#the root causes are so immensely horrifically painful

[jacksoldsideblog]

While i like the direction the movie took with destroying debt, et cetera, i see people say it's better than the book because what does destroying one museum do? and i think that ignores the fundamental underpinning of the misanthropic anarchism (is that a tautology? most of the time.) which is more apparent in the book, most likely due to the greater depth one can add. Unfortunately, in simplifying it to simply debt to make it seem more intense and useful, it ignores that the goal is fundamentally ideological.

Tyler, the narrator, wants society to rip itself apart from within. he set himself up as Jesus and now he is staging his time on the cross to cement it. the scene where the narrator beats angelface's face in, it's interspersed with the birth of Project Mayhem, directly in response to the eternal soulcrushing of feeling the burden of history. The actions of the past. A lot of it is actually related to pollution. And, like an anarchist, the narrator wants to burn it all down, the fish he can never have, wipe the slate clean. And so Tyler makes Project Mayhem, and as the narrator waxes about a premature dark age saving the planet, Tyler says "You justify anarchy ... you figure it out."

The thing is, being nonspecific, I'm in the environmental sector. This hatred of humanity, of the burden of the past, it's the story of the little old lady who ate a fly, it's a lot of incredibly common despair and rage that has no true goal beyond removal, ending, destroying. It's even said, in the book, Project Mayhem wants the end of civilization right now. What's the next step for Project Mayhem? Tyler doesn't say. Because fundamentally, the narrator knows it's all just idyllic dreams, the wrist thick kudzu and the clear air — maybe some people believe that would happen if humanity was massively depopulated, but it would not rid the world of the nuclear waste, of the oil wells. Et cetera. It betrays the inherent issue with anarchism, it's why the book is such a good critique of it, it's why it highlights the connection between anarchism and misanthropy. Everyone knows Project Mayhem is a death cult.

And yet, they do wish for better. Even at his most nihilistic, Tyler looks with the goal of setting people free. However, the narrator feels the immense stress of being a cog in an impossible to stop machine. It is so important, to remember the despair and panicked impulse to end it all is a result of the malfunctioning society, not simply some random bad choice. It's the result of an animal in a corner. He has no idea how to imagine a construction beyond it — so he follows the male impulse and wants to kill it.

And unlike the movie, it's more of a virus approach.

#fight club #tfw youre not well read enough to call yourself a communist #tyler/the narrator are inherently pathetic creatures to me because of anarchism thing #like its the conditioned response #i feel a lot of sympathy for it #the root causes are so immensely horrifically painful #but either kill yourself or buck up and make a plan #for AFTER you destroy capitalist society #once again: who will operate and build the sewers. how. how will you get metal and chemicals and food and #stop hating humanity and do something about it instead

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 5

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064/chapters/64957384

previous | next

5. will i float or will i drown?

This city is much too loud, they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur. 

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just.

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. I am alone here, they rationalize. No one will disturb me. They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. His performance has suffered greatly as of late, they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent. 

Until today. 

Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops. 

It is Elliott.

Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around.

He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful thunk. A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must. 

A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone. 

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. Why do you care so deeply for him? they wonder to themself. Why now? What has changed? They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. So why Elliott?

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens. 

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my god Elliott SHUT UP-”

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, vertu rólegur. It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. But why? He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to. They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. It is no use. “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them. 

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. This all depends on him. Will he honor my request? The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. I must take a chance on him. Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur. 

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them. 

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left. 

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. Keep things vague, they think. He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet.

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause. 

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head. 

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be leynilega manneskju.” 

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so. 

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, stupidly accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face. 

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before him to regain his composure. 

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my faðir and móðir taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling. 

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. He has spoken to you much this evening, they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. You have no reason to miss it. But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.” 

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear. 

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to vinna,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back. 

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof. 

And Bloodhound laughs. 

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”. 

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously. 

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.” 

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient. 

“You owe me for this one, amigo,” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles. 

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor.  “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

#apex legends #miragehound #mirage apex #bloodhound apex #mirage apex legends #bloodhound apex legends #elliott witt #elliott witt apex #my writing #apex fanficiton #apex legends fanfiction

[dotthings]

Okay SPN 15.04, here we go, where I feel weirdly self-conscious about posting a meta post about an ep that had so much meta on itself and now I’m going to write meta about it, so it’s meta on meta on meta, while I’m having my feelings.

THAT COLD OPEN HOLY CRAP DIRECTOR JENSEN. As a director Jensen always pulls out warm performances from actors and he’s a really kinetic director too. That opening fight sequence I held my breath for a lot of it. 

BENNY OH NOES IT’S BENNY (this must be the character Jensen said was one of his favorites and the actor came back to set for one day to do it). “I’ll see you on the other side, brother.” Thanks so MUCH, spn, I thought I was over this and then you come in and reopen that and now I’ve got feelings gdi. Benny was a good friend to Dean. My heart hurts. 

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit demon blood Sam. Noooooo. And he kills Dean. I can never erase these images from my mind, thanks a LOT spn. 

Just a nightmare of Sam’s except no probably not given Sam’s god-wound, so wow this maybe happens on one of Chuck’s other worlds, that’s fine, oh that’s okay I’m fiiiiine, it’s fine. *covers face*

So we have a flip on early S14 here where Dean was turtling to cope with his trauma which is a healthy thing to do but hiding from the world wasn’t going to fix anything so Sam coaxes him out with a hunt. Dean coaxes Sam out with a hunt only I don’t think hunting works for Sam the same way, it’s not Sam’s mental comfort food the way it is for Dean, but still I appreciate the mirroring there.

Sam’s struggling with Rowena’s death and I think those horrific AU nightmare visions aren’t helping much either, but it’s clear he’s feeling the loss. Her loss, all the recent losses.

Dean trolls Sam with real bacon, which seems like Dean is maybe trying to cheer Sam up by pranking him and trying to cheer himself up via food pranks. Dean has quite the case of the munchies in this ep. 

I noticed almost every scene Dean is snacking or drinking from his flask. How’s that whole “Cas walked out and left apparently for good” working out for you Dean, wow, you’re suspiciously chipper while stuffing your face and drinking and Not Talking About It. Did Sam and Dean talk about where’s Cas? Who knows, the ep didn’t mention it, hey SPN you needed a Cas mention, OH WAIT THE EP IS GOING TO CALL ME OUT FOR SAYING THAT.

Seriously though, this is very Dean MO, and I have thoughts about his mood in this ep and how Cas’s absence was felt, and what it means, I’ll get to that later, but even before the last scene Impala talk, I was thinking Cas is a reminder of pain--and no it’s not all about Dean’s anger at Cas, it’s not because Dean is angry at Cas. Cas is a reminder of some things Dean just isn’t coping with very well and part of the problem is Dean cares so much. 

So Dean’s snacking and drinking and Sam is feeling the weight of them knowing all the scary things out there while people go on obliviously with their lives and I’m not sure if Sam is envying them or Sam is feeling some existential angst about the state of the world, how people can go about their lives unaware there are real monsters ready to pounce and tear their lives to shreds. And feeling the weight of the job they do in every bone of his body. Sam’s in a dark headspace.

Ok I admit I was not thrilled to see Becky again given her previous episodes and role. SPN’s later in-canon fan characters were much more nuanced and successful and respectful depictions of fans. But as with many other things, this era of SPN is revisiting some things to move them forward in a different way than before, and subvert some things that needed subverting and Becky has had--wait for it--character development. How about that.

Yes, Becky, run, you do not want anything to do with Chuck. Run, Becky run. I’m rooting for her now. RUNNNN.

Along with finding a more constructive way of channeling her interest in the Winchesters’ lives, and having a satisfying fandom creative life and a full life of her own, Becky has funko pops of Sam, Dean, and Cas. LOL. I see you spn. 

Dean, still with the case of the munchies. So this is like the eating a whole pint of ice-cream after a break-up, only Dean does it with junk food while hunting vampires.

