When Caustic is lost in the Void, Wraith and Bloodhound commit to helping him, and in doing so are locked down a tragic road that intertwines with Wraith’s own past.
15k+ words, 11 chapters, POV characters are Wraith, Bloodhound, and Caustic, contains darksparks but isn’t focused on it, mild graphic violence in the final chapter.
Inspired by this fantastic artwork: https://www.reddit.com/r/apexlegends/comments/djet2n/unlocking_sixth_sense_my_artwork/.
The full story is all complete and published right now, so hope y’all enjoy!
I just finished Persona 5 and I had many feelings and thoughts and while most of those were very, very positive (fav JRPG, for sure, one of fav games ever, definitely), some of those… weren’t positive, and this is basically a short essay-like thing that I wrote more to work those out than anything, but fuckin’ heck I might as well post it
the gist of it is that treating Ryuji, or any P5 character, as queer is not only the perfect “fuck you” to the game’s terrible, exclusionary portrayal of queer people, it’s wholly in line with the mindset the game itself encourages; by reading any P5 character as queer, you’re engaging in exactly the kind of defiant behaviour the game’s story upholds
(also, minor spoilers for Persona 5; though those spoilers have kinda major implications, even out of context)
Barely two months after the wretched thing had first appeared, Dean Oakes lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the window scattered morning sunlight into a fragmented spectrum across the stone walls. His attention sank back down to the lover sleeping next to him. He smiled and reached up to play with Cedric’s blond curls.
For the last time, a cruel thought reminded him. His smile died.
Dawn cast the sky into a canvas of sherbert colour, above a glistening river reflecting the warm gradient. Corrie had a hard time taking it in with her sleep-famished eyes, though, and the rhythmic rumbling of the bus wasn’t making her struggle to stay awake any easier. She smiled, thinking about how, even before she’d left, Pricefield had always had the same effect on her.
Quietly gorgeous and unbearably sleepy, she thought. And now with extra death, apparently. She’d expected her hometown to have changed in the years since, but a string of murders and disappearances hadn’t been the most welcome addition.
Pale, sickly streams of steam cut through the gold sky, creating a pattern of uneven stripes that burned Marcus's eyes.
“Fuck this planet's a pain to look at.” He turned towards the pilot of the dropship. “We get any of those goggles, or are you just gonna hoard 'em all?”
“Sorry man, they didn't issue any extras. You still got natural eyes?”
“Yeah. I ain't about to let some creepy suit put a bunch of metal and shit into my head.”
“Body enhancements are mostly synthetic, carbon fiber tissue, not metal.” Marcus tensed at hearing Throne. She wasn't even looking at him. Just standing in the open bay door, watching the horizon. In this form, her figure was encased in red, angular, mechanical components, which didn't do much to alleviate the uncanny quality to her voice.
“Hey,” the pilot called back, “you ever wonder if you get these kindsa missions 'cause you won't take enhancements?” Marcus pulled his gaze away from the blue glow of Throne's halo.
“Every damn day. I'm not giving in, though.”
“We go down, you're gonna wish you had,” the pilot chuckled.
“Then don't crash,” Marcus said pointedly. “'Sides, that's what she's for.”
“What even is she? An Angel?”
“Yep. New model.” The pilot glanced back at Throne with clear skepticism.
“You sure they didn't just send a robot with us?” Marcus eyed the tiny, dark patch of skin visible around Throne's jaw.
“Yeah, she's human. Or, neo-human, whatever.”
“We should focus on the mission.” Her command reverberated throughout the ship. Marcus couldn't help but wonder if she'd remotely accessed the comm system just to effectively shut them up. He wasn't sure if Angels had enough emotion left in them to care about something like that.
Throne disconnected from the dropship's comms before the pilot could notice it'd been overridden. It was one thing for them to gawk, but openly discussing her humanity while she stood there was too much.
Her grip on the metal case she carried tightened. She could cause severe damage to either of those pricks just by setting it down on them, and if she set it on their chests and left it there, they'd suffocate. No fully natural human could lift it, and even fewer would want to be near it. Throne was sure that Marcus Keyton and Jeffrey Bridge had no idea what was in it.
Or, they were a lot braver than she gave them credit for.
“We're coming up on the drop zone,” Bridge called back to them. Keyton stood up and moved behind Throne.
