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things2mustdo · 3 years

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It is often said that chivalry is dead, but why is that so and who is mourning? A recent article lamenting the rarity of the gentleman within the millennial male populace would seem to provide something of an answer to that question. The author of the piece, Hope Rodriguez, contends that millennial men are severely lacking in gentlemanly traits, and explains to us why they should “man up” and correct these errors.

1. Elevator etiquette I don’t care how big of a hurry you’re in, or how slow she may walk, if there is a female or five on the elevator with you, you hold your arm in the door and let them off first.

2. R-E-S-P-E-C-T (sing it to the tune of Aretha Franklin) If a female walks past you, for God’s sake, do not turn your head and stare at her behind. If she is talking to you, don’t stare down her shirt. If you’re driving down the road, don’t honk or yell “hey sexy!!!!” Gross. Undressing a girl with your eyes is one of the most disgusting and degrading things you could possibly do to her. Don’t worry about getting a date, you’ve already ruined it by being a pig.

3. Give up your seat. Whether she is old, young, pregnant, active, fat, skinny, whatever; if the bus, classroom, etc. is full, get up from your chair and offer your seat to a female who is standing. If you chose to stay in your seat and force ladies to remain standing, make sure you remember to take off your maxi pad on the way out. (oops, did I just say that?!)

4. Pay attention to the fact that the world is more threatening for females We are automatic targets everywhere we go, especially at night. I don’t need to get into the subject of rape. Walk your female coworkers to their cars at night. Just watch out for the women around you, they’ll definitely appreciate it.

5. Be polite. Compliment a lady today. They aren’t going to automatically assume that you want to have babies with them just because you said they look nice today. You would be surprised by what can make a woman smile. Little things, men. Little things.

6. Hold the door. If we are pretty far behind, we don’t expect you to hold the door open for us. It makes us feel like we need to hurry to the door. However, if there is a woman walking behind you or relatively close behind you, do NOT let a door shut on her.

7. Driveway etiquette My son will know that he will NOT drive up to a female’s house and honk the horn or shoot her a text that says “I’m here, come get in the car.” If a guy comes to pick my future daughter up for a date, and he honks the horn or texts her to pick her up, I’m going to walk outside and tell him to go home. Walk up to the door, knock on the door, and then walk her to your car. At the end of the night, walk her back to her door. I don’t care if you’re just friends or you’re married. It’s what you’re supposed to do.

Guys: man up. Bring back gentlemanly behaviors. It would definitely be appreciated.

Unfortunately for this author, her requests are simply incompatible with the notions of gender equality that our society has embraced wholeheartedly and integrated aggressively into its legal and social order.

For example, the modern man on an elevator with women has been raised and conditioned to respect those women as his equals. Equals do not receive special consideration over other equals on the basis of gender or any other marker. Equals are treated… equally. Providing the benefit of this etiquette to women simply because they are women would fundamentally contradict notions of equality that we’re heavily invested in as a society. A man who truly believes in equality and all of the values that it represents is going to practice that elevator etiquette with everyone he meets regardless of gender. He will be polite to everyone. He will respect everyone. He will practice driveway etiquette with everyone, and he will hold the door or give up a seat for anyone who actually needs it. He will not engage in these behaviors selectively on the basis of gender because he has been taught not to discriminate in that way.

A few of Ms. Rodriguez’s other statements betray outright ignorance, naiveté or both. Take these, for example:

…Walk your female coworkers to their cars at night…

… Compliment a lady today. They aren’t going to automatically assume that you want to have babies with them just because you said they look nice today…

The first statement sounds like an excellent way to invite a sexual harassment suit or attract potential discipline for violations of workplace conduct. Your typical corporate millennial females are unlikely to tolerate this unsolicited “escort” on the part of their male coworkers, much less appreciate it. Unless they have already been deemed attractive by these females (most men won’t be in this category), the men attempting to provide this escort will be labeled “creepy” at best, and accused of stalking at worst. No good can come of this.

The second just sounds naive: any man who has interacted with modern millennial females for any period of time will understand that many of them will jump to precisely that conclusion, and will also sometimes react negatively upon doing so. Hope Rodriguez is not a man and so could possibly be forgiven for not understanding these things at the outset, but she needs to change that if she hopes to have any advice she writes for men taken seriously.

That brings me to my next point: Ms. Rodriguez seems not to grasp the true nature of the chivalrous ideals she yearns for or the environment in which she currently lives. The concept of chivalry required men to be perfect gentlemen in their conduct, but said behavior was not intended for every female they met. It was more specifically designed to govern male conduct with ladies. Chivalrous codes of conduct required a gentleman to execute them, and a lady to receive them..

Ladies had their own rules to follow, and it was only through the adherence to those rules that they could qualify for the receipt of chivalry from a gentleman. Chivalric codes of conduct traveled on a two way street: the gentleman cannot exist without the lady, and vice-versa. Both genders were required to adhere to certain standards in order to engage in the chivalric exchange. The gentleman and the lady are like the yin and the yang.

Ms. Rodriguez is probably right to note that an ideal chivalrous gentleman would be more measured and restrained in his observation of an attractive female that he had not yet been acquainted with. He probably wouldn’t be too forward with her to begin with, and would remain exceedingly polite during his first interactions with her while avoiding overt sexualization.

In order to get that treatment, however, a woman would need to be the ideal lady. Ladies in the age of chivalry were modest in their conduct. They were not particularly sexually suggestive in their speech, dress or dance, and this made it relatively easy for a gentleman to approach and engage them in a more polite, less overtly sexual manner.

Most modern millennial women do not adhere to the codes of conduct inherent to the lady. Their dress is often highly sexually suggestive, designed to invite overtly sexual approaches and draw the very suggestive gazes that Ms. Rodriguez scolds millennial men for wielding. Their dance is often even more sexually suggestive, roughly approximating the act of intercourse itself.

Modern millenial females express their sexuality more openly and freely than any lady of a bygone age would have been expected to. A lady expecting to keep that label and thus benefit from the chivalrous conduct of a gentleman could not engage freely and openly in casual sexual relationships with multiple men while unmarried. She could not engage in simulated sex on dance floors with men she didn’t even know well (or even men she did know somewhat well). She could not walk around in clothing designed specifically to expose and draw attention to the more sexually alluring portions of her body. The modern woman can do all of this, however, and very often does. Why?

Because she wants to, and that’s alright. Women have spent generations fighting for the ability to remove social limitations on their sexuality, and they now enjoy the fruits of that effort. Don’t get anything twisted here: I have no problem with this and neither do most millennial men. Women are free to dress as they like, dance as they like and fuck as they like. I’m certainly not going to stop them, but there’s a price to pay for all of this.

As noted before, the gentleman and the lady come together. One cannot exist without the other—the code of chivalry was designed with this understanding in mind, and it dealt with that understanding by creating standards of conduct for each gender seeking to participate in the chivalric exchange. When we freed women from the obligation to adhere to those standards of conduct, we necessarily freed men as well.

How can we change this and bring back the missing gentleman Ms. Rodriguez so desperately desires to interact with? Well, gentlemen require ladies. If you want more gentlemen in the traditional sense, you’ll need to create more ladies in the traditional sense, and that would require a re-imposition of the same social and legal restrictions on female sexuality and expression that women have fought so hard to eliminate during the last few generations. There would need to be a rescission of the legal progress females in our society have made toward true equality.

To further illustrate just why this is, consider the way in Ms. Rodriguez’s suggestion that men give up seats and hold doors (among other preferential and somewhat deferential things) specifically for women solely because they are women. Such behavior was once common, but why was this?

Because women were seen as the weaker sex. This notion of the inherently “weak” female governed the discriminatory legal and social landscape in which the code of chivalry was born and practiced. Men did all they did for women because of the implicit understanding in society that women, by virtue of their being women, were not equal to them. They were weaker and needed assistance and men, by virtue of their being men, were stronger and therefore obligated to provide that assistance.

Men are no longer behaving this way because they have been raised to understand that their female counterparts are not weak, but strong. They’re not dependent, but independent. They’re not inferiors, they’re equals. Our modern legal system takes these statements as fundamental, unassailable truths and uses the force of law to ensure that they are treated accordingly. This will, in turn, prevent men from doing many of the things Ms. Rodriguez would like them to, as they have become increasingly unable to see women as their true inferiors.

If Ms. Rodriguez wants the chivalric code to make its way back into the mainstream, she’ll need to bring back the old view on gender relations that gave rise to it. Modern notions of gender equality will need to go out the window.

That is unlikely to happen, however. For all of her yearning for the “chivalry” of yesteryear, I doubt that Hope Rodriguez or any other modern woman would like to see the return of the social mores necessary to sustain it. Millennial women live in what is undoubtedly the best time to be a female in the history of humanity. At no point in human history have women been as wealthy, as free, as respected and as influential as they are today. The return of te social norms necessary to sustain chivalry in the traditional sense could only inhibit their enjoyment of all that, and they know it. Women have made their voices heard loudly and clearly: they will not tolerate this.

Hope Rodriguez seems like a nice girl and I’m sure she’ll find a man to treat her well sometime soon (if she hasn’t already), but she’ll not succeed in bringing back the ways of a bygone age. Chivalry is dead and, at the end of the day, that’s just the way that most millennial women want it.

https://www.returnofkings.com/28660/the-concept-of-chivalry-has-been-distorted-to-create-subservient-men

From Wikipedia:

Chivalry, or the chivalric code, is the traditional code of conduct associated with the medieval institution of knighthood… It was originally conceived of as an aristocratic warrior code… involving gallantry, individual training, and service to others. Over time its meaning has been refined to emphasise more ideals such as the knightly virtues of honour, courtly love, courtesy, and less martial aspects of the tradition.

The term “martial” here, of course, means relating to war: the code was originally meant to guide medieval warriors– not peasants, aristocrats, or even lords. And certainly not modern day men, living in the world we do today.

This fact alone sheds light on why the code has changed over time. Warriors slashing each other with swords simply don’t exist today. Yet chivalry has stuck around. So has its meaning been refined? Or completely distorted? Let’s take a look at its conception.

The first noted support for chivalric vocation, or the establishment of knightly class to ensure the sanctity and legitimacy of Christianity was written in 930 by Odo, abbot of Cluny in the Vita of St. Gerald of Aurillac.

This passage sheds more light on its intended purpose. The knights, and their chivalric code were meant “to ensure the sanctity and legitimacy of Christianity.” Take fearless warriors like these knights, put them in wartime scenarios, and what do you get? Things like rape and pillaging come to mind, and are commonplace in wars even to this day. Chivalry was meant to ensure that the Christian values that these knights were supposedly fighting for were observed, even in battle.

But as time went on, the application of this code began to encompass more areas of a warrior’s life. Below are the three fronts that chivalry embodied as the middle ages went on:

1. Duties to countrymen and fellow Christians: this contains virtues such as mercy, courage, valor, fairness, protection of the weak and the poor, and in the servant-hood of the knight to his lord. 2. Duties to God: this would contain being faithful to God, protecting the innocent, being faithful to the church, being the champion of good against evil, being generous and obeying God above the feudal lord. 3. Duties to women: this would contain what is often called courtly love, the idea that the knight is to serve a lady, and after her all other ladies.

The first two areas mentioned here represent the origins of the code. Knights were to uphold the Christian values of mercy, courage, protection of the weak, and service to god as they carried out their battles and crusades. The third point, however, is what we are most familiar with today.

This is the expansion of the code into court life where the knights were expected to respect and serve women. But not all women 0nly to Christian ladies of the court, i.e. noble women. The same way these courageous warriors were to protect the weak, they were meant to protect and serve women. In addition to their primary wartime purposes, of course.

Today

What does chivalry mean today? Apparently, now that we don’t have a defined knightly class to battle with swords and protect Christianity, it has expanded to mean that all men should follow it. But not the whole thing. Just the part about serving women.

And there’s nothing wrong with this. A manly man opening the car door or carrying a heavy load to help a feminine women out is a great and attractive thing. This at least resembles the traditional dynamic of a knight protecting and serving a medieval lady. But when you remove some key aspects of this dynamic, does it still apply?

If you take a bratty, drunk girl who’s whining and complaining to her man, does it still apply? What about a girl who is so committed to being on her own and free of dependency on any man that she always tries to order them around and flip the script? When a poor beta man rushes ahead of her to open the door, is that chivalry?

I think not. I think she just made him her bitch.

So is chivalry alive today? In the modern sense of a man protecting and serving women it certainly can be. The strong, confident alpha male who takes it upon himself to treat women as medieval ladies and take care of the manly tasks like carrying heavy bags or walking on the outside of the sidewalk to protect her is a shining example of chivalry in its true sense.

Unfortunately many modern men aren’t like this. They are weak and timid. When you combine this with a women who’s susceptible to taking advantage of such a man and the idea of chivalry, you have the makings of a disaster. A man like this going out of his way to serve all women is only going to further damage his sense of self worth. Rather than being her “knight in shining armour” he becomes something that more closely resembles a servant or a slave.

In the end, it all depends on the context. Chivalry only applied to the knightly class in medieval times. Today, it’s become something that all men are encouraged to follow, whether alpha or beta. While it certainly is an attractive and acceptable behaviour of the alpha, it only serves to further emasculate the beta.

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glorious-blackout · 3 years

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Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Six

@rock-n-roll-fantasy I should probably warn you that I am definitely back on my angst-junkie bullshit with this one, but I promise there’s more to come after this! 😅 Not sure when I’ll be able to post the next parts but hopefully you enjoy these two in the meantime 😊

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

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There’s something wrong with the Earth.

This isn’t necessarily a surprise. In the week since the quake that never was, the entire world has felt off; tilted on its axis to such a degree that Alex can’t even begin to fix it. The details of the hotel feel muted, the life slowly draining from his surroundings as empty husks are left in the wake of an unseen angel of death. Once pristine white walls look faded and beige beneath flickering lights. The usual buzz of activity emanating throughout scattered hotel rooms has quietened, as though a volume dial has been turned all the way down. Portraits which once hung proudly along the reception walls have tilted, and if Alex studies them closely enough, he can see the colours smudging as the paint melts, removing all nuance in the process. At this point it wouldn’t surprise him to find cracks creeping along the marble columns or dying lilies curling over themselves in neglected pots, although he supposes it’ll only be a matter of time before that sight greets him as well.

It’s not just the hotel itself which has fallen prey to this lack of vitality. The guests have never been particularly fascinating company, but now they appear virtually soulless. Their numbers dwindle with each passing day despite no clear evidence of rockets carrying them towards home, and when scattered patrons do reveal themselves, Alex ends up eavesdropping on the same mundane conversations over and over again. Staff members offer the same monotonous greetings to him regardless of any attempts to lure them into conversation. Even Andrew, who can be quite amenable to a casual conversation over a pint, has little more to offer besides, “How are you enjoying your drink, sir?” when Alex forcibly drags himself to the bar.

On the one occasion where he agrees to play a show, he finds himself gazing at a placid, unmoving crowd who deign to make as little noise as possible. There are no cheers, no attempts to sing along, no murmurs of approval. Alex doesn’t even have the energy to be startled when he notes that several faces in the crowd have been replaced with expressionless masks, as though an artist has erased their features entirely, leaving only a discoloured smudge in their wake.

The world appears to be winding down, crumbling at the seams with no end in sight. And to top it all off, he’s the only person alive who seems to have noticed.

Even his weekly meetings with Murphy have halted without explanation. He’ll sit by the computer for hours on end, waiting for the dreaded ringing to invade his eardrums, but it never does. For the first time in his life, Alex would give anything to face that man and give him a piece of his mind, but God doesn’t appear to be answering his calls right now.

And then there’s Jamie.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?”

Alex doesn’t pay him any heed, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the alluring form of Earth above him. He cannot bear to look at Jamie right now; not when doing so will only unveil a lifeless expression marring his friend’s once kind face. He only wishes the man would say something – anything – else. It appears to be lost on Jamie that he’s uttered the same sentence three times in the last fifteen minutes, having said little else since drawing up beside Alex on the balcony. The fact that he never receives an answer doesn’t register with him either. He simply keeps asking, like a children’s toy with only one voice-clip, not realising that every time he asks, he only succeeds in adding a further crack to Alex’s thoroughly abused heart.

Nick and Matt have fared little better. Playing a show with them the other night had been akin to playing with three ghosts who have yet to leave their bodies. All traces of humour and nuance and love have been stripped from them, leaving empty shells where his best friends once stood.

Or rather, where convincing replicas of his friends once stood. Alex can’t pretend to understand how this version of reality works, and he’s still struggling to separate the splintered fragments of Mark’s false memories from his own recollections. The Jamie, Matt and Nick he has been living with are certainly modelled after the people he’s known and loved all his life, but there are enough subtle differences to make him question if they were ever real in the first place. The most glaring marker of all being the fact that when he’d insisted they call him Alex, the only response had been a lack of recognition which had almost broken him.

The only person who has ever referred to him as Alex in all the time he’s been here is Matthew, but even as his mad theories have become more and more plausible, the man himself has remained infuriatingly elusive.

At least Alex knows why he seemed so familiar now. They’d only crossed paths occasionally in the past, exchanging pleasantries and compliments at various awards shows and festivals, but given their similar positions it would be impossible for him not to be familiar with a certain Matthew Bellamy. The man has always been more of a friend-of-a-friend to Alex than a proper acquaintance, but he likes him well enough to believe that Matt’s apparent fondness for him was also genuine. Granted, he doubts he’d ever have pictured the man as a planet-hopping outlaw, but then again, he imagines Matt must have been equally surprised to find him acting as the owner of a four-star establishment on the moon.

A disbelieving giggle erupts from him before he can stop it. He’s been doing that a lot lately. No doubt it’s an unconscious coping mechanism his brain has concocted while processing the impossible situation he’s stumbled into; he supposes his only options at this point are to laugh or sob like a child.

Pointedly ignoring Jamie’s lingering presence, Alex lets the Earth consume his attention once more. She’s as beautiful now as she always has been – her deep shades of greens and blues vibrant against a dense black sky – but that only adds to the sense of wrongness tugging at his heart. He shouldn’t even be capable of standing here, gazing towards home from this angle. Surely without proper protection and oxygen tanks, the air should have been sucked from his lungs and he should be gliding across the ground rather than standing still. Is there a force-field surrounding them, providing them with breathable air and simulated Earth-like gravity? If he concentrates hard enough, will he be able to spot the tell-tale shimmer of a shield embracing his tiny civilisation?

How odd that he’s never questioned such technicalities before.

As for the Earth itself, the more he studies it, the more it looks like someone has merely devised a painting of her against an endless black canvas, basing their work on ancient photographs from age-old Apollo missions. The image is too perfect. Too still and unaffected; a close approximation of how Earth must have appeared millions of years ago, before her surface was warped by humanity’s influence. The more he remembers of his final days on Earth, the less the image before him aligns with the truth. The clouds hovering beneath the atmosphere shouldn’t be a perfect white, they should be blackened by thick smoke. Those vibrant greens should have been burnt away to smouldering brown, as ash falls thick and heavy over once beautiful landscapes. No doubt even the oceans must have turned a grim, murky grey by now, rather than the striking blues he gazes upon now.

Alex gasps as a memory emerges unbidden, hands desperately grasping the balcony railing. These episodes have been coming thick and fast of late, and it takes all of his willpower not to collapse as faint echoes of screams pierce his ears and the foul taste of ash smothers his tastebuds.

He lets the memory carry him away, however, for he knows that stewing in his own ignorance is no longer an option he can indulge in.

The air is thick with acrid smoke as ash gathers on his tongue with every breath. His eyes draw upwards towards a tangerine sky; the sun obscured by thick smog which he can feel clogging his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak. Only hours ago the advice had been to stay inside, but the sirens now piercing his eardrums signal a change, and he knows with unexplainable certainty that if he’d stayed behind, he would have been consumed by the flames which lick their way across the landscape without mercy.

He doesn’t recall the events leading up to this moment, try as he might. Can’t recall if he’d been at home, or in the studio, or trapped within the confines of a hotel halfway around the world. The only instinctual memory he retains is that the catastrophe had crept up on them without warning, announcing itself with all the subtlety of an air-raid siren shooting panic into the veins of every human being on Earth. Only it hadn’t been sudden, had it? Not really. Humanity at large had known for years that the world was destined to burn unless something was done to stop it, but the warnings had been largely ignored, right up until the moment the fire was breathing down everyone’s necks.

The crowd surrounding him is desperate and he whimpers as countless bodies shove against him. No doubt he could remain perfectly rigid and yet still find himself pushed forwards by the sheer force of the human wave. The claustrophobia is suffocating, and breathing provides little relief when the air is as poisoned as it is. He can feel his chest heaving and the constant shouts and screams are momentarily drowned out by his pulse pounding a steady rhythm in his ears, and he clings tightly to the hand wrapped securely around his own as he’s guided along the wide street by a steady anchor. He doesn’t need to look to know instinctively whose hand it belongs to. The calming influence as his guide squeezes back and pulls him in closer is unmistakable. He presses himself against the other man’s body as the cacophony is quickly drowned out by gentle reassurances of, “We’re okay Al, just stay close yeah? We’re nearly there, just a little bit further, you’re doing great...”

He must look a state to warrant such a commentary, but he cannot bring himself to care. As he allows himself to narrow his focus entirely onto that soft voice, he can feel his heartrate slowing and his rapid breathing starting to ease. He feels - rather than sees - a worried face turning in his direction, ensuring that he’s still locked in the present rather than lost in the grasp of his panicked mind, and he gives a shaky nod to indicate that he’s okay. The world is burning and there’s no guarantee that safety is as close as his friend insists it is, but he’s not alone and the flames are still far behind him, so for now he’s okay. His hand is caught in another gentle squeeze - it occurs to him that the action might be for the other’s benefit as much as it is his - and they push onwards as best they can through the hulking mass of bodies surrounding them.

There’s a scuffle behind him as someone utters a sharp cry. Perhaps the constant shoving of bodies has finally erupted into a full-blown fight; either that or someone has merely lost their balance and fallen to the ground. Either way it spells the end for him. A desperate hand clings to Alex’s forearm for support and he feels himself being jerked backwards, struggling to maintain his grip on the precious fingers clutching his hand as faceless bodies try to pull him away. Panic seizes his throat, tightening his airway to the point where he cannot so much as scream. As the force of the disorganised crowd pulls him backwards, the people in front keep advancing, still trying to escape the flames and the thick, cloying smog. Concerned brown eyes turn to look at him, having sensed his distress in the crushing grip of his hand, and Alex can only watch those eyes widen with naked fear as their owner is pulled in the opposite direction.

Those pivotal seconds seem endless when replayed in Alex’s mind. The image repeats itself like a broken VHS tape - an unending loop of terror - but it must have taken no time at all for their connection to be severed with surgical precision. He remembers panicked, animalistic screams escaping his throat as he fought and clawed at the terrified masses surrounding him, his hand suddenly grasping nothing but air. He remembers the crowd in front pushing onwards, with one man among their ranks fighting tirelessly to stay behind, screaming Alex’s name over and over to the point where it must surely have torn his throat.

Neither of their efforts work. Their hands never meet again, and Alex can only watch as his salvation is carried off like a life-raft on the ocean, leaving him behind to drown on his sinking ship. And even above the distant sirens and the roar of nearby flames, the frantic, hopeless scream of “Alex!” continues to ring in his ears long after his would-be savior has vanished from sight.

“-ark?”

The crowded street blanketed in a thick, ashen haze vanishes from his mind’s eye and he blinks as Jamie’s voice pulls him back to the present. It takes a moment to fully reorientate himself, even as his eyes settle upon the pleasant mirage of Earth hanging above them. The air still feels unclean and the thick, cloying taste of ash still resides on his tongue. His throat still screams from the frantic cries that had been torn from it and his chest aches with the effort of breathing in filthy smog. His hand feels cold and empty, still grasping nothing but air in the place of warm flesh, and an overpowering sense of loss washes over him like a painful echo. If Jamie notices his distress, he makes no mention of it. His face is as blank and expressionless as it has been since his world became muted, and Alex thinks he would give his right hand in exchange for five minutes of his friend’s smothering concern.

“Where’s Miles?” he croaks out eventually, turning to face Jamie with a damning sense of dread. Part of him suspects that he already knows what the reaction will be and he longs to tear his eyes away in order to spare himself the pain, but he has to look. He needs this final grain of proof.

Jamie barely reacts to the words despite the fact that they’ve come out of nowhere. The only reason Alex even registers the minute furrow of his brow and downwards tug of his lips is because he knows that face better than he knows his own, and even then, the impassive blankness is back within mere seconds.

“Who’s Miles?”

Alex can’t look at him anymore. If he forces himself to look at that emotionless face then he knows his heart will crumble to dust and he’ll never be able to piece it back together. His eyes are drawn skyward and he keeps them there, unblinking, even when the growing sting becomes unbearable. His vision blurs with unshed tears and his chest shudders fitfully with the effort it takes not to break into animalistic sobs, but he forces himself to swallow down his grief before it can consume him. The pain is unbearable. It creeps over his mind like a specter, dragging its scythe wherever it goes without a care for the damage it leaves in its wake. The temptation to laugh as he realises that this has been the reason for his pervading sense of loneliness all along almost overwhelms him. Perhaps that would get a reaction out of the hollow shell that has taken Jamie’s place.

In the end, however, he doesn’t have the energy to make the slightest sound.

Because it’s not just Miles he’s grieving. The Jamie he knows and loves would never have let those two words leave his mouth. He would never stand idly by while Alex falls apart, visibly struggling to piece himself back together despite knowing that his efforts are completely worthless. The Jamie he knows would have pulled him in for a hug and let him sob his heart out without judgement, before gently telling him to tidy himself up so they can go out to thoroughly drown their sorrows. No doubt the Jamie standing beside him now has always been nothing more than a façade; expertly written code and little else. The same applies to Nick and Matt and every other human being he’s interacted with since stepping foot on this godforsaken rock, perhaps with the exception of Matthew. They’d been rather convincing replicas, he’s loath to admit, but that’s all they’ve ever been.

“Doesn’t matter,” he forces out in a choked whisper, in the full knowledge that that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He wonders if his real friends are still out there somewhere. Did they make it to safety while Alex was left behind and imprisoned within this lie? Have they been searching for him all this time, while he allowed his mind to be manipulated to the point where he forgot they existed? Are they mourning for him with the same all-consuming grief he finds himself overwhelmed by now?

Or are they simply ghosts, lost long ago to a world that has become uninhabitable? Perhaps they’re even trapped in the same boat he is; so wrapped up in the blissful ignorance of a beautiful lie that they cannot remember their own names.

“Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

He recalls Matthew’s burning question with a new sense of clarity. Because it hadn’t been hypothetical had it? Matthew had uncovered their circumstances long before Alex had. In his own infuriating way, Matt had been trying to prepare Alex for the conundrum he would be forced to contend with once the curtain rose. Their entire conversation had been a warning, planting seeds in his head that would eventually result in his world collapsing at the seams.

Had Matt also been crippled by an overwhelming sense of loss prior to stumbling into Alex’s makeshift life? Alex searches his mind for any random details he knows about Matthew Bellamy, but he cannot recall anything with great certainty. Miles had known him much better than Alex had; he vaguely remembers throw-away mentions of a wedding and a new baby, but nothing more concrete than that. For all he knows, Matthew is currently battling his way through an endless, synthetic maze to crawl back to the arms of the people he loves, or at the very least to be reunited with versions of his bandmates who haven’t been programmed to hunt him down and kill him.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?” Jamie asks once again, uncaring and toneless, as though trapped in an unending loop.

A huff of laughter escapes Alex’s mouth before he can stop it, and he bows his head as a tear finally slips from the corner of his eye. Rehearsals and playing live was once his only solace amongst the mundane goings-on of his daily life, but now the thought of facing the replicas of his friends and seeing them stripped of all personality is unbearable. Normality is nothing but a distant dream. There is no returning to the life that had been carefully carved out for him here regardless of what Jamie seems to think, and as the details of the hotel slowly fade around him, he doubts there’ll even be a crowd to play for by the time evening rolls around.

Jamie seems utterly unaffected when Alex finally turns to him, a thousand-yard-stare emanating from deep blue eyes as though Alex is a mere phantom standing in his way. A sense of finality takes hold as Alex stares at his friend, memorising the details of his face with a pang of grief, and he offers a small smile which he knows provides little benefit to either of them.

“You go,” he says, in a flat voice he no longer recognises as his own. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

The lie rolls surprisingly easily off his tongue, and despite giving no indication that he intends to follow-through on his promise, Jamie doesn’t question him for an instant. Instead, he simply shrugs before shoving himself away from the barrier and moving in the direction of the hotel. Alex watches his retreating back as he strolls along the cobbled balcony, and it takes all of his willpower not to yell at him to stop. To request a proper farewell, or a hug, or even to run up alongside him and enjoy one last hurrah with the band before everything fades to black.

However, as he watches Jamie vanish behind a set of automatic doors, he knows that running after him would be a mistake. There is no point in embracing the lie anymore. The avatars wearing his friends’ faces like intricate masks no longer have the power to replace the real thing in his heart, and having to reward them with false affection would surely destroy him.

