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glenngaylord · 3 years

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Glenn Gaylord’s Capsules From The Bunker – Summer 2021 Lockdown Style

Like many of you, I’ve lost all concept of space and time during this lockdown era. I’d watch movie after movie, but somehow forget to write about them. I’d consume films for sustenance, but then I’d move on to the next task of cleaning a room, doing a crossword puzzle, or staring at my dog for hours on end. Thank goodness I have a few friends to have breakfast with every now and then, or else I’d have assumed I had been transported to a cabin in Montana. “Am I a film critic or a hermit?” I’d ask myself daily…that is, if I even understand what days are anymore. All of this is to say that I have a lot of catching up to do now that we’ve taken a baby step or two towards returning to some sense of normalcy. Wait a minute. What’s that? Highly transmissible variants? Back into the cave I go. While I still can, I’ve managed to blurt out a few capsule reviews of some films worth mentioning.

In Between Gays – Film Review: Summer Of 85 ★★★★

Prolific French filmmaker, François Ozon, has made a career out of finding dark crevices in the most unexpected of places. Here, with Summer Of 85, he tweaks this New Wave era gay romance just enough to upend our expectations. In pure Talented Mr. Ripley meets Call Me By Your Name meets Luca fashion, Ozon spins what could have been that sun-dappled, seaside summer that changed everything into a love that perhaps never was, zeroing in instead on a young man’s obsession for something unobtainable. Beautifully shot and acted, Ozon takes the story to more provocative places than you’d initially expect while still maintaining the boppy fizz of a great Cure song. Despite the mish mash of tones, the film has a pulse all of its own. It’ll make you swoon, pull the rug out from under you, and then make you wonder how he managed to quietly get a little twisted.

Summer Of 85 currently in select theaters, see official website for details. Released on DVD and BluRay August 17th.

Truffle In Mind – Film Review: Pig ★★★★

Writer-director Michael Sarnoski makes an auspicious feature debut with the story of a man searching for his stolen truffle-hunting pig. Caked in dirt, blood and looking not so much like a homeless man but as a person who died inside a thousand times over, Nicholas Cage gives one of his best performances ever as a man who seeks the truth at all costs. He asks his only connection to the outside world, Amir, played wonderfully by Alex Wolff, to drive him through Portland’s dark underbelly to retrieve his pet companion.

Although the film takes us to a rather unbelievable “Fight Club” moment, it generally holds its mood with credibility. It’s a great calling card, not only for Sarnoski, but also for his talented cinematographer Patrick Scola, who brings a painterly quality to every single image. The film finds beauty in a bite of food, a breath of air, or simply the compassion between two main characters who have seemingly little in common. It’s a shame the trailer elicits laughs when Cage utters lines like, “Who has my pig?” Clearly they want to sell the actor’s neo-gonzo persona, but Cage brings so much depth and seriousness to this project, only raising his voice once. He deserves the highest praise for committing to such an oddly touching, gorgeously quiet story. At risk of sounding Dad-jokey, the only thing that hogs the scenery is his porcine friend.

Pig is in theaters now.

All Is Lost – Film Review: Old ★★

In 1999, M. Night Shyamalan made a great film, The Sixth Sense, and has been chasing that dragon ever since, often to diminishing returns. His films, however, often do well because he has great concepts, a keen eye for visuals and timing, yet things always seem to turn clunky and inane real fast. With Old, he continues down that path by giving us something compelling—a group of people on a beach who age quickly—and ruining it with dialogue seemingly written by an algorithm and rendered unintelligible much of the time, while the terrific cast seem to have no idea how to make Shyamalan’s words sound any better than a high school play. A couple of sequences did make me sit up and take notice, and he uses compositions and offscreen space well, but overall, Old plays like a stretched-out episode of Lost, and like that cool but overstuffed series, you’re not gonna get very good explanations as to what transpires. Sure, the big twist works well enough on some level, but it doesn’t save you from the discomfort of watching good actors flatline in more ways than one.

Old is currently in theaters nationally.

Hi Fidel-ity – Film Review: Revolution Rent ★★★1/2

Shot in 2014, Andy Señor Jr., who played Angel on Broadway along with a host of other credits, staged the classic musical Rent in Havana during a thaw in our relations with the Communist regime. He did so against the wishes of his Cuban family, who suffered under Castro and insisted his production would merely serve as a propaganda tool for the government. He plows ahead instead, capturing the months long process in a rather artless home movie style. The aesthetics don’t carry any weight here when you have such a compelling subject matter. Witnessing his actors struggling with their performances while also living in harsh conditions adds new layers to the late Jonathan Larson’s story of squatters in the age of AIDS.

With a limited talent pool, one of whom doesn’t feel comfortable with the gay subject matter and another who lives with HIV himself, Señor finds new connections to Larson’s material as well as an affection for his heritage. What we may have taken for granted here in the US in terms of sexuality and gender expression feels like a whole new experience when seen through a Cuban lens. Señor speaks out against the Castros with quick sequences showing moments of oppression, thus preventing this film from perpetuating the lies of its government. Instead, he gifts the people of this poor, struggling country with a real sense of community and its first burst of musical theater in ages. Sure he’s a privileged westerner who dangles hope in front of people only to return to his cushy life, but he does so with heart and good intentions. You end up loving and rooting for his cast in this moving, sweet documentary.

Revolution Rent is currently streaming on HBO Max.

Do The Hustlers – Film Review: Zola ★★★★

Call me wary when I went to see a movie based on a viral twitter thread and directed by Janicza Brava, whose Sundance Award-winning short, Gregory Go Boom, proved to be not only tone deaf but downright offensive towards people with disabilities. Her new film, Zola, excels however, in ways her prior work has not. Taylour Paige, a standout in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, plays the title character, a stripper who meets Stefani (Riley Keough) one night and is convinced to travel with her down to Florida where they can make a lot of money dancing all weekend. Things, however, do not go as planned, with Zola’s story escalating from one insane twist after another. Paige and Keough are outstanding, as are Nicholas Braun and Colman Domingo as their traveling companions. Jason Mitchell, so great in Straight Outta Compton and Mudbound, brings a wild, dangerous energy, something he shares with the film itself. It comes across as The Florida Project meets Hustlers, but with its own surreal, unexpected tone. I laughed out loud often, especially with Paige’s loopy reactions to her surroundings and the giddy, zippy energy on display. Zola chews you up, twerks on your face, and spits you out, exhausted yet anxious to see whatever this talented group of people will do next.

Zola is currently playing in select theaters and available on demand.

Banned On The Run – Film Review: There Is No Evil ★★★★

It’s impossible to review There Is No Evil without giving away its central premise, so I will avoid as much description as possible. Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof has crafted a four-part anthology of sorts around an agonizing moral issue important to people worldwide. At the end of the first part, a stunning cut to an unforgettable visual reveals everything and allows you to watch the rest with informed eyes. Rasoulof seamlessly excels at different genres, from family drama, to action escape, to romance, weaving a tale of such depth and sorrow for its talented cast of characters.

The making of it proves as interesting at the film itself. Banned by the regime from producing feature films for two years and prohibited from traveling outside of Iran, Rasoulof, like any crafty filmmaker, came up with an ingenious plan. He slipped under the radar by calling these four short films, mostly shot in small towns far outside the reach of Tehran, and then had the final product smuggled out of the country. A filmmaker with such talent not only at telling stories, but the with ability to will his vision into existence against all odds, deserves the world’s attention.

There Is No Evil is available on DVD, BluRay and VOD now.

In Space No One Can Hear You Think – Film Review: F9: The Fast Saga ★★★

Considered review-proof, the Fast and the Furious franchise has ruled the box office for the past 20 years, so my calling its latest entry, F9: The Fast Saga, monumentally dumb will have zero influence on anyone’s decision to see it. We all know it’s big and stupid, as do the filmmakers. These films, deliver said stupid with such gusto, that you simply surrender and have a great time nonetheless. Nothing, however, prepared me, for this series to go all Moonraker, sending a car to a place no car has ever gone before. You’ll know it when you see it and probably say, “That’s ludicrous!” and also say, “That’s Ludacris!”

F9: The Fast Saga is currently playing on every screen on Earth and in select theaters throughout the universe.

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gay-ghost-girl · 3 years

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Ah, what do I fear?

I fear humanity being wiped out.

I fear the apocalypse in any sense of the word.

I fear all these viruses are turning us into zombies. Here we are, the walking undead, cold and numb and mindless but at least now we still have the choice. But once it gets us? Once we’re dead? Oh God please don’t let our bodies, our empty corpses that used to house our souls, oh please don’t let them hurt the ones who still have their own.

Pain is inevitable. Death is inevitable. But please God don’t let me cause them in the worst possible way, don’t let me… i don’t know.

God, I do not know your plan. I do not know what life you want for me but I’m terrified that I’m going to pick the wrong one. If I follow my heart then aren’t I being selfish? If I follow my head then aren’t I sinning with the knowledge of forbidden fruit? If I follow the world then won’t I not be making the best use of the person I am today? If I hide then aren’t I perpetuating a lack of forgiveness? If I kneel before fear and let it choose my path then aren’t I worshiping a false idol?

How to I follow you yet love humanity and not loose myself in the process. What is there left of me if I’m doing it all for you? For them? For the greed of wanting to go to heaven when I know, I KNOW how much I do not deserve it.

God please allow me to lay my sins down before you. Please don’t turn me away just because you sense my fear. Because don’t you see, I’m always scared. And when I’m not then the things around me just seem to fall apart.

God help me find the safe path. Help me find the path that will ultimately cause everyone the least suffering. Is it preaching a book I don’t entirely agree with? That doesn’t seem like it’s appropriate for me. I’m just a girl. A woman who has sinned countless times over. I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, I’ve taken advantage, I’ve mistreated my body and permitted others to do the same, I’ve encouraged harmful behaviours and I’ve perpetuated them myself.

My tattoos were meant for me. An art piece on the canvas of my skin. I find the concept beautiful. Are they hurting you? Are they hurting my soul? That was never my intention, God please, my intention has never truly been to cause anyone harm. So why do I still do it? Why can’t I think ahead without it ruining me?

You gifted me with my intuition, my empathy, my ability to think of all the possibilities, made me smart enough to use it to help. But I no longer know what’s actually helpful or not.

I like things to have a balance, not necessarily symmetry but a balance nonetheless, and no one else seems to be looking for the same future as me. Or the ones that are may be the worst ones for me to even go get help from because they’re just as closed off and selfish as I am.

In this world, money keeps you alive and comfortable enough to contribute back to the world. So is it wrong for me to desire vast wealth so that I can contribute back in a vast way? Or have I just manipulated that statement to make myself feel comfortable in my greed…

Your own book tells me that as a woman my job is for the care of the house. To please a husband. To have a child.

But I never wanted to be a housewife. I never wanted to rely on the financial support of a husband. I may have wanted to raise kids at one point, but I’ve never wanted them to genetically be my own. I don’t want to put my body through that. I don’t want to put my mind through that. Parenthood isn’t my goal.

Is it ok if my home is in my connections with other people? I can take care of that, or at least I’d like to try.

Is it ok for me to be financially independent so that I can find love based on mutual respect rather than necessity? I think it would help me trust peoples intentions more.

Is it ok if I never have a child? If I don’t want to be with the “perfect” image of a “Godly man”? If I want to be with a woman? If I want the love and protection and teamwork of multiple partners? Is it ok if our “children” are a broader concept than just who I give birth to? If it’s the generations younger than us who need our help more than any of us need to bring yet another kid into this worlds suffering and anguish. Is it ok if someday (if parenthood does sound appealing for the right reasons) if I adopt? If I take care of some kid who was left to figure it all out on their own like I feel I have been?

Is it ok if I have tattoos that help me feel my own individuality again? Is it ok if I have addictions that make the suffering of continuing to live every day incrementally less painful? Moderation, moderation, moderation I know. But I’ve kept this body alive so far and it doesn’t appear to be ready to stop working yet, despite all I’ve done to it. I’ve kept this mind running for so long and it still craves more knowledge and understanding, despite all the things I’ve let poison it.

Is it ok if I don’t condemn the non believers? The witches, the spiritualists, the believers of different ideas than my own or your own? Aren’t they valid for simply trying to find paths that make their lives more bearable too? Aren’t they beautiful because unlike me, they’ve been able to choose one?

Is it ok to lecture the ones who do condemn them?

Is it ok for us to be imperfect? Sometimes your book says it is, and sometimes it says it’s not. Is it ok for me to try and try and try to help stop the perpetuation of the pain we’re causing each other? Or is that too much? If we keep turning our attention completely on each other, who’s left to advocate for and defend and fix the earth?

How do we build interpersonal relationships again when we’re all being hidden away from each other for fear of getting ourselves sick? Why have we come to the point where human interaction could kill us? Especially when the lack of human interaction is killing us too?

Why have we been trapped in these boxes? These bubbles? Why do the surfaces of two different bodies cells never actually touch? Why do our minds not connect to share our thoughts and feelings when our words and actions aren’t enough? Why do we keep digging up diamonds when they’re the most colourless and over used gem of them all?

God, oh please don’t leave me for even asking… but are you imperfect too? You’re a jealous god. Your creations are causing harm. Why did you create us? Were you bored? Lonely? In love with the idea too much to be willing to stop despite the anticipated pitfalls?

God, I love you, but you’re a really bad project manager. Your project is failing. We are your project, and we are failing because we haven’t been given clear direction. I get you think you’ve been clear, but we’re oh so stupid and can’t read your mind.

Will you forgive me? Will you guide me? Will you fix me? Will you humble me? Will you give me enough clarity to find the path YOU want for me? Not the world, not evil, you.

I want to be directed by you.

I want to protect people.

I want to show love to everything that is spewing hate.

and i really don’t want to be miserable and ending the world while I do it.

seriously, is that ok???

#prayer #lgbt+ christian #please help #i’m so tired #i’m so lost #i’m so lonely #I’m so directionless #i dont trust my intentions #i don’t trust anyone elses #i trust gods but his directions are unclear #im breaking

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golden-redhead · 5 years

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Oumota Week 2019 - Day #1 || Stuck in a Small Space

Summary: After the game, Momota is at loss. Maybe getting stuck in an elevator with the guy he killed can actually give him some answers.

Read on AO3.

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What’s Left of Me

Public appearances are part of Momota’s new life, an unwelcome distraction from the brittle routine he’s been working on for weeks, an overall flimsy sense of security in this chaotic life of his. Wherever he goes, dozens of curious, prying eyes follow his every step, phones reaching out to capture every angle of his existence in a digital illusion of permanence and spread all over the Internet.

His agent drags him from one interview to another, endless photoshoots, conferences, fan meetings until it leaves him drained, so impossibly drained and defeated, made to smile through it all, his lips stretched in a perpetual grin, shaking hands and waving and answering the questions the way his agent taught him to. It’s all just one big farce but it’s easier to go along with it than try to defy Team Danganronpa and their minions. He knows it would just be a losing battle, as it’s one thing that has been made perfectly clear as soon as he got successfully pulled out of the simulation, spooked and confused, barely able to coin out sentences, drugged out of his mind.

So when he finds himself standing in the huge, luxurious lobby of the recording studio all he can do is try to distract himself with idle plans of what he’d prefer for dinner and daydreaming about a long, well-deserved nap he was planning to take once this farce is over and he’s finally allowed to go home.

He promised his agent he would join her as soon as he finishes his cigarette, her curt, sharp nod a silent permission. He’s on his third cigarette now, the silvery smoke coiling and dancing above his head as he exhales it through his nose, trying to empty his head and forget about the responsibilities and expectations weighing on his shoulders, even if just for a moment.

“Well, well, well,” comes a familiar voice from behind his back. “If it isn’t Momota-chan!”

Momota spins around, startled, almost choking on the smoke he’s just released from his lungs, his mouth falling open and brows shooting in surprise until they disappear, hidden by the spiky bangs that fall down on his forehead.

“O-Ouma!” He chokes out, shaking his head as if in denial, not trusting his eyes just yet. “Since when were you—What are you doing here?”

A relaxed smile crosses Ouma’s face as he steps closer, the very image of controlled nonchalance.

“Oh? Hasn’t Momota-chan been informed that he should be expecting my delightful presence today?”

Momota tugs at his goatee absentmindedly, trying to remember what kind of interview exactly they were supposed to have today. They all felt like a big, indistinguishable blur to him. “Uh… Should I?”

Ouma tuts with disapprobation, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing his cheeks out childishly. “Rude! Rude, Momota-chan! Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

Momota shrugs simply and moves to put out the cigarette, promptly crushing it under his boot until all is left is a cigarette-shaped pulp. Once that’s taken care of he finally turns fully to Ouma. It’s the first time in weeks that he has a chance to take a good look at him, take in every detail, every fold of his shirt, every sticky and stained with mascara eyelash and the smudge of fluid hiding the dark bruises beneath his eyes.

He’s wearing a shiny dark suit that in the right light glistens with the faint hues of deep purple, his signature checkered scarf wrapped loosely around the narrow neck. He looks smaller in real life, somehow, childish features accented with sharp dark eyes and adorned with a sly smile that looks almost out of place on a face so young. The long strands of his plum-colored hair have been slicked back in a way that is sure to cause heart palpitations of many fans, only barely making him look more mature. Despite his midget height and endearingly full cheeks (now that Team Danganronpa took hold of his diet), Momota could almost call him handsome. Almost.

He hasn’t had much contact with him since they were both released from the hospital, nothing more than small banter at an occasional group interview or a photoshoot that required that all participants of the fifty-third season were present, tension heavy in the air as they struggled to co-exist in the forced proximity, even if only for an hour or two. Momota would lie if he said he wasn’t curious about what happened to Ouma when the worst was over — his search history a discriminating, shameful proof of that — but he couldn’t bring himself to actually reach out to him, his insides turning into a painful knot whenever he tried, fingers hovering uselessly above the keyboard and head hollow with empty-sounding I’m sorry’s and forgive me’s that Ouma would never dignify even with a single glance, much less with a response.

In a way, he almost wishes they had more time at the hospital — as suffocating as it was — before they’d been released into this wild, vicious world that praised them for the blood on their hands and was a blaring reminder of every bad choice, every wrong decision he’s ever made. Maybe if he had more time he would have mustered the courage. Maybe he wouldn’t be here now, guilt tugging at his insides and unvoiced apologies burning in his throat.

The truth is, Team Danganronpa couldn’t have held them in the hospital for more than a few weeks, too busy moving on with the organization of the next season to care for those they broke already, Momota and others soon to be replaced with even more traumatized kids with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, the memory of bloodstained walls and insidious stench of death still trapped underneath their eyelids whenever they drifted to sleep.

Ever since he woke up from his stimulation-induced slumber, everything felt somewhat distorted, like he’s gazing at the world through the thick wall of glass, deceivingly similar to what he remembers but somehow also disturbingly different. It’s disorienting and he’s unsure how to navigate this new world in which he can’t take two steps without being pursued by a crowd of fans, many of them underaged, wrapping themselves around him and blinding him with the flash of their mobile phones, every single one of them adorned with Danganronpa-themed cases. This new, second — or third? who knows, really — life he woke up to what feels like he’s pushing through deep waters, fighting against the current, and no matter how much time has passed it doesn’t feel like he’s moving forward at all. Hours blend into days and days into weeks and nothing really changes, nothing feels like it leads to something meaningful and he almost misses the game because in some horrible, vile way it had been better than being stuck in this strange state where everything just doesn’t make sense.

However, not everything changes. Ouma’s just as boisterous and smug as he remembers him from the killing game to be even, though there’s no longer any need to pretend or hide behind his shield of carefully crafted lies and vaguely, Momota wonders what he’s overcompensating for.

“Come on,” he says instead of voicing that thought out loud, gesturing to the elevator. “We better hurry or my agent will pluck my eyes out.”

Ouma taps a long pale finger against his chin, considering it.

“Hm… Nah.”

Momota scowls, irritation prickling under his skin. “What do you mean ‘nah’? We are already late!”

Ouma tucks his hands at the back of his head, staring at Momota through half-lidded crystalline eyes, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, make-up smoothing the sharp contours of his face. He cocks his head to the side, his ear almost resting against his shoulder, a lazy grin playing on his lips.

“Since when was Momota-chan such an obedient little puppy? You do everything they say?”

Momota groans loudly. Of course nothing could be easy with Ouma fucking Kokichi around.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for your fucking mind games. What’s this really about? You better not just be difficult for the sake of being difficult, dude.”

“Hmm, or maaaybe I just wanna see Momota-chan get his eyes plucked out?” Ouma continues to cackle, shamelessly, not at all intimidated by the annoyed pull of Momota’s eyebrows or the dirty glare he shoots him.

In theory, Momota knows he shouldn’t be bothered by Ouma’s rude remarks, he knows it’s all just a part of the game for him, an invisible wall he’s raised for protection just so he doesn’t have to expose what lies under the thick layers of lies and deceptions. In practice, though, it’s as annoying as ever and not for the first time he wishes he could understand what is happening in his head.

“Look, I’m not too thrilled about this interview either but the sooner we start, the faster it’ll be over. You coming or not?”

Ouma nods his head vigorously in mock agreement. “Oh, such wise words! Who knew Momota-chan can be so wise!”

Momota tsks, but refuses to bite. Instead, he turns back to him with a shrug and pushing his hands into his pockets heads to enter the elevator. Once there, he turns to Ouma expectantly, one eyebrow raised in an unvoiced challenge, signaling it to be the last chance to join him.

If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that he noticed a flash of… something, some foreign emotion he can’t quite name, passing through his eyes as Ouma shoots a single, almost wistful glance in the direction of the nearby stairs as if weighing his options. It disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving Momota wondering whether it had even been there in the first place.

“Ughh, fiiine,” Ouma throws his arms into the air, “I’ll go if Momota-chan insists.”

Momota doesn’t point out how at no point did he actually insist on anything and simply moves to the side to let him in.

Ouma skips into the elevator, humming some cheerful inharmonious tune. As soon as he reaches the control panel he pushes a few buttons all at once, cackling at the annoyed frown Momota rewards him with. With a quiet whoosh the door finally closes after them, slots clicking into place as the elevator begins its slow ascent.

It doesn’t take them far, though.

Moments later, the elevator jolts to a sudden halt with a deafening screech, the force and abruptness of it enough to send Ouma to the floor with a high-pitched, undignified yelp of shock. He slams onto the floor with a hollow bang that makes Momota wince in sympathy. The lights flicker and for a horrifying second Momota’s convinced they’ll give out completely, shrouding them in darkness. He allows himself a small sigh of relief when it doesn’t happen.

“Uhh,” moans Ouma from the floor, sound muffled slightly, “what just happened?”

“We’re stuck,” observes Momota sounding much calmer than he feels.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Don’t ask dumb question if you don’t want dumb answers.”

“There’s no such thing as a dumb question, Momota-chan, unless you’re the one asking them.”

Momota waves him off impatiently. “Whatever. Now shush, we need to get some help or we’re gonna be stuck here forever.”

He examines the control panel for a second, wondering what the hell are they supposed to do next. This is why I hate elevators, he thinks to himself bitterly. Fortunately, whoever designed the elevator was prepared for those kinds of situations and added the emergency button, easily distinguished from the others by its strikingly red color. Momota pushes it without thinking, stealing a quick glance at his phone, wincing when it becomes glaringly obvious that there’s no chance they’ll start the interview on time. The threat of having his eyes plucked out feels more and more real with every minute.

He waits, listening to the ringing sound that fills the elevator after he pushed the button, a sense of relief spreading over his body when someone actually answers the call.

“Hello?”

“Uhh,” Momota starts lamely, suddenly at a loss of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “Momota Kaito here. We are, uhh, we are stuck in an elevator.”

He hurriedly explains the situation, informing the man on the other side what happened, which floor they are stuck on, how many people are in the elevator.

He doesn’t feel very reassured when the man takes in all the information only to respond with, “We’ll see what we can do. It might take a while since we have to send someone there. Just hang in there, kid.”

With that the conversation is over, the voice on the other side gone. Momota runs a hand over his face, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second as he tries to make some sense out of all of this, understand how he went from calmly smoking his cigarette, minding his own business, to being here, trapped with Ouma at his side. He can feel Ouma’s amused stare boring into him from where he sat crossed-legged against the opposite wall, surely deriving great pleasure from watching his anguish.

Of all the people he could have been stuck in an elevator with it had to be the guy he killed.

He grips the phone in his other hand tighter and after a second of hesitation, he reluctantly types a quick text to his agent and then promptly turns the sound and vibration off, not looking forward to the angry stream of furious messages he’s undoubtedly going to get.

“Great,” he says sarcastically, leaning heavily against the wall and sliding slowly down its length until he lands on his butt. “So we’re trapped here. You happy now?”

Ouma beams at him. “Very!”

“Seriously, why are you like this,” he looks up to glower at the ceiling as if expecting an answer from above. “Did you have to push all those buttons?”

Ouma nods his head, a solemn, serious expression on his face. He presses a hand to his chest, just inches above his heart, his words dripping with false sincerity. “Yes, absolutely, my sweet, naive Momota-chan. I was testing if the elevator is safe and clearly it’s not! Who knows how many lives we saved by sacrificing ourselves. It was a brave and necessary deed that I do not regret.”

Momota groans, reaching for his neck to rub at the sensitive muscles, trying to dissolve the tension there.

“Save it for the cameras,” he murmurs distractedly.

He shifts a little, looking for a better position on the cold, hard floor. He’s partly glad he doesn’t have to be trapped at that interview, bombarded with a never-ending stream of intrusive, probing questions but being stuck here with Ouma is hardly an improvement.

“So, Momota-chan,” Ouma chirps almost conversationally, “now that we are all alone is there something you wanna tell me? Confess your undying love, maybe?”

Momota’s brows furrow and he fidgets slightly, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the intense gaze of Ouma’s resolute eyes. He has no idea what he could be possibly getting at, but he also knows for a fact that Ouma is far more perceptive than most people give him credit for (if his batshit, absolutely insane plan from the game is any indication) and he’s not too into the idea of falling victim to it (again), not when there’s no way for him to bolt out of here if things go dire.

“Nothing,” comes a stiff response. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he adds: “Don’t start, Ouma, not when we’re both stuck here.”

The words sound almost like a warning. Unsurprisingly, Ouma pouts and lets out an offended huff. “Momota-chan’s not fun.”

Momota lets a single bark of a laugh at that and shakes his head, leaning against the wall, its surface cold against his back. Fun. What a funny word. Wasn’t it fun, posing as the source of entertainment for millions of people all around the globe? Wasn’t it fun, hacking blood all over the floor and getting poisoned and dying on screen just so people can cross one more person out and debate whether he was a hero or a martyr? He sure as hell hopes that at least someone got some fun out of it, because he certainly can’t say it for himself and so he feels like he’s under no obligation to be fun now.

The familiar anger flames at the pit of his stomach, raw and fierce, until he stiffens it the same way he always does, at least when in public, the ache inside subduing but not going away completely. It’s fine, though. He’ll just have to smash a few plates once he comes back home or something.

He clears his throat, absentmindedly rubbing his arm on the spot where the arrow pierced the skin. There’s no scar left, no evidence to prove that whatever transpired in that hangar was anything more than a vivid illusion crafted by the skilled hands of corrupted technicians and death-crazed writers.

Sometimes, he almost wishes that there was something, anything, a proof of all the suffering they were subjected to, something palpable and permanent. Because maybe if there was they would put a stop to it, maybe then they’d stop this beast that consumes everything on its way just to please the masses and uphold the faux image of the peaceful society, too absorbed with children dying on screen to realize how wrong it all is.

It’s an ugly, rotten thought, one that he can’t help but entertain every now and then.

He shakes his head, as if trying to banish those intrusive thoughts, and focuses on his breathing the way his therapist taught him, grounding himself, centering in the present until his thoughts have a chance to slip into the dangerous area that he spends the best part of his days suppressing because nothing good could possibly ever come from them.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Ouma huffs some more and perches his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around them, tightly.

“Sooo,” he eyes Momota up and down curiously, “wanna play a game?”

Momota snorts. “A game? With you? Pass.”

Ouma purses his lips, “You are killing me here, Momo-chan.”

“Not for the first time and not for the last time,” he responds without thinking and then clasps his hand over his mouth, realizing too late what he’s just said, the horrid implications coming to mind all at one. “Shit… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Ouma simply hums to himself, unimpressed. “Sure you didn’t.”

After that, they drift into silence. Momota throws his head back, leaning against the wall more comfortably, and tries to think about random astronomy facts, little curiosities they packed his head up with, even though he has no recollection of ever learning any of it. Sometimes he ponders whether he should hate astronomy, hate that foreign being they formed him into, stripping him of who he was before any of that. Strangely, this artificially implanted passion becomes a distraction, his escape when everything becomes too much for him to handle and he feels like falling down, face first into the unknown. It’s a rare sense of comfort, something familiar among all those things that make no sense to him in this grotesque, strange world that lost its charm. Ironically, sometimes it feels like he’s been much more happy back in the game, dying and lying through his teeth, struggling to hide the bloodstained shirts and make it through another day without crumbling in defeat. At least back then he had a purpose. Now? He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now.

Every day is like learning how to walk, breathe and exist again, going through the motions without registering them, struggling between the constant switching between disocciating and hyperawareness, never quite reaching that normal state of in between.

He avoids Shuichi and Maki, awkwardly deflecting whenever they try to press, the excuses piling up until he runs out of them and doesn’t even try anymore. They pretend it’s fine and in turn he pretends that it’s enough. The two of them are much closer now that they went through hell to the very end, together, bonded by whatever it is they thought that they feel for him and he tries to learn how to be happy with that.

There’s not much that he can do, really, simply enduring every day like a man on a mission. One step followed by another, pushing through every evening until he can cross out another day in his calendar and start this little game anew, no finish line in sight.

It’s an involuntary, hushed whimper that pulls him out of his thoughts and he blinks, disoriented and half-slumped against the wall. He straightens up, trying to center himself back to reality and locate the strange, alien sound. His eyes slip to the side only to shoot open, round and alert.

“What the—Ouma?!”

The other teen doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge Momota’s concerned shout, his quick, shallow breaths unnaturally loud in the small space of their shared elevator. There’s a worrying, rosy blush that tints his cheeks and nose, evident on his otherwise deathly pale face, bangs damp with sweat. He’s trembling, little tremors wrecking through his bony limbs.

“O-Ouma?” Momota tries again, shuffling closer, panic spreading through his veins, all senses at a full alert. “Hey, you okay, dude?”

“Ah… hahahaha… g-got you, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs breathlessly, one hand pressed against his heart, grasping at the creased, thin material of his shirt, his chest heaving and eyes wide, burning feverishly when he lifts them up to try to focus on Momota but instead looking through him, unseeing. “Y-You worried?”

“Fucking—Yes, of course I am worried!” he yells and then immediately chastises himself when Ouma flinches at the volume. “Shit, sorry.”

He anxiously sorts through the symptoms, struggling to connect the pieces and figure out what is happening, how to help. He’s always been a man of action, unable to just sit and do nothing, letting others suffer in silence. He hovers above Ouma indecisively, torn between the desperate need to help and paralysing fear of making things worse. The painful knot in his stomach continues to tighten and his fingers dig into the skin of Ouma’s thin, bony shoulder when the realization finally dawns upon him.

A panic attack.

He swallows thickly, shocked and confused, eyes wide as for a long —too long —moment he just stares in mute horror, a faint nervousness tingling at the walls of his stomach.

There’s a sense of familiarity that one develops from spending so much time around so many broken people, picking up the shattered pieces of who they used to be and struggling to piece it together without the original pattern, relying on the vague memories and wishful thinking alone. It’s a process of trial and error.

So it makes sense that what he does next is that, too. Trial and error.

“Ouma? Ouma, hey, listen to me,” he shifts closer, his grip on Ouma’s arm growing steadier, more sure. He slips his fingers into his other hand and squeezes, once, hoping that it comes off as at least somewhat comforting even if his hands are clammy and he can feel the panic slowly rising in his chest. “It’s gonna be okay. Just… just fucking breathe, man.”

He pats Ouma on the back awkwardly, his other hand drawing senseless patterns into his open palm with his thumb, the same way his grandma used to do when he was little, frightened by the stories about children-eating monsters building a nest under his bed. Of course, in the end neither the monsters nor his grandma turned out to be real, but it’s not a thought he wants to linger on for too long.

He brings his attention back to the boy at his side.

Gone is the fierce, unstoppable force that is Ouma Kokichi, replaced by a ghostly-looking scrawny boy who doesn’t look his age at all. In that moment, he reminds him way too much of that person he saw back then in the hangar, all bloody lips and broken pieces tucked behind the thorny wall of lies and hiding behind a healthy dose of frighteningly convincing sinister smiles. It’s like reliving those moments again with a striking clarity, everything coming back to him all at once, hitting him with a force of a speeding truck. His whole body feels like someone’s pulling at a raw nerve, a soaring, burning sensation that drowns out everything else.

He pulls Ouma closer, unable to offer any more comfort than that, just letting him shiver, huddled at his side.

He feels inadequate.

Useless.

He’s spent hours and days and weeks struggling to make things better, fueled by the naive belief that as long as he believes in himself and the people he chose to trust he can do anything he can put his mind to. Sometimes it feels like there’s not going to be any better, like he’s stuck here and now, just like they are both stuck in this elevator, trapped in between the floors and refusing to budge.

They lose the concept of time, trapped in their little metal cell and eventually Ouma stills in his half-embrace, his eyes no longer as glassy and absent as before, the trembling gone except for his hands which he curls into fists when he notices Momota staring down at them. His breaths still come in quiet, shallow puffs but he’s no longer on the verge of hyperventilating which Momota decides to take as a good sign.

Momota waits a few more minutes, anxious, but ultimately the curiosity triumphs over uncertainty and with a gentle nudge to Ouma’s side, the words escape his lips before he could bite his tongue. “Hey, you feeling better now? Wanna talk about it?”

Big, doe-like eyes find his, dull and blank until he looks at Momota, really looks at him, and something in them shifts, a different kind of glint when a strange kind of resolve seems to set in. Momota isn’t sure what it is. All he knows is that he doesn’t like the sudden change in his demeanor, doesn’t like the way something familiar and cruel flashes through his eyes as he blinks back the last traces of panic and replaces it with steel and indifference.

“Gonta tried to commit suicide,” Ouma says, apropos of nothing. “Did you know that?”

Momota swallows thickly, a sense of dread wrapping around his insides, squeezing. “W-what?”

Ouma giggles, a quiet and breathy little noise, just at the verge of hysterics. The sound of it sends a shudder down the length of Momota’s spine and not for the first time he wonders how Ouma does that, replaces one mask with another like it’s a child’s game, snaps out of one role and slips into another within seconds. Going from a full on panic attack to… whatever it is now can’t be normal. It isn’t normal.

“Yeah, the good ol’ bug boy couldn’t handle the pressure. He’s fine, though. Found him on time or something.”

A wave of relief crashes into Momota and if he wasn’t sitting already he would have felt his knees go weak, giving out under his weight.

“Jesus. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Isn’t that cool, though? I would have gotten him killed twice! Wouldn’t that be suuuper impressive, Momota-chan?”

Momota’s brows crinkle as he struggles to understand whatever twisted logic Ouma is using. “What does any of it have to do with you?”

“Weeell, it is perfectly obvious, my beloved Momota-chan. What’s there to not understand?”

“Humor me.”

Ouma makes a face.

“Uh. Fine, have it your way. It’s really not that hard, though. You know, brain is a muscle, Momota-chan, you should exercise it more.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” mutters Momota under his breath.

“Anyways, obviously Gonta-chan has been so deeply affected by how cruelly I manipulated him that it drove him to take his own life.”

Momota’s whole body goes numb, a suffocating, cold feeling spreading through his limbs.

‘You can’t possibly believe tha—”

“Huh?” Ouma stares at him, a long, pale finger pressed against his lower lip sweetly, eyes round and innocent. “Isn’t that what happened, though?”

“Stop,” Momota manages through gritted teeth.

“Oh please, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs sarcastically, an ugly bitter undertone in his voice resurfacing. He raises from his crouching position on the floor and takes one, two unsteady steps forward, his stance somewhere between bold and provocative as he sways slightly in place, worn out muscles unable to carry his weight. He turns back to Momota, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the lone light-bulb hanging above. “I think we’ve been through too much to still lie to ourselves. I manipulated you, didn’t I? Just like I manipulated Gonta.”

Momota opens his mouth to protest, to object to whatever nonsense Ouma’s spurting this time, but the words get stuck in his throat as he realizes his brain is blank, unable to come up with an adequate response. Ouma uses the opportunity to continue.

“I made you a murderer,” he spits the last word pointedly, almost as if it’s poisonous on his tongue, and Momota’s resolve falters even more when the gaze of his eyes pierces right through him, its intensity preventing him from tearing his eyes away.

“I turned their beloved hero into a cold-hearted murderer,” repeats Ouma for emphasis, violet eyes bright and unblinking, lips twisted in a rapacious sneer. Now that he started the words won’t stop spilling as if some kind of dam has been broken and there’s no stopping it now. “Was it fun, Momota-chan? Did you enjoy putting me in my place? Did it feel gooood when you punched me? Did it feel good when you killed me?”

“Don’t say that,” Momota finally finds his voice, weak and raspy, his head shaking in a way that feels way more automatic than it should, lacking conviction. “Oh my god, Ouma, why would you even say that?”

“Well, isn’t that right?” Ouma questions, letting out a snort of dismissive laughter. “Are you calling me a liar, Momota-chan?”

“No,” Momota asserts weakly, his thoughts swarning in confusion. Ouma won't let him think, he won't let him gather his thoughts, the ball is in his court now and he steers the game however he likes, dragging Momota along, whether he wants it or not. “I’m not calling you a liar but it’s not—”

“Sooo everything I said is true, right?”

“God, Ouma… You know it’s not that easy. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

Ouma blinks up at him in pretend confusion, head tilted and lips frozen in a condescending smile.

“Like what?”

“It wasn’t you. Okay? They made you do that, they made all of us do that and no one here is to blame.”

Ouma laughs in stunned dismay. “So what? Does it mean we are some naive little babies that don’t have to take responsibility for our actions because we were—-what? Brainwashed? Manipulated? Is that what you’re saying?”

“W-wha—?!” Momota sputters, both nose and forehead wrinkling in confusion. “No? But like… None of that happened. It wasn’t real.”

“Aww, what a lovely sentiment, Momota-chan,” Ouma coos, batting his eyelashes. “So when you killed me you knew it’s not for realsies?”

He doesn’t let Momota answer, a sharp, over-dramatic gasp drowning out Momota’s hurried explanation, his eyes welling with crystalline tears: “And you didn’t tell me? How dare you, Momota-chan! And here I thought I was dying for real.”

Momota fidgets, suddenly very uncomfortable, jaw clenching. His eyes dart from one corner of the elevator to another, looking for some kind of exit that maybe they overlooked.

“Can you like… Stop talking about dying? And… About me killing you?”

Ouma wipes the fake tears away with the verge of his sleeve, the dark material now smudged with whatever he used to mask the shadows under his eyes. He pays it no mind.

“Oh? Does it bother you, Momota-chan? Why? I mean, isn’t that what happened? And what you just said wasn’t, quote and unquote, real?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” grumbles Momota, glaring defiance. He struggles to form sentences, knowing full well that any argument with Ouma is really a fight of wits, an impossible attempt to try to keep up with him.

“I mean… Sure, it happened. And yeah, it was absolutely fucking awful. But we weren’t like, us, y’know. And before you interrupt me again,” he flashes Ouma a sharp glare, raising his finger warningly in a ‘it’s my turn talking’ gesture, “yes, it was us. But we had no memory of who we are and had to watch our friends —yes, friends, don’t even try to argue that,” he adds quickly, seeing as Ouma opens his mouth, undoubtedly ready to disprove that point, ”die horribly. It’s enough to fuck anyone up. We were just trying to survive. Nothing wrong with that.”

Momota braces himself for the upcoming counter-arguments, knowing how relentless and stubborn Ouma can be, determined to confront and challenge every point he made until Momota’s no longer sure what they were talking about.

Not this time, though.

He simply looks at Momota flatly, in a way that is as unlike him as it’s physically possible, completely throwing Momota off his game with the pure unpredictability of it.

“Whatever. Sometimes you really are naive, Momota-chan.” He says it matter of factly, not a jab at his intelligence nor a compliment, just a simple statement.

“Uh… Sure. Same to you,” Momota says dryly, not truly understanding what he’s getting at, much to Ouma’s amusement if the patronizing smirk he flashes him is any indication. He sits back down, in the opposite corner from Momota, seemingly disinterested in continuing that discussion, as if he’s just decided that it’s not worth it anymore and chose to let Momota feed himself with whatever delusions he believed in.

He doesn’t understand Ouma. He’s a fucking enigma, escaping any definitions or even basic common self and Momota always finds himself struggling trying to keep up with him, with his twisted thought patterns and double-meanings behind every action or sentence or smile.

Still, when Momota stares at him he thinks he almost understands.

He thinks back to Ouma’s brief panic attack, to how under certain angles, if the light falls just right, being trapped here feels just like back then, the metal ceiling and floor of the elevator deceptively similar to the cold, smooth surface of the hydraulic press, looming from every side, ready to begin its descent at any moment. The press is a common guest in his dreams, staring him as he stares right back, reflecting galaxies he’ll never see with his own two eyes. In his dreams, ridiculously saturated specks of pink spread over it in a poor imitation of stars.

He considers what Ouma said before, the part about killing Gonta twice, the dreadful implication of him being the reason of Gonta’s doom. What does it make him then? Was he to Ouma what Ouma was to Gonta? Was he the one who ultimately, unintentionally led him to his grave, both figuratively and literally?

He knows, logically, that Maki would have never gone to the hangar if it wasn’t for him, no one would have been hurt if it wasn’t for him. No killing plan would have been needed.

He squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides.

No.

That’s wrong and he can’t think like that.

It’s tempting, so incredibly tempting, to just let his mind slide into that dark area and accept things at face value, to let the guilt spread like an infection until he’s dying again, waiting for his end. He’s good at it, after all.

But it’s not an answer and on some level he knows, he knows it very well that sooner or later he’ll have to face it, get over himself and change something, because deep down he is a survivor and whatever happened in the game was a choice.

They —all of them— were nothing more than a product of this twisted world, driven by a clever program and a well-planned script in the hands of the wrong people. Back then, they had no other choice than to follow the scenario someone else designed for them but it’s no longer true, they are no longer part of that sick, warped game and they don’t have to play by its rules.

Momota licks his lips. Takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to believe me but I guess what I’m trying to say is… None of that shit is our fault, Ouma. And the best thing we can do now is try to move on. You are not responsible for what they made you. All that matters is what you’re gonna do from now on or whatever.”

Ouma pulls his knees closer to his chest and snorts into them, amusement gleaming in his eyes when he tilts his head to get a better look at Momota’s face, his own partly obscured by his dark bangs.

“If you say so~!” he sing-songs. It sounds dismissive.

Momota sighs deeply, dragging a hand over his face tiredly. “I know that deep down you know I’m right, even you can’t be that pessimistic. I sure as hell know that’s how I felt. Can’t you be honest with yourself for once?”

“Silly Momota-chan, I’ve always been honest with myself. Anyways, that’s your shtick, not mine. Momota-chan reaaally should stop projecting on little ol’ me. And I’ll have you know that I’m a realist. You’re just so disgustingly idealistic that anyone who has even a slightly different opinion than you looks like a pessimist in comparison.”

Irritation prickles under his skin. Talking with Ouma sometimes feels like going in circles, beginning and end blurred into one, replaying the same arguments time and time again, never reaching a conclusion. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right, I don’t feel like fucking fighting,” he concedes, resigned. “Why can’t you be honest with me then?”