“You ready?” She didn't give him an answer. “Probably a dumb question.” Throne wanted to snap at him, to tell him to just hurry up and disengage the locks on her chassis. “Still not sure why they even need guys like me. Don't see why you can't just fly out of here yourself.” For the first time, she agreed with him. The very existence of Angel Handlers was insulting.
“We're here,” Bridge announced. Finally, Keyton activated her external systems. She didn't let it show, but the sudden sensation of feeling extensions of herself reattach to her senses was intoxicating.
“Go get 'em.” Keyton patted her on the back. It strained her will to not turn and glare at him, and she was sure he noticed her pause, but she swallowed the urge and instead leapt out of the ship.
“What's with the name?” She heard Bridge over the comms. “Throne?”
“What, you not well-read on obscure Christian mythology? Just watch.”
Throne hated them for making her moment the object of their spectatorship, but not enough that the moment itself wasn't utterly exhilarating.
Her chassis split apart, forming five rings that spun and shifted around her. The cameras along the rings activated, granting her complete, 360° vision. She wiggled the cannons in between the cameras, desperate for a chance to feel their firepower.
The rest of her chassis formed a propulsion system along her back and limbs, giving her jets to adjust her flight. At the end of the transformation, the last of the components slid down from her head, releasing a shock of black hair that waved wildly behind her.
“Goddamn, what even–” She muted Bridge and Keyton. She didn't need to hear them.
She was free, and she was in control.
Silver pulses of energy started to sear the sky around her. She rolled to the side to avoid one that flew straight up at her. The planet's inhabitants, colloquially dubbed Chamils by humanity. She grinned under her faceplate.
Gliding down at incredible speeds, flitting back and forth between blasts from the Chamil defense cannons, never letting her speed drop, Throne felt a mindblowing flood of energy. Her body, her rings, every molecule that made her up was drenched in adrenaline and ecstasy.
When Chamil airtroops began to approach, using the geysers to propel themselves up before engaging the thrusters on their synthetically-enhanced wings, she only smiled more.
Her ring-cannons swiveled and began tracking targets. She had to readjust a few times after dodging their oncoming fire, but the nanosecond the airtroops were in range, she let loose.
Spears of billowing fire shot through the Chamils, consuming any of their blasts that were in their path and incinerating their way through wingsuits and flesh. Every time she fired, a pulse of power rushed through Throne. Eager for more, she ceased fire, waiting for the Chamils to close in on her. Once a hefty crowd was circling her, their own blasts becoming difficult to avoid, she unleashed a swirling torrent of flame, sending a spiral of corpses back to the sulfuric ground.
The nearest AA-gun caught her attention with a shot that only nearly missed. She sped towards it, shifting all her cannons to aim at the Chamil gun. At the center of her forward-facing vision, a sphere of silver energy appeared and quickly grew in size as it approached.
Her rings fired in unity, at full power, blowing the sizzling silver ball apart. She flew through its sparkling remains without even slowing. The gun below didn't have time for a second shot before Throne was upon it.
“Holy shit,” Jeff muttered as he watched the live feed of Throne shredding the Chamil defenses. “That there's why they have guys like you. I'd never fly again if I had to do it with one of those on board, nothing holding them back.”
Jeff wasn't even sure he could consider what he did as flying anymore. Seeing the Angel sweep through the Chamil airspace with such smooth poise and precision, he couldn't help but think of his own piloting as little more than pushing a clunky box along. There was as little in common between him and Throne as there was between a gnat and a hummingbird. They both just happened to move through the air.
“Ain't you ever seen an Angel before?” Marcus moved up to stand behind Jeff's seat, chewing something. In the corner of his eye, Jeff saw Marcus slip a pack of non-regulation tobacco into one of the compartments on his pants.
“Of course I have, but nothing like this. This is...” he trailed off as the feed followed Throne slicing through an entire building.
“Seventh Choir, man. Tech gets fuckin' crazy that high up the chain.”
Neither said anything more, enraptured by Throne's path of destruction.
A massive clang rocked the dropship. Both men yelped and jumped, Jeff accidentally twisting the ship towards the ground for a moment.
“The hell was that?” he shouted. Marcus drew his pistol and ran to the back of the ship. Switching over to the ship's cameras, Jeff searched the feeds for what had hit them. It didn't take long to figure it out. “Chamils! Airtroops, three of 'em!”
