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deathdxnces · 10 months

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He had been determined to kill her. The worst thing was, he wasn’t the first. Irelia’s blades now hovered at her shoulders, following the graceful, circling movements of her hands. One simple gesture, and it could all be over. He spat blood on the ground, his eyes burning with hatred. “If you will not lead Navori, the Brotherhood will.” He tried weakly to raise his dagger against her. This man would never be taken alive. “I believed in you,” he said again. “We all did.” She sighed. “I never asked you to. I’m sorry.”

i think a lot about this in irelia's color story. it's like, right at the beginning but i have so many thoughts.

"the worst thing was, he wasn't the first" implying after she left the brotherhood the assassination attempts just. sort of became a repeated occurrence (because if she won't lead they will — and, honestly, there's even deeper lore implication if we consider zed's comic suggests kusho was also commanding the brotherhood from the shadows, and the fact he intended to lead ionia to civil war to take the power; the idea irelia is a very powerful symbol, and if she refuses to play her part as a figurehead she must be eliminated. and then there's the fact she was still really young when she left the brotherhood too, before it was even called that; there's no set point in the timeline when the story takes place, that i know of, but it's suggested it's been some time since the war ended. have they been trying to kill her since she was a teenager?)

and that's without even getting on how simultaneously tired and sad about it the line is — she doesn't want to kill her people, but he's not the first, and he likely won't be the last, and still she takes the time, waits, hopes it won't come to that, though she could've killed him immediately "one simple gesture, and it could all be over"

and then the "i believed in you, we all did" like?? i know i say that like every other day but she was 12 when she first joined the resistance, 14 by the time the battle at the placidium happened, and there was an entire nation following her then, from people she had never seen to people she had followed before. everyone put so much on her shoulders, to be some sort of savior and perfect leader, in a way that honestly no matter what she did after, people would have been disappointed, because she's only human. she wouldn't have been the leader everyone wanted. her refusal to lead earns the ire of others, either way. there is literally no outcome where she wouldn't be punished for not being what other people projected on her.

something she never wanted to be. the "i never asked you to" isn't antagonistic, it's sincere. she never wanted any of that, she didn't want to lead or for people to look up to her, or to be any sort of symbol or to have anyone's faith. she was fighting because it was literally the only thing she had left to do, because she wouldn't just stand aside and let noxus take everything, because she was so angry and hurting about everything she already had lost. but it's the fact even then she still apologizes that gets to me. this man just tried to kill her. he blamed her for a disappointment she really had no way of preventing, because they expected her to be a messianic figure that may have served as inspiration during the war but would never hold up after that, a role she never wanted in the first place, and she still feels responsible. irelia says she never asked for it, and yet acts like that is inconsequential as much as those who resent her; she definitely carries the blame, still, even if it shouldn't be hers (but that is in part because she accepts to carry it; because she feels she failed her people, that she disappointed them, enough to apologize for it even when facing someone intent on taking her life).

the apology is, in part, also because she does kill him after but like. even then. he was trying to kill her because she didn't turn out to be what the brotherhood expected! and she still hopes she won't have to kill him until she really has to, and even after that she says “May the Spirit bring you to peace,” and makes sure he gets a proper burial, something she does herself. the amount of grief and guilt she carries gets to me

#» out of character — ⌜main sup irl.⌟#» character study — ⌜both the tranquil sea and the tempest.⌟#i think she deserves to snap tbh #as a treat #being nice clearly isn't doing her good #kjsndfkajfnksjn

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outerrangesource · 2 years

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‘Outer Range’ Star Imogen Poots on the Big Finale Twists and Her Hopes for Season 2

How did you initially get involved with “Outer Range?”

I was sent the pilot script the summer before we ended up shooting. And I just thought it was really cool and made an audition tape. I think my boyfriend spent 2/3rds of a day helping me do it. And then I was like, No, it’s not good enough. I threw it away and then did it again. That’s how it started. And I spoke with Brian and Zev, the people who created the show, and learned about the other cast members who were coming on board and yeah, that’s the way it began.

When you talked to Brian, how much did he tell you about Autumn? How much of that backstory was there from the beginning?

The large reveal and the final episode, I knew about. They told me that about three days before we started filming. They had like a year, but they told me three days before. Which is I think is a good thing because it actually meant I was sitting with a real person rather than a twist.

I didn’t know a hell of a lot. As the scripts came in, I learned more. And that’s one of the difficulties of television is you don’t have the full picture initially, like you do with film and theater where you can… You know what you’ve ordered with a three-course meal, whereas this is surprising. But what that does is it keeps you incredibly present because each scene and each episode is its own microcosm. And you have to be ready to engage. I really enjoyed that challenge. I was very aligned with her quest to also find out more, I suppose.

And what is your understanding of her quest?

Well, I was aware that she had a poverty of knowledge. And she was looking to certain writers like Simone Weil, who was mentioned in the script. She was adopting other people’s modes of thinking. And obviously in, I think it’s 7 or 8, she repeats that mantra from “Dune.” She’s someone who, by the end of the season, I understood was far down the rabbit hole of that fixation on maybe this notion of the American hero and that you could become invincible. But her quest, it felt initially familial. It felt like she was trying to figure out who she was, like many of us do, her ancestral roots and stuff, but quickly combining that with a sense of place and home. We would call it nostalgia, but I think for her, it was like gold. It was like a toxic lacerating quest to find out the truth. Because I knew she was Amy, I understood she would’ve been in and out of that hole. I knew that her relationship with death would be perhaps quite casual. Whereas if we think about all of us, death is the only certainty. It’s the cutoff point. What does a life without that threat do to your relationships with other people?

You have so much ground to cover too, in terms of her taking this medication for bipolar disorder and has these messianic tendencies. What was the hardest thing to wrap your head around in terms of your portrayal of Autumn, and how did you do it?

I think the stuff I found hardest was at the beginning of the show. I’d been told by a couple folks when we started filming, people were really worried about the character of Autumn and quite panicked by her as a figure in the show. And I couldn’t wait to get going. I felt like the challenging stuff for me was earlier on when she hadn’t yet subverted or I hadn’t yet been able to subvert that curious wide-eyed omnipresent nymph-esque character.

And I think in a good way, in a way that was useful for the character was often felt not held back, but bound by something else. And it was fun to get that release. That’ve been something which everyone was really encouraging about. That I’m aware that a lot of people have disliked her as a character. And I think that’s quite fun. Maybe it’s more predictable to want to like that kind of a character and what she represents. It was fun to get to do the thing that a lot of actors get to do, but a lot of actresses don’t, so that was fun.

When we see Autumn in the future she is clearly a cult leader of some kind and by the end of the first season she seems to be well on her way. Did you ask Brian to fill in those gaps?

Yeah, I was, I’d say it was like an ongoing conversation. But the truth is, it’s not so difficult to pick up a newspaper and find a less extreme version of this character.

You think about the notion of wanting to be president, what does that say about a person? There’s something, the ingredients, what if those ingredients fall into the wrong body as we’ve seen evidence of in history. And I think there’s something that was fun to piece together and deeply sad about someone who feels that poverty of identity that they had to embody other thinkers or lean on, even that mantra from “Dune,” that sort of that sense that you can be a superhero. There’s something sort of very insidious about that, I think.

But Brian would tell me about the backstory a bit. And it was quite freeing. It was quite freeing not to know too much, I think. And I could come up with my own reasoning behind certain things because she’s alone and there’s no one to challenge her points of view. That’s how I felt about her. What happens to a person who’s left alone, who’s got really gotten deep in and can fall victim to a cult and can encourage others to do the same?

It’s almost like playing two different characters too, because future Autumn is a completely different person than the person that walks onto the ranch. What was that like?

Yeah, that was cool. I think that needed to happen because I remember them coming towards me with like a makeup brush and I was like, “No, not this character.” But then I was like, “Okay, it’s the future, it’s fine.” And we had to have that to differentiate between the two. But no, it was interesting. I think she’s got a lot of people inside of her. I don’t think, Autumn well, does Autumn know who she really is? Obviously she really doesn’t because otherwise she wouldn’t be in the show. But there’s something about that. She’s role playing. She’s not a shape shifter exactly but I think it’s easy for her to shed the skin.

Let’s talk about the scene of you psyching yourself up in the bathroom, which seems to be the emergence of Autumn as the potential spiritual leader.

Shooting that was so cool because Larry Trilling, our director who did 7 and 8, he was an invaluable asset for the show because he was the one who sat me down and was like, “I think this is where she gets metaphysical. I think she becomes something else personified at this point.” And that was a really fun, open-ended gift actually to get from a director, very freeing. And also he was someone who was keeping tabs if it went too far, they could bring me back. It’s the perfect temperature of a working relationship.

And that scene was amazing because what we have is a stunt double of my character dressed identically. She was doing the boxing stance with me. We were like mirroring each other and the camera came up behind her and then she stepped out of the way. It was just a very clever way of formulating that shot.

And in terms of the actual mantra, it’s lifted from “Dune.” It was really interesting. I used to be really obsessed with hearing poets read their own work. And Allen Ginsburg, when you hear him recite “Howl” in that monotony and that tone, he barely takes a breath. It just comes out like a train on train tracks. I felt like there was something similar to that. It shouldn’t be a performance. It’s inside her, that rhythm that then sets her up to do what she does, which is takes part in a shootout, I guess.

What was it like shooting that final scene and what is your understanding of Autumn’s place in the family going forward?

Yeah, that well shooting that shootout was really fun and I always get really scared around guns and not confident with them. And we had an incredible crew and weapons handlers, so everything felt incredibly safe and then you can do your work. So that was fun. I just don’t like working with guns, but that was fun despite that. And then getting past sort of being ripped to shreds by Tom Pelphrey, who said that in my onesie I looked like, I think it’s like a character from like an American toilet cleaner or something, or a toothpaste figure. It’s some weird character who wears a red onesie apparently. When I wasn’t being ridiculed, I felt very cool in my red one piece. And it just felt like a different show at that point, felt like we were almost parodying something.

The rest of the show didn’t all feel like that but it felt other in a really interesting way. And then in terms of my feeling about the family, it was very strange. I felt quite uncomfortable with that. When Josh was laying me in the bed, it’s like trying to calm down an incredibly feral dog. I felt like a feral dog who was being told that they could now rest and it didn’t feel right. It felt strange. Kudos to Josh, because he carried me across a vast plain and we were doing it in one shot at like four in the morning. And just before we exited frame, I got the giggles when I was supposed to be passed out, so we had to do it all again. It was a fun ending to a very like intense show.

Should the show return, what do you think is next for Autumn?

I certainly have my own hopes for her as a character and the show. It’s unknown at this point, what happens going forward. There are whispers that it will, but then you don’t know. I think with anything as well, because I’m not used to doing stuff more than once anyway. For me I’m kind of like, oh one and done and we made a show about what would happen if a hole appeared on an American pasture. And that’s enough for me. But I also would love to be back with this bunch of actors and creatives again. I get the impression that of course things that were written in season one and things that took place and were set up to be furthered in a second season. I certainly know things that would potentially happen if we were to go again, but we’ll see if the world wants to know.

#outer range #outer range spoilers #imogen poots #interview

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subtle-as-a-sledgehammer · 3 years

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As someone who was bullied quite extensively in elementary school, I have a really strong trigger reaction to seeing other people being bullied, both in real life and the media I take in.

THAT SAID: I think white cis dudes who are really into philosophy should be bullied more. I will not elaborate on this.

#if anyone wants to know the background on this:#i have a professor right now who thinks that everything is a construct #and hes right #but hes so goddamn obnoxious about it #like i get it dude #you had an epiphany and now you need to tell everyone about it #but i figured that shit out in middle school #he also said that a white guy who tried to pass himself off as asian was a messianic figure #which is a huge yikes #anyway i hate this dude and i cant wait to never take another class with him

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normal-horoscopes · 2 years

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Wait when did the whole antichrist thing come up/come into popularity in American christianity? As a jew I'm used to the idea that a messianic age (whether or not that's a metaphor) would be brought about by people acting righteously so where does the whole people doing good things but not within my conception of G-d are doing evil come from?

I hope I'm understanding your question correctly. Also know that this is extremely complicated and I'm oversimplifying for the sake of comprehension here:

The idea of the antichrist is in the first and second epistles of John. It's been a part of Christianity more or less since it's inception. Christianity has had it's share of apocalyptic strains over the years, but you gotta remember that for Christians, Jesus is the Messiah. It's sorta their whole thing.

