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gottawriteanegoortwo · 4 years

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Darkstache Week Day Seven: Ordinary People

Days: 1, 2 , 3, 4 , 5, 6, 7

At last, the final prompt of the wonderful event hosted by @projectdarkstache! Thank you so much for encouraging everyone to create such fantastic pieces and I hope all the works can be cherished by their creators! You’ve all done fantastic!

After years of causing chaos and trouble as the Actor, Mark uses his new freedom to bring the fictional world he ruled back to the modern real world. But what about Dark and Wilford?

Word Count: 2,437

(while not necessarily a warning, this does contain sympathetic!Actor becoming Youtuber!Mark in the timeline my stories are written in.)

If he was asked, Mark would admit he had no idea when he felt like ‘himself’ again. It had been decades since the troubled actor’s heart was shattered, the will to live had vanished, and the ability to die eluded him. His broken soul was utterly consumed by the terrors of the Manor’s arcanic past until he became a god-like figure in a world of his own creation. Former friends were moulded and reshaped into characters to suit his schemes. Poor, innocent souls over the decades were pulled into the cat-and-mouse plot to populate the worlds. Drama and chaos were on the regular schedule, and how the Actor thrived!

But now… Peace. And Mark was baffled by it.

He remembered standing at the edge of the city, watching the sun rise like he had never seen the day before. In all the years of darkness and being pulled like a puppet by unseen forces, maybe that was the truth. A new life, a new start. The ‘performances’ he had been part of were failed attempts to gain control over a world that had torn him to pieces and tossed him in the trash. All they achieved was pain and suffering. As he recognised this and wanted to do good, the world he had mastery over was fading and merging with the real world - the one he had left behind. With new independence, he was losing grip over whatever powers he had before. No more would he be able to cheat death or restart time. This was it, the final ‘act’. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. Mark was finally ready to break free from the puppet strings and start over… But there were two in particular he needed to apologise to. Trying to face Dark or Wilford now would result in mockery or gunfire (or both). However, from his spot on the hill, he could see a new opportunity. He could reverse the crimes that were cast. Let them and all their old friends live the lives they were meant to in this new, modern world.

Mark opened his arms wide as the light of the morning sun hit his weary body. At last, the game was up. He could set everything right.

“Ah, there’s the man of the hour, Damien himself!” A familiar voice sang as he entered the office with his usual dramatic flair.

“It’s ‘Mayor Brooks’ while you are here, Mark. But it is good to see you.” Damien countered, playfully rolling his eyes. Even if Mark was a big internet celebrity, he made it his mission to check in regularly on Damien. It was a nice relief, even if the pair were trying to regain grounds on their friendship. Mark had dated his twin sister in university, but the manner in which the pair broke up was so dramatic, it caused a rift between the two young men. At least a friendship from childhood was not one that could be broken forever. He saved the document he was typing and closed the laptop. “If you are here, can I assume there is some great problem going on in your world?”

“Oh, no no. All good on my end!” Mark slumped onto the sofa to the side of the office with a laugh. “I recorded one huge game over the weekend and scored myself some free time. What better way to spend it than with my favourite politician?”

“As much as I appreciate the compliment, I would gather that your other friends are busy and you don’t have anyone else to turn to.” However blunt the statement might be, there was a smile on Damien’s face as he fell back onto the free half of the couch. Mark responded with a loud gasp and a hand on his chest, which only prompted Damien to lightly push him.

“How dare you! I’ll have you know I came here to see if you wanted to grab a coffee with me. I found ten bucks in my pants pocket this morning and I wanna splash out. Come on, Dames! Doesn’t your favourite coffee place have the best pumpkin spiced latte on this side of the city?”

“Mark, it’s May. They aren’t going to make that for you.” Now it was Damien’s turn to be pushed as Mark waved the ten dollar bill in his face.

“I think you’ll find myself and mister Alexander Hamilton will disagree with tha- HEY!” Letting his guard down was a mistake, as Damien took the chance to snatch the money out of his hand and jump onto his feet. “You crooked politician! Stealing the money of an innocent, hard-working man like me!”

Damien fetched his coat with a chuckle. “For someone who wants coffee, you don’t seem very keen in moving for it.” It worked, and a childishly offended Mark pulled himself off the couch. The money was returned to Mark as the pair exited the office. Damien did need a break, he decided as he locked the door after him.

Mark was an interesting man. He could act loud and brash, but it was only a mask that hid a soul that seemed older than thirty. Damien used to joke that Mark might be an old man stuck in a young body. The walk to the coffee shop took the usual diversion through a nearby park so they could swap stories and chat without the rush of the world shoving them forward. Mark and his content creator friends were busy working on a variety of projects, and he himself admitted he was feeling happier in himself than he had been in recent years. Likewise, Damien had been working on completing some important jobs around the city and trying to get some new schemes underway. It was busy, but rewarding. In times like this, neither had to play the part cast for them by society. They could be themselves, just like old times. It meant that Damien was more relaxed and jovial by the time they reached their destination.

The coffee shop had the familiar busy hum to it as the pair entered. Since Damien was a regular, there was never any fanfare of the mayor visiting their business. Mark’s ‘perfect’ disguise of a worn baseball cap and his glasses seemed to do the job of keeping a low profile. Surprisingly, the barista did indeed agree to make a pumpkin spiced latte for Mark, as well as Damien’s regular order. Both drinks and two large muffins were covered by the ten dollar bill, much to Mark’s delight. For now, they simply had to wait for their drinks.

“- And still no sign of a special someone?” It was a question Mark frequently asked. Damien seemed content to be ‘married’ to his work, but Mark would argue that the companionship would make the heavy workload more bearable. They both knew it was true, but Damien was a stubborn man. He was too proud to deal with blind dates, and seemed insistent on waiting for ‘the right person’. Instead, Damien countered with a question about Amy and how she and the two dogs were doing. A simple diversion, but a wholesome one, as Mark could share silly moments and photos on his phone, and Damien could enjoy the tales. How could he not be happy for his friend? It seemed like things were finally looking up for him.

At that, Mark’s drink and the muffins were ready, but there was no sign of Damien’s drink. He insisted Mark go fetch a table while Damien continued waiting. Several long minutes passed as people who ordered similar drinks received theirs, and Damien was tempted to ask one of the staff about his drink. Just as he was about to, the door slammed open as a man stumbled in.

“Geez, man! Could you not break that door, please?” The manager shouted at the stranger, who hurried over and apologised profusely while ordering his ‘usual’ summer iced drink and telling a story about a kid outside throwing ice-cream at him. Damien pulled out his phone to try and look busy, but his eyes strayed from the screen and darted to the man.

The stranger was a head taller than Damien and had a broad build that was emphasised by the fitted white t-shirt and jogging pants he was wearing. His black, curly hair looked somewhat erratic, while the large, bushy moustache reminded Damien of the chief of police from a TV show he loved. Facial hair of that style wasn’t in season anymore - not to mention this wasn’t as eloquently groomed as other moustaches would have been - so it was likely something important to the man. His face was framed by a sturdy jawline, which gave a somewhat intimidating air. But his eyes… Were looking in Damien’s direction. Oops.

The Mayor gulped and returned his attention to his phone.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” Damien jumped at the sudden voice and presence beside him. The stranger had stepped closer without him realising it. “Is something wrong? Did that kid get ice-cream on my shirt?”

“No, your shirt is fine.” Damien responded quickly, intending to leave it at that. But the stranger stayed firm, bringing a sigh out of the politician. “I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to stare. I thought I recognised you, that’s all.”

“And do you?” The stranger sounded genuinely curious. That was enough to prompt Damien to lock and pocket his phone.

“I’m not sure. I feel like I do, and I wouldn’t forget a moustache like that, but I can’t place anything… Even if it feels like it’s on the tip of my tongue.” Realising how odd that sounded, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “I’m sorry, this all sounds rather bizarre from a complete stranger -”

“No!” Both men were taken aback at the stranger’s interruption. “Er, no. Sorry. It doesn’t sound weird. I feel the same. I feel like I know you -”

“I’m the Mayor. That’s hardly a surprise.”

“- yeah, but like I know know you, you know?” The stranger shook his head, curls bouncing with a nervous chuckle. “I think this is a sign. Maybe we ought to get to know each other properly, just in case we met in a dream.” A large hand was offered to Damien. “The name’s William Barnum, but friends can call me -”

“The Colonel.” Damien finished. Confusion was mirrored on both faces.

“How did you -”

“I don’t know?” No matter how he tried to place a specific memory with the phrase, nothing came to mind. Instead, he pushed it aside. “My name is Damien Brooks. Despite the rather odd circumstances, it is a pleasure to meet you.” The large hand was taken, and they gave a firm shake.

Immediately, a memory crossed Damien’s mind. This man had pink in his hair. His own hands were gray. Mark had a shadowed, wicked grin on his face. But as soon as it came, it vanished, like trying to recall a fading dream.

“Hey, Damien?” William’s dark eyes had drifted aside as he tried to encourage the words to come to him. “Do you want to go out for lunch this week?” A simple question made Damien’s heart skip a beat as an all-too familiar sensation of butterflies in his stomach manifested.

“Are - are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yeah… Is that too forward? I feel like it’s the right thing to do. You’re very handsome.”

Strange. Why did Damien feel like William had complimented him like that a hundred times before? Stranger still, why did it make him feel so happy to hear the nervous rambling? He reluctantly pulled his hand away so he could snatch a napkin from the counter and the pen in his pocket. A phone number was hastily scribbled on it, before it was scratched out and written neater. Just in case, his name was noted underneath.

“Here. Text me later. If you’re free, we could always… Go for dinner?” It also felt like the right thing to do, like it was a regular event. William seemed to agree, as his face lit up. Upon receiving the napkin, it was treated like something sacred by William, who carefully folded and placed in his wallet.

“Yeah! That’d be - I’d really like that - Bully.” That exclamation of relief shouldn’t bring a familiar tugging of heartstrings to Damien, but it did. Only that he was with Mark (and that he has a job to return to), Damien would have gladly gone wherever William was going.

Both names were called as the drinks were finally ready. Each one was lifted, and the pair gave their parting words and a promise to arrange something as soon as William returned home. But just as Damien was about to turn and walk to the table, William leaned down enough to kiss him on the cheek, hurrying off before anything else could happen. All Damien could do was watch the larger man disappear with a wistful smile before turning to find Mark at the table.

“You’re putting the local tomatoes to shame. You okay?” Mark asked, innocently sipping his latte. It was still mostly full. The drink itself looked hot. How long had that moment actually lasted?

“I’ve got a date tonight.” Damien was so embarrassed after blurting his answer, he didn’t notice how Mark’s surprise was an act. “I started talking to a guy up at the counter and - well, we’re meeting for dinner.”

“I’m so happy for you, man. Look at you, getting out there and being ambitious! I’m sure he’ll be a great guy!” Mark grinned, letting the topic drop so the Mayor could get his head around the ‘unexpected’ event.

While they were talking after the drinks were finished, a text arrived on Damien’s phone. Mark noticed there was a number rather than a name, but it brought a smile to Damien’s face. The Youtuber waved his hand and insisted Damien needed to ‘urgently’ answer it. As the Mayor did so, Mark noticed how the shadow that was always looming over Damien finally dissipated. At last, the malicious claws from a lifetime ago were gone, and with that, Mark’s own powers.

But what did the loss of powers matter when he was able to use them to help Dark and Wilford start a new relationship together? They could live as normal, ordinary people, just like Dark had always vowed when confronting the Actor. Today: the Actor was dead, Mark was alive, and the curse holding them all down had been broken for good.

Now, if only Celine would talk to him so they could become friends again...

#projectdarkstache2020 #darkstacheweek2020 #writersofmark #dilliam #darkstache #who killed markiplier #actor!mark #mayor damien #william j barnum #Blue Soul (Damien)#Eccentric Goof (Colonel)#(I SWEAR I didn't mean for it to be this long but I SWEAR it's cute)

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bigskydreaming · 5 years

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So it took interest rates that were like WE OWN UR SOUL NOW U FOOL HAHA TWILL BE OURS FOREVER, but joke’s on them lol like I never use that thing anyway. But I got the personal loan for $10K in the end after like a month of searching but who knew that obsessively raising my credit score for a year by like....occasionally chilling all night in an IHOP rather than use a credit card too much on a room would like....pay off with a credit score that actually is useful to me in a way that means I don’t even care right now that hahaha credit scores are just pointless imaginary numbers that really only exist because capitalism’s a dick?

Look I’m allowed to be a hypocrite for three weeks let me have this, I promise I’ll go back to ranting about people selling their souls for the sake of strings of binary code on a computer screen, like just cuz I wasn’t using mine doesn’t mean other ppl don’t want theirs.

Because oh yeah so I was like gimme the loan plz and they were like ugh fine and I somehow got my credit card companies to raise my limits because I’ve had them for over a year now and I honestly couldn’t even tell you how I convinced them to do that like did I haggle did I beg did I put out, who knows, it’s been a very long and strange and sleep deprived month and that’s on top of a long, strange, sleep-deprives two years. Point is between raising my limits on those two, the loan of DOOM and getting a CareCredit card with the remaining credit left to me or before the latter realized I’d just massively dinged my credit cuz the raised limits and loan hadn’t been reported yet, I came up with the $12400. Like again most of that is in the form of imaginary money that I’ll probably spend years paying out of future paychecks so if anyone wants to go ahead and put The Revolution on the books for like, say October, that would actually really work for me. I’d even be all pumped and full of rest and vigor and extra fightey and like, you know how fightey I usually am to begin with I’m just saying....

So now I am literally just waiting for my loan check to clear in my bank account cuz my doctor doesn’t accept checks. Second it does, probably Monday, I’ll go down to my doctors office, pay the $6200 upfront and finish the insurance paperwork for them to submit the claim for the insurance company’s part of it, and they can officially schedule my surgery, possibly in as little as three weeks??!!

Which is absolutely surreal to me, like after literal years of treading water and setbacks and everything dragging out endlessly and he’ll even just yesterday, it’s utterly bizarre finishing my stuff at my bank and doctor’s this morning and hearing how matter of fact they all are about how quickly things could happen now and like. Finally be over. Or like, start lol in the sense of holy shit I could actually maybe have an actual life again.

They can’t confirm a date until my first payment is processed, only then does she officially put me on the books at Cedar Sinai when they can get me into an open OR, but it hopefully could be the 20th. She’s already got another surgery scheduled for that day and an OR booked for it with potential slots before and after it but I can’t count on the 20th as a given just yet. Could still be one, two or even three weeks after that before they actually fit me in, so I’m trying not to set my thoughts and hopes too much on that three weeks from now appointment but that’s easier said than done. LOL.

