I don't know. May be.

Jikook is not a fantasy that you ship. It's a relationship that you support. You can't escape into them. They are an ongoing love story- chapters close, chapters open, you just have to ride it out till the very end.

I think the challenge of their post for me is whether or not Jikook is a performance. Her post leans into the whole Jikook is fanservice bull especially in light of the recent photoshoot video which some are using as evidence Jikook don't 'click' when the cameras are off- the lies they tell on Beyonce's internet!

I think I have speculated on this and shared my thoughts on this whole Jikook is fanservice bit. I will delve deeper into it in my next post on Jimin's idol persona but as I've already said, Jikook is fanservice is equally a misnomer.

Yes Jikook does fanservice sometimes, but they are not fanservice. Fanservice is the cover for their relationship. It's their glass ceiling- nothing to see here folks just two snakes under glass. Keep it pushing. (Sorry. Couldn't help myself. Lol)

But you do raise a valid question, what is Jikook like when the cameras are not filming?

Is the mood of Jikook in that footage the general mood of Jikook behind cameras as Tuktukkers are claiming? They barely interact, JM doesn't pay much attention to Kook, yadda yadda yadda?

And the part that gives me a complex, that JK only interacts with JM when they are the center of attention. Huh???????????

Sigh.

I feel caught between a rock and a hard place on this one.

The theory you pointed out in support of this assertion isn't mine and I think I made it clear I didn't share the same thoughts on it. I said it was valid nevertheless. Chilee, this is hard. Lol

Yes JK is an introvert, Jimin is an extrovert, JM doesn't live for JK, all that is true and some Jikookers have said that too- so when you ask, if this is who they are when the cameras are off does that mean what they do when the cameras turn on is fanservice-

I-👁👄👁

I don't know the thought process that went into that theory so I can't confidently defend it. I'll ask? Lol.

Personally, I'd like to know whether or not they see the tension in that footage as tension in the first place. Chileee I don't know.

I see it as tension. Not a very serious one though. So we'd have to agree to disagree on that one.

But the part I can argue, the part I agree with is Jikook aren't hyper super duper lovey dovey on each other all the time. They aren't cuddly all the time. They have their moments of quiet- Jimin seems like the more affectionate kind who'd rub all over JK in the comfort of their homes but still...

If you ask me though, I think Jikook are tamer on cameras than they are behind scenes. I always talk about the fear and panic in the members' eyes when they see Jikook gravitating towards each other- it's probably because they know the extent of Jikook's shenanigans. They know how worse it can be because they've seen it all.

And when JK panics sometimes when JM gets closer too you just know dude is scared perhaps because of his Mochi chick's devil may care shamelessly in love policies- Jimin wild. Bless him.

I did say also that Memories 2019 is equally eye opening. These were censored bits. BigHit was holding all of that and giving us crumbs- stingy mfs. Bless.

All that said, again I don't think Jikook are hyper lovey on eachother behind the scenes. Another part I diverge from that view is that this is not exactly off camera. It was just behind the scenes of a photoshoot. Something we've seen a countless times.

This is not BTS's first ever behind scenes photoshoot. It's just a different angle that's all.

They were working. They were at work. This wasn't an alone private space for them so they can't base on this to say Jikook don't interact when the cameras are off.

The cameras were rolling. We saw them interact, JM was interacting with everyone the way he always does on camera all the time except he wasn't interacting with JK the way he does all the time, grainy footage or not- I mean let's call a spade a spade and not a big fat spoon. Lol

As to why he was doing that- let's just say there are many schools of thoughts.

My thought as I've said is JM was freezing JK out. I think with anyone that's recognized and is familiar with Jikook fights, that mood is all too familiar as I mentioned earlier.

If JM was being courteous and not mad at his man then he would have kept it 'professional' and done the 'fanservice' bit with Jk as per usual just as this person is saying since the cameras were still rolling.

Jikook is not fanservice. They are real.

I have refrained from providing a detailed analysis of that '5 minutes' footage for reasons I will explain later when I do share my thoughts on that footage- eventually. Some day.

But my hypothesis remains the same that I think Jikook were fighting or had a minor issue. As to why they were fighting, chileee I don't know. The confirmation bias in me feel it had something to do with JM's birthday but honestly it could have been over anything at all- dumplings, microphones- we all saw that slap on stage, a certain Iphone notification perhaps, did JinMin make a secret VLive without Kook again? Lol

There are plethora of reasons, I can only speculate on a few. And I think we've all seen Jimin when he is not 'Jimining' with the others, JK included. Take his mood with Tae at GDA for example- since this is not a VMin post I won't go into it.

