Last Seen Blogs
Text
FBS Draft Scene: Still Undone
Word Count: 1600
Author's Notes: This has been a landmark scene in my head for a long time, but I realized recently I had never really told anyone about it! This takes place in the middle of the story. Content Warning spoils the heaviest part of this segment, so try to skip over it if you want to be surprised! Sorry I can't blank it out!
Summary: While searching the abandoned winter grounds of the carnival Taps once worked for, he and Riker discover the body of Hinge, Taps' childhood sweetheart. Title comes from Orville Peck's 'Hope to Die,' Taps and Hinge's theme.
Content Warnings: Dead robot, body desecration, attempted revival and subsequent putting down
Previously: Taps and Riker were being dragged back to New Amida by Kilroy and Lucy, but at a split second opportunity, stole their car and made off. While laying low, Taps is revealed to have an emotion blocker in his head, which Riker hastily removes, causing Taps to start experiencing extreme mood swings and reactions. Afterward, they decide to search for clues as to the whereabouts of Lindy, Taps' missing sister, and the first place to search is where Taps saw her last-- the carnival winter grounds where they worked together, now abandoned.
-
Taps shuffled through the dusty papers in the desk drawers, keeping the lights of his eyes dialed up. Riker had their one flashlight tucked between his cheek and his shoulder and was picking the locks on the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, muttering under his breath. They’d checked a few other rooms in the deserted building before finding this office, all of them trashed in the time since the winter grounds were abandoned. The rooms had been shifted around after Taps left the carnival, except for the big storage room where they’d found, miraculously, a still sealed gallon of diesel.
Taps was trying not to let that diesel’s presence distract him. There were lots of reasons why a carnival might have that on hand, not just the one that he feared. Right now he had to focus on finding clues of where Lindy had gone.
“Got it,” Riker said, pulling open the top cabinet drawers. He wrinkled his nose at the contents; they probably smelled musty. “What year did you leave, again?”
“1959,” Taps said. “November.”
“Right, so--” Riker paused. “You were built in ‘47? Christ, you were still a kid.”
Taps silently straightened up and walked around the desk. “Demétrio had to move our contracts fast,” he said. “Medical bills. Here, I found a key, if there’s nothing in that one.”
In the second-to-bottom drawer, they found something. The manila folder nearly crumbled as Riker shifted it up into the light. It was unlabeled, but as Riker flipped through the tops of the papers within, he perked up. “Contract receipts. Jackpot.”
Taps leaned closer, staring at the papers as Riker jumped to the back of the folder. Focus, he thought. Don’t think about--
“Bettencourt!” Riker exclaimed. He grinned at Taps, pointing to a yellow page. “Bettencourt, L. Sale of contract: 1961. I can’t believe we fucking found it!”
Taps was frozen; his engine slowed. Riker’s smile began to dim.
“Hey,” Riker said softly. “You OK?”
“Yes,” Taps said, voice stiff. His illuminators had turned to pinpricks. “Yes. I just--”
Riker reached out and rested a hand on Taps’ shoulder. “Relax. This is big, and you’re just getting your feelings together. You need a minute before we get out of here?”
Taps vented a small burst of air, his head dropping forward, and he nodded.
Riker gingerly folded the receipt along its age-old crinkles before putting it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He stood with a grunt, rubbed his knees, and then held his hands up to his mouth, puffing a faint, misty cloud of hot air over them.
After a few minutes, the pair stepped out into the hallway, the shattered window at the closer end spilling moonlight across the floor. They walked carefully toward the exit, but stopped at the door, hearing whooping voices in the distance.
“Those damn teenagers are still here?” Riker growled. “Shit. They better not fuck with the car.”
Taps opened the door a crack and peaked through. “I can see their flashlights. They’re between us and the van, but I don’t think they’re moving toward it.” Taps paused, thinking. “There’s should be another way around, through the warehouse. I think the door was this way…”
They slipped as quietly as they could through the office building to the side door, then darted to the warehouse. Like the office, any sort of padlock had long been broken off, and the door opened with a soft creak. Riker flinched at the sound, then ducked inside, turning to wave Taps through. Taps only hesitated for a split second.
