#where are the slaughterhouses in heaven?

[dreadbornesaint]

tag dump - gen

[medusaesque]

Kim Kitsuragi and the pale-

Kim has a unique relationship to the pale, I tried dissecting it and making sense of it. Reposting with more thoughts after some good conversations with @binomech.

Warning- it's insanely long.

1. After life, death

One of the first thing you can learn about Kim is that he would hurl himself in death's way to save you. From the very first moment, Kim is related to sacrifice and death, it follows him wherever he goes-

The slaughterhouse.

He lost his parents at two years old. He worked a year in Processing (here's good post about that by @renmorris and @spilledkaleidoscope). He lost his partner, Eyes. People have taken a bullet that was meant for his more than once. His survivor's guilt is insane. He's killed six people. He's afraid of killing recklessly, and has a deeply unhealthy relationship with his gun (made another embarrassingly long post about that).

Kim also hears pale 'ghosts' on the police radio all the time, talks about it like it's normal, and says he doesn't believe in ghosts.

If harry is with Noid during the Moralist dream quest (more on it later), Harry can even wonder if Kim himself is a ghost, prompting this beautiful exchange-

And he's not entirely wrong. When Harry gets shot, after Kim fulfills Espirit's promise and stands in death's way for him, you can ask as you fall into darkness what will happen to you-

It's the living who are ghosts. You can leave them behind and rest. Go into the wild pale yonder, along with everyone else Kim has ever cared about. Or at least you can try to.

When death is at the door, you have two options-

2. After death, life again

Kim might associate himself with death, but Harry associates him with life again and again- Death is darkness, Kim has a light bulb halo. Death is a sunset, Kim is a sunrise. Death is where you are when the game start, it's ready to take you, and then- a clarion call, the sound of a motor carriage, a detective arriving on the scene, and you open your eyes.

Of course Kim is no actual saint, no guardian angel, but it's really telling that even in harry's deification the symbols of Kim's holiness are worldly, almost mundane, the matters of every day life- a celling's fan lightbulb, the engine of a car..

Or the way @binomech said it when discussing Kim's portrait: this is the only thing keeping you from the full brunt of the world in your mind #but truly you are already in the world #and he is just a man #and that's just a car and that's just a ceiling fan

The game is very clear about Harry being a ceaseless agent of the world, but he's not the only one. Harry stands at death's door twice, and Kim is his way back to the world both times.

3. After the world, the pale

So what is Kim's relationship with the pale?

As casual as he might try to appear, Kim is clearly uncomfortable with the pale, afraid of it even. When Harry brings up the pale, he intervenes, genuinely worried for the fragile stability of his mind, trying to protect him-

It's no more terrifying than water or death or that we're stuck behind our eyes for all eternity?? Sounds pretty terrifying Kim...

I think the key is in the moralist vision quest, When Harry attempts to reach the Committee of Responsibility, and he hears the pale crosstalk coming through the radio, when suddenly-

"Pale is a shroud of memories and it doesn't really distinguish to whom those memories belong to. You could hear anything." You could hear anything, but you hear Kim. Soona even says that the odds of us hearing him, out of all the voices in the pale, are astronomically low.

We know the past has not been harmless to Kim, we know it's full of ghosts and cold winters, but that's not the thing that's eating at him-

Kim is afraid of forgetting. He's constantly writing, he thinks through his notebook, always recording, so he wouldn't lose anything. That's why the pale is so terrifying to him.

4. After the pale. the world again

The world is what it is. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

That leads me to the expeditions through the pale-

Volta do Mar is a skill unique to Kim, according to the stats of this pilot jackets, and it's a Physique skill.

It's driving me crazy to think how Kim wanted to be revolutionary pilot as a kid, and is walking around dressed like a pilot as an adult, to give himself the ability to navigate the pale. To return from the sea-

DISTANT ENEMY OF HIMSELF?? kim....

Seeing how Volta do Mar is strengthened by his jackets, and the items' descriptions point out that most of the people who used to wear this jacket are long gone (alongside what they represented) and considering that the only real advance in pale transit is the speed with which an aerostatic craft can pierce it, is seems fitting that returning from the 'sea' requires the kind of armor that ghosts wear- the ghost of who you wanted to be but never could, of a home that was never yours. Glory to them.

@binomech said it best in this conversation we had about Kim's skills: "your traitorous race. your traitorous job. your traitorous parents. your traitorous senses. distant enemy of yourself: seolite, communist, cripple, faggot. and you wear it as armor"

Kim is equipped for Volta do Mar, he armors himself for it every day, for the thing that makes it possible to return sane, and discover a new world-

This is one of the most touching Kim moments in the game to me- putting his hand in the rain, looking up to the sky, mouth open, welcoming the spring rain, even knowing it'll bring death and destruction with it. He is devoted to this world and the role he has to play in it, or at least the role he thinks he has to play-

But we know Kim has a bigger role to play, he's trying to do his part right there, getting Harry to stay-

His connection to Harry can keep him on this world once again- keeping the two of them together. Their real work is down here, him and Harry are Revachol's only hope. If they stick together they might be able to keep her on this earth.

UNITY AMONG THE RANKS IS PARAMOUNT.

I NEED YOU. YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT.

I LOVE YOU.

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

For a moment there is absolutely nothing. No one moves, no one blinks, no one breathes. The rain stops, sunlight pouring slowly through the dusty room, but no one so much as twitches, cemented in position. Medusa could walk in and stare at them all and no difference would be made. There is nothing but the muffled chatter of the news program, and the sound of Will fracturing.

“—end of the rainy front! Nothing now but sunny days and warm fronts from the south, John, things are looking up —”

There is no sudden break where everyone jumps into movement, hovering over Will, clicking off the TV, running for Chiron. There is only silence. Silence, except the chirping of the birds from outside, hopping around for worms, and the upbeat chatter of the news anchor, and the rustle of Will’s shirt against his shorts as his entire body trembles.