But whenever it’s actually set for, I go in the day of, pay the second half of the payment, and the surgery takes a few hours but they send me home the same day. My high school friend from San Diego hopefully is going to be able to take enough time off to look out for me while I recover, we’ve been tentatively planning for that for most of a year but couldn’t guarantee anything with her work until we had actual dates which I mean we still don’t technically have. But my jaw will be wired shut for ten days so there’s no way I can manage on my own, esp the way I’ve been getting by day-to-day, and I’ll be on a liquid diet and having to drink everything through a special straw and stuff and completely unable to talk the whole time and oh yeah also apparently in agonizing pain that I’ve been extensively warned could put anything I’ve experienced thus far to shame, so I’m really REALLY looking forward to that part lol. Currently pondering the viability of just knocking myself unconscious every day. We’ll see how it goes.

But after that I go back in ten days later and they unwire my jaw, check that everything looks okay and I’m healing the way I’m supposed to, and I have two weeks of physical therapy and....that’s it. It’s over. I’m just. I’m just leaving that right there for now because I honestly don’t even know what to do with that thought after all this time, it’s. Like I can’t quite wrap my head around it and even really picture how that works. Idk my brain just fizzes out and it’s like wait, are you sure, that doesn’t sound right.

But like I made them go over it multiple times to make sure I wasn’t missing anything or understanding it wrong or whatever, like my doctor was this combination of kinda amused but also exasperated when I finally stopped asking to go over it all again. LOL look I just really really really needed to be sure there wasn’t something else involved that like I was supposed to already know or have been told by someone else, I don’t know okay? Anyone who’s been following me the last couple years knows that this isn’t how this sort of things go, they’re supposed to get my hopes up and then tell me they have no clue what’s wrong or send me off to someone else or tell me oh yeah you also need another thirty thousand and an MRI and some headgear that’s like made of platinum, but we just thought you already knew that. LOL.

But. I mean. Yeah. That’s it. I checked. A lot. Theoretically though unless there’s some new bizarre development in which case I will most likely detach my spirit from my body and evolve into my ultimate great rage power Digimon form, AreYouFreakingKiddingMeMon, and go like, fight god or the physical embodiment of the universe or whatever like I keep threatening....like, that really is what’s left. And then it’s all over. My jaw should by all accounts be restored to its full functionality from before all this. No more pain, no more eternal headache, no vertigo, blind-outs, no problems eating any particular food or swallowing or 45 degree slope to my lower jaw, none of the shit that’s been my day to day existence for well. Years. LOL.

Yeah. Really don’t know what to do with that yet. I just. Can’t. Haha.

Anyway, as I’ve said before, I literally couldn’t have made it to this point without the support of people here, both emotionally and financially. I hate to ask it because you’ve helped so much already, but I’m definitely going to have to ask for your help a little longer, there’s just no way around it. I am completely wiped and tbh overwhelmed so I’m probably going to try and sleep the rest of the day - I was pretty much up all night, unable to sleep while I waited to hear back on all this.

Then when my head’s fully processing things again and not friztzing our because I’ve forgotten how to process good news, lol, I’ll probably be putting together a post asking for your help paying my insurance premiums one last time, and on Monday or once I get the official set in stone date for my surgery I’ll be doing another, basically begging you guys to help keep me afloat the hopefully no more than three weeks til then.

I really really hate having to do that when I know you all have helped and given so much already, and it’ll literally be nothing more than my basic expenses of motel room and food, I don’t need anything beyond that, but I truly don’t see anyway around it. I exhausted every possible avenue available for me to try with my credit in order to get this loan and raise my limits enough, and I milked every cent I could out of those. There’s just no more money to be pulled out of any of that, it took everything I had to get what I needed for the surgery. And I’m afraid of the very real possibility that if I don’t ask for this help because of pride or because of how much I’ve asked for already, I’ll end up using one of my credit cards to pay for my room and such and end up stuck without enough money at hand to cover the second half payment on my day of surgery and I truly literally can not afford that. I have no idea what will happen with my insurance if I have to reschedule, how long it would take to reschedule, etc.

And the other side of this is there’s really not a whole lot left I can do for work at the moment. I’ve finished off all my existing projects except for one last cover and they already paid for it in advance. I honestly don’t know that I could take on new jobs if it ends up with my surgery on the 20th in just three weeks. Searching for more jobs and clients has become more and more time consuming these past months as is, and the simple truth is I couldn’t in good conscience or in honesty guarantee any new clients that I could finish their job in that time frame. Not with my present state physically and mentally and the uncertainty of my day to day expenses and stress about potential complications hanging over my head and not, truthfully, mixing all that well with my pre-existing mental health conditions lol. And yeah, if I can’t guarantee getting any new projects done in three weeks, I can’t afford to take them on for any potential client’s sake, not to mention the sake of my professional reputation, which I will really need to be, y’know, intact, in order to rebuild my life basically from the ground up, once my previous physicality and quality of life comes back after my surgery and recovery (knock on wood). With at least two or three weeks of recovery after the surgery even assuming it goes well and has no other complications, that’s way too much time to leave clients hanging and not be available to address any needs, concerns, revisions, etc. Especially if they’re not returning clients but brand new ones.

So yeah, as much as I would love to not have to ask for any more help than I already have and have been given, I sincerely just don’t see any alternatives that don’t jeopardize or risk wasting all the help I’ve already been given. You know I am fully aware of just how much that is and what its cost some of you, and I already could never repay you for this, not even in terms of just the money itself, but the fact that I know some of you have given at your own very real expense, sending me money that you really could have used yourself, that wasn’t any kind of surplus. I am already beyond grateful and humbled and overwhelmed how many of you have stepped forward to help me in ways that even though I’m older than many of you, I honestly have no precedent for, in ways and to an extent I’ve never received help or support from family. So I just needed to say that again, because I have not asked for any of this lightly, and I don’t now either. Really, really thank you. I’m not exaggerating or being dramatic or hyperbolic or silly for a change, when I say you guys most likely saved my life. Its simple fact. Hell, I was genuinely hours away from sleeping outside freezing my ass off in December, that first time I posted asking for help and you guys came through for me. So, yeah. I will never ever forget this, and never ever be able to give back as much as I’ve been given these past few months, though I will always do my best to pay it forward.

I’m going to go ahead and leave my paypal link here anyway, though I’ll be making those two additional posts tomorrow and next week, as I said. Aiming to keep them shorter than this, well, shorter than any of my posts, really, as shorter posts really just get more traction and I’ll need that. I can always link to the longer explanations of my situation for those wanting to know more.

Again, thank you all more than I can figure out how to put into words. I’m finally. Fuck. LOL. Sorry, I’m being very umm, sentimental over here but like its your fault I’m overwhelmed lol, like omg you guys, you can’t just throw love and affection and support at a guy with so much childhood traaaaaaaaauma, his brain doesn’t know how to handle it, look, you broke him. Are you happy? You broke his brain machine.

Okay cool, we’re back to inanity and obnoxious humor as an overcompensating self-defense mechanism, whew, everything’s normal, everyone can relax. LOL. Anyway, I’m gonna shut up now and go try and get some rest. Just know that I’m doing so feeling way more....hopeful? Optimistic? Faith-in-humanity-and-goodwill-and-community-ey? Than I have in years.

....the fact that I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now is called probably tells you all you need to know about me, huh? LMFAO God I’m so messed up lol. But whatever. Still alive and kicking. So. Y’know. There’s always that.

https://paypal.me/bigskydreaming?locale.x=en_US

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jinniesxlamp · 5 years

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Hello, Goodbye - Chapter 5

LIST OF CHAPTERS –> Masterlist

A/N: Hello, my loves! I know I’ve been quite slow in updating this series compared to my first one. I’m juggling this between my full time job. Thank you so much for being patient with me. My ask is always open to all for any comments/chitchat! ♡😍

Even with the absolute sunlight that marked the beginning of a new day, the fact that it was merely 8:02 am remained an ungodly hour for Min Yoongi. He had lost count of how many times he switched positions on the ruffled king sized bed in hopes of falling back to sleep. But the indistinct sounds and maffles from the outside made that utterly impossible.

“Jinjja” sighed Yoongi as he struggled to sit himself up. Keeping his eyes wide open was an even greater wrangle.

Shuffling his hair on the way out the bedroom, he started walking towards the kitchen where the noise was coming from. Within a six feet distance stood a clear view of three pajama’d bodies crowding over the laptop that sat on the kitchen counter.

“Ya! keep it down will you? Not everyone in this house is fond of waking up early” it was Jin yelling by his doorway from the other end of the apartment.

“Ani, hyung. Come see this” responded Jimin whose eyes glistened with gossip all over them.

The three maknaes and the oldest hyung barely noticed Yoongi on the far corner, who was just standing behind the wall dividing the kitchen and the livingroom.

“Museun il iya?” Giving into the curiosity, instead of dragging himself back inside his room, he shut the door from behind and headed towards them.

“Mwo ya?!” His eyes growing with his voice, now waking the rest of the household.

“What’s going on?” Appeared Hoseok, half awake and Namjoon who seemed slightly irritated. This time, Yoongi decided to join in, wondering what the comotion was about.

“Hyung!” Gasped Taehyung, seeing him enter.

“Museun il iya?” Yoongi asked.

“Ya. This producer for your show....this isn’t our Y/N, is it?” Interrogated Jin, pointing at the k-media article flashing on Jungkook’s laptop screen

“Mwo rago yo?!” said Hoseok who seemed to have completely woken up, startled with the quick turn out of events.

It was evident on Yoongi’s face that he felt a little flustered, avoiding eye contact with anyone, stuttering in between words.

“O-oh”

“Wah daebak” Namjoon couldn’t help but react in surprise, with his hair sticking out in all directions. Hoseok and Jin were quick to pick up from where he left.

“Jinjja? Is it really her?”

“Oh”

“Ya! Jeongmal, why didn’t you tell us! It’s been a month”

Yoongi’s POV

our Y/N

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, grunting at the back of my head hearing Jin hyung’s preposterous choice of words.

“I didn’t think it was something I had to announce” I said plainly, opening the fridge, taking the water pitcher out. They all began pausing, staring at me as if waiting for another explanation.

“So......did you get to talk to each other?” Started Jimin after clearing his throat to break the silence.

I nodded, pouring water into my glass.

“Jinjja?! Waaah! Aigoooo Min Yoongi” Jin hyung slowly started clapping his hands with eyes closed and head swaying from side to side.

“She told me to get lost” I said back with a glare.

“Ehhh?!??” The maknae line shreiked in unison.

“Did she really, hyung?” Asked Jungkook

“Oh”

Before the air of awkwardness dragged further between the seven of us, I felt the need to walk back towards my room, not having the need to say anything else. Sleep sounded much better than meaningless conversations such as this.

“Geureom”

“Ah chakaman hyung. Before I forget, drop by the office today before noon. Manager Hobeom wants you to pick out a suit for tonight.”

“Oh” I answered with my back facing towards Namjoon.

“Suit?” I heard Jimin’s fading voice in a whisper before stepping inside my door.

“It’s their premier night this evening.”

—

Y/N’s POV

Seven stacks of scripts, contracts, notices and everything else in between. Nothing else but those seemed to have occupied my desk leaving absolutley no space even for a cup of coffee. It’s unacceptable how time runs ridiculously fast.

“Come in” I said, my eyes not leaving the fourth packet I had just picked up, addressing the knock on my door.

“Gwajang-nim, you should probably start heading home. You won’t have much time to prepare for the premier.”

Wanting to ignore the reminder Soojin had just given me, something else instantly came to mind. The lunchbox she had brought me four hours ago sat on the same spot she had left them. I tried to act normal in hopes she wouldn’t notice but soon enough she did.

“You haven’t even touched your food. Again.” She said in a stern, disappointed voice.

“Is it lunch time already?” I tried to act stupid, fully aware that it’s ten minutes past four in the afternoon.

“Eonnie.” The fact that she addressed me in that manner at work was more than enough to bring me to her attention.

“Mianhae, Soojinssi. I got carried away with work again.” I gave her a weak smile, trying to pacify the dismay she felt towards me.

“Jeongmal. What am I going to do with you?” She sighed, arms crossed and head swinging from side to side.

“If it makes anything better, I’ll start heading home to prepare for tonight”

“Ya. At least take a bite of the kimbap. Your gown was already delivered to your house earlier.”

“Arasso. Komawo”

—

Having consumed two glasses of champagne, I thought I’d feel less bewildered with the news I just got from Chairman Byeon himself. Apparently, a big meeting was held in the higher office today, discussing about Park In Jung’s alleged money laundering investigation. They had evidence to confirm his abomination from left and right, forcing them to come up with the decision to fire him. Another meeting will be held next week, announcing his termination from the project and my promotion. Chairman Byeon just thought it was a good idea to give me a heads up. Or not. Ever since that conversation happened, my stomach started feeling ill, I felt hot flushes creep all over my back towards my neck. Frankly, the sudden shift of events made me very uncomfortable. I couldn’t swallow the sense of responsibilty I’m about to be handed. What happens if I screw up? I might ruin the whole production.

“Would you like another glass, maam?” I shook my head gently, coming back from the harrowing conversations I was having with myself.

“De.” I muttered in unison with another female’s voice, failing to notice her hand grabbing on the same glass I laid my fingers on.

“Joesonghamnida” releasing my grip on the glass, I looked up to apologize.

“Y/N”

There was no need to register anything, like a natural instinct, which I thought would have faded over the years, my throat began to dry, and my tongue curled almost unwanting to speak. But I did anyway.

“Long time no see” I said bitterly, with no intention of sounding so.

“What brings you here?” She asked, failing to hide the slight belligerence in her tone.

“I’m the Supervising Producer for this show” like her tone of voice, the surprise in her eyes too was just as unsubtle.

“Ah. Chughahae”

“What brings you here, Suran?”

Believe me, I don’t know why I asked either.

“Yoongi-yah asked me to come. I was thinking why he didn’t mention you when he called me for the invite.”

Whether or not she was doing this on purpose, I couldn’t seem to pin point what her intentions were of even bringing that up. Was that supposed to affect me in anyway?

“Geureom. Enjoy the rest of the night.”

There was no point in going on with the conversation so I ended it and walked away, dragging myself towards the open balcony of the venue. I needed some fresh air. My eyes were distracted at the sight of city lights, covering the entire landscape of Seoul.

“Yeppuda” I said to myself.

“They are”

Hearing a man’s voice from behind, I turned, leaning my back on the balcony and having the entire hallway in clear view.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked, savoring the view of the lights I was admiring awhile ago.