A notification on his dashboard let him know that Marcus had manned the ship's gun. He focused on swerving away from the Chamils and giving Marcus a clear shot. No matter how fast he went, though, or how quickly he turned, the airtroops' wingsuits kept them at pace with the ship.
“Aggh, these shits are too slippery!” Marcus had resorted to firing with wild abandon without bothering to aim.
“Knock that off! You'll waste our ammo!”
“Just get us out of the atmosphere! No way they can follow us into space!”
“Our orders are to stay in the area to pick up the Angel when she's finished. We can't leave without her.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? She'll be fine! We'll come back! Just get us out of here!” Marcus was right, but Jeff knew that they'd have a hell of a time convincing command of that. To the right of his viewport, something caught his eye that gave him an idea. “Marcus! Get ready to start firing in a sec!”
“What do you think I've been doing, asshole?!?”
“I mean stop firing and wait. I'm gonna try to give you a clear shot.”
“I stop firing, they're gonna get real damn close to the ship.”
“That's what I want,” Jeff said as he flew the dropship into a canyon. The space was nearly too tight, and as he swerved around an outcropping, the ship's side screeched against the rock. He yanked the ship away from the canyon wall and threw it forward, directly into the geyser at the end. Various alarms started beeping about the damage the scalding acid was doing to the hull, but he was out again within a couple seconds.
The Chamils, instead of plowing through the geyser, were launched up, their speed ripped away from them by the force caught in their wings.
“Oh, hell yeah!” Marcus whooped as he shot them each down with ease. Jeff finally slowed the ship and eased back into his seat. Marcus came back down and clapped him on the shoulders. “Dude, fuckin' sick!”
“We might not be Angels, but we can still give those scaly bastards a run for their money.”
“Damn straight,” Marcus laughed. He fell quiet and furrowed his brow. Jeff turned and followed his line of sight. Ahead of them was what could only be a Chamil city. Round, twisted buildings with pointed ends rose above arrays of interconnected structures, all of them a mixture of dark metal and some rough, tan substance.
As they looked, a red figure zipped across the skyline, blasting down Chamil airtroops as it went. Throne stopped and floated above the city.
“Hey, look.” Jeff pointed to a convoy of ships taking off at the opposite side of the city from Throne. “Why didn't they use those against her?”
“Yeah,” Marcus mumbled, “they only sent airtroops, didn't they?” The ships made no attempt to approach Throne. Instead, they sped away from her and the city at impressive speed. “Are they... evacuating?”
Jeff pulled up the feeds from Throne's camera again. She was holding the case out with one hand and opening it with the other. As the cool metal slid open, her outstretched arm paused, then the feed went dark.
“Jesus Christ,” Jeff said under his breath.
“What happened? Why'd the feed–”
“She turned it off.” Jeff could feel himself shaking. “She did it too late, though. We weren't supposed to see that.”
“See what? I didn't see jack.” Jeff swallowed and grabbed the flight controls.
“That case had three Ragnarok-class nuclear missiles in it.”
He gunned the engines, turning the ship around, rising above the canyon behind them, and desperately begging the thrusters to push them as fast as possible. Streams of gas, geysers, and rock formations whipped past his line of sight. No maneuvers, no turns, no tricks. Jeff was flying in a straight line, full throttle.
He glanced at the ship's rear feed just in time to see a tremendous flash of light utterly fill the screen, accompanied by a deafening, unending roll of thunderclaps. The sky went from putrid gold to almost sheer white. The entire dropship started to rumble.
Jeff was forcing the ship forward out of instinct and desperation, but deep inside he didn't have any misgivings about what was about to happen. Their orders had been to stay in the area, but at a certain distance. He'd thought it was just to keep them out of the range of Chamil guns. Now he knew better.
He wasn't terribly afraid anymore, which surprised him. The idea of going out in a literal blaze while flying, or flying as best as he could, wasn't half-bad. He even got to enjoy a sort of peaceful quiet, with Marcus seemingly struck speechless by the whole matter.
Jeff hoped the other man wasn't panicking, or suffering too much. He almost considered letting the engines die, or even turning around altogether, just to get it over with quickly, but his hands were firmly, immovably clamped on the controls and wouldn't budge. His body was going to ride this out to the very end, even if his mind had given up.
