I honestly feel like the AoT fandom has died lately, where are all the fans at? Seriously lol I haven’t heard anyone mention it in forever. But I’m still here! I’d love to do an AoT roleplay with somebody. The story is beautiful, even if it is quite gruesome and sad. There are still aspects that still shine out, one of the main reasons as to why it’ll always hold the place of favorite anime in my heart.
To start things off, a small introduction on my part. You can call me Hina or Hinata and I’m from Japan. I’m currently in the GMT+1 timezone temporarily for vacation but I usually am in the PST timezone. I’m mentioning this because sometimes time zones can matter or change the roleplay/roleplay friendships. I don’t mind what timezone you’re in, honestly, as long as we can talk things out without a longggg pause. I have been writing since I was 9 when I joined a writing campaign and a story competition held by my school which sparked the writeroleplayer in me and I am currently 22 years old. To finish my introduction off, I am someone who listens to goth music/vkei (i LOVE plastic tree. i’m so happy to see they got some of their popularity back on tiktok), I like to play and watch basketball, I watch anime and I am currently rewatching bluelock as a refresher, and.. I also play many video games.
Now onto things I’m looking for roleplay-wise. I mentioned something about Attack on Titan but I didn’t talk about anything really specific. That’s the thing. I don’t mind what story we do. It could be something modern AU with the original characters, another story of Mikasa and Eren, maybe even an OC with one of the characters in a more modern setting. It could also be something done in the original timeline. Going through the events of becoming a scout and the rumbling as two other oc’s or one OC and one original character. I’m honestly down for anything! Just hit me with it.
CHARACTERS
I tend to use character sheets to describe my character, these usually consist of names, background, and personality. More so on appearances, I prefer using animated or drawn references than real life people. I enjoy good enough references where I get the idea of how the character would look like.
The types of characters I write are either the lone wolf type that has some sad past which leads them to want to join someone for a redemption arc or the bubbly character who is the one that brings the mood up and is usually seen as trustworthy and of that kind.
I like all types of tropes, especially enemies to lovers or rivalry. I also really enjoy opposites attract as a whole from either opposite personality or something else they would be opposites in. Enemies to lovers takes my heart, though. I love seeing the characters go past the urge to ultimately hate each other and/or go past their usual way of disliking the others lineage or upcoming.
REQUIREMENT
I think this is my last paragraph on the roleplay. It’s the most important, at least. Requirements. All roleplay searches come with them. Or at least that’s what I heard! But don’t fret, there isn’t much.
I’ve seen this as one of the most used requirements, and I agree with it. As someone who’s first language wasn’t English, I understand that you may not be great at it. But please, I do require a partner that at least has proper use of grammar and punctuation. You don’t even have to use big words or anything, just at least know where to put your periods and the placement of your words.
My second requirement is for you to be LITERATE! Please. I’m a big writer, I tend to ramble on and tend to write more than what I thought I would. (like i’m doing right now) I write multiple paragraphs from the starter until the scene relaxes. I also understand that sometimes writing big blocks of words every response is tiring or boring so I don’t expect it all the time, at least after the starter has been made and in more important scenes. Dialogue also cuts my replies shorter.
Please please please be polite in OOC! We may just be role playing together but kindness goes all ways. If we do include OOC, I enjoy talking about many things. My day, movies, games, funny moments and stories, all of that!
I think that’s the end to this wonderful journey of an ad about my search. I hope you are still here, fellow writer! I would LOVE it if you reached out to me! This wasn’t all for nothing, right!
But don’t leave yet! I do have a passcode. I know this was a jumble of words and rambling but I still have to put one in. I heard that there’s a lot of people on here that don’t read things fully and miss out on rules or information! But.. Just because you read through this all, I’ll gladly give you options on the passcode! Also please put in an introduction of yourself! Don’t think “Oh maybe I shouldn’t bother this person with too much to read”! I like seeing big blocks.
PASSCODE:
What’s your dream country to travel to and why?
OR
Who’s your favorite TV show / Cartoon / Game / Anime character?
Feel free to pick both! Now, that’s all from me. Please don’t put your request as just “Wanna rp”!

• H 💕

At one point in my life, I nearly lost my sanity. The madness started off as a nightmare, then it leaked into my days.
At first, it was quiet and slow, like the daddy long-leg spider spinning its web in the corner of the ceiling. Then, with a few seconds between each one, water droplets dripped from the faucet into the sink. Each drop rang the same flat, dead note, echoing throughout the apartment. The wallpaper had turned increasingly yellow with every drop, but not a vibrant yellow. Rather, it was sickly and jaundiced, like a dying canary with its feathers falling off.
There was a tear as well. A loose sliver of wallpaper flapped back and forth as the wind blew in through an opened window. It reminded me of the way fatty, loose, and wrinkled skin jiggles within an old woman's armpit. The flap of wallpaper hid something, resembling a head. It lacked eyes, mouth, or nose—just the veiled impression of a head. But before I could get a good look, I was torn from the mystery by the screech of my alarm clock.
I went into the kitchen to find that yesterday’s delivery of bread had gone bad. The nightmare had eaten it from the inside out, leaving nothing but black crumbs for me to scrounge from the floor. When I opened the fridge door, an odor assaulted my nostrils. All the beverages had gone sour, the eggs were cracked, and the greens had browned and withered. With a sigh of defeat, I closed the fridge door. I would have to buy new groceries. But that would mean leaving this apartment, going outside.
Outside.
Out into the world, with all its chaos.
That was where the nightmare wanted me to go. But I wasn't ready, not yet. I couldn't just walk out my front door. It wasn't that easy. Going outside required preparation, and even thinking about the process of getting ready made my head throb. My chest started to ache, as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. I sat in the kitchen, motionless, only listening to the noise of eight spindly legs as they incessantly worked toward some unknown goal.
The spider had spun its web across the ceiling, and the light danced upon it, its long, pale fingers plucking the strings. In an odd way, I couldn't help but marvel at its beauty as it shimmered. It resonated with the muted buzz of trapped insects, mummified victims awaiting their demise in Saran wrap. I could feel their suffocation as the air was squeezed from their lungs. Their frantic movements came to an abrupt halt as the spider reeled them closer.
A silent panic enveloped the walls, and its deathly yellow tinge cast a darker hue than congealed mustard over everything around it.
Like the fading bathroom light, which glowed in a murky gold that shimmered weakly now and then, my reflection in the mirror appeared as a featureless black shape. Cold drops traced over my closed eyelids, the bridge of my nose, my lips, my chin, and cheeks. One of my molars was loose in my mouth, and I lazily flicked it with the tip of my tongue while the rest remained firm and pearly white. There was no pain, only the dread of unlocking the front door, weighing heavily on my stomach.
How did it all start? How did it come to this? There was a time in my life when I didn't feel this unending sickness, this terrible sense of foreboding. There was a time when nightmares confined themselves to my sleep, and sometimes I didn't dream at all. In those innocent days, I had a job, a dull, dead-end office job with my own cubicle. It was a white, square space, and I was just one of a hundred dull, white-collared office drones in identical cubicles. Faceless, uniformed, synchronized. That's what I remembered from the old days.
I sat there, looking at papers stacked in rows that reached such towering heights they seemed to stretch into infinity. Just gazing up at them would strain my neck, their sheer magnitude bearing an intimidating resemblance to the frieze of Roman columns. It brought to mind arched ceilings adorned with intricately carved animal faces and mythical gods entwined in vines. It served as a reminder of just how small and insignificant one could feel, like an ant that could easily be squished beneath the toe of one of those carved deities.
Yet, in my cubicle, there was no beautiful artwork to behold. Instead, my gaze was met with an endless, nauseating expanse of blinding, bright whiteness. The fluorescent lights overhead forced my irises to shrink to the size of a grain. The towering stack of paperwork loomed over me, trembling with every touch, as if threatening to crumble into a million pieces. As the electric fan above blew in my direction, one lone piece of paper teetered on the edge, inching its way over and descending like a delicate feather, finally landing right in front of me.
The page before me remained blank, serving as a mere surface for my coffee mug. Suddenly, I found myself unable to lift the pen, unable to write. All I could manage was to shift uncomfortably in my chair as my left leg trembled uncontrollably. The fluorescent lights above grew increasingly brighter, their heat intensifying as if licking at the back of my neck.
I felt overwhelmed in the vast expanse of cubicles, lost amidst the faceless crowd where everyone consumed the same sandwich and salad, where our dreams blended together into a monotonous haze. In this world, each one of us bore monosyllabic names and identical haircuts.
In an abrupt act, I dropped the pen and abandoned my desk. In the blink of an eye, I found myself outside, perched on the ledge of the 49th floor of the building. The wind jeered at me with a malicious force, while the city and its inhabitants below appeared smaller than ants. Leaning against the building, most people would tremble at such dizzying heights. However, I calmly observed the birds soaring by, vanishing into the clouds as they drifted across the vast expanse of the blue sky, akin to white caps crashing against rugged rocks on a distant shore. I stood at the precipice, poised to leap into the vast unknown, longing to finally awaken from this torment.
Yet, I did not.
Instead, I found myself returning to my desk once more. My coffee mug, bearing a small crack at the bottom, bled onto the blank page, leaving behind a peculiar mark. It almost resembled the shape of a head, faceless and haunting, with invisible eyes that seemed to follow me relentlessly. Though I crumpled up that sheet of paper and discarded it, its presence lingered. As I sat at the desk, absentmindedly rolling the pen between my fingers, its shadow loomed over me, breathing down my neck, prickling my skin and hair like nettles.
The paperwork continued to mount, growing higher and higher, causing the Roman columns to tremble and sway unsteadily. Under its weight, the desk's joints creaked and shuddered. My shoulders ached, worn down by the relentless gaze of the faceless presence. The once-bright light above me became blinding, making the ink from my pen seemingly vanish from the white page.
As the pen slipped from my trembling hand and fell to the floor, the colonnade collapsed, its destruction drowned out by a cacophony of shuffling papers, ringing phones, and the mocking chatter of the wall clock ticking away. I ran down the hallway, propelled by a surge of desperation, bolted through the emergency door, and descended 49 flights of stairs with reckless abandon.
For eight months, I could not bring myself to return to that suffocating cubicle. I imagined it sitting there, empty and abandoned, with only traces of my work lingering stubbornly, like weathered remnants of ancient Rome's walls and columns. I remained stagnant, caught between the past and the future, unable to move backward or forward. Instead, I remained anchored to this apartment, gripped by an inexplicable fear that constricted my lungs and relentlessly throbbed in my heart.
In this little studio, I believed I was safe, if only for a fleeting moment. But now, I could no longer divert my gaze as the nightmare crept out from within the walls, causing the lights to flicker and devouring my food from the inside out.
But still, I couldn't bring myself to step outside, not today. The sky appeared too yellow, too sickly. Perhaps tomorrow would offer a better opportunity. The outside air seemed tainted, unfit to breathe on this particular day. There was something amiss, something poisonous lingering in the atmosphere. Its taste lingered in my mouth, reminiscent of chewing on cotton balls soaked in stale mustard. No amount of milk or vodka could wash it away. It clung to my tongue, playfully flicking against a dangling nerve of one of my teeth.
I vigorously brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, scrubbing until its pristine white coat turned crimson. I winced as I rinsed it with hot water, hoping to alleviate the sensation. Yet, the taste persisted, stubbornly clinging to the tip of my tongue.
Like a horrible itch.
Burning.
Stinging.
Pinching pain.
A glorious red ring with a yellow gem.
I tried to pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, and tears welled up in my eyes. The stinging pain radiated from the tip of my tongue, spreading through my entire being. Yet, it remained, gleaming at me like an ugly sun smirking behind a shroud of smog. The wind persistently blew through the flap in the wallpaper, seeping in through the window. I could sense the presence lurking behind it, fixating its gaze upon me.
As I locked eyes with it, I stood frozen in place. My mouth hung open as the impossible unfolded before me.
It formed a smile without lips and let out a laugh. The sound was flat and dissonant, akin to the incessant drip of water from that wretched loose faucet, slithering down the sink's throat. That same corroded throat into which I had gagged and expelled blood and bile from my stomach. I felt as though all the blood had drained from my face. With trepidation, I raised my eyes to the dirty mirror above the sink. Reflecting back at me was nothing but a husk, a ghost of my former self.
But upon closer inspection, I noticed a change. It crept along at a sluggish, excruciating pace. It began with the whites of my eyes, now tinged with yellow. Yellow. And my pupils were as pitch-black and vacant as a sinkhole. My teeth, too, were misaligned and yellow-ish brown. I had neglected to brush them for weeks, perhaps months, to the point where a layer of plaque had encrusted their surface and wedged between them.
The tooth at the back could no longer find its place. I tapped it once more with the tip of my tongue, feeling its jagged edge scrape against the tender yellow sore. And then it dislodged, bouncing around in my mouth. In sheer disgust, I spat it out. The blood marked a trail to the sinkhole, dangerously close to its edge. I ran my tongue over the remaining teeth, sensing them shift in their positions. Soon, one after another, they cracked and fell, and the little red dots swirled and twirled along with them in the sink. Only a few teeth stubbornly clung to the front, refusing to let go.
You look so ugly. I remembered those words. A colleague had once said them to me during lunch.
"And you look like smeared shit," I shot back. We sat in the corner of the cafeteria, hunched over our sandwiches and coffee. That lipless, smiling joker told me to calm down, claiming they didn't mean it. Oh, how the others laughed. I couldn't bring myself to look any of them in the face.
Weren't we supposed to be friends? Friends who winked and smiled as they plunged knives into your gut, watching your insides spill onto the floor. Friends who pretended to sympathize as they picked up your organs, attempting to put them back, telling you it was just a joke. All wounds heal, they said. But this scar remained hidden beneath my clothes. I was the punchline of the jokes friends liked to share.
When lunch ended, everyone returned to their cubicles. Everyone except me. I sneaked away for a quick trip to the restroom. It was then that I began to feel the tooth move. I flicked it with my tongue.
Flick. Flick.
As all of this came to me, I couldn't even stand to look my reflection in the eye. At least, not without feeling the urge to destroy it, shattering every remaining shard of glass into the sink. The thing behind the wallpaper smiled wider, revealing a row of straight white teeth held together by browning gums. Its deep chuckle resonated throughout the apartment, grating against my skin and pinching my nerves. With every ounce of my dwindling strength, I clenched my fists.
Don't laugh at me.
Don't.
Laugh.
I pushed away the dangling piece of wallpaper and came face to face with it. Straight white teeth. Wide white eyes. Look how it mocked me. Sneered at me. What did it want from me? Why had it intruded into my world?
"Go back! Look at everything you've taken from me. Please, just let me have this day!" I pleaded.
It said nothing in response. Its smile only widened, stretching across the wall and tearing new lines through the wallpaper. The wood snapped and cracked. The nails and joints creaked from within. The wall heaved in and out like someone dying from laughter, gasping for air in desperate suffocation.
Stop laughing.
I took hold of the fluttering piece and traveled along the wall, crushing it in my clenched fist. It felt strange in my hand, warm and soft, almost like dry human skin. The thing's smile now appeared strained, as if it were attempting to endure some hidden anguish. Despite its pride, it couldn't let me hear its soft squeaks of pain. But the more I ripped away, the deeper I dug my fingers into its soft tissue, the tighter it clenched its teeth. With each tightening grip, it began to bleed, its blood seeping under my fingernails. Tears welled up in its eyes.
Nowhere inside me was there an ounce of pity for it. I felt nothing. Seething contempt was all that remained within me. I tore away at every inch of its skin, dismantling it from one end to the other until there was nothing left but its fragile bones. Its discarded skin littered the floor, staining the carpet with its blood. Cockroaches scurried in and out of its empty sockets, while termites nibbled at the wood in its final dying breaths. Just as I began to turn away, I noticed something at the center. Stuck between its ribs was a dead canary. The bird's color had faded to gray, its lifeless body consumed from the inside out, its remaining insides shriveled to crumbs.
I cooled myself down with a handful of freezing water from the faucet. When I opened my eyes, I no longer saw the featureless black shape staring back at me. My teeth were intact. The bubble on my tongue had burst, oozing its yellow pus. Its taste was sour, like mustard churning in expired milk.
The faucet continued to leak.
I realized I had forgotten to properly wash my hands. My fingernails were caked with blood and grime. I reasoned that I could do it later, perhaps before I went grocery shopping. You see, I could do everything later.
But right now, all I wanted was sleep.

I've recently gotten back into playing guitar and I'm trying to shake off my many years of rust. There's more guitar content out there than ever, but almost all of it seems to be locked behind a paywall or in a terrible format. I didn't have luck finding good exercises, so I decided to just transcribe some.
I made a simple warm up sheet with some scales and pentatonic exercises. It's available for free online, printable, and the tempo can be scaled or bars can be looped easily. It can also be edited for free with Musescore.
Does anyone have suggestions on what exercises to do next? Particularly for learning the fretboard, finger independence, improv, or any advanced techniques. I can publish them for everyone.

At our foundry, we primarily do sandcasting and lost wax, not very much experience with open pouring. A client asked for some white bronze panels for interior cladding.
Poured at 1850°, panel size is 54"x26". Pouring into a 3" thick slab of reinforced refractory concrete preheated to 500°ish.
First test was onto a sheet of 3/16" hot rolled steel. The finish was acceptable, but warped to hell. Currently on the second try using the concrete slab, but now we're getting lots of bubbles in the sheet that aren't desirable.
Thank you in advance, any help is greatly appreciated 🙏

I made a previous post post about making custom clings and they were decent.
But the main issue was my printer wasn't handling inkjet vinyl stickers very well and couldn't find static cling that was directly printable on. So in v1 of my clings I used photo sticker paper.
v1 was good, image quality was great but the main draw back was it was stiffer than the dnd clings which then made it hard for it to cling to the discs. they did but they would pop off easily and if bended would cling very well.
v2 now however is much better. nearly perfect. I tried inkjet vinyl sticker sheets again but a different brand and my printer handled it perfectly. No jamming or slipping anymore. and image quality just as good since its a white gloss material like photo paper so image quality indistinguishable. The material is also significantly more flexible. like 95% as flexible as the dnd brand clings which makes it again significantly better and clinging to the discs. No issues like v1 with falling off just because. They are ever so slightly thicker than the dnd clings but barely. still thinner than v1. As you can see in the last image of v2 images I can hold it mid air while the cling is not fully attached to the disc. Something that would be impossible on any size of v1.
So all in all v2 is the best with what materials are out there unless inkjet printable static cling becomes a product.

I made a previous post post about making custom clings and they were decent.
But the main issue was my printer wasn't handling inkjet vinyl stickers very well and couldn't find static cling that was directly printable on. So in v1 of my clings I used photo sticker paper.
v1 was good, image quality was great but the main draw back was it was stiffer than the dnd clings which then made it hard for it to cling to the discs. they did but they would pop off easily and if bended would cling very well.
v2 now however is much better. nearly perfect. I tried inkjet vinyl sticker sheets again but a different brand and my printer handled it perfectly. No jamming or slipping anymore. and image quality just as good since its a white gloss material like photo paper so image quality indistinguishable. The material is also significantly more flexible. like 95% as flexible as the dnd brand clings which makes it again significantly better and clinging to the discs. No issues like v1 with falling off just because. They are ever so slightly thicker than the dnd clings but barely. still thinner than v1. As you can see in the last image of v2 images I can hold it mid air while the cling is not fully attached to the disc. Something that would be impossible on any size of v1.
So all in all v2 is the best with what materials are out there unless inkjet printable static cling becomes a product.

Hello again! I’m not sure if you’ve seen my other posts about a fandom roleplay but this one is gonna be about any roleplay in general, fandoms included. This’ll be pretty detailed and I’ll let you know the parts if you want to skip ahead (I suggest you don’t). If you don’t wanna read all of this, then don’t. This was made for people willing to read blocks of paragraphs and maybe even respond with their own.
INTRODUCTION
My name is Hina. To know more about me, I hail from Japan and I have been an avid writer ever since I moved to the States when I was 11. My second language is English but I believe it’s been pretty good. I recently turned 22 years old and I'm female. Talking about age, I would be comfortable with you being 17+ and preferably at least 20. Roleplaying with minors isn’t a big thing for me, I apologize. Im currently in GMT+1 timezone but that’s temporarily. I’m here until July and then i’ll be in the west coast, PST timezone. Let’s see.. What other information can I give you? I would say I enjoy skating, basketball, watching tv shows and anime, and reading. My favorite anime is Nana and Death Note.
GENRES + FANDOM
I am not looking for a specific roleplay. I would say i’m skilled in all genres. Sci-fi, fantasy, horror, apocalypse. All of that. Even slice of life, though that depends on what type of plot exactly. To be more specific on each genre, starting off with fantasy, I'm more used to high fantasy and mythology. I’m not that great with medieval, unfortunately. DnD based role plays aren’t really fit for me and I struggle playing with species like ogres. Just putting that out here. For fantasy, I don’t have any specific ideas.
Sci-fi is the genre I have more skill in. Most of my roleplays are based off of them! Specifically, I’m fine with all subgenres of that.
For other genres like horror and apocalypse, I do have some taste. I really like monsters and creepy things from the horror genre like vampires and all of that and I even have my own idea set up in older times dealing with vampire lords and hunters and all of that. I also enjoy eldritch type horror. I also like that one sun genre of it, like video game horror? I’m not sure how to describe it. I also forgot if it even has an official name or if it’s just something used to describe the horror genre. I like Resident Evil, so maybe that’ll tell you the type of horror I usually enjoy. I do have a developed idea of something more eldritch horror.
More on fandoms! To get some other things down, I usually only play OC unless the character you want me to play is one I know more about and I'm more comfortable playing. The fandoms I like in the more anime way are Jojo’s, Nana, Death Note, JJK, AOT, Haikyuu, and probably more. I’m well versed in the Jojo’s, Aot, and JJK fandoms but less knowledgeable on Death Note since i’ve only seen it once. Other fandoms i’m in include ATLA, TLOK, Harry Potter, Resident Evil, Marvel, DC, and many more.
CHARACTERS
I tend to use character sheets to describe my character, these usually consist of names, background, and personality. More so on appearances, I prefer using animated or drawn references than real life people. I enjoy good enough references where I get the idea of how the character would look like.
The types of characters I write are either the lone wolf type that has some sad past which leads them to want to join someone for a redemption arc or the bubbly character who is the one that brings the mood up and is usually seen as trustworthy and of that kind.
I like all types of tropes, especially enemies to lovers or rivalry. I also really enjoy opposites attract as a whole from either opposite personality or something else they would be opposites in. Enemies to lovers takes my heart, though. I love seeing the characters go past the urge to ultimately hate each other and/or go past their usual way of disliking the others lineage or upcoming.
REQUIREMENT
I think this is my last paragraph on the roleplay. It’s the most important, at least. Requirements. All roleplay searches come with them. Or at least that’s what I heard! But don’t fret, there isn’t much.
I’ve seen this as one of the most used requirements, and I agree with it. As someone who’s first language wasn’t English, I understand that you may not be great at it. But please, I do require a partner that at least has proper use of grammar and punctuation. You don’t even have to use big words or anything, just at least know where to put your periods and the placement of your words.
My second requirement is for you to be LITERATE! Please. I’m a big writer, I tend to ramble on and tend to write more than what I thought I would. (like i’m doing right now) I write multiple paragraphs from the starter until the scene relaxes. I also understand that sometimes writing big blocks of words every response is tiring or boring so I don’t expect it all the time, at least after the starter has been made and in more important scenes. Dialogue also cuts my replies shorter.
Please please please be polite in OOC! We may just be role playing together but kindness goes all ways. If we do include OOC, I enjoy talking about many things. My day, movies, games, funny moments and stories, all of that!
I think that’s the end to this wonderful journey of an ad about my search. I hope you are still here, fellow writer! I would LOVE it if you reached out to me! This wasn’t all for nothing, right!
But don’t leave yet! I do have a passcode. I know this was a jumble of words and rambling but I still have to put one in. I heard that there’s a lot of people on here that don’t read things fully and miss out on rules or information! But.. Just because you read through this all, I’ll gladly give you options on the passcode! Also please put in an introduction of yourself! Don’t think “Oh maybe I shouldn’t bother this person with too much to read”! I like seeing big blocks.
PASSCODE:
What’s your dream country to travel to and why?
OR
Who’s your favorite TV show / Cartoon / Game / Anime character?
Feel free to pick both! Now, that’s all from me. Please don’t put your request as just “Wanna rp”!

• H 💕

I don’t have authorization to share this story, so some of the details will be missing. I’ve tried for the last quarter-century to convince the government to declassify the study files, but these days they don’t even acknowledge I was ever an employee.
My involvement began at twenty, way back in 1997 (I’ll spare you the math — I’m forty-seven). At the time, I was suffering from interminable lucid dreams. You might consider this a gift rather than a curse. Who doesn’t want to control their dream environments? Your subconscious grants you godhood for a brief snatch of time, when the membrane dividing the conscious and unconscious thins to a permeable boundary.
Only, mine extended far beyond the average length. Most experience a few minutes in which to indulge themselves, mostly spent flying, fornicating, or otherwise just meandering in awe. By the time I was a preteen, mine had sprawled across entire nights, subsuming every slumbering moment under lucidity.
You’d think a pubescent boy would know how to busy himself with such a sandbox, but after hour upon hour, night after night, month after month infused with these cosmic powers, I became despondent. Because of the curious time dilation that takes place within a lucid dream, most of my life took place in the lonely confines of my own subconscious. Waking life took on a surreal film and I struggled to engage.
Over the course of my teen years, I tried everything, from valerian root to psychotropics and transcendental meditation. Nothing stemmed the lucidity.
In my sophomore year of college, at the behest of my parents, I enrolled in a sleep study, which involved spending a night at a facility with about a thousand wires attached to my scalp and body. Not exactly the ideal circumstances for a good night’s rest, and yet I still managed to slip quickly into a state of deep sleep. I spent the hours in my false kingdom, populated with my own wild imaginings. A gilded cage for a feckless demigod.
I’ll never forget the look on the attendant’s face when he woke me up the following morning, as if I’d been revealed to him as an alien. Of course, he wasn’t permitted to share the results, so I waited two weeks before I could see the doctor. When I finally sat down with her, she very gently related to me that my brain waves exceeded her expertise — as well as every one of her colleagues.
However, my abnormal mind qualified me to participate in an advanced sleep study involving top scientists in the field. They sought twenty volunteers for their work. Without recourse and desperate to solve my sleep problem, I signed on the dotted line.
I had no idea what I’d just committed myself to.
The initial phase of the “study” involved a month at a desert facility in the remote New Mexican wilderness. I came only with a duffel full of clothes and a couple summer reads to finish before the fall semester. Cell phones were not widely adopted back in ‘97, to the facilitators’ benefit. Had their participants been in contact with the outside world, there surely would have been an information breach.
Despite the ominous location and the facility’s uninviting brutalism, it began with predictable and nonthreatening sleep observance. The uncomfortable helmet of wires was affixed to my scalp for the duration of my sleep, offering the stern researchers a glimpse at my atypical brain. In the mornings, they offered little more than half-hearted smiles and assurances that I was providing them “invaluable data.”
The changeup came during my second stay, when they presented the study subjects with the Pod. It was a hollow metal egg, essentially, that we were told to sleep in. Only, when I drifted off inside the confines of the Pod, my dreams began to mirror the outside world. Instead of visiting my imagined kingdom, I found myself hovering above the silver egg where my unconscious body lay. The shock of it startled me awake and it took the researchers the better part of an hour to calm me back down.
It was then that they finally revealed their intentions. The project sought to explore the connection between lucid dreamers and OBEs — out of body experiences. They believed that if they amplified certain brain waves within the lucid dreamer, they could induce such incorporeal mental projections. Despite the excitement of a new frontier for science and human experience, I rejected their aims, expressing my distrust and fear. In response to my hesitancy, they gently reminded me that I had signed certain documents which entitled them to my time. The tacit message, of course, was that I’d essentially become their prisoner.
Nevertheless, it behooved them to play nice. In exchange for my assistance, they promised they would also alleviate the dissociative effect of my lucid dreams with a drug cocktail they’d been assembling. Carrot and stick.
So we entered the Targeting Phase. Now that we had established OBEs as scientific fact with a series of basic tests that involved projectors reading notes in adjacent rooms, it was time for the next step. The researchers instructed us to stretch our abilities, reaching out into space. This was how I visited each of the planets in our solar system, learned of the submarine species beneath the ice sheets of Europa, the defunct alien outpost on Pluto, and, when my projection achieved intergalactic range, the advanced interstellar empires of the Andromeda galaxy.
But the researchers were conspicuously disinterested in these discoveries, logging them with the same dispassionate nonchalance as a report of a Jupiter storm.
During my third stay at the facility, the researchers held briefings on targets of interest — various points in distant space they wanted their projectors to visit. By then, we’d grown so accustomed to the practice of sending our consciousness at speeds vastly exceeding light into deep space that none of the volunteers questioned the mission.
At first, they sent us to various star clusters, dust clouds, black holes, interested whether we found alien presence in the vicinity. But I had the suspicion these were merely test runs to hone our accuracy in preparation for a more important target.
When they proposed a mission to the Boötes Void, there was an appreciable shift in tone. Despite performing all the same routine, I sensed a greater importance around this particular target.
I had my suspicions confirmed one night when the screams from the neighboring Pod severed my connection with NGC 1300, returning my perception to my body with an alarming jolt. I rose out of my egg to see a host of researchers crowding around the woman I knew only as Participant Twelve, since they barred us from sharing personally identifying information. She sat up in her Pod, eyes squeezed halfway out of her skull as though prodded from the inside. “It’s there!” she cried. “It’s there and it sees me! Oh God, it sees me!”
“What saw her?” I enquired. “Where did she go?”
None of the researchers paid me any attention, but P-14, scrubbing sleep from his eyes, answered, “Twelve was first to visit the supervoid.”
“God, he sees me and he won’t let go!”
Suddenly, her body went rigid, then convulsed. The researchers hauled her out of the Pod and carried her off to the medical wing. We never saw her again. Whenever we asked about her, the facilitators scolded us for seeking personal information. We weren’t trying to identify her. We just wanted to know if she was alright. If we were going to be alright.
They sent the projectors one at a time to the void, though each one came back having missed their target. That, of course, was a lie. They had intentionally misfired. We’d all heard what happened to P-12 and that scared the hell out of everyone.
When my turn came, the researchers warned they would punish me if I failed to accomplish my task. They knew I was more than capable, had shown myself to be a reliable projector for them, much to my chagrin.
As I dozed off, employing the tactics we had developed over the course of the program (which I will abstain from relaying to you, as it might engender an undesirable response from the study’s facilitators), I targeted a star system found on the border between the Ursa Major Supercluster and the Boötes Void.
As my consciousness materialized in the vacuum of space, I felt an ineffable sense of dread. As if experiencing the collective fear of a thousand vast, intergalactic empires crying out into oblivion. No, for oblivion. It’s difficult now to express, as when I hovered there on the verge of that immense nothing, I was joined with something, a consciousness much larger than my own. A sort of bubble enveloping the Boötes Void, a cognitive shield, a mental warning sign cautioning me not to trespass.
There was some communication that transpired between my own consciousness and that of the dome encasing the dark. In summary, I was told that within the void lurked an incomprehensible evil — or what I now translate as evil, because I think at the time the sensation of language transcended human invention, which lacked sufficient vocabulary to describe what occupied the Boötes Void.
There are seventy-three galaxies inside the supervoid, of which sixty have been discovered by earthbound astronomers. Each one of them is a facsimile of another, a replica. Among them is a perfect recreation of the Milky Way, complete with all its lifeforms. I was given this bit of information by the mind that enfolded the void. When asked for what purpose and by whom, it explained, “Its motives exceed your comprehension.”
At the conclusion of our dialogue, I peered into the darkness and sensed a great eye peeling open, holding me in its malicious gaze. Before I shrank away, I felt it reaching out for me, inviting me to stay.
I returned with enough material to spare me the researchers’ rebuke. They conducted three more expeditions to the Boötes Void, each using another participant, each ending as disastrously as Participant Twelve.
The last visitor returned mute, with black eyes. Within days, he lost all his hair, teeth, finger- and toenails. He refused to eat and spent his final hours using the keyboard he’d been given to communicate with to write a single line ad infinitum. “He is the prince who ate the king and all his subjects will invert themselves for all eternity.”
He died one night in his Pod when its wiring short circuited and plunged the entire facility into a fifteen-hour blackout.
The participants were sent home the following day and to my knowledge the facility closed down. The program dissolved and I received a meager compensation for my time as a projector. Two years later, after raising a stink, I received a prescription for a medication specially delivered to my local pharmacy that did finally put an end to my lucid dreams.
But in their place, I have nightmares, and lately they’ve gotten worse. Of a great eye’s malevolent gaze, watching, tirelessly watching. I have the terrible feeling that whatever we discovered in the Boötes Void wants now to ensnare us, and I fear it will, first in dreams, then for eternity. Which is why I’m telling you this now, because the government refuses to warn you. If you dream of a dark god reaching out for you, hide yourself.
Because he longs to invert you for all eternity.

Not many kids can say they have a superhero for a father.
My Dad was an amazing man. He was the coolest person in the world.
Known as our town’s superhero, he used his newfound powers to bring down evil villains who threatened to take over.
Nobody knew how he and a number of others acquired their abilities.
There were rumours of a chemical explosion in the powerplant.
Some people even believed my Dad was from a different planet, while others were convinced it was natural human evolution. My Dad could shoot lasers out of his eyes, and he was super strong.
When I was seven years old, he single-handedly stopped The Cerebral Drainer, a psychopath with a vacuum like power who took the lives of ten innocent people, sucking out their brains in broad daylight. Dad saved a child live on local TV, swooping down from the sky and telling the panicking crowd everything is going to be okay. Then when I was twelve, Dad took down Rat Face, a villain who filled the streets with disease ridden rodents.
My Dad was our town’s superhero, and in exchange for keeping his secret from the rest of the world, he protected all of us.
He was the best superhero (and father) by day, and family-man and loving husband by night. I was Millie Myers, a completely ordinary high school girl, and daughter of Star-man.
It wasn't out of the ordinary for the press to be swarming our door when I got home from school.
Pushing through the crowd of my Dad’s adoring fans, I flashed my perfect smile at the cameras.
As Star-man’s daughter, I was yet to reveal my power to the town.
I could tell they were gunning for it, their wide and frenzied eyes raking me up and down.
The older I was getting, the less patient the town was. Dad told them in a press conference that I was just a late bloomer. Channel 7 news was waiting for me at our front door, immediately sticking a microphone in my face. I was told not to talk to the press. I was tired, and the cameras were hurting my eyes.
The anchorwoman, Heather Carlisle, was already yelling in my face.
“Millie Myers! Is it true your father is currently interrogating the son of the infamous villain, Six-Eyes?”
Six Eyes was the opposite of my father.
Dad strived to protect our town and everyone in it.
Six Eyes, who was famous for the mutation that came with his ability, sought to destroy it. It was almost a year since he had brainwashed the Mayor and almost taken control of our tiny town.
Dad did manage to apprehend him, only for Six Eyes to break out of prison two weeks later.
His eighteen year old son, Cartwright, wanted nothing to do with him. He had even legally changed his name to get as far away from his father as possible.
The boy was only in town for a few weeks, on vacation from college.
However, over the last few days, my father had reasons to believe Six-Eyes was in contact with his estranged son.
So, he planned to question the kid on his Dad’s whereabouts.
I twisted around, maintaining a wide smile. “No comment.” I told the cameras.
The anchorwoman nodded slowly, thrusting her microphone further into my face. I had to hold back a sneeze. “But your father is interrogating him now, correct? Millie, can you tell us what… techniques he is using?” She demanded, her expression riddled with excitement.
She was trying to get me to spill or trip over what I was saying so my words could be taken out of context.
But I was already heavily media trained not to say a thing. I couldn't say the same for when I was a little younger.
I blindly told the press a lot of things I regret.
Dad didn't get mad easily, but his smile did start to slightly falter when I told Channel 7 our family's business.
Shutting the press down, I shook my head, making sure to stretch my lips into a big, cheesy grin. Just like my Dad told me. I cleared my throat.
“Rest assured, Cartwright is in good hands, I can promise you all that.”
I nodded at the crowd, making direct eye contact with each of them. Dad said if I wanted the crowd to believe my earnest words, I had to look into each and every eye, and mean it. That's what I did.
“As we all know, the son of Six Eyes is not a bad person, and we should not blame him for his father’s crimes. I cannot speak for my Dad, but I can assure you, he will find the villain Six Eyes.”
I held my breath, pausing for just enough time for the crowd to register my words.
“And bring him to justice.”
When I turned to open my door, the spell was broken, more questions thrown at me.
“Millie, is it true you have not inherited your father’s abilities?”
Someone else screamed in my face, and I choked down a yell.
“Millie Myers, can you tell us more about your father’s interrogation?!”
I shrugged. “I don't know. He's just talking to him.”
“Millie!” A wide eyed redhead followed me, stumbling over my mother’s rose garden.
When he carelessly stamped on a blooming rose, I resisted the urge to shove him back. He looked like an ammateur, a college kid, maybe, armed with just his iPhone and a dream.
The guy got close.
Too close for comfort, swiping at my jacket.
His breath was just coffee and cigarettes. “Are you aware of the photos floating around of you and Kai Hendrix, the son of Oculus? Can you confirm that you are in a relationship?”
A younger woman threw herself in front of him.
“Miss Myers, is there a reason why your brother does not come outside–”
Ignoring them, I opened the door, stepped inside our house, and slammed it behind me. Once inside, I let myself breathe, dropping my backpack and pulling off my jacket. There was a folded square of paper tucked into my pocket.
I pulled it out and ripped it into pieces. There were exactly 1,370 tally marks carved into our front door. With a rusty nail, I scratched another tally, crossing a group of four. 1,371 days.
Kicking off my shoes, I strode into the downstairs living room.
“I'm home.” I told my twin brother.
Ethan Myers was born three minutes after me. We weren't classed as identical twins, but Mom was convinced we were.
Both of us had thick brown hair, bearing our mother’s soft features. While I kept mine in a strict ponytail, Ethan’s had grown out lighter and curlier than mine, hanging in dark eyes. Ethan was the Myers twin who was not in the town’s spotlight.
My brother was in his usual place, sitting on the couch, knees pressed to his chest, half lidded eyes glued to the corpse of our TV. The screen had been hollowed out a long time ago. I skipped into the kitchen and filled a glass of orange juice, took a quick sip, and headed over to my brother, pressing the drink to his lips.
Ethan didn't respond for a moment, before his lazy eyes rolled to me, life erupting into his expression. He gulped it down, juice trickling down his chin.
When I withdrew the glass, he shot me a grateful smile. I winced when he straightened up, the sound of jingling metal sending me stumbling back.
“Thanks, Mills.”
He held up his right hand, just like when we were little kids. “High five?”
I ignored his childlike grin, hollowed out eyes penetrating right through me.
Ethan was never looking at me. He was always looking over my shoulder. But when I followed his gaze, there was nothing there. I ruffled his hair, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him.
But I had to keep my distance.
I stepped back, my gaze trailing the ceiling. “Where's Dad?”
Ethan’s eyes travelled back to the TV, his lips pricking into a smile.
“Basement.” He said. “Daddy is interrogating the villain’s son.”
I nodded, pulling my Switch from my bag and dropping it into his lap.
It used to be Ethan’s. In fact, he had carved his initials into the back. “You can play with this, you know." I forced out, trying to stop my hands from trembling.
“You don't have to keep…” I turned to the shattered TV screen, my heart catapulting into my mouth. Ethan didn't look at me, his gaze boring into the TV.
He didn't respond, so I headed towards the basement door.
But not before my brother let out a hysterical giggle.
When I turned to him, Ethan was seventeen years old, laughing at invisible cartoons.
“Do you expect me to play with no fucking hands?”
I didn't, or couldn't, reply.
“Hey, Millie?” Ethan hummed, when I pulled open the basement door.
The chill that followed set my nerve endings on fire. My brother’s voice was deeper, no longer the childish giggle I'd gotten used to. In the corner of my eye, his head turned towards me. Standing on the threshold for a fraction of a second, I think part of me wondered if Ethan’s mind had pieced itself back together.
“Mom wants juice too.”
My twin’s voice was suddenly so small. “Can you get her some?”
I pretended not to hear him, skipping down to the basement, ignoring how cold each step was, the ingrained red dried into concrete. The best part of my day was visiting my father while he was working. I held my breath, easing my way down each step. “Hey, Dad?” I called, easing myself through the dark.
I always made sure to announce my presence. “Daddy.” I pulled my lips into the biggest, cheesiest smile. “I'm home.”
“Pumpkin!” Dad’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. “How's my favorite girl doing?”
Moving further down the stairs, I could hear screaming.
Wailing.
Sobbing.
There were specific rules I had to abide by when stepping inside the basement.
I had to be extra quiet if my father was doing superhero business. Over the years, though, Dad had relaxed the rules a little. When I pushed through the plastic sheeting, Daddy had already opened up the boy’s head. It's not like I was surprised. He'd moved away from the interrogation stage a long time ago.
Star-man stood in a simple suit and tie, a white coat draped over.
My father was young for his age, dark brown hair and pale features.
Cartwright didn't look so good, lying on his back, his half lidded gaze glued to the ceiling.
I could see sharp red spilled across the floor and the bed he was strapped to.
Star-man loomed over him, cradling the boy’s jerking head between blood slicked gloves. The closer I got, I could see the exposed meat of the boy’s brain leaking from the pearly white of his skull.
Closer.
Cartwright's body was quaking, his wrists straining against velcro straps.
My father’s fingers gently stroked across the pink of his brain, tiny sparks of electricity bleeding from his index. Star-man's grin widened, and I watched the villain’s son writhing under his touch.
I could see the tiny sparks of electricity running from Dad’s fingers, forcing his victim into submission. The villain’s son’s eyes rolled back, a wet sounding sob escaping his lips. He was still conscious, and could feel everything.
Star-man lifted his head, his eyes finding me.
“Sweetie! How was school?”
He let go of Cartwright's head, delicately changing his gloves for brand new clinical white ones. “Your teacher called about a certain test you have been trying to avoid.” Dad tutted, swiping his bloody hands on his coat.
When Cartwright tried to wrench from the bed, he knocked the kid back down with a laugh. “Millie, I did say, there will be consequences if you flunk your tests.”
He gestured for me to come closer with a blood drenched glove, and I did.
Star-man prodded a single finger into the raw flesh of Cartwright's brain, and the boy screamed, writhing, blood running thick from his nose. “Do I need to take your phone away, hmm? How about the school trip to New York? Millie, I don't have to sign the permission slip.” He turned back to the villain’s son, hanging over the boy with a laugh.
“What do you think?” He cleared his throat.
When Dad nodded at me, I laughed too. “Young Mr Cartwright, the human brain does not have nerves, so I don't know why you're screaming. It is quite embarrassing for a boy of your age.”
He slapped the boy’s cheek playfully, and Cartwright wailed.
1,400 days, I thought, watching my father torture the teenage boy.
1,400 days since Star-man walked into our house, burned down our door, and announced himself as our new father.
I was thirteen years old in middle school.
Ethan and I were watching TV in the living room, and there he was.
Star-man, with his signature grin, standing between the melted remnants of our front door.
Stella, our little sister, squeaked in delight.
“Star-man!” She jumped off of the couch.
Ethan gently dragged her back, holding her to his chest.
“Hey, Mom?” He yelled, his voice shaking.
“There's someone at the door.”
Star-man chuckled, taking a step inside our hallway.
“Oh, no, I'm not here for your mother.”
1,400 days since he murdered our mother, lasering her head cleanly from her shoulders when she threw herself in front of us and begged him to take her.
There was wet warmth running across the concrete floor. I barely noticed, hopping over it.
1,400 days since Star-man burned our little sister alive in front of our eyes.
Star-man didn't want three children.
He wanted two.
1,400 days since our father nailed wooden planks over the door, announcing Ethan and I as his legacies.
Ethan started to spiral. He tried to escape out his bedroom window, and then more dangerously, jumping off of the roof of our house, and that just made our father angry. He burned a hole in the TV, and then hollowed out the screen.
Star-man just wanted a son and a daughter. That's what he told my brother.
He could not procreate because of the mutation causing his ability. But he had always wanted children.
Star-man promised us he was going to be the best father anyone would ask for.
And he was.
100 days after murdering our mother and sister, Ethan and I were plunged into the town’s spotlight.
“These are my children!” Star-man told a crowd of flashing cameras.
He wrapped his arms around the two of us, pulling us closer.
*“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet Millie and Ethan Myers from my first marriage.”
Star-man addressed the crowd with earnest eyes.
“I know what you're thinking, and no, these two are little rascals,” he ruffled our hair a little too hard, and I made sure to laugh and smile and not cry. “Millie and Ethan do not share my abilities.”
His lips spread into a grin.
“Yet.”
That word had been hanging over me since the press-conference.
Yet.
Presently, Dad was crawling in my head again.
Smile, Millie!.
I did, smiling so much, blood pooled from my lips.
Dad promised neither of us would be sad again. We wouldn't fear him or anything else. In fact, we were going to be happy, smiling, perfect children forever, his shining legacies he would dangle in front of the town on our eighteenth birthday.
It was his birthday present to us, and I was so excited.
The closer I was getting to my father, I could sense him fashioning my smile, wider and wider, until I couldn't breathe.
He didn't care that I was bleeding.
That my eyes were stinging.
All he cared about was that I loved him as my father.
“Come here, Millie.”
I forced myself forwards, swallowing vomit filling the back of my mouth.
If I screamed, I would end up like my brother. Ethan was on a permanent time out until his 18th birthday. Star-man was yet to forgive my twin trying to stab him at Thanksgiving dinner. Dad said Ethan’s mental state was puberty, but I was more akin to believing it was a mixture of trauma, as well as our father’s attempt to poison my brother with powers at fourteen years old which almost killed him. Dad was smart enough to stop the procedure before he killed his only son.
I blinked, my legs buckling, footsteps faltering.
Sometimes I think I can pull away from his influence.
“Millie Myers.” Dad hummed, skimming his finger across a variety of scalpels. Cartwright watched him feverishly. “Don't make me ask again, Pumpkiiiiin.”
Still.
I felt my thoughts start to melt away, replaced with artificial happiness choking me. Our father was the best Dad in the whole world. I wouldn't ask for any other father, and I didn't even miss my mother!
With that thought slamming into me, I skipped over to my father with a grin.
Around him were rejects, corpses piled to the ceiling, limbs and heads and torso’s contorted and merged into one mass of gore.
Human’s he attempted to turn into minions.
But there were also successful villains.
The Cerebral Drainer, and Rat Face had been ripped apart and put back together again. Dad was saving them for a quiet day. The Myers basement was my father’s workshop. When I joined his side, he ran his fingers over Cartwright's skull.
I was surprised when the villain’s son let out a sudden, hysterical giggle, his eyes rolling to pearly whites. “What are you doing to him?” I asked, intrigued, running my hands over the boy’s restraints. This time, Cartwright's body contorted into an arch, maniacal laughter escaping his lips.
When his back slammed into metal, the ground rumbled.
“Now, what is funny, hmm?” Star-man asked in a low hum.
The boy responded by spitting in his face, shrieking with giggles.
Dad cleared his throat, swiping blood from his cheek.
“That's not funny.”
I was keenly aware of several instruments dangling above my head.
Cartwright's body jolted, and they hit the ground.
Dad turned his attention to me. “What is your nightmare of a brother doing, young lady?”
His words shattered part of his influence.
I felt my breath start to quicken, my heart starting to pound.
Fear.
Ethan hadn't moved in days, weeks, months.
Glued to that one seat, caught inside his own delusion.
Ethan was watching TV when Mom’s brains were splattered across the walls.
He was watching TV when our little sister’s flesh bubbled into the living room carpet.
“Ethan is watching TV.” I hummed, “What are you doing to the villain’s son?” I pointed to the boy’s contorting fingers. They turned clockwise, straining under harsh velcro straps.
Cartwright was trying to twist off my head like a bottletop. I was lucky to have my father’s protection.
Dad shot me a grin. “Well, you see, Millie.” He said, shoving the hysterical boy back onto the bed. Madness. I saw it in his eyes, igniting every part of his face, running through his nerve endings.
That is what made a villain, what we all saw on the local news.
It was the loss of humanity, logic quite literally burned from the brain stem.
Complete, unbridled euphoria, accepting insanity.
I had already seen this exact look.
The Cerebral Drainer’s psychotic grin.
Rat Face’s all too familiar and horrific chittering laugh.
Six Eyes’s Alice In Wonderland smile.
Dad rocked the boy’s head back and forth. Cartwright giggled along, his gaze finding nothing, penetrating nothing. His hands went limp, and he gave up trying to yank my brain from my skull. “We can't have heroes without villains, can we?”
I reached out, poking the boy in the face.
“So, he's like his father?”
Dad almost looked like a proud father. “Oh, no, honey, he's better than his father. He's already setting an example.” Starman nudged me playfully. “Your father would not exist without the bad guys,” he said, tracing a finger over the boy’s cheek. “We’re just lucky we have a town full of naive fuck-wits.”
Cartwright laughed harder. Hard enough to send him toppling off of the bed with a wet, meaty sounding smack.
I was partially aware of my body reacting. My breaths quickened, a thick slime creeping up my throat. I think I stepped back. I think I almost screamed.
I forgot his head was hanging open, half of his brains leaking out.
But I don't think Cartwright needed a brain anymore.
Whatever was left of it was blackened, thick, poisoned streaks running up down what had been healthy pink and grey.
My Dad scooped him up, and plonked him back onto ice cold steel.
His evil laugh was fake, manufactured, programmed directly into his mind.
Part of me wondered if this was his father’s fate too.
Six Eyes.
Was he a result of my father’s experiments?
The crazy thing is, the more I want to scream, my chest heaving, fear starting to gnaw away at me, the stronger my father’s influence is. The villain’s son was stitched back up with not even a hair out of place and thrown into the back with the other finished minions.
If he recovered well, Cartwright, son of Six Eyes, would be going on a town rampage very soon.
Well, he was the villain’s son after all.
Instead of screaming, I smiled.
Dad taught me everything about cutting up humans. Human brains were so easy to manipulate.
Because humans were bad.
The people like my Dad were better.
I grabbed a scalpel, sticking it into Cartwright's hand.
His whimper of pain collapsing into hysterical laughter didn't give me hope.
If he reacted positively to a blade going through his skin, he wasn't worth saving.
Once that thought crossed my mind, however, I REALLY LOVED MY DAD.
The mental declaration almost sent me to my knees.
“Go upstairs and do your homework.” Dad said, wheeling Cartwright into the back room. “I'll be upstairs to cook dinner in ten minutes.”
“Sure, dad.”
His influence was like a wire wrapped around my throat.
Squeezing.
“Oh, and Millie?”
I didn't turn around. “Yes?”
“Chocolate or strawberry for your birthday cake?”
I froze, my smile stretching right across my face.
He knew my answer. Dad baked us a cake 4 hours after I trashed the slimy remnants of my little sister. Star-man forced me to peel my sister from the carpet and dump her in a trash bag.
I could still smell her charred flesh hanging in the air.
Star-man made a giant chocolate cake and frosting.
He made us eat every single morsel.
Every bite was agonising.
“Chocolate, Daddy.” I said, swallowing my lunch.
Dad chuckled, and somewhere in the back, Cartwright started laughing.
Starting as quiet giggles, they became full on guffaws.
Star-man ignored him.
“That's right, Princess.”
I nodded, heading back up the stairs.
Greeting my brother, I cranked the Alexa to full volume.
I always listen to music when I'm doing my homework.
Filling a glass of water, I held it to Ethan’s lips with three fingers.
Ethan downed it in three gulps, and then nodded in one single motion.
Star-man may be a highly intelligent psychopath, but he is yet to notice my brother is not as brain dead as he thinks.
Yes, he still watches TV.
But he's also thinking.
Dad is under the impression my twin doesn't need to be under his control.
But Ethan has been planning.
And slowly, over days, weeks, months, he has been putting together our escape plan.
It has been 1,400 days since Ethan and I tried to escape our father.
1,370 days since we started to scratch our days of captivity into the door.
10 days until we turn eighteen.
Four days until we get the fuck out of here.

Not many kids can say they have a superhero for a father.
My Dad was an amazing man. He was the coolest person in the world.
Known as our town’s superhero, he used his newfound powers to bring down evil villains who threatened to take over.
Nobody knew how he and a number of others acquired their abilities.
There were rumours of a chemical explosion in the powerplant.
Some people even believed my Dad was from a different planet, while others were convinced it was natural human evolution. My Dad could shoot lasers out of his eyes, and he was super strong.
When I was seven years old, he single-handedly stopped The Cerebral Drainer, a psychopath with a vacuum like power who took the lives of ten innocent people, sucking out their brains in broad daylight. Dad saved a child live on local TV, swooping down from the sky and telling the panicking crowd everything is going to be okay. Then when I was twelve, Dad took down Rat Face, a villain who filled the streets with disease ridden rodents.
My Dad was our town’s superhero, and in exchange for keeping his secret from the rest of the world, he protected all of us.
He was the best superhero (and father) by day, and family-man and loving husband by night. I was Millie Myers, a completely ordinary high school girl, and daughter of Star-man.
It wasn't out of the ordinary for the press to be swarming our door when I got home from school.
Pushing through the crowd of my Dad’s adoring fans, I flashed my perfect smile at the cameras.
As Star-man’s daughter, I was yet to reveal my power to the town.
I could tell they were gunning for it, their wide and frenzied eyes raking me up and down.
The older I was getting, the less patient the town was. Dad told them in a press conference that I was just a late bloomer. Channel 7 news was waiting for me at our front door, immediately sticking a microphone in my face. I was told not to talk to the press. I was tired, and the cameras were hurting my eyes.
The anchorwoman, Heather Carlisle, was already yelling in my face.
“Millie Myers! Is it true your father is currently interrogating the son of the infamous villain, Six-Eyes?”
Six Eyes was the opposite of my father.
Dad strived to protect our town and everyone in it.
Six Eyes, who was famous for the mutation that came with his ability, sought to destroy it. It was almost a year since he had brainwashed the Mayor and almost taken control of our tiny town.
Dad did manage to apprehend him, only for Six Eyes to break out of prison two weeks later.
His eighteen year old son, Cartwright, wanted nothing to do with him. He had even legally changed his name to get as far away from his father as possible.
The boy was only in town for a few weeks, on vacation from college.
However, over the last few days, my father had reasons to believe Six-Eyes was in contact with his estranged son.
So, he planned to question the kid on his Dad’s whereabouts.
I twisted around, maintaining a wide smile. “No comment.” I told the cameras.
The anchorwoman nodded slowly, thrusting her microphone further into my face. I had to hold back a sneeze. “But your father is interrogating him now, correct? Millie, can you tell us what… techniques he is using?” She demanded, her expression riddled with excitement.
She was trying to get me to spill or trip over what I was saying so my words could be taken out of context.
But I was already heavily media trained not to say a thing. I couldn't say the same for when I was a little younger.
I blindly told the press a lot of things I regret.
Dad didn't get mad easily, but his smile did start to slightly falter when I told Channel 7 our family's business.
Shutting the press down, I shook my head, making sure to stretch my lips into a big, cheesy grin. Just like my Dad told me. I cleared my throat.
“Rest assured, Cartwright is in good hands, I can promise you all that.”
I nodded at the crowd, making direct eye contact with each of them. Dad said if I wanted the crowd to believe my earnest words, I had to look into each and every eye, and mean it. That's what I did.
“As we all know, the son of Six Eyes is not a bad person, and we should not blame him for his father’s crimes. I cannot speak for my Dad, but I can assure you, he will find the villain Six Eyes.”
I held my breath, pausing for just enough time for the crowd to register my words.
“And bring him to justice.”
When I turned to open my door, the spell was broken, more questions thrown at me.
“Millie, is it true you have not inherited your father’s abilities?”
Someone else screamed in my face, and I choked down a yell.
“Millie Myers, can you tell us more about your father’s interrogation?!”
I shrugged. “I don't know. He's just talking to him.”
“Millie!” A wide eyed redhead followed me, stumbling over my mother’s rose garden.
When he carelessly stamped on a blooming rose, I resisted the urge to shove him back. He looked like an ammateur, a college kid, maybe, armed with just his iPhone and a dream.
The guy got close.
Too close for comfort, swiping at my jacket.
His breath was just coffee and cigarettes. “Are you aware of the photos floating around of you and Kai Hendrix, the son of Oculus? Can you confirm that you are in a relationship?”
A younger woman threw herself in front of him.
“Miss Myers, is there a reason why your brother does not come outside–”
Ignoring them, I opened the door, stepped inside our house, and slammed it behind me. Once inside, I let myself breathe, dropping my backpack and pulling off my jacket. There was a folded square of paper tucked into my pocket.
I pulled it out and ripped it into pieces. There were exactly 1,370 tally marks carved into our front door. With a rusty nail, I scratched another tally, crossing a group of four. 1,371 days.
Kicking off my shoes, I strode into the downstairs living room.
“I'm home.” I told my twin brother.
Ethan Myers was born three minutes after me. We weren't classed as identical twins, but Mom was convinced we were.
Both of us had thick brown hair, bearing our mother’s soft features. While I kept mine in a strict ponytail, Ethan’s had grown out lighter and curlier than mine, hanging in dark eyes. Ethan was the Myers twin who was not in the town’s spotlight.
My brother was in his usual place, sitting on the couch, knees pressed to his chest, half lidded eyes glued to the corpse of our TV. The screen had been hollowed out a long time ago. I skipped into the kitchen and filled a glass of orange juice, took a quick sip, and headed over to my brother, pressing the drink to his lips.
Ethan didn't respond for a moment, before his lazy eyes rolled to me, life erupting into his expression. He gulped it down, juice trickling down his chin.
When I withdrew the glass, he shot me a grateful smile. I winced when he straightened up, the sound of jingling metal sending me stumbling back.
“Thanks, Mills.”
He held up his right hand, just like when we were little kids. “High five?”
I ignored his childlike grin, hollowed out eyes penetrating right through me.
Ethan was never looking at me. He was always looking over my shoulder. But when I followed his gaze, there was nothing there. I ruffled his hair, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him.
But I had to keep my distance.
I stepped back, my gaze trailing the ceiling. “Where's Dad?”
Ethan’s eyes travelled back to the TV, his lips pricking into a smile.
“Basement.” He said. “Daddy is interrogating the villain’s son.”
I nodded, pulling my Switch from my bag and dropping it into his lap.
It used to be Ethan’s. In fact, he had carved his initials into the back. “You can play with this, you know." I forced out, trying to stop my hands from trembling.
“You don't have to keep…” I turned to the shattered TV screen, my heart catapulting into my mouth. Ethan didn't look at me, his gaze boring into the TV.
He didn't respond, so I headed towards the basement door.
But not before my brother let out a hysterical giggle.
When I turned to him, Ethan was seventeen years old, laughing at invisible cartoons.
“Do you expect me to play with no fucking hands?”
I didn't, or couldn't, reply.
“Hey, Millie?” Ethan hummed, when I pulled open the basement door.
The chill that followed set my nerve endings on fire. My brother’s voice was deeper, no longer the childish giggle I'd gotten used to. In the corner of my eye, his head turned towards me. Standing on the threshold for a fraction of a second, I think part of me wondered if Ethan’s mind had pieced itself back together.
“Mom wants juice too.”
My twin’s voice was suddenly so small. “Can you get her some?”
I pretended not to hear him, skipping down to the basement, ignoring how cold each step was, the ingrained red dried into concrete. The best part of my day was visiting my father while he was working. I held my breath, easing my way down each step. “Hey, Dad?” I called, easing myself through the dark.
I always made sure to announce my presence. “Daddy.” I pulled my lips into the biggest, cheesiest smile. “I'm home.”
“Pumpkin!” Dad’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. “How's my favorite girl doing?”
Moving further down the stairs, I could hear screaming.
Wailing.
Sobbing.
There were specific rules I had to abide by when stepping inside the basement.
I had to be extra quiet if my father was doing superhero business. Over the years, though, Dad had relaxed the rules a little. When I pushed through the plastic sheeting, Daddy had already opened up the boy’s head. It's not like I was surprised. He'd moved away from the interrogation stage a long time ago.
Star-man stood in a simple suit and tie, a white coat draped over.
My father was young for his age, dark brown hair and pale features.
Cartwright didn't look so good, lying on his back, his half lidded gaze glued to the ceiling.
I could see sharp red spilled across the floor and the bed he was strapped to.
Star-man loomed over him, cradling the boy’s jerking head between blood slicked gloves. The closer I got, I could see the exposed meat of the boy’s brain leaking from the pearly white of his skull.
Closer.
Cartwright's body was quaking, his wrists straining against velcro straps.
My father’s fingers gently stroked across the pink of his brain, tiny sparks of electricity bleeding from his index. Star-man's grin widened, and I watched the villain’s son writhing under his touch.
I could see the tiny sparks of electricity running from Dad’s fingers, forcing his victim into submission. The villain’s son’s eyes rolled back, a wet sounding sob escaping his lips. He was still conscious, and could feel everything.
Star-man lifted his head, his eyes finding me.
“Sweetie! How was school?”
He let go of Cartwright's head, delicately changing his gloves for brand new clinical white ones. “Your teacher called about a certain test you have been trying to avoid.” Dad tutted, swiping his bloody hands on his coat.
When Cartwright tried to wrench from the bed, he knocked the kid back down with a laugh. “Millie, I did say, there will be consequences if you flunk your tests.”
He gestured for me to come closer with a blood drenched glove, and I did.
Star-man prodded a single finger into the raw flesh of Cartwright's brain, and the boy screamed, writhing, blood running thick from his nose. “Do I need to take your phone away, hmm? How about the school trip to New York? Millie, I don't have to sign the permission slip.” He turned back to the villain’s son, hanging over the boy with a laugh.
“What do you think?” He cleared his throat.
When Dad nodded at me, I laughed too. “Young Mr Cartwright, the human brain does not have nerves, so I don't know why you're screaming. It is quite embarrassing for a boy of your age.”
He slapped the boy’s cheek playfully, and Cartwright wailed.
1,400 days, I thought, watching my father torture the teenage boy.
1,400 days since Star-man walked into our house, burned down our door, and announced himself as our new father.
I was thirteen years old in middle school.
Ethan and I were watching TV in the living room, and there he was.
Star-man, with his signature grin, standing between the melted remnants of our front door.
Stella, our little sister, squeaked in delight.
“Star-man!” She jumped off of the couch.
Ethan gently dragged her back, holding her to his chest.
“Hey, Mom?” He yelled, his voice shaking.
“There's someone at the door.”
Star-man chuckled, taking a step inside our hallway.
“Oh, no, I'm not here for your mother.”
1,400 days since he murdered our mother, lasering her head cleanly from her shoulders when she threw herself in front of us and begged him to take her.
There was wet warmth running across the concrete floor. I barely noticed, hopping over it.
1,400 days since Star-man burned our little sister alive in front of our eyes.
Star-man didn't want three children.
He wanted two.
1,400 days since our father nailed wooden planks over the door, announcing Ethan and I as his legacies.
Ethan started to spiral. He tried to escape out his bedroom window, and then more dangerously, jumping off of the roof of our house, and that just made our father angry. He burned a hole in the TV, and then hollowed out the screen.
Star-man just wanted a son and a daughter. That's what he told my brother.
He could not procreate because of the mutation causing his ability. But he had always wanted children.
Star-man promised us he was going to be the best father anyone would ask for.
And he was.
100 days after murdering our mother and sister, Ethan and I were plunged into the town’s spotlight.
“These are my children!” Star-man told a crowd of flashing cameras.
He wrapped his arms around the two of us, pulling us closer.
*“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet Millie and Ethan Myers from my first marriage.”
Star-man addressed the crowd with earnest eyes.
“I know what you're thinking, and no, these two are little rascals,” he ruffled our hair a little too hard, and I made sure to laugh and smile and not cry. “Millie and Ethan do not share my abilities.”
His lips spread into a grin.
“Yet.”
That word had been hanging over me since the press-conference.
Yet.
Presently, Dad was crawling in my head again.
Smile, Millie!.
I did, smiling so much, blood pooled from my lips.
Dad promised neither of us would be sad again. We wouldn't fear him or anything else. In fact, we were going to be happy, smiling, perfect children forever, his shining legacies he would dangle in front of the town on our eighteenth birthday.
It was his birthday present to us, and I was so excited.
The closer I was getting to my father, I could sense him fashioning my smile, wider and wider, until I couldn't breathe.
He didn't care that I was bleeding.
That my eyes were stinging.
All he cared about was that I loved him as my father.
“Come here, Millie.”
I forced myself forwards, swallowing vomit filling the back of my mouth.
If I screamed, I would end up like my brother. Ethan was on a permanent time out until his 18th birthday. Star-man was yet to forgive my twin trying to stab him at Thanksgiving dinner. Dad said Ethan’s mental state was puberty, but I was more akin to believing it was a mixture of trauma, as well as our father’s attempt to poison my brother with powers at fourteen years old which almost killed him. Dad was smart enough to stop the procedure before he killed his only son.
I blinked, my legs buckling, footsteps faltering.
Sometimes I think I can pull away from his influence.
“Millie Myers.” Dad hummed, skimming his finger across a variety of scalpels. Cartwright watched him feverishly. “Don't make me ask again, Pumpkiiiiin.”
Still.
I felt my thoughts start to melt away, replaced with artificial happiness choking me. Our father was the best Dad in the whole world. I wouldn't ask for any other father, and I didn't even miss my mother!
With that thought slamming into me, I skipped over to my father with a grin.
Around him were rejects, corpses piled to the ceiling, limbs and heads and torso’s contorted and merged into one mass of gore.
Human’s he attempted to turn into minions.
But there were also successful villains.
The Cerebral Drainer, and Rat Face had been ripped apart and put back together again. Dad was saving them for a quiet day. The Myers basement was my father’s workshop. When I joined his side, he ran his fingers over Cartwright's skull.
I was surprised when the villain’s son let out a sudden, hysterical giggle, his eyes rolling to pearly whites. “What are you doing to him?” I asked, intrigued, running my hands over the boy’s restraints. This time, Cartwright's body contorted into an arch, maniacal laughter escaping his lips.
When his back slammed into metal, the ground rumbled.
“Now, what is funny, hmm?” Star-man asked in a low hum.
The boy responded by spitting in his face, shrieking with giggles.
Dad cleared his throat, swiping blood from his cheek.
“That's not funny.”
I was keenly aware of several instruments dangling above my head.
Cartwright's body jolted, and they hit the ground.
Dad turned his attention to me. “What is your nightmare of a brother doing, young lady?”
His words shattered part of his influence.
I felt my breath start to quicken, my heart starting to pound.
Fear.
Ethan hadn't moved in days, weeks, months.
Glued to that one seat, caught inside his own delusion.
Ethan was watching TV when Mom’s brains were splattered across the walls.
He was watching TV when our little sister’s flesh bubbled into the living room carpet.
“Ethan is watching TV.” I hummed, “What are you doing to the villain’s son?” I pointed to the boy’s contorting fingers. They turned clockwise, straining under harsh velcro straps.
Cartwright was trying to twist off my head like a bottletop. I was lucky to have my father’s protection.
Dad shot me a grin. “Well, you see, Millie.” He said, shoving the hysterical boy back onto the bed. Madness. I saw it in his eyes, igniting every part of his face, running through his nerve endings.
That is what made a villain, what we all saw on the local news.
It was the loss of humanity, logic quite literally burned from the brain stem.
Complete, unbridled euphoria, accepting insanity.
I had already seen this exact look.
The Cerebral Drainer’s psychotic grin.
Rat Face’s all too familiar and horrific chittering laugh.
Six Eyes’s Alice In Wonderland smile.
Dad rocked the boy’s head back and forth. Cartwright giggled along, his gaze finding nothing, penetrating nothing. His hands went limp, and he gave up trying to yank my brain from my skull. “We can't have heroes without villains, can we?”
I reached out, poking the boy in the face.
“So, he's like his father?”
Dad almost looked like a proud father. “Oh, no, honey, he's better than his father. He's already setting an example.” Starman nudged me playfully. “Your father would not exist without the bad guys,” he said, tracing a finger over the boy’s cheek. “We’re just lucky we have a town full of naive fuck-wits.”
Cartwright laughed harder. Hard enough to send him toppling off of the bed with a wet, meaty sounding smack.
I was partially aware of my body reacting. My breaths quickened, a thick slime creeping up my throat. I think I stepped back. I think I almost screamed.
I forgot his head was hanging open, half of his brains leaking out.
But I don't think Cartwright needed a brain anymore.
Whatever was left of it was blackened, thick, poisoned streaks running up down what had been healthy pink and grey.
My Dad scooped him up, and plonked him back onto ice cold steel.
His evil laugh was fake, manufactured, programmed directly into his mind.
Part of me wondered if this was his father’s fate too.
Six Eyes.
Was he a result of my father’s experiments?
The crazy thing is, the more I want to scream, my chest heaving, fear starting to gnaw away at me, the stronger my father’s influence is. The villain’s son was stitched back up with not even a hair out of place and thrown into the back with the other finished minions.
If he recovered well, Cartwright, son of Six Eyes, would be going on a town rampage very soon.
Well, he was the villain’s son after all.
Instead of screaming, I smiled.
Dad taught me everything about cutting up humans. Human brains were so easy to manipulate.
Because humans were bad.
The people like my Dad were better.
I grabbed a scalpel, sticking it into Cartwright's hand.
His whimper of pain collapsing into hysterical laughter didn't give me hope.
If he reacted positively to a blade going through his skin, he wasn't worth saving.
Once that thought crossed my mind, however, I REALLY LOVED MY DAD.
The mental declaration almost sent me to my knees.
“Go upstairs and do your homework.” Dad said, wheeling Cartwright into the back room. “I'll be upstairs to cook dinner in ten minutes.”
“Sure, dad.”
His influence was like a wire wrapped around my throat.
Squeezing.
“Oh, and Millie?”
I didn't turn around. “Yes?”
“Chocolate or strawberry for your birthday cake?”
I froze, my smile stretching right across my face.
He knew my answer. Dad baked us a cake 4 hours after I trashed the slimy remnants of my little sister. Star-man forced me to peel my sister from the carpet and dump her in a trash bag.
I could still smell her charred flesh hanging in the air.
Star-man made a giant chocolate cake and frosting.
He made us eat every single morsel.
Every bite was agonising.
“Chocolate, Daddy.” I said, swallowing my lunch.
Dad chuckled, and somewhere in the back, Cartwright started laughing.
Starting as quiet giggles, they became full on guffaws.
Star-man ignored him.
“That's right, Princess.”
I nodded, heading back up the stairs.
Greeting my brother, I cranked the Alexa to full volume.
I always listen to music when I'm doing my homework.
Filling a glass of water, I held it to Ethan’s lips with three fingers.
Ethan downed it in three gulps, and then nodded in one single motion.
Star-man may be a highly intelligent psychopath, but he is yet to notice my brother is not as brain dead as he thinks.
Yes, he still watches TV.
But he's also thinking.
Dad is under the impression my twin doesn't need to be under his control.
But Ethan has been planning.
And slowly, over days, weeks, months, he has been putting together our escape plan.
It has been 1,400 days since Ethan and I tried to escape our father.
1,370 days since we started to scratch our days of captivity into the door.
10 days until we turn eighteen.
Four days until we get the fuck out of here.

I honestly feel like the AoT fandom has died lately, where are all the fans at? Seriously lol I haven’t heard anyone mention it in forever. But I’m still here! I’d love to do an AoT roleplay with somebody. The story is beautiful, even if it is quite gruesome and sad. There are still aspects that still shine out, one of the main reasons as to why it’ll always hold the place of favorite anime in my heart.
To start things off, a small introduction on my part. You can call me Hina or Hinata and I’m from Japan. I’m currently in the GMT+1 timezone temporarily for vacation but I usually am in the PST timezone. I’m mentioning this because sometimes time zones can matter or change the roleplay/roleplay friendships. I don’t mind what timezone you’re in, honestly, as long as we can talk things out without a longggg pause. I have been writing since I was 9 when I joined a writing campaign and a story competition held by my school which sparked the writeroleplayer in me and I am currently 22 years old. To finish my introduction off, I am someone who listens to goth music/vkei (i LOVE plastic tree. i’m so happy to see they got some of their popularity back on tiktok), I like to play and watch basketball, I watch anime and I am currently rewatching bluelock as a refresher, and.. I also play many video games.
Now onto things I’m looking for roleplay-wise. I mentioned something about Attack on Titan but I didn’t talk about anything really specific. That’s the thing. I don’t mind what story we do. It could be something modern AU with the original characters, another story of Mikasa and Eren, maybe even an OC with one of the characters in a more modern setting. It could also be something done in the original timeline. Going through the events of becoming a scout and the rumbling as two other oc’s or one OC and one original character. I’m honestly down for anything! Just hit me with it.
CHARACTERS
I tend to use character sheets to describe my character, these usually consist of names, background, and personality. More so on appearances, I prefer using animated or drawn references than real life people. I enjoy good enough references where I get the idea of how the character would look like.
The types of characters I write are either the lone wolf type that has some sad past which leads them to want to join someone for a redemption arc or the bubbly character who is the one that brings the mood up and is usually seen as trustworthy and of that kind.
I like all types of tropes, especially enemies to lovers or rivalry. I also really enjoy opposites attract as a whole from either opposite personality or something else they would be opposites in. Enemies to lovers takes my heart, though. I love seeing the characters go past the urge to ultimately hate each other and/or go past their usual way of disliking the others lineage or upcoming.
REQUIREMENT
I think this is my last paragraph on the roleplay. It’s the most important, at least. Requirements. All roleplay searches come with them. Or at least that’s what I heard! But don’t fret, there isn’t much.
I’ve seen this as one of the most used requirements, and I agree with it. As someone who’s first language wasn’t English, I understand that you may not be great at it. But please, I do require a partner that at least has proper use of grammar and punctuation. You don’t even have to use big words or anything, just at least know where to put your periods and the placement of your words.
My second requirement is for you to be LITERATE! Please. I’m a big writer, I tend to ramble on and tend to write more than what I thought I would. (like i’m doing right now) I write multiple paragraphs from the starter until the scene relaxes. I also understand that sometimes writing big blocks of words every response is tiring or boring so I don’t expect it all the time, at least after the starter has been made and in more important scenes. Dialogue also cuts my replies shorter.
Please please please be polite in OOC! We may just be role playing together but kindness goes all ways. If we do include OOC, I enjoy talking about many things. My day, movies, games, funny moments and stories, all of that!
I think that’s the end to this wonderful journey of an ad about my search. I hope you are still here, fellow writer! I would LOVE it if you reached out to me! This wasn’t all for nothing, right!
But don’t leave yet! I do have a passcode. I know this was a jumble of words and rambling but I still have to put one in. I heard that there’s a lot of people on here that don’t read things fully and miss out on rules or information! But.. Just because you read through this all, I’ll gladly give you options on the passcode! Also please put in an introduction of yourself! Don’t think “Oh maybe I shouldn’t bother this person with too much to read”! I like seeing big blocks.
PASSCODE:
What’s your dream country to travel to and why?
OR
Who’s your favorite TV show / Cartoon / Game / Anime character?
Feel free to pick both! Now, that’s all from me. Please don’t put your request as just “Wanna rp”!

• H 💕

Here is the Free Food Offer List - UPDATED for June 2024.
Important Note PLEASE READ: Aisle appears to be trying to stop link sharing so these links won't work properly on laptops/computers. You have 2 options.

1. Either access them on your mobile phone.
2. Open the link directly from the page into an incognito browser.

Combined List of Current Free Food Offers (Most Are Paypal or Venmo Rebates with Receipt Picture).
I decided to put together a master list of current paypal/venmo rebate free food offers. Most are offered through companies such as Sampoll, Aisle, Westock, and Ourcart.
New Free Deals Added to This list:
2x Free Joys Days Cookies at Walmart (also possible money maker)
Free Go Macro 4 pack (walmart, target)
Free Original Crumbs Cookie Jar at Food City
Free Fresh Fizz Can - Erewhon Only
Free Daily Crunch (Sprouts)
Free bag of Spritzal Cookies at Kroger
Free Little Sesame Hummus
Free Botticelli Pasta Sauce
FREE Box of The Bear and The Rat Frozen Yogurt Dog Treat at Sprouts
Free 4 pack Bored Cow - Albertsons
Free cretors popcorn snack
Free Joolies Date Pops at Shoprite
Free Casa Verde
Free Onesto crackers
Free Ithaca Salsa (Separate Offer @ Target & Fresh Thyme)
FREE can of Leisure Hydration
Free Resist protein bar
Free Deux Donuts
Free Abe's Cupcakes at Sprouts
Free CauliPuffs snack at Hy-ee or The Fresh Market - Text offer to (325) 312-5960
Free Remix Your Snack Yogurt [Printable Coupon]
Free Lundberg microwave rice pouch at Meijer
Free Clean Cause - Walmart
Free Bear's Fruit probiotic soda at Wegmans
Free Crumbs Cookie Jar at Shaws Only
Free Michele’s granola from Whole Foods
Free Fynd Breakfast Patties
Free Agro Jerky at a Safeway or Albertsons
Free Scoot frozen lemonade at Giant
Free Just Ice Tea Bottle
Free truffle mac & cheese (Whole Foods)
Free Yofit at SaveMart, Lucky, Gelson's & Bristol Farms
Free Yofiit at Sprouts
Free Nature Valley Product (select varieties) After Rebate
FREE Tru Can At Walmart
Free chasing dreams snack puffs
Previous deals still ongoing:
Free HALFDAY Can Link Offer
Free Actual Veggies Burgers
2x Free Rockstar Energy Drinks (get $5 back, Walmart sells for under $2 each) - Can do every 2 weeks
Free Repurpose Tableware
Free Wellah Preworkout
Free Wellah Hydration
Free Fresh Fizz (at Fresh Thyme)
Free Brekki (at kroger banner stores)
Free Ithica Salsa
2x Free Fropro Bars
Free Oat Haus (Giant)
Free Corpse Reviver
Free Bag of Popchips
Free Can of Volley
Free Revol Greens at Target
Free Tru Blu Snack (select retailers)
Free C4 Performance Energy Drink
Free Lundberg Rice (meijer)
Free Cinnabon Bonbites When you down load the app
Free Goodwheat pasta - Offer Code: ARCADIA23
Free Planet Oat Barista Edition - use the code POBL0224 to activate offer
Free Sea Monster Snacks (Harris Teeter)
Free Prevail Jerky - Also get a $3.50 money maker back with Makeena. Use code GKIWLS for an extra $1
Free Local Weather Drink - Text (251) 333-2433
Free Sahlen Hot Dogs (Giant)
Free Revol Greens (Gelsons)
Free Revolv Greens (Any Retailer)
Free the Daily Dog Supplement (Chewy and requires review)
Free Pirq (King Soopers)
Free Joolies Date Pops
Free Poppi Soda
Free Matcha Mind Supplement (amazon)
Free Bag of Karma Nuts
Free Suja Protein Drink (Target)
Free C4 ULTIMATE Drink
Free Balanced Tiger Bar
2 Free Bottles of Barcode Fitness Water
Free Soli (Harris Teeter)
Free a2 infant formula
3x Free mybar at GNC
Free Earth breeze laundry sheets (Giant)
Free Soli (Target)
Free Yummers
Free SeaMonsters bag
4 Free Canns beverage (MN only)
Free Pirq - Albertsons, Acme, Safeway
Free Plant Provisions Product
Free C4 Energy (Aisle version)
Free 12 Tides Bag (Whole Foods)
10 Free Bottles Prosupps at 24 Hour Fitness
Free Amazi
Free Wallys Naturals
Free Magic Mind (Sprouts)
Free So Good So You Shot (Sprouts)
3 Free Eboost at Kroger
Free Doctor D Can at Stop and Shop
Free C4 drink (Ourcart version)
Free Can of Taika
Free Sunny Tahini Dip
Free Gatsby Chocolate Bar
Free Bar of Gooey Spread (Vtagz version)
Free Mezcla Bar
Free Blume Product (Target)
Free Just for Dogs (select retailers)
Free Bar of 7th Heaven (Giant & Martins)
Free From the Ground Up Snack
Free Forage Kombucha (select retailers)
Free Unite Bar (Meijer)
Free Natural Stacks Zen or Sleep (vitamin shoppe)
Free Vitamonk Sleep (amazon)
Free Goldthread Drink
Free Oceans Halo Snack
Free Dr. D Drink
Free Pirq (HEB)
Free Pitaya Bowl (Walmart)
Free Daily Crunch (Wegmans)
Free Natural Stacks Supplement (Sams club)
Free can of Hop Wtr
Free Cultured Chili Sauce
Free You Need This Puffs
Free Bag of Chifles
Free Can of Yesly
Free 6 Pack of Bubblr
Buy 1 Get 4 Free Belli Welli (Sprouts) - Good deal but not free
2x Free Undercover Snacks (Target)
2x Free Undercover Snacks (Walmart)
Free Bored Cow Milk
Free Chkp Yogurt
Free Ketone-IQ Shot
Free Flock Chicken Crisps
Free Deux Cookie Dough
Free Brutus Broth
Free Onceagain Crackers
Free can of Eboost
Free Bellway Fiber @ Wegmans
Free Mush Oats
Free WildWonder Drink Link
FREE Cloudwater Drink
Free Surely (Boissons stores Only)
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In the age of digital information, blogs have become a versatile platform for sharing knowledge, experiences, and stories. Whether you are a reader looking for enriching content or a writer aiming to start your own blog, understanding the variety of non-video blog genres can open up new horizons. Here’s a detailed look at the diverse types of non-video blog content you can explore or create:

1. Personal Blogs

Personal blogs are a window into the blogger’s life and thoughts, often providing a unique and authentic perspective.

• Diaries and Journals: These blogs act as online diaries, where individuals share their daily experiences, reflections, and personal growth journeys. They offer a sense of intimacy and authenticity, often resonating deeply with readers.
  
• Travel Blogs: For the wanderlust-driven, travel blogs are a treasure trove of adventure stories, travel tips, destination guides, and cultural insights. They inspire others to explore the world and often provide practical advice for travelers.
  

2. Professional and Career Blogs

Professional blogs focus on career development and industry-specific insights, catering to those seeking to advance their professional lives.

• Industry Insights: These blogs cover trends, news, and analyses in specific fields such as technology, finance, healthcare, and more. They are essential for professionals looking to stay updated with the latest developments in their industry.
  
• Career Advice: Offering job search tips, resume writing guides, interview techniques, and professional growth strategies, these blogs are invaluable resources for job seekers and career climbers.
  

3. Educational Blogs

Educational blogs aim to inform and teach, making complex subjects accessible and engaging.

• How-to Guides: These blogs provide step-by-step instructions on a myriad of topics, from cooking recipes and DIY projects to tech tutorials and creative skills. Unlike short video tutorials, these guides offer detailed explanations and written instructions that can be referred to at any time.
  
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4. Health and Wellness Blogs

Focused on promoting a healthy lifestyle, these blogs cover physical, mental, and emotional well-being.

• Fitness Tips: Covering exercise routines, workout plans, and fitness challenges, these blogs motivate readers to maintain an active lifestyle. They often include printable workout sheets and in-depth discussions on fitness theory.
  
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5. Lifestyle Blogs

Lifestyle blogs offer a broad spectrum of content related to daily living and personal interests.

• Fashion and Beauty: Style tips, product reviews, and makeup tutorials are staples of fashion and beauty blogs, helping readers stay trendy and confident. Written content often includes detailed descriptions, step-by-step guides, and product comparisons.
  
• Home and Garden: From interior design inspiration to home improvement projects and gardening advice, these blogs cater to those who love creating beautiful and functional living spaces. They provide in-depth articles, how-to guides, and maintenance tips.
  
• Parenting and Family: Parenting blogs provide advice on child development, family activities, and managing family dynamics, offering support to parents at every stage. These blogs often include detailed schedules, activity guides, and developmental milestones.
  

6. Hobby and Interest Blogs

These blogs are dedicated to sharing passion projects and hobbies, offering both inspiration and practical tips.

• Photography: Covering techniques, equipment reviews, and showcasing stunning work, photography blogs inspire both amateurs and professionals. They provide detailed guides on camera settings, post-processing techniques, and composition tips.
  
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• Gaming: Game reviews, strategies, and industry news keep gamers informed and engaged with their favorite pastime. These blogs provide in-depth reviews, strategy guides, and analysis that go beyond what is typically covered in short videos.
  

7. Technology Blogs

Tech blogs are essential for staying updated with the fast-paced world of technology.

• Gadget Reviews: Detailed reviews of the latest gadgets, highlighting pros and cons and user experiences, help readers make informed purchasing decisions. Written reviews often provide comprehensive comparisons and long-term usage insights.
  
• Software and Apps: These blogs review and provide usage tips for various software and apps, recommending the best tools for specific needs. They often include screenshots, detailed feature lists, and user manuals.
  
• Programming and Development: Coding tutorials, project showcases, and industry trends are common themes. These blogs provide step-by-step coding tutorials, project breakdowns, and detailed explanations of programming concepts.
  

8. Business and Entrepreneurship Blogs

These blogs are a goldmine for those looking to start or grow their businesses.

• Startup Stories: Success stories, challenges faced, and lessons learned from various entrepreneurs provide valuable insights. These blogs often include interviews, case studies, and detailed narratives that go beyond surface-level content.
  
• Marketing Tips: Digital marketing strategies, SEO advice, and social media tips help businesses grow their online presence. In-depth articles provide detailed strategies, actionable tips, and case studies.
  
• Finance and Investing: Personal finance tips, investment advice, and market analyses are common topics. These blogs often feature detailed financial plans, investment guides, and market trend analyses.
  

9. Creative Writing Blogs

Creative writing blogs offer a space for both writers and readers to explore the world of literature.

• Short Stories and Poetry: Original works, writing prompts, and creative exercises inspire both writers and readers. These blogs often feature complete stories, poems, and interactive writing challenges.
  
• Writing Tips: Techniques for fiction and non-fiction, publishing advice, and writing prompts help aspiring writers improve their craft. Detailed articles cover various aspects of writing, from character development to plot structure.
  

10. Social and Political Commentary Blogs

These blogs provide deep dives into current events, politics, and social issues.

• Current Events: Opinions on news, political analysis, and social issues are common themes. These blogs often feature in-depth analyses, historical context, and well-researched arguments.
  
• Advocacy and Activism: Campaign updates, social justice topics, and ways to get involved provide readers with actionable steps to make a difference. Detailed guides, resources, and personal stories drive engagement and awareness.
  

11. Entertainment Blogs

Entertainment blogs keep readers updated on the latest in movies, TV, music, and books.

• Movie and TV Reviews: Critiques, recommendations, and industry news provide insights into the entertainment world. In-depth reviews and analyses offer more than just a quick overview.
  
• Music Blogs: Album reviews, artist interviews, and music trends keep readers tuned in to the latest sounds. Detailed reviews and interviews provide deeper insights into the music industry.
  
• Book Reviews: Summaries, critiques, and reading lists help readers discover new books and authors. Detailed reviews and analyses delve into themes, characters, and narratives.
  

12. Environmental and Sustainability Blogs

These blogs focus on promoting eco-friendly practices and raising awareness about environmental issues.

• Green Living Tips: Eco-friendly practices, sustainable products, and lifestyle changes are common topics. Detailed guides and product reviews help readers make sustainable choices.
  
• Environmental Issues: Climate change, conservation efforts, and policy discussions educate readers on pressing environmental concerns. In-depth articles provide scientific data, case studies, and actionable steps.
  

Exploring these types of non-video blog content can provide a rich and varied reading experience, catering to different interests and needs. Whether you're looking to learn something new, find inspiration, or simply enjoy a good story, there’s a blog out there for you.

Prusa MK4, .4mm stock nozzle, stock air nozzle, upgraded heatsink fan redirect, smooth PEI bed, Overture PETG
Please keep in mind my printing is primarily the same products over and over which has specific requirements.
I've been running into issues with a few problems which I'm wondering are due to PETG or not.

• Nozzle Gathering: blobs that gather on the nozzle which then detach mid-print. Even if it does continue through without problem, light colors can see it through layers since it's burnt black. Typically happens during long flat layers like first layers. For infill I've learned to use Gyroid instead of Grid. Often if I have the time to watch the first layer I'll pause the print, scrape off anything that's gathered, and continue it.
• Bed Adhesion: For years I've ran into issues trying to get this filament to be easy to use with any type of bed. I have to resort to using the smooth PEI bed.

Using textured isn't an option as my prints require a smooth first surface.
I was never able to get a satin sheet to work with any filament at all. It would never adhere no matter how many of those sheets I'd try, temps I'd modify, or first layer settings I'd fiddle with.
Smooth is the only thing that works as it adheres, but detaching the prints often causes damage to the bed separating the PEI creating bubbles or peeling over time. It works wonderfully after the first few prints but some residue I can't get off makes it worse. Often I have to use a blade which can scratch up the bed making an ugly first layer (I've had to refund an order before because of this appearance). Freezing the plate does nothing. If I can catch it while it's hot that can help a bit but if it cools and sits for a while then it's way worse. I clean the bed regularly with iso alcohol especially if my fingerprints are left on it.
To avoid it sticking too much I've learned to use hairspray but that has its own issues. I have to cover the initial nozzle discharge area with tape as when it is doing the nozzle cleaning the hairspray will cause a slight stick which makes that process fail. Plus there's a couple of occasions it doesn't stick at all. Worse part is once the hairspray layers gather up too much I have to fully clean the printbed with soap and water. It can also cause leveling issues on occasion.
I've also used painters tape but it's unreliable and a pain to reapply every time it accidentally gets scratched or peels up. And over time it loses it's adhesion. Plus it leaves lines across the first layer which is not appealing.

• Color Temp Dependency, If I want solid consistent results I need slightly different temperature profiles for each color. When we're talking around 15 different color options for upwards of 20 different products it makes setting up and choosing from 300 different profiles obnoxious. Now, I have found a sweet spot for basically every color but it's not entirely reliable when it comes to stringing. White often requires a slightly lower temperature than black, for example.

So you might say, "Why don't you just use PLA?" This means I'll have to start the whole setup over again for every one of my products. Not only that it comes the temp testing for every color and brand. This would be quite the process. If it's actually down to my printer or slicer settings then I'd much rather do that. I also already have a stockpile of PETG so rebuying all new spools for the sake of switching over will cost a fortune that I don't have currently. Lastly, I'd have to do R&D for some of them since there is a bit of reliance on strength and I don't know if PLA (or PLA+) would be strong enough.
So I'm unsure what to do. Maybe test out some of my products in PLA and see if it's really worth it? Or is it just down to my printesettings?

Not many kids can say they have a superhero for a father.
My Dad was an amazing man. He was the coolest person in the world.
Known as our town’s superhero, he used his newfound powers to bring down evil villains who threatened to take over.
Nobody knew how he and a number of others acquired their abilities.
There were rumours of a chemical explosion in the powerplant.
Some people even believed my Dad was from a different planet, while others were convinced it was natural human evolution. My Dad could shoot lasers out of his eyes, and he was super strong.
When I was seven years old, he single-handedly stopped The Cerebral Drainer, a psychopath with a vacuum like power who took the lives of ten innocent people, sucking out their brains in broad daylight. Dad saved a child live on local TV, swooping down from the sky and telling the panicking crowd everything is going to be okay. Then when I was twelve, Dad took down Rat Face, a villain who filled the streets with disease ridden rodents.
My Dad was our town’s superhero, and in exchange for keeping his secret from the rest of the world, he protected all of us.
He was the best superhero (and father) by day, and family-man and loving husband by night. I was Millie Myers, a completely ordinary high school girl, and daughter of Star-man.
It wasn't out of the ordinary for the press to be swarming our door when I got home from school.
Pushing through the crowd of my Dad’s adoring fans, I flashed my perfect smile at the cameras.
As Star-man’s daughter, I was yet to reveal my power to the town.
I could tell they were gunning for it, their wide and frenzied eyes raking me up and down.
The older I was getting, the less patient the town was. Dad told them in a press conference that I was just a late bloomer. Channel 7 news was waiting for me at our front door, immediately sticking a microphone in my face. I was told not to talk to the press. I was tired, and the cameras were hurting my eyes.
The anchorwoman, Heather Carlisle, was already yelling in my face.
“Millie Myers! Is it true your father is currently interrogating the son of the infamous villain, Six-Eyes?”
Six Eyes was the opposite of my father.
Dad strived to protect our town and everyone in it.
Six Eyes, who was famous for the mutation that came with his ability, sought to destroy it. It was almost a year since he had brainwashed the Mayor and almost taken control of our tiny town.
Dad did manage to apprehend him, only for Six Eyes to break out of prison two weeks later.
His eighteen year old son, Cartwright, wanted nothing to do with him. He had even legally changed his name to get as far away from his father as possible.
The boy was only in town for a few weeks, on vacation from college.
However, over the last few days, my father had reasons to believe Six-Eyes was in contact with his estranged son.
So, he planned to question the kid on his Dad’s whereabouts.
I twisted around, maintaining a wide smile. “No comment.” I told the cameras.
The anchorwoman nodded slowly, thrusting her microphone further into my face. I had to hold back a sneeze. “But your father is interrogating him now, correct? Millie, can you tell us what… techniques he is using?” She demanded, her expression riddled with excitement.
She was trying to get me to spill or trip over what I was saying so my words could be taken out of context.
But I was already heavily media trained not to say a thing. I couldn't say the same for when I was a little younger.
I blindly told the press a lot of things I regret.
Dad didn't get mad easily, but his smile did start to slightly falter when I told Channel 7 our family's business.
Shutting the press down, I shook my head, making sure to stretch my lips into a big, cheesy grin. Just like my Dad told me. I cleared my throat.
“Rest assured, Cartwright is in good hands, I can promise you all that.”
I nodded at the crowd, making direct eye contact with each of them. Dad said if I wanted the crowd to believe my earnest words, I had to look into each and every eye, and mean it. That's what I did.
“As we all know, the son of Six Eyes is not a bad person, and we should not blame him for his father’s crimes. I cannot speak for my Dad, but I can assure you, he will find the villain Six Eyes.”
I held my breath, pausing for just enough time for the crowd to register my words.
“And bring him to justice.”
When I turned to open my door, the spell was broken, more questions thrown at me.
“Millie, is it true you have not inherited your father’s abilities?”
Someone else screamed in my face, and I choked down a yell.
“Millie Myers, can you tell us more about your father’s interrogation?!”
I shrugged. “I don't know. He's just talking to him.”
“Millie!” A wide eyed redhead followed me, stumbling over my mother’s rose garden.
When he carelessly stamped on a blooming rose, I resisted the urge to shove him back. He looked like an ammateur, a college kid, maybe, armed with just his iPhone and a dream.
The guy got close.
Too close for comfort, swiping at my jacket.
His breath was just coffee and cigarettes. “Are you aware of the photos floating around of you and Kai Hendrix, the son of Oculus? Can you confirm that you are in a relationship?”
A younger woman threw herself in front of him.
“Miss Myers, is there a reason why your brother does not come outside–”
Ignoring them, I opened the door, stepped inside our house, and slammed it behind me. Once inside, I let myself breathe, dropping my backpack and pulling off my jacket. There was a folded square of paper tucked into my pocket.
I pulled it out and ripped it into pieces. There were exactly 1,370 tally marks carved into our front door. With a rusty nail, I scratched another tally, crossing a group of four. 1,371 days.
Kicking off my shoes, I strode into the downstairs living room.
“I'm home.” I told my twin brother.
Ethan Myers was born three minutes after me. We weren't classed as identical twins, but Mom was convinced we were.
Both of us had thick brown hair, bearing our mother’s soft features. While I kept mine in a strict ponytail, Ethan’s had grown out lighter and curlier than mine, hanging in dark eyes. Ethan was the Myers twin who was not in the town’s spotlight.
My brother was in his usual place, sitting on the couch, knees pressed to his chest, half lidded eyes glued to the corpse of our TV. The screen had been hollowed out a long time ago. I skipped into the kitchen and filled a glass of orange juice, took a quick sip, and headed over to my brother, pressing the drink to his lips.
Ethan didn't respond for a moment, before his lazy eyes rolled to me, life erupting into his expression. He gulped it down, juice trickling down his chin.
When I withdrew the glass, he shot me a grateful smile. I winced when he straightened up, the sound of jingling metal sending me stumbling back.
“Thanks, Mills.”
He held up his right hand, just like when we were little kids. “High five?”
I ignored his childlike grin, hollowed out eyes penetrating right through me.
Ethan was never looking at me. He was always looking over my shoulder. But when I followed his gaze, there was nothing there. I ruffled his hair, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him.
But I had to keep my distance.
I stepped back, my gaze trailing the ceiling. “Where's Dad?”
Ethan’s eyes travelled back to the TV, his lips pricking into a smile.
“Basement.” He said. “Daddy is interrogating the villain’s son.”
I nodded, pulling my Switch from my bag and dropping it into his lap.
It used to be Ethan’s. In fact, he had carved his initials into the back. “You can play with this, you know." I forced out, trying to stop my hands from trembling.
“You don't have to keep…” I turned to the shattered TV screen, my heart catapulting into my mouth. Ethan didn't look at me, his gaze boring into the TV.
He didn't respond, so I headed towards the basement door.
But not before my brother let out a hysterical giggle.
When I turned to him, Ethan was seventeen years old, laughing at invisible cartoons.
“Do you expect me to play with no fucking hands?”
I didn't, or couldn't, reply.
“Hey, Millie?” Ethan hummed, when I pulled open the basement door.
The chill that followed set my nerve endings on fire. My brother’s voice was deeper, no longer the childish giggle I'd gotten used to. In the corner of my eye, his head turned towards me. Standing on the threshold for a fraction of a second, I think part of me wondered if Ethan’s mind had pieced itself back together.
“Mom wants juice too.”
My twin’s voice was suddenly so small. “Can you get her some?”
I pretended not to hear him, skipping down to the basement, ignoring how cold each step was, the ingrained red dried into concrete. The best part of my day was visiting my father while he was working. I held my breath, easing my way down each step. “Hey, Dad?” I called, easing myself through the dark.
I always made sure to announce my presence. “Daddy.” I pulled my lips into the biggest, cheesiest smile. “I'm home.”
“Pumpkin!” Dad’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. “How's my favorite girl doing?”
Moving further down the stairs, I could hear screaming.
Wailing.
Sobbing.
There were specific rules I had to abide by when stepping inside the basement.
I had to be extra quiet if my father was doing superhero business. Over the years, though, Dad had relaxed the rules a little. When I pushed through the plastic sheeting, Daddy had already opened up the boy’s head. It's not like I was surprised. He'd moved away from the interrogation stage a long time ago.
Star-man stood in a simple suit and tie, a white coat draped over.
My father was young for his age, dark brown hair and pale features.
Cartwright didn't look so good, lying on his back, his half lidded gaze glued to the ceiling.
I could see sharp red spilled across the floor and the bed he was strapped to.
Star-man loomed over him, cradling the boy’s jerking head between blood slicked gloves. The closer I got, I could see the exposed meat of the boy’s brain leaking from the pearly white of his skull.
Closer.
Cartwright's body was quaking, his wrists straining against velcro straps.
My father’s fingers gently stroked across the pink of his brain, tiny sparks of electricity bleeding from his index. Star-man's grin widened, and I watched the villain’s son writhing under his touch.
I could see the tiny sparks of electricity running from Dad’s fingers, forcing his victim into submission. The villain’s son’s eyes rolled back, a wet sounding sob escaping his lips. He was still conscious, and could feel everything.
Star-man lifted his head, his eyes finding me.
“Sweetie! How was school?”
He let go of Cartwright's head, delicately changing his gloves for brand new clinical white ones. “Your teacher called about a certain test you have been trying to avoid.” Dad tutted, swiping his bloody hands on his coat.
When Cartwright tried to wrench from the bed, he knocked the kid back down with a laugh. “Millie, I did say, there will be consequences if you flunk your tests.”
He gestured for me to come closer with a blood drenched glove, and I did.
Star-man prodded a single finger into the raw flesh of Cartwright's brain, and the boy screamed, writhing, blood running thick from his nose. “Do I need to take your phone away, hmm? How about the school trip to New York? Millie, I don't have to sign the permission slip.” He turned back to the villain’s son, hanging over the boy with a laugh.
“What do you think?” He cleared his throat.
When Dad nodded at me, I laughed too. “Young Mr Cartwright, the human brain does not have nerves, so I don't know why you're screaming. It is quite embarrassing for a boy of your age.”
He slapped the boy’s cheek playfully, and Cartwright wailed.
1,400 days, I thought, watching my father torture the teenage boy.
1,400 days since Star-man walked into our house, burned down our door, and announced himself as our new father.
I was thirteen years old in middle school.
Ethan and I were watching TV in the living room, and there he was.
Star-man, with his signature grin, standing between the melted remnants of our front door.
Stella, our little sister, squeaked in delight.
“Star-man!” She jumped off of the couch.
Ethan gently dragged her back, holding her to his chest.
“Hey, Mom?” He yelled, his voice shaking.
“There's someone at the door.”
Star-man chuckled, taking a step inside our hallway.
“Oh, no, I'm not here for your mother.”
1,400 days since he murdered our mother, lasering her head cleanly from her shoulders when she threw herself in front of us and begged him to take her.
There was wet warmth running across the concrete floor. I barely noticed, hopping over it.
1,400 days since Star-man burned our little sister alive in front of our eyes.
Star-man didn't want three children.
He wanted two.
1,400 days since our father nailed wooden planks over the door, announcing Ethan and I as his legacies.
Ethan started to spiral. He tried to escape out his bedroom window, and then more dangerously, jumping off of the roof of our house, and that just made our father angry. He burned a hole in the TV, and then hollowed out the screen.
Star-man just wanted a son and a daughter. That's what he told my brother.
He could not procreate because of the mutation causing his ability. But he had always wanted children.
Star-man promised us he was going to be the best father anyone would ask for.
And he was.
100 days after murdering our mother and sister, Ethan and I were plunged into the town’s spotlight.
“These are my children!” Star-man told a crowd of flashing cameras.
He wrapped his arms around the two of us, pulling us closer.
*“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet Millie and Ethan Myers from my first marriage.”
Star-man addressed the crowd with earnest eyes.
“I know what you're thinking, and no, these two are little rascals,” he ruffled our hair a little too hard, and I made sure to laugh and smile and not cry. “Millie and Ethan do not share my abilities.”
His lips spread into a grin.
“Yet.”
That word had been hanging over me since the press-conference.
Yet.
Presently, Dad was crawling in my head again.
Smile, Millie!.
I did, smiling so much, blood pooled from my lips.
Dad promised neither of us would be sad again. We wouldn't fear him or anything else. In fact, we were going to be happy, smiling, perfect children forever, his shining legacies he would dangle in front of the town on our eighteenth birthday.
It was his birthday present to us, and I was so excited.
The closer I was getting to my father, I could sense him fashioning my smile, wider and wider, until I couldn't breathe.
He didn't care that I was bleeding.
That my eyes were stinging.
All he cared about was that I loved him as my father.
“Come here, Millie.”
I forced myself forwards, swallowing vomit filling the back of my mouth.
If I screamed, I would end up like my brother. Ethan was on a permanent time out until his 18th birthday. Star-man was yet to forgive my twin trying to stab him at Thanksgiving dinner. Dad said Ethan’s mental state was puberty, but I was more akin to believing it was a mixture of trauma, as well as our father’s attempt to poison my brother with powers at fourteen years old which almost killed him. Dad was smart enough to stop the procedure before he killed his only son.
I blinked, my legs buckling, footsteps faltering.
Sometimes I think I can pull away from his influence.
“Millie Myers.” Dad hummed, skimming his finger across a variety of scalpels. Cartwright watched him feverishly. “Don't make me ask again, Pumpkiiiiin.”
Still.
I felt my thoughts start to melt away, replaced with artificial happiness choking me. Our father was the best Dad in the whole world. I wouldn't ask for any other father, and I didn't even miss my mother!
With that thought slamming into me, I skipped over to my father with a grin.
Around him were rejects, corpses piled to the ceiling, limbs and heads and torso’s contorted and merged into one mass of gore.
Human’s he attempted to turn into minions.
But there were also successful villains.
The Cerebral Drainer, and Rat Face had been ripped apart and put back together again. Dad was saving them for a quiet day. The Myers basement was my father’s workshop. When I joined his side, he ran his fingers over Cartwright's skull.
I was surprised when the villain’s son let out a sudden, hysterical giggle, his eyes rolling to pearly whites. “What are you doing to him?” I asked, intrigued, running my hands over the boy’s restraints. This time, Cartwright's body contorted into an arch, maniacal laughter escaping his lips.
When his back slammed into metal, the ground rumbled.
“Now, what is funny, hmm?” Star-man asked in a low hum.
The boy responded by spitting in his face, shrieking with giggles.
Dad cleared his throat, swiping blood from his cheek.
“That's not funny.”
I was keenly aware of several instruments dangling above my head.
Cartwright's body jolted, and they hit the ground.
Dad turned his attention to me. “What is your nightmare of a brother doing, young lady?”
His words shattered part of his influence.
I felt my breath start to quicken, my heart starting to pound.
Fear.
Ethan hadn't moved in days, weeks, months.
Glued to that one seat, caught inside his own delusion.
Ethan was watching TV when Mom’s brains were splattered across the walls.
He was watching TV when our little sister’s flesh bubbled into the living room carpet.
“Ethan is watching TV.” I hummed, “What are you doing to the villain’s son?” I pointed to the boy’s contorting fingers. They turned clockwise, straining under harsh velcro straps.
Cartwright was trying to twist off my head like a bottletop. I was lucky to have my father’s protection.
Dad shot me a grin. “Well, you see, Millie.” He said, shoving the hysterical boy back onto the bed. Madness. I saw it in his eyes, igniting every part of his face, running through his nerve endings.
That is what made a villain, what we all saw on the local news.
It was the loss of humanity, logic quite literally burned from the brain stem.
Complete, unbridled euphoria, accepting insanity.
I had already seen this exact look.
The Cerebral Drainer’s psychotic grin.
Rat Face’s all too familiar and horrific chittering laugh.
Six Eyes’s Alice In Wonderland smile.
Dad rocked the boy’s head back and forth. Cartwright giggled along, his gaze finding nothing, penetrating nothing. His hands went limp, and he gave up trying to yank my brain from my skull. “We can't have heroes without villains, can we?”
I reached out, poking the boy in the face.
“So, he's like his father?”
Dad almost looked like a proud father. “Oh, no, honey, he's better than his father. He's already setting an example.” Starman nudged me playfully. “Your father would not exist without the bad guys,” he said, tracing a finger over the boy’s cheek. “We’re just lucky we have a town full of naive fuck-wits.”
Cartwright laughed harder. Hard enough to send him toppling off of the bed with a wet, meaty sounding smack.
I was partially aware of my body reacting. My breaths quickened, a thick slime creeping up my throat. I think I stepped back. I think I almost screamed.
I forgot his head was hanging open, half of his brains leaking out.
But I don't think Cartwright needed a brain anymore.
Whatever was left of it was blackened, thick, poisoned streaks running up down what had been healthy pink and grey.
My Dad scooped him up, and plonked him back onto ice cold steel.
His evil laugh was fake, manufactured, programmed directly into his mind.
Part of me wondered if this was his father’s fate too.
Six Eyes.
Was he a result of my father’s experiments?
The crazy thing is, the more I want to scream, my chest heaving, fear starting to gnaw away at me, the stronger my father’s influence is. The villain’s son was stitched back up with not even a hair out of place and thrown into the back with the other finished minions.
If he recovered well, Cartwright, son of Six Eyes, would be going on a town rampage very soon.
Well, he was the villain’s son after all.
Instead of screaming, I smiled.
Dad taught me everything about cutting up humans. Human brains were so easy to manipulate.
Because humans were bad.
The people like my Dad were better.
I grabbed a scalpel, sticking it into Cartwright's hand.
His whimper of pain collapsing into hysterical laughter didn't give me hope.
If he reacted positively to a blade going through his skin, he wasn't worth saving.
Once that thought crossed my mind, however, I REALLY LOVED MY DAD.
The mental declaration almost sent me to my knees.
“Go upstairs and do your homework.” Dad said, wheeling Cartwright into the back room. “I'll be upstairs to cook dinner in ten minutes.”
“Sure, dad.”
His influence was like a wire wrapped around my throat.
Squeezing.
“Oh, and Millie?”
I didn't turn around. “Yes?”
“Chocolate or strawberry for your birthday cake?”
I froze, my smile stretching right across my face.
He knew my answer. Dad baked us a cake 4 hours after I trashed the slimy remnants of my little sister. Star-man forced me to peel my sister from the carpet and dump her in a trash bag.
I could still smell her charred flesh hanging in the air.
Star-man made a giant chocolate cake and frosting.
He made us eat every single morsel.
Every bite was agonising.
“Chocolate, Daddy.” I said, swallowing my lunch.
Dad chuckled, and somewhere in the back, Cartwright started laughing.
Starting as quiet giggles, they became full on guffaws.
Star-man ignored him.
“That's right, Princess.”
I nodded, heading back up the stairs.
Greeting my brother, I cranked the Alexa to full volume.
I always listen to music when I'm doing my homework.
Filling a glass of water, I held it to Ethan’s lips with three fingers.
Ethan downed it in three gulps, and then nodded in one single motion.
Star-man may be a highly intelligent psychopath, but he is yet to notice my brother is not as brain dead as he thinks.
Yes, he still watches TV.
But he's also thinking.
Dad is under the impression my twin doesn't need to be under his control.
But Ethan has been planning.
And slowly, over days, weeks, months, he has been putting together our escape plan.
It has been 1,400 days since Ethan and I tried to escape our father.
1,370 days since we started to scratch our days of captivity into the door.
10 days until we turn eighteen.
Four days until we get the fuck out of here.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: A New & Very Different Day

Grant watched the night sky from the front porch of his log cabin. He had acquired what he referred to as his very own small patch of dirt on the outskirts of town not too many years prior to that night and had grown accustomed to his nightly routine.
“You can’t see the sky like this in the city,” he sighed to himself, trying his best to seem content with where he was.
But the cabin wasn’t a place of relaxation and contemplation. It was more of a staging area for random thoughts and fears. For years, Grant had been one of a small segment of the population that believed that the government and the top 1% were up to something behind closed doors. He could never quite put his finger on what, let alone articulate it, but he was dead certain that — whatever it was — it would harm the general population, and more importantly, him.
Day after day, Grant read reports and articles about strange occurrences — incredible feats of science, resources, and technology that would vanish into thin air along with the people who invented or discovered them. And the entire population, so tangled up in its own dramas, would almost instantly forget that any of these things had ever existed. In Grant’s eyes, that was the way the status quo had always been kept. People were tied to their debts, their health issues, their marital problems, and their purposeless jobs that they couldn’t bear to lift their heads for more than the minute it would take for them to see the blatant truth that was right in front of their eyes.
He believed, now more than ever, that the society as a whole had been held back for hundreds of years, and the more he thought about it, the more it maddened him. What was possibly the most infuriating, nigh-on mania-inducing element of it all was the fact that he considered himself more mentally agile and adept than those he regarded as sheep to the slaughter. However, the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ of what was going on beneath the surface had him stumped.
So, resigning that two (or multiple) heads were better than one and that he could not possibly crack the code on his own, he launched a group. They called themselves the ninety-niners, on account of being part of the 99%. They’d share information and, in recent weeks, they had even begun coordinating group training sessions. The agenda of those training sessions — you might ask? Combat and survival.
Still, on most nights, Grant would stare up at the stars with his random thoughts bobbing in and out of the thin veil between his consciousness and the collective pool that we all have hidden just beneath that fascia-like divider. As the lights above twinkled and shone with no rhyme or reason, contemplation would take him down the rabbit hole until it hurt to think anymore.
On that particular night, though, something caught Grant’s attention. But it wasn’t from the stars above — at least not at first. It was more toward the city skyline and it was just visible through the tree line ahead. There were several low-pitched sounds and a couple of bright lights that came closer into view. The hairs on the back of his neck stood and his ears pricked up. There was a sickly anxiety that hung in the air and enveloped him, squeezing the air from his lungs and prompting his heart to thud in his ears instead of his chest.
‘What is that?’ he thought
At first, there were just two or three. Then, they disappeared. Grant bolted for the door, tripping over the frame on his way and catching himself on the palms of his hands. He jolted as a splinter dug itself deep into his right palm. He composed himself as quickly as he could and made a beeline for his telescope, which was propped up against the wall of his bedroom, where he often continued his stargazing when it was too cold to sit on the old porch.
Grant made his way back outside and set the telescope up. He searched the sky frantically and there was no sign of them. He had no idea what they were, but there was no way he’d be leaving that spot anytime soon — even with the chill of early fall lapping at his cheeks.
Almost as quickly as they had disappeared, they reappeared. Slightly off to the right from where they had been before.
‘Military aircraft?’ he thought. ‘But the proportions and distance. It just doesn’t add up.’
Grant paused for a moment and it finally hit him. This wasn’t human. He always thought that there was life beyond this plant — the mere fact that human beings had always believed that we are the only sentient beings in the entirety of the universe was laughable to him.
The disappearance and reappearance of the lights went on for a while — emerging from the darkness of night every ten minutes or so.
Finally, the lights headed toward the sky with a rumble, ascending to about 30,000 feet. Grant pulled his thoughts together. This could be some new type of aircraft — secret military aircraft perhaps. The lights hadn’t managed to surpass the average altitude of a passenger aircraft though. But just as soon as the thought had entered his mind, the sound stopped and the lights changed from a constant blue and white light to an even brighter white light that flashed like a strobe.
He hadn’t thought to check his phone but he knew that social media had to be abuzz with this. Surely, he wasn’t the only one seeing these lights. But as he retrieved his phone from his pocket and opened the news app, his face paled. He moved to find a chair behind him and almost missed it completely. The first set of lights shot up into the sky and Grant took his eyes off his phone for a brief moment to watch them.
He wondered if what he had seen on his screen would happen here, near his cabin.
All of a sudden, a deafening whooshing sound ripped through the night. It was as if all of the aid had been sucked up behind those lights. Then it came again — this time from deeper in the city. Even at that distance it still shook the cabin. There were at least 30 lights that all launched at the same time.
Grant raised his phone and looked at the news feed. Dozens of videos of onlookers in the city painted a grim picture. Huge buildings crumbled to the ground as massive ships emerged from beneath them and launched into the sky. It was like something out of a horror movie and for a second, Grant thought it might be some type of elaborate prank carried out by one of the members of the group. There had to be some logical explanation.
The man who had always known that there was something beyond our world found himself, for the first time, wanting to be incorrect.
But he wasn’t and this definitely wasn’t a prank, unless one of the group members knew someone at just about every other news outlet in the country. They were all reporting the same thing — that anyone near the dozens of launch sites was instantly killed when the ships activated their ignition systems. People were told to evacuate the cities as quickly as they could — no holds barred. It was every human for themselves. As Grant looked at more new feeds, his head swum as he witnessed the atrocities unfolding in every major city on the planet. All the while, the wind carried a pungent aroma through the air. It smelt like wet cement and something else — something that reminded Grant of the weekends on his grandpa’s farm, when he’d spit roast a whole hog. It was the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh and hair, and it breezed across the countryside in plumes.

Chapter 2: Escape

Jake MacGregor exited the elevator and turned the corner, heading left down the clinically clean hallway. His front door was the very first on the right and he stood in front of it for a moment, allowing the events of the day to wash away, before going inside. With his line of work, Jake always set a high level of importance on keeping his occupation and his home life separate. The life of a Peace Officer and the working persona were hardly compatible with that of a father and husband, after all.
After a cleansing sigh, he reached down and gripped the door handle — its cool steel snapping him back into reality. He turned the handle and slowly pushed the door forward. Almost as if it were magic, he plucked up the fortitude to transform his expression from stern to happy as the sight of his family came into view. He laid his eyes on his wife, Mara, in the kitchen.
“Hi, honey,” Mara beamed, not taking her eyes off the bubbling pot of soup she was stirring furiously.
Jake genuinely chuckled this time. His wife was an amazing woman; an incredible wife and mother. But she wasn’t the best cook. She knew one setting on that stove and whether the pots bubbled over or took too long to heat up, that was the setting she stuck to.
Jake gently reached over her shoulder and turned the dial back to 2.
“It smells great,” he assured her. “Could probably do with a simmer now.”
Mara smiled knowingly.
Jake left her to what she was doing as he set his bag and jacket in the adjacent closet. His smile got bigger and his eyes got wider as he walked back toward Mara. She looked back up from her cooking only for a minute to smile at her husband and say, “Are you ok?”
But Jake didn’t reply. He just smiled and offered her a single peck on the cheek.
As he prepared to leave the kitchen, Mara spoke up again.
“You have a message,” she said with a more serious note in her tone. “On the portal.”
Jake nodded.
As he walked over to the Portal and tapped on the monitor, he heard Mara call out, “It's the one with the security clearance.”
He frowned as his heart rate picked up. It wasn’t so much to do with what the contents of the message might be but more to do with the fact that he had given express instructions not to be disturbed at home. He had gone to great lengths to ensure that his home life and professional life met on as few occasions as possible. The office wasn’t to contact him here unless it was…
URGENT
The message stood out from the rest like a sore thumb.
‘That’s weird,’ he thought as he pulled up the message.
The message wasn’t from work, nor was it from anyone that he knew. He checked the sender’s data.
“It’s been stripped,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that?” Mara asked.
'Apparently not soft enough.’
“Nothing,” he called back as he entered his security code and played the message.
An older woman appeared onscreen and he immediately turned the volume down to a barely audible level.
“Hello, Jake. You do not know me but I have a debt to repay your family for a kindness that your father once showed me. Despite this being a secure transmission, I cannot take any chances for the sake of your family and mine. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM, you need to be at 8215 West 3rd Street in the suburb of Mason. It’s just west of the city. You will need to knock on this door.”
An image of the address and the door appeared on the Portal screen.
“The man that answers will let you in. Please, Jake, I cannot tell you how important this is to your family and their well-being. You need to ALL be there at 10 am.”
The woman’s expression shifted from pained to calm as she said, “My debt is now paid, but I have and will wrong so many more before I pass. Goodbye, Jake.”
Jake tried to replay the message but it was gone. He grabbed a pen and paper, jotting the address down as quickly as he could before it left his memory.
“Daddy!” Tabitha, his youngest daughter, pulled his attention back to the present moment.
Jake jumped at the sound of her voice and composed himself.
“Hi, baby,” he said, kneeling down to look at her. “How was your day?”
But as his daughter began speaking, his mind raced with the message. The lives of his family and himself depended on being at that location according to the woman. But how could he trust a complete stranger? If the messenger meant to help his family with something, why would she be so cryptic? What if it was some type of setup? Jake wasn’t exactly a low-level worker. What if it was a kidnapping ploy?
“Daddy, are you listening?”
“Yes, darling. Of course, I am. But you go wash up now. Mommy’s made soup.”
“Yuck! I hate soup,” Tabitha scrunched her nose.
“But we don’t want to hurt Mommy’s feelings. She’s worked so hard on that soup,” Jake whispered.
“Ok, Daddy,” Tabitha conceded.
Jake didn’t get much sleep that night. The old woman's message played over and over in his mind. He flipped back and forth between going to the small town in the morning and just forgetting about the message altogether. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t bring himself to take Mara, Tabitha, and his eldest daughter, June, to some strange address on the instruction of someone he didn’t know. He wasn’t even certain of whether he could trust her or whether he should go.
Mara lay with her back to her husband that night, knowing from years of experience that Jake would never open up about anything job-related. She was almost certain that the message, which she couldn’t hear from the kitchen, was that in some way. He tossed and turned for most of the night, and by the time Tabitha peeked over the horizon, Jake had had about 5 hours of consistent sleep. He got up as quietly as he could and resolved that the message had to be answered. He had to make it to that address and he had to leave immediately in order to get there on time.
He washed up, got on his clothes, and stared at his wife for a moment. He would have kissed her, but the last thing he wanted was to wake her — and for her to ask where he was headed an hour earlier than usual. Instead, he walked into the bedroom that June and Tabitha shared, kissed them both on the forehead, tucked them in tighter, and left.
As Jake walked out of the building and climbed into his Autom, it traveled away from the rising sun toward the town of Mason. The Autom glided over the paved road below it like a breeze floating over treetops. The Autom came to a stop about 200 yards from the address in the message and Jake sat looking at the building. He looked down at his watch. It was 8:50 AM. He still had time to think this through one more time. As he stared at the building, he drank in its façade. There was not much to see — just a single-story building with only a couple of windows. The building had clearly been neglected for a long time. Weather wear had faded the exterior to a pale bluish-gray color and cracked the metal sheeting.
To the average person, the building would appear deserted and abandoned, but Jake's training told him different.
The large, poorly dressed man across the street was less concerned with what was around him than what was going on around the building. His baggy clothes on that warm morning gave away that he was hiding something.
‘Probably a weapon.’
A second man slowly walked around two edges of the building, never getting too far from the single door on the corner. The door was gray like the building, but there was something interesting about it. It was the type of door that they used to train with at the Peace Officer Training sessions: a solid metal door with reinforced hinges and probably a serious lock. There were also, most likely, a couple of armed guys on the other side.
Jake waited for about another hour until the appointed time then exited the Autom and walked toward the door. As he approached it, the second man arrived at the door almost in unison with him. Without saying a word, he opened the door for Jake.
Jake nodded and the man then said, “Good morning, Mr. MacGregor.”
There was no mistaking that they had been waiting for his arrival.
The man placed his hand on the small of Jake’s back and politely but ever so forcefully guided him through the door where a large service elevator waited for him. There were no armed guards as he had thought there would be, but there was nowhere for him to go but toward that elevator, and behind him stood the burly man who had opened the door for him. There were no windows or other doors. Just the steel sliding ones that opened as soon as Jake neared them.
He entered the elevator and, as the door closed behind him he turned around to see that the control panel only had one button. Without wasting a moment, he pressed it and began his descent. He took a moment to steady his breath and fix his jacket, palming his hair from his face and tucking it back. There was no denying his nervousness, but he resigned to take it one second at a time.
Several minutes later, the elevator came to a creaky halt and the doors opened. The elevator itself was very dimly lit as was the entrance, which was why, when the doors opened, and a slit of light blasted Jake’s eyes, the contrast from the top of the shaft to the bottom felt blinding. Jake squinted and his eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust. But as they did, he could see the blurry figure of a man as it entered his field of vision and reached out a hand. Out of force of habit more than any sense of politeness, Jake embraced the man's hand for what was a fairly regular handshake. It was then that Jake’s eyes allowed the man to come into complete focus.
“Hello, Mr. MacGregor, my name is Mr. Collins. If you would follow me to my office, I will try to explain what is going on.”
Mr. Collins led the way through the lofty lobby. There, must have been at least 200 floors after having descended for 7 minutes.
‘Average of 500 feet per minute… that’s 3,500 feet at least,’ Jake thought to himself.
As the thought settled in, the two men entered Mr. Collins’ office and he offered Jake a seat. Jake knew when a room was designed for a specific purpose. He had been in enough interrogation and interview rooms to know what the agenda might be. That room, however, was very different from what he was used to. It was clearly designed to put people at ease. At face value, it was set up to look like an office, but Jake could see the small differences.
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Collins said.
“I’m eager to learn what all of this is about,” Jake replied as he looked at the family photos that lined the walls and the tabletop behind Mr. Collins. None of them were of him and his family. They looked like stock photos. The color scheme was almost too cheery and subtle against the beautiful wood floor and cabinetry.
Mr. Collins sat down behind the desk and motioned for Jake to take a seat across from him. Mr. Collins leaned forward as he adjusted his chair: a tactic used to elicit trust in the subject. Mr. Collins took a deep breath.
“Mr. MacGregor, are you familiar with the Solarists Movement?”
“Yeah, I have had to arrest some of them a few times when their protesting got out of hand. Other than that, I have never given them much thought.” Jake replied.
“The Solarists,” Mr. Collins continued, “have been around for a very long time. The movement originated over 500 years ago when a few scientists and a couple of politicians got together and released a statement saying that the Jodon sun was going to explode and destroy the solar system. These individuals were charged with various crimes and the ones that did not recant were sent to prison where they died a short time later.”
Jake nodded and said, “OK, so what does that have to do with what I am doing here today?”
“It’s true, well most of it anyway.”
“What — that a bunch of crazed rebels were thrown in jail and subsequent Solarists have continued to run amok ever since or the part about the sun exploding?”
“The part about the sun,” Mr. Collins said apprehensively.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jake sniggered, looking around the room.
“Well, the sun is not going to explode, but it is changing. Within a couple hundred years the Jodon system will be uninhabitable for any life.”
“You’re serious?”
“We hadn’t planned on telling this to anyone for a long time, but changes to the solar weather patterns have caused us to move up our timeline.”
“Moved it up by how much?” Jake asked.
“We have predicted that within the next 48 hours, the sun will enter a time of increased activity that may last hundreds or thousands of years. A set of solar eruptions will shoot at least three of the largest solar flares toward our planet that we have ever recorded. We predict that these flares will cause devastation to technology the likes we cannot imagine. If this facility experiences even a short disruption of power our entire crop could be damaged or lost.”
“Crop? What do you mean by Crop?” he asked as he sat at attention in his chair.
Mr. Collins reached over to the desk behind him and picked up a small remote, almost as if he had done this one too many times for him to bear. He pressed the button that lowered a viewing Portal from the ceiling. He then pressed another button and a video started up.
The Portal showed a video of lights flickering in the sky.
“What is this?” Jake asked.
“This is happening in real-time on the other end of the planet. We hadn’t planned to launch so abruptly but the flares will ruin our plans if we don’t act now.”
“Plans for what?” Jake asked.
Sirens began blaring throughout the complex and Jake cupped his ears as a look of concern fell over him. Mr. Collins remained calm as he reached for Jake’s hand and stood up from his chair with Jake in tow. They left the room with haste and turned right before heading down a wide and well-lit hall. The perfectly white walls reflected the yellow light that was flashing from sirens along the top of them.
Mr. Collins began to speak and, for a second, Jake thought the man was speaking to him before he noticed the earbud in his left ear.
“We are going to have to move up our plans a few hours,” he said as continued to pull Jake down the hall. He then turned to look back at Jake and said, “The first couple of days will be difficult, but once you reach orbit, everything you need will be available to you.”
Jake planted his feet firmly and pulled his hand back.
“Orbit? What do you mean orbit?”
Mr, Collins was clearly frustrated by that move and replied, “Jodon is dying. I didn’t want to put this fine of a point on it but here it is. In the next 48 hours, Government officials and the elite who could afford a ticket are going to blast off in ships they have been building for hundreds of years. Once that happens, the whole solar system will know that they are doomed. The worlds will erupt in mass panic and chaos. This program was built to offer everyone a way to survive. This first crop of 300 Meso ships has to survive if the rest of us have a chance.”
“I can’t just leave!”
“The complex is currently being attacked and we need to launch now!” Mr. Collins barked, his calm demeanor beginning to crack.
“What about my family? I can’t just leave them.” Jake said in a panic, realizing that he should have taken them with him. In an instant, every choice he had ever made in his life rushed up to meet him. Keeping his wife out of the loop with work in a bid to selfishly carve out time for himself that was completely disconnected — shutting her out of a large piece of him in the process. He had good intentions. But that didn’t count for squat at that moment.
“If everything goes according to plan you can return in a couple of months to get them. There is communication gear in the ship that will allow you to contact them, but right now we have to go,” Mr. Collins insisted.
Jake could tell that Mr. Collins was getting bad news through the earbud and he nodded in the affirmative. He couldn’t believe that this was happening but he had a better chance of getting his family off this planet if he went with Collins’ plan. He knew that much for sure. Mr. Collins smiled as they traveled another fifty feet to spot in the wall where the corridor opened up to glass and an impressively huge underground complex.
The two men moved quickly and deliberately down a set of stairs toward the open bay containing the Meso ships. Jake looked them over as they walked toward his ship. They didn’t look like much. They were mostly an earthy-brown color with random stripes and patches of purple that blended into the brown around them. They had a small black nose on the front of them and Jake couldn’t help but feel a flicker of fear as the realization that they looked like large coffins Tabithaed on him. The door to Jake’s ship opened with a hiss and he immediately noticed that there was no way for a grown man to even sit up in them.
Mr. Collins yanked on Jake’s arm and said, “This one is yours”.
The ship was leaning up at a 45-degree angle. It was perched on a metal platform connected to a holographic control tower that stood about 4 feet tall. He felt a small but sharp pain in his right arm. He was in so much shock that he couldn’t tell what had happened until he saw the glint of a blade in Collins’ hand, followed by a warm sensation dripping down his arm.
“Hey!” Jake yelled, pulling back to swing on Collins.
“Relax!” Collins barked, raising a small pad to the bleeding spot on Jake’s arm. He watched as his blood pooled in a central dial on the pad. Collins then inserted the pad into a bay on the outer wall of the Meso ship. It slid in as if the ship was made of pudding and Jake did a double take as he went to touch the ship in the same place. It was as hard as stone again. He looked bemused as he couldn’t discern where the seams of a potential doorway were. It was almost as if there wasn’t one.
Mr. Collins pulled a brief smile, “ This will only take a couple seconds.”
From the far side of the bay, Jake could see and hear what appeared to be more than a hundred people rushing toward him.
“It’s ready,” Mr. Collins said as the ship pinged. “Good luck.”
He gave Jake a shove toward the Meso Ship. Jake stumbled a little and put out his right hand to catch himself — pressing his palm against the ship. This time, the surface of the ship was no longer hard and stiff, his palm fell through the skin like warm pudding. There was almost no resistance to his presence this time. Jake was able to regain his balance and he meant to turn back to Mr. Collins to scold him for pushing him, but something more pressing grabbed his attention… and his arm. The Meso ship was slowly and steadily pulling Jake into the ship. At first, it was just up to the forearm. Then, before he realized what was happening, it had pulled him in up to his shoulder. Jake began to panic as he turned his head to Mr. Collins for answers. But Mr. Collins just repeated his sentiments.
“Good luck.”
The man whom Jake had only met 30 minutes prior turned to walk away as Jake turned to face his fate. He looked up at the skin which was folding in all around him. As he did so, he began to lose consciousness. His head and left shoulder were pulled into the ship followed by the rest of him. The last thing he heard as the blackness surrounded him was the panicked screams of the people around him and several loud explosions as the ground began to shake.

Chapter 3: Revelation

Grant looked up from his Portal after spending most of the night scrolling through launch after launch from around the planet. He didn’t realize it yet, but this would be the event that he had long been searching for. The government and the 1% had really been planning something right beneath everyone’s noses: their escape from the solar system. As it turned out, they had been planning it for almost a thousand years — something he would come to learn.
“They’ve been stealing tech resources,” Grant spoke to himself as if to assure himself of what he was seeing.
The government had, in fact, been swiping these advances out from under their citizens — taking advantage of exceptionally intelligent scientists who no doubt weren’t going to be onboard those ships… not unless they were needed to keep them running or to repair them. They were using these people and their output to create these escape pods that would allow them to leave the system and escape a living hell on the planet’s surface — a living hell that would almost certainly end in certain death for them and their families.
All the puzzle pieces were beginning to come together and Grant began connecting the dots. As he looked at the faces of those screaming as they dashed away from the launch sites, he theorized. He felt that the ships were designed to remove key people from the planet but he just didn’t know why.
“Well, there can only be one reason why,” he sighed. “Something catastrophic is coming and they’ve known about this for generations.”
Grant had hit the nail on the head and as the entire planet’s population would soon find out, the 1% knew that they would never be able to rescue the whole system. There were too many citizens — tens of billions of people on this planet and close to a dozen others. It was a task they could never accomplish, especially if they were on a tight deadline.
“Wait,” Grant whispered to himself. “Is whatever’s coming going to destroy just us or all the planets in our system?”
He could tell that the elite had built enough ships for themselves and their families to escape. What he didn’t know was how severe it all was. Either way, the majority of the population was left to learn its fate — and learn they would.