Enarr

Brainless Automatic Writing - Stream of Thought - Page a Day - Psychedelic Nonsense

Feb 7 2020
Day Two

Then, like a mist being swept away by the wind, I felt Maleftos’ influence recede. ‘Fifteen minutes, huh?’ I thought to myself. Well I can do a lot with fifteen minutes.

Staring into my soul, I saw the very canal that I had just emerged from. I swore I would never take in the dread again and that was true, I absolutely will not. Seeing my corpses lain about in the stream never fails to make me uncomfortable. Having just been reborn though, I reached out to the freshest one, a vacant body only hours old. This would suit my purposes better than the others.

Having only fourteen minutes to prepare myself for Mal’s Bullshit Barrage, I drug the fresh corpse out of the canal and over to a nearby altar, the very altar that I had lain upon before my first undoing. I had burnt myself for the sake of others many times, even many times more than I had been taken under by the all consuming dread that threads itself through my life.

Thirteen minutes remained. My toolkit was a ways away. While it was probably possible that I could retrieve it in as little as three, that would also cost me an additional three minutes on the return, leaving me only seven minutes for my rituals. No. Maybe it could work, but it’d probably be optimal to just get my hands dirty. Ho hum.

Thinking it through had cost me another of my precious minutes. So, with twelve remaining, I peeled the eyes of my prior self open. I had to part the eyelids with nails, seeing as laying face down in the dread had caused the damnable fluid to congeal into a viscous substance. Not unlike glue. Kissing my self on the forehead, I set my hands over his ears and sat him upright.

“You were a good man, Arnie. A brave man. You deserved better. Don’t worry,” I advised myself, just as much as I was speaking to my other self, “We’ll have better. Just take a deep breath and let me take the wheel. Sometimes to make an omelette,” I hiss, placing my right hand on the forehead and the other upon the back of his neck. “you have to break a few,” I drove my right hand downward, like a twelve-year old playing Whack-A-Mole. Seeing the scarlet, borderline blackened, spatter, I inflated my lungs, needing the air in spite of the literally dreadful stench, “Skulls.”

Clocks ticking. Nine minutes left. So I handily parted the skull at the sagittal suture, like a DVD case, before reaching inside, sweeping out a metric fuckton of cerebrospinal fluid and eventually working my fingers around the occipital lobe. Bingo. I flapped my fingers to and fro before gently persuading it to secede from its cerebral union. Yes. And out it came. My hand coated in the dreadful ooze that eeked its way out of the brain. I held it up to the sun: beholding it as a beekeeper would his honeycomb.

Six minutes left until Bullshit Barrage and I still haven’t even begun the ritual. Hopefully Maleftos doesn’t have any of my more powerful inner demons on speed dial or I am totally fucked.

Brainless Automatic Writing - Stream of Thought - Page a Day - Psychedelic Nonsense

"I write these stupid words and I love every one

Rivers Cuomo

Hi. I'm Nightrunner. Sometimes I write things. Stupid, stupid things. I should write more of them. So the idea of this page is just to post them. Half of my motivation for doing so is to hyperinflate The Guild with low-quality/high-quantity drivel. The other half is to boost my average number of posts a day. If you have any thoughts on them, post them. If you don't, go read something better.

Feb 6 2020
Day One

It is said that the truest way to demonstrate that you are pleading is to place your palms skyward. But, if you continue begging for long enough, then eventually the weight of the world will find itself resting in your hands, just as the mist becomes the dew so too the dread that hangs in the air condenses until it runs through your hand as casually as a stream steps upon a canal. Soon enough you’re swimming in it. Somehow sooner still you are drowned in it. The men I used to be are dead and bloated, saturated by the dread.

Upon emerging from the canal that I had carved for myself, I made myself two things: a promise and a simple sandwich. The promise was that I would never taste dread again. I would not find myself in such a sorry state as I had so constantly been in recent times. I would seize opportunity by the throat and force it to breathe in the dread on my behalf. The sandwich was ham and cheese, my favorite. All things considered, it’s fair to say that I deserve it, I’d say.

I had hardly finished placing the bread atop the cheese when I felt the oddest sensation happening upon my intestines. I felt them writhing in pleasure, at once slithering about like snakes and galloping like horses. In spite of my forthcoming jubilation, I felt that something sinister was afoot and so, at once, in a single bite, I’d taken the sandwich into my maw, neither taking the time to chew nor swallow, instead flexing my abs powerfully enough to crush my stomach, predicating a change in pressure so intense that the entire sandwich rappeled into my gut faster than an army ranger.

