-HIGHLY CLASSIFIED-

BRING IT ON.

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 21:31:17 GMT

LiveJournal 100fic Prompt

1. Crash
2. Dim
3. Futile
4. Erratic
5. Loved
6. Soft
7. Hold
8. Shackles
9. Broken
10. Precious
11. Odds and Ends
12. Tea
13. Twisted
14. Echo
15. Soothe
16. Fight
17. Naked
18. Push
19. Alive
20. New
21. Born
22. Murmur
23. Devious
24. Isolation
25. Starve
26. Breakable
27. Winter
28. Ignore
29. Colour
30. Grace
31. Belong
32. Choke
33. Reach
34. Difficult
35. Heat
36. Veneer
37. Fall
38. Nightmare
39. Contagious
40. Good riddance
41. Goodbye
42. Scarred
43. Last dance
44. Burn
45. Steady
46.Monster
47. Voodoo
48. Shine
49. Intent
50. Camping
51. Grave
52. Machine
53. Destination
54. Nowhere
55. Garden
56. I know
57. Dust
58. Dream
59. Destiny
60. Spring
61. Sigh
62. Fingertips
63. Waiting
64. Playboy
65. Revenge
66. July
66. Desire
67. Free
68. Celebration
69. Stars
70. Morgue
71. Space
72. Whitewash
73. Alone
74. Coma
75. Letters
76. Phone call
77. Music
78. Silence
79. Cards
80. Emblem
81. Elephant
82. Monopoly
83. Reality
84. Serenity
85. Bone
86. Chalk dust
87. Manuscript
88. Ink
89. Perfection
90. Ring
91. Drive
92. Missing
93. Full moon
94. New direction
95. Writer's Choice
96. Writer's Choice
97. Writer's Choice
98. Writer's Choice
99. Writer's Choice

LET'S DO THIS. 8D

Philosophically Speaking

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 21:26:51 GMT

Thursday, March 5, 2009:

The weather was cold and wet, and the sky as well as anything further than three yards away was lost to a sea of fog. In the distance I can see the glowing orbs of streetlights hovering in the darkness, and in the foreground a handful of deadened cars lined up obediantly in the lot. All is quiet. Behind me lies the school, looming in the clouded shadows and betraying the moments of warmth and friendship recently held within. Alas, however, the time has come and gone, and the laughter faded as each of us part ways and set for home.

The night was beautiful.

I trudge contentedly along the edge of the parking lot, waiting for my ride with an unfamiliar patience and grace. Thhe fog has an odd effect on me--if I will it to be, for a few precious moments, I can almost lose myself in it. Of course, being not a suicidal type, I keep enough of myself rooted into reality to know exactly when a pair of headlights slices through the gloom and to avoid them. This instance is rare and getting rarer, though, as the cars around me peel off from their temporary stations and glide out into the invisible distance.

Looking at the fog was a lot like staring at the world through glasses that haven't been wiped clean for a while. Curious at the analogy, I tentatively peer over my own pair, then make amends as the world fades still further, and the orbs of town lights turn to frozen firework bursts. I nudge the lenses higher up the bridge of my nose, and at least now I can read the licenses plates on the few vehicles still remaining--scratch that, at least I can tell there are vehicles still remaining. My vision, you could say, is less than perfect.

The ditches along the sides of the road have all been soaked over in slush and rainwater, so I content myself by keeping to the yellow lined 'no entry' zone that spans a section of the lot. This connects to an upraised sidewalk, which I stride upon, despite its curving in exactly the wrong direction I wished to go. Truely, drifting aimlessly and killing time in the wrong way is better than drifting aimlessly and killing time while up to my ankles in half-melted snow. In any case, it's not as if the direction I had in mind was in any way special--it was just the same way I had been going, and allowed me to notice the moment a particular pair of lights came sailing up, so perhaps I could race them back to the lot, rather than admit I had caved in to the loneliness of being the only one left in a large school building and the tempting urge to go walking in the fog symbolically.

A friend asks me if I need a lift, his face nothing more than a silhoutte in the faded gloom. I politely decline; he leaves, and I make to head back to where I began before about-facing and keeping along my path around the building.