So, because Jesus is the messiah, the Messianic age is only gonna happen when he comes back, Christians just gotta figure out how. There's a lot of different theories as to how that might be accomplished, some involve triggering the apocalypse. It's worth it in their minds because everyone gets to go to heaven.

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rotzaprachim · 3 years

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having slight breakdown about this song and shadow and bone the show.... thinking about the macro plot of the grishaverse being so centered on saints but without either god or christ (in Ravka) so that the saints themselves are in essence a pantheon of gods and everyone is still waiting for the Messianic figure to liberate them.... how long now... HOW LONG NOW.... how Inej is a believer in the faith of her family...I cry to my daddy on the telephone, how long now.... and how that faith promises liberation from the shadow fold that took her brother and also from the violent oppression of her own life with the arrival of the future sun summoner and how she eventually meets her in the flesh... THE SAINTS ARE COMING... the apocalyptic energy of it all waiting on the sol koroleva....

#shadow and bone spoilers #shadow and bone #other specific lyrics map so so well....#A DROWNING SORROW FLOODS THE DEEPEST GRIEF (that's kaz!!!!!)#until a weather change condemns belief!!! Matthias and fjerda and the belief in dwell #UNTIL THE NIGHT WATCHMAN LETS IN THE THIEF!!! KAZ!!!!!#anyway if there were to be one modern-ish song I would have played this in full in like. episode five. OUR SAINT

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cosmic-navel-gazin · 4 years

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In which I chronicle my Legacy of Kain journey and bridge it with your boy Adam Warlock! (Part 5 of many, and MASSIVE, I MEAN, HUMOUNGOUS SPOILERS for Soul Reaver 2 and the 1970’s Warlock)

Awwwwwwwww yeah we are going there, these compositions are most definitely on purpose.

This is where I realize that my true purpose in this world is to draw and talk about obscure or forgotten works of fiction, and I embrace this destiny.

Ladies and gents, laughing times are over (not really though), sh*t gets very real again.

I guess it’s a bit late for this but if you have even the slightest interest in checking any of these properties out, do yourself a favor and go experience them first hand. If you just want to see me lose my mind and don’t really care about spoilers then please, proceed.

You know, when I started this little crossover of sorts, I was just having a laugh you know? It was just a cute little thing, I’ll write this one post and maybe I’ll get enough material for a second one and that’s it. THIS IS THE SEVENTH POST (even though it says Part 5).

Never, and I do mean never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be here one day, talking about having your past and your time-travelling-future selves meet and clash, of seeing your sanctimonious attitude and overall the worst about yourself personified and given free reign to go on bloodthirsty crusades showing off how much of a hypocrite you’ve bee- but wait, I am getting a bit ahead of myself.

I’ll get there I promise, let’s go back a bit.

Where we last left off, we managed to travel back to an even more distant past than we’ve been before. To the time of the great Vampire Purge, so that Raziel can meet this infamous ancient vampire who knows all the lore and might have the answers we seek on what exactly is causing the corruption of our world.

As we step out into this era of History we notice the fields covered with the Sarafan Order banners, and the impaled corpses and chopped-off heads of vampires. No different no doubt from the kindness vampires showed mankind later when they gained the upper hand during Kain’s 1.000 year old reign. Raziel seems a bit distraught by the sight since he assumed the Sarafan to be virtuous and heroic:

“For all the butchery of Moebius’s crusade, this massacre was somehow more chilling. The killing fields of the Sarafan betrayed a kind of orderly ruthlessness, the cold-blooded righteousness of the true believer.”

“Here at last in the flesh, I beheld my former brothers-in-arms, the warrior-priests of the Sarafan order; their lives devoted solely to the annihilation of the vampire plague. And while I confess I felt a twinge of longing, a pang of grief for what I had believed was my lost virtue, I regarded them now with none of the reverence I formally felt. For I had seen the human face of the vampires, and now I beheld the monstrousness of these men.”

While on the topic of genocidal holy wars, my boy Adam here had a bit of a run with a similar pious little group that goes by the name of Universal Church of Truth, who were going about doing a bit of cleaning throughout the galaxy:

Things don’t go so well:

Interestingly enough, I’ve learned of a deleted cutscene for Soul Reaver 2 that plays out very similarly to Adam’s first encounter with this “holy” order. There was this minor female vampire character that was being hunted down and would be executed by vampire hunters right in front of Raziel.

This scene was probably removed because they knew that almost 20 years later there would be some asshole on the internet trying to compare their games to obscure marvel comics of the 70’s.

But yeah bummer for Adam here, we’re a couple of pages in and he’s already failed to save someone. However, through the power of the Soul Gem, he’s able to retain her soul for a brief moment, letting us know more about these holy inquisitors:

Some of these methods don’t seem that far off from the Sarafan, especially on the twisting of good intentions part, but on a galactic scale:

Aye, a great bunch o’ fellas all around, if you submit and “fit in”:

Damn.

Hush Adam, I’ll get back to your predicament give me a moment. I just want the good people at home to keep both this church and the Magus, the god they worship in mind for later.

Now, back to the game. In the Sarafan Stronghold during the first hour of gameplay, Raziel made comments on the vampire he’s currently seeking while looking at some stained glass depictions:

“So this was the legendary Janos Audron - reputed to have been the most ancient and diabolical vampire to have ever existed. According to folklore, he lived high in the cliffs of Nosgoth’s northern mountains, and preyed mercilessly on the defenseless villagers below. His reign of terror ended when the Sarafan finally hunted him down and tore his throbbing heart from his still-living body. (…) But I wondered - could Janos Audron truly have been as monstrous as depicted here? Or was this merely artistic licence by the Sarafan, who sought to lionize themselves by demonizing their darkest enemy?

Keep these stained glass images in mind, they’ll also be important shortly. Neetheless to say, the hype was very real to meet this Janos Audron.

And as I kept hearing about this gentleman, I thought: “I really love this cast of pricks, where everyone speaks in half truths and is hiding something and has some hidden agenda, but you know, I kind of wish there was some slim ray of hope, of goodness and honor, just some good old plain chivalry and honesty. Maybe this Janos lad won’t be as bad as he was depicted back in the Sarafan Stronghold.”

It took us a while but we’re finally make it to his retreat.

I really love the entire segment, the hopelessness and feeling of dread while making your way through this place, probably my favourite puzzle area of the game. I also really love the music and architecture here.

When we do make it to the top, BOY OH BOY were my prayers answered!

Lo and behold, enter Raziel’s new daddy/mentor figure, my man JANOS AUDRON! Proabably the one decent and kind creature I’ve seen yet in these games (if you don’t count helpless human npcs who are just trying to live their lives but are caught in all these wars, slaughter and destruction).

FINALLY an understanding, moderate, compassionate man in the midst of all the lies and deception. I love him! Oh and he has what seems to be a Romanian accent. Maybe a nod to the granddaddy of all vampires: Dracula? I think his design is cool as well, so that helps.

Before we go into huge lore dumps and while on the topic of having a brief father/mentor figure for your protagonist when he’s utterly lost, alone and confused, I thought I’d bridge it with Adam’s own once foster parent, the High Evolutionary:

From the few minutes you get to know these dads they’re very different characters with different backstories and motivations. Janos is this sad lonely old man, the last of the ancient vampires and one who has been keeping himself alive solely for his sense of duty.

While the High Evolutionary was once a man called Herbert Wyndham who performed an experiment that evolved him into a godlike being. This experience proved to be such an assault on his senses and perceptions that he chose to encase himself in this armour. Like the name suggests he is obsessed with genetic manipulation and tampering of various kinds, it is his life’s ambition.

Despite his somewhat villainous appearance, he’s never portrayed as such from what little I’ve read, he’s just…a bit creepy. Like, he takes Adam in and is super stoked about adopting him, but he also values him not so much as a person per se as you and me would, but more as one would value an impressivly carved piece of work:

I don’t know, maybe it’s his metal face that doesn’t emote much; his sometimes questionable morality; maybe it’s the fact that Adam was 5 years old at this point, a baby boy, and this pink armoured deity is super hyped about him; there’s something a bit unsettling about this guy. Have some more dubious quotes I’ve stumbled upon:

All in all, I think he did care about him, in his own strange way:

Anyway, what’s important is that these adoptive dads serve a somewhat similar purpose, and that is to push/urge our ”“”“"heroes”“”“” (I say with many quotation marks) into a more benevolant role: to guide them in their messianic mission and save a corrupted world. Basically there to provide a chance for them to be good boys. Up until now their track record leaves much to be desired, and they’ve been quite lost on what they’re supposed to be and do.

Raziel:

“So it’s all true, then - what Kain and Vorador have told me - I really am some kind of unholy vampire messiah…”

Janos:

“Unholy? -no. Messiah… perhaps.”

Raziel:

“I don’t like that word - it smells of martyrdom.”

Janos:

“Raziel, your role in this world’s destiny is more crucial - and more benevolent - than you’ve allowed yourself to believe. Your journey will not be easy - dark powers are allied against you.”

Oh and both dads give their sons their toys (Soul Reaver and Soul Gem):

Back to the meeting with Janos, we finally learn tons of things, both new and others that have been hinted at throughout, namely:

Janos has been living a life of a recluse, alone, on top of the Aerie;

Janos knows of Raziel (some old legend I think) and has been waiting for him to hand him over the Soul Reaver, saying it is the key to save Nosgoth;

The Pillars of Nosgoth were erected by the ancient vampires and they were the rightful guardians. Janos was called to be th 10th guardian, the Keeper of the Reaver;

Over time this ancient race started to die out, with their history slowly being forgotten;

Humanity prospered and since the Pillars choose their guardians from birth and vampires were no longer born, humans were called to be their guardians but were “wholly ignorant of their true purpose.”

The Circle of human guardians is led to believe (by whom we do not yet know) that vampires are a cancer in the world. Janos warns that “with their vampire purge, the members of the Circle have assaulted the very architects of the Pillars they are sworn to protect (…) With every vampire they kill, the humans are slitting their own throats.”

Janos being a cool level-headed guy here when Raziel says he must hate mankind for all the suffering they’ve brought to him:

“They fear what they don’t understand; and they despise what they fear. But no - I do not hate them.”

I find it funny how Raziel asks if humanity should be forgiven for trying to exterminate the vampire kind and doesn’t realize that: one, he himself was exterminating vampires just a couple of moments ago back in SR1; and two, how he is just like how Janos describes humanity to be:

“They don’t understand what they’re doing. They are simply unenlightened… and vulnerable to manipulation.”

Again, this last line, completely unlike a certain blue shambling corpse I know. Not like him AT ALL.

Then, as they head inside, we learn something odd as Janos presents Raziel with the Reaver. You see, the two times Raziel has been close to the Soul Reaver still in its physical form, reality started to bend and distort (I show it off in this previous post).

When we met Kain and decided not to kill him, he explained that when: “two incarnations of the blade meet in time and space, a paradox is created, a temporal distortion powerful enough to derail history”

This distortion, or sense of displacement however, is nowhere to be found now when Janos presents the blade to him. Raziel feels nothing and says that “this nothingness is somehow worse…” and to get it away from him.

We learn the Reaver was forged by the same ancient vampire race that erected the Pillars (which we’ve seen hinted at when we explored the land and came accross all sorts of old murals).

But now THIS is when the game first impales me through the heart.

Me and Janos are interrupted by the Sarafan warriors who arrive carrying Moebius’ Staff (which disables vampires to the point of being barely able to move at all).

And of course! OF COURSE! Of course the moment my boy Raziel finds a truly positive influence in his life to guide and enlinghten him, and that was willing to put himself in danger in order to save him… he is axed! HEART RIPPED FROM HIS CHEST!

And by whom you ask? Who would do such a deed and kill my last ray of hope?

WHY, ME!

TWICE!

“Me” because I was the one to open an entrance to Janos’ up until then impenetrable retreat, and literally me: human Raziel of the Sarafan that lived during this time period and was head inquisitor!

A bit different from what was depicted back at the Sarafan Stronghold, we found several centuries later (putting the same image here again so you don’t have to scroll up to compare, am I swell or what?):

The Sarafan escape with Janos’ heart and the Reaver, while wraith Raziel has a final moment with Janos.

This part destroys me:

Raziel:

“Forgive me; I’m sorry… I failed you.”

Janos: (gently)

“No, Raziel. Perhaps this was my true purpose - simply to save your life this once.”

Raziel: (distraught)

“While I have taken yours…”

That last bit is probably my favourite line-read in the entire series so far (which is the most impossible thing to choose since there are so many great ones). But I think it’s the overwhelming sadness in Raziel’s voice that makes it memorable, you’ve never seen him feel like this for another creature.

