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theoracleprogram · 4 months

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Passage from: The Labyrinth Of Solitude. Chapter on The Dialectic Of Solitude, Octavio Paz

Solitude — the feeling and knowledge that one is alone, alienated from the world and oneself — is not an exclusively Mexican characteristic. All men, at some moment in their lives, feel them¬ selves to be alone. And they are. To live is to be separated from what we were in order to approach what we are going to be in the mysterious future. Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone, and the only one who seeks out another. His nature — if that word can be used in reference to man, who has “invented” him¬ self by saying “No” to nature —consists in his longing to realize himself in another. Man is nostalgia and a search for communion. Therefore, when he is aware of himself he is aware of his lack of another, that is, of his solitude.

The foetus is at one with the world around it; it is pure brute life, unconscious of itself. When we are born we break the ties that joined us to the blind life we lived in the maternal womb, where there is no gap between desire and satisfaction. We sense the change as separation and loss, as abandonment, as a fall into a strange or hostile atmosphere. Later this primitive sense of loss becomes a feeling of solitude, and still later it becomes awareness: we are condemned to live alone, but also to transcend our solitude, to re-establish the bonds that united us with life in a paradisiac past. All our forces strive to abolish our solitude. Hence the feeling that we are alone has a double significance: on the one hand it is self-awareness, and on the other it is a longing to escape from ourselves. Solitude — the very condition of our lives — appears to us as a test and a purgation, at the conclusion of which our anguish and instability will vanish. At the exit from the labyrinth of solitude we will find reunion (which is repose and happiness), and plenitude, and harmony with the world.

Popular language reflects this dualism by identifying solitude with suffering. The pangs of love are pangs of solitude. Communion and solitude are opposite and complementary. The redemptive power of solitude clarifies our obscure but vivid sense of guilt: the solitary man is “forsaken by the hand of God.” Solitude is both a sentence and an expiation. It is a punishment but it is also a promise that our exile will end. All human life is pervaded by this dialectic.

Death and birth are solitary experiences. We are born alone and we die alone. When we are expelled from the maternal womb, we begin the painful struggle that finally ends in death. Does death mean a return to the life that precedes life? Does it mean to relive that prenatal life in which rest and motion, day and night, time and eternity are not opposites? Does dying mean to cease existing as a being and finally, definitively, to be? Is death the truest kind of life? Is birth death, and is death birth? We do not know. But although we do not know, our whole being strives to escape the opposites that torment us. Everything — self-awareness, time, reason, customs, habits — tends to make us exiles from life, but at the same time everything impels us to return, to descend to the creative womb from which we were cast out. What we ask of love (which, being desire, is a hunger for communion, a will to fall and to die as well as to be reborn)is that it give us a bit of true life, of true death. We do not ask it for happiness or repose, but simply for an instant of that full life in which opposites vanish, in which life and death, time and eternity are united. In some obscure way we realize that life and death are but two phases — antagonistic but complementary — of a single reality. Creation and destruction become one in the act of love, and during a fraction of a second man has a glimpse of a more perfect state of being.

In our world, love is art almost inaccessible experience. Everything is against it: morals, classes, laws, races and the very lovers themselves. Woman has always been for man the “other,” his opposite and complement. If one part of our being longs to unite itself with her, another part — equally imperious — rejects and excludes her. Woman is an object, sometimes precious, sometimes harmful, but always different. By converting her into an object and by subjecting her to the deformations which his interests, his vanity, his anguish and his very love dictate, man changes her into an instrument, a means of obtaining understanding and pleasure, a way of achieving survival. Woman is an idol, a goddess, a mother, a witch or a muse, as Simone de Beauvoir has said, but she can never be her own self. Thus our erotic relationships are vitiated at the outset, are poisoned at the root. A phantasm comes between us, and this phantasm is her image, the image we have made of her and in which she clothes herself. When we reach out to touch her, we cannot even touch unthinking flesh, because this docile, servile vision of a surrendering body always intrudes. And the same thing happens to her: she can only conceive of herself as an object, as something “other.” She is never her own mistress. Her being is divided between what she really is and what she imagines she is, and this image has been dictated to her by her family, class, school, friends, religion and lover. She never expresses her femininity because it always manifests itself in forms men have invented for her. Love is not a “natural” thing. It is something human, the most human trait of all. Something that we have made ourselves and that is not found in nature. Something that we create — and destroy — every day.

These are not the only obstacles standing between love and ourselves. Love is a choice…perhaps a free choosing of our destiny, a sudden discovery of the most secret and fateful part of our being. But the choosing of love is impossible in our society. In one of his finest books — Mad Love — Breton has said that two prohibitions restrict it from the very outset: social disapproval and the Christian idea of sin. To realize itself, love must violate the laws of our world. It is scandalous and disorderly, a transgression committed by two stars that break out of their predestined orbits and rush together in the midst of space. The romantic conception of love, which implies a breaking away and a catastrophe, is the only one we know today because everything in our society prevents love from being a free choice.

Women are imprisoned in the image masculine society has imposed on them; therefore, if they attempt a free choice it must be a kind of jail break. Lovers say that “love has transformed her, it has made her a different person.” And they are right. Love changes a woman completely. If she dares to love, if she dares to be herself, she has to destroy the image in which the world has imprisoned her.

A man is also prevented from choosing. His range of possibilities is very limited. He discovers femininity as a child, in his mother or sisters, and from then on he identifies love with taboos. Our eroticism is conditioned by the horror and attraction of incest. Also, modern life stimulates our desires excessively, while it also frustrates them with all sorts of prohibitions: social, moral, even hygienic. Guilt is both the spur and rein of desire. Everything restricts our choice. We have to adjust our profoundest affections to the image of what our social group approves of in a woman. It is difficult to love persons of other races, cultures or classes, even though it is perfectly possible for a light-skinned man to love a dark-skinned woman, for her to love a Chinese, for a “gentleman” to love his maid. And vice versa. But these possibilities make us blush, and since we are prevented from choosing freely, we select a wife from among the women who are “suitable.” We never confess that we have married a woman we do not love, a woman who may love us, perhaps, but who is incapable of being her true self. Swann says: “And to think that I have wasted the best years of my life with a woman who was not my type.” The majority of modern men could repeat that sentence on their deathbeds. And with the change of one word, so could the majority of modern women.

Society denies the nature of love by conceiving of it as a stable union whose purpose is to beget and raise children. It identifies it, that is, with marriage. Every transgression against this rule is punished, the severity of the punishment depending on the time and place. (In Mexico the punishment is often fatal if the transgressor is a woman, because — like all Hispanic peoples — we have two sets of morals: one for the “señor,” another for women, children and the poor.) The protection given to marriage would be justifiable if society permitted free choice. Since it does not, it should accept the fact that marriage is not the supreme realization of love, but rather a legal, social and economic form whose purposes are different from love’s. The stability of the family depends upon marriage, which becomes a mere protection for society with no other object but the reproducing of that same society. Hence marriage is by nature profoundly conservative. To attack it is to attack the very bases of society. And love, for the same reason, is an antisocial act, though not deliberately so. Whenever it succeeds in realizing itself, it breaks up a marriage and transforms it into what society does not want it to be: a revelation of two solitary beings who create their own world, a world that rejects society’s lies, abolishes time and work, and declares itself to be self-sufficient. It is hardly strange, then, that society should punish love and its testimony — poetry — with equal malevolence, condemning them to the confused, clandestine world of the forbidden, the absurd, the abnormal. Nor it is strange that both love and poetry explode in strange, pure forms: a scandal, a crime, a poem.

As a result of this protection afforded to marriage, love is persecuted and prostitution is either tolerated or given official blessing. Our ambiguous attitude toward prostitution is quite revealing. Some peoples consider the institution to be sacred, but among us it is alternately contemptible and desirable. The prostitute is a caricature of love, a victim of love, a symbol of the powers that are debasing our world. But even this travesty of love is not enough: in some circles the bonds of marriage are loosened so much that promiscuity is the general rule. The person who goes from bed to bed is no longer considered a libertine. The seducer — the man who cannot transcend himself because women are always instruments of his vanity or anxiety —is a figure as outmoded as the knight errant. There is no longer anyone to seduce, just as there are no maidens to rescue or ogres to destroy. Modern eroticism has a different meaning from that of Sade, for example. Sade was a tragic character, a man who was completely possessed, and his work is an explosive revelation of the human condition. There are no heroes as desperate as his. Modern eroticism, on the other hand, is almost always rhetorical, a complacent literary exercise. It is not a revelation of man; it is simply one more document describing a society that encourages crime and condemns love. Freedom of passion? Divorce has ceased to be a conquest. It is not so much a way of casting off established ties as it is of permitting men and women to choose more freely. In an ideal society, the only basis for divorce would be the disappearance of love or the appearance of a new love. In a society in which everyone could choose, divorce would become an anachronism or a rarity, like prostitution and promiscuity and adultery.

Society pretends to be an organic whole that lives by and for itself. But while it conceives of itself as an indivisible unit, it is inwardly divided by a dualism which perhaps originated when man ceased to be an animal, when he invented his self, his conscience and his ethics. Society is an organism that suffers the strange necessity of justifying its ends and appetites. Sometimes its ends — disguised as moral precepts — coincide with the desires and needs of those who comprise it. But sometimes they deny the aspirations of important minorities or classes, and too often they even deny man’s profoundest instincts. When this last occurs, society lives through a period of crisis: it either explodes or stagnates. Its components cease to be human beings and are converted into mere soulless instruments.

