where do you feel your ache?

           the battle rages on in the shrines. as pillars chip, doors crack, &. fences crumble, the torches struggle to stay lit in late-autumn winds that have long since stripped the cherry blossoms of their petals.

            it’s the crack of wood as the sword strikes the pillars that wakes genji up. sleep is a luxury these days; anticipated in its arrival, though fleeting. if it wasn’t the nightmares that woke the cyborg, it was the pain, &. other times it was both, coalescing to form the reminders of what he no longer was.

            yet it’s a strangely familiar feeling now— his master’s hand bringing him back to reality as orbs oscillate in patterns across what little was left along his back, not replaced by metal &. cybernetics. his breath comes in shaky gasps at first, steadying over the time spent in the omnic’s calming presence. the stress from the nightmare still lingers in a cloak over his heart, making each pulse painful.

            “.. yes, master. it was.”

            the roar of the dragons from his dream still remains, locked away under an illusion of calm, withheld from the monk as something he hadn’t needed to know. something genji hopes he’ll never need to know.

            “it was not real.”

            the taste of the lie on his tongue is bitter; it’s as real as the scars that decorate his body, as real as his phantom limbs.

            for now, he’ll smile for the tekhartha. 

     To what extent would one go to protect those they love from harm? How often would one shatter their limbs to carry those they hold close to their heart? The weight of Atlas is always easier shared, and yet each and every person Zenyatta has met seems intent on creating worlds to stack upon their shoulders.

     Genji is no exception to this. He has seen testament to this fact time and time again, though perhaps in differing ways. There is a weight that pushes at the curve of the cyborg’s spine that does not belong to any metal parts, but rather sleepless nights he thought Zenyatta would be unaware of, perhaps, or maybe indifferent to.

     Well, no matter. They are both here now, and Zenyatta will see to it that this, too, shall pass. His hand is warm, contrary to popular belief about omnics; though the air of the temple was brisk at absolute best, one thing the Shambali could always pride themselves on were their top-notch temperature regulation systems. 

     . . . Though perhaps Zenyatta did call for extra warmth a moment ago. How could he not? The boy — the man, he must remind himself, not the boy — has suffered so much. In truth, Zenyatta sees a little of himself in those eyes, right down to that rage, that sorrow. There was a time, though Genji did not know it, when Zenyatta was wounded and weeping, as well.

     The monk inclines his head as Genji stirs, the jieba ights upon his forehead glimmering a soft, calming blue. “It is in the past,” he says gently, voice a mere hum, accompanied by the soft ringing of his mala beads as they chime in place, a halo around him. He pauses for a moment, only the briefest lull in that gentle song betraying his struggle for words-- before finally acquiescing to himself, turning his head to the sky, visible through the open window of the room. 

     “The stars are lovely tonight,” he continues, “Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. Would you care to join me outside, my pupil?” 

     To what extent would one go to protect those they love from harm?

hana edition part 2 electric boogaloo

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.   wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realizing it.  red string across a cork-board.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny lengs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

hana edition bc i miss her

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets. drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below. cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment. unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with what you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.  shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants. a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.

iv.  the desolation.   senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline. touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  the flesh.  body horror.  factories. a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  the end.  the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the pleading of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

game of thrones starters || ENTHUSIASTICALLY accepting 

     Hurt. Strange, isn’t it, how pain comes in so many different forms? She’s familiar with so many; the ache of the scars that criss-cross over her chitin beneath her cloak, the even worse ache of the injuries past that had caused them, the emotional ache of being the defender of the corpse of something that was never once great. . . 

     But this? This is very, very new to her, indeed. Her father. . . The Pale King. She had met him very few times, and spoke even fewer, for he was never a bug of many words, and neither was she. There was some debt to be owed to him, for granting her this life and this body, but it was far outweighed by the disgust in knowing what he had done, not just to her but to her siblings, to all of Hallownest. And yet, she had defended him, she had defended this home, this legacy, this mockery of modesty that would not, could not, should not last.

     She could be cruel. She knew as much. Cruelty bloomed in Deepnest like the plants in Greenpath; one could not be kind and be alive in the same beat, down there. And perhaps in the past, that cruelty could be abandoned, when the kingdom was alive and there were bugs aplenty who would bid you a good morning rather than stare through you with empty eye sockets, but this is the present and Hornet hardly remembers such a luxury. 

     It’s ridiculous, to think that. Compared to the Vessels, she’s got a goldmine of a memory, crystals instead of clawing trauma that scores its way through her head. Compared to Ghost, she has no right to voice a single complaint, which in itself is a privilege; she has a voice. Except. . . 

     You move your lips, and your father’s voice comes out. One cannot be kind and be alive in the same beat. Cruelty blooms in Deepnest like plants in Greenpath. She has no right, no right, no right. . . 

     Hornet has gone deathly still, she realizes idly, as her head slowly turns and her eyes fix upon her sibling. “. . .” Were they in the right, to say that? Was she truly. . . Like that monster? Her crimes, whatever they may be, surely could not be so great, but it would never be her place to decide that. It’s never her place, is it? Is it?

     She holds her tongue, carefully and contemplatively removes the compass charm from her cloak, and drops it at Ghost’s feet. If they wish to speak anything else, she will be gone before they can get their hand up. One thing she will always share with their father, after all, is her ability to leave.

multimuse questions || always accepting! 

so!! i couldnt decide on just One so im gonna offer a handful; 

for hornet: i really want to explore her time spent in-between ghost and the greenpath vessel, as well as her time following leaving the weaver’s den and traversing a dead kingdom......... 

for grimm: meeting the nightmare king, or one of his ancestors/descendants!! an impossible meeting, but still sweet 

for hollow: HOLLOW WAKING UP POST RADIANCE HOLLOW WAKING UP POST RADIANCE H

since last we “danced,” grimm and his troupe have seemed to open up more of this tent for me to explore. or maybe they are just not as mindful to hide things away now, i cannot be sure. i’ve not visited in some time, fit to explore the depths of the diluted kingdom beneath my feet rather than a measly tent. however, now, i feel somewhat drawn to it. not at the behest of anyone in particular, but rather, the acquisition of a new item to beget a deeper understanding of the world around me. an old power, bestowed upon me by the last to really know of it.

despite its dreary outlook, the only soul that really lingers here in dirtmouth is an old gravekeeper. grimm and his troupe are not of dirtmouth though, which is why i arrive now, curious and aware. i am happy to offer explanation to the troupe master, but last time i was here he was sleeping. i approach center stage a moment and stare up at where an enraptured audience once sat.

a small speck from the dream realm twists and turns its way into my field of view. dyed scarlet, much like the flames i feed grimm’s child. i let my gaze follow it as more appear and others flutter by. my hand finds the nail i was given and holds tight. as my body shifts to follow the stray pieces of essence, i finch at what i am so suddenly met with.

you’re awake, panicked hands sign, an announcement would have been nice. 

     Strange, to be back here, in so familiar a land. I have been here before, many, many centuries ago, though the memory of it has long since been fogged and obscured by those much newer than it. If I recall correctly, it was not quite so desolate then, but tragedy and time have taken hold of it with an unrelenting grip. 

     I do not belong here. It is a simple fact, a dead fern among the green, a wilted flower in a bouquet. This is not my life, nor is it my time, but never are we truly gone. We reside in the Dream, entertaining ourselves and each other, or else sleeping the millennia away, as the first of us is so fond of doing. It is a privilege, though, to linger in this in-between, the state where I should not be. My Child, now full-grown and nearing his own end, rests in his own state of slumber, the resting of a not-quite-god opening this rift for me to pass through in the first place.

     The rest of the Troupe do not seem capable of seeing me. If the Grimmkin notice me, they say nothing, but I doubt they have forgotten me so easily. It seems the present Grimm sleeps more and more frequently these days, and though I will mourn the passing of his life, it will be the greatest joy to speak with him proper once more. Those of the Troupe care not to bother him, so the sudden realization that we are not alone in the tent is surprising. 

     --- That being said, it’s far more surprising when this intruder not only creeps in further, but cringes away from me. It begins to sign words I only half remember learning, but I am momentarily distracted by the fact that it can see me in the first place.