Breaks my stone hardened heart every time I listen to it. And here’s why I think it’s an effective emotional scene, even though we only get a few minutes with Janos before he is murdered - it is because of contrast. Up until now everyone you meet is some degree of a bad or manipulative person, and you don’t really have a true friend or someone to confide in, there’s no one that really brings out the best in Raziel and it sucks because there is potential there. So when you introduce the apparently only decent and noble person in this god forsaken land and you’re so used to by now suspect and mistrust everyone, it is impactful because he was truth and honesty in a sea of deception and moral relativism. He was my light in the midst of the fog and the one who saw good in me. And right when you’re finally relaxing and getting confortable the game pulls the rug from under you.

Now, while on the topic of having your past and future meet, there was a little something about the meeting between Adam and the Universal Church of Truth that I’ve been saving up until now. If you remember, Adam was interrogating the young woman who was killed by the inquisitors about the church and the god they worship. When suddenly:

Good news is, Adam must’ve taken a left turn somewhere and ended up on the set for “Monty Python’s Life of Brian”, where he learned some latin:

This helped him quickly figure out the Magus’ identity:

Learn your dead tongues kids, you never know when it might come in handy when meeting your time travelling, thousands of years old future-self:

So as you can se, we have a similar self-discovery journey going on but reversed in a way. In Raziel’s case you play as his future self, who time travels back in time, meets his past self and sees what a hypocrite he’s been his entire life. In Adam’s case you follow his present self, who meets the Magus (his future self), who has travelled back in time 5.000 years, in which time he has built his empire. Meeting and confronting said empire/future self, leads Adam to see what a hypocrite he’s been his entire life. You see, both Adam and Raziel have always been their own worst enemy (their own shortcomings and character flaws). So it would be only natural that we get embodiments of the worst in them: Raziel, the human Sarafan Warrior and the Magus, their past and future selves respectively.

Oof, this was a long one, and I’ve reach the character limit. In the next post I’ll elaborate more on their characters and different selves; and we go through the roller-coaster of emotions that is the endgame for both these stories.

Look foward to me losing my mind even further while I go into time travelling, paradox shenanigans… oh, and look foward to happier times with COSMIC SUICIDE! See you in the near future.

#the infinity legacy #legacy of kain #soul reaver 2 #raziel #adam warlock #the magus #marvel comics #marvel cosmic #this post drained my spirit #my fan art

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polymathemawrites · 4 years

Text

Hungover in the City of Dust part 1

CW: injuries, ptsd, panic attacks, maths, drug use (via the hev suit)

Alyx is gone, Gordon is running on fumes, Barney picks up the pieces

The dark hits like a freight train, thick and deep. It pulls down, down, down unrelenting and eternal. There is nothing and then there is everything. The stop-start of His voice grates on the very edge of frayed nerves, unraveling them, he is a patient man but his patience is running out, and he has expended his usefulness to an entity incomprehensible. Everything goes from too slow to too fast and he gasps awake and alive, put back into a body he never left. Eli is standing in front of him and Alyx is standing nowhere, somewhere - somewhere they can't reach, they have work to do - the Combine are not defeated yet and there is a missing Vance to find. Free but for how long and at what cost? Gordon looks down at his hand in the reinforced leather gloves of the HEV suit and tightens his grip on the paint-chipping-gently-rusted-crowbar. A nod, of course, they have work to do, and he's the man to do it.

It is in this manner that Gordon Freeman has survived the past six days. Six. Six Days. Running, running, never stopping, and it is in this manner that Gordon is ready to continue, ready to go where Eli needs him to, to save the man's daughter and Gordon's new found friend. Or it would have been, would have been if someone didn't put their hand on Gordon's arm and still him.

"Eli, I don't mean to put a damper on the Save Alyx party, but your golden boy is bleeding through whatever shitty bandages he scrounged up." The southern drawl is familiar, it is maybe his recognition of this that keeps his overtaxed nervous system from ripping his arm away. When he turns to look at him, Barney is carefully not looking back, staring Eli down instead. 

The older man pauses, looks at Gordon, or maybe it's better to say he's looking at the HEV suit, at the huge chunk taken out of the side of it, the rend on the shoulder panel, the rust-red discoloration. Her voice had gone silent with the end of combat but the thrum of morphine still settled along the edge of his vision, a welcoming gossamer blanket that dulled the fact that he had bruised ribs and a dozen or so minor lacerations. A med-pack and a power bank and he'd be good to go, really. The suit though, she had some abuse left in her, but he couldn't deny that the past four days had been rough on the Mark V.

"We are going to need Izzy to take a look at that, maybe machine some new parts." Eli's smile is apologetic and Gordon could scream, how can he look like that, Gordon should be the one apologizing, if he'd been more careful, more prepared, then they wouldn't need this downtime.

He isn't thinking clearly, he knows this somewhat, without a clear objective he was left adrift, unfocused. It's worse than when He had dropped Gordon onto a train with no fucking hope of knowing what the hell was going on. Twenty years, twenty years, and if it hadn't of been for Barney he'd have ended up organic byproduct. 

Four days ago he had watched a Civil Protection officer remove his mask and found himself saved. Today, suddenly dead on his feet, he looks down at Barney and hopes that the imminent panic attack he feels encroaching upon him won't be too bad, even if it is four days late.

He is breathing too fast and his heartbeat is high enough that she's informing him about it, but the HEV suit is unfortunately out of the Make Feel Good Juice and Gordon is all out of helpful neurochemicals. Someone shouts something and Gordon knows it's not him because, well, he's mute. 

When the black comes this time it is not the thick ink of that cosmic stasis, it's all too human and humiliating.

In high school Gordon had two entire friends. One of them was the head of the computer club, which meant the paper-punch-machine club actually, and the other was a quiet kid whose entire personality seemed to be based on being in color guard for JROTC. One day during a pep rally he'd forgotten to keep his knees loose and locked them during the stand at attention part of the presentation, Gordon didn't know what any of these things were actually called, he just knew his friend wound up with a bloody nose when he passed out because of the hypotension. Yet still, five years later, Gordon himself passed out while waiting for a train in Boston.

His head hurt far less when he woke up this time, perhaps because Eli, Barney, and Dog had all been there to catch him instead of the metal post he crashed into in Boston. 

There are a number of hands on him, when he can focus and his flight or fight response isn't lashing out at these helping hands, he realizes he's managed to punch Barney in the jaw and kicked Dog off balance. 

Barney surges forward and pins him down, which is when Gordon goes completely limp anyway due to his relatively short spurt of adrenaline wearing off and the fact that it's Barney Calhoun he just punched and if this man wanted to throttle him he would let him, deserving of it even.

Instead Barney just holds his chest down with one arm and gently grips Gordon's jaw with the other, forcing Gordon to look at him. This close and he can do nothing else. Barney's eyes have always been interesting but age has highlighted the color differences in his irises. Gordon's vision, while blurry around the edges thanks to the train-tunnel effects of his passing panic attack, is sharply focused on Barney, where Barney is keeping him. 

He was so bad at art growing up but one didn't need to be good at art to know the science behind color. Barney's eyes were both the clearest most summer-day-water blue-green and the deepest autumnal wood. Brown and teal, unreal and so very Barney. There is a word for this condition but Gordon's grasping at straws right now and can't remember it. They're just very unusual eyes and Gordon is quite helplessly falling into them.

"You with me Gordon?" Barney asks him and Gordon nods, or tries to, attempts to, kind of hard with the former guard turned resistance commander still gripping his face but the attempt is all that matters and Barney lets him go.

He's laying on the ground, one of Barney's legs is under him, Eli's hands are on Gordon's own legs. Dog is huge and hovering. Face red from embarrassment now, Gordon pushes up onto his elbows in a reclining position and Barney takes his leg back. 

He forms his hand into a fist and brings it to his chest, moving it in a tight circle around and around. 

"No Gordon, I'm sorry." Eli gently stops his hand, silences him. "We have work to do, but you won't be able to do anything until we get you cleared by a medic and get Izzy to take a look at that suit."

Together they help him up, the HEV suit's finally powered down, but she'd been running on fumes for hours now. Unfortunately this makes his already aching and fatigued muscles scream out from being overtaxed. 

"I've got him, Eli." 

They're in the hallway outside the large hangar that comprises Eli's lab by the time Gordon realizes that he hasn't seen Barney since the train station back in City 17. When had he gotten here? Had he seen Eli die and then Not die, had he seen Alyx just stop existing? Because Gordon fucking hadn't, he'd been blacked out - again.  Was Barney alright himself? Had he just arrived only to have to babysit him?

He spins his index finger around and around in front of himself, he feels drunk, his movements are slow and sluggish. 

Despite Barney actively corralling him down the hall, his eyes are riveted to Gordon's hands.

"When?" He nods and Barney seems to chew over what Gordon is asking, "Oh, just a few hours ago, I barely get settled in and hear about a ruckus, you're constantly causing trouble aren't you?" The tone is teasing, warm, Barney's voice is like a balm, pours right over him like the decadent kiss of morphine without the accompanying very hot sensation in his head. 

Six days, it's only been six days, but for Barney and Eli and -everyone- it's been twenty years. Without the pressing need to run, save Barney from sniper fire, or get shoved into another HEV suit, he is free to realize that an implied twenty year gap is doing absolutely nothing to curb the huge and inconvenient crush he has had on Barney for a year. A year for him at least. The streak of salt in his mostly pepper hair is also doing absolutely nothing to curb this crush either, in fact he would go so far as to consider it made it worse.

Unfortunately free of the effects of morphine, coming down off of a panic attack, and now feeling the full impact of his wounds, Gordon has to admit it's not a crush if you've been in love with someone for a year, that's just pathetic. 

Now a resonance cascade, eldritch abomination cosmic entities Lovecraft couldn't have dreamed up, and a full blown occupation of earth had put Gordon out of the picture for twenty years. It had also caused him to be a near messianic figure to a whole race of alien creatures and the remnants of humanity - something he really didn't want to think about. Luckily when Barney looked at him he seemed to be seeing Gordon in the exact same way he did twenty years ago if the soft smile and warm honey gaze was anything to go by. Bemused, that's what he'd call that particular expression on Barney's face. 

They stop suddenly, Barney bringing them to a halt, which is when Gordon finally looks away from him. They're in a quiet room, maybe a former storage room but now a private bunk. There is a cot up against the back wall, tucked between two mostly full shelving units. A heap of blankets has been dumped on the cot, as well as a number of packs placed on the shelves. There is a basin and a bucket of water for washing, and Gordon can spy some first aid packs and weapon caches amidst the cluttered shelves. 

"I'm going to get you out of this fucking thing and then I'm gonna get you a medic." Barney informs him but Gordon is looking past him to the basin and it's bucket of water.

He puts his hands together and brushes them against one another in a mimicry of washing his hands. Clean.

"I'm sure the medic will know what's best for that."

Gordon, standing still in the center of the room, attention riveted on the bucket of water like it's a lifeline, repeats himself until Barney has to catch his hands - again. 

"Okay!" But there isn't any hostility or exasperation in Barney's tone, no he's laughing instead.

"Far be it for me to judge a man's aversion to getting seen by the medics when I avoid them myself. We'll get you clean and go from there, that good?"

Gordon nods, and even though he knows he won't make it without Barney's assistance, he heads toward the basin and bucket anyway, grateful when he finds Barney is right there next to him. 

Without the suit's charging station and hydraulic mechanism to quickly and mechanically free him, it is just the combined effort of their four hands and Barney's seemingly infinite patience to remove the thing. But even patience alone didn't account for how Barney seemed to know where the clasps and mechanisms were. Gordon is reminded that it was Barney who had gotten him 'into' the suit or showed him to it four days ago. These thoughts prove to be fruitless, without purpose, as the pieces of the very abused HEV suit are removed and the jumpsuit beneath them is revealed as are the injuries Gordon has sustained, the bandages he'd hastily applied in stolen moments of down time on his own or with Alyx's help. Barney pauses, the chest plate removed as well as the shoulder guards, and he seems to just stare at Gordon.

The last twenty years loom between them again, Gordon can't read his expression so carefully tooled to be neutral and blank, not the Barney whose emotions he wore plain for everyone to see unless it was poker night. There is a scar high on his left cheek, a number of smaller ones all over - and these are just the ones Gordon can see on his face.