But it seems they squashed whatever beef they were having on stage when JM extended his hands to Tae and they shaked it out.

We've seen him and Suga bicker too- which again, I am not gonna to get into out of respect for their shippers but I can point you to the On comeback VLive early this year when Suga touched JM and JM mouthed Hajima to him- which I think had something to do with what was going on with him and JK at the time but that is besides the point. Every shipper for themselves.

I contrast his 'fights' with Suga and V to show you the difference between Jimin being professional and courteous and Jimin being rah rah. He was sat next to suga, talking and laughing with him but snapped the moment Suga held his back.

He did the same in the Dynamite MV Vlive, smiling and laughing with Suga but the moment JK teased him with the Yoonmin comment his countenance fell.

Jimin is not that good of an actor if you ask me. I have said he is very Kumbaya in nature, often makes compromises for the sake of the team but that don't mean he is a pushover or one to trifle with- he scares me when he is mad. Lmho.

The scene in that footage didn't look to me as that he was being nice and courteous to JK- is that y'all's definition of professional courtesy? Damn.

If they were having a lover's squabble then the 'icy' mood of Jikook we saw in that footage is not the general mood of Jikook when the camera's are turned off.

I have to state again that I don't know much of what goes on behind the cameras and most of the things we see sometimes are equally missing context.

That been said we have seen enough of Jikook 'behind cameras' and they are more intimate than we can imagine. A certain cozy selfie at the back of an abandoned truck comes to mind. Whatever they were doing at the back of the track wasn't intended for the cameras judging from JK's reaction.

We've had glimpses of Jikook when they are not the center of attention enough to have a fair idea of what they are when cameras are off and I don't think it is that mood we saw in that footage.

We saw them at Jingle ball bell, towards the end of 2019. We saw them in their own space doing what they do best- making us feel single as fuck. Bless them.

We've seen them at awards, we've seen JK eating Jimin's ear nom nom to calm him down- like I would have just bought him icecream to calm down his nerves or rubbed his back but whatever JK. He is your man; you know him best. Good for him. Good for both of you. Now come back and feed us.

And the bit about JK only laughing with JM when he noticed he was on the Bangtan Bomb cameras in that footage- now that's nasty below the belts phony ass ass! I felt that one straight in my chest, shit. Lol

Dude was in a doghouse it seemed and I noticed them stealing glances at each other and.... sigh.

I just think JK was looking for an opening to warm his way back into JM's good graces- it's really nothing we haven't seen before.... sigh.

This is 2020 that narrative of JK hates Jimin, JK doesn't like JM needs to stop. It's dead. Pack it up. Chileee, y'all tried it with this one.

Jk is nice to JM only when the cameras are on him? Nice try.

JK is so fake and fraudulent he glared RM down till he stepped away from Jimin- again, in the very same photoshoot footage y'all swear to God is proof Jikook is not real.

Find it. RM stood next to JM. Looks up see's something- or someone. Does his tell- the hand to head thingy he does when JK glares at him over Jimin. He backs away inches from JM.

Cut to JK. Dudes a mood. Jin bumps into him, stares at him but JK wouldn't even look at him and then deadass looks away grumpyly- talk of professionalism. You doing great swidy keep going!

You can hide a relationship, fake it on God but you can never hide the intimacy. Taekook just lack that intimacy, I'm sorry. Even in that 'estranged' moment Jikook's intimacy was still there-

Even in whatever mood JK was in- which again, I believe was just due to their lover's squabble- JK still was claiming his man and exercising his right of authority over him. That's how you know they are not broken up. In my opinion. Chileee. I'm gonna get in trouble. Deep sigh.

Y'all think JK was hovering over Jimin because he was preparing to strike him down like a censored censored censored? Yea, he was preparing to strike alright- All the corners of Jimin's heart. Y'all better stop before I find you. Lol

I said I wasn't going to analyze the footage in this post but damn. This man out here serving us all kinds of brooding assorted jeonlous as his man takes a time out or two to wiggle wiggle wiggle on him Malfroy style and y'all are out here peddling nonsense. Strike one.

He was a mood alright. Did y'all see Tae rubbing his chest, arms and legs, ears did y'all see any body else in there doing that for him? Y'all's falcon cannot hear his falconer give it up and sorry, Jikook can't relate.