Instead, he bids one final farewell to the Earth above him. For the first time he can remember, the clouds have cleared above the British Isles and he can see the tiny, shrunken form of England resting just above a narrow watery channel. Deep forest greens interspersed with tiny golden pinpricks amongst the well-lit cities are the only details he can make out, but yearning tugs at his heart regardless. He wonders what would happen if he took the initiative and made the trek to the space station now, requesting a ticket for the first flight back to Earth? Would the falsehood adapt around him and expand to include a detailed simulation of his home, from a time when everything was perfect and alive? Or would he simply hit a dead-end and be forever trapped within a tiny radius which encompasses the hotel and casino and little else? He has nothing left to lose by trying, but a nagging suspicion tugging at the back of his mind is enough to inform him what the outcome will be. Whoever designed his current reality didn’t deem Miles of all people to be a necessary addition - no doubt out of intentional cruelty - so the prospect of arriving home and throwing himself into the arms of his mum and dad is surely unthinkable.

It’s impossible to tell how long he spends gazing at the planet above, committing every single detail to memory with a bittersweet smile, but when he finally pulls his eyes away he’s momentarily overcome by a wave of contentment. The yearning for home vanishes and a renewed sense of finality tugs at his heart, only this time he lets himself bask in it. It’s over. The sky above is as much an illusion as everything else within reach, and while he knows he could lose himself staring longingly at the stars like a hopeful child, he finds that he no longer has any desire to do so.

After all, what’s the point in yearning for something that isn’t real?

******************************

Lilting piano notes resound through deserted, crumbling corridors; the echo bouncing off the ballroom walls, causing the delicate glass shards of the chandelier to tremble. All trace of life has vanished, with the exception of the lone musician on his humble stage, playing to a crowd of ghosts.

Alex doesn’t mind. He’d expected to find the hotel empty upon his return – no doubt his mental embrace of that finality had banished all remnants of humanity from its walls – and the uninterrupted stroll to the stage had been an oddly calming one. For the first time in years, a song had popped into his head with little fanfare. There’d been no need to agonise over chords or second-guess lyrics; instead the music had come to him fully formed as though obtained through a dream, and the need to perform it had become his sole objective.

A guitar would have been preferable. He has never felt entirely comfortable on the piano, but the choice seems to have been snatched away from him as all of his stringed instruments have vanished in his absence. Similarly, the lone drumkit and various brass instruments which once rested upon the stage are now missing. Only the piano remains. Each note sounds dissonant beneath his fingers, reverberating through the hall in all directions, and he gets the distinct impression that the instrument hasn’t been turned in years despite it sounding perfect only one week prior. His voice also sounds raw to his ears, but that doesn’t stop him from baring his heart anyway.

It’s a bittersweet song with an emphasis on the sweet, and he latches onto the topics of lost loves and friendships tied up with nostalgia for a golden age that no longer exists. No doubt he would have been proud of this one had he gotten the chance to write and record it on Earth, but at this rate he doubts anyone will hear it besides the ghosts haunting the fractured walls.

That’s okay though. This understated piece of music feels like the only genuine creation he’s produced in all the time he’s lived here, and for that reason alone he’d rather not be singing anything else.

While he refuses to give his surroundings much in the way of scrutiny, it isn’t lost on him that the ballroom is fading away with each passing second. Pristine white walls appear to be melting and cracks trail along the granite columns like lightning bolts stretching to the ceiling. The light from the chandelier is muted, emitting only the faintest golden glow through shards of glass which no longer shimmer, and the deserted dancefloor below has been swallowed whole by drab red carpet. The circular dining tables and bar are cloaked in shadow, their surfaces smothered by a thick layer of dust, and adorning the walls are empty frames where elegant portraits once gazed proudly upon the room.

Only one image remains. A small wooden frame sits on the wall directly within Alex’s eyeline, and though the photograph it displays sends an ache lancing through his heart, he finds it to be a pleasant ache. Captured for eternity is a shot of four young boys, barely out of primary school, with hair cropped short and arms wrapped lazily around each other. One curly-haired lad is looking away from the camera, eyes closed in a mistimed blink, while two others gape at the lens with deliberately widened eyes, baring all of their teeth in exaggerated grins. Only the smallest of the group is smiling in a fashion which can be considered normal, though the crinkling of his large brown eyes implies that he too is mere seconds away from bursting into uncontrollable giggles at his friends’ antics.

Alex can’t remember the photo being taken. The unremarkable brick wall behind them suggests it was taken at his childhood home, but it would not surprise him if the photo itself is yet another falsehood on top of the myriad of illusions he has spent years of his life sleepwalking through. And yet, he cannot bring himself to mind. The photograph may not be real, but the memories of a happy childhood surrounded by friends certainly are, and the sweet nostalgia that warms has heart can never be taken away from him. His real friends may have been lost to him long ago and even the replicas have deserted him now, but so long as he focuses on that image and dedicates this song to them, they can never truly be gone.

A shiver creeps up the back of his neck and he has the distinct impression that a pair of eyes have landed upon him, but he banishes that suspicion before it can take hold. This song is not intended for anyone’s ears but his own. The melody is quickly approaching its coda as he recites the final verse. The piano has grown so soft he barely registers the sound of it, but he carries on with a sense of obligation he doesn’t entirely understand. Perhaps it’s the sense of approaching finality which has made him so determined. His world is fragmenting piece by piece and he cannot comprehend what will happen to him once it fades completely, but he imagines there will be no coming back from it. He should be terrified and desperate, battling with every breath in his lungs to remain solid and whole, but he no longer has the energy to fight. Besides, he has always found contentment in music and performing, even in this godforsaken place. Why fight the inevitable when he can embrace it in peace instead?

The final note sounds abruptly as the last word escapes his lips, but before he can figure out a proper ending, the piano dissolves into atoms beneath his fingertips and the world explodes in a flash of brilliant white, carrying him along with it as his mind goes blank.

#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Arctic Monkeys #Muse #my fic #writing

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foxtophat · 4 years

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hahah well here i am back on my 10k word bullshit

promise the next chapter is way shorter, john is just so fucking over the top that i spend so much time just trying to organize his thoughts for you guys lmfao. what a chad, right?????

anyway, i hope you guys enjoy nick and john bitching at each other, because that’s pretty much the theme of this chapter. i really enjoyed writing it, which should tell you everything you need to know about how bad a day john is about to have

as usual, i hope that you enjoy! if you do, please consider throwing me a bone in the form of a kudos, comment or reblog -- i eat those up like turkish delight, nom nom nom

also as usual, i got the fic text beneath a readmore for my friends who like to stay on one page. no matter what your reading experience, i will try to accommodate for you!!!

i hope you guys are all having a good day and that it continues to be good even after i’m done giving you fic to read!! that’s... all that’s all i got

John had known offering his help was a mistake as soon as he'd done it. Suggesting that he knew where hidden supplies might be was obviously setting himself up for colossal failure, but he'd had to think on his feet. He hadn't wanted to build up Kim's hopes, or encourage her to talk to Nick about it. All he'd wanted was for her to go back upstairs so he could sneak outside without her haranguing him for it. Then he'd seen how much it had reassured her, and the obligation to follow through had set in. Now, no matter how obvious a failure the endeavor may become, he has no choice but to push forward with the plan.

That's why John doesn't protest when Nick suggests they go sooner than later. He probably should, because it's been too hot to dig for the past week already, but the sooner he disappoints Kim, the less disappointment he'll incur. None of them will have time to blow things out of proportion. The cache he has in mind had been buried by Jacob a little under a mile outside of town, in some unused patch of farmland. They'll be back before sundown, and the sting of returning empty-handed won't last too unbearably long.

Of course, when the morning comes to go look for the cache, John can barely manage to drag himself out of bed. If he'd thought yesterday's heat was unbearable, then he doesn't know what he'd call today. The sun has barely risen and it's already baked his room, leaving him tangled up in sweaty sheets. Summer has always been John's least favorite month, even before the Collapse, but there has to be something wrong for them to be going through a second week of a heatwave. At least blaming the nuclear apocalypse for their shitty weather makes him feel slightly better.

He can't tell if he managed to sleep, but from the way his head aches as he slowly rises, John is willing to bed he failed that task yet again. God, what he wouldn't give for some fucking Ambien. Even a good, stiff drink would help, but John's shot tolerance hasn't recovered from his last encounter for post-apocalyptic liquor, so that's out of the question. Just his luck — he's going to have to suffer a whole day around Nick without much keeping him upright.

Even in the relatively cool shade downstairs, John finds himself blinking sweat out of his eyes. It's a struggle for him to focus on anything besides how miserable he is. If only he could blame it on trauma — but no, he's just never handled prolonged heat well. Montana might not have Georgia's overwhelming humidity, but the temperature climbs twenty degrees higher, and summer out here never seems to fucking end . That, combined with his pitiful heat tolerance, is probably why he's running on maybe two hours of sleep.

There are a handful of raw carrots on his plate, next to a few strips of old jerky that even Nick is leaving for last. It's going to be a long, long day, and he's not going to be getting much else until dinner, but John can't scrounge up any sort of appetite. He hasn't been hungry for what feels like days now, and his stomach barely tolerates anything more than water.

"Hey," Carmina asks, leaning into John's peripheral vision, "Can I have that?"

John doesn't know which part of his meal she's eying, but he slides the plate her way regardless. Kim watches him do it, openly frowning at him because she's also seen him picking around his food at every meal. So far, she hasn't said anything to him about it. Why would she? His lack of an appetite means that Carmina gets to have more. She can't possibly complain about that.

Nick is more vocal about his concern, furrowing his brow as he asks for the second time this morning, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes," John replies once again. He's too tired to be exasperated, but he wishes Nick would knock it the fuck off, at least until after they leave. The last thing he needs right now is for Kim to hold some sort of intervention. Just in case, he qualifies his yes , choosing the most honest excuse he can this early in the morning. "I'm exhausted," he says. "I didn't get much sleep."

"Do you really wanna do this today, then? I mean, you said this thing was buried, and I don't wanna get stuck digging it out myself."

"I won't be any better rested tomorrow," John sighs, suppressing the yawn that tries to follow.

Nick doesn't look pleased, but he relents with a shrug. It isn't like they're going somewhere particularly dangerous, and even if they do happen to run into trouble, Fall's End will be within eyesight. The wildlife won't be much of a problem, and drifters are more common in the eastern part of the county, moving in from the 94 and occasionally trying to bully their way through. John's confident that they won't run into any trouble, even if he winds up passing out mid-dig.

John lets the rest of breakfast wash around him as he counts the minutes until they leave. He feels distinctly separated from the moment, the Rye family nothing more than white noise going in one ear and out the other. Silently dissociating around their idyllic family unit is still the norm, of course, but at least today he can blame it on too much heat and not enough sleep. Maybe he'll be able to get some rest in the truck, assuming Nick doesn't decide to test the suspension over every goddamn pothole.

Nick reluctantly says goodbye to Kim after breakfast, repeating it two or three times as Kim and Carmina see him off from the porch. John doesn't remember Nick as an anxious person; he doesn't know if there had always been long, uneasy goodbyes on the porch before work. The Collapse has turned most everybody into a paranoid mess, but maybe John just never knew Nick very well to begin with. He doesn't want to ask.

"Okay," Nick says once they're both buckled in, the windows cranked down. "You said we're looking for a silo outside of town?"

John waits until the truck lurches into drive to respond. "The silo was a convenient marker, but I doubt it's still there. I know where to look, though — assuming the landscape hasn't changed too dramatically."

"Well, let's hope so. I don't want to dig around for nothing."

"We both know who's going to be doing the digging."

"I thought it was gonna be you, until you nearly passed out at breakfast. Probably gonna leave me with the hard work like the selfish prick you are."

"I'll be fine," John replies, yawning unabashedly. He rests his head next to the open window, closing his eyes against the hot wind. "I've done more with less energy."

"Yeah, sure," Nick says, rolling his eyes hard enough that John can hear it in his voice. He waits a few beats for John to return the gentle banter, but John can't muster up the energy. He needs to save it all for the dig. It's going to be hard enough on Nick, who manages to sleep at night. John isn't expecting to have much left for anything else once this is all over. It'll be a miracle if he makes it back home.

Quickly figuring out that John isn't in the mood to talk, Nick falls quiet. There isn't a radio station to listen to, so he hums under his breath occasionally, gently swerving along the cracked asphalt to avoid potholes. He's usually happy to bounce through them, but John knows better than to think it's for his sake.

John opens his eyes briefly, just in time to see the washed out turn that once led towards the Ranch. He hasn't been back yet. He doesn't think he could bear asking the Ryes for permission, let alone see the place rotting in a field. Despite repeated assurances to Joseph that he didn't care about his stronghold, he had hand-picked the furniture, the paint, the bedding — all of it — and he had spared little expense. Now, all of his pride and poorly spent money has been abandoned, probably picked clean by scavengers over the harshest years. After all, the security systems he had dropped thousands of dollars into hadn't been able to stop a cop wielding a shotgun — he doubts they would do much to deter anybody now.

He should have listened to Jacob when he'd said it was a waste of time. Of course, John hadn't paid much attention to anything Jacob said unless it was directly related to the Project. Part of him wishes he'd made more of an effort to connect with his oldest brother, but he doubts that he would have made it to this side of the Collapse if he had.

Once he starts thinking about Jacob, it's hard to stop. It's not much of a surprise that his oldest brother is on his mind, considering how often his dreams are haunted by Jacob's presence. Thankfully, with the sun in the sky and the wind on his face, John's more inclined to remember him for who he was, instead of imagining him as the specter of his nightmares. There are no dark corners for him to lurk in, and for once John imagines him as the quiet, withdrawn man he was.

It might have been almost ten years ago, but John can still remember riding along in Jacob's truck, listening to him hum along with the radio. The heat had broken late in August that year, so while the heat had been awful when Jacob had picked him up, it hadn't wiped John completely out. Not that it would have mattered — Jacob had no patience for John's distaste of heat, and he would have forced the issue regardless.

He'd gotten a brisk call fifteen minutes before Jacob showed up at the Ranch, telling him to be ready. John hadn't known what to be ready for, but he'd stopped asking questions by this point — when Joseph or Jacob arrived unannounced, he would only follow after them and do whatever they asked. As long as he did that, they would mostly leave him to his own devices. It had been more freedom than John had ever had in his life.

"You're positive nobody saw them," Jacob reiterates from the driver's seat. The memory of his voice bounces like an echo in John's skull.

"Of course I am," John remembers saying. He remembers being exasperated. Frustrated that even Jacob didn't trust him with menial tasks anymore. He had understood Joseph's distrust, had it explained plainly to him, but Jacob wouldn't even give him the chance to earn back the trust he'd somehow managed to lose. "Not that it matters," he remembers adding. "What can they do? It's our property. We could bury a plane there and they wouldn't be able to stop us."

Jacob's heavy sigh belies his irritation. "That's not always going to be the case. We don't know how the Reaping will go. Or the Collapse. You don't know what will be the last straw."

He'd been stressed. In two weeks, the Reaping would begin, but for now, Jacob's only concern is maintaining a steady flow of willing and able soldiers. He'd been irritable all the time, ever since he and Eli had fallen out, getting short with everybody, even Joseph, who allowed Jacob to be openly insubordinate even while punishing John for the same crime. The main problem in the weeks before the Reaping had been the slowing influx of soldiers making it through the trials. Lots of people had made it through at first. Nowadays, the conversion rate has dipped significantly. Jacob says it's because the people aren't strong enough, but John has a suspicion that it might have something to do with the Bliss, which has become more potent and arguably more toxic since Rachel's arrival as Faith. John hasn't brought up his concerns yet, because nobody has bothered to ask for his opinion. He will never get the chance to find out if he was right.

"John," Jacob's voice calls from the far away driver's seat. He sounds deeply, strangely concerned. "I'm trying to save you."

The words aren't right at all. John's body feels heavy in his seat, the hot air scratching at his face through the window. Where is he? They're on their way, but where?

The next thing Jacob says is achingly familiar, down to his tired inflection. "Joseph is worried about you," he says. "He still worries about your commitment."

It had been a warning, clear as day, and at the time it had filled John with a deep dread. But now, John feels nothing. Let Joseph be disappointed in him. Let him regret ever bringing John back into his life. John hopes it's a bitter pill he chokes on.

John had been on the defensive that day, scoffing loudly and snapping, "And yet, I'm the one converting the faithless." But the defensiveness is missing in the words. The people he'd been using like points against his brother are all dead now, and bragging about the things he'd done only roils his stomach.

"I don't think it's about converting people." Jacob reaches for the rear-view mirror, checking it for the umpteenth time as the truck trundles towards the distant silo. "Forget the religious bullshit for a minute. What we're doing, what's going to happen — we can't afford mistakes. We have to be prepared for every possibility. You understand that, don't you?"

"Nobody saw them," John sighs. "I promise ."

"Good," Jacob mutters. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out.

"Honestly, though. There are caches all over the county. I don't remember you being so particular about the last dozen drop points I organized."

At first, Jacob hadn't responded. John had thought at the time that it was because he was tired of having to explain his every move to someone as soft and short-sighted as John. He'd figured, as he always had, that Jacob saw him as nothing but the PR arm of the Project, kept around out of blood loyalty and nothing else. He would grimace whenever John mentioned atonement, mentioned his hard work, and John had suspected he thought it was beneath him.

But now John wonders if that's all there was to it.

"I'm trying to cover for every possibility," Jacob says. "That's all. It'd be good if you could help me."

"I did help," John retorts. "I do help. I do everything Joseph asks me to, and I don't complain about it. I don't complain when you order my men and me around, either, even though that was never part of the deal."

Jacob clicks his tongue against his teeth. He's checking the mirrors again, all of them. John remembers him checking the glove-box during their conversation, but he doesn't do that now. It hadn't mattered — there hadn't been anything in there — but John remembers it being very, very strange. The glove-box hangs open for a moment in his memory, as he looks through the windshield and spots the tall, bright red silo down the road.

"I wish you would plan ahead for yourself," Jacob says at last. "Stop taking orders and start taking initiative."

John huffs. "You've seen how well Joseph responds to that."

"Yeah," Jacob replies. John had been too arrogant to realize at the time that Jacob was commiserating with him, leaving him feeling deeply guilty now.

"He's convinced that the Reaping is going to begin any time now," John continues, ignoring Jacob's visible-in-hindsight unease. "Do we really have time to be burying barrels of ammunition? Or is this your newest plan to stick it to Eli?"

"It's for after the Reaping," Jacob says.

"A whole lot of good it does us this far from the bunkers."

Jacob had a real response for John, once. It had even satisfied him, at least enough to stop his complaining. But John doesn't remember what Jacob's reasoning had been; all he has is his exhausted brain struggling to stitch together the memory.

"There's so much you don't know. That you'll never find out." Jacob reaches out, his hand resting on John's shoulder, but there's no physical connection. John can't feel the weight of his hand, and for a dizzying moment the world around him turns smudged and blurry. There's a distinct melancholy in the words that Jacob never exhibited. "You know that I didn't believe any of it."

The weight on his shoulder comes out of nowhere, startling John awake as Nick calls his name. He kicks the dashboard as he jolts upright, and Nick leans back as he flings his hands out to steady himself.

"Shit," he gasps, grabbing the door handle. One disorienting glance is all John needs to realize where he is; Nick has pulled up just past the church, and the late summer heat of the apocalyptic landscape reasserts itself as reality once more.

"Sorry," Nick says. "I just, uh... need some directions from here."

"Yes," John replies. The urge to bolt from the truck is overwhelming, but John clings to the door and manages to stay in his seat. "Of course."

They sit for a minute before Nick awkwardly prompts, "Uh... Well?"

John desperately attempts to reorient himself, still stuck in the fog of his dream. "There should be a left turn up ahead. The silo was in a field on the right side of the road, just before the turnout before Larry Parker's house."

"God, talk about whack-jobs," Nick mutters as he pulls ahead. The intersection is mostly washed out now, barely distinguishable from the dunes that have formed over the fields, but Nick has a local's muscle memory. "I mean, I believe in aliens as much as the next guy, but Jesus . You hear what happened to him?"

"Not specifically. I assumed he was killed in the Reaping or the Collapse." Despite himself, John finds his curiosity piqued. "Why? Was I wrong?"

"I mean... I guess it's up to your interpretation." Nick doesn't bother to ease around the potholes now that John is awake, bumping them down along the cracked asphalt. "So, the way Dep told me, they went to go check up on Larry, y'know, make sure he's okay. Larry's got his weird-ass machines going, and he's talkin' about aliens and shit, as he usually is, and Dep keeps going, 'Larry, there's no time for aliens, there are cultists coming for you!' But, of course Larry pushes the point until Dep caves, like, 'Fine, let's fix the generator first, then we can run from the cult.'

"Except the cult rolled up right on top of them before they could patch everything up. Of course, Dep manages to clear them out, and Larry gets his machine working in the meantime. He says, 'help me get to Mars, Deputy!' and they figure, 'hey, might as well humor him.' I mean, what else can you do when the guy you're trying to evacuate insists he's got a fast pass to outer space?"

"Is this honestly what the Deputy was dealing with while we were in the middle of seizing the Valley and its resources?" John asks. He probably shouldn't be surprised, but really . Larry Parker's life couldn't possibly have been worth all the effort involved.

"I guess," Nick shrugs. "People were asking them to do all sorts of weird shit. So, anyway, Larry says so long to Dep and to Earth, and tells Dep to flip the switch. Dep decides that the sooner Larry realizes this isn't going to work, the better, so they turn the machine on the way Larry told them to, and, well, long story short, I guess the thing vaporized the poor guy."

However the story was supposed to end, that hadn't been what John expected. His disbelief is momentarily overwhelming, and he can't help but choke out, " Excuse me?"

Nick shrugs. "I mean, that's what Dep told me later. They were real bummed out about it, too. I guess that makes sense, since they felt responsible. But, at the same time... he said it was a teleporter, right? So maybe he wasn't vaporized at all. Maybe he really did get zapped to Mars."

"The choices are 'vaporized' or 'teleported to Mars'? Are you serious?"

"I guess Dep could have been bullshitting me, but it fits with what I remember about the guy."

John frowns. "I suppose either option is better than what happened to the rest of us," he says, "Although realistically, the man was one paranoid delusion away from assassinating a government official. I don't think he was nearly as technologically savvy as he professed himself to be."

"He wasn't that bad," Nick says as he shakes his head. "He was just some kook who believed in aliens more than people. And, well... I mean, if he really did make it to Mars, then we probably look like a bunch of assholes from wherever he's sitting." He sighs, then admits, "I wish I could've gone to Mars. I bet Kim would like it there."

" Why ?"

"I dunno, she always wanted to go on foreign trips and stuff. Can't get much more foreign than outer space." He hums thoughtfully, then says, "I guess she would've been pregnant, though, and if you can't fly with a pregnant lady, I bet you can't vaporize them either."

John takes a deep breath through his nose before he responds, reminding himself that he owes Nick his life. "That's a logical assumption," he manages to say, proud of his nearly-neutral delivery.

"Oh, shut up," Nick snaps, although he doesn't seem particularly upset by John's back-talk. "I'm just saying, if that's what would happen. It's not like I'm gonna go hot-wire the thing and test it out now ."

"I certainly hope not. There's no way I'm explaining that to the bloodthirsty mob that comes for me after you've disintegrated."

They've nearly reached the end of the road. John can see the T-shaped intersection coming up ahead, but he doesn't immediately recognize the right-hand field. A copse of pine trees have put down roots, and although John can see the skeletal framework of the hay storage, there's no sign of the silo that once marked the spot. John doesn't know if it was destroyed during the Reaping or in the Collapse. It doesn't really matter — everything it held has long since rotted away.

"Here?" Nick asks as they roll to the end of the road. John remembers Jacob slowing along the empty field; he had barely come to a stop to investigate the location. It had been around here that Jacob had checked the tilled soil for any hint at what lay underneath. He'd seemed content with how John's people had handled it, leaving the field as unassuming and untouched as they had found it.

If there had been any hint left behind in the silo or the hay storage, it's been wiped from the face of the planet. Long, sun-bleached panels of what used to be a silo lay scattered across the ground, weather-beaten past their use. Some pieces are pinned in place by the nine-year tree growth, never to be moved again. It's a struggle for John to envision the spot as it used to be, but there's no doubt that this is the right place.

"Yes," John says. "This is it."

Nick puts the truck in park and climbs out of the cab. John waits a moment longer, hoping to spot some hidden bump or curve that would indicate where to dig, but of course nothing reveals itself. He should have paid more attention. At the very least, he should have paid more attention to Jacob's diatribes about preparedness. Maybe he would be able to determine exactly where to start if he had.

John's nerves ease as he steps out of the car and stands at the edge of the worn-out road. It doesn't matter if he doesn't remember the exact spot — there's always been an element of gut instinct in understanding Jacob's methods, and John has plenty of that to rely on in lieu of real information. If he has to waste his time out here, then he might as well try to waste it productively.

He meanders a bit along the shoulder, then takes ten paces onto the field. Instinct has him go another twenty steps, until he's halfway between the truck and the hay storage. "Here, I think," he calls out to Nick, who's wandered ahead to explore the wreckage.

"Are you sure?" Nick asks as he passes John, returning to the truck for the shovels. "I don't wanna be digging holes all day like some kind of Stanley Yelnats."

" I'll be the one digging," John replies tepidly. "I don't need your help."

"What else am I gonna do, sit around and watch you all day? C'mon, let's get to work."

Really, John had expected as much. Nick can't leave things alone, and he can't resist giving whatever help he can. Long ago, John had figured it was a sign of Nick's obsessive need for control, something dark to be manipulated hidden under a folksy veneer. He had never considered that Nick's stubborn helpfulness had really been a coping mechanism for some long-standing anxiety. Even now, knowing full well that Nick's biggest worry is seeming unhelpful, John struggles to accept it. It still rubs him the wrong way when Nick insists on giving him a hand on some menial task that he ordered John to do in the first place.

Digging a three-foot hole is easier with two people, though, so of course John doesn't argue. The two of them hit a rhythm pretty quickly, although John's lack of sleep is slowing him down. Normally, the beat of manual labor is the only thing that helps empty out his mind, getting him as close to meditation as possible these days. For the first few months with the Ryes, it had been the only tangible comfort he had. He could disengage mentally while performing simple tasks with visible results, then ascribe to them penance for any one of his crimes. Even now, John can't help but wonder which sin he's paying for as he buries the spade into the ground.

They dig three feet down before John calls it. "Okay, fine ," he hisses through gritted teeth. "It's close to here. Maybe..."

John ignores Nick's theatrical sigh as he takes a few paces to the left and begins all over again. Of course, it doesn't take long before Nick joins back in.

"Maybe we should hunt down a metal detector," Nick suggests when the second hole reveals nothing.

"Sure, Nick," John snaps, "Add that to the other rational shit on your wife's shopping list."

"Jesus, it was just a joke."

John is far too hot, tired and sweaty to handle any jokes right now, much less from somebody he's trying to help. If Nick thinks John is digging around under the blazing sun just for his own enjoyment, then he can go fuck himself.

Even with John's attitude tanking rapidly, Nick continues to help him dig another hole and a half. His help only makes the defeat sting worse when John has finally had enough. He has no energy left, which makes flopping down on the dirt as easy as giving up. He buries his sweaty, sunburned face into his dirty hands, unable to hold back a groan.

"God damn it."

"What, that's it?" Nick huffs, pushing his hat back to wipe at his sweating forehead. He's using his shovel as a prop, and no amount of bravado can hide how much John's wild goose chase has worn him down. "You're just giving up?"

" No ," John spits, despite that being exactly what he's doing. "I just need a fucking break ."

There was a time when Nick would have punched him for being so miserable, but he doesn't even comment on it today. Somehow, it manages to make John feel worse, as though Nick's pity is fueling his fiery self-loathing. Nothing helps, especially not when Nick jabs his shovel into the dirt and offers John an excuse. "Probably need something to eat," he says. "Some water, or something. Look... just stay there, okay? I got a canteen in the truck, it'll just take a second."

The most response John can offer up is an affirmative grunt. He drops his hands from his face, watching Nick retreat to the truck before turning his eyes on the derelict storage in the opposite direction. He should have known better. He should have known that it would be impossible to find the cache without Jacob's help. Other than a set of probably mis-remembered coordinates and a gut sensation of being so close , John is flying completely blind. Why the hell hadn't he known any better? He could have saved them the time, gas and disappointment, if only he'd just kept his stupid mouth shut.

He guesses it must be progress that he's blaming himself and not Kim, whose insomnia kicked this whole thing off. It doesn't feel like much to show.

The wind changes direction, finally sending the few clouds in the sky drifting past the sun. The breeze picks up, sending a ripple of noise through the young pines. Pink-flowered vines creep through the roots of the trees and up the metal legs of the shed, twisting and choking the rest of the weeds just like they do everywhere else. Despite them being a mysterious, invasive species, they soften the landscape, lending a pink sugar-coating to the wasteland. John watches the blossoms bob in the breeze and thinks that Joseph might have been wrong about a lot of things, but he hadn't been too far off in declaring Hope County a promising garden.