I enjoyed this conversation between Becky and Chuck about writing immensely. Becky is actually right. Speaking myself as someone who’s suffered from writers block for a while, it’s miserable, and not writing just perpetuates the cycle. You feel cut off from an important part of yourself. And--oh here we go getting meta within meta--I find writing meta on SPN a positive outlet. 

“Writing is writing.” Damn Becky’s takedown of Chuck’s derisiveness about fanfic was sizzling and oh excuse me Chuck, what is it you think you were doing with those Supernatural books about your favorite story. Even though he’s the creator, I know. But still. Also seems to be a sly comment on how male-authored “fanfic” based on someone else’s characters or historical characters gets to be professionally published novels and nobody wants to admit it’s fanfic but it is, but women write fanfic and women write novels based on someone else’s characters or historical figures and it gets derided. 

Did not expect commentary celebrating the creativity and validity of fanwork of women in particular an episode of SPN, especially not with Becky of all people, but here we are. 

Uhhhh is Chuck writing this episode, as it happens? I am seriously uneasy now. What is going on. What is real. Which is what I think Dean is going through because of Chuck and OUCH the Winchesters think they’re free but they’re not but also they are their own people and Chuck isn’t controlling them but it’s like he’s still making the framework?? Or would this case just be happening on his own and Perez is just messing with our heads in this script right now.

Oh damn because this ep wasn’t sadness enough now here we go with the Jack parallels. “I can’t control this.” “I’m a monster.” “I killed someone I love.” Parents doing anything to save their out of control teenage kid or does he need to be killed, so the parents are Cas, while Sam and Dean are Dean. 

Interesting that Dean lowered the gun and didn’t kill Jack, but tells Sam they would do that for Jack if it was necessary. You didn’t, though, Dean. You couldn’t go through with it any more than those distressed parents of the vampire teen.

Becky is voicing various non-dire fan complaints here, every lane of the fandom is being gently called out right now. Hahaha including lack of Cas mentions in an ep that pointedly is not!Mentioning Cas because it’s not a mistake there’s actually reasons for that which is just lampshading how much Dean is pointedly Not Going to Talk About Cas. 

“Where they sit around doing laundry and talk” -- again every lane of the fandom should feel very called out right now. Seriously, fandom lanes that hate each other’s guts all have that common factor of craving more domesticity, and would like to see the laundry ep of SPN and for many, it has better include Cas, or we’re working through our need for this via fanfics or fanart. Even Jared and Jensen have expressed interest in a “Winchesters do the laundry” kind of episode. 

But here’s the thing--here’s the thing about SPN...it depicts domesticity. In small bits of pieces. Even in this ep there’s domesticity. SO HA. It’s not that SPN is against depictions of domesticity, it’s definitely in the toolset of its storytelling, to give the characters more layers, to make their lives seem more real, but there needs to be mostly an action plot because that’s the genre so they mostly kill monsters and we only get nibbles of domesticity.

Becky and Chuck arguing about Chuck’s incredibly dark story ending, after Becky criticized him for the story not having enough bite, was so interesting. While the episode’s dark story ending was actually quite well done IMO and not overdone and yes it’s bleak but it’s supposed to be. So it’s not that sad is always terrible writing, no. It isn’t. But its overuse has been a raging hot topic in spn fandom for years and SPN is a hopeful narrative as well as a bleak one. Overuse of loss of hope and misery can hurt the story, causes a number of fans to become desensitized and lose their emotional engagement for it (which has happened to be at a couple of points in SPN’s long run). So that conversation interested me a great deal, yes it did.

So.....SPN had its current biggest of the biggest of ultimate big bads, the ultimate power God himself, the author, and made him the enthusiast for overuse of the misery pr0n like that’s the only smart way to tell a story. The season’s big bad villain is a misery porn enthusiast.

I’m just gonna....sit here and absorb that for a moment.

Oh and this while all the PR for the show keeps warning us about how sad this story is and how bleak the ending will be, not a happy ending show. Are they warning us? Are they trolling us and misdirecting? Because they made their villain a misery pr0n fanboy and this intelligent, self-aware positive depiction of Becky the fan taking him to task for it. 

I feel like could be headed for every story needs its darkness and its light, you need the darkness to appreciate the light, and you need some light or the story is less meaningful. We’ll see.

“I’m a writer,” says Chuck and then takes away everyone Becky loves and then unmakes Becky. This is a purposeful depiction of a writer creator as a sadist. It’s a diabolical reversal on the Stephen King’s Misery scenario. Becky played the deranged fangirl in the past, who kidnaps an object of obsession, now she’s the victim of the deranged sadistic writer who breaks into her home, destroys her life, and then effectively kills her because of his own obsession with making Sam and Dean wretchedly miserable because he thinks that’s the only way to make the story exciting.

*blinks*

In the last scene, oh thanks Sam, for vocalizing the Jack connection. 

Hey Dean, that’s really a nice speech and yes Sam did give you a great pep talk but Sam wasn’t the only one who told you what you did still has meaning. This is like 15.01 where Dean is pointedly erasing Cas again despite Cas very obviously having done something Dean refuses to acknowledge. In 15.01 it was Dean leaving Cas out of his us vs the forces of evil speech to Sam, despite Cas having spent most of the ep shooting ghosts in the face and saving Sam’s life twice. Sam and Cas both have given Dean pep talks about the meaning of what they do but only Sam pulled Dean out of it...uhhh yeah that’s not writer error or canon ignoring Cas. That’s Dean trying to push Cas out of his mind. Something there hurts so much Dean isn’t dealing with it right now.

As I said, as I’ve been saying, it’s not so much that Dean is that angry at Cas. It’s not just about Mary. Or about Cas keeping things from him. Although those are all valid reasons for Dean’s hurt and anger. Dean seems to be afraid or hurt over more than that. And his love for Cas, IMO, is part of why this is weighing so heavily. What does he fear. I think it’s connected to the whole existential crisis about Chuck. What if none of this is real. I’ve talked about that in other posts, if none of this is real, if Dean still doubts, then what if what’s between him and Cas isn’t real, what if Cas doesn’t really care about him because none of it real. 

Dean valiantly puts a brave face on things here, they keep going, they keep fighting for the sake of those they lost, no matter what, “keep putting one foot in front of the other.” Which makes sense. That’s how you honor those you’ve lost. It’s just that I don’t think Dean has really reached that. He is Not Dealing with an awful lot of stuff here. And we have seen again and again how hard Dean reels from losing loved ones.  So what’s going on with Dean here. This is a healthy concept, but not if Dean is just whistling past the graveyard again. This might look like character development except look at what’s been going on with Dean. How deeply losing Mary, losing Jack affected him. The impact of those losses needs to be acknowledged and dealt with in order to truly move on and move forward. It’s like Dean is voicing a healthy outlook but isn’t actually experiencing it. I think Dean is posturing because if he lets all the hurt it right now, it will devour him.

There’s also the part where Sam and Dean have in the past displayed a lack of ability to just keep on keeping on if they lose each other, so they used to sell their souls, or violate the other one’s wishes and autonomy, or let the darkness free, but we’ve also seen them let each other go, and “keep putting one foot in front of the other.” Sam and Dean have done both ways with each other. Dean didn’t exactly just keep on keeping on no problem when Cas died at the end of S12.

Sam voices the other side of things, he can’t just move on right now. He’s feeling all the losses. They’ve piled up and piled up and it’s crushing him. Sam says he "can’t breathe” at times. He brings up Jessica, a loss he suffered 14 years ago. 

So Sam and Dean are airing the two aspects of loss and grief on SPN. One the one hand, you don’t just give up and quit because of loss. Honor who you’ve lost and keep on fighting. But losses are deeply felt, and it’s not all okay either. Sam and Dean don’t just shrug off these losses because they have each other. That’s not how this works. They need more than just each other and SPN is increasingly having more and more open dialogue about all of this.

