TokyoPewPew

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

<sup>Connie spun and lunged and grasped before he even knew something (some-one) had touched him. But his fist closed around empty air; he stared only at a crumbling concrete wall, naked but for black-and-yellow guide stripes, a film of dust and greyish road soot. He stood there petrified a moment, dazed, knowing where he was but not how he had got there. Curling the fist in toward his chest, he peered down the ramp; saw McGlinn glaring up at him, radio unlatched from his chest rig, mealwormy lips muttering this or that request for backup to some other unit elsewhere in the city. McGlinn had the nerve to be shaking his head, acting like Connie was the stupid one in all this, like he was the one to be jeered at and pitied, some kind of escaped circus act. But the voice for the time had gone still, banishing itself back into the dusty attics of his mind. He did not dare to think it dead—never dead—but maybe dormant for a little while, leaving him to steep in the relative silence of the buzz of the fluorescent bulbs, the whistle of a cool desert wind between the alleys and the colonnades. Mocking him with that silence: needling him with the question of when it might see fit again to break it. To wrest away from him all that fragile control, all that delicately balanced, teetering peace. To remind him whose urges mattered here. Whose lusts.

The Brujah tried to leave but found himself transfixed to the spot via his left hand; jerked it free and as cold night air stung its way into fresh open wounds the nerves began to sing. He looked down at the crumbs of concrete, the flecks of yellow paint worked down into the abrasions, the scratches, the gashes. The skin of his fingertips sheared away, most of the nails broken off, some debrided entirely. Then he noticed the crater left behind in the nearby bollard, the chunk ripped away from it in a five-fingered, distinctly human pattern.

Fuck.

"Hey."

Again it had come from behind him—a tap to his shoulder and a whisper low and sultry—but Connie reeled again, and again he clutched at a fistful of empty air and again he'd given McGlinn cause to gawk up at street level and wonder what that bullheaded, unwashed moron was doing now.

"Whoa, whoa," cooed the disembodied voice, "it's just me. It's me. You alright? You cool?"

Only then did Connie think to look back toward the police cruiser and its partition. Its empty partition. He sighed a raggèd sigh; cupped his tattered fingers, shoved the ruin of his fist down into his moleskin jacket's flap pocket. He could deal with it later, when knitting it up again would not risk the knives in his stomach growing even sharper, even more insatiable. Knee bouncing, his more intact hand fidgeting, clenching. "Just jumpy. Not fucking helping, by the way."

"Then how about some good news?" said the Malkavian, his tones boyish and full of vocal fry, especially at that pressed, urgent volume which said he wanted no one else to hear him, wanted not to break Obfuscate. "The parking attendant didn't know anything useful, which means he didn't see them. But just in case, I already, uh—sent him home for you."

And Connie had just been thinking to track that attendant down and lead him away to a stairwell for a 'private interview.' Blunt the edges a bit. "Right. Thanks, Jules. Couldn't do it without you."

He could practically hear Julian Prince's self-satisfied, gormless smile, even without Auspex. "I also went ahead and liberated him of the CCTV footage," beamed the Malkavian, his timbres quivering somewhat as he struggled to contain his excitement. "I've already uploaded it to your MDT."

"Where do you find the time?"

A giggle. "I had a very good distraction."

"Oh. You're welcome, I guess."

"Don't take too long browsing through it," Prince warned. "Chief Esparza is on his way. Oh, and Connie?"

But the Brujah, unsure of where to nod, where to halfheartedly salute, where to gesture his thanks, had simply dipped his head in something of an acknowledgement, and burrowed the second hand into its corresponding pocket, and started edging away toward his vehicle.</sup>

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

<sup>He should have been calmer stepping out from the parking garage; stepping away from the body and all its vultures circling and squawking and pecking. Tranquil, even, there beneath the stars smothered behind the light pollution. Each backlit window and every streetlight a kilowatt of the apathy of God. Denying Connie that peace however was something he couldn't flee, couldn't crumple up and litter with all the inconvenienced scorn one musters for a sandwich wrapper. Something internal and ill-mannered, none so polite or patient as the human bacon pestled across the concrete. Latched to his viscera like a hookworm: rasping, writhing, its every enunciation a protest, every word barbwired.

