[X] Rush to Namiko. CPR, here and now.
[X] Follow the tufts. She has to have left some sort of trail and I need answers.
[X] Follow the tufts. She has to have left some sort of trail and I need answers.
Drowned in Honey: Transfer School Girl Quest!
- Thread starter Guiding Bolt
- Start date
Dead Girl -- 0.08
- Location
- the point is of no return and you have reached it!
Winning vote:
[X] Call the police from the home phone and be gone before they get here.
[X] Let her go. I have a feeling that I'll be seeing her again either way.
I can't look at Namiko laying there. I rush past her to the phone. I call the police. I don't know where I am, the address of the building, or anything more, really--the few words I force out are a garbled mess of "murder," "attempted," "thunderstorm," "giant cat." The voice on the other side is telling me to stay calm, to tell them everything that happened, to tell them that officers are on the way. I force out a few more words. "Paramedics. Bleeding out. Help me." I feel something inside me stirring. An aura of reassurance rises through me. It'll be alright. It might be hard now, but it will be alright.
They're asking me my name now. I almost say it. But I can't. A different name comes to mind. "Namiko." They're asking the rest of my name. I don't know the rest of her name. I drop the phone. In the distance I can hear sirens, muffled by the sounds of the storm raging outside. I don't have anymore time that I can waste here. I grab my bag off of the ground. I rush out the front door and into the streets and into the storm. The street is illuminated for a moment by a flash of lightning and I can see the lights of police cars in the far distance.
I run. The sweater I'm wearing sticks to me tighter than my pants. Something is swishing behind me as I run, but no matter how many times I look over my shoulder, there is nothing there, nothing following behind me. I force myself forward, force myself to focus on my steps instead, force myself to keep my feet falling in front of me. The ground is wetter than wet, but I've ran track in storms as bad as this before, and as I get into the rhythm, I'm able to ground myself and get into a good pace. A warm place. I feel that aura of reassurance rising inside me again, and as much as I want to doubt myself and fret that the police might end up tracking me down--I don't feel the need to. It'll all be alright.
Once more I feel the wind against my sails, the wind shaping around my face, the kiss of the wind on my heels--but the accompaniment of sunlight and sunshine is gone this time. Instead it comes with the bitter and freezing cold of the rain, the only lights being those of dim streetlamps and the recurrent flashes of lightning in the distance. I've never been in this part of town before, and as much as I'd like to keep running forever, I force myself to stop. I hurry over to a tree and sit down, taking a brief moment of shelter from the freezing rain.
I rub my hands together for some warmth before I pull my phone out of my pocket. It's hard to get my fingers to move in the right ways to type, but I force through my password and find myself on my phone home screen. The first thing that flashes out at me is the time. It's nearly eight PM. The day is utterly gone. Momma's work gets done at nine PM, and if I'm not home when she's back, then--then bad things will happen--then the world will end--then--no--then--I don't really know what then. I stop. How would she feel about it? She might be happy about it, really. She used to love when I was out late with my friends. It let her feel better about herself and her habits if she didn't think she was being a negative influence on me.
I pause. I had gotten caught up and thought that there was a great rush, that I needed to put everything I had into getting home before my momma--but I don't know why I was thinking that. She'll just think that I found some friends in the area and was out with them. She'll probably call me at nine when she gets home and ask if she needs to come pick me up and then we'll talk about our days--I'll have to come up with some lies to tell her, or, no. No, I don't want to lie to her. I don't know exactly where this determination not to lie comes from, but I agree with it. I'll tell her I went to the library and ended up at a friend's house for a while. That's not too far from what really happened.
Namiko is one of my closest friends in the world, after all. I blink. I shake my head. That's . . decidedly not true. But in another world, I'm sure we could have been friends. That meeting in class, she was one of the few people who I thought I might make a real connection with--
My phone's screen flashes. A new notification. A snapchat from Lilly. My blood runs cold.
[ ] Open it.
[ ] Leave it.
I swipe away the notifications. I pull out my GPS and direct myself home. It's on the other side of town. I glance over the map of the city, looking for anywhere recognizable. Moe's family deli is only a six minute run from here. There's another few delis sitting around it. The thought of food makes my stomach rumble for a moment. It's been hours since I've ate, hasn't it? I should . . do that. I don't know what it is, but something in me feels different now. I feel less afraid. Some part of me is telling me that there's nothing to worry about, that it'll be alright--and for once, I'm able to believe it.
I pull on my soaked sweater and glance into my bag. There's a blue flower nestled in the bag, with a small envelope attached to it. The cat left a calling card. It's too wet right here for me to open it right now, but when I get home--I can take a look. Or I can burn it. Right now, burning it sounds pretty good. I push the letter and flower aside and grab my money clip. I can't help but twitch. Where there used to be a stack of bills, there are now only a handful of bills and a tuft of black fur.
It doesn't look like I'll be able to call for a ride home from anybody in the moment. I tug on my sweater for a moment and look down at my soaked yoga pants. Poor choice of clothing for the day. I blink. There's tufts of white fur stuck to the sides of my sweater. I'll . . I'll deal with that later. I take a deep breath and stand back up. The heavy rain has softened, and the sound of thunder became more distant. When I pull my bag closer to me and start to jog again, the rain feels warmer.
It doesn't take me that long to reach downtown's main boulevards. I see crowded delis and street vendors waving food from underneath canopies and I feel my stomach grumble again. I probably have enough to buy myself something small at one of the delis, but with the rain having calmed down as much as it has, I could just as easily head back to the apartment and wait for Momma to get home.
[ ] Stop at Moe's family deli.
[ ] Stop at a street vendor.
[ ] Don't stop anywhere.
If stopping, should I . .
[ ] Stay there until 9 and have momma pick me up.
[ ] Stay there and eat, but then go home.
[ ] Pick up food and then go.
super short update -- will try to do a couple more updates today if we get votes in. As always, thank y'all for reading, and if you have any questions, I'm happy to answer them! : )
[X] Call the police from the home phone and be gone before they get here.
[X] Let her go. I have a feeling that I'll be seeing her again either way.
I can't look at Namiko laying there. I rush past her to the phone. I call the police. I don't know where I am, the address of the building, or anything more, really--the few words I force out are a garbled mess of "murder," "attempted," "thunderstorm," "giant cat." The voice on the other side is telling me to stay calm, to tell them everything that happened, to tell them that officers are on the way. I force out a few more words. "Paramedics. Bleeding out. Help me." I feel something inside me stirring. An aura of reassurance rises through me. It'll be alright. It might be hard now, but it will be alright.
They're asking me my name now. I almost say it. But I can't. A different name comes to mind. "Namiko." They're asking the rest of my name. I don't know the rest of her name. I drop the phone. In the distance I can hear sirens, muffled by the sounds of the storm raging outside. I don't have anymore time that I can waste here. I grab my bag off of the ground. I rush out the front door and into the streets and into the storm. The street is illuminated for a moment by a flash of lightning and I can see the lights of police cars in the far distance.
I run. The sweater I'm wearing sticks to me tighter than my pants. Something is swishing behind me as I run, but no matter how many times I look over my shoulder, there is nothing there, nothing following behind me. I force myself forward, force myself to focus on my steps instead, force myself to keep my feet falling in front of me. The ground is wetter than wet, but I've ran track in storms as bad as this before, and as I get into the rhythm, I'm able to ground myself and get into a good pace. A warm place. I feel that aura of reassurance rising inside me again, and as much as I want to doubt myself and fret that the police might end up tracking me down--I don't feel the need to. It'll all be alright.
Once more I feel the wind against my sails, the wind shaping around my face, the kiss of the wind on my heels--but the accompaniment of sunlight and sunshine is gone this time. Instead it comes with the bitter and freezing cold of the rain, the only lights being those of dim streetlamps and the recurrent flashes of lightning in the distance. I've never been in this part of town before, and as much as I'd like to keep running forever, I force myself to stop. I hurry over to a tree and sit down, taking a brief moment of shelter from the freezing rain.
I rub my hands together for some warmth before I pull my phone out of my pocket. It's hard to get my fingers to move in the right ways to type, but I force through my password and find myself on my phone home screen. The first thing that flashes out at me is the time. It's nearly eight PM. The day is utterly gone. Momma's work gets done at nine PM, and if I'm not home when she's back, then--then bad things will happen--then the world will end--then--no--then--I don't really know what then. I stop. How would she feel about it? She might be happy about it, really. She used to love when I was out late with my friends. It let her feel better about herself and her habits if she didn't think she was being a negative influence on me.
I pause. I had gotten caught up and thought that there was a great rush, that I needed to put everything I had into getting home before my momma--but I don't know why I was thinking that. She'll just think that I found some friends in the area and was out with them. She'll probably call me at nine when she gets home and ask if she needs to come pick me up and then we'll talk about our days--I'll have to come up with some lies to tell her, or, no. No, I don't want to lie to her. I don't know exactly where this determination not to lie comes from, but I agree with it. I'll tell her I went to the library and ended up at a friend's house for a while. That's not too far from what really happened.
Namiko is one of my closest friends in the world, after all. I blink. I shake my head. That's . . decidedly not true. But in another world, I'm sure we could have been friends. That meeting in class, she was one of the few people who I thought I might make a real connection with--
My phone's screen flashes. A new notification. A snapchat from Lilly. My blood runs cold.
[ ] Open it.
[ ] Leave it.
