ּ ֶָ֢ ۫ ₊ ☽ Kota ☾ ₊ ۫ ֶָ֢ ּ

Everybody in McKinney is dead. It's hot in McKinney.

Somebody got that reference

Anyways, I don't know how I managed to kill THE ENTIRE CAST, but I did.

I guess entire is a bit of an overstatement. Cernan, Mitchell, and Alien Lifeform Anders made it! I fucking knew that wasn't her.

Pure evil for finally convincing me that maybe we did have the right Anders JUST TO SHOW HER DEVASTATED AS WE TOOK OFF.. It was so stupid too, because I'm now realizing her eye color was different the whole time and I never noticed.

My poor, sweet Carter. Doomed by the supermassive prologue once again. I was actually terribly desperate for more of him and Simms. I was hoping that maybe I would find him locked in a closet somewhere, but finding him mangled in a vent worked too.

We lost Commander Stafford to the crash. I should have thought a little harder about the landing systems. I figured fire seemed more important considering I didn't think we'd actually be landing, but alas I would be wrong (which would make a lot of sense, why would they possibly give me a choice about landing systems if we didn't intend to land?). I still don't know if it was the fact I stood up or if it was the fact I rerouted power and he couldn't turn on the computer, but whatever it was slammed him straight into the front windshield.

I lost my dear wife, Eisele, to her clone at the scanners. I should have thought a little longer on my choice, but I very quickly realized I knew nothing about her and decided to send them both through the scanner. I probably should've considered that if the clone knew it was screwed it was gonna do whatever it intended to do anyways, and apparently gutting Laura was it's best option.

Never go left. It is not Anders. Don't let her lie to you. I should have known, I did know in fact, but it cutscened and it didn't seem like there was any way to get rid of her afterwards. "Better now that you're back." Was very much not an Anders thing to say and her CONTINOUS flirting with Cernan really kept me on my toes. Also made me wonder how many people on the ship knew about his husband? I can only recall him telling Cooper, and their originals seemed to be friends before they were cloned, so I don't know. I can only assume Anders didn't know, hence why her clone was hitting on him, but I digress, this isn't important.

I am still upset about Cooper. Oh my god, I miss X ONE TIME IN THE HANGAR AND SHE'S IMPALED. I'm in mourning, enough said.

Young got decimated by a shipping container, once again I missed X. Never had a supermassive game before that didn't give you at least once chance to redeem yourself, but here we are.

God damn Directive was brutal for me. I don't think I've ever had such bad luck with a cast, except for maybe the Quarry when I thought Chris was Laura and refused to shoot, killing almost everyone.

I wish it had told me what they intended to do with my crew that did escape, considering they had an Alien Anders with them. I would assume something awful, but it didn't tell me. Regardless, I will be replaying to try not to kill everyone this time.

I've been playing the VR MADiSON practically nonstop for the last several days and I am in love with the story, even if the game freaks the shit out of me and I'm barely even into it. I know the story though, don't worry 🫡.

I'll give a brief rundown for the Hannibal fans who have no clue wtf I'm even talking about lmao.

Over the course of the game you learn about a woman named Madison Hale. In 1986 she became possessed by a demon and mutilates her family to complete a ritual for the spirit. Before disposing of them, she took pictures of their bodies and then dumped them into a well. When the town sheriff caught her in the well she was shot and died a few hours later in the hospital.

The actual game takes place 30 years after the incident and follows a 16 year old boy named Luca who becomes possessed by Madison after he receives her haunted camera for his birthday. The beginning of the game begins with his father locking him in a room while shouting. Luca is covered in blood, laying in smears of blood across the floor, and is incredibly disoriented. When he finally gains his bearings he finds 2 Polaroids that had been thrown into the room with him; one of a severed arm and the other of a severed leg. You later learn these were pictures of his mother and sister whom he killed in an possession episode.

Yeah, super fun. So Luca is possessed, and his father belives he's possessed too, going as far to research Madison's case and even consulting a priest for help.

Which leads me to the actual Hannibal part of this. I had an idea where his father thinks it's mental, not possession, and sends Luca to be evaluated by a psychiatrist. Who other than Hannibal to deal with a possessed teenager?

I'm still fletching the whole thing out, but I think I wanna work Hannigram in there somehow. Maybe Hannibal and Luca have an Abigail type deal going on? Or maybe the haunting starts to progress to Hannibal? Love Hannibal's crazy sense of smell too, will definitely work that in somehow. My vast mind of ideas is endless.

