#young neil x nega scott | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stardewnoodles · 7 months

Text

Writer Redundancies (Nega Scott x Neil Nordegraf) - 1/?

It's not every day that the way to fix your writer's block surely descends not from the sky, but ascends from hell.

As usual, link above, I'd appreciate if you say if you like it or not, but if you prefer the tumblr format, here it is:

Until the 1950’s, film rolls mass produced and shown over the globe had a major risk of starting a fire big enough to burn down an entire theater. They had a dirty little chemical attached to it that helped make the film, called nitrate. At the time (Neil assumes), it probably wasn’t common knowledge how flammable nitrate was. Movies kept rolling and films kept burning. July 9, 1937 marks the day that 20th Century Fox’s vault of film rolls in New Jersey caught on fire from the nitrate from decay and higher than expected temperatures. This wasn’t the first, or the last, time something similar to this tragedy happened. However, Neil admits, there’s an awesome spectacle to a film shriveling in the heat. The picture’s color distorts first, followed by rapid deterioration. The picture turns to ash after numerous holes chew through a horrified director’s pride and joy. Then the whole roll combusts. This scene is distinctly familiar to Neil, who’s watched it happen every night since the day he turned 18 two years, three months, 1 day, and 7 hours ago. He hates remembering his birth date. The nightmare is predictable, because it always starts the same way, but it doesn’t make it any less gut-wrenching. A projector on a plastic table with one leg supported by a cut open tennis ball cuts to memories of times he could’ve earned the success and recognition he so desperately sought out, but fails to hit the mark and is instead seen as a lazy idiot. The youngest was his child prodigy days in middle school. The oldest, only two months ago. His script was a fake, his writing skills were fake, and his “prodigal talent” is in the gutter. Neil puts his head in his hands and rocks back and forth. Very rarely is the footage soothing. This sucks. 300 movies, 300 rolls of film Neil knows by heart. He wonders whether “Rushmore” or “Bottle Rocket” will blow up first; they’ve been the most dormant over the last 293 days.

The floor is tiled the same way the psychiatry ward was, preferring the sloppy, bland white design with dots of random colors over something cool like the rugs of an arcade. The walls are orange for now, before they turn gray and black from the burn damage. Neil clutches his side. Neil hasn’t seen either of his parents since college started, and he intends to keep it that way after winter break. A locked black door he’s never been able to open sits behind him. It’s the only means of escape, despite it never opening. Freddy Krueger couldn’t make something this messed up in his own head. Neil tugs at his hospital gown and sighs. The Burning Room. It’s a fitting name Neil gave the endless nightmare for its atonement by fire. If he’s gotten this far in life while still being, as Scott says, “totally retarded and a bit of a bum”, then the next 20, 30, 40 years will be no different. No future awaits a person but the one they make for themselves? That’s terrifying. A single mistake or terrible argument burns the bridges that had been built for years. Neil can’t accept this. The door stays locked. The projector catches on fire first, an unexpected plot twist. A fond memory of his childhood–watching his father beat The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time –disintegrates.

Being burnt alive doesn’t get old, like the stunning CGI of The Matrix . Neil scrambles back from the projector, wiping the sweat from his brows. One of the more eccentric patients took everyone by surprise when he raided the kitchen during Fried Chicken Friday and caught it on fire before he was restrained. The projector and the mountain high piles of film rolls explode at the same time into a wall of flames. The walls are marked black and thick smoke covers the room. Neil covers his mouth with the gown. Sweat drips down his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts slamming his fist against the door. He doesn’t want to be here, he shouldn’t be here, but he did this to himself. The fire doesn’t haunt Neil because it was an over the top, insane experience that permanently scarred him. It haunts him because, in this dark, back alley of his mind, he wishes the on-site firefighters (who happened to be inspecting something completely different) hadn’t pulled him out of the fire. Ten months and nine days until he was released after that day, including the days in surgery. It launches Neil into a panic whenever he sees 109 across the street on a mailbox, on a baseball player’s back, anywhere where it could be lurking. Neil wonders if he ever truly left the flames calling to him in sonorous voices. He questions, as the flames rise and grab at his feet, if the Burning Room is meant to be his real home.

Neil jumps at the banging coming from the other side of the black door. Unsure of what to do, Neil braces himself, falling back to the flames, the only familiarity now present, licking at his large burn mark underneath the gown. His right side is hot to the touch while he coughs uncontrollably from the amount of smoke building up in the room. The door’s sturdy hinges loosen with each loud thump. Neil ducks out of the way when the door is sent flying into the fire once the lock is broken. A darkness with no end lies beyond the open frame, along with a set of red eyes boring into his poor excuse of a soul. The shadows come alive. A figure walks into the Burning Room, dusting off his parka. The hair, the shirt, the look on his face, it’s unmistakable.

"Scott?” Neil asks. The figure shakes his head. On second thought, it would make sense. When he grins at Neil, fangs protrude from his teeth. His gray shirt has the same heart and “SP” Scott had on his green one, but backwards. The parka hangs down to his thighs, with black jeans covering up the rest of his body. On his ears, two circular loops are pinched to the top of his ear, while a small button is lodged into the earlobe. A black collar with silver spikes is snug on his neck. His skin looks as if it has walked through smoke and ash hundreds of times over. The eyes scare Neil the most. There's evil lying behind them, a downward spiral of anger and hate. “Weird. You still look just like him.” Neil looks down to see that his hospital gown has caught on fire. “Oh. That sucks.” The supposedly-not-Scott rips the gown with a swipe of his claws and lets it fall, leaving Neil completely nude and at the mercy of the flames. He’s so confused by the presence of another person in his dreams that it doesn’t seem to bother him. Before Neil could say anything else, the imposter grabs his arm and leads him out of the Burning Room to the darkness. They walk for some time until Neil can’t smell the smoke. The place he was trapped in is now a mere speck of flickering light on the horizon, just like himself. Even though there’s no light, Neil can see the imposter without any problem. “Who are you?” Neil tries again. Still he gets no response. The shadow Scott crouches down and runs a finger against Neil’s burn mark. His skin, still hot, gets goosebumps from the ice-cold touch tracing up his right ankle, then his thigh, and then to his waist. It ends right above his waist with the poorly drawn “picture” of a mountain range. The weed he smokes every day helps block out the shame thrashing and burning in Neil’s head whenever the burn mark flares up. Meanwhile, the imposter’s touch numbs the pain, perhaps even soothing it.

“Does this mean we can make out?” “I don’t think your pillow gave its consent for that, Neil. Hey, Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms with a banana for breakfast? I’m going to the store today so we don’t have to sink as low as Scott did with his meals.” Stephen Stills is at the door to Neil’s room, doing his routine morning stretches. Thank god they don’t have to share a bed like Wallace and Scott; Neil is always thankful to Stephen for allowing him to crash at his lovely abode when he’s not at college.

“Oh. I’m awake.” Neil stares at the ceiling, debating whether to hit a joint or not for the rest of the morning. “Lucky Charms.” “You got it, Neil.” Once Stephen knocks on the door and leaves, Neil closes the door to use the mirror attached to it. He lifts his shirt, examining the burn mark under it. When he touches it, it feels like snow has been rubbed against it. The cold touch is still there. Neil shivers. He rubs his burnt side.

“Who are you?” Neil can’t decide whether the question is aimed at the Scott that is everything Scott isn’t or himself.

#scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim vs the world #based on the anime more than the comic #nega scott #stephen stills #neil nordegraf #young neil nordegraf #young neil x nega scott

8 notes · View notes