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I don’t mean to keep disappearing time just progresses at an alarmingly linear rate

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In exchange for your life, do you swear to protect the travelers of the night and bring my vengeance to those who would do them harm?

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Oscar Isaac as Marc Spector in Moon Knight (2022)

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I’ll never forget what they took from me

having a background as someone who prioritizes speaking the truth over the risks that come with it just. says so much about miles as a character and as a person. and I’m perpetually mad that they cut it from the final version of the email. it’s also an interesting counter to the game intro referring to him as ambitious, which I think often gets interpreted as miles having career ambition. but I think it’s more that he’s ambitious about biting off more than he can chew when it comes to seeking justice and stories. I don’t think he actually gives a fuck about his name or reputation. the only time he mentions the potential impact of breaking the mount massive story is in terms of what it will do to murkoff — he never brings up career impact at all

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Outlast (2013)

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fanaiceach -- Gaeilge. noun. enthusiast, extremist, fanatic

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I think I deleted the post about putting miles in nhl 24 but it’s important to me that you all know he’s the league leader in penalty minutes rn and that’s the only stat he’s winning at

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CYNTHIA ERIVO as Elphaba and JONATHAN BAILEY as Fiyero in Wicked: Part One (2024)

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*leaves 'for a smoke' and comes back speckled with blood*

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Fall From Grace…

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He's had just about enough of this fucking lake.

No one knows what else it might spit out, or when. Based on how things work around here though, tomorrow might as well be yesterday, if linear time actually exists. Not even the strangest concept that's come up in all of this. Either Miles has spent too long stewing in this sort of shit to be anything but numb to it, or he's just gotten damn good at compartmentalizing. Hard to say which is more concerning, but at least it makes the job easier.

By contrast, most of the surviving agents working this monster of a case are probably going to need counseling, but Miles will shrug off whatever remediation the Director offers. She treats him like any other employee and he appreciates the pretense -- but then he finds himself on assignments like this one, environments she thinks he's better equipped to handle. Maybe it should feel dehumanizing, but it's different with Faden. She doesn't view him as a tool, has made it clear that the job is his choice. When he accepted the position it felt like the only viable option, but he's come to enjoy the work and the feeling of fulfillment it provides. And yeah, he can handle the really weird stuff better than someone wholly human. Miles wasn't offended to get called in for Wake and the Shadow, even if it cut into some overdue time off, and he isn't offended now to be doing a solo sweep of the lakeshore. Pairs of agents have been making the rounds to keep an eye out for anomalies -- Miles just has the advantage of having built in backup.

It's been quiet, though. He's not naïve enough to believe that the darkness has been eliminated, and even if he was the presence in his head knows such a thing is hardly possible. But for now, at least, the lake has been... placated. Enough so that Miles can let his mind wander, take in the scenery and pretend this is the Colorado mountains his vacation time had been reserved for. The inside of his skull prickles, and at first he assumes it's in response to those idle thoughts, but then his attention is caught by a commotion in the water.

On instinct his hand drifts to his gun -- an unnecessary weapon, but habitual after training. His mind itches, television fuzz he feels behind his eyes and down the length of his spine. "Not Taken?" Miles knows the answer in the time it takes to ask the question. Not Taken, no. Not something natural, either, they're both certain of that, but whoever's flailing out there didn't crawl out of the Dark.

Which, fuck, means they're drowning.

Miles doesn't want to go in that water. He can think of approximately fifteen other horrible things he'd rather do, up to and including creative forms of self mutilation, and he feels equivalent reluctance constricting his ribcage. Just because he's been shielded from the Dark Presence out here doesn't mean fuck all when it comes to being in there. Still, he's shucking his jacket and gun and wrestling off his boots as though the added weight will be a hinderance, because watching someone drown isn't an option.

We held off the Hiss, no HRA, for all that time.

Different. This is different.

It's not an active threshold, that's gotta be good enough.

It would have stopped him if there was danger beyond mere uncertainty, that's what Miles tells himself as he wades in. The water is cold even to his dulled senses, cold and horribly clinging, pitched to waves in the wind. He hasn't swam in years but it comes back quickly, and the extra strength woven through every tendon makes short work of the distance. Memories of his sister teaching him how to handle emergencies on the local beaches also resurface, her advice to never approach someone drowning from the front lest you get caught in their panic floating into his mind. He ducks down below the surface, ignoring what whispers about diving to a depth there is no return from, and pops up behind the stranger with a small gasp of relief. Jesus, okay, not going under again.

"Don't freak out -- I'm gonna grab you, okay?" Miles makes to slip an arm around the stranger and start towing him to shore.

@walriding sent 28 spotify wrapped has arrived. send me a number from 1-100 for a starter based on that song, or a lyric from it, or send a 🎁 for me to shuffle.

(28 was an instrumental song that really didn't fit)

I'm struggling, In the sea, Of fallen nests, Mind heist, Oh no, And there's no answer, Without pain, And there's no mercy, For my enemies, And I'm not god, I'm a beast

I don't know, Arthur. The path is getting very narrow here. I think it would be better if we just turned back around.

