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annotatingandexplicating · 10 months

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Open a New Perspective

White flashes and the headset flies off their face. Judging by the harsh grip on their arms, Subject failed again. A quick pinch on their neck eases their racing heart as memories of the assessment fade away. After a moment they blink, eyes readjusting to the grey world around them before their balance returns.

Subject is sweating. The standard white uniform translucent on their shoulders as security removes them from the staging area. They scan the panel's expressions, trying to read their thoughts through the eyes, but their head is shoved down. Once again, forced to enter and exit the testing area with their own eyes on the ground, unable to track whoever is watching them. They know someone, or something, is. They feel the tingle of frost up their spine as they walk, creating unease in their stomach as they try to remain true to the number. Another number in the Vitruvian Project, and another attempt. Now on their fourth attempt, they have experienced the next steps before. The waiting game as their results are compared to previous attempts and other subjects. To see who is defective and who remains in the project, so they resist the desire to fight the guards. Maybe the difference between staying and disposal is compliance. After all, when they arrived Subject had rebelled and faced punishment.

Being placed in the white cell is never enjoyable, but necessary. The waiting room, where they learn how close they've come to the Vitruvian Man, and how much longer it may take. Subject pauses before stepping away from the guard only for the one to grip their arm tighter. It makes them flinch and they stare at the guard's hand quizzingly. Metal, a droid.

“You are aware of the routine, Subject 89,” its metallic voice bounces off the walls and Subject’s eardrums. A cacophony of metal meeting bone as even the counters shiver at the voice. They only nod before the droid closes the door behind them. They’re left alone.

They shake their head to relax and sit down. Clear their head, Subject needs to get the metallic boom out of their ears and decide on grabbing the notebook and pencil from the counter. Each subject gets one for their thoughts while waiting. For a moment they stare at the page, pinpointing the faint grey lines across the fragile stage before aiming the black pencil on the first tightrope. Words form, Subject tries to keep them balanced, going slow to stop them from falling to the side. One letter at a time. The tightrope wobbles, bouncing up and down as they write. Words are an attempt at being human. An attempt at understanding the city’s drive for human perfection. Subject tries writing it out, muttering the motto of the Project over and over again, “mens sana in corpore sano.”[1]

“Subject 89.”

Subject doesn’t finish the poem, jumping to a stand to greet the supervisor and clipboard. Different shades of grey cover the man before them. Behind the man a drone hovers, a blinking light tells Subject immediately that this meeting is being recorded. The drone’s signature cacophony fills the otherwise silent cell, giving Subject goosebumps on the back of their neck. It takes a moment to steady their hands as their core runs cold.

Danger, their instincts cry, the city is a cage of unchanging stillness.

“Your results are the closest you’ve come yet. But far from Vitruvian.” The supervisor doesn’t look up from the clipboard, flipping through pages slowly, cold and calculating black eyes reading the graphs and maps.

“Yessir,” is Subject’s reply. What else is there to say? resisting the urge to bounce their leg, they force themselves to be still like a programmed machine. Elaboration comes after acknowledgement. It’s protocol. Standard, what Subject seeks to be. And yet they catch themself popping knuckles, not still and out of standard.

"Your literacy, always littered with errors.” The supervisor glares at their hand until the popping stops, as if freezing their hand with a thick layer of frost through the look alone. “Low emotional responses, only reacting to grief, anger, and...” he clears his throat, skipping over the final response. “Yet your physicality is above average.”

“Yessir.”

Subject watches the grey supervisor and the greyscale world, wondering if the supervisor’s eyes truly are black, or if they simply cannot see the true shade. Their eyes fall across the grey uniform, noting the bleak shades mixing with the folds creating odd shadows that morph the supervisor’s shape and body. Are there bones under the uniform? Subject tries to picture the supervisor having a skeleton with vital organs and a beating heart. Subject tries to picture him as a human whose purpose doesn’t revolve around monitoring the Vitruvian Project. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's a cybernetic reconstruction, complete with metal for organs and an empty cavity below a robotic heart; or maybe he is alive right now.[2] Or perhaps, the cloth hides the bolts and sheets of metal that form his body. Does he have a registered name? Does he wander outside of the labs and experiment facility? Free to move around and live within the city’s limits, unlike Subject. Does that make Subject inhuman if the supervisor can participate in ways they cannot? They’re sure they’re human--

The drone’s buzzing grows louder to gain their attention, it knows. It always knows. Subject’s eyes shoot back up, only paying attention to the words just as the supervisor stops his report. His eyes narrow, as if preparing to rip Subject in half, pick apart their intestines and mind to determine what they were thinking about moments before. And for a moment, they’re certain of that fate. Disposal, defective. He tucks the clipboard under his arm and Subject is sure they grow pale; their face feels cold.

“Cleared for the next round, 89.” He steps closer, Subject now realizes he’s shorter than them by a few inches. “Return to your chamber for the night.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Security grabs them while they reply. The grips and restraints fasten tighter than normal and for a moment, Subject glances down at the ones around their wrists. They want to ask why everything is tight, why the drone continues to buzz in their face, why they are being handled like an animal. But they can’t, so they stay silent. Something must have happened in the assessment, turning them from machine to animal in the Project’s eyes, in the city’s eyes. [3] They’re pushed back into their sleeping chamber in the basement. A burning white room with a bed, a dresser with playing cards, and a small washroom. The small circular window close to the ceiling shows the city, bars distracting from the outside world and the curtain keeping Subject safe, or so they say.

Subject really needs to stop thinking like this. Sitting on their small bed and staring at their rough hands, running a finger over the bruises on their knuckles while repeating the Latin on their heavy tongue. But it doesn’t mean anything. The drone knew they were having those thoughts again, those thoughts that plague their mind. The drone sparked something in them, brought something back to life and replaced the steam that is supposed to power them with…unease. Absent-mindedly, they reach for the deck of cards on their dresser, shuffling slowly while they think. Until now they have failed their past assessments in the Vitruvian Project, but not to the extent where the usual numbness is replaced by unease and anticipation in their guts. It should be impossible. As they shuffle the cards, dread grows as they stare at the aces in their hand. Two have changed, impossible.