“So I see I wasn’t quite subtle enough, dearest Arnold,” I garbled hatefully, sounds muffled by the pudding-like trail of bread that had eroded and been abandoned all about my insides. “Very well, then. I should’ve known that you were far too literally and figuratively introspective for such methods to have an effect on you, dear rival.”

“You oughta know by now that it’s not a matter of subtlety, Maleftos! There is no amount nor is there any sort of bullshit that you can send my way that I cannot overcome,” I shouted out at the top of my lungs.

“We’ll see about that. As the Lord of your Inner Demons, many bulls kneel before me, so to speak. And everything of theirs is mine to do with as I please. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And we’ll see just how much of my bullshit you can contend with,” I said, biting my tongue several times as I spoke the words. Then, after a moment, I added “You really oughta take better care of our body. You look terrible. It’s like you’re literally trying to kill me off with all the cholesterol and cheese.”

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Nicholas

---

Adolescence truly is a magical time. Most people, when around age thirteen or fourteen, start to see the shape of things to come creeping over the horizon. But trying to see into the future, for most people, is as unachievable as trying to smell the shape of a dancing flame. Surprisingly few ever really appreciate that peeking over the edge of tomorrow isn't as finite a task as peeking over a countertop.

The true magic of adolescence isn't the curse of a faulty foresight. Rather, it is the inner alchemy of an aging heart. As you learn that even gold can rust and that as long as you hold "forever" up as an immutable constant, its' end can only ever be at an arms-length, always within reach.

When the one girl, the bossy one, blood-spattered and beautiful shouted something sarcastic and desperate, he wanted to respond faster. By all accounts, he should've responded faster. He was trained to respond faster. But this felt too horrible to be true. Like all the remaining reason was being torn from his iron fists like taffy. The truth was stretching so thin that he could see through it, like a window into the unimaginable, or perhaps more like a television.

As Nic stared into the gunshot that had once been a face, he thought back to the last time he'd seen someone hurt like that. The first girl he ever loved. Or at least said that he loved. Anyhow, there were a few brief and perfect hours in which they really did have forever ahead of them.

---

Four Years Ago
Nebraska, The United States of America, Earth

Back when there was a sun above his head, back when there was an Earth beneath his feet, back when the world had another side, there was a time when he knew how to take a hit without ever being guarded. He was a young boy, exactly thirteen years old when he was luxuriating in the midwestern sunshine, feeling his skin glisten and bead with sweat. He was his father's right hand, his pride and joy. Though he was barely pubescent he could taste the freedom under his wings, feeling the entirety of the heavens upon his back without even a single devil on his shoulder.

It was his thirteenth birthday. Uncle Derek, very possibly his father's closest advisor and Nic's own personal hero, was manning his grill and unleashing a torrent of hellish fire upon slab after slab of beef. In it's penance it was all rendered perfect, delicious. There was probably literally no one in the entire nation who could cook a better burger, Nic figured, as he wiped an amalgam of ketchup, mayonaise and grease from his chin. Nic was taken aback, choking on a crouton-sized nugget as a molten whiteness swallowed his face. He almost screamed before realizing that his father had merely wiped his face with a kleenex.

"If this were the field, you'd be dead. And that'd be a shame. You'd be the most handsome little victim. So how does it feel, my boy? It's been a long while since I was a teenager."

"I dunno, dad. Nothing feels all that different. I guess that means I've been ready all along. So can I start driving yet?"

"No, son. I know you're not as reckless as the other boys but that really is dangerous. I promise that you'll be behind the wheel before you even know it. I want it as bad as you, really. Why do you think you get CAT scans every week? The instant that your brain has developed you'll be rolling down the road like thunder. But there is nothing in the world more important to me than protecting my family. And you know who the familiest family I have is?"

"Me."

"That's right, private. Don't you forget it. Now go enjoy your special day," he said with a punch on the shoulder before winking, "And that's an order."

The sun peeked over the fenceline, glittering against the electric fence, promising that it was going to be a good day. Uncle Derek and the other men of the militia had gone all out, giving him a day to remember, playing paintball-hide n' seek until the sun set. Exhausted and gleeful, he collapsed into his fresh bedsheets, soaking his linens with his pungent and glistening adolescent marinade. His ankles took root, as had his ass but as the base of his skull hammered into his pillow, he felt a gentle but noticeable resistance.

