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sasorikigai · 4 years

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My muse in a relationships || @ephemeralkryonics || accepting (Part 1)

🤗Are they physically affectionate?

Physical touch for Hanzo is immensely important; not only is it a fundamental human necessity, but the need for affection in him is unique in the sense that even he may be perceived as “a loner,” maintaining the ability to ignore relationships with others unless the necessary ones as a Grandmaster and being a parental substitute for Takeda Takahashi, there is still a sense of emptiness that exists when he is isolated from human interaction.

For him, affection is more than just an emotion, it can be considered by him as a most important requirement in healthy relationships. Affection is an ebb and flow between two people, where each individual is giving and receiving a certain amount of contact and interaction at all times. Whether it is through a hug, kiss or a cuddle, affection is the way he shows Kuai Liang how important he is in Hanzo’s world.

Physical intimacy between them not only strengthens the bond between them and fosters closeness, it serves as a major binder that helps them iron out the differences between them. Physical intimacy builds a stronger connection between two people by mitigating any existing negativity. Through exercising it, it would only enhance trust and a stronger sense of companionship between them.

🎶Do they have a type?

Hanzo seems to be gravitated towards emotionally strong people who he could lean against; resilient and insistent on their own, capable to meet his fire, but also being able to understand and extend compassion and perception. Emotions become the most visceral and primal external stimuli which he could exert without having the blueprint of him crumble and blur around the edges. As he is known to be volatile, impulsive and follows his heart more than his brain, it’s better than following the visceral manifestation of violence which he used to be subjugated under Scorpion’s fiery, demonic spirit.

As I associate Kuai as a rose; for Hanzo needs that type of significant other who can balance him out. I always headcanon that Harumi’s personality would have been very similar to that of Kuai Liang’s; quiet, altruistic, emotionally strong and stable, very chill, strong-willed and a very good moral and emotional pillar for hanzo. If Hanzo Hasashi was (and still is) the most ferocious and talented Shirai Ryu warrior in all their history, Harumi would have went down as the strong matriarch of the clan, who encompassed the clan with open arms, offering words of wisdom and advice and being a good listener. She would have served a pivotal supportive role in the clan.

😡What are their deal breakers?

His two most primordial facets include discipline and loyalty, so if someone is dubious in their morality, a perpetual liar who is distrustful and disloyal to him in any manner, there would be no forgiverance.

Because Hanzo is such a traditionalist and heavily influenced by Confucius’ teachings, its philosophy including;

Ren, the virtue of benevolence, charity, and humanity;

Yi, of honesty and uprightness;

Zhi, knowledge;

Xin, the virtue of faithfulness and integrity;

Li, correct behavior, or propriety, good manners, politeness, ceremony, worship.

Those who cannot follow the doctrines which he had been taught - he is a proper, respectfully behaviored warrior - are not worthy of pursuing any relationships with him at any cost. Kuai Liang encompasses all of this, and considers him not only a respectable warrior, but a friend, a life companion, a lover and a soulmate.

↕️Are they sub, dom or switch?

Hanzo is predominantly flexible (despite wanting to exercise control and much prefers being dominant) when it comes to lovemaking, but as his masculinity allows, he will expect to be in a dominant position even when he’s seemingly not. Intimate sex to him transcends the concept of sex, and it has to be significant in that both partners have to be emotionally connected and pushed together by the fate’s hand, one touch that fit, as old, idealized feelings would be relearned to his new body. For love to him isn’t something that is forged nor created, but has always been (taken away by deception and manipulation of Quan Chi). With Kuai Liang, he will expect himself to be in a dominant position simply because he’s more experienced one out of the two.

⏰How long do their relationships tend to last?

Until the end of his living breath. For Hanzo, love binds all romantic relationships and that bond is unbreakable. Without love, he would not exist; for love makes all hard hearts gentle. Love itself grants him a sense of reassurance, self-esteem, and love for himself. Love enhances the lives of both partners in the relationship when he is in love, his emotions are at an ultimate high. It creates a bond that is not easily broken and it lasts for his lifetime.

💍Would they ever get married?

He was married once to Harumi and he considers her as a soulmate. Although Hanzo is still mending his bleeding, septic wounds, he also has come to realization that miring in the past had been stunting his growth and development, as years and years have been spent with gnawing grief, resentment and melancholy. The desiderium, a deep longing to experience will always be there, but it’s being married (having himself absolutely devoted to responsibilities and duties that come with his marriage) that anchors his heart and settles his mind.

🏷️Do they give their partners cute nicknames?

Hanzo is mostly a traditionalist who is proper and formal, so he would often use things like ‘beloved,’ and ‘love.’ Or he would opt to use Japanese and call Kuai “運命の人 (man of destiny; soulmate),” “あなた (you, in terns of romantic/sexual love),” or “ハンサム (handsome).”

💋Are they more sensual or sexual?

He is essentially a sensualist, meaning he will utilize all the blazing, burnt, burning trails of his hands to trail along his significant other’s skin, roaming to paint his color upon his lover’s body. He’s vanilla when it comes to sex; there is a lot of eye contact, gentle caresses wanting sufficient time to explore his lover’s body. Essentially, it is a sacred act that chases away his negative emotions melt away. It anchors him, reminds him that he deserves happiness. He deserves a second chance at love, despite him always struggling with underlying guilt. He will be at his most vulnerable, with all the raw, unfiltered emotions spilling out as he reaches the climax.

In essentiality, sex is feeling the sequence of his heart beating through his lover’s lips, as they create beautiful rhythm together. It becomes this peculiar thing of dualism and dichotomy, where it’s all he wants and other times it’s what he needs the least. He wants it with all of his heart, yet his gnawing guilt and limerence towards Harumi will always be there no matter what. And he’s an absolute pessimistic optimist and believes not many will love him, because of all his underlying emotions and all the pain-riddled dourness and appears indifferent and nonchalant. Even with his hardened exterior, he’s so vulnerable and soft inside. He knows of its cruelty and indescribable beauty - and all of its otherworldly, seamless perfection of stealing each other’s breaths and letting him wrecked in cornucopia of sensations. And he wants the sharp angles or his personality and beautiful lines of his body and mind to become completely abstract as he floats in the seventh heaven, as he savors it, engrave it in his memory and write songs about it as notes imprint on his lover’s skin, with everything light and good in the world, despite him not living in it.

📖What is their favorite outside of the bedroom activity to do with their partner?

It would be either sparring or spending time in the hot springs to relax. Hanzo can harbor a lot of stress within, most of which he does not get to release beyond fighting or taking a moment in nature to relax and calm down. He also likes to delve into his artistic endeavors, preferring to paint his partner in sumi-e, writing poetry, practicing caligraphy or reading.

🛏What is their favorite bedroom activity to do with their partner?

I always imagine them being more sensual than sexual, so they would strip down naked, let their roaming hands and lips become the quenching rain that water their acrid, parched dry skin down with gossamer pitter-patters of peppered kisses and exploratory caresses that repeatedly map the coordinates of their musculature, all the imperfections and scars and all, along with the exquisite peaks and valleys of their chiseled form shining aureate under the beaming moonlight.

Their sensual, intimate, and carnal exploration could last for hours at times, The ebb and flow of time when they are entangled like this brims them with exquisite joy, exhilarating bliss and contentment, without their emotional abysmal void gnawing their unconscious, as both of them suffer from severe and lucid nightmares.

Alight brighter than the sun under Hanzo’s furnace warmth and Kuai’s misty vapor that saturate their aureate forms, through their vigorous carnal exposition of impassioned desire, gentleness and tenderness, they remind themselves that they are not alone - they are highly introverted beings who thrive in solitude and loneliness, but desire to be emotionally connected to a person, so much so that each other’s presence alone calms and numbs their pain - as the cruelty and violence of their daily lives become offset by the exploration of body, mind and soul.

💚Are they prone to jealousy?

While Hanzo has his own streaks of insecurity and paranoia, he is confident and holds himself in a high regard, and also does his significant partner. Because of his lack of jealousy, his instincts are signaling that he is in a relationship with someone who he will be fully able to trust. He can appear concerned and worried, but he will never exhibit it openly. He has high sense of self-worth, and don't feel envious of Kuai’s circumstances or relationships. For comparison is the thief of joy and Hanzo is well aware that if he is constantly stacking up his life against someone else's, chances are he will find something to nitpick. Instead, he prefers to just plainly fixate on the positives - in his life and in the lives of others that naturally involves both of them as Grandmasters and Protectors of the Earthrealm sworn to protect it until their last breath.

😘Does their demeanor change when in a relationship?

In general, people are very much affected by those around them, and not just behaviorally. A growing body of scientific evidence suggests that people’s self-concepts actually change when they’re a relationship and Hanzo is no different from the normalcy of how people act. Because their relationship is healthy; they have mutual respect towards one another and are highly intelligent, sympathetic people in their hearts. Because deep down, they are kind, responsible and emotionally resilient, so they are going to only substantially improve their chances of maintaining a stable and satisfying marriage.

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ again and always (scorpion x sub-zero)#ephemeralkryonics

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a-for-alternative · 5 years

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Valentines

[Previous]

The threat of reward hangs like February’s icicles off the keystones of their arched windows; like teeth, glittering with iridescent magic he had secretly wanted to reach for but could never allow himself to indulge his imagination and believe there was anything special about sunlight captured in tapering ice.

But, unlike the magic of dripping frost spirals, B held real mystery that could not be measured on the density of latticing molecules or their capacity for refraction.

— For the past five Winters, he had glimpsed from over his shoulder the grey outline of the second successor in the dull amber lamp-light, bleeding into the darkness of predawn from their window’s frame – the sight eerily echoing fairytales, an ice-toothed maw, building a weak fire at the back of it’s throat around the templar caught in it’s jaws.

The house’s bowing scaffolds and cavernous ceilings reminded him of a monstrous, yawning thorax. But, hadn’t B always been the beast he was told to slay?

The second child would be the only one to swallow up his future, but even after he became curious enough to peer out after him into the dying night, he never called him back inside. He simply watched him go.

Only once, B had seen him through the frosted glass and drew a warm finger down the chilly pane, leaving a clear trail for A’s eyes to follow.

– ‘ 早 trop ’

早; early. Trop; too much …

A had smiled softly. ‘ Too early, too soon. ’

Too quickly gone. Everything.

The privacy of twilight, the thrill of their rivalry, the careless surprise on B’s face when he uttered ‘friend’ in his mother’s tongue, the impression of warm fingers on cold glass, their time together sharing the same Winters with the same purpose, all too quickly gone.

He lingered a little longer that day but, all the same, disappeared to the far side of the grounds, the only hour and place he found true privacy, in the weeds spared by the grounds keepers; indulging his imagination and giving form to the unrefined thoughts of B and their place in the world.

A dreaded the day he might be discovered and told it was too dangerous to venture out before dawn…

It was as though, as his mind was sharpened and expanded, it became equally more wild with possibilities and a thirst for purpose. Some were fantastical, others bitterly inevitable, but his position left no room for doubt or desire that might take him off course. Yet, language allowed him to solidify his thoughts, condensed his fears from their monstrous shadows and gave his conflicting fascination with B more form to twist into delicious narratives that no one else had to know…

Could any of what he imagined in the slow moments of sunrise be mutual … ? Could Backup’s own expanding mind hold the same spoiled possibilities?

The invitation to revisit old battles was enough for him to incline into the warmth building between them, further kindling a familiar unrest that twisted his dreams into an abstract hunger – pressing into the other’s skin desperately, pulling him blindly into his body like an animal ignorant of sex…

The shot glass, standing amber and fading to his left, wasn’t spared a glance. But, he neither considered backing down nor felt ready to accept the dare.

His senses were too swept up in the physical actions; It’s only been moments-

B’s thighs wound around his body, a hand guiding his fingers - it is like the creak of the window’s ledge under the heel of his hand, reminding him of how close he is to touching the slender, sparkling ice, and that if his intent is already so obvious, that he might as well have. i t. …

If only for a moment, he allowed possibility of learning what rolling, summer-soaked sex felt like …

Watching barely parted lips, soundless as smoke.

His breath trickles from his open mouth.

He could almost feel it.

“ - B … ”

He hesitates, introspection emerging out of the soft haze, slowing time. Several questions not quite formed,

‘Why do you want it?’,

‘For what ends?’, ‘Have you ever- ?’

‘Would you ever consider- … me ?’

– a distracting warmth builds on his face. He can’t tell if it is the heat rising from between their bodies or if allowing himself to ponder asking has caused his inexperience to surface visibly.

He’s been practicing control over his emotional affect since the day L asked him,

“Why do you think you are first and Backup is second?”,

The question made his blood run cold…

Being readable was being vulnerable.

A’s skin has always had the thin, delicate quality of alabaster. B’s pin-prick love bites had bruised him painlessly for weeks but had damaged his carefully constructed veneer of invulnerability, drawing low toned whispers from their peers…

Until then, most assumed he was easily flustered from anger; a manifestation of a temperamental nature under pressure or the years spent with B allowing something to rub off.

In truth, it was a compromise with his body; if he couldn’t conceal his responses, he would control the message they carried – A sharp glance, the sucking of teeth, the veil of teenage impudence, ‘-tu meurs en premier’ ( You die first ) where nothing else felt strong enough…

Hiding behind animosity had been intentional, but it felt like a betrayal to suppress more of who he was than he already had to, slipping deeper into the skin of his persona until there wasn’t a trace of the person beneath the letter left.

However, it was a price worth paying, allowing his eyes to wander unscrutinized over polished desks to trace the gentle, verdant veins of the other boy’s arms – his hands, fingers curling around the pages edge gracefully, the tender hiss of skin against paper…

Behind the camouflage of disdain, he could drink in the subtly of his closest friend’s voice, it’s cadence maturing into a syrupy, deep resonance; saccharine sound…

… Do other boys do this to themselves ?

A would repeat his words behind closed lips, savoring them, amplifying every morsel by bringing it into his body, into his mouth. Anything to make the thought more vivid; the memory of B’s breath trickling over his pulse.

He can’t remember what was said anymore…

It changes with his mood, the flavor of his dreams, the tone of the moments when he is alone.

He can only remember the wispy susurrations over teeth, the strange awareness of the temporarily of the moment, how teasing close to the line of satisfaction it brought him, leaving him feeling desperately unsated when it was over.