The flowers look so much like the ones that had decorated the hem of Faith's dress that it's impossible not to think about her. John remembers the silk blossoms stitched onto lace, trying to conceal the ripped hem. There had been a dozen women who had tried to take on the mantle left behind by Joseph's wife, but now the only one John can imagine is Rachel, dancing in the sunlight. Even now he sees her swaying along with the wind, although he only has to blink for the vision to fade. A dozen women hadn't made the same impression that Rachel had. They hadn't been as proactive as her when it came to the Path, and they couldn't hold a candle to her wide-eyed understanding of the Bliss. None of them had adopted themselves as a sister into the family, turning quickly into the golden child that Joseph could praise over all others. They'd tried to fill the shoes of a dead woman that they couldn't hold a candle to. Rachel had been much, much smarter than that.

After all, none of those women haunt the landscape the way Rachel does. John, tired as he is, can almost hear her playfully humming on the breeze. She would sing in his bunker, vibrant and full-throated hymns written by dead followers, but now he only ever imagines the quietest tunes. Faith always seemed to be everywhere at once, thanks to the Bliss, but now she only seems to exist where John's memory allows.

Although the music fades as quickly as it came, John feels it echoing inside him. He closes his eyes against the bright afternoon light, but that doesn't do much to ease the pounding headache that's swiftly developing. He can feel his pulse against the hard-packed dirt when he drops his hands to the ground. Faith's laughter in his mind is quiet and playfully condescending as he's overwhelmed by the urge to stagger to the safety of the trees.

Nick abruptly appears in front of John, his worried face hidden under his hat. "Let's get you into the shade," he says, his voice warped by the blood rushing through John's ears. Nothing improves as Nick helps him to his feet and drags him under the shady pines. His head pounds as he collapses against one of the trees; when Nick puts the canteen in his hands, he takes a few grateful pulls of warm water until the headache begins to recede.

"Goddamn it, John," Nick says. "You have got to knock this shit off. You can't keep pushing yourself until you get sick. What am I supposed to do if you get heatstroke? Do you think we have unlimited supplies to keep dealing with your bullshit? I can't keep taking care of you."

"Whatever," John croaks. "I'm fine. I just need a minute."

"You can't seriously think I'm going to let you keep going. You must be delirious."

Taking one more long drink of water, John finally drops the canteen into his lap. "You don't understand," he rasps. "I'm not — it's here. I know it is, I just..."

Nick waits a beat before he takes up where John trails off. " You need to rest. You think Kim and I don't notice you're not eating or sleeping again? Hell, even Carmina notices, and she doesn't give a shit about you. How exactly are you supposed to be any use to us if you're like this all the time?"

John scowls, but he doesn't respond. How can he? Nick is right.

When all he gets is silence, Nick finally heaves a tired sigh and crouches down to John's level. "Look, we'll compromise, okay?" he suggests, with a tone he usually reserves for Carmina. "You're gonna rest here for me, and I'm gonna go dig another hole for you. If I don't find anything, we'll go back home and try again once you're better prepared."

He should resent Nick for treating him like a child, but John can only surrender with a weary nod. "I promise it's here," he says, hating how audible his misery is. "I know it is."

Nick scratches his brow. "I believe you," he says, although John doubts his sincerity. "We're gonna find it — maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but we'll do it. You, uh, want me to keep digging where we were, or..."

John sighs, slumping against the tree. "Yeah," he rasps. "Sure."

It's a miserable feeling, knowing that he's sending Nick on a wild goose chase, but John doesn't stop the other man from heading back out into the sun. He watches Nick pick a spot at seemingly random, drifting in and out as he waits for Nick to give up. He wouldn't even have to dig a full three feet before writing the whole thing off as one of John's delusions. John wishes Nick were that kind of man.

There's nothing there. That much is obvious when Nick finally stops digging, knee-deep in the hole and scrubbing furiously at his forehead. John knows just enough about Nick to suspect he'd genuinely hoped to find it — which just makes the defeat that much worse. John is used to disappointing himself, but letting Nick down stings.

"It's fine," John rasps when Nick returns, not waiting for platitudes or empty reassurances. "Let's just go."

Nick helps John to his feet again, and to make things worse, he keeps making suggestions. "Maybe we can find a tractor that still works. I bet there's probably a back-hoe somewhere in the county we could fix up. That might make it easier, right?"

They cut through the trees to reach the road, and John covers his eyes as they move back into the bright light. He turns back to look at the empty holes they've left behind — and for just a second, he can clearly see the bright red silo where it once stood. It's only a fleeting glimpse of the past, but it's as clear as if he were staring at it from Jacob's truck, enjoying the air conditioning while ignoring Jacob as he says, "So long as we're prepared, we can always start again."

"Wait," John says. "Hold on."

"Come on," Nick groans loudly, "It's hot, I'm tired, and this is getting depressing ."

John rolls his eyes, grabbing one of the shovels from the truck before Nick can stop him. "Fine," he says, "Go home, then."

"For God's sake..."

John ignores Nick as he takes five quick paces forward, turning and staring at the nonexistent silo. It hadn't been here, it had been...

The spot is mostly random, but as John drives the shovel into the dirt, he feels suddenly vindicated . He'd been thrown off by the trees, and it's hard to see just where the road ends these days, and of course he doesn't have the silo's long shadow to guide him. But now he knows better, and he isn't going to make the same mistakes again.

Nick pitches in, because of course he does. Even worse, he does it without complaint. Still, John needs the help; his burst of adrenaline has faded, leaving him to rapidly flag behind until Nick is picking up his slack. They don't talk as they dig, even as time wears on without any indication of them being in the right place. John doesn't think he has the energy to chat, and Nick probably just wants to yell at him, so silence is their best option. This hole could be as pointless as every other one they've dug today, but blind faith pushes John on to dig just a little deeper, just a little longer.

They hit three feet without finding anything. John twists the shovel between his palms, the tip churning the dirt.

"Okay, now are you satisfied?" Nick asks, flopping to the ground beside their latest waste of time. "Are you ready to wrap it up for today, or...?"

John shakes his head, not even realizing he's doing it. He doesn't even know what he's rejecting — the idea of giving up, or the idea that they might come back out here? Why the hell should they? Just because John thinks he might remember a cache of weapons Jacob buried a decade ago? What good would it even do, finding it now? Kim's already made it clear that they don't want more weapons. They want food, they want peace of mind, they want things to be the way they were . There is nothing that Eden's Gate could possibly give them that could help.

Nick slides closer, brow furrowed. "John," he says."

"I know ," John snaps, "I'm sorry . This was a waste of time. Forget it."

Picking up his abandoned shovel, Nick jabs the scoop into the hole, aiming for the wall beneath John's feet, and the motion is met with a metallic thunk . As John steps around for a better look, Nick taps the shovel upwards, until the scoop slides between the flash of half-hidden metal and the undisturbed earth above it. There's no mistaking the green enamel barrel that's revealed as the dirt falls away.

Dropping into the hole, John takes Nick's shovel and begins to heave the dirt away, scraping the scoop along the sides of the metal container until it's half-exposed in the ground. John can't help a triumphant shout as he reveals it, like a paleontologist discovering an unknown species.

Nick grabs the second shovel and pitches in, making short work of the dirt John can't reach. The steel drum is two feet tall and a foot or so wide, and John recognizes it from the Bliss packaging plant. Thankfully, it doesn't have a tight-head lid that implies the cannister is full of drugs. It looks utterly untouched, save for a few scratches from their shovels; the rubber sealant sprayed around the lid hasn't even cracked.

"Well, shit," Nick says, staring down at the barrel in open disbelief.

"I told you," John pants, vindicated. "I told you."

"Yeah, you sure did," Nick agrees, bobbing his head. "So... uh, what now? Do we open it up here, or take it home?"

John runs a hand over the glossy paint. As much as he wants to open it now, he can't help but remember Jacob's paranoia, reminded momentarily of how he had checked over and over for any spies or tails they might've gained while driving.

"It might be best to take it somewhere... less open," John points out. "We have no idea what's inside."

"Oh. Yeah, you're probably right."

It takes some finessing, but the two of them manage to wrestle the barrel out of the hole and, eventually, into the truck bed. Nick cranks the air conditioning as soon as he turns on the car, and John thankfully slumps into his seat as the cold air washes over him. After making a loose U-turn that narrowly misses the hole, Nick shakes the canteen in John's direction.

"Kim's gonna be pissed if she finds out I left you out in the sun like that," he says. "Try to get a hold of yourself before we get back, okay?"

Nick is terrible at sounding callous, but John isn't going to tell him as much. "Don't worry," he sighs. "I don't want her to know any more than you."

The drive back is mostly free of potholes, thanks to Nick's careful driving. John can't help but reaffirm the cache's existence every few minutes, checking the rear-view mirror to ensure it hasn't fallen out or disappeared like so many figments of his imagination have. He wonders what's inside. Certainly ammunition and weapons, but what else? Jacob had always been prepared for disasters, so it could have emergency kits or expired food rations. There will probably be money, too, although that won't help them now.

If Nick is also wondering, he keeps it to himself. He's relaxed in his seat, one arm hanging out his window, fingers occasionally tapping aimlessly against the door. He'll probably be satisfied no matter what Jacob decided to squirrel away, so long as it's not rotten food and Project propaganda. If that turns out to be the case, John will burn the contents himself.

The sun has half-set by the time they return to the Rye homestead. Nobody is waiting anxiously for their return, but it doesn't take long for Kim to come around the side of the house. She whistles appreciatively as the two men maneuver the barrel out of the bed.

"You guys actually found it!" she exclaims. "I thought it would take at least a few days."

"We got lucky," Nick replies. He doesn't mention how many holes they had to dig, or how rough the going had gotten near the end. John hopes that he looks better than he feels, at least to keep Kim from lecturing them.

Even though the cache is only about eighty or ninety pounds, it takes some careful footwork for the two men to carry it inside without dropping it. By the time they set the barrel down next to the table, Carmina has claimed one of the chairs, standing on it for a better look. Nick doubles back to the truck and returns with a crowbar, which will hopefully be enough to pry off the lid.

"What's inside?" Carmina asks, grabbing the back of the chair as she cranes forward.

"Well, hold on," Nick sighs, "Let me figure this out."

Unlike the barrels John remembers, this one isn't sealed with a tight-head valve at the top. Instead, it looks as though the lid had been hammered down into place, and then sprayed with rubber sealant to prevent gaps. It takes Nick a few tries to bury the crowbar's teeth under the lid, but he's rewarded by a satisfying groan of metal. The seal finally gives as part of the lid warps under the force.

Nick peels the lid back and John's heart leaps into his throat. Part of him expects a cloud of Bliss, or some kind of bomb, or a countdown to a new Armageddon. But there's no bomb, no Mist, no doomsday clock. Instead, John finds himself looking down at a bundle of nondescript green canvas, packed tightly alongside a cylindrical nylon bag.

" Well ?" Carmina asks.

John glances at Kim and Nick, only to find them staring back at him. It's as much an order as a request for help, and John steels himself before reaching in and grabbing the fabric. He recognizes the generic duffel bag as soon as he pulls it out — they had been ordered in bulk for the Project before they'd even reached Montana. While it isn't full, it definitely carries most of the cache's weight, and John has to adjust his grip as he sets it out on the table.

With the pack out of the way, Nick is less cautious about poking around in the remaining supplies. He takes the nylon bag out next, rattling the contents thoughtfully. "I think we've got a tent, here," he says, pulling open the drawstring to check. "Yeah, poles, stakes and everything."

There are two cardboard boxes inside, and Kim pulls out one at a time. "I think these are... rations?" she suggests, setting the boxes down next to the unopened bag. "That's what the packaging says, anyway. And this one, the heavier one? It's completely taped up."

"Could be dangerous," Nick suggests as Kim goes back to check for any remaining contents.

John stares at the duffel bag, his fingers feeling clumsy on the zipper tab. None of this feels right. Just how many times had he seen Jacob take bags like this one to his truck? How many of those had been full of supplies for a back-up plan he had never been made aware of? There's no sign of the Project so far, but John can't imagine that will last. What is he going to do when he reveals a bag full of propaganda in front of Carmina? There's no way Kim and Nick will believe he didn't know.

Careful not to rip the fabric, John steels himself with a breath and yanks on the zipper. He expects guns and ammunition, or copies of Joseph's book, or intel that would have been vital for rebuilding after the Collapse. Instead, John finds silver mylar bags, packed nearly to bursting, each one labeled in permanent marker. One reads "RICE (3LB, KEEP)," while another says "POTATO (.5LB, KEEP)" — and still another bag, this one with one clear side, has two cartons of instant coffee sealed inside.

There are guns, too, although not nearly enough. John is careful as he sets out the two .45 pistols tucked into the canvas, along with two boxes of matching ammunition and a few more boxes of miscellaneous shells that might come in handy. He inspects every box for any sign of the Project, but everything is utterly nondescript. Jacob might as well have picked these supplies up at a sporting goods store.

He keeps pulling things out until the bag is empty and the items are laid out across the table for the Ryes to see. Not only does John find more food, but he also finds a crank flashlight and a pair of binoculars, two bundles of paracord, a roll of unused duct tape, two sealed cartons of cigarettes, two pristine hunting knives and a deck of playing cards. The biggest surprise is the fact that Jacob risked packing away two bottles of unlabeled alcohol in a dry cache, but then again, Jacob had always had a soft spot for liquor. They'd been wrapped in plastic wrap and taped up tight, so if they leaked, it hasn't affected the other supplies.

There's more food than ammunition, John realizes. Rice, sugar, instant coffee, dry beef stock, not to mention the miscellaneous array of military rations that have been packed into every nook and cranny. It's hardly a cache. It's more like a squirrel's stockpile for a long winter.

"Did you guys see this?" Kim asks, leaning over Carmina to lay a small nylon pack on the table. She opens it carefully, revealing a tri-folded emergency pack stuffed with medical supplies. One use antiseptic wipes, gauze, bandages and more, all still in its factory packaging. John remembers seeing them stocked at Lorna's ages ago. It's the kind of emergency kit that tourists would buy once they realized just how unprepared they were for rural Montana.

"I thought this was supposed to be for the cult," Nick says, frowning at the supplies spread out on the table. "But most of this is stuff you'd get at the store. There's not even one of those fake Bibles in here or anything ."

"That's what he told me it was," John replies, although it feels uneasily close to a lie. "...At least, that's what I assumed. He had my people handle it, he shared its location with me... It had to be for the Project." Saying it aloud doesn't make him feel any more certain, but he can't imagine what else Jacob could have been planning. "What does it matter?" he quickly deflects, gesturing towards the eighty-some pounds of supplies. "Who cares what he was planning. It's yours now."

Unlike her parents, Carmina doesn't need to be told twice. She immediately drags the box of military rations closer to her chair, eager to devour any new literature, even if it's nutritional information and website reviews. Nick takes one of the knives and uses it to slice open the heavily taped box that they still haven't investigated. John can't imagine that it could be anything dangerous, given the rest of the cache's contents, but that doesn't mean he's any less on edge.

"Uh... huh," Nick says once he finally cracks the box open. "It's just more of the same. 'Two pounds rice, barter.' 'Two pounds sugar, barter.' But didn't he already pack some rice in the bag?"

Carmina points her finger at the offending bag. "It says 'keep' on it."

"I thought you guys were going to be the only survivors," Nick wonders, frowning heavily at John. "I mean, those weirdos have been keeping to themselves since they came back. And I got the impression that you weren't gonna be friendly neighbors ."

"There weren't supposed to be neighbors," John replies. "Anyone outside of the Project who survived were our enemies. This should have been..." He gestures helplessly, unable to figure out what Jacob should have squirreled away for the end of the world. "It should have been weapons. Project intelligence. None of this would have mattered if things had gone the way they were meant to. I don't — I don't know what he was planning with this."

Or maybe, he hadn't been listening when Jacob had talked about starting over.

"This... is too much," Kim says, tearing John away from that horrible thought before it can take hold. "Right? This is too much for us. We can't possibly keep it all."

"Excuse me?" John asks, unable to mask how deeply the comment offends him. "You're joking . I went through all of this for you ." He points at the sugar, the salt, and says accusingly, "These were on your list!"

"That's not what I mean, John."

John is getting sick and tired of being treated like a child today, but that doesn't mean he appreciates it when Nick takes the opposite route. "Don't be a baby," he groans. "You know what she meant."

"We'll keep what we need," Kim offers, "But we can't keep everything . It wouldn't be fair."

"And it'll look bad if we're the only ones who benefit," Nick adds. "They'll know it's because of you, and the cult, and they'll get the wrong idea. They might've shut up for now, but we don't know how long that'll last."

It's hard to fight the urge to run from the conversation, if only to keep himself from saying something stupid, but John manages to stay rooted to the spot. They're right, after all. They can't expect other people to turn a blind eye to anything beneficial John provides. Hell, he has no doubt somebody noticed them driving today. Somebody had to have seen them out in the dirt. It would only take a quick trip to find the holes they'd left behind.

"Yes," he mutters at last. It comes as a relief, followed immediately by his own admission. "You're both right. I know that."

Nick clearly expected more of a fight, if his relieved expression is anything to go by. "Good. Okay." He grabs one of the mylar bags as he sits, which holds two cartons of instant coffee. For a moment, he only stares at the red plastic through the clear side of the bag, and then he sighs. "Of course, now I wanna keep it all."

"We can keep the coffee," Kim says. "Or, well... we can keep some of it. We should probably give the rest up..."

It seems that doing the right thing in this situation has left the Ryes at a loss. Really, it shouldn't be a surprise. Even for a small cache, these are a lot of supplies, and there are no clear benefits to divvying it up in any particular way. On top of that, there had never been much structure to the Valley's resistance — unlike the Whitetails, people in the valley had relied on guerrilla tactics and appropriating the cult's infrastructure for their own use. The fight here had been over before they'd had time to organize.

"Well, I guess we give away whatever says 'barter' on it," Nick finally says. "And... I dunno. I mean, Jacob was meticulous as hell, right? Wouldn't he have known what to keep? Why did he only want to trade this stuff?"

"I don't know ," John snaps. "It isn't as though he planned for this. I have no idea what he would have done. I don't know why he thought to bury this shit in a field! If this was going to be a backup plan, then there should be money, passports, blackmail — something to help him get out of trouble. Not — not cooking supplies and playing cards . This isn't what he was supposed to be doing with his time!"

The realization that John had never really known Jacob cuts deeper than he'll ever admit. John breathes hard through his nose, trying desperately to grab hold of his ballooning anger. He'd known Jacob hadn't taken the religious aspect of the Project seriously, but that hadn't meant he didn't believe in the Project's end goal. He'd been more integral to their success than John, for God's sake! The bunkers had been his idea!

But Jacob had been pragmatic. If he had felt even a twinge of doubt, he would have made plans to account for it. But if that were the case, why would he have shown his hand to John like he had, when John had been so deeply entrenched? Why risk Joseph finding out? Why not play this as close to his chest as John had played all of his own secret betrayals?

"I don't know what he would do," John manages to say. There's a tangled knot of emotion balled up inside his chest, but like so many other things, he forcibly sidelines it. "It doesn't matter what he wanted. He's dead now. All of it is yours."

Kim hears his voice catch, it's clear from her expression, but she thankfully doesn't comment on it. "Well, let's think about it logically," she says. "For one, I think Grace could use some of the ammunition. She might appreciate some coffee, too, Nick."

"Yeah, I guess," Nick says mournfully. "There are two boxes, after all."

Kim chews thoughtfully on her lip, then pivots towards John. "You had to deal with directing resources, right?" she asks. "I remember all of the deliveries coming in and out of the Ranch."

"They won't trust any decisions I make," John replies, trying to cut the suggestion off at the head.

"I'm sure they wouldn't, but I'm not asking for you to make a decision. Just... You know more about this than we do, and I want your input."

John frowns, looking towards Nick for an objection. Unfortunately, Nick doesn't have one, although he doesn't look happy about Kim's request.

Sighing, John considers the groups they need to satisfy. Between Grace, the town, the trailer park and themselves, it's unlikely they'll have much to store, but a surplus would be ideal in case they need to bargain with people coming in from the west. John doesn't like the idea of giving the weapons away, but they would be an easy way to ingratiate the Ryes to anyone still upset at them for taking him in. He wants nothing more than to keep the alcohol and cigarettes, but those would be better as bargaining chips.

He starts by breaking the ammunition up, followed by the mylar bags, until the random array on the tabletop begins to separate out into four distinct piles. Seeing the resources shift in real time is the easiest way to ensure things are balanced, but John remains fully aware of the three sets of eyes on him as he begins to take over the table. While Kim and Carmina move to give John more space, Nick remains seated the entire time, his arms crossed and his eyes on the food that John is moving from one pile to another. He's clearly worried that the family will wind up with too little. He probably feels guilty that he wants to take more from others who could use the supplies.

When he's mostly finished, John has five piles organized across the table — one for each group, plus one comprised of larger bags they'll need to separate. Hopefully, they won't comment on how much he's chosen to keep for them — if they disagree with his decisions, they can wait until he escapes for the night to argue about it.

Kim had been right, though. John had been the one to schedule deliveries, redirect supplies and organize Reaping trucks; hopefully they can appreciate his choices, even if they decide not to listen to him.

"Here's what we have," he says. "The ammunition is split between everyone, as well as the rations. Given the town's location and size, they'll be better off with basic ingredients. They already have hunting equipment and usable cookware. We haven't seen the trailer park, but it's in hostile territory, and I don't think they dedicate time to cooking, so we give them more rations to make up for it. The cigarettes will be a gesture of goodwill, and they can use the sugar more than any one group. At the very least, it means they won't be ingesting straight ethanol for a few days."

Nick sniffs loudly, but neither he nor Kim interrupt, so John pushes forward. "You keep the components," he explains, "But give Grace the knives and whatever ammunition she needs. We can split the rice evenly, but it won't be very much. It would be better to keep it for ourselves, or else give it to one group alone."

"Still seems like a lot is left for us," Kim points out.

"Then you give the rest of it away," John says through gritted teeth. "I did what you asked me to do. This is what makes sense."

Kim nods. "You did, and I appreciate it."

John wishes she would appreciate what Jacob did instead, but he holds the comment back. It's his exhaustion talking, or the long day, or the lingering headache from the heat. None of those things are worth risking the shred of goodwill he's garnered with the Ryes. And the longer he hangs around here, the more likely it is that Nick or Kim will do something to really upset him.

"If that's everything, then it's been a long day. I need some..." Space , he wants to say, but he can only tiredly commit to, "I need some air."

"Sure," Kim says. She tries to mask her pity, but there's no hiding it. "Just don't go too far. Dinner's almost ready."

As if John is going to eat anything. But he keeps that comment to himself as well, knowing that it'll just start a fight that he's too tired to win. Besides, watching the Ryes go through Jacob's supplies and divvy them out the way they'd prefer might be too much for him to handle right now. He needs to put some distance between himself and his brother, even if it's only the short walk to the front porch.

#fc5 #fcnd #john seed #nick rye #far cry new dawn #far cry 5 #p sure its only the first few tags but fuck it #also i actually love turkish delight so that's a legit comment #not just a reference to dumb narnia #my fic #mercyverse

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zuperbuuworks · 4 years

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I am not dead, just busy.

Looking back at both my fan-blog and this one, I’m disappointed that Tumblr stopped supporting integration between it and WordPress! Absolutely none of my website posts have been making their way here even though they’re flagged for submission!

I suppose then it’s time I posted an update here, and I’ll probably only do one or two a year, though I strongly advise you either visit my site or follow the Facebook/Twitter pages for more frequent updates should you prefer that.

You can read the update, which covers the past 2/3 years, below the “Keep Reading” dodad below.

BOOKS

Books have been launching every year now, though they aren’t being written as fast as you might be expecting. The first on my list, “Specimen G-13″, is my largest of the written projects and has taken over 5 years just to get part 1 published, then again it’s always hardest when starting something, isn’t it?

You can read a preview from part 1 below (providing the HTML works) or visit the page directly to purchase a copy, in either print or as an ebook.

Part 1 of the trilogy was published on June 20th this year. A prequel, originally written in 2018, was edited again and republished at roughly the same time.

Alongside writing this trilogy, I worked on a large Compendium book; featuring artwork and texts relating to the alien flora and fauna of a world that appears in the Specimen G-13 trilogy, as well as other future books I have planned. This Compendium has been worked on for nearly 3 years now, though some of the creatures designs and backgrounds originate from as far back as 1998 doodles I did!

This massive book is launching on October 31st, and you can pre-order the ebook version now, though I strongly advise the printed edition over that digital one.

Why? Because the ebook edition doesn’t look anywhere near as awesome; due to limitations (i.e ink-based e-readers) I was unable to apply my fancy “journal-style” background to the ebook edition of the Compendium. So whilst the digital edition is vastly cheaper, you’ll be missing out on how the book was originally meant to be read.

You can view a video preview of the proof sample I received, and what will be fixed in the final version, here: https://youtu.be/mC_8W1VCbM8

Presently, I am writing part 2 of Specimen G-13 and hope to have it ready for publishing by the same time part 1 was released, which is June 20th 2021. Part 3 is expected to launch a year later, but with how large this story has grown over its development it could be a longer wait.

COMICS

Initially I had planned to leave the Subject 218 novels alone after writing them, so that I could write the comic adaptation without any temptation to change the story, but after some long thinking (and rereading of said novels) I chose to push the novels back into a new editing process, and postpone the comic version.

I did, however, still produce the first issue of the comic, which will still be valid even after the changes I make to the novel, as it is stated time and time again that Tim (the main character) is a compulsive liar and what he says in the books is not 100% the truth, whilst what is witnessed in the comics is.

For the time being the Subject 218 comic is on hold. You can still grab a digital copy of Issue 1 here, but it may be several years before I pick up where I left off again.

ARTWORK

All that tasty artwork in the Compendium are the results of 2-3 years worth of painting, drawing and digital crafting. I spent most of 2019 doing marker-pen artwork of flora and fauna, whilst this year has primarily been dedicated to oil painting landscapes and making digital maps.

Folks who use to follow me on deviant-art can (somewhat) rejoice as I have returned to the platform, though my submissions of fan-art are not how they use to be, as I have been dedicating 99% of my time to creating content for my original projects. Many of these projects have been crafted for printing purposes too, so you can grab prints of all my paintings on my redbubble store.

As I only upload finished artwork to deviant-art please expect a gap between uploads. If you’d like to see things like sketches, line-work or doodles then I’d suggest following my twitter.

Now that the bulk of artwork, primarily for the Edris Compendium, is finished I can now focus on getting character art made for my website. Right now the info-page is sparse, but I hope to fill it a fair amount by the end of the year.

OTHER THINGS

I have other projects on the back-burner, but to preserve my mental and physical well-being I have put them on hiatus; the childrens picture book about dinosaurs is on hold, as is the book about my life and dealing with being transgender, and there are a bunch more smaller stories I want to work on but just simply have no time to do.

So, again, sorry for appearing quiet here. I’ve just been ludicrously busy and barely have the energy to manage so many social media accounts! I’m not making any promises to post more on Tumblr, but just know I am still here and silently enjoying myself when I can take the occasional break.

My mental health is a mess and my physical health is poop, but I’m doing fine nonetheless, and I hope you’ll all continue to wear a mask and wash your hands!

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zenithlux · 4 years

Text

Cadence Update - CH 10

In which Vergil learns a little bit more. But it’s all business. Of course.

Catch up on the story here!

Welcome back to Cadence ya’ll! I know I’m posting this a day early, but I have a project I have to finish up tonight and tomorrow, so I figured, why not let everyone enjoy this on a (possibly gloomy) Monday?

See you on Friday!

Another twist of the knife, turn of the screws It’s all in your mind and it’s fighting you Arm yourself a storm is coming. Well, kid, what are you gonna do now? It’s your reflection looking back to pull you down

Phoenix - Chrissy Costanza

---------------

The first thing Vergil did was drag five half-dead demons to Roxy’s doorstep.

He’d waited an hour, of course. Long enough to make sure she was actually asleep and not starting to freeze again. Not that he would have known what to do in that situation, but he figured it was the thought that counted. At some point, Aki’s head had popped up, his eyes had narrowed, and he chirped rather loudly. Vergil had translated that as “what are you waiting around here for? Go do something”. In Griffon’s voice, of course. The two sounded nothing alike, but he knew he would never quite escape his old familiars.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately given the amount of time he had), that process had taken much longer than Vergil cared to admit. He wasn’t used to leaving enemies alive, much less in a semi-functioning state. But, after a few extra fights, he finally figured out what parts of each demon’s bodies he could cut without them evaporating. He wasn’t certain if it was quite enough. But he also wasn’t too keen on letting Diadona take more blood than she already had. At the very least, Vergil assumed this was a better option than dragging Roxy out hunting in what he assumed would still be a weakened state, no matter how long she slept.

But, for the briefest of moments, Vergil was annoyed when he found her still asleep after the hour and a half he had spent outdoors. This information of hers seemed far too important to delay any longer. But then he remembered that she had waited two weeks for him to even call her- twice- and quickly let that train of thought go.