The dualism inherent in every society, and which every society tries to resolve by transforming itself into a community, expresses itself today in many ways: good and evil, permission and taboo, the ideal and the real, the rational and the irrational, beauty and ugliness, dreams and vigils, poverty and wealth, bourgeoisie and proletariat, innocence and knowledge, imagination and reason. By an irresistible movement of its own being, society attempts to overcome this dualism and to convert its hostile, solitary components into a harmonious whole. But modem society attempts to do this by suppressing the dialectic of solitude, which alone can make love possible. Industrial societies, regardless of their differing “ideologies,” politics and economics, strive to change qualitative — that is, human — differences into quantitative uniformity. The methods of mass production are also applied to morality, art and the emotions. Contradictions and exceptions are eliminated, and this results in the closing off of our access to the profoundest experience life can offer us, that of discovering reality as a oneness in which opposites agree. The new powers prohibit solitude by fiat…and thus they also prohibit love, a clandestine and heroic form of communion. Defending love has always been a dangerous, antisocial activity. Now it is even beginning to be revolutionary. The problem of love in our world reveals how the dialectic of solitude, in its deepest manifestation, is frustrated by society. Our social life prevents almost every possibility of achieving true erotic communion.

Love is one of the clearest examples of that double instinct which causes us to dig deeper into our own selves and, at the same time, to emerge from ourselves and to realize ourselves in another: death and re-creation, solitude and communion. But it is not the only one. In the life of every man there are periods that are both departures and reunions, separations and reconciliations. Each of these phases is an attempt to transcend our solitude, and is followed by an immersion in strange environments.

The child must face an irreducible reality, and at first he responds to its stimuli with tears or silence. The cord that united him with life has been broken, and he tries to restore it by means of play and affection. This is the beginning of a dialogue that ends only when he recites the monologue of his death. But his relations with the external world are not passive now, as they were in his prenatal life, because the world demands a response. Reality has to be peopled by his acts. Thanks to games and fantasies, the inert natural world of adults — a chair, a book, anything — suddenly acquires a life of its own. The child uses the magic power of language or gesture, symbol or act, to create a living world in which objects are capable of replying to his questions. Language, freed of intellectual meanings, ceases to be a collection of signs and again becomes a delicate and magnetic organism. Verbal representation equals reproduction of the object itself, in the same way that a carving, for the primitive man, is not a representation but a double of the object represented. Speech again becomes a creative activity dealing with realities, that is, a poetic activity. Through magic the child creates a world in his own image and thus resolves his solitude. Self-awareness begins when we doubt the magical efficacy of our instruments.

Adolescence is a break with the world of childhood and a pause on the threshold of the adult world. Spranger points out that solitude is a distinctive characteristic of adolescence. Narcissus, the solitary, is the very image of the adolescent. It is during this period that we become aware of our singularity for the first time. But the dialectic of the emotions intervenes once more: since adolescence is extreme self-consciousness, it can only be transcended by self-forgetfulness, by self-surrender. Therefore solitude is not only a time of solitude but also of great romances, of heroism and sacrifice. The people have good reason to picture the hero and the lover as adolescents. The vision of the adolescent as a solitary figure, closed up within himself and consumed by desire or timidity, almost always resolves into a crowd of young people dancing, singing or marching as a group, or into a young couple strolling under the arched green branches in a park. The adolescent opens himself up to the world: to love, action, friendship, sports, heroic adventures. The literature of modern nations — except Spain, where they never appear except as rogues or orphans — is filled with adolescents, with solitaries in search of communion: of the ring, the sword, the Vision. Adolescence is an armed watch, at the end of which one enters the world of facts.

Solitude is not characteristic of maturity. When a man struggles with other men or with things, he forgets himself in his work, in creation or in the construction of objects, ideas and institutions. His personal consciousness unites with that of others: time takes on meaning and purpose and thus becomes history, a vivid, significant account with both a past and a future. Our singularity — deriving from the fact that we are situated in time, in a particular time which is made up of our own selves and which devours us while it feeds us — is not actually abolished, but it is attenuated and, in a certain sense, “redeemed.” Our personal existence takes part in history, which becomes, in Eliot’s phrase, “a pattern of timeless moments.” During vital and productive epochs, therefore, a mature man suffering from the illness of solitude is always an anomaly. This type of solitary figure is very frequent today, and indicates the gravity of our ills. In an epoch of group work, group songs, group pleasures, man is more alone than ever. Modern man never surrenders himself to what he is doing. A part of him — the profoundest part — always remains detached and alert. Man spies on himself. Work, the only modern god, is no longer creative. It is endless, infinite work, corresponding to the inconclusive life of modern society. And the solitude it engenders — the random solitude of hotels, offices, shops and movie theaters — is not a test that strengthens the soul, a necessary purgatory. It is utter damnation, mirroring a world without exit.

The dual significance of solitude — a break with one world and an attempt to create another — can be seen in our conception of heroes, saints and redeemers. Myth, biography, history and poetry describe a period of withdrawal and solitude — almost always during early youth — preceding a return to the world and to action. These are years of preparation and study, but above all they are years of sacrifice and penitence, of self- examination, of expiation and purification. Arnold Toynbee gives many illustrations of this idea: the myth of Plato’s cave, the lives of St. Paul, Buddha, Mahomet, Machiavelli, Dante. And all of us in our own lives, and within our limitations, have lived in solitude and retirement, in order to purify ourselves and then return to the world.

The dialectic of solitude —“the twofold motion of withdrawal- and-return,” to use Toynbee’s words — is clearly revealed in the history of every people. Perhaps the ancient societies, less complex than ours, are better illustrations of this double motion.

It is not difficult to imagine the extent to which solitude is a dangerous and terrifying condition for the persons we refer to — complacently and inaccurately — as “primitives.” In archaic societies, a complex and rigid systems of prohibitions, rules and rituals protects the individual from solitude. The group is the only source of health. The solitary man is an invalid, a dead branch that must be lopped off and burned, for society as a whole is endangered if one of its components becomes ill. Repetition of secular beliefs and formulas assures not only the permanence of the group but also its unity and cohesion; while religious ritual, and the constant presence of the dead, create a center of relationships which restrict independent action, thus protecting the individual from solitude and the group from dissolution.

To the primitive man, health and society are synonymous terms, and so are death and dispersion. Lévy-Bruhl says that anyone who leaves his native region “ceases to belong to the group. He dies, and receives the customary funeral rites.” Permanent exile, then, is the same as a death sentence. The social group’s identification with the spirits of its ancestors, and its identification of these with the land, is expressed in this symbolic African ritual: “When a native brings back a wife from Kimberley, they carry with them a little dirt from his home place. Every day she has to eat a bit of this dirt...to accustom herself to this change of residence.” The social solidarity of these people has “a vital, organic character. The individual is literally part of a body.” Therefore individual conversions are rare. “No one is either saved or damned on his own account,” and each person’s actions affect the entire group.

Despite all these safeguards, the group is not immune to dispersion. Anything can break it up: wars, religious schisms, changes in the systems of production, conquests. ... As soon as the group is divided, each of its fragments is faced with a drastic new situation. When the source of health —the old, closed society — is destroyed, solitude is no longer merely a threat or an accident: it is a condition, the basic and ultimate condition. And it leads to a sense of sin — not a sin resulting from the violation of some rule, but rather one that forms a part of their nature. Or, to be more precise, one that now is their nature. Solitude and original sin become one and the same. Also, health and communion again become synonymous, but are located in a remote past. They constitute the golden age, an era which preceded history and to which we could perhaps return if we broke out of time’s prison. When we acquire a sense of sin, we also grow aware of our need for redemption and a redeemer.

A new mythology and a new religion are then created. The new society — unlike the old — is open and fluid, since it is made up of exiles. The fact of having been born within the group no longer assures a man that he belongs: he has to be worthy of belonging. Prayer begins to take the place of magic formulas, and initiation rites put more and more emphasis on purification. The idea of redemption fosters religious speculation, theology, asceticism and mysticism. Sacrifice and communion cease to be totem feasts (if that is what they actually were) and become means of entering the new society. A god — almost always a god who is also a son, a descendant of ancient creation-gods — dies and is resurrected at fixed periods. He is a fertility god but he is also a redeemer, and his sacrifice is a pledge that the group is an earthly prefiguration of the perfect society awaiting us on the other side of death. These hopes concerning the next life are in part a nostalgic longing for the old society. A return to the golden age is implicit in the promise of salvation.

Of course it is difficult to discover all these factors in the history of any one society. Nevertheless, there are various societies that fit the scheme in almost every detail. Consider, for instance, the birth of Orphism. The Orphic cult arose after the destruction of Achaean civilization, which caused a general dispersion of the Greek world and a vast reaccommodation of its peoples and cultures. The necessity of reforging the ancient links, both social and sacred, created a number of secret cults in which the only participants were “uprooted, transplanted beings…who dreamed of fashioning an organization from which they could not be separated. Their only collective name was that of ‘orphans.’”(I should mention that orphanos means both “orphan” and “empty.” Solitude and orphanhood are similar forms of emptiness.)

The Orphic and Dionysiac religions, like the proletarian religions that flourished during the collapse of the ancient world, show very clearly how a closed society becomes an open one. The sense of guilt, of solitude and expiation, plays the same dual role as it does in the life of an individual.

The feeling of solitude, which is a nostalgic longing for the body from which we were cast out, is a longing for a place. According to an ancient belief, held by virtually all peoples, that place is the center of the world, the navel of the universe. Sometimes it is identified with paradise, and both of these with the group’s real or mythical place of origin. Among the Aztecs, the dead returned to Mictlán, a place situated in the north, from which they had emigated. Almost all the rites connected with the founding of cities or houses allude to a search for that holy center from which we were driven out. The great sanctuaries — Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca — are at the center of the world, or symbolize and prefigure it. Pilgrimages to these sanctuaries are ritual repetitions of what each group did in the mythical past before establishing itself in the promised land. The custom of circling a house or city before entering it has the same origin.

The myth of the labyrinth pertains to this set of beliefs. Several related ideas make the labyrinth one of the most fertile and meaningful mythical symbols: the talisman or other object, capable of restoring health or freedom to the people, at the center of a sacred area; the hero or saint who, after doing penance and performing the rites of expiation, enters the labyrinth or enchanted palace; and the hero’s return either to save or redeem his city or to found a new one. In the Perseus myth the mystical elements are almost invisible, but in that of the Holy Grail asceticism and mysticism are closely related: sin, which causes sterility in the lands and subjects of the Fisher King; purification rites; spiritual combat; and, finally, grace — that is, communion.

We have been expelled from the center of the world and are condemned to search for it through jungles and deserts or in the underground mazes of the labyrinth. Also, there was a time when time was not succession and transition, but rather the perpetual source of a fixed present in which all times, past and future, were contained. When man was exiled from that eternity in which all times were one, he entered chronometric time and became a prisoner of the clock and the calendar. As soon as time was divided up into yesterday, today and tomorrow, into hours, minutes and seconds, man ceased to be one with time, ceased to coincide with the flow of reality. When one says, “at this moment,” the moment has already passed. These spatial measurements of time separate man from reality — which is a continuous present — and turn all the presences in which reality manifests itself, as Bergson said, into phantasms.

If we consider the nature of these two opposing ideas, it becomes clear that chronometric time is a homogeneous succession lacking all particularity. It is always the same, always indifferent to pleasure or pain. Mythological time, on the other hand, is impregnated with all the particulars of our lives: it is as long as eternity or as short as a breath, ominous or propitious, fecund or sterile. This idea allows for the existence of a number of varying times. Life and time coalesce to form a single whole, an indivisible unity. To the Aztecs, time was associated with space, and each day with one of the cardinal points. The same can be said of any religious calendar. A fiesta is more than a date or anniversary. It does not celebrate an event: it reproduces it. Chronometric time is destroyed and the eternal present — for a brief but immeasurable period — is reinstated. The fiesta becomes the creator of time; repetition becomes conception. The golden age returns. Whenever the priest officiates in the Mystery of the Holy Mass, Christ descends to the here and now, giving himself to man and saving the world. The true believers, as Kierkegaard wished, are “contemporaries of Jesus.” And myths and religious fiestas are not the only ways in which the present can interrupt succession. Love and poetry also offer us a brief revelation of this original time. Juan Ramón Jiménez wrote: “More time is not more eternity,” referring to the eternity of the poetic instant. Unquestionably the conception of time as a fixed present and as pure actuality is more ancient than that of chronometric time, which is not an immediate apprehension of the flow of reality but is instead a rationalization of its passing.

This dichotomy is expressed in the opposition between history and myth or between history and poetry. In myth — as in religious fiestas or children’s stories — time has no dates: “Once upon a time… “In the days when animals could talk…” “In the beginning…” And that beginning, which is not such-and- such a year or day, contains all beginnings and ushers us into living time where everything truly begins every instant. Through ritual, which realizes and reproduces a mythical account, and also through poetry and fairy tales, man gains access to a world in which opposites are reconciled and united. As Van der Leeuw said, “all rituals have the property of taking place in the now, at this very instant.” Every poem we read is a re-creation, that is, a ceremonial ritual, a fiesta.

The theater and the epic are also fiestas. In theatrical performances and in the reciting of poetry, ordinary time ceases to operate and is replaced by original time. Thanks to participation, this mythical time — father of all the times that mask reality — coincides with our inner, subjective time. Man, the prisoner of succession, breaks out of his invisible jail and enters living time: his subjective life becomes identical with exterior time, because this has ceased to be a spatial measurement and has changed into a source, a spring, in the absolute present, endlessly re-creating itself. Myths and fiestas, whether secular or religious, permit man to emerge from his solitude and become one with creation. Therefore myth — disguised, obscure, hidden — reappears in almost all our acts and intervenes decisively in our history: it opens the doors of communion.

Contemporary man has rationalized the myths, but he has not been able to destroy them. Many of our scientific truths, like the majority of our moral, political and philosophical conceptions, are only new ways of expressing tendencies that were embodied earlier in mythical forms. The rational language of our day can barely hide the ancient myths behind it. Utopias — especially modern political utopias (despite their rationalistic disguises)—are violently concentrated expressions of the tendency that causes every society to imagine a golden age from which the social group was exiled and to which man will return on the Day of Days. Modern fiestas —political meetings, parades, demonstrations and other ritual acts — prefigure the advent of that day of redemption. Everyone hopes society will return to its original freedom, and man to his primitive purity. Then time will cease to torment us with doubts, with the necessity of choosing between good and evil, the just and the unjust, the real and the imaginary. The kingdom of the fixed present, of perpetual communion, will be re-established. Reality will tear off its masks, and at last we will be able to know both it and our fellow men.

Every moribund or sterile society attempts to save itself by creating a redemption myth which is also a fertility myth, a creation myth. Solitude and sin are resolved in communion and fertility. The society we live in today has also created its myth. The sterility of the bourgeois world will end in suicide or a new form of creative participation. This is the “theme of our times,” in Ortega y Gasset’s phrase; it is the substance of our dreams and the meaning of our acts.

Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason. When we emerge, perhaps we will realize that we have been dreaming with our eyes open, and that the dreams of reason are intolerable. And then, perhaps, we will begin to dream once more with our eyes closed.

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mystacoceti · 1 year

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Modern death does not have any significance that transcends it or that refers to other values. It is rarely anything more than the inevitable conclusion of a natural process. In a world of facts, death is merely one more fact. But since it is such a disagreeable fact, contrary to all our concepts and to the very meaning of our lives, the philosophy of progress ("Progress toward what, and from what?" Scheler asked) pretends to make it disappear, like a magician palming a coin. Everything in the modern world functions as if death did not exist. Nobody takes it into account, it is suppressed everywhere: in political pronouncements, commercial advertising, public morality and popular customs; in the promos of cut-rate health and happiness offered to all of us by hospitals, drugstores and playing fields. But death enters into everything we undertake, and it is no longer a transition but a great gaping mouth that nothing can satisfy. The century of health, hygiene and contraceptives, miracle drugs and synthetic foods, is also the century of the concentration camp and the police state, Hiroshima and the murder story. Nobody thinks about death, about his own death, as Rilke asked us to do, because nobody lives a personal life. Collective slaughter is the fruit of a collectivized way of life.

from "The Day of the Dead", Octavio Paz

#pearl diver

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explosionsstimsandtech · 5 years

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I could blame myself But it’s your fault as well We’re crying out for help, ohh I could blame myself But it’s your fault as well We’re crying out, crying out

Saying do ya, do ya even know what you do to me I’m going out of my mind Every secret that your keeping Oh, why won’t you let me in Oh, why won’t you let me in, a-aah-aah

But it’s useless Every time you pull me back with one kiss And I’m telling everyone You didn’t mean to do it, and we can make it through this Oh darlin, oh darlin I’m just making up excuses

#Octavio to his significant others #always going for the broken ones #loving like only a broken man can #he longs for them to be open #but fears opening up himself #he is both sides of this song #This Beat Is Sick #Octavio Headcannons #bear with his stupidity #he loves like he loses #uncontrollably and without thought to his actions

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cynical-sprite · 3 years

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Apex Legends Preferences: Their Pet Names For their significant other

Elliott Witt/Mirage💛: sweetie, honey, babe

I feel like Elliott would also sometimes use silly pet names with the sole purpose of making his significant other either laugh or get flustered, names like: sweet cheeks, baby cakes

Renee Blasey/Wraith💜: probably wouldn't call her s/o pet names, but if she did, it'd be something simple and not too mushy like 'babe', or a shortened version of her s/o's name

Octavio Silva/Octane💚: babe, baby, baby girl, sexy mama, mamacita

Obi Edolasim/Seer💜: dearest, my love, my heart, ifunanya m ("my love")

Dr. Mary Somers/Horizon❤: dear, dearest, mo leannan ("my lover", "my sweetheart"), m'eudail ("my darling", "my dear")

Tae Joon Park/Crypto💚: Nae sarang (“My Love”), Aein (“Sweetheart”), Gongjunim (“Princess”), Yeobo (“Honey” or “Darling”)

(I feel like he would lean towards using pet names from/in his language😊)

Ajay Che/Lifeline❤: baby, sweetheart, bebe ("baby"), amou ("lover"), Cheri ("sweetheart"), Mon kè ("my heart")

Loba Andrade❤: darling, dear/my dear, beautiful/handsome/gorgeous, baby, angel, Amor / Meu amor ("love"/"my love"), Bebê ("baby"), Meu bem ("my dear"), Coração (“heart”), Anjo ("angel"), Querido / Querida ("dear" m/f)

Makoa Gibraltar💙: baby, honey, dear, Ma’asoama ("darling"/"sweetheart"), La’u Pele ("dearest")

Natalie Paquette/Wattson💛: darling, sweetheart, Mon amour ("my love"), mon bijou ("my jewelry"), Mon cœur ("my heart"/"my sweetheart"), Mon trésor ("my treasure"/"my precious"), mon ange ("my angel"), Mon chéri / ma chérie (“my dear”)

Ramya Parekh/Rampart💜: I can't see her being too into pet names since she's not exactly the romantic type, so, if she did, it'd probably be something simple and not too mushy like love or dear

She would most certainly name one the guns she creates after her significant other though

Kairi Imahara/Valkyrie💙: baby, babe

Other than that, she'd probably just call her significant other by her name or a shortened version of it, maybe a special nickname she'd come up with for her

Bloth Hundr/Bloodhound💚: any pet names/terms of endearment they give their significant other would definitely be in their native language, and would likely usually only be when their alone with their s/o since they're a rather private person

elskan min ("my love"), kærasti/kærasta ("darling" m/f)

Anita Williams/Bangalore💙: I can't see Anita using pet names/terms of endearment for her significant other; she'd probably just call them by their name most of the time. If she did though, it would probably be something short, simple and direct like baby/babe or a shortened version of their name

Walter Fitzroy/Fuse🧡: princess, darlin', baby, sweetheart, he'd probably come up with some special nickname for his significant other probably relating to their name or a shortened version of it

Kaleb Cross/Revenant🖤: Revenant would definitely not call his significant other by any pet names or terms of endearment; his way of showing endearment would be that he'd never call them things like 'skinsuit', 'skinbag', or 'girlie' as he does everyone else

____

If I got any of the ones in other languages wrong, I apologize in advance; I don't speak any of those languages, so the internet was my source😅. I have no intention of offending anyone, so if I got any of those wrong, please feel free to tell me nicely

@werewolfgirl1995

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akinumi · 3 years

Text

Bloodhound, Mirage and Octane react to their s/o with a tongue piercing

Warning(s): Suggestive stoof, but SFW!

A/N: For ‘Hound, word translation at the end of the writing!

Bloodhound...

...Was fascinated when they saw a ball on your tongue and it had piqued their curiosity. They’ve asked you about it and then you two just ended up talking about your tongue piercing and why you got it.

To your surprise, Bloodhound would be the one making suggestive comments and what you can do with that tongue of yours. Listing things one, by, one. They hum in delight with your flustered face photographed in their memory.

You’ve suggested that Bloodhound should get a tongue piercing to match yours, but they politely declined saying yours was just good enough.

On the rare occasions that ‘Hound takes their mask off, they would beckon you for a kiss and maybe something more.

“Ástin mín, come sit. Let us have a long chat, hm?”

Mirage | Elliot Witt...

...Is in love with your whole look with the piercing. When he first saw it, he wouldn’t stop complimenting you; ‘You look so good with that piercing!’, ‘Oh my god babe, rock it!’ anything that sounds pretty cheesy but still worth your while.

Most times you talk with Elliot, his eyes tend to just focus on your mouth and not the topic of the conversation. Of course, you tease him. A flushed and embarrassed Elliot Witt is always a sight to see.

He tries to keep up with your comments, but it always backfires on him. Words aren’t really his thing, but his actions speak louder. Witt would hold you from behind and pepper your face with kisses.

And Mirage has definitely kissed you much more (more than usual) on the lips daily, and on most cases it does turn into a make out session but perhaps that was his goal.

“What? Can’t a lover kiss their significant other?”

“Babe, this is our third make out session.”

“Okay, but you’re gorgeous!”

Octane | Octavio Silva...

...Thought your tongue piercing was sick as fuck! He wanted to get a matching pair with you too and do a little ‘boop!’ with the piercings touching each other.

It’d be like a greeting when you both ‘boop’ your pierces together, but you only greet him like that if it was just you two. If there were other people around, you’d have yourself a slightly clingy Octane depending on his mood.

Octavio as well, would stare at your lips when you speak, but he has no shame at all. If you were to say something about his eyes wandering he would stick his own tongue out and would tell you to do something about it. In the bedroom.

He likes to post a lot of pictures of you two together and with your matching tongue piercings. A lot of the fans love it! But if there were people who were getting out of line, Octane would get slightly angry. You often would pepper him with kisses until he’s calmed down.

“You know, I’m still angry. Maybe you should give me a kiss on the mouth, babe.”

Ástin mín = “My love”

#apex legends #apex legends x reader #apex legends imagines #octane x reader #mirage x reader #bloodhound x reader #apex legends bloodhound x reader #apex legends octane x reader #apex legends mirage x reader #apex legends bloodhound imagines #apex legends mirage imagines #apex legends octane imagines

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shortythescreen · 4 years

Note

Hey Shorty!! May I please have some Octane Significant Other Headcanons please and thank you!!

oh buni. asking about my boi,,,,

Octane Significant Other Headcanons:

- Octavio is prone to a lot of casual, fun relationships. He falls in and out of love very fast and is rarely serious about any of his partners.

- When Octavio is serious about someone, he usually obsesses about it before actually making a move. It’s strange for him to not get bored of someone and he definitely thinks about it a lot before even attempting to ask them out.

- Is really open about his relationship on social media. His significant other is likely all over his stories, his videos.

- Absolutely spoils his partner. They mention offhandedly needing some new shoes? Suddenly they’ve got Balenciaga running shoes in their closet. They see some cool new headphones they’d like to invest in? In their hands within the hour. Can be kind of overwhelming with the amount of shit he’ll give his significant other.

- Would deck his partner out in Octane gear -- hoodies, bracelets, maybe even a mask like his. He likes to “see himself” on them.

- Is the type of guy that wants a good luck kiss before going into the game. If he wins, he’ll attribute it to his partner’s magic kisses.

- Octavio does a lot of distracted touching. If his partner has their feet in his lap, he’ll start playing with their toes. If they’re holding hands, he’ll scratch the inside of their palm. If they’re laying on their tummy, he’ll start tapping on their ass.

- Tends to forget words in English relatively often, so his partner is bound to pick up on some Spanish. It’s especially helpful if they notice the English words he forgets more than others because they can point out to him the word he forgot.

- Really likes taking his partner dancing! Would definitely be into the modern clubbing but if his partner isn’t comfortable with that he would love to take them to a Latin club and teach them salsa, or meringue.

- Tries to take an interest in his significant other’s interests. Even if he isn’t all that into them, he makes an effort to at least know what they’re talking about so he can understand what they’re talking about when they get excited about whatever show/game/book/activity it is they’re talking about.

- Likes to bathe with his significant other. He prefers baths but is fine with showers.

- Octavio is a fuckboy in a relationship. Constantly grabbing at his partner, asking to touch them, asking to kiss them. Would definitely send his significant other a “haha, then what? ;)” text.

- He likes to lay on top of his partner, especially while snuggling. Will rest his head on their chest and listen to their heartbeat.

- Would really prefer to avoid having his significant other meet his parents. They don’t take interest in his life anyway and when they do, they tend to be judgmental.

- Needs a partner that is okay with him doing reckless shit. A relationship with him won’t last if he has someone breathing down his neck about being safer all the time.

- Octavio is the type of dude to look at his partner and stick his tongue between his fingers. He’s a fuckboy you guys, I swear to god.

#octavio silva/reader #octavio silva x reader #octane/reader #octane x reader #apex legends imagines #apex legends #apex #apex legends headcanons #headcanons #shorty writes #apex octane #apex legends octane #kaclan

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justforbooks · 3 years

Photo

Jorge Mario Pedro Vargas Llosa, 1st Marquis of Vargas Llosa, more commonly known as Mario Vargas Llosa, was born on March 28, 1936. He is a Peruvian writer, journalist, essayist, college professor, and a former politician. Vargas Llosa is one of Latin America's most significant novelists and essayists, and one of the leading writers of his generation. Some critics consider him to have had a larger international impact and worldwide audience than any other writer of the Latin American Boom. In 2010 he won the Nobel Prize in Literature, "for his cartography of structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual's resistance, revolt, and defeat."

Vargas Llosa rose to international fame in the 1960s with novels such as The Time of the Hero (La ciudad y los perros, literally The City and the Dogs, 1963/1966), The Green House (La casa verde, 1965/1968), and the monumental Conversation in the Cathedral (Conversación en la catedral, 1969/1975). He writes prolifically across an array of literary genres, including literary criticism and journalism. His novels include comedies, murder mysteries, historical novels, and political thrillers. Several, such as Captain Pantoja and the Special Service (1973/1978) and Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter (1977/1982), have been adapted as feature films.

Many of Vargas Llosa's works are influenced by the writer's perception of Peruvian society and his own experiences as a native Peruvian. Increasingly, however, he has expanded his range, and tackled themes that arise from other parts of the world. In his essays, Vargas Llosa has made many criticisms of nationalism in different parts of the world. Another change over the course of his career has been a shift from a style and approach associated with literary modernism, to a sometimes playful postmodernism.

Like many Latin American writers, Vargas Llosa has been politically active throughout his career. While he initially supported the Cuban revolutionary government of Fidel Castro, Vargas Llosa later became disenchanted with its policies, particularly after the imprisonment of Cuban poet Heberto Padilla in 1971, and now identifies as a liberal. He ran for the Peruvian presidency in 1990 with the center-right Frente Democrático coalition, advocating classical liberal reforms, but lost the election to Alberto Fujimori. He is the person who, in 1990, "coined the phrase that circled the globe," declaring on Mexican television, "Mexico is the perfect dictatorship," a statement which became an adage during the following decade.

Mario Vargas Llosa is also one of the 25 leading figures on the Information and Democracy Commission launched by Reporters Without Borders.