I do know that I think Will, being as sensitive to everything as he is, is definitely gonna have something going on considering that yknow, some people just kinda feel spirits and stuff. Ironically enough Lucas' possession symptoms are also incredibly similar to Will's encephalitis symptoms so might do something with that. Not quite sure what I want yet.

Here's my summary if anyone read far enough to actually be interested

When Luca Maxwell turned 16, the only thing he truly wanted was a camera. A real camera. A Polaroid. No more late nights processing film and fighting with his little sister over ruining his work, just a simple click of a button and the camera would do it for him.

So when his birthday rolled around, he was over the moon when his family delivered. The camera was used, and sometimes shook when he snapped pictures, but alas, Luca couldn't be happier. That was until the symptoms started.

Throbbing headaches, late nights hunched over the toilet, dizzy spells that came and went, and near constant fighting with the rest of his home. He blamed the violent outbursts as a result of his exhaustion, but a particularly physical incident with his sister drove their family to the edge.

It was an unusually cold night for the usually scorching Yara. A soft breeze rattled the fronds high in the palms, and the white caps of the ocean crashed in a gentle rhythm as they ran along the sand. The moon hung high and bright in the sky, dimming the twinkling stars that dangled in the inky darkness surrounding it. Though, just like everywhere in Esperanza, even Isla de León wasn't safe from the blinding glow of the capital, obscuring the stars and leaving the moon glazed over, hidden by the warmth of the sun. The entirety of Yara seemed to revolve around Torre del León as if it were the sun; it was certainly bright enough. Even from the back patio, the peak of the tower loomed over the house, stretching and warping into an even bigger achievement as it reflected against the pool. You understood why Castillo spent his days there. They were one and the same. They turned heads, gave off a wonderful warmth of security that made the whole country listen. But in Torre del León, at least, the floors hidden from the public were nothing—full of meaningless furniture and marble flooring.

Tonight, he was spending time on his island, holding an extravagant house party to which you had been graciously invited to stand outside. The backyard wasn't the worst place in the world; landscapers came every week to keep the bushes at a reasonable length, and the pool smelled of bitter chlorine. But it was cool and quiet compared to the bustling mansion. Guard patrol wasn't exactly what you had signed up for when you took the president's gracious offer to allow you to be his general, you were more accustomed to long hours accompanying him and Diego at the hip to various meetings and events. The rank gave you a definite power that separated you from the rest of the army, gave you authority over your former peers, but it dwindled tonight as you lingered around the back steps on a well-needed smoke break.

The rumors of how you'd come to land your position had varied—from sleeping with the president to bribery; you'd heard everything under the sun. The things you didn't hear were loud enough, shared in deep glares and passing looks from fellow soldiers. The worst of all was the queen of propaganda herself, María Marquessa. It was no secret she and Antón had shared their moments in the past, one of their bigger moments coming in the form of his heir. They denied it day in and day out, but in the end, it didn't stop the quickly growing accusations. You knew María had attended tonight; word about who was at the manor got around pretty quickly between the graveyard shift, especially for bigger events. María was worse than the others; she didn't give you dirty looks or voice her opinion—she kept to herself, forcing smiles and basking in petty attempts at trying to mask her obvious hatred. You couldn't quite comprehend why she was so resentful. In all honesty, you should have been jealous of her. Antón handed her her whole life: her academy, her surgeries, Yaravision. She stood much higher than you ever would, and yet she couldn't seem to see it that way.

You wouldn't deny most of the rumors regarding you and the president weren't exactly far-fetched, though it was nothing of the glamorous relationship everyone made it out to be. He wasn't the man everyone made him out to be. You had fought tooth and nail in the academy, clawing for anything he could possibly see as success, to make yourself stand out. He certainly saw you, and it wasn't long before you were thrown into the spotlight, praised as a star, and shown more love and admiration than you'd ever received in your life. But every star burns out, and once you found yourself at his side, you no longer shined. Everything you were once praised for became nothing, leaving a hole of guilt as again and again you were told what you could be doing better, how Antón's life was at stake, and how the finite details of every speck of your life suddenly became the reason he'd be gone. You tried not to dwell on it too much, the fact you were responsible for not just one but two lives now, one of which you cared for much more than you were willing to admit.