As I've posited, JM I feel was mad as hell for whatever reason and wasn't in the space to be that person JK needed him to be- in that moment. Doesn't mean they are like that behind scenes all the time.

And before I get attacked again for causing drama, being toxic etc by Jikookers understand that I am just a delusional person shipping these two in a way that makes sense to me. Write me off as delulu, and go please.

Whatever ambiguity surrounds that moment, to me, Jin and RM's reaction to JK clarifies things a bit. Jikook were boiling hot. JK was still keeping an eye on his man. Lol. Bless them. That's my conclusion. I'm running miles with that. Catch me. Lol

Feel free to come up with your own theory in a way that makes sense to you.

I'm not sure how long that fight lasted but from the rain day incident I'm hoping it wasn't that long. Jikook are fine I believe- I hope. Judging from the way JM drew JK out in his VLive with the whole I miss JK comment? Did that not sound familiar to y'all? And that Mickey mouse thingy- JM ain't slick. Bless him.

JM is the perched akekeke whisperer whispering all kinds of things in JK's ear, feeding JK news of what goes on on social media and what not. Dude don told his man they won a BB on his birthday, told his man Jin wasn't happy he chose his bag over his- definitely told his man Army was missing him- what? I'm going with that too sue me. Lol

Did you or did you not see Jk coming out to do a live log afterwards? And JK seemed less grumpy, in very high spirits? Wedding bells- I'm manifesting it for JK. Manifest with me.

Remember when JM did a log and talked nonsense about JK, and JK did a rebuttal log to respond to JM and address some of the things JM had said about him? Remember that? It's a jikook thing and it's back😌

I have said JM uses social media to connect with Army while JK uses it as an outlet to express himself. Through out his Live he kept talking about how he wasn't prepared to do a live and it shows in the way he kept saying it was awkward, he just kept it business and didn't know what else to share... I wonder who put his paws on him, dragged his ass to turn on the camera because Armys had asked of him- a certain quick tempered chick who dragged his man out on social media to do the whole Chuseok greetings 2020 on Twitter perhaps?

And JK is so whipped he'd do just about all the hoops to appease his man- Jikook AU written by Goldy. High five. No but seriously...

Behind the scenes, JK sneaks into JM's bed at night- Taekook does it too? Please! The look on JM's face when RM spilled that tea is enough said.

There's only two people in BTS that panic and don't want us to know they lay one on God in bed and it's not Tae Kook.

JK: Jimin hyung and I will sleep here

JM: how about we let the others choose first

Everyone shares a room:

Footage:🦄🍲🐯🧀🐺🍟🐓🥛🐑🛏

JIKOOK share a room:

Footage: 🚪👀

Behind the cameras Jikook sneak into each others bed- camera caught them live. You saw JM's face, I can't make this shit up. Lol

Behind the scenes, Jikook do laundry at 1am. *insert JM pervy face meme.

Chileee, y'all making me trip with this one. Deep breaths.

Jikook have their moments. This was one of them. Can they be human? Please. Thank you.

At this point, these folks are not even shippers. They is shoppers shopping a man for their bias. Lol. Just admit y'all want Jeon thick thighs strong butt for your bias and go. Just admit you want some tall glass of Tiger charming face husky voice strong chest for your bunny and go. Lmho

Chilee, when we say Tae and Kook had a falling out we don't mean they freeze eachother out behind cameras. Hell, we don't even mean they fake their bond or interactions. C'mon! Tae and JK admitted they are not lovers and y'all is bitter. That's why y'all is making up this nonsense about Jikook. Speak the truth and shame the devil. Peter would be proud.

When we say Tae Kook is not real, We just mean JM spends JK's birthday with him while every one including Tae is out there cruising for Jesus with friends. We just mean Jikook claim eachother even when they beefing. That ship beefed and didn't even know they was beefing and they are real? Damn.

We just mean Jikook make efforts for each other even when they are having bad days- Had it not been for Jimin they'd still be gnashing on these cold streets. Place some respect on his name, y'all's ungrateful. Lol

Tae and JK don't want each other they both want Jimin- there. I said it.

Thanks for attending my Tedtalk. 👁👄👁

Now where was I? Never mind. I'm just gonna go burn some sage. There's too much negativity going on around. Hakuna matata!

There is nothing wrong with Taekook as a ship. Personally, I'm a multishipper I ship all the ships but I support Kookmin. I don't mind their shippers calling them whatever, but my eyes twitch when people who claim they support Jikook act wishy washy with Jikook. Lol. Like are you going to withdraw your support of Kookmin if JK sits on Tae's lap?👀 Yall make me nervous. How can you think Jikook is real but then look at Taekook and go huh??? What are y'all seeing that I can't see?

Like those are two completely different dynamics. It's the skinship isn't it? Talk to me. Jikookers who see something nonplatonic in Taekook honestly give me trust issues. Y'all have me out here looking over my shoulders.

I am delusional but I'm confident in my delusions because to me it is about the love and support for JM and JK as LGBTQ plus couples. Please stop shipping Jikook, stop shopping JK and JM for eachother and start supporting them because they are real.

IN MY OPINION.

Signed,

GOLDY

[big-oof-bi-goof]

So there’s this meme going around with TMA fans, the whole “hello Jon” thing, but it kind of disappoints me. We, as a fandom, are capable of more. We can do better than this. We just need to Hello Jon. Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all hose years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, Jon?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[elias-rights]

Me washing dishes: Because the thing about the Archivist is that... well, it's a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named... the Archive. Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear. Both in mind, as you walk the shuddering dread of each statement—

Me folding clothes: Jon. What does human even mean? I mean, really. You still bleed, you can still die, and your will is still your own, mostly.

Me at the grocery store: Why does a man seek to destroy the world? It's a simple enough answer. For immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but— My god. The discovery—

Me during long car rides: Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

[blacksunscorpio]

oo I liked the last answer about horny aspects, made me think of a Q, which aspects or placements would you say makes someone have a bad temper or someone who gets angry easily? I feel a lot of Aries for some reason lol

The Astrology of Anger

Elements

1. Fire Signs: Aries, Leo, Sagittarius

You nailed it with Aries. By far, the fire signs experience and express more anger than the other zodiac signs. by nature, they are reactionary. Fire signs act on visceral gut instinct before they think. In fact, they miss the thinking step and skip straight to feel then comes the eruption. They attempt to crush their opponent/problem with shear force and raw irateness.

Ex. 1

Easily irritated, Sagittarius has a short fuse when it comes to anything that takes away from their Jupiterian joy and libertas. Remember, Zeus never fucked about with those thunderbolts. This happens a lot but as opposed to grand displays of anger [like Aries], it’s a steady stream of shocks and bitching and anger until they get what they desire.

Ex 2.

“I get angry when you don’t show me love and/or respect me.” This is how Leo gets set off. Leo’s fixed nature makes them seem powerful and stable, Pair that with their apollonian fire and this sign exudes power. But, it’s the fire that is also their weakness. Fire is hard-pressed to be controlled. They react. On instinct. Especially when their ego [The Sun]/pride is hurt. No matter how hard they try to resist it, the element of fire supersedes their fixed nature. When pushed, they explode. You may not see this as often as an Arian crossed, because they want to appear in control. However, when it does, it’s broadway level dramatic. It’s like a grenade that’s been contained, under pressure for a long time. When it blows, it’s big. Yet, like a grenade, it’s over quickly. They make their statements brashly and with pinpoint accuracy. It’s actually embarrassing for them when they lose self-control, so they often will attempt to gather themselves quickly.

2.  Water Signs: Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces

Remember, Anger is an emotion. Navigating the world primarily through emotion, water signs are sensitive and easily spiral into anger when their feelings are slighted. Their self-protective nature causes them to feel a threat and their method of defense, as a result, is emotional [perhaps even irrational] outbursts [look for hard aspects to these signs fo more clues].

Ex. 1

Cancers, as soon as they feel threatened, their emotions cook them into a frenzy. [The FBI actually ranks Cancers at the top of the most dangerous killers list.] They immediately become imbued with an intense feeling of having been violated. The need to protect themselves takes over and rather than think or plan, they let their emotion possess them. They will often lash out with harsh words and try to inflict emotional pain on whomever they believe is threatening them. Because they are sensitive is why they are so harsh when they’re angry. It’s not uncommon for people to feel as if they have to walk on eggshells around these people. Cancers get this misnomer for being weak and crybabies when in reality they actually hate people before they love them. Their close circle are those they feel familial ties to even if they aren’t blood [moon/4th house]. What’s more, Cancer holds onto the anger for a very long time just like Scorpios [however the latter will stew and plot as opposed to popping off], and if they feel it’s appropriate, they WILL plot revenge.

Modalities

1. Cardinal Signs: Aries, Libra, Capricorn, Cancer

​The modality with the most anger I’ve observed are the cardinal signs [yes, even Libra]. With their constant need to push forward, they succumb to anger easily because they often feel blocked or thwarted by anything that impedes their forward momentum. Furthermore, they get frustrated by anyone or anything that takes away their ability to be in the lead or the boss.

2. Mutable Signs: Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, Pisces

The mutable signs can often feel a lack of stability, which causes them to become irate. It is common for them to feel puppet-mastered by their circumstances or other people without a real ability to force or defend their own agenda. If they get to that place, their lack of self-control [mutable and not fixed] causes some anger.

Aspects

1. Aries Placements, especially Mars

“I get angry when you get in my way of doing what I want.” This is what sets off  Aries placements– particularly, Mars. Here the anger will be expressed in highly confrontational, aggressive, and competitive terms so as to prove their supremacy. Mars in this sign is highly combustible, and anger converts itself into action speedily.

2. Mars Conjunct/ Square/ or Opposite Pluto

The bully aspect. Don’t fuck with them. They are ruthless.

3. Sun Conjunct/Square/ or Opposite Mars

This placement is not afraid of conflict. In fact, the welcome it. Many Boxers have this placement. Impulse and ego combined in hard aspect. Yikes.

4. Mars in Cancer

“I get angry when you don’t make me feel safe, so now, you don’t get to feel safe either.”  Think Sonny form ‘A Bronx Tale’ when the bikers were breaking up his bar. He asked them to leave, they were disrespectful, so he locked the doors and told them “Now yous can’t leave.” What follows is how Cancerian Martians [especially in hard aspect] react when violated.

5. Mars in Scorpio

“I get angry when you threaten to make me look weak or unimportant.” That is what will set a Mars in Scorpio off. Remember, Scorpio is honorary fire. This is probably the most vindictive Mars placement. Though they may not snap like their cousin’s Aries, They WILL get angry. This is because Scorpio seeks security through power and control (including self-control). When this is tried or tested, get ready to have your life violated in the worst way. Mars in Scorpio can be brutal with their anger. Playing the long game. Once they sting you, their venom might be hard to recover from.

6. Mars Conjunct/Square/or Opposite Uranus

Mars is rage, and Uranus is sudden and unexpected disruption/chaos [Think the tower in Tarot] Uranus also indicates the dynamic energy of frustration. This aspect intensifies the volatility of anger and can lead to highly havoc-like expressions.

7. Saturn Conjunct/Square/or  Opposite Pluto.

Cruelty and Terror combined. Saturn/Pluto is known for cruelty. In the case of this aspect, the result when triggered could be searing anger that finds it’s satisfaction in cruelty to another person. With the square, the kind of cruelty may be worse than the other Saturn/Pluto aspects because anger may simmer and stew before it releases. Consequences could be dire.

8. Pluto in the 1st House or aspecting the Ascendant

Will carry Pluto’s dark energy on their face. Their identity will; be steeped in 8th house energy. Though they typically leave well enough alone, if they are provoked, these are very very dangerous people. They are not afraid to be ruthless. They see it as justice, not cruelty. They will also find themselves going through identity crisis often or transformations to their identity. and once they have reached stability, people will still be intimidated by them. These individuals are misunderstood but that does not make them charity cases. These are ‘X-Men types’. Their struggles cause them to transform into powerful beings most people fear, especially when antagonized.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

Spacewalk

Kris goes on a spacewalk... it doesn’t go well. Adopting a CSU has never been more cute. Also on AO3.

Beta-read by Ash0.

As the Serenity approached the location of the distress signal, I donned a heavy-duty spacesuit and stepped into the airlock. It cycled around me with a whoosh of escaping air before the external door slid open.

Unfathomable darkness engulfed me, kept at bay by the jarringly bright  lights of my suit. I had done a few spacewalks before, and Cass had requested that I be certified in the basics, but nothing compared to working the suit’s slim controls while adrenaline pumped through my veins. Without gravity, my sense of direction fluctuated wildly.

I’m forwarding location data to your suit, Cass informed me through the ship-wide feed.

A bright green dot appeared in my vision, and I slowly made my way to it. I was tethered to the Serenity in case this mission went bad, and it was my only anchor to safety. The suit had automated procedures should anything happen, but I trusted them about as much as I trusted the captain’s pet bot.

Pieces of twisted metal and broken plastic floated leisurely past me. A larger chunk of ship — perhaps some part of a hallway with the hull torn off — lingered ahead of me. The lights were off and mine merely cast it in stark shadows.

There’s nothing out here, I sent.

Thirteen degrees to your left and slightly up from your current position, said a different, neutral voice.

Fucking hell. Cass had the SecUnit on guidance duty, and its clipped, no-nonsense voice grated. Thankfully, it didn’t offer any further advice and didn’t nag when I didn’t instantly comply. Perhaps it had better manners than some hauler operators I’d had the pleasure of working with. Readjusting my position, I approached the requested location.

Still nothing. I forwarded the view from my cameras to Serenity.

Single EVAC suit on your left. Three hundred meters. At least the SecUnit was competent. I couldn’t begrudge it that.

I dialed in the location and eased my way toward it. The bot had been right; it was a mostly functional and still intact evacuation device. Calling it a suit was a misnomer in this case, but it was broadcasting vital signs for a live but unconscious human.

As soon as I got within its limited scanning range, the thing came to life. Lights flickered on all around it, and a mechanical arm extended from its torso to grab the front of my suit. Garbled noise filtered in through my comms, none of it much more than static.

Shit. I pinged the Serenity. Bot controlled diversion.

At the same time, the SecUnit’s voice appeared in my comms, clear and concise. Do not move. Do not engage. Rescue on the way.

Cass! What the fuck! I couldn’t hold my frustration as adrenaline and fear warred for control. Anger followed a moment later. Don’t send that thing on a spacewalk. It will fry your augments.

I got this, the captain answered calmly. Two more bots incoming. Kris, hold position. We have you covered.

Less than thirty seconds later — while the bot had scanned me and threw out more garbled data — another spacesuit appeared on my radar screen. I have never seen anyone move in space the way CombatUnit did.

It held a large projectile weapon in one hand and a hook in the other. After connecting its hook to my tether, it fired directly into the bot that was pretending to be an EVAC suit. The large machine exploded into dozens of metal shards and slag. The resulting force barreled us both backwards, precisely toward Serenity. No human could have calculated that.

Two more bots approached from somewhere deeper within the mangled hulk of the ship, at which point the SecUnit eased around me and fired at them, again clearly calculating angles to push us backward at the most optimal trajectory. I gripped the tether with one hand and the Unit’s suit hook with the other.

One bot fired its enormous gun directly at me, and the SecUnit placed itself in the way of the incoming projectile. The bullet penetrated its suit and burrowed into flesh and metal. Droplets of blood escaped the wound into the vacuum.

Fuck.

I have you, I told the SecUnit, grasping its arm tighter.

The construct didn't acknowledge me. Twelve meters to your left, EVAC suit. No bots detected.

I let go of the SecUnit momentarily and reached for the suit. SecUnit subtly adjusted its grip to give me enough reach to grab the suit and then gently eased the unwieldy body out of my arms.

I requested the SecUnit’s vital signs and pinned them to my heads-up display. If the asshole was going to save my life, I would make sure it got back to the ship in one piece.

Once it had a hold on the suit, Cass reeled both of us back into the airlock.

[les-mooserables]

Hello, John

[AS SOON AS HE BEGINS SPEAKING, A WHIZZING STATIC KICKS IN FROM THE BACKGROUND.]

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

[THE ARCHIVIST MAKES A PAINED COUPLE OF SOUNDS OUT-OF-STATEMENT-CHARACTER, AS IF HE’S TRYING TO TEAR HIMSELF AWAY FROM THE STATEMENT AND PHYSICALLY CANNOT.][WHEN HE PICKS THE STATEMENT BACK UP, THE WORDS SOUND LIKE THEY’RE BEING TORN FROM HIS LIPS.]ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

[A SLAP ON THE TABLE – OR A CRACK? SPOOKY.]

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

[THUNDERCLAPS.]

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

[THUNDER CONTINUES AS HE GOES ON.]

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

[SOMETHING CREAKS. ANOTHER LOUD SNAP/CRACKLE.]

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

[WHEN THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS TO READ THE INCANTATION, A HEAVY, DENSE STATIC RETURNS AND BEGINS TO BUILD, ADDING IN HIGHER PITCHES AS IT DOES SO.]

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!