Mario Vargas Llosa is considered a major Latin American writer, alongside other authors such as Octavio Paz, Julio Cortázar, Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Carlos Fuentes. In his book The New Novel in Latin America (La Nueva Novela), Fuentes offers an in-depth literary criticism of the positive influence Vargas Llosa's work has had on Latin American literature. Indeed, for the literary critic Gerald Martin, writing in 1987, Vargas Llosa was "perhaps the most successful ... certainly the most controversial Latin American novelist of the past twenty-five years".

Most of Vargas Llosa's narratives have been translated into multiple languages, marking his international critical success. Vargas Llosa is also noted for his substantial contribution to journalism, an accomplishment characteristic of few other Latin American writers. He is recognized among those who have most consciously promoted literature in general, and more specifically the novel itself, as avenues for meaningful commentary about life. During his career, he has written more than a dozen novels and many other books and stories, and, for decades, he has been a voice for Latin American literature. He has won numerous awards for his writing, from the 1959 Premio Leopoldo Alas and the 1962 Premio Biblioteca Breve to the 1993 Premio Planeta (for Death in the Andes) and the Jerusalem Prize in 1995. The literary critic Harold Bloom has included his novel The War of the End of the World in his list of essential literary works in the Western Canon. An important distinction he has received is the 1994 Miguel de Cervantes Prize, considered the most important accolade in Spanish-language literature and awarded to authors whose "work has contributed to enrich, in a notable way, the literary patrimony of the Spanish language". In 2002, Vargas was the recipient of the PEN/Nabokov Award. Vargas Llosa also received the 2005 Irving Kristol Award from the American Enterprise Institute and was the 2008 recipient of the Harold and Ethel L. Stellfox Visiting Scholar and Writers Award at Dickinson College.

A number of Vargas Llosa's works have been adapted for the screen, including The Time of the Hero and Captain Pantoja and the Special Service (both by the Peruvian director Francisco Lombardi) and The Feast of the Goat (by Vargas Llosa's cousin, Luis Llosa). Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter was turned into the English-language film, Tune in Tomorrow. The Feast of the Goat has also been adapted as a theatrical play by Jorge Alí Triana, a Colombian playwright and director.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Mario Vargas Llosa #Famous Birthdays

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fyeahnix · 3 years

Text

Title: Puppy Love - Part 1 Pairing: Bangalore/Wraith (Voidstrike) Other Characters: None Rating: General Audiences Words: 1875 Prompt: None Other Tags: Cute, Oblivous, Crush, Dogs, Flirting, Friendship Summary: "If Wraith had nothing better to do, she'd be lying under the air conditioning back at her apartment. But here she is out in the eternal Solace summer and misery, sans scarf, in shorts and a tank top ready to start her evening workout routine. ...Or she would have been if she hadn't received the oddest text from Anita. She stares at her phone now, rereading the messages exchanged only an hour ago."

If you like it PLEASE REBLOG. You can read it here or on AO3, via the link found in the notes of this post. Please read on AO3 if you prefer correct formatting!

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It's hot as hell out right now. The evening air is humid, a sticky and suffocating mess of sweltering heat, moisture, pollen, and biting insects. And the people? Running around and playing under the setting sun with their kids and pets, some visibly glistening with sweat. It's gross. If Wraith had nothing better to do, she'd be lying under the air conditioning back at her apartment. But here she is out in the eternal Solace summer and misery, sans scarf, in shorts and a tank top ready to start her evening workout routine.

...Or she would have been if she hadn't received the oddest text from Anita. She stares at her phone now, rereading the messages exchanged only an hour ago.

hey

meet me at the park at 6? got someone I want you to meet

Sure?

It's 6:05. She's sitting on the top of a park bench cooking in the heat, and Anita is nowhere to be found. Great. It's a fairly random text as it is, and Wraith doesn't see why Anita needed to meet now. She knows this is Wraith's time to work out.

Who on Solace is this important? Better yet, who is this person at all? A new friend? Couldn't be. Anita's fairly closed-off, doesn't make friends that quickly or easily. Getting comfortable around the other Legends was enough of a chore. Could it be a significant other, girlfriend maybe? Well, she hopes not. The thought tugs her insides. Of course, she'd be happy for Anita, but…

Whatever. It's not that serious. Whoever it is must be important enough for Anita to meet up with Wraith specifically. Wait, was she the only person asked? Anita doesn't normally send group chats, though. But… no one else is here and it's 6:07. Ugh, god, she's thinking too much about this and this weather isn't helping and it's getting harder to breathe with the nervous lump stuck in her throat-

"Hey! Come back here! Sentry!"

Anita?

Wraith turns, eyes widening as a massive black ball barrels towards her at full speed on four legs. She throws her arms up to protect herself as Anita yells again.

"Sentry, sit!"

Nothing knocks into her, and when Wraith lowers her arms, she makes eye contact with a rather large black dog not five feet away from the park bench. It's stopped in its tracks, large ears and tail standing at attention, as its face twists in a confused expression. It bows, butt in the air and tail wagging before lying down in the grass, wet tongue hanging loosely from its mouth.

Anita ambles up to the canine and kneels to clip on the leash that's wrapped around her fist. When she stands, she half-smiles in apology and leans forward with an arm outstretched.

Wraith dismounts the bench to accept the quick hug. The woman smells good, a familiar cologne gracing Wraith's senses. It's better than the heavy stench of outdoor humidity, that's for sure.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. This little knucklehead can't keep still today." Anita unravels the leash twice from her fist, relaxes. She huffs, lifting the hem of her tank top to wipe sweat off her forehead.

"I, uh-" Wraith's eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly at the welcome sight, but she doesn't allow her eyes to linger. "Didn't know you were a dog sitter."

Anita smirks, this time mischievous and lopsided. "That what you think?"

"I suppose. By the way, where is this person I'm supposed to be meeting? Is it a secret girlfriend I don't know about? Gonna pop out from behind a tree somewhere?"

Anita laughs and shakes her head as she kneels next to the dog. "First off, I don't have a girlfriend. Not yet anyway. And secondly, I never said it was a person, Wraith."

"Then- wait. When did you get a dog?"

The animal in question tilts its head at Wraith like it understands and objects to every word she says. Anita pets it, rubs it on the head and coos at it with praise before she responds. It's oddly cute. And very unexpected.

"His name's Sentry. Got him a couple months ago. Didn't wanna spill about it because I wanted some time to get used to him. And I… wanted you to meet him first."

Wraith's belly flutters at the statement. But her out of everyone they know?

She kneels next to Anita and studies the dog. Sentry's much bigger up close than she thought. He's covered in a shiny coat of short fur, solid black all over, and his pointed ears stand at attention, flicking this way and that to take in the sounds of people walking by. His eyes are a nice shade of light brown, intelligent but unfocused on anything in particular. The dog who very nearly knocked her over mere minutes ago lies relaxed in the grass without a care in the world.

"Rescue dog?"

Anita nods half-heartedly. "In a way. Got some people I know back on Gaea. Said some of their dogs failed police training and were up for adoption. This little guy couldn't stay out of trouble."

"Little? Bang, he's huge."

"Yeah, he is," Anita laughs. "First family couldn't handle his size with their kids. Apparently, he grew faster than they could keep up with. Second person couldn't deal with his temperament."

Wraith purses her lips. "Third time's the charm, I'd hope."

"Heh, yeah. It will be. Two months in, and I'm already in love with him. He's almost two. Still actin' like a damn puppy, but, god, I love him," Anita sighs, exhales, and Wraith's heart tugs at the pure emotion emanating from the woman's voice.

Wraith sits on the edge of the bench, crossing her legs. "Didn't quite take you for an animal lover."

"I think that's a stretch," Anita chuckles. "We had dogs growing up when I was a kid. Military household. Strict but fair. But… we all let our guards down for the pups." Anita moves to sit next to Wraith, leans forward to rest her arms on her knees. She stares out into the park, watching crowds of people bask in what's left of the sun. Sentry gets up as well and lies back down in front of her, panting. She loosens the leash again. "We had two of 'em.

"Two big boys. Angelo was a mutt. Probably an Australian Cattle Dog and Great Dane mix from what we could tell, maybe a little Pit in 'im, too. Loyal as hell. Healthy dog. Ghost was a German Shepherd. Same as this boy." She nods towards Sentry. "Pure white. A bit of a troublemaker, if anything, but still good. Me and Ghost… same age. Inseparable." She pauses, laughs a little, wistful. "I had a connection with that dog. Still do on some level. He died old, when we were fourteen. Right before my bro-"

She stops and scrunches her nose, screws her eyes shut for two seconds. "You know what? Nevermind. Not important."

Wraith doesn't know what to say. Anita doesn't make eye contact. Whatever she hesitated mentioning must have been too personal to share. Understandable.

"Anyway. I'm glad I brought him home. He means a lot to me. And I'm… glad you met him, too."

Why her, though? Sure, they're friends, have hung out plenty. They've had rounds at the firing range before matches, developed duos tactics together, gone out for celebratory dinner after wins and whatnot. She's sure Anita's done that with… everyone, right?

She can't imagine she's any more or less of a friend to Anita than any of the other Legends. Anita and Witt talk frequently enough. She and Ajay also hang out sometimes. Hell, she's even gotten drinks with Octavio when he can sit down for long enough. Why Wraith?

When Wraith shifts in her seat, Sentry focuses on her, rising to walk towards her. His tail wags behind him as he drags his wet, leathery nose across her arms and over her thighs. He shakes, tail flailing even harder. She can't help but crack a small smile and hover a hand over his head, which he sniffs enthusiastically.

"You can pet him if you want. Promise he won't bite," Anita says.

Wraith nods and lowers her hand to Sentry's head. She rubs him, scratches him on the forehead and behind the ears with short nails. His tail calms, and he shuts his eyes as he sits back on his haunches.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?"

He nods, tongue lolling as if agreeing as she rubs both ears with her hands.

Wraith smiles and turns to Anita. "Not to brag, but I think he might actually like me."

"Heh. Guess that makes two of us."

Wraith raises an eyebrow. She stops petting Sentry, and he whines, nudging her arm. The comment is slick and unexpected, typical Anita, but…

"I-"

"You, uh- you busy tomorrow? Thought maybe we could grab coffee or lunch or something."

That's why.

Wraith chuckles and smiles as her cheeks burn at the Voices from the Void. She gives Sentry a few thorough rubs on his cheeks. "I… actually am-"

Anita wipes a stray bead of sweat from her temple. "Oh. Well don't worry about it. Maybe some other-"

"-But. Let me… clear my schedule. I don't think it'll be a huge deal to move some meetings around tomorrow. Maybe you can bring Sentry along."

Anita finally turns to gaze at her. There's a subtle smirk gracing her features, that usual Bangalore bravado emanating from her. It's attractive, no lie.

"All right, I got you. I got a couple places in mind."

"Looking forward to it."

Anita rubs the back of her head with her leash hand as she lets out a short laugh and stands. "Well, I won't keep you. I gotta give this boy a walk so we can get out of this heat."

Sentry whines then barks once. Loud boy.

Wraith rubs him for the last time before she stands too. "Yeah, I better get to my workout. See you tomorrow?"

Anita opens up for another hug, which Wraith gladly accepts. "Yeah. I'll text you later."

This hug's tighter than the last, sets Wraith on edge a bit, but she doesn't want to pull away. Anita's bare, muscular arm feels good wrapped around her shoulders, her body warm in a way that stamps out the suffocating humidity. She can get used to this.

When the woman pulls away, she salutes Wraith and tugs on Sentry's leash to lead him away.

...Okay, so maybe Wraith's a little excited about tomorrow. And maybe she's been looking at Anita a bit… differently lately. It's nothing bad, right? The woman's tall and attractive and her personality is the type to simultaneously make Wraith roll her eyes and draw her in. She's charming, alluring, knowledgeable, helpful, and ten thousand other words Wraith can substitute. It'd be foolish to not give this a chance, wouldn't it?

She bites her lip, clutching her phone in her hand as she watches Anita fade into the distance. She needs to go workout and focus, but that'll be hard waiting in anticipation of tomorrow's lunch date. She doesn't think she'll sleep well tonight, if at all actually, but she'll certainly try, Solace heat be damned.

#Apex Legends #Bangalore #Wraith #Anita Williams #Renee Blasey #Voidstrike #writing #nix fics

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mozambique-and-a-dream · 4 years

Note

octane and mirage headcanons ???

Wholesome Miroctane for my Children

They were a couple that nobody expected but once they were together, everyone realized they were meant for each other

Their first official date was spent at one of those cheesy fancy restaurants, the reservation made by Ajay who had connections. Neither of them were comfortable in the location but neither wanted to say anything that would ruin the date

Halfway through the main course though Elliott mentioned feeling out of place somewhere so fancy and Octavio took the chance and convinced them to sneak out (leaving behind a check of course)

They ended up on one of solace’s beaches and though the sun was long set Tav dragged Elliott into the water

Since he had never felt secure in previous relationships, Octavio was the first romantic partner Elliott had brought home to meet his mother. Tav didn’t realize how significant this was to Elliott till his mom was practically in tears, overjoyed that her son had found someone to look out for him once she was gone

They both bought engagement rings within a week of each other though both were so afraid to ask that no one proposed till a few months after that

It was Elliott that went down on one knee first, on a trip back to Solace to that same beach from their first date

Octane ended up pulling out an uno-reverse card, leaving Elliott confused until he saw Tav on one knee as well.

Long after they are married they still have the uno card in a frame, though it did end up getting pretty soggy in the water for what happened after the proposals...

#apex legends #send some hc requests yall #miroctane

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artsytrashcat · 4 years

Text

Random Octane headcanons

I would like to thank @swiftyangx12 for letting me kinda spitball with her. Again y’all, I have been distracted with schoolwork and Animal Crossing. This quarantine shit has really been getting to me. Doing school stuff from home makes me anxious. At least Animal Crossing and calls from my partner will help me get through this. Sorry for that! Let me start with these HCs!

-We have all gotten the information that Octavio’s father probably wasn’t the best parent.

-Octavio talks in his sleep. This surprised his significant other at first, but they thought it was kinda cute.

-Most nights, the junkie has nightmares because of what his father has done in his past and mumbles about it in his sleep. He often needs his partner when this happens.

-When this man has something to take care of, he will take care of it. Not in an energetic, “I don’t give a fuck” sorta attitude. In a completely different attitude. A sophisticated one. It is like he is a completely different person.

-This man enjoys drinking, but when this man is drunk, oh boy. He is so clingy and gushy when he’s drunk.

-He will be so gushy about how amazing and cute his partner is.

-His significant other will be sitting there, face palming and being like, “Yeah, Tavi. Thank you. You really need some coffee...” They still love him with all their heart, though.

#apex #apex legends #octane #octavio silva #headcanon #headcanons #hcs

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salmonidparty · 4 years

Text

The Spicy Calamari Inkantation was still ringing in Carice’s ears, even as she dashed to her quarters in the barracks. The surrounding sounds were drowned out by her breathing, the pounding of her hearts, and her boots hitting the damp pavement. She had never been averse to crowds, however as the impromptu concert came to an end she found herself pushing her way through dazed and confused Octarians.

She needed space, she needed time, and she needed quiet. All to think, to go over what was tumbling about in her brain. Although her head felt clearer than it had for years, a storm of confusion and indecision was brewing deep within her mind. Her body felt light as a feather, and yet her mind felt as heavy as a ton of bricks.

In what felt like no time at all, she had made it to the barracks and fled to her room. The building was surprisingly empty--usually someone would be around to keep an eye on things, or resting after performing their duties... It was likely due to the streets being so full from the grand battle that DJ Octavio had called everyone to see. However, now it was clear that the outcome was one that the emperor never saw coming.

He was defeated in battle. Agent 4, the perky little Octoling that had sided with the enemy had knocked his crown off, got her allies into the dome, reclaimed Callie’s voice, nabbed the Great Zapfish, and took the Octo Emperor into custody.

Everything was in place for the Octolings to want to stage revenge, and yet...

Carice looked to her hands. While she would have normally felt the urge to rally up some troops and dive head-first into the Squidbeak’s base, for the first time in her life she didn’t feel as though she needed to spring into action. She frowned and pressed her back against the door, heaving a sigh.

It was as if she could breathe easy for the first time in her life, but that felt so wrong to her. She knew she should do something about the problematic Inklings and their antics to take the precious Zapfish away, however she felt such a lack of need to go and free their emperor. The conflict stewing in her mind made her stomach feel like an unsteady tempest. Until now, she had an undying loyalty to Octavio. A compulsion to serve him, and do whatever it took to help her homeland and people.

What made the difference, now?

Shuffling over to her bunk bed, she flopped unceremoniously onto the stiff lower mattress. She found herself humming the same song she had heard in that stadium just minutes before, breaking the dead quiet of the quarters. It was a good song, and it had wormed its way into her ears like no tune before it.

Carice slipped her shades off of the bridge of her nose, and held them at arm’s length above her head. As she stared into the dark frames, she wondered why she and the others had been wearing these and those bulky goggles for so long. Fashion? A sense of unity? Practicality? She felt like there was a significant reason, but whatever it was had completely lost its edge. Her hands fell to her sides, the frame of the shades still held between her right finger and thumb.

She continued wondering, her mind getting dangerously close to thoughts she never could have imagined before. Could the Octarians manage without Octavio to push progress? They did survive without him for two years, but it wasn’t as if the domes were getting any better in his absence. But with Octavio’s focus on making Octo Weapons and Bosses, were the domes improving much with him around, anyway?

His aggression and frustration with the Inklings were both pushing himself and his people towards war... When most simply wanted peace. Even still, the Inklings weren’t making things any easier, and even when Octavio was out of commission, Carice had to aggressively protect the people that lived in the crumbling domes.

Carice grunted. She pressed her left palm against her forehead and screwed her eyes shut, her nose wrinkling with mild frustration. She wanted to help the Octarians that lived here. She wanted them to live in comfort, to have the sun grace their faces. But what of Octavio? He wanted to take the surface by force. Surely, that could get them what they wanted. But maybe Octavio’s desire for war was... Wrong.

And maybe her loyalty wasn’t to Octavio, but to the Octarians themselves.

If he were to return again, wouldn’t they just keep doing the same thing? Continue to make weapons and steal Zapfish to power them? It hadn’t worked for the past 100 years, what would make the difference now?

But.. All the same, could they really reach the surface without a fight? Carice couldn’t hope to know. Her knowledge of the surface was limited at best, only able to steal glances of it now and again. She knew it was beautiful. She knew it was something to fight for, if need-be... But...

If one cephalopod from the surface could stand to face groups of Octarians alone, she dreaded to think of what it could be like to face an entire army of them.

Shifting slightly, she opened her eyes and stared at the bunk above her. There simply wasn’t an easy answer to this. Her ink felt cold, and now her body was feeling as heavy as her mind. She looked back to the shades held in her hand.