The smoke of your cigarette eased its way into the sky, filling the air with the sour smell of burning tobacco. The party had slowly been coming to an end, with the remaining crowd saying their goodbyes to the other guests, though a grinding pair of heels caught your attention—different from the usual lost patron who stumbled into the backyard. María, as spiteful as she was, was beautiful. Her makeup was spotless, her blonde hair spun into meticulously brushed curls, her purple dress skin-tight, showing off the years' worth of work she'd put into herself. Gold jewelry hung just about everywhere she could manage, a quick, flashy reminder of her success. They caught the light that hung above the back door as she stopped in front of you, glimmering against her warm skin. Her bracelets clattered together when her hand met her hip, a gentle smile finding her face. There was something so fake about her smile—maybe it was all the surgery, or maybe it was the snarky tone she took on when she spoke.

"Slow night?" she asked, fanning her free hand in front of her face as your cigarette finally reached her, her face scrunching into a nauseating grimace. You had to admit they tasted different since Viviro had started being produced—something to do with the new chemical fertilizer that produced more tobacco down in José's fields. It had made the smell less earthy, almost artificial, but you had been assured the chemicals were safe, and so far, there had been nothing suggesting they weren't.

"You could say that." Slow was an understatement. But you didn't want to entertain her conversation. She seemed upset at the lack of response, deciding on a different approach.

"Antón was looking for you." You weren't sure if she knew how much it bothered everyone when she addressed him by his first name. The bite behind her words suggested she did.

"I bet he was," you almost winced as you forced a sarcastic smile. "And he sent you out here to come find me?" There was a beat of contemplation from Marquessa, as she grappled with her lie, trying to come up with a single reason she would've been back here, but the back door opening cut her off. You knew who it was before you even got a chance to look, the immediate change in Marquessa spoke volumes. His suit was a blinding white, accented in a deep red that matched the flag he hung proudly around the estate. It was freshly pressed, his red tie tight around his neck, held in place with one of the golden lion pins he always wore.

Your back instinctively straightened, hand itching to push into a salute as he looked between the two of you, magically dissolving whatever issues María had with you tonight. She put on the best smile she could muster, her hand sliding off her hip to rest against her side.

"María," he seemed caught off guard, but he didn't miss a beat. "Shouldn't you be inside? The backyard isn't exactly open to guests." The way she frantically tried to explain herself was laughable, tripping over her words over and over trying to find something presentable enough to keep her image.

"Looks like he found me, and all on his own. Wouldn't you look at that?" You couldn't resist a jab at her, crumbling her current lie into another one. Under the warm porch light you could see the red staining her cheeks, her usual, practiced facade slipping into a mess of anxiety. Antón was quiet as he listened to her explanation, eventually the woman realized there was no use trying to explain herself and the backyard fell into silence once more. Music softly strummed its way through the open door, mixing into a serenade with the crickets and careful wind that carried itself through the yard. His smile was stiff, there was understandably no warmth to it.

"Goodnight, Ms. Marquessa." It was his way of telling her their one sided conversation was over, not so subtly excusing her. It was almost aggravating how quickly she changed in his presence, bothered by the idea that she could say anything that might upset him. She smiled and it was the most real one you'd seen from her, a sharp breath seeping its way into her nose. They stood for a while, sharing a look that only they understood the meaning behind, then she slipped past him and back into the house, but not without shooting you another dagger filled glance.

The atmosphere felt immediately lighter when he leaned against the wall beside you—maybe "lighter" wasn't the term; it was different. You doubted he would ever open up about his relations with María, certainly not with you. Whatever they had between them was clearly long gone, but you couldn't help worrying about where you stood. Maybe there truly was nothing there; whatever spark they had, however long ago, had snuffed itself out. But even if there wasn't, she was always around. Parties, meetings, dinner—anytime she could push her way into his life, she found it.

"I apologize for her; she's—" he carefully began, his hands working to smooth a wrinkle on his jacket.

"A bitch," you spoke before you even had time to think. The air suddenly felt heavy in your lungs, your uniform too tight around your neck, leaving a gaping hole of uncertainty in your chest. Maybe you had overstepped; even if you had, he didn't show it. He was near impossible to read. As hard as you tried, he never let himself slip.

"That is a word for it," he chuckled, studying your cigarette and the smoke that seeped from it. Your hand moved to grasp it between your fingers; it was practically burnt out, but you offered it out to him anyway. The president was quick to turn you down, muffling a cough into his sleeve.

At his decline, you finished it off, snuffing it to ash under your boot. It left a sour taste that leaked down your throat—a burning sensation, almost. They had lost the taste that made them unmistakably Yaran.

"Yaran has gone to shit, you know?" He spoke your thoughts, but you couldn't help filing around your pockets for another. It didn't matter how they tasted; settling the tremble in your hands was more than enough to mask over the rancid aftertaste

"What a wonderful way to speak about your country."