I assume that, in a past life, I may well have been a flower child who met an early end sixteen years back, as the feeling of walking alongside a road is perpetually soothing to me. The symbolism of going on a journey, of travelling where the wind takes me and not knowing where I will end up is intoxicating, even if it is just a childish daydream. The logical part of my mind argues that pursuing beatnik fantasies of 'goin' my own way' and 'takin' in freedom' hold no merit in a cruel reality, and that following your heart cross-country is the best way to end up broke and destitute at best. However, it is quelled by sheer emotion, by the simultaneous emptiness and fullness of a mind without responsibilies and preset destiny, and the simple love of the generations-old dream of finding yourself via location. The true self is in your heart, sure, but who says we can't explore other avenues than the ones we were born with? I grew up in Wisconsin--perhaps I dream of New York.

To be continued tomorrow, with luck.

~agent ed

IMHO...

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 21:22:27 GMT

I've read a lot of books in my sixteen years (though it's still hard to think of me as sweet 1-6, despite being so for almost two months now, on account of I'm still license-less and the youngest Junior at school). I mean, I've read metric tons of books and am responcible for contributing to the deaths of entire forests and regret nothing.

Yet I'm also a fanfiction writer. You know, the unstable, sadistic, eerily optimistic one with all the poetic drablets who, according to Google, is also the only person who uses the word 'drablet'... And one thing I've noticed is that reading fanfiction and reading real fiction is like textbooks verses manga. Words like 'yaoi' and 'drabble' flow freely in fanfiction and are universally understood, but throw so much as a 'kawaii' into the high school science lab, and only the otaku in the back and your obsessive ex-boyfriend in your personal space bubble don't look at you with eyebrow raised. It's actually rather insane. Mention two gay guys doing it to a fangirl online, and she'll happily describe her OTP (RazxSasha... mmm....). Mention it to your best friend ever, and she'll ask you politely to keep your sick fetishes to yourself, kthxbai.

Yet every fangirl, somewhere, is a real person happily pounding away at some keyboard in Canada or somewhere. Where are these people when you log off!? Are they just pretending they don't know what fanfics are so they don't appear nerdy to their peers? Or are they really so rare that only the overshadowed members of the school's anime club (which my school can not has, THANK YOU VERY MUCH) can speak fluent Fan? I find this severely disheartening.

But anyway, my real point is that because so few fangirls exist outside of their Internet egos, virtually no actual writers have so much as glanced sideways at a fanfic, much less spoken its language. I guess they consider the gushes odes to their works by hyper fangirls poorly-written and below them, like artists hate looking at their old work. ("Ugh, I messed up so badly here and here and here and...") This is sad, as many, many writing techniques I have have been learned from fanfics, and when I finally get off my ass and sit down on it again and write a book, I'm surely going to put a ridiculously lengthy dedication to the fanfictioneers worldwide in my Foreword (not to mention a promise to them to support every insane crack pairing and gay ship they can come up with for my characters, because I'm a hapless yaoi fangirl at heart, hate nothing quite so much as canon-addicted flamers, and want to give mah homies something to wave in dem haterz faces, yelling 'HA!' as they do so).

My key example can be summed up in two words: MARY SUES.

MARY.

FREAKING.

SUES.

Now, I have nothing against Vivian Katerina Francesca Toofreakingmanynames McDuff, mind. (I *do* have something against LiveJournal, though, for NOT LETTING ME TURN FREAKING ITALICS OFF.) You can write about your romatically involved OC all you want in your pretty fanfictions, for I did as much starting out and still do, occasionally, slip up. Many fanfic writers are young, and will grow and learn with time and practice to become beautiful crafters of art... or give up in a blind rage and never write again, but we can't all be winners. Anyway, fanfics are wonderfully lax like that. I started off writing for a remarkably Sue-tolerant fandom which collapsed upon itself in a mass of yaoi/AU/n00bishly-written 'writings' shortly before I left. (Yes, it -was- Kingdom Hearts!) As such, I learned how to not suck as a writer rather slowly, but eventually got the hang of it in time to march off to a more awesome fandom (PSYCHOOOONAUTSSSS) and become moderately popular. I wasn't getting crazy numbers of reviews telling me how awesome I was, but I was able to dodge flames unless I purposely goaded them on (with one exception, but the troll in question was magnanimously stupid and would flame anyone who dared disagree with her homophobic, controlling ways anyway). But I did get up to 69, which I am pretty proud of when I'm not giggling like a maniac over the sexual innuendo of the number. (... *pfft*)

However, fiction writers are supposed to be professionals, with editors and publishing companies to go over their work for mistakes, profits being made, and crowds to please. These guys are almost always adults, and old ones at that, who have usually written a few book sbefore thisin'.Fanfictioneers look up to them for references and lessons... Yet so many of them cannot simply avoid cretaing a character any fnafictioneer would recognize as ol' Mary.