It keeps him revisiting the confrontation, a pseudo-masochistic fixation with a moment long gone and fading from memory.. But all within the safety of his mind, where no one else would know.

The warmth on his face leaves him feeling exposed, summoning the familiar resentment towards his own body .. though it’s muted, somewhere distant, pricking without sting.

He still wants to pull away and hide.

But, the distance between them is so unbearably tight, and unreasonably comfortable…

He leans in closer.

If he is close enough, B will not be able to distinguish the emerging color from the shadows he casts over his features. But, he can feel the humidity of an exhaled breath pulled into his mouth and the warmth seems to prickle like sparks through his skin.

The condensing air between their lips is sweltering and silent as the calm before a storm. It tingles with electricity that he pulls deeper into his lungs. It’s charge filling up his chest, until the impossible gravity brings the flush warmth to his mouth without any deliberation - the release of letting himself simply have it allows a sigh to escape, taking with it the uncertainty that’s haunted every previous instance of betrayal by his body.

The contact is tender, the motion slow, as gentle and inoffensive as it was starved… letting the plush heat and subtle pulse seep into the union of their lips. Time’s viscosity embellishes the pressure with delicate sensation he’s never been receptive to before, amplified by his famished longing to relive the lustful sincerity of their altercation.

– His fingers press into the firm muscles of his friend’s lower back. The contact is so light B could detect the trembling of his hands… He’s never felt this rawly unguarded before, this honest without regret.

The balmy nirvana of his rival’s lips has an ethereal softness like the satin of rose petals that lingers on the tips of his fingers, something he couldn’t detect in the bruising, hateful kiss they shared years ago.

But, it meets his senses with a familiarity… from their childhood; the groaning of tree limbs under his weight as he leaned over and allowed the contact as light as moth’s wings meeting mid-flight, guiltless and strangely polite. The sensation was phantom, almost untangle, like if warm velvet and cream could mesh, living on his lips like they had exchanged something vial and irreversible - leaving an unsatisfied intrigue, the desire to fully grasp the physical impression. They personified the idiom ‘just one more time’ – turning one, a single curious action, into several repeating attempts.

A sermon on sin lead them to never speak of it again, but his belief in sin had outgrown second hand virtues. There was nothing virtuous about his intoxicated touch, brushing fingers against his friend’s smooth cheek as he gave himself to it, his eyes sliding closed as he let himself submerge - the quiet sanctuary of their room, ‘I-missed-you’ pressed into the lobe of his ear, the warm inflection like a lifetime’s confession -pulled down into B’s body, sliding under him, pulled into Egyptian cotton by his gravity-his fingers lacing into his hair-surrender-as-they-curl-pulling-possessive-’say you’re mine’-the-humiliation-of-his-heel-in-his-back-

His lips part.

The galvanized air slips into his mouth, tingling as faintly as dust caught on sunlight, sparkling invisibly on his tongue as he inhales. He wants to fill his lungs back up with static, invite the delicate energy into his body, allow the current to saturate his senses. He wants Beyond’s thunder in his veins.

Sloping into one another, his fingers guiding the arch of B’s back. The subtle shift of his clothes, pressure through thin layers, and bare caress of skin again skin, the novel sensation of having someone press their aroused body into his. A hitch in his breath, a shiver rolling down his spine. Everything moves so slowly, the fiction tight, hot in his lap. He can feel the warm weight of B’s thighs and is unable to conceive of anything but the sensation – a surge like cream icing on his tongue, every nerve telling him he’s on the cusp of what he’s been craving all this time.

Each benign shift leaves his mind blank from pure indulgence, relaxing his jaw. He could yield under that mouth without a second’s regret.

But nothing feels quite enough.

Ensnared in a torrent of want, he presses harder into his friend’s friction but he can’t push it deeply enough into his own body to reach the elusive ache. The unbearable want is undefinable, evanescent as fists of sand, slipping through his hands -

— He-brings-his-fingers-to-wrap-around-his-rival’s-throat - his thumbs press into the resistance of cartilage…

The electricity is burning him from the inside out-

He wants something beneath the relief he’s pursuing, he wants to plead with B for it, but doesn’t know it’s name. It’s not a promise, it’s not his body, it’s not that he wants to ask him to be his friend again-

He wants something he cannot have.

He wants the mystery of the second child, the one from the crimson-lit alleys of a country he’s never seen, to hold real magic that will make all of this stay the way it is forever – never knowing who wins, who vanishes from history, what there is left to keep his blood running hot when his opponent is gone, what a decade without his touch to haunt him will feel like–

But, there is no magic.

Ice spires hanging like opulent wands would melt in his hands, trying to keep their rivalry forever would be as futile as clutching at sand being pulled in by the tide. You can’t conquer fate or time, they know no mercy or masters and never will.

B knows that better than he ever could.

There is no magic but B possesses a curse that never lets him forget the futility of trying to hold onto what was never yours.

But, if either gave into despair over what they could not change, he would not have this to lament that it would be gone one day. A would relish in the fire of their conflict and the heat of B’s body, until time took it from him. Because it would.

Fragile peace is found so easily when, if he could get any closer, their clothes would merge at the treads and he would be one less layer from reality… Every nerve is ringing with his friend’s friction, the first direct motion causes his eyes flutter, the muscles of his thighs spasm with an intense surge. The carnal hunger is devouring all sense, in his mind, in his mouth, his pulse under his thumbs.

He squeezes down a bit harder, summoning up the impression of B’s heel at his back with as much vividness as his imagination could manifest -- he could feel the tread bitting into his spine, the sense of defeat, the delicious twinge and tension-

A breaks the kiss, his gaze softened with ecstasy but darkening with stormy passion. Each movement was building up to an indeterminate end and he was aching for impact.

“ - Dit-moi que tu m’deteste. ”

Tell me you hate me.

Fantasies conjured up with more intensity without need of the usual focus. It was just there, at his lips, between his thighs, and looming over him without threat. His friend’s confession of violent daydreams, had became intertwined with his own.. The fixation with their worst altercation, it was mutual.

“uhhh-h-…”

If he could feel embarrassed by the meager, straining sounds, it isn’t right now. The rush comes again with a roll of his hips, A shuts his eyes to yield into it.

It is incredibly more intimate than he is able to appreciate.

#valentinesrp #jam-knife #i might as well write a fic #death note roleplay #wammys house #excuse the ` its better than a wall...

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deathbyvalentine · 6 years

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DuD Fiction Mild FOIP

Family

Cal said a prayer for each of them, every night. They said a prayer for everybody of course, for all those they knew and all those they didn’t, but these by name.

Nic first. They prayed that he would hate himself a little less, that his mind would heal without fracturing more. They prayed even for the parts they shouldn’t. They prayed that he wouldn’t leave them or forget them. They prayed that they wouldn’t stray too far from him, or forget him either. Half of the prayer was merely his name, trying to carve it so not even the sea of souls could wash it away.

Silvestro. They prayed for his darkness. They prayed that his duties wouldn’t leave too deep a mark on him. They prayed for his resentment and his bitterness and his anger, and mostly for his healing.

Bridge, who’s name still tasted wrong compared to the one they heard in a hospital bed that was not theirs. They prayed for him because they were sure he prayed for everybody else and weren’t sure that anybody prayed for him. They prayed that his family wouldn’t get lost from him.

Anoretta. For all her mistakes, real and imagined. For all her wounds, her own and others. For all her stubborness, for all her tears, for the future Cal so desperately wanted them to have together.

Baris. Baris, always. Baris who had broken them to the point where their words were barely even a prayer, and more of a litany of begging for forgiveness. Forgive me for all the things I did, but most importantly, the ones I did not do.

Often Argento, Gwyn. Sometimes Mitra-Shadi, Aleph. Rarely Esme, if they were feeling particularly selfless. Then they felt guilty for not always including her, and prayed for some forgiveness. They did not pray for Grulge, as they figured he had his own lookout and quite enough help as it stood.

Their prayers never truly ceased.

Emperor’s Chosen

They had spent the first half of their life wishing they were special. They had tried to be, trained and worked and sweated for the chance to win at something. They didn’t even care what the prize was - it was the winning that mattered, the acknowledgement, the victory. And they failed, ultimately.

And the next quarter of their life was spent wishing they didn’t exist. Wishing to be the opposite of special, wishing to be invisible and obscure. Being a psyker was not a blessing. Everybody knew it was a curse at best and a death sentence at worst.

And now. Something had changed. Irrefutable proof they were special. It didn’t feel uncomplicatedly good. It hurt. It was hard. Harder than anything else they had ever faced. Lonely too. Nobody else could possibly understand this. The horror of a body that was not only not your own, but was supposed to be a gift. They couldn’t rage, they couldn’t fight, they had to bite back their anger and transform it into gratitude. Their destiny, their fate was inescapable and all consuming and suddenly, their specialness didn’t seem like something they wanted any more.

And they couldn’t tell a single damn person.

Sacrifice/ Duty

You want to talk about sacrifice? Let’s talk about sacrifice.

Let’s talk about blood and oil. Let’s talk about how they both oiled the factory gears equally and how you never fucking saw what you made. Let’s talk about sleepless nights and blistered hands and sweltering heat. Seeing gears in every time you close your eyes. Everything aching.

Then there’s the sacrifice you give to the ships. Your joy, your love, your bravery until nothing of the old you is left. Until you’re a shadow with a body. The screaming in your head starts here, and never goes away, not really, not truly.

Your eyes aren’t even the last thing you give. You give your life, really. This was it, forever, owned and branded and owned. You are property all over again, except not to the Admech, to the Imperium. So many people have claims to you, there is none left for yourself. You whittle off parts of yourself and hand them over to the powers that be.

And now your palms bleed and ache. And now you can’t sleep. And your chest had wounds in it that go deeper than skin, and everyone looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes, and you know you’re going to let them down. You become more than a person to these pilgrims. You don’t matter, not really, but the voice in your head does. You sacrifice your feelings, because they can’t matter with lives at stake.

But people will still look at you, and see nothing but what you have, not what you gave.

The Virtues of Shooting Psykers

Lance loved his work. He loved the arid simplicity of it, the clean lines and choices that made it the direct opposite of his somewhat messy personal life. Someone was placed in front of him, and he broke them or killed them. He was placed in his cockpit and he destroyed whatever machine they told him to. No thinking required, half the time. Just muscle memory and instincts.

Idly, he crushed his cigarette underneath the heel of his boot, leaving a smear of ash across the metal floor. His leather gloves were a little tacky with blood still, the air conditioning in the room drying it unnaturally fast. The psyker’s head was drooped, chin to chest, a small trickle of scarlet dried by the corner of his mouth. Lance wasn’t quite sure how long he had been in custody total, but he had been in his care for three days now. The cuffs had dug angry red lines into his wrists, his shoulders tight and surely agonising from hours sitting in the same unforgiving chair.

Lance didn’t feel sympathy towards him. Nor did he feel disgust. Rather he felt an abstract distaste, making him want to turn away, not look the creature in the eyes. It was almost an acute embarrassment, that this person could exist and not simply just fade away of their own accord. No, they had insisted on living and both of them had to live with the consequences.

His dataslate buzzed obnoxiously, clattering across the table set in front of the psyker. He opened it casually, sighing as he read his orders, locking it again a moment after. He unsheathed the laz pistol strapped to his outer thigh and began checking the energy pack. The psyker started, feet pushing fruitlessly at the floor in a vain effort to retreat.

“I would say this isn’t personal, but we both know that’s not exactly true, don’t we?” His voice betrayed no hint of anger, pity or resignation. In fact, it betrayed nothing at all. No emotion. “You have betrayed the Throne, which makes it personal to well, basically everybody.” He cocked his gun. “But well, I’d be lying if I said that was the main reason. Mostly, well, I like it. And I’m good at it. Pray while you still can. Someone’s gotta hear you, right?”

Corruption

“A-Argento, is this… Okay. Right.

The Imperium is facing some difficult choices. Some of these choices will seem too much for us to bear, but we must not lose hope. All of us are special - all of us are blessed with the presence of the God Emperor.

But this does not mean we can be complacent. We must all look inside ourselves and decide what we can do to bring Her glory. We must fight and we must die. We must sacrifice. We must obey just authority. We must root out the corruption and the rot, wherever we find it. We will cleanse it with pain, with prayer, and with flame. Faith is our weapon and it will never fail us.

I know sometimes the work can seem too huge to bear. I have been frightened, I have been weak. But I find His love, and it gives me strength. I remember that my fear does not excuse me from doing Her holy work. A friend… A captain once said to me, that everything you must do, when you stand before His golden you must be able to justify to Her. Think - have you done enough to defeat His enemies? Have you done your duty to the best of your ability? Have you fulfilled your purpose to Her? Have you dedicated your life to Him alone?

A future is ahead of us, and it is beautiful. We will move on from the ashes of our past sins, and bathe in the light of a galaxy lit only with flame and golden light. I pray for all of us, and She listens. This much I know to be true.”

Ave Imperator

It felt odd sometimes, knowing what they knew, feeling what they felt. The God they worshipped had turned out to be a stranger to them, and yet now, they were closer than ever. Cal felt the lines between them had truly began to blur. Cal knew that with every dream, every changed perspective, every time they forgot where they were or what someone’s name was.

Their love had deepened for Her. They were obsessed in all honesty, their every other thought coming back to Her. It was understandable - His voice was echoing in their head constantly after all, drenching everything in molten gold.

Distantly, they remembered Olethra. They remembered reverent faces reaching out to touch their skirts, their hands, their hair. They remembered crouching, healing every wound they came across, whispering of the Omnissiah and the God Emperor, code switching with alarming ease. It was like speaking two languages, fluent in both. This was the tiniest hint of worship, and they wondered what He must feel like.

Did She get tired of the constant requests and cries for help, thousands upon thousands all at once? Did He wish He could talk, just talk to someone, about something other than the fate of the known universe? Cal thought She must be very lonely, and strove to pray about everything and nothing, just wanting the intimacy of baring your soul and expecting nothing in return.

Lazgun

She crouched in the vents, bandanna pulled over her nose and mouth, and tilted her head, listening to the noise below her. The hive market was bustling, calls carrying over the heads of patrons, bartering and arguments intermingling, all the little noises of life. Steam rose from freshly cooked corpsestarch and smoke rose from Iho sticks. The comings and goings in the narrow corridors into the plaza made the populace look almost like the sea, waves upon waves.

