#the inane ramblings of a madman | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

opthomastic · 3 months

Text

STATICITY

“Staticity is an illusion . . . energy . . . created nor destroyed. You feel like you're still in the moment . . . but stillness is an impossibility. The earth revolves beneath your feet, continuously, and the presence of . . . stillness invites only the figment of staticity, while our planet turns with us aboard . . . nothing truly stops, nothing comes to any end . . . outside theoretical temporal vacua, molecular . . . energies aren't bound to our perceptions of space and its limits, and no kinesis is subject to any such terminality rubric . . . there is no force stronger than motion-change in this cyclical universe—nothing comes to any end . . . and when something is thought to stop—can you feel it? The space you think you occupy in staticity . . . it exists no more or less than the moment of its genesis. The concept of space in your head, just a figment of relativity . . . and when one stops in perceived space, their energy continues unimpeded outside perception . . . the heart, the mind, the body, what does it take to turn these static? I'm not asking Arba, I'm asking . . . how do you determine staticity from a point of constant motion . . . how can you say anything's truly static . . . the heart, the mind, the body, the soul? . . . A star burns out . . . the star remains in motion—the light carries on . . . an endless journey of energy undestroyed . . . unimpeded . . . where does it go? If the body is no longer perceivable, it is not necessarily static . . . if the mind no longer transmits a signal . . . if the heart no longer beats . . . but the perception cannot be said to see cessation . . . while the light of the soul has yet to see termination—an energy existing as . . . infinitely as any other.”

John hears the rambling madman, but he doesn't listen. He sees the frantic arc of each brushstroke over the canvas, but he doesn't watch. He registers the inanity of holding audience to a solitary inmate, but doesn't move from the hall between windows. And yet, he does—he's always moving, actually, just as everything else is. After all, staticity is an illusion, and so on, and so forth. But no; he's standing still, leaning on the massive foot-thick pane of glass wall with the sprawling city a dozen stories below cast in pale sunlight over his shoulder. And who's to say his interpretation of stillness is at fault? Sane people know what it means. Though his heart still beats, relative to the sterile white hall and solid resin floor underneath his rooted feet, it stays in one place. He'd consider that static enough.

He'd only just noticed the other man's peroration slowing down by the time he made that observation. Across from him, through the second window-wall, the cell's sole occupant seemed to be granted a measure of lucidity amid his stochastic painting. Hunched forward at his canvas, the loose black robe hanging over those shoulders appeared exceptionally still indeed as only the head of inky curls turned, gradually, over the inmate's suspended painting arm.

John regarded him with all the measured indifference he'd grown accustomed to showing his partner in commiseration since the novelty of the painter's insanity wore off. And yet, there remained a shade to those dark eyes immeasurable; relative lucidity notwithstanding, the depth exuded sent the old paroxysmal twitch of the eyebrow into motion, turning indifference into doubt.

“Is the picture not coming out like you'd hoped?”

The man's steady gaze lingered before falling away, his brush-bearing arm falling with it. What its purpose was in sighting him through the glass, he couldn't begin to guess. As that dark sight settled back onto the canvas, so did John's seek it out, leaning aside from out in the hall to see past the deranged silhouette.

It was a . . . decent piece. If one were inclined toward senseless surrealism—one or many, such as Satre's abounding artistic society, bless their hearts—it could be considered one of the deeper cuts into artistic psyche. The strokes were as refined as they got under that monomaniacal brush, yet again confined to the palette of dunduckytimur grays after a bit of thorough, indiscriminate adulteration of the paints. Given some considerate work he might affect a coherent shape or two and add a semblance of representation, toss it to those bent on divining such a thing. That smear there: that could be the arm; that dribble a shadow.

“All done now?” John asked into the humming silence—an echoing distillation of air down the hall kept the tinnitus at bay, and once the madman fell torpid again it was awfully quiet otherwise. Regardless of the inmate's conversational skills, it felt refreshing to offer something sensible to the air.

“Nothing is done.” The hoarse whisper resounded off the canvas, the back of the cell, through the spartan space within, slipping through the vents in the glass wall between them. Though Oras spoke with rare clarity and purpose, his meaning remained tenebrous as ever.

John finally stepped away from the outer window, moving toward those circular cuts in the glass that lent the inmate a minor conduit to the outside world. “I know, Oras. But do you want to keep painting it?”

The rumpled form shifted back from the canvas—a fine piece of cotton duck put to dubious use as a madman's toy, though the results were hard to argue when all is said and done—and Oras situated himself off to the side of his cell, docile for the time being. John slipped his phone from his breast pocket to tap out a quick message. Within minutes there were two lab personnel sweeping through with their rubber gloves and slippers to maneuver the canvas out amid splatters of paint.

“I'll see to it momentarily,” said John, eyes staying on Oras while they carried it down the hall. Their steps receded around the corner of the curving passage, and he was left with the air conditioner to fill the silence once more.

“So what is this one?” John's gaze drifted away from the painter as he slowly stepped forward along the length of the glass. “I think you were saying something about stars, again. Is that a hint?” The edge of his mouth twitched despite a lack of substantial irony. “Or was it the planets? Excuse me—planet. Neither bring portraiture to mind, if I'm being honest. It was a portrait, right? Oh—maybe Mother Earth? But . . . no, that's ridiculous. The coloring leaves much to be desired in that vein.”

Oras sat against the graying wall, essentially just another stain among the rest of the spilled paint. The dark hair framing his face in dishevelment from chin to crown left his expression in shadow, but there was never much to tell from it either way.

“My best guess is my first one. But that always feels too easy. Besides, how do you even interpret 'static'? Unless we're talking about the other kind—that mess does resemble total signal loss.” He barked a laugh at that one, eyeing the mess in the cell: spots of black paint, sprinkled everywhere. The only place routinely cleaned anymore was that which was immediately around the easel. After the latest piece it was once more splotched with the leftover colors Oras had spilled while mixing them all together on the poor abused palette that lay at its feet.

“But I think you were mumbling 'staticity is impossible' during all that. Sure did capture the moment in something awfully static. If you want dynamic art, try animation. Now that doesn't stay still.” He reached the other end of the window and turned around, changing his mind on the spot. “Actually . . . Staticity sounds pretty poignant. I'll go with that. Much appreciated, as always, old pal.” His gratitude rang off the glass just as transparent and twice as vain. What ghosts of mordancy hanging dry as the oldest stains in the cell still haunted their banter left no illusion as to its sincerity. Not that it wanted for any.

John reversed course again to head for the hall the attendants left through—same one as the other way, really, just the shorter route to the elevator. “Let me know if you remember anything better, Oras. It could do with that old flair of yours.” He stopped at the edge of the cell, staring in. His reflection, framed in white sky, posed a more receptive counterpart than the huddled mass of rags it was in that light overlaying; eyes of boldest blue imposing upon the poor patient a sober lament unmet.

Or was it aimed at the reflection? Either way, commiseration loves company. John proceeded down the shadowed corridor of the circular hall, leaving the madman behind.

Delineate? No . . . Hint at a curve here? No, no, no . . . Too much work to maintain form that way—stretch as it was to term it such. He'd have to keep it subtle; nothing drastic or imposing, just an altering of the features already present. A shame. He liked curves.

“What do you see in it, Thea?”

There was a soft shift of paper or fabric, and he surmised the councilwoman to have looked up from her desk behind him in the pale room, imagining her steady turquoise stare in the less-steady image of what he hoped the painting could be. Nothing for it, it seemed.

“I see a man given to his impulses so irreversibly he doesn't put any thought to them anymore.” Her answer came as dry and indifferent as ever, that flat tone turning away with her attention, if the echoes in the broad space between them were to be trusted. “I see an incomplete result on the radiology test. But I imagine the paint's still resonant.”

John brought a knuckle to his lips, frowning at the muddy canvas before him. “Is it ever not? It's a good thing you're the only one with the means to test that, otherwise I daresay we'd have some pretty telling discrepancies.”

“As long as you do your job well, it's irrelevant.” Still sounding as if she were speaking to her desk, Thea drew in a lengthy breath, preparing herself to finally face the work before her. “Coal leaves room for license, but that of the artistic variety remains solely his own, if his critics are to be believed.”

His hand came away from his chin in a dismissive wave. “My critics wouldn't know this mess from a Pollock. It's like giving them the head chef's specialty after he's drunk his mind away for ten straight years and acting as if it's the same sapid soup. The least I can do is try to spice up the slop.”

Another soft shifting, and he guessed she was standing. The proceeding click of heels across terrazzo affirmed that, and while they were but three, he was doubtless the aim of her attention. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see it for himself.

She was gazing out the window, stoic as a statue.

“Have you had a closer look yet?” he asked, at last garnering a glance in kind. As John returned his eyes to the splattered square sheet, he listened to those clicking heels with some sated appetite for proximal conversation. “My first guess was a portrait, but . . .” His fine-featured face twisted in a savorless grimace. “. . . who can tell with him?”

“I don't know . . . a road?” She stood aside and behind a step, one hand on a hip that fit her pencil skirt with ease. “A wave? Honestly, interpretation has never been my strong suit. Unless we're talking about legal jargon.”

“He was going on about 'staticity' while he did it. Something about its impossibility. I suppose both those things play on the theme, but neither are striking my fancy.”

“Signal loss? I could see it.”

“That's what I said.”

Thea's lips pressed thin, remaining slightly pouty despite her drawn demeanor. “The asymmetry of that corner bothers me, but it's art either way. I'd say it's fine as-is.”

“I'll balance the corners. Just for you.” John gave her a smile, and she took her time turning those lips in like fashion, attention lingering on the painting. “It shouldn't be too hard. Adding spots of darkness up there should do it.” He slipped his watch from his wrist as he spoke, rolling up his sleeves to prepare for the task.

Click, click, as Thea walked back to her desk in the shared office, the wide windows behind her casting her long shadow his way. He watched it slide out of his field of vision along the pale resin floor, continuing to face the canvas propped before him.

“Whatever you do, make it tasteful,” she said. “The journals were rather piqued last year. But that event was sensationalist in and of itself, so I'm inclined to say a little excitement was inevitable.”

He adjusted the tuck of his shirt and slipped on a pair of gloves before grabbing a neatly folded smock off a corner table. “I'm not responsible for the public interpretation of this stuff.” His implements sat upon the table: a brush, a knife, a palette, and an array of paints. Oras used a similar allotment, if one less tidy.

“You're half-responsible,” echoed Thea's plain-spoken reply. “And only more so as his form deteriorates. The harder it is to make it look like it should, the greater your hand in its reception. Not to mention the presentation work. Your presence doesn't exactly dissuade their baser notions.”

“I maintain that my lack of control over pareidolia itself is grounds enough for irresponsibility. But I'll admit I have a . . . presence.” He deliberately struck a posture of poise that affected coquettish irresponsibility as well as any. A sidelong glimpse of Thea caught her stealing a glance, and he un-cocked his hip as he resumed his preparations.

Once things were set, he began the work of turning the mess upon the canvas into art as defined by the fanatics of Oras Coal himself: those attentive followers of his early work that knew his telltale signature by heart, eager for another chapter in that ruined legacy. Would John be counted among them? Undoubtedly. Should he be? His transcendence belied the notion into arrant absurdity.

Sure, beforehand, he fell into the category like any other Coal connoisseur. Personal experience with the artist changed that, though. And the more personal they became, the easier it was to see just how high the bar sat. They lauded his work as ever-avant-garde, subtly imploring upon the eyes of its beholder a connection to the world outside oneself. Or so his critics raved. The apex of that work, to the John who surpassed the bar and could see even higher, was not the stratosphere they said it was. Troposphere, maybe. But art is not something one can trap in a bubble and subsist off the atmosphere of in isolation. Bubbles pop, and fresh air grants breath anew.

That was a lesson Coal taught him. He'd never understood it before his transcendence. But the strata below that bar posed a poor coign of vantage on the matter, and now that he'd seen past it he could glean its meaning with a new perspective. What made art “art” was a quality acquitting broader dynamics than one bubble can boast. From up here, he could play to all their eager strata with the vantage of a Master's Master.

He feathered the brush, not so much limning as eliding definition. The strokes were delicate and deliberate, favoring the corner in need of aesthetic equilibrium by means of congregation therein, a methodical chiaroscuro which Coal was known for best. The technique Oras employed never failed to bear his particular mark, and John had spent long hours at the canvas practicing the very balance it took to do so.

It was a damn shame he was its only extant executor.

The farrago of paint at hand bore hints of that technique, yes, but only to his well-trained eye. And to that eye it was painfully apparent how much it was missing—the finesse once found in Oras' masterpieces was now but a drudging smear of struggle upon his canvas. He supposed degradation was to be expected, though. If the mindless madness wasn't enough alone, the achromatopsia acquired on top of it was what broke the poor painter irreversibly.

It wasn't clear what Oras was envisioning while he put paint to canvas—not by the results, at least. What was notable was that the form it took, or lack thereof, posed a wildly insensate contrast to the work that earned him his relative fame on Satre. The evidence that his loss of color vision rendered his skill with the brush all but dead was the only clear thing to be gleaned. The rambling as he attempted it? Equally absurd.

Not that his art monopolized his renown. To the contrary, he might have never grown to be a professional artist had his employment not garnered him notice beforehand. But Oras had just as well screwed himself over on that front, if not more so. Now John was left to clean up the mess.

The painting eventually leaned away from abstract and toward a hint of description. By his judgment, as the hand behind the brush, it described reparation: a chaos being sewn together into uniform lines. The lines had to amalgamate into something darker and denser, but it delivered the balance Thea remarked upon a lack of, and so the added distinction served to sate the eye twofold. His eye, at least. Surely her's as well. He lowered his brush with a silent respiration, stepping aside with a backward look.

“How about now?”

She cast a belated glance up from a glowing tablet, sparing the artwork a blank review before rising from her desk. Whatever it meant to be visually sated, he searched for it in her expression as she moved in for a closer look. The eyes told him nothing, but the body language read contemplation as she held an elbow in one hand, the second curled back at her shoulder.

“It's good. The piece seems to have some movement from corner to corner, now, not weighing too much on either side. It could even pass for his old stuff.”

“Eh, hardly.” He didn't blame her for the presumption—though he suspected she was just trying to flatter him—given the difference in expertise. “But it's close enough. They'll find the same charm they always find. And you'll get the same price.” As he walked away from the easel, he pulled off his smock and gloves, letting them fall to the floor. He'd been clean enough not to mind it. He then made his way over to a short marble counter hugging the curve of the inner wall, wrapping his naked hand around the neck of a tall bottle of vintage red waiting there.

“Care to join me in celebrating the occasion?” John took the stem of a glass between his fingers, snatching it from the end of the row standing neatly against the wall. With both hands full, he deigned to sink his teeth into the bottle's cork, twisting in squeaky increments until it came loose. When all that filled the quiet was that rubbery pop, he relented to the side-eyed scrutiny that she was wont to drive him to. Pivoting around on his heel, he leaned against the counter, pouring wine into his glass and watching Thea tap at her screens with a lean that eschewed sitting as much as it retained his gaze. He made an expectant noise around the cork, setting the bottle down again to pull it from between his canines. “Any takers?” he asked the stark and lonely room.

“Not today,” she answered at last. Her posture put upright, she tucked the tablet under her arm, making her way toward the far door, click, click. “I'll have the painting tended to after another scan. You should see if he has anything more to say about it in the meantime.”

John swirled the wine in his glass; not to mix it, not to aerate it. Just to swirl it. She walked out, and he turned half his attention to the rocking fluid, trying to tip it in time with her gait. Click, click, swish, swish. She closed the door behind her; it regained its equilibrium, and he took a sip, sucking the residue from his upper lip with an indolent discontent. He rolled the dentally dented cork between his fingers before tamping it back into the bottle, leaving it and the painting behind without a second glance.

Oras was the same as when John left him last. They had brought him food, and it seemed someone made an attempt at cleaning him and his cell, but for all his surroundings differed, the madman himself remained awfully . . . static.

As he stepped up to the window surveying Jove's overcast metropolis, John took another sip of wine, then delicately tugged his sleeves back down along his arms, careful not to spill. His cufflinks flashed with a pallid gleam, their ruby-diamond bevel refracting the city below: a distant network of stochastic action, like hives of intersecting impetus indistinguishable from one another. It could be hard to imagine such a thing coming to any stop. In a photo, maybe; one can render an apparent stillness, yet the world would remain in motion past the picture. There was something to be said for the beauty of stillness, though. In the mind's eye, a moment can stay gripped in an imaginary stasis for the relish of its captor, unchanging no matter which way the earth turns without.

“She said it resembles your old stuff,” John spoke into the silence. He turned a blasé smile toward his drink, indifferent to whether Oras was aware of him. “Though what does she know, eh? She has 'Standing On Triumph' framed in her penthouse, but it was bought with vanity before taste. To her credit, she's accrued some since, but we both know I'm a better judge than her on these things.

“Not that she's wrong, exactly. It's just anyone familiar with your work could tell there was a resemblance. Anyone intimately familiar can tell what a mess you made of it. It'll pass, but at what cost? The last one went for a little under ten grand. Two years ago it was lucky to go for twelve. If that's not a sign of your decline, then what is? Oh, right, the mess itself. Hard to miss that part.

“I guess the bright side is they're not duds yet. Whatever you're doing to them, it's sticking. Then again, she said the results were 'inconclusive'. Any idea why that would be?” He waited for a reply, not deigning to look back, nor wait too long. “You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you? No, not even that silver lining can be discerned by your eyes. Well, I gave it my own touch, anyway. It'll serve as a fetching piece somewhere on the island, I'm sure.”

He sipped through a pensive lull boasting a digestive purgatory, where it was unknown whether the words were but sounds in the air to Oras, or if they registered in his haywire head as anything sensible. The prisoner could hear, but did he listen? It was hard to tell sans reaction.

John turned around to face the cell, approaching it with lilting steps. “Does the name 'Staticity' still work? My improvements gave it a new shape, but it's roughly the same au fond.” Oras remained a miserable heap against the wall, head hung low. “I know you're not able to see for yourself, but you never did give me any feedback on that bit. It was your idea, really. What does 'staticity' mean to you, anyway?”

The tangled pile of coiled ink enshrouding his face rose with deliberate slowness, giving preview to a dark eye languishing behind one long curl. It was an indirect stare, empty of even a contrite twinkle. Any situational awareness left to the man seemed haphazard in the best of times; in others, it almost seemed cruel to keep him locked away like this. Almost.

“Is it stopping?” rasped the painter, a nail stained to the bed drawn forth to rake through his unruly beard. “Is this going to be suspended? Would that be . . . static?”

John offered his usual regard. “Does it mean coming to a stop? I guess staticity has no meaning without motion to oppose.”

“Is this even progress?” It sounded as though Oras paid his response no mind. “Have I moved forward? Am I not in suspense here? It's not a damn riddle—I have nowhere to go. What is staticity? A thing of perspective. True staticity is an illusion . . . was I saying that already? Is that why you're asking?” His empty gaze continued to wander, as unbound as his point.

“Yes, it was your spiel while painting. 'Nothing comes to any end,' and all that.”

“Nothing comes to any end.” It was spoken with the weight of clear conviction behind it, those vacant eyes—no, not of vacuity, but a far-sighted castaway—fixed on him until it forced the old twitch into John's brow, then sank back into listlessness.

“I can think of a few things off the top of my head,” murmured John, glass at his lips. He supposed the madman employed a more philosophical colligation toward his point, however, as the mad often do. “What does that have to do with the painting, though?”

What he could see of those eyes flicked across the empty easel. “Staticity . . .” Oras whispered, lips continuing to squirm soundlessly through his torpor.

“It doesn't, does it? You just rambled through the process, same as always. Your inspiration is as screwed up as the rest of your mind, and it's only a thoughtless impulse.” He spoke softly, yes; no acerbity on his tongue past the bored drawl, yet his dispassionate regard sharpened one critical degree. “Far be it from me to look for sense in it anymore. I'd need eyes as ruined as yours to glean something of your old art in that debasement. I can see ghosts of it, if I squint. SOLACE can tell, but it's a computer's vapid datum connecting one gray dot to another. They find those 'golden spots' all over the city—it's nothing special by itself. Yaods wash up by the bucketful every day, rock after useless rock. I'm sure if your paintings still brought in the same audience they'd attract more than an old otiose stone or two. But I guess we can't all get what we wish for, eh? You're stuck with mediocre art, and I'm stuck with the unenviable task of turning its fading glory into tangible results.

“Of course you have nowhere to go—you're a virtual prisoner. Stagnation, staticity; whatever you call it, you're done. I have it on good authority you're in a state of decline. Maybe regression is better than stasis—backwards is a direction, after all. If you're so determined not to come to any end, then drag your sorry brush back to the canvas with the prowess of old, otherwise that once-bright future will continue to wither until your light's snuffed out for good, and all you'll have to show for it is a few fine relics representing a stained legacy and a pool of spilled paint that more than hammers the metaphor home.

“Not even she can figure out what's missing. I know it is—I can see the paucity in the paint—but each piece is its own beast. Bless her stubborn heart, she's trying every test out there, and having new ones researched just for the cause. If anyone can manufacture a miracle, it's her. It sure would help if you made an effort, though.”

John let his jaded castigation abate, aware of Oras' abstracted attention while his own thoughts drifted back along a certain curve that came to mind. “She does her best for you, you know. For both of us. A virtual prisoner . . . and am I any better off? Hard to ask for a finer warden, I guess.” He laughed, the sound echoing through the hall verging on hollow. “Sure, she parades me around on her leash, but only because I have enough wit about myself to keep from biting the hand that feeds me. Can't say the same for you.” His steely gaze bored through the glass, down toward the inmate with a cold, cold focus.

Reacting as if it were a palpable weight, Oras turned up to meet his eyes, the glint of a fractured star caught in those abyssal orbs in the full light. Nothing of it said recognition; there was no semblance of sanity tying the madman to his past. Guilt seemed a nebulous thing to him, mimicked in ignorance, only to let slip through indifferent fingers once the next whisper of madness had his ear ensnared.

“Is whatever went missing from your brush gone for good?” John held his stare steady, a sober lament perhaps met halfway. “Has your signature touch waned completely? Did it meet its end with your muse?”

He searched those eyes incisively for the man he once knew. He'd expected his questions to arouse . . . something in them. A light, or a fire. What he saw was black coal in white ash, cold as his own still pools of blue. He found himself focusing instead on his reflection in the glass, dimly aware of the fact that to Oras, his eyes were just as colorless. The twitch recurred, and he wasn't able to continue facing the cell. He stepped toward the window once again, tossing back the last of his wine.

He couldn't tell who was more troubled by the exchange, Oras looking as lost for answers as he was. It was stress; he'd spent too long on this floor, and his mood was suffering the climatic melancholy of the painter's sequestration. Without a hint as to the inner workings of the process, he figured his welcome was overstayed.

“Maybe next time, eh?” John said, looking out at the gray horizon. A gap in the clouds revealed the faint form of the full moon, a ghost in the afternoon sky. He spoke under his breath, “A cycle of commiseration . . . surely this has an end to come to. Maybe being stuck here really is an illusion.”

He turned a droll smile over his shoulder before heading for the elevator. “If you'll excuse me, I've got a painting to sell. I'm sure people will find the name just pompous enough for the show. Thanks again, old pal.” He raised his empty glass in the cell's direction, steps echoing through the bare hall. “Staticity . . .”

A chapter from my WIP novel that I wrote ahead of itself. More art of the characters can be found on my deviantart page (and other characters here, too.)

#character art #writing #scifi #deviantart #digital art #fantasy #story #excerpt

0 notes

onearthwerebrieflygorgons · 3 years

Text

So the typical ordering is "health and safety", right? Maybe it's a rhythm thing, maybe it's phonetic, idk, but whenever those words are together it tends to go in that order. Why, then is it the "Occupational Safety & Health Administration"??? Is it just that the acronym "OSHA" is easier to pronounce that "OHSA"? I think it might be...

#OSHA #health and saftey #linguistics #phonetics #inane ramblings of a feverish madman

0 notes

themurphyzone · 3 years

Text

PatB Oneshot: Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary: Brain doesn’t think Pinky would be a very good villain. Pinky decides to prove him wrong (but mostly he wants Denny's).

AN: I’ll be honest, Dark Pinky isn’t for me. So how to compromise writing a villainous Pinky with normal Pinky? Well...you’ll see.

AO3 Link

Pinky gasped at the TV, crumbs of popcorn falling out of his mouth. Brain stopped chewing and looked away from the screen, unable to stomach the scene of Lupin and Sirius forcing Pettigrew out of rat form as he attempted to flee the Shrieking Shack.

No matter how many times he’d seen Prisoner of Azkaban, Brain always found it uncomfortable to watch Pettigrew transform into a pathetic, sniveling human who acted like he hadn’t sold his own friends out to a homicidal madman.

Sure, Voldemort was the villain while Umbridge was the personification of government corruption, but there was just something downright insidious about Pettigrew.

Pinky’s eyes were blown wide open as Pettigrew pitifully tried to plead his case. The simpleton was always so surprised about this plot twist no matter how many times he’d seen this movie.

The more he pondered, perhaps Pinky was the exact reason he found Pettigrew worse than the larger threats of the Harry Potter world. The man played into the worst of rodent stereotypes with his cowardly and backstabbing nature.

But Pinky?

Not a single disloyal bone in his body. It was a lesson Brain had taken to heart after his disastrous second birthday. Pinky was far too sweet and simple to even think about betrayal.

Tears flowed down Pinky’s face as Lupin transformed into an emaciated werewolf, so Brain discreetly nudged a pack of Kleenexes his way. Pinky flashed him a grateful, wobbly smile, then reached for a tissue and blew his nose.

Pinky always cried at this part. And while Brain found the scene emotionally gut-punching too, he considered himself above displays of crying during movies.

Mufasa’s death didn’t count. Dirt always lodged in his lacrimal ducts whenever he watched that scene. That was all.

Brain’s fists clenched as the cowardly Pettigrew abandoned everyone to die.

Though his escape was an essential plot point for the rest of the series, Brain wished the protagonists could’ve caught Pettigrew and delivered justice for betraying those who called him a friend.

He knew how the movie played out, but Pinky acted like he was watching it all for the very first time. Sometimes, watching Pinky when he didn’t care what happened on-screen was much more interesting. Especially when Pinky insisted on not skipping Order of the Phoenix.

Pinky hugged his knees, tail draped tightly around him as the Dementors attacked Harry and Sirius. The rest of the movie would be loaded with those undead abominations. Brain had learned from unfortunate experience that Pinky would have nightmares if he didn’t cut off the fear before it took root in his subconscious.

Slowly, Brain moved towards Pinky, careful not to make a sound lest Pinky catch him in the act. He took a deep breath to steel his resolve, placing a hesitant hand on Pinky’s back.

Pinky turned to look at him.

“Eyes on the screen,” Brain commanded. It was easier to do this when Pinky wasn’t watching him.

Pinky obeyed, humming softly as Brain patted soft fur. A long, flowing tail wrapped around a crooked one. Pinky sat up a little straighter.

The Dementors wouldn’t haunt Pinky’s dreams tonight. Not as long as Brain had something to say about it.

o-o-o-o-o

“-and I’m so happy Sirius and Buckbeak got away! D’you think I could ride a hippogriff? Why are they called hippos when they’re not hippos anyway? I don’t think wizards know their animals very well, Brain.” Pinky’s chatter continued into the ungodly hours of the morning. Only the people unfortunate enough to work early morning shifts on Saturday would be awake at this time.

Brain rolled onto his stomach, covering his ears with his pillow to block out all the extraneous noise. One con about taking nights off from world domination was that his body just didn’t want to sleep even when he was tired, and Pinky’s exuberance only amplified the issue.

“Troz! Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite out of the Harry Potter movies. But my favorites are also Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber and Goblet...oh! And Order has Luna Lovegood of course! Love her! What’s your favorite, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Ooh, you shouldn’t lay like that. You need to breathe!”

The pillow was completely ineffective as a sound buffer. Brain was sorely tempted to keep up his current position out of pure spite, but he had to give up and lay on his side so he wouldn’t suffocate.

“No favorite. Hippogriffs are fictional. Hippo is Greek for horse and does not refer to a hippopotamus in this context. You think cows cluck and chickens moo, Pinky. Now go to sleep,” Brain sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

Perhaps he could trick his exhausted mind into believing Pinky wasn’t there if he couldn’t be seen.

He had an urge to stay awake though. If his subconscious latched onto hippopotamuses, he’d just have that nightmare with the rich hippo couple and Rockefeller baby all over again. He shuddered at that memory. The pain and humiliation from that hippo-sized booster shot had been oddly vivid.

“Okay. G’night, Brain.” The bed shifted as Pinky flopped onto his back.

All was quiet.

Brain curled into a more comfortable position, ready to drift off to a dream world where he was an emperor on a golden throne, Pinky was dressed in royal finery while leading a resounding chorus of We are the World, and all knelt before their authority.

“Brain?”

And there went the dream.

“What?” Brain snapped. Part of him wanted to knock Pinky out himself, but that would require moving his arms. He didn’t want to move out of his current position.

“Just pondering. Poit,” Pinky yawned. “Before sleep ponderings. Those kinds are the best, Brain. Cause they get weird and tangerine-y. Bet you get those too.”

It was true. When his plans weren’t derived from Pinky’s inane ramblings or current events, they were often the product of pre-sleep thoughts. While he wrote down all he could remember afterwards, the plans pulled from those tangents tended to be the craziest and illogical in hindsight.

He tried not to rely on them too much, but if his conqueror’s block was high or creativity levels were low, he didn’t have much choice.

“Yes,” Brain confirmed.

But his curt answer wasn’t enough to deter Pinky.

“Cause I was pondering about villains,” Pinky said. “Like Pettigrew. Cause what if I had something that makes me a villain?”

As much as Brain wanted to dismiss the idea of a villainous Pinky due to the sheer absurdity of the concept, he supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility either.

But Pinky as a villain? A mouse who gave up his soul for the sake of Brain’s desires and argued against promoting harmful cigarettes to children?

It was just ludicrous.

“Pinky, you lack many prerequisites for proper villainy,” Brain said. “Except for the dramatics. That’s the only trait you have in common.”

“Oh. Well, I could certainly try,” Pinky replied.

Yes, and someday pigs would evolve and develop flight capabilities.

If he were in a clearer state of mind, he would’ve argued out of obstinance. But right now, it was incredibly early on a Saturday morning and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Discussions on villainy and world domination could wait a few hours.

“If you can prove me wrong, you can select the next restaurant we’ll go to,” Brain yawned.

Pinky rarely got to choose the restaurant, given Brain’s sophisticated palate, but at this point he was willing to try anything to get Pinky off his back.

Then Pinky went from figuratively being on his back to pressing against it, his tail curling around Brain’s. Pinky’s jaw rested against the back of Brain’s head. The added pressure released a tenseness around Brain’s shoulders, one that he’d been previously unaware of.

“Denny’s,” Pinky murmured, nuzzling the back of Brain’s ear. The sensitive appendage flicked. Nobody was around to witness that involuntary reflex, so Brain let it pass. “A Grand Slam with pancakes and syrup and bacon n’ eggs…”

Within seconds, Pinky was out like a light. He wouldn’t remember this conversation, too busy thinking with his stomach instead of properly pondering with that fluffball of a mind.

With Pinky’s warm fur against his back and soft narfs against his ear, Brain’s thoughts gently trickled away and yielded to peaceful sleep.

o-o-o-o-o

Though it was probably noon by now, Brain still didn’t want to open his eyes. Why bother? No scientists to pester them, no leftover plans or materials to hide away so they wouldn’t be discovered, no tedious mazes to run on Saturday.

Pinky had gotten up sometime before him, and the space beside him was empty, giving Brain room to stretch out in whatever way he liked.

Then he heard a harsh scraping noise, like someone was dragging something heavy across the counter. That wasn’t unusual for Pinky if an object caught his short attention span for some inane reason.

However, there was also the sound of laughter accompanying the noise. Pinky was giggly and bubbly to a fault, but this brand of laughter was different.

Almost malevolent.

A chill ran up his spine, but Brain ignored the feeling. Pinky’s evil laugh was still firmly in Saturday morning cartoon villain territory, he told himself.

Even if he sounded a little too good at being evil.

Apparently, Pinky had remembered the bet after all.

Brain slowly opened his eyes, about to find Pinky and tell him to knock it off, only to find that it was much darker than it should be for daytime. But it wasn’t dark enough to impede his vision. When he looked up, he found a sheet had been pulled over the entire cage. He couldn’t see anything outside the cage.

Pinky being secretive would surely spell disaster. And it hadn’t been there last night, so Pinky was the only culprit.

The wheel stood empty, a fresh oil can beside it. Brain rubbed his eyes, partly to wake himself up and partly out of disbelief. He was normally a light sleeper, but if he hadn’t heard Pinky maintain his wheel at all, then he must’ve had a deeper sleep than he thought.

He climbed out of bed and marched towards the unlatched cage door, though the corner of the sheet was pulled over it. He would’ve swept it aside, but an unopened cup of Rice Krispies with a half-empty bottle of milk, napkin, and spoon conspicuously placed next to the door gave him pause from leaving the cage.

His stomach growled.

“Well played, Pinky,” Brain admitted. A breakfast barricade to delay him? It was rather creative, not that he’d ever let Pinky know.

The Rice Krispies made satisfactory snap, crackle, and pop noises as Brain poured the milk inside. Then he scarfed down the cereal, half-expecting Pinky to come in and drag him outside for whatever he planned.

But Pinky seemed content to let him eat first.

Once he finished eating, he dragged the empty cereal cup and milk bottle behind him. But even his simple two-step plan of throwing his current load into the garbage and finding Pinky were laid to waste the moment he set foot outside the cage.

For Pinky had unleashed his inner interior designer and completely transformed the room in such a short timeframe.

Large, sweeping blackout curtains covered the windows, even the skylight. According to the digital clock atop the TV, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. But if Brain didn’t know any better, he would’ve believed it was midnight.

No wonder he’d been so inclined to sleep in.

Long strands of Christmas lights hung on each dark blue wall, which was otherwise untransformed. Other than the digital clock, they were the only available light source. But rather than their usual festive association, the unblinking reds, greens, and blues lent a rather ominous, otherworldly quality to the room.

Brain dispelled the fear. It was irrational when he’d traversed the dark lab at night a million times before.

Perhaps he was focusing too hard on dumping the leftover milk into the sink. With absolute concentration, he pushed the empty cup and bottle over the counter’s edge and into the garbage can below.

As he backed away from the edge, he saw a large mixing bowl with a stepladder set by it. Wisps of steam rose from the inside of the bowl. This must’ve been the source of the scraping sound he’d heard earlier. Curious, Brain climbed the stepladder and peered inside.

It was just warm water though.

He tried not to feel too disappointed. But even if it was mundane right now, surely it had to be here for a reason, right?

Or Pinky didn’t have any reason at all and he just wanted to fill a mixing bowl with boiled water. Both options were possibilities.

As he continued his search for Pinky, he walked past rows upon rows of test tubes filled with brightly colored substances. Electric green, dreadful purple, deceptively calm cerulean…

He wasn’t sure what kind of chemistry experiments they were running, but he wished someone had enough sense to label the test tubes.

Beakers and tubing distorted his reflection, a prickling sensation traveling down his spine and forcing his fur to stand on end. He smoothed it down so he didn’t bear a passing resemblance to a cotton ball. The slightly colder than normal temperature wasn’t helping.

The distortion was simply a natural refraction of light passing through liquids. That’s all. There was no reason to get worked up over natural phenomena.

That didn’t stop him from leaping back when a wide, smiling human face suddenly appeared as he navigated a sea of flasks.

His heart threatened to leap out of his chest, his breaths growing heavier.

There weren’t any humans in the lab right now, he reminded himself. And the smiling face was frozen and unmoving. It wasn’t real.

Brain cautiously poked his head around the flask, keeping it as a buffer between himself and the unknown threat.

Against the wall, several of Pinky’s Barbie and Ken dolls sat in a row. The one whose face appeared on the flask was on the far left, her blonde hair in a ponytail. All of the dolls were in colorful swimwear. One of the Ken dolls had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head.

The dolls were normal. No creepy alterations or missing body parts.

But as Brain approached and inspected the dolls closely, their positioning seemed...odd.

Yes, their plastic visages displayed smiles as if they were en route to a Miami beach party, but their arms were stretched above their heads or out to the sides in warning. Their legs laid flat against the ground. Duct tape trapped their legs to the ground and wrapped against their torsos, sticking them firmly to the wall and preventing them from falling over.

An interesting choice for decor, to say the least.

But enough was enough. Time to find Pinky and force a coherent explanation out of him.

One of the Barbie's arm pointed to the back of the room, so Brain followed her instruction. It led him straight to Pinky’s dollhouse, and Brain cursed himself for being so taken in with the environment that he’d neglected to check one of Pinky’s favorite toys.

The pink plastic door was wide open, a deadly invitation into danger. Brain’s ears pricked as a song floated through the air.

“Things are working out according to my ultimate design,

Soon I’ll have that little rodent and the planet shall be mine!”

The melody was accompanied by a sinister cackle.

Brain wanted to barge in and demand Pinky to cease his foolishness immediately, but his fingers curled against the doorframe instead, urging him to heed caution.

“I can hear you!” Pinky singsonged from behind a section of dollhouse that was curtained off with jingling Mardi Gras beads. “Won’t you come inside so we can talk properly?”

Brain rolled his eyes, sweeping the bead curtain away. “Pinky, I’m aware of our deal, but this is rather excess-”

Then his mind registered the scene that lay before him.

Pinky perched on a stool in front of a mirror as he applied a red coating of lipstick. That wasn’t unusual for him.

But he was also clad in a backless floor-length dress with thigh-high slits. The dress was dark as night, leaving his shoulders and arms exposed. His fur was dyed a light lavender, save for his messy white tuft, which was gelled so that it stood straight up.

A small seashell necklace sat just above the low cut dress, purple earrings hanging from each ear. Pinky didn’t turn around, blinking coyly at Brain in his reflection, which sported heavy blue eyeshadow.

He set the lipstick down, and Brain stared at the enchanting movement of manicured, polished red nails as deft fingers picked up a small brush and dipped it into a makeup kit. Then Pinky applied a beauty mark next to his lips.

The next thing out of Brain’s mouth was a very intelligent ‘um’.

“You shouldn’t lurk in doorways,” Pinky purred, his voice low and sultry. “It’s very rude. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

She didn’t have time to teach him a lot of things, given his kidnapping at an early age, but that wasn’t the point.

“Why in Ptolemy’s name are you Ursula out of all villains?” Brain asked, once his voice came back.

At least it explained why Pinky had redecorated the room to resemble an underwater cavern that doubled as a villainous lair. It was an excellent use of space.

And the Barbies and Kens...those were the stand-ins for the helpless sea polyps.

Pinky must’ve been deriving a lot of satisfaction at seeing that realization dawn on Brain.

“Why not?” Pinky shrugged. He puckered his lips and kissed his reflection, leaving a red lip-shaped mark behind. “Besides...isn’t there something you’re after? Something you want oh so very much, but haven’t been able to get?”

Brain scowled. “You know perfectly well that I’m trying to rule the world, Pinky.”

Pinky snapped his fingers. “And that’s what I can help you with! The only way to get what you want...is to become a human yourself.”

Well, he’d never considered that before in the pursuit of world domination. There was something about manipulating his genetic code and changing his species that didn’t sit well with him, even though he detested the challenges that came with being a lowly lab mouse.

But it made sense.

Humans only respected humans. Becoming a member of the dominant species would be an asset for sure!

But Pinky didn’t have the means to make that happen...right?

“You don’t know how to manipulate mouse DNA into a human one,” Brain said.

“Oh my dear, sweet Brain,” Pinky crooned as he stood up, slinking over to Brain. Brain crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare Pinky straight in the eye and not show any signs of yielding. He made a point out of not watching those sashaying hips and tail. “Helping poor, unfortunate mice like yourself is my one passion in life! Why, without it, I’ll have to slink away and become a crazy cat lady! And then who will those poor souls turn to?”

“A glass of alcohol, I presume,” Brain replied.

Pinky’s tail came to rest around Brain’s shoulders. The tip tickled Brain’s nose, and he held it away from his face as Pinky pulled him out of the dollhouse and back to the tied up Barbie and Ken dolls. “Maybe, maybe...but a real person they can lean on, I mean. One that knows a little...magic.”

He flicked his finger at a beaker filled with a lavender substance. The beaker sailed through the air, dumping its contents into the mixing bowl. A purple haze rose from the bowl.

“That’s telepathy, not-”

Pinky gently pressed a finger to Brain’s mouth to hush him. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “It’s true that I did some rather — how would you phrase this gently — unsavory things before. But I’ve repented! Turned over a new leaf! Seen the light! And now I use my talents for those lonely and miserable enough to seek my services.”

Then Pinky moved away from Brain, flicking his tail against Brain’s nose to direct his attention to the wall. Pinky wrapped his arm around the Barbie with a red polka-dotted bikini. “You see, Barbie here grew up where she didn’t have much opportunity. Poor girl had to work two jobs to make ends meet, and hardly a cent to show for it! So I offered her a chance to get away from it all...and she took it.”

Brain gulped as Pinky moved onto the Ken doll next to Barbie. He was awfully convincing, even when the subject in question was inanimate. Pinky played with the ascot around Ken’s neck. “And this young man? Well, he wasn’t having much luck with the ladies. So I gave him a few pointers, maybe a knickknack or two to help speed things along. However…”

Pinky indicated the tape that bound the dolls to the wall. “I wouldn’t worry about this too much, since you’re a mouse of your word, but sometimes...they couldn’t pay me back in time. So I found a different way to collect their debt.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have much to gain from restraining children’s toys,” Brain said, tilting his head up to hide his uneasiness.

They looked less marketable and more like hapless victims wallowing in despair, despite their smiling faces. He chalked it up to the wall’s resemblance to a dimly lit marine cave.

“Oh, I get some odd complaints every now and then,” Pinky shrugged. “But alas, that’s what happens in this business.”

He plucked a purple sash from Barbie and wrapped it around his head, fluttering his eyelashes innocently.

Not that he was fooling Brain.

But he didn’t have time to process that nonverbal gesture, for Pinky threw the sash around Brain, his tail looping around Brain’s waist. With the sash locking his arms against his sides, he was helplessly corralled to the mixing bowl. He dug his feet into the surface beneath him, but it was no use. Pinky was far stronger than he.

In physical terms of course. He tried to keep his eyes on Pinky’s face and not his...well, he was a male mouse...he didn’t have...unless he padded...

Stop, Brain.

A finger slipped under Brain’s chin, tilting his head up. “Not to worry,” Pinky purred, and the room suddenly went from cold to sweltering. “I have your solution right here.”

To emphasize his point, blue and green test tubes poured their contents into the bowl. The colors melded together, the resulting haze forming a rough image of the world.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll make a potion that can turn you into a human for three days,” Pinky declared, dragging his finger along Brain’s chin. Now that Pinky’s grip had loosened, Brain ripped the sash out of Pinky’s hands and threw it aside.

The stroke of Pinky’s finger along Brain’s fur was enticing, and he pushed it away exactly for that reason.

“Before sunset on the third day, you’ve got to find someone of royal blood,” Pinky said. A golden liquid swirled out of a beaker and formed a crown in the center of the world. It was an image of which Brain had dreamed of for so long. He tried to touch it, but it was far out of reach for him. “Then this charming person has to fall in love with you.”

That sounded...feasible. Three days was a rather generous deadline. Most of the time, they were on a time crunch between eight to twelve hours.

Pinky produced a pink felt heart and held it between two fingers. “Then you have to seal your love with a kiss. And not just any old peck on the cheek, but a kiss of true love.”

A what?

Brain huffed. Of course this plan would have such a ridiculous stipulation. He’d gotten his hopes up for nothing.

...and why was he treating this like it was real?

Because Pinky.

Yes, that was the only explanation. And not even a rational one.

“Oh dear, don’t pout so,” Pinky smirked. The expression was fogging up Brain’s mind. “What else is there to seal amour but with true love’s kiss? It’s a tried and true method, after all.”

He chuckled at his own joke. Brain rolled his eyes.

“If this certain someone kisses you by sunset on the third day, you’ll have the world permanently. But if they don’t, you turn back into a mouse.”

Pinky tossed the felt heart into the mixing bowl, the solution emitting a pink puff of smoke.

“And you belong to me.”

A dangerous edge crept into Pinky’s tone as he whispered into Brain’s ear, and the appendage fluttered uncontrollably until Brain forcefully snatched it to cease its movement.

Pinky tossed a hair tie, penny, and eraser nub into the mixing bowl, then leaned against a long pencil case as he awaited Brain’s reply.

“Suppose I agree to your deal. What then?” Brain asked.

“Well, there’s the matter of payment,” Pinky admitted. He stretched his lower limbs and tail as he rolled onto his stomach, exposing his long lavender-dyed legs. Brain tried not to watch the motion too closely for fear of hypnotism. “If you want something so badly, something of equal value has to be given. Equivalent exchange, as they say.”

“And what exactly do you want?” Brain asked, though he knew the answer.

He’d seen the movie.

“Your voice.”

Pinky’s smile was too wide and manic for Brain’s comfort.

“In other words...” Pinky hummed as he leaned forward, his nose was just an inch away from Brain. “...no more talking, singing, zip!”

He popped the consonant and mimed zipping his mouth, throwing away an invisible key.

It was so warm that Brain couldn’t feel his face.

“Now, now. Don’t be alarmed, Brain.” Pinky stretched luxuriously as he stood up. His tail slinked around Brain’s waist again. “You have your pretty face. And you shouldn’t underestimate the importance of...body language.”

Pinky’s hip bumped into Brain’s, his leg sliding all the way out of the slit of his dress. He batted his eyelashes and blew a kiss to an invisible audience.

Brain covered his face, ears flat against his back. He was fine. Just had to think about...something. What was he trying to picture exactly?

No mathematical formula could save him from the horror that was stupid, sexy Pinky. Curse those mathematical miscreants! They abandoned him in his time of need!

Pinky climbed up and down the stepladder, tossing chemicals and liquids and all sorts of things inside. The bowl rocked back and forth dangerously, bubbles spilling down the sides.

Brain didn’t dare get close. The inside of the bowl surely were an unholy abomination.

But that didn’t stop Pinky.

“Now a dash of zort, a sprinkle of poit! Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Pinky cackled, throwing his arms up in the air. “Abracadabra troz! Bibbidi bobbidi narf!”

The mixture now to his satisfaction, Pinky flicked his finger at a notepad and pen, sending them hurtling towards Brain.

“Just sign on the dotted line, you poor unfortunate soul,” Pinky said.

Well...playing along couldn’t hurt. Even when there was a biohazard right in front of him.

And no, the bowl’s contents weren’t the biohazard here.

Brain took a deep breath and signed his name.

The moment he finished, the notepad and pen flew out of his hands and into the bowl.

Pinky wiggled his fingers over the bowl, green smoke rising to the ceiling and seeping past the edges of the blackout curtains to the outside. No smoke detectors went off, though Brain wasn’t surprised. ACME was rather lax on safety protocols.

“Beluga sevruga, come winds of the Caspian Sea!

Larengix glaucitis

Et max laryngitis

La voce to me!”

With a wide grin that spread from ear to ear, Pinky climbed down the stepladder and placed one hand on his seashell necklace, the other tickling the base of Brain’s neck. Brain ducked his head instinctively to stop the ticklish sensation, trapping Pinky’s hand under his jaw.

“Now sing.”

It was rare that Pinky commanded. Brain hated taking orders, yet something compelled him to obey.

Those coy blue eyes demanded, so Brain willingly gave.

And he sang.

Though he was hoarse from surprise at first, Pinky’s finger traced the outline of his neck, up his chin, to the corner of his mouth. Brain imagined his voice growing stronger...could see his voice taking physical form, flowing out of him and into Pinky’s seashell necklace.

Pinky doubled over in laughter as an explosion rocked the counter. The bowl sparked and smoked, its base clattering against the surface with loud metallic bangs.

Brain broke out of his trance as a sludge-like wave with various melted objects slithered down the rim, creeping ever closer.

He wasn’t taking any chances.

Grabbing his maniacally howling companion by the arm, Brain quickly bopped him over the head to halt the laughter, then dragged him over to the window for a quick escape. Pinky recovered from the bop and shimmied past the blackout curtain. Brain took a moment to collect the ACME credit card he’d pilfered from an employee several weeks ago, then followed Pinky onto the windowsill.

Pinky jumped first, safely landing in the bushes below. Holding the credit card above his head, which was no easy feat since the card was about the same size as him, Brain jumped as an explosion rocked the building, and his ears flattened instinctively to shield him from the worst of the noise.

As predicted, he landed in Pinky’s arms.

And it was somewhat mortifying now that Pinky’s eyes had gone from coy to blindingly innocent, even with the heavy eyeshadow. Shoving the card between himself and Pinky’s face, Brain climbed out of his arms.

“Narf! So how’d I do, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Was I convincing?”

Brain dusted off a bit of lavender dye that had rubbed onto his arm. He hoped it was fur-friendly. “You created a dangerous biohazard, toyed with my perception of reality, and overall you were a flirtatious nuisance.”

Pinky’s tail stopped wagging.

“So yes. You were indeed a convincing villain,” Brain said. He tapped the credit card. “And to fulfill the conditions of our original deal, I shall now treat you to Denny’s.”

He was a mouse of his word.

“Hoorah!” Pinky cheered. He twirled around in excitement, his black dress swirling around him as he danced all the way to the sidewalk. “Let’s go, Brain! I wanna look at all the lovely pictures on their menu!”

“You’re going like that?” Brain called after him. Didn’t he want to change out of the Disney villainess ensemble?

“Well you’re naked! So there!” Pinky stuck his tongue out at him.

With a sigh, Brain joined his companion on the sidewalk. Pinky skipped over to a patch of white flowers blooming next to the sidewalk, gently cupping the petals and cooing at a ladybug which landed on a blade of grass next to his foot.

Truly a convincing villain.

And Brain’s poor unfortunate soul was helpless under his power.

End AN: I deny selecting Poor Unfortunate Souls over other villain songs specifically for the body language line. You can’t prove anything.

I HC that Brain would hate Pettigrew more than any other Harry Potter character. I was trying to write a villainous Pinky...somewhere along the way he turned into Pinky Suavo. I don’t get it either XD

There's some folks taking care of the biohazard the mice left behind. Don't worry, the lab's still standing. It's just their problem while the mice get Denny's.

#patb disney #patb fanfiction #pinky and the brain

70 notes · View notes

awomanofscience · 2 years

Text

// Starter for @capitansalazar

It had taken five days for the fine sailors aboard the British Navy’s HMS Roebuck to notice they had a stowaway on board. Betrayed by the bright blue of her skirts in the otherwise colourless hold, Carina had been dragged before the red-faced Captain and ordered to explain her presence on his ship “with great haste for the sake of her health.”

She’d stammered out some tale of a desperate escape from an arranged marriage, but the real story was far more interesting than that of a runaway bride. Her current predicament was almost entirely influenced by the inane ramblings of a traumatised madman in the cell across from hers back in St Martin’s miserable jail. A sailor, she’d gathered, who had seen his entire crew - and ship - lost at sea.

He had been of some interest to island authorities, visited frequently by a duo of dour-faced soldier-interrogators. It appeared his ship had gone down some time ago carrying precious cargo of great value to the crown - cargo they wished to recover with information only he could provide. She’d tuned out their back-and-forth at first, before one particular phrase had caught her attention.

“The Devil’s Triangle. Stay away from the triangle.”

She’d seen the words written before, barely legible and etched into the pages of her father’s journal. It was one of several names attributed to a point of immense interest - the destination detailed in Galileo's map. Try as she might, she had found no formal record of said triangle in her charts, and though it carried some weight in local folklore, nobody seemed to know its location.

Until now.

By his account, his ship - Prosperity - had sailed into the triangle’s waters and come under attack from some hell-vessel crewed by the dead (pirates, Carina assumed, warped in his memory by shock and dehydration). The attackers had killed every man on board, sparing only him to share their tale and pass a warning to a particular adversary of some renown by the name of Sparrow.

It was a challenge to pick through the nonsense, but Carina could hardly slow her racing heart as she learned that the Devil’s Triangle did in fact exist. And it wasn’t far from here. But how to get there? She needed to find, and board, a vessel that would take her to the triangle.

A vessel eager to recover valuable cargo, perhaps?

Fortunately for her, the visiting soldiers had been liberal with the details of the planned expedition. The British Navy’s HMS Roebuck would set sail for the last known location of Prosperity in just a week’s time, and Carina was determined to be on board…

It hadn’t been easy, of course. Her daring escape had almost been thwarted by a run-in with the very man from the mad sailor’s story - Jack Sparrow - who had been more than happy to share his name right before throwing her off a rooftop. But with copious amounts of luck, and two guards too immersed in their game of dice to notice a clandestine figure slip past, she’d managed to board the Roebuck under the cover of night.

Upon arrival at the triangle, she somehow needed to disembark and make contact with the pirates that purportedly roamed its waters - and survive that encounter, too. For this she had a plan. She had on her person two pieces of information that were potentially very valuable to her targets: one, a map to the supposed location of an artefact of great value to any pirates (the “trident”). And two, the recent location of a certain Jack Sparrow - a man of great interest.

She hoped to strike a deal, but in all likelihood, she would meet an unpleasant end. Carina had always vowed to find her father or die trying, and if her fate was to be the latter then so be it.

For now, she languished in a dank, dark cell far below Roebuck’s deck, a small crack between two exterior planks granting her a sliver of a view to the outside world. By her calculations, they should have reached their destination by now, but all she could see through her tiny window was blue sea stretching miserably over the horizon. Perhaps trusting the inane ramblings of a traumatised madman had been folly after all? Either the triangle had never existed in the first place or it had inexplicably disappeared into the wind.

Resting her head against the cool, rusted bars of her second prison, Carina ran her fingers over the weathered cover of her journal and willed herself not to cry. You cannot give up now.

“Ship to the aft!”

The cry that came from the foredeck was loud enough to carry on the wind, bleeding down through the weathered boards of Roebuck’s hull and into her cell. Carina scrambled to her feet and pressed her face back against the window, eyes squinting for any sign of a ship on the horizon.

There!

A speck - no, more than a speck now, moving at unholy speed and on a direct trajectory to make contact with the Roebuck. An ominous stretch of stormy, black clouds rolled over its head, illuminated with great flashes forked lightning. Something about the ship appeared… off, and Carina felt an icy finger trace down her spine. It was travelling fast, too fast, with once-clean sails whipping torn and dirt-stained from a ruined mast.

Judging by the sudden frenzy of pounding footsteps overhead, she wasn’t the only one concerned by the sight. Pirates?

She barely had time to entertain the thought when the thunderous roar of cannon-fire sent her reeling back painfully against the cell door, hands clutched over her ears. The Roebuck had engaged.

‘Die trying’ it is then.

#✧ — starter #✧ — b: capitansalazar #✧ — c: Captain Salazar #{I hope this is okay! Let me know if you want me to make changes/would prefer another direction}#{and sorry it's so long! It's an issue I have writing starters - I promise follow ups will be way more reasonable xD}

12 notes · View notes

the-writers-bookshelf · 3 years

Note

For Fab Friday have a snippet of my skyrim fanfic i've been working on lately (and neglecting for a much longer time)

She held up a single hand for the dremora to stop as she did, and ignoring it’s curious look, she reached into one of the many pouches attached to her belt and pulled out a polished mahogany case. Flipping the lid open with her thumb revealed a deep blue sapphire swirling with faint traces of arcane energy in one slot, a vibrant gold topaz the color of sunlight through honey in another, a dark amethyst with tiny arcane symbols carved into each tiny facet, and finally an empty slot.

Closing the organic eye she still had, she reached up with her free hand to the ruby embedded in her otherwise empty eye socket, and with some coaxing of magic and with practiced fingers, she plucked it straight out of her skull, hissing under her breath at the familiar pain that came with switching every time, a pain she got used to a long time ago.

“Damn,” she grumbled, shaking her head slowly and blinking a few times to get used to the strange emptiness in her skull. It was funny the ways she forgot about the presence eyes could have until she plopped it out and the socket was left hollow instead. If she left it out for a while, she’d easily get used to the lack of presence again, but she had use for a different one now, and so she put the ruby back into the empty slot it belonged in before pulling the sapphire out.

Shifting where she stood, Jura subtly put the daedra lurking behind her into her remaining eye’s line of sight as she held the sapphire up to eye level. Even though the dremora was securely bound by her magic, that didn’t mean she trusted it. Only a fool would trust a daedra for any reason.

Betrayal, after all, was in their nature.

Without sparing the dremora a direct look, she tenderly shoved the sapphire into her empty socket, blue wisps of magicka swirling around her fingertips as she oh so carefully eased it in with magic, and though the unnatural pressure made her socket itch, she remained silent as she closed her eyes, clenching them shut to allow her mind time to get reacquainted with the enchantment etched into the stone.

When she opened her eyes, a subtle azure haze misted over her vision, both magical and natural, and through the stone walls of the cave, she could see the glowing outline of two sources of life. One stood straight and tall, and through her magic she could see each and every movement it made. She watched as it paced from side to side, arms outstretched wide and gesticulating like a madman, both pointing towards the other source of life and then to itself, as well as to something off to the side that she couldn’t see. Her magic easily picked up on its hostility, as whoever the living being was, its life gave off a glow of red, red like freshly spilt blood splattered against snow.

The other glowing life form, a vibrant, iridescent blue like the purest magicka, laid sprawled on the ground, as still as dead autumn leaves lining the bottom of a lake. The form didn’t stir in the slightest despite the other living being’s ranting, which Jura could hear herself as she crept closer to the lights, slinking through the stone halls as stealthily as she could when she was about as graceful as a drunk, one legged Nord wasted on mead and moonsugar.

She followed the inane rambling, something about the purity of blood and the honor of dying for such a cause, to a wooden door sectioning off part of the cave. Jura rolled her eyes so hard she thought the magical one might pop right out of her skull.

A door. Really? Like that’s actually going to do much? It doesn’t even have a lock on it! No matter how ridiculous it seemed some necromancers could be, someway, somehow another one always managed to catch her completely off guard by some of the inane ideas they’d come up with to try and protect themselves.

“A wooden door.” Jura scoffed under her breath, lips pulling back into a quiet snarl as she reared her fist back, golden flames springing to life in her palm. “As if that’s enough to stop me.”

This is...SO awesome!!! I know absolutely nothing about Skyrim but this sucked me in RIGHT from the start and held my attention the whole way!! Fantastic job!!! Keep chipping away at it! You're doing GREAT! :D

#asks #fab friday writers #thecrackleofembers

4 notes · View notes

maverick-werewolf · 5 years

Text

Random Werewolf Fact #45 - When Werewolves Went Rabid (Part 2)

Now to conclude that werewolf fact from last week. Let’s get started, shall we?

Be sure to read Part 1 here!

We’ve talked about how werewolves were starting to be seen as crazy people in the Early Modern period. Over time, this changed from crazy people who need help into crazy evil people.

The change was gradual. First we had ones like Thies, who was covered in another werewolf fact, who was another example of werewolves being written off as someone with hallucinations. This wasn’t always the case; plenty of people still believed werewolves were actual people turning into actual wolves.

Over time, we also see cases where criminals are being called “werewolves” for their crimes, whether they claim to be or not. A case in point is how lots of Templars were accused of being werewolves, when the Pope suddenly decided he didn’t want the Templars around anymore. They were killed for this “crime.” (Which is another example, too, of how not all places, religions, and local governments stopped believing in werewolves; it varied wildly.)

Most likely the single biggest influence on how the modern concept of the insane werewolf came to be so popular today, though, were scholars - namely the scholars we’re still using in werewolf studies today.

Why? Because werewolf scholars went back and - like is the case for so many legends, so many creatures - threw a very wide net in search of “werewolf legends.” They branded assorted madmen trials as “werewolf trials” even though they really had nothing to do with werewolves at all.

So what did writers turn to when they started writing about werewolves? All the latest articles, books, and research. What did they find? What did Curt Siodmak find when he started reading anything about werewolves?

He found scholars talking about madmen. What did he do? He made a madman werewolf. A werewolf who turns into a crazy monster - and who spreads a disease. (More on that in the link.)

We also have the concept of people, secular and religious, studying werewolf legends through the lens of reality. At this point in time, in the 1800s and early to mid 1900s, we have two sides pulling in opposite directions, with Sabine Baring-Gould and Montague Summers heading the charges.

These two sides had very different arguments, but they each came to the same conclusion: all werewolf legends up to this point are irrelevant lies that should be ignored. They were false. Well, of course they were. But not because of the logical reason: people don’t really go around turning into animals or animal-people. So, then, why?

If you ask the secular side, because they were silly myths and we should only be looking at current werewolf beliefs in order to figure out why people ever had such ridiculous concepts.

If you ask the religious side, because werewolves are very real but they are all pure evil Satanic monsters that need to be destroyed. (Or, in some cases, people who need help, but I am mostly going off Montague Summers’ work when I say that, as he was among the most influential scholars.)

However, neither side in this case was interested in studying and preserving all this folklore and myth for the purposes of literary study, to look at it through the lens of a study into human history and culture.

They only cared about their takes on it. They were academics with arguments. Did they help preserve some legends? Yes! Absolutely. Was that the takeaway for writers looking to tell werewolf stories, when they were trying to figure out how to write werewolves? Nope, because they put their academic spin on it.

How did things get worse? Easy.

Over time, wolves themselves - as in real wolves, not just werewolves from legend and/or the ones that some people during this time still believed in - came to be seen as “evil.” This was a massive shift in the West that’d been happening slowly over the decades, and it really took a final chokehold in the Early Modern period that resulted in many wolf deaths and extinctions (beginning around the late medieval period in Britain).

As a new modern civilization dictated that wolves and werewolves alike were evil and should all be wiped out - that they were “useless” beasts - we became stuck with entertainment media latching onto that, too. We ended up with evil wolves - and, likewise, evil werewolves, since it’s hard to have a werewolf without the wolf (although plenty of people today sure do work hard to achieve that).

And that is what we carried over into modern pop culture: these relatively recent beliefs about how werewolves are evil horrible demonic man-eating (more on the man-eating thing later, too! That is an important element of werewolves and I’ll address the folklore in regard to that) monsters that lose control when they turn and will rip and tear the countryside and are generally terrible oh no. That’s also why wolves in Japan went extinct: Western civilization came in and told them ew these horrible creatures you’ve been coexisting with are terrible and should be destroyed, and lots of other things happened from there (very long story; I can recommend a few books on the topic).

Which is why, if you ask me, these always evil and terrible portrayals of wolves and werewolves in media really need to change.

I could get all into that and talk your ears off (talk your eyeballs out, since this is text?) about how these negative portrayals talk up negative stereotypes that only serve to help hurt very real, very alive, very majestic and very shy wolves, but another time, perhaps.

Oh and werewolves in folklore were never a disease, either. The madness thing fed into the disease concept, as I detailed in a previous fact that I already linked to in this post, but here it is again.

You can probably tell I could really really go on about this topic! This was a big central point - maybe the biggest central point, or at least certainly one of them - in my thesis. Hopefully this was usefully informative instead of just inane ramblings! I have a super academic-sounding, cold version full of citations, too.

(If you like my werewolf blog, be sure to check out my other stuff!

Patreon --- YouTube --- Wulfgard --- Werewolf Fact Masterlist --- Twitter)

#werewolf #werewolves #folklore #random werewolf fact #lycanthropy #lycanthrope #lycanthropes #werewolf wednesday #werewolfwednesday

64 notes · View notes