"Oh Gordon, what happened to you?" There is such soft sorrow in Barney's words and when the man puts his hand to Gordon's cheek, he is helpless to keep himself from turning his face into the touch, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek and jaw into that gloved palm with all of his touch-starved needy heart. Barney's touch is no longer precise and perfunctory, it is gentle, when he draws his hand away Gordon almost chases it but manages to catch himself before he can further his own humiliation. Something has shifted between them and Barney won't let his slipping hands help anymore, just keeps batting them away, finally Barney grins up at him, "I've got you." He repeats what he told Eli but now it's completely different, personal and soft, just the two of them, "So stop makin' my job harder and just let me work."

Gordon lets him work, when he sways on his feet Barney steadies him. When he leans into him Barney catches him. The rest of the suit joins the other sections on the ground. When it's just the bloodied jumpsuit and Gordon's socked feet on the cold concrete, Barney's hands still.

A week ago and this fantasy would have played out differently, for one he wouldn't be riddled with defensive wounds and have obvious trauma, but also Barney wouldn't be looking at him with that mixture of soft worry and likely muted fury. He actually didn't know what Barney's aroused face looked like so his fantasies had always been a little body focused anyway but definitely no fury or worry in any of them. Barney's hand goes to his injured side, gentle against the tattered jumpsuit and the bandages. It's all dirty with blood and whatever else Gordon had been thrown into out there. 

"Darlin' I'm gonna have to get you out of this."

Gordon nods, dumbly, hung up on the first word. 

Barney's hands are so gentle and Gordon reels under their good works, he can't track where they are going only where they've been, the slow way they move, there is no predictive model here to tell him where to brace himself for kindness next. Actually seeing the mottled mess of his own skin  through the rends in the jumpsuit is an experience that knocks him right out of his body entirely. 

Where A and B are a pair of operators, with A representing speed and B representing placement - Gordon is a lone man set on a trajectory in the universe he has no hope of comprehending or tracking, the speed with which he has been traveling has slowed to a stop and yet he still feels as if he is going too fast. His body at stand still thrums with an energy he is powerless against and every time Barney's hands track against baring skin his pulse jumps. He cannot predict where he will be in a day, an hour, a minute, he is lost in this second, that drags and drags as Barney's eyes glance up to meet his face, undoing the line of velcro all the way down Gordon's chest and lower still. His head spins and he has to reach out to brace himself against Barney's firm padded shoulder, thick and strong.

He is adrift in a complex dimensional space that tracks over multiple planes of reality, his wavelength has resonated at a frequency that no one else on Earth has and yet he is still so uncertain of his place. Not too surprising when the equation clearly states that you might know how fast you're going but never where you are at the same time. Just usually it was on the quantum level, not one man against a time-space anomaly. His speed and location operators are held up between two brackets, and within those brackets are the estimated answers to his questions, yet if he's standing still how can he hope to theorize where he'll be next?

Where he'll be next is shivering in this bunk he's realizing is probably the one Barney claimed to stow his gear in, with the door shut and a man he has been attracted to for the longest time slowly undressing him. Logic states the probability that his next place will be embarrassing the ever loving shit out of himself but somehow, somehow he doesn't make a noise when Barney slides the jumpsuit down from his abused shoulders and down, down, till the man's hands are sliding over his hips and drawing the dirty green cloth past them. He doesn't move to grab onto him, to press his body into Barney's and just feel him, to test the strength hiding beneath the layers of his Civil Protection uniform. He does go very limp when Barney manhandles him to lean against the wall though. 

All predictive models and the familiar Robertson-Schrodinger equation fall to the wayside when Barney strips his thick gloves off. Gordon watches the man's steady movements, the slow curve of his familiar smile despite time and distance. He could never hope to apply the uncertainty equation when all higher functioning is gone. He is no longer out of his body, he is in it, very much in it. Barney's hands are warm from the confines of his gloves, gentle as they tackle the bandages scattered on Gordon's now scrawny form out of the bulk of the HEV suit's flattering lines. 

"You okay there, Gord? Look like you're about to be knocked over by a stiff wind." 

He gives Barney a thumbs up. 

Yeah, really okay, super duper okay. Barney's hands feel like fucking rapture. Warm and lightly callused, strong firm grip when they move Gordon's body every which way. Unwinding bandages that have clearly served their purpose, some of them stick and Barney apologizes under his breath, muttered words and quick movements. Gordon only vaguely registers the pain, it cannot hope to touch the surface of pleasure just having Barney's hands against him is causing.

He reaches out to brace himself against the basin's counter top, hip cocked under Barney's hand momentarily, Gordon tries to swallow around the thick lump in his throat. Warm hand skids up his side, bloody bandage that wraps across half his chest. Barney unravels it the same as he'd done the one on Gordon's right leg and his left arm, careful and quick. Dirty wounds and sepsis waiting to set in.

But despite the severity Barney doesn't dump him on the nearest medic, he holds to his word instead and brings the bucket of water up to the counter. A rag is fetched from somewhere and then Barney is cleaning him. Gordon would be more embarrassed about this if it were not for the fact that he only has one arm as the other is bracing him up to keep him from sliding to the floor as the HEV suit's power system isn't holding him up and pumping him with Go Juice. 

Barney gives him a little grin, holding Gordon's abused arm over the basin to catch the blood-grit water as it drips off of him, "You're in pretty good shape for a man of science."

Gordon snorts his bemusement and gives Barney a look over his glasses. Barney would fucking know, he'd helped Gordon train for the months of HEV suit preparation after all. He worries for a second then, has it been that long, has Barney forgotten that much in the years Gordon has been absent.

His fears are laid to rest instantly, "Remember when you couldn't even run a full mile?" 

Yeah, and look at him now. Well not right now, as he looks nothing like the implied messianic figure he's meant to be, but rather look at him a few hours ago. When Alyx was still there, making bad puns and cheering Gordon on, when she wasn't somewhere, in some place unknown and unfathomable and most of all not here. What would have been the next point of reference for them, where would they be right now if she'd remained? Did this count as time travel? 

I feel like all I have done is run for six days.

Barney pauses, while Gordon had managed to explain his ageless appearance to Alyx, the rest of his old friends and colleagues weren't as in the know. "Six days?" Barney marvels, hanging there like a DOS box trying it's best to load badly written code, "It's been twenty years, six days?" Barney's voice is husked and worn when he repeats himself and he lets Gordon's now clean arm drop gently back down.

Gordon nods, Stasis, no time passed for me mentally or physically between the Resonance Cascade and you intercepting me.

"Fuck Gordon." Barney reaches up, takes his face in the slightly damp palm of his hand, holds him there and really seems to look at him. "Kind of thought you just aged really damn well, it was hard enough to believe the 'gaunts when they went on about you saving them, didn't... I didn't realize, something like this could happen."

Gordon has nothing else of substance to offer Barney to explain it. It would take far more research and model running to even begin to formulate a working theory about what the fuck He was in his plain grey suit and stilted speech. He figured in the coming days he'd have time to do that, now that it was Alyx who had been taken. Now that there was someone on the outside who knew.

What took Alyx, is what took me.

Eli had some understanding of this entity, he didn't know how, but he was certain he'd find that out soon too, just as soon as his fragile worthless body would let him. 

Barney is still touching his face, still half holding him, when he finally notices he seems to come to his senses and applies himself back to the task of cleaning off dried blood and other muck. Gordon would miss the contact if it had not just moved onward to other parts of him. There are more cuts on him than there is water in the bucket but Barney focuses his attention on the worst of it. Barney's touch lingers on the surface of his skin even after he has moved his hand away, a burning path of warmth and water. Gordon realizes he doesn't want to go anywhere right now, he doesn't want to think of tomorrow or an hour away, he wants this moment to last. 

He can breathe, painful but he can breathe and he is finally still. The Combine awaits, there is no knowing where Alyx is, how much time they have, but right now in this moment he can push down the guilt and allow himself the desire to remain here in this place with Barney eternally. The stroke of a familiar hand, the warm presence of someone who cares about him, the gentle teal-brown heat of his friend's gaze. 

"You're back with us now and damned if I'll just sit around and let some kind of creature put you in a box for another twenty years. I've got you." 

Gordon wonders how badly he's going to end up hung up on Barney's new mantra of, 'I've got you.' Trick question, he's already hung up on everything Barney.

#freehoun #barney/gordon #half life but it's gay now

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hyejinsfm · 3 years

Text

hello friends ! i’m KOFI ( she / they ) , one of your co - admins , and i’m super excited that you guys have joined our group or are coming back ! thank you guys so , so much for applying and i can’t wait to meet everyone and get to know your muses ! if i’m being honest .... kairi is a brand spanking new muse that i created strictly for biscayne , so i’m still figuring out small aspects about her , but nonetheless , i think i hit all of the important points ! if you’d like , you may add me on d.iscord @ 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲.#4090 , or if you’d like to message me on tumblr , then that works for me as well !

( hwang yeji , twenty - two , she / her & cis female ) do you see who that is cheering in the stands ? no , not them — i’m talking about her , you know , the one with roseate hued lips contrasting against waist length dyed tresses ? it’s hyejin ‘kai’ yu , & wait until i tell you about them . apparently , they’re a junior here at biscayne studying mass communications , & a lot of people know them because they’re always in the middle of that stupid , never - ending rivalry . they never stop ranting about how they worked their ass off to earn their place here on a gymnastics scholarship , & i think that’s why they’re always feuding with someone or only sticking with people from phi omicron chi , news & media club , alpha lambda delta , & gymnastics . time & time again , they’re known for a staged smile fading after the stadium lights dim , the perpetual fear of her dream being fulfilled but still so far out of reach , & the discipline of five in the morning workouts and routine rehearsals , & it’s not all that surprising that people refer to them as being diligent & messianic , but also unrelenting & headstrong . have you seen the things they’ve said on twitter ?

001 . STATISTICS .

name : yu hyejin . nicknames : kai , primarily . date of birth : february 19th , 1997 . zodiac : pisces . birth place : brookhaven , atlanta , georgia . current location : key biscayne , florida . occupation : mass communications student & collegiate gymnast . language(s) spoken : english & korean . love language : words of affirmation , physical touch & quality time . ethnicity : korean american . orientation : bisexual & biromantic . markings & piercings : a shooting star on her right ankle , ‘ lover ’ on the inside of her right ring finger , a paper airplane behind her left ear , and a small crescent moon on the side of her right breast . standard earlobe piercings , daith ( right ) , double helix ( right ) , snug ( right ) , and tragus ( left ) .

002 . BACKSTORY .

the yu family is a small , but tight knit family consisting of yu han - gyeol , yu da - hee , and their daughter hyejin . han - gyeol works as a chef at a small , but successful korean restaurant while his wife da - hee is a kindergarten teacher . for the couple , money was never a huge problem for them , but having a child instantly tightened their money spending . having a child had been hard for them , as they struggled with infertility for the better part of their relationship , but finally were able to get pregnant in 1996 . after twelve hours in labor , they welcomed kairi into the world .

although born in a wealthier suburb of atlanta , hyejin was not a child who was spoiled with the finest luxury . instead , she was smothered with the love of her parents and the golden retriever puppy that they had gotten her as a companion since they knew they weren’t having more children . their home may have been modest in size , but han - gyeol and da - hee were proud that they saved and saved until they could call themselves homeowners . for hyejin , one summer when the camp she would usually attend wasn’t coming back , her parents were scrambling to make a decision . on a whim , da - hee came across a pamphlet for a two week gymnastics camp , and decided to give it a try .

da - hee and han - gyeol were blown away when the camp’s coach boasts about hyejin’s natural talent . they had always seen her flipping and tumbling around the house , but considering that she was an only child , they figured that this was her way of entertaining herself . on a rare day that han - gyeol had a day off work , he sat in with his daughter at came and was shocked at how talented and disciplined she had been for the start . from that day on , since the age of five , gymnastics became hyejin’s after school activity . unlike the other children who were dropped off in luxurious and often chauffeured cars , kairi was dropped off in the family’s old subaru outback , but she didn’t care . she loved spending two hours a day at the gym , learning new tricks and participating in meets .

when hyejin was thirteen , her gymnastics career was proving lucrative . however , it’s no secret that the sport is expensive . with her experience as a seamstress when living in korea , da - hee designed all of her daughter’s leotards , and made sure to take special care of her practice clothes . their daughter had been doing so well , but the couple couldn’t keep up with the payments . it had been a difficult decision , and considering that they didn’t want hyejin to give up her dream , decided to sell their beloved home in order to help with the demanding payments . for years , hyejin didn’t know that their parents had sold their beloved house for her , but when she found out she made the secret decision to someday be able to buy them another home .

hyejin continues to work hard throughout high school , forgoing the usual football games and parties in order to fulfill her promise . she was able to get into the university of florida , biscayne on a gymnastics scholarship that she fought tooth and nail to get . to obtain the scholarship , she gave up countless nights of sleep to train , to rehearse , and get her homework done . after securing her spot at biscayne , hyejin will stop at nothing to graduate and obtain an invitation to join team usa . hyejin is so determined to get to this place not only because she loves the sport , but also to finally get the chance to give back to her parents as a thank you for all of the sacrifices they’ve made for her .