I swipe away the notifications. I pull out my GPS and direct myself home. It's on the other side of town. I glance over the map of the city, looking for anywhere recognizable. Moe's family deli is only a six minute run from here. There's another few delis sitting around it. The thought of food makes my stomach rumble for a moment. It's been hours since I've ate, hasn't it? I should . . do that. I don't know what it is, but something in me feels different now. I feel less afraid. Some part of me is telling me that there's nothing to worry about, that it'll be alright--and for once, I'm able to believe it.
I pull on my soaked sweater and glance into my bag. There's a blue flower nestled in the bag, with a small envelope attached to it. The cat left a calling card. It's too wet right here for me to open it right now, but when I get home--I can take a look. Or I can burn it. Right now, burning it sounds pretty good. I push the letter and flower aside and grab my money clip. I can't help but twitch. Where there used to be a stack of bills, there are now only a handful of bills and a tuft of black fur.
It doesn't look like I'll be able to call for a ride home from anybody in the moment. I tug on my sweater for a moment and look down at my soaked yoga pants. Poor choice of clothing for the day. I blink. There's tufts of white fur stuck to the sides of my sweater. I'll . . I'll deal with that later. I take a deep breath and stand back up. The heavy rain has softened, and the sound of thunder became more distant. When I pull my bag closer to me and start to jog again, the rain feels warmer.
It doesn't take me that long to reach downtown's main boulevards. I see crowded delis and street vendors waving food from underneath canopies and I feel my stomach grumble again. I probably have enough to buy myself something small at one of the delis, but with the rain having calmed down as much as it has, I could just as easily head back to the apartment and wait for Momma to get home.
[ ] Stop at Moe's family deli.
[ ] Stop at a street vendor.
[ ] Don't stop anywhere.
If stopping, should I . .
[ ] Stay there until 9 and have momma pick me up.
[ ] Stay there and eat, but then go home.
[ ] Pick up food and then go.
super short update -- will try to do a couple more updates today if we get votes in. As always, thank y'all for reading, and if you have any questions, I'm happy to answer them! : )
[X] Leave it.
[X] Stop at a street vendor.
[X] Stay there and eat, but then go home.
[X] Stop at a street vendor.
[X] Stay there and eat, but then go home.
Cat stole our money... Well, there's using us and then there's just being a dick about it.
Rude.
Rude.
Dead Girl -- 0.09
- Location
- the point is of no return and you have reached it!
Winning vote:
[X] Leave it.
[X] Stop at a street vendor.
[X] Pick up food and then go.
There's a small vendor on the side of the road that a woman around my age is working at. I approach her with a smile and a wave, and she glances at me like I'm insane. I guess I might look insane, to be smiling and in the clothes I'm wearing with the storm that's going on outside. Maybe I shouldn't have waved. Was it too forward--? I guess it would be awkward. That's probably why she's staring at me like that. Awkwardness. I grimace. Why am I acting so weird all of a sudden? No. I shouldn't be so worried.
A reassuring feeling comes through me again and I rub my neck. I shouldn't be so worried. I shouldn't be standing here so awkwardly after waving to the vendor! The girl is nervously looking at me and adjusting her round, copper-frame glasses and I take a moment to figure out what the stand is even selling. There's a frying pan, a small stove, some seasonings, a sign that has a picture of a folded over pancake, um--
"Crepe or okonomiyaki?" I know what a crepe is, and my first thought is to order one. It's the safe thing to do. It's what I always get. But I feel my mouth moving before my thoughts are even fully through my head.
"What's okonomiyaki?" The girl blinks at the question, before pointing to a small image on the side of her little vending counter. It's some sort of pancake fold, full of potato and some meats? I shrug. It isn't really my style, but there's a hunger inside of me, and all of a sudden that meat looks really tempting. I open my mouth and close it, before looking up to the girl. She's giving me a really weird look now.
"I'll take one of those, then. With meat." The added on words fall out of my mouth. I feel at my throat again. The girl carefully adjusts the temperature on the stove, before turning back to look at me. She looks embarrassed, but I can see some worry in her eyes as she opens her mouth to speak again.
"You aren't--you aren't homeless, are you?" My look of shock must've been enough to show her that I'm not. "Well--alright--I didn't mean to insult you, I just--" She bites her lip. "No. It's alright. I'm sorry! What type of meat did you want with that? We have, um, beef, pork, shrimp, mixed,"
"Beef. Beef's good," I reply, quickly, trying to help her out. I glance at myself and the soaked sweater I'm wearing. I didn't think I looked that bad. Tufts of white and black fur are scattered across my legs and sweater, stuck to the wet fabrics. I try to brush them off, but nothing comes of it. I frown and look back up. She's making the food quickly, glancing back between me and it every few moments. I feel more awkward than usual, and it's not helping that some part of me is compelling me to try and talk to her. "Um. Not many customers today, I guess?"
"No. No, not many. I was just about to shut down and have my dad help me pull everything back into the house." Oh. I wince. I didn't mean to make her stay out here longer--I guess I should've realized that the street vendors would be closing right now. Before I have time to respond and apologize, there's a handful of napkins with the okonomiyaki ontop of them being offered to me. I take it and give her a hesitant smile, and she gives me one back, but I can tell she really just wants to close down the stand.
I don't make her wait, hurrying out into the rain and eating as I go. She's gone from the stand to a building nearby before I'm even off of the street, and while I don't mind, it's all very different from how these stalls worked in the major American cities I'd been to. It's good, but hard to eat as I walk, but I have to eat as I walk because the rain will spoil the food if I just hold it in my hands the entire way back. I shiver. I make it a few more streets towards my house before I realize that I didn't pay and she didn't ask me too.
I want to go back, but she's certainly already gone by now. I remember the few bills left in my money clip. Maybe I can go and pay her back tomorrow. No need trying to track her down and harass her tonight. The thoughts wash over me with a calming wave, but despite them, I can't help but worry. Who knows what her Dad will do if he realizes she isn't making people pay? Am I the only one who didn't have to pay? Did she do it out of pity? Was I her charity case of the day? I shouldn't be a charity case. I'm a monster, and I deserve to be treated as one--
Something inside of me stirs and rejects that. Some part of me insists that everything will be fine. I get a headache from the battle my mind has engaged in and I try to focus on what is in front of me. I hear thunder crackle in the distance and once more the storm has grown more powerful, more angry, more real. I force down the last of the food, now with a nervous jitter to my bites, and go back to my jog for the rest of my way home.
When I make it back to my apartment, a wave of exhaustion comes over me. I don't know how long I've been awake--how long I've been dead--how long I've been alive today, but it feels like it both lasted an eternity and was over in a moment. It'll only be a short amount of time before my momma is home, and I take that time to rest on the living room sofa for a few minutes and try to get my mind straight. My resting on the sofa gives way to me closing my eyes and trying to fall asleep and deal with my thoughts that way.
When I close my eyes and feel sleep take over my body, I feel my eyes open elsewhere. I am staring down from above again, staring down into a great pit of bodies and corpses, staring as monsters crash against eachother and rally into great towers and mounds again. It is near the same as I have left it, and I can feel that other limb of mine crashing down and bringing lightning with it, bringing down the constant storm to hold back the tide of monsters. It is almost exactly the same.
I realize the difference now. A cloud of white mist has reformed above the center of the abyss, and upon it again swirls the blood-red shade of Ozymandias. He is closer to the exit now, but he makes no leaps for it--instead, from the cloud of mist above the abyss, he prowls and points towards rising mounds. As I see him point to the rising mound, my vision flicks to the mound and that part of me crashes down upon the mound, and when that part of me comes crashing down lightning lashes out and again it is all forced to the ground.
The shade of Ozymandias is directing my inner storm, leading it to the most important mounds and ensuring that none slip through my natural gaze. While his seizure of power is unexpected, I can tell that it's making my storm much more efficient in holding down the beasts of hell. There is a moment where he turns up and looks towards me, then, and with a paw he beckons me down towards him. I don't move quite yet. I don't react quite yet. After a moment, he turns away and goes back to directing my storm against the monstrous forces below.
My eyes open. I see the walls of my apartment, my reflection in the screen across from me. I hear a knock on the door and I see my momma stepping in, covered in water and exhausted. She waves to me and smiles, before walking past me to the kitchen to destress. I can hear the crack of a beer can. My eyes close. I see the battle below again. Open. Apartment. Close. Battlefield. Well, at least I can easily switch between which I'm viewing now, though I feel like time travels more quickly when I'm in that inner world.
I swallow. It isn't seemingly going away, and I don't think I'll be able to sleep before I deal with this. My momma is going to get drunk and come in here and watch TV, probably, but that isn't a major deal.
For my momma, I. .
[ ] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[ ] I'll let her do her thing, but I'll stay out in the open.
[ ] I'll go to my room and let her drink alone. (Pick an additional inner-option.)
[ ] I'll drink with her, and keep her moderated that way. (Cannot pick an inner-option with this.)
For the battle inside my--mind? soul? I'm not sure--I. .
[ ] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[ ] Intention in conversation
[ ] I'll force the Shade down, back to the rest of the monsters where it belongs.
[ ] I'll try to search through the monsters to find any innocents.
[ ] I'll try to refine my surge methods and see if I can learn more useful lightning tricks.
[ ] Write-in.
another short update, will likely do a third of similar length tonight. Thank y'all for reading & staying with me and I hope you enjoyed the update! : )
[X] Leave it.
