Circ

The Yarniverse: Circ & Anshin

He fell, fell, fell through the warm, near air; comfortably warm, comfortably near. A linen veil, it struck as a caress, like the breath of a lover adrift in dreams on the nape of his neck. An easy descent that lilted, lazed. The world tug languid, relaxed. Unfamiliar. Alike neither Ganaxavori’s onerous ferocity nor Eqiko-4’s utter absence. More akin, he felt, to a minor moon — yet one possessed of an irreconcilably vast planetary rondure.

“Po~ossessed,” Eti stretched, his tiny mouth filled with fuzzy, wet clots of cloud, “what a peculiar word!”

Perchance a hollow planet, a veritable Pellucidar!

Arms outflung, his red duster flapped gayly and with purpose rekindled in its current close kinship with wings. It was odd, the way the world below whirled and whorled. He’d thrown himself from starry heights before, but this felt different. Safer. Much safer. The cyclonic blur obscured occasionally by thick threads of cloudy lace struck him as particularly whimsical. Hardly off-putting, quite the contrary. Eti relished the moment, the strange, safe, tranquil dive, eyes shut, ears perked, his happy howl harmonized with the onrush of wind.

To him, the air tasted of freedom.

Freedom and cotton candy.

Tout de suite! Eti felt eerily observed, a predatory momentary pique of intense interest. Head rightward rotated, his eyes opened and his gaze locked with the flat black eyes of a large, white, long-neck bird. A sensation seized them, alien, ineffable. Them? Yes, them. It lingered. It was, to Eti, as though he gazed upon himself, unnatural in this environment. Ridiculous, yet adorable. Happy, but confused. Whiskers forced flush against his furry red and white cheeks. Then he plummeted through a cloud that obstructed his view of the bird and, oddly, of himself.

Weird. Oh well! I left my hat behind!

<< Ruzgar, find an appropriate local song and blast it from my buttons! >>

<< Will do ... searching ... candidate found on KOST 103.5: Nothing Else Matters. >>

The last faint blanket of clouds fled behind him with a final wisp of a kiss against his whiskered cheeks. He readied his mind. Below neared the foundation of this strange domain. Or, perhaps, merely its solid exterior. Still at elevation, he observed muddled heather gray blotched in hunter green slashed by ultramarine. Terrain, one that exhibited signs of life — such the Tabris Ruzgar informed him through their enmeshed neural web. Information Eti promptly ignored. Muddled blotches neared and refined to a colossal city and a reed-rich swamp, both intermingled and sprawled among tired domesticated hillocks. Through this, a serpentine river wended, a deep uninterrupted blue contrasted with the roundabout chaos.

Literally roundabouts and traffic circles in deranged prolific preponderance such as to crush the minds of Su-lahn’s corps of civil engineer servitors.

Eti blinked, and when he opened his eyes he knelt atop a one of several spires affixed to an expansive Neo-Gothic stone structure, perhaps a religious shrine. It was very contoured, with ridges that jutted around deep tall window wells and cut vertically along the building’s multitudinous towers. It, the entirety of the thing, loomed over a courtyard with a verdant lawn, an unmistakable bright green patch that went somehow unseen throughout his fall. As far as Eti could tell, this was the highest vantage point around, save one, a lone clock tower that dominated the skyline. Inexplicably, he, from a distance, likewise looked down on himself, a tiny pure red patch in a milieu of dust and haze.

On closer inspection, stone was not the right word.

He inclined his snout toward the spire’s ostensibly tile surface, sniffed, and tapped it with the nib of his claw. Soft to the touch, with a scent that intermingled artifice and organic. Eti then remembered Ruzgar’s status report:

Yarn.

He looked at his hand.

Yarn!

He looked at the people who milled around on the road below, dressed for, it seemed, a momentous occasion. They peered up at him, at first perplexed, then delighted, and then inexplicably disgruntled. He locked eyes with a horse, and again fleeted that sensation, that impression that he, somehow, gazed upon himself perched atop the spire. Then it, that noble, chocolate-maned, white-socked, dappled Clydesdale, averted its gaze, but Eti still saw the city from high above, from the rooftop, and from the middle of a road confined by a procession of people ornamented and adorned for a royal cavalcade.

... Ϟ OPEN MIND FOR A DIFFERENT VIEW ...
... Ϟ AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERS ...

Also yarn!

He noticed a peculiar little woman, her antics out of place. Magic gushed from her limbs and ensnared two denizens of this world to a wall. They didn’t seem hurt; rather, they were quite contrite.

Also ... err, slime? No way is something that drips and flows in so slippery a manner made merely of yarn!

Neo Babylon

Name: Hafadac
Alias(es): Glowstick, Half-Fade
Gender: M
Height: 5'4" (165CM)
Distinctive Features: A normal young mutt of a man with crotch rocket fashion sense, oh, and a face that is half-mask, veins and arteries that glow vivid neon yellow, and full-body OLED tattoos.
Likes: clubs, jello shots, electronica, street racing, sunrise, breakdancing
Dislikes: loud sudden noises, explosions, pyrotechnics, power outages, dark

Appearance:

Hafadac vaults around Neo Babylon in a shimmer-sheen windbreaker and joggers, black with neon yellow reflective stripes and an asiatic dragon motif. Hooded. Kicks matched. Face half-cooked in a tenement power cell explosion, replaced by a Dedpointr half-mask, thus the internalized nickname, Half-Fade. He glows like a dripping neon rainbow, thus the nickname Glowstick. Hard to tell what color his skin actually is, underlit by vivid neon yellow bioluminescent blood dye and covered crown to toe in micro-OLED tattoos — maybe cinnamon? Or that could just be his smell, his preferred deodorant. Hair, probably black; he’s fairly smooth, given his extensive body modifications, but his pits have enough of a shadow to nudge along the imagination.

Personality:

People may mistake Hafadac for a sullen introvert, but that’s mostly his posture. Words are a bit of a struggle, too, so he doesn’t often speak, but when he does—whew! Breathless little spitfire. He wears his feelings on his sleeve, literally, as flashes of light, shape, and color on his half-mask and programmable body tattoos. He’s super excitable. Lots of memories of him at parties, sleepovers, and sporting events leaping to his feet, hooting and fist pumping because his team scored or won a coin toss. If you want to see him glow bright red, give him a pat on the head or a kiss on the cheek.

Powers, Skills, and Abilities:

He lights the way. He’s also very limber, fast, and can jump high and far, which is great for rooftop races. He’s also good at engineering on the fly, such as the entirely circumstantial scenarios involving a hotwired crotch rocket borrowed for a sunrise joyride and how his part-time employment record in the convenience store chain’s HR database remained positive.

Equipment:

Glowsticks, because that’s his gimmick: he wants everyone to shine. Highly-concentrated energy drinks in edible test tubes: he wants his blood microbiome bright. One kinetic gauntlet, the modern street rat’s brass knuckles: a packed punch for those days he missed the gym. His kicks may have a little extra kinetic kick to them, too, for when he needs to jump extra far. With his articulated balance belt, he always lands on his feet -- mostly. It supplements his easily-goaded and careless acrobatic bravado at the cost of him looking like a panther-tailed weirdo and hones his keen spatial awareness, that intangible extra feel for his surroundings that makes him rather difficult to surprise.

Your Last Memory:

Pain. An ambulance. A medivac. The strobe of helicopter blades against a spotlight. Bright lights. The acerbic stink of cleaning products. Two eyes, four eyes, six eyes, no eyes. Numbness. Darkness. Fear.

Additional Plot Hooks:

Hafadac occasionally mumbles about his “sus karmloop.” Ridiculous, until wild things happen and he’s just ... ready.

The Yarniverse: Circ & Anshin

My character, Eti Naris, will enter the Yarniverse, be turned into yarn, but acquire the powers of PlagueDoctor, except he will be able to possess 2-per-post and, after 12 successful possessions and sacrifices, transform into WhiteKnight. He can only control 2 at a time, and has to sacrifice them before he can gain control of others.

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

—— Earth-F67X: The Mainline Defensive Array

“Sirs, we have another!” gasped a low-rank academic draftee who busted into the subterranean SITCOM of the Mainline Defensive Array. He was a mutt, short, slight freshmen just finished with the first quarter of his four year enlistment. In his hand swayed an air-gapped chaos-encrypted tablet accented by non-regulation glitter-tinged Rainbow Dash stickers and a hyper-masculine werewolf anthro pin-up his colleagues assumed was his fursona — probably unnecessary in the massive faraday-caged and liquid xenon-shielded plastisteel labyrinth he occupied, but humanity specialized in paranoia. His display boasted a few graphs and a lot of dense technical jargon, “should have eyes on it soon.”

Poor guy almost fell over, then pushed back his pearl gray glasses, remembered himself, and saluted.

A soldier, all uniform, no face, took it from him, placed it on a cart, and hit a button. The draftee could’ve sworn he heard whispered all gas, no breaks, yiffy boy during the blink-long handoff. Light streamed from a port in the side of the tablet and repainted the display onto an old-fashioned RAM-cloth projector screen. He flushed, aroused, not that he was blessed enough for it to be noticed, as he recalled events not suitable for the workplace.

Given the unexpected arrival of the distressed Lakretian vessel, Earth’s military was on high alert. Claimed they were refugees, the aliens did, but their ship was fit for battle. Or was, prior to its last sortie. At present, it orbited Hygiea and appeared more wreckage than warship.

On the SITCOM main screen, rival artificial intelligence programs executed theoretical war games, summaries of which were filtered, collated, and reviewed by a team of analysts in the unlikely event Commander Efrit was followed by belligerents. Soon, attention was drawn away by the projector screen, which remembered the display content even after the tablet light cut out.

“Short and to the point, Corporal,” a man dressed idiosyncratically civilian, albeit well-dressed, commanded.

Where had he heard that voice? Not the civ-in-command, but the masked soldier. That dare club, all gas, no breaks; wild peccadilloes transpired there, often of sordid natures. Last night the theme was litterbox mosh pit, and he left soaked to the bone. Going with a friend the week before was a huge mistake, that place was an absolute relationship ender. That night, glowing blood blackout was the theme, clothes optional, and all he saw was injectable fluid that shined through skin as it circulated through everyone’s vascular systems. Wild, hypnotic, probably not FDA approved. He felt his therian self deep when his friend was dared to spank him, enjoyed it too much, and bent over a lap with a mewl and an abrupt splat was the end of that relationship.

I should call zir.

Autonomous systems scattered throughout Sol’s asteroid belt detected a secondary gravitational wave of low amplitude, high frequency, and tight curvature, which indicated the manifestation, collapse, and directionality of a subsequent warp bubble. Of course, those waves were limited to light speed and took hours to verify; an inadequate response frame for a paranoid militaristic totalitarian planet, but heavily compensated for by the predictive analyses of quantum topological fluctuations — near-immediate feedback. Multiple short-range telescopes and intra-system weapon batteries trained on that point in space and watched, but they wouldn’t lock on to anything, best case scenario, for several more minutes.

“Wake up, Corporal!” another voice shouted in his ear, and he jumped.

The mutt grabbed his tablet off the cart, clutched it pitifully, and began,

“Sir, yes! Sorry, sir! Near where the Lakratian vessel manifested, just past Neptune, we’ve detected another spatial anomaly that fits a warp bubble collapse signature, albeit very subtle. We have reason to believe it is another alien incursion; a spacecraft,” the awkward Corporal recited loudly, nervously, and gesticulated vaguely toward his one-slide presentation, “Shortly thereafter, Earth’s planetary atmosphere experienced local luminosity patternized fluctuations, similar to a pulsar, uh, flashes of light, but higher energy and less regular. In North Capital City. The data analytics team is working to make sense of the pattern. We don’t have more specifics on where, precisely, in the city it was directed. Incomplete. Caught the tail end, very strange.”

“Anything else that’s not just details, Corporal?”

He considered the irregular light signal and the ridiculous amount of energy it necessitated to accomplish anything worthwhile from such a distance; a fact already obvious to the great minds in this chamber.

“No, Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

He almost ran out, but composed himself. Went down the hall to the toilet. It seemed empty, just a long wall of unoccupied urinals. More of an extended stainless steel trough, really. He stood in the middle, half-wished his kink wasn’t humiliation, then felt a tap on the shoulder. That strangely familiar deep parched voice, like it suffered from too much testosterone, whispered, “Trimble Place exit, zero-five-hundred hours, grays,” and just like that he was alone with a wet spot on the front of his pants.

Just like that, he really actually needed to pee.

… Ϟ

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City Police Department

“We’ve got CCTV and drone footage showing blood trailing out of a men’s bathroom,” a detective yawned, firmly seated on the corner of his partner’s desk, “fatso goes in, eating food mind you, never comes out. Hours pass. Nobody saw him leave, but the stall is a mess. A bloodbath. Security guard of a local campus was alerted by the janitorial staff, decided to take a look-see. Now it is our problem. Thing is, though,” he continued, but yawned again, this time into an empty manila folio, which was better than the triple-decker cheeseburger that dripped grease through the knuckles of his other hand, “there’s something off about that footage. Like those AI edits, but better. So I go and ask around, and what do you know — gal says she was looking off her balcony and saw a pile of poo roll around on a phone and then grow into a full-grown woman. Of course, she was on something. Didn’t need a test to confirm that. Phone was still there, though,” he grinned, held up a plastic baggie, and plopped it down on the desk, “got any guesses what forensics will say about this? Me either. They’re backlogged, but this is a possible murder, so who knows. That said — what do you say we keep to easy street and shoot a lifeline — or laughline, depending on who you ask — to Oakes, death and taxes knows he could use another impossible missing person case to solve.”

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

—— Earth-F67X: Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy

“Oh, how thoughtless,” the frumpy Fruggalo proclaimed and extended one of her four stumpy arms in an awkward salutation, “I’m Fran, Fran Lyfpifgrosq. A pleasure, I’m sure. And you’re Lieutenant Zourn Vátne, I know, I’ve looked at your file. Sad, sad, sad,” she trailed off and gazed absently at the slow-turning ceiling fan.

Very dusty up there. Almost as if this facility is short-staffed in the janitorial department.

Moments later, undeterred, Fran shakes off her reverie and waddles after and catches up to Zourn and Oswaldo down a long wide hall filled with cozy chairs occupied by a menagerie of alien lifeforms. It is quiet, aside from Fran. The television displays that line the walls are muted, but show protesters outside the EEE. A large group of masked people in knock-off military gear hold blood-red signs insisting “EARTH FOR HUMANS,” “ALIENS ARE SCUM,” “REMEMBER SPAIN,” and “FCW VETERANS DESERVE BETTER!” while another, smaller group, waves banners insisting “Love For All Life.” They are clearly shouting at one another across a street heavily patrolled by SWAT units with helmets, visors, shock batons, and riot shields — compliments of the North Capital City Police Department.

“Ignore them, sweetie. They’re harmless, mostly. No attacks for at least a month, now,” Fran attempts to comfort Zourn, but then her tone changes entirely, and in a conspiratorial whisper, she says to Oswaldo, “by-the-by, Mr. Vetzinga, there’s something else I want to tell you. Why the assholes are out in particular force today. She is here, you know, Mayor Iedereen. Discussing something important with one of those high-up government bureaucrats from the Department of Integration Security. Room C13. Been in there for about an hour.”

The Family Biz [Open To Apply]

Close in the darkness, cold and monotonous, a voice inquired of him — of all confused, distraught, and enboobed souls, himself, Uí Senan! — where the ruler of this realm might be found. Well, he wasn’t having it, not without a fuss! He flagellated one of a dozen wool vestments alit in hues between yellow and pink upon the pavement and he remonstrated, “Ye clob-gobber, if’n there be any Lord o’er this befouled and cursed realm, seek for him in yon castle as I inten’d meself to do!” Then mounted another unsolicited inquiry from another strange voice which asked, “Who are you all?” and, of course, he did not rightly know, for even his body had forsaken him and his mind, polluted and perfumed, was not in a state where such questions were a matter he could have simply and steadfastly focused upon. It left him collapsed, as a pile of filthy laundry, upon the ground, and he bellowed, “Aye, meself is who I art!”

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

Just as Dom offered his unsolicited, but in his mind necessary for a psychopath, advice, his phone vibrated to life and busted out an ugly blare. He pulled it out of his hoodie’s kangaroo pouch, glanced at the screen, looked confused for an instant, then went pale — which, given his swarthy complexion, was impressive. The notification prompt merely read CODE GESTALT.

“Work. I have to leave, like, right away,” he mumbled an explanation to Han, glanced around confused, reconnoitered, and nodded resolutely.

“Sorry,” he choked out, turned, and sprinted south down Fifth Avenue. Nearest entrance to the Mainline Defensive Array was 2 kilometers away, a 10 minute run if he pushed his five-two self hard; what he lacked in stride length he more than made up for in robust glutes.

Shit. First time in a year. Is this the real deal? Nah, no way.

Frick, I hope everyone is safe.

This is bad.

It is always bad.

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

—— Earth-F67X: Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy

“Mr. Vetzinga!” rushed up behind the pair a frumpy brown-green polkadot Fruggalo with a thick old Islip accent, “Mr. Vetzinga, your ex-wife is on the horn.”

Their attention caught, she panted clouds of lavender smog and her monocular eyes twitched and adjusted to focus on both Oswaldo and Zourn. Then she lifted a grubby palm filled with reams of thin yellow triplication forms, “Oh, and here’s your paperwork, Mr. Vetzinga. It is from the Bureau, you know the one. They always have to come first, the bastards, always whining about planetary security, never concerned with our security if you know what I mean. Intake for the newbie to fill out.”

One lidless eye focuses its pupil on Zourn, and she says, “Got a universal translator? Do you understand what we’re saying? Can you read what’s on the paper or do you require assistive accessibility support technology? Do you drink water? Do you need to use the can? Here, have a Pączki. They’re delicious. You’re too thin, a girl without curves will never catch a man. Just look at me, all curves, and I’m already on my ninth husband!”

She doesn’t pause to catch her breath, but continues, “Speaking of husbands, your ex-wife is on the horn, Mr. Vetzinga, not the telephone, but the Horn of Africa. Says you have to come rescue her, part of your divorce agreement. She signed up for a time share and ended up in a Xanathan shipping container. What a ditz!”

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

—— Earth-F67X: Customs Control Hygiea

Fifteen minutes stretched between the shuttle and Customs Control Hygiea, a secure intake facility built inside an asteroid in the inner belt approximately 3 AU from Earth, arc-dependent. Within the shuttle, Zourn rested beneath a mylar tarp on the uncomfortable and frigid shuttle floor: placed as a precaution in the event cosmic rays blasted the craft. It was dim inside, almost entirely unlit. Faint light winced through opposite pairs of narrow diagonal panes, neither of which faced Sol.

It was quiet, had been several monotonous hours.

Gradually, that changed.

Low, long notes built to a wordless melody, melancholy yet forceful. It woke Zourn. A tale expressed through the emotion inherent in deftly violent cymbal clashes, somber didgeridoo drones, and ethereal koto strikes. It was history, yet expressed without words. Earth’s story. Survival, fear, evolution, civilization, war, hate, love, hope. Throughout pervaded subtexts of exploration and awe. No longer was it dark. Instead, the walls stirred. Scene and sound complemented another, hue ornamented abstraction, and light caressed negative space; the affect natural and apt.

Silence, again; only in the briefest measure.

Something obfuscated the soft starlight that penetrated through the windows.

Chaos.

Around Zourn, the shuttle rolled. Beneath her, the floor opened. She tumbled through partial-g into a saline solution that immediately dissolved the tarp; a boon, as she was neither suffocated or impeded when she ascended sodden to the surface. Ultra-violent rays pierced the liquid, reflected on the chamber’s semi-translucent mirrored walls. It lasted but a minute, then vat drained into the floor, collapsed outward. Another series of antiseptic strobes attacked Zourn, although not to her detriment.

A door opened. An intercom blared.

“Follow the dashed black lines on the floor. Proceed to the translocation device. Step inside. You will be forwarded to Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy in North Capital City.”

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

Han’s question snapped Dom to bitter reality, a candid picture of the group in which he was now an embed. Too late for second thoughts. The HKT attracted crazies, and Han was a prime example. Either that, or maybe he just didn’t have what it took to purge Earth of alien filth. That car ride. He winced. Hoped he wasn’t seen as he entered and exited her fancy vehicle, air conditioning be damned. Behind the wheel, she was smooth, perfect, calm. Mechanical, even. A little eerie. And the side roads she took him down, his leg right twitched non-stop and he kept his grip on his sidearm at rest on his thigh — just incase he was her target.

Reality past caught up with present, and he turned to her,

“Oh, so ya decided to follow, huh. How about we just watch this one for the moment, ya know, broad daylight, kids playing on the sidewalk. Not a good look to disturb that,” Dom answered.

Her eyes were dead, he realized. No emotion at all. Crazy white girl unloaded her machine gun in broad daylight, like an old time gangster movie. Dead ass.

“This is for us, Earth’s people. Community. Plus, we don’t wanna tour of Fishkill, ya know?” he joked, “So we watch, wait, and see where he goes. Keep the job clean, dirt free.”