Blem

Scrapped edits of an AU where both Shiro’s were on the Atlas

wizardshark‌:

suselling‌:

oh yeah, in celebration of 2019, i feel like it is important to note that 2019 is the last year that chara falling into the underground can happen….

you know what that means yall, gotta go dive into a hole in a mountain this year or never

I was older now, more skilled at gauging the differences. I could easily distinguish the reasoning behind the numbers. My boss was a seven, she did control my paycheck, after all. Though she was a sweetheart. The man at the cubicle next to me was a three, he was a bitter man. All bark and no bite. I assured my other coworkers of that every time he opened his mouth.

It was a Wednesday, my favorite day. Work usually slowed towards the middle of the week, it was never as hectic as Mondays or as stressful as Fridays. That day was different, though. A tugging feeling in my gut kept me on guard. It started that morning, it was noon when I understood why. My father had always told me I had a great intuition.

He walked in, a curly mop of hair on his head. A crooked, withdrawn smile on his face. He was new, you could tell by his demeanor. He kept his arms tight across his chest, he was dressed overly formal. He had on new shoes. I had gotten good at judging based on looks, it was necessary to avoid paranoia.

I focused right above his head, I always checked the number last. A dark black ten appeared. I immediately went into panic mode. I had only ever seen eights and nines, even then they were only on television. Mass murderers held bright red nines and gang members dawned a yellow eight. The depth of the black drew me in, it was the deepest shade I had ever seen, similar to that dye or whatever that had gone viral online awhile ago.

I directed my attention back to his face. Freckles dotted his tanned skin, his gaze seemed distant. This man had probably murdered. He could have pillaged an entire village. Skinned the bodies of children and eat the meat, even. Each scenario grew darker, more gruesome than the last.

His hand stretched towards me. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Owen. Today’s my first day on the job. Uh, can you point me to the head office.” His voice seemed firm, a little hesitant though. The black light made me squimish under it’s glow. I nodded, I couldn’t stand being in its radiance much longer.

“I’m Elizabeth, Liz if you will. It’s right this way, follow me.” I headed towards my bosses office. In ever window he passed I could see his black light trailing behind my blue. I was a two usually, a little less than most people. I could feel his stare digging into the back of my head. Gnawing at my nerves. As soon as we got to the office I turned to walk away, but my employer called me in.

“I see you two already acquainted yourselves with each other. That’s swell, given that you will be training our new member for the next few days, Liz. Don’t worry, Owen, she’s one of the most efficient employees. You’ll be a pro in no time under her advisory.” Her white teeth shining in the fluorescent light of the office.

Friday came quickly, and Owen caught on fast. He seemed to know exactly the right questions to ask. It seemed that he had previous computer-based knowledge. The insignificant feeling of being under his glowing ten did not dissipate. I prepared myself for the worse each passing day.

Friday the tugging feeling returned. Owen walked in, more withdrawn than usual. Halfway through the day he briefly rolled up his shirt sleeves. I noticed a bruise taking up half of his left arm. It was red and purple, fresh. He quickly noticed me staring and rolled his sleeve back down. He made no effort to comment.

That night I was getting into bed when my phone lit up. ‘Owen (work)’ scrolled across the screen. I was at a loss for why he would have called me. I quickly picked up, perhaps he had a question. I was in horror at what I heard on the other end.

A female voice came across the line. She was screaming and yelling. Her sentences were scattered with profanity and derogatory phrases. “You’re useless.” She yelled.

“Please don’t do this. Please I didn’t mean to, I promise I’m trying. I got a job for you, we can make this work.” Owen replied to the girl, his voice shook. He was crying.

A loud slap could be heard. A punch probably. “You’re a waste. You might as well die.” Her voice sounded furious. Owen sobbed, but attempted to stop himself from crying. I felt frozen in place, my body aching.

The sound of a door slamming made my ears ring. “Owen? Owen, are you okay?” His shaky breaths stopped. I could hear him scrambling to get the phone out of his pocket.