Mary Sue.

The 'knight in shining armour' complex.

Perfect character.

Whatever you call it, the odds are every writer's slipped up to owning at least one. Most notably, I have to give props to Dean Koontz's One Door Away From Heaven, which contains a set of drop-dead gorgeous, young, blonde, female twins, who can do literally EVERYTHING, from cook like a Japanese chef specializing in pufferfish dishes to shoot like a gunslinger to act like Shirley Temple... and did I mention that they're fabulously weathy paranormal obsessors, in a book where the main character ...just HAPPENS to be an alien?

Seriously, Dean. WTF. Even you must have noticed that they're TOO perfect. A character NEEDS to have flaws in order for the reader to relate to them. Putting your characters on an Awesome pedistal just makes readers care less about them and grow aloof towards them, no matter how many fantasies they fulfill for the author. Please, PLEASE, give them acne or SOMETHING.

...If I had my way, every writer would be required to write at least three fanfictions and submit them onto FF.net, then pass a Fanspeak evauation test before publishing a novel. If I have to learn trigonomitry in Math based off the remarkably slim chance that some people in the class might use it somewhat once in their lifetime when a calculator is not avaliable, then you have to learn to speak Internet. At least that will benefit you, writers.

I'm grumpy. 8D

~Agent Ed

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:42:45 GMT

Not sure why I'm updating here, as i don't have much to say. Guess I'm just bored. I've been listening to Yellowcard and campaign propaganda all day. It'll be weird by tomorrow, with the sudden loss of mudslinging commercials/junk mail/e-mails from the world and the lyrics of 'Paper Walls' echoing through my head like the last traces of a long hangover. Oh, and, of course, the sheer feeling of gut-wrenching nervousness as I wait to see who will be announced as the leader of Team America and whether or not the obsessive-compulsive whore who runs school schedules will let me move Algebra II to fourth quarter this year without throwing my entire schedule into disarray. Though I have a Study Hall on 4Q that I need to fill, and there's an Algebra II class at that exact same time with room avaliable, and at least a good dozen classes I could take in the empty slot that would be 3rd Block 2nd Quarter, this is, apparently, an impossible demand. It seems that every single class that could be taken on 3B2Q has some sort of minute flaw that would render it unable to handle the sheer power of one more Junior. ("You've already taken this class, this class has too many people (because one more person would throw the entire curriculum into irrepairable dissarray), this one's for Seniors, this one takes two quarters, this one has an ugly name, my cousin is allergic to textiles...) I spent fifteen minutes maiming a copy of my schedule with her as she adjusted it like a puzzle from Professor Layton, only to finally give up and head home (my brother was driving me, and I can't keep him waiting forever). So, yes, I probably acted like Bitchy McBitcher (as I feel now), but new quarters are hard to get adjusted to, especially when the teachers are so high-strung that one more student in a class would make them have an embolism on the spot.

Also, tomorrow's the day non-minors can go out and vote, hurray. I'm grateful that it's almost over, but yet scared witless that whoever becomes the next President will just screw things over a bit more. I'm mostly looking at Obama in that aspect, but lately McCain has started to grind nerves, too. So, may the best man win. As for actual political propagana, I'd have to say that shadow-warrior-nami.deviantart.com/journal/21307686/ explains all. Going to Hell~! 8D

In other news, Dead Space and Mirror's Edge. Both look amazing. I can't wait to play them. (Luckily for the latter, I don't get motion sickness.)

That is all.

~agent ed

Paranormal Science With Dr. Ed, Episode 2

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:39:13 GMT

Q. Hey, Agent Ed.

A. Hello, imaginary representation of the two or three people who actually take valuable time out of their lives to read about theories of how random elements in Psychonauts can be represented scientifically under the guise of 'paranormal science'. How are you today?

