#milo next
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Fully fae Milo is a mood ✨
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Post Chapter Three
Let's start it all off with a bang. Post chapter three content. A moment between Milo and Mal as they discuss the MC. You won't want to miss this one. Join my Patreon at the Courtesan tier to read this and many more coming this month.
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#the night market#milo next#malcolm albright#milo/mc/mal#romance#angst#rivalary#bonus content#love triangle?#poly
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A couple things I want from Book Two of The Night Market (@night-market-if ) because I've had brainrot on and off since finishing book one.
Spoilers if you haven't finished Book One.
• a gut wrenching scene of our MC clawing their way out of their own grave, fueled by rage and pain and heartbreak. And the visceral description of them making their way back to Hazel's or Gabriel's or Bella's, staggering through crowded streets like some eldritch being
• a scene where we see a lone raven keeping watch over the unmarked grave
• a new scar in the center of our MC's chest from where their ribs were literally ripped open and all the RO's crushing reactions to it.
• Milo knowing exactly when our MC wakes up because the Night Market seems to pause, take a breath, the laterns become almost impossibly bright for a moment and the air fills with the smell of gravedirt
• our MC having always known where Milo was hiding (if he's been hiding in the market) because our MC is The Night Market and there's nowhere he could truly hide. And one day he comes back to his hideaway to find them sitting at his table.
#ANYWAY I can't wait for book 2#the ending of book 1 wrecked me#the night market#interactive fiction#night market IF#night market#milo next#hazel albright#belladonna malady#gabriel caine
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I get why people are so mad at Milo, I really do...
(spoilers for The Night Market)
But, first of all, accidently summoning fucking Cthullu because you literally Do Not Know how to do your job is, uh, relateable somehow. Then proceeding to stab Cthullu because you panicked is objectively funny. Like. I got over the initial shock of that ending (because wtf, Milo?!?!?), and the confusion (like what did I do to get the bad ending???), and then it was ALL laughs. Like, daaaaamn, Malcolm is gonna be pissed, dude!
Legit, Milo isn't even malicious here, y'know? He's, like, a horse loose in a hospital -- he's just as confused as you are! He's never been in a hospital before!
Also, on a serious note, it's like, fair enough, okay. Because Hazel won't leave the Market, because she won't leave without Malcolm (living, dead, or undecided). Malcolm either can't or won't leave. Every probably can't leave. Milo probs doesn't care if he dies, but that's his family. And, I mean, the MC was dying irregardless. In his brain, this was the thing that would save them, too. All he had to do was give up their trust and love (platonic or otherwise), and they walked away. Limping and heartbroken, sure, but alive. Not saying it's fair, but you know. People do massively fucked up shit for love and for fear, and Milo has both. What he does is selfless from a certain point of view -- he gave up the affection and goodwill (that he probably thinks he doesn't deserve anyway), and everyone lives. He loved them all enough to lose them. And yeah, it was in fucked up way that is not the way to do shit, but.
As a future trauma-informed clinician, Milo's brain is legitimately built different. That man is on fight-or-flight 24/7, and I'm not convinced he isn't in a manic episode for at least part of the book. We know he's not sleeping and is drinking pretty heavily toward the end. That does not bode well.
Honestly, it was a shocker ending only because I didn't expect the author to go there, but it makes sense. This is a severely mentally ill man who spent ten years literally carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, on top of his own unprocessed grief and trauma, and trying to make sure his equally mentally ill friend is alright, and sort of single-parenting a dead child. Then you have the fact that he was meeting pretty regularly with Baron fucking Palpatine, who was probably manipulating him. And yeah, you can say that he's a grown man but... When you live your life focused on survival, you literally do not develop the kind of executive functioning skills you need to withstand that shit. You can develop them later in life, but it is significantly more difficult.
In a lot of cases, I do not argue for mental illness being a defense for the kind of fuckery that he got up to, but shit, man. Milo has such a deep-seated sense of self-loathing, and the amount of vitriol thrown against him so intense and utterly unsympathetic. The whole cast uses the MC for their own ends. They all put the MC at direct risk. At least Milo believes he's saving them.
Anyhoo... romanced him because Zinnia won't let me play as his therapist LOL.
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“I thought you were crazy. You were talking to the lanterns. But they always listen. I know exactly why you trusted all your secrets to them…”
“They make me feel real, and they weren’t even supposed to be real.”
lil glowy piece of Milo Next and my MC Zenith
Fan art for The Night Market @night-market-if
#i am here demons: my art#the night market#the night market if#Milo next#if#interactive fiction#the night market fanart#mc
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"you looked at that mess of [a] man and said, I’ll do you one better.”
I love the fashion of the Night Market setting, so I wanted to draw how I imagine my mc Vesper's outfit! (I did this piece before the Book 2 demo, so this is his Book 1 look.)
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All the World's a Stage, and You're the Playwright
Hello! It's been a while. Life really catches up to you, huh?
In the interim, book 1 of one of my favorite interactive fiction novels just dropped, and I've been devouring it.
Speaking of which, this is set post book 1 of The Night Market, in the interim between book 1 and 2 (since 2 will be a wip for a while and I'm impatient and I adore this work so much).
If you're not entirely sure what's going on, use dream logic. Because I intended for this to be a very different piece and then Milo Next said "no I want to be sad and tormented".
There are SPOILERS in this for the ending of Book 1, and mentions of Child Death, and Death in general. I don't get explicitly into detail about it, I'm not that kind of a writer, but if those heavy topics aren't for you, I recommend avoiding this piece.
Ember/Blaze is my OC! They use any pronouns.
Without further ado....
-
He knew he was dreaming.
Milo remembered the acrid smell of blood in his nose, looking down at the crimson stain on his hands (or was it silver? Or chrome? Or an oil slick spill of color?) and seeing their wide eyes staring back at him accusingly. A pearlescent tear sliding down their cheek as they gasped their last.
It was a dream he'd had many times. One he'd have many times more.
He shuddered, holding them close. His handsome lover, reaching out and cupping his face, their lips trembling. The black smoke of their hair drifted out to mingle with the late-night mist of the gardens, almost as if desperate to cling to the fabric of this world.
The world he'd excised them from.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. Apologizing the way he never would have in the waking world, baring his bleeding scarred heart.
In the dream, he always did this. Like two actors upon the stage, a single lantern dangling over them like a spotlight.
If he looked out, he knew he'd see a full amphitheater, their breath held tight with anticipation.
A sea of masks watching his mistakes over and over again, witnesses to his crime.
"Save him!" A voice shouted from the audience, soft and sweet even in its anger. A mask made of woven willow branches, with glistening sap tears that spilled out of the eyeholes.
"You deserve to rot for your crimes," another called, from out behind a featureless onyx mask cracked and gilded with silver, heartachingly beautiful in its kintsugi design.
A third raised its voice, powerful and commanding even amidst the crowd. "You didn't deserve her. You've killed us all." Eyes stared accusingly at him from behind an ornate devil's mask, the golden snarling mouth turned copper from lipstick made of blood.
As always, he braced himself for the last voice, the voice that never came.
The empty seat in a full theater that terrified him as much as he was desperate for it.
He stared down at the lifeless body in his arms. He had once embraced this body with his own, whispered frantic words in hidden alleyways mingling brightly with loving laughter.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could bring you back…" He held out a wooden heart, the red paint cracked and peeling. A prop on the stage of his dream. Red fabric slid down his chest in stop motion across the empty courtyard.
He knew how this would end. The curtains would draw on his false heart, the audience booing in dissatisfaction.
They wanted a proper ending. His body at the gallows, his crimes paid for.
They wouldn't get it.
He would relive his guilt again and again, night after night upon the stage for all the world to see.
Milo bowed his head and waited for the lights to dim.
That's it?
A voice slid across his mind, and he gasped, jerking his head up. Looking frantically around.
The dream always ended afterwards. No one else had lines.
Hands slid around his own, grasping the wooden heart.
Squeezing tightly, punishingly.
Don't you think I deserve more than this? A false caricature of your heart?
He looked down.
To his horror, his dead lover stared back at him. Hollow, empty eye sockets stared back at him, keeping his attention.
A perfect pair of lips moved, and he heard their voice become clear, as if he had been listening to them from underwater, and only now had begun to surface.
"Don't let the curtains draw, Milo. The audience deserves a proper ending. It is you who expects the Gallows." They tugged at the wooden heart emphatically, and he watched as it rotted and crumbled between his trapped hands.
"If you truly wish to change things, you must change the ending. Malcolm has always been the Gatekeeper. You knew this from the start." Ember reached out, cupping his face. Her hand was incredibly warm, almost searingly so.
"Become the Storyteller, Milo. Make the ending your own. After all, I'm not the only one who you made a promise to. I'm not the only one you left behind."
They glanced out to the audience, and he followed their gaze.
A lantern slid down from an invisible ceiling, a spotlight on a single seat.
Malcolm's seat.
Milo's eyes widened with horror.
Wood became metal, and the corpse in his arms grew warm, hot with life. Skin became unbroken, and cheekbones swelled, eyes forming and staring at a spot in Milo's warehouse.
On the woven circular rug in the epicenter of his room, sat a little girl clutching a stuffed cow. She watched in anticipation, a child listening to a story told by their parents.
Milo's hands trembled.
He had forgotten.
No- he had purposefully pushed thoughts of her away.
He'd left her behind when he ran away, and here, in his dreams, he couldn't run any longer.
Ember's hands squeezed around his own, and he glanced back at the man in his arms.
"She deserves a happy ending, Milo Next. Not everything has to be a tragedy. We adults soak in the jaded pain of our lives, we sometimes forget the children we once were. We have to teach them to hope. That death is not the result of punishment, or despair." He nodded towards Ever. "That her death may have been frightening, but it is not the end. Death is just another part of life. The cycle that always begins again."
Ember looked up at him, warm amber eyes flickering like lantern lights-
No. Like a blaze of fire. Burning brighter, with no intention of stopping.
"Show her, Milo. Show her this is not the end. Show her that you can be kind. She needs you. She needs to hear it."
Milo shuddered, feeling tears beginning to leak down his face. "But death is scary. It is the end. How can I lie to her? How can I tell a kid that sometimes people die?"
Ember, no, Blaze laughed softly. "It is adults who are afraid of death. Children don't know to be afraid until we teach them." Their gaze was sorrowful. "And sometimes, children die. Lovers die. People die. It is our duty to ease them into the inevitable. To twist the story into something hopeful. Show her, Milo."
Another voice spoke up over his shoulder. The voice he had been dreading from the start.
"Show her that death is not the end." A hand grasped his shoulder tightly. "Show her that even you know how to forgive and be kind. Show her your heart."
Milo didn't look at Malcolm. He couldn't. Not when his gaze remained captured by Blaze.
Tears streamed down his face, and finally, he sighed.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
Milo Next reached into his chest, pulling out his bleeding heart. Beating wildly with the frantic pulse of life.
The audience in the theater gasped.
Ever leaned forward, her eyes wide with wonder, with the innocence of children.
In the garden, in the still quiet by the fountain, he leaned down.
Just the two of them.
Blaze and Milo.
A corpse and its murderer.
He pushed his beating heart into the keyhole of Blaze's chest, and watched it be swallowed whole.
"I'm sorry," he said. Milo watched as color began to bloom in those cheeks, filling pink lips with life. A chest that began to rise and fall, as it had done so many times before.
"I'm sorry," he repeated firmly, trying not to choke on the words. "I love-"
"-you."
Milo woke up with that last word on his lips, and gasped, sitting upright in his makeshift bed. His chest heaved, and he clutched at it, feeling for the frantic beat he'd known his entire life.
It was still there.
Hastily he scrubbed the tears away from his face, night sweat drying on his skin, and felt something smear across his face.
He pulled his hand away.
Silver/red/chrome/oilslick blood still lingered on his fingertips.
In the silence of the waking dawn, Milo Next wept.
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God, looking at some of these now makes me cringe. Was having trouble visualizing my favorite character, Milo, from Zinnia Demitasse's The Night Market, so started doing some warm-up/cool down doodles of him, trying to nail his look to my satisfaction. The end result is the forward-facing bust, although I think I might use actor Robert Sheehan (Nathan in BBC's Misfits but, like... older) as a model going forward if I decide to ever draw him again. Drawing a character without a ref - especially a photo ref - is harrrd. The second-to-last image of him is just some old lineart of another OC of mine I made some adjustments to look more like him. They're both quite similar in character, on the surface, anyway. I think my guy is less squishy on the inside? The girl is my main character for it (It's an interactive fiction novel, so basically a choose-your-own-adventure novel but like... a game?) Her name is Farvel (pronounced "Faa-Vell"), her nickname is "Faa", and she's a mess. c: The comic is more or less just an inside joke among TNM fans. Anyway, go read The Night Market! It's good stuff!
I still like this concept of Milo reaping, then sewing. Expressions are so much fun. Even if he's really off-model here.
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I also got around to making a playlist for my other favorite IF @night-market-if oc, Avin with RO of choice Milo. Another must read! Go buy it if you haven't, you'll love it!! Zinnia's writing is wonderful and draws you in.
As always, I will continue to add to this playlist. I think it's funny that I went into reading this fully expecting to romance Gabe first because he's the type I tend go for. Milo not so much. But after a first playthrough that changed COMPLETELY, now he's Avin's canon RO. (So excited for the poly with Mal). Anyway, tastes are subjective and I'm older so that changes it somewhat. Enjoy.. or don't, regardless go read the book/game. <3
#interactive fiction#music playlist#spotify playlist#Avin#oc#milo next#tnm#the night market#go read it#Spotify
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Hey go read @night-market-if
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finished the night market demo while doing a romance route with milo. jesus christ.
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Just me thinking about the poly Milo/MC/Mal situation in @night-market-if ‘s stupidly beautiful game
Milo made Mor sad 😞 Mal is helpin to soothe the pain.
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“I thought they were gonna be a stupid rock!”
“Milo you fool, that was my rock. But also- what were you doing bumping bits with my rock?”
“Let’s stop calling them a rock.”
Milo and Malcolm got some stuff to work out
Milo and Mal have A LOT to work out. And Milo may start affectionately calling MC his 'rock' when things are better.
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Title: Strange Trails Pt II
Continuing the Western AU, this time featuring Ms Malady herself
The dust of the road barely kicks up as you pass. Whipped clean by the storm last night, or feeling so ashamed it lays still. Your skin still stings with the aftermath, tiny little scratches where your bandana hadn’t been enough.
Could always be worse, you remind yourself as you walk, the sun creeping down below the edge of the hills ahead.
Dusk lasts a long time in towns like this. The desert stretches on into the horizon and the sun takes its time on the way down. Not like in the forests up north where the twilight comes down like a noose, strangling the day before it can even get started. Stealing the hours for itself.
Is that why you’ve come west? Fleeing the early darkness? Looking for a lasting light?
Is that why you’ve brought your gun?
The sky presses down like an open palm out here with nothing to stop it. The vastness of space hovering just over your head, like you might just fall into it if you’re not careful. Like maybe you already have.
Feels like you’ve been on this road for ages but the sun hasn’t gone more than a handsbreadth. The light is only a little dimmer. Can’t have been more than half an hour at the outside so why do your legs feel so heavy? Why are you tired down to your bones?
You really should find a doctor.
The town is just as small as the sheriff said. Maybe a dozen shops and storefronts on the main road and only one of them could be the saloon. The ones you pass sit heavy on their frames. Settled, like. Bone bleached wood and peeling paint everywhere you look.
You can feel eyes on you as you pass and no wonder. Town this small can’t see a lot of traffic but no one stops you. Only one building out the way you came in. The Night Market must have a lot of faith in their sheriff. Or a lot of fear.
You follow the smell of whiskey and smoke to the well lit building on the corner. Paint’s fresher. Porch is swept as clean as it can be in a town with unpaved roads. It doesn’t go quiet when you step inside, but only because it was already quiet.
Every eye is on you, pressing down like the sky.
The woman you’re here to see is behind the counter. You don’t need an introduction. There’s just no one else it could be.
Her hair falls over her shoulder like fresh blood. Her eyes are sharp enough to spill it and they’re fixed on you. For a moment they seem almost to glow, lit from within, molten.
The jail cell may have been safer.
Someone giggles from the corner, a dark haired woman laughing behind her fan. But the sound breaks the detente and you amble to the nearest barstool.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she says, lips curved like a sickle as she sets two glasses on the smooth countertop. Slides one across to rest at your fingertips. “On the house.”
“Mighty friendly of you.”
She shows all her teeth as she pours the liquor. You saw a shark once, down south. If a shark could smile, you reckon it might smile like Ms Malady. “Call it a welcome present. We don’t get many of your kind these days.”
Your brows make a run for your hairline and even though you can feel how unwise it is you can’t stop your tongue from saying, “My kind?”
“Strangers.” She raises the glass, the whiskey much redder than you expect. “Cheers.” She downs hers in one long swallow, the white skin of her neck just a touch too smooth. Bloodless. If she minds that you haven’t touched your drink she doesn’t show it. “What can I do for you, stranger?”
“Blew into town last night with the storm,” you say. “I need a room for the evening. The sheriff said you’re the woman to see. His hospitality didn’t extend much past my arrest, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, that sounds like him. I am indeed,” she agrees. “Though I am a little surprised he deigned to admit it.”
“So you can help me?”
“I can rent you a room,” she says, which you notice isn’t a yes.
“Then maybe you’ll help me with something else, too.” You fiddle with the edge of the glass for something to do with your hands. “I’m looking for someone. A man from town, I suspect, only I don’t know his face.”
She laughs, tinkling like a bell. The sound is wrong in some way that’s hard to place until you realize. Like a bell, the sound ringing from her throat like metal. “That is quite a problem.”
You hold the glass harder before forcing your grip to relax. “Only saw him for a few minutes, but he had a ring I expect will be easy enough to find. Big thing, gold, but it had some black, too. Oil, maybe. Looked like a signet, cut with a gate or a fence.”
“Char,” someone says from the corner. A man, from the timbre, sitting with his back to you both. “The black on the ring is charcoal, from the ranch fire.”
“You know him, then.” It’s not a question.
Ms Malady is looking at you just like the sheriff did as she recorks the bottle. “Seems we’ve solved both your problems, stranger. Happy hunting.”
She walks away as the gentleman stands, though unfolds might be a closer truth. He’s scarecrow lean, clothes hanging on his shoulders like they were cut for a larger man. You don’t see a gun but you aren’t so foolish as to assume that means he don’t have one.
His curls shade his eyes when he finally turns to face you, a few coins rattling on the table top as he steps away leaving behind a mostly empty bottle and a wholly empty glass.
“I know the fella you’re looking for,” he says with a grin that feels more like a grimace. “But you won’t find him in town.”
You turn on your stool. You’re not sure whether that’s to be polite or to be safe. “Where can I find him, then?”
“I’ll take you,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s not far.”
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Chapter 11 of The Night Market be like
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