“The cold doesn’t bother me. At least not anymore.” I answered, allowing my eyes to wander along the crowd in front of me.

“Do you really not remember me?” he asked so calmly while I eyed Suran from feets apart, she was with Yoongi.

“How can I not remember you when you’re doing it again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, acting oblivious.

“Jooheonssi, I’m not very fond of flowers. Not when I was an intern years back, and definitely not now. Those flowers you’ve been sending to my office will rot in there, eventually.” Going around the bush would do no good for men, I’ve realized this over the years. I had no choice but to be blunt and straightforward.

“How did you know it was me back then? We barely even made conversation” He asked. I continued to gaze on Yoongi and Suran laughing, talking. They were so casual with each other.

“Women have a strong instinct for things. Especially if something odd is going on—“ My eyes couldn’t detach themselves from what they were seeing. I took the last three sips of alcohol in my glass in one gesture, the image of Suran moving closer to whisper something in Yoongi’s ear constantly appearing, even with my eyes closed.

“—I followed my instinct. And I was right” I said, slowly taking a step towards the exit.

“Chakaman.” I felt a gentle grip on my wrist, which I freed myself from almost instantly.

“Joesonghamnida. I don’t feel so good.”

I left, not even sparing him one last glance.

Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps not. But it seems like the demons I tried to burry a long time ago didn’t want to be forgotten after all.

—

Days went by faster than ever, today marked exactly a week since the turn over of positions between the production team. Park In Jung’s dismissal from the project caused a lot of controversies not just with the board members, but the crew, the sponsors and of course, In Jung himself. Needless to say, he didn’t take the situation very well. Not only was his reputation ruined, but the money he had to return to the sponsoring companies, let alone the long list of lawsuits he could possibly face soon.

Y/N, on the other hand, has been struggling to keep up with things that were new to her. And that didn’t only apply to the technical aspects of the job, there had been a lot of prejudice against her for being a woman, first and foremost. Her young age was another issue. People never failed to compare her to In Jung who was well branded in the industry, with over thirty years of experience on the feild and theory-wise. They couldn’t seem to grasp the idea of having a young lady with an unknown background and rookie experience to take over what In Jung left.

Sadly, Y/N herself too, didn’t think otherwise. Especially with the erratic, disorganized, unsystematic turn out of things since her supervision.

Yoongi’s POV

Above all the things I wouldn’t be willing to waste my time and patience on, incompetence and amateurism came first. Everything went by smoothly during Park In Jung’s Supervision. But I can’t say the same for Y/N. And I’m sure most people in here have a lot to say about that too. In a span of one week she had fired two of her staff, blaming them for their own incompetence and lack of effort towards their work. It made no sense to the rest of us. Those people hadn’t caused us any problems since the start of the production. Her unnecessary cuts and interferance with the Directors and other staff had established a significant amount of stress onto the entire team working on site.

“Cut, cut!—“ for the eleventh time in less than thirty minutes, she announces.

“Jinjja, can you please be more lively? We don’t have all day” every pair of eyes avoided hers, trying to hide their sour faces, not wanting to cause any more trouble.

“We won’t have all day if you keep making unecessary cuts” mummbled one of the contestants, who happened to have forgotten about the microphone attached on his body, announcing the remark he had made for everyone to hear.

“Mwo rago yo?” She said, leaving her original spot, advancing towards the young boy who was turning pale at the mistake he had made.

“Don’t they teach you manners before they send you here?” The disappearing distance between them horrified the poor boy. He could barely keep his head up.

“J-jo-joesonghamnida”

“Do you want to stay in this production?”

With what she had said, I felt a sudden urge to walk up to her and stop her from all this nonesense.

“P-please, don’t kick me out. I-I’m begging you” begged the young boy who was on the verge of tears.

“Jeongmal. Do you really think begging will do you any good at this point?”

“P-please maam....this is my last chance to prove myself. If I get kicked out from here, my company will fire me. My parents have invested all their money to send me here...please” disregarding the number of people standing in front of him, without considering his pride or dignity any longer, the poor boy knelt down in tears, begging.

My eyes grew in shock, not believing the reality of the situation. I’ve had enough of this nonesense.

“That doesn’t change a th—“

“That’s enough.” Halfway through my attempts towards Y/N. Lee Jooheon was already standing behind her, his hands gently patting on her shoulder. One that she shrugged off unforgivingly. Daehan, one of the producers, assisted the boy up, taking him to the back, furthest away from her.

“Please mind your own business.” She said.

“Drink this. It might help you calm down” replied Jooheon, passing her an opened water bottle from the side.

“I said mind your own business.”

It wasn’t her voice, because she wasn’t yelling, but the sound of the bottle which landed harshly on the floor, followed by water splatter that disturbed everyone even more.

Realizing what she had done, she immediately walked out, leaving Jooheon startled.

Never in my whole life have I ever encountered a person as horrible as this. Eyeing where she had headed to, I followed quickly, wanting to talk to her in private. As I started closing in the gap between her back and I, I noticed her taking bigger steps, attempting to flee away from my presence. I wasn’t going to let her.

I grabbed her arm, gentle enough to avoid hurting her but harsh enough to stop her.

“Let go of me!”

I did what I was told, releasing my grip from her arm.

“What is wrong with you?” that questioned seemed to have caught her attention as she glued her eyes to mine. Something she hadn’t done in a long, long time.

“Excuse me?” If only looks could kill, I wouldn’t have a second to spare. But I wanted to deliver what I needed to say.

“All this time I thought you’ve changed that attitude of yours. I was wrong, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re still so careless, unreasonable. So selfish. Jeongmal, you can’t even be professional in front of your people. How do you expect them to respect you when you don’t even have any respect for yourself?”

Y/N’s POV

Unbelievable. How dare he talk to me in this manner? I waited for him to finish, saving all the things I needed to say until he was done with his own.

“Don’t you ever dare compare me to who I was in the past. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get to where I am right now—“

Heavy, seething breaths came out from me in between.

“—What right do you have to talk about my past or present when you’ve done nothing significant to contribute to it?”

“Mwo rago yo?” His hands had travelled from his pockets to his hips, face sour as he said those words.

“You may have fed me, clothed me, and supposedly ‘cared’ for me in the past. Those are things any normal person can do without requiring much sacrifice. Especially for entitled people like you. But ask yourself Yoongi....have you ever done anything beyond those?”

“You knew why I had to end things with you, Y/N. Don’t act like you don’t.” It was irritating how he said it so calmly, just like before.

“Geurae. I was toxic. I was lazy. I spent most of your money, if not all, ruined your reputation more than necessary—“

“—but I loved you—“

I took a quick pause, not to get myself together, but just to breathe for a second.

“—you know what the difference is between the both of us?—“

“—I was there for you through the worst days of your life. When you were yelling and not calm, when you were slacking more than succeeding. Even when you were tired and barely paid attention to me. When your so called career was only on thin ice, with cracks in almost every corner of it. I was there for you through it all.....you, on the other hand—“

“—tossed me on the streets like garbage.”

His expressions were unreadable. But I didn’t care to understand them anyway. I only wanted to say what I should’ve told him a long time ago.

“Do you even know what sacrifices I had to make just to stay by your side?—“

“—Even just once, did you ever come to think of how hard I struggled for you too?—“

A disappointing yet satisfied smirk curled upon my lips.

“—I thought so.”

—

After the confrontation Yoongi and I had, I didn’t find any reason to stay on site, I need rest until the morning. Soojin had called it a day, announcing that the shoot will continue tomorrow.

My head was throbbing mercilessly, and my body ached to be laid down and eased, yet, somehow, I couldn’t. So I got up, dragging every unwiling part of my body towards the storage room at the back, grabbing one of the boxes I had kept at the top shelf. I took off the lid as soon as I sat it on top of my bedside table, revealing a bundle of letters and pictures that had been untouched for five years. Going through the bundle of letters, scanning through each piece of stationary paper until I found the one I was looking for.

“This”

Opening the letter slowly, my heart sank, remembering the state I was in while writing this. The handwriting was barely recongizeable, some of the letters were smudged; the ones on which my tears fell on. I cleared my throat unecessarily as I started reading the letter in silence.

“..........even during the last moments of us being together, there was nothing else I could say except that I loved you still. There was so much that I kept inside, so much that I still wanted to tell you but in the end, could not. For now, I only have one wish; someday, somehow, if the world is kind enough...I hope our paths will cross again, so I have a chance to say this, the things I failed to tell you;

Goodbye, my love. I hope I see you again when time is better for the both of us

And if not—then, this, the things I hope to tell you;

Hello, my love. I hope the world is kinder to us this time.”

I stared at this piece of paper with nothing but empty, foolish words. What was I thinking? Was thinking even done at all?

Andwae. Who was I to blame for denying the reality of what was happening before my very eyes?

I knew then, and I know now....the world wasn’t always kind enough.

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rockofeye · 6 years

Text

(Suicide talk follows..)

It has been a curious week, in many different ways. Watching suicide play out in the public eye is always sort of odd, but it has been especially out of the ordinary this week. It bumps up against a lot of things for me, as a priest, as an artist, and as someone who got a little too handsy with death in the past.

Based on the public response, Anthony Bourdain was special. If he had died of natural causes, I think there would have been a similar outpouring of public sadness but the shock and disbelief would be missing. When we die old in our beds or after an illness, it’s expected that eventually our bodies wear out and become too tired to function anymore. It seems that it is a different matter when our brains or non-physical hearts wear out, and doubly so when it is someone that is held in cultural esteem.

It has been difficult and unexpectedly poignant to watch the reactions that are ‘but he didn’t seem depressed’ and ‘he was so brilliant/successful’. Yes, he was an utterly brilliant writer, orator, and probably a brilliant chef, and was pretty successful at all of those things. Maybe he was depressed, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he went on a terrible bender and it ended this way. I don’t know, and likely no one really does.

What I do know is that I know an artist when I see one, and I know what the interior life of an artist can be like. Most artists that I know, no matter what medium we work in, are tortured souls. I think artists have a unique ability to carry and store pain like camels. We hold it and hold it and hold it and in the moments where it is too painful (or, let's be real, we have a deadline..), we rip open those wound-bags and bleed it all over our chosen medium and make something that either has financial gain or satisfies the compulsion to just make something and get what is inside out. If you have ever watched a painter or a sculptor or an artist with a stick of charcoal in their hand at work, it is a moment of cerebral bleeding and utter focus. Our hands just move and time stands still and something is born from this interior cauldron of suck and bullshit. It is it's own form of mania, concentrated down into color and/or form, often delivered in silence, or perceived silence even if music is screaming in the background.

In some ways, it is a spiritual experience that defies explaining. How do you describe knowing how to conjure something up from some paint on a canvas or graphite on a page and make it reflect what you see behind your eyes? It’s more than skill; rote skill can be taught but instinct and inspiration cannot. The process is both external and internal in that it requires a special key be slotted into a unique lock slotted into your brain, and turning it to open the door takes a piece of your soul that you can never retrieve. You spend the rest of your creative life looking for that piece of your soul and translating that grasping into something that quenches the unending thirst to make and create. As artists, we understand ourselves when we can see a reflection in medium shaped by our hands.

When I would watch Anthony Bourdain on one of his shows--especially his more recent stuff when he had slipped the corporate leash--that is what I saw. I know it was largely scripted, but the pieces that were casual and how he carried those scripted parts forth were tortured and bloody and straight from the wound-bags that an artist carries. He wrote his scripting by hand in notebooks. He was an artist, and lived that interior artist life. He spent about 220 days out of 365 looking for that missing piece of his soul, and poured hours of words onto page to translate the experience of always being on the move, always consuming, always living without firm roots.

Artists burn. The most productive and creative times in my life were the times when I suffered most. I would sit in my room, put on something noisy in the background, and put my head down and lay down pencil and paint until the sun came up or I couldn't keep my eyes open, whichever came first. I would paint and think about what no longer existing would be like. Like, if everything just stopped for me and I blipped out like a faulty tv signal or, when things were really bad, what it would be like to just jerk the steering wheel to the left while gunning down the state highway and slam myself into the side of an 18 wheeler. I think, in retrospect, I was very lucky and/or blessed that, at those times in my life, there were no real cataclysmic life events or I might have done it. When I was in those places, I never told anyone about it, ever.

Interestingly, during or after those times in my life, I would get rid of all that work I had done. It would get left behind when I moved or thrown away or whatever, it just wouldn't come with me. I don't have a large body of work because of this. I left a pile of complete and half complete pieces in a shoebox of a rented room when I left for Haiti the first time. Sometimes I wonder where they ended up. In the trash? Does someone living there have them hanging up with the rest of lost art that had been acquired by the apartment over multiple lifetimes of multiple residents?

I noticed that Bourdain did something similar. It's hard to totally leave something behind when it's in bookstores or archived on Netflix, but he would distance himself from his previous work when the next project was on his plate. I think he would have preferred to leave behind Kitchen Confidential and never have published the cookbook narrative about hia daughter. Sometimes you don't want to look at what your life vomited up.

I think people are reacting the way they are because he was such a brilliant artist who showed up in such an unusual medium--how many artists have a medium of food that translates into compelling film-tv? He was so unusual in that respect that I think it left folks unable to pinpoint why they found him so compelling. If he had painted or only written books, it would be understood and his death would have been translated as we translate the self-directed deaths of a great artists: he was too brilliant to stay anchored. Maybe that's true.

And so here we are. I have been thinking about Gede a lot today, and what he might have to say about death created by our own hands. I think we conceptualize Gede as a family of spirits that ignores the realities of life and instead goes for the party, and that’s not nearly the whole picture. He knows what human pain is, and he weeps when his children can’t stand up under pain any longer. He knows what it is to suffer, and at times he suffers, too. Gede also knows the value of choice, and so choices are what we make and he finds us on the other side of the outcomes (or not). I know personally that he, when there is an option and a need to live, can go to the mat to keep that person out of the grave. I think he mourns when life is too much to continue to live, and yet also looks at things with a pragmatism that only death can bring.

I hope Bourdain went out in what felt like a blaze of glory for him. I hope he was super inebriated and didn’t feel a thing. I hope his soul rests now, free of whatever made a self-made death seem the most beneficial. I hope that, after a rest, he views things with that special death-pragmatism and finds the next best things.

#anthony bourdain #anba dlo #artist #crucible of creation #suicide

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hulksmashin-bannerpackin · 7 years

Text

Intimacy - NSFW

Pairing: Bruce Banner X Reader

Summary: Bruce has been busy working with Tony, now that the project is complete all he wants to do is be with Y/N.