003 . PERSONALITY .

hyejin has a tendency of coming off as jagged on the edges . she primarily is this way because she takes everything in terms of her future seriously . she gets to class on time , never misses a practice ( even if she’s sick , but even then she gets turned away by her coach ) , and she doesn’t like when she wake up late . she sleeps early to wake up for training at five in the morning , and even if she’s not training , she’s rehearsing or studying . despite coming off as so rigid , hyejin loves to laugh . she loves to talk and still loves to make new friends . as for the elites .... she can’t stand them ORJUSFDS . does not like the way that they stick their noses in the air , and especially hates how they treat others just because they have less money .

very family oriented . considering that it was always only her parents and her dog ( as her grandparents still lived in korea ) , there wasn’t a single thing she wouldn’t do without her parents , which translates into why she works so hard for them . her parents are still in their same careers and the stress of college is taken off of their shoulders because of her scholarship , but she wants nothing more than for them to see what their hard work has done .

004 . CONNECTIONS .

the roommate : kai stays in biscayne village , and opted for the two bedroom ! these two get along well , and hang out with each other with their busy schedules finally coordinate for once .

the best friend : someone that kai has known since she first came to ufb ! i would think that they’re a scholar like her considering that the elites put a sour taste in her mouth .

the ex best friend : here’s where the elite come in FNDJSFDS . this person is an elite , and originally kai didn’t know that the rivalry was as bad as it was made out to be . she noticed them changing whenever they were around other elites , and this friendship definitely ended on an explosive note and they rarely talk .

the frenemy : someone that she doesn’t really like ( and vice versa ) . brownie points if they’re on the gymnastics team , but not necessary . they bicker a lot but also know when to turn on the charms .

the platonic soulmate : they understand each other like the backs of their own hands . they can finish each other’s sentences , and they’re as thick as thieves .

the enemy : they do not get along , and there’s no chance of them ever becoming friends . there could have been an incident between them or they simply had bad impressions of one another upon their first meeting .

the one night stand : whether from an inebriated night or simply a just because , this was a night that was left at that , or maybe not .

i’m sure there’s more to be added , and i’ll surely be reblogging more posts as well , but hyejin can also fill any wc’s that you’ll have as well !

#biscayne.intro #infertility cw #rmr when i said i'd keep it short :woozy:

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shineonmalcolmbright · 3 years

Text

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Table of Contents

Present

There are enough lights out in the yards to make a person wonder what the electric bill looked like every December. Malcolm trails behind Owen glancing at glimmering candy cane, sparkling snowmen, and blinking Santas. Christmastime is here. Happiness and cheer. Own gets right to business. It’s not like he’s a cop anymore and the split second of distraction is gone. Malcolm hops up onto the stoop of the house before them where Owen’s knocking and it’s time to wait to see what they may or may not learn about the Junkyard Killer.

It’s getting cold. You’ve been colder, Malcolm tells himself. It means nothing. He rubs his hands together to let some friction heat him up.

Owen smirks at him. “Smile, kid. This is the fun part.”

But Malcolm doesn’t smile. He looks at Owen’s feet instead while keeping his hands together. It’s hard to smile when you have words such as, But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back, on the brain.

“Don’t worry.” Owen leans forward, he’s chuckling as he reveals a concealed weapon. “You were right before, it’s not registered.”

“Oh, well, in that case. . .” Malcolm tries not to roll his eyes because how is that supposed to provide any comfort (and it’s so cold).

Owen goes back to knocking on the door only for Malcolm’s phone to go off. It’s tugging at his attention and he pulls it out of his pocket to see what’s up. Hopefully, it’s not Jessica or Ains calling to tell them how disappointed they are in him. Except it’s neither and he picks up, turning away from Owen like it’ll help create a more private conversation.

“Gil. Hey.” If he really wants, he reaches out to Gil himself through the shining but Gil couldn’t reach him. Made the world a little more lonely. Behind him, Owen’s still banging on the door. There’s no telling how many miles separate the two but some panic leaks through the phone from Gil. I got a lead.”

“So do I. Macy didn’t do it.”

Figures, figures. Malcolm nods even though Gil can’t see him or hear his present thoughts. There’s not much to read other than the annoyance of Owen still knocking on the door. Not at Owen but the mystery of if this lead is worthwhile and a consistent noise of any sort is easy to dislike.

“So the frame job and the murder were two separate crimes,” Malcolm says hopping right into too many thoughts even with the knock, knock, knocking. “Turner was investigating The Junkyard Killer. . .” It’s enough to get Owen to stop with one subtle What the fuck as he glances at Malcolm. “So maybe, maybe. . .”

The thoughts are the same for Gil. His surprise hangs in the air, distance can’t change that. He even blurts into the phone, “Wh-Wh-What?” Where are you, Bright?

“Maybe he found out Turner was on his case.” There’s no stopping Malcolm, the words might as well be word vomit because they keep coming, no questions can stop him. A little too close to the truth so he follows him to the hotel. . .”

Bright, where are you?

“. . .Didn’t expect him to be there with a sex worker but who cares, he’s there to kill a cop and he’ll happily throw in Emily, too.”

Even though Owen’s listening, he keeps up the occasional knock to not let their progress die.

“Wait, wait. . .” I’m not asking you again, where are you, Bright? “Are you saying that our murderer is the Junkyard Killer?”

Malcolm’s grinning, not that Owen nor Gil can see him. His back is still to Owen and there’s the distance to consider. But still. It’s hilarious, isn’t it? “We were working the case this entire time.” Cosmic humor bringing them together.

Before Malcolm can get out more words the door explodes open behind them with a woman grunting, she’s full of an odd sense of fury. “I may be blind but I’m not deaf.”

Malcolm faces her and maybe the odd sense is more than how upset she sounds because, beyond spoken words, there’s a lot of silence around her. There’s been other times Malcolm has faced such a silence. It’s an odd one where the rest of the world let’s you realize how busy it’s been all along from the buzzing Christmas lights to passing cars with their music floating on stereos.

“What do you want?” A tinge of sadness bites into her words because maybe she likes being alone? Maybe she’s not alone and wants to be with people. It’s impossible to tell.

“I-I got to go.” Malcolm hangs up real fast in order to join Owen.

Before Malcolm could cut off the call, he heard the ghost of Gil shouting, “Bright. . .Bright?” Damn it! Bright!

The woman has the door partially closed on her as she leans out facing them. “Unless you plan on singing, get off my front step!”

Shit, didn’t think this far ahead. . . Owen’s grumbling in his thoughts without a plan.

Malcolm hops right in, there’s a lot more energy than he needs right now. A jitteriness that takes over and he needs to shake it off. “Uh! Merry Christmas! We’re looking for John Watkins.” What appears to be confusion warps the woman’s face as she listens to Malcolm. Not an extra word or a hint to what’s going on inside her head. “Do you know if he used to live here?”

Only a smile bursts on her face. She chimes, “My sweet John! Of course, he did! How did you know my grandson?”

There’s something sweet yet poisonous about the way she speaks. It gets to Owen first, he’s there gawking at her unable to connect what he wants to think about. Malcolm’s not sure either. He’s hanging onto the words he told himself before, You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

Owen’s looking at Malcolm for help and the lie happens so fast. It’s hard to tell who thought it up first. Malcolm admits, “We’re old friends.” Then again, maybe it’s not necessarily the lie he thinks it is. Owen has no idea.

The woman lets them inside the claustrophobic house. The sort that reminds one of hoarders. The woman collects little porcelain angels and skinny candles. There are crucifixes hanging from all the walls. She insists on food for them and leaves Owen and Malcolm alone to the eyes of God watching.

A broken radio spits Christmas songs at them, Said the night wind to the little lamb, Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?

Malcolm’s taking it all in, smiling the whole time as he looks at all the gauche figurines. So many are faded from years of too much light. Across the room, Owen’s shaking his head. Malcolm’s still shaking from all the energy built up inside him.

“Why are you smiling?”

“This is John’s childhood home,” Malcolm comments as he moves a little closer to Owen. Cutting the distance so their voices don’t carry too much. He’s pointing at everything around them. “That’s, like, the Holy Grail for profilers.”

Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?

Malcolm can’t focus on one thing, Owen included who’s just gawking at him by this point stuck on ?!?!. “Serial killers aren’t just born, they’re made.” He moves closer to the mantel place letting Owen’s ?!?! grow louder. Malcolm comes so close to touching the little angelic statues that watch over them. “And John was made. . .right here.” Rather than touch, he takes a step back taking in the sights. The regular decorations speak volumes. “Religion played a prominent role in his development. It impacts the way he kills. His messianic mission.”

There’s more than angels but other images of the Christian faith hosted by the house. All gathered to judge them and every other person to walk in front of them.

?!?!

“There are clues everywhere,” Malcolm lowers his voice looking beyond the room the stand in. The whole house is a museum.

The curation of John Watkins' past.

As Malcolm’s looking, the woman interrupts them. Her voice is a bit shrill, it cuts straight through the radio spitting Christmas tunes at them and Owen’s thoughts. “I thought I told you to sit.” The first few words sounded as if they were in trouble, but maybe she means it out of hospitality. She rounds a corner near a little table with plates in her hands. She starts to set the table for them.

Do you hear what I hear?

Owen shakes his head, he takes off his jacket. Malcolm stays in his long coat. They plop into seats at the dinner table to find old TV dinners there. The plastic still on. It’s all moist and hard to rip off with the food making unsettling sounds underneath.

You’ve got to be kidding me. . . Owen frees his food.

Malcolm wrinkles his nose as he listens to the woman speak. “Just remember to peel back the plastic. Sometimes I forget.”

While Owen wrestles with his meal, Malcolm picks up a fork. He’s staring at the table as he speaks. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Watkins.” Owen says nothing. He shakes his head. This leaves Malcolm to keep on talking. “We were wondering, uh. . .if you’d seen John recently.” Malcolm looks at his food, it’s as if it's melting and was never meant to be eaten.

“Oh! It’s Matilda, please. Now, how did you know my Johnnie again?”

For the first time, Owen talks even as he’s digging into his meal. “We worked with him at St. Edward’s.”

Malcolm glares at his food, his hands sink to his seat and he sits on them as he waits. He comes close to adding the bit about the Overlook and maybe he did say it out loud. Hard to tell. Owen gives him a look but Matilda’s smiling.

“He always said he made good friends there. Ah, everyone loves John. I raised him to be a good boy.”

Malcolm ends up pushing his food a bit away from him. The thought of eating upsets his stomach just something about it messes with his head. Not necessarily this meal, but all. Like times he’s at home reminding himself to eat over and over again then unable to do so.

“Were John’s parents around when he was a kid?” he asks.

Matilda chortles. “No father that I knew. Least of his worries, though, with that mother.”

Owen’s watching Malcolm not eat, maybe studying how he reacts to Matilda’s story.

“She was a sinner!” Matilda spits out. “FILTHY whore till she died. Chose HEROIN over her own child.” Matilda’s squirming in her seat with the fury ready to burst through the seams of her pink clothes. “You WANT his real mother, you see ME!”

“That must have been hard,” Malcolm comments, the sort of tone saved for condolences.

Matilda’s sitting up straighter, she folds her hands together. “God doesn’t put us here to do easy things, son, just right ones.” She scoots a bit to face Malcolm. His food sits there untouched, collecting the cold. Another brand new edge cuts into her voices. “Would you like something else?”

This leaves Malcolm looking between her and Owen and the food and food he’d rather not eat. Anxiety clenches in his stomach, he lifts his hands for no real reason, doesn’t do anything with them. He kinda just flutters around for a bit as he tries to answer her. “No. I’m. . .It’s fine.” He ends up grabbing a fork and holds it with both hands before letting the fork touch the food.

“Guests in this house deserve better than fine,” Matilda comments. A kindness returns. The hospitality of it all because if it isn’t there then there’d only be guilt. She’s already climbing from her seat. “Sit tight!”

Off in the kitchen, Matilda sings some old song. Malcolm can’t really make it out. He’s cleaning to his fork for dear life.