"No. I'd rather fall down this cliff than crawl through that hole again, John. We're not turning around. Besides, what would be the point of that tunnel if it just led to a dead end? This path'll lead us back into town, I'm sure of it."

Why? How could you possibly know that? You're not seeing what I'm seeing... "...all thanks to you" Arthur mutters, keeping one hand on what feels like parts of the cliff to have a point of reference as they walk. Everything feels slippery and smells wet, and he most certainly doesn't need his eyes to know that maybe...John has had a point for the past ten minutes or so. The further they're walking, the more precarious their situation seems to be getting, but his point still stands.

There's no way....no way he's going back through that half-collapsed tunnel again. He doesn't care if there's nothing even in there, it had just been way too tight. Felt like bit a minute away from collapsing. No, out here, slippery edges and cliff or not, that's miles better.

It's a 80 feet drop, Arthur. If we slip and fall, we could br...

"We're not going to fall, John. Just keep a look out for any potential tripping hazards and we'll be fine. How far is it until the path widens again?

I don't know. It looks like it keeps going forever. And..great. Now it's raining. This is a stupid idea. How many times have we fallen before? It's like you're fucking asking for it.

"Shush you. At this rate, we're definitely going to fall because you're not even paying attention. So shut up, focus on the path, and tell me wh.."

Arthur, look out!!

The irony isn't lost on him, that this is the moment when he slips. Like a cosmic fucking joke.

His stomach drops, no, their entire body does when a rock breaks loose beneath his foot, causing him to twist his ankle and fall to the side. Too fast and sudden for him to try and hold on to the cliff which is no use anyway - everything's too slippery, too narrow, too wrong and John had been fucking right about it all. But then they're falling already, shouting in surprise and hitting the water with such force that it knocks all air out of Arthur's lungs just before it gets replaced with so much liquid.

Arthur! Are you okay?! Jesus, we fell so far down, you barely missed one of the jagged rocks below the surface. The waves are twisting around us, churning like a whirlpool. We're sinking fast, you need to swim back up!

John is the only one left to speak, given that he's in his eyes, his head, doesn't need his lungs to do so. But that's just the thing, isn't it? He needs air. Just had it all knocked out of him, and he cannot speak, cannot breathe, can barely even swim because all of this has happened so suddenly, so cruely, is so fucking cold....But he tries. Feet kicking and mouth, no his lungs filling with water, battling the waves and John's panicked urgency in his mind.

They're kicking and fighting and swimming and battling the waves, barely even manage to breach the surface. There! You fucking did it, Arthur! John roars, but then they're pulled back under, the current twisting their body around like a rag doll. Arthur's chest burns as he struggles to orient himself, the salt stinging his eyes and throat until they breach the surface once more, struggling to stay afloat.

Keep going! I can see the shoreline! There! Keep swimming and..hold on! I think I see someone, call for help, we need to get their attention!

He opens their mouth wide, tries to shout but all that comes out is a sputtered gasp and cough, followed by the full brunt of another wave hitting them square in the face.

"..elp!" he barely manages, and everything's so chaotic that it takes him a good minute to notice that John's frantically waving the hand he controls about as his only means of communication, but which makes it so much harder to stay afloat in return.

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see also: putting on a charismatic and charming persona because you’re actually deeply sad inside and have decided it’s easier to just play the part everyone assumes of you as the dumb pretty boy because that beats people seeing the depression within that they don’t want to see anyway. haha! woo!!

Dancing Through Life has a certain miles vibe about it……… not necessarily for the “haha no brain” lyrics (although they are not. completely irrelevant) but mostly for the charisma / could charm the pants off a table energy

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I made him a little pathetic as a treat

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"Well, hey, at least you've got the normal bleeding thing going for you." It's not exactly a joke even if it's delivered with the air of one, an offered juncture at which the conversation can pivot if Lance wants it to. They can navigate right back to more familiar territory, a place where neither has to keep admitting just how much their respective places fucked them up. A place where they can put the masks back on.

Because he doesn't want to tell Lance that he knows some of what happened to him in that building -- not all of it, but more than what the footage and the personal supplementals he's been granted have laid out. But Miles can feel the rest of the truth, can see it just out of the corner of his eye, and he's been doing everything in his power not to turn his head and focus on it because that feels unfair, or like a flat out violation. That doesn't prevent some awareness of the thoughts and fears that sometimes roll off of Lane in waves, too strong to be ignored when he's all but projecting them outward. Of course he has no way of knowing how much the other man's eternal plus one has already scooped out of Miles' head and reported back to Lance. Maybe he already knows everything, and Miles is just trying to maintain some false and already broken sense of courtesy about the whole thing. Still, it feels like a necessary line to draw -- even if only for his sake if not Lance's. Don't go digging around in the heads of people you give a shit about seems like a solidly bare minimum.

For a moment he thinks that the bait's been taken and they're going to settle back into their usual tepid camaraderie. He wanders across the small space and deposits himself unceremoniously on the armchair that always seems to occupy the corner of every hotel room. Even if they are going to pretend at a return to normalcy, he's not going to just leave Lance alone after all of that.