Honestly I really just wanted to write up some sweet fun smut with two people who are comfortable enough with each other to laugh and love. There isn’t much of a plot past that. I’m still only really new to writing smut so I guess this was an experiment to write so I hope it’s okay!

Warnings: Smut

Y/N sat alone in the apartment she shared with Bruce. She was enjoying the peace and quiet as she read her book. Bruce had been in the lab with Tony almost non stop for the past week and a half and when this happened she had to find ways to occupy herself and enjoy the solitude. She heard the door open and the grumbling of Bruce muttering to himself as he trudged inside.

“Welcome home!” She called out without looking up from her book. This had become the norm between them when Bruce was working on big projects. She would just leave him alone to do what he needed, which was usually only coming home to eat or shower, maybe take a quick nap. She’d help him if he called to her but she otherwise left him to his own devices to either slink away back to the lab or seek her out.

She felt his heavy hands rest on her shoulders and his lips planted themselves on her neck.

“Good day?” She gave a coy smile as she tilted her head slightly, allowing Bruce more access to her neck as she pretended to still be focusing on her book. Bruce hummed against her skin and moved around the couch to sit beside her. He plucked the book from her hands, picking up the bookmark from the table and placing it inside the book, before leaving it on the table.

“We finished the specs for Tony’s latest suit.” Bruce murmured as his lips returned to her skin.

“Oh? So you boys finally fixed the bug in the system?” She attempted to make conversation, trying to hide the excited tone in her voice. She didn’t want to get her hopes up in case this wasn’t leading to where she thought it was. “So?” She drawled out the ‘so’ imploring him to finish her question.

“So.” Bruce imitated her, drawling out the word as well as his hands found their way to the top of her blouse, unbuttoning it. “I’m taking the next few days off.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up as she let out a gasp and almost leapt on him in her excitement. She threaded her fingers through his hair and laughed as he fell backwards, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to his lips. Bruce laughed along with her and curled his hands around her waist.

“Well then I guess I can admit that I was starting to get lonely, I missed you Bruce.” She sat up, making herself comfortable on Bruce’s thighs as she began to unbutton his shirt. He smiled at her and took his glasses off leaning his arm back and placing them on the table where her book was.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Bruce ran his hands up along her sides and then raised them to her shoulders pulling down her blouse. “I’m lucky you put up with me.”

“Yes, yes you are.” Y/N said confidently as she helped him pull her blouse off properly and dropped it to the floor.

“And so humble too.” He scoffed at her with an impish grin as she finished unbuttoning his purple dress shirt and pushed it to the sides. She ran her hands up and down his chest, feeling his chest hairs glide past her fingers. Bruce let out a contented sigh, leaning his head back to rest on the arm of the couch. “I missed you.”

Y/N leaned down and kissed at his neck. “You missed me or you missed this?” She teased as she swiped her tongue along the dip in his collar bone.

“You, this, both. Everything.” Bruce was hardly in the mindset to think straight, especially with Y/N’s hands reaching down to pop open the buttons of his slacks. She palmed at the growing bulge making Bruce let out a strangled groan. “Don’t tease me today.”

Y/N gave a playful smirk as she continued to slowly palm him, hand dipping past his slacks but still over the fabric of his boxer briefs. “Oh but that’s half the fun.”

Bruce rolled his hips up in an attempt to create some more friction against her hand. “Please.”

Y/N bit her lip and relented, giving the poor touch starved man a break. She pulled down his underwear enough to release his hardening cock, wrapping her fingers around the shaft and started stroking him. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and released a husky moan. She swiped her thumb across the tip of his arousal, spreading the precum around the head.

Bruce almost whined when he felt her pull away from him, eyes snapping open to see why she moved away. Y/N had stood, pulled her bra off and was undoing her pants so Bruce followed suit, sitting up and shucking off his undone shirt and kicking off his pants and boxer briefs.

He looked up with a stupid grin at Y/N, eyes trailing along her body as he placed his hands on her hips and gently urged her to come closer to him. She placed her legs on either side of his hips and straddled him, lining herself up with him and slowly sinking onto his cock. She let out small cries of pleasure as she did, gripping onto his shoulders and digging her nails into his skin.

Bruce inhaled deeply as he felt her stretch around him, holding her tighter and pressing her body to his own. He didn’t want an inch of space between them. He loved the feel of her entirely connected to him, loved the feel of her finger nails digging into his back as she let out tiny gasps while she adjusted to him.

Bruce began to move, rocking his hips up and thrusting into her.

“Ahh Bruce!”

She cried out as she melted into him, at this moment there was nothing else but her and Bruce. She wanted to be utterly and completed consumed by him. Consumed by the fire that was building in her stomach and burning through the fibre of her very being. She held onto Bruce like he was the only thing keeping her grounded as she rolled her hips to meet his thrusts.

Bruce held onto her hips so tightly she assumed she’d have bruises there the next day but she loved it. She loved the feeling of his crushing weight against her, keeping her safe, keeping her whole. She NEEDED him and she knew he needed her just as much.

She was breathing in quick shallow puffs of air before Bruce crashed lips onto hers, swallowing the moans and noises she was making. Bruce took his time exploring her mouth, swirling his tongue around hers and dominating her mouth.

She felt that wonderful burning sensation throughout her and she couldn’t take it anymore. It exploded and spread a delicious heat all throughout her as she released. Bruce reacted off her and feeling her walls clench around him, he thrusted into her harder and finally came, pulling her flush against him as he cried out.

He could feel her shivering and quaking against him as he gave a few more shallow thrusts riding out their orgasms as the haze of afterglow kicked in. He wrapped his arms around her as he shifted to lay down, closing his eyes and nuzzling the top of her head.

Y/N took this time to lay against his chest and give a tired smile. She listened to the beat of his heart as she cuddled into him and couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be then curled up against him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Permanent Taglist: @insanityismysanity12345 @sherlockholmesisbae @kitchensink-to-me @zadyalyss

#bruce banner #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner imagine #bruce banner smut #hulk #hulk x reader #hulk imagine #incredible hulk #avengers #avengers imagine #marvel

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brightlyburning1 · 7 years

Text

the gentleness that comes (2/?)

Percival Graves, retired dominant sex surrogate, is drawn back into the world of surrogacy as a favor to Newt Scamander. Newt's patient, one Credence Barebone, is recovering from his sheltered and abusive upbringing - after nearly burning down half the town in his escape. As Percival helps guide Credence through discovering his submissive side, he finds himself falling for the younger man - but those feelings must be hidden, lest he betray everything his profession stands for.

Here is chapter two! Or, if you prefer, you can read it on AO3, here .

"Percival!" Newt calls from the window of his battered Mini Cooper, waving, as though Percival doesn't possess ears to hear. Newt's auburn hair is as riotous as ever - unlike Theseus, who had kept his hair military-short until it fell out, and then there was no reason to care.

'Stop. Stop thinking about that.'

Percival hefts his briefcase, jogs down the steps, and crams himself into the passenger seat of the Mini, dislodging a stuffed iguana with a nametag proclaiming it 'Pickett.'

"Afternoon, Newt," he starts to say, only for thick drool to land on the shoulder of his gray Henley. Fuck, he quite likes this shirt.

"Afternoon, don't mind Dougal-" Newt steers the Mini, which is putting up an alarming racket, out into traffic and eastbound.

"Newt," Percival says, fishing a wet wipe out of his briefcase and scrubbing at the stain, "you have met Dougal, yes? He's not the sort of creature one 'doesn't mind.'"

The Irish wolfhound in question groans into Percival's ear from the backseat as Percival reaches back to scratch behind his ears, knuckles brushing the stiff red vest proclaiming him a therapy animal.

"Did you see the NDA?" Newt merges at unreasonable speed, one-handed, the other hand occupied with a mug of tea.

"It's intense." Which is a low-key word, all things considered; the NDA had been nearly half an inch thick. "How dangerous is he?"

"Who, Credence? Not at all."

Percival raises an eyebrow. The footage had blared across the country: flames consuming the Second Salem compound in the dead of night; Mary Lou Barebone, in a nightgown from her wrists to her ankles, trying to turn away the fire department; Mary Lou threatening them with God's vengeance and Grindelwald’s, her new spouse, and considering the rumors of his wealth and power, Grindelwald's vengeance may well have been worse; coughing children, malnourished and flinching, stumbling into the floodlights; a small girl, eyes wild and rolling in a soot-stained face, writhing in the firefighters' grips and howling for Credence, Credence, Credence.

At last, out of the roiling clouds of smoke, a firefighter, stumbling, her arms cradling thin limbs that stank of gasoline, a slack and blue-tinged face. The firefighter falling. The girl, Modesty Barebone, breaking free, running to shelter in the shadow of Credence's body beneath the flames.

"You're saying this about a man who nearly set the National Forest on fire." Though, to be fair, Percival would probably have done the same, had he grown up among the Second Salemites: rigid, unyielding, utterly joyless and practical in the worst sort of way.

"Yes." Newt takes an off-ramp down into a quiet residential neighborhood, the Mini Cooper jolting when it leaves the ramp. "But there is a great difference between a man who does terrible things to escape and one who does them to harm."

"I'm aware, Newt. My cop training hasn't left me yet." To say nothing of Theseus, who had spent a good three week stretch emotionally savaging everyone around him, trying to escape their attention and affection, trying to spare them the loss.

Newt grins in the corner of Percival's gaze and drains the tea. "Apologies." A stoplight; the Mini Cooper, idling. Newt turns to stare Percival full in the face, and that in itself is so rare as to have Percival's full attention. "Credence had no homicidal intent or thoughts of violence."

"Then why burn it down? My contacts in the department weren't willing to share much." Not that they, technically, are ever supposed to share the details of an ongoing investigation, but this level of secrecy is unusual.

Newt turns, gray-blue gaze sliding away from Percival, and accelerates. "Credence and the children at this Second Salem compound fell through every crack in every system: Department of Children and Families, the police, the schools, the hospitals. DCF’s foster system was overloaded, so someone like Mary Lou, willing to take in as many as they gave, seemed a godsend, and she sailed through the approval process. Add in waivers for medical care due to personal beliefs, waivers for public education due to religious beliefs, the fact that the congregation moved whenever the law became too involved, the fear of crossing Grindelwald-"

Gellert Grindelwald, the city's wealthiest property developer, half the buildings they pass by built by or owned by him. Makes sense, in this small city, not to cross such a man - Percival met him at a gala honoring the police force, and even at that first meeting felt queasy in his presence.

"At various points over the past nineteen years," Newt turns the car towards Kowalski's Bakery, "the children's social workers were called out to do wellness checks. Citizens concerned by how Mary Lou used the kids for canvassing called the police. Credence, himself, at one point after he presented as a sub, called the police. Just like every time the authorities checked on Second Salem, Mary Lou steered the conversation, placated the fears, and got them back off the property. Then she went after Credence with a whip."

God. Nineteen years of waiting for help to come, of dreaming of escape, only to see it slip through your fingers every time. No wonder the young man struggles with trust, if all he's received from authority figures is suffering or ignorance; no wonder he apparently yearns for someone to help him feel safe.

"Was Mary Lou's animosity towards him purely based on his submissive status?"

"No, though it intensified after he presented, and when his sister Modesty presented as a dominant, Credence had to get attention from the authorities before Modesty also came in for abuse." Newt swallows visibly, eyes bleak, and Dougal lays his mournful head on Newt's shoulder. "Or before Modesty was sent off to some other Second Salem congregation to be separated from her brother's 'foul perversions.' Time was short. Help was short. He made the best choice he could, given what he knew."

A choice that landed Credence in jail while they processed the crime scene, the children scattered to various therapeutic foster homes, and now has him waiting to be called up as a witness in the ongoing criminal trials of Grindelwald and Mary Lou.

"So once they released him from jail, that's when you met him?"

Newt parks in front of Kowalski's bakery, unbuckles himself, and fishes in the piles in the backseat for his satchel. "Yeah; seems like poor recompense for nineteen years of suffering due to willful blindness, but DCF is paying for all of his and the other witnesses' treatment and reintegration into society. Tina knows one of the children's new caseworkers, and since Tina likes to talk up her sub-" he ducks his head, grinning, a flush staining his cheeks and traveling down his neck, beneath the thin blue leather collar, "-I wound up a consultant."

It takes a moment for them to all extricate themselves from the backseat, but eventually Percival and Newt and Dougal are all free on the sidewalk before Kowalski's, Newt completely ignorant of the black fur covering nearly every inch of his corduroys.

"And since Credence said he wanted to explore his sexuality, I got in touch with Seraphina, and-" Newt gestures at their surroundings, "-we're here."

"Anything I should know?" Percival follows Newt into the building and up the staircase. Dougal's tail whacking into his knees as they climb.

"Not that you would, but don't treat him like he's stupid or a child; he's quite clever, really, just sheltered. He probably won't offer a handshake, so you're better off waiting to see if he initiates. Other than that, can't think of much for a first meeting."

Newt stops before the door above Kowalski's - a deep green, the paint peeling about the edges - and knocks, three fast raps.

A shadow moves behind the peephole, and Percival squares his shoulders, settling into his skin again, projecting calm confidence. The click of locks, and he looks Credence Barebone full in the face.

He's practiced at hiding his initial reactions to clients - he's had to be, when he's worked with clients who are quadriplegic, dying, all types of bodies and abilities - but even then he has to swallow down the rumble building in his chest.

Credence Barebone is exquisite, there's no other word for it - and Percival is lucky to have him first, to teach him what he needs to know to be safe, because he will have suitors aplenty. Feline eyes, near-liquid in their darkness, that flicker over him and Newt and Dougal, then drop in silent submission, eyelashes the color of soot falling upon knife-sharp cheekbones, their paleness begging for a thumb's caress. The cut of his black hair does him no favors, but given time and patience, those thick strands could be made beautiful. The breadth of his shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist where one's hand could rest-

"Hello, Newt, Dougal," Credence says, his voice low, hoarse, as if he rarely speaks. "And you-?" His gaze flicks up to Percival, who offers a faint smile.

"Percival Graves, the surrogate partner." He doesn't offer a hand, and Credence makes no attempt. "Pleasure."

"Oh-" it's more an indrawn breath than a word, and Credence seems to hunch into himself, as if to hide, but his gaze looks Percival over from feet to head, the barest hint of a flush stealing across his cheeks. Anxious, no doubt, but not frightened - Percival can work with that.

Credence steps back for the three visitors to enter the apartment. It's Spartan, to say the least, but not surprising; he likely never had much, and what furniture he has must have been provided by DCF or the police department. The couch Credence gestures for them to sit on is an unflattering shade of beige, and Credence perches at the edge of a rickety kitchen chair. He clasps his hands together, a subtle tremor drawing Percival's attention to the faint red of a scar tracing over the side of one palm.

