#oc emily

[ragsy]

Got my ass

[dianosol]

Emily the platypus

[ragsy]

I think Emily’s increasing hostility toward him has definitely made Kenny confront the question of whether or not he was a good father, and from my third person omniscient narrator perspective: now that he's had a fairly productive Dad Talk with Tuck, i think it's not that he was a bad or incapable parent, i think he was just not the kind of parent that Emily needed. And he was doing it alone.

[ragsy]

"Arguments best heard through the wall of a neighboring apartment" | ~1,700 words

Exploring some of the tension between Kenny and his daughter Emily, aka "guess who just got yeeeeelled aaaaaaat"! This takes place a few weeks after Alice beats the shit out of him and destroys the cursed tape recorder.

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"You can't be serious."

Emily had slipped her glasses off at the sight of her father's apartment, massaging the bridge of her nose, tightening her lips in defeated acceptance. Her worry lines etched themselves ever deeper between her brows.

Kenneth said nothing. Her reaction was justified. The place was a disaster.

At least he'd had the forethought to hide most of the clutter away in his bedroom: gutted cassettes and tape players, patents, schematics, repair manuals. But, the scribbled impressions of other worlds still papered his walls in slapdash rows. His cabinets and doors sat in unhinged stacks on his floor. A sheet was slung over his vanity mirror. There was still blood in his carpet.

All the same, she stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind herself. She was here for a reason.

"Sorry for the mess," he tried. A wary step onto sheet ice. His voice crackled a little. "Can I, ah, can I make you some tea?"

Emily sighed, swept a lock of hair behind her ear, crossed her arms.

"It's-... Fine." She shook her head. "Yeah. Sure, thanks."

Well, it wasn't a condemnation. It was barely even a critique. He might have considered that a win if it weren't for the edge of pity in her voice, a sharp prick that might not bleed, but still itched in the back of his mind for hours.

Kenneth busied himself in the kitchen, starting the kettle and fishing the last clean mug from the depths of his door-less cupboard. This was another area of his apartment that had descended into chaos, but at least mounds of dirty dishes in the sink were a completely mundane sort of disarray.

"So, then," Emily began, brushing an invisible crumb from the cushion of his sofa and seating herself. "I'm here. What's so urgent?"

Urgent? He rolled back their last phone call in his head. Had he sounded urgent?

"Oh, no, it wasn't-... I had just heard that you were in the area."

Emily frowned.

"For a work conference," she said curtly. She folded her hands in her lap. "An hour away."

"I-... Yes," he faltered. "Yes, I know that, but..."

Emily took a long, deep breath, and Kenneth swallowed the rest of his words.

"But?" she prodded.

"W-well, listen, it's almost the holidays. And I haven't seen you since the Las Vegas trip." He hadn't seen much of anyone since then. He kept that fact to himself.

She began to speak, and instead turned her head to contemplate the sketches pinned to the wall near her: An imposing ziggurat, constructed brick by brick with lovingly rendered grandfather clocks. Next to it, a dark and serpentine hallway. Next to that, a perfectly normal bowling alley. Across from that, the artist himself, nervously fumbling open a tea bag.

She studied him. The keen eye of a critic, picking apart his performance, his affectation, his presence. He was a far cry from the tidy, even-tempered man who had raised her. To her, he still had yet to earn back the role of Kenneth Song.

"Since the Las Vegas trip," Emily echoed. "Yeah." If she still thought about what she had seen there, she never mentioned it to anyone.

Then, after another breath, "That's all? You just wanted to say 'hi'?"

"No, not-... I mean, not necessarily—"

"Then what am I here for?"

"It's... Nice to see you occasionally. Is that so wrong?"

The room grew achingly silent, underscored by thudding upstairs-neighbor footfalls and the occasional jangle of keys in the hallway. A dog barked. A door slammed. From somewhere in the bowels of the apartment complex, a one-man shower opera reverberated through the plumbing. But here, in Kenneth's apartment, the world stood still.

Finally, a chipper little jingle from the kettle pierced the stillness as it signaled its job well done. Kenneth filled Emily's mug and set it on the coffee table. She sighed a small "Thanks," though the drink remained untouched.

There was room for him beside her on the couch. Even so, he pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite her.

