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Memory Transcription Subject: Tresn, arxur farmer
Date [Standardized Human Reckoning]: 2136–09-28
The day I learned about humans was a calm one. The sun had slid close to the horizon and with a basket of herbs and spices, I made my way back to the farmhouse where Taksak and I lived. When I arrived my mentor was waiting for me to prepare our dinner. He asked me for three portions instead of the usual two with the third one being unseasoned.
As I was going about my business, I heard a sound that caught my attention. It was the telltale noise of an airship landing in front of Taksak's farm. I hurried to the farmhouse's kitchen window to see what was going on and the reason for the third portion became clear. I saw a betterment officer stepping out of her vehicle. Her visit was out of schedule, so that means she is bringing some intel. Taksak seemed unfazed by her arrival but I was pretty sure that he was also in the dark with me.
My heart was pounding with anticipation as I returned to prepare the three portions of meals for the day. Our ancestors, blessed they are, had always emphasized the importance of plants in our lives. Some plants had medicinal properties that could cure sickness, while others could be used as seasonings to enhance the taste of our food. They taught us that there was more to food than just meat and that the plant world held great value as well.
My mind was filled with me thinking about what sort of news she was bringing today.
I finished preparing the meals and arranged the dishes on a tray. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves before making my way to the dinner table where the officer had been sitting with her brother. I placed the first dish in front of my mentor first, the second dish graced the betterment officer, and last, I placed mine before I sat.
Taksak and I used a small dagger as befitting of the civilized way of our ancestors, while his sister grabbed the pieces of raw meat with her claw. We ate in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts as we savored them. The Betterment Officer, who had been quiet for most of the meal, eyed the sauce we had been dipping our meat in. Curiosity getting the better of her, she ended up trying it as well, and her face lit up with pleasure as she put the meat into her maw. As she finished her meal, she dipped her piece of meat in every bite, I suppose she approved of it.
After we finished our meal, the woman fished into her satchel and took out a data chip.
"You didn't get this from me," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. "If you get caught with this, I will deny any involvement."
I tried not to think about what would happen if we were caught with them. Death would be the best-case scenario.
Without another word, the taciturn arxur gathered her things and left us alone in our living room.
"Tresn, bring me the reader," Taksak instructed me, his voice low and urgent.
I didn't hesitate for a moment. I ran into our bedroom and retrieved the reader that Taksak had asked for. The old device was a modified pad with its connectivity disabled. Taksak had the physical module removed, ensuring that whatever we open in that device, stays in our farmhouse. After I handed it to him, Taksak inserted the data chip into the reader and we were presented with a document on the screen.
The front page was printed in large letters saying that this document is classified. The preface of the document described that the original copy was written in ventongue, which was then translated into our speech. I recalled that when Taksak's sister last came here, she brought news about uncontacted species. Everything about the new species made more sense then. They had just attacked Gojid's core world, weakening the prey. With their Cradle left defenseless, our people swooped down.
Taksak and I huddled over the secret documents, poring over the details of the new species and their way of life. According to the text, the Federation had not tainted them with the prey's way of life, allowing them to evolve in their way. They had been able to maintain their carnivorous diet and maintain a society that was not based on violence and cruelty. Taksak seemed lost in thought. His eyes scanned the text as he absorbed the information. I could feel the wheels turning in his mind as he considered the implications of what we were reading.
The document ended with a section filled with pictures revealing these elusive creatures. Their soft features and their lack of natural weapons made them appear almost prey-like. It was as if a mad biologist had modified a prey species to have binocular vision. As we swiped through the pictures, we saw glimpses of their society and their way of life.
Seeing these species, My feelings of jealousy and longing intensified. These creatures lived in dense, vibrant settlements full of life and energy. I could almost feel the excitement of their festivals and rites, imagining myself lost in the sea of people. Despite their dense settlement, they had managed to preserve vast tracts of wilderness, filled with four-legged predators that roamed free in their natural habitats.
One obscene image, in particular, caught our attention. It showed a human feeding a predator with striped fur markings. These creatures had so much meat that they could afford to feed it to their animals. Not only that, but this new species also brought some of the predators into their civilized places, treating them almost like members of their own families. One image showed a small orange predator with pointy ears being held by a human, as though it was their child.
And then, we saw it. A photo of four-legged animals with side-facing eyes grazing on a lush green field. Cattle, I realized with a jolt. Non-sapient cattle, to be precise.
"Sir...look!" I exclaimed, nudging my mentor. "They have non-sapient cattle!"
But when I turned to face him, my excitement turned into concern. A pang of deep sadness etched his face and tears were streaming down his cheeks. For a moment, I didn't know what to do or say. I had never seen my mentor like this before.
"This...might be what we could have been," he said at last, his voice trembling with emotion. "If we had not been contacted from the sky… If we had been left to develop our way of life, perhaps we could have been like this."
The older arxur placed the reader away on the side table. He sobbed, as though a lifetime of sorrow had come crashing down upon him, and he could no longer keep his emotions in check. I could feel my own emotions flaring up in response to his grief. I reached out to offer some form of comfort. But before I could say anything, Taksak pulled me into a tight embrace and we wept, feeling the pain that we shared, a pain that was rooted in all that we had lost as a people.
Outside, our cattle slept in peace under the shade of their pen without a care in the world.
Memory Transcription Subject: Johan, human exchange program participant
Date [Standardized Human Reckoning]: 2136–10-02
We spent a few days exploring the island of Bali, and the news of the Gojids' threat faded into the background of our minds. However, our peaceful respite was short-lived because the arxurs swooped in after the Gojids' defenses were destroyed by the humans. In terror, we felt like we were leading lambs to the slaughter.
Damn if we do and damn if we don't.
The bad news didn't stop there. We also received an update from the Federation's Special Session on humans. It was revealed that almost forty species said outright that they wanted to exterminate humans.
We received letters from both UNOFA and the Office of The President of Nusantara ordering us to stay in Bali until further notice. We were trapped on the island, and the beauty of the island didn't feel enjoyable anymore. A couple of days later, the UNSC Space Force began bringing back thousands of Gojids that they had managed to save from the opportunistic invasion. Some of the rescued Gojids were still in various space stations, waiting for resettlement.
President Fatimah Lim offered Nusantara as a sanctuary for the gojid refugee. Her offer was met with mixed reactions from the public. Some applauded her compassion and generosity, while others criticized her for using the refugees as a political tool to win votes in the upcoming election.
Regardless of the motive behind the offer, the logistics of providing adequate shelter, food, and medical care for the refugees were not that challenging. Kalimantan has some open areas where the damage from the palm plantation was in the process of being rolled back and we were in process of making a new farming village near the capital. The place has a lot of greenery but not outright jungles like the rest of the Island.
Which is why we were being shipped to Kalimantan. Despite the venlil's protest, they believed that Vani could act as the healthcare provider for the refugee and provide some "familiar face" for the poor gojids.
My van has taken me to many different places over the years. I had driven it as far as Kuala Lumpur thanks to the bridges. However, our destination this time was a bit different. We were headed to an island to the north of Java where bridges don't make sense. For the first time in my life, I had to ride a ferry. I was dreading of leaving my van, but then I learned that the ship was big enough to accommodate my mobile house.
When we came near the port of Buleleng, my van informed me that the area was commandeered by the armed forces, and I sighed as my steering wheel folded out while the system asked me to drive. With my manual guidance, we arrived at the port where several armed force members already stood waiting. They noticed my van's license plate and my vehicle told me that its driving sub-system had been subsumed by the armed forces. I let them lead my vehicle to a garage on the ferry. The giant vehicle itself looked more like an aircraft with clipped wings than a boat.
To my surprise, I met the familiar faces of Lieutenant Ayu again when I got off my Van into the passenger deck. From the lavish deck, all we could look at was the monotonous water passing us at high speed. Seated on one of the comfortable couches, Vani asked why the vessel only flew a few meters above the water's surface. I admit I wasn't sure of the answer, so we did some research together. We discovered that the ferry utilized a phenomenon known as Ground Effect.
The Capital was situated beside a large river, making it easy for us to reach it by ferry. However, the journey to Kalimantan was a long one, and the ride would take overnight. The government had made arrangements for us to retire to a cabin while we rode the ship to its destination. I was surprised to find that it looked nothing like a ship cabin and more like a luxurious hotel suit. The spacious room was furnished with a comfortable bed, a cozy seating area, and a large window looking out onto the sea. I was about to remove my shirt and get ready for my venlil when the cabin's door chimed. Opening my door, a private stood in the corridor, bringing a batik suit for me to wear for the meeting with the president. The government also tailored Vani with a bespoke batik apron.
I realized that there will be a lot of photo ops, and being a politician, the president wanted everyone to look uniformed and at their best.
In the morning, we found ourselves back in my van on the shore of Balikpapan with a couple of the government's armored vehicles before and after us. They had yet to relinquish their control over my vehicle so we had no choice but to wait and follow their lead. I had been briefed earlier that we were going to meet the president at the Capital spaceport, but I still didn't know the specifics of what the meeting would entail. The drive to the spaceport was a short one and we arrived in less than an hour.
I was deposited in the middle of the spaceport. Launchpads were arrayed in grid position, with ample distance between them. Not far from us, three mobile platforms had also been parked, I presume to transport the refugees.
The president and her retinue were already there to greet us. Her attire was simple yet somehow exuded an air of extravagance. Her entire attire from the head wrap to her pants was colored deep red. A batik stole hung around her kebaya and a large eight-spoked sun pendant hung from her neck, glittering in the bright sunlight. Here we also saw other familiar faces standing beside the president such as Zara Karun, the UN Representative for Nusantara. The other people in the group were members of the president's cabinet relevant to the event, all dressed in matching batik suits similar to mine.
"Greetings Johan and Vani." she greeted us in Bahasa.
"I hope the ride here was sufficient?" President Fatimah sounded like a canteen auntie back in school that would give a bit more portion to the student. This contrasted with her business-like tone whenever she appeared in the media, and I couldn't tell which one is her actual demeanor.
"It was more than sufficient, madam president. Thank you for entrusting us here." Vani answered. "I have to warn you that I know about gojid anatomy as much as your doctors do."
"It's alright Vani. You're here to give them a familiar face."
The shuttle that carried the refugees had just landed. The door opened and a bunch of giant hedgehogs tumbled down onto the launch platform. These poor people look confused and shaken. One alien in particular, however, climbed down the platform stairs ahead of their people and ran toward us, one human armed force member hurried to shadow him. The Gojid stopped at a speaking distance and they looked at us in a very human way. They even stared at Vani for what felt a bit too long before the venlil replied with a nod.
"Greetings Humans. My name is Bolad. Thank you for hosting us here." subtitles appeared when they spoke with their tongue. Their pitch there was similar to Vani but I can't tell if that was feminine or masculine for a Gojid.
"Are they a man or woman?" I whispered to Vani.
I was hoping that the venlil could tell me, but then he just asked for everyone to hear. "Are you a man or a woman?"
I guess I assumed too much of him. If Vani has difficulty distinguishing human gender, of course, there's no reason to think that he can tell other species apart.
"I am a man. Also, as you can tell already, I am like you." He put his paw on Vani's shoulder.
"You're gay?" I blabbered without even thinking properly.
The Gojid looked at me, his face twitching before he started speaking.
"Human, I know your people are not cruel. So I will assume that there is something lost in translation here and you did not mean to ask if I am happy. My homeworld is being desecrated by ferocious predators and my family is probably dead. Happiness is a distant concept at this moment."
"He was asking if you are attracted to people of the same gender." Vani stepped in to clarify.
"That is an odd euphemism. Do you call those who are attracted to different genders 'sad'?"
The president coughed. "In any case, we are honored to host you in our land for as long as you need." She looked toward the shuttle, where the gojids are huddling around in the launchpad.
"Perhaps," the president continued "We should visit your people."
Bolad led us toward the rest of the refugees, some of which had climbed down the launchpad toward the tarmac. When we got close enough to converse with them, one of them spoke.
"What have you negotiated with them?" The gojid held a small child with them. "How much of us did you promise to them in return for our safety?"
Bolad replied with an even tone. "I have not negotiated anything with the humans," he said in a firm tone "They have agreed to protect us."
The Gojid turned their head from side to side, a gesture I never saw Vani ever do before. "And you believe them?"
"It is getting tiring to keep reminding you that humans do not eat people. Look at this venlil. He is still intact after weeks of being here."
"Yeah, but he's diseased like you." the other gojid replied, and even with only subtitles translating their speech, I can hear the venom in their intonation. "I bet they think you're honorary predators."
It dawned on me that on our first encounter, Bolad meant that both he and Vani were diagnosed with the P-word Disease. I wondered if verbal abuse like this was what he had to deal with back in his homeworld.
"I'm as much a predator as you. The amount of murder I had made is zero." I said, trying to temper my voice as I held my anger. "If we want to eat you, why do we even bother bringing you down here?" My voice got a bit shakier, but before I said something that could jeopardize the president's political career, she patted my shoulder.
I looked back and the president shook her head slightly. "Let me speak to them."
"Sorry Ma'am."
"If you want, we can arrange for you to be transferred to Venlil Prime." She added. "However, that will take time and for the time being, why don't we visit the camp we have made for you? You must be tired and hungry. Hopefully, a rest can calm you down."
The Gojids murmured amongst themselves as we guided them toward their transportation. Their voices were low and tense and despite the language barrier, I could feel their fear and suspicion.
As I suspected, the mobile platform was meant to transfer them. We didn't have the measurement of a Gojid, so instead of using buses, several moving platforms had been provided to transport the spiky aliens. It was the same platform we use to transport cargo, but now, instead of having a big metal box on top of it, the platform has a clear wall installed around it and plush carpet on the floor. One by one the gojid climbed on the platform, including Bolad and Vani. Zara Karun advised that the humans shouldn't come with the refugees.
Alone in my van, I question whether we would need to transfer the refugees to Venlil. Although it made sense to send them away due to the looming invasion threat, I have a feeling that it might put the venlils in danger, especially if the Federation member responsible for the attack found them guilty by association.
I hope Vani's homeworld was not also under a similar threat.
Afterwords: If the gojid refugee is non-canonical, so be it. I want to write about the hedgehogs.

Company Name	Title	City
Sterling Systems	Office Manager	MAPLE GROVE
Interim Healthcare Staffing	CMA	Andover
Connexus Energy	GIS Consultant	Anoka
Interim Healthcare Staffing	LPN	Burnsville
Interim Healthcare Staffing	LPN	Inver Grove Heights
McFarland Truck Lines, Inc.	CDL A Driver	Lansing
UnitedHealth Group	Accounting Lead	Minnetonka
Taylor Truck Line	Trucker	Northfield
Schwan’s Home Delivery	Sales Driver	Sauk Centre
One Way Wireless Construction Inc	MIG Welder	Shakopee
Paper Transport	Trucker	Shakopee
Emerge Community Development	MFIP Employment Counselor	MAPLE GROVE
Great Northern Equipment Distributing, Inc	Digital Marketing Intern	Minneapolis
Wireless World	Shoe Salesperson	Monticello
Wireless World	Wireless Retail Sales Associate	Monticello
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Great Northern Equipment Distributing, Inc	SEO Analyst	Rogers
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Goodwill-Easter Seals MN	Donations Processor - Alexandria, MN - (Part-Time)	Alexandria
eCapital Advisors	OneStream Consultant	Bloomington
True Friends	Summer Camp - Cabin Counselor	Camp Eden Wood - Eden Prairie
True Friends	Recreation Guide (ropes course + team building)	Camp Eden Wood - Eden Prairie
Park Dental	Scheduling Manager - Chaska $1,500 Sign-On Bonus	Chaska
Upper Lakes Foods, Inc	Inbound Logistics Coordinator	Cloquet