How it coaxed and cooed, that voice. Insinuated. With an eerie rationalism how it provoked him to wonder who would even miss someone like Austin McGlinn, twitchy narcissist with a gun #3,196: the other buzzcut bullies on the force? Some poor woman he bludgeoned black and blue after a few beers too many, after his team had fumbled a crucial touchdown in the fourth, or fuck, for no other reason at all than he needed the rush, needed to feel in control and there she was in the master bedroom all porcelain and dried oregano leaves and the bones of baby birds? All the dogs and the wellness checks he hadn't gotten to view down the tritium sights of his Glock for his nightly dose of masculinity? You'd be doing them a favor, wouldn't you, Conrad darling? fluttered its lips, nuzzled its tongue, nibbled its teeth smooth and humid past his ear, though it always flinched just out of view, always dwelling there in his peripherals. Every protester who wouldn't be teargassed every mental health crisis not neck-stomped to the pavement, swatted to it like mosquitoes swatted to shirtsleeves, exterminated there on the black skin of the streets, every late-night reckless driver not dragged into the back of the cruiser at gunpoint not forced to suck his cock wouldn't they owe you?—thank you, in the strange and cosmic ways that strangers do? And how often do opportunities like this come along, anyway, how often do you get to feed and be the better person, how often does it not have to feel like brood parasitism, like vein-rape, like all you do is violate, is defile, how many mornings the cactus needles all beaded and dewy and the sky the color of tangerine sherbet how often do you go to bed and not have to perform the arithmetic, not have to wonder if you locked away enough scumbags, hunted down enough runaway monsters to pay your spiritual dues?

But that singular word jutted out at him from amongst the diatribe. Feed. Of course. That's what it always was; what it always came down to, wasn't it, stripped right down to the copper wiring of it all. He was just hungry. Just hungry. It didn't matter the images turkey-bastered into his cerebral cortex: a jerk shop from his childhood knocked over and rebuilt (a general store, a bank, a Dunkin Donuts); people he used to know, used to recognize, slouching and withering and moldering all in seconds, termite mounds of dust, puddles of flesh; wallpaper yellowing and peeling in an instant, the air blackening with flies; corrupted old home movies in vignette, memoirs in synopsis. Just more shitty memories churned out of their graves to taunt him. Didn't matter the sound of his wife's voice yodeling around in his skull, rich and lively first, dulcet, then brittling, breaking, wasting, like the sidewalks of Chernobyl crumbling in fast-forward, weeds twitching up between the cracks, a hundred fifty seasons compressed into an afternoon, nuclear fallout swallowed like a diamond. Just another ghost.