Q. Pretty much just chillin'.

A. Pimpin'.

Q. So tell me, Agent Ed, because I've been dying to know: how the hell can someone sneeze out their brain?

A. Oh, you must be talking about the Super Sneezing Powder. First invented by Dr. Caligosto Loboto, D.D.S., after drills and saws proved cruelly ineffective in the safe removal of a human mind, this flaky substance contains less known ingrediants than KFC's delicious chicken. To date, only Dr. Loboto has been proven to know the exact chemical reaction needed to cause the 'melt' effect. Even Morceau Oleander, after being mesmerized by the Psychonaut's top hypnotists, only was able to suggest a possibility of small quanitites of finely-ground pepper--

Q. Get on with it. D8<

A. ...Well, okay then.

There exist, today, little to no known sources of Super Sneezing Powder, leaving it unable to be scanned for ingredients. The only samples combusted instantaneously in the mysterious fire that destroyed the abandoned remains of Thorney Towers, and Dr. Loboto's body--complete with pepper mill claw--was never recovered. It was assumed to have been lost in the fire, heated to the point where even the teeth had disintegrated beyond recognition. It seemed that the vastly-combustable supply of powder in his arm had made the fire glow temporarily white-hot, disintegrating his body. Of course, this is only a theory.

Q. When are you going to answer my--HOLY ZOMFGWTFBBQ LOBOTO MIGHT STILL BE ALIVE!?!?

A. Mayinhaps. His death was unconfirmed, and will remain so until he's found, be it alive and well or in vague traces in the ashes.

Q. You're mean, aren't you?

A. Yes.

Anyway, getting back to the subject of the powder, it works on a common theory. Despite the game's image of a full brain spewing forth from a child's nostrils, the powder still leaves a considerable bit of brain behind; enough to give the body zombie-like qualities. The medulla oblongota, the corticospinal tract, the hypoglossal nerve... anything that allows movement in the body and keeps it alive is left behind and artificially replicated within the Brain Tank, leaving the real parts to fire off random synopses in search of the missing mind. After all, the main point of the powder is to relieve the psychic of the psychic part of their mind, whether it's the insolitus animus or a certain set of channels lying closed and dormant inside all of you non-psychics.

Q. You mean you don't know which? But what about the previous lesson?

A. I like to keep my options open. I'm not Shafer, I don't know this for real.

Q. And what do you mean, all of US non-psychics? Aren't you non-psychic, too?

A. I predicted you would say that. :P

Q. WTF... Look, I don't care. Just tell me how a full brain--

A. Half brain.

Q. HALF brain can be squeezed out of a nose! Half the kids don't even HAVE noses!

A. Must suck to be them, then.

Anyway, the powder works because of a chemical reaction that occurs once it is charged by the specific electricity flowing into the parts of the brain that aren't subconscious or needed to keep the body alive. Once this occurs, for a reason science has yet to figure out, the amount of kinetic energy in the mind increases, causing a rocking, tickling sensation and forcing the brain to liquify (as any scientist knows, it's not so much temperature as kinetic energy levels that force matter to change states). By the time the vibrations echo down from the nerveless center of the skull to the sensitive hairs inside your nostrils, the brain has liquified and begun to seep down the only avaliable orifice--the sinus cavity. This causing temporary breathlessness, headaches, stuffiness, and congestion in the victim, as the brain acts similar to mucus. Similar enough, in fact, that the body attempts to get rid of the clog by sneezing.

Q. So you sneeze out liquid brain? EW!

A. Exactly. And due to the brain's inabilty to find purchace on the slippery, mucus-lined walls of the nose, all is expelled. Once out, the kinetic enegery is expelled by a sudden burst of motion, in that the brain literally propels itself forward, solidifying as it does so. It splats, solid as a sponge, against the wall, then sinks to the ground, leaving a confused child and leftover lower brainstem to fire useless synaps in its wake. The kid swings about like a drunk, using his/her last bit of vocal ability to say a short phrase over and over, by way of attempting to alert outside forces to their predicament without actually having the ability to panic. More often than not, this is 'TV'. Scientists believe that this may be because 'TV' is recognized as both a word commonly used and therefore strengthened by a constant flow of synapses, and also because no one wants to forget about TV.

...And that's all I got. Hope you learned something! As for me, I'm hungry.

Q. You have no life, do you?

A. ...My mom says I do.

~your pal,
Agent Ed

Good?

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:37:44 GMT

Today I woke up groaning, because I relized that I had forgotten to do my Math homework again. I stumbled tiredly down to the couch and attempted to grab a few extra minutes of sleep, but my plan was thwarted by the fact that my stomach was doing flip-flops and I kind of had to go to the bathroom but was too tired to do so, making it a restless and boring nap.