"Shall we go ahead and get started? I've explained some of what Credence can expect from me in our relationship, but I'm sure there's still some questions he might have." Newt unclips Dougal's leash and busies himself removing paperwork from his satchel.

Percival holds Credence's gaze, searching for signs of panic or confusion. "So, you've met Newt. He's the therapist, and I'm the licensed dominant surrogate partner. Together with you, we form what's called the therapeutic triangle; what that means is that we all agree when to move forward in treatment, when to end therapy - unless you decide to end the contract - and how to help you achieve your goals. First and foremost, your safety and confidentiality is paramount; nothing will be shared outside the therapeutic triangle, and nothing occurs without your permission."

A muscle flickers in Credence's jaw, and Dougal pads over to shove his head between Credence's hands, breaking apart the anxious twist of fingers. Another glimpse, then, of terrible scars, hidden quickly in Dougal's dark fur, and Percival's chest aches with pity.

"How long will it take?" Credence's gaze flickers to Newt, who's looking through notes. "For me to meet my goals?" His fingers dig into Dougal's fur, thumbs stroking over the dog's ears.

Newt waves for Percival to keep going, so he does. "It's different for each client, but the standard is that the client meets with the therapist for one or two hours a week and the surrogate for one or two hours a week, separately. Most clients I've worked with have felt able to end the relationship and try dating after about thirty weeks."

"Speaking of which!" Newt flips to a sheet in Credence's file, his spidery handwriting spilling over the page. "Have your goals remained the same? Not feeling afraid of your orientation, being able to communicate needs and boundaries, being able to submit?"

"Yes, please," Credence says, his voice near-trembling, Dougal patient as his fingers twine into his fur.

That soft 'please,' those eyes flickering shy glances at Percival's hands, his briefcase - this young man will make some dominant proud one day.

They schedule the sessions, and Newt takes over for a bit, discussing Credence's progress with mindfulness practices, meditation: the standard routine for someone beginning surrogate therapy.

"Here's the contract attesting to the boundaries I have." Percival draws it from his briefcase and hands it over along with a pen. "There's my work phone number; if while you're working on an assignment for Newt or myself, you have questions or concerns, you can text me there. You have a phone?"

"Yes," Credence says, his lips almost shaping the 'sir.' Oh, he's a sweet young man, so obviously in need, so easily hurt; thank God for Newt and Tina, who recognized his vulnerability and connected him to people who would not use it against him.

"The rest is standard; you won't see me outside of our scheduled sessions, and once our therapeutic relationship is over, you won't try to seek me out further, as my job is not only to model the beginning and middle of a good relationship, but also its ending."

Credence reads the contract slowly, mouthing the words to himself, a furrow setting in his brow that Percival could smooth away with a thumb, a kiss. He nods as he finishes, then signs at the bottom, passing it back to Percival. Their fingers brush, and Credence swallows, a faint tremor shaking him.

"Now, as this is mostly about introductions and paperwork, our time is almost up." Newt breaks the sudden connection, stuffing papers back into his satchel. "Percival, you have an assignment for him, correct?"

Percival turns and pulls the last things out from his briefcase: two dice and a thin black leather band. He places them on the coffee table, amused and affectionate when Credence's attention goes to the simple cuff, naked need passing across his face.

"This one is simple. At some point before I see you next, I want you to spend half an hour or so with the dice and the cuff. You don't have to put the cuff on if you are uncomfortable; simply have it near you. One die lists sensations, such as scratching, tapping, et cetera. The other lists body parts. I want you to use the dice and explore how you react to the sensations you give yourself: what you enjoy and what you don't. Please write down any strong reactions. Additionally, I want you to write down the thoughts that come into your mind when you look at the cuff or wear it, if you feel ready for that. Understood?"

Credence nods. "All right. Thank you."

"No need," Percival says, standing. They make their goodbyes, Credence again offering no handshake, and he and Newt and Dougal leave the apartment.

Driving away, he looks into the rear view mirror, and spots a pale face in the window above Kowalski's, two dark feline eyes, and in Credence's hands, a thin black leather band.

#gradence #credence/graves #percival graves/credence barebone #gravebone

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oyehobi · 7 years

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Some Things Aren’t Permanent

Pairing: (Yoongi X Reader); Ft. 95z

Prompt: Tattoos Are Forever Part Two

Genre: More Angst!! (I know chill Lexi)

Words: 3128

Read part ONE and THREE

Small shadows played on the opaque curtains, causing strange images to project through the quiet room. In the corner, sat on a simple twin bed, was a young a boy, terrified out of his mind. The images danced along the walls, jeering at him and forming indescribable illusions of terror. Breaking out in a cold sweat, the young boy carefully stepped off the creaking bed and onto the wooden floor, careful not to disturb the monsters fluidly moving across the room. The boy moved silently until he reached the familiar handle of his bedroom door. Noisily opening the door, the young boy panicked as he saw the shadows gravitate towards him, preparing to attack at any moment. Quickly he ran to the other side, shutting the door behind him. He ignored the sound of their shrieking, desperate to grab at him, as he ran towards the only sign of a safe haven. The light coming from his parent’s room seemed almost majestic, and he couldn’t help but burst through, unapologetic and frightened. Shakily, he climbed onto their bed, overwhelmed by the sheer surface of it. Crawling around until he reached the very middle of the bed, the young boy found himself surrounded by an ocean of silk sheets, drowning him in their false sense of comfort. Clutching onto them, he realized that the source of his fear had never come from the strange dancing shadows running across his bedroom walls. No, his fear came from the feeling of being completely isolated, alone in his terror. In that moment, the boy almost wished the shadows had swallowed him up, filling him with their darkness and giving him a sense of belonging. That ending would have been better than the overwhelming feeling of being alone in a room so large it was almost mocking him. Sitting there in complete silence, utterly abandoned, was the day Min Yoongi finally grew up and stopped believing in fantasies.

“I can’t believe you never even called him,” your best friend groaned, twirling the spoon full of ice cream in her mouth, “I mean he left his number and everything.” You ignored her, focusing instead on the taste of the cold treat you decided to splurge on. Ever since videos of you yelling at those reporters had leaked, you found yourself suddenly appreciating the quiet moments of peace. While the videos may have boosted your restaurant’s popularity, the overwhelming amount of fans that came to thank you for saving ‘Yoongi Oppa’s’ life exhausted you. “I mean, it was the least you could do after you ran away,” she continued, not even bothering to check if you were listening, “anyways he seemed kind of relieved when you did, isn’t that weird? Like you’d think-” You hummed when she directed a question at you, zoning out again soon after. You hadn’t really had a moment to think about your relationship, or lack thereof, with Yoongi since you came back three hours later to find him gone. He never called you or said a word after your meeting, and you just assumed he didn’t really care much about being with you. That hurt a little, to say the least, and you wondered why you were letting it affect you so much. In fact, wasn’t it you who had run away in the first place? You have had your fair share of bad luck when it came to these useless tattoos, slowly fading away the further you got, and you were done having your heart broken. Suddenly standing up, you felt a rush of anger fill you. Why were you sitting here, eating your feelings out in ice cream when he was probably having a great time, living life as a top celebrity. You just had to wait for your tattoo to disappear, and then everything would go back to normal. With that last thought in mind, you moved to throw away your half empty carton. You never liked ice cream much anyways. Plastering a smile on your face, you were about to go back to the front to check on your customers before you heard the small voice of your friend, uncharacteristically serious. “It’s not going to happen again, you know,” she said solemnly, walking over to you and resting a hand on your shoulder, “you’re allowed to have a happy ending too.” You shrugged her hand off, trying not to let her words affect you too much. There were so many people in the world who deserved better, but you weren’t one of them. “Come on,” you said, trying your best to form a convincing smile, “break time is over, let’s take care of our customers.” Her audible sigh was the last thing you heard before you pushed through the swinging doors, and back to the real world.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” the boy whispered, doing his best to hide behind his much taller friend, “we could get caught any second now.” The two walked along the pavement road, doing their best to seem as inconspicuous as possible. Covered in dark hats and sunglasses, they maneuvered their way through the small groups of people, silently begging them to ignore their presence. “Yes, Jimin,” the taller one whispered, forcing Jimin to look around hoping no one heard him call his name, “we’re almost there anyways, no point in going back now.” He pulled down his bear shaped mask, flashing Jimin one of his iconic box smiles. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Jimin muttered, clinging onto his friend. He could feel people’s eyes on them and he knew any second now they would be swamped with reporters and fans, just like Yoongi was a couple weeks ago. “Tae, they’re staring,” he whispered, trying to stay calm. The last thing they needed was to get in trouble with the label, they already weren’t allowed out this late with their promotions coming up soon. “That’s because we’re wearing sunglasses at night Jimin,” he whispered back, “relax we’re here anyways.” Standing in front of the closed restaurant, they could barely make out a couple of figures inside, stacking chairs and putting away dishes. Trying to be discrete as possible, Taehyung walked up to the door, knocking a few times before making it look like he was just loitering. When there was no answer he tried again, this time knocking louder to get the attention of the people inside. When all he heard was a distant, “we’re closed!” the impatient boy beat his fist against the door, annoyed with how long this was taking. “Taehyung!” Jimin hissed, shy waving at the strangers passing by to let them know everything was okay. Finally, an annoyed groan was heard from the inside before the door finally opened, revealing a very cross woman. Almost as if someone had just told her she won a million dollars, her face changed from one of mild irritation to one of extreme delight. “Uh, [Y/N]!” She called, not able to take her eyes off the two boys staring back at her, “I think we have company.” Ten minutes later, the boys found themselves sat across from two very different people, one of them unable to hide their excitement, and the other their dread. Taking a sip of his tea, Jimin broke the silence first unable to stand the awkwardness in the air. “Um hello, we’re uh-” “Jimin and Taehyung!” The girl from the door blurted out, unable to hold herself back. “Right…” Jimin said, giving her an uneasy smile. “Look if this is about Yoongi, I would much rather you get out what you have to say now. It’s been a long day, and I really just want to go home and get into bed,” you said, and suddenly Jimin saw why you were Yoongi’s soulmate. “Listen [Y/N], we know things are tough with Yoongi, but you have to give him a chance,” Taehyung sighed, moving forward to grip your hands despite your obvious discomfort, “he needs you.” “He doesn’t even know me,” you spat, annoyed with this drama-like conversation. “But who’s fault is that? You’re the one who ran away,” he shot right back, watching the way you scoffed in response. “Look, what Taehyung is trying to say is, Yoongi always talks about how happy he is-” he started, but you quickly interrupted him. “If he’s so happy why does he need me?” You replied snarkily, pulling your hands away from Taehyung. “[Y/N] let me finish,” he begged, and you instantly quieted, unable to deny the cute boy anything, “he always says he’s happy, but it’s obvious he’s not. He tries so hard to live the perfect life, but he’s so caught up in the past that he’s consumed by it. The only one who can save him from himself is you.” Jimin watched as your friend turned to you, an unreadable expression on her face. “Sound familiar?” She asked, shoving you slightly and you sent her a glare. Now was definitely not the time to be discussing this. “What? What does she mean?” Taehyung asked, watching as you two silently battled with your eyes. “Nothing,” the girl said, obviously frustrated with her best friends lack of emotional trust, “it’s nothing.” “Listen, Yoongi seemed to be able to get along with his life just fine before me,” you said, rolling your eyes, “and if he really needed me that badly, why isn’t he here? This time it was the boy’s turn to look at each other and have their own private discussion. Seemingly coming to an agreement, Taehyung replied, “well, he doesn’t really know he needs you yet.” You laughed, unable to believe the audacity of the pair of boys in front of you. It was obvious that the fact that you and Yoongi had no interest in each other was too foreign to for them to understand. “Well let me know when he does,” you said, getting up from your chair. “No, wait [Y/N]!” Jimin called, reaching over the table to grab your wrist, “please you have to understand-” “You’re his soulmate!” Taehyung yelled. Gone was the smiling boy who first sat across from you, now replaced by a man angry and desperate to save his friend, “you’re the only person in the whole world who understands him. Damn it [Y/N], you don’t get it! Each day he slips deeper and deeper and the worst part is he doesn’t even realize he’s hurting himself! Do you know what it’s like to watch one of your best friends destroy themselves with a smile on their face?” Taehyung’s chest rose and fell with every furious breath he took. You could see the amount of pain he felt for his friend, and your eyes softened. You could feel Jimin’s hand gently release your hand, letting it fall back down to your side. “Yoongi, he doesn’t have many happy memories when it comes to soulmates. If you just give us a chance to explain, we’ll tell you everything,” Jimin said softly, and you sat back down. “Okay,” you breathed, rubbing the fading words of your tattoo, “I’m willing to give this a chance.” “Good,” Taehyung said, giving you a relieved smile before they began the story of Yoongi’s past.

