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maggyoutthere · 3 years

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This "Everywhere At The End Of Time" thing has been showing up on my recommendations list on youtube. What even is this thing-

I mean it sounds neat. I'm like half an hour in and I like it :/ it's so nostalgic with the static and record scratches. I'm a sucker for ambient music and these sound neat

Edit:

Reached Stage 2

What is happening why is this triggering something in me. Like I can clearly tell something's wrong. You can still hear the music but the static and record scratches are louder.

I'm kinda scared though. As much as I love listening to music I can tell when something is just more than your typical summer hit or even mental health PSA. What is this-

Edit 2

K so apparently this is an album representing various stages of dementia. That's a tricky thing to do but I have faith in music. It's a great way to express stuff so I'm very curious to what this is gonna turn out like.

Edit 3

Idk if I like where this is going.

"I still feel as though I am me" broke me a little for some reason. Idk why but it just stood out differently to me. I am very very hesitant to jump some tracks to get to hear the other stages still today. Most of these tracks transmit the same idea but I didn't want to leave out anything.

Also no I hate rb stuff to make those threads. Have the consecutive edits of this thing.

Edit 4

STAGE 3 YOU CAN'T JUST CUT OFF LIKE THAT WHAT THE HELL-

Little heart attack I just had aside, I'm liking it so far. It's starting to get very uneasy but I think that's the point of it. Goodness gracious Stage 3 scared the absolute crap out of me. It cut just like that. So abruptly and caught me off guard. Not even a fade out, damn.

Edit 5

I had to skip some tracks from the second half of Stage 3 and

oh no

Edit 6

Reached Stage 4

I am having some very visceral reactions to this. It is incredibly unnerving but I want to keep listening to it so much. I love how it’s not even music anymore, it’s just... noise. Lots of different noises all crumbled up together, unified by some vely loud static.

Might have to skip some bits here because all Stage 4 songs are 30 min long each.

Edit 7

MOMS COME PICK ME UP OH FUCK OH GOD NO NO NO NO

I HATE IT HERE BUT I LOVE IT BUT AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

It’s so hard to put down what this is doing. I’m not even sorry for rambling just take this post for what it is idfk if people are even reading this but holy fuck.

The 30 minute ones are killing me from the inside out. I’m very sensitive to audio and sounds (probably because of autism) and this is just pulling all the levers in my brain. It’s so- i have no idea what to call it. Sensory triggering?? I guess???

Edit 8

Stage 5.

Oh... god.

Edit 9

Reached Stage 6

This has no description, both in the video and in my head. The sheer nothingness something so loud can transmit; the void where something should be but you can't remember what. Blessed were the minutes when I was still listening to the first track; there was music at least. Now there's just this emptiness, this absolutely deafening silence.

The worst is that you know exactly what's going on.

Edit 10

Listening to the last track: Stage 6 - Place in the World fades away

Everywhere At The End Of Time is a series exploring dementia, its advancement and its totality.

I cannot put to words what an absolute masterpiece this is. To tackle such a serious mental illness like this one is already an incredibly hard thing to do; to make art out of it is risky, to make it work is nothing short of a miracle.

The Caretaker (pseudonym of the composer) is an absolute master of his craft. To use something so carefully constructed as music and sound to make sense of something that makes someone not make sense is a challenge to say the least. How do you even go about it? In music there are bound to be rhythms and leitmotifs and patterns: there is bound to be organization.

This is where EATEOT absolutely excels in. I don't know if this could be called of music but I'll surely call it of art; the genius of these tracks are in their editing rather than in their composition. The first 2 stages are pretty much just songs with static noises and record scratches layered on top. It gets the message across: there is still memory, it's just blurry, washed out. It's there but it's hard to see.

From then on out, everything changes. Stage 3 keeps the background noise going, now repeating certain parts of the songs or even reverberating them. The memories themselves are starting to change, not just getting difficult to access. Stage 4 sees the absolute fear and horror of realizing such thing is happening. The grasping at anything in pure terror of forgetting everything. There is no such thing as music now. It's unnerving, it's uneasing, and rightfully so. This does not sugarcoat things and I personally like that.

Stage 5 hits us with a certain calmness after the storm. Things aren't better of course, they're just quieter. Memories are starting to dissapear completely and now there is mostly only the background noises.

Then comes Stage 6. It's desolated, it's deserted, it's nothing. It's gut wrenching. I'd like to touch on the last song because I particularly liked this one. "Place in the World fades away" is, in my opinion, divided into 2 parts. In the 1st half you have static and noise. There is nothing in there. The occasional crescendo almost scares you because of how hollow the mind seems to be at this point, but it leads nowhere. Then there's the 2nd half. You start to hear music. Actual music this time. A choir of voices, still echoing from somewhere else remind you of how it first started: with the music. It puts things into perspective and signals you towards the first of this 6-part series, how far we've come. Then, as if telling what must be told, the music fades away, leaving you with a whole minute of absolute silence. No static, no record scratches, literally a whole minute of dead silence.

I found myself continuously going back to this tumblr post and to the comment section of the video; I didn't want to feel like I was experiencing this alone, and I was glad to see people in the comment section helping eachother out, talking and venting, so that was heartwarming.

I know I'm not usually very serious about things but I wanted to try and do it for this absolute magnum opus. I like to critique stuff as much as the next guy, but to be able to analyze something like this is unique. If you want something to challenge you emotionally, something to make you think and reflect on things, this is an absolute must.

Tl;dr: Everywhere At The End Of Time is a haunting representation of dementia, both in its advancement and in its totality. It's really profound and definitely worth a try if you have some free hours.

#everywhere at the end of time #the caretaker #eateot #music #soundart #art #analysis #reaction #maggy moment #tw mental instability #tw mental health #tw mental disorders #tw dementia #tw memory loss #tw sensory overload

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botwstoriesandsuch · 4 years

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I’m gonna have to respectfully disagree with you there.

*ahem* In this essay I will prove why your opinion is wrong (jk you’re valid to that but you have given me a good excuse to rant about the soundtrack which is AMAZING)

So, open this cut to here me rant about music :P

I was once like you, someone who listened the the three piano chords that played while I was running out in the field, saying “huh, some soundtrack huh?” And yes, the Field Theme is probably the most dunked on song in Breath of the Wild, but it is actually probably one of the most intricately crafted.

Did you know there are over 35 different variations of the Field Theme? Each of the chords, reversed notes, off keys, and hums are all dependent on the players actions. Whether it be standing still, running across the grass, or climbing over a rock, the Field Theme is made to be a subtle background that changes based whatever you are doing. Often, song’s like the Field, Riding, or Ruins themes are made to the beat of your foot steps, or your horses trot, letting the ambient sounds of the world take the forefront. These song fulfill their purpose wonderfully of letting you focus on the serenity of nature, yet at the same time letting you take in the silence of a broken world.

Then again, I get it, the song isn’t that much of a bop, is it? Fairly certain “Field Theme” is no one’s favorite song. Yet, this reason is why the rest of the soundtrack is so so good.

See, the goal of the botw soundtrack for the most part was to allow the player to be immersed in a beautiful and ruinous world. Half of it’s over world theme centers around the feeling of melancholy. Link has lost his memory, all his old friends are dead, and the world is left at the mercy of Calamity Ganon.

And I say half, because the other half of Hyrule is filled with life, hope, and energy.

You cannot tell me, CANNOT tell me that the music for the town themes and battles are bad. Every song that is not centered around nature or exploration is great. Rito Village theme? Not only does it allude to Dragon Roost Island, but it expresses the comfort and warmth of a cozy town, like a mother bird with her chicks tuck away in the nest. Molduga Theme? An upbeat and CATCHY theme that actively changes during the tides of battle depending on what kind of attack you are doing. Ancient tech lab? Expresses character and contrast with a medieval kingdom. Same with the foreign nature (used with foreign/electronic instruments) of the Shrines and towers. The fun and bumpy nature of a Talus theme, which used real metal hammers for recording it’s intro. The way a Hinox stomps along with the xylophones and percussion of it’s jumpy and exotic music. The way the Champion’s themes are integrated into the Attacking Divine Beast themes. The way the music of a Diving Beast livens up as you slowly take control away from Ganon. Hyrule Castle, with the background marching of an army, and the blending of Ganon’s theme with the Hyrule Castle theme.The Calamity Ganon Fight with both Phase 1, 2 and 3 with Dark Beast Ganon, the way the music draws out as you let loose a light arrow, the epicness and energy!! *Chef’s kiss*

The music in this game is crafted so that while you go about the day with the soft ambient noises of nature, you are attracted to the important places as their more full music and melodies.

Hell, even the Stable Theme and Kass’ Theme are songs that can be heard from a distance, and actively lead you towards them. This game literally lures you to places with its familiar melodies. Thaaaaaat’s just well integrated game design.

It can convey safety, with the friendly nature of Hateno Village. Or instill fear, with the foreboding tone of the blood moon. Now would these fantastic themes and melodies have the same effect if they were played throughout the whole game? The answer is no. The silence and ambiance of Hyrule not only plays to its themes, but it helps to enunciate the more amazing pieces of the game. The silence enhances the effect of the songs. It shows off the quiet land of a ruined kingdom, to the energy of a bustling town getting through another day, to the mysterious nature of unexplored forests and ruins, to the tension and energy of striking the final blow that had been over 100 years in the making.

The best example of the music expressing these two halves of Hyrule is the Tarry Town Theme. Spoiler warning for one of the best side quests in the game, not even kidding.

When you meet Bolson in Akkala, he has started the construction of a small house and plans to start a town. The melody when you first arrive is cute, but small. It’s expressive and hopeful, but lacks the real life and tone of an actual populated village. This initial theme shows the half of Hyrule that is dead, left to their own devices with nature.

So, after blowing up trees and traveling across Hyrule, you go and find people who are looking for something more in life. You find people who have dreams and regrets, aspirations and longings, and point them towards Tarry Town. When they arrive at town and find happiness, that’s when the theme starts to change, and so too does the tone and dynamic of the town change.

The Goron, tired of mining away all day at his job, joins the town, and when he does, a new trombone accompaniment is added to the theme. A Gerudo with a passion for fashion, and will eventually form a cute relationship with Bolson, adds a sitar flourish to the piece. The Rito shopkeep, introduces wind instrument and the Zora priest gives a background marimba. And the Hylians even give extra piano and percussion. All of these people give their own music (which is derived of the town themes of their respective races) and actively liven the Tarry Town Theme with their presence. What was once a more quiet theme, now it full of life and hope and town grew to a new size full of cheerful. It brims with new energy as people bustle about, and the best of it is, the side quest ends with a wedding, a symbol for a new beginning.

I could go on and on, about the lite motifs for each race and enemy (which use specific instruments according to their race), the seamless night and day transitions with varied tempos and dynamics, the relationship between the old Champions and the new Champions themes, the juxtaposition of the energy of fighting a Diving beast with the occasional flourish of the corresponding Champion motif, the contrast with a character’s personality to their music to convey character (*cough cough* REVALI *cough cough*), how battle themes are synchronized to the way you swing your sword or when you land a hit, the way the three variations of the Guardian theme strike unexpectedly, immediately alerting you of danger and can fill you with fear, the subtle main Legend of Zelda melody and Zelda’s Lullaby that seems to watch over you as you traverse the land, Rito Village....just in general.

Compared to other games, the Breath of the Wild sound track is very...different. It doesn’t have the same heroines, or creepiness of other games, but that’s because the aim of it’s music and it’s themes are vastly unique.

Long story short, yes, the over world themes might not have much substance initially, but they fulfill their purpose of enhancing the world around you, and giving contrast with the more lively and active parts of the game. This soundtrack gives you both the feeling of soft melancholy of a meadow, the homeliness of a town, and the epic energy of a final battle, and focusing only on those three piano notes in one Field Theme doesn’t nearly do justice the work and care put into it’s music.

Got time? I also love these videos on sound design (gosh the best sound design is the stuff you never consciously notice), theme, atmosphere, and basically just people explaining what I said but a lot better

I love this game and it’s music and no one can take that away from me.

#botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda botw #loz botw #botw music

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smilepal · 3 years

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👹🍊 🏀 🐟 ❤ :3c

Character ask meme for @billlybutcher ☺️

👹--How does you OC act around different people and how does their personality change to match the environment they’re in? How do they act with: friends, family, strangers, children or their lover(s)?

Hiro's personality/how he comes off is very dependent on who he's around. He takes pride in being adaptable to most situations, and being able to keep up a mask, or have people perceive him a certain way. It's easy to act--put on a show, let people see what you want them to see. This, in combination with a lack of fear, and the ability to be charming, at least with his mouth shut--has allowed him to bullshit his way out of situations he maybe shouldn't have been able to. If it seems like you're supposed to be there, and you know what you're doing, you can usually get away with quite a bit? He's quick to put on a front around strangers, depending on what he wants from them. Clients will usually perceive him as someone who's there to get the job done, quickly and without a whole lot of bullshit. He's to the point, often to the extent of being a bit abrupt/and wants to get the whole ordeal over with so he can get paid. If he wants something/is off-work though, he can be pretty charming--especially in the right context/if someone's caught his eye. He's still pretty direct in that regard, albeit less abrasive. He still has a mouth on him though, and that never changes much.

With friends he tends to let his guard down a bit, if they're very close to him--and with family as well. He still holds back a bit though, and it's something he still struggles with sometimes even if he has gotten better over time. Close friends/family are treated to a rare glimpse of a softer side, one that is strangely sentimental, and remembers the tiny details about people--a favorite flower, or song they like--stuff that makes them happy. He's a little hesitant around children, and honestly they scare him a bit. They're small, and have so much energy, and are just all over the place and he's the one to look back at their guardians for help. Despite this, he tries to be nice to them and makes a genuine effort not to seem too scary, and just hopes that none of them think he makes a good role model--something he hasn't been entirely successful with. With his lovers/people who've managed to get beyond the initial instinct to keep people at a distance (at least emotionally) he's a very dedicated, loyal partner. He might not always know how to convey something verbally, or get tripped up and have it come out less gracefully than he'd like, but he's not afraid to show affection through actions and gestures, and is always trying to find new ways to do so--whether that's spending quality time with them, or finding out how to cook their favorite meal for them.

🍊--Does your OC have any triggers? Why do these things trigger them? What are they like when triggered and how do they calm down after?

Hiro has a couple, not that he'd ever be forthcoming about that to others, or honestly, to himself. He's very reliant on his senses, and being deprived of any of them is something that deeply unsettles him/can push him into a spiral if it goes too far--the sense of being unmoored or untethered is enough to make him panic, especially if it's deliberate. He...doesn't do great with feeling helpless, and being cut off from his senses just amplifies that. Even in day-to-day life, he doesn't like complete silence. Being alone with his thoughts is something he genuinely tries to avoid, and dead silence exacerbates it. He tries to maintain at least some small level of background noise--usually the bustle of Night City/ambient sounds are enough, but if he's at home or driving, he likes to have the radio on in the background or music playing quietly.

In general, Hiro rarely lets his guard down, always keeping an eye out, both for his own safety and for others--and if someone manages to take him by surprise, even if it's on accident, he usually doesn't respond great. At the very best, he's fairly defensive or prickly/and if they're not someone he cares about maintaining a relationship with/if was done maliciously there could be a fight. His fight or flight response is strong, and it's just determined by how much he values a relationship. If there's a way out, he'll take it rather than risk an argument, but if pushed far enough, he'd snap at someone, loved one or not. That would usually take deliberate goading on their part though--usually by prying into his business more closely than he'd like or trying to get answers out of him he isn't comfortable giving.

Hiro takes a while to calm down/wind himself down after. He responds pretty strongly, and tries to remove himself from the situation as fast as possible. Typically if it’s really bad, he’s not going to want to talk about it and might just disappear for a bit—he’ll either get on his bike and go for a ride, or go clubbing/dancing. If it’s bad, and he feels like he can’t be around people, he might go spar with a training bag, and try to get some of his agitation out that way. Most of his coping skills are typically very physical—and all things considered, usually fairly healthy outlets. He tries to wear himself out enough that he doesn’t have to think very hard, or just surround himself with so much noise/stimulation he literally can’t focus on anything else.

🏀--Does your OC have any skills that people wouldn’t expect them to have? Do they have a hobby or pass time that others would consider strange or weird? How did they learn this particular skill or pick up this hobby?

Hiro is a surprisingly talented baker. He obviously never had much time for it before he left the Tyger Claws, or the opportunity to do something he’d consider so frivolous, but he picked it up from Mama Welles after he met Jackie. For the fact that he’s still pretty nervous cooking, he’s actually a decent baker, and enjoys how much he can tune everything else out while he’s doing it. He rarely bakes for himself, seeing it as something that isn’t necessarily worth the cost of supplies/the time commitment, but if there was even an inkling that someone else would appreciate it—they’d be quick to find some sort of homemade treat waiting for them when they least expect it—and as he’d be quick to point out—he looks damn cute in an apron. Most of his hobbies are pretty normal—dancing, boxing, rock climbing, and usually fairly physical. He’s been dancing for a long time, but the boxing he picked up from Jackie/Viktor, and the rock climbing from Victory. He also loves to race bikes and this is a definitely a hold-over from his TC days. It’s not necessarily a weird hobby, but people usually don’t expect him to like clothing/shopping as much as he does—and it’s usually where a lot of his extra income disappears to (well that and expensive stuff for his hair.)

🐟--What was your OC like as a baby? What were they like as a child? A teenager? An adult? How do you think they’ll develop ten years into their future? Twenty years? Will they live to old age?

Hiro was a really quiet child—and desperate for any sort of guidance/attention. His role models growing up weren’t good ones, and they definitely used this as an opportunity to manipulate him. He was very approval-seeking, and would take that wherever he could find it, even if meant trusting people he probably shouldn’t have. Granted, he didn’t know much better, but the lesson stuck with him, and it left him a much warier adult. Hiro was a god-awful shit as a teenager. He was still in the Tyger Claws at the time, and there was a lot of repressed anger/trauma there with almost zero outlets. There are a few relationships he maintains from before he cut ties with TC, but they are few and far between, Judy and Viktor being the biggest ones—and even those went through rocky periods.

Ten years into the future, it really depends if he can stay clear of the gangs or not. The likelihood of him allying himself with a corporation is slim to none, but enough bad choices/impulsive decisions might still lead him down a not-so-good path. Twenty years—he’d either be the healthiest he’s ever been, with strong relationships with others, and a circle of people he’s truly grown to trust, or what he absolutely used to dread/fear becoming. It all depends on whether he puts personal relationships/growth over what’s easier for him/seems to come a little too easily, and lets himself get consumed by the darker side of Night City. Regardless, he’d probably survive to old age—honestly out of sheer spite. He’s always been driven by survival/keeping himself alive, and would honestly do so even if only to outlive his enemies. Even into older age though, he’d still try to keep himself sharp. Whatever the case, the likelihood of a peaceful retirement somewhere seems far-fetched. He’d still manage to find his way into the middle of things, even if only unintentionally.

❤️--What inspired you to make this OC? How long have you had them? How have they changed in the time you’ve been developing them?

Oh boy, I’ll try not to get too long-winded with this. Hiro started as an OC for an unnamed futuristic story—probably about two-ish years ago? I’d just seen Bladerunner (as well as the more recent sequel) for the first time, and I’d never gotten too deeply into the genre before. But I realized I wanted to create a character that would fit into one one these universes—someone scrappy, a survivor at heart, and who wasn’t afraid to risk his own safety for his found family. He didn’t have a lot of depth when I first created him (although the name stuck—he was always Hiro, and it never felt right changing it). He initially was a lot less sympathetic, and honestly—even aggravated me a bit. I tried to create a character that was a little more balanced, and someone who had flaws but wasn’t completely unlikeable, and who’s impulsive actions led to actual, lasting consequences. His initial character (even before I fit him into the CP universe) began as a sort of android, who could almost, but not quite pass as human. He still has fairly extensive cybernetics, and relies on them heavily, but not as much as he had previously.

Even when I was first developing him as a Cyberpunk OC, he was more focused on guns/ranged weapons/stealth. It was only after playing cyberpunk, that my play-style began to influence his character and he became much more strength/melee based. And honestly? I’m really happy he did. He’s not my usual type of character, at least in that regard and it’s been fun leaning into it—and making him this character who’d rather punch first and think later. (Also not at all influenced by the fact that I’m impatient as hell and net hacking/stealth just takes so long.) He developed along-side Vic, and her character really helped me to realize how Hiro would interact with other characters—especially ones who have such different backstories/upbringing, and the process of creating him, and being able to bounce ideas off someone else (“hey wouldn’t it be cool if this happened?”) was a huge part in inspiring me, and was so helpful, having someone to respond to that character and provide their own feedback (and vice-versa). Also honestly, Hiro was created after a long period of me not being super creative/artistically motivated. It was the middle of COVID and I was so fucking bored, and not doing much outside of work and classes. So he was an amazing creative outlet for me—helped to get me to start writing again, and eventually led me to tumblr/discord and a lot of really fantastic people, and the sort of community I’d needed.

Wow, uh sorry this got so long. But man, thanks for asking--was really, really fun 😍💖

#aaaa I'm sorry this took so long #character asks #ask memes #hiro oda #thanks for your patience #🖤🖤🖤#character headcanons #cyberpunk ocs #uh got a bit carried away with this one 😅#okay tho they're long questions--ya can hardly blame me #victory delvin #tyger claws #very long post #victory delvin belongs to shinycorvidae #this bitch ended up being almost 2000 words holy shit--wish I could write actual papers this easily 😂

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beabaseball · 3 years

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Editing Anon from a few days ago. Yeah, ive never really touched editing software before. Like... Only once or twice, but it was super basic stuff, like cutting some pieces out.

I have good news; cutting is a good 90% of it. ,,,that might be an exaggeration but it is certainly what I am feeling very passionately right now.

I know last time I said I didn’t have any course suggestions, but if you can find lists that are just... literally just editing techniques, and historical videos can’t hurt. Alfred Hitchcock and Orson Welles basically made the basis of modern US/Western editing... because they were busy trying to one-up each other. I wanted to give you an Akira Kurosawa rec too because he literally invented the Rashomon Sequence but none of the videos on youtube vibe with me, but in 1950 he basically said “hey....... what if the editing LIED to you” and it was great.

Definitely stay away from film critic channels. I like watching them because I enjoy being hurt, but they will absolutely not give you editing advice. Animation will give you tons of editing stuff because EVERYTHING in the setup must be deliberate and the editing is built into the creation process, but in general just watching movies twice helps. First time to see the movie, second time to see HOW it movie. Film theory is 80% editing. A director can hand you the shit, but you’re making sense out of it. This is why Wonder Woman 2017 was janky, even though I loved it. The editing in some places was janky as hell and if you go with a notebook and try to write down the edits happening and pick out what went wrong or was confusing, I promise you will learn a lot.

I can’t really give any advice specific to your editor, but as long as you can make an accurate cut, you can make a good video on whatever basically. But there are some general things that I do need to impart: 1) if you’re doing anything with any amount of pause, have some background radiation. Literally just hold your phone up and record the sound of a quiet room if you have to and stick it on the bottom track. Keeps the silences from being too deafening in anything serious, when otherwise you’ll hear that ‘click’ of the sound dropping off entirely.

2) watch your sound levels. If you look off to the side of your timeline, you should see a gague that is usually two bars with decibel levels (dbs) marked on them. and as your sound plays the bars go up from green to yellow to red. You want your gague to hit yellow. If it goes to red, you’re blowing out the speaker. If you’re in green, people will need to raise their volume to hear you. You will probably have to google how to change sound levels specific to your editor, but usually you turn on a mode (or have an automatic turned on mode) that puts a thin line in the middle of your soundtrack bar and you can put points on it and raise and level the sound in between those points. This seems like a lot of extra work but it’s part of ‘invisible editing’ where you DON’T want the audience to notice the editing so they aren’t distracted from the content. Drawing attention to the editing is usally an artistic choice or for a funny,like a smash cut where someone says “i’m not doing that” and immediately cuts to them doing that.

3) ...this is all sound editing lol USE CROSSFADES AND FADE-OUTS with audio. It smooths out that ‘sound just cut out’ click mentioned in 1. The ambient noise will help but fading in and out will also help a lot. This is for DaVinci Studio but you can see what an audio crossfade is there and most editors should let you at least do a fade out, and then you can put them on different lines and have them overlap that way if a system doesn’t let you crossfade directly (looking at you, iMovie.)

................................and yeah the rest of it is just chopping things up and putting them on top of all that audio you worked hard on lol.

Anything more complicated is going to be system-dependent or dependent on the shooting of the film itself. So for filming tips:

Have consistent lighting. Daylight is best looking but if the sun goes behind the clouds and you have to cut some dead space, all of a sudden the light goes dark in your film and it’s really obvious. You can probably digitally brighten some of it up, but it’s easier to just have an extra light on in the first place while filming. Florescent bulbs flicker, LED’s don’t, but LED’s also look very clinical.

Film the same thing once or twice from different angles, especially if you only have one camera. Do not become stanley kubrick.

microphones are hell i still haven’t figured out how to not fuck up recording

save often, your computer is always about to crash.

..OH FUCK GET AN EXTERNAL HARDDRIVE.

Keep a copy saved on your external harddrive ALWAYS. Two saves at minimum at all times. Or you will end up like my classmate whose entire thesis deleted itself 2 days before deadline.

bring snakcs and hydrate.

these are all the important things i can thnk of.

#film editing #film theory #beatext #asked and answered #aaaa #i hate that all the video discussions on youtube are white men and then only like 2 i assume gender identity girls #Anonymous

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typewriterghcst · 3 years

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Title: A Very Small Wish Fandom: The Cat Returns Characters: Baron, Muta, Toto, Haru, plus some OCs Rating: PGish maybe?? Words: 4724 Summary: A pleading request from a parent whose daughter has been cursed by a resentful witch is nothing truly out of the ordinary for the Cat Bureau— in fact, it might be so common so as to be routine— so why does something feel inherently off about this particular one? Notes: Third chapter of six of a Secret Santa gift for @deedee-sunflowers. It’s about here that the chapters start getting a bit long hhh. Tho I think they end up a little shorter again eventually Anyway, the first task. A lot of different influences went into these parts of the story, and I hope they’re not too blatant or distracting, aha ;; Also, I forgot! I drew a very small doodle of the little patchwork creatures which feature in this chapter, if anyone’s interested `~`;;

Ch. 3: The Sown Forest

The Sown Forest is near deathly silent, or… perhaps at least it feels that it should be, but the crunching of the snow under their collective feet and an ever-present rumbling ambiance akin to a distant earthquake means there’s little true silence to be had. And even without that unexpected ambient background, something about the place doesn’t feel quite right. In every direction grow thin, white trees, scattered haphazardly and yet also in just the right formation to make the forest seem far too organized, tidy. Patterned.

No matter where they look, the horizon stretches out over an immeasurable distance, and the white of the sky and that of the level, milky ground meld into one. Only the wispy, bare branches of the trees break up the monotony of the landscape.

“Well,” Baron finally thinks to remark, “The bright red of a holly berry is likely to stick out like a rather sore thumb in this environment, isn’t it?”

“Sure, if you can find the one dumb enough to grow right now,” Muta grumbles, burying his nose into the warmth of the scarf wrapped around his neck and grumpily huddling further into his coat.

“Now, let’s not lose faith so early, Muta. Should we remain positive and keep a cool head about this, we’re sure to succeed.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say…” More grousing.

“We have only a limited amount of time to triumph over all three of these challenges, and I believe we’ll cover more ground if we split up into groups. Muta, Miss Haru— the two of you start in that direction. Mr. Vanya and I shall take the opposite. Toto, see if you can discern anything from the sky.”

“A berry— even a patch of berries, might be difficult to spot from an aerial view,” Toto responds as a gentle caution. “Even in such a uniform environment.”

“I know, but there’s no harm in trying anyhow.”

Toto nods. Then, more firmly than before, “And how do you propose we find this spot again to inevitably reconvene?”

Ah, bless Toto again, Haru thinks to herself briefly, because Baron looks rather comically bemused by this question, and she and Muta and Toto (if possibly even Vanya, the newcomer that he is) know that this very important piece of information had not occurred to him while putting together his impromptu plan. He gives a pensive noise, one hand going to his chin as the other is planted on his hip.

Eventually, he glances at the trees surrounding them, appearing to have been struck by inspiration, and then removes his hat.

Wordlessly, he hangs it on one of the nearest branches, positioning it just so so it won’t slip off or blow away (though there’s not been even the slightest whisper of wind since they’d arrived).

“Here we are. We’ll all meet back here in an hour— keep an eye on your own footprints. They’re all four of them different, and they should help to distinguish our separate paths.”

Something in Vanya’s gaze gleams as he looks to Baron’s hanging hat, though he ultimately turns away from it to rejoin the group. Instead, he hops like a particularly excited toddler to Haru and Muta (well, Haru, to be more truthful). In one of his paws is what appears to be a skewered snake or worm, which he wastes no time in handing sloppily to the teen, much to her dismay.

“For good luck! This is a traditional Oostal charm good for finding tricky things. And we need all the good luck we can get!”

Haru looks swiftly to Muta for assistance, but the cat is leaning away from her with an expression that speaks to no less than utter baffled disgust. Well. Strained gratitude it is, then, it seems.

“O-Ohh… You’re right, that’s a good idea— th-thank you.”

Vanya beams in a manner eerily reminiscent of the Cat King before scampering back over to his place beside Baron (and it’s only through their long shared history with the cat figurine that Toto and Muta both glean the subtle apprehension in his own expression, that he is mutely waiting in terror for the fox to hand him one of these traditional charms as well). Vanya neglects to do so, however, and Baron’s subdued trepidation is gone almost as soon as it’d revealed itself.

“Remember— one hour. If all else fails, Toto at least should be able to reunite us.”

With that decided, they start off in their opposite directions, Toto taking wing into the sky.

&&&

It’s terribly easy to become disoriented in the Sown Forest, Haru and Muta quickly find out. If not for their own footprints, they swiftly agree they’d have long since been wandering in tight circles and not even realized it. The seamless boundary between land and sky and tree has Haru occasionally feeling rather like she’s walking on a spinning top which also wobbles across the table.

She eventually places the skewered… animal Vanya had given her down beneath a tree, shooting Muta an injured look when he comments on it.

“Looking a gift horse in the mouth, chicky? Didn’t think you had it in ya,” he cracks with a sardonic laugh.

“I’ll pick it back up before we head back to the others! He’ll never even know. B-Because there’s no reason for me to actually carry it with me the whole time we’re looking…”

“I’m just picking on ya. You dropping that thing is gonna do wonders for my nose. Smells like a spoiled fish.” Then, with an annoyed huff, he continues, “I woulda thrown it at him— try to give me some stinky dead thing on a stick—”

“Come on, he’s not that bad,” Haru tries, but she knows she doesn’t sound all that convinced herself. And Muta’s not about to let it go without comment, either.

“You don’t sound so sure to me, kid.”

Haru turns in her spot on her heel, feeling lost and restless in a hard-to-define way. The Sown Forest is devoid of rocks and bushes entirely; it’s nothing but thin scraggly trees, and she would never have imagined before now that to scour such a nebulous landscape might prove to be so exasperating. Where does one search for a pop of color when there are no hiding places?

“...do you get… kind of a weird feeling from Vanya..?”

“Yeah,” Muta doesn’t hesitate to respond sourly. “He’s a tiny, annoying puffball with a bad laugh.”

“N— No, I mean— like an uneasy feeling. Like something is… um, off.”

“Probably ‘cause something is off about him. I don’t trust that puffball.”

The relief Haru gains from such a simple sentence is near indeterminable. She almost leaps in victory.

“I knew it couldn’t be just me! Well, and Toto, maybe, but he was more mum on the whole thing. You know how he is.”

“A gargoyle of few words, yeah, I guess. Real annoying, if you ask me. It’d be a lot easier if everyone just said what they mean instead of hanging on to secrets to keep the peace.”

Distantly, Haru gets the distinct impression this complaint has roots beyond the borders of the current situation, and she’s not sure what to say to it.

Muta, also, seems similarly surprised at himself, and in the end, he chooses to bulldoze past it, circling a few trees in the silence and eventually speaking up, “...Anyway, this Vanya creature pipsqueak is fishy, an’ I don’t like him. I don’t know what he is. Something old. And this place is, too.”

“What about Baron? Do you think he’s being careful enough? He’s wandering around alone with Vanya right now…”

“Eh, Baron’s kind of a soft-hearted ham sometimes, but he’s no peabrain. He’ll be fine.”

“Is that really the best you can do to reassure me..?”

“What? I dunno what to tell you, chicky, it’s the truth.”

“Yeah, but a little more optimism wouldn’t have hurt,” Haru mumbles plaintively.

“If you want, ya could bust on to the scene and rescue him from the puffball to pay him back. Hey, maybe he’ll start crushing on you, then.”

Oh, that calls for a heated blush. Haru stares down at the snow-covered ground of the Sown Forest, hands balled loosely into fists at her sides, though she’s trying desperately to play it all cool. Unfortunately, she’s never been much of an actor.

“He’s my friend— of course I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Muta’s response of the beginnings of a chaffing laugh is not well-received; Haru spins around to protest, but—

Something comes shuffling into their space from behind a nearby tree. And something is all Haru can think to describe it as— smaller even than Vanya and Siree, with a long, snuffling snout and a soft, bean bag body. The tiny creature lacks arms or wings of any kind, giving it an awkward, waddling gait. Missing also are eyes and any noticeable ears.

Yet the strangest thing is that it appears to have been sewn together out of scraps of colorfully-patterned fabric, much like a quilt. (It triggers a memory of her mother’s handiwork, in fact, and the very idea of her mother back at home, in the real world, throws Oostal’s alienness into stark relief. She’s so terribly far from home.)

Muta and Haru watch the little thing waddle between them and then down the way from them in silence before looking back to each other.

“What is it, Muta?” Haru asks. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“What, you never had a stuffed animal before?”

“Stuffed animals don’t walk, Muta,” Haru responds with a huff.

“Eh, shows what you know.”

Whatever response Haru might have had to this lazy red herring abruptly trails off, because the funny little creature, having paused for a brief moment, now drops its floppy snout onto the ground and continues on in a faintly opposite direction, snorting softly the whole way.

“It must be one of the rumored inhabitants of the Sown Forest, right?”

“Yeh. Bet it’ll lead us to those rumored holly berries, too, if we’re careful about it.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Baron.”

Muta darts out from beside her with a faint derisive groan. “Remind me to scratch you later for that one.”

&&&

Following a colorful (albeit very small) waddling quilt animal through an otherwise blinding array of white snow and sky proves to be astonishingly more difficult than either Muta or Haru would have expected. More than once they somehow lose sight of the thing, only to have to stop and strain their ears for its characteristic snuffling breaths.

“It has two little stick legs and waddles like a sedated duck,” Muta complains at one point when they’ve lost it again. “How do we keep losin’ track of it?!”

“Hold on— Muta, I hear it again. It sounds really close.” Then, after a few seconds spent listening, she adds, “...Actually, it… sounds a little like it’s eating something, doesn’t it?”

This is all Muta seems to need to hear before turning on his heel and starting the opposite way.

“Where are you going?” Haru calls after him.

“I’m out!” He hollers back. “Nothing good comes outta anything that involves weird creatures feasting on stuff, I don’t care what it’s actually— woah!!”

“What is it— Muta, what’s wrong?” Haru dashes in the direction of his voice, fearing the worst. Yet she finds him with little difficulty, and in one piece, poised in the same horrified position a housewife might take were she confronted with a trail of muddy footprints across a formerly pristine linoleum floor.

At his feet, so close he could stretch out a paw and tip the little thing over were he so inclined, is the patchwork animal they’d been struggling to track… and the good luck charm Haru had abandoned earlier, which appears a little worse for the wear.

Muta dashes behind her with an unsteady gait, complaining the entire way. “Ughh, it’s even worse than what I was thinking—!”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Haru tries, even as she takes a repulsed step back at the faint sound of tearing meat and flinches. “...it’s still pretty bad, though.”

It’s as they’re watching from a couple paces away that the little thing lifts its ostensible head to… well, scrutinize them, Haru supposes, though it lacks the eyes to do so. Perhaps there is another, hidden sense that allows it to see in a less traditional manner.

Your trade is acceptable.

Haru can’t quite place it, how she Knows that this is what the creature before Muta and her is communicating, as it hadn’t spoken aloud, nor does she hear the words echoing in her mind as one might expect of a bizarre display of telepathy. Yet, still, the resounding statement is clear.

“O-Oh—” She starts, and her voice is like an echoing gunshot in the silence of the forest, which leads her to whisper her next words, “We’re, um, glad you like it.”

Then, as they watch, it drops its head again and continues tearing delicate slivers off the charm, seemingly oblivious to their presence again.

“Well, now what?” Muta says at her feet. He’s still eyeing the patchwork creature with no small measure of antipathy, but he’s at least not subtly hiding behind Haru anymore.

“I guess we… wait for it to finish..?”

“Great.” Muta sits down with an annoyed huff. “Doesn’t it know we’re on a tight schedule here?”

Haru laughs, but it’s tinged with a speck of nervousness.

If not for the unmistakable noise of flapping wings over the ever present hum of the forest, the resultant wind would certainly give Toto’s arrival away— there’s been not even the barest hint of a breeze since they’ve been searching. The crow perches atop a nearby tangle of branches, cocking his head in a distinctly avian fashion at the creature they’ve run across.

“Ha, looks like you’ve found one of the inhabitants.”

“What was your first clue?”

“The quilt creature down there, mostly.”

Muta, again feeling indirectly bested, only grumbles lowly to himself and crosses his arms. Instead, Haru speaks up.

“It’s taking this good luck charm as a trade for the berry. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. I guess it’ll… um, show us the way once it’s finished..? I’m not sure how it works.”

“Sounds plausible to me. Baron and Vanya are some ways off in that direction,” Toto also adds, gesturing with his wing. “I’ll go to let them know they can stop searching, and bring them here. Be right back!”

Haru and Muta watch him take off, and for a little while until he’s too far in the distance for them to make out, before turning back to their… companions. It seems in their distraction, more of the little quilt animals had arrived, attracted no doubt by the scent of the ‘good luck charm’ Haru had laid down before the tree.

“They really like this icky stuff, don’t they?” Haru muses in an almost-laugh.

Muta pokes one of them on the top of its soft head, causing it to lose its balance and fall to the side. Grudgingly, he sets it rightside up again. “...Guess that little pipsqueak knew what he was talking about, after all.”

&&&

Elsewhere, Toto’s return trip hits an unforeseen, somewhat bizarre snag.

“The Very Pretty Vanya Creature does not fly through the air like an unsolicited blown kiss!”

Baron and Toto share a puzzled, if slightly frazzled, look between them.

“Mr. Vanya, I sympathize if it’s a matter of a… ah, disdain for heights, but the time limit with which we’ve been burdened is perpetually ticking down, and we ought to do all we can to minimize wasted time,” Baron first tries.

“I’m a very careful flier, too. I promise you’ll have your feet on solid ground in no time at all,” Toto also adds.

But Vanya only shakes his head. “It is no matter of fear!” He begins in a manner that says fear is exactly the matter. “It is the principle! Pretty Vanya has no wings. He was meant to stay on the ground.”

It seemed there would be no convincing him. Baron turns to Toto.

“Toto, do you think then that you could fly a little ways overhead and guide us to the others? If we hurry, perhaps we’ll still make good time.”

Before them, Vanya wrings his paws fretfully before finally throwing one arm across his eyes and crying out, “Pretty Vanya must be left behind! He is the millstone dragging everyone else down!”

“N-Now— Mr. Vanya, please, don’t despair—”

“The Most Helpful Bureau must leave me behind,” Vanya insists again, this time without his face hidden, fixing Baron with a determined look. “I said it before, didn’t I? The Pretty Vanya Creature will meet you there in no time, because he is very fast.”

Faced with Vanya’s clear obstinate refusal and the added stress of a ticking clock, it doesn’t take long for Baron to give in, though the veneer of reluctance lingers over him still.

“V… Very well, Mr. Vanya. If you do insist. We’ll go on without you.”

"You will. But there's no reason to worry. It'll be all okay!"

"...Yes. Of course. Be careful."

As they’re flying away, Toto speaks up. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

Baron seems reluctant to answer, gaze distant and unfocused. Coupled with his stilted posture, it gives him the look of someone who is quite diligently trying to avoid jumping to an unpleasant conclusion.

“...It doesn’t matter,” he eventually responds quietly. “I suppose it’s not something which overtly needs his presence.”

“What about covertly?”

“Then we shall hope for the best.”

&&&

True to Toto’s ultimately fruitless attempts at reassurance, it seems only a matter of seconds when they have their feet back on solid ground, spotting Muta and Haru from the air easily enough and touching down just shy of them in the hopes of not startling the by now bristling crowd of tiny quilted animals surrounding the other two.

“Eh? Where’s the pipsqueak?”

“He chose to find his own way to our location,” Baron first explains in his impeccable manner.

“Scared of heights,” is Toto’s more honest addition.

Muta turns back to the quilt animals with an unimpressed scowl. “Figures. Just make us do all the dirty work.”

“Now, Muta, a genuine fear of heights is nothing to brush off.”

“Yeah, if it’s genuine…” Mumbled under his breath, but distinct enough for them all to hear, and that Baron (nor the other two) step in to offer a defense is telling… but also serves at least to inform them all that they’re all four on the same page.

“What about these little guys? Have they brought up the trade or the berry again?”

“No. I think they wanted to finish off the, um… trade first,” Haru says, looking from Baron and Toto to the gathering of quilt animals scattered about before them. She sits crouched on her haunches with her elbows on her thighs, gazing out at their odd companions with the same detached but amiable curiosity one might reserve for a child’s play.

“Can they really stretch out that one sticky charm enough for this many to have a bite of it?” She eventually notes with some incredulous amusement.

“They’re sure gonna try,” Muta snorts.

Finally, as they watch, in the distance it looks as if there are languid waves in the sea of brightly-colored patchwork, divots in the throng that speak to the movement of only a few individuals while the others part to let them pass.

It doesn’t take long; they soon find themselves approached for an apparent audience with a… particularly diminutive individual which separates from the group, one which also appears to have been adorned with a tattered shawl thrown over its body, which trails like a leaden weight after it (though upon closer inspection, this threadbare train is simply part of the little thing’s frame).

Some of the seams on its patchwork appear to be coming undone. Distantly, Haru wonders what will happen should they truly do so, and— quite swiftly derails her own thoughts before they can wander down distressing paths.

Strikingly, also, unlike the others, this one has been endowed with an eye— a single coffee-colored iris in startlingly familiar, human-shaped white sclera. Situated somewhat strangely off-centered atop its tapered, drooping head, it stares vacantly ahead, half-lidded.

The four of them feel themselves scrutinized by this seeming elder; even Muta has no complaint to offer in an attempt to hurry the process along.

Only one.

Haru can’t quite place it, how she Knows that this is what the little creature before them all is communicating, as it hadn’t spoken aloud, nor does she hear the words echoing in her mind as one might expect of a bizarre display of telepathy. Yet, still, the resounding caveat is clear.

Baron nods stiffly, appearing to have been caught off-guard in the same way the rest of them had. “Yes. Just the one.”

The quilt-like creature responds with some erratic, floppy movements that vaguely resemble an affirmative nod before placing the tapered end of its cloth snout into Baron’s hands, where it drops a single round, bright red berry. It’s about the size of a particularly plump blueberry, though it seems quite larger in Baron’s gloved hands. Seemingly satisfied, the little animal turns then, and begins to waddle away.

“Thank you,” Haru thinks to call after it.

Not too far into the future, they will all four find themselves remembering this particular phrase and wonder furiously why such an innocuous one seemed to have such a profound effect upon the Sown Forest’s minuscule inhabitants. For now, however, it’s little more than a curiosity, when the creature abruptly stops with an accompanying jerk, and then goes quite still.

The others surrounding them, too, copy this one’s motions.

“Uhh, I don’t like the look of that—” Muta starts, but he’s rather abruptly cut off by a hoarse, low-pitched bark which echoes through their surroundings. The four of them instinctively back up in alarm, a sentiment which only grows upon witnessing the little things begin convulsing, tossing their heads into the air and then back down, all the while emitting those same short roars like a baleful staccato.

“That’s loud—”

“I think it’s time we took our leave,” Baron says (he makes a motion to steady his hat, only to belatedly realize he’d left it behind). He’d liked that hat.

No sooner have they turned on their collective tails and fled that the Sown Forest’s inhabitants scuttle and crawl after them in whatever way they can, and despite their obvious disadvantages, the little things are startlingly adept at keeping up with them. Haru doesn’t have the nerve to give their pursuers the thorough, lingering look she wants, too intent on making sure her pounding steps remain even and sound, but the tight-knit mob’s thunderous pursuit is impossible to mistake. It’s not long before panicked discouragement sets in. To everyone’s surprise, it’s Baron who speaks up first.

“We won’t be outrunning them on foot—”

“Good thing we have a gargoyle chicken, then, isn’t it?!” Muta snaps, then calls to said ‘gargoyle chicken,’ “Hey, birdbrain—!”

“Toto’s many good and admirable things, Muta, but I doubt even he is strong enough to carry a full-grown human—”

Haru, overhearing this, burns with the inclination to wildly apologize, all too aware of the cracks of the trees and the deafening crunch of packed snow behind them. She bows her head in remorse, feeling fervently in this moment that her decision to tag along really had been a mistake. She’s so close to contemplating how far she might get should she separate from the group and divert the creatures away… when she notices something rather strange.

“Wait—” Haru gasps, glancing down to herself in a bewildered fashion, so much so that for a fleeting second she stops in her tracks and has to be tugged along by Baron. “I’m not the same size I was— when did I get this small—?!”

Baron sounds just as bewildered when he answers, though he at least moves past it, “Let’s not kick a gift horse, now— Toto!”

“Got it!”

If Toto at all struggles with the effort to carry all three of them, even if Haru has been unexplainably shrunken, then he’s quite gifted with hiding it. He takes off into the air with them, far above the swarming quilt creatures, with no less agility than he usually does, and Baron and Haru spend the next few moments surveying the horde raptly.

“Ya just had to thank them, didn’t you?” Comes Muta’s complaint from his not altogether eager spot in Toto’s talons.

“I was just trying to be polite!” Haru counters just as plaintively, but even she sounds at least a little remorseful. “What kind of place takes words of gratitude as an offense..?”

“They don’t show any signs of slowing down,” Baron notes.

“Are they really gonna chase us all the way to the border?! They barely have the legs to run! You really steamed them with that gratitude BS, chicky.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Haru laments.

“We know you didn’t, Haru, “ Toto tries to reassure.

“Ah, it’s Vanya,” Baron says with a nod in the fox’s direction; he looks quite small (smaller than usual, that is) from their height, rapidly looking between them in the air and the horde of… well, what look to be furious blankets swarming the forest below them. He’s motioning frantically to them to come closer, to land as quickly as they can.

“Is he crazy?! There’s no way we’re landing that close to the forest— if he doesn’t make a break for it, he’s gonna get smothered, too,” Muta says.

Seemingly as an exasperated response to their stubbornness, Vanya points to the forest behind them with an agitated zealousness, or, perhaps more specifically, the perimeter which is teeming with untold numbers of the tiny quilt creatures. The vast majority of them pace behind the line of trees, fretful and overwrought; the unfortunate few that have accidentally tumbled beyond it lie scattered and twitching on the snow-covered ground like marooned fish.

“What’s wrong with them..?”

“Looks like they can’t go beyond the trees,” Toto guesses.

When they land, still uneasy from the agitated mass of patchwork continuing to obsessively tread back and forth just a scant stone’s throw away, Vanya is swift to bound over to them, practically throwing himself at Baron and wrapping his arms around the Creation. If Baron had appeared disconcerted at the mere possibility of being given one of Vanya’s messy luck charms, he’s downright alarmed when being in no uncertain terms ‘glomped’ by the same creature.

“You made it! Pretty Vanya was worried!”

“What’s wrong with the forest’s inhabitants, Vanya?”

Vanya lets Baron go (much to his evident relief) and cants his head in thought. “The Sown Forest exists as a powerful transformative milieu. Stay too long and one becomes part of it. The inhabitants can’t leave it.”

“What will happen to the ones that accidentally fell out of bounds?” Haru asks, glancing to the small number of quilt animals still lying pitifully just out of reach of the border of trees.

“They will die,” Vanya answers with a shrug. “Eventually.”

“But that’s awful! Can’t we just push them back into the forest..? Will they go back to normal then?”

“Yes.” Vanya sounds confused.

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Haru says, starting for the border with a marked lack of hesitation. “There aren’t that many— it shouldn’t take long, should it?”

“Even less with assistance,” Baron agrees shortly, following after her.

“I guess we’re doing this now.” Muta, as well, trails after the two with a sullen grumble.

“Cheer up, kitty, exercise is good for you.”

“Don’t make me cook you.”

Behind them, Vanya, still holding Baron’s hat as if it were a priceless artifact, watches them leave with a hard to define look, moving just a foot or two from side to side (but never so much as a half-step forward). His tail twitches and flutters in a manner quite reminiscent of an inquisitive squirrel, with the searching mien to accompany it, but he ultimately says nothing and seems to content himself with killing time.

#the cat returns #secret santa

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moonlightmadnessreviews · 5 years

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1931’s Frankenstein and the “Slow Turn”: The Lost Art of the Subtle Scare

A friend of mine recently asked for my thoughts on subtle scares in horror. I asked her to elaborate and she responded “You know, those scares that aren’t exactly in your face but are still super effective!” Immediately, my brain shot to one of my favorite scenes in classic monster cinema: Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s Monster, and his slow turn towards the audience. Here, we’ll discuss that particular shot and why I think it’s the perfect example of what I feel is a lost art in today’s cinematic climate.

In the age of the jump scare, it’s easy to see why some horror fans may feel jaded when watching what Hollywood has offered up as of late. However, in an effort to avoid beating a particularly dead horse, I don’t want to spend this article talking about how bad jump scares are. Overused as they may be, jump scares aren’t new, and they aren’t always a bad thing. The real problem is that big budget production companies have a tendency to get the wrong impression of what audiences want. We’ve seen it happen time and time again, where a franchise ratchets up the gore and jump scares in lieu of the more subtle elements that made the original films so well received, ie The Conjuring and Saw. As I said, jump scares aren’t always bad, and we can look back to two iconic examples to see where they’re utilized extremely well.

The first example comes at the end of the very first Friday the 13th film, where just as Alice (Adrienne King) thinks she’s home free, a rotting Jason Voorhees (Pre-Kane Hodder behemoth incarnation, here played by Ari Lehman) jump scares her out of a dream. It’s a closing jump scare that we still see used now a days, albeit without the same effectiveness the original had. Another great example comes by way of Freddy Krueger (Robert Englund) during the intro of A Nightmare on Elm Street. This jump scare signals the beginning of a chase scene through a dark alley way, jolting our adrenaline like a gun going off at the start of a race. Now a days, that jump scare would get a laugh out of the audience instead, draining all tension from the scene and revealing it’s just one of the protagonist’s friends popping out of the dark to ask them out for drinks.

With my applauding these last two examples, why is it I find the scene where we first see the Monster’s face in James Whale’s Frankenstein to be so effective? One thing that sticks out to me right away is the lack of a score in the original Frankenstein. We have been trained to recognize a coming scare the same way a boxer learns to read body language, and a lot of this has to do with musical cues. Movie goers know that when they see their protagonist stare into a dark corner of their room, the ambient noise and score of the movie slowly dropping out til it’s completely silent, a loud musical stab is sure to pop out of the darkness to startle them. However, Universal’s Frankenstein has no musical aid to warn the audience of what they’re about to see. We watch as Boris Karloff, beginning with his back to the audience and filling up the frame of a doorway, enters the room and turns ever so slowly towards the audience. The camera then cuts between shots, pulling in closer and closer on the Monster’s face with each cut, all of this playing out free of a musical score.

As synonymous as Bela Lugosi is to Dracula, as is Boris Karloff to Frankenstein’s Monster, and his legendary face creeping in closer to the audience is extremely startling. Much of this of course has to do with Karloff’s facial structure itself, but the icing on the cake comes from make up wizard Jack Pierce. Pierce is responsible for most of Universal Studios’ most iconic monster makeups, and his work on Frankenstein is one of my favorites. He and Karloff worked tirelessly on the look of the Monster, and I believe it was Karloff who suggested pulling out a bridge he wore in his mouth to help give his cheek a sunken in, corpse-like look. The blend of practical effects, and a face made for scaring audiences resulted in one of Universal’s most terrifying shots.

Of course, it takes more than just great makeup and stark silence to make for an effective and understated scare. The direction of this scene plays a big part in its delivery, and our response to it as audience members. Imagine how differently the scene might have played out if the Monster entered the room facing us, as opposed to walking in backwards. He would walk out of the shadows and into the light of the shot without the build up of the original. The decision to have the Monster enter the room with its back to the audience does two important things:

First, it gives us a sense of how disoriented the Monster is. The hulking corpse hobbles backwards and gives us a sense of his size and mass as he slowly, and carefully, turns to face his creator.

Second, by forcing us to sit through this slow, and quiet reveal, it helps to draw the audience closer towards the screen. As I watch Karloff take his time revealing the Monster’s face, I can feel my back come away from my couch as I lean forward to meet his gaze. As an audience, we are frightened and intrigued, but most importantly, we are engaged. This last piece of the puzzle is what great directors strive for, and Whale did a fantastic job capturing the moment.

Although the “Slow Turn” is a technique that’s used less often these days, it doesn’t mean it’s completely absent. A great example comes from the classic Halloween, directed by John Carpenter and released in 1978. The shot of Michael Myers, The Shape, slowly manifesting from out of the darkness behind Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) is perhaps the closest to this “Slow Turn” idea we see used in Frankenstein. The mask seems to appear out of the dark like a ghost and the dread that moment cooks up is wonderful. Andy Muschietti’s IT holds another great example as Ben Hanscom (Jeremy Ray Taylor) flips through a book of Derry, Maine’s gruesome history. You’re likely to miss it, but in the background is Pennywise the Dancing Clown, here disguised as a librarian, staring menacingly at Ben. There is a faint smile visible, and the distance it keeps from his intended prey helps to up the “Slow Turn” scare factor of the shot. We even get a tribute of sorts to the “Slow Turn” in Capcom’s classic video game Resident Evil. A decomposing zombie looks up from its meal and turns to meet the player’s horrified gaze in an iconic cut scene that gave me nightmares for quite a while.

Frankenstein has long been my favorite of the Universal Monster movies, and I’ve often sited this moment, lasting all of 21 seconds, as one of my favorite shots in the entire film. The patience with which the scene is shot, the make up on Karloff’s face and the amount of character he puts into simply turning towards the audience is so beautifully effective. As I said, jump scares have their place, but the “Slow Turn” is an art form that embodies all that I love about classic horror. Though we may be able to find other examples of it in horror cinema history, for me, the Monster’s entrance is a moment whose electricity is hard to resurrect.

#frankenstein #frankenstein’s monster #boris karloff #james whale #victor frankenstein #universal monsters #horror movies #classic horror movies #friday the 13th #a nightmare on elm street #jason voorhees #freddy krueger #halloween #john carpenter #it 2017 #andy muschietti #resident evil #moonlight madness #moonlight madness reviews

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onthemeander · 5 years

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A commision for RooneyToony. Interested? then check out me

HERE

Dinner for Three by Onthemeander

“Napoleon Solo?” A young hostess, with a bit too much Chanel number 5 clinging to her collar, greeted him as he shuffled in out of the hot summer rain. “Yes.” Doing his best to shoulder off his raincoat without getting any water on his pewter gray windowpane suit jacket. The coat rack was already full, so one of the women behind the host table whisked his away silently to be stored safely. Taking a moment, he inspected himself in the mirror behind the hostess stand. He was proud to see that his perfectly gelled hair managed to keep its shape, even having two soft curls grazing his forehead.

“Your party has already arrived, I will show you to them.” Her ponytailed hair nearly snapping him in the face with how fast she swiveled around. His leather Salvatore Ferragamos squeaking over the tiled floor, an intricate netted pattern of Crema Marfil and dark emerald marble. Diners were leaned in close to each other, drinking wine and exchanging stories, all in low lighting from golden teardrop chandeliers.

He saw her just behind a large gold room divider. The distance and geometric metalwork blurring the definition of her face, but he still recognized her. Brown hair, quaffed up top into a ponytail, was far stiffer and more structured looking than the natural soft wave it had only days ago. Now, everything had its place, fitting together into the image of a prim and proper princess in her cranberry red, ribbon detailed, Gucci shift. A bold color that stood out against the golds, browns, and emeralds of the restaurant.

“Miss. Teller, Mr. Solo.” The hostess said like a serf to a queen, delegating all honors to the young woman sipping from a snifter. That was when Solo noticed a man that he is frankly stunned even managed to disappear into the background. He was massive; barrel-chested, straight-backed, square-shouldered, and the blank face of a man hiding too many emotions. His soft navy turtleneck and cinnamon suede jacket did little to soften his hard edges. This man was the Berlin wall personified; barricading posture, barb wire stare, and probably a minefield type of personality.

“How do you know my name?” He saw no point in the pleasantries as he was not in the business of being summoned to random Italian restaurants by fashionable but menacing couples. He took his seat and settled back to convey an air of ease.

“It isn’t hard to find out the name of the most flamboyant fine arts thief in North America and Europe.” She smiled, brushing her curls over her shoulder and out of the way. She looked pleased with herself, knowing more than she ought to. Though the level of comfort in her posture hinted at her being used to this advantage over others. “I’ve yet to make it to South America. Next summer maybe. I’ll have your finest scotch.” He said, waving off the waiter before they even had a chance to open their mouth.

“So, what do I owe the honor of meeting such a beautiful woman again.” He didn’t spare a glance with the pleasantry as he skimmed the menu, it had a wide assortment of Italian food all exorbitantly overpriced for the subpar ingredients the dishes were sure to contain. “Not one for pleasant conversations?” Miss. Teller snarked, flipping open her menu in a huff. “Not with people who somehow manage to slip my locks to leave notes in my home like a common stalker.”

“Watch your tongue.” The big guy threatened, in a surprisingly deep and thick accent. His body was tightening up, coiling ready to spring, his eyes pinning Solo. The only part of his body that was moving was his finger tapping cross the table top.

“What can I get you all to eat?” The group one by one ordered an assortment of overpriced meats and pasta. Quickly, but never quick enough, the waiter scuttled off to inform the kitchen, leaving the unlikely table guests to their awkward staring contest. With no one willing to even fane amicable small talk Solo just bit the bullet. “So again, why are we here? I don’t find that my damsels in distress usually hunt down their princes’ and leave mildly threating dinner invitations on their pillow.”

Her fingers stroked the stem of her wine glass, leveling Solo with a calculating look. Leaning forward, pressing toward his direction with a stare that could make a thousand men fall for her. “I, in fact, would like to thank you.” She finally admitted settling back into her seat. “Thank me for what?” “You know what for.” She shook her head in exasperation, the light bouncing off the fake diamonds inlaid in her acrylic earrings. “I do, but I’d like to hear you say it.”

Pregnant pauses, even in busy restaurants will all the ambient noise of the world, would forever be awkward for those participating in them. The other man seemed to be trying to break the table in half with just the strength of his tapping index finger. Exhaling through her nose she finally capitulated. “Thank you… for pulling me out of the way of that drive by. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you.” With all the grateful tone of an addict to their intervention party.

“You are most welcome, Miss. Teller.” He would let her off easy, not forcing her to change her tone. Counting his luck, either she would refuse or her companion would throw him over the table and break him, and not in the pleasurable way that one would hope for.

“the Vinciguerra family… my family is thanking you and we owe you a debt of gratitude.” He almost sloshed his wine on his best shirt. “Vinciguerra…” Eyeing his companions, he planted his feet just behind his knees, ready to kick off and run. Eyeing the surroundings he hoped the crowd would keep him safe from any publicly overt violence, but now he wouldn’t be able to eat his Spaghetti Alle Vongole. “They are even willing to overlook the fact that you were in the process of ‘borrowing’ one of my families more prized artworks.”

“Why? I’d assume they much rather have a chat with me about it.” Miss. Teller simply nodded in agreement. “Mrs. Vinciguerra is feeling lenient since you managed to save her daughter’s life.” The man beside him finally contributed, his voice deep with that rough accent. It wasn’t Italian but it wasn’t fully American either, even with the proficiency in English. He sounded almost physically pained with such an admission.

With a surprising amount of aggressive grace, Miss. Teller rose from her seat, slinging her mini purse over a shoulder. “I need to use the powder room. Play nice, Illya.” The demand for doing nothing for Solo’s nerves. In fact, the exact opposite, making images of his broken body in a carpet bag and ten feet under became a very real possibility. He had heard of far worse happening to people who crossed the Vinciguerra family.

“Is this when you make thinly veiled threats so the wiretaps don’t catch on?” He was never one for avoiding trouble, in fact, his kindergarten teacher once wrote ‘active and disturbing interest in causing all sorts of trouble for himself and others.’ The man beside him, Illya, tightened his shoulders and barreled out his chest, almost inflating like a parade balloon, taking up more space.

“As she said, the family is in your debt. One time and one time only.”

“Right, because I am some knight in shining armor for her?”

“More like a drunken cowboy who got lucky.” He was glaring pointedly at the last dregs of the drink in Solo’s hand. His thick accent making him sound even more high, mighty and insufferably formal than Solo cared for, like those uppity businessmen that inquire about his services. They ultimately always wanted a discounted price in exchange for telling their other snobby friends at the yachting club about Solo and his skills in acquiring them their new renaissance masterpiece. All of them were practically begged for Solo to knock them down a peg or two… or ten. “Tell me how does a comrade become a family member of the Vinciguerra’s.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as Solo called him comrade, though he kept his face blank and jaw clenched. “Miss. Teller needed a bodyguard and I am very skilled.”

“KGB?” Illya didn’t even bother to respond, instead of adjusting his sleeve cuffs like a posh prat that all good comrades were supposed to condemn. “Clearly you were hired for your conversational prowess.” He kept poking the bear, just waiting to see him snap. The waiter, as if having bugged the table themselves, found the perfect time to deliver their meals.

Unlike himself and their female companion, Illya had no food or drink in front of him. When asked he claimed, “I do not eat while I am working.” Once Miss. Teller returned, they all ate with little fuss, putting out your boilerplate small talk and trying to all appear far more normal and personable than they truly were. The drinks flowed as the conversation became stilted but thankfully it ended quickly. Solo could make his escape from Miss. Teller’s prying questions and Illya’s sharpshooter eyes.

“Please grab my coat,” He told the waiter, who continued in silence to fulfill the groups' whims. “Well, thank you for the meal, if you will excuse me, I will be heading home.” He stated, placing his folded napkin aside and rising from his seat. Placing on his most gentlemanly smile he scooped up Miss. Teller’s soft unmanicured hand. Clean yet slightly smelling of engine oil, was what he noticed as he pressed a steady and cordial kiss to the top of her palm. Returning her hand to the table top he turned and offered Illya a mildly completive handshake.

The pair kept watching him as he accepted his raincoat from the waiter. Aware of how on display he was, he did his best to put on his goat on in as attractive a manner as possible. It would be a shame to leave the audience disappointed. Once buttoned up and ready to brave the storm outside, he turned to leave with his head held high and a swagger in his stance. Maybe he’d even throw that hostess a little wink for the trouble. Suddenly though, he was face to face Miss. Teller’s bodyguard. Her very angry looking, bone breaking, Berlin wall style bodyguard.

“Give me back her ring.” It wasn’t a question at all, It was an absolute, unequivocal, demand. Miss. Teller looked down at her hand, surprised to find her ring finger bare of the Bulgari canary yellow diamond ring that usually rested there. Her eyes darkened, the low light making them to appear nearly black, as she leveled him with an unamused glare. Tilting his head trying to look innocent he weighted his options. how long could he outrun this man? Which escape route would be better, the kitchen or the front door? Would the big guy follow him all the way home? How many broken bones was he willing to risk?

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder, trapping him to his spot on the floor. Well there went all his options. Sighing through his nose, he pulled the multi-million dollar ring out of his breast pocket. She accepted it delicately, putting it back on her right hand. “And my watch.” A single beautifully manicured eyebrow lifted in speculation. Pouting like a naughty child he pulled the watch off his wrist, handing it over to the brick wall. The watch was promptly snatched from his hands and his shoulder was released. “Well, I would like to say this was lovely. However... Good night Miss Teller. Red Peril.”

Miss. Teller let out a loud snort, her fingers just barely concealing her smiling lips. Her bodyguard was less impressed and grouched out “Cowboy,” as he readjusts his watch. Controlling her smile, Miss. Teller watched him walk away with nothing more than a soft and teasing “Good night, Mr. Solo.”

“You really must stop leaving these lovely invites on my pillow. You could give men like me too many hopes.” He started with, tossing the crème color card stock onto her empty setting plate. With a lipstick kiss and all, “some would think you like to tease.”

“How was your dinner with Mrs. Vinciguerra.?” Miss. Teller asked, clearly choosing to ignore any questions of her methods. “Titillating, if not a little shocking to have happened. Is mildly aggressive dinner parties something of a family tradition?” When no one took his bait, raising to the thinly veiled insult, he just kept on talking. “It is surprisingly an interesting business opportunity for me.”

Miss. Teller simply gave a nod to her bodyguard, Illya was sitting beside them and seemingly found the one shadow in the restaurant to lurk. Again, they refused to respond so he just kept on chatting. “I would have apricated the heads up though.” His chair was wobbly against the slightly warped old wood floor, while attractive to the rustic Italian aesthetic, it was a bit of an annoyance. “Being thrown into a car is less than pleasurable, even if the other passage is as striking as Victoria.”

“Yes, Victoria has always been a great patron of the arts.”

“Seems so. She also seemed fond of you. We talked about you quite a bit.” Miss. Teller unattractively snorted into her martini glass at that, even across the table he could see a hint of an eye roll from her. “She is fond of my abilities.” And that tone of voice hinted at a very juicy and dramatic story. He had to know more. “Only your abilities? She sounded like a loving stepmother.”

“A stepmother who murdered my father and forced me to be her daughter.” Fascinating. Well, the family was known for their viciousness when they really wanted something. Whatever the girl had, it was clearly of great value to the family. Though the killing of a father seemed excessive, so he must have pissed them off somehow. But how?

“Gambling debts.” Is all Illya said to answer the unspoken question hanging off Solo’s lips. Miss. Teller, for her part, didn’t seem a bit bothered by the admitted faults of her kin. Though, from that moment on the conversation took a hard steer and avoided all talk of families for the rest of the evening. Instead, they chatted about cars and art and why Solo’s room was littered with every possible type of underthings.

“All alone, Peril? What happened to never let your princess out of your sight.” Illya looked mildly uncomfortable as Solo pulled out the leather mid-century modern moss chair. The man had tossed his suede bomber into the empty chair beside him, forcing Solo to sit across from him. “Powder room. She demanded I come sit. Wanted to make a grand entrance.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Solo turned in his seat to stare down the length of the restaurant, in the direction of the powder room. A handful of moments ticked by, filled with the waitress pouring them water, strangers walked by on the sidewalk, the clicking of glass and silverware, and Illya’s tapping heel against the ceramic tiled floor. Finally, just as his eyes were starting to lose focus and become bored, she came out.

The door opened wide, her short legs striding as long as possible in an almost glide towards them. She had gotten rid of her winter coat somewhere, hopefully not left in the ladies’ room for whoever decided to use it next.

The sun was bouncing off the fresh snow that has coated the roads overnight, making the windows look like floor to ceiling lighting fixtures. The brightly lit storefront backlight Gabby in the most teasing of ways. The soft harvest gold color fabric of her tent dress was made virtually sheer, exposing her matching bodycon slip underneath. Every subtle curve of her boyish body was on display. Her hips were swaying in an attractive exaggerated figure eight as she came towards them.

He could hear Illya behind him, he had stopped fidgeting and instead was opting to take deep and controlled breathes through his nose. “Grand indeed.” Was all he could think of in response to the beauty before him. In a smooth swift movement, he stood up, ready to pull out the chair like a gentleman. Illya attempted the same, yet managed to bang his legs against the table and slosh water out of their cups. “You are looking stunning, Miss. Teller.”

“Thank you, Mr. Solo.” Her cheeks were lightly flushed, high on her cheekbones, making her look young and glowing. With a wide charming smile, he took up the cabernet bottle, letting the wine flow. The restaurant was romantic and sparkling, with a soft jazz band in the corner and the various anniversary couple necking in the back corner.

Miss. Teller, laughed and teased both her companions this way and that till the wine and the music became a heady cocktail in Solo’s brain. Illya's eyes glittered over top the edge of his wine glass, heatedly staring at them both. Solo for his part even took the chance to hand feed them both from his plate, enjoying the different ways their lips wrapped around his fork. Miss. Teller’s was soft yet determined, smudging glossy coral lipstick along with metal. Illya’s was just harsh enough to remove that stain once again.

The waitress placed the bill between Solo and Illya, which was promptly picked up by his table mate. “Well, this has been a wonderful evening,” Miss. Teller chatted away as Illya pulled out his card, Solo spotted the small square foil trojan package peeking out. Something he is positive he hadn’t seen at any other dinner and was now there for a very good reason. “such a shame to see it end so soon,” He offered up in agreement to her sentiment.

“Mr. Solo, would you like to join us for some drinks? Illya makes a sinfully good French 75.”

“Really? Is it strong enough? I must say I am a stickler for the classics and such a historical drink really should make me feel like I’m being hit by ww1 French 75mm field gun.”

“More like being pinned down by a Steyr SSG… 69.” Suddenly, Illya’s large hand landed atop Napoleon’s, almost completely covering his. A warm weight not so much pinning him down but urging him to not lift a finger without his permission. Rotating him palm he interlaced their fingers together, “That sounds truly wonderful.”

“Gabby, didn’t anyone tell you it’s impolite to wear sunglasses at the breakfast table?” The sun was bright and sparkling against all the crème leather and glittering glassware of the French bistro. Gabby was perched in a white frock against the booth, not so much sipping her coffee as much as chugging ever least drop. Her white oversized circle sunglasses shielded her eyes from the strong sun and even stronger peer judgment.

“You would rather me keep them on than see what will happen if you try to remove them.” She grouched out, pointedly leveling him with her sternest scowls. He seemed content to keep teasing, running fingers along her neck, between her falling hair, pressing at hickies just barely concealed with makeup. Her scowl remained but she didn’t do much to stop him outside of small squirming. “Peril did a number on you too, hmmm? I, for one, won’t be able to wear my bathing suit anytime soon,” He remarked.

“It is November,” Illya stated behind the lip of his cup, filled to the brim with black coffee. “Pity I was hoping to show you.” Under the table, Napoleon toes the strong ridge of Illya’s ankle bone, everything on this man was bold and brash and strong and virile. “You have shown me quite enough Cowboy.” “I cherish the chance to see you in this new way,” Napoleon whispered in the Russian’s direction, batting his eyes ever so slightly for good measure. “More than what you saw last night?” Gabby asked, joining Napoleon’s foot to rub up under the cuff of Illya’s slacks, her Mary Janes curiously missing.

“You two are complete menaces.” He grumbled without a single emotion crossing his brow. His thighs clenched tight, trapping Napoleon’s foot between them. “Why Peril, that is no way to speak to your boss,” Napoleon scolded trying to escape the iron grip of Illya’s thighs. His lip quirked in a suave way as he refused to let go of his prize.

Their table was cluttered with all manner of messy napkins, used cutlery, lipstick-stained glasses and the remains of a family size bowl of Carbonaro. The conversation was flowing as smoothly as the wine, full-bodied and red with passion, little splashes of laughter, dry with wit and all with the finish of the promise of continued pleasurable company.

“Victoria wants you to acquire something for her sculpture collection.” Gabby let out over the last few bites of pasta, her hard-set stare at the plate belayed her frustration. Napoleon dabbed this mouth with his napkin, humming in interest at the request.

“I want you to take Illya.” She said, before even telling him the details of his new mark. “I thought I did that last night.” The man in question coughed into his fist, trying to hide the sunburnt looking blush creeping up his neck. It looked wonderful on him.

After a silent moment of held breathing, he sighed through his nose. “I work alone.” There was a loud metallic clank as Gabby slapped now her cutlery onto the marble tabletop. “I don’t care what you did. Victoria wants you to steal this sculpture and I want Illya with you.”

He side eyed the man in question, sitting imposingly large, good looks and blonde hair attracting the eyes of lonely housewives and some husbands around them. “Do you even know how to be subtle enough for burglary?” Know the man was made for fights and intimidation but theft required a lighter touch. Both Gabby and Illya scowled at him. “Napoleon. I am serious. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I want Illya there so you can keep each other safe.”

Studying their almost grave faces he relented. “Fine, you can come with me. Wear black.” With that he stood up, only stopping his retreat when Gabby’s surprisingly firm grip wrapped around his wrist. Her eyes were dark cold and steely as they stared up at him. “You both better come back, you understand me, Napoleon?”

“I don’t like this,” Illya admitted, as he ripped apart the slice of bread he took from the basket at the center of their table. “I don’t either, Illya.” She agreed to sip from her wine, keeping a wary eye on the open front door. “He will be fine. He wasn’t hurt.” Gabby hoped he wasn’t lying to protect her. When she heard that the heist went under, she had to be held back by Illya to keep her from going to find Napoleon herself. Every terrible consequence crossing her mind, Napoleon beaten by police, locked in a cell, being interrogated for hours or dead in the street from a cop with an itchy trigger finger

The hostess headed towards them and thankfully behind her was a Napoleon who appeared happy and healthy. “Miss. Teller, Mr. Kuryakin, it’s wonderful to see you again.” he sounded overly jovial, talking much louder than he ever would deem polite in public. “Napoleon, how have you been?” As he went to kiss her hand, she felt the scrape of a paper slide into her sleeve, so subtle she knew it was supposed to be a secret.

“Quite fine, laying low. Taking some time off, a vacation was in order.” He was being weirdly formal, it had been a while since he last pulled out the posh dialect around them. Illya shot her a look, picking up on the oddity as well, “I… we were surprised when you asked to meet.”

The waiter came to take their drink orders as they continued their stilted conversation. “Yes. I got lonely and tired of waiting so I just took the initiative for once.” He was lying, openly to their face. She knew something was going and hopefully what was in her sleeve would tell her what it was.

“If you excuse me, I have to use the ladies’ room.” Quickly, without either of her men responding to her, she left the table heading to the bathroom in the back. Locking herself into one of the stalls, sitting on the seat, she fished out the paper from her cuff. ‘Wearing a wire. FBI after Victoria and husband. Don’t incriminate yourself. Act normal,’ was scrawled hastily across the paper.

Shit. Double shit. Looking up, her reflection instantly looked tired, her bags peeking out under her concealer. Act normal? Nothing about their entire relationship was normal. Most women don’t get saved by a flamboyant cat burglar from being shot by a rival mob and then proceeds to demand that the man sees you almost once a week for ‘dinner’. They were not nor...

He said to act normal. He meant their normal. Their normal… alright. He wanted to give them their normal than she would give those FBI buggers a real show. Turning on her heels she made a straight line to their table, gracefully folding into her chair. “Did you miss me, boys?” She asked leaning in close, lowering her eyes suggestively and rubbing her foot up Illya’s leg. He wouldn’t know what was happening but hopefully, she could get him on board without uttering a sound.

“Every moment without you Miss. Teller is absolute suffering.” Napoleon’s chair let out a godawful squeal as he shifted it closer to Miss. Teller’s. “You are too kind… Mr. Solo.” He kissed her hand, which she quickly returned with a peck on the cheek, but dangerously close to his lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in an ill-fitted pinstripe suit drop the silverware out of his hands onto the floor. His short-cropped hair, comically fake glasses, and solo table setting gave him away as a terrible undercover cop. Well, that and also the plastic the flesh colored wire to his earpiece catching the candlelight.

“So, I was thinking,” He slid his hand up her wrist, playing with the gold Chanel bangles along the way, “Do you think, we could go to your villa tonight?” Hopefully, she could get the feds what they wanted and they could leave them alone to enjoy what was turning out to be a pleasurable leavening. “For a drink, or something a bit… more entertaining.”

Gabby gave both him and Illya a charming smile, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She bit her lips and twirled her hair, portraying every overly girly flirtation the magazines dictated her to know. “Yes, I think so, the Vincequerras are on a business trip until Wednesday. They mentioned something about an Appalachian meeting.” Bingo, she could see a poorly disguised undercover cop whisper rapidly into his own watch.

“That sounds like a wonderful trip,” Napoleon kept going, putting on a façade of over interest. “Oh yes, the mountains must be beautiful this time of year.” Illya finally had something to say, he had a constipated look on his face, so he was clearly thinking.

“Well, it is very nice of them for letting us use their luxuries master bed and jacuzzi bath that easily fits three people.” Gabby wanted to find the quickest excuse to leave this place. Get this damn wire off Napoleon, get out from under the feds thumb and hopefully get into a warm bed with these two. Gabby placed her hands atop Illya’s as well creating an interesting semicircle of affection. Napoleon smiled to them both, “Afterwards I could even give you a lovely Swedish massage that I actually learned from a Swede.”

The laugh Gabby let out was light and bubbly like the popping of the finest champagne. “You, Mr. Solo, are God’s gift to womanhood.” She positively purred. “Don’t say that Miss. Teller, it is dangerous to stroke his ego so vigorously.” Napoleon's eyes near twinkle in sudden joy at hearing such a poorly concealed innuendo fall from Russian lips.

“Well boys, if you are interested, would you take care of business for me?”

The breeze was warm but brisk as it rushed under Gabby’s skirt hem, keeping her suntanned skin cool in the heat. Her mojito glass sweated, creating a pool for her to skim her fingers across, aimlessly drawing patterns on the table. Napoleon reclined back, tipping down the brim of his Panama hat while scanning the paper in front of him with a smile. A copy of the New York Times was set, folded and neat on the table corner, the bold headline splashed front and center ARREST AT ‘APPALACHIAN MEETING’ OF NOTORIOUS MOBSTER LEADERS subheader: 64 mobsters including Barbara, Genovese and Vinciguerra family arrested in the biggest round up of a National Criminal Syndicate.

“Well, we are lucky that you could drive us across the border so quickly,” Illya admitted, busying his hands by fiddling with a piece of driftwood like some runaway prisoner stereotype from a cheap Hollywood film.

“We can probably never go back to the US, not with the rest of the family knowing your hand in their arrest,” Napoleon added, picking up Gabby’s drink, finishing it. Only slightly taking pleasure in the outraged squawking their princess made in. “Can’t go to Italy ever again for that matter.” Which was a real pity, he had his eye on a set of Di Vinci sketches at the Gallerie dell'Accademia.

“Well, you finally made it to South America. I hear there is a lovely modern art museum in town if you boys would like to join me.”

#The Man from U.N.C.L.E.#fic commission #rooneytoony #fanfiction #commissions #mywork

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voltronlegendaryimagines · 6 years

Note

Hey, could you write headcanons where the reader makes a mixtape for her crush and their reaction to it for the Paladins, Matt and Allura please? Obviously when you have the time, I know you're busy xx

This was just what I needed to get back in the swing of things! I ended up actually… Making mixtapes for each of them orz

Know that the playlists are all more so meant to be music that I think each character would like more so than playlists that I think describe each character. Like, less fanmixes and more what I think they would have on their mp3 players, you feel?

Links next to each character (youtube playlists) + track lists under the cut

Keith (Listen here)

He’s??? So thankful????

He probably constantly had music on when he lived alone so it’s really special for him that you would do this

Can’t believe you took the time to make him a mixtape like holy shit

Listens to it for the first time on his own and he blushes the whole time

Not only did you pretty much nail the kind of music he likes

He also couldn’t get you out of his head when he was listening to the mix

Afterwards, he’d make you one in return

Doesn’t really know what to put on it though so he sort of guesses what kind of music of his he thinks you’d like

Lance (Listen here)

So excited!!!

He isn’t a big music guy (mostly listens to whatever other people have on at any given time) but he loves that you picked stuff out for him

100% wants you to listen to it with him

He doesn’t talk much while you guys are listening to it but every now and then he catches your eye and tells you how much he loves it

Would try to get you to dance with him during a few songs

Gives you a BIG hug once it’s over because wow he’s just so happy you did this for him

Probably plays it all the time afterwards

Would figure out how to rig it so he can play the mix in his lion

The only reason he’d stop is if you made him a new one

Shiro (Listen here)

Thinks it’s really sweet and like??? The cutest thing

Probably asks you if you want to listen to it the second you give it to him

He pauses it in the middle of the mixtape and is just like “??? How did you know I like this kind of music?????”

He really enjoys music but he doesn’t really talk about it or his tastes much so he’s SUPER surprised

Tries to act all cool and mature but he’s screaming inside the whole time because he’s so smitten with you rn

Asks you if you have any more artists and songs that you think he might like because at this point he 100% trusts you to recommend him some quality stuff

Pidge (Listen here)

She’s so into it holy shit

Offers to listen to it with you later that night after she’s done working

Probably just relaxes and hangs out with you while listening

Talks while it’s playing but sometimes she goes quiet to listen more closely

v surprised bc you didn’t strike her as someone who would be into this kind of music?

v excited about it though

Recommends you a bunch of other bands

If you’re not *actually* into more electronic and indie-electro stuff though, she tries gets super flattered that you looked into it for her? like that’s so nice ????

Really appreciative of it ;-;

It’s her new work playlist and the only way anyone’s turning it off is over her dead body

Hunk (Listen here)

He doesn’t like sitting in silence, and tends to have music or ambient noise on in the background at All Times so this is a perfect thing for him

That being said, it probably takes him a day or two to give it a listen

Probably turns it on when he was getting some work done or during training

Screams because holy shit he hasn’t really heard this type of music before but he is into it

You pass by him one day and he’s singing along to your mixtape

He gets kind of embarrassed when he notices you but also wants to tell you how much he loves the tape

Would probably put it on whenever you guys were hanging out

Matt (Listen here)

Dies on the spot

Already planning your wedding, he’s so flattered you did this for him

IMMEDIATELY goes to listen to it the first chance he gets he’s so excited

Doesn’t mention it though until the next time you guys hang out alone

That’s when he starts singing some of the songs to you

He’s a pretty alright singer too and it’s very cute

It’s very cheesy though and honestly even he’s a little embarrassed

It’s worth it tho to make you smile

Asks if you have anymore music you think he’d like

This time though, he wants to listen to it with you

Probs would blush the whole time though

You think it’s pretty cute

Allura (Listen here)

Doesn’t really understand what it is at first

After you explain it though? She’s very curious and excited and so happy you did this for her

All but drags you to go listen to this with her

Listens very intently the whole time

Really likes earth music!! It wasn’t what she was expecting at all

Wants to try out other kinds of music too but what you showed her on the mixtape ends up being her favourite

Mostly because it’s what you specifically picked out and thought she would like

It means a lot to her that you did that

Decides that she’s going to make a mixtape for you, but of Altean music!

Keith

Eyes Half Closed (Acoustic) - CrywolfElectric Feel (Gespleu Downcast Edit) - Henry GreenThe World At Large - Modest MouseR.I.P 2 My Youth - The NeighborhoodRoom To Breathe - You Me At SixAlways - blink-182Follow You - Bring Me The HorizonIt Ends Tonight - The All-American Rejects

Lance

Lisa Baby - Walk The MoonHold Me Tight or Don’t - Fall Out BoyYou’re Gonna Go Far, Kid - The Offspring15 Dreams - New PoliticsAnimal - Neon TreesSmile Like You Mean It - The KillersTokyo (Vampires & Wolves) - The WombatsMy Type - Saint Motel

Shiro

I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic MonkeysC’est Toi - Cameron AveryBad Habits - The Last Shadow PuppetsMadness - MuseSit Next to Me - Foster The PeopleDon’t Forget Who You Are - Miles KaneDark Necessities - Red Hot Chili PeppersAin’t No Rest For The Wicked - Cage The Elephant

Pidge

Leave A Trace - ChvrchesSeptember - St. LuciaOur Fragment (feat. Missio) - SkruxFreesol (Dabin Remix) - Seven LionsProfessional Griefers (feat. Gerard Way) - deadmau5Midnight City - M83Up All Night - BeckGive Life Back To Music - Daft Punk

Hunk

Buddy Holly - WeezerKarma Police - RadioheadThe One Moment - OK GoDiane Young - Vampire WeekendYou Only Live Once - The StrokesNaive - The KooksDon’t Look Back Into The Sun - The LibertinesLittle Black Submarines - The Black Keys

Matt

Fingerprints - POP ECTSwimming Pool Blues - Miniature TigersSomething Good Can Work - Two Door Cinema ClubTake Me Out - Franz FerdinandKiwi - Harry StylesLove, Selfish Love - Patrick StumpParis - Magic ManCardiac Arrest - Bad Suns

Allura

Lonely Hearts Club - Marina and the DiamondsToo Much is Never Enough - Florence + the MachineGreen Light - LordeBody Talk - FoxesOf The Night - BastilleThe Sound - The 1975New Rules - Dua LipaPaper Love - Allie X

#voltron x reader #voltron imagine #keith x reader #lance x reader #shiro x reader #matt x reader #hunk x reader #pidge x reader #allura x reader #keith #lance #shiro #hunk #pidge #matt #allura #Anonymous

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footbaliimagines · 7 years

Text

green light (an antoine griezmann imagine)

these are intended to be like snippets of a relationship between two people who <3 each other from the start but cant quite get their timing right. Idk it’s all a bit random and jumbled but i like the idea and the individual bits and the song and i hope you like it!! (p.s. the timeline is not 100% nailed tbh there isnt really much of a coherent timeline at all oops but let’s just go with it and not overthink it too much LOL SORRY) also it is ridiculously long so its allllll under the cut down there and also i have basically just lifted and edited one of my other drabbles in here so yeah

I know about what you did and I wanna scream the truth

You’re 18 and you hate him so much that you’re sure you never want to see him again.

(Never want to speak to him again, never want to look at his stupid smile, never want to set sights on another football match again in your entire life.)

He left you, alone, sad, single and still pining, after pledging his commitment to you and your relationship only to have his head turned by a stupid football team.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It was all so god damn stupid.

“You’re not stupid,” Your best friend rolls her eyes and nudges you with her elbow.

You hum unresponsively, and silence envelops your bedroom once again. Rolling onto your back, you scrunch your eyes shut and groan, “I am. I’m stupid for believing him, and stupid for falling in love with such a stupid guy and I’m stupid because I’m here whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself while he’s out having the time of his life.”

“You’re not stupid.” This time, she laughs at your stubbornness, and flops next to you on your bed. “You’re in love. That’s not stupid. That’s life.”

She looks at you knowingly, and you hum again. It feels like your world is crumbling around you, but her words are probably the wisest you’ve ever heard. “I still feel stupid.” You mumble.

Before you’re about to burst into tears again, she wraps her arms around you and murmurs into your shoulder, “You can, and that’s valid. But you’ll be okay, you’ll move on and in a few years’ you won’t even remember his name. I promise.”

thought you said that you would always be in love

“Wine? Beer? I have some whiskey somewhere if you’d prefer that?”

You shrug, “I don’t mind. Whatever you’ve got open already.”

He pours you a gin and tonic and waits expectantly for you to speak up.

But you don’t.

You stare, fixated, at your glass, and swirl your straw around in the ice with one hand, fiddling with the zipper on your jacket with the other, waiting for him to make the first move.

It feels stranger than you can imagine to be sat here in silence next to Antoine. You want to speak, you feel like you should speak, but the words can’t quite come and there’s an insurmountable lump lodged in your throat. You haven’t seen each other in months, and it feels like there’s been a hole in your heart ever since he left.

(A huge, horrible Antoine-shaped hole.)

It’s not like you don’t see him at all, but his visits have slowly become less frequent and university has begun to occupy more and more of your time, and you’ve inevitably drifted. Awkwardness was never something you feared with Antoine, but now the atmosphere couldn’t be any more uncomfortable.

You cave after a few more minutes of strained silence. “How have you been?”

He’s grateful that he didn’t have to be the one to make the first move, and nods quickly. “Good, good. How’s home?”

“Home’s good too.”

“And yourself?”

“All good.”

(You want the ground to swallow you up.)

“Hey- you know that you can tell me anything, right? You don’t have to hold anything back.”

“Bit difficult when you’ve not been around, but sure.” You say, and there’s a bitterness in your voice that you don’t bother to hide. “And maybe if you bothered to call every once in awhile I’d feel a bit more comfortable spilling my guts to you.”

“Don’t be a dick about this. Calm down.”

He leans back on his seat, sipping coolly at his water. He’s cool and casual and acting like he doesn’t give a single fuck, and the arrogance of it all, the way he swans back home and acts as if he’s the bees knees just because he can kick a ball about for a bit makes you seethe.

“Fuck you.”

Then he laughs - he has the audacity to laugh - and salty tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “What’s so funny?”

You place your glass down on the table with extra force and stare him down, dead in the eye. “I’m sorry- hey, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m a joke.” You scold him. “You’re the one that left and created all of this. You’re the one who has to pick up the pieces. Not me.”

And with that, you sweep out of the room, only for Antoine to lurch forward, clasping your hands in his and looking at you intently, his blue eyes flaming wildly, begging you, persuading you to stay. “I’m sorry.”

You slow to a stop and bite your lip.

“I think I’m just nervous. Not seeing you in so long - you’ve- you’ve changed. You look so, so beautiful. And it threw me off. I’m sorry. I swear, I’m sorry.”

You glance around his apartment. It’s empty, save for a pile of video games and dog toys. There’s nothing there, nothing of substance, and it feels empty, soulless, not like a home. A pang of sympathy burns through your heart as you realise you can’t leave him like this.

Whispered apologies and breathless ‘i-miss-you’s’ lead from one thing to another.

You pull him in and try not to overthink too much as he leads you to his room.

did it frighten you how we kissed when we danced on the light up floor?

You’re 22 now, and Antoine’s taking on San Sebastian by storm.

(Or at least, that was what you told everyone.)

It’s the end to his first proper season, and the club are hosting a summer party at a swanky hotel in the city centre. You’ve been flown out specially and introduced proudly to his teammates and coaching team, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach tumble.

(It’s like you’re seventeen again.)

He spins you around on the dancefloor with glee, and his parents and siblings are laughing at his goofy behaviour as you twirl with him to whatever was top of the charts in 2012.

(You’re too giddy to be seeing him again to remember properly.)

“I’m so happy for you.” You’re practically shouting to be heard above the music. “There’s no one who deserves success more.”

He smiles bashfully and blushes, before dipping his head and pressing his lips to yours. It’s a quick, short kiss, and probably looked much less romantic to outsiders than it felt to you, but it winds you and makes the blood rush to your head. “I love you.”

You tell him, in a hushed, breathy voice that you love him too.

I whisper things, the city sings them back to you

Now, it’s 2014 and Antoine’s just completed his transfer to Atletico Madrid.

“How’s life treating you in the capital, Senor?”

He laughs, and it’s only then that the amount you miss him hits home. His laugh is homely, it’s comforting and melodic and rumbles through his chest, and you can’t help but grin. “Life is great.” He chuckles, and a pang sears through your heart.

You want him to be happy, of course you do, but you’d be lying if you told yourself that it didn’t hurt to know he wasn’t just coping, but flourishing without you. ��I’m glad to hear that.” You say gently. “You deserve it.”

“The city looks so beautiful at night.” Antoine observes, tipping his glass and nodding in the direction of the Madrid skyline in front of you two. “Doesn’t feel like home yet, but the view doesn’t hurt.”

You smile, and nod in agreement. It’s chilly, and before you know it he’s draping his jacket around your shoulders, speaking softly, “I miss you. And I think about you every day.”

His words knock the air out of you, and your face breaks into a smile. You want to reach over and link your fingers with his, but you swiftly compose and refrain yourself.

(You’re over him, completely 100% over him, and it wasn’t worth going back to square one again for one night, only to fly back to France the next morning and then not speak for weeks again.)

Antoine laughs again, and places his wine glass down on the side before gesturing at you to do the same. You down your champagne in one swift gulp and the bubbles rush to your head, making you burp- and subsequently, making Antoine laugh even harder. He entwines your fingers together, tugging you to the middle of the rooftop space. His steps mirror yours and wobble slightly, wavering as the alcohol works its familiar magic, and he pulls you in. You can’t help but let yourself get pulled along, and your hands link between his neck.

His black suit is stiff and ironed, and fitting tightly around his neck, and you press down on the material as he draws you closer. The music from the Atleti Christmas party is faint in the background- some playful, piano sonata serving as little more than ambient white noise- and you can barely make out the notes, never mind the beat, but Antoine starts to dance with you.

(Well, slowly wandering in circles because you’ve both consumed far too much alcohol to dance properly, but the sentiment remained the same.)

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me, you know that, right?” He mumbles into your shoulder, as you slow back to stillness.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, trying to pry yourself out of his grasp to no avail. His arms around you tighten, as if he can’t, won’t, let go, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world and letting go could have disastrous consequences. His voice wobbles, and all of a sudden he’s that small, scared, nervous 18 year old boy you said goodbye to at the airport so many years ago.

“You’re a massive liar.”

He shakes his head determinedly; your quirk your eyebrow at him, challenging him. “The most beautiful, the silliest, the most annoying-.” He continues, and he smiles playfully at you.

“Sorry, do you want me to throw you off the roof, or-?”

He laughs, and his grip eventually loosens.

Antoine follows you as you walk back inside the party, and doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

sometimes I wake up in a different bedroom

You’re 25 now, older, wiser, more mature.

Shaped by life as a working woman with a house and a mortgage and a new swanky job in Paris.

(The fact that seeing photos of him continues to make you swoon to this day and that you still fall victim to his blue eyes whenever he visits makes you kind of hate yourself.)

(God, it’s all so cliche and messy that you can’t even recognise yourself anymore.)

“I don’t know what it is, but I always go back to him.” You mumble.

Your best friend smiles sympathetically. She’s been there for you every step of the way of this horrible, drawn out convoluted Antoine-saga that she’s basically become the third person of your relationship.

(If you could even call it that.)

“He was your first love, your first boyfriend, your childhood sweetheart, if you will.” She reasons.

“Of course you’re going to think about him. He’s not just an average, normal ex.”

“I think he was it for me.” You admit, in a tiny and quiet voice. “Which makes the fact that I don’t know if we’ll ever work so much scarier.”

Years have passed and life has changed, but there’s one thing (well, one person) that remains constant.

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get over him.

I hear sounds in my mind

brand new sounds in my mind

You pick up the bottle of champagne from the bar, letting the heavy glass bottle rock in your hands. The liquid inside warms from your touch, and you sit gingerly at the end of the hotel bed while he lingers by the window. You feel like an intruder invading somewhere where you don’t really belong, but he calms your nerves by smiling reassuringly and reaching out to sling an arm around your waist. “Congratulations.”

It’s the night after the semi-finals of the EUROs, and Antoine’s face is fixated with a rapturous grin, blue eyes fixated on you and scanning your body hungrily.

You haven’t seen him in months’; it feels new and nervous and kind of exciting. “Stop looking at me like that.” You narrow your eyes at him.

He laughs, leaning his head back and tipping up his chin before gently lifting the champagne bottle out of your hands. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like you,” You struggle for the words. “I don’t know, like you like me.”

He replies emphatically, “I do like you. What do you want me to do? Give you evils? Chuck you out of my hotel room, which you rudely barged into with no invitation, as a matter of fact?”

“Very funny.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re my best friend. Of course I like you.”

“I like you too, then.” You take the bottle of champagne back off of him and pad to the side cabinet to deftly pick up two flutes, as he spins you around to hug you from behind.

You can feel his lashes tickle the back of your neck and the smell of his aftershave drifts to your nostrils. The lights are dim and there’s music playing from his phone in the background; he takes your hands and spins you around, laughing maniacally.

There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

honey I’ll be seeing you down every road

The next time you see him, it’s his summer break and you both return to your hometown. Despite your insistence to everyone that this time, things would be different and you wouldn’t go down that same stupid route again, it’s Friday night and you’re in his old bedroom, lying on the floor with a bottle of red wine sat between you.

“Love is stupid, and confusing, and I hate it.” You moan.

You’re spilling the details of your latest breakup to him, and the wine is making your blood run hot and your view foggy.

“I’ll cheers to that.”

He clinks your wine glasses together and mirrors your body language as you down the rest of it in a rapid gulp. “And breakups are shit. And men are shit, and I hate-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He interrupts. “I’m not shit. Don’t tarnish me with the same brush.”

You feel a chuckle bubble up in your throat and choke out indignantly, “Oh Antoine, believe me, you’re the shittest. The absolute worst.”

He feigns indignation, but you leap to your feet and point your finger at his face before he can argue back. “You made me think that we were in love, when I was naive and gullible and 18, for Christ’s sake, and you lied to me and told me we’d always be together and all that bullshit.” What had started as mere joking had escalated to something bigger, and your voice seethes with poison and spite.

(You would later come to blame liquid confidence for your outburst.)

“And then we see each other and every now and then, and you tell me again that you love and miss me but you do absolutely fucking nothing about it.” You rub your eyes with your hands and feel them sting with tears. “I’m sick and I’m tired, and I’m so, so fed up. And I can’t do this anymore, being your bit on the side, you know, your convenient fuck buddy because you know I’d do anything for you and that once you go back home you don’t have to deal with the consequences.”

He nods numbly, shellshocked, and can’t bring himself to look at you. For once, for you feel like you have the upper hand.

(It’s a refreshing, empowering, satisfying feeling.)

(So why do you still feel so shit?)

“I understand.”

“I really fucking hate you sometimes, Antoine.” You say, in a small voice. “For what you’ve done to me- for what you do to me. How I’m strong and capable and I have my head screwed on until I see you, and then I’m a mess with no control. And how it happens every single fucking time.”

“Stay.”

One word, like it’s that simple, like it’s that easy, like you’re that stupid.

Like you’d believe a single word that came out of his stupid, piece of shit mouth.

He’s begging and he jumps to his feet, and the look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble is nearly enough to make you crumble again but you stand strong. Because you’re selfish - as you should be, for once - and you refuse to accept it this time.

You’re resentful, selfish and you’re bitter as hell.

He mutters, “You’re all I have these days. Please don’t leave.”

“I can’t be what you need me to be anymore.” You shake your head and back away. “I really can’t.”

It hurts more than you can imagine to reject him at his most vulnerable but there’s a feeling of accomplishment and adrenaline running through your veins as you leave.

honey I’ll be seeing you wherever I go

After that night, you go without seeing Antoine for a good five months, and you’re doing fine.

(Fine. A-okay. Great, even, depending on the day.)

Life, football, the Champions League, your new job - you name it - they all get in the way, and as if following a routine, your friendship returns to sporadic text messages, occasional email exchanges and promises to meet up that never really pan out.

You’ve realised you don’t care as much about the football, and sometimes find it difficult to even hear the word Madrid in conversation, but it’s okay, and all is good and happy and constant in your life.

Change is good, and Paris is incredible. And you’ve discovered a bunch of new shows and singers and artists and you remind yourself constantly that broadening your horizons is beneficial and necessary and nothing bad could possibly have come from it.

Sometimes, you think you spot him in the corner of your eye. A flurry of dark hair in front of you in the street, a broad set of shoulders ordering coffee, a man speaking Spanish lilted with a French accent, a booming laugh and a twinkling smile. You see him and it’s like a switch has been flicked within you, it’s him, you know it’s him immediately, and suddenly it’s like you’ve stepped into a time machine and you want to approach him and say hi, hey, how are you, you look great, we should grab coffee.

(Or something. You can’t guarantee that it would be a friendly exchange, and knowing your temper and the sour way you last left things, the likelihood of an amiable reunion was very slim.)

Then it dawns on you, that it’s not Antoine at all. It’s another man, a complete stranger, and you’ve been staring at him like an idiot for no reason at all.

You think sometimes that you could have simply got it all wrong. Antoine’s invaded your brain, marked his stamp and presence in your head and ruined every other man on the planet with brown hair and a handsome grin and a deep laugh. In fact, if you were never able to form a healthy relationship with another man in your life, he’d be to blame, you often muse moodily. He’s trapped you, preventing you from moving forward, because it’s like you’re stuck in this vicious cycle where everything comes back to him and you see him everywhere you go.

The man you’ve been staring at for the better part of the last 10 minutes’ flashes eye contact with you briefly when he gets up to leave. You’ve been imagining this man as him, projecting a story and a life and a plot onto a random stranger you would never see again, all of that potential.

The possibilities, the what-ifs and all the what-could-have-beens, how your life could have been so different if you’d accepted Antoine’s offer to move out with him so many years ago.

You try to push these thoughts as far as possible out of your mind.

honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go

You’re sitting in the waiting room of the dentist when you spot the glossy cover of Closer in the corner of your eye, photographs of Antoine splashed across the front. He’s holding hands with a mystery brunette, shielding her from the paparazzi’s glares.

You pick it up and it feels like watching as an outsider to a parallel universe, like sitting on the wrong side of a glass enclosure or like a spectator at the zoo watching on. He’s thriving, prospering, blossoming in Madrid, partying with the world’s elite and living the life that you always knew he would get to one day. You should feel happy for him, but there’s an uneasy, gnawing feeling in your gut.

You toss the magazine back onto the table.

I wish I could get my things and just let go

The streets of Paris are beautiful and picturesque, you muse, as you walk home. It’s been a long day at work, and there’s a tempting bottle of chilled pinot grigio waiting for you in your fridge, and a bath calling your name. You stretch your neck, digging out your keys and glancing back up to your front door.

He’s sat there, waiting patiently, fiddling around doing something or other on his phone with his hood up. It’s dark by this point, and if you hadn’t recognised his shadow you’d have been ready to whip out your pepper spray and pounce. He’s in casual wear, presumably after his spontaneous flight out to Paris, and takes his hood off. It’s probably to deter any potential fans or paparazzi, but gives off an awful impression nonetheless. “Hey.” You call out.

Antoine jumps before looking up at you. “Hi.”

“Is there a reason you’re sat on my front step?”

He laughs nervously. Your first glance at him makes your throat dry up and your heart stutter, and suddenly you regret your decision to put a spectacular lack of effort into your appearance today. “I wanted to talk. I was in town and just thought I’d drop by.”

“What, you were just casually in Paris?” You raise an eyebrow at him questioningly and he shrugs in response. “You shouldn’t wait around at people’s doorsteps in all black with your hood up. Could give off the wrong impression. You’re lucky I didn’t attack you or call 911.”

He smiles cheekily, “Duly noted.”

He aligns his steps next to yours as easy as anything, and follows you into your hallway when you unlock the door. The lights slowly flicker on, and it feels like you’re sat on a knife’s edge.

Why was he here? What did he want? Why didn’t he call beforehand? Who told him that blonde and blue highlights would seriously be a good idea?

Your mind fizzes to the brim with unanswered, desperate questions, but you are determined to keep your cool. “I don’t know what to say.” Is what you mumble out instead.

Antoine smiles softly, that ridiculously, perfectly photogenic smile, and your heart starts beating incessantly already.

“Let me speak, then.” He clears his throat. “I just want to apologise.”

“What for?”

He cuts you off, “And I want to explain some things to you.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been a dick.”

You smile and shrug. “Can’t say I massively disagree.”

“But I’m ready to stop that now.”

“So honourable. Jeez.” You mock, and he gives you a look.

(As if to say, shut up, i’m trying here, let me finish my god damn sentence.)

“Because I’m ready now. I know it’s taken me so long but I know now, it’s dawned on me. It’s you, it’s all you and it always has been you. You deserve the best, not just with this, whatever this is, but with everything in your life, and I haven’t been able to give you me at my best, not until now. That’s why I’ve been so hesitant, that’s why we’ve always been so unsure, because I could never give you what you deserved. But It’s so clear to me now. God, I love you more than I ever thought was possible, I love you so much that when you’re not here it’s like I can’t breathe, and food has no taste and it’s all so pointless. I love you. I think deep down I always have. And I want to make the plunge now, because I’m all in. All, 100%, completely, truly, unfailingly all in.”

He offers you a hand which you take, pulled in like a magnet. “I never want to be without you, ever, ever again. Not a single day.”

You gulp, your eyes welling with tears. “Flying out to Paris was probably unnecessary, I know. But- hey, just give me a call when you get the chance, okay? When you’ve made a decision, thought about it-”

“I don’t need to think about it.” You interrupt him eagerly, and you cup his face with both hands.

His chest is heaving with deep, nervous, shaky breaths, mirroring yours, and when you smile it takes over your face.

(You’re probably terrifying him because you’re pretty sure the smile on your face makes you look like a lunatic, but you don’t care.)

His hands find your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he kisses you roughly, like no time has passed. His lips are soft and familiar and they feel like coming home.

You breathe, “I’m yours.”

“Hm?”

Antoine swings you up and your legs wrap around his waist, as his arm hooks around you with ease and he continues to press kisses to your neck.

“All yours.”

I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it

“Til death do us part.”

You opt for an intimate, cosy reception, but the music resonating soundly around the hall, your guests’ chatter and laughter, and the never ending clinking of cutlery and glassware makes it sound like you’ve invited the whole population of France. Antoine grips your hand so tightly that his nails leave marks on the back of your hand and before you can even blink (or, as the cliche goes, have a slice of your own cake), you’re whizzing round, saying goodbyes.

(It’s the happiest day of your life by a mile.)

Antoine presses a line of kisses down your neck, marking a pattern from below your ear to the base of your neck. He murmurs, “God, I feel like I’ve been waiting to marry you for the whole of my life.”

“Maybe we should have just eloped when we were like, eighteen.” You laugh. It’s a tongue in cheek comment but you can’t help but feel like there’s some truth in your statement. “ It would have saved lots of back of forth-”

“And lots of pain, crying- the latter, mostly on my part.” He chuckles, and you laugh again, like it’s something infectious and like your entire body has just been taken over by bubbles and champagne and all things light and fizzy.

(It feels like you’re floating on air.)

(And for the first time, you start to think that maybe, all the heartache and the fighting and the angry pledges you made that you would never speak to him again, were worth it.)

(Love did weird things to you.)

“Now, would you like to join me in our wedding suite, Mrs Griezmann?”

It rolls off his tongue like honey and you bite your lip in euphoric anticipation, nodding emphatically. The sound of your shared laughter (there it is again, that hyperactive, constant bubble of laughter) echoes around the empty hotel corridor as you follow him to your suite.

There’s a twinkle in his eyes when he looks back at you.

#my writing #antoine griezmann #Antoine Griezmann fanfiction #antoine griezmann imagine #antoine griezmann fanfic #antoine griezmann fic #antoine griezmann one shot #footballer fanfiction #footballer one shot #footballer imagine #footballer imagines #football one shot #Football Fanfiction #atletico madrid fanfiction

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gaysjureido · 7 years

Text

Behind the Calm

For day 3 of @destinyweek! All about those NPCs and my OCs who are connected to said NPCs.

The throne room is the only quiet place she can find these days. No one comes here, now that there’s no point in holding court, and the only sounds Ronja can hear are the ambient noises of the Reef; the creaking and groaning of metal settling in the vacuum of space, the background hum of a hundred systems keeping the air, the pressure, the temperature all liveable. It’s calming to her, like a heartbeat. It sort of it, in a way, she thinks; all these noises are the heartbeat, the breathing of the very Reef itself.

A slow breath out, and the Princess is able to relax. Stretched out across the throne, she’s as comfortable as she can possibly be, and more than ready for a bit of much needed shut eye. The room’s dull glow is all but blocked out as she closes her eyes, barely even noticing the red that paints the backs of her eyelids. Her head turns to the back of the throne, blocked out any remaining light, and she begins to drift into a calm slumber.

It’s maybe only a few minutes after she’s been asleep that she feels weight on the throne in front of her. Someone sitting in front of her perhaps, but she hadn’t heard them come in. She had been asleep, sure, but she a light sleeper; if someone had entered, the groan of the doors and the footsteps on the catwalk would have woken her for sure. But in her sleepy state, she cares little, simply letting out a little, displeased grunt.

“This is my throne,” she mumbles. “Go away. Let me sleep.”

“I believe this is my throne. You are not queen just yet, my dear.”

The familiar voice makes Ronja’s eyes snap open. Low, smooth, accented, the voice is recognizable in an instant, even in her sleepy state. Though now, she’s not so sleep, and she rolls over as fast as she can, afraid that if she takes too long, she’ll be alone once more. Her breathing quickens, and she can feel her eyes beginning to sting with tears. Words come to her lips, but she nearly chokes on them as they try to come out.

“M-mum?” she manages to say, the word hiccuping with a sob. The awoken queen smiles, the expression soft and kind; an expression seen by so few that might look almost out of character for her, but not here. “Is… are you…” Ronja can’t keep talking as her shoulders begin to shake, and her throat closes, effectively silencing her. She tries to swallow down the sobs that are coming up.

“Yes, it is me, love,” Mara murmurs, leaning in to press her forehead to Ronja’s in an affectionate greeting. Ronja can feel the warmth of her mother’s skin, breathe in her scent… and that’s all it takes to make her break down. She starts to sob, the sounds somehow not carrying through to the rest of the grand throne room, and hot tears run down her cheeks, leaving damp tracks on her blue skin in their wake. She feels her mother’s thumb brush her cheek, wiping away some of the fallen tears.

“Y-y-y-you’re here…” the Princess chokes out, grasping at her mother in desperation. Fingers claw for purchase before she finds a grip on the fur that decorates the collar of her mother’s jacket. She’s immediately met with her warmth, her smell, everything that Ronja has missed so much over the last few years. She continues to sob, but the crying dies down to quiet hiccups, the simple rhythm of the Queen’s heartbeat calming her some.

“I am. But… only for a time, my dear.” Mara’s voice is soft, low, barely above a whisper so that only Ronja may hear her. “I cannot stay long, though I so wish I could.” Ronja feels her mother’s cheek on the top of her head, and then the gentle brush as she moves so that she can press a soft kiss to the top of her head. Ronja takes in a deep, but shaky breath, and slowly draws back from the embrace.

“W-wh-what do you--what do you mean…?” she asks, still stammering and stumbling over her words. “Why… wh-why can’t you stay, Mum?”

“I just can’t, Ronja,” Mara sighs, running her fingers through the young woman’s white hair. Ronja stares at her mother, entirely sure if she blinks, she’ll disappear. She has a million questions too, but she’s afraid to speak them. What if there’s some sort of limit? If there is, then… the less she speaks, the longer her mother will be here.

“You have questions? I can see if in your eyes, my dear.” Mara’s head tilts ever so slightly, slipping a couple of fingers under her chin, lifting it to tilt the young woman’s head back. “Ask them. I’ll be here for as long as you’re asleep.”

Asleep? So… “Am I dreaming? Are you just a dream?” she asks, the words leaving her mouth in a rush, nearly slurring them together. Mara takes a deep breath that makes her shoulders rise, and the hand beneath Ronja’s chin draws away, only to rest on her shoulder.

“Yes and no…” she says, calculating her words. “You are dreaming, yes, but I am not truly a part of the dream. I am myself, stepping into your dreamscape so that I may see you.”

“So… you’re real? You’re… actually here? Does that mean you’re still…” The girl trails off, not quite able to finish her sentence without choking on her words. Her mother seems to sense this, and leans in to press their foreheads together so that she can feel her physical presence better.

“That is complicated, and you will know in the future,” she says, before drawing away to press a kiss to her forehead. Ronja trembles, and Mara frowns; the girl looks like she might be about to burst into tears again, but for the moment, she holds herself together.

She swallows, shakes her head, and then shoves her face into her mother’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to think about whether or not her mother is dead; she just wants to be near her again, feel her close like this. Mara is content to allow her this, and wraps her arms around her with a gentle, wordless croon.

“I miss you, Mum,” Ronja whispers, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. She feels rather than hears the quiet rumble in her mother’s chest, almost like a comforting purr. She can feel the Queen nuzzling her, holding her close. It feels so real, and Ronja hopes to any sort of deity that it is.

“I miss you too, sweet thing,” Mara says, before drawing away. Ronja sniffs, and looks up at her mother; her eyes are red, and her skin feels uncomfortably warm. Mara croons again, smoothing the Princess’ hair back and wiping away her tears. “That is why I am here. I wanted to offer you some comfort, and help you keep going. You are doing so well… and I am sorry I have left such a weight on your shoulders. But you will understand eventually. This was the only choice I had.”

The words ring in Ronja’s mind, almost familiar. She stares for a moment, fingers gripping her mother tight. “I don’t… Mum, I don’t understand,” she says, feeling frightened, anxious. Mara’s words are beginning to sound final, like she might be getting ready to leave. “Mum, please, don’t go. Please. Please, please, please…”

With a sad smile, Mara gently draws away from her daughter, prying her iron grip from her shoulders with surprising ease. A kiss is pressed to Ronja’s forehead, even as the girl grows more and more distressed with the distance her mother is putting between them.

“You need to stay calm, Ronja. You know you can always find me there,” she says, stepping off of the throne.

“No! Mum, please! Don’t leave me! Please! Mama, please!” She tries to get up, tries to follow her mother, but something stops her; everything feels heavy, like weights have been tied to her legs, anchoring her to the throne. “Please! Don’t leave me, Mama! Don’t leave me again!”

Mara looks back at her daughter, and even through her panic, Ronja can see a flicker of pain in her eyes. She doesn’t want this any more than Ronja, but she has no choice. She turns away from the girl, and begins to make her way down the long catwalk. Ronja cries and sobs for her mother to come back, desperate to see her, to have her near longer.

But soon, Mara all but vanishes into the inky blackness that surrounds the throne. Ronja thrashes against her invisible bindings, still shouting into the emptiness. But over her desperate cries, she thinks she hears a voice… lower than her mother’s but just as comforting. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the panic that has seized her entire being.

The voice slowly grows louder, though, beginning to drown everything out, and then––

“Ronja?”

Her eyes fly open with a drowning gasp, and she sits up with alarming speed. She sees movement off to her side, and immediately turns to look, thinking maybe, just maybe, it’s her mother again…

Two men stand there watching her with concerned expressions, both having taken a step back at her sudden awakening. The closer one is Uldren, her uncle, and the man just behind him, is Solvik, her father. But neither are the person she wants so desperately to see, and the disappointment and renewed grief are so overwhelming that all she can do is burst into tears.

Uldren and Solvik both are taken aback by this reaction, but Uldren steps back, urging the girl’s father to handle this. Solvik frowns, but steps into make sure his daughter is unharmed, and just what is causing her such intense distress.

“Ronja? Ronja, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice gentle and low. He draws the girl into his arms, and Ronja takes the comfort immediately. She grips him tight enough to make him grunt, but he doesn’t stop her, or pull away, and Ronja is grateful for that. Or she would be, if she could feel anything other than grief in this moment.

“I-I-I saw her, Dad,” she sobs out. “I s-s-s-saw––I saw, Mum.”

She feels her father stiffen, and the shift of his head turning to look back towards Uldren. Her eyes open enough to watch the glance that’s shared between them, though she doesn’t know what it means. She sees a glimmer of surprise, but there are a lot of other things shared in that look.

“In a dream, you mean?” Solvik asks, his voice still gentle. His gaze returns to her, and she feels him nuzzle her, and she returns the gesture.

“Yes, but… i-i-it f-felt… it felt so real… l-l-like she was r-really here…”

The silence is deafening. She can barely hear the background noise of the Reef over the heaviness of the silence that’s passed between the two Awoken men. The Princess’ words mean something to them, and more than just some dream that’s caused the girl distress.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home,” Solvik says, giving her his only warning before scooping her up into his arms bridal style to carry her out onto the catwalk. But he pauses next to Uldren, and Ronja can only just make out their murmured words. Something about Mara, something about a connection… Techeuns, something… she can’t make out the rest, until Solvik insists he get Ronja to her own bed for some rest.

With a gentle shove to the Prince’s shoulder, Solvik starts off down the catwalk, Ronja close to his chest. She looks back over his shoulder towards the throne. For a moment, Uldren blocks her view, but as he begins to follow after the two, she can see it much more clearly.

And for a moment, perhaps just a second, she thinks she sees Mara standing at the throne, watching them go, her expression as stoic as ever. But in a blink of an eye, the ghostly image is gone, and Ronja sighs tucking her head under her father’s chin. As she begins to drift off once more, she can almost feel the warm touch she knows so well; fingers at her cheek, lips against her forehead.

“I will always be there, behind the calm.”

#destinyweek #destiny the game #mara sov #uldren sov #oc: ronja sov #my writing

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deco-devolution · 7 years

Text

Perfectio Factum

What if Sofia Lamb won?

It’s more painful then she expected, dying.

It's not the build up that hurts- the advancing dread of being forgotten, of being molded into something more and somehow less than human without her consent- it's in the way her throat twinges in pain as she swallows, the motion only making the rawness worse.

“No food or water.” her mother had commanded, voice coolly detached as she brushed imaginary lint from her dress. Without waiting for a reply, she stood up and walked from the cramped isolation chamber, her worn heels clacking quietly on the granite floors. From there she had been moved- out of the glass cage of the quarantine room to a cramped cell, with barely enough room for her to spread her arms.

That had been 10 days ago.

In the gutted space, Eleanor had no mirror, no clocks or even a light, but she counted the hours by the footsteps she heard- be it the heavy thuds of her guards or the lighter, faster footfalls of the smaller splicers. She had been clinging to the noises like a lifeline- up to her ears in rusting metal and dried blood, the prison had nothing else to offer her. Despite the hunger, which had already become background noise in her mind, she was restless, skinny legs tracing a tight loop between the bed and cell door. Bits of blue paper were gathered in the damp corners: the Family had lined her cell with dozens of blue butterflies. Whether it was an act of reprisal or devotion, she wasn’t sure. Either way, as soon as they had locked the door behind her, she'd scraped the paper effigies off the wall with blunt nails and shredded them, letting the remains pile on the floor like so much raggedy confetti.

After pacing the inside of her cell for a few hours, she flopped onto the threadbare mattress and stared at the ceiling, stained concrete with fine cracks running through it like spiderweb. She wanted to raise a fuss, kick and scream and howl, but she'd done that already. The first five days she had wrecked her voice with screaming -no easy feat for a Big Sister- and had been met with a dead silence, a sort of frosty indifference that, against her will, had made think her of her mother. Besides, they had no reason to open the cage door. Since the Family had cut off her access to food and water, she hadn’t felt the need to relieve herself, even once. The slug coiling in her insides was gracious enough to keep her alive.

More days passed, blurring into one long night. Occasionally from outside her cell she heard a burst of laughter or conversation, or even a scream, echoing long after the fact. Out of everything, these ambient noises were the worst, the final straw. How dare they have experiences, even in this underwater hell, while she scratched at the door like a starving animal? To counteract her rage, she ripped up the blue paper even more, and when that failed she began shredding the mothballed mattress. Once she had calmed down enough, she’d crawled onto the ruined bed and slept dreamlessly.

Two days later, her mother arrived.

Her hands were empty and her posture was unruffled; Eleanor had the fleeting urge to scream at her, maybe even hit her- anything to rattle her frosty exterior.

(It had worked once, when she was younger. She had stood on a bench in Market Street and howled, pulling on her braids for emphasis. It had been over something small, like candy, but it ultimately didn’t matter- Eleanor had just wanted to shatter her mother's veneer. It’d worked- too well, actually. A steel grip crushed her arm, and she was hauled to the floor. Shocked, she’d looked around in confusion only to be met with her mother's furious glare. Dr. Lambs’ eyes were venomous with suppressed anger, quarter-sized spots of red flaming on her cheekbones like someone had pressed their thumbs deep into her flesh. “Eleanor, that is enough.” she’d hissed, shoulders tight. Eleanor had shut her mouth and turned away, submissive, but a seed of satisfaction had glowed in her chest, laying down roots. Disobeying her mother felt good, a strong catharsis she hadn’t expected but welcomed regardless.)

Tearing herself out of the memory and back into the present, Eleanor huddled tighter on the bare bed frame and eyed her mother warily. Her usual dress had been replaced with sensible slacks and a crisp blouse. The perfection of the outfit stung; as her mother drew closer she became painfully aware of the sweat and dirt stains on the outdated shift she wore.

“Eleanor.”

She blinked, silent. Ignoring the lack of reply, Dr. Lamb pressed on.

“You are... aware of my philosophy. Its teachings. Do you recall my lectures on Utopia?”

Utopia.

The word curdled Eleanor’s insides and against her will, her heart sped up. Her mother must have noticed somehow, in some part of her countenance, because the corners of her thin lips curled into a smile before continuing.

“Utopia exists the moment we are fit to occupy it.” Ignoring her daughters’ posture, she drifted forward, kneeled and covered Eleanor's clenched fist with her own neat fingers.

“Now, you exist. Because we...” Closing her eyes in delight, she smoothed Eleanor's tangled hair down in short motions, seemingly unaware of how her daughter bared her teeth with every stroke.

“Are fit to inhabit you.”

The world around her slowed to a stop as the Eleanor digested the words. Before she could stop herself, she’d shoved aside her mother's invasive touch and darted past her through the open cell door. She’d barely gone a full yard before a weight staggered her; one of the guard splicers had hooked his beefy arms around her waist, pinning her arms down before she could react. Desperate, she sucked in a gasp, wriggling like a fish under his crushing grip. The weeks of no ADAM, no food, no water had left her weak, but she refused to go down easily, kicking at her unseen assailant. If she could just find her breath, she could- could-

Something cold exploded on her head and shoulders. She could feel whatever it was settle around her like a fog, felt tiny droplets of it invade her when she inhaled.

Her initial confusion melted away almost immediately when she blinked and was immediately drowned in a wash of emerald green, the plasmid blurring the world around her. The arms retreated and she slid to the floor, unresisting. Run, she screamed at her feet, motionless before her. Instead, she just sat there, listening to the slow approach of her mother's heels.

“Stand, please.”

Her traitorous legs unfolded, pushing her upright. Her mother rubbed circles into the small of her back before urging her forward.

Tears trickled down Eleanor’s face as she was marched away, leaving spots of brightness on the filthy tile.

She was bathed. Her mother gently guided her to a tub, tucked into a secluded wing of the prison she had never noticed before and ordered her still, calming stripping her and washing her like a child. As she worked, scrubbing between knuckles and under nails, she spoke, though Eleanor could only make out bits: a snippet of a sermon, a piece of a story, a line from a childhood lullaby. Every time her mother smiled or cradled her hands she wanted to scream- scratch welts into that pasty skin until her nails broke. But the Hypnosis threading through her veins kept her locked into position, as placid as a doll in the hands of a child. Just as the first vestiges of the fog began to lift and she could feel her hands again, almost flex them, her mother flicked her wrist and she was gone again, encased in jade.

Finally finished, Dr. Lamb eased her back out of the tub and thoroughly dried her, taking the time to brush her short hair out with a delicate tortoiseshell comb. With care, she dressed Eleanor in fresh underclothes and another, more elaborate nightgown.

“You- We- are going to be Utopia.”

With care, she began leading her daughter back towards the quarantine chamber, which seemed oddly silent. Helpless inside herself, she could only shuffle forward under her mother's’ urgings into the vaulted room.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, Eleanor found herself facing a mountain of corpses.

The smell of blood- some fresh, some stale, mingling with mold and rot, overwhelmed her senses, even through the dreamy quality of the plasmid. Horrifyingly, her mother perked up at the sight of the bodies, primly gesturing to the pool of warm blood with an expression that could easily be read as loving.

“The People have already been prepared.”

Taking her by the hands, Sofia guided her around the bodies, releasing to kneel at the lip of the pool intersecting the space. For a moment the two stared at each other, unmoving. To Sofia, Eleanor looked ethereal- framed by the candlelight, skin glowing, spotless dress a testament to her perfection as a vessel.

To Eleanor, Sofia looked as she had always seen her- far below her, with nothing but the blood of others on her hands.

With a slow, anticipatory gesture, she beckoned to Eleanor, calmly rolling both sleeves up to the elbow. “And so, the rebirth begins,” she breathed, and at this distance the teenager could see the shakes rolling through her mother's hands. “Enter.”

The first step Eleanor took was slow, tremulous- in her head she screamed, trying to command her rebellious limbs. The next step landed her in the ADAM, and the red greedily surged up her legs as she sunk into the deep trough, soaking the fabric of the gown. Silently she waded through the blood, maneuvering until she could float on her back, dull eyes facing at the crumbling ceiling. Her mother leaned over her, smiling serenely, one hand bracing against Eleanor’s chest while the other rested on her forehead. You don’t even see me now, do you? I’m just another victory, She thought at her mother’s serene expression, wishing she could spit. I hate you, she thought viciously, as her mother cradled her. Hate hate hate hate.

“わたしのかんぺき,” Sofia whispered reverentially, before adjusting her hold and plunging the Eleanor under.

The ADAM enveloped her instantly, forcing its way inside- liquid pressed into her nose, eyes, and ears, seeping between her lips like poison. The first traces of the flavor were beginning to flood her mouth when she found herself being pulled out again, her mother’s hands having never left. “Drink.” her mother told her simply, before pushing her back into the red swill.

Without barriers, the ADAM poured into her mouth, rushing in. Frantically she swallowed, trying to clear her airway, but more pushed in, overwhelming, and the cycle repeated. Her throat tightened at the intrusion. She could feel it entering her system even as she struggled; her body felt hot, lighting up as the ADAM lay claim to her insides.

Vaguely she realized someone was speaking to her, far away. Before she could interpret, another voice interjected, then another. And another and another and another, until she could feel her mind buckling under the weight of the phantom memories.The thoughts and flashbacks were relentless, filling the inside of her skull until she felt her head might split open, full to the brim with thoughts from the dead and gone.

It’s more painful then she expected, dying. The memories of the Family began eroding her own, chipping away at her sense of self. One moment she had a son, the next she was a son. She was the main attraction at Eve’s Garden- no, she was a dancer, a chef, a writer, a doctor, a baker librarian seamstress maid housewife actorfishermanmogulthugsingerwhore-

She was everything, everyone until she wasn’t.

My name is Eleanor, she tried to remind herself, as the flashbacks threatened to consume her. My name is Eleanor my name is Eleanor Eleanor eleanor eleanor eleanor

When the last of the onslaught fades, there was nothing left of the original Eleanor Lamb. Instead, the hive under her skin twitches to life, slowly sitting up in its new skin. Clots of red tangle in the Vessel’s hair, and it seems almost confused, pulling itself almost drunkenly upright.

It is so involved in being -studying new hands and new arms and legs, taking it all in- it almost fails to notice the slim woman standing just to the side, hands and knees drenched red. When she smiles, the Vessel is overwhelmed; even more when the woman (mothersaviorsaint) cups their hand in her own stained fingers and speaks in little more then a whisper.

“Welcome home.”

(AO3 Link)

#mine #bioshock #bioshock 2 #fanfiction

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sjrresearch · 3 years

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The Importance of Audio Design in Historical Video Games

While many video game fans often emphasize the importance of graphics and visuals in games, audio design is arguably just as important. Classic arcade games like Pac-Man, Galaga, and Super Mario Bros. are heavily defined by their various sounds, including the overall soundtrack as well as general sound effects. Really, what’s more iconic than the coin sound effect from the original Super Mario Bros or the repetitive “waka waka” of Pac-Man?

In historical video games, audio design plays an important role as an additional means of immersing players in the real-world setting. Below, we’re going to look at a few ways that audio design amplifies the experience, making it an essential piece of the development puzzle.

Historical Accuracy Through Audio

Shooters like Call of Duty, Battlefield, and Medal of Honor often pride themselves on being historically accurate war games that recapture the periods in which they are set. Though there is a lot that goes into this level of historical immersion, audio design plays a considerable role. Sound design, from the sound of gunshots to the various vehicles, transports players to the 1940s. For instance, Medal of Honor’s M1 Garand has become particularly iconic, its metallic ping instantly recognizable to many players.

Mimicking Other Media

Other historically based games like the recent Red Dead Redemption 2 are much more stylised and contain soundtracks that are immersive in a very different way. Red Dead Redemption 2 and its predecessor are love letters to old spaghetti Western films like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and High Noon, and its soundtrack reflects that. The score is very reminiscent of these old Western films and is meant to recapture the feel of those movies, but in the form of an interactive experience. Just like the films that Red Dead emulates, the music is a part of the game’s identity, and the Wild West setting wouldn’t be the same without it.

Immersion Through Silence

Other historical video games that are meant to be immersive above all else are sometimes almost entirely devoid of any sort of music at all. One great example is Titanic VR, a virtual reality experience that is meant to recapture what it must have been like to be aboard the Titanic on the day that it sank. The game has no music, and the only sounds present within the game are that of the events occurring: the sound of passengers panicking, the creaking of the ship as it begins to sink into the depths of the ocean, and various other background noises.

More often than not, historical games don’t need ambient music in order to immerse the gamer into its world. Simple sound effects are often the only thing needed, and games like Titanic VR are a perfect example of this. Some games offer beautiful soundtracks, but simply use it sparingly and only when necessary.

Historically based or not, the audio featured within video games are important as they are a major part of the games’ identities. Like a game’s graphics, story, and overall world, music and sound help define a video game and stay with the player long after completing it.

At SJR Research, we specialize in creating compelling narratives and provide research to give your game the kind of details that engage your players and create a resonant world they want to spend time in. If you are interested in learning more about our gaming research services, you can browse SJR Research’s service on our site at SJR Research.

(This article is credited to Ben Price. For as long as he can remember, Ben has always loved playing, discussing, and writing about video games. Since receiving his B.A. in English, he now writes about them for a living.)

#gaming #video games #audio design #historical games

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swipestream · 5 years

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Making Music Mandatory

Not everyone uses ambient music during their tabletop sessions, and it really should be used as a tool whenever possible. Background music holds the power to change even a mediocre reveal into a grand revelation! Music has transcended being a pleasant tabletop accompaniment, evolving into a must-have in any GM’s arsenal.

Background noises are nothing new to Tabletop RPG’s. In fact, everyone and their brother has already written articles on the subject, but most miss the point of how it actually influences the game, the players and the world around them. I set out to prove that it is an important tool for any GM. I can dictate, using examples, how music can set the tone, fill in the setting, influence your players, or build tension.

Set Some Scenes

Let’s bring in some examples. An instrumental version of Smash Mouth’s “Walkin’ on the Sun”

By Source, Fair use,

plays in the background as the characters arrive at school, ready to serve a Saturday detention. PC’s can absorb the lighthearted-pop song giving them a feeling of invincibility walking into the school. Unconsciously, the players can feel the tone of the song and build off of it as their characters get set up for the session. It sets the entire tone of the scene: how they should act, what the feeling is in the world around them. In this case, it can also describe the setting just as well as words can, you can feel the late 90’s oozing out of this Breakfast Club rehashing.

Changes in music can alter how the players want their characters to react. Moving along, let’s say these same characters decide to leave the classroom to explore the school, keeping “Walkin’ on the Sun” may lead them to some lighthearted shenanigans, but to subconsciously cause them to push the envelope, change the music to The Ramones “Blitzkrieg Bop”, and an entirely new set of characters emerge. Ones that can be filled with teenage angst and destructive tendencies. You

may soon find instead of deciding to stealthily pick open a locker the players may use a fire extinguisher to bash it open.

The easiest way I’ve ever found to shift scenes is to change a song. Let’s change the characters and scenario entirely. Let’s go with a group of adventurers in D&D preparing for a large-scale battle alongside many allies they’ve gained over the campaign. The DM (that’s you) pumps up some epic jams for the battle, and a difficult battle ensues for the PC’s and some random enemies. All while this fight is going on, other skirmishes are happening simultaneously around them. Then, when the battle is over and the PC’s have a chance to catch their breath, you change the music to “Dearly Beloved” from the Kingdom Hearts OST. The hauntingly beautiful sounds wash over them giving them a temporary reprieve before they look upon their allies that were stuck in other matches. Allies, bruised, battered, bloodied, and dead. This moment speaks volumes to the PC’s, what’s occurring in the campaign is no longer child’s play. This is where things get dangerous.

Now, I’ll preface my last example that follows by saying all of the examples above are actual events that I took from games that I’ve run. The reason that I remember them as clearly as I do, is because of how the songs impacted the mood of the characters playing. However, none of them hold a candle to my final example. This is my greatest moment of Game Mastering I can ever hope to achieve.

The Perfect Storm

It was during a superhero campaign — the PC’s created their own superhero agency, recruiting their classmates in a superhero high school. These heroes had just beat the Big Bad for the first half of the campaign, bringing him to justice. They were exhausted, battered, and in need of a long rest. Flash-forward two in-game weeks to New Year’s Eve. The PC’s have some champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and are surrounded by their friends that they’ve known for years. “Auld Lang Syne” plays in the background, as the PC’s celebrate. Then the countdown to midnight: 10, 9, 8, 7… That’s when something happened. All of the superheroes in the agency suddenly froze as a new Big Bad announced his presence. In this moment, “Auld Lang Syne”, instead of carrying the joy of being done with a year of heartache and pain, now instead conveyed pure terror, as all of the heroes were unable to move, and could only watch as the emerging villain monologued. The speech concluded with the villain firing a bullet right at one of the Player’s favorite NPC’s, killing them immediately. By pure chance, this happened right as “Auld Lang Syne” hit its crescendo, then filtered into silence.

Now, this scene would have been good, if not great by itself. This was the turning point of the entire campaign to let the PC’s know they weren’t in the minor leagues anymore. But the inclusion of the song was the single factor that brought this gaming moment to Legendary. For once, in 6 years of playing with this group, everyone was honest-to-goodness absolutely speechless.

I’ve always been a fan of having ambient songs in the background of gaming sessions, but after this moment, I will never run another session without having pre-selected at least a dozen songs to play during a session. After having a defining moment only augmented by an appropriate song choice, and to have that moment become iconic for your players, that’s an achievement that all Game Masters will eternally pride themselves in.

Do you use music in your adventures? Will you start, or are you opposed to it in general?

Making Music Mandatory published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames

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laseroy89 · 7 years

Text

Recalled

Franklin Road has been closed for as long as I could remember. The fence spanning it has rusted over years of rain and shine, and the “STOP” and “ROAD CLOSED” signs hung onto the small little grilles by a flimsy chain. Three huge concrete blocks stood in front of the fence, their warning black and yellow lines flaking off. Oddly for an abandoned road, there were no visible potholes expected from a long period of no maintenance. There was however a layer of dead leaves and twigs, as nature slowly encroached on the tarmac, in the form of overgrown trees and numerous weeds at the roadside.

I passed by Franklin Road everyday on my way to and from school, and sometimes when I wasn’t too rushed, I would just pause at the fence, and peer into the unknown. Even though the signs had faded and dulled over time, they still reflected much of the sun’s rays and would have obliterated my retinae if not for my hands constantly shielding my eyes. The trees were sorely in need of trimming; they extended their thick branches over the road, blocking much of the sunlight like a colossal green umbrella. The minuscule gaps in the canopy let in a little light that shone on the mounds of dead leaves, giving the effect of a large speckled carpet laid across the lane. It would have looked welcoming if not for the gloomy atmosphere clinging to that place, probably due to the complete absence of birds, or any animal for that matter. It was just dead silent, a stark contrast to the bustling road just beyond the fence.

I tried to think of it as a normal closed road, or as normal as a closed road could get. However, there was something odd about it that I can’t put my finger on. It wasn’t the overbearing silence, nor the general creepiness of the place; it was something else that I felt like I should know, but I had completely no idea what it was. That nagging feeling lurked at the back of my mind, like there was a finger slightly depressing the alarm button in my head, not enough to set off my alarm bells, but deep enough to cause an insatiable itch.

Why was it that no one had ever talked about it explicitly to me? Whenever I mentioned Franklin Road, everyone would either fall silent, or change the subject suddenly, stopping me from pressing on the topic further. Even my parents. It was confusing, and it made me uncomfortable, as if I’ve violated some unspoken rule. Which is by the way absolutely absurd. I’ve lived in this neighbourhood my entire life, I know almost everyone in this place, and no one has ever taught me about any rule.

The very first person I coaxed into talking about Franklin Road was my new friend Megan, who just moved in from….not really sure, some place west. She confirmed my suspicions that there was indeed some special rule.

“They told me not to talk to you about it.”

“Really? Who’s they?”

“Your friends, the teachers….everyone. Everyone told me not to talk about it - and they didn’t tell me why, just said so in a really serious tone. Which is kinda stupid - how can they expect me to follow what they say without telling me why?” She wringed her hands in mock exasperation.

Now this made matters more interesting. It’s like a conspiracy theory against me….for some meaningless forgotten road?

“You know….how ‘bout we go find out what the hell this is about after school?”

She nodded her agreement. Goddamn, what a way to ask a girl out.

We met at the fence of Franklin Road at around 9pm. Under the cover of night, the creepiness took on a new level of intensity. In the absence of light, the thin grilles of the fence were almost invisible, an unseen barrier between the secrets locked within and the world outside. The dull signs hung ominously, as if warning us that no good would come out of this venture. I switched on my torchlight, and it failed to pierce beyond five metres into the inky darkness beyond.

It was surprisingly easy to overcome the fence - just hop on the concrete block and clamber over the top, and we were in.

Once on the other side, looking back at the brightly-lit street was surreal, a perspective that I’ve imagined but never experienced. The view of the water from a fish stranded on land - vulnerable in a strange new environment, gazing back at the world we left behind.

We proceeded forward, my torchlight a little beacon bobbling in a sea of darkness, barely probing it. Our movement slowed down to a snail’s pace, with hands outstretched, feeling for any obstacles. It didn’t help that our footsteps crunching through the dead plant matter were magnified tenfold, due to the lack of any other sound. It was eerie, to hear absolutely nothing but our own movement, like the area had intentionally quietened down in order to survey us newcomers. Were there malicious monsters hiding behind the cloak of darkness, observing our every move, waiting for the right moment to strike? In an environment devoid of sound, sometimes imagination just gets restless, starts running wild and plants all sorts of crazy ideas in one’s head. We both focused on moving forward.

We concentrated so much on the thin sliver of light emitted from my pathetic torchlight, that it took quite a while before we realised that we had walked into a clearing. I shut off my light, and let my eyes adjust to the ambient moonlight. Over here, there were much less leaves on the ground, and the night sky could be seen without obstruction.

Megan nudged me and pointed to my left. I squinted my eyes, and could barely discern a gaping hole of blackness - a small road that linked to Franklin Road. “Cool, so this place was once a Y-junction.”

“Yeah, but look at that.”

I stared a little longer at the spot before I found what she referred to. It was an extremely faint patch of white which escaped my attention the first time round. Odd, considering that the roadside should be a predominantly wooded area.

My curiosity aroused, I strode over to the white patch. As I got closer, I could make out more and more white, mixed in with a little grey - it seemed to be some sort of car wreckage, half-hidden in the bushes. I immediately clicked on my torchlight to investigate this interesting finding, but couldn’t turn it on. Strange, I could’ve sworn I brought full batteries.

The white patch turned out not to be a car wreckage, but seemed to be some sort of huge white van. Only the metal frames and the bottom half of the body still remained. The top appeared to have burnt off, as deduced from charred ends on the bottom half. The wheels were in no great condition either - three of them had fallen out and all of them were punctured.

“It’s alright, kid. I’ll get you out.” Warm, burnt hands loosened the straps around my chest, but left those on my legs. A blackened face appeared in front of me. That person slowly pushed my gurney upright. My head rolled to the side and hit one of the many boxes they had onboard. I groaned in pain, my vision momentarily swimming. “Sorry, kid. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be okay.” The same tired, yet kindly voice spoke in my ear again, sounding much weaker than before.

I shook my head and rubbed my temples. I had no idea why that scene flashed through my head.

“There’s some wording at the side - but it’s too dark, can’t really read it.”

Throwing whatever just happened to the back of my mind, I walked slowly to where Megan was. Sure enough, there were some huge white letters printed against a dark red background, nearly obscured by large, deep gashes. This van has been through some shit. I stepped closer to read the words, and stepped on something round with a loud crack. A light - a flashing light, one that is normally attached to emergency vehicles like fire engines and - ambulances.

A flurry of noises soon cleared out into distinct sounds. A lady screaming somewhere. A lot of male voices shouting at each other. Not really clear enough to hear what they were saying though. Oh, and lots of metal clanging, making my head throb even more. Man, that was pain. And what’s that beeping on my chest? Something electrical. Oooooh, eeeeeelectrical. And -

Blinding white light. Oh my gosh, so fucking bright. This heaven or somethin’? Not even whatever God there was could be this bright. Can’t really blind your followers - unless they are already blind. Hahaha - ooooooooh I’m on a bed with wheels. I just realised. This is really cool - I can go anywhere I want now while lying down. Oh my head has a white cloth wrapped around it, that stinks of alcohol. Oh - and hey I’m going upslope!! And the light is gone - only to be replaced by another bright light. I think father calls it flourescent, or something like that. And hey I’m moving but my bed isn’t moving. Oh I know what’s going on, I’m in a moving van!!! Hahahahahaha this is some exciting shit - why the FUCK AM I IN AN AMBULANCE?

“Bryan? You there?” Megan’s words brought me back to reality. That seemed so real, so vivid, as if I was actually there. I felt everything - the lightheadedness, the confusion at what was going on, the dull throbbing of my head, the pungent stink of rubbing alcohol, the cacophony of fuzzy voices. It felt familiar, yet foreign.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” I answered without conviction, but she had moved on into the interior of the wreckage. I followed uncertainly, gripping the sides to support myself in case the visions came again. Inside the ambulance, there was a charred gurney, some first aid boxes, burnt cloth that looked like bandages, and a pair of defibrillators. And wedged in the ambulance left, almost completely hidden by the bushes, was another car carcass. Only the front half could be seen, and the bonnet was stuck halfway into what remained of the ambulance’s left wall.

There was a bandage over half of my head. I guess that’s why I was in this ambulance.

The ceiling shook. The flourescent lights shook. My gurney shook. My body shook. My IV line shook. Everything shook, along with the loud revving and the muffled sirens of the ambulance. Everything except for the hand holding mine. “You’re gonna be alright kid, just a minor head injury. We’ll reach the hospital soon, just need do a little patching up and you’re good to go.” The deep kindly voice said to my right ear. Another hand patted my stomach. I couldn’t feel any pain, but I felt like some bits of my face was missing. Or just numb. Oh man, I hope it was the latter -

I couldn’t hear it - I guess my ears were blown out. There was some kind of shrill ringing in my ears, other than that I couldn’t really hear much. But I could definitely feel the impact of something huge ramming into the side of the vehicle. My head flew to the side and hit the railing. I slipped in and out of consciousness. It was hard to observe my surroundings now. The light went out. Some orange glow at my feet - fire. Some boxes had fallen on me. My head was tilted in an uncomfortable angle. I had no control over my body.

“It’s alright, kid. I’ll get you out.” Warm, blackened hands loosened the straps around my chest, but left those on my legs. The paramedic pulled himself from underneath me. In the orange glow of the fire, I could see that he was injured, and was drenched in blood. I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t move a muscle. His blackened face gave me a charred smile. He slowly pushed my gurney upright, grunting with pain and exhaustion. My head rolled to the side and hit one of the many boxes they had onboard. I groaned in pain, my vision momentarily swimming. “Sorry, kid. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be okay.” The same tired, yet kindly voice spoke in my ear again, sounding much weaker than before.

He propped himself up next to me, and pushed open the ambulance door. Bright light flooded the cabin. “Get clear, brace yourself, yeah?” His voice rang with a tone of finality. I felt a tug and a push, and suddenly my gurney was set free. I rolled out from the ambulance, the bright sunlight momentarily blinding me. As I rolled away from the vehicle, I felt a wave of warmth cascade over me. Did the ambulance explode? There was something hot - hot flames licked my feet. Wait. Hot flames licked my feet. HOT FLAMES LICKED MY FEET!!!

I struggled with the flaming hand that grabbed my ankle. No, no, no, no, this was real life now - the entire ambulance was ablaze and I was lying right there in the centre. A fiery spectre had crawled out of where the collided car’s windscreen used to be. Its entire body was just a skeleton that was burning with an orange flame, and its skeletal hand was now grabbing my left leg. I yowled in pain as the flames from his hand scorched my skin. The flaming corpse cocked its head and looked at me, its charred eyeholes bored into me with fierce desperation.

“SET ME FREE.” It begged in a deep, raspy voice.

“Get off me!” I continued to struggle, the heat almost unbearable. My ankle was definitely a goner now, and the agony seared through me like a red-hot iron. No, I’m not gonna die like this.

“SET ME FREE!!! SET ME FREE!!! SET ME FREEEEEEE!!!” Its begging shed its pleading tone and started to fill with anger, rising in pitch and intensity until it became a scream. “SET ME FREEEEEE!!!”

“Megan!!” I shouted for help, only to realise she was nowhere to be seen. Had she already been devoured by this demon? No, this is getting worse by the minute. The flames ate their way up my calf, my skin starting to peel off and my flesh starting to char. Oh shit -

“It’s alright, kid. I’ll get you out.” Where have I heard that one before? A white human apparition appeared to my right. It bent over and gently pried the burning hands off my calf. I gingerly pulled myself away, gritting my teeth at the intense pain.

“Just need to do a little patching up and you’re good to go.” The being gently patted my wound, and I felt the skin in that area start to cool down. My flesh slowly lost its blackness, and my skin was slowly putting itself back. It was healing me.

“Get clear, brace yourself, yeah?” He nodded at me knowingly, and I acknowledged. I crawled backwards as fast as I could, retreating from the ambulance.

The ghostly paramedic grabbed the fiery spectre and forced it back into the car, kicking and punching it. Upon reaching the windscreen, it stuffed the spectre’s head into the car’s cabin, and squeezed in as well. The two spirits grappled with each other, and the spectre’s head was forced into the dashboard of the car multiple times before the wreckages exploded. A familiar wave of warmth cascaded over me as I blacked out.

I woke up to the sight of a weeping Megan and my concerned parents kneeling over me. Apparently, Megan had been investigating the wreckage, and was so engrossed in probing round the remains that it was about an hour before she noticed she was alone. She had to find her way out by herself, which took about two hours due to the spoilt flashlight function and the dim screen of her mobile phone. She only called my parents and the police after climbing over the fence, due to the poor reception in the area.

There was no wreckage at all; all remains were removed within two days of the accident, and the road was closed. Not really sure why, and don’t really care why. I know what I saw was real to me, and that was what really mattered. I confronted my parents about what happened, kinda pissed at why they blocked everything from me, found out that my brain had somehow blocked the memories and to prevent any traumatic flashbacks, they decided to do what they did and got everyone in on it too. At least they told me where the paramedic rested in peace.

I visit the paramedic, Scott, any time I could. I owe him my life, and my memory. It wasn’t enough to respond to my accident at home, then sacrifice himself to save me in the ensuing ambulance accident - he literally came back from the dead to save me again. Thanks Scott, for going beyond the call of duty.

#road #accident #car accident #nosleep #paramedic

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