The main chamber of the warehouse was a disaster. Riker tried to keep the flashlight pointed at the ground as they walked, but the light would twitch nervously toward any open doors they passed. Riker’s foot collided with something and he yelped as it tumbled forward; Taps froze again, staring at the black diesel canister lying on its side, lit up in the circle of yellow. Riker breathed through his teeth.
“Christ, thought that was a rat for a second,” he said.
Taps stepped forward and picked it up, sloshing the liquid inside. Riker frowned at him-- or more specifically, at his eyes. Taps could feel his lights narrowing again.
“Taps?” Riker asked, voice a quiet hiss. “What’s the matter?”
“There was another robot,” Taps said. “His name was Hinge, and he ran on diesel.”
Riker stared at Taps for a moment, and Taps stared past him. There was a large doorway with no door just ahead of them, with smears on the ground, grimy shoe prints leading in and out. Before Riker could form a response, Taps had moved into the doorway.
There was something in there, against the far wall.
Taps’ footsteps were jerky as he took one, two steps in. Even with his illuminators turned all the way up, the shape was hard to make out. But it was big and bulky, crumpled forward over itself.
The flashlight shone past Taps shoulder, and Riker swore.
Hinge’s body sat with its back against the wall, head bowed forward over its bent legs. The left arm was missing below the elbow, and the chassis and the wall surrounding it were covered in spray paint. The graffiti on the wall made a terrible halo around the slumped form.
Taps barely registered his legs moving. He walked forward as if compelled, the carnage that had wracked Hinge’s body more apparent with every step. At some point he had dropped the diesel canister; it wasn’t in his hand when he knelt, almost falling, and reached out to touch Hinge’s knee.
“You stayed,” Taps whispered to the corpse. “Why did you stay?”
Taps couldn’t stop staring at Hinge’s face-- the hanging jaw, the dark holes of his glass-broken eyes. Some irreverent vandals had messily applied zigzags and meaningless blobs and a singular holographic sticker across his wide torso. Hinge would have hated it. Would hate it. Hated it.
Taps stood and turned sharply, nearly knocking into Riker. He ignored the words that stumbled out of Riker’s mouth and snatched the diesel canister off the ground, unscrewing the cap as he hurried to Hinge’s side. His fuel intake was just behind his left shoulder.
Taps did not stop pouring when Riker grabbed his arm and pointed the flashlight in his face, but he did start to hear him again.
“--can’t do this, buddy, there’s nothing left--”
“He has two ignition switches,” Taps said. “One on each side. I can’t reach both at once.” He turned his head and locked eyes with Riker. “I need you to hit the other switch.”
Riker’s eyes were round, the whites of them catching the light that bounced back into his face.
“What? No. I won’t,” Riker stammered. “Taps--”
“Do it,” Taps snapped. And then, venomously: “You owe me.”
Riker’s jaw snapped shut, and slowly his brows furrowed, the crease between his eyebrows deepening darkly. For a long moment he said nothing. Taps removed the nozzle from Hinge’s intake, and was just feeling the stirring of hesitation when Riker whipped around. Taps thought he might be storming out of the room, but he turned at Hinge’s feet and came back to his other side.
“You’re going to fucking regret this,” Riker snapped, casting the light over Hinge, looking for the switch.
Taps reached out and pried Hinge slightly more forward from the wall, enough to slip their hands beneath his shoulder blades. “Just press, and hold for three,” Taps said. “One… two… three--”
There was a gurgle and a bang from within Hinge’s chest, and he jerked violently. Black smoke spat from his mouth, and one eye flickered. Riker pulled back, and Taps’ hands snapped out, ready to steady him.
“Hinge? Hinge!” Taps cried. “It’s alright, it’s--”
Hinge continued to spasm, and Riker jumped back as his only arm swung aimlessly. Sounds gargled out of his voice box, a waterfall of half-words and metallic screeches, and with a full-body jolt he fell onto his left side, nearly taking Taps down with him. Hinge-- his body-- contorted on the ground, thrashing and scraping itself on the concrete, howling.