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As I stood sipping a cup of green tea in the middle of the night, sitting on my porch and looking into the swamp beyond my house, sickly lights began to dance and flash in front of my eyes. I remembered my grandmother’s warning about the corpse lights.
“Teddie,” she said to me, sitting on the same porch twenty years earlier, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of wine, “do you see those lights? The ones that stay close to the ground, change colors and disappear or reappear constantly?” My small five-year-old self nodded.
“Yes, Grammie,” I said. “They’re pretty.” She nodded at this, taking another long drag off of her cigarette.
“Yes, they sure are,” she said gravely. “They’re also dangerous. You should never go into those woods at night, but especially when those lights are there. Where I’m from, we call them corpse lights. It means the fae are nearby. They like to hide behind the lights.” I nodded quietly at this. She had told me about the fae, how they sometimes kidnapped children and took them to their underground lairs, never to be seen again. She didn’t tell me what the fae did to those children, or why they wanted children at all. She simply said they were not to be trusted and that I should always avoid areas where they frequented, especially at nighttime.
“There are lots of fae haunting grounds near here,” she said to me. “It has been that way since before the Europeans settled this land centuries ago. The Native Americans used to consider that swamp sacred ground.”
But now I was an adult, and moreover, I was curious. I had looked up the scientific explanations for these lights that appeared and disappeared in flashes all over the forest and swamp, showing up in blue, green, red or white flashes that shimmered and vibrated. Supposedly it had something to do with the decomposition of plant matter and the resulting gasses that appeared. People had been seeing them for thousands of years, calling them by many names.
As I sat there, thinking about Grammie Greylock, who had died just a few years earlier, the old-style TV on the porch changed from some sitcom with too much fake laughter into the nightly news. A pretty young reporter sat at a desk, staring into the camera.
“And we start with some breaking news: the latest victim of the Westland Ripper was found today. Police say a woman in her thirties was found sexually assaulted and tortured to death by her father, who later told police he hadn’t heard from her in a week. This latest murder brings the known number of victims up to twelve. With us, we have Special Agent Ellis of the FBI. What can you tell us about this serial killer and the investigations?” The nondescript agent appeared on the screen, speaking deadpan into the camera.
“Well, unlike most known serial killers, this suspect targets both males and females. He is an equal opportunity killer. And he is extremely organized, planning his crimes in meticulous detail before…” I shut the TV off, rising and stretching out my arms and back. The news was always so depressing, and the latest crime had happened only a twenty minute drive from where I live, which made it even worse. My attention returned to those floating lights behind my house.
I got up out of my chair, chugging the last of my green tea quickly, and went inside to grab a flashlight. Without a second thought, I walked out towards the trail that wound its way through the swamp and deep into the forest.
At first, it was just a beautiful night hike. The stars were bright overhead, as there was no light pollution for miles in any direction. The moon looked nearly full, and my light caught many bats flashing through the trees, hunting bugs and squeaking in their eerie way.
Then I heard something that didn’t sound like any animal I had ever heard. It was a deafening screaming noise, but it wasn’t a fox or a fisher cat. I knew the cries of both of those animals, having heard them frequently living out here in the country. This was a sound like a woman overcome by the deepest grief, like the wail of a mother who just lost her only child.
“Hello?” I called into the darkness. The corpse lights began to drift towards me, floating a few inches off the ground and shimmering with colors. I stopped, an eerie creeping feeling coming over me. I immediately turned around and tried to walk back home as fast as I could.
But within a few feet of walking, the corpse lights started to cover the trail, smaller ones seeming to congeal into larger bubbles of flashing light. I saw flashes within, as if tiny bolts of lightning were flicking across the clouds.
Hesitating, taking a deep breath in, I put my right hand into the corpse light, the white shimmering seeming to lessen for a moment as I touched its surface. And then I could see every vein, artery and capillary in my entire hand.
Shrieking, I pulled it back out, looking down. My skin was back and my hand seemed totally fine. But my heart was still beating fast, and I felt eyes all over me.
“What in the hell was that?” I whispered to myself, regretting ever stepping foot in the woods.
I stared deeper into the corpse lights, and realized the surface looked like it was zooming into itself- as if it were a fractal image. I saw the same sparks of lightning arranged in the same way over and over as it moved faster, the white light on the outside shimmering as it moved towards the center.
And then a naked, sickly-looking woman stepped out of it, breaking my hypnosis instantly. At least, I thought it was a woman, until I looked at her face.
Her face was melting off, like candle wax. It deformed, beads of skin dripping off her nose and chin constantly, but it constantly reformed itself. Her eyes would be covered by the constantly shifting skin and muscle, but then reappear again, shining silver in the moonlight.
The body of the thing was thin and emaciated, looking like a cancer patient in the last days of life. I could see every single rib, and her hip bones stuck out over legs that looked like twigs.
But her hair was somehow the most disturbing part. It was stringy, black, and clotted together with what looked like blood. Drips of black fluid and dozens of writhing maggots constantly fell off the ends of each clump of hair, which was so long it reached nearly to her knees, being the only covering on her diseased-looking body.
Time seemed to slow down, and in a moment, I flashed back to a conversation I had with my grandmother.
***
“Never run from a fae,” she said as we sat on the back porch in the afternoon sunlight. “They will tear you apart. When I was a little girl, my grandmother told me the same thing, and it saved my life. I accidentally stumbled into one as a teenager.” I tried to think of her as a teenager, but my mind failed completely. I had always known her as a sweet, old woman. “And like my grandmother told me, you grab it, hug it as tight as you can, and it will hug you back.” I giggled at this, thinking of hugging a fairy. She smiled down at me.
“It’s not like a real hug, though,” she continued. “It’s like you’re hugging it with your mind, and its mind hugs you back. And it will take you someplace else, and if you keep hugging it long enough, it will be under your power. The fae cannot lie. You can even tell it to come to you if you ever need it, though I don’t recommend it. When it comes, it won’t be under your power any longer- it will be free, and it will be angrier and stronger than ever.”
“Why can’t they lie, Grammie?” I asked, snuggling closer to her on the bench, feeling her warm, comforting presence next to me. She shrugged.
“They worship the truth, live in the truth,” she said. “It’s like their religion. They don’t worship God, but they worship power, life and death and sometimes, evil. All those things spring from the truth- they have existed since the beginning of time. The fae cannot think except through that which has always existed, so it limits them and their minds.”
I shuddered, my small, five-year-old mind trying to comprehend it- and failing. I just hoped I would never run into one.
***
Trembling, a sickly sweet sweat starting to pop out all over my body as my adrenaline soared, I ran forward, arms out. I grabbed the thing across the chest, but part of me knew I was not grabbing it with my physical body at all. It was more like my mind wrapped around its heart. Its mouth widened into an O that took over most of its melting face, its silver eyes widened, and then I was out of my body completely.
We were descending through the ground together. I smelled the grass and leaves as we rushed through them like ghosts, and then we entered the dirt underneath. The corpse lights had expanded to become the entire world around us as we sped faster, forever going straight downwards. It felt as if I were descending through some gas giant, Jupiter or Saturn maybe. Multi-colored, thick gasses swirled all around us, huge lightning bolts sending white light shooting out in all directions, yet making no sound.
The melting face of the woman grinned up at me, lengthening fangs showing underneath the waxy dripping of her skin. I smiled back, even though inside I was terrified, and even thought I might die of a heart attack if this went on too long. I tightened my mind around her, seeing it like a rope twisting around her bony, naked chest, and I saw her grin turn into a grimace. She did the same back at me, and I felt my chest tightening, a suffocating feeling overtaking me. I couldn’t breathe, but the more anxiety and fear I felt, the more I kept tightening my consciousness around her body.
“Stop that,” she said in my mind, speaking telepathically instead of physically, her real mouth now opened into a silent scream. “You’re hurting me. You’re killing me. Release me now.”
“No,” I grunted through the suffocating tightness. “Not until you give up.”
“Release me, or I will drop you down here,” she responded, now yelling in my mind, sending all other thoughts scattering like scared fish in a pond. The corpse lights had begun to clear, and we were in some horrific landscape, deep under the Earth.
All around us, massive leeches crawled, ten feet long. Tortured beings of all kinds tried to run, but their tormentors were too fast. Some had massive holes on their chests and back and faces, clotted gore running out, but they healed again, and new swarms of leeches slithered over and lunged at them in turn.
Out of the ponds and lakes all around us, black water hid eldritch monstrosities underneath. But tentacles flew out anytime anyone ran too close to the water, fanged suckers ripping through the victims’ flesh, dragging them upside down and plunging them into the water. The echoing of the screams and the splashing of the water resounded back and forth across the light brown stones of the caverns, soft light spilling out from the rocks themselves. I saw other fae like the woman standing here and there, some of them sleeping in small nooks dug out in the cave walls, others helping to torment the beings and laughing about it as they did so.
“You… cannot…” I said through gritted teeth. She could not drop me unless I let go first. I felt her will beginning to give.
“I’m dying,” her voice screamed in my mind. “You’re killing me!”
“Then give up,” I whispered, though I also felt close to death. My vision was beginning to turn black, my head bursting with pain.
“I release you,” her voice said, and the pain was gone instantly. I kept hold on her for a few more seconds.
“Do you promise to do what I ask if I let go?” I said.
“Yes!” her voice said in my head, and I released her. Floating, I fell back a few inches, taking in deep, sweet breaths, my vision returning to normal, my heart no longer so tight it felt like a fist was closing over it.
“First, what is your name?” I gasped.
“My name is Lilin,” she said, her face melting faster, her eyes blazing with hatred and fury. Out of nowhere, an idea came to me- a dangerous one, but my instincts told me to go with it.
“OK, Lilin. Mine is Teddie. When I say ‘Come to me now, Lilin’ in the future, you will come.” She nodded, her eyes seeming to smile now, the look of hatred receding from her face.
“Yes, when you say, ‘Come to me now, Lilin,’ I will come.” Her voice sounded so spiteful and full of hate that I flinched slightly when she sent this message out.
“Now bring me back up!” I said, feeling relieved to have survived and not gotten stuck in this underground Hell on Earth. I drew close to her again, wrapping my mind around hers, seeing my mind’s projection of arms wrap around her strange, sickly body, and within moments, we were back in the dark woods. I was standing in my body at the same spot that I had been when I first saw her, hyperventilating as I swayed unsteadily on my feet.
“Get out of these woods,” she whispered in a low, demonic voice, “and the next time I see you, I will kill you.”
I walked out of there, pouring myself a huge glass of whiskey when I got home. But I still didn’t sleep that night. I was afraid of what I would see if I did. My hands were trembling so badly that, when I poured myself the fourth glass of whiskey around dawn, I dropped the entire bottle, seeing it shatter all over the porch.
***
A few weeks passed, and I began to wonder whether I had imagined the entire thing, maybe while sleepwalking or during some strange, isolated seizure event. After all, every day that passed made the encounter seem more and more like a dream.
The night that I saw Lilin again, I had just gotten home from work. I felt exhausted. It was Friday, and I just wanted to lay down and catch up on my sleep. I fell down heavily on the bed, and I was out almost instantly.
My dream was bizarre. I kept seeing that fae woman from the forest, her face dripping off the bones. When all the flesh was gone and puddled on the floor at her feet, she smiled at me, just a skull, and pointed up at the sky.
I looked up and saw a symbol I had never seen before- it looked like a backwards silver-colored seven with a diagonal slash through it, surrounded by a glowing white circle.
“Soon, I will be free,” she said to me, her skull chattering out of sync with the words, yet her voice still coming through loudly and clearly. “That symbol will guarantee it. And I will never stop hunting you until we are even.”
A crash brought me back to waking life. I sat up in my bed, looking at the alarm clock. 11:47 AM.
I heard footsteps crunching on broken glass in the kitchen. A few seconds later, a man with an executioner’s hood over his head walked calmly into my bedroom. On his forehead, he had painted the same symbol I had seen in my dream- the backwards seven with the circle around it. In his hand, he had an old-looking revolver, which he pointed directly at my face.
“Freeze, maggot,” he said, a tone of mirth in his voice.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I asked, now wide awake and frozen in terror.
“Well, the news calls me the Westland Ripper,” he said, giggling an insane, high-pitched laugh. “I guess it is as good a name as any.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I said coldly. He pulled the gun back, pistol whipping me across the jaw. I felt something in it give, my mouth filling with the warm taste of blood. I spit out a tooth.
“Why? What are you going to do about it?
“Now you’re going to be a good boy,” he said, his voice now as emotionless as a robot’s. “I’m going to tie you up, unless you want me to shoot your dick off first. Try anything, and that will be the result.” He pointed the gun at my crotch to emphasize his point, and then proceeded to pull out a coil of thick rope from his back pocket.
Though I rarely watched TV, even I had heard about the Westland Ripper. He had injected corrosive acids into the flesh of some of his victims, burned others alive, and the FBI allegedly believed he had killed dozens of people above and beyond his official body count. Not only was he a serial killer, but an extremely sadistic torturer.
I knew if he got me tied up, that would be the end of me. I did the only thing I could think of.
“Come to me now, Lilin!” I screamed, my broken, swelling jaw muffling my words slightly. I spit out small droplets of blood as I yelled. The killer raised his gun to pistol-whip me across the face again, but he never got a chance to bring it down.
The entire room filled with the corpse lights in an instant. Flashes of light shone on the insane, melting face of Lilin as she materialized behind the intruder, grabbing his gun arm and forcing it up higher with her bony, claw-like fingers.
In a flash, her mouth opened wide, and she bit into his armpit. Shaking her head from side to side like a rabid dog, she ripped off a huge chunk of skin and muscle. He was screaming now, blood pouring down his all-black outfit.
As she ate him alive, I got out of bed, sprinting out to my car. The screams of the man followed me, growing more and more desperate. When I reached the threshold of the front door, Lilin’s voice echoed in my mind.
“Where are you going, friend?” she asked in a mirthful voice. “I’m not done with you yet. You can run, but you can’t hide.” I pulled my phone out to call 911 and report the armed intruder, driving out of that town well above the speed limit.
The police only found a mess of gore in my bedroom when they arrived, an eyeball in one corner, a finger under the bed, and so on. Most of the body was just gone.
I never returned to that town. I sold my grandmother’s house that I had inherited, using the money to leave the state entirely. But I don’t think that will keep me safe.
Lilin isn’t gone. Despite moving three hundred miles away, I just looked out the window.
Under the streetlight outside, I saw the silhouette of a naked, emaciated woman with long, black hair.

Hello Agent
You have been selected for this task based on your skill set. We think you are the best fit for this mysterious mission. You must keep this mission quiet as you will be investigating a fellow agent. She is a complete mystery to us, and we want to make sure that she has good intentions. Your mission if you choose to accept is to befriend said agent and make sure she is a good agent. Since this agent is quiet and shy, it requires patience and understanding. There has been rumors that there is a booming personality if you are patient enough to break through the shy shell. This is unconfirmed at this time though. Down below we will put the agents details for you to know the basics about the agent.

Name: Gillian Gender: Female Age: 24 From: Wisconsin Hobbies: writing, baking, and drawing abstract Music: 80's, classical, 2000's and jazz Favorite color: don't have one Favorite food: tacos Favorite drink: Regular coca cola 

One random fact about the agent: They have a unique self-published book. Rumor has it that the pages are filled with the emotions the agent never shows people.
The best way to get the agent to respond is to answer the questions below.

Name: Age: Where you are from: Tell her something you think is interesting about you: 

Agent Report: She is a night owl by choice, she has a list of health issues. This agent continues to push on even with her list of health issues. Showing the determination and hard headedness that she has. She is anti-drug and anti-alcohol by choice. Despite the tough exterior that this agent must put on for work, there is enough evidence of the kindness underneath to assign you this mission.
You get to ask the agent one free question. (Meaning no matter the question she will answer it truthfully.) So, pick wisely.
If you believe you can handle this mission, then the agency wishes you the best of luck on what is going to be a tough mission

PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1521-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-ave-chapter-11/
PROMPTS: Poor Edward. Something quite wrong about what went on here...
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:

XI

While Edward revised his play Yeats and I talked of The Shadowy Waters, and the Boers crossed one of our frontiers into Cape Colony or Natal—I have forgotten which; but I remember very well my attitude of mind towards the war, and how I used to walk every day from Tillyra to Ardrahan, a distance of at least two Irish miles, to fetch the newspaper, so anxious was I to read of a victory for our soldiers.
Before starting I would pay Edward a visit in his tower, and after a few words about the play, I would tell him that the way out of our South African difficulties was simple—the Government should arm the blacks; and this would make Edward growl out that the English Government was beastly enough to do it; and I remember how I used to go away, pleased that I had always the courage of my morality. Other men do what they know to be wrong, and repent, or think they repent; but as it would be impossible for me to do what I believe to be wrong, repentance is for me an idle word; and, thinking that to raise an army of seventy thousand blacks would be a fine trick to play upon the Boers, I often returned through the park full of contempt for my countrymen, my meditations interrupted occasionally by some natural sight—the beauty of the golden bracken through which the path twisted, a crimson beech at the end of it, or the purple beauty of a line of hills over against the rocky plain freckled with the thatched cabins of the peasantry. Nor do I remember more beautiful evenings than these were; and, as the days drew in, the humble hawthorns shaped themselves into lovely silhouettes, and a meaning seemed to gather round the low, mossy wall out of which they grew, until one day the pictorial idea which had hitherto stayed my steps melted away, and I became possessed by a sentimental craving for the country itself. After all, it was my country, and, strangely perturbed, I returned to the castle to ask Edward's opinion regarding the mysterious feeling that had glided suddenly into my heart as I stood looking at the Burran Mountains.
It is difficult for anybody to say why he loves his country, for what is a country but a geographical entity? And I am not sure that Edward was listening very attentively when I told him of a certain pity, at variance with my character, that had seemed to rise out of my heart.
It would be strange if Cathleen ni Houlihan were to get me after all. That is impossible ... only a passing feeling; and I sat looking at him, remembering that the feeling I dreaded had seemed to come out of the landscape and to have descended into my heart. But he was so little interested in what seemed to me transcendental that I refrained from further explanation, concluding that he was thinking of his play, which had gone to Coole yesterday. I was led to think this, for he was sitting at the window as if watching for Yeats. We were expecting our poet.
Here he is. I wonder what he thinks of your revisions?
And to save Edward from humiliation I asked Yeats as soon as he came into the room if he liked the new third act.
No, no; it's entirely impossible. We couldn't have such a play performed. And dropping his cloak from his shoulders, he threw his hair from his brow with a pale hand, and sank into a chair, and seemed to lose himself in a sudden meditation. It was like a scene from a play, with Yeats in the principal part; and, admiring him, I sat thinking of the gloom of Kean, of the fate of the Princes in the Tower, headsmen, and suchlike things, and thinking, too, that Yeats, notwithstanding his hierarchic airs, was not an actual literary infallibility. The revised third act might not be as bad as he seemed to think it. He might be mistaken ... or prejudiced. Yeats's literary integrity is without stain, that I knew. But he might be prejudiced against Edward without knowing it. The success of The Heather Field had stirred up in Edward, till then the most unassuming of men, a certain aggressiveness which, for some time past, I could see had been getting on Yeats's nerves. Nor am I quite sure that myself at that moment would not have liked to humble Edward a little ... only a little. But let us not be drawn from the main current of our resolution, which is entirely literary, by a desire to note every sub-current. Yeats looked very determined, and when I tried to induce him to give way he answered:
We are artists, and cannot be expected to accept a play because other plays as bad, and nearly as bad, have been performed.
Saints, I said, do not accept sins because sins are of common occurrence.
He did not answer, but sat looking into the fire gloomily.
He takes a very determined view of your play, Edward. It may not strike me in the same light. If you will give me the manuscript I'll just run upstairs with it. I can't read it in front of you both.
There was no reason why I should read the first two acts; Edward had not touched them. What he had engaged to rewrite was the last half of the third act, and a few minutes would enable me to see if he had made sufficient alterations for the play to be put forward—not as a work of art—that is as something that would be acted fifty years hence for the delight of numerous audiences, as proof of the talent that existed in Ireland at the end of the nineteenth century—but as a play to which literary people could give their attention without feeling ashamed of themselves afterwards. There was no reason why we should ask for more than that; for the subject of the play was merely one of topical interest, and it is a mistake—I pointed this out to Yeats—to be very particular about the literary quality of such a play. All the same it would have to be put right, and this Edward could not do. It was more a matter for a cunning literary hand than for a fellow like Edward with a streak of original genius in him, and very little literary tact.
On these reflections I sat down to read, but the play was so crude, even in its revised form, that I fell to thinking that Yeats's thoughts must have wandered very often from the page. He should have remembered, however, whilst we discussed the play with Edward, that Edward was a human being after all, and not made it apparent that he looked upon the play as something the local schoolmaster might have written, and of all, should have kept looks out of his face which said as plainly as words could: Your soul is inferior, beneath my notice; take it away. He did not even seem to apprehend that Edward was torn between love of self and love of Ireland. Abstract thinking, I said, kills human sympathies, and Yeats is no longer able to appreciate anything but literary values. The man behind the play is ignored ... Yeats can no longer think with his body; it is only his mind that thinks. He is all intellect, if that isn't too cardinal a word. And seeing before me quite a new country of conjecture, one which I had never rambled in, I sat thinking of the cruelty of the monks of the Middle Ages, and the cruelty of the nuns and the monks of the present day. Their thoughts are abstracted from this world, from human life—that is why; and Yeats was a sort of monk of literature, an Inquisitor of Journalism who would burn a man for writing that education was progressing by leaps and bounds. Opinions make people cruel—literary as well as theological. Whereas the surgeon, whose thought is always of the flesh, is the kindliest of creatures. It is true that one sometimes hears of surgeons who, in the pursuit of science, willingly undertake operations which they know to be dangerous, and we know that the scientists in the laboratory are indifferent to the sufferings of the animals they vivisect. Even so, Nature thinks like the surgeon who risks an operation in order that he may discover the cause of the disease. The knowledge he gathers from the death of the patient is passed on, and it saves the life of another. But the artist cannot pass on any portion of his art to his pupil; his gift lives in himself and dies with him, and his art comes as much from his heart as from his intellect. The intellect outlives the heart, and the heart of Yeats seemed to me to have died ten years ago; the last of it probably went into the composition of The Countess Cathleen.
Yesterevening, when we wandered about the lake, talking of The Shadowy Waters, trying to free it from the occult sciences that had grown about it, Fomorians beaked and unbeaked, and magic harps and Druid spells, I did not perceive that the difficulties into which the story had wandered could be attributed to a lack of human sympathy. But Yeats's treatment of Edward proved it to me. The life of the artist is always at difficult equipoise; he may fail from lack of human sympathies, or he may yield altogether to them and become a mere philanthropist; and we may well wonder what the choice of the artist would have been if he had to choose between the destruction of Messina and Reggio or of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Were he to choose the ancient ruins in preference to the modern towns, he might give very good reasons for doing so, saying that to prolong the lives of a hundred thousand people for a few years would not be, in his opinion, worth a bronze like the Narcissus. A very specious argument might be maintained in favour of the preservation of the bronze, even at the price of a hundred thousand lives. Perhaps he might let the bronze go, but if all Greek art were added he would hesitate, and when he had let one hundred thousand men and women go to their doom he would probably retire into the mountains to escape from sight of every graven thing. To write a play our human and artistic sympathies must be very evenly balanced, and I remembered that among my suggestions for the reconstruction of The Shadowy Waters, the one that Yeats refused most resolutely was that the woman should refuse to accompany the metaphysical pirate to the ultimate North, but return somewhat diffidently, ashamed of herself, to the sailors who were drinking yellow ale.
Yeats has reflected himself in the pirate, I said. All he cares for is a piece of literature. The man behind it matters nothing to him. But am I not just as wicked as he? Worse, indeed, for Edward is my oldest friend and I do not defend him. Whereupon the manuscript fell from my hand, and I sat for a long time thinking; and then, getting up, I wandered out of my room and hung over the banisters, looking down into the central hall, asking myself what Yeats and Edward were saying to each other, and thinking that their talk must be strained and difficult, thinking too that my duty was to go down to them and bring their bitter interview to an end.
And I resolved to say that I could see no reason why the play should not be acted. But half-way down the stairs my conscience forbade so flagrant a lie. Yeats would not believe me. And what good would it do to allow Edward to bring over actors and actresses for the performance of such a play? It's kinder to tell him the truth. In the middle of the hall I stopped again. But if I tell him the truth the Irish Literary Theatre will come to an end.
Well, Edward, I've read your play ... but the alterations you've made aren't very considerable, and I can't help thinking that the play requires something more done to it.
You've read my play very quickly. Are you sure you've read it?
I've read all the passages that you've altered.
I had only glanced through them, but I could not tell him that a glance was sufficient.
If there were time, you might alter it yourself. You see, the time is short—only two months; and I watched Edward. For a long time he said nothing, but sat like a man striving with himself, and I pitied him, knowing how much of his life was in his play.
I give you the play, he said, starting to his feet. Do with it as you like; turn it inside out, upside down. I'll make you a present of it!
But, Edward, if you don't wish me to alter your play—
Ireland has always been divided, and I've preached unity. Now I'm going to practise it. I give you the play.
But what do you mean by giving us the play? Yeats said.
Do with it what you like. I'm not going to break up the Irish Literary Theatre. Do with my play what you like, and he rushed away.
I'm afraid, Yeats, his feelings are very much hurt.
And my heart went out to the poor man sitting alone in his tower, brooding over his failure. I expected Yeats to say something sympathetic, but all he said was: We couldn't produce such a play as that. It was perhaps the wisest thing he could say under the circumstances. For what use is there in sentimentalising over the lamb whose throat is going to be cut in the slaughter-house?
The sooner the alterations are made the better.
And I asked Yeats to come over tomorrow.
You see, you'll have to help me with this adaptation, for I know nothing of Ireland.
It is a pleasure to be with him, especially when one meets him for the purpose of literary discussion; he is a real man of letters, with an intelligence as keen as a knife, and a knife was required to cut the knots into which Edward had tied his play, for very few could be loosened. The only fault I found with Yeats in this collaboration was the weariness into which he sank suddenly, saying that after a couple of hours he felt a little faint, and would require half an hour's rest.
We returned to the play after lunch, and continued until nearly seven o'clock, too long a day for Yeats, who was not so strong then as he is now, and Lady Gregory wrote to me, saying that I must be careful not to overwork him, and that it would be well not to let him go more than two hours without food—a glass of milk, or, better still, a cup of beef-tea in the afternoon, and half an hour after lunch he was to have a glass of sherry and a biscuit. These refreshments were brought up by Gantley, Edward's octogenarian butler, and every time I heard his foot upon the stairs I offered up a little prayer that Edward was away in his tower, for, of course, I realised that the tray would bring home to him in a very real and cruel way the fact that his play was being changed and rewritten under his very roof, and that he was providing sherry and biscuits in order to enable Yeats to strike out, or, worse still, to rewrite his favourite passages. It was very pathetic; and while pitying and admiring Edward for his altruism, I could not help thinking of two children threading a bluebottle. True that the bluebottle's plight is worse than Edward's, for the insect does not know why it is being experimented upon, but Edward knew he was sacrificing himself for his country, and the idea of sacrifice begets a great exaltation of mind, is in fact, a sort of anaesthetic; and sustained by this belief we, Yeats and I, worked on through the day, Yeats tarrying as late as seven o'clock in order to finish a scene, Edward asking him to stay to dinner, a kindness that proved our undoing, for we lacked tact, discussing before Edward the alterations we were going to make. He sat immersed in deep gloom, saying he did not like our adaptation of the first act, and when we told him the alterations we were going to make in the second, he said:
But you surely aren't going to alter that? Why do you do this? Good heavens! I wouldn't advise you—
Yeats looked at him sternly, as a schoolmaster looks at a small boy, and next morning Edward told me that he was going to Dublin, adding that I had better come with him. On my mentioning that I expected Yeats that afternoon, he said that he would write, telling him of his decision, and a note came from Lady Gregory in the course of the afternoon, saying that she was leaving Coole. Would it be convenient to Edward to allow Yeats to stay at Tillyra for a few days by himself? He would like to continue the composition of The Shadowy Waters in Galway.
Lady Gregory's request seemed to me an extraordinary one to make in the present circumstances, and it seemed still more extraordinary that Edward should have granted it, and without a moment's hesitation, as if Yeats's literary arrogance had already dropped out of his memory. Such self-effacement as this was clearly a matter for psychological inquiry, and I turned Edward over in my mind many times before I discovered that his self-effacement should be attributed to patriotism rather than to natural amiability. He believed Yeats to be Ireland's poet, and to refuse to shelter him might rob Ireland of a masterpiece, a responsibility which he did not care to face.
Extraordinary! I said to myself, and as in a vision I saw Ireland as a god demanding human sacrifices, and everybody, or nearly everybody, crying: Take me, Ireland, take me; I am unworthy, but accept me as a burnt-offering. Ever since I have been in the country I have heard people speaking of working for Ireland. But how can one work for Ireland without working for oneself? What do they mean? They do not know themselves, but go on vainly sacrificing all personal achievement, humiliating themselves before Ireland as if the country were a god. A race inveterately religious I suppose it must be! And these sacrifices continue generation after generation. Something in the land itself inspires them. And I began to tremble lest the terrible Cathleen ni Houlihan might overtake me. She had come out of that arid plain, out of the mist, to tempt me, to soothe me into forgetfulness that it is the plain duty of every Irishman to disassociate himself from all memories of Ireland—Ireland being a fatal disease, fatal to Englishmen and doubly fatal to Irishmen. Ireland is in my family. My grand-uncle lay in prison condemned to death for treason; my father wasted his life in the desert of national politics. It is said that the custom of every fell disease is to skip a generation, and up to the present it had seemed that I conformed to the rule. But did I? If I did not, some great calamity awaited me, and I remembered that the middle-aged may not change their point of view. To do so is decadence.