"It's true. I smoke Mexican." Of course he did. You were out of matches which left you disappointedly searching your pockets for a light. Antón was quick to provide, his hand dipping into his own pocket to fish out a gold lighter. The front was engraved with a beautiful lion, the edges scuffed and dull from obvious years of use. You got a whiff of his cologne when he flicked it open, casting a dull flame against your face.

The music eventually faded into a light, jazzy tune, rolling its way through the open door. He found the beat, tapping his shoe against the tile in a steady rhythm as he softly hummed along. It seemed familiar, even if you couldn’t place where, he seemed comfortably in tune with it.

“Dance with me?” He suddenly spoke up, flashing you a rare smile as he offered out a hand. You were tentative to take it, but eventually you gave in, smoke trailing you as he gracefully pulled you away from the wall and into the spotlight shining from the gap in the foyer. He was obviously much more content with the beat, flowing with a practiced ease as you fumbled to keep up. You felt as if you were only stumbling within his orbit; he was the sun and the rest of the world orbited around him. You found yourself wondering how many people were close enough to him to even have that thought.

He was a wonderful dancer, setting the pace and allowing you to flow with him, occasionally pushing you out into a tight twirl before pulling you back to him. You could really smell his cologne this close; it was definitely expensive. Leathery with maybe a dash of amber. It was strong, but it was hard to mask the harshly sweet scent of the cigars he was always smoking. It nearly made you self-conscious about the fact you probably smelled like cigarettes and dry cleaning. You didn't have time to linger on it very long before his arm wrapped snugly around your waist. He slowed his pace, allowing for a second to bask in the moment, trying your hardest to memorize every detail before it faded away into the obscurity of your thoughts. The way your boots made you feel clumsy, the way your uniform suddenly felt too tight against your back, the cigarette dangling between the fingers on your free hand, but most of all you'd noticed how you'd settled. All of a sudden, the day didn't feel near as long, and the ache in your legs drifted elsewhere as you swayed around the yard, allowing the world around you to fade away until there was nothing but the tempo of the music and him.

Inevitably, the tune dwindled away into another song, and it left you gnawing at the idea that the moment had come to an unceremonious end and everything would resume as it once was. He'd continue on as if nothing had happened, and you'd resume your nightly patrol with nothing but a heavy heart and a longing for just one more song. To your surprise, he didn't pull away; he didn't even entertain the idea that he might as he spun you around once more. When your arms draped over his neck, his hands rested over your waist, a soft smile plastered on his face.

"My mother," he softly started, "Dios, she was a wonderful singer." There was something reminiscent in his eyes you couldn't place. He was distant, far away. Somewhere deep down, he was still that 13-year-old boy, listening to his mother hum the same song inside a prison cell, wishing for a father that would never return. You couldn't help but wonder if he was anything like Diego, quiet and sincere. If maybe there was a time he was gentle, still filled with that childlike wonder his son radiated. You doubted it, but it didn't mean you couldn't dream.

You winced when the door creaked its way fully open, blinding you with bright light. You let out a soft whine of disappointment when he forced himself to pull away. You knew how it looked, and that definitely wasn't the message he wanted to portray to everyone at his party.When your eyes adjusted to the light, you were pleasantly surprised to see a set of big, brown eyes staring back at you. Diego had just turned seven and still had issues sleeping through the night. His tear-stained cheeks showed it was the same routine, but he seemed a little happier now that he'd found his father. When he straightened his suit and cleared his throat to make himself more presentable for his son, it sank in that the moment had truly come to an end. You felt the need to do something with your hands; exposed by the now lit-up yard, you pulled your smoke back to your lips, cursing yourself as the end no longer glowed and you had let it go to waste. It fell back to your side as you looked between the boy and his father, stiffening at the professional tone that had returned to his voice.

"Goodnight, general." It was addressed to you, but he had already moved on, focused on his heir.

"Goodnight, Mr. Castillo." You tried to mask the disappointment with a trained respect, hands firm behind your back, your spine straightened tight enough it hurt.

"Antón," he quickly corrected, "Please, I think we are well past formalities; call me Antón." Something about the use of his first name was intimate; it didn't feel quite reserved to you, as if you were intruding on something.

"Goodnight, Antón." Weird and unnatural was the only way you could describe it, used to the usual terms of respect you'd come to know.

"Papa!" Diego whined, forcing his father to let out a small scoff as he kept his eye roll reserved for you.