/destabilizes, a private writing blog for royce bracket of supergiant game's transistor. exploring: the fear of change, the impetus for relevance, life itself as media to be consumed, & failed remedies for consumerism. written by xm (they/he, 21+, asian american). 18+ only.
see below for rules & character about in brief. spoilers ahead.
* on desktop, my blog redirects to my writing tag.
/this is a character-driven blog, where i hope to develop royce through interactions & gradual arcs; nevertheless, this blog is multi-verse. shipping of a romantic nature is not something i currently anticipate, but all other forms of dynamics are eagerly welcome here. however, royce is a rather withdrawn and difficult individual. as such, i prefer (not necessarily extensively) plotted dynamics before writing threads. due to my writing style (heavily inspired by metafiction, philosophy, & psychological horror), most of my replies will be paragraph to multi-paragraph length. currently, i do not use icons or extensive graphics. i use the beta editor by default. i format minimally (bold + italics). i curate my experience here & will soft/hard-block as i see fit; i do not wish to interact with minors. please be mindful of the following themes, as they will be present here: existential / philosophical / psychological horror, mass death, murder, nihilism, politics, unreality, & violence. see here for more extensive guidelines. expect very low & sporadic activity.
/royce bracket, (28–)37 years old, transgender man (he/him): architect & city planner (lapsed), engineer, scientist, visionary. amoral, callous, mystic, poetic, radical, relentless, self-assured, solitary, unfettered, unscrupulous. when everything changes, nothing changes; the origin of the end of the world. + in depth. + wiki.
/available settings: precanon; generic sci-fi or science fantasy, generic modern; cyberpunk aus, disco elysium, the matrix, pathologic, psycho-pass, southern reach, etc. willing to discuss others. + more details.
LIKE A HUNGRY DOG, MAKAR'S GRIN REMAINS VIVID AND CATASTROPHIC. their eagerness comes not from the voyeuristic horror of the cadaver — rather, that the cadaver existed in the first place. a changing story is much like a carcass, emptied of all its sentimentality — and doesn't everyone love a good story?
their smile grows tepid when the glass shatters. it rings like a gunshot rather than a wind chime. carefully, makar leans down to take a shard of glass, near invisible to the naked eye, and rolls it in between their fingers like a marble. a low hum exhales from them. the water splashed onto royce is inconsequential to them, perhaps even irrelevant, and they speak as if he never had a glass at all.
"eh... the body? it was easy! really, these detectives never try so hard." their eyes crinkle as their smile returns, wry. "from what i could tell ... they were trying to shoot the noose down! haha!" their laugh is disjointed, crude, organic — it's impossible to tell if they've ever laughed sincerely. "what is the fun in me just telling you all these funny stories? someone like you should go out and talk to everyone!" they make a wide gesture towards the near - empty bar. no one would blame garte if he took the gesture as an insult.
"it was an easy field autopsy, though." their eyes crinkle again. "that is my story. the kids, though, eh... they did not like him very much. imagine that, stones thrown at the body... haha!"
/as makar begins to laugh, the spillage of water ripples, slowly expanding to the edge of the table. holding a clump of paper napkins in a loosely-held fist, royce doesn't quite notice until it's too late — too distracted by makar's vibrant insincerity, by the glinting shard of glass between makar's fingers. the clear water drips onto royce's clothes, nullifying his previous efforts to dry them off. he turns away from makar just as garte's expression turns, catching a glimpse of the cafeteria manager's red face. "you're getting … a little loud — barely anyone's here, sure. but the manager. i think you've angered him." making an effort to avoid eye contact, royce looks down at his lap, pressing a fresh napkin at the wet splotches on his clothes. "oh well." his nonchalance is well-practiced. makar's theatrics, albeit irritating at best & bewildering in generous terms, somehow elicit a fervent curiosity. their conspicuous omission of how they got the body down, despite (or in part because of) the incessant insistence that it was easy, nags like a blemish caught in a sieve. "kids throw stones at everything. did they say anything to you after you got the body down? aside from the expletives." he crumples the damp napkins into a dense & knotted ball. "you have a unique perspective. i suspect that your versions of these stories, your retellings … would be more interesting than their sources. so … come on, let's hear it."
/@tectress asked: "don't tell me what i can & can't do." — andrey. /prompt, accepting.