“I promise whatever you heard isn’t what it seems like. I’m fine, I’m fine.” He was panting, his speech slurred. A quiet “oh shit” sounded through the phone. I could hear him get up from what I assumed was the ground.

“What’s your address?” I didn’t know what I was thinking in that moment. I knew he was not fine, but I did not know how to help.

“She’ll be back in a bit, I’m sure she just left to blow off some steam. It’s fine it’s my fault. I forgot to bring home dinner I should’ve known better. It’s fine, I need to go make some food and she’s not too fond of guests.” He stammered and tripped over his words in haste. I remembered I have the address of all the employees saved on a document for mailing reasons for work. I slipped on a coat and ran to my car.

“Get some shoes and a coat I’m on my way.”

He sat on my couch, still. I made no effort to start a conversation. I did not need to ask about the cut on his lip, bruise on his cheek, or the bruise I had seen on his arm. I glanced up at the ten above his head. It radiated blacker than ever. He stared ahead at my television, though I did not turn it on. His eyes were glazed over.

“I’ll get you a pillow and blanket, or do you want to use my bed?” I spoke, as gently as I ever could.

He snapped his head towards me. “No, no, no, I can’t stay here I need to go home. Veronica won’t be happy, I need to go.” He made an effort to stand, but I grabbed his arm. He flinched under my touch. I let go immediately.

“Please, stay. I’ll help you get your stuff in the morning. You can stay here until she gets her stuff out of your house.” He snapped after that, completely breaking down. He tumbled back onto the couch, head in his hands. “I’ll be right back.” The black of the ten that had previously consumed the room dimmed.

I made him stay in my room, I was worried he’d try to leave if I let him stay so close to the door. He could make his own decisions, but I knew this was a more intricate situation than he could comprehend. I had texted Veronica, his girlfriend, off his phone last night. I told her to get her stuff, she needed to be gone in the next week.

I woke up early Saturday, as always. I set the table; it felt odd to take out two plates. I heard the sink in the bathroom run. Soon enough I felt Owen walk into the kitchen, but I did not feel the cool, black radiance of the ten. I shivered, but continued to have my back to him as a wiped the counter.

“You don’t have to do all this.” He sighed, pulling out a chair. His voice was weak, groggy from sleep and anguish. “You barely know me and she wasn’t wrong.”

“She was extremely wrong, no person should be treated like that. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like or need.” I grabbed the pancakes I made from the microwave, I wanted to keep them warm. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Thank you, I don’t know if I said it yet. I am so grateful for your help. I…I don’t know what I was capable of doing before. To myself, I mean. I was going to do something, and I think it would’ve been the wrong thing to do.” He was crying again. I turned around, but as I put the pancakes down and went to hug him, something caught my eye. A white number one glimmered over his head.

I never before had thought about the danger someone could be to themself.

SO IM WATCHING @squigglydigg S CHAPTER 3 STREAM AND A THING THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT REMINDED ME THAT I HAD DRAWN THIS AWHILE AGO AND HADN’T POSTED IT AND IM DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF

I start asking people if they wan’t free body-Mods. Elf ears, Antennas, things that not only add mass, but also function, and require nerves and brain mass invisible in the photo to function the way the image implies. 

I photoshop myself to have wings and a prehensile tail, gills… physical tells of immortality. I become my most frequent test subject, for the things I dare not test on others. 

I ask the poor if they want to be photoshoped to bear the physical signs of health and good care. Either they will come by money, because everything has to be expressed in a cause an effect relationship, or not looking poor or homeless might allow them to get a job they wouldn’t otherwise have access to. The result seems to be some combination of the two. Some accept, some decline, some seek me out. 

Most importantly, though, I ask. 

I put up an online form asking if people want me to try to change anything for them. I only offer things I think I can manage.

At first people think it a hoax. Most still do, but those desperate enough to try anything, they seek me out.

And I test how this works a little at a time and with the participants fully informed permission. 

What kind of irresponsible jackass jumps directly to necromancy?

