A little coloring tips and trick I posted on Twitter a while ago because someone asked about my overall illustration process. Hope you find these useful!
Inspired (again) by @ferrocyan (I am repaying your inspiration by inflicting suffering upon the hampter as promised)
Your terminal is buzzing again: you don't bother looking. It's Hector. Of course it's Hector. You should answer it this time, and you know it; it's been over an hour since his last attempt to call you - remarkable, considering. Considering it's Hector, a man not known for his patience, no matter how deep the well of his tolerance for your foibles might be. Considering he tried to call twice in short order not long after you left his apartment.
Considering what you overheard, revelations you weren't meant to hear.
Psychonekrosis.
So it has a name, the wrongness that's been plaguing you for months - the bleak little secret you've been keeping close to your chest, hoping it'd go away of its own accord. How did Yaana describe it to Hector? A weakening of the connection between the body and soul, corroded by feral soul use, and at the end of that fraying connection-
Death.
And now Hector has it, too.
Your terminal stops buzzing.
You should call him back. You should call him back, you selfish, self-centered child. Left alone to stew in the knowledge that he's dying, told the only way to prevent it is to stop fighting - you know how quickly Hector panics. You know how afraid he must be. And you know how Hector despises being afraid; how quickly he alchemizes fear into rage. When you do call him back, he'll be furious, and you...
Well, you'll have to tell him you're going to die, won't you?
Because that's the thing, isn't it. That's the thing you've been avoiding acknowledging for months. Eutrope knew. Eutrope was right all along. And you. You knew, in some dark uncleaned corner of your mind, you knew you weren't just sick, you knew it wasn't just dizzy spells, you knew, all along, you were dying. And you kept it to yourself. Eutrope knew it was tied to the Arcadion; to feral souls. And you knew she was right. And you said nothing and let her leave, because what difference would it make? You weren't going to retire, not with the specter of an insurmountable amount of debt looming over you, not with your freedom on the line...
A freedom you'll never live to see. The taste of irony, like blood in your mouth. Never mind your unpayable debts. There is no freedom waiting for you at the end of your tenure with the Arcadion, no matter what, no matter how well you fight, no matter how high you climb.
You're going to die without ever seeing the sky.
You can't be the comfort Hector needs now.
You can't be much of anything, can you? Only the Howling Blade. For however long you can manage that much, before your body betrays you and Fenrir devours you whole.
Leaving Hector's apartment, you'd walked home as quickly as you could, holding yourself together with the habit of long practice: the bland smile, the courteous nods to passers-by, the art of walking briskly without seeming panicked or even urgent. You'd closed your door behind yourself, locking out the world, and sank onto the couch as if the weight of the world settled abruptly on your shoulders, and there you've sat since - and why? It's not as if it changes anything for you, functionally speaking.
You were always going to keep fighting until they made you stop, weren't you?
If the only freedom left to you - the only joy left to you - is in the Hunter's Ring, then wring every last second out of it. Fight until you can't.
A strange peace fills you, then: the calm certitude of your chosen path.
The hard part will be telling Hector.
Hector.
Are you strong enough to tell him? You couldn't be bothered to tell him you knew there were risks involved in soulshifting. You didn't tell him when you began to feel the symptoms. You've put it off and put it off - so what now? Just tell him nothing and act as though nothing's wrong? You're so good at that! You can die and never have to worry about what it'll do to him - what it'll do to a man who's never had to wrestle with grief like this; it won't be your problem anymore.
You sigh. It'll be easier, you think, now that you're both dying. Hector... you know Hector; you know he'll choose as you have: to die as the Brute Bomber, clinging tight with both hands to the life he's chosen. And he'll go faster once you're gone; you know that too - when all he's got left is to throw himself harder into the fights.
Maybe he'll even let himself climb into the Cruiserweight tier, when he doesn't have to fear unseating you.
The thought makes you smile, despite everything.
You should call him.
But when you reach for your terminal, there's a broadcast alert - from the Arcadion, of all things. There was another just this morning, announcing Honey's early retirement: though she'd claimed she wanted to focus on her other passions, you now suspect Yaana must have revealed the truth to her, as well. You frown, opening the broadcast, suspecting it must be another similar announcement.
It isn't.
It isn't.
Hector.