S15 so far has been so much about the impact losing people they love has on Sam and Dean, and why their isolation isn’t a good thing. 

And there’s Chuck, the big bad, typing away to add more misery. Because Chuck gets off on giving them loved ones and taking them away, over and over and this isn’t presented as a good thing or a satisfying thing or a desirable thing or a celebration of anything. 

#Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Chuck Shurley #Becky Rosen #spn #supernatural #supernatural spoilers #meta #Sam and Dean: a work in progress #Destiel #Team Free Will #Jack Kline #Castiel

[saferincages]

a couple of weeks ago, a friend showed me this amazing post (where the photos are far better than mine, which just didn’t want to turn out at all) of @the-far-bright-center‘s beautiful, sparkly Force Ghost Anakin, and it brought me such joy (I was maybe giggling excessively...), and today he arrived in the mail as a surprise gift! 💖

I want to take a moment to appreciate this bio, and the “weapon of choice” being loyalty and love, because it is. a lot.

this could be a very silly post (okay, it already is), but it actually gives me an opportunity to talk about something that I’ve never had a chance or reason to discuss before without some frame of context, so here is an unbelievably overemotional story (one of many regarding Star Wars’ history and special place in my life, I could write a series of these focused of specific themes and characters in all honesty) that no one really needs, but that I feel compelled to write anyway.

I’ve written before about my first experience seeing Revenge of the Sith (most recently here), so I apologize for retreading a certain amount of ground, but it’s important to know what the state of my life was at that time, which was a frightening, burned out shambles. ROTS premiered in May 2005, I believe I had just completed the physical therapy I’d been undergoing since the car accident we had that February. I was extraordinarily ill, and no one knew why (diagnoses were forthcoming), I was rapidly losing weight, and at the time, the scariest thing for me, was that I had no choice but to withdraw from school. Academia, which was such a constant for me, wasn’t even going to be on the horizon. I was, in short, not okay. I felt almost hollow in that uncertainty.

That midnight premiere was incredible, exciting, emotionally fraught, and I remember the weight and the sorrow of it hitting me in a very profound way when we got home, at which point I crawled into my bed and sobbed. I saw it several times that summer, but the final time (which is also a story a couple of my friends know, but I don’t think I’ve posted about it publicly?) was on my birthday that September. It is a crystalline memory. I can recall everything about that day, even what we ate (the cinnamon rolls my mom made for breakfast, the vanilla chai tea I had at Borders that afternoon), because it was the last birthday I had when certain things were not yet permanent, when I was still in the misty place between before and after. By then, the film had moved to our local little budget theatre, and seeing it that way, with a handful of other people rather than with a big, enthusiastic crowd, lent it an intimacy and poignancy which struck me on a wholly different level. (That was also the night Supernatural premiered, which is an aside, but don’t doubt for a moment that the events are inextricably emotionally connected for me.) September, and I should have been in school, but I wasn’t. I had no idea at that point that I never would be again, but I was frightened, and sad, and deeply angry. Anger isn’t a feeling I’d had a lot of experience with, I was a sweet, shy, overly sensitive, naive child (and teenager), but I didn’t often deal with anger, and then I usually sublimated anger with grief and guilt instead (and those things were warring in me, too, and of course I still carry them), but the anger at the unfairness of it all, at how cruel it was that this had happened to me, at how much I hated my own body for turning against me, how I irrationally hated myself for not being better or stronger or able to fight it, was consuming and yet almost childish, as though being ill was causing a perpetual temper tantrum in my mind.

My touchstone in the prequels was always Padmé, and she deserves her own post, but she was so inspiring to me, her compassion and her goodness and her belief in justice, her loving nature and her femininity and her tender heart being strengths, and never undermining her bright spirit, her keen mind, her ability to lead, her powers being her forgiveness and empathy and kindness. I love her so much and she had (and continues to have) such meaning for me. 

It took me by surprise when the aching heart of my identification in ROTS plunged more towards Anakin. I loved him too, and I had a lot of varied, complicated feelings about him already, about his gentleness and his trauma, about the immensity of his capacities and his contrasts, but this was the fall, the dark hour of the story, the nadir of everyone’s suffering, and so much happens at his hand, because of his tragic choices. When I was reading the novelization, I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I understood certain aspects of his struggling in such a harrowing way, and seeing it playing out made that even more acute. Those choices he makes out of desperate fear aren’t rooted in evil, they’re driven by the chasm of grief and terror of loss, and they’re mixed with disillusionment and disappointment and frustration. Up until the moment when he walks into the Jedi Temple, when we really see him cross a line he cannot return from, hope for a course correction seems possible. Even knowing what’s coming, it’s like...just turn back. You can still fix this. It ripped my heart out because of course he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. There’s the scene where he’s denied the title of Master, and his outburst at the council (“this is outrageous! it’s unfair!”) is tinged with an adolescent level of upset, but...of course it is. He’s still so young and he wants to trust them, it’s not ambition causing that fury, it’s desperation for inclusion, for some measure of respect, and he keeps being refused. It’s a strange analogy because the things holding me back had nothing to do with a council of old men deciding my fate, all my hindrances were physically trapping me in my own body, the jury denying me the ability to move ahead was my own failing immune system, but I understood his rage, because I wanted someone I could yell at. The person I was so terrified of not being able to save, of having to watch die, wasn’t my beloved, it was...me, the girl I was, the girl I dreamed of becoming. I’ve talked so many times about feeling like I let her down, like I’m the ghost of her, the revenant walking around in a shape that vaguely resembles her, but at that point, she wasn’t gone yet, she was just rapidly slipping away. I didn’t know what to do to save myself. People would say it wasn’t my fault, to let it go (which felt a lot like being told the useless “mourn them do not, miss them do not”), that I was still here, I didn’t ask to get sick, and I knew, logically, that was true, but emotionally all I felt was that crushing guilt and despair (all of this remains a lingering struggle). I didn’t want to be powerless. I would have clung to something that offered me a way out. I knew where Anakin, conflicted and misguided as he was, was coming from, and it eroded everything that made him good and heroic and kind, so the only power I had left was to fight against it and keep the anger at bay.

This is such a specifically personal thing that I won’t get into the analysis of what happens in regards to his descent (which I also expounded upon in that other post anyway), but every time it happened, the same muscle memory seemed to take hold of me, my hands would shake and I’d press them together, my chest would pound, I’d bite my lip to try not to cry. I have this overwhelming fear of fire, so Mustafar was its own nightmare, and I’ve literally only watched the immolation scene once (that first time, at the midnight showing), otherwise I close my eyes tightly shut. I don’t even like seeing gifs of it. But because of what I was going through at the time, what I’ve gone through since, the physical aspects of him so painfully and horrifically losing himself, being so stripped of his humanity that hardly anyone ever looks at or acknowledges him as a person again (until Luke) held its own terror (it’s such an awful metaphor when it’s examined, and it’s that re-enslavement, he did not choose that reconstruction) because I didn’t understand what was happening to me physically, and because so many people were questioning the veracity of my pain and my incapacitating illness, were treating me as somehow less (ableism wasn’t even a word in my vocabulary yet, I just thought maybe everyone had a point and I didn’t deserve the space to be heard or understood, since so much of what I was going through was invisible). I genuinely felt like my personhood and my agency was being taken away. I didn’t have school, I was quickly isolated from everyone else and kept in the (comforting yet confining) cage of my room, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be anymore, and I didn’t know what to do if no one would listen or believe me (my mom aside). The torture Anakin is put through in that conversion to Darth Vader is unimaginable and I don’t want to dwell on it, but there’s a passage from the novelization that goes in part: “The first dawn of light in your universe brings pain. The light burns you. It will always burn you...You can hear yourself breathing. It comes hard, and harsh, and it scrapes nerves already raw, but you cannot stop it. You can never stop it. You cannot even slow it down...now your self is all you will ever have...and within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame.” It’s such a wrenching description that some part of me separated it out from the villainous aspect, because the rest of it felt true. My nerves were raw and burned with sensation, touch and too much strain hurt, but my heart persistently, stubbornly kept beating, and I was left sifting through the alternating aspects of its passions (both the transcendent and the desolate).