Subject can’t help but drop the cards, staring at the diamonds and hearts on the floor as they stare back up at them. They’re the colour of blood, forcing them to check for cuts. Nothing on their hands and yet the cards are bloody. Their mind circles the word to describe what they see: bright red. Without breaking eye contact with the cards, Subject tucks their legs onto the bed, lowering themself onto their stomach. One poke, the ace of diamonds stays the same, the blood doesn’t smear onto their finger. When they pick the cards up, the drone sound returns. Loud and eerie, drilling against their ear and paralyzing Subject’s nerves. They quickly slide the four aces into their pocket before forcing their face into the small white pillow, trying to drown out the blood colour with monochromatic dreams.[4] Forcing sleep might just push the thoughts away so the drones stop watching and knowing their failure to comply.

Their hand tires as they write, eyes become heavy as they try to keep the letters straight and even. Subject’s literacy is a weakness, it needs to be perfected for the project, so they write despite the lines refusing to stay still. They feel tired, feel it in their mind and fleshy limbs, but they can’t sleep. The cards haunt them, raising more questions they should not have. An image of a desert flashes behind their eyes: what comes from innocence or guilt? Who am I when I look in the mirror?[5]

Tapping on the barred window startles them. Subject jumps off the bathroom counter and grabs the only weapon they’re allowed, a coat hanger. They square their shoulders and take up a defensive stance they use in training and assessments. Appear confident, take what happens in stride, laugh it off. “Stand up straight, stand fucking straight,” Subject says to themself.[6]

Perhaps this is a surprise assessment, one where their reflexes and quick-thinking are tested. As Subject inches closer, they see the lit end of a cigarette, and behind it, a shadowy figure crouching on the other side of the window and Subject can’t help but shudder. The feeling of eyes and cameras crawls up their spine.

The shadow leans towards the window and Subject expects to be grabbed. They prepare for glass smashed into their face if the figure attacks. What Subject doesn’t expect is for the other person to lower onto their stomach, pointing to the latch. Now they see the figure better: two-toned hair and bright sparkling eyes, a round face that smiles as they get closer, androgynous, and warm tawny skin with freckles. Despite the black and white hiding the rest of the appearance, Subject can tell they aren’t from the city. They gesture to the latch again and this time Subject opens the window, separated by nothing but bars.

“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you,” the figure says in a hushed voice. But the relief is prominent. For a moment their hand hovers closer to Subject’s face before they recoil, as if unsure what to do. “You got no idea how long it’s been…”

Confusion courses through Subject’s veins as they tilt their head, their expression doesn't change despite the growing tension inside them. This person, this face, is familiar. “Do I know you?”

“I…I hope you do…” the stranger pauses as hurt flashes across their face for a moment. “You’re…y’know what? Not important right now.”[7] The person finally holds a hand through the bars, “Foxglove, it’s good to see you.”

A beat. Then, Subject takes their hand and shakes it once. The hand is warm and rough, they can feel rough bumps on the fingertips. “Subject 89.”

Foxglove's eyes widen and their cheeks darken at Subject’s response. “I mean…yeah, but what do you go by now?”

“Subject 89.”

“That’s it?” A pause as Foxglove’s hand moves to Subject’s cheek, “The hell did they do to you?”

A drone's eerie screech makes both stiffen. Foxglove recoils their hand and pulls a black hood over their hair. Foxglove stands, “Wait there.”

When they disappear, Subject leans against the window, trying to see and hear the city and life beyond the facility. They can’t remember the last time they were outside, can’t remember the last time they saw the sun or someone other than a supervisor or drone. A feeling crawls up their spine, resting in between their vertebrae among the spinal discs and leaving them wishing for Foxglove to return. Suddenly aware of how alone they are inside this chamber. A nagging feeling emerges from the loneliness in Subject’s mind, flashes of a wide landscape take over their mind. Colourful wildflowers and sandy scapes mix with the sky despite the grainy image, as if looking at an ancient photograph, a time buried within the mind that should be long-gone. Subject doesn’t know where these images come from.

Buzzing behind the chamber door causes them to whip around, anxiety pumping through their veins faster than a bullet shell. The handle turns white, and they still move forward, shoulders hunched as they watch the heat diffuse throughout the room. Stabs of anxiety send the worst thoughts into a spiral, a twister threatening to derail the serenity they just had. They lean against the wall to balance as the pangs of fear worsen. Is this a drone figuring out they’re breaching protocol? When two-toned hair and familiar eyes meet Subject’s own, their vision relaxes. Still physically on edge, ready to fight, but they can see once again.

Foxglove says nothing, stepping into the white room and looking around for a moment. They pick up Subject’s notebook on the bed, only scanning a few words before closing it. “We should go during the quiet period, you don’t need anything. It’ll only keep your mind here.”

Subject pauses, they hold the aces out to Foxglove before sliding them into their pocket, “can you see the red?”

“Of course, I can…y’know, if you want somethin’ to draw in, I have stuff in my car.” Foxglove sits on the bed, gently tugging Subject to sit next to them. Leather jacket and ripped pants against the pale itchy sheets, clunky boots compared to the organization of the whole room. But most notable, is the bionic accessory on their hand, glittering under the harsh light. Subject holds it up, trying to get a better look, observing how it rests in the skin, mimicking the skeleton through jewelry. Foxglove pauses and smiles.[8] “You had one too, I still have it. It matched your hair; do you remember that?”

As they stare at their hands, they notice the faint scar, like a closed-up piercing on the outside of their hand. “Vaguely…you say you know me?”

“I knew you; you can be whoever you wanna. More than the Project if you wanna. Hell, more than you used to be. I'll explain later.” A beat passes as Foxglove stands once again, peering outside the door for a moment, their posture stiffens and head lowers. Steadily holding the pierced hand out to Subject, they whisper, “each meridian is perpendicular to all circles of latitude…what happens to the body in these cities and who are you in these cities?”[9]

Who are they in the city? Not Vitruvian, their results prove that. Four attempts and never enough to be perfectly human. But the scar on their hand, the bloody aces, and the lack of memory leaves them unable to answer. Questions of who they are rise, along with the realization that Subject doesn’t know themself intimately. When they look at Foxglove’s face again, they see blue eyes. The room freezes, time becomes nothing as those icy eyes mix with flashes of wildflowers and landscapes.