The sun was setting as a young boy ran through a dimly lit forest. Knowing the wilderness like the back of his hand, he dodged misshapen logs and broken branches with ease. Maneuvering through the woods was the easy part, the boy thought as he sprinted toward the clearing where a large house sat. Finally reaching the door out of breath, the boy heard the sweet sound of his mother’s voice, calling his name. “Yoongi! Yoongi?” She called, gracefully moving through the warm home. The boy was usually never late to their afternoon meetings, and she was starting to get worried. “Mom! I’m here!” Yoongi called, letting himself into the familiar house. Yoongi watched his mother’s face light up as she finally found him. “Ah there you are darling,” she said, her smile radiating pure happiness, “are you ready for our music lesson?” Yoongi nodded excitedly, as he reached for his mother’s outstretched hand. They walked across the wide expanse of the house until they reached a solidarity room, empty except for a pure white grand piano. Gently, they sat down on the stool, uncovering the piano keys. “Alright Yoongi, do you remember how to play the scales?” His mother asked, her smile only growing when the boy blushed and shook his head. “That’s okay! I’ll show you one more time.” Delicately, the woman placed her slender fingers on the keys. “Watch closely,” she whispered, before pressing down beautifully, easily dancing across the keys. Truthfully, Yoongi did remember how to play the scales but the feeling of watching his mother play such lovely notes was more than a reason to say otherwise. He watched the gentle smile grow on her face as each sound rang through the air, filling her with a love for music the young boy could only hope to be able to reach one day. Looking down at her thin wrists, it was the first time Yoongi noticed the lack of words inscribed that he saw on so many others. He checked his wrists one more time to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating before asking his mother about his new discovery. “Mom? How come you don’t have a dark tattoo like Dad and I?” He asked curiously, running over the dark ink. He wasn’t quite sure what his tattoo said, not having learned that long ‘s’ word yet, but his mother said it meant he was going to be famous. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard and he couldn’t help but wonder what he said wrong to make that sad smile appear on her face. Just as she was about to open her mouth to reply, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. “Dad’s home!” Yoongi yelled, momentarily forgetting that topic he had just brought up. Jumping off the stool, he raced towards the entrance of the grand home, leaving his mother to rub her clear wrists, the sad tint never leaving her eyes. “There’s my son,” the older man bellowed, opening his arms to lift the young boy off the ground, “have you been good today? Where’s your mother?” Putting Yoongi down, he started to take off his coat. At the mention of his mother’s name, Yoongi suddenly remembered their previous conversation. “Dad! Did you know that mom doesn’t have a tattoo like us?” He cried, pulling his dad’s much larger wrist towards his line of vision. “Look! I have one and you have one right here- Woah! Dad, your tattoo! It’s not black anymore, it’s gold! How did you do that? Can you teach me?” Yoongi kept babbling on, missing the way his father’s face paled at his discovery. “Yoongi, go to your room.” Spinning around, Yoongi found his mom on the verge of tears. Immediately he quieted down, unable to comprehend what was happening. “But, what about our music lesson?” He whimpered, feeling his own eyes prick with tears at the image of his mother looking so broken. “Yoongi, your mom’s right. Just go,” his dad said, his voice cracking mid-sentence. Wondering what he could have possibly done to be punished, Yoongi made his way upstairs. Sitting on his bed listening to the heavy sounds of his mother crying, Yoongi felt something in him change. That was the day Yoongi’s world darkened, and the shadows came out to play. Months passed and his father started to arrive later and later in the day, half of the time he reeked of alcohol and the other half of another woman’s perfume. The way the older man started to look at his family change, the way he looked at Yoongi changed, from one of unadulterated love to one of annoyance. Yoongi and his mother were nothing more than a nuisance, getting in the way of him and his soulmate. Finally, his father just stopped returning and Yoongi stopped caring, wishing he could rub his wrist raw until the dark words left his pale skin. Soulmates weren’t the epitome of true love, not when his mother was crying herself to sleep every night. They were a curse, forcing them to drop their entire lives for a stranger they barely knew. The shadows weren’t the real monsters, no- that title belonged to the small print written on everybody’s wrists.

You didn’t feel the warm streaks of tears leaving your eyes until you were drowning in it, unable to hold back your cries as Yoongi’s story mixed in with your own. “[Y/N]? Are you okay?” Jimin panicked, reached out to you before pulling away, unsure of what to do. “I think it’s time for you to go,” your best friend said, no longer caring that she was talking to international stars, “thank you for coming here, but you have to leave right now.” “But-” Taehyung said, beginning to argue before Jimin rested a hand on his shoulder. Looking back at your tear-streaked face, he sighed reaching into his jacket and pulling out an envelope. He looked at you one more time before turning to your friend. “At least take this, they’re tickets to our last concert. We’re going overseas for a couple of months and by then, the tattoo would have already faded. It’s your last chance to make things right,” he said gravely, wincing as another round of heavy sobbing took over you. “This isn’t just about Yoongi’s story, is it?” He asked, making sure he left the envelope securely on the table. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door,” your friend sighed. They followed the girl to the front of the restaurant until they were finally out of your earshot. Carefully, you picked up the envelope, cradling it in your hands. You held it until your tears ran dry, and you could finally breathe again. As the two boys stood outside the door, they looked at the girl, pleading for an explanation with their eyes. Turning back to make sure you weren’t listening, your best friend turned back to the boys, giving in and telling them the truth. “Yoongi isn’t [Y/N]’s first soulmate,” she said, her voice filled with pain for her best friend, “[Y/N]’s first soulmate, died when they were young.” The boys stood in shock at the news, barely being able to process what the girl had just told them. “You mean-” Jimin trailed off as he stared at your figure appearing behind your best friend. “He’s dead,” you whispered, trying to ignore the looks of pity in their eyes, “and it’s all my fault.”

#im so sorry for the lack of yoongi in this!!!#i promise he will be back & better than ever in the last part!#bts yoongi #bts yoongi fic #yoongi angst #bts angst #suga #bts suga #suga scenario #yoongi scenario #yoongi soulmate! au #soulmate au #min yoongi #min suga #bts #bangtan #bangtan boys #bts scenario #yoongi soulmate au

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ciathyzareposts · 5 years

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Origin Sells Out

One day in early June of 1992, a group of executives from Electronic Arts visited Origin Systems’s headquarters in Austin, Texas. If they had come from any other company, the rank and file at Origin might not have paid them much attention. As it was, though, the visit felt a bit like Saddam Hussein dropping in at George Bush’s White House for a fireside chat. For Origin and EA, you see, had a history.

Back in August of 1985, just prior to the release of Ultima IV, the much smaller Origin had signed a contract to piggyback on EA’s distribution network as an affiliated label. Eighteen months later, when EA released an otherwise unmemorable CRPG called Deathlord whose interface hewed a little too closely to that of an Ultima, a livid Richard Garriott attempted to pull Origin out of the agreement early. EA at first seemed prepared to crush Origin utterly in retribution by pulling at the legal seams in the two companies’ contract. Origin, however, found themselves a protector: Brøderbund Software, whose size and clout at the time were comparable to that of EA. At last, EA agreed to allow Origin to go their own way, albeit probably only after the smaller company paid them a modest settlement for breaking the contract. Origin quickly signed a new distribution contract with Brøderbund, which lasted until 1989, by which point they had become big enough in their own right to take over their own distribution.

But Richard Garriott wasn’t one to forgive even a small personal slight easily, much less a full-blown threat to destroy his company. From 1987 on, EA was Public Enemy #1 at Origin, a status which Garriott marked in ways that only seemed to grow pettier as time went on. Garriott built a mausoleum for “Pirt Snikwah” — the name of Trip Hawkins, EA’s founder and chief executive, spelled backward — at his Austin mansion of Britannia Manor. Ultima V‘s parser treated the phrase “Electronic Arts” like a curse word; Ultima VI included a gang of evil pirates named after some of the more prominent members of EA’s executive staff. Time really did seem to make Garriott more rather than less bitter. Among his relatively few detail-oriented contributions to Ultima VII were a set of infernal inter-dimensional generators whose shapes together formed the EA logo. He also demanded that the two villains who went on a murder spree across Britannia in that game be named Elizabeth and Abraham. Just to drive the point home, the pair worked for a “Destroyer of Worlds” — an inversion of Origin’s longstanding tagline of “We Create Worlds.”

And yet here the destroyers were, just two months after the release of Ultima VII, chatting amiably with their hosts while they gazed upon their surroundings with what seemed to some of Origin’s employees an ominously proprietorial air. Urgent speculation ran up and down the corridors: what the hell was going on? In response to the concerned inquiries of their employees, Origin’s management rushed to say that the two companies were merely discussing “some joint ventures in Sega Genesis development,” even though “they haven’t done a lot of cooperative projects in the past.” That was certainly putting a brave face on half a decade of character assassination!

What was really going on was, as the more astute employees at Origin could all too plainly sense, something far bigger than any mere “joint venture.” The fact was, Origin was in a serious financial bind — not a unique one in their evolving industry, but one which their unique circumstances had made more severe for them than for most others. Everyone in the industry, Origin included, was looking ahead to a very near future when the enormous storage capacity of CD-ROM, combined with improving graphics and sound and exploding numbers of computers in homes, would allow computer games to join television, movies, and music as a staple of mainstream entertainment rather than a niche hobby. Products suitable for this new world order needed to go into development now in order to be on store shelves to greet it when it arrived. These next-generation products with their vastly higher audiovisual standards couldn’t be funded entirely out of the proceeds from current games. They required alternative forms of financing.

For Origin, this issue, which really was well-nigh universal among their peers, was further complicated by the realities of being a relatively small company without a lot of product diversification. A few underwhelming attempts to bring older Ultima games to the Nintendo Entertainment System aside, they had no real presence on videogame consoles, a market which dwarfed that of computer games, and had just two viable product lines even on computers: Ultima and Wing Commander. This lack of diversification left them in a decidedly risky position, where the failure of a single major release in either of those franchises could conceivably bring down the whole company.

The previous year of 1991 had been a year of Wing Commander, when the second mainline title in that franchise, combined with ongoing strong sales of the first game and a series of expansion packs for both of them, had accounted for fully 90 percent of the black ink in Origin’s books. In this year of 1992, it was supposed to have been the other franchise’s turn to carry the company while Wing Commander retooled its technology for the future. But Ultima VII: The Black Gate, while it had been far from an outright commercial failure, had garnered a more muted response than Origin had hoped and planned for, plagued as its launch had been by bugs, high system requirements, and the sheer difficulty of configuring it to run properly under the inscrutable stewardship of MS-DOS.

Even more worrisome than all of the specific issues that dogged this latest Ultima was a more diffuse sort of ennui directed toward it by gamers — a sense that the traditional approach of Ultima in general, with its hundred-hour play time, its huge amounts of text, and its emphasis on scope and player freedom rather than multimedia set-pieces, was falling out of step with the times. Richard Garriott liked to joke that he had spent his whole career making the same game over and over — just making it better and bigger and more sophisticated each time out. It was beginning to seem to some at Origin that that progression might have reached its natural end point. Before EA ever entered the picture, a sense was dawning that Ultima VIII needed to go in another direction entirely — needed to be tighter, flashier, more focused, more in step with the new types of customers who were now beginning to buy computer games. Ultima Underworld, a real-time first-person spinoff of the core series developed by the Boston studio Blue Sky Productions rather than Origin themselves, had already gone a considerable distance in that direction, and upon its near-simultaneous release with Ultima VII had threatened to overshadow its more cerebral big brother completely, garnering more enthusiastic reviews and, eventually, higher sales. Needless to say, had Ultima Underworld not turned into such a success, Origin’s financial position would have been still more critical than it already was. It seemed pretty clear that this was the direction that all of Ultima needed to go.

But making a flashier next-generation Ultima VIII — not to mention the next-generation Wing Commander — would require more money than even Ultima VII and Ultima Underworld together were currently bringing in. And yet, frustratingly, Origin couldn’t seem to drum up much in the way of financing. Their home state of Texas was in the midst of an ugly series of savings-and-loan scandals that had made all of the local banks gun-shy; the country as a whole was going through a mild recession that wasn’t helping; would-be private investors could see all too clearly the risks associated with Origin’s non-diversified business model. As the vaguely disappointing reception for Ultima VII continued to make itself felt, the crisis began to feel increasingly existential. Origin had lots of technical and creative talent and two valuable properties — Wing Commander in particular was arguably still the hottest single name in computer gaming — but had too little capital and a nonexistent credit line. They were, in other words, classic candidates for acquisition.

It seems that the rapprochement between EA and Origin began at the Summer Consumer Electronics Show in Chicago at the very beginning of June of 1992, and, as evidenced by EA’s personal visit to Origin just a week or so later, proceeded rapidly from there. It would be interesting and perhaps a little amusing to learn how the rest of Origin’s management team coaxed Richard Garriott around to the idea of selling out to the company he had spent the last half-decade vilifying. But whatever tack they took, they obviously succeeded. At least a little bit of sugar was added to the bitter pill by the fact that Trip Hawkins, whom Garriott rightly or wrongly regarded as the worst of all the fiends at EA, had recently stepped down from his role in the company’s management to helm a new semi-subsidiary outfit known as 3DO. (“Had Trip still been there, there’s no way we would have gone with EA,” argues one former Origin staffer — but, then again, necessity can almost always make strange bedfellows.)

Likewise, we can only wonder what if anything EA’s negotiators saw fit to say to Origin generally and Garriott specifically about all of the personal attacks couched within the last few Ultima games. I rather suspect they said nothing; if there was one thing the supremely non-sentimental EA of this era had come to understand, it was that it seldom pays to make business personal.

Richard and Robert Garriott flank Stan McKee, Electronic Arts’s chief financial officer, as they toast the consummation of one of the more unexpected acquisitions in gaming history at EA’s headquarters in San Mateo, California.

So, the deal was finalized at EA’s headquarters in San Mateo, California, on September 25, 1992, in the form of a stock exchange worth $35 million. Both parties were polite enough to call it a merger rather than an acquisition, but it was painfully clear which one had the upper hand; EA, who were growing so fast they had just gone through a two-for-one stock split, now had annual revenues of $200 million, while Origin could boast of only $13 million. In a decision whose consequences remain with us to this day, Richard Garriott even agreed to sign over his personal copyrights to the Ultima franchise. In return, he became an EA vice president; his brother Robert, previously the chief executive in Austin, now had to settle for the title of the new EA subsidiary’s creative director.

From EA’s perspective, the deal got them Ultima, a franchise which was perhaps starting to feel a little over-exposed in the wake of a veritable flood of Origin product bearing the name, but one which nevertheless represented EA’s first viable CRPG franchise since the Bard’s Tale trilogy had concluded back in 1988. Much more importantly, though, it got them Wing Commander, in many ways the progenitor of the whole contemporary craze for multimedia “interactive movies”; it was a franchise which seemed immune to over-exposure. (Origin had amply proved this point by releasing two Wing Commander mainline games and four expansion packs in the last two years, plus a “Speech Accessory Pack” for Wing Commander II, all of which had sold very well indeed.)

As you do in these situations, both management teams promised the folks in Austin that nothing much would really change. “The key word is autonomy,” Origin’s executives said in their company’s internal newsletter. “Origin is supposed to operate independently from EA and maintain profitability.” But of course things did — had to — change. There was an inescapable power imbalance here, such that, while Origin’s management had to “consult” with EA when making decisions, their counterparts suffered no such obligation. And of course what might happen if Origin didn’t “maintain profitability” remained unspoken.

Thus most of the old guard at Origin would go on to remember September 25, 1992, as, if not quite the end of the old, freewheeling Origin Systems, at least the beginning of the end. Within six months, resentments against the mother ship’s overbearing ways were already building in such employees as an anonymous letter writer who asked his managers why they were “determined to eradicate the culture that makes Origin such a fun place to work.” Within a year, another was asking even more heatedly, “What happened to being a ‘wholly owned independent subsidiary of EA?’ When did EA start telling Origin what to do and when to do it? I thought Richard said we would remain independent and that EA wouldn’t touch us?!? Did I miss something here?” Eighteen months in, an executive assistant named Michelle Caddel, the very first new employee Origin had hired upon opening their Austin office in 1987, tried to make the best of the changes: “Although some of the warmth at Origin has disappeared with the merger, it still feels like a family.” For now, at any rate.