So, after securing the demons elsewhere to avoid any prying eyes, Vergil took stock of her groceries and was rather impressed at the state of her kitchen. There was plenty of food, both fresh and frozen, with meats split into Ziploc bags and multiple containers of frozen fruits marked as ‘for smoothies’ in faded black marker. Everything else was all well organized, as it only took opening a few cupboards to find every pot, pan, cooking device, and utensil she had. At first, he wondered why a woman living on her own had so many supplies. But then he’d also have to wonder why Dante had so few things considering how many people visited, and that was not a rabbit hole worth traveling down. Instead, Vergil found what he needed for dinner (along with the very convenient recipe book on the table opened to the exact page for “hearty chicken soup”) and left the chicken to defrost. No use rushing things, as he assumed she’d be out for at least another few hours. Worst case, he’d scouted the town out while searching for the demons (it wasn’t much more impressive than Haven, if a little bit on the wealthier side) and knew where to find food if needed.

Then, he wandered around her house. She had, after all, encouraged him to do so before falling asleep. And if he couldn’t find any answers on her current predicament, at least he might be able to deduce a few things about her.

Professionally. Of course.

Why would he be searching otherwise?

Foolishness.

The generous living room led to a hallway with a modest-sized bathroom (Dante would be jealous of that Jacuzzi tub… so Vergil decided he’d never get to see it) and a small closet. At the far end were two doors, one slightly ajar, and the other shut tight. He peered cautiously into the first to find what he assumed was her bedroom. The wood floors matched the living room, but the walls were a few shades brighter with more artwork. On one side was a queen-sized bed with a blue comforter with what looked like painted flowers of all colors. The wall to the right of it had a nice sized, curved window with a comfortable place to sit and a pair of books in the middle.

The other wall, however, was what caught Vergil’s attention; multiple, beautiful shelves filled to the brim with books of all shapes and sizes. Except she had clearly taken great care when organizing them, as similar sizes and colors were all paired together in one of the most aesthetically pleasing bookcases Vergil had ever seen. The only one out of place was a single shelf filled with textbooks, but even those were organized by size, including the ones piled on their side.

“Is the Son of Sparda snooping already?”

Vergil twitched, annoyed that he’d been surprised by the dragon’s voice at all. But when he turned to question how such a large dragon fit in such a tiny hallway, his eyes fell on something much, much smaller. Kuro was a shrunken version of himself, but still three times bigger than Aki. His scales were smoother. His horns were much shorter, and his tail flicked across the floor in what Vergil assumed was amusement. An adolescent form, maybe, but Vergil could still feel centuries of demonic power radiating from the dragon. Regardless, Vergil’s eyes narrowed. “Your mistress gave me permission, in case you weren’t aware.”

Kuro cackled with laughter; a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the floorboards. “We are companions, though I understand if that is something beyond your mortal comprehension.”

“Is that why you’re freezing her to death?”

The dragon’s tail flicked to the side, but Vergil didn’t see any shift in his expression. “I am keeping her alive,” Kuro said. “This is an unfortunate consequence.”

“She is awake, then?”

Kuro snorted. “Not for another few hours.”

“Then how are you…?”

“My full power is limited by my summoner,” Kuro said. “But I am more than capable of sustaining such an inconsequential form.” His head tilted. “I am surprised you do not know more about familiars.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. A part of him wondered if Kuro knew about V, but he refused to ask. “What are you getting at?”

“I had assumed someone with such demonic power would be more interested in such things.”

Vergil released a slow breath, disguising it with a small grunt of annoyance. “I know of such things,” he said as dismissively as possible. “But have never met someone with such… capabilities.” That wasn’t technically a lie, as he did not consider his own experience as “meeting” anyone. Kuro looked moderately unimpressed, but Vergil couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or didn’t actually believe him. “I intend on speaking to her as soon as she awakens.”

“Indeed,” the dragon said. A moment of awkward silence followed as the two stared at each other; Vergil with a slight scowl, and Kuro with a constant flick of his tail and snake-like tongue. Finally, the dragon huffed and said, “If you wish to know more about her, I suggest you check the room behind you.”

Then, the dragon simply walked away, head held high, not even sparing Vergil a second glance. And for the briefest of moments, Vergil simply stood there, unused to such creatures - or anyone really - acting so blatantly disinterested. Sure, the demon probably thought that Vergil should show him more respect, but he didn’t say it. Vergil didn’t know what he would do if such a thing was demanded of him. ‘Laugh and walk away’ seemed like the most likely possibility, but showing deference to anyone else wasn’t something he’d ever do.

At least… not willingly.

Vergil shifted his attention elsewhere before his thoughts drifted too far in that direction.

The second door was unassuming, but his mind raced with the possibilities. ‘Know more about her’ would imply something like scrapbooks, pictures, or maybe some kind of memorabilia. But, even from what little he knew about her, Vergil didn’t think she was that kind of person. She didn’t like talking about her family except for her father, so Vergil assumed she wasn’t too keen on reliving whatever those memories were. He could just peruse her bookshelf, as an individual's taste in literature usually told him more than enough. But he couldn’t deny his curiosity. There was something there. He just wished he knew her well enough to…

Oh.

Instead of kicking himself at the obvious oversight, Vergil opened the door. And even with his expectations - whatever those were - he stopped in the doorway, stunned. The room was a lot bigger than he expected; a repurposed master bedroom, possibly combined with another, unknown room. One wall was nothing by a set of windows with two blue curtains pulled to the side. Next to that was a large desk with an advanced computer system of some sort, two screens, a tablet, and multiple sketchbooks. Under that was a single, empty canvas, and he assumed that’s where the rest of the ones he brought would eventually go. The wall above that was filled with various sketches and reference pictures of dozens of different things. There were few finished paintings propped up beside it - intricate flowers, a painting of a cottage and garden, and a sweeping, rainforest landscape. There was the start of another painting on an easel in the center of the room; a sketch of a ladybug on a leaf-covered in rain droplets.

Then his eyes drifted to the far wall where Kuro himself had been painted in exquisite detail. His scales actually shimmered, and Vergil couldn’t figure out how she’d accomplished that. There were small bits of glimmer… but nothing crazy.

“Interesting,” he muttered despite himself. Her attention to detail was impressive, and he wondered if there was more to it than a few reference photos. But why Kuro? Surely this big of a piece would draw plenty of attention. Visitors would ask questions… wouldn’t they?

Unless she doesn’t have many.

As silence descended over the apartment - and Vergil was certain Roxy was still fast asleep - he decided to ponder his thoughts over some books.

-------------

It was midnight when Roxy’s eyes finally opened, and 12:30 when she could actually speak to him. It had been oddly unsettling at first, as she’d stared past him, eyes glossed over, seemingly unaware of his existence. Once he’d gotten over that, he’d gone back to his book - the same one Roxy had been reading before their meeting - and waited for her. Kuro was dozing on the couch beside her, and Aki was still on her lap, so Vergil assumed everything was fine.

It was her gasp that caught him completely off guard. Even he was confused when he found himself by her side, hand almost-not-quite resting on her shoulder. Kuro’s head lifted, and Vergil swore he heard a quiet snort before the dragon rested it back on her lap. “Breathe,” Kuro said. “You are safe here.”

Vergil pulled himself away, settling back in his chair as if he hadn’t moved at all. And, considering how her eyes were now closed as she ran her fingers along Kuro’s scales, Vergil assumed she hadn’t noticed him. When Roxy finally met his gaze, she looked oddly sheepish. “I’m good now,” She said. Then, her nose wrinkled as her eyes flickered to the doorway. “Are there… demons here?”

“Yes.”

“...Why?”

Kuro scoffed. “Your makeshift caretaker brought them for you this morning.”

“I’m not…” Vergil trailed off, huffed, and changed the subject. “The soup is done as well, just as Diadona requested.”

Roxy stared at him, lips parted just slightly before she shook her head in what he interpreted as bewilderment. “You didn’t have to do all that,” She said, her cheeks flushing a very light pink. Vergil watched her, both curious and entirely uncertain why she was reacting that way. “But… thank you.”

With a curt nod, Vergil said, “Absorb what essence you can. Then we’ll talk.”

Roxy returned his blunt demand with a nod of her own. “Can you handle that, Kuro?” She said, glancing at the dragon. “Aki can go too. Let me know if we need more.” Aki chirped in excitement and glided to the doorway. But when Vergil expected the little creature to crash straight into it, he vanished. Perplexed, Vergil glanced back at Roxy just in time to see her cheeks flush a much darker red as Kuro said something in his demon tongue. “Shut up,” Roxy muttered. The dragon’s tongue flicked in amusement before he disappeared. “Dragons these days,” She muttered, implying that she knew more than one.

Vergil didn’t let himself fall down that rabbit hole either. “What happened?” Vergil asked. “And why?”

“Dia calls it stasis,” Roxy said. “It’s a side effect of my pact with Kuro.” Her eyes fell, and Vergil didn’t like the way his heart jolted at the immense sadness in them. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that fast though.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed. “I”m usually paralyzed for a day at least. Usually more. I called you as soon as that kicked in, thinking I had more time.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now, I suppose.”

Vergil made a note to chastise her for it later. “Kuro?”

“He’s a blessing, really. But the human body can only handle so much, especially when a chunk of his energy is spent healing me.”

“Healing you?”

She nodded. “I’m technically a paraplegic” her hand drifted toward her back as she spoke, but she pulled it away with a surprising amount of force. “I was in an accident about a decade ago that severed the spinal cord in my lumbar. Dad said I was lucky, as I probably should have died. And it punctured low enough that my art career wasn’t ruined. But…” She trailed off, followed by a sigh. “I stayed with Dia for awhile, but it was hard for her to manage her other patients and me... “ She shook her head, took a deep breath, and met his eyes again. “That part isn’t important.”

Vergil had a feeling it was, but he was also painfully aware that he was the last person who should ever call out such a thing. “Then what?”

“Dia introduced me to Kuro, and he took an interest in me,” Roxy said. “I still don’t really know why. An arch-demon willing to pact with a paralyzed nobody? I really didn’t believe it until it happened. And, sometimes, I still can’t believe it. Even now.” She chuckled, but it was strained. “He tells me I’m overthinking it and he’s probably right.” She shrugged. “Long story short, he is able to use his magic to passively heal my spine, but the wound itself will never truly be fixed.”

“So if your pact was broken…”

“I would lose all control of my legs again,” She said. “And I wouldn’t freeze anymore, I suppose.” Her head tilted just slightly. “I don’t mind, though. What’s a few days of discomfort in exchange for a second chance?” She stared at her hand, fingers twitching. “It’s always a little scary though, no matter how many times it happens. Just that thought…” She trailed off.

“What thought?”

She was silent for a painfully long time. But Vergil was patient. He of all people understood how difficult it was to share such personal information. Except he, unlike Roxy, had yet to figure out just who to share that information with. A part of him felt honored, but the rest of him wondered if he deserved such trust from someone who didn’t know everything he’d done.

But…

“Sometimes,” Roxy said. “I wonder what would happen if I froze… and never woke up.”

Alarm swept through him. “You’re…” He didn’t want to say it, even though he knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Suicidal?” She said. “No.” She pulled her knees to her chest, but kept her eyes on him. “Afraid, yeah. But not that. Not anymore. Don’t worry about that.” Her small, nervous smile once again caught him off guard. The sadness had not yet left her eyes, but she still tried to encourage him. How? How much pain was she hiding behind such a brave facade?

Helping one person did not feel like much in the grand scheme of things. Really, it wasn’t. But all Vergil could think of were Dante’s words of encouragement. Words that Vergil believed wouldn’t matter with the overwhelming weight of his failures.

If you never take a step, then how do you expect to get anywhere?

“I’ll help you,” Vergil said before he had a chance to think about it. But even after he paused to let his mind catch up to his declaration, he knew it was the right thing to do. After all, how often did someone like him have a chance - and the ability - to fix something so… personal? He could never atone for all of his mistakes. His own son had made that quite clear. But he could do something… he could be there for her.

“Are you certain?” Roxy said softly. “Not that I…” She hesitated. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer. But...”

“But?”

After another long moment, she sighed. “I was hoping we would get more time as friends before… all of this.” She rubbed her arm absentmindedly. Vergil saw a flicker of pain in her expression before she buried it away; a feeling he knew all too well.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” He said as he set his book aside and made his way to the kitchen. “Rest for now. Regain your strength, and we’ll discuss it more later.”

And for the first time in months, Vergil was certain this was what he was meant to do.

#zenni-writes #cadence #update #vergil #dante #nero #vergilxoc #vergilxroxy #kuro #aki #demon #summoner lore

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houseofvans · 6 years

Photo

ART SCHOOL | Q&A with DETH P. SUN

Influenced by the works of Richard Scarry, Charles Schultz, and the likes of Tove Jannson, artist Deth P. Sun’s interest in art and zines started early on–from drawing everything in an encyclopedia to creating his first zine in high school. From that point on, Deth has been a prolific painter, zine maker, and doodler, focused on making his art on his own terms. With his central hero– a genderless cat – Deth explores various natural and strange worlds through a subtle narrative, created by his brushwork, ambiguity, and color palettes.

Find out more about Deth’s art, his wordless storytelling, and what inspires him by taking the leap below.

Photographs courtesy of the artist.

Introduce yourself? My name is Deth P. Sun, I’m an artist living in a tiny coastal town in Northern California, but most of my adult life was spent in the Bay Area, primarily in Oakland and Berkeley. I tell people I’m Cambodian, which is mostly true.

When did you begin having an interest in art and painting? How or why do you think you gravitated towards this profession? I’ve always enjoyed drawing, I think I kind of like getting better at it and learning about new things that are centered around that. It’s one of the cheaper hobbies to get started in as a kid. It’s not really a thing I think about too much these days. Mostly I wonder how my life was set by my 17 year old self.

How do you describe your work to people who maybe unfamiliar with it? Until I moved to this town I live in now, I kind of never had to. Mostly because I don’t meet new people outside of my circle. I just tell people I’m a graphic artist. If they want more info I just stare at them blankly because I think it’s kind of rude to ask strangers what they do for a living.

There are various aspects to your paintings from being narrative and storytelling to those that feature various painted objects and natural things. Can you tell us a little bit about the narrative elements of your works and how that came about? Yeah, I just like suggesting that there’s a narrative with my work, which isn’t that hard as long as you don’t stray too much from your pallette or reuse images to find in each painting. I kind of like seeing a whole set of paintings, that’s when you sense that there is a story.

When did you protagonist character start to take shape? How did that evolve and come-about? I’ve just always drew a character like that. Probably in high school. It’s been so long I don’t really remember. It probably came from my sketchbook. Most of my sketchbooks are kind of boring because it was just me repeatedly drawing the same stuff until I got better at it. I think I was trying to draw a cat and I drew something else that I liked.

In some of your other works, you paint collections of items from food, mushrooms, crystals to swords and old style cell phones. How did these paintings originate for you? Were you finding yourself sketching certain things that you read about or were you just obsessed with a certain object that week? My parents taught themselves English using Richard Scarry books so they were the first books I had my hands on. It’s just pages and pages of him drawing things with words describing what they were underneath. When I was younger I had this project where I’d take an encyclopedia and try drawing everything in it. I think I only got to M. Also when I was kid while drawing in my sketchbook I would just run out of stuff to draw so I’d go room to room drawing everything in each room.

It was just a thing to kill time.

How has where you live and its landscape influenced the work you create? What’s your favorite thing about residing there? I guess it does a little, but I think I drew the stuff and then when I got here, I liked it a lot, so I ended up on this tiny coastal town on the bluffs. I started drawing weird epic landscapes after watching a bunch of Swedish films a few years ago.

What was your last adventure or walk through your neighborhood that showed up in one of your work, thematically or just visually? One time a friend invited me to a barbeque. They lived near the train tracks a couple of miles from me, so I walked up the tracks passed the cemetery and over a few tressel bridges. It was really nice walk. Met a turtle. They had to come down and get me because I didn’t know the path to their house, and it was getting dark.

What IS your favorite thing to draw or paint? Do you have an UNfavorite thing to draw or paint? I like drawing pineapples. I hate when strangers ask me to draw them. I want to punch them in the face.

When did you start picking up the paint brush and taking your works to the canvas? What do you enjoy about painting vs. drawing? The first time I painted was in my high school art class, I think like most other Americans. I was using tempera, so it sucked. But I started buying acrylic soon after. I think painting and drawing is kind of the same thing, or least I just paint like I’m drawing. I don’t think it was a strange transition.

What’s a typical day like for you at home and in the studio? What’s your process like? I fill out internet orders sometimes, or a wholesale order. Sometimes I draw. Mostly I get up and look at my email and go, “I have a lot of stuff to do and this is gonna suck”. I don’t really multitask, so it’s usually me filling out orders for 8 hours and trying to get to the post office before 4:30 while watching dumb shit on the internet, or me helping a friend screen print in my garage, or if I have a show just ignoring everything else in life and painting for two months.

A few years ago I kind of got burnt out of making a living with just painting. So I was like maybe I should make more t-shirts and prints. So I ended up moving to Fort Bragg and screenprinting more stuff and making more drawings toward that. But now my days are filled with me screen printing and filling out small orders or hanging out on my computer photoshopping all day. So now I’m in some other kind of hell.

What are your go-to art tools? A Pilot Hi-Tec C (They’re called G-Tec 4s in other places) pen. I use the .4, but should probably switch to .5. You have to have a light touch with them or else they’ll jam.

Right now I enjoy using Mitsubishi pencils, but the cheap Mirado Black Warrior pencil you can get at most stationary store is just as good.

Been filling a sketchbook using Opaque markers. Posca’s are pretty good, but the color choices are limited, so I started buying Molotow. The Molotow’s can be refilled so they might end up being a better value.

Lately I’ve been painting with cheap $2 craft paints mostly because I don’t like mixing colors. Just bought a few of the Martha Stewart’s at Michaels. I still buy Golden and Liquitex, but it’s nice to mix in other stuff.

Not only do you draw and paint, you are always printing and creating zines of your works. Do you remember your very first zine you made? Are you working on a new zine? The first zine I made was pretty horrible. It was staple at the top corner, and I gave it out to my friends when I was in high school. I put everything precious in a box before I left for college and when I came back my dad had threw it out. At the time I was pretty bummed, but now I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that. I’m always working on something. Sometimes things take a really long time. I drew everything I ate while in England and Scotland several years ago and just now getting it all together. I’ve gotten rejected from a bunch of zine fairs, so there really isn’t a urgency to get it finished. I’m thinking of making one for the tiny town I’m in, and other that’s like a newspaper, but filled with just my gibberish drawing of words.

Do you have a favorite zine maker out there you’d like to share with folks? I’m pretty excited to be tabling at Comics Art Brooklyn. Last year I sat nearby Evan Cohen (http://www.evanmcohen.com) who I had just bought zines online from a few weeks before so that was kind of unexpected. He makes rad work. There was a few other artists there whose work I enjoyed. I came home with a lot of nice prints which I never really get from strangers. Stuff from Natalie Andrewson, Tiny Splendor, most everything Peow Studios publishes, and Jen Tong. I like this zine called Terror House by Sammy Harkham that I’d buy a few to give out to friends and the zines my friend, Evah Fan makes.

What are you constantly inspired by? And who are some of your early and current art influences? I think what keeps me going is random problem solving with how I paint. Or maybe the natural world. I don’t really know if I’m being totally honest. I grew up reading Peanuts. It has it’s good moments. I think I became comfortable with not always having to be in the up. I really like Tove Jannson’s work.. I’m not a fan Tintin, but I like the way Hergé uses color and lines. I was lucky enough to come to the Bay Area while the Mission School was around and Yoshitoma Nara had a few shows, so it made it okay for me to make paintings the way I do.

What do you do when you are not painting, drawing or making zines? How do you find yourself unwinding? I watch a lot of dumb shit on youtube and take long walks. Each week I go to a game night where I do board games (Catan, Ticket to Ride, Dixit, Pirates Cove are in the usual rotation). I like to cook and have people over. I actually unwind by drawing and watching a lot of basketball while listening to basketball podcasts.

What advice would you offer to an aspiring artist who might wanna follow in your footsteps? Be nice to everyone you meet ever. Always try to learn. Don’t get caught up in what people think of you or your work. Know that if you keep on doing something you’ll get better at it. Pick up different hobbies. Make friends with other artists. Be open to all opportunities. Get used to rejection.

What’s your best Art School tip that you want to share with folks? Some random wisdom you learned through your personal journey or just while making art? You know I don’t know if I’m the best person to get advice from since I sort of carved out this weird existence. When you’re young, it’s easy to get caught up in weird things and maybe a person should just get caught up in those things. I do meet old school mates who have regrets about how their time in art school was spent, but I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way of doing it. I think there really isn’t any rush, and also if you feel like you “failed” you can always just get back up because no one is really paying attention.

I think I hear a lot from folks who worry that they’re too old to try painting or doing art for a living. And I’d hear this from someone who’s like 25 or 30. But there really isn’t a deadline to any of this stuff and also no one really knows how old anyone is. I think everyone’s trying to get to some sort of finish line, but really just existing and making work is all there is.

What do you think you’d be doing if you weren’t an artist? In an alternate universe, what career would Deth find himself doing? I’d probably be working in tech if I’m being honest with myself.

What’s a question you never get asked in an interview that you wanna ask yourself and answer? There really isn’t.

What are your favorite style of VANS? My favorite Vans were the slip ons with a grey herring bone pattern on them. I had 4 or 5 pairs, but I think they switched to a smaller pattern because I couldn’t find them again.

What’s coming up for you the rest of the year or into the next? Comic Arts Brooklyn (http://comicartsbrooklyn.com), a solo show in January at Spoke Art (https://spoke-art.com) in San Francisco. I’ll have stuff at a print fair in Oakland (https://www.oaklandprintfair.com), and an art book fair in Berlin (http://www.friendswithbooks.org/content/about) through Vanilla Studios (http://vanillastud.io).

FOLLOW DETH | INSTAGRAM | WEBSITE | SHOP

#Art #Vans #Vans Art #Deth P. Sun #Art School #interview #painting #drawing

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janaonthepct · 5 years

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Why I’m leaving the trail...

Wow. What a way to start off a blog post guys, am I right? To keep the story arch intact and to possibly annoy you a bit longer with the question of whether the headline actually means what you think it means, let's start where we left off last time:

Day - I don't really know what day it was - at mile 152 sitting at the Paradise Valley Cafe devouring a typical American breakfast: pancakes, eggs and bacon. We had left camp pretty early in the morning to cruise down the last 10ish miles to the Cafe fast enough to have breakfast at an appropriate time because everyone told us it's definitely worth the 1 mile detour off of the trail and because we were craving a proper breakfast. Let's say this: they didn't lie ;)

We were going so fast that I even missed the 150-mile marker of the trail. Oh well, technically these little markers aren't supposed to be there anyways. A big principle on the trail is the LNT - leave no trace - principle and apparently even rearranging stones to form a number is too much of a trace to have. But the big milestones usually still have them anyways. We arrived at the Cafe where we met a ton of other PCT hikers that had started that day with the same idea as us. Talking to them we heard a lot of rumors and reports of the upcoming miles being decently sketchy and snowy enough to be needing micro spikes and possibly even an ice axe. Stories were going around of people having fallen off of ridges, getting injured and helicopter rescues and everyone was starting to worry and having to estimate the personal risk they were willing to take.

Every time we got out of the mountains and off of the trail at least for me it has been a very overwhelming experience. On the trail I barely used my phone, for one because I didn't really have that much cell service anyways and also because I enjoyed being fully out there without all the noise and distractions of modern technology. Some people enjoy hiking with music or podcasts, I literally only used my phone to take pictures and to locate myself with GPS to keep track of the trail and where to get water and such. So whenever we'd end up in a "more civilized" place, meaning a town or a restaurant, immediately many things would happen at once and in a very condensed time: While trying to get some proper food into your system, you are also faced with figuring out the next steps (whether that means where to hike to further that day, booking a room in a town or figuring out all the things you need to resupply on), your phone is going insane with a ton of messages, there is a lot of noise and people around you (more then you usually experience in one or two full days on trail), you’re probably also contemplating whether you already smell so bad that a shower and a laundry are needed and at the same time you are socializing with all the other hikers you haven't seen in a couple days exchanging stories of things you've seen or heard or comparing gear and food choices.

Back at Paradise Valley Cafe I was still chewing on my bacon and pancakes while Zack had already decided with Paul and Alex to hitch into Idyllwild quickly to grab some new micro spikes to tackle the upcoming section that afternoon, Nadine had already organized a ride from an amazing trail angel Jodie (we had met her at the barbecue before Warner springs) to get back to San Diego, where she was going to rent a car for the last couple days she'd be in the US before heading back the UK (she had only intended to hike the first two weeks with Paul and had done so amazingly covering over 150 miles!) and I was left with a difficult decision: I could either continue hiking with the boys, either having to buy new micro spikes in Idyllwild as well or not going with any spikes and risking injuries and sliding off or I could take the ride to San Diego with Nadine and wait for my micro spikes. I thought I wouldn't need them until the Sierras (the big mountains in Central California) and had left them in my friend's car and Olive had left the US to go to Mexico for a couple days so I had to wait for her to get back before getting to the car... (it's a long story I know)

Since Zack was already on his way to Idyllwild and I also didn't fully see a point in getting new micro spikes since mine were so close and perfectly fine also (yes, this is my German side speaking), I decided to join Nadine for the ride back to San Diego and luckily had an amazing friend there which was spontaneous and kind enough to let me stay at her place for another two nights after only getting notified literally 10 minutes before I was planning to leave the Cafe (you are the best Allison!). So here I was, back at the starting point in San Diego, two weeks and 150 miles later. I was kind of glad Olive was still in Mexico because that gave me three days off of the trail to get some perspective and to figure some things out.

Let me preface this by saying two things: 1. I absolutely LOVED every minute and every step of the trail! 2. None of what I'm writing here has to make any sense to anybody else, it's just some truths I have found to be fitting at the current time and place for me.

Ever since I stepped foot on the trail I was having a wonderful time. Being out there, living simply, being active and challenging your body, meeting like-minded people and having space for yourself, it just all made perfect sense to me. I realized I'm great at doing these things too and enjoy them a lot. I also realized some other things though. But since I don’t want to turn this blogpost into a novel (it’s getting there I know) here’s the short summary: - Although I’ve been having a grand time on the trail I just realized that I am currently in a point of my life where I want to commit to something, get working and stay somewhere for a while. I realized finishing the trail might not get me any further in knowing what a next step could be and instead of avoiding this decision, I knew I wanted to take action now. - I want to give back rather then receive. The trail is so much based around receiving help and kindness, which makes it very special. I feel like I am at a place in my life right now where I am capable of giving and I want to use that knowledge and spread joy. I guess I want to be on the giving end. - As much as this might be a once in a lifetime experience or chance I don’t feel like it has to be and I know that this isn’t going to be my last time going to the US and seeing all my amazing friends here again. So, I didn’t feel like this chapter really needed closure or a full stop. Instead I just absolutely rejoiced in reuniting with friends here, exploring new places and remembering old ones.

Anyways. Here I was having found these truths but also still really enjoying the trail and my hiking group. After Olive got back from Mexico we talked some more about it and came to the conclusion that I was going to reunite with my hiking group for a couple more days and then leave the trail from Big Bear Lake, a small hiker town in the mountains just off of the trail. The boys had successfully conquered San Jacinto in those days so I joined them about 50 miles later in Cabazon and did another 70-80 miles with them. And what a beautiful and rewarding 4 days those were. The landscape was absolutely gorgeous, we had super-hot desert, river crossings, snow and below freezing temperatures all within 24 hours. Lots of elevation gain and loss, lots of wind, lots of beautiful valleys and outlooks, lots of flowers and lizards. We got to Big Bear and had another full Zero day together. It was a wonderful way for me to come to an (at least temporary) end of the trail. I never wanted to leave on a bad note hating the experience, getting injured or feeling homesick or whatever. The trail and everything it entails has been nothing but outstanding and I am very grateful for this! It was hard to say goodbye to the boys but I hope it’s more of a “see you again very soon”. I am now their personal cheering squad.

(Some impressions from the last days on trail and saying goodbye to the boys)

I’ve been off of the trail for about 10 days now. Me and Olive had a super fun week together driving a little bit of the distance back north, meeting friends and also having a couple days just as the two of us roadtripping. We went to Santa Barbara, back to Monterey and then had two days in San Francisco and Point Reyes (a super cool national park right across San Francisco over the Golden Gate bridge). I then took the train back north to Portland where I had two days exploring a bit more and spending time with special and beautiful people and now I’ve been back in Port Townsend. I’m leaving the US next Monday, flying to London (because there were no good straight flights to Germany but also mainly because that means I get to see Nadine again, see London for the first time and even meet some other dear friends who live there). I will have another week there and then I am BAAAACK.

Super stoked to see you all again and to get started. The adventure definitely isn’t over. More steps coming. Let me know if you want me to keep the blog running though.