Taps stared and realized what he had done.
“Hold his head.”
Riker was holding a long metal rod, some piece of detritus from the floor.
Taps could have screamed, but with threadbare restraint, he did not. He only knelt and did his best to hold onto Hinge’s head, a hand on both sides. Hinge was--had been-- was so, so strong, and it was difficult to steady the head.
Riker missed the first blow, the end of the rod bouncing off the center of Hinge’s faceplate. The second spike hit true, going deep into the eye socket, back into the elongated skull. Riker wrenched the rod to one side, then the other, and with a snap something gave away, and Hinge’s body went still.
Taps kept holding the head as Riker-- Riker was crying, Taps dimly realized-- as he pulled the rod free and tossed it aside. The flashlight had been left on the ground, pointing at Hinge, and Riker retrieved it, knuckles bone white around the grip. He was breathing heavily, teeth grit, and his wet eyes shot accusing darts at Taps.
‘“I owe you?”’ Riker hissed bitterly. “I should have told you to get in line.”
And then he did leave, stalking out into the hallway. Taps heard him begin to retch, and he looked down again. He ran a hand over Hinge’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, love. You deserved the whole world. Better than this. Better than me.”
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
@ranchdiip
I feel like you'd like the gut punch of this one
"Repentance"
435 notes
·
View notes
Text
so I didn't know if female jesters had been a thing in the past and looked it up and was introduced to mathurine the fool, who gave one of the best burns in history in a silly little way.
also she apparently stopped an assassination?? amazing.
46K notes
·
View notes
Text
Freddie as a guardian angel!
He’s playing his music from a magical recorder that reaches whoever needs it ❤️
For mrbadguymercury
35K notes
·
View notes
Text
Writeblr Intro: The Five Bright Stars
Writer's Alias: Muse (they/them)
Writer Demographics: 30+ years old, white, aroace and agender
Writer History: I've been writing since I was about 10 years old, on and off, mainly in gen fanfiction and collaborative roleplay settings, though I've always had original characters. I've run a few creative blogs in the past, though this is the first one completely dedicated to an original project.
The Project: The Five Bright Stars is queer dramatic speculative fiction, set in a world parallel to real life where sentient automata were invented in the late 1910s, then created en masse post WW2. The novel focuses on Riker Venczel, a middle aged human trying to escape the controlling grip of his cousin, and Taps Bettencourt, an Antique-class robot who, upon losing his job and home, seeks to reconnect with his estranged family. While the present action follows the pair as they flee New Amida, the Rusty City, frequent flashbacks show much of their lives previous.
Themes: Recognition of abuse, Moving forward without forgiveness, Queer acceptance, Systematic entrapment under capitalism, The value of anger vs passivity
Aesthetics and Vibes: The Rust Belt, ghost lights in dusty old theaters, long empty roads, grime under fingernails, denim clothing, satellite dish fields under the stars
Specific goals for this first draft under the cut:
Goals for First Draft of 'The Five Bright Stars' (Subject to change)
Do's
-Robots as allegory for disability, queer identity, objectification, working class struggles
-Give equal time and depth to Riker and Taps-- Taps currently has fewer character flaws
-Figure out a more realistic structure for robot self-advocacy organization(s) (CoACT)
-Flesh out the first period of Taps' life, including Demetrio's rivalry with other wealthy property owner(s)
-Flesh out backstories for the other Stars
-Find balance of sexual themes; acknowledge sex's role in characters' lives in both positive and negative ways without shying away due to personal fears of judgement
-Represent maligned identities
-Flesh out the plot past the midpoint/return to New Amida
Don'ts
-Avoid robot = race parallels
-Do not "sand down edges" of character personalities, conflicts
-Avoid villifying more militant or self-denfense oriented groups in relation to moderate ones
-Be mindful of tokenism
-Don't hold too tightly to established or old story elements simply because they've been around for a while
-Avoid making Todd's physical disability seem without challenges as opposed to Riker's mental disabilities
16 notes
·
View notes
Photo
I remember seeing this for the first time! I loved out loud.