"Yes!" he screamed in a hush, producing a collapsed cardboard box from beneath the cool side of his pillow. Even in the almost nonexistent light of the deepest hours of night, the moonlight let him see the text scrawled under the red ribbon that hugged his present tighter than his ribs could hold his heart. It read 'A secret mission for my little man. You can do this. I believe in you. Love, Dad.'

Inside the box was a key, a plain and unremarkable household key that was laid atop a manilla envelope. Along the envelope's edge, there was a name written in sharpie: "Bridgette Munroe". It wasn't a name he was familiar with. But there were plenty of neatly organized documents to unload for him. It was like a puzzle box.

"When I was your age, I was crazy about girls. I know it's pretty tight around here. Always cramped and there aren't exactly a lot of kids your age. If life hadn't dragged me down this road, I wouldn't have chosen to raise you this way. There's not a lot I can do about that, now. After all, we're here. But don't let anyone say that I don't love you. We discovered reports of a rumored teenage para at the local high school. It took a long time to fish her out but thanks to the carelessness of the school faculty we were able to ID her: Brigette Munroe. We gather that her power has something to do with enhanced optics but specifics have been scarce.

I don't think it'd be good for morale if the rest of the guys knew that we were running surveillance on high schoolers using social media under the guise of our meme accounts, which is why you are going to keep this one on the down-low. Get eyes on Munroe. Keep a log of her activities. Keep me posted on the daily. And most importantly: Have fun, sport. I love you.

Sincerely,
Your Father, Sergeant Nathan Adair"

---

Archie offered: "Help them. Find someone with a badge and bring them here."

"Anything obvious? You could grab a tampon from any one of these pussies and come fucking staunch the bleeding!" Lynn garbled hatefully.

One of them said come here and the other one said go away. Between the talk of tampons and teleportation, Nic found himself woefully unprepared and out of his element. Dropping into a situation without knowing everything about everyone ahead of time was as far from his comfort zone as.... well, as far as The Promise itself was from his literal comfort zone back in Nebraska.

He'd have to make notes on these people and their abilities later: Archie. Lynn. Eli. Amelia. And Deadmau5? Not to hurt them, he told himself. He'd never let that happen again. But so that he'd always know his options.

Option B, I guess. Handle the problem. Help stop the bleeding. After all, finding someone with a badge to stare at a corpse wouldn't help anyone.

So he decided to hop behind a tree momentarily, ripping off his fatigues and shearing a portion of the leg away that he could stuff against the officer's face in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Probably wouldn't work but it seemed reasonable that, when in doubt, it was slightly more advantageous to make a brash and unconsidered move than none at all.

Their cacophonous arguing seemed to die all at once before he returned however. When he stepped out from behind the tree, he noticed that half of the crew was gone, seeming to have disappeared altogether. So there he was, with his jeans in hand, his legs covered by the yoga pants he happened to be wearing. The only ones still around were two of the girls, one of which had been with Anderson, and Deadmau5.

"I'm sorry. I've really been out of it tonight but what just happened?"

Shortly thereafter, there was the sound of more agents storming their way. Nic did not trust them as they barked for him and his newfound associates not to move. He still really had no idea what was going on. In fact, it seemed like these people would be highly suspect. But it seemed like behaving rashly would probably get him killed. If there was a sign of real trouble, he'd probably have to get his head out of his ass. Fortunately, the insidious hypothetical danger never got around to materializing. Nic told them next to nothing because he knew next to nothing. He wished he was lying about not understanding. Next time, he promised himself, he would know. No more of this bumbling naive bullshit. No more.

---

After the interview/debriefing/interrogation/questioning, a couple things had become extremely apparent. One: Nic was apparently incapable of responding well to a surprise. Two: The faculty was either not right of mind or unfit for duty. Three: He wasn't prepared for medical emergencies if his mother wasn't there to patch him up.

So the day after he made up his mind. He couldn't legally serve in a military. Probably for the best. He couldn't be a cop, but in all fairness that probably would've been squandering his potential anyway. So it occurred to him. He'd make up for all the people he'd hurt in the last eight years by bandaging people day in and day out.