I'm only looking for trade offers, not intrested in cash trading.
(Prices updated 03/27-2023)

Tradelink

Steam Profile
CRAFTS

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StatTrak™ Glock-18 Water Elemental 4x Movistar Riders (Holo)Stockholm 2021	FN 0.02	$ 99,00
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Buff Store

We're a 145 SFH neighborhood built between 2017 and 2021. 90% of the residents are 55+ and the rest are between 30 and 54. Our neighborhood was originally marketed as a non-age restricted 55+ and why it has so many one story plans. This age aspect played a role in the challenges of transition from builder to homeowner as well as overall engagement and activities in the neighborhood. I feels like we're in a senior community (without pickleball) while the rest of us go to work everyday.
There are (17) exteriors across (3) one story and (2) two story plans. All are Hardie board with stone at the foundation. Eight color palettes were provided by the builder. The builder enforced the rule that you can't have the same house exterior and/or color within two houses next, diagonal or in front of. So we'd have to do the same.
The HOA transitioned to homeowner led in December 2021. I volunteered to join the ARC because we had a hellacious entry into the neighborhood due to the Board making decisions as the ARC that were unbeknownst to the working ARC. And because you preach volunteer if you don't like it.
Current rules for choosing paint color for your front porch or your back deck are as follows: you have to submit approval for a front deck concrete color and it must be complementary to your house color. While your back deck can be any complementary color, without approval requirement. I cannot recall any guidance regarding changing siding, gable or trim colors. Perhaps right now it's individually approved or not at all.
At some point someone will want to paint their house. Should we consider individual colors or a palette? Should we work with a designer for i individual or pallette options?
Our neighborhood is primarily white, gray, dark blue, and beige. Five chose pallets with light green siding or dark red in the gable.
The goal would be to have something in place when the question is asked and we can provide homeowners support and easy access to options versus a piecemeal back and forth. Ex: if you have this builder color scheme, you can individually change the siding, gable, or trim to these colors. Or you can choose this complete new color palette.
Also, is it feasible to ask the community to vote on options, maybe host a viewing party at the common area so they can see the colors in person, to create buy-in? It'd be great to set a wide range of color options to grow with our neighborhood.