To his utmost surprise, Ouma actually seems to consider the question. He regards him with a sharp gaze of strikingly clear, critical eyes, squinting slightly. Then, he shrugs, looking away.

“You have yet to give me a reason to.”

It’s an answer that’s vastly different from what Momota would have preferred to hear but in a way it’s almost hopeful, an unspoken promise.

They fall into silence, no more words needed for now, Momota lost deep in his own thoughts.

No, things aren’t the way he wishes them to be but with time he wants to believe he’ll be able to forgive himself, let go of this crippling guilt that eats at him during the days and nights. It’s funny, knowing that Ouma carries his own guilt that’s not unlike his. It’s easy to regard Ouma as this mysterious being that’s above everything and everyone else, existing in his own bubble that Momota’s never had access to. The thing is, he really wants to, though, for better or for worse.

He still feels like he’s been opened raw, foreign hands tugging at his insides, poking and prodding in places they don’t belong to, leaving him spent and exposed in a way that has a bit too much to do with emotional vulnerability. But there’s something about Ouma, whether they are fighting or arguing or simply sharing a moment of imposed silence, that makes him think that maybe someone understands in a way no one else ever would.

He wants something better for Ouma. And… if he wants something better for Ouma he should also want something better for himself. No matter how much trouble he has admitting that. The words would never make it past his lips but it’s alright. Baby steps.

Maybe Ouma is his answer, his way to repair the things he’s managed to mess up along the way. Maybe if he can help him, repay for all the wrong he did… Maybe he would find a way to help himself, too. One day.

Unexpectedly, a plan starts to form in his head and for the first time in ages he doesn’t feel like dying anymore.

Momota takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves. He smiles at Ouma, hopeful. “How about we stop fighting each other and work together for a change?”

Ouma furrows his brows, sending him a bored, disinterested glance. “Haven’t we done that working together part already?”

Momota blinks at him, surprised. “Huh? When?”

Ouma arches an eyebrow, staring at him incredulously. When Momota still doesn’t follow he lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes as if Momota is a great source of suffering for him. “You just asked me not to talk about it like, five minutes ago. Geez, make up your mind, Momota-chan.”

“Oh… Right. That.”

Momota smile falters at the vividly real memory of the hydraulic press that flashes before his eyes, face dropping. He wonders if these memories will ever fade, at least a little, so it feels more like a bad, worn-out-through-years dream and not something that would swallow him at any moment, bring him all the way back to where he started.

He perks up moments later, though, punching his fists together, eyes bright with confidence and new-found resolution.

“That’s in the past, though! I’m talking now. Just you and me. What d’ya say?”

Ouma folds his hands in the air and puts his chin on them, a weary expression on his face. “What are you even proposing, Momota-chan?”

‘I don’t know yet! Or, like… I can’t tell you yet. But I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to show Team Danganronpa that we are so much more than they thought. They might have controlled us in the game but now that we are out they have no control over us. We are our own people now, so... Fuck the contracts, fuck them. They say that your happiness is the best revenge so that’s what we’re gonna fucking do!”

Ouma blinks at him a few times and then wrinkles his nose in distaste, as if he’s just smelled something highly unpleasant.

“Wow, sometimes I forget how dumb Momota-chan really is,” he comments and relishes in the glimpse of offended fury that flashes through Momota’s eyes at the insult. It’s one thing in their messed up lives that would never get old.

“I’m not dumb. And if you keep saying that I’m gonna call off my offer!”

“Oh, please do! I’m sure there’s a ton of volunteers fighting to take my place,” comes Ouma’s wry response and he almost cackles out loud at the faint blush of offended fury that coats Momota’s cheeks and stretches to the tips of his ears.

“I fucking hate you.”

“Aww, I love you too,” Ouma chirps with unabashed glee and even has the audacity to wink at him.

Momota groans, the sound bouncing off the walls, and hides his face in his hands.

“You are impossible.”

“Thank you, I try~!”

Momota mumbles something inaudible under his nose and Ouma uses the occasion to shuffle closer to him.

“But you know what?” he questions humorously, trying to peek through the hands still splayed over Momota’s face. “Hey, Momota-chan, stop ignoring me, I have something important to tell you!”

Two fingers move slightly to the side and a lone, mauve eye glares appears, glaring defiance.

“What?”

“My life’s been actually suuuper boring lately,” complains Ouma loudly. “So I guess I could use some entertainment.”

The eye blinks at him, widening slightly.

“Wait… so you’re in?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m in.”

“Oh.”

Momota lets his hands fall down, revealing a stunned, hopeful look on his face. “Wait, for real?”

“Geez, Momota-chan, how many times do I have to say it?” Ouma rolls his eyes impatiently, drumming his fingers against the metal floor. “Yes, I’m in. Someone has to be there to take the blackmail photos and post them all over the Internet when you inevitably make a complete fool out of yourself.”

Momota’s brightens with a smile, so happy that he turns a deaf ear to that last comment.

“Great,” he beams at Ouma and for the first time in days, weeks, maybe years, it doesn’t feel forced. “You’re not gonna regret it!”

Ouma sighs deeply. “I already do.”

Momota’s about to sprout some more motivational nonsense about revenge and happiness and his own, private theories about what Ouma needs or doesn’t need, but before he can do that, someone pries the door to the elevator open, momentarily blinding both of them with the light that breaks inside.

When they finally get freed, Momota’s immediately swept away by his agent, yelling in tune with Ouma’s, something about schedules and programs and ruined plans and there’s some sense of deep satisfaction, located somewhere in his chest, pulsating warmly when he realizes that for the first time in a really long time he finally has some resemblance of control over his own life, something that Team Danganronpa couldn’t possibly take away from him.

#oumota #oumotaweek2019 #kokichi ouma #kaito momota #ndrv3 #oumotaweek #ouma kokichi #oumota week #Dangan Ronpa #cw suicide attempt mention #my writing

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ladyemberswrites · 5 years

Text

"A Touch Is All I Ask"

Summary: Basically, an Au of Au wherein an accident Lotor ends up traveling through the rift only for him to met and fall in love with Allura from another reality, but because life refuses to give him a break the rift creatures destroy both that Allura and her reality along with her leaving Lotor to travel the rift for centuries trying to find his way back home. Fortunately, he ends of being saved the Princess Allura from his reality. Which makes things all the more awkward as Lotor has to force himself to differentiate between this Allura and the Allura he had loved. The plot only thickens once Allura starts to develop feelings for him as she nurses him back to health.

Rating: T and Up

Words: 2k

Chapters: 1/?

He had lost everything in a single fleeting moment. A breath, a heartbeat, and soon nothingness consumed him. It ate away at the flesh and the bone, and pierced his dreaded, cold heart. His fingers reached for nothing, tiny cosmos, stars that have already long passed, and they bleed through his fingers. His fingers, these hands that have done nothing but bring about horrors, that only bring about destruction. Perhaps they were right, he is a curse. A blight on the world, a filthy obstruction. He felt the world around him drown, his body as heavy as lead and as weightless as a cloud. In space-time is obsolete. His mind and memories fragmented, and the voices that haunt him whisper in his ears in continual repeat.

The rift is relentless, a cruel, twisted mistress. An abomination, an unknown horror and they like a siren singing sailors to their deaths upon the steep rocks sing to him too as he wanders, and he drifts to nowhere. Howling, and lulling sweet tunes that fill the silence of his travels where there is nowhere and no one, and as the presumed days go by they fill the aching silence. He‘s long tuned them out-but-

~Lotor~ their eyes are amber like hers. Their hair a dark silver like hers had once been. Though, he had never heard her voice, he assumes that must have been what she sounded like. But, he knows that they aren’t his mother. Their image of her is picture perfect, not a single detail missed, but he knows. He’s no fool. He knows their games he knows their lies. They hiss when he pays the cheap imitation no mind, growling, and sneering.

~How dare you!~ they screech in union, a kaleidoscope of dissonant voices. His ears run red when the shrieking refuses to come to an end, but again he disregards them and simply keeps going, he keeps moving because he does not know when to give up. Because death is too easy, no matter how tempting it is to just collapse and sleep an endless dream. But, dreams offer him no repute, no reprieve instead they are nothing more than a reflection-a mirror world-a gateway to his own insanity. There is no peace. So, he must walk even though there is nothing.

“That's absolutely disgusting, Lance!” Pidge grimaces, her nose wrinkles as she spat out her tongue.

“Yeah, well, try actually being there and seeing it in person" he leans into her, his shoulder, bony and sharp, cuts into her side "let me tell ya, that changes a man"

“Just because you experienced it, doesn't mean I want to hear it” Pidge mutters into her palm "and can't you sit on your side of the ship?" she shoves him.

He brushes aside her last comment making himself comfortable “I thought we were friends, Pidge? Besides you who else do I have in this big lonely castle?"

"Why can't you bother, Hunk for a change" the girl surfs her screens in boredom.

"I would, but he's been too busy with his new girl-friend" he emphasizes his point by making quotation marks with his fingers "to hang out anymore-I mean whatever happened to the bro-code!?"

Pidge rolls her eyes "so, what? He can become a lonely, desperate misogynist, womanizing jerkhole?"

"I prefer the term lover man, Pidge"

"I think you missed the entire point of that statement..nevermind-the point being is that there are other men on the ship you could socialize with"

"I rather get stabbed in the spleen again than hang out with Keith out of my own volition"

"I wasn't talking about, Keith."

"Shiro's way too serious to do anything fun with. It's all Lance stop. Lance your drinking way too much. Lance you can't spike people's drinks. Shiro's awesome and all, but he doesn't have a single fun bone in his body"

"I don't think perpetuating liver damage is something I would personally consider fun"

"It's not about the drinks, the drinks are just secondary, where there's alcohol there's hot women, come on get with the program Pidge"

"Shiro's gay"

"I was gonna hook him up"

"With a dude?" She rose a dry brow.

"Of course a dude, unless he goes both ways, I can get him both"

"...Y'know it's a wonder why your single?"

"Is that sarcasm?"

"What about Coran" she dodges the question " he's a guy"

"Coran's fun-until he goes overboard. Y'know like the time he nearly killed us"

"That was your own fault y'know"

"How was I supposed to know pot would drive him into a murderous rampage-" The hiss and beep of the bridge door interrupts him. Hunched and bleary eyed, Allura wanders onboard in a complete daze, her heels clicking against the paneled walkway. Her characteristic bun hung lopsidedly off the side of her head, her ends frazzled and uncombed. Her eyes sunken with dark bruises and her favorite white jacket hangs haphazardly off her one shoulder.

Lance whistled “Boy, you look awful, Princess-or is that a new look your aiming for”

Allura snaps her head towards him with lethal speed, barely restraining the urge to strangle him

“I’m far too tired to deal with your nonsense this morning, so please do shut up unless you’d like be placed on toilet duty again”

The threat hangs in the air for a few minutes before Lance snorts, brushing her off awhile tugging at the hem of his turtleneck sweater in a nervous bout “Y-yeah, but no thanks, Princess, I've cleaned enough toilets and vomit to last me a lifetime"

Allura didn’t bother to comment but casts him one last warning glare before turning back to the teleduv, reaching out she taps it lightly bringing the ship's screens to life. The skies were all clear except for a bach of asteroids floating in the distance, but to her relief so far no enemy ships or anything remotely suspicious, as they travel the cosmos to Planet Greta off hidden on another less known side of the galaxy.

Even so, she didn't wish to take any chances and made sure to double check her assessment, while ignoring Pidge and Lance's continued conversation Bits and pieces dribble into the forefront of her thoughts here and there, but there's nothing she can make sense of being that the topic relates back to Earth.

Her checks repeat nothing new-Sighing, she cuts the feed to rub her face in annoyance. Everything hurt. Her body aches in a way that's more aggravating than truly painful. But, sleep has been hard to come by lately, the moment she closes her eyes-the nightmares began again. Her father’s blood upon her hands, splattered upon the blue silk of her gown, the sight of his mangled corpse lying at Zarkon’s iron boots. His face darkened, indistinguishable from the other bodies that littered the marble floors-

She clenches her fingers listlessly fearing that if she didn’t pay attention she’d find his blood on them again. Her skin burned, having spent the night trying to scrub the red away. Now, they just itch, the skin of her hands rubbed raw and dry. And yet, there's that lingering feeling of wetness that she just can't shake, despite knowing that it isn't there. Yet, she kept scratching her wrist as she stared out over the bridge watching nothing but stars pass them by.

“Lura?” she didn’t hear Pidge pace up to her. She turns in the girl's direction “you okay there? You’ve got that dead look in your eyes again?”

“I’m fine, Pidge. Don’t worry” she wonders if her voice always sounded hoarse, or is it just her, and she’s hearing things again. Whatever the case she just shakes her head attempting to ignore it. That and the throbbing headache that pounds at the back of her skull.

“If you say so….” Pidge didn't know what else to say or do other than offer the woman her space, and awkwardly returns to her seat.

"What's her problem?" Lance whispers.

"....I don't know. She looks sick-"

"She's not going to pass out again is she because-"

Perhaps, it’s time to give up and ask Doctor Alibhe for some sleep aid? Her nose wrinkles at the prospect, but what else can she do. She's tried everything: training until she's exhausted to the bone. Meditation only abandons her to her own traitorous thoughts which only leads to exasperation and a wish to lobotomize herself. So, no that was a no go. She's tried tea, acupuncture, oil massage. Worse case scenario, well, partially out of desperation a chiropractor who only charged her an exuberant amount of money and a nasty crick in her neck that took weeks to go away. Trial or error aside, she can't continue like this; people will notice, people are already noticing, if it keeps going the questions will never end. Pressing a fist to her brow, she huffs-if only the night didn't dreg up past horrors-

*Ping*

Her temples throb, cracking her eyes back open Allura finds herself thrown from her musings back to reality. The pinging of the teleduv continues causing her to pause and blink for a moment flicking the scanners back on.

"What?” out of bloody nowhere something pops up upon the monitors signaling a disturbance in the area. Brows tightly pinched together, she didn't see any ships-

“Enemy ship?” Lance asks in a brief moment of seriousness. Both his and Pidge's eyes dart from her to the screens above, bracing themselves for impact.

“It’s-" she squints "no” she shakes her head

“whatever it is-it’s far too small to be a ship-it’s-oh,

no” her heart plummets to the pit of her stomach.

“Oh, no what?”

“It’s another rift opening….”

“Well, that's just flipping fantastic!” Lance barks “More rift creatures! Is it bad that I rather deal with Sendak, heck even Zarkon himself any day over dealing with those walking-talking living embodiments of nightmare fuel!”

Allura swallows dryly. A lovely start to already dreary day-oh, stars, she's not sure how much more she can take of this insanity.

“Maybe we’ve been blessed by the Altean space gods!” Lance cries to the heavens “because I don’t see a single thing or y’know I'm not vomiting up my own entrails”

“Not if you don’t jinx us” Keith snaps. As quickly as it had come the rift had immediately snapped shut. Yet, no creatures of the rift made it out through the small opening. No horrifying illusions or imagery, just nothing. Just dead-end silence that did little to comfort her as she stares out among the stars and the blackness of space.

In their rush they took their respective lions on ahead with Allura placing Head Commander Hira at the helm and with the ship on high alert. When nothing assaulted them, Shiro suggested they take a look around by hand. Jetpacks loaded with full and pistols set on lethal everyone disembarked only to greeted by nothing.

Allura worries her bottom lip out of nervousness, she’s only glad that she hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast or else she would have vomited in her own helmet. Holding her pistol close, she prepares herself for anything by as the minutes trickle on by, besides the cluster of asteroids, nothing bizarre happens. An hour of searching and checking and rechecking the area's clear of any potential danger.

“I’m starting to think it was a false alarm, Princess” Keith calls out to her.

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Nada , zilch” Hunk tapped his scanner “besides the glitchy connection, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary”

“Me neither” Pidge mutters “it’s all just empty space as far as the eye can see.”

“Same here” Shiro adds, perplexed.

“Same with my end” Matt floats back to them “looked all over those asteroids over there, but like Hunk said zilch. Nada.”

“Perhaps, something was trying to get out, but couldn’t” Hunk states with an uneasy hitch in his voice.

It isn't unlikely, and it's probably the case, too. Though that does beg the question-if something were trying to claw its way out the rift what stopped it? Allura isn’t sure if she wants to find out.

“Hunk’s probably right” Allura agrees quietly, holstering her pistol “we should probably head back to the Lions. Oxygen's running low.” They weren't that far from the castle ship, but it's still a pretty good distance even with the lions.

"About time! This place gives me the creeps"

"Second that-"

“...more like it was a waste of time…” everyone moves on ahead of her as she can't help but linger, taking one more glance over her shoulder she scans her surroundings. It's times like these that remind her how vast the galaxy is. Enormous and all consuming like a sea with no bottom, no end. Left could right, and right, left. Shoving down the existential dread, she moves to to turn and head back until a twinkling light catches the corner of her eye. Stopping, she swivels back to look again-this time the twinkling is hard to miss, she squints, it isn't a star, as the source of the glittering is a top an asteroid closest to her. With bated breath she slowly, carefully maneuvers herself over to it. It's rocky texture is rough, the cold seeping through her gloves. With a grunt she heaves herself upwards, her thoughts oddly quiet as she focuses on climbing and hauling her weight until she reaches the top. Heaving enough to cloud the glass of her helmet, she stills to inhale a deep breath before she decides to lift her head up and freezes-

A massive body is collapsed upon the mountainous structure.

It-can't be-

Galra?

Hesitantly, she crawls towards him on all fours both curiosity and fear churning in her gut. Carefully, she reached over to quickly tap his shoulder to snap it away fearing a swipe of his large hand. Or a lunge. Squeezing her eyes shut she expects the worst, but when nothing came she instead hears a low, pained groan.So, low that if it weren't for her being so close she probably wouldn't have heard him. Placing a hand to calm her erratic heart, Allura steadies herself before gently extending both her hands to flip him on to his back, however it isn't without some difficulty. He's super heavy. With a grunt she manages and once he's on his back she's met with a rather gorgeous face, but unfortunately one she did not recognize. Examining his body, his armor is old. Eroded with rust and dented all over with the color of it faded. His face as handsome as it is, is marred with bruises painted black and dark blue, and dried blood dribbles down his obviously split lip. Yet, strangely enough she didn't find anything indicating his rank. No badge or medallion, no even a family crest holding his cape together. There's a satchel hung around his waist, but it wouldn't be wise to open it out here. He definitely looks the part of a high ranking galra general, but that begs the question, if he is, what is a seemingly distinguished general doing out here in the middle of an asteroid field? Did someone dump him out here?

Frantically her eyes dart around- but, she was so sure she hadn't detected a galra ship in the area-

Breathing heavily, she only finds emptiness.

-unless-

Her eyes fall back to him-the rift. Her eyes widen as she eyed him closer now noticing the markings on his face, a telltale sign of quintessence exposure. They weren't too bad, but it isn't something that can be ignored without consequence. Frightened out of her mind, she shouts back to her team over her shoulder.

“I found something!” drawing all eyes to her. I've definitely found something; she whispers to herself.

#Voltron #oldtron #lotura #lollura #redemption universe

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homesweetsewer · 6 years

Text

Harmless Part 3 (Donatello x Fem Reader)

Part 3 as promised...2 more to go! I hope everyone is having a great weekend. Tagging @gummiwormsandonedirection as requested. I hope it meets your expectations!

Part 1 is HERE

Part 2 is HERE

Donatello sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the surface. His plate of pizza sitting forgotten in front of him. Raph and Casey were seated across the table, busy arguing over the latest Knicks game while Mikey stuffed his face with pizza while having a friendly debate with April over whether hand tossed or pan pizza was the superior pie. Donnie barely heard any of it. His eyes kept wandering from his watch to the door of the lair and back again. Leo had been gone for quite some time and it was beginning to really eat at him. With every minute that ticked by, the nervous knot in his stomach wound tighter. His brother was only supposed to check on you and make sure you really were alright and report back his findings. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly be taking so long.

“Hey...”

A gentle hand on his forearm made him jump in surprise. Donnie turned his head to see April looking at him with a concerned expression on her lovely face. Normally, her touch and close proximity would have sent a pleasant shiver straight through him. Right now, however, all he was capable of feeling was a deep concern for you and the uncertain status of your relationship. He blinked at her, “I’m sorry, April...what did you say?”

April bit her lip worriedly. It wasn’t like Donnie to zone out and it especially wasn’t like him to ignore her. “I asked if you were alright. You seem like you’re a million miles away.”

“Oh,” Donnie chuckled but it lacked any real humor. “I’m fine just...uh...thinking about a project I’m working on,” he lied. He didn’t know how to adequately express his fear that he’d somehow drove the person closest to him away.

“Oh,” April smiled, completely oblivious to the turtle’s inner turmoil, and gave his arm a squeeze. “What kind of project?”

“Um,” Donatello wracked his brain, trying to visualize the many half-finished experiments that littered his workbench. Finally, he stuttered out the first thing that came to mind, “It’s a perpetual energy generator based loosely on Nikola Tesla‘s fuel less generator schematics...”

April’s eyes clouded over slightly, the woman obviously having no clue what he was talking about. Still, her smile widened, “Well, it sounds brilliant, just like you...”

“Th-thanks,” Donatello stuttered, his face heated at the compliment but he suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. He couldn’t enjoy April’s company when he very well may be losing you. He carefully extricated himself from April’s grasp and quickly stood from the table causing her to frown. “I’m, uh...I should probably head to the lab.” He fidgeted, “You know, get back to work while I’m feeling inspired...”

“Oh, uh, sure,” April nodded, utterly confused by the terrapin’s suddenly standoffish demeanor. “Need any help? It’s been a while since we worked on anything together.”

“No,” Donatello blurted a bit more forcefully than he intended. He internally cringed at April’s surprised expression but he needed to be alone with his thoughts. In a softer tone he added, “There’s lots of, uh, volatile compounds. It’s probably safer if you didn’t.”

“Oh...okay...” April reluctantly agreed as the turtle turned to take his leave. “Maybe another time then?”

“Yeah...Maybe,” Donnie called back over his shoulder as he practically fled to the solitude of his lab. “Thanks for the pizza!”

“But you didn’t even eat any of it,” April huffed under her breath as the ninja disappeared from sight leaving her completely baffled.

No sooner had Donatello secured the door to the lab behind him, he’d collapsed into his chair and reached for his phone. No missed calls and no new messages from you or Leo. Surely, he thought, if there’d been an issue or had you not been alright, Leo would have let him know. His brother knew how worried he’d been. How could he not be worried when his very best friend in the entire world suddenly decided they wanted nothing to do with him? He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where your relationship had jumped the tracks but he would have given anything to fix it.

Honestly, he hadn’t realized just what a huge part of his life you were until you suddenly weren’t around for him to talk to and confide in. Guilt gnawed at him because he knew that meant he’d taken you for granted. It’s just that...it was so easy to settle in and be comfortable around you that he really hadn’t given it much thought. He hadn’t needed to. The two of you just clicked. You were pleasant and easy to talk to. You enjoyed the same types of music and movies, you both loved to read and often swapped books, you both loved learning new things and, though science and technology were not your strongest subject, you showed a genuine interest and fascination in his work that he was both appreciative for and proud of. When he was with you, he wasn’t a mutant turtle living in the sewers and you weren’t a human girl cavorting with monsters. You were simply two close friends enjoying one another’s company and sharing the joy you found in your common interests.

God, he missed you.

The intensity of his lonesomeness surprised him. Sure, he had his brothers and April...even Casey, but they weren’t a replacement for you. The pair of you had grown incredibly close since that fateful night they’d rescued you from a pair of thugs who’d knocked you unconscious and dragged you into a dark alleyway to do God only knew what with you. It had never dawned on him at the time that those first few tentatively awkward moments between you would blossom into such closeness and camaraderie. Certainly, you cared for his brothers and spent plenty of time, especially, keeping Mikey entertained, but, it wasn’t completely lost on him that you seemed to prefer his company the most. It was that tiny bit of knowledge that sparked a proud satisfaction within him.

He was your favorite, or at least he had been. Now...now he wasn’t sure what had happened between you but he desperately wanted to fix it. He wanted, no, he needed his best friend back. With a heavy sigh that bordered on a sob, Donatello buried his face in his hands and hoped that Leo returned soon. He didn’t know how much more worry and uncertainty he could take.

Donnie wasn’t sure how long he’d remained sitting idly in his lab—it wasn’t like him to remain still when there was so much he could be doing, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Eventually, he became aware that the sound of revelry from the living area had quieted. With a tired groan, he rose and made his way over to peek out of the door. The living room and kitchen areas were devoid of people and most of the lights were off meaning April and Casey had taken their leave and Raph and Mikey had turned in for the night.

Curious, he stepped out and closed the lab door quietly behind himself. He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in light, blinking behind his glasses as he made his way through the space. He felt as though he was moving on autopilot as his feet directed him to Leonardo’s neat, little corner of the lair. A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach at finding his eldest brother’s gear still gone and his bed empty. He still hadn’t returned. Now Donnie was really starting to become concerned. He backtracked quickly, making a bee line for his own niche, fully prepared to suit up and go find out what was going on for himself. It seemed he wouldn’t have to, however, as Leo’s voice stopped him suddenly in his tracks.

“Donnie, what are you still doing up?”

Donatello spun toward the sound to find his eldest brother sauntering toward him with a curious look on his face. Instead of answering his brother’s question, however, he made a demand of his own, “Where have you been all night? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“You sound like dad,” Leo chuckled tiredly. He smirked at his younger brother as he passed by, heading to his room. “Gonna send me to the Hashi?”

“I’m serious, Leo...”

The blue clad ninja sighed as he unstrapped his gear and began stowing it away, “Where do you think I’ve been? You’re the one that asked me to go check on her...”

“Yeah, I did,” Donnie frowned, “But you’ve been gone for over three hours! What were you doing?”

“Well,” Leo took his time removing his mask and carefully folded the scrap of cloth before answering. “She invited me to have dinner with her...”

Donatello bristled, “Dinner?!”

Leo nodded, turning to face his younger brother. “Yeah, dinner...Indian takeout. Her parents were out for the night and she really didn’t want to be alone so afterwards we ended up watching a movie until they got back.”

“You two had dinner and watched a movie together?” Donnie felt strangely put out. He’d been practically begging you to come over for over a week to have some dinner with them and watch a movie and you’d blown him completely off but you apparently had no problem sitting down with just his brother to do the same. It hurt and he reluctantly admitted to himself that he was feeling just a little jealous. Okay, maybe more than a little. His eyes widened behind their frames at that realization.

“Yeah,” Leo confirmed. “Look, Donnie, we talked and she’s not mad at you.”

“She’s not?” Donatello may have been the taller of the two of them but he suddenly felt very, very small as his brief burst of anger was smothered by gnawing anxiety. “Then...why is she acting like this?”

“She’s...” Leo tried to search for the right words. “She’s worried for you.”

“Me?” Donnie’s face twisted in confusion. Why on earth would you be worried for him? As far as he was concerned, it was his job to worry for you.

“It’s complicated,” Leonardo shook his head. “Something was brought to her attention and it’s been weighing on her, that’s all. She wasn’t sure if she should bring it up, or how to bring it up for that matter. So, she’s been staying away.”

“What?” The purple ninja’s brow furrowed, fresh worry bubbling in his chest, “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

“The thing about that is,” Leo tried to explain, “the person that can help doesn’t see the problem and, well, that is the problem.”

“What?” Donatello pondered his brother’s words as he pushed his glasses up his snout. “Leo...that doesn’t even make sense.”

“It will,” Leo mumbled and, quickly changing the subject, asked, “Was April here?”

“Yeah,” Donnie nodded. “Why?”

“Was Casey with her?” The blue banded leader asked pensively.

Donatello let out a snort of irritation, “Isn’t he always?”

“Did they leave together?”

Donnie shrugged, “I don’t know. Probably. Things just felt...weird, I guess. I went to the lab and by the time I came out everyone was already gone so I didn’t see. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Nothing...forget I asked.” Leo continued to turn the April/Casey situation over in his mind even as he tried to reassure his brother. It would need to be dealt with, yes, but right now comforting Donatello was his main concern. “Like I said, we talked and she’s not mad at you, alright? So stop worrying about whether or not you did something wrong. You didn’t. Understand?”

Donnie sniffed as he felt wannabe tears burn behind his eyelids. He hadn’t messed things up with you and that had been his biggest fear. He wanted to feel relief but could sense there was a lot Leonardo was leaving unsaid. “Yeah...okay.”

“Good.” Leo clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Because she’s coming over tomorrow night...”

“She is?!” Donatello brightened considerably at that statement. His best friend was coming back. He wasn’t sure what Leo had said or done to convince you to return but he was willing to forgive him the evening he’d spent with you in exchange for whatever magic he’d managed to work while he was there. He’d certainly not been getting anywhere with all his calls and texts. Still, he found himself feeling the slightest bit apprehensive. After all, you had run out on him the last time. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Leonardo assured. “I made her promise. So no more moping, okay?”

Donnie couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Sure, Leo.”

Though relieved to see his brother in better spirits, Leo couldn’t help but think they weren’t out of the woods just yet. There was still Casey and April to deal with. He wanted to say more but found himself biting back a yawn instead. “I gotta turn in...I’m wiped. You should probably get some sleep, too.”

“Yeah,” Donatello nodded, suddenly realizing how tired he truly was. He rarely slept much as it was, his inventions and experiments always keeping him up till an ungodly hour. Fretting over you, however, meant he’d been sleeping even less than normal. “You’re probably right. Goodnight, Leo, and...thanks.”

“Sure thing, Donnie.” Leo smiled at his brother but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Donatello was too elated to notice.

To be continued...

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #donatello x reader #april o’neil #casey jones #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leo #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt mikey #fanfiction #fanfic #tmnt fanfic #tmnt fanfiction

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mindcontrolinformation-blog · 5 years

Text

Electronic Harassment & Directed Energy Weapons

Electronic Harassment and Mind Control

Public Disclosure Notice

Directed Energy Weapons

Sonic Weapon Warning

[email protected]

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcDslisL3C9pbGmkKIl0tcA

Certain groups have the ability to monitor your thoughts, speak to your mind remotely, and apply energy to your brain in an effort to make you feel a certain way or motivate you in a manipulated direction. All of this is done wirelessly from a distance with directed energy.

A great deal of people have complained to authorities about this only to be turned away without a report or documentation, or direction to go for assistance. In fact, they have been made to look delusional to legitimate law enforcement organizations and doctors, and mocked by them for seeking help and warning them and the public of the existing dangers.

The attacks begin and are disguised with the symptoms of a “Mental Illness”. People that are targeted are provoked, informed they are being targeted and then left helpless to explain to family, friends, law enforcement and doctors that they are the victim of a psychological attack with a weapon the public is not aware of.

Intelligent targets look to the internet for answers to discover they are the recipient of “Electronic Harassment”. EH is an attempt to describe the attacks as harassment, when in fact it is an attack with mind control exercises embedded. Involuntary subjects are manipulated with directed energy weapons from afar to achieve unbiased results. Their intentions are disguised by appearing like a nuisance, Electronic Harassment, which distracts and misinforms the target and public that they hope to achieve total control of the ability to manipulate your mind as they please.

In an effort to further disguise the intention of Mind Control, some of the source of the attacks are attributed to “Gangstalking”, which is the false belief that a group of individuals is stalking, sabotaging and terrorizing your life. It is a good example of misleading or false information. Gangstalking is a major subject on the internet, when in fact it is a perpetuated falsehood. They have the ability to mimic voices and create sounds and use these abilities to construct uncomfortable scenarios with people within earshot, usually neighbors. They instigate disagreements and perceived conflicts, that cannot be resolved because they are an implanted figment of their imagination. Anybody that has access to a weapon of this ability, would never risk getting caught and exposed coming anywhere near someone they are targeting. The targeted person is unaware of the capabilities, and assigns blame to gangstalking.

Electronic Harassment and Gangstalking serve to misinform the public and the Targeted Individual of the intention and source of the harassment. This prevents medical professionals and law enforcement from adequately addressing and assisting in the Targeted Individual’s needs. Furthermore, the disinformation keeps the people responsible, the source of the crime, from being exposed, stopped and prosecuted.

Electronic harassment disrupts the flow of society and can incite violence. The number of domestic terrorism incidents has increased exponentially recently and are being conducted by American citizens rather than religious fanatics. The only thing capable of aggravating a person to a point where they would want to incur so much damage are Directed Energy Weapons. These people, in essence, have been stripped of all that is important to them, their lives, are being held hostage and are going out in a blaze of glory because they have no place to turn. They have had their lives and dignity taken from them, and no one is available to help them.

As a result, the best and only defense against these attacks is a thorough awareness, sound understanding of the capabilities, a reliable supporting network and a free flow of information. Unwitting people can be rendered unstable, making society less safe for everyone.

What needs to be done is a coordinated effort to organize the victims into a group to rally lawmakers to make a difference and bring about change. People have tried long enough to individually bring about change to no avail. The people capable of making a difference will not do so until they are approached by strength in numbers, a group they cannot ignore.

Furthermore, the medical community is not appropriately educated as to how to address the needs of the people that have been targeted. Medical professionals are not trained to distinguish between mental illness and a simulated mental illness, so they end up incorrectly treating their patients.

One easy way to test for the difference between Electronic Harassment and mental illness, is to simply ask the person whether the number of different voices they hear at any given time varies. Mental illness can vary from one to five. Electronic Harassment victims, or targeted individuals, always hear 2 different voices constantly at any given time.

Should you encounter any of these issues, I have conducted a review of the related websites listed at the end of this blog. They provide as much information and advice as possible, but beware, in some cases way too much information. There is not much assistance available. Some of the information available on the internet is misleading, incorrect, intimidating and scary. It is important to read verified information, rather than speculation.

There are also online petitions and newsletters that can be signed up for to start getting involved. Please develop your own independent opinion by verifying what you hear before taking anything for granted. A web of disinformation and misinformation exists to confuse, terrorize and mislead. Some of the owners of the sites may be unwittingly spreading the wrong information and some may be planted to lead readers in the wrong direction by enabling misinformation through peer pressure.

What you need to know before proceeding:

Electronic Harassment is another term for attempted Mind Control. They are disguising their objective with harassment.

Gangstalking and Organised Stalking is not real, a constructed perception, and an implanted figment of the imagination. No one comes remotely close to your physical location. Voices and noises are mimicked and odd occurrences are claimed by your harassment.

Microwave burns are a ricochet off your brain and not a microwave potato gun hitting you through a wall next door. They trigger your brain to heat your body in strategic locations.

Any implants found are not necessarily associated with the harassment because everything is wireless. Not enough is known about the science to convince anyone effectively that an implant is related to electronic harassment.

Intelligence Agencies and the Government are not responsible for electronic harassment because of the liability. The blame or fault lies with private entities or contractors. The government may be complicit by ignoring complaints made by harassed citizens.

Terminology

Associated Terms

Here is a list of associated terms to research to familiarize yourself with the issue:

Electronic Harassment

Targeted Individual

Gangstalking

Perp or Perpetrator

Mind Control

Redefining Associated Terms

A better way of understanding the the terms are shown below. I would change the terminology from:

Perps to Stalkers or Twerps

Electronic harassment to Wireless Harassment

Gangstalking to successfully directed paranoia or Electronic or Wireless Stalkers

Targeted Individual seems to be the best description

Sonic Weapon

The American consulates in Cuba and China were hit with the same type of weapon used or associated with “Electronic Harassment”. They complained of non-verbal attacks with a high pitch ringing in their ears. They classified the weapon as a Sonic Weapon and then backtracked by saying it wasn't a weapon at all, but rather an insect.

I experience the same high pitch noise, except my symptoms go far beyond that. The difference, is that they actually speak to me in an effort to create maps and get my brain to be more receptive to further attacks. They can apply energy to my brain to manipulate any part of my body to do whatever they want. It is miserably synthetic!

Furthermore, they can and have made my eardrums rotate in circles, scraping the sides of my inner ear as they went around. It was excruciatingly painful! So painful that they called it “one of those times” attacks. I usually threaten to go to the emergency room and complain of a Sonic Weapon when they mess with my ears which seems to calm things down most of the time.

Recently, the news tried to blame the source of the attacks on crickets. The Asian governments have come out with an effort to utilize the technology to assist the public and their country. Our government, or the people responsible for the news, hides the technology and blames the attacks on an insect, which is very disappointing.

Overall, the unwanted attack on the American consulates and myself is not a Sonic Weapon or a cricket, but rather a Directed Energy Weapon that moves and operates at sonic speeds. They can pry into your mind to see what you are thinking, communicate wirelessly with you, and apply or deprive your mind of energy to manipulate it as they see fit.

How to Stop Electronic Harassment

In order to stop Electronic Harassment, follow the web of disinformation and track the financial support. Then, connect the patents to the groups financing the flow of misinformation. Every website is full of misguided or misleading information to protect those that are responsible and make people appear delusional. Moreover, the conference calls are scripted and controlled by the moderator to monitor the subject matter and mislead targeted individuals. Hire private investigators to investigate the people moderating conference calls and website owners responsible for the false information. They promote useless and intimidating information, exposing themselves and leaving a documented path to the source of the harassment.

They are designed to act as a net of disinformation to keep those that are targeted helpless and confused. Track the bank accounts to monitor outside deposits and connect the patents to the people making the deposits. Investigating the sites and moderators can be done properly and successfully by a good private investigator or uncorrupted public administration.

Furthermore, the “TI Community” is set up as a peer pressure group to reinforce the false notions of gangstalking, implants, shielding and unconfirmed conspiracies. The conference calls and forums are full of people who are voraciously concerned and adamantly insist that gangstalking is real, implants are the source of the harassment and shielding actually works consistently over time. They quickly and viciously attack anyone who disagrees, and when all else fails, insist people with different opinions are working for the people responsible for the harassment.

The people responsible for Electronic Harassment work for private contractors so tracing the flow of funds generating the web of disinformation would give a clear and documented path to the structure of their program and people paid to harass innocent citizens and ruin their lives. I look forward to the day that the intelligence agencies stop turning a blind eye, turn on the independent contractors and use them as an example by prosecuting them publicly.

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addressyourarsenic-blog · 5 years

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[ hc ] loufte

region of ahfey

related muses: fenrir, sköll, alleluia

History & Lifestyle

Loufte, formerly known as Scyllus, was an archipelago lifted into the air by the storm god as a haven for the Immortals who were being cut down by Yail and (accidentally) Raeil, Khaeil. Where it used to sit lies in a bermuda triangle-esque area surrounded by cyclones. As such, the locals of Loufte have no safe way of touching on land and instead embrace the fact that they live in the sky now. The people of Loufte are far more technologically advanced than the land down below and they aren’t afraid to show it with their airships and various other technologies that can be seen from below.

The people of Loufte are naturally Nomadic, but their home has a tendency to move with them.

There are, however, giant hub cities that people have settled into like Flux, or the incredibly ancient denizens of C’madiso, who have been creatures of the sky long before Loufte was raised. C’madiso is now considered a part of Loufte, despite the locals not wishing for that to be the case.

The main protein of Loufte is skyfood (which are cloud-borne fish). Seafood is very hard to import, thus making it incredibly expensive. A lot of the food is home-grown in the lower islands of Troponesia, where rain definitely falls.

Sky pirates are also a thing. Just putting it out there. A lot of their captains have wings.

The currency here (and by here: Flux and C’madiso and several airships) is known as the Drachma. Everywhere else is on the barter system.

Notable Skymarks

Home of the Ancients

The Home of the Ancients is the ‘final resting place’ of the last remaining True Immortals. The ones who were not gods, but simply could not die. They hold a lot of Ahfey’s history and were there since the beginning, old, and wise. They are taken care of by Khaeil’s ‘angels,’ who are winged people handpicked by the storm god specifically for this task.

The island is beautiful, pale white. Marble architecture with a plethora of trees growing. It should be noted, that it is nearly impossible to reach the Home of the Ancients if you are not one of Khaeil’s angels. It is in the eye of a large, perpetual hurricane called The Eagle’s Eye, and on top of that, exists as the second highest island. Even a lot of those blessed by the wind god often do not make the journey, if coming from the outside.

It is rumored that denizens of C’madiso can actually visit the Home of the Ancients, but none have shared their story, if they have.

Flux

Flux is the most advanced city on the largest island of the archipelago. It is said that Flux is actually the focal point of most of the islands in Loufte, and the other ones simply revolve around it. Whether that is true is up for debate, but (with the exception of C’madiso) Flux is the only consistent city with actual coordinates that can be pinned down in the archipelago, meaning there might be a gravitational force at play there.

Flux is extremely culturally diverse, being a trade town as well as the only place accessible in the sky. It is not the lowest floating city by any means, but its consistent position helps with immigration as well as trade.

Technology is at its finest here in Flux and it has a massive airship dock, as well as transporters. Malls, theater, concerts. Culture is an incredible focus as well as its incredibly different districts each with their own fashion and culture.

It is said Flux is ran by one mysterious entity known as The Conductor. All the electricity in Flux is generated by machinations that run underneath the city. The sewer system is a mysterious Labyrinth that not many have returned from. It is said The Conductor lives there.

C’madiso (Paradiso / Starhaven)

C’madiso, known by Fluxopolitans as ‘Starhaven’ is the oldest island in the Loufte Archipelago, and was annexed into Loufte by geographers, to the disdain of the locals. A lot of the world’s drama began in C’madiso, as it is the kingdom founded by the original Sun and Moon, El Sol and La Lune. The architecture is very flowy and covered in gold, that is said to transition in color depending on the seasons. The spiral is a very popuar shape and is used in most architecture. A lot of the buildings are old, but not weathered, as C’madiso is one of the few islands to exist above the clouds (along with The Home of the Ancients).

C’madiso is the closest to the cosmos as any land can get in Ahfey, existing on the same layer of its atmosphere as the aurora borealis do in Glaskhei and Ikenglas.

The locals of C’madiso worship their current king, Fenrir voh Lune, king of the moon, son of La Lune and El Sol. The denizens sport multicolored hair and are heavily aligned with the moon. Those sporting flamboyant warm-colored hair are often ostracized and seen as Other, seeing as the current sun, Sköll voh Lune is heavily ostracized, himself.

All of the denizens of C’madiso can speak common, but prefer not to. Their language is referred to as Celestial, which sounds like twinkling chimes and little songs for each sentence. The language will be talked further upon in another document.

Another cultural aspect is that of surnames: Surnames. Celestials’ surnames are often the first name of the parent who dies last, for example: La Lune was Fenrir and Sköll’s surviving parent, therefore, their full names would be ‘Fenrir voh Lune’ and ‘Sköll voh Lune.’

-> voh = “son of”

-> vah = “daughter of”

-> veh = “child of”

The people of C’madiso also all have silver blood, sporting proof as being directly created by divine entities, while the royal family is meant to have golden ichor.

The city itself’s decor is said to be split down the middle, sun decals on one side of it, moon decals on the other, but a lot of the sun paraphernalia has been defaced, broken, or even painted over, or removed entirely.

The fate of C’madiso is said to foretell the fate of the rest of the world.

Aiari (The Airship Council’s Meetingplace)

Aiari is a quickly moving island hidden between the clouds. At least that is what is said. Actually, Aiari is masses of broken up rock, almost like a sandbar in the Sea of Clouds. It is barely qualified as an island because it is so small and fragmented. It’s only considered an island in the winter, when ice frosts over the surface of the broken up rocks to make one solid structure.

Airship captains tend to meet here to hold important meetings, or settle scores. Deals and Parley occur aplenty here. Murder also occurs aplenty.

The Troponesia

The agricultural source of Loufte. The Troponesia are several tiny, low-hanging islands that are exclusively for farmland, as they are fully below the clouds and rain can fall on them. A lot of the locals aren’t as elitist about the sky, but are mostly just human. Currency is not really a thing for them, either, as they prefer the barter system, trading their food for technology from Flux.

Some of the Troponesian islands have actually managed to create gliding technology that allowed them to fish from the sea itself, and then return, but this is a very difficult and dangerous process. Fish from Troponesia is extremely expensive as a result, and is generally only caught around festival times.

The Sea of Clouds

The main source of protein for Loufte, it is the big hang of clouds covering Sanguisos. Many species of celestial fish have made their home. There are a lot of airships that go fishing here, and there is a huge variety of fish with a wide variety of flavor. It’s incredibly plentiful, and all small or infant fish are supposed to be released back into the Sea for repopulation.

Geography & Climate

Loufte varies in climate solely based on its position. It is spread all the way over the atmosphere. Its epicenter, Flux, is quite warm as it is in the tropics, but the Troponesia can be very cold depending on their position. Usually it is quite warm and tropical, since they receive direct sunlight.

The Troponesia are the only areas that actually receive rain in Loufte, the rest live around within the clouds, or above them, so it can be somewhat humid. The only exception to this is C’madiso, whose air is warm, yet crisp. Like a spring breeze, at all times.

#(Here comes a thought...) Headcanons #AHHHHH #THE FIRST OF THESE WORLDBUILDING POSTS #HERE #TAKE IT

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blacklister214 · 5 years

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Second Son (New Chapter): Uninspired

It had been nearly twenty years since Jacob had set foot inside a hospital, but one whiff of the bleach, sanitizer, Lysol and recirculated air and it all came rushing back. The fear. The anger. He felt like that foster child all over again, being escorted down sterile white halls by various hospital staff. He'd hated them. Hated the ones that believed the lies his foster parents had told. Hated the ones that hadn't and had called Social Services, patting themselves on the back, and not realized the consequence that inevitably befall Jacob because of them. Mostly though, he'd hated himself, for being so small. So weak. So helpless. He'd sworn after that last cast had removed only a few days shy of his thirteenth birthday that he'd never feel that way again.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Hartwell appeared at his elbow wearing a lightly flirtatious smile. Apparently her distemper with him had passed.

"I'm wondering where you left your primary." He took a long sip from his bottle of water, waiting for a response.

"She's in the bathroom down the hall. I presume you don't intend for me to follow her into the stall." He was half tempted to tell her to just that, but that was simply his bad mood taking the reins. He knew that nothing that had happened was Hartwell's fault. It was a situation neither of them could have anticipated and they both had reacted as best they could. He needed to put his own feelings aside and play the hand he'd been dealt.

"What have the doctors told Scott about Korpal's condition?"

"Broken bones, internal injuries. They'll know more when he gets out of surgery, but that will take a few more hours." Presuming the doctor didn't die on the table, he would be relatively safe until he was in recovery. By that time Dembe would be a position to ensure no one entered Korpal's room who wasn't meant to.

"Visiting hours will be over soon. Are they kicking Scott out?" Jacob had no idea how these places worked. He couldn't see the harm in letting family members linger in waiting rooms while their loved one were under the knife, but he wasn't a hospital administrator.

"I wish. Currently the woman is the reigning queen of this place. It seems like every member of staff has dropped by to offer prayers and sympathies." Hartwell's tone told Jacob she shared his opinion regarding the value of such sentiments. Empty words, signifying nothing. Social niceties people felt obliged to pay, lest they be thought insensitive. Still, not everyone thought like he did. Maybe Liz did take comfort in the platitudes offered by Korpal's co-workers.

"What more can you tell me about the incident?" The agent had to have something to offer him other than the license plate. Glen had promised to run the number, but it undoubted belonged to a stolen car that would ultimately be discovered torched somewhere. He needed some kind of lead to chase.

"Not much. I was following the target out of the restaurant. He kissed the blonde on the cheek and put her into a cab. The boyfriend then left on foot, in the direction of the hospital. He waited for the signal and just as the light turned, a grey sedan roared around the corner and mowed the guy down in the middle of crosswalk." Korpal put the blonde in a cab? Why hadn't he gotten in with her, back to her place, or to a hotel?

Jacob shook his head. How Korpal choose to conduct his affair wasn't the issue here. He needed to stay focused on the details that mattered.

"If the assailant drove around the corner, there's no way he could have seen Korpal was in the street without a spotter. Did you see anyone?" Hartwell's lips thinned. The moment's pause was all it took to tell Jacob that the exemplary agent had slipped up in some way. He waited a beat, wondering if she would compound her error by lying to him about it.

"A waiter followed me out with a cell phone in his hand. He asked me if it was mine. I'd thought he was just hitting on me." He had to hand it to the kid, it was a good excuse. He probably sent the text the second he had eyes on Korpal, then covered his tracks by pretending the phone had been lost by one of the restaurant patrons.

"Description?"

"5' 10. Hispanic. 120-125 pounds. 17/18 years old. He took off after the accident." Jacob fixed Hartwell with his coldest stare.

"And you didn't think that was suspicious?" Hartwell returned the look with a scowl of her own.

"A teenage boy of color avoiding the police? No, I didn't think it was overly suspicious. This kid was no agent." Though Jacob didn't relish jumping to conclusions, he was inclined to agree. From his description and the way he'd fled the scene, the boy didn't sound like a professional. Odds were the kid was just as much a mark as Korpal, which meant he was likely in just as much danger.

"Doesn't have to be, just greedy and gullible." This was actually good news. The kid could be decent lead, assuming Jacob could find him before the hit-man did. Assassins tended not to leave loose ends. The question was, would he seek out Korpal first or this witness?

If it were Jacob, he'd target the boy. Korpal was unreachable at present, and even if the doctor did survived and regain consciousness, it wasn't as if he possessed any remotely damning information.

Jacob checked his watch. It had been about two hours since the attempted hit. That was more than enough time for the driver to destroy and ditch the car. The killer would already be looking for the boy. The fact the kid took off was promising. It told Jacob the teenager knew he life was in jeopardy. Whatever story the assassin had feed the kid to get him to cooperate, it probably hadn't included vehicular homicide. Hopefully after realizing he had been lied to by a murderer, the kid knew better than go home. If he didn't then the boy was likely already dead.

"Did you establish a cover story?" Hartwell rolled her eyes as if insulted by the question.

"I chatted up an old woman when I arrived. Her husband had a stroke and is in surgery. If anyone asks I'm his beloved niece. How about you? Do you intend stand here, holding up the wall all night?" Jacob considering telling her, but after her slip with the waiter, and the fact it took her two hours to share that piece of pertinent information, he wasn't interested in reading her in. He settled instead for one of his trademark enigmatic smiles.

"You should head back." Hartwell tilted her head to side, not doubt trying to gauge his mood.

"Not without what I came for." The operative stepped around him to the vending machine on his left. After feeding in the dollar, she bent at the waist, ostensibly to check the prices on the lower selections. Thanks to her swoop top, the action afforded an excellent view of her black lace bra, not to mention her perfect and prominently displayed ass. A quick scan of the hall told him he was not the only man, and in one case woman, to have noticed.

Hartwell glanced up at him and smiled seductively. A week ago he would have been more than willing to smile back, but now he merely raised an eyebrow. He was under no illusions about her motives for this little display. She was hoping to use sex to control him. If Hartwell thought fucking him would buy his silence about her screw-up, she had not read him well at all.

Whatever the operative saw in his face, it was clearly not the expression she'd anticipated. She straightened, her smile disappearing into a look of total indifference. Whether that was any more genuine than the flirtatious facade was anyone's guess. She entered in the code for a Snickers bar, collected her snack, and left without another word.

Jacob watched her retreating form with detached admiration. She was objectively stunning, but that fact mattered significantly less to him today than it had when he'd first met her. Jacob wasn't exactly a believer in monogamy or long term relationships, but it wasn't like him to lose interest so quickly, especially with someone as talented in bed as Hartwell was. Was his professional irritation with the woman that had left him suddenly uninspired by her? Or was it something else?

"Was that the St. Regis operative? You truly have the most unfortunate taste in women." A genuine smile stretched across Jacob's face as he turned toward the rich and familiar voice. Dembe stood before him, regaled in the blue shirt and black slacks of the DC police. A badge was clipped over heart, and a walkie attached at the shoulder. Jacob squinted at the pin that sat atop the right breast pocket of his brother's shirt.

"Well, well, 'Officer Lawrence', is it? The uniform suits you. I was a bit worried Sergeant Thomson wouldn't be able to find one in your size." He made a mental note to send the cop a bonus for setting Dembe up so another lesson from Reddington: Good work should be acknowledged and rewarded. That's what kept people loyal.

Dembe raised his eyes to the heavens. Jacob mentally congratulated himself. It usually took him much longer to exasperate his perpetually zen brother.

"You do remember I cut my visit with my daughter short to do this for you?" Jacob felt a rare pang of guilt. Since Dembe discovered the girl's existence, about six years ago, he'd make it a point to maintain regular contact, calling every few weeks, and visiting every six months. Jacob himself have been dragged along more than once. Watching his oldest friend with the girl had been a revelation. Dembe adored her. His whole face lit up in way Jacob had never seen before.

"What? I was paying you a compliment. If I was a criminal and I saw you running at me wearing that thing, you'd scare the hell out of me." Dembe's lips fought the smirk threatening to soften his expression, but Jacob could tell it was a losing battle.

"You are a criminal." Jacob waved him off.

"You know what I mean. So how is that niece of mine?" He'd never admit it, but every time his brother went to visit Isabella, he had nightmares that Dembe would never come back. Jacob knew he should want that for his best friend; the happiest Dembe felt went he was with his child. He should encourage Dembe to settle with her permanently, to give up the dangerous and rootless life he led with Jacob and Reddington. Unfortunately he was too selfish for that.

"Even more lovely than when you last saw her. Missing her uncle, of course." And the hits just kept on coming.

"Please send her my love." Jacob resolved to send his niece a large gift when all this was over. Not exactly an even exchange for stealing precious time with her father, but it was something.

"Of course." With Jacob's guilt slightly lightened, they could both get down to business.

"Check in with head the nurse. Korpal should be in surgery for a few more hours. Hartwell and the primary are in the waiting room on the other end of this floor." Jacob strode toward the elevator, confident Dembe could handle any issue that arose. His mind hummed with singular purpose, with no more thoughts of Dembe, Isabella, Hartwell, or Elizabeth Scott. He would find the waiter, with any luck while the kid still had a pulse.

#Second Son #blacklist fanfiction #keen2 #tom keen #elizabeth keen

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ironbound-praetorium · 6 years

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Sass and Serendipity (Pt. 2)

CONTINUED FROM HERE

The winds of Northrend howled, whipping the snow into a fine dusting of ice that coated weapon and cloak alike as the two figures stood on a hill. One leaned casually on a massive two handed blade stuck in the ground, while the other huddled in a thick cloak while rubbing their hands together for warmth.

“You promise me something, Bri?” Vynalia Silverfall said as she pulled her cloak off and wrapped it around the shivering form of Brilaria Suncrest. The Rose was always warm, as if the fires of Eonar herself burned in her veins so that even in thin layers of leather chain and plate, a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.

“I am not wearing the maid outfit again, Vin! That was on a dare and twelve year ago!” Bri laughed, shoving the much taller woman at her side.

“You just keep dashing all my dreams! But… was not was I was going to ask…” Raking her hands back through dark hair littered with braids and war trinkets she’d collected over the years caused a small tinkling melody of sound.

With that sound came an overwhelming sense of purpose and protection for Brilaria. Not because there was magic attached to it, but because they belonged to Vinnie and whenever they sounded, she was near. It was one of the Confessor’s favorite sounds in the world, as she knew the Rose’s company meant safety and strength by simply being in her presence. “Friend or foe promise?”

The old joke had been made once that Vinnie loved Brilaria as a friend, but would rather consider the Confessor side of as an arch-nemesis. It wasn’t that Vinnie kept secrets or lied; she just hated the concept of reliving her transgressions and dwelling in the past, as she much preferred to live in the moment. “Friend. The Foe doesn’t get shit today…feed that beast elsewhere.”

It was rare to not find a shit eating grin on the Rose’s face, as she perpetually looked as if she was about to create mischief…which wasn’t far from the truth. However, as a silence settled between them while Vinnie pondered her words, the grin faded to nothing more than a solemn line. Clear blue eyes lifted to study the distant gates of Icecrown Citadel before she spoke in whispered and cracking words. “You take care of Raelin if I don’t come back from there, okay?”

“Vin, stop that! We’re all going back to Everson-“ Bri began, though she halted her words at the snap of Vinnie’s eyes to hers.

“I mean it, Bri…Papa and him will take care of Pixie. She’ll take care of Papa…but Raelin? He is going to need you if I don’t come back…he won’t break in front of them… and he may need to.” Vinnie said as her dark brows knitted and an unreadable expression cast itself across her features. Concern and conviction brought the line of her jaw to tense as she waited for Bri to make sense of her words.

“You know I will…but none of us is breaking here, Vinnie…not you, me… him…we’re all going the fuck back home. I’m sick of this damned snow!” Bri whined, trying to change the subject from such a grim topic.

“And just think… you got a thousand years of it to look forward to!” Vinnie teased, shoving the smaller Confessor so she stumbled in the snow.

“I’ll be dead and won’t feel this subartic crap!” she countered, shoving back, though the Rose didn’t even budge.

“Thanks, Bri….but I need you to do that now…”

Wait…. That’s not what happened next.

Brilaria’s subconscious questioned the reality of the dream at that moment, given she knew Raelin had come to interrupt them both with the orders to deploy for the Wrathgate.

“Do what, Vinnie?” This made little sense, but the Confessor was not a stranger to prophetic dreams and knew to just let them play out.

“I need you to take care of him!” Vinnie shouted as the wind began to howl and Brilaria’s mouth filled with the taste of copper.

“Vinnie, I said I wou-“

“NOW BRI! NOW! WE DON’T BREAK BRI! I NEED YOU NOW!”

The violent words and screeching tone must have been some sort of divine intervention as the Confessor was ripped from her unconscious state and once again cast among the cold waters of the lake. The realization one is drowning can often be a violent act, as much was the case when Bri understood it was her belt and robes that were slowly dragging her below the surface.

Frantically, the clasp of her belt was undone sending everything from comm stones to potions to the lake bed below. Next came the outer layers of her velvet and silk robes that were torn from her shoulders and gave her just enough strength to break the surface and take her first raking gasp of harsh air.

“Cora…. CORA!” Bri yelled, realizing not only was the connection with her draconic counterpart only a vague likeness of what it usually was, but that the sleek red and gold scales were nowhere in sight. She was alive… somewhere, though likely suffering not only the effects of the ballista, but all the water’s impact.

Every breath felt like fire in her lungs as she expelled the water in racking coughs as she attempted to tread water and make sense of her blurred vision and aching form. Lacing pain was discovered as she reached to brush the thick strands of her hair from her face and her fingers came back coated in blood.

“Breathe Bri….assess…”she reminded herself as bloodshot eyes closed and she focused on flooding her body with Light. Erratic breathing took her near to the point of hyperventilation, but carefully counted inhales and the subsequent release let her catch up on missed air.”Assess…” Pressurized head. Check. Throbbing temples… fuck yes. Blurred vision…nausea…check and check. All signs of a concussive episode. Fuck. It wasn’t her first… and certainly wouldn’t be her last, and she’d certainly endured worse.

Blinking slowly, the shore came into view and gave her some direction to aim for as she slowly moved through the cool water only thanks to the constant source of healing which let her push past the pain barriers. She’d no doubt need stitches for the head wound, but the patch up healing she used on the battlefield would serve until she could get her bearings and find Cora.

A couple hundred feet felt like an eternity as the Confessor slogged through the strokes that would pull her to eventually feeling the sand and rocks beneath her feet. Already her teeth began chattering against the invading cold, but the promise of a fire ashore was enough to see some measure of her strength returned as she waded onto dry land.

“You really are the single most dramatic person I’ve ever met in my existence…” The rasping words from Bri’s left snapped her attention so fast her balance was nearly lost.

Barely conscious and having taken her elven form, Cora used her first words to insult her dearest friend and immediately regretted it when she began choking and coughing.

“Like looking in a mirror...” breathed Bri, stumbling for the struggling woman. Her own pain was forgotten as muscle memory took over and her fingers began conjuring healing spells to ease the worse of whatever she would find.

A healer in her own right, Cora had already seen to whatever bleeding had been present, as the front of her pale blue shirt was soaked in red. Already deep bruising and swelling had started to form along her collarbone as her left arm was held against her stomach. No doubt something was broken, but until they could see to it properly, all she could do was field dress it.

“How’d you get ashore with it?” Bri asked as she ripped the bottom layer of her skirt in order to fashion a sling.

Bowing her head to help ease the makeshift item over her neck, dirt and sand was spit on the ground before she spoke, wrinkling her nose in response. “I saw you hit the water and thought I could skim to the shore…looked back to see where you’d landed and….the shoreline crept up on me. Then I don’t remember anything until I saw you in the shallows…”

“The shoreline CREPT UP ON YOU, really Cora?!” Only Bri would have latched onto that fact instead of the loss of consciousness or shattered bones. Her rant likely would have continued had her counterpart not lifted a muddy finger and put it to the Confessor’s lips, leaving behind a smear.

“Don’t you lecture me, Lady ‘A Molten Giant Snuck Up On Me’!” Even with raging headaches and broken bones, Cora and Bri couldn’t resist bringing up past mistakes and comical moments that poked fun at the other. It was how they knew the other was genuinely going to be okay…without actually having to say it.

“One time that happened! I was studyi-“ Bri started to say before Cora cut in.

“Yes, studying runes…still happened. So, how about we focus on the now and getting back to the ship? Wait…where’s your belt?!” The rising panic in Cora’s voice was obvious as she reached with her good arm to yank aside Bri’s soaking tunic.

“About that…” Bri said, glancing over her shoulder at the expanse of the lake before looking back to her counterpart with a comically nervous smile.

“So… we’re walking until we find a flight path…” Cora said plainly when she realized what Bri implied.

“Where’s your stone?” countered Bri, getting to her feet to offer the other her hand.

“I…put it in your pouch this morning.” Groaning as she got to her feet, Cora became terribly interested in the ground on which she had just been laying, though she kept hold of her counterparts hand.

“…so…all our comm and hearthstones are at the bottom of the lake…your shoulder…wing…whatever is broken…I have a concussion, and we’re somewhere on the back side of Lordaeron Keep.” Bri listed, putting her free hand on her hip as she looked to the sky. “...with too many clouds to see the stars…next time you want fresh air over a war zone, the answer is no…”

“Oh, so this is MY fault now? “ Cora said as she nodded towards their left along the shore. Their combined sense of direction wasn’t great, but higher ground would afford them the lay of the land, hopefully.

Together they fell into step, boots sloshing with the water still trapped inside. It’d be a long walk back, and their bickering would last the entire way as every secret and embarrassing moment was used as fuel in order to blame the other for their latest misadventure. However, it was only in those pushed buttons and nitpicking that Bri and Cora found the necessary peace to understand the other had made it through yet another trial as they started the trek back to civilization.

( @sanctuary-city-wra @silverfall-patriarch @kelladen @adilynia for mentions/interest)

#Brilaria #Cora #Praetorium Members #This is what happens when nobody has a keen direction sense

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getfuckedstayfucked · 3 years

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callout post for aineedhelp dumbposting majimaguro

@dumbposting @majimaguro since you've been harassing my friends I figured I'd lay this out for you in no uncertain terms. Kyle, if you read this, scroll down to the bottom where there's a screenshot of Charlie literally telling you to die.

Hi Charlie. I deadass had to make a tumblr for this bullshit because your lying has really gotten excessive. I mean really? Telling people you’re 23? Telling people that you were groomed by us? Telling people we forced you to ditch your friends when all you’d do is complain to us about how uncomfortable x person would make you with their requests for sexual roleplay, or their aggressive demeanor, or their shipping wants? Telling people you were abused by us when you clearly have done this more than twice to different friend groups and when one group falls apart you move on to the next and start your predatory cycle all over again???

I can see you do this for every friend group you make, no matter who it is, where they are. You know how I see this? Because you are saying that we did what you told us your old friends were doing - Jasper, Robin, and Merc. You’ve moved the narrative that THEY were sexually abusive groomers/manipulators over to us since your new group of friends doesn’t know about them outside of the parts those new friends (your dear friends who never hurt you ever even though you consistently complain about said new friends behind their backs!) play and now, suddenly, WE were sexually abusive groomers/manipulators because you milked the attention and pity you could get out of us over the awful things you said about Jasper, Robin, and Merc, and in the process you eventually abused the two people who had the patience to stick out that behaviour SO MUCH and for SO LONG that you alienated them. Once they were over how you treated them, then suddenly, they were the bad guys. And you wouldn’t stop rocking the boat because you needed to have your endless little baby tantrum. Now that you’ve pulled the trigger, you can’t unshoot that bullet.

Newsflash? When these people told you THEIR BOUNDARIES - something that amazingly seems to only be valid when you do it - you got pissed at them. When people told you THEY COULDN’T HANDLE SOMETHING - like, oh, you know, detailed descriptions of severe animal trauma/death, or being told repetitively and graphically that you were going to kill yourself/how you were going to do it, they were suddenly awful. Well, you know what? That is textbook manipulation, to use a phrase you seem so fond of. Guilting people for having boundaries and making them feel bad for drawing lines because they want to have a healthy relationship with their friends isn’t bad, you just don’t like it because it means you can no longer do what you want or treat people like crap without repercussions.

You are a cruel person. You don’t care about anybody but yourself. You are a self-serving, self-driven, emotionless asshole that knows how to twist situations to be in your favor because your favorite tactic is to divide people up from one another so they have less and less outside views of what your treatment is actually like. It takes a lot of practice to be able to do something like you do for so long and so aggressively so I imagine you’ve been doing this for years. You hook someone - or multiple someones - in by being nice and personable and funny and relatable, then you destroy your friend groups by pitting people against one another and when you’ve isolated the people you’re obsessing over, you flip the switch and start to abuse them in private.

And you know what? You are not the victim in this narrative. You are just another abusive jerk who knows you can get that attention from someone somewhere as long as you twist the narrative to fit your ‘I’ve been abused my friends all treat me horribly’ angle. And you know what? I’m sick of you. I’m sick of how you treat my friends, I’m sick of how you treat people in general. You make me sick and if you’re proud of that, that’s not a badge of honor or pride. That means that you are exactly like your father.

You don’t get to be out here and be like ‘oh no! it was me who was hurt by these people!’ when you're the one harassing them with your nasty, miserable anon hate even though they’ve blocked you time and time again.

Steven showed me the conversation where you exploded at him for saying he needed a moment, because apparently it’s fucked up to not be able to handle graphic depictions of an animal’s death, and somehow saying that he couldn’t handle that in that moment was a personal attack and he was betraying you by being an unsupportive friend? People have triggers, hunty, you aren’t god’s gift to this earth and you aren’t the only person to have those! HE tried to set his boundaries and what did you do? You shit all over them. You only care about boundaries if they’re your own and if anybody else has one they try to set with you they’re suddenly awful and someone to be tossed aside.

And you know what else? You forcing Sam to deal with your maladjusted stalking all the time because you’re out here harassing him via tumblr dot com isn't cute. You’re entirely, creepily obsessed with him and irrationally upset that he stood up for himself and got tired of you treating him like your own personal emotional punching-bag. You are a pathetic, vengeful little person who has no life and nothing to do but troll the internet for victims and people you can trick into giving you sympathy until you inevitably wring them dry too and then you abandon them because they won’t give you what you want anymore.

Go fuck yourself. Get fucked, stay fucked. You complained to us and cried to us about Merc and Jasper and Robin and how they either wouldn’t stop bothering you for sexual RP or wouldn’t stop guilting you or pushing you in that direction, or how Robin wouldn’t stop trying to force you to say what she wanted you to say, and now you’re LITERALLY saying that about Steve and Sam? You are not. The fucking. Victim. Here. You are the orchestrator to an amazingly convoluted drama that rotates around you and you alone and I’m sick of this and I’m sick of you and I’m sick of having to hear about the lies you’re posting about my friends.

By the way? You aren’t 23. You are 27 by now! De-aging yourself to seem younger and more vulnerable only works when people don’t know you’re actually older - which, by the way, is SUPER creepy of you to do because it gets you closer to a younger demographic and endears you to them because oh! wow! You’re young and abused just like them! Do you know how fucked up it is to position yourself closer to younger, less experienced, vulnerable people like that? Do you know how fucked up it is to try and net those poor kids with your sob stories and how these ‘bad oldew peopow abewsed yew uwu’ even though that wasn’t the case? It puts you in a position of power and it gives you the reigns in any interactions you have with anybody younger than you and that is creepy and disgusting and you are creepy and disgusting for doing it, especially since your tumblr is filled with a mixture of sfw and 18+ content with zero 18+ follower requirement.

And you know what-- in the same vein, you use your being autistic as a sob story point to make it sound like one more way that you’ve been taken advantage of, but in reality you’re actually the one out here taking advantage of those around you and you’re being ableist while you do it? Wow. Wowiee wow wow.

You infantilize autistic people and say in the process that, in a blanket statement, ALL autistic people can’t fend for themselves or see anything coming at them from a mile away. On top of that, you shit on other autistic people’s special interests? Do you have any idea how many autistic people are out there with special interests focused around kid’s shows, or cartoons in general, or anime, or fandoms? No? Well, here’s a clue: there’s a lot of us (and yes, I am autistic, and yes, I do have special interests involving anime and fandoms, and no, I’m not a predator and I am DEFINITELY not the one out here creepily de-aging themselves to endear themselves to younger people like you are) with special interests ranging from anything from MLP to mushrooms to My Hero Academia (which is, for the record, one of Steve’s special interests, which you shit on him for, you ableist fuck) to Stephen King’s IT and you don’t get to say it’s predatory to have special interests in these areas!!!!!

You are not only perpetuating stereotypes about autistic people but you’re encouraging them because these stereotypes suit you and your current narrative! You’re using the same exact arguments that neurotypicals use! And you know what ELSE? Way to suggest that autistic people who have special interests that aren’t ‘adult’ are predators, too, you nasty little weasel. That’s the kind of narrative that gets autistic people killed!!! How selfish ARE you?

But wait, we really, really aren’t done here. I would really like to address your obsession with accusing people of being groomers and/or predators.

YOU LITERALLY ROLEPLAYED EDDIE KASPBRACK. YOU ROLEPLAYED HIM AS AGE SIXTEEN AND YOU HAVE DONE SO IN A SEXUAL AND SEXUAL-ADJACENT MANNER. YOU SMUT ROLEPLAYED SEXUAL CONTENT ON A CHARACTER THAT WAS SIXTEEN. YOU ALSO ROLEPLAY AS SHERRY BIRKIN FROM RESIDENT EVIL. SHE IS TEN. YOU CAN’T SAY SHIT. YOU. CAN’T. SAY. SHIT. YOU WROTE SMUT AS UNDERAGE CHARACTERS WHILE USING REAL LIFE UNDERAGE FACECLAIMS AND NOW YOU’RE OUT HERE SAYING THAT SIMPLY WATCHING THESE SHOWS AND BEING INTO THESE FANDOMS IS PEDOPHILIC? I don’t think so. I really, really do not think so.

Saying stuff like ‘reblogging anime posts or gifs or art is child porn’ also belittles and undermines actual CSA/pedophilia victims which is one more tally on the list of fucked up shit you’ve done. Way to be one of those people out there who do their best to divert valuable time and resources that could be spent on actual CSA victims instead of fictional fucking people.

This is a two-way street. You rant about how this is a 13+ site and how adults are responsible for kids in their spaces WHEN THEY HAVE ALREADY GONE TO REASONABLE LENGTHS TO PREVENT MINORS FROM GETTING AT THEIR CONTENT, but you’re always going on about getting high and doing drugs and talking about onlyfans which is AN ADULT SUBSCRIPTION WEBSITE GEARED TOWARDS PEOPLE WHO MAKE PORN OR FETISH CONTENT. You have absolutely ZERO 18+ content warning or follower requirement on your blog! Which is made creepier by the fact that you’ve de-aged yourself by a whole four years, you’re making yourself out to be some kind of abused child who was manipulated by older people, and you’re trying to speak for children. It’s wack.

For the record, being mentally ill is not an excuse for any of this at all whatsoever. If you hurt someone and you are mentally ill that is still on you. It is on you to learn to live with mental illness and not hurt those around you. When your shitty actions give someone else trauma, that is your fault, and it does have an effect on them, and it does hurt them. Fuck off with that 'no accountability' bullshit you're peddling. That's not how life works. Your actions have affected those around you and it takes a massive amount of willful ignorance to go around acting like you don't fucking know that already, especially considering that other people’s mental illnesses hurt you-- unless you were lying to us about that, too.

Get some fucking help and get out of our collective DMs........ Or don’t and get high like you always do instead of accepting responsibility for your actions, Mr. 'I'm lucid enough to be able to blame my mental illness for my own behaviour when that bs wouldn't even hold up in court'. Whatever.

I’m done with your shit.

Here's some receipts. Kyle, whoever you are, I suggest you run the fuck away before they start doing to you what they've done to Steve and Sam. Good luck having a friend who non-jokingly says they wish you would die because that is extraordinarily fucked up.

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