Do you feel the ice flooding your veins? Is that regret gnawing at your guts, Howling Blade? Three missed calls. The world goes hazy at the edges, tinted scarlet. Psychonekrosis beckons. You push it back, back, back. It's dizziness and pain, only pain, and pain's been an intimate companion of yours for two years now; more present in your life than any living creature, since the day you reached out a hand for freedom and it bit you.
Stagger back to your feet, push through the pain. Call Hector back even as you're running to the door. No answer. Do you like the taste of your own medicine? Call again, no answer. Again. Again. Again, as you hurl yourself back out into the city, breathing hard - the pain, the fear, constricting your lungs.
Three missed calls. You should've answered. Why didn't you answer? You knew what he was going through. You knew where he would turn when you turned your back on him.
To the president.
Can't think straight, can't see straight. When you were a child, you watched - you shouldn't have watched it, but everyone did, everyone, before the videos were taken down - you watched a leaked recording of feral soul tests. Early tests, months into the king's reign. Forcing several disparate feral souls into one body. You remember, don't you? Twisted chimeras who died screaming, or lived long enough to go mad, and then died, having lost all they once were, beyond all hope of salvation.
Hector.
Hector was too queasy to watch, but he'd listened to your gruesomely detailed recollection with horrified fascination all the same. He knows. He knows what he's doing, what will happen, what will become of him - what he will become.
Why? Why?
You know why.
Fear, Hector's most despised enemy. And you left him alone to face it. While you were wallowing in self-pity over a fate you've been at least a little aware of for months - since Eutrope stormed out in frustration, vanishing from your life and the public eye altogether - Hector was coming to grips with his own impending mortality.
Three missed calls, Retsarra. Why couldn't you answer one?
You keep calling, keep calling. Somewhere in the back of your mind, some logical voice tells you it's pointless: Hector never keeps his terminal on him when he's in costume, and why would he check it again now? To see if you'd called? You, who couldn't be bothered to answer when he'd tried desperately to get through to you?
You have to get there. You have to-
Stop him? Change his mind? Aren't you the wretched little hypocrite? Didn't you just decide to let yourself die? Who are you to tell Hector he shouldn't choose the manner of his own death, now that it's become inevitable?
Not like this, a pathetic whimper cries from the depths of your heart. Not like this! Go out fighting, yes - burn out the last of his life's candle, yes - but not like this, not-
Twisted chimeras, shrieking, clawing at their own flesh. Bile rises in your throat; you choke it down. They had been inexperienced in the use of feral souls: still a new science then, still fresh. Would Hector's experience with the bomb king grant him an edge? Might it somehow, impossibly, be enough to save him? But that's desperate hope speaking, and in your heart of hearts, you know it's a fool's hope.
Where are you going? You've been running for a while, hardly seeing where your feet are carrying you. Stupid. You should've called a cab the second you left home. It's a miracle you thought to bring your sword on your way out; a second miracle you bothered to glamour it; a third you haven't run smack into anyone in your headlong rush. They'll be talking about it on the news tonight, you bet: the Howling Blade sprinting through the residential district, a harried, haunted look in his eyes...
Slow down. Think.
Can't think. Hector. Hector. You have to get to him. How?
Where are you? You stop, breathing hard - fear, not exertion - and look around. 9-11. Something like hope kindles; you're near Hector's apartment. You didn't think to catch a cab, but that's fine; you'll just grab Hector's bike.
"It's for emergencies only, you got that?" Hector had given you a key to the bike, with a stern warning. "If I catch you joyriding without a license, I'll throttle you."
This is an emergency, you think, sprinting for the stairs up to your friend's apartment - he'd rather wrestle the bike into the elevator and into his room than risk leaving it out to be stolen; how many times have you had to take the stairs because there wasn't enough room in the elevator with the damn bike in it? But the stairs are faster, so you take them today, two at a time.
You needn't have bothered. The bike is gone. Three wide sets of feline eyes blink up at you while you stand, foolishly, in the middle of the apartment. The kittens are puzzled by your intrusion, and one of them - the white one, with her big blue eyes - appears to find your presence especially worthy of disdain. You can't blame her.
Of course it's gone.
Hector had gone to speak to the president. How did you think he got there, idiot?