“The lover carves into his soul the model of the beloved. In that way, the soul of the lover becomes the mirror in which the image of the loved one is reflected.” - Marsilio Ficino, Commentary on Plato's Symposium
Nietzsche’s criticisms of Hegel are often conflated with Schopenhauer’s. Often by people who type things like, “I’m in the Schopenhauer camp when it comes to Hegel and his ilk.” In a series of Beeps-and-Boops they copy-and-paste Schopenhauer’s loathing without any of Schopenhauer’s substance (which would require actually engaging with Schopenhauer and Hegel) instead these Thinkers exists as little framed photos on a candle covered shrine in Geocities. Even if they’re correct they’re still wrong and worthy of immediate scorn and derision. We must express the most profound sense of Christian Pity and Charity at the sight of their nakedness.
It’s easy to spiral on this particular subject but unbecoming, revealing, even damning. What they don’t seem to process, is that the seethe and the scolding and the tantrums are in their manner the highest form of compliment either philosopher could muster. That the younger Schopenhauer’s response to Hegel’s semantic blunder should be a kind of ecstatic fury that propelled his career as a philosopher. That Schopenhauer is endearing when he puts pen to paper and writes:
“May Hegel's philosophy of absolute nonsense - three-fourths cash and one-fourth crazy fancies - continue to pass for unfathomable wisdom without anyone suggesting as an appropriate motto for his writings Shakespeare's words: "Such stuff as madmen tongue and brain not," or, as an emblematical vignette, the cuttle-fish with its ink-bag, creating a cloud of darkness around it to prevent people from seeing what it is, with the device: mea caligine tutus. - May each day bring us, as hitherto, new systems adapted for University purposes, entirely made up of words and phrases and in a learned jargon besides, which allows people to talk whole days without saying anything; and may these delights never be disturbed by the Arabian proverb: "I hear the clappering of the mill, but I see no flour." - For all this is in accordance with the age and must have its course.”
Tempestuous little man. Without Hegel’s error what would’ve become of Schopenhauer? Would he have attempted to actively compete against Hegel? Hegel as the Phantom of Eric Roberts in the Killers Miss Atomic Bomb music video? The Other-Ghost, Hegel’s Smirking Geist cucking Schopenhauer, Sophia in his arms, Schopenhauer casts the wedding ring to the ground and runs away. As was the case in respect to Kierkegaard. Cucked out of marriage by the Ghost & Machine. “And it’s all in my head, but she’s touching his chest now, he takes off her dress now, LET ME GO. And I just can’t look it’s killing me. And taking control.”
An error is a wound is a mercy.
Nietzsche is different. Unlike Schopenhauer he doesn’t pretend to create a superior metaphysical system (the Platonic Carnivalesque) to rival Hegel’s.
I think the spirit of a Nietzschean critique of Hegel is best exemplified by aphorism 317 in Daybreak,
“The judgment of the evening. - He who reflects on the work he has done during the day and during his life, but does so when he has finished it and is tired, usually arrives at a melancholy conclusion: this however is not the fault of his day or his life, but of his tiredness. - In the midst of our work we usually have no leisure to pass judgment on life and existence, nor in the midst of our pleasures: but if we should happen to do so, we should no longer agree with him who waited for the seventh day and its repose before he decided that everything was very beautiful - he had let the better moment go by.”
Hegel as a Christian Nihilist and the Dialectic as Slave Morality. All finite forms of life attain their truth in the process of self-overcoming. Hegel uses Negativity to pacify an excess of Negativity. Hegel’s System annuls the Abyss. The Truth of any given determination is realized in its exhaustion. This Truth is what Remains. As part of a Whole. Eternal. Defeat for Hegel is what brings us to our Truth. That the subject’s defeat should purify it of its particularities and its impositions. My thoughts are already part of reality. This Knowledge leads to renunciation. I’m no longer attempting to impose or enforce myself on reality, to shape it in the heat of my perverse gaze. I look up at the stars and recognize a series of sores oozing out a brilliant light. In the Beggar’s Eye I see Christ. Saint Lazarus draped in indigo rags surrounded by dogs. In the Eyes of the King of the World, Christ. In the Illness the Cure. In the Poison the Medicine.
Hegel stands next to his student, the student looks up at the starry sky in awe. “They are the abode of the blessed.” Hegel grumbles, “The stars, hum! Hum! The stars are only a gleaming leprosy in the sky.’” Like Lorde, he never watches the stars because there’s so much down here. As he puts it in one lecture,
“The human being is this Night, this empty nothing which contains everything in its simplicity - a wealth of infinitely many representations, images, none of which occur to it directly, and none of which are not present. This [is] the Night; the interior of [human] nature, existing here - pure Self - [and] in phantasmagoric representations it is night everywhere: here a bloody head suddenly shoots up and there another white shape, only to disappear as suddenly. We see this Night when we look a human being in the eye, looking into a Night which turns, terrifying. [For from his eyes] the night of the world hangs out towards us.”
Let us then briefly think with Hegel whose underling problem is, from the very beginning of his thought, that of love.
What is Blue?
According to Goethe in his Theory of Colors,
“As yellow is always accompanied with light, so it may be said that blue still brings a principle of darkness with it.
This color has a peculiar and almost indescribable effect on the eye. As a hue it is powerful — but it is on the negative side, and in its highest purity is, as it were, a stimulating negation. Its appearance, then, is a kind of contradiction between excitement and repose.
As the upper sky and distant mountains appear blue, so a blue surface seems to retire from us.
But as we readily follow an agreeable object that flies from us, so we love to contemplate blue — not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it.
Blue gives us an impression of cold, and thus, again, reminds us of shade. We have before spoken of its affinity with black.
Rooms which are hung with pure blue, appear in some degree larger, but at the same time empty and cold.
The appearance of objects seen through a blue glass is gloomy and melancholy.”
Goethe and a defense of Goethe’s critique of Newton’s Opticks unites Hegel and Schopenhauer. That color is produced by light and by what stands against it. Goethe who said that were the eye not of the sun how could we behold the light. Brilliant in the poetic continuity this expresses. A golden chain from Empedocles to Plato and Aristotle to the Stoics and so on. Summarized here elegantly by the physicist Arthur Zajonc, “the interior light coalesces with daylight, like to like, forming thereby a single homogenous body of light. That body, a marriage of inner light and outer, forges a link between the objects of the world and the soul. It becomes the bridge along which the subtle motions of an exterior object may pass, causing the sensation of sight.” Aristotle proposed the existence of a Proton Organon or Primary Instrument, an organ of congealed pneuma, located in the heart, that reconciles the division between the sensible and the intelligible. The Stoics would go on the rename this Mercurial (both volatile-subtle and fixed) Instrument, the Hegemonikon, the synthesizer or icon-maker. Whose function is to produce phantasms. The instrument through which the soul transmits all vital activities to the body and also the body’s way of capturing the sensations from the five senses and translating them into phantasms or images that could be understood by the soul.
The Lover longing loving unrequited. Smiling like she means it. Being-thrown into this World. Never fully at home, refracted, out of joint. That this affliction is our common inheritance. I think this is our patrimony. We are the heirs of this Abyss. It is to some degree I think fundamentally "Western" fundamentally "Romantic". Regardless of political opinion or alignment. It speaks to us. Through us. Perhaps it's because the Republic of Letters is largely comprised of Melancholic Perverts. Nostalgia or homesickness, as a longing for a reality which can only be possessed through the imagination and through the dream, the genuine site of anamnesis or recollection in the unreal. Evoking for us the movement of the soul described by the Venetian Magician-Philosopher Guilio Camillo; descending through the Lunar Gate of Cancer (of man), drinking from the cup of Bacchus and, depending on how much one imbibes, forgetting about all the things ‘up there’ before making our way back through the Saturnine Gate of Capricorn (of the gods). Tightrope walking to Luna. I see her so very clearly. My Corporeal Dasha, Giordano Bruno would rebuke me harshly, that I should Simp as I do for "these eyes, these ears, this blush, this tongue, this tooth, this hair, this dress, this coat, this little shoe .. . , this sun in eclipse, this crazy person, this slut, this stench, this deathbed, this privy, this mensturation, this corpse... which, by means of a superficial appearance, a shadow, a phantasm, a dream, a Circe-like charm in the service of procreation, deceives us by taking the form of beauty." Fuck it. Yet there is an Image behind the Image, a Woman behind my woman. The Platonic Dasha. Daria the Luminous Homunculi. Madonna Intelligenza who has served as a guide throughout this journey. “Keep your eyes on me.” I wobble on the tightrope, your eyes are what kept me, you and your rose-wreathed heart lit. A Unity-of-Opposites. Georges Bataille writes in The Sorcerer's Apprentice, “The image through which, in an instant, destiny has become alive thus finds itself projected into a world foreign to everyday agitation. The woman toward whom a man is draw, as to his human destiny, no longer belongs to the space that money controls. Her sweetness escapes the real world, through which she moves without allowing herself to be any more imprisoned than a dream. Misfortune would ravage the spirit anyone who lets himself be possessed by the need to reduce her.”
On Love Hegel writes, “Since love is a sensing of something living, lovers can be distinct only in so far as they are mortal and do not look upon this possibility of separation as if there were really a separation or as if reality were a sort of conjunction between possibility and existence. In the lovers there is no matter; they are a living whole.” That the Unity of Love is informed precisely by the division or difference between the Lover and the Beloved. The Union of Love, “…can remain so only as long as the separate lovers are opposed solely in the sense that the one loves and the other is loved, i.e., that each separate lover is one organ in a living whole.”
Here we might ponder Hegel’s Philosophy as a Philosophy of Death. The vespers-born melancholy conclusion is perhaps being that all Love is Unrequited. As Marsilio Ficino notes in his Commentary on Plato’s Symposium, “Insofar as it is death, it is bitter, and insofar it is voluntary, it is sweet. He who loves dies; for his consciousness, oblivious of himself, is devoted exclusively to the loved one, and a man who is not conscious of himself is certainly not conscious in himself. Therefore, a soul that is so affected, does not function in itself, because the primary function of the soul is consciousness…. Therefore, the unrequited lover lives nowhere; he is completely dead.”
Blue the color of Sulfur ignited. Blue the color of the Ocean of the Dead, of Dasein. The blue knees of a prayerful lover and the blue lips of the lovelorn fool, “Here’s to my love - O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. - Thus with a kiss I die.” That the smell of bitter almonds should remind the good doctor of unrequited love.
Such a melancholy conclusion can only be produced by a proper melancholic. Melancholy was regarded by Ficino as one of seven exemptions in which the bond between body and soul was weakened, allowing the soul to take flight and acquire the gifts of premonition and clairvoyance. Saint Albertus Magnus writes of the two kinds of melancholy. Hot melancholy and its two primary effects on the subject’s phantasmic activity he describes thusly,
“The first consists in the mobility of the phantasms within the subtle organism: the second, in the great capacity of phantasms to stay impressed upon the pneuma. This brings with it, besides a prodigious memory, an extraordinary capacity for analysis. This is why, Ficino tells us, 'all the great man who have ever excelled in an art have been melancholic. Either because they were born so or become so through assiduous meditation.”
Philosophy begins with this Unhappy Consciousness. The Alienated Soul lithe and loveless, which is the consciousness of self as a divided nature, a doubled and merely contradictory being. Dissatisfied with its Self and the World it retreats inward, like a Nymph fleeing Pan, fleeing into Reflection, which might likewise take the form of a fleeing into Nature (think Thoreau’s Walden). Herein is the mirk. This Narcissistic dialectic between Subject and Phantasmata. The Ouroboric Narcissism of the Beautiful Soul.
Another affliction associated with Melancholy is Hysteria. The Psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan refers to Hegel as the most Sublime Hysteric. The Hysteric asks questions because they experience their own desire as if it were the desire of the Other.
The Spirit retreats into a pre-rational state of life, a Life of Feeling, that this feeling expresses a movement in which the soul is no longer simply natural, but able to realize a mastery over itself.
“Finally, in the “feeling of self,” the individual becomes “a sensitive totality.” But the gradual formation of the ‘I’ is paradoxically accompanied by a loss of fluidity, leading to “ruin and disaster within the conscious spirit.” This crisis results from the fact that the subject, being constituted in a free relation to the self, feels at the same time like ‘another’, and this tension pushes it into a state of ‘trembling’ (durchzittern).” The Future of Hegel, Plasticity, Temporality, Dialectics, Catherine Malabou.
How does Hegel escape? Or perhaps more accurately how can we escape this trap? This Pneumatic Mirror-World. Of Subject-Mirror-Phantasmata. The Romantic Prison? Of one who learns of Love in order to be Loveless? Hold that thought.
Returning to the color blue, the psychologist James Hillman writes in Alchemical Psychology,
“This is the realm of the alchemical (kyanos, blue; kynos, dog); blue takes on a dog-like quality: hangdog and dirty dog, both. Why does depression seek porn? For arousal? For Eros and Priapos and Venus to come to life? Rather, I think, to maintain the depression, to re-direct the verticality of desire downward and backward (doggy fashion), clipping the wings of eros. Pornography - an opus contra naturam, a counter-instinct of the psyche, perverting the conventionally natural, enslaving, torturing; an erotics of despair.
To translate these esoteric references into the blue dog’s perverse obsessions we discover this: Invisible Hades appears in the world as Dionysus. There is a divine (i.e., invisible, unfathomable) impulse that seeks to enter ordinary life. It wants to know the soul in the Biblical sense. Carnal knowledge, intimate knowledge, knowledge of intimates. (Hence the innumerable images of copulation throughout alchemy.) The soul longs for this copulation, and sings its longing in the blues, blueing its own flesh, drawing the divine down into the ordinary body. (Hence the blues’ libidinous mood.)”
My Cup Overfloweth.
Pure thinking-subjectivity is phantasmological or hauntological. The role of the Phantasmata in the context of medieval philosophy, is described exquisitely by Mauricio Loza in The Hounds of Actaeon. The Phantasm or Phantom is understood “as a mental image with effects reaching not only the level of perception but that of social construction, the phantasm exists in the twilight between the objective and the subjectivity, the material and the immaterial, a zone of indistinction between reality and unreality. This is why the phantasm pulls us towards the twilight from whence it comes: Its central action is to drag us into the shadow of the world.”
Minerva’s Owls unfurls its wings only with the falling of dusk.
For the great Persian scholar Avicenna, sensory phantasms were processed through five virtues or powers corresponding to five cavities in the cranium; phantasy or common sense, imagination, cogitative virtue, the estimative virtue, and finally the reminiscent virtue. According to Georgio Agamben in his work Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture, Avicenna conceives of this gradation through the inner senses as a "progressive 'disrobing' (denudatio) of the phantasm from its material accidents."
Material accidents in this instance, evoking the etymological origins and proliferation into common speech of the word "accident" itself.
Ad - 'towards to' and cadere - 'to fall'. The Latin Accident - 'happening' used in late Middle English to refer to 'an Event'. Used to refer to the parts of the sacred bread and wine that remained after the transubstantiation through the sacrament of The Holy Eucharist,
“Thus, throughout the history of Scholasticism we have to do with a sort of triangle of intellectual forces: Realism and Nominalism fighting a five hundred years’ war, and the Church, in its official capacity, anxiously endeavouring to hold the balance between them. One wonders whether the three parties to this ancient dispute may not have found symbolic expression in Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and the ‘Monstrous Crow’ of nursery legend. But it is no disparagement of the intellects of that day to say that to us the chief interest of their polemics lies in the many new and accurate instruments of thought with which they provided us. The common word accident is an excellent example. We use it every day without realizing that it was only imported from Latin by the indefatigable efforts of the Schoolmen to reconcile the doctrine of Realism with the Catholic dogma of Transubstantiation. The accidents, when they first came into the English language, meant that part of the sacred bread and wine which remained after the substance had been transmuted into the body and blood of Christ.” History in English Words, Owen Barfield
Here we see a process of Pneuma returning to Pneuma through this process of Rising and Falling. That the Absolute Idea is a Radiant Star. That the Phantasm undergoes a kind of purification process, from the sensible to the spiritual to the mnemonic. That this purification entails a kind of excremental remainder. A material accident. An excess which goes?
This brings to mind the question that the Sophist Parmenides (in Plato's Parmenides) raises to Socrates, which forces Socrates to admit to his own limitations. It utterly stumps the Apostate Tragedian. That being whether or not there is an eidos or Pure Idea of the lowest material things. Things like excrement and dust and I might add these eyes, these ears, this blush, this tongue, this tooth, this hair, this dress, this coat, this little shoe .. . , this sun in eclipse, this crazy person, this slut, this stench, this deathbed, this privy, this mensturation, this corpse...
The Ghost and The Star
Recall the episode with Hegel comparing stars to leprosy sores. This got out around town and Hegel found himself having to address this controversy,
"It has been rumoured round the town that I have compared the stars to a rash on an organism where the skin erupts in an countless mass of red spots: or to an ant-heap in which too, there is Understanding and necessity. In fact, I do rate what is concrete higher than what is abstract, and an animality that develops into no more than a slime, higher than the starry host."
The rock is a rock.
Hegel defines the Domain of Art as the “sensible appearing of the idea”… or the Idea given expression in Sensuous Form. This is to be understood as The Star shining through The Ghost. This opposition between Form and Content. This Contradiction is what animates the Motion of Spirit. From Art towards Philosophy.
She is and is not. Ah wait. I'm not her. But in this regard I am the same and suddenly the Ghost is Concretized.
Alexandre Kojève in his Lectures on the Phenomenology of Spirit writes,
"It is known that Hegel asserted that his knowledge is circular, and that circularity is the necessary and sufficient condition of absolute truth - that is, of complete, universal, and definitive (or "eternal") truth."
The Hysterics quandary finds some resolution. The question of the Other is reflexively transformed into the answer to the question.
"In the Wise Man's absolute Knowledge, each question is its own answer, but is so only because he goes through the totality of questions-answers that forms the entirety of the System. Likewise, in his existence, the Wise Man remains in identity with himself, he is closed up in himself; but he remains in identity with himself because he passes through the totality of others, and is closed up in himself. Which (according to the Phenomenology) means, quite simply, that the only man who can be Wise is a Citizen of the universal and homogeneous State - that is to say, the State of the Tun Aller und Jeder, in which each man exists only through and for the whole, and the whole exists through and for each man."
We return to Self-Consciousness. We're not the same. We're different. Tonight.
Eros pins Pan. Chronos clips Eros’ wings. Compulsion is overcome by Love. Love is overcome by Time. Love can only be actualized and concretized through Time. When it must Dwell in a given Space. This is the Poetic-Plasticity. This is the Commitment.
“Desire has reserved to itself the pure negating of the object and thereby unalloyed feeling of self. This satisfaction, however, just for that reason is itself only a state of evanescence, for it lacks objectivity or subsistence. Labour, on the other hand, is desire restrained and checked, evanescence delayed and postponed; in other words, labour shapes and fashions the thing.” (Phenomenology of Spirit)
We begin with the Problem of Love and in the Problem find the Solution. Love is the Answer to the Question of Love. Loving is to give what one does not have.
Our Unrequited Love is Mutual,
“In fact, there is only one death in mutual love, but there are two resurrections, for a lover dies within himself the moment he forgets about himself, but he returns to life immediately in his loved one as soon as the loved ones embraces him in loving contemplation. He is resurrected once more when he finally recognizes himself in his beloved and no longer doubts that he is loved. O, happy death, which is followed by two loves. O, wondrous exchange in which each gives himself up for the other, and has the other, yet does not cease to have himself.” Commentary on Plato's Symposium, Marsilio Ficino.
To be Overcome is to Animate. This is the Labor of Love. Productive Labor as Art.
You understand why Hegel is so very frustrating? In his System. In the Movement from East to West back East. We find the Heiros Gamos, the Sacred Matrimony of Eros and Sophia, and in this Unity of Opposites the philosopher becomes the Sage. In the production of this Heiros Gamos, Hegel's System becomes the Perfect Pneumatic Circle.
​
I make of Nietzsche a traveling companion through Hegel’s Aesthetics. Why? Because The Birth of Tragedy is crudely Hegelian. Here we find ourselves encountering what is so very frustrating about Hegel and his Pneumatic Circle, his method and his system. From the occultists perspective this is because Hegel’s System is an Artifice of Sacral or Mythic Time, of Cyclical Time. The genuinely infuriating thing is realizing that the Artifice, the “Copy” is in fact the original. This is why some speak of the feminizing effect of Hegel. Feminizing in the way Achilles’ is feminized by Scamander. That not only do we never step in the same river twice and that the river is the site of the Doom-driven Hero’s self-fulfilling prophesy.
As Nietzsche himself puts it, “one cannot refute an eye disease.” I thought it would be stimulating to read The Birth of Tragedy through the lens of Hegel’s Lectures on Aesthetics. Framing Nietzsche and his insights within a Hegelian Tableaux. Nietzsche who denounces Metaphysical Systematization. Demurely objecting he says, “unhand me woman,” with a little blush. Does he mean it? I don’t think it was Hegel’s Dialectical Method or Logic that Nietzsche objected too. Denouncing instead the refraction between the Philosopher and the Logic (an ironic detachment)… that the Philosopher and his Logic are not two separate beings. That for him the Philosopher is Alkahest or Universal Solvent. Body and Soul collapse into a singularity, Art and Artists. No, in a sense Nietzsche celebrates the animating antagonism at the Heart of Hegel’s work. That this refraction is what results in the System which Nietzsche saw as modeling contemporary German Bourgeois fearfulness and timidity simply solidifies into Consensus. “I’m old and I don’t want to be alone.” That the System should be a kind of Metaphysical Prison concretized around the Fiery Pneuma, the brilliance of Hegel’s Esprit.
The application of the Dialectical Method is evidenced throughout The Birth of Tragedy; The Apollonian thesis, the Dionysian antithesis, the Tragic synthesis. Or perhaps in a manner more accurate to Hegel; The Dionysian Abstract, the Apollonian Negation, the Tragic Negation-of-Negation, and the Socratic Concretization.
The section dedicated to a retrospective appraisal of The Birth of Tragedy in Ecce Homo, Nietzsche concludes that all the good things he had ever written about Richard Wagner were actually about him. He was talking about himself the whole time without even realizing it, “"Even psychologically all decisive traits of my own nature are projected into Wagner’s - the close proximity of the brightest and the most calamitous forces, the will to power as no man ever possessed it, the ruthless courage in matters of the spirit, the unlimited power to learn without damage to the will to act.” Poor Nietzsche he who was too high-strung for his own good. Comes to a conclusion paralleling Hegel as it concerns Art, specifically Music. Perhaps one day, there will be Dionysian future for music. But for now, the Pneuma roils through space-and-time, and it culminates in Nietzsche or Zarathustra, as the Last Philosopher or the first Tragic Philosopher. Who despite all the aristocratic pretensions cannot help but write in a popular and accessible manner. Writing into motion the conditions for the Dionysian resurgence he had once thought was being spearheaded by the compositions of Richard Wagner.
He goes so far as to be both Beethoven and Goethe’s response to Beethoven in the anticipation of his works and in the need for them to remain ‘exclusive’ despite their undeniably popular character. Goethe in his old age weeping softly to Beethoven’s sonatas, proclaims “If such music were performed by a large orchestra, it would destroy everything around it.”
The stylish and inspirited Vitalism of Nietzsche’s ruminations is Pneumatic. A red dot in the center of a dark blue sphere.
Dialectics reveals an Infinite Spiral. The Circle divided by a straight-line. Containing the spiral. The straight-line breaks through the circle. Above and Below. Revealing three other spheres. Above the configuration one spiral. Beneath it two spirals; one winding up and the other winding down. On a Hegelian theological note. God the Father and God the Holy Spirit proceed from God the Son. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1.
Here we might locate the Traumatic Temporality of Christianity. The introduction of History. Time as Chronos. With God the Son. Without the historical personage of Jesus Christ, there wouldn’t be a Trinitarian Unity and Division. From God the Son proceeds God the Father and God the Holy Spirit. In this wound we are brought to an awareness of another Time. A Timeless-Time or a Time sans History. “In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” a time in which God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit had always been. The Triune God. Whether or not, in this Aionic Time, God the Holy Spirit proceeds from God the Father or from God the Father and God the Son, is the division between East and West.
This Times overlap and nowhere is this more evident than in the anachronisms or perhaps more accurately, the Archeo-modernity, of the romantic painting. Or perhaps further still, in the Ethiopian depiction of Christ, in the Korean depiction of Christ, and in the Italian depiction of Christ. Black Jesus, Asian Jesus, and European Jesus.
As that obscure note by Nietzsche produced by Gilles Deleuze in his work Nietzsche and Philosophy goes, “Universal chaos which excluded all purposeful activity does not contradict the idea of the cycle; for this idea is only an irrational necessity.” Here we see Nietzsche approaching something akin to the Infinite Dialectic realized and developed in Mao Zedong’s contributions to Dialectical and Historical Materialism. As Mao writes in On Contradiction, “The universality or absoluteness of contradiction has a twofold meaning. One is that contradiction exists in the process of development of all things, and the other is that in the process of development of each thing a movement of opposites exists from beginning to end.”
The stylish and inspirited Vitalism of Nietzsche’s ruminations is Pneumatic. Being Pneumatic it is Phantasmic. Here we locate the Girardian critique of Nietzsche. As Nietzsche proclaims in Ecce Homo that everything his was praising Wagner for is in fact praise he was unconsciously directing at himself, at his values or innate dignities, the obverse is true. For Nietzsche every great philosophical work is a confessional, an involuntary and unconscious autobiography. He invents the Overman and by extension the Last Man. Will to Power and Ressentiment. One cannot exist without the other and in Nietzsche they collapse into a singularity (a point worth keeping in mind when we eventually venture into Deleuze and his Anti-Hegelianism). The Last Philosopher. In sum Girard’s contention is that in the production of these Phantasmata, Nietzsche ends up offering to his audience another Scapegoat. The Man of Ressentiment and the Slave Morality. Obviously within Nietzsche the potential for this is treated triumphantly. Nietzsche refuses to have his Poetic Revelry stifled by timorous considerations. That stupid people might read his works and take it as an excuse to persecute Christians or to locate the Man of Ressentiment in their political adversaries. That they might completely forget the contradictions inherent to the very office of “Tragic Philosopher” and how the Vagabond and the Prophet are a singular figure, hybrid and lovelorn and glorious. “If I had power I’d know how to immediately and brutally exercise it.” None of this concerns Nietzsche. People will misinterpret you regardless. Still the points are well worth reflecting on and prove stimulating as we move from the Symbolic-Classical to the Classical-Romantic.

When Lottie said "heliotrope" something immediately clicked in my brain. The sun. Compass. Maps.
I immediately scrubbed through the opening sequence to pull a screencap of the symbol over Nat's map which I had briefly spotted and I'm sure some of you have seen:
https://preview.redd.it/t3cybpxqg8ra1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=d71a81defa3f5a71889012cf64d856b26e43c85a
I believe the "it's not purple" dialogue was a misdirect, so we focus on the color association. But we're supposed to be looking at the other heliotrope.
https://preview.redd.it/r313olzcg8ra1.png?width=750&format=png&auto=webp&s=20c49ed0fcf6fc3c6adc8141fcf16dc5c613ce45
It's a surveying tool used in triangulation surveys, it uses the sun to flash a light ray towards a point, a precursor to modern laser geodetic tools. Kinda like this, actually -
What Lottie saw that led them to find The Cabin
Is the symbol....surveying markers? Was the dead guy actually a surveyor and not a hunter? Do they use it to find the best way through the mountain? So many rabbit holes to dive into!
Follow up: If you look at the first image, and where the "long diagonal" starts it's pretty close to the cabin. I'm just gonna follow this thread and say: what if that's the symbol appearing near the cliff where Taissa almost fell? Seems like a pretty good vantage point.
https://preview.redd.it/e8nhoc0tf9ra1.png?width=1054&format=png&auto=webp&s=921109aad5f334cf2b3e951404a5a97c21bcfafb

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PLAYSKINS

Name	Exterior	Buyout
★ Skeleton Knife Crimson Web	WW	$ 1077,62
★ M9 Bayonet Autotronic	FT	$ 956,57
★ Butterfly Knife Urban Masked	MW	$ 713,27
★ Hand Wraps Cobalt Skulls	FT 0.16	$ 626,00
★ Sport Gloves Nocts	FT 0.16	$ 490,00
★ Bayonet Damascus Steel	MW 0.07	$ 402,58
★ Stiletto Knife Damascus Steel	FT 0.17	$ 319,64
★ Skeleton Knife Boreal Forest	FT	$ 305,81
★ Survival Knife Case Hardened #35 60% Blue	WW	$ 257,00
★ Sport Gloves Scarlet Shamagh	WW	$ 237,37
★ Falchion Knife		$ 203,44
★ Bowie Knife		$ 190,48
★ Survival Knife Crimson Web	BS	$ 189,24
★ Stiletto Knife Night Stripe	BS	$ 181,30
★ Survival Knife Stained	MW	$ 179,34
★ Ursus Knife Night Stripe	MW	$ 172,42
★ Stiletto Knife Scorched	BS	$ 169,65
★ Stiletto Knife Forest DDPAT	BS	$ 167,47
★ Gut Knife Slaughter	FN	$ 167,45
★ Stiletto Knife Safari Mesh	BS	$ 166,01
★ Ursus Knife Damascus Steel	FT 0.20	$ 163,10
★ Huntsman Knife Black Laminate	FT	$ 158,44
StatTrak™ AWP Asiimov	WW	$ 157,13
★ Huntsman Knife Black Laminate	WW	$ 152,91
★ Flip Knife Safari Mesh	FT	$ 147,08
★ Flip Knife Scorched	FT	$ 145,26
StatTrak™ AK-47 Bloodsport	FT	$ 134,70
★ Classic Knife Urban Masked	FT	$ 131,06
★ Moto Gloves Eclipse	WW	$ 118,68
★ Gut Knife Blue Steel	MW	$ 110,67
USP-S Printstream	MW	$ 103,10
★ Huntsman Knife Rust Coat	BS	$ 100,70
★ Survival Knife Scorched	FT	$ 100,48
★ Survival Knife Safari Mesh	FT	$ 96,99
★ Shadow Daggers Stained	FT	$ 87,16
★ Navaja Knife Safari Mesh	FT	$ 69,83
Desert Eagle Printstream	MW	$ 69,39
AWP Containment Breach	FT	$ 68,73
USP-S The Traitor	FN	$ 53,66
M4A4 Bullet Rain	FN	$ 52,93
M4A4 In Living Color	FN	$ 48,35
StatTrak™ P250 Undertow	FN	$ 45,87
StatTrak™ AWP Neo-Noir	FT	$ 45,70
M4A1-S Player Two	MW	$ 44,20
M4A4 Neo-Noir	FN	$ 37,13
Desert Eagle Kumicho Dragon	FN	$ 34,80
SSG 08 Blood in the Water	MW	$ 33,42
AK-47 Nightwish	FT	$ 22,92
AWP Chromatic Aberration	FT	$ 19,44
M4A1-S Cyrex	MW	$ 18,11
Sir Bloody Skullhead Darryl The Professionals		$ 16,38
StatTrak™ M4A4 Evil Daimyo	FN	$ 14,42
USP-S Road Rash	WW	$ 13,93
Galil AR Urban Rubble	FN	$ 11,33
Elite Trapper Solman Guerrilla Warfare		$ 11,21
MAC-10 Stalker	FT	$ 10,51
M4A4 Desolate Space	MW	$ 10,34
AK-47 Green Laminate	FT	$ 10,10
Sawed-Off Kiss♥Love	MW	$ 8,55​