The rumbling had intensified, and by now every camera feed was gone. Jeff closed his eyes, catching one final glimpse of red and blue light washing over the viewport.
“I Must Also Feel It As a Man”: Macbeth and Masculinity (Essay)
Toxic masculinity is no recent addition to humanity’s library of problems. For as long as cultural notions of masculinity and femininity have existed, innumerable men have pushed for their masculine attributes to be defined and recognized, often at the expense of others, or even the men themselves. Macbeth is perhaps one of the best examples in literature of a character that embodies dangerous masculinity.
“What Is This Quintessence of Dust”: Hamlet and the Nature of Man (Essay)
There is no greater, more apparent theme in Hamlet than its subversive critique of the monarchy and, on a larger scale, the Great Chain of Being. Hamlet’s own character development hinges on his disenchantment with these concepts. His nihilism grows as it is repeatedly brought to his attention how, regardless of any talk of divinity or greatness, humans are nothing more than mortal creatures.
Different Summers Over Different Years: Cyclops and Growth (Opinion Piece)
The two most popular criticisms I see levied at Cyclops seem to be these: that he's a bland, uninteresting, goody-two-shoes character; and that his death was unsatisfying and disrespectful to the character. I assert the contrary: that not only was his death extremely fitting and respectful to the character, but that Scott Summers is one of the best, most well-developed characters in comics.
In spite of its inevitability, change, whether it is merely perceived or based in objective reality, is hated and feared. It can create discomfort, distress, and a feeling of helplessness or ignorance. It comes in a variety of forms, ranging from the apparent and physical to the subtle and internal. Yet change is still inevitable, as well as necessary, whether it manifests as evolutionary mutation or personal self-discovery.
There was no sound for miles around the castle, for no innocent creature dared to lift its voice in the domain of Dracula.
Amelia Belmont wiped her forehead as she stepped up to the gate of the Demon Castle. The air above the twisted ironwork shimmered and wavered. She pulled out a talisman and held it up towards the gate, expecting the usual feeling of vertigo but receiving nothing. The shimmer was nothing more than heat.
Amelia shifted her satchel and entered the grounds of the vampire lord. She hadn't ridden a horse here, for fear of attracting attention from Dracula. For the last few weeks, nearly anything or anyone that made its presence perceptible to him at night had been slain mercilessly. Of course, in the vicinity of the Demon Castle, is was always night. On top of that, it had also become uncharacteristically hot and bright in the area, as though the moon were trying to emulate the sun.
The result of this was that the latest warrior in the Belmont Clan had to silently walk for miles, alone, carrying a dozen pounds worth of supplies, in sweltering heat, wearing leather armor, to the lair of the lord of darkness. Amelia was quite ready to kill Dracula.
A cobblestone path led to the castle's great door, lines by cracked statues in withered gardens. Amelia frowned, remembering how the stories of previous Belmont heroes had described all the décor of the Demon Castle as vibrant and well-tended.
Nothing impeded her walk to the door, despite her readiness. Upon reaching the entrance, she reached out to push it open. Just in time, she saw a scarlet sheen appear on the door where her hand nearly landed. Stepping back, she once again pulled out and lifted her talisman. This time, she did feel the dizzying sensation as the amulet drained both the magic energy from its target, the door, and an equal amount of life energy from its wielder. Glowing wisps flowed from both the door and Amelia into the talisman; white from her, black from the door.
When the wisps finished flowing, and the jewel in the amulet flashed, Amelia returned it to its pouch. After a moment of regaining her breath, she straightened up and stepped through the door, into the Demon Castle.
The felt lining the soles of her boots padded on the violet carpet that stretched out before her. Even inside, there was no sound . The sconces were empty of fire, and the hall was only illuminated by the intense moonlight. Like the decorations outside, the statues and tapestries of the antechamber were broken and in disrepair.
Amelia stepped further into the room, then stopped short and leapt forward. The whooshing noise that had alerted her to someone else's presence ended in a soft thud. She spun around to see a pair of werewolves. The moonlight shone on their indigo fur and glimmered on their teeth, but they made none of the noises their breed of monster was known for making.
Amelia smiled, tossing her satchel to the side. She unholstered her pistol with one hand and drew a bastard sword with the other. It didn't matter if Dracula himself was mute. This night, January 28th, 1843, he would die, and every godforsaken abomination in this castle would go with him.