Now what. Now what? Cab. Catch a cab. It'll be a little late, but you can get there if you hurry; now go, if you mean to, or sit here on Hector's floor and cry useless tears while your best friend becomes a monster.
You run, heading back for the stairs.
It comes again, that damnably familiar dizziness, and you're running too fast (haven't you always been proud of your speed?) to shake it off before the inevitable: you misjudge the distance. You miss the first stair.
You fall.
Do you hit every stair on your way down? Does it feel like a well-earned punishment for not thinking ahead? You lay at the base of the stairs, dazed, blinking red spots out of your eyes; there's a ringing in your ears. That's new. Shake your head. It doesn't go away.
A plaintive mew. Whiskers tickle your cheek: an inquisitive kitten has come to inspect the damage.
Oh hell. You force yourself to sit up, gingerly prodding at yourself: nothing broken. Your head hurts, but that's nothing new these days. Your ankle's screaming. Twisted, sprained, or broken, you're afraid to find out - the least of your fears, but the only one that matters in this very second.
The kitten sits on the bottom stair, watching. It's the largest of the three, the spotted kitten Hector dotes on in particular. You stare at her in dismay. The ringing in your ears - it was the kitten's collar, jingling as she trotted down the stairs after your graceless decent. You recall, too late, Hector mentioning he'd gotten her the collar because she kept slipping out unnoticed when he left home, cleaving to his heels the way she often did.
You look back up the stairs. No time. No time to take the kitten back home. Fine. You'll just have to take her along; maybe she'll lend some strength to your arguments, maybe her presence might sway Hector, remind him of what he's got to live for...
Deep breaths. Slow and steady.
For the first time since you left home, you start thinking carefully. Better too late than never. There's still time to catch a cab, even if you have to walk the better part of the way to the demolition site; the fight won't begin until the challenger arrives, and if you're lucky - luckier than you deserve - that won't be for a while. Maybe.
Get up, under the kitten's watchful supervision. The ankle supports your weight. Not broken. You walk, ignoring the twinge: it's pain, only pain. After a few moments, you barely feel it; it settles into the background noise of chronic, never-ending pain that makes up the body you're trapped in. It's a shame you can't unchain Fenrir in the heart of the city - that would get you where you're going in time, but not without irreparable damage to the Howling Blade's reputation, and if you don't have that, what do you have?
The first time you used a feral soul to soulshift... do you remember? Hector was there, permitted to observe as your second. Do you remember the awe in his eyes?
"Does it- how do you feel?"
Does it hurt, he wanted to ask. You know; you knew it then. Did it hurt, to have your body so altered by a foreign soul that the old body ceased to exist for a time, replaced instead by a constructed projection?
You didn't have the heart to tell him it was the first time you'd not been in pain since that day at the barrier. How light you felt, how whole...
You think he knew. He knows you too well.
Hector. How can you lose Hector? The unfairness of it makes your eyes burn, but it's childish, petulant: you're not supposed to lose Hector; that's not how this works. Everyone else can leave, everyone else can drift away, everyone else can be taken from you, but not him; never him. Not Hector, always right where you knew he'd be. Reliable, dependable, in all his prickly affection. The world can make demands of others. Death claimed Agate, your mentor since childhood. Resentment and frustration drove Eutrope away from you. But Hector is yours, and how dare fate try to decree otherwise?
You hail a cab; the first you see. It's an awful time of day to try to catch a ride. Of course it is.
The automaton controlling the cab refuses you entry.
"I apologize for the inconvenience," it says, politely. "This air cab is strictly pet-free."
The kitten. You remain calm. Your heart hammers in your ears. "I understand. It's an emergency."
The automaton's facial screen flickers. "Do you require emergency services?"
"No, I-"
"What is the nature of your emergency? I am permitted to escort you to the nearest medical facility in the event of a medical emergency, with all fares waived."
The nearest medical facility would take you far out of your way. Despair makes your voice tight. "No. No, I- no. Thank you." You swallow, knowing you won't like the answer. "Where is the nearest pet-friendly cab?"
"All pet-friendly cabs are currently in use. The next vacancy is estimated to be in-" A brief pause. "Ten minutes. It could reach this location in approximately twenty minutes following the conclusion of its current fare."