(Photos from the days after the trail)

Ihr lieben, der Blogpost ist definitiv zu lang geworden um hier eine komplette Übersetzung zu schreiben. Die zentrale Aussage: Ich komme zurück nach Deutschland :) Nicht weil mir das Wandern keinen Spaß macht, oder weil etwas Schlimmes passiert ist, sondern einfach weil ich gemerkt habe dass ich aktuell lieber einen nächsten Schritt in meinem Leben gehen will und an einem Ort ankommen will. Ich erzähle euch gerne mehr dazu, wenn wir uns mal wieder in Person treffen. Bin ab Anfang Mai wieder in Deutschland, nach einem kurzen Zwischenstopp in London. Freue mich euch wiederzusehen!!! Cheers, Jana

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ghostiesfiles · 6 years

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Thantophobia — The Fear if Losing Someone You Love (Shyan)

A Mob/Lawyers au. Night Night Bergara and Legs Madej will exist in this. If you’d rather read it on archive of our own feel free. Hope you all enjoy 💛

CHAPTER 6

8:13 P.M.

The air seemed cooler than it had that awful Sunday night.

More leaves danced in the wind, their dead shells scraping against the street.

The lamplights flickered, ominously.

Shane pulled his coat tighter around himself, eyes darting up and down the suburban street.

The front door was roped off with bright yellow police tape in the shape of an ‘X.’

Part of that usual human guilt, the small voice in the back of the head that reminds you of wrongdoings, called out to him.

Told him ‘it’s not too late to turn back,’ but it was. He had killed a person.

He had felt the thick, warm blood spray across his face.

He had watched the ferocious blue of Keith’s eyes drain to dull nothingness.

Trespassing and tampering with a crime scene would hardly redden his ledger.

His right hand, gloved in a rough, black leather, turned the knob tentatively.

A small creak whispered from the hinges, but Shane disregarded it, turning his attention promptly towards weaving inside.

He pushed his beanie, the same bloodied beanie, further onto his head, and locked the door behind him. He wanted to hurry, to get in and out in the blink of an eye. He needed to, for his sanity.

And yet he was stuck, feet simply for decoration as they refused to obey his commands.

The house was far more eerie like this. The only light inside came from a small, forgotten desk lamp. The warm wood flooring swashed in its golden glow.

To his right was the familiar setting, the couch–still coated in dusty soil–the table–still decorated with a beer bottle and the remnants of a slice of pepperoni pizza–and the rock–still framed by cracks in the tile and bits of foliage.

It looked like a movie scene, a shot from an old noir mystery. A moment detached from himself and his life, or so Shane wished.

A small white paper, folded into a tent, sat beside the rock. It was labeled with a bolded, “8.”

They hadn’t taken all the evidence! It was still labeled and waiting for the forensic photographer, or so he guessed.

A small, undeserved smile broke Shane’s lips.

Maybe he wasn’t too late.

He walked towards the elegant staircase, the wood still seemed to echo with their frantic footsteps.

Shane tossed a glance into the kitchen, he nodded, satisfied. The window and broom closet were closed, just like they had left them, no tent-like papers signaling suspicion.

The stair’s floorboards groaned under his weight. Did they use to creak?

His blurry mind couldn't recall.

The whole thing playing back in his head like footage from an unfocused camera. A distorted, shaky fusion of colors and incoherent voices.

He paused as he reached the second-floor landing. The warped laminate flooring, a faux mahogany, still seemed to hold Keith’s body. Still seemed to be soaked in viscous crimson. Still seemed too familiar for Shane’s liking.

The gold vase had been dragged a couple inches away from the wall to reveal the duct tape holster, labeled with a small “13.”

The air felt heavier up here as if its pressure was daring him to spill apologies and confessions from his gaping mouth.

He never wanted to come back, and the thundering thrum of his heart only attested to that.

He turned to step nearer towards the bathroom, the door pushed ajar, when something caught his eye.

Just to the left of the door was… another tent?

It read, “15”, the paper a bit crinkled as it stood innocently positioned against the wall.

The ends of his lips turned down, and he knelt to examine the marker further.

What was it labeling? They had dropped nothing, and they had swept every piece of dust or potential speck of DNA. What was it labeling?

Shane pursed his lips, brows scrunched together, a near-comical expression plastered onto his face.

“Shit,” he breathed.

Just a foot above the tent a round indent could be spotted, a deep, brown-red staining the plaster.

He should've remembered!

The bullet had cut clean through Keith’s throat, and here–in this pitiful crevice in the wall–the bullet had been hidden away.

The cops must’ve taken it to forensics to get a positive ID on the blood.

So, they hadn’t taken everything, but they had taken some things. They had taken some things that gave them enough reason to believe Keith was dead…

A bullet could have just as easily grazed or barely named him, so what gave them away?

He nervously swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, standing to his full height, and exhaling–a silent prayer, in a way, that spilled from his lungs–as he made his way to the threshold of the bathroom.

8:57 P.M.

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, it seemed almost casual. Almost pure-hearted and of good conscience. Almost.

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, no tremor in his voice alluding to his overwhelming worry had given him away.

When the phrase “you’ll be in touch” had left his lips, no one, apart from him, knew how badly his hands were slick with sweat.

It could’ve been an honest work call, a bit of banter with friends, a loving checkup from his mother. It could’ve. Instead, however, it was a bitter, monotonous voice reminding him of what he was getting himself into. A warning that held an air of mockery, the voice’s owner–Andrew. Andrew Ilnyckyj–knew he had no other choice. So, against all better judgment, he accepted. He threw caution to the wind and murmured out a hushed “I know, I know. You’ll be in touch.”

And that they were.

It was just nearing 8:20, he had kicked back in his recliner, a beer in hand when his phone buzzed loudly.

Perhaps he should’ve been worried about the caller being a cold-blooded criminal, perhaps he should’ve been on high alert, perhaps. Yet, Ryan thought nothing of the ‘unknown caller number,’ blinking sleepily as he accepted the call.

He had thought nothing of the bored way he gurgled, “Ryan Bergara speaking.”

He had thought nothing of the dark chuckle that first greeted his ears, and he thought nothing of its venomously joyous, “Oh, I should hope so.”

He thought nothing of the whole ordeal until the words, “We have an assignment for you, Mr. Bergara.”

The voice was new, unfamiliar and calculated. More personable than Andrew’s but just as sickly amused.

“I-I didn’t agree to that!” He had sputtered, throwing himself onto his feet–like it would make a difference–there was no way to play mind games over the phone, standing didn’t create the illusion of power.

“I assure you, you did. You accepted all the consequences, vehemently.” The voice teased, again.

It was right, he had. He thought before when they had to bargain with Andrew, that they were making deals with the devil.

Ah, how naive Ryan had been. He should’ve known that Andrew was just another puppet, another marionette on a string.

This voice, this voice spoke with dignified, unabashed power.

“Do you accept this mission?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Hmm… Do you like the idea of being 6 feet under?”

Ryan had paled, “Can’t say I do.”

The voice laughed, a full guffaw of pure mirth, “Then I suppose not.”

That’s why Ryan was now here, once again dressed too similarly to a comic book criminal, in front of a quaint grey house.

It had no noteworthy landscaping and lacked motion-sensitive lights, both Ryan was thankful for.

He expected his hands to shake more, he expected his stomach to slosh with the gravity of his morality. Instead, he was calm. A bit caught up in the logistics, but calm.

Too calm, he thought, but who was he to complain? It was better than the alternative, wasn’t it?

He cracked his hands, steadying his heart rate with a few deep breaths and headed towards the back door.

He couldn’t risk screwing this up.

9:00 P.M.

But there wasn't a marker!

There wasn’t a small tent-like paper.

There wasn’t anything indicating interest in that corner where he had idled out of sight from Ryan’s surely pitiful gaze.

Shane strolled up his driveway, hands shoved into his pockets. His face was flushed, the cool air dusting a rosy hue across his nose.

He seemed collected, at first glance, but had someone taken the time to watch him, his composed facade would be bursting at the seams quite obviously. He was walking just a touch too fast to be calm, his head darted too jarringly in the direction of any noise, and his shoulders seemed permanently tensed.

But there wasn’t a marker!

There were no glasses and no markers. They had left the marker for the bullet, so had they found something why not leave a label behind?

Shane tore the beanie from his head, flicking every light in the apartment on. He knew he was being dramatic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of pins and needles from his skin.

He needed a hot shower or a drink. Something.

Everything was fine, wasn’t it? He didn’t have a reason to fret. Their only notable piece of evidence wasn’t even there!

Or was it? Had he dropped it somewhere else? What if he just further contaminated the crime scene while he was there?

That heavy, painful worry, that ‘claws in his stomach and cement in his lungs’ kind of worry was becoming a far too familiar feeling.

He swallowed, the gritty tightness of his airway making him gag.

He rolled his shoulders, he wanted to call Ryan. He should probably call Ryan. Who else would know how to deal with Shane 2.0, broken Shane?

...But what if these anxiety riddled calls were bothering him? What if he was being a nuisance?

He grit his teeth. He shouldn't bother Ryan, he didn't want to bother Ryan; nevertheless, his fingers went in search of his contacts app.

He was stalling, he knew he was stalling. He could just type out Ryan’s number, he had it memorized. Or he could search his name in the contact bar…

What if you're bothering him? It rang in his ears. But he needed Ryan. He needed to hear his voice.

He clicked on the contact, he bit his lip… Should he?

“Fuck it.”

He reached for the call button, but just as his finger hovered over the screen his phone began to ring.

Typically, when he would get calls from unfamiliar numbers, he would just let them go to voicemail, but anything that could keep him from making this call was a blessing.

“This is Shane Madej.”

“Mr. Madej, how are you doing this evening?” He knew that voice, he knew he knew that voice, but the name and face were distant.

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

A hearty chuckle, “Mr. Madej, I’d say my name is unimportant, but I believe you might already know it. This is Andrew Ilnyckyj, we’ve met once before,” He paused, the smirk evident in his voice, “I’m sure you remember.”

Was the room always this cold? Shane’s fingers were like ice as he stood, dumbfounded, in the center of his room, “Unfortunately.”

“Oh, don't be like that!” The sound of Andrew taking a drag from a cigarette just barely audible, “Besides… We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“We?”

There was a pause on the other end, a thoughtful pause, “Mhm, we. You, me... and Ryan Bergara.”

Shane’s stomach dropped like he was falling from Disney's Tower of Terror.

“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

“What the fuck have you done to him?” He growled, his left hand digging painfully into his leg as he tried to steady himself.

“Oh, Shane, no! I wouldn’t dream of hurting a hair on his precious little head.”

Shane didn’t like this, he didn’t like this distance. He didn’t like the way the world was spinning out of his control. He had never been a ‘control freak,’ but that didn’t mean he liked being unable to alter the events at hand. He was too removed from the situation, just a pawn on the board unable to dictate which space he would reach next.

“What do you want, Ilnyckyj.”

“Oh, that’s cute…” Andrew grinned, a shit-eating grin Shane was sure. “You both do that when you’re trying to get down to business. Cut out formalities and whatnot and jump to the good stuff!”

Shane was positive he could vibrate with rage. The man siting–well, he could be standing, but Andrew seemed like a lounging kind of villain–mocking him over the phone was the conductor of this scheme. He had sent them out to ‘intimidate’ Habersberger, and there was no way he couldn’t have known how the events would go down.

“You knew it didn’t you? How paranoid Keith would be, how quickly he’d spring into action?”

"I'm no psychic… but I may have made an educated guess. He’s always had a heavy trigger finger.”

“You son of a–”

“Now, now! That’s no way to talk to your friend, Madej! Really you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you!?” Shane scoffed, bitter and gravely in his throat. “You’re the reason a man is dead!”

The laugh was hearty and rich like French hot chocolate, “I didn’t lay a finger on him! You’re the one who watched the light drain from his eyes, or are you forgeting?”

“At your orders,” Shane growled, saliva clung to the corners of his mouth like a ravenous dog.

“Shane, Shane, Shane… I was only helping you experiment with your most primal urges,” another hiss as he breathed in the nicotine, “no sane man goes into criminal law. You have to be a special kind of sick to do that. You have to get off on violence to not let those images phase you.” The last sentence a hushed, near flirtatious whisper.

Shane shuddered, a light tingling sensation spreading to his fingers, “Fuck you.” He meant for the words to be degrading, harsh, and still somehow nonchalant. His voice, however, had different plans. The phrase tumbled from his tongue with a squeak, a shaky hitch in his voice as the nerves once again enveloped him.

“Perhaps when my schedule’s cleared some,” a careless snicker, “but right now I have a proposal for you, Mr. Madej… We need information–”

“No,” Shane wheezed, shaking his head fruitlessly.

“Please, let me finish–”

“No. No! Fuck you, goddammit! Leave me the hell alone, I’ve already bloodied my hands enough for you.” Shane couldn’t bear another snarky snigger or condescending comment, so, instead, he hung up, shut his phone off completely and headed to the kitchen.

He needed a drink.

9:08 P.M.

Shadows played across every surface. The only light was leaking from the TV that had been forgotten in the living room. It was muted, but its blue-tinted lights flickered from around the corner.

Ryan was seated on his haunches, resting his back against the wall. His elbows were placed firmly on his thighs, hands pressed together as if in prayer. His eyes stayed fixated on his target.

He had a couple of plans, just in case something went unfavorably, but he hadn’t decided which way would be best to go about this.

The figure, a petite man, shifted in his sleep. His face was round, almost childlike, and his lips were parted delicately as he took in gentle, rhythmic breaths.

He didn’t want to waste another moment. He may be a well-built guy, but Ryan would prefer not to test his hand-to-hand combat skills.

He pushed himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders as he inched towards the figure.

The sleeping man was curled on the left side of the bed, close to Ryan.

A small decorative pillow, rough in texture, lay beside him, and Ryan steadily picked it up.

The man let a small snore tickle his throat, but didn’t stir further.

Ryan flared his nostrils, teeth grated, and brows furrowed in concentration. He held the pillow in his right hand, firmly, his left splayed just above the other man’s chest, in case he lurched forward.

“Sorry, man,” and then he was pressing down. His body shook with the force, and his victim’s eyes shot open.

Zach, Ryan believed his name to be, had his hands buried beneath the covers, and as he twisted to free them–and himself in general–he grew more exhausted.

His eyes held a type of fear Ryan had never seen in real life. His pupils were dilated, so big and innocent as they desperately searched for a savior… and then they stopped. They blinked twice like it would somehow change this narrative before they softened into a defeated acceptance.

Lips a light shade of purple as Zach choked out a pitiful “P-please,” and then his body was limp in Ryan’s arms.

He waited an extra few minutes, for assurance, before letting go. Ryan sighed, sleepily, rearranging Zach to look more natural. He smoothed out the pale man’s hair, turning the body slightly onto his–it’s? did dead bodies still get pronouns–side, hoping the position looked natural.

He fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the sheets.

Last Friday, Ryan had expected to be spending the entirety of this week binge watching–rewatching, really–‘Parks and Recreation,’ not… cleaning up his second murder scene, yet here he was.

He had done a mighty fine job, in his opinion. He had left no apparent evidence, and if his research had helped with anything, it was finding the right gear to wear when… silencing people.

Ryan nodded at the scene he was leaving behind, leaving the door cracked open just the slightest like he had found it.

His heart rasped against his ribcage, furiously. It was like getting off a rollercoaster, the hardest part was always the begging but then once it's done you feel… euphoric.

7:35 A.M.

Shane liked to take his mornings slow. He enjoyed a large cup of black coffee, the ambiance of CNN playing as he cooked, and the smell of ‘Febreze AIR Fresh-Cut Pine.’

It was only Wednesday, just barely halfway through the week, but having made it here… relatively unscathed, filled him with some hope. Somedetermination.

Shane tossed his dirty dishes into the sink, running a hand through his bedhead-messy locks.

He turned towards the door, grabbing the key for his mailbox.

The early air was frigid, flashes of last night and his walk–truly a new form of the walk of shame–up the driveway taunting his mildly optimistic morning mood.

He tried to shake it off as he clicked open the box. The pile was small, as to be expected on a Wednesday, but sitting atop the typical bills and ads was a large manila envelope.

Shane nudged the mailbox door closed, treading slowly back to his apartment.

He discarded the usual suspects on his pass bar, fixating only on this unmarked package.

Even his address was nowhere to be found, and a suspicious quirk of the brow couldn’t be helped.

He tore open the paper and pulled out a stack of photos.

They were all black and white, a tad blurry here or there, but unmistakably… of him.

His likeness was captured well, despite the shadows clearly surrounding him, but it wasn’t the masterful techniques that caught Shane’s attention. It was the location.

Photographed was Shane Madej, not even a full day younger than he was now, standing, hand on the door handle, in front of Keith Habersberger’s house. The next was of him ducking as he stepped past the caution tape and into that cursed house.

He continued flicking through, each one a slightly different closeness on his figure. It was undeniably him. He stopped at the last photo, a sticky note pressed firmly in place, reading,

“Shane Madej, I told you: I have a proposal for you. Call me.”

The burning across his body was excruciating, he was standing before a higher power and his actions were being judged… He could no longer repent, no matter how badly he longed to.

The devil wanted him, and even the most remorseful and merciful of angels had turned away.

He had asked to play with fire, and now he was getting burned.

#shyan #shyan fic #shyan fan fic #shyan fan fiction #shyan fanfic #shyan fanfiction #skeptic believer #buzzfeed unclean

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thedeviljudges · 6 years

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Daddy Billy? Serious daddy Billy? Serious daddy Billy turning into a fluffy bear for his princess, Steve?

uhmm, so like i’m so sorry this took ages to get to, but!!! it’s finished, and this is a bit long. although, i really don’t think this is what you had in mind?? just know that i love this; i love this kinda stuff, and i should probably redo this prompt bc this wasn’t exactly what i was going for; it just kinda happened??/f jasldkf idk, but here ya go, babe.

The window to his studio overlooks the whole of New York, and Steve doesn’t miss the way the wind curls into the room like smoke, thick and heavy from air polluted by busy streets and the life of people.

There’s sirens in the distance and the honking of late cars – they’re always there in a place like this, too loud when he’d moved in, but a comfort that lets him know the world still spins. Steve might even hear the distant rattle of voices on a warm, breezy day if the flat wasn’t several stories above floor level.

Deeply, he breathes, inhales air and fresh paint. His fingers are stained blue and green, crust under his fingernails from the hours he’s spent in his studio trying to transfer the images from his head onto a canvas. Soft strums of music fill the room, too, mostly drowned out by city life, but the distinct violin and flute are pitch perfect alongside the orchestra he loves to listen it for concentration.

As Steve picks up a brush, he hums, dips it into the paint and smears it across the canvas in gentle strokes. Sometimes- and only sometimes, does he know what he’s painting. He likes his landscapes well enough, people, too, but often, he likes freehand, knows that it’s child’s play when he does it, as if he’d dipped his fingers into the paint and willed tacky into existence.

It’s still a form of release, though. It may not be anything special, but it cuts his anxiety right in two when he needs it the most.

“You’ve been in here all day?”

Steve jumps, watches helplessly as the brush slides across the canvas in an indecent stroke only to fall out of his hand onto the floor. “Fuck,” he says, climbs out of his chair, reaching for the brush. He delicately places it onto the table, the one that holds all his supplies, his brushes, his paints. He’s even got clay and watercolors, colored pencils and markers he’s still testing out because the texture runs different; the liquid is thinner, and Steve’s determined to understand the variety. “You could’ve made a noise, you asshole.”

“Forgive me for walking through my house.”

The tone is sharp, unexpected, and when Steve looks up, Billy’s leaning against the threshold of the door with a pinch in his brow and a curl to his lip. Steve’s not sure what’s caused it, thinks back to this morning when Billy smiled as he’d leaned over the edge of the bed to kiss Steve goodbye. Thinks maybe he could’ve left something out of place, then wonders if maybe something else has crawled up under Billy’s skin and settled there.

“Right,” he answers, not knowing what he could follow that up with. The tension is thick now, heavy and unsure, and Steve knows it’s one of those moods, the kind that isn’t deliberate because Billy’s only holding back his feelings like that’s the right thing to do.

Might have to coax it out of him, then.

Billy’s brow arches, pointed like he’s waiting for Steve to snap, and at that, he rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “You’re going to come sit down,” he starts, sees the way Billy’s eye twitches after being told what to do. “Sit. Down.” Then, he nods at the chair, turns and pulls open a few drawers until he’s sorting out a set of clean paint brushes.

When Steve turns around, he runs into a solid chest, Billy bracing his hips with the palms of his hands. He’s warm even through Steve’s clothes, a weight he’s missed all day. “Princess is getting a little too big for his britches,” Billy says, blue eyes amused as Steve attempts to wiggle free. He knows that Billy’s cornering him for a reason, for a fight, for maybe a good fuck to avoid the problem at hand, but if there’s anything Steve’s learned about Billy, it’s that his instincts to please win out every time.

“Daddy’s getting a little too serious,” he counters, tone like the edge of a knife. He smiles, makes sure Billy knows that he knows and that Steve’s only going to make him work for anything more than a deep kiss.

It takes a moment, but only that, for Billy to sigh, takes a step back, then another, until his hands are no longer on Steve. He almost looks disappointed, but Steve knows Billy’s insides burn brighter than any star, and if he can’t have his way now, he’ll certainly get it later.

Billy sits down, sort of plops into the seat with a huff like he can’t believe Steve’s making him do this. Really, Steve doesn’t have a clue what he’s intended, but he does have paints and stained hands, clean brushes and white canvases that take his mind off of the bullshit his brain conjures. Billy’s never one to join Steve on his quest, complains too much about the paint fumes and that there’s no point to this if I can’t draw jack, Steve.

Billy’s more of a reader anyway, the study a life of its own with the shelves extending from floor to ceiling. It’s how Billy usually relaxes when he needs it, if he’s not busy coaxing an orgasm out of Steve – which he very happily enjoys – but this time, Steve reaches for Billy’s palm, pries his fingers open and sets a single brush in his hand.

“I trust you know what to do with it.” Steve nudges Billy’s fingers, closing the hold around the wooden stem of the brush. Then, he glances at the canvas from underneath his lashes, back and forth until Billy’s frowning.

“You mean you’re not going to give me a lap dance? I sat down for nothing?”

Try as he might, Steve can’t contain his smirk, tilting his head like he’s talking to a child. “You haven’t earned that yet,” he says, cupping the underside of Billy’s jaw in a tender gesture of affection, only pulling away to grab the other chair he keeps in the corner of the room. “Show me what you got, pretty boy.”

“You using my lines on me is not doing you any favors,” Billy says, narrowing his eyes. He’s pretty good at reading Steve – they’re both good at reading each other now, but sometimes Steve still pulls one over his head, likes when Billy’s games slip from his control, right into Steve’s.

“Just paint, Billy.” And then he waits, stares at the other man until Billy’s grumbling under his breath. The brush rotates between his fingers, Steve watching as he attempts to find a comfortable grip before hovering over the paints like he’s scared to touch them, like he’s never seen them before.

“Weren’t you working on something?” he asks, let’s his arm fall down, elbow to his knee. He glances at the paining, half of it covered in paint, the other half white, and the one lone streak that wasn’t intentional. If Steve could give it one ounce of personification, it’d be the way it mocks him as it lies drying.

“Nothing’s as important as you,” he replies, turning his gaze away from the eye sore – though in actuality, the whole canvas is, but that’s neither here nor there – to continue staring at Billy, watches the way the corner of his lips drag into a frown, realizing that there’s no way around Steve’s stubbornness.

Billy blinks, still doesn’t look impressed and says, “You’re being a brat.”

Petulance is a word Steve would use to describe Billy sometimes, so used to snapping his fingers and people crawling on their knees for a moment of his time. His job – though more like his position – gives him that luxury, and Steve hates to admit that maybe he’d fallen for it too until he realized just how much he could bat his eyes and turn Billy into a puddle of putty. “Didn’t start it, babe.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were,” Steve insists, gives a quick point to the project as if that explains it all. “So, now you’re going to paint me a picture.” It goes quiet then, the music in the background filling the room, the city outside rumbling as if it wasn’t listening to their conversation.

“You know I can’t paint, princess,” Billy attempts on more time, just one moment of reprieve. Steve doesn’t understand why it’s so difficult to follow simple instructions, but then again, he’s dealing with a man in a fortune five-hundred company who’s never rolled over for anyone in his life.

Except Steve, but even then, that’s not something Billy easily admits to. It isn’t out of weakness, per se, and Billy loves showing him off to all his friends. As if Steve found objection in the question the first time Billy offered because he hadn’t, but more to do with the fact that Billy and emotions have never gone hand in hand. Like pulling teeth, Steve’s been on the brink of frustration too many times, knows the reason, knows Billy’s past, but still doesn’t wholly understand.

So, out of playing stubborn, Steve shrugs. “Does that look like a masterpiece to you?” Failure has welcomed him too many times; Steve feels like maybe that’s the root of a much larger problem. The career he’d aspired for left no room for positive affirmations, not until he’d struggled for a few years and finally booked a gig big enough to have offers roll in, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deal with his fair share of personal torment over whether all he’s good with his posing.

Steve likes his looks well enough, uses that to his advantage more often than he’d like to admit, but that alone isn’t fulfilling as the time spent in between painting and creating something much more than an image.

He frowns, holds disdain in his eyes because some of the colors have muddled together in a particularly ugly shade of brown. Not what he was going for, but it’s not like he can’t start again. That’d always been a lessoned learned.

“You know anything you do is good enough.” Billy’s eyes are on him now, intense and blue under the streams of sun that shine through the window.

It makes Steve suck in a breath, reminds him of all the reasons he loves Billy’s attention on him. “Not the point,” he croaks, definitely not disillusioned with the idea that Billy knows how he affects Steve. “But thank you anyway. You’re stalling; now get to it or-”

“Or what?” Billy says, the arch in his brow back.

Steve plucks the brush he’d been using off the table, dips it into a shade of blue – bright like the sky and similar to Billy’s eye color; he’d never admit it, but it’s why he bought it, felt like maybe the deep reds and shades of purple he loved the most could use the contrast even though it never really matched.

He’s sure there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, hates how he’s always slow in understanding what his subconscious already knows, but Steve only dabs the canvas in the corner, knows Billy’s looking at what he’s doing, only to surprise him by lifting the brush to slide it down the side of Billy’s cheek. “That’s my favorite color on you,” he says. “For future reference.”

Billy stills, gone rigid by the gesture. The flick of his tongue is what gives him away, that he’s not mad but agitated with really? Did you really?

“If you get paint on this suit-” he says, voice dropping low.

“You’ll what?” Steve taunts. “Spank me, daddy?” And just as he says it, like a slow motion shot of a film, paint drips off Steve’s brush and lands right on the lapel of Billy’s suit jacket. Bright blue paint on a deep brown suit don’t really go together, but Steve is reminded, if only briefly, why he loves color theory so much. “That was not planned.”

He shrinks away, wide-eyed as Billy dabs the paint off with a finger, slides it across the canvas in front of him because Steve doesn’t have a rag nearby, and there’s no sense in it anyway. There’s a dark spot on the suit, and it’s going to be a bitch to remove.

“Wasn’t it?” Billy rubs his thumb and forefinger together, that maybe if he does it long enough, the rest of the paint will wither away. Instead, it just leaves the tips tacky and stained like Steve’s.

“No,” Steve replies, dumps his brush into the dirty cup of water he keeps only in case he runs out of clean brushes. It hardly happens because Steve has enough sets that he can wash and dry a pair without waiting to use them. “You should’ve taken your clothes off before coming in here.”

Now the tables have turned, his argument weak across the tongue. Billy certainly picks up on that with, “Is that so?”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“Billy,” Steve whines, flush gradually fluttering across his cheeks.

“Hmm. See, that’s not my name, baby. Not when you have to beg.”

“Who says I’m begging?” But he’s not confident in that question either, pointed out by Billy’s lazy smirk.

“Well, if you’re not,” he pauses, thumbing the bristles of the brush in his hand, “then I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I did this.” Billy then takes the paint brush and runs it straight down Steve’s forehead, between his wide brown eyes and stops just as he reaches the tip of his nose.

“That’s-” Steve falters, feels the cool breeze twice as much as the paint sits wet upon his skin.

“Not fair?” Billy’s brows raise, amusement hidden in the corner of his eyes, significantly lighter than when he’d entered the room. It’s a better look on him, as Steve takes him in, gently touching the tip of his nose, definitely checking that one line had been given to his painting and now another sits between his eyes. Billy must read his thoughts, pushes further by emphasizing his tone lighter and nowhere close to Steve’s. “Didn’t start it, babe.”

He makes a split second decisions - not even that, really - by dipping his fingers directly into the yellow paint, flicking them until little dots dance across Billy’s skin. “Then finish it.”

It happens within seconds. One moment Steve is propped up on the edge of his chair, perfectly pleasant in sharing his space with Billy upright, and the next he’s sprawled across the floor. His brush rolls across it, left to be found later, and his paints - including the canvas and the water - splash around them. It’s in this moment that Steve’s grateful Billy replaced the carpet with tile, but even then he winces until Billy’s got four fingers - all stained with paint - running down the curve of his neck.