Buff Store

I decided to go through with it, and finished my first chapter. I've posted it on AO3 'n stuff, figured I'd put it here anyway. I also wanna preface the chapter by briefly saying what it's about to avoid (some) confusion.
"Displacement" is a line of self-insert fanfics I'm writing where a random person get's "Displaced" into the universe of the series it's based on. There's no lore to the teleporting, but the teleporting does happen more than once, and it happens at often crucial times to put the character into a new scenario.
Any text with italics without " " will be the thoughts of the MC, which I'll constantly just be referring to as "you". I really should start writing in 3rd person, but right now I'm stuck in a horrible loop where I keep writing in a mix.
I preface each chapter by putting lyrics from the song it's named after, which are emboldened and put in italics.
​
​
Chapter 1 - Dead On Arrival
As dawn arrives, we still survive.
Nobody knows what's goin' on, Tearin' my town limb by limb.
Where are your mom and dad..?
Was it shocking for you?
Somethin is scaring you?
Enemies will hunt you, no matter what you do!
But we'll fight for you, to defeat them all.
​
If not, there's no way out.
​
What in the hell just happened?
You'd landed on your hands, which ached immensely from the poor angle you somehow fell from. In absolute confusion, you flipped onto your back and used your elbows as supports to lean on, looking upwards.
Above you was but a regular ceiling with lights, nothing out of the ordinary. It seems you had fallen through the ground by some contrivance and into an archaic office of sorts.
There was a total lack of memory from anything that had transpired both leading up to the events that had just occurred, and even some memories predating that.
Such simple things such as your name were somehow eluding you. Questions of who you were rebounded in your head over and over like an echo-chamber filled with nothing.
As your thoughts spiraled, you had a splitting headache. A pained groan escaped your lips as you stood up in defiance. You looked around the room, trying to assess your situation the best you could.
Multiple red banners fit with black Iron Crosses decorated the walls.
An underlying sense of dread built up as you continued exploring the room in search for answers. You approached curtains behind the desk, they seemed relatively well cleaned. With a gentle tug, you pulled them back.
Lying beyond the curtains was a view you thought you'd never see.
Just where in the hell am I?
Looking down from the window, you could see huge warships docked at a port. Some people down below, the size of pinpricks, were walking along the concrete ground. More crimson banners littered the streets away from the docks.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no..." You whispered to yourself, backing away from the glass.
In an attempt to find out where you were, you flew open the desk drawers. Paper flew like confetti as you looked for answers.
A date eventually stood out to you.
"1-1941?!" You said out loud, dumbfounded.
You continued sifting through the pages in denial, finding the very same date over and over again. After a while, you were surrounded by a sea of white sheets each imprinted with evidence of the impossible.
The drawers all lay empty with nothing more to prove.
You looked towards the multiple banners in the room and silently cursed.
Where the fuck am I? In the Führer's office?
Two doors were present in the room. One opposite the desk, and another to your right.
Testing your luck, you opened the one opposite where you currently were.
It was in the middle of a clean carpeted hallway. The walls were an ivory white, while the carpet was a bleeding vibrant red. Even more banners littered the walls.
This was no time to just start wandering around the Reichstag.
Well... Did Hitler live in the Reichstag? Was this the equivalent? The Reichstag was never built so close to the sea, let alone having a view right over a German port...
A figure turned the corner from down the hall, which you quickly noticed. After silently closing the door, you quietly opened the 2nd.
It was a relatively well kept bedroom with an unidentified blonde woman sleeping on the bed. On the bed-side table was an officers cap fitted with a rising golden eagle alongside a red and white band.
A window view facing the sea was left open; letting in a cooling breeze drift into the room.
An idea struck your mind.
If I'm were going to escape this place alive, I'm gonna need some kind of disguise. Atleast, something other than a T-shirt and shorts.
You could only imagine what they'd do to you if they'd found some random person in what you thought was the Führer's quarters.
As silently as was humanly possible, you crept up to the wardrobe.
You thought "What woman was high-ranking during World War 2? ".
Perhaps the woman sleeping was Hitlers wife or something?
The closet responded to your touch with a high pitched squeak. Despite it being an inanimate object, you motioned for it to shut up with your hand. Your head spun around to see if the woman had woken up.
She did not.
With a silent thank you to god, you looked inside for some kind of uniform. What you instead found was... Womens' apparel?
You reached further in and looked deeper. There was no men's uniforms, which was quite surprising. Further scanning the wardrobe, you came across what appeared to be her undergarments.
You would've slammed the door shut, but the sound of the woman behind you snoring left a constant reminder that there was a SLIGHT element of danger.
Instead of risking it making another creaking sound, you left it open and left the room with a blush. You dove back into the marked papers and read them more thoroughly. Mentions of... Ship girls? Wisdom cubes?
No, no, no, that can't be right.
Standing back up, you struggled to formulate any kind of plan.
If you were going to survive, you'd need a weapon. Surely you could kill one with a surprise attack, then take his gun, and perhaps find a way out of here.
...
The closest thing resembling a weapon was a pen on the table.
Yep, that's fine, I'll just John Wick them...
You huffed and sat down on the more throne-like chair. It was quite comfortable, but it didn't spin like an office chair. It'd be 35 years before office chairs would be invented unfortunately.
The pen wasn't a ballpoint such as the ones you were used to; instead it was a dip pen. A half empty inkwell laid next to it. Out of boredom, you opened it. The smell of ink wafted out of the glass container.
Didn't they have fountain pens by now? Weird.
Your eyes were drawn to a map on the wall to the right of you. It depicted a slightly distorted version of the world you once called home. If you were uneducated, it wouldn't be unfeasible to identify it as the real thing. Perhaps even interchangeable should you be intoxicated enough, there were only slight discrepancies which broke the illusion.
You shook your head in disbelief. Either you were truly out of your depth or what you thought were the Nazi's were just pitifully incompetent.
At that point, it felt like you were in one of those TV pranks. You started probing the room for cameras or hidden microphones. With one glance at the open doorway, you immediate ignored it and continued the search elsewhere.
With a sigh, you surveyed the room one last time while leaning in a corner.
This couldn't be some sort of prank or something. Nobody would spend all of this money just to get a reaction from someone.
Your eyes traced the boundaries of the window.
Especially with all of those battleships and the like. God, the steel alone would cost millions...
The door leading to the bedroom slammed shut due to the wind from the open window.
You snapped your neck around to look at it, terror and trepidation coiled around your soul like a knot. Well... Now that's just great, isn't it?
The noise was so loud, you unconsciously held your ears in reaction to it.
You ran towards the window behind the desk and tried to get it open. There was no handle or any sort of way to open the window unfortunately.
Panic rushed through your body as you heard rapid footsteps approaching from the hallway on the other side of the wall. Grabbing the pen, you dashed over to get yourself in a good position to stab whoever was going to enter.
By the time I kill the first guard, I'll easily be able to deal with the girl in the other room. Shouldn't be too difficult as long as I land this blow.
Eventually, a figure opened the doors.
"Bisma-"
The pen somehow deflected off of her head, even though you used all of your strength.
"Eh? "
A dumbfounded look was imprinted onto your face, and she returned the expression.
Both of you stared at each other awkwardly, both of your minds were trying to assess the situation. She had a skirt that was a mixture of a brilliant red and foggy grey. Despite the look on her face, she had quite an imposing stature. Alongside her flat chest were golden buttons fitted to the exterior; 8 in total.
The pen tip was completely bent and disfigured, unlike the persons face you'd just attempted stabbing. There wasn't a single scratch or mark from your inept strike.
You crept around the stunned girl and into the hall, almost tripping on your own feet. As you backed up, she turned around and apprehensively pointed at you.
"You! What do you think you're do-" She was interrupted by the door to the bedroom being burst open.
"That man! Hipper! Detain him at once!" A tall half-dressed blonde ordered from the doorway.
You started backing away, you knew you had to run but it almost felt like you'd forgotten how to.
The inimical woman in front of you was poised to lunge at you, but her eyes gazed at something beyond you. Eventually you had backed up into something warm.
With a gulp, you slowly turned around.
You were face to face with, yet, another female.
Why were they all women? It's only 1941, surely they're not being pushed on all fronts?
An Iron Cross adorned her neck along with two more embroidered onto the wrist section of her clothing. Instead of blonde, her hair was a chalky white that was tied up in twin tails. Something else you noticed is that they all had thigh-highs on.
"Eugen, I order you to capture that spy!"
"Whatever you say, sis~" Eugen replied with a teasing grin.
"This is a huge misunderstanding! If you'll just let me-" You squealed shortly before being picked up by your shoulders. Her strength was extremely surprising to say the least. You attempted to maneuver yourself out of her grasp, but had no such luck.
Eugen effortlessly tossed you like a speeding missile down the hall and through a door labeled "Canteen".
"Why did you- EUGH! YOU ALWAYS DO THIS!" A irked Hipper scolded before giving chase.
"Oops~ " Eugen giggled with content, following with a gait of elegance.
The blonde put on her cap, and finished getting dressed before rushing in the opposite direction.
...
You'd just breached the doors of the cafeteria, landing on your shoulder and tumbling into the floorboards. You released a loud groan of agony as you made a clumsy uncoordinated attempt of rising to your feet.
Your mind was briefly rendered into tomato soup for a good few seconds before you regained your bearings.
How the hell did she just whizz me around like that? And how did that other girl just completely ignore my strike? What in the name of Christ is going on here..?
As you finally stood on two feet, one of your hands instinctively reached for your shoulder. It really felt like you broke something, but you knew that if you really had broken something, you'd probably be on the floor crying.
"Who is that?"
Your eyes widened as you realized you were in a room full of women draped in all kinds of modified Kriegsmarine uniforms. Some of them forewent their uniforms entirely, wearing skimpy, very revealing clothing for god knows why.
They were of all shapes and sizes. Though, putting it like that makes it sound like they're abnormal godless creatures.
It wasn't too far from the truth, some of them had what seemed to be horns. A good number of them also looked like children.
You struggled to get some words out in a very poor attempt of deception.
"I-I, uh... Für den Kaiser? " You stuttered in a horrible German accent. Everyone was silent. "No? Too early? Damn..."
A feminine voice crackled in from the P.A system, a ringing alarm repeatedly blared.
"Intruder alert! Spy in the base! Prevent him from leaving at all costs!"
Chatter erupted all over the room.
"There's a spy in the base?" Someone repeated.
Only fragments of conversations were intelligible from the mess of different voices and German. The talking slowly died down until the room was in absolute silence. Every single one of them were staring at you.
Your eyes went from face to face, they were innumerable.
You immediately turned you back on them and began your great escape.
It started with a thundering of rushing and mangled cries of "Get him!" and other variations of apprehensive phrases. Multiple lunch trays clattered to the floor. The flat blonde you'd met before burst through the doors, using her arms in an X fashion as a brace.
Hipper didn't see you slip out of her way and slink back into the hallway before continuing into a sprint.
"W-where did he go?" She sputtered in a blunder. Her breath was raggedy and frequent.
They all pointed behind her, some of them started running towards her which prompted an annoyed groan from Hipper, who began to give chase to the human.
...
A look of steely determination was imprinted onto your face as you ran with all of your might. Crimson banners, vanilla wallpaper, and the wall-lamps all whizzed by in a amalgamated blur.
You looked behind you to see how much a lead you had.
They were gaining, Hipper was still leading the charge. In a panic, you hurriedly chose a random door flying by.
Eenie, meenie, miney, mo!
You braced and charged through the wooden pair of doors. What you saw in that room was interesting to say the least.
Yet another woman was sitting on some sort of throne. The masonry itself was crumbled at the edges, armrests draped in light amethyst hair.
The woman herself was crossing her legs with her hands joined in her lap. Behind her was a large cathedral-like window showering the room with light, unveiling the darkness. Unlit wax candles ran along the walls with two golden chandeliers hanging above.
She cocked her head slightly to the right, intrigued by your form. Her presence alone sent chills up your spine. Something about her gave off an incredibly ominous vibe.
As you stood there, stunned, the girls behind you had finally caught up. But instead of entering the room and apprehending you with shouts and whatnot, they were quietly gossiping behind closed doors.
"... Think he'll come out alive?"
"August is scary!"
"Quiet, morons!" Hipper hushed them with a quick strike to their foreheads. Muffled whimpers of pain came from the other side of the wall while the figure in front of you stared you down.
There was a profuse silence that was eventually broken by the woman speaking to you.
"It seems you're this Spy. "
She spoke with an air of sophistication and superiority. More silence followed before being broken up yet again. with a sigh she stood up, albeit slowly.
"I must admit, you caught me off guard. "
You watched in a combination of wonder and horror as a mass of azure cubes passed through the floor and walls, amassing themselves into a metal dragon. Instead of wings, it had half of a deck of an aircraft carrier on each wing.
"Your bravery is worthy of admiration, although whether it is folly or valor..." The dragon took a thunderous step towards you, turrets on the deck seemed to be locked onto your head. "I shall decide."
Each of the steps towards you made you flinch.
"You... Want me... To fight... That?" You said while backing up against the door. "What in the name of Christ..? "
What kind of world was this? A world where dragons just... Exist? A world where someone can just pick you up and hurl you without any effort?
This was but another wake-up call to where you had been thrown into.
"Will you falter in the face of such trials?" She ignored your very obvious indirect plea for mercy.
Your hands wrapped around the knob of the door and turned it violently. The door did not open. In a desperate escape attempt, you rammed your shoulder into it repeatedly to no avail.
Seeing how it wasn't working, you backed up towards the dragon and prepared to ram the door down one last time with all of your might.
"Have you given up already?" The woman sneered, a hint of disappointment rang in her voice.
You ran at the door and made one poor excuse of a dropkick while closing your eyes.
...
It felt... Warm. Your body impacted the ground without ever hitting anything with your feet.
For the second time that day, you were dropped onto the floor. Hard.
You let out an exasperated gasp after opening your eyes. Sunlight hit your body from above, no longer held back by a structure.
You were now in a street, occasionally people would pass by. Some looked on with concern, but without the courage to assist. Wooden buildings lined the busy streets, the archaic stone pathway was littered with the tapping of footsteps.
It was just like when you had first arrived here. Though this time, you remembered.
With a silent thank you to whatever deity might've saved you, you stood up with a grin.
Elsewhere...
"Where did he go?!"
"I'm afraid that's not something I know."
"B-but... How?! He can't just vanish! Unless..."
Hipper scratched her chin, her right eye twitching in increasing frustration.
"He must be a submarine! He might have some... Some sort of camouflage! Yes, that must be it!" She whipped around to the crowd of startled onlookers. "Scour the base! I want no stone unturned! Every cabinet, wardrobe and desk!"
Most of the ships saluted with a coordinated "Jawohl!" before dispersing in different directions. Some merely nodded in a sultry state, upset that their lunch had been ruined.
The ones remaining infront of her were none other than Bismarck and Prinz Eugen.
"I just got my rigging on too! Damn him!" Admiral Hipper raised her shaking fist to the sky in rage.
"I'm sure you'll get him next time~" Eugen jokingly assured Hipper, slinging her arm around her sisters neck.
Already teetering on the edge of rage, she had an outburst.
"IT'S YOUR FAULT ANYWAY!" She flew Eugens arm off her shoulder. "I-if you didn't toss him like you did, we could've easily-"
"Eugen, don't go overboard on your games. What is done is done, though do expect to hear from me in the coming days."
Eugen let out a "Hmpf. " and walked away.
Bismarck approached Hipper with a serious gaze. She immediately got the message and composed herself, straightening her posture.
"I believe you were closest to him. Can you describe his face? Eye color, or anything of the sort?"
Admiral Hipper profusely nodded.
"Good."
​
And that ends the first chapter. As you can probably tell, I'm a novice writer, and most of you are probably twice my age. (Surprisingly, most of you seem to be above the age of 20.) I'm also very new to the fandom, and am looking to improve my writing of dialogue and vast amount of personalities (most of which are tropes), and I'm quite afraid I wrote August/Eugen wrong.
I also have a few questions for any hard-core Azur Lane fans that I'd appreciate if you could answer:
1: Is the German language just called "Ironblood"? Is Japanese called "Sakura" or something? 2: Does the game or anime happen first? Or, are they in separate timelines? I haven't seen Crosswave myself, so I don't know. I was going to follow the events of the anime, then maybe into the game, then into Slow Ahead.
3: (most important one) Are men just... Really rare? Is there a reason why all the ships are females, or why we never see any men, anywhere?
If you've somehow read all of this, thank you, I appreciate people reading my work. Cheers from Australia.