This isn’t at all “excuse or justify the things Vader did” (since, again, this isn’t actual analysis, it’s sentimental personal nonsense), because of course I do not and never would, but the depth of empathy I had for Anakin, as a person and as a lost soul (and a lost future), and the way that left an imprint on me right at the onset of my illness became indelible.

There’s a point to this, I promise.

George Lucas did re-editing and reworkings of the original trilogy and I’ve never minded any of it, because they were his to edit and fix up if he wanted to do so, and little extra CG snippets of planets and creatures only expands the universe in my mind. That said, I realize adding Hayden’s Anakin at the end of Return of the Jedi was divisive, even upsetting for some, but for me it was everything. I’ve hesitated to ever reblog gifs of the scene because I felt like I had to justify or explain why I hold it so dear before I did, so this is my chance to do that. 

As a child, I never felt really connected to the fleeting glimpse of Sebastian Shaw (my mom actually remembers me asking why he was so “old,” apparently I reasoned at the time that Anakin should have been younger, I think because I imagined him then as more of a dashing hero, based on Obi-Wan’s description in A New Hope). Anakin never lived as that image of a more middle aged man, that was never who he was within Vader’s suit, and there was always an evincive resonance that I was seeking. Once Attack of the Clones came along, Hayden was my Anakin, he was the embodiment of that character, and I loved him, and I loved his performance (and saw so much nuance and layering in it despite what was often said). Yet one of the last images we witness of him is burning on that scorched lava shore. It’s devastating. 

Luke’s unwavering faith that some glimmer of his father still exists, that goodness can’t ever be entirely erased, that love will overcome, that throwing aside his weapon is an act of bravery and grace, is the moment when Anakin is finally released from that. “He takes the ounce of good still left in him and destroys the Emperor out of compassion for his son.” Balance is restored, and redemption is very small and quiet, not a washing away of violence, but a ceasing of it. It’s the hope that we can always find salvation, that we can still choose to act in love.

When Luke turns around and sees those spirits watching over him, benevolent and glowing and one with the Force, Anakin is his beautiful self again, as the description on this little package says, restored to the “hopeful young Jedi he once was.” The first time I saw that edit of the film, I wept. That was the connection I’d been looking for, the understanding that we’re never wasted, that our souls endure and are mended, that we can choose light, no matter how lost we feel we are, that love can persevere and illuminate even the longest night. It reminded me that I wasn’t only my body, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how it felt like it was collapsing on me, no matter how often I felt like I was failing to be the person I thought I would be, my body could never capture the entirety of who I was, or am. My spirit could still shine, my heart could still be soft.

Anakin says to Padmé in AOTC, “Compassion, which I would define as unconditional love, is essential to a Jedi's life, so you might say we are encouraged to love.” It’s one of my favorite scenes because it’s so sincere, and yet so richly layered in its meaning. And in the end, this is fulfilled, this belief is proven right.

People may think the idea of the Force is hokey, but because of the way I was brought up, and the intense theological discussions that used to be framed around it (particularly by my dad, we used to do this over e-mail back in the olden days of dial-up, I wish I had those conversations saved), it was a really important, formative concept for me. The Force is connectivity, it’s like a variant of the belief in Tikkun olam that parts of the vessels of the divine used to shape the world shattered, and their shards became sparks of light trapped within the material of creation, and thus exist and persist in all of us, in all the diverse and breathtaking life around us, and that we should respect and cherish that life. “The best expression of the Force is not a lightsaber fight or other combat techniques. It’s really about your connection to life, to everything around you, and your ability or willingness to let go, to find peace, and ultimately become a selfless part of existence...in the end there is no power that aids [Luke], except the power of compassion and love; the act of forgiveness and apparent self-sacrifice is what saves his father from the dark side.” 

It’s the idea that there’s something eternal within all living things, something powerful and connected that binds us together, that means we affect one another, and that we make choices as to whether those influences are for the better (or not). That we can decide to increase the power of light and warm energy in the universe. The idea that we’re not limited to our physical selves, that we’re luminous, radiant, possible beings. That we can reach out in love and compassion to heal the world, even if it’s only in small ways, even if we’re the only ones who see it exist, who know it happens, and still the summation of that additional light can radiate everywhere.

#does this even make sense idk but here it is anyway #anakin skywalker #love can ignite the stars #encouraged to love #star wars #luminous beings are we #look what a *toy* caused me #i am a ridiculous person #bubble wrap around my heart #spirituality #the little girl who was always tired #chronic illness #it took me three hours from start to finish to actually get this posted sigh #but it was important to me even if nobody reads it #you are not obligated to complete the work but neither are you free to abandon it #sw meta #it's not really but i'll file it there

[aahhlliiss-writes]

Belle (Part Two)

“Could you maybe write an Harry oneshot where it’s the 1940s and he really is a soldier (like dunkirk) and you meet him while he’s serving?”

Part two to Belle! Part one is HERE I actually think there is room for a part three... There’s more I want to write! Let me know if you guys would be keen for me!

Let me know what you think, and if you have any requests for future oneshots, you can ask me HERE.

2634 words.

There is no other sound like a bomb dropping. To describe it as loud would be an understatement. The noise it makes is all-consuming. Harry had only experienced the chilling sound twice, and that was two too many times for any man. He had never quite recovered from the sound, and if it was ever too quiet, Harry could hear the boom replaying over and over in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of the war he wasn’t sure they’d win.

When his third bomb hit, Harry was sure it was just a nightmare. There was no way, no way that they’d been hit here. Here in the safety of Annabelle’s tent, right next to huge medical tent, in the middle of nowhere. Surely not. Bombs on the field were expected, but bombs on the medical sites? There was no way. His eyes flung open and immediately met Annabelle’s, who was shuffled close to him just as she had been the night before. Her hands were clutching his bare shoulders, her whole body trembling as the sounds reverberated in the air around them. They were alive. They would live another few seconds. And Harry realized the bomb most definitely was not a nightmare.

They continued to stare at each other in shock, the sounds of yelling, groaning men and shrieking women filling their ears. The site had been hit. But Annabelle and Harry hadn’t. “We hafter go,” Harry managed, a hand finding Annabelle’s cheek. She was still frozen with fear, eyes wide and filled with tears. Harry knew that she was thinking of all of the other nurses and soldiers who might not have been as lucky as them. That was the hardest thing about war. You got thrust into this awful situation with a bunch of complete strangers, and with all humanity stripped you just sort of had to muddle through. You bonded deeply with everyone around you, knowing that everyone was as hurt and scared and panicked as you were.

Annabelle had always had to be the strongest of all the women on the field. She lost countless men every day, but she was never allowed to dwell on it. She was hard on all of the nurses she was in charge of, but each of them were deeply important to her. She admired them all greatly for the work they were doing, and she had vowed to herself to be their fearless leader as long as she was alive. So now, with the prospect of losing all those wonderful women before her, she couldn’t move.

“Belle. Annabelle… We hafter go,” he repeated. “We need ter get outta here,” he urged, eyes wide and desperate as his thumb stroked over her cheek, desperately trying to rouse her from her state of complete shock. She snapped out of it suddenly, nodding blindly as she sat up. They both helped each other dress in silence, tugging random items of clothing on that they collected from the floor of the tent, many of which had been discarded so eagerly the night before. Harry had some trouble getting his shoes on due to his wounded leg, but Annabelle was quick to help, silently tying his boots before pulling on her own shoes.