The dead… cannot consent. 

Not usually anyway. 

One day I find it in someone’s will that they want to be brought back if at all possible. It’s a case I had been following for a while on social media. Getting a hold of their physical personal journal turned out to be even harder than getting a hold of their remains. Not that they weren’t vocal about wanting to live after their death, but I wanted to make sure their private thoughts were the same. 

I have been testing how this works for YEARS… 

Many years.

I’m sitting in my mountain-top painting room, though it more resembles a lab with a tablet at the focal point, My hair is still damp from swimming in the ocean.

It’s been 200 years. I can’t say I look the same. The second set of clear eyelids give it away, even if you don’t catch the reflection from the backs of my eyes. 

I’ve set up an online clinic with a refined list of what I can and can’t help people change. And also an open list of things I have not tested or haven’t figured out how to test. 

Laws have been passed that taking photos of people against their will is now highly illegal, and punishable the same way as trying to actively deny them medical treatment, in some places,in the places where enough people believe. People sell masks that prevent someone’s photo from being taken, and those waiting for my treatments wear dark veils as if in mourning.

I have an extensive process to verify that the request is actually from the person in question and it usually involves a face-face interview. At least over a cam. Sometimes for complex and non-standard work, the person in question stays with me for a while at an undisclosed location. Sometimes it’s a small group all after the same thing, to have dragon tails or fairy wings. The photos must be explicit about it too, they must show the wings sprouted from their very flesh, and the next photo must show it in agile action. 

There is no break.

There is no shortage of people who want something changed, there is no one else who can do the work. Quality of life takes precedent, including people transitioning, especially even, those who’s identity cannot be expressed with their bodies, yet. Pure cosmetics I do when there’s a spare moment in between. I’ve done what I can to edge myself away from needing as much sleep. Every photo has to be done as carefully as if I hold someone’s life and identity in my hands. A bad photo-shop could ruin someone’s life. I try not to do anything I am not 100% certain of if there isn’t a medical way to reverse it, or treat the potential side-effects. I have trained myself to let go of all personal bias. I make no modification or tweak without the direct consent of the client. I let them tell me what they need. These unique moral rulings are important to me and my work. 

I have become a servant to the world. I could take a break if I wanted, but how could you look at the results of affecting such change and deny anyone? 

I have not prolonged anyone else’s life yet, not the way I have directly staved off my own death. I do not know the status of my own mortality, I do not know my biological age or the full potential consequences. Those closest to me would not consent, and their reaction to me even implying the question told me not to ask them. I tried to make sure they didn’t feel bad, I try not to be bitter about it now. It’s been over a hundred years since the last person I was close to, when I discovered my ability, passed away. I’d have liked to have them with me. 

Others have asked me to prolong their life, directly, but most just ask for the appearance of youth, maybe not recognizing that there are distinctions, even visually. I have not explained this to anyone. Many who ask directly are rich, but immoral, and their businesses hurt people, and so I say no. The rich who ask to look young and are willing to pay millions, they fund the travels and treatment of everyone else. They keep me in business. 

Dictators ask. I say no. 

Military leaders try to threaten me into modifying their soldiers. I say no to all of them. I no longer belong to any country. I belong in the middle of the ocean. The fact that I am the only person who can do this is the only thing that gives me the leverage I need for my freedom. 

An urn sits behind me. This person was cremated against their will. 

There’s a pedestal at the center of my lab with a circle of walls around it. This inner room has been filled with what is left of this person’s earthly possessions. 

I know this power doesn’t work on the inanimate… but the inanimate was never animate. 

First I tried a fish. It was a while before I could edit the photo of a fish enough to be convincingly alive so that the fish would fill in and come back to flopping about. But there’s no real way to test if a fish has retained it’s identity, or self. 

Frank… the fish, floated in the tank behind my monitor, gave me another long look and swam off again. Frank may or may not be remembering me catching him, knocking him unconscious, and then next being helped by me into a bucket. Frank could not remember anything between those moments. I had already tested to see if he would remember the things that happened while he was being cooked, before I started this process. It seemed relevant. 