“Gladly,” he say as he reaches forward, attaching his lips to the side of Steve’s neck that isn’t covered in paint. He nips, and he sucks until Steve’s wriggling from beneath him. His cock fills quickly, doesn’t take much when he’s around Billy anyway, and he lets him know by rutting against his thigh, soft little presses until Billy reaches for his hip to hold him still. “I’m thinking,” Billy says, slipping two fingers just past the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. His cock jumps, the anticipation curling in his chest, but Billy moves no further. “That I probably shouldn’t let you cum.”

Steve swallows a noise of disappointment. This isn’t what he’d intended, had really hoped for more of a conversation of intent and resolution than Billy pinning him against the floor on the off-chance that maybe he’d get to come.

But now that he’s here, he’s shameless enough to admit his will power doesn’t proceed him. “Please, daddy,” he emphasizes this time, latching onto Billy’s tie to pull him down into another heated kiss. His tongue is rough against Billy’s, sliding past his teeth, tastes the cigarette smoke and mints, the cleanliness that lingers because Billy knows of nothing else.

Immediately, whatever tension was left lingering in Billy’s body, simply dissipates. Steve feels the extra weight of Billy on top of him as he relaxes, as he pushes Steve’s sweatpants down to expose his cock. Billy takes him in hand, rough at first with the callouses against his palm, but it’s a discomfort that makes him twitch, makes him grind up into the palm of Billy’s hand seeking more, seeking a release he knows will be quick.

Billy thumbs at the head of his cock, breaking away from Steve’s kiss to latch onto the underside of his jaw. Blurts of pre-cum swell at the tip as Billy slowly rubs it down the length of him.

Steve always gets embarrassingly wet, generally likes to use his slick to fuck his fist, and Billy knows this, too, because he’d watched Steve once, made him sit on the couch in broad daylight just so he could stroke himself to orgasm with only the touch of his hand. Billy’s blue, wanton eyes were the only thing he’d seen as he’d fallen over the edge.

So, this isn’t an exception, not when Billy takes him fully, strokes up in one swift movement and too slow - agonizingly slow - to calm the desire in Steve, to make him wet, to make it easier. He whines low in his throat while Billy smiles against the curve of his shoulder. The linger of a kiss remains as he pulls away, stares at Steve and tells him, “Fuck my fist, princess.”

There’s no hesitation from Steve, doesn’t crow over the tile against his back, hard underneath the tarp, and he doesn’t complain about how his pants restrict him from opening his legs wider, can’t use his feet as leverage to give a good thrust.

Instead, Steve’s movement’s are limited, sloppy and uncoordinated. Billy’s seated in desire, curled around Steve’s side as he tightens his fist, releasing it a moment later only to repeat the torture of not giving enough until Steve catches his wrist, holds him there.

The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches, reads Steve’s eyes as they beg, until he releases Billy in the hope he’ll listen. “You’re awfully haughty,” Billy whispers, though the thick of his voice gives away just how little control he has over it, how little he cares that Steve’s pushy when usually it’s the other way around. “Should let you take care of yourself.”

Shaking his head, Steve licks his lips, gives a particularly enthusiastic push of his hips before he tells Billy, “I’m too much of a sight to behold.”

With that, Billy squeezes around Steve’s cock, thumb curving just underneath the head until Steve’s hissing. Billy hums again, has a fond look on his face as he says, “You are, my darling. Watching you makes my day.” And then he’s shoving Steve’s shirt up, releasing his length for only a second to do it, sliding his hand down, down until he’s back stroking, quick sessions of his fist accumulating pre-cum, meeting the sharp thrusts Steve gives.

And then- then Billy’s lips are lower on his skin, as his shirt bunches up against the line of his collar. Billy gives a rough command, says, “Now cum or I won’t fuck you later,” then licks across the bud of Steve’s nipple, swirling his tongue until he gives a particularly hard bite that sends Steve’s head reeling, has his cock blurting thick strips of cum across his tummy, towards his chest.

He’s loud when the moan escapes, as Steve cries underneath Billy’s torture, feels his toes curl, limbs shaking. Billy presses kisses across the middle of his chest, laps at the cum that’s landed that far before taking Steve’s other nipple into his mouth despite the fact that he’s already cum. His hand is gentler now in his strokes across Steve’s cock, eases him through the after affects of release and only steps off when Steve whimpers, squirms away from sensitivity.

“You’re always so unfair,” Steve says after he few breaths, catches how easy it is to fill his lungs after the rise of his heartbeat.

Billy smiles, rests his chin on Steve’s chest lightly. The thick of his lashes make him look bashful, Steve staring down the bridge of his nose for a clear glimpse. He thinks, sometimes, how unfair it is, that all the small, pretty things about Billy always add up into one big picture of beauty, often made him wonder how he ended up here like this with a boyfriend who loved him good, fucked him good, too.

“If anything’s unfair,” Billy retorts, “it’s the fact that you got off, and I’ve yet-”

“Do you want me to-”

Billy’s quick to shake his head, places his cum-covered hand on Steve’s shoulder, which stops him from moving. “Told you I’d fuck you later. I meant that.”

“Like you also meant to snap at me?” Steve asks without a tone of regret. He slides his fingers across the back of Billy’s head, sinking them into his hair, rubbing his scalp with the blunt of his fingernails in light scratches. Steve looks away then, hates to be the bitch that ruins the mood, but he had intended for the issue to be addressed.

Besides, Steve might’ve been cookie-cutter perfect for a good chunk of his life, and that might’ve changed after years away from home, but the one thing that hasn’t left him is wanting to know the truth. No bullshit; no lies, Billy, he remembers telling him. You cheat, and we’re done.

It’s been years since that conversation, and they’ve never held each other to anything less. This is still no exception.

Billy sighs, turns his head so he’s ear is pressed against Steve instead. “Shitty day at work, that’s all,” he says, tired seeping through the vibrato. “Shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”

There’s no reason to be mad, and Steve’s not, continues to sweep his hand through Billy’s curls, across the top of his head until he’s pulled away the tangles, and Billy’s eyes are fluttering closed.

“You do know I’m always down for a good, hard fuck if you ever need to let your frustrations out, Billy,” Steve eventually says when the silence stretches. “I’ve told you that, and I’d much prefer having my ass pounded than you angry and sniping at me.”

“Fuck, how’d I get so lucky.” Billy’s arm curls tight around Steve’s waist, warm and pliant. Steve can feel the rise and fall of his chest, maybe even feels Billy’s heart hammering away from another slight, like they’re all adding up until Steve finally penalizes him for it. He won’t; Steve will admit he’s stubborn, but he’s not scornful. Especially with Billy.

“You really did,” Steve says in agreement, lets the two of them rest there for what feels like ages, lets the music play and the paint dry and the wind breeze through the window until his back grows sore. “C’mon, babe.” He nudges Billy, almost would’ve guessed he fell asleep if it weren’t for him stirring underneath the shake of Steve’s palm. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Billy sits up, reluctantly, turning to help Steve with his pants, helps him stand. His suit is ruffled, has paint on it in random places. His hair’s a mess from Steve rucking through it, but he looks more than content, looks soft, at least, and much more like the person Steve likes to spend his time with.

Rough around the edges has always been, and will always be, Billy’s forte, but Steve enjoys this, too. Enjoys it when Billy sweeps him into his arms, presses their foreheads together, then kisses him softly. Enjoys it when Billy is sincere, when he tugs on Steve’s hand as he nudges a foot in the direction of their bedroom.

“I’ll buy you new paints,” he says absently as they walk down the hall. Steve regrets not cleaning anything, but the bed looks more than inviting, and more importantly, he knows Billy needs the sleep as he clings to Steve, hugs him from behind. Billy’s lips are delicate against his temple, hands caressing Steve’s hips.

“Good,” Steve says, finally urging Billy to untangle their limbs to sit down. Steve helps him off with his shoes, his socks, lets Billy remove the rest of his clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers.

With his legs spread wide, Steve slots himself between Billy’s thighs, lays his hand on wide shoulders. “I’ll hold you to it.” And then he’s cupping Billy’s cheek with the palm of his hand, kissing him softly because once is never enough.

Soon, Steve’s balance fails him, the two of them falling into bed in the middle of the afternoon just because they have the time, just because they can, and just because Steve’s missed the way Billy curls around him when they’re together.

#x #harringrove #i hate when i fail so bad at prompts #like the intention was to go in a different direction but then characters take over #so this turned out differently than originally planned so :/

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unstoppableforcce · 6 years

Text

Princess (Poe Dameron x reader) part 1

A/N: Another multipart Poe x reader, I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome. No warnings I don’t think.

“Wow.”

The beauty of the planet quickly overtook the pilot as he drifted the transporter into the atmosphere. He was surprised to see the whole planet coated in a bright sunlight, multiple suns shining over the horizon, basking every tower and structure in a golden glow.

Every single thing about the planet was gorgeous. The trees reached high and far, every structure somehow reaching even taller. The architecture looked old but so intricate and every surface was covered in vines and flowers.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” The calm voice of the General spoke up from behind the curly haired pilot. He turned briefly just to confirm it was her before staring back out at the beautiful landscape.

“Every thing is so beautiful.” He added back, softer this time as he navigated through the tall buildings of the city. But as he moved through the city, the city began to fade away into more villages and market places. “How far is the palace outside the city?”

“Not far, you can’t miss it.” She added, watching the awe on the pilots face as he admires the landscape.

He was about to question what she meant by that but then the palace came into view over the horizon. A gorgeous building that seemed to go on for miles almost. The whole west side seemed to be a hub for ships, watching them fly in and out. But the opposite side was on the bay of a beach and ocean, surrounded by a market place. There was too much to focus on honestly. But one thing that couldn’t be missed was the giant statue of some woman in the expansive courtyard.

“Who is that?” He questioned as he maneuvered over to the west side, where all the ships were moving in and out.

“Their old queen, she’s dead now.” Leia explained as they flew into the hub, being directed to the upper level for parking.

“Who are we meeting with then?” He asked her, landing the ship and continuing to stare out at the beautiful expanse.

“The Princess, (Y/N).” She added as they walked out of the plane. They were both dressed in casual clothing, nothing marking them as resistance, knowing that the first order could be anywhere.

“She’s not the queen?” Poe questioned, stopping briefly to watch a flock of beautifully vibrant birds storm to the bay elegantly.

“The king is still alive, dying, but alive.” She continued, ushering Poe into the elevator, chuckling by how fascinated he was by the scenery.

“So the princess runs everything? Interesting.” He added, finally turning to face Leia.

“You better play nice, you know how much we need their sponsorship, we couldn’t survive with out it.” She added as they stepped out into the main hallway. People were casually mewling around, dressed in natural looking fabrics, flowers in their hands, ink covering their skin.

“Don’t worry, I will.” Poe comforted, following Leia as she approached another hallway where guards were standing outside.

“Elias? Is that you?” Leia questioned as she approached the man, heavily armed, stern look across his face. Though all his sternness faded away as he saw her walking towards him.

“Ah, Princess.” He smiled back, welcoming her with open arms. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“We have a meeting with the Princess.” Leia explained but the guards face twisted with confusion.

“I’m sorry but she’s not here currently.” He explained.

“Where is She?” Poe questioned casually, drawing attention towards him.

“She often travels around our planet. This isn’t unusual, I mean, for her to forget she has meetings.” He explained.

Leia and Poe glanced at each other, suspicious of who they were doing business with.

“But, She should return soon, you’re welcome to wait for her in the throne room.” He added, sensing their apprehension, stepping aside to let them pass. “You remember the route, I’m sure?”

“Yes of course.” Leia comforted.

She began walking and Poe followed on her heels. Poe was growing overly suspicious, he didn’t trust a woman who couldn’t even remember her own meetings. Or who was actively trying to avoid them. Who’s side was she on.

“She forgot our meeting? And she runs this planet?” Poe questioned, turning Leia to face him as they stood down the hallway.

“She’s not away, her ship is still in the hanger.” Leia countered, surprising Poe.

“Why would he lie to us?”

“I don’t think he knows that he’s lying.” She added, taking a detour down another hallway instead of heading to the throne room as directed.

“You think she’s avoiding us?” Poe concluded as they continued down the long hall, arriving in one of the main passage ways filled with people.

“She’s probably already fielding offers from the first order. She’s a sweet kid, she probably is afraid to tell us no.” Leia nodded to a man passing them as they continued to walk towards the east wing of the palace. She hardly remembered the princess but if she was anything like her father, she could expect her to be nothing but sweet and kind. The more they walked, through halls and past open rooms, the less official things began to feel, suddenly it felt more as if they were in a market and not a palace.

“You think she’s here?” Poe questioned, now immersed in the busy market place, spotting the shore of the beach on the other side.

“I’m almost sure of it.” She added and they began to walk through the market, her eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the princess. There wasn’t much Poe could do to help, not knowing what she looked like, but he was easily admiring the beautiful sun coated landscape.

They reached the end of the market place, standing on the shore when Leia casually pointed to the bank of the water. Poe looked over to where she was pointing and was struck with awe. There sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He could hardly see her face but her smooth skin contrasted the cool white sand of the beach, making her shine. She was sitting alone, draped in a thinly strapped black dress, making her look like a natural beauty of the surrounding nature. He could see a long tattoo drawn down the line of her spine, he couldn’t make out what it was but it was long an intricate, stretching across her whole torso.

He must’ve been staring too long, because he didn’t realize Leia had began walking towards her. He quickly caught up but they were stopped by a guard who seemed to appear out of no where when they got close.

“She’s busy.”

Leia went to argue but the princess turned her attention to them, sighing deeply before turning back to stare at the water.

“It’s okay Xia, let them through.”

Poe eyed the guard carefully as they passed him and approached where she sat, casually draped in her dress across the sand.

“Princess.” Leia asked harshly as they approached her.

She looked up at them and Poe was mesmerized by her grey eyes, so light and pure seeming.

“I was hoping that by not being at the palace, you would get the feeling I didn’t want to meet with you.” Her smooth voice, vaguely accented, spoke out, her eyes returning to the sea.

“We did, we just ignored it.” Leia spoke and the princess laughed lightly.

“We.” She repeated, beginning to stand up, turning to face the two of them. “I wasn’t aware you were bringing friends.” Her words were just as pointed as her stare became, directed completely at Poe.

“I-“

“He’s my pilot, Commander Dameron.” Leia interrupted Poe’s chance to speak for himself, knowing he could piss her off easily. She was able to spot quickly that they were on thin ice with the princess.

“Commander Dameron? Does he have a first name?” She questioned Leia jokingly, but face straight and determined.

“Poe.” He commented, drawing her stare back to him.

“Well, Poe, if you could leave us to talk. You might as well wait by the ship you came in, I don’t imagine it will be a long conversation.” She spoke slyly as he frowned.

“Actually-“

“I was actually thinking he could join us.” Leia added, again cutting him off, not allowing him the chance to speak to her directly.

“Really?” She said, face remaining stoic. “Doesn’t seem like he’d be much for conversation.”

Poe huffed out annoyedly but Leia held a hand up to stop him from responding yet again, but he wouldn’t let her comments go undefended.

“I am one of her highest ranking commanders.” Poe noted, trying not to sound bitter, knowing it would only anger Leia who need this mission to go well.

“Im sure.” She added as she began walking away from them, easily expecting them to follow, which after a few seconds, they did. “As you can imagine, your being here has put me in an unfavorable position.” She explained, weaving effortlessly through the market place as they followed her back to the palace trying to keep up.

“We don’t wish to cause you discomfort Princess, but it is a rather important conversation we need to have.” Leia argues back as they struggle to follow her through the crowds.

Poe kept his eyes staring directly at her back, using it as a marker to chase her through the crowd eagerly trying to keep up, Leia at his side.

“That’s funny, I swore I very clearly conveyed my position over our last call.” She stopped walking and waited for them to catch up, standing in front of a booth with children selling fruit.

“I was hoping that a face-to-face meeting would allow us to change your mind.” Leia explained but the princess was no longer looking at her, now paying her full attention to the children at the booth.

She had grabbed a small pouch of shining coins from her guard and crouched in front of the children. The children quickly began to kneel in front of her but she waved their greeting of respect off. “How much for a pouch of the Mewe?” She questioned.

“Free for you, my princess.” The child in front told her but she shook her head in a laugh, this being the first time Poe had seen her crack her stoic disposition.

“That’s no way to run a business.” She spoke easily, the child smiled, gesturing for one of the other children to prepare a pouch.

“Four.” He responded and she smiled back, passing him the necessary shiny coins. He in return, handed her a pouch of the fruit she requested.

Standing back up with it, she handed her coins back to her guard and began walking, Leia and Poe following behind again. When they reached the edge of the palace, she led them to a more quiet and not as crowded hallway before turning back to them.

Reaching into the bag, she flipped a fruit at Poe with a stoic face, then gently handed one to Leia.

“It’s a Mewe, one of our sweetest fruits. You can only find them here. They can’t grow anywhere else because they need massive amounts of sunlight.” The Princess explained, pulling one out for herself and easily taking a bite out of it.

Poe tried to notice the way the juice dripped down her chin from the corner of her mouth. So he adverted his eyes to Leia who had taken her own bite, eyes imploring him to do the same.

So he took his own bite was overwhelmed by the amazing taste instantly. He grew up with the same foods his whole life, nowadays stuck with whatever bland ration packs the resistance was supplied with. He hadn’t ever tasted anything so sweet.

She quickly took notice of his reaction, a smirk now cracking her hardened exterior.

“This is one of the many things that makes my planet not only unique but extraordinary.” She explained as the two of them watch her take another chaste bite.

“We don’t disagree-“

“I think you do.” She responded, interrupting Leia. “You would have me pledge my sponsorship to your futile movement and sacrifice my whole planet to the wrath of the horrid first order. You do this, with nothing to offer me in return. You just hold tight to the idea that long lasting relations are infallible.” She spoke back with nothing but composure despite speaking so passionately.

“We can offer your planet protection.” Leia added, “putting you safe and on the right side of history.”

“Because that worked so well for Alderaan or the Hosnian System?” She countered rudely, elevating tensions with her low blow. “You can’t protect yourselves, how do you expect to protect my planet.”

“So you’d rather pledge allegiance to a murderous sociopathic regime?” Poe questioned rudely, fed up with her attitude.

“I’d do whatever it takes to save my people.” She argued back, turning her full attention towards him. “We are a peaceful planet, there is not much we can do to arm ourselves outside of diplomacy, and right now, the First Order is being very convincing.”

“They’re lying to you.” Poe argued heartedly, surprising her with his attitude, she wasn’t used to this kind of outward disrespect.

“And you’ve been doing what exactly for the past years of our alliance?” She questioned, stepping up against Poe in a fit of annoyance.

“Whatever they’re promising you, they’re lying. They’ll exploit your home, steal your resources and take over. You have to know that.” Poe argued back, stepping forward and backing Leia unwillingly out of the conversation.

“They’ve promised me protection and have been nothing but cordial, unlike you.” She said, shaking her head with a chuckle of disbelief, stepping back away a foot to clear the air between them. “So I would watch your tone before you overstep.”

“You’re worried about niceness? People are dying.” He didn’t think he was as loud as he was, but people began to take notice. “The first order is manipulating you and you’re letting them.” Poe argued back loudly, taking another step towards her, grabbing her arm to stop her, though it soon looked like it might be the last step he would take as the guards stepped up from behind the princess. Leia stopped his movement before the guards even got there, reigning him back.

“Stand down, Dameron.” Leia ordered strongly, pulling him back as the guards approached.

“No, I think the damage has been done, General.” She added, brushing a long strand of her hair from her face before waving the guards all the way forward, watching intently as they each grabbed for one of the pilot’s arms.

“What the hell are you doing?” Poe asked violently as he tried to rip his arms away.

“Your highness, please-“ Leia attempted but it was clear the princess wasn’t having it.

“Let him think over his words with a sleep in our jail.” She argued back, dismissing her guards who pulled Poe away kicking and fighting but no match for her strong guards.

“Are you out of your mind?” Poe shouted, attracting attention but she looked un-phased.

“No but seems like you are.” She argued back before turning to face Leia. “I’m sorry, but you brought him here. You can leave with him after he’s learned his lesson.”

She walked off, gently grabbing a worker and ordering them to direct Leia to a room for her to stay in, not wanting her brought by guard out of respect, not wanting to make her feel like a prisoner.

She walked back to the throne room, directing the assistants that quickly swarmed her to make Leia feel at home and give her regular updates on her new prisoner. Then she eagerly dismissed them, allowing her some alone time in her throne room.

The room had high ceilings and huge windows, ushering in the glow of the planet, covering her dark wooded chair. She collapsed into the chair as her minions dispersed, releasing a heavy sigh, rubbing her temples.

She wanted to agree with Leia and the hot headed pilot, she really did. She wasn’t ignorant, she knew the resistance was the morally right choice in terms of saving the Galaxy but she had to think about her people and her planet.

The first order members she had been communicating with ensured that her planet would be safe as long as they promised to turn away the resistance and provide safe harbor for some of their ships.

What was she supposed to do?

#poe dameon x reader #poe x reader #Poe Dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #star wars imagine #star wars #princess!reader #princess au

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thepandemicinterviews · 4 years

Text

Issy, August 9 2020, Sydney

When a housemate leaves, certain objects, sounds, and interactions disappear from your domestic landscape. Sometimes tears are shed. You say goodbye knowing that you will likely never occupy space together in the same way again.

In my two years of living in this house, I have seen eight people leave (not a reflection on this house or my presence in it, I promise). The most recent loss was Issy. When Issy moved in late January of this year, she immediately baked a cake for my housemate’s birthday. With scissors, she cut all of the overgrown grass in the backyard, then cleared out years worth of junk from the garage. She called for house dinners to become a regular occurrence. Issy, in all of her determination and readiness for life, seemed profoundly unrelatable to me at first. The adjective I used to describe her was “perfect,” meaning good at everything: running, talking, living, kind, intelligent… But the word perfect is too reductive, or cursed with a certain jealousy. It implies a cohesiveness that simply does not exist in the best of people.

Let’s just say then that I love her, and her multiplicity. I’ve loved her presence in this house. At her farewell, I gave her the unedited version of this interview printed on pages stuck to newspaper. Not so much an interview as a chat between two friends drinking red wine with a lot to say. At the risk of sounding too sentimental (no such thing), I’m so glad we got to have this little piece of recorded history together, Issy.

The best part about Issy’s cakes was that they were never too sweet. And she wasn’t either.

The first image included in the interview is an artwork Issy sent me. When I asked her about it, she told me it represented for her an idea of “stagnant motion, connectedness but disconnectedness.” What better captures the feeling of wrestling forward in a year that wants nothing but to hold you back? The artist Nancy Spero, I learnt, was a central figure in the feminist art movement of the mid-20th century. From the MoMA website: Spero described her works as “ephemeral monuments” to the full range of women’s experience: tragic and triumphant, degraded and powerful, victimized and liberated. Multiplicity as the underlying current defining womanhood. Everything is true and simultaneously, wrote Chris Kraus.

Me not being an art scholar, I will rely instead on Spero’s passionately written Wikipedia article: Although her collaged and painted scrolls were Homeric in both scope and depth, the artist shunned the grandiose in content as well as style, relying instead on intimacy and immediacy, while also revealing the continuum of shocking political realities underlying enduring myths. Paying attention to the immediate and the intimate, alongside an understanding of the myths that politics is built upon, seems to me a useful lens through which to study the pandemic today. What is the everyday texture of living through a historically and politically unprecedented time? How do we signal love? What are the myths propelling counterproductive human behaviour? This novel coronavirus laughs in the face of neoliberalism.

I will end this overwrought introduction with this fragment from Spero’s interview with artist Phong Bui:

Spero: You know, being with Leon and having my three beautiful sons, I am really blessed in a lot of ways. Otherwise, by living day-to-day, one realizes the firmness of cruelty, what people do to each other. But then one realizes that it’s always built with double meaning of the conflicted self. Whether it’s through language and gesture and thoughts, and so on…

Bui: That’s true. And that’s why we deal with that intense closeness of that duality through art, instead of hurting ourselves or others which I think is overrated.

However you can, in this dark unending year of 2020, make art instead.

C: This might be a strange question to start with, but what have been some of your favourite memories throughout Covid?

I: That is an interesting one because I definitely think there have been some really beautiful moments. I was looking through my phone camera the other day to see what has happened. I don’t take many photos, but a few things popped out. I definitely remember the night that we all spent together, you know the one that we had that group photo by the table? I think it was when Josh was in the house. It wasn’t my birthday dinner but it was one around that time. The house nights? I feel like we went through a period of having dinners which was super beautiful. Also around my birthday period, I went with Maya – you remember how on my birthday I went and drove to Collaroy? Which is a bit ridiculous. There was a moment when we’d gone to the beach and the sun was almost setting. There were still quite a few people around and Covid hadn’t fully hit the Beaches yet, so there were people around, and I hadn’t been in the ocean in months. And I remember us just finally setting our stuff down on the beach and getting into our swimmers and running into the ocean. And Maya’s very… How to describe her? You can’t. But she’s very beautiful and she was very much like, you know, this is a cleansing moment and experience, and a new year for you, and we need to jump into the ocean and make a wish. Which, when I’m with her, I definitely get on board with. So we jumped into the ocean and it just felt super cleansing and super beautiful and the sun was super warm. So that was a very nice moment. I think also, connecting with her in Australia as opposed to being in France, like last year on my birthday we were in Lyon. And we made a promise that every year, if it’s possible, that we’re going to be in a different country for our birthdays. So that was also hopeful and very nice.

C: So you have the same birthday?

I: No, her birthday’s a couple of months away from mine. But I think we’ll do something for both of them. We’re both birthday people [laughs]. But, yeah, I’m trying to think of other things. I mean, it’s tricky. Because I feel like there’s definitely moments that I’ve forgotten. It feels like it’s been the longest time but also the shortest time, and so much has happened but also nothing has. So I feel like almost just the nothingness has been nice in some moments I suppose.

C: Is that because you don’t feel like you have to be the busy, productive person you are in normal life?

I: I definitely feel like I still have that a little bit [laughs]. It’s funny, because I was kind of wondering what I’ve learnt over Covid. And I think, one thing that I’m still trying to learn is the idea that I need to not value my time and my self based on productivity. Especially when you can’t be that productive. I used to do quite a bit of volunteering, and obviously working a lot, and study and all of the little social events that I’ve been missing. And a lot of that’s been cut out, so it has just been like, trying to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay to not be doing things all the time. But it’s also hard because then you’re in your head more. Which is something that I think – I probably subconsciously try to keep busy so that I wasn’t doing that. So that’s been an interesting experience.

C: Can you elaborate on that? Like, how did it change throughout the months? Were there certain time markers for you?

I: Definitely the months have been quite distinct. But they also all merge into one when you think about it. I feel like I’ve had quite fragmented experiences. And I think the time markers are probably a lot to do with the people in my life as opposed to the things that I’ve been doing. Just because I have been doing less. But, I mean obviously having different housemates come into the house, and having different months where different friends are free. Seeing different people has been more of a time marker.

C: And that period when you weren’t working as well…

I: Yeah, I mean it’s tricky because that’s the first time I haven’t worked since I was 14, but at the same time I was so busy with Uni and study that it was probably really positive for my studies. But it did feel very consuming in that as well, in that I felt I had to totally immerse in that. It was fortunate I was doing interesting subjects.

C: What was it like finding out that Uni was online suddenly?

I: It was funny, I found out – I had been at Uni that day, and I went into work that night, and I was talking to some customers about how Covid was just hitting, and how everyone was going. And they were at UNSW, and I was like, Oh, I think UNSW’s shutting down, right? But UTS is probably not going to do that anytime soon. And they were like, Oh, no, UTS has shut down [laughs]. And I was like, what? I was there today! And they were like, Oh, my sister just sent me a screenshot of an email she received tonight. Your uni’s shut down! And so I found out that way, which was funny. But I mean honestly, as a law student, I felt quite lucky and quite privileged that a lot of what I do is totally capable of being online. And I felt really bad for students who are in more practical degrees. I have friends at the National Art School and friends doing med and science and whatnot, which is a lot more lab-based and necessary to be in a studio. Whereas, for law, it’s totally capable of being online. And I quite enjoy independent study. I am lucky to be self-motivated in that sense that I enjoy having my own space and being able to just do my readings. And Zoom has been interesting, watching how people adjust to an online format. And you definitely miss that human connection and having that more organic class discussion, I suppose. But at the same time, it’s very minimal negative compared to what other people are experiencing.

C: I felt like I really enjoyed my English classes on Zoom, and I felt much more willing to participate.

I: Oh really? Why’s that?

C: I think not having the awkward like, not having to signal that I was about to talk – just like, unmuting myself or raising my hand virtually was a lot easier for me than doing it in-person. And I’m always someone who does feel like I’m on the precipice of saying something but I just leave it half a second too long. Being invisible – sometimes I would drink wine, smoke during my classes and I would just be more confident as a result.

I: Yeah, I get that. That makes total sense. I’ve had the inverse experience, because I’m definitely less confident in a virtual setting. I think I’ve had a similar thing where I feel like I miss a second, I miss a beat, and people move on quite quickly in the virtual realm. And so I’ve had that experience this semester. Whereas, usually in class I’m just like, Me! And I just say things and it just flows more naturally for me there I think.

