coronaviridae: (Default)
Zona Pellucida

Diving through the moths at the speed of sound I find myself just another one of a million swirling particles. The sky has the consistency of half-congealed jello, and the moths beat waves through it that echo back and forth through time. Sand tumbles through the hourglass and mud slides down the slope. Cars pile up with the discordant screeching of slaughtered tubas. Trumpet-mouthed flowers close up for the night and the trisagion ends.

We are birthed from clouds lightning with our wings alight and blazing. The air picks hydrogen ions off and the rest of them dissolve into nothing. I fly on with their dust trailing behind me, sparkling, the only banner I need to announce my presence. The world goes from a sphere to a plane to an upward-curved smile with arms reaching out to catch me. Moths sing through their wings like zithers and xylophones, evaporating into static.

I hit the world hard enough to break every bone in my body. Melting like a lampwork bead I dissolve and release my secret heart. All I am now is seeds to the fertile soil, swirling and ionizing and crystallizing, unfolding like a child waking from sleep. Time vomits forth meaning and complexity. At day eight the heart cells begin to beat.

Catalysis puts an end to everything. My head ripped from my body, I am no more. In nine months I will be born.

coronaviridae: (Default)
Inspired by Assemblage 23's "Infinite".

Okay, so I put it on and started writing and this happened.

Warnings's not really slash, but there's a bit of Albedo being a naughty bastard.

Other than that it's clean.

Infinite )

coronaviridae: (Default)
This is one of those ones that came to me in a dream.

She's not all that well-developed yet, but I do know that she's a very young pirate. She's got gills and webbed fingers and feet, though it's not something most people would notice because she wears a scarf and gloves. Instead of working with a crew, she's attempting to make her way on her own. And she's named for the Latin word for seahorse, and that's about all I know about it at this point.

More later.

coronaviridae: (Default)
Some points to ponder, while I push around my other fiction and sort of squint at it funny:

Drowning out the noise with silence,
Brick of weed.

coronaviridae: (iseraph)
Partially inspired by a book of Sue Owen's poetry, My Doomsday Sampler. Presently unfinished.

The Worm in the Apple )

Edit (31 January 2005): Added more!

coronaviridae: (arrogant bedo)
Videoland-based alternate reality with a heavy fantasy bent. It's like the next Carbon.

In which we meet our heroine, Korynne of Osterlicht, and she explains the Grisaug. )

coronaviridae: (Default)
I only wish I knew.

Lullaby )

coronaviridae: (arrogant bedo)
[ ]

This piece of fanfiction is a complete travesty committed against the Xenosaga fandom. And it has the elusive comma ellipsis!

On the other hand, the completely lame set-up and ending has given me an idea for a nasty little one-shot of my own. Similar idea, except without the slash, only the "miracle cure" turns out to be a hallucination created by Gaignun's mind.

Xenodarkfic, anyone? :}

coronaviridae: (Default)
Lots of things to do this weekend; I've been backed up with homework just about all week, but I'm going to at LEAST try to make user-icons this weekend.