They don’t hesitate any longer, grasping Foxglove’s hand. Subject’s grip tightens for a moment, feeling the blood in their veins. Back to themself. Back into whoever they may have been before Subject, or maybe someone else. Even if just for a moment, they’re real. Not the perfect human, certainly not Vitruvian, something more than that.

“I want to be who I am and was and want to be,” they mutter as they both move.[10] Foxglove guides them through the hallway, picking up a jog between shadows, pulling fire alarms before leaving the basement. Ducking away from supervisors and drones and into back alleys, eyes up and watching for cameras. The two get further away from the white walls and towards the smell of the outside. Cool air stings their lungs as they run, threatening to overload their mind with new sights and sounds and sensations. The sound and crisp feelings of the world outside the Vitruvian Project. Night paints Subject with darkness as they reunite with the indigo sky, the world continuing to change around them as the questions continue. Why were they in the Project? What was the goal? Why only be human?

It’s a tumultuous spread of uncanny emotions. Each pause makes their heart lurch between excitement and terror, seeing stars and planets, city lights and the muffled drone screech. Each surge forward sends their heartbeat to the sky, echoing in their ears as they fear this is merely a hallucination. Maybe Foxglove isn’t real, maybe this is another simulation and assessment; attempt number five. Yet, Subject doesn’t dwell on it, too focused on the music of their footfalls and short breaths. They pause at a red car in a dark parking lot, neurons and metabolism kicking into overdrive as Subject starts shaking. They start tingling, drowning out the numbness that left them at the hands of the Project for years. Red against the black and white world shouts at their eyes, and their gaze falls to the bent cards in their pocket to compare. It is red. Red like the heart and diamond in their pocket, their hands lightly gripping Foxglove’s small hand to ground themself. It’s real. This is real, they feel the grip on their hand and the bionic accessory, see the colour of blood on the car and know. As confused as Subject is, they continue into the car, sinking into the passenger’s seat with hints of a smile on their face. Being alive in this moment, its rawness and alertness to the world, feeling how their feet move freely, feeling the clashing of sorrow yet joy in their chest at being here. Escaping the feeling of death in their limbs and hearing their heartbeat grow louder.

Even as Foxglove speeds away from the sound of drones and alarms, Subject doesn’t watch the city fading behind them, focusing instead on the road in front. The desert: the untamed and unknown part outside the city, the uncivilized, rural, and wild as their supervisors warned. Unlike the structures of the city, the desert’s unpredictability and constant changing state is dangerous, or so they say.[11] Anxious, they glance at Foxglove, trying to understand why they’re taking Subject away from the city. But they’re left with only a vague idea as Foxglove sings along with a song on the radio, ignoring the drones from the city.

“Why the desert? Isn’t it dangerous?” Subject finally asks.

“’S only dangerous if you let it become that,” Foxglove winks and jerks the car suddenly, “You gotta change with it, can’t stay the same. You’ll remember how to do that once you’re back.”[13]

They recall their instincts from earlier and they glance down at the cards again, the colour doesn’t bring panic compared to the first time. When they finally look in the mirror, they notice the teal glow of the city. Teals and reds mix in their mind, blending into vivid images of flowers and landscapes as colour returns to the world around them. They’ve seen colour before, uncertain where, but they have. “So, I was out there before?”

“Yeah…you’re allowed to speak and not know things, it’s fine. You want your old name or do you wanna change it?”

Silence fills the car. Any name they had before Subject 89 doesn’t surface. Any name feels odd. Having a name before their number feels odd and out of place, like remnants of a lost soul. They’re not the same as whoever they were before the Project, too many failed assessments and reassessments have changed their perception of themself and now their escape and perception is changing right before their eyes. Now they see Foxglove’s hand accessory has a gold metallic shine to it with the winking hints of dawn, and intricate engravings within each metal bone.

“Can I pick a new name?”

There’s a grin from Foxglove, “Hell yeah, what you want it to be?”

By reflex they reach for the cards again, squinting and holding the aces up to the window, fixating on the red once more despite it already burning into their memory. Their eyes move between the cards, silently rolling each one over their tongue, undoing the bandages to uncover wounds, along with uncovering bits and pieces of what feels right. It’s all based on emotional responses, something the assessments claim they are poor with. But there is a spark of joy when one card seems to nest in their soul and mind, fusing with their body to add to their sense of self.

“Diamond.”

When they look up again, they not only see Foxglove’s grin, but their whole face and body in colour. A blue jacket to match their blue eyes and two-toned hair, with a purple shirt underneath. They throw their head back and cheer for a moment, “Welcome, Diamond, to the desert.”

The teal glow that housed Diamond becomes a part of the sky as they watch the road turn from gravel to dirt to beaten sand. Wildflowers catch their eye, illuminated by the headlights for just a moment. Yellow. Yellow flowers on the side of the road watch the two fly by. More and more flowers and glowing eyes pass, each with their own colours and lights.

Looking up at the landscape brings tears to their eyes. The same images that flashed before their eyes lay in front of them. The large landscape is entirely in colour, the night sky is made up of washes of colour and stars. They fill the senses, wrapping Diamond in distant memories tugging at their mind, trying to come to the surface. Instinct tells them everything will come with time and change, stay becoming and Diamond will resurface. Be who they were and are and will be, and Diamond will continue to be themself.

[1] Latin from Rosi Braidotti’s The Posthuman (13)

[2] Inspired by Kaye Mitchell’s “Bodies that Matter: Science Fiction, Technoculture, and the Gendered Body.”

[3] Inspired by “becoming-animal” in Braidotti’s The Posthuman (Page)

[4] Inspired by "The Drone Operator" in Oana Avasilichioaei's Eight Track, page 70.

[5] These questions are a tribute to Dionne Brand’s “Nomenclature for the Time Being” pages 4 and 44.

[6] Dialogue from Dionne Brand’s “Nomenclature for the Time Being” page 13.

[7] This lack of answering references the constant question of identity in Dionne Brand’s “Nomenclature for the Time Being”

[8] Inspired by Rosi Braidotti’s idea of “becoming-machine” and body modification in The Posthuman.