Too long to be of any use. Not enough time to return the kitten home, either. "Thank you." You dismiss the cab, and consider simply lying down on the pavement, waiting for the electrope to absorb you.
Hector would find this all very amusing.
It's a shame you won't get to tell him about it.
The bus stop isn't far. You know the routes well... and you almost wish you didn't, because it means you know you won't make it in time. Still, with heavy steps, you carry yourself to the bus stop: if you can't be there to stop it, you can be there to see the aftermath. You'll know, even if Hector doesn't, that someone was there for him. That someone cared.
That someone will remember him as he was.
The bus is running late. You stand alone at the stop, gazing out at the city, not seeing it. Memories crowd in, eager to feed on your guilt, your grief.
What drew you to him? Hector thinks it was just that he presented a challenge - the one kid in town who wanted nothing to do with you - and perhaps that was a piece of it, at least at first. But Hector never saw how quickly the others' fascination with you soured into a strange revulsion: you were too odd. No regulator, no regard for Alexandrian traditions, a desire to test boundaries, to seek out excitement... what friends you made, you failed to keep.
Except for Hector. Hector, who claimed you weren't friends, even though you'd watch him look for you in a crowd. Hector, who let you coax him into danger, and who showed you his secrets in return.
When did you become friends?
You'd been ranging far afield that day, you recall; the two of you often went wandering into places you shouldn't, places adults ought to have stopped you from wandering - but that was before you'd met Agate, the only adult who might have instructed you both to stay closer to the Outskirts. But you were... what, eight? Nine? And invincible; no one could tell you what to do, and Hector - dauntless, for all his shy anxiety - tagged along, as though he wanted to see what you might get up to.
There was a storm: a sudden downpour. Such things were common in Heritage Found. And you'd dragged Hector into the safety of an old Yyasulani mining tunnel to wait out the worst of it.
You remember how afraid he was, shivering where he sat pressed close against you for warmth; you were both drenched to the bone.
But eventually the fear subsided, and Hector had dropped into an exhausted doze, still leaning there next to you, against the tunnel wall. You'd sat there in the dark, listening to the sound of him breathing, slow and deep. The way it mingled with the rain outside.
And it had occurred to you, in all the wisdom of your eight or nine years, that you loved him.
And with the wisdom of your years, looking back now, you understand how Hector falling asleep beside you was an unstated mark of trust; he trusted you with his life, even then.
Three missed calls.
The bus arrives at last. The driver is flesh and blood, and her eyes widen a bit - she recognizes you, of course; most of the bus drivers have met you a time or two. What she doesn't recognize is the mantle of grief resting on your shoulders, and - for once - you don't have the strength to shrug it off. You offer as much of a smile as you can muster, pay your fare, and stagger your way to an empty seat. Fortunately, the bus is mostly empty. Doubly fortunately, the bus has no issue with the kitten trotting onto the bus behind you.
You sink into your seat, carefully lifting the kitten to settle into your lap. She does, folding her paws neatly beneath her. it occurs to you that you don't know the first thing about taking care of cats... and your residence doesn't allow pets anyway, and you'd be hard-pressed to conceal three kittens.
Hector. Leaving you to think of what to do with his kittens...
Was it really only this morning your primary concern was that Hector's kittens didn't want to pay attention to you? What a small, petty thing to worry about.
You miss it.
The bus lurches forward, beginning its long route. It'll take you to the eighth level eventually, you know - not soon enough, but here you are; you have to see this thing through.
For Hector's sake.
You loved him. It never cost you anything to say it, no matter what he thinks. Thought. Even when life beneath the dome was at its most suffocating, Hector had been the one place where the screaming in your mind went quiet; the one person who felt unfailingly real. A grounding presence. Your storm anchor. And where were you, when he needed you for a change? Feeling sorry for yourself for walking into a trap.
You always knew your freedom would come with a price. You just expected you would be the only one to pay it.
Glancing up, you see a glimpse of your reflection in the driver's mirror. A hollow creature gazes back at you. The Howling Blade feels far away, far beyond your feeble reach; what does the Howling Blade know of grief?
You close your eyes, unwilling to face your own reflection. You see too much awareness of what you've lost there.
Lost. You've lost Hector - as if you just mislaid him somewhere, and if you look hard enough, he'll turn up again.