The gas giant loomed large in the viewport, ballooning as the ship coasted toward it, the colorful blue hues of its swirling bands reflecting the glow of the system’s star.
Darren could make out the bright, scarred surface of an ice moon drifting lazily past, framed against the rivers of flowing hydrogen and helium. Silhouetted against the Jupiter-mass object was their destination – Halfpoint Station.
Having come from Earth, which was still a backwater when compared to many of the Imperium’s more developed worlds, the sheer size and grandeur of the structure took his breath away.
It was hard to gauge its true scale in the vacuum of space where there was no atmospheric haze, and there were no landmarks for reference, the unfiltered light creating harsh shadows. As they drew nearer, however, he was able to pick out some of the massive fuel tankers that swarmed its ports like clouds of gnats.
Those vessels put anything created by Humanity to shame – their purpose being to dip into the upper atmosphere of the gas giant, harvesting its resources to fuel the ships that made their berth here.
Calling it enormous was an understatement. It must have been nine miles tall, the main hull of the station forming a long, relatively thin vertical shaft. Surrounding that shaft were half a dozen rotating rings, each one connected to the central column by spokes, the pinpoints of innumerable windows glinting as they slowly turned.
At its apex was a dome of immense proportions, sitting proudly atop the structure, the crystalline material that made up its transparent hull glittering in the starlight. Inside, he could make out glimpses of regal skyscrapers and patches of parkland – an entire city encapsulated in a habitat that had a breathtaking view of the planet.
Darren pursed his lips as he looked down at the device on his wrist, the tiny display showing the familiar text of an article he must have read at least a dozen times by this point.
Halfpoint Station was situated on the outskirts of the Imperium’s sphere of influence, a region of space known only as the Periphery. This put it soundly outside of Purp jurisdiction, but the place still saw a lot of traffic, as the station was right in the middle of a relatively well-traveled shipping route between the three big powers.
While it had started its life as little more than a place to fuel up and get resupplied, being located outside any of the major spheres of influence had its benefits, and the station had garnered a bit of a reputation for its more permissive policies. Now, it was said to be populated by hired guns, smugglers, gamblers, and anyone else who might appreciate discretion.
The Human frowned as he looked out the window once more and tried to reconcile the gleaming edifice before him with the dark reputation the article in his hands presented.
He didn’t have long to dwell on it before the pilot’s crackly voice came through a hidden intercom in the cabin, informing the passengers that they were commencing docking procedures.
The woman spoke in accented Shil. What that accent was, Darren had no clue, but he knew it wasn’t the same one spoken by his professors – linguistic or mechanical.
He glanced around at his fellow travelers, seeing a few species that he didn’t recognize, along with the more familiar Shil’vati. The aliens were easily identifiable by the purple hue of their skin, their sharp tusks, and their seven-foot height.
Several of them returned his gaze, some curious, some covetous.
Males were rare in the Imperium.
Hell, males were rare, period.
By the standards of most races out in the galaxy, Humanity were the strange ones for having an equal number of men and women. Even six years into the occupation, most were still struggling to adapt to the new paradigm brought on by that reality.
Darren was no exception.
Still, he managed to ignore the stares, turning his attention to the smart display on his wrist, bringing up his itinerary. He was headed to Hab-Ring Five, and the only information that he’d been given beyond that were some coordinates to who-knew-where.
He sighed, wishing – not for the first time – that he might have a fellow first timer to converse with.
Unfortunately, that was a pipe dream.
The lack of other Humans on his ship wasn’t surprising. The Imperium had only recently relaxed enough to begin authorizing travel visas allowing Humans to leave Earth, and his kind were still a rarity on the Galactic stage.
As to why he was out here out in the ass end of space?
He’d been offered a job.
He was an engineer by trade, at least according to his degree, and he specialized in the combination of alien and Human technology. It might seem like an oddly specific skillset, but it was one that was in high demand, as just about every industry on Earth was trying to take advantage of the opportunities provided by the Imperium’s literal space-age technology.
It was complicated work, but he was quite good at it, if he said so himself – and his professors seemed to agree. His gift had catapulted him through university and had apparently landed him a very lucrative offer to take up a position on Halfpoint.
How they’d heard of him, he wasn’t too sure. Nor did he truthfully know exactly what the job entailed. Apparently, he was to be briefed on-location.
Regardless, off-world work was a rare opportunity for any Human, let alone one fresh out of school, and visiting an alien space station was a lot more interesting than backpacking around Europe for a year.
Whatever happened, it was going to be an adventure.
The ship matched velocity with one of the rotating rings, the structure at least half a mile tall in its own right, covered in tiny windows that made it look like a whole city block had been condensed down into the shape of a donut.
Now that he was a little closer, Darren could see that the station was actually far from pristine. Its hull was pocked with haphazard repairs, the newer sections shining brighter than their older counterparts, its armored panels pitted with little craters from space debris and micro-meteorite impacts.
The ship lined up with a docking port, and an umbilical walkway began to extrude from the ring, reaching out towards them. It looked like the jib of a crane, covered over with a flexible material that bore a suspicious resemblance to a grey tarp.
Surely it wasn’t actually a tarp? No, it had to be some kind of alien supertech – too advanced for him to recognize at a glance.
Right?
His thoughts did little to reassure him as the umbilical connected to the shuttle’s airlock with a tangible thud.
Shaking his head, he retrieved his travel bag, then made his way down the aisle to join the queue of passengers who were waiting to disembark. More of them crammed in behind him, and he tried to ignore their uncomfortable proximity.
He hadn’t actually spent a lot of time around aliens during his schooling. One of his professors had been a Shil, but she had been professional to a fault and had always kept a healthy distance from her students.
Of course, she had still managed to be rather intimidating despite that, her head seeming to scrape the ceiling every time she stepped into the classroom. However, Darren was rapidly discovering that being surrounded by women who stood head and shoulders above him was a different experience altogether.
It was nothing to get worked up over, though. He just needed to-
The Shil standing behind him pressed close – uncomfortably close – Darren swearing that there was room enough in the aisle for her to keep her distance. Suddenly, he felt a sharp twinge in his rear.
Had she just...pinched him? No, it had to have been a mistake.
He turned to glance over his shoulder, looking up at the towering Purp. “Sorry, Ma’am, I must have bumped into you.”
Her sly smile faded as she furrowed her brow in confusion. Before she had time to formulate a reply, the intercom above the exit beeped.
“Oh, looks like we’re moving again!” Darren chimed as he began to follow the queue. “Sorry!”
He followed the procession of towering women into the passenger ship’s airlock. Both of the pressurized doors were open, and before him stretched the umbilical. The worryingly thin material that protected them from the deadly vacuum of space was wrapped taut around a metal frame, and the walkway beneath his feet was made up of a simple grate.
After a short walk, they emerged into a cavernous dock area, so large that it was more like standing in some kind of indoor stadium than anything that could be compared to a space station. There were stacks of shipping containers and unidentifiable machinery everywhere he looked.
It was a challenge not to stop and examine the equipment, each new sight piquing his interest, each strange device begging to be investigated. As he followed the other passengers to the far end of the room – his head on a swivel – he almost bumped into one of the containers. To his surprise, it was floating a foot off the ground, suspended on an anti-gravity cushion.
It was funny – no matter how many times he saw it, it never stopped being surreal to see something just…float.
As he stooped to look beneath it, an irritated dockworker leaned out from behind it to yell at whoever was in her way. She stopped when she saw him, raising a skeptical eyebrow. She was a Rakiri, if Darren remembered correctly. She resembled a towering werewolf, a pair of cat-like eyes peering out from beneath her black fur, her facial features strangely leonine. She was clad in dirty, yellow coveralls that hung loosely from her broad shoulders, exposing the ragged tank top that she wore beneath it. Tufts of her dark coat poked out around the faded garment, giving her a surprisingly fluffy appearance.
“You lost, boy?” she asked as she shooed him out of her path. “Stay behind the yellow warning markings unless you want to get that cute butt smushed,” she added with a nod toward the deck. She continued to push her heavy container, moving it effortlessly on its gravity cushion.
More dock workers were assembling to stare at him, perhaps having never seen a Human before. Or perhaps it was because he was male? It was hard to tell. Either way, a small crowd of yellow-clad women saw him off, a couple of them hooting at him and waving. Not sure if this was some kind of alien greeting, he shyly waved back, eliciting laughter from them after a moment of surprise.
One started to make her way over to him before a menacing growl from her superior made her freeze in place sheepishly. Darren took that as his cue to move on – he didn’t want to get anyone else in trouble by being in the way.
He arrived at a security gate, and after being asked to show his visa, he was subjected to a very thorough – and in his opinion unnecessary – pat-down. Once he was cleared, he emerged into the station proper. He stepped out of the way of the women behind him, then set his travel bag down on the metal deck, taking in the alien sights and sounds for a moment.
Far from being a sterile, clinical environment, he found himself in a bustling bazaar worthy of any city back on Earth. It scarcely felt like he was standing inside a station at all, what passed for the ceiling so high above his head that he could barely make out the crisscrossing support beams and maintenance catwalks.
It was styled like a cramped street, too small for cars, almost like the city center of some old European town had been reimagined in an industrial style. Civilian quarters that resembled apartment blocks rose up towards the ceiling, connecting to it in some places, likely leading up to higher levels of the station.
In every nook and cranny – anywhere there was room – the denizens of the hab-ring had set up little stalls where they were hawking their wares to the tourists who had just boarded. Colorful awnings fluttered in the artificial breeze from the air recyclers, and insulated cables that had been patched from the station’s systems trailed along walls and floors, powering streetside food stands and colorful neon signs.
Speaking of the denizens, they came in all shapes and sizes. Darren had never seen so many varieties of alien in one place before. He could make out a few Shil and Rakiri, but most were unknown to him, the varied hues of their skin and clothes creating a bustling sea of color.
He checked the device on his wrist again, pulling up the coordinates that his new employer had forwarded to him. This was indeed Hab-Ring Five, and he’d been given what passed for an address in this strange environment. Hefting his bag once more, he made his way into the throng, having to dodge and weave between the towering aliens. Many of them barely seemed to register his presence, probably due to his comparatively small stature, though some seemed to stop and stare in confusion.
Well, I suppose Humans are pretty new on the galactic scene, he thought to himself.
The scents of strange, alien food assailed him as he navigated the cramped streets, a few of the criers singling him out. They had sharp instincts, he’d give them that. It seemed the locals could smell a tourist at thirty paces.
Maybe it was all the staring he was doing?
Eventually, he arrived at his destination, glancing up from his display to see a dingy bar. It was open to the street, built into an overhang at the base of one of the many buildings, little more than a long counter with a few stools. Above it was a blinking neon sign in a script that he couldn’t read. As he made his way inside and struggled up onto one of the tall stools, the small handful of patrons who were sitting off to his left paused their conversation to examine him.
They were Nighkru, their goat-like horns and the bruise-purple hue of their skin giving them away. Their silver eyes were striking, almost seeming to glow in the dim light of the bar, as reflective as those of a cat. Their clothing was all tight leather and straps, their skin strategically exposed in places to show off their stunning bioluminescent tattoos, the swirling patterns trailing down slender limbs and across toned midriffs.
He kept his gaze aimed forward, knowing that their kind didn’t think much of the Imperium to which he now belonged.
…Then again, that was true for pretty much every race that wasn’t a part of the massive interstellar empire. Say what you would about the Purps, but they knew how to make an impression.
The bartender walked over to him, leaning on the counter as she looked him up and down skeptically. It was another Rakiri like the dockworkers, her feline nose twitching as she took in his scent.
“You lost, or do you want something to drink?” she asked.
“No thank you, I’m waiting for someone,” he replied sheepishly as he lowered his eyes to his device again.
He was right on time, but as he looked around, there was no sign of his contact. He was supposed to meet them here, right?
The Rakiri shrugged her furry shoulders, then left him to his own devices, moving over to the small group of Nighkru.
Perhaps one of them was his contact?
He certainly hoped not. While he didn’t have anything against a person enjoying themselves with a good drink after hours, it wasn’t a good way to make a positive first impression on a prospective employee.
Fortunately for him, the surprise on one of the trio’s grey skinned faces when she happened to blearily peer in his direction dashed that possibility. Just a trio of young women out for a drink.
Unfortunately for him, after a few hastily whispered words to her friends, the group made their way over to him.
“Don’t see many males round these parts,” one of them said, her faux leather getup creaking as she planted her hands on the bar to his left. Another leaned on the counter to his right, the third posting up behind him.
“A Human, too,” the woman to his right added with a sly chuckle. “Now, what’s a Human doing all alone out on the Periphery?”
“I didn’t think the Purps were letting their pets off the leash.” the one behind him snickered.
“I don’t know,” the first said with an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe he snuck out in search of a real woman? I think we’ve all heard how Humans can be.”
That set the three of them laughing.
All the while, Darren wasn’t sure where to look, turning his head left and right as he struggled to pick a Nighkru. He settled on the woman to his left, having to lift his head to meet her gaze, those reflective eyes shining like a pair of silver coins.
“I...uh...was actually supposed to be meeting someone here.” he stammered, a little of his anxiety bleeding through.
The Nighkru gave him a warm smile that wasn’t reflected in her eyes, leaning a little closer. He tried to pull away reflexively but found another Nighkru waiting for him, something rather soft pressing against his back.
“Well, I don’t see anyone else in here but me and my friends,” one of them said as she tutted dramatically. “Maybe they stood you up?”
“Poor form, that,” the one behind him whispered into his ear. He lurched in his seat, surprised by her proximity. “Leaving a pretty young thing like you hanging.”
The first one nodded, as if that was a piece of sagely wisdom. “I know – how about my friends and I give you a personal tour of the station to make up for it?” she asked, reaching out to brush a piece of errant fluff from his collar. “We’ll even carry your luggage for you – we’re nice like that.”
She signaled to one of her compatriots with a curt nod, who then plucked his travel bag off the deck.
“Oh, that’s really not-”
He tried to stand, but he was cut off as two of the women placed their hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down into his seat. Their touch was gentle, but firm, letting him know that he wasn't going anywhere.
Darren looked to the Rakiri bartender for help, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the turn of events, but she was staying out of it. She was feigning disinterest, cleaning a glass with a rag that didn’t look clean enough for the job.
It was clear that he wouldn’t be getting any help from her.
Was this really going to be his first experience on the station – kidnapped by a gang of alien grifters?
Just as he was getting ready to – likely ineffectually – start swinging like his life depended on it, he heard a voice ring out in a language he didn’t recognize.
The Nighkru turned their heads as one, and he followed their gaze, seeing another of their kind step in from the street. Her skin had the same twilight hue, her silvery hair pulled back into a long ponytail that trailed behind her as she strode towards them. She wore a jet-black body suit that left little to the imagination, so tight that it might have been sewn onto her, the garment open at the front to expose a chiseled midriff and the beginnings of her cleavage. Her eyes were mesmerizing, his gaze drawn to the glowing tattoos that served to accentuate them.
Oddly, unlike the trio surrounding him, she had no horns.
The stranger walked with purpose, her heels clicking on the deck, her hair swishing behind her as she came to a stop to stare down the three other women. They were already backing off, the Nighkru who had taken his bag setting it back down gingerly beside his seat. Did they know this person? They seemed so wary of her.
“Maybe we’ll see you around,” one of them whispered, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment before she followed her friends out into the street.
Once they were finally out of sight, Darren breathed a sigh of relief and turned to thank the newcomer. Before he could utter so much as a word, she beat him to the punch.
“You shouldn’t wander around Halfpoint alone,” she said, skipping the preamble. Her voice had a melodic tone, one that was almost musical to Darren’s ears. She planted her hands on her hips, scrutinizing him with a skeptical expression. “You’re just asking for trouble.”
“I’m just...waiting for someone,” he replied. “Thank you, by the way. I’m-”
“Do you have a weapon on you?” she asked, cutting him off. “A handgun under that jacket? Defense spray? A pocket knife?”
“What? No,” he replied, his brow furrowing. “Why would I have a gun?”
Even with a few inches of titanium-alloy plating between everyone aboard and a messy death by explosive decompression, using a firearm on the station seemed risky.
She snorted derisively, almost as though she couldn’t believe his reply.
“For your sake, I hope that whoever you’re waiting for is smarter than you are,” she said with a roll of her silver eyes. “This isn’t Earth, boy. There are no Shil Marines around to babysit you. Next time you want to play tourist, go somewhere closer to home.”
With a flick of her long hair, she turned about, vanishing into the crowd once more to leave him sitting at the bar in confusion.
Darren felt another hand on his shoulder and turned to see an Edixi wearing grease-stained overalls standing behind him. The tool belt that hung loosely about her hips let him know that she was a mechanic before she’d even had time to open her mouth.
Her kind were evolved for an aquatic environment, and although they were fully amphibious, they retained many of their ancient features. Their bodies were smooth and streamlined, with lean, lightly-muscled frames that made them look like Olympic swimmers. Her eyes were a striking ocean-green, and her azure skin was patterned with faded tiger stripes, darkening as it neared her extremities.
“You’re the new engineer, right?” she chirped excitedly.
“Darren Fogle, pleased to meet you,” he confirmed as he extended a hand. She took it, shaking it eagerly, and he noted that her fingers were webbed.
He was a little surprised by how smooth her skin was. Given the sharklike appearance of the Edixi – and her vocation – he’d expected it to be rough and scaly. Maybe cold and slimy, too. By contrast, it was warm and soft, her small scales smooth like a snake’s rather than sharp like those of a fish.
Odd.
“Oh, it is. It very much is. The boss told me to fetch you,” she said before turning back towards the street. “Don’t get lost, you hear? There are some rough types around these parts.”
Yes, she could say that again. He stooped to pick up his bag, then hurried after her, trying not to lose sight of her in the crowd. He also belatedly realized that she hadn’t told him her own name.
Was that an Edixi thing or was she just in a hurry?
The mechanic led him through the streets, which seemed to be arranged in a kind of grid pattern, always flanked by the towering hab-blocks. It was as challenging as ever to navigate when so many of the station’s inhabitants stood a head taller than him. It made him feel like a bug that was trying to avoid being stepped on.
He could only assume he’d get used to it. His guide seemed to have no problem getting around, and she was a few inches shorter than him.
Their destination was some kind of service elevator – a large platform that seemed designed to carry heavy cargo up from the docks, wide enough that a couple of trucks could have parked on it side by side. There were still a few cargo containers stacked off to one side that hadn’t been unloaded yet.
He watched as the woman hit a touch panel beside the double doors, and they began to slide shut, the platform lurching as Darren felt it start to rise. There was no grinding of machinery, no vibrations, only a sensation of getting heavier. It was obviously gravity-manipulation tech. It wasn’t too surprising – the Shil seemed to use it for just about everything, so it wasn’t too strange that the rest of the universe did as well.
Convergent technological development, he could almost imagine his Shil instructor saying as they started to descend. Good tech is good tech.
The hab-ring’s many levels flashed by one by one, until finally, the elevator slid to a smooth stop. Darren followed the happily humming mechanic out into a garage, his eyes lighting up as he took in his new surroundings.
Were those… mecha?
The bay’s walls were lined with bulky harnesses that were obviously designed to hold the machines in place, a few of the berths already occupied by half-disassembled vehicles.
They were!
“Real life mecha,” he mumbled.
As a mechanic, he wasn’t ignorant of the genre. After all, what kind of engineer didn’t hold a soft spot for giant stompy robots? Of course, as an engineer, he also held an inherent disdain for anyone that actually thought said machines were even remotely practical outside of the realm of fiction.
The Square Cube Law was a harsh mistress.
The long and short of it was that if you doubled a machine's height while keeping it the same shape, you ended up with four times the muscle power moving eight times the mass. As a result, instead of having the same relative agility as the original, the double-sized machine actually had only half.
That was why ants could lift so much relative to their weight. If you scaled one up, you’d end up with a much less impressive power to weight ration.
And, the problem only got worse the bigger you went. Giant robots would be slow, cumbersome, and they would inevitably suffer from exploding ankles if they tried to move too fast. They’d also sink in just about any terrain that was even slightly porous.
All in all, mecha were a cool concept with absolutely zero real world applications.
Which was why he was so stunned to see some in real life. Sure, the Shil military liked to use exos, but they were really just power armor by any other name with thrusters attached. Besides, the only reason those things could skip around like they did was because they had anti-grav generators…
His thoughts trailed off as an idea occurred to him. He jogged over to the nearest machine, peering up at the twenty-foot humanoid monstrosity. Its legs had been detached, leaving only a bulky torso covered in half-stripped sensory equipment, lenses and scanners visible where their protective covers had been removed. The cockpit was open, revealing the pilot’s seat, along with the surrounding neural interface cables that hung loose like the entrails of some mechanical beast. Its weapon attachments were empty, but it was nonetheless an awe-inspiring sight.
Sure enough, there were two oversized humps on the back. One was clearly for the thing’s fusion engine – and the other must have held the anti-grav generator.
“Darren?” the mechanic asked, having only just realized that he wasn’t behind her. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Y-yeah,” he said, jogging for a few paces to catch up. “That’s a mecha!”
The blue-hued alien nodded slowly. “Yes?”
“A mecha,” he reiterated.
Which prompted another slow nod. “You’ve never seen a gladiator mech before?”
“No.”
“Didn’t they tell you what job you’d be doing?” the mechanic asked, cocking her head in a rather adorable manner.
“No?” This time it was his turn to cock his head.
Several emotions seemed to fly across the alien’s face. He saw surprise, confusion, and dismay before she finally settled on irritation.
“Typical,” she grunted. “Just… follow me.”
AN: https://youtu.be/a3Xp1WhRQ9Q