[X] Stop at a street vendor.
[X] Pick up food and then go.
There's a small vendor on the side of the road that a woman around my age is working at. I approach her with a smile and a wave, and she glances at me like I'm insane. I guess I might look insane, to be smiling and in the clothes I'm wearing with the storm that's going on outside. Maybe I shouldn't have waved. Was it too forward--? I guess it would be awkward. That's probably why she's staring at me like that. Awkwardness. I grimace. Why am I acting so weird all of a sudden? No. I shouldn't be so worried.
A reassuring feeling comes through me again and I rub my neck. I shouldn't be so worried. I shouldn't be standing here so awkwardly after waving to the vendor! The girl is nervously looking at me and adjusting her round, copper-frame glasses and I take a moment to figure out what the stand is even selling. There's a frying pan, a small stove, some seasonings, a sign that has a picture of a folded over pancake, um--
"Crepe or okonomiyaki?" I know what a crepe is, and my first thought is to order one. It's the safe thing to do. It's what I always get. But I feel my mouth moving before my thoughts are even fully through my head.
"What's okonomiyaki?" The girl blinks at the question, before pointing to a small image on the side of her little vending counter. It's some sort of pancake fold, full of potato and some meats? I shrug. It isn't really my style, but there's a hunger inside of me, and all of a sudden that meat looks really tempting. I open my mouth and close it, before looking up to the girl. She's giving me a really weird look now.
"I'll take one of those, then. With meat." The added on words fall out of my mouth. I feel at my throat again. The girl carefully adjusts the temperature on the stove, before turning back to look at me. She looks embarrassed, but I can see some worry in her eyes as she opens her mouth to speak again.
"You aren't--you aren't homeless, are you?" My look of shock must've been enough to show her that I'm not. "Well--alright--I didn't mean to insult you, I just--" She bites her lip. "No. It's alright. I'm sorry! What type of meat did you want with that? We have, um, beef, pork, shrimp, mixed,"
"Beef. Beef's good," I reply, quickly, trying to help her out. I glance at myself and the soaked sweater I'm wearing. I didn't think I looked that bad. Tufts of white and black fur are scattered across my legs and sweater, stuck to the wet fabrics. I try to brush them off, but nothing comes of it. I frown and look back up. She's making the food quickly, glancing back between me and it every few moments. I feel more awkward than usual, and it's not helping that some part of me is compelling me to try and talk to her. "Um. Not many customers today, I guess?"
"No. No, not many. I was just about to shut down and have my dad help me pull everything back into the house." Oh. I wince. I didn't mean to make her stay out here longer--I guess I should've realized that the street vendors would be closing right now. Before I have time to respond and apologize, there's a handful of napkins with the okonomiyaki ontop of them being offered to me. I take it and give her a hesitant smile, and she gives me one back, but I can tell she really just wants to close down the stand.
I don't make her wait, hurrying out into the rain and eating as I go. She's gone from the stand to a building nearby before I'm even off of the street, and while I don't mind, it's all very different from how these stalls worked in the major American cities I'd been to. It's good, but hard to eat as I walk, but I have to eat as I walk because the rain will spoil the food if I just hold it in my hands the entire way back. I shiver. I make it a few more streets towards my house before I realize that I didn't pay and she didn't ask me too.
I want to go back, but she's certainly already gone by now. I remember the few bills left in my money clip. Maybe I can go and pay her back tomorrow. No need trying to track her down and harass her tonight. The thoughts wash over me with a calming wave, but despite them, I can't help but worry. Who knows what her Dad will do if he realizes she isn't making people pay? Am I the only one who didn't have to pay? Did she do it out of pity? Was I her charity case of the day? I shouldn't be a charity case. I'm a monster, and I deserve to be treated as one--
Something inside of me stirs and rejects that. Some part of me insists that everything will be fine. I get a headache from the battle my mind has engaged in and I try to focus on what is in front of me. I hear thunder crackle in the distance and once more the storm has grown more powerful, more angry, more real. I force down the last of the food, now with a nervous jitter to my bites, and go back to my jog for the rest of my way home.
. . .
When I make it back to my apartment, a wave of exhaustion comes over me. I don't know how long I've been awake--how long I've been dead--how long I've been alive today, but it feels like it both lasted an eternity and was over in a moment. It'll only be a short amount of time before my momma is home, and I take that time to rest on the living room sofa for a few minutes and try to get my mind straight. My resting on the sofa gives way to me closing my eyes and trying to fall asleep and deal with my thoughts that way.
When I close my eyes and feel sleep take over my body, I feel my eyes open elsewhere. I am staring down from above again, staring down into a great pit of bodies and corpses, staring as monsters crash against eachother and rally into great towers and mounds again. It is near the same as I have left it, and I can feel that other limb of mine crashing down and bringing lightning with it, bringing down the constant storm to hold back the tide of monsters. It is almost exactly the same.
I realize the difference now. A cloud of white mist has reformed above the center of the abyss, and upon it again swirls the blood-red shade of Ozymandias. He is closer to the exit now, but he makes no leaps for it--instead, from the cloud of mist above the abyss, he prowls and points towards rising mounds. As I see him point to the rising mound, my vision flicks to the mound and that part of me crashes down upon the mound, and when that part of me comes crashing down lightning lashes out and again it is all forced to the ground.
The shade of Ozymandias is directing my inner storm, leading it to the most important mounds and ensuring that none slip through my natural gaze. While his seizure of power is unexpected, I can tell that it's making my storm much more efficient in holding down the beasts of hell. There is a moment where he turns up and looks towards me, then, and with a paw he beckons me down towards him. I don't move quite yet. I don't react quite yet. After a moment, he turns away and goes back to directing my storm against the monstrous forces below.
My eyes open. I see the walls of my apartment, my reflection in the screen across from me. I hear a knock on the door and I see my momma stepping in, covered in water and exhausted. She waves to me and smiles, before walking past me to the kitchen to destress. I can hear the crack of a beer can. My eyes close. I see the battle below again. Open. Apartment. Close. Battlefield. Well, at least I can easily switch between which I'm viewing now, though I feel like time travels more quickly when I'm in that inner world.
I swallow. It isn't seemingly going away, and I don't think I'll be able to sleep before I deal with this. My momma is going to get drunk and come in here and watch TV, probably, but that isn't a major deal.
For my momma, I. .
[ ] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[ ] I'll let her do her thing, but I'll stay out in the open.
[ ] I'll go to my room and let her drink alone. (Pick an additional inner-option.)
[ ] I'll drink with her, and keep her moderated that way. (Cannot pick an inner-option with this.)
For the battle inside my--mind? soul? I'm not sure--I. .
[ ] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[ ] Intention in conversation
[ ] I'll force the Shade down, back to the rest of the monsters where it belongs.
[ ] I'll try to search through the monsters to find any innocents.
[ ] I'll try to refine my surge methods and see if I can learn more useful lightning tricks.
[ ] Write-in.
another short update, will likely do a third of similar length tonight. Thank y'all for reading & staying with me and I hope you enjoyed the update! : )
I still can't believe our MC is missing that.
Anyway, I really only care about talking to Oz I guess. Having all the power in a relationship makes it surprisingly easy to sit down and talk no matter how the other guy feels. Who woulda guessed?
Not sure what to do with mom...
Anyway, I really only care about talking to Oz I guess. Having all the power in a relationship makes it surprisingly easy to sit down and talk no matter how the other guy feels. Who woulda guessed?
Not sure what to do with mom...
kinigget
Best Demon
- Location
- People's Republic of Portland
huh
that phylactery seems to have forced some self-esteem into our poor girl
I can only approve of this development
[X] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking that phylactery? Assuming he can tell
that phylactery seems to have forced some self-esteem into our poor girl
I can only approve of this development
[X] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking that phylactery? Assuming he can tell
Jhin Lemon
Lawful Cute
- Location
- Trapped in the interwebs, please send help
[X] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking thatphylactery? Assuming he can tell
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking thatphylactery? Assuming he can tell
Dead Girl -- 0.10
- Location
- the point is of no return and you have reached it!
Winning vote:
[X] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking thatphylactery? Assuming he can tell
I'm up and off of the sofa, standing in the living room by Momma. She smiles at me and lowers her can, and while I can see she's taken a drink, it isn't that much. A sudden determination rises through me, and though again I'm unsure of where it comes, I'm not going to fight it. I don't want to watch her get drunk tonight. Telling her not to--all that will accomplish is making her feel awful and getting her to wait until she thinks I'm sleeping. That isn't the solution I'm looking for. I have to get her to come and do something else and distract her from drinking that way.
I swallow. Okay. She probably hasn't ate yet. Maybe that's a start. "Momma, have you ate yet?" I keep my voice level as I ask, and she turns to me and blinks. Then she shakes her head and puts a hand over her mouth.
"Oh, sweetie--I forgot that you were staying home all day. I should've picked up something for us to eat on my way home," and when she finishes speaking, she's already at the fridge, bent down and glancing through it. I head over to stand by her. "We've got, um--some eggs, some bologna, some milk--" She pulls back and purses her lips, shaking her head at the fridge and then at me. "I can scramble some eggs for you? I know how much you like scrambled--no. No, you're right, that won't do. Can't have scrambled eggs for dinner."
I frown as she looks away, heading to the upper cupboards. She can't reach them, so she grabs a chair and pulls herself up on top of it. "Scrambled eggs are fine, momma." She doesn't seem to have heard me as she opens up the top cupboards, glancing through an assortment of liquor bottles and boxes of foodstuffs. "Really, momma, eggs are good--" Her hand settles on a box of noodles and as she lets out a proud a-ha!, she stumbles back on the chair and starts to fall down towards the island in the center of the room.
I dash forward to catch her, but there's no need. The box of noodles is on the floor and she's clutching on to the wood of the cupboards, glancing around in shock and fright. I let out a deep breath and she climbs down off of the chair, going to pick up the box of noodles from the ground. My heart is pounding even as she descends, hammering into my chest--she could have died--she would have died--my momma almost just--and as much as a part of me tries to reassure myself, I can't quite get there. I can't stop myself from shuddering, can't stop myself from shaking my head and rubbing my eyes with my hands.
"Nell, can you turn on the TV and put on something in English?" My momma's words break my thoughts. She's humming and preparing water to boil, a carton of eggs and the large box of noodles my only hints to what she's making. I head over to the TV and switch on our Playstation, flipping to Netflix and turning on one of the cooking shows Momma usually watches. I don't remember what episode she's on, exactly, but the TV is on in English and that's probably good enough for her.
I head back to the kitchen, where she's taking another drink from her beer. I frown a little. I'll have to use more active distraction techniques.
"Can I help you make dinner tonight?" She stops and sets down her beer, looking at me.
"I'm just making noodles and eggs. It's nothing too difficult for me to do alone if you want to go run and play," she replies, putting her hand back onto her can for a moment.
"No, I know--I just want to help. It's been a while," and though normally my voice would've hesitated here, it doesn't. I feel the reassuring aura wash over me again. I've almost entirely forgotten her fall just a minute ago, almost entirely moved on from that terrible shock. She shrugs at me, then, setting down her can.
"Sure. I'll let you take care of the noodles then while I get the eggs ready." She beckons me over to the pot and starts to turn on the other of the stove's two burners. I get a frying pan out and hand it to her, and within moments she's cracking eggs open and starting her work there.
We don't talk much after we get started. She takes a few more sips of her beer as she works, but she isn't slamming it down like she normally would be right now. Every now and then she wanders over towards the sofa and leans over it to watch some of the cooking show I've put on, and I don't mind taking over for her and making sure the eggs are coming along nicely when she meanders off for that. Eventually, the food's finished. The eggs are intermixed with spices and mixed in with the noodles, and some vegetables she's heated up are thrown in as well. It isn't the most amazing dish, but it's nice, and the fact that we made it together makes me feel good about eating it--and it's hard for me to feel good about eating most days.
We make our way over to the living room and eat quietly. She's focused on her show, and though I'm sure she's noticed, she's not commenting on the orange juice I poured for the both of us. Her can of beer is sitting in the kitchen, still half full. I smile and eat my food and stop paying much attention to the world around me. Though I can hear the light drizzle of the storm outside, it doesn't bother me. I don't feel the tempest of emotions inside of me right now. Sitting down with my momma, I'm able to feel happy--safe--and though I know that I might not actually be happy or safe, sometimes it's good to feel those ways, good to feel secure from the waves of anxiety and everything that came at me today.
Momma eventually asks me if I've been feeling alright today. I hesistate. I'm fine now, really, and I tell her that. She says she's worried about what she saw this morning, and really, I am too. But there's that part of me saying that everything will be fine, and I let that part of me take over my face and words. I had some nightmares last night, and that was all--I did some soul searching today, I tell her, and I've realized that there's nothing for me to be that worried about. The look of relief on her face at that is palpable.
She tells me that there's a piano recital in town soon, and she asks me if I'd be interesting in going. I remember her asking me this two weeks ago, too, though I suppose that two weeks ago would be today or tomorrow. Last time I didn't go. I didn't want to be reminded of Dad. But right now I'm hesitating. Maybe I should go. Maybe the break--the relaxation--the chance to listen to a pianist would help me move on and help me pull my scattered mind back together. But--did I have time? What if something happened while I was off waiting and watching the recital?
My momma sees my hesitation, and I see a frown cross her face. "It was only an idea," she's saying, backing off, making it easy for me to let the idea go and move on. But I remember how excited she had been when she made the offer, how excited she had been back when I used to play piano with her, and my words catch in my throat. The reassuring aura inside me is twisted, itself unsure, itself unclear--everything will be fine, it insists, but at the same time it does not want to waste time like that. It resists the idea of me putting aside my obligation.
My obligation? I don't know what I mean by that. My obligation to Lilly, maybe--to repay all that which she had done for me? My momma is soon to change the subject. I have to decide now.
[ ] I'd love to go see the recital.
[ ] I don't know. .
After that, the conversation goes back to normal. The episode of her show ends, and Momma flips it back from netflix to the news. There's a story running right now about the freak storm that's gathered above the city, with the meteorologists saying that "although the brunt of the thunderstorm is over, the storm itself shows no signs of breaking up for at least another twelve hours." My momma shakes her head and mutters something about inconsistent Japanese weather. I laugh. It brings up an old memory of mine--of me and her trying to find that perfect place to go and move to, that perfect place to get away from everything to, and how the top thing on her list was "nice weather."
I worry, though, as my laugh ends. There's a part of me says that this storm is my fault. Well, there's more than a part of me that says that. I know the storm is my fault. But I don't understand how--or why. And if it is my fault the storm is here, that doesn't give me any ability to control it. I'm torn from my thoughts.
The screen is flashed to an aerial view over a flat. Police cars are gathered in front of it. The headlines below report of a tragedy. The brutal mauling of child prodigy Suzuki Namiko by the hands of an unknown creature and the wild storm that seems to have targeted her home. There are shots of the holes in the ceiling, shots of the blood pools in the bed that I hadn't noticed, pictures of a hole in the ground beneath one of the beds that had been filled with dead mice, rats and as of yet unidentified black ichor.
There are shots of the tufts of black and white fur across the house. The commentators are too startled to really give a good explanation of what happened--people bounce between 'freak animal attack' and 'crazed murderer,' while others paint a picture of a supervillian-esque character responsible for everything going on. Some tweets are seen at the bottom of the screen, as locals and friends of Suzuki express their regrets, consolations and hopes that she will get better. It's said to be a miracle that the first responders got there in time--if the brave Ms. Suzuki hadn't managed to crawl to the phone and call for help with her last breaths of consciousness, she would likely be dead right now.
The commentators hand it over to an interview with Ms. Suzuki's adopted father, the prestigious Dr. Ito, but not before doing a slight briefing on their relationship. After the Suzuki family's untimely deaths by what was called "the mystery of 2009," the young Suzuki bounced between different orphanages across Japan, struggling to find a family willing to accept her into their home. Eventually, she was able to impress the young Dr. Ito, but he was unable to directly adopt her for reasons that were not publicly available. Instead, he paid a stipend for her living and helped her achieve her emancipation at the age of thirteen.
When I saw Ito in class, empathetic was never a word I would have prescribed to him. When I saw him on the screen, he was a man with a mission in his eyes. He stated quite clearly that he was not going to accept the idea of a "freak animal attack" or any such softening to explain the attack. In his words, it is beyond evident that there is something more at work here, that there is something targeting the Suzuki family--and he will be damned before he allows whatever man or monsters that is hunting down Ms. Suzuki to be victorious. He's going further then that, but a censor is blurring out his words now. His face is twitching, and he seems to have gone from a man on a mission to a man enraged--the feed cuts.
The commentators are laughing nervously. My momma looks to me, unnerved, and I can't help but look down and feel the same way. They move on to lighter news. A local success story and a sign that family businesses can still work in today's modern era. The camera cuts to an image of Moe and I shudder. I glance to my mom, and I can see she's starting to yawn and get up. Her glass of orange juice is empty on the table next to her. I get up too and flip off the TV. We don't need to say in words that we're both going to bed--or, really, that we're both going to pretend to go to bed. She'll lay down and get on her laptop and work the rest of the night away--it's what she does if she doesn't collapse into drinking. I'll go to my bed and try and deal with the demons inside of me.
When I open the door to my room, I choke at the sight. Everything is neat, orderly, cleaner than I had left it--and upon my bed sits a blue rose and a bag of bills. A cold draft rushes in from my window. And though I force myself to look around the rest of the room, though I search with everything in me for another trace of that black-cat, there isn't one to be found. I swallow my thoughts. I close the window and lock it. I close the door to my room and I lock it. I consider moving my dresser in front of the window, for good measure, but--would it really stop her if she came back?
I take a deep breath. It's time to face the shade of Ozymandias, and see what horrors the two of us have wrought.
Half of today's update -- have to run some errands, will have the other half out when I get back later today.
Thank you for reading, and as always, I hope you enjoyed the update! : )
[X] I'll try to talk to her and keep her from drinking tonight.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] what *exactly* were the effects of drinking thatphylactery? Assuming he can tell
I'm up and off of the sofa, standing in the living room by Momma. She smiles at me and lowers her can, and while I can see she's taken a drink, it isn't that much. A sudden determination rises through me, and though again I'm unsure of where it comes, I'm not going to fight it. I don't want to watch her get drunk tonight. Telling her not to--all that will accomplish is making her feel awful and getting her to wait until she thinks I'm sleeping. That isn't the solution I'm looking for. I have to get her to come and do something else and distract her from drinking that way.
I swallow. Okay. She probably hasn't ate yet. Maybe that's a start. "Momma, have you ate yet?" I keep my voice level as I ask, and she turns to me and blinks. Then she shakes her head and puts a hand over her mouth.
"Oh, sweetie--I forgot that you were staying home all day. I should've picked up something for us to eat on my way home," and when she finishes speaking, she's already at the fridge, bent down and glancing through it. I head over to stand by her. "We've got, um--some eggs, some bologna, some milk--" She pulls back and purses her lips, shaking her head at the fridge and then at me. "I can scramble some eggs for you? I know how much you like scrambled--no. No, you're right, that won't do. Can't have scrambled eggs for dinner."
I frown as she looks away, heading to the upper cupboards. She can't reach them, so she grabs a chair and pulls herself up on top of it. "Scrambled eggs are fine, momma." She doesn't seem to have heard me as she opens up the top cupboards, glancing through an assortment of liquor bottles and boxes of foodstuffs. "Really, momma, eggs are good--" Her hand settles on a box of noodles and as she lets out a proud a-ha!, she stumbles back on the chair and starts to fall down towards the island in the center of the room.
I dash forward to catch her, but there's no need. The box of noodles is on the floor and she's clutching on to the wood of the cupboards, glancing around in shock and fright. I let out a deep breath and she climbs down off of the chair, going to pick up the box of noodles from the ground. My heart is pounding even as she descends, hammering into my chest--she could have died--she would have died--my momma almost just--and as much as a part of me tries to reassure myself, I can't quite get there. I can't stop myself from shuddering, can't stop myself from shaking my head and rubbing my eyes with my hands.
"Nell, can you turn on the TV and put on something in English?" My momma's words break my thoughts. She's humming and preparing water to boil, a carton of eggs and the large box of noodles my only hints to what she's making. I head over to the TV and switch on our Playstation, flipping to Netflix and turning on one of the cooking shows Momma usually watches. I don't remember what episode she's on, exactly, but the TV is on in English and that's probably good enough for her.
I head back to the kitchen, where she's taking another drink from her beer. I frown a little. I'll have to use more active distraction techniques.
"Can I help you make dinner tonight?" She stops and sets down her beer, looking at me.
"I'm just making noodles and eggs. It's nothing too difficult for me to do alone if you want to go run and play," she replies, putting her hand back onto her can for a moment.
"No, I know--I just want to help. It's been a while," and though normally my voice would've hesitated here, it doesn't. I feel the reassuring aura wash over me again. I've almost entirely forgotten her fall just a minute ago, almost entirely moved on from that terrible shock. She shrugs at me, then, setting down her can.
"Sure. I'll let you take care of the noodles then while I get the eggs ready." She beckons me over to the pot and starts to turn on the other of the stove's two burners. I get a frying pan out and hand it to her, and within moments she's cracking eggs open and starting her work there.
We don't talk much after we get started. She takes a few more sips of her beer as she works, but she isn't slamming it down like she normally would be right now. Every now and then she wanders over towards the sofa and leans over it to watch some of the cooking show I've put on, and I don't mind taking over for her and making sure the eggs are coming along nicely when she meanders off for that. Eventually, the food's finished. The eggs are intermixed with spices and mixed in with the noodles, and some vegetables she's heated up are thrown in as well. It isn't the most amazing dish, but it's nice, and the fact that we made it together makes me feel good about eating it--and it's hard for me to feel good about eating most days.
We make our way over to the living room and eat quietly. She's focused on her show, and though I'm sure she's noticed, she's not commenting on the orange juice I poured for the both of us. Her can of beer is sitting in the kitchen, still half full. I smile and eat my food and stop paying much attention to the world around me. Though I can hear the light drizzle of the storm outside, it doesn't bother me. I don't feel the tempest of emotions inside of me right now. Sitting down with my momma, I'm able to feel happy--safe--and though I know that I might not actually be happy or safe, sometimes it's good to feel those ways, good to feel secure from the waves of anxiety and everything that came at me today.
Momma eventually asks me if I've been feeling alright today. I hesistate. I'm fine now, really, and I tell her that. She says she's worried about what she saw this morning, and really, I am too. But there's that part of me saying that everything will be fine, and I let that part of me take over my face and words. I had some nightmares last night, and that was all--I did some soul searching today, I tell her, and I've realized that there's nothing for me to be that worried about. The look of relief on her face at that is palpable.
She tells me that there's a piano recital in town soon, and she asks me if I'd be interesting in going. I remember her asking me this two weeks ago, too, though I suppose that two weeks ago would be today or tomorrow. Last time I didn't go. I didn't want to be reminded of Dad. But right now I'm hesitating. Maybe I should go. Maybe the break--the relaxation--the chance to listen to a pianist would help me move on and help me pull my scattered mind back together. But--did I have time? What if something happened while I was off waiting and watching the recital?
My momma sees my hesitation, and I see a frown cross her face. "It was only an idea," she's saying, backing off, making it easy for me to let the idea go and move on. But I remember how excited she had been when she made the offer, how excited she had been back when I used to play piano with her, and my words catch in my throat. The reassuring aura inside me is twisted, itself unsure, itself unclear--everything will be fine, it insists, but at the same time it does not want to waste time like that. It resists the idea of me putting aside my obligation.
My obligation? I don't know what I mean by that. My obligation to Lilly, maybe--to repay all that which she had done for me? My momma is soon to change the subject. I have to decide now.
[ ] I'd love to go see the recital.
[ ] I don't know. .
After that, the conversation goes back to normal. The episode of her show ends, and Momma flips it back from netflix to the news. There's a story running right now about the freak storm that's gathered above the city, with the meteorologists saying that "although the brunt of the thunderstorm is over, the storm itself shows no signs of breaking up for at least another twelve hours." My momma shakes her head and mutters something about inconsistent Japanese weather. I laugh. It brings up an old memory of mine--of me and her trying to find that perfect place to go and move to, that perfect place to get away from everything to, and how the top thing on her list was "nice weather."
I worry, though, as my laugh ends. There's a part of me says that this storm is my fault. Well, there's more than a part of me that says that. I know the storm is my fault. But I don't understand how--or why. And if it is my fault the storm is here, that doesn't give me any ability to control it. I'm torn from my thoughts.
The screen is flashed to an aerial view over a flat. Police cars are gathered in front of it. The headlines below report of a tragedy. The brutal mauling of child prodigy Suzuki Namiko by the hands of an unknown creature and the wild storm that seems to have targeted her home. There are shots of the holes in the ceiling, shots of the blood pools in the bed that I hadn't noticed, pictures of a hole in the ground beneath one of the beds that had been filled with dead mice, rats and as of yet unidentified black ichor.
There are shots of the tufts of black and white fur across the house. The commentators are too startled to really give a good explanation of what happened--people bounce between 'freak animal attack' and 'crazed murderer,' while others paint a picture of a supervillian-esque character responsible for everything going on. Some tweets are seen at the bottom of the screen, as locals and friends of Suzuki express their regrets, consolations and hopes that she will get better. It's said to be a miracle that the first responders got there in time--if the brave Ms. Suzuki hadn't managed to crawl to the phone and call for help with her last breaths of consciousness, she would likely be dead right now.
The commentators hand it over to an interview with Ms. Suzuki's adopted father, the prestigious Dr. Ito, but not before doing a slight briefing on their relationship. After the Suzuki family's untimely deaths by what was called "the mystery of 2009," the young Suzuki bounced between different orphanages across Japan, struggling to find a family willing to accept her into their home. Eventually, she was able to impress the young Dr. Ito, but he was unable to directly adopt her for reasons that were not publicly available. Instead, he paid a stipend for her living and helped her achieve her emancipation at the age of thirteen.
When I saw Ito in class, empathetic was never a word I would have prescribed to him. When I saw him on the screen, he was a man with a mission in his eyes. He stated quite clearly that he was not going to accept the idea of a "freak animal attack" or any such softening to explain the attack. In his words, it is beyond evident that there is something more at work here, that there is something targeting the Suzuki family--and he will be damned before he allows whatever man or monsters that is hunting down Ms. Suzuki to be victorious. He's going further then that, but a censor is blurring out his words now. His face is twitching, and he seems to have gone from a man on a mission to a man enraged--the feed cuts.
The commentators are laughing nervously. My momma looks to me, unnerved, and I can't help but look down and feel the same way. They move on to lighter news. A local success story and a sign that family businesses can still work in today's modern era. The camera cuts to an image of Moe and I shudder. I glance to my mom, and I can see she's starting to yawn and get up. Her glass of orange juice is empty on the table next to her. I get up too and flip off the TV. We don't need to say in words that we're both going to bed--or, really, that we're both going to pretend to go to bed. She'll lay down and get on her laptop and work the rest of the night away--it's what she does if she doesn't collapse into drinking. I'll go to my bed and try and deal with the demons inside of me.
When I open the door to my room, I choke at the sight. Everything is neat, orderly, cleaner than I had left it--and upon my bed sits a blue rose and a bag of bills. A cold draft rushes in from my window. And though I force myself to look around the rest of the room, though I search with everything in me for another trace of that black-cat, there isn't one to be found. I swallow my thoughts. I close the window and lock it. I close the door to my room and I lock it. I consider moving my dresser in front of the window, for good measure, but--would it really stop her if she came back?
I take a deep breath. It's time to face the shade of Ozymandias, and see what horrors the two of us have wrought.
Half of today's update -- have to run some errands, will have the other half out when I get back later today.
Thank you for reading, and as always, I hope you enjoyed the update! : )
[X] I don't know. .
Tentatively more than anything. While I do want to make the piano something that is ours again, and remove the shadow of our dad from it, I don't think a recital is the place to start.
Tentatively more than anything. While I do want to make the piano something that is ours again, and remove the shadow of our dad from it, I don't think a recital is the place to start.
Dead Girl -- Finale
- Location
- the point is of no return and you have reached it!
Winning vote:
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] What exactly were the effects of drinking that phylactery? Assuming he can tell.
I open my eyes, and the world before me is one of fire. Great pillars of flame swirl through the abyss, flickering back and forth and pulsing in and out in a spiral of fire and black smoke. The smoke gathers around the basin of the abyss, and though I can see some movements through it, for the most part the great cloak of smog blocks all the actions of the basin from my eyes. Admist the pillars of flame I see the shade of Ozymandias again, though he has changed.
The shade seems aged, and he has grown much in size. He directs my lightning still, but even as it clashes against the pillars of flame, the pillars do not fall. They do not crumble and fall to the ground as ash, and the monsters admist the pillars are not forced back. The spiraling pillars rise and grow, and though the shade struggles and though my lightning crashes, there is nothing that is happening to stop it. That part of me that was once reassuring builds within me again, but it is not reassurance that comes--it is, for the first time, panic, fright and fear.
My lightning crashes down, but the fire will not fall. Once more the shade beckons to me, though this time I don't turn away. I need answers. I need to know what happened when I drank that phylactery. I need to know what has brewed this storm of fire within me. The rain falls and clashes against the pillars of fire, and though the fire flickers in response, it does not fall. It does not falter. The fingers of the hand of fire keep stretching out, keep reaching for the northern gate, keep reaching for a way out of their wicked cage. And among the monsters I see that man again, and among the monsters I see that girl again, and among the monsters I see horrors worse than I have ever seen before.
I am beside the Shade now, and it looks to me in desperation. I want to speak, I want to demand from him answers, but I have no mouth to speak with. I am but essence here, the only limb I control that spectral hand of thunder and awe. I sweep the chain of lightning out, and though it crashes into the fire and knocks some few beasts from it, it is not enough. Still there are more climbing, still there are more coming to take the place of the few rising towards me. The Shade looks to me in desperation, and though he opens his mouth, there are no words that come out.
I see him now again and I demand to understand. I demand to know. The world before my eyes shifts.
This is not Ozymandias. This is not his true shade, this is not his last vestige upon this realm. The shade is only a sentinel, only a guardian, only a jailor for these wicked and damned. And he is trapped here as much as they are, to rot and burn in this hell of theirs until time eternal. And he does not understand what I am, or how I have changed him, but he knows that only I can hold back the beasts below. Only I can hold back the tides of monsters that seek to rise to the surface.
I had thought them held back enough. I don't understand what has changed. The sentinel shade pulls my vision forth, pulls my vision to the center of the fires, to the figure that guides their hand. The sentinel shade shows me a girl wrapped in shadows, garbed in utter black, from whom the fire spreads like tendrils, from whose eyes red fire burns and grows to a great inferno. The smoke spreads from her, not from the fire, and the more the shade shows me, I know who that woman is.
I know who that girl is who directs the flames. It's the same girl I see when I look into the mirror every day, the same part of me that nags and consumes and threatens to burn away everything that I've ever came for. This great jail for the damned does not only hold the demons that Ozymandias had conquered--it holds the demons that I have, as well as those that I have yet to.
The pillar of fires change, and I realize that as I stare at myself, that part of me stares back at me. That part of me has found where I hide, that sanctuary I have taken. And now the hands of fire come towards it, come crashing in to consume me and the sentinel-shade both. And in the moment I am paralyzed, in the moment I am unable to move to defend myself, to defend the sentinel-shade from the coming flames, and in that moment I realize that if I fall here, if I die here, then it will not be I that leaves in control of this body--
It will not be the me here in the clouds, the me that stands on the outside looking in, the me that watches the demons from a high point--should I fall here, should I succumb to that part of me, it will be my shadow that leaves. It will be my shadow that rises forth. It will be my shadow that leads the damned on their vengeance across the world, the part of me that craved nothing more than the death of Ozymandias, the part of me that craved nothing more than the death of the world around me--that would be the part of me that left.
That would be the part of me that ruled the storm outside.
The fire crashed towards me, but my realization crashed down upon me in the same moment. I would not let my demons bind me another time. I would not live a slave to my fears and anxieties again. I would hold the line against the madness that brewed inside me, and if I could not do that, than I would at least make it as painful as possible for those who threatened to turn me into a weapon--
The fire hit where I was. The fire consumed the white mist and the cloud, incinerated that form the sentinel had taken. But I was not consumed. I was not fallen. This was my mind, this was my fight, and I was in charge of myself. I had power here, though I may never had had it in the world outside, and from the ashes of the sentinel-shade I tore forth fire. Not the crimson flame of my shadow, but the white and holy fire that Ozymandias had always burnt with, and from it I wrote a new accord.
From the white fire of Ozymandias, I drew forth myself. The demons within me, the demons that I had made and the demons that Ozymandias had sealed away, they were everything that I hated about myself and the world. I drew something to face that hate. I drew something to face that shadow. A woman of brilliant fire and light took form where the shade of Ozymandias had once stood, and through her I breathed instructions and life. Upon her I pushed my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions--my need to destroy the demons below--
In the center of Ozymandias' white fire, in the center of the woman drawn forth from mine and his essence, lightning flashes and thunder shook. And when the lightning faded, eyes of radiant red flame took place, and that angel of holy fire moved and directed. From her sides came forth holy lances of flame, thrust down into the pillars of flame, thrust out to impale the beasts and monster back to the basin of the abyss. And as they struck, as they bound the monsters to the ground, the lances did not fade. They did not fall away, they did not let the beasts crawl back up or forth.
The sentinel of my creation wrought holy fire down upon the mass, while my lightning surged down on the pillars and forced back all those who were not nailed down by the great spikes of holy flame. Upon the ground I saw my shadow once more, running, flickering, hiding from the wrath of heaven brought down upon her.
The shadow darts back and forth, dodging nail after holy nail. The masses of monsters have been bound and forced forth into the ground. The great tentacles of the leviathan have been spread across the abyss, nailed down and cut apart by great blades of lightning. The monstrous girl has been forced into the earth, her tendrils bound now around a pillar of the holy flame--the man from the church nailed down with the same nail that pierced the tentacle of the leviathan, forced to endure the endless and mad screams of the beast.
The fire and smoke has been washed away by the storm. I see beasts I never saw before. Thirteen-headed dogs, crushed into the ground, a nail in each neck to keep them looking separate, to keep them looking away from each other, to keep the wicked apart even from themselves. I see another beast, a great black horse with a coat of flame of shadow, forced to the ground by another nail of holy light--beside it an old man, an old human man with skin as pale as that of the nail that impales through him, and while I do not know his crime--
The sentinel knows that he deserves his punishment. The sentinel knows that they all deserve their punishment. The angel of holy fire and vengeance, that angel that has taken on my form--my form but for my face, where instead the face of Lilly burned and glowed, the face of the shining knight I had always wanted to be--flickers across the battlefield, continuing her pursuit of justice across the field of fiends, continuing her binding of the beasts of hell back to the ground and abyss where she knows them to belong.
I see another struggling against their bondage. I see a young girl, and though the justicar above knows her to be guilty, I cannot help but force my mind forward, force myself to see just who that woman is bound beneath the nail of light--and hers is a face I recognize. Hers is a face I know all too well. Kaida. I see in her eyes hate, determination, rage, and from her lips are called out threats and taunts, from her lips are called out insults to each and every part of my person and who I am.
I stare. I am unnerved. But I know that that is not the real Kaida. That is not the real Kaida who would come to insult me in two weeks time. That is only a demon, a shadow, a projection of her--a projection that the justicar above deemed guilty, deemed worthy of punishment. I reached out towards her, through some limb I was sure did not exist, and as she saw me, her face shifted. Her face became not one of rage, but one of hope. One of desperation. And her hand reached back out towards me.
Another nail of light and fire came down, and her hand would never reach out again. The specter of Kaida screamed. I shook. Behind Kaida I saw another form. Another girl that I had come to know. I staggered forward to the impaled corpse of Moe, stumbled forward to see her broken neck, her broken fingers and her broken hand, all the shadows of what she had once been pierced and nailed across the ground. The girl I had wanted to save me, now laying crippled on the ground, utterly destroyed by the justicar above.
I knew it wasn't her. The angel of vengeance above ensured me that it was a demon. That it was a shade, a form of hate and rage, a figment pretending to be something to weaken me. Holy fire consumed her form entirely, and soon the nails through Moe and Kaida were so many that I could not make out their bodies from the light. I could not make out their bodies from the unnerving glow that now spread throughout the whole abyss. It doesn't help. I see another figure behind the coffins of light Moe and Kaida now are imprisoned in.
Lilly. Lilly fighting with my mother. Lilly condemning me, leaving me--the last memory I had had of her, the real her, flickering in front of me again and again. The spear of light impaled through her legs, nailed her to the form, but still her words could be heard, still she could make me sick, and though I stumbled away, I could only hear her. The justicar was swift in freeing me from that torment. Her specter found itself nailed entirely to the ground as well. But it did not help. It did not make me feel better.
I saw in the distance my shadow. I saw that part of me, those demons within me, wavering through the field of nails as well. And though my angel of retribution tried to nail her down as well, she was never where the lance landed. She was always a few steps ahead. And now she was staring at me, staring at me with utter hatred, with utter rage, staring at me and forcing me to see another world. Forcing me to see another truth.
I could not resist. I saw the world before me that she forced forward.
I saw aspects of myself, my memories, those things that made me me, as well as my fears and hesitations, scattered across the ground, scattered in a field across the world. In the skies above I saw the spectre of Ozymandias utterly reformed, retaken his old cat form, perched upon the shoulder of my corpse, his tail impaled into my chest and flickering back and forth, directing lightning and lances of fire down upon the world.
I saw his reach spreading, and the white mists above reforming. I saw myself, the shadow that I was, dancing through the fields of corpses and bound figments, dancing through the world of rubble, reduced to my base instincts as I tried everything in my power to avoid the falling wrath of the demon-cat. I heard Ozymandias's mocking laugh, heard his mocking call, and felt as he assumed control of the world around me.
I saw the world outside, as Ozymandias took control of my body. I saw myself in the same armor that Namiko wore, the same spectral cat upon my shoulder, abandoning that which I had known and falling into the pursuit of monsters and demons that Namiko had been so engaged in. I found myself becoming a clone of that other girl, becoming the weapon and tool of the cat in his war against the world. I saw my white hair turning to the same shade as the fur of Ozymandias, my eyes becoming the same bits of fire that his were, as the last remnants of me were forced further and further into the abyss below.
I saw again the shadow of myself dancing through the field of battle. I saw again the shadow of myself dodging through spears of holy fire. The last remnant of me, come to gather the monsters of my past, come to gather my doubts and trials and hatreds and regrets and everything that made me the woman who I was today, come to gather it all and retake my body, reforge my form, become myself again and oust this unholy beast from my body--
A lance of holy fire slammed down through me, and I was forced from the reverie. My spectral thunder crashed down and washed the fire from me. The shadow of myself still stared into me, still approached closer to me, and it offered a shadowy hand out towards me. Above I could feel the sentinel-spirit preparing another lance. I saw the hand reaching out to me. I saw the shadow making a promise to me. If I take the hand, if I become one with myself again--I can oust the devil and reclaim my mind. Reclaim myself. Become Nell again.
The lance in the sky makes another promise. The lance in the sky tells a different story. Before me is a demon. Before me is a beast of shadow and doubt, the most powerful remnant sealed away by Ozymandias, and should I accept its hand, should I accept its foul deal, I will let the greatest daemon yet into the world.
My answer is clear. My time is short. I . . .
[ ] I take the hand. It is time to free my inner jinn.
[ ] I refuse the hand. I will not fall for another lie.
[ ] I hesitate.
End of Dead Girl. Apologies that this chapter was split into two -- had to run some errands and ended up getting lunch with my dad too.
As always, thank you for reading and I hoped you enjoyed the update. : ) I'll be happy to answer any questions here or on discord, if anything in my writing isn't clear or if there's something you think that Nell should know that I have not said to y'all.
[X] I'll try to talk to the Shade of Ozymandias.
-[X] What exactly were the effects of drinking that phylactery? Assuming he can tell.
I open my eyes, and the world before me is one of fire. Great pillars of flame swirl through the abyss, flickering back and forth and pulsing in and out in a spiral of fire and black smoke. The smoke gathers around the basin of the abyss, and though I can see some movements through it, for the most part the great cloak of smog blocks all the actions of the basin from my eyes. Admist the pillars of flame I see the shade of Ozymandias again, though he has changed.
The shade seems aged, and he has grown much in size. He directs my lightning still, but even as it clashes against the pillars of flame, the pillars do not fall. They do not crumble and fall to the ground as ash, and the monsters admist the pillars are not forced back. The spiraling pillars rise and grow, and though the shade struggles and though my lightning crashes, there is nothing that is happening to stop it. That part of me that was once reassuring builds within me again, but it is not reassurance that comes--it is, for the first time, panic, fright and fear.
My lightning crashes down, but the fire will not fall. Once more the shade beckons to me, though this time I don't turn away. I need answers. I need to know what happened when I drank that phylactery. I need to know what has brewed this storm of fire within me. The rain falls and clashes against the pillars of fire, and though the fire flickers in response, it does not fall. It does not falter. The fingers of the hand of fire keep stretching out, keep reaching for the northern gate, keep reaching for a way out of their wicked cage. And among the monsters I see that man again, and among the monsters I see that girl again, and among the monsters I see horrors worse than I have ever seen before.
I am beside the Shade now, and it looks to me in desperation. I want to speak, I want to demand from him answers, but I have no mouth to speak with. I am but essence here, the only limb I control that spectral hand of thunder and awe. I sweep the chain of lightning out, and though it crashes into the fire and knocks some few beasts from it, it is not enough. Still there are more climbing, still there are more coming to take the place of the few rising towards me. The Shade looks to me in desperation, and though he opens his mouth, there are no words that come out.
I see him now again and I demand to understand. I demand to know. The world before my eyes shifts.
This is not Ozymandias. This is not his true shade, this is not his last vestige upon this realm. The shade is only a sentinel, only a guardian, only a jailor for these wicked and damned. And he is trapped here as much as they are, to rot and burn in this hell of theirs until time eternal. And he does not understand what I am, or how I have changed him, but he knows that only I can hold back the beasts below. Only I can hold back the tides of monsters that seek to rise to the surface.
I had thought them held back enough. I don't understand what has changed. The sentinel shade pulls my vision forth, pulls my vision to the center of the fires, to the figure that guides their hand. The sentinel shade shows me a girl wrapped in shadows, garbed in utter black, from whom the fire spreads like tendrils, from whose eyes red fire burns and grows to a great inferno. The smoke spreads from her, not from the fire, and the more the shade shows me, I know who that woman is.
I know who that girl is who directs the flames. It's the same girl I see when I look into the mirror every day, the same part of me that nags and consumes and threatens to burn away everything that I've ever came for. This great jail for the damned does not only hold the demons that Ozymandias had conquered--it holds the demons that I have, as well as those that I have yet to.
The pillar of fires change, and I realize that as I stare at myself, that part of me stares back at me. That part of me has found where I hide, that sanctuary I have taken. And now the hands of fire come towards it, come crashing in to consume me and the sentinel-shade both. And in the moment I am paralyzed, in the moment I am unable to move to defend myself, to defend the sentinel-shade from the coming flames, and in that moment I realize that if I fall here, if I die here, then it will not be I that leaves in control of this body--
It will not be the me here in the clouds, the me that stands on the outside looking in, the me that watches the demons from a high point--should I fall here, should I succumb to that part of me, it will be my shadow that leaves. It will be my shadow that rises forth. It will be my shadow that leads the damned on their vengeance across the world, the part of me that craved nothing more than the death of Ozymandias, the part of me that craved nothing more than the death of the world around me--that would be the part of me that left.
That would be the part of me that ruled the storm outside.
The fire crashed towards me, but my realization crashed down upon me in the same moment. I would not let my demons bind me another time. I would not live a slave to my fears and anxieties again. I would hold the line against the madness that brewed inside me, and if I could not do that, than I would at least make it as painful as possible for those who threatened to turn me into a weapon--
The fire hit where I was. The fire consumed the white mist and the cloud, incinerated that form the sentinel had taken. But I was not consumed. I was not fallen. This was my mind, this was my fight, and I was in charge of myself. I had power here, though I may never had had it in the world outside, and from the ashes of the sentinel-shade I tore forth fire. Not the crimson flame of my shadow, but the white and holy fire that Ozymandias had always burnt with, and from it I wrote a new accord.
From the white fire of Ozymandias, I drew forth myself. The demons within me, the demons that I had made and the demons that Ozymandias had sealed away, they were everything that I hated about myself and the world. I drew something to face that hate. I drew something to face that shadow. A woman of brilliant fire and light took form where the shade of Ozymandias had once stood, and through her I breathed instructions and life. Upon her I pushed my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions--my need to destroy the demons below--
In the center of Ozymandias' white fire, in the center of the woman drawn forth from mine and his essence, lightning flashes and thunder shook. And when the lightning faded, eyes of radiant red flame took place, and that angel of holy fire moved and directed. From her sides came forth holy lances of flame, thrust down into the pillars of flame, thrust out to impale the beasts and monster back to the basin of the abyss. And as they struck, as they bound the monsters to the ground, the lances did not fade. They did not fall away, they did not let the beasts crawl back up or forth.
The sentinel of my creation wrought holy fire down upon the mass, while my lightning surged down on the pillars and forced back all those who were not nailed down by the great spikes of holy flame. Upon the ground I saw my shadow once more, running, flickering, hiding from the wrath of heaven brought down upon her.
The shadow darts back and forth, dodging nail after holy nail. The masses of monsters have been bound and forced forth into the ground. The great tentacles of the leviathan have been spread across the abyss, nailed down and cut apart by great blades of lightning. The monstrous girl has been forced into the earth, her tendrils bound now around a pillar of the holy flame--the man from the church nailed down with the same nail that pierced the tentacle of the leviathan, forced to endure the endless and mad screams of the beast.
The fire and smoke has been washed away by the storm. I see beasts I never saw before. Thirteen-headed dogs, crushed into the ground, a nail in each neck to keep them looking separate, to keep them looking away from each other, to keep the wicked apart even from themselves. I see another beast, a great black horse with a coat of flame of shadow, forced to the ground by another nail of holy light--beside it an old man, an old human man with skin as pale as that of the nail that impales through him, and while I do not know his crime--
The sentinel knows that he deserves his punishment. The sentinel knows that they all deserve their punishment. The angel of holy fire and vengeance, that angel that has taken on my form--my form but for my face, where instead the face of Lilly burned and glowed, the face of the shining knight I had always wanted to be--flickers across the battlefield, continuing her pursuit of justice across the field of fiends, continuing her binding of the beasts of hell back to the ground and abyss where she knows them to belong.
I see another struggling against their bondage. I see a young girl, and though the justicar above knows her to be guilty, I cannot help but force my mind forward, force myself to see just who that woman is bound beneath the nail of light--and hers is a face I recognize. Hers is a face I know all too well. Kaida. I see in her eyes hate, determination, rage, and from her lips are called out threats and taunts, from her lips are called out insults to each and every part of my person and who I am.
I stare. I am unnerved. But I know that that is not the real Kaida. That is not the real Kaida who would come to insult me in two weeks time. That is only a demon, a shadow, a projection of her--a projection that the justicar above deemed guilty, deemed worthy of punishment. I reached out towards her, through some limb I was sure did not exist, and as she saw me, her face shifted. Her face became not one of rage, but one of hope. One of desperation. And her hand reached back out towards me.
Another nail of light and fire came down, and her hand would never reach out again. The specter of Kaida screamed. I shook. Behind Kaida I saw another form. Another girl that I had come to know. I staggered forward to the impaled corpse of Moe, stumbled forward to see her broken neck, her broken fingers and her broken hand, all the shadows of what she had once been pierced and nailed across the ground. The girl I had wanted to save me, now laying crippled on the ground, utterly destroyed by the justicar above.
I knew it wasn't her. The angel of vengeance above ensured me that it was a demon. That it was a shade, a form of hate and rage, a figment pretending to be something to weaken me. Holy fire consumed her form entirely, and soon the nails through Moe and Kaida were so many that I could not make out their bodies from the light. I could not make out their bodies from the unnerving glow that now spread throughout the whole abyss. It doesn't help. I see another figure behind the coffins of light Moe and Kaida now are imprisoned in.
Lilly. Lilly fighting with my mother. Lilly condemning me, leaving me--the last memory I had had of her, the real her, flickering in front of me again and again. The spear of light impaled through her legs, nailed her to the form, but still her words could be heard, still she could make me sick, and though I stumbled away, I could only hear her. The justicar was swift in freeing me from that torment. Her specter found itself nailed entirely to the ground as well. But it did not help. It did not make me feel better.
I saw in the distance my shadow. I saw that part of me, those demons within me, wavering through the field of nails as well. And though my angel of retribution tried to nail her down as well, she was never where the lance landed. She was always a few steps ahead. And now she was staring at me, staring at me with utter hatred, with utter rage, staring at me and forcing me to see another world. Forcing me to see another truth.
I could not resist. I saw the world before me that she forced forward.
I saw aspects of myself, my memories, those things that made me me, as well as my fears and hesitations, scattered across the ground, scattered in a field across the world. In the skies above I saw the spectre of Ozymandias utterly reformed, retaken his old cat form, perched upon the shoulder of my corpse, his tail impaled into my chest and flickering back and forth, directing lightning and lances of fire down upon the world.
I saw his reach spreading, and the white mists above reforming. I saw myself, the shadow that I was, dancing through the fields of corpses and bound figments, dancing through the world of rubble, reduced to my base instincts as I tried everything in my power to avoid the falling wrath of the demon-cat. I heard Ozymandias's mocking laugh, heard his mocking call, and felt as he assumed control of the world around me.
I saw the world outside, as Ozymandias took control of my body. I saw myself in the same armor that Namiko wore, the same spectral cat upon my shoulder, abandoning that which I had known and falling into the pursuit of monsters and demons that Namiko had been so engaged in. I found myself becoming a clone of that other girl, becoming the weapon and tool of the cat in his war against the world. I saw my white hair turning to the same shade as the fur of Ozymandias, my eyes becoming the same bits of fire that his were, as the last remnants of me were forced further and further into the abyss below.
I saw again the shadow of myself dancing through the field of battle. I saw again the shadow of myself dodging through spears of holy fire. The last remnant of me, come to gather the monsters of my past, come to gather my doubts and trials and hatreds and regrets and everything that made me the woman who I was today, come to gather it all and retake my body, reforge my form, become myself again and oust this unholy beast from my body--
A lance of holy fire slammed down through me, and I was forced from the reverie. My spectral thunder crashed down and washed the fire from me. The shadow of myself still stared into me, still approached closer to me, and it offered a shadowy hand out towards me. Above I could feel the sentinel-spirit preparing another lance. I saw the hand reaching out to me. I saw the shadow making a promise to me. If I take the hand, if I become one with myself again--I can oust the devil and reclaim my mind. Reclaim myself. Become Nell again.
The lance in the sky makes another promise. The lance in the sky tells a different story. Before me is a demon. Before me is a beast of shadow and doubt, the most powerful remnant sealed away by Ozymandias, and should I accept its hand, should I accept its foul deal, I will let the greatest daemon yet into the world.
My answer is clear. My time is short. I . . .
[ ] I take the hand. It is time to free my inner jinn.
[ ] I refuse the hand. I will not fall for another lie.
[ ] I hesitate.
End of Dead Girl. Apologies that this chapter was split into two -- had to run some errands and ended up getting lunch with my dad too.
There isn't a lot I can give here that doesn't contain spoilers, but I can point out some of the major points of deviation. Going to the library put you on the Namiko / Ozymandias path here, while going to the school put you on an interaction path with either Dr. Ito or Miss Fukunaga. Drinking the entire bottle would have had drastic effects on the scene in the library, and due to your drunken slur, you never would've ended up getting help from Namiko or direction -- instead, the aid would've called the police and tried to get you to a hospital for help. Hysteria as a write in (scream would've also done this) put you on a direct path of conflict with Namiko and Oz, while picking more kind options would've put you on a pathway towards becoming a Magical Girl in the same way that Namiko was one. Drinking the phylactery inside of the inner world would have had massive effects on the future Namiko / Oz scenes and would have completely changed black-cat's view on you, and in a similar way, leaving the phylactery there would have had Namiko / Oz be more willing to negotiate and work with you in that final scene rather then going full "you are a monster" on you.
If you didn't do anything to aid Namiko at the end there, she dies. If you tried to give her CPR / medical aid, you don't end up going home to your momma tonight--if you gave her CPR/medical aid and then pursued the black-cat, she dies and you don't end up going home that night. Staying and waiting for the police ends up with you in police custody. Chasing after the black-cat has a lot of things related, but anything more about that will almost certainly lead into spoiler territory.
If there's any other choices that you want some insight on the effects of, feel free to ask!
If you didn't do anything to aid Namiko at the end there, she dies. If you tried to give her CPR / medical aid, you don't end up going home to your momma tonight--if you gave her CPR/medical aid and then pursued the black-cat, she dies and you don't end up going home that night. Staying and waiting for the police ends up with you in police custody. Chasing after the black-cat has a lot of things related, but anything more about that will almost certainly lead into spoiler territory.
If there's any other choices that you want some insight on the effects of, feel free to ask!
As always, thank you for reading and I hoped you enjoyed the update. : ) I'll be happy to answer any questions here or on discord, if anything in my writing isn't clear or if there's something you think that Nell should know that I have not said to y'all.
[X] I don't know. .
[X] I refuse the hand.
[X] I refuse the hand.
:/
Not sad about missing that one though.
I... don't... Oh, right. The "make papa proud" invisitext option. Yeah, that wasn't happening.
I had a feeling.
Glad to see we didn't fuck that one up (yet, black cat pending) at least.
- Location
- Earth
[X] I refuse the hand. I will not fall for another lie.
Oz was Chaotic Vengeful and black-cat set us up over the phylactery. I think it unlikely our hypothetical contractor would have been good for our mental state.
I'm kinda wishing we did this, just so we could see the utter confusion of the cops.
Oz was Chaotic Vengeful and black-cat set us up over the phylactery. I think it unlikely our hypothetical contractor would have been good for our mental state.
I'm kinda wishing we did this, just so we could see the utter confusion of the cops.
- Location
- London, 1935. August.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[x] I don't know. .
[x] I take the hand.
I...don't really have a good reason. The invisitext suggests that has to do with freeing your inner jinn and that 's what our Lilly-given mission is? I mean, obviously, that could be a lie...but, well, we're running on a serious dearth of information here and I'm not entirely sure I like the idea to blindly trust the thing we made out of Ozymandias's holy flame. Especially considering one of the problems we had with Ozymandias was how indiscriminately judgmental it was. I actually wonder if the "hesitate" invisible option might be better, but...
[x] I take the hand.
I...don't really have a good reason. The invisitext suggests that has to do with freeing your inner jinn and that 's what our Lilly-given mission is? I mean, obviously, that could be a lie...but, well, we're running on a serious dearth of information here and I'm not entirely sure I like the idea to blindly trust the thing we made out of Ozymandias's holy flame. Especially considering one of the problems we had with Ozymandias was how indiscriminately judgmental it was. I actually wonder if the "hesitate" invisible option might be better, but...