You loved him.
It should have been enough.
It wasn't. Not for you, not for him.
You were in love with him, for a while. Lovers. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, didn't it? You knew his body better than you knew your own - much to his dismay, sometimes, but he never denied you, either. In those early days, sex felt like a homecoming; you never tired of it, of him. It wasn't just that, though. It was everything. It was the way the bedsheets held the scent of him even after he left in the morning. It was the warm, solid weight of him in the bed beside you.
It was the sound of him breathing in the darkness, when the pain woke you up in the middle of the night. Reassuring. Familiar.
It fell apart in the end - Hector and Retsarra might have been perfectly matched, but the Brute Bomber and the Howling Blade were so incompatible as to be disastrous, and it nearly destroyed your friendship, leaving scorched earth behind.
For a blessing, your roots went deep. You'd survived that mess together, and emerged from it with the love intact, if not the romance.
It should have been enough.
The bus trundles onward, and with each stop, your heart becomes heavier: a lead weight in your chest, sinking like a stone. On your lap, the kitten offers a weak, feeble purr: a feline effort at reassurance, at rallying your spirits. Eyes still closed - they feel so heavy, somehow - you give her a gentle scratch in gratitude.
Hector said she was the cleverest of the three; he'd been so proud to show off the tricks she'd learned.
You wonder if she senses what's happening, somehow.
Forcing your eyes open once more - don't want to risk someone thinking you've dozed off, do you? - you peer up at the mirror again. Only now do you realize: you've forgotten both your regulator and the hat you usually wear to disguise its lack. Somewhere beyond the wall of numb grief, you have the sense to feel mortified: no wonder the bus driver looked startled at the sight of you.
It's a testament, isn't it, to the harried state you were in when you dashed out, not bothering to think things through. Your teeth clench, making your jaw ache; thinking, that's your weakness lately. You're letting everyone think for you, so you never have to risk making a decision... or taking a stand. You let the president dictate your role in the Arcadion. You let Eutrope shape your appearance. You let Solution Nine's society at large dictate who you appear to be, never letting them see what's beneath the surface.
Is there anything left beneath the surface?
Hector would know.
Your fingers sink into the kitten's fur, and you gaze out the window, watching the city pass by. Hector would find it hilarious that you forgot your hat but remembered your sword, that you forgot to order a cab but tried to steal his bike... even, maybe, that in your efforts to cling to the Howling Blade, you've managed to drive away everyone else. But then, Hector would insist he would never go anywhere, that you're stuck with him, come what may, and...
If you told him about the disease yourself - about Eutrope's suspicions, about your own symptoms - none of this would have happened. It's your fault, in a way. At the very least, he might've trusted you, as he could never have trusted Yaana.
Or maybe this was always doomed to happen.
You'll never know, will you?
What did you even hope to accomplish? Do you even know? What do you hope to do now, meandering at your leisurely pace when you know it's too late to make a difference? Are you hoping against all hope that all might be well after all - that you'll get there and find Hector safe and sound of body and mind, having changed his mind at the last minute and chosen to live? Are you praying for a miracle? Are you trying, like a child, to convince yourself that everything will be alright in the end, if you just have faith?
You're pathetic.
Eventually, the bus arrives at the eighth level - and can go no further.
The driver clears her throat. You're the only passenger left; you don't remember noticing the others disembarking, lost in your own miserable world as you are. Slowly, you lift your gaze back to the mirror, meeting her eyes in the reflection.
"The eighth level is closed to traffic for the evening," she informs you, polite but strained. "The Arcadion has cordoned off most of the district."
Of course it has. Wouldn't want any passers-by getting injured... or seeing the event firsthand.
You make yourself smile. "Yes, of course - I have clearance." You don't, but you'll make it work. "Thank you; I'll walk from here."
It's a long walk to the demolition site.
Some of the tension in her eyes fades; she's willing to be mollified. Willing to trust you. What a spotless reputation you've cultivated, that near-strangers are so eager to put their faith in your words! Or perhaps she's just grateful you're not shouting at her for the detour on her route. Even if it does make you even later than expected.
But that's fine, isn't it. You were always going to be too late.