I went to school, trying to cram in answers for mathimatical nonsence I didn't understand, only to find that today was the first day of the whole year in which our teacher made us hand in our homework directly at the beginning of class. Disappointed, I stayed through another frustrating lesson, this time on powers and the power of powers, then learned that my class couldn't have homeroom in our usual classroom, due to the fact that there were going to be some freshmen over and there wasn't enough room. Instead, we were to head to Mr. Casper's room. Dejcted and weighed down by heavy books, I left the room, only to fin dmy boyfriend getting told off by the principal in the hallway due to the cloak he had worn to school that day (apparently he could hide a sawed-off shotgun in it, according to a fellow classmate--which is pointless, as i could easily hide a pistol or small handgun in the front pocket of my windbreaker and be just as deadly, yet you don't see RCHS banning those). Of course, I am a rabble-rouser by nature, so I made sure to compliment said cloak as I passed.

Homeroom was disgusting, to say the least. Instead of Mr. Casper, we had some embittered woman I shall call Ms. Kruller (U C WHUT I DID THERE?), who made me go down to the office because I was a measily three seconds late for her class (I had to borrow some colored pencils from the Art room upstairs, then run back, in case you're curious). None of the other teachers that I know of do that. I try not to get grumpy, then sit down and pull out my pencils... only to discover that I forgot my textbook.

Since I could tell that I'd alreayd made a poor first impression, i was meek while coming up to her desk. I explained my plight, only to answer a random questionaire about where was my textbook and what I would be needing it for. Keep in mind that the Junior hallway is only one yard from her classroom, and my locker is about six yards down it. She finally fills out a pass with my info, and i power-walk the seven yards to my locker, grab my book, and power-walk back in less than a minute (during which time i can still see my boyfriend being told off by the principal). I return to the disturbingly quiet classroom, color my model of the Periodic table... then later remember that Mr. Oscar always makes his assignments due at the end of his class as well as has plenty of art supplies, rendering my need to be tardy and need to go back to my locker useless after I had done both.

:Later. in Science, assembling the modle of the table proved about as fruitful as trying to make origami without instructions, I apparently was not alone in this thought, as the ones finished and hanging from the ceiling looked patchwork at best. This was on top of the fact that I had loaned my scissors to Mitch, and had only my hands to tear the paper with--because we all know that makes it look beautiful. I finally made it not fifteen minutes before the class ended, then watched as my boyfriend got kicked out of said class for asking a smartass question. This resulted in him yelling that Mr. Oscar was a douchebag (quite loudly, too), and him having to be escourted out.

I went home with a 'C' progress report in Science (face it--I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE FREAKING WATER CYCLE), a headache, and a heavy heart. I went on the computer to find it lagging horribly, and was chased out of the house by my rushed parents before I could so much as grab my wallet not ten minutes after i got home. They claimed they gave me 'fair warning' that we had to get going when they called us even sooner when we had come home, but my brother picked it up and neglected to tell me anything other than "Mom and Dad are coming home in about ten mintues, then we're heading to the VTC". As such, i was walletless, grumpy, and halfway through submitting a piece onto DevaintART when they came and ordered us out.

At the VTC, i found two video games I had been looking for for years: Ape Escape 3 and Okage: Shadow King, as well as a cable for my Xbox that had been missing, allowing me to at last play the copy of Psychonauts I got for it off of Ebay. I went home to find that

agentnein

had finally updated his LJ (albeit with a post that makes Digitaldreamer's angst look like kitten fluff), Durandana had updated her DeviantART, and the Double Fine forums were alive and kicking. Oh, and my grandpa got married this morning.

It really was the best day ever.

~agent ed

In the Immortal Words of a Bunch of People...

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:36:35 GMT

GODDAMMIT ALL. D8<

My laptop has caught a virus. And this isn't even one of those cool viruses, like the ones that delete documents and make me feel a thousand times genius for having twin flash-drives containing back-up folders of everything, as well as countless CDs scattered about, or the ones that come in poetic E-Mails. No, this is one of those horrible viruses that make people commit homicide every year. What does it do, you ask? It doesn't delete or block stuff--no, instead, it coats them. With ads.

...I swear, I'm never going to a Kohl's or Circuit City, to join the armed forces, to play FPS Internet flash-games from unreliable sources, or to look up HOTT BABEZ ever again, thanks to this stupid ad-virus. And considering how much other random crap I've boycotted due to poor advertising (Walgreens, Activision, Blizzard, Majesco, ASPCA, and some brands of energy drink, to name a few), this is hurting a little even outside of the Internet.