Perhaps tellingly, the person at Origin who seemed to thrive most under the new arrangement was one of the most widely disliked: Dallas Snell, the hard-driving production manager who was the father of a hundred exhausting crunch times, who tended to regard Origin’s games as commodities quantifiable in floppy disks and megabytes. Already by the time the Origin had been an EA subsidiary for a year, he had managed to install himself at a place in the org chart that was for all practical purposes above that of even Richard and Robert Garriott: he was the only person in Austin who was a “direct report” to Bing Gordon, EA’s powerful head of development.

On the other hand, becoming a part of the growing EA empire also brought its share of advantages. The new parent company’s deep pockets meant that Origin could prepare in earnest for that anticipated future when games would sell more copies but would also require more money, time, and manpower to create. Thus almost immediately after closing the deal with EA, Origin closed another one, for a much larger office space which they moved into in January of 1993. Then they set about filling up the place; over the course of the next year, Origin would double in size, going from 200 to 400 employees.

The calm before the storm: the enormous cafeteria at Origin’s new digs awaits the first onslaught of hungry employees. Hopefully someone will scrounge up some tables and chairs before the big moment arrives…

And so the work of game development went on. When EA bought Origin, the latter naturally already had a number of products, large and small, in the pipeline. The first-ever expansion pack for an existing Ultima game — an idea borrowed from Wing Commander — was about to hit stores; Ultima VII: Forge of Virtue would prove a weirdly unambitious addition to a hugely ambitious game, offering only a single dungeon to explore that was more frustrating than fun. Scheduled for release in 1993 were Wing Commander: Academy, a similarly underwhelming re-purposing of Origin’s internal development tools into a public-facing “mission builder,” and Wing Commander: Privateer, which took the core engine and moved it into a free-roaming framework rather than a tightly scripted, heavily story-driven one; it thus became a sort of updated version of the legendary Elite, and, indeed, would succeed surprisingly well on those terms. And then there was also Ultima Underworld II: Labyrinth of Worlds, developed like its predecessor by Blue Sky up in Boston; it would prove a less compelling experience on the whole than Ultima Underworld I, being merely a bigger game rather than a better one, but it would be reasonably well-received by customers eager for more of the same.

Those, then, were the relatively modest projects. Origin’s two most expensive and ambitious games for the coming year consisted of yet one more from the Ultima franchise and one that was connected tangentially to Wing Commander. We’ll look at them a bit more closely, taking them one at a time.

The game which would be released under the long-winded title of Ultima VII Part Two: Serpent Isle had had a complicated gestation. It was conceived as Origin’s latest solution to a problem that had long bedeviled them: that of how to leverage their latest expensive Ultima engine for more than one game without violating the letter of a promise Richard Garriott had made more than a decade before to never use the same engine for two successive mainline Ultima games. Back when Ultima VI was the latest and greatest, Origin had tried reusing its engine in a pair of spinoffs called the Worlds of Ultima, which rather awkwardly shoehorned the player’s character from the main series — the “Avatar” — into plots and settings that otherwise had nothing to do with Richard Garriott’s fantasy world of Britannia. Those two games had drawn from early 20th-century science and adventure fiction rather than Renaissance Faire fantasy, and had actually turned out quite magnificently; they’re among the best games ever to bear the Ultima name in this humble critic’s opinion. But, sadly, they had sold like the proverbial space heaters in the Sahara. It seemed that Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Rice Burroughs were a bridge too far for fans raised on J.R.R. Tolkien and Lord British.

So, Origin adjusted their approach when thinking of ways to reuse the even more expensive Ultima VII engine. They conceived two projects. One would be somewhat in the spirit of Worlds of Ultima, but would stick closer to Britannia-style fantasy: called Arthurian Legends, it would draw from, as you might assume, the legends of King Arthur, a fairly natural thematic fit for a series whose creator liked to call himself “Lord British.” The other game, the first to go into production, would be a direct sequel to Ultima VII, following the Avatar as he pursued the Guardian, that “Destroyer of Worlds” from the first game, from Britannia to a new world. This game, then, was Serpent Isle. Originally, it was to have had a pirate theme, all fantastical derring-do on an oceanic world, with a voodoo-like magic system in keeping with Earthly legends of Caribbean piracy.

This piratey Serpent Isle was first assigned to Origin writer Jeff George, but he struggled to find ways to adapt the idea to the reality of the Ultima VII engine’s affordances. Finally, after spinning his wheels for some months, he left the company entirely. Warren Spector, who had become Origin’s resident specialist in Just Getting Things Done, then took over the project and radically revised it, dropping the pirate angle and changing the setting to one that was much more Britannia-like, right down to a set of towns each dedicated to one of a set of abstract virtues. Having thus become a less excitingly original concept but a more practical one from a development perspective, Serpent Isle started to make good progress under Spector’s steady hand. Meanwhile another small team started working up a script for Arthurian Legends, which was planned as the Ultima VII engine’s last hurrah.

Yet the somewhat muted response to the first Ultima VII threw a spanner in the works. Origin’s management team was suddenly second-guessing the entire philosophy on which their company had been built: “Do we still create worlds?” Arthurian Legends was starved of resources amidst this crisis of confidence, and finally cancelled in January of 1993. Writer and designer Sheri Graner Ray, one of only two people left on the project at the end, invests its cancellation with major symbolic importance:

I truly believe that on some level we knew that this was the death knell for Origin. It was the last of the truly grass-roots games in production there… the last one that was conceived, championed, and put into development purely by the actual developers, with no support or input from the executives. It was actually, kinda, the end of an era for the game industry in general, as it was also during this time that we were all adjusting to the very recent EA buyout of Origin.

Brian Martin, one of the last two developers remaining on the Arthurian Legends project, made this odd little memorial to it with the help of his partner Sheri Graner Ray after being informed by management that the project was to be cancelled entirely. Ray herself tells the story: “Before we left that night, Brian laid down in the common area that was right outside our office and I went around his body with masking tape… like a chalk line… we added the outline of a crown and the outline of a sword. We then draped our door in black cloth and put up a sign that said, ‘The King is Dead. Long live the King.’ …. and a very odd thing happened. The next morning when we arrived, there were flowers by the outline. As the day wore on more flowers arrived.. and a candle.. and some coins were put on the eyes… and a poem arrived… it was uncanny. This went on for several days with the alter growing more and more. Finally, we were told we had to take it down, because there was a press junket coming through and they didn’t want the press seeing it.”

Serpent Isle, on the other hand, was too far along by the time the verdict was in on the first Ultima VII to make a cancellation realistic. It would instead go down in the recollection of most hardcore CRPG fans as the last “real” Ultima, the capstone to the process of evolution a young Richard Garriott had set in motion back in 1980 with a primitive BASIC game called Akalabeth. And yet the fact remains that it could have been so, so much better, had it only caught Origin at a less uncertain, more confident time.

Serpent Isle lacks the refreshingly original settings of the two Worlds of Ultima games, as it does the surprisingly fine writing of the first Ultima VII; Raymond Benson, the head writer on the latter project, worked on Serpent Isle only briefly before decamping to join MicroProse Software. In compensation, though, Serpent Isle is arguably a better game than its predecessor through the first 65 percent or so of its immense length. Ultima VII: The Black Gate can at times feel like the world’s most elaborate high-fantasy walking simulator; you really do spend most of your time just walking around and talking to people, an exercise that’s made rewarding only by the superb writing. Serpent Isle, by contrast, is full to bursting with actual things to do: puzzles to solve, dungeons to explore, quests to fulfill. It stretches its engine in all sorts of unexpected and wonderfully hands-on directions. Halfway in, it seems well on its way to being one of the best Ultima games of all, as fine a sendoff as any venerable series could hope for.

In the end, though, its strengths were all undone by Origin’s crisis of faith in the traditional Ultima concept. Determined to get its sales onto the books of what had been a rather lukewarm fiscal year and to wash their hands of the past it now represented, management demanded that it go out on March 25, 1993, the last day of said year. As a result, the last third or so of Serpent Isle is painfully, obviously unfinished. Conversations become threadbare, plot lines are left to dangle, side quests disappear, and bugs start to sprout up everywhere you look. As the fiction becomes a thinner and thinner veneer pasted over the mechanical nuts and bolts of the design, solubility falls by the wayside. By the end, you’re wandering through a maze of obscure plot triggers that have no logical connection with the events they cause, making a walkthrough a virtual necessity. It’s a downright sad thing to have to witness. Had its team only been allowed another three or four months to finish the job, Serpent Isle could have been not only a great final old-school Ultima but one of the best CRPGs of any type that I’ve ever played, a surefire entrant in my personal gaming hall of fame. As it is, though, it’s a bitter failure, arguably the most heartbreaking one of Warren Spector’s storied career.

And there was to be one final note of cutting irony in all of this: Serpent Isle, which Origin released without a lot of faith in its commercial potential, garnered a surprisingly warm reception among critics and fans alike, and wound up selling almost as well as the first Ultima VII. Indeed, it performed so well that the subject of doing “more games in that vein,” in addition to or even instead of a more streamlined Ultima VIII, was briefly discussed at Origin. As things transpired, though, its success led only to an expansion pack called The Silver Seed before the end of the year; this modest effort became the true swansong for the Ultima VII engine, as well as the whole era of the 100-hour-plus, exploration-focused, free-form single-player CRPG at Origin in general. The very philosophy that had spawned the company, that had been at the core of its identity for the first decade of its existence, was fading into history. Warren Spector would later have this to say in reference to a period during which practical commercial concerns strangled the last shreds of idealism at Origin:

There’s no doubt RPGs were out of favor by the mid-90s. No doubt at all. People didn’t seem to want fantasy stories or post-apocalypse stories anymore. They certainly didn’t want isometric, 100 hour fantasy or post-apocalypse stories, that’s for sure! I couldn’t say why it happened, but it did. Everyone was jumping on the CD craze – it was all cinematic games and high-end-graphics puzzle games… That was a tough time for me – I mean, picture yourself sitting in a meeting with a bunch of execs, trying to convince them to do all sorts of cool games and being told, “Warren, you’re not allowed to say the word ‘story’ any more.” Talk about a slap in the face, a bucket of cold water, a dose of reality.

If you ask me, the reason it all happened was that we assumed our audience wanted 100 hours of play and didn’t care much about graphics. Even high-end RPGs were pretty plain-jane next to things like Myst and even our own Wing Commander series. I think we fell behind our audience in terms of the sophistication they expected and we catered too much to the hardcore fans. That can work when you’re spending hundreds of thousands of dollars – even a few million – but when games start costing many millions, you just can’t make them for a relatively small audience of fans.

If Serpent Isle and its expansion were the last gasps of the Origin Systems that had been, the company’s other huge game of 1993 was every inch a product of the new Origin that had begun to take shape following the worldwide success of the first Wing Commander game. Chris Roberts, the father of Wing Commander, had been working on something called Strike Commander ever since late 1990, leaving Wing Commander II and all of the expansion packs and other spinoffs in the hands of other Origin staffers. The new game took the basic idea of the old — that of an action-oriented vehicular simulator with a strong story, told largely via between-mission dialog scenes — and moved it from the outer space of the far future to an Earth of a very near future, where the international order has broken down and mercenaries battle for control over the planet’s dwindling resources. You take to the skies in an F-16 as one of the mercenaries — one of the good ones, naturally.

Origin and Chris Roberts pulled out all the stops to make Strike Commander an audiovisual showcase; the game’s gestation time of two and a half years, absurdly long by the standards of the early 1990s, was a product of Roberts constantly updating his engine to take advantage of the latest cutting-edge hardware. The old Wing Commander engine was starting to look pretty long in the tooth by the end of 1992, so this new engine, which replaced its predecessor’s scaled sprites with true polygonal 3D graphics, was more than welcome. There’s no point in putting a modest face on it: Strike Commander looked downright spectacular in comparison with any other flight simulator on offer at the time. It was widely expected, both inside and outside of Origin, to become the company’s biggest game ever. In fact, it became the first Origin game to go gold in the United States — 100,000 copies sold to retail — before it had actually shipped there, thanks to the magic of pre-orders. Meanwhile European pre-orders topped 50,000, an all-time record for EA’s British subsidiary. All in all, more than 1.1 million Strike Commander floppy disks — 30 tons worth of plastic, metal, and iron oxide — were duplicated before a single unit was sold. Why not? This game was a sure thing.

The hype around Strike Commander was inescapable for months prior to its release. At the European Computer Trade Show in London, the last big event before the release, Origin put together a mock-up of an airplane hangar. Those lucky people who managed to seize control for few minutes got to play the game from behind a nose cowl and instrument panel. What Origin didn’t tell you was that the computer hidden away underneath all the window dressing was almost certainly much, much more powerful than one you had at home.

Alas, pride goeth before a fall. Just a couple of weeks after Strike Commander‘s worldwide release on April 23, 1993, Origin had to admit to themselves in their internal newsletter that sales from retail to actual end users were “slower than expected.” Consumers clearly weren’t as enamored with the change in setting as Origin and just about everyone else in their industry had assumed they would be. Transporting the Wing Commander formula into a reasonably identifiable version of the real world somehow made the story, which hovered as usual in some liminal space between comic book and soap opera, seem rather more than less ludicrous. At the same time, the use of an F-16 in place of a made-up star fighter, combined with the game’s superficial resemblance to the hardcore flight simulators of the day, raised expectations among some players which the game had never really been designed to meet. The editors of Origin’s newsletter complained, a little petulantly, about this group of sim jockeys who were “ready for a cockpit that had every gauge, altimeter, dial, and soft-drink holder in its proper place. This is basically the group which wouldn’t be happy unless you needed the $35 million worth of training the Air Force provides just to get the thing off the ground.” There were advantages, Origin was belatedly learning, to “simulating” a vehicle that had no basis in reality, as there were to fictions similarly divorced from the real world. In hitting so much closer to home, Strike Commander lost a lot of what had made Wing Commander so appealing.

The new game’s other problem was more immediate and practical: almost no one could run the darn thing well enough to actually have the experience Chris Roberts had intended it to be. Ever since Origin had abandoned the Apple II to make MS-DOS their primary development platform at the end of the 1980s, they’d had a reputation for pushing the latest hardware to its limit. This game, though, was something else entirely even from them. The box’s claim that it would run on an 80386 was a polite fiction at best; in reality, you needed an 80486, and one of the fastest ones at that — running at least at 50 MHz or, better yet, 66 MHz — if you wished to see anything like the silky-smooth visuals that Origin had been showing off so proudly at recent trade shows. Even Origin had to admit in their newsletter that customers had been “stunned” by the hardware Strike Commander craved. Pushed along by the kid-in-a-candy-store enthusiasm of Chris Roberts, who never had a passing fancy he didn’t want to rush right out and implement, they had badly overshot the current state of computing hardware.