“Your crutches,” she murmured, looking down at them. “I… I’ll go withou’,” he replied, biting his lip as he shuffled to stand. The pain was immense, but it was better than dying. “They’ll slow me down,” he justified, meeting her concerned eyes with his. “Righ’. Let’s get outta here,” he said, his voice much more confident than he felt. “And… Annabelle? I can’ run like you. If yeh need to, you leave me behind,” he instructed. Annabelle said nothing, choosing to ignore his statement instead of addressing it. The thought of leaving Harry behind and losing him too was unbearable, and if she agreed to his request it would make it all too real; she wasn’t about to tempt fate. What would come would come, but for now she wasn’t leaving him anywhere.

She fumbled with the ties of the tent, prolonging the moment where she would have the push the thick, canvas flap to the side and reveal the devastation that was surely awaiting them. “C’mon Belle,” Harry murmured, his hand resting on the small of her back. There was nothing more he could do to comfort her, they would have to face whatever was on the other side of that fabric. She took a shaky breath, pushing the canvas open to reveal the damage before them.

It was horrific. Men and women alike were scrambling around like headless chickens, no one sure where to go. It seemed most people were heading to the left of Annabelle’s tent, running towards to the forest that their site lay on the outskirts of. There were injured bodies everywhere you looked, and many of the small tents were on fire, dense plumes of smoke billowing up from the burning fabric and filling the air above them. The main medical tent which homed all the injured soldiers remained untouched however, and Annabelle breathed a small sigh of relief. Hopefully her nurses had gotten out.

They both scanned the area, taking in the scorched ground where the bombs had hit. They had fallen inevitably from an enemy plane. The little planes zipped over the soldiers almost constantly when they were out of the field, and so Harry presumed that the same kind of plane had found this little haven. “Should we follow them?” Harry suggested, his voice gruff as he pointed in the direction of the people running into the dense forest. Annabelle nodded, finding his hand, and the pair began their journey.

##

Three hours later, and the pair were exhausted. The forest was only getting more and more dense, and they were completely alone only now, the sounds from their fellow soldiers and nurses long disappearing. Neither of them knew where they were going, or what they were hoping to find, but they knew that their only option was to keep moving forward. If the choices were between dying in the forest together or out on the field alone, they both knew which they’d choose.

The sun was high now, it must’ve been about midday Annabelle supposed, given the time they had been so unpleasantly awoken from their sleep. Their night together felt so far away now. It was like it had happened in an alternate universe, one full of safety and peace and lingering kisses and nervous first touches. It had been perfect, and now it felt completely unobtainable. Annabelle squeezed Harry’s hand, having not let it go since the moment they had left the tent, and Harry squeezed back.

“Should we res’ soon?”

“Yeah. Yeah, soon. Just don’t feel safe yet,” she replied, her head twisting over the back of her shoulder to scan the area they had come from. She hadn’t stopped checking, and even though she knew that there was nothing she would be able to do if she did find out they we were being pursued, she continued her hasty looks regardless.

Harry nodded in response, hobbling along as best he could, determined to keep up with the purposeful strides of the woman next to him. He had seen first-hand the strength of so many of the men which he had fought alongside, but now, in her presence, practically being led by her, he could see that he had taken her, and all the other women like her, completely for granted. His fellow soldiers had often joked about wanted to take a bullet just to get a look at a real woman after being in the sole company of men for so long, and Harry had laughed along with them. But now, with his hand wrapped up in Annabelle’s, he knew that there was so much more to her (and probably all of them) than just a lovely figure, a pretty face, and the kindest eyes.

“Yeh know, yer pretty fuckin’ incredible,” he murmured, his eyes looking up to scan over her profile. “Mm?” she hummed, his voice pulling her from her thoughts as she met his eyes briefly before turning them back to focus on the ‘path’ before them. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean… I… Well I was jus’ thinking abou’ how… Well I… I guess I only really ever thought abou’ wha’ we were giving up. Yeh know, as soldiers. Bu’… meeting you and… seeing all tha’ yeh’ve done and gone through… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do wha’ you do. Waiting to die is easy. Bu’ saving people from death is… I mean… yeah. Incredible. Yer incredible,” he finished, his cheeks flushed as a result of his complete honesty.

Annabelle felt a smile dance across her lips, a weak smile at that but a smile none the less. “Thank you Harry. I was waiting to die too though. Still am,” she murmured, letting out a soft sigh. “But I-“

Harry’s hand yanked from hers, the sound of his strong frame slamming against the ground hit her ears immediately. His foot had caught on a root, causing him to fall face first onto the uneven forest floor, his head bashing against a protruding branch on his way down.

“Harry!”

Annabelle dropped to her knees, her hands finding his shoulders and giving him a frantic shake. Nothing. No response. Not even a groan of pain. He was out for the count, and Annabelle gasped as a thick stream of crimson blood began to pool on the soil beneath him, the dirt sucking up the new, foreign liquid as quickly as it fell. Annabelle wasted no time, heaving him over so that he lay on his back. His new ailment was immediately revealed, and Annabelle let out a small, relieved sigh as she took it in. It was a long, bloody cut, but it was shallow, and Annabelle knew that if she got the bleeding under control quickly, Harry would be fine.

She paused for a moment, chewing her lip anxiously as she considered what the best way forward would be. She began to tug off her boots quickly, and then her socks, stretching one of the cotton socks to check it’s give. It would have to do, she decided, crouching down beside Harry and lifting his head gently, tying the sock tightly around his head, covering the cut. The stretchy fabric seemed to provide enough tension to stem and slow the bleeding, and Annabelle let out another small sigh, her shoulders dropping as she relaxed a little.

She used her other sock to mop away the rest of the still fresh blood from his face, pausing to rest her hand on his cheek for a moment, just as she had done when he had first been brought in with his wounded leg. He was still completely unconscious, but he was definitely breathing, and the only thing she could do now was wait for him to wake up. She tugged her boots back on, lying down beside Harry and finding his limp hand, blinking quickly to try and stop the tears threatening to roll down her cheeks. She was good at this, constantly having to push her emotions to the side when she worked on the countless wounded soldiers on the field. But this was different. This was Harry. And while she didn’t know him in the conventional sense, she knew him. She knew his heart. And she needed him to be okay.

##

Annabelle was startled from her sleep, scrambling to sit up as her eyes darted around wildly, desperately trying to find the source of the noise that had woken her. The forest was darkening slowly, and Annabelle wondered how long she had been asleep for. The sounds of guns being fired in the distance rang in her ears, and she winced at the sound, looking down at Harry with wide eyes. He was still out, and Annabelle hurried to press her fingers to his pulse. Still breathing, but still unconscious. She sat for a moment, considering her options. Logically, there was no way she would be able to carry Harry. He was too heavy, and even if she could get him up, there was no way she could keep him up for longer than a couple of minutes, let alone navigate the unknown forest at the same time.

She sprung back into action at the sound of more gunshots, scrambling around Harry’s frame, dragging leaves and whatever else she could find around him. It was a weak attempt at camouflage, but it was the best she could do given the circumstances. She lay back down next to him, hooking a leg over his, her head on his chest. His heart beat steadily against her ear, and she tried to focus as best she could on the constant, hopeful rhythm which confirmed his determination to live, distracting herself from the sounds of the far away weapons.

She stayed like this, frozen against Harry, half listening to his heart beat, half listening to the ever-threatening sounds of the guns. It didn’t seem like they were getting closer, but it also didn’t seem like they were getting further away. As confused as she was, she was endlessly relieved to be safe even for just a little longer.

“Mm… Belle?”

Annabelle sat up quickly, looking down at Harry. His eyes were open, dazed, but open. Her hand found his cheek as she offered him a tense smile.

“Hey… Harry… You’re awake. We have to go.”

Her voice was short and fearful, and Harry blinked a couple of times as he tried to re-orient himself with his surroundings. He could hear the gunshots, feel the hard dirt beneath him, and see Annabelle’s big, scared eyes staring down at him. His head was pounding and his body was cold. His hand reached to feel his head, trying to locate the source of the pain, and his brow furrowed as his fingers came in contact with the foreign object tied around the circumference of his head.

“It’s a sock. To stop the bleeding. It’s all I had.”

