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quailthekenku · 3 years

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Back and Forth Dialogue With a friend: Matrix visits Chicega

The second half of a dialogue trade with Toblerone ^-^

(Srsly this girl needs some support PLEASE MAKE A SOCIAL MEDIA SO I CAN TAG YOU YOU AMAZING ARTIST WRITER BFF YOU-)

So, like last time, this is a thing where a character from one person’s world is thrown into the universe of the other’s. Last time, it was Toble’s character Calli in my setting of the Illumise Headquarters. Check it out sometime! :D

- Me

~ Toble

Also sadly, none of this is canon :(

===Toblerone Explaining Scene===

“~ So I'm gonna do the Raid on Chicega, which is basically a large city much like New York

~ The government may have had bounds in tech but the public hasn't

~ The cars are more high tech tho, so are billboards

~ Cameras are everywhere, and a guard in a helmet and high tech suit is on every corner. They all have pulse guns.

~ The Area Tower is the tallest tower in the city.

- so a Dystopian futuristic New York?

~ Yes

~ The city has a huge industrial zone to the east, and it’s surrounded by plains

~ And that’s about all. Ready?”

-------------------------------Roleplay Line--------------------------------

- Matrix wanders into the city with a coffee cup in his hands, gazing at the brightly colored signs.

~ The sky was clear above Chicega. Zilo cast a casual glance into the street, standing outside Dale's coffee shop.

- Matrix's eyes wandered over to a nearby coffee shop. Maybe they have pastries there? He wondered, opening the doors and walking inside, waving hi to the barista.

~ Zilo brushed a strand of bright blonde hair out of his face and went inside the shop, seeing Dale working busily behind the counter, and Calli and Hailey sitting at a small table in the corner. Zilo's eyes drifted to the newcomer.

- He felt eyes on his back, so Matrix turned to see a blonde-haired boy seated at a window table staring at him. He waved at him awkwardly.

~ Zilo smiled at him and waved him over.

- Matrix hesitated, then sighed and sat down with them. "No offense, but it's a a little weird to stare at someone from across the room."

- "You could have just said hi," He smiled.

~ "I've just never seen you in the shop!" Zilo answered. "We usually have the same people in and out at the same time." He shrugged. "Bad habit. Can I get you something?" Zilo gestured at the glass display case of foods and other things.

- He glanced at the display case with his watermelon eyes, and set his sights on a raspberry cinnamon roll the size of a dinnerplate. "I'd like that one," He pointed at the roll, "But I'll buy it with my own money, thanks." He began walking over to the cashier, but stopped midway. He turned to the blonde boy and said, "I'm Matrix, by the way."

~ Zilo grinned. "I'm Zilo, and alright, suit yourself. " He laughed lightly, swinging around to face his sisters, who were talking quietly with grim faces.

~ Calli suddenly shot up straight in her chair, knocking her coffee of the table. Black cat ears appeared from her head, standing up and alert. Hailey also looked concerned, and feathers appeared from behind her ears, also straight and alert.

- Matrix’s eyes widened in confusion.

~ Zilo jumped up and sprinted to them. "What's wrong, Calli?"

~ She quietly said, "I hear planes."

- "Good planes or bad planes?"

~ Zilo let his own gold wolf ears appear, and then he heard them too, the low menacing buzz of an engine.

~ He flipped around. "Matrix, Dale, you guys need to leave. Run. Get out as fast as you can."

- “Wait,” Matrix said. “I can help you guys!”

~ "How?" Zilo said. "Can you stop over fifty planes?"

- "Maybe," He muttered. He paced around a bit. "Do you know where the nearest cell tower is?"

~ "Here I'll take you there." Zilo waved to his sisters, who were crashing through the front window. "There they go!"

- "Great! I'll follow you." He ran through the doors of the café and after him. "*Huff* I shouldn't *huff* have worn *huff* a fluffy jacket," He panted as they ran down the city streets.

~ Zilo weaved through the streets, fighting through a crowd of joggers and up to a tower. "Okay look, I have a plan."

- "I do too, but I'm listening."

~ "I don't know how you're gonna stop the planes but I'm going up there." Zilo pointed to the top of Ara Tower. "Signal me with this before you crash the planes." Zilo handed him a black flare with a white button and sprinted off towards the tower.

(It was at this point that the story split for a moment into two separate ones. I’ll do Toble’s first then mine :>)

==============================================

Zilo took a flying leap and a loud cracking sound emanated from his feet. His boosters flashed and he rocketed upward, towards the tower. Hailey flew along beside him, her wings letting her glide effortlessly. "Where's Calli?" He asked, nervous.

"I don't know, she took off towards the other side of the tower." Zilo nodded, then felt his side vibrate. His emergency teleporter was flashing. He grabbed it and pulled it out as he slammed face first into the towers roof, cutting his face on a wire sticking out of the air conditioning unit.

Zilo stood up as the air to his left flashed brightly and suddenly Calli was there, her own emergency teleporter in hand.

Calli chuckled and pulled out a launcher, that was already charging. "Where's your friend?" She asked, a little winded.

"He's supposed to signal me soon." Zilo said, turning towards the cell towers direction. Calli kneeled on the tower and aimed the launcher upwards towards the swarm of black dots in the distance.

Zilo saw the flare go off and yelled, "THERE IT IS!"

===============================================

- "Good luck!" He called after him. Matrix then looked at the tower's floor map, which was hung in a frame over the receptionist stand, searching for the broadcasting floor where the computers were.

- "Floor 19," The map said. Just under the top floor. He sprinted up the stairs, tying his navy aviator jacket around his waist. "Please, let this work," He muttered as he pushed in the doors to the room alight with computer screens. "Broadcast, broadcast..." He mumbled as he checked the labels on each of the cords plugged into cameras, microphones and computers. "Input, output, phone charger... Broadcast!"

- He brandished the USB cord with triumph for a moment, then paused. "Now, here comes the painful part..."

- He held the USB in one hand, and an Input cord in the other. After a deep breath in and out, he plunged the two cords into the side of his arm. "Please work, please work, please work, please work," He said through gritted teeth as his form started to flicker and pixellate, and, as he slowly disintegrated into pixels, he pressed the white button on the flare he was given before it clattered to the ground. The computer flashed for a second, and a beam of electricity shot up a cord, heading for the tower's antenna.

===============================================

Calli nodded as she began to be encircled in an electric blue sphere, soon she was almost hidden inside. A crackling sound came from it.

Abruptly, the sphere around Calli shot forward with an exploding sound and hit one of the bombers head on. It exploded into shards that rained down on the streets.

===============================================

Bravo Fighter 3 sat in the cockpit of jet number 33. She flew over the cell tower confidently, preparing to double back and open fire on the city at the boss's orders when a small ERROR message on her ship's console caught her attention.

Suddenly, every monitor on the console flashed orange, then faded to a pastel pink. "What in the..."

A chat menu had overlapped the ship's electronic controls.

Messages were pouring in the dash, one at a time: "Hmm, what to say to crash this..." read a message at the top. "Um, I could count to two hundred in French? Yeah, I'll do that."

She looked at the dash in confusion for a moment as the bot continued, "Un de tois, quatre-something..." until she noticed the messages going faster and faster, until they blurred upwards in astonishing speeds. The engine behind her had began to run hot. She noticed a type area for her to type in as Bravo Fighter 7 flew above her, and crackled onto her radio asking why she'd flown off-course. However, she was busy talking with the bot. He seemed... friendly, almost?

She continued talking to the craft until she noticed her ship dipping towards the ground. She yanked the flying gear up, but the ship was unresponsive.

===============================================

Zilo saw the MAG begin to fall over the cell tower and he yelled in triumph.

Hailey shot towards another MAG, literally tackling it from the air and towards the ground with a loud smashing sound.

Zilo followed Calli into the air, as both leapt towards a mechdropper.

===============================================

As the ship began flashing red and the pilot hit the eject button, one more message popped up on the screen: "Don't text and drive."

===============================================

Calli threw a punch at the cockpit, bending the MAGMD in two and it exploded as they passed through flying debris.

Zilo grabbed Calli's shoulders and threw her upwards. She latched onto another MAG while Zilo fell downwards onto a MAGMC.

===============================================

=( ( ( ALL TOGETHER NOW ) ) )=

- More and more ships began dipping downward. Any ship that flew close enough to a dipping one began to malfunction the same. Two dozen pilots in parachutes floated down from the sky, where the others were waiting. Zilo examined one of the fallen jets, and the earpiece in his ear crackled with static. "Hey Zilo! Got them down for you!"

- "Also, you guys are surprisingly good at this," Matrix's voice continued from Zilo's earpiece as Zilo took down another MAG.

~ Zilo laughed. "Kind of my job!" he said offhandedly, throwing a fire charge at a passing fighter and then landing flat on the street, barely saved by his shield.

- "So, I've hacked into a lot of their jets, and I have a cool magic trick I can show you," He said excitedly. "Watch this!" His voice said from the earpiece.

- Below them, the crashed jets that still had their miniguns were aiming them at the few jets still in the air. A few careful, precise shots from the machine guns took down all the remaining jets that had stayed away from the ones that had crashed.

- The debris from them fell to the ground like demented snow."Abra Kadabra," He said from the earpiece.

~ "HAHAHA YEAH THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Zilo yelled in happiness and victory.

~ But he screamed when the MAG flew into his side.

- “NO-O-O-O-O-”

~ Zilo hung to the nose of the jet, coughing up blood. His ears hung limply, and Calli and Hailey were nowhere to be found...

- "Oh no, oh nonononono," Matrix said from the earpiece. "What the heck is up with this dang jet's antivirus software?!," a moment later. "Hang on, Zilo, I can save this, I-I can save this..."

~ "Just do what you can-" Zilo coughed, cutting out. "Can't blame ya, the Russians are weasels." (Just a part of her story, I’m sorry)

- "I CAN DEFINITELY SAVE THIS," He cried through the earpiece. In the background, a mechanical voice repeated "Access denied. Virus detected."

~ Zilo screamed and suddenly the jet was no where near. Calli gave him a thumbs up from the top of the now flaming jet.

- "Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected. Access denied. Virus detected."

~ "WE'VE GOTTA SAVE MATRIX!" he screamed. (Which gave me the idea to...)

- "OH GOD ZILO I'M SORRY, I'M SO SORRY I COULDN'T-" Silence.

~ Hailey suddenly flickered out of the air and appeared in the cyber space. She grabbed Matrix's pixelly arm and yanked him into reality.

- Hailey came out of the computer, tugging a half-pixelated arm free from the computer. It hung limply.

~ Hailey's eyes widened and she yelled in terror and sadness. Zilo started to cry, and Calli looked up in horror.

- The hand began to disintegrate into pixels, until it flickered green for a moment.

- Zilo’s earpiece buzzed.

- Slowly, the arm regenerated itself, then a sleeve, then a shoulder...

~ Zilo began a small smile, reaching for Matrix hopefully...

- until Matrix was lying on the hull face down, his pistacio hair discheveled. "uuuugghhhhh," He groaned.

- "Dang, I haven't come that close since the comet," he muttered as he got up onto his knees.

~ "Oh thank god you’re okay" Zilo hugged him.

- Matrix hugs him back.

- “Did we do it?” He asked, glancing at the thirty or so wrecked ships.

~ “Yeah, mostly. We still have the mechs to deal with, though.”

- Matrix turned to hear the stomping of mechs in the distance. "Oh, come on," he moaned, then shook himself. "Okay, let's do this," He said confidently.

- And the four of them sprinted off, ready to fight again. -

The End :3

#Dialogue trade #writing trade #Chicega #Zilo #Calli #Calico #Dale #Hailey #War Machine #Toblerone #Matrix #Glitchy Sunset Boi #writing #one off

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grrnele · 5 years

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Todd we need to talk.

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

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III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie.

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering.

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild.

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone.

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost.

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.”

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.”

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me?

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath.

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor.

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm.

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away.

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room.

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth.

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do.

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #pacific rim #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction

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offical-dystopiantale · 5 years

Text

*Chapter 3: There’s something I need to tell you!*

Ink: Age 17

Error: Age 18

Part 1

“Three more months!!”

Error looked up from his novel and at his friend. They were in Ink’s bedroom, Ink on the bed and Error on the floor with his legs crossed. After the… ‘incident’ about a year ago, Error practically lived with Ink and his mother, both of whom seemed fine with the arrangement. And Error definitely preferred this to being at his own home, Ink had certainly helped him get the right help as well. He hadn’t cut himself in over a year, and, for once, was feeling happy and safe.

“What are you talking about?”

“We only have three more months until we’re out of high school for good!” Error snorted, rolling his eyes at his friend. “Proms coming up soon too.”

“I don’t know if I’d say two months is soon.”

Ink shrugged, rolling into his stomach. “A lot of people are already finding their outfits and stuff. Do you think you’ll go with anybody?”

Now, the thing is, Error did want to take someone with him, but that someone just happened to be Ink.

A few days after the incident at the hill, Error had realized something that… terrified him.

He had a crush on his best friend.

It wasn’t even just a small crush; it was big, huge.