[9] Lines from Dionne Brand’s “Nomenclature for the Time Being” page 60.

[10] Line from Dionne Brand’s “Nomenclature for the Time Being” page 44.

[11] Inspired by Rosi Braidotti’s deconstruction of urbane and civilized structures in The Posthuman, page 55.

[13] Inspired by Rosi Braidotti’s ideas of becoming in The Posthuman and Deluze’s theory of becoming.

#original writing #My writing #speculative fiction #posthuman speculative fiction

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rockinroleplay · 10 months

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rpgadverts · 10 months

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RETRO ROCKET SCI-FI | PUBLIC/PRIVATE | FOR BUSY ADULTS

AT KALEIDOSCOPE WORLD, indulge in a truly genre-tastic environment where you’re free to explore, narrate, and reappreciate daily life on our absolutely thrilling wonder planet, Earth.

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jolienjoyswriting · 11 months

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The Maiden in the Mist (ft. Riku (the-minuscule-task), Ch. IV

Chapter 4 of 4 for "The Maiden in the Mist," a fan fiction story.

In the morning after a peaceful slumber, the ryū and kitsune discuss the future of their newfound relationship.

Word count: 2,620 – Character count: 15,228 Drafted: April 5th, 2023 Revised: April 6th, 2023 –

“Everybody wants a big dragon wife. uwu” – the-miniscule-task

The more I wrote in this story, the more I found myself in full agreement with these words. I… haven't fallen for a character so hard since jayrnski's Maple. I guess… that's just my preference; I really like sweet, cute, innocent girls. And, honestly? While I'm not sure who's sweeter or more innocent between Riku and Maple, I do know that when I wrote this story… I was completely head-over-heels for the big, cuddly ryuusei waifu~ (Yes, I'm still aware that means "shooting star", not "nature dragon" or something.)

Riku and related characters and concepts created by and © the-minuscule-task Joseph Lithius and related characters and concepts created by and © Jo Li

[ ← Prev. Chapter | Next Chapter → ]

"Mm… Mmmmm…"

My body moved and I felt short of breath. Consciousness was coming back to me, slowly but surely. My eyes fluttered a little… then they focused on something… green. I tried to talk, but my mouth wouldn't cooperate. I squirmed a little and found that I couldn't move very much. Eventually, I started to realize… I was bound on the spot and my mouth – or rather, my lips – were being used. By the time I'd fully understood what was going on, all the things locking me in place were released all at once.

"Yozefu-san!" I blinked several times in a row. A familiar, green set of eyes was looking at me. "Yozefuuu…" And they were wet…

"Oh… H-hey, Riku," I whispered as I stretched. "What's up?" Riku, the lizard… dragon… uh… the cute thing from the hot spring was leaning on her arm next to me. She looked ecstatic, beaming at me and half-crying. As I looked around, I noticed that… we were still in that room at the hot spring. That kind of made sense. "I fell asleep…" I commented, sitting up. "What time is it?" I looked around for my phone… only for Riku to turn my head back her way. She leaned in and offered a hard smooch before drawing back. It was enough to get me blushing… "W-well," I said with a nervous smile, "someone's affectionate this… morning?" I looked toward the nearby window. Yep. It was morning… "God… I don't know how people in Oedo did it…" I said, popping some joints as I stretched more. "These straw mats are brutal on the back…" I sighed, then I smiled. "So?" I asked, gesturing to her. "What's up?" Riku looked like she was bursting at the seams to tell me something. I'm pretty sure she'd been waiting for me to stop talking and pay attention… I felt a little bad about that.

"Yū sutēitto uisu mī!" she said with the usual amount of Engrish. "Sankku yū…" She gently stroked my cheek and looked at me with enough warmth to melt even the coldest of winters… "Ai rāvvu yū, Yozefu…" My brain hadn't quite caught up to what she was trying to tell me. Something about staying with her? As she leaned in and gave me another kiss, though, my brain finally translated her words. And… I pulled away. "Riku…?" I stared, wide-eyed and red-faced. "W-wait… What do you–" I paused, then I grabbed my phone. "What do you mean you love me?" I had it ask in Japanese. "Mm!" Riku reached over… and drew a little heart over my heart. "Rāvvu!" she exclaimed, beaming with pride. Oh, crap…

"Riku!" I cried. "Hold the phone– I mean put on the breaks– ah… Chottomatte!" "Eeehh?" The girl flinched, looking like I'd just struck her. "Yozefu-san…?" She smiled again… but tears were starting to build in her eyes. "Rikaidekinai… A-anata mo watashi o aishite i… iru to omoimashita ka? Otagai-sukinara… d-dō shita no?" I didn't know what she was saying. I never did. But I didn't need to. She was huffing and trying desperately to keep from breaking into loud sobs. I hated making her cry… "No…" I whispered, reaching up and stroking her cheek. "I…" She closed her eyes, immediately calming as she leaned into my hand. God… how could I deny such a warm, sweet, sensitive girl like her…?

"Marry me."

Riku's eyes slowly opened and she looked at me like a confused child might. She was still leaning into my hand and her tears had calmed, but something was still wrong. When my phone translated those two words into Japanese for her… she didn't seem to process them. Then, without warning… "Eh? Eeehh…? Eeeeehhh…?!" She whipped back and looked at me like I'd gone insane!

Okay, so… I don't exactly know how to transcribe what she said at that point… It was… a lot of syllables. I'm sure there were some whole words in there, too. I'm just not entirely sure she was saying anything coherent. She was in a full-blown panic! Apparently… I'd… misunderstood her. Like… severely. And the worst part? I'd only "proposed" to her as a joke…

"Riku! Riku, calm down–" "Chottomatte, Yozefu! Watashi wa anata–" "I didn't mean– I was only–" "Kekkon shitakunai!! Wa-wa-watashitachiha otagai–" "I-I'm sorry!! I'm sorry… I…" Riku was going to say something else, I'm sure. When she saw me break down crying, though… "Yozefu-san…?" She snapped out of her panic… and went into full "comfort mode".

I sniffled and shivered as she pulled me into her arms, rocking me and singing some Japanese… lullaby, maybe? Whatever it was, it was the sweetest thing I'd heard in a long time… and it helped me stop panicking. Heh. I guess she just had that effect on me. And I clearly had that effect on her…

"Rāvvu…"

Once we were both pretty sure I was calm, I leaned back and looked at her. She spoke again, but in a softer voice than normal.

"Rāvvu…" she almost whispered, holding up her hands in a heart shape. "L… love…" I answered, returning the gesture. "Dokidoki…" she continued, moving her hands forward and back like a heartbeat. "Bump-bump…" I replied, doing the same. "Suriru…" "Um… 'thrill'?" I wasn't sure about that one. She nodded. Then, she brought a hand up and gently poked in the middle of where my curled hands rested. "Rāvvu yū, Yozefu…" "I… I love you, too?" I was starting to get confused, again. What was she getting at…? The dragon girl held a finger up. She said a bunch of stuff into her phone. Then, I listened as it played back in English…

"There are many kinds of love in this world. Conjugal love. I love dogs and flying discs. Love between friends. Joseph, I love you as a friend. You have come very close to me in a very short time and in a very meaningful way. I hope we can get married someday. Until then, I want to share love like the one we shared. Cuddle. I hate tea. Say you will remain my friend."

We both sort of… looked at each other. Then, we looked at the phone. Mostly in confusion. Even though Riku's knowledge of English was about as limited as my knowledge of Japanese, she was pretty sure that a lot of what she said got lost in that translation. Instead of trying again, though, she just sighed and tried something different.

"Rāvvu yū, Yozefu," she repeated. "Kawaii kitsune furīenddo! Etooo…" She paused, looking down as she desperately tried to "convert" words in her head. "Hāguzu!" she chirped. "Kishizu! Dakishimeru…" She gestured to me as she spoke. First, she wrapped her arms around the air, squeezing. Then, she brought a hand up and blew a kiss. Lastly, she laid down and seemingly nuzzled the straw mat, scooting closer to some… thing? I didn't get it, at first… But, then… "Riku…?" She sat back up. When she saw me smile, she smiled, too.

"'Love'… 'friend'?" I asked. She nodded, so I then asked, "You love me as a friend?" Yes. I know. The phone had said that clearly. Still… I wanted to confirm it. She sort of understood what I was saying. There was a look of confusion, followed by a bright smile… followed by another confused look, and an "Etooo…" "Riku." She perked. When I leaned in and kissed her nose… she giggled, then she pulled me into a hug. Okay, I think we were on the same page, finally…

"So, I guess sex is off the table for now?" I made sure my translator was off before I made my dumb joke. However… "Dainamaitto Sekkushī, ban-ban." I had to stifle a swear. She'd whispered to me, then she very gently kissed the base of my ear. She was teasing me! Luckily for us both, she stopped almost immediately and giggled.

"Hey, uh…" I turned my translator back on and asked, "Please don't be upset, but when I asked you to marry me, I was only kidding." "Mm…" She softly nodded, giving me a thumbs-up and a wink. "Nō purobaremu!" She brightly smiled at me. What a relief… "Also…" I paused before asking, "Did you understand the last thing I said?" "What you said when I replied, 'Dynamite sexy, bang-bang'?" she answered through her own translator. I nodded. "Yeah." "I heard…" she began, her translation app skipping the word "sekkusu" for some reason, "but I didn't understand. Was it important?" I paused… "Can I ask you something personal?" She blushed, but she nodded. "Why did you offer your body to me at the hot spring?" I'm… not sure my translator did its job correctly. Riku tilted her head as if processing what it said that I said. After a few seconds, she talked into her phone and it translated. "What does 'offering my body' mean?" "You… seemed like you wanted to have sex after you checked to see if I was okay. But, you seemed apprehensive, too… Were you just being nice?" The girl deeply blushed before the second thought got translated. Apparently, the translation had worked that time. "Etooo…" She bit her lower lip. "You don't have to tell–" My translator tried to process that as she cut me off. "I wanted to have sex," her translator told me as she uncomfortably shrank, "but I was scared. We were strangers, but you seemed nice. If you had tried… I would have let you…" I felt a little tense. There was a question I wanted to ask… but I wasn't sure I should. "Did you want to have sex right now?" I blushed as she suddenly asked the question for me, instead. Well… not verbatim. Her translator didn't relay the inflections, stammers, squeaks, or pauses very well. Regardless, it still made me blush and fold my ears. "Did you want to have sex?" I asked through my translator. She shivered, blushing and looking… uncomfortable. She whispered something that translated to: "U-um… if– if you want me to?" Yep. That was all I needed to make a decision.

"E-eto– ch-chottomatte…! Ah– mm…"

I scooted over and knelt beside the girl, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and hugging her. As I nuzzled her cheek, she changed from a nervous wreck into a warm, dragon-shaped kind of putty, heavily leaning into me and closing her eyes. We were still tense, no doubt, but I think she appreciated the fact that I didn't want to just… use her like that. What worried me, though, was the fact that she wasn't trying to cuddle back… "Are you okay?" She softly nodded in response to my translator. "Do you want some water?" She nodded again and I got up. When I came back with a full teapot of cool water, she gently accepted it and put her lips to the spout, taking small sips. "I'm sorry for upsetting you…" I whispered. My phone picked it up despite my quiet tone, then Riku looked at me. "Yozefu-kun?" She looked… hopeful. "Kissu me?" I smiled. "Okay." The girl set her teapot down and turned to face me. When I leaned in to kiss her… she pulled me in tight! I blushed hard as she wrapped her entire snout around my muzzle and held me in place. Was she going to tongue-kiss me…?! I got my answer almost immediately… as she blew into my mouth. Hard.

As I jerked away, sputtering and coughing, she just laughed and laughed… Eventually, I started to smile, then I laughed a little. "Well, now I can tell people you blew me…" I joked. "Sate," my cell phone repeated in Japanese, "ima dewa anata ga watashi o fukitobashita koto o hitobito ni tsutaeru koto ga dekimasu." My ears fell. "God damn it…" Luckily… "Yū burō mai mainddo, bēbī!" Riku just winked and fired "finger guns" at me before giggling. Apparently, my app had translated that sentence as something like "you blow me away". We both laughed, then, as my phone picked up her Engrish and tried to translate it into Japanese. I had no idea how close it was, but again… she seemed amused.