With her thumb she rubbed at a smudge at the edge of the lenses, her brow creasing slightly. What was she to do? Was there anyone else that had felt the same way that she had? She slipped the shades back over her face and rested both hands over her stomach. She considered calling one of her teammates, someone she knew she could trust.

But, she hesitated. Perhaps she should keep this to herself. She was at such a high rank, and held so much respect that she couldn’t stand to have her peers and subordinates see her in a weakened state--especially not after the events of today. There was no room for doubt right now. So why was it that she couldn’t shake her own?

Suddenly, a message came through her shade’s radio, causing her to jump upright in an instant, “Carice!” a voice came through, “Squidbeak Agents 3 and Craig Cuttlefish have been found near the egg processing plant! Backup needed!”

“Copy,” she replied flatly, “I’ll be there in a snap.” Carice sprung to her feet and flew out the door, grabbing an Octoshot and a few Burst Bombs on the way out of the barracks. She had rarely been to the egg processing plant, but she knew how important Power Eggs were to the Octarians.

There was no time to dwell on confused thoughts. One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to let yet another Agent take their other supply of power. If they lost those Power Eggs, it’d spell a disaster for her people! As she rushed to the plant, she tried to shove her own thoughts out of her mind.

Until now, that was always such an easy task...

-----

Thousands of eggs, hundreds of fish. Agent 3 wasn’t at all prepared for what he had seen within the deepest part of the Octarian’s egg processing plant.

At first, it was what he had expected; Power and Golden Eggs being counted, sorted, and processed to be used for energy, and even food for Zapfish. 3 had found this to be more than enough information to relay back to Orabella, the Salmonid who had hired him to collect this information... However, that was until he had found something much more.

Secret entry ways, hidden paths. Skeletons hidden within the belly of the beast, just barely out of reach for the average Inkling. But Agent 3 was no longer your average, every-day squid.

Leaving Cuttlefish to keep watch above, Agent 3 followed after some workers, doing his best to keep hidden. He tried to say close enough to slip between pipes and security that only got more intense the further in they went. He had to weave through machinery, scramble behind walls, and stay in his squid form more than half the time. His hearts were pounding so loudly that he was sure that the Octarians would have been able to hear him...

Finally, when the Octarians reached their destination, 3 hung back for a few minutes, hiding within some pipes to ensure that the coast was clear before he decided to take a look around. The room was spacious and round, and had a walkway that wrapped all the way around the outer wall. A series of doors lined the metal walkway, and at the other end of the room was a set of stairs that led down to the open center. The fluorescent lights above buzzed, leaving the walkway just bright enough to navigate.

Slinking out of his hiding place, 3 looked this way and that before eventually peering over the walkway’s edge, and into the deepest part of the room. There were a series of tubes, all of which were filled with a golden liquid and glowed warmly in the dim lighting.

His ink turned cold when he managed to make out the shape of a handful of them. Were those... Salmonids? The agent hesitated, his brow creasing and his tentacles tensing. They didn’t look quite... Right.

Double-checking his surroundings again, his hearts nearly jumped out of his throat when he heard someone exiting a room nearby. Without thinking twice he slipped through the railing in his squid form, and landed on a crate below with a mighty plop! He hastily hid himself behind the crate, straining his ears for any sign that he had been seen or heard... He could hear the confusion of the Octoling above, however it seemed that, for now, he had avoided detection.

Still, he waited a few minutes before peering over the crate. Eyes widening, he was shocked at what he found within the tubes. It... Was a Salmonid, that much was true. But it looked as though it were growing arms and legs in place of its pectoral and pelvic fins. The others were much the same but at different stages. Some had hands. Some had differently shaped faces. Some lacked tails completely. A few shifted and twitched within their tubes.

3′s mouth had gone dry. He remembered Cuttlefish hearing rumors that the Octarians were working with someone on biological experiments... An external help to make Octotroopers into Octolings. But he thought that it was just on their own people, not another species entirely...!

Dumbfounded and unable to believe what he was seeing, the Inkling found himself reaching for his phone as his beak dropped. He opened the camera, and with trembling hands, he started to take a series of pictures of these odd-looking Salmonid experiments. Without a doubt, this was something Orabella had to see.

After the third or fourth picture, 3 nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the cry of a nearby Octarian. He looked over and saw a group of them, each with an Octoshot wrapped up in their tentas. He nearly dropped his phone as he scrambled to get out of their firing range.

Ripping his radio out of his jacket, 3 cried into the speaker, “Code red, I’ve been spotted! Get moving!” the radio spat out static and 3 swore, however he had no time to confirm if Cuttlefish could have heard him this deep below.

Now grabbing his Hero Shot, 3 had to defend himself as he scrambled past Octarians, gathering Octolings, and security measures. Inking himself a path, he swam through to the other end of the room, trying to focus more on his escape instead of the oddities within the tubes that surrounded him.

Throwing a bomb up over the metal stairs, he skillfully skipped over a number of the steps, eyeing the scattering Octarians as the bomb exploded. Rather than trying to run past them, he grabbed hold of the railing and jumped to the other side, where it was clearer for him to make a break for it.

However that didn’t last very long, as the number of guards and attacking scientists only grew. They spilled out of the doors, attempting to impede his path or threaten him with whatever supplies and weapons they had grabbed in their haste. Skidding to a halt, 3′s gaze darted between these simple workers, and the guards gaining on him from behind. An idea sprung to mind all of the sudden as he spotted an ID tag wrapped around one of the Octarians--the same tag that the others had used to open the doors that led here.

He knew he was going to hate himself for this later...

Rushing forward, the unsuspecting Octarians shouted in surprise and started to back away, their cries only growing louder when the Inkling wrapped both arms firmly around one of the smaller lab workers. The rather scrawny Octotrooper cursed at him, squirming, kicking, and thwacking him with the blunt end of a stapler as the Agent attempted to get them locked into one arm.

The whole room seemed to freeze when the barrel of Agent 3′s Hero Shot was pressed against the side of the Octarian’s head. Sweat dripping down his brow, 3 stared at the group with a cold, hard stare. They returned his stare with equally hard, but far more worried glares. Hearts pounding away in his ears, the agent hoped that they weren’t going to call his bluff...

Backing away, he approached the door. The tension in the air was so terribly thick, that what took mere seconds felt like hours to everyone involved. The moment 3′s heel hit the door, he used the dangling ID card to open it, popped the lanyard off the Octotrooper, dropped them, and ran as fast as he could through the twisting corridors.

Through the last door, 3 was almost home free. However as he looked about to see if there were any soldiers about, he ran into someone and was sent tumbling onto the ground, a familiar voice shouting out in pain.

“Oh! My cuttlebone...!”

3 grunted and shook his head. Once it dawned on him who he had tripped over, he jumped up onto all four legs, “G-gramps?!” he cried. The old cuttlefish was sprawled on the ground, looking a bit dazed, “Oh shoot, I’m sorry!” he scrambled over to help the Captain get back up onto his legs.

Cap’n Cuttlefish wobbled a bit, pressing a hand against his back and shaking the daze out of his eyes, “Hooh! You right near gave me a heart attack, young’n!”

“S-sorry!” 3 puffed, looking around, “I thought you had already escaped...!”

“Ah, yes!!” Cuttlefish went on to say, “I found a fire escape, that should take us right outside!” with the end of his Bamboozler, he pointed the way.

“G-got it! Let’s go, now!”

-----

There were fewer Octolings ready to battle than normal. It was as if half of the soldiers hadn’t received a call to action, leaving their numbers quite thin. A number of Octarians came in their stead, but...

Carice didn’t know what to think of this. Where could everyone have gone? Did they miss the call? Were they hunting after Agent 4 and Octavio? Could they have possibly been facing the same doubts as she had?

Her boots sank into the muddy earth as she charged past her fellow soldiers, a notable sense of dread looming over their heads like a brewing storm. It was clear that they too were worried about their current numbers. Every soldier knew well that when an Agent was threatening their livelihoods, they needed to be on the defensive. Especially after what happened with Octavio earlier that afternoon.

“Ah, Carice!” a Twintacle darted up to her, flagging her down by waving a tenta in the air, “We were trying to take down the Squidbeak Soldiers when we had completely lost track of them once they got outside!” he bowed his head, tightly closing his eyes with regret, “I’m very sorry!”

“Okay.” came the Octoling’s reply, “Do you have any idea what he was doing in the processing plant?”

The Octarian hesitated, shrinking back a bit, “Um.”

An Octocommander in a lab coat spoke up quickly, “He was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, perhaps planning to steal another source of our power.” his face grew intense, “He escaped before he managed to get his filthy tentacles on anything.”

Carice nodded, “Got it...” she mused briefly, placing a hand to her chin. She always wondered what all was in the plant, but she rarely ever looked. Power Eggs, surely, but other than to feed a Zapfish, what business did the Squidbeaks have there? She shrugged off her own questions and returned to the matter at hand, “You fought your hardest and called for backup. That’s the best thing you can do when it comes to the Agents.”

The Twintacle seemed relieved that he didn’t get chewed out for this failure. He looked up to her with a tiny smile on his purple lips. The Octocommander on the other hand, returned to the plant.

Diving straight into things, Carice squared her shoulders and took charge of the group by calling them to order. Once she had their attention she said, “We need to find those Squidbeak soldiers.” the others nodded in agreement. She pointed to a pair of Octarians, “You two patrol the surrounding area. Call us if you see anything suspicious.”