You shoulder your greatsword in its harmless disguise and disembark, every bone in your body - especially your ankle - reminding you that only a short while ago, you tumbled down a flight of stairs. But it's only pain. After a few steps on your throbbing ankle, you aren't even limping anymore. The kitten trots gamely at your side with only the sound of her jingling collar to break the silence as you walk through the quiet eighth level residential district: less polished than the level above, a bit rougher around the edges.
When you were... oh, sixteen years old, it must have been, you used to sneak down here with Hector when the two of you found cause to be in Everkeep for the day - looking for excitement, playing at danger in what seemed to be Everkeep's seedy underbelly. You know now it's as safe as anywhere in Solution Nine, but at the time... the two of you had wandered these streets, finding places to while away the hours. Climbing buildings to the rooftops. Ducking down shady alleys. Learning the patrol routes of the sentry bots, and which ones could be distracted or diverted from their routes.
You haven't been down here in two years, but the eighth level residential district is full of memories, right where you left them. Who picked this for Hector's last stand, you wonder - was it the president, hoping that by setting his stage far from the Arcadion itself, no one would see what became of the Brute Bomber when the dust settled? Or was it Hector himself, drawn to the past even as he burns away what's left of his future?
You might never know.
It strikes you how quiet the district is, and the knot that's settled in your chest tightens. If there was a fight going on nearby, surely you'd hear it. There's something like a rumble from somewhere below, but otherwise, the district is deathly silent - the Arcadion's security detail must have swept through earlier to make sure the streets were clear. No risk of spectators. You're surprised to not have encountered any security, yourself...
...But maybe it's best if you don't borrow trouble. Don't you have enough to worry about?
Or do you have nothing left at all to worry about?
A matter of perspective, really.
You walk faster, just in case. Sensing your urgency, the kitten at your heels picks up the pace, too: you get the sense she's setting herself to your pace, rather than the other way around. She could likely have been at the demolition site an hour ago, while you were tumbling down the stairs and failing to persuade cab bots.
About a block from the demolition site, your ears start to ring. Flickers of red crowd your vision.
Not now, not now!
Push through it. Nearly there.
But your vision swims, your head pounds.
Your soul shudders.
Dizziness sweeps over you like a tide, dropping you to your knees in the middle of the street. The world dissolves into a scarlet haze, and you pitch forward, collapsing-
And for a time, you know nothing else.
-
It's still quiet when you come to. How long were you out? The electrope street is rough beneath your cheek, but you're not stiff as you force yourself upright, shouldering your "bag" again (and grateful not to have impaled yourself with your graceless collapse). You get back to your feet, get your bearings-
Where's the kitten?
Where did Hector's kitten go?
Your heart sinks to your feet: just when you thought today could get no worse, you've failed even to keep track of a kitten. A kitten who shouldn't even be here, and wouldn't be, if you'd been paying better attention!
But your self-flagellation can wait. You suspect you know where she's gone... and you were heading that way anyway.
You run.
Every bruised, aching bone in your body protests, and you channel the pain into something clean and functional, letting it push you to run even faster, even harder. Near the demolition site, you encounter security, but before they've even taken notice of you, you swerve down an alley, climbing a familiar series of ladders up to the rooftops.
Memories.
You scramble across the rooftops until you can reach one of the cranes operating above the demolition site, and from there, you observe the wreckage of one tower: yes, a battle took place here, and no mistake. And the rumbling from below has grown louder: the fight presses on.
The sounds are inhuman: guttural and savage. The hair on the back of your neck prickles... and your eyes sting. For one moment, you stand immobile, your face pressed against the cold unyielding surface of the crane, listening to the creature Hector has become.
Your sword is heavy on your back.
Could you kill him?
Will you have to?
If it comes to it. If it comes to it, you will.
But as it happens, fate decides to spare you even that much responsibility for your inactions.
One final, horrible roar - a cry - splits the air... and then silence.
Terrible, aching silence.
Gone.
Feeble hope drains away, leaving you hollow. You remain upright, barely. It hurts to breathe. A part of you wants to scream, to let it echo in the vast empty space... but what emerges instead is a pained whine: the sound of a wolf bereft of its pack, too quiet for anyone to hear.
You don't want to go any closer. You don't want to see.
But you have to, don't you?
Don't you owe it to him?