Harry’s brow softened at her explanation, nodding as he began to sit up slowly. Everything was spinning, and he paused his journey for a moment, trying desperately to grasp onto any form of steadiness he could find. Once he had regained a little more of his balance and the shadowy forest stopped its spinning, he pulled himself up, hands instinctually reaching for Annabelle as he steadied himself. She gripped onto him, watching him anxiously as he struggled to balance.

It took a minute or so, but eventually Harry was standing without Annabelle’s assistance. They began to walk again in silence, not speaking for a good ten minutes, neither of them wanting to breach the topic of the ever-noisy gunshots in the distance.

“How long?”

“I… I don’t actually know. A while. They haven’t gotten any closer.”

Silence fell again. And then-

“Yeh stayed. With me.”

Annabelle stopped in her tracks abruptly, turning quickly on her heel, her eyes blazing as she looked up at him.

“I will never leave you.”

Harry looked down at her, the most wonderful, beautiful, passionate woman he’d ever met, and his heart swelled. He could get to the end of this thing, as long as he had her. He blinked back tears, his mind frantically trying to form a coherent sentence that could truly express how deeply he felt for her in that moment, but nothing came. So, he pressed his lips to hers. It was hard and soft and warm and comforting and exhilarating and soothing all at the same time, but above all, it was right.

“Never leave yeh either,” he murmured against her lips.

#harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #one shot #oneshot #harry styles #writing #creative writing #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #imagine #blurb #harry styles blurb #fanfic #fan fic #fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #fan fiction

[foreignseongms-blog]

The Midnight Paradise Effect : Korean Fan Fiction

ForeignSeong’s 2nd Fan Fiction in the making, couldn’t wait to post it. I hope you all enjoy=)

An adopted simple kind-hearted high school student, Jin finds himself in the middle of a violent turned Seoul when people out of nowhere begin to wreak havoc in the streets. It is later found out that the root to people’s madness is a drug called Midnight Paradise, the goal is to get a high and hallucinate but meanwhile the user is in a state of high hallucination the body begins to go crazy or “brainless”. The government fiercely attempts to find the root of the problem and eliminate it as fast as possible. All clues of Midnight Paradise point to Jin. Could he possibly prove his innocence in time? Who framed him? Does he have to face this ordeal alone?

Genre : Fantasy, Romance, Angst, Mystery, Violence, and Psychological

Rating : M - mature for sexual suggestive themes, violence, and vulgar language

Characters : Kim Seok-jin (Choi Jin), Lee Soo-hyuk (Choi Chan-gyu), BTS, Block B, Bam-mi (Fictional), and Park Mi-ri (Fictional)

Chapter One : Killings

The middle aged man gasped trying to catch his breath from running for so long. Thick sweat dripped from his forehead as he panicked seeing nothing but an alley that ended with a brick wall.

“No! Fuck!” He cursed banging his fist on the wall.

The sound of chuckles echoed causing him to turn back in alarm. “Hmm…” The woman opened her bloodied mouth revealing fangs while limping towards him.

“No! Stay back!” He warned grabbing a piece of broken wood nearby trying to hold it steady but it still wavered. “No, I’m sorry! Please spare me!” He cried desperately.

“Ah!” Her hand slashed at the wood cutting through it with her fine claws making it hit the wall. “Hmm!” Her tongue stuck out while she forcefully grabbed the man by the arms digging her nails in deeply enough to penetrate his skin.

He cried out in pain looking straight into her eyes revealing nothing but an empty darkness. “No, please!” He still begged.

Her fangs dug deep into his neck drawing out an immense amount of blood as she repeatedly began to gnaw at the wound sucking the blood roughly while he cried out his last breath.

The Silver Hill High School stood bright and proud as the sun began to gleam rays at it. Two male high school students stood on the Silver Tower yawning and drinking coffee that early morning.

“What time is it?” One of them asked while he played with the large bell rope.

The other scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know let me check my phone.” He yawned stretching. “5:58.” He announced.

The one with the bell rope began to stand up and put on some type of sound cancelling ear plugs while his buddy did the same. The phone rang that it was six o’clock.

The boys pulled on the rope with all their might and the large bell began to toll throughout the whole school.

Several students ran to the open gate entrance. “Hurry before we get locked out!” Some students urged each other.

A female student held onto the gate door since it was her duty to close it with one of her junior officers of the student board. She tapped her foot impatiently searching through the students hoping to see someone in particular. “Ugh, where is he?” She muttered frowning.

“What has you so worried Mi-ri sunbae?” The junior asked.

She nodded with a nervous smile. “Nothing in particular Jae.”

All students successfully made it past the front entrance, except for maybe one. “Okay lock it down Miss Park!” Mi-ri bowed to the teacher’s order and slowly began to push the gate with Jae.

“Damn it Jin!” She cursed under her breath. “Why are you always so late?”

“Wait!” A familiar voice called out and she stopped pushing the gate looking out to see Jin.

“Jin!” She called out with a wave.

The teacher groaned but quickly turned to Jae. “Shut it, shut it down now!” He snapped and Jae quickly begin to push it as hard as he could but Jin managed to slip though just in time.

“Jin!” Mi-ri clapped bright while he tried to catch his breath. “You made it.” She playfully hit his arm. “What took you so long?” Everyone began to walk into the building ready to begin early class sessions.

Jin nervously scratched the back of his head. “Oh it is nothing just that I was looking into Chan-gyu hyung’s first case file.” He admitted.

Mi-ri gave him a distasteful look. “Why would ever want to look at that? Dead bodies and blood everywhere, how gross!”

“Yeah-yeah,” He rolled his eyes at his lady friend, “but hear me out when I tell you that this case is pretty peculiar. Guess what happened?”

“Ugh, what?”

“Some 36 year old victim got a large bite on his neck!”

Mi-ri looked alarmed. “Like vampire bite?”

Jin nodded. “No, way worse! The unsub ripped the flesh off and sucked out all the blood, leaving nothing but a dried up corpse.” He made many motions with his hands grabbing a small part of Mi-ri’s white neck making her flinch back.

“You’re lying!” She hit him with her book bag before reaching her locker and inserting her digital combination.

“No it’s true!” Some other male students got in the conversation.

“Yah are you guys talking about the killing last night?”

“I heard it was an animal that did it.”

“That’s stupid we’re in Seoul!”

All were talking at once making a huge gap between Jin and Mi-ri. To her disappointment Jin began to focus on all the other students overriding him with a million questions. “Hmph!” She slammed her locker turning a direction far away from Jin and his crowd of popularity.

Jin paused mid-sentence catching a glimpse of Mi-ri storming off towards her home classroom. “Mi-ri!” He called out.

“So does anyone know who did it or is the killer still out on the loose?” A girl asked nudging his rib cage.

Another one went through the crowd. “Does Chan-gyu oppa have the unsub already? If anyone can catch the unsub it would be him!” She squealed along with other girls that were part of the Choi Chan-gyu fan club, which is a surprisingly real thing at the school.

Jin only chuckled nervously feeling the exhaustion of being surrounded by girls swooning over his big brother.

“Everyone make way!” A boy with faded aqua hair pushed students aside with a Girl’s Generation light stick in one hand and a Sistar light stick in the other. Many students stuck to the sides making room like he urged them. “Move!” He shoved a shoulder against Jin making him bump his back on the lockers behind him.

Jin furrowed his brows clearly mad. “Don’t worry oppa they aren’t as cute as you.” Some of the first year girls snuggled into him making him grunt in annoyance. This is not how I pictured High School.

Five boys with flower boy looks walked into the hall gaining a lot of attention from the female students. “We’ll still stick with you!” The freshmen girls hugged onto Jin tighter.

“You are all...crushing…” He gasped a few breaths of air.

The obvious leader, just for the heck of it, kicked a nearby trash can to gain more attention from students this time making everyone tense up. He kept walking until he finally halted near Jin and his pile of girls.