/andrey's interjection pulls royce out of the lake of his solipsism, halting the process of his monologue. royce glances up from the blueprint, staring briefly at andrey — wide-eyed, calibrating. then, he lowers his head again, more interested in the art than the artist — or the artist's brother, royce can't quite recall. "oh, don't take what i said personally. it's merely a statistical inevitability, really … not — not a reflection of your skill." distracted & rambling, royce waves a hand carelessly in the air, brandishing his nonchalance like an unconvincing olive branch. andrey's skill & his brother's vision as architects were each undeniable, but against whim — neither skill nor vision held any meaning. royce has long understood this empirically. "you and i, well — we both know … nothing's constant in cloudbank, nothing — except change itself. no matter how ugly or how beautiful, how intuitive or labyrinthine, people will get … bored, entirely bored — of what you make." he leans closer to the surface of the table, bending over to scrutinize & absorb the blueprint's details. his voice grows softer, trailing with a lilt, or a trace of bitterness. "then, they'll forget about it. if you try to make it memorable, then — they'll just forget about you, too. it's all replaceable, all replaceable." a fleeting silence. a pause. royce straightens himself, realizing suddenly just how intimate the distance between him and the blueprint had been. he's reluctant to look away, but his gaze flits to andrey once more. the olive branch is dried & withering. "this is your work, yes?"
/dynamics & plotting call, to kick things off! like this & i'll reach out to discuss & figure out a dynamic or plot between royce & your muse. if i have you on discord, i'll message you there; otherwise, i'll hop into ims on here (also happy to exchange discords, just let me know).
/@diegetically asked: makar smiles thinly, swirling the alcohol in their glass before downing the dregs of it. "you won’t believe me. you've got to see for yourself." they gesture behind them towards the previously occupied crime scene, gloves bright and sterile. "really! i took care of it, no problem, but eh… everyone has a story about the man." /prompt, accepting.
/on the high tables along the windows, a clear glass of water — half empty: royce trails a finger along the rim intently, watching ripples form & collide & form again — changing the arcs of the caustic light that dances in the shadow cast by his moving hand. "oh, sure," absentmindedly, royce agrees to nothing in particular (you won’t believe me; you’ve got to see for yourself), adrift & elsewhere. then, inexplicably, royce's hand slips — his finger misapplies too much pressure, & the glass topples. like blood, water spills onto the table & onto royce's clothes. the glass, as if with a life of its own, rolls toward the edge of the table. the sound it makes as it shatters against the floor is a sparkling sound — reduced instantly into infinitesimal pieces. royce, like a scorned lover, hasn't spared it a glance. from behind the counter, the manager — garte, is it? — shouts something about paying for damages, & royce half-heartedly waves it off. with his focus lost, the nascent theory once cradled by his thoughts loses its seductive power, & his interest dissolves. a clean break. still, a faint trace of frustration lingers as he yanks out a few napkins from the dispenser on the table, swabbing at his coat. royce tosses the wet napkins aside, reaching for more to wipe off the table. "you took care of the body? finally, it was hanging there for over a week…" a sense of relief. he glances toward makar, toward their pristine & clinical gloves. "—how did you get it down? yesterday, the detectives were having a hard time with it, a real hard time with it. heard a gunshot." he meets the other's gaze, inquisitive, evaluative. he sounds almost flippant about the man's death. "i haven't really followed the whole thing, otherwise. wasn't he one of the mercenaries hired to control the strike? i don't have a story about him. what stories about him does everyone else have?"
/dynamics & plotting call, to kick things off! like this & i'll reach out to discuss & figure out a dynamic or plot between royce & your muse. if i have you on discord, i'll message you there; otherwise, i'll hop into ims on here (also happy to exchange discords, just let me know).
/@diegetically asked: gently, quietly, danja runs a hand along the railing, body leaned over the balcony. his cigarette flicks once, twice, before he exhales softly. "what if you could live forever?" /prompt, accepting.
/royce stares into the distant horizon: the painted sky is a gorgeous shade of peach, accented with thin wisps of white clouds — yon-dale's work, no doubt. slowly, he takes a drag from his own cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers, & spares a glance toward his companion. seconds pass — smoke billows out of his parted lips in lieu of an answer. more seconds pass. royce thinks faintly of grant kendrell & the forlorn determism of their conversations, how grant has always seemed monolithic — like a stone pillar, meaninglessly prevailing against an erosion that has conquered everything else. things would change, then they would change once more — the great shadow of ouroboros looming forever overhead. "well, um, i don't know; i don't quite know." royce finally breaks his ruminative silence to proffer a non-answer, twitching his finger to shake off the excess ash of his cigarette. dunayevsky has always struck him as naive, even childish — perhaps, an unfair judgment, but royce doubts it. "i don't fear death, & nothing i accomplish — nothing i accomplish will have meaning." he sounds matter-of-fact, as if the subject of his words were not him, but some specimen of study — as if he were, instead, an objective point of view. there is no trace of sadness or even resignation in his voice: merely, indifference. "therefore, the prospect of eternal life has no significance to me — no significance at all. but — don't get me wrong," royce pauses to take another drag from his cigarette, exhaling another cloud of smoke, "i would very much like to stay alive for a healthy lifespan, preferably a lengthy one. i would very much like that. but past that, beyond that — to live forever —" he makes air quotes with one hand, "well, i'm not sure the human mind can truly picture the length of eternity, let alone handle it." his dwindling cigarette is barely anything, anymore. he toys with it between his fingers. "try to picture it, daniil, really. just try. eternity — how long is that? see, you can't. no one can."