So you swallow your tears, using them to fill the emptiness where your heart used to be, and you begin making your way down to where the match took place. You still haven't found the kitten.
Hector would want you to find the kitten. You can do that much for him, at least, can't you?
Can't you?
You make the descent. You don't know how. The tower is a mess of crumbling electrope, already treacherous before Hector tore through it. You hardly notice. With your mind numb and heartsick, your body moves automatically, finding handholds, seeking safe routes from one level to the next, surefooted and swift through the wreckage. Hector always hated how much better you were at climbing-
The sound of a jingle bell snares your attention, honing it to a narrow point. There. Below. The arena.
The kitten.
A crumbling wall falls.
You dive, sword in hand.
There. You saved her life. Are you proud? You accomplished something today.
And now, here you are.
Look at him.
Almost magnificent in its horror, isn't it? The chimeras from that ancient video were shapeless, formless masses of limbs and wings and claws, screaming from ill-formed mouths, but this! Look what Hector created! A sick pride fills you, makes you dizzy all over again, makes your eyes sting. You won't learn until later that they called him an abomination, and maybe that's true, but look: look how he weaved together the disparate souls into one coherent body! Look how long he held them together before psychonekrosis claimed him!
Look how amazing he is!
Was.
The tears fall.
I never thought you'd be the first to go, old friend.
-
An eternity later, you stagger through the door of Hector's apartment, with the weary kitten cradled in your arms. You can't seem to make yourself set her down; can't bring yourself to leave.
Hector's apartment. How long before someone comes to clear it out? He had so few personal effects, few sentimental trinkets... he lived a simple life. It leaves you with precious little to remember him by. You never thought to need anything to remember him by.
You try to take solace in the knowledge that you won't have long to remember him.
You walk through the empty apartment to the bedroom, sinking to a seat on the edge of the bed. Finally, you release the kitten; her two fellows have followed you into the room, curious about your presence... and their master's absence. Your sword falls to the floor, clattering. The kitten in your lap gently butts your arm with her head, then steps down, settling to nap at the foot of the bed - exhausted, no doubt, by her excursion.
And there you sit, unwilling to rise.
It seems impossible that Hector isn't just in the other room, or that he hasn't just stepped out for the moment.
All of his things are here, right where he left them. Right where they were this morning, when the two of you sat together on the living room floor, chatting about the kittens ignoring you.
Hector had been happy.
You're weeping again. Crybaby, says a fond voice you'll never hear again, an echo from your memories.
Your terminal buzzes. An announcement from the Arcadion. You sigh, knowing what it will say, but you look anyway - because what else can you do? What else is left? You live and breathe for the Arcadion now, more than ever, now that it's all you have left-
And then you see something you didn't notice this afternoon, in your frantic dash.
A voicemail.
Your throat tightens.
Can you bring yourself to listen to it? How angry must Hector have been, knowing himself abandoned, knowing what would become of him - how scathing must his last words to you be? Three missed calls, and on the third and final, he decided to let you have it.
Can you bear to hear it?
Can you bear not to? It's the last you'll ever hear of his voice.
But if that's true, do you want your final memory of his voice to be furious with you?
Don't you deserve as much? You weren't there. You couldn't even answer his calls. You were wrapped up in your own self-absorbed contemplation of mortality, too preoccupied to help him through his own-
And maybe that's where this pain truly comes from, isn't it? You're selfish. You don't want to face your own death without him.
But here you are, untethered from your past, severed from everyone who ever loved you.
You take a deep breath.
And listen.
The message begins with a heavy sigh, and you close your eyes. Behind your eyelids, you can see him as he was - as he must have been, making the recording. His familiar frown, realizing you haven't picked up the call again. The sigh, the roll of his eyes.
"Hey," he says. "Sorry to bother you, but something's come up, and..."
Your chest is tight. Your heart is a bruise beneath your ribs.
Not angry. Not angry at all. Resigned.
"...Listen," Hector continues, subdued. "I need you to make sure my kittens are taken care of. I don't... I don't know what usually happens, with pets." When their owners die, he doesn't say. "Before the Arcadion or the ushers or whoever get to it, clean out my bank accounts, alright? All yours. You can... do whatever you want with it."
You can put it toward your debts, he doesn't say.
Looking out for you, despite everything. Always.