I wasn't quite sure of what primarily to do today. Nothing's ever planned. And it ain't by any purpose behind it. I'm just somewhat of a sloth. So many chests, or unsorted chests rather. I squander time every once I need something. Opening tens of chests in search of a bucket is a distinguished venture. I could sort them, and that would probably be worth a lot of saved time and mess. For some very divine reason, I choose not to. And that reason in itself is a void. Being lazy actually accounts to me doing the quite opposite of lazy. I could sort the chests once, and be liberated of my searches. But instead I have to search numerous and numerous wooden boxes, with many a times also ending the hunt futile. Where's my silk touch pickaxe? I think it should be in the chest neighbor to the enchanting table. Yes, I find it a most accountable sense. It isn't here. Then perhaps in my ender chest? It isn't here either. Wait, you require silk touch to break and obtain ender chests. Then why would it be in there? Wouldn't it be quite like locking the key in the car itself? And the search continues. Minecraft does if often to remind me of my lazy endeavors. I would carry the full bag each day to school. It would be really heavy. Some of my peers found it fantastical that my timid frail body could bear that much of a load, everyday. No, I can't set my bag every day according to the time table. And I also am not a great enjoyer of punishments. I'll carry everything, even if that remarks my responsible shoulders a martyrdom. I have scoliosis now. The exact reason of its cause is unknown. But holy blocks! Alright, this is my world, my new empire. Just wandering around my territory is such a solace. At least there's something important to me. There's my dog, my axolotl, and my many tenants. My villagers are incredible. Anything even feebly radiant seems heavenly to the ignorant. I should have studied Economics in school. They keep robbing me of my fortunes, and I keep stayed ignorant of my ignorance. Anyways, I'm rich. Such insignificant barters don't concern me. I beseech iron. There are five of the villagers, and do summon iron golems when gossiping. That isn't enough. I need to terrify them. As is greatly said, fear is the greatest motivator. I remember how all of my behind attempts have yielded. I've lost four nametags, all for this one motive. Every zombie I trap somehow has severe depression. They just fancy the sun and its wrath. I'm trying to bring them to the right spot, and they by some not known of power find a way to the open. And they burn to death. At least return my name tag. But wait, I'm rich. Quite so rich that even dirt occurs expensive to me. That librarian sells me name tags for twenty emeralds. No wonder those illagers keep raiding. They know these villagers well, and that of their nihilist earnings. I have this one name tag. I must not fail. One zombie and a dream. I affirm the spot I need the zombie to be. But the problem's no different. If I go in, I need to come out. And in doing that, I need to break some blocks. Not surprisingly enough, the zombie mistakes my departure for his escape. No, I am not as fast to place the blocks back before he manages to outdo my ingenious designs. This instance, however, intelligence struck me. It happens seldom. Zombies can't climb ladders, contrarily, I can. I'll lead him to a hole, and ladder out of it. That is something big brain. I wonder why humans at school didn't recognize my talents. I wonder why. It's night time; I lure a zombie there, and it works. I had never been of grace to such success before. I give him his rightful name, also that was given to his flammable predecessors; Perfidious. Do not betray me, Perfidious. Be wary to stay remote of your name. Morning time, and yes, how can I be of grace to such success? Humans at school were right, I cannot. No, the zombie is fine, he's doing quite splendidly. It's them perfidious villagers. They aren't panicking, the zombie has not an effect on them. I've spolit them defending them for so long. I think they've bid fear adieu. Alright, okay, okay. Why did I think humans in Minecraft would be any different from humans at school? And, I'm wandering again. I not yet have the nerve to fight the wither again. He's there reigning in the west where I had summoned him. My heart trembles only with some steps in that direction. I remember my defeat and my many deaths at his skulls. I need potions. Potions! It's a painful tale. Valiance laughs at my fight, and martyrdom mocks my demise. It were the dark times. I had returned from the nether, this once, alive. I was happy. I had obtained all the nether wart, every single one of them. That one lone nether fortress I had found upon my timid luck was finally fully looted. There's a lava farm I built. It serves as great fuel. I didn't have much dripstone, so there's only eight cauldrons collecting lava. Now, once a cauldron is full, it needs to be emptied to accommodate for more lava. So I had made a pit to store all of it. I would take the lava from the cauldron, and pour it there. Yes, I fell into this same lava pit, with all of the nether wart. I am beyond help. I should have put something of the kind of fences or blocks at least. But no, this is destiny, and mine is quite doomed. Lay emphasis on the lone nether fortress, and all the nether wart. So basically, I am left quite deprived of nether wart. Which means I can't brew potions. It's been an onerous decision to completely ignore the potion part of the game. I need them. And today's the day. I require finding a new nether fortress. The nether is hostile in its every caress. Golden helmet, diamond armor and tools. And all of it enchanted. Tons of food, and right with me, two totems of undying. There's no stopping the triumph of my endeavor. Omens? No, fearful glimpses should be fearing me instead. That dream, of me watching my empire burn helpless. I decide to overlook it. No foreshadowing intended. The hoglins, they run from warped fungi, and I have them in plenty. It needs to planted, however. They have poor eyesight perhaps. They can't quite see it in my hand, and so I need to plant it to ward them off. No trouble thus far. The fungi are working optimally. I've taken a different, a new way, for I need to find a new nether fortress. I have all these blocks abundant, and I keep placing them on my trail. I won't get lost such way. A fortress! A fortress! It's the same one. Different ways lead to the same destiny, and mine is doomed. I don't know how I'm here when I was walking a different path. I don't know. Anyways, I'm taking the free bone blocks. I've been taking all the glowy blocks on my way too. The glowy blocks in the trees. I forgot what they're called. Hostilities surround me, there's a ghast. I wield an infinity bow. No ghast escapes my sight undead. I'm mighty. I kill the ghast, and also any skeletons that had dare aim me an arrow. The hunt continues. I bridge my way over depressions and lava. There's a piglin here. He's companion to me, I wear a golden helmet, he won't hurt me. Then what's the damage? Something's attacking me! It's a hoglin, no, a whole herd of hoglins. Where's my warped fungus? It's here in my hand. I just need of its placing, and they'll leave me serenity. I can't place it. I keep clicking, but I can't place it; my mouse is crying. Apparently, you can't place it on bare netherrack. All flooring around me is bare netherrack. I've lost enough hearts in getting to this discovery. No, I am not using a shield. There's a totem of undying in my off hand. You can only have one. So, as all available options tribute me their unavailability. I have only one option, run. I'm running, and, the totem's gone, I died once. They're chasing, and I'm running. No, I'm not as fast to wield a shield or the other totem in my off hand whilst running. I lack the cool to think. I'm running. And verily safe, I reach a forest, and plant the fungus. I survived, barely. I equip my valiant person the second and also the last totem. I travel across the lands, searching far and wide. Bridging over great lava lakes, navigating dense forests, the wastelands, in my most noble hunt. The nether looks so beautiful. Just having my gaze rest amidst its vastness and color; I see a writer scribbling an inkless pen. There's only death awaiting me in that beauty, no one wishes staying long here, no one wishes to read the writer's fury. It had been very of a time my venture. I had been going for so long, without hint of the fortress. I had been collecting the bone blocks, and the glowy blocks. They are the only yields of my hardships yet. I shouldn't be reckless. There's so plenty to fear. But I'm parkouring. And I fall. Not to worry, I was parkouring on top of the trees, the fall wasn't fatal. And that's the only good part. I fell on an enderman. He's angry. I think I made eye contact, perhaps even hit him once. It was accidental, totally. He doesn't listen. My genius goes into hiding. Usually, I would fight endermen with a shield. But no shield this time around, only totem. Even with all the enchanted armor and axe, I fail to kill him before he kills me once. The totem's gone. I get afraid, and my hands start trembling; happens all the time. I can barely grip the mouse. My anxiety needs a pill overdose. I do manage to kill him, but I'm quite devasted, emotionally. I would so wish I had brought obsidian with me. I just wanted to portal out. The nether fortress can find another finder. But I don't have the obsidian. Going back is a long way. I decide to keep going. What's that? A fortress? The sight is enthralling; did I finally win? I near the structure running exhilarated. Those don't look like nether bricks. No, they aren't nether bricks. And that is no fortress. It's a bastion. I know of the piglin brutes. It is said no amounts of gold can buy their fidelity. They are most hostile. They will attack you nevertheless. And I am ready to attack them first. I'm going to plunder this bastion. Any being who opposes will face death. The plunder may result a genocide, I don't much care. I am reckless, careless, but for this one instance, I decide to safeguard my obtained treasures. They're just bone blocks and glowy blocks, but they're of my procuring. I keep them in my ender chest, and begin with the invasion. There's a piglin brute, and there a piglins too. I can use my shield now, I ran out of totems. The brutes have axes, and yes, my shield can be disabled now. O notch, there's too many of them. A jester come to rescue! Mercy! Mercy! I'm running, fast and worried with only so little health left. It is MLG time. I decide to jump over to an other side separated by a rift. It is parkour again. This time, it is far worse. I have nothing to MLG with. There's a boat, but I'm not fast enough to use my inventory. There's nothing in my hotbar of help. No totems, nothing. I knew I was dead before I died. A realization, a most oblivious embracing of death. I knew I was going to die. I did not have the time to think about the death. I could only know. My feather falling boots can't be saviours either. The jump is too great. I hit the ground too hard. The only findings of my agony, bone blocks and glowy blocks. I will blow that bastion to smithereens.

Grand Theft Auto V is one of the most profitable entertainment franchises in the history of games. It came along as a return to form after what many fans would argue was a misstep with the more gritty and realistic GTA 4. Originally released back in 2013 for the Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3—yes, it spans three console generations—developer Rockstar has supported the game's online mode with continual updates adding new content, new areas, and even all-new mechanics.
GTA V was such a runaway success—and GTA The Trilogy: Definitive Edition was such a dumpster fire—that Rockstar gave up working on a Red Dead Redemption 2 DLC, and has now reportedly abandoned plans to remaster more of its beloved older titles to instead focus on both further GTA Online content as well as the development of GTA 6.
gtaonline fukaru
Naturally, expectations for GTA 6 are incredibly high, and given the advanced age of GTA V, fans are chomping at the bit for any bit of news. That's why there's so much buzz around a report at Bloomberg that focuses on Rockstar's new corporate culture. Company co-founder Dan Houser left Rockstar in 2020, and ever since then the development house has been trying to reshape a corporate culture that the report refers to as being "like a frat house".
Given the nature and tone of the humor in the Grand Theft Auto series, it's really not surprising to hear that the atmosphere inside Rockstar was juvenile and chauvinistic. The report remarks that the workplace culture at Rockstar was "full of drinking, brawling, and excursions to strip clubs." That may sound like a good time to some, but it's admittedly not very professional.
gta1 katie Katie from the OG Grand Theft Auto (1997) on PC (left) and Game Boy Color (right).
As part of the report, author Jason Schreier casually reveals that GTA 6 will have at least two playable protagonists, and that one of them will be a Latina woman. This technically isn't the first playable woman nor even the first playable Hispanic woman in the GTA series; the very first GTA game featured a Latina named "Katie" as one of its eight playable characters.
Still, very few of the series' modern fans even remember the old DOS-based Grand Theft Auto, so we can forgive everyone for forgetting about poor Katie. Regardless, the new girl will apparently be part of a Bonnie-and-Clyde-like crime duo, calling to mind the partnership between Claude and Catalina in the beginning of Grand Theft Auto III. Hopefully the partnership between the new player characters in GTA 6 doesn't end the same way that one did.
Comments1Comments Support Independent Tech Journalism, Become A Patron! Tags: Grand Theft Auto, Rockstar Games, GTA V, GTA, gta 6 exp-player-logo
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KOwen 29 July, 2022
Release the PC version at the same time as the consoles please!
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Grand Theft Auto V is one of the most profitable entertainment franchises in the history of games. It came along as a return to form after what many fans would argue was a misstep with the more gritty and realistic GTA 4. Originally released back in 2013 for the Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3—yes, it spans three console generations—developer Rockstar has supported the game's online mode with continual updates adding new content, new areas, and even all-new mechanics.
GTA V was such a runaway success—and GTA The Trilogy: Definitive Edition was such a dumpster fire—that Rockstar gave up working on a Red Dead Redemption 2 DLC, and has now reportedly abandoned plans to remaster more of its beloved older titles to instead focus on both further GTA Online content as well as the development of GTA 6.
gtaonline fukaru
Naturally, expectations for GTA 6 are incredibly high, and given the advanced age of GTA V, fans are chomping at the bit for any bit of news. That's why there's so much buzz around a report at Bloomberg that focuses on Rockstar's new corporate culture. Company co-founder Dan Houser left Rockstar in 2020, and ever since then the development house has been trying to reshape a corporate culture that the report refers to as being "like a frat house".
Given the nature and tone of the humor in the Grand Theft Auto series, it's really not surprising to hear that the atmosphere inside Rockstar was juvenile and chauvinistic. The report remarks that the workplace culture at Rockstar was "full of drinking, brawling, and excursions to strip clubs." That may sound like a good time to some, but it's admittedly not very professional.
gta1 katie Katie from the OG Grand Theft Auto (1997) on PC (left) and Game Boy Color (right).
As part of the report, author Jason Schreier casually reveals that GTA 6 will have at least two playable protagonists, and that one of them will be a Latina woman. This technically isn't the first playable woman nor even the first playable Hispanic woman in the GTA series; the very first GTA game featured a Latina named "Katie" as one of its eight playable characters.
Still, very few of the series' modern fans even remember the old DOS-based Grand Theft Auto, so we can forgive everyone for forgetting about poor Katie. Regardless, the new girl will apparently be part of a Bonnie-and-Clyde-like crime duo, calling to mind the partnership between Claude and Catalina in the beginning of Grand Theft Auto III. Hopefully the partnership between the new player characters in GTA 6 doesn't end the same way that one did.
Comments1Comments Support Independent Tech Journalism, Become A Patron! Tags: Grand Theft Auto, Rockstar Games, GTA V, GTA, gta 6 exp-player-logo
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KOwen 29 July, 2022
Release the PC version at the same time as the consoles please!
Reply
Share Powered by TermsPrivacyFeedback 85K 27K 39K TOP CONVERSATIONS YOUR NEXT PC PLATFORM? Intel 13th Gen AMD Ryzen 7000 Intel Meteor Lake Ryzen 7000X3D Submit More Results MORE HOT HEADLINES Grab This NVIDIA GeForce Hotfix To Stop... WB Delays Hogwarts Legacy Launch On PS4... Intel Panther Lake Gets Ready To Roar... What The Fungi? Scientists Create A... US Antitrust Boss Compares Big Tech To... Lonestar's Mission To Build Data Centers... AMD's Last Of Us Game Bundle Deal Drives... KEEP INFORMED My Topics Follow topics to stay updated with your favorite content

Grand Theft Auto V is one of the most profitable entertainment franchises in the history of games. It came along as a return to form after what many fans would argue was a misstep with the more gritty and realistic GTA 4. Originally released back in 2013 for the Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3—yes, it spans three console generations—developer Rockstar has supported the game's online mode with continual updates adding new content, new areas, and even all-new mechanics.
GTA V was such a runaway success—and GTA The Trilogy: Definitive Edition was such a dumpster fire—that Rockstar gave up working on a Red Dead Redemption 2 DLC, and has now reportedly abandoned plans to remaster more of its beloved older titles to instead focus on both further GTA Online content as well as the development of GTA 6.
gtaonline fukaru
Naturally, expectations for GTA 6 are incredibly high, and given the advanced age of GTA V, fans are chomping at the bit for any bit of news. That's why there's so much buzz around a report at Bloomberg that focuses on Rockstar's new corporate culture. Company co-founder Dan Houser left Rockstar in 2020, and ever since then the development house has been trying to reshape a corporate culture that the report refers to as being "like a frat house".
Given the nature and tone of the humor in the Grand Theft Auto series, it's really not surprising to hear that the atmosphere inside Rockstar was juvenile and chauvinistic. The report remarks that the workplace culture at Rockstar was "full of drinking, brawling, and excursions to strip clubs." That may sound like a good time to some, but it's admittedly not very professional.
gta1 katie Katie from the OG Grand Theft Auto (1997) on PC (left) and Game Boy Color (right).
As part of the report, author Jason Schreier casually reveals that GTA 6 will have at least two playable protagonists, and that one of them will be a Latina woman. This technically isn't the first playable woman nor even the first playable Hispanic woman in the GTA series; the very first GTA game featured a Latina named "Katie" as one of its eight playable characters.
Still, very few of the series' modern fans even remember the old DOS-based Grand Theft Auto, so we can forgive everyone for forgetting about poor Katie. Regardless, the new girl will apparently be part of a Bonnie-and-Clyde-like crime duo, calling to mind the partnership between Claude and Catalina in the beginning of Grand Theft Auto III. Hopefully the partnership between the new player characters in GTA 6 doesn't end the same way that one did.
Comments1Comments Support Independent Tech Journalism, Become A Patron! Tags: Grand Theft Auto, Rockstar Games, GTA V, GTA, gta 6 exp-player-logo
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KOwen 29 July, 2022
Release the PC version at the same time as the consoles please!
Reply
Share Powered by TermsPrivacyFeedback 85K 27K 39K TOP CONVERSATIONS YOUR NEXT PC PLATFORM? Intel 13th Gen AMD Ryzen 7000 Intel Meteor Lake Ryzen 7000X3D Submit More Results MORE HOT HEADLINES Grab This NVIDIA GeForce Hotfix To Stop... WB Delays Hogwarts Legacy Launch On PS4... Intel Panther Lake Gets Ready To Roar... What The Fungi? Scientists Create A... US Antitrust Boss Compares Big Tech To... Lonestar's Mission To Build Data Centers... AMD's Last Of Us Game Bundle Deal Drives... KEEP INFORMED My Topics Follow topics to stay updated with your favorite content