There's a hole in the world bigger than the hole in Officer Radvi's face. And Nic had decided that he would fix it. So he immediately committed to action, spending an easy hour getting certified in First Aid through a program offered on the station's infranet. After investing in a high end first aid kit, which he had divided up through his various pockets, he felt freshly prepared for whatever lay ahead.

He wasn't entirely sure if he felt a newfound resilience within his bones or if the warm morning rain was washing away the fatigue that had snowballed within him over the years. He was turning eighteen in twenty-six days. Twenty-six short days that had once felt like an eternity away. He felt the dross burning away from his heart as a newfound positivity, an earnest one left him feeling golden.

He found himself in a plaza, strolling down the street, intent on swinging by one of The Promise's bookstores, so he could peruse the textbooks for a couple medical classes he was considering taking. I wonder if there are any scholarships for parahumans like there are for ethnic minorities.

Wolfmother Moro's Chatroom

The weather is generally cold but otherwise not too unpleasant. There's not much in the way of snow, which is rather odd because about ten years ago the snow was very reliable around this time of year. All the evidence of global warming I've ever needed.

Not a war I'm personally interested in fighting. Not excited. How about you?

Movies

• Scott Pilgrim vs The World
• The Dark Knight
• The Little Prince
• 10 Things I Hate About You
• Hush

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Nicholas

---

"Sorry. I uh, I have a condition 'n all so the doctors gave me this. I think they set it to be much more sensitive than it should be. Archie. Anderson."

This poor is man is even more anxious than I am.

"That sounds inconvenient. Not so fond of warnings and supervision myself, these days," he nodded. "Not that I mean to imply that you shouldn't be hooked up to whatever it is. I guess I'm just.. babbling aimlessly. Nicholas. Adair."

That's what he was lacking, Nicholas decided. For all his coordination, he didn't have a true aim. He was missing a mission. So what was it going to be? He could determine that he would go back to the common areas and hunt down that girl he was staring at, pine for her affections relentlessly until he got either a giggle or a "Fuck no", or he could focus on being more proactive. Protecting all these poor parahuman youths from all of the Jell-O shots. Yes, he decided. That would be a worthy way to heroically sacrifice all of his power. After all, the two next to him seemed to be having a gay old time with their nudging and their kissin'.

Is that jealousy, I feel? After everything I've been through, am I really that petty?

Nothing a couple dozen Jell-O shots couldn't fix, he decided as he zeroed in on the rest of them. Then he felt his heart drop into his ankles as his conscience rang through him like a gunshot. Nononononono! Jell-O shots totally count. Five hundred and ninety-something days down the--! Bang. Bang. And bang. Those weren't epiphanies ringing like gunshots. Those were gunshots ringing like gunshots!

So, in a moment of clarity, he sheered himself away from the remaining Jell-O shots and shook off the lethargic weight of indifference that the last few years had coaxed him into. He felt his legs tighten but he was already bounding off the ground. He didn't so much breathe in the air so much as the air took him in. And he was leaping and crunching through twigs and sloshing through mud. As fast as he was, he couldn't help but notice that Archie, the kid with the medical device had somehow beaten him to the scene. In his almost masturbatory introspection there were a lot of things that Nic had failed to pay attention to, but failing to notice he was trailing someone he had just seen. This was a low.

I'll have to remember to feel ashamed about this later.

As he trotted up behind Anderson, he took in the schlock. It was uncomfortable. He felt his stomach warble but he tightened up his intestines, holding his posture straight and attempted to find some composure in the midst of the mess. He did feel his antennae involuntarily go erect in response to the excitement before emitting a puff of his spores. His hair was arranged to hide them in case of such an incident but the jog had somewhat tousled his mop, leaving them visible to the observant.

Not really sure what the correct course of action was, not ever having had much training in the way of triage. He wasn't really sure that there was anything that he could do. Wait a fucking second. I just met these people. How did something already go wrong?"

So he made his way over to the smart-looking girl. She sounded like she was taking charge. He only caught the wounds teleport and wound. Obviously he didn't belong here. Then again, no one did. "I seem to have missed the party but I heard noise so I followed Anderson. Is there anything obvious that I can do to help?"

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Alright, my guys. I gotta lot of catching up to do. Has anything had much to do with the X-Men side of things happened outside of Maxx's and Doc's posts?