“Will,” Nico says, except his voice is so hoarse he doesn’t say anything at all except a punched out exhale from his own chest.

In his head Nico stands. In his head he is calm, hands steady, voice clear, as he says let’s get to the hospital, as he guides him gently up, as he walks him out. In his head they make their way to Savannah General ask for Naomi’s room and find her recovering. In his head he handles things.

In reality Will makes a gaping, choking sound, like his organs have slithered up his throat and splattered on the floor. Like he has been flipped inverse. It is a sound like bone snapping, like scissors slicing, like thread unravelling fiber by fiber. He bends slowly over, until his knees touch his chest, until his hand-covered face hits the floor; he looks, startlingly, like the Algea, like the Statue of the Woman Grieving, hair curtaining his face, except for the speck of lint on the back of his shirt. A single little speck, that ruins the image. The Statue of the Woman Grieving, plus a speck. A chip.

“Mama,” he chokes out, and Nico flinches, a full, bodied thing.

Mama.

Ozone. Burning; burnt marble, burnt air, burnt flesh. Taste or pennies. Stale, frigid stillness.

Mama.

Father’s shimmering suit, quietly gaping mouth; Bianca’s wide, black eyes, blinking, blinking, blinking.

Mama.

Mama.

Mama.

Will makes the noise again, a horribly grinding groan, as a cry rips itself out of his chest, as air is yanked slowly through his vocal chords like the chain cranked around a tow truck. His eyes stay glued to the TV screen, hands fallen limp and open-palmed in front of him, turned to the heavens. His face is blank but the sounds don’t stop, they pour out of him, steady stream, rusted chain, beating heart. Nausea churns Nico’s stomach and saliva floods his mouth, like it did on the drive to the Lotus, when they passed a Nevadan slaughterhouse. Will sounds like he is being butchered.

“Mama,” he moans again, and this time there is a gag, this time someone jerks, out of the corner of his eye, darts out of the room. Retching echoes follows them, and then, quickly, clotting hooves, practiced and speedy. The doorframe creaks as someone hunches under it, walks through the threshold.

“…Children?” Children, children children; Mama, mamachildren, mothers, babies. “Will? What’s —”

The muscles in Nico’s body contract of their own accord, springing him forward. Upright. Diaphragm up, lungs in; out, inout. Quadriceps contract, release. Again.

“Will,” he tries, and this time it works. His tongue forms the word and it tumbles from his lips, bouncing off the floor, resting somewhere twisted in his hands. “Will, c’mon, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Will doesn’t actually move. He doesn’t shift or stand. Nico doubts that he can. But he lets Nico manoeuvre him, and manages to put one foot in front of the other as Nico guides them, hand on the small of his back, across the room. Chiron moves back as they approach, and when Nico looks there is something in his eyes, something he has seen twice, now; dancing along the reflection of the pyre’s flame. A simmering kind of grief, a stilted, shut-off beg.

“Kayla,” Nico murmurs, pausing at the door, “Austin, c’mon.”

He doesn’t wait for them to move, but hears them, joints creaking along with the couch, footsteps even and robotic as a metronome following him down the hall, through the meeting room, over the porch. Across the common and to the ancient garage in the back, to the wet gleam of the van.

Will doesn’t make any more sounds.

They pile soundlessly into the van, Kayla and Austin crawling into the back seat, legs hooked at the ankle, fingers clenched until they’re bloodless. Nico settles against the threadbare driver’s seat and adjusts the rearview before he realizes that Will hasn’t moved; stands rigid, hands twitching in front of him, one shoe sliding slowly into a mud puddle.

Nico climbs nimbly across the dash, pushing the passenger door open and staring, for a moment, at Will. His mouth moves, ever so slightly, but the blankness hasn’t shifted from his face, and staring into his eyes makes Nico feel like he’s small in the dead centre of the Grand Canyon. Like there is nothing for miles ahead of him but empty air and the memory of rushing water.

“C’mon,” he says quietly.

Will does not move. His shoe slips, slightly forward, and he jerks along without, knee slamming into the dented metal of the door. Kayla flinches.

Nico pushes the door open again and stretches out as far as his arms will let him, fingertips brushing Will’s knuckles. With a tug he has him stumbling forward, barely catching himself on the seat, twisting by memory alone to situate himself properly. His head dips, low, like a wind-up toy rattling to its end, like a marionette drooping from behind the final curtain. Austin untangles himself from the back, reaching over and stretching the seatbelt around his brother, clicking it into place. He holds his hand there, waiting a beat, before shifting it to rest over Will’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “I brought — some salves.”

Nico chokes back a sudden and violent sob. He is reminded, right then, that Austin is eleven years old. He is also reminded that Will was eleven, the first time he lost.

He peels down the hill fast enough the whole car jerks, and speeds onto the road.

———

next

[ryin-silverfish]

I really like Azure Lion as a character. Yeah, you can stop following me now. /j

But no, seriously, I like how LMK has adapted this particular character, given him way more potential complexity than his novel counterpart——not that it's a high bar, the LCR trio of JTTW are just demon warlords living in a literal human slaughterhouse.

Which is why I deeply dislike the take that "Oh, Azure manipulated SWK into fighting the JE! He's just using him like a pawn!" Like, wow, way to completely butcher two characters' personality and agency in one go.

Such takes reduce SWK to some innocent kid, when he is at most an impulsive, daring teenager who haven't met a single real obstacle so far——he robbed the dragon kings blind, and they couldn't do a thing! He struck his name and all his monkeys' names off the Book of Life and Death! What couldn't he do?

And Azure's failing isn't him telling a toddler: "You know what? Driving your tricycle into oncoming traffic will be real fun, trust me kiddo." It's letting his friend go way over the speed limit and not telling him that he should maybe, y'know, slow down, bc he'd seen his epic driving skills, SWK's the bestest driver he ever met, surely nothing would happen!

(And also, no one in that car is sober, except Macaque.)