He's surprised, then, to be met with a question, hesitant but obviously sincere. Sincere enough that he pauses before he answers, a slow inhale and exhale through his nose to buy himself time. He doesn't realize that he'd bitten the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood -- thick and not quite coppery like it should be where it stains his tongue.

"Kind of a loaded question," he mutters, sounding almost defensive. It's one thing to dissect the state that someone else is in, another to have that same lens turned on you. A position Miles rarely enjoys finding himself in. "Does it matter? If it's good or... does it matter? It just. Is. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, for whatever the fuck else." Something between a laugh and a sigh escapes his lips, breathy and desperate. He looks at Lance, across the room, and he knows he could probably worm his way out of this conversation if he really wanted to. Laugh it off completely. He doesn't owe him or anyone honesty, doesn't owe him those vulnerable parts of himself that such a simple question cuts so close to. Maybe it isn't about owing, though. Maybe their relationship is worth more than the detached, transactional air they've been trying to give it. Miles has shown his hand already. What's really the risk of doing it again, for the sake of someone who might actually fucking get it for once?

"I think it's good that Murkoff doesn't have it anymore. I think, if I could go back, do it differently, I... I wouldn't. Not if it meant they won. Better me than anyone else -- at least I'm doing something halfway decent with it." Christ if that isn't the most egotistical mindset, but it's true. There's the flipside, too, the thought that he's better off suffering than anyone else Murkoff would've saddled with it. That he deserves it because he walked right into it. But that part he elects to keep to himself. "Anything else is... it scares the shit out of me, but sometimes I don't think it matters how I feel about any of it. It was always going to happen. It was always going to be me. Maybe nothing I've done or been has ever mattered, except for this. Maybe me saying it's good or bad is just some bullshit coping mechanism, deluding myself into thinking it was ever a choice, but fuck, that's all I have."

"It's not the surviving in itself that I'm worried about" Lance admits at last, since with so much of it all laid bare already, he figures that it's no real use keeping the rest of it hidden. He looks at Miles with that, allowing it to seep through. That doubt. That fear. That worry indeed.

"It's the how I did it...Am doing it" he corrects himself halfway through, then looks away at last. Miles tries his best to explain it away in a sense, and he appreciates it, he honestly does. It's just not quite the point he's trying to make with all of this.

He sighs and his hand twitches, itches to reach up and do just that. Pick at the scar beneath his left eye, long since healed.

"No. It's not really about changing the past either. Fuck no. That's how I got into this whole mess to begin with" he mutters and at some point, his hand has started rubbing at the scar after all. It still stings and he's quick to let go, though it has driven the point home just fine again.

"I guess you put it quite nicely. It's just about reminding myself that I do, in fact, still bleed. Like a normal fucking guy. Despite everything."

This. Whatever the fuck it truly is that is inside his mind now.

"They fucked me up real good in there" he admits some more, the look on his face making it obvious that he's still traumatized by it to this day, doesn't even bother hiding that anymore.

He digests it all some more, everything that just exploded out of him, everything that he'd been bottling up for so. fucking. long. Keeps looking at the other as he does so, digests everything he's been saying in return.

Maybe we’re just lucky.

That's the one thing that keeps spinning around and around in his head now. Especially now that he can't quite escape the thought. That he only bleeds and is only alive because of this thing. Something that has total control, that leaves him terrified, ever so worried about losing himself to it, too. Of it distorting him so much that one day, he really might just...not care anymore. No. Better keep picking just to stop that from happening.

Still. He can't help but wonder. Needs to ask. With the only person who might know how complicated it really is right before him.

Maybe we're just lucky.

"Do you think it's...a good thing? That this thing's attached to you now? The Walrider?"

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oh mag 120 you are so miles upshur coded

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     Everything is too clean, too stark white, like a memory that’s been left to bleach in the sun for too long. That’s the first indication that this is a dream. Reality had been far messier. But the space is, otherwise, entirely the same. The same yawning ceiling, the same towering globe of black paneling and blinking lights looming overhead. Glass fishbowls are arranged all around it. One of them is occupied, just as it was back then. The body inside has its arms and legs pulled backwards at harsh and uncomfortable angles, mouth and nose alike intubated beyond recognition. 

     Incidentally, the owner of said body is currently standing next to Miles, too. He looks better than the version of him encased in glass does. He looks less… dead. His head hasn’t been shaved and he’s wearing actual clothing, and his overall appearance is that of your fairly standard 23 year old. But there’s a harshness to his eyes, a steely sort of knowing that speaks to experiences well beyond his years. The anger pinching at his features is old and familiar in a way that makes Miles’ skin crawl.

     Or maybe that unease stems from the fact that the reporter is also looking at his own corpse. It’s on the ground, just behind the fishbowl, as limp and lifeless as a ragdoll dropped from the top of a staircase by a particularly uncaring child. The face is turned away and Miles finds it in himself to be grateful for that much.

Keep reading

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#poe dameron, a not so serious character study