Owen leans forward whispering, “So he lost his parents young. I mean, that’s rough. But Grandma, she’s not bad. . .” He trails off looking at his food. “Could learn to cook, maybe.”

Malcolm’s shaking his head and clinging to his fork. “It’s all here. In Matilda.” He keeps his voice low, as well. It’s easy to tell Matilda is in the kitchen, still. She sings her song. “John targets people on the fringe because of what she made him believe as a child. That his mother was a sinner, that addicts are evil.”

The singing stops and footsteps approach. Matilda returns with a can in hand, she starts to splatter gravy all over Malcolm’s food almost hitting him a few times. He scoots back while Owen keeps going Oh, Oh, Oh and Matilda hums, “Here you go.” Owen cracks a joke that is so easy to miss. Malcolm sits there unable to touch the table any longer or look at the food without the idea of throwing up.

“Uh, Matilda, do you have any photos of John? We’d love to see him as a kid?” Malcolm talks still with his hands up, ready to flutter with nowhere to go. Grandparents loved showing off photos of their children and grandchildren.

On cue, Matilda hops up all smiles and nods. “I do!” She springs off into another room and brings back a scrapbook with roses on the cover.

Fades photos are inside. Clipped into the pages. Meant to stay. There’s sometimes words beside them pretending to describe people and places and events.

“Who’s Benjamin?” Malcolm points at one not quite able to get a good look.

“My husband, he was good to Johnnie. Pushed him to be his best but my poor Johnnie had to watch him die. Benjamin was working on his car in the garage and like a bolt of lightning straight from God, the car fell and CRUSHED his head. Horrible accident.” She keeps turning the pages leaving Malcolm and Owen to exchange a look because that’s a lot, a lot to take in about John Watkins. “And this is his first communion.” Matilda stops showing off pictures of John Watkins. He’s there in so many of them, faded images tuck in place with little informational tags yet in all of them his face is gone, scratched out of memories.

And Matilda continues on bringing them on a tour of John Watkins’ faceless life as she smiles and exclaims, “Family. Is. Everything.”

There’s not just faceless photos of John Watkins but a postcard of The Overlook Hotel as well. It’s not alone. Instead, it’s hidden on pages all too familiar to Malcolm. There’s the missing girl who was last seen running down a hallway, images of her in the elevator with the timestamps in the corner.

11:05; 11:06; 11:07; 11:09. Then L,E looked out at 11:11.

And close to her is a photograph almost unrecognizable. It’s from a magazine, it says Last known photograph of Alexie & Alexa Grady but their eyes look gouged out. And with them, the saddest part of their story: Family Annihilator. Their father destroyed them all.

Articles about the woman who threw children from the roof of the Overlook before she disappeared herself, found hanging in the basement. Salacious photos of the crime scene are cut out and pasted there.

The worst is ripped up pieces from a journal found their way inside.

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed. 11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep. 11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? I feel like I haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it. (Would Gil know? Where did Gil go?)

11/12: ????

Malcolm looks away. This world is full of memories, and memories are no different than ghosts. They’re always lurking around corners waiting to haunt you.

Owen’s still looking through the scrapbook shaking his head. “They’re all the same. He knew if Turner was onto him, that people would come looking.”

“So he made sure we wouldn’t be able to I.D. him when you did.” But that’s not wholly true, there’s evidence left behind just for Malcolm to know and no one else in the world. Still unable to look down, Malcolm glances up. Matilda left them again, but she’s close. He ends up whispering right to Owen. “See if you can find out when he was last here. I’m gonna take a look around.”

Even as Malcolm goes to get up he spots the page all about the Overlook and ends up changing it catching sight of one last entry.

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

Matilda scurries back into the room as Malcolm is half out of his seat. Owen returns to his food looking at a new page of photographs.

“Matilda, can I use your bathroom?”

Matilda halts. “MAY I use your bathroom! Poor grammar is just a short walk to delinquency.” She returns to her smile and hangs onto the back of her seat looking ready to dance. There’s no way to understand her beyond what she says. Malcolm gulps, he watches her not wanting to move and not wanting to look down and catching sight of his own ghosts. “And you may. It’s the first door at the top of the stairs.”

Malcolm peels himself from his chair, he never takes off his coat, he keeps in on like it’s normal to wear one to a private bathroom. Owen’s stuck at the table with Matilda and Malcolm turns into the dark, dark house. He looks up the steps, they twist around, out of sight. There’s no decoration on the walls here. He needs to stay present, he needs to stay present but it’s so hard whenever the Overlook comes bearing down on his shoulders.

Thoughts of a not so lost past where he lost memories to chloroform and woke up half remembering all the times he found Martin in the basement or another corner chatting with the walls and almost unseen ghosts. Such hungry, hungry ghosts. They waited to feed on anybody passing through.

Matilda’s radio continues to spit out its Christmas music providing a backdrop that hides the voices in the kitchen of her and Owen chatting.

Ding dong ding dong, That is their song, With joyful ring, All caroling.

Malcolm inhales, he counts his breaths trying to ignore the lyrics and the encroaching thoughts. Of the girl in Room 217 who still haunts him, asking him to solve her death as if it were a riddle. Of him walking into the room after pushing Ainsley forward on a little tricycle, the big wheel sort meant for the insides of a building. He entered the room hearing her sing a song that would forever remind him that he’d be seeing her as she’s stuck inside of the tub inside the room.

One seems to hear, Words of good cheer, From everywhere, Filling the air.

The house groans underneath his weight as he moves up to the second floor. Up there, the lights are off forcing him to use a flashlight to guide him through the curation of John Watkins’ past.

Oh how they pound, Raising the sound, O'er hill and dale, Telling their tale.

Only crucifixes grace the walls. There’s no personal images up there and at least the angel figurines remain only downstairs. Malcolm avoids the bathroom with a half-remembered dream of the girl in Room 217. Instead, his light catches a vanity license plate at the end of the hall and on a door, the sort you buy in gift shops.

John.

Jesuses watch him steer clear of the bathroom as he enters John’s room. He pushes the door open glad it doesn’t whine on his hinges. Somewhere downstairs the radio continues to play and hopefully, Owen is learning something. There’s no telling what’s hidden up here in the murkiness of disuse. Malcolm shines his light around the room. There’s a single gold plated cross above a twin bed with two lights beside it. No decorations. Nothing to define what John once loved. Behind him, another Jesus watches from a framed image. There’s a long mirror capturing Malcolm and the wall with the crucifix above the bed, it reflects it back at him.

He moves forward peeling back at the threads of abandonment in the room. Dust falls like fog. Nobody’s wanted here. There’s a closet by the door and a lock on the door capturing his attention. It glints thanks to his flashlight. Malcolm walks to it, he’s hesitant though. Careful to make as little sound as possible because he’s of course in the bathroom.

It's too big of a lock to put on a closet and what closet has a lock? Malcolm touches it regretting, he uses his other hand to hold the flashlight and open the door finding a place for chains on the floor. All around are scratch marks, as if something past and present is trying to get out. Malcolm runs his hand over some of the scratches on the door finding himself listening to another time and another place. There’s no more carol of the bells but a sobbing child who begs. He can feel splints burring underneath his nails, ready to make them pop off. Sometimes fingernails litter the floor. They grow back, they always grow back to be lost again.

Malcolm releases the door and the memory, as well. He’s back in the present, almost.

Somewhere across the city, Malcolm can almost hear Gil shouting for his attention. Others are also starting to ask, Where is Bright right now? And Gil’s furious his answer is We don’t know.

#srry I forgot to post this!!!#prodigal son #shineonbrightfic #malcolm bright #owen shannon #Gill Arroyo #John Watkins #paul lazar #prodigies #Me @ Malcolm: I can no longer potect you not that I ever tried

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davidbowieiloveyousinceiwas6 · 3 years

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i think the truth changes every fucking year and im waiting for everyone else to voice some fear about it. are you ready to stop aligning yourself with a completely different philosophy every 10 months while thats what the infographics are saying? a cult that thinks donald trump is a messianic figure forms in the petri dish that is facebook, our idea of what interpersonal relations/boundaries should look like are informed by literal shut in 14 year olds, we whip our heads around like war vets to avoid shame always feeling eyes on us, absolutely bring back the 11 person family so you have 10 people to worry about seeing you and actually loving you and not the whole world. its not safe not natural and i will hate to live in the world with all of you who grew up on the internet if we dont get off it now

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anthonybialy · 2 years

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Punk in the Trunk

You'll never guess which side is rebellions. As a hint, it's not the one begging to be controlled by messianic nitwits. We're in punk times where the fundamentally conservative distrust of government is proven correct yet again. Living free from control should be desired by everyone. But self-appointed helpers just won't stop fixing what they deem broken. Demanding not to be bothered as a political philosophy has somehow become radical.

Arguing against handouts is truly liberating. What kind of punk expects someone else to buy dinner? Having material needs met only sounds like freedom. Wait until you learn the real cost of not paying. It's tough to determine whether they realize it's confiscated from someone else or believe government is a magical dispenser of goods. Math sneers either way.

Jealousy is not as productive as you'd think. Ideologies based on tearing down those who are more successful haven't quite made people thrive any more than they have the economy hum. Being cool with others getting rich is a small sign of tolerance. In present envy-based times, anyone who makes more than you has too much.

Revolutionaries who want government controlling every aspect of our days and their existences aren't doing it right. Feeling beholden to election winners is not how to stand up for us. Demanding compliance is the only industry at which they thrive.

Acting like little dictators is not the way to create trust in representative democracy. Diktats that circumvent the lawmaking process offer the wrong kind of efficiency. Claiming you'll die with noncompliance is an eternal excuse of tyrants. The fact they're mistaken is just an added bonus.

Question the questions. Presuming right-wingers want to maintain calcified power is yet another fundamental misunderstanding of how the world works. The free market is nothing more than an opportunity to please others voluntarily. One must prove oneself constantly. Meanwhile, it's liberals who want to seize autonomy knowing how hard it is to wrest back.

Ostracized lunatics are tired of being right. Tracking how many conspiracy theories have been proven true provides small rueful comfort. Government as the supreme arbiter proves precisely why it's a bad idea. True humans submit to nobody in general and not Joe freaking Biden in particular.

Don't let us rule over us. Questioning power is a fundamental human skill. Accepting that anyone in charge got there by being wise is how we're explaining why masks don't help for a third year. Call for even bigger checks from Washington ZIP codes to overcome inflation that skyrockets mysteriously for some reason. Your supervisors will just have to send out even more as compensation for proper voting.

Lowering expectations is crucial to maintaining rule. Subjects are supposed to feel gratitude just to exist. Stay home and accept your dole payment along with your soylent ration. Those who treat life as communal sure are eager to prevent the group from productivity.

Nothing encourages rebellion like boredom. Government has banished citizens to suburban bedrooms like they want to prompt flourishing spirit. I'd say they wanted to spur liberty, but such uncool forces only encourage individuality inadvertently.

Rejecting control that controlled nothing is another unintended consequence from those who specialize in them. Innate autocrats think they have every bit of life managed while not being able to balance a checkbook. Being kept in place has been more literal than usual from alleged leaders who usually only restrain subjects literally.

A static life is the natural result of trading freedom for safety. You may have noticed the latter never arrived despite endless assurances. Politicians loathe commerce because they figure everyone else is a liar who doesn't deliver, as well. Pretending the force of law means government does what it promises is a nice touch. How could anyone in power be in violation?

Treating those who yearn to control the rest of us as the source of command instead of written guidelines has resulted in the arbitrary shortcomings you'd expect if you know anything about lusting to hold office. Those who think they're above pesky limits show precisely why we have them. Their usefulness is only accidental. We're supposed to adulate those who clipped our wings so we wouldn't risk being hurt while soaring. Grounded life gobbling with the turkeys makes us all feel equal.

Fight the oppression from those who want to let you breathe free and make all the money you want. Some alleged resisters are surprised by which side craves control. As a hint, they remain outraged children might be chatting unmasked while enjoying school lunch. Pretending authoritarian-opposing shamble rock was a reaction to Republican oppression is one funny lyric. Anger at the system thrived under emblematic anti-punk Jimmy Carter and Labour wankers in case anyone struggled to read the timeline.

Nothing defies dependency like the DIY spirit. Barry Manilow fans demand parental substitutes keep them protected. Knowing life contains challenges that are exacerbated by trying to remove them is crucial to maintaining a free mentality. Those who kindly offer to make decisions for you also prefer to choose for you to let them do so.

The greatest skill of the useless is monitoring other humans. Ensuring nobody gets ahead is a convenient side effect to heavy limits. Enjoying while thriving is a threat to control. If you don't like the adjective Orwellian applied constantly, resist it being accurate so often.