Onya stood in the center of the intersection. Her skin was perfect silver, her clothes the same midnight black as her hair, streaked with vibrant gold. Twenty feet above the ground, her eyes stared out with cool determination, reflecting the neon rainbow of the city's lights. Below, around the stone base and plaque, wavecars performed their daily traffic dance.
Raina wove through the milling crowds without really looking at anyone, or hearing them. Her head and pink hair bobbed lightly to the beat of her headphones' music. She only slowed and looked at something specific when passing the statue of Onya Serren.
Raina gazed up at the memorial to the city's saviour, her skin’s reflection dark against the silver of the statue. She was just old enough to remember how things were before Onya. She smiled and nodded up at her in silent gratitude before speeding up her pace again.
As she walked, she tried to keep from looking at the people around her, but sometimes her eyes couldn't stop themselves. A tall man with cybernetic hands and eyes caught her attention briefly, then a girl no older than nine with artificial legs poking out from beneath her dress. Raina forced her eyes forward, away from the people.
Ahead of her, blocking off the street entirely, was a massive wall that once was imposing. A holdover from before Onya. The gate and its identity checks had been ripped out, but the wall itself was too well built to remove easily, so everyone just made their way through the hole that used to be the gate when passing from one district to another.
Raina smirked, thinking about how much of the Acrovis regime's establishments had carried over after Onya. With the walls came the districts they defined. People were free to move about as they pleased, but Taion City was still split exactly how it used to be.
Just after exiting the wall, Raina turned in to an alley. She continued for a while before pausing next to a dirty wall covered in basic graffiti. She fished out a data chip and slid it into a crack in the wall. A door separated itself from the rest of the concrete, lines splitting apart the graffiti. She stepped through, walking for a few steps in total darkness as the wall closed up behind her, before coming out into an open space inhabited by a much quieter, much smaller crowd. This one wasn't milling. The people here knew exactly where they were going and, like Raina, didn't care much for making eye contact. Raina took off her headphones and walked out into the indoors alley.
Conversations spiraled around her in hushed tones, more often than not suppressed by louder, more jovial conversations that were clearly only being held to mask quiet transactions from prying ears.
Eventually, Raina came to an alcove covered with a grey tarp. She pushed it aside and stepped in. Inside, a figure sat with an ankle on his knee. He wore a small hood, framing a compact gas mask and a green-glowing visor that wrapped around his face. No skin was visible.
“Afternoon, Raina.” His voice was light and modified, coming out like an echo of itself. “Got much good fer good ol' Zix?”
“No, but I've got some data for the real Zix, who we both know is neither good nor old,” Raina responded in an even tone, pulling out a small cube filled with chips and setting it on the table next to Zix.
“Hey, now, you can't say you know anythin' about me,” Zix said. “Give me one true, objective fact about who I am and I'll give you twice as much data for this.” Raina put a hand on her hip and stared at Zix.
“One true fact: you're an asshole.” Zix laughed. Raina hated to admit it, even to herself, but the sound was pleasant and melodious.
“True, but not objective. Sorry, Rainy, no extra for you.” He emptied the cube and filled it halfway with different data chips before tossing it back to her. Zix sighed.“You know how I feel about you carrying that stuff around like that. 'Specially in a place like Corroni here.”
“And you know how I feel about implants.” She placed the cube in her bag. “See ya, Zix.” He waved as she turned and left his space.
Raina made her way quickly back to the end of Corroni alley that she'd entered from. She stopped by a vendor and traded in the data Zix had given her for some food before leaving the area without looking back.
Closing the door behind her, Raina let the silence of her apartment encompass her. She put the containers of food she'd gotten from the vendor on a counter and headed for her bedroom.
The window was transparent, and a cool, pale blue light was spilling in from a billboard outside. Raina stood in the soft dark until the light switched to a hot, glaring orange. She grimaced and spun the dial by the window all the way, making the glass turn the same opaque grey as the walls.
Boots kicked off, she laid on her squat bed with a sigh. One hand felt the back of her head, at the base of the skull. It was the spot a cybernetically enhanced person would have a data chip port. Raina felt nothing more than downy hair and smooth skin. Deeper down, she felt a mix of relief and disappointment.