The boy smirked. “It seems like losers always get the freshmen. Sometimes status never changes.” He blew air on Jin’s bangs causing him to blink but he was certainly not intimidated.

“You are right Nam-joon.” He agreed. “Status here can never change. For example, your status as the high school douche that thinks he can dominate everyone here but is really nothing, just a low life everytime he walks out of this school.” Suddenly the girls managed to run away as soon as Nam-joon’s hands caught a good hold of Jin’s collar. Both were in a dominant staredown.

“Yah, what is going on here?” A teacher from a nearby homeroom called out to the boys.

Nam-joon’s furrowed brows loosened and his lips made a forced smile. “Nothing!” He caught Jin’s head in his arm ruffling his maine. “Just having a little fun with my buddy.” He gave Jin a hard flick on his forehead.

The teacher just tapped a foot on the ground not buying a single word from the notorious Nam-joon. “Everyone needs to get to their home room immediately!” He announced in a booming voice, people began to scatter.

Nam-joon bumped into Jin purposefully making him slam back onto the lockers. “Watch that fat mouth next time Jinnie.” He warned continuing to walk the hall with his gang.

“Yah, homeroom Nam-joon!” The teacher warned while Nam-joon only stuck out his middle finger before disappearing behind a corner. The teacher clicked his tongue. “Aish, that little shit.”

Jin began to walk to his homeroom but caught a glimpse of Mi-ri eyeing him from her homeroom entrance. She frowned at him before disappearing into her classroom. “Aish!” He sighed a bit frustrated. High school can become a complicated mess sometimes.

Throughout the Seoul Police Department there was constant chatter, arguments, and phones ringing non-stop. “Aish, make it stop!” A chubby police officer groaned taking a few tablets of aspirin with water.

Chan-gyu chuckled sitting at his own small office desk near the officer. “You shouldn’t have gone drinking last night like I warned.”

“It was our superiors. It’s not like I had other plans.” He rubbed his temples.

Chan-gyu began to open the notes he made on his case file. “Make plans.” He pulled out a pair of glasses from his desk drawer putting them on before reviewing what he has understood so far from the horrific case-his first gruesome case. “I have never seen anything like it before.” He muttered tapping a long finger on his chin. “We may have to go back to the crime scene. It could help us make our next move.”

The other officer groaned with his head on his desk but still raising a thumbs up to Chan-gyu. He just sighed at his partner who was about to pass out.

“Yah, get your fucking paws off me!” A hooker yelled out while a police officer forcefully escorted her to a nearby jail cell. Behind her were like two or three other hookers, except one looked peculiar with a solemn look on her face as if she wasn’t exactly taking in her reality but something else.

They brought all the women into the jail cell. She sat down and only stared blankly sometimes blinking but that was about it. Chan-gyu furrowed his brows examining her intently. She did wear hooker style clothing, her dark hair untamed like it hasn’t been brushed in a long while.

She sensed a pair of eyes on her and she looked up to see her’s and Chan-gyu's eyes connect. He blinked away. She quickly stood up and held the bar handles tightly looking at Chan-gyu pleadingly.

One of the officers that took the girls in noticed officer Choi eyed the peculiar one. “Yeah she has been off ever since we caught them hanging around the streets. She didn’t even run or use force against us. Weird right?” Chan-gyu nodded.

“Does she have mental issues perhaps?” He asked the officer who only shrugged.

“Hell if I know. She hasn’t said a single word since we found her. Just stares sadly all the time or as if she is in a different world, poor thing, must have been through a lot.” They both looked at her while she stared intently at Chan-gyu her eyes glistening in the light almost as if she wants to cry. “She acts a bit childish though, only sometimes, like when we had her in the cop car she couldn’t stop messing with the window. She would push the buttons up and down, hell we were surprised how big she smiled when we let her turn on the siren. She might have amnesia and got caught with these hookers. We should get her examined in the hospital that’s for sure.”

“Yeah.” Chan-gyu nodded turning back to focus on his case.

“Wow, that’s a dirty one.” The officer commented.

Chan-gyu nodded. “Yes it is. I believe we are all going to be assigned to this case as a unit if we fail to catch the unsub before it strikes again.”

“It seems like a wild animal killing to me. This must be some real sicko.”

Many students in the school huddled to the nearest television sets and cell phones within the school and tuned into the news, all hyped about the fresh new killing.

Mi-ri appeared into Jin’s homeroom scouting for him but failed to find him in his seat. “Where is he?” She ran through the halls.

Jin sighed with arms behind his head looking up at the beautiful sky with only warm fluffy clouds decorating it. “I wish I wasn’t here, but up there.” He raised a hand up to the sky feeling the warmness of the sun. “It’s so pretty!” The light wind blew between his fingers. “I’m gonna skip the rest of the day.” He thought. “I’m sure hyung wouldn’t mind.”

Mi-ri ran through the halls and turned a corner tripping over someone’s leg. “Oh!” She gasped falling on the floor. “Ow!” She looked up to see six boys tower over her. Uh-oh.

“I’m sorry.” A boy with dark hair warmly stuck out a hand for her to take. Mi-ri blushed taking a good look at the boy’s cute smile and dimpled cheeks.

Before she took it another hand slapped his away. “Get out of the way Ho-seok it’s your fault she tripped anyways.” A large hand grabbed tight on the back of her blazer and pulled her up to her feet. “I apologize for my friend’s clumsy retardedness.” The leader leaned closer to whisper. “It’s a sickness. You better not catch it.” He chuckled pressing his index finger on her nose making her blush and blink constantly.

“Stop Nam-joon you’re scaring the girl.” Ji-min chuckled trying to pull Nam-joon away from her path. “Please, continue on your way girly.” He waved.

Mi-ri slowly walked past Nam-joon and his friends but a hand caught onto her arm, she gasped turning back to see a boy with peculiar eyes on her. “Jung-kook what the hell!” Nam-joon snapped at him.

Jung-kook squinted his eyes at her. “You’re that girl he hangs out with.”

Mi-ri blinked at him confused. “What?”

“Jin, Choi Jin. You are always around him. Are you two dating?” Her face blushed beet red.

“No,” Mi-ri tried to tug away from his strong grasp, “let go!” She panicked.

Nam-joon grabbed Jung-kook in a surprise choke hold. “Aish, what the hell?!” Jung-kook managed to spat out letting go of her.

“Sorry carry on.” Nam-joon gave her a dorky smile urging her to carry on and Mi-ri did-very quickly. “Is that a way to treat your leader’s lady?!” He started rubbing his fist hard in Jung-kook’s hair while he yelled out painful protests.

“Ow, what? Your lady?” He muffled in Nam-joon’s chest.

“Yes, you got that right minion. I’ve just found the love of my life thanks to Ho-seok!” Nam-joon freed Jung-kook and cupped Ho-seok by his cheeks and gave him a big smooch on the lips.

“Ugh!” Ho-seok managed to retort in distaste.

Nam-joon wrapped one arm around Ji-min and the other around Tae-hyung. “Come one guys let’s celebrate!” All three skipped together in the hall like a bunch of idiots while Jung-kook and Ho-seok struggled to keep up while holding onto Yoon-gi.

There was a large pounding sound coming from the High School’s roof entrance. Jin sat up alarmed. The door busted open with Mi-ri walking in and quickly closing it behind her gasping. “Aish, that was crazy. They are all crazy!”

“Mi-ri!” Jin called out to her and she yelped not expecting him to be there.

“You were here all along?” She walked up to him and sat next to him.

He nodded. “Yeah. Were you looking for me?” He raised his eyebrows in a mischievous way. Mi-ri could only roll her eyes at him. “I knew you couldn’t last all day without me.” Jin sighed lazily laying back down.

“Jin.” She began with a worried expression on her face revealing her phone from her pocket. Her eyes stared at it wide. “Oh shit! Damn it!”

“What?” He sat up to realize her screen cracked.

