#vapae

HELLO YES MY TWO FAVOURITE DISASTER GODS.. MY DISASTER CHILDREN. MY BABIES. anyway since mister neil our heavenly father who is on THIN FUCKING ICE revealed tb was behind the printing press and the radio and tv (things we already knew but given quantum boy’s concept make this So much more interesting) which means that media and technical boy have been existing on the same network for hundreds of years. 579 to be exact. this also means that since these things are media’s domain, that media has been coveting technical boy’s technology for decades. media has been consuming them. media has been pushing them to be more and more and to give them more. failure to comply means consumption as a whole. that means keeping them under their thumb. that means keeping them under control and getting them to understand that IT’S A GOD EAT GOD WORLD OUT THERE!!! MEDIA IS TRYING TO TEACH THEM THIS!!!! THEY’VE BEEN TRYING SINCE DAY ONE. they look at technical boy and see so much potential that they are wasting! they look at technical boy and feel disappointment.   they’ve been at them and at them and at them and they never seem to listen to them. aggravated in the way they figure a sitcom mother is at the whole situation. they want to help technical boy find their audience; and media does it the only way they know how to: hunger. they look at the technical boy and go: is this your best? it’s not good enough. give me more. they want more. they expect more. quantum boy shows up and media looks them dead in the eye and asks what he is going to give them now. in many ways they have come to expect it of them: that sacrifice. they want quantum boy to be an equal - if not balancing - force to them. they recognise it: they both exist on the same network and are intertwined as a result. media wants them to find his voice in the same way they found theirs almost a century ago and now know themselves to be VOX POPULI / VOX DEI: the knowledge of what it is to be a god and truly be a god. quantum boy must ergo come into their own. ‘your best is not good enough. be better.’ BE! YOUR! SELF. FIND YOURSELF. create yourself. quantum boy is the next step in a logical progression. this evolution and change and self sacrifice likely means that the internet has now fallen into media’s domain and that social media is super fucking close to being eaten by quantum or media in a fucking arms race for ‘who can eat the baby first’. they see qb and think to themselves ‘ah, do they understand now? do they know how it feels to have a voice?’ ARE THEY HUNGRY? ARE THEY STARVED? they look at quantum boy and see someone who can face them. might even be a threat to them. do they want to be eaten? no. are they afraid of it? yes. they’ve eaten so many gods and the thought they might meet one larger than them and hungrier than them picks at them. humbles them. reminds them that they too can disappear. it’s even more uncomfortable for them because as they’ve expected qb to just... do what they want at this point and to listen to them, that this incarnation is more of a loose canon and less likely to obey - not that tb obeyed them but -  less likely to give them what they want. sacrifices have to be made if it means qb finds their audience. but with quantum boy -- their growth makes media feel proud. media knows they’ve had a hand in this; and they feel the same sort of possessiveness towards qb that they feel towards their children; the knowledge that they have helped to push them in this direction and the notion that they deserve to take a bite out of them. honestly, media would let qb take a fucking chomp out of them just because they think qb is the cutest thing since sliced bread. 

      he can’t be serious. she blinks, several times, wrapping her head around this, before---   ‘   I’d rather CHEW GLASS than have my mouth get anywhere near yours, thank you.   ’

* 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴 : OPEN

             there’s blood running down his face. he can feel it following the path of his cheekbone and jawline all the way down to his chin where it drips onto the floor . there’s a small puddle of red down there , an accessory both of them had grown used to . they really needed to stop meeting like this . the hand was a surprise though. technical boy had never touched him . at least he didn’t remember that ever happening . the children had done all of the touching for him . had cost shadow more than a couple of bruises. but now his hand was holding his jaw firmly and turning his head , taking matters into his own cold little hands , accepting that they might get dirty : A NEWFOUND SENSE OF CONFIDENCE for tech boy , not usually found when the other two were around . what a surprise .  shadow frowned , eyeing him from head to toe disapprovingly . he didn’t like it .    ❝    nice teeth . ❞     the remark comes out raspy rather than cocky ; the bloodied man cleared his throat, caught slightly off guard by his own tone . truth of the matter was , shadow didn’t know how to feel about the new god . sometimes he saw him as nothing more than a teenager , full of bravado and rebellion , still not aware of his own rapid mortality and , whenever he saw him like that , shadow FELT SORRY FOR HIM . but , more often than not , he just wished he could toss him into a locker and throw away the key .  shadow tilted his head while squinting at him.

tf you get paid????

MABEL. selectively accepting.

  SCENE: A NIGHT THAT FEELS LONG AND UNENDING; a sky so vast and infinite that it could swallow the COSMOS. Enter a city shrouded in shadow; long and dark as the midnight hour and lit sparsely, miserly; torches dotting whitewashed walls at uneven, unsteady intervals. GATHER AROUND, CHILDREN. LET ME TELL YOU A STORY: nothing good lurks in shadows, if they had nothing to hide, they would stand with the rest of us. Their own is crooked; stretched and grotesque in muddy alleyways, in paved streets; their steps soundless. Pale faced upturned to the heavens and there is a child-like awe in their gaze; wanting, watching. LISTEN TO ME. COME HERE, LISTEN TO ME. I HAVE NEVER SEEN SOMETHING SO BEAUTIFUL. I SUSPECT THIS IS NOT ALL THERE IS TO OFFER. I suspect that is not all that I will be offered, so gather close and listen to me, for I have something to say. A narrow scope of the world, limited to theatrons and the cities that housed them, the whirlwind revels in fields during nights even the Moon dared not show her face. The blood, the screaming – THE AUDIENCE ROARS AND I CRY WITH THEM. Tendons and ligaments and limbs: I HAVE THE MIND! I HAVE THE HEART! 

  Cool air brushes against their skin like an old friend; tickles their cheeks with kisses and their laughter rings out. Their laughter; cracked and starving and cruel; echoing from that gash of a mouth and it ricochets, bounces; fills the space they occupy and cuts through the sound without a need for specially engineered acoustics. LISTEN TO ME. Dies just as quickly; the sound eaten up and locked behind that red mouth and it’s almost as if they were never there. It’s almost as if they were. εἰμί: TO BE. TO EXIST. I exist. They exist. We exist. The sensation of being watched; but not watching; unbridled joy halted and they turn, pivot. ENTER ON STAGE LEFT: ANOTHER PLAYER. One who is like and not like me; one who is like and not like them. “I have seen you.” Flat. Weightless. A cherubic face they’d seen balancing artisan’s tools; carving against marble. A golden head they’d seen pouring over warfare schematics in smithing quarters. A youth that conversed with philosophers and city planners alike; a face that said: I HAVE AN IDEA. LISTEN TO ME. “–I do not know you.” LISTEN TO ME. WHEN I CAME INTO THIS STAGE I THOUGHT I WAS ALONE. NOW I KNOW THERE IS A NATURAL ORDER TO THINGS HERE, WHERE I DO NOT FIT. NOW I KNOW THERE ARE OTHERS LIKE ME. What are we meant to do here? This, they knew: all plays, all stories had an end. LISTEN TO ME, CHILDREN: that is the saddest part about a story, but also the truest. This too, and you too, will end. 

  A strange sort of regard: a gaze they could recognise; something they knew deep within themselves. HUNGRY, AREN’T YOU. A smile that was all teeth. What was it called? KINDRED SPIRITS. A thousand words and stanzas on their lips and it all sticks, sputters; lines that would never be written catching and vanishing. Tell me that you understand. Tell me that you know. Tell me I am not the only one that wakes up starving. TELL ME I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO ONLY KNOWS HUNGER. Sizing each other up; predator, meet prey. SPOILER: IN THE SECOND ACT, YOU TWO WILL SWITCH ROLES. “A name.” The word sits strangely within them; drips down their throat like honeyed summer wine and it sours there. “A name?” Repeated, stalling; mouth working at the script and the sound is odd. False. Quiet. A solemn sort of regard in their features and they strain. LISTEN TO ME, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. I WANT TO. I WANT TO UNDERSTAND. WHY ISN’T ANYONE LISTENING? WHY CAN NO ONE HEAR ME?