What I'm getting at here is, even without Azure, SWK is not gonna be content with sitting on his mountain, eating peaches forever. Hell, he sure doesn't in the novel, where his demon king brothers are little more than namedropped NPCs.

He is always gonna want more, chase after greater destinies, drown out that existential ennui and fear of death at the back of his mind with bigger and bigger power-ups and the laughters of his companions.

He told himself he would be content after getting this one thing he wanted. That he could stop at any time. But alas, like any ADHDer, he will not stop at this one exciting thing, and sooner or later, the boredom sets in, and he gets ideas and impulsively leaps into making them reality.

That is the Mind Monkey at his worst: being a whirlwind of chaos, while unknowingly enslaved to his own chaotic mind.

(In the book, this is Wu Cheng'en's reminder to the reader that, even though you shouldn't keep your heart constantly under lock and keys, Neo-Confucian style, the other extreme——letting it go completely wild, disregarding all external rules and consequences, can be equally disastrous.)

And when that car was driven through the Celestial Palace's front door, off a bridge, and straight into a ditch, it was him in the driver's seat, steering the wheels the whole time.

Everyone else in that car failed terribly as friends when they didn't voice any objections, or try to get him off the driver's seat, or realize that cheering and egging him on is an awful idea, however genuine their blind trust was.

Like, they are certainly not helping, and made the situation much, much worse. If you let your buddy drive while under influence and hand him more beers in the car, even if you are also drunk out of your mind and aren't actively trying to get him into a traffic accident, you are a shitty, irresponsible friend.

But the thing is? SWK is still responsible for the consequences of his decisions. He could have stopped, by his own volition, and no one was holding a gun to his head and forcing him to drive. He, too, wanted this.

That, to me, makes a much more interesting narrative than "Poor innocent baby SWK was puppeted into becoming the Great Sage in Heaven by shady blue cat, how awful!"

Oh, and since I'm feeling particularly salty today, I'll also ask some last questions: is SWK so weak-willed and devoid of self-agency to you that he couldn't even OWE his most famous title, the Great Sage in Heaven, 100%, without being manipulated into it?

Is SWK so immature and unintelligent to you that he is incapable of being a genuine idealist or rebel, that he cannot agree, out of the depth of his heart, that the Celestial Realm sucks balls and needs better management?

TL;DR: Havoc! Era Azure Lion isn't some cult leader brainwashing this kid into becoming his figurehead. He's the dumbass who's too busy staring at his teenage crush to care about the blaring police sirens.

Also, I had a bit of an epiphany after writing this: why am I so annoyed by people reading Azure's idealization of SWK as him intentionally manipulating and love-bombing him? Because it is a very western and modern reading.

For someone with traditional Confucian beliefs, it is perfectly normal——it is what you are supposed to feel, as a liege who has found your just and virtuous lord.

If Romance of the Three Kingdoms existed back then, he would probably describe himself as the Guan Yu to SWK's Liu Bei, however wonky the analogy was.

(Gosh, now I want a "Four Classics read each other" crossover.)

I'm not saying it is healthy or wise. But under this context, putting your lord on a pedestral was normalized, and even encouraged, as the virtue of a righteous gentleman. It was the sort of ideals romanticized culture-wide. NOT having such beliefs would probably make you look weird.

And since the Celestial Realm in the novel is a parody of Confucian hierarchy in a Daoist trenchcoat, it was really no surprise that an idealistic ex-celestial soldier would hold the same beliefs.

To torture the analogy further, the problem is that he was trying to be the Guan Yu to SWK's Liu Bei, when the Brotherhood had more in common with the Bandits of the Marsh, down to their giant downer ending.

[zeh-e-aashiqui]

war only ends in tragedy. never peace.

if there is heaven on earth it is here. it is here. it is here.

phones will ring all across the country today. as if a reverberation of panic, or desperation

a mom will call her child to ask- are you okay? you don't have to talk if you can't, just sigh, so that in your breath i can find mine.

a friend will call another, say nothing, just let the silence hang like apples in a faraway orchard, like snow in the morning mountains, like shikaras in the melting waters of dal lake.

it is here. it is here. it is here.

the official casualty list will contain only 27 names. it won't account for-

the vermillion of a newly wed wife's forehead.

the smile of a mother's face.

the sanity of a collective nation.

the peace that years of struggle had built.

any hope of coexistence. the innocence of children who will grow up on nothing more than scraps of history and morsels of hatred.

it is here. it is here. it is here.

the mindless rampage of militants, vying for blood and chaos, killing for a news headline

and a cause they understand nothing of.

the tragedy of every individual who lost their lives, their loved ones, their livelihood.

the blame among politicians that'll keep changing hands.

and in the background, a land that everyone wanted yet no one was ready to care for.

a land where snow melts into blood and humanity melts into every god's worst nightmare.

a land that is also a reminder:

if god can become a reason for slaughter, what is heaven then, if not a slaughterhouse?

[19catsncounting]

Random bits of metaphysical and sci-fi junk that I weave into gaps in Supernatural lore:

Firmaments. It's a fun word and I'm reclaiming it from the flat earthers - the proper word for the boundaries of subdimensions like Purgatory or pocket dimensions like Gabriel's false realities are 'firmaments.' And all of these known dimensions like Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, the Empty, and others can be mapped out and illustrated by the firmaments containing them, and they're all sealed within the Last Firmament that surrounds everything that God created.

Amara was sealed behind the Last Firmament, and right in front of the Last Firmament is the 'River of Time' which is a type of energy that contains the chronology of the universe and angels can dip their wings into it to time travel. Amara being locked beyond the Last Firmament and outside of the River of Time kinda stuck Her in a Schrodinger's Cat kind of existence, where She was and was not stuck there because She wasn't anchored to the point in time where She was sealed, which is the only reason why She didn't bust the fuck out on Her own by destroying what caged Her.