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Nicholas

---

The drink weighing in his hand, Nic reminded himself that he was 593 days sober and that it would literally take the better part of two more years to rebuild this streak. But did it really count if it was in Jell-O? Maybe? No? Of course not. It's Jell-O. And so, having found a compromise that allowed him to maintain his streak and indulge his inner demons without looking like a square, he slurped it down before he even realized that he'd made a decision.

Following Gen's little discovery of Cara's miracles, Nic elbowed him in the ribs and chuckled.

"Gen. Lynn. Amelia and Keaton. Got it," he lied, unable to tell which was supposed to be which, Gen notwithstanding. Though he was suddenly feeling generally more confident. "Pleased to meet the lot of you." In an attempt to slyly match names with faces, he asked "Say, Lynn. Is that short for something? Like Caitlyn or Evelyn or.. anything to that effect? I've been told I have an Aunt Linda who sometimes goes by Lin but I suppose that's really neither here nor there."

"As for what brought me here. That's a fantastic question." Rather than saying that he had clearly been railroaded here in a conspiracy by the fates or describing his angst, he shot from the hip: "I was asking myself the same thing a second ago. I honestly think it's just one of those things where it's really complicated but it isn't all that interesting. So, I dunno," he waved his empty vessel in a wide arc before briefly eyeing the rest of them and attempting to calculate how many he could handle before it would actually break his sobriety streak.

"In short: Just thinking. Trying to lose myself or maybe, I dunno, find myself, I guess. But instead I wandered into this party. With all the stuff going on around the place I feel really bad for everybody and would love to help improve morale but, I guess, partying isn't really something I've ever done much of. This is all new ground for me."

Then he noticed that, besides Gen, there was another dude. One with a date, a posh little brunette who looked.. equally as pretty as all the other girls. Huh? This can't reasonably be beer/Jell-O goggles. Could it? Either the Jell-O shot should definitely have counted or there was an unusually high ratio of gorgeous to person in this particular cluster of people.

Then the other dude seemed to lose himself. "Shit. Sorry, sorry, sorry." Unsure as to what was happening, Nic skirted over to come to his aid.

"Hey. Are you okay, man?"

One Big Jace's Family

One Big Jace's Family

@GreenGrenade Likewise, my good man.

One Big Jace's Family

Ernuoblem, Ailartsua

"My dear Dark Patty, how I wish that we weren't meant to be. How I wish that you would be envenomed by The Brotherhood of Evil Kangaroos or fall into a wombat's web." As he sat atop his Kleenex throne, his nexus of power, he looked down upon his domain, his castle founded atop both the literal bones of his ancestors and fallen foes alike. Dark Jace had slain many foes but two eluded his grasp. First of all, was Dark Patty, the annoyingly attractive dame whose aloof nature ensured that his heart was always in tatters. One of the few things that made him shed some of the precious tears that his other enemy, Regular Jace, had shed before him.

He'd kill Regular Jace, that fucking asshole of an imposter, if it didn't mean that he'd never have the opportunity to harvest RJ's tears again. That would mean he'd never grow more powerful. And that was unacceptable. Once he'd thought that perhaps he could just keep Regular Jace in a dungeon. In fact, he had kept RJ in his dungeon once, torturing him day in and day out to harvest those tears. But it ultimately seemed to stimulate his pancreas more than it stimulated his tear glands. Upon realizing that Regular Jace could accidentally make his own life more insufferable than Dark Jace could ever achieve, he decided to set him free.

"Pathetic weakling. My bowels are the most tolerant of them all!"

But as of late, Dark Jace had noticed a disturbing pattern. The tears were both less abundant and less potent than they had been. Was Regular Jace's quality of life improving? Or was his health failing? Neither possibility would bode well for Dark Jace's power levels. Therefore, it would seem that Dark Jace would have to intervene in Regular Jace's life, to ensure that he could continue his ascension until one day he could commemorate his apotheosis by being inducted into The Brotherhood of Evil Kangaroos, as its' first non-marsupial member.

And so, transforming into a salt-rich mist, he floated through his castle halls before breezing before his enchanted mirror, the same glass that he had used to cross between worlds many times before.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, show me the most basic bitch of them all."

And it did just so.

"Excellent." Dark Jace cooed. At that, he crossed over the dimensional boundary and dispersed into Regular Jace's bedroom before gradually condensating as a puddle on the floor, one that would gradually reassemble itself underneath RJ's bed.