devlog #40, cavernous echo

So. Hello. I haven’t been on here because I hit a point… well, it’s a burnout. I don’t feel motivated to work on ouro at all, in the practical sense, because I have been having both active day- and sleepy-dreams about it. It's in the peripheral.
But i left it at that, and focused on life outside of this sphere: work, law stuff coming to a head, and studying (MAN. Do you want to talk about Hilma af Klint??? YEAH? I’m doing art history doggystyle. I need to do a seance. etc.), and all things surrounding.
I have been so beaten down that I just had to honor that need in me to isolate, for a while. I can’t say that it has worked wonders, because I'm still in the midst of it. And being in the midst of it, means that its preeeeetty fucking dark. I didn’t want to come on here and have a pity-fest again. So here is my short word to you, that I’m still keeping on keeping on. I have completely fallen out of my regular writing routine, and as scared as that makes me, I also knew that there was no way of keeping up with all these new responsibilities I have. I’m still putting all my chips on after summer, when I have the coding class to support my effort. If I would have pushed through, first of all, I would not show up with the right energy. The writing turns bitter. Sour. Plain and boring like oatmeal left for days to ferment. Pungent with rot.

You get the idea. It’s a bad spiral.  I don’t want to give that to you. I thought, if I focused on other writing, I could keep up. But the same applies there: I get some good 500-word sessions, and then the writing just. goes limp. There is no oomph in it. It’s mindless and boring. The essays on trauma and writing... They are razorblades I cannot handle.
I, after several times of having excruciating and delicious panic attacks, had to just come to terms with the thought that I am working way past my ability to keep up. That the whole ordeal of leaving my ex and moving and starting a whole new life was actually catching up to me, and instead of trying to outpace it, I had to just slow down and actually process this in its entirety instead of putting my fingers in my ears and going LALALALALALALALAA can’t fucking hear you and try to push through. Eugh. I cannot put in words just how frustrated this makes me.

I’m also in therapy. And it fucking sucks. [cat spitting up hairball but the hairball is trauma soundeffect]

Anyway. I’m taking a break. Stay for as long as you want-- you know how much I appreciate you. I hope. You know where to reach me.  I’m still hoarding your patreonage, to use to catch up with outside help once I start coding again. I will be back as soon as I physically can before end of august, but if not, I’ll see you then. 

Here’s a little something I pulled from writing on good days, because I still write, just only and exclusively when the mood hits: (and this is just parts that are cohesive enough. I’m a very, very messy writer.) And I'm sorry. Gods, I wish things were different. I can only tell you that I'm doing my best, and that I know, comparatively, it isn't enough. But I'm trying.

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[SNEER AND LOATHING- the snippy and snappy workplace-ish romcom I’ve fallen head over heels for. This is EARLY, EARLY stages, so no edits, and a little unhinged. There is only one love interest, and plenty of POV shifts]

There's a lot of things you could say about your future
[choice: husband/wife/partner]
[Name Blanc]
The worst man to ever walk the earth, would probably be the first thing to come to mind. A spineless coward. A produce of his inheritance; of bad, bad, terrible blood. The by-product of a long-gone war; the radiated waste of a blown-to-pieces nuclear experiment, gone wrong and still oozing, fetid with everything that is wrong with the world. And yet, somehow, still reaping the benefits from it. Casually yachting the azores while single mothers steal formula to feed their children. Picking a pair of shoes from a hallway of shelves while others go barefoot. Living in a vineyard cum manor. Castle cum vineyard. Cum many,many, many many many hectars of land and sea and helicopters and planes and guns and diamonds and sex and cars. 

He smiles, then, turning the corner. Yes. Many cars. The latest of which, a corvettesomethinghot, was waiting just two streets away, with a trusted valet. It was his closest confidante. He trusted no-one, like he trusted his own valet. 

You'd call him an Aristocrat. A a [i]crisp[/i], if you asked him, or any of his slithery inner circle, yourself. Like a fine, dry sauvignon. People rarely do, though. Ask him, about himself. They keep their distance. They sneer. Whisper. Scoff. And he has— he [i]has[/i]— made peace with it. Unfortunately for him, the making peace took form in doubling down on his bad habits. It thwarted his supposed rehabilitation, the assimilation into regular society. Mainly, he kept the sneering and loathing. But he still became a working man.

By the brick of the alley, he passes the first exhibit of the flower shop he always stops by on his way home to the manor on weeks end. The staff hasn't caught on to him, yet, but this might be the last time he is able to shop here, without giving himself away. He lifts geranium to his nose, the ample bouqet covering near the entirety of his torso. Divine. 

It'll do.

It'll last him the week.

"Oh-hoooooooooo" The cashier guffaws, "someone's in the dog-house/someone has a wrong to right!" She pops the bubble of her outrageously pink gum just as his jaw twitches— gum outrageous only if you don't count her own double down, her hair, twice as pink, sticking out in all directions, a bouqet in its own right.

He looks down at the flowers in his hands. Perhaps, he should just decapitate her, and place her on the mantle in the hallway. 

He deploys a sneer in her direction.

"Hm?" she asks innocently, gently, swallowing her gum whole when she sees his face. She stutters. "That all?"

He considers the blooms. He swoons, inside. Outside, he does what he always does:

He doubles down. The sneer, now near comical, shows the edges of his teeth. He hisses. “I don’t see what else I could ever need.”

She blinks, but wraps the bouquet.

And then, the main number: he draws a breath to puff his chest, flipping his wallet open, drawing one of those heavy, slate cards with the [i]shing[/i] of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He rolls his wrist over the counter, lets her lift it from his limp, disinterested (well-manicured) fingers, and then… he watches as her realization dawns. 

Its his favorite part. 

Her blood drains like the flutes of the champagnes at his famous soirees. She pales, staggers at the sheer wealth: her demeanor shifts, withers, rewaters, into something bursting with want. Her smile wavers, flickers at the edges. She takes the card as if it were a loaded gun. He suppresses one of those smirks. Eyes glittering, face staunch.

The encore: while he wants to curl around the bubble of laughter in his gut, he sighs one of his deep, exaggerated, ever-suffering sighs, for the world is just so predictable. Deeply engraved with its prejudice, too embossed with pride to give even a hint of leeway. People complain, everyone complains, that he and everyone like him is stuck in their ways. Hypocrites, they are. Just look at them! Quivering, wanting things. She swipes the little metal card, and looks at him with eyes like planets. He makes his lips waver into a pathetic half-smile, like he just wet his pants and she was the sole witness.

He looks her in the eye, big and wet and searching, and says, making sure his voice is just on this side of frail:

"They're for a funeral. My friend—" his lip wobbles rhythmically, "My friend said the same thing, just before he died, in my arms—That all?—" (he makes sure his voice cracks beautifully, at the end). The sun slivers in through the arranged leaves of the front, cutting a swath over his shoulders, illuminating him like a saint. He makes sure to take advantage of the framing: draws a short, suffering breath, faces it. Closing his eyes. The perfection of it all practically spoon-feeds him with the finest caviar of drama.

"Oh," the cashier stutters again. "You do a lot a lot f- funerals, then?"

He brings his hand flat over his eyes, to hide the excited crinkles, and then draws it down, spreads his fingers, to cover the escaping laugh. He lets his shoulders bob, but to her, it could definitely be a sob. For sure. She draws a gasp so sharp it hurts his ears, but still, she swipes the card— the sword going right through the gut. "I'm so sorry, sir!"

She even tucks a free card inside the waxen paper. One of those expensive, hand-painted ones. [i]Sorry for your loss[/i]. 

“Thank you," he shudders. "Thank you so much."

[POV SHIFT]

customization of player character here.

She’s already regretting the coat. It’s too hot for it, the lining’s scratchy, and there’s a faint, persistent whiff of the overtly grandmotherly lavender sachet from her closet that is definitely not helping her image. She wants to shrug it off, but there is too much in her hands, already. Ugh— she lets it hang loose off her shoulders. It looks good. Casual.

Right?

Flaunting the tight, neat outfit beneath, without being wanton. She needs it: image is everything with the crisps. Better to look composed than be comfortable.

She checks her watch again. Still waiting o'clock.

The coffee is too sweet. She asked for no syrup. She definitely asked.

A file rests against her hip, clutched like a lifeline. She already knows it cover to cover. Could recite it, if pressed. Name, date of birth, overview history— woof— and magical aptitude. Arrest record. Release terms. Financial history, a dog whistle. Though, the unnecessary details are the ones that stuck: the exact date he bought that lakefront monstrosity, the brand of his pen, the price of the bottle of scotch he once gave a museum director in lieu of an apology.

She shouldn’t be doing this. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this. She could have handed it over to Asda in internal affairs. But this insufferable man needed a sterner hand. Someone to actually tell him to zip it up and treat it seriously. If Asda— a sigh, a shake of her head— if Asda were to take the assignment, they would be fucking in the corridors before weeks end. And she, at least, was above that. No getting enchanted by his slimy wiles. Even the thought of it makes her stomach bubble in the most unserious way.

“I’m qualified,” she mutters under her breath. “I’m [i]qualified[/i]. I’ll get the bastard.”

The file on Blanc had come stamped with two things: “sensitive,” and “temporary partnership.” The latter had been underlined. Twice. Theodore had left one of those small, pastel sticky notes in the margin, with a winking smiley. She ripped it off and crumpled it in her sweaty palm, dropping it in the middle of her office, and promptly ground it under her sensible shoe. She’s missing those shoes now, pacing the street in sky-high heels. She still can’t really believe she took the assignment. To covertly catch one of their own? A nightmare in the making.

She paces to the end of the street, then back. Stops again beside the car, and glares. It’s disgusting, of course —gleaming and olive and utterly unnecessary. Smelling of fresh leather, stained wood— she reaches her palm just above the door handle. Doesn’t touch. Just hovers. She rolls her lower lip between teeth, and for some reason, some forsaken, doggone reason, she needs to press her thighs, tightly, together. She doesn't dwell on the eroticism of money. Promises herself that if another five minutes go by without sighting him, she can key his car and say fuck it to the whole mission, go home and wank the whole misery away. And eat some cheese.

Rolling her view skywards, to the sky, the shredded clouds, and then plummeting back into reality, the pavement, the sounds: she spots him.

One block off. Ostentatious bouquet in hand. Whistling. [i]Whistling[/i].

A car nearly hits him and he doesn’t even flinch.

She rolls her eyes so hard it gives her a headache. Takes a slow, deep breath, and lets it out like a hissing, busted tire, placing effort on the first syllable: F, and lets the uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu just ooze out of her as she watches him go merrily on his way across the street, towards her.

As he approaches the curb, she makes herself busy. Flips open her file. To lean on the laquer, or no? She gives in, plastering a tiny, barely noticeable smile between the brackets of her mouth.  She presses her sunglasses up her nose. Rubs her bottom against the exterior, really committing; rubbing it in.

He stops short when he sights her. He growls. Like an animal.

She doesn’t look up from her file. She swallows past her urge to laugh, runs her tongue over her teeth. Presses it to the hollow of her cheek to hide her smile. He's [i]fuming[/i].

Good.

“I’m aware you’re going to be difficult,” she says flatly. “But I’m also aware you’re not nearly as much of an insufferable prat as you portray yourself, Blanc, so let’s not waste each other’s time.”

[POV shift]

He… has stalled. He watches — just watches her, with the interest of a zoologist monitoring a goat taking a shit after swallowing a visitors ring— as she flips a page. Unbothered. Entirely unaware that she is standing squarely on sacred ground.

“You’re standing on sacred ground,” he says, of course. Is she daft?

“This old thing?” she says, without looking up. Switches her hips, grinds her butt against it, so small, you'd only catch it if you tried.

He narrows his eyes.

She flips another page. “Name Blanc, formerly of Blanc Manor, currently of… six separate limited liability companies, two of which are probably shell corps, one of which definitely launders money through Eastern European art auctions, and all of which are filed under a joint trust account that was conveniently dissolved four days before the [acquisition of the missing artifact].” Now she looks up. “Hi. We’re coworkers.”

Coworkers. His mouth twitches. “I'm finally being punished properly, then. For the crimes of my family name.”

She closes the folder. Offers him the kind of smile usually reserved for someone about to get audited.

“We are going back to HQ. You have been reassigned, effective immediately. You- and your connections,” she waves her hand dismissively, before slapping the folder on his chest, “mainly, your past, is key to the current mission. And yes, your family name is plastered all over the whole thing. So you have no choice!”  A wide grin splits her face, the sun glinting off her teeth. She tuts when he sneers, taking a moment to look at her watch. “You can take it up with the D.D. when we arrive, hmm? We are already late.”

She has the gall to walk around the hood of the car like she owns it, drawing her finger along the lacquer, all the way to the passenger seat. She looks over the rim of her sharp glasses when she arrives. "Well?"

This time, the growl isn't subdued. It is overt, grotesque. And she doesn't suppress her laugh, either. 

(I love them, your honor. So much. They are everything to me.)