#corlacus

Yeah, she probably should've known better...   Of course, to someone like  Emily Brass,  her little hypothermic tumble wasn't that bad. She's been through everything under the sun and then some. To someone like  Heartman  that cared, though?   Well, she might as well have told him she fell into the sun. All she can do now is lie down and accept that he cares enough to be concerned. The guilt might eat her alive, but that was fine.

Tired doe eyes watch as he comes up. She'd wince if she didn't know any better.   He really is upset.   Up her arm goes, hand landing in his. Despite all of her shivering, the coolness of his palm feels nice. It gets a little sigh from her before she brings her arm back under the blanket.

       ❝ Yes, sir, ❞   she sighs, feigning a sort of weak defeat while she tucks into all the warmth he's brought for her. Even with her show of attitude, she still might sincerely consider the offer. Maybe even try talking him into taking a dip with her. That's for later, though. For now, she wants to try rectifying all the worry she's brought.

       ❝ Well, yeah.   - Didn't have to get it at all, ❞   comes her cheeky reply, along with a smile that dimples up her cheeks. It's quickly melted down like the snow still melting off her boots by the door.   ❝ but I like when you light up. So sue me. ❞   Which at this point he probably could for emotional distress, but she's not bothered by that right now. Emily's a lot more bothered by the fact that she's still shivering, even with all the comfort Heartman's offered. A heavy sigh and she wraps the blanket around her tighter. Standing up, she attempts some pacing.   ❝ Got'a say though. Great action figure taste. ❞   Her eyes are on the floor as she moves, doing anything to try and get blood circulation through her system again.   ❝ Sucker's in mint condition, too. ❞

Send 🏳️‍🌈 to get a headcanon about a facet of their queer identity

Piper is so much more of a disaster with women, chronically.

In some ways she is, perhaps, more authentic with them rather than trying to play a part with men or male presenting individuals. For men she feels like she has to fit into a role, she has to be cool, she has to be hot, she has to be sexy and aloof but not too aloof. She has to be the Gone Girl monologue.

John was sitting on the stairs, looking ahead. He was watching the waves slowly wash over the pale sand and retreat back to the dark grey mass. Its always approaching, the waves always chiming. John tilted his head and looked down at the watch that was on his inner wrist. Time was just after 6. It always is. Never changes.

John then turned to look back to note a grand church building standing tall. He turned back to gace the waves in front of him once again.

John sighed and closed his eyes when he heard someone approach. "I thought you weren't coming," he finally said opening his eyes, recognising a familiar face. "I'm glad you're here." John shifted aside although there was plenty of space to sit. "Please, stay here a moment."

She shouldn't have to think this early in the morning but the ocean was seemingly her only solitude to where she could be somewhat alone. The things she'd seen being done by her brother, the ending of lives that done him wrong, things she'd never seen before. They replayed in her head and caused her face to drain white, eyes staring off into the distance to try and wrap her head around them.

Thoughts were soon shattered as she heard something, or someone near her. Her grip tightened slightly against the cup, eyes widening slightly as the figure seemed to form through the denseness out of nowhere. "I... thought I was alone. Sorry." Kalia spoke softly, thick accent pouring from her still sleepy voice. "Can I help you... or am I disturbing something?"

Oh man, you're making me wanna go on a P4 rant so bad 'cos I FEEL this so hard. The nostalgia bait is what rly held it down. Don't even get me started on the halfhearted, shoehorned P1 references during Friday. That rly irked me.

Not only was the humor nostalgia bait. But ... the humor was also held back. I don't even mean that in a "IT'S NAWT AS OFFENSIVE!!1!!!11" way. I mean, literally every joke didn't feel like they were taking it as far as they could. Let's compare the humor to P2 and P3.

Dude has an older phone, yes. It looks like it's probably from the early 2010s. However, P3 already did this joke but better.

In P3 he pulls out a giant fucking phone from the 80S! This is much funnier 'cos 1) it's unexpected. and 2) It's pushing the humor! They could've done the P4 thing here, and have him use a flip phone from the early 2000s -- or even a blocky Nokia phone. But no, they took it further by giving him an '80s phone.

Like this joke with an animal. Bunny fucks a sex toy. Dude's gross out by it. That's literally it. Imo, that's barely a joke. Now compare it to an animal joke in Apocalypse Weekend...

'What could possibly happen?" may be a common trope. But it still sets up an upcoming joke. Not only that, but when it comes to P0STAL -- you KNOW it's gonna be bad.

And then we come to find what happen is that there are hillbillies who are dressing animals in gimp outfits and training them to kill people. This scene is so fucking absurd and over the top. What makes this scene "funny" is just how horrifying it is. Like these rednecks are so evil, it's outlandish. It also matches just how horrible the rest of Paradise is. How you realize just how irredeemable and awful most of these people are. Like there is way more happening here than just dog humps something y'know?

That's the problem with P4's writing and jokes. They felt very lazy. In the older games, it felt like they'd come up with a joke ... and then continue adding onto said joke until it became something batshit crazy. With P4, it felt like -- when they weren't just referencing older games again -- they just ran with the first joke they came up with without putting more thought into it. WHY DO YOU CLEAN UP SHIT TWICE IN THIS GAME .....

Even the jobs felt like they were holding back. In P4, you clean up shit in a sewer. In P3, you clean up cum rags in a porn shop. Every job in P3 was much zanier than the jobs in P4 -- which were boring imo. P0STAL is always about pushing the limits, P4 shouldn't feel like it's holding back for some reason.

Emily herself springs quickly to his rescue, adding to that padding he's got on his floors now. She's clumsy about it herself, lunging and only half - catching him, but it's better than watching him take the full fall at least. She's practically holding her breath in that half - second of silence, eyes darting around him to make sure nothing got him too hard in the head. When Heartman laughs, Emily sighs, going the full dramatic mile with a soft shake of her head.  Unbelievable...  Still, the relief that he's fine overcomes any other amount of worry. What figures and things have fallen from the shelves are quickly picked back up and put into place while he fixes his AED.

       ❝ You sure know how to keep a girl on her toes, ❞   is muttered as she turns back around to face him, just in time to catch his bow. Of course the tension in her expression doesn't last. How could it? Cheeks immediately dimple and she's heaving another little sigh, this time more endeared than the last. Add in a bright glint of excitement as she catches the annotated little tabs and she's all alight like the tumble never happened.   ❝ With your notes?!   - Heartman, you're gon'a spoil me rotten... ❞   Already she's thumbing through some of the pages, delicate with the sticky notes and all. Then, like a lightbulb, Emily pauses with a little   oh!   to rummage through her things. After a bit of searching, she's also produced a book. Two, actually, and they seem just as well loved and cared for. Miss Lonelyhearts   ( N. WEST )   seems to have the most little bits of notes and bookmarks set between its pages, while Dog Soldiers   ( R. STONE )   has two little scraps of paper tucked in the back of it's cover, riddled with notes and annotations there.

       ❝ I've reread these a  few  times.   - Think it'd be interesting to know your thoughts on'em, too. ❞

She's still getting used to it, hearing his voice again. It had been way too long since she'd gotten her drivers updated, her internal machinery cleaned up and refined. The augments are old now in the grand scheme of things; but they're still good, and now decently cared for too.

Idly she rubs her neck, fingers pressing against the port just under her ear that's still kind of itchy after use as she watches him. There's still a guilt there after dropping him like she dropped everyone else a few years ago. Guilt that she wasn't even the one to close the gap.

After everything, he was the one who still reached out first.

It eats at her. Maybe that's why she's inviting him out, her own way of trying to fix it.

"Such a ball-buster." Her hand drops and she flashes a grin at him, her own hands tucking into the pockets of her ostentatious jacket, too yellow, a warning quite literally on her sleeve. "Come on, it'll be fun. You game for dim-sum? Because I could fuck up some shumai right now."

there was once an explosion which gave rise to life as many had known it. however, what came before creation itself? there was no signs of life; no beach; no afterlife. not even a radiant speckle of starlight. only sempiternal nothingness. and that explosion roused a primordial being from its dormancy...

beneath and tethered to all beaches, there's a clandestine liminal territory that even the current extinction entity is unaware of. it could be labelled as a beach in order to comprehend it despite how much it lacks, well, everything. no light, no colour, no shape. it's an empty place with subtle ripples of water beneath one's feet if they wish to step a foot into this dwelling. well, save for one soul standing in the midst of the endless night.

there's a contemplative frown marring her impassive features while the void in flesh peers down at the palm of her hands. the way she flexes them resembles to that of a newly born fawn gathering their bearings for the first time. a delicate furrow creates deep creases between dark brows, hidden beneath the curly silver-white fringe covering her forehead when she squeezes her hands into fists for a beat before releasing them once more. muted mauve-red hues slide to a close as she takes in the way her essence swirls within her vessel, like a living marble carved by the finest of hands.

such a foreign sensation for her. it'll take some time for her to become accustomed to this life.

she steadily lowers her hands to her sides with a quiet hum, the soft sounds of fabric rustling echoes out from the slight movement. so strange... to be covered like this as if she's human. it feels like she's being suffocated with the way the white dress embraced her vessel's form. it makes her grunt quietly in displeasure.

and yet, before the thought of ridding her confinements has settled within her mind, there's something else that has caught her attention.

or rather, someone else. someone who doesn't belong in this liminal space.

how ? it's entirely unheard of for a human to encroach into her domain with little resistance, even with their dooms. no one can enter and leave this place. is there a fracture somewhere she cannot sense? can she mend it just so this ordeal can never repeat in the future? what sortilege is this? she vaguely wonders if the current extinction entity bestowed that privilege to this intruder. the mere thought causes her eyes to narrow in both equal parts of speculation and curiosity.

ancient puce coloured lips part, words subtly disembodied in an haunting intonation as if there are a coalescence of voices attempting to speak all at once. " you do not belong here. "

@corlacus