#something small to get my brain back in gear for this dumb event
Text
Can You Feel It?
Pairing: Ex!Billy Hargrove x You x Unimportant Jock
Event: A Very @corroded-hellfire Valentine's Day
Summary: Billy fucked around. Now he's gonna find out.
Contains: Heartbreak, spite, sex, Billy Hargrove Is His Own Warning.
Song: You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette
Words: 1.4k
Minors and ageless blogs who interact with this fic will be blocked.
And every time I scratch my nails
down someone else's back
I hope you feel it
Well, can you feel it?
You hate Billy Fucking Hargrove.
You hate his stupid hair and his dumb earring and his loud-ass car and you especially hate the fact that you found him with some skank's tongue down his throat at Tommy Hagan's party last weekend, just hours after he told you that he loved you.
You didn't make a scene. You didn't key his car or slash his tires or even let him know you'd decided to come after all.
You just went home and cried.
You cried until you got angry.
It boiled over Monday morning in the Hawkins High parking lot. You were separated by staff who threatened to call your parents and told you both to stay far away from each other. You were happy to comply. He was as good as dead to you.
For a few days.
The following Thursday in the cafeteria, when he winked at you while that slut sat in his lap, you rose up out of your chair to go murder them both... when Ashley M. stepped into your path and caught you off-guard by shoving a flyer in your hand.
You read it - keg party, this weekend, no parents - and a new plan began to form in your jilted brain.
You went all out. Teased your hair. Applied make-up that would make Cyndi Lauper proud. Wore that top that makes your tits look phenomenal and a tiny skirt that your parents didn't know you owned and the painful shoes that Billy called "Fuck-Me Heels."
Boys were drooling the minute you casually strolled into Ashley M's front door half an hour late.
You located him in seconds. He sat on the kitchen counter, staring. You'll give him something to fucking stare at.
You looked to the right and made eye contact with the first idiot who'd crowded around you, vying for your attention. According to his letterman jacket, his name was Spencer. He'd do.
It was almost too easy. One dazzling smile and a dance with a little too much touching, and he was practically dragging you down the hallway. Easy, Sparky, don't forget who's running this show.
He tries two doors before finding an empty room. A bathroom. Good enough.
He closes the door and locks it and shoves you against the back of it and tries to worm his tongue down your throat. No technique. Not at all like Billy.
Right. Billy. That's why you're here. You palm Sparky's comically small package with one hand and subtly reach behind you to unlock the door with the other. You push the meathead away, approach the sink on the opposite side of the room, and hop on. It faces the door. Perfect. You want to see the look on his face when he inevitably storms in and throws a fit.
Sparky sheds his jacket - stopping to hang it carefully on a towel hook, lest his precious jock gear get a wrinkle in it - and stands between your knees. He leans forward and begins to maul your neck. His hands find your tits and grab at them like it's his very first time. You distract him by peeling his shirt off, "accidentally" tangling it around his head to stall him. When he gets free and tries to resume his frantic fondling, you move his hands to your ass and watch the door boredly.
"You're so hot," Sparky moans, squeezing your ass with both hands. You roll your eyes. Hurry up, Hargrove.
You wait patiently until the bathroom door crashes open. It sends a jolt through your entire body, like you've been struck by lightning. Billy Hargrove stands in the doorway, eyes blazing and shoulders squared. The doorknob left a dent in the wall behind it. What did he do, kick it open? It wasn't locked, you fucking moron.
Sparky turns around at the sound. "Hey man, you mind? We're kinda busy here."
You grab Sparky by his bare shoulders and jerk him back to you. His face collides with the side of your neck, and he resumes his disgusting slurping like Billy isn't standing just a few feet away, ready to kill him. You stare coldly at the asshole in the doorway while you scratch your nails down Sparky's back. A move that was guaranteed to make Billy go feral, every fucking time.
Can you feel that, Hargrove?
"Ow! Shit!"
Sparky backs away from you and your claws, and Billy steps forward to catch him. Billy grabs him by the scruff of the neck and hauls him into the hallway, bouncing his face off the wall a few times before shoving him to the floor.
Now it's your turn.
Billy steps over Sparky's body and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He locks it, and before you can marvel at the fact that the lock mechanism still works, he's on you. Hand on your throat. Your head smacks against with the mirror behind you.
"What the fuck was that?"
"What's it to you? You don't want me anymore, remember?"
Fire blazes in his eyes, and his grip tightens.
You stare calmly into his furious face.
Why the fuck did you miss him? He made you mad almost every day. You fought all the time. He was moody, and difficult, and snarky, and let's not forget the fact that he's a liar and a cheater and an all-around dickhead who broke your fucking heart.
You'd give anything for him to love you the way you love him.
In the blink of an eye, Billy's hand moves from your throat to the back of your neck, and his mouth is on yours. Your brain quiets, and your body buzzes, and being close to him is the only thing that matters.
His massive hands drift down to your breasts, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. You moan into his mouth, and his hands keep traveling south. You open your legs for him, and he doesn't waste any time slipping under your skirt and past your barely-there panties and dipping a finger into your center.
Feeling how wet you are brings him back to the reality of the situation. He extracts his hand, wipes it on your thigh, and glares.
"That douchebag get you this worked up?"
"That limp-dicked dumbass couldn't work a calculator."
Billy snorts, and you smile. God, you missed this.
"Who'd you wear those Fuck Me Heels for, then?"
"Who do you think, asshole?"
He smirks in a way that makes you want to smack it off his face. Instead, you hook your leg around him and pull him closer. Billy grabs your ass and jerks you to the edge of the counter, so you can feel his stiff member pressing into your heat. You need him so fucking bad.
His assault on your mouth begins again, and you wrap your arms around him and cling to his back. He rocks into you, and the friction from his jeans is almost enough to finish you off.
"Billy," you breathe. "Need you."
"I should make you beg," he taunts, slowly dragging the double-stitched denim of his fly upward and surprising you with a sudden jerk of his hips. You claw at his jacket and puff out a breath of air. You're not fucking begging. You try to grind your hips against him, but he reaches down to hold them still. You respond by lurching forward and biting his neck.
Billy responds with a slap to your ass. He pulls back, and you glare up at him, chest heaving. You're not fucking begging.
"Fuck it," he grumbles, reaching for his belt buckle. He unbuckles unzips, and slams into you in seconds.
Fuck, you missed this.
Billy begins to thrust hard and fast, eyes on yours. When you begin to approach your peak, you close your eyes and lean your head back. He grabs your jaw and makes you look at him. He wants to watch it happen. He needs to see what he does to you.
You come together, with grunts and moans, collapsing against each other in a panting heap. You fall back against the mirror, and he leans with you. His head rests on your shoulder. Breathing ragged. Bones weak. Brains foggy. Nobody makes you fall apart like he does.
"I love you," is what you want to tell him.
"I know," is probably what he would say before he smirked his dumb little smirk and zipped up those tight jeans that fit him just right and left your stupid ass in a puddle of your own tears again.
You wish you could hate Billy Fucking Hargrove.
#writings of despair#billy hargrove x you#billy hargrove x reader#corroded-hellfire's valentine's day playlist#alanis i'm sorry i love him :'(
59 notes
·
View notes
Text
Whispers from Ionia - Drinks Amongst Friends
Last time on Whispers from Ionia (what is this a TV Show now?)
Yi had grown accustom to Demacian places of commerce giving him an evil stare when he entered. Always judgemental of his strange technology, sometimes to the point of turning him away. He understood it without a doubt, but he’d still wear a grim expression when a barkeep locked his two eyes with Yi’s seven lenses and motioned for him to remove his goggles. His hair, for once in a state of lustre given his cleaning rituals, fell to either side of his face, and he rubbed his tired eyes of pale honey,
“We are already attracting attention to ourselves.” But the archer who had lead him here was stern as he politely set aside his bow at the door. Truly a Demacian to his core, at least in his rigid standing posture. He gave a soft shrug, endeavouring to find an empty table among the evening drinkers. The thing was small and round. Too close for Yi’s comfort, but again what choice did he have?
“It will be fine.” Terry said, “All I see are drunks and merry folk. We can talk here.”
“Merry folk like to spread rumours.” Yi sat himself upon the rickety stool, testing it by rocking his weight back and forward. Though he felt as if he’d fall at any moment, he figured it satisfactory for some unnamed tavern, “I still do not understand why we needed to come here.”
“Because I need a drink.” The Demacian was all smiles, but the act dropped right off his face as he considered the Bladesman’s piercing stare as the Ionian brushed his hair behind his ears, “… A drink with someone worth drinking with. Despite it all I still don’t hate you. Just talk with me though. We don’t need to make quips at each other anymore.”
“You are the one who must talk.” Yi said, discarding his helmet at his feet and leaning his chin on woven hands, “She lives?”
“Yeah, she does…” The guardsman sighed, finally taking a seat across from his rival, “It’s not a happy life for her right now, but it’s a life. Breaths and all, though she’s basically... debilitated by her wound. By all accounts the arrow should have destroyed all her insides, and maybe it has. But… I don’t know. I don’t like to—”
“—If you do not like to think about it, then you should not have shot us.”
The man seemed to chew on those words a time, before soundlessly raising a hand and motioning over a woman who worked the tavern. She hopped over with an expression happy enough that it managed to insult Yi somehow.
“… Got anything in the way of food.” Terry asked her, “Any pottage brewing?”
“Just ales and wines, Sir.”
“Ale will do, then.”
“Cheap wine?” Yi interjected, and he didn’t even regret asking when the barmaid nodded, “Then this for me, please.”
“Yi…” Terry offered, almost as if the Demacian should have given a damn. Yi felt his blood pump directly from his heart to his fist, but the archer’s jaw wouldn’t feel his strike. He instead spat some words with the same intended force,
“If I must listen to you and your misplaced regrets, then I do not wish to remember much of it after.” With the barworker dismissed, Yi’s tired brows firmed up all the more, “And you shall pay for this, and you shall tell nobody of this after. I need not rumours of myself spreading outside of Demacia City.” The sad face of a certain adopted noblewoman flashed in his mind, but as her worst fears might have affirmed he was quick to push thoughts of the Lady away. “But to important things; if she lives, then what is her state? Both physically, and in the eyes of the law? Who is she? What is her name?”
“I…” The Demacian’s shoulders slumped, and Yi would revel somehow in his uncertainty, “There are things I know, and things I don’t know. I don’t know her name, and I don’t know why she’s here. We can’t get information out of someone who doesn’t speak a word of Common. For the most part however, she hasn’t been fit enough to stand trial. Though everyone’s minds already seem made up; we Demacians are stubborn people I guess. Everyone’s opinions are aligned, damn idiots.”
“What..?”
“She’s already been sentenced by most people’s standards, but they want to run her through the motions when she’s well.” Even if he didn’t realise it, Yi was leaning forward upon his hands. He didn’t even care for the tightness that radiated from his old arrow injury as he listened intently, “… Don’t blame me for the things I say, Master Yi. This is really all beyond me now. I don’t have any say in what the law does to her. All I did was arrest her. That’s where this should have ended for me, but instead I’m caught up in this Godsdamned stupid controversy.”
“What do you mean? Just be direct with me, Terrius.”
As if on cue, the barmaid placed down two tankards, one of grain and one of grapes. Terry picked his drink up with a tremble to his otherwise perfectly poised archer hand, though he did not indulge himself as of then. He merely sat there, taunting the Bladesman in his silence. He wasn’t so far gone that a palm to the table didn’t summon a jump from him though, “Terry! Answer me.”
“Do you really want to know, Yi?”
“Yes! Do not toy with me. Not right now, or ever.”
And in response to Yi’s request, Terry offered a single word as he eyed his drink. So simple, yet it stole all sensation from his body when it entered his ears,
“… Death.”
#WHISPERS FROM IONIA 『Event』#WUJU THRIVES IN STORY NOW 『Drabbles』#something small to get my brain back in gear for this dumb event#I'm very uninspired but i just want to get it doooooooooone#so you get like#a half drabble#pft#end me
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Water Weight (NSFW Max Verstappen)
Masterlist
Dual credit for this idea goes to my beta as always, @acollectionofficsandshit thank you my love!
“You watching from the garage today?” Max asks from the tiny bathroom. His fireproof underlayer lay in a pile just outside the alcove, his boxers quickly joining. Weigh-ins were simultaneously your favorite and most dreaded event of race day. On one hand, you got to imagine Max naked. On the other, the thought always wound up distracting you for hours afterwards.
You flop back on the couch and pull out your phone in effort to distract yourself. If you glanced up, you would be able to see his bare ass reflected in the mirror of the door he neglected to close. “I will, but I’m not going out there right away. I’ll stay in the aircon until I have to.” Max swore softly, his hand darting out to snatch the clothes back.
“What’s up?” You put a hand over your eyes, not trusting yourself to hold your nerve. The creak of the floor tells you he’s rejoined you in the main room, safely clothed. You drop your hand and pause.
“I’m overweight,” He says, emerging in his boxers. Well, that was a shock. You hadn’t expected to see quite so much golden, toned skin. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes drift to the planes of his chest, trailing down his stomach to the defined v that disappears under the cotton.
This was dangerous territory.
Oblivious, Max continues, “Only by a couple ounces of water weight but with all the gear… Guess I’ll have to work up a sweat before the official weigh-in.”
“I can help,” You blurt, the words bubbling out before you can think about what they imply. You clamp a hand over your mouth as Max freezes, turning to you. You could practically feel the years of friendship washing down the drain with those three syllables.
Fuck.
Max opens his mouth, then closes it again. Your heart hammers against your ribs, stomach turning sour. Max was your best friend; you sure as hell didn’t want to lose him because of a dumb crush.
A pink tinge tints Max’s cheeks. “Are you suggesting-?”
“I mean if you want-”
He closes the distance between you in two strides. Your eyes snapped up to his face. If you just looked straight ahead-
“I do,” Max murmurs, so low you’re sure you misheard him. You laugh, attempting to negate the tension rippling between the two of you. A hand flexes at his side like he’s trying to restrain himself. Your heart speeds up so quickly you’re sure it could out pace his car.
Your breath stutters as his fingertips brush your cheek. “I… I was just…” Fuck, you couldn’t even get the words out. Five pinpricks of lightning occupy your senses, short circuiting your brain. The simple touch carried so much… adoration. No, it was more than that. Love, maybe?
Blinking rapidly, you banish the thoughts. No way. You were Max’s friend, nothing more. But…
“I really hope you weren’t about to say ‘joking.’”
You realize his fingers haven’t moved from the curve of your jaw. All you can manage is a shake of your head. It was what you were about to say, but not what you wanted to say.
Agonizingly slow, Max lowers himself to his knees before you so you are eye to eye. His hand slides to the back of your neck, his gaze falling to your lips.
“Tell me to stop,” He whispers, inching his face closer to yours. Your eyes flutter shut, a hand eagerly gripping his bicep.
“Never.”
And fuck, the moment his lips finally touch yours, every doubt you’ve ever had about his feelings for you vanish. It’s all portrayed in the tightening of his fingers in your hair, the way his tongue prods your lower lip, begging to be set free. His free arm crushes you to his chest as you open for him, setting yourself free. The first brush of your tongue against his has you sighing.
It feels so… Natural. Like it was meant to be all along, and every heartbreak endured along the way had only served to make the end so much sweeter. Desperate, your hands travel the valleys of his muscled back, determined to commit each curve to memory.
Max stands, his grip on your waist propelling you upward. Stumbling towards the bed, you fumble with the buttons of your shirt. Dammit, why did you have to choose today to wear something nice for once?
Impatient, Max grips each side of the shirt and pulls. Buttons fly and you stare at him, gaping. “I liked that shirt!”
“Weigh in is in 20 minutes, no time,” He mumbles, tossing the useless fabric across the small space. The stupid hopeful grin on Max’s swollen lips turns your knees to jelly, allowing him to guide you onto the bed easily. He slots his hips between your spread knees, bodies fitting together in perfect bliss.
Kissing your bare abdomen, he pauses when his fingers reach the hem of your shorts. Despite the need raging in his expression, he forces himself to wait. But fuck, do you wish he would just take it.
“Yes,” You say firmly. It sets him free, deft hands making quick work of tearing the shorts off you. His lips find your jaw as he slips off his boxers. He braces his forearms on either side of your head. You can feel his cock against your thigh, your toes curling.
Again he hesitates. There’s a conflict raging in his eyes. All you want to do is be his peace.
“No going back,” He says breathlessly. You wrap your arms around his neck. How many times had you imagined this moment in the years you’ve pined for him? How many times had you slept with other men and imagined it was him? How many times had his name slipped from your tongue when you had your own hand between your legs?
“I don’t want to go back,” You assure him, placing a soft kiss to those lips you’ve always dreamed about. He still doesn’t move, even though you can see the desperation written on his face.
“Fifteen minutes to weigh in,” You tease lightly. That snaps him out of wherever his mind had wandered, his grin returning. He rolls his hips, easing his cock between your slick folds. The sound that escapes you is one of pure ecstasy. Your imagination could never live up to the way he fits so perfectly inside of you, stretching you just enough to know that he was meant for you.
Your name tumbles from him again and again as he moves, slow at first. His movements quickly build up to his hips snapping against yours, the rickety bed creaking beneath you. Words escape you; all you know is the feeling of sweat-slicked skin beneath your fingers as they dig into his back, surely leaving red lines behind.
Heels digging into the back of his thighs, you encourage him to go harder and faster. After all, weigh in is in ten minutes. His thrusts become sloppier, his hips angling to hit that blissful spot inside of you, sending white hot sparks through your veins.
Pleasure crescendos, and you whisper, “I- I’m gonna-”
Max crushes his lips to yours, swallowing your moan as you shatter around him. He keeps moving as you come down from your high, pulling out seconds before he spills himself on your bare stomach.
He collapses beside you, chest heaving. “Damn.”
You laugh, using your now trashed shirt to clean yourself up. “You gonna make weight now?”
“I would bet that I will.” Max props himself up on an elbow to gaze down at you. He seems lighter than you’ve ever seen him. He checks the clock, pressing another quick kiss to your temple before getting up. “Gotta go. See you after the race?”
“I’ll be here, since I no longer have anything to wear.”
His laugh rumbles over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Wear one of mine.”
I may never recover from this, so thank you. I also never want to recover from this either. Post it, post it right now.
216 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hind Sight
This is both inspired and a sort of prequel to Starfics’ answer to my prompt, I loved the idea of it so much that I started a Demon Bull Divorce AU, have fun!
Hindsight
Like a lot of things in hindsight MK could see that this was a very dumb idea.
It was a spur of the moment idea that came to him and Mei as they saw Red Son in the garage with his signature jacket hanging up because said fire demon was currently up to his elbows in tuk-tuk engine bits.
Red Son had just shown up at the noodle store one day declaring that he was there to ‘pay off his father’s debt’ after the whole lunar new year event. Everyone was a bit suspicious at first but Mei and MK decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, after all they knew he wasn’t all evil. True to his word he helped out with fixing stuff and had offered to upgrade the Tuk-tuk, after a few weeks they had managed to convince him to hang out with them after work as well.
That day MK had figured out how to shrink himself and after showing Mei she grinned and suggested they surprise Red Son with it.
Which was the aforementioned very dumb idea.
Said idea was for MK to shrink himself and then have Mei put him in Red Son’s jacket pocket, and when Red Son put it back on, have Mei ask the fire demon if he has seen MK and when he said no ask him to check his pockets…boom! Itty MK!
So, the joke was set, a shrunk MK in place and Mei was now walking up to Red Son as he clambered out of the Tuk-Tuk’s mechanical guts wiping away the grease from his hands.
“Hey Red boy” she beamed.
“Hey dragon horse girl” he said back as he got up.
“Have you seen MK?”
“No but I need to show him how to operate the upgrades…” he began but stopped when he looked at the clock on the garage wall, his smile dissolved into mild panic.
“Is that the time?!” he yelped and rushed past Mei grabbing his coat, igniting his hands to burn off all the grease and oil that had clung to him still and began to make a move for the door. “I’m sorry I need to get home tonight, tell Noodle boy I’ll show him tomorrow, okay?” Red Son yammered quickly.
“Red wait!” Mei cried as he vanished into a swirl of fire.
“Did you check your pockets?” she whimpered sheepishly.
MK felt like he was in a weird fair ground ride, cushioned in fabric and being swung around like on a rollercoaster; it was kind of fun. Not to mention he found a wrapped candy in here and at his current size it was as big as a pillow! He could hear Mei and Red Son talking and waited for his que but then things got very bumpy and then felt very hot and weird for a second as he felt his whole body move in a way that shouldn’t be possible for him before the background ambience of the city suddenly died into a hushed sound of far-off clanking and whirring.
He poked his head out of the pocket to see he was now in an old Chinese style mansion but it was underground and hewn from the rock itself, the walls were adorned with demon Bull family heirlooms and pictures all showing the grand history of the conquering demon clan. MK could hear Red Son muttering to himself.
“I’ve got enough time to check on the projects and get in my best clothes…did I remember to check the repair schedule for the clones?”
MK was about to poke out of the pocket and announce himself when Red Son stopped by a large door that seemed to lead to a main hall, he seemed to hesitate near the entrance as MK and no doubt Red Son could hear angry raised voices.
“How is it I was the one stuck under a mountain but you are the one stuck in the past?” Demon Bull King demanded.
“I am thinking of our legacy and heritage, things you seem keen to throw away!” Princess Iron Fan retorted.
“Our pursuit of power has only brought us trouble!” came the angry reply “We need to move with the times!”
“Listen to you!” Princess Iron Fan screeched “You sound that useless son of ours!”
MK poked out of the pocket and looked up at Red Son who looked forlorn but not surprised as he carried on past the door his shoulders hunched over as he hurried through. Red Son came to a kitchen that seemed big enough to feed a whole court full of people but it was sadly empty and hollow except for one corner where a bull clone was currently working at a stove top. It saw Red Son and bowed respectively.
“I don’t think family meal time will be happening tonight” Red Son declared “so I will be taking my evening meal in my room…again…” the bull clone nodded and got back to preparing said meal. Red Son continued walking through the vacant halls as the vicious shouting ebbed away to quiet muffled sounds. He came to his room and sat at his desk; MK looked around to see his room unlike the rest of the castle had a bit of life to it. There were posters of car designs and movie mechs adorning the walls, a work table filled with small cabinets of tools and gear and what looked to be a shelf filled with scrolls and old tomes. MK had wondered why someone as tidy as Red Son would have what looked to be an arranged pile of tinfoil and fabric in a corner of his room before he realised that must his bed. He remembered Pigsy saying how some demons prefer nests to human style beds.
Okay I really need to show myself before things get even more awkward MK decided and he started to climb out but froze when he heard the door open, Red Son turned to see his mother glaring at him and MK quickly dived back into the safety concealment of the jacket.
“You’ve ruined him” she hissed, and MK could feel Red Son flinch. “Your father was a proud mighty demon King who conquered whole armies alone and made the heavens fear him and now looked at what you have done!”
“Isn’t this better?” Red Son said quietly “I mean…this way we won’t have to worry about him being hurt or sealed… aah!” came the pain gasped as MK could hear a very sharp and painful smack, MK grabbed the fabric of the pocket as Red Son’s whole body violently jerked to the side.
“Be quiet you worthless whelp!” she snarled “I kept our family name safe and proud for centuries and in one year you’ve weakened your father, the great Demon Bull King to the point that he wants to ‘settle down peacefully’!” she said the last bit dripping with venom and MK wished for Red Son to speak up or say something or at the very least move from where he was sitting but he didn’t.
“I’m sorry mother…” was all he managed after a moment of silence.
“Sorry doesn’t undo what you have done!” she spat and MK listened to the sound of her shoes moving away, “Sometimes I wish you had never returned!” she exclaimed coldly before shutting the door.
The fabric around him lurched as Red Son moved and he could feel energy pulse around him like the sky before lightning struck, it was only then did MK realised how dumb this idea really was. Red Son ignites into flames when upset or angry and it’s pretty obvious his clothes are fire proof to deal with that.
MK wasn’t fire proof…
MK made a mad scramble out of the pocket and leapt away just in time for a massive inferno engulfed where he had been hiding and everything else around it. He landed on the cold stone floor and patted himself down to make sure nothing was on fire and once he was sure he wasn’t smouldering he looked back up at the crackling fire ball that was his friend. Red Son still hadn’t moved from the desk but was now hunched over it his hands clawing into his fiery hair his eyes tightly shut but flames still leaked out and his whole body was shuddering as he tried to control his breathing.
MK decided that maybe he should give the fire demon with known anger issues some time to breathe and started to make his way to hide in the nest till he seemed to have calmed down but as he tiptoed his way across the room Red Son sensed the movement. The fire evaporating into the air as Red Son turned around and scanned the room, he glanced down to see a tiny MK in mid sneak.
Red Son looked at MK confused.
MK looked at Red Son worried.
There was a pregnant pause.
“Heh heh …Ta da!” MK said weakly and held out his hands as if to show off “Look what I can do now!”
“Noodle boy?” Red Son muttered quietly as his brain tried to fathom him being there before it clicked that he was and what that might imply. “How long have you been here?” he asked a look of dread falling on his face.
“Oh pssh!” MK tried to dismiss “Not long…no not long at all!”
“Noodle boy” Red Son growled, “How long?”
“… … …” MK struggled to come up with a decent excuse before sighing and returning to his full size, if they were going to have this talk he wanted to be able to look him in face. “Since you made a mad dash out of the garage…”
Red Son gave a groan and covered his face before returning to slump on the desk.
“I know this is going to sound dumb but is everything ok?” MK inquired, “I don’t know how demon families work but that…didn’t sound good.”
“Everything’s fine Noodle boy!” Red Son declared sharply, “My parents are just…going through a rough patch, that is all!”
“A rough patch huh?” MK muttered before walking over to the desk and lightly touching Red Son’s face where the red mark showing where his mother had slapped him was now fading away. How many times had that happened and no one knew thanks to demon healing powers? Red Son batted his hand away and snarled angrily.
“Yes!” he snapped and glared at his desk.
Things were clicking into place in MK’s mind, in hind sight he should have wondered why Red Son showed up out of the blue and wanted to pay off some demon debt, why he had wanted to stay around them as long as possible and even agreed to hang out in the evenings and only on certain days [apparently for family meal times] would he actually go home before anyone else.
MK remembered in the first week of Red Son coming over, Pigsy finally gave in and let Red Son help by telling him to try and get his old tricky stove working again. Red Son had not only fixed it but cleaned it up and gave it a full work through and when he was finished the thing looked and worked as if brand new. Pigsy in his joy of getting his stove back to its prime for free patted Red Son on the back and declared he had paid back the debt in spades.
MK had wondered that day why Red Son had looked so upset but had dismissed it when a moment later the fire demon had gone on a tirade about how insulting it was that Pigsy thought his father’s life was worth only an afternoon of labour.
Maybe Pigsy and Tang had cottoned on a lot sooner than he had because after that they would always find little things for Red Son to do to ‘pay back the debt’.
“Red Son” Mk said as these thoughts mulled in his mind “Was there even a debt to pay off?”
Red Son turned to face him, he fidgeted with his hands for a few moments before sighing.
“I…I…I thought you would be more at ease if you thought that I was honoured bound to behave…”
“Why didn’t you just say something?”
“Like what?!” Red Son retorted “Please may I come over here because I rather spend my days with my enemies rather than my parents because they’re constantly fighting and I can’t do anything to fix it?!” Red Son jaw snapped shut and his hair flared up angrily. “Because they don’t! Fight all the time…I mean…” he exclaimed as he tried to back pedal out of the conversation.
MK watched Red Son and felt a wave of pity come over for him, it was like looking into a mirror of seven years ago. He could almost feel the emotions Red Son must be going through right now, the uncertainty of what was going to happen next, the guilt of not being able to stop it, that gnawing anxiety of thinking if he was to blame somehow. And that horrible cold fear of knowing that sooner or later one of them will be coming up to take their frustration out on someone who won’t fight back…
He thanked the gods regularly that he was fortunate enough that it was Pigsy that caught him dump diving behind his store, how different would his life had been if Pigsy and Tang hadn’t taken him in? He probably had starved to death on the streets that winter.
“Everything was supposed to get better when Father came back…” Red Son muttered to himself but was jolted back into the room as MK put his hands on his shoulders.
“Your parents are going through some stuff right now, so do you want to hang out at my place while they work it out?”
“What?” Red Son spluttered.
“Maybe they just need some space I dunno” MK said, “but what your mom did was not okay, and I’m worried about you”
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends you dummy!” MK laughed “and friends help each other even without demon debts to pay!”
Red Son stood up and pulled out a duffle bag from his wardrobe, he started to fill it with clothes, a stuff bull toy that looked to be antique and over-night necessities.
“You seem to have experience with this sort of thing” Red Son ventured quietly as MK helped him put his tools away in a box for travel.
“Let’s just say I’ve been where you are” MK said softly.
“In your experienced opinion…will me not being here helped my parents to reconcile?”
MK swallowed a hard lump in his throat, he didn’t know if it helped with his parents because he ran away from home and as far as he knows they never came looking for him. Mk was on the streets for three weeks before that fated night at Pigsy’s and it’s been seven years since then and he’s only ever caught a glimpse of them while during his deliveries on the streets.
“Sure, they will” MK answered with a smile “I hope so!”
Red Son left a note telling his parents exactly where he was and how to contact him before they left.
MK wasn’t all that surprised when after explaining the situation Pigsy happen to have a spare fold out bed in the store room.
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
Heya!! Kip here! The @memorabiliazine preorders have just shipped, which means we can share our pieces now! I wrote this piece back in February, after theorizing about the presence of Robbie's Telescope being present in the Royal Tech Lab in Age of Calamity. So without further a do, here be my little essay/fic on some old ruins, or more specifically, its:
Cause of Destruction
The storm had come too late. Thankfully, it was all devastated.
She continued to run from the screaming.
The Sheikah woman headed for the hills, brittle trees littering the eastern side of the Lindor mountain side. If she hurried, she could meet up with the others who had—
A distant crack of thunder melded with the collapse of stone; she makes the mistake of glancing back.
In the greater horizon, the shadow of Hyrule Castle looms over a conquered dusk. A shrill cry—something between a roar and a whine—escapes from the cloudy malice beast that enshrouds the Hylian monument. But that was just the backdrop, the canvas for contrast. Closer still, in the billowing grass of North Hyrule Plain, the stormy winds cut through fog and smoke like a dagger.
In the opened wound, the faint silhouette of a building glows.
Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
She keeps running.
The color might have at one point been appealing—the symbol of the Royals, the pleasant hue that cloaked a perfect morning. But tonight it just haunted her...chased her...reminded her of the terrible deed that was done.
A horse came over the hills.
“HEY!” a man shouted, mounted on a grey horse. “MA’AM! HALT, PLEASE!”
Crap. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, clutched her limp, burned arm, and kept moving. I just need to reach the trees.
But the chase seemed over before it had even started. When she had first started running from the blue, some wandering captain had stopped her to ask what was wrong. There was a strange kindness in his striking eyes, a forgein concept in this land now stricken with grief, death, and paranoia. In her haste—and possibly shame of what she had done—she had just pushed the captain away and fled. Very inconspicuous…good job me.
Now it seems he had found her again. Any other day she might have commended him for his kindness in checking with some random Sheikah, during the end of the world no less.
But tonight, well...there’s a sliver of her that might have preferred death.
The woman tripped on a divet in the earth, crashing down on one of her badly burned legs, and hissed at the pain. The rain had muddied the path, and was staining her once white clothes a disgusting marron. The pounding of hooves grew closer, until they halted right next to her ears.
A pair of leather boots crashed into the mud.
“Ma’am, don’t get up. You’re injured. Please.”
The clang of metal armour accompanies the voice. Oh he was a captain alright, equipped well for the apocalypse. His metalspear and armour adorned in—
She looks up.
Blue.
A slight frown.
The man tries to help her to her feet, watching to not clutch on the wounds on her right side. “Whatcha doing all the way out here? The nearest settlement is a ways away.” The captain lifts up one of her arms, and his eyes widen just a bit. “Dammit...those burns look bad. We might getcha some aid...there’s a laboratory place nearby that I’m heading by, just due east and—”
“...Lab?” The woman can’t help but wonder aloud. No...you idiot, you can’t be serious.
The captain smiles again. “See now, that’s why I was so eager to catch your attention. You’re running in the wrong direction.” He points in the direction she was running towards. “Up where you’re going is just mountains. There’s a fancy smancy lab a bit south that could help patch you up better than—”
“If you head to that lab, you’ll die.” She lets the words linger for a moment. “Unless, of course, that was the desired plan for the evening.” The woman laughs to herself, but the sound is empty and dry.
He frowns. “...What?”
She’s silent, gears turning in her head. Goddess...how do I say this without—
She points east, the rain pattering on her outstretched sleeve. “Tell me, Captain. What do you see over there?”
The man pauses, his face contort with confusion. He follows her hand and stares at the blue.
“...North Hyrule Plain. Some building glowing blue over there…I’m assuming that’s the techno-wizz from the L—”
“Lab, yes. That would be the Royal Ancient Lab. Though I’m afraid it’s not glowing from ‘techno-wizz’ or anything of that sort, dear captain.”
She crosses her arms, turning to look away from the blue and hugging her knees. “It’s currently burning to the ground.”
An ugly pause, as the man seems to take a moment to digest this. He flickers his gaze between the Sheikah and the distant blue building.
“I-It’s...It’s raining though—”
“Blue flame, I’m afraid, is a bit more resistant. Plus, it’s been burning long before the storm came through.”
“What...I…” The captain sits next to her, plopping into the mud in disbelief. “I was really thinking that...why would…”
He turns to her, his eyes are stormy grey, with faint specks of blue, like embers. The captain’s tone is gravely serious. “Miss, why was that lab destroyed?”
The question catches her off guard. Her jaw’s clenched, but she breaks their staring contest and hides her surprise with a shrug. “Same reason as every other disaster today. Calamity Ganon destroyed it.”
There’s a crack of thunder, and the ground shudders at her lie.
“...No.” the man mumbles.
“Look, I know it’s a lot to process—”
“No, I mean,” he stands, hand reaching for his back, “that’s not what actually happened, is it ma’am?”
Crap. The Sheikah holds her hands in the air. “If this is about me shoving you earlier, I was just a bit—”
“Aw now don’tcha worry about that, I took no personal offense.” He scratches the blond stubble on his chin.
“Now the thing that I do find some mighty fine offense to, is the fact that there’s a good lick of a chance that I’m currently speaking to an arsonist traitor.”
There’s a BOOM, and in the distance, another large piece of the Royal Lab collapses into the earth. The blue grows brighter.
“Me? What in the name of Hylia are you—”
“Let’s not play dumb, ma’am. Trust me, I’m a sucker for some pleasantries and small talk, though I’m afraid addressing the fact that you burned down the nearest safe haven for miles is gonna take priority here.”
The Sheikah woman just fumes, attempting to get up in the captain’s face. “How DARE you accuse me of—”
She’s cut off by the shing of metal cutting through air. The captain twirls the spear on his back and points the end right at her neck, resting just below her chin. She scowls, but puts her hands in the air.
“You just don’t understan—”
“That’s a mighty fine torch you got there…” He clicks his tongue.
Both hands grip his spear steady, ready to pierce flesh at any moment. The captain gestures with a wink to the torch attached to her waist. It seems to still smolder slightly with faint blue embers.
The captain looks between the torch, and the blue fire in the horizon.
“Yes, a mighty fine torch indeed.” He presses the spear tip a bit further forward.
“And it’s glowing a familiar color.”
Cause of Destruction
An Analysis of the Destruction of the Royal Ancient Lab
By Dr. J Kippers
(But please, Kippers was my father, call me Kip)
So heroes are a thing, huh? Who’da thunk it! One minute, I’m continuing my travels, studying some cool rocks and bricks in Hyrule Field. Then the next, a giant malice pig appears and fights some teenage boy wielding a glowing stick. I definitely wasn’t cowering behind the ruins of a garrison bathroom while that all happened, and I definitely was doing some cool badass fighting moves with my...pen, to help that knight and save the world and stuff. Makes for a pretty cool story, yeah? HA, Traysi would kill for it…
But enough of my daring, slightly exaggerated, exploits. It’s been a few weeks since the world’s settled down from the Calamity’s defeat, which means I had prime time to settle back into my hometown, and put my years of travel and research to paper!
I spent the majority of my life studying the history of Hyrule as it fell to the Calamity 100 years ago...and with the world now revitalizing, it’s just prime time to get myself out there! Research wise, that is!
At first, I didn’t really know what to write, cause WOW there’s just so many topics to choose from. Plus there’s a lot on the line here, gotta make a good impression for whatever new kingdom that Princess Zelda’s got planned. She seems the scholarly type, yeah? I’m thinking I could snag some Hyrule history teach’ position at a rebuilt university or something… Princess has got an awful lot of focus on the reconstruction of different village ruins. Which is fair, cause who better to know how to rebuild these places than the people who were alive to see them in their prime!
And you see, that’s where my journey of knowledge began! People with first hand knowledge of the events of distant past are alive? OH a historian’s dream…my soul swells in happiness. Plus, I also got my researcher brain a-tingling. My dad’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor’s grandma’s dog’s breeder knew Dr. Robbie back in the day, so Sheikah tech is basically in my blood.
With these passions rejuvenated I had my goal! Publish some revolutionary new theory that combined my awesome knowledge for history, archeology, and tech! And what better place to see that than, (duh) the Royal Ancient Lab Ruins.
Now, there doesn’t seem to be much in these ruins…it’s absolutely barren. No weapons or treasures to be seen. Just your run-of-the-mill ruined ruins, destroyed long ago by the Calamity. And that was the end of the story.
At least that’s what I thought until I did a little more digging. See, as I was doing some additional research, I stumbled upon this old history/research book stored in the Kakariko archive. I have no idea where it came from...it’s titled...C-Caa...Creation? Creating? Creating a...Cham...it’s kinda faded and hard to read. But anyhow, this weird little history book was written by some guy named “Nine-tendons.” If someone out there has a copy feel free to hit me up, but for today’s sake title and author don’t really matter. The point is, one of the quotes in that book describes the ruins like this:
Royal Ancient Lab Ruins
It is thought that these ruins represent the ancient relic research facility that was under the direct rule of Hyrule Castle, but only the outer walls remain. There is no trace of the building’s interior, let alone any research materials.
The thoroughness of its destruction feels intentional. [Page 396, Cr_ating a Champ___, Nint__do.]
Now I’m not too familiar with the work of whoever Mr. Nin-Ten-doves is, but I strangely trust their word on the topic wholeheartedly. Call it a feeling from the divine if you must, but they’re right! It seems so much more obvious in hindsight.
My adventures into the other various ruins across Hyrule always gave me something to work with. The world is just crafted for exploration. Old treasure chests, weird rocks with a tiny talking tree fairy underneath. Hell, even a monster or two was always happy to inhabit even the smallest of ruins I’ve entered. Yet, there is absolutely nothing of prominence to be seen at the ruins of the Royal Ancient Lab. And I’ve double, triple, and quintuple-checked!
Why are there no rusted weapons...or treasures...or any records or evidence of anything, other than some crude stone walls and a rock? That kind of destruction is just unnecessarily absolute, even for the Calamity.
According to detailed drawings/notes I have in my records of Historical Works during the Age of Calamity (HW AOC for short), the Royal Ancient Lab was nearly three stories tall, with a royal blue ceiling, complete with a basement level, and an upper telescope! With even the smallest of structures (like simple ranch and village ruins) still standing today with plenty of artifacts, why is as great a structure as the Royal Lab so desolate?
Intentional, intentional, intentional...that word ran through my head for days, weeks, months even. Why would the Royal Ancient Lab be destroyed intentionally? Did the Calamity see it as that major a threat? No, that wouldn’t make sense, the movements of Calamity Ganon that day clearly show his intention to use the Sheikah power against the people of Hyrule. An Ancient Lab would be a major benefit, if anything…
So, surprising as it may be, the current prime suspect for the destruction of this lab would actually be…
The Sheikah just glares. “Well...what gave it away?
He shrugged his shoulders with a half smile. “Deductive reasoning, with a hint of some good ol’ luck perhaps.”
“Listen, I know this looks bad, but you have to understand—”
“Oh I understand quite well alright.” The captain gives a wink. “I try to be humble, but Mama always did say I was the smartest cookie she knew.”
He rests the end of his spear on her collarbone, the threat clearly still present, but it gives him the freedom to pace and wipe rain for his soaked blonde hair.
“See I know that Calamity Ganon’s corrupted every bit of Sheikah tech from here to Lurelin. I know that he’s been targeting Hylian settlements. ‘Seen it myself when some monsters and Guardians destroyed my regiment and post at Maritta Exchange, just a bit north from here. I know that the only reason the other settlements, like the Rito and Zora, are still standing is because Ganon’s focusing all his forces on finding and killing the Hylian Champion and the princess. And finally I know that because of that, there is not a Guardian or monster around for many a mile. I mean, just lookie over there.”
The woman turns her head, and sure enough, the plains are barren of all life. No movement of machine or beast or person.
“And now my assumption was—and do pardon me if my monologue is redundant to your traitor ears—that the nearest place of safety would be this royal laboratory of technology. It’s Sheikah run, so it wouldn’t be immediately targeted. Plus the last thing the Calamity would want is for his personal army of destruction to be...well, destroyed. Ifs I was them evil cloud demon thing, I woulda wanted the lab with all my corrupted techno babble soldiers to be kept in peak condition. However…”
The captain turns to the right, staring at the blazing blue building in the distance. “...That does not seem to be the case.”
The Sheikah opens her mouth to speak, but he holds up the spear again. “Now I’m thinking, the only reason someone would go about destroying that lab, would perhaps be to kill some people, no?”
“We didn’t—”
“Getting rid of the people who could possibly reverse the Guardian corruption...now I suppose that might be a good evil plan.”
“It was for the be—”
“Ma’am I’m all about looking on the bright side of things, but,” the captain flicks his head in the direction of the blue, “This ain’t exactly the light a’ hope I was wanting.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“So,who are ya? Yiga?”
“No, it’s—”
“Solo treason then. You getting revenge on someone ‘round here? A noble? The King? Or perhaps you’re just the sadistic type with the whole—”
“NO!”
The outburst surprises the both of them, and he hold the spear to ner neck firmly. Another crack of thunder reminds them of the silence that’s endured. The Sheikah finally sighs.
“Perhaps by definition I am an arsonist and a traitor, but for one thing, I wasn’t alone.”
The man’s eyes shine curiously, but she continues.
“I will gladly die alongside them, as my actions have only been for the benefit of Hyrule.”
The rain’s tempo quickens as she gets on her feet, but the captain doesn’t strike. She stares him down, eyes hidden behind strands of white hair.
“My name is Atsuko, a devoted researcher at the Royal Lab, and you may kill me if you think it just.”
Ok, now I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking “Kip! Why are you writing this official research paper like some drunken bar rant? How the hell are you gonna get noticed at this rate?” or “Kip! The hell are you thinking?? Sheikah destroying the Ancient Lab makes absolutely no sense?!”
So to that I say, firstly, uhhh you’re welcome for not being a boring posh, snobby lecturer.(Learned to value a personality over fancy words; lessons my granddad).
As for the latter, you are quite wrong my dear friend, quite wrong indeed. It makes an absolute butt-load of sense, and I’m gonna prove it was them, here and now! I mean that’s...kinda the whole point of an essay, yeah?
My fellow archeology, history, and tech lovers, not only do I know who is responsible for the Royal Lab’s destruction, but I know the true reason why and how! Let us start at the beginning!
What exactly is the lab, and what was its purpose? Well, as the name implies, it was a Sheikah-run laboratory under the hand of the royal family that researched and experimented with Ancient technology. Again, looking at references in HW AOC, I can place not only Guardian models and Ancient weaponry at the lab, but also the existence of blue flame lamps that seemingly powered the facility.
As we all know, it’s tough to mess around with Ancient parts without blue flame, which is the prime energy source for the Ancient Sheikah. Such are the existence of today’s Hateno and Akkala tech labs, located near blue flame furnaces. However! This brings into question exactly why the Royal Lab was constructed where it was…
There are only three places in all of Hyrule with natural blue flame deposits, or otherwise called “Ancient Furnaces.” That would be in Hateno, Akkala, and within Hyrule Castle itself. So why is the Royal Tech Lab so far from these Ancient Furnaces?
To answer this question, might I direct your attention towards explosions. That’s right folks, I’m talking bombs! (Please take this moment to imagine me creating an accompanying explosive sound effect with my mouth)
Some time ago, as I was analyzing the blue flame lamps in Deep Akkala, I ran into that hero of legend face to face! Nice guy, quiet and charming type. Smelled strangely like apples and burnt guts.
Long story short, I traded my entire supply of Hot-Footed Frogs and arrows for a chance to mess with his Sheikah Slate for a bit.
So during that brief period of research, I discovered that while Sheikah tech is usually well controlled—with bomb runes only going off on command by the push of a button—there is an exception! Bomb runes instantly react with blue flame, just one touch and they’ll instantly explode! Try it out yourself! Er, well. Ok, maybe not. Don’t do that, legally I’m not responsible. Plus, it’s not like any of you folk out there have access to bomb runes or a Sheikah Slate that you can play around and test it out for yourself like it’s some virtual game that you can switch around in your hands.
Bomb runes are giant bundles of compact Sheikah tech. When in contact with a pure blue flame, they go boom. The process with the Sheikah Slate must simplify this process with a remote button, but as I’ve discovered, the process can be hastened by chucking a torch around.
I call this phenomenon of blue flame reacting destructively with Sheikah technology a “blue combustion!” I’m creative, I know.
I imagine, any experimentation with weapons that harness, compress, or just generally mess with Sheikah tech and lasers, must be conducted in an environment that prevents blue combustion. You don’t want pure blue flame touching stuff. Otherwise you go kaboom.
Now I couldn’t get a hold of Dr. Robbie or Director Purah myself, something about how they “don’t know who the heck” I am, and “you’re trespassing please get off it’s private property,” or something of the sort, I’m not really sure. But even without their testimonies, you’ll notice that their large tech labs are constructed a distance away from the actual Ancient Furnace. They aren’t right beside it. If they were, you risk losing a limb to a blue combustion. That is also why blue flame lamps exist: to stagger the distance between the flames. And thus is why the Royal Lab isn’t nearby an Ancient Furnace.
Yet even so, the distance the Royal Lab has from an Ancient Furnace might still stump you, because even compared to the Akkala and Hateno labs, it is very very far. But here’s the kicker, my dear curious readers and poor editor, the reason for this extreme distance is because during its prime, the Royal Ancient Lab housed a large portion of the Guardian army and weaponry. It needed more distance because its contents accumulated a much larger space. I can prove this not only by descriptions shown in HW AOC, but also by notes/drawings shown in the archive called the Backgrounds of Technological Wonders, or BOTW for short.
Both these sources show that while Guardians were tested and stationed in Hyrule Castle, the number of Guardians at the castle was probably only in the one hundred mark or less. Now that may seem like a lot, but remember, hundreds of Guardians were dug up, as especially shown in the famous Sheikah tapestry of 10,000 years ago. Arguably even thousands, considering that tapestry is a simplification.
So if we can only account for only a portion of the Guardian population at Hyrule Castle, where are the rest? Scattered across different garrisons perhaps, sure. But they’d mainly be in the facility where each of the Guardians were constructed and given power, the place full of the most talented Sheikah researchers, a location that would still be in decent proximity, but still a safe distance from the castle should an emergency arise: the Royal Ancient Tech Lab. That’s where most of Guardians are.
Now, why is this important? Why did I just spend a few paragraphs talking about blue flames and Guardians and locations when this is about the lab’s destruction and demise?
It’s because this is my sure fire way to prove to you that the Calamity did not destroy the Royal Lab.
The Royal Ancient Lab was constructed specifically to create the best Guardians and technology to beat the Calamity with.
It would have been constructed specifically to avoid any fatal blue combustion accidents.
And it sure as hell wouldn’t have been purposefully destroyed by the Calamity, the one entity who would benefit from its existence.
The lab was decimated by a blue combustion, no question. There isn’t anything as powerful as it that could destroy a place so completely. And now knowing the factors surrounding the lab itself, we know that if it was destroyed by a combustion, it was not because of an accident.
It could only have been done purposefully, by the only people who would know the Royal Lab’s weaknesses.
It could only have been brought down by the Sheikah researchers.
So now, the questions of exactly how and why remain.
The captain just stands and ponders.
“Ma’am, I must confess that I don’t find the science of the destruction nearly as interesting as exactly what made you decide to do it.”
“It’s like I said,” Atsuko clutches her burned arm, “It wasn’t just me. Really, now, you’re too kind to give me so much credit.”
The spear end moves closer to her neck. “Alright alright alright, sorry, pal. Look I have no idea if you’re even believing all this right now, but you have to trust me that our actions were of the best intentions.”
The captain smirks. “Do tell?”
According to BOTW, the Ancient Arrow was developed by Dr. Robbie as one of the most powerful means of combating the Calamity itself. In fact, according to research I’ve found in that CAC book by Mint-en-do, I can place the exact time for the development of this weapon, which I can use to glean information about it’s properties.
Ancient Arrow
Perhaps forty or fifty years after the day of the Great Calamity Robbie, the lead Guardian researcher, created the first weapon that was effective against the mechanical monsters: the ancient arrow...
Flames come out from the burner like bit [of the Ancient Arrow] and form a blade. [Page 388 and 178, Cr_ating a Champ___, Nint__do.]
The arrow instantly vaporizes whatever it comes into contact with, tearing apart the subject by the molecule, and sending them to non-existence. The description of the weapon implies that it is the pure energy of a blue flame, and built quite differently than other Sheikah weapons.
And the difference definitely shows. I’ve handled a few of these puppies myself, and let me tell you, they get the job done. While an Ancient sword or axe will certainly do some damage, a single Ancient Arrow can take out a Guardian, or even a Lynel in one hit. I heard that they could even do major damage to Dark Beast Ganon itself!
Now, why do I bring this up? Because this Ancient Arrow proves that the Sheikah 100 years ago knew about the dangers of blue combustion.
An Ancient Arrow is clearly the result of intensive research into blue combustion, it is literally a pure blue flame on a stick pumped up with some Ancient Tech. It vaporizes whatever matter it touches and it ceases to exist.
Hmm...would be a fine explanation as to why the nearly three stories worth of stone and ceiling in the Royal Lab no longer can be found.
And why wasn’t the Ancient Arrow developed sooner? It’s because no one thought to purposefully cause an event that would destroy everything until they were forced to on the actual day of the Calamity. It’s because it took even the most brilliant of scientists half a century to even contain a feat of destruction into a single arrowtip? Yes...when you lay out the facts like that, it seems to make sense on the timeline.
Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the question of “why?” Let me rewind to an earlier point. Where are the thousands of Guardians in Hyrule?
Yes, a good hundred or so could be found in Hyrule Castle, and the majority were in the Royal Ancient Lab. But today, where are they? Records in BOTW cite only 157 Guardian remains in all of Hyrule. 157. How? That’s impossible. Witnesses and notes in HW AOC prove that much, much more existed. And what’s more is that we know that the majority of those Guardians were at the Royal Lab, but there are no Guardians, active or otherwise, to be found there. There is nothing.
It’s almost as if all those Guardians were vaporized, they ceased to exist one day.
And you know what.
They did.
(Please take this time to imagine me winking)
There’s some theme or metaphor here about the Royal Ancient Lab, constructed in the blues of the Royal family, ironically being destroyed by the blue combustion—but what do I look like, a writer? Find your own secret to life, here’s the blunt of it.
The Sheikah knew about the dangers a blue combustion could do, but on the day of the Calamity, they used that knowledge for the better. Seeing the corrupted Guardians in the distant castle, it is my belief that the researchers there purposefully brought the blue flames—that they had so carefully separated outside in the lanterns—in contact with Ancient Technology. Things not only went kaboom, but the actual matter ceased to exist. A giant Ancient Arrow.
Thousands of Guardians, hundreds of blades and weapons, and honestly, probably even lives, were gone in an instant. The only remains of the carnage would be the aftermath of blue flames that spread across the remains of the outer walls.
The Sheikah did this because it would save the most lives. That’s hundreds and thousands of Guardians and machines that wouldn’t fall into Ganon’s clutches, hundreds of souls saved. Did you know that today Hyrule Ridge, the home of the Royal Lab, has zero Guardians? Did you know that the lands near it, Hebra and Tabantha, have the lowest Guardian sightings in all of Hyrule? Even less than the Gerudo Desert. And I cite this all based on my hours of research and facts laid out by BOTW, HW AOC, and the divine work by Mr. Nin-ten-do
But even beyond that, how do I know, in absolute 600% certainty that the Sheikah were in complete control of this destruction? How am I so sure that the Sheikah that day had fully planned the intentional obliviation of their lab?
It’s because...I lied earlier.
There is actually one relic that survived. One little monument of the Royal Ancient Lab Ruins. One object giving physical proof of this theory.
One artifact that would have been impossible to preserve if the Sheikah hadn’t planned it all. I mentioned it briefly before, if you paid attention. Yes! This object is present in both the Royal Lab, and a tech lab of today. You could see it for yourself, if you pay a visit to my dad’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor’s grandma’s dog’s breeder’s Sheikah researcher pal...
“Dr. Robbie’s telescope.” Atsuko pointed to the scattered trees in upper Lindor, “Some other scientists took it up there to preserve it. It’s the only reason we were able to see the initial Guardian corrupting in the distant castle, and how we were able to adapt to the situation and act so quickly.”
The captain glanced at the western mountain. “So you were running up there to meet with them?”
“The wilderness is pretty safe at the moment. And we’re hoping eventually we could take the telescope to another lab where we could possibly continue research. I mean just today from the combustion, Dr. Robbie had this idea for some fancy Sheikah dagger to kill Guardians.”
Silence.
“OK listen, that’s...that’s all I’ve got. You can head up there and confirm the story, or just kill me now, take your pick. Waiting for judgement here.”
More silence. The rain falls harder.
“...I’m—”
“You can call me Cian.” The captain does a little bow. “Captain Cian Kippers, at your leisure.”
Atsuko raises an eyebrow. “Like the color—?”
“Sp-Spelled differently! There’s an “i” in there, and perhaps it’s ironic to the situation, but I figured if we’re gonna be traveling up there together you should have the courtesy of knowing my name.”
She just sputters for a moment. “So...you—”
“I trust your heart—I like to think I’m good with character—and I believe you’re a good person doing your best in the world. As unfortunate as circumstances may have been.” He twirls his spear before fitting it on his back. Cian extends a hand to her which she takes. “People like that are getting rarer by the hour, so I don’t think I should be adding to the death count.”
“So…” she gets on her feet, cocking her head, “You...you believe me then?”
He chuckles. “Well, I didn’t kill you did I?”
Atsuko laughs quietly. “Your mistake…”
“...No.” Cian places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and smiles, as if to say that somehow everything was gonna be alright.
“My intention.”
#Memorabilia zine#botw zine#botw theory#botw fanfiction#botw#breath of the wild#legend of zelda botw#loz botw
50 notes
·
View notes
Text
ENI Season 1 Premiere (episodes 1-7)
AO3 post: ??? Series link: ???
Episode 1 - Matchbox
Something banged below him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was enough noise to wake him. He stirred lazily, feeling his undershirt sticking to his skin. The room was humid this morning -- if it even was morning. He could feel the nausea creeping in after all those drinks the night before, it made his muscles hurt, and his throat drier the more that he woke. He slowly opened one eye, and the hazy outline of his window met his vision. He wasn’t sure if he’d left it open the night before; all he knew was that everything was much louder this morning. He let out a deep groan and reached a hand out to the floor to grab his glasses. Putting them on, he stared at the cracked ceiling above him, willing the nausea away.
Throwing one leg off the couch, he slowly pulled himself up, trying to get his mind into gear enough to make it to the bathroom. His throat protested as he cleared it. Finally pulling himself up to his feet, he made his way to the small kitchenette in the next room. He opened the icebox, plucked the ice cube tray from within, and made his way to the bathroom. Cursing, he struggled to fit his tall frame in the cramped room, where he turned on the faucet and plugged the sink. He cracked the tray to release the ice and dumped them into the basin. Discarding the tray to the ground, he took a deep breath and pressed his face into the cold water. The sting sent a jolt into his mind, making him recoil quickly, gasping for air. Feeling his glasses sliding to the tip of his nose, he reached up and removed them, wiping his free hand across his face.
Placing his glasses back on, he leaned over the sink again, rapidly splashing the freezing water through his hair and around his neck. The sensation was horrid, but he could feel his brain waking up. He began to rinse his arms too, but stopped when the phone started ringing. Its dreaded sound filled the office, forcing him to turn off the water and grab the small towel by the sink. As he made his way over to his small wooden desk, he dried himself off, and, picking up the handset, answered:
“Yeah?”
“Inmate 71170, this is officer Blue 334. Check in.” came the usual droll voice.
“Not an inmate, on release.” Edward responded.
There was a sigh. “We’ve gone through this, it's just procedure.”
“Well, it’s a dumb procedure, and you’re dumb for following it,” Edward grumbled, as he sat down in his desk chair.
“Good morning to you, too, Nigma. Glad to hear you’re your usual chipper self.” There was the slightest pause, then the voice became stern once more. “Check in.”
“Still alive. Still in the exact same spot as the last time. You should know that, you called me.” Edward said, plucking the cigarette pack off of his desk.
“Paperwork says you attended all your meetings. Employment?” the voice asked. There was no emotion or finesse to its tone; it bored Edward.
“Self-employed. Can I just answer ‘nothing has changed’ and be done with it?” Edward asked hurriedly, speaking around the cigarette in his mouth as he lit it.
“No. We’ve gone through this, Nigma. Profits?”
“None,” Edward answered, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
There was the sound of typing on the other line. “Alright, you’re all set. Your appointment with Dr. Lewin is at 11am on Thursday. Expect another follow-up call in a few days.”
“A few days?” Edward arched his back, stretching. “Are my daily activities so boring you fools think I don’t need babysitting every morning?”
He heard the sound of the line going dead and slammed the handset back on the receiver. He took a deep drag on his snipe, hissing in anger as he blew the smoke out. He’d come to expect such rude behavior from the officer, but the disrespect still got under his skin. Standing up from the desk, he shuffled back to the bathroom. Instead of entering, he snatched a clean shirt from the back of the bathroom door and pulled it on, buttoning it and tucking it into his pants. A belt, socks, and his shoes quickly joined the ragged ensemble before he grabbed his coat and made his way out of his office.
He descended the rickety wooden stairs down to the main entrance of the building and stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinting at the sunlight. The heavy air was already making his skin feel dirty. He wondered if the grime of the streets was seeping up through the moisture. The thought was revolting.
Edward checked for a break in the traffic then hurried across the street, the action making his muscles ache in protest. Once across, he ducked into the small corner shop, snuffing out his cigarette on the wall by the entrance. The dawn work rush was long over, leaving the shop mostly empty. There was just enough change in his pocket to get his usual goods; a quick check confirmed that. He ordered a coffee, and a copy of the morning’s paper. Tossing the coins to the counter, he noted the owner's expression. It was the same every morning; a look of distrust and, perhaps, a twinge of fear. The man never spoke, but he also never caused Edward any trouble, and Edward was happy for that.
He grabbed his newly purchased items and darted back across the street, but slowed down significantly when he reached his building and climbed the steps back up to his office. He took a sip from his coffee and he took off his coat, then tossed it to the couch as he passed by and flopped back into his desk chair. He set the coffee down and rubbed his palms together rapidly, trying to relieve some of his nervousness. A small breath escaped his lips as he flipped it open, skimming some of the articles just to make sure there hadn’t been some catastrophic event while he’d been passed out. He was sure he’d have plenty of time later to read through it. He was rarely busy on his appointment-free days, and he needed to check the classifieds for any potential work. Leafing through the pages, a small headline made him stop: “Riddler Released,” it read in bold. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes rapidly skimming the small article. It was on his release from Arkham, and said something about it not being in the public’s best interests. He was dangerous, the journalist declared, and it was clear that they had only “set him loose on the city” because of a lack of funds. Reading the words, he could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten and his teeth clench.
He’d been out for about three weeks now, and the idea of his release only now being reported made him feel somehow small. Typically when his name had been in the paper it was front page news, with the flashiest of zingy headlines. “The Riddler’s Rampage” had always been his favorite -- he used to have a clipping of it, and he’d kept it pinned up at one of his hideout’s workstations. But now, here he was, barely important enough for a small blip on the fourth page. Is this what he’d been reduced to? Is that what they thought of him? And what did they mean that his being released was just due to funding? Did they really think that they would let him, of all people -- someone the mayor once called one of the most dangerous criminals in all of Gotham -- would they really let him out on the streets simply because they couldn’t afford to keep him? One time, during a blackout, the asylum had redirected power from external generators just to keep the locks on his cell in place. One would think the people in the city would be more frightened. He was sure having him out and about would instill fear in the public; the looks he received on the street certainly cemented that thought. But the funding conclusion was insulting, irritatingly so. But, then, that annoying inner voice crept in, the voice that had started months ago and hadn’t stopped bugging him since.
Things are different now. None of you are really all that scary anymore, not after the real fear that the public felt. In their eyes, your release is just another example of how the city has turned its back on its people. They’re more afraid of that reality. He felt his confidence seep away and pushed the paper away from him on the desk. Those thoughts always seemed to choose the worst moments to creep in, second-guessing his rationality and stalling him whenever he needed confidence. He took a sip of coffee and reminded himself it wasn’t always bad, that it’d saved his life more times than he could count. Right now, though, wasn’t one of those times. He really wished he had better control over that voice, but it always chose the worst moments to creep into his thoughts. He’d always been critical of others, and was used to his mind picking apart the weaknesses and flaws of the people around him. It always felt like an advantage he held over them -- but then, his mind had done something rebellious. It looked inward. It found his flaws, his weaknesses. And now it refused to stop or yield in its examination of everything wrong with him and his thinking.
He leaned back in his chair. What little energy he’d had to be productive today had gone, and his frustration was making his hangover worse. He could feel a slight headache coming on; his first thought was that he would never drink again, but he knew that was a lie. For the first time in his life, his mind was an enemy, unrelenting and traitorous, and, sometimes, the alcohol was the only thing that got it to stop. Bad nights, like last night, were just too exhausting to deal with on his own.
The phone rang again, yanking him from his thoughts. He stared at it as if confused, pondering who it could be, and reached over to answer.
“Enigma Investigations, this is Nigma,” he said plainly into the handset.
There was a silence at first, then came the tender voice of a woman, “Mr. Nigma? Edward Nigma? As in, the Edward Nigma?”
Edward rolled his eyes, but kept his voice as professional as he could. “Yes, miss, that’s me. What can I do for you?” He assumed it was a reporter, probably desperate for some scandalous headline to please her editor; he was sure he was going to get a lot of those, now that the story of his release was getting around.
There was a pause on the line. “My name is Donna Hattie, I-” she paused for a moment. Edward could hear the nervousness in her voice when she continued, “I’m sorry, I’ve never done something like this before. I feel rather foolish. I was just wondering if I could speak with you?”
Edward frowned at that. “About what, exactly, Miss Hattie? I’m sorry, but I’m not really interested in speaking with any papers at the moment.”
“Oh, oh, no! Nothing like that! It's just -- I read in the paper you’re a private investigator?” Hattie said hurriedly.
Edward felt his brain jolt back to life. “Yes! I’m so sorry, Miss Hattie. I’d assumed I’d be hearing from reporters a lot today. My apologies, what can I help you with?”
“Oh, it's fine. I’m sure you get a lot of those kinds’a calls,” she huffed lighty, and the next words she spoke were much softer, as if she was whispering, “I wanted to speak with you about my apartment building. It's just -- I’d prefer to speak to you in person, if that’d be alright?”
“Of course,” Edward could feel his pulse quicken, “let me give you the address.”
The next few moments were rather swift. He gave her the easiest route to his building from her side of the city; she wasn’t that far away. Bidding her safe travels, Edward hung up the phone. His eyes scanned the room in horror, and he began quickly tidying up, opening the windows to help air it out as he went through the room. He chucked the garbage out the window onto the fire escape, sifting it out of view with his foot. He flipped the couch cushions over and snatched his coat up, hanging it by the door. He gave the room one last look over and, deciding this was as good as it was going to get, he hurried back to the bathroom.
The water in the sink was still cold, but he didn’t have the time to worry about that now. He had to get at least some of the city grime off. He removed his clothes and glasses and dunked his head in the freezing water, ruffling it through his hair. Cleaning and drying himself off the best he could, he grabbed his only set of clean clothes from the bathroom door, expertly putting them on. Adjusting his glasses in the mirror, he fixed his hair and made a mental note of how much he hated how the grey color of his suit looked on him. The color, combined with his weight loss, made him look unhealthier than he actually felt. He took a deep breath, taking one last look at himself in the mirror, and hurried back to the main room, closing the bathroom door as he left.
It wasn’t much of a wait for Miss Hattie to arrive. He’d had just about enough time to gulp down the rest of his coffee when he’d heard the knock on the door. Answering it, he let her in and held out his hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Hattie. Hope it wasn’t too hard to find?”
At first she seemed apprehensive, but she shook his hand. “Oh, no, dear. Your directions were rather clear, it's nice to meet you as well.” Pulling her hand back, she rested a painted fingernail to her lip, a small smile forming there. “It is you,” she said softly. “I’ve seen your picture plenty’a times. Y’know, I thought this was just someone trying to make money off’a your name? It wasn’t until I saw that article in the paper that I got up the courage to call you.”
Edward was taken back by that, but quickly put on a smile to cover it. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m glad you did. Please, sit,” he said, and he motioned her to the small wooden chair in front of his desk. He pulled it out for her, making sure she was comfortable, before sitting down himself. He noticed her looking around the office, though he didn’t detect any looks of fear or disgust. He was used to surprise meetings in his previous line of work, but now he felt like a fish out of water, almost sure he’d overlooked something. It is odd she looks so relaxed around you, not many would be. The thought struck him suddenly, and he decided to take a closer look at his prospective client. Miss Hattie was a short woman; it was hard to determine her age, but she certainly had seen some years. He noticed her attire, crisp and clean, though nothing she wore cost over a dollar. He’d heard the West Side accent over the phone, and even though his ego slumped when he saw she clearly wasn’t some millionaire here to have him follow her rich husband around, something about this scenario made his mind itch for more information.
It was especially odd, considering that the city had only just now started to get itself back together. And after what had happened he knew the citizens of Gotham were anxious of the survivors, especially those who were criminals. The unease was palpable, as if at any moment they were expecting retaliation, retribution for their hand in the events. That the criminals were going to do to them what they’d condoned. The people of the slums were especially nervous; they’d already been through enough of the chaos, and he knew they were already bracing for the second round of destruction. And now, here sat Miss Hattie, in the office of a criminal -- a survivor -- in a slum not too far from where the horror had begun. He wasn’t sure if she was brave, smart, desperate, or if she was simply a cog in another scheme to get to him. He’d gotten used to desperate calls from investigators trying to get his statement, and the doctors at the asylum had spent most of their time trying to crack into his mind to see what possible damage had been caused by the events. Or, maybe, someone wanted to take advantage of his new lot in life to get revenge. That wouldn’t be surprising.
Miss Hattie didn’t look the type; rather than some sort of malicious spy, she looked like a woman who had worked her whole life and probably had a family. Normal, boring human behavior. She did seem a tad nervous, but, if she was genuine, he understood why that was. He broke himself out of his thoughts and flashed her a calm smile. “So, you said you’d feel more comfortable talking here. Are you in any kind of danger?”
Miss Hattie looked shocked by the assumption, shaking her head with a light chuckle, “Oh! No, no. It's nothing that serious. It’s just, I’m staying with my son currently. I don’t think him or his wife would approve of me coming here to speak with you.”
Smart kid, Edward thought. “I see. Is your son aware of -- well, you said something happened with your apartment building? It was a little hard to hear you over the phone.”
“Yes, he’s aware. It's why I’m staying with him,” Miss Hattie said, a twinge of nerves showing in her voice.
“So it's not just a quick family visit, I take it?” Edward asked. She clutched her handbag tighter, and the muscles in her arms tensed. She was shutting down. Edward leaned forward, lowering his tone to calm her. “Miss Hattie, you don’t need to be nervous. Anything you say to me, I’m not going to repeat, not to anyone. I legally can’t, even if I wanted to. Nothing you say leaves this room.”
Her eyes brightened at that, and he could see some of the tension leave her. “Really?” she asked, before letting out the breath she’d been holding, fanning herself with the handkerchief she’d plucked from her bag. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never done something like this before. Thankfully, never had to. I wasn’t sure-” she stopped suddenly. Leaning forward, she dropped her voice. “If I tell you about a crime, do’ya have to tell the cops?”
Edward raised his brows. “No,” he said flatly. That didn’t seem to calm her as much as he’d hoped. “Miss Hattie, you really don’t need to worry about the cops with me. I’ve had plenty of experience with them. Trust me, they won’t get anything out of me.” He thought the boast might’ve been overdoing it, but, to his surprise, she chuckled.
“Oh, I bet you do! I thought as much, but I wasn’t sure if -- didn’t know if you had to report crimes, and things of that sort.” she said through her laughter.
“I wouldn’t be doing this job if I had to. Anyway, I can run circles around them if need be. You really don’t need to be concerned about that.” He was rather surprised by this development, he hadn’t pegged her as someone who might be involved in the more seedy elements of the city.
“Good! I don’t trust them with this. I mean, they’re already involved, and that’s part of the problem. Fools aren’t doing a very good job, as I see it.” She leaned back in the chair, appearing much more relaxed than she had been since she arrived.
Not a predator, she’s the prey, he thought. “They don’t have the best track record. But, they are rather busy at the moment. So, was it a break in?” he asked.
“No. It’s -- the building caught fire,” she said. The words sounded hard for her to get out. “The whole thing just went up in flames, like a matchbox.”
That statement brought back some memories Edward preferred not to think about. “I see. And I take it they have already investigated, and found no foul play?” He saw her nod, and continued. “You don’t agree?”
Miss Hattie took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she spoke again. “The firemen said it was an electrical fire. Something about how the grounding had gone bad, chalked it up to damage that must’ve happened during the lockdown, or some such nonsense.” She wiped her face with the handkerchief. “Thing is, though, the landlord had everything checked. I remember, I had to let some workers into my apartment. Tore a hole in my wall to get to some of the wiring, never did completely pick up after themselves.” She huffed, annoyed.
“Wait, they just did maintenance on the wiring in the building?” Edward asked. She nodded in response, making him frown. “Was the building part of the lockdown?”
“No. See what I mean? It's strange,” she said, frowning down at the floor for a moment. Looking back up, her eyes met his, and he could see a determination in them that wasn’t there before. “Mr. Nigma, I’m just gonna be honest with you. I can’t pay you much. I know that I don’t have that much of a reason to even be suspicious, but I just have a feeling. You ever just know something’s wrong? And the feeling just won’t go away? No matter how much you try to talk yourself out of it?”
Yeah, you know what that’s like, all too well. Edward nodded, enticing Miss Hattie to continue, “All I really need -- you’re a very smart man. I’ve heard of the things you’ve done, I read all about what you did with the Gunners Boys. I followed it through the papers. If something is wrong, I’m sure you’ll be able to find it. I just -- can you just go take a look? That’s all I need, just your eye, just look and see.” She took a breath before continuing, “It will only take about an hour of your time, and if you tell me you don’t see anything suspicious, I’ll accept it.”
“And if I do find something suspicious?” Edward asked.
“If you do… I guess I’ll just have to keep pestering those cops.” Miss Hattie finished, sitting up in the chair.
Edward remained silent, his mind running through the potential issues this case could bring up. If the police were already involved, he knew his presence would surely get people talking -- as if many people talk about you these days -- but he really didn’t want to give them an excuse to come knocking at his door. And going out to the slums at night wasn’t a very safe idea, either. Normally, he wouldn’t feel any concern over it, but he really had lost quite a bit of his muscle mass over the last few months. The lack of money and food aren’t helping in that department, but you’ve been in worse shape and survived. This could still be a trick, but using some woman with a story of a fire sounded like an idiotic ploy just to lure him out to some abandoned slum. His mind started to wonder if this could have anything to do with Penguin, when that voice grew more insistent. She’s going to pay you to go look at some burnt rubble, stop overthinking it. You need the money. Hell, you don’t even really have to go. You could make up some story, she’d probably believe you.
“Alright, I’ll give the scene an examination,” Edward finally said, making a small smile cross Miss Hattie’s lips.
“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr Nigma,” she said.
During the rest of their exchange, her mood seemed to have improved. Edward found it strange but oddly comforting that she happily handed her money over to him. She seemed in full confidence he’d be true to his word, which was certainly not the treatment he was used to receiving, especially from regular citizens. He grilled her for a few more moments, asking questions of any potential concerns he should take into account and jotting her answers down in his notebook. He helped her to her feet and reiterated the directions for the quickest route back to her side of the city. She thanked him for his concern, and, just before he closed the door behind her, she looked him in the eye, still with that calm smile. “I really do hope I see you again, Mr. Nigma,” she said, before descending the stairs.
Not as gullible as she seems, he thought.
He spent the rest of the daytime hours eating what little food he had left in the kitchenette, taking a much-needed nap to help with his hangover, and washing his other suit in the bathroom sink. He hung it on the laundry line outside his window on the fire escape. With the humidity he knew it was going to take longer than normal to dry, the rains were really lingering this year. After finishing picking up the garbage he’d dumped there this morning, he looked to the sky, noting the low hanging clouds that looked full enough to burst. He frowned as he climbed back through the window to the kitchenette. He’d had enough of the rains, to be quite honest. He never thought it was possible, but he was ready for the chill of the Gotham fall.
He took the money Hattie had given him and hid it in the narrow crack in his desktop, while his mind began working over the case again. What would be the best way to handle it? He was sure if he simply did a walk by the premises he’d be able to gather enough visual cues to make up a convincing story, hopefully something that would ease her mind. He looked out the window behind him, staring at the rain clouds rolling over the slums around him. The rain would be good cover. He’d be able to sneak in without many witnesses, and he was sure the storm would keep many unsavory people off the streets.
He sat down at the desk, reached over to grab the paper he’d discarded that morning, and began flipping through the pages. His neighbor’s radio turned on -- it was always loud enough for him to hear it with the windows open -- and he listened periodically to the news reports that broke in. Eventually it became too dark for him to finish the article he’d been reading, so he flipped on the tiny lamp on his desktop. A light tapping sound began on the window behind him. It was raining. He leaned back in the office chair, letting out a deep breath; he figured now was time to make a final decision. He listened to the streets below, hearing the vendors begin to close their windows and pull their displays inside. The city was closing down early. If he planned this right, he could finish in enough time to stop by one of the shops and grab some more whiskey. His fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the desk as he thought, his mind rapidly deciding on the best plan to get there and back.
Standing up, he grabbed his switchblade from the desk drawer and stuffed it into his pocket, turning off the light as he went to grab his coat. Throwing it on, he placed his hat on and locked the door behind him as he headed down the stairs. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around. There were a few children down the street playing in the rain, but otherwise people were quickly shuffling about, trying to find shelter. He turned on the spot and began the walk to the streetcar stop. Walking the city blocks there would be unpreferred in the rain, but he decided it would help ease more of the fog his hangover still had over his body.
The walk wasn’t as horrible as he’d figured it would be, and the streetcar wasn’t as packed as he’d imagined. He easily found a spot to sit on one of the benches, his aching muscles thankful for the rest. As the streetcar rattled along its track, his mind began to mull over all the information again as he formed a plan to get in and out quickly. He vaguely watched as riders got off at different stops, eventually leaving the streetcar almost empty. Being lost in his thoughts for most of the trip, he was alarmed when a sickness began in his stomach. Then it hit him. It was the smell of the city around him, the rain, and that familiar sickening smell of rotting, burnt wood. The smell of the river flooded his senses. He’d forgotten they’d changed the streetcar route. He didn’t look up, he didn’t need to, he could already hear the sloshing sounds of the water as they got closer to the island bridges. His eyes scanned his surroundings for a street sign, but as he did, he could feel his hands start to shake. He willed them to stop. The sign for Billington passed by, and he hurried to the back of the car, hopping out into the street. The sudden silence of his surroundings made the sounds of the river so much louder in his ears. He hurried onto the sidewalk, silent. His breath was quickening, and he could hear the blood flowing through his head. The sickness in his stomach was becoming almost unbearable.
He shook his hands at his sides, trying to relieve some of the nervousness and the tension. Without looking up, he turned down the sidewalk, beginning the remainder of his trip. Keeping his eyes low to the pavement as he walked, he heard a car turn down a street behind him. It made his nerves spark in anticipation. He tried to keep his focus just on his steps, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the memories trying to creep back into his mind. Another step forward and his foot went right through a puddle. The sensation of the dirty water filling his shoe opened up a floodgate; suddenly, flashes of events tore through his mind.
Knee-deep water, the weight of the gun in his hand, the pulsing pain in his right leg.
He stopped on the sidewalk and shut his eyes tightly, trying to get the memories to stop, but the smell of the river kept bringing them back. He let out a pained groan. He didn’t understand. He felt so out of control. The one thing that had always been his greatest ally was turning on him. The fear quickly turned to frustration. He opened his eyes, deciding he was sick of it, sick of avoiding it all. All he was doing was just desperately patching holes on a sinking ship. He turned and looked at the island bridge, thinking it was time to stop running, and start confronting it head-on.
Some remnants of the barricades remained: large trunks of wood and brick were pushed up against the railing, razor wire glistening in the rain. The street was still damaged nearby, and the city had done some rush patch job to fix it, leaving the cracks still visible on the uneven pavement. The island across the river looked tiny. The dark buildings speckled the horizon; it looked like the remains of something dead, a carcass, rather than a once-populated island. It smelled different now, and the silence of it made him uneasy. He’d expected an intense barrage of memories, like what happened often at night, but he was met with something lifeless. He stared for a moment longer, noticing the fencing the city had put up around it, seeing where they’d cleaned a route on the main roads for the construction traffic. Looking to the street signs above, he saw the directional signs for the Narrows had been blocked off. Large “detour” signs took their place, directing traffic to the overhead bridges. The sight gave him a feeling of finality. The island held no answers, and it provided no closure. It was just dead. Letting out a deep breath, he took one last look at the island and continued down the opposite street toward his destination.
The farther he got from the Narrows, the more the sensations began to ease. His fear and frustration was replaced with a sense of emptiness he hadn’t expected; he felt almost numb to it all by the time he reached the buildings he was headed to. He’d thought actually looking at the island would be like confronting some horrific beast, and the lack of that resolution or answers of any kind was wearing on him. Stop worrying, talk to Lewin about it in your next appointment-- but that thought frightened him. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then he looked up at the buildings around him. The lights inside them and the soft sounds of people filled the air; he hadn’t thought this block would still be inhabited. Then he saw it: the darkened shell of what he assumed to be Miss Hattie’s previous residence. He could see the smoke damage on the remaining two buildings beside it. He noticed that both were still housing residents. He watched a cat slink inside an open window of a dimly lit room, heard one of the residents dump some wash water to the alleyway. All of it struck him as odd. It appeared Hattie’s building had sustained most of the damage, and it was enough damage to make the whole building uninhabitable. Yet the other buildings appeared to only have minor damage.
Hurrying up to the entrance, he checked his watch and noted the time. Taking out his notepad, he skimmed his notes quickly, refreshing his memory and reinvigorating his focus. He climbed the few steps to the main entrance and gently pushed what was left of the front door open. The main hall didn’t appear to be too damaged by the fire, and he took a few steps inside, noting that the upper floor had been torn open by the firemen. Gotta watch your step up there, he thought as he saw the floor above through holes in the ceiling. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on, checking the apartment to his left first, before making his way slowly up the steps. He looked between the two doors on the top landing before going through the door on his right, per Miss Hattie’s instructions. He frowned while looking over the damage. It was quite bad, like a matchbox he remembered her saying -- and it certainly looked it.
Everywhere he looked was burned, the skeletons of her furniture scattered around the apartment, with every inch blackened by either smoke or fire. Moving further in, he kept his eyes to the floor, hopping over the weak spots as he picked his way to one of the back rooms. He reached a doorway and looked inside, searching the small room with his torch until he finally spotted the hole in the wall Miss Hattie had mentioned. He stepped over to it, avoiding another hole in the flooring, and bent down to check inside the wall.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in another room. He could hear what sounded like footsteps behind him. He frowned and turned his flashlight toward the door, bathing the hall in light.
He listened, hearing only the tapping of the rain water throughout the building.
Continue reading:
Ep 2 * Ep 3 * Ep 4 * Ep 5 * Ep 6 * Ep 7
#writing post#Season 1 episodes#Season 1 premiere#Edward Nigma#Batman#batvillains#S1 eps 1 - 7#get ready for this to be reblogged all day#I want to make sure I hit each time-zone#Happy Premiere Day y'all!#zorasublime
127 notes
·
View notes
Text
Soul Nemeses! | WINWIN
Starring: Winwin ft. Hendery
Genre: Comedy | Superhero
Concept: Supervillain!Winwin (The Lobe) | Superhero!Hendery (Freakazoid)
Word Count: 2,786
Prompts: “Stop screaming, it’s just me.” + “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”
Notes: The following is (1) an absurd short-story for the @ficscafe’s dialogue prompt event and (2) a writing exercise to get into a headspace where I can be as silly as possible. Freak Out! is a story I’m very excited for and this was a way to explore the characters and their dynamic. So, without further ado, I genuinely hope you enjoy this VERY SPECIAL EPISODE of Freak Out!
Taglist: @stayinzencity @mother-hyucker @lebrookestore @doievoir @du0tine @naptaemed
All is well in Way City.
Which is to say it’s really not and something is about to happen to disrupt that all-is-well feeling across town. Because a day can’t go by without some burglar, mad scientist, or supervillain indulging in their burglary, mad science, or super-evil shenanigans.
Thus we turn our attention to a deserted, discolored, and depressing city landmark: The Daebak Fair. Once it used to be the kind of place that burst with laughter and excitement, where money flowed every weekend and kept the owners’ pockets heavy and full. People couldn’t get enough of it until, well, they got enough of it.
So much so that it became free real estate for any villain that felt like using the abandoned fair as their lair. This changed, however, when Winwin decided he didn’t feel like sharing. He bought the place, and officially made it his holiday lair. And it’s here that our story takes place.
What once used to be a house of mirrors is now a workplace where a plethora of patented inventions specifically designed for destruction are built, reserved-engineered, dismantled, and kept out of his rivals’ hands.
With all the bells and whistles removed, the lair is quite spacious. Having decorated the place himself, Winwin has hung stolen paintings all over the walls and set tables for dissection, welding, engineering, and even, if he was ever in the mood, arts and crafts. The whole thing has Mad Scientist meets Bob Ross vibes and it’s both odd and endearing.
Winwin is currently dismantling his latest invention—a large crane-looking thingie fitted on the roof a modified golf-cart—out of boredom and frustration after being foiled once again by that red-wearing, annoying, ne’er-do-well freak of a nemesis.
“I can’t believe him,” Winwin grumbles, shaking his head for the nth time. Seeing as he’s alone, he says this to no one in particular. “I craft the perfect plan and he finds a way to thwart it!”
Who would have thought that Freakazoid would have convinced him that creating a gas capable of turning people into clown zombies to do his bidding would be the stupidest masterplan ever? Winwin felt like he was failing as a villain, not challenging his nemesis enough. He had wondered then and still wonders now if he’s losing it, if he’s gone soft yet he knows he’s not, knows he hasn’t.
So why does this recent defeat grind his gears? Why has Freakazoid gotten to him? Though Winwin knew not to take their rivalry seriously, he sometimes did. It’s standard hero-villain stuff—to hurl insults and humiliate one another—yet something felt off.
He stops working and thinks back to their encounter.
CUT TO: HOURS AGO, IN A COLD, TALL, AND VAGUELY EUROPEAN MOUNTAIN
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Freakazoid had said, hanging off the side of a snowy cliff, for their confrontation had taken place in a cold, tall, and vaguely European mountain. With an impressive leap and a landing, he stood in front of Winwin and pointed a finger at him. “That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard of! People don’t like clowns, dummy! People are terrified of clowns! Ever heard of It?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—’tis a good plan!”
Freakazoid rolled his eyes, scoffing.“Nuh-huh.”
“Uh-huh,” Winwin replied, feeling instant regret for lowering himself to his nemesis’ childish argumentative skills. “It’s a brilliant plan!”
“No, it’s dumb, dumb, dumb!”
And then they debated like adults for a minute or two—
(“Nuh-huh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nuh-huh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nuh-huh.”
“Uh-huh.”)
—until Freakazoid clicked his tongue and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Pack it up, big brain,” he told him, not unkindly but definitely disappointed.
“Why should I? I already have a small zombie army at my disposal.”
“Small clown zombie army at your disposal.”
Winwin groaned in exasperation. “Yes, yes, that.”
“You’re doing this out here in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t even that many people around so I wouldn’t call it an army. I’d call it a small terrifying crowd.”
“Oh.”
Freakazoid nodded and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. “Did you even think this through?”
Winwin suddenly found himself speechless. Genuinely and anxiously speechless. He didn’t have an answer other than “I don’t know” and he hated resorting to admitting he didn’t know anything. He was the most brilliant supervillain in all of Way City—the Lobe, some called him—and admitting ignorance was (1) not on brand for him and (2) his worst nightmare.
“I don’t—I’m not sure—I—”
“Alright, you.” Freakazoid shook his head and gently guided him away by his elbow. “Pack it up. Get out of here.”
“But—”
“No butts, not tiddies, not ding-a-lings,” said the hero, his pout a judgemental feature in his face. “I expected a lot more from you. Clown zombies? Aiya.”
“I—” Winwin’s eyes widened and he felt them welling up with tears. “You’re right. I think I’m overdoing it. I might be overtired. It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”
“Turn off the cloud.”
And so he did. Winwin turned to see Freakazoid—lean, clad in red, black domino mask concealing his identity, his insignia that of F and an exclamation point on his chest, his black hair, slicked back as always, haswhite streak in the shape of a bolt across it—grimacing back at him. For a second, Winwin thought he could hear the world’s tiniest violin play a sad tune for himself as he pouted and got on the modified golf-cart he’d driven around the mountain to spread the gas around.
“Hey, big brain,” he heard Freakazoid call after him, the hero’s voice distant. He noticed it had softened somewhat. “It’s a dumb plan but I know you can do better.”
“Thanks, Freakazoid,” Winwin mumbled as his nemesis gave him a thumbs-up.
The moment was ruined the moment the idiot in red opened his mouth again—
“Now, git!”
CUT TO: NOW, BACK TO WINWIN’S LAIR
“Can’t believe I cried in front of him,” Winwin says, cringing.
“Yeah, me neither,” says a familiar voice.
Startled, Winwin squeals then yelps. A wrench flies off his hand as he falls off four feet to the ground and lands squarely on his bottom. He groans, and feels the back of his head throbbing. Opening his eyes, he blinks once, twice, thrice until he makes out the unmistakable silhouette of his nemesis looking down at him. Freakazoid couches and leans in so close, Winwin can feel his breath against his forehead.
“Stop screaming,” the hero says, “it’s just me.”
“Stop scream—are you serious? You nearly gave me a heart attack, you imbecile!”
“I know but that’s no reason to scream your lungs out.” Freakazoid offers his right hand and a half-smile. “Time to go upsies, big brain.”
Winwin glares, refusing the offer for help. “I don’t need your—” he begins but is cut off when he’s lifted off the floor. It’s both rough and gentle, in that he feels he’s taken several tight turns in a roller coaster without whiplash and is suddenly standing upright without imbalance. “Thank you.”
Freakazoid waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t.” Winwin scoffs then wags a firm finger in a gesture of warning. “Nor shall you mention that I cried all the way up there in those cold, tall, and vaguely European mountains.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Freakazoid raises a hand, making a gesture that’s supposed to imply his discretion. He frowns then tilts his head with a shrug. “I mean I would dream of it so I might come up. Like, cards on the table, I might tell some of my dream friends about it.”
A beat as Winwin glares, turns to a camera that’s not there, and rolls his eyes.
“Are you quite finished?”
“No, not really—”
Winwin sighs and turns, picking up the wrench he dropped and returning to his work. “Why are you here, Freakazoid?” he asks, his voice laced with despondency.
“Oh,” is all Freakazoid manages to say. Winwin hears him clear his throat and take a step forward. “About that. I came to apologize, big brain. Didn’t mean to be, well, mean to you. It’s just that—” he pauses and the villain can practically see him shrugging. “—I think I’ve been a bit overworked too.”
“Was it your idea to apologize or was it Sgt. Qian’s?”
“That’s neither near or far.”
Winwin groans, doing his best to not roll his eyes or rub his face. “Neither here or there,” he corrects him.
“Exactamundo!”
“Did you come here to aggravate me?”
Freakazoid deflates, looking forlorn for a second before he clears his throat and the usual and insufferable aura of confidence that encompasses his very being returns. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck.
“Come on, big brain, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that—” Freakazoid groans, throwing his head back like a teeanger not wanting to admit he’s responsible for some wrongdoing. “—it was such a good plan!”
Winwin’s eyes widen as he takes a step forward and squeezes Freakazoid’s shoulders. “Come again?” he queries. “It was a good plan?”
“I mean—duh!—zombies I can handle but clowns? Geez. Ugh. No. Nightmare fuel.”
“So you did like it?”
“Like it? No, bud, I absolutely, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, love it. Let me tell you, Lobe, it’s—” Freakazoid motions he’s kissing his fingers then wiggles his left hand as if to say mamma mia. “— diabolical.”
Winwin feels warmth spread across his cheeks and immediately clears his throat, looking away to avoid giving Freakazoid any satisfaction or a glimpse at his embarrassment. He laser-focuses on taking apart a component from the machine, cautious not to tinker much with the cylinder that contains the clown zombie gas, and pretends he’s not giddy with excitement and validation.
Then, just as he’s going to turn and give him his thanks, Freakazoid open his mouth and yet again ruins the moment—
“It’s diabolical, but stupid.”
Winwin mutters angrily under his breath, every fiber of his being urging him to reach for that knock-out gas he’d been working on for the past few days—or, perhaps, that disintegrating rifle that has been gathering dust for God knows how long—yet relents when he sees the look of concentration in Freakazoid’s face. The hero looks like he’s seriously considering why he feels Winwin’s plan was, in his words, diabolical but stupid.
And the villain, overwhelmed with both anger and vile curiosity, crosses his arms, taps his foot, and grits his teeth.
“Go on . . .”
“It’s—how to put this lightly?—immensely stupid yet awesomely evil in that you didn’t think it through but it has potential to really ruin my day if done correctly.” Freakazoid throws his arm around Winwin’s shoulder, pulling him close. “See what I mean, old chump?”
“You and I are not chumps.”
Freakazoid gasps and pouts, dramatically putting a hand on his chest. “And here I was thinking you were my nemesis,” he whispers in a low, wheezing voice. “I thought we were soul-nemeses.”
“I mean—” Winwin blushes again and his eyes widen the second he realizes Freakazoid notices his blushing. “We are nemeses, yes, but we are definitely not chumps.”
“Could we ever be chumps?”
Winwin sighs, rolling his eyes. “I believe so.”
“Ah, big brain, I knew you cared!”
“Yes, yes, caring.” The villain nods and pushes his nemesis off himself, “You’ve apologized, insulted me yet again, and tried to be my, as you say, chump. I believe that’s enough banter for a day.”
“Touché.” Freakazoid smiles. “I’ve made plenty of shameless jokes at your expense today.”
“And I’m certain they won’t be the last.”
“You know me,” the hero blinks, pointing a thumb at himself. He glances at the contraption built on the roof of the modified golf-cart and a glint of curiosity and mischief appears in his eyes. Despite wearing a domino mask, Freakazoid could be inexplicably expressive. “Whatcha up to?”
“Dismantling this heap of scrap metal.” Winwin turns so fast that it’s impossible for Freakazoid not to notice the frustration apparent in his face. He smacks the wrench against the roof of the cart and winces when it slips out of his hand. “Damn it.”
“Here, let me help,” Freakazoid offers, guiding Winwin away from the cart. “I need some space.”
Before Winwin can protest, a gust of wind pushes him back. He blinks to see nothing but a blur of motion and a shower of white sparks moving around the golf cart. It’s so fast that he glimpses at Freakazoid’s silhouette twice before the hero stands next to him, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. It reminds Winwin of a mechanic finishing up a check-up on a car in desperate need of maintenance.
“There.” The hero throws the rag over his shoulder. “Doneso.”
“How did you—” Winwin blabbers, flabbergasted at how thorough Freakazoid had been. Every piece is laid on a table that hadn’t previously been there, each component perfectly classified, and all the parts that were supposed to be tossed away neatly put on a trash bag. “How’s that possible?”
“Come on, brainy,” Freakzaoid scoffs, clapping Winwin in the back and making him yelp and glare at him. “We’ve been at this for a while now. If I can think of it, I can do it.”
“That’s not a very reassuring thought.”
For a second, Freakazoid’s smile disappears and a haunted look passes through his eyes. “I know,” he whispers ominously. Then he’s flashing that bright and infuriating smile of his as nothing has happened. “Anyways, I gots to get going.”
That stops Winwin dead on his tracks. Usually, after some crime-spree or being foiled and getting away, Freakazoid would burst in wherever Winwin was currently laying low on, say his cheesy heroic lines, and promptly deliver him to the authorities—which was always, without fail, to Sgt. Qian—and they would call it a night.
Here he is, apologizing, acting like Winwin hadn’t enacted yet another brilliant and evil plan—even though he had deemed it dumb—and being overall far more obnoxious than usual. Yeah, something’s definitely off tonight.
“Whoa, whoa, aren’t you going to take me in?” Winwin protests and instantly groans when he notices his hand on Freakazoid’s forearm, like a lover begging their other half not to leave. He lets go and sheepishly clears his throat. “You might have thwarted me today but I still turned a couple of people into clown zombies. That has to be a crime somewhere.”
“Definitely a crime somewhere, but they’re all good now. All they needed was some fresh-air. No harm, no foul.” Freakazoid shrugs then grimaces. “Although, no, not really. A couple of people were traumatized so there was some harm involved.”
“You see?” Winwin cackles and offers his hand, waiting to be handcuffed. “Take me in!”
“Not tonight, brainy. I’m all tuckered out and Kun invented me out for ice-cream. We can do that tomorrow, though.”
Winwin opens his mouth then closes it, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “That seems awfully irresponsible.”
“Oh, it is.” Freakazoid snorts, turning to leave. “But I’m getting some ice-cream and Kun’s paying.”
“If you don’t take me in now, Freakazoid, I’ll come up with a worse plan tomorrow and enact it without mercy.” Winwin poses, raising his hands above to display his collection of inventions and devices solely designed for destruction and chaos. “For I live to oppose you. So it is written. So it shall be done.”
The hero blinks, holds his chin, looking pensive for a second, hums, then shrugs with an impassive expression. “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”
“I—” Winwin raises and lowers a finger, deflated.
He could reschedule, postpone some things, advance others before he unleashed absolute chaos on the city. He knows can make it work. It would be business as usual.
With a mental note to not start his rampage before dinner time, he slowly and painfully rolls his eyes and huffs, “Fine. We’ll do it tomorrow then.”
“Goodie!” Freakazoid claps, pulling Winwin close for a hug. “Ice cream today. Possible disaster tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Winwin replies through gritted teeth.
“Okey-doke, brainy. See you tomorrow.”
One second, Freakazoid is there. The other, he’s gone in a blinding flash of light and a gust of wind that vaguely smells of chocolate. Winwin is left alone, despondent, and secretly impressed. He sighs and rubs the back of his head, feeling the area bruised and sensitive to touch.
Giving his lair the once-over, he slumps on a chair and pops his lips.
“This is my most humiliating defeat,” he grumbles.
A minute later, he decides to call it a night.
And, for the first time this week, all remains well in Way City.
itspapisongo | © 2020-2021 | All Rights Reserved
Freakazoid! is a Warner Bros. property, all rights reserved to them and the show's creators (Paul Dini & Bruce Timm).
#ficscafe#ficscafe DPE#ficscafe submission#wayv#wayv crack#winwin#dong sicheng#villain!sicheng#villain!wiwin#winwin wayv#sicheng wayv#winwin imagines#winwin scenarios#winwin fic#hendery#wong hendery#wong kunhang#hendery scenarios#hendery imagines#hendery fics#freakazoid!#freakahendery#freak out!
34 notes
·
View notes
Text
Humans are Space Orcs “Duct Tape”
I was challenged and the challenge was accepted. Thank you @cyberstrikebeast for the suggestion! Also thanks and credit to @impalalord for the original post where the idea was suggested to me, and the original inspiration.
https://impalalord.tumblr.com/post/187591145361/finds-duct-tape-humans-were-here
The intergalactic technology summit was an annual event, or at least it happened once every agreed cycle. Members of the GA excitedly brought forward their best advances in the past year to share with the convention center. This was the first year that the humans had been invited. Of course, at such short notice the humans had only been able to send a few delegates, who were ordered to ‘pay attention, take notes, and most of all, see if there is anyone who would be willing to let us test it out.
For that reason, Commander Vir of the UNSC accompanied Earth’s representative rocket scientist. At first, the two humans had been a bit wary of each other one being primarily a military man and the other being primarily a rocket scientist. First impressions were a bit deflated as the scientist assumed the big, muscular soldier would be bored, stuffy, and kind of dumb, while the soldier assumed the small, tweed-wearing scientist would be boring, stuffy, and kind of condescending. Of course, upon spending the next ten minutes with each other it turned out that geeks come from all walks of life, and by the time they reached the summit, a friendship was forming.
They stepped through the doors with their badges on and allowed both of their mouths to drop open. It was no secret that humans were not far on the end of the technology spectrum. In fact most of their gear was rudimentary if not laughable to other species like the Vrul or the Runid who used anti gravity systems instead of engines to propel their rockets into the sky. There were entire rows dedicated to the advancement of medical science which made humans look like an automobile chop shop where people go to get sequentially dismembered by rusty saw blades.
The Geek fest that followed would have been laughable for an outsider, but with the two of them it was simply a reason for excitement. They pranced about the convention, the rocket scientist asking dozens of questions in an attempt to understand the technology, while the soldier took every opportunity he could to test the object personally no matter how dangerous it may have been. Generally, together, they made a decent team, and the scientist came to find that the soldier was not, as it originally seemed, and idiot. Any technology involving aviation, despite him being a rocket scientist, was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge of this man, who had operated, fixed and MacGyvered most machines without a comprehensive knowledge of physics.
They were sitting down to lunch as the soldier was explaining, “And that’s why the T-8 doesnt work despite being good on paper simply because of human error. Its counter-intuitive and unless trained out of old habits, the pilot is going to crash it.”
The scientist frowned, “Well alright, but the T-8 system is the perfect model. It works with the least amount of energy drop-off, and can be cooled faster and more efficiently than other systems. Its use would revolutionize space flight.”
“And I get that obviously, its super awesome in theory, but I’m telling you the T-8 is not compatible to the way that pilots think, especially under stressful situations. The brain sort of goes back to its original programming while the T-8 forces you to do internal calculations, which is the reason that they constantly crash. I flew one once for like ten minutes and wanted to smash my head into wall after using it.”
“Well…. I suppose-”
“Try to automate the thing, and I bet a computer will fly it just fine, but keep out the human component-”
At that moment, the scientist opened his mouth to speak when a group of aliens walked up from ne of the isles, a vrul, a rundi, a tesraki, and a finnari.
“Good morning humans, we are pleased to see that you were able to arrive today.”
The scientist squirmed in his seat nervous and out of sorts, but the soldier simply smiled and launched into his greeting with the ease of a born extrovert, “And it’s a pleasure to be here. I have to say that we are beyond impressed at what we have seen today.”
Together the aliens hummed in appreciation, “we are pleased to find that there is something we can do that you humans haven't already mastered.”
With a wave of his hand the human brushed off the complement returning it, “Please, you give us too much credit. Our science is practically in its infancy in comparison.”
They spoke for a few more minutes before the aliens paused looking at them expectantly. The scientists glanced over at the soldier with a confused expression which was unnervingly returned in equal measure.
“Well?” The Vrul wondered.
“Well what?”
“Well, where is your piece of technology. That is what this conference is for after all, to share your inventions with the world.”
Together the human’s hearts dropped into their stomachs and they glanced at each other with wide panicked eyes, “We were supposed to bring an invention?”
“Of course….” The aliens glanced at each other, “Do you no have one.”
“Well I n-”
“Of course we do! Just messing with you, obviously.” The scientist turned to look at the soldier with a panicked expression of warning eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about our invention, Dr. I mean it is one of the most important pieces of technology in human history.” He continued to glower in panic, what was this blabbermouth doing. It was like watching a man stand with a shovel in a hole seven feet deep and insist he wasn’t digging his own grave.
This was going to be the single most embarrassing moment of his career.
The soldier nudged his ribs, “You know, THAT technology.”
He cleared his throat in frustration and nodded, “Oh yes of course….. I’m sorry I just got so….. Excited that I blanked for a moment. Why don’t YOU show them. You are so much better at these things than me.”
“Er….” The soldier began, “Of course I will. Hold on and let me grab it real quick.” He stood up setting his bag on the table and then began rummaging through it.
The scientist put his head in his hands, unless he had an antimatter core shoved in his bag they were fucked.
The human held up a finger as the aliens looked on expectantly, “Hold on just have to find it first…..” The scientist felt as if he was about to puke. Then the soldier’s eyes lit up, and his face was crossed with a massive grin. “Ah there it is.” The scientist looked on in confusion
The aliens leaned forward as the human stood taller hand still shoved in his bag.
“What I am about to show you may well be one of the most important inventions is the history of humanity, Nay! The history of the galaxy, single handedly responsible for human innovation
Beyond the warp core, beyond life support and anti gravity, this is the single most important invention to ever grace the field of human scientific knowledge. Its application is endless as a multipurpose tool and is so adaptable it can be used for ANY, and I mean ANY application.”
The aliens sat wide eyed and the scientist leaned forward with bated breath. What could be so grand that the soldier could spin a lie like that and get away with it. He didn't appear to even be breaking a sweat.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished others, I present to you the….. The multifunctional Universal Unilateral Bonding Strop.” With a theatrical flourish worthy of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, the soldier withdrew his arm from the bag and raised his hand high into the air, where light from the ceiling caught and reflected off its shiny silver surface….
“Duct-tape.” The scientist blurted in consternation. Voice cracking with near laughter and disbelief.
The soldier gave him a warning look and then nodded, “Yes, of course, Dr. More formally known as duct tape.”
The aliens gathered closer in curiosity, “It doesn’t look like much.” One of them pointed out
But the soldier looked at him with an expression of hurt consternation, “I assure you, it's everything I said it is and more, originally invented in 1943 by a Vesta Stoudt, who was trying to find an acceptable replacement for less durable cloth tape. It was originally intended for use in sealing ammunition boxes, but soldiers later determined that this little miracle could fix anything from achinery to boots, to weaponry. I guarantee you wont find a human that doesn't have some.”
He stepped forward proffering the material for closer inspection.
“What is it made from.” One of the aliens wondered.
The soldier paused then stammered, “Well I…. Um its made of.”
“Well it can actually be made of any number of things.” The scientists piped up, “It is very versatile that way. The woven fabric base can be made of anything from cotton to nylon to fiberglass, specifically designed for flexibility. The back was originally coated with waterproof polyurethane and then coated with the adhesive. The same process is generally used though there are many different varieties. The more plastic the adhesive backing, the more water tight and so can be used to stop leakes, repair pipes, seal gaps and any number of other applications. They even make a more durable reflective variety that is heat resistant, so can be utilized at high temperatures.”
He turned to glance at the soldier who was beaming openly at him, winking his one remaining eye before turning to the aliens.
“You said it can be used in all applications. Explain.”
“Well I am glad you asked.” The soldier began taking a deep breath, “I've personally seen it used to repair shoes, cars, machinery, pipes, clothing. It has the ability to incapacitate a human ...” He paused there to let that sink in, “It is used to make art, and clothing, hold things together, seal packages. In large concentration it is strong enough to hold a grown man off the ground. I’ve seen it used to make a boat, and once, an entire airplane, with additional equipment of course. Pretty sure someone made a cannon using it once, but that could just be a myth.”
“Point is.” Said the scientists, “Humans use this for everything, and though it is an old invention it is one that deserves to be shared across the galaxy.”
The Vrul crossed his arms, “That is a big claim to make for such an object.”
“Yes.” A Tesraki piped in, “You sell well, but business is business. If the product isn’t up to scratch than how can we trust it.”
“We must have a demonstration.”
The human grinned in response, “Well, I am glad you asked.” He held the roll of tape up picking at the edge with a fingernail before withdrawing a long strip. The sound it made was a satisfying sccriiiitch and then tear as he pulled a piece off sliding the roll over his hand to hold it on his wrist. He held the two ends between his fingers and flexed the strip between his fingers, “See completely and entirely flexible.
One of the aliens frowned, “I thought you said it was supposed to be durable, but you just tore it in half.”
The human frowned, “Well that is one of the great parts of this tape, tear it just right, and anyone can use it, but exposed to pulling or twisting forces it is difficult to break. Let me demonstrate.” He grabbed the piece of tape by either end and then began to wrestle with it. Instead of breaking the tape stretched and strained slowly pulling apart until eventually it snapped causing the human to stagger a bit.
“See now imagine multiple strips all working together.”
The aliens muttered. The scientist stared on in awe, they were actually coming around. He glanced towards the soldier with a look of disbelief. The bastard had done it, he had actually done it. Sold a 2,000 year old invention as the most important piece of technology in human history.
The soldier was grinning as he tore a few more strips from the tape handing them out, “Here take a pice, try it out for yourself.”
The aliens tentatively did as told and what ensued was an amusing spectacle of aliens confusedly trying to unstick the tape from their fingers, accidentally sticking it to themselves, and then begging for help in getting it off. A Vrul danced around in circle shaking his hand but the tape wouldn’t let go . This little show had drawn a crowd, and others came forward to curiously sample the strange human invention.
Warp reactors, and medical science was ignored in favor of the humans and their single roll of tape.
When they finally got the hang of using the sticky one sided adhesive the aliens suddenly became obsessed with what they could stick together. Chairs were hung upside down to tables, people’s hands were tied together. One of the Vrul was taped to the floor. The front doors to the convention were sealed shut.
Pandemonium ensued as tape was wrapped around anything that seemed even mildly broken.
To everyone’s surprise, a vrul who had recently received an injury to his helium sack, sealed the hole with a piece of tape, and was able to return to floating within a matter of seconds.
Somewhere in there the Commander and the rocket scientist lost sight of the role, only to find a rundi taped to the wall looking slightly beleaguered a few minutes later.
They stood together at the center of the convention floor staring around as aliens stuck things to other things, waved their hands about, and generally turned the center into a house of complete chaos.
The rocket scientist leaned in, “What have you done.”
Wide eyed the soldier turned to look at him with a grimace, “Er….. I have no idea.”
They looked around surveying the carnage made by one role of tape. There was a slight ripping noise and they turned to see the doors finally opening strings of cut tape billowing in the air rushing out onto the street. Drev security walked in accompanied by a Rundi oversee who paused in the doorway in consternation staring at the carnage.
Aliens everywhere, and two well-behaved humans standing in the middle of it.
He rubbed his eyes and rechecked as if he was seeing things. Generally when something like this happens you would expect to find the humans being destructive, not the other, generally mild species.
The soldier shrugged raising his hands in a ‘we had nothing to do with this’ sort of gesture. The rundi didn’t seem convinced.
It took several hours to deal with the aftermath, and it only stopped when a Tesraki returned to the soldier holding the cardboard center of the role looking saddened by it’s loss, “Do you have more.”
The soldier rubbed the back of his head, “Afraid you used my whole role, but I am sure we could come to an agreement about getting you some.” The Tesraki nodded in a subdued sort of way, handed him the used up role and then slunk away. The Rundi overseer glowered at him with an ‘i knew it’ sort of expression.
Walking out of the convention well into the night after being forced to help clean things up, the scientist looked over at his companion, “That was some serious silver tongue shit back there. How did you do it.”
The soldier simply smiled and shrugged, “Sort of just came to me.”
“If that hadn't worked, we would have been screwed.”
He waved a hand, “Nah, I wasn't worried.”
“Speak for yourself. I was close to pissing myself.
Just then the scientists phone began to ring. He was getting a patched in transmission from his superior back on earth and motioned the soldier to stay quiet. He answer the call and put it on speaker, “Yes sir.”
“I’m just calling to see how the convention went?”
“Uh….. well it went fine considering the circumstances.” The scientist stuttered.
There was a pause over the other end of the line, “What does that mean.”
He shuffled his feet nervously not entirely sure how to say this, “Well, as it turns out that being invited to this thing meant we were expected to bring an invention.”
He heard shuffling on the other end of the line and some muffled cursing, “Shit, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. How did you handle that mess?”
He scratched the back of his head feeling a smile broke out across his face, “Ur…. well lets just say we should make a note to the UN that, if anyone asks, duct tape is the most important piece of technology ever invented.”
#humans are insane#humans are space orcs#humans are space australians#humans are spaceoddities#earth is a deathworld#Earth is space Ausralia#HUMANS ARE WEIRD
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Unfortunately, You Are Experiencing Symptoms of Falling in Love: Part 6
Having your long-term boyfriend cheat on you is pretty bad, but you're lucky enough to have a rich, pro-hero best friend who lets you move in with him until you get a new apartment. Except lockdown happens. And you can't look for a new apartment anymore, and you can't go anywhere anymore, and neither can your best friend, and you think you might be falling a little bit in love with him. Or maybe you've been in love with him all along.
The story of how it takes a nationwide lockdown for you and Bakugou Katsuki to finally get together, part 6!
taglist: @stargazerunlimited @luna-bloodrose @lov4kbg
haha I totally just realized I needed to post this on tumblr! (I’m spidersasuke on ao3 and I usually post there first). Anyway, it’s been a while, long story short this semester was awful and I didn’t have any spare mental energy to work on this but I hope to get a good chunk done before I go back in February! I'm really sorry to keep you all hanging for so long. Anyway, thank you all for your patience and support and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!
It took you a while to truly absorb the seriousness of what he was saying. It was hard to imagine the scale he was speaking of, not just your country, but the whole world would be affected. But also, on a smaller scale, your world was being rocked. Of course, it wasn’t like living with Katsuki was hard. Honestly, it was like a breath of fresh air, and your life had been easier these last few weeks than it had felt in a long time. Even though it was just small things, you had forgotten how nice it felt to be cared for; to have someone consider your needs as well as their own.
But even so, at the moment you didn’t see Katsuki all that much, considering the time the two of you spent at work. But now, he wouldn’t be working at all. Maybe you wouldn’t be either, considering how you shared your workshop space with a couple of other support techs to avoid taking huge chunks out of your commissions to use the more advanced gear. But also, it wouldn’t really be fair to the heroes you worked for if you just stopped. You only worked for a couple, including Katsuki, but even taking him out of the equation still left you with people who relied on your services. You had to ask.
“What am I going to do about work?” you asked carefully. “Even if you’re not breaking your gear left and right to keep me in business, there are still other heroes who might need me.” Katsuki shook his head.
“Not happening. All of your people have already been talked to.” He took a deep breath, and you prepared for what he was about to say. This was one of his rare, completely serious moments, and you knew he wouldn’t back down from what he said. “I’m sorry, but since you live with me it just can’t happen. The hero commission really does not want to risk me getting sick, hence the quarantine. I’m still not letting anyone else touch my shit, so they’re gonna try and set up a place for you somewhere in the building but that might take a bit. And if I’m not breaking my shit on the street constantly there’s not really any need for you to work. I know how much your job means to you and I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”
Katsuki ran his hands through his hair with frustration. He was already so tired, and dealing with so much, and he was still thinking about you. You opened your mouth to thank him, but he cut you off.
“And don’t even think about trying to move out now. You’d have to be the dumbest person alive if you thought I’d let you pull that shit right now,” he barked, starting to return to the Katsuki you knew and loved. You shook your head with a smile.
“I was just going to say thank you, dummy.” He blinked a few times, taken a bit aback.
“Of course you were, dumbass. You’re the dumb one around here. Saying dumb shit. Whatever. I’m fucking tired.” He had been up late last night, you thought to yourself, but you couldn’t resist teasing him a little bit more.
“I thought you wanted to make breakfast, Katsuki! You want me to starve?” you said with a laugh. Fuck. Seeing that smile on your face after such a long night was really all he needed. Maybe he was tired, if he was letting thoughts like that come this easily.
“You deserve to starve after all you put me through, shitty woman. I open my home to you and this is how you repay me?” You gave him a gentle pat on the head.
“You need to get some sleep, Mr. Pro Hero. Let me make breakfast for once, or finish it, seeing as you already did most of the work."
“Damn right,” he interrupted, nodding slowly
“Seriously, just take a nap or something. We can do breakfast later.” When he didn’t respond, you peered at him curiously only to find that he had fallen asleep in the middle of your conversation. He was that tired. You gently pushed him so that he was lying in a somewhat comfortable position, and grabbed a nearby throw blanket to cover him. You’d finish breakfast yourself, and let him sleep as much as he needed.
Katsuki woke up around three hours later, grouching about how you never should have let him sleep that much, and how dumb you were, but you knew he was feeling much better. Of course, you also knew that you would probably have to work out some sort of schedule so that you two could coexist. The more you thought about it, the weirder it seemed. Sure, you had thought that you saw Katsuki a lot, after all, he did make you breakfast, and drive you to work, and you had hung out at night a few times when he wasn’t too busy, but to be honest it wasn’t that much when all was said and done.
The life of a pro-hero was a busy one, and since Katsuki was Number 2 he had to deal with press conferences, fan events, and keep up with appearances. It had taken him a while, and you had heard more than your fair share of complaining from him over the years about overzealous fans, but he had gotten a lot better when it came to the social parts of hero life. Of course, he was still grouchy and barked at people constantly, but that was part of his charm. You were sure he definitely wouldn’t miss all those events. The point remained, you were about to be spending much more time with him than you ever had in your life, and while his apartment was big, you were a bit worried.
“Do you want to maybe set up a schedule or something?” you asked carefully. “And since I’m not really going to have any money coming in from work, how do you want to deal with paying for groceries and utilities and stuff?” That got his attention quick. He sat up from his relaxed position on the couch, and threw off the blanket you had so kindly provided for him.
“Are you seriously dumb enough to think that I was ever going to let you give me any money? Job or no job, I’m not taking shit and that’s final, princess,” he said, arms folded with sincerity. You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. It was the answer you expected, but it was so funny how even when he was being incredibly kind he had to call you dumb.
“Ok, even still, I don’t want to wind up getting in your way if we’re both home all day. I mean, I won’t really have anything to work on, maybe I can get some small tools up here or just work on something fun, but I don’t want to get in the way of anything you might want to be doing.” Unlike you, Katsuki was fully willing to roll his eyes at you.
/p>“What I going to be doing? I’m not working either. If anything, you should stay in my way so I don’t get bored out of my mind. Although I’m probably going to have to get some more machines and shit in here so I can stay in shape. Might have to put stuff in the living room. Not sure,” he mused.
Well, he was right. There really wasn’t much else he would be doing but working out so you wouldn’t really get in his way. Although, did you want to be around Katsuki when he was working out? Sure, you had seen him fight criminals before, and you had to measure his stats every so often when you were fixing his gear but for some reason your mind kept going to weird places whenever you thought about it. Would he wear a shirt when he worked out? Probably not, right? Wait a minute, why did you care if he wore a shirt or not? It didn’t matter, and you had enough close calls what with you two sharing a bathroom. And you were a grown woman! You had seen people with their shirts off before! This really wasn’t a big deal at all!
“What’s going on in that big nerd brain, princess? I see your gears turning,” Bakugou asked, poking your forehead. You felt your cheeks heat up. God, he had really caught you thinking about him- no, you weren’t even going to say it. Quick, what could you say?
“Just thinking about how crazy this all is. I mean, a global pandemic? It barely seems real!” Katsuki nodded understandingly.
“Yeah, it’s fucking weird not being able to do anything about it either. I mean, when was the last time either of us had any actual time off? Had to be maybe a bit after graduation, but I think that was it.” He was right. When was the last time you had genuinely taken a break? It had been nothing but constant work for you, especially once Katsuki started getting in serious fights on a regular basis. And of course, you had other heroes to deal with as well. Taking a break was just never really a thought that crossed your mind.
But now? You genuinely had no work to do. Nothing. For the first time in years, you could relax. Sure, you couldn’t really leave the apartment, but the apartment had a private pool. It could be so much worse. And the more you thought about it, the better you felt. Sure, it would be weird seeing Katsuki so much, but he was your best friend!
And wouldn’t it be better to have someone to talk to anyway? You would go crazy left to your own devices eventually, and you shuddered to think at how antisocial Katsuki might become if he didn’t see anyone for however long this lockdown lasted. Which might be a while. It was a good thing you were here. And with any luck, you could get Katsuki to cook for you more often. Yes, this was definitely a good thing. You flopped backwards onto the couch, spreading your body across the plush cushions.
“Want to put on a movie, since our afternoon appears to be free?” Katsuki nodded.
Interlude from Katsuki’s point of view
The minute he got the message about the meeting, he was nervous. And he was never nervous, but being a hero for this long meant he had developed a pretty good gut sense of when things were about to go south. And his gut was ringing a 5-fire alarm. Still, he put on the suit and wrestled with his hair to get it to some level of presentability. This meeting was rushed, but bound to be some level of televised. At the very least there would be photos, and the more put-together he looked the more at-ease the public felt.
As some doctor he didn’t know started to explain the circumstances, his mind kept going back to you, probably already asleep in his apartment. Maybe he had been too strict about the apartments you had been looking at, but damn if he wasn’t glad you were still there. And there was no way he was going to let you move out now. Catch the virus in some loser apartment, where he probably couldn’t even make you his get-well soup? Not fucking lightly.
“Ground Zero?” He was pulled away from his thoughts as someone called his name, sounding like it wasn’t the first time they had done so. Was this the doctor at the beginning? No, he recognized this lady. Some woman from the hero commission.
“Uh, yes?” Damn it. That wasn’t smooth at all, not befitting the number-2 hero.
“You do understand what this means for you, correct?” What? How was he involved in this? He wasn’t dumb enough to think he could blow up a virus. Maybe if he was 16, but surely not now.
“Of course I do.” Of course, he didn’t.
“So you’re fine with staying in your apartment for as long as we deem necessary? Again I must stress that it is of the upmost importance that we preserve the health of our strongest heroes,” replied the woman. Damn. He really needed to pay more attention in these meetings. He had to respond, quick. Sure, he was fine with that. He’d iron out the details later. And of course, it was still flattering to know that he was powerful enough that he had to go to such extents to avoid getting sick.
“Yeah. We’ll need to work out a training regimen and everything but if it’s gotta happen it’s gotta happen.” The woman nodded, pleased with his compliance, and soon the discussion moved from him and the other top heroes to people with quirks that might help with the virus. Yeah, he could probably stop listening now. And the people at his agency would help iron out the fine details.
Damn, it was getting late. You kept invading his thoughts. There was no way you would be leaving his apartment either, which meant it would be just the two of you alone together for who knows how long. Just how he liked it. The secret part of him he always tried to ignore was telling him that this would be just like a vacation (no, he needed to stay focused and work hard in case something happened), that he could show off his cooking skills to you every day (ok, good idea, secret brain), that no one else would be able to see you for months, least of all that bastard you used to live with, hah, he would get to spend so much time with you (why was he so happy about this?) Clearly he was overtired or something. The rest of the meeting dragged on into the morning, and he made sure to meet with his agency afterwards to take care of a few things, but all he really had on his mind was sleep.
Of course, the minute he walked through the door and saw your shoes on the floor, he stopped. He had to talk to you, explain everything. He started making you breakfast almost on autopilot. Then, maybe he explained things to you? Yes, he did that, but then somehow he was asleep on the couch. You shouldn’t have let him sleep so much. Although, it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go.
Now what? You wanted to talk schedules? He wouldn’t have let you in his house if he didn’t want you there, like hell you were going to leave. And you weren’t paying for shit either. He was going to take care of you like that bastard never cou- no, why was he comparing himself to him? And sure, he had the workout room and all, but maybe he should get some extra weights to put in the living room. That wouldn’t be weird, he still had to work out. Ok, now you were staring. Were you thinking about him? He hoped so. He had to tease you, at least a little.
No, this was going to be good. You and him and all this free time. Not like he could stand anyone else anyway. This was going to be good. As long as he stopped thinking all this weird shit. Felt like it was getting worse every day. No, this was going to be fine. He’s a grown-ass man, he’s the number-2 hero, he’s dealt with a ton of crap before. This lockdown would be a breeze.
#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugou katsuki x reader#bakugou x reader#katsuki x reader#mha#bnha x reader#mha x reader#bnha imagines#bnha x you#katsuki bakugou x you#katsuki x you#bakugou katsuki x you#bakugou katsuki#katsuki bakugou x reader#yes finally i updated#sorry it took forever and a day#please enjoy
23 notes
·
View notes
Note
Recently I have been getting around to writing fanfiction, trying at least. Ideas come easily time me, I am constantly thinking "wouldn't it be cool if this happened?" But when th time comes to write, it is the hardest thing for me. What advice would you offer to someone who is writing fanfic? How do you stay so motivated or inspired to continue writing? How do you avoid writer's block? Do you get anxiety about what people will think about your work? If so, how do you get out of it?
Congratulations on getting around to writing fanficiton! Trying is actually the hardest part, so I commend you on pushing yourself to try! Coming u with ideas is actually one of the other hard parts, especially when you sit down to write and your brain goes blank, so I’m really proud of you for being able to come up with ideas so easily!
I’m actually so massively honored you’re asking me for advice. I never thought I’d get to the point where people wanted my advice on writing, so i just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for asking! <3
It’s actually funny, because the idea for the Daily Destiel Delights was actually born out of a phase of writers block. From April to the middle of June, I was writing and posting one fic a week for the SPNStayAtHome event. And then once that ended, I lost the motivation to write and hit this massive span of writers block where I couldn’t come up with any ideas or get myself to write. I really wanted to get back to writing, but just didn’t have the drive. And then I wrote a couple incorrect quotes because they were fun, light, and easy. I posted them two days in a row, and then my friend told me she loved them and said “omg plz keep making those I’m dead” and out of nowhere this idea came to mind of like why don’t I create this Daily tag and force myself to write and post every day. I’m one of those people who works well under pressure, and I can’t really get myself to write unless there’s a fire under my ass hahah.
My biggest advice would be just do it! And I know that sounds dumb like “Sophie what do you mean just do it?”, but I’m serious. Force yourself to sit down, put your hands on the keys, and tell yourself you’re not getting up until you’ve written 100 words, 200 words, 500 words. Set a goal, and push to it. Even if you go back and re-read it and it’s awful and you decide to delete it and start over, it’s progress. Progress is everything. I’m one of those people who gets in my head and I start doubting and questioning myself, and it makes writing hard. I struggle coming up with ideas sometimes, and it’s literally like one random word pops into my head and that’s all it takes to spark something.
Sometimes, when I’m really struggling to write, I listen to music at the same time. That can spark ideas, too. You have to find inspiration in the smallest things. Sometimes we get so overwhelmed with all these ideas that nothing can come out. So just sit at your laptop, or tablet, or phone, or even your notebook if you’re a handwritten type of person, tune everything out, and hone in on one idea. And run with it.
As for what helps me to stay motivated and inspired, it’s gonna sound corny as hell, but it’s all of y’all. It’s the readers, the fans, my friends. The people who show any love of any kind to my writing. I see notes coming in- people liking or reblogging or commenting- and it’s this wave of euphoria that makes me want to keep writing. Seeing even one person like my content is inspiring, because it’s like, wow, that thing I slaved over for two hours, someone likes it, wow. I’m not without my faults though. I struggle a lot. Sometimes I spend all night trying to come up with an idea and I strike out and I tell myself, we’ll try again tomorrow. Sometimes you just need time to reset and ideas will flow. To avoid writers block, I just try and write something dumb and silly and short. If I’m stuck, I change gears and write 50 words of something random. Wallowing in writers block for a few days is okay and normal, but you’ll never break out of it if you don’t try, if that makes sense? If something is giving me trouble, I try working on something else until I’m ready to come back to that thing I was struggling with.
Oh God, yes, I get SO MUCH anxiety about what people will think of my writing. Especially lately with tumblr randomly removing my fics from the tags, I literally have so much anxiety when I post my writing that I’m shaking and sweating and I can hear my heart rate going through the roof. And then I anxiously sit and wait to see if anyone likes it or comments or reblogs. And that’s horrible and a habit I’m trying to break. The best way I deal with my anxiety is my friends. I ask them what they think, and I trust they’re there to boost me up and ease my anxiety. And I try to remind myself of the most important thing- I’m really happy with my work, I’m proud of myself and really like what I just posted, and that’s all that matters. Does that cure all the anxiety? No. But does it help a little bit? Yeah. It’s a fine line to balance between wanting other people’s validation, and wanting our own validation. Write what makes you happy, write something to make yourself proud, and others will see that and enjoy seeing your honesty. The anxiety of other people’s opinions never really goes away, but if you have a support system (I’ll happily support you and boost your works) then, in my opinion, that’s the best way to cope with it.
tl;dr: Just do it. Find the small things that inspire you and run with it. Sit down, set a goal, and don’t get up until you’ve made even the smallest amount of progress, even if it’s 50 words. And most of all, fanfiction is meant to be fun, so enjoy it and be proud of your work!
#long post#sophie talks#advice#writing advice#advice to other writers#motivation#inspiration#beating writers block#anxiety#dealing with anxiety#just do it#force yourself to do it#make yourself happy#be proud of yourself#thank you for asking!#i hope this helps#advice for writers#im so honored someone wanted my advice#im a mess of a writer though so idk if this will help anyone#i love sharing the inner workings of my mind#even if it doesnt make sense#ilysm <3#good luck#you got this#i believe in you
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
25 days & it’s a blessing just to exist
existing is all u have to do to stay clean, in the simplest form of it. i went back & read some of my old text posts about my addiction last year & it reinforced to me how routine & having a purpose is one of the most important things. i have things to look forward to throughout the day, even if theyre small things (not like meeting up with ppl or goin to events right now bc of coronavirus, but then even if there wasnt a pandemic events might be off the table rn). i gained a purpose in december...even having just one thing i did everyday that had nothing to do with gear pushed the gear aside. working on my mental health & my issues pushed the gear aside as well. also the strict routine i had around it meant that i would think about it as something ordinary, something i just did....like eating breakfast or brushing my teeth. it took away its power. it became unremarkable & it stopped being my coping mechanism. bc if i was upset at 4pm i would not use. today in group (over zoom) one of the other ppl called drugs their comfort blanket. i used exactly the same term to refer to heroin a few years ago. well my comfort blanket got pulled apart until it was only threads.
existing is easy. u can literally sit in front of the telly all day & do absolutely nothing. u could watch fuckin love island all day & rot ur brain with dumb shit & gossip but at the end of the day u still have something to celebrate...bc u’ve been clean another day. using would be effort. goin out to score, getting pins (it’s not like i would ever snort or smoke. the only ppl i knew who went back after iv-ing were ppl that fucked up all their veins beyond repair) - all of that is effort. the birds just exist, the cats just exist, the normal ppl just exist (bc let’s face it, injecting heroin in ur body 3x a day is abnormal & most ppl don’t do that haha). to exist is to succeed & every day can be a happy day when u celebrate another day clean.
#junkie ramblings#i guess im not gonna change the tag bc that's how i find my text posts from the past#by wednesday next week i'll have a whole month#im gonna buy myself some shit from killstar lmao
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
So here’s a thing that happened, tumblr.
Many moons ago, I was in the Neuro ICU for a while. I was actually in there twice--for a week at first, then out, then in again for about two weeks. In between: “Nothing’s wrong! It’s resolved!” As you might imagine, given the spoiler there about how I went to the Neuro ICU twice: in fact, Something was wrong, and it was not resolved (then).
(it is resolved now, thank you)
This post is not actually ABOUT that, but we must start there, out of order.
This is a post about art and rivers and boys in cars. But we start in the Neuro ICU.
I don’t like talking about this time in my life. I would have been skittish and mysterious ANYWAY--I was raised like that--but I’m extra skittish and vague about my timeline because I don’t want to talk about it, you know? I survived something I had no business surviving. I had to relearn how to walk. That took months and that was the easy part. Because I am a big tiddy goth girl, and because I was very young then, people love to assume that the problem was drugs, and I did it to myself, as if that somehow makes anything less tragic.
I was 23 years old with a brain bleed due to a congenital defect, and even at the time, I had to defend myself: no, I’m not on drugs, I don’t do drugs, I didn’t do coke, I’ve never done coke.
I am also Colombian, which, I suppose, might play into their calculus about the coke, but WHO KNOWS. I was busy gibbering and almost dying at the time, which left little energy for noticing potential microaggressions.
Is it a microaggression, I guess, when you’re dying? Who knows.
I have never even been drunk, tumblr. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t snort. I never have. This is mostly because I’m a paranoid loon with an off again, on again anorexia, ya know, thing, so occasionally I get really hung up on irrational concepts of bodily purity. People think it’s a flex when I try to explain this, that I’m relishing in some kind of moral superiority. I’m not. I admitting to SEVERAL defects (“quirks”) of personality there. The eating disorder. The deep distrust: I will not be vulnerable in the presence of others, I will not dull my senses, I will not allow myself to be weak. A certain perfectionism. A certain tendency towards slow burn self harm. Grand ideas made of nothing that sometimes take hold.
My point is that this big disruptive thing happened.
I survived, which is AWESOME. And yeah, I had to relearn how to walk, and some other things, but you guys know that I do yoga and aerial silks and lyra and ran off to Thailand to train kickboxing for a summer on fighter street and I STILL do not shut the fuck up about it.
So, cool, cool cool cool cool.
And I don’t even want to talk about that part, the medical drama, the body horror, the institutional whatever. My neurosurgeon was fantastic and like a week after my discharge I was high as SHIT on prescribed painkillers my caregivers insisted I take and wrote him a gushing effusive letter about how he was MY HERO because I was ALIVE and anyway that basically makes you BATMAN, DOCTOR LEWIS, I FUCKING LOVE BATMAN.
Again: high as fuck, ok.
My point is: I hate talking about this.
Because once you’re a survivor in people’s minds, that’s all you are. You are reduced to this one event that had very little to do with you. You are defined by this thing that happened to you.
And this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened TO me! But still. Happened TO me. Not something I did. Not my action. Barely even my reaction.
But again, personality flaws. What does it say about me that I look at social norms about comfort and inwardly I snarl that I want no one’s pity?
Except I’m not actually that mean. I don’t snarl.
I just withdraw.
This is a tactic that has served me well in life a BUNCH of times. Is it always the answer? No. Is it often worth a shot? Listen. Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sometimes you flee an abusive home life because that’s the only option, and you don’t want to die. Hypothetically speaking: sometimes all you can do is run.
But sometimes you flee people with mostly good intentions, maybe.
This is all very high minded but what’s prompting me to write this isn’t exactly the upcoming (many year) anniversary of the event. It’s something way more mundane and dumb.
I have not logged into my facebook account since this happened. I never bothered deleting the account(s), either. I presume they still exist. I have no idea HOW to log back onto them, and, more importantly, no desire.
“So what?”
So, okay, back when I had my first stint in the Neuro ICU? Like, totally out of nowhere, I just disappeared from people’s feeds. (you all know I do this) Somehow part of the story got out and SOMEHOW, I have no idea how, a small group of my friends managed to independently track down the hospital I was at. And this is on next to no info, across state lines, like--I have no idea how the fuck they did it.
I also don’t fucking know who they were.
I was told, at the time. I have a vague idea of who two out of (I think) four were, or might have been. I was kind of busy at the time, with the dying.
And when I say I don’t like talking about this time: I don’t like even THINKING about it. I avoid it.
Fleeing. See?
So I don’t have a memory of the names. I don’t have memories of the memory.
“So what?”
So, I know from groups other than this one, groups less dedicated than this one, that people actually get REALLY fucking mad at you for not accepting their get better soon wishes. And like, I get it! You were very worried and I did nothing to reassure you.
I WAS BUSY.
I was busy dying. Almost dying. Not dying. I was busy sleeping 20 hrs a day. I was busy being unable to walk. I was busy re-learning to walk. I was busy relearning how to write with pen and paper and for months I COULD NOT DO IT, do you have any idea how that feels to someone who is and has always been and has always wanted to be a writer? Fuck it. Fuck you.
The initial disappearance. I am not to blame.
But then doing nothing to reach out to anybody for YEARS and YEARS--
Okay, maybe a dick move on my part.
“So what?”
So I think one of the people who managed to track me down in the hospital was my best friend from high school, a terribly sweet Brazilian boy who mostly called me not by my name, but simply: The Devil.
I dig it. Always did.
And it’s high school, right. Everybody is thirsty as fuck for their friends, one way or another. We never dated--we were both always dating or pursuing other people--but we had the typical high school bestie unresolved romantic tension deal going on.
This is important so remember it for later: the problem was not attraction. The problem was not one sided unresolved sexual tension. I had a particular thing for how he looked while driving, shades on, one arm slung over the wheel in that terribly and typically male lounging driving pose that’s probably a safety hazard.
We spent a lot of time in his car.
I didn’t drive, at the time, because my mother didn’t allow me to learn, and I got kicked out of my house and disowned when I was 17. This dude spent a LOT of time driving me places. Boys in cars is practically a genre of erotic poetry, thanks to Richard Siken. This is because boys look Cool driving cars, wearing sunglasses, pretending they’re not paying attention to you while you know they are.
So he was fun.
More importantly, I guess, the fact that he picked my ass up at like 6 AM over and over and over again for a big chunk of my senior year is one of the few reasons I managed to graduate despite being technically homeless.
He was not a morning person. I am not a morning person. He did it anyway.
Why didn’t we date, I wondered, years later, for a fraction of a second, and then I forgot about it.
“SO WHAT?!”
So I’m grown up and happy and fulfilled and in a lovely long term relationship (remember! we’re buying a house!), so it’s not about “what if?” It’s that I’m happy and grown up and I write books sometimes.
But there it is.
I write books sometimes.
Artists are constantly stealing ideas from everywhere and this is good. Artists also steal from themselves, grubby little hands on secret parts of our hearts.
So I’m writing this book, right. My Great Work. My Break Out Novel. My SERIOUS FUCKING BUSINESS book. My “this is the thing I’ve worked the hardest on in my whole entire LIFE” book.
And in this book there is a male love interest. He is a political statement. I’m writing him as sexy and heroic as possible. I want this to be the MOST attractive man I’ve ever written.
Latino. Sexy as fuck. Not a criminal. Overly responsible. Action ready, and terribly nurturing.
Hot Single Dad and Reluctant Necromancer is my masterpiece. A passionate statement and stance against the depiction of Latino men in media. A war cry to examine our own subconscious biases. A weapon raised against an unjust system.
I stole parts of him from Frank Castle. I stole parts of him from Geralt. I stole (MANY) parts of him from this one IRL hot dad former Army Ranger guy, Mexican American with a tattoo on his arm of a jack o lantern one of his kids drew. I stole parts of him from this cute Marine in my DMs who gave me story advice about guns and gear. I stole parts of him from indigenous leaders from centuries ago, from the peoples he is descended from. I stole parts of him from every man I’ve met who worked in dog rescue. I stole parts of him from myself, hiding secret parts of my heart in the male character so that no one will know.
Lovely. All good so far.
I got like two whole drafts in before I was thumbing through some printed out pages, idly thinking: how funny that I don’t have any real life, personal to me models for this guy.
All my prior male love interests, you see, are based on someone. In the werewolf trilogy, they’re BOTH based on someone--different someones. The villain, too, is jokingly referred to as the “evil werewolf ex boyfriend” for a reason.
Everybody is someone.
So how funny, I thought, that necromancer hot dad lacks any references from my own--
OH, wait, fuck--
Overly responsible brown dude with sad dog eyes drives the female lead/occult specialist around while good naturedly complaining that she’s weird as shit.
Oh, damn.
And suddenly a bunch of teensy little backstory details made sense.
Cool.
“So what?”
Bonus round of self realization: my own understanding of this time in my life radically shifted, turning, lurching, sickly rotating on a new axis.
Why didn’t we date?
Somewhere between then and now, post ICU but pre novel writing time--
This one time I overheard somebody talking to somebody else and it had nothing to do with me but sight unseen, on the other side of the stacks in a used bookstore, one dude said to another: “you know that if you were lighter, you’d have a chance with her, right?”
How terrible, I thought, and I forgot about it.
Why didn’t we date?
Because my mother told me, when I was very young, that boys from Brazil were all very wild, and I should avoid them. And she told me this so early and so plainly that I never thought to question it. When I was older she took harder stances that I easily ignored because I knew they were wrong--don’t you dare bring a black boy into this house. You’re dating a Jew? I can’t believe you did this to me. What are you going to do next, kiss a girl?
WELL, Ma, as it turns out, I mean, not til college, but yes.
But the smaller, more mild statement was so much more insidious.
I wonder if he knew. I don’t think he did. I wonder if he figured it out later. I have no idea, because we were friends when we were still essentially children, and now we are grown. Not everybody thinks about this kind of thing, and I don’t blame them.
How much damage did I do?
Does it matter?
Does he know?
I know.
I know, now, that my rallying cry against a system’s unfairness is also a cry wrenched wetly from my own subconscious depths. YOUR biases against? Yes. But more accurately: my biases against.
“So what?”
So this kind of epiphany shit leaves you breathless about it and you wanna scream. You wanna SHARE it. You must infect others with this knowledge.
But you can’t out of nowhere foist this apology on someone. That’s selfish. That’s about redeeming yourself in your own eyes AND asking someone else to confront unpleasant emotions on your behalf, even though they’re the wronged party. Selfish. Tell me I’m not a bad person, baby. Tell me I never hurt you, not even a little. Forgive me if I did. Wade through this pile of astral shit for me just to make me feel better. Reassure me. Hurt yourself for me in the here and now.
So I’m not going to do that, obviously.
“So what?”
But there’s that other part of it, right? Not the apology. The surge of emotion. The realization that all those morning drives back then added up to something deep within me, something so foundational to my concept of care and maybe even the start of something like love--the knowledge that this person gently carved some ideals for you, so long ago, so subtly that you never questioned it, never even realized, because it felt so natural, because something about it is so inherently good and right.
Despite everything--despite society, propaganda, colonialism, the prejudice of my upbringing, my own unexamined complicity, ALL of it--
Despite everything, this person taught me something so deeply about love and the shape of it, something so foundational that I built all my art on it and didn’t even see the beams of it until halfway through my most ambitious and soul bearing undertaking.
This is how you care for another, went the lesson, and I wrote pragmatic actions over words romantic male leads all the way down.
This is what love might look like, and in my own life, ever ambitious, I chose a poet talented with words and actions and good fight choreography, because I think that’s sexy and dichotomies are mostly bullshit, or at least things that happen to other people.
But I didn’t learn what love looked like from my childhood home life, obviously. How could I?
Without you, though, without you and your mirror sunglasses at 6 AM and your exasperated teasing, devil, witch, bruja, without any of those, where would I have learned? How long would it take me, to find someone who would teach me a wholesome lesson?
I’m small and cute and predators love a victim with a lack of context. I give myself and my wit some credit, but what’s pattern recognition worth if you never get any good data points?
Deep lessons.
Again: this kind of epiphany makes you wanna scream. Who to infect, with all this new knowledge?
Maybe no one. Probably no one.
But maybe, just a little, you wonder--
How would that conversation even go?
Hey, so I wrote this book--no, it’s my fifth, not my first, but thanks--so I wrote this book, and there’s this character, right, and he’s--well, hahah, I mean, he’s not exactly--I just--funny story, really--no, god, no, you don’t have to read it--it’s just--he’s just--I mean, no, you, you’re just--forget it, actually, just--
Like, what the fuck is there to say?
“I couldn’t have written this without you.”
And
“Did you check on me? When you thought I was dead?”
and
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, at the time, that I meant anything to you.”
or is it really
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize until now that you meant something to me.”
What to do with all this emotion? Or more accurately--like rivers carve out gorges, here is the shape of something that once was. This shape will always be here. Even without a single drop of water ever again: we see the river.
What to do with the shape of all this emotion?
I consult the great Richard Siken via a feat of bibliomancy. Advise me, O Oracle. The oracle is War of the Foxes (2015), turned over blindly in my hands, opened randomly to The Worm King’s Lullaby, pg 45, verse 1:
The holes in this story are not lamps, they are not wheels. I walked and walked, grew a beard so I could drag it in the dirt, into a forest that wasn’t there. I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.
This advice is too good. I close the book.
The advice does not tell me what to do, but it’s too good. The verse reaches into my chest and carves out my heart, slices it open. Inside my heart: pomegranate seeds. Tiny jewels, fit for a dragon, snacking on garnets and rubies, and the apple of Eden wasn’t an apple, because it was the desert, wasn’t it? It was a pomegranate. Something with scales, maybe snakes. The serpent, the devil.
What to do with all this love?
I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time. I want to give you more, but not everything. Do you need everything? I don’t know. I don’t have it to give to you, in any case. Does it matter?
Why are you doing this, me?
Because art is messy. Art is cutting yourself open over and over again. You clean up most of the mess, try to bottle the fluids and label them nicely or deliberately misleadingly, fit for someone else’s consumption, but either way, you’re bleeding.
Maybe this urge is bleed with me or maybe it is oh, you already did.
I swallow the seeds. I buy some time.
I’m not done yet. I’m not.
Maybe all this adds up to nothing.
Maybe if I do this right, it adds up to a lot.
Maybe if I do this right it will feel real, maybe what I want is to gift the shape of these rivers to somebody else, all emotionally intimately with strangers. This is a shape that love can be. This is a silhouette you may recognize.
Maybe that’s a tribute, or a tributary.
But it’s not about you, not really, so don’t get too big headed about it. This is about Art and something like Justice. Big things. This is a book about big things, about history and dogs, history and gods, crimes and lies, slaughter and slander.
Right, yeah.
An act of faith, an act of will.
I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time.
It’s not harvest season yet. Not yet, not now, not yet.
If not now, then when?
When it’s ready.
There is no ready. Perfection is an illusion.
Yeah, sure, but page count is REAL.
You’re evading. That’s another word for fleeing. Do you know that?
Yes. I do.
How long will you run?
Just a little bit more. Just a little. I promise.
#it was boiling / i run to the sea#'i wrote this book because REPRESENTATION also possibly an unresolved crush from high school i am pure LITERATURE'#i have done everything in my power to find you! except get on LinkedIn
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
White Lies on White Shirts
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Captain America x Reader
Word Count: 2,691
A/N: Long time no see. this is being posted at the request of the birthday girl herself, @secretschuylersister.
You tried to convince yourself that you didn’t mind because the sound of the washing machine at three in the morning was calming. You tried to convince yourself that you weren’t staying up late on the off chance that your neighbor would knock on your door, needing a favor because your lazy super still hasn’t fixed his washing machine. Somewhere, in the very back of your brain, you knew that Steve could fix it himself. You’ve seen him working on his motorcycle enough in the parking lot to know that he must be handy enough to fix a small leak. At the very least, he has enough friends that could pitch in.
Steve was knocking at your door twice a week, minimum. You had never before seen a man go through clothing so quickly, but you weren’t complaining. In all honesty, it should not have been as much of an event as it was. Steve knew that there were other things he could and should be doing with his time, but nothing seemed as important to him in that moment than curling up on your overstuffed couch and pretending to watch a movie with you.
Even though you knew that there was a communal laundry room in the basement, you had given Steve a spare key and instructions to come over whenever he needed to. Rather than admit that you trusted him more than you should for the amount of time you had actually known him, you reasoned that he was a busy man and didn’t need to wait for you all day. Instead of taking it at face value, Steve pocketed the key, and informed you he would only use it “in case of an emergency”. Instead of letting himself in, Steve listened impatiently for the sound of your keys jingling in the hallway before gathering up his basket of, admittedly, mostly clean laundry and knocking on your door with a sheepish grin that made your face instantly feel warm.
At first you were just in awe. Not only did you have a certified superhero living next door, but he had more laundry than you ever imagined that one mostly human man could produce. Along with what you would expect, without fail Steve had a pile of white undershirts buried under the rest of his laundry. You tried to chalk it up to a habit that stuck around after his time in the ice, but you still had a hard time wrapping your head around it.
Besides the suspicious contents of his laundry basket, you and Steve fell into a comfortable pattern. It had escalated from sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Steve sketching and you scrolling on your phone, to being cuddled up in the middle of it, laughing at something dumb you had found on TV and not even hearing the washing machine signaling the end of the cycle. Well, you didn’t. Steve was ignoring it because you had just laid your head on his shoulder and he wasn’t ready to give that up yet.
Eventually, he was bringing food with him to make you both dinner, or a new movie that he had seen while he was out at the store that he thought you would want to watch while his clothes dried. You didn’t even notice when he started showing up without his laundry basket. You were just too happy to see him. One afternoon you threw open the door after hearing Steve’s familiar knock, but you were floored by the man standing in front of you. Even though he was in his uniform, Steve did not seem to be the confident man that you were so used to seeing on the news, and more recently, on your couch.
“I have to go.” No ‘hello’, no ‘how was your day’. Just the brush of his hand against your cheek as he tucked a stray hair behind your ear and a sense of urgency in his words. “But I’ll see you soon.” he planted a soft kiss on your cheek before his phone rang, and he dashed down the stairwell muttering that whoever was on the other end had terrible timing and he would be at the airstrip soon.
It took some getting used to when Steve didn’t show up at your door within thirty seconds of you getting home from work. You tried to make dinner, but you were relatively unsuccessful because every few seconds you were looking over your shoulder. It wasn’t until you looked down to see that you had burned two servings of food instead of one that you realized you were waiting for him. Your apartment was achingly quiet without Steve, and it wasn’t just because the washing machine wasn’t running for what felt like the first time in millennia. Steve wasn’t there to complain about how hard headed the new recruits were or make you laugh by telling you for the tenth time about when Bucky tripped over his own feet because he saw the girl from the coffeeshop he definitelydidn’t have a crush on. It had been weeks, and there was no sign of him.
You knew you were being irrational. You knew that Steve had a life outside of you and your apartment. Hell, he had barely talked to you before he needed something. It was presumptuous to even assume that you were anything more than a clingy neighbor who got too attached. You moped around the apartment for days. And you hated to admit it, but you missed him. You missed his dumb jokes and his dumb face and his dumb pile of white shirts that you still thought no mere mortal could accumulate in such a short time. You knew that you had to get over it, move on as Steve so clearly had.
Your friends were shocked when you accepted their invitation to go out. After months of claiming to have plans, knowing that Steve would probably have a ridiculous amount of laundry to do despite being over yesterday, they were glad to have you back, even if they could tell something was off. You tried to make the best of it, to dance and laugh like nothing was wrong. After a few hours of putting on a brave face, your friends shooed you into a cab, giving you strict instructions to call when you got home.
When you got home, you felt a foolish flicker of hope at seeing light shining from the space underneath your door. Maybe Steve was back, and he had finally used his key. You unlocked the door and tried to contain your excitement as you glanced around the apartment. You were met with a heartbreakingly empty couch and the rationalization that you had just forgotten to turn off the lamp before heading out.
You tried to not notice that the couch felt bigger with every passing day. You went to work, you went out with friends, tried to get your life back to normal. But it felt dull without him and you couldn’t stop yourself for keeping an ear out for the deceivingly light footfalls. After a few weeks, they appeared. You didn’t think twice about launching yourself off of the couch where you had been moping and sticking your head out into the hallway.
Unfortunately, Steve was nowhere to be found. There was, however, a teenager unlocking his door. He jumped as your door flew open, giving you a tight-lipped smile as he sat his laundry basket down on the floor of the hallway. “Oh, hi there.” he seemed friendly enough, but you weren’t able to give him more than a halfhearted grimace by way of greeting. “Mr. Rogers left me his key. Our machine is broken”.
That brought you back to reality. “His machine has been broken for months.” you said, trying your best to force some normal inflection into your tone.
“Oh. He must have gotten it taken care of” he said, pushing the door open. “I was just here yesterday. My aunt and I just moved in down the street. I’m Peter by the way.” He held out his hand, shaking yours tightly for entirely too long. “Mr. Rogers said I could take care of a few loads of laundry when I came by to get his mail”.
“My mistake, Peter. Let me know if you need anything.” you said quietly before giving him the most unconvincing grimace in the history of the entire universe and slipping into your apartment.
The gears in your head were spinning at five hundred miles an hour, but not one coherent thought was forming. Steve had lied to you, and you had absolutely no idea why. It was then and there you decided you were done. He may be off saving the world, but he had time for one text. He could have left a note or told you that he couldn’t reach you for a bit. Instead, he left you to worry, wondering where he was. And even after all that, you didn’t really believe you had a right to be angry at all. You were friends, nothing more.
The days turned into weeks, and Steve went from your goofy neighbor to America’s most wanted. By day you ignored your friends’ prying questions about the man who had waltzed into your life as suddenly as he had left. By night you fought to keep yourself from watching the news. It hurt too much to stay up to date, and you felt much more secure staying in the dark, especially when Earth’s Mightiest Heroes were involved.
And then, there was a knock at your door. A knock that you knew.
Out of habit, you were standing in front of the door in a matter of seconds. But once you realized what you were doing, you snatched your hand away from the handle. You didn’t need this. He was a liar and he didn’t even bother to leave you with an explanation. You slowly backed away from the door, plopping yourself down on the couch and putting your head in your hands. It was all too much.
You took a few deep breaths, trying your best to swallow the sob that was clawing its way up your throat. You were so caught up in trying to keep yourself together that you hadn’t heard the door opening. Steve could have robbed you blind and you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t placed a hand on your shoulder. You leapt off of the couch as if it was burning you, whirling around to see his wide eyes.
“Steve, how did you even get in here?” you asked, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t managed to kick the door in without you noticing.
He held up the key, a smirk playing at his lips. “You were mad at me. It felt like an emergency.”
“I am mad at you. Current tense.” Any trace of a smile disappeared immediately, an eyebrow quirking up in confusion as Steve tilted his head like a puppy who just got scolded for tearing up the carpet. “You lied to me.”
He opened his mouth, searching for an explanation, a way to defend himself. Not for the first time in his life, he was at a loss. You were angry with him, and you had every right to be. But you were wearing that sweater. It was absolutely ancient but your favorite, nonetheless. Your hair was a mess and even though it felt like there had been a hole in his heart for weeks, he was hit once again with just how much he missed you.
“I know.” he sighed, the pain evident in his voice. “I know I said see you later and then I couldn’t make it back. But I tried calling so many times, sweetheart but we were-”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” the words were so soft you weren’t sure someone without super soldier hearing would have picked up on them.
His eyebrows were nearly in his hairline as he tried to move around the couch to reach you. You took a step back and he froze, leaving the couch between you. “I don’t understand”.
“Why did you say your washing machine was broken?” you shocked yourself that you had even managed to get the words out. Weeks of wondering and waiting and hurting and here you were.
“I don’t know how to talk to women” he blurted. Your jaw dropped and you felt a laugh bubbling up from your stomach. “I just, well, you’re so pretty and I couldn’t think of a reason that you would give me the time of day. And it wasbroken, the first time, anyways.” he was rambling, his hands flying and if his face got any redder you were going to get worried. “But you were so nice and even more amazing than I ever could have imagined, and you made me feel at home. And I know that it was selfish, but I couldn’t bring myself to give that up.” He paused, letting out a shaky breath. “To give you up, is more like it.”
You could feel the tears collecting in the corner of your eyes. That was not what you were expecting from him. How could you have imagined that he didn’t care about you?
You knelt on the couch, reaching over the back and winding your arms around his neck before pulling him against you tightly. Steve let out another breath he didn’t know he had been holding, quickly wrapping his arms around your middle.
“You might have been out saving the world, but you are such a fucking idiot, Steve.” you felt him chuckle, before he reached down, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist, and moved the both of you to sit on the couch. You tried to scoot off of him, but his grip only tightened. You knew that he would have let you go if you tried a second time, but you felt at home in your own apartment for the first time in longer than you would admit.
Your hands found the hair at the nape of his neck, and you twirled a piece around your finger as the two of you sat in comfortable silence. You had never seen his hair so long, or with so much scruff. He didn’t look like the Captain America image you had been avoiding on the news. He just looked like Steve. Your Steve. “Aren’t you some kind of war criminal now?” you asked, not bothering to pull away from him and meet his eyes.
You felt him shake underneath you, a silent laugh breaking the tension. “Tony and I worked it out.”
“Good. I couldn’t visit you in prison. Orange really isn’t your color. Not to mention that they simply wouldn’t put up with all of your outfit changes.” You were shocked that you made it through the last bit before letting out a laugh so hard that you were shaking against Steve’s chest. Only then did he pull away to look at you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “How many times a day were you changing to get that many undershirts dirty?”
The tips of his ears were turning pink and his eyebrows were quirked up once more. “I’m going to level with you, sweetheart.”
Your hands found the hair at the back of his neck, twirling the hair there while you watched the gears turn in his head. “Yeah?” Your voice was more of a whisper than anything, not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to nudge him to continue.
“Ninety percent of the stuff in that basket was clean. I never even took it out after I left.”
“Are you telling me that you went home, unfolded every white shirt in that basket and then brought it back the next day?” Your voice was full of disbelief and your eyes were as wide as saucers as he nodded his head so minutely that it was nearly imperceptible. “Steven Grant Rogers you are an absolute menace.”
“Yeah, but I’m your menace now.”
#marvel imagine#Steve Rogers x reader#captain America x reader#Captain America imagine#Steve Rogers imagine#marvel x reader#marvel fanfiction#Steve Rogers fanfiction#Captain America fanfiction#marvel#Steve rogers#captain america#my writing#fluff#mcu#mcu imagine#mcu fanfiction#Chris Evans#Chris Evans x reader#Chris Evans imagine#Chris Evans fanfiction#Chris Evans x you#Steve Rogers x you#Captain America x you#marvel x you#reader insert
89 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cut like knives - Park Jisung
It’s officially angst hours for me seeing as it’s rainy and fricKIN COLD. it’s legit supposed to be spring and it’s colder right now than it was in winter, im seething. Anyways, I hope you enjoy loves!
You didn’t realise when he’d first talked to you, with that shy smile and heavy blush, that he’d end up meaning so much to you. That gentle purple hair you didn’t realise you’d come to love, the deep voice that made you smile every time you heard it. He’d come into your life so suddenly, yet he quickly became everything you wanted in it. Park Jisung and his god damn smile.
It was at the end of year bomb fire that he’d first talked to you. You didn’t actually know why you went, seeing as you didn’t like the atmosphere of the event nor did you have any friends begging you to come, you just felt socially obligated with everyone talking it up so much as it neared. You were doing exactly what you thought you’d be doing, sitting off to the side with the bottle of water you’d bought yourself as you watched everyone interact and make new memories. It was quite nice really, but the things they were up to just weren’t your idea of fun.
He had come up slowly, edging closer from where he stood off to the side watching the same people you were, except he knew the personally. Jaemin had Renjun over his shoulder, threatening to throw him into the ocean if he didn’t stop talking about aliens or something. By the time Jisung actually took a seat next to you he had been edging closer for about 5 minutes, all of which you were painstakingly aware of. He had a heavy blush on his cheeks and you still weren’t entirely if you were the cause or if it was the liquid that swirled in his cup. A shy smile was playing on his lips as he fiddled with his hands, brain seemingly in full swing despite his lack of words.
“You looked lonely” His tone was harsh, and you couldn’t help but smile at what he had eventually managed to spit out, Jisung however was quick to start rapidly apologising after realising he had accidentally been a little too up front for a first introduction. You still teased him about that, his failed attempt at small talk.
“I’m not, but thanks” Jisung seemed to let out what might’ve been the heaviest sigh you’d ever heard at your humorous response, eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled at you.
“Not a people person?” He raised his eyebrow while waiting for your response, taking a sip from his cup once more.
“Not in the slightest” He laughed at that, taking another small sip before lowering his cup and casting his gaze back to where Renjun was now trying to beat up Jaemin with no avail.
“Not my thing either” You barely managed to pry your eyes from the chaos in the white water, but you were glad you did. The fire seemed to light up Jisung’s face in a way that made him look angelic, and it was the first time you felt that little spark he always seemed to give you.
You wouldn’t have called him a friend the day after the bomb fire, but definitely a close acquaintance. You had spent the night by each other’s sides, talking as only the stars listened in.
He started waving to you in the halls and you started smiling at him in physics class, but you never really seemed to run into each other too often. It was a house party you’d next met up. Jisung had invited you actually, his excuse being that it was at Jeno’s and he had an odd number off friends that were all too extroverted for him. You knew it was a lie, Chenle would never leave Jisung alone, but for some reason you went anyway, despite hating parties and people.
You had spent a little while just standing off against a wall when you’d arrived, unsure of where to even find Jisung. Eventually you got sick off the noise and headed to the kitchen, seeing none other than Chenle pouring himself a drink. He smiled at you, pouring you one too without asking. It tasted horrible but you weren’t going to tell the poor boy that.
“If you’re looking for Jisung he’s on the balcony upstairs” Chenle winked at you as he walked past, seemingly misunderstanding why his best friend had been looking for you all evening.
So, you took your drink from hell and went upstairs, finding the balcony after finding a rather disturbing activity in one of the bedrooms. You stopped at the door to the balcony for just a second, taking note of way the wind was blowing through Jisung’s light purple locks, tousling them as it lifted from his forehead. You had to say, he looked even more angelic under the moonlight than by he had by the fire.
You had eventually opened the door after spending a small moment admiring the boy. He turned to you, smiling once he recognised you. He smelt lightly off alcohol, but you just assumed he had probably had one or two of Chenle’s concoctions himself.
“I was worried you weren’t gonna show” Jisung patted the ground next to him watching as you took a seat and placed your cup next to his. A spark of recognition fluttered across his eyes as he looked at the drink, probably knowing exactly who’d poured it for you.
“I came a while ago, just didn’t know where to find you” Jisung let out a little laugh at that, the one he does where it’s almost inaudible and breathy. It was your favourite, because he only did that when you were having your late-night chats that meant so much to the both of you.
“Did miss anti-social actually enjoy the party then?” He exaggerated his surprise, knowing full well you most certainly did not.
“Oh yeah, me and the wall in the living room were all over each other” You let out a stifled giggle as Jisung shot you an overly surprised expression, mouth wide as he laughed a little. He scanned you for a second before taking your phone from your jacket pocket and giving it to you to unlock. You shot him questioning glance as you did so, watching as he fiddled before typing something in and handing it back to you.
“So you can text me next time instead of going steady with the wall” You laughed when you looked at his name, hitting his arm as you did. He’d saved his number under ‘only friend <3’.
“You’re actually a rat Jisung” Your shared laughter was loud as he pulled out his own phone this time.
“Okay but at least call me so I have your number too,” You did, watching as he smiled while adding you as a contact. “I’m setting your name as Bingo boy”
You couldn’t help the little scoff that cam out when he said that, his smile evil. “Why?”
“You seem like you’d go play bingo at a retirement village in your free time”
“I’m literally never coming to a party with you again Jisung.”
You had lied, because the weekend after you found yourself walking through the door of yet another party looking for Jisung. You weren’t sure why you kept going to these parties just for Jisung, but for some reason you didn’t mind that you couldn’t justify it. It was an adventure, and god knows you needed one in your boring life.
You hadn’t stayed long at that one though. They had started playing spin the bottle and you’d shot Jisung the ‘I’m leaving look’ to which he laughed and walked across the circle to you, following you out the door.
“You don’t have to leave to Ji” You didn’t turn to look at him, just kept walking as he laughed.
“I’ll drive you home. I purposely didn’t drink tonight”
For some reason seeing Jisung get behind the wheel of a car was terrifying, despite the fact he was indeed legally allowed to. Of course, being the person you were you had jokingly made him prove he was sober, which he did with laughter and no complaints. By the time you were actually driving in Jisung’s beat up little car, his hand on the gear stick as you chatted away, you found yourself not wanting to ask him if he knew where had was going. You knew he didn’t, he knew he didn’t, you both just wanted to keep talking. So, you just kept driving. Eventually you stopped at a park, lying now on the bonnet of his car.
The conversation flowed as it always did, but when silence feel this time you were left with the genuine silence instead of the background noise of party goers. That’s when Jisung sprung an interesting question.
“Don’t you feel lonely living in your own little world?”
“Don’t you feel powerless living in other people’s?”
“Touché,” Jisung mused, his voice slowing and lowering in pitch as he mumbled one more. “Touché”
You let out a sigh, deciding that maybe, despite the fact you didn’t really know this boy all too well besides the odd party conversation and all the dumb texts, he was a good enough person to actually open up to. “Sometimes. Sometimes it really does get lonely and I just look around and wonder why I never tried harder to make more friends, genuine friends. But mostly its fine, actually. I prefer the life of solitude, because the less people know you the less they can hurt you”
“You’re braver than you think you are you know, y/n” You turned to the boy, catching his gaze and holding it. Neither of you spoke then, just letting the silence say everything you needed to. It only broke when Jisung took in a little breath and moved closer, his face nearing yours. It continued to do so until you were milometers apart, both unsure and nervous. Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing you’d regret later, but with the feelings you got with every little text he sent, you doubted it.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice was quiet, gentle as his breathe feathered across your face. With a small nod the distance between you closed, his lips on yours in a moment neither of you had yet processed. It felt different, but it felt right. It really felt right.
It no longer took a party for the two of you to meet up after that. A simple text and you’d be in his passenger seat again, chatting as you drove. Sometimes you went to get food and sometimes you ended just kissing one another as Jisung’s dumb playlist played in the background. It was good, it was everything you had ever imagined.
He’d introduced you to his friends one day after you’d run into them while getting food. They were nicer than you thought they’d be, just as crazy as you’d predicted though. By the end of the hour Mark had Donghyuck in a headlock and Jeno looked about ready to straight up murder Jisung. You’d really enjoyed it though, it made you feel like you were a part of their friendship, a part of something larger than yourself for once.
You were changing, and it seemed to be for the better. People became easier to deal with, friends became easier to make. You weren’t as scared when you went out to social events and you found yourself more involved and having far more fun than you ever thought possible.
Jisung was changing too. He seemed a little less shy, a little more confident. But with the good changes came the bad. The little good morning texts stopped coming, the 3am food runs stopped, all the nice innocent factors seemed to slowly leave, leaving you only getting texts when Jisung was replying to you or wanted to go for a drive. But a drive no longer meant lying on the hood of his car and talking, it no longer meant belting out high school musical songs, it was only making out with that dumb music.
It didn’t feel right anymore. So, you texted Jisung, and he responded as he always did. It was about 20 minutes later that he pulled up outside your house and you took your regular spot in his passenger side. It didn’t feel the same though, there was an atmosphere you didn’t like that seemed to choke the both of you.
It was already dark outside, the stars beginning to start their beautiful display of colour, your favourite sight by far. When Jisung pulled into a parking space at the edge of the park you’d first gone to, it felt like you’d done a full loop. It felt horrible, because you knew you still loved that dumb boy and his stupid shy smile and heavy blush. You loved him with everything you had, and you had opened up to him, your first real friend and your first lover.
“You haven’t been yourself recently” Your voice wasn’t confident or happy like it usually was, it was cold and quiet, barely audible. Jisung heard it though, and his lips seemed to pull into a tight frown almost immediately.
“Haven’t I?” He wasn’t asking you, nor was he asking himself. You both already knew the answer, it’s just that neither of you wanted an answer as to why.
You took in a deep breath, the heavy atmosphere becoming more and more choking as you gathered your words.
“Jisung,” It sounded foreign to both of you, seeing as you always called him Ji now, but he still hummed in acknowledgement, “If you’ve fallen out of love please just tell me, don’t make me keep loving you if this is going nowhere”
Jisung sighed, his breathing unsteady and light. “I haven’t fallen out of love, Y/n” He turned in his seat so he could look at you, hand on your knee as he spoke. “I still love you, I just,”
Jisung stopped, unsure of how to say what was on his mind. “I just love her too”
Five little words, just five little words that sent your heart plummeting. Who was she? Why was she so much more than you that he could lose his affections so quickly?
“Take me home” Your tone was uncharacteristically cold, sending goose bumps along the boy’s arms as he moved to start the car. He didn’t have a right to refuse your request, not after what he had said.
The ride was sickeningly quiet, the sound of the engine spluttering along the empty road as you neared your house. You had never been so glad to see the familiar neighbourhood. It was then Jisung tried to speak up, but nothing he could say would change your mind. You weren’t okay with being loved by someone who loved another, nor could you love someone who loved another. The second he spoke those words into existence it was over, you both knew that.
“Just, just hear me out” Jisung’s tone was desperate but it fell on deaf ears.
“Give me one single fucking reason I should” Jisung opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Nothing seemed like a reasonable reason, so when he pulled up next to your house he desperately flicked the locks, wanting just a second more.
“Just please don’t lock yourself in your room” You scoffed, unlocking your door and swinging it open as you spoke.
“Don’t act like you care. You don’t care, nobody cares” You stood up, not look back at Jisung as you muttered your last few words for him to hear. “Just leave”
You walked back inside, the hot tears trailing down your freezing cheeks as you curled up in your bed, still clothed and hopeless. Jisung’s car was still outside. It took about ten minutes for you to hear the engine roar to life and him drive off, but you didn’t want to think why.
Monday rolled around way too quickly, and you were not the least bit excited to see the boy that simultaneously held your heart in one hand and another girls in his other. Sure enough, there she was. You knew her, and you suddenly knew why he chose her over you. They were a far better match, but never the less the pain only multiplied no matter how much you tried to avoid it.
In the end all you could do was forget. Forget the late night talks and the sparks of joy he gave you. Forget the newfound friendships and the progress you had made in yourself. You were right in the beginning after all, opening up to people will only get you hurt in the end.
All you could do was forget Park Jisung, because the memories cut like knives.
#Park Jisung#Jisung#NCT#NCT Dream#NCT imagines#NCT Dream imagines#nct dream scenario#na jaemin#lee jeno#huang renjun#lee haechan#zhong chenle#nct dream angst#angst#nct dream fluff#sorry if this is trash lol
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Why Sci-Fi Isn’t Broken (but can still be fixed)
I feel like I’ve seen a lot of commentary on science fiction now versus “golden age” sci-fi from the mid-20th century that goes along the lines of “back then, people were optimistic, they thought science was inherently good, and the space race had captured the public’s imagination. Now postmodernism, pessimism, and the small and personal nature of technological innovation has left us with drab dystopias and preachy allegories about being on our phones too much.”
Okay, I see where you’re coming from. As a side note, the kind of sci-fi with big gleaming interplanetary rocket ships is still alive and well, it just doesn’t occupy the same cultural real estate as before. Mainly, though, my problem with that analysis is that it conflates types of stories that were never meant to serve the same purpose.
Science fiction (especially the “hard sci-fi” variety) revolves around scientific ideas or imagined technology as a key part of the world building or plot. A perfect example would be I, Robot, where we’re literally following the progression of a technology across centuries: the robots’ philosophical problem solving with the famous three rules of robotics, how humans interact with the robots, and how the robots ultimately influence and save civilization.
A story set in the future that revolves around politics or personal events and doesn’t have a science or tech idea relevant to the plot lands in the realm of speculative fiction. Probably the cleanest example of the difference would be The Handmaid’s Tale. Margaret Atwood specifically said that she chose not to introduce any distracting gadgets, and that everything that happens in the world of the story is intentionally based on something that has really happened. (She had really compelling and interesting reasons for doing this, by the way.) Obviously there’s a whole lot of overlap, sci-fi and speculative fiction are like a Venn diagram that’s mostly middle.
Anyway, years ago I read a lot of the teen dystopia books everyone complains about (why doesn’t matter). And I noticed a common trend across almost all of them: YA-geared dystopias ask the audience to believe that the world in the future will be simpler than the world now. Worse, sure, but simpler. And that’s where I think speculative fiction can go off the rails. The problem isn’t that the authors think the story needs to be dumbed down for kids to like it, it’s that the world building is shaped around the plot and not the other way around. These stories follow a formula, right? Big Bad is an evil government of unspecified ideology but more or less coded as fascist. Ordinary Teenage Girl is politically apathetic and just wants to live her life, but some personal attribute makes this impossible. Once this becomes clear, Ordinary Teenage Girl goes through an inner and then outer rebellion, singlehandedly reinvents the concept of freedom, inspires her people to rise up, and the ensuing conflict resolves within a binge-able trilogy.
To be clear, the fact that there’s a formula with a predictable ending isn’t a problem in itself. The Hero’s Journey archetype is a formula with a predictable ending. Shakespeare's audiences knew the ending before the play started. The problem is that this particular formula is dishonest. Ordinary Teenage Girl lives in a world pared down to one city (or twelve). She has no cultural background, religion, or knowledge of history. She can count the people she loves on one hand, and within a timely arc they all agree with her. She can easily avoid government surveillance. There is no internet.
(All of this is blamed on a nuclear cataclysm that wiped out civilization as we know it, which is ludicrous. If people survive at all, they’ll carry pretty major parts of their culture along with them. And if civilization has recovered enough that Big Bad is a powerful, centralized government, homegirl is probably going to have some kind of access to something resembling the internet.) My point is that the simplistic world the story depends on is inorganic, made for the story. Things never get simpler. High quality sci-fi goes the other way around: use an exciting idea as a world building premise, and let the story grow from there.
As an aside, imagine trying to set a YA dystopia novel’s plot outside of its simplified world. What if Protagonist Girl read George Orwell and Hannah Arendt and had theories about what the hell happened in the 21st century? What if, instead of a solemnly saluting crowd, she had to deal with an internet comments section? What if the government counter-propaganda was actually effective, meant to confuse, divide, and distract via trolls and clickbait? What if the conflict dragged on for a decade and the rest of the world treated Americans the way it treats Syrians? What if the climate hadn’t calmed down yet? (Oh look, it’s the sarcastic, fourth-wall breaking 800+ page monstrosity I’ve been intermittently working feverishly on and trying to abandon for eight years)
So, I’ll probably finish the above-mentioned speculative project, partly because it's been such a formative experience. But right now is a really exciting time to write actual sci-fi? The fact that our technology has gone small and personal instead of big doesn’t have to be creatively stifling. If anything it should make it easier to write emotionally and psychologically complex stories around hard sci-fi concepts.
The truth is that science is moving faster than ever. I want to be a neuro PT, right? On a given day, I’m a lot more excited about small-scale technology that lets people control a computer with their brain than I am about space travel. I personally see more stories in neural lace than in plans for a Mars colony. Like, we’re just starting to figure out how brains do the braining. Give me some tragic heroes with otherworldly mental powers born of hubris. What are the consequences when we share too much of ourselves, or start to lean on technology controlled by someone else to inform our own inner monologue? Good old-fashioned warnings about unchecked surveillance? If you uploaded every synapse in your brain into a computer, would it be you? And if it turned out to be horribly otherwise, what rights would that entity have? If we could peer inside someone else’s consciousness, would enhanced empathy necessarily lead to enhanced compassion? Small-scale technology sci-fi is going to be so much more interesting than “our phones are turning us into zombies and Mark Zuckerburg owns your toaster”
Long post. If a potato became sentient, what would happen?
#scifi#neuroscience#novel writing#writing#speculative fiction#science fiction#genre#ya novels#isaac asimov#Margaret Atwood#the hunger games#long post#dystopia#apocalypse#metacognition
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
40K factions and you
Space Marines:
Your favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla, but occasionally you might try some Neapolitan, if you’re feeling dangerous. You’re faction’s lore is designed from the ground up to accept your self-inserts, and the models are some of the easiest to paint in the entire range. None of this matters because no matter how unique you think your super-cool “realistic marines who use real tactics maaaaan” are they’ll always come out looking like a slight variation of the ones below
8th edition has finally allowed you to feel a tiny sliver of the unbalanced and over-costed hell other factions have been stuck in for years, but unlike them, daddy GW is more than willing to spend a little extra on his bulky good bois so they still get all the coolest gear and lore. Like vanilla, small children love them, but they grow out of both eventually.
edit: it was only a matter of time before GW stamped its foot down and made the inevitable decision that its favorite kid needs to be busted again. Then again in all fairness they toned down their overpoweredness from “godlike” to merely “demi-godlike”
Imperial Guard:
You’re a big “history fan”. You’ve seen Enemy at the Gates, watched some history channel shows about Nazi wonder weapons, and make 54 karma post on r/history_memes recycling debunked Eastern Front jokes. Only your intelligent eye is able to conflate this factions obvious Metal Slug levels of cartoonish design and tactics with realism, and you make sure to remind everyone else of said realism by comparing your tabletop exploits to your military experience in the reserves. Everyone used to like you back when the faction was actually made up of underdogs and under appreciated, but the Guant’s Ghosts references have gotten kinda stale, and no one appreciates the brass balls of these Starship Trooper knockoffs now that 8th edition supports and rewards the very same mindless horde tactics the Guard used to be mocked for in Lore. Despite having some of the most tried and true designs in the game, as well as an incredible amount of options, you will quickly find how limiting the only “realistic” army is in terms of customization and paint schemes, as anything but camo, grey, or tan looks goofy and reveals how silly this faction actually is.
edit: If your army consists of wrapping 30 guardsmen around basilisks I recommend you take a short fall down a long flight of stairs. Fuck you, Evan.
Eldar:
You’re a real shooter. You know what you like and you stick with it, cause lets face it, it takes a lot of loyalty to stick with these arrogant pricks. Their designs are unique but dated, their lore is a uneven mishmash of 40k grimdark schmultz Tolkien telephone, and Oliver Twist-esque whipping bois for whenever GW writers need to remind us how cool Space Marines are. But none of that matters because you know the truth: Eldar can kick tons of ass on the board, and look good doing it, as their unique designs lends them to all sorts of brilliant color combinations
And unlike other armies their rare design updates improve on their aesthetic while keeping their 40k-ness, something that is becoming increasingly rare in this era of Tacticool marines and Fantasy-creep. Just don’t expect to be taken seriously by anyone but the old-heads.
Edit: Leave it to the whipping bois to be outshined in their own event and get a single model update. Thanks GW, very cool.
Dark Eldar
You are one of two people: a meta hopping smooth brain who only jumped ship once these guys got one of the best updates in 40k history, or a true intellectual who understood their hidden merit all along. Other faction players like to make fun of you for being edgy, when in reality you know that the Dark Eldar are just a bunch of sociopathic theater kids. They, like you, know how fucked from top to bottom this universe is, and instead of getting depressed they exclaimed “how can we be the best cartoon villains we can be?”. Despite having a relatively bare army list, the fact that these d-bags come in 3 flavors of crazy in a single army offers a ton of variety: the mustache twirling villainy of the Kabals, the crazy bloodstained snuff-stars of the Wych cults, and the BDSM horror show of the Covens. All three offer substantial benefits and drawbacks and must be played carefully in order t-
Who am I kidding? You’re just gonna stuff a bunch of Kabal warriors into Venoms and zoom around the map, aren’t you? Enjoy that speed, because your abysmal save stats wont protect you anything more than a furiously thrown walnut. At least your corpses will look rad clad in some of the grimest armor and gear in the game.
edit: no longer anywhere near as dominent as they were in the earlier years of 8th, but they still look slick as hell and play great.
Orks
Your IQ randomly jumps from 20 to 200 throughout the day. There is no predicting this, no planning around this, no stopping this. You’re best bet is just to go along with it, and that’s why you play Orks. Orks are roudy good-time buddies who love slapstick slaughter, not having thoughts, and occasionally pulling of cunning plans that human savants would struggle to comprehend. Orks seem to be the only faction that know what joy is, which is why you as a player spread it to everyone else. Yes, the memes and screaming can be a bit much to others sometimes, but like with any other mentally handicapped child everyone around just grits their teeth through your bad episodes if it means not upsetting your unique sensibilities. And considering that this army’s aesthetic revolves around cobbled together nonsense, you have a lot of uniqueness to give. Orks are easily the most creative faction in the game when it comes to conversions. Nothing is too goofy, too dumb, or too silly to scrap together. As for performance on the tabletop? Go ham. This is an army that rewards merry bullshit and randomness. Remember, you didn’t pick Orks to win, you picked them to have fun.
edit: So are Orks actually getting anything or what? GW’s plans for this faction is as chaotic as the minds of the ADHD scrambled minds who play them
Necrons
You have a very specific taste in... funky weird-science space Egyptians. Seriously, these guys are practically a completely different army to what they were a decade ago. Gone are the terminator references and eldritch lore nonsense, and here to stay is senility and glyphs. You lie to yourself, saying that you’re not really sure why you chose Necrons, but I know the truth: you chose them because they used to be busted. They used to be unfair. They used to be able to take out top-tier tanks with their version of pea shooters and come back after every turn. So overwhelmed were you by their dazzeling stats and bullshit cheese your brain’s wiring fried and the erratic firing of billions of flayed neurons made you think Necrons had cool lore and interesting models. But now they’ve been nerfed to hell, and you’re no longer stuck in that lasting state of sensory overload. Like a drunk snapping awake with a hangover you come to the painful reality: Necrons are kind of dull. So like me, you put them away in a shoebox forever, leaving their fragile sculpts to slowly fall apart.
Edit: FUCK WHERE IS THE SHOEBOX WHERE DID I LEAVE IT OH GOD OH OH NO OH FUCK THEY’RE ALL BROKEN MAYBE I CAN PUT THEM BACK TOGETHER BEFORE 9th EDITION LAUNCHES I’M SO SORRY FOR WHAT I DID TO YOU NOW MORE THAN EVER I NEED YOU, I NEED MY BOOOOOOOOYS!!!
Tau
You will forever be hated by the community unfairly. You are accuse being anime - and this is true - yet the Eldar get away with being copied wholesale from 80′s space anime and no one seems to notice. You are made fun of for your bad melee, despite having one of the most comprehensively designed niches in an otherwise sloppy game and dominating with nearly every edition. You are made fun of for your lore, despite being largely separate from the cliches and story traps that everyone else has fallen into. You are hated because you are different; hated because you are Asian.
Tau are an anomaly in 40k: a completely new faction that wasn’t directly ripped off of some other franchise and with an aesthetic that is wholly their own. I won’t be making fun of them because they get enough of that, and you don’t deserve it. Just know this dirty secret: Tau outsell almost every other xenos faction, and despite the supposedly unanimous hate are probably one of the strongest factions in terms of play-style and modelling in the franchise.
Edit: The tau are grittier than ever, happy now? They still do the same thing they have always done anyways.
Chaos
Unlike the DE you actually are edgy. You worship satan, you throw rocks at homeless people, you start fires because your dad doesn’t spank you enough. Chaos are the closest things that this cluster fuck of a universe can get to being the main villains. Their lore is at once intricate and stupid, both childish and metal as hell. You play chaos because getting your fingers pricked by the models’ spikes is the closest you can come to feeling anything anymore. Just like the chaos lore you love to hype yourself up, to puff your chest and revel in the darkness inside, but when confronted you tend to fold like wet tissue paper. You’ve stopped playing public games with these guys, because the other players don’t understand you and abuse the meta and make fun of your painting skills and everything is so unfair and don’t you think that chaos marines should get buffs for their points cost, fuck?
Edit: The new models are slick and more power-metal minivan than ever, though the rules are still abysmal despite GW desperately wanting everyone to takes these guys seriously for once.
Sisters of Battle
GW writers and designers hates Catholics and they hate women, so naturally they hate Sister of Battl. They also hate you for playing them. Because of this SoB are a monument to neglected potential. They have one of the best female armor designs in fiction, great lore, and an interesting playstyle that relies on faith/determination based feats of strength and valor... but GW hate Catholics and women, so SoB get shafted everywhere all the time. More often than not you will be disappointed reading about their exploits as they continually get unfairly slaughtered, corrupted into the horny service of the pervert god, or used as receptacles for blood-based paint when the writer’s favorite faction needs to fight demons. With no plastic models in sight for over a decade everyone began to come to the slow and dreadful realization that GW was looking to Squat our favorite estrogen warriors, until a new revamp was announced. Unfortunately the beta rules look as lackluster as ever, but that’s fine, because as a SoB fan you have learned to expect that GW hates you, Catholics, and women.
Edit: GW found God and got woke because now they love women and Jesus’ one true Church, but let it be known that reformation doesn’t occur overnight, as the SOB’s faces still betray GW’s lingering discomfort in the female form:
Their rules are fun, and if every codex was designed like it 40k might actually be a fun game
Tyranids
nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom no- and that’s it that’s the Tyranids. I don’t know anything about them besides that, and neither do you, cause that’s their lore. Yes they have cool models, but next to no reliable updates. I’ll pray for you.
Edit: it really looks like GW has just completely forgotten about you poor souls huh? The Night King, a character who is closely associated with the totally-not-reconned-Tyranid-invasion, comes back and not one word about you guys. They don’t even actively hate you like, say, they hate the Eldar. It’s just... apathy.
Grey Knights
HAHA AHAHAHAHA HA HA UHAHAHA HAHAAHAHAAHAH HAHA ha ha Ah......... he. hehahaaaAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
edit: I hope you all realize that Grey Knights are far too specialized in fighting the permanently under performing forces of chaos to be 40ks “elite among elite.” You and your entire faction has been made completely obsolescent by the Custodes. The rough times will continue, say hi to the Squats in heaven will you?
Custodes
You are either insufferably full of yourself or a fine practitioner of the model making craft. Most likely though you are neither, and you picked them because you only need gold and red paint to make them look good. Custodes are the space marine’s space marines, and they’re better than you and everyone else. period. At least in lore. On the table their incredible individual stats and elite status are reflected in points cost, so for most large games you will be fielding what amounts to any other faction’s skirmishing army. Unfortunately, since 40k is a stat-sheet battler that favors raw bulk of rolls and stats over the quality of them, you’d be hard-pressed to do well in any serious game. However, for the luminous of mind, the small size is a blessing in disguise since you don’t need to buy and paint as many units as the other armies, and no matter how hard the guard player trashes you his 50 unpainted manlets will never look as good as your 15 gloriously crafted golden Chads. Stick to smaller games, and the individual strength of each model will make up for the glaring absence caused by their loss.
Ironically enough despite being an elite faction from a relatively obscure part of 40k lore, these attributes make Custodes the perfect casual player’s faction. It is my personal theory that if GW didn’t grossly inflate their prices to such a high degree everyone would have a Custodes army.
Oh yeah, Henry Cavil plays these guys, because of course he does.
37 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
thelonelylife
The Lonely Life
whatiswildness
Making Sense of Wildness
barrychannel131
Barry channel
largando
Untitled