"Anyway…" I began anew, "I really like you, Riku." She smiled as my phone translated for me. "I like you, too, Joseph!" her phone helpfully answered. "I'd like to spend more time with you… if– if that's okay?" She blushed and squirmed when my phone finished. Then, she nodded. "Kissu?" Her face brightened and she smiled. "Kissu!" I leaned in again before telling her, "No burō." "No burō!" she giggled. I smiled, then I scooted closer. We held each other close as she shared another long kiss… God, she was good at kissing.

"Mm…" I blushed, my ears flicking as the kiss ended. "Reddoroketto?" "Wh-what?" Riku giggled and tried to hide her face… but she asked again, "R… reddoroketto?" Oh… my god. Was she… was she asking if…? I shyly nodded… and she squirmed, giggling. Then, she leaned over, whispering something in my ear that I'm not quite sure I heard correctly. Unless I'm wrong, though… I swear… swear… she whispered in her cutest voice… "Hoonī foo yuū, bēbī…" I… I froze. When she noticed me freeze, though, she gently placed her hands on my cheeks and leaned in, softly rubbing noses with me. "Riku wa bakada… Rāvvu yū, Yozefu…" she said. She grinned, then, leaning back and opening her arms their full length apart. "Ai rāvvu yū chiiiiisu māchu!!" I couldn't take it. I immediately burst into laughter! When she did, too, we both fell over and continued laughing for a while. She could be so damn cute…

"Man… I never thought I could have this much fun with someone I don't understand…" "Nani o itta no ka wakarimasenga, totemo umakatta ni chigai arimasen!" "Same…" We chuckled as we cuddled a little more, just happy to be there with one another. It didn't matter that we couldn't properly communicate. Friendship was something that went beyond the boundaries of things like language. So long as we could look into each other's eyes… so long as we could touch each other's arms… so long as we could be open, honest, and sometimes even affectionate… I'm pretty sure we understood each other perfectly. That's… probably why we never did end up having sex. I know… That's probably really disappointing – especially after all the build-up and tension. But you know what? Sometimes, it's nice to have just made a friend. Especially one that's as amazing as her…

Riku apologized on the morning that I was heading back to the States. She apologized… like… a lot. She begged forgiveness in two languages, even! It wasn't necessary, though… I understood… dragon or not… she just… wasn't comfortable in big towns. She was amazing, though… Not just because she might've been a magical creature thought to be extinct or because she was so tall and beautiful… but because she was honest. Because she was pure. And… because she loved unconditionally. "Dorīmu avvu me, bēbī?" she asked, only half-serious. She could tell how sad I was… "I'll dream of you every night, Riku…" I answered, unable to stop myself from crying. "Rāvvu yū tsū, Yozefu…" she whispered back, pressing her forehead to mine. "Love you, too, Riku…" I hated making her cry…

I left Kurama Village feeling morose. I managed to avoid crying on the plane as I remembered the almost two weeks I'd spent with that warm, beautiful lady… visiting springs, shines, and small villages as we got to know each other. It hurt, knowing I wouldn't be able to see her again until my next vacation. But, well… as the universal saying goes…

"Shouganai"…

#fan fiction #Maiden in the Mist #original characters #the-minuscule-task #Riku (the-minuscule-task)#jolikmc #Joseph Lithius #romance

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ani-nexus · 11 months

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Site || Discord

10 years ago this year, a hidden feud spilled out into the public eye and consumed the world. Peace was achieved on New Dawn Island and now magic and powers in general have grown common place and accepted. Special schools across the globe teach kids how to harness their abilities. None more established and prestigious as Trinity Academy on New Dawn Island. Now, forces are at work and mysteries wait to be uncovered on this stage that once again hold's the fate for the world's future.

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Shadows of Our Youth(SOY) is a powers based school rp set in the current day, ten years after a war between magic and psionic ability users. The location is Trinity Academy, one of the first schools established after the power war located on New Dawn Island where the war originally ended 10 years ago. It's home to bustling cities and rural towns and all manner of characters, groups, secrets and plots lay around every corner for you to discover. We're relatively sandbox with a site plot you can either follow or completely forgo for something you're more interested in. Our lore is simple and digestible with plenty of room for YOU to add to it if you want. Can't wait to see you there!

#animanga #animehighschool #mystery #conspiracy #action #powers #magic #Sliceoflife #Shonen #Josei #Seinen #Shoujo #Iyashikei

#animanga rp #anime rp #jcink rp #site advertisement #original rp #sandbox rp #slice of life rp #city/town rp #3 months

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womensclothingworld · 11 months

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divinewill · 1 year

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Capítulo Cuatro: It’s Been A While

I expected nightmares that day, but while I would certainly revisit fire, gore, radiation, and death in my dreaming; pre-empting all of this was a strange experience which would have consequences radiating out to the edges of all creation. I woke up in my dream at a desk in what appeared to be an artist’s studio. On the desk appeared to be a collection of minimalist style scripts, minimalistic outlines with little detail which trusted the creative team to exercise their artistic virtue.

I looked around the studio and found it to be consisting of cubicles for persons of different roles: one for a penciler, one for an inker, one for a colorist, and finally one for a letterer. Among the neatly arranged character sheets, maps, and mechanical diagrams, there were other materials that I couldn't make sense of - they looked like mystical diagrams. Everything had been meticulously organized. Stored in boxes, folders, and drawers. Among these character sheets, I found one file with my full name on it. I opened it and immediately saw a profile of myself, like one outlined by Hirohiko Araki in his book Manga in Theory and Practice: The Craft of Creating Manga. It was even complete with a conceptual rendition in many art styles associated with several of which I recognized and several I did not. While looking through all this material, I noticed it simply listed the author under the pseudonym WORLDBUILDER.

Before I could piece all of this together, I heard the door unlock and become ajar. I made my way over and opened the door, but there was no one on the other side.

Instead, what I found looked like an enormous bedroom repurposed into a personal studio. Whoever this room belonged to decorated the walls with posters, lanyards, and pinboards filled with pins, as well as plastic and wooden phone charms. There was a bed with four dakimakura, two of which were decorated with magical girls and two with furry girls, as well as several plushies.