On the brighter side, I'll probably be able to fix it with some crafty manipulation. I'll probably need my dad's help, though. For now, here's a page more of that story I've been working on, to make up for the angst and my first swear on here, aside from one of two deleted updates.

“No…” Raz whispered to himself, his eyes only on the warm weapon in his hands. He refused to even look upon his mentor, to witness for himself the bloodshed he’d just brought upon the earth. He’d be wanted for murder, sent to jail to be the psychic lickspittle—or worse!—of a hardened criminal, only to be eventually dragged, screaming like a madman, to a gleaming metal chair thick with straps and crowned with a heavy, round headpiece… But that was not the worst. He didn’t care so much about his own life, and even less about his once-pristine reputation at that moment. No, what he cared about was that Sasha Nein, the greatest psychic hero of all time and basis of everything from Raz’s wardrobe to a statue in New York, was now dead.

Worse, he’d been murdered by Razputin himself.

Worse still, he hadn’t even made the effort to protect himself, instead letting Raz end his life with a tearful apology and a quick squeeze of a trigger.

Why had he done that? Why? He wasn’t the suicide type, Raz knew—instead, he habitually clung to life, in just the right point between ‘selfish’ and ‘drama queen’. He’d sacrifice his life for his friends (like Raz) in an admirably unselfish way, but wouldn’t throw it away for anything like a cheap, plastic toy. He’d respected Raz in a way the latter didn’t feel he deserved, knowing that the kid loved him like a father and wouldn’t just shoot him out of anger.

Even without knowledge of the threats made, he believed that whatever choice Raz made was the right one. He had faith in the prodigy like some had faith in God, and in the end that had cost him his life. Raz didn’t want to look at him, because he knew what he’d find would not be what he wanted. He wouldn’t see pools of stage blood and a clayed-up face twisted in a horror beyond imagining, possibly clutching at its wound as it gave the murderer a phony final stare in all good theatrics. He’d see a face that was surprised, but terrifyingly welcome of death, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses but still compassionate. He’d see a deep-minded frown of discontent, yet resignation, and most of all… he’d see forgiveness. He’d be forgiven of a crime he couldn’t forgive himself for, and know that he’d paid back all that love and care with a sudden death without explanation.

And that would be agonizing, because he didn’t want that. Not just because he was floundering in self-pity and waiting to be caught, but also because it made it harder to accept. Raz wanted Sasha to have been angry at him, even furious. He wanted to have to fight, forced to slide the bullet through a weak spot in the heat of the moment, toppling the monster in mid-lunge and sending him off with a scowl on his face. He wanted to see Sasha break down in uncharacteristic sobs, begging for life and keeping his head bowed, or to be violently ill, or to faint, or to in some way annoy him… or, at least, not be Sasha in that moment. If the German had reacted as such, Raz could pretend he’d killed something else, like a Censor, and not have to take the heartbreak. But to see Sasha acting as himself to a T down to the last moments was too much. He couldn’t lie to himself; for better or for worse, he’d killed the greatest person in the whole world (well… except for Lili, maybe).

With a tortured cry, Raz flung his arm in a side swinging motion. He had meant to fling the gun as far from him… them… as possible, as it seemed far too bland and insufficient a weapon to fell Sasha Nein himself. This was a weapon for the John Does of the world, going off to work in an assembly line in the minivan, then walking over to the school to pick up their 2.5 children before being sideswiped by a trench coated, dark figure; only to have their name printed in the obituaries later, in small font, below an ad of a used car. John Does were killed by guns. Sasha Neins were killed valiantly in psychic battle, blasting bad guys with mental waves on a platform above a pit of acid. To have Agent Nein brushed aside by a few grams of lead was… unthinkable. Were it not for the steady beeping of his watch, the icy chill of the rain, and the pain that twisted in his stomach, Raz would be tearing himself apart in his efforts to wake up.

...Yeah, that's all I have for right now. Keep checking in, though--it's bound to be up eventually! For now, I have to finish up some add-ons to To Break an Agent. Later, all!

Your pal,
Agent Ed

(P.S. New colors--yay or nay? Only time will tell.)