Of course, said state was always evolving; it was on this fact that Origin now had to pin whatever diminished hopes they still had for Strike Commander. The talk of the hardware industry at the time was Intel’s new fifth-generation microprocessor, which abandoned the “x86” nomenclature in favor of the snazzy new focused-tested name of Pentium, another sign of how personal computers were continuing their steady march from being tools of businesspeople and obsessions of nerdy hobbyists into mainstream consumer-electronics products. Origin struck a promotional deal with Compaq Computers in nearby Houston, who, following what had become something of a tradition for them, were about to release the first mass-market desktop computer to be built around this latest Intel marvel. Compaq placed the showpiece that was Strike Commander-on-a-Pentium front and center at the big PC Expo corporate trade show that summer of 1993, causing quite a stir at an event that usually scoffed at games. “The fuse has only been lit,” went Origin’s cautiously optimistic new company line on Strike Commander, “and it looks to be a long and steady burn.”

But time would prove this optimism as well to be somewhat misplaced: one of those flashy new Compaq Pentium machines cost $7000 in its most minimalist configuration that summer. By the time prices had come down enough to make a Pentium affordable for gamers without an absurd amount of disposable income, other games with even more impressive audiovisuals would be available for showing off their hardware. Near the end of the year, Origin released an expansion pack for Strike Commander that had long been in the development pipeline, but that would be that: there would be no Strike Commander II. Chris Roberts turned his attention instead to Wing Commander III, which would raise the bar on development budget and multimedia ambition to truly unprecedented heights, not only for Origin but for their industry at large. After all, Wing Commander: Academy and Privateer, both of which had had a fraction of the development budget of Strike Commander but wound up selling just as well, proved that there was still a loyal, bankable audience out there for the core series.

Origin had good reason to play it safe now in this respect and others. When the one-year anniversary of the acquisition arrived, the accountants had to reveal to EA that their new subsidiary had done no more than break even so far. By most standards, it hadn’t been a terrible year at all: Ultima Underworld II, Serpent Isle, Wing Commander: Academy, and Wing Commander: Privateer had all more or less made money, and even Strike Commander wasn’t yet so badly underwater that all hope was lost on that front. But on the other hand, none of these games had turned into a breakout hit in the fashion of the first two Wing Commander games, even as the new facilities, new employees, and new titles going into development had cost plenty. EA was already beginning to voice some skepticism about some of Origin’s recent decisions. The crew in Austin really, really needed a home run rather than more base hits if they hoped to maintain their status in the industry and get back into their overlord’s good graces. Clearly 1994, which would feature a new mainline entry in both of Origin’s core properties for the first time since Ultima VI had dropped and Wing Commander mania had begun back in 1990, would be a pivotal year. Origin’s future was riding now on Ultima VIII and Wing Commander III.

(Sources: the book Dungeons and Dreamers: The Rise of Computer Game Culture from Geek to Chic by Brad King and John Borland; Origin’s internal newsletter Point of Origin from March 13 1992, June 19 1992, July 31 1992, September 25 1992, October 23 1992, November 6 1992, December 4 1992, December 18 1992, January 29 1993, February 12 1993, February 26 1993, March 26 1993, April 9 1993, April 23 1993, May 7 1993, May 21 1993, June 18 1993, July 2 1993, August 27 1993, September 10 1993, October 13 1993, October 22 1993, November 8 1993, and December 1993; Questbusters of April 1986 and July 1987; Computer Gaming World of October 1992 and August 1993. Online sources include “The Conquest of Origin” at The Escapist, “The Stars His Destination: Chris Roberts from Origin to Star Citizen“ at US Gamer, Shery Graner Ray’s blog entry “20 Years and Counting — Origin Systems,” and an interview with Warren Spector at RPG Codex.

All of the Origin games mentioned in this article are available for digital purchase at GOG.com.)

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/origin-sells-out/

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sending-the-message · 7 years

Text

In The City Of Meatbot-Powered Killers (part 4) by molotok_c_518

Table of Contents.

Part 3.

I hit the dark web for a few minutes, burned a couple of Bitcoin for a block of stolen credit card numbers, and searched for what the hell just happened downtown.

While I took a couple of the platinum card accounts to activate some of my burner phones (their fraud support will save them some charges, and I'll still have some prepaid phones to work with), I digested what the Army and Air National Guard just did.

(*26 hours ago, in RQZ HQ...)

Col. {Jones}, HQ "Six" (HQ6): This is Six, go ahead, sir.

Adjutant General, New York National Guard (AGNY): This operation is strictly need-to-know now, Six. It has been designated "Top Secret: Compartmentalized" at the highest levels, and the code name attached is "Glass Chipmunk."

HQ6: What the... who comes up with this shit... uh, sir?

AGNY: Some spook at the NSA. More time on their hands than sense.

HQ6: Yes, sir.

(Side note: The reason top secret stuff gets odd code-names is because they are words you would not accidentally say in a normal conversation. Try to work "Glass Chipmunk" into a sentence without sounding like you're crazy. It *might** work with someone with a curio collection... sort of like Alpine Shepherd Boy... but otherwise, you will stand out.*)

AGNY: How is the perimeter?

HQ6: Solid, sir. Nothing is getting out of there. We've had a few... anomalies, but no breaches.

AGNY: "Anomalies?"

HQ6: Well... it appears that the mad scientists' little toys don't hole up well in non-humans. We've had some animals come to the wire and just melt. The larger ones, we need to put down... have you ever tried shooting a cat and her kittens? They melted, too.

AGNY: I'll arrange to get some more men rotated in. Things like that obliterate morale.

HQ6: Thank you, sir... but we need a longer-term solution to this. We've gotten lucky, so far, in that only a few infected have tried to hit us. Tracers work well, so we've taken to loading all of our SAWs with nothing else. If they hit us in anything larger than 3 or 4 at a time, we're gonna get overrun in a heartbeat and a half, and you'll have a lot more than a city's worth of these things to worry about.

AGNY: Roger that, Six. I gotta tell ya, Tom... I've never thought, not even once, that we'd be talking about bombing American citizens.

HQ6: Roger that, Six. Voting demographic will definitely shift.

AGNY: Are you suggesting...

HQ6: No, sir. Just a bit of gallows' humor. Whistling in the graveyard, as it were.

AGNY: How about our reluctant big-brain?

HQ6: Still no sign of him. We lost him during his move towards the campus. We think he's in the Advanced Research Labs facility on campus, but we're not sure enough to risk an extraction team in a hostile-heavy area of the city.

AGNY: We have a good set-up on the plaza. Give the green light for the Reaper to launch. You are covered.

HQ6: That's an order?

AGNY: Direct order, Tom. Take solace in the fact that it's an act of mercy for the poor bastards.

HQ6: Yes, sir.

(23 hours ago.)

Reaper drone pilot, designated RD-3: On station, awaiting instructions.

HQ6: What's your load, RD-3:

RD-3: I have 4 Hellfires, sir. I see the target, awaiting order.

HQ6: You've been briefed as to the situation?

RD-3: Yes, sir. Glass Chipmunk. (almost inaudible chuckle)

HQ6: Right. When you have the target locked, you are cleared to engage.

RD-3: Order received. Lightin' em up.

Video footage from RD-3

It's daytime, timestamp on the video is 1106. Wide shot of a square plaza surrounded by concrete and glass buildings, in a Brutalist architectural style.

In the plaza is a large, pulsating mass of bodies, covered in dirt, rags, dried "blood" (in reality, it's mostly meatbots at this point), sweat, and strips of dried flesh.

A fountain in the center has kept these people hydrated since the outbreak. It has allowed this... gathering... to continue unabated.

"Gathering" is too weak a word. It's like a Roman orgy crossed with Cannibal Holocaust or Green Inferno.

The weakest have either stayed at the fringes and devoured what scraps they can, knowing that they have no chance at survival in the main body, or threw themselves in early, were torn to shreds and eaten whole, in order to kill the all-consuming hunger driving them.

The strongest have formed a horrific symbiosis, tearing chunks off of each other, letting chunks get torn from them, then healing enough to repeat the process. The looks of pain when injured are almost indistinguishable from the looks of rapture when they devour a neighbor.

There is no "sex," per se. Hunger has replaced sexual desire. If anything, the erogenous zones seem to be the most targeted areas for consumption... and since they grow back, they get targeted a lot.

I don't want to look. I want to make a bad joke about oral sex and fix myself a bottle of rum. Better still, a keg.

I look anyway.

At 1113, a missile tears into a fuel truck abandoned at the east end of the plaza. The angle is perfect: flaming kerosene or diesel splashes over the crowd, and thick clouds of boiling black smoke quickly fill the space.

Some of the (un)lucky few who escaped the initial blast run away.

Most, either sensing a well-cooked meal or realizing this will end the agonizing hunger, dive into the center of the holocaust.

In one strike, the National Guard have eliminated about 3/4 of the population of [REDACTED].

I've been working frantically for the past day, trying to find a way to protect myself from possible infection. I can't think "if" anymore: those idiots out there will see me at some point and launch an extraction. I've seen enough horror movies to know how catastrophically it will fail, and how likely I will be to have highly-trained, inhibition-impaired, hungry, rapid-healing killers at my door.

Yes, I'm a pessimist.

I know now how we got to this point, and I have the entire sequence ciphered out. My meatbots were part of a power struggle within the group, and were weaponized purely by circumstance.

First, Dr. A. He got in to the GATACA compiler and dropped his little brain bomb in the code. Hidden in the "comments" in the DNA (we had plenty of space to put messages in the DNA, and did so frequently to explain why Sequence 8c, for example, was written to repair a long muscle in a certain manner, rather than another) was his excuse:

Dr. A: By the time you read this, you will no longer head this project. If I can strike quickly and "prove" that you bungled the neuro programming, I can capitalize and run this program as I see fit. Some people aren't worth saving. Others should be reprogrammed for the greater good.

Dr. B followed this up by checking out the endocrine codes and cranking hunger to 1000. His excuse:

Dr. B: Need more. We can fund this by selling the old versions on the black market, and keep the excess for ourselves.

Profiteering, meet societal re-engineering.

It might have gone almost unnoticed, except for player 3.

Late in the project, I had an assistant basically forced on me. Dr. C was also a computer scientist, come to us from government service. He said the right things, asked the right questions, and made himself indispensable.

What I didn't know until last night was, he was a military contractor on the side, and was looking for combat applications for the 'bots.

He knew what the other fuckwits had done, and instead of fixing it...

It was he who showed Bobby the "Jesus room" (he used a different name for each guard, knowing they would be impressed with what was within). He managed to get a copy of Steve's key card to the most pliable guards, then waited for the inevitable.

He got very lucky (or unlucky) that we had just begun to prep for primate trials when Bobby's wife died. He had the "perfect" weaponized version of my project, and its spread was the perfect test.

I know this because the dumb fucker emailed his superiors on a civilian email account.

The NSA grabbed him up rapidly after that. He's sitting in Guantanamo Bay, if there's any justice.

What I've learned in the past 48 hours is sickening.

When I was a kid, I read Frankenstein several times. Mary Shelley shares my birthday, so it's like we're soul mates separated by 200 years.

I always told myself, "Don't let hubris be your downfall. You're doing this for mankind. You're not playing God... you're doing God's work, if we really are created in His/Her image."

This has never been about doing it because we could. It's doing it because we need this... to save lives cut too short by disease or accident.

Do this now, decide later how it should be used. That was always the mission.

Now... now, I'm using my knowledge of chemistry to destroy my life's work. I know what to mix for the best explosives I can make given what I have on hand. The labs we've been working will be utterly annihilated.

There's no way this project gets out. They aren't ready.

They aren't worthy.

Before I do that, though, I am going to call several people and let them know what happened. I am going to tell the press why my malignant miracle is being denied to the world.

NOW I'm playing God.

I've already made several vials of my counter-bots and hid them on my person. They're untested, but better than the alternative.

I may have a way to sneak off-campus, and from there I have a possible way to get out of town. It's going to involve laying low after the powers-that-be order a full sweep and cleanup of the bot-ridden, which I fully expect in a week or so.

I did some very rough calculations. Fatty tissues have probably all been digested by now. Protein can be burned for energy, and some of it will be consumed by each repair and replication cycle. I figure that, in 3 or 4 more days, there won't be enough metabolic energy to drive a flea left in anyone with meatbots in their blood.

Before I do anything else, though... time for a smoke.

I head up to the roof, and take a deep breath... then step to the wall and puke as the foul reek of thousands of roasting bodies pours into my sinuses.

I won't be eating barbecue any time soon.

By some dark miracle, I puke right on a bot-ridden at the base of the building. He looks up, then begins licking the vomit off of himself.

Didn't need to see that.

I move away from the wall. I fumble a smoke from the pack, and light up with very shaky hands.

I also crack the seal on the cheap водка I found in a lab assistant's office and take a deep swig. I dislike the cheap stuff... it has this nasty chemical aftertaste.

All of this is distracting me from the little fucker I puked on, who is free-climbing the wall.

I catch the barest hint of movement out of the corner of my eye as he crests the retaining wall and leaps 20 feet across the roof to tackle me.

I drop the водка and spin quickly to meet him. I'm unarmed, because "Of course they can't get to me. I'm behind two locked doors!" and this is going to kill me...

...and it gets close enough for me to see that "he" is a "she," and she's emaciated and nothing but bone, skin and wiry muscle and hunger and fuck I'm going to have to punch a girl to save my life as I loop a right cross straight into her oncoming jaw, and she drops to the roof...

...and I grab my водка and run for the door as she scrambles to her feet and makes the sprint after me with frightening speed, and I stop and duck as she comes at my back and misses her grab and I stand up straight into her jaw and she staggers backwards...

...and I spin around and plant a solid left into her gut and she doubles over but she has a grip on my back and can't bite through my shirt but I stand up straight and she flips over my back to the ground at my heels...

...and I spin again and kick her in the head and she grabs her head and it gives me just enough time to get to the door and open it...

...but she's on her feet and after me and through the door just as I pull it shut and now I'm in the stairwell to the second floor with a crazed bot-ridden woman who lunges for me...

...so I throw her over the railing and she hangs on barely and I'm running down the stairs and to the second floor entryway and through the door...

...and she drops from the railing and down all the way to the first floor and I hear the CRACK-CRACK of both of her legs snapping on impact and she screams in agony but she's up on both broken legs and trying to limp up the stairs...

...and the door to the second floor closes on the stairwell.

I'm now trapped in the building with a for-now injured bot-ridden.

Oh... and my knuckles are bleeding.

I may be infested as well.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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