Do it, she—it tantalized. Do it. Drag him between the white Cutlass Ciera and the red Jetta. (Fourteen years old. A small, weedy wildflower bouquet discovered in a trash can just outside the school.) That's right—there—where the cameras can't see. Bite him in the thigh first, then in the throat. Hors-d'œuvre and entrée, you see? Do it. You could frame these two fledglings. It would be so easy. Teresa can have the fat one. (Razor-thin wrinkles stenciling themselves around his mother's eyes. A drizzly, Novemberish tint to her hair. Trying to remember if that tooth was blue and loose and dead before. More bruises. The warmth of her smile despite it all.) Take them both, all of them, every sip, every drop. Say they were like this when you got here, must've been an ambush, a getaway gone wrong. (A shovel. A hole. Hands callused and filthy and burning beneath the fathomlessness of a sky fading from purple to green to cuttlefish-ink-blue. Tears fiercer and hotter than when his wife had left. Wondering whether that means he's broken. Tiny foamy waves tapping out their rhythms upon the lake shore.) Who are they going to believe, you or a couple of orphaned shovelheads who don't know their own assholes from an anthill, who are going to get quashed like roaches anyway? Do it. Then the fledglings will die the bodies will burn the late-night news footage will be scrubbed or doctored and no one will know and no one will think to question. Do it, Conrad. Take the blood he's been wasting on annual cancer checkups and twice-a-week half-chubs. Use it well. Burn it better than he ever could. (A bighorn ram laying upon a scrubby hill its wool matted its tongue and eyeballs eaten its black belly hollowed out and crawling with worms the points of its ribs flapping with scraps of fat as yellow as saltwater taffy. Why didn't God stop this, mama, why would he let this happen to something so beautiful?) Let it fuel you. Use it to show him how a true predator hunts. Do it. (Standing outside on the porch mustering the courage to tell his father he'd wrecked the car. Anticipating the most horrific sound in some fifteen year old boys' whole world: leather cracking on leather.) Take his sorry excuse for a life and finally imbue it with its first iota of purpose, a seed of meaning. (Trying to go a whole month without whiskey. Succeeding.) Do it, Conrad. (Trying to go a whole month without whiskey. Failing.) You know you want it. You know you must. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it...</sup>

I̷̴̸̴̢̨̧̡̡̛̒̆ͣ̑̀̓ͬ̐́ͧ̎̑͛̏̅͋̀͑̏́̂ͧ̀͊͛̅͐͌͆͂̽̋̽̅͊ͤͧ̓ͥ͐̓͂̋̐͐̽ͩͨ̐̂̑͗ͭ̾̅̏͑͌́ͣ͋̓͐̈ͪ̚̕̕͘͟͜͠͠͝͠͠͠ S̵̷̵̵̨̧̨̛ͣ̃̈́͊͋͊͒́̂͗͛̿̓́̃͑ͣ͋ͮͯ̌ͦͪ̆̓ͮͨ̍́̚̕͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͞͞Ą̷̷̏͋̉̆͗ͦ̄̈ͪ̉ͨ̑͊͐ͬ̿ͩ̂̊ͯͧ̑̍͒͋̈́ͬ͊̌̓͗̓ͨ͑͋̽ͮ̄ͦͩ̅̔̄́͢͠͠͝͏̢͟I̷̴̡̓͒͑ͦ̈ͯ͌ͭͬ̒̏̉ͫ̆ͨ̒̉ͫ͆ͩ̐̀̔̊̂͒ͭ́͜D̽ͫͯ̐ͤ̂ͯ̄̑ͭ̿ͤͥͬ̃̆̃͑ͫ͒̾̈́͐̒ͯ̆̿ͪ̂ͫ͑̔ͧ̈̒̀ͣͣ̂̈͌ͮͭͦͤ̑̚҉̸̶̵̴̶̴̧̨̡̧̧́́͞͝ F̷̊̒̂͊͋̓ͨͥͭͨ̐̋͌̐̎̈́ͯ̒̂ͦ̓ͫͥͥ̿̚͜U͊̂̄͛̏͋̋͐ͭ̒̌͆ͧ̿ͨ̌̐̽̏̐ͧ͊ͦ͊ͪ͛̒ͯ͂ͮͬ̒̄ͧ̎̎̔̂͆ͪ̇̔ͤ͆ͤ̈̾ͦ̽̊ͣ̈ͧͯ͆͂̏ͩ̅̍̋ͤ́ͧ̈́ͪ͆͑ͯ̏̚͜͟͠C̡̛͆͐ͪ̓ͥ̾̍ͥ̋ͩ̔ͨͩ͆̓ͣ̇̈́̊̔̄̈́͆͒͛ͬ̈́͒̈́ͤ͗ͧ̔͑̐̊̈̂̂͆̍͛̆͆͗ͩͣ͌̄ͯ̓̎̏ͯ̀ͤ̔̈́̈́̓ͨ͐̃́̎ͣ͘͠͡҉̷̀͜͠Ǩ̶̴̵̨̢̢̡̛ͯ̏ͪ̇ͮͪ͒̿͋ͧ̑̍̋ͯ͛͑̄͆ͩͩ͋̉͐͋ͧ̽̚̕͘͜͢͢͞͡͞͡I̴̐̊͒̎ͣ̄̎̌̒͗͊̾ͥ̉̈ͮ̈̐̐͆̽͊ͧͬ̂ͤ̾͢͏̸̷̴̴̸̧́́͢͜͠҉͜Ň̸͌̈́͛̿̉̈ͨ͛͒̄͊̎͛̃̂ͥ̔̃̍͆͆̎̽ͤ̇̏̐̚G̵̢̨̛̋͗̈́̂̋ͥͪ̔ͧ̂̌͛ͬ̎ͤ̾̋̓̾ͨ͒͊ͦ̎͛̀̓ͧ̄ͧ̓ͧ̓̀ͤͤͥ̈́ͧͮ̔̉͊̃ͫ̇͒̒̑͗ͪ̈͌̔́́̚̕͞ D̷̷̸̴̶̴̡̧̨̛̛ͨͥ̈́ͭ̐ͨ̑ͨ͋̑́̓̆̑ͬ̉̌͊͐ͭ͋͊͒ͪ͋́́ͣ͂̾̽̏̆̏̅̍̃ͭ̍̉ͦ̏ͬͣͦ̎̃́̈ͯ̔̃̉͒̈̌͌ͦ̍ͤ̽̉ͫͫͣ̀ͫ̈́͋̑͂͐ͨ̾͌ͦ̒̽͊̊̌͋̽͌̓̏̓͐ͭ͑ͮ̏̀̚͘͘͘͟͢͢͞͞͡O̓̋̑ͥͭͪ̄͞͏̀̕͜ I̚҉̴̶̴̶̢̢̡̛̀͘͝͡͝͏̡̛͢͡͠Tͨ̿͂ͨͮ̑̃ͤ̓̐̓̊̋ͩ͋̐̓͌̈́ͮͩ̾͊̊̿̾̓͌͑́̐̄ͦͮ͐͆ͬ͑͗̀͋ͫ͒͆̐͋̏͌ͫ̚҉̸͠

