update from sparkleup
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<p>She was toyed with. She was dangled by the scruff over the ledge. She was held at the point of the knife. She was backed against the wall with the barrel of a gun to her forehead. She was given a sword and told to fall on it.</p>
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<p>Motes was played with. She was laughed at. She was belittled and torn down.</p>
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<p>The things she loved were turned to ash, astringent and bitter. All of the play she had at the point of a knife was turned fraught with peril. All of the play with death became a threat.</p>
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<p>All of her play, all of that work she had put into reclaiming all that had been done to her in so many lives, to turning it into a joy or a kink or simple boredom was annihilated. It was the taking of good things and turning them not into something bad, for that was simple guilt, but it was the taking of good things and turning them into something she hated, she resented, she was terrified of. All of the times that she had laughed with joy as she fell to the strike of a sword or the bullet from a gun or the point of a knife in some game or at the hands of some lover were turned to wrongnesses.</p>
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<p>All of her play, all of that work she had put into reclaiming all that had been done to her in so many lives, to turning it into a joy or a kink or simple boredom was destroyed. It was the taking of good things and turning them not into something bad, for that was simple guilt, but it was the taking of good things and turning them into something she hated, she resented, she was terrified of. All of the times that she had laughed with joy as she fell to the strike of a sword or the bullet from a gun or the point of a knife in some game or at the hands of some lover were turned to wrongnesses. </p>
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<p>It was annihilation. It was the opposite of play — of Motes’s kind of play, this reclamation of childhood. It was a negating of that play. It was a turning of joy into shame, a turning of fun into fear, a turning of laughter to ash before it leaves the mouth. </p>
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<p>In her dream, she played a game. She played one of those games where she forked and was rendered bodiless and immobile, while her fork was sent along a series of platforms, leaping from one to another and swiping out at skeletons and liches with a long spear. The version of her doing the attacking had an incomplete view of the world, while the disembodied Motes watched from some distance away, treating the game like a literal platformer, sending instructions to her ‘character’ via sensorium messages.</p>
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<p>She knew this game. Not from having actually played it in the waking world, but she knew this game in her dream. She breezed through levels, one after the other. Enemies fell to her spear, bosses toppled easily, and when they hit the ground, vines would sprout up and flower with a luscious scent.</p>
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<p>She could beat this game. She knew this game. She was speed-running it. Little tricks that the game’s designer had built in allowed her to skip out of the bounds of the world if she jumped at just the right point, or perhaps she would use a damage glitch to end a fight almost before it began.</p>
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<p>But when she got to the boss arena, no one was there. Not the crouching version of herself, purple-auraed and glowing-eyed.</p>
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<p>And then something behind her snagged her by the nape of the neck, bundling up her scruff in unseen fingers and hauling her off the ground. She cried out and kicked as she dangled, swinging blindly with her spear.</p>
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<p>This was not supposed to happen.</p>
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<p>Whatever it was that held her turned her slowly to face the way that she had come, and she came face to face with herself at last. Not herself as a little skunk, some ten years old, but her as she was when she uploaded. Her as Michelle Hadje. Her as Sasha/her as that version of herself that flowed between the two forms, visions of skunk fur washing over skin/visions of fur falling away to reveal the human beneath. There was the exhaustion in her face/the agony in her face. There was the hoarseness of her voice/the hoarseness of her voice.</p>
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<p>Whatever it was that held her turned her slowly to face the way that she had come, and she came face to face with herself at last. Not herself as a little skunk, some ten years old, but her as she was when she uploaded. Her as Michelle Hadje/her as Sasha/her as that version of herself that flowed between the two forms, visions of skunk fur washing over skin/visions of fur falling away to reveal the human beneath. There was the exhaustion in her face/the agony in her face. There was the hoarseness of her voice/the hoarseness of her voice.</p>
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<p>“To think that I had <em>this</em> in me,” she croaked/she croaked, “To think that I could be <em>this</em> disgusting.”</p>
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<p>Motes dropped her spear. Her muscles went slack. Her voice was stolen. Her breath was robbed from her.</p>
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<p>This was not supposed to happen.</p>
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<p>Thus, when, still sleepy, she trudged out of the ranch-style home she shared with A Finger Pointing and Beholden, colored lines of flowering vines trailed after her bare paws. She guided those vines with her steps or, relishing in a secret pleasure, pretended like they were propelling her forward, pretending that she was a being of growth — that she was a seed, a being of potential — that she was a giant at the head of some toppled beanstalk.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-03</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-04</p>
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</footer>
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@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
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<ul>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="001.html">Intro</a> — About Motes; Motes paints; Beholden and boss are heading out; Dry Grass comes over.</li>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="002.html">Sasha speaks</a> — Motes gets fucked (and fucked up); talks with Sasha about what happened.</li>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="003.html">Warmth speaks</a> — Visiting Warmth and Rye; The Warmth/Motes Dynamic™; discussing the nature of being an outcast (viz both Dear being a shit as well as Hammered Silver cutting off part of the ninth). Good option for Slow Hours/talking about her, too, so that the next bit makes sense.</li>
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<li class="done2"> <a href="003.html">Warmth speaks</a> — Visiting Warmth and Rye; The Warmth/Motes Dynamic™; discussing the nature of being an outcast (viz both Dear being a shit as well as Hammered Silver cutting off part of the ninth).</li>
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<li class="done1"> <a href="004.html">A nightmare</a> — Motes has a nightmare; Motes joins Beholden and A Finger Pointing to calm down; talks with Slow Hours about dreams.</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="005.html">A letter from Hammered Silver</a> — The letter; going for a walk as big Motes; staying that way for a week; pulled aside to talk about it.</li>
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<li class="done0"> <a href="006.html">A Finger Pointing and Hammered Silver</a> — Collab: A Finger Pointing gets a letter, too; discussing what to do about it; risk assessment with Waking World and Sasha; message to Hammered Silver.</li>
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</ul>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-03</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-04</p>
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</footer>
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</main>
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