Poison Yourself - The Begginers' Kit
Please bear in mind that English is not my native language, so grammar errors might occur pretty often. Please alert me if you see one. Also, my tensing is hellish, enjoy having a headache.
KAIJU KAIJU KAIJU
London, kinda fucked
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck check-update -b
[sudo] password for wetsofware_maintenance: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Hit: sock17
Look: sock17
Reading package lists… Done
Building dependency tree… Done
Reading myelin and permeability specifications… Done
Building dependency network… Done
Reading state information… Done
Checking for autapses… Done
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck -a -m build
Extracting metadata… Done
Checking for autapses…
Could not find package lvm.gh.jck.wet
Package em_hy.ms.jck.wet corruped
Aborted
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck —script —safe disjack
Checking synapse integrity…Done
Safe disconnect…
There's a fine line between the warmth of breath and decomposition.
The 22.30 train to RANDSTATION1 is delayed due to a fault in the signalling system. The next expected service to RANDSTATION1 will arrive at 22.34.
Doubly so for cities, where rot sets in without sepsis. It spreads like hyphae, damp mold through cracks.
Static crackle. Good evening, this is your, ah, station attendant. Anyone waiting for the Platform 3 train to RANDSTATION1, please make your way over to Platform 2. The 22.30 service to RANDSTATION1 will be… uh, serviced by the, the 23.15 train to RS2, so the next expected train for, uh RS2 will be at… Shuffles. Crackle. 23.30. Apologies for any disrupions to your journey, and—
Reaching deep like a knife, and twisting. Twisting, till the tensions itself just— snaps. Suffocating another set of tissue, gangrene setting in, typeset and saturated with cold, congealed ink.
Signing away yet another pound of flesh, carving at an already rotting carcass.
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck check-update -b
[sudo] password for wetsofware_maintenance: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Hit: sock17
Look: sock17
Reading package lists… Done
Building dependency tree… Done
Reading myelin and permeability specifications… Done
Building dependency network… Done
Reading state information… Done
Checking for autapses… Done
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ PLEASE PUT RELEVANT STUFF HER EI PROMISE I'LL DO SOMETHING
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ ABOUT WHY THIS IS RELEVANT AWGH
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck -a -m build
Extracting metadata… Done
Checking for autapses…
Could not find package lvm.gh.jck.wet
Package em_hy.ms.jck.wet corruped
Aborted
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$
wetsoftware_maintenance@jck5subs6493ldn: ~$ sudo yuck —script —safe disjack
Checking synapse integrity…Done
Safe disconnect…
THIS BELOW NEEDS REWORK AND INTEGRATION WITH INTERTWINED NARRATION ETC. PLEASE REGARD IT AS WIP.
If there is one moment to choose when London fell - one particularly sharp bend in its continuous descent into its grave - it was a moment whose epicentre was not even in London.
For once, its chokehold on every foot of land throttled it back.
The Estuary Floodgate Disaster.
Each and every number and computation afterwards had the same yield. The same exact answer to all the questions.
2087, 07.28, April 2nd. The exact moment that its 195th closure since the start of the calendar year would make the hydraulics fail spectacularly. In the face of a hideous storm surge, the Floodgate's steel failed. All the budget for the purported 2% molybdenum was later found in the missing percent of the alloy. All the wages for the purported yearly maintenance were later found in the falsified sub-contractor records.
Snaphots of passing lives (just portraits really)
Thankfully, the government decided to regulate it.
comic about scavengers huehue
Scavenger Hunt 2020
Promises Kept, Forsaken
It was cold. The shelves hosted shadows, where books should have sat. Yet, that wasn't unusual. Near the Last Bastion of Reason, few books remained in the Stacks, and you had to hunt for them past the stronghold ahead. The wordborn in the Northern BV15s said that not everyone could see its entrance, and that each person perceived the way into infinity differently. A simple metal door, or maybe a heavy mahogany postern. Some would remember of the columns of Mika, with capitals carved with fractal patterns, or the intricate lapis lazuli blue of Ishtar's Gate, and a hint of cedar resin hanging in the air. Perhaps nothing, and a blank concrete slate would remain there, for boundaries towards infinity were not to be crossed.
Of course, that was not true. The wordborn was an unreliable source, and the Wanderers who came to the Last Bastion of Reason did not speak of it. Neither would Peyre, for she wasn't here for the Bastion. Deadzones above blocked the view, only small patches of the withered handymoss poking through. She was well beyond a hundred, and the shadows were growing thicker, the currents mustier. The lanterns of the occasional Docents were dun, and their tall silhouttes dark. Bowl-shaped fungi grew as big as a ram's head from corners and cracks in the woodwork. Charcoal veins grew and covered their sickly white flesh, reminiscent of marble. Their insides were crumbly spores, which sometimes drifted in clouds through the corridors. She crept along the wall, counting the shelves. The air lay thick, contorting in the silence.
At four hundred thirty-nine, the Stacks' parallel lines began to intricately intersect. Peyra then left the wall behind, following the angles of the layout. The sanded wood of the Library was different from her homeland's chiselled masterpieces, yet it was so much more grand, so much more alive. Even here. Yes, that was the most unusual thing about this place. She ran her hand across the shelf, continuing to count her steps. She came here to hear, after plenty of years, if the stories were true. Too many years spent in the Library, not fulfilling her duty. Too many moments wasted on searching for an alternative. And so, today, echoes of the stone floor rang back to her. She was close.
There was no door, no barrier to forbid entrance. Peyre continued passing through the archways, her eyes fretting on each swerving shadow. Wax was set on the wrought iron structures. She heard tales of this city, though always in whispers. None detailed on its dwellers, or on its history. The high vaults made way for a blank night sky with no stars nor moons. Lighting her small oil lamp, she begun trailing along the edges of the square, gaping at the drystone buildings. Moss lined both the boulders and the doors, which lay in shambles, splinters of wood decaying. Inside, molding papers,
Drafts
Rumour story
Cousin Ian's lack of existence
Investigator's note — been two weeks since the 49B bus was suspended because of that incident, and no trace of Ian. Still on the lookout for him, but don't expect anything.
Cousin Pat - Rumor Story
Collaboration with Avelon and Harmony, it's in Harmony's sandbox!
Who's at the door? You can stop knocking, I'm already here. Yes, that's me. I'd rather not— Oh, I see. Come in, then. Be quiet, the neighbours underneath are pesky even when I don't have guests. Take a seat. I'll tell you what I can.
I arrived at the chalet not long before Ian. I think you've been there, you know how you have to make your way across those shrubs after you leave your car behind. It took me a few hours to find everything needed and find the cabin again. It was difficult to begin the preparations alone. That klutz was of little help, like usual, though the extra pair of hands did make everything go a bit smoother and luckily, he didn't mess up the candles. What Francis left was everything but instructions, as if we're not all going to take part in the same thing.
I might've made a few mistakes, but nothing that can't be fixed. Of course, cousin Francis found it appropriate to unravel the work we've done so far, and start again. In all that frantic cleaning, he even forgot the pots outside. Aunt Moon helped him too. I guess Ian was angered at how those two had little regard for what we've done so far, as I heard him stomping outside as he went to gather some firewood. Perhaps it reminded him of the plums.
I was shoved outside of the chalet as to not 'mess up' further, so I thought it'd be a good idea to oil and check the hinges and locks. They somehow weren't rusted, but Aunt Moon didn't seem to bat an eye. She's always bragging about the 'wonderful' shack she has somewhere in the eastward mountains. I wasn't to hear her complaining about the negligible amount of dirt there was on the chalet's floors, while ignoring the suspiciously perfect-kept doors.
I couldn't see Ian nearby while I was going about my business around the doors, though I could hear some of those awful big cats— lynxes, I think. All went smoothly around the cabin, and he was the only thing missing. Frances and Aunt Moon didn't seem to worry about that. Besides, Ian can take care of himself. Despite that, I stalled around, making sure to not leave the tallow buckets outside, as it got darker and darker. Finally, I went inside, not without leaving the kerosene lamp lit, next to the door, so that knucklehead could find his way to the cabin.
I tried to sleep after that, though Aunt Moon's figure, sitting up stiffly, looking out of the window kept me awake for a while. And I couldn't even sleep for a few hours, because I heard the window shatter. There was no one left in the room, only a scent of ember. I scurried out into the main room. More than half of it was ablaze, and I nearly entered the blaze in my hurry. I did what any other rational person would do, and hasted to jump out of the broken window next to Aunt Moon's bed.
I can't recall much after that. I think I might have hit my head after throwing myself carelessly through the broken glass. When I came back to my senses, the chalet was already ashes, and it was morning.
bin
Guide for the aspiring star hunters [maybe]
I'm someone who's been accustomed to the Main Hall's vaulted ceilings inlaid in gold with their velvety greens depicting Chief Archivists and the NexuLibrary's history. Used to Handyman's Moss thriving among shelves, handing out books and being a general nuisance while trying to slip unobserved by the Pages amongst the shelves. Familiar with the Wallwalkers, ones who are not careful enough and almost stomping on me while I was trying to find a book with quality ink.
Of course, when I first saw stars, I did not know what they were. And it certainly did not help that so many of the worlds I slipped in had their own skies, their own patterns and cycles.
SSS Night sky dual
I know what you'll think, that I've travelled too much to not have known the stars from the beginning, to not have seen the beautiful, cold patterns of night skies.
Have you seen anything other than these decaying domes, children?
But the place I've dwelled in my early centuries was no world like this. It is a place between the worlds, a crossroad of sorts, a place full of knowledge and wonder. Ink would be plenty, and so were words, and not often would I find myself looking up, for more.
The shelves here, they've been abandoned. Not quite dead yet, there's a long way to go yet to empty the books here.