Daring noncompliance is the great thing about bad things. Making the most of crummy situations is what rock is about. Anyone slightly different poses a challenge to those who futilely attempt to maintain monopolies on decisions. One oppressive era calls for three chords and two middle fingers.

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rinnysmuses · 2 years

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‘Listen to yourself. Are you seriously entertaining the notion that you are a messianic figure in some far-fetched tale? Well, I will not. I refuse to accept that our world could be undone by some unforeseen calamity.”

‘But-’

‘I also take offense to my portrayal as a megalomaniacal madman.’

‘Except you totally were-’

‘To sacrifice oneself for the star is a noble act, and I would hold those who gave themselves to this Zodiark in the highest esteem. Yet you claim I recreated Amaurot and populated it with phantoms of our people. A bizarre indulgence that would be insulting to their memory.’

‘I...’

‘Worse still, I even invited you there- literally invited my own downfall. Why would I do something so idiotic and inexplicable?’

‘...I questioned that at the time as well. I was technically dying anyway and-’

And now he was glaring at her.

‘Now, I will allow that the hypothetical task of restoring our world would be daunting in the extreme. Thought of having to bear such a burden for a thousand thousand lives horrifies me. But I would never forsake my duty! I would never forsake my brethren!’

“...”

‘You do not know me!’

...Except I do...

‘I’ve had my fill of your fiction. I will return to my duty... And you will not bother me again.’

‘Emet-Selch! Wait!’

That whole conversation could have gone so much better, she knew... She was starting to wish she had never opened her big mouth at all. Pulling her legs up to her chest in her chair, Ashe buried her face into her knees. She knew that it would have gone poorly but...

Not that poorly. And now it was playing on repeat in her mind. She was vaguely aware of Venat making more tea in the kitchen. It was nice of the woman to let her stay here. To help her figure out things about the Final Days...

But now she felt as if she had overstayed her welcome here too. She hated this. She hated everything.

“I wish I never came here,” she murmured. “I wish none of this had ever happened. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Ashe.” Putting a new cup of tea in front of the young woman, Venat smiled. “And so does everyone who live to see such things as this. But that is not for them or for us to decide. All that we have to decide, Ashe, is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

Pulling her head away, Ashe looked up Venat. She tilted her head to the side, biting her lip. What did that-

“Now,” Venat said, sitting down again. “You’ve seen much of Eplis already. If you’ve have any observations to share, I should like to hear them.”

Swallowing, Ashe glanced to the side before nodding.

“...It’s Hermes and Meteion. I’m sure they’re involved somehow.”

#ic #;drabble #;for the plot #spoilers #;asche #i didnt steal that quote i made venat say #no i did not #totally came up with it on my own hahaha...

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driftwork · 3 years

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charlotte street into charlotte square.. first draft...

first draft

was in no, It was on a Thursday, around noon, after noon while crossing Charlotte Street heading in the direction of Charlotte Square. We were leaving the bright green field shop and restaurant. I can see us reflected in the glass, he has taken hold of my left arm with his right hand, pulling me gently back from the edge of the road. Holding me. Then taking my hand. Forcing her, me to pay attention to the world, he says at that moment holding my hand, "pay attentn to th worl, my lov..." letters, phonemes vanishing in the urgency of his speech.The noise of the crowd, the road. "love" he repeats to me, her. She focuses, wondering why his presence means that sometimes she is so distracted that she forgets the dangers of the world. She focuses, thinking that she and they need to go to the bookshop. Thinking of the phone calls she receives at at work from strange figures who believe they are authoritative in their secularism, a secular phone call announcing meaning which is impossible from their delusory infinite. For they are never as confident and sure of themselves when they sit in front of her material gaze, only when she is invisible, are they so confident. Pay attention he says, perhaps the only person who can, it is structurally inconceivable for him to not want to protect her, to not want to be with her. Just as it is impossible for me not to want to protect him. How strange it is to know this about these people on the edge of the pavement. That he almost says the same thing multiple times is reassuring, it supplies and emphasizes the meanings that the two of them hold between them. That she knows about them, about him. What doubts there must be, we ask ourselves, you ask yourself. I ask myself. For we as secular beings have no faith, instead in the refrains of our lives we sound like the music of birds, invisible and unlabelled, perhaps more like Reich than Messian, even as the pianist sits at the piano, or the violinist takes the instrument out of its brown leather case. The musicians sigh. We are walking off towards the square, people from another world, some parts of the social quake as they walk, not quite invisible as we might wish to be on the edge of of where we remain, astonished and pleased they are not seeing us...

We are crossing, distracted we watch, the traffic is intense, where does it come from, where is it going, they are moving round and through the square avoiding being struck by buses and cars, in this area its always surprising how few accidents there are, given the lack of attention everyone pays to the world, to the social. Here just as they prepare to cross the road, signals on red, half a metre from her body a police car jumping the lights, roars past almost touching her body, then he holds her. As astonishingly in this landscape as trees standing in a field. Together they cross the road, the muted rumble of stationary traffic huuuuuummnin. On the other side. Across the road, walking on the tarmac path, she is happy with certainty. She was sure that his phrases, his words had ended with the word( s) "love"... she knew that he said that. She thought that in the first thirty years of her life nobody had ever said that to her, not even an equivalent term, a synonym, only antonyms of love had been said to her. Only here in this city had anyone said those words, had felt that about her. Did her mother love her as a baby ? by the time she was five or six of course she did not. By then she was an inhuman machine to be constructed as they needed. She takes hold of his hand and they walk across charlotte square, hooking themselves together. The phrase "love" hanging in the air between them, words not spoken by chance but deliberately. The rhythm of their walking synchronized, the swaying together that is the sign of togetherness. They breathe in synchronicity. Their gait was uniform, she threw some breadcrumbs from the bright green field shop onto the grass and pigeons descended behind them.

(no no no... imagine others watching us cross the square, past the newspaper shop on the corner, between the steep dark brick walled buildings studded with small windows, so quiet here that the noise of the city fading away to almost nothing at the midpoint of the narrow street building up again as we walk together hand in hand together, as if nobody else exists. I/she/he/it sighs at the thought. Perhaps for us nobody else does exist. The words we speak are mostly lost, i imagine us speaking unintentionally, the words said are lost in the unmonitored air, they had the appearance in our small space of musical notes that could not be thought about, gentle and tame I thought, are they laughing in their careless advance southwards? I thought about us as we walked between the buildings , how long would I write that they we have been together? Are they carrying the weight of the world or is it something else I sense in our footsteps. Who are these people, I wonder looking at us in the black plate glass window we are walking past, today I think we look look so ordinary, nearly invisible,. Here they pause between the steep brick walled buildings, pointing up at one of the windows. Looking up at a window high up on the wall, gesturing pointing, a sweeping gesture. He explains that they arrested people up there for money laundering, they tried to escape through some hidden stairs that ran ran to the floor below. We can't help but laugh at the idea of people being chased through the building by keystone cops, We must look gentle and tamed, laughing and carefree, conscious of something that an outsider cannot know or perhaps its something that is escaping us because we don't know enough. ]

Perhaps she thought she was unburdened by the gravity of the situation, how she has lived in the unknowable reserve where she has been subjected to the silence of people surrounded (surrendered) by other people and things that could never know about her or them. Probably these people could never know anything about our lives, and the things unsaid that followed them. It could have been different she knows, they could never have become exiles or become captives if she had been offered acceptable choices. We, she thinks could have just been born and lived within her original social apparatus. And yet here she is thinking that she has been loved for years now. And here the ghost of a memory of the first time he had said that to her, or is it the first time they went shopping together for clothes and the way he'd looked at her in the lovely grey dress. Why does she like grey ? They had had had thousands of questions to ask each other then, would they answer the questions in the same way now ? Could they even ask those questions now? Thinking and talking about things that could never asked about, merely spoken of when she could speak; her teenage boyfriends, the bodies that fell. dying or dead, the austerity of her early 20s. The things they spoke of were sometimes careless mistakes. Do our hearts break into panic if we speak of our pasts too much? Were there moments of desire so hidden in their pasts that they could not share even with each other. Secrets ? He thought that there were things that could not be spoken of because to do so might mean the end of the world. We are the ones who walking through the streets, from charlotte street to the bookshop, are really the ones who watch and wait, they are the ones who watch and understand nothing. He enjoys her holding his arm, particles are exchanged, electrons, photons, charm, love and strange exchanged. We are the ones on charlotte street, between a starting point and a destination. Words are exchanged, he lives with the love of a killer. She lives receiving his love. The alternative history in which he might not have known about this, drowned in the bay, bullet holes across his body and head, a sword cut across his throat, are mere phantasies that give him nightmares, his mouth full of water not love. He is watching , waiting for a moment, their moment, thinking of going for tea, letting her, them loose from his male gaze. Not that in the here and now he can know what will happen, what could happen. Which he will do in a few hours time when he feels a familiar touch of unavoidable fear. He will be waiting for the door opening silently behind him for the rest of his life - yes-matter-where-what-who-no run, from the unnameable gesture perhaps a sigh heard before the steel crosses the room, the name of words. He thinks there are no consecrated places, that those who believe there are such things are lost. He sits on the sofa with her, they are watching a korean drama in which the relations of social and political corruption are drawn out between capital, aristocracy, misogyny and buddhism, modest perhaps but not accidental. To see such a thing after, during their lives is something drawn out by lines of fate. Without it they would not be walking down the narrow curved road with the high brick buildings. He can see the oxford street that is at the end of this one and which they will cross.

Perhaps she thought, you said that you loved me in charlotte street by accident, it slipped out, a single statement that refers back to our history. We say these things casually, we have said them for years and years, so that now the meaning has almost vanished, the expectation gone. She thinks that the coming of the words, is like the coming of the body, uncertain, another spacetime, another planet in which millions and millions of people say these words to one another in the vain hope that they will make some exchange, that they are order-words. She almost wishes that it was the first time he had said these words, the first time he had confessed his love for her. Did the everydayness concern her ? She showed nothing of this on her face on her body. His version of this was all innocence, what his face maintained as if there was no delusion involved in the walking from charlotte street. We walk across the road, pass along the pavement. We see ourselves walking as if the street is empty, we walk and talk about something, something. What words can she say as they turn left and begin the final approach to the bookshop, if she says "my love" is that too much ? Is the love too much ? does it assume ownership ? a presumption that a killer like her can only make very cautiously, too much could frighten him. She laughs at the thought. Though he thinks that they are a 'we' together for love and necessity, she is, he knows someone who torments herself over this, over them. She delights in her self-torment. Is there anything else that really scares her outside of them ? A bookshop is, as Jorge Carrion said, a condensed version of the world. It's not a flight path, but rather the corridor between bookshelves that unites their beings, me and him, she thinks, as they enter the bookshop she wants to make the declaration, to declare her ownership, or more precisely to admit that he owns her. He has not a single doubt that he knows she owns him, and smiles across the floor. Did he want to be the owner of her heart, as she owns his? It is a Thursday in autumn. All spacetime is before them. Could this be the last time they ever exchanged such a phrase? Neither of them can imagine such a thing, unless the people walking towards them are about to attack. She releases his arm and prepares. They walk past them towards the information desk. You said it earlier, perhaps you should say it again, one last time. Up the stairs in the philosophy department she leans close to him and whispers something in his ear. Her arm holding his neck. Me too he says, always and forever, I think.. She loves the space at the end of his reply "I think..." That hesitancy is their sanity in this insane world she thinks, his woman thinks. She turns and begins to search the shelves She was never afraid of any of the forms of relational violence, the violence of possession, predatory violence, the violence of becoming apart, the violence of lies whether deliberate or accidental. She looks for books on violence and love by women and ends up with books on Whitehead, sovereignty and some books on empire. He is buying strange interrogations of the law and nomadism...