God created human souls to be eternal, but created sentient beings before humans. Leviathans and all of Eve's children go to Purgatory with their kinda-souls, but for all of God's species that existed between Leviathans and humans, they get the Star Wars treatment and the life energy that is their proto-souls goes into a swirly little Force that only God, Amara, and Death can mess with (The Entity from The Empty wants that cookie so fucking bad though)

Pretty much every subdimension that stockpiles enough power gets some kind of divine entity with a personality disorder. Eve was created halfway on accident when God sealed Amara away, and She went to Purgatory willingly to keep Purgatory from sprouting its own quasi-god. But the Entity from The Empty was not on purpose, it's the prime example of the kind of demented mushroom that sprouts with enough humidity and darkness. (If Sam had successfully sealed up Hell with the Trials, that would have caused Very Big Problems in a few millennia. Which, you know, never stopped God or the Winchesters.)

Angels, as fourth dimensional beings, grow as they continue to live and experience their past as though it is constantly currently happening. (Like Tralfamadorians from Slaughterhouse Five but without being able to see the future) The archangels are therefore Super Fuckin Big because they're Super Fuckin Old, but there are parts of any given angel that are just eternally in battle or taking vessels or doing everything that the angel has ever done, forever, until they die, and there are varying degrees of sensation to that but it's difficult to make those parts entirely numb. (Lucifer is therefore always carrying their rebellion, and Michael is always carrying their battle)

Per Light Beyond The Glass,' a delightful deleted Samifer fic that permanently rewrote my brain chemistry, there are weird little fucks from beyond the Last Firmament who sometimes slip in and don't quite assimilate to God's rules for existence, and archangels are kind of the only beings who can destroy them or shove them back where they belong. They're created as a rebound effect from God creating things - God is shooting a gun, these creatures spring into existence from the recoil from behind the Last Firmament.

[ivymirrorball768]

Hey, Little Songbird

Chapter 3: Strange is the call of this strange man

series summary: sejanus plinth’s great grandchild (you) gets reaped for the 69th hunger games.

warnings/notes: still a short one, chapter length and quality will increase slowly (sorry)

pairing: finnick odair x reader

wc: 1.4k ao3 link

i recommend the combined read for chapters 1-5 rather than individual

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Strange is the call of this strange man I wanna fly down and feed at his hand

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The train was extravagant, far too much so for, effectively, a cattle car to the slaughterhouse. Its walls were painted in dark shades of indigo, giving the effect of the space seeming smaller than it actually was, and the golden lighting provided an air of richness rather than homely comfort. It didn’t feel like District 4. No, everything here was an expense, a glimpse into heavens gates before they sent you sailing over to hell.

You’d only ever seen the exterior of the train before and the pristine, newly painted white and greys couldn’t serve justice to the true expanse of the lavish interior. You wondered how many children had stood here before you, how many died? how many returned to the cooling waves of district 4 after stepping foot on this death carriage? There were certainly victors from this district, in fact you knew one, your friend’s ma. She’d been in your shoes and returned.

How many hadn’t?

The escort, Ms Lovegood, noticed your staring and looked all the more eager to begin her little tour, yet she glanced sideways with a distaste towards the girl beside you. Her tearful goodbye had escalated into incessant choked sobs and she could hardly contain herself, so full of misery and fear. It was a poor sight, really. You’d doubt she’d make it through the bloodbath if she kept this up.

Of course, she was only acting how you would’ve been if you weren’t so well repressed. You couldn’t blame her at all.

The other girl, Tulip, you recalled, was much too quiet as she hadn’t spoken a word since the reaping. It was uncommon for a child to react this way, so emotionless in her plight. She didn’t seem to have any close relatives or anything to substitute the fact.

You’d heard about orphanages in District 4, but you’d never much seen one yourself as the Capitol frowned upon displaced children. They often ended out missing or dead. Orphanages were rumoured to be located nearer to the outskirts of town, separate. Maybe that’s where she was from.

Unlike the other two, you were externally composed after the initial shock had worn off. It wasn’t unusual for your family to experience… somewhat tragic events so you’d become almost accustomed to it. Your ma called it the Plinth curse. Due to that, you were happily resigned to let fate run its course and accepted the probability of your imminent death.

Well, ‘accepted’ might’ve been a bit strong a word. ‘Ignored the prospect of, but also maintained to do nothing against the probable outcome’ was far more fitting.

If you treated this as a normal day or another new adventure then you’d find peace when you had to. Death would come quietly like the setting of the sun.

“Please, sit.” The escort smiled at each of the tributes, indicating to the seats encircling a delicate glass table adjourned with perfectly placed golden cutlery and vases of flowers.

“Thank you, Ms Lovegood.” You forced a smile, maintaining to be polite even given the nature of her role.

For a Capitol elite, she was severely taken aback by the formality whether it be about your district nature you weren’t certain, but they sure did like to treat you like animals.

“Oh lovely, feel free to drop the title. Just Pandora will do.” You nodded unenthusiastically.

As the food was spread out across the table, the slaughterhouse metaphor really started coming together. They genuinely were fattening you up before abruptly taking you to your graves. The array was enticing in appearance, yet the floral scent of the appetisers was overbearing. Just then a compartment door slid open.

“Oh and here are your mentors! I’m sure you will all get along just beautifully!” Pandora beamed in a tone achingly happy and sickeningly unaware.

The girl beside you didn’t stop her blubbering for even a moment, but managed a hopeless, “What use will that do?”. Evidently, she wasn’t well accustomed to resigning to death.

Pandora barely spared her murmur a glance, far too excited to present the mentors. Your friends mother wasn’t mentoring this year, so you wondered who it would be.

The two entered, a young boy you recognised from the year before and an older lady, you didn’t recall. Her games were likely long before your birth.

The boy had an air of superficiality to him in the way his grin faltered as it teetered on the edge of his sea-green eyes, failing to quite reach them. He was familiar enough. The same boy you’d seen for all those years. It was a shame this would be the first time you’d actually speak - in such circumstances.