She furrowed her brow, smoothing out a wrinkle from her shirt sleeve. "Okay, I'll bite. What happened?" A snake striking from the grass.

Kenneth choked and stared back at her. "I-... E-excuse me? What do you mean?"

She gestured toward the brightly colored cast that encased his wrist.

"To your arm. What happened?"

"My-... Oh." A tiny sigh of relief as the focus of her interrogation narrowed. His other hand drifted over the course plaster, his palm resting over its curvature, as if to shield it. He took a breath, a futile attempt at calming his racing pulse. "It was a-... It was an accident."

Emily's gaze bored into him, hunting him for information, a tell, a flinch.

"Of course it was an accident. Who breaks their arm on purpose?" She laughed a little, though it carried a lilt of frustration. "But what happened?"

"I-... Well. It doesn't matter. It will heal." Kenneth waved the thought away, and dared to meet her eyes. Beneath her fierce expression, they were the same warm brown as his. "Now, how have things been with you? How is your fiancé? Matthew?"

"Did you fall? What happened to your cane?" Emily plowed forward. She always preferred a take-no-prisoners approach. "You didn't have it with you in Vegas, either."

"Sweetheart, please. Can we change the subject?" Futile. Bargaining with his daughter had only ever been successful once, when it was a matter of convincing a seven-year-old to eat broccoli.

"God, you do this every time. You don't want to tell me. Is that it?"

"No, no, I-... It's-..."

"Look, if you need help, you have to say so. I'm not a mind reader. When was the last time you saw a doctor?"

"I'm doing fine." Spoken through clenched molars. Why did this feel so familiar?

Emily narrowed her eyes, brushing away another lock of hair. There was an unignorable glint of silver at her temples.

"Does it have anything to do with your—" Emily began. Kenneth braced himself as she trailed off, searching for the right word. "—paranormal friends?"

It was one of the nicer ways she could have put it. He winced anyway.

"There was a.... Disagreement. I-... m-made a mistake. And I broke my wrist."

"So they were involved?" She leaned forward, fingers steepled.

"Emily, please," he begged. There was a waver in his voice. "Can't we just have a pleasant conversation? Why don't you tell me about work?"

"Talk. Or I'm leaving."

Kenneth drew a sharp breath, then sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He wouldn't look at her.

"You won't believe the full story."

"I'll be the judge of that." And jury. And executioner.

"You didn't believe me the last time I tried explaining it."

"I didn't believe you because you weren't telling the truth."

"Not telling the— Emily, honey, I have never lied to you!"

"Never?"

"I swear!"

"Then talk. You invited me here, and something is clearly wr-... Going on with you." She was standing now, with her hands on her hips. She was not a woman of stature, but she loomed over him like a thunderhead. "I need you to stop dodging my questions and tell me what's happening."

Kenneth's head spun. He was on the back foot, and she was out for blood.

"I don't know how to explain it to you."

"Tell me what's happening."

"Emily, please."

"TELL ME. WHAT'S HAPPENING."

"Alright! Fine! The truth! Nothing but the truth! Just like you want it!" He rose from his seat now, his arms thrown into the air in exasperation. "I took something I shouldn't have, and it changed— It changed everything. I ruined everything."

He swallowed, and let the room fill with silence. In that moment, every breath in the building was held.

"There are things in the world, things that are-- Oh, Emily, things I could never in a million years explain. But that song-- It was so beautiful. It was magic. Don't you understand? Magic, Emily. "

"No," said Emily, through bared teeth. "No, we've been through this."

"You've seen it. All around you. At the casino, when Charlie— A-and that entire side of the family— And when I was gone— And when I came back—"

He paced the length of the room, trembling hands running through his hair, gesturing wildly, grasping at air.

"It's right in front of you; why don't you see it? How can I make you understand?"

"Stop."

Now he was facing her. For a split second, he might have seen a flash of horror across her face.

"That song— That tape recorder— It's broken, I've been trying to fix it, maybe if I fix it--"

"Let go."

"You wanted the truth. Look at me. Magic is real. I can show you. You can learn. I can teach you— Just like your mother taught me!"

"Let. Go."

"Let go of what—" No sooner than the words left his mouth, he looked down. There was his hand: clenched in a vice grip around her forearm. There was her face, livid with fear and rage. There was his heart, pounding in his throat. He pried his grasp open and staggered backwards. His foot caught the leg of the abandoned chair, and he crashed to the floor.

