#mqanon

So this is a 3 month old ask and I’m replying because I DEFINITELY didn’t want you to think I didn’t get it! I mean, gosh, no apologies needed AT ALL. Any time you’ve popped some writing in my ask box, it’s been just a wonderful gift and please don’t think I have any expectations here in any way. (And school is important as heck, so there’s that too.)

i did! i’m sorry i didn’t comment on it i was very happy to read it but when i’m down in the dumps i find it very hard to talk to people ;; 

They like to walk with a small distance between them.

It’s never large, no more than a foot or so; enough that their hands won’t brush when they take them out of pockets but small enough that they can feel the distant, shrouded weight of the other against their shoulder on every other step, the faintest reminder sent through dimmed nerves that the other is there, close by. Simon loves it. The space means he can do something with his hands when his fingers start getting restless – he can unravel threads from his jumper or toy with a coin in his pocket or just try and remember what different fabrics feel against the ball of his thumb. He can’t, not always, but it’s a fun little thing for him to do in those silver silences that envelop him and Kieren as they walk, because the quiet is peaceful and theirs and he knows Kieren doesn’t mind (and God, doesn’t he love the boy for accepting his times of silence without a word).

But more than anything, Simon loves how the space reflects them – they are not glued to each other’s side 24/7 (though Lord knows they spend enough time curled up together on the sofa in the bungalow) but they’re never really apart either. It’s just space, turning them from one conjoined unit into two separate entities who choose to be together, who choose it every day because it’s what they want and not because they have some obligation to do so.

The space makes their walks easy, too, wherever they are. Simon’s favourites generally end up being the forest or the graveyard or just somewhere away from people, where the air feels like pages around poetry because he’s never met anyone who can be poetry better than Kieren can, because Kieren is poetry now, at least to him. Simon doesn’t mean that in that he can describe Kieren using poetry – he means it in that Kieren’s actions and the way he moves taste like flawless phrases across his mind, like lines of Yeats made real, made tangible by this brilliant boy (I’ll say and maybe dream I have drawn content).

The space forms naturally between them, and Simon never minds.

Because whenever he wants, he can reach out and take Kieren’s hand.

[Written by MQAnon.

A gift. Thank you for the inspiration. Your Simon is exceptional.]

Dang. Beautiful follow up to beautiful art. I am a happy little artist over here today. Your imagery just never fails to impress me and inspire. Each one of the written things I’ve gotten from you needs me to do art for ‘em. SOME DAY. SOME DAY I WILL DO JUST THAT.

The kaiju is fully inside your head now, every thought overlaid with sickening wrong-blue and heavy with the taste of oil and blood on your tongue. You swallow, an attempt to make your mouth taste of anything else but it just comes back stronger, sliding into corners and seeping down your throat until it feels like your insides and organs are varnished with oil and blood and the smell of snow and salt and steel and wrong-blue. You want to hate it, you want to hate it so badly but the kaiju in your head won’t let you – instead, all you can muster is fear.

Oh goodness, I am the worst at PacRim ideas because I just end up sounding like a broken record. I mean, anything to do with Newt and Hermann, and especially if it has to do with post-Drift fallout (either the good or the bad kind).

Flashes of burning amber dance and twist in wild skies above and around and between reaching, grasping claws of insidious scarlet, loose-drifting thoughts only half formed before they dissolve and collapse away. There should be noise here, so much noise, but the open plains reside in a ghastly turquoise silence; cloying and unnatural and sinking into flesh and thought, chasing nerves to dull down impulses, stealing the sting in a ruthless cyanide storm.

And yet, the influx is not vicious, is not malevolent. It feels as if it should be, as if every slate-smooth wipe is pulled by some motive, some thought, but instead it just…happens. Uncontrolled, unconstrained and entirely destructive, in entropy born of oblivion. The silence it brings with it is a terrifying lure, at once a promise of ceaseless peace and yet a removal of all self, of every thought and action that draws a mindscape in flawed, living static. But in return, what Keter takes it keeps; warped and empty spaces are repurposed and refilled with stolen electric maelstroms, secreted away in old gold pockets only to be moved, altered, even thrown out into whatever spare minds are close.

There is a reason the Kaiju call Keter ‘Memory Eater’.  

[[Written by MQAnon. I remembered Keter was a thing (and an amazing thing at that) so I tried to write a short something for you. I’m…not sure if I managed to translate it properly, but I hope you like it!]]

This is LOVELY. And really just downright impressive as I've given so little information on Keter in general. Keter is a complex wave made worse by the circumstances of his own creation and there's a lot about him that are closer to the Precursors than to Newt, the humans, and the other kaiju. You got it so right with "not vicious" and "not malevolent."

Archimedes

Her mind is held constant by a spiderweb of infinite numbers, looping around the cerebrum curve of her skull to pattern walls in silver threads, the twist and flow of each perfect, pure number a self-contained rainbow in muted, impossible, monochrome shades. Words don’t work here, not really – instead, they are broken down into their core parts, pitch and tone blending with the rise and fall of first harmonics and fundamental frequencies to create thoughts born of numbers, serenading in woven lambda. She knows her mind holds more colour now than Hermann’s, but it is secondary; an excess layer that skims beneath the tiled, endless floor, formed of impossible triangles of three right angles, curving in on themselves to create a non-existent, open ground. Archimedes can see the stars through it. She can see the stars everywhere.

Here, in this space, her space, the frozen galaxies and celestial orbits are likewise deconstructed, broken down into more waves, pulsars and neutron stars tasting sharp and empty on her tongue. She doesn’t have to walk here, instead letting herself be drifted along on coils of numbers and formulae and Greek letters.

Sometimes, Hermann drifts with her.

Little Wing

Little Wing’s mind is spun through and about with gilded light, warm gold tasting of flat, molten honey in the colour cascade landscape, where the trailing threads arc into the distance, reminiscent of distant solar flares and harsh, rough-edged orange light tastes like fire, like smoke and copper coils. His landscape is oddly lacking in scenery, in a way – everything is made of warped colour, shades blurring and mixing and contorting to form objects of their own, all brief wisps of smoke that fade and reform as soon as they are made. It is unstable, yes, but beautiful for it, making a land of entropy and hue with the only constant contained within being the golden threads, each one self-contained opalite in a different light light means colours and colours are thoughts of mine and others.

Somehow the colours are never discordant, the tones and tastes of each always complimenting and combining perfectly, flawlessly into an intricate concerto painted in dusken purple and ancient blue, dark tones resonating in open, half-clouded velvet skies.

All of Little Wing’s thoughts are colours to him, but he doesn’t mind. And neither does Newt.

[[Written by MQAnon. I felt like Newt and Hermann were going to be a bit lonely without Little Wing and Archimedes to join them. I can only hope I’ve done these wonderful Kaiju babies justice.]]

I was good. I was in control. And then I read this over two, three, four times, and then I am just an emotional mess. You did them BOTH such wonderful justice. Archimedes is lovely and eloquent with that musical undertone, and Little Wing is a chaotic storm of color. And they match Newt and Hermann better than I think I could have ever done myself.

It’s always been monochrome, somehow; not even stark shades painting contrast against his minds eye but instead the steady, pendulum flow of grey to ash to granite and back again, gilded with ancient gold and burnished copper. It is an antique of a mind, Hermann thinks, but nevertheless it is his, in all its empty, echoed beauty. The floor beneath his feet – solid feet, here I am whole and have no need for support – is an ever-shifting checkerboard, armies of old chess pieces marching to a war of words in two Cartesian planes, the velveteen beat of muffled ivory a dichotomy to the incessant razor-edge click, click, clicking of ceaselessly moving files.

They tower up and out and over and down, at once his walls and ceiling but the walls are so far away that they fade into clouded white, a distant horizon he can never hope to reach but never wants to, keeping to the gold-banded kingdom that he has constructed. Yes he is still close enough to touch them, to run unreal fingers over immaterial objects, but they are both too close and too far, no more than a mental representation of impossibilities, unbalanced infinities made false within his skull. The cabinets are not really cabinets – They do not need to be, I have no need for physical storage where such physicality is inherently unreal­ – but are instead formed of layered equations, sign and magnitude and totals and sums building up and coalescing into something bigger and more wondrous, a storage and stronghold for every thought and memory and moment he wishes to keep.

Hermann has never opened the cabinets - he has no need to. For here, in the haven of his mind, retired thoughts mix with fresh knowledge in a citrine, living mist, intangible even in this intangible space. What files and notes he may need come to him, meeting him where he stands to watch his mind at work.

[[Written by MQAnon, as a follow up of sorts to the Newt one. Enjoy!]]

 Just SIGHING over beauty. Hermann has been tough for me. To draw, to conceptualize, to relate to. It took me a goddamn long time to even LIKE Hermann. If I hadn't already rectified that and come to adore him and smooshed his face with Archimedes, this would've done it.