She scanned the crowd manually, knowing her auxspecs was useless here. There were too many bodies. However, it was easier than she predicted. When everybody was moving, her eyes picked out the solid points easily. The arbites leaned against a far wall, guns hanging idly by their sides. One had their visor up, chewing idly on some hive-food, murmuring something to their partner. The partner had their visor down, reflecting the market back at them, rendering them anonymous. A surge of furious, hot hate ignited in her heart, and she had to swallow it. She remembered what her leader said - her hot head would get her killed if she didn’t cool it down.

Careful not to bang her elbows against the side of the vent, she opened her backpack, removing a bundle of cloth. They unwrapped it in their hands, feeling the intoxicating weight. The gun was sleek and clean, apart from the muzzle which seemed chunkier than the rest of it put together. The energy pack slid in with only the smallest click, a tiny light flickering green to show it was ready to be used.

On her stomach, she wiggled to the grate at the front of the vent. She had been working towards this moment for longer than she could remember. Rising Flame had found her when she had nothing, absolutely nothing, and gave her all the tools she needed to avenge her sister. She could remember her death only in the vaguest impressions - an arbiter’s gun, screaming, not being allowed to stay with the body. It had started a hatred burning in her heart that had only grown and grown with every injustice the Imperium committed and they were oh so numerous. She rested the barrel on the grate, flicking on the sight. This was a small action, to be sure. Not killing a high lord, not killing a inquisitor. But it was cutting off a finger of those institutions, sending a clear message; this would not stand.

She took a deep breath, noticing how her hands were not shaking at all. Good. She had never felt this calm in her life. And now, it was time to fire.

Hidden Things/The Night

The hillside seemed quiet. The chattering and chittering and hissing of the animals had faded. The rapidly darkening evening had granted a fragile peace from the hustle of the day. The locals had left their fields and returned inside to huddle by the fire, rest and sleep.

And one by one, pairs of red lights flickered to life on the hillside. The skitarri woke up, shaking the leaves and dirt from their metal casings. They didn’t have to concern themselves with being silent. Stealth was not their objective. They were not a secret. They were looking for someone and were did not worry if he knew they were coming.

They slowly advanced down the mountainside, brushing trees aside as if they were cobwebs, not glancing back at the destruction they left in their wake. In their stone houses, the locals flinched, and pulled their blankets around them a little tighter. They knew if they were innocent they had nothing to fear. But the skitarri were strange creatures and who knew what their definition of guilty was? They had razed entire fields to find a energy pack casing, had burnt down a forest to find a few dissidents.

They walked in loose lines, no two looking entirely similar, but they were all clearly from the same pack. Some had claws that shone in the bright moonlight. Some had hoods that hid their faces deep in the recesses. Some made whirring sounds as the pistons inside them pushed them on. One in particular had a fur wrapped around it’s torso, some exotic creature coloured like ink.

In the middle, was a Magos. And they were the worst of all, somehow, their humanity both more and less apparent. There was a savage intelligence in her eyes, but there was little mercy. If the skitarri were a pack, this was their alpha, the nucleus to their molecules. And tonight, they were hunting.

Kingfisher

Las sat on the riverbank, trousers rolled up, feet dangling into the cool water. All was quiet, if you ignored the distant gunfire in the hills. It didn’t concern him too much. Nothing had been entirely peaceful since the Imperials came.

This could have been paradise otherwise. The forests were full and alive, the river quick moving and populated, the winters kinder than they had any right to be. Las walked the same path through the woods he always had, the ground worn bare from hundreds of feet similar to his own.

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen now. Things had been changing, going wrong. People found dead in the woods, mauled by claws that matched no animals they knew of. The Governor's hunting becoming more and more vicious as they all pretended they didn’t know the fate of those who went missing. The planet had started to feel... wrong. It gave him a deeply unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like the feeling before a storm.

But right now, he was sitting at the river, watching the birds swoop and chatter, excited by the arrival of summer, undisturbed by his presence. He wished he could stay in this moment, crystallised and untouchable. But times arrow only flew forward, and soon it would be dark.

Cal and Anoretta Go for a Walk Outside

This is what happily ever after felt like. Their bones were still aching - they had never fully recovered from the blessings of the Emperor, and they were hardly getting any younger, but they lean on each other, and their sticks, and made their way slowly to the porch. They spent most of their evenings here, side by side, petting the gyrinx that wound around their ankles.

They had made this home for themselves, carved it out with blood and tears and sacrifice. Finnesterra had waited for them, patiently, and returning to it felt like finally coming home. The first home Cal had ever really had. It felt like they could finally rest. The voice in their head had quietened, but not abandoned them completely. Cal knew they would meet again, for the final time, but that time wasn’t now. Their embrace could wait a little longer.

For now, it was time to enjoy their life. They meddled happily, they were rarely seen without Nic or Anoretta. They wore their Guardian sash at all times, never too busy to help if asked. They slept, deeply, untroubled by bad dreams. They dreamt instead of Baris, distant but safe. He had a different destiny. One which tragically, was not with them.

But they were never hungry here, and they hadn’t held a gun in years. The stigmata in their hands had ceased bleeding some time ago, though the marks remained, unmoving. On the porch, they rested their head on Anoretta’s shoulder, reading her contentment as thought it were their own, because maybe it was. “Told you we’d retire happy.”

Forgiveness/Trust Issues/ Disappointment

Cal kept thinking that they were supposed to be better than this. They were meant to be working past human desires and needs, becoming something better. But instead, the resentments simmered. All the tiny hurts they had ever felt did not fade away, but stuck to the inside of their ribs, mostly unnoticeable, occasionally suffocating.

They were fundamentally petty at their core. It was a sign of their mind becoming their own again. No longer would they accept hurt from others as a matter of course, something they deserved without further examination. Their mind prickled at the small injustices rather than the grand pains.

George and Esme were the principle figures these complicated feelings revolved around. So George was hurting. It didn’t negate her microaggressions, or how she spoke to Cal, or the fear in her eyes. Her pain was regrettable but her actions were not excusable.

Then Esme, the woman that had inspired the most doubt and fear in Cal out of all the naysayers, her gentle voice worming its way into their head the most, now deciding she believed Cal. And thinking that that was alright, that things were fine now. Not to mention the bloody Grulge complication.

This is why Cal didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t hive or factory scum easily. They never realised when they were hurting, or thought moving on was the best way of healing it for all involved. Nobles had no self awareness. They’d never had to develop it.

Knights are Awesome

The two girls sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over, kicking in tandem. Streamers hung off every available surface, banners snapping in the wind. They knew it was a special day because they’d been given a day off work, the machines minding themselves for twelve hours. This was next to unheard of. Certainly they could never remember this happening before, but they were very young.

Underneath them, a crowd surged and pushed on the sand, facing towards the long path of concrete that had been cleared. They weren’t strictly supposed to be up here, but they were adept climbers, and they wanted to see.

And see they did. They started small on the horizon, lost amongst the factory pipes and chimneys. But as the crowd chattered and parted, and they got closer and closer, they came into view. Machines made into a form resembling human, metal twisted into an offering to the Omnissiah. This was the closest to a titan they would ever get, and it was close enough. Their mouths hung open in awe, a thousand futures flashing through their head where they became knights together, moulding their mind to link to their machines, never once realising that this future was never meant for them. They were shut out from it, destined instead to be the oil that kept the gears turning.

Right now though, that didn’t matter. It was enough to be close to holiness, to be a part of the system that kept these artefacts moving. They were all tools of the Machine God, even if some parts were bigger than others.

Astropath Small Talk

“I’m still not used to this.” “I’m not sure I’ll ever be used to this.” “It’s so dark.” “It’s okay. I’m right here.” “This has got to be easier for telepaths.” “Mm, only when it comes to bumping into other people. Objects are still posing a bit of a challenge. Telekinetics still have the lead on that one.” “And diviners are just cheating honestly.” “As always.” “... What do you think being in a choir is like?” “I’m not sure. I didn’t even know there were people like me.” “You didn’t have posters up about psykers?” “I grew up on a half-empty agriworld, we didn’t have posters up about anything. The whole Warp thing came as a bit of a shock to be honest.” “I think a choir might be nice. Feeling close to others.” “Not sure I want anyone in my head though.” “I’m not sure you are. I think it’s like... you occupy a different space together. Not your head but somewhere else - “ “Shhh. I can hear the hourly check in.” “Goodnight.” “Shhh.”

Thought for the Fortnight/Loyalty

His voice echoed through the hallways of the Chaser, through the dormitories and mess halls, canteens and officers, decks and bridges. It seemed to belong there, not seeming imperative or out of place. It added a presence that the Chaser had been desperately missing. Everyone had noticed it, from the lowliest rating to the arm-screws to the archivists.

Cal had been amazed by the feeling on the ship, the comradeship, the sense of fierce pride and protection they all had for it. They weren’t sure if their isolation prevented them from seeing it on the Lord’s Confidence or if it simply just didn’t exist. But here was different, and it was at least mostly because Bridge and Nic made it different. It wasn’t just a job for so many of the people here, it was a home, a livelihood they had previously not been afforded. Sitting in the security dormitory, Cal saw crowds of people that had been given a second chance.

Cal realised that it wasn’t solely because of their righteousness that they had hung their flag to their mast. It was because of their kindness, the softness that came from not wanting other people to suffer the same as they had. They thought of Bridge’s hand on their shoulder, Nic’s arms around them, Silvestro’s steely protectiveness. It would kill Cal if they were on the opposite side to them, so they were infinitely glad they were not.

Drawings

Davian glanced over his brother’s shoulder, at the paper he was pouring over. This was yet another talent he lacked that his brother had in shed loads. Not that Sol was perfect at it, he had a long way to go to greatness, but there was a care and skill there that Davian couldn’t dream to have.

He was sketching out the flowers blooming from the biodeck, a riot of colour and movement, the air regulation making the leaves shiver and twitch. Davian had never particularly stopped to look at it before, its practical function far outweighing its aesthetic one. But Sol had grown up in a hive. He hadn’t seen anything like it before, and he wondered at it. And through his fresh eyes, Davian shared the experience. The biodeck was no longer merely a necessity but also an indulgence, something to admire.

A small part of him was satisfied with the idea that Sol only had this cheap imitation of plant life. He had been on an agri-planet, he had walked in open fields, seen whole forests, seen the open pink sky above them. He had that beauty cradled close to his chest and used it to affirm his own superiority. As it was his right to do.

And yet here was Sol, sketching out flowers with agonising care, trying to document the beauty he saw in gene-altered flowers on a ships biodeck. And Davian was jealous.

Bad Taste

Lance’s shoulders hit the wall, and the Commissar’s lips hit his a moment later. “This is a bad idea.” He said, discarding the iconic hat, much to Lance’s sorrow.

“Yes.” Lance agreed, nodding, his lips moving to press kisses along his shaven jaw, occasionally biting the soft skin there, leaving small red marks. He liked the idea that the next morning, the mirror would reflect the evening before.

“I should go back to my own room.” His hands tugged on Lance’s shirt impatiently, sending a button fraying and making him laugh. He shrugged it off, revealing a torso painted with faint and not-so-faint scars. An entire history on his skin, nothing and nowhere to hide.

“Probably.” Lance experimentally moved a hand to his belt buckle, quirking an eyebrow, asking for permission. Without hesitation, the Commissar nodded, his fingers fumbling with his own belt, clumsy in his hurry.

The next few hours passed as one would expect. Sweat, bruises, moans, desperately trying to muffle noises as the walls in this ship were not all that thin. Lance wasn’t sure if he was insulted or not, when he was getting dressed, quite how much the Commissar emphasised the need for discretion and secrecy. He wanted to believe it was because of their respective positions, no pun intended, but a niggling thought in the back of his head wouldn’t quite quit.

The idea that it was him he was ashamed of, that his personality or his manner somehow made him a guilty pleasure. This had been somewhat of a reoccurring theme in his flings, and he was starting to get sick to the back teeth of it. He was a goddamn war hero, a member of the Inqusition, an amazing pilot and a great fuck to boot. What was it about him that was so shameful?

Whatever. It’s not like it mattered. He liked his sex casual and compartmentalised. He didn’t want a relationship, or even someone to talk to. He just wanted a body in or around him, and to lose himself for a few hours. Emotions didn’t factor into this.

Thankfully.

Murder Servitor

They could hear it still. The metal clicking. The slide of something dragging. The whirr of a blade.

They heard it in the oddest of places. The mess hall. The security bunk rooms. Even in the corridors as they walked with their armscrew on one side and Argento on the other. Their footsteps would falter, their muscles would tense and the air would be caught inside their throat.

Then the moment would pass, and they would realise it was nothing. A vent creaking open to release some heat, a grinding belt. Something mundane. Something safe. But their heart would still be racing and they’d be forced to smile at Argento, assure him it was nothing, nothing at all. They were doing that with a worrying amount of intensity these days.

Sometimes, when Baris came calling for them, they’d mistake the sound of his footsteps for something more sinister. That hurt most of all. They swore to learn him by heart again, so his movements could never be mistaken for a threat, for better or worse. Mitra-Shadi was even worse, possibly because Cal always got the sense she was barely holding back from killing them anyway.

It was almost laughable, this mundane fear, so far removed from the cosmos and the forces pushing and pulling them this way and that. So rooted in reality and the physical realm. The nightmares that came were memories, not imaginings. So Cal couldn’t quite laugh.

Devotion

Cal wondered if mad people knew they were mad. If they could feel their sanity slipping through their fingers bit by bit, or if they were oblivious to their mind splintering apart like rotten wood.

Cal thought sometimes they were being driven mad. Not going, no, nothing so natural or inevitable. Being driven. Inch by inch, digging their heels in every step of the way.

They couldn’t sleep. They tossed and turned, blanket tangling between their legs, cold sweat coating them in an unhealthy sheen. No matter who’s head they tuned into, what songs or stories filled their mind, how much they relaxed... The voice wouldn’t go away.

It was there, molten and golden, touching everything. All-encompassing. Deafening. Absolutely incomprehensible. The first few nights they spent on their knees, lips moving in constant prayer, begging to be told what to do, what their God wanted. No answer came, but the voice remained.

They couldn’t sleep. And they couldn’t eat, after two weeks of restless nights, their appetite wiped away. They grew thinner, dark shadows falling under their cheekbones, their skin looking even more pale and unhealthy than their usual. Their hair was brittle and dry, their nails breaking constantly. They couldn’t recognise themselves.

What else was there to do? They lay in bed, and they prayed. It stopped being a plea for help, it stopped being coherent. Instead Cal just talked inside their own head, for hours, every thought that came into their head, sharing their whole self with Her. She didn’t care if Cal was on their knees, or if their hands shook too much to make the right shape. She cared about the intention, and everything about Cal leaned towards Him, yearning, working, striving.

Soon, something inside them promised. Soon.

#prompts #Death Unto Darkness #larp #prose

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theincrediblesulkmachine · 7 years

Text

Melancholia

Summary: It wasn’t ideal but nothing about the situation had been; ideal is a fallacy, a pretty lie reserved for imagination and dreams. When its the only six people he cares for in the universe pitted against his own survival? There was no option.

[Read on AO3]

In the aftermath, Keith feels cold.

It’s an odd contrast, considering that in what he had thought were his final moments, he had felt like he was boiling from the inside out; a mixture of panic, rage and desperation that would sear him through.

Keith doesn’t feel any of that warmth now, not even the essential heat of emotion. His mind is clear, too clear, and he knows what he was about to do; what he was prepared to do.

It wasn’t ideal but nothing about the situation had been; Ideal is a fallacy, a pretty lie reserved for imagination and dreams.

It’s not that he is suicidal, or has a death wish; he’s only human, and in that moment, he had felt the regret of a hundred words unsaid, a thousand moments unlived. But if you truly think about it, it was the only option he had; one life in exchange for thousands- the rebels, the Blades, the Paladins, Voltron.

The only six people he cares for in the universe pitted against his own survival? There was no option, even if the fate of millions didn’t hang in the balance.

Keith is under no delusions; he knows exactly how close he had come to death, he had felt the crackle of electricity from the particle barrier across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms, his neck.

Death had reached out to him, arms held out in welcome, and he’d almost taken up the silent offer, when a splicing laser that shattered the particle barrier.

Keith only just pulled out of that embrace by virtue of his reflexes.

As he hears the comms come back on, affirmations of safety flooding the line; he doesn’t feel the relief he expected, but an odd kind of despondency- he would never have heard these voices again, never known the bittersweet pangs that come with caring, with love.

Keith answers Shiro’s query mechanically, not paying much attention to what he says as his brain works itself into overdrive; categorizing thought from sensation from reality; becomes distantly conscious, that he recognizes the ship that had stepped in.

Lotor.

As he floats there in dead space, suspended in thought and moment, he wonders idly what the exiled Prince stands to gain by stopping the cruiser from detonating half the known galaxy.

Amnesty, his minds whispers, but Keith can’t dredge up enough emotion to worry about the potential complications.

He hears the four staggering clicks that represent the Marmoran signal for regrouping, and pulls his cruiser out of the drift it has fallen to.

It’s quiet, as the Coalition picks themselves up from the weight of near disaster; as if only just opening their eyes to the true nature of war.

Realizing the stakes of war, the odds they had just overcome, can be a humbling thing. Keith who has continually fought for everything he ever wanted, ever held dear, thinks he has always known this truth.

The debriefing is short-lived; Kolivan is not one to mince words, or waste time on sentiment, but his battle-worn eyes linger a second too long on Keith. Kolivan is also one who is under no delusions of glory, or the nobility of cause; he knows the price of war, has paid it many times over- but in that instant, he seems to want to say something.

Keith wants to hear neither censure nor congratulation, so he takes his leave before the Blade can open his mouth.

He still feels cold, so he heads to the showers, strips, and finds himself standing under the steaming spray without consciously going through the motions.

The water should blister, should at the very least warm him, but it’s almost phantasmagorical. Its real, he can feel it trickling down his face, his nose, but the sensation is faraway, like he’s watching it happen to someone else, and the shadow of touch on his skin is merely sympathetic.

Keith tips his face up, allowing it to pelt down mercilessly, but that too is muted.

He knows its reactionary, his body shutting down in the fallout of too much emotion. It still doesn’t stop the internal displacement he feels, more alien than his biological makeup had ever made him.

The Coalition was suffused in feeling, and Keith could find none.

Not relief, not fear, not anger.

Just empty.

He drops his face into his hands, allows the water to bleed through his hair, bombard his neck, and allows himself one moment, just one, to feel the void creeping through his limbs, and then he returns to motion.

He shuts off the valve, and redresses, not bothering with toweling himself dry. Any other time, he would have been irked at the way the cloth clings, but it’s too much effort to consider at the moment.

Keith leaves his armor on the floor, in a way he never normally permits loose ends, and sinks to the bed; the lone piece of furniture in his sparse accommodations.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he looks at his hands; he’s distantly bemused to discover that they’re shaking.

Its shock, Keith realizes he knows.

He sighs, the sound echoing like a gust of wind; his own breath a jagged whisper in his ear. Keith makes himself list backwards, lying down, curling up in an abstract approximation of comfort, of warmth.

He takes the hush as an opportunity to practice his latest habit; he lies to himself; the silence is comforting, the chill is invigorating, this emptiness too will pass, he thinks, and there is bitter irony in the fact that even in this detached state, Keith doesn’t believe himself.

He can’t even stop shaking.

In the aftermath, there is radio silence from Keith.

Even as he takes the time to make sure Katie is okay, that the Princess, Shiro and the other paladins are unharmed, Matt finds himself worrying, because he’s the only one who had been there, the only one who knows.

The only one to see that unsettling blank expression that had taken over Keith’s face, before setting in resignation, and a dark sort of determination.

Matt had felt something cold grip his heart at that expression; it was the one Shiro had worn before attacking him in the Arena; it was the face of someone calibrating a situation without factoring themselves into the equation.

“Keith, no!” The exclamation had torn itself from his throat at the very real situation unfolding in front of him.

Keith simply accelerated, switching off the link to their private channel.

The blank screen had shaken Matt, even as he thought it over, and over- he understood, of course he did- tens of thousands of lives were at stake including his own, including his sister’s; the stake was the entire rebellion, and the only weapon standing between the Empire and universal dominion- Voltron- was as good as lost, if that bomb had gone off.

Matt understood, but even with that, the expression he had seen on Keith’s face haunts him.

He finds himself asking Olia to take him to the last known location of the Marmoran base before he can justify it. She doesn’t ask any questions, but he sees the set of her mouth, and knows she gets it.

When they reach the flagship, Matt hails their private frequency directly, asking consent to enter the base, in what will most likely be viewed as impudence.

He’s surprised when Kolivan’s answer is a receding doorway; an invitation inside.

Matt doesn’t waste the opportunity, thanking Olia and walking through into one of the most reclusive bases known to the Coalition. Any other time he might have looked around, intrigued by the ins and outs of the technology, the allocation map, but he just follows the masked Blade to where Kolivan waits.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” he begins, not wanting to piss off the stoic leader, “But-”

“I know why you’re here.” Kolivan interjects his half-assed niceties. “Maddox will lead you to him.”

Matt blinks, and eyes Kolivan; he finds what he’s looking for, a tightness around the eyes, an exceptionally grim twist to the mouth. He chooses not to comment, simply saying. “Yes, thank you.”

The room isn’t far, and it isn’t long before Matt finds himself standing in front of a closed door.

He feels a niggling sense of self-doubt now, when it’s far too late to do anything about it; what if Keith doesn’t appreciate his interference?

Matt can’t leave things be, it’s part of who he is, and he really doesn’t think Keith deserves to be left alone. Not when he’s shown incredible strength of character by making an impossible choice that nearly ended his life; not when he had been ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of the people he loves- one of whom is Matt’s sister- for the universe; especially not when Matt had seen it happen in front of his eyes.

And, Matt? Matt knows a little thing about loneliness.

So, he nods to the Blade waiting by him, and he overrides Keith’s lock and privacy to let Matt in.

The room is Spartan; compulsively neat, with no sign of occupation or temperament save the discarded armour near a half-hidden doorway. It’s lit exclusively by an aegean glow, painting the dark with wisps of melancholia. It emphasizes the loneliness of the single lifeform lying immobile, on the solitary piece of furniture in the room.

“Keith?” he asks, almost in permission and there’s no response, no outward indication of having been heard. Matt dares to step closer, until he’s at the side of the bed. He can see glimpses of pale face, through a mess of hair, still wet, drying haphazardly amidst half-soaked bedding.

“Keith.” Matt repeats softly, putting a hand on Keith’s shoulder, and he’s alarmingly cold; freezing to the touch. Keith half-turns, not startling, not reacting in any way aside from the physical, to look over his shoulder.

Keith looks at Matt like he doesn’t understand why he’s here, but can’t be bothered to worry about it. It’s frighteningly listless, and very unlike Keith, who in even the short duration that Matt has known him, has proven to have an exceptionally expressive face.

“Hey.” Matt says, and it’s inadequate, but it’s all he can think of when face to face with a mostly unresponsive friend.

Keith keeps his gaze on Matt for two long seconds, before once again turning his back, Matt’s hand slips with the motion. It’s quiet for a few moments where Matt grapples for something to explain why he’s here without being pitying.

“Are you here to yell at me too?” Keith speaks, beating Matt to the punch, and it’s oddly intoned; low but heavy; drained; resigned

“What?” Matt says, surprised. “No.”

“Not going to tell me how reckless I was? How stupid? How selfish?” there’s a quiet hollow laugh at the end of the sentence, it rings and reverberates with the intensity of an opera hall screaming WRONG.

“Selfish?” Matt asks incredulously, “Stupid? What you nearly did… wasn’t either of those things…” Matt trails off, as he thinks of what this moment would have been like if the Galran Prince had not interceded, and feels his heart twist, a lump developing in his throat, and he suddenly needs to see Keith, to see for himself that he’s alive, if not entirely well.

“Keith,” Matt says, “Look at me. I just wanted to know you were okay…”

“Why.” It’s not a question, nor a statement. It’s just a word said, to hide the empty cavern where an unbreakable spirit normally resides.

Matt sits down on the space at the edge of the bed. “It’s alright to feel this way, you know; I can’t imagine how hard that decision was for you, but I can tell you that I was terrified.”

“Why?” and it’s so soft, so quiet, so unassuming, that Matt realizes something tragic; Keith is uncomprehending of how vital he is, how important to those who know him.

Maybe he’s never known anything different.

Maybe he’s never thought it alright to be scared…

Maybe no one ever told him otherwise.

“Why not? Someone I consider a friend- someone my little sister looks up to, thinks of like a brother… why would I not be terrified at the prospect of losing him?”

Keith exhales softly, breathing even, unaffected, but his eyes drift to the corner, looking at Matt through his periphery.

Matt finds himself continuing, “You know, I faked my own death to get away from the Galran fleet that discovered us?” a barely-there nod. “There was no real danger involved, but when I looked down at that headstone, when I saw my own name staring back at me, amidst everyone else that we lost in that ambush …” He chokes a little on his words, clears his throat self-consciously. “It shook me, Keith. It made me realize, that could really be me; one mistake, one variable, one wrong decision, and that would have been me.”

“Those are the odds we face, and it’s genuine, and fearing it or denying it changes nothing.” Matt sighs, and leans back on his hands. His fingertips brush Keith’s back on their way down to the surface of the bed, and he startles slightly. “The thing is, the decision you made at the moment- it’s not about reckless, or selfish or stupid- it’s just that it’s a… it’s- it should be last-resort.” He fumbles a little for words, because technically nothing about that situation had been less than completely desperate, but he wants to convey to Keith somehow that it wasn’t okay without undermining the resolve it had taken to make it.

“It’s not that I’m saying you were wrong,” Matt says, a little frustrated, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sort the emotion from thought. “What I’m saying that you didn’t know for sure that it would work, and losing you… over a… a maybe, isn’t acceptable.”

“What other options did we have?” Keith says quietly, finally, and then even more inaudibly, “It was the only thing I could do to protect everyone.” and Matt is reminded of what Pidge told him the Blade’s motto falls down to, the mission over the individual.

“Who protects you, Keith?” Matt says, entirely without meaning to, and he feels Keith tense behind him.

Keith rolls sideways to face him, and there is a crack in the terrible blankness that plasters his face. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is lax, and for the first time Matt sees the cost of that near brush with death, that almost.

Matt smiles at him, a little sadly before shaking his head. “Look, I don’t know,” Matt admits ruefully, “I don’t know… all I do know is that a few more seconds, and you would have been gone… all I know is that you, as an individual, are important… to me… to Pidge, to Shiro, and the other Paladins…beyond your just being useful.”

Keith swallows and then in a small, vulnerable voice, he asks, “Do they know?”

Matt shakes his head, “I haven’t told anyone.”

Keith sucks in a sharp, relieved breath, closing his eyes for an instant. “Why?”

“Do you know what it would have been like for them to find out you had died?” Matt asks instead. “To hear silence? To think the link is down, that your communications have been compromised? To find debris where your ship had been?” His voice trembles, as he outlines the possibility that hasn’t quite left his mind since that evening. “To hope that you had been evacuated, to search and search only to find out… to know that you were dead, for their sake, to know and never be able to even say goodbye?” Matt’s voice breaks, and a sob escapes his mouth completely unintended, and he leans forward immediately, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“They wouldn’t…” Keith starts before falling into silence. ‘I’m sorry.” Keith’s voice is sincere.

Matt breathes in deeply through his nose before looking back, “They would, and it’s not me you should apologize to. Not being able to say goodbye…” he shakes his head and falls silent, unable to continue the thought. “You need to tell them yourself.”

Keith swallows and it’s hesitant, but he nods, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry that you had to be there.” He says again.

“Front row seats to someone you care about, nearly killing himself, isn’t something I want a repeat performance of.” Matt says, but he smiles for Keith’s sake. He isn’t upset with him, not really.

It’s just circumstance that dealt them a horrid hand.

He really hates the fates.

“I hate being helpless.” Matt says softly, looking away now. “I know you get it, that’s why you did it, but you’re not just a tool. There are people waiting on you to come home.”

Keith pales, and then says matter-of-factly. “There really aren’t.”

“Oh.” Matt says neutrally, blinking, taking that in before saying, “I wasn’t talking about Earth, though.”

“Oh.” Keith repeats. “Matt?” he asks, after a beat.

“Yeah?”

“I- thank you for being here.”

“Yeah, of course.” Matt says, surprise apparent in his eyes.

“Matt.” Keith says, like an afterthought, like a mantra. “I… don’t think I’m okay.” Keith finally admits on a bitter laugh, speaking into the silence of the shadowed room. “I knew what I was doing, I was ready…I knew the consequences…” he covers his eyes with his hands- they make a harsh smacking sound on impact, then he lowers them, cupping his nose, hiding his shaking mouth.

He breathes in shakily, and even in the dim lit room his modena eyes glisten.

“Keith,” Matt says, leaning across the bed with a hand outstretched, placing it on his shoulder; he’s still worryingly cold, but his hair is dry, sticking up every which way, and Matt fleetingly wonders what it would be like to touch, to muss up even more.

“I was prepared to die…” Keith says, slinging his arm across his eyes, and the sentence comes out on a sob, and his shoulders heave. “I knew, so…so, why…?”

And Matt? His heart breaks.

“Keith.” He says, and it comes out like a plea, like a prayer. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

Keith takes in a ragged breath instead of a response, and it capsizes halfway, into another sob. “I don’t want to care.” He says, but Matt can hear the unspoken truth: I don’t want to be afraid.

Matt tugs softly on the elbow of Keith’s left arm, and Keith holds it in place, stubbornly. He sighs. “Will you let me help you?” Matt asks mildly, tugging at it again.

Keith lowers his arm slightly.

Matt tugs him forward, and maneuvres himself under Keith’s arm, putting his own around him in return.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, going along with it even if he’s a little confused. His voice is hoarse, but controlled.

“It’s called a hug.” Matt says, cheekily, like this is a very different situation. “And, you’re freezing- jesus fuck.”

Keith’s mouth lifts in a surprised smile, “You’re just like Pidge.” He says, but doesn’t pull away.

Matt holds Keith for a few minutes, without saying anything, until he feels Keith’s breathing even out, his shaking subsiding alongside skin warming to humane levels.

In the silence, Keith drops his head onto Matt’s shoulder, and it’s nice, despite the heavy air in the room around them. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.” Keith says, into his shoulder.

Matt tightens his arms around Keith a little, and takes in a measured breath, before replying. “I know you would.”

“Weren’t you trying to convince me not to pull shit like that?” Keith says, dryly but not entirely humourless. “You don’t think that’s impulsive?”

“Of course it is,” Matt sighs, pushing his nose into Keith’s hair, allowing the hand not around his back to thread through his hair. “But we don’t really have the novelty of safe, well-reasoned lives.”

“No.” Keith agrees, and there’s something appreciative in his tone.

“Just… think about yourself too.” Matt adds quietly, “You can’t forget that you’re important.”

Keith laughs softly, as if trying to deny it without saying anything. Matt yanks his hair sharply in retaliation.

“Hey.” Keith says, sounding like he’s trying to be offended, but it just sounds relieved.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” Matt says.

“Me too.” Keith replies, and it’s genuine-sounding, not forced like the composure and solitary strength of before.

“Keith?” Matt asks, letting his eyes drift shut in the comforting warmth of another body; space has a way of seeping into your bones, cold and lonely, and it’s soothing to feel the steady rhythm of Keith’s heartbeat, the even puffs of breath.

“Hm?” it comes out drowsy, like exhaustion finally caught up to him in repercussion of the trainwreck of emotions he was shutting out.

“If you pull something like that again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Matt mumbles.

Keith lets out a small laugh, which turns into a tiny yawn. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Even heroes are allowed to say goodbye.” Matt manages to say, before he drifts off.

“Even heroes are allowed to say goodbye.” It’s a simple statement, murmured sleepily, before silence retakes the room.

Its warmer this time, less oppressive, less likely to suffocate Keith in its manifestation.

Keith smiles.

Seven, he thinks absently. Seven, as he finally lets sleep take him.

#VLD #Voltron #fanfiction #Katt #keith/matt #matt/keith #post s4 #melancholy #angst #angst and feels #hurt/comfort #loneliness #aftermath #y'all know what this is about #near death experiences #theincrediblesulkmachine #tell me how you feel

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lligkv · 4 years

Text

damnation follows any attempt to recover paradise

A while ago, I read Mark O’Connell’s 2017 book To Be a Machine, in which he investigates the transhumanist project of achieving a merger of the body and technology that allows the body to live forever—and, essentially and paradoxically, to fall away, to become a nonfactor, so you can experience yourself as pure consciousness. It’s like, if the average human wavers in the Cartesian split between mind and body, uncertain, transhumanists break the impasse by betting firmly on mind.

The book is thoughtfully constructed. All the major transhumanist figures you hear about appear: Ray Kurzweil, Aubrey de Grey, Zoltan Istvan, Peter Thiel, Nick Bostrom. And O’Connell covers many facets of the transhumanist movement. He discusses life extension and cryonics; “whole brain emulation,” or the creation of a mind independent of any corporeal “substrate,” like the brain, which could feasibly be downloaded into any number of different bodies or substrates altogether; the possibility of artificial ultraintelligence, and the corresponding activism in the face of the existential risk such AI poses to humanity; the augmentation of the human body, as pursued by corporations and the state and military and as pursued by the laypeople and amateur biohackers known as “grinders”; and the idea that we could within our lifetimes reach “longevity escape velocity”—the magical point at which the science of life extension has advanced far enough that it’s easy to access and take advantage of and the relationship between how old you are and how likely you are to die becomes irrelevant.

It’s all shot through with a few major themes. One is the battle transhumanists wage versus “deathism,” their term for what they believe their critics suffer from, namely a need to protect yourself from death by trying to convince yourself it isn’t terrible. And two, transhumanism as but the latest incarnation of an age-old religious impulse: the desire for transcendence and eternal life—now, through technology, as before through religion.

I had such strong feelings of anger and contempt for the transhumanists after reading it, though. Maybe I’m guilty of being “deathist”: perhaps I mask my terror of death by pretending I’m okay with the fact that I’ll experience it. It’s certainly true I haven’t confronted death as closely as, say, Roen Horn—a young man who accompanies Zoltan Istvan in his campaign bus as his assistant during Istvan’s bid for the 2016 presidential nomination as the Transhumanist Party candidate, who came to transhumanism after a terrible childhood accident made him nearly bleed out. And it’s a clever move on O’Connell’s part to characterize Horn as he does. Initially, Horn seems a textbook incel type—being twenty-eight and so convinced a woman would cheat on him that he’s never pursued a relationship. But then O’Connell reveals the fact of the accident and the “darkness” it reveals to Horn, the “black terror beneath the thin surface of the world,” and that makes you realize why Horn is frightened by death as he is. It’s harder to dismiss him after that.

Transhumanism often seems the result of such extreme near-death experience. Tim Cannon, one of the grinders O’Connell writes about, had experiences of addiction that reduced his lived condition to its animal essence—making him beholden to his body, all urge and impulse beyond his own conscious control—in ways that left him desperate to hack it and transcend it. And Laura Deming, founder of the Longevity Fund, a VC firm focused on life extension technology—and all of twenty years old when O’Connell speaks to her—reports being rattled to her core by watching her grandmother die. The experience brought her to understand there’s a bodily decay in store for her and everyone she knows that she can do nothing to stop. And it leaves her obsessed with extending the human lifespan as the “correct” thing to do.

But it's only children who fear death in as total and paranoid a fashion as Deming or Cannon seem to. And at some point, children grow up. They become adults. They come to understand death as an inevitability, even if that’s only in the abstract. They come to realize it’s death that gives the time we are alive its meaning. They don’t need to denigrate the human body by sneering that people are mere “monkeys,” as Cannon does. They don’t live in atavistic terror of aging as do Deming or Aubrey de Grey (who leads the transhumanist group SENS, or Strategies for Engineered Negligible Senescence). And they devote their time and attention to curing the ills that plague the world now, rather than fixing their eyes on projects like defeating death. Or creating colonies in outer space—which seems driven by a similarly childish zeal on the parts of people like Peter Thiel, if one that’s less terrified—and bringing on the Singularity, the point, predicted by futurist Ray Kurzweil, at which the merger between humans and technology becomes so complete that technology’s evolution entirely supersedes human evolution.

“To the charge,” O’Connell writes, “that such a merger” between human and machine “would obliterate our humanity, Kurzweil counters that the Singularity is in fact a final achievement of the human project, an ultimate vindication of the very quality that has always defined and distinguished us as a species—our constant yearning for a transcendence of our physical and mental limitations.” When I read those lines, I wanted to yell at Kurzweil: The yearning to transcend our physical and mental imitations is not meant to be fulfilled! I remember scribbling that line in my notebook on the train home from work just as I heard a man in the seats across from mine telling his seatmate about the intense cancer treatments he was going through. And that’s bravery to me. That’s what I admire: the ability to face the fact of the body’s fragility, rather than looking to obliterate it.

Sometimes I found myself thinking that the transhumanists, driven by greed (to experience, to colonize) and fear (of death, so childish in its intensity) were deformed people. I know this isn’t a good word to use. But I wasn’t a good person I was reading this book. I could feel my heart turn in revulsion as I encountered all these people who treated being alive, finite, human as a problem to be solved. The chapter on the grinders, “Biology and Its Discontents,” was particularly trying. When O’Connell reveals that Tim Cannon, deep in his alcoholism and spiraling, had once tried to kill himself, for a vicious instant I thought, If only he had succeeded. I just couldn’t take his sneering contempt—his saying, so often, things like, “People want to stay being the monkeys they are. They don’t like to acknowledge that their brains aren’t giving them the full picture, aren’t allowing them to make rational choices. They think they’re in control, but they’re not.”

There’s this moral superiority there. This assumption that you’re better than other people; other people are idiots, and you alone are stripped of illusion. I hate that—that loathing for your fellow man’s fallibilities as though you yourself have none. I hate that more than anything.

What’s more, I hate the apparent lack of regard for consequences on the part of so many transhumanists. In her book Being Numerous, Natasha Lennard writes about Paul Virilio’s notion of the “accident”: that “which is contained within, and brought into the world by, the inventions of progress […] itself.” In other words, when you invent a plane, the possibility of a plane crash follows. Often the transhumanists seem entirely unconscious of the possibilities their tech is bringing into existence. That’s simply outside the scope of their narrow remit. When Randal Koene, who runs the whole brain emulation organization Carboncopies, is confronted with the possibility that the downloading of minds to different substrates might unlock an entirely new level of invasive advertising, he basically shrugs it off. In that, he’s like just about everyone O’Connell talks to, every tech billionaire and devotee of any renown in our horrible historical moment: in love with the possibilities, unconcerned with the consequences.

Just because the possibility of developing a certain type of technology is there doesn’t mean it needs to be done. Where is the restraint? Maybe that’s longer a virtue in a late capitalist society, after the end of history, in a time when we don’t have any overarching societal narrative that would make restraint something to want to practice or that would make some notion of the human something we want to consider before we eradicate it. In this world we live in, everyone, atomized, pursues their own ends. What you want, what’s possible, and what you have the means to make possible are the only standards by which a decision to act is made.

Most of the transhumanists are frighteningly cavalier, to the layperson of a humanist bent like me, about the stages of the revolution they foresee. Ray Kurzweil, for one, talks about the trajectory he’d like to see so casually. “What would be a nice scenario is that we first get smart drugs and wearable technologies. And then life extension technologies. And then, finally, we get uploaded, and colonize space and so on.” And so on. Again, reading that line, I wanted to yell: Nothing entitles you to space! Have we not learned not to colonize?

It all speaks to the experience of reading To Be a Machine, which is this kind of Mobius strip of revulsion (“hell no”) and relenting (“I mean, maybe” or “well I guess” or “am I the problem here?”). At one point, O’Connell drops a quote from D. H. Lawrence: “science and machinery, radio, airplanes, vast ships, zeppelins, poison gas, artificial silk: these things nourish man’s sense of the miraculous as magic did in the past.” And it’s like “miraculous” is one side of a coin whose other side is “horrifying,” and O’Connell spends the entire book flipping that coin as he talks impartially about the transhumanist movement, showing you first one face of it and then the other.

It's a credit to O'Connell that he could stay as evenhanded as he is reporting on these people. I even came to dislike his repeated tendency to express fond, largely tolerant and even feelings toward people who sounded as inhuman and afraid of life as Roen Horn did. Maybe I was disappointed I couldn't be as gracious as he was even though I like to consider myself a kind person who's inclined to empathy.

Or more likely it’s because I lack O’Connell’s proximity to religion. Ultimately, his ethos of impartiality comes from being able to so clearly see the parallels between transhumanist and religious desire. This is a parallel that I, not being a religious person at all, having no real religious instinct, would never have felt so intuitively or described so convincingly. It leads O’Connell to afford the transhumanists the same respect he would the devotees of any other religion. As he’s listening to Tim Cannon share his vision of eventually being not a body but simply a “series of nodes” peacefully exploring the universe for all time, he writes

I was going to say that all of this sounded hugely expensive; I was going to ask who was going to pay for it all. But I thought better of it, in the way that you might think better of making a joke about the central tenets of a person’s faith after they had taken the trouble to explain them to you.

And transhumanism is ultimately a faith: a contemporary reflection of the ancient desire to be delivered of the body, redeemed of its weakness and sin, no longer subject to its curse. The Singularity—however that is defined, whatever particular perfect union between human and machine a particular transhumanist aims for—is the Rapture. The world after this Singularity, affording as it does answers to all scientific questions and cures for all diseases, will be Eden.

And everyone in this book believes themselves to be among the elect.

And if, as the transhumanists believe, humans are effectively computers, in the way their minds operate—just with substrates made of meat—it’s also the destiny of obsolete technology to die. And so it is just for humans to wipe themselves out to usher in cyborgs and AI and superintelligence. It’s just technology, drawing all the way from the first spear a human being ever threw, achieving its teleological end.

But—as O’Connell also points out, the attempts religion has made to make good on its own teleological narratives tell us that damnation always follows any human attempt to recover paradise.

#books #literary #nonfiction #mark o'connell #ray kurzweil #aubrey grey #laura deming #tim cannon #zoltan istvan #peter thiel #transhumanism #the singularity #the end of history

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mdpikachu · 7 years

Text

VIRTUES AND FLAWS

Have you ever needed a list of descriptors for a character bio? I have.

Absent-minded

- Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive

- Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another. Insulting and violent, cruel. good at manipulating people

Accepting

– Tolerating. too accepting; willing to excuse extreme behavior

Adaptable

– Able to adjust easily. used to traveling from situation to situation; may not be able to fully adapt/live in a permanent situation

Addict

- One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Affable

– Easy to talk to, friendly.accidentally befriends the wrong sort of people; pushes to befriend everyone

Affectionate

–Very fond and tender. inappropriate affection

Afraid

– Fearful. knows how to create traps

Aimless

- Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alert

– Quick to notice unusual things. constantly on edge; paranoid

Altruistic

– Cares about others but not themselves. self-destructive behavior for the sake of their Cause; refuses to think of self; suicidal. Selfless.

Ambitious

– Zealous, committed. willing to do anything for their success

Anxious

- Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Apologetic

– Regretful. apologizes too much; is a doormat; guilt-ridden

Arrogant

– Egotistic, haughty. confident

Ashamed

– Sheepish, guilty. attempts to change, destroy, or get over what they are ashamed of

Aspiring

– Can direct hopes and ambitions. becomes very ambitious; ruthless in their attempts to reach goals

Assertive

– Confident, forceful. misunderstood as aggressive; actually aggressive; others react negatively when they take command all the time

Athletic

– Physically strong, fit, and active. joints weakened from exercise; performance-enhancing drug abuse; competitive

Audacious

- Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Avoidant

– … Self explanatory? an expert in indirect communication (i.e. internet); keeps secrets

Bigoted

– Biased, prejudiced. probably has a group to support their bigoted world view, is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt

– Straightforward, frank. honest, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Boastful

– A bragger, prideful. confident; high self-worth; not easily belittled

Bold

- In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Boring

– Dull, plain. blend into the background; unnoticeable

Brave

– Can face danger and pain. engages in risky behavior; exposes others to risky situations

Busy

– Occupied. overworked; no time for play

Callous

- They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Calm

– Tranquil, quiet, hiding emotions. do not want their sense of security disturbed; turn a blind eye

Carefree

– Free from anxiety. apathetic about life; naïve

Careful

– Cautious, wary. paranoid

Charismatic

– Compelling. uses their charm for evil; convinces people to do questionable things; gains an unexpected cult following

Childish

- Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Competitive

– Combative, fierce. always gives their all to win

Complex

– Complicated, intricate, hard to understand. difficult for others to understand and/or get close to

Confident

– Self-assured, positive. arrogant

Conservative

– Cautious, reasonable. plays to not to lose before playing to win

Contradictory

– Contrary, opposing. true intentions always unknown

Controlling

– Seme-ish, in-charge. excellent organizer; observant

Cooperative

– Helpful. submissive

Cowardly

– Timid, fearful. survivalist

Crafty

– Sly, tricky, cunning. intelligent; manipulative; evasive

Creative

– Imaginative. lazy; procrastinator

Critical

– Negative, disapproving. good at spotting errors; opinionated; strong-willed, judgmental

Cruel

– Savage, sadistic. everyone fears them; few enemies

Cultured

– Discriminating, enlightened. elegant; stylish

Curious

– Eager to learn. sticks their nose where it doesn’t belong

Dainty

– Small, pretty. delicate; easily broken

Decisive

– strong-willed, makes quick decisions. refuses to change their mind

Delusional

– Misunderstanding, mistaken. thinks original thoughts

Demanding

– Nagging, insistent. knows what they want

Dependent

– Reliant on someone else. protective of the thing they’re dependent on; emotionally linked to object of dependence (capable of love). Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Detached

– Aloof, uninvolved. won’t worry about empathy, sympathy; no emotional connections to slow them down. Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Determined

– Firm, resolved. refuses to recognize a no-win scenario

Diligent

– Hard-working. perfectionist; neat freak; works too hard; doesn’t get enough credit for their work; taken advantage of; forgets to take care of self

Dirty

– Vile, low, unfair. can work well in chaos

Disciplined

– Controlled. by-the-book; need standards

Dishonest

– Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded, corrupt

Disloyal

- Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable, Fickle, faithless. self-serving; always looks out for Number 1

Disrespectful

– Rude, impolite. challenges ideas that others haven’t out of fear

Disturbed

- Showing some or a few signs or symptoms of mental or emotional illness. Confused, disordered, neurotic, troubled.

Dramatic

– Intends to make an effect, theatrical. overdramatic; no one takes them seriously; see life as a game

Dreamy

– Not practical, a daydreamer. cannot focus on the present; thinks only in abstract; cannot see evil motives or fault in others; naïve

Dry

– Unemotional, dull. negative; smartass

Dubious

- Fraught with uncertainty or doubt. Undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Eager

– Enthusiastic. hyperactive; refuse to follow through; blindly rushes through actions

Eccentric

– Strange, odd. not understood by others; strange; cannot socialize; cannot read body language

Egotistical

- Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Embarrassing

– Humiliating. outspoken; rebellious

Empathetic

– Easily comprehends others. bleeding heart; try to humanize everything

Envious

- Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic

- Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behaviour. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Extravagant

– Spendthrift, wasteful. appreciates the finer things in life; probably rich

Fair

– Honorable. value justice over mercy

Fanatical

- Fanatic outlook or behaviour especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject. Extreme, eager

Fickle

– Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce

– Intensely aggressive. violent

Finicky

- Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated

– Obsessive. motivated, possess a goal they will pursue until the end. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirty

– A tease. flirts with the wrong people; make unwanted advances. Minx. Tease.

Forgiving

– Softhearted. forgives everyone, no matter how bad they are

Frightful

– Horrific, nasty, grim, dire. few enemies; not actually frightening on the inside

Funny

– Humorous, amusing. not taken seriously; sad on the inside (several famous comedians have been suicidal); eager to please

Generous

– Kind, giving. gives everything away; thinks nothing for themselves

Gentle

– Mild, considerate. patronizing; over-forgiving; naïve; cannot make hard choices; bleeding heart; unwilling to injure or hurt others, tender

Gifted

– Talented. fear others will surpass their abilities; arrogant; ambitious

Gloomy

– Downcast, dejected. can always think of (and plan for) the worst case scenario

Gluttonous

- Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Greedy

– Possessive, covetous. opportunist; great at using situations for maximum profit

Gruff

- Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly.

Gullible

- Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped.

Hedonistic

– Pleasure-seeking. likes a good time; appreciates a good party

Hoity-toity

- Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Honest

– Sincere, virtuous. blunt; tells truths that hurt others; cannot keep secrets

Honorable

– Moral, right-minded. honors all promises, even the stupid ones; by-the-book; studious

Humble

– Modest. refuses to take credit for work; dislikes attention

Hypocritical

- One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist

- One whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. One who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic

- Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant

- Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Immature

- Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Immoral

– Wrong, wicked, corrupt. nothing holds them back

Impartial

– Neutral. fair

Impatient

- Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious

- Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish

- Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent

– Inept, clumsy, unskilled. good at compensating for inadequacy; good at masking disabilities

Indecisive

– Hesitant, undecided. impossible to predict

Independent

– Individualistic, free. does not play well with others; withdrawn; dislikes authority

Indifferent

- The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamous

- Having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Insensitive

– Heartless, inconsiderate. impossible to criticize or demean

Insulting

– Disrespectful, mean. don’t care about anything

Intelligent

– Brilliant, smart. arrogant; does not listen to others’ ideas; depressed

Intolerant

- Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgmental

- Inclined to make and form judgments, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/ practices/ groups/ religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz

- Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy

– Slothful, lethargic. works in quick spurts of inspiration

Lewd

- Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar

- Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Loyal

– Devoted. overwhelmed with responsibilities they feel they need to honor; does not see faults in what or who they are loyal to; taken advantage of; dogmatic

Lucky

– Blessed. relies on their luck to get them through situations instead of working it out themselves

Lustful

- Driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Manipulative

- Calculating, devious. makes people do what they want; size up situations well; long-range planning abilities

Masochistic

- The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Mature

- Adult, responsible. arrogant; condescending; patronizing

Meddlesome

- Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering.

Meek

- Evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac

- A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Miserable

– Sad, downcast, glum. accustomed to working with mental handicaps; motivated to destroy source of misery or overcome it; perfect for hurt/comfort fics

Morbid

– Macabre, gruesome. accepts death is inevitable

Mysterious

– Puzzling, evasive. unknowable; isolated; unsociable

Naïve

- Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement.

Narcissistic

– Vain, self-obsessed, concieted. praises those who praise them; high value of self-worth

Narrow-minded

– Intolerant, bigoted. opinionated; strong-willed; righteous

Nervous

– Anxious, edgy, jumpy. plans for everything; survivalist

Nosey

– Prying, inquisitive. curious; discovers things before others

Obedient

– Compliant. obeys stupid commands

Observant

– Sharp-eyed. pick up on negative body and language cues faster than others; perceives others to have extreme emotions

Obsessive

– Neurotic, fanatical. single-minded; driven

Offensive

– Insulting, hostile. down with the establishment; rebellious; free-thinker

Opinionated

– speaks at inappropriate times; alienates others with radical views

Oppressive

– Harsh, Tyrannical. commanding

Optimistic

– Dogmatic, pompous. refuses to acknowledge defeat

Organized

–Neat. perfectionist; neat freak; cannot function amidst disorder

Overambitious

- Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident

- Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional

- Excessively or abnormally emotional. Sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective

- To protect too much; coddle.

Overzealous

- Marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifistic

- Opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes back

Paranoid

– Fearful, suspicious. prepared for anything

Patient

– Tolerant. waits too long; inactive; passive

Patronizing

– Condescending. unintentionally patronizing

Peevish

- Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist

– Purist. obsessive disorders; take a long time; never satisfied with their work

Pessimist

- A tendency to stress the negative or unfavourable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest

- One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Playful

– Fond of games, jolly. don’t take life seriously; inappropriately try to make light of a serious situation; not taken seriously

Possessive

– Overprotective, clingy. attached to something; has something they value

Powerful

– Dominant, forceful. absolute power corrupts absolutely

Practical

- Level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. No-nonsense.

Predatory

– Wolfish, exploitative. good at spotting weaknesses; opportunist; patient

Predictable

- Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Productive

– Gets work done, inventive. rushes through things; envied by coworkers; nerdy; perceived as sucking up to the boss

Protective

– Defensive, gallant. over-protective; paranoid; possessive

Proud

– Conceited. arrogant; unwilling to accept help; headstrong

Rebellious

– Defiant, disobedient. resents authority; uncooperative; temperamental; represents a defunct or incorrect ideal

Reckless

- Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Regretful

– Ashamed, remorseful. spends too much time in the past; sad; avoids situations like the one they regret

Remorseless

- Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Reserved

– Slow to show emotions, aloof. bottles up feelings; unsociable; difficult to understand; reluctant to tell secrets

Restless

– Edgy, tense, nervous. unfocused; cannot follow through; has a history of moving and/or many short relationships

Romantic

– Passionate. cheesy; enslaved to their partner

Sadistic

- The deriving of sexual gratification or the tendency to derive sexual gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochistic

- Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic

- A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Secretive

– Silent, reserved. unknowable

Seducer

- To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Self-Martyr

- One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous

– Smug, preachy. high self-confidence; unshakable belief

Selfish

– Egocentric. self-interested; survivalist

Senile

- Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Sensitive

– Responsive, touchy. over analytical; perceives things that aren’t there

Sentimental

– Emotional. saves everything; vomits emotions; tells everyone, even when in appropriate, about the object of their sentiment

Shallow

- Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Simple

– Plain, straightforward. want yes/no answers; turn away from complex problems; passive

Skeptic

- One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Smart Ass

- Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted

- Having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn

- Deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless

- Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful

- Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled

- Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish

- Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Strong

– Physically powerful. fears being seen as weak; bullying; compensates for or hides weaknesses; refuses to acknowledge weaknesses

Stubborn

- Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Suave

– Charming, sophisticated. manipulative; untrustworthy

Successful

– Rich. fears losing success; paranoid; ruthless; hates or fears competitors; arrogant; descends into self-aggrandizement; decadent

Superstitious

- An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Suspicious

– Wary, doubtful. quick to sniff out problems

Tactful

– Discreet, perceptive. tells white lies; despises revealing information; unwilling to give up secrets; waits for the appropriate moment

Tactless

- Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental

- Moody, irritable, or sensitive. Excitable, volatile, emotional.

Theatrical

- Having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Thoughtful

– Reflective, philosophical. under-appreciation can make them bitter; sensitive; over-attentive

Timid

-Tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied

- Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker

- Someone who deliberately stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unforgiving

– Harsh. just

Unlucky

- Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable

- Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy

- Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain

- Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Vengeful

– Revengeful. justified in revenge; driven; vigilante

Violent

– Threatening, wild. passionate; reactive

Weak-willed

- Lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. Easily swayed.

Wise

– Enlightened, clever. perfectionists; people expect them to be right always; fears giving the wrong advice; have doubts

Withdrawn

- Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Witty

– Comical. cannot take things seriously; offends others; thinks they are funnier than they actually are

Zealous

- A fanatic.

#references #i've had tthis in my drafts forever #im gonn post it so it helps people that arent me #i've been building this since... a year and a half ago?

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ciathyzareposts · 5 years

Text

Alone in the Dark

Most videogame stories are power fantasies. You spend your time getting ever stronger, ever tougher, ever more formidable as you accumulate experience points, gold, and equipment. Obstacles aren’t things to go around; they’re things you go through. If you can’t get past any given monster, the solution is to go kill some other monsters, then come back when you’re yet more powerful and slay the big beast at last. Life, these games tell us, is or ought to be one unadulterated ride up the escalator of success; a setback just means you haven’t yet risen high enough.

That dynamic held true in 1992 just as much as it usually does today. But during that year there came a well-nigh revolutionary game out of France that upended all of these traditional notions about what the medium of videogames can do and be. It cast you as a painfully ordinary, near-powerless individual adrift in a scary world, with no surefire panaceas in the form of experience points, gold, or portable rocket launchers to look forward to. It was just you and your wits, trapped in a haunted house full of creatures that were stronger than you and badly wanted to kill you. Despite its supernatural elements, this game’s scenario felt more disconcertingly close to real life than that of any of those other games. Here, you truly were alone in the dark. Aren’t we all from time to time?

Any story of how this shockingly innovative game came to be must begin with that of Frédérick Raynal, its mastermind. Born in the south-central French town of Brive-la-Gaillarde in 1966, Raynal was part of the first generation of European youths to have access to personal computers. In fact, right from the time his father first came home with a Sinclair ZX81, he was obsessed with them. He was also lucky: in a dream scenario for any budding hacker, his almost equally obsessed father soon added computers to the product line of the little videocassette-rental shop he owned, thus giving his son access to a wide variety of hardware. Raynal worked at the store during the day, renting out movies and watching them to kill the time — he was a particular fan of horror movies, a fact which would soon have a direct impact on his career — and helping customers with their computer problems. Then, with a nerdy young man’s total obliviousness to proportion, he hacked away most of the night on one or another of the machines he brought home with him. He programmed his very first released game, a platformer called Robix, in 1986 on an obscure home-grown French computer called the Exelvision which his father sold at the store. His father agreed to sell his son’s Exelvision game there as well, managing to shift about 80 units to customers desperate for software for the short-lived machine.

Raynal’s lifestyle was becoming so unbalanced that his family was beginning to worry about him. One day, he ran out of his room in a panic, telling them that all of the color had bled out of his vision. His mother bustled him off to an ophthalmologist, who told him he appeared to have disrupted the photoreceptors in his eyes by staring so long at a monitor screen. Thankfully, the condition persisted only a few hours. But then there came a day when he suddenly couldn’t understand anything that was said to him; he had apparently become so attuned to the language of computer code that he could no longer communicate with humans. That worrisome condition lasted several weeks.

Thus just about everyone around him took it as a good thing on the whole when he was called up for military service in 1988. Just before leaving, Raynal released his second game, this time for MS-DOS machines. Not knowing what else to do with it, he simply posted it online for free. Popcorn was a Breakout clone with many added bells and whistles, the latest entry in a sub-genre which was enjoying new popularity following the recent success of the Taito arcade game Arkanoid and its many ports to home computers and consoles. Raynal’s game could hold its head high in a crowded field, especially given its non-existent price tag. One magazine pronounced it one of the five best arcade games available for MS-DOS, whether commercial or free, and awarded it 21 points on a scale of 20.

Raynal was soon receiving letters at his military posting from all over the world. “Popcorn has made my life hell!” complained one player good-naturedly. Another wrote that “I caught acute Popcornitus. And, it being contagious, now my wife has it as well.” When Raynal completed his service in the summer of 1989, his reputation as the creator of Popcorn preceded him. Most of the companies in the French games industry were eager to offer him a job. His days working at his father’s computer store, it seemed, were behind him. The Lyon-based Infogrames, the most prominent French publisher of all, won the Raynal sweepstakes largely by virtue of its proximity to his hometown.

Yet Raynal quickly realized that the company he had elected to join was in a rather perilous state. An ambitious expansion into many European markets hadn’t paid off; in fact, it had very nearly bankrupted them. Bruno Bonnell, Infogrames’s co-founder and current chief executive, had almost sold the company to the American publisher Epyx, but that deal had fallen through as soon as the latter had gotten their first good look at the state of his books. It seemed that Infogrames would have to dig themselves out of the hole they’d made. Thus Bonnell had slashed costs and shed subsidiaries ruthlessly just to stay alive. Now, having staunched the worst of the bleeding, he knew that he needed as many talented programmers as he could get in order to rebuild his company — especially programmers like Raynal, who weren’t terribly assertive and were naive enough to work cheap. So, Raynal was hired as a programmer of ports, an unglamorous job but an absolutely essential one in a European market that had not yet consolidated around a single computer platform.

Bonnel, for his part, was the polar opposite of the shy computer obsessive he had just hired; he had a huge personality which put its stamp on every aspect of life at Infogrames. He believed his creativity to be the equal of anyone who worked for him, and wasn’t shy about tossing his staff ideas for games. He called one of them, which he first proposed when Raynal had been on the job for about a year, In the Dark. A typically high-concept French idea, its title was meant to be taken literally. The player would wander through a pitch-dark environment, striking the occasional match from her limited supply, but otherwise relying entirely on sound cues for navigation. Bonnell and Raynal were far from bosom buddies, then or ever, but this idea struck a chord with the young programmer.

As Raynal saw it, the question that would make or break the idea was that of how to represent a contiguous environment with enough verisimilitude to give the player an embodied sense of really being there in the dark. Clearly, a conventional adventure-game presentation, with its pixel graphics and static views, wouldn’t do. Only one approach could get the job done: 3D polygonal graphics. Not coincidentally, 3D was much on Raynal’s mind when he took up Bonnell’s idea; he’d been spending his days of late porting an abstract 3D puzzle game known as Continuum from the Atari ST to MS-DOS.

I’ve had occasion to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of this burgeoning new approach to game-making in previous articles, so I won’t rehash that material here. Suffice to say that the interest so many European programmers had in 3D reflected not least a disparity in the computing resources available to them in comparison to their American counterparts. American companies in this period were employing larger and larger teams, who were filling handfuls of floppy disks — and soon CD-ROMs — with beautiful hand-drawn art and even digitized snippets of real-world video. European companies had nothing like the resources to compete with the Americans on those terms. But procedurally-generated 3D graphics offered a viable alternative. At this stage in the evolution of computer technology, they couldn’t possibly be as impressively photorealistic as hand-drawn pixel art or full-motion video, but they could offer far more flexible, interactive, immersive environments, with — especially when paired with a French eye for aesthetics — a certain more abstracted allure of their own.

This, then, was the road Raynal now started down. It was a tall order for a single programmer. Not only was he trying to create a functional 3D engine from scratch, but the realities of the European market demanded that he make it run on an 80286-class machine, hardware the Americans by now saw as outdated. Even Bonnell seemed to have no confidence in Raynal’s ability to bring his brainstorm to fruition. He allowed Raynal to work on it only on nights and weekends, demanding that he spend his days porting SimCity to the Commodore CDTV.

An artist named Didier Chanfray was the closest thing to a partner and confidante which Raynal had at Infogrames during his first year of working on the engine. It was Chanfray who provided the rudimentary graphics used to test it. And it was also Chanfray who, in September of 1991, saw the full engine in action for the first time. A character roamed freely around a room under the control of Raynal, able to turn about and bend his body and limbs at least semi-realistically. The scene could be viewed from several angles, and it could be lit — or not — by whatever light sources Raynal elected to place in the room. Even shadows appeared; that of the character rippled eerily over the furniture in the room as he moved from place to place. Chanfray had never seen anything like it. He fairly danced around Raynal’s desk, pronouncing it a miracle, magic, alchemy.

In the meantime, Bruno Bonnell had negotiated and signed a new licensing deal — not exactly a blockbuster, but something commiserate with a rebuilding Infogrames’s circumstances.

Something tentacled and other-worldly, it seems, got into the water at Infogrames from the start: Didier Chanfray provided this very Lovecraftian concept drawing for Raynal’s game long before the conscious decision was made to turn it a Lovecraft pastiche. Raynal kept the sketch tacked on the wall beside his desk throughout the project as a reminder of the atmosphere he was going for.

The American horror writer H.P. Lovecraft, who died well before the advent of the computer age in 1937, was nowhere near as well-known in 1991 as he is today, but his so-called “Cthulhu Mythos” of extra-dimensional alien beings, terrifying by virtue of their sheer indifference to humanity and its petty morality, had already made appearances in games. The very first work of ludic Lovecraftia would appear to be the 1979 computer game Kadath, an odd sort of parser-less text adventure. Two years later, at the height of the American tabletop-RPG craze, a small company called Chaosium published Call of Cthulhu, a game which subverted the power fantasy of tabletop Dungeons & Dragons in much the same way that Raynal’s project would soon be subverting that of so many computer games. Still, although Call of Cthulhu was well-supported by Chaosium and remained reasonably popular by the standards of its niche industry throughout the 1980s and beyond, its success didn’t lead to any Lovecraftian onslaught in the realm of digital games. The most notable early example of the breed is Infocom’s very effective 1987 interactive fiction The Lurking Horror. But, being all text at a time when text adventures were becoming hard sells, it didn’t make much commercial impact.

Now, though, Bonnell believed the time had come for a more up-to-date Lovecraftian computer game; he believed such a thing could do well, both in France and elsewhere.

Lovecraft had long had a strong following in France. From the moment his books were first translated into the language in 1954, they had sold in considerable numbers. Indeed, in 1991 H.P. Lovecraft was about as popular in France as he was anywhere — arguably more popular on a per-capita basis than in his native land. The game of Call of Cthulhu too had long since been translated into French, giving a potential digital implementation of it as much natural appeal there as in its homeland. So, Bonnell approached Chaosium about licensing their Call of Cthulhu rules for computers, and the American company agreed.

When viewed retrospectively, it seems a confusing deal to have made, one that really wasn’t necessary for what Infogrames would ultimately choose to do with Lovecraft. When Lovecraft died in obscurity and poverty, he left his literary estate in such a shambles that no one has ever definitively sorted out its confusing tangle of copyright claimants; his writing has been for all intents and purposes in the public domain ever since his death, despite numerous parties making claims to the contrary. Prior to publishing their Lovecraft tabletop RPG, Chaosium had nevertheless negotiated a deal with Arkham House, the publisher that has long been the most strident of Lovecraft’s copyright claimants. With that deal secured, Chaosium had promptly trademarked certain catchphrases, including “Call of Cthulhu” itself, in the context of games. Yet as it turned out Infogrames would use none of them; nor would they draw any plots directly from any of Lovecraft’s published stories. Like the countless makers of Lovecraftian games and stories that would follow them, they would instead draw from the author’s spirit and style of horror, whilst including just a few of his more indelible props, such as the forbidden book of occult lore known as the Necronomicon.

The first Lovecraftian game Infogrames would make would, of course, be the very game that Frédérick Raynal had now spent the last year or so prototyping during his free time. By the time news of his work reached Bonnell, most of Infogrames’s staff were already talking about it like the second coming. While the idea that had inspired it had been wonderfully innovative, it seemed absurd even to the original source of said idea to devote the best 3D engine anyone had ever seen to a game that literally wouldn’t let you see what it could do most of the time. It made perfect sense, on the other hand, to apply its creepy visual aesthetic to the Lovecraft license. The sense of dread and near-powerlessness that was so consciously designed into the tabletop RPG seemed a natural space for the computer game as well to occupy. It was true that it would have to be Call of Cthulhu in concept only: the kinetic, embodied, real-time engine Raynal had created wasn’t suitable for the turn-based rules of the tabletop RPG. For that matter, Raynal didn’t even like the Chaosium game all that much; he considered it too complicated to be fun.

Still, Bonnell, who couldn’t fail to recognize the potential of Raynal’s project, put whatever resources he could spare from his still-rebuilding company at the mild-mannered programmer’s disposal: four more artists to join Chanfray, a sound designer, a second programmer and project manager. When the team’s first attempts at writing an authentic-feeling Lovecraftian scenario proved hopelessly inadequate, Bonnell hired for the task Hubert Chardot, a screenwriter from 20th Century Fox’s French division, a fellow who loved Lovecraft so much that he had turned his first trip to the United States into a tour of his dead hero’s New England haunts. One of Chardot’s first suggestions was to add the word “alone” to the title of the game. He pointed out, correctly, that it would convey the sense of existential loneliness that was such an integral part of Lovecraftian horror — even, one might say, the very thing that sets it apart from more conventional takes on horror.

You can choose to enter the mansion as either of two characters.

The game takes place in the 1920s, the era of Lovecraft himself and of most of his stories (and thus the default era as well for Chaosium’s Call of Cthulhu game). It begins as you arrive in the deserted Louisiana mansion known as Derceto, whose owner Jeremy Hartwood has recently hanged himself. You play either as Edward Carnby, a relic hunter on the trail of a valuable piano owned by the deceased, or as Emily Hartwood, the deceased’s niece, eager to clear up the strange rumors that have dogged her uncle’s reputation and to figure out what really went down on his final night of life. The direction in which the investigation leads you will surprise no one familiar with Lovecraft’s oeuvre or Chaosium’s RPG: occult practices, forbidden books, “things man was never meant to know,” etc. But, even as Chardot’s script treads over this ground that was well-worn already in the early 1990s, it does so with considerable flair, slowly revealing its horrifying backstory via the books and journals you find hidden about the mansion as you explore. (There is no in-game dialog and no real foreground story whatsoever, only monsters and traps to defeat or avoid.) Like most ludic adaptations of Lovecraft, the game differs markedly from its source material only in that there is a victory state; the protagonist isn’t absolutely guaranteed to die or become a gibbering lunatic at the end.

One of the in-game journals, which nails the spirit and style of Lovecraft perfectly. As I noted in an earlier article about the writer, the emotion he does better than any other is disgust.

Yet Chaosium wasn’t at all pleased when Infogrames sent them an early build of the game for their stamp of approval. It seems that the American company had believed they were licensing not just their trademarks to their French colleagues, nor even the idea of a Lovecraft game in the abstract, but rather the actual Call of Cthulhu rules, which they had expected to see faithfully implemented. And, indeed, this may have been Bonnell’s intention when he was making the deal — until Raynal’s 3D engine had changed everything. Chaosium, who had evidently been looking forward to an equivalent of sorts to the Gold Box line of licensed Dungeons & Dragons CRPGs, felt betrayed. After some tense negotiation, they agreed to let Alone in the Dark continue without the Call of Cthulhu name on the box; some editions would include a note saying the game had been “inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft,” while others wouldn’t even go that far. In return for Chaosium’s largess on this front, Infogrames agreed to make a more conventional adventure game that would make explicit use of the Call of Cthulhu trademarks.

Call of Cthulhu: Shadow of the Comet, the fruit of that negotiation, would prove a serviceable game, albeit one that still didn’t make much direct use of the tabletop rules. But, whatever its merits, it would come and go without leaving much of a mark on an industry filled to bursting with graphical adventures much like it in terms of implementation. Alone in the Dark, on the other hand, would soon be taking the world by storm — and Chaosium could have had their name on it, a form of advertisement which could hardly have failed to increase their commercial profile dramatically. Chalk it up as just one more poor decision in the life of a company that had a strange talent for surviving — Chaosium is still around to this day — without ever quite managing to become really successful.

Infogrames got their first preview of just what an impact Alone in the Dark was poised to make in the spring of 1992, when Dany Boolauk, a journalist from the French videogame magazine Tilt, arrived to write a rather typical industry puff piece, a set of capsule previews of some of the company’s current works-in-progress. He never got any further than Alone in the Dark. After just a few minutes with it, he declared it “the best game of the last five years!” and asked for permission to turn the capsule blurb about it into a feature-length article, complete with a fawning interview with Raynal. (He described him in thoroughly overwrought terms: as a reincarnation of The Little Prince from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s beloved novella of the same name.) In a “review” published in the summer of 1992, still a couple of months before Infogrames anticipated releasing the game, he gave it 19 of 20 stars, gushing over its “exceptional staging” and “almost perfect character movement,” calling it “a revolution in the field of play” that “people must buy!”

Bruno Bonnell was pleased with the positive press coverage, but less thrilled by Boolauk’s portrayal of Raynal as the game’s genius auteur. He called in his introverted young programmer, who seemed a bit befuddled by all the attention, and told him to scrub the words “a Frédérick Raynal creation” from the end credits. Alone in the Dark, he said, was an Infogrames creation, full stop. Raynal agreed, but a grievance began to fester in his heart.

Thanks to Bonnell’s policy of not advertising the individuals behind Infogrames’s games, Raynal’s name didn’t spread quite so far and wide as that of such other celebrated gaming auteurs as Éric Chahi, the mastermind of Another World, France’s standout game from the previous year. Nevertheless, upon its European release in September of 1992, Raynal’s game stood out on its own terms as something special — as an artistic creation that was not just fun or scary but important to its medium. As one would expect, the buzz started in France. “We review many games,” wrote one magazine there. “Some are terrible, some mediocre, some excellent. And occasionally there comes along the game that will revolutionize the world of microcomputers, one that causes sleepless nights, one that you cannot tear yourself away from, can only marvel at. We bid welcome now to the latest member of this exclusive club: Alone in the Dark.” By the end of 1992, the game was a hit not only in France but across most of Europe. Now for America.

Bonnell closed a deal with the American publisher Interplay for distribution of the game there. Interplay had also published Another World, which had turned into a big success Stadeside, and the company’s head Brian Fargo was sure he saw similar potential in Alone in the Dark. He thus put the game through his company’s internal testing wringer, just as he had Another World; the French studios had their strengths, but such detail work didn’t tend to be among them. Raynal’s game became a much cleaner, much more polished experience thanks to Interplay’s QA team. Yet Bonnell still had big international ambitions for Infogrames, and he wasn’t willing to let such a remarkable game as this one share with Another World the fate of becoming known to American players simply as an Interplay title. Instead he convinced Fargo to accept a unique arrangement. Interplay and Infogrames each took a stake in a new shared American subsidiary known as I-Magic, under which imprint they published Alone in the Dark.

The game took North America by storm in early 1993, just as it had Europe a few months earlier. It was that rarest of things in games, a genuine paradigm shift; no one had ever seen one that played quite like this. Worldwide, it sold at least 400,000 copies, putting Infogrames on the map in the United States and other non-European countries in the process. Indeed, amidst the international avalanche of praise and punditry, perhaps the most gratifying press notice of all reached Frédérick Raynal’s ears from all the way off in Japan. Shigeru Miyamoto, the designer of Super Mario Bros. and many other iconic Nintendo classics, proclaimed Alone in the Dark to be, more so than any other game, the one he wished he could have come up with.

Arguably the creepiest visual in the game is the weird mannequin’s head of your own character. Its crudely painted expression rather smacks of Chucky the doll from the Child’s Play horror films.

Seen from the perspective of a modern player, however, the verdict on Alone in the Dark must be more mixed. Some historically important games transcend that status to remain vital experiences even today, still every bit as fun and playable as the day they were made. But others — and please forgive me the hoary old reviewer’s cliché! — haven’t aged as well. This game, alas, belongs to the latter category.

Today, in an era when 3D graphics have long since ceased to impress us simply for existing at all, those of Alone in the Dark are pretty painful to look at, all jagged pixels sticking out everywhere from grotesquely octagonal creatures. Textures simply don’t exist, leaving everything to be rendered out of broad swatches of single colors. And the engine isn’t even holistically 3D: the 3D characters move across pasted-on pre-rendered backgrounds, which looks decidedly awkward in many situations. (On the other hand, it could have been worse: Raynal first tried to build the backgrounds out of digitized photographs of a real spooky mansion, a truly unholy union that he finally had to give up on.) Needless to say, a comparison with the lovingly hand-drawn pixel art in the adventure games being put out by companies like LucasArts and Sierra during this period does the crude graphics found here no favors whatsoever. Some of the visuals verge on the unintentionally comical; one of the first monsters you meet was evidently meant to be a fierce dragon-like creature, but actually looks more like a sort of carnivorous chicken. (Shades of the dragon ducks from the original Atari Adventure…)

Dead again! Killed by… Prince during his Purple Rain period?

Then, too, the keyboard-only controls are clunky and unintuitive, and they aren’t made any less awkward by a fixed camera that’s constantly shifting about to new arbitrary locations as you move through the environment; some individual rooms have as many as nine separate camera angles. This is confusing as all get-out when you’re just trying to get a sense of the space, and quickly becomes infuriating when you’re being chased by a monster and really, really don’t have time to stop and adjust your thinking to a new perspective.

The more abstract design choices also leave something to be desired. Sudden deaths abound. The very first room of the game kills you when you step on a certain floorboard, and every book is either a source of backstory and clues or an instant game-ender; the only way to know which it is is to save your game and open it. Some of the puzzles are clever, some less so, but even those that are otherwise worthy too often depend on you standing in just the right position; if you aren’t, you get no feedback whatsoever on what you’re doing wrong, and are thus likely to go off on some other track entirely, never realizing how close you were to the solution. This fiddliness and lack of attention to the else in the “if, then, else” dynamic of puzzle design is a clear sign of a game that never got sufficiently tested for playability and solubility. At times, the game’s uncommunicativeness verges on the passive-aggressive. You’ll quickly grow to loathe the weirdly stilted message, “There is a mechanism which can be triggered here,” which the game is constantly spitting out at you as you gaze upon the latest pixelated whatsit. Is it a button? A knob? A keyhole? Who knows… in the end, the only viable course of action is to try every object in your inventory on it, then go back and start trying all the other objects you had to leave lying around the house thanks to your character’s rather brutal inventory limit.

Fighting is a strange, bloodless pantomime.

Yes, one might be able to write some of the game’s issues off as an aesthetic choice — as merely more ways to make the environment feel unsettling. Franck de Girolami, the second programmer on the development team as well as its project leader, has acknowledged using the disorienting camera consciously for just that purpose: “We realized that the camera angles in which the player was the most helpless were the best to bring in a monster. Players would instantly run for a view in which they felt comfortable.” While one does have to admire the team’s absolute commitment to the core concept of the game, the line between aesthetic choice and poor implementation is, at best, blurred in cases like this one.

And yet the fact remains that it was almost entirely thanks to that same commitment to its core concept that Alone in the Dark became one of the most important games of its era. Not a patch on a contemporary like Ultima Underworld as a demonstration of the full power and flexibility of 3D graphics — to be fair, it ran on an 80286 processor with just 640 K of memory while its texture-mapped, fully 3D rival demanded at least an 80386 with 2 MB — it remained conceptually unlike anything that had come before in daring to cast you as an ordinary mortal, weak and scared and alone, for whom any aspirations toward glory quickly turn into nothing more than a desperate desire to just escape the mansion. For all that it threw the Call of Cthulhu rules completely overboard, it retained this most fundamental aspect of its inspiration, bringing Chaosium’s greatest innovation to a digital medium for the first time. It’s not always impossible to kill the monsters in Alone in the Dark — often it’s even necessary to do so — but, with weapons and ammunition scarce and your health bar all too short, doing so never fails to feel like the literal death struggle it ought to. When you do win a fight, you feel more relieved than triumphant. And you’re always left with that nagging doubt in the back of the mind as you count your depleted ammo and drag your battered self toward the next room: was it worth it?

The legacy of this brave and important game is as rich as that of any that was released in its year, running along at least three separate tracks. We’ll begin with the subsequent career of Frédérick Raynal, its original mastermind.

The seeds of that career were actually planted a couple of weeks before the release of Alone in the Dark, when Raynal and others from Infogrames brought a late build of it to the European Computer Trade Show in London. There he met the journalist Dany Boolauk once again, learning in the process that Boolauk had switched gigs: he had left his magazine and now worked for Delphine Software, one of Infogrames’s French competitors. Delphine had recently lost the services of their biggest star: Éric Chahi, the auteur behind the international hit Another World. As his first assignment in his own new job, Boolauk had been given the task of replacing Chahi with a similarly towering talent. Raynal struck him as the perfect choice; he rather resembled Chahi in many respects, what with his very French aesthetic sensibility, his undeniable technical gifts, and his obsessive commitment to his work. Boolauk called in Paul de Senneville, the well-known composer who had launched Delphine Software as a spinoff from his record label of the same name, to add his dulcet voice to the mix. “We wish to place you in a setting where you will be able to create, where you will not be bullied, where we can make you a star,” said the distinguished older gentleman. “We want to give free rein to the fabulous talent you showed in Alone in the Dark.” When Raynal returned to Lyon to a reprimand from Bruno Bonnell for letting his game’s planned release date slip by a week, the contrast between his old boss and the possible new one who was courting him was painted all too clearly.

Much to Raynal’s dismay, Bonnell was already pushing him and the rest of the team that had made the first Alone in the Dark to make a sequel as quickly as possible using the exact same engine. One Friday just before the new year, Bonnell threw his charges a party to celebrate what he now believed would go down in history as the year when his struggling company turned the corner, thanks not least to Raynal’s game. On the following Monday morning, Raynal knocked on Bonnell’s office door along with three other members of the newly christened Alone in the Dark 2 team, including his most longstanding partner Didier Chanfray. They were all quitting, going to work for Delphine, Raynal said quietly. Much to their surprise, Bonnell offered to match Delphine’s offer, the first overt sign he’d ever given that he understood how talented and valuable they really were. But his counteroffer only prompted Delphine to raise the stakes again. Just after New Years Day, Bonnell bowed out of the bidding in a huff: “You want to leave? Goodbye!”

A couple of weeks later, the videogame magazine Génération 4 held an awards ceremony for the previous year’s top titles at Disneyland Paris. Everyone who had been involved with Alone in the Dark, both those who still worked at Infogrames and those who didn’t, was invited. When, as expected, it took the prize for top adventure game, Bruno Bonnell walked onto the stage to accept the award on behalf of his company. The departure of Raynal and crew being the talk of the industry, the room held its collective breath to see what would happen next. “My name is Bruno Bonnell,” he said from behind the rostrum. “I’d like to thank God, my dog, my grandmother, and of course the whole team at Infogrames for a beautiful project.” And with that he stumped offstage again.

It hadn’t been a particularly gracious acceptance speech, but Raynal and his colleagues nonetheless had much to feel good about. Dany Boolauk and Paul de Senneville were true to their word: they set Raynal up with a little auteur’s studio all his own, known as Adeline Software. They even allowed him to run it from Lyon rather than joining the rest of Delphine in Paris.

Naturally, all of the Alone in the Dark technology, along with the name itself and the Chaosium license (whatever that was worth), stayed with Infogrames. Raynal and his colleagues were thus forced to develop a new engine in the style of the old and to devise a fresh game idea for it to execute. Instead of going dark again, they went light. Released in 1994, Little Big Adventure (known as Relentless: Twinsen’s Adventure in North America) was a poetic action-adventure set in a world of cartoon Impressionism, consciously conceived by Raynal as an antidote to the ultra-violent Doom mania that was sweeping the culture of gaming at the time. He followed it up in 1997 with Little Big Adventure 2 (known as Twinsen’s Odyssey in North America). Although both games were and remain lovely to look at, Raynal still struggled to find the right balance between the art and the science of game design; both games are as absurdly punishing to play as they are charming to watch, with a paucity of save points between the countless places where they demand pin-point maneuvering and split-second timing. This sort of thing was, alas, something of a theme with the French games industry for far too many years.

This, then, is one legacy of Alone in the Dark. Another followed on even more directly, taking the form of the two sequels which Infogrames published in 1993 and 1994. Both used the same engine, as Bruno Bonnell had demanded in the name of efficiency, and both continued the story of the first game, with Edward Carnby still in the role of protagonist. (Poor Emily Hartwood got tossed by the wayside.) But, although Hubert Chardot once again provided their scripts, much of the spirit of the first game got lost, as the development team began letting the player get away with much more head-to-head combat. Neither sequel garnered as many positive reviews or sales as the original game, and Infogrames left the property alone for quite some time thereafter. A few post-millennial attempts to revive the old magic, still without the involvement of Raynal, have likewise yielded mixed results at best.

But it’s with Alone in the Dark‘s third legacy, its most important by far, that we should close. For several years, few games — not even its own sequels — did much to build upon the nerve-wracking style of play it had pioneered. But then, in 1996, the Japanese company Capcom published a zombie nightmare known as Resident Evil for the Sony Playstation console. “When I first played Resident Evil,” remembers Infogrames programmer Franck de Girolami, “I honestly thought it was plagiarism. I could recognize entire rooms from Alone in the Dark.” Nevertheless, Resident Evil sold in huge numbers on the consoles, reaching a mass market the likes of which the computer-only Alone in the Dark could never have dreamed. In doing so, it well and truly cemented the new genre that became known as survival-horror, which had gradually filtered its way up from the obscure works of a poverty-stricken writer to a niche tabletop RPG to a very successful computer game to a mainstream ludic blockbuster. Culture does move in mysterious ways sometimes, doesn’t it?

(Sources: the books La Saga des Jeux Vidéo by Daniel Ichbiah, Designers & Dragons: A History of the Roleplaying Game Industry, Volume 1 by Shannon Appelcline, and Alone in the Dark: The Official Strategy Guide by Johan Robson; Todd David Spaulding’s PhD thesis “H.P. Lovecraft & The French Connection: Translations, Pulps, and Literary History”; Computer Gaming World of February 1993; Amiga Format of June 1991; Edge of November 1994; Retro Gamer 98. Online sources include Adventure Europe‘s interview with Frédérick Raynal, Just Adventure‘s interview with Hubert Chardot, and the video of Frédérick Raynal’s Alone in the Dark postmortem at the 2012 Game Developers Conference.

The original Alone in the Dark trilogy is available as a package download at GOG.com.)

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