Neither had betrayed the other at least since Tokyo-exe, the we had become their proper name. The becoming we of them. The collective rather than the individual, the one. Not "my love" or something else that implied singularity, but the small collective we of a war machine. A retired woman and a man always willing to carry her bag (). If she considered anything to be her host country, it is standing near him whilst he and she selected books to buy and read, being in exile was bearable, liveable because of this feeling of being wanted. Her friend had asked her what it was that kept her with him? The problem he solves, she told her, is that I have a need to talk, in order to talk i need him to be around, I can either speak with him or if I choose, I need not say anything in order to speak, nobody did that before. They carry the selection of philosophy books, some newly published some not, in a plastic carrier, they go to the fiction and literature mezzannie floor. Down the stairs. He adds a couple of displayed books on the stairwell to the carrier. Now they are passing the science fiction shelves heading towards the Z end of literature. Shelves of books that will vanish to be forgotten. He talks about the becoming forgotten of literature he's read... The place in spacetime that is source of language, words and phrases. Could another event like them exist if one of them vanished, became dead. What would becoming dead mean ? Perhaps this would be an implausible thing if the event was not discussing books they were thinking of buying... the event of love standing close beside one another as they inspected the spines and the covers of books. (the titles and the names of books bought is irrelevant it turns out) Later he will always think of the things they said on this thursday, on this day when nothing happened but them speaking, them being alone, them eating lunch, walking and buying books. He could never speak about why he loved the memory of that day.

What then did they think of this Thursday later, much later, they are still in London, still in exile, she from her Tokyo home and family, him in voluntary exile from London with her. He can no longer be thought of as a member of the Repressive or ideological state apparatuses, she is not sure that she even remembers what it was like to be a criminal. Their alliance, their war machine, began in Tokyo, became concrete in London. She remembers hearing him say "love" she remembers replying in his ear, them pretending that they were normal people as they selected and bought, books and eventually something to drink, a piece of cake. Today later, their children have come with them to go shopping and eat cakes in soho. Laughter, questions, happiness. Ignoring the watchers who appear to watch and report. They still have people following them, they pretend they are alone. Not because of the failings of the apparatuses of memory, but because moments of paradise and happiness should be remembered and the repression that followed them should be ignored. She thinks that her memories of that early Thursday begin to be like a dream, a little fragile as their lives were back then. The bookshop is still there, all the people have changed, the books.... They still go to the bookshop, just as they go to others. They cannot lament the end of youth, instead they approach their alliance with a sense of wonder - all the signs in the world cannot make them forget how dangerous the the the first years of their life together was. Sometimes when she practices crane kicks in the garden, balancing with balletic grace on a post, on a bench, she wonders if she/he/we were always just noise disrupting the line. It is not the words but the commas, spaces and full stops that indicated the line of flight they would have to follow together. We are made of many lines she thinks. It is as if they were aliens who had to work out how to live on a planet of irrational beings, they stand upright in a crowd ears open listening to the world [...] He cannot (possibly) take the risk of challenging their alliance. Others might call him fearful, but what could he do ? he cannot return to the moment when she whispered in his ear. There is no time, merely spacetime for both of them. There are different events and places. Places which they can never return to, places which they can only remember with the happiness of those who cannot believe. The places they can never return to frequently contain memories of extreme violence, bodies of others lying unmoving on the ground whilst they run. These are places which should have a great intensity of meaning, except perhaps they don't because they have lived through every attack because of the collective 'we' they live within. The places they can return to have softer memories, of things they can believe in. Charlotte Street to the bookshop is an event of its own, it wants to be spoken of, and is embodied in the flesh of their daughter.

Or perhaps you can only say such things, love, we, becoming, together - in a non-place, between coastlines, near a river, in the moment before you move forward and open the door of vehicles, before you get home to the bed, the sofa, the post-exoticism of the cloth covered table in the library, that rucks beneath your... or even (perhaps)as the car moves forward you are looking at the romantic street name in a language you do not understand. Or again, its the anxious way (sure it was anxious) that he grabbed her on charlotte street to pull her back from the traffic, how would he have felt if she had fallen under the wheels of the traffic, vanished forever. Would his love have faded quickly in the emptiness as his innate responsibility kicked into gear? Not like the ending in 10.30 on a Summers Night, one of regret and boredom, but one of regret and horror, nobody could read this and find it believable for it seems unknowable, irrational. Let's say and accept instead that he would adapt and work hard at achieving some new state of equilibrium. At that time on charlotte street she knows that his friend jess would have invaded his life and rescued him, an unstoppable invading force. This would have begun a few seconds after her death in those days. In the spacetime of a piece of punctuation in a sentence. Other people got to speak of their love for others in cafes in Seattle, or a Japanese tea room, a cafe in Seoul. Or some Japanese patisserie on the Finchley Road. Seated on sofas, side by side or across low tables whilst looking at the menus written in colored chalk on blackboards. She, he, they could think of many examples of such scenes in books, movies and images, taking place in non-places. Unlike for them where the scene takes place in very particular place. We spoke and confessed on a street, in a bookshop, that became our mantra. She thinks they walk along a path called truth, maintaining a fidelity to the truth of what was said during the events. She knows she has walked this many many times now actually and in memory, her heart holding onto him and then, them. The spacetime the comma holds.

They might imagine a few years of happiness before its withdrawn, or imagine the unimaginable length of time that being young offers you, fifty years or eighty years. Time like that is irreversible, like their exile itself, the unidirectional arrow of time plays its essential part in these things. on one side of the path they walk. over their people are running along it. So he, he is in his office struggling through some report or other, deciding whether to destroy the subject or not. The report could almost be a novel. written in a realistic style. This space is enclosed within the building, an artificial cave in the building. She imagines his feet on the desk, his feet on the floor reading, occasionally writing annotation on the lined pages. She is walking round the cave, looking in at him. She walks along the path of fidelity to their truth, unable to imagine leaving. The only support they can rely on is each other. They remain, they will remain, careful in the face of the ever present surveillance. The day will end soon, they will travel home, it's not the end of time but a pause. a pause. Neither of them has packed a bag, neither of them is planning on vanishing into the night, a gun hidden on their body, a pen in their pocket. Instead they will eat miso soup, with udon noodles and with a fillet of halibut. Their children fed on pasta with a tomato and cheese sauce at their request. They speak of producing time, what did you do today ? Read, work, speak, record, they speak of walking. She wonders as her children watch television what it would be like to be able to see her mother. To not be in exile. Time is irreversible...

#hat #London Story #fiction #everyday practices

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ephemerational · 3 years

Text

Pillow Grave (VIII)

The ground is still a long ways off, hidden away beyond the impenetrable darkness.

If there even is one.

I suspect that there is.

Supposing that I'm correct, it's a little bit closer now.

I must have fallen from somewhere, a cliff or building or other structure, which has to stand on something, so there necessarily has to be a ground.

But I don't remember.

I can't always have fallen.

If I did, could it really be called falling, technically?

Doesn't feel right.

A little closer yet.

I look up into the void, or down, I can't tell, and through the clouds of now vaguely materializing forms, the letter "L" looks back at me.

Less than an inch away from my retina. Some more letters dig themselves into my cheekbones, creating a sharp pain all over the right half of my face.

I lift my head off the keyboard.

Not yet sufficiently sober, my body sways from side to side, forcing my center of mass beyond the chair's edge.

Figures.

I haven't stopped falling.

Thud.

Face to carpet, back to darkness.

I awaken to the high-pitched voice of my younger brother and a light tap on the shoulder.

“Hey, I thought you were gonna show me the around the school today.”

The young boy in front of me is beaming from cheek to cheek.

“Yeah, definitely, I was just… waiting here for you.”

“I dunno Vi, it kind of looked like you were sleeping.”

“Sleeping? In class?”

I smile widely and blow out some air through my nose in hopes of making the act more convincing. “How dare you accuse your brother of such delinquency?”

“If you say so. We did homeroom-introductions with miss Wagner today, everyone seems really nice!”

“Wagner? You lucked out then, her classes are pretty low-effort. You didn’t talk to anyone, did you?”

“Of course I talked to them, duh. They’re my new classmates, and I told you they’re nice.”

“Any word you speak to those vultures is ammunition against you. Just wait until they find their first target and you’ll see. I’ve done school for a bit now and the best way of being ignored is ignoring them. They’re boring as shit anyways.”

Was I still being sincere when I said that? Was I sincere at any point? When did it all get so twisted, so dark and callous? Why did I feel like I had to experiment with him? Why did I poke everything until it broke?

“I am no longer him!”

“No longer who?”

Lloyd responds in the muffled, barely understandable tone of a man mumbling into his pillow.

“Don’t even worry about it… I need to take a shower”

“Woah, what kind of epiphany has led to taking action as drastic as basic hygiene?

“yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Even as warm water beats against my face and layers upon layers of filth and dead skin are stripped from my body, the thoughts won’t go away. I can’t live like this. I need absolution. Just some, just a little bit, not actually from the good one himself though. That’s worthless, he’ll forgive anyone. He already forgave me for fuck’s sake. How much could that possibly mean. I open my mouth and take in the jet of disgusting, metal-tasting water, in hopes that it will drown me before I can bring this particular train of thought to conclusion. My half assed attempt at suicide proves unsuccessful. There has to be a place for this kind of forgiveness. Fuck talking to some religious dipshit, but sad, directionless teenagers playing psychoanalyst for each other, so they don’t have to deal with the reality of their own misery for a bit? Now that’s something I can get behind. And forums like that ought to exist everywhere.

A few google searches and DMs to angsty teenagers in Lo’s comments lead me to just the place I was looking for: “The darkness glows”. A wall of absurdly pretentious confessionals, ten times the wordcount they would require, were the people responsible even remotely as interested in conveying their actual issues as they are in convincing readers of their depth, stretches down farther than any reasonable human would ever dare to scroll.

The site was apparently created by a lifestyle blogger named Veronica Heine, who became somewhat famous amongst the goth-adjacent two years ago after unexpectedly killing herself and leaving multiple novels worth of purple-prose as her suicide note. Further digging into her uncovered this site, which she assumably set up in order to help herself, but which didn’t gain any traction until the connection to the now dead pseudo-e-celeb had been was revealed. That is to say: quite a bit too late. The girl however succeeded in becoming a messianic figure for depressed assholes who think that she somehow sacrificed herself to bring them this site and therefore save their lives, miraculously unaware of the existence of suicide hotlines.

I guess I shouldn’t be too cynical of the whole matter, seeing how this is exactly what I needed.

Thanks Veronica.

For a moment I consider contemplating how incredibly macabre and creepy that thought was but decide against it.

Instead I start reading a post.

“There is no out. There can’t be. The thing we want to escape from once simplified to its most basic, nuanceless core is reality itself, or rather the human experience that is the lens through which we conceptualize it. How could there possibly be anything outside that except death? Anything that seems like an out is just another in, a pathway to another corner of the same shitty old building where the only way to escape is jumping out the 21st floor window. It still sucks, wherever your path leads, but at least it sucks in a way that’s new, refreshing almost for a while. It puts past shit into perspective despite not being an exit and becomes the new, interesting shit, which might just be enough? As long as one keeps taking the “out”s that aren’t really and continuously turns the old shit into the new shit, the grind stays interesting enough to be worth it, maybe. Maybe that’s the point of it all.”

“If you’re still looking for the point, you have already missed it, because there is none and that is the point.”

“Wouldn’t that mean that there is one? Isn’t that just a “the path is the goal”-type twisting of words, that denies the initial discernibility of a thing’s nature, but not the verisimilitude of its existence. That’s even kind of the thing I described above.”

“It would be, if I, like you apparently do, operated on the assumption that “points” or any comprehensibility-serving abstraction of physical reality is an inherent property of it, rather than a foundationless attribution made by flawed human minds.”

“In that case you’re just being needlessly obtuse by referring once to the point of existence and once to your point about existence with the same word in the same sentence.

Being hard to understand doesn’t make you profound, you know?”

“Well what’s profound?”

“Anything that makes people go “oh, I get it, the world’s like THAT” in the form of a very neat, memetic sentiment. No more than a paragraph. The kind of shit middle aged women go nuts for.

didn’t miss that you changed the topic btw.”

The commenter didn’t respond to this.

What IS profound? THAT, yes, sure, but also more, right? There has to be more. It’s not satisfying like this. There has to be a more profound explanation of profundity. Did THEY, the commenter, find it satisfactory, of did they just not reply because their ego had been bruised?

I come to the realization that that becoming cognizant, not knowing, but actually becoming cognizant of the fact that other people do exist and have thoughts is genuinely the worst feeling imaginable.

I take a large gulp of rum straight from the bottle and the burning sensation in my throat distracts me from the terrifying thought that some guy on the internet had maybe been given a glimpse at the true nature of things that simply doesn’t do it for me.

Why did I go here?

Where did the rum come from for that matter? Sometimes it seems like alcohol just appears around me. Wait, right. This was about Lo. It’s hard not to feel pathetic in this situation, despite the overwhelming work I put into cleansing myself from such feelings forever. The space girl would surely have a blast observing and commenting upon my fucked-up coping mechanisms, but then again, there are few pathological behaviors with which she doesn’t have a field day, this tendency of hers very much included.

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