Down to a Form of Art

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:35:01 GMT

But am I so easy to read?
If you tack me to a wall,
Is this probing what I need?
These cliques to which we force ourselves,
Jigsaws to a scarcely matching board,
The preps, the geeks, the what-have-yous,
Are these names worth fighting for?
Dance on, ballgoers with your stealthy feet,
I implore you to put your uniforms away,
And dance this dance life-lovers do,
Save the mirrors for another day.
We feel the loneliness in our hearts,
The pungent fear to be left behind,
So we imitate as parrots all,
And at last feel free to let us unwind.
What if we all could show no fear?
To lead the bands in a Napoleonic way,
To carve out love from our own strengths,
And keep the loneliness at bay.
What if we could show the world?
As we are, not as they've been,
Tell them everything we know,
And walk upon our own paths again.
Dance on, ballgoers with your stealthy feet,
I implore you to put your uniforms away,
And dance this dance life-lovers do,
Save the mirrors for another day.

Yep, just a bit of random poetry there. I'd say that quiz is pretty good, if a little inaccurate at some points. Not its fault, though; it's hard to chose a level of what's basically 'yes' and 'no' from what is actually a question vulnerable to specific examples. For example...

Q. Would you push someone down a flight of stairs?
A. A random person? No. Someone I hated? Possibly. Though that's not an answer, so I have to pick 'disagree'.

Also it considers me a bit inconsiderate because I 'strongly disagree' to care about homeless people, but I do care about people in need, really. I just don't care so much about homeless people (not counting those in other countries) because there's too many ways to get a job and pay (or, if worse comes to worse, temporary use of the Welfare system) to panhandle. Also, the usual reason most people are is because they're lazy, drug addicts, alcoholics, or, sadly, just panhandling to earn money. That's why I don't have sympathy for them. If I saw an abandoned small child or someone in an abusive relationship, I'd do all in my power to help them and get them out. I'm actually rather nice inside.

That's all I've got for now, though. Now you know more about me--huzzah! Later.

~agent ed

Pretty icon

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:32:10 GMT

I love this icon more than words can describe, you know. Not because I'm a Sasha fangirl--God knows I'm a Raz one. The whole image just has a swanky, art deco style that the other READ posters wish they had. It's like this distinct aloofness, without making it seem gaudy or vain. I normally dislike warm colors, but this icon pulls it off brilliantly, as well as providing emphasis on Sasha via the pure white outline. It's also cool because Sasha looks like a shoo-in for Manny if I imagine him without hair and sunglasses.

Psychonauts needs a sequal so badly, if only so I can admire more art like this. Or a cartoon series. Or an episodic adventure on Steam. Something.

Oh, that reminds me. I need to get onto Fanfiction.net today sometime, because apparently I can off as an uber-prick when asking Fluffle for a request on Love Works in Weird Ways, which was very much not my intention. I want to apologize, but I'm kind of afraid I'll just be offensive again, on account of I wasn't really trying to before and it was all accidental. D8

Well, whatever. C'est la vie. I'll update on some more crap later, but I gotta' go to Wal*Mart now and get some cake. Apparently I have voices in my head now... More on that later.

~agent ed

THE JOURNAL THAT IS NO LONGER ACCURATE BUT I'M TOO LAZY TO CHANGE

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:30:33 GMT

In case anyone was wondering where I've been all day... yep. It was pretty awesome, too. I went on a sum total of two rides, due to the fact that I am addicted to carnival games and wasted most of my money of them, and that the second ride was so poorly done that I think I might have bruises from the amount of times my head was slammed into the metal sides. On the brighter side, though, I got not one but two awesome hats from the souvenir shop, not to mention a stuffed monkey and bear as prizes. I originally had a green bear and a fake samurai sword, too, but the samurai sword was thrown away after breaking while coming out of the package, and the bear was so ugly and malformed that I felt bad for it and left it on a bench for some crowdgoer to pick up.

It should be noted that those Minnesota State Fair commercials are nothing if not honest. They have absolutely everything edible known to Man crammed onto a stick, even if it's so huge and/or oddly shaped that they need to serve it on a plate/napkin with just a small stick jammed into the middle. It still counts, darn it. They have everything sane, like corndogs and kabobs, to chicken patties, swedish meatballs and potatoes, to an entire onion with cheese dip, to pickles, to... well, I gave up once I ordered chicken and got a patty minus buns, with a stick jammed into one end like a lollipop. It was burnt crisp and tasted just as much, but the games were fun and cheap so I can forgive that.

As far as complaints go, the only really