#but these three absolute nightmares are calling my name and I will heed the call. I can ALSO make them worse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thebibliomancer · 3 years

Text

Tides of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 20

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because dang the All-Maudra died. Gotta see what happens next.

Last times on book: Amri and co are on a quest to unite all the Gelfling clans against the Skeksis. They’ve managed with the Sifa by convincing Maudra Ethri to look at some cool flames. They’ve managed with the Dousan by restoring a cool, giant tree. But now they’ve received word that that the All-Maudra has died.

Chapter 20

Team Naia travels to Ha’rar... no, that can’t be right.

Amri felt like he must have misheard. Erimon passed the parchment to Kylan, who read it again. Amri didn’t need to read it. He didn’t want to. It wouldn’t explain how or why or who had done it. Just that it had happened. He reached up to see if Tavra was still on his shoulder. She was where she’d been since they’d leaped into the lake, but she said nothing.

Oof. I hadn’t thought of that but poor Tavra.

Her mom died and she never got a chance to go ‘yo i’m alive but a spider but and also you can’t stop me from dating Onica now because we can’t have lesbian babies like this.’

Amri wonders if the All-Maudra was killed by the Skeksis because she vowed to resist the Skeksis but that sets Kylan off. Also, Kylan shows he’s upset by crossing his arms and twisting his ears back. Like a cat?

But Kylan points out that All-Maudra Mayrin said she was lighting the fire of resistance but nothing happened like what happened with the Sifa and the Dousan where actual rainbow flames burned the story of uniting the Gelfling into something nearby.

“You think she didn’t light the fire after all?” Naia asked.

“Maybe she thought she had,” Onica said solemnly. “Maybe she died trying.”

They had no proof except the feeling in their hearts. Amri didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t deny it either: The Vapra fire had never been lit.

But if the fires HADN’T been lit for the Vapra and the All-Maudra was no longer leading them with some lip service about resisting. Then it means there was only one path for Team Naia to take in the seven chapters still left in this book.

They were going to Ha’rar after all.

MY GOD.

I never thought this day would come.

I mean, something is going to sidetrack them, right??

Because the side characters are making sure that nothing gets in their way.

Erimon lends them his Crystal Skimmer Tappa because she’s the fastest in his xeric and even asks Periss to drive it.

Ha, I knew Periss was joining the party.

Erimon has to stay and help organize the resistance with the other sandmasters once they arrive since Maudra Seethi is on her way to Ha’rar.

WHERE I CAN’T BELIEVE THE TEAM IS ACTUALLY GOING. Its been nearly three books of not going to Ha’rar! J.M. Lee, you’re blowing my mind!

“Now that the storm has broken, the xerics will continue to arrive. I will tell them the song of what has happened here. And when the time comes, we will heed the signal of the flames. We will join the fight against the Skeksis.”

“We still don’t know what that signal will be,” Naia said.

Erimon bowed. “We can never fully predict what form a sign will take. We only know it when we see it, or hear it, or sense it some other way. But I have faith in Thra, and in you. I will se to it the Dousan do not forsake the gifts we have been given. Not as we have in the past, nor ever again.”

You’ve really learned a thing, Erimon.

Erimon says that he thinks Periss can get them to Ha’rar in a day and so and apparently without a storm and without all the supplies, Tappa nyooms.

On the Skimmer trip, the team continues to discuss the All-Maudra’s death. Tavra finally pipes up to suggest that Mayrin failed to light the fires of resistance because the Skeksis found her out. But that there’s no point in speculating.

Because she’s finally getting what she’s wanted all along, to go to Ha’rar but in the way she’d least want it.

Be careful what you wish for?

“We must go to Ha’rar and reach someone who can tell us what happened. No more Far-Dreams or riddles from Thra. I want answers.”

“How are you taking this?” Amri asked. Tried to keep it soft, to let her know he was asking her feelings and not her political opinion. She was hesitant in answering.

“I am worried for my sisters. I am worried for my people.”

Amri tells her that Seladon will take care of Brea to reassure her and if Seladon’s arc is similar to the show then, -laughs in irony-.

Tavra was quiet a long time, unmoving. She curled one leg in.

“I don’t know that she will,” she said. “that is my greatest fear. My mother put her duties first and her daughters second. It was difficult to find ways to earn her love. Because of our station. But we tried. For me, that meant becoming a soldier. For Brea, becoming a scholar. For Seladon, it meant becoming All-Maudra one day... but the pressure was often too much. She is not ready, and I fear the Skeksis know that.”

“You should be All-Maudra,” Naia said suddenly.

Hah. Naia doesn’t even know Seladon and she’s like ‘wow she probably sucks and you’d be better.’ Poor Seladon.

The idea brought a strange fantasy to life. Tavra, in her Gelfing body. Sword in hand, drapedi n the silver cloaks with the living crown on her brow. She had traveled farther than any of them, knew more of the state of the world. Knew the Skeksis all by name, knew how the All-Maudra was expected to behave. Had the respect of her clan as a Vapra princess, but knew firsthand the hardships that had befallen the Gelfling who were so unlucky to find themselves in the Skeksis’ crushing grasp.

If there was ever a leader the Gelfling could look to, Amri realized, it was Tavra. Tavra, who was locked in the body of a spider, whose voice could barely be heard even by those who knew enough to listen.

“That is impossible,” Tavra said. She slipped below the rail and disappeared into Kylan’s traveling pack.

Relatable.

As evening falls they get closer to the snowlands and Periss tells them he’ll have to leave them at the frost line because Tappa is a DESERT CREATURE.

Nooooo Periss, you’re supposed to be the sixth ranger! You can’t leave your new best pals!

He also calls Naia Amri’s girlfriend and he does do the “she’s not my girlfriend” thing but less vehement and more embarrassed.

“Have you dreamfasted together?”

Amri’s ears went flat at the forward question. Of course he’d dreamfasted with Naia, but only to share memories that they’d needed to share, so the truth of the Skeksis and the message they carried would not be forgotten. But there were other memories, ones more secret and intimate. Private hopes and fears. Memories he had all to himself, beautiful things he’d seen when he’d been alone. Dreams he’d had, and nightmares.

Amri had always hoped one day to find someone to share those memories with. Someone he trusted enough and who trusted him to truly dreamfast. To share everything. It had never occurred to him that someone might be Naia. Until now, and only thanks to a wily Dousan thief. Periss grinned ear to ear, as if making Amri blush from embarrassment was his new favorite game.

“No. Not that way,” he mumbled.

“Do you want to?” Periss asked.

“I want to change the subject.”

Oh my god.

Excuse me I need to take a moment.

a moment

You’re adorable, Amri.

Also, based on this, Jen and Kira basically got engaged the first time they met. Just went full info dump on each other. ‘HEY I GUESS THATS ME AS A BABY’ because they never learned to not overshare in dreamfasting and because nobody ever taught Jen about sex.

Also also, this fits well with what we learn in the first book about how its a sign of maturity for Gelfchildren to learn how to not broadcast their entire lifestory the instant someone touches them.

I continue to love the nuances we get about dreamfasting.

After sleeping and starting another day of travel, Amri spends some time practicing sword because he’s changed his tune on that.

Amri practiced his sword stances, parries and thrusts. Imagined striking down Skeksis after Skeksis as he charged into a citadel swarming with darkened beasts. It felt heroic in his mind, that part -- the charge, the thought that he could single-handedly defeat the monsters that might have taken the shining city -- but in the end, even in his fantasies, when they finally reached the throne, the All-Maudra was already dead.

Aw.

Although the first part of this wild fantasy sounds like Amri should have been scenario writing for the Age of Resistance trpg.

But its more about his understanding that even if he becomes a cool, heroic swashbuckling figure with like two whole days of sword practice under his belt and even if they win, that victory will always carry with it the tragedies the Skeksis inflicted on the way. Mira, Mayrin, other Gelfing whose names don’t start with M’s.

They reach the frost line and dangit Periss actually leaves! Just because you’re the sixth ranger you think you can come and go to save the budget??

Although, in a nice bit of growth, he gives the team all the jewelry he stole from the Sifa. Nice, they can give Tae her stuff back if they see her.

Going the rest of the way on foot, Team Naia actually reaches Ha’rar. I’m frankly shocked.

Like the crystals in a broken geode, the city of Ha’rar glittered in the protective shell of the mountains, covered in snow and glowing with moon- and starlight. At the far edge of the city, a majestic building stood with its back to the wide Silver Sea. It looked like an icicle, or one of the many crystal stalagmites in Domrak and the Caves of Grot. Every elaborately sculpted feature refracted the light of the moons and the Waystar, sending night rainbows across the city.

It was beautiful, but eerily silent and ominously dark.

Hmmmm.

None of the lanterns are lit and none of the people are out and about on the streets. Spooky.

Tavra tells them that they absolutely must not be caught by the Skeksis. And then with her hometown knowledge guides them along back paths and side roads.

They have to duck out of view at one point when two Skeksis come down the street.

Skeksis. Two of them, passing by on the street just in front of them. One wore broad-shouldered, black-scaled armor, covering his spiny back like the carapace of an armalig. Gray hair -- or was it fur? grew across his blunt forehead and cheeks, casting a hazy shadow upon his scowling lips and piercing yellow eyes. The other stood straighter in his crimson and black robes, armored and adorned in shining gold chains. He seemed taller yet, thanks to the fleshy spike that protruded from the top of his head like a horn.

“skekUng and skekZok,” Tavra whispered. “The General and the Ritual Master.”

I wonder if skekVar exists in this continuity.

skekUng is the General so Var doesn’t have a lot to be doing.

Also, FLESHY SPIKE? ZOK ARE YOU OKAY?

-google image-

He does have a gold hat thing but in one of the comics he just has a tall head spike so I DUNNO. I’m a little alarmed of him now.

Anyway, skekUng being here is bad because they all remember skekLi gloating that skekUng was making something bad.

Being possessed of ‘only the most relevant conversational snippets’ senses, skekUng complains “This is a waste of time. I say we kill the princess as we killed her mother and let the Vapra bow directly to us. As they should.”

Which confirms that the Skeksis killed the All-Maudra.

AND THEN before they can process that, Amri is grabbed by a hooded Gelfling.

“He’s possessed by a spider,” hissed a female voice, familiar in Amri’s ear. “On his shoulder -- quick, grab it and crush it!”

Onica stops the hooded Gelfling, who turns out to be Tae. Hi Tae!

Tae isn’t convinced because apparently the body-jacking spiders are a known and concerning concern at this point.

Amri tells Tavra that its time to reveal herself to Tae.

Tavra let out a tired sigh.

“Tae, it’s me. Katavra.”

Love that tired sigh. Spiders can’t even sigh. That’s just how tired Tavra is.

Tae wants to know HOW and possibly several repeated incredulous WHATs but Amri points out that its not a great idea to get into that in the middle of a sneaking mission. So Tae leads them off somewhere they can talk.

Geez only six chapters left. And we’ve got Ha’rar, a dead All-Maudra, Tae’s back. Periss took off... dangit did Periss take off because of a party limit? Tae is now the sixth party member?

#dark crystal #the dark crystal #Tides of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Amri #Naia #Kylan #Tavra #Onica #Periss #Sandmaster Erimon #Tae #Ha'rar??

2 notes · View notes

yastaghr · 4 years

Text

Nightmare’s Gang of Wranglers 3

Summary: The first ride and the first camp are achieved. The fire brings out something new in everyone.

Link: The first ride and the first camp are achieved. The fire brings out something new in everyone.

The first ride of the trip was always the most problematic. This trip was no exception. Nightmare had sighed when Ink had lost his stirrups the first time. The next three times had been annoying. After that it had ceased to be annoying and started to become funny. Rustle wasn’t going to let him fall, and it wasn’t like Nightmare himself hadn’t ridden without stirrups before. Just so long as he kept his heels down Nightmare would be happy.

But that was just the start of the problems. Dream was turning out to be just as annoying as he knew he’d be, but for an entirely different problem. That problem had a name. His name was Cross. Cross, apparently, hadn’t taken enough heed of all the stories Nightmare had shared with his gang about Dream. Cross was too thirsty for that. He was taking full advantage of his position behind Dream to watch his ass. Yes, he said it was because he wanted to be sure of the other’s seat, but Nightmare knew better. One, he knew that Dream’s seat was impeccable, and two, he could see the purple blush on Cross’ cheeks. He was just lucky that Dream didn’t notice. He would only pay for ogling a client, not for trying to go behind Killer’s and Nightmare’s backs.

The next problem was Dust. It was always like this; as soon as he thought Nightmare had gone out of his hearing range he started talking to his brother. Nightmare sighed. Blue didn’t seem too disturbed, but that couldn’t be said of his pony. Berry hadn’t ridden near Dust recently, so the gelding must have forgotten about his chattering. His ears were constantly swiveled back, but Blue seemed to be handling him well. His seat was good and his hands were soft even as he maintained control over the horse. That made Nightmare feel better about letting him stay there.

The last problem, and one that Nightmare had been predicting, was Ink’s paints. Their sloshing around was scaring the pack train. Blood and Sugar eventually had the whole line stop so they could redistribute the load. That seemed to calm down the mules, but Cherry was being his usual spooky self. That was okay. They were used to Cherry’s spookiness.

Nightmare was impressed when they made the first stopping place in reasonable time. He had allowed for much more malarky than actually occurred. Unfortunately it looked like they needed that time. The camp was in shambles. If Nightmare had to guess he would have said that a herd of elk had bedded down there recently. The trees were still leaking sap, the grass was laid flat by the weight of those sleeping bodies, and the tents that were the sleeping areas were torn to the ground. Nightmare sighed. It would take at least an hour to fix everything.

His crew immediately ground tied their horses and got to work. Dust and Blood saw to the grass, fluffing it up so that the horses could actually eat. Cross set to gathering firewood and wiping down the trees. Sugar looked after the pack train. Error used his strings to fix the tents, and Killer helped Ink to dismount. Dream and Blue had gotten down and were looking around.

“How can we help, brother?” Dream said instantly, Blue right beside him. Nightmare blinked his one eye at him. He hadn’t expected them to want to help.

“Why don’t you… help Sugar unload the food for tonight?” He eventually said. He still didn’t trust his brother, not after what he had done, but he knew that unpacking the mules would be very hard to mess up.

Dream and Blue nodded, ground tied their horses, and walked calmly over to Sugar. Good. They at least knew better than to spook the horses.

=====

Killer’s soft voice interrupted his focus on his brother. “Somebody’s got a crush, huh?”

Nightmare spun to face him. Killer had his signature grin on his face, and his soul was beating at a speed Nightmare recognized as happy. Nightmare relaxed slightly and said, “I didn’t realise Cross was being so obvious. He’s been ogling Dream’s ass this entire time.”

Killer chuckled. Nightmare didn’t see what was so funny. “Yeah, Cross. The big guy’s always had a soft spot for people who dote on the horses.”

Nightmare tilted his head. He didn’t particularly remember Cross being like that in the past, but Killer was miles away more observant than he was. That was why Nightmare trusted him to be his second in command. He was a general; Killer was his chief of intelligence. Neither of them could operate without the other. And they both needed Cross to keep the peace between them and guard against the dangers of the road.

“Well, he’d better be prepared to meet the consequences of his actions. Dream is a client, and he is definitely not a part of our relationship. What would you say would be an appropriate punishment? 15 lashes?”

Killer grinned. If there was ever a monster who was the definition of a sadist, it was Killer. “Oh, at least. I’d say we edge him a few times, too.”

Nightmare shook his head. He had the final say in this, and he thought that that was going a bit too far. “It’s only been a few hours, Killer. If he continues this behaviour tomorrow, then we can think about edging him. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Killer said, saluting. Then he wandered off to begin unsaddling the horses for the night and getting everything ready for supper.

=====

Blue was fascinated by the fire. He could vaguely hear the rest of the Star Sanses and Nightmare’s Gang moving around, setting up things for the night, cooking food on the other side of the fire, and, in Ink’s case, chattering away. None of that really mattered to him right now, though. His whole attention was consumed by the fire.

It had been so long since he had seen an untamed fire like this. When he was younger he saw them every weekend while his Dad was still alright and well. Then, after his accident, Blue had seen them every night as he struggled to raise a child all on his own. Then Stretch had grown up enough to say he hated the smell of smoke and that was that. Blue hadn’t realized how much he missed it until now.

Blue’s hypnotized state ended when one of Nightmare’s Gang sat next to him and passed him a cup. Blue looked into it. It seemed to have… ketchup?

“Here, drink it. I’ve never met a Sans who didn’t like a condiment, and you’re pretty cute, so enjoy,” The stranger said. His voice was deeper than Blue would have pictured, deeper and hoarser. Blue would have predicted the hoarseness after all of the talking this monster had done today.

Blue honestly wasn’t sure who the monster behind him had been talking to, but he couldn’t judge. One of his best friends still hadn’t stopped talking. Ink would have been hoarse had he been a normal monster. He wasn’t. It wasn’t that he was crazy. Ink was the kind of anomaly that rules had to be built around. So was the dark boned skeleton Blue recognized from a few years ago. Now if only Blue knew his n-

“What’s your name, anyway? I’m Sans, obviously, but most people call me Dust. Not my brother, though. He still calls me Sans,” Dust said with a grin, his mismatched eye lights shining bright. The concentric rings of red and purple were almost as fascinating as the fire.

“I’m Blue,” he said, startled, “Technically it’s Dr. Blue, but I don’t actually practice at the moment, so most people call me Blue. My brother calls me Sans, though, too.”

The wide smile that shone from Dust’s skull was dazzling. Blue’s eye lights widened as he took it in. Wow, Dust was cute. A blush spread across Blue’s maxilla, along with a hesitant smile. Maybe he could do something about that? Stretch wouldn’t be happy, but he already wasn’t happy about this little trip. What would be the harm in having a little fun?

“Well, Dr. Blue, I’d love to have you examine me sometime,” Dust said, waggling his brow bones.

Oh, that was flirting! Blue knew what to do with flirting. He batted his eyelids back at Dust and leaned in. “Oh, I’d be happy to. I’m sure you have some pieces of your anatomy that can fascinate me for hours. I might even have one or two suggestions that would make your life more… pleasurable! Mweh heh heh heh!”

=====

Ink overheard his friend laughing and grinned from ear to ear. “Yay, Blue! I’m glad he’s feeling good enough to laugh. He’s always so stuffy! That was one of the reasons we took this trip; to make Blue relax a bit! He-”

“Stars, do you ever shut up?” Error growled. He was securing the last string to the ground with some kind of spike. Ink didn’t know the names of any of this stuff, and he barely knew Error’s name. As far as he was aware he had never left the city before. Then again, his memory was absolutely horrible. Not as bad as Blue’s dad’s, but still objectively horrible. Good thing he wasn’t objective!

“Nope!” Ink said, popping the p. “I don’t like it when things are quiet at all! It’s super scary and makes me feel isolated and alone in a place where no one can rescue me. The same thing happens if I see too much of the color white! It’s kind of a trigger, so I fill up the silence with as much noise as I can and make lots of art! I’m constantly repainting the walls of my apartment, and I always have some music playing at home.”

Error was giving Ink the funniest look. It was almost… sympathetic? Curiosity sparked in Ink’s mind. Why would anyone relate to an experience like that? Ink was about to ask when Error spoke up. “That’s stupid. You’ve got actual friends, idiot. They’re not going to abandon you.”

Ink nodded. “I know that, but that’s not how triggers work. Triggers are totally illogical. They’re weird little psychological phenomena that we don’t fully understand. A trigger can be anything from the smell of lilacs, to the taste of chemo medicine, to the feeling of tulle between your toes, to the sight of a specific crack on the ceiling of your house, to-”

“The sound of door locks? Those ones with a full bar you lock into place with a key?” Error asked suddenly.

Ink took in the sight of him. Error looked haunted. Interesting. Ink’s curiosity made him a promise: he would find out everything about Error and his past that he could to satisfy his own curiosity. If he was going to do that, however, he needed to win Error’s trust.

“Yeah! That’s definitely something that could be a trigger,” Ink said, then he went on, “and it’s not like you’d have to know why it was a trigger, either. Sometimes we just have something that’s triggering to us without any explanation. Dream is that way about moles. The little furry animal, I mean. Totally sends him into a panic attack whenever they show up in a nature documentary we’re watching. Blue now likes to pre-screen any movies we’re going to see, just in case. Actually, he pre-screens them for a lot of things. Useless sex scenes, for one.”

Error snorted. Ink blinked at him, feeling an unfamiliar paint combination roll over him. He couldn’t have put a name to it, but there were bits of yellow, pink, and green in there. Yellow was happiness of all sorts, pink was affection or love, and green was the need for something. It could be the need for information, or food, or a plan, or… anything, really.

“Don’t,” Error snorted, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those sex purists who thinks you should only have sex after marriage. That’s so stupid.”

Ink laughed his own unique laugh that couldn’t decide between being a chuckle and a giggle. “No, I just think that those stupid sex scenes take away from the body of the story. Sometimes they’re good, but mostly they’re just put in for horny fans. They don’t even make any sense. People just don’t hop into bed with perfect strangers at the drop of the hat. At least, not any sane people. Not that sanity’s earned its good ratings, mind you.”

“Well that’s true,” Error agreed with distaste. “Sex shouldn’t be some kind of spectacle for anyone to see. I know I wouldn’t want anyone but my lover or lovers to see me like that. I might be the most handsome skeleton in existence, but that doesn’t mean I want to show myself off.”

It was Ink’s turn to snort. “You? Handsome? Your bones are black, Error. Don’t you know that the darker your bones are the less handsome of a skeleton you are?”

Error’s grin was absolutely crazy, and Ink couldn’t help but mirror it. It looked like so much fun! “That’s what they want you to think! After all, so many people are cursed with white bones. They had to come up with some way to boost everyone’s egos. Telling them that white bones are best is a good PR spin! I bet even you believe it about your own bones!”

Ink blinked at him, then slipped out of his overshirt and bared his bones. They were covered in patterns, almost random, that had more black to them than white. “It’s not like my bones are all white, though. I guess that means that, by your definition, I’m ugly, too! Oh well.”

Error’s larger eye light was now almost as wide as his socket. The other one, the grey one, had wandered off. Ink wondered if he could even see out of that eye or if he just had lazy eye. Either way it was disconcerting. “Well… you’re not that ugly. You’re less ugly than all those bleached-boned idiots in the movies. After all, you have some black on there. And the contrast looks… kind of nice, if a bit blurry. D’ya mind taking a step back?”

“Why?” Ink asked, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s none of your business why, chatterbox!” Error screeched, “Just do it!”

Ink sighed. He’d been doing so well with winning Error over, but nothing worth doing was worth doing too fast. He stepped back a few paces. “Alright, Error. Is this good?”

Error was too busy studying Ink’s patterns to answer. Ink studied his expression, committing it to memory. It was so… fascinating… the way he was staring at Ink. The play of light on the black bone of his skull was so enchanting, and the lines of his mouth were inviting in a way Ink couldn’t place. He longed to sketch it. Maybe later, after dinner, although the fire wouldn’t be the ideal light source. Needs must, though!

=====

Killer grinned as everyone took up their positions around the fire. The small blue skeleton and Dust were already seated, flirting with each other like there was no tomorrow. The artist and Error were arguing, but it involved more words out of Error than Killer had heard the entire time he’d been working for them. Blood and Sugar were sitting as far apart as they could stand, cooking the food and shooting each other longing glances. Cross was sitting at attention next to Dream and shooting him the most adoring looks. Dream seemed just about as oblivious as Nightmare could be. He was staring into space, zoning out. That left Killer to work on Nightmare. Perfect.

“Hey, Boss~” Killer purred as he slid in next to Nightmare, taking one of his tentacles into his hands and slowly massaging it. It was tense as hell. It was pretty obvious who was causing their leader so much stress. His eye light was fixed on Dream like it had been nailed in place.

“Yes, Killer?” Nightmare said distractedly, his eye light not leaving Dream, “What is it?”

Killer brought the tentacle up to his teeth, kissing it. “The tension in your aura is palpable, Boss. You need to relax a bit. Let me lavish you with all the attention you so richly deserve.”

Nightmare turned to face him, his eyebrow raised and his one eye light showing Killer his amusement. “Laying it on a little thick tonight, aren’t you? What are you trying to do, impress me? You know you already do. Or are you trying to distract me from Cross’ misbehaviour? I can see him over there. He’s acting like a lovestruck teenager.”

So are you, Killer thought to himself, a lovestruck teenager that’s fallen in love with his biggest rival. Out loud he said, “If you want to say that about Cross you have to say that about all of them. Dust is flirting with that small blue one like it’s his favorite hobby, Blood and Sugar are doing their Romeo and Juliet act, and Error is arguing so much with that artist that I wouldn’t be surprised if his voice wasn’t hoarse tomorrow.”

“The small one is called Blue and the artist’s name is Ink,” Nightmare said absently.

Killer blinked at him, then smiled his most winning smile - the one he wore when he was trying not to get caught at something sketchy. “You know, it would probably be a good idea if we introduced everyone before matching people up for the night. Why don’t I get everyone’s attention and you can tell people who they’ll be sleeping with?”

Nightmare tore his eye light off of Dream just long enough to narrow it at Killer. Then he sighed and shrugged. “Fine, then. No knives, though. I know you like to show off, but please, save it for another time.”

Killer saluted with the half-ironic, half-serious form that drove Nightmare crazy. “Got it, Boss!”

Then he turned to the center of the fire everyone was gathered around, raised his hands to his mouth, and hollered, “Heylalo, skellies! Listen up, the boss has something to say!”

Eight heads turned to face him with expressions that varied from annoyance to curiosity to mildly dissociative. Killer frowned slightly. Blood he could understand, but why would Dream be dissociating? Had something happened to him since he and Nightmare parted ways? Or was it just the general absentmindedness of a normal monster? Killer vowed to find out.

Nightmare’s grunt interrupted his thoughts. Killer turned to face his handsome datemate and listened closely to the orders of the night. “Now that I have your attention, I’m going to introduce you all and tell you who you’ll be sleeping with. Remember that these arrangements might change as the trip goes on, so if you can’t handle sleeping with someone please let me know. Blood, Sugar,” He pointed to the two of them in turn, “you’ll be sleeping together in the red tent. Ink, Blue,” Again he pointed to each of them in turn, “You’ll be sleeping in the blue tent. Killer, Dream,” He signaled who each of them was, “you have the yellow tent. Error, Dust, please take the black tent,” He gestured at both of them. “Finally, Cross and myself will take the green tent. My name is Nightmare. Now, does anyone have any questions?”

The boss studied each face in turn, as did Killer. They would compare notes later.

Cross was blushing and averting his eyes from Nightmare’s face. He knew he was in trouble for today, but that didn’t stop him from looking forward to being punished. It never had before.

Blue was looking at Dust with longing and a flushed face. The expression was mutual. Interesting. Maybe they should be paired up in a tent tomorrow night. Dust could use a bit of a chance to unwind.

Ink had clearly lost interest in the conversation. He was looking around at the clearing with his hand twitching in the air. Long strokes, short curves, and forceful jabs would have painted a picture if Ink had only been holding a paintbrush. Killer would have bet any amount of money that he was already planning a drawing or two of their surroundings. Artists were like that.

Blood was eyeing the food with hunger, as usual. After what he had been through it was hardly a surprise. Sugar was beaming at his brother. Only his practiced eye told Killer that he was ready for their night’s more… intimate activities. Hopefully this time they wouldn’t get caught.

Dream was eyeing Killer with something like anxiety, except moreso. It almost looked like fear. It did look exactly like the expression Nightmare had turned on him the first time they’d been asked to share a tent. Huh.

Finally, there was Error. Error, as usual, was grumbling to himself. Killer knew exactly what he was upset about. He hated having to share a tent with anyone. He was always on edge, worried that they were going to bump into him in the night. He knew better by now, though, than to complain. Nightmare had no sympathy for his disgust at the touch of others anymore. No one had ever touched him at night. That wasn’t going to change.

Nightmare nodded when he was satisfied that no one was going to complain. “Good. Now, Blood, please serve out tonight’s food to everyone. It’s time to eat.”

#bad sanses #star sanses #errorink #dustberry #killercreammare #error sans #ink sans #dust sans #underswap sans #killer sans #cross sans #xtale sans #dream sans #nightmare sans #wranglers au #nightmares gang of wranglers fic #yastaghr

29 notes · View notes

callboxkat · 4 years

Text

Infinitesimal (part 55)

Author’s note: Enjoy!

Warnings: asthma attack, fear, hospital stuff, death mention, panic attack, entitlement, dissociation

Word count: 3075

Infinitesimal Masterpost!

Writing Masterpost!

...

Logan groggily opened his eyes and squinted up towards the familiar, glow-in-the-dark star stickers that patterned constellations across his ceiling. Something must have roused him—normally, he slept through the night—but he was unsure of what that something could be.

He turned and glanced towards the clock, whose numbers glowed in the darkness. Just past three in the morning. Not an optimal time to rise. Why was he awake at such an hour?

More curious than tired, he listened for a moment, just in case there turned out to be something going on that required his attention, and heard a muffled thump from the adjacent room. Ah. Roman. His roommate must have still been awake, working on that project of his. Logan considered getting up to ask him to be quieter, debating whether doing so was worth leaving his bed when there might well be no further disturbances.

Before he had decided either way, there was a loud crash— like someone dumping several bags of marbles on the ground at once.

Logan’s breath caught, any sleepiness instantly vanished. He knew exactly what that sound was.

He was out of bed before he was aware of moving, grabbing his phone and shoving it in his pocket as he raced to the door, throwing that open and dashing down the hall to Roman’s room.

His hand paused briefly on the door handle.