When the pair nodded in reply, she started to divide the Octolings and Octarians into groups of two to four, “Group A, you head north, group B, I’d like for you to head south.” she clapped her hands together, “Group D, head east, and group C will come with me to the west. Fan out, but keep close to each other if anything happens. ”

Carice had decided that no other Squidbeak Agent was going to get away with effective murder today. Either they were going to be driven out permanently, or they were going to be taken as prisoners. It was only fair, after all. Perhaps they could work out a deal with the remaining Squidbeak Soldiers to get their emperor back on the throne.

That was what was needed for her people, right? A strong leader that would help them get to the surface? Even now, Carice still had a cloud of doubt clogging up her thoughts. Why was she struggling with this so much?

Now, to convey this idea to her soldiers, “Try to not splat them,” she instructed, “Capture both of them, and bring them back here.” she thrust her right fist into her left palm, “If they’re going to take our leader into custody, then we’ll take theirs.” she threw a hand into the air, “Dismissed!”

The soldiers saluted and called, “Roger!” before executing their orders. With a satisfied nod, she motioned for her group to follow after her.

Carice ushered her group to fan out, and started to hunt for the Squidbeak Soldiers. Nowhere to be seen, the Inklings were always a slippery sort, squeezing between your fingers and getting away at a moment’s notice. However, it wasn’t until now that she had thought about how strange it was for Cuttlefish to be here as well. Wasn’t he always just out of reach, feeding instructions and input to his little agents? Of what she had seen of him, he was hardly in any shape to go into battle.

Inking a path she swam past her teammates, her keen, brown eyes shrewdly tracking down the bright yellow ink that Agent 3 typically had. Traces of his ink could be seen--a few signs of fights here and there from when she had initially gotten the call, but for the most part, the evidence pointed to him trying to high-tail it out of the area.

In a strange turn of events, the Octarians couldn’t help but notice that Agent 3 had started to take paths that would make it so he could avoid splatting anyone. He’d run, swim and dodge his way out of trouble nearly every time, and it made him difficult to pin down. He was quite good at subduing his opponent, but he rarely ever took the option to splat. Carice could never understand this--she knew from experience that he was a horrifically skilled fighter once he applied himself. So why was it that, even now, he took the path of the coward?

That hardly mattered. He was causing a problem, and it needed to be taken care of.

Jumping out of her ink, Carice realized she had lost the trail. Blast, where did those stinking cephalopods go?! She surveyed her surroundings, looking for any signs of oddly colored ink or out-of-place footprints. Perhaps she had gone the wrong way, and 3 had managed to give her the slip. Just her luck today... Things really were going from bad to worse. Was this planned? She almost couldn’t put it past them.

It was about time she went back to regroup. Turning back the way she came, her ears caught the sound of some voices whispering nearby. Narrowing her eyes and straining her ears, Carice tried to determine if she was just hearing things, or if the Squidbeaks were nearby. It could have also been a group of allies, however she wanted to be certain before moving on.

With careful footsteps and her gun at the ready, she crept closer to the source of the sound. Her body was tightly wound like a spring, however it seemed as though the case were the same for her targets.

Out of a nearby bush, Craig Cuttlefish sprung into view shouting, “Y-yo-you’ll not be taking me today, Octarian!” and the moment he had enough footing, he fired his Bamboozler.

Covered in rust-colored ink but no worse for wear, Carice took a few steps back and fired herself, “I found the Squidbeaks!” she barked into her radio, spurting off the coordinates with each shot she took at the old captain.

While she had nailed the older cephalopod with a few bullets, his cohort, Agent 3, appeared from the woodwork and used a tattered old cape to shield the captain from fire. He quickly ordered Cuttlefish to stay low, then threw his cape behind him, flinging red ink everywhere. Hero Shot in hand, he shot Carice a serious look before taking aim.

Diving into her ink, Carice dodged the first barrage of bullets. She sped off in the opposite direction when she heard a bomb flying towards her, flecks of ink from the explosion scattering all about. Jumping out of cover, she surveyed the area for the agent, however he was out of sight, likely hiding in ink himself.

Throwing two Burst Bombs in succession, she managed to weed him out from behind a rock, and in no time at all the two were firing at each other. Breaking herself out of the heat of the battle, she realized: she didn’t want to splat him, not just yet. Taking a few hits, she dove into her ink and hid behind a crumbled wall, ready to throw a bomb the second that 3 came near. If she could at least break his shield, he’d be easier to subdue...

A few seconds had flown by, and just as she had determined, 3 had made his way towards her. Leaping into the air she threw one Burst Bomb, which nailed him directly in the face. The Inkling shouted as his shield broke, reeling backwards as he wiped the ink and off his face and rubbed the stars out of his eyes. Now was her chance!

Gripping his armed hand with a firm grip, Carice grinned beakily when she heard the footsteps of soldiers drawing near, “Alright, Agent 3!” in his surprise of hearing Inklish, she took the opportunity to drop her own weapon and grab his free hand, “You’ve got nowhere to run!” without looking to see who had approached, she barked, “Okay soldiers! Help me bring 3 into custody! Someone go grab Captain Cuttlefish,” she used her head to motion to where the captain was hiding, “He’s in that bush, there!

It was then that she noticed the stupor on 3′s ink-stained face. He was staring wide-eyed at the soldiers behind the Octoling, a look of worry and confusion slowly creeping across his face. Blinking, Carice was tempted to demand why no one had listened to her order, but held her tongue as she glanced over her shoulder.

Those... Weren’t her subordinates.

Pale green skin, deep blue tentas tipped in a bright, acidic green, and a striking smell of cleaner that accosted Carice’s nose. A small army had suddenly surfaced out of nowhere, and they were nothing like Carice had ever seen. They certainly dressed like Octavio’s army, however it was glaringly obvious that these were not under the Octo Emperor’s ruling.

One lifted her weapon, a Splat Charger, and aimed it between 3′s eyes, “Target found.” she said with a robotic tone. The Inkling tensed.

Hearts leaping out of her chest, Carice let go of 3, throwing their arms apart in the process. She stumbled back as a bolt of fluorescent ink shot between them. Unknown soldiers and unknown ink. She had seen similar colors, but this stuff almost looked alive as it plummeted to the ground.

Meanwhile, 3 hardly hesitated to dive back into his ink. He called out to Cuttlefish to get moving, worry striking his face as he quickly realized the elder may have some trouble keeping up. His shield recovered as he swam, however he had a strange feeling that this wasn’t going to help him very much...

Confused as to what was going on, Carice wasn’t sure if she should deal with these strange soldiers, or continue after 3--

Her question was soon answered, as the Splat Charger was now targeting her. Inhaling sharply she dove into her octopus form, the strange ink dangerously close as it sailed over her head.

“Seek and destroy,” the first Octoling stated. With a nearly mechanical shout, the rest of the Octolings charged forward, splitting off into two groups; one to go after Agent 3, and one to go after Carice.

Scrambling to get her Octoshot, Carice managed to fire down a soldier that had gotten a little too close for her liking, and instead of splatting as she had expected, their body evaporated into a mess of pixels, almost like a digital glitch.

Carice’s ink turned cold. What were these?

No time to dwell on the oddity--where one had been splatted, two more were in their place. Hearts pounding, she attempted to call for backup again, dreading to think that these strange Octolings had taken out her group...

3 wasn’t fairing much better. While the captain could fight for the most part, the Bamboozler wasn’t exactly the strongest of weapons out there. In trying to take down these weird Octolings, protect Cuttlefish, and maintain his own ink levels, the Inkling found himself quickly overwhelmed by these numbers. Where were they coming from?!

In a panic, he executed a Splashdown, splatting a good number of the soldiers, and knocking back a few others. A quick reprieve, if nothing else.

“Huh?” Cuttlefish cried out of nowhere, “Look there, that girl is fighting them, too!” he pointed through the parted sea of soldiers.

Looking about, 3′s eyes eventually landed on the Octoling that had nearly trapped him. She had at least five soldiers surrounding her, and it appeared as though she had started to resort to melee moves as her ink tank depleted.

3′s brow creased, “Wait,” he huffed, slightly out of breath, “Why is she fighting them?” he continued to puff, “Aren’t they Octolings, too?”

As more soldiers approached, 3 was met with a dilemma. He had to get Cuttlefish out to safety, but, if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t leave this girl high and dry either... Even if she was an enemy. He swore under his breath, shooting down a few more soldiers. He hadn’t any space to think, and he was almost out of ink!

“Captain!” he called, “What do we do?!”

“We run away!” the elder cried, firing his Bamboozler rapidly. He was getting much too old for this.

“But what about her?”

Cap’n Cuttlefish knew Agent 3 well. He knew that there wasn’t much point in trying to argue with him when he got an idea in his head. The boy valued the lives of the Octarians as much as he valued the lives of the Inklings--so to tell him to just abandon this struggling girl in the heat of battle was likely not something that would sit well with the young agent.

“Uh...!”

SPLAT! The sound of a direct hit of a Splat Charger rang through the area, accompanied by the sound of 3′s armor breaking. Flecks of the strange-colored ink scattered over the elder inkfish. With a look of horror in his wide eyes, he called out in shock when he saw Agent 3 toppling over. Before he could even reach out, he was swarmed by pale green hands.

Despite her efforts and best fighting, Carice stood no chance against these numbers. She was out of ink, out of bombs, out of breath, and out of time. The splotches of ink that were splattered across her skin stung, and finally, she gave in to the swarm. Her consciousness slipped away, the Calamari Inkantation ringing in her ears one last time as numerous hands and faces made her vision fade to black.

#NILS Destroyer #Zapfish Protector #Agent Stories

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