C: Did you have to have video on during your Zoom classes?

I: Yeah.

C: That would’ve changed things for me a lot I think.

I: Did you not?

C: No! No one had video on in either of my classes.

I: Oh, that’s so much nicer. That’s the thing, as soon as you start speaking your face is immediately in front of everybody.

C: Exactly, so I felt really good knowing that no one knew who I was, and I could say shit and no one would attribute it to me. They didn’t know me.

I: That’s interesting though, because you say no one knew who you were, but they knew your name and they knew your voice.

C: Yeah, but this was my last semester, like they would never see me.

I: But do you feel like that’s totally attributable to a visual thing, like to your face? Because, I mean, your name will be something…

C: Partly. I think, also, the class was really well-run, I loved my tutor, and it felt like a space where I could share ideas. And it felt really linked to Covid in a lot of ways, while we were talking about all these big ideas, reading Marx, reading Marcuse, and talking about free speech and universities and all of that. I guess this can lead me onto my next question. Did you feel like any of the things you were learning throughout your semester were linked to what was going on in the world around you? Because you were doing international law and stuff?

I: It’s funny, because that was the thing I was going to say from your comment. I think that’s one thing my studies lacked, was a link. Because it’s crazy we’re all going through this really immediate and collective and present thing in our lives, and then none of the content we were learning was really related to it. And none of the teachers really sought to relate it either. Which I was disappointed with. But also, it was a really tough time for them as well to have to adjust, in terms of entire learning materials, to the present situation. And I think international law always has relevance. Definitely it has become really relevant in the past month or so, with different relations between major players or whatnot. And that’s something I’ve really appreciated and I’ve found a deep interest in that from studying it. But they didn’t relate it to Covid throughout the semester. Maybe they’ll adjust. There’s time. Covid’s still going.

C: Yeah, how do you feel about the ongoingness of this pandemic? Like, we’re in August, we’ve lived through six months of it already. Where does it end?

I: Did you talk about this in your class at all?

C: No. I think we’ve only recently reached the point where we’ve come to terms with it and accepted it as part of daily life. And we don’t know when it’s going to end. But I think, before, everything that happened was so new and shocking and uncomfortable. I feel like we’ve gotten to a place where we’re starting to get comfortable with this new way of life.

I: Yeah, definitely. I think it’s going to be really interesting – I mean, I hope people take this as an opportunity to change a lot of really structural things. But it is going to be interesting how little things that we wouldn’t have considered normal have become normalised, and will just become part of our daily life. I don’t know when this is going to end. I mean, I feel like particularly in Australia, we’re super lucky that it is quite insular. And I mean it’s very easy to look at it at a larger scale and be really overwhelmed with what’s going on in the rest of the world. But in Australia it’s quite easy to feel like nothing has changed, but then obviously everything has. And there’s lots of things that have for a lot of people. If you look at my life, on a personal level, it probably hasn’t massively? But you think about the way that you’ve learnt things over the last few months, and the way that you have perceived things and changed things in your life to accommodate different things. And that’s definitely changed. I think it’s very easy to think that nothing has changed here? Or to minimise that. But it definitely will. And I hope people are aware of that. And I think one of the positive things that’s come out of this is this sense of collective experience. And obviously not everyone’s having the same experience; it might be like a super privileged view to be like, The Collective! But, you know, I think people are probably more willing to empathise in certain situations now.

C: It’s just such a rare event to happen. And it’s so rare for everyone to be affected by it. To be affected by anything singular. So I do think it’s a collective experience that we haven’t had previously, but obviously everyone’s going to have a different experience, but it is still a collective experience to go through.

I: Definitely. And I think in a time where everyone is so virtually connected as well. Like I don’t think the world has experienced a pandemic like this where everyone has been able to have a platform where they can voice their own experiences and feel a sense of community, worldwide even. Which is very interesting. I think the Internet is a slowly rising tide of panic, so it’s hard to… I think another thing that has really emerged in this time for me has been this idea of like – and I think you spoke to Zach a little bit about this – is this idea of like balancing your need or want or desire to be engaged, and then also needing to not feel overwhelmed as well. And it’s hard, because balance is so important, but where do you find that line.

C: But also we wouldn’t have reacted as strongly as we did – Australia – if it weren’t for what we saw play out through the news in Italy, in particular. I think, for me, when it hit that this was this big thing that was happening, was when I was reading about Italy and how terrible it was all of a sudden, late February. Like, this is going to happen here. But because we had that example, you know, we acted quickly and I’m very thankful that we are geographically distant from –

I: Like designed to deal with something like this?

C: Yeah.

I: Yeah, I think that’s definitely true. And I think it’s quite impressive how we reacted quite quickly to that. And I mean, that’s a testament to our society and democracy and whatnot. But I mean, there’s definitely been miniscule crises that have reflected things that have happened in Italy, like the aged care crisis at the moment was also present in Italy and was something that we definitely should have foreshadowed, and been more able to react more quickly to. I mean, I think it’s quite lucky we have a healthcare system that is comparatively, particularly to the US, very well-designed and very accessible. It’s been one of our saving graces also. Like it’s such a crisis in the US. Having my sister in New York has been terrifying and eye-opening.

C: How do you feel about moving back to Gosford and being away from everyone?

I: I don’t know. I think it definitely comes in waves. Ultimately, I think I feel quite positive about it. I think it’s what I need for myself at the moment and for my research. But it’s going to be hard. Like, on a scale of things that are hard, probably not that hard compared to what other people have to do. Yeah, it’s going to be weird being away from the city. But I’m also really excited to be away, and to be in nature a little bit more, and be close to the beach, and just be in a really tranquil environment where I’m not stressed. I don’t know why, but I’ve just been going through a bit of a weird time. And I don’t know if that’s like a Covid effect catching up to me.

C: I think everyone in Sydney is feeling a bit anxious that it’s going to hit here because of what’s happened in Melbourne. And we’re just all in this high alert mode. I think it makes sense to go to somewhere a bit out of the city at the moment.

I: Yeah, I definitely think that’s true. I’m going to miss everyone a lot. But I think, being out of the city will be a positive for me. Everyone’s on such high alert, it’s like a really anxious environment. It’s also hard with work at the moment as well, it’s a pretty stressful space to be in. And I love them, but I feel like I’m working so I can live in the city, but I’m not doing anything here, essentially, other than writing my thesis. So I could take away the work and just write my thesis, which will be productive over the next couple of months at least. But I will be back. I definitely can’t see myself living on the coast long-term. Just having been away last year, spending a bit more time with my mum will be really nice. But I feel like there will definitely be a limit to that.

C: Hopefully it coincides with Covid…

I: Yeah, I’m feeling maybe everything will shut down and it will just make complete sense for me to be at home. I definitely get antsy and I like changing things and I make quite rash decisions sometimes. But ultimately, I think that they make sense. And it’s something that I have thought more about than I would let myself believe. But I think it all makes sense. But I hope Sydney doesn’t go into lockdown again, because I feel like that will affect a lot of people really deeply.

C: Yeah. I mean, I don’t think we will because we have Melbourne as an example and people are being fairly proactive. And it seems like we thought it might have happened already, but it hasn’t.

I: Yeah, I think that’s one of the worst things about this, right, is the anticipation or the waiting for something to change. And like, feeling like you’re in this weird limbo-y period. It just feels like a weird hiatus from how things would normally work. But then it’s like, maybe this is just how things are normally working.

C: It’s like a middle ground between like, you can’t hang out with more than one person, but we’re not in Melbourne lockdown, obviously, we can go out to restaurants, we can go out for drinks, everything’s like normal-ish.

I: It’s such a weird distinction between being capable of going out for drinks and not feeling like you should, and feeling guilty if you do, and that you’re not taking enough precautionary measures. Yeah, definitely heightening anxiety for a lot of people and feelings of guilt. How are you feeling about it?

C: I don’t know. I think we’ll be in this vague uncertainty for a few months. Like at the beginning of everything, I think everyone thought it would be over in six months. Like spring was when it would get back to normal. And I was like, hopefully by the time it’s my birthday, warehouse parties will be back and we can go out after hanging out here. But that’s obviously not the case, so. I’m okay with it, as long as we have what we have now. I don’t think our restrictions will get that much tighter, hopefully. I’m okay with it. It is sad, but it would be much worse to be in the US. Like to have a government that doesn’t care about you.

I: Yeah, I mean I definitely think there’s certain sects of our society that the Australian government doesn’t care about.

C: Absolutely.

I: But the US is definitely… I don’t know if we should be comparing ourselves to the US though, because it’s such a low threshold to be better than them. Like it’s definitely a crisis over there.

C: It’s just wild, because it just seems like they have no understanding of – like they haven’t experienced having the government put restrictions on them in the way that we have, which would just make so much sense, because it’s so much more widespread there. But it’s like, maybe you shouldn’t gather with more than 50 people.

I: I think neo-liberalism is just so much more entrenched in the US. I mean, it’s definitely very present in Australia and has very widespread impacts here. But very very entrenched in the US. I think the population size as well, and the way that the Trump administration has been running for the last – God, it’s like four years now? How insane is that. They were not prepared to deal with something like this. Like, can you imagine? They can’t even get rid of guns.

C: It’s the only country in the world that has had such a political response to, like, mask-wearing. It’s insane.

I: And then you think of countries that are super equipped to deal with it. That have done it very efficiently.

C: Yeah, like South Korea. They were one of the first countries to get it. I remember reading all my emails that were already loaded because I was on a flight back from Melbourne and this was late February. I was just reading all the New York Times daily briefing emails. And I was like, fuck, it’s really taking off in South Korea! This is wild, like it’s all been passed on through this cult. Like, South Korea, Iran, Italy – what random countries to have Covid. Like, this is wild. But then, South Korea quashed it immediately while it went rampant in Italy for a while. Every place that got hit hard immediately, at the beginning, is doing fairly well now. Like New York compared to the rest of the US is doing fairly well.

I: Yeah, that’s true. I feel like it’s just a process of people having to learn how to deal with it. The experience of going through it, I guess, would change people’s perceptions of it and how they’re going to react to it as well. My sister actually did a really – at the start of Covid, in New York – she did quite a beautiful storytelling that her friend back here – her best friend, she’s an illustrator – did an illustration to. I’ll show you sometime.

C: I can link it.

I: It’s a good thing to watch, and I think it kind of represents the start of Covid and people’s feelings at the start of Covid quite beautifully. It’s really tinged with this kind of sadness but also unknowing. This understanding that people are being quite kind to each other in a way that they previously wouldn’t have been, because of the collective experience. I’ll show you.

vimeo

C: Do you think this has changed the way people interact with each other in a way that will last?

I: Hmm. I don’t know if that’s super relevant for Australia, or if that has affected Australia as much. I don’t think so. I think here it’s become more of an individual protection thing. And because we haven’t been hit as hard, I don’t think the understanding of it has gone as deep.

C: I think in Melbourne, maybe.

I: Maybe in Melbourne. Yeah, I don’t know anyone in Melbourne really at the moment. I haven’t spoken to them.

C: I think they will come out of this feeling like they had a very different experience to the rest of Australia. Like for us, I do feel like people are wearing masks more and more in Sydney. But I don’t think it will ever be mandated. I don’t think we’ll reach that point, hopefully. But they will have had to go through like – not being able to leave your house after 8pm is a very intense thing to have to live through. Which we’ll probably never understand.

I: How do you think that would work in Sydney? Like do you think that if we got to that point, it would change people’s perceptions of Covid and each other?

C: Probably. I think we’ve had a fairly light quarantine lockdown experience compared to a lot of people in the world. Even my New Zealand friends, when they were going through their six-week lockdown, it was a lot more intense than what we went through. I think we never really had it that hard in Sydney, and got through it fairly quickly and easily.

I: Yeah, definitely. I mean, I feel like it was such a minimal scale here. And it’s tricky, because I remember talking to my friend Thomas who works at PIAC. He was doing social housing policy during that time at the start of Covid. And he was like, suddenly, you know, government funding has opened up, and suddenly anything’s possible. We’re housing a lot of homeless people. And he was trying to work on more long-lasting solutions to that. And the quarantine didn’t last long enough for them to implement real change in that sector, I don’t think. And suddenly people were back – they stopped their program, so people were back out on the streets. And that was a noticeable shift, as soon as Covid started lessening, you saw people back out on the streets again, and that was a really harsh reality of government priorities as well. But I feel like in Sydney because it was so light, it almost didn’t allow for that opportunity to implement sustainable change in areas that definitely need it. And that could’ve been a positive that came out of it, but… What would be your positives that have come out of Covid?

C: Like, any positives? I think I’ve had a fairly normal experience throughout Covid in that I still worked my normal job that I’ve had for the past four years, I did Uni, I had a lot of – probably more so than ever – interactions with housemates because of Covid. So I never felt like I had a lot taken away from me. But I think all the fun things we had as a house, especially me, you and Citi, sitting on my bed gossiping, playing Skribblio was really fun. And Josh was here throughout the peak of Covid, which was really fun. It was good to have people around. I didn’t think that I needed it. I thought that I could deal with it all on my own in Woy Woy if I wanted to. But I think at the end of it, I was really like, I’m really glad I had social interaction because so many people haven’t had that opportunity, and it was really nice.

I: Yeah, I think that was definitely a positive. I mean, I’m sure it was more intense for Josh. But like having come just into a house as Covid was hitting and suddenly, that’s your social interaction. I really loved that element of it because it meant that we all got to know each other quite well quite quickly. And I’m sure that was more intense for Josh, having come in literally the week we went into lockdown. But I almost feel like prior to that, living in the house, we obviously all liked each other and got along, but we’d see each other quite fleetingly because we were all so busy doing our own thing, and then suddenly we had freed up this space to spend with each other. I think we all got closer a lot quicker because of that.

C: It is really nice. I don’t think I’ve come to terms with the fact that you’re leaving.

I: Neither have I.

C: It’s like a week away right? I will be very sad.

I: I’m also going to be very sad.

C: I think this is the best house that could’ve happened during lockdown.

I: Yeah, we had such a perfect lockdown dynamic. It’s hard, because you don’t want to say this, like you’re minimising other people’s experiences…

C: Hey, this is exactly what comes up every interview, but you know, it’s all about your subjective experience.

I: Yeah. But I mean, we did have a lot of fun.

C: Yeah, and it’s okay to!

I: Yeah, I think that’s another thing that I’ve been thinking about a lot, is trying not to invalidate your own experiences by thinking about other people’s. It’s very important to be aware of other people’s experiences but ultimately, you’ve gone through your own thing.

0 notes

irphanfic · 7 years

Text

Moonshot - Chapter 9

I’m finally back with Moonshot! Yay! I’m sorry if the updates are getting slower, but this week has been a bit crazy and I’m struggling a bit more than usual to write so I’m sorry.

Anyways, as always, any type of feedback is welcome!

summary: Phil had a feeling that this Friday was going to be different.

That didn’t mean he was ready to meet his favourite baseball player, Daniel Howell, while he was cleaning the windows of a building.

or the au in which Phil is a shy window cleaner and Dan is a famous baseball player. This is their story.

words: 3.1k

no trigger warnings

Read on ao3 - (x)

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8

Chapter 9: Photographs

Wednesday came and Phil was dreading going to work. Today Dan was leaving for that 'secret project' and Phil didn't want to face the fact that he wouldn't be seeing him in a week.

They spent yesterday night talking over the phone till Phil yawned like three times in less than a minute and decided it was time to say goodbye. A few other 'I'll miss you' and 'have a nice time' were exchanged, as if none of them wanted to stop talking to the other.

Sighing, Phil got ready for day and walked calmly to his work, enjoying the nice morning sun that was colouring the tall buildings in pretty oranges and yellows.

As he had done so many times, he put on his earphones and started cleaning the tall windows that were becoming too familiar to his liking.

Sooner than expected, Phil found himself at the top floor, smiling a bit at the familiar sightings. Dan had left his flat in a bit of a mess; a few socks, a pair of trousers and two t-shirts lying on the carpeted floor. The blue eyed guessed it was because Dan was such a 'last-minute' guy he probably did his suitcase after their phonecall.

Phil smiled and shook his head, 'This guy'.

Sighing rather loudly, knowing that no one could hear him up there, Phil took out his cleaning products and was about to spray them into the windows when he spotted something stuck to them.

Deciding to investigate, Phil walked towards whatever that was, laughing as he saw a row of polaroid pictures, each one a Dan selfie where he kept making cute or 'ugly' faces, one word written with black marker at the bottom white space of them, the familiar hand writting bringing a few flashbacks onto his mind.

Admiring each photograph Phil read every word, arranging them into a proper sentece:

'So – you – don't – forget – this – ugly – face. – See – you – soon. – ♥'

Phil wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This was the sweetest thing someone had made for him.

Dan was such a considerate guy. He kept surprising Phil in many ways no one had ever done before and he really found this details endearing,

''Ugly face, he says, ugh.'' Phil said to himself, still staring at the small pictures, appreciating the bush of curls and deep brown eyes that he was starting to miss already.

Could this week be over, already?

______________

It was around lunch time when Dan landed in a cloudy Ireland, quickly hoping into the car the company had ready for him just outside the airport and driving to a very lively rural-looking city. Once he left the suitcase in his hotel bedroom, the same driver drove Dan to the location where he would be working.

After almost half an hour, a beautiful landscape appeared in front of his eyes. A hill full of different tones of greens with multiple spots of lilac and yellow flowers that the wind was calmly moving, leaving Dan breathless at the sight.

Dan got out of the car, admiring the scenery in front of him. 'I would love to come here with Phil.' he thought. They would love this, it was so nice. Dan was already thinking of coming here with a blanket and spend the day with his head on Phil's lap as the blue eyed read to him for hours. Yeah, it seemed like a perfect date.

Suddenly, a strong voice startled him, ''Dan Howell, long time no see!''

Already smiling, Dan turned around only to see Peter Wright. He had been the director of the last campaign and it seemed like he was the one for this new one too. Great, at least a familiar face Dan could spot around.

Dan greeted him back which led to a quick conversation while Peter showed Dan around and what he wanted to do for this campaign.

Apparently, he and his modeling partner Claire would be trying different outfits of their new clothing range. They wanted to keep a 'rustic aesthetic' as Peter described, so that's why the landscape was a must.

''Also, we want you and Claire act like star-crossed lover. Runaways who left their actual lives to continue with their love somewhere else, what leads us to living a non-approved romance in a rural village. Yeah, a bit weird concept but you will see. Expect a few sensual shots in the next few days but nothing that you haven't done before, of course,'' Peter mentioned.

Dan almost frowned but somehow managed to control his hace expressions. He could act like a 'lover' with Claire, he had done that a few times in the past, but would he be comfortable now that he was almost in a relationship with Phil? Well, it was acting. And, believe it or not, acting had always been one of Dan's passions and even though it could be a bit pretentious, he considered himself a pretty good actor at this point.

''We will make a few test-photos today and tomorrow, see what light settings, make-up and more we will work with so we can work properly in the next few days,'' Peter said, finally arriving to an open space with a few tents where a crew was franatically running around.

Peter showed Dan what would be his changing and lounging room and left him for a few minutes till he came back with Claire Vickard, who had been one of the best tennis players in the last three years. It was really a privilege to work with someone so professional.

''Dan Howell, nice to finally meet you. Claire Vickard,'' she showed him a small smile and handed him a hand which he shook.

''Hello Claire, nice to meet you too,'' Dan repeated, also smiling.

Once Peter pitched them three into a conversation Dan's mind wandered till his eyes landed on Claire.

She was tall, not as tall as Dan, but she had a pretty good height that seemed to heighten thanks to her black and sleek ponytail letting him see her face features better, making her clear green eyes look even greener.

'They are not like Phil's' Dan almost groaned at the though. Yeah, her eyes might be greener than Phil's, but her features reminded him so much of the window cleaner it wouldn't be that easy to forget about said person.

It was going to be difficult. Pretty difficult.

______________

The day was finally over. It was 9pm and Phil had managed to have a productive afternoon of developing ideas that had potential to be a proper novel, wiriting whatever came into his mind and writing a few paraghaphs or pages at least. After a nice dinner and some cereal he decided to just lay on his bed watching a movie on his laptop, browsing to see which one he could pick that he hadn't watched yet.

He had messaged Dan earlier, thanking him for the pictures and reminidng him he didn't have 'an ugly face' but he hadn't gotten any response yet, meaning he was busy or simply wanted to disconnect from the world a bit.

As if reading his mind, his phone vibrated, quickly picking it up from his nightsand Phil saw a new message from Dan, 'can you skype? wanna see you.'

'Sure, let me call you.'

Phil closed his movie folder and opened Skype, easily calling Dan who after a minute appeared on the screen, almost in the same position as Phil, leaning against the headboard of what seemed a king sized bed, some pillows supporting his back. Dan's smiley face was tinted with the yellow light coming from a nightstand lamp, making his black t-shirt stand out even more.

''Hi'' Phil said shyly, regarding the old pyjamas he was wearing, not having even tought about changing.

''Hello, how was your day?'' Dan asked from the other side, his voice sounded happy but tired, Phil hoped he wasn't keeping him up even though Dan had been the one to ask to Skype.

''Nah, nothing much, just went to work and saw your super ugly pictures stuck to the windows.'' Phil joked, making them both chuckle, ''But, it was a very nice surprise, so thank you so much.'' he said sincerely.

''You're welcome. I wanted to make something nice for you since you are letting me read your manuscript which, by the way, it's going pretty well. It has me very intrigued.'' Dan picked up the stack of papers from the nightstand and showed it to Phil. He could spot a bright green post-it note marking Dan's reading. He noticed it wasn't very advanced, but enough to at least have read two chapters.

''Yeah? Are you liking it so far?'' Phil asked worried about his response.

''I'm really liking it. It has the perfect amount of mystery and sci-fi elements I like in a novel,'' Dan said.

Phil pulled a surprised face. Dan was enjoying his novel and he couldn't be happier. ''yeah? You really like it? You are not just saying it because it's me, right?''

''Of course not! I think this is your opportunity, Phil. This is good, like, really good.''

''Tell that to publishing houses... All I have received are rejection emails,'' Phil muttered under his breath, not knowing if Dan had heard.

''Believe me, I think this is your big chance. Just, wait a bit more, I'm sure you will get good news soon,'' Dan said, giving him a smile, hoping Phil would cheer up a bit.

''I hope so, it has been so difficult... I have been writing since I finished my degree and I just don't know anymore... Maybe writing isn't for me, after all,'' Phil didn't really want to make this Skype call so upseting, but he needed to talk about it and Dan seemed like he was willing to listen to him and give him all support he needed.

''Phil, listen, writing is your passion. Writing is your definitely your thing. You of all people deserve to be an author. And you will become one, I know. It might take a bit more of time but believe me, you will make it.''

''Thank you,'' Phil croaked out, his voice a bit emotional. Dan's encouraging words were all he needed, ''I really needed to hear that.''

''You, Phil Lester, will be a future author, okay?'' Dan repeated.

Phil nodded, trying to get those words inside his brain. ''I'm sorry for ranting, I just, I felt like I needed to get that out of my chest...''

''Hey, don't worry, you can count on me for everything.'' Dan said, his beautiful smile not fading from his face. Oh, how he wished he could be with Dan now, cuddling and maybe kissing under the blankets...

''I wish I could hug you right now.'' Phil whispered.

''I wish I could hug you too.'' Dan repeated in the same tone, grabbing one of the throw pillows he had on his bed and clutching it to his chest, yawning in the process.

Phil decided it was time to go to bed. He didn't want to keep Dan up much longer, he must had had a long day in this 'secret project' and sure he needed to rest.

''You're tired, talk to you tomorrow?'' Phil suggested, offering him a small smile.He saw Dan tried to fight his tiredness, but another yawn made him backtrack.

''Okay, good night, Phil.'' Dan waved at him, ''Miss you.''

''Miss you too, Dan'' Phil managed to say before they hung up.

Needless to say they both fell asleep hugging a pillow as close to them as possible.

______________

The rest of the week went calm for Dan. He found it really easy to work with Claire since she was so professional. Peter would shout phrases like 'hands lower!', 'caress each other's face, yeah that's it!' and they acted it as natural as it could get. While they were resting they took time to know the other, bonding so well and quickly at the same time Dan could consider Claire a friend already.

Also, he and Phil had been Skyping each night to speak about everything and nothing. Dan managed to read a bit more of Phil's manuscript everyday, even if it was just a few pages, but he really was enjoying the story.

Phil didn't get enough credit, that for sure. Oh, boy. How much he missed him.

It was Monday evening now and they were going to a lake to shoot a few of Peter's famous 'sensual photos' since he wanted to picture a ''lustful swimming sunset scene'' as he had expressed yesterday.

The lake indeed was also as beautiful as the field they had been working on till now. Dark water reaching the surprising sandy shore with tall rocky mountains to they right and left, making shadows along the water thanks to the now orange sunlight that reached the scenenery.

So, after takinga few pictures to send later to Phil, Dan did as he was told, put on the swimsuit he was supposed to wear and left his changing room, spotting Claire in her bikini already waiting for him.

''How are you so fast on the field and so slow at changing clothes, uh?'' Claire teased him, making the both chuckle.

''Must be a baseball player thing, I guess,'' Dan replied, not managing to say anything else since Peter called at them both to go into the water.

It was cold (it was freaking Ireland, of course it was cold!) and both of them were shivering at first, but after Peter told them to swim around bit at first it was okay.

''Okay, we will do a few out of the water shots first and them underwater, fine with that?'' eh director said, who received a quick nod from both of the athletes.

Dan and Claire swam around, 'flirting' as they had been doing with the other pictures before, splashing water and giving suggestive glances to each other. Peter shouted from the shore that they needed to get closer and act a bit more 'lustful' so Claire laced her arms around Dan's neck and Dan's hands traveled to her waist, standing up with their feet touching the sand unterwater, the water surrounding them by their thighs.

Claire trailed a few kisses along Dan's jaw, reaching his ear and whispering silly things as Dan tried not to laugh, keeping a serious face for the shake of the shoot and deciding to move his mouth down to Claire's shoulder, leaving a few kisses there. Dan tried to pull her closer but somehow managed to make them both lose their balance, sending them both splashing into the water, instantly laughing.

They heard Peter's laugh cut the repetive clicking of the camera sutter from the shore, probably meaning they should be done with this part of the shot, ''Okay, let's do the underwater shoots before the light fades''.

Peter instructed them once again, meaning one of his helpers would be going underwater with them and these shots would involve kissing, like 'proper kissing, tongue included'.

When Dan heard those words he wanted to believe he hadn't heard the right. 'Proper kissing' meant the opposite to chaste-like pecks on cheeks, of course. It was acting and he knew it but Phil... Dan was sure that by the time the campaign pictures were out he would have already asked Phil to be his boyfriend, he was sure of it, so it should be fine.

''You okay, Dan? I hope I'm not that horrible to kiss!'' Claire said jokingly.

Dan chuckled. He would have told Claire about Phil, he would have, but he wasn't sure if Phil would have wanted that, ''It's just that I wasn't expecting more kissing but yeah, I'm sure you will be... okay to kiss'' he teased, getting a fake offended huff from Claire, who looked like she wanted to say something else but Peter's words cut her off.

''You two, stop bickering and back into the water, you will start kissing out of it and slowly submerge into the water. Once you feel oxygen is necessary, just come up. We can repeat it a few times, understood?''

They both nodded, knowing there wasn't any other alternative to Peter's words. A bit awkwardly, they walked back into the water, swimming further than before and latching into each other for balance, staring at each other's eyes.

Dan looked into Claire's green eyes and wet black hair, her features reminding him once again how much he wished he was with Phil right now... Maybe if Dan imagined he was with Phil instead...

He felt Claire's arms tighten around his neck, bringing him a bit closer so he did the same, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes before slowly pressing their lips together. Dan felt Claire bit his lower lip for entrance, which he allowed for a while imagining it was Phil who he was kissing.

Phil and only Phil.

Dan grabbed Claire's hips a bit tighter before sending them both purposely under the water, trying to keep the kiss passionate and professional as possible as long as their lungs allowed them too.

After a while, oxygen became necessary so they separated their mouths and rapidly swam back up, breathing for air as they once again held each other for balance.

Heavily inhaling and exhaling, Dan looked at Claire, remainding his brain that she wasn't Phil.

She. Was. Not. Phil.

Dan's chest felt heavy. He just wanted to see Phil now, be close to him so he could feel better about all of this but he knew that was going to be impossible. He just wanted to arrive to the hotel and curl up under the blankets while he skyped the blue eyed, seeing his tired and sleepy face across the crappy webcam as he had done everyday since Wednesday.

Suddenly he heard Peter's voice calling them, saying that they were done for today so they could go back to their hotel, meaning the day was finally over.

So, with a quick 'goodbye, see you tomorrow' to Claire, Dan walked into his changing room, discarding the wet swimsuit before putting back his comfy sweatshirt and jeans, hoping into the car that drove him to his lonely hotel bedroom.