Some would even say Error loved Ink.

And that scared Error. The way he cared about Ink, the things he wanted to do with him… they were so new, and foreign to the teenage monster. He’d known Ink for years, he was the person he was closest to, the person he trusted the most; so he supposed it made sense that he’d be the one Error fell for.

But Ink on the other hand…

He was… incredible. He was the kindest and most caring monster Error knew, and god, was he adorable. With the way his smile lit up his entire face, the subtle way his left eye would change depending on his mood. The way the simplest things made his face light up with that rainbow blush Error had come to adore.

Someone like that… there was no way he’d like Error the same way, and the ebony skeleton wasn’t sure he was ready to risk their entire friendship by telling him how he really felt..

“No, I was thinking of just not going to it in general.”

“Aw, what? You have to come!”

Error hummed, setting his book to the side. “I don’t know Ink. There’s gonna be a lot of people there.”

Even though Error was doing better with his own problems, large crowds were still quite the problem for him. He found out that any touch from a stranger - or anyone he didn’t trust, he guessed - whether it be a simple shoulder bump or a pat on the back, made him recoil away from the person violently, his mind flooding with thoughts of his father, and the things he’d done to him during his childhood.

So, Error opted to avoid crowds as much as possible.

Ink, on the other hand, wanted Error to go out, be more adventurous. He figured it’d get easier for him to deal with the more he did it.

“If you don’t go, then I won’t either.” Guilt welled up in Error’s soul, Ink had been looking forward to their senior prom since they were in grade nine. He can’t just back out on going now just because his friend didn’t want to go!

“Ink, you’ve been looking forward to this dance for years, you have to go!”

Ink shook his head, crossing his arms and pouting, and Error resisted urge to point how absolutely adorable he looked.

“I only want to go if it’s with you!” Both boys froze, thinking over what the small skeleton had just said. Both of their faces erupted into a blush, Error quickly looked down, cursing himself for being so easily flustered. “N-not like, as a date or anything… we’re just friends..”

That caused an ache in Error’s chest. Of course he enjoyed being friends with the small monster, but he wanted to be so much more than friends.

He sighed, scratching his cheek, his face still bright blue. “Fine, you win. I’ll go, but don’t expect me to be outgoing or any shit like that.”

Ink clapped happily, giggling. The ebony monster felt his cheeks heat up more, if that were possible. There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Winter peaked in, smiling softly. “Hey boys, it’s getting pretty late, I think it’s about time you two hit the hay.”

“Ok mom!” Ink practically sang, still beaming brightly, his left eye taking the shape of a star.

Winter left, keeping the door ajar, and Ink helped Error pull out the blankets and pillows he used to sleep. Winter had offered to set up the guest room for him; so he could have a bit more privacy, but he had politely declined with the explaination that he preferred to sleep in the same room as Ink, and didn’t really like to be alone in the dark. After they finished laying out the insane amount of blankets Ink had lent the other boy, the small monster clicked off the light and hopped into his own bed. “You good down there, Glitchy?”

Error could just barely make out Ink’s silhouette in the dark, dim moonlight filtering in through the half closed blinds. The small skeleton on the bed was wrapped up tight in his mass of sheets that were pulled up to his nose. “Yeah… I’m good. ‘Night Inky.”

Ink giggled, making the monster on the floor’s soul to do a flip. “Good night Glitchy.”

*****

Ink whimpered softly to himself, burrowing more into his blankets. He’d never been good at dealing with nightmares - it took very little to scare the skeleton, and his mind always found sick and twisted ways to torment him while he was asleep. He had only been twelve when he started to regularly get the night terrors, usually once or twice a week, and his mother had ended up mentioning it to his doctors during one of his regular check ups. They had been told that the dreams may be a side effect of the medicine Ink used, and that there was not much they could do about it.

Ink eventually got used to the horrid dreams, but this particular nightmare had been worse than usual, and had left him shaken and close to tears.

He eyed his sleeping friend on the ground. Error always looked so peaceful when he slept, with the way his whole body relaxed, his mouth open slightly as he breathed long and even breaths. Sometimes, his ‘nose’ would seem to twitch, as he turned in his sleep, sometimes to curl up on his side like a big baby.

Anxiously, Ink slid out of his bed, and onto his knees in front of the sleeping monster. He reached out, poking his cheek with a finger. Error pushed it away, eye’s fluttering open. He stared at Ink as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, visibly confused. “Hi.”

“Ink? What the fuck, it’s the middle of the night.” His voice was gruffer than usual because of left over sleep, and the way it seemed to roll through Ink made his soul flutter.

“I… I had a nightmare.”

Error sat up, yawning. “What..?”

The white skeleton rubbed his bare arm, blushing from embarrassment. “I, um, I had a nightmare. And I was… kinda hoping you could sleep with me tonight? On my bed, n-not the floor.”

Error’s cheeks turned blue as he looked between Ink and the bed, before finally nodding his head. “Um, Yeah, yeah Ok. You had a nightmare.”

He still seemed a bit confused, or even possibly flustered, and they crawled under Ink’s sheets together, keeping a modest distance between them.

… This won’t do. He wanted to feel Error’s warmth, to be curled up next to him. “Error? Can I… um.”

The ebony skeleton opened one eye, his cheeks still glowing blue in the dark. “Hm?”

Slowly, the small monster inched closer to his friend, wiggling his way under his arms and resting his head on his ribcage. Error went stiff, then relaxed slightly, letting his arm rest over top of Ink’s waist. “Is this ok?”

The ebony monster didn’t answer at first, shifting the way he was laying, almost as if he was scared to touch Ink. “Yeah.. this is good.” Ink shivered, nuzzling in closer to his larger friend. He’d wanted to do this for years and yet… it was a bit disappointing that they were just friends, that this cuddling meant nothing romantic, at least to Error.

Unknown to Ink, however, was that Error felt like he was practically soaring. The way the monster’s small frame was pressed against him, his face burrowed under his chin, the way his warm breaths felt against his collarbone. Ink’s small hands were holding onto Error’s nightshirt, and his breathing became slow and steady as he fell back asleep. The taller of the two boys rested his hand on top of Ink’s hip bone, and the other arm rested under Ink’s skull, like a pillow. He seemed small and frail, and Error had an almost instinctual urge to protect him, to wrap his larger arms around him and block out the crazy world, for it to be just them...

Together.

… How would Ink react if he knew how his friend really felt? Error doubted the opportunity to be so close to the small skeleton would ever happen again, but who’s to say Ink wouldn’t still want to be friends after highschool?

Like his friend said, their high school days were numbered. Error had been saving up the money he’d made while working and he planned to get himself a small apartment once they graduated. Surely, he and Ink wouldn’t be seeing each other as much once they both moved on from highschool- that thought made his pounding soul ache. Maybe…telling Ink about his feelings wouldn’t be such a bad idea? It’d be nice to be able to leave school with no secrets, everything out in the open so he’d never have sleepless nights wondering what would have happened if he’d confessed.

Error took a deep breath, nuzzling the top of his friends skull as his eyelids slowly shut.

He’d tell Ink, he decided. Tomorrow, at sunset.

Might as well make it romantic.

*****

Ink yawned, curling himself up to the warm, and large, figure next to him.

Wait…

The monster opened his eyes, gasping softly when he saw who he was pressed up against. His soul beat hard in his ribcage as his face heated up. His view was filled with Error’s chest and he could feel Error’s arms around him, holding him close. If he looked up, he could just barely make out the ebony monster’s relaxed face.

Like this… it was almost like they were a couple.

A gidding smile formed on his lips, and he suppressed giggles, burying his face in the crook of Error’s neck. He told himself it was dumb to think like this: he was Error’s friend, not his boyfriend. His friend didn’t really see him like that, the only reason he was cuddling with Ink was because he had a nightmare; and the tall monster was kind, and cared about him.

But he couldn’t help but fantasize about it.

Error shifted onto his back, pulling Ink’s upper half on top of him. Ink squeaked, his face becoming even hotter. The tall monster mumbled something, his eyes opening. He stared as Ink for a minute, the gears in his head slowly turning to comprehend their situation. Ink pushed away, his friend’s skull becoming bright blue. He couldn’t help but start giggling, the taller monster’s expression changed from confusion to something that looked almost like… adoration. “Hey.”

“‘Morning.”

Ink rubbed his bare arms, his soul singing in his chest. He wanted to kiss Error. He wanted Error to lean over and kiss him, and pull him back done to his chest. “I, um.. Sorry about last night. I just.. didn’t want to be alone, ya know?”

Error waved his apology away, sitting up and stretching. “Don’t worry about it.” He paused, then smirked and winked at Ink. “It’s not like I didn’t like it.”

The small monster’s soul pounded. What did that mean?! “I-I…” He swallowed hard, looking down, unable to meet Error’s gaze after that. “Anyways, I… appreciate it.”

Error swung his feet off the side of the bed, standing up to his full height. Ink watched his back, biting the tip of his thumb. “Like I said, don’t worry about it. What do you work today?”

“Oh, um, 2 to 5:30. What about you?”

“2 to 6.”

Error was pulling off his shirt, his back still towards Ink, as he reached into the drawer that he kept his clothes in. It wasn’t the first time they’ve changed in the same room - usually if one of them was changing anything other than a shirt, the other boy would either leave or look away - and they’d been doing it since they were kids. That being said, seeing Error’s bare spine and the back of his ribcage sent a burst of heat out through Ink’s soul to the rest of his body, and he quickly looked away, covering his face with a sheet. “We haven’t gone out to the hill in a while.”

… Why was he bringing that up now? A part of Ink had assumed Error didn’t really like going out there anymore, since they usually just stayed in his room now. He wouldn’t blame the ebony monster if he didn’t want to go out there anymore, considering what had happened there last year.

The tall skeleton sat back down, a new shirt on, though he still had a pair of gray sweatpants on. “I mean like, do you wanna drive out there tonight? Watch the sunset, then just sit out and look at the stars?” He scratched at his cheek, then added: “We could even go out for dinner, there’s that sushi place downtown that you like, right?”

Ink stared at Error, eyebrow raised. They’d gone out for lunch or supper together before (only as friends, of course) but this time… it felt different. Almost as if they were going to be on a date.

“Uh… yeah, yeah that sounds nice. We haven’t done that in a while.” Error gave him a small smile, his cheeks blue. He looked so adorable…

“Wanna go get some breakfast? Mom’s probably at work already, but we could make some pancakes.”

Error chuckled, most likely remembering the last time they tried cooking together (which ended in a huge mess) “Yeah, let’s do it.”

*****

Ink looked up from his phone, scanning the parking lot again. He and Error had decided they’d just meet at their car after work and then drive over to the sushi restaurant. Ink had finished half an hour before Error and had been waiting at the car ever since. He sunk down into the passenger seat and glanced at the time. 6:03. He should be here soon, right? The small skeleton turned back to his phone, scrolling through social media to distract himself from his growing worries and pounding soul. He couldn’t help but feel like this was a date. Getting supper at a fancy restaurant, watching the sunset together and then stargazing? That sounded much more like something a couple with do, not two friends. But what does that mean? Was Error doing this on purpose because he wants it to be a date? Or was he just oblivious to the romantic undertones?

Someone wrapped their knuckles against the car window, and Ink jolted, turning his head to see who it was. Error stood outside, giving him a small wave; the white skeleton unlocked the doors, sitting up in his seat as Error slipped into the car. “Hey, sorry ‘bout the wait.”

“No worries. I don’t mind.”

“Well, you good to go?” He put the car into reverse once Ink had nodded, backing out of the parking spot.

“I was wondering… what made you want to go out tonight anyways? It was really out of the blue.”

The ebony skeleton shrugged. “Guess you could say I was feeling impulsive. I also just kinda wanted to do something nice for you.”

Ink pursed his lips, looking out the window, at the moving scenery. “You don’t have to do anything special for me ya know…” Error shrugged again, but didn’t answer. There was a blush blooming on his cheeks.

The small monster huffed in confusion. What was this about? He’s never done something like this before. Sure, there’s been certain comments that made Ink flustered and question if the other skeleton felt the same way, but those had all been small, and brief. Easy to dismiss as just friendly compliments. But this… it was different. There almost seemed to be a type of electricity in the air, sparking something inside of Ink.

The drive to the restaurant took about twenty minutes, but the two boys found it easy to make conversation by talking about how their days went, and funny work stories. They were joking and laughing with each other as Error parked the car, and that attitude easily lasted throughout their dinner. Ink’s worries had practically vanished as he and his friend ate their sushi, poking fun at each other and snorting at their dumb jokes. Once they’d finished eating, their waiter brought them the bill. Ink, of course, reached out to grab it, but Error was quick to snatch it before him.

“WHat are you doing?”

He looked over the receipt, humming. “I’ll pay.”

Ink pouted, crossing his arms. “No way. We always split the bill”

“Not this time shorty” Error gave him a wink, and Ink’s stomach did a somersault, his questions from earlier crashing over him again. Seeing Ink’s very confused expression, the other monster’s smile softened, and he reached out and squeezed his hand. “If it really bothers you, you can just buy me lunch sometime or something. Just let me pay this time, ok?”