Beside the bed stood a nightstand holding notebooks filled with storyboards, multiple game consoles, a desk featuring a Cintiq, and a custom-built computer with a TV screen. A professional-quality microphone and headphones completed the setup. It was apparent that the owner was likely involved in animatics creation, although their work deviated from the conventional slice-of-life storytelling commonly associated with this style. Rather, it seemed to be a superhero story with magical girl elements.

At the desk was a rolling chair, while below it were plastic drawers filled with art supplies, letter sets, and stickers. There were figures of anime, comic, manga, tokusatsu (特撮), and video game characters on top of a dresser drawer, which, upon inspection, was filled with costumes. In fact, the boxes underneath the bed, as well as the closet, seemed to be filled with costumes of champions I recognized from various media.

All of it seemed tailored to fit me, but before I could entertain the concept of trying any of them on, the door once again cracked open, and I went to explore it.

I found myself in another studio with a series of large wooden tables. Someone scrupulously arranged a schizophrenic collection of notecards bound by binder clips. There seemed to be an undisclosed system underlying the apparent disorganization, with some written in block script and others cursive. The ordered use of highlights and binder clips of differing colors showed an intentionality. It was at once madness and sane simultaneously. I picked up the third collection on the first table and read the title aloud to myself, “Will meets the author…”

I couldn’t tell what genre this was supposed to be: some sections seemed to describe a superhero story, others a kaijū film, or super robot manga, and yet others a xiānxiá novel. The first 15 sections seemed to be devoted to worldbuilding, setting up the elements required for the future stories. I noticed and entered a walk-in closet filled with boxes on shelves. Boxes filled with notes on a variety of topics on almost every conceivable topic. One paper I noticed was titled “Lorentzian theories vs. Einsteinian special relativity - a logico-empiricist reconstruction” by László E. Szabó, an author and title I had never read before.

Exiting the door I entered, I ended up in a room comprising a series of cubicles, each with a light table installed on the desk and a computer. Some of these cubicles were equipped with a Cintiq Companion 2. On the outer walls of the cubicles were posters for other projects, and figurines of giant robots, superheroes, magical girls, etc. adorned the top shelves of each cubicle. Bookshelves filled with boundless artistic reference materials and relevant studies covered the walls.

As I examined the cubicles, I discovered collections of storyboards comprising penciled doodles bound in sequential order, accompanied by scribbled notes along the sides. I could identify the workstations of storyboarders, inbetweeners, compositors, and lighters.

I also found more advanced material orchestrated into a large flip book, which was the prototypes of the frame-by-frame animation of disconnected scenes. In collections designated “L/O” were blueprint layout rushes which combined the background roughs, directions regarding camera movement, instructions for voice actors, and directions on how to put everything together.

Key frame rushes detailed the skeleton of movement for specific characters in isolation. Timing rushes, combining backgrounds, colored cells, CG data, and camera movement. Finally, the final composites tied all the individual elements together.

Further down, I found what appeared to be the station of a sound designer, their desk bursting with music CDs.

The most morbid of these keyframe rushes I found was the image of a small black girl with an Asiatic facial profile whose head, right arm, and left leg had been severed from her torso, which had been cleaved in half at the waist and whose right eye was missing.

Another door unlocked and barely opened, so I explored what was on the other side. Not much was different in the next few rooms, which seemed to be specialized for 2D Vector-based animation, 3D computer animation, stop motion animation.

I came to another room filled with cubicles and computers, but with adjacent rooms separated with glass walls and doors. These adjacent rooms were more remarkable: most of these adjacent rooms contained a desk with a triple monitor set up, two flat screen TVs fixed to the wall, and a rolling chair. The monitors were active, displaying source code, 3D models, spreadsheets, paused gameplay, etc.

This game seemed to be licensed for Nintendo, PlayStation, X-Box, Windows, Mac, and Linux. I entered one of these rooms and discovered a VR headset. After a moment, I tried it on, grabbed the controllers, and I found myself in what looked to be an editor’s office for a film set.

I looked at the screen within my field of vision and saw a Southeast Asian girl, only 14 years old, dressed like a soldier. She was armed with a Bowie knife and an unholstered semi-automatic pistol. She shot at another person dressed in an otherworldly costume, and the rounds tore through their skull and chest cavity. However, the wounded one, despite having their brain matter spilled on the ground, seemed completely unaware of the damage.

After exhausting the magazine, the girl dropped her magazine and reloaded as her target slowly advanced towards her. She holstered her gun, pulled out her Bowie knife, and took a boxing stance. It was clear that she was a proficient knife-fighter. Despite this apparent proficiency, she backed up, clearly afraid to engage the inhuman thing before her.

They were standing on a set consisting of miniature buildings, vehicles, and landscapes of a tokusatsu set reminiscent of what is used to film Godzilla or Gamera films. However, there was blood everywhere. It covered the set floor, the buildings, the electrical wires, and the military and civilian vehicles. Even the backgrounds had what seemed to be arterial blood splatter.

The monster itself was drenched in blood. It was on its hands, oozing from its mouth, covering their knees and elbows, and coating its feet. There was even blood on its forehead, as if it had broken someone’s nose or teeth with a well-placed headbutt. The level of gore surpassed what one would find if it had violently gutted several people, similar to scenes in an Akira Kurosawa film.

I didn’t notice until now that the building had caught fire. Smoke billowed from the doors and the monstrous thing stopped only feet in front of the girl and levitated off the ground. Its monstrous mask slid off its face, revealing a bloodstained human face. Placing my hand onto the desk, I accidentally changed the screen to a different camera, to which I’d panic, “No!” Wanting to see what would happen.

The news feed focused on a woman in a terrifying mask, clad in armor like a medieval knight, armed with a spiked pavis and a kpinga. Her helmet sported two oni-like horns, and the raised mask possessed vampiric fangs. However, her face was bright red, and her mouth indeed had vampiric fangs on her maxilla and mandible. She was eating the raw flesh from something chimeral, mixing human and inhuman traits together in an incomprehensible mass of flesh.