Once he arrived Dan threw himself on the bed and was ready to text Phil when a new message from said person popped into the screen, 'Work was horrible today, I'm extremely tired to Skype today, I'm sorry :( but talk to you tomorrow? :)'

Dan was a bit disappointed but he understood. Mondays for Phil were pretty much tiring and he guessed he was going to bed early, so even though Dan felt the need to see him he understood. They could talk tomorrow anyways, he could live with that.

'Sure, no worries. We can Skype tomorrow if you are not that tired.' Dan replied, deciding to type a 'Good night. Miss you. ♥' to finish his message, but no response came in, meaning for sure Phil had fallen already asleep.

Chapter 10

#moonshot #moonshot - chapter 9 #irphanfic #daniel howell #amazingphil #phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phanfic au #phanfiction au

16 notes · View notes

seventeenbiscuits · 7 years

Text

#11 [alone pt. iii]

Genre: Kind of metaphorical watered down angst and lil bit of fluff

Word count: too much prbs more than 2K [its 2386 words wow]

A/N: guess what its biscuits back with the alone series istg by the time i finish this svt would alrdy been touring halfway around the world on their 9th comeback or smth also THIS SWITCHES BETWEEN JEONGHAN POV AND READER/VIEWER POV DONT GET CONFUSED

There is a click and whirr from the camera that I press to my face, like a shield, some hapless attempt at protecting me from the world. Everything I can see is separated from me by layers of glass and lenses, a little window to the outside world, framed by black plastic and the snap and shutter of the lens. In the moment where I stand, motionless, waiting for the perfect shot, I can feel anticipation shivering through every little cell in my body. Like the moment before a pianist touches the keys at the concert when the audience is held on bated breath in eager expectancy and there is nothing in the minds of the people but the silence waiting to be broken.

And then when I take the photo, there is a little buzz from the mechanism inside the camera in the seconds before I press the button, and then a click as the camera captures the landscape in skilled and precise hands. It’s like the soft sound of fingers on piano keys before even a single note is played, of the slight rustling of an audience in admiration as the pianist exhales, inhales, prepares themselves.

Then there is the photo itself. Once I lower the camera from my eyes, I can see the true view before me. It is no longer an image viewed through a lens, but a living and breathing scene that cannot compare. The anticipation is over, the performance has begun, and with the gentlest striking of a chord, my world comes to life.

The house I am in isn’t even mine, but nevertheless, it's a serene place that envelops me and adopts me as one of its own. I am serene, as I lay on a messy couch, scratching my pen against my notebook while the wind rustles over the trees and around the house. I am also safe here, the house is distant as it is serene, and it is serene because of its distance. I look up from my notebook at the city far, far away. Perhaps I am like the house, in all its stately secluded serenity, as I distance myself from the ones whom I used to know.

The couch holds an unfamiliar scent, full of someone else’s shampoo, someone else’s musky scent that lingers around the doorways and tiptoes in when I’m at the window. I can almost detect a hint of nostalgia amidst the slightly overpowering cologne, a light note of the flowers on memory lane. Each time that scent flutters to my attention, it puts me more at ease to brush it away. It’s no use remembering the days past when you still have days to come.

As I open the window to gaze out at the myriad of quaint little houses, much like this one, amongst the mottled envy green of the trees, the wistful scent suddenly is everywhere. When I place my hands on the windowsill and brush my fingers up and down the glossy white paint, I brush up memories that draw me into the recesses of my mind.

JANUARY 2016. JEONGHAN’S LOG #7. CHEONGSANDO. The screen turns on and Jeonghan with long, amber red locks is walking while filming his log.

“Hey, Coupseu! Jeonghan here. I hope you’re enjoying yourself with the rest of the crew at Yeoseodo. Right now, I’m-”

Jeonghan breaks off suddenly, and the camcorder drops to his side. There is furious shriek heard distantly in the background. Jeonghan reappears into the screen, laughing and panting as he runs away from a very enraged Joshua.

“I’m *huff huff* being chased by Shua. *huff huff* I stole his cola!”

In the distance, we hear Joshua yelling “YOON JEONGHAN! YOU DEVIL! THAT COLA HAD MY NAME ON IT!!”

Jeonghan stops running and chuckles.

“You can buy more, Joshua,” he yells back.

“Anyway, I should probably apologise to him and buy him another bottle. Have fun and stay safe. Tell the kids I said hi, Cheol.”

The video ends.

My mind drifts off, reminiscing about good times. I am awakened back to the present by the whistle of the wind as it breezes through my hair and shakes the palm fronts underneath the window.

I allow myself an indulgent little smile, before raising the camera once again up to my face, like a guard against the painful memories, and take another breathtaking shot. The smile slips off my face, and concentration lays a thick blanket over my expression. I pick up my pen again to write a couple more notes, but as I form the date on the page, I slip once more into a daydream of the past.

JANUARY 2016. JEONGHAN’S LOG #9. CHEONGSANDO. The screen turns on and Jeonghan moves back from the camera and sits back on his knees. His surroundings are plain, and the blanket is mismatched with the pillow.

“Coups, don’t be mad about the chicken.”

He pauses to chuckle to himself.

“It… wasn’t my idea!”

“Ok, maybe it was.”

“BUTDON’THURTMEOKIMNOTTHEONLYONEWHODIDIT.”

There is a loud victorious shriek from the adjacent room, followed by a whack. Laughter ensues.

“Oh no, don’t tell me that they decided to play games without me…”

Jeonghan cranes his neck to look out the door. He gives a little gasp and then hurriedly leans forward and switches off the camcorder.

I find myself smiling once more. Good memories are infectiously cheery, and you can’t stop a grin from spreading across your face as the blissful drug of nostalgia renders you uselessly fuzzy and warm.

I move around a bit on the couch to try to get comfortable, the little smile slowly being replaced by a resentful sigh, the curve of that joyful laugh dying on my lips as they press together in a thin and serious line. I get up despite having taken the effort to get comfy and cross the room in a few strides.

The calendar I brought with me hangs by a thread on a screw that I drove into the wall. I know the real owner of this house will not be happy, but at least he has a place split his calendar now.

It is the morning of the 9th. I mark yesterday off with a double flick of the marker. Two days.

When I get up, I don’t brush my teeth. I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t even get out of bed. Instead, I lie on the sheets and let the sunlight spill over the window and flood gently into the room, illuminating everything it touches in a warm glow. I watch as the room gradually soaks up the sun until I’m sinking oceans deep into an endless sea of golden warmth.

JANUARY 2017. JEONGHAN’S LOG #10. JAPAN. The screen flickers on to reveal a slightly worried Jeonghan peering intently at the camcorder. A split second after the video stutters to life, his face smoothes out in relief.

“I was beginning to think that this was broken,” he jokes weakly, a plastic smile plastered on his pale face.

He lets out a deep sigh, and his eyes drift away from the camera.

“What’s the thing with the curse going around?” he asks. “And what does it have to do with us?”

His eyes flit past the camcorder and presumably studies the wall of his room.

“Is it why Vernon keeps running away? Is it the reason why we all don’t talk anymore?”

He continues to avoid looking directly at the camera and now stares into his lap.

In a voice barely audible, he whispers, “Why are we all alone now?”

I let out a deep resentful sigh, somewhat like the one I sighed in the video, and swing my legs over the side of the bed, letting my feet dangle above the sunlit floorboards.

I have so many questions that unfortunately, have been answered with answers I don’t want to hear.

My stomach gives out a plaintive growl. I frown and finally get out of the room.

Instead of heading to the kitchen (which is empty anyway), I find my camera where I left it on the sofa yesterday. With another sigh, I push my questions and problems away and pick up the camera again, to once again capture my lonely surroundings for another day.

I stretch on the sofa. My back aches and my shoulders ache. Probably the consequences of sleeping on a bed that isn’t mine. I chuckle when I envision the owner returning to his home, all messed up thanks to yours truly.

After I write a couple more notes on the scenery in my book, I get up and cross off the date on the calendar.

It is the 10th, and I am still under a curse. One day.

When I wake up, I don’t dwell on my thoughts in bed as I did yesterday. Instead, I do it on the couch. I am up before the sun now.

There is no golden ocean drowning the room in its splendid warmth, only the chill and the cool of the morning sky as it glares down at me from its superior perch in the sky.

I spend nearly three hours dwelling upon my thoughts. Not in bed, but on the couch. Reasonably less comfortable, but more scenic and I am buried so deep in my mind that I don’t bother to even touch my camera.

MAY 2017. JEONGHAN’S LOG #11. SOME PLACE, AWAY FROM YOU. The screen blinks on. Jeonghan is in the house that is not his, and he is sitting on the couch cross legged.

“Hi, Seungcheol. Do you remember this place?”

He shuffles around a little bit. His hair is newly dyed blonde, and it falls in soft waves over his eyes and around his ears.

“Remember we all camped out here after our first win, and we all got so wasted?” he prompts, laughing lightly at the memory.

His eyes glaze over as he stares off into the distance. The camera pans towards the wall, where the calendar hangs. It is the 6th.

“Vernon is here with me. He didn’t go home after Woozi told him to.”

There is a little noise of affirmation from the cameraman.

Jeonghan smiles at Vernon.

“Leave the camera here, I’ll finish up. You go eat lunch.”

Vernon clatters down the stairs.

Jeonghan sighs and focuses intently on the camcorder.

“He was so stressed when he came to my house. Being the start of the curse is not a thing he should have gone through.”

There is a breath of the wind that seemingly divides Jeonghan sitting like royalty on the faded cream couch from the viewers, and then it is gone.

“And you went through it, Cheol.”

He is referring to Seungcheol’s hunt for his prime number as he ran through the streets of the city.

“But you called me afterwards,” Jeonghan continues.

His voice becomes sharp and bitter as a double edged sword.

“Why me? You could have passed the curse onto anyone but me.”

He glares resentfully straight at the camera, cutting through lenses and film and straight into the eyes of the viewers.

“And now I’m stuck with it.”

There is a crash from downstairs. Jeonghan frowns in worry.

“I’m going to send Vernon to you. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t run away. It’s your fault I have the curse and can’t take care of him, so you have responsibility for him now.”

Jeonghan gets up, meaning to turn the camera off, but then hesitates for a second.

“What was that you told me, the last time you spoke to me?”

“Jeonghan, you said. You were thinking about what I meant to you.”

He stands up, and now his face is cut out of the frame. His voice is shaky.

“And when I asked you what our times together were, what our friendship meant, what did you say?”

His arm moves as if to switch off the camera, but then he speaks one last sentence.

“Someone said it meant imperfection and danger, is what you said.”

The video ends.

Seven days since Vernon left me alone in this house. Alone once more, with no one to depend upon, no one to keep me company.

I hope he’s doing okay.

I wish I could say the same for myself.

With a little rustle of cloth, I get up off the couch and out of my silent reverie. I pick up my camera and turn it over in my hands, admiring every little chip and crack in its worn exterior. It has been with me for so many years, my faithful companion even when others have left.

I lift it up to my eyes to take another photo, this time of the room, awash in the golden glory of the morning sun, and when I press the button, I hear a little strange beep.

No more storage.

I laugh without humour, the dry chuckle falling from my mouth and smashing to porcelain pieces on the sunlight stained floor.

What am I supposed to do now, I wonder.

I let my gaze meander over to the calendar. It is the 11th today. I leave the camera on the coffee table and snatch up the permanent marker to cross today off.

When I look at the calendar again, the 11th is circled in red. I begin to think that maybe I am losing my grip in this isolated place.

But even after I rub my eyes, pinch myself, turn around and back around again, it is still there.

And then, it hits me like a strike of lightning from heaven itself, cackling and zipping around spastically, firing off every neuron in my brain.

Today. 11th. My number. 11.

It is no coincidence.

Like a thousand butterflies being set free in my stomach, my excitement and joy at finally finding my prime is unconfined. The butterflies burst out of every orifice in my body and lift me up on their papery wings.

I half-trip, half-sprint down the stairs to the door, and run out the house without any thought for locking it.

Nothing matters now that I have my prime.

Thanks for reading this too long fic!

#svtnetwork #seventeen #seventeen imagines #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan #yoon jeonghan #alone #al1 #this took too long

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breakingarrows · 5 years

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Far Cry 5 Review

[This was originally published on VerticalSliceMedia.com in 2018 and is republished from the latest draft I have]

Far Cry 5 Review

I do not like Far Cry 5. My issues with the game are many, and partly already chronicled in my writing about the games endings. My frustrations extend across all aspects from the way you play the game (mindlessly) to the way it presents its fictional cult (vapidly) to the way the game makes the player’s presence known in the world (it doesn't). There is nothing redeeming to be found within the 25 hours I spent in Hope County. The small victories within one-off side quests can’t redeem a game that refuses to engage with anything meaningful or even succeed in hiding its rote systems that have been played out for two games now.

Gameplay Loop

One of the main responses to complaints about the narrative of Far Cry 5 has been to cry, as the Bad End Podcast put it, “the gameplay!” However, even in this regard Far Cry 5 fails.

Each Far Cry game has been about repeating the same series of tasks over an elongated period of time with a drip feed of storylines along the way. Complete main missions and occasionally a named character will appear to spout off some pseudo-intellectual dialogue. Complete side missions and you’ll interact with the zany characters that are meant to entertain you with their characteristics that sure are “out there” amiright? Except that in Far Cry 5 the people you meet and talk at you don’t have interesting things to say. Some even have a pre-filled system for delivering quest locations on your map.

Go up to an NPC with an icon above their head and they will recant you an “A, B, C.” Statement. It usually goes like this, “A was doing this, then B happened. You should check out C.” Sometimes with a few additional flourishes but the basic information stays the same. Clear this outpost, find this prepper stash, rescue these hostages, destroy this building. The delivery system has been tweaked but what you are being tasked with remains the same. All of it is repeated again and again across each of the three areas and with little to distinguish one from the other. Clear an outpost in John’s region or Jacob’s or Faith’s, and the execution, location, and following result are the same. Most all major games are a cycle of gameplay repeated over a period of time, but most have the decency to hide that cycle with variety; Far Cry 5 does not.

Nearly every missions requires you to kill, whether it be cultist or animal, and to travel to a location to do so. Follow the highlighted icon on your display, kill everyone, maybe hold square over a specific item, and mission accomplished. Very little is memorable throughout the game. An early mission in Fall’s End has some entertaining dialogue around the Testy Festy, a gathering of locals to enjoy cooked bulls’ balls. The mission requires you to kill a bull mid-intercourse and freeing the cows beforehand induces a sexy music track to begin playing. This, and Hurk Jr’s comments about making his daddy and mommy compete for his love were the only times I enjoyed my time with Far Cry 5.

Window Dressing

Other characters attempt to be a source of humor. There is an alien conspiracy theorist who gets teleported and leaves behind a gun that can vaporize enemies at close range. A government agent comes in discussing high-level security threats and has the defining trait of saying “pardon my french” whenever he uses a word vaguely obscene such as poop. Aaron, aka Tweak, has daddy issues and hates two pigs for some reason, sending you to whack them to death with a baseball bat. A scientist fails to warn you that the serum to attract Angels actually will attract skunks and a mob of black and white mammals ensues. There are more, but none that leave anything memorable for you to keep, and all have one or two missions before they disappear forever. Had I spent more time with these characters, especially the ones who die and the game expects you to care about, I may have developed an actual bond. Far Cry 5 is obsessed with making sure you’re never bored or in one spot for too long, something Heather Alexandria pointed out, which is probably why you never spend meaningful time with anyone.

Playing into this, the radio stations are a source of worldbuilding details that become literally drowned out by the world around it. The radio is only accessible when inside a vehicle, and even then the volume is pretty low, guaranteeing it won’t be heard very well when driving. Even staying in an unmoving vehicle won’t guarantee you the ability to listen in on the religious radio station, or news reports that evaded me my entire playthrough.

And ultimately I don’t think the game is very interested in engaging with substance. There isn’t anything here for the player to find, so they hid what they could lest the player become curious. It’s something that Astrid wrote about, with the title “Far Cry 5 Offers Nothing to Believe In.” as well as Errant Signal in his video analysis of the game.

Throughout the game you will be kidnapped so that the game may force some time with the antagonist of whatever region you were liberating at the time. These kidnappings occur very frequently and in exceedingly ludicrous ways. Twice I was in a wingsuit flying through the air only to have the screen fade to black and a loading screen greet me. Loading is long and frequent, breaking up the pacing of cutscenes significantly. The controller vibrates to notify you when it's nearly finished loading, as if the game anticipated the player to grow bored during the length of these loads.

Mindless waypoint complaints can be soothed by playing with the UI options, which allow you to turn on or off every detail that appears onscreen by default. I did notice that even with it all off, the sound effect for binoculars tagging enemies will still trigger, as if the developers threw this option in without considering the other systems it interacts with. However it doesn’t keep the default experience from being so brain dead. Even the simplest of people can follow the yellow marker point to point for the entire game and make it through without ever having to think beyond, “Go here. Kill that.” It’s completely mindless and offers no challenge.

Narrative Dissonance

Early on, Joseph Seed will tell the player that “not every problem can be solved with a bullet.” You then proceed through the entire game killing everyone with bullets, sometimes with bow and arrows, your bare hands, or animal companions. That phrase is repeated later on, as if the game looks down on the player’s actions, despite them being the only option available to interact with the world. Instead you are given a weapon of death, pointed in their direction, and told kill. Over and over and over until it becomes almost reflexive which could have been used to make a comment on that impulsive violence except Far Cry 5 doesn’t.

A narrative conceit created for gameplay is the drug Bliss, which is used to justify the existence of brain dead enemies for the player to mow down. The Bliss is positioned as something you can’t escape. This is evidenced by the treatment of Angels, those who have been overtaken by the Bliss, as well as the very telegraphed betrayal by the rescued ally named Marshal. Taken from your group at the beginning of the game, Marshal is taken by antagonist Faith and rescued midway through redeeming her area. He is taken back to the headquarters of the resistance in that region, a prison, and proceeds to shoot an ally NPC, open up the prison to invasion, and commits suicide. All of this is blamed on Faith’s ability to control through the Bliss, except that both you and the sheriff were exposed to the drug without the same after-effects. Angels are assigned for death, despite their status as unwilling subjects of the cult, and the drug’s influence is called irreversible, despite characters surviving multiple exposures. As Holly Green writes, this usage of drugs in games “[is] not just inaccurate, it’s lazy.”

Graphics

Common praise is thrown at the graphics, and the developers’ ability to render a realistic Montana landscape. And yes, Far Cry 5 looks pretty, but every AAA game looks great and their status is fleeting until the next big game releases. This is why Journey remains beautiful whereas Uncharted 3 begins to show its age when compared to the latest iterations in that genre. The ability for developers to render realistic graphics is not only a temporary accomplishment but one that reinforces and crunch nature of game development.

Even separate from that, details in its ability to render a world falters compared to an earlier game in the series: Far Cry 2, as evidenced by this video from Crowbcat. Some of the most telling differences lie in small things such as bush branches being pushed by the presence of the player, whereas Far Cry 5 only has flat 2D textures angled in different directions for bushes. Fire in Far Cry 2 burns foliage by slowly eating away at the branch’s leaves. In Far Cry 5 it simply makes the affected greenery swap out colored textures for black ones. While the landscapes may be in higher resolutions with greater fidelity, it loses the many small things that lend the player a presence in the world. Instead you are simply a mounted camera with arms for killing.

John Seed

Upon completion of the tutorial island you will be unleashed to travel wherever you so desire on the game map, though it lightly pushes you to begin with John Seed’s area to the southwest. In this area you rid the town of Fall’s End of peggie (the derivative term used for Project Eden’s Gate members) occupation and kick off the resistance to John Seed’s control. Everytime a major point is passed on your Resistance meter John will have you captured and brought before him for lectures on sin and atonement.

John is obsessed with the confession of sin and the resulting atonement that confession yields. However this isn’t the same as confessing to a priest in the Catholic Church. Instead, John enjoys carving the sin’s name onto your flesh before cutting it out and placing it on whatever surface lies nearby for all to see. The imagery is crude though effective. Having your sin made a part of your flesh and having that flesh taken from you and posted in public is freeing, both in that it is no longer a part of you and that it is no longer hidden. The flesh throughout the New Testament is a source of sin, of failure, of our inherent flaws. To have that flesh serve as the easel upon which our specific failing is made known to all who can see it, and to cast it out of us, is a violent, but functional, metaphor. Failing to explore why John does this, and specifically why he seemingly loves to do it, is where Far Cry 5 falls flat.

Cult leader Joseph recognizes that John still has growing to do before he can become a true leader of the cult. John never mentions frustration with his place in the power structure, which might have fed his anger. Instead, John simply takes pleasure in inflicting pain on others. Giving John a clear source for his anger, for his need to force others to atone for their sin, would have made him a more believable person. Likewise, Joseph could have been made a better antagonist if the source were a tragic one he exploited, like with Faith.

The context that came to my mind that would have improved my empathy for the character was that John was gay amidst a cult that killed those who couldn’t or wouldn’t conform. Having John previously cast out of religious institutions due to this, and to have him be given shelter and power by Joseph would have justified his place within the cult. To have Joseph turn around and betray John by carving this “sin” onto him but leaving it to John to cut out would have given him a source of internal conflict. This could have been the reason he so enjoyed cutting the sins out of others, because he was unable to cut it out of himself. John’s sin could have been other things as well, whether it be a lack of faith, jealousy of his older brother, pride in his control, these too would have worked as sins he didn’t want to acknowledge.

However, to have John be gay would be to acknowledge that Evangelicals, one of the largest demographics of the United States, especially rural counties like the fictional Hope County of Far Cry 5, cause unjustified harm to people simply for existing. And because Far Cry 5 has a cowardly approach to most of the subjects within, this would have been too “political” for them to include. Due to the lack of depth in John’s character, Far Cry 5 shows its not only unwilling to do anything slightly provocative but also to make its characters more than empty vessels of dialogue. John remains a vapid character because of this, and even his “Say Yes” infomercial can’t drown out the overwhelming dullness surrounding him.

Faith Seed

Once you have eliminated John and conquered his area, you move on to Faith Seed’s to the east. Faith, named after the virtue, is in charge of the production of the Bliss drug for the cult. She communicates through the Bliss constantly, but lacks any semblance of humanity save for two instances.

The first is when you destroy the large statue of Joseph in the center of her area, when she will mention that your actions will cause Joseph to bring down consequences on Faith, what exactly this means is never mentioned unless you explore certain caves. In them you will find notes discussing that there are many Faith Seeds, and this one is simply the latest to have that designation. The others, the ones who failed, met terrible deaths at the hand of Joseph and his cult.

The second appears just as she is about to die during your drugged out fight with her. Its presence near the end of her campaign was insulting as I had already spent enough time listening to her boring lectures on trusting in Joseph that I couldn’t care less. With this one she brings up how she was ostracized and bullied and that Joseph was the only one who took her in. The twist, if you can call it that, is that he drugged her and exploited her for his own purposes, betraying the faith she had put in him. Why she was ostracized and bullied is unanswered, and given her appearance as a standard blonde girl, doesn’t really come across as believable no matter how cruel humans can be.

Riley MacLeod has written about the double standard Faith represents a double standard among Evangelicals, but even that is being too sympathetic to the game. The references to her exploitation come way too late or rely on the player finding them among the game world. Failing to mention the betrayal by Joseph earlier means there is no time spent on how cult leaders frequently sexually exploit the women, and children, of the cult with their power. Far Cry 5 is more than willing to show off gun violence and brutal executions but barely even acknowledges the sexual violence that occurs within the cults it wants to badly emulate.

Jacob Seed

Jacob Seed is perhaps the best of the four siblings, though that isn’t very high praise given his company. Jacob is a war veteran who spent a period of time in the first Gulf War. It was during this time that he and a teammate were shot down and stranded far from any allies without the required provisions. Starvation drove Jacob to achieve a mindset that he referred to as clarity, one that drove him to kill and consume his friend in order to survive. This mindset, one that he purports separates the weak from the strong, is how he rules over the northern section of Far Cry 5’s map.

Opposing him is the Whitetail Militia, who are frequently taken prisoner for mind control sessions that allow Jacob to trigger them, and you, into violent frenzies with the song “Only You (And You Alone).” How this condition has been implanted into you isn’t discussed. Much like the Bliss drug, it is merely a narrative shortcut to allow for dream-like sequences in which you run through a shooting gallery whenever you are captured.

Jacob’s ideology about separating the weak from the strong calls to mind John the Baptist's teaching about how Jesus was coming to separate the wheat from the chaff. Conveniently this interpretation leaves out the fact that those who were spared in the New Testament were not the ones who were strong but instead the ones who believed in Jesus and his teachings. Jacob has the most coherent arguments for why the world is going to end, though he never discusses anything else beyond that. While he mentions upon his impending death that he doesn’t actually care much whether or not his brother talks to God, it is about the most we get out of him besides his obsession with meat and killing the weak.

Joseph Seed

Joseph Seed lacks charisma; he lacks a defined faith beyond the world is ending. Most likely this is because those behind Far Cry 5 didn’t want to upset any Evangelical Christians with direct references to Jesus or the New Testament outside of Revelations. Joseph, and especially John, appear less like rural Montana citizens and more like Silicon Valley douche-bros with their partially shaved heads and millennial fashion wear. You could mistake them for Richard Spencer and his “dapper” style that was used as a way to legitimize his disgusting views on race. Far Cry 5 may want to use that same style, but don’t worry the cultists aren’t white supremacists; in fact, they’re very inclusive as indicated by the amount of non-white folks among them that you murder throughout the game.

Joseph’s problem is the game’s problem: the appearance of depth and meaning. Each character has one trait or characteristic that is repeatedly used but never given depth. Joseph believes the end of the world is coming and that he is God’s chosen vessel to save everyone, willing or not. He uses this to justify the violence his cult commits to those who resist. The game justifies his violence by telling the player they are the reason people suffered, that Joseph was right and you should have never come to stop him. This would have been slightly more acceptable had Joseph been a detestable asshole who I wanted to shove a knife into, but he isn't. Instead Joseph is a boring prophet proclaiming over and over how I’m wrong, he is right, and the world is going to collapse so we all better follow him into the bunkers belowground. He even sings “Amazing Grace” at the outset, as if to unknowingly hammer the fact that this game is only ever surface level with its source material.

Midway through each area, when you are captured for the second time, Joseph will make an appearance to speak to the player. Each time he tells a story or attempts to make a point that was so banal the only one I remember was insultingly generic. When he visits you and Jacob he retells a story about how when he was younger he had a wife and soon-to-be-born child. His wife got in an accident and died while the child barely hung on to life. Joseph, feeling called by God, killed his child in the hospital by cutting off her oxygen. The reason behind this ploy is obvious; it is to build up the players hatred of Joseph. However, it came in the midst of all the other awful shit going on in Far Cry 5 that just rendered it another dull addition to the tone of the game. I already heard a companion describing how a cook tortured his victims. I already saw John carve out the flesh of another companion. Faith showed me how she forced people to jump to their death on the rocks below. Throughout Hope County I came across bodies strung up on road signs, people dead in their homes, and piles of corpses in makeshift mass graves. All of these things should be repugnant, but because Far Cry 5 constantly throws these images at you and fails to do anything with them beyond asking you to be horrified, it makes them vapid.

Joseph Seed has his own book, one which may be available to read excerpts from elsewhere but in-game it only exists to let the player know the cult is not drawing only from the Old Testament and Revelations. Verses are quoted and thrown at the player as if they mean something. Our main antagonists all have Biblical names with no thought behind what they represent. It shows that the game has no interest in doing anything other then delivering a re-skinned Far Cry game with a North American evergreen forest setting.

Closing

There was real potential to do something interesting with the setting. Whether it be to show how religion, actual religion not this Eden’s Gate pseudo-religion, is often used to justify awful things. They could have included an attempt to contact the outside world only to find the federal government was uninterested in spending resources on a backwater county, leaving the citizens to die and the cult to rule until their own collapse. Violence could have been made slightly meaningful if the people you were killing weren’t so generically villainous in their actions.

Connections could have been made to show how preppers and militias are often fearful not only of government intervention in their lives but the influx of immigrants and The Other. It fails to acknowledge the violence already present in that region separate from the introduction of a doomsday cult. In regards to gun ownership the game seems to have something to say, though unintentionally: it's a good thing the good preppers and militiamen had guns to fight off the bad preppers and militiamen that make up the cult. This is essentially the “good guy with a gun” argument implemented in a place where law and order has been done away with. See, the 2nd Amendment is justified because without it how else would these people have defended themselves from the cult? Tracking and blocking mass sales of guns, especially those designed for the sole purpose of killing humans, definitely wouldn’t have kept this cult from obtaining their armaments.

Instead we have as Julie Muncy describes, “a hall of mirrors.” A game that lacks the ability to do anything more than deliver the same uninspired experience the series has been able to mask well enough until it brought it to a land I know. And it forces you to reconsider what you thought about the previous entries, and that their exotic locations were perhaps an uglier choice than we initially thought. That iis one thought provoking thing Far Cry 5 managed to instill in me, I can’t say the same for anything else.

#Far Cry 5 #Far Cry #Ubisoft #Video Games #Video Game Criticism #Criticism #writing

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