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

Daily reminder our copy cats didn't make it, doppel gangers die in silence while Dead Money returns. 🤡

Do you listen to music while writing?

I guess I'm the first to give this a hard 'no' lol, I definitely prefer silence when I'm doing anything solo that requires creativity or concentration, and that includes writing/RPing. I can tolerate background noise when I'm in my office or in public, but I won't impose it on myself when I can have the peace of silence.

@Raptra

👍

I should explain the subject we are treating in this way: If a big diamond is cut up into pieces, it immediately loses its value as a whole; or if an army is scattered or divided into small bodies, it loses all its power; and in the same way a great intellect has no more power than an ordinary one as soon as it is interrupted, disturbed, distracted, or diverted; for its superiority entails that it concentrates all its strength on one point and object, just as a concave mirror concentrates all the rays of light thrown upon it. Noisy interruption prevents this concentration. This is why the most eminent intellects have always been strongly averse to any kind of disturbance, interruption and distraction, and above everything to that violent interruption which is caused by noise; other people do not take any particular notice of this sort of thing. The most intelligent of all the European nations has called “Never interrupt” the eleventh commandment. But noise is the most impertinent of all interruptions, for it not only interrupts our own thoughts but disperses them. Where, however, there is nothing to interrupt, noise naturally will not be felt particularly.

— Arthur Schopenhauer, "On Noise"

Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

I'd better subscribe to this thread. Don't wanna miss anything!

Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

<Snipped quote by TokyoPewPew>

it will, but i'm keeping it a surprise

@flat lovenote

Epic. Thank you.

Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

<Snipped quote by Festive>

it'll just be about the lives of these characters and how they'll meet each other to stop an evil government

@flat lovenote

Will the title Pinhead Fetus make more sense later in the story?

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

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<sup>𝕬fter much deliberating and indecision, Hloþhilde stayed her hand: choosing, in the end, to eat nothing at all, and to attend her first class weary and famished. For what felt like an hour had she wavered—measuring what she craved versus what would molder and stale the soonest, price versus sentimental value, the momentousness of the occasion—but time and again all of these had paled against the principal measure, that of the treasures' scarcity. It may seem a strange thing to say about a trove which overflowed from desk surface and from suitcase, stacked tin over tin and stowed in every furtive place her luggage afforded; until one remembers how long these victuals—these keepsakes—needed to last. At least until the next equinox but likelier until Midwinter, when the academy might send the cadets away to their homes for revelry and giftgiving, or else invite the families to a banquet therefor. Until, reunited over spiced wine and yeastcakes, the one sister would horrify the other with tales of what the local shops dared to call authentic Marsènnish provisions, traditional Marsènnish pastries; and the latter, appalled, would assure the first that she had filled two boxes from the markets of their girlhood, packed them tight, padded them for the journey the way an oyster cushions its pearls. But if Hloþhilde's stores were to survive until then she would have to subside on crumbs; mete out carefully those precious morsels. Savor. Ration.

Checking her pocket watch, she startled herself to haste. She clicked shut the cover, a scratched horn jaw biting down on scratched glass tongue; shoved the old, cheap thing down into its new abode in the lowest and leftmost flap pocket of her dress tunic; gathered up her messenger satchel, every stiff, black compartment already brimming with the requisite materials. Enjoying the color, the touch of elegance which a few wine bottles, artfully arranged, brought to the peeling windowsill, she had otherwise stashed away already the remainder of her treasures, so out of the room she awayed, and down the hall, and down the stairs, and out into the southern quadrangle, where no one awaited her but the sun; the stiff, languid breeze.

This perplexed and disheartened the girl. When she had lain in bed staring up at the vaulted ceiling of her bedroom, imagining this moment, the moment creeping nearer with every hour, she had always conjured for her phantom a companion or three, walking all abreast between the birches and the parapets, giggling about this or that in their shivering, cap-clutching leisure. Featureless, save for their hair, wind-tossed; formless behind their immaculate tunics and billowing breeches and the click-clacketing of their hobnailed feet, yet smiling, striding, resplendent. Their uniforms as grey as the flagstones as the stormcloud-shaded sky, yet the figures themselves as golden as autumn's sheddings, which skittered the same walkways in swirls. (In Hloþhilde's daydreams it was always autumn.) So whither Agalind? Whither Mina? Whither their newfound retinue of doting suitors? Elsewhere. Nowhere. Gone on without her or if not that, dallying back at their rooms, contented with the company so gathered.

The girl found the pump by the barracks' eastmost corner; rolled her sleeves, that she would not darken them as she dabbed her nape, baptized her hands, cupped the cold, sweet, stone-drawn waters to her lips, splashed them to her brow. Across the quadrangle did the din of a crowd still travel, as a hundred cadets' thousand parents and cousins and siblings meandered their way to the mock-barbican, admiring the architecture as they went, chitchatting over pipes and cigars, behind the silk fans' flutter, beneath the shaded splay of their parasols. But uninterested was she in the wish-her-wells of strangers, so Hloþhilde kept to her side of the lawn, journeying north first, then along the inner gatehouse, averting the crowds, their pleasantries. Once more the afternoon heat dewed in her crevices. She wondered if her classmates already despised her.</sup>

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Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

<Snipped quote by TokyoPewPew>

no, it's just that i forgot about it until u said something

@flat lovenote

Alright. Waiting with bated breath. 🤞