I had held up objects in front of dead-fish eyes for a day before poking prodding or testing at the fish, until finally cooking the fish. I almost felt bad, but holding up those objects to the tank now elicited no response. The frying pan I had placed in the tank triggered nothing either. It was probably, ultimately, redundant, on some level, all of these little tests, or else pointless… Logically one would not make new memories while their brain was dead… but I wanted to be extra sure that no one would come back to life remembering being cremated, and that wasn’t pointless. 

I’ve considered the morality and effects of this for the better part of two years. I have ascertained form their personal journals that they would have wanted me to try, even if I didn’t have any understanding of the consequences… and even if they couldn’t remember themselves. 

This is the beginning of the greatest experiment and test of the ability. It will open or close thousands of doors. 

I had developed a habit of talking to Frank. Frank only cares about feeding time, and when I reach in to pet him. He was weary at first, but learned I wasn’t going to hurt him… not again anyway. I still feel bad. 

I have done every incidental thing I could think of to visually imply they are a direct continuation of the consciousness that they were. Working the lines around their face into a familiar expression, adding things to the background, things tested and untested as to whether they have any effect. The photo is of them in their coffin, before the cremation, though most people now consider taking photos at funerals to be in poor taste.

Except the cults. There were many reasons I now live high on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean.

I ask Frank what he thinks and he moves his wide fish mouth at me uselessly. I’d be happy if I never had to have fish for dinner again. Every failed resurrection ended in a very odd fish dinner, with an oddly lively, yet still dead, looking meal. 

I’ve started to prepare forms that resemble a combination of a living will and a DNR order, for people to fill out, with whether they would want to be resurrected, depending on their cause of death. I have held polls on whether people even think it should be the default in the case of murder, or when a person dies too young to understand enough to consent wither way. I have published novel after novel bringing these hypotheticals into question and scoured the discourse for insight on what people wanted. 

Mostly I have determined it breaks down to the individual and their own autonomy in every case, and I hesitate to even consider publishing the forms until I know it can work. At least I am responsible for who will and won’t be helped by this. I only charge the rich, and I can keep it from being a tool used to widen gaps of inequality. 

This woman, this poor woman, wanted nothing more than to live but her family had done everything, seemingly, to prevent that. She was abused in life and finally, also in death. Poisoned into a coma, the money, which she earned, set aside for her -theoretically functional- stasis chamber taken by her uncle, her body cremated against her direct wishes. 

Sure, it was illegal to steal the urn… but it was the moral thing to do and not well guarded, besides. Even as ashes she would want to be as far from her family as possible. 

It would be strange to know her so well when I am a stranger to her. It will be. 

I take a deep breath. 

Another picture taken. He hovers anxiously as a teenage girl around the age of 17 shakes the polaroid picture, her groupies huddling nearby, all clamoring to get a look.

He’s done this a million times before. He isn’t sure what he expects to go differently now. In fact, he doesn’t know why this little flicker of hope still remains, after being fixed with so many dampeners. Still, this flicker has no care for what he knows, and carries on, burning dimly.

The girls giggle and laugh, a half a dozen hands pointing to their faces to provide critique. Suddenly, one girl notices something off. In the top right corner of their photo is a translucent-looking shape in the vague form of a human body, only it’s hovering a little too far above the ground to be so. That’s him. She points at him, and her friends’ chatter ceases. “Where’d this guy come from?”

The girls chime in with many different responses, some a bit spooked and others fascinated. But the one that makes his day is the loudest and seemingly most uncommon of the responses:

“Well, I think he looks kinda cute. I hope he’d come back over and take another picture with us.”

That candle-flame-sized pinprick of hope leaps, jumping up and engulfing his chest, warming his heart and making him blush.

Never in the afterlife has he ever heard someone say that before. And before now, he hadn’t known that was what he was hoping to hear. But it wouldn’t be getting old any time soon.

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!