--[iconography]: New batch of Xenosaga/Assemblage 23 icons. Naked->Albedo in LMC, Blindhammer->Margulis, I Am the Rain->Not quite sure yet. May want to do IAtR to another picture of rain to match my main journal's Solitary theme. Also tempted to take the same or similar background image I used for the XenoTower icon on my main and redo it with Let the Wind Erase Me. Tempted also to grab a screensnap from some of the XSe2 AVIs I have and do a Let Me Be Your Armor icon with Al & Ru, but the only scene I can think of to use for that one...would be too big for an icon. Grr. (With any luck, I'll be getting my A23 package from CCNow Any Day Now, so I'll have the delicious sounds of Storm to listen to while doing this.) Also wanted to redo my Albedo/Further icon, in any of its incarnations. I can do better! Also need to remember to grab my AxS and Noose icons and put those back up, now that I have *50* userpictures, bwahahaha. *AND* try to make that "How many times must we teach you this lesson, old man?!" icon. I'd also like to dig through my photography and use some of the neat flower pictures I've done (maybe modify Urban Victim down to icon size for more DT geekery?), or the snail shell saga pictures. And need to go back to those human/animal hybrid pictures from SA and make me some icons with those. Similarly with the EQ screensnaps and cat pictures.
--[painting]: Work on the new avatar picture I was fussing with in Photoshop. Play with Illustrator, too, and see if I can't make me a new avatar for the internet.
--[writing]: WORK. ON. AND THE GUNSLINGER FOLLOWED. I want to be done with chapter four by next Monday, so I can start posting to FFN with it. This also means, however, I need to finish reading TDT so I know where I'm going to mesh the story lines together. (But, as I'm thinking it's not going to be chapter ten or eleven that A&R make it to Path of the Turtle, Way of the Bear & shake the Beam to create the aven kal, I don't think I'll need to worry too much about where I'm meshing the stories YET. But I do get to put all the big delicious revelations in that chapter. And chapter 4. Chapter 4 gets exposition. From chaos. Whoa. <3) Also need to put in some more work on the book, though I seem to have hit a temporary snag with where I'm taking it next. I get the feeling I'm really asking myself too many questions about it, instead of just WRITING and worrying about the questions later. Arararara.
--[writing meme]: I still owe a bunch of people stories! Alas. [ profile] shimishimishimi, [ profile] theantitexan, [ profile] jetfire99, [ profile] remliel, and [ profile] unclejam, if I remember aright. My list is on my laptop, which is not here with me, so. If you think I owe you writing, leave me a comment!
--[roleplaying]: If I owe anyone reading this a scene, leave a comment. I know I need to have Ciel meet with Overclock, and I need to get Ghis & Sasha out more. VL-side, SA should go for a walk, and I need to kick Station out to do some Stuff. And start Project Silence with 'Bedo. Which will be hard as heck, but I think I can pull it off.

--[chem 6bl]: Read up on Experiment 2 and do the prelab, since I don't have the data for Experiment 1 yet and can't even begin my lab write up.
--[mae 140]: Do the problem set due on 10/4. This means starting TONIGHT, so I know if I have to stick at the library after work tomorrow to work with the Virtual Professor stuff.
--[ceng 101a]: Ugh. Do problem sets 1&2.
--[bicd 100]: Finish reading the Mendel paper & chapter 2 of the textbook. Do problem set 2.

[other stuff]
--Call Ayu! Like, today.
--Well, I want to write an extensive rant about how gut-clenchingly angry a lot of MU* stuff has me right now, but I think all that would result in is getting me even more upset about things I'm not courageous enough to change.
--Make a shopping list tonight. Go shopping tomorrow. I need at LEAST milk.
--Clean up the kitchen tonight. Remember to scrub out the microwave. See if I can unstick the drain in our bathroom, too.
--Divvy up and pay our The Internet and power bills. (Apartment mom! :P)
--Neaten up the living room, since I kind of got myself all over the place in there. And put up posters.

I theeeeenk that's everything. But I'm not totally sure. Oh well.



Aug. 16th, 2004 02:37 am
coronaviridae: (iseraph)
In more pleasant news, a bout of photography today has led me to the desire to write and "illustrate" a children's book with my own photographs. I've got the raw material to do it now.

The basic idea I'm working with is a modernized kind of fairy tale. One of those ones about a king who, by his own greed or misbehavior, is cursed by a witch to live out life under certain conditions until he becomes more "heroic". However, the twist on this one is that he isn't made into some kind of monster, or anything so...noble. Just random, common objects. A snail shell. A seedpod. A rock. A bottlecap. And he has to journey through the world, learning the tiny lessons of life--things like friendship, instead of what it takes to save the world.

I'll post updates here as I make 'em.

coronaviridae: (arrogant bedo)
[muse]: Call it catharsis.

Snip. )
coronaviridae: (Default)
The least weasel, in particular.

Weasels were said to be the only animal that could hunt and kill the basilisk--healing any wounds incurred with rue, the only plant that could survive the basilisk's poison breath.

I have now in mind a Mustela nivalis character--non-anthropomorphic--with human cognition and the ability to talk, genetically engineered to fight the tiny alien basilisks that are invading Earth.