"And listen, 'Tsarra... take care of yourself," Hector adds, his own voice tightening. "I know you're- I know you haven't been..." He trails off. Then: "Just take care of yourself."
Did he know? Did he know you were sick, too?
Is that why he chose to die?
"And Retsarra..." A long pause. So long, you fear the recording must have cut out. But then, quiet, so quiet you nearly miss it: "Thanks. Thanks for everything."
The recording ends.
You don't remember laying down, but when the recording concludes, you find you're curled up in Hector's bed, tears flowing freely. All three kittens have joined you, tucking their small warm bodies against yours - you feel cold, so cold.
Even in this, Hector forgave you.
Aren't you lucky.
You listen to the recording again, three more times.
In the morning, you'll need to become the Howling Blade again, and perhaps it will come easily: cast aside the miserable sobbing creature you are tonight, let it burn away, and truly become one with Fenrir - devote yourself to fighting with purity and clarity of purpose unlike any you've known before. Now that it's all you have left - now that your future is certain, and only the when of your doom is in question - what else can you do but rise to the occasion?
But that's the morning.
Tonight you breathe in the scent of Hector's pillow, remembering the last time you were in this bed - the night Eutrope left, when you sought solace in what you thought was the one eternal constant in your life - and you listen to his final message again, just to hear his voice one last time.
Also From Microsoft’s own FAQ: "Note that Recall does not perform content moderation. It will not hide information such as passwords or financial account numbers. 🤡
Because this has mostly been talked about with Windows 11, heads-up that this installed itself on every Windows 10 computer in our house with this week's update.
When writing always remember… a character flaw is only a flaw until becomes useful.
Is your protagonist manipulative? Well that’s awful… until they manipulate the antagonist into making a decision that saves the lives of their friends.
Is your protagonist a skeptic? Well that’s not good… until someone tries to lie to them.
Is your protagonist overprotective? That sucks… until someone they love is in danger.
Is your protagonist remorseless? Well that makes them pretty unlikeable… until a hard decision has to be made.
Your protagonist is honest? That’s good… until their survival depends on them being able to lie convincingly.
Your protagonist is brave? That’s good… until they foolishly run headlong into danger without a thought for the consequences.
Your protagonist is forgiving and able to see good in everyone? That’s good… until they continually forgive someone who doesn’t deserve it, and get taken advantage of because they can’t fathom that some people just suck.
Your protagonist is funny? That’s good… until they piss off everyone around them because they don’t seem to be taking the situation seriously, and they keep avoiding dealing with their problems by hiding behind humor.
Most personality traits aren’t inherently good or bad. It’s all about context, and how far they go.
This sounds fake but the logic behind it is actually really interesting? She said obsession with a new fandom triggers quick dopamine release when we consume all this related content--it's easy and addictive.
What we're NOT getting is that 'slow dopamine' that's more sustainable and engaging. That's the kind we get from DOING things that take effort but are ultimately rewarding.
So like, she suggested that writing fic and making fanart are ways to balance the quick dopamine of watching a show/reading fic with the slow dopamine of working at something that takes effort.
Moral of the story is you should engage in the process of creation around your favorite things. You'll feel better for it.
Rabbits rely on body language for the majority of their communication. They also rely on manners in a way that would make the Heian Era aristocrats look uncultured. And you don’t get manner dictates like that without ALSO knowing how to be passive-aggressive with them.
Rabbit flops are super vulnerable for a bunny. Their stomachs are exposed and they’re in a position that means if danger shows up they have to waste precious seconds getting up before they can sprint for safety. A rabbit flop means both ‘I’m so happy I can’t contain it’ and ‘I feel so safe I am going to be vulnerable and really let go’. Rabbit owners love seeing it. It means that your bun really does feel that safe around you. It’s a pretty high compliment from an animal that knows everyone’s out to kill them.
However -
it can also be used passive aggressively in the ‘you mean so little to me you’re not even worth acknowledging as existing’. It’s right on the same level as walking into a room and greeting everyone but one person. An enemy rabbit would be a threat. This rabbit? This rabbit isn’t even important enough to be a threat. They’re a nobunny and so I will flop because there is nothing in the area worthy enough to bother being aware of.
To humans it can look very much the same but trust me, the bunnies know exactly which is which.