From last year, it was evident that he was an able victor: adept with a trident, resourceful, charming and ultimately a glowing example of what District 4 was meant to be. But all that emphasised was how you paled in comparison.

You weren’t exactly trained for this.

A self proclaimed poet.

If ma was here she would’ve said not to underestimate yourself, but she was enticed by the same delusions as all of the Plinths - fairytales and fictions. It started with your great grandmam and her tales of a strange, peculiar but alluring girl who she’d once seen through a TV screen. She proclaimed that this mysterious girl was a true musician with charm and honour - a victor. Of course, your great grandmam took this elaborate story as a freeing fable and a reminder of the powers of ingenuity.

You saw it for what it was. A pitiful comfort and a way to pretend you were more capable than you truly were.

Occasionally, it was fun to believe in fairytales though. If the girl had won by her smarts and her words alone, maybe you could too.

Regardless of the tale you remained apprehensive about the whole ordeal. There hadn’t been enough time to really process it all from standing there like every other kid, to being reaped for death then being shoved on some train? It was a lot to take in, evidenced by the three of you exemplifying an array of hopelessness.

The young boy glanced at the lady beside him, somewhat unsure of himself. She provided a gentle smile accompanied by a nod of reassurance.

“It’s lovely to meet you all, I’m Mags and this here is Finnick.”

She looked upon you all, her district accent heavy but familiar, words quiet and homely offering much needed comfort. She continued offering some solace,

“Even with the games, I hope you find some comfort in your stay.” Her eyes scanned the three of you, taking in as much as she could as if it would be of use later.

Automatically, you stood to greet her, offering this lovely lady your hand and name with a soft but somewhat pushed smile - manners your Ma taught you. The others seemed to catch on to the need for an introduction and followed suit. Hands were shaken in an awkward formality, though it helped to be reminded of the girls names. Petunia and Tulip.

Then you turned to the boy, Finnick, offering him the same gesture. His hand shake was firmer with a guise of certainty. Your eyes met momentarily. The intensity of the swirl of colours dancing in his irises caught you momentarily off guard. Sure, Caesar wouldn’t stop talking about them during the interviews last year, but now being up close you could understand why. The beauty was so deep you could just drown.

The compliment tumbled from your lips, thankfully restraining your indulgence in his eyes. “You did well… in the games last year.”

You knew you’d needed to say something, anything. As lost for words as you often were, relying on whatever thought first jumped into your head to carry you through.

What do you say to someone who was forced to fight to the death for their district? It certainly wasn’t the honour the Capitol made it out to be.

“I’m sorry you had to though, the games are… definitely something.” The last part was riddled with uncertainty, evident in the quieter tone.

“I’m sorry you’re yet to face it.” The words left his mouth with a smooth clarity that was almost startling. It was spoken so charismatically, but served as nothing more than a reminder of your fate.

Something you never wanted.

You’d run from this as long as you possibly could. So, with a curt nod you allowed him to turn and greet the other two whilst trying to contain the spiral beginning to formulate in your mind.

It was all to come yet.

Chapter 4: I want a nice soft place to land

[book-of-sin]

I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

-- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

[katgametable]

OX Deadlands Chapter 9: More Wonders Than There Are in the Heavens Part II

Written 15 Mar 2025, shortly after relistening, having listened to all 10 chapters of Season One some time ago.

This adventure featured special guest player Jasper William Cartwright, usually of Three Black Halflings.

Our wild cards are in the Hall of Oddities, having just destroyed an animated hand rather loudly, and it sounds like a guard is coming. Delacy and Bille hide, and Edie sweet-talks the guard into believing she’s just a punter who got lost and got locked in after hours. Then Billie knocks him out and Edie takes his coat and hat. They tie him up…and leave him for Insect Lad, who was teased in the previous episode as possibly being a threat. The wild cards evaded it, but not their victim.

The Fair has a large lake in the middle, and the Fulcrum company’s pavilion is on the other side. Hildy should be rehearsing for a big event the next day. So to get to the pavilion, they take a boat across the lake – Andy describes the boat as being a gondola, but by the description I think it might be a punt. Billie and Delacy hide under a tarp as back-up in case Edie gets into trouble and can’t talk her way out of it.

While they go, Billie explains his gripe with Hildy. He’d applied to have his show in the Fair, and did a demonstration that went very well. But just after he finished wrestling the bison to the ground, Hildy fired a shot, panicking the bison, and causing it to injure Billie. She then sent a rather insulting rejection letter, describing his show as a comedy.

As they approach the shore, another guard sees the boat. Edie starts trying to talk her way out of it, having been mistaken for a fellow guard, but Billie attacks him, drowns him, and tosses his body into the lake. Gotta be honest, this one disturbed me a fair bit. Then they break into the Merry-Go-Round of Nutrition, the plan being that Billie will challenge Hildy and the other two can help ambush her. There’s a rather amusing bit where Billie talks about Hildy’s teachings about how you need to eat lots of different types of food to be properly healthy – and Bille and Delacy scoffing at it. Anyway, they accidentally start the show going, and then have to fight four animatronic fruit/vegetables, who are singing “fruit and veggies, meat and grains, feed your bodies, feed your brains”. After destroying those, the scene rotates, and they’re confronted with a bread-man automaton and a goon dressed as a baker. Billie gets clipped, Delacy kills the baker, and the bread-man automaton is destroyed. The stage rotates again, bringing forth set of a slaughterhouse, populated by a goon dressed as a cow with a primitive machine gun. Edie gets injured, but Billie’s experience wrestling bison comes in handy with the horned headpiece. The goon is subdued and tells them where to find Hildy – in the main auditorium – and that she’s got two more goons with her, and that he only ever wanted to be an entertainer but was contractually forced into fighting. Billie gives him an injury to match Edie’s, and nicks the gun, preparing it so they can lure Hildy towards it if necessary.