Ink huffed, his face blooming bright with his multi-coloured blush. “Fiiine. But this means I’m buying next time.”

His friend’s answering chuckle was low and deep. “Sure, sure. Wanna go wait in the car?”

“Eh, sure. Better than standing awkwardly behind you. you always make me look like a little kid!” The ebony skeleton laughed. Standing up, they walked to the front together. The smaller of the two felt the urge to reach out for his friend’s hand -or to grab onto his arm- but restrained himself in hopes of keeping things not awkward.

Everyone here probably already thought they were dating.

Once at the front desk, Ink left to go outside, Error watching him as he shivered in the evening air. It still wasn’t quite summer yet and the nights were still pretty chilly; and, if Error was remembering correctly, Ink didn’t bring a sweater or a jacket with him. The tall monster shook his head and grinned to himself, stepping up to the front counter, to place the receipt onto the counter top. The waiter grinned up at him, their eyes twinkling. “Is it your guys’ anniversary?”

The question caught Error off guard, his eyebrows jumping upwards. “What? Oh gods no, we’re not- “

The monster gave him a confused look. “Oh, you’re not? That’s a shame, you’d make a cute couple.” They told him the total, handing over the machine for his debit card.

“That’s why I brought him here, actually. We’re gonna drive out of town to watch the sunset after this. I… just wanna tell him how I feel, ya know?”

The waiter nodded, taking back the machine as Error finished paying. “That's sweet, dude. Good luck!” The ebony skeleton thanked the monster, left the building and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“You know, I’m really looking forward to this. It’s been a while since we hung out like this.”

Error snorted, pulling out of the parking lot, starting on the route to the hill outside of Blightview. “What do you mean? We’re basically with each other 24/7 nowadays.“

Ink shook his skull, looking out the window at all the monsters going about their day. Blightview had a predominant monster population, and it was rather rare that you came across any humans, and Ink had only seen a few throughout his seventeen years of being in the city. “I meant more like… hung out outside of town. At the hill and such. We always seem to just stick to my room now. Not that that bothers me! I enjoy being with you, no matter where!” He bit his lip, stopping himself from continuing his ramble; he hadn’t meant to go on like that! God, he probably sounded like a love sick fool…

Error chuckled, glancing over quickly at his blushing friend. “Yeah, it has been a while, hasn’t it?” He grew silent for a minute, watching the road, then continued. “I don’t know. I’m still working through all my shit and… it’s just easier for me to just stay inside most of the time, you know?” Ink did know. Error was much more open with his feelings now, and he’d talked about his borderline fear of strangers and large crowds because of his father. “But I’m getting better. So… don’t worry about it, ok?” The smaller monster was taken a bit off guard by his friend’s soft and reassuring tone. Ink turned to him, but the ebony monster wasn’t looking, instead he was watching the road - which, in retrospect, is what Ink should have expected considering he was driving. Ink smiled to himself, still blushing.

He really did love Error.

“I know you are.” After some thought, he decided to add: “And I’m proud of you for it. I know… I know it wasn’t easy.” Error didn’t answer, only nodded a bit. The rest of the drive was filled with songs and chatter from the radio, and the two boys taking secret glances at each other.

Error pulled the car into park, then turned off the engine. Ink was the first to take off his seatbelt, while Error stayed still in his seat, taking deep breaths, still gripping the steering wheel. “Hey…” he placed a hand on the other boy’s knee, causing him to jump. “You ok?”

The fact that his dear friend could be uncomfortable out here was loud in Ink’s mind; would being out here cause him to relapse? Could being in the spot where you almost ended your life cause someone to relapse? Error was smiling at him now, though his cheeks were flushed. “I’m fine Ink. I’m just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, then took Ink’s hand off his knee, and held it between his own, larger hands. “Well… I first thought of talking to here tonight because…” He paused, taking another breath to steady himself, his hands shaking ever so slightly. “I need to tell you something.”

Ink’s soul was beating hard in his chest, his face bright with his rainbow blush. What… was he trying to say here..?

“I, um…” A nervous chuckle, his eyes dropping away from his friend’s. “Guess it would easier if I just… said it as it is, right? Just, spit it out…”

“Error, what are you…?”

“I… I love you.”

Ink’s eyes widened, his soul feeling like it was about to burst. Did he hear that right? Error… felt the same? He was smiling awkwardly at him now, and the white skeleton attempted to form a sentence, only to fail. His smile was falling- no no no wait! I like you too! Say something dummy! He let go of the other monsters hand. “I get that you don’t feel the same I just… needed to get it off my chest.”

“I love you too!” Ink blurted out, his voice cracking as happy tears welled up in his eyes. He reached for his friend’s hand again, this time holding Error’s hand in between his own.

The ebony skeleton was staring at him, eyes wide, a large smile slowly spreading over his face. “Really?” He sounded like a small child, so hopefully and happy.

Ink loved it.

He giggled, squeezing the other monster’s hand. “Of course really! Gosh, I’ve had a crush on you since, like, grade nine! I figured it was ridiculously obvious.”

Error was staring at him like he was the only thing in the world, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. “I… had no idea.”

“Well, obviously. ...I didn’t think you’d like me back either.”

The ebony monster chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “How could I not?” His eyes dropped down briefly to Ink’s lips, making the small skeleton to squirm a bit. “Can… Is it ok if I kiss you?”

“Please do.” He didn’t think before speaking, and his sudden confidence took him off guard. But Error was grinning widely at him, easing his worries away. They both leaned forward, meeting each other in the middle. Despite the fact that both monsters were skeleton’s, and technically didn’t have lips, it felt as if they did, and Error’s were soft, and warm:. Ink wrapped his arms around his neck, trying to pull the larger boy closer to him, to press their bodies together, but that proved to be difficult since they were still seated in the car.

Error pulled away first, one hand on the base of Ink’s spine, and the other was gently cupping his cheek; he was smiling gently at him, pressing their foreheads. “We should probably head out there so we don’t miss… “ He trailed off, his eyes widening a bit and a chuckle leaving his lips.

“What’s so funny?”

“Not funny just…. Your eye!” Ink’s brow furrowed. “It’s a heart!”

Ink pushed away, covering his face - which was completely covered in a blush at this point - while the other monster burst out laughing. The small skeleton let out a muffled scream, and Error reached over, pulling his hands away from his face, fighting back the rest of his laughter. “Aw, come on, it was cute!”

He stuck his tongue out, doing his best to pretend to be mad, but quickly dropped the charade when Error started peppering his face with kisses. “Ok, ok, stooop!” He was a giggling mess, his hands holding on tightly to Error’s sweater, and the other monster had practically crawled over the centerpiece of the car. “I wanna see the sunset!”

Both boys were giggling now, with wide smiles. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop… for now~”

“Oh my god, Error!!”

He leaned back, laughing and Ink shook his head, and they both finally left the car. Ink shivered as a breeze blew by him; Error was at his side again, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “You cold?”

Ink shrugged, the two of them began to walk up the small hill. The tall skeleton hummed, pulling his arm away to take off his hoodie, wrapping it around the smaller boy’s shoulders. It was way too big for him, obviously, and once he slipped his arms into it, his hands were completely hidden in the fabric, and it went down to the middle of his thighs. “Won’t you get cold now?”

The reached the top, and Error pulled Ink down to the grass with him. “Nah. I’ll be fine.” Ink curled up between Error’s legs, and the larger boy wrapped his arms around him before resting his chin on top of Ink’s skull.

They sat there in silence, enjoying each others warmth and watching as the sun sank lower and lower under the horizon, painting the sky in reds, pinks and yellows. Eventually, Ink took one of Error’s hands in his own. “Hey Error?” He hummed in acknowledgement. “Does this mean we’re dating…?”

“Well, yeah? Unless you don’t want that?”

“Of course I want that! You silly glitch..” His boyfriend chuckled, leaning down to nuzzle his cheek. The sun was completely gone now, and Ink burrowed his face into the top of the overly large sweater; it was soft, and smelled distinctly like Error.

There was a big possibility that Ink would be keeping this one for himself.

“I honestly didn’t think you’d feel the same.” The larger boy’s voice was quiet now, in the tone he used when he was going to open up about something, or talk about his feelings.

“How couldn’t I?” Ink responded with a smile, quoting what Error had said earlier; when he didn’t laugh, the boy frowned, shifting a bit to try and look at him. “Error?”

“I… I could make a list of why you wouldn’t love me. I’m sure I have, subconsciously.” He grew silent, then continued. “My dad really fucked with my head, Ink. You know this and… dating me isn’t going to be easy.”

Now the white skeleton turned fully, sitting on his knees and facing his partner, cupping his skull with his hands. “My mom used to tell me that nothing good comes easy.” He pressed a kiss to Error’s forehead. “I really, really, really care about you, and just because we might have some rough days isn’t going to change that or scare me away. I’m here for you. And I always will be.”

The skeleton’s eyes seemed to be sparkling, and Ink would have guessed he was about to cry if it weren’t for the chuckle that left his lips, his arms wrapping around Ink and pulling him into a warm hug.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’d say that.” Another nuzzle, making the small boy giggle and squirm, shifting his body so he could kiss his new boyfriend properly. “You’re just so… caring, like that.”

Ink playfully rolled his eyes, his cheeks blossoming once again. “So are you, Erry.”

“Erry? That one’s new.”

He shrugged, settling back now, his back pressed to the other boy’s chest, his arms still holding him. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I do.”

The small monster grinned to himself, snuggling closer to his boyfriend, watching the sky as the stars began to peak through.

They decided to head back after about an hour, since the temperature had dropped a bit more, making Ink cold (even with Error’s large hoodie) and, even if he wouldn’t admit it, Ink knew that Error was getting cold too.

“How do you think your mom will react?” The monster asked once they were about ten minutes away from the house. Ink let out a small snort at the question. His mother had known about his crush for years, and had been encouraging her son to tell him ever since the beginning; though, she did seem to back off a bit after Error started living with them.

“Oh, mom will be super happy. I think she’s wanted us to get together since, I don’t know, grade ten?”

He looked a bit shocked. “Really?”

“Mhm. She’s known for a while that I liked you, and she thinks you’re a really good guy.”

The boy hummed, turning right. “I…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Huh?”

Ink crossed his small arms, looking down. “You’re gonna apologise, aren’t you? Or say something about how you wish I could meet your kind parents, but I can’t because they’re assholes?” When his boyfriend remained quiet, he huffed. “You need to stop saying sorry for them. You can’t change how they are, even if you want to. Remember what Mrs. Flo said: You can't blame yourself, or apologise, for stuff you can’t control.”

Error took a deep breath. “Right, yeah. Sor- uh, I’ll work on that?”

The short boy smiled at him. “There you go.”

The taller monster was pulling up to the curb now, putting the car into park. They both took off their seatbelts and stepped out of the car; Ink noticed movement from Error’s old home - his mom was standing in the window, watching them with a look of almost… remorse on her face. The white skeleton couldn’t find it in his soul to feel bad for her; she didn’t help Error at all! He gave her a short glare, then took his partner’s hand in his own. “What are you looking at?” The small boy pulled him away before he could look back, leading them to his front door.

“Eh, nothing. I thought I saw something.”

He opened the door, and they both went inside, basking in the warmth of the home. Winter was seated on the couch in the living room, a book in her hands. She didn’t look up at them when they entered, only called out a greeting: “Hey you two.”

Error was pulling off his sneakers, and Ink haphazardly kicked his off, rushing to his mother like an excited child. “Mom, guess what?” He stood proudly in front of her, stretching his arms, making the too-big-sweater look even bigger on his small frame; he was practically swimming in it.

The older monster looked up from her novel, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. “What are you wearing…?”

Error came over now, wrapping an arm around Ink’s slim shoulders, grinning nervously. He was a bit self-conscious of his arms - he usually kept them covered around anyone other than his new boyfriend. That wasn’t what Winter was focused on, however; her eyes were wide, a slow grin stretching over her lips. “Really?”

The small monster next to him nodded happily, giving a little hop that made Error chuckle. “Yes!!”

His mom almost lept out of her seat, immediately cooing over them, teasing and congratulationing. It took awhile for them to get away from the happy monster, claiming that they were tired, and wanted to get some sleep.

After both of them were ready for bed, Error crawled into Ink’s bed next to him without thinking, instantly regretting it when the boy gave him a confused look. “Fuck, do you still want me to sleep on the floor?” He was already easing himself off the plush mattress, and Ink reached out and grabbed his forearm.

“What? No, of course not! I just thought you’d want to.” He ended his sentence with a giggle that warmed his soul. He smiled softly and slid back under the sheets.

Ink curled up to his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck, and Error felt his breath catch in his throat. He was so warm, and surprising soft, and this time he wrapped his larger arms around him fully, keeping him pressed against his larger body. It was different than this morning: this time they were cuddling as a couple. It meant more, in a strange way.

Ink sighed contently, and Error could feel his lips pull up in a small smile. “Does this mean we’ll go to prom as dates?”

“Of course it does.” The white skeleton giggled, making Error coo, kissing the top of his skull. “You’re so adorable.”

Ink giggled again, grabbing onto his boyfriend's shirt gently. “Good Night, Erry”

“Good night, Inky.”

#undertale #undertale au #dystopiantale #undertale sans #error sans #ink sans #error x ink #errink #errorink

154 notes · View notes

dustedmagazine · 4 years

Text

Dust Volume 6, Number 1

A new year means new music. At least eventually, it does, though January is notoriously slow for album releases. Meanwhile, there’s plenty we missed from late (and mid and even early) 2019, so let’s dig into that for one last big Dust. Here we cover subcontinental LGBTQ gangsta rap, industrial clangor, string quartets, Welsh agitpunk, electronics, free jazz, blackened death metal and an odd, charming collaboration between Cate Le Bon and Bradford Cox (see photo). Writers include Bill Meyer, Jennifer Kelly, Ian Mathers, Tobias Carroll, Andrew Forell, Ray Garraty, Jason Gioncontere, Ethan Militsky and Jonathan Shaw.

Jeb Bishop / Alex Ward / Weasel Walter — Flayed (Ugexplode)

Flayed by Jeb Bishop / Alex Ward / Weasel Walter

You know a party is good if it carries on even though the organizer can’t show up. Bassist Damon Smith planned this encounter, which involved his long-term partner in intensity and chaos, drummer Weasel Walter; New England improvisational fellow traveler (at least until Smith moved to St. Louis a few months after this March, 2019 session) Jeb Bishop on trombone and electronics; and Alex Ward, a veteran of work with Derek Bailey and This Is Not This Heat, on guitar and clarinet. Since Walter has played with both of the other guys in and outside of the Flying Luttenbachers, when Smith had to drop out for scheduling reasons, he was confident that the trio could make something of both the opportunity to play and the space made available by the absent bass. He was right. Both the title and prevailing assumptions about Walter might set you up to expect a one-dimensional blowout, but there’s loads of listening and thoughtful, instant reacting taking place on each of the album’s eight, mostly pithy tracks. This music plays out like a combination of jujitsu and shuttle diplomacy, with players shifting between support and challenge, density and space, rapidity and reserve from second to second.

Bill Meyer

Cartel Madras — Age of the Goonda (Sub Pop)

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Cartel Madras turns gangsta rap’s hyper-male, African-American-oriented bravado on its side, filtering the guns and blunts ethos through a female, queer, multicultural lens without diluting its violence in the least. Sisters Priya and Bhagya Ramesh, known as Contra and Eboshi, have lived in Calgary since childhood, but they immigrated from Chennai, India, once part of Madras, hence the name, hence the tricky scales and intricate, not-quite-Western rhythms of their rhymes. Age of the Goonda works in a spare, menacing way, dense, referential wordplay atop an undulating threat of sub-bass and the occasional spray of bullets.

“Goonda Gold,” celebrates cartoonish dominance, though with a South Asian twist. Little bits of Hindi harmonics decorate the bare architecture of synth bass sounds and cracking, stabbing percussion (augmented here by gunfire); the Cartel’s chant of “Gold on my neck I’m a Goonda/got guns in the air like a junta” puts a subcontinental spin on ghetto law. The clever-est word sprays come in “The Legend of Jalopeno Boiz,” where the duo references everything from Frost/Nixon to incel stereotypes, but the single “Lil Pump Type Beat,” is all hedonism, devious syncopation and sexual predation. Though wildly intersectional, these tracks make no concessions to soft, liberal ideas about how women/minorities/LGBTQ people wield power; they do it just like the men do, with guns. “Take off your top boy/somebody bring me my gun/that bag in the back of the jeep/you just a bitch on the run,” asserts one or the other sister in “Jumpscare.” What was that you were saying about women and nurture?

Jennifer Kelly

CIA Debutante — The Landlord (Siltbreeze)

CIA Debutante-The Landlord by CIA Debutante

A new Siltbreeze record is a rare blessing nowadays. The label’s first release since 2018 comes from Paris duo CIA Debutante. The Landlord fits in nicely with the label’s storied '90s output, particularly the Shadow Ring. The electronics aren’t quite glitchy—they sound more like the batteries in a cheap toy dying. Still, CIA Debutante are savvy enough to avoid getting too clever with their sputtering, plodding, and whizzing, and they don’t go the easy route when layering incongruous sounds. There’s never the fatiguing sense that they rely on the same few tricks. It helps that their murky, paranoid vignettes are fully engrossing. CIA Debutante tap into something truly nightmarish on The Landlord, which is a rare accomplishment. Sure, plenty of music shoots for tense and creepy, but CIA Debutante have an exceptional gift for the uncanny, the kind of stuff that haunts you long after you’ve woken up and can no longer hope to grasp it. Ethan Milititsky

Decoherence — Ekpyrosis (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Ekpyrosis by Decoherence

Decoherence is a pretty good name for a band that locates itself in the liminal space between industrial music’s stomp and clangor and black metal’s astringent tumult. The band’s new LP (and first full length release) Ekpyrosis is at its best when its waves of distorted hiss, dissonant riffing and distant shrieks and growls threaten to rend the record to shreds. One imagines that if you found yourself in an aluminum ladder factory, amid the massive drills and extruding machines and metal presses and then removed your ear protectors, you’d hear something akin to this — especially if the place was possessed by demons of ill intent. It’s a well-crafted, ritualized chaos. The band is so insistent on a specific set of sounds and forms that the record’s long tracks tend to blur into one another. Which may be the point. Decoherence, indeed.

Jonathan Shaw

Bertrand Denzler / CoÔ — Arc (Potlatch)

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Arc is a two-part, album-length work by Bertrand Denzler, a Swiss-born, Paris-based saxophonist and composer. It is performed by CoÔ, a string septet led by double bassist Félicie Bazelaire. The ensemble’s composition is a sort of funhouse reflection of a string quartet, distorted towards breadth; it comprises one violin, two violas, one cello and three double basses. But there’s nothing comic about this music, which is quite beautiful in the same way as a slow winter sunset. Denzler’s method here involves the use of continuous sounds, but don’t call it drone. The players use both conventional and extended techniques to create a continually changing sequence of striated sounds. Naked scrapes and cavernous groans arc in formation, changing fairly frequently over the course of each piece. The result is immersive enough to let you get lost, but keep your ears and eyes open; you wouldn’t want to miss one moment of gradual transition. A note about circumstances — Potlatch, the label that released this CD, has slowed its production in recent years, and this is the only record it released in 2018. Apparently, the label isn’t wasting its time with unnecessary effort; Arc clears the necessity bar.

Bill Meyer

Fujiya & Miyagi — Flashback (Impossible Objects of Desire)

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One of the interesting things about Fujiya & Miyagi’s songwriting is that as the UK post-motorik outfit’s music becomes ever more focused and sleekly propulsive, frontman David Best has zeroed in on any number of little aspects of life disturb and upset the kind of cool pulse the band specializes in. Here it’s everything from violations of your “Personal Space,” the “Fear of Missing Out,” and nagging thoughts in the title track to the more political concerns of the closing lengthy workout of “Gammon” (which eventually, in one of the little touches that makes F&M’s music so addictive, settles on the “pure evil vibrating” of a dial-up modem). That doesn’t mean the band can no longer bust a groove just for the pure joy of it, as “Dying Swan Act” proves, but it’s the combination of those chops and the perceptive if increasingly jaundiced eye they turn on life that makes them such a unique and compelling act.

Ian Mathers

Cate Le Bon & Bradford Cox — Myths 400 (Mexican Summer)

Myths 004 by Cate Le Bon & Bradford Cox

Intricate fancies turn just out of true in this pop-up collaboration between Cate Le Bon and Deerhunter’s Bradford Cox, the fourth in a series of joint EPs recorded under the auspices of Mexican Summer’s annual Marfa Myths festival (hence Myths 400). The two artists work in a skewed, peripheral vision take on artful pop, building interlocking boxes of percussion and whimsey in which fleeting glimpses of loveliness flit by. The song-i-est bit of Myths 400 is undoubtedly “Secretary,” a Weimar-decadent bit of mournful song hedged in clanks and clicks, strings and clarinets, and the odd combination of Le Bon’s pure art-song shiver and Cox’s less pristine, more grounded voice. Yet the rhythm-centered oddities are just as rewarding; resist the slap-bang fanciful-ness of growly-voiced, Cox-led “Fireman,” with Le Bon trilling off center arias in the margins at your own peril. “What Is She Wearing” bangs out disconsonant guitar tones in slightly off center patterns and tunings; it’s a wind-up toy’s existential crisis. Le Bon chants in a Middle European cadence, as the cut falls somewhere between early Michachu and a Kurt Weil song. It’s about the last thing you’d expect to emerge from the desert, eccentric, abstracted, playful and utterly urbane.

Jennifer Kelly

Urs Leimgruber / Andreas Willers / Alvin Curran / Fabrizio Sperra—Rome-ing (Leo)

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Urs Leimgruber has covered a lot of musical ground in a performing and recording career that spans over 45 years. The three musicians who join the Swiss saxophonist on this freely improvised encounter, which was recorded in Rome late in 2018, are well chosen to access aspects of that history and shape it into sound configurations that are quite present-focused. Quick, light-fingered, and restless, drummer Fabrizio Sperra keeps things in constant motion. Swiss guitarist Andreas Willers stirs chunks of almost rock-ish noise and sprinkles stinging, pure-toned notes into the mix that give the music heft without slowing it down. Alvin Curran, an American keyboardist and composer (and member of MEV), draws on classical more than jazz elements in his piano playing; there are moments where he stubbornly erects a structure that the other musicians must either inhabit or work around. But his sampler also enables him to inject the sounds of other places. Shifting between tenor and saxophones, Leimgruber drives quickly spiraling phrases through the open spaces and uses astringent, distressed tone-shards to suggest where there needs to be more space.

Bill Meyer

The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor — Music for the National Health Service (Amgueddfa Llwch)

Music for the National Health Service by The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor

When I was a younger punk, I would sometimes take in the phenomenon of bands�� whose lyrical explanations would take longer to deliver than the playing of the actual songs. And while I haven’t seen this crop up much recently, I feel like that aesthetic is alive and well when I visit the Bandcamp page of The Master Musicians of Dyffryn Moor, which includes a terse essay about the dangers facing the NHS under the current British government. This new EP follows two excellent full-lengths, Cerddoriaeth Ddefodol Gogledd Sir Benfro (Ritual Music of North Pembrokeshire) and Contemporary Protest Music, which blend the “instrumental music can be politically charged” feel of Godspeed You! Black Emperor with the intricacy of Steve Reich’s Drumming. These two songs continue in that tradition — furiously played percussion with a heated political subtext — but add a few tweaks to the sound the group has already established. Specifically, there’s a stronger electronic element here: you could probably get a dancefloor moving if you cued up “A spell to protect the NHS from those who seek to destroy it.” Its opposite number, “A hex on those who seek to destroy the NHS,” is built around a steady pulse. You probably can’t dance as well to that, but given the potential psychic damage incurred by dancing to a hex, would you actually want to?

Tobias Carroll

Overground Collective — Super Mario (Babel Label)

SUPER MARIO by OverGround Collective

The Overground Collective is a pan-European big band that is based in London and led by Paulo Duarte, a Portuguese guitarist/composer currently based in Scandinavia. If that sounds like a bit to get your head around, you probably need only wait a while to see what Boris’s Britain does to the freedoms of movement and thought necessary for such an endeavor to get off the ground. For the rest of us, it’s a nice illustration of why such fluidity is part of a better way. Duarte spent some time in England studying the ways of various improvisers, and recruited 17 to join him in realizing a set of compositions designed expressly for them. Certain of the participants come from free jazz (Julie Kjaer, Rachel Musson) or cross-genre experimentation (Yazz Ahmed), and you can hear the influence of such approaches in a few moments of freefall and adventurously conceived solos. But these elements fit into a structure that fits squarely in the tradition. Duarte sets tunes you could hum on grooves that’ll make you tap your feet, albeit quickly enough to annoy your neighbor if the floorboards happen to transmit your amateur approximation of his beats, and dresses them up in arrangements that could speak to a person who thinks that jazz’s lineage is a straight line from Duke Ellington to Maria Schneider. Music like this is a reproach to those who think that differences can’t be complimentary parts of a whole.

Bill Meyer

Pictish Trail — Thumb World (Fire)

Thumb World by Pictish Trail

Folktronica from the tiny island of Eigg in the Hebrides, this latest album by Pictish Trail (Johnny Lynch) demonstrates the aesthetic value of both isolation and connection. Per isolation: Lynch lives on a windblown island with fewer than 100 other people. But as for connection, he is intimately involved in a northerly folk scene through King Creosote’s Fence Records and surrounded by local musicians. There aren’t that many folks on Eigg, but almost everybody plays an instrument. That kind of environment allows space for eccentricity and practice, which shows up on these expansive, dance-inflected, folk-shadowed cuts. Pictish Trail enlarges his subtle, personal songs with enveloping arrangements of rock sounds and club electronics; Kim Moore contributes some string arrangements and Alex Thomas of Squarepusher sits in on drums. “Double Sided” has the lilt and ramble of Three EPs Beta Band (Lynch has been out touring with Steve Mason lately), while gorgeous, glistening “Slow Memories” has the glitch, glow and aura of early Tunng. Thumb World demonstrates that music can be solitary without being lonely, introspective without self-absorbation. “You’re my solitude/I’m never so alone by myself,” sings Lynch, on the surprisingly rock-guitared “Bad Algebra,” underlining the fact that too many people (or the wrong people) can be isolating, and a few can provide the space for originality and experiment.

Jennifer Kelly

Pinkish Black — Concept Unification (Relapse)

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Texas psych sludge prog metal duo Pinkish Black has been quiet for a little while; their last record, 2015’s Bottom of the Morning, was such a compact and potent summation of the miasmic bad vibes that Daron Beck (synthesizers, voice) and Jon Teague (drums) can summon up seemingly at will. No more than a minute into the opening title track of their fourth record you get a strong reminder of just that atmosphere; you might as well be in a haunted castle during the full moon. The closing, lengthy “Next Solution” also offers a reminder of what you might call classic Pinkish Black, but it’s the four songs in between that show Beck and Teague working to make sure there is always room to expand their dark palette. Whether it’s the relatively straightforward, thrashy “Until” or the prettily drifting “Inanimatronic” the results are always interesting. Bottom of the Morning remains the best introduction for now to this duo’s indelible sound, but once you’re a fan Concept Unification makes for a strong and promising follow-up.

Ian Mathers

Alexa Rose—Medicine for Living (Big Legal Mess)

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“How I wish I were kinder, how I wish I were patient, I could learn all the songs on the gospel station,” trills Alexa Rose in a water pure soprano touched with shivery vibrato as she navigates the twists and corners of the title track from her lovely debut album. The Virginia-born, Memphis-based songwriter has a native’s familiarity with gospel, country and folk blues, but a fresh, sparkling delivery that makes these well-worn forms sound like she just thought of them. A lilting, effortless voice elicits spare melancholy sparked with hope and a crack band of Americana pros in tow – Will Sexton on guitar, George Sluppick playing drums and Mark Edgard Stuart on bass — fill out the songs without a bit of bloat. “Tried and True” enlists a cajun squeeze box and skittering banjo into Rose’s smart, unsentimental songcraft; country teems with strong women disappointed by love, but Alexa Rose is clear-eyed and strong enough to kick its ass without breaking meter. Gorgeous and empowered stuff.

Jennifer Kelly

Sartegos — O Sangue da Noite (I, Voidhanger)

O Sangue da Noite by SARTEGOS

This new release by Sartegos isn’t so much blackened death metal as it is a death metal record that morphs its shape and sound into black metal. The buzzy crunch and acrobatic soloing of opener “Sangue e Noite” gradually give way to leaner, meaner riffs, and by the midpoint of fourth track “Solpor dos Mistérios,” the record has fully taken on the properties of merciless, muscular continental black metal. The record may engage with various metal subgenres, but O Sangue da Noite is held together by Sartegos’s focus on Galician nationalist themes and celebrations of its landscape. The band is named for a miniscule rural hamlet in Galicia, and we are told that all lyrics are delivered in the region’s native dialect. Black metal and ardent nationalism don’t always make for the happiest of combinations. For those of us lacking fluency in the language, it’s tough to know what ideological charge the lyrics carry. And Galician regional politics feature a panoply of leftist and right wing factions, all with their own fiery arguments for the region’s autonomy. What sort of blood? Who sings in the night? Hard to say. But the music’s pretty good.

Jonathan Shaw

Seablite – Grass Stains and Novocaine (Emotional Response)

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Bay Area quartet Seablite’s debut album navigates the fuzzy end of indie pop with aplomb. Vocalists Lauren Matsui (guitar) and Galine Tumasyan (bass) are joined by drummer Andy Pastalaniec and ex-Wax Idol Jen Mundy on lead guitar for 11 tracks of chipper, summery shoegaze that sit easily alongside their most obvious influences Lush, Curve and Stereolab. Seablite’s songs are elevated by the interplay of twin vocals, clean guitar lines and bouncy bass lines supported by cymbal heavy motorik drums. There’s steel beneath the gauze as Mundy brings a little of the Idols’ shade to proceedings and Pastalaniec drives songs like “Pillbox” and “Polygraph” hard and fast down a euphoric freeway of top-down thrumming thrills. Yes, it sounds like a lot of bands you’ve heard and maybe loved but Grass Stains and Novocaine is so well put together and convincingly played it’s hard to resist.

Andrew Forell

Seiðr — Intethedens Afsky (Nattetale)

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Seiðr is a one-man band from Denmark. For just one man, he was awfully busy in the past year, having put out three records. Intethedens Afsky can boast of 10 tracks of dirty, primitive sound with bursts of melody buried immediately under a wall of noise. The inspiration for Seiðr’s music can be found in early 1990s Norwegian black metal, and Claus H. (that’s his name) cannot be blamed for being too much of a good student. Why shouldn’t he have learnt from his elders? The first two tracks here have samples from “nature,” and this gives us a hint to how Seiðr’s music can be interpreted: it’s ruptures in Nature’s hellish landscape. No one will be saved.

Ray Garraty

Spider Bags — A Celebration of Hunger (Sophomore Lounge)

SPIDER BAGS "A Celebration of Hunger" by Spider Bags

Spider Bags are still around, making a record every three or four years for Merge. But listening to this debut, it’s hard to imagine how they did it. If subject matter reflects life style, then the motto of these guys back in 2008 was, “We do the hard stuff so there won’t be any left for you. Say, can you loan me a couple of twenties?” But there’s a self-observing intelligence at work in these songs that suggests that self-awareness wasn’t totally obliterated, and a loose, rumbling energy to these roots-tinged garage-rock songs that confirms that the Bags spent at least part of everyday upright. Add to that engineer Brian Paulson’s knack for getting sound under challenging circumstances, which renders the live-sounding performances with sufficient but not distracting clarity, and you have a good soundtrack for the next time you want to drink yourself off the barstool in the privacy of your own home.

Bill Meyer

Luke Spook — Small Town (Third Eye Stimuli)

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Australian multi-instrumentalist Luke Spook steps away from the garage-punk of his Pinheads to conjure up lysergic specters from bygone times on Small Town. There are a fair number of freaked out boil-overs in the offing but the general tone is one of reserved simplicity. Whether sipping tea with the subject of “The Owl” or gathering around the fire with some fellow townsfolk on the title track, Luke channels Syd Barrett to the point of becoming nearly indistinguishable. But what makes Small Town more than just a covers album is Luke’s ability to vary the intimacy of his arrangements when needed. “All the King’s Horses” features a harmonica solo backed up with an (accidental?) chorus of distant, wailing hounds. Those types of moments lurk beneath the surface and inject a pastoral quality that feels authentic. More quirky utopian village than small town, the world Spook creates is a place to live rather than to pass through.

Jason Gioncontere

Nick Storring — Qualms (Never Anything)

Qualms by Nick Storring

Nick Storring’s latest recording started life as the score for a dance performance, and it is easy to imagine how it might function in that role. The composition, which spans both sides of a cassette, is episodic. Each moment feels unique unto itself, creating an environment in which things — maybe movements, or maybe something in your own imagination — have the space to happen. If you caught him onstage with the group Picastro, you would probably see Storring play cello, but for Qualms he plays a couple dozen keyboard, stringed, percussive and woodwind instruments. This allows similar themes and actions to appear and reappear in different garb. One stalking theme, for example, manifests once as a psychedelically dense string melody, and again played by gamelan percussion. Elsewhere passages of meter-less sound temporarily halt the progress. Moments of Steve Reich-like repetition surface, but instead of locking in like they might in a Reich piece, they quickly morph into something else. The same pattern of change that probably made this a handy program for a dance performance makes it an engaging pure listening experience.

Bill Meyer

Sun City Girls — Dawn of the Devi (Abduction)

Dawn of the Devi by Sun City Girls

Dawn of the Devi holds an important place in the Sun City Girls’ discography. Released in 1991, it was the follow up to the much-celebrated Torch of the Mystics, which remains one of the more tuneful and easily-relatable records that Charles Gocher and brothers Alan and Richard Bishop ever did. As such, it had a job to do, and it did it well. That was to throw the followers who sandals instead of sturdy shows off the track. They did this by serving up a song-free album of jagged, totally improvised jams. While it did the job at the time, and in doing so established a pattern of giving the people something other than what they want, in retrospect, you can appreciate it for another reason. Dawn of the Devi makes a pretty strong case for the trio as a rock-derived improvisational ensemble. They sound like they’re listening and responding to each other, and their transitions from acidic splatter to swooning hesitation or heavy ambush make intuitive sense. It wasn’t always that way.

Bill Meyer

These New Puritans — Inside the Rose (BMG)

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Essex experimentalists These New Puritans return with a lush yet disquieting take on English pastoralism. On Inside the Rose multi-instrumentalist twin brothers Jack and George Barnett create an often lovely, occasionally portentous, romantic paean to nature and love. As the Barnetts move further beyond the fractured post-punk of their debut Beat Pyramid, this, their fourth album, elaborates the use of contemporary classical and choral orchestration into arrangements that channel Talk Talk. Jack Barnett’s voice is high in the mix and evokes David Sylvian at his most emotive. Beneath the sheen and swooning strings George’s drumming shifts and slides between Reichian repetition and fierce Taiko inspired rhythms. Inside the Rose is a meticulously produced but never fussy collection, welcoming the listener but refusing either to compromise or patronize. A serious but accessible work full of carefully considered details, some gorgeous melodies and an almost Pre-Raphaelite sensibility expressed in a thoroughly contemporary manner.

Andrew Forell

Various Artists — No Other Love (Tompkins Square)

No Other Love : Midwest Gospel (1965-1978) by Various Artists

No Other Love is, like the several albums that Mike McGonigal has compiled for different labels, a sequence of gospel records drawn from one collection. In this case it is the collection of Ramona Stout. She culled the 45s that make up this set from her husband Kevin’s trawls of records that had spent years in Chicagoan basements. A graduate student who had spent much of her life outside the USA, she saw with clear eyes the grime of American urban poverty, and found herself deeply compelled by the discovery that hopeful music could grow in such decay. There are no big stars amongst these recordings. Even at the time they were recorded they would have sounded rough and behind the times production-wise — just electric guitars, drum kits, whatever piano or organ was sitting in the church where they were recorded, and congregants’ voices. But the fervor of yearning and the joy of release makes every track a transporting listen.

Bill Meyer

WOW — Come La Notte (Maple Death Records)

Come La Notte by wow

Underground Roman duo China Now (vocals, drums) and Leo Non (guitars) recent album as WOW, Come La Notte (Like the Night), is seven tracks of 1960s influenced Italian noir cabaret high on atmosphere and drama. Now’s almost operatic vocals are at the forefront over skeletal brushed drums, minimal bass and restrained guitar. The band lulls then surprises with a spectral sax and bursts of crashing cymbals and feedback on “Niente Di Speciale” (“Nothing Special”), a keening gypsy violin on “Vieni Un Po’ Qui” (“Come Over Here”), middle eastern organ on “Occhi Di Serpente” (“Snake Eyes”). Fatalism drips from every note bringing to mind a low ceilinged club in the catacombs where refugees from the sun fill the air with smoke and their guts with grappa and cheap vino rosso as Pasolini scouts for rough trade and fingers grip switchblades concealed in socks. Come La Notte is a slow grower that draws you in even while it picks your pocket. Put it on and live a little vicarious danger in your own private La Dolce Vita.

Andrew Forell

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furtho · 5 years

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Playlist 2018

Music posted on furtho.tumblr.com during 2018 (Spotify playlist here):

Aaah...!’s Slip Away, thrilling early 80s synth, complete with echoes of Blancmange

Aeron’s The Breeze At Dawn, towering ambient drone

Alaskan Tapes ft Chantal’s Waiting, echoing ambient with contextualising field recording

Andrea Polli’s Walking On Taylor Glacier, gripping field recording

Arc En Ogive’s Visée, Nintendo-friendly francophone bleep pop

Arizon’s Break Free (ft Jkrs), infectious cut and paste experimentation

Arto’s Betty Boop, jagged, Normal-esque electropop

Bedroom’s Nothing Lasts, resigned indie sadness... with a twist

Bicep’s Metro, captivating electronic dance music

Binbag Wisdom’s Hospitality, groovalicious acoustic rap

Boris Dzaneck’s Dance, shouty-but-catchy minimal synth

Boy Pablo’s Everytime, ultra-charming Youtube sensation indie

Cariño’s Momento Inadecuado </3, treble-friendly tweepop

CARW’s Lanterns, shining, big-voiced modern synthpop

Cheap Fantasy’s Life Of Glass, listless-yet-exciting dreampop

Cigarettes After Sex’s K, whispered ambient rock, surely with a nod to Bizarre Love Triangle?

Cornelius’ Drop, super-tight acoustic groove from Japanese indie king

Corridor’s Le Grand Écart, urgent new wave pop, with some unexpectedly languid experimentation at the end

Deerful’s N1C, minimal synthpop tune packing an emotional punch

Die Doraus & Die Marinas’ Fred Vom Jupiter, homemade early 80s synth

Doric’s The Suspect, Casiopoppy minimal synth from Greece

Dronjo Kept By 4′s Lemonn, noisy indie rock ‘n’ roll

Eddie The Wheel’s Leave Behind, hypnotic motorik electro-indie

Eliane Radigue’s L’Isle Re-sonante, longform minimal ambient experimentalism

epic45′s We Were Never Here, delicious post-rock musings on the old photo album of life

Filipinki’s Walentyna Twist, Polish girl group hymn to cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova

Finnmark!’s Transpennine Express, catchily low key indiepop

Fire Engines’ Get Up And Use Me, angular post-punk classic

Foreign Architects’ Talk To A Scientist, big-chorused indie rock

Fountains Of Wayne’s Maureen, powerpop tale of lust and love

Fritz’s Summer Holiday, teenage indiepop

Furniture’s Why Are We In Love?, heartfelt will-they-won’t-they post-punk experimentalism

Galatée’s Une Danse Bête, glossy-but-sad modern synthpop

Gingerlys’ Turtledoves, sweetly uptempo indie

Girl In Red’s Forget Her, heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak...

Graham Dunning’s Way Too Much Time, glitchy mechanical techno experimentation

Greg Gorlen’s Moldflowers 01, tape-decayed ambient loops

Gulp’s Claudia, laidback St Etienne-ish 60s-style pop

Happy Spendy’s Flex, beautiful, tiny electro

Haruo Okada & Fabio Perletta’s Kaiko, dreamy long-form field recording

Heligoland’s Orion, laidback, sweet-voiced post-rock

Herlights’ She, big booming shoegaze

Hibou’s Sunder, super-catchy frantic dreampop

Hiroshi Yoshimura’s Clouds, stunning, delicate Eno-influenced ambient

Human Puppets’ A Night To Remember, urgent-but-resigned synthpop minimalism

Intertwine’s Let Go, laidback modern synthpop

IT & My Computer’s Trouver Quelqu’un, infernally catchy homemade electropop

Ivy’s No Guarantee, up-tempo catchy acoustic strum

Jake Lowe’s Sarah, modern classical romanticism

Jarub’s Boing De Guayaba, hazy, subaqua dreampop

Joe McBride’s pOlychAEte, Suction Records-esque minimal electronics

Joep Beving’s Ab Ovo, rippling modern classical piano

Kana Nishino’s Pa, uber-catchy J-pop sensation

Kinder Meccano’s Before You, wonky electronic experimentalism, complete with great video

Klangriket & Sjors Mans’s Leidseplein, restrained ambi-classical

Kompakt Kat’s Svetlana Orlova, bedroom ambient homage to Soviet screen legend

KSDS’s Gimli’s Dream, pounding hauntological experimentation

Lake Ruth & Listening Center’s To Recife, weightless baroque pop

League Of Nations’ Thin Ice Door, rickety homemade electropop

Leisure Walks’ What Am I Going To Do, languid lo-fi indie

Lilacs’ Solitary, lo-fi trebly Japanese dreampop

Marbled Eye’s Leisure, trashy post-punk from Oakland

Maria’s I Remember What It Was To Feel, noisy indiepop that occasionally strays onto a fourth chord

Massage’s Lydia, pleasingly ramshackle indie

Melenas’ Cartel De Neón, grungily twee indie

Mich Cota’s Why Try 2 Love, ecstatic waves of electronics

Michael Cutting’s Smoke, glitchy tape experimentation

Mikado’s Par Hasard, breathy Francophone homemade synthpop

Mitra Mitra’s Snakes, hisssssy minimal electro

Mitski’s Nobody, utter isolation dressed up as sugar-sweet pop

Motorama’s By Your Side, delicious Russian indie romanticism

My Life Story’s I Love You Like Gala, stunning, sprawling, emotive ballad

Nation Of Language’s On Division Street, swooping, echoing synthpop

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds’ Into My Arms, swoonsome Gothic ballad

OMD’s 4-Neu, atmospheric paean to German legends

Only Satellites’ Low In The Sky, haunting electronic pop

Oppenheimer Analysis’ Men In White Coats, ecstatic Cold War-era synthpop

Otto A Totland’s Vates, characteristically elegant modern piano

Our Girl’s I Really Like It, sweet indie rock with a blissed-out noise-pop finish

Pet Shop Boys & Dusty Springfield’s What Have I Done To Deserve This? (extended mix), classic 80s chart hit

Pia Fraus’ Mute The Birds (Ulrich Schnauss remix), big-as-the-skies ambient remix of Estonian indie types

Ping Pong Club’s Venetian Blinds (The Countless Kisses remix), warmly infectious synth reworking of indie tune

Planningtorock’s Beulah Loves Dancing, super catchy pop house shot through with kindness and love

Plant Cell’s Cyan, shattering shoegaze noise

Proserpine’s Lost Fragment, acoustic ambient soundscape

Quando Quango’s Go Exciting (12″ mix), infectiously angular post-punk rhythms

Quiet Evenings’ Quiver, restrained ambient drone

Radio Europa’s Post Update, quietly angry electro-experimentalism from Wales

R Beny’s Fernwood, glittering, bokeh-style ambient

Renge’s To The Girl Standing In The Edge Of A Summer, uber sweet Japanese indie folk

Rework’s October Love Song, affecting minimal synth cover of Chris & Cosey’s cult classic

Roedelius’ The Diary Of The Unforgotten, looping pastoral experimentation

Sachiko Kanenobu’s Look Up, The Sky Is Beautiful, legendary Japanese folk singer/songwriter

Salad Boys' Exaltation, infectious Flying Nun-esque indie jangle

Sauna Youth’s Percentages, in-and-out, no messing about thrashy punk

Say Sue Me’s Good For Some Reason, fuzzed up guitar pop from South Korea

Scritti Politti’s Oh Patti (extended version), gorgeous 1980s gloss-pop

Sharesprings’ Pocketguides, incomprehensible but super-catchy Indonesian janglepop

Shinichi Atobe’s Regret, minimal pulsing house

Simmer’s Juno, bright harmonies lighting up melancholy indie

Sinerider’s Farmland, warmly degraded ambient loops

Sink Ya Teeth’s If You See Me, minimal, super-catchy electronic dance tune

Smokescreens’ Used To Yesterday, Flying Nun-style jangle

Snowbirds’ Love Will Come My Way, trebled-as-fuck indie fuzzpop

Solid Space’s Spectrum Is Green, two-note DIY synthpop

Space’s Magic Fly, extraordinary footage of the futuristic disco classic performed on Italian TV

Spanky Wilson’s Sunshine Of Your Love, irresistible funk brass and drums, topped with livewire vocal

Stephen’s Shore’s Let’s Go Home, sweet-voiced indie jangle

Store Front’s Go For Broke, urgent indie rock

Sunset Graves’ Gruesome, wonky-but-focused techno experimentalism

Swoop And Cross’ St No, shining, elegant modern electronics & piano

Sympathy Nervous’ Polaroid, twitching homemade minimal synth

System’s Stille, lovely chiming minimal electronics

Ta Toy Boy’s This Town, superior slice of modern Greek indie

.tape.’s Dream Machine Lullaby (I Am Robot & Proud remix), infectiously bleepy electropop

Taylor Deupree’s The Lost See, quietly rippling ambient piano

Teleman’s Cactus (Boxed In remix), dancefloor-friendly electropop reworking

Tennis Club’s Vodkas, from the lo-fi rockabilly end of indie jangle

The Bats’ Give In To The Sands, epically understated folk ballad

The Beths’ Happy Unhappy, fuzzed up indie

The Blow’s Parentheses, super catchy pop tune about love and mutual support

The Boys With The Perpetual Nervousness’ Nervous Man, deeply soppy janglepop, obviously

The Caraway’s The Rainy Day, exuberant indie jangle from Japan

The Catherines’ Every Time You Say It’s Okay I Know It Is Okay, Merseybeat-inspired guitar pop

The Clean’s Beatnik, three-chord post-punk pop

The Cosmopolitans’ (How To Keep Your) Husband Happy, withering post-punk

The Cure’s Friday I’m In Love, classic janglepop hit

The Dadacomputer’s Computer Bank, extraordinary pulsing synth experimentalism

The Detox Twins’ I’m Not Available, bleepy minimal synth

The Ears On The Trees’ Daily Routine, slowly looping ambient

The Essex Green’s Don’t Leave It In Our Hands, exhilarating, urgent indie

The Flamin’ Groovies’ You Tore Me Down, sweet jangly Merseybeat

The Heartwood Institute’s Hvin-Lettir, beautiful hauntological electronics

The Jellies’ The Conversation, one-off slice of dub from 1981

The Keep Left Signs’ You’re The One, Rickenbacker-driven harmony-packed indie jangle

The Mourning After’s Never The Same, shiny Swedish synthpop

The Sweetest Touch’s Crystal Shades, saccharine dreampop from Indonesia

The Unwanted’s Another Tragedy In A German Sleeping Room, lost gem from Germany’s indie scene of 1992

The Wake’s Uniform (live at the Hacienda, Manchester), gloomily poignant post-punk

Tight Knit’s Too Hot, fuzzed up, lo-fi indie

Tiny Ruins’ Me In The Museum, You In The Winter Gardens, heartbreaking folk ballad

Toshimaru Nakamura’s NIMB 53, minimal electronic experimentation

Vashti Bunyan’s Across The Water, spellbinding acoustic ballad

Wall Of Voodoo’s Call Of The West, stunning post-punk American story-telling

White Lies’ Time To Give, portentous, melodramatic indie rock

яблоня‘s мысли, minimal lo-fi indie synthpop from Russia

Yorick van Norden’s Door Into Summer, cover of The Monkees’ country pop classic

Your Favourite Colour’s Former Life, charmingly low-key but catchy indiepop

Youthcomics’ Youth In Our Backyards, invigorating high-tech indie jangle

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

The playlist for 2017 is here. The playlist for 2016 is here. The playlist for 2015 is here. The playlist for 2014 is here. The playlist for 2013 is here.

#folk #ambient #indie #indiepop #acoustic #experimental

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the-desolated-quill · 5 years

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Quill’s Swill - The Worst Of 2018

Congratulations dear reader. You survived 2018. And you know what that means. It’s time for another best of/worst of list. Welcome to Quill’s Swill 2018. A giant septic tank for the various shit the entertainment industry produced over the course of the year. The films, games, TV shows and various other media that got on my bad side. As always please bear in mind that this is only my subjective opinion (if you happen to like any of the things on this list, good for you. I’m glad someone did) and that obviously I haven’t seen everything 2018 has to offer for one reason or another. In other words, sorry that Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes Of Grindelwald isn’t on here. I’m sure it is as terrible as some have been suggesting. I just never got around to watching it.

Okay everyone. Grab your breathing masks and put on your rubber gloves. Let’s dive into this shit pile.

Hold The Sunset

The news that John Cleese would be returning to the world of BBC sitcoms was incredibly exciting, being a massive Fawlty Towers fan and all. Unfortunately Hold The Sunset was not quite what I had in mind. It’s one of those rare breed of situation comedies that chooses to offer no actual comedy. It’s not a sitcom. It’s a sit. Like Scrubs or The Big Bang Theory.

An elderly couple plan to elope abroad only for Alison Steadman’s son to barge in, having left his wife, and forcing them to put their plans on hold. Hence the title ‘Hold The Sunset.’ It’s like a cross between As Time Goes By and Sorry, but if all the humour and relatability were surgically removed by a deadpan mortician. The characters are weak, the plots are thin on the ground and the humour (hat little of it there is) feel incredibly dated. The middle aged mummy’s boy is something that hasn’t been funny since the 90s. It’s an utter waste of great talent and what hurts even more is that this tripe is actually getting a second series. I can only assume the people watching this are comatose. Either that or there’s an epidemic of people in Britain who have lost the remote.

Avengers: Infinity War

Yes this is one of the worst movies of 2018 and no I don’t regret saying that one little bit. Avengers: Infinity War was fucking terrible. Period. There were too many plots and characters going on, which made the film hard to follow (and what staggers me is that the so called ‘professional’ critics have condemned movies for having too many characters and plots before. Spider-Man 3, The Amazing Spider-Man 2, Batman vs Superman: Dawn Of Justice and even Deadpool 2. But because this is an MCU movie, it gets a free pass. Fuck off). The characterisation was weak due to sheer number of characters they try to juggle, resulting in characters coming off as one dimensional caricatures of themselves and scenes where characters such as Iron Man, Doctor Strange and Star-Lord sound completely interchangeable. The villain, Thanos, is a stupidly and poorly written villain, but that’s hardly surprising considering what a shit job Marvel have done building him up over the course of these 20+ movies. And let’s not forget that pisstake ending. A bunch of prominent Marvel characters die and it’s all very, very sad... except all these characters just so happen to have sequels planned, which makes this ending fucking pointless and have less impact than a feather on a bouncy castle.

I don’t know which is more shocking. That Marvel and Disney think their audience are that stupid and gullible, or that their audience are actually validating their view. Fuck you Disney.

Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery

I’ve always wanted a Harry Potter RPG, where you could customise your character, choose your house and actually live a full school life at Hogwarts. This year, Warner Bros and Jam City gave us just that.

That was a mistake.

Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery is the epitome of everything that’s wrong with the mobile gaming market right now. The gameplay is boring and involving where you just tap images on a screen until a progress bar fills up. Wizard duels are little more than rock-paper-scissors challenges that require no kind of skill. Bonding with friends and caring for magical creatures just consist of pathetically simple pop quizzes and yet more boring tapping. Oh and of course you only get a certain amount of energy to complete these tedious tasks. If you run out of energy, you wait for it to fill up... or pay up for the privilege. So determined are they to extract your hard earned cash from your wallet, there’s actually a bit where Devil’s Snare strangles your eleven year old avatar and the game effectively tries to guilt trip you into paying micro-transactions to save them. It’s sleazy, gross and manipulative. Honestly, you’re better off just playing Candy Crush.

Agony

When the developers of this game said they wanted to give the player a trip through Hell, they had no idea how true that statement really was. Agony is dreadful on a number of levels. The design for Hell itself, while visually interesting at times, is often not very practical and gets quite dull and repetitive after a while. The stealth mechanics are a joke and the AI of your demonic enemies are pitiful. All of this alone would have been enough to put this game on the list, but then we also have the casual misogyny. Agony is a gorefest trying desperately to shock the player. We see men and woman get tortured, but it’s the women that often get the extreme end. The violence inflicted on them is often sexual in nature and the game seems to go out of its way to degrade and dehumanise women at every turn. The orgasmic cries of ‘pull it out’ quickly become a staple of the game’s experience as we see naked women raped, tortured and murdered, all for the purposes of ‘entertainment.’

I would call Agony sexist, but honestly that would be giving it too much credit. Agony is like a little child trying desperately to be all dark and edgy in a pathetic attempt to impress everyone around him, and we should treat it as such. Go to your room Agony. No ice cream for you.

Peter Rabbit

If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of Beatrix Potter rotating in her grave.

Yes we have yet another live action/CGI hybrid, but instead of something innocuous like the Smurfs or Alvin and the Chipmunks, Sony instead decides to adapt Peter Rabbit, with James Corden in the title role.

It’s about as bad as you’d expect.

Their attempts to modernise the story are painful to say the least with pop culture references, inappropriate adult humour and twerking rabbits. Plus rather than the gentle, but slightly mischievous character we got in the source material, here Peter is a sociopathic delinquent who seems to revel in making the farmer’s life a living hell. He’s unlikable and unwatchable as far as I’m concerned and the film doesn’t in anyway earn the emotional moments it tries so desperately to sell to the audience. And the worst part is it’s getting a sequel.

Wait. Do you hear that sound? That’s the sound of Beatrix Potter tearing out of the ground, ready to kill whatever idiot came up with this shit.

Fallout 76

I was excited for Fallout 76. A MMORPG where players band together to rebuild society after a nuclear apocalypse. Could have been great. Pity it wasn’t.

Fallout 76 is a dreadful game. Not only is it a buggy, glitchy mess that requires a constant online connection to play, which could result in you losing hours of progress if your WiFi went down, it’s also unbelievably tedious, and that’s because there’s nothing to do in the game. There’s no other characters to interact with, the various robots and computers you come across are really little more than quest givers, there’s no actual plot so to speak, and because of the sheer size of the world and the number of players allowed on a server, the chances of you actually meeting any actual players is remote. And let’s not forget all the behind the scenes drama. Bethesda falsely advertising Fallout themed canvas bags and players getting shitty nylon ones. Bethesda accidentally releasing the account information of various players trying to get a refund for said bag. Bethesda failing to program the year 2019 into the game code, meaning that the game’s nukes don’t work.

Maybe there’s a chance that Bethesda could pull a No Man’s Sky and fix everything over the coming years with various patches and DLCs, but the damage has already been done. It’s incredibly disappointing. The Elder Scrolls 6 is going to have be fucking incredible to win everyone back.

Mama Mia!: Here We Go Again

I can’t stand jukebox musicals anyway, but Mamma Mia was always one of the worst. Its boring, meandering story with its one note, obnoxious cast of characters screeching out ABBA songs like they’re at some drunken karaoke session at some poor sod’s hen party has always grated on my nerves. So imagine my delight when they announced we were getting a sequel. Ever wondered how Meryl Streep met her three lovers and founded her hotel? No? Well tough shit, we’re going to tell you anyway.

Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again is basically just Mamma Mia again. The actors still can’t sing, the characters are still annoying and story is still boring and meandering, completely at the mercy of the chosen songs rather than the filmmakers using the songs to compliment the story (you know? Like proper musicals do?).

How can I resist you? Very easily as it turns out. Gimme, gimme, gimme a fucking gun so I can end my misery.

The Cloverfield Paradox

A lot of people were unhappy about the direction Cloverfield was going. They wanted a continuation of the found footage, kaiju movie from 2008, not an anthology series. I was personally all in favour. Partially because I thought the first Cloverfield was a tad overrated, but mostly because I thought it would be a great opportunity for more experimental film projects and could be a great launchpad for new writers and filmmakers. 10 Cloverfield Lane was a great start. Then The Cloverfield Paradox happened.

The Cloverfield Paradox is basically JJ Abrams trying to have his cake and eat it too. Maintaining the anthology format whilst connecting everything together in a ‘shared universe’ (yes, yet another shared universe). The result was a cliched, poorly edited and idiotic mess of a film that actually took away from the previous two films rather than added to them. Everyone hated it and, as a result, 2018′s Overlord, which was totes going to be part of the Cloververse, was made its own standalone film and Abrams double pinky promised to make a true sequel to the original Cloverfield. A complete and total disaster. No wonder it was a straight-to-Netflix film.

The Handmaid’s Tale - Season 2

This is probably going to be the most controversial entry on the list, but please hear me out because I’m not the only one who has a problem with this season.

I was reluctant to watch The Handmaid’s Tale simply because of how gruesome the original book was, but I forced myself to watch the first season and I thought it was pretty good. It remained faithful to the source material for the most part and included some nice additions that helped to expand the story and mythos. If it was just a one off mini-series, everything would have been fine. But then they made the same mistake as The Man In The High Castle and Under The Dome did where they commissioned another season and attempted to tell a story that goes beyond the book.

There’s a reason why the original story ended where it did. The Handmaid’s Tale isn’t meant to be an empowering story about women sticking it to the patriarchy. It’s a cautionary tale about how fragile our civil rights truly are and how easily they can be taken away from us. It’s designed to shock, not to satisfy. So seeing a handmaid blow herself up in a suicide bombing feels very incongruous and just a little bit silly. It would be like doing a TV adaptation of George Orwell’s 1984 where the first season followed the source material and then the second season turned Winston Smith into this heroic freedom fighter trying to overthrow Big Brother. It would represent a fundamental misunderstanding of what the book was about in the first place.

And then of course there’s the increased level of violence in Season 2, which many have complained about. In Season 1 and the original source material, the violence was justified. In Season 2, the motivation behind the violence has gone from ‘how can we effectively demonstrate how easily a fascist patriarchy can happen in the West?’ to ‘what brutal act can we inflict upon Ofglen to shock the audience this week?’ It’s purely for shock and nothing more. And with the showrunner (who I feel I should mention is a man) announcing that he has planned ten seasons of this, it seems that The Handmaid’s Tale is going to go even further with this depravity until it effectively becomes the equivalent of a Saw film.

The Handmaid’s Tale exists as a way of shining light on and critiquing misogyny in its most extreme form. Season 2 however demonstrates that there is a serious risk of it becoming the very thing it’s criticising in the first place.

The Predator

I love the Predator franchise, but The Predator is the worst.

People thought that this would be good because director Shane Black had actually starred in the first Predator movie back in 1987. Instead we got this bloated, confusing, obnoxious and insulting mess of a film that seems to go out of its way to ruin everything that makes Predator so good. There’s no tension. No suspense. No intrigue. Just a bunch of gore, explosions and shitty one liners from annoying and lifeless characters. They essentially took this big alien game hunter from outer space and turned him into a generic monster from a bad summer blockbuster. It no longer hunts for sport. It wants to take over the world and splice our DNA with theirs. But don’t worry, a rogue Predator doesn’t want to kill humans (even though he himself kills a bunch of humans), so he gives us a Predator Iron Man suit to set up a sequel that will probably never happen because this movie was a box office bomb and it fucking SUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKKEEEEEDDDD!!!

This film also has a very nasty streak towards those with disabilities. There’s a lot of jokes at the expense of a character with Tourette’s and it has an extremely ignorant and patronising view of autism, portraying the main character’s kid as being a super genius who can decipher the Predator language and even going so far as to say that he represents ‘the next stage of human evolution.’ Presumably the Predators want social communication difficulties because apparently it helps them hunt somehow.

What with Disney acquiring 20th Century Fox, the future of both the Alien and Predator franchises were very much in question. This film needed to be a success in order to make a case for Disney to keep making more of them. It wasn’t. Congratulations Shane Black. You might have just killed off this franchise for good. Thanks arsehole! :D

So those were my least favourite stories from 2018. Join me on Wednesday where we shall discuss something more positive. Yes, it’s awards season. Who shall win the coveted Quill Seal Of Approval? Watch this space...

Or don’t. It’s up to you. I don’t want to force you or anything. It’s a free country.

#quill's swill #quill's swill 2018 #worst of the year #review #opinion

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snapbackdad · 5 years

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21 questions

Tagged by @glitchy-macglitch thanks :)

Nicknames: don’t think i have any

Zodiac: Pisces

Height: 5′3″

Last movie you watched?: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Last thing you googled?: I’m in the middle of some script writing hw so it was something script formatting related

Favorite musician: rn it’s Billie Joe from Green Day

Song stuck in your head: Good Riddance by Green Day

Other blogs: i have a bunch of saved ones but i don't post anything on them lol

Do I get asks?: occasionally

Following: 500

Amount of sleep: lately it’s been like 6 maybe 7 hours

Lucky number: 5

What I’m wearing?: black jeans and a t-shirt with a skeleton wearing sunglasses and doing finger guns that says “I’m not a boy or a girl, I’m dead”

it’s this: https://grrrlspells.com/collections/t-shirts/products/dead

Dream job: Storyboard Artist at Cartoon Network

Dream trip: i just really wanna go on a road trip up the west coast

Favorite food: pizza

Play any instruments: guitar and ukulele

Languages: English and un peu de français

Favorite songs: have i mentioned green day enough yet? just like all of them also really into Sliver by Nirvana rn

Random fact: I'm currently addicted to watching old episodes of kitchen nightmares

Describe yourself aesthetic things: sunset on the beach, late nights in the studio, post it notes everywhere, pride flags on every wall of my room

I tag: @chalkboardchelsea, @persephonification, @blacksheep-xx

no pressure or nothing, just picked a few mutuals from my recent notes

#tagged #snapbackdad

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 6 years

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Now I wanna see proposals from all Septic boys, or at least Anti, Marvin, Angus, and Shawn.

A few other Anons had an idea for how Anti and Marvin would propose, but I’ll give ya my take on them.

@narutofoxlover

Anti

-Oh man….this guy would be just a glitchy ball of worry and second thoughts.-Sure you might love him, he would think, but would you love him that much to where you’d want to be with him for the rest of your life?-He wouldn’t believe it for a second.-The other egos would encourage him and give him advice and whatnot, but it does little to ease his worries.-He just becomes so conflicted and fearful his neck wound bleeds out several times throughout the day and he’ll glitch around just to avoid you.-When you finally find him hiding in your computer and ask him what’s wrong, he’ll just spell out the four famous words in shaky Zalgo text before the ring manifests itself on top of your keyboard.-Once you happily tell him you accept his proposal and put the ring on, that’s when Anti will glitch out and glomp you whilst crying happy tears.

Marvin

-All day long he’ll be in his room, trying to figure out what ways he could incorporate magic into his proposal.-Eventually, he does summon a tiny white-coated bunny with a [f/c] bow to gift to you on your anniversary.-Once you receive it and play around with the fuzzy creature for a little while, he’ll snap his fingers.-And poof. The bunny is now an engagement ring!-But even with that this man would have no idea what to say. He’ll be a blushing mess, stumbling over his words to the point where he can’t finish his statement.-Although you’ll catch on and tell him “yes”.-He shyly admit that he wanted to do something extra special instead of the traditional “getting down on one knee”, and you appreciate that.

Angus

-He would be the kind that would leave notes for you on a mini scavenger hunt of sorts.-On them would be compliments and your favorite parts of the forest.-The final one will be located near a cliff that’s overlooking a beautiful sunset. And attached to it is a ring.-Then Angus will sneak up behind you and embrace you tightly, grinning like the dork he is when you accept his proposal.-After that you’ll both share a tender kiss and gaze at the sunset until night falls.-Then he’ll take you to a tent he had set up nearby where you two can lay there and look up at the stars together.

Shawn

-He’d be clueless as to how to propose to you, so he’ll go to Jameson for some advice.-Eventually, he does find an old-fashioned way: by “restaurant hopping”.-He’ll be wearing his best suit and pay for all of the food you two order.-Then after visiting a few places he’d take you to the park, where you’ll both sit on a bench and talk about what a fun time you had.-When you ask him what the special occasion was, he gets incredibly flustered, but gets down on one knee anyway and nervously pops the question.-Once you say “yes” he’ll laugh along with you, picking you up and spinning around.-Although the moment after he gives you the ring, he spots Jameson hiding in the bushes, giving him a thumbs up.

#clanask #anonymous #headcanons #proposal

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nothingsolutions · 3 years

Text

**Gut Feeling** (short film)

Showcase life as a teenager in the 2010's. What defines this generation? What will we be remembered for?

Have random segments appear and "add" to the story but take you down another rabbit hole. Keep having people asking for more but still not having answers to their previous questions.

*Have the entire story loop.

Gut Feeling

Gut Feelings

Genetically Modified

Burn if Found

Disorder

FDA Approved

Stimulant

Sensory Overload

Inborn Pattern

MUSIC

Sooner or Later - N.E.R.D

(Perfect for drive home)

Everyone Nose - N.E.R.D

Purple Baguettes - 88GLAM

Dirt and Grime - Father's Children

Territorial Pissings - Nirvana

(Skating away from home)

Never Can Say Goodbye - Jackson 5

(Perfect for falling back in bed / ending)

The End Has No End - The Strokes

(Loading Docks)

Anti Matter - N.E.R.D

Partners in Crime Part Three - The Internet

(Playing loud in the car that almost hit MAIN)

She Works Out Too Much - MGMT

(Right when they fight / spinning)

Heavy Hitter - Jack Harlow

(Loading Docks)

Molly - Iann Dior

Hive - Earl Sweatshirt

Gonna Love Me - Teyana Taylor

My Pain - Lil Capi

Shoes - Lil Capi

Swim in the light - Kid Cudi

No Church in the Wild - Jay Z & Kanye

The Boy - Shannon and the Clams

Tongue Tied - Grouplove

La-La means I love you - The Delfonics

Dance yourself clean - LCD sound system (3:08)

I hope youre doing ok - Pity party girls club

Creep - Radiohead

Lose my sleep - Jacob Boring

Hometown - French 79

Between the buttons - French 79 (2:09)

Leaf Wraps - The Homies

Oblivion - Grimes

Cha Cha - Freddie Dredd

Switch: Six - Gums

Hottest in the city - Ty

Hell n Back - Bakar

Oof - Inner Wave

New Flesh - Current Joys

Pill - D.Savage

Wow, I can get sexual too - Say Anything

Angelic Hoodrat - Kenny Mason

Sometimes (feat. Swo) - Anxiety Attacks!

Vertigo - The Hellp (running scene)

Beans - Dirtboimil

Ghostbusters - Jayy Davi$

Paper Planes - M.I.A.

Lethal Presence - Night Lovell

Phone - Lil Capi

New House - Toro y Moi

Oblivion - Grimes

Float - The Neighbourhood

Love my Way - The Psychedelic Furs

The Sharpest Lives - My Chemical Romance

Last Living Souls - Gorillaz

Mystery of Love - Mr. Fingers

Mac Miller - Congratulations piano

((https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmXJpbIizUU) perfect for orange bag scene in field)

Blowout - Radiohead (last scene running down the hill)

Jungle Fever - Sabti

Sweet Life - Frank Ocean

CAST

COUPLE Couple on Roof - Tori + Pablo

People in living room - Jackson,

People in Chris room - Chris, Arya, Capi

Kitchen Chopping carrots - Emma

Emma's Room - Cole

Plastic Bag/ Girl bumps into -

Bleeding Skater - Satan Anthony

Puts down camera / in car -

Car Passangers - Levi, Casey,

*Concert

Audrey - Herself

Levi - Himself

Driving car hits Levi -

Dinner Scene - Emma +

Mirrored Dinner scene - Emma + Lookalike (Salena)

**Concept**

EXT. EMMAS HOUSE/ FRONT YARD - SUNSET - STATIC

Establishing shot of Emmas house. Have a COUPLE on the roof with legs dangling off the side. Can see majority of the house in this shot. Can hear faint music from inside the house, mostly just hear the beat of the bass. Shot on VHS.

(Maybe place them in the backyard actually??)

EXT. EMMAS HOUSE/ FRONT YARD (CLOSE UP ON COUPLE) - SUNSET - STATIC

Close up on COUPLE to show their relationship and how they're close to each other. Just messing around on the roof. Palm tree framed in the shot?

INT. EMMAS HOUSE - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

Shots throughout the house to establish how loud the music is/ the overall setting. Keep a zoom in effect to pull you into the frame.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ HALLWAY - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

Zoom of the hallway a parallax affect would be cool. Someone comes out of Paulines room just to add affect.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ CHRIS ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

A few guys 2-3 around the computer playing Fifa just hanging out. Shot from standing on the bed at the door

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ LIVING ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

Shot of the living room from the perspective of the hallway looking out to see people playing guitar hero just sitting on the couch hanging out. Very chill vibe. Subtile chatting.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ KITCHEN - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

From around the fireplace shoot a zoom in of Emma in the kitchen cutting carrots just chill.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ EMMAS ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM OUT

COLE sitting on the bed with the computer and the speaker right next to him. We can tell the music is coming from him because of how loud the audio is in his room and we see him changing the music/ songs. Zoom out so it breaks the mold of zooming in.

EXT. EMMAS HOUSE/ THRU KITCHEN WINDOW - NIGHT - STATIC

Light coming out the window. A low shot but we can see EMMAs head thru the window. We can hear how loud the music is still.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ KITCHEN - NIGHT - CLOSE UP/ TILT UP

Close up on the carrots and we can see how she is chopping a little off the beat and keeps losing her train of thought cause of the Loud music. Gets off her own rythm and slams down the knife she was cutting with. The camera tilts up to see her mad and walk out of frame.

Save her role for later?

*INT. EYE CLOSE UP - NIGHT - CLOSE UP - STATIC

Close up of Emma to introduce her to the audience. Slow motion.*

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ KITCHEN - NIGHT - ZOOM OUT

Same shot as before but she's marching out of the kitchen with a zoom out.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ LIVING ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM OUT

Shot of the living room from the perspective of the hallway looking out to see people playing guitar hero just sitting on the couch hanging out.

All the guys still chilling but EMMA flips off a hat of one of the guys cause she's upset.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ CHRIS ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM OUT

A few guys 2-3 around the computer playing Fifa just hanging out. Shot from standing on the bed at the door. EMMA opens the door abruptly and looks in but realizes the music isn't coming from there.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ HALLWAY - NIGHT - ZOOM OUT

March out of Chris door to go to COLE. See her opening the door to COLE.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ EMMAS ROOM - NIGHT - ZOOM IN

Close up of COLES face behind the MacBook with the screen shining on his face. EMMA closes the MacBook and the title screen plays. Then Cole screams (squinting eyes) and it goes to black quick and transitions.

*BLACK

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA - MIDDAY - TILT

Shot in the same position as prior shot (same composition) still screaming and just sky behind him. When the song 'drops' tilt down to reveal he's in the middle of a crowd. And he's disrupting the flow of people walking. He's going 'against the grain.' He starts walking while looking around runs hands thru hair. Tracking shot shot on his face.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA - MIDDAY - TRACK - CONT.

When walking he bumps into a girl quite hard in the shoulder and it goes to split screen. Still shot on his face.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA/ HER EYE CLOSE UP - CLOSE UP

From Coles POV look over at the girl just Her eyes first and have the title appear. Introduce HER but not Cole

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA - MIDDAY - SPLIT SCREEN.

Go to split screen where they're both centered but as they talk its bleeped out and the louder they get the bigger their side gets. The divide gets bigger the louder they talk like a FaceTime call.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA - MIDDAY - SPLIT SCREEN

The split screen is more and more on her until she finally faints and it goes to a transition to the alternative reality.

EXT. PARK/ OPEN FIELD - MIDDAY - STATIC

The girl and Cole with orange plastic bags on their heads walk into frame of an open field from opposite sides to join together and hands. And do more shots where their different areas for a glitchy dreamy affect.

EXT. PARK/ SWING SET - MIDDAY - STATIC

Girl on the swings and Cole is standing right next to HER. Watching. Cut to a scene of just Coles bag covered face while she's swinging.

EXT. PARK/ PARK BENCH - MIDDAY - STATIC

COLE on the right and girl on the left sitting up and she leans up to him and he puts his arm around her. To transition she just falls forward off the bench with no warning just a smack! Sound

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA/ HER EYE CLOSE UP - MIDDAY - CLOSE UP

Breaths in and opens her eyes. Shocked kinda look. Like this dream just flashes by her and she never passed out at all.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA/ COLE CLOSE UP - MIDDAY - CLOSE UP

Flash over to a COLE close up and have him talking but its still all bleeped out.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA/ HER CLOSE UP - MIDDAY - CLOSE UP

She looks back and forth causes she's confused and bored but can still hear the beep and like Charlie Brown type or jackboys 0:45

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA/ HER POV - MIDDAY

Looking to the left of her and see a skater in the distance.

EXT. BUSY STREET AREA - MIDDAY - SPLIT SCREEN

Close up of girls eyes and skaters eyes and when they lock eyes it cuts

EXT. SKATER ON STREET - MIDDAY - HEAD IN FRAME STATIC

The skater on the ground with blood pouring out of his head. Skateboard in the top left of the scene and from everywhere HANDS start to appear to 'help' but they're just around his head not helping just moving fingers around to be trippy.

INT. RED WALL PICTURES - DARK - HEAD IN FRAME

Transition by the whole Frame getting filled with blood so the whole scene is red and goes to a shot of just the face with landscape photos in front of the SKATERS face still with blood on his face and in his hair. Pictures TBD. ((Silence))

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ EMMAS ROOM - DARK

After showing a few photos in front of the face FILMER thinks her turned off the camera but actually it keeps going. Set down the camera on the floor and open the door and leave with SKATER.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ HALLWAY - NIGHT - FISH EYE (MINI DV)

From the end of the hallway have a fish eye lens capture like a security camera everyone leaving the room and going out the house to the car.

INT. EYE CLOSE UP - NIGHT - CLOSE UP - STATIC

Introduce all the new characters aka boys to the audience as they walk out of the room via the security camera

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ HALLWAY - NIGHT - FISH EYE (MINI DV)

FILMER realists the camera is still in the house so when everyone leaves the shot of the fisheye 'security camera' a few seconds of silence and you hear the front door open and close and FILMER runs back in to get the camera. Still doesn't realize its filming. When open Emmas room door it switches to the VHS cameras POV.

INT. EMMAS HOUSE/ EMMAS ROOM - DARK - VHS

VHS on the floor and the FILMER grabs it doesn't realize its still filming and runs thru the house and goes into the car. The cars in the drive way and everyones already in the car handing out the window like hey lets goooooo. Sitting on the window.

EXT. EMMAS HOUSE/ FRONT YARD - NIGHT - STATIC

Use Levis car, with the LED panel on red in the front seat. Make the entire cabin light up red. Full car like 3-4 people

Shot of the car leaving very fast backing out of the driveway and skidding out of the area. Shot on the VHS static shot. Still have the audio from the VHS camera playing for a little until they are like "hey the cameras still on dude" "hear blast the music" and the audio matches up and thats the transition.

EXT. 57 FREEWAY - NIGHT - TRACKING

From a car in front of Levis car with the LED red still on shoot from the backseat and get the car driving under an overpass and have other cars around everyone in the car is having a good time.

EXT. 57 FREEWAY/ INSIDE THE CAR - NIGHT

Get to go inside Levis car in the passenger seat and shoot on the freeway just b roll of everyone vibin in the car. Slow motion.

EXT. CONCERT/ PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Shot run up to the car as the backdoor opens and show them getting out and then start the heart beat style of shooting.

*Heart Beat Style

7 FPS

Shot on a 1 or 2 sec long exposure and piece them together to make a video every "Duh Duh Pause" like a heart beat have it fade out have the sound effect at first but fade away fast. Have it almost fade to black on the first one and the 2nd one fully fade to black.

EXT. CONCERT/ SIDEWALK - TRACKING

Spotlight style while walking on the sidewalk front and back shot

EXT. CONCERT/ LIGHTING CIG

Close up on someone lighting a cig and taking a hit

EXT. CONCERT/ SCANING TICKET

Close up of friend handing ticket and getting wrist band

EXT. CONCERT/ WALK THRU THE DOOR

All the guys running to get in / catch up to one another

INT. CONCERT/ CLOSE UP LEVIS EYES

Close up of Levis eyes rolling back like he's going to pass out and he does he hits the floor and the heart beat shots stop and go to black for a little

INT. BLACK

AUDIO ONLY

Have like bro you good audio but distorted like

In the jackboys music video at 0:45

Muffled and distorted

INT. AUDREYS APARTMENT/

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