New Killer – The Strangler
Jameson Brown was a man who had always been content with his simple life. He grew up in a small town, where he was known as the quiet and unassuming son of a farmer. After finishing high school, Jameson decided to pursue a career in accounting, which he found to be a good fit for his personality. He married his high school sweetheart, Joanna, and they settled down in a cozy little house in the town where they both grew up. For years, Jameson led a quiet and unremarkable life. He went to work, came home to his wife, and spent his evenings watching TV or reading a book. But all that changed when he discovered that his wife was having an affair with his best friend, Travis. At first, Jameson was in denial. He couldn't believe that Joanna, the woman he had loved and trusted for years, would do something like that. But as he started to notice more and more signs of the affair, his anger began to build. One night, after coming home from work early, Jameson caught Joanna and Travis in the act. He was consumed with rage and betrayed by the two people he had trusted most in the world. In a fit of uncontrollable fury, Jameson strangled them both to death with his bare hands. The police arrived soon after and arrested Jameson. He was charged with two counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. But prison only served to fuel Jameson's anger and desire for revenge. He became obsessed with punishing those who had wronged him and started to develop a twisted pleasure in strangling his fellow inmates. He would wait until the lights went out and then sneak up on his victims, choking them until they were unconscious. Some he would let live, but others he would strangle until they died. One day, during a prison riot, Jameson managed to escape. He fled into the woods, where he stumbled upon an old abandoned cabin. Inside, he found a strange, ancient artifact - a necklace made of human bones. As soon as he put it on, he felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. He knew that he had been chosen by some dark force to be its instrument of death. Now, Jameson roamed the forests and small towns, searching for those who had wronged him or anyone who crossed his path. At first, Jameson's killing spree was random and sporadic. He would sneak into towns at night, find a victim, and strangle them to death. But as time went on, he became more organized and methodical. He started keeping a list of people he wanted to kill, plotting out his attacks with precision. The police were baffled by the string of murders that seemed to have no connection to each other. They had no idea that Jameson was behind them, and they had no way of stopping him. For years, Jameson continued his killing spree, always staying one step ahead of the law. But eventually, his luck ran out. He was caught by a group of vigilant townspeople who had banded together to hunt him down. Jameson was sentenced to death, but even as he sat on death row, he never showed any remorse for his actions. He remained convinced that he had been chosen by some dark force to be its instrument of death, and he went to his execution with a smile on his face.
Killer Power - Wrath of Bones
When activated, The Strangler can target a survivor within a certain range and drain their life force, slowing their movement speed and revealing their aura to The Strangler for a short period of time. The Strangler can use Wrath of Bones four times per match. Once activated, it takes 30 seconds for the power to recharge. When a survivor is affected by Wrath of Bones, they are consumed by fear and start to hallucinate, causing their vision to blur and distort. While the survivor is under the effect of Wrath of Bones, they cannot perform any actions, including repairing generators, healing themselves or other survivors, sabotaging hooks, or opening exit gates.
Perk 1: Vengeful Spirit The Strangler can sense the aura of survivors who are healing or sabotaging his hooks. Survivors within a 16-meter range of a hooked survivor are revealed to The Strangler for 3 seconds when they start healing or sabotaging a hook. This perk has a cooldown of 60 seconds.
Perk 2: Bone Collector For each survivor The Strangler hooks, he gains a token. Each token grants a bonus to The Strangler's action speed and movement speed, up to a maximum of 3 tokens. The bonus for each token is 4%. The Strangler loses all tokens if he is stunned. The bonus persists for the remainder of the trial.
Perk 3: Choking Grip Survivors who are hit by The Strangler suffer from the Mangled status effect. Additionally, while carrying a survivor, The Strangler can move at 90% of his normal speed. This perk has a cooldown of 60 seconds.
New Survivor - Camille Sjögren
Camille Sjögren is a Swedish journalist who became obsessed with The Strangler's case after she covered his trial for a local newspaper. She spent countless hours researching his crimes, interviewing his victims and their families, and trying to understand what drove him to kill. But the more she learned, the more she felt like she was losing herself in the darkness of The Strangler's mind. Finally, she decided to confront him, hoping that seeing him face-to-face would give her some closure. But The Strangler saw something in Camille that he had never seen in anyone else - a kind of hunger for the truth that matched his own. He spared her life, but warned her that she would never be able to escape the darkness that had consumed him.
Perk 1: Obsessive Pursuit Camille is relentless in her pursuit of The Strangler. When a killer is within a certain range, Camille gains a boost to her movement speed and her scratch marks disappear faster, allowing her to escape and avoid him more easily. This perk has a cooldown of 60 seconds.
Perk 2: Indomitable Will Camille's time spent researching The Strangler's case has given her a strong will to survive. When she is within a certain range of a hook that has a survivor on it, she gains a boost to her action speed, allowing her to unhook them faster. Additionally, if she is unhooked or rescued from a hook, she gains a temporary boost to her movement speed and recovers from the Exhausted status effect faster. This perk has a cooldown of 60 seconds.
Perk 3: Truth Seeker Camille's thirst for the truth drives her forward, no matter the danger. When she completes a generator, she gains a temporary boost to her movement speed and reveals the aura of the killer within a certain range. Additionally, if she is the last survivor remaining, she gains a boost to her action speed, allowing her to open exit gates faster. This perk has a cooldown of 60 seconds.
Killer Changes

• Reduced The Strangler’s Terror Radius from 32 Meters to 24 meters
• Reduced The Strangler's base momvement speed from 4.6 m/s to 4.4 m/s
• Increased The Strangler's movement speed to 5.2 m/s while Wrath of Bones is active (was 4.9 m/s)
• The Hillbilly's chainsaw now plays the Benny Hill theme song and has a confetti cannon attached to it
• The Clown's gas now makes survivors hallucinate and see themselves as clowns
• Nurse's Torn bookmark add on is now basekit
• The Nemesis now has a pair of sparkly earrings
• The Wraith now has a "Pacifist Mode" where he can't attack survivors and can only offer them hugs and emotional support
• The Plague's vomit now comes in different flavors, including blueberry, grape, and watermelon
• The Huntress' lullaby has been replaced with a kazoo cover of "Sweet Caroline" to make it less scary
• Adjusted The Nightmare’s Dream Snares to be more of a greenish color

Survivor Changes

• Survivors can now equip a "Naruto Run" animation to dodge killer attacks more effectively
• Survivors can now call in air support to drop care more chests with items
• Survivors can now use emotes to distract killers, including dabbing and twerking
• Survivors below five feet in height will now experience a permanent buff to stealth and will not yell when jumping off tall structures
• Removed Meg Thomas as a playable survivor
• Feng Min now has a tramp stamp

Item Changes

• Whenever Survivors equip a Flashlight of common rarity, there’s a 1% chance to experience a new mechanic called Meltdown. Meltdown involves the battery of the flashlight exploding, leaking battery acid everywhere and instantly killing the Survivor. Any other Survivors within a ten-foot radius are instantly blinded and lose a health state
• New Item, Jetpack. Survivors can now equip jetpacks to fly away from the killer

Map Changes

• Added Badham Preschool variants VI, VII, VIII
• Removed all corn from the Coldwind Farm realms
• Removed the Raccoon City realm

Gameplay Changes

• The game now features a "Time Travel" mode, where survivors can go back in time and prevent themselves from getting killed
• Increased Boons Radius to 69 meters (was 24 meters)
• Survivors can now enter a "Fortnite Building" mode to build structures and traps to protect themselves from the killer
• Added Breakable Windows

Bug Fixes

• Fixed an issue which caused The Strangler’s mori to last 3 seconds
• Fixed an issue where Claudette wouldn’t stop self-caring in the corners of the map
• Fixed an issue where Dwight didn't interact with lockers
• Attempted to fix an issue where The Cannibal starts the match in the basement if Insidious is in their loadout
• Fixed an issue where The Mastermind wouldn't stop repeating voicelines
• Fixed an issue where The Strangler would move at immense speed for the rest of the trial after being stunned during the cooldown of Wrath of Bones
• Fixed an issue where the shack had 2 windows available
• Fixed an issue where there was a chance to go against The Skull Merchant at the start of a trial, regardless of the selected killer
• Fixed an issue where The Cenobite was unable to come
• Fixed an issue where survivors didn't scream; instead, they will keep screaming endlessly for the whole trial

Kill Switched:

• Scourge Hook: Pain Resonance currently works on any hook without adding tokens
• Autodidact currently works with medkits

^{april fools}

Thanks all for reading! Sorry this chapter took longer than expected, but I didn't know where to stop, so this chapter is a little bit bigger than usual, I hope you all enjoy it!
Thanks to u/Frame_Late for my new profile picture, sadly the mods deleted the image from the main sub because they thought that it was a random image, but you can see it in his profile
Also, sorry for any mistakes, Im not an english speaker
And of course this is a fanfic from a story from u/SpacePaladin15, and the story is The Nature of Predator
Also, here is the whole NoP universe
(First) (Prev) (Next)
Memory transcription subject: Halai, ex-cattle prisoner N° 240524
Date [standardized human time]: November 13, 2136
As the demon ordered, I stood up and once again began pushing myself up the tube, and same as before, once I was probably halfway in there, every wall around me began pushing me upwards
Soon I felt how I entered his mouth once again, but unlike last time where I stopped there, I now passed through the terrifying saw-like teeth to get to the exterior
Cold
It was very cold, very different from the inside of the demon. Now I was cold and somewhat wet from the saliva of the demon, fortunately I heard the cracking of fire and I felt his warmth
But now, I was scared, not of dying of hypothermia, but from what was behind me
Something pushed himself around me, for some moments I thought that the demon had pounced me, but fortunately it seemed that it was only a blanket of some kind
"Well, I think you are dry" The demon said removing the blanket, then another blanket surrounded me, but unlike the one before that was white with dark spots, this one was silvery "That's a thermal blanket, it will keep you warm"
After that I heard footsteps from behind me, they were heavier than any creature that I had heard… Well, considering that he could eat me whole and without problem that would mean that he was huge
I fearfully closed my eyes as I heard the demon pass beside me. Then it sat down probably in front of me besides the fire
'Growl'
My muscles tense at the noise, my mind accelerates and my body began to pump even more fear chemicals through my veins
Fortunately, it wasn't the growl of the demon, but my own stomach
"Oh yeah, you will be hungry, tell me, you eat plants, like, any kind?" The demon asks such a stupid question, of course I can! Normal people eat plants
"Y-Yes"
"Well, the only thing here is either frozen grass or leaves from the trees. If you can't eat those, I can create some pastes"
"L-leaves?" I ask mentally kicking myself, after all, I just asked a preda-
"Okay, wait a moment" Eh?
I can hear the demon standing up and then giving some steps. Then I heard the crack of branches being torn apart
"Here, take" The demon said
Without much else to do I opened my eyes slowly while looking at the ground, I could then see the sharp claws of the demon under a white cloth of some kind
I wanted to scream and run, but unlike before where the walls were visible, now they were invisible
Without fur or a warmth source I would die in minutes, so I had to bite my own tongue if I wanted to live
I looked a bit higher finding a whole branch being offered by sharp metal claws
My paws slowly grabbed the branch hoping not to trigger the instincts of the demon, then after his claws were free he grabbed another branch and sat down relatively far away from the fire
I didn't dare to look at his eyes, last time I looked at a predator's eyes I almost lost mine. Apparently that was supposed to be a defining gesture and the gray that I had looked at didn't like it. The only reason that I survived was because the demon feasted on someone else's corpse recently
The noise of branches being broken caught my attention. Not having a death wish I began eating slowly my own leaves
They were decently, especially after eating that tasteless kibble that the grays gave us for so long
Still curiosity got the better of me, and discreetly I stole a small glance at the demon in front of me
And to be honest, it wasn't what I expected
If my blurry memories served me well, the demon was supposed to be black as the night with red glowing eyes
But now? He was dressed in some kind of white clothes with a white mask that looked like a skull. I guess it made sense, after all, a black mass in a white forest stood out
But what caught my attention was what he was doing
Confused, I looked at him. He was bigger than even the gray that was about to eat me not so long ago. But the interesting part was what was eating
Despite being a predator, he was eating the branch. Not only the leaves, but the whole branch, wood included, and it was doing it with those sharp teeth designed to eat meat with surprisingly ease
But something else that I noticed was that it was a machine
A predatory machine
The nightmare only found in movies that didn't wanted to use the grays as antagonist, or direct antagonists was now sitting just before me
The thing ate in relative silence being the noise of the branches breaking under the power of those jaws,
the only noise
"You aren't eating" It said once again without moving his mouth "You can't eat it?" It asked turning his head to a side "Oh, wait, I didn't saw the tag" The thing stood up once again and began walking towards me
I froze as he passed me to be in my back, during that moment a sharp-flat tail passed by me at eye level
"Let me just…" The thing spoke softly behind my ear. I just stood there waiting for the blow
Clink
A metallic noise broke through the silence and with my side vision I could see the tag of my prisoner number that was connected to my ear through a metallic ring was now gone
The familiar weigh of my ear was now gone
"This is yours, you can toss it if you want" It said, giving me the tag in my paw "... So… Can you eat that or..?" It spoke softly, he then sighed and sat down "You should really eat"
I couldn't respond, I was frozen in fear by just looking at him
The thing eyed me through the tinted dark glasses that his mask had. But after some moments where we both looked at each other, he sighed once again before standing up
"Eat, if you didn't finish that once I return, I will be mad" The voice wasn't no longer trying to be gentle, but now it released his true form
Fortunately it left walking to the frozen forest and soon enough I lost complete visual of him, and to be honest, I didn't know if it was more terrifying to see the monster than not seeing it but knowing it was close
​
​
Memory transcription subject: Leon, UN "Jackal" special forces
Date [standardized human time]: November 13, 2136
​
​
After I left Halai behind, I dropped to the ground mentally exhausted
"What even am I doing?" I asked to no one
My mind wanted just to go to sleep, but I knew I couldn't. I had to watch out for Halai, even though he's terrified of me…And I thought that the camouflage clothes would help… Well in that case I don't this much clothes to cover me
I took off the hood that covered the back of my head and my antennas. Now I had a new camera available, I also let my colorful antennas to the exterior, and finally the fox tail that I had hooked under the camera so it didn't stood in the way, was now once again free
I began eating the branch that I took from the tree. It's leaves looked very similar to the pine trees that were in earth, but they were different, I couldn't pinpoint what, but it was
The reason that I was eating not only the leaves, but the wood too was because it gave me some biomass fuel, not nearly half as much as meat would, but it would be enough as long as I didn't do much moving or doing stuff in general
But now with the problem where I have an alien who's life dependeds of me, and at the same time, it's completely terrified of me…
I could try getting his trust… But how? Hmmm, well for starters I should patch the wound on the back of his head, the poor bastard had a very deep and nasty wound
I didn't do it before because I was scared that he wouldn't trust me, and I didn't want to sedate him
Well, he has no other choice, either he trusts me with that nasty wound, or he's getting into forced coma with sedatives
I could definitely keep him in my medbay unconscious while I feed him through his veins or with a tube going directly to his stomach
But that was something that I didn't want to do… But if it was something that I had to, then so be it
…
Now, it's going to be 3 months in this frozen hell hole, 3 months that I have to take care of him… Why did I even brought him with me anyway? Wasn't his species going to be rescued soon anyway?
…
Bah, what's done is done. Now I have to make sure he doesn't die
Food it's easy, if he's able to eat leaves then that's covered, if not, I will have to feed him through tubes from my medbay… Still, don't know if I have that much supply anyway
Then the next problem is water… We are surrounded by fucking snow, well, I will have to melt it, it's bad to eat a lot of raw snow if I remember well
Hmmm, my torch still has some ammo, so for now fire isn't a problem… The problem would be 'Where?' Where could I melt it?
I don't have a canteen nor somewhere to boil things… Yeah, he will have to get it through me, but how?
Hmm…
Well, my saliva is basically lube, it's something that can be eaten, and because it's a majority of water, he could get water from it… But I won't be spitting in his mouth anytime soon… So that's a last resort
Oh! I have 2 systems to refrigerate my internal components, the first one is the standard one, and the second one is the liquid one
I use a special liquid through a system of tubes through my whole body in case that I can't use air to cool myself down, for example this would be used in space where there isn't air, or in dust storms where sand gets everywhere. And as a bonus, it practically renders the federation flamethrowers as nothing more than 'bright smoke'
The liquid obviously isn't drinkable, but I don't think that I would be using this system anytime soon, so a good option is to replace the cooling liquid with snow, then use the little heat that I have to melt it down
Fortunately because this wasn't supposed to be used like that, the entry and exit point of the liquid was my tail, so every time Halai needs to drink, he won't need to enter my medbay, unfortunately because it isn't supposed to work like that, fill it with snow will be a pain in the ass
Also, because it's water, I will have to keep the system 'on' constantly so it doesn't becomes ice
Oh, I finished eating, well, let's check how Halai is doing
After walking the way back, I could see him eating the leaves of the branch that I gave him, but I could see and hear him sob uncontrollably, silent sobs that I could hear clear as day
He also looked all around constantly in every bite
That might be my fault, after all, I've just recently threatened him with me 'getting mad'. Obviously I wouldn't be, I've just used that so he ate. But I didn't took on account that despite how adorable he looks, he isn't a child, and I'm a Jackal
God dammit, well… I will wait a little so he finishes. In the meantime I will check what I have on me
>Clothes
>Arm bandages
>Survival kit
>Tracker
>Twin plasma pistols
>Repair kit
>1 Jackal MRE
>Four extra plasma cells
>Shoulder armor
Hmmm, well, I've got something at least…
The Jackal MRE it's something that only jackals can eat, that's because of the high amount of stuff that's in there, some of them are even poisons, but thanks to my robotic body I'm able to eat it without problems. And yes, it tastes like shit. I thought that there wasn't any worse food than the one the school gave us in 4th grade. But whoever created this piece of shit had done it
Congratulations asshole
Now, my survival kit has a manual flashlight, pen and notebook, watch, compass, Whistler, knife and a long rope
Meanwhile my repair kit has my torch and a few tools. Something very simple but that can help me do some emergency repairs. Okay, now how do I deal with putting water in my tail?
…
Oh, I've got an idea!
I open my med bay and with the knife I take a plastic tube that’s used in case I need to exchange the ones that I have equipped
With a small and quick bite I cut a small part, then I placed it in the relatively small hole from where the liquid is inserted. Fits like a glove. Obviously I wouldn’t be able to put much snow through that tube, but it will help Halai to drink like it was a bottle
Now, I take another tube part and this time bigger, this time with some heat and my hands I would expand the tube until it becomes a cone where I can stuff more snow more easily
Sadly the fire is with Halai and I don’t want to use my torch, so without much else to do, I grab my things and I walk towards him
He immediately after noticing me begins eating faster than before
“Relax, I won’t do anything” I say walking past him
I sat down by the fire and I immediately began heating the tube and with my claws i began expanding it slowly so it doesn't break, from time to time I stop this process so my claws don’t stuck with the hot plastic
Once I finish I get something that resembles an cone, it’s very crude, but it will help
“Come” I say to Halai who has been looking at me the whole time unblinking “I said come” I order while extending my clawed hand to him
As much as I don’t want to be like this, talking like my drill sergeant is the only thing that can take him out of his trance
Shaking from fear he stands up and slowly walks to me
"I won't do any harm, I'm going to check that wound"
Halai hesitates, but after some moments he finally grabs my clawed hand. As gentle as I can, I close my hand while I pull Halai towards me
Eventually he's right in front of me, even though I'm sitting, I still tower over him a little, still, I don't want to have him standing all the time, so I retract my legs until I'm sitting with my left leg over the right one
"Sit down" I say, he's in the space in between my legs, so I wait until he sits in on-
"Sit on my leg" I say as I see Halai began sitting on the cold ground, he once again hesitates, but eventually he sits "Turn around" I say
Once Halai turned I began evaluating the wound
And for 'evaluating' I mean let one of the AI do all the work
The wound is closed thanks to a thin string, but whoever did it, did an awful… Well, he was supposed to become a snack, so as long as he didn't bleed at the moment would work
Obviously I wasn't planning on eating him too… Well, in a lethal way at least. So to prevent any infection nor any more bleeding I would have to cut the string and sew back
Without much else to do, I grabbed Halai through the arms so he doesn't move with my lower arms
"W-Wha-"
"Don't move, I need to sew"
"S-sew?!"
"Your wound will infect with this awful sews" That seems to silence Halai, and because he isn't struggling I open my medbay. For something so simple I wouldn't have to get him fully inside, even though it's the best way to heal him
Halai's heart goes up quickly, but surprisingly he isn't resisting my grasp, so to end this quickly and not stress him more I began by the most important part of all, anesthesia
From my medbay several small arms that are connected to all kinds of medical equipment appear, and from one of them, the anesthesia one injects its contents in Halai's neck
…
Okay, let's do this