Mi-ri hit the phone on her forehead several times. “It must of happened when I tripped.”

Jin stared at her surprised. “But you never trip.” He laughed. “You have always been a cool and collected person who never made a fool out of herself.”

Mi-ri punched him on the arm roughly. “Why is it when it comes to you I do get clumsy?” She began to search through her phone while he laughed.

“You care about me too much.” Jin shrugged.

“There has been another murder like last night.” She handed him the phone.

Jin immediately turned serious seeing the female reporter on the screen. “We have come here today to the Hongdae club scene in the Mapo-gu District where tragedy has stricken. Hongik University student Jo Seung-woo was found brutally murdered this morning around the back alley of club Red Destination. Seung-woo was found like the previous victim, missing a large portion of his neck and with no traces of blood within the body.”

Jin handed Mi-ri back her phone and began to run into the building. “Jin wait, where are you going?” She ran after him.

Both appeared out near the school’s back courtyard. “I have to go see my brother! This is definitely a serial killer!” He began to climb the school walls.

“What are you insane? We’re in school right now, we can’t leave.” Mi-ri tugged on his backpack.

“Then I’m going alone.” Jin managed to sit on top of the wall. “You are the student body president Mi-ri. Don’t follow me anymore or they’ll just kick you out.”

“But,” She tugged on his shirt now with a very worried expression on her face, “Jin, you do realize this murder takes place this morning. It is escalating and so are the riots. Please, be very careful.” Jin grabbed her hand with a cheeky smile.

“Don’t worry I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. You worry too much. You’ll see me tomorrow morning, I promise.” He let go disappearing on the other side of the wall.

Mi-ri sighed with no traces of worry leaving her, not even for a second. “Jin, why do you always leave me so worried?” She slowly turned back and gasped at Nam-joon’s presence.

“So,” He began with an intrigued tone, “it appears that Jung-kook was right.” He popped his neck making Mi-ri wince. Oh god, what is he going to do to me? “Since you know Jinnie so well…” He grabbed Mi-ri roughly by the collar causing her to yelp, “where is he headed?”

#kim seokjin #lee soo hyuk #choi chan gyu #bts #bangtan #block b #fantasy #romance #angst #bts angst #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #fanfic #bts jin #mystery

[bigfinancial]

Power of Illusion, Illusion of Power

In my last articles I pointed out the fatal flaws of the current ruling paradigm; the paradigm of materialism rooted in dualistic thinking. Materialism not only fails to explain many essential aspects of our reality, but its logical structure also fails.

Materialism fails to explain past life recall, reincarnation, near death experience, telepathy, telekinesis and so forth… even though evidence for all these phenomena is well documented and statistically unassailable. Materialism fails to explain the origin of life on Earth, speciation, consciousness… and yet science is holding on to this false belief system, this illusion, seemingly at all cost.

Materialism also fails by internal logic; matter, considered fundamental by materialism, is convertible into energy and energy into matter. Nuclear energy and particle accelerators do this conversion every day, without doubt. If matter were truly fundamental, the ultimate basis of all existence, this conversion could not happen.

For matter to be converted into energy and for energy to be converted into matter there must be a common functioning principle through which the conversion occurs… and the CFP of matter/energy must by definition be more fundamental than either matter or energy. Matter and energy are the flip sides of a more fundamental CFP, whatever it may be.

The power of illusionary belief is immense; mainstream science is constrained by false belief, by illusion. The dogmas of materialist science are rooted in illusion; no evidence showing the failure of the prevailing paradigm or illusion is examined or even admitted to exist. The taboo against such investigation is too powerful for all but a few mavericks who investigate reality in spite of mainstream dogma.

History is filled with examples of the power of illusion; when the illusion that the Earth is flat prevailed, voyagers were afraid to travel out to sea because they would ‘fall off the edge’. When Galileo showed that the Earth is not at the center of the universe, the powers that be… in his case cardinals of the Catholic Church… refused to look through his telescope. Looking at the evidence was forbidden by taboo. Looking and seeing would have been an admission that their beliefs, aka illusions, were wrong.

Eventually all illusion is shattered; once the illusion of a flat earth vanished, sailors crossed the seas without any fear of ‘falling off the edge’. Once the illusion that the Earth is at the center of the universe vanished, science and cosmology progressed without hindrance.

The biggest illusion of all is the illusion of power. Specifically, real power is conflated with illusion of power. The US military is arguably the most powerful in the world. The destructive power inherent in the myriad guns, bullets, rockets, and bombs this military commands is beyond doubt. The illusion lies in the belief that a single man, the Commander in Chief, controls this awful power. The illusion is that hundreds of thousands of humans acts at the whim of one person; that the ‘chain of command’ represents real power.

The chain of command is an illusion, and has power only if and as long as the illusion remains intact. Mutinies, military stand-downs, revolutions, civil wars are all examples of shattered illusion. Once shattered, illusion loses power. Such is the fate of all illusion, even if extraordinary efforts are made by TPTB to maintain an illusion.

In the Soviet military, once considered the second greatest power on Earth, communist ‘commissars’ accompanied the troops… to make sure that orders were obeyed, that the illusions of Communism were upheld, at the pain of death. Indoctrination, brainwashing, threats are used to maintain the status quo, the ruling illusion… but eventually the illusion shatters, and the power of the illusion vanishes.

At this very moment in history we are witnessing the destruction and imminent breakup of the power of a major illusion. Ebola is a horrific affliction but it brings another illusion to the forefront. If Ebola truly goes ‘viral’, the illusion of the power of mainstream medicine will be shattered at a wondrous pace.

In a recent interview, an American doctor gave away the illusion, by pointing to its heart. Many other doctors see the truth, see through the illusion… see truth that is being withheld by ‘the powers that be’, with the excuse that ‘we must act to prevent panic’.

Another American doctor, just back from Sierra Leone, has shown that Ebola can be cured by a simple method of blood treatment using ozone. The ozonation of blood kills the Ebola virus, and helps to regulate the immune system. Immune system over reaction to viral invasion seems to be the proximate cause of symptoms and death; Ebola is an autoimmune disease.

The powers that be refuse to allow ozone treatment… because it is taboo, because it violates the current illusion that vaccination is the answer… and to be brutally frank; there is no wealth to be made using ozone therapy. Ozone is dirt cheap, vaccines are lucrative.

The reality is that ozone treatment is forbidden… at the pain of a doctor losing his license to practice. But this ‘license to practice’ is just a piece of paper. Who cares about a piece of paper if nasty, immanent death threatens? Even though many doctors still obey, others are ready to shatter the paradigm in spite of threats by ‘TPTB’. The threat of death by Ebola is stronger than the threat of losing the piece of paper.

Real power lies in the power to cure, not in the piece of paper. As the truth emerges that a cheap, safe, easy method to cure the horror of Ebola exists, and that some doctors are using this method to save lives, the power of truth will easily overcome illusion. The power of the medical establishment will shatter and scatter like chaff in the wind.

This brings us full circle to the most insidious, destructive illusion of all; the illusion that Government issued paper with numbers printed on it is money. This pernicious illusion underlies the power to control and manipulate the world economy to the benefit of the perpetrators, at the expense of the rest of humanity, the victims.

Enormous power lies in the illusion of Fiat ‘money’… but like all illusion, is subject to being shattered by truth. Once the illusion of the ‘faith and credit’ that purportedly backs Fiat currencies is destroyed, a new era of real money will emerge. Real money, Gold; not paper notes borrowed into existence without limit. Truth will replace the illusion and lies of Fiat.

Just as the power of a gun is real, but the power to command where the gun is aimed is an illusion, just as the power to cure disease is real but the license to cure is an illusion… so the power of Gold to extinguish debt is real but the power of Fiat is illusion.

Source by Rudy Fritsch

The post Power of Illusion, Illusion of Power appeared first on Big Financial BLOG.

from Big Financial BLOG http://blog.bigfinancial.co.uk/power-of-illusion-illusion-of-power/