Hildy is practising a speech announcing her new product, “Aunt Hildy’s Old-Fashioned All-Purpose Vittles”, a range of canned food. She encourages her goons to eat. Billie interrupts and they sling insults while the goons mutate into faminites. They attack, and Delacy shoots Hildy. Hildy mutates into a monster with a second head in her stomach. During the ensuing fight, which includes Billie riding one of the goons like a bronco, Billie gets gashed by faminite claws, and starts suffering from a deep, gnawing hunger. In the end, he attacks Hildy and bites her finger off to get at the ring, but continues eating the hand, the forearm. He spits the ring at Edie and Delacy and tells them to run, expecting to die in this last animalistic attack. Delacy, half-expecting Billie to be completely lost to whatever monstrosity has overtaken him, prepares to put him down. But as Hildy dies, Billie reverts, as does the surviving faminite. Vengeance has been achieved.

Side note, Ellen also dropped a wee bit of Edie’s backstory. She lost a little brother to monsters, and as a result can get a little protective over Delacy.

Notes from pre-show pod commentary: Mostly talking about Halloween and Animal Crossing, but also some talk about Baldur’s Gate 3. Jane complained about how long combat takes, which is very true to DnD.

Notes from post-show pod commentary: Jasper Cartwright had originally going to be guesting on an adventure with The Guild, but that didn’t work out, so he ended up in various one-off adventures and here in Deadlands. Andy had planned out the whole Fair, lots of pavilions, but they boated instead. The Merry-Go-Round of Nutrition, Andy reckoned it worked very well – Luke wrote a bunch of the ambient and action music – and it’s inspired by Walt Disney’s Carousel of Progress, which was first made for the 1964 World’s Fair. Luke loves the Carousel, but Andy, not so much, but he found the idea of the rotating stage to be really promising. Andy is eager to see people’s reactions to the finale. Andy found that GMing is a balance between structure and freedom, and one of his weaknesses was not being ready for the players to do unexpected things.

I loved Bison Billie. I think he might’ve been a slightly higher lever, if Deadlands has levels, but he really gelled. I think part of that is because Jasper is a very good TTRPG player. I did also really like the Fair setting; I am a bit of a Disney Parks aficionado, if not quite to the same level as Andy, so if Andy ever wrote up his Fair design as a setting mini-module, I probably would get it, even though I have no Deadlands books or anything.

Aunt Hildy was a scary villain, with the horrific transformation and everything, but it’s also a bit hard to follow what she’s up to, other than trying to released cursed product to market. But also, timeline since the Red Hand Gang broke up. I mentioned on Dreaded Justice that it seemed both Daisy Ducrow and MT Boudreaux had only been in their current (then-current) positions for about a year and a half, whereas Ben Bellows had probably been at Dead Man’s Worth for multiple years – actually, he also had a stint in the army before then. Hildy had enough time to found the Fulcrum company and build it up into a large, prosperous nationwide company. This would match up better with Ben Bellows’ movements, in that the Red Hand Gang must’ve broken up quite a few years ago, and it’s just Daisy Ducrow and MT Boudreaux must’ve been moving around a fair bit before our wild cards got to them. Although, how long has Victoria been seeking her revenge?

[kaczynskis-ass-kisser]

“The love was there. It didn't change anything. It didn’t save anyone. There were just too many forces against it. But it still matters that the love was there.”

"Turn my eyes, I see you stare 'Cross the room and right at me Now you're smiling like you've got Like you've got something on your mind"

― Mehro, "chance with you"

and

"When you think no one's watching I'm watching only you When you feel no one's listening I hear through the noise to hear you"

― Shannon Saunders, "Atlas"

and

"Feeling the way you breath down my side I'll never escape you, I can never try Seeing the way you look in my eyes I'm lost in illusion, my world set aside"

― The Irrepressibles, "To Be"

and

"I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care

But it's so cold and I don't know where"

― Tom Odell, "Another Love"

and

“You're trying not to tell him you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.” ― Richard Siken, Crush

and

“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.”

― Richard Siken, Crush

and

“We can't hold hands― Someone might see. Won't you please Hold toes with me?” ― Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

and

"Does it seem too hard? Does it seem alright To keep in touch?"

― Mehro, "hideous"

and

"How was the world before the big melt happened? How was the sun when it could touch your skin? How was it all before the city died?"

― Black Casino and the Ghost, "How Was the World"

and

"Can't you look at me? Am I that hideous to you? Can't you talk to me? Do I really mean nothing to you?"

― Mehro, "hideous"

and

"So this is the subterranean life. If it can't be conjugated onto us, what good is it?" ― John Ashbery, A Wave

and

“Sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known."

― Richard Siken, Crush

and

“With this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because it’s all I have, because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me ‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.” ― Richard Siken, Crush

and

“If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.” ― Richard Siken, Crush

and

"How we got there, how we flew up Heaven's doors are miles away 'Cause you're stuck to the ground You have to stay"

― Panchiko, "Laputa"

and

“There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part, So just give me a happy middle And a very happy start.” ― Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

[medusaesque]

Lt. Kim Kitsuragi and the pale-

Warning- it's insanely long.

1. After life, death

One of the first thing you can learn about Kim is that he would hurl himself in death's way to save you. From the very first moment, Kim is related to sacrifice and death, it follows him wherever he goes-

The slaughterhouse.

He lost his parents at two years old. He worked a year in Processing (here's good post about that by @renmorris and @spilledkaleidoscope). He lost his partner, Eyes. People have taken a bullet that was meant for his more than once. His survivor's guilt is insane. He's killed six people. He's afraid of killing recklessly, and has a deeply unhealthy relationship with his gun (made another embarrassingly long post about that).

Kim also hears pale 'ghosts' on the police radio all the time, and talks about it like it's normal, and says he doesn't believe in ghosts.

If harry is with Noid during the Moralist dream quest (more on it later), Harry can even wonder if Kim is a ghost, prompting this beautiful exchange-

And he's not entirely wrong. When Harry gets shot, after Kim fulfills Espirit's promise he'll stand in death's way for him, you can ask as you fall into darkness what will happen to you-

It's the living who are ghosts. You can leave them behind and rest. Go into the wild pale yonder, along with everyone else Kim has ever cared about. Or at least you can try to.

When death is at the door, you have two options-

2. After death, life again

Kim might associate himself with death, but Harry associates him with life again and again- Death is darkness, Kim has a light bulb halo. Death is a sunset, Kim is a sunrise. Death is where you are when the game start, it's ready to take you, and then- a clarion call, the sound of a motor carriage, a detective arriving on the scene, and you open your eyes.

The game is very clear about Harry being a ceaseless agent of the world (here's a good compilation by @junawer) but he's not the only one. Harry stands at death's door twice, and Kim is his way back to the world both times.

3. After the world, the pale

So what is Kim's relationship with the pale?

As casual as he might try to appear, Kim is clearly uncomfortable with the pale, attempting to protect Harry from it. When Harry brings up the pale, he intervenes, genuinely worried for the fragile stability of his mind.

It's no more terrifying than water or death or that we're stuck behind our eyes for all eternity?? Sounds pretty terrifying Kim...

The key is in the moralist vision quest, When Harry attempts to each the Committee of Responsibility, and he hears the pale crosstalk coming through the radio, when suddenly-

"Pale is a shroud of memories and it doesn't really distinguish to whom those memories belong to. You could hear anything." You could hear anything, but you hear Kim. If he isn't with you, Soona even says that the odds of us hearing him, out of all the voices in the pale, are astronomically low.

We know the past has not been harmless to Kim, we know it's full of ghosts and cold winters, but that's not the thing that's eating at him-

Kim is afraid of forgetting. He's constantly writing, he thinks through his notebook, always recording, so he wouldn't lose anything. That's why the pale is so terrifying.

4. After the pale. the world again

The world is what it is. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Volta do mar is a skill unique to Kim, according to the stats of this pilot jackets-

It makes sense, seeing how the only real advance in pale transit is the speed with which an aerostatic craft can pierce it.

His Black jacket is a bit more complicated-

DISTANT ENEMY OF HIMSELF?? kim.... The connections to Seol is intriguing here, considering how Kim tries to distant himself from it. I'm also not sure what 'sitting down for volta' would mean in this context, would love to hear some of you guys' thoughts.

It's driving me crazy to think how Kim wanted to be pilot as a kid, and is walking around dressed like a pilot as an adult, to give himself the ability to navigate the pale. To return from the sea and fulfill the role he has to play in the world, the thing Harry thought about a million times-

But we know Kim has a bigger role to play, he's trying to do his part right now, convincing Harry to stay-

His connection to Harry can keep him on this world once again. Keeping the two of them together. Your real work is down here, both of you-

Kim was right, each of them has a role to play in the world, but it's not a minor one. Him and Harry are Revachol's only hope. If they stick together they could keep her on this earth, stop the end of the world.

UNITY AMONG THE RANKS IS PARAMOUNT.

I NEED YOU. YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT.

I LOVE YOU.

[unforgivingchorus]

‘Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

She was turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes.’

-Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

“Does it matter why Lot’s wife looked back? She looked back because she loved her daughters. She looked back because she loved her home. She looked back because she loved the past. She looked back because she loved the world. Remember Lot’s wife: it’s intended as a warning, but I have adopted it as a creed. When the world burns, I will fill my eyes with as much of it as I possibly can. I can think of no greater honor than to remain on the earth. You are worth turning around for. You are worth transformation. You are the heat that lights the match that lights the hearth that warms me. You are everything.”

— Amelia K., “I: Vision - Eurydice, Mangan’s Sister, & Lot’s Wife”

[soulvagrancy]

The Taste of Vengeance, Part IV

There are over a hundred distinct gangs active in Gotham. Nested within across every neighborhood in the city, each of them with driven by an equal thirst for power and territory only restrained by the fear of leaving themselves open to attack from a different front. "- and what does Jimbo have do? Chase after some mysterious whackjob on the orders of some masked freak!" "A 'masked freak' who's saved the sorry hides of everyone in this city more than once, might I remind you."

The reply came from detective René Montoya, one time leader of the GCPD's anti-vigilante task squad, being reminded why her partner couldn't shake the nickname "Pitbull". She brushed her untied raven hair to the side and leaned over to the passenger seat, cigarette in her mouth. "Broken clocks." mumbled bitterly Bullock, lighting it. The dim, yet stark, orange glow of the streetlights flooding their car gradually shifted to neon blues, reds and greens before finally being suppressed by the clinical white lights of the financial district. "You know, I hate this place." started the corpulent man, but his invective on the corporate class would have to wait as they were coming up to their destination: a skyscraper, piercing the heavens as if to defy them to strike it down, bearing a tastefully minimalistic yet eye-catching insignia which read: "Royalty Foods, ltd." "Dibs on the security tape archives." declared Montoya, slamming the car door behind her. "Not so fast kiddo! I was the one who had to walk through the crime scene tonight!" "Sure, but last week I had to pick through those packages adorned in question marks." "Bah! They turned out to be a bunch'a crossword puzzles, totally harmless!" "So's whatever limp wristed PR director they'll send out to meet you!" There was a brief pause, Bullock extracted 50 cents from his rumpled trench coat. "Wanna flip for it?"

Sterile lights so intense they allowed no shadows to be cast greeted Bullock as he marched through the white hallways and pristine offices of the Royal Foods building, grumbling about the results of the coin flip as he went. A forceful tone and a wave of his dented GCPD badge got him past the reception and into the spacious elevator, he pictured the secretary's bony fingers gliding across the office phone's buttons to make a panicked call to the head honcho, maybe security if he was lucky. The bigger the scene he caused, the more nervous the corporate stooge would get, and the more nervous he'd get, the more he'd let slip before realizing Bullock had no warrant or sanction to question the corporation's activities and the more time Montoya would have on her end. The elevator's chime broke him out of his thoughts, he adjusted his collar and braced himself for a confrontation... which never came. Uneasy, but undaunted, Harvey Bullock strode up to the office door and threw it open only to be greeted by thick aviators, greasy slicked back hair and a plastic smile stretched thin over a thin boney face. "Detective Harvey Bullock! Please, have a seat and tell me how may I serve Gotham's Finest tonight." Caught off guard, Bullock sat down on a small, uncomfortable plastic chair. "...Do I know you Mr.-?" "Patrice O'Brian, you may have heard of my brother." "...right. Mr. O'Brian, tonight we discovered human remains melted and splattered across the floor of a slaughterhouse belonging to Royal Foods. Care to elucidate on why that might be the case?" as he spoke he brushed with practiced nonchalance the left side of his collar, where the communication link to Montoya was concealed, the movement was just enough to cause a static feedback on the other end: A signal letting her know to listen closely to what came next.

Blue lights from several screens tinted the cramped office of the security guard, a twitchy young man fresh out of college currently trying his best to avoid eye contact with René Montoya while explaining the building's security set up. She sighed with relief when the static buzzed in her ear, giving her an excuse to interrupt the "security professional"'s incessant 'uhms' and 'ahms'. "Why, I'd love to explain just that Detective..." a voice fit only for a creature that crawls on its stomach slithered in her right ear, "...if it indeed belonged to Royal Foods. But wouldn't you know it? The building no longer belonged to us." A drawer is opened, papers are shuffled. "Indeed the deed was passed to one 'Mitchell Standler' just last week, pity we didn't have time to transfer the employee elsewhere." Smug bastard. "Yeah. Pity." Bullock's response contained enough venom to kill a platoon of elephants, but the sleaze was immune judging by his cheerful response. Montoya turned it out to address the fidgeting guard. "You can access archives from here, right?" "Y-yes ma'am, uhm, through the-" "Yes, good, give me a copy of everything you have on one Mitchell Standler." She leaned over making sure the spotless GCPD badge was at his eye level. "Everything, kid." He swallowed.

[feely-touchy]

I went to sleep last night with a fever

Then awoke in a familiar yet foreign land

Next to me was a tower with no end

I ascended it for a vantage point

To find my bearings

Surveying that desolate view showed me a great many things

Things I wished I had not seen;

Visions of overthrown thrones

Crumbling crowns of brass

Reclaimed by burning briars

A dying Midas and his fool's gold

Facsimile treasure sunk into tar

Cages where wilderness once was

The menageries made slaughterhouses

A forest without trees.

I watched mad men pacing pointlessly

Agonizing in cacophonous soliloquies

Each voice carrying over the other

Oppressively as an abduction

These people were made to take from one another

Disappear their neighbors

Protecting nobody

Worshiping a false god of paper

That burns down every night

And sometimes rises back up

That favors the nepotist partitioners

Baptized into its embrace

Gives them all its blessings in billfolds

Yet madness dictates all dance for its holy days.

Even beyond the people I saw the black thing

Its coast speckled with dead jellyfish and limping killdeer

On the horizon was hellfire under a midday's night

Soot rained from that starless place

So deep and dark that it obscured all thought of heaven

But the paper god was safe from this inferno

For platinum pens were bought for the legislature

With an endless ink well if need be

So a jury hung

A courthouse was demolished

And parishes perished as easily as any other seaside towns were swept away.

Then I looked towards the heartland

Where barrens began to take root

Starving children would work in rotting fields

Overseen by a killing sun

Next to them were slaves

Imprisoned wrongly for the cause itself

Bodies became fertilizer

Families fractured into nothing

Ashes to ashes were left on tongues

Only dust remained.

When I awoke in the morning

I found myself in a familiar yet foreign land

With a fever

How horrible.

[warsawmountain]

# Hymn for the Unanointed

Crystal-crusted ashtray morgues beneath fluorescents that autopsy the midnight air,

Cigarette butts cathedral toward heaven while filter-tips genocide their way through smoke-thick dark,

Divinity needles itself into existence, prophecies burning between fingers that track-mark salvation—

Gray matter of prayers that overdose into flame, midnight-ing their way toward morning,

Lipstick-stains hemorrhage themselves across porcelain while loneliness executes the dawn.

Winnipeg skies cancer themselves purple, tumoring above neon-wounded streets,

Aurora boreals through smog that nooses itself into constellations of artificial stars,

While in veterinary rooms that slaughterhouse their sterile prophecies into being,

Rottweiler eyes massacre themselves into darkness, soul-ing toward infinite,

Crime: wolf-blood ancestors that fang through domestication, rabies-ing past civilization's cage.

I library through marble halls where dust motes HIV between shelves,

Ceiling tiles waterboard their decay while copper gangrenes itself into poetry,

Card catalogs suicide themselves into memory, wooden drawers dirging their final alphabets.

Books corpse themselves in corners, pages metastasizing into mold-bloom gardens,

Spine-cracked prophets bible their wisdom into emptiness that echoes itself terminal.

My love bedrooms his dreams sixth-floor high, while radiators percussion winter into withdrawal,

His breath metronomes darkness into music, lunging time toward flatline,

I language myself toward invisible while rejection letters phoenix into new wounds,

Far from prizes that laurel themselves onto worthier throats,

Art-making itself into existence in spaces that margin between needle and need.

City nights weapon themselves around fire escapes that gallows toward stars,

Perhaps this moment-ing of breath, this vein-fingering of truth enough—

Urban decay sanctifies through sidewalk-cracks where concrete abattoirs itself alive,

Grit consecrates subway walls that genocide themselves into prayers,

While God overdoses in crystal-crusted ashtrays, and we martyr ourselves clean.

[malaisequotes]

“The creatures can see where each star has been and where it is going, so that the heavens are filled with rarefied, luminous spaghetti.”

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut