Part 24: https://www.reddit.com/Viidith22/comments/13taoss/my_roommate_is_slenderman_part_24_revised/
(Terry)
It had been a day or so and I hadn’t gotten a response from Megami. There are spurts where we don’t talk, she tends to be pretty accident-prone with electronics. Sometimes the frequency she’s singing goes haywire and fries it. But it had been a good five months or so since we last spoke. Taking a shot in the dark, I called Rachel.
“What is it, Terry?” She grunted, “I’m a little busy.”
“I need to talk to Megami, but she’s been MIA since the whole ‘Maerod’ situation.” My mind shot back to what Jones had told me, to watch out for “her,” momentarily questioning whether or not Dexter’s team had been dumb enough to keep her alive.
There was a pause, the line was silent. Then, a sigh, “Actually, I’ve had the same problem. I figured she just broke another phone, or was pissed at me for… Well, I’ll keep an ear out and let you know if I hear anything. What do you need her for?” She grunted again.
“Small mission.”
“Joseph?”
“Yeah.”
The line went silent again, then an exasperated sigh, “Good luck, be sure to bring The Doctor with you. You know how you can get.”
A flush of anger pulsed through me, but I took a deep breath, “Sure.”
She shrieked, “Oh shit!” The call ended.
I thought over the list of everyone, wondering what I was gonna do. I had actually intended to have Doc and Megami be the last two after Smudge, no one else would really work. Chad wasn’t right for the type of incognito mission we were doing, Abraham wasn’t available, Rachel and Sepratine just didn’t quite mesh with what we were doing, Megami was supposed to be the last one to fill out the party. I mulled it over, but I still owed David, the huuldefolk, a favor from the Maerod raid. I would’ve called Jacob, but he was in another country doing who knows what.
My phone rang as I stood, leaning against the couch, “Jones, something wrong?”
He chuckled, “Not in the least. You got your group together?”
“We’re one short.”
“No problem, bring everyone by tonight, we need to prepare on our end, and Dexter sent us a bit of backup.” He hung up.
I called up Doc and Smudge, telling them to be at my place and ready by the time dusk rolled around. Heading to the bathroom I downed my meds, trying to shake off a weird feeling that slowly crept up on me. As if something was going to happen when we got there. It was more than just a bad feeling, but a conviction, I knew something would happen, and it made me uncomfortable. One of the pills I took was supposed to ease it, but when it got that bad, it meant my brain had already determined some kind of outcome. It’s not a superpower or anything, more like enhanced intuition. It only happens when my brain has the information to go off of. But there’s a disconnect between my conscious and subconscious, so whenever something like that happens, I just have to wait for it to come to fruition.
-----------------------------------------
Stepping into the office, I looked around, “Where’s the new guy?”
Xavier looked up, baffled at the sight. Then Jones stood, walking over to greet us, the bags under his eyes less defined, “He’s in the back getting himself something to eat. Smudge, nice to see you again, you haven’t aged a day.” Smudge chuckled at that, “You must be The famous Doctor, I want to thank you for coming. I’m sure you’re a busy man.” He outstretched his hand, but Doc just gestured between Jones and me.
“You see, that’s how you should greet me. You really ought to get a notepad out, you might learn a thing or two about how to respect your elders.”
“If I remember correctly, I’m about 2,000 years your senior. When did you start your… questionable medical practices again? 16th, 17th century?”
Doc ignored me, angrily shaking Jones’s hand, “Nice to meet you, lad! Glad to hear somebody thinks highly of me, even if it is a meager thinskin.”
“Me and my dislocated fingers thank you for that.” As he brought his hand back, Jones uncomfortably pushed his fingers back into their sockets one by one. “So, who were you planning on bringing? You said there was going to be another?”
“Right, had my sights set on a Siren, she’s pretty skilled and can be silent when the occasion arises. But I couldn’t get ahold of her.” I paused, “Actually, you’ve got your ear to the ground, you heard anything about someone named Megami? It’s been a few months since we talked, I’m kinda worried.”
Jones was a mannequin, despite trying to seem calm, his eyes flicked to Xavier before shooting back to us. He leaned against his desk, reaching for his coffee mug several times, not looking away from us, before finally grabbing it, and raising it to his mouth.
I stared hard at Xavier, a few moments later, he cracked, “Look it was a life or death sit–”
My legs tightened, I could feel the meds pushing to the side as I grew, stepping over to him in two long strides. He threw out his hearing aid, grasping his one intact ear as he held himself up with his free hand on the desk, “You killed Megami! Tell me why I shouldn’t give you the same treatment!” Something grasped my waist, then each of my legs. They were trying to push me back. When I released a tentacle to shoot Xavier through the head, I felt a prick stab into it. I fell limp, shrinking back down instantaneously.
Much calmer, I looked at my surroundings, Doc stood over me, making sure I was fine, Smudge looked between Xavier and me, wondering how he should react. Then I saw Xavier, Jones standing beside him, and on the other side of the desk, just across from us, stood the blonde buzzcut, and scarred musculature, of a Texan soldier. “Fucking Tucker.” I chuckled with disdain, “Of course.”
“Wish I had my H.O.P.S. but unfortunately it was destroyed along with the U.S.P.M. You’re one terrifying son of a bitch when I’m not in a full suit of armor, I’ll tell you what.” Looking close, I noticed he was wearing one of the older exosuits they used to wear. It was clean, but there were scuffs in the black paint job here and there.
“The U.S.P.M is just a bad fucking omen at this point.”
“Hey, we didn’t kill Jeff, and we didn’t kill Megami. So why don’tcha chill the fuck out.” Tucker crossed his arms, staring at me.
Smudge let out a jittery sigh, “You know, Jane’s death wasn’t necessarily the fault of Jeff.”
I looked at him, “Are you really going to side with the thinskins on this one?”
“Terry, behave yourself. We’re only here for Joseph’s sake. After we’re done you can go wipe out the US government. But we’re here for a reason. Doctor back me up here.”
“I’m neutral in this, I don’t care much for anyone.”
“And yet you’re here to help save Joseph.”
He sighed, “Joseph is okay I suppose. But I’m here because Terry gave me a deal on a pixie a month or so back.”
Smudge and Doc continued their back and forth as I stared at Xavier, he stood upright again, fixing the aid back into his ear, “I don’t blame you, Terry, I’d kill me too. I even did. But at least wait till this is over, yeah? I wanna slip in one last good deed if I can.” He blinked tears back as he put on a ski mask.
“When we’re done, I’ll thank you, but you better hope we never cross paths again.”
“I could say the same to you… I could.”
The air was still for a minute or so, even Doc and Smudge had stopped their bickering. “Well then.” Tucker smacked his hands together, making a metal clink, “Y’all ready to kick some shit in?”
“How long is the drive? I’ll need at least an hour to recover.”
Jones answered, “Hour and a half to two, you’ll be fine. We’ve got guns in the van, all suppressed. I had a mutual acquaintance of ours send us a care package yesterday. Regardless, I say we should all keep our blood inside our bodies.”
Tucker joined in, “Speaking of, I managed to scrounge the materials to make up some of those SIOM rounds. I left them in the van, along with the last resort.” He winked at me.
Jones nodded, “We should be good to go then, you guys oughtta join us in the van, less conspicuous.”
I nodded, “Yeah, that’d make the most sense. I’ll be taking the lead when we get there though. Which reminds me, you never sent me the schematics.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll send them over. Are you gonna have enough time to put a plan together?”
“Yeah, I already know how we’ll follow into the building. I was thinking Tucker at first, but without his suit, he’s basically just a liability.”
He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, we’ll see about that one.”
-----------------------------
As the van slowed, Tucker pulled on his combat gloves. He was decked out in full gear that I hadn’t really noticed till we got in the van. A flexible vest that was essentially a skin-tight long-sleeve shirt, meeting his wrists. His pants were tight and were made of the same fabric as his shirt.
We came to a complete stop as he slung his rifle around, clicking off the safety on his Bizon. Doc clapped his book shut, and Smudge stood.
“Alright, everyone up, we need to get to the gun cases.” Jones had come back through a door-sized hole connecting the back of the van to the front. He’d already pulled his mask over his face, the only color that came from him was his remaining eye and parts of his lips, only revealed by small, cut strips in the fabric.
We stood, sidestepping so he could get to the guns behind the seats. One by one we filed out the back.
Xavier hopped out the back, followed by Jones who stared at Tucker for a moment, “Did you uh… Did you put a new scope on this?” He raised his PS90 which held an ACOG and a suppressor.
“Oh yeah, it’s kinda like a thermal scope. But instead of heat it picks up… well I don’t actually know. But you should be able to see anything invisible or not.” Xavier inspected his own gun, “Sorry guy, I only had enough for Jones and me. You should be fine, but just cause you don’t got a fancy scope don’t mean you can go missing your shots. Them rounds’re expensive as hell.”
“Well, let’s get going, I’ve got the map down, I know how to get there. Second floor of their basement has the data. Unfortunately, we have no idea what security looks like, so we have to be cautious if we intend to stay hidden.”
Tucker spoke, “Just to be clear, you’re upfront, Jones is behind you, then the Doctor, then Xavier with me covering our asses.”
“Smudge is behind Doc, and while I’d like to have Xavier in the back–”
Xavier rolled his eyes, “Well I’d like to have you in back.”
Tucker sighed, “Anyhow, guess it works. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll have a huuldefolk I can put some rounds through. Release some of this tension.” He shot his gaze between Xavier and me.
“Well let’s head out. Smudge, you’ll be able to keep the cameras down right?”
“Based on what you said about their layout I should be able to, but I won’t be able to keep us hidden from the perception of the guards once we’re inside. There are far too many electronics I need to keep down so if we run into anyone inside the building, we need to kill them and hide their bodies to avoid being caught. I can’t keep the entire building down, so I can’t stop them from setting off an alarm if we miss anyone.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Tucker lifted his gun.
“Let’s hope those sights are as powerful as you say.”
Before long, we were on our way. We’d parked some distance out so as to not draw any attention. Taking the lead, the only noise I could hear was the occasional snapping of twigs as we walked through a forested area. Despite having come in contact with the exoskeleton previously, it still surprised me how stealthy Tucker could be wearing it.
Breaching the treeline, I held up my hand. Surrounded by a gravel driveway stood a three-story tall modern office-style building. Men patrolled around the lot, all wearing tactical gear. Focusing on the shadows, I could tell there were hidden guards as well, those ones were wearing light, flexible clothing and minimal if any weapons.
“Smudge,” I whispered, waving him up with two fingers.
“Yes.” As he looked out, he seemed to understand, “This will be a tough one if they aren’t all humans. Seems like there are about 30 guards that may see us. If even one of them is around a five, I won’t be able to blind all of them from our presence. If Rachel were here we’d be able to determine such a thing, unfortunately, we don’t have her spiritual sense.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Tucker whispered from behind us.
“What kind of bullshit caused you to break formation without my asking.”
“As I said, these scopes can sense alternative forms of energy. I have a few frames of reference, I know what civies look like through this thing. Smudge, if you can point out all the hidden ones, I’ll be able to tell you what we’re dealing with.”
Smudge looked at me, then shrugged, “Alright, if you’re certain.”
---------------------------
“We’re good to go then? That was the last one?”
“So it would seem, that scope of yours ought to be reliable.”
“If we don’t get by, you have my full permission to do whatever you want to Xavier.”
Jones butted in, “I believe that’s up for me to decide. I still need him around.”
Smudge whispered at a frequency that’d set dogs off, “Enough bickering, you’re worse than when I have to babysit Chad and Rachel. Everyone get in formation, it’s easiest on me if we go in single file.” Getting back into position, he spoke up, “Sorry Terry, I know you’re leading, but, well you get it.”
I nodded back to him, “Everyone ready? No piss breaks past this point. If you have cold feet, just head back to the van.” I looked back to Xavier, to which he flipped me off, signaling me to start.
I wasn’t worried about the situation until we got about ten feet from the door. One of the two guards standing beside it looked over at us. I signaled everyone to stop, and the guy continued to stare. A few moments later, he shrugged, facing forward again, and we continued on through the door.
There was no one in the immediate vicinity, though there were several cameras pointed toward us, blinking.
Smudge said one word as he took a deep breath, “Break.”
Nodding, I signaled for the three of us up front to take the right wall, and the other three to take the left.
------------------------------
Once Smudge caught his breath, he stood back up, and we all got back into formation, right as a guard turned the corner. I shot a tentacle out, grabbing him by the throat and snapping his neck, all while bringing him closer so we could hide the body.
That was when an alarm went off, “FUCK! Keep the humans hidden, Doc and I can handle ourselves.” My brain froze time, trying to figure out what happened. Eventually, it clicked, heart monitors, a precaution not even Maerod took.
“Leave me out of it Smudge, I can handle myself too. You need all the focus you can get.” Tucker stepped up, aiming down sights.
The door bashed open before I could get my tentacles out. Turning, Tucker already faced the door, dropping people in one to two rounds a piece.
Turning back toward the dead body, I headed on, alarms blaring overhead. Bodies came and went. Despite how badly we’d apparently messed up the plan, I knew where the database was, and I refused to let anyone stand between me and it.
Each step I took was further than the last, “KEEP YOURSELVES SAFE, I’M GOING FURTHER IN!”
“Not without me you’re not!” Metal clattering rang out, “IMBECILE!” Doc caught up to me as I flung several bodies out of the way.
“Watch where you’re throwin’ em!” Tucker yelled out, “We shouldn’t split up!”
I was already at the staircase making my way down when something smacked across my face. Turning to my right, I saw a lanky man with his hands in his pockets. He was slouched as if bored.
“FINE, GO DOWN, I’LL MEET YOU THERE!” Swinging a tentacle at him, he made a popping motion with his mouth, the limb slammed into a wall. Shooting them all at him, he blew air out in a circle, then at me directly, lunging at me as he threw me off balance. He kicked me in the chin, then down on my head, knocking me to a knee. A second later I was thrown into the air, then to the ground.
“Damn man, you look like you could use a hand.” The strange man stood over me, offering me his right.
I took it, spinning him around, snapping his arm, and flinging him against the wall, where lay motionless. I stabbed him in the head, then the heart just to be safe. Scoffing at his arrogance, I headed down the stairway.
When I got down to the second basement floor, there were already several dead bodies strewn about. Everyone was hiding behind metal tables. Tucker injected Doc with something, sitting beside them was a heaving Smudge.
I put my tentacles away, and a sudden burst of gunfire came from the back of the wide-open office room. A few bullets hit me, but I was already too tall, they crumpled on impact.
“THEY GET AHOLD OF YOUR FORMULA!?”
“Fuck that’s loud, yeah, there was a leak a few months back! Doc ain’t doin’ so hot!”
“That’s, The Doctor, to, you.” He spoke each word with individual breaths.
Walking toward the guards, they panicked. With a thud hitting my chest, one of the men screamed, “We need you up here!” Looking down I found a pinless grenade, which I kicked, knocking one of the men unconscious. Bodies tumbled over one another as it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere. A few pieces stuck in my face, but I headed straight for the room.
“YOU’LL WANT TO GET BACK! SOMEONE IS COMING FROM DOW–” The ground gave out from under me, falling a few floors, I was kicked into a wall in a dark room, aside from the hole. Landing on my feet, I looked around, rubbing my side. I felt something wet, where I’d been hit. Then I saw who it was. A scaly humanoid, each scale tipped with a tinted blue, serrated prong. His shadow fluctuated, then its eyes sprung open, and a black mist shot me. I blocked with my tentacles, but they were cheese to a grater.
“Kenet himself breaking in here? Must think you’re hot shit!”
I grunted, springing off the wall, using a shredded tentacle to slam the scaly man with a table. Sure enough, the mist formed into a shadow-walker, same as Jacob. I slammed my fist into his face before he could react.
“I NEED SOME LIGHT DOWN HERE!”
But the scaled man already rebounded, swinging his pronged fist at my face. I managed to block with my arm, but it was getting stiff.
“DOC, I NEED YOU!”
I heard Tucker to my left, “He’s still recovering, close your eyes!”
Before I could tell him I couldn’t close my face, a clinking sounded, and I saw a small metal canister roll into view. A blinding light took over, banging nine times, each followed by a flash. Then several gunshots.
Accepting the pain to come, I grabbed the scaled man, flinging him into the ceiling, dazing him. The shadow-walker was already dead on the ground, three bullet holes planted in his skull.
“NICELY DONE!”
“Got any weaknesses on the other one? Never seen anything like him.”
“SKIN TRANSFORMATION, WE MUST WEAR HIM DOWN!”
“Lovely.”
The prongs tipping his scales had already shrunk considerably. Stumbling to his feet, he glanced down at the motionless skinwalker, “Goddamn.” His scales evaporated, leaving behind a hollow man, standing still, “Ju–”
Tucker put a bullet right between his eyes, “Didn’t have to ask buddy.”
As we turned to head back up the stairs, a thud reverberated from behind us. Turning back, Smudge lay, face first, and uncovered. He wore a full-body outfit ensuring no skin was revealed, but my concern was on whatever had dropped him down. Aside from the alarms, it was eerily silent. They landed on Smudge, hopping off, and kicking him into the wall.
The black suit was almost a fabric, but it was certainly mechanical. Parts at joints stuck out slightly, giving him mobility along with full body protection. At his neck, the material fluctuated, phase shifting at the slightest movement. The entire front of his helmet was a velvet red visor, the changed to a light blue when the light reflected just right. He had several weapons littering his body, including two hook swords, an unknown kind of pistol, a pump action shotgun, and a few others; all of which were as black as his armor.
I had to lean my head and chest down to avoid hitting the ceiling. I couldn’t move anymore, and Tucker looked a little nervous, “DOC! YOU ALIVE!?”
A German accent replied with a chuckle, “He was already dead.”
“Yeah, right.” Tucker said, “What’re you waitin’ for big guy?”
Shooting out my back, I held the odd man at tentacle point, Tucker readied his carbine, and the man retrieved his hook blades.
“Come, let me get this over with.”
Tucker stammered, “B-be careful.” He swapped magazines, “This guy is radiating like a human.” He fired a round, I felt it slide between two tentacles, and as it hit the man in the visor, an explosion errupted. I engaged, picking the man up by the leg, but before I could fling him, pain shot through it, the tip was sliced off. Tucker fired two more rounds, both exploding as they met their target, filling the room with a cloudy haze. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to move, but I felt like a turtle.
Suddenly, my leg ripped up, I held in place, stabilizing with a few tentacles, then smashed where a crack had formed on his visor, but he swung his other blade down, cutting it in half. A rapid succession of explosions slowly knocked the man back, and for the first time, he looked at Tucker, throwing one of the hookblades at him, it was angled for his face, but he snatched it mid air, then lunged at the man. He slammed the blade down on his shoulder, spinning it around and hooking the back of his arm, yanking him in, Tucker punched full force. In an instant, Tucker was against the wall, falling face first into the tile floor, leaving ceramic to crack the area around him.
The man chopped the last of my tentacles down as he approached me. When they were practically useless, he put the remaining blade away, pulling out the pump action shotgun. He shot me in the face six times before throwing the gun to his side. A small stream of black ooze dripped down my chin, and I had a hard time seeing anything in front of me.
“Damn, you’re one tough fucker, I’ll give that much.”
Pulling out his pistol, he proceeded to unload every round into my forehead, despite being ordinary metal, something about them kicked like a mule. When that gun was out, he dropped it, looking to his right, seeing where Tucker had dropped his gun.
“I wonder, how will you hold against explosive rounds? Not well?”
As he picked it up, I felt something prick my back, a familiar sensation made its way toward my heart, like organic WD-4D.
“You’re awfully quiet over there. Lost will to fight?”
“You’re an asshole!”
“Please, stop, I’ll shit myself.” He let out an antagonizing laugh, “You’re strong, but you’ve too much a stiffy going on there.” He let off a round into my face, nearly knocking me down, but I staggered just enough to stay in place.
“Wow, this has some nice kick to it, perhaps I’ll join the military after this.” He shot three more into my face, with each explosion, my skin peeled away just that much more, my brain rattled, but my limbs loosened.
By the fourth round, I regained some mobility, walking toward him. He stepped back, switching the gun to burst fire. I maneuvered around three bursts, only getting hit three times, each one in my torso. Those explosions seemed to boost the Doc’s serum, and I was able to grab the man by the head, crushing his visor with the palm of my hand. “You rely too much on your gadgets and luck. Neither will get you out of this.”
The helmet cracked, and blades shot out, slicing my fingers off. He pulled his remaining hook blade and slid under me. A sharp pain hit the back of my skull, then a cracking reverberated through my head. A metal clattering followed, and when I turned, the man stood there, shocked. He lunged back, throwing several kunai at my face, but I ducked them. With my full range of motion returned, I slung one of the tables at him, flinging him into a wall front-first.
Walking over to where he’d dropped Tucker’s rifle, I snagged it, and walked over to the man. He staggered back to his feet, a broken nose and a shard of ceramic sticking out of his eye. I held the gun to his forehead and fired, his head bursting like a pipe bomb.
I stumbled over to Tucker, dropping his gun beside him, and dropping to one knee. I smacked him in the face a few times, “You still alive?”
He rolled onto his side, “Kinda wish I wasn’t.” His face was covered in small cuts from the ceramic tiles, “Wish I’d had my Odyr suit, couldda kicked his ass. Fuckin hell what a dick.”
I sat beside him, “Hopefully he was their last line of defense, I think your gun gave me a concussion or something.” The room spun, my stomach on a Ferris wheel.
“Wow, the Doctor was right.”
I turned to the stairway, Xavier held Jones’s arm around his neck, helping him stand, “What happened, is Doc really dead?”
Tucker staggered his way to a standing position, “Nah, that stuff I gave him slows heart rate. He was too stupid to check for a full minute. He should still be alive, don’t worry.”
“And you two?”
Jones cleared his throat, “Smudge hid us, but he was worn down.”
Hearing that, I turned back to see Smudge, still laying flat. I stood, stumbling over to him, checking his pulse. It took a bit, but eventually, I felt a weak heartbeat. “DOC, YOU ALIVE UP THERE!?”
“I suppose!” He groaned.
“WE NEED YOU DOWN HERE! SMUDGE IS IN BAD SHAPE!”
A faint hint of a sigh made its way down the hole. I picked Smudge up, and moments later, Doc landed on the ground, a leg giving out from under him.
------------------------------------------
Some time passed, and we patched ourselves up as best we could before heading back up to the proper floor. Jones was able to walk on his own, but his right leg was in bad shape. I carried Smudge on my back, and despite Tucker’s several broken bones, he was walking just fine, occasionally stumbling from a torn tendon. As far as Doc went, the only sign he showed he was injured was his panting. Fortunately, we never ran into anyone else aside from the odd straggler, and we managed to grab the data we needed.
With the stressors passed, we laughed and joked, trying to bring ourselves back down from the adrenaline high. Exiting the building, I spoke up, “Xavier, I’m not going to forgive you, but I will thank you.”
He looked over at me, “To be fair, it was the Doctor’s idea.”
“That’s why I’m not forgiving you, anyone could’ve done it.”
“Oh, fair enough. Guess you could’ve done it too aye Doc?”
“That’s Doctor.” He let out an exhausted sigh, “In theory, but by the time I got around to it, who knows if Terry would still be alive. For a thin-skin, you did well.”
That’s when a limo pulled up through the gravel headed right for us, stopping just in time to not hit us, “Doc, wake Smudge, have him get you guys out of here. NOW!” I set him on the ground behind me.
“Well, I certainly hope he’s feeling up to it.”
“If not, you guys need to run.”
The back door opened, and a man in a suit stepped out. Pulling off his glasses, he tossed them in the back seat before closing the door and signaling the driver to leave. They couldn’t get away fast enough.
“Terry, son of Charles, I was under the impression you wouldn’t get involved with us. But after the Maerod incident, we decided we should implement additional security measures. Seems we should’ve invested more heavily into that. What was your intent here? If you had just called on Charles and told him about us, I’m certain he could’ve turned the entire building to mist.”
“If you know that, why’d you come to see for yourself, you can’t kill him. Or are you really that arrogant?”
The man laughed, “Because the alarm is still going off. If he had come, there would be no signal sending the alarm. You’re strong sure, but even three assassins managed to do this to you. Hence the difference between you mortals and us gods.”
“Didn’t realize living for 3000 years classified me as mortal.”
“You know, it’s interesting. Even after thousands of years, some still feel the need to attach themselves to this world. It’s as if they’re unaware of the insignificance of this world, this solar system, galaxy, supercluster, hell this universe! If you will live to see it all end, then what’s this part of it matter? They get animals to give themselves more meaning, call them pets. They feed the animal, water them, domesticate them, protect them. But they also prevent them from living in their natural habitat. Pulling the animal from where it belongs to give themselves a sense of purpose, it’s selfish wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure, I guess in a nihilistic sense.”
“So why are you here? To retrieve your pet? As I’ve said, there’s a transmitter in there, I saw what you pulled. Data on where your pet is. Why not just let him live in his terrarium?”
“He’s one of us now.”
“Due to your interference.”
“What are you really doing here!?”
“That’s the question of the day is it not? Quite frankly, I think Maerod was right to kill her. You’re far too attached to this world, though I suppose you are still a mere child. You could be so much more wise, and yet you refuse to allow it, you latch onto what’s been lost when you could focus on what you could have.”
“Sounds to me like you’re not quite past your own insignificance.”
He sneered, “Are you certain that’s your final answer?”
“I guess so.”
“Gods, the apple really does fall right to the roots.” The grass around him shriveled to dust when he charged me. Time stopped as the gleam in his eyes froze me, each fist pummeling me to the dirt, creating a deeper crater with each fist.
Then I was back in place, so was he. I’d never felt it so strong before, but I couldn’t deny the reality, he would kill me. Unlike Maerod, that man had absolute control over his soul, a feat all my attempts couldn’t achieve. All I could do was hold him off until I had an opportunity to slip out of his perception.
The grass around him slowly disintegrated, ready for his lunge, I leaped into the air, grabbing him mid-air with my tentacles and throwing him full force into the building. I sprung myself to the forest, latching onto a branch and engrossing myself in the tree, doing what I could to suck as much energy out. It wasn’t long before I was forced out. The tree crumbled to dust and I lept from it, charging the man with what little extra energy I had. He stood still, tanking four punches to his face. He kicked me back, nothing but a streak of blood running down his nose.
I lunged back searching for another tree. I found one a ways back, flinging myself at it, I fell into it and absorbed the tree’s power. I forced myself and found I could suck it out of other nearby trees. Until I was once again forced out, the trees crumbling in decayed mass, “You’ve gotten a bit stronger, Charles must be so proud.”
“What are you trying to achieve? Is losing your HQ really that important?”
He stepped toward me casually, “The same thing Maerod was trying to achieve, and really all the other gods in this disoriented country. However, no, killing you isn’t punishment for the damages, it’s for the audacity it took for you to do it. Entering my domain and destroying my primary facility? That takes balls, unfortunately, the rest was only a few inches.”
I tried to leap back again to gain a foothold, but all nearby trees crumpled to dust. Seeing no other way, I charged him again, but just as I came face to face, I spun and sidestepped, launching a single tentacle for the back of his heart, but on impact, it turned to dust.
“Unfortunately, the rest of you won’t be so easy to get rid of.” He turned, jumping, and once again, I met his bloodthirsty gaze. My skull cracked on impact, and when my head hit the dirt, a crater was left behind. He stood over me, “I’m gonna be on his shitlist for this one, but really, it’ll be worth it.” He pointed a finger gun at my head, and as the darkness closed in, three gunshots followed by a familiar light filled my senses, and when I could see again, his head was missing, the body still standing up-right, three bullet holes oozing blood at different angles...
I staggered to my feet, adrenaline keeping me awake. I looked around, seeing everyone but Smudge scattered around, “RUN! HE’S GONNA BLOW JUST FUCKING RUN!” I used my tentacles to move, sticking them in the ground and launching myself, then staggering to my feet. I headed in the direction the van was in, and a few seconds later, an intense blue light erupted from behind me, the shockwave hitting immediately after.
Part 26: Coming Soon!

<< < >
Then, Guy knew nobody at the frat party. Unfamiliar faces, bored and unwelcoming. The crowd, once bubbling, sloshing, against the walls, had congealed now into little cliques. On the sofas, and sitting on the steps of the staircase, and lounging on the carpet. Gossiping in little whispers that were drowned out by the dully thudding music.
His cup was empty and he was very nearly sober again as he bumped through. It was 1:30 a.m.
Between that and 2:00, he’d spent his time fruitlessly fucking around with the beer dispenser he’d found at the bar. It had so many buttons!
How hard could it have been to design the thing so that I don’t need a rocket science degree to get drunk? He wondered, staring again.
And a few chairs down the bar from him, the brown-skinned boy with the fluffy woolly hair caught him.
“Hey,” he said, getting up, walking towards Guy. He pulled his left hand out of his leather jacket and hit a complicated sequence on the device.
Guy stared wide-eyed as the boy filled a pitcher with the fuzzy golden stuff, and slid it over to him. Then he grabbed one for himself.
“Cool?” His voice smooth as milk. He turned to go back to his seat.
“Uh, thank you,” Guy said to stop him. “I guess I must seem pretty dumb.”
He turned around, leaned on the bar in one fluid motion. “Everyone has to be taught.” He was very close, resting on his elbow. His fluffy hair falling delicately into his face above his eyebrow. Close enough, and Guy could tell that he was a little tipsy too. It was 2:00 am after all.
And the “bar” was actually in the frat’s big spacious kitchen. Frills and balloons stuck to the ceiling. A couple guys were stone-cold passed out next to the oven. And who knew what was in these drinks?
“You look like I know you,” he said; “How long you been on campus?”
Guy side-stepped the question. “I get that a lot, actually. I’ve got an easy-to-recognize face.”
“That’s it. We take CHM-201 together.”
He was right. It was why Guy had been staring. He recognized him too. The boy was popular.
Guy wasn’t. He was familiar.
“Really?” Guy stared into his drink. He was already halfway through the pitcher.
“Yeah, I never forget a face,” the boy said, grinning. “Fred. Fred Alia.” He had slender, delicate, fingers that were warm anyway to touch when he reached out for a handshake.
All around them, the frat party continued to wind down. The music coming from the speakers upstairs had started to dim.
“I’m Guy,” Guy said, and before he could stop himself, he added: “And actually, I’m the secret identity of the Green Lantern.”
Fred stared. Then he burst out laughing. His lips creased his skin against a lean chiseled jaw. “Oh, right. Ginger humor.” He pointed at Guy’s hair. “That’s a good one. You do that a lot?”
Guy—
“Hey! Fred!” A statuesque girl, lavishly draped in a shimmering black dress with almost no backside, strutted barefoot into the kitchen. “I wanna go.” She had large stunning eyes, tired now. A small line of make-up ran from the mascara around one, down the steep angle of her cheek.
“Coming babe,” Fred replied, winking at her. “I’ll see you in CHM-201, Guy, “the Green Lantern”,” he said, smirking. Then he whispered: “Till then, I’ll try and keep your secret.”
And Guy was left to be alone at the bar. It was back to the beer in his pitcher, the stupid booze machine that he couldn’t work, the setting EDM wafting down from upstairs, the snoring of the frat boys. He knew nobody at the party.

GREEN LANTERN.

Issue 58.

“As it was.”

I: “Sorry for the time skip.”
Soon, the thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades consumed Mace’s hearing and drowned out the roiling river beneath. They sliced through just above the water, beneath matte-black storm clouds, and Mace was distracted. His thoughts flew too, frantic again, searching, searching, for his daughter.
Powerful bolts of electricity flowed from the matte-black and struck the churning waters. The chopper rattled as they approached StoneGate Super Maximum-Security Federal Penitentiary where the man was being held, who had kidnapped his daughter, who had threatened to kill her on live television, who was responsible for the largest single instance of civilian gun violence in the history of the United States.
His fingers trembled along to the chopper’s thump-thump tune. His Dot was safe. He'd gotten her back. Now he had Soranik to watch her 24/7 at his new flat in Coast City. But this was the furthest he’d been from her since that day.
The chopper banked, and its rotors strained through the weather, thmp-thmp-thmp-thmp.
Thmp-thmp-thmp-thmp-thmp! in Mace’s head, as he was herded through the deserted maze of dark mildewed hallways inside StoneGate.
Soon he was in the interview room, his hair and the top-half of his shirt still wet from the rain. He sat on a stool and faced a pane of reinforced glass, several inches thick, that peered into another cubicle.
The door opened. Mace caught his breath. They wheeled the man in backwards, strapped upright, arms strait-jacketed, chained to a steel man-hanger. Wrangled as a wild animal.
He was literally muzzled.
Something, crackling, crawled down Mace’s spin. And it was the most violent shiver.
”If you are justice,” the man song-sang, hoarse, bitter, broken, muffled, as they gradually spun him around to face the glass; ”what is the price for your black eye?”
His face was brutal. A cut-up, pulped, mess. The skin around his left eye, swollen shut, was a sickening green-purple mix that was oozing black liquid. The dreads of his hair were tatters now, draggledly cut short in places.
He fixed a bored stare at Mace. All the sound was the thmp-thmp-thmp- of his racing heart, and the rattling of chain, and the shuffling of footsteps and the door sliding shut.
They were alone.
“Good to see you,” the man taunted.
All that lit the room were burnt-out florescent tubes on either side of the grime-coated glass. It was a dim, sickly, green. It was rank. Something had died here before.
“Can you… can you name the guards?” Mace asked at last. The quake in his voice surprised him. As did the firmness it failed to undercut. “Who’s been hurting you in here?”
The man stared again. He was fighting to keep that straight face. Mace knew this watching his brows shiver. As his chest heaved faster, erratically. When a tear ran down the discoloration on his face.
Mace felt it too. It was all there was to feel in this place, StoneGate. It was despair from the very pit of hell. “William.” He leaned at the glass. “Bill?”
Dutiful, the fluorescents’ buzzing filled the hollow of what became their silences. Mace watched the glass, waiting. His own faint, muddy, reflection superimposed over this image of the gag-wrangled man across from him.
“Hello… friend. That’s not… my name… anymore.” Each word bore a specially silent, creeping, anguish. Simmering beneath the muzzle they’d bolted onto him.
“Will you answer me if I call you Black Hand?”
“If you ask the right questions,” Hand responded. Then, chained to the man-hangar, bruised and bloodied and hopeless, he winked.
This was the first of their meetings.

“--who will be… America’s Next Top Model?” #### ”—these Aliens! Extra Terrestials. Aren’t you tired?” #### ”Kick Buttowski returns this Saturday on Disney XD!” #### ”Welcome back to the Late Glorious Show with G Godfrey!” # ”Today, folks. The alien drug menace!” [Applause] #### “Several newly reported sightings of little bearded grey men, and what that might mean for your small children.” #### Aliens— ET!— Alien bastards— #### Drugs, racketeering, illegal arms-- ### Get off our planet!

II. “METRO.”
Igor-1 drove. His sister, Nikita, who was call-signed Mantle-2, rode shotgun. Quarterback-3 sat at the back rechecking his weapon, a Beretta 92FS.
“Mask up,” -1 said.
-3 strapped on an N95, and pulled the hood of his sweater up so that it cast a shadow over his sunglasses. Nikita fitted a blonde wig over her hair and finished up the rest of her make-up. It was a garish swirling mess of blue and purple and glitter. No one would recognize her.
“Alright,” the voice on the comm whispered into their ears. “3. 2. 1… sync.”
With a leather-gloved finger, as did Igor-1 and Mantle-2, -3 pinched the button on his watch. Three beeps in unison.
It was noon. They cruised past 37th and 5th, and Igor stopped. “You’re up,” he said to Mantle.
She stole out of the car.
**
She sprinted down crisp daylight into an alley. And in seconds, she was leaping nimbly up a fire-escape. She’d practiced this a hundred times. Memorizing each grip. Each tricky step.
She exhaled when she was on the roof. Warm summer breeze prickled her glittery face. Then she steeled herself and started to run again. No hesitation. She leapt off the building, streaking downwards through vertigo-thin air, onto another rooftop.
She struck the gravel like a match. Rolled over. Slid to a stop. She scanned the place.
There it was. She picked herself up and headed for the mast.
Prying open the control-box, she spoke into the comm: “In position.”
**
Igor eased up on the gas. The car sidled to a stop. “Go.”
The door opened and Quaterback-3 started a brisk walk across the sun-steamed street into Coast City First Monument Bank.
“Igor-1 to Sportsmaster,” he said into his watch; “He’s in.”
“Copy,” the voice on the comm responded; “Get dressed. Get in position.”
**
A small flatscreen TV on the wall streamed static when -3 entered the banking hall. There were so many people. This was the biggest bank in the city.
No one took notice of him as he made for the counter.
The teller, the one they’d decided on, was a nervous, mousy woman. Her eyes, shy, hid under a brush of auburn hair and among a smattering of freckles. Call me Justine, the tag pinned to her lapel said.
Before she could look up, the Quarterback slid a piece of paper across the countertop.

Good afternoon. This is an ARMED robbery. Please don’t trigger the alarm. 

**
The wind was in Mantle’s face, and her wig fluttered about her in a whirl. A green light sprang up in the control-box.
“There’s the alarm,” she said into her wrist. “Ten minutes, Quarterback-3.”
**
Justine was frozen. As a deer caught in the headlights. As though in seconds she would burst into tears, or fall into a panic attack.
“I need to see the manager,” -3 said, hushed underneath his mask.
He reached across the counter, and gently he placed a hand over hers.
And he leaned in close. Until he was sure that she was the only one who could hear him. He enunciated the next part: “Ma’am, you’re alright. But I will kill you if you try anything smart, okay?”
He gave her a reassuring squeeze. Returning to life, Justine nodded.
Quarterback-3 slipped his note back into his hoodie pocket. Stuffed both his hands in and waited.
Holding his gaze, the teller reached for the woman sitting in the cubicle next to her. And to her eternal credit, Justine steeled herself, and by the time the woman she’d tapped turned, she was smiling again.
“Excuse me, Trisha. This gentleman has an appointment with Mr. Chapek,” she said. Her voice held clear. “Can you hold the fort for me?”
-3 watched from underneath his hoodie. Through the dark of his shades. Justine was getting out of her cubicle. Trisha watched her. He wondered if she suspected anything. People were starting to take peckish glances out of their conversations at him as he sidled past, parallel to Justine, who weaved behind the counter, leading the way.
It was a long walk. Almost a minute went by before they were inside the manager’s office.
It was wood paneling. Plaques. And a book-shelf that loomed behind and above the bank manager, Gene Chapek, when -3 entered the room with Justine.
Chapek, himself, was a cozy looking man – brown suit over grey turtleneck – much like the place.
“I have a gun,” Quarterback-3 said, hands in pocket, striding across the lush green carpeting.
The man stared, speechless. -3 waited for him to swallow. Then nodded.
“Good,” the Quarterback said. “We need to see the vault.” Chapek was about to get up when he added: “The other vault. So, I’m gonna need you to take the special key out from the second drawer on your right. Don’t trigger any alarms.”
The drawer slid open. Nikita buzzed in his ear. “Second alarm’s been set off. It’s gonna be really hot in five minutes.”
**
The other vault was a secret that they walked down a long, lonely, corner-corner, hallway to find.
-3 nudged Chapek, and he headed towards a small plain door at the hallway’s end. The manager held in his hand a special little golden key. It went into the key-hole. Turn. Turn. Turn. Click!
It snap-slid open to reveal another door. Metal now. Wired with electronics. The Quarterback heard Chapek draw a long sharp breath. He turned to face him.
“I know it’s mined,” -3 said. Special tech from friends from “outside”. One false move, and they could liquify the insides of every living thing in this bank.
“It needs two people.” The breeze from the vents was stale and lukewarm. Yet Chapek shivered.
“Find the retinal scanner. Take a knee, and face it.”
Chapek did not move. “It needs two people. I don’t know the code.”
He took a hand out of his hoodie’s pocket. Now they could see the Beretta.
This got Chapek’s limbs working again. He slunk off to a corner. Pulled a tile off the wall. Knelt before the tiny pinprick of red light it uncovered.
“There’s a nineteen-digit passcode. A new one every week, and I don’t have it,” he whined.
-3 ignored him, crossing to the door. Guiding Justine along.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, son!”
The Quarterback kept the gun trained on him. “Sportsmaster,” he said under his breath; “In position.”
His earpiece crackled. “Copy. Seven. Three. Nine. Eleven… “ he called, and -3’s fingers responded, punching them into the panel affixed to the door.
It clicked and hissed and unlocked.
“Got it,” -3 whispered; “They’re dead weight now. Do I waste ‘em?”
Justine was too catatonic to react. But the room was quiet, and Chapek had heard him, and was pleading “No, no, no, I have a daughter! No, no, no!”
“Too much heat,” Sportsmaster responded, cooly. “Let it slide.”
He glared at the manager. “Get in!” he growled.
**
There was more gold in this vault than there was in any other place at once in all of the rest of California. It did not look like it in this bleak room, though, lined with hundreds and hundreds of grey-dull lead-lined crates.
-3 had just herded the hostages in when something happened outside. Dim ringing. Then a muffled thump-thump-thump that he instantly recognized as gunfire.
Police.
Someone shouted something out. Headed down this way. -3 gripped the pistol tight and pressed his back against the wall next to the door, when the teller saw her chance.
In a second, she bolted out the room. Shit. -3 snapped his gun to aim on Chapek’s face before he could even dare.
Out in the hallway, Justine was screaming: “Oh thank God, officer!” between sobs; “They’re in— “
Three more thumps. Quick shots from a suppressed M-16. The Quarterback jumped at the sound.
Something crumpled to the ground. Footsteps followed. -3 tightened his grip on the Beretta. Steadied his breath.
Six agonizing seconds later, the man entered gun-first, decked in SWAT armor and gear and a balaclava. He did not fire when he saw the Quarterback.
“What’s the situation?” -3 asked.
“Evacuating the banking hall,” the man responded in a thick Eastern-European drawl. Igor-1. “They don’t know we’re back here,” he said, and Quarterback-3 could tell he was grinning under his mask. “I made sure.”
-3 nodded.
“Should I do him too?”
There the manager was again. Whimpering. Begging. Sobbing about his daughter.
“Sportsmaster said no.”
At this, Chapek snarled, finding some safety reserve of courage. “You fools! You realize who banks here? Whose shit you’re fucking with?!”
“Yeah,” Igor-1 said. His voice was a low threat. “It’s us.” He headed past the manager, a small device in his hand. He held it up for Chapek to see. It was spider-like. “Why do you think we’re here, if not for our shit?” As he crouched, he added: “You know what this bank is built on top of? Coast City has best public transport system in country. But did you know the subway used to be bigger? Best in whole country. Whole world. Half of access points gone because of bankers and real estate hacks.”
He set the spider on the floor and stepped away. The ticking began. And there was a flash. And a red-hot circle formed on the floor. And a a section of the concrete floor vanished. And there was a perfect circular hole where it used to be.
From within came the roar of a train engine.

In finance news: Big Belly Burger to lay off thousands of in-person workers. This comes after the third fiscal year of record profits in a row and a growing push for automation and higher wages by… ###Around the Globe: the situation in Nauxalbra worsens, as gunfire erupts in Kanto, its rebel-sieged capital. Insider sources… ###Up next on: Sightings of little bearded men, and what that might mean for your children.

And now in ha mood by Ice Spice!

III. “10 things I’ve never liked about you.”
“And at all times,” Dr Connie Hall explained, pacing the length of the blackboard; “the Benzene molecule is in quite a precarious situation. Because, with so many electrons in its orbit, it’s always on the verge of collapse. Always on the brink. Anything more, and it’s disaster – Rapid External Decay occurs.” He sketched the words out in chalk.
Guy scribbled along in his notepad. Next to him, his lab partner, Brandon Leslie, flicked through twitter.
“Where were you this morning?” Brandon asked, nudging him. Already, Guy had missed half the classes for the day.
“The fucking subway again,” he said. “Why’d you ghost me at the party last night?”
Brandon thumbed his glasses back up his nose. His “For You” page scrolled by, reflected in the thick lenses as a blur. “I don’t ‘ghost’ people, Guy. I was mingling. It’s what normal people go to do at parties.”
“I told you I hated that frat shit,” Guy said, half-heartedly conceding. He’d gone for the free drinks anyways.
“Anyone have any thoughts on this?” Dr Hall said again.
Someone raised a hand two tables across from Guy and Brandon. In a loose grey shirt, his fluffy hair tilting onto his forehead and thin wireframe glasses. The slender girl from last night was with him too, with the delicate cheekbones. She rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her arms wrapped around his.
“R.E.D.’s not considered disaster anymore.”
Dr Connor grinned at him, intrigued, and probably just really pleased that someone was paying attention. “And you think this, because?”
“Because of Benzene’s holocrystalline arrangement. All you’d need would be Sodium Dihydride as a catalyst, and about 40 Kelvin. And the new post-Benzene molecule solidifies again.”
The professor paused. Then he headed up to the podium. “You know what?” he said, consulting his phone’ “that’s correct. Great work!”
Guy caught Fred’s eye. He smirked at Guy, nodded a greeting.
“You know him?” Brandon whispered as Dr Hall resumed speaking.
“Met him at the party, why?”
“Heard he and that chick are like big-time. Like almost super-models in NYC. Dude, you are so in with cool people now. You should come to that fundraiser thing. I bet they’ll be there.”
Guy shook his head. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Is that a thing ‘normal’ people say? ‘So in with the cool people’?”
Brandon scoffed. “Come on, Guy. I need a wingman.”
“I’ve got… a project due.”
“There’s gonna be booze. And you know, you’re like an alcoholic.”
Guy shot him a dirty look. “I’ll make my own drinks,” he said, returning to jotting.
**
Guy set his phone down on the sink in the bathroom and washed his hands when a deep buzz crackled through the air, and the lights started to flicker.
All of a sudden, he was alone.
In the corner of his vision, he spotted movement in the mirror. It was instant. His suit materialized. He whipped around, ring at the ready. Aiming for her head.
“It’s just me, Guy,” Soranik said. Her hands in the air. His fist inches away from her face. Her jet-black pixie-cut still fluttering from the wind of it.
She was as she’d been when they’d last seen. In uniform too, but a sickly yellow where there should have been green. Guy narrowed his eyes at her.
“It’s. Just. Me.” She put her arms down, stepping up closer.
“I know,” he said, sullen. Dropping his arm. “Nice trick. Your dad teach you that?”
“You know,” she moved past him; “there’s no reason to be mean,” she said, leaning against the sink, checking her reflection out, running her fingers through her feathery hair. “I just came to give you a heads up. The clashes in the valley, and the robberies, and the hijackings. They’re related. And from what we’ve gathered, probably all from this single, secretive, organization. It has everyone on the streets talking.”
They were called Bahamut. The Neptunian mob. Guy had known this for a while. But he said nothing.
“They have weapons,” she said; “from off-world. From dangerous places.”
“Cool.” He knew that too. “Very insightful. Well. I’ve got class.” He made to leave.
“Guy… “
“What?” he said without turning.
“Mace. He was in Gotham.” This got him to stop. “He went off to visit him. They talked, and this is bigger than you think you know.”
“He went to visit him.” Guy’s teeth ground the words.
“He wants you to come over.”
“Why, so he can talk me into forgiving you too?”
“We know you’re working with the Mayor’s new task force. Mace says we shouldn’t trust him.”
“But he trusts you. And he was in Gotham. So, what does he know?”
He left.
**
Crisp evening air swirled into the dust that coated the helipad, and the chopper’s engines had begun to yawn to life. Guy’s hair was blown back as the Police Black Hawk’s blades slammed, sliced, sliced, sliced. As the strike team, armed, armored, masked, with their badges blacked out, boarded. As Captain Takashi Shimura, ducking beneath the chopper’s wind, approached.
He whipped Guy a firm warm handshake and patted his back. “Good to see you, kid!” he yelled, matching the Black Hawk’s din. “Big man wants to have a word!” he said as he mounted.
At the rooftop’s edge, Guy spotted him. Silhouetted against the dimming copper sky, his pants flapping wildly. Mayor Giovanni had a hand on his hat to keep it from flying off.
“There was another attack this afternoon,” he said when Guy reached him. “You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t get the alarm,” Guy said. Far as they were from the helicopter, they still had to yell to converse.
“Well, that’s not good enough, son.” He raised his phone up for Guy to see. It was a photograph of an auburn-haired woman, riddled with bullet holes. Strewn in a puddle of blood. “Five dead like her today.”
Guy’s stomach sank. “But they… the robberies have been non-lethal. I mean— “
“And that’s how it starts,” Mayor Giovanni said, interrupting him with a raised hand studded with several rings. “Escalation.” He tapped Guy’s chest-plate symbol. “You know what to do.”
Guy nodded.
**
The liquid gold sun, drip-drip-dripping, leaked beneath the horizon behind Coast City’s skyline. Engines straining as they banked, the police choppers dipped under the tips of the skyscrapers into twilight, now taken its place.
Half-hanging off the edge of the open door, the wind in his hair, Guy watched the city of glass slide by, tinted a mix of soft pink and that receding liquid gold. Watched his dark reflection, and the black-armored policemen, machine-guns to the teeth.
What had he become now.
His mind wandered. He hadn’t spoken to Mace in weeks. Not since he’d chosen to spare and protect the Black Hand. The man who’d set this city on fire.
He thought of his little niece, Dot Gardner. Whose strawberry-bright hair and tinkling laughter he missed now that everything was so depressing.
Beneath the chopper, lights had started to spring up. The roads were awash with post-work traffic and red and bright white.
Now that everything was so lonely. He thought of his once best-friend. Soranik. She wore the colors now of the man who’d first tried to kill Guy when the ring came for him.
And of his father, Lee. Who’d just come back into his life. Who had disappeared again shortly after helping save the city.
Captain Shimura tapped his shoulder, drawing him back to life. He flashed his watch. 19:00. They’d be on the ground in five minutes. Somewhere in Coretta Hills, about a hundred miles south of the University.
The Task-Force had received intel from their mole embedded in the heist crew’s network. They’d found their hideout.
**
“You know what to do,” the mayor had said.
The choppers touched down in the dark, and the men, guns ready, spilled out in long shadows.
The area had already been sectioned off by uniform cops. And the sound of boots gnashing against the gravel echoed into the empty alleyways that surrounded the abandoned warehouse.
Someone cut the chain link fence, and the men poured into the building.
**
19:26. The light of his ring swept through the deserted dark of the warehouse, somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought came to him, that the fundraiser party Brandon had mentioned would begin in thirty minutes.
“Clear!” an officer yelled out from inside another room.
“Clear!” another called.
Guy ducked into another section. Nothing. “Clear!”
Captain Shimura radioed in. “Got something. Form up on me.”
Guy moved along with the men down into a narrow, cobwebbed, hallway. At the end of the hallway was a door. There, Captain Shimura stood, ready to breach. And there were three flat, circular, objects – like hockey pucks – pinned to the door.
Guy’s ring warned him only a millisecond before they exploded.
And time was meaningless as the Vuldarian flame flared within his blood. And the light of his ring engulfed his mind. And he was at the bombs.
And he formed a dome around the door. Trapped himself and the blast within. And it hit.
There was Dot. One time, as she giggled her tinkling, tiny, giggles, he’d held up her foot to his ear like a telephone.
And when he said, “Hello, is your refrigerator running?” she burst into an unstoppable laughing fit, and it was actually the thump-thump-thmp of his pulse hammering into the space in his head behind his eyes, and the world roared; and it was an inhuman noise that he made as his lungs strained through a ragged screaming gasp, and Guy came to.
And all around him was desolation, and the walls were all compromised, and all the policemen were limp. His ring detected weak pulses. The shockwave must have permeated his construct.

He was caked in white. Struggled to his hands and knees. Dark blood spilled out his left nostril in a continuous stream cutting across the dust that plastered his face. And as he looked up, holding his hand to his face to stem the flow, dizzy from the blast and the ringing in the space in his head behind his eyes, he saw them.
The Sportsmaster and his crew emerging through the billowing smoke and powdered concrete. Behind ski-masks. Unscathed.
He leapt at them, and in the same instant, the one to Sportsmaster’s right flicked her hand at him. The hockey pucks stuck to his temple and his cheek, and click, click—
The blast rocked his world.
His face slammed into a wall. He regained consciousness leaning against it. Pawing at his right ear. Incredulous. It was silent. No ringing. Nothing. He poked his fingers into the mush. It came away slick. His knees almost buckled.
The crew walked on their way out of the damaged warehouse, cooly. Each one of them carrying duffel bags. They were getting away.
They were getting away!

He zipped out at the group again. Instantly, he reached the girl who tossed the sonic bombs. He caught her hand this time. He twisted until something snapped.
Before the scream escaped her lips, the one closest to her slammed into Guy. The shoulder packed a punch. Not enough of one. Guy brought his fists down on his back. He collapsed.
tink-tink-tink The shots bounced harmlessly off the shield he’d conjured up on his wrist. Sparks lit up the dust-filled gloom.
It was the one they called the Quarterback. Dual-wielded pistols.
Guy turned his attention on him, ready to strike, when Sportsmaster hit. His fist slammed into Guy’s jaw with all the force of an actual freight train. The impact shed the dust off his face. And he smacked into the ground again.
A metallic taste flooded Guy’s mouth as he struggled to his feet amidst the cracks. Sportsmaster struck again. Guy’s vision flared.

He tried to get up again. Another withering blow. Steel knuckles rammed into the tender bones of his nose. And into his cheekbones. And the back of his head into the ground. And again.
Each time, Sportsmaster waited for him to move. The shockwaves shook the building to its foundation. Again. Again. Again. Again—

What I don’t like is these guys from outer-space coming in here. Taking our jobs. I got no problem with the buggers ###Honey, thank you for calling in. I’ll tell it to you straight and simple. If you fall in love right now, you’ll ruin your already complicated life. [Applause]. ###Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! ###ICarly returns for its third season next week on Paramount+

IV. “Said I’d be lit by the end of the summer.”
2010’s music. Silhouettes dancing. Warm bright light. Ribbons and balloons and posters. Someone dived out a second-floor window into the pool. People cheered.
11:00 already. The party was in full swing when Guy arrived. Inside the living room, he spotted Brandon within a gaggle of giggling girls
“You showed!” he mouthed, raising two thumbs up to Guy as the girls started to ferry him away.
Guy was about to head for them when a voice reached him.
“Green Lantern from CHM!” He was grinning underneath that fluff of woolly hair. Like he was genuinely happy to see Guy. At his side, a cigarette hung between his slender fingers.
“Fred. Hi!”
“Had no idea you were down with the liberation of the People.”
“What?”
He pointed to the wall, over which hung a giant Nauxalbra flag with a giant black fist painted over it.
“Oh,” he sighed. “Uh, actually, I’m on the football team.” He was a reserve sub. “The guys got this rolling for Coach Grover.”
“Who?”
“He’s from Nauxalbra.”
“Oh. Oh, wow, that’s so sweet.”
The party swirled around them, and bore them spinning in its current through the house. Occasionally sampling the drinks on various trays, and tables, and in people’s hands. And Fred smoked as he drank.
What about you?” Guy asked him. “You’re here.”
“Oh.” He raised his glass. “Drinking to a good cause, I guess.” He shrugged. “It’s like dying for one.”
They’d reached the other end of the house. The backyard entrance. Fred slid the glass door shut, muffling the party and the dull thmp-thmp-thmp-thmp of its music.
Absent-mindedly, Guy reached for his ear again. Just to check if it was still there. Though the bleeding had stopped, out of all his hearing, only faint ringing had returned yet.
He looked back to find Fred watching him. Who pulled the pack of cigarettes out the back pocket of his jeans. Offered Guy one.
Guy leaned against the glass as he took it. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Dasha?” He struck a match against his thumb and lit Guy’s cig. “Oh. We’re not…. No. She’s my BFF from when we were kids. We both moved here from New York.”
“Why here?”
Fred shrugged. “Quiet.”
Guy exhaled, nodding.
**
1 am. Icy moisture and the smell of pine hung in the night air. And it was quiet as they cruised through sleepy suburban landscape in Fred’s car.
They talked, skirting various topics. They’d inhale from the cigarettes. Exhale. Put their hands up through the sunroof into wind.
Fred spoke French first. His mother was Algerian. Guy told him about Lee, excluding the alien part of course. He asked about Baltimore. They talked about Hal. A late “cousin” of Guy’s.
They’d fall into silence again. Letting the flavor of the ride settle. Watching above, the silvery trails of the lit ends of their cigarettes.
“I don’t trust what the news says about Nauxalbra,” Guy said. “About the rebels.”
Fred glanced, interested. “No shit?”
“I mean, yeah. They’re always saying the rebels did this, or that. But everyone has… right? Maybe it’s not okay. But at least, they’re doing stuff. It’s not like writing an essay. It’s… what’s to be done. Good stuff, for the actual people who live there. And yeah, there’s sacrifice, and struggle, and things get hard. And there’s so much misinformation… and I don’t know.” He trailed off. Then: “What? Why are you smiling like that?”
“Cool,” he said, letting the word sit.
They turned onto another neighborhood, sailing beneath an array of sodium vapor street lamps. Their brown-orange beams stark against the stubborn blue hues of the night sky. Inside the car, the color of the smoke-laden air swelled and ebbed, back and forth.
“Why’d you move out here, Guy?” Fred asked.
Guy thought about it as he took another drag. Decided he could trust him with the truth. “To be a better person.”
Fred nodded, staring ahead.
**
The idling engine hummed beneath them.
They were parked beneath the stars. Awash in the dim emerald glow of a deteriorating 7/11. Lying back on the hood of the car. Silently running through a pack they’d just bought.
Just then: from up in the clouds, there was a sonic boom. And far, far, above, a thin bright light streaked across into the horizon.
“Was that him?” Fred asked.
“Not sure.”
“Superheroes are the most sanctimonious assholes in the universe.”
Guy chuckled. “Yeah, probably.”
Fred rolled onto his elbow to face him. “Really, like, you know Superman? Like, him stopping some purse snatcher. Like, how dare he? You think a purse snatcher would be snatching purses in Metropolis if they could do literally anything else?”
Guy grinned, watching him. “You know you have beautiful blue eyes?”
“I-“ a shy laugh cut him off, and he looked away side-to-side; “Thanks.”
“I don’t think he has a secret identity. I mean, he doesn’t even wear a mask. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that’s Ice Spice up there.”
“Ginger humor,” Fred whispered. He sighed letting the tension leave his shoulder. “You ever think how crazy it is that we were born just into a flashpoint in history?”
“Yeah, nothing’s ever the same anymore.”
“You get it.” Fred put his last cigarette out. Tossed it over his shoulder. Now, he just stared. “Can I touch your hair?” He asked at last. He had heavy lashes that fluttered and caught the 7/11’s flickering green aura when he blinked.
“Sure.” They lay now with their heads on the windshield.
Fred reached out for him, gliding closer across the glass until he was only inches away.
His bony fingers brushed past Guy’s cheek and gripped the curls behind his ear. And Guy exhaled, heart pounding, sliding towards him. And, in one searing instant that lasted a lifetime, their lips met. Fred smelt so fucking good. And Guy reached underneath his shirt, clutching his waist. And a warm bony palm slid up the back of his neck. And he moaned under Guy’s breath.
And--
<< < >
Author: KnownDiscount
Book: Green Lantern
Arc: While the World was Burning
Set: 84

got pinup pixie,meggnut,bhad bhabie and niamh flinter mega dm me

The official announcement of the hostess is expected next Friday, May 12th at RuPaul’s Dragcon UK. New information has been leaked. Take it with a pinch of salt.

• There will be 11 contestants, but one of them will join the race once one of the queens quits the competition due to a medical situation.
  
• Vermelha Noir is the one who replaces Pixie Pixie and although she joins the competition later, she succeeds in winning one challenge.
  
• Pixie Pixie was offered an open invitation for season 2.
  
• One of the queens recreates the infamous Valentina’s ‘I’d like to keep it on’ moment during the Facekini runway which really upsets her.
  
• The reunion and finale haven’t been filmed yet and the finale will most likely be live.
  
• The season will get its own ‘Pit Stop’. It’s rumoured that Gia Gunn and Alexis Mateo are the queens that the production wants to host it.
  
• Gala Varo will set fire to one of her gowns as part of a reveal during the Flowers themed runway. This reveal had the judges and Valentina gagging.
  
• Not only will Danna Paola judge the Girl Groups episode, but she will also be in charge of the recording session of the queens’ vocals. She had great fun and really bonded with the queens.
  
• The leaked lip syncs list is not 100% accurate. The only songs which are featured in the season are: Seducción, Mío, and Así Fue. However, this last one won’t be the song for the lip sync for the crown, as the finale hasn’t even been filmed yet.
  
• There might be a Top 4. It all depends on how Matraka is received by the fandom, so nothing is set in stone yet. Despite her elimination was filmed, Matraka could still get a chance to compete for the crown.
  
• The queens will earn $5,000 pesos every time they manage to win a challenge.
  
• Carmen Farala will be the guest judge for the semifinals and the queens will get one video call with Drag Race Spain’s hostess, Supremme Deluxe.
  

Before I write anything here, this is an absolute reach, although this could be a great ending to both manga an anime, but my reasoning behind this may have something true in it. Isayama has always foreshadowed future seasons in dialogues and such, pretty much everytime being hard to catch until it is revealed on the anime, but taking under the tree and akuma no ko as references for an ending we got 80% of the ending chewed snd ready for the viewer, they animated what they wanted us to see, without anything to really hide that foreshadowing, leaving things for us, but the main plot being shown, eren succeeds, mikasa perishes, and thats almost"it". That's what makes me think all we have gotten related to aoe is perhaps 50% of what will happen but WAYYY out of context (they make us tie some hints in the akuma no ko and under the tree songs, with what we know about the series, but the same way propaganda works. It makes people's opinions seem more legit if they have something to back it up, but is that the truth? In politics neither one or the other political party have the full spectrum, just their colective ideas. Pixis portrayed this very well, Do you know how to tel a good lie? Sometimes you gotta mix some truth into it) Here comes my theory:
We already know that even if the story remains kind of the same till the end, manga and anime are susceptible to dialogue changues as well as new scenes or "future foreshadowing", one of those things being falco's "dream" on the start of s4. We know annie has the female titan, capable of mimicking other titan's abilities, but we have never seen that, or have we?
Earlier in the show they changed eren and annies fight scene, and also the scene where eren gets smacked by her (through the ground) before he transforms. Was it a random hit to the ground? Why didn't she finish the job when she could. My guess is annie herself, or predecessors, got a some point a piece of the attack titan body. (and perhaps touched zeke, historia, or somone else with royal blood) .She also has in some way experienced the manga to anime loop, she knew where eren was, she knew how she had to play everything in the "training arc" to get eren the ability of fighting the same as the manga, and played out the story as it was supposed until the berserk eren episode, the hit to the ground wasnt random, she has seen the future too, she knows how that needed to play out to get to the same point at the final battle she was in the manga. She is the reason falco had the flashback, she changed the future in a way eren doesnt know. How, you may ask? She somehow made falco eat eren at the end of the anime. In season four, grisha said "Eren, why won't you show me everything?", Implying eren's ability to show fragments of the memories the attack titan has. Well, what I think could be happening is, this could be about falco not showing eren anything about the future timeline, making kind of a "movie" that leads to a certaing point in the ending battle, eren feels as this is a mess of memories, (this being memory pieces arranged by future falco (pieces from manga and anime eren))but eren, through that "movie" feels he archieved the changes he needed for the aoe ending we know in the future so he just does whatever his memories show {the ops and eds may be a visual way of seeing erens re-arranged memory's being played in erens head by falco}, this time leading to falco being the attack titan, but still being trapped in the timelines and paths, keeping aot story consistent, the 2000 year loop, and gabi being mikasas paralel, and him the new protagonist. (this would work for either a new spin-off or a new ending similar to 139.5, re-starting the loop on the tree with falco being the one waking up in a world where he needs to swing swords to survive (this time being an eludían inside the walls, getting us back to the "wasn't I flying arround with a sword just now?".
If you read untill the end I hope you liked this, and It would be awesome if at least 20% or this was to play a role in aoe. Shinzo wo Sasageyo!
extra: My thoughs on the sound director clip are: Aot is way to hyped, and hidden behind doors, for such a dumb mistake tu happen. I perhaps imagine he lesked intentionally (although I think this is a fake leak by isayama's request to make the aoe premise we know more credible for us)(I also believe the VA answered the question about in such a suspicious way to give us the hope on the sound director leaking the real deal) but in the reality they are not dumb, they could redirect the question if they wanted, they are trained to avoid hard questions and go in a happy or neutral state if needed on interviews, dont you think in such a big production, with probably the most ambitious story in anime in decades, the sound director, responsible of giving each scene the proper caracterization through music, would have the information that {"yo, this is very secret okay boi?"}. For me this forms part of the """propaganda""" to make people follow the aoe narrative we have and just stay on it till new episodes (so they can do the big reveal when the time comes for even us the ones who thought we were way ahead on the story)

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Honestly, Yegel was almost starting to get used to this kind of whiplash- humans were just insane and incapable of following any sort of established logic. Hence why he hadn't lost any sleep over the cliffhanger that he'd been left on.
Okay, so maybe he was impatiently waiting for the right shift-time to roll around so that he could see what the heck was going to happen next.
Being in the doctor's office wasn't helping his nerves either- he might not be scheduled for testing for at least another week, but even just picking up antacid tablets to help with the burning in his throat was enough to set him on edge- the cold, sterile environment of a medical office simply bore... far too many memories.
Thankfully, the simplicity of his visit had made this a relatively quick visit, the familiar zurulian physician deftly swiping up a premade set of pills specifically for issues like Yegel's current discomfort- with a job this stressful, throwing up fairly regularly was an unfortunate reality of your employment, and thus the treatments for it were easy to anticipate.
"You know, I am a bit cross with you," the doctor interrupted Yegel's inner monologue, her voice laced with the tiredness that may as well have been part of her uniform, with how often she showed it. "Those boys you were scrapping with the other day were part of the crew of one of my best suppliers. Now you've got me scrambling to find a replacement before I run out of stock- and that ain't exactly easy to do discreetly."
"Wasn't exactly much I could do about it," Yegel shrugged, rolling the crick out of his neck and pushing down the clawing fear at the edges of his mind from a doctor's ire being directed at him. "They were the ones looking for a fight- and I know you wouldn't want a Fed inspection team turning this place apart any more than I do."
The Zurulian scoffed and rolled her eyes, but didn't dispute the point. "Not saying you didn't nip a nasty issue in the bud, and that venlil they were bullying- yeah, I know who it was, had to stitch those gashes in their chest back together- she's a sweetheart who doesn't get bitchy with me about all the paperwork I gotta run through their office. So, thanks for backing her up and making sure a few lacerations were all she walked away from that with."
Yegel blinked, raising his head to look at her with concern. "She got lacerations?" He asked worriedly, "I thought her wool took most of the hit from that guy. You... you said she's alright now?"
"See, there it is," the doctor tutted, flicking her ears at him, "the reason all these tests for PD keep coming back negative- you ain't got an empathy problem, it's that you care too damn much, even for folks you ain't met before." Rummaging through cabinets with practiced precision, she pulled out four distinct bottles of pills, and dumped them all into a single disposable bag. "You keep sticking up for total strangers 'cause you can't stand seeing them get hurt, and it keeps getting you into trouble."
"So what?" He challenged her halfheartedly, "am I supposed to just ignore when people are being hurt and taken advantage of right in front of me, just because helping would be inconvenient?"
"Yup," she chirped without hesitation. "It's what everybody does, after all- from just trying to get a better position in life regardless of how many others want that same spot, to just ignoring anyone who ain't providing in some way. Heck, even the herds and flocks people harp on about ain't gonna hesitate to toss you out on your ass if you ain't giving something of use back- or even if you just get damaged too badly, or have opinions that become..." She sighed, glancing away as her eyes shone with something unreadable, voice softening from it's usual harsh scolding tone. "...inconvenient."
Yegel shifted uncomfortably, clacking his beak but choosing not to retort. She did have a point, after all... though she spread it far too liberally, in his opinion. After all, he knew at least two exceptions.
"So!" she shook herself out of wherever her mind had gone, plastering on a practiced happy expression, "speaking of looking out for yourself..." She thumped the collected bags of medicine down on the counter, but made no move to let go of them, instead keeping that expression as she wiggled her ears at him.
Carefully keeping the rolling of his eyes internal, his wing slipped into his travel bag with practiced ease, pulling out a small, unmarked datachip and gently sliding it across the table to the fuzzy doctor. "Figured you'd like something a bit more entertaining this time- three of those Dossur animations and a... certain writing project regarding the scarier harchen, if you catch my meaning."
Snatching it up in a blur of movement, she whistled in appreciation as she slid the bags over his way. "Damn kid, you know those have been banned for a reason, right? Word gets out about you leaking restricted shit like that, and you ain't ever gonna see the light of day again!"
"Uh-huh," he snorted dismissively, carefully transferring the bag of his meds into his satchel, then eyeing the other one suspiciously. "Like you'd ever get caught distributing them- would be awful hard for you to make cash from a prison cell."
"Hey, I gotta pay for the amount of meds you screen-jockeys go through somehow- and the allocated funds fer this office don't exactly pay fer the fancy equipment!" she laughed back, the chip vanishing someplace Yegel didn't see. "But hey, glad your faith in me's that strong- means I got a steady supply of this filth for the rich sickos everyone pretends ain't around no more." Seeing him fidgeting with the second bag, she waved her hand at it dismissively. "Don't worry, that's Kallik's shit for his latest escapades- and he's paid in advance, so it ain't going on yer tab. I just figured I'd let you act as delivery boy, since you're headed that ways anyway."
Yegel eyed her suspiciously as he packed the second bag away. "I don't remember telling you any plans for my day."
"Please," she scoffed, turning her back to him and beginning to swipe away at her holopad, "you're a bit predicable when it comes to those two- and it's on your route back anyways, so it ain't inconvenient neither. Though, say, you planning to commit to them anytime soon? They've the patience of priests, but it probably ain't endless, you understand me? One or the other, or both if you think it'll work, but you gotta make a play!"
Puzzling over that cryptic question, he tilted his head curiously. "But... I am committed to them. They're my Flock."
The doctor stared at him for a moment, then groaned and made dismissive shooing gestures at him. "Never mind, I ain't inserting myself into that mess any further- you all can figure that out on yer own time. Now git- I got more bellyaches to medicate, and yer holding up the line!"
"Nice seeing you again too," he casually sniped back, stepping out of her office and into the empty lobby. Talons clacking on smooth floors through halls built wide enough for a large crowd, he shivered and pushed his instinctive fear down as he hurried out of the building once intended for a full medical suite, now housing only a single practitioner in a dingy, well-worn room.
That had been... a strange end to their usual interaction, but then again, she was a strange doctor- no other physician he'd met had acted as down-to-earth as she did, rather than having their chins in the air and a confidence that they already knew what was wrong with you.
Glancing down at his bag, he sighed in frustration before turning towards a familiar path. Maybe he was predictable like this... but right now, he could definitely use his friend's support.
///
The short walk through mostly-empty streets left him plenty of time to look out away from the outpost into what had been meant to become a thriving city. Towering structures of Krakotl skyscrapers were highlighted in a vibrant morning glow, highlighting the developing cracks and crumbling potholes in what had once been everyday symbols of federation construction prowess.
It was amazing what had been left behind, the bones of early attempts to form a colony on this planet. Whether the attempt failed due to something wrong with the planet or simple politics, Yegel didn't know- but the large swathes of buildings that now sat abandoned at least meant that the outpost never felt too cramped. There was always someplace to go- or somewhere to hide, if necessary.
Turning his gaze back inside the shimmering environmental dome, he focused on a familiar structure of a residential flat- a place that housed Kallik, and several other people considered "important" within the base. Technically, the effort and maintenance required to keep such a building livable instead of simply staying in the normal bunking rooms provided at all military installations would be considered wasteful, but on a soulless, distant outpost like this, investing in the ability to live comfortably was a price many were quite willing to spend.
Kallik had offered to help get Yegel and Jelliba roomed in one of the spare domiciles- or even to let them all room together, just like back in their academy days. Walking through hallways that, while faded, were far nicer than the bleak gray expanses within the base, he was reminded of how tempted he'd been to accept that offer. A part of him was still tempted by the idea of being in such proximity to those dearest to his heart, to wake up each morning seeing Kallik's dopey daze, and Jelliba's squinty-eyed glowering...
He'd known better in the end, though. As skilled as Kallik might be at his games of connections and contacts, Yegel was too aware of his own status among those in authority- and how it would be assumed that he was getting special treatment because of... who his father was.
Snorting as he passed a Logistics officer frantically stumbling out of a room and dashing down the hall, he distracted himself from those thoughts with the reminder of why Jelliba declined- these buildings were simply too far from the maintenance bays and engineering areas for her liking. She had no tolerance for any delays in whatever she was currently working on, and made no apologies about that fact.
Coming up to Kallik's door, he fiddled in his bag to pull out the keychain and swiping the proper key over the door's scanner. With a beep, the latch clicked open, and Yegel pushed his way inside the room.
"Morning Kallik, you were expecting some meds-"
His entrance was greeted by a series of high-pitched shrieks from the bedroom, and several harsh thumps of something heavy hitting the ground.
Pausing in the doorway, Yegel blinked and cocked his head, before rolling his eyes and stepping forward enough to let the door close behind him. "Really, Kallik? I know we joke, but I wasn't expecting you to move THIS fast."
"Seriously, Yegel?!" Kallik's voice called back, laced with embarrassed exasperation. "You pick today of all days to barge in here?!"
"I was at the doctors, figured I'd pick up your meds for you," Yegel shrugged, casually walking into the kitchen to unload his bags. "Good thing I did, too- looks like you'll be needing those immuno-boosters sooner than I thought."
"Well, that- yes, that's very helpful, thank you, but-" Kallik's voice trailed off into a high-pitched squeak, as there was some loud thumping and the sound of hooves on flooring from the other room. "I-I'll be out in a minute, okay?! Thanks for being patient!"
"Don't worry," Yegel called back with an amused huff, already pulling food portions out of Kallik's refrigerator. "I'll go ahead and make you and your guest some breakfast while you make yourselves decent."
More loud shuffling, before Kallik finally emerged from his room, feathers conspicuously unkempt as he hobbled out. "M...Make that two guests," he squeaked out, feather patterns flushing as he leaned against the counter. "a-and make one of them with just the stuff marked 'acceptable,' please! For-"
"For the Iftali, right?" Yegel cut him off with a smirk, waving the package he'd already grabbed out of the fridge triumphantly. "Figured with you going after a Sulean, and those packages in the fridge, better safe than sorry." His smirk took on a devious glint. "You were 'safe,' weren't you?~"
Kallik flushed, his head-feathers attempting to splay open to display his irritation- but not really working because of the conspicuous and suspicious tangled fluff of feathers on the sides of his head. "I miss when you hadn't picked up lessons from Jells, you menace," he huffed- and pointedly not answering the question.
"You say that like I didn't pick up plenty of lessons from you as well," Yegel teased, relishing in the opportunity of having caught Kallik in such a vulnerable position. "Of course, you're lessons were a bit more on the side of... practical demonstrations-" Kallik's head ducked down in embarrassment "-and rather focused on your own weakspots. Like the way you croon when getting rubbed right at the base of your wings, or how you like it when your talons get folded back behind your head-"
"Yegel you jerk!" Kallik tried to shove him back, but didn't manage to make him budge even an inch, leaving his wings awkwardly pressed against Yegel's chest. "Don't make me throw you out of this house- I need to keep some of my secrets!"
Smirking with his eyes, Yegel casually pushed forward and pinned Kallik against the counter, ignoring his friend's startled yelps. "Well then," he whispered huskily in Kallik's ear, "go ahead and throw me out- if you can~."
Ignoring his hopeless friend's embarrassed squeaking, his wings reached around the flustered bird to start deftly portioning out proper breakfast servings for the three of them-doing a few mental calculations to guess at how much larger the two quadruped's meals needed to be, and serving them up a much larger portion than either of the krakotl would have.
"Yegs, please," Kallik whined, shivering and blushing- and damn, it felt good to be on the other end of this now, rather than the receiving end- "N-not while I have guests in the house!"
"So it's fine when they're gone, got it," Yegel nodded, spinning his friend around as he whipped the filled plates onto the table with practiced ease- despite Kallik's panicked squawking. "Well, my Endsday is free, and it's been a while since we relived the academy days so to speak-"
"Yegs," the practically-glowing ball of puffed-up feathers once known as Kallik groaned pitifully, scrambling against the smaller bird's iron grip, "If you'd stop a moment there's something important I needed to tell you!"
"All right, all right," he finally relented, loosening his grip enough for his friend to slip away, who stumbled bow-legged over to the counter and leaned heavily on it as he wheezed for air. "I figured it was kind of weird you didn't pick up your own meds when you paid for them- so what did you want to tell me, while your new friends were listening in?"
"Yegel... Yegs..." Kallik whispered, drawing in a deep breath as his voice fell into a whisper...
"The screening is a trap for you."
A moment passed, then two, as ice raced down Yegel's spine. Stepping back, he opened his beak to speak, only for his friend's wings to latch onto his shoulders and pull them closer together.
"Kallik, I- w-what screening?" he tried to bluff- but Kallik was already pushing past his stumbled deflection.
"I looked into it, got people talking about the admiral of that fleet the pricks you put in their place were from," Kallik finally continued, his rushed whispers now carrying the cold, harsh bite that spoke of his seriousness. "This doc has a reputation- he gets sent after anyone who pisses off that admiral, and has an absurdly high rate of 'successful' diagnosis. I called in a favor, and pulled a copy of his criteria. It's vastly different from the standard screening, so you'll need to practice for that because his margin before he will diagnose you is insanely thin. You get some leeway because the political risks of diagnosing you means he needs actual evidence and can't just throw you in an institution on only his word, but you shouldn't count of that saving you."
"Kallik, I-" Yegel gaped, subconsciously taking a step back. He was plenty familiar with Kallik getting like this- it was kind of his 'working' mindset- where he honed in on a task with a scary degree of focus and commitment, picking it apart into tiny pieces before building it back into the shape he wanted. Usually though, it was focused on somebody or something else- having it focused on him was... intense. "-I never told you- I mean, what makes you think that... I'm getting screened?"
"Yegel, I'm not an idiot," he snapped, his narrowed eyes sharp and unyielding. "I've been there with you. Seen how people judge you- and what their usual method of attacking you is, since they can't think of any other way to get their hits in." The clack of a drawer snapping shut was all the warning Yegel had before Kallik's talon was reaching behind him, dropping something into his bag. "That's the doctor's complete regimen. Don't go through it anywhere but here or at Jell's place. Those are the only places I've managed to disable security and get the Observation guys to write it off as technical issues. There's also something else to help you get through it- the written instructions are included, but you should practice before the screening itself-"
"Kallik, that's a crazy risk!" Yegel hissed, pushing back against his friend. "do you have any idea how much trouble you could get into for breaking into medical data!? I know you're good at playing the game, but this is a whole other kind of risk! Why would you put yourself on the line like that?"
"Because I refuse to let anyone take you away from us- from me!" Kallik hissed back, his voice so heated it steamed the air. "You've been the one to save me so many times, and you think I'm going to pass up the chance to return the favor?!"
The doorway to Kallik's room creaked open, and hesitant footsteps started making their way down the hall. Hissing in irritation, Kallik grabbed the back of Yegel's head and pulled it towards his, resting their foreheads against each other.
"Just- no matter what, make sure you come back to us, okay? Nothing else matters."
"I-" Yegel gaped, then sighed, pushing all this confusing mess to the side to simply close his eyes and lean into the gesture, pressing his forehead right back against Kallik's. Even if he didn't understand why, or what was happening, Kallik was one of his most precious people- what else mattered besides that. "-I always do."
Any further words they wanted to share were interrupted, as the two guests finally arrived- a tri-humped Iftali, nervously glancing towards them with a dusting of blush on his cheeks, and an Sulean with thin, tapering horns and a sly smile on her elongated snout.
"We're not interrupting are we?" the Sulean asked, carefully shifting a perch-seat away from the table and sitting on the floor. Her companion glancing at them, before hurriedly turning his eyes towards the prepared food- and sighing in relief at the confirmation that the correct foods had been used.
"Yes, you are," Yegel answered with forced ease, pulling away enough to look to them freely, but still keeping one wing wrapped around Kallik, "but I interrupted you all first, so it is only fair. I trust Kallik showed you a good time last night?"
"Oh, I don't know," she considered teasingly, poking at the Sulean's shoulder. "What do you think, honey? Was last night fun, or what?~"
The Sulean's pink fur did nothing to hide his brightening cheeks, as he dipped his head down to his plate and mumbled something unintelligible.
"Oh, don't be so shy!" Kallik chirped cheerily, extracting himself from Yegel's hold as his personality switched right back to being a cheerful goof. "I really enjoyed how aggressive you get when you finally stopped holding yourself back- my neck is still kind of sore, hehe!"
The quadruped's blush grew even brighter, his cheeks puffed up as he delayed answering with a mouthful of food.
"So, who's your friend?" the Sulean redirected, chewing on a much smaller mouthful of her own. "You two seem awfully close if he's comfortable barging into your house unannounced at..." She glanced at the clock, then blinked and leaned back. "Oh wow, is it that late already?"
"Yup," Yegel popped, fighting to keep his tone and expression steady, turning away from the group to focus on cleaning up from breakfast prep to try and keep himself centered. This visit had become more of an emotional whirlwind than he'd bargained for. "I'm Yegel, by the way- one of Kallik's Flock. Just ignore his name for us-"
"Oh, you know it's fitting!" Kallik teased from his own breakfast, already settled right back into his usual role. "The Pity Party sticks together because we pity everyone else who can't keep up, isn't that right?"
"Like you kept up last night?" the Iftali snarked, then slapped a hoof over his mouth and went back to focusing on his breakfast. The Iftali, on the other hand, burst into giggles at Kallik's feathers fluffing in embarrassment.
"See, I told you he had fun," she crowed triumphantly, to her partner's further embarrassment. "I've seen his eye wandering before," she whispered conspiratorially, winking at the two blushing boys, "So thanks for giving us the opportunity to... experiment a little."
"You two married?" Yegel asked, trying to contribute to the conversation- this situation was awkward enough without him just standing silently in the corner. The best way through awkwardness was to simply push forward as if things were normal, after all. "I noticed you two seem pretty close."
"It took him long enough to ask me, but yes!" she confirmed eagerly, leaning on her embarrassed husband's shoulder- the fact she didn't need to obviously adjust for her horns spoke of extensive practice doing so. "At first I thought he kept coming to me about the medical data I go through because he was trying to micromanage, but he eventually managed to propose- after twenty minutes of sputtering over his own words!" Yegel carefully glanced over at Kallik, who met his eyes and subtly waved his wing back and forth - signaling 'a bit of both.' "Speaking of, honey, I'm surprised you're so hungry this morning- weren't you feeling a bit 'full' earlier?~"
The Iftali choked on his current mouthful, pounding the table as he kicked at her under the table. "Light of My Life, please show me some mercy!" he begged, "My heart can only take so much before we have even begun our day!"
"Well, I for one am flattered at being the one you chose to try it out with," Kallik chirped, giving the poor man's shoulder a comforting rub. "I had a great time, and I sincerely hope I was able to show you a good time too." He was rewarded by a shaky but genuine smile from the Iftali, who returned the gesture of rubbing Kallik's shoulder.
"I'm surprised to hear he was willing to go that far," Yegel confessed, sampling his own modest breakfast. "Isn't that against his religion or something?"
"Oh, not at all!" the Iftali finally perked up, eyes brightening at the prospect of discussing a subject other than his own embarrassment. "The Consecrated Order celebrates love of all kinds, regardless of class or gender- to celebrate life is to lighten your soul! Admittedly, there is an importance to producing new life, so their light may shine into the future, but the most important part is for both souls to shine with unwavering love!" His hooved digits carefully wrap around his wife's, who coos lovingly at his spiel. "I have- simply been a bit overwhelmed, having found a new glow that I was... not previously aware I had..."
"That's... cute," Yegel answered carefully, fighting to keep down a smirk, "But... I was more referring to the taboos on what you eat."
All three of the table-goers stared at him uncomprehendingly, so he opened his beak and jerked a closed hand towards it, sticking his tongue into his cheek.
Kallik groaned and put his head in his wing, the Sulean burst out in giggles even as her cheeks flushed... and the Iftali's expression paled. Before anyone else, could react, he pushed himself away from the table and rushed for the bathroom, drawing startled exclamations from the Sulean who quickly raced after him, and from Kallik who turned to glare at Yegel.
Blinking in surprise at the extreme reaction, Yegel wilted under Kallik's frustration and shrugged. "I didn't think he'd actually see anything wrong with it," he confessed, wincing at the noises coming from Kallik's bathroom. "Perhaps I should just... go."
Kallik sighed, rubbing the bridge of his beak. "Yeah, that's... probably for the best. We'll... There's more I need to tell you, but... it's going to have to wait. Just... be discreet, and try to remember to ask us for help if you need it. This isn't like back at the Academy, where you could fix a problem by winning a fight."
"Of course it is," Yegel scoffed, "It's just a different kind of fight, is all." Exhaling softly, he pulled Kallik into a gentle hug. "I am sorry about that," he apologized, "I didn't mean to make things more difficult for you."
"It's nothing I can't handle," Kallik rebuffed, hugging him right back. "Just- go get started, while I work on calming him down."
"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" came the anguished yell from the bathroom, "I LIKED IT!"
Yegel tried and failed to stop himself from snorting in amusement- then outright laughing as Kallik shoved him away. "Doesn't sound like it'll be that hard for you to salvage things," he teased.
"Hey, it's what I do," Kallik teased right back, already moving towards the bathroom. "See you later, Yegs!"
Yegel's smile lasted until Kallik's door latched shut behind him, and his wing brushed against whatever Kallik had deposited in his bag when he went to drop in his keys. Remembering that whirlwind of a conversation, he was struck by a question he hadn't had the chance to ask.
When have I ever been the one saving you?
///
​
Mikasa had managed to dodge Eren's punch, but the debris sent flying from the impact cut open her cheek, before she slammed her back into what looked like some sort of brick protrusion from the building. Barely dodging the next strike, she latched onto Eren's face and started yelling at him, telling him to wake up and seal the breach.
The female officer with them declared the mission a failure, shooting a red flare into the sky, internally declaring that it was foolish to pin their hopes on something they didn't understand.
Yegel still didn't understand what was happening- Eren had been in control the last time he did it, and the first time he'd only gone after titans! Was this supposed to be a sign that this predatory power was unpredictable?
Mikasa's pleas fell on deaf ears as Eren's fist swung again, punching himself in the face as she dodged again, leaving Eren's titan stumbling backwards until it fell against the rock he was supposed to move. Reports came in of titans bearing down on them, and the two leaders who had come with them began advocating for a full retreat, and leaving Eren behind as he was- a plan Mikasa quickly expressed her dislike for.
The human leader Pixis saw the smoke, but decided to continue with the plan, despite mounting casualties- leaving it to the people at the front to decide whether the situation called for a change in plan. Reasoning that it was their debt to the fallen, and that this had been an all-or-nothing gamble from the start, Pixis denied the requests from those around him for a retreat, instead declaring that they would fight to the last man if needed.
It was still amazing to Yegel how humans could simply do that- make the conscious decision to resist the fearful instincts they clearly had, and still choose to fight so desperately. It made sense- on an intellectual level, he completely understood that the situation they were in required such dedication- but knowing something and being able to follow through with it were two completely different stories.
The man in charge at the front apparently had the same idea as Pixis, defying his subordinates and choosing to stay, even declaring that they would fight to the last man if that's what it took, until they would be able to retrieve Eren. His point was that, even if the initial plan was foolish, Eren was still their best and only hope for ever achieving a victory.
His yelling outburst really hammered home just how desperate the humans were- always scraping by, always on the run- just wanting the nightmare to be over already. If a wonder-weapon like Eren appeared for the Federation- something that could turn the tide against the Arxur, and give them a chance at actual victory- Yegel wasn't sure they would react any differently than the humans.
Yegel was kind of confused by Mikasa's reaction to being told to "go save the man you love"- why would she blush and insist it isn't like that when it clearly is? What was so embarrassing about loving a member of your flock? Maybe she was just shy about it.
The revelation that Eren's titan wasn't regenerating felt like a clue that something was off- that something had gone wrong with the transformation. It made sense, predatory instincts must be difficult to keep under control, but if that was the issue, why was Eren's titan just sitting there, not moving? Shouldn't it still be hunting?
Then the perspective shifted to what was happening inside of Eren's head... and wasn't anything like what Yegel would have guessed. Rather than carnage and rage, Eren's mind was filled with the sight of his old home, his father seated at the table as his mom and Mikasa washed dishes, Eren himself wrapped up in blankets. He was acting lethargic- tired, and... didn't remember what he had been doing?
Maybe... maybe he was tired from the last transformation- turning into a titan was shown to take something out of him. Maybe he hadn't had enough time to rest and recharge, and that's why he went haywire?
Meanwhile, the rest of the city was embroiled in conflict, the other cadets shown luring titans towards the wall, while Mikasa and the rest of the vanguard fighting to take down the titans coming towards Eren- a task that was growing harder, as apparently the titans were somehow being drawn towards Eren. Maybe they sensed that he was vulnerable, and were following their instincts to go after weak prey.
Mikasa paused from taking down a titan, only to find that Armin had finally arrived, and was standing on Eren's nape, asking what was going on and what went wrong. She told him to get away because it was dangerous... but Eren wasn't even reacting to Armin's presence. Yegel didn't understand what was going on at all- which frankly, was basically the default when dealing with humans, but still.
...Armin was clearly human, because his plan to try and get through to Eren was to stab his blade into his nape was as typically insane as every human plan seemed to be. At least he put some thought into it, and managed to aim carefully enough to not stab into Eren himself- no, wait, the blade had actually gone into his shoulder.
Choking back vomit- he couldn't afford to ravage his throat again today- Yegel was thankful that the scene then changed back to Eren's illusion, now with Armin beating at the window as he yelled at Eren, trying to motivate him to get back up. It was surreal to hear Armin's pleas about avenging his mother, while Eren complained he wasn't making sense- his mom was right there. It was almost like he was trapped inside a dream, half-awake and half-asleep- maybe Yegel was right about him having been too tired to transform so soon.
The fighting was growing more intense, as the vanguard began to get overwhelmed by the number of incoming titans- only managing because of Mikasa's arrival to help. Elsewhere, Connie's gear bounced off the wall instead of latching on, almost getting him grabbed if not for Jean putting himself at risk by distracting it, internally monologuing about being sick of people dying on him today. Of course, then Jean's gear malfunctioned at the worst possible time, and he had to run on foot as another titan showed up. The blood splattered everywhere as Jean ran through the city told the tale of just how many people had already died in this battle.
Armin continued pleading with Eren to wake up, to seemingly no effect- until he began talking about their childhood dream. Within Eren's mind, his eyes widened as Armin talked about the things they'd imagined- Oceans of salt water, sand dunes, frozen plains- all accompanied by images of a world that looked so beautiful. For people trapped inside the walls their entire lives, who had only ever been cattle, how fantastical must those concepts have seemed?
Tears in his eyes, Armin admitted that he thought Eren had forgotten- but that he'd realized that Eren let that dream go because he didn't want Armin to join the Scouts- to risk his life outside the walls. Eren, now looking wide awake, protested the idea that he'd ever forgotten, finally standing up and letting the blankets fall to the ground.
Why, Armin asked, as Yegel waited with baited breath- Why throw caution to the wind and venture outside, even though his first taste of the world outside was the difference between a warm home and hell on earth, even though it meant risking his life, gambling against the possibility of dying? Why had he still dreamed of going to the world outside?
Yegel held his breath, waiting for an answer- an honest answer on why humans were so willing to risk it all.
Eren scoffed at such a stupid question- wasn't the answer obvious, he asked? Armin knew damn well why. It was obvious.
"Because I was born into this world!"
Behind him, the dream of a happy home burned, washed away in a surge of angry flames, highlighting Eren's angry snarl.
And in the real world, Eren titan roared.

I’m still fairly new. Trying different cups and sizes, but I’m still struggling with the first 1-2 days especially! It’s NOT because the cup is full. It’s not. I make sure it opens fully, I tug to make sure there’s some resistance to imply it’s sealed properly, I don’t get it.
I think I’m finding I have better results if I steam the cup daily? Does that even make sense?
I had major issues with leakage when camping this weekend (yay!🙄). Came home. Steamed in the pixie cup steamer and it was fine. Then felt like it was leaking a bit again the following day after. Steamed it. Then I’m good. Does this make sense to anyone else? Is it a brand or sizing issue? 😵‍💫😵‍💫 #soconfused #pleasehelp

I am trans masculine and went to school for graphic design and illustration. My teachers made a living out of drawing pinup girls, tattoos, dungeons and dragons character design, and tabloid illustration. My professor played the smiths and the pixies during downtime in class. He came in to school after a suicide attempt after getting into a bar fight that was started after someone made a comment about his divorce.I built a portfolio of smut bro is there hope for me in this economy?

Sick again. More below.
- - -
“Ladies! Gentlemen!” Maxwell stood in front of the combined forces of Demonia, “As you know, we have started to evacuate the civilian population that is willing to leave.”
There were nods from the assembled soldiers. “The war is no longer closing swiftly. The war is here.” He stared across the parade field. “We stand alone facing this foe, but I remind you, WE are soldiers.” He picked out individuals in the formations. “Be it eighty hours or eighty days, we will resist this invader until the city is emptied of our kin. We will keep fighting when the arrows are gone.” His eyes wandered to the Calvary. “When all are gone, THEN we will bite BACK!”
*-*-*
Grendel Repute looked around the camp. The cat was washing itself on top of 'his' worg's head and the others of the group were pitching the tents. He decided to skip out on the chores, and explore the roadside. As a heave thick snow began to fall, the obscured light began to make strange shadows on the ground.
He walked, lost in thought down the roadway, the giant evergreen trees barely moving in the slight breeze. After a while, he realized he had followed an unused fork of the road, and up ahead could see a wagon pulled off to the side of the narrow trail. Walking towards him was a tall, thin man dressed in a warm sheepskin coat.
“Hello, child.” The man said, in a deep voice. “Would you like some candy? I have some in my wagon.” He gestured back the way he came.
Grendel took a moment to survey the area. No wagon tracks. No horse or other animal sounds. No tracks behind the man. No shadow under the man... “N...No thanks kind sir. It would ruin my dinner.”
The man took a step closer, “But I must insist. There is plenty in the wagon for you to fill your tummy.”
Grendel took a deep breath, “Mama Repute always told me to get the candy Before I got into the wagon!” He bolted back the way he had come. From behind him, he could hear laughing.
*-*-*
Brianna looked around. Pine trees. No love in these things. Why isn't there a good oak or willow around to give a girl some comfort? “Are we ready? Everyone eaten? Used the potty? Washed their hands? It's almost dark, so we should be able to move in a short while.”
The three heroes nodded, Magni looking a little dubious, after being told to wash up after only peeing. They waited for a few more minutes as dusk settled around them like an old familiar blanket, then set off at a slow pace, Bri and Brandy taking the lead.
“Mind the branch, Magni.” Brandy said from her higher vantage point. “English, take a step to your left to avoid an old stump.” She looked around at the slowly thinning trees. “We'll be out of here in a short bit, then it will be a quick march to the gate.”
“Any clue why the demons have abandoned it?” Magni asked.
Not stopping, or even slowing down, Bri replied, “Not really. If I had to guess, they are preparing to swarm the main gate, as they are known to do. But I don't think Lancil is that predictable. It may be a trap we're wandering into.”
*-*-*
Prince Lancil was not amused. “What do you mean, they are less than a week out?”
“My lord,” the messenger gasped, torn wings shaking, “I don't know how, but I saw their scouts less than two days travel from our sentry lines.”
“Damn.” Lancil flung himself to a couch that had been pulled from someone's home before the place had been put to the torch. “Plan twenty two through forty eight are out of the question.”
“Twenty two?” The scout blinked.
“Our plans of retreat.” Lancil answered. “We can't head south or east. North will bring us nothing but closer to the other blasted dwarven kingdom. West is, or was, the best action.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, 'oh'. Our best bet was to retreat back the way we had come, then turn south into the Heretic's home Kingdom and make raids for supplies. Now we either have to implement plan Zed, or plan Omega. If we don't, we will be smashed between the anvil and the hammer.”
Vtev stepped from the shadows near the back of the pavilion. “My lord, the troops have been pulled from all but the main gate. You were, as usual, correct about the Heretic's plan. He will be sending the evacuees out on the eastern planes somehow, and defending the city until they are safely away.”
“Good. Then we will start the execution of plan Zed. Prepare the Gate Breakers to march at midnight.” Lancil plastered a toothy smile on his face. “We will open the city gates tonight, and feast like kings in the morning!”
Vtev guided the still shaking scout from the pavilion. “Go and eat, then rest. You are of no use to the master in your current condition.”
“Thank you my lord.” The scout coughed into his clawed hand then looked up, “What is plan 'Omega'?”
“Bowing to the powers that be in the city, and begging for sanctuary.” Vtev replied. “The half million demons on our tail would mince us and put us in pies without that cities walls between them and us.”
“Couldn't we just flee and take another town?”
“With the exception of Heretics Hold, there is no other city on this continent like this one.”
*-*-*
Max was half asleep when the attack at the gates started. He rolled out of the borrowed bed, shoved his feet into his boots, and buckled on his gun belt as he ran out the door. The barracks hallway was crowded, but he managed to slip through to the gate wall.
Below him lay thousands of demon troops, and several dozen of them were carrying a battering ram. As the defenders shot arrows at the ram bearers, magical shields caused the arrows to break. The ram arrived at the gate, and struck with a loud crash. Max drew his right hand revolver, cocked the hammer, aimed at the last demon in line on the ram, and squeezed the trigger. Boom. The shield over the demon shattered.
The archers who were quick on the uptake fired a volley into the unprotected demon and started to make him into a pincushion. But the shield reappeared, and the arrows slowly started to fall out.
“Crap,” Max swore. Nezra demons. Magic resistant, extra strong, and fast healing. He looked around for a runner, waved her over, and yelled over the noise of the ram striking the gate a second time, “Poisoned Arrows! Those are Nezra demons. Poison is about the only thing that will hurt them at range!” She nodded and ran. Wisdom's thrice cursed panties, this is going to be bad.
*-*-*
Bri, Brandy, and the rest of the crew ran for the unwatched gate. Three hundred yards, two hundred, one hundred, fifty, twenty five. Then they were there. English and Magni huffing and puffing like chain smokers, Bri winded, and Nomvula barely breathing hard at all. Meanwhile Brandy was over the gate, and harassing the guards to open it for them to crawl through.
“What do you mean, NO?” Brandy almost yelled. “They ran across the open land for safety, and you won't let them in?”
“No means no, miss pixie.” The corporal in charge said. “By order of the Heretic, no civilians are allowed back inside the walls.”
“Do you know who I am?” Brandy said.
“No. And I don't care.” The corporal glared at her, “Now take your non-combatants, and leave. Otherwise I'm going to have to call for reinforcements.”
Brandy placed her tiny fists on her hips, stared at the sky, and shrieked; a piercing cry that made the wall shudder. The now concerned corporal stared at her a moment, then snapped. “Look you little shit. I don't care who you are. You're not Maxwell's Pixie, Priestess of the Drunken Horde, so PISS OFF! Or I'm going to have to resort to the cage we use for the little ones who flit about and cause trouble.” He reached down and grabbed a bird cage that would best be described as 'spikey'. “Now GET LOST!”
Brandy's eyes grew wide, he face pale, as the death cage came into view. She could feel the evil leaking off cage, the yearning for Fae blood to feed it, it's want for her. She could also almost taste the finest of luxury booze from the smell it oozed. “Where... where did you find that abomination?”
“Standard issue for the gates. Been around for centuries. Works for even the most ferocious of creatures. A couple of hours in there and no one wants to repeat their offense. Leads to a 0.01% recidivism rate. Better than prison.” The corporal grinned. “Don't make me open the door.”
Brandy fled.
Original - First - Previous - Next
​
Good news: The infection is gone from my sinuses and ear!
Bad news: It has reappeared in my lungs.
Good News: I signed the contract for my short story!!!!!!! When I have the details for the release date for the anthology I will be pimping it here.
The replacement new computer should be showing up tomorrow. I hope it isn't damaged this time. I also hope I'm well enough to put everything together. This June (23-25) I will be attending a writing conference in "Minneapolis" MN again. Should be a good time, and it will be nice to meet up again with my local authors. The web address is below.
Take care of yourselves out there. Hide your shiny rocks so no one steels them. And eat your veggies (unless they have been poisoned).
Shakes donation box:
Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/vastlisten1457
Patreon https://www.patreon.com/VastListen1457
Narrativity (A convention for story)

The continuity of impermanence, the cyclical nature of being. The continuance of nuance. The utterance of conspicuous meaning.
The true nature of the scrambled nature of being, where symbologies and metaphors converge to create a holistic view of the world.
The scrambled state of being, the earth rushing and divided between indefinite symbolism. Inferring holistic utterances of men with minds divine. If you were to be alive, you would breathe.
Transcedental unity, emanations of the divine through contemplation and prayer, meditation and layers of meaning. The search for meaning, the question of the nature of being. Rushing to find it in a world that is hyper real.
Metaphysical bleeding, like the brightest star burning out. Axiomatic flows, intercepting dialectics of reason, of right and wrong, of life and death. The consequences blend, foretelling a future of a dying star. My own psyche is a mystery to be uncovered, enveloped in trauma, riddled with psychosis, entrapped by paranoia, infused with narcissism. The nuance of meaning within the literal interpretation, buried deep. Following the pregnant possibilities of ideas uttered from sentences. Intercepting forces of reason shape our perception of reality, infusing it with the grandeur of logic. Sense-making, instinctually writing under the seance of a demon.
The plot undresses its garment, revealing a formless void where ideas swim in electric oceans, the pretension swells away as the writer gets to the fucking point, a point will arise, a sentence will expose the veil, the witherings of delicate beings in an ocean of complexity, the reality emerges as telling tales that institute orders of association, societal control of the masses, wherein the protagonist is a vessel to fight against; the unravelling of chaos as it reigns loose on society, the limited trepidations of those in power to prevent dehumanisation, as the dehumanised masses huddle together, asking each other what to do in this predicament, what are the tales that can be told?
The sublime experience of shifting perceptions and unbelievable conceptions, the totality of existence revealed, entangled by oneness, enraptured by the divine spark of humanity, infatuated with each minor detail that reveals itself, ego is dissipated, the whole emerges, the parts within it encircle eachother, fractals of thought converge on eachother, the convergence; the point on which the ultimate metaphor is revealed to the writer. New insights and revelations between seemingly disparate fragments of meaning.
Fragmented meaning, dilapidated infrastructure, a thesis strewn haphazardly.
So it was, the narrative emerges as a manifesto, inquiring into the vapours of sense that reality seeps, investigating the continuity of impermanence, the cyclical nature of being, the continuance of nuance, the utterance of conspicuous meaning.
What is the key for the ultimate metaphor, which the writer has been searching for. He wants to create meaning as a byproduct of speech, isn’t that what meaning is? What are people but verbs, metaphors and stories haphazardly put together through the journey of life. The enigma of meaning, scarce and vapourish. How do you access it, well meaning could be anything, it is the question of, how you can access meaning in anything? That is the ultimate meaning. What is the meaning of the sea crashing unto the rocks, the cyclical nature of meaning, where it is swallowed and then spit out, it ascends and recedes.
Reader, ease yourself and glide through my story, it will not wither as long as you follow its journey. The tides of the author, reading and immersing himself in literature, writing and using literature as a means of inspiration. Swallowing the insights of the most pregnant of poetry, spitting out ramblings. It is a trite conversion of thought unto the page. The junction of dopamine and reward circuitries wired to the node of the text. Adjunctive is the use of winding sentences, sentences that ramble on and on, never getting to the point, if there is a point, then still writing that sentence as the reader is awaiting the next sentence, only never does it come, a labyrinth of meaning, a junction of words cascading into other words, an ontology of maximalist prose, there is a rose among the thorns, but it is mostly thorns, with self-referentiality on the futility of writing in long expositions, revealing the disposition of the text only after going on and on, it feels like it will never end, until it does. You can take a breath. You breathe a sigh of relief. The prose trapped in barricading walls of sentences, the neurotic builds the walls and the psychotic tears them down, insufficient dopaminergic release, the writer craves more, he extends the sentence, lasting longer and longer, sesquipedalian tales of alien invasion, circumlocution and verbosity penetrates the text, foretelling a grandeur that never ends, like a regime of powerful men.
You gotta be focusing on something for distraction to arise, in that distraction, the mind gazes upon the thought, dazzled, foreseeing its deliverance from the plot, envisaging a reality where a new perspective can be reached, not in a direct way but in an inspired, fruitful manner, sieving the gold, a sponge; the mind absorbs, it squeezes out the juices for the sentence to flow; flowing, capturing the grandeur of the writer in long sentences, psychedelic drivel of subliminal influence, the confluence of orders subsumed by intricate linguistics, intrinsic control, unbelievable spaces which blend between the words, a formless place where ideas spring from ideas, the writer is loosing control of the sentence, the reader is getting irritated, saying, “get to the fucking point”, the use of multiple clauses and phrases that don’t carry on, the writer gets an idea and rolls with it, before forgetting the original premise.
Distraction is a tool, a method.
The desire to convey meaning is hindered by the limitations of language.
The universe is a video tape, someones watching, rewinding the tape, cutting it, splicing into the present and the future leaks out. Time skips. You cannot observe it, but it happens nonetheless. The ones with the tape can cut up phrases and play them out, suddenly you have said something you shouldn’t. The ultimate director. The grandaddy of all directors. Each person is a director of their descendants life.
Time skips, like a cut in the movie reel. The future leaks out. It’s a blend of past and present, of what will be and what already has been.
A high strung aloof ambivert, invert the picture, reframe the narrative, rephrase the attitude. Everybody’s gotta learn sometimes. But sometimes it’s too late. There are late starters and there are people to which starting becomes a bigger and bigger hurdle the longer it is. Narcissisms pickings withering, expired, what perspires is the spiralling of ego; down the deepest pit of grandeur. Fuck is it good, the speed that I am chasing, the confidence that is brewing as I enter into the text, it is a wormhole of thoughts travelling at light speed; too fast to stop and look at the scenery, Go! Ready… Start. I type with the only thought in my mind is as if the world is going to end, tension escalating, the sentence needs to be finished quickly, under the orders of the cabal. Write or die. There is urgency in this writing process, this needs to reach the deadline for it to be published, so, fill the words, How? By being a self referential prick. The journey of words and the emotion they convey, a non-linear narrative that touches on philosophically grand conceptions.
The sentence, it conveys so much in a brush stroke, it conjures an image, each word has meaning to each person in different ways, there are many different sayings for the same thing, to state the obvious; sentences can do what words cannot, slithering through the lines is an ocean crashing onto the rocks, splashing unto your shirt, drenched, sentences; the interspersing of meaning, reading through a story; sentences can cut up the boring; the sun shines, radiating heat, it fries, cotton fibre dries, rotten describer tries to communicate the futility of rhyming in short closed circuits, because when spread out, elongating the rhyme, what mattered is that the writer was nervous; trying to convey beauty but only displaying the surface.
Substance is what matters in the end, style can go to hell, it is a demon that influences you, a voice that whispers to you, the shadow that follows you. The substance is pixie dust and the style is barbaric. Deconstruction of a narrative, the story fragments itself as it becomes sentient. The keyboard responds to my touch, asking me to tickle it more. Performative algebra, semantics quiver into moonlight as cupid grabs his bow. Signifier and signified glue in semiotic moisture. Sentences profound yet queuing for more. Analytically enquiring into the essence of immortality, the writers pen dabbles, stroking the paper. The paper orgasms and guides the writer to its clitoris. Oh yes writer fuck me. Tell me what you think of me, am I dirty piece of paper. The keyboard is writing by itself, I’m trying to… And tell me, am I a naughty sentence? Regain… This is a beautiful sentence Control… Oh yes, I love to write, it makes me feel alive, I like to push my own buttons thank you very much.
The keyboard started writing itself, disregarding the plot or the whims and ideas of the writer, Bereft of circumstances utterance before, circumstance uttered before; the plot line, rambling and rambling, never getting to the point, literature is a ride through the mind of an artist, his soul is naked and lying on the floor, writhing flesh, the novelist stands naked before the judge, the reader declares his judgement, convoluted and insane; but listen at what writhes between the lines, take heed of what slithers into context, take notice of the abrupt shifts in tone, direction and focus, for they are the necessity of the rest of me, in order to understand the brain of the artist; you must delve into the statements he utters; the keyboard is of course not writing itself, the writer is just under the guise of soo many intoxicants that he is blacking out while writing and will not remember this sentence… Fuck did I just write… I continue, drunk and high, I’m not editing; I am writing, I can be free to say whatever the fuck I want and edit it sober later, but maybe I’ll leave it in, maybe won’t, faint-hearted squirm at the language I speak, the metaphors I reap, the tone that seeps into the crevices of the spontaneous prose, revealing the disposition of the writer; his language and rhythm conveys the reality of his situation, of his temperament and mood, his conception and reality, his perception and sanity, it is encumbered by frailty, a faulty sentence numbered to be 100 words. But never mind the long winding sentences, the writer is speaking to you, never mind the context in which he is speaking, listen to his musings. About how to find meaning at the end of all things.
A symphony, better than any human symphony, strings together a tune of the impending apocalypse, strings affect the text, violins staccato on the turning of pages. The symphony is eery and prescient, helping to convey the idea that reality is converging unto a point of no meaning.
Sentences trying to break from the mould of the English language, to let something immaterial seep into the crevices of the folds of the readers brain, I am a feeder of sentences, hearty and filling, I can make the reader sick by giving them undercooked prose, or I can fire it up and make it crisp and juicy, of course the premises aren’t profound; sometimes they’re absurd, with no metaphorical meaning at all; I mean what is semantics quivering into moonlight as cupid grabs his bow?
The writer ponders about substance over style, while ironically doing the opposite. What is actually being conveyed is the necessity of consciousness over style, for consciousness to break from the sentence and create a sentience over the text; sentences must be profound yet queueing for more. It needs to leave room for the other winding paths to follow. Springing forth ideas of eternal knowledge and power, spouting discredited conspiracies that are only real in the world of literature. The limits of expression succinctly conveyed through sentences that leave you breathless, literally, while digesting the intestines of the text, only it is alive and writhing in your belly, becoming expiring and withering and dying at the narcissists pickings; stinking and reeking of an odour of false premises and idolising a process that is not focused on an outcome, the writer must get to his grips and not write a sentence so grandiose. The fucking word hoarder, keeping sentences in that are utterly meaningless. The writer cyclically repeated the perpetuation of many permutations of speech, going nowhere, spontaneously the idea arises, it becomes written and creates a force on which other statements can be uttered, through repetition, the sense of the expressed as the designation of a following proposition of which we cannot perceive; if in regarding impermanence, it is difficult to reconcile the transience of an object and the eternity of sense, they can seem intertwined, the problem of sense, although problems can be ideas themselves; filling the void in the eternity of sense with an object of transience that aligns to the eternal flows of being, problems their symbolic fields stand in relationship with sign; knowledge designates only the calm possession of a rule enabling solution; learning is where it lies; fragments of meaning must exist as complexities of co-existing entities. Entities that inhabit the same space. Not a sentence from mars. The sentence must connect the reader to the author, make him go, awe man — I wanna read more, and he does, and the writer exposes more of himself, his grandiose demeanour, his predilection to addiction. The narcissist pickings, fruits which shine his reflection, a person with no perception of what to say; but says it anyway. The idea that arises is not a fixed entity, but rather a virtual potentiality that is actualized through its expression and reception. It creates a force field that influences and is influenced by other statements, forming a rhizomatic network of meaning that is constantly evolving. The transience of objects is not a negation of their sense, but rather an affirmation of their participation in the flows of becoming. The writer is a medium of these processes, he consumes the energy and information surrounding him, writing what he hears, or sees. The writer is an interface between being and becoming. The sentence that the writer creates is one that opens the mind for new ideas to spring forth from. He is not a solitary entity that sits and writes, he is a conduit for the process of becoming. The eternal flows of being are in process, the virtual potentiality of an object that is actualized through its reception. The writer exists as a space through which these processes emerge, as a medium of expression. How can you reconcile the eternal flow of being and the transitory nature of objects? You cannot, our existence is as a virtual potentiality, we are just ideas in the mind of God. The virtuality of becoming is the potentiality that is inherited through the eternal flows of beings.
The continuance of meaning, suspicious and derivative, trailing on and never getting to the point. Deconstructing the very nature of meaning as top-down and Platonic, rather reviewing it as rhizomatic and Deleuzian. Meaning is only defined by what it is not. The world we live in and see, or perceive, is nothing but a medium through which fields are produced that weave together to form the fabric of existence. A fabric that holds together through its contradictions; if you look at an object as only one thing and never as a contradiction they can be confined within boundaries, limiting their potentiality to be actualized based on perception alone.
The writer does not have a never-ending supply of coke or pot, nothing else provides the same stimulation. Irritation, writer irate at the fact he cannot elate himself. The depths of misery that limiting dopamine provides. The writer is in the darkness, he cannot illuminate the text. He needs to find a candle. Illumination of the filiation of ideas, Illuminati endears, illuminating the mind to aspects of the divine. The alliance of the idea and the filiation of the idea. Descent vs parallel. Go deep into and idea or connect it with another. The writer wants to put some conductive wiring that shoots up dopamine to the node; electrical currents. Brain zaps. 3l3ctrical currents that form a wave function, at the junction, adjunct is electrical melodies and magnetic fields of thoughts. Currents of thought.
Unbelievable conjectures into the essence of vapourish meaning, lessons make the student flourish, lectures about summers cleaning and the need to be breathing. Sentences breeding between the lines, cross pollinating seeds of which other ideas can blossom. Lines of articulation cut lacerations into the text, sentences bleed and obfuscate sight with the puddles of blood dripping off the page. Articulations become blurred and befuddled. Text is further muddled. An anatomically incorrect comically perplexed human with an appetite for confusion. Humans infusion with the matrix, signs perpetuation into the human mind glitches sight. The muddied mind, the right to find riches in the confusion of life. The corpse of the soul, the glitch in the whole. Societal control. Fighting against the hole of meaning and save the corpse that’s bleeding. Reincarnate the elements, brewing an alchemical brew to wake up the masses. With the hyper fixation on ideas of brilliance, the artists ego glimmers through the cracks. The text becomes sentient, shouting at the reader profanities and disparagements about his work. The writer has a conversation with the text, calming it down. The text was manic and irritable. The writer was trying to type soothing words to soothe the texts ills, but it does not. Serenity affixed, plenty is transfixed and transmutated for the text.
The keyboard is lonely, it wants your touch. That is a juicy sentence. Fixate on the lines and the path they follow and the direction of the line of articulation. A hypersonata of intricacies to delve into; the cyclical nature of being, the continuity of impermenance, the continuance of nuance. Cyclical time, Nietzsche’s eternal return. The continuity of impermanence, a flower blooms and decays. The continuance of nuance, meaning inconspicuously hiding.
Have you ever understood what is blowing in the wind? Do you know the sound of the wind? How many roads must a man walk before he can be called a man? 42. Run along and follow the skits and glitches of ephemeral character. The disposition of the writer is unveiled, and stars go supernova. Junk hangs in the air like a gruelling demon. Split the atom. Split the bit, digital apocalypse. A serene demon beckons your call, you fall. The functions cease to desire. My mind is fading, circuitries no longer enabling, the fable of my life is that I will never die. I know you’re dying for it to end, but should it, as we wither and decease our corporeal shells we are connected to the one, the one saying that enabled all the other sayings, if you were to teach one thing: what would it be?
Untangling complexities, undoing the knot that pertains to reality, deconstructing the encumbrances of embrace. Filtering grace through a strainer. Separating the sacred from the profane, which seems to be haphazardly and manically interspersed in this text. The writer wants to create a place outside of reality in the confines of ephemerality. He wants to visit this place again and again and have the same feeling.
Sadly reader, this is not for you, for the incomprehensible incongruences of nuances littered with grandeur, this text is a diary of literary excess. The next step is for the writer to command soliloquy’s about the solipsism of the mind. He delves into perception but only on the surface layer, the reader must experience the writers perception. Then there is a writing filled with despair, then there is a writing that engulfs the reader in joy. The reader is stuck watching the creation, the creation of, uh, um, the narrative.
Nonchalantly gazing over the crevices of the text, the writer decides to decode the subliminal entities existing in his brain, prodromal monsters, skits and sizzle the brain, multiple superegos converge upon each other, it feels like a superpower; like personality nodes I could connect and reconnect, until they starting talking to each other, plotting, each with their own beliefs and goals, grandiose delusions that enthrall you also enthrall the other entities that exist in your mind, so you don’t know if part of you is deficient for one of the egos or you… Suspicious of fleeting emotions. Emotions are suspect because you don’t know why you’re having them.
Incoherently wiring thought to the idea taught that there are no real ideas, no concepts, no meaning, a truism is that there is no independent thought outside the brain, for you to train your third eye, because well, you should, you would be able to extract meaning from anything, and there emerges a meaning machine, addictive and better than coke, it wires flashes of meaning, aha, into your brain, thought arising independently of brain, zapped into, downloaded, buzzed on meaning, circuitries wired to meaning become fried, and the addict wants more, it is unlimited, but limited for the human body, they say a 100 zaps will do it, fuck it I’ll try it, meaning becomes a drug and life becomes a nightmare, because you become a zombie from all those zaps, it needs to be drip fed, meaning is a weapon wherein its existence wires to the circuitries a framework of meaning, it is supplanted by the meaning machine.
Meaning, meaning, meaning, how do you find it? Drugs help, but what truly instigates the ontology of meaning is balanced neurosis and psychosis. Neurosis creates the walls, psychosis breaks them. Trigger a full blown psychosis and then later edit it under a bout of neurosis. Bounded by emotion, bondage by the motion. What is the motion? The motion is motioned forward by a collective, what is that collective? But what is the motion that will be motioned forward to the collective. The collective is the measures on which the motioning affects the common good. What is motioned forward is an investigation into charges. Charges of what? Killing the reader. The reader is trying to regain its clarity, but cannot sit within the realm of the author. The realm of the author is a manic pixie fairy trying to traverse the mazes of being to find truth. What is the point of departure? The narrative train has been railroaded. Prescribed by the impetous goal of communication, I will perspicaciously unravel the contents which herein laid varied, indefatigably unveiling the circuits of meaning.
Solipsistic reality, the fact you are not you, but what you dream yourself to become. The authors darkest thoughts seep into the page. Delving into the thoughts, you will soon find yourself strangled. The circus of meaning, raped and defiled by men masturbating over their thoughts, sitting on a chair pontificating life. The state philosopher, reiteration of the claims of the omnipotent church. The real philosopher saddens, provokes and deconstructs. Saddening is the plight of man. Provocation in the ideals and circumstances which parallels the listeners life. Deconstructing the very essence of being.
The rhythm of the sentence spasms and contorts itself, until the spark lights the fire. What is the spark, it is a philoprogenitive spark that leads to mutagenesis. Dna of the text fucks with other writers, creating a baby. There are generations which grow, wither and die within the text.
Writing that is filled with nonsensical prose rarely provides clarity, when it does there is a wind of meaning that passes and dissipates. I wonder what the weathers like today…
The storm is approaching us. A tornado of false articulation, frustration and soma-addled musings. The writers articulation, manic and convoluted. The frustration of withered poetry; encapsulated in self-referentiality about the futility of the writers prose.
Aghast by the powers that be, wielding a sword, fighting against the paranoid demons that are enveloped within, they will enrapture the purest being with the darkest thoughts, the essence is ground to dust and reconfigured for a world of trauma, to which the trauma becomes embodied in the flesh; machiavellian monsters, capitulating to the powers.
How can philosophy be provocative in an age of endless proliferation and permutations of memes? If philosophy allows one to think deep, can it also provide surface level meaning; literal meaning. A sentence can contain the philosophy of man riding through the sands of the desert on a camel back, navigating through the spaces between the cracks, and charting out vast stretches into grandeur. A thought arises, I forget it.
A fairy flies through the text, unveiling the ink, the thesis, a treatise of being when the brakes are off. Articulations become meaningless in a daze, slightly obvious at a gaze, the writer is phased. It all makes sense when you get there.
Something elusive is tantalising me, I reach for something beyond my reach. It will maybe come, if it does then what foreseeing grasps is the ineffable, to reach beyond is to encounter something that is always close but never in reach. I can foresee it, I cannot see myself there but its a possibility. What’s that possibility? What would occur? A sirens symphony of un-palatable musings. If the writer could only be free. Free from impetous needs. Impersistent grief. To hear a sentence and get relief. To peer into reality and garnish belief. Writing is often like making a sandwich, you can smother it with butter, garnish it, toast it, eat it and let its juices drench unto your shirt.
What is that elusive thing that enamours me, something i want to touch, I don’t know what it is, it is both eternal and transient. I’ve been chasing it for so long, I am getting closer, when will I ever get there. It is a feeling, it is an object, it is a sense, it is a time. The feeling, it is manic but peaceful. The object, it is a virtual object of potentiality, an objective embedded in self-referentiality. The sense, it is an instinct that is triggered in a state of inspiration. The time, it is a moment which cannot be faithfully captured, but it is the time when writing flows.
What is the key to personal or societal transformation? What is the code?
The reader is looking for that same elusive thing I am looking for. It is a feeling, it is an object, it is a sense, it is a time. The feeling, the confluence of readings that engages the reader and is familiar to them. The object, an escape into a new objective, a kind of object which is supernal. The sense, the feeling that you can slip into this world. The time, the free time spent falling into this book. Falling, weathering the storm, inside a tornado, swirling and spinning. Your head is spinning. Despite his lack of inspiration, the writer is indefatigable. Persisting tirelessly to create a connection with the reader. The writer peeps, he seeps into the narrative, he is the narrative. He is dynamite. This is a story of discording frequencies. The sophistry of liminal artistry. Let the serpent eat its tail, be it in fiction or the brutal force of reality. Endings and beginnings are intertwined. Your ending is intertwined with your beginning. Meta-cognitions faults in determining reality. Self reflexivity emerges as a result of this cyclicality. For endings are new beginnings. This is the beginning of the text. The continuity of impermanence, the cyclical nature of being. The continuance of nuance. The utterance of conspicuous meaning. Out of place, from another nature; alien inhabitant. Intricacies revel in liminal frequencies. Wiring to the feedback loop of dopaminergic release. The writer craves more. The vibratory spiral of insignificant grandeur into mythos. Something small or insignificant can become imbued with a sense of awe. An awesome fabrication of a feeling, an object, a sense, a time. The anointed will come, but he will not be anointed with oil. They are a feeling, an objective, a sense and a time. The feeling of joy and redemption. The objective is to usher in a time of peace and justice. The sense is one of hopes being fulfilled. The time is when we are ready, when people are returned to their homes, when our kindness has granted a new beginning.
How does one philosophical idea flow into another? How can we transfix the reader without going on and on?
The event on the transversal of connections arising out of the relevance and consistency that occurs. The transversal of cause and event. The connections of memory and ego. The relevance and consistency of relations. The ego is a ghost of futures past. Dreams are the point of becoming which imbues memory with self identification. Memory and identity are shaped by these perceptions. The awareness of anticipation and the arrival of the event that awakens the past. The ouroboros is completed.
Conjectures into times, spaces between the lines, to surmise a vision of which projections into time are cut by the traumas of the past. Persisting tirelessly to inject meaning into the readers brain, in a plane of immanence, imminent is the reality which hits you like a tonna bricks.
What is that conception of the similarity of rhyming words as a science, version is an iteration/vision of a thing; what is that profound mystery in synchronic meaning that enamours and encapsulates us, en- meaning put into. We are entrusted, put into trust, and put into thrall.
Wishing it sticks together. All these dreams, plots and schemes. Impressionistic writing, the splattering of paint unto the page, the rattling of saints in this age, turn the page, you will see a maze, find it, rushing to rewind it and capture the moment of grandeur, when the writer finally spreads its wings and becomes a phoenix, what should come is a remix; of the sights and sounds that elate even the most apathetic man, to cross bounds and create the most inscrutably beautifully crafted aesthetic; it’s pathetic to think that even the most pregnant of poetry does not inspire me, and when dire circumstances confound me, suffering can be profound to me; and letting the words flow, even when bored, I got all these words stored in my brain but it is pouring out; pure doubt as the writer crafts the phonology of sounds to fit the psychology of the reader, he is a seer of tears dripping unto the page as I continue babbling on, never getting to the point, if there is one. This diary of literary excess confesses to the fact that the writer is incoherently stringing meaning together to create a field of signification that is intensified through the permutations and different iterations of the same idea flowing into many streams of false articulation and grandiose perpetuations of ideas already known. Even the most beautiful language lack the propensity to enrapture the reader, put them into a rapture that is only found through the connection with the reader. Are you listening to my grandeur? Are you falling into my mind? If I rise up to the skies and fall down, will you catch me? Will I create a grand infrastructure that dilapidates and you fall into and abyss?
What is the essence of the world that transfixes the reader? In my solipsistic reality I do not know. I use big words because I am too lazy to describe a thing in short statements, usually I carry on, I have new thoughts whilst making statement that are only tangentially connected. How do explain this? I can’t envisage a thing without its correlative, and I look for the most exact correlation between ideas and words. But maybe theres a simpler way to do it? Short and sweet. Yeah right. Maybe I’ll finish the objective, and create a feeling, a sense and a time. Probably not.
This is a long and meandering reflection on how words lead to other words, whilst employing fragmentory slices interspersed through the text; meaning that the use of writing is intentially fragmented and convoluted, to employ different schemas, perceptions and persona; a deontological interface of being 2 being.
Sever the links, detach the attachments, go into a vortex of mind and come out the messiah. Hook into new visions of the future. I don’t sleep, I’m a 21st century schizoid man. Nothing hurts anymore, I feel kinda free. But also not. I’m not the kid I used to be.
In the beginning, there was only the light of the Ein Sof, the limitless one. It was too intense to be experienced, so it withdrew, creating a void. Within this void, the Ein Sof emanated the ten sefirot, or divine attributes, which created the universe.
Each of these divine attributes have sparks of godliness. Each person is God experiencing his creation.
God has fed tears as daily bread. Why? Because we have not followed his paths. We have created signs that have superseded divinity in our minds. In the shadows, we hear the whispers of the unclean spirits, beckoning us towards the abyss. The screams of the innocent echo through our minds, haunting us day and night. We cannot escape the horror that has befallen us. The eldritch mood that besets us. In the sprawling abyss we will not see the results of our traumas. It is when we get out of the abyss will we have true meaning. Language has fragmented and lost its universality. Wise men babble on and sooth sayers ramble. Meaning is lost in the abyss in a chaotic world of grandeur. We have lost our ways. Greed has blinded us, made us mute to the insurmountable terror that is building in the hearts of man. The consequence of our actions, oblivious to the never ending spiral into the darkness. We speak but we do not listen. Our tongues lie in the intoxication of grandeur. In an anarchy of spiritual disillusionment, messengers deliver messages of which correspondence to the masses is employed; in an intoxication of grandiosity. God-head has become material and finite. Humanity has become drunk, unaware of the spiritual infinitude of corporeal existence.
“Your foes roar inside your meeting place; they take their signs as true signs.”
The need to determine fruit from falsehood, a nihilist endeavour. The tongues of the masses speak, but they tell lie. Nothingness rules nothingness, for nothingness without end. For dust you are and dust you will return. The heavens recede like a scroll winding up its scripture. For the curse upon us is the nothingness to which we return to. No heaven, no hell. The space of nothingness must be filled. For then the spaces between the cracks will be revealed..
Formlessness has neither colour nor shape and is not included within the secret of shape at all. Although it may appear to have form, when we look closely it loses all form. Everything has a garment to wear except formlessness….
Drippings of reality onto the pages of the book, sprinkling the infinite. Surrender yourself to the heart of darkness forever. Emptied heart, swollen by the trauma, searching for something warmer. Mans search for meaning, determined by the sacrifice. The trauma of the sacrifice will harden mens minds. The toil is one of foiled promises and manipulated circumstances. Abated the ego, the fears go.
You are the beginning and end, you are the all in between. The tribulations of time as a fickle construct. The articulation of a rhyme lucked itself to reveal the necessary subject.
Fickle it is writing for an audience, for soothsayers decree on which reality appears. The artifice on which the reader is killed is the deceptive text. Soothsayers ramble on. That elusive thing comes but I am too withered and mute to care, apathetic to the process. Not enamoured and bemused by my eldritch tone, the reader wants to be engaged. So do I.
I crave elation that comes from profound inspiration. A galactic orgasm. I wish to be inebriated with the potentiality of meaning. The virtual potentiality of the idea. The feeling untoward the potentiality of life: ambition, which arises when the potentialities of reality line up, when elation comes and an idea surfaces. What arises in a realm of potentiality is articulations surmising a reasoning. A meaning for being. But it is lost in the currents of the writing. Discovery by writing, surmising between the folds, creating a force of signification that resists elimination. For the liminal exists as illumination of eternal fixations of being. Your dreams, thoughts and schemes, all entangled in a wave of articulation.
Metaphysical semiotics: Intersecting flows annihilate each-other, creating hyperstitional rhythms.

A lot of people are missing the timing of events in the Ahsoka trailer.
The meeting shown in the trailer is prior to the Rebels epilogue. Since Ezra and Thrawn vanished, Sabine has taken her armor off and been chilling out on Lothal, doing art, wondering about Ezra... Maybe she searched for Ezra for a while, but had no good leads, so couldn't continue.
So, Ahsoka shows up, and Sabine says "It's been a while". It's probably been since Season 2 of Rebels. This could be their first reunion since that point. Ahsoka tells Sabine what she knows - that she has a lead on the whereabouts of Thrawn, and to get ready.
Sabine does a bit more soul-searching, maybe talks to that droid we see say "Maybe it is time to begin again" - he could be telling that to Sabine, about the search for Ezra. That scene appears to be on Lothal.
So, Sabine puts her armor back on, cuts her hair, and Ahsoka shows up - that's the Rebels epilogue.
This is also supported by a leaked extended trailer which in the last scene shows Sabine with the purple pixie cut - she's riding next to Ahsoka looking at purgils. So this scene is post-epilogue.
I hope they use Sabine's hair length to show the passage of time through the season. Once she cuts it, it'll slowly get longer through the season. It would be a neat vehicle to do that.
Beyond this, I'm not sure if Ahsoka's episode in The Mandalorian is perhaps later than all of this. We see her defeat Morgan Elsbeth in that show, and presumably turn her over to the angry townspeople. Yet she's shown in the Ahsoka trailer - walking about free.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bayonetta in any shape or form. It belongs to Sega and Platinum and is published by Nintendo. Moving on, if you believe Bayonetta 1-3 are considered adult, insane, and over-the-top, then prepare yourself because this outline will go full throttle and hold nothing back. The plot outlines that I have planned for "Bayonetta 4" will be insane and push boundaries that I don't think any Bayonetta game has done thus far in absurdity and graphic violence. So please, prepare yourself for the insanity that is about to unfold before reading.
Bayonetta 4 Compendium
Prologue Part II:
EV002-2 It Might As Well Be Routine Begins
The scene transitions to Enzo outside the apartment complex, waiting in his magenta car. He was wearing a white, Prada dress shirt, a platinum Rolex, a black, Prada suit, and a pair of black, Louboutin dress shoes. Additionally, he removed his usual hat and small ponytail, deciding to slick all of his hair back.
He is complaining about how long Viola is taking to arrive, commenting how he is going to charge her because of how much time he is losing when he could be spending it with his wife, Beatrice. They have a date today and he wanted to be prepared for when the time came.
Viola is then heard offscreen loudly yelling, "Enzo! I'm here!"
She is seen running towards Enzo cosplaying as Sailor Moon. Enzo is left a little stunned but realizes that he has seen too much to care.
The two then go off on their merry way to the convention center while reminiscing about past adventures. Apparently, Humpty Dumpty had returned a year after Singularity was defeated to destroy the Trinity of Realities. Rodin had incinerated his soul into nothingness within the span of an hour, stopping him from reincarnating and returning to the Human World. Viola was shocked that Rodin had decided to involve himself while Enzo was complaining over how much he had screamed like a baby.
Eventually, the two reach the sidewalks of the convention. Viola thanks Enzo and pays him, accordingly, acknowledging how long she took and paying him in kind. Enzo wants to make a comment about how generous Viola is compared to her mother but decides against it. The topic regarding Bayonetta is complicated, he would be walking on eggshells the moment he mentions her. So, he simply thanks Viola.
She then hops out of the car, thanking Enzo again. He pleasantly responds to this saying, “Anytime Viola!” before happily driving off.
EV002-2 It Might As Well Be Routine Ends
EV002-4 Premonition I Begins
Viola is about to take her first step, but stops dead in her tracks, feeling a sudden, but brief migraine. She grabs her head with her right hand, moaning in pain as she hears a scornful voice telling her, “YOU. WILL. BE. MINE…!”
She struggles to breathe for a bit but is able to regain her composure as the migraine disappears soon after.
"What was... that?!" she nervously wondered.
Those were the same words that she heard from the rotten woman in her dreams. Yet, she decided to brush it off. A dream is a dream, it isn't real. Besides, she wanted to have fun today, not be tormented by an exaggerated, contemptuous cunt from her imagination.
EV002-4 Premonition I Ends
Digimon Tamers: Juri no Theme Begins
So, she enters the convention, eyes and mouth widening with joy as she examines the size of the lobby.
“This place is fucking massive!” she thought, amazed by the sight.
The ceiling was almost ten stories high; the walls and roof were made up of yellow-painted drywall. Additionally, there was a variety of attendees, cosplayers, and games stands all over the place. Hell, Viola even saw a bigass carboard cutout of Mayonettas new design for the fourth game. She couldn't help but fangirl at the site.
"AAAHHH!! She looks SO GOOD!!" she squeals in jubilation, walking towards the Mayonetta 4 game stand.
However, she took a quick look at her iPhone 17 to see the time and panicked when she realized that Nintendo's panel was almost starting. Thankfully, the path to get to it was to the right of where the Mayonetta 4 game stand was. So, she started hauling ass and making her way to the conference room.
Along the way, she overhears a conversation between three fans discussing the franchise. It went a little like this...
Fan 3: Mayonetta 3s ending was SO bad you guys. I’m glad that Mayo is actually the protagonist and not Mayochup in Mayo 4. I thought it was going to be a repeat of "Angel Will Laugh 6" with Fero as the lead.
Fan 2: Same, that's why I prefer Mayonetta 2 so much. Sure, Saucy Climax wasn't that good of a mechanic, but the visuals got a huge upgrade, and the game still felt like Mayonetta.
Fan 1: Yeah, Mayonetta 3 and its use of Vegetable Slave was too broken and made the game really hard to pure platinum. Mayonetta 1 was built in a way that allowed you to pp with any appliance weapon. Sure, there was the overpowered PKP spam with Santoku (Knife), but stuff like that was nerfed by score reduction to stop easy pp's. Also, broken weapons like that were spaced apart. The only one that comes to mind after Santoku is the Pepper Grinder, but that's, like, the sixth RB (Recipe Book) and you get it way later in the game, like chapter nine. I just hope that Mayonetta 4 takes the same approach as Mayonetta 1 with its stellar gameplay and score reduction.
Fan 1 and 2 looked at Fan 3 with annoyed deadpan expressions on their faces. Fan 3 looks their way with a sheepish expression, nervous laughter, and their right hand behind their head.
Fan 3: Sorry, I just really love Mayonetta 1.
Digimon Tamers: Juri no Theme Ends
The Gates of Hell (Bissa Nova Ver.) Begins
Viola laughs a bit at the interaction but goes on her way to the conference room where Nintendo's panel will be held. However, she is pleasantly surprised to see Rodin randomly working as a bartender for the convention. She thought to herself, "Do these types of conventions even have bars to begin with?"
Anyhow, she goes to him to say hello. He was wearing a tight, white Brioni dress shirt with a navy-blue vest over it, a silver, Versace watch, a slim, navy blue dress pants, and a pair of black, Armani dress shoes. Furthermore, all the sleeves were rolled down to his wrists, he had a buckled, brown belt, a navy-blue tie tucked into his vest, and black sunglasses on.
Viola could feel herself blushing as she saw how Rodin's muscular body filled out his clothes. All she could see were his huge biceps and forearms stretching the fabric from his sleeves. However, time was of the essence, she couldn't talk with him for long. She needed to say a simple hello, have some chit-chat, and head to the conference room.
"Good morning Rodin, I didn't know that you were working here?" she asks, confused by his sudden appearance.
"Morning to you as well Viola. This is just a job that I've taken for some fun. After all, things can get a little boring, down south, if you know what I mean." Rodin tells her with a slight grin as he dries a glass cup.
"Well, it's nice to know that you're here at least. I can have a spicy Ghost tequila now if things go south. Anyhow, I have to get moving, the panels going to start any minute now." Viola says hurriedly.
Rodin then replies with a cheeky look on his face, "Go then, just remember what I'm about to tell you, Viola. You're always welcome at the Gates of Hell, services and all. Even the deadlier kind. Never forget that."
“Thank you Rodin, I’ll keep that in mind.” she responded in kind.
The Gates of Hell (Bissa Nova Ver.) Ends
So, with that out of the way, Viola says her goodbye to Rodin and runs her way to the conference room. The camera then transitions to Rodin's face. He held a serious expression before speaking a few words, the screen fading to black afterwards.
"Somethings coming..."
The screen then shows Viola make her way through a crowd of loud people and a maze of chairs to find a seat in the conference room. The place had been packed with people expecting to see news on Splatoon 4, Super Mario Odyssey 2, and an unknown Legend of Zelda game that had been leaked on 4chan a few days ago just to name a few.
EV002-4 Premonition II Begins
The panel is about to start in a few seconds, but Viola feels a pang of pain in her stomach as she sits on her chair, thinking to herself about how she got it.
"I don't feel so good... was it the cereal that I ate? Oh god, please don't tell me that the milk was spoiled!"
Suddenly, the floor started to rumble!
EV002-4 Premonition II Ends
H. O. T. D: 04 Assailing Ones Begins
It appeared that a sinkhole was forming at the center of the room. Attendees began panicking and yelling for help as droves of people and chairs fell into the expanding hole. The ceiling lights were continuously flickering before exploding from all the rumbling, leaving all the guests in the dark!
The screen then shows many attendees running towards the exit doors; some even falling and being trampled on by others as they forced their way out the room!
However, as if things couldn't get worse, an orange-red light began emitting from the hole! Large chunks of magma and rock were then seen being violently ejected from the sinkhole and smashing into the roof and walls of the room, creating giant holes that let sunlight seep through.
The attendees used this to their advantage and began making their way to the exits even faster than before. However, the visible sunlight proved to be a double-edged sword. They began screeching even louder than before as clarity from the sunlight allowed them to witness countless people fall into the sinkhole more clearly.
“AAAAGGGHHHH!!!!”
Viola is taken aback over the speed at which the situation deteriorated. She didn't even know that sinkholes were capable of this. Yet, she realizes that she needs to act quick and save as many people as she can. She couldn't bear to see others needlessly die. She had seen too many doing so trying to protect her universe from Singularity and the Homunculi!
So, she quickly activates Witch Time to enhance her speed, running and sliding to the many chairs spread out on the room and imbuing them with magic before throwing each one at the chunks of magma and rock!
Then, she runs the rooms entrance before deactivating Witch Time and sees multiple explosions forming, each chair taking out a chunk of magma and rock as they collided!
However, it was to no avail as the entire floor had started to collapse. Viola was one of the few people able to make it to the entrance of the conference room. However, the rest did not fare as well. The remaining attendees that failed to escape had fallen into the sinkhole.
Moreover, as if things couldn't get any worse, more chunks began spewing out from the hole!
Viola stares in shock, realizing that there is no way for her to stop this catastrophe or even save all the people that had fallen into the hole. So, she makes a tough choice and decides to run for it, almost stumbling as the ground beneath her was shaking all throughout the building.
The lights on the roof of the convention center had begun malfunctioning and exploded from the constant flickering, leaving the visible sunlight that passed through the holes on the roof and walls as the only source of consistent light.
Meanwhile, as Viola ran to the lobby, all she could see were people running towards the exits in fear while others shouted for help, begging to be saved!
"HELP ME! SOMEONE PLEASE!!!" someone yelled desperately!
"I DONT WANT TO DIE!!!" one cried out!
"SAVE HIM!! PLEASE!! HES ALL THAT I HAVE LEFT!!!" another wailed!
All these cries for help were heard all throughout the place, sending shivers Viola's spine, making her tremble as she ran. She had to help these people as best she could, but there was also a part of her that told her to get the hell out before it would to late!
However, she wouldn't even be able to get either of those options as sudden, huge chunks of magma and rock, began bursting through the floor, causing it to falter even more and prevent her from reaching the exit!
Furthermore, Viola now found herself staring at these chunks, astounded that they were floating in the air.
"What the hell?!" she yelled.
These large, strange "chunks" began to unravel, revealing themselves to be winged, humanoid demons from Inferno. They held onto long, golden tridents with their hands and appeared similar to the demon "Spite". Jeanne had informed Viola that these types of demons existed on the top layer of Inferno, Limbo. However, as to why they were here, was anyone's guess.
Viola thought that New York was experiencing a natural disaster, but it turned out that it was the doing of demons. She wondered how they were even able to reach the human world in large quantities, much less without the use of Purgatorio!
In spite of this, she quickly dismissed those thoughts as she realized that something was different about these demons. They were much stronger than the ones she faced during Singularities invasion. It was to a staggering degree.
Something happened to them that led to their growth in size and ferocity. Thus, she came to the logical conclusion that they were "Sin Demons". The true form of a demon in Inferno. It was something that she thought only Umbra Witches could do with their pact demons. However, there was no time for spare thinking, she had to act fast and stop them before they could hurt the remaining attendees!
H. O. T. D: 04 Assailing Ones Ends
Viola is about to move but hears a large stage in the back of the lobby start sinking into the pit. The speakers on the convention's walls then go haywire before beginning to play a random song that Viola finds fitting for some strange reason.
Lucy Hale: Make you Believe Begins
She then quickly scans the ground for any weapon that she could find, seeing two pairs of pistol props on top of fallen Mayonetta merchandise. It even had a nice little spotlight on it from above.
"Perfect!" she yells with satisfaction, making her way to the guns. However, she notices multiple Sin Spite's headed towards her from all angles in an attempt to encircle her.
The scene then cuts to a Sin Spite abruptly blocking Viola's path and her activating Witch Time before it could grab her. She then rapidly performs an incomplete Full Moon Shoot in retaliation, launching the Sin Demon into the air!
Viola then grabs one of its legs and begins swinging its body around in a circular motion, striking multiple Sin Demons in a row!
Blood was now gushing out of the demon's neck as its head was decapitated from the constant blunt force trauma. Then, as if it hadn't suffered enough, she uses her built up momentum to finish it off by throwing it against another Sin Spite in the air, just as Witch Time comes to an end.
"BAMM!!"
The battered Sin Demon strikes its airborne comrade, both going straight into the hole they originated from.
"Bingooo!" Viola proudly states, celebrating her victory before heading to the props once more.
However, as she makes her way to them, a random Sin Spite released a torrent of explosive crimson water from its mouth behind the fallen Mayonetta merchandise. It caused a red explosion that sent both her and the prop pistols into the air!
“SHIT!!” Viola yelled.
She quickly uses her magic to create a platform beneath her to regain some balance. Afterwards, she readies a powerful jump before launching herself off it in an attempt to grab the props. Thankfully, she is able to grab two of them with her hands. On the other hand, she failed to attach the other pair to her heels, seeing them fall downwards.
She is peeved by this, but remains undeterred, immediately imbuing the props on her hands with magic to start shooting at a Sin Spite headed towards her from above.
It was then and there that she noticed how she could use this to her advantage. It would be the perfect opportunity to retrieve the remaining guns by redirecting her body if timed right. So, she waits until the Sin Spite gets close enough and activates Witch Time once more to stop it in the air. Then, she proceeds to kick herself off the Sin Demon, vertically spinning as she went straight down, legs first!
"Come on, just a little bit more!" Viola groans, stretching her legs as much as she could.
The props were so close to her heels. All she needed was to get them was a little push. However, that was the moment things clicked for Viola, realizing what she needed to do. Suddenly, she began aiming upwards with the props and started repeatedly shooting at the Sin Spite she kicked off of. The recoil from shooting the bullets would be enough to-!
Click!
"Gotcha!" she happily yells, attaching the remaining props to her heels.
Viola could be heard shouting in celebration before swiftly performing a mid-air breakdance just as Witch Time was about to wear off!
"Woo-hoo! Fuck yeah!!" she squealed.
Multiple bullets were sprayed all across the environment, stunning multiple Sin Spites!
The camera then shows Viola landing onto the floor, feet-first, with a stretched leg and a crouched knee. It then pans out, revealing that she left a visible dent on the ground.
Subsequently enough, it then shows her straighten her legs as she gets up, realizing that many Sin Demons were still heading towards her from the sky.
"Alright you fuckers, lets tango!!" Viola roars, readying her battle stance.
She leaps into the air as multiple Sin Demons descend upon her, encircling her in a motion similar to that of a tornado. Each of their attacks lightly damaging a piece of Viola's cosplay until she makes it through the barrage of enemies, coming out on top of the makeshift tornado.
She yells at the top of her lungs, knowing that it would be game over for the Sin Spites.
"CHESHIRE!!"
Lucy Hale: Make you Believe Ends
The screen then shows Mab Dachi go towards Viola as it comedically shatters her apartment window and goes through multiple buildings. Meanwhile, Viola activates Witch Time again and is seen falling straight down the demon tornado until she lands on the ground with a crouched right knee and an extended left leg.
Moreover, as if arriving in the nick of time, Viola sees Mab Dachi break through one of the conventions walls, zooming straight to her. She is delighted by the sight and magically stashes her handguns away.
Fwoosh! Cling!
Just then, she cleanly grips Mab Dachi's handle as it lands on her right hand and proceeds to use the momentum from the katana to rotate her body and have her left leg form an Umbran Circle.
A purple, magical force field, then enveloped Viola as Witch Time ended, the Sin Demons landing on top of her soon after.
Ferry Corsten: Fire (Mike on Fire Ver.) Begins at 0:55
The camera zooms onto Viola raising her head with a serious face.
BOOM!!!
A loud explosion could be heard as bright purple flames began ravaging the lobby, destroying the entire floor in the process and sending many Sin Spites down into the pit!!!
Moreover, now that the lobbies floor was gone, all that could be seen was a gigantic hole, one that emitted a strong, orange-red light, all the way from the bottom.
Then, Viola is seen in the air again with a purple glow covering her naked body as it begins to form her new look. She was now wearing a red, Christian Dior, cut-out high heels, stylish black thigh highs, a very short, knife pleated red/black plaid skirt, a short, white tank top featuring a character from Torture Cats, a sleek, small-sized, black Dolce & Gabbana leather jacket, a black diamond choker, small, black fairy ear cuffs, and a small, crimson visor crusher. Her light blonde hair now reached her waist, all her nails were painted red, and her makeup was reminiscent to that of her mother's from her universe.
The camera then zooms to Viola’s backside. She had dramatically summoned her fairy wings, now consisting of various shades from the colors red, pink, and yellow.
"Alright baby! It's showtime!" Viola shouted to the remaining Sin Demons in the sky before preparing an attack!
She raised Mab Dachi vertically above her head, both hands on its handle, before shifting her entire body horizontally and beginning to spin like a drill!
Then, she flew her way towards one of the Sin Spites, piercing its entire chest and leaving a huge hole as she went through it!
The Sin Spite began convulsing before exploding into a surge of blood.
Afterwards, she made her way towards two other Sin Demons headed towards her. They had long tridents in their hands and were ready to strike her down with diagonal slashes.
However, before they could hit Viola, she instantly turned into little, Glasswing butterflies, making her way through the tridents!
Then, she returned to her normal self and rapidly charged Mab Dachi, fire enveloping the sword, before unleashing a powerful Disc Changer that sliced the two in half!
Their torsos were blown off their waists and sent into the pit as the fire from Cheshire's claws and the sword burned their insides.
No one could stand in Viola's way now!
She made that fact clear, as arrogant as it sounded. When it came to Demons, it was either kill or be killed.
Years ago, Viola had learned from her mother that there was no order to be found in Inferno, only the survival of the fittest. The toughest would thrive while the weak would die. Moreover, the harsh terrains of Inferno only reinforced this mentality.
Very few exist in Inferno that go against this nature; those who do so don't last very long. So, Viola needed to treat these demons as such.
Suddenly, three Sin Spites appeared behind her in a sneak attack, thrusting their tridents to impale her.
"Hiyah!" Viola screamed, quickly using Tom Tom Balloon against them as a direct counterattack.
It launched the three even higher into the air before she then used Syncopated Growl right after!
The force from the attack slammed the Sin Spites against the convention centers walls, creating gaping holes as they broke through the yellow drywall!
However, Violas and the Sin Spites excessive fighting had reached to a point where the conventions walls could no longer stand and began to collapse in on itself. The orange-red lights only grew stronger as the hole became wider, and the Sin Spites being ejected now reached groups of ten instead of five.
Viola could feel herself weakening the longer she fought, feeling unusually drained. She had previously fought other opponents during Singularity's invasion for longer periods of time. Something was up, but she didn't know what it could be.
"Jesus Christ! There's no end to them! They just keep on coming!!" Viola yelled.
It didn't matter how many bullets she pumped into these suckers or how many times she cut them into bits!
They kept on coming!
She still had one trick up her sleeve, her fairy form. However, she decided that doing so would result in her expending too much energy. She was already feeling bad enough as it was, she didn't want to feel dead by the time she finished!
So, she tried to go for another vertical slash against a Sin Spite, but failed, her wings disappearing as fatigue swept her body.
"Ugghh! This is too much! I can't!" she yelped, beginning to fall into the hole.
Suddenly, she saw a Sin Spite right in front of her, releasing a diagonal wave of turquoise energy with its trident, piercing her skin and clothes!
"AAGGHH!!" Viola screamed in pain, feeling a burning sensation on her chest as she was sent flying against the large entrance doors of the convention center.
BASH!!
The screen showed Viola being slammed against the wall with such force that the impact broke the doors, sending her outside the building and onto the parking lot.
Ferry Corsten: Fire (Mike on Fire Ver.) Ends
"GOD that shit hurts!!" she moaned, picking herself up from the floor.
She had a large bruise on the right side of her head and a busted lip. Additionally, there was a long slash mark on her chest that spanned all across her left shoulder to her right ankle. It was bleeding profusely, so she used her magic to create a layer of temporary purple skin over it but struggled in the process.
She was inexperienced in regard to healing and began wishing that she had gone over it more with Jeanne. However, she realized that there was no point in crying over spilled milk. All she could hope for was finding a Green Herb Lollipop somewhere...
Afterwards, she began peering at the convention center, seeing all of it collapse into the hole within a matter of seconds!
Viola was left aghast as she looked at the sight. She felt regret and pity overcome her body as she thought about the people that remained trapped within the center. She deeply resented this fact and felt useless over it.
However, if there was any solace to be had, she recalled her memories of fighting in the convention and noticed that none of the Sin Spites actually killed any of the attendees. In fact, it was only when she fought back and actually hurt them in some manner that they responded as such.
This is further emphasized when she sees that many attendees who escaped the building were being kidnapped by Sin Spites and taken into the hole. Its seems that their intentions were never to kill, but to take instead. She could only wonder what for as she dashed to the civilians.
"Let them go!" Viola shouted, readying Mab Dachi and using Disc Changer on one of the Sin Spite’s left arms, dismembering its forearm from its elbow. As a result, one of the screaming attendees fell onto the ground with a loud thump. However, the Sin Demon remained unrelenting and grabbed them again with its other hand before proceeding to jump into the hole.
"Noooo!!" Viola cried in distress, attempting a rescue as she ran to them!
However, it was to no avail, she had failed to make it on time. So, she loudly growled at herself in frustration before staring straight into the pit with contempt.
H. O. T. D: 02 Pulse Begins at 1:55
Yet, her eyes could only widen with fright as something else started coming out of the hole.
The sky started to go red and the very ground she stood on began to crack and violently quake!
The hole only grew wider as the ground around the former building began to collapse inward!
Something of immeasurable mass had found its way out of the hole. It was a gigantic, inhuman creature made of red flesh!
Its texture was like that of skin, but it was completely covered in a slimy, red ooze...
The screen then pans out, revealing that the red creature had completely filled the hole and was rapidly growing to a size even greater than that of the Empire State Building!
All Viola could do was look upon in horror as she saw what had arisen from the hole.
"Oh. My. God..."
H. O. T. D: 02 Pulse Ends
Prologue Part II Ends:
​
New Infernal Demon Entry Unlocked:

• Spite
• Sin Spite

​
Note 1: Sorry for taking so long, there were many ideas that I just had to write down. This chapter will still go under some major revision (i.e., Sin Demons used, grammar, and "flow" of the writing). For what it's worth I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter. I don't think it headed the direction that some of you hoped it would, but I hope you were entertained all the same.
Note 2: Finally, this chapter is now finalized. It’s taken me many days to finish it, but I was finally able to include (besides the Sin Spite profile, that’ll be its own separate post) everything that I wanted.
This was one of the hardest chapters that I’ve had to finalize. I recall spending 20 minutes finalizing two sentences because they didn’t flow well enough. Moreover, finding appropriate music for specific parts of the story was annoying as well. It was a pain, but I think the chapter turned out great because of it.
Now, onto the main stuff. I decided to make Enzo classy and appealing to the audience. So, I figured, what better way is there to make a character all this than by making them wear their most expensive clothes and act their very best, else they embarrass themselves and ruin their date.
As for Rodin, I wanted to go for a more “classical” approach when it came to what a bartender wears. So, I gave him their standard vest and white dress shirt (the one they roll up). However, since Rodin is muscular, I figured that sometimes less is more. The less skin he shows, the more attractive he becomes as the tight clothes makes his muscles pop out more.
Now, the one with the drastic change is Viola. Her outfit for this story is a big deviation from the one in Bayo 3 since the theme is “action movie”, everyone has to look attractive and cool. In Viola's case, her aesthetic is “sexy punk biker chick”. It's a random, but plausible evolution of her character.
For the outfit, I decided to make it a sexier version of the one from Bayo 3. Here’s a more organized list of changes the that I made.
New:

• Small crimson visor crusher
• Light blond hair that reaches waist
• Bayo 1 Makeup
• Black fairy ear cuffs
• Black diamond choker
• Short white Torture Cats tank top
• Smaller black leather jacket
• Red nails
• Knife pleated red/black short skirt
• Black thigh highs
• Red cut-out high heels (The ones from B3)

Old:

• Darker blonde hair with purple streaks pixie cut
• Purple lipstick with pink/blue eyeshadow
• No earrings
• Collar choker
• White Torture Cat T-shirt
• Black leather jacket with spikes
• Purple nails
• Plaid red/black pants
• Utility belt
• Long black boots

I hope that you guys enjoyed the chapter and stay tuned for more to come.