They thought this was a fluke until it happened again at Titantic 3D. Then they started trading DVDs.
hello spg fandom I have been stalking you, please take this fanart while I ollie into oblivion
/whoosh
532 notes
·
View notes
Text
I'm really going to miss this
Also Riker you fucking dork I love you man
[ID: A digital sketch in black and white. A screaming and crying snake (avatar of Muse) is coiled around a heart shaped cake that reads 'happy bye' on the top. The snake is surrounded by the Becile Bots. Dee is screaming back. The Jack says placatingly, "W-We'll always be with you! Kinda!" The Skull scowls while holding a forlorn looking Tatters. Hare winces and says, "Eeesh." Scratch makes an anime-style sweatdrop-and-closed eye expression. Riker grins smugly at the viewer and says, "I get a boyfriend in the next project." Locksmith's disembodied, X-eyed head lays on the table wearing a party hat. End ID]
@ghoulishjester suggested this as an end-of-blog celebration, and while I'm still looking for something to do IRL, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to do something really really stupid
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Who likes ugly sketches??
Here's an assortment of early sketches I did to get feel for Rabbit and The Spine. The top two are from 2019 and the bottom are from 2020-- I had that image of Rabbit eating the copper elephant that appears in the Mean Mean Man animatic bouncing around in my head for a LONG time!
24 notes
·
View notes
Text
Jus a couple of robot losers and a spaced out android
215 notes
·
View notes
Text
I like stories where a normal human child is being raised by a sinister supernatural being who is totally malevolent except when it comes to their kid. Those are so much better than the “kids are scary” changeling type horror movies.
139K notes
·
View notes
Text
I knew it was coming. I know it has to happen and I'm exited for what comes next. I'm so glad they did get has happy an ending as they could. But fuck it hurts that this is over. But it does lead to a lot of fun stories to think about when they take on this new adventure.
Epilogue, Part 2 of 2 -- Letters from -H
Previous
-
Rabbit receives the first postcard a week and a half after Becile Manor burned to the ground. It has an illustration of a jackalope on the front, posed sitting with its head up, and the writing on the back is made up of sharp, straight lines.
I saw one of these while we were stopped headed east. No one else believes me. But I remember your stupid cowboy song, and I know you know I’m not lying this time.
-H
The second postcard is from Sun Valley, Idaho, but is not postmarked from there.
Goddamn, there’s a lot of stars.
-H
More postcards trickle in, their return addresses tracing a path east, then north, then east again, then sharp south. Soon, there are envelopes mixed in with the postcards. They contain one or two photographs, written on the back in the same hand. The first photo is of the Becile’s grumpy engineer, squinting in the flash of the camera, and reads:
I found this camera in a real nowhere’s-ville shop. Szarka had some real funny things to say about how old it was, forgetting I was around when these things were on 35mm. Joke’s on him. More to follow.
-H
Later:
Skully’s learning to drive. Here’s the ditch he drove the van into on his first day.
-H
Then an old garage appears, all dusty glass and cracked blue paint on concrete. Instead of writing on the back of the photo, a short letter is included:
We finally made it to Szarka’s old place. His mother locked the door on the rest of us while she grilled him, but it was easy to pick. We weren’t about to let him get torn to shreds all alone. Guess she found something respectable in that. She doesn’t like us, but she’s letting us stay a little while. I already hate this small town business.
-H
A few days later, there’s a news clipping:
BAD NEWS ‘BOTS: COAL FUELED AUTOMATONS CAUSE RUCKUS AT LOCAL FARMER’S MARKET
And a note:
Hey, no such thing as bad publicity.
-H
Three weeks later, the postcards are coming from Chicago.
We had to split from Smallville after we ran into trouble with the locals. We’ll be back, sorry to say. Szarka’s ma said she’d kill us if we kept him away another ten years. That’s trouble for later. Right now, we’re taking the Windy City for all it’s worth.
I feel right at home.
-H
=
At some point, Hare sits down with The Jack and The Skull.
“I’m remembering things,” Hare says to them, rolling a half dollar between his knuckles. He still won’t have his jaw looked at, but a new metal patch adorns his right eye socket. “I don’t know if I still would if Locksmith’s last little present hadn’t knocked something loose. But it wasn’t just seeing things.”