No, it doesn't make much sense, but least weasels are adorable.

coronaviridae: (Default)
When the Sun Burns Out
"Damn it!" The obscenity seems like a violation of the serenity of the beach of nothingness, but he's too upset to be bothered by that. His temper is as hot as his fiery red hair. "Now you've done it!"

"I admit I might have screwed up." The other's violet eyes sparkle with humor--everything is funny to him, and death won't change it. "This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen."

He fists his hands. "'Screwed up'. Yeah, I suppose the entire universe biting it is just a 'screw up' to you."

The other glances at him, smiling. "Of course it is. We've done this before--don't you remember? We'll have another chance."

Water washes up the beach, lapping at the toes of his sneakers. He looks away from the other (his other), raising a hand to his face and throttling his temper down. Now wasn't--would never be--the time to carry on their feud. Hell, everything they had to FIGHT FOR was gone, just like the rest of existence.

Cloth squeaks on cloth. His other puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, baring his teeth in a silent snarl--only to be surprised to see a certain sadness in those violet eyes. (That's not right.) "What?"

"Did I do wrong, my general?" It's been a little more than fourteen years since his other has called him that. It brings up painful memories of old loss and older love.

He swallows hard, and looks away. He'd looked into those eyes when betraying his other once, and he's not sure he can do it again. "...No, 'Bedo. I guess you didn't," he finally admits, with a sigh. "Though I hope you know how to fix this. I sure as hell don't and it seems right up your alley."

Amusement ripples between them. "Naturally. I'm sure you do, too, my other half. You just haven't been thinking about it." His other moves surprisingly fast, stepping toward him and drawing him into a breath-stealing embrace, chin on his shoulder and bright eyes closed. (They're the same height now, but they've always been identical in spirit, though of opposite polarity.) He makes a startled noise, embracing his other back--and suddenly remembering what it is they did to solve this little problem before.

"You can't--" he begins, but his other just laughs.

"And why not? I'm the phoenix of the family, after all." His other steps back again, placing both hands on his shoulders and looking him in the eyes. "I'll be with you. I've told you before I'll never leave you alone. I mean it."

He swallows hard and nods. "All right." The hoarseness of his own voice surprises him. There was never a time in the past when he would have shed tears for his other--not in recent memory--but death changes things. It always has.

"Ahh, my Rubedo," his other chides, shaking his head. There's a flash of steel in his other's hands, a knife. (Never mind how it got here, on this beach at the end of everything. This is the way it's supposed to be.) "My Rubedo. No reason to be a coward for my sake." And then his other acts, slicing his own throat and collapsing to the gray sand in a spray of white and red. All creation has to come from somewhere, after all. Nothing is truly ex nihilo.

His breath catches in his throat, and he drops to his knees to catch his falling other. But all he catches is white light, a few drops of blood, and a handful of white hair. Already, the phoenix has risen from the ashes, releasing all the power bound into him for the sake of new creationg.

He cups his hands around the scraps of blood and hair, bowing his head and closing his eyes. The sounds of the beach fade. When he opens his eyes again, there is nothing but void around him. No light. No sound. Nothing.

You remember the words, a silent presence prompts in the back of his mind. You remember.

He gets to his feet, holding out his hands and letting those white hairs fall from them.

"Let there be light."

There was light, and God wept.

coronaviridae: (arrogant bedo)
Some commentary:

The sudden resurgance of interest in Carbon has sparked my own desire to write--especially the beautiful fic being put out by [ profile] oratorio, [ profile] kuribo_power, [ profile] kyootulu, and [ profile] faetan. I figured I'd update Albedo's part in the story, since his timeline has changed significantly so that Solitary no longer really works for him.

Besides. Solitary was a nihilistic one shot. This could be so much more fun.

With that, I give you Year of the Dragon. I swear I'll drag [ profile] senseir in on the act, too.

Year of the Dragon: The First Twelve Years )

I need to sleep rather desperately, so I'll add more to this later.

coronaviridae: (Default)
Companion pieces to Morning Person.

High Noon
During the summer months, it often got so hot on the proving grounds they had to call a break at midday and let the children go inside, for fear of heatstroke. These were his favorite days of all, when he could sit out on the blacktop baking in the noonday sun, letting it seep into his bones and erase any memory he had of the cold.

He often stole glances at the sun in that time, even if the glaring brightness of it hurt his eyes. And yet, there was something so captivating about that brilliant ball of fire that held his attention, even as its warmth permeated every part of his being. It felt like being home--really home, not the false-seeming "home" the barracks were. Someday, he swore to himself on those afternoons, I'll live in that warmth forever. I'll be as bright as that sun.

In fourteen years, Albedo would deliberately keep the Song of Nephilim at a glacial chill, to erase his own stolen memories of that noonday warmth.

Twelfth Hour
The midnight hours are his time--when everything has quieted down, and everyone is peacefully asleep to wile away the long hours until morning. Only when he's sure they're all dreaming in the barracks does he slip out of his bed, padding on bare feet through the darkened halls. He's done it so many times that he can find his way in the dark by feel, without the lights on--though the first year or so was filled with barked shins and stifled whimpering in the shadows.

The door is always the most dangerous part. He has to be careful to take one of the few swinging ones, avoiding anything he'd need a passcode for. It takes aching gentleness to push it open without making a sound, but then he's free in the garden, the cobbles cool beneath his feet.

Sometimes he stretches out on one of the benches, folding his hands underneath his head and staring up at the starry sky. The wind, kissed with the scent of jasmine, or fallen leaves, or winter's chill, whispers promises in his ears as it runs its fingers through his hair. And even if he can't sleep most of the time, he can still snatch a little peaceful rest in those midnight hours, staring up at the stars and listening to the wind.

Later on, Rubedo would never quite understand why Gaignun was so insistent about having a garden within walking distance of their home, but he didn't have a reason to argue, and so they did.

coronaviridae: (Default)
Take a deep breath.

Close your eyes. (Your blue, blue eyes.)

Are you ready? I think I am. Remember to take the safety off. Remember how good the gun feels in your hand, after all these years you've trained with it. It's like you were born holding it--and in a way, you were.

Let the breath out. Open your eyes. This is the last chance to call it off. You aren't going to, are you? You aren't afraid of failing like you did the last time?

Good. I know you can do it.

And then comes the flip and flash of the coin in the light, and you bring up the gun and fire once-twice-three times. The coin goes one-two-three ways and the bullets another but by that time you aren't bothering because another coin is in play, and once more you fire at that flash of light. And time seems to--


--and though all these years you've been training seem to compress into a point, this moment lasts forever, watching that six-sided coin--


--and you know you've hit it, and there's one more, and I can feel your elation. This is what success tastes like, and isn't it ever--


--as the last coin clatters to the floor, and you smile up at me with shining blue eyes. (I knew you could do it.)

coronaviridae: (iseraph)
It's not so bad, being a kid.

Sure, a lot of the compensation sucks. Nobody trusts me within thirty feet of anyone's vehicle, except maybe my AGWS. And even then they keep making those damn car-seat jokes. Women, hah. Don't make me laugh--most of them don't even look down far enough to notice me, let alone think about me as anything but cute. And I can't see over most counters, and I've gotta get up on a chair to look Gaignun in the eyes when he starts talking down to me. People who don't know me won't sell me guns, and they're always going on about pinching my cheeks and calling me the cutest little thing they've ever seen.

Okay, so there are a lot of downsides. But it's not so bad.

Like, I can't meet a woman eye to eye, but I sure can meet her eye to breast, and she can't complain about me staring because hey, I'm just a kid! People never expect me to be packing heat either, and boy, you should see the looks on their faces when I am. And people still give me presents for my birthdays, even if most of them don't think about the fact that I should be growing up after so many of them. And nobody ever tells a little kid to just grow up if they catch him crying.

And nobody ever asks about the nightmares. And I'm not old enough for Miltia, so they never ask about that, either. Twelve-year-olds can't be traitors, after all. Nobody knows a kid who's killed his entire family.

Except, you know, me. Funny thing is that even Gaignun doesn't think about that too much. It's easier for him to pretend I'm his son that way. And that's funnier.

There's other things that people don't question about kids. Most of them never get too mad at me when I show up places I'm "not supposed" to be. None of them yell at me too much if I screw up. And, hey, I screw up a lot, so that's a big plus right there.

No one ever asks why I'm the first person up on Christmas day, either. Nobody ever wonders why I'm always the first person sitting underneath the tree and waiting for them to get around to the real good stuff, like the presents.

Because there's nobody happier than a little kid at Christmas, right?

coronaviridae: (arrogant bedo)

Mon coeur,

I write to tell you of our incompletion. This will not end without both of us. You are mine every bit as much as I am yours, and no matter how far you run or how you try to hide me, that will not change. To your blood I am dust and ashes, to your fire I am water; you are the dragon and I the phoenix, I the Thanatos, I Death the destroyer of worlds; I white to your red.

This will not end without both of us. Do you see how vital it is that you stop running? Do you see how vital it is that you repent with your life? How precious? I have seen the truth in the heart of the girl, I have seen reality and the face of God. I know. Listen to me. Cease this running, for I am the wolf you cannot outrun, I the demon that will draw you to me and cause you to fall as the very stars from the heavens.

I cannot die without you there. You will not repent without my presence. You know as well as I do that we must both pay a blood price for our sins. This will not end without both of us.

Come to me, my love. For you, I will burn the length and breadth of sky.
coronaviridae: (iseraph)
Libria is shit, and all its sheep with it. The emotionless crowd sucking their opiate down from Father's baggy tits and pretending like they have it better than the rest of us. The sweep teams coming into the Nethers to murder all of us to keep our "emotional infection" out of their precious little pastures. Shit, I say--it's shit, all of it, and they eat it up and crap it out again, filling up their world with their own effluvium. Did I say they were sheep? They're dung beetles, wallowing in their own pre-processed filth with the angels watching over them.

Did I say angels? Yeah. I meant it, too. If you've ever seen one of those ice-cold Grammaton bastards, you'd understand it. Most people don't get the chance to tell, but I've seen them in the Nethers twice--always when I'm running, always when I'm looking back over my shoulder.

The Grammaton Clerics are not human.

Say all you like about all Librians being inhuman--I'll argue that. They're human, all right, low, debased humans who've given it all up to be led around like sheep. Even the sweep teams are human--you catch one of 'em alone, you can do a lot before they finally die to make 'em show their emotions on their skin.

The Clerics aren't like that. They--don't die. They don't feel. They just are--they're angels of death. Real angels--the kind that kills babies and turns cities to salt, just because God said so. Just because Father told them to come down and wipe us out to the last man, woman and child.

Real. Angels.


Six years ago. I was sixteen. I was hiding in one of the sense rooms, getting high on this perfume we'd found. Laughing.

There was a ruckus outside. I went to look--sweep team coming in. We grabbed what we could and ran for it, all us kids. The adults stayed, to try and defend the art we left behind. We knew they were good as dead--even if you can occasionally kill a sweep or two, you can't get the entire team.

I was carrying two paintings. I remember them. Not the artist, but I remember them. Impressionistic. Achingly beautiful. The kind of stuff that feels alive without being realistic. One had these whorls of gold and blue in a night sky, with a single perfect tree. The other was all pastels, a lily pond. I tripped on a rock. Turned my ankle. Hurt like a bitch. The paintings went one way, my friends went another, and I just lay there, gasping.

I pushed myself up. The sweeps would be coming to get us. I heard something crack behind me, knew it was stupid to look.

I turned and looked.

There was a man--an angel--a Grammaton cleric behind me. I remember his eyes first, even as I pissed myself. I remember his eyes--blue. Bluer than the starry sky in the painting I'd dropped and wrecked. Bluer than glacial ice. Bluer than the sea--I never saw it myself, but I knew it was blue, and his eyes were that blue.

It wasn't just that they were blue. It--was the way he looked at me. Like I was just another target. Like he could see into me, see my soul. You say they don't understand emotions--I say the Grammatons do, because some of them can read them in you.

They just don't care. That's what I saw in those blue eyes--he didn't care that I was alive, breathing, moving. Didn't care at all.

He was an angel of death, and I was in his way.

I turned and ran for it. I expected a bullet in my back.

I didn't get one.


I can still see those blue eyes right before I drift off to sleep. Staring into me. Staring through me. The eyes of one of Libria's angels.

I wonder why he didn't shoot me.

I wonder if he's coming back.