Notes: From Diamond to Coal
A note pic from my notebook
The Blue Fairy: 04
Melissa Kim is stalking the multiverse, hunting after Prince. In segment “04” she’s found herself on a rather unpleasant world ruled by a very unpleasant people.
I think that each world experience should make her stronger. I need her to be strong for what I’ve got planned for her. Without the build up I don’t think it will be believable.
Expect “The Blue Fairy” to have a mix of stories ranging from gen to “Oh no, she gonna die!” So expect thrills, chills, mostly closed bed curtains, some foul language, maybe graphic depictions of life and violence, and Melissa Kim just generally stomping across the multiverse, releasing butterflies and bees in her wake.
I’ve got so much stuff for “All That Remains,” but I’ve got to get everyone in the same universe to make it happen. Plus I need Melissa Kim to continue “From Diamond to Coal”.
Seriously, Melissa Kim is one of the most important characters in my universe. She pushes and nudges here and there, and the Vereint Variants out there find their lives changed in inexplicable ways.
She’s my deus ex machina.
In Abstract
In Abstract -z- apologies for concurrence for no other post could be let out.
I’m having a hard time meeting anyone’s eyes. I feel strange and out of sorts. I’ve got reddish-purple bruises appearing and disappearing at my finger joints. Like I hold my mug in my left hand and for hours later my fingers look like they’ve got liver spots.
I did fine for years without medication. Really I did.
I mean sure, in that time period I probably had more “Here’s money if you let me marry her” proposals than the average person, but it was Nevada! A lot of Mormon guys take their sister-wives cruising. Like, “See, they’re happy and alive. You would be too.”
It didn’t take me long to realize that polygamist Mormons are not like the Amish. Sure, the ladies’ outfits were similar, but he was dressed like Colonel Sanders.
I was fine without meds for years. The problem is that when you start thinking you need them, it’s too late. You’re already off the rails, with imaginary car door slams and an ever encroaching sense that They are out to get you. Whether it’s the police or the tax man or some stranger busting in–the fear is real. And the cause is a lack of vital nutrient in the brain.
Sometimes I have bad days. And even if I’m up, it’s still a bad day because my mood is outside of my control. Angry, empathetic, enthusiastic–they shouldn’t be anything. Except sometimes they’re all too much.
You start talking about something you really love and enjoy. Everyone’s interested and onboard. Until suddenly they’re not or you’re not and it’s awkward and weird but you don’t know how to leave the room.
This guy, he keeps going on about garbage–“The problem’s already been solved, but I still think we should have used #4 switches. I know they’re not going to switch over to my idea–did you see what I did there? :wink:”–but they could at least…”–but you feel bad for him. He’s showing emotions and making gestures to emphasize his points, he’s distraught and you’re trapped in his sphere of nonsense because you can’t get up the wherewithal to hurt his feelings in even the tiniest of ways. Even though there’s a million other things to talk about.
And all those little annoyances that come with a ramped up sense of empathy translate to a bucket load of irritation. Which on top of a runaway sense of enthusiasm, leaves very little room for thoughtfulness. Instead it becomes snapped out responses and an assumption that other people are following the conversation happening in my head. Who knows, maybe some people are.
What it all comes down to is that I fell apart and I never put myself back together. Now I’m lost without a clue but I’m trying.
I’ve been writing more Darkstar stuff lately. “Just Another Titanic Tuesday” features the Darkstar from the Kanon universe.
His life started darker than canon-Vereint’s, or at least that’s the way it’s become. It seems to fit though. There had to be more than no-Warrick for him to conquer all of Megacity and be okay with millions of thralls.
Darkstar tried so hard to be a hero, but it was doomed to failure. It couldn’t work in a world where Sandra Georges was sentenced to life in a penitentiary for criminally insane metahumans.
“Black Friday” was a different event for Darkstar. And it’s made him both darker and more desperate for any happiness he can get.
I’m making “Just Another Titanic Tuesday” into a story game. It will also be a book, but I think the game is a nice bonus.
Just Another Titanic Tuesday
Chapter One: King of the world
Somewhere out there, past the universe where everything went good and right, there’s the universe where Blue Ice died before they ever had a chance to meet. And in that universe, Starburst became Darkstar and there was never anyone that he loved enough to be Vereint for.
It never felt as though he lost track of himself. It was more as if he’d never existed at all.
Darkstar wallowed in the adulation of his thralls. They would do anything for him. But it was empty, because they didn’t really love him. They loved whatever image his power impressed upon them, whatever unmatchable deity they dared to liken him to.
He’d existed in something like contentment for years. He’d been the king of the world and nothing could bring him down.
Until there was a rip in spacetime and his alternate universe self was looking at him with tragic eyes. For a moment, he’d fully understood why other people found him beautiful. Then that other-Vereint–that not-Darkstar–had opened his mouth: “When are you going to get off your ass, dickbag? People are fucking dying here and you’re playing king of the motherfucking world. Stop being a shithead! Help us. Now.”
And because it was some other universe version of himself making the demand, he’d stepped up and helped.
Because of him multiple worlds got saved. And he felt like shit, or maybe he felt like a shithead; either way, he found himself feeling dissatisfied with his life.
He didn’t blame that other Vereint. If he had a love to protect, he’d move heaven and hell too. It was just the emptiness he hated, the realization that he’d been living an empty life full of empty gestures.
It was at his lowest point that he decided enough was enough.
If that other-Vereint could come to his world, what stopped him from moving to another? It wasn’t like he had to fear attack–if anyone managed to take him out, he figured they deserved the honor–and there wasn’t anyone he felt like giving a goodbye to.
Vereint was driven by the growing sense of purpose to contact Dr. Zee. He knew the superscientist could be trusted–the man was Charm-addled to the point of cruel humor–and he was undeniably brilliant. There was a reason the League of Superheroes went to him with their biggest problems despite the hefty price he attached to his services.
On the day he contacted Dr. Zee and explained what he wanted, Vereint took an hour long walk in a park first. Far away from Megacity and its oh-so loving citizens, he welcomed the anonymity of a charcoal gray hoodie, a black baseball cap, and a pair of dark sunglasses.
He was just one more person amongst a crowd of people as he crossed streets and entered the open gate of the pretty park with its duck pond and rolling green hills. He strolled the paved paths and purchased a hotdog from a white aproned vendor. Nobody pointed and stared, he could pretend that he was anyone; and with the last bite of hotdog he finalized his decision.
Let’s blow this popsicle stand, he thought.
And something that felt a lot like hope passed through his chest.
/END
Short Fic?: That Dune Thing [dark fic, excerpt?, deathfic?]
Title: That Dune Thing
Author: Harper Kingsley
Summary: A prisoner held in a Dune-like setup with a cat. Thought-centric.
Tend the cat, suckle at its teats… fucking Dune-obsessed moron needed to be put down. But what could he do? They’d broken both his legs, his right arm, and three fingers on his left hand before casting them in heavily weighted plaster. All he had was his thumb and middle finger, which made it hard enough to care for the cat–how was he supposed to escape?
And the cat…
There was resentment, of course. Trapped as he was–wrong as it was–he felt the need to lash out at the nearest living thing. But it wasn’t her fault he was here.
Nothing was her fault. She was just as much a prisoner as he, moreso as she would never understand why this was happening to her. Why some horrible man had stuck her in a glass box with her limbs held immobile and only her head poking out the top.
He’d begun to pity the beast, even as he forced his heart to stay hard. They were going to die here in this cold stone room that leeched the warmth from his feet. They were going to die here and there was nothing he could do about it. So he held the tattered remains of his dignity around himself and refused to break.
Even as he tended the cat–slowly and painfully dragging himself across the floor each day–and felt his soul slipping and cracking at the madness, he refused to break.
Because somewhere in him, he still held an ember of hope: Someone would come for him. His brothers-in-arms would not leave him here.
And even if all he left behind was an empty shell, he had to hope that they would see his body home.
“Here kitty kitty.”
=THE END?=
This popped in my head as I was washing my hands. No explanation, no reason why, just the idea of someone held in a Dune-like cat trap.
I have ideas for more, but this could turn out super dark or full-on redemption and I don’t know. Plus I’m also tempted to turn it into a story-game where you can choose your genre (spy, superhero, killer, military pow) and darkness level.
I just don’t know if people would want to read something like this. The opening alone seems like a deathfic, and it’s pretty obvious that some messed up stuff is going to happen before it’s over, no matter the genre.
Like, the superhero group comes back with help, and they find the stone room where a dead cat is cradled in the arms of their dead comrade, “Here kitty kitty” painted on the walls in bodily fluid. Which would make that opening scene a prologue for the superheroes to find the Dune-obsessed villain that killed their friend.
Or a Bond-type spy is held captive by a monologuing madman that’s obsessed with sci-fi movies and “Cleansing the population of the Impure”, which could mean anything from a racial cleansing to a belief in a future god-emperor.
I don’t know. People might be too grossed out by a man forced to drink cat milk. I mean, just that right there could kill a story dead.