“The city is so different,” The Jack says quietly. “But there’s small things, like-- like the way certain streets curve, or the color of the sunset. I remember, too. I remember being here with you.”
“I don’t,” The Skull says. “But maybe that’s not surprising.”
“What do you mean?” Hare asks.
“It may have only been for a second, but we all saw who we were. And I wasn’t related to you two.”
“So maybe you grew up somewhere else,” The Jack says.
“Maybe,” The Skull mutters, and then is silent.
Hare flips the half-dollar and snatches it out of the air. He walks over to The Skull, jabs a finger in his chest.
“Skully, you listen here. I’ve been me a lot longer than I was him. And I’m gonna keep on being me, and you’re gonna keep on being you, and we’s brothers, through and through. You don’t ever doubt that, OK?”
The Skull looks back at him, then he grunts and knocks Hare’s hand away. “As if you’d ever let me forget. But The Jack’s got a point. I don’t think I was ever here, before.”
“What do you remember?” The Jack asks. “If anything?”
The Skull’s eye-lights flicker off. “Trees,” he says. “Trees and mountains.”
Two months later, they’re out of Chicago, heading toward the East Coast. The Skull drives part of the way, the heartbeat of his Green Core pulsing faster when the rolling peaks start to show in the distance. Within a few days, he stands alone at the peak of a Blue Ridge mountain and fills his bellows, and he imagines he can smell the pines and mist. His tears are silent, and he wipes them away before he returns to his waiting family.
“We can go,” The Skull says to them.
“So soon?” The Jack asks in concern. “Are you sure--”
“Everything that was here for me is long gone,” The Skull says. He puts a hand on The Jack’s shoulder. “I need to take care of what I have now.”
=
Rabbit’s got quite the collection of postcards and letters from -H, now. She flips through them sometimes, shuffling them and reading them at random.
Dee scared the crap outta us when we got to the Everglades, practically threw herself in the water. We’ll be dry cleaning her for weeks! First time I think I’ve heard her laugh like that, though.
A photo of The Skull, sitting in elaborate face paint and marigolds, flanked by a trio of celebrating ‘bots in embroidered dresses. He made some friends! It’s a Day of the Dead miracle.
A photo of Dee, her arms around Hare and The Skull’s shoulders as they hold her up, steadying her on aluminum legs.
Szarka asked us if we’d ever consider taking in another ‘bot. Turns out the man’s always wanted to build one of his own. I told him, I’m not sure we’re cut out to be godparents, and he’s got a ways to go before he’s ready to raise his own ‘bot. But we’ll see. World’s full of surprises. Hell, he might even get good at that guitar one of these days.
A photo of The Jack, grinning and giving two thumbs up, wearing a shirt that reads, “I walked through Hell, MI, and all I got was this DAMN t-shirt!”
Szarka’s got himself a Blue-Cored boyfriend, some kind of dancing ‘bot, a real goody-two-shoes type. Don’t worry, we’ll make a scoundrel out of him yet.
(I told twinkle-toes about Szarka saving my life. He can thank me later.)
A photo of The Jack braiding Dee’s hair, Tatters in her lap, sitting by the van. Szarka and The Skull sit on folding chairs beyond them, talking, watching the fireflies. Hare writes on the back: I don’t want anybody to worry about us.
There are days I don’t think about Pops at all.
It’s funny.
I don’t envy you anymore.
=
And one day, years later, Rabbit hears a sharp whistle behind her. And she turns to smile, because all the postcards in the world couldn’t replace the troublemakers come home.
=
They’ll die someday.
Of course they will. Some, sooner than others.
But not today.
Not yet.
Because with a bit of luck, they got out. They got another chance. Not because they deserved one-- chances aren’t deserved. Not because they needed it-- so many who need them don’t make it. Not because they loved enough or hated stronger or by anything they could have planned.
It was just luck. Just a good hand of cards on a stacked table.
And when all your life is a game of chance
well
it’d be a shame not to play.
28 notes
·
View notes