I flipped the switch I brushed against to get back to the original story. However, this action loaded a video of a beautiful Indian girl with mixed Dravidian/Sinitic features and bright blue eyes. She appeared cold and alone, a stranger in a strange land. There was something familiar about her face, despite having never met her before.

“Hello, sweetheart.” I heard from behind me.

The voice was not one I recognized, but I felt an immediate and overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over me when I heard it. I turned around and removed my headset. While the VR immersed me, the world around me transmuted into a white negative space. I saw the speaker, a featureless silhouette of an androgynous human form, blacker than pitch, with an aura brighter than the sun. It outstretched its otherworldly hand and caressed my cheek, but I wasn’t afraid.

There was something heartbreakingly familiar about this otherworldly figure as it told me, “It’s been a while, princess.”

The being pulled me into a hug and told me, “I missed you so much…” Tears streamed down my face, my chest tightened for reasons I could not identify, and I hugged it back.

I asked it in a cracking voice, “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

It told me, placing a hand on my head, “Spoilers, but I’m an author and a worldbuilder.”

We released each other from the hug, and I asked, “The worldbuilder that is credited on all this material?”

It answered, “Yes. Though, onto more pressing matters. I’ve broken the seal and come to give you this…” it grabbed my right hand and placed something in it.

The being gave me a perfectly spherical black body pendant.

I asked it, “What is this?”

It told me, “This is the All-Slayer.”

It pulsated and jittered for a moment before the being continued, “It has the power to penetrate all barriers, without exception, and it can only be wielded by its master or those whom the master has authorized to wield it.”

I told it, “I am unfit to wield such a weapon, and even if I were fit to do so, I couldn’t imagine using it.”

It told me, “That hesitancy is exactly why you are the one I am giving it to, sweetheart. Despite what its name might suggest, it doesn’t have to kill. The All-Slayer has the power to penetrate any barrier. It can cleave electrons off atoms and split atomic nuclei, allowing it to cleave adamantine. Though, that is not all. It can also pierce through non-physical barriers.”

It continued, “The All-Slayer can tear down the psychical barriers, compelling a target to reveal the truth, like a certain demigod’s lasso, but it can also compel the target to confront the truths that they have subconsciously suppressed, or even break down the barriers between individuated souls, allowing for telepathic dialogue where lies are impossible. And that’s only the beginning…”

There was something about this eldritch pulsating thing in my hand that deeply unsettled me, like it wasn’t just alive, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. All I knew was that it felt like I’d seen this thing before, but I couldn’t remember where, when, or even how I could have.

The Worldbuilder explained, “You do not have to wield this power alone.”

I looked the Worldbuilder in its non-extant eyes as it revealed, “You and you alone have the power to use it now. As already stated, if you choose to, you may authorize anyone you deem worthy to use it. It can even replicate itself and bind its copy to anyone you choose...”

They finished, “I will bind it to your Lolita Princess form.”

Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me, and when I turned, I saw my superpowered alter ego suspended in the air Vitruvian man style. The All-Slayer leaped out of my hand and into the Lolita Princess’ hand and transformed into a featureless spear.

Worldbuilder asked me, “Is your favorite superhero still Superman?”

I looked at Worldbuilder and when I looked back at where my alter ego was, it was gone, so I returned to the conversation with, “Of course.”

Worldbuilder asked me, “Why?”

I thought for a moment, and then I told it, “Because he is the archetypal superhero. I love Spider-Man, He-Man, Spawn, Sailor Moon, Goku, and Link… But the ideal of Superman is immune to honest deconstruction. Every attempt I have ever read has required the removal of something essential to him, and thus cannot dismantle him in any meaningful way.”

A doorway leading into a void materialized and opened behind the being who told me, “For you, I will write stories like those you love, with virtuous heroes worthy of emulation… but this comes at a cost.”

I asked it, “What would that be?”

The Worldbuilder answered, “Heartbreak and horror… but remember what lies at the bottom of Pandora’s box.”

I responded, “Hope.”

The being kissed my forehead, “Until the end of time… I’ll always love you… My sleeping beauty…”

The being stepped backwards through that large doorway suspended in the air with another space interior to it and as the doors closed, I felt a desperation well up in me, compelling me to act. I transformed into the Lolita Princess said, “By the grace of God, no matter how long it takes, I’ll save you…”

I did not know what came over me and the being moved its head in an almost imperceptible nod of disappointment.

The Worldbuilder responded, “No, you won’t… Even if it takes an infinite number of rewrites… I will save you…” it said with its head positioned as if to look me in the eye.

“My heart is within you, sweetheart.” It said as a sendoff as the door finally closed with a massive thud that woke me up drenched in sweat.

I attributed the weird dream to having read postmodern fiction before bed, though I couldn't remember reading anything. Tears streamed from my eyes, and I didn’t understand why. As I wiped the tears from my face, I realized I was holding something in my hand, and when I investigated the palm of my hand, I saw a vantablack marble in my hand. I jumped out of bed, dropped it, and it vanished before hitting the ground. Despite being spooked, I convinced myself that I wasn’t fully awake when I saw the All-Slayer in my hand.

I got ready for the day, wearing a shirt with the crest of Hyrule, and headed downstairs. Dad had cooked eggs, bacon, and toast while watching the news. His primary interest was the humanitarian soldiers who helped in the relief effort that I encountered yesterday.

The man at the center of attention in the live feed was a stoic, 198 cm tall, 120 kg, bald African American man dressed in similar but distinct gear from the other unidentified soldiers. The insignia on his chest looked almost like an inverted King sign used in chess notation. Beside him was a man who looked more like a dwarf from a fantasy novel than any ethnic group I’d ever seen, except he was dressed in similar military garb.

The dwarven man lifted what appeared to be a wand and cast a spell in a language I could not identify. Then, despite the crowd of reporters not calming down, there was sudden silence in their clamor.

The man designated with the insignia of a king revealed to the world, “I am the Supreme Commander of the Global Strategic Self-Defense Operations, John Rage.”

I was stunned to realize that I had seen his face among the concept sketches within my dream.

He continued, “There is much to reveal, much to do, and little time; so I will make this brief—”

#magical girl #superhero #metafiction #dream #original story #original character #hopepunk #horror

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