What if he was overreacting? What if it had just been an accident, and he looked foolish for bursting in over nothing?

But what if it hadn’t?

Logan opened the door, holding back only because he couldn’t be sure that Roman wasn’t right behind it. “Roman! Roman, are you okay?” he called through the gap, paying no heed to his inappropriately high volume for the time of night.

There was a choking, wheezing sound, and what sounded like an attempt at saying his name. Logan shoved the door the rest of the way open, his fears confirmed.

Roman lay sprawled on the bed, his body crumpled where he must have collapsed after pushing the rocks to the floor.

Logan dashed into the room, solely focused on his friend, only to immediately fall to the floor, slipping on a polished stone in a fashion that might have been comical in another circumstance. Logan impatiently swept his arm across the floor, sending as many of the stones scattering out of his way as he could, and hurried to the bed.

“Roman, can you hear me? Where’s your inhaler? Can you talk?”

Roman wheezed in a rattling breath, coughing as he attempted to fill his lungs. “Dropped—it,” he got out. He raised a trembling arm and pointed vaguely past Logan before letting it drop back to the bed.

Logan turned and saw the topmost drawer of Roman’s dresser lying on the floor, its contents spread haphazardly around it. “Okay, that’s okay,” he said, his voice shaking. “Just keep breathing; I’ll find it.” He reached for his friend and attempted to shift him into a more comfortable position, since his neck was bent at an awkward angle that would only make breathing more difficult, then went to the pile of items on the floor. He shoved aside combs, makeup, cough medicine, deodorant, various other items that were not the inhaler, searching for the distinctively L-shaped medical device. The entire time, he was horribly aware of Roman’s pained wheezing in the background.

“Roman—Roman, I can’t find it,” he said, scrambling for his phone. “I’m calling 911.”

He stood up, already dialing, and froze. The inhaler lay on the floor, half-hidden by the comforter of Roman’s bed. Logan snatched it and returned to Roman’s side.

He helped Roman sit up, his friend practically dead weight as he was propped against pillows, and put the inhaler to his lips. One puff. Two.

Roman continued to gasp, wheezing in a way that was painful to watch.

“It’s not working,” Logan declared, grabbing his phone again.

Roman made a sound, distinct from the wheezing, and Logan looked up. If anything, Roman seemed more alarmed than before.

Logan stamped down a fleeting feeling of impatience. His roommate was afraid, which was perfectly understandable. “Roman, I’m sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, especially given the date; but this is serious,” he said. “I have to call them.”

Roman’s hand scrabbled against the phone, and his eyes darted towards the door.

Logan followed his gaze, realization suddenly hitting him. His mouth opened in a small “o”.

“Pa—” Roman gasped, “Pa…ttuh,”

Logan faltered.

Roman didn’t want the “mouse-men” to be found. He was in the middle of a severe asthma attack, and he was worried about the welfare of their guests.

“I’ll take care of it,” Logan promised. “I’ll be right back.” He shoved the phone in his pocket, looked around, and seized a dented cardboard box from beside the dresser. He tore off the lid, dumped its contents on the floor at the foot of Roman’s bed, then dashed out of the room.

He tore through the kitchen and into the living room, nearly falling as he rounded the corner. He entered the living room, flicking on the light, and skidded to a stop in front of the “mouse-men’s” table, barely noticing the alarmed noises that met him. He tried to quickly explain the situation, that there was an emergency and he had to hide them, that they had to stay quiet and hidden. He wasn’t sure how well he did in his endeavor, but there wasn’t time to worry about having scared them. The entire time, he was only able to think about how he needed to get back to Roman.

He put the cardboard box over the table, ignoring the guilt he felt at the wide-eyed, upturned faces staring up at him, and pulled out his phone again. He hit the call button as he ran back to Roman’s room. He was talking as soon as the operator picked up.

“Hello, my name is Logan Fong; my roommate is having an asthma attack; we live in apartment 2B of—"

…

Emile was jolted awake by booming footsteps that shook the whole room as they pounded nearer, making his arm and head ache. He struggled to open his eyes, only to be met with a blinding light flaring into existence above. He squeezed his eyes shut again, letting out a gasp of pain and surprise.

A rapid voice was speaking overhead—Logan, he registered through his alarm.

“—an emergency. I have to call the paramedics. He’s having an asthma attack. You need to be quiet and stay hidden until they’re gone. This is very important; there’s no other way. I have to get back to Roman, I’m sorry.”

Emile rubbed at his eyes and stared up at Logan’s equally terrified face, uncomprehending, only to have something placed over them with a thump, shrouding them in darkness again.

Logan’s hurried footsteps left the room, leaving the littles alone with their questions and their fear.

They could hear noises from elsewhere in the apartment, thumps, footsteps, Logan’s voice, too indistinct to give them any real information. Something bad was happening, though; that much was clear.

“What the hell?” Virgil finally whispered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.

Emile reached in the dark, fumbling until he found his brother’s arm, gripping it tightly. “I don’t know,” he whispered back.

“What’s going on? Why…?”

“I don’t know,” Emile repeated. His own heart was pounding. They were in a box, he realized, the object turned upside-down to obscure them from view. The cardboard felt like little protection against whatever danger they were to be met with.

A long moment passed in tense silence. Emile’s eyes gradually readjusted to the darkness.

“Patton?” Virgil ventured in a whisper, turning to his other side. “Pat, are you okay?”

There was no response.

“Oh, sh*t.”

Emile sat up straighter, releasing his brother and watching as he pulled away and went to their friend, who hadn’t moved or made a sound since their alarming encounter with Logan.

He was half sitting up on the tabletop where he had fallen from the bed in surprise, his eyes wide and unfocused. He was stiff as a board, but that didn’t keep him from trembling.

Oh, no.

Emile had heard the stories. He knew what Patton had been through. This was their friend’s worst nightmare—being trapped again, in a dark box, by a human.

“Patton,” he breathed.

Before they could do much else to help their friend, a loud, wailing noise sounded from outside, growing closer and closer, drawing their attention back to the situation at hand. It stopped, and a minute later, the door to the apartment opened. Multiple new voices filled the space, along with what sounded like some kind of metal contraption and a barrage of other unfamiliar sounds.

Emile’s mouth went dry. More humans. Unknown humans. Humans who could find them and… he really didn’t want to speculate.

He could see Virgil, outlined in the small amount of light that the box allowed in, crouched beside Patton, both as unmoving as statues.

Emile’s terrified thoughts buzzed in his head, too many unwanted scenarios, the horrible knowledge that he was in no state to attempt an escape even if they weren’t trapped. He could only hope that they were left alone.

And then, suddenly, the apartment went silent.

Several long, long minutes passed. Finally, it was clear to the littles that they were alone once again.

Virgil was the first to speak. “What the absolute, ever loving f*ck was that?”

“Virgil,” Emile admonished.

“No—No, Em, that was—what the hell?”

“Virgil,” Emile repeated slowly. “Is Patton okay?”

Virgil whipped around like he’d been hit. He turned to Patton, searching his face.

“Patton?” he murmured. He put a hand to his friend’s face, who flinched back minutely but otherwise didn’t respond.

Emile looked around, then sighed in relief. The cardboard box had handles, open holes in either end, low enough to the tabletop for Virgil and Patton to climb through. “There,” he said, pointing at one of them. “Get him out of here.”

“But you can’t—”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“Is it even safe? Are they coming back?”

Emile inhaled shakily. “I don’t know. All I know is something happened. I don’t know what. But Patton can’t stay in here. Stay behind the box, hide if you hear anything. Go on, get him out.”

Besides, if the humans did come back for the littles, then the box where a human had left them was the last place they wanted to be. But Emile wasn’t going to remind Virgil of that. It wouldn’t change the fact that Emile was stuck there.

Either way, Emile suspected that what was going on didn’t truly involve their small family. Logan had mentioned Roman—specifically, something called an asthma attack. Logan had mentioned before that Roman sometimes had difficulty breathing. Judging by that, and Logan’s reaction, an attack was just as bad as it sounded.

But they couldn’t do anything about that now. What they could do was help Patton.

Virgil hesitated, then slowly pulled at Patton, murmuring to him. Patton didn’t seem to hear, but passively allowed himself to be pulled along and lead out of the box. Virgil left one of his crutches behind, guiding Patton from a crouched position.

Emile waited alone in the dark and the quiet, only able to hope.

…

Patton was in a box.

A dark, dark box.

He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here, couldn’t be trapped, couldn’t be stuck in a box. Not again.

He couldn’t think.

He was aware of voices, of loud noises, but they were inaudible over the roaring in his ears.

He was trapped.

The humans had trapped him again.

No.

He was back in the past, back in that box under the bed, back to the days and weeks and months that blended together into one long haze of fear and pain and aching, aching loneliness. Back to the long nights spent curled up on the dirty cardboard, weak with hunger and thirst and waiting for it all to finally end. Both hoping that he would never be disturbed and hoping for something, anything to break the endless darkness.

“Patton? Patton!”

He blinked.

“Patton?”

Slowly, a face swam into view. He blinked again.

“Virgil?” he croaked.

“Patton,” Virgil whispered, relief evident in his voice. “You back with me?”

Patton slowly looked around. They were sitting on the tabletop, near the sewing supplies. It was still dark; but this time, it was clearly because it was nighttime, and not because of anything blocking out the light. The cardboard box was beside them, towering tall in the darkness, but they weren’t inside it. They weren’t trapped.

Virgil was watching him closely.

Patton’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice wobbling.

“Shhh, no, it’s okay,” Virgil whispered. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, I promise. Are you alright?”

Patton’s tears escaped to roll down his cheeks, and he ducked his head to hide his face.

…

They let Logan ride in the ambulance with Roman.

One of the EMTs seemed reluctant, since he and Roman were clearly not related, but soon relented. It was Christmas Eve, she was reminded; Roman clearly wanted him there; and Logan could give them information that his friend was currently unable to provide.

Once they were on their way, he handed over Roman’s inhaler to another EMT and explained the past week of difficulties Roman had been having, the aggravation his condition suffered in the cold weather, what he knew about what had happened to put his friend in the state he was in now, and what else he knew about his medical history—not much, he felt, but better than nothing.

Once that was finished, he fell silent, attempting to stay out of the way while the medical personnel did their jobs.

“This is expired.”

Logan glanced up, towards the EMT who had spoken. She was looking at the inhaler Logan had handed over.

“What?”

“It’s expired. By several months. Did he have a newer one he used?”

Logan glanced over at Roman, whose face was mostly covered by a mask. He didn’t seem to be listening, his attention understandably focused on breathing. “He… he should have. I remember him bringing home his prescription.”

Had Logan given Roman the wrong inhaler? Was it his fault things had gotten so dire? Or had Roman mixed up his inhalers, somehow, using the older, less effective one in place of a new prescription for who knew how long? Could they have prevented this?

It doesn��t matter, Logan told himself, his fingernails biting into his palms. Things were already dire when I found him. And if he’s been using expired medication, we can’t do anything about that now. All that matters is helping Roman.

The trip to the hospital took only a few minutes, but felt agonizingly slow.

The paramedics got out first, of course, bringing Roman with them on the gurney. Logan stepped out last, and he was pointed to the waiting room.

“We’ll let you know when you can see him.” She smiled awkwardly, probably trying to seem reassuring. “Happy holidays.”

Soon, he was alone in the waiting room, sitting in an uncomfortable chair and clutching a cheap cup of complimentary coffee. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a harsh light. The room was almost empty, only a handful of other people scattered about, none nearby.

Logan tapped a rhythmic pattern on the foam cup in his hands to soothe himself while he waited for news. He kept to himself as much as he could, not wanting to intrude on anyone else or be intruded upon himself.

At one point, though, there came one woman who was rather hard to ignore.

He had barely spared a glance in her direction as she came in, about half an hour after he arrived, leading her crying daughter by the hand. The daughter had been quickly given a lollipop to comfort her while the mother had checked them in, and they had settled down in some of the chairs, closer to Logan than he would have preferred; but not so close that he felt the need to move. Now, barely ten minutes later, he had to listen with annoyance as the woman stood at the counter and berated the woman at the desk for making her precious daughter wait.

Said daughter, a chubby girl with messy blonde pigtails, was happily sucking on her second lollipop and playing on her mother’s phone, to all appearances perfectly content as she was.

“Ma’am, your daughter—”

“Don’t you call me “ma’am”! I’m not some old lady!”

“Yes, sorry. Your daughter only sprained her finger, if that. She’ll be seen when we have time for minor complaints.”

“You don’t know that! What if it’s broken? What if it heals wrong? My daughter is injured, and you are making her wait in the hospital on Christmas Eve for hours on end! What kind of hospital is this? I want to speak with your manager! We ought to be seen for free, with everything you’re putting her through.”

The desk attendant sighed, looking done already. “Ma’am, it is 4 in the morning. I’m the only one working the front desk. The doctors are busy with other patients. Your daughter will be seen soon—just sit down. Everyone else is perfectly able to wait.”

The woman scoffed. “Come on, Marissa, sweetie. We’re going somewhere that actually cares about their patients.” She put out a manicured hand and took her daughter by the arm.

The lollipop fell from the girl’s mouth, the sticky red candy landing on the floor so that the stick stood up.

Logan groaned internally.

Marissa started wailing. She seemed far too old to throw such a temper tantrum, but Logan suspected that this was normal. She was screaming, the words incomprehensible.

The woman at the desk looked further annoyed, although she masked it better than most of the people in the room bothered to do. She finally got the pair to leave by handing over two new lollipops.

In their absence, it was quiet for a moment, before someone started humming a Christmas song, getting a quiet laugh out of their companion.

Logan looked back down at his coffee, which had grown cold.

He hoped Roman was okay.

101 notes · View notes

senseandaccountability · 4 years

Note

If you'll take another one from the poetry prompts, how about #50 (“With a memory all fragmented but inclined to miracles”)?

Small secret spaces Iron Bull’s Tamassran reflects on the boy she raised. Also on AO3: here

This is soft, okay? I’m soft for tiny babies and their not-mothers. * * *

They call her Aqun, a nickname that sticks through the years, though to all the children in her care, her flock of imekari, she is Tama. Tama with the stories, with the stern reprimands, with the cool hands in the middle of a sweaty nightmare. Some of the women work with paper and quill, some with breeding administration, yet some can be found in the temples and the hospital wings tending to those with the broken minds that qamak leaves behind. She has friends that re-educate and friends that deal with nothing but death, its final stages, its remains, its practical matters. Aqun considers herself lucky that her place is to work at the other end of things. Imekari are life, messy, brutal life that shakes her up every day, at every turn. It keeps her awake, it smashes her heart open. She will lose them. She will lose them all, but some will carry pieces of her with them as they go; it’s a thought that sits well with her, a flash of pride that she allows herself. A Tamassran’s job is to evaluate and educate; she isn’t meant to have favourites but she always has. She considers it a rebellion, a reward, or both. * Ashkaari is a big baby, arrives loud and dark-haired and screams for half a day when they place him in her arms. He’s the genealogical product of a Sten, now lost to glorious battle, asit tal-eb, and a re-educator nicknamed Asta though Aqun does not know this. The Tamassrans in charge of recording never show her the notes of the children given to her house. It would cloud her judgement, upset the scales. Aptitude triumphs over inheritance, as it must in any civilized society. Because he will not settle at night she rubs his back and stomach, sings to him to drown the screaming. He is meant to cry it out, they all are; infancy is a test, one of her old instructors echoes in her memory. But Aqun’s head hurts from listening, so she sings. A made-up song of a made-up nug, the king of all nugs, living in a cave. She feeds him another bottle of milk, mutters a rhyme she vaguely recalls from her own childhood and places her mouth against the crown of his head. A snug little nug, small as a bug. The baby looks at her, blinks, and falls asleep. The warm weight of him in her arms, the softness to his mouth, his tiny fists against her palm. That swelling in her chest, its terrible gentleness. The Qunari don’t have motherhood; she understands why.

* The streets boil in the afternoon heat but the heart of the classroom is cooled by heavy stone and clever architecture. Some of the smaller children shiver as they huddle over the letters, painstakingly forming them with mouth and quills. Baqo sits near Ashkaari and Vasaad, one head shorter than the boys but her mind is sharper, her feet faster, her capacity for mischief endless. They love her, magnificently; Vasaad and Ashkaari would both lay down their lives for the troublemaker with the red eyes. Words have always wielded themselves easily out of her, her mind is strong and supple and she makes up stories where the Qun ends, follows its logical conclusions into tales of dragons and war, of ancient times and endless knowledge. “Tell me about the green dragons in the desert again,” Ashkaari implores, big and towering but gentle, his hands shields rather than weapons. He’s apt at storytelling himself, prone to the fantastic and the untrue. Vasaad heeds them both, moving around them like a protector.

Tama allows them slices of freedom when she can. Moments of play, of pretends. Soon enough they reach their true calling and get scattered across the North but days like today, there are green dragons and friendship, willfully blind eyes and make-believe. *

The Arvaarad comes for Baqo only months later, in the middle of the day, as the other children make equations and build models. Four men march in and lift her up, without a word. Her eyes are wide with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream and Vasaad holds Ashkaari back - or perhaps it’s the other way around, perhaps it will never truly matter. They are two now where they used to be three. Aqun shoves the children back into the classroom, hands on their shoulders, their backs. Herding them like cattle. It’s not a bad metaphor; cattle, too, are meant to serve. “She will serve the Qun with honour,” she tells Ashkaari; his eyes are narrow and dark. “She has found her purpose,” she tells Vasaad who stares back at her, his lower lip trembling. They do not cry over saarebas, she reminds them. They do not cry over finding one’s place, wherever and however that place may appear. The one who was called Baqo takes the chains, takes the stitches and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one.

The one who was called Ashkaari becomes Hissrad, becomes a grown man so tall and broad of shoulder that Aqun ages a decade just looking at him. He still calls her Tama, still comes by to see her though he has no reason for it anymore. She tells him this once and he scoffs. They share a mindset, she knows, a flair for the inappropriate, a disregard for the brutality of absolute truths. Some days she thinks that it is her greatest failing that she has allowed it to slip into him, a poison in his soul.

* She learns that Hissrad has been given command. That he’s tracking down Tal-Vashoth. That he’s transferred to Seheron. What an honour, she says to everyone who needs to hear it. Basks in the knowledge that she had been right, that she had seen the boy’s cleverness behind those fists, the sharp wit inside the body of a warrior. The other Tamassrans nod and tut, the way they do. All of them know there is also regret, unspoken, treacherous regret for every name they put down on the lists for the positions that will take their imekari far away, into danger and death. The one that was called Ashkaari, who slept soft-faced and defenseless in her arms when no one was looking, takes the orders he is given and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one, the devastation of them rattling inside her chest. * Once, he comes to visit. He’s in Par Vollen, temporarily liberated of the burdens of Seheron, his face cut in stone but his embrace is tight and warm and Aqun smiles into the crook of his neck when he lifts her up from the ground. He’s brought cocoa beans and spices; she makes supper and refrains from staring at him like an overbearing old Tama. They don’t speak much at all; he stays the rest of the day. * Once, in the Viddathlok of Qunandar, she sees him when he has returned. He’s shipped from the island of asala-taar like a caged beast, rumour has it; he arrives in chains and is accompanied by soldiers on each side of him. The gossip is unremorseful, crisp, but it tastes of ashes. They had found him surrounded by so many dead they had lost count. That’s a lie, Aqun knows, they always count. The Qun is nothing if not a balance. Ashkaari who used to fear demons, his teeth clattering in the dark, his hands tugging at hers. They get inside your mind, he says. I don’t know how to hit things that live in my head. Hissrad who spends two months with the re-educators but they refuse his request for qamak. It’s partly her fault that they send him off, his faith broken and his mind all fragmented but inclined to miracles. The one that got away. * The one who was called Hissrad becomes the Iron Bull and Aqun first hears it in the queue outside the baker, waiting for her daily bread, then from an agent with red eyes and a hoarse voice.

She hears it and all the way home, her heart hammers the rhythm of the words. He got away, he got away. The Ben-Hassrath agents frown over her, towering like conquerors before a bas and Aqun looks them in the eyes and says: “yes, I failed. I should have seen. He was unfit for the job. I will do better, allow me to make amends.” Says it, while she thinks run, Ashkaari, there is much to struggle against, you always knew. There’s a note, deep and low, singing of her own defiance and she thinks one of the agents can hear it because he holds her gaze for so long Aqun begins to prepare for her own re-education. Then he lets her go. She’s old, she’s beginning to lose her rough edges and her patience shrinks with every passing day, they don’t count on her to rectify her mistake; they let her go. They will go after him instead. * Years later, she hears the news in the streets outside the market. This time, no one deems her in a position to have the reports so she has to make do with gossip. They tell her the attack that Par Vollen loudly condemns while sending resources to Orlais, sneaking ships and coin past all boundaries, has been a failure. That the Inquisition still has the Tal-Vashoth in their midst, that he had not listened to reason or respected the chain of command. They tell her the Viddasala’s direct orders had been refused by the one they once called Hissrad. Nothing but a savage now. His soul is dust. He’s lost. The words sound like curses but they fall like relief in Aqun’s chest, fall like tears on her aging hands that used to hold him. She has educated her last flock of imekari, told her last batch of night time stories. They have been so many, her body is full of their voices, their faces, their nicknames. She has been theirs. Some of them, like Ashkaari, have been hers. She will lose them all but some will carry pieces of her as they go and she has given him her heart, as much of it as he has ever dared to give and loved him in all the small, secret spaces she was never allowed.

#prompt fic #brightoncemore #the iron bull #iron bull #dragon age

67 notes · View notes

virmillion · 5 years

Text

Ibytm - T minus 48 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 2,053

Logan hisses gently as he pulls the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, setting it on the counter as fast as he can manage to shake the burning feeling from his fingers. “Popcorn’s done!”

“Great, now come pick a stupid show already, so I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my Friday,” Virgil calls back. Remembering to check his pride this time, Logan scoops up the bowl with two objectively safer napkins and peers around the corner of the kitchen wall.

Virgil’s head just barely peeks over the top of the couch, a tuft of pale purple hair sticking out opposite the rest. Beyond him is a daunting list of movies and shows scrolling beneath the Netflix logo. A fifteen second trailer loops for the movie Wreck-It Ralph, but Virgil stubbornly refuses to press play. The tuft of hair vanishes as Virgil leans forward and clears off a space on the table for the popcorn bowl.

“Careful, ’s hot,” Logan warns, dropping the bowl on the open spot.

“Noted.” Virgil, after acknowledging Logan’s words (which really ought to be heeded), proceeds to completely ignore them in favor of grabbing more than a fair fistful and popping the whole mess in his mouth. “Ha her he hah king?”

“You want to run that by me one more time?”

Virgil swallows around the lump of butter and grain with a grimace. “What’re we watching?”

“Great question. No more scary movies, you’re cut off from those, but that’s about our only parameter.”

“Puh- leez, it’s not my fault you couldn’t get to sleep last week. You’re the one that kept me up with nervous texts, ’member? I would’ve expected you to be grown up enough to survive watching Nightmare on Elm Street . Guess I was wrong, if laser tag was anything to go off of.”

“Laser tag was barely two months ago, and already you’re having delusions about my lacking bravery?”

“Hey, hey, you’re the astronaut in training here. I’m not the one with explicit and express intent to fly a hundred hours of pilot-in-command aircrafts before I turn twenty-seven.”

“A thousand hours, or three years of related professional experience. And if I want to break any records, it has to be before I’m twenty-six. Try to pay more attention when I lecture you about my internship next time.”

“I have to endure a next time?”

Logan shoots Virgil a pointed look, the effect of which is lost to the popcorn kernel lodged between his right molars. He prods at it with his tongue.

“In my defense,” Virgil continues, “this is pretty much the longest a relationship of mine has ever lasted.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Logan isn’t quite sure where all this bravado came from, but it’s doing wonders for keeping his voice even, so he won’t jinx it by digging deeper right now.

“It’s faster to say ‘relationship’ than ‘that dorky guy who hangs out at my apartment every Friday night to make fun of movies because we have nothing better to do as self-respecting adults,’ but I’ll gladly switch to that absurd and overly expository title if you prefer.”

A pout tries to crawl onto Logan’s face, which he promptly ignores. “Point taken. Did you pick a movie yet, or are you just that obsessed with watching a pixelated handyman smile on your television screen?”

“Neither. There’s no good bad movies left on here, so at this point, we’re better off watching something one of us has already seen—”

“Out of the question.”

“—watching nothing—”

“No thank you.”

“—or binging a series show.”

This gives Logan a moment’s pause. “That could work.”

“Right, because watching half an hour of an unending show every week without fail is how I want to spend my next three years’ worth of Fridays.”

“Well, why not?”

“What would we even watch? There’s, like, no serializations that normal people haven’t seen. Everybody’s watched The Office —”

“I haven’t.”

“— Brooklyn 99 —”

“I haven’t.”

“—and Parks and Rec .”

“I haven’t.”

Virgil slams the remote gown on the couch and gapes at Logan. “You haven’t seen Parks and Rec? ”

“Have you even been listening to a single word out of my mouth?”

“You are an absolute monster. You disgust me. We’re through, no more movie nights. I can’t hang out with someone whose true colors are so monochromatic.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is kidding at this point. “I’m kidding.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is about to add the caveat ‘mostly’ to that statement.

After an uncomfortably long silence wherein Logan looks absolutely anywhere that isn’t Virgil, the speakers proudly announce the sound of Leslie Knope introducing herself to a small child playing in a sandbox. “This isn’t very funny,” Logan murmurs. “I mean, what child would say they were having a moderate amount of fun and somewhat enjoying themselves to a stranger? I suppose I might if prompted, but still.”

“Shut up ,” Virgil hisses, “this part is hilarious, stop talking. ”

“Ha ha,” Logan says dryly. “I love watching drunks hide in swirly slides. Ha.”

“Shut up. ” This command is accompanied by Virgil swatting at Logan’s shoulder.”

“Well, hey, can’t we skip the theme song?” Logan is almost hoping he’ll say no, just so these movie nights can be that much longer. Series show nights, now.

“Nope, out of the question. Skipping the intro is cheating and an act of cowardice to the nth degree. Be quiet and enjoy the upbeat music.”

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself enjoying watching the theme song. Maybe it has something to do with how they’re sharing one bowl of popcorn, their fingers brushing against each other every so often, rather than Virgil hogging the whole thing for himself. Maybe it’s how their knuckles linger when they reach in at the same time, neither pulling away instantly, but neither vocalizing what’s happening. Maybe it’s how, when Virgil is distracted by people assuming Leslie is dating Ann, he absently lets their fingers link together loosely, too intentional to be a thoughtless mistake. When the scene shifts to some guy named Anthony waving, they both yank their hands away from each other. Logan swears he can feel his nerve endings burning.

Upon the premiere of season two, the distance between them has closed ever so slightly. Rather than being at opposite ends of a three cushion couch, Virgil leans on one armrest and Logan arranges himself on the next cushion over. And if Logan’s fingers wander over to Virgil’s when Leslie marries the two gay penguins (despite the popcorn being well out of reach on the table), and if they hold on long after the credits for the episode have passed, well, that’s nobody’s business but their own, isn’t it?

When the Galentine’s day episode rolls around, Logan has abandoned all pretenses of slowly inching closer, instead taking Virgil’s hand as soon as they’re both seated with their respective mugs. Both cheap water steepings from a broken keurig, of course, but at least they’re enjoying them together. Well, enduring, enjoying, same difference.

“Hey, that’s what you said the first time we went to the museum together!” Logan exclaims, watching the sweater swap moment between April and Andy. Okay, so he doesn’t really exclaim it, per se, so much as say it suddenly and without warning—it’d be rather difficult to literally exclaim it, what with his head resting heavy on Virgil’s shoulder and all.

“Oh, right, on our first date, you mean?”

“Our first what?”

For those of you keeping track at home, yes, Logan has managed to go about six months without realizing that their first date was, in fact, a date.

By the time Chris asks Tom and Jerry to come up with a new logo for the department, Logan is literally sitting in Virgil’s lap with an arm slung around his shoulders. You might liken the position to that of a koala, but then again, Logan didn’t ask you. Full disclosure, they started watching more than one episode a week somewhere along the line, but this was spurred in some part by the need for background noise while they packed everything Virgil owned into a small mountain of cardboard boxes.

“Something to celebrate the occasion?” Logan asks tentatively, holding up a bottle of champagne. This kitchen certainly looks much nicer than the last one, but the leniency of adding paint to these walls was a buffer Logan had sorely missed at Virgil’s old place.

“If you want,” Virgil replies, craning his head over the back of the couch. “But you’re paying damages if you spill it all over my clean floors.”

“Well, duh, I’m paying half the rent, of course I’d fund repairs.” Logan holds back what more he wants to mention, still wary of the sore spot surrounding Virgil’s careers.

“In that case, plop your butt down on the couch we need to replace—speaking of which, we need to figure out a day to descend on IKEA for some upgrades.” Virgil pats his lap and gestures toward the screen—longer and thinner, purchased with some of the funds they’d pooled from their respective savings when picking a place together. “Now, c’mon, we’re about to see the squad go to London. I know you’re all about the architecture over there, aren’t you?”

“As if you even need to ask.” Logan grins, plopping himself down on top of Virgil and whistling along with the theme song.

Living together, unsurprisingly, does wonders for powering through the last couple seasons at a much more efficient pace. In what seems like the blink of an eye, Logan is watching the futures of the main squad playing out as they do one last project, and it’s not a stretch to say he’s holding back tears. As the credits fade to black and The Office pops up as a recommendation to watch next, Logan lifts a hand to his cheek and is baffled to find it come away wet.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Virgil murmurs, slipping an arm around Logan’s back and rubbing circles on his arm. “This is the worst part, I know. You’ve never been this attached to fictional characters before, huh?” Logan hiccoughs. “Yeah, I got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Between shuddering breaths that aren’t quite laughs, Logan manages to get out, “It’s like the end of an era. I don’t know, I mean, it’s really over.”

“Oh, I know, sweetie,” Virgil mumbles, pressing his lips against Logan’s hair. “It just means moving on, and I’ll be here for you through it all.” Slowly but surely, Logan’s hiccoughs turn into giggles as the ridiculousness of the situation dawns on him. Why should he be getting so emotional over the end of some tv show? He literally went into this knowing the series would have a finale. He says as much to Virgil.

“True, but we sank a couple years into this tradition. You’re allowed to mourn a tradition, even if you think it’s silly. There’s no rules for what you can or can’t grieve, and even if you lie to yourself enough to believe there are, I’ll be here to help you through it.”

“First off, you can’t spell believe without ‘lie,’ and second, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, hon. What would you get out of dealing with nonsense emotions?”

“Besides knowing I get to wake up every morning to see your face?” Virgil pretends to ponder this for a moment, only breaking into a grin when Logan elbows him in the side—not intentionally, mind you. It’s more of an effort to bury his nose in Virgil’s neck, but unfortunately for Logan, Virgil is ticklish right around there. He laughs loudly and announces, “I want the moon.”

“The moon?”

“The moon, spaceman.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll bring you the moon. Is that all?”

“One more thing.”

“One more thing besides the moon, you mean?”

“Well, yeah, you have to know how much the moon costs.”

“How much does the moon cost?”

“The stars.”

“The stars?”

“It’ll cost you the stars.”

Logan shakes his head and smiles, wrapping Virgil in a tight hug and drying his eyes against his boyfriend’s sleeve. His words are no doubt muffled, near unintelligible, but he’s sure Virgil can make it out well enough. “Okay, love. I’ll bring you the moon.”

#labhwrites #mine #i'll bring you the moon #ibytm

6 notes · View notes

mowseries · 5 years

Note

Mikhail u need 2 use this knowledge well. We grey mages have names and are called Anons. We don’t travel to other worlds but we can send whatever we want to the world we chose. Depending on the world we can send items, cast spells to those we chose or even travel there but other then that sending questions’ all we can do. There are bad anons so we try to fix the damage they cause to whoever receive the letters we sent. It seems that your world’s walls only allow our letters at the moment.

[The Doctor was very quiet. After a while, he spoke up again, but softly.]

Mikhail: …

Mikhail: I had heard that terminology before, and based on how others have spoken of it… I am aware that “Anons” is the term used at large. “Grey mages” was… I think it was a term that Felix (( @unluckyadept)) coined.

[He glanced up without lifting his head.]

Mikhail: There are reasons for this. Listen well, because I am not altogether sure that I will even be allowed to finish this explanation. And please be advised that Lord Felix knows more than I do, having studied them longer.

[He rests his (gloved) fingertips together and sighs, closing his eyes.]

Mikhail: The beings we call the “dimension walkers” have the ability to interact beyond their own world. From what I have been told, they are actually like “ordinary” humans within their own world, to use that term loosely. The true extent of their powers is only possible outside their own world.

Mikhail: They travel between dimensions, seeking out entertainment. When they see something they like, they record the happenings, sight, or sound in their enchanted scrolls. This is why many of them refer to each other as “Writers”.

Mikhail: -Interlaces his fingers- Dimension walkers don’t always merely observe, after all. One of their powers is to “sponsor” people from other worlds, allowing them to share in the ability to travel between worlds and between timelines. The link is not without a price… the empathic nature can be highly taxing, and is a two-way link.

Mikhail: Their vision, however, is paradoxically not all that good. Sometimes, they cannot even see someone or something clearly until it is drawn. And their perception carries great power.

Mikhail: The image, the “avatar”, if you would, that is chosen by the “Anons” is monochrome, and largely grey. They use potent magic at will. Thus, they appear as people in (oversized) grey robes with white masks and black shades.

Mikhail: This is why the term “grey mages” was coined and remains in use. For it is best to keep in mind that you all have potent power. Forgetting this can be quite costly. They are, after all, dimension walkers—just using a specific method to remain faceless, featureless, almost entirely untraceable.

[He shook his head.]

Mikhail: I am aware of the powers of the dimension walkers, veiled or not. I have also come to learn of their societal structure… but that was only shared with great reluctance.

Mikhail: In addition to observing other worlds, they also have the ability to exert their own influence on the other realities. Those who first discover and capture a world have the most profound influence. Others who come afterward to that realm or to other timelines thereof have less influence, though their power within the reflected timelines can become quite potent.

Mikhail: As a social people, they are able to boost each other’s power. Thus, harmony between them can greatly increase the power of the individuals and the group. On the other hand… division among the ranks can lead to a group—acting either as a group, or as individuals—to humiliate, sometimes even psychologically torture a disgraced member, stripping them of their powers and nullifying their ability to exert influence in any sphere.

Mikhail: For those of us who are sponsored by a dimension walker, being on the second-hand receiving end of such a process is rather unnerving. I did not experience the brunt of such a thing, myself—and neither did Felix. But one of our allies did.

[He opens his eyes, giving a most unamused stare that sat on the borderline of being a glare.]

Mikhail: The reason we have always been so heavily warned against grey mages is not merely for what they can do to us. No, that is nothing new or unusual; any dimension walker can choose to be a guardian angel or a tormentor enriching living Hell.

Mikhail: No.

Mikhail: The greatest danger is in what they can do to other dimension walkers.

Mikhail: This is where I can no longer speak on the matter. It will not be permitted to do so; my sponsor will prevent it outright. I highly doubt she’ll take this conversation even as it is very kindly. She does not like it being discussed, not openly. But that alone should tell you much, if you are willing and able to see the implications.

[He narrowed his eyes, letting out a slow and very quiet sigh.]

Mikhail: The likelihood of benevolent visits from grey mages has always been hovering near absolute zero. That is what we were told. And it was said most fervently. Less so, as time passed… but that was not so much due to a societal shift as it was a growing certainty of being entirely uninteresting to them. Hardly anyone pays us any heed—and those who do have been particularly consistent over the last three years.

Mikhail: I understand that there are rules in place that limit dimension walkers from being overly helpful, and that using the masks and robes allows for a loophole that eases that restriction considerably.

Mikhail: But you must keep in mind the context that we live with, that the children live with.

[And it’s here that he grows tired, very tired.]

Mikhail: Most other AI&As have resources. They have Doctors with labs, sometimes even entire fortresses. Repairs are not an issue, nor is safety.

Mikhail: That is not so with us.

Mikhail: Our world is hostile to AI&As. I’m told it’s an outright dystopia. And that is certainly true. In our world, “identity” has become absolutely viciously divisive. People inflict violence on others who are dissimilar to them, and get away with it for several reasons. One reason is that doxxing is used to facilitate mob violence, which happens so quickly that law enforcement cannot move in time. Another reason is that in the aftermath, such violence and cruelty is justified due to the aggressive party identifying themselves a specific way that grants them special treatment, while the victim is identified in such a way that they “deserve” that treatment, and worse. And the government does nothing to stop this. No… it monitors, and works behind the scenes to—among other things—undermine resistance movements which try to bring about peace. Peace and freedom would undermine the need of the people to rely on them, after all, and thus their power would diminish.

Mikhail: People are chosen both purposefully and at random. They are vilified, and threats are made and carried out. Cardinal told me a story, once, about one of the members of the secret group that he lived with after he ran away from Wily. One of the members got doxxed, and was brutally attacked and murdered. Their house and car were burned to the ground, and the place they worked for had the windows smashed and all the merchandise looted.

Mikhail: The people do this to each other all the time, you see. And their treatment of Robot Masters is worse. They’ve strangled the life out of the industry. Getting my company off the ground was an absolute nightmare, let me tell you. And don’t even get me started on the suffocating regulations I have to deal with now that Wily thoroughly destroyed everything, just short of killing my entire family.

[Ohhhh it was clear, most DEFINITELY clear he did not want to talk about that.]

Mikhail: We live in a world where we have had to become as uninteresting and unnoticeable as possible to survive. Where being noticed by those in power gets you killed.

Mikhail: And we have come to an interdimensional realm where social power play between higher powers can be extremely dangerous.

Mikhail: Do you see now why we view this as we do? Why we are not so quick to trust?

Mikhail: If no one is paying attention to you but those you know, then logically any mystery that cannot be connected to friends of the present would be highly likely to be connected to enemies from the past. And by all accounts… well. I cannot speak on that, not without getting into deep, deep trouble.

[There was a long pause.]

Mikhail: …That being said.

Mikhail: If you do truly wish to help us, and to TRY to undo the damage of the past… well, you are welcome to do so.

[His expression softened.]

Mikhail: We have all of us learned that not everyone is an enemy. The few times where we dared to make friends… they are the only reason we survived. Certainly… we are not against making a new friend. And I am not entirely against conversation.

[A sad and broken smile, eyes reflecting a fenced-in despair.

There were two sharp memories that burned. One was his, and one was not.]

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“I know what your kind are like.”

“Don’t try to be a hero or a martyr, because you’re neither. From here on out? All anyone will EVER remember of you would be your role as a tragic villain.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mikhail: -Slightly shaky- I think, however, that you will find it rather an uphill battle. 

Mikhail: ({Good luck with that.})

#cje #Paradox posting #still relevant

2 notes · View notes

howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 5 years

Text

Building the “material foundation” for Sun Myung Moon

Chris Edwards had been recruited at Boonville in the California Bay Area a few months earlier, in the spring of 1975. This was to be his first day fundraising solo.

“We soon piled into the van and headed for another town on the outskirts of the Bay Area after a few more minutes of desperate sleep. It was 6:15 a.m. and we were all terribly tired. I felt drugged. I was exhausted, my hands infected in a dozen places where rose thorns had pierced my fingers. For the past six days I had survived on burger rolls and chocolate milk, cookies and doughnut donations. Suddenly I couldn’t stand it anymore. The exhaustion, the suffering, were unbearable. My feet were covered with red sores from running. My shirt clung to me, glued to my skin from layers of dried sweat. I dropped off to sleep, dreaming of vast baskets of flowers. “Get up, child! Get up! It’s exercise time!”

I began a desperate prayer … to Heavenly Father, begging for forgiveness, thanking him for rescuing me from Satan’s world:

“Heavenly Father, I pray for guidance in this dark hour. Help me to understand why I came this way, what is Your true nature. Give me the knowledge of the Divine Principle, help me to gain this understanding for all phases of my activity in this earthly life. I depend upon You and this Family of Yours. Especially inform and inspire me on these, my first days of flower-selling alone. In our Master’s name I pray. Amen.” …

“Okay, everybody. No spacing out. Get centered and get back into the van. We have to clean up this town the Heavenly way today. Okay. You’ve got five minutes to think and pray for your goals. We’ll pick up our flowers at the train station, then we’ll do it!”

“Do it!” we shouted, now tucked away in the back of the van. Keith poured the chocolate milk, our breakfast, as the group slumped into more silent prayer.

“Who’s got goals?” Carl cried. “Any volunteers?”

“Me! Me!” we replied like first-graders with big answers. Carl called on Keith:

“My goal for the day is to get to know Heavenly Father’s heart better. I’ll chant, pray, and run, and I’ll work to leave everybody with a smile, no matter how negative they are toward me. … Finally, and most important to Heavenly Father, I’m setting my material goal for today at a hundred fifty dollars!”

Everybody patter-clapped, screamed, and shouted. Carl and Keith slammed their hands against the thin metal roof with a crashing sound as the group slapped Keith on the back and shouted, “I’m in-spired!” and “Great—just great!”

Recharged by this mass vitality, I couldn’t wait for my turn.

“Okay, Chris, let’s hear your goals.”

“Well, first I’ll chant, pray, and run. I’ll pray to Heavenly Father before each sale, and I’ll chant especially for spirit world to work through me today. I’ll address the spirit of each buyer directly, chanting to him, ‘Buy these flowers for the Messiah’. This should summon all his ancestors to work through him to make his spirit man buy these roses for Father, Master of the spirit world. As I sell each flower, I will consider it a precious blessing from the Messiah. I promise to use Heavenly Deception to encourage people to buy these blessings no matter how my fallen mind bothers me. I’ll pray to Heavenly Father to repent for my small-mindedness in not deceiving people for Heaven’s good. I will turn Satan against himself!”

The crowd cheered as the van careened around a curve, sending heavenly children flying in a welter of arms and legs. I continued, “Last of all, my material goal for my first solo day is seventy-five dollars.”

The crowd clapped, but I sensed a definite air of disappointment and disapproval. Carl said firmly:

“That’s all great, but I think your material goal is small-minded. You underestimate the power of Heavenly Father, Chris. Shoot for the stars and work like mad, and Heavenly Father will help you succeed. Remember what Father tells us. If you dedicate yourself absolutely, if you think nothing of yourself or your selfish desire, if you forget everything you ever learned and concentrate on God, then not only will Heavenly Father help you. Father’s spirit will be there to bless you and help you work in spirit world. Pay heed to Father. Only he understands the truth. Okay. Get your flowers together, and bring plenty of string and paper to tie and wrap the bunches. At the count of three, out you go. One, two, three!”

Two brothers ripped open the side doors of the van, and a third brother pitched me out. Stunned, standing on the sidewalk, I watched the van fly by. Keith stuck his head out the side window and shouted, “Father be with you!”

“Father be with you,” I murmured. I pricked my finger on a thorn as I shuffled the two large bunches wrapped in newspapers under my arms. Red, white, yellow roses, American beauties, miniatures, babies. All imbued with the magical blessing of our Master, all specially sprinkled with Holy Salt, the same salt blessed by Reverend Moon at his own wedding—the Marriage of the Lamb, when the True Father and the True Mother of the Universe were married in 1960 to fulfill biblical prophecy.

I walked down the street and into a small alleyway, carefully placed my flowers on the ground, and said a special prayer. Then I gathered my flowers together, arranging them so that the most beautiful blooms stood out clearly and the dead ones were carefully hidden, as I had been taught. Pulling myself erect, I straightened my skinny tie and raked through my hair with my fingers.

I ran past the Burger Kings, used-car lots, hardware stores, and the local A&P. I chanted away as I crossed the street, hurrying toward my destination, an industrial park. “Big Boy Metal Works.” Below the sign posted a warning: “Positively No Soliciting!” That meant I’d have to play smart. “Become a Heavenly Guerrilla. We’re carrying our war to the streets,” as Keith had told me so many times. He described these places as “kick-outs.” You had to use your Heavenly Determination to get past the managers and guards. You had to sell as much as possible before the police caught you. There was big money to be made in the factories, according to Family veterans.

Could I do it? If I only had faith…

…

Keith was reading about how we must give up everything to become members of the Family. Listening to him, I realized that everything Reverend Moon decreed was being smoothly accomplished, unbeknownst to countless millions of Americans. He was laying the “material foundation,” gathering up millions of dollars, quietly buying real estate and corporations, lobbying for his various front groups in Washington while converting thousands of young people, young people who were completely dedicated to correcting the world’s ills. Either this was wonderful or it was madness—divine, frightening madness.

I remembered how people in the Family joked about how crazy everybody would think they were if they only knew what Family members actually thought and did with their lives. Think of the words the group used: No More Concepts, You Think Too Much, Your Mind Is Fallen, Heavenly Thinking, The Heavenly Way, Follow Center, and the other slogans that saturated my brain!

I remembered what one Family member once told me about Reverend Moon’s theme several years ago.

“We must become crazy for God.” Yes, that’s what he’d said.

Crazy for God. Father said so, so we must become crazy for God. Crazy. God. God-Crazy. And we are, I thought. We are. And soon the Victory will be won. We—are—becoming—crazy for God. We are becoming—Crazy for God. We are becoming Crazy for God. Yes—that’s it. And no one will understand us—until they become crazy for God, too—

The van whipped around the corner, right rear wheels flying over the sidewalk and down, scattering heavenly children and bundles of paper bags filled with dollar bills neatly banded in hundred-dollar stacks. Soon we were traveling down a long stretch of California highway, facing a glorious sunset which shot red flames across the azure sky. Somebody shouted, “Lookit the sunset!”

“That’s Heavenly Father’s way of thanking us for all the good we’ve done today for Him,” Keith exclaimed. “Thank you, Heavenly Father.”

“Thank you, Heavenly Father,” we echoed.”

______________________________________

extract from: Crazy for God – The nightmare of cult life by ex-Moon disciple Christopher Edwards

Full story HERE

______________________________________

Sun Myung Moon visits Hearst Street, Berkeley, Jan 1, 1976

Boonville’s Japanese origins

Moonwebs by Josh Freed

Life Among the Moonies by Deanna Durham

Mitchell was lucky – he got away from the Unification Church

#Christopher Edwards #Crazy for God #Boonville #FFWPU #Mose Durst #Onni Durst #Unification Church #Sun Myung Moon

1 note · View note

365daysofmikayuu · 6 years

Text

January 1st, 2018

Title: Three Wishes

Author: Ren

A/N: Aladdin!AU; Yuuichirou is down to his third and final wish: to grant Mika his freedom...or bind the genie to him for all eternity.

The first wish Yuuichirou had made was based entirely on desperation and the very instinct to survive, pronounced on the night of a new moon when he stole the rusted incense burner from his owner, long enough at least until he was, deservedly, beaten close to death for his thievery. With what should have been his last breath, he called forth the genie of lore and wished for life—no, so much more than that...for all the pain and humiliation he'd endured, for the blood his body expelled and subsequently soaked onto the muddied streets of this wretched, accursed town, he had yearned and begged for immortality.

With hardly a word to affirm Yuuichirou's wish, the genie named Mikaela solemnly granted him the desire of his heart, his omnipotent power swirling around his frail, human body, transforming him into a being that was the closest a mortal could ever hope to reach in the imitation—the very concept of a god.

In retrospect, it was a dastardly foolish wish, done out of pure instinct. For who would ever find pleasure in an everlasting existence, denied the bliss of death, to never have the chance to ride the wheel of reincarnation?

And yet in spite of that, wishing for the genie to take away his immortality would have been even more foolish, so he had no choice but to confront his own fate, journeying along the path of infinite perpetuity, a mindless existence, until years and decades and centuries had passed in the blink of an eye, before one day, he finally made up his mind for his second wish.

As it turned out, his genie was not the cold, unfeeling creature he thought him to be in the beginning. He was playful, mischievous even—and when they witnessed the dawn of the 19th century, as they silently observed the transformation of this small island country become a burgeoning empire for the ages to come, he had the good and wise sense to advise his master that mayhaps—it was time to properly consider his second wish.

"Are you getting tired of me?" Yuu had asked, laying his head on the genie's naked chest, idly drawing circles around his rib cage, not willing to meet his eyes. It was a sensitive topic between them, mostly on his part, of course, simply for the fact that he did now know what to wish for. Four hundred years of contemplation certainly didn't give him any answers, and he wandered all over Japan, trying to look for it, to no avail. A human who has lived for hundreds of years, he had no earthly desires, save perhaps the constant, familiar company of his genie and whatever pleasures there were that did exist, he already experienced them all.

Besides, after the dreadful mistake with his first wish, a small part of him was frightened of the consequences that his second wish would wrought.

The genie shook his head, wrapping his arms around the other boy's waist, before he pulled the covers around them to keep away the evening chill. "Not at all. On the contrary, you have managed to keep my fascination throughout these long years. I could even say I'd be quite lost without you."

Yuuichirou chuckled, placing a kiss on top of the genie's breast, travelling his way upwards to his collarbone, to the shell of his ear. "Are you in earnest?"

"Do you believe my words are intended for jesting?" the blond replied back cryptically, softly returning his lover's kiss. "If you do not want to make your second wish now, you have only need to say so. I'll not push any further."

Yuuichirou shook his head, letting out a contented sigh as he shifted slightly against the genie's form, entwining their legs together. "No, for once...I'll heed your advice. I have thought about it, to speak truth. When I am ready, I shall declare it."

A lie, but a calculated one, nonetheless.

"And if I may ask...what shall I grant you?"

"I want to move about freely in this world...without the restraints of borders or conflicts or lands that have nothing to do with me. I want to go beyond Japan...if I could, I'd want to travel even to the stars themselves."

Spoken on a whim, the stark, brutal truth.

Mikaela nodded solemnly, taking his master's sacred words to heart, placing a kiss on Yuu's forehead as he pulled him closer. "Absolute freedom, then. If that indeed be the case, you only need command me, and it is yours."

The other boy nodded sleepily afterwards, wrapping his arms around the genie's waist. And thus, for the rest of the night, there were no more talk of wishes.

______________________________

And travel they did, to the prosperous Americas, to the blood-soaked streets of Europe, the exotic lands of the Balkan states. He travelled to and fro, taking in the sights, learning languages, eating strange foods, marveling as technology advanced before their very eyes. For a time, he kept himself and his genie entertained, observed humanity in the eyes of one who was subservient to them, and the other, whom was at once mortal and a parody of the gods.

It wasn't until another two hundred years later that the reality had hit him hard, far worse than he could have ever imagined in his nightmares.

He was down to his last and final wish. His beacon of understanding, the one thing in this long, limitless life that had given him his purpose; the very notion of the wishes themselves had become his life philosophy, more so than what it could have ever granted him. And strange how that was, how one moment he was idly living his life and in the next, facing the greatest trial he'd ever come across.

How transient...how utterly whimsical time could be, the one foe he'll never defeat, despite his prolonged life.

"Tell me, Mika...what should I wish for this one last time?" he asked one day, looking out into the Mediterranean sea from their hotel room in Venice, his jade-colored eyes vivid with life.

"My darling, I cannot influence your decision. You alone must decide."

"Then let me rephrase my question...without hint of bias and acknowledging the fact that I am trapped in this immortal shell, what do my wishes come down to?"

Mikaela let out a sad, empty smile, walking over to his master and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, breathing in his scent, reminding him of the acacia flowers that once bloomed in his homeland, eons ago. "At last my love, t'would seem that you have realized your true predicament."

"I have been a fool...such a fool..."

The blond shook his head, bringing Yuu's hand to his lips, closing his eyes worshipfully. "It comes down to two choices, inamorato."

"And what do they entail...?"

"You either choose to free me...or bind me. My fate is in your hands, as it has always been, as it always will be."

At this point, Yuuichirou's tears were flowing freely, unrestrained. How long has it been, he wondered, since he had cried so heartily, to feel the cathartic release that his tears could offer.

From the instant his body had felt Mikaela's power flowing through him, blessing him with the gift (curse) of undeath, Yuu had always known his final wish.

"Then my beloved, from this day onwards, you will cease to be my genie, and instead..."

Would you like to see your work featured on this blog? Fill out the application form today! :)

#365daysofmikaandyuu #mikayuu #yuumika #yuumikayuu #drabble

81 notes · View notes

scaredofrobots · 6 years

Text

Twenty Four Days Of Christmas

Happy One Month Until Christmas Eve! Here is more Christmas universe garbage for @petalstofish . Heading into theatre tech hell soon so posting while I’m less cray cray. Thanks to Squid Squad for betaing and being my cheerleaders. Love yall! on FFN

For normal people, the acceptable time to decorate for Christmas is December 1st. The inhabitants of 7C were anything but normal, thank you very much. In fact, for the other residents of in the Magnolia Crescent building, Christmas cheer had been creeping into their lives since November 1st when the inhabitants of 7C had drug two Christmas trees up three flights of stairs and decorated their entire hallway with lights and tinsel.

They’d been skeptical when the group of young people moved in and even more suspicious when it was three young men with one lovely redheaded girl moving into the three bedroom apartment, but the elderly neighbors were happily surprised with how little noise came from the flat.

This was only the case because Lily Evans was the “motherfucking shit,” as Sirius would say, at charms. So 7C (which housed the four former Gryffindors) was sound-proof which is why the other residents of Magnolia Crescent never heard anything.

And why they didn’t hear the shenanigans going on on December 1. James Potter had taken it upon himself to turn the extra bedroom into a “Happy 24 Days Until Christmas” winter wonderland. He was in the off season for Puddlemere United and had a lot of time on his hands and he was using his pent up energy for good.

His girlfriend of four years, Lily Evans, was working late, so he wanted to surprise her with the first night of JAMES POTTER’S TWENTY FIVE DAY CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN. It was their first Christmas living in the same flat and James had BIG PLANS.

Sirius, however, was skeptical. “You’re up to something else,” he remarked, as James added more tinsel to the mantle. Rolling his eyes, James responded, “No, I’m not. I’m simply excited for our first Christmas together in the flat.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, “Fine, don’t tell me, but when whatever this plan is totally fucks up - don’t come crawling to me for help.”

Whatever James’ response was going to be was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. As she entered the flat Lily announced, “I hope you two are alright with curry - it’s been a shit day and I plan on sticking a straw into that bottle of gin.”

Scrambling to finish tinseling the mantle, James called, “Curry is fine! Come in here and you might feel like drinking the gin from the glass instead!”

Lily set down the take out bags in the kitchen and entered the spare room.

“HAPPY 25 DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS LIL,” James exclaimed as she entered the winter wonderland.

He waited anxiously for her response. Lily stood stock still as she took in the decorations. There were paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling, glittery objects everywhere and a countdown banner that was counting down the hours and minutes until Christmas Day.

“Holy shit,” Lily exploded, “Did I finally infect you with the Christmas spirit? THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!!!”

James laughed delightedly as Lily rushed about the room examining every decoration and looking as excited as she did on actual Christmas morning. When she finally reached James she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply. Sirius took this as his cue to exit and made himself useful by heading to the kitchen to make gin and tonics.

When they pulled away Lily said, “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” James smiled and shrugged, “I know this case has been tough on you. So, I figured I could up the festive this year. You deserve it.”

Lily only smiled and kissed him again. It was true. The law firm Lily had started working for after graduation had picked up the Riddle Case. Tom Riddle, or Voldemort as his followers called him, had been running an underground blood supremacy group called The Death Eaters. The Levins Law Group was handling the prosecution, and Lily had been working as a paralegal since graduation. The case was complicated and the lawyers and membership of the organization, seemed to change daily. Every time someone was arrested, they would turn in three others for a plea deal. In fact, seven months prior, their very own Peter Pettigrew had been named as a member by Severus Snape.

It had been hardest on James- that someone he would lay his life down for could be taken in by such a terrible organization. When Peter had first been named as a member James was in firm denial. He planned to pay for Peter’s legal fees and bail until the arraignment. When the evidence again to pile up against Peter. James’ heart broke. They’d always joked that “Peter brings a lot to the group dynamic” but Peter was creative and intelligent. Somehow, this creativity had been harnessed into hate. When the original copy Mudblood Manifesto had been revealed to be written in Peter’s handwriting James knew he could never forgive him. When the photo of Peter smiling next to a tortured muggle child James felt some crimes might be worth the dementor’s kiss. The spare room they were standing in used to be Peter’s, and James was trying his hardest to heed Lily’s advice and make new happy memories in a place that had made him feel so bitter and angry as they packed up all their former mate’s things.

When they separated, Lily pulled away and pressed her nose against his and whispered, “I love you.” James started, “Lily, I-”

As was his custom, Sirius Black interrupted this perfect moment with a, “OI! Knock it off you two. Remus isn’t back for another two weeks, and I can’t have you two trying to out-cute us when I can’t even compete”

Remus was in his second year teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts and lived on campus during the term sessions.

“I still can’t believe Remus is a fucking teacher,” Lily said, before she took a gin and tonic from Sirius.

“I know? I mean bloke can’t even fold his socks right, it is a nightmare.” Sirius shrugged.

“I still can’t believe he made a kid cry,” James stated as he sat down on a mound of fake snow.

“I can. Those bloody first years are needy. And you know how sarcastic Remus gets when he doesn’t have enough chocolate,” Sirius said fondly.

“Remus’ sarcasm could make even Minnie cry,” Lily confirmed as she plopped down next to James.

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur of drinking, laughing and fake snowball fights. It was the happiest James had seen Lily in months, and he was relieved to know that Christmas still held some magic. Later, when she was snuggled up against him in bed, she told him, “You know this is going to be tradition now right? A winter wonderland on Dec 1?”

James laughed before he kissed her and replied, “As you wish.”

Two weeks of JAMES POTTER’S TWENTY FIVE DAY CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN passed by almost completely without incident. James had recreated some of Lily’s favorite events from her famous 84 day failed advent calendar, and she was more excited for Christmas than she had been in her entire life.

Every evening when she would return home from work, she would rush in and demand to know what the “Christmas Countdown Activity” was.

Sirius, however, found the whole ordeal suspicious. James had always tolerated Lily’s Christmas Obsession at best, but now it seemed almost like he was trying to out-Christmas Lily Evans.

He confronted James about it when they were traveling to pick Remus up from Kings Cross on December 18. As they stood on the platform with their “Professor Remus Lupin” sign wearing their chauffeur uniforms, which had started as a joke but had quickly become tradition, Sirius broached the subject. “SO what are you up to with the Christmas Countdown, mate? You’re suspiciously festive- and I know a Potter scheme when I see it.”

James dropped the sign. Picking it up, he responded (in a slightly higher tone than normal), “I’m not up to anything! Just want to make our first Christmas in the flat special. Does Lily think I’m up to something?”

Sirius stared at him for a long moment. “No. Lily hasn’t mentioned anything to me. But as I said, you seem suspiciously festive and I get the distinct feeling you are up to something.”

His composure regained, James reiterated “I just want to make our first Christmas in the flat special. To show Lily how I am excited about her favorite holiday.”

As they stood there waiting, Sirius tried to piece together the clues.This year, James had gone absolutely bonkers over Christmas. He hadn’t complained once in November when they were putting up the Christmas decorations, whereas last year he refused to even look at Lily’s tree until December. He had even taken to wearing a different Christmas jumper every day just to make Lily smile, and he had a list of events for every day. It was like he was Lily Evans on a Christmas overdose. Which only meant one thing.

“So you’re trying to out Christmas her then? That is it? You’re in the off-season so your competitiveness is showing itself in some mad Christmas spirit contest that she doesn’t even know she is a part of?” Sirius exclaimed.

Laughing James said, “Alright alright- you figured out my big secret. Just don’t tell Lily”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Remus. “I really wish you two would stop with the damn sign and the damn uniforms. I’m not your child.”

“But Remus,” Sirius gasped holding a hand to his chest, “How else are we going to practice the multitude of ways we are going to embarrass our children when they go to Hogwarts.”

Remus simply grumbled, handed Sirius his suitcase, and said, “Lead the way then, oh brave chauffeurs.”

On the drive home, Remus updated them on the goings on at Hogwarts. As he was telling them the dramatic details of the most recent break up of a couple of sixth year Ravenclaws, Sirius exclaimed, “I always knew the professors were bloody gossips.”

“It’s free entertainment, mate. We aren’t paid enough, and most of the time I want to hit my head against the wall, so their dramatic lives are something to look forward to. And don’t act like you don’t live for the updates,” Remus countered.

They arrived at 7C Magnolia Crescent and were greeted with a very festively dressed Lily Evans who had spent her day off making a “WELCOME HOME REMUS” feast, which was strangely close to what a Christmas dinner would be like.

The next three days were full of “Mandatory Festive Fun, Remus you big stick in the mud,” James- not Lily- would say every morning. James had planned an obnoxious amount of Christmas activities and since Lily was off work and Remus was back, each day was packed with festive activities.

On the 19th, Remus’ first day home. James naturally had arranged for them to relive The Polar Express by riding a train to Hogwarts where he had somehow convinced Dumbledore to play the role of Santa and to give each one of them sleighbells. They took the Knight Bus home and enjoyed the hot chocolate except for Remus who was unamused by having to make the long train ride two days in a row.

The next day, they all went ice skating. This was when Remus finally perked up because James and Sirius were terrible. Lily and Remus spent hours trying to get James and Sirius to make at least one loop around the ice but both of them would fall in a tangle of legs and arms every time. The four of them hadn’t laughed that hard since before Peter’s trial and the joy was welcome.

That evening was spent threading popcorn onto string, drinking copious amounts of wine and trying to get their television to work despite the magical interference. When that failed, James and Lily watched as Remus and Sirius played Wizard’s Chess. When Lily fell asleep against James on the couch Sirius looked to James and told him, “I don’t think you’ll be able to top the past two days mate. And you’ve got 4 days of your countdown left.”

James smiled and told him, “Never doubt me, Sirius. I’m a man on a mission”

Sirius’ response was interrupted by his bishop being destroyed.

The next day was for baking and donating. The four of them spent hours baking, frosting and delivering cookies. Sirius only got in trouble for trying to eat the icing twice while Remus received a lifetime ban for sneaking all of the chocolate chips.

As Sirius watched James and Lily deliver the final cookies he swore he saw the Marauder twinkle in James’ eyes. He had to figure out what James was up too.

On December 22, Sirius had had finally had enough. He knew there was one person who could help him figure it out. Lily Evans (assisted by a chat and some Firewhiskey). James was off for some Puddlemere publicity shoot for the upcoming season, and had left Sirius in charge of the Countdown Activities for the day. Sirius, however saw this as the perfect opportunity to have a Chat With Evans about James’ recently developed Christmas cheer.

Remus had taken his grading to a nearby coffee shop- “I need some fucking quiet Sirius - you’re always so loud. Even your silence is distracting” -he had ranted as he left the flat. So Sirius and Lily were alone for the better part of the afternoon, and Sirius planned to find out if Lily knew what James was planning, or, at the very least, if she found the behavior odd.

He didn’t have to wait long. Halfway into their second bottle of Firewhiskey, Lily looked at Sirius with a stern expression and asked, “Do you know why James is so suspiciously festive? Is he trying to out-Christmas me? Because I get the distinct feeling James is up to something. I’ve enjoyed every minute, but he is relentless! And he keeps telling me over and over again not to make plans for Christmas Eve, because he has a new tradition planned to end all traditions, and I’m trying to be appreciative but my competitive side is SCREAMING AT ME that is he trying to outdo me. And the whole…”

Lily continued her speculations, and Sirius was filled with relief that Lily, too, found the festive behavior suspicious. As she continued to rant, however- SIrius realized that James wasn’t trying to outdo Lily at all. Suddenly all the behavior he thought was suspicious started to make sense. He thought about the differences between James’ general mischief scheming and his make Lily swoon scheming. And suddenly what James had been scheming hit Sirius like a bolt of lightning. He also realized he hadn’t been listening to a word Lily was saying for at least two minutes. He tuned back in to hear her wondering, “I mean, what could he possibly have planned on Christmas Eve that is so great? I have half a mind to plan an alternative event and botch his plan.”

Panicking because he knew how horribly this all could go Sirius yelled, “NO!”

When Lily looked affronted and asked, “And why the FUCK not?”

“I mean, sure you need to take back your title. Or whatever. But not on Christmas Eve. James has always loved Christmas Eve the most. So just wait until Christmas Day for whatever idea you’re planning,” Sirius explained, rather lamely.

Lily huffed but exhaled “I suppose you’re right. It is Christmas after all. You have to help me though.”

Sirius draped an arm around her shoulders and said, “Of course, Evans, couldn’t leave my prank partner alone in her mischief.”

Lily snuggled closer to him and wrapped her arms around him, “You know I love you Sirius. You’re like the brother I never knew I wanted.”

Sirius kissed the crown of Lily’s head, “I know Evans. But it is far too early in our chat to be getting so weepy.”

Lily sat up on her knees and looked Sirius in the eye, “It isn’t too early in the evening. After Petunia, and Peter and this case- I just want you to know that I love you- you’re my family and I am not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me for forever.”

Sirius smiled and reached for her hand, “Evans, I knew I was stuck with you forever when you wrote a Christmas song about Hippogriffs. Now stop this sappy nonsense. Let’s go spread the Christmas cheer into your bedroom. See how James likes it.”

The rest of the their time was spent singing their old favorite:

God rest ye merry hippogriffs, Let nothing you dismay, For Lily and Sirius Will feed you Christmas Day, And save you all from Slytherins Who all are dirty gits O tidings of comfort and joy, Comfort and joy, Oh tidings of comfort and joy.

And James and Lily’s bedroom was transformed into a Winter Wonderland.

When Remus arrived at 6pm he found them skipping around the spare bedroom throwing fake snowballs.

“OI!” Remus interrupted, “Are you two quite finished? We’re supposed to meet James to go see the Nutcracker in 30 minutes.”

Miraculously, they made it to the theatre with time to spare. Remus and Sirius always forgot that drunk Lily was quick and nimble and, apparently, very very VERY excited to see the Nutcracker.

When they reached James outside the theatre, Lily’s momentum nearly knocked him to the ground when she hugged him.

“I’m on to you, James Potter,” she told him seriously. James immediately paled and looked to Sirius for explanation.

“Yes James, I was telling Lily all about how you’re trying to out Christmas her,” Sirius explained in his lawyer voice and tugged on his left ear which meant that he and James would be having a chat of their own.

Lily giggled and explained “But I am the queen of Christmas cheer and you will never take my crown. Just be prepared.”

Lily started to walk towards the entrance of the theatre and missed the glances exchanged between Sirius and James.

The ballet was wonderful. Sirius thoroughly enjoyed Act One. What he enjoyed even more was how watching how nervous James was acting. James was a bundle of nerves. He seemed like a man on death row.

At intermission, James seemed to have had enough. He told Lily, “Lil, Sirius and I will grab some wines. You and Remus should check out the Christmas Trees of the World display on the second floor lobby.”

Lily, still slightly buzzed, cooed and dragged Remus off.

Sirius crossed his arms and said “When?”

James, startled at his abruptness, answered, “Christmas Eve”

Raising his eyebrow, Sirius asked again, “Where?”

James stuttered, “The- the cottage”

Sirius bit back a smile, “Have you got the-“ as he gestured vaguely.

“What? Oh the- yeah, mum sent it to me ages ago,” James said blushing slightly.

“How?” Sirius interrogated further

“How? Oh well Remus-“ James tried

“REMUS KNOWS?!?!” Sirius erupted, and several patrons stopped to stare. Lowering his voice he continued “You told Remus, but not me- your best mate- your pal- your-“

“Stop. Stop,” James demanded, “I’m sure you’re about to go into a lovely and dramatic rant about how I have betrayed you. But for once in your life just listen.”

Offended, but resolved to be silent, Sirius nodded.

“Look- you know how Lily is. She says she loves surprises, but then she just has to know. She unwraps and rewraps all her presents and thinks none of us knows. She will smell something suspicious and have to know what it is. But this. THIS is the one thing I want to actually surprise her. And if you knew- you’d have one of your chats- which, by the way I know is just the two of you getting smashed and solving problems.”

Sirius interjected, “That is not what our chats are”

“Yes it is, Sirius. And I know all about the Longbottoms wedding, too. John Dawlish was assigned as my auror during Peter’s trial and was very confused when I mentioned I lived with you and Lily,” James smirked.

Sirius shrugged.

Continuing, James breathed out a sigh, “So I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you or Lily to ruin this for her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves it. She deserves it all.”

Sirius studied him, “You’ll take care of her?”

James crossed his heart, “I solemnly swear.”

Sirius held out his hand and James shook it. Feeling that wasn’t enough, the two brothers embraced.

“I’m happy for you mate,” Sirius told him, “I’m right pissed at you, but happy”

James laughed, “Want to help me set up tomorrow?”

“I’d be delighted.” Sirius grinned

They worked their way through the crowd and found Lily and Remus near the Canada tree.

As they approached Remus asked, “No wine?”

Sirius winked and said “They only had white.”

Lily scoffed and said “Uncultured swine,” before looking at the returning boys;, she studied them a moment and remarked, “You two look happy.”

“Ah Evans, three days until Christmas you know. Bloke is bound to be happy,” Sirius chuckled and pulled her into his side.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Sirius and Lily were eating their breakfast of bacon and toast as they did the daily crossword together. The day before Sirius had finally gotten all the finer details of James’ BIG PLANS and wanted to try and help him make the evening even more perfect.

As they tried to figure out what potion ingredient isn’t used very often and rhymes with jingle, Sirius took a deep breath (said a silent prayer that he wasn’t going to ruin anything) and asked, “So Evans what are you wearing tonight on your super secret festive activity James is dragging you on?”

Lily wrote “D-I-N-G-L-E B-E-R-R-Y” in the offending 13 Across as she answered, “My fucking Christmas Eve Christmas Jumper”

Sirius wrote “D-A-W-N” for 4 Down When are squids most docile? and responded, “I was thinking we should go to lunch. You could wear your jumper then and dress up tonight?”

Lily looked up at this, “What the fuck are you on about Sirius?”

“I was thinking maybe your green jumper with that black skirt and those boots that drive James mad,” Sirius continues

“Alright, what the fuck Sirius? Fashion advice? What is James planning?” Lily asked

Imagining Lily was McGonagall, Sirius decided to tell a half truth, “I’m not supposed to tell you- he wants to surprise you- but James is taking you to an old church for their Christmas pageant. It’s in an old village and the people are very old fashioned”

Lily gave a noise that sounded like a squeak and said “Oh, well I do look great in green. And lunch sounds great.”

Lily smiled like an idiot the rest of the day, and Sirius hoped she didn’t figure anything else out.

At 6pm, James and Lily (dressed in the suggested outfit) walked out of the flat and into the cold.

Grinning, James said, “Close your eyes. We’re going to do some apparating”.

Lily did as she was told and held tight to James’ hand.

With a POP they arrived at the small village. James kissed her and then told her, “ok you can open them.”

She opened her eyes and was happy to see the most beautiful village she had ever seen. It looked like every Christmas card she had ever seen and she whispered “Wow”.

“Welcome to Godric’s Hollow, Lily,” James said and kissed her again.

They spent the next half hour walking around and looking at the various shops.

“We’re going to be late,” James exclaimed and started to steer Lily toward the small church near the square.

As they took their seats, he said, “My parents used to bring me here every Christmas. We stopped my seventh year, but I’ve wanted to come back. So I wanted to bring you here to make some new traditions.”

Lily smiled at him and said, “Thank you for bringing me.”

The service began and it was beautiful. Lily was taken back to days when she would attend church with her parents. She remembered the times when she and Petunia were angels in the Pageant, the time Petunia was Mary and Lily was a donkey and most of all how singing “Silent Night” in a candlelit church really but her in the Christmas spirit.

At the gospel reading, they were happy to watch the children of the village perform a Christmas Pageant. Lily fell instantly in love with a set of twin boys who were playing sheep. They went straight up to the baby Jesus and had to be drug from the sanctuary at the end of the pageant.

Later, when the priest was breaking the bread for communion, the twin boys somehow were running down the aisle of the sanctuary and straight to baby Jesus. They remained there for the rest of the service.

As they were leaving, one of the boys ran up to them and yelled “Happy Christmas!” Lily crouched to his eye level and told him, “Happy Christmas! You were my favorite sheep.”

The little boy grinned and said, “Did you see baby Jesus up there!”

Lily responded, “I did!”

They were interrupted by a very pretty, but tired-looking woman who was saying, “There you are Max! What’ve I told you about running off.”

Max’s mother had the other twin firmly by the hand. “Sorry Mummy,” he murmured and ran over to her.

“Your children are lovely,” Lily stated as she stood up.

The mother smiled and said, “Sometimes. I’m glad we weren’t struck by lightening when they interrupted the Eucharist, but thankfully Father Brown loves children and thinks they should be a part of the service. Are you two new to the village? It’s a great place for young families.”

James smiled and pulled Lily close, “Oh, no, we’re just here for Christmas Eve. My parents used to bring me.”

“Well, I hope to see you two again sometime, but I’ve got to get these little rascals to bed. Happy Christmas,” she said.

“Happy Christmas,” James and Lily chorused.

They left the church, and James requested they go for a stroll. As they relived the most excited points of the Christmas Pageant, James pulled Lily to a stop in front of a small cottage.

“James?” Lily asked and turned to him, “Why are we stopping?”

“Oh, well- another tradition we had when I was younger was that we opened one Christmas gift on Christmas Eve,” James started, “And I wanted to give you this gift here.”

Lily looked at him curiously, “Is there a gift that hasn’t been put under the tree yet?”

“Two actually,” James grinned mischievously.

Lily gasped and said, “You know I hate surprises!”

“I think you’ll like this one.” James grinned and pulled out a narrow rectangle box and handed it to her

Taking great care, Lily unwrapped the box and opened it.

“A key?” she asked “Where to?”

James simply inclined his head to the cottage.

“A house?!?! You’re giving me a house? A house in Godric’s Hollow,” Lily demanded, her voice wavering a little.

James cleared his throat, “Technically, my parents are giving us a house in Godric’s Hollow-let’s go inside, shall we?”

James offered his arm, and Lily took it and muttered, “I cannot believe you.” He chuckled and they walked to the front door. Lily struggled with the key and James told her, “You’ve gotta twist the handle a little- there you go.”

They entered the house and Lily gasped. There were Christmas decorations everywhere. Lights, candles and greenery filled the small entryway.

Eyes twinkling, James said, “Wait until you see the lounge…” He pulled her into the room that was full of four Christmas trees and a roaring fire. Her curious nature getting the better of her, Lily began to walk around the room in wonder. “James- why-” she started, but then stopped short when she saw him.

James Potter was down on one knee in the middle of a cottage in Godric’s Hollow. A cottage his parents had apparently given to him.

She stood staring until James said, “Will you come over here so I can do this properly?”

Lily took the steps towards him and was opening her mouth, but James stopped her. “No, Evans. You are going to let me get all of this out before you say anything or I lose my nerve.”

She nodded and James took this as his cue. Letting out a deep breathe her started, “Lily Evans, I hope you know how much I love you. I love your mad obsession with quidditch, I love how filthy your mouth is, and that you can drink any of us under table.” At this Lily laughed, “You’re so kind, but you don’t take any shit and I love that about you. You make me want to be a better man. You’ve made me a better man. I love every minute I’ve spent with you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to embarrass our kids on the platform when we pick them up from Hogwarts with you and I want to spend every Christmas Eve until I die in this cottage with you. So, Evans, fancy trading in your last name for a new one?”

Raising an eyebrow Lily said, “Sirius gave you the last line then?”

Groaning, James said “Lily-”

“I don’t know- I might have to think about it- speak to my lawyer, Sirius-” she said trying to hide the smile that was threatening to come out.

“Lily…” James whined.

Laughing, she grabbed both James’ hands and pulled him to his feet, “Yes, you great prat. I’ll marry you.”

Their kiss was a mess of laughter and tears. When they pulled away they were both smiling and then James remembered, “Oh the ring!”

He pulled the box from his pocket and opened it quickly, “It’s Goblin made, an old family heirloom- do you like it?” Kissing him again she answered, “I love it- but you could tie a bit of string around my finger and I’d be happy.” James slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her again.

Moments later Sirius and Remus burst out of the kitchen yelling “Congratulations!” holding a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

James and Lily separated and accepted the champagne.

“Alright there, Evans?” Sirius asked her as they embraced.

“Perfect, Sirius. What more could a girl want?”

It was the first Christmas they spent as a family in Godric’s Hollow. But it certainly wasn’t the last.

#robots writes #squid squad #the minor character squad #robots loves petals more than Christmas aisle at Walmart #elle is a bell #levity levins #beks is bae #jilyfanfic #jily fanfiction #jily

116 notes · View notes

anonemyss1 · 7 years

Text

Eternity’s Ending (our version of events) - a literary cover novella Chapters 1 & 2

A three-part love story about a reincarnated man’s search for forgiveness from the love he left behind.

Chapter 1 - Xander

“Did you feel that?” my head whispered to my heart.

A shared experience would make the occurrence more real.

“I did,” replied my head with a serenity that comes only from finding the place where you belong.

Moments earlier I shot into his arms; closing the weeklong gap between our last goodbye and current hello. I refused to let go of him. I clung to the possibility of enduring love as tightly as I clung to his neck.

I eavesdropped on boastful arms swapping tales of the pleasure derived from holding him. The elation in their tone fought to compensate for the limits word imposed on the expression of their feelings. I wanted everything love could possibly offer and so much more. But I suppressed my greed; settling instead for his touch.

No fault was found in our embrace, despite us both being men. I inhabited the moment, banning all thoughts of past mistakes and future plans from encroaching on our fleeting coexistence. He felt right and at this time and in this place, he was mine.

I prayed he felt the same. I prayed he was consumed solely by me. All the while, I silently sought absolution for the possibility of my hunger conflicting with his wishes. The security of his hold convinced me no such forgiveness was required. I was grateful. Through blind luck or sheer genius, I had asked for and received the one whom I would never regret. As I inhaled him, I vowed to capitalize on the chance I had been given.

I grope the buttons of my alarm clock in search of a way to quiet the morning chatter. Three hours of sleep no longer does it for me. I used to be able to party until sunrise, power nap and attend my 7 AM lab without looking like shit. Now that the spring chicken phase of my life has ended, three hours of sleep only pisses me off. It’s someone’s fault, probably mine but I’m not accepting the blame. That leaves one person to take the fall.

I roll my eyes at the redundancy of my nights since meeting Vincent. It’s always the same damn dream. It always leaves me with the same bittersweet feeling of needing something I do not want. And it always, always, always makes me feel like I’m supposed to experience the reality of the dream with Vincent.

He has been trying to understand why I just won’t stay the night at his place for some time now. I show up around 10 PM. I won’t sleep while I am there and I never stay past 1 AM without very good reason (and by good reason I mean marathon sex). He thinks I’m just afraid of letting people in. I can sense it in the patience he shows. He’s wrong. I don’t have daddy issues or abandonment issues. I just don’t like sleepovers or intimacy at all really. I like my sleep in my own bed and unless we are in the throws of it, two is a crowd.

But this dream I’ve been having doesn’t help Vincent’s cause at all. It’s just providing me with one more reason not to stay over. I don’t want him to find out about it. He’s too fucking perceptive not to piece something together, given the chance. And, I refuse to give him the chance to start thinking there’s some truth in the cheesy pickup line he swears won him my “affection”; his word, not mine.

“You loved me in a past life,” he said with absolute conviction.

He was fucking beautiful in a handcrafted to perfection, fit to be admired, let me have your baby because our children would be gods, kind of way. I don’t even want kids but I felt like denying the world the blessing of our offspring would be a sin. My mocha features matched with his golden sand complexion. Not to mention all of the things I would get to do to him during the baby making process. If I did love, he would surely be the recipient of it. I planned to tell him as much. I was going to tell him to lose the lame ass pick up life first. I cased his entire body from the ground up searching for the very best points of entry, as he stood there awaiting my response. Thank God for grown ass men who wear fitted clothes so I don’t have to work so hard to gauge what is underneath them. I took a few seconds to admire the way his shirt hung perfectly on what I imagined was an equally perfect chest before I looked into his eyes.

“Not if that’s the line you used,” I said, forcing myself to stay cool through my internal freak-out.

My tone was slathered in dismissal and I walked away without so much as excusing myself. I downplayed the familiarity of the faded blue eyes that seemed to know me by my soul. I labeled myself as crazy and labeled him as an asshole.

I called my best friend, Cassie, a few hours later because the encounter was still all I could think about. She would confirm the entire thing as pure foolishness. She would even join me in a laugh at his expense.

It wasn’t until I awoke longing for a feeling of completion I knew only he would give me that I realized the joke was on me.

He had, in one line, managed to weave himself into my subconscious and that wasn’t going to fly.

Chapter 2 - Vincent

“You don’t have to leave. You know that, right?” Xander reaches for her shirt. I snatch it from the bed before she can gain possession of it. “I mean, I don’t mind that you snore.”

“I don’t snore,” she extends her hand, sighing impatiently when I don’t grant her the instant gratification she is accustomed to.

“How would you know, you only sleep alone?”

“I know,” her tone urges me to proceed with caution but I refuse to heed its warning. She shoves her open palm in the direction of the shirt I hold hostage.

“You can’t possibly know. But I’m more than willing to help you find out.”

When she finally drops her arm and turns to face me, I know without question, I have awakened a sleeping dragon. I speak before she has the chance to unleash the fire sitting on her tongue.

“We’ll play my favorite game,” I pause to gauge her annoyance level. She doesn’t strike during the silence so I continue. “It’s called, ‘Are you a snorer?’”

I whistle and cheer as loud as a one-man studio audience can.

“Really?” she says flatly.

“You know it?” I try to combat the apathy of her tone with the excitement in mine.

“No, I don’t know it, Vincent,” she spits my name at me.

She is about to raise the stakes to a level where I can’t compete. I throw in my hand but she continues to play her cards.

“Why are you so adamant about me staying over? I mean, isn’t this every guy’s dream; stringless sex? Are you going to insist we cuddle too?” disgust stains her words so she pauses and cleans them up.

“Look, I’m diggin’ what we got goin’ here. Don’t fuck it up by being gay.”

She leans over to my side of the bed and hesitantly reaches for her shirt. Her actions assure me she is not looking for a fight but her hurtful words have rung the bell. I’m not sure I can return to my corner as easily as she returns to hers. I open my mouth to reciprocate the deep pain she has unknowingly caused me. My words are absorbed by her lips without ever seeing the light of day.

“I’m not gay,” I squeeze the words out between kisses hoping to bandage the wound she reopened.

“Maybe a little,” she whispers. I can taste her smile. “But it’s cool.”

She strokes out the argument I am preparing before her mouth becomes too busy to counter.

I let her get dressed without resistance this round, although a part of me is tempted to provoke her into more “shut me up” sex. But in our arrangement, fighting is an unnecessary and exhausting means to an end.

“Leave my money on the nightstand,” I say only half joking.

She smiles, digs $20 out of her pocket and places it next to my wallet.

“Go buy yourself a teddy bear. I hear they love to cuddle. I’ll even let you name it after me if it will make you feel better,” she turns, leaving in typical Xander fashion, without a goodbye.

I roll onto my back and stare at the blades chasing each other around the ceiling fan.

“What fools we are,” I say to them, “doggedly pursuing the unattainable.”

Memories eagerly fill the void she leaves, forcing me to relive my past.

I filled my mouth with enough whiskey to turn my cheeks into liquid packed balloons. I let it sit for a moment before allowing it to escape down my throat. I wiped the few drops that trickled down my chin with the back of my hand and repeated the process. It would not be long before I reached the unconsciousness I so desperately needed. Unconsciousness was the only place where the pain of my heartache couldn’t reach me; the only place where I didn’t love him.

“I don’t love him. I can’t love him,” I argued, raging violently against the final truthful moments before the blackout.

“You’ll love him until you die,” taunted reality.

“I’ll love him until I die,” I repeated.

Finally, I understood. Unconsciousness only provided a temporary reprieve from the nightmare my life had become. Despite my most valiant efforts, I never could get drunk enough to get him off my mind; until that night.

Justifications left my thought process completely congested, forcing me to utilize the only explanation readily available to me. I scribble my thoughts on the back of the scrap piece of paper found tucked away in the drawer holding my handgun. I kissed the bullet that would pry my heart from his hands and loaded it into the clip. I put the gun to my head and took a deep breath. I squeezed the trigger but found myself unable to press hard enough to discharge the weapon. I laid the gun on the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. I spent my final moments alternating swigs and suicide attempts until both the bottle and the clip were empty.

Hell is not fire and brimstone. Hell is the vastness of eternity choked with unfulfilled wishes to make amends for the lives you’ve destroyed. I spent a lifetime in hell trying to bargain away two wishes for the chance to be granted the single most important one; to be paired with the soul I abandoned. Time proved no match for the wounds I created.

Xander’s possession of Avery’s soul created an inherent distrust I constantly worked to overcome. On days like this when Xander is exactly who she is and not the person I used to know, I wonder if I would love Xander had I not loved Avery first. The answer to that question is inconsequential. Her soul was hardened by the damage I’d done. Regardless of how trying my attempts to love her became, I owed her the fight.

Eternity’s Ending (our version of events) available for purchase here!

#fiction #novel #novella #love story #music #music lyrics #song cover #literary cover #series #eternity's ending

1 note · View note

tisfan · 7 years

Text

Doom’s Day Scenario

Part Three of that IronDoom fic that nobody asked for.

NSFW, contains smut, identity porn, blow jobs, and Reed Richards being an asshole.

To Victor goes the Spoils A Stark Reminder

New text from Unknown: Grand Hotel, Stockholm. Friday night 9pm local. Ask at desk for Mr. Alil.

Tony’s phone nearly spilled out of his hand, he was shaking that hard. Twenty-thousand, six hundred and fifty two minutes since he’d heard anything from Rabun, and Tony had been an absolute terror. Even Pepper had given up trying to coax him into some semblance of civility, banished him to the workshop rather than make clients and partners work with him, and even refused to let him even attend the board’s semi-annual meeting.

Being in the workshop hadn’t helped. He’d yelled at DUM-E so often that the bot was sulking in his charging station and refusing to hear Tony’s apology. Tony hadn’t been able to create. He hadn’t been able to do anything useful. He’d just sulked, poked at a few old ideas, drank breakfast, forgot about lunch, slept through dinner. Tony Stark, fully capable of sleeping anywhere except in an actual goddamn bed, and his back wasn’t thanking him for that, at all.

And suddenly the ache in his chest was eased, enough that he filled his lungs with air, it felt, for the first time in days. He became aware of how hungry he was, and for that matter, the fact that he smelled of unwashed sweat and motor oil. He checked his phone; the message hadn’t disappeared. That would be a nightmare, and he knew that for a fact because it was one he’d had. That he’d gotten a call or a text or anything, and woken up a few minutes later to find out that nothing of the sort had happened.

Wednesday? How had it gotten to be Wednesday already? Okay, Tony supposed if you were thinking in terms of hours and minutes, days of the week sort of faded out to unimportance.

[more below the break, you can read from A03, mobile users]

But it gave him some time. Food first, then shower, and then… he was pretty sure he could finish that improvement to the suit’s power conversion system, to eke another six percent out of the repulsors.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?” The AI sounded relieved, which was somewhat annoying. Tony Stark was a grown-assed man, he could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.

“Set an alarm for me, I absolutely need to be in Stockholm by 6, local time. Get a hotel room, and --”

“Are you flying, sir, or flying?”

“Smart ass,” Tony muttered, looking for his multitool, he was sure he’d left it around here -- aha! There were problems with either answer. Tony Stark’s private jet was not what one would call discreet, although it wouldn’t be the first time he just randomly up and went someplace. On the other hand, the Iron Man suit was waaaay beyond incognito and everyone noticed him. One of these days, he really needed to build a stealth suit. He made a note in one glowing screen in front of him and flipped it into his ever-growing honey-do list. He certainly wasn’t flying commercial.

“I’ll take the jet,” he decided. Easier to explain that he’d gotten himself a craving for fläskpannkaka or something and gone out for dinner. “But don’t let me be late.”

“Of course not, sir,” JARVIS said, “provided you actually heed any of my reminders.”

“That’s it, you’re going off-line and I’m going to break you down for spare parts to run my GPS.”

“I tremble in fear,” JARVIS responded.

“You should,” Tony said. “I threw the last GPS out the window; it kept telling me to make legal u-turns as soon as possible.”

“If you would not persist in driving in the wrong direction --”

Tony held up one finger and JARVIS shut his synthetic trap, which was good, because Tony thought he finally had a handle on that oscillating quantuum pulse phenomenon. He jotted that down, tagged it, and sent it to the correct file, letting his fingers fly over systems and notes and wireframes and designs without hesitation, fully back in his zone for the first time in weeks. It was wonderful.

What started as a chess move in the game of figuring out what the hell was going on inside his head and heart had ended with a crate of advanced biological water filters. The technology was decades ahead of most; the various clean-water crises that developed across the globe (Flint, Michigan, Burkina Faso -- where less than thirteen percent of the population had access to clean water -- or Chad, which had an even lower population, and a brutal rate of water-contamination related deaths) had driven the Morocco to push funding toward clean, sustainable water supplies.

Latveria was an enforced monarchy; the one law of the land was that Doom would provide.

For all that, in essence, Doom’s country was under military guard all the time, that speaking out against his leadership was a crime punishable by death, and that no one was allowed to enter, or leave, the country without his express permission, Doom took care of his people.

In theory.

Doom summoned his court advisor. Did the man even have a name? Doom couldn’t remember. He’d been so busy with dreams of world conquest, with fighting endless battles with the Fantastic Four (more like Fantastic two, one jackass and an ambulatory wall) that he’d been neglecting his duties.

The advisor, a wispy-looking sort, who bowed so deep that his head brushed against the floor, was trembling to be called into Doom’s presence. That was no good.

Doom ran his fingers under the jawline seam of his armor. No one, save Tony Stark, had seen his face in decades, not his servants, his enemies, not even his people. No one. He wondered what the man thought was below the Doom mask. Perhaps… the scar had not bothered Tony, had not been anything but a mild curiosity. Tony’s fingers had touched Doom along the scar and the world had not ended. For such a small thing, Doom had hidden his face, kept himself free of human entanglements and a simple caress had changed… everything.

Doom sighed. He was not ready.

“Report on the state of Latveria,” Doom commanded. “Honest. Doom requires knowledge of the problems of the people.”

It had taken rather a lot of Doom’s most tactful words -- and he did not have a ready supply of them -- and persuasion to get the adviser to speak to facts. Even as the man had done so, he’d been shaking the entire time.

Doom couldn’t decide if he required a new adviser, or if his adviser was in dire need of a sedative. Probably both.

In the end, Doom had to bring in outside consultants, and the first reports that they brought in were not favorable, although they were less dire than perhaps they might have been.

Most of Doom’s people were homed, which made his rate of poverty slightly above global norms, but part of that was because policy had dictated that the homeless persons were not to bother the sight of their beloved rulers, so those who could not find stable housing were either incarcerated, or worse, executed.

Fortunately, as a monarchy, Doom didn’t have to press laws through a congress or house of lords, but he still had to notify each and every single one of his enforcers -- although many of them were Doombots and therefore a simple software update was all that was required -- there were still some remote villages where the local enforcement were all too human, and all too used to having their own way.

He’d had to stomp down firmly on one incident, but in the end, Doom gathered all those who were not currently housed and put them to work. Machinery was brought in to clear the grounds; for the first time in centuries, a new town would be founded. Trees were uprooted, the area cleared. Everyone who could work was put on the task.

Now, Doom just needed housing. He’d taken the opportunity while abroad to look into the technology that other nations were developing and Sweden had some pretty good ideas, including easily fabricated housing. The materials were weather-proof for both heat and cold, kept rain and ice out, were easily adapted to whatever sort of foundations were available, and came with solar panels and ventilation air cooling, that they would not be a drain on a country’s already strained resources.

Perfect. Doom booked travel, that he might speak with the production engineers there, under the name of his travel alias, Rabun Alil, a business investor. He’d get the contracts set up, have the materials shipped into Latveria by air -- it would take some small amount of time, since the one airport was decades old and not large, but there were so few routes into and out of his nation. Doom and his ancestors had been very interested in keeping the population isolated, but that was not going to go well anymore. The world was too small for that.

He purchased a burner phone as soon as he was outside the borders and sent Tony a message. He would be in Sweden for the week, but there was no reason he couldn’t combine a little pleasure with business.

He sent the text, then crushed the phone in one metal-enclosed gauntlet. He would never use a phone twice; that made him much too easy to track. Doom removed his suit and dressed, for the first time in decades, as merely himself, as Victor, and boarded a plane in Hungary, bound for Sweden. A few days work and he could, perhaps, look forward to seeing Tony for the week’s end.

The desk clerk had an envelop for Tony when he asked for Mr. Alil. Out slid another card key and a note with the same impeccable, decorative handwriting.

The room was empty when Tony entered it, no warm, welcoming smile greeted him. Tony put his overnight bag down and prowled through the room. Rabun had left a bag, a laptop computer, some brochures, and a plate of chocolate dipped fruit, along with a bottle of champagne that was slowly sinking into the bucket of melting ice.

Tony made himself at home, drank a sparkling water from the mini-fridge, and helped himself to some chocolates. He was a bit tired; the renewed energy he’d gotten from the text had been burned into his work, a rather lengthy apology to Pepper, and then the Avengers had called on him for a little bit of saving the world. All in all, he’d barely managed to sleep before he was on the jet and headed across the ocean.

Tony stretched out on the sofa and stared at the mural that had been painted on the ceiling, all pudgy angels and depictions of God giving life to the earth. Tony let his eyes drift shut.

A heavy, warm hand came down on his shoulder some unknown time later. “You don’t want to sleep here, love,” a familiar voice spoke. “You’ll hurt your neck.”

Tony mumbled, tried to roll over and found himself blocked by a muscular chest. He managed to pry open his lids, saw a beautiful mouth that turned up in a warm smile, familiar amber-hazel eyes. Then the smile vanished and Rabun leaned in to kiss him.

A touch of lip to Tony’s. Only that, and the world shifted under Tony, rocking uncertainly. Tony reached up, touched Rabun’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his scar. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said, voice still sleep-muzzed.

“Sorry I’m late, beloved,” Rabun said, and he ran one hand down Tony’s shoulder, traced the line all the way until he gripped Tony’s wrist, rubbing his thumb lightly against the pulse point.

“What have you been doing?”

“Investing,” came the evasive reply. Rabun kissed Tony’s cheek, then lifted him as easily as if the genius was a doll. “Come to bed.” The sheer, physical power of Rabun was exciting, hot. The way he cradled Tony to his chest in a possessive manner. Rabun pressed his mouth to Tony’s as he crossed the room, tasting and challenging, like a dare that Tony wasn’t quite certain he was strong enough to handle, and yet, Tony had never yet backed down. He returned Rabun’s kiss with energy, the feel and taste of his mouth was beyond sweet. Dangerous and tempting, nothing like the current of kisses he’d experienced before, but a great undertow that would suck him down and drown him in desire.

Tony circled his arms around Rabun’s neck, held on while the world tumbled away into nothingness. Tony had tasted Rabun’s mouth a dozen times or more, and still, the mere memory of the touch of his lips kept Tony awake at night, restless, dreamless. Sweet like sin, dark like coffee.

Rabun met his kiss headlong, mouth pressing tight to Tony’s, his tongue curling in tempting dance, the feel of his mouth heated with wanting.

Secured in Rabun’s arms, Tony was still dizzy, like falling, like flight. He wasn’t sure where he was going to land, and he didn’t particularly care. In the back of his brain, a small voice murmured of danger, of foolishness, but Tony shoved it aside. What good were warnings when he was already drunk on Rabun’s kisses? What need was there of caution, when he’d already thrown it to the wind? He let Rabun bear him down onto the bed, stripping him out of his clothes as they consumed each other in the fire of their passion.

New text from Unknown: Mandarin Presidential Suite, Tokyo, Tuesday

Crap. Tony stared at his phone in dismay.

I can’t, baby. How long will you be there? He thumbed as quick as he could. Rabun’s phones never lasted long, the number was often out of commision within an hour. Paranoia, Tony had accused him, but they didn’t talk much about it. There was a lot they didn’t talk about, despite the hours they spent laying in each other’s arms, speaking of everything else under the sun.

Rabun was formally educated, a fan of Western literature. The faintest trace of his accent put Tony in mind of Romania, or another one of those small, eastern European nations. They watched British sports together -- Rabun was in particular fond of cricket and he thought American football was the second stupidest thing in the world, immediately after synchronized swimming.

In the last several months, Tony had found himself dragged to the opera a few times, which became a lot more sexy with Rabun leaning over and whispering translations of German, Italian, and French in his ear. Tony didn’t need the Italian, but he didn’t bother to mention it, liking the feel of Rabun’s body draped over his.

They explored various cities together; Rabun’s business, whatever it was, kept him travelling. They seldom met in the same country more than once. Rabun was an adventurous gourmet, willing to try just about anything, but always vocal when he didn’t like a thing. To Tony’s shock and eternal amusement, Rabun hadn’t had much experience with sweets; things like chocolate and ice cream were novelties, and Tony had spent a lot of time dragging the man to various confectionaries.

New text from Unknown: Not long enough. Beijing in three weeks. I’ll miss you.

Fucking Senate hearing. Tony wanted to scream. He’d tried dodging them before, and that had been more trouble than it was worth. Tony was the public face of the Avengers, taking all their PR slack and turning their actions into legal activities. If he missed the hearing, Fury would have Tony’s head on a platter. Not that Tony was afraid of Fury, but honestly, Fury just made his life harder when thwarted.

Yeah, miss you, too.

Beijing had been a shit show of epic measure.

The Skrullz had gotten up to some ridiculous plot in the midwest, of all places, so by the time Tony showed up in China, he was exhausted from three days of fighting and then another day of dodging the press; one of whom actually had a photograph of Tony with some unknown man in Germany and wanted to know who Tony’s new sweetheart was. That had taken some clever dodging.

And then when he finally got to China, there’d been a mix up with the hotels, and Rabun wasn’t where Tony had expected him to be. By the time he got a second text with the new direction, Tony was beyond dead on his feet.

When Rabun had finally found Tony -- who’d checked into a random hotel just to get off his fucking feet -- Tony had been cranky, underfed, uncaffeinated. They’d almost had a fight. God knows, Tony had been trying his damndest to pick one, because it was starting to feel to him like he was at Rabun’s beck and call.

“I have obligations, my darling,” Rabun had said. “It is not mere business that takes me ‘round the globe. There are people depending on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony sulked, “it’s not like you don’t know where I live.”

Which Tony did not know about his lover, not even what country the man was from. When asked, Rabun had said little, except that his home was empty, and too large. Tony could sympathize with that, he’d been in Stark Mansion a few times after his parents’ death and the huge home seemed cold without another living soul in it. Tony’d had the place shut down and rarely visited.

“You know we have to be careful,” Rabun said. He pulled Tony into his lap, nuzzling at his neck.

“I just feel like you’re not prioritizing,” Tony complained. “That… I don’t mean as much to you -- I drop everything to come see you, all the time. You don’t even keep the same phone long enough for me to have a conversation.”

“I don’t exist in your world, Tony,” Rabun said, heaving a great sigh. “I would put you at risk, terrible risk, if we were found out. We meet like this because it is all that I can have.”

“You know who I am,” Tony pointed out.

“I do,” Rabun said. “I have made a great study of your Avengers. I know your capabilities. Now, will you believe me when I say, this puts you at risk. I do not underestimate your abilities, nor do I overstate the threat. I am working, even now, to change things, that it will be different, but those events take time to set in motion. It may be years before we can… have anything other than this. Will you not… do you not want to give me the time?”

Tony closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Rabun’s neck. “Whatever you need. I’m sorry, I just… I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you,” Rabun said, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair. “Truth, each day seems an eternity that I am not with you. My plans. So much has changed, since we met. My life was empty and I did not even know it.” He nipped at Tony’s mouth, coaxing and gentle until Tony couldn’t stand the light touches any longer and threw himself into the kiss with as much heat and passion as he could.

“I didn’t mean to interfere with your life,” Tony said, teasing.

“Yes, and how dare you,” Rabun responded, licking at Tony’s neck, tempting him out of his clothing. “You have ruined me with your mouth and wrecked me against your body; you have changed me forever, that I might never want another, but you.”

“Oh, this is all my fault now?” Tony had his hands under Rabun’s shirt, those fine, taut muscles and silk-soft skin luxurious under his fingertips. “I’ve what, been throwing myself at you and you’re just --”

“Giving in to your wiles and seductions,” Rabun said. He yanked Tony’s slacks open, pushing the fabric down Tony’s thighs. “Overwhelmed by you.”

“Well, I am pretty amazing,” Tony said. They weren’t going to make it to the bed this time, Tony could tell. That was all right, he was just as eager to get his hands on his lover, to touch and kiss and caress. To feel Rabun’s mouth; the man had a damn talented tongue and left bruise and bite marks on Tony’s neck that he’d sometimes had to hide with makeup, just so he didn’t look completely debauched at stockholder meetings.

“You are,” Rabun said. “perfection.” The fire was back, driving Tony to distraction. He got his hand inside Rabun’s pants, rubbed at the hot length and groaned with appreciation as Rabun threw his head back and cried out with need. God, the man was beautiful, from the silver tips of his hair, down amber colored eyes, a firm, fine mouth and determined chin. He was scarred here and there, had been shot at least three times that Tony could tell from old wound-marks. Not that Tony’s body told a much different story.

Sometimes it seemed that their clothing melted away, other times it was impatient, frustrating work getting down to bare skin. That night was a dream, peeling away the layers and taking their time, touching and caressing, not in such a hurry, knowing they’d get there, finally, finally.

Rabun’s mouth on him was a blessing, the sweetest sin and Tony arched into it, the head of his cock slipping into that plush, wet mouth. He raised his hips off the sofa and Rabun tugged his pants the rest of the way down, hands smoothing the way. Nudging at the back of Rabun’s throat, it was so good, so slick, and if Tony didn’t concentrate on his breathing he was going to disgrace himself by coming inside two minutes. That would never do. And yet, Rabun wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t slow, just kept his head moving as Tony thrust up and god, that was --

“Shit, shit, shit,” Tony chanted, and Rabun pinned his hips down, holding him so tight he could barely move, couldn’t do anything but submit to the wet pull of Rabun’s mouth, the tantalizing tongue. Tony’s body arched and twisted, he had no control, was totally enthralled by what Rabun was doing to him, how good it felt, how necessary. He lost any sense of what he was doing, just needed, needed to feel. His hands twisted against Rabun’s hair, the short, silken locks sliding between his fingers. Lower still, and Tony’s fingers sank into the hard shoulders, nails biting down as he held on for dear life. His blood was rushing in his veins and pounding in his head. Everything was shaking, his legs, his belly tightened. “Oh, god…”

Rabun didn’t stop when Tony came, didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath. He just snagged the bottle of lube and started prep, his mouth still working over Tony’s oversensitive and slowly deflating cock. Tony squirmed, almost struggled, too jittery to relax. He cried out, more than once, as Rabun worked a finger into him, and then a second. His cock ached, too much, too hot, and finally, almost in self-defense, grew hard again.

“There you are,” Rabun said, finally pulling his mouth off, and Tony heaved for breath, tender and throbbing.

“Well, it’s pointless to stop now,” Tony said, petulant.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Rabun said. He dragged Tony’s thighs up, hooked them over his shoulders. “Can I --” he stopped, gazing up into Tony’s face “-- without?”

God, that was… Tony shuddered. Trust, on both sides. He knew he was clean, a benefit of having one’s own personal doctor. Ever since Afghanistan, he’d been wary of hospitals and he had never been a big fan of medical care even before that, but the arc reactor had made it necessary. “I’m clean,” he said. “If you are.”

Rabun slicked himself and breached the ring of muscle. Tony wriggled, feeling his body giving way, slow and sensual, burning ache and stretch. Slowly, the faint pain faded, the pressure eased, and his muscles let go, letting Rabun in. Rabun leaned down, pressed in further, touched his mouth to Tony’s and as Tony twined his arms around Rabun’s neck, to pull his lover closer, the excitement and need came back. Rabun worked in him, slow, almost too slow, and Tony groaned. “Come on, come on,” he said, urgent, his fingers tightening on the back of Rabun’s neck.

Rabun thrust into him, again, and again, and Tony’s body moved without his direction, matching stroke for stroke, crooning encouragements and need into Rabun’s ear. Like some transcendent experience, he was lifted up and dropped

“So gorgeous,” Rabun was murmuring in his ear, and Tony could barely hear it, so wrapped up was he in the movements and the feelings and the thick, sensual slide of Rabun’s cock, and…

“Oh, my… god.” Tony twisted his hips.

“Yes, love, I’ve got you,” Rabun said, and then he ducked his chin, groaning as he thrust one last time into Tony. “That’s… exactly. Right.”

Tony drifted, hazy on the cloud of hormones and bliss. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to, how safe and warm and perfect he felt. He patted one hand on Rabun’s shoulder. What had Rabun said? It seemed important somehow. “Love you, too.”

“What?”

Tony groaned, leaning back in his desk chair. He didn’t want to be talking to Reed Richards. Richards annoyed the shit out of him, if for no other reason that the man was almost as smart as he thought himself to be. Arrogant, annoying, and with the personality of a cheese grater. And when Tony was feeling generous, probably Tony’s equal, just in an unrelated field. But like all geniuses, Richards was convinced that his field of expertise was the most important, that his intellect was the most keen.

Which, obviously, it was not.

“We think Doom’s gotten his hands on some of your tech,” Richards said. “Not sure what, or what he plans to do with it. Since I can’t make heads or tails of your spare parts, Sue thought you should come with us.”

“You’re going to Latveria?”

“Doom’s been all over the world, recently, but the last movement we had on him, he was home. Come with us, we’ll knock on his door and Ben can beat the tar out of him for a while.”

“Does that actually work?” Tony sighed. It was going to create an international incident, to raid Latveria without any sort of evidence. Although, knowing Doom, there would be something shady going on there. They could probably make it work.

“Talk to Fury, get him to issue an edict or something,” Tony said, waving a hand, forgetting that Richards couldn’t see him through a speaker phone. He pulled out his cellphone. Maybe, maybe this time…

You there, babe?

New text from Unknown: Yes.

Gonna be near Hungary in two days, if you want to meet me for a change.

New text from Unknown: Why?

Superhero shit. Petty dictators. I don’t think they have good hotels in Latveria, tho, so I’ll find someplace else to go for the night. I’ll let you know.

Rabun didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unusual. Tony would see if he texted back later, from yet another new number.

Doom stared down at the burner phone. He’d forgotten to destroy it, so wrapped up in Tony’s declaration of love.

Fuck.

Doom was in so much trouble.

TO BE CONTINUED

(please don’t kill me)

#IronDoom #fic #victor von doom #tony stark #Tony x Victor

12 notes · View notes

itbe-jess · 3 years

Text

The Sloppy Olympics

Greetings, young readers! Welcome to the marvelous world of Soundful Stories, with the Paradise Critters! Read along as they get themselves into hot water yet again! Now, keep in mind: Every time you hear this sound,

*SPLAT*

that means it's time to turn the page! Ready? Don't forget the sound!

Karl's Paradise in

The Sloppy Olympics!

Story by Karl Rodriguez himself!

*SPLAT*

It was a warm summer afternoon, and there went Junior, trying out his new rollerblades. This was the first time he's ever been far away from the kingdom, let alone the town. Just after he asked permission from Karl if he could go for a little skate and explore the paradise, the king entrusted him with three important rules.

"1) Always wear your helmet and pads at all costs. You wouldn't want to get any severe injuries. 2) Make sure you ride on a road clear of civilians, or man-made objects. They could get hurt, and so could you. 3) Absolutely never talk to any strangers. If you see an adult you don't know acting suspicious, report back to me."

So far, everything was sailing smoothly, and Junior hasn't run into one ounce of trouble yet. That is until he spotted something shiny up in the sky. It looked like a silver frisbee, but bigger, with flashy lights, and it appeared to be coming down. Junior pushed more wheel into his rollerblades as he decided to have himself a look-see.

*SPLAT*

The frisbee then landed itself upon the grassy plains, and a hatch opened. Junior quickly hid behind a tree, continuing to watch. "Unbelievable," Junior whispered. Out of the frisbee came funny looking green men, of a strange exotic race he's never seen before. They looked the same, but wore different colored jumpsuits to identify one another. The magenta suit green man took out some floating sphere, which projected beams that circled the area.

"There is a stalker in our presence! Whoever you are, show yourself!"

Junior didn't hesitate to come out of hiding.

"M-My name is Junior, from the paradise kingdom, and I'm not a stalker! I was just giving my skates a spin, when I suddenly spotted your flying disk! Just got a little curious, that's all! Who are you guys, and where did you come from?"

Something about the woolly mammoth's naivety had interest the funny green men, especially the mention of the paradise kingdom. Oh boy, that Junior. Hasn't he heed King Karl's warning about talking to strangers?

"Young earthling, are you saying ץ๏ย ๔๏ภ'Շ кภ๏ฬ ฬђ๏ ฬє คгє?"

*SPLAT*

Junior shook his head as a gesture for "No." The green men then smirked deviously, so sinister. The golden suit green man did all the explaining.

"Why, young earthling, we are the Outers, and we traveled all the way from the planet Tribble-Trubble to make a settlement with our old companion Karl, which you now call 'your highness!' We knew each other from the great galaxy war!"

"Woah! King Karl fought in a war?!"

"Fought in it? Heck, he led our team! It was his leadership that brought us to victory! The galaxy has been at peace since then! And boy, look at him now! Keeping a whole land balanced on the tip of his fingers! Bless that man!"

"Yeah, he's a pretty great, fair leader. (Up until he tells me to be in bed by eight.)"

"I see, I see."

"So, what is this settlement?"

The gold suit Outer told Junior to hold tight for a moment, then dashed inside the ship. Junior waited with the rest of the Outers. It was only after a few minutes he heard a brrh, click, clatter, and clunk coming from the ship. The gold suit Outer came out with a slip of paper.

*SPLAT*

"We'd like to sell a piece of land to the dear king! It's a very old land, and has not been inhabited for ages! We tried making deals with other agencies, but then we realized only a sharp mind such as Karl's would know what use to make of an empty land! Just have him put his signature here! Oh, and you can't tell him that it came from us! We want to surprise our longtime chum! Just say it's from 'a very close yet distant friend!'"

The heavy hairs that tingled on Junior's schnozzle made him feel like this wasn't right, but his gut told him that they could be trusted. They looked friendly, and they knew the king! Besides, Junior thought about what that empty land could be made into: An amusement part, a new baseball field, or a highly advanced playground with real working mini space shuttles!

*SPLAT*

After waving farewell, Junior took off on his rollerblades, heading back to the kingdom. He took the contract with him. However, as soon as the woolly mammoth was out of sight, the three Outers joined together for a laugh. This wasn't a funny, humor type laugh.

"What a sucker!" "What a nincompoop!" "What a gold mine!"

Junior went as fast as he-/////////////////////////////////

//////////////////////////////////////

"ᴵ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢ ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶠᶦⁿᵈ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ʷᵃʸ ᵗᵒ ᵉᵐᵖˡᵒʸ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵘⁿᵘˢᵉᵈ ˡᵃⁿᵈ. ᴵᵗ'ˡˡ ᵈᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵘⁿᶦᵗʸ ᵍʳᵉᵃᵗᵎ"

"ᵂᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉᵐᵖˡᵒʸ ᶦⁿᵛᵒˡᵛᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ˡᶦᵏᵉ, ᵘʰ, ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ, ᵃ ʰᶦᵍʰˡʸ ᵃᵈᵛᵃⁿᶜᵉᵈ ᵖˡᵃʸᵍʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ʷᶦᵗʰ ʳᵉᵃˡ ʷᵒʳᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵐᶦⁿᶦ ˢᵖᵃᶜᵉ ˢʰᵘᵗᵗˡᵉˢˀ"

"ᴴᵃ ʰᵃ ʰᵃᵎ ᵂᵉ'ˡˡ ˢᵉᵉ, Junior. We'll see."

Taking his word for it, Karl didn't bother reading the contract, and just signed off his name at the bottom with his feathered pen.

*SPLAT*

Suddenly, colorful neon dots had transmitted right in the throne room, levitating in the air. In a matter of seconds, those lights began to take form of three figures, which Junior had run into earlier. King Karl rose up from his throne, and shouted their names. Well, looks like Karl does know them. But it didn't appear he was happy to see them.

"Captain Nebula," King Karl shouted with calm anger, "What are you doing here of all places?"

"Oh," Captain Nebula, the gold suit Outer, said in his most innocent act, "We're just dropping by for a little favor!"

"By selling a piece of land to me?"

"Greatly mistakened, old friend! We're not selling land to you! You're selling land to us! Which you already did!"

*SPLAT*

Karl quickly looked over the contract. Oh dear, Captain Nebula was right. He just sold the entire paradise in the hands of the Outers! Before Karl could tear the contract up, the captain swiped it from his hands.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you! And we owe our gratitude to this young earthling! The one who calls himself Junior!"

Junior, feeling like he's been played for a fool, was embarrassed about the whole situation. He hid behind the throne just after the captain mentioned him. However, King Karl was too smart for him, and demanded they have a talk.

"Junior, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?"

"Don't talk to them? Report to you right away if there's any suspicious behavior?"

"Exactly. How were they even less strange to you?"

"Well, the thing is, they seemed really nice, and claimed to have known you."

*SPLAT*

"Oh, they know me alright, Junior. We have been enemies for centuries! They wanted this paradise as their own piece of Earth! Before you came along, we were at war for it! It didn't last very long. When the Outers realized how outnumbered they were, they eventually retreated. Now, looks like they're back, and more clever than ever."

"Oh, so there really was a war!"

Things were already taking a turn for the worse.

"Let the house warming begin!"

Captain Nebula started to signal home, and then fifty saucers took a landing! A hundred thousand Outers invaded the paradise! More than Karl could remember! They began to mess up space, run folks out of their jobs, and take stuff from little children! It was a nightmare come true to the king.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Junior?" Questioned Karl.

Junior took a gulp, then answered,

"Grounded for a month?"

*SPLAT*

King Karl called a royal meeting at The Happy Belly diner, with his best subjects: Barkstone, Van Goose, LabRat, Saxxo, Mama LongLegs, Fins, Yum-Yum, Junior, and Slouch. He usually throws royal meetings at the castle, but the Outers evicted him from his own home. Everyone was listening in on Karl's plan, except Slouch, who was trying to catch up on some much needed rest.

"What are we gonna do now, my subjects?" Asked Karl, "̷͙̅T̷͂ͅh̶̘̽i̴̋͜ŝ̵̺ ̵̬̿i̸̋͜s̴̘̓ ̴̝͒o̴̯̽ȗ̸̜r̴̟͝ ̴̝́ĥ̸͍ỏ̷͚m̸̙̈ë̸͍́.̷͈͊ ̴̨̋Ö̴͈́ủ̶͈ṙ̷̟ ̵͂��h̴̛̫ò̶͚m̵̨͝è̷̦ ̵̤̀ẗ̷̤h̷̘̒è̶͓y̸̩͊'̵̗̀v̶̺̍e̶̺͋ ̵̪͑ṯ̵̛a̸̙͊k̴͉̋e̸̤̋n̵̾͜ ̴͖͛o̷͔̓v̶̱̚e̴̬͘ṛ̵̂.̷̖͌ ̶͎̈́W̴̪̾ê̸͔ ̶͕͝c̷͖̒a̸͌͜n̸͈̕'̴̻͐ẗ̷̠́ ̴̱̎j̸̗͂u̵̖͛s̵̪͆t̸̗͋ ̶͇̋m̷̘̽ö̷̙́v̶̧̉e̷͕͆!̶̡̅ ̴̯̾Ǎ̸͓l̵̟̓l̶̮̈ ̶̧̿ọ̷̈f̷͎͗ ̴̰̽u̶̩͝s̵̖͑ ̷̫͛w̴̜͑e̸̳͋r̶͖͝e̸̜̓ ̸̳͐b̵̯̈́ö̴̲́r̸̬̈́n̴̟͊ ̵̥̅ä̵͕́n̶̥̋d̷̠͠ ̸͇͊r̴͉̋ā̷̪ì̴̢s̵̗̄e̴̦͆d̴͔̾ ̸̬͗h̵̭̐e̷̩̍r̵͕͑ḙ̶̄!̴͍̉"̵̢͝

The Critters then took a ponder. And they each pondered, and pondered, until an idea sprout.

"I could make them all disappear!" Suggested Barkstone, "But with how many there are, mercy me, it'll probably be done in about 2 to 3 years."

"I could play them a super fine, groovy lullaby to put them all to sleep. Then we'll stuff them back into their saucers for home." Suggested Saxxo. "Fat chance, amigo. If anything we know about the Outers, they never go to sleep. They're the reason why I can't have a peaceful goodnight's rest!" Slouch awakened, just to respond.

"Why don't we all pitch in, deliver a phone call to each and every Outer, and tell them that their refrigerators are running! Hee hee hee hee! That will send them home in a rush!" Suggested Fins. "Now, that's just silly." Said Van Goose. "Okay! Tell them Prince Albert's in a can instead! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

*SPLAT*

"Why don't we try a negotiation operation? I'm sure what there is to their liking, it'll get our home back!" Yum-Yum made a fairly good point, which Karl sought interest in.

"I could've had thought of that myself!" Said Barkstone.

Taking one of his subjects' advice, he paid a visit to Captain Nebula at the place that used to be his castle. Nebula wasn't easy to drive a hard bargain with, so Karl got on his knees, and begged. Nebula was so flattered, he then cominced with the negotiation.

"Alright, 'your highness,' you amused me enough. If you want your precious land so badly, you're gonna have to compete for it!"

"Compete? As in play a game?"

"Yes! It's part of Outers tradition when making monumental bargains!"

"What kind of game will we be partaking in?"

"This isn't an ordinary game to foreigners like yourself! We call it The Sloppy Olympics!"

"The Sloppy Olympics? What is that?"

*SPLAT*

Answering the king's curiosity, Captain Nebula took out a brochure. The Sloppy O̶̙͗l̷̜͠y̴͊͜m̷̟͗p̷͍͝i̸̢̅c̴̮̈s̶̞̅ ̷̕͜ẃ̸͜a̷̪̔s̸̤͘ ̸̢́a̶̯̽ ̴̢͒c̴̦͌o̴̳͛ḿ̵̪p̴̫̿e̶͚͐ẗ̵̖́i̴͌͜t̴̢̒i̸͇̎v̸̯̚ě̷͚ ̷̹͝g̸͎̐a̶̛̯m̵͍͝ẻ̶̜ ̸͈̌ṱ̷̇r̸͉̐ï̸̮a̷̩͗l̶̡̒ ̷̡̏t̴̫̿h̷̯̋ä̵̜́t̶̘̽ ̷̣̄o̵̡͛n̵̻͗ļ̷̔y̷̩͌ ̶̾ͅĺ̷̗ạ̵̓s̶̟̉t̸̖̎ ̴͖̎f̴̠͠ö̵̱ȓ̴̢ ̷̹́a̷̬͑ḇ̸͒o̸͔͛ů̴͙ť̶̥ ̷̜̆ȃ̵̩ ̸̳̚d̷̹̊a̴̢͋y̸͎̾,̵̠̎ ̸͉̊u̷̼̿n̴͘ͅl̸͉̅į̴͂k̷͕͝è̵̮ ̶̹͗m̴̙̈́ȍ̶̩s̵̙͂t̸͕̃ ̷̹̇o̸͙̒l̶̼͘y̶̡͗m̸͓͠p̷͉̉i̵̱̓ĉ̸̬ś̵̼.̷̹͂ ̷̡͐Ą̶͠l̵͉̑s̶̟͠o̷̮̽ ̵̯͆ṷ̶͂ṋ̶̋l̶͉̂i̶̠̕k̶̬̚ḛ̶̆ ̶̬̇m̸̳͋o̷̧͆s̴̟͋t̵͙̕ ̷͕́ȯ̴̝l̵̢͝ỳ̷̳m̸͖̈́p̷̛̼i̸͉̎ċ̶̟s̴̗͌,̴͙̄ ̶̲͆t̷̻͋h̷̢͘e̴̥̿ ̵̢̉s̷̟̽e̸̪͗r̶͕͝ḭ̴̓e̵̺͘s̷̢͐ ̴̯̐ŏ̴̹f̵̗̈́ ̶̤̂g̷̯̓a̵̞͋m̸̜̚ẹ̸͌s̴͓̎ ̸̤͗ý̵͙ó̸̖ȗ̸̧ ̸̹͠m̷͎̌ṷ̶͗s̶͉̄t̸̼͐ ̵̼͆p̷̩̓l̴̦̔á̸͈y̵̭͋ ̴̭̿i̵͇͝n̴͎̚ ̴͋͜w̷̳̕ẹ̸̊r̵̮̓ḙ̶̋ ̴̯̓q̷̩̓u̵͉̍i̵̼̐t̵͓́e̷̫͆ ̵̘́ẅ̶̦́a̷̧͐c̴̫̊ǩ̶̳ŷ̴ͅ ̷͕͝t̸͇͝o̵͕̐ ̴̥͊E̵̢̕a̴̚͜r̸͓̕t̷̛̜h̶̛̻'̴̹̃s̷̝̈ ̴̡͛s̷͕̓t̸̬̔a̵̩̾n̵̜̉ḋ̸̩ǎ̴͓r̵͑ͅḍ̴̉s̴̪͌.̵̙̓ ̸̎ͅT̷̜͊h̸͇̊ȇ̶͖ŕ̶̜ě̸͎ ̷͎͛ẁ̴̞ä̴̪s̴̻̏ ̵̫̌t̶̙͛ḥ̴̈e̷͉̊ ̶̏͜5̵̠͑0̸̲̆ ̶̡̐y̴͓̌â̸̘r̷̨͋d̵̼͂ ̴̦̄s̴̺͛l̴̦͊ï̶̩p̷̣̍,̶̟̈́ ̴͍̂ț̷͋h̴̬́e̷̩͝ ̵̻̒p̸͕̌ȉ̴̜ë̴͚́ ̷̘̓p̷̧͋í̵͈l̸̻̂e̴̙͆ ̸̋͜ǘ̷͎p̸̼̓,̴̯̎ ̶̧̀f̸̡̊i̵̹̕n̸̼͌d̵̮̀ ̷̢̛t̷͉̏h̵̼̕ę̵͋ ̴̩̽b̴̯̔l̴̗̀ů̸͓e̷̼͝ ̷̢́s̸͔̈́t̶͉́r̴͎̎ȃ̸̪w̴̠̉ ̶̝͑ĩ̴͔n̶̫͝ ̶̡́t̵̟͠h̴͓͛e̶̩̊ ̷̜̃s̷̝̆c̶̟͌i̶͈͗ḅ̴̎b̴̝̾l̷̾͜e̷̩̚ ̷̥͛s̷̗̏t̸̹͐à̵͚s̷̢̄ḫ̷̉,̶̘͂ ̴̞͗s̵̥̈p̶͓̾r̵̐͜i̸̒ͅn̶̪̈g̶̹͘ ̵͕̋a̴͓͘n̶̲͘d̵̜̅ ̵͔̒f̵͍͛à̸͈l̸͇͂l̸͎͑,̸̻͐ ̸͠ͅt̵̡̅o̷̐͜ ̵̡́y̵̖̕ú̷͚k̸̫͠ ̷̼̈o̴̫̎r̵̺͊ ̵̗̌n̸̙̕o̶̽ͅt̴͖̄ ̶̝̀ṯ̶̄ö̷̲́ ̵̺̏y̶̛̜ü̵͎k̵͎̿,̸͙͝ ̷̘̕a̷͌ͅn̷͙̄d̵̢̄ ̵̲͂t̴̅ͅh̷̘̆ē̸͖ ̷̼͒h̴̡́a̵̺͒m̴̚͜e̶͔͛r̵̠̾t̸̼͊ỏ̴̡w̴̺͊ṇ̵̃ ̷̲͘f̵̣͘i̷̛̞n̴̯͆ả̸̧l̷̯͗e̵͇̕,̶̪̀f̶̻͒ĩ̴͖n̸͙̈́ä̶̗l̴̙͝ę̴̎f̵͔͑ȋ̸͍n̷̬̈́a̶̘͐ḻ̶͠ë̸͖́

W̸̠͋̓̍̒e̶̫̱̝̓̃͜'̶̢̢̖̥͙͈̭̼̞̝́͐͊̆͛̎́̕̚ř̶̛̲̹̺̙̯̋͌̊̑̐̑̈́̑̿̉̕ͅͅę̶̲̺̫̰̰̼͘ ̴̢̹̤͕͒̎̇̋̀̕͝͠s̶̨̛̱̣͂̋͌̉͆̊͐̏̆͘ọ̷̧̳̮̟͒̒̏͑̃ ̴̲̟͈̩̟͒̔̿̂̌̔̒̎͋͗͐͜f̴̟̫̟̦̀͋u̶͚͇̺̯̭͈̞͔̫̪̇̇͐́̕͘͝ĉ̸̗̀̋̀̾͂̉̒̓͝k̶͔̰̲̇̑̀͜͠͝͠i̸̛̺͓͇̺̻̻̖̯̖̰̺͎̋͑̋̊͗̏́̔̕̕n̸̡̼̟͕͇̫̖̞̞̂͂̕g̵̰̦̭̈́̀̍ ̵͙̰̃̿͗t̸̨̧̗͉͎͙̺̥̖̺̱̤͓̹͐́ȉ̷̼̺͚̮̮̹̪̈́͐̓͝r̷̹̣̰̘̟͖̟̣̺͇̗͆̈́̑̊́̈́̚ę̸̢̯̮̜͍̩͎̙͕͚̎̐̀̇̑̈́̓͐͑̏͐̒̚͝d̷̝̗̟̈́̒̓̋ ̴̱̞̩̝̞̦̠̰͔͆̈́̆̒̑͒̒͂̚͜͝ö̶̢͎̗̻̻̜́̽͜f̸̡̼̗͖̮̳͙͈̜̞̩̲̿͆̀͊̚͠ͅ ̷̢̛͍̦̗̼̙̤͎̜͍̘̻̺̣͗̽t̵̡̨̡̯̯̞̪̞̮̰̎̕͝h̵̢̰̟͔̲̰̤͓̖͔̽̏̚͝i̶̞̞̼̜̩̝͗̈́̀͗̈́̎̋͌͆̑̕͘͘̚ş̵̰͕͎̊̅̓͌̈̐̾͘ͅ!̴̯͝ ̴̡̛̩̦̤̩̗̙͎͈̐̀̈́̑̿͒̓́͘̕͝͝͠I̴̧͓̖̣̓͛̀̍̌͠t̴̡̙͚͕̟̭̺̞̜̺͇͔̗͇̽͂̽̄'̴̢̻̗̣͖̘̤̮̙̖̱̱́̀̽̇̔̈́̾̀̃́̉͜š̵̨̗̟͖̺̝͉̝̪̀͑̉͝ ̸̡͓̘̖̗̟̜̂̅͐̔̇̾̉͘͝t̶͇͔̦̟̩̺̲̣̞͈̘͙͙͂̍̈́̄͑̇͑̚̚͜h̵̨̡̨̩̗̟̪͓̓̇͘ě̵̺̠͔̋͊̈͆̔͐̌̊͆̊̚̚͜͝ ̵̺̊̓̌ş̴̰̮͇͚͕̣͚̖̱̳͙͍̗̋̍́̚͠ą̵̧̨̻͎̲̜͓͙̻̰͙̺̟́͊̀̃̄̆͗̌͑͆̕͠m̷̧̹̙̗͉̟̥̥̦̖̲̫͛̐̏́̌́͐̋ȩ̴̧̢̼̞̟͎͖͈̏ ̶̦̦̜̫̭̳͇͈̭̩̦̹̉̃̀̆̐͐͠ͅŗ̶̨̫̜̝̞̮̬̩͚̌̄o̸̼̫̯̟̰̠̝̹̮̞̺̬͙̖͋̚u̵̢̨̠̮̤̰̻̯̔̽͛͋̋̚͜͝t̶̢̥̼̲̻̲̮͎̮̔̾́̒̿̾͝i̴̗̗̝̪͕̣̞͐̓͂̀͆͜ņ̶̛̭̱̝͚̘͎̗̟̗̯̖̋͂͋̊̌̽e̷͙͍̱̗͎̥̠͆͛̽́̊̍͝ ̸̨̛̖̖͙̪̗̰̹̠͉͚̗͍͚̊̓͊̈̉̍͂̄ë̶͇̬̘̪̹̺́́̏͗̓͋̈̔̔v̶̱͍̻̙͍̞̘̯̹̻̜̤͚̑̌ë̷̛͕̼͒̀̐r̷͔͍̤͓̮͙̠̀͂͛͂̃̓̀̽̃̇͝y̸̞̐̒͑́̎ ̷̮̪̻̿̏͑̐͋̍̎͂̏̿̕͜d̵̢͖̫̗͕͕̂͊̄ä̷̭͕̤̳̹͙̝̜̺̱̬̾̅̓͋͊̕͜͝͝y̶̛̠͚̯̠͚̝͒͆̈́̍̈̌,̷̜̔̋́̌̓̉̄̈́͑̔̀ ̷̧̯̪̻̙̪͛̋̽̓̈̍̒͝e̶̛͈̠̥̠͈̅͋͘v̶̧̢͔̞̻͚͍̘̘̮͕̩̏̏̔̎͜é̷̩͖̓͂͂̾̊̓̔̽͊̒͠͝r̴̨̧̼̰͉̗̘̟͙̦̺̺̩̽̑̓ỳ̵̼̺̲͉̜̋̐̆̅ ̸̨͚̗̥̌͒̇̈́̒̏̂̽̋͂̊ͅw̷̤͚̣̘͘e̶̻̩̼͚̩̗̼̝͇̮͈̻͈̟̍̂̌̎ẽ̶̻̻͕͌̎̈́̿̅̃̑͘k̷̖̦̣̿͒͊̽̏̏̎̈́̑̉͐́̅͘,̶̛̛̘̼̥̰̿̈́̔̉̆͗̅͋̄͑͝ ̴̗̽̌͗́̿̇͌̑͊͝ḛ̷̑̊͆̑͛͌̎͑̈́͝v̴̰͈̠̞̤͕̹͇͇̞̲̖̜̽ë̷̘͉̼̟̟̭̹̝̥̻̦̯̰́̄ͅr̶̮͍͍͇̗̬̦͙̙͙̟̈́̂͂͌̀ẏ̶͓͇͉̘͓̥͍̂̓͜ ̴̨͙̼̻̤̱̫̗̠͑͝m̸͉̰̲̜͓̩͖̬͈͚̰̤̾̐̽́̅̔̂̇̈̌̇̐ở̸̧̛͖̘͙̻̤̖͙̮͎̹͒́͌̃͂̒̆͆͝͝ǹ̶̛̜̓̾̓t̸͕̿̂̀̎̽̉̓̄̈̈̅̑͠ḩ̴̛͎̣̹̤͖̤̥̼̬̺̗̒͆͐̇̍͑,̴̗̖̟̽̽̌͒̓͝ ̸̩͓̖̗͙͈̯͎̤̟͍̲̫̪̂̀̓̀̀͝ḙ̶̢̨̳͖̳̩͎͔͍̭͘͜ͅv̵̟͖͚̭̤̄̂̆͜ͅę̴̅͊͝r̵͈̲̬̯͓͖͕̮̆̕y̵̘̥͇̻̮̽͒̍̅͠͠ ̴̯̜̦̝̹̳̤̺̍̐́̓͋̋̀y̷͕̖̫̣͇̏̈̿͒̈́͌́͋̊̄̈́̎̕ẻ̸͈̠̜͉͉̠ā̴͍̱̝́̽̈́̑̆̒͋̀̅̇͝ŗ̵̨̠̝̖͉͚̙͈̒!̵̨̢͕̟͔͉͖̈̋͊̇̿̅̎͑͗͜ ̶̘̙͓̊̈́̀̽̃́͝N̸̨͓̜͚̫̗̜͈̼̝̘͒͋͌́̕ǭ̸̙̻̥̙̬̰̠̿̓̆̌̋̂̌ ̷̛̲͈͙͙͇̙̟̒́́͂̎̀͐̋̿̌͐̓͠f̴̧̡͉͓̣͕̬͉̙̈́̆̐̿͋͑̓̏͘͜ṛ̵̨̡̤͓̺̝͓̩̖͐͂͂̓̽͒͝ͅë̴̩͓̫̭̝͔͔̮̫̫̭́̂̔̀̕͝s̴̛̳̞̦̐̃̎̇̇̈́̎̋̅̚̚̚h̴̢͔̝̮̦͉͗̈́̾̐͗̓͒̓̈͑̓̈́̿͘͜ ̷̪̠͖̣͍̝̽̇̆̒̔̉͋̓̀̃͒̂͘͝a̴̮͔̺̗̬͖̩̬͆̊̀̊̽͋̂ĭ̵͕͎̩̠̗̈͑̉̐̏́̀̽̐͛̈́͐r̸͉̖͈̲͓̄̑̀̑͑̽̃̀̈͋̌̿̃͝,̴̺̤̣͕̝̙̮̙̫̺̣̦͇̟͊̾̅̒̀ ̵̨̛͈̞̰̘̜̎͆̊̓̌͋̑͋͘͝j̷̼̟͍̟̬̩̤̝̏͂u̴͚̪͎̫̪̓́͝ş̵̛̞̭̮̠͇̭̩͍̭͖̩̦̊̑̒ͅt̷͚̫͔͍̼̳̱̬̣͐̋͗̄̍̌̌̐͘͜ ̸̨̛̛̪̱̳͍̰̰̻̯̂̾̐̑͊̈̈́͛͝͝͠ţ̵̛̦̅͌́̌̉͛̃̂̍̕h̴̡̺̰͇̥͈͕̠̮̐̈̿̎̌̑̅͋͂̊̕͝ỉ̸̫̏̏͗̒̌͒̚s̵̘͓̐̆̌͆̅̈́̊̉̀͝ ̴̩̣̮͕͍͂͑̈́͑͌̋̈́͊̑d̵̡̧̖̠̭̏́̀̂̇́̍͜͜ͅá̷̧͉̹̹͚̭̣̱͕͇͖̦̹͔́̈͐̈́͗̄͘͝ŗ̷̺͍̞̖͉̦̮̮͚̹̭̒̾͆̋̀́̀͊̎̍ḱ̶̡̥͉͙̭͔͇̮̙̾́ ̷̤̻̄́͋͘c̸̨̨̹̤͎̤̙̳̀͑ͅo̴̼̟̪͕͎̫͌̀̈́̄͌͘͠l̵̞̻̦̳̞͇͈̹̝͕̗͈̔̓́̈́̾̑d̸̳̹͎̼̝̹͖̮̞̽̽ ̶͕̗̥̼̱̬̤͎̩̣̗̻̈͗̿̐̊̅̈́̾̌͜͝p̵̧̭̲͍͔͓̘͓̝̠͂̑̋́̃͋͗́̔̈́͝ͅr̴̢̘̰̻͚̼̞̫̂́̾̇̔i̷̧̖̼͈̲͇̩͈͚̙͎̤̿̀̅͜ͅṣ̸̘̺̭̱̟̝͙̙̜͈͉̩͊̈́͛̔͑͋̓ơ̵̧͍̠̯͂̐͂̄̓̉͘n̸͖̟͖͉͙͒̇̈́̋́͒̔́̾̀͠͝͝!̴̙̬̪͛̀ ̴͖̣̲̻͉͈̰̫̆͊͗̌̑̅̃͂̚À̶̫͈̦͉̰͎̓͊̈̀ͅň̶̡̠̯͎̣̊́̒́͠d̸̯̹͚̠̎̈́ ̷̺͙͔̪̦̪̰̹̦̝̲̏͗̓̇̅̊͊͠t̷̛̞̯̰̺̗̒̈́̀̈́͋̐͊̊͛͝ͅh̵͖̺͎̲̪̫̤̻͚̼͜͠ͅi̶̧͖͕̝̥͖͈̍̑̊͌̌̾̔̐͂͛̕͘s̶̛̫̦͇͓̮͓̝͚̠͍̑̔́̈́́̉̌̕ͅ ̴̢͈͇̩͒̓̈́̈́̚̕͝h̶̡͇̭̟̞̗͉̯͍̓̇̚ͅư̴̳͈̘̮͙͆̈́̈́̒͜͠ǹ̸̡̞͖̻̗̦̠̰͈̳̺̘͓̔̈́̈́̊̈́͝g̷̨̤̤̦̥̦̮͙͑͛̍̀͐͋̿͛̈́e̵̡̡̖̜̟̖̪̦̩̩̰̱̳̿̓̑̀͋̿̌̓̉́̚͝ͅr̷̢̻̲͙̗̘̀̑͝͝i̸̪̳͖̪̳͙͈̪̺̩̙̺͗̓́͋̀̽̊̽́̎̃̽̅̚n̴̢̛͍̣̰̰̳̰̓͒̒̃́͌̈̃̐̕̕͝ḡ̶͚̦̝͔͓́̉̎͛̈́̌̿̃͒̐̀͘͜ ̸̜̮̥͙̻̜̗̎̔̀̇͌͑p̴̧̲̫̩̻̪̳͍̻̎͋̃̈͊̈́̔̿̚͝ä̶̘́͛̆i̷̠͚͍̳͎͛͌n̷̨̨̢͚̰̦̰͔̥͐!̴̢̟̲͎̰̲̭̤͇̏̓͐̏͝ ̴̜̲̲̗͔̲̱̲͓͚̹̣͂̂̋̾̌͜Ĭ̸̹͚̖̹̰͙̦̭̩̻͊̌̏̍̋͠t̸̡̛̮͖̺̏̒͂̂̃̇͛̈́̚̕͠ ̸͉͔̺̟͕͕̒͒̔͆͐͑͋̀͐͝h̷̥͇͓̜̿͑̾͑̎͝ų̶̨̯̮̯̮̬̣̯͕̌͗̈́ͅȑ̵̡̡̧͓̟̘̺̣̯̺̣̰̓̇̑͜t̶̖̩̙̙̖̜̒̂͒̋̈́̌̔̓̃̐̃̉͌͝s̷̢͍͎̞͕̠͖̤̰̾̑̊̓͑ͅ ̴̛̙͈̱͈̻̪̹̟͓̯̳̃̑̋̓̀͂̇̀͒́͘͜͜͝͠ş̴̡̨̡̲͇̣̝͓̮̫̺̞̩̓̚o̶̡̲̰̦̞̠̳̐͆̆͊̐̌̐̂̕ ̷̛̻̲͐̄̎̾̌̈́̅̍̄̌͐͜͝m̴̲̩̳̠̗͉̫̲͇̭̭̰̪͋̑̓̓́̌̈́̀͘̕͘ȕ̸̩̮̱̝̙̳͇̝̪̌͜ͅć̶̭͌̍͂̀͋̈́̾̕͝h̷̛̛͚͍̅̋̆̈̋̓̃͊̆̚̕.̶̩̦̬͔̬̍̂̓ ̸̨͇͕̘͙͕͎̰͝ͅW̵̢̼̱̪̼̘̜͎̺̫̼̞͈̐̓̄̾͘ͅé̴̱͍̺͊͆̈́̑ ̸̢̢̥̝͉̮̘͍̥̣̙̠̜̅̂͆̎̃ͅḑ̸̘͚̲͛̾́̏̊̅̈́̍̌͒̈́͘͘o̸̡̥̝̮̙͕̘̠͈̒͐̋̄̉̿̈́̊̕͘͜͜͝͝ñ̷͇͓͍̯̰̝̗̎̅̓͑́̔̚͝ͅ'̴̢̡̤̻͍̞͇̻̗͓̔͋̐́̃́t̶̢̄̽̋̎͌͆̀̆̐̚ ̶͈̼͙̗͖̳̲̿̓̌́̈́̀̾̈́͜͠͝ş̷̡͕̗͔̣͙͔̓̄̉̀̌̀̈́͂͐̏̒͑͠͝ͅe̶̯̹̣͔̗͊͗͛̉̾̈́̓͘̚ĕ̷̢̗̳̹̦̲̺̥̠̮̲̮̂̎̒̇͐̌̈́́̅͐̑͜͠m̷̻̼̖̤̝̘͔͂̔̿́ ̷̭̭͇̫̖̀̎̏͋̆t̶̨͍̗̤̰͖̞̼̰̑̓̈́̄̓̿̊̃̽ỏ̴͔̖͍̺̠̜̝͕͖̫̟͛͋̈́̍͆̆̈́͜ͅ ̴̨̯̮͍͙̬̠̥̎̒͊́̊ḑ̵̨̲̠̦͎͈̅̐̑̿̃͊͂͑͛̂͜i̶̼͙͈̪̮͉̇̉̑̂͊̒̎͜͝e̶̼͗̅̂̉̀̋̀̀̄̒͠ ̶̲͇̖̫̟͇̈́͂̀̍͑͌͝f̵̳̰̝͔̬̗̥̃́̽͜r̸̛̰̭̬̂͐̈́́̓̓͆͆͊̐̂́͘ọ̶͔̜͒̈͌̓́͆̈́̔͛̕͠m̴̦̈́̓̉͝ ̷̧̧̢̲̺̟̱͚͎͕̙̙̣̭̏̅̎̓͒̾͐͌i̴͎̙̗̻̙͙̼̒̇̉̀̿̋̓͘̕̕̕͝͠t̴̛͖͉̠̱̆̔̅!̷̤̯̣̪̈́͋̊͑͌́̿̾͊̅͆͛̕͠ ̸͚̱̦̱̊͗̽͑͋͋̍̓̂͝͝ͅĄ̷͕̫̫̜͓̘̦͖̺͈̞̮͑͌͒̐̋͌̑̿̋͝n̵̛̬̭̩͈̦͎̜̿͌̍̇̐́̚̕̚̕͜ͅd̸̛̗̮̲̱͉̤̱̠̂́͆̂̽̄̉͒́̂̊͐̕͜ͅͅ ̷̡͓̒̐̓́̽̆̇͂͜͠͝w̸̨̧̤̯̱͔̺̥͓̤͈̝͒̓̽̈́͊͊̏͐̋͋̚͝ḩ̵͓̰̗̜̺̞̗̫̗̥͎̿̓̽̾̋͑̐͋̆̚͜͠e̴̛̫͉͇̰̭͙̱̻̱͂́̀͑̄̕ņ̷̼̰̪͉͓̠̠̝̝̈͋̾͊͊͂̅̔̂ ̴̧̞̻͉̠̻̅̋w̶̡̐̉̓̿̈́̽̀͗͝ȩ̴̭͌̏̌͒̍͛͑͐̏̈́̏͘͝͝ ̵̡̧̲̼̮͙̭̱͇̏̐̀̑͛͗̍̀̈͂͛́͜d̶̡̼̱̝͉͇͔̦̹̀͋͐͘ǫ̴̘͚̱͈͚̦̲̙̝̙̀͐̂̈́̈́ ̸͖̀̏̾̑͑͂͂́͗̓g̴̠͖̗̙̦̽̌̃͗͑͝e̵̛͖̊̈́t̶͉̪̟̤̩̥̦͎͖̙̀̔̍́ ̸̨̧̛͉̺͉̖̝̇͑͋͛̍͗́͐́͝͝t̶̨̡̥͕̬̽̒̎̕ŏ̶̧̧̨͉̺͙̪̲̝͙͕̯͙͂̔̃̉̓

̴̡̖̺̩̠͈̪͉̣̼̳̌́̌̄͝͝ͅͅȩ̴̧̞͉̝̗̺̙͉̃̈́͆̓̏͊̿̚a̷͕͎̞͖̭̮̟͆̂͗̏̍͐͋́͌͝ţ̵̲̠̈́̍̌̓͘͝,̸̡̛̖̙̇̀̍̅̃̒̍ ̴̨̰̟͙͙̼͕̓̔́̿͑̈́̉̿͗̈́̕i̴̧̨̧̫̼̝̰̔̎̍͂̑̿̾͌͒̓t̷̛͕̥̣̍̔̈́̐̋́̐̀͘ͅ'̵̢̧͇̫̱̲̭͌́͊̇̓̈̍̎̈́̽̓͜͝ś̴̟̖̬̱̰̬̩̲̯̜͓̫̾̿̅̿̂̄̿͂̌̅́ ̶̧̫͓͇̫̳̖̲͈̞̓̅̃̿̈̀́̊͋̿̑͐͝t̶͚̭̹̾̑̚͜h̷̘͍̺̻̫̜̃̈͊̎̅̎͂̈͒͝ẻ̶͍̘̮̪̪̟̬̲̭̰̲̒̌̈́̎̈̈́́̑̌̀̎͛̕͜ ̷̨̯̖͖̞̖͈̭̺͓̦̯̞̱̍̀s̷̨͈̬̺̠̝̼̦͖͂̉̓̓̊̓̆̀̾̕͝a̸̧͍̗͔̰͕͍͕̣͓̗̅̐̐̈́͘͠ͅm̶̨̛̞̊͊̆̎́͋͗̆̃̕͘͠ͅę̴̺̭̹̪̝̥͈̤̈̌̈́̈́̿̊̋͐̓̈́ ̴̲͎̺͍͍͔͓͓̓̄͜͝d̷̩̜͙̮̥́̅̀a̴̡̞̰͙̦̯̮͛͊͜m̵̨̨̧̢͕̥̖̣͇̫͚͒̆͘ņ̶̼͔̞̘̺̞̠̪͍̿͂̾̈̿̑̓̄̕̕͠ ̶̙̭̭̺͚͙͎̠̺̀̐̀̌̃̆̑f̸̡̞̻̠͚̖͚̘͓͖̞̆̈́̽̋̓̄̈́̽̋̕̕̚̕͠o̵͈͓͑̑͗͘o̷̲̙̞̺̣̼̙̳͍̯̽͗̊͘d̴̢̬̦̏̄̅ͅ!̴͔̞̉͒͛̎̕ ̶̨͈̭̥͙̤̱̮̳̓͌̈̔̍̿̑L̸̺̼̽̅̍̑̌̈́̃̏̿̈́̌͝i̶̮̟͓͆̏͆̈́̄́͊̐͒͒͊͊̑v̵̧̛͓̰̼̠̓̑̈́i̵̱̳̦̦̫̘̼͚̘̽̑̃̒́̃̕͜͠ṉ̷̨͕̝̹͗̈́̑̓͊͑̃͠ǵ̵̡̛͇̰̩̻̱̣̪͌̓̈̒̄͝ ̸̡̨̡̺͉̣̯̥̫̏f̵̢̞̼͔͓͓̥̞͗̄͛́͠l̸̝̣̼͙̪̮̾e̴̡̨͎̺̪̮͙̫͎̟̓͆̿͑͊̂́ṣ̵̫͒̏́̿́̅̓h̶̡̛͓̻̺̮̖͚̏̃̀͂͌̽͗͋̏̊̇ ̷̡̗̤͖͔͙͚͇̳̜̝̲́͊̀͠͝ó̸̡͖͚͓̟̖̼̂́̓̂͒̐͊͂͜r̸̡̩̗͙̭͕̱͉̯͙̜̅̍͂͘ ̸̛͍͓̳͒̒͗́͂̎̅͋̚͜͠ờ̵̧̗̜͙͔̆̄͑́̒͊̏͗̚͝u̵̢̧͎͔̣̘͍̤̳̼̤͇͕̔̈́͒̀̃̂́͑͊͗̅͘r̸̨̡̢͓̘̯̟̬̬̣̞̯̦̽̈́̈́̓͛̆̽̉̃̈́̇̈͝ ̴̢̯̜̭͗̐̋ò̶̡̫̘̣̮̬͈̜w̷̡͈̺̝̖̞̰̯͎̮̪͇̋̕n̸̛̥̫̫̤̹̳̗͑̓̈́̆͛͒̔̀̾̕͠ͅ!̸̨͚͔͕̟͌͆͜͝ ̵̥͙̞̭̼̽̏̇̈́̏̅̊͌͐̈́̚̚͠͠ͅŃ̴̛̬̟̼̹̞̝̝̝̼͔̝̥̝̈̀̾́͌͌̊͂͐͝͠͝o̸̧̹͕͗̓̄̍͆̓̄͂̕t̵͎̗͔̪͉͍̲̩̗̃͐̕ḫ̶̘̽̄̑̄̎i̷͔̓͗͌̆̾̿̀̽̽̓͝͝��͕̬̜̳̖̮̻̰͍̩ͅn̸̙͚͙̞͉͖̬̿̃͋͊̂͌́̑g̷̠͛̿͌̈́̀͝ ̴̧̢̛̤͕̳̫̝̜̊͌̏̈́̉͠͝c̵̬͆͋̃͂̿͌̊̀̓̇̀͝ȧ̶̧̧͉̝̦̻̼̦̊̓̈́̔͜n̶̨̧̻̝͖̯̟̍̀̆͌̔͋͗̈͑̇̏͊͘͝ ̵̢̹̣̲̮͔̫̂̓̍̀́͊͘͜͠ķ̴̱̖̪̺̬̗͕͎̜̦̂́͆̂̈͝i̵̢̼̞̪̞̘̯̫͍̥̊̾̉̆̊̅̒̈̕̕͘͠l̶̠̜͍̱̙̮̩͓̭̗̤̍͂̋́̈́͂̃͐̀̄̎̊̏͘͜l̵͖̲̯̤̍̑͠ ̵͕̬͍̗̠͈̋͋̊́͗̈̍̈́͆̃͋̅̑̆ͅu̵̹͇͎̰̯̓̈́̔̅͑͒̅͘̕͝ṣ̸̐͌!̵̛̛̤̞̺͌̔̽͒̈́̽̌̄͝ ̸̡̙͇͎̲͉̦̫̮͚̺̩͕̣̆̏́͒̐Ţ̴̛̦̘̤̟̜̘̯͓͚͖̗͎͔̍̍͊͊̆͆̀̏͆̒̉̓ḧ̷̯͔͈́͑͌̓ͅe̸̜̓̀̀͑̑̄͝r̶̪̦͎̝̜̰̠̤̙̯̖͙̹̺͐̏̌̈́̍͋̒ē̷͈̲͉̟̘͕̫̱̙'̷̡̢̲̙͉̹̐̈́͐͒̅s̷̜̭͋̅̓͋̈̅ ̴̧̛̼̯̺̙̦̳̙͗̍̔͑̎̓̈̾̚͝ň̵̳̼̲̆ợ̵̡͎̝̥͗̄̐̄̋͗̄̈̿̈́̆̕̚ ̸̫̣̳͇̐̎̌̈́̒̆̎͊͌͘ë̶̺̜͖̩́̆̒̉̈́̋̋n̴̪̋͒̋̇̄̈̃́͊̚͠͠d̶̙͓̟̮̫̲̤̓͜ ̵͕͆́͛̇̇̑̊̾̂̽̌̐͘ṱ̴̡͈̭̮͓̆̈͑̉͑̈́̎͊̔̑͝͠ͅǫ̷̫̩͕͈̻̗͙̗͔̈͌͌̽͆͛̍̇͆̓͗͆͝ͅ ̴͔̱͌̋̓̐̽̊́̚̕ơ̸̧̹̫͊͂̆̃͗̋̓́͛̚ù̴͔̰̟̝̰̱̣̜̞̻̖̦̈́̈́̿̒̐͐̏̂̈́̿͜r̶͚̖̘͇̰͇̩͕͓̫̈͐͒͆̑̄͂̌̓̇̀͘͝ ̴̣̞̲̀͆̓͠s̶͉̉̈́̈́̈̅̔̚ụ̶̢̯͉̘̮̯͇̰̹̥͕͕͂͊̌̏̆̅̃͊̋͂͒̽f̴͕͍͓͖̬͙͓̠͑͑̀f̴̨̢̺̳̮͉̯͇̆̈́̓̊̚͜e̴̢͓͚̫̖̞̮̼̩̪͑̉̋̊̉r̸̛̮̮̼̺̺̣̣͎̓̾͋̊í̴̡̡͙̭͖͇̩̜͉̠̱̼̟̓̎͒͛̂̃͊́͐͑͛͜͠͝ņ̵̨̨̢͚̹͉̝͚͎̱̬͑̆̑͜g̷̜̺̼̙̞̥̰͖͐̀̈́̒́̋̏͗̽̉͗͠͠ͅ!̸͎̱̩̠̩̰͆̈̀̄͒̈́͘͠͝ͅ ̶̧̣̬̜̟̗͚͉͔͙͉̼̄̀ͅͅK̸̹̖̙͖̾̊̆̾̉̒̀̈́ͅá̴͈̜̖͚͓̯͎͚͓͇̀̊͜r̷̟̻̺̪̺͍̬̙̣͇̪̼̊̉͊̆̈́͆͛̅̽͜ͅl̶̲̹̣̈́̐̽̈̊́̉͂̊͝͝ͅ ̷̢̛̤͎͔̲̿̽̾͝͠r̵̜͚̝̹̭͓̩̞̉͜e̵̙͓̭̿̿̏͑͑̽͒̆̓̓͑͐̕̚f̸̨͕̩̹̰̗͕͚̗̂̓̋̕͠ư̷͚̲̥̣̖̎̓̀̓͊́̏̐̆͊̇͗̅ͅs̵̝͔̳̯͛ȩ̷̹̬̟̣̜̹͊̽̈́͠s̶̢̥̜̗̳͎̗̜̙̯̠̱͖̈́͌ ̴̨͎̹̹͇͖̳̜̳̝̲͔̑̔́t̸̘̋͝o̵͎̳̺̪̫̹͎̝͍͈̳̊́̿̓͛͜͝ ̴̧̢̧̱̭͔͖͓̤̣̅̾͐͑͆̉̈́͒̾̃̚͜͠p̶̨̛̳̦̍̃̌̓͆̈̿̊̂͛͘̕͜ͅu̶̟̯͎̮̥͇͖̮̳͚̬͐̑͑̓̈̈͘͘͝ͅt̶̢̟̝͉̱̣͓͙̹͈̻̲̦̰͗ ̴̧̢͓̰̱͙͕̱̩̟̜̞͍̎̓͗͛͑̿̊͐̕͜͠a̴̧̡̢͓̗̥͙̦͈̬̒̈́̐̓̓͑͋̿̏̔͐̈̒͑͜ͅn̴̘̈́̓͊̔͛̎͐͐̃̓͠ ̴͉͓̣̤̘̯͖͌͛̌̃̍͘e̷̢͚̩̦̝̒̔̐́̂̄͂̏̀̆ͅn̵̛͙͚̱̫̞̗̪͖͇̲̊̄̔̑̈́̑̾̓͑͑͘d̶̢̲͎͍͚̅̒̈́̓̋̋͌͘͜ ̴̞̘͙͕̼̻̩̹̑̑͊͂̊̍̒̍̕ͅt̵͎̤̪͉͋͊̄̍ó̷̙̹̣͎̭̘̗̣̗̦͑̚͝ ̸̳͙͇̣̗̘̏͒̉̄̈́̈́̾̽̃̆̀͠ǫ̴͎̦̭̞͓̼͇͎̲͉̘̅͂́̑̈́͑̽̏͘͝u̴̡̨̲̪̹̺͕̘̙̪͙̰̥̐̉͋̓̓ŗ̸̢̤̮̜̪͎̝͉̠͈̭͆̓̊͋̎̀̓̒̔ ̸̛͉̘͓̬̻̭̹̤͍͉̙̙́̆͒̑̔̔̒́͜m̶̢̻͓͉̺̠͖̮̙̂̽́̕ȋ̸̟̯̠̝̆̇́̉́̌̿̄̑̕̚͠ͅş̴̟̝̱̥̳̥̥̗̱͆̽̆͝e̷̡̛̗͖̰̜͓̼̰͎͇̯̯̹̠͑͒̔̽́̂̿͌̕r̸͕̈́̈͂̅̃͆̾͠y̷̢̬̻̹͚̮̲̟̿̽͝,̶̮̲̲͓͔̥͑͆ ̸̢̱̣̞̈́̾a̴̞̲̝̱̩̪̗͉̹̖̪͉͛͒͘n̷̨̨̧̮̝̝̟̖͎̲̳͔̰͑̈́̋̏͒d̵̠̘͙͈̹̘͙̬̖̲́̀ͅ ̷̦͍̹̠͈̻͖̺̳̱̀͂́l̷̢̛̪̻͉͊͒͌͊̅͒͘͜ȩ̶͖̬͕̻̯̳̺̜̼̙̒͆̆̈́͆̔̈́̒͂̃̕ả̷͈̆v̴̡̛̖̣͓̫̮̣̤̻͓̠̠͓͑̐̽͐͐͛̽͛͑̔͘̕͜͝ę̸̛̜̞̲̜̫̭͔̓́̄͗̅̒͊͋̒͐͝͝s̴̩͓͖̟͔̳͍̙͔͓̙̳̲̅̾͊͛̃͊͑̆͘͝ ̸̨͕͖̗͍̞̮̉̅̍́͆̇̄̈́̌͒̂̂̅ų̴̺̏̓s̸̹̙̗̘͍̈͒͛͌̒̍̓̕̚ ̶̢̜͙͉̤̳̞̩́̐ͅt̵͙̩̗̉ͅo̶̧̨̻̻̗̩̣͎̞̱̳͎̫̠͂̊ ̸̛͎̹̥̲̟̟̘̹̎̒̋̎̆́͛̉͐͗͝ͅͅf̵̨͖͉̥̦̗͈͕̮̻̂̓̿͗͋̈̚̕͜ͅë̶̛͎̹̍͐͗̃̾ẹ̶̬̩̩͙̟͉̯̪͈̥̪̿͐͒͆̔͜ͅd̵͕̩̜̰͊̽͛̆̑͋̊͑̚̚͠ͅ ̷̢̬͔̜̳̦͖͓̉̿̈́͒o̸͇̥͈͉̲̲̣̊̈́́̈́̎̇̓̇̄̋͑̇̆ű̷̧̡̧͈͚͉̭̪͓͍͙̙̳ͅr̵̬̺̔̈́̒̾́̉͠ś̸̙̦̿̋̈́̈̍̋͗̔͑͊͊̎͠ě̷̘̗̤̍l̵͎̜̼͓̘̠̫͇̂̐͒͆̽̓̎̾̎̀̕v̴̯̎̐̈̋͝e̴͈̔́͝s̷̨̗̩͚̯̼̦̔̄̀͗̉̽̀̔̃͘ͅ,̵̡̳̊̈́͛ ̴͚͎̹̣̤͔̱̥̲̦͉̇̉̇y̷̢̰̐ę̷̞̹̮̖̰͓̜͚̫̜̊̇̌̈̾̐̋͆̓̉́͘̕̚t̴̨̛͔̝͓͂̆͊̓̔̅̇͆̾̕͝͝ ̸͖̮͈͓̲̙͍̹͕̜͚́͆ẉ̵̨͇̫̗͇̤͍̼͙̔e̷̡̪͇̦̫͔͖͔̱̠̖͆̊͒̈̋̓ ̶̛̥̄̿̉̃͌̒̊̓̀c̵̨̜͕̙̱͕͕̥̀̾̑̉̔͑̇́͐̀͑́͜͠ͅo̸̢͊͌͗̔̇̔͒͂n̶͎̩̩̙̯̲̪̗̓͛͊̏̅̑̊͝͝͝t̶͎̳̥͚͎͍̹͇̣̖̟̙̗͗́́̅͌͊̅̑į̸̨̛̣͎̲̯͇͎͓̦̥͚̉̊͋͌̑̒͂͝͝ͅņ̷̹͙̜̳͓̫̄̑̂͒̀͒͊͒̄̕͝͝ự̸̡̢͖̜̫̹̗̤̱͓͉̫͙̌̔̄̍̆̂̒̋̈́ẻ̵̡̠̘̦̩̤̭͔͓͑̊̆̈́͗̽͝ͅͅ ̷̭̣͍̙̮̜͔̺̮͐t̸̨̿͂͑̆͋̈́̔̓̂̽̊̂͑̚o̸̡̯͔͍̺͉̹̗̝̖̱̪̱̊̂͆͆̉̊̿̌̂̔̕̕ ̴̬̭͖̾̎̆̐̑͊͌̑́͗̓͜͝ͅḇ̵̹̰̊͛̏̊̅̆͐̚̕ͅȩ̸̟̪̣̦̗̮̼͇͐̋̅̆̊͂̽͜͝͝͝ ̸̡̞̖̖̲͇͉͛͐̌̄͜͝ļ̴̢͇͍̺͙̮̙͇͙͍̦͓́̂̂͗̍̀̒͊̌͐̽̕͝͠o̵̭̙̩̩̿̿̔̍̚ÿ̷̨̨͉͖͙͍̣̞̞̟̟̦́͋̃̅̆͒͘a̷̡̯̫̻̝͓̤̪̙͑͜ͅļ̵̥̆̇̾̓͆͋̈́͗̚.̸̡̛̰̞͉̯̜̼̭̙̥̫͚̖̂͌̂͋̚͝ ̶̡̢͓̮̮̥̰͙̲̜̤̤̦͒͜Ẅ̷̨̜͔͖͕͙̜̜͙́͒͊̐ḩ̴̢̤̪̜͔̜̻͕͚̈́̇̂́̔̒̈͂̔́ͅÿ̷̛̘͉̩̥͖̝͈̮̝́̇ ̴͍̘̹̆̍͑̄͐̊̇̎̀̔͋͠͠į̷͎̱̟̦̭͎̏͌̃̀̔̆͐̓͆s̶̡̛̠̼̲̠̜͓̩͇̫̳̦̘̀̏̌̀̑̋͌̄̾̚ ̸̛̪̙̣̙͕̤̖͓̝̝̞̝̠̟̊͋͒͠ţ̸̢̺̙̦͙̪̥̳̼͂͑̃̚ḩ̵̡̡͎̝͈͈̞̗̐̆̔͋̓̽̐̆̾͘a̴̛̳̖̯̤͎͛͛̍̃̉̾̒̓̕͠t̸̛̠̦̜͎͚̟̺͙̭͉̫͎͒͗̇͐̆̈́̀͒̈́̽͂͊͌?̵̧̬̬̤̲̠̪̺̈́͜ ̴̢̨̠̟͓̟͈̲͙̬̭͖͖̤̀͛̐͊͗͑̄̄͋̊̋̓̕͘I̶̢̛͕̘͚̱̖̙͎̙͇̒̽̐̔͛̈́̈̂̓͝͠s̷̺̿͂̆̏̓͝ ̵̼̜̠̠͇̘͓̬̈̆͊͐̈́ͅí̶̡̧̫̠̝͎͔̮̞͔͙̲̺̥̒͂t̷̯̤͕̻̍̆̔̉̇̅͆̓͜

̵̛͖͙̂͌̌̈́́͑̓̽̃͋͑̕t̸̡͖̬̯̲̭̘̯̐͐͋̇͋͗͒͗ͅh̵͕͑̿͑͛̂̑̉̓̈́̉͘̕͠a̵̡̰̺̬̻̤̫͐̾́͛͑̒̄̀̇̍̾̾̈́t̷̛͈̜̩͍̻͍͖͚̣̥͇̄͂̆̔̇̓́ ̵̡̨͚̖̩͇̲̑͆̀̒̀̎͠ḩ̷̙̻͕͙̼̦̂͝͝e̴̯͌͛̿̓́̏͛̏̍̈̈́͆͝ ̶̡̠̙̪̯̙̭͖̮̽͆̍̆́̊̅͗͜ş̴̨̢̛̜̮̼̭͙͔̬͖̣̤̊͂̉̈́͋̈́̅͘̕͝h̶̨͚̯̖̗͚̫̞͆̎̈͗̔o̸̢̫͋̄̑̚̚w̶̨̡̛̝̝̓̊̑͆́̈̈́̉́̌̕e̴̡̎͒̇̍͝r̷̨̩̘͙͍̭̪͍̤̬̰̪̦̟͂̓̈́̓̒̓̃͗ē̷̡̡̻̩̗͕̬̦̭̱͔̣̥̉̅d̶̛̤̥̖͈̠̜̲͋ ̸̢̛̳͍͚̫̫͍̳̥̪̯̜̽̋̀̿́́̇͘͘͜ͅu̵̟͆s̶̢̙͚͕̭͇͉̮̟̲͔̬̦̫͒̐́̍͊̿͆́̔͘͝͝ ̷̲͎̗̥̔̾̈́w̴͍̟͕͍̹̱̠̌̃͜͝͠ȋ̷̡̨̨̩̠̜͎̖̻͇̺̮̑̓͛̎t̷̗̠̣͔̠̳̪͙͋͆̄̀͒̊̈͝h̸͖̳̱͉̭̀̑̓̚ ̸̧̖̭̳̩̞̯͈̤̹̲͎̹͙̀̄̉̿̋̍̎̀̽̒͝ǩ̶̲̐͑̈́͊̏̐̾͗̽͜i̴̢̛͑͂͌͑̏̍́n̶̜̱͓̰̲̠̜͖̮̞̲̾͐̉͑̄̿͐̉̿͗̑̀͂̓d̶̛̰͒̋́̋͂͂͒̅́ ̸̬̖͖͚̞̀͌̎̋̈́̑̾́̎́̂͗̀͝w̵̧̗̭̘̗̝̳̫͒͗͝o̴̲͚̮̤̞̩͈̓̊̃͂̒̀͋̄ŗ̵͕͇͈̱̠̥̩̟͍̇̋d̷̙͖̼̽͂̓̔̚̕s̴͚̗͇̙̱͐̃̂̐̂͘?̷̧̢͖̳̪͔̭̮͙̃ ̴̝͑́͆̉̎͑͗̏͘͝I̸͈̐̑̓́̽͒͌͑̚̕͠��̧͔̝̰̱̱͉̝̻̫̻s̶̢̢̧̜͉̪̻̱̖͉͂̀͂̊͋̈́̿͜ ̵̡̛̻̖̳̖̭͓̖̟͙̯͇̭͊̊̂̆͆͗͋̓̐̕͝ḯ̷͉̙̞̬̱͆͌̇̽t̷͖̆͗̈́͆͋͝ ̷̱̫̌̽̏̂̂̇ͅt̸̡͎̣͍̫̣͊͑̿̈͌̊͑̿̍̿̚͠h̶̢̞̫͈̖̟̥̙̣͔͖̹̩͛̃̑͛̈́̀͌̌̈̎͜͝͝͝͠ä̷͇̠̖̳̞̖̿̏͑̔̿̂̈́̈̚͠͝ţ̸̙̤̳͈̖̹͋͋͆̐͐̒̿̂̉̕͘̚ ̷͕̲̱͈͈̰̝͍̰̩͇͍̉͘h̴͇͙͓͈̙̲̺͐é̴̡̞̭̞̻̞͕̗̺͔͆̐͆̃̇̀͂̄̍̉̋͜͠ ̴̥̲̪̣͉́͑̒̈̑́̐̍̉̏̕͘͘ś̸̨̨̟̥̤̫̰̮̩͒̈́́̒̑̀̅̕h̷̡̠̗͉̺̱̲̭̩̣̼̍̓̈̍̈́̅̌͜͝a̴̢̛̟͈͚͇͙͇̪̭͔̱̲͕͎͗͋̌̓̽̂̿̊̉͋r̶̢̠̰̙͕̬͈̰͓̯͍̪̘̾̃̿́͆̿͑̈́̄̃͌͝ĕ̵̢̞̹͕͑́͛̐͑̍̃̽́͐͝͠d̵̨̖̼̭̞͙͇͓͙͖͙̩͇͂̏̉̐̃͑̆ ̵̡͕͔͉͔̮͔̜̓̀͂͒̓̋̏̓̎̚s̷̢̢͎̪̬̘̩͚͋̽̂̊͋̀͝t̵̡͈̦͍͔̼͖̟̞̰̠͆͂͑̽̓̄̓ö̶͓̲͙̹̝̅̊̆͜ŕ̶̳̰̼̭̞̦̠i̸͖͗́́ȩ̸̡̡̨͎͍̣͈̓̐̚s̸̥̼̬̮̥̠̝͔̬͙͒̊̅̓̎̔̈́̒̕͝ ̸̪̐̊͛͝w̸̜̼̰̜̺͇͓̝͌̎̐̏̾́͘͘͜͝i̷̛̪̯̞̮̤͓̜͛̄͐̈́̔͌̈̎̂͛͆̊͜͠t̴̯̠̱͕̦͎̜͍̯͒̐h̸̞͍̳͋̉̈́͑̇͂̂̓̃̉̂͆ ̵̛̹̬̔͒̋̿̽̅ȗ̵͖̖̬̖̹̦͖̝̟̘͙͙͈̰̆̑̄̊ş̸̛̤̞̙̪͍̜̰̙͕̝͊̆͊̈́̅̊̊̍̋͜͝?̷̼̠͚͍͓̠̆̑́͛̽̿͒͑̽̕ͅ ̵̧̛̗̜̜͈̮̦̺͕̳̑̃̃̓̈́̏͆̚Ȋ̶̛͉̞͔̺̮̣͔̰̝͗͗̅̅͋̑̅͛͂̀̚͠ͅs̶̘̺̙̭̥̤̳̜͍̱̈́̓ ̸͉̹͕̻͎͍̣̻̖̫̭̭̤̾̇̆̑͋͂͆̊̆̀̇̚ḯ̶̭̝̹̹ͅt̴̛͙͚͍̽̈́̽̃͐̇̏͌̒̕̕͜͠ ̵̨̯̰̲͎̲̰̰̘͇̳̭̮͊̓t̸̙̺̆̉͆h̸̲͉̞̆́̎̌̓̓̐̑̅͜͝ą̷̡̛̞̼͓͕̭̙̮̞̯̎̏̇͜t̴̢̨͈̐̒̃̇̎̂̇ͅ ̷̳͇͎͇̞̉̀̈́̊̒̆̍͒̓̕h̵̡̛̫̪̳́̿e̵̪̺̲̝͋̅̈͗̄̈́ ̴̫͔̍̂̎̈͐̌͌̋̇́͋̀̀̿k̴̀��̡̢̮̬̣͍̖͕̪͎͓̲̦́̊͌̾̽̀̓̆͜e̸̳͔̖̤͛͐̀̊͛̎̿̇͘͘͜͠ę̶͖̮̝̹͉̫̐̽̊̇̌̉̒̓̚p̷̡̬͓̹͕͓̃̍̎š̴̛͈̯̹̟͛̽̊͌̉́͗̆͑͂ ̵̦͈̺͖̻̻̖̬̭͓̼̉̐̏͛̉̔̈́̀̕͝ṵ̵͔̆̈́̾̐̓̈́͗̾s̷̛̲̗͕̪̼͍̱̟̘̤̿͗́̈́̾̔ ̵̛̲̦̒ë̸̢̨̮̖̩̞̮́̽̍̌́̏̈̈́̆̄͂́͘͜͝n̸͔̼̦͎͕͖̣̦̝͑̾̏͂ͅͅt̵̟͕̙̔͑e̴͍̟͓̣͓̞̰͇̺͒̆̑̇́̉̒͗̅͠ͅr̶̡͙͚̗̼͍̝̤̼̭̻̯̈́̒t̸̨͉̜̠̎͋̏̄͗͊̀͛̅͗̕͜ą̴̢̡̡̧̩̰͉̜̦͓̞̥̈́͒̎ͅi̴̢̡͉̙͎͚̜̹̜̋͂̾̽ͅñ̸͎̩͇̟͚̟̘͈̞̾̅̾̌̄͆̈́͠ȩ̴̡̧̭͔̼̫̥́̀ḑ̷̞̭̩̃͛̄̄̑̂̈́̔̀̍̃̌́͝ͅ?̶͉̹̳̑͒́̋͗͆̌̂̓͝ ̸̤̩͎̞̪̝͍͚͍̒̑̐͑̏̎̔͑̒̀͘̕W̸̡̢̬̱̬͑̍̀́̐͒̋̄͋̑̿̉͝ḣ̴̯͚̠͙̣̫̱̩͐͊͒̀̐͊̌̊͐̿́̕ͅa̴̢̳̣͑ͅt̷̛͉̠͐̄̑̔͒̿́́e̵͖͕̹̭͊̃̿̓̐̇͐̍͜͠v̶̨̰̦̊́̑̎̍̉̎̊̐̔͑͝͝ȩ̵̙̲̗̓̔͗̄̌͂̈́́̏̐̇̋̈́͝ŕ̷̛̛̰̤̃̾͒́̾̓̀̓͂̕̕ ̷̨̗͍̗͓̩̝͍̣͕̭͔̠̉̎̽͊͗t̴͙̱͖̭͈̱̜̮̺̥̰̓͛̓̎̉̽̏͋̕͜͜͝ͅḫ̸͇̩͔̟̻̙̠͕͎̄̅͋͗̄́̒̍̍͂̐̆̕e̶̻̳̝̳̜͔̭͋́̽͛́̽̐͊́́̇͋͜͝͝ ̸͇͓̙̫̯͔̎́͆̔̀̐̇̓̿̈́͆͋̚͝r̵̮͈̝̗̮̮͙͎̲̫͆̆̌̀̎̈́͘͜͠ë̷̡͖̮͖̓̂̈́͊͛̿̆̀͛̆̕͝͠ą̶̩͖̪̠̰͍͇͈͑̎͋̕s̸̨̨̠̪͔̟̯͕̘̫̥͒̄͜ó̷̦̮̺̦͚̼͛̽͐̎̾̓̕̚ņ̶͎̦͕̹͓̩͓̪͔̯̲̈́̋͜͜͠,̴͕̤̯͕͎̘͈̓̎̑ ̴̥̭̺̣̲͙͑̈́̓̎̆́͋̕͠Ĭ̷̛͈͖̻̙̟͔̩͎͖̏̓͒͂͛̔̿̄̄̀͐ ̵̨̢̳͙̳̬̰̘̗̜̤̞̿̈́̊t̷̤̱̰̥̽̀̽̇̋̿͂͊̊̓͝͠h̶͔̮͍̟̗̬̪̘͎̹̿̎̆͂́̃̃̉̀ì̶̱̥̰̽͗̈́̊̏͌̅͐̽͝ṇ̶̢͕͖͖̫̖̅̃̌̂̈́́̐́̓͛̌̓̿̚k̴̛̭͔̍̔͗̂̾̔́̆̂̐͘͝ ̴̨̡̬͖̳͉̤͙͈̻̳͙̗̿t̵̩̘̗͔͔̮͍̊̀̇͂̎̑́́͘̚h̵̺̞̄̀͐̔̆̈́̑̋ȩ̴̤͎͇͖̩̏̓ ̸̢͉͍̞͇̣̟̦̤̩̝͕̾̃̊̃͊̆̐̇̀̚̚r̶̨̡̢̛͔̹͛̆͒̓̾̆̍͊̂͒̀͜e̵̡̧̡̞͎̲̭̩̘̟̣̱̝͒͊̅̓͐̾͘ͅā̴͉͇̔̌̋̀͂͋͋̔̈́͛͠͝͠ş̶͙̿̀̑̉̃̕ő̴̧̠̰͔͎̃n̵͉̥̯͍͐̒͝͝ ̵̝̅̍̔̆̄͋̽̂́̿̕͠͠w̵̟̬̮̅͗̿̐̔̒͆̽́͊̏̄̍̕ẹ̶̢̧̹̼̪̲͖̗̭̙̞͗̽̂̿̍̽̅̉͆̋͘͝ͅͅ ̴̥̈́̈́́̓͊̈́̂̕͘͠c̷͍̻̬̪̳̰̤̩̜̬̰̱̦͒̏͗̍̏̋͑̀ͅą̸̧̯͓̬̲̬̟̮̩̘̈́̒̓̀̓̀̉̏̚ñ̴̡̬̘̭͚̖̬̱͍͆̍̎̈́̉̕'̵̣̙̩̬̯̉͑͠ţ̸̨̨̢̞̥̘̺̠͚̼̜̞̀̃̌ ̶̳̗̠̙͑͠͝ķ̴̨͍̤͈͚̙̺̬̦̹̜͆͋͘i̵̡̡̡̢̡̛̬̘̫̟̖̫̲̓͗̌́́̽͌̈́͑̅̕͝͝ͅl̵̡̫͎͍̙͔̙͍̬͉̼̞̳̼͛̾̎̀̄̔l̶̨͇͓͓̦̺̮̭̖̹͍̤̎̀́̓̀̊̆̃́́͜ ̵̢̱͈̤͍̆̿͒͂̈́̈́͌̓̈́͌̋̕h̶̯͕̥͕̀͐̀̏͒͒̈́͋͒͂ì̸̫͛ͅm̸̡̧̤͓̩͙̲̜̭̻̀͠ͅ ̶̢̗̜͙̪̏͌̊̋̇̽͑́̊̉̐̓̚͝i̵̘̼̞͍͓͒͂̓̚͝͠͝s̴̨̢̲̠͉͇̍̂̂̈́̉̓͋͒ ̴̧̧̛͎̗̱̤̤̭̥͕͊̐͆̽̆̈́͆͂̎̇͜͝͝b̸̧͇̼̹̝͕͕͚͉̯͕͔̋̃̌̈e̵̡̤̺͕̭̪̪̽c̵͖̼̰͓̬̻̙͇͇̟͇̰̯̉͌͝ͅa̴̢̩̙̦̻͙͙͔̪̾͒͒̋̓̒̂̉̎͝ư̵̹̼̬̤̘̠̅͒̀͑̅̂̃͒̆̊͘͠͝s̸̞̭͕̠̩͌̌̈́̌͛͒e̴̢̛͎͚͕͕̿̅͒̂̄̈́͝ ̶̮͖̯͎̙͎͗̔ͅẁ̷̘̼̣̹̰̬̆̅̊̒̎͆͆̒́̈́́e̴̘̙̜̊̌̀̿̊'̷̧̖̯̣͇̬̻̲͘r̶̢̗̦͉͇̘̺̦͈̎̆̿̈̔͌̔̏̊̽̆͜͝e̶͖͛̕͠ ̷̨̤͔̙̙͙̩̖́́͜͜ţ̸̨̠̝̹̥̫̜̆̉̍̉̈́̍̊̽͝ȫ̵̞o̶̩̠̫̊̈́̀͌̀ ̵̛̰̲̲̍̋̀̾͗͌̎̉̎̌̚͝a̸̞͛͂͑̀̇̆̈̌́̋t̸̖̖̙̃͛͌̆̿̑̀̀̚t̸̢̛̪͖̹̠̭͎͎̣͙̞̬̍̀̿̓͗̚̚̕͜͝ą̵̛̤̘͍͈͕̪̟̹͍͈̒͗͑̅̑̔̈́̚͠͝ͅć̴̯͙͇̜̘̹̱̼̫̏̀̆͆́̉h̶̢͇͈̹͎̳̘̘̯̤̥̖͗e̸̠̬̪͚͚͇͎̭̰̰̗̣͆̆̈́̃͊͝d̵͚̲̪̯̞̣̲͖͉̝́͆̽̂͜͜ͅ.̷̨̨̛͚̭͇͈͐̃͆̌̓̀ ̶̢̻̽̃̒̐Ȟ̴̢͇͖̩̳̥͔̬͈̹̟̹͂͊͛̍̃̚͝ͅͅe̷̢͍̯͓̥̘͈͎͖͓͍̍͗̉͗̓́̀̌̋̅̕͠͠͠ ̴̨̭̙̭̜͈̤̬̘̖̙̪̬̬͗̈͒̽d̸̡͉͕̗̫̤̙̺͉̟̽͋͊̄͐͂̆́̿͑͐̏̉͠î̸̧̛̛͚͈͙̤͓̲̙̥̣̲̫̱̯̂̍̅͐̿̕͝͝d̶͙͎̺̤̰͒̍̌͒̃̕͝͝ ̴͍̀͒b̷̧̥̹̼̻̰̜͉̣̻̝̓̋̆r̷͚̜̩̠̞̳̻̤̞̓͜į̸̻̙̙̣̫̏͒̀̇́͠n̴̦̽̇͂̈̂͂̈́̂̌̂̀͘̕͜g̷̨̛͙͍͎̜̼̠̻͍̟̝̩͖͉̎̌́͒̒̔̓͝ ̵̧̢̦̺̯͇̦̊̑̆̀͠͝l̶̛̮̩͕̝͕̳̥̲̀̿̽ͅǐ̶̛͉̝̿̓̅̀͛̃͗̂̀͌͠f̴͍̈͂͋̆͆̍̎̑̓è̴̞̮̪̪̣̣̰́͂́̽̎̽̊̀͆̏͘ ̶̛̛̰̦̪̇̍͑͋̐̆̏̓̂̚ī̷̭̫̎̽̓̂n̸̨̘̟̙̲̞͖͊́̋̆͝͠t̵̩̰̖̤̣̻̺͕͉̱̀͋̀̏̈́̽̐̌̈̍͑́̚͜͝ó̴͙͈̘̼͚̫̗̱̣͇̀̉̅͐̀ ̸̧̞̹͇͉͉̼̰̝̲̝͓͆̓͆̓͛̊̀̄̕h̶̨̺̣̠͔̟̗̼̞͈̞̪̖̺̽͛͑̓̋̏̄͘̚͘į̴̢͙͚̳͚̟̺͍͖̝͎́̌̓̓͒͊̚͠ͅͅş̸̛͙͍̼͙̤̯͑͆̈͛͂̂̄͝ͅ,̵̛̝͇̺̹̩̰̝̙̣̙͒̇̅̽̑̓̅̑̈ ̴̟̞͂͂͠ä̸̢̟͕̙́̄̾̑̓͊͋̆̋́̔͘͠f̸̢̻̬̹͈͕̭̘̯̅̾̾̅̽͋̓͛͝t̶͈̲͖̖̆͛̈́͆́̎͜e̷̡̛̤̘͍͂͑͋̒̓͋̆͂̈̏̀̇͝ṟ̵̠͓̎

̸͍͐̃̏̅͠ą̸̖̗̦͈̃͒͋͝͠͝l̶̛̰̳̘̙̙͕̙̈̆̈̄̏̾̾l̶̡̪̤͓̫̝̩̼̤̟̹̼̪͍̅̑̾̐̓̊͊̉̚.̷͖̙͉̘͓̂͊̉͗̂̉̌̔̍̈́̒ ̷̨̛̙̞͚̲̯͇̞̠͗̎͐̃̎̇͗̎̔̋͘͝

This is a prohibited audio cassette. Please discard now.

This is a prohibited audio cassette. Please Đł₴₵₳ⱤĐ ₦Ø₩.

Critters have put their time and effort training for the Sloppy Olympics.

Yum-Yum fixed healthy meals and snacks, to keep them energized.

"Come get your rice cakes and bean curd burritos! Fresh from the broiler!"

Mama LongLegs put the gang up for dance lessons, to make their bodies more agile.

"1, 2, 3, 4! 1, 2, 3, 4! Come on, troops! Twirl faster if you want to save your country!"

LabRat asked trivia questions to exercise their knowledge.

"Okay! So a train leaves Rome at 4:54 am, averaging 88 miles per hour. Another train headed in the same direction leaves Rome at 5:45 am, averaging 108 miles per hour. To the nearest minute, at what time will the second train overtake the first train?"

"Ummm... The time they crash into each other?"

Everyone seemed to be productive. All except poor lazy Slouch. Coach Karl talked to him.

*SPLAT*

"Slouch, you can't keep sleeping on us like this."

"No worries, Double K. I'm just getting plenty of rest."

"I can plainly see that. But you shouldn't take this Sloppy Olympics for granted. You're our strongest player, and we'll need you. We can't have you falling asleep on this big day."

"I try not to, Karl. I really do try. But I can't help feeling tired-////////////////////////////////

////////////////////////////////

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⠣⡑⡕⡱⡸⡀⡢⡂⢨⠀⡌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡕⢅⠕⢘⢜⠰⣱⢱⢱⢕⢵⠰⡱⡱⢘⡄⡎⠌⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠱⡸⡸⡨⢸⢸⢈⢮⡪⣣⣣⡣⡇⣫⡺⡸⡜⡎⡢⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢱⢱⠵⢹⢸⢼⡐⡵⣝⢮⢖⢯⡪⡲⡝⠕⣝⢮⢪⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠂⡮⠁⠐⠀⡀⡀⠑⢝⢮⣳⣫⢳⡙⠐⠀⡠⡀⠀⠑⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⠣⠐⠀ ⭕ ⠀⠀⢪⢺⣪⢣⠀⡀ ⭕ .⠈⡈⠀⡀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⡝⣕⢄⡀⠑⢙⠉⠁⡠⡣⢯⡪⣇⢇⢀⠀⠡⠁⠁⡠⡢⠡⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢑⢕⢧⣣⢐⡄⣄⡍⡎⡮⣳⢽⡸⡸⡊⣧⣢⠀⣕⠜⡌⠌⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠌⡪⡪⠳⣝⢞⡆⡇⡣⡯⣞⢜⡜⡄⡧⡗⡇⠣⡃⡂⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠨⢊⢜⢜⣝⣪⢪⠌⢩⢪⢃⢱⣱⢹⢪⢪⠊⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠡⡑⠜⢎⢗⢕⢘⢜⢜⢜⠜⠕⠡⠡⡈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⡢⢀⠈⠨⣂⡐⢅⢕⢐⠁⠡⠡⢁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢈⠢⠀⡀⡐⡍⢪⢘⠀⠀⠡⡑⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠨⢂⠀⠌⠘⢜⠘⠀⢌⠰⡈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢑⢸⢌⢖⢠⢀⠪⡂

They really had no right taking away the paradise. Humans: A race of genocide, greed, and heartlessness. They knew how much this show meant to me, but I betcha that they really didn't give a fuck. They probably didn't give a fuck about the young fans. I KNOW there are fans! The ones who enjoyed the show must've felt the way I felt. Escape to a faraway land, surrounded by cute critters, that treat you like family. They all had their differences, and their ups 'n downs, but they always learned to cooperate in the end. The critters were loving, and flawed at the same time.

These humans in our reality are more than flawed. They're problematic. Who do you think started those wars? Polution sure as hell didn't start on its own! Our race is about cruelty, and neglect for the weak. Don't you wish you could get away from it all, and make your own world? And if they take it away from you, make them pay.

Imagine you're an only child, with a disfunctional home life. I wasn't exactly close to my parents. Mom divorced at least four times, and I don't know if she's still with her 5th one. My step fathers were frankly kind to me, but some of them tend to get really aggressive whenever I made them angry. I suspect Mom only married them for their money. Never liked them, no matter how good their gifts were. I never liked my mother either. Freakin' cunt. Yes, she was kind as well, like any mother would be. She just had some knacks that drove me off the wall.

Mom always started arguments with my stepdads. Over money, accusing them of two-timing, and not being helpful enough around the house. It scared the hell out of me. She also nagged, a lot. Nagged me for innocently forgetting to clean up after myself. Nagged me for watching too much TV. Nagged me for no reason. Nag nag nag! The worst case to list is that she expects me to treat people how I want to be treated, even if they're an asshole. Even the most nicest humans can be dumb.

As I grew older, I got out more, and learned how rotten human nature can be. I did have a few friends in my youth, but only have I used them to not make myself look like a loner, to this race of poor judgement. My real friends were the ones on TV. The Banana Splits, H.R. Puff N Stuff, and those Muppets. I love puppet costume character shows. More than cartoons. They felt so real to me, looked like they took place in another universe free of hassels. I wanted to have friends just like them.

So I made them. Don't care about the actors. They can all go to hell. However, without them, my Critters wouldn't have any life. I'm taking them, enclosing us away from the world, and kill the inferior race who dare to cross us.

//////////////////////////////////

ₐᵣₑ ᵧₒᵤ ₛₜᵢₗₗ ₜₕₑᵣₑ?

*S P L A T*

In the excitement of their victory, the Critters picked up Slouch and gave him a spiritual lift! He saved their home, and from repeating the Olympics all over again! Speaking of home, the defeated Outers went into their saucers, flying back to Tribble-Trubble! Slouch waved the golden cup in the air as a goodbye.

"Adiós! Fly safe now!"

Junior made a vow to never talk to any strangers again, no matter how kind they appear.

"I think there's a lesson for you too, Karl!"

"What might that be?"

"Make sure you read a contract before signing it!"

Karl's face blushed red. I guess that him and Junior were both behind the trouble. The tribble trouble!

The End.

#Masklophobia #Karl's Paradise #horror #The Banana Splits Movie #Remake #This is based on those old audio storybooks of some shit.#Don't worry I'll make another version!

3 notes · View notes

biofunmy · 5 years

Text

Surging prescriptions, deaths: Australia faces opioid crisis

The coroner’s sense of futility was clear, as he investigated the death of yet another Australian killed by prescription opioids.

Coroners nationwide have long urged officials to address Australia’s ballooning opioid addiction, and to create a tracking system to stop people from collecting multiple prescriptions from multiple doctors. Yet even as thousands died, the coroners’ pleas were met largely with silence.

“For what it is worth, I add my voice to the chorus pleading for urgency,” Western Australia coroner Barry King wrote in his report, delivered in May.

Half a world away, Australia has failed to heed the lessons of the United States, and is now facing skyrocketing rates of opioid prescriptions and related deaths. Drug companies facing scrutiny for their aggressive marketing of opioids in America have turned their focus abroad, working around marketing regulations to push the painkillers in other countries. And as with the U.S., Australia’s government has also been slow to respond to years of warnings from worried health experts.

In dozens of interviews, doctors, researchers and Australians whose lives have been upended by opioids described a plight that now stretches from coast to coast. Australia’s death rate from opioids has more than doubled in just over a decade. And health experts worry that without urgent action, Australia is on track for an even steeper spike in deaths like those seen in America, where the epidemic has left 400,000 dead.

“If only Australia could understand how quickly this can get out of hand. We’re not immune to it,” says Jasmin Raggam, whose brother Jon died in 2014 of an opioid overdose and whose brother-in-law is now addicted to the opioid OxyContin. “I was screaming from the mountaintops after Jon died and I’d started doing my research. And it was like I’m screaming and nobody wants to hear me.”

On an island off the coast of Tasmania, Dr. Bastian Seidel and his colleagues are immersed in what he calls a “nightmare scenario.” Two years ago, when he was president of the Royal Australian College of General Practitioners, Seidel dubbed Australia’s opioid problem a “national emergency.” Today, he wonders if anyone was listening.

“It’s depressing at times to see how we, as practitioners, literally messed up our communities,” he says. “It’s our signature on the scripts. … But the pressure being put on by the drug companies, by certain health sectors — that’s the situation that we are facing now.”

Australia knows the extent of the problem, he says. The country knows addiction is devastating its communities. And yet, he says, nobody is doing anything.

“Unfortunately, in Australia, we’ve followed the bad example of the U.S.,” he says. “And now we have the same problem.”

———

AUSTRALIA’S OPIOID ADDICTION

Opioids were once reserved for treating pain that was short-term, terminal or related to cancer. But in the 1990s, pharmaceutical companies began aggressively marketing them for chronic pain.

Starting in 2000, Australia began approving and subsidizing certain opioids for use in chronic, non-cancer pain. Those approvals coincided with a spike in opioid consumption, which nearly quadrupled between 1990 and 2014, says Sydney University researcher Emily Karanges.

Dr. Jennifer Stevens, a pain specialist, saw the surge with startling clarity while working at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney.

A few years ago, a pharmacist at the hospital told her they needed to hire an extra person just to handle all the prescriptions they were handing out for Endone, a brand of oxycodone. Stevens discovered that the hospital’s Endone prescriptions had increased 500 percent in 8 years, with no decrease in other opioids dispensed. Further study revealed that 10 percent of patients were still taking opioids three months after surgery, even though the drugs are generally only recommended for short-term use.

“We were just pumping this stuff out into our local community, thinking that that had no consequences,” says Stevens, a vocal advocate for changing opioid prescribing practices. “And now, of course, we realize that it does have huge consequences.”

Just like in the U.S., as opioid prescriptions rose, so did fatal overdoses. Opioid-related deaths jumped from 439 in 2006 to 1,119 in 2016 — a rise of 2.2 to 4.7 deaths per 100,000 people, according to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare. Most of those deaths were related to prescription opioids, rather than illegal opioids such as heroin.

More than 3 million Australians – an eighth of the country’s population – are getting at least one opioid prescription a year, according to the latest data.

The numbers and the warnings may have been glossed over partly because of Australia’s piecemeal system of data collection and reporting, says Dr. Christian Rowan, an addiction specialist in the state of Queensland. Data is reported by various states, coroners and agencies, and often includes only prescriptions filled through the government-subsidized drug system and not private prescriptions.

“Because it’s fragmented, people haven’t had a line of sight as to what’s happening,” he says.

Australia’s government insists it is now taking the problem seriously. The opioid codeine, which used to be available over the counter, was restricted to prescription-only in 2018. And last month, the country’s drug regulator, the Therapeutic Goods Administration, announced tougher opioid regulations, including restricting the use of fentanyl patches to patients with cancer, in palliative care, or under “exceptional circumstances.”

“I can’t speak for the past,” says Greg Hunt, who became the federal Health Minister in 2017. “I can speak for my watch and my time where this has been one of my absolute priorities, which is why we’ve taken such strong steps. … My focus has been to make sure that we don’t have an American-style crisis.”

But for Sue Fisher, whose 21-year-old son Matthew died in 2010 of an overdose, it’s too little, too late. The crisis is here, along with what she calls a “crisis of ignorance.”

“We’re living in a country that is oblivious to what’s going on,” she says. “Why aren’t we learning from America’s mistakes? Why don’t we learn?”

———

THE DRUG COMPANIES

When Rustie Lassam thinks of the drug companies that pumped opioids into Australia’s market, she thinks of her infant son’s agonized wails as he went through withdrawal.

For years, doctors had told her that opioids would help her back pain, which led to an all-consuming addiction. During her pregnancy, she swallowed nine high-dose OxyContin tablets every day. So when she thinks about the way pharmaceutical companies have marketed those drugs to doctors, she weeps with rage and grief.

“If only they knew what addiction did to people, how really it affects us to the very core of who we are,” she says. “And there they are, making all this money off the back of my broken life.”

In the U.S., drug companies such as OxyContin maker Purdue Pharma are facing more than 2,000 lawsuits accusing them of overstating the benefits of opioids, downplaying their addictiveness and encouraging doctors to prescribe the drugs to more patients in higher amounts.

In Australia, pharmaceutical companies by law cannot directly advertise to consumers, but are free to market the drugs to medical professionals. And they have done so, aggressively and effectively, by sponsoring swanky conferences, running doctors’ training seminars, funding research papers, giving money to pain advocacy groups and meeting with doctors to push the drugs for chronic pain.

“If the relevant governing bodies had ensured that the way the product was being marketed to doctors especially was different, I don’t necessarily think we would see what we’re seeing now,” says Bee Mohamed, who until recently was the CEO of ScriptWise, a group devoted to reducing prescription drug deaths in Australia. “We’re trying to undo ten years of what marketing has unfortunately done.”

Mundipharma, the international arm of Purdue, has received particular criticism for its marketing tactics in Australia. In 2018, addiction specialist Dr. Simon Holliday filed a complaint against the company over a marketing pamphlet for its drug Targin, a painkiller designed to prevent the constipation that is common with other opioids.

The brochure cited 2009 guidance from the Royal Australian College of General Practitioners that says weak opioids are less effective than strong ones. But in a statement, the doctors’ group said the ad was misleading and that Mundipharma appeared to have deliberately ignored its updated clinical guidelines.

Holliday filed a complaint with Medicines Australia, the pharmaceutical industry’s regulator. But membership to Medicines Australia is not mandatory, and Mundipharma declined to participate in the complaints process because it had dropped out as a member.

Holliday then went to the Therapeutic Goods Administration. He got nowhere. So he wrote to Hunt, the health minister, and other lawmakers. He received no response.

In a statement to The Associated Press, Mundipharma said that the guidelines it referenced were current at the time the pamphlet was in circulation. “The material was balanced, accurate, fully supported by the product information, consistent with the approved indication, and contained adequate safety information,” the company said.

This year, Mundipharma has faced scrutiny over a promotional campaign that critics say violates the spirit of Australia’s law banning drug marketing to consumers.

The campaign, which encouraged people suffering painkiller-induced constipation to talk to their doctors, never mentions Targin by name, because it legally can’t. But the advertising agency Mundipharma hired described on its website how they worked around that regulation, by using print, radio and online ads to target regions where pain medication use was high. Google search data showed that people looking for information on constipation from painkillers used terms like “blocked up,” so the agency used the phrase “blocked pipes.”

In a statement, Mundipharma said the campaign was a “disease awareness initiative” that did not violate the spirit of any law and did not market any medication.

In an interview, Hunt said he has asked the country’s drug regulator, the TGA, to investigate both marketing campaigns, along with some of Mundipharma’s other activities in Australia. Among those activities: the company’s “Pain Management Master Classes” for doctors. The classes, which have provided training to more than 5,000 doctors in Australia, have been praised by some as helpful for physicians seeking guidance on treating complex pain, and condemned by others as a conflict of interest, given they are run by a company that sells painkillers.

Mundipharma said the classes cover non-opioid treatment options and “strongly emphasize” that opioids are only appropriate after a comprehensive assessment.

Stevens, the Sydney pain specialist, has pushed back against several drug companies over their marketing tactics. A couple years ago, she says, Mundipharma was marketing Targin to surgeons at her hospital, reassuring them that they could prescribe higher doses. Unlike pain specialists, surgeons are generally not well-educated on the intricacies of opioids, she says.

Stevens complained to Mundipharma and they stopped the practice. She says they have become much more cooperative since.

“Marketing, on the whole, is very clever and very successful — otherwise it wouldn’t be done,” she says. “We love a freebie. … We’re no different from other members of the population. It’s just that we are targeted more.”

In a statement, Mundipharma said it strictly adheres to the Medicines Australia code of conduct and has always been transparent about the risks associated with opioids. Still, in a submission last year to the TGA as it considered tougher restrictions on opioids, Mundipharma appeared to minimize the severity of Australia’s problem.

“We acknowledge that there is an issue associated with opioid misuse,” the company wrote. “However to describe the Australian situation as a ‘crisis’ is alarmist and risks stigmatizing patients who have a legitimate need for opioid analgesics to manage their pain.”

———

HOW THE GOVERNMENT FELL SHORT

David Tonkin blames his son’s death on a system that allowed him to see 24 doctors and get 23 different medications from 16 pharmacies — all in the space of six months. Between January and July 2014 alone, Matthew Tonkin got 27 prescriptions just for oxycodone.

The addiction that ultimately ended Matthew’s life began in 2012, after he was injured while serving with the Australian army in Afghanistan. When the 22-year-old arrived on leave at his father’s home in the western Australian city of Perth, he held up a stack of OxyContin pill strips. The drugs had been prescribed to him by American doctors in Afghanistan for his injured hip and ankle.

“Look, Dad,” he said. “The Yanks really know how to look after you.”

Matthew was 14 kilograms (30 pounds) lighter than the last time his father had seen him. He was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder from the horrors of Afghanistan, including the death of his best friend, a fellow soldier. He was also suffering from a growing addiction to opioids. The addiction escalated after the army sent him to recover in Queensland, where doctors put him on an opioid called tramadol.

Matthew soon discovered how easy it was to get whatever prescriptions he wanted. He forged his doctor’s signature. He told one doctor he’d knocked a bottle of pills into the toilet and needed more.

In August 2013, another doctor prescribed him more oxycodone after Matthew said he was suffering from PTSD and hip pain.

A few weeks later, Matthew had his first oxycodone overdose. A few months after that, he was discharged from the army.

One doctor called a hotline for medical professionals to report Matthew’s apparent misuse of prescription drugs. But when Matthew moved back to Perth to live with David, doctors there had no way of knowing his drug use had been flagged in Queensland.

He hopped around clinics collecting prescriptions for opioids. The doctors were largely oblivious to what he was doing because Australia has no national, real-time prescription tracking system.

David begged Matthew’s doctors and pharmacists to stop giving him OxyContin. Matthew just went to other doctors.

At a solemn gathering to honor military personnel on April 25, 2014, two of Matthew’s friends had to hold him upright.

Back at home after the service, David told Matthew to hand over his pills. Matthew shoved David across the kitchen into the cupboard. Then he pinned his father to the floor and began to choke him.

David thought he was going to die.

Matthew eventually let go and both men went to the hospital for treatment. Two days later, Matthew called his father. “Do you still love me, Dad?” he asked.

And of course, he did. So David kept trying to save him, right up until July 3, 2014, when he returned home from a walk and realized Matthew hadn’t come out of his room all morning.

The night before, Matthew had been sick. David had cleaned the vomit off his son’s bedroom floor and changed his sheets. Matthew took a shower, thanked his father and climbed into bed.

David walked into his son’s room. “Time to get up, mate.”

There was no answer.

David placed a hand on Matthew. His body was warm. But he had no pulse.

David called for an ambulance and started CPR. As he pumped his son’s chest, the dispatcher counted out the beats.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Nothing.

———

WARNINGS IGNORED

The conclusion from King, the coroner, was blunt: Had a prescription tracking system been in place, Matthew would not have been given the oxycodone that killed him.

King’s findings on Matthew’s death were delivered at least a dozen years after the first coroners’ reports began warning of a growing opioid problem. As early as 2007, a coroner had suggested that someone look into why the opioid prescription rate on the island of Tasmania was so high.

Two states — Tasmania and Victoria — developed their own prescription tracking systems, but they only monitor opioid prescriptions within their respective states, and neither is currently mandatory.

The development of a national system has been mired in bureaucratic delays. In 2017, the government committed 16 million Australian dollars (US$11 million) to creating one, and Hunt, the health minister, later said it would be ready by the end of 2018. It has yet to be rolled out.

In an interview, Hunt blamed the delay on the states. The national framework is ready, he said, but the states must connect to it.

In March 2019, New South Wales coroner Harriet Grahame warned that Australia’s opioid deaths could reach many thousands over the next five years.

“We appear to have few coordinated strategies to address this problem,” Grahame wrote in a report. “Lowering the rate of opioid overdose is clearly achievable but it will require a government willing to listen to health experts and to act decisively on their advice.”

After Matthew died, and for years to come, David would suddenly awaken at 10 p.m. — the same time that Matthew used to call from Afghanistan. Now, instead of his son’s voice, there is only silence.

———

THE POOR PAY THE PRICE

From her home in rural northwest Tasmania, 51-year-old Carmall Casey seethes over a system she says pushed her and so many others into addiction. It is a system that has made opioids the cheap and easy alternative for Australians, particularly the poor.

“I became an addict without knowing,” Casey says.

Here in Tasmania, there are echoes of American Appalachia — in the rural towns, the poverty and the cascade of lives torn apart by pills that promised to take away the pain but in the end created more.

This is Australia’s poorest state, and like Appalachia, it is the country’s epicenter for opioids. Tasmania has the nation’s highest rate of opioid packs sold per person — 2.7 each. One region has the highest number of government-subsidized opioid prescriptions in Australia: more than 110,000 for every 100,000 people.

Ten years ago, while working as a dairy farmer, Casey jumped off a truck and felt her knees give way. An operation provided temporary relief, but the pain came back. She was told she had osteoarthritis.

A doctor prescribed her opioids to ease her pain. When she stuck the first patch on her skin, it felt like heaven.

But the agony eventually returned, so the doctor upped the dosage. The side effects were hell — depression, anxiety, panic attacks. And her pain got worse.

Desperate, she saw other doctors. They sent her away with more prescriptions for more opioids: fentanyl, codeine, oxycodone, tramadol, buprenorphine, tapentadol, Targin.

An estimated 20% of Australians suffer chronic pain. But in poor, rural areas, access to pain specialists can be logistically and financially difficult. Wait lists are long, and a few sessions with a physiotherapist can cost hundreds of dollars. Under the government-subsidized prescription benefit plan, a pack of opioids costs as little as AU$6.50 ($4.50.)

Dr. Tim Andrewartha, a general practitioner in northwest Tasmania, says giving a patient with chronic pain a drug for quick comfort can be tempting, when the alternative may be a years-long wait to see a specialist.

“As a medical practice, we’re just falling short in terms of acknowledging the lack of evidence that these drugs have for chronic, long-term use,” he says.

Casey couldn’t afford private health insurance, so finding a surgeon who would treat the cause of her pain was a struggle. She drove ten hours roundtrip to meet a surgeon in the capital, Hobart, only to be told the wait list for the operation was two years.

While taking a truck driving course, she injured her shoulder and began the same carousel of fruitless doctors’ appointments.

She tried to quit the painkillers. She returned them to the pharmacy and dumped them down the sink. She suffered through the nightmares and shakes of withdrawal. But eventually, the pain would grow unbearable, so she’d take the drugs again.

She lost her farm. Even worse, she says, she lost her daughter.

She made bad choices on the drugs, she admits now. She was living with a volatile man who began to bully Sarah, so she sent her daughter, then 14, to live with her father. It’s a decision that tore them apart, and still tears Casey apart today.

One day, she scrawled her anguish on a tattered envelope. “Imagine having a toothache for weeks, months 1 year, 2 years, 3, 4, and it’s still aching now … the pain eats away at you, the drugs send you crazy,” she wrote.

In June, she told herself: Enough. She returned the remaining pills to her pharmacist.

She found a surgeon who took her seriously. And she got an appointment with a physiotherapist who is teaching her exercises to manage her pain.

On a recent afternoon, she rifles through a box of medicine in her kitchen. Suddenly, she freezes. Tucked inside is an old pack of tapentadol that she thought she’d thrown away. She washes the pills down the kitchen sink.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do when the pain returns. But she says she will never return to opioids.

“I’m not going back,” she says and begins to weep. “I’m not.”

———

This story, part of the AP’s reporting on the global opioid crisis, was produced in partnership with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting. The Global Opioids project can be seen here. http://bit.ly/2zWNwSk

Sahred From Source link Health

from WordPress http://bit.ly/2ZVj31C via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes