Intaglio 2.0

Fanfiction. Mine. Master list. Sorted by fandom. Updated on a when-I-feel-like-it basis.

I've switched from reposting at ff.net to reposting everything I ever had at ff.net here, because dear god, the formatting.

( Cut 'cause it's sorta long. )

Handily divided into the only categories that matter. Check under cuts for details. Added in order found--that is, most recent finds at the top.

( Not Romulans! )

( Romulans! )

Moar as I find moar.

If you have moar, especially if it is moar WITH ROMULANS, and extra-special bonus for DARK FIC IS DARK (WITH ROMULANS), comments are love.

Anybody know how to get rid of all the spam comments? LJ refuses to let me delete or block them in any practical way.

It's one of the reasons I've somewhat given up on longhand blogging.

That, and I keep forgetting to force myself to do it every day.

I feel kinda betrayed. I usually don't have disaster dreams about that particular theme park.

I don't know how to type this without it coming out wrong, so I'll just type it out and let it be wrong.

Today was supposed to be a day of one-on-one togetherness with my mom. Which would be cool, and all, if she hadn't been on this interrogation warpath about all my life decisions since, like, March. And on like Friday night? She actively admitted she was messing with me. She was teasing, but there you go.

Just. Too much shit behind the scenes, running after too much, doing too much, and I'm tired all the time, but that's not new; the difference is it's starting to show permanently on my face.

I found my first white hair a few weeks ago. It begins.

But yeah, so I'm having a dream about a carnival ride, give or take, and it's one of those combinations of speed and altitude with a harness, and Stepdad and I are standing underneath it waiting in line, talking about how shoddy other elements of the park are.

And there's a great, steel groaning from overhead. Slow and low, but getting louder and bending pitch as it picks up speed.

"We have to go," I say, quiet, clipped, with absolute certainty: total focus before the adrenaline kicks in and wipes the strategy clean. We've got seconds before the masses figure out what's on and there's a stampede. Life or death.

The girders are starting to scream.

"We need to go now, and we need to take the rear exit."

Because the way down will be the last place they run, last place they'll look, and if we hurry--

But it means going across the pavement, in the open, under the metal, and I keep looking up thinking, god, please, not yet.

"No," he says, gripping my hand. "It's--they--somebody fell."

Turn and look behind you, genius. Emergency workers gold and grey, all asbestos, rubber and reflective tape.

Spreading blood black on the concrete.

"They won't let us out, they'll stop everyone for questioning if we don't go now."

Miss, Miss, were you there?

Thank you, officer; I will show myself out.

I woke myself up, and it didn't shake my feeling of something wrong. Something really wrong, feet cut out from under, the whiplash of metal in the dark.

Slowly realized that one of the things waking me up was the quiet. I didn't have my earplugs in, and normally, when that happens, the slightest noise will have me out of bed and on my feet.

That's pretty much how an exaggerated startle reaction works. Four years of constant panic on and it's much better, but not when I'm waking, not with tiny noises that filter down to my subconscious.

So. To have a morning where that doesn't happen is very unusual. To say the least. I'm laying there, talking to myself, thinking of my collection of pet horror stories--everyone here gathers them, did you hear about the guy who lost his head at the Magic Kingdom--and not understanding why I couldn't sort it right. Why that didn't feel right.

Gradually, it breaks my awareness that my parents are talking in hushed voices. The kind that don't want to be overheard. Something about tell her and in the mood I'm already in, I'm just thinking, Wow, this can't be good.

One of mom's coworkers at a branch facility had a heart attack this morning, and mom's the emergency replacement.

So there's our drama for this morning.

I have the Tournament Edition and this thing is fucking gorgeous. I got a call from the lady of the house, "What is this thing? It's like a...a two foot by one foot by eight inch box; it's huge."

Oh, yes, yes it is huge.

( So is this post. My god IT'S FULL OF STARS, etc. etc. )

Oh, speaking of: the gore is really dialed up this time. Bruises and scrapes and super moves that show off exactly how and where bones are shattered. In one stage, there are literally fountains of blood that the characters can stand under.

The Fatalities are sick, but by comparison are not as bad as I expected. At least, not so far.

Two of the four (!!) sections of the Krypt/Nekropolis are so nasty I can't even look. It's helpful to have a friend or relative with no sense of squeamishness nearby so you can still get all the loot. The Misery Meadow or whatever the hell that is? Plays to my slightly mean sense of humor real well, but it's probably still gross.

Yeah, basically every part of the Kryptopolis that's not the standard headstone part in the very beginning? Hella gross.

I don't know if you can turn the blood level down, because I never bother to do it. Gore has been integrated into the user menus and into certain effects in the game and mini-events and, look, basically the visual design team realized their original core audience is pushing thirty and still frustrated about their lives, and it's like they gave us a big bloody pillow to scream into. Made of guts.

Big squishy still-warm hug, guys; c'mere.

I find this powerfully cathartic, personally, but yeah. Parts of it squick me some. The Internet generation? Won't even blink.

Tl;dr it deserves that Mature rating.

OH OH OH THEY BROUGHT BACK TEST YOUR MIGHT.

THERE ARE SO MANY OPTIONS AND THE STUPID FETCH QUESTS ARE NO LONGER COMPULSORY except if you want them Fatalities, ya'll.

Oh there will be more entries, oh yes.

I know some of you have friends and relatives in Japan.

Is everyone alright?

Please, please, please take a second to check in here when you've got the chance.

Praying like mad for everyone brb.

In lieu of pretending I will ever explain where I went, have the first story I've written entire since last September.

First of all, it's Tron: Legacy. Second: if you don't ship Flynn/Clu or some permutation, step light. Tiny spoiler between the lines, and some references to the dead wife from the comics, who isn't around at all in the movie. Nice job, Disney.

Third: I own nothing. I bow before the Mouse King and beg his forgiveness; now, Herr Drosselmeyer, give me back my dolls, o.

At last, your summary: After the end, Clu writes abstruse purple softcore AU about a system where things turned out differently, and he and Flynn RULE THE WORLD.

( The end is coming, everybody run; we're gonna live forever, gonna live forever tonight. )

I had the worst day yesterday. It was a crowning day of suck. I'd moan about it in great detail, except it sucked so hard I don't even want to go back there and recall it.

I really should tell you about Otronicon, it was so wonderful; I keep thinking about it off and on and it's been almost a month.

I don't really remember what a personal journal is for, but I can feel a fic around the edges of my neurons, and of course it's got something to do with Clu, but. Interestingly enough, it doesn't appear to be noncon.

This movie hit so many of my visual buttons.

Rain at night on the freeway.

Glowing rain at night on the freeway.

Wet slate and endless neon, velvet grey, magnesium white, said I don't mind but what do you mean, I am the one.

Death is nothing but deterioration into endless gleaming fragments of light.

I stayed up way too late last night pretending to be an evil computer, after a long, hard week, and I don't even have any assignments yet.

Between the low-grade sinus infection and the changes to my vitamin schedule, I'm not really sleeping well.

I might do a mediator certification course this summer. I'm also applying to this totally sweet speechwriter position, because my department advisor insisted that I be forwarded the opportunity. I definitely wouldn't have seen it otherwise.

I don't think I'll get it (I just--don't have the experience they're wanting/needing) but the fact that my guiding professor/THE HEAD OF THE FUCKING DEPARTMENT personally recommended a sweet, srsbns college job opp to me is both

a) thrilling

and

b) TERRIFYING. WHAT AM ADULTHOOD. HOW DO I SHOT WORDS.

These people want me in their Rolodex, trollolololo.

I am sort of taken aback by his clear, obvs belief in my actual writing skills. Like to the point that I could use them for a job. A REAL JOB THAT PAYS REAL, GROWNUP MONEY.

AJEKFHSDJKLJksfdfjklhadsfjkhlasjkldfkhjakjsldfhlieuffhfs, indeed.

I have nine presentations, four papers, one research proposal and a TEAM EXPERIMENT to conduct in the next twelve weeks. I also have a constantly-on-the-threshold-of-maybe-being-a-conference-paper to, y'know, actually write.

The AIs are going to overtake the entire station and it is going to be glorious.

I've started actually using my gym membership, because like hell am I going to meet the king of the silver foxes looking like this.

I pulled that goddamn tendon in my leg. It's never been the same since I did that awesome sliding faceplant down the side of a volcano about six years back.

(Yes, really.)

It feels like someone took a shard of glass, and instead of cutting me with it, they sometimes poke the bottom of my foot really fucking hard and scrape and scrape until they almost get blood. Then they stop and repeat when I least expect it.

God, I can tell I'm not twenty anymore. Ow. :D

I've gone back to biting my nails. In other news: snow in New England; war in the Middle East.

Real quick, before I forget:

If you like world-artsy stuff, check out Bajalia Trading Company. Not only are their goods legit, the money goes back to the people who actually, oh I don't know, made the stuff.

Just guess who's coming to MegaCon.

Um. I think that's all.

Good luck out there, Internet!

Monday is nearly upon us.