He gasped. "I'm sorr—"

"Don't."

Emily rubbed her eyes in denial of the tears that had welled there, though her voice remained steady.

"I'm done. I'm not doing this again." She brushed herself off and strode toward the door.

"I don't understand— I'm sorry—" A fruitless attempt at picking himself up from the ground.

"Oh my god." Her hand was on the doorknob. "You seriously don't remember, do you?"

"I—"

"We've had this fight before."

"Emily—"

"It was the last time I talked to you before you disappeared." The door was open.

"Sweetheart, please, listen to me—"

"Bye, dad."

She latched the door behind her. It was a soft, unassuming punctuation. The next time they spoke was still too soon. At least they could agree on that.

[ragsy]

Reading back my original notes app concept for what would eventually become my motw oc-verse is so fascinating, because the bones for what they would eventually become are all there, but almost nothing about this is true about any of them anymore, despite the fact that i ran a 3-year motw campaign from this note that only ended a little over a year ago

[ragsy]

extremely quick emily doodle, the most put-upon woman in the whole wide world

[ragsy]

Emily Song, despite being whip smart and quick-minded, often gets too caught up in the idea of what's supposed to be there to see what's actually there, and so is constantly oblivious to evidence of the supernatural surrounding her at all times. "There has to be a perfectly mundane explanation for this," says the woman who doesn't know she explicitly exists in a universe where her cousin is a wizard and her dad knows how to teleport and her fiancé's entire family line has been cursed to be physically unable to be within 10 feet of the ocean

[ragsy]

Ok uh let me think I am so bad at knowing good questions to ask without a list let me think.

Ok

For all of your OCs that are from MOTW settings:

5 things they always have on them

4 things they are good at

3 things they could never live without

2 things they like to eat

1 thing they would wish for If they had a genie wish

HOUUHH THAT'S A LOT OF GUYS, OKAY

5 things they always have on them:

Dogmark: Glasses, wristwatch, hip flask, hiking boots, trinket from Tuck that he will never ever let anyone else see ever

Emily: Dangly earrings shaped like something cute, pocket calendar, phone in a brightly colored case with an equally brightly colored pop socket, ibuprofen, extremely large and heavy water bottle

Everett: Cutting edge smartphone, expensive sunglasses, expensive shoes, expensive jacket, business cards

Fishwoman: nothing, she doesn't wear clothes and she doesn't carry anything in her hands

Kenny: Walking cane, Franklin, cursed tape recorder, pocket notebook, dental floss

Sloane: Revolver, beat up old cell phone, arm brace/prothesis, hair ties, brass knuckles

4 things they are good at:

Dogmark: he just wants to be a good dog, isn't that enough?

Emily: trivia games, organization, conversation, missing the forest for the trees

Everett: lying, perjury, deception, looking good in sunglasses

Fishwoman: pickpocketing, fucking with fishermen, mindblowing weird fish sex, keeping a straight face in any situation

Kenny: breaking the ice, dental hygiene, bringing levity, missing the point

Sloane: arm wrestling (with her good arm at least), bestowing nicknames, shooting, grilling

3 things they could never live without:

Dogmark: the clothes on his back, the kindness of strangers, his sharpened teeth

Emily: the power of denial, her own independence, the shoulders of loved ones

Everett: a pretty face, the desperation of others, a charming voice

Fishwoman: not giving a fuck, hedonistic pleasures, sloane

Kenny: human connection, memories committed to paper, a familiar landing place

Sloane: a reliable weapon, an escape route, a confidant

2 things they like to eat:

Dogmark: raw beef, and he can't eat it anymore but he misses tomato soup so so so bad

Emily: apples, fresh baked bread

Everett: he doesn't eat, but he's always carrying around a cup of coffee to keep up appearances

Fishwoman: fresh caught catfish (still wriggling), shrimp chips

Kenny: hot cider, toast with jam

Sloane: steak, grilled veggies

1 thing they would wish for if they had a genie wish:

Dogmark: a cure for his curse

Emily: for magic to be real

Everett: to become the specialiest most beloved guy in the whole wide world

Fishwoman: someone like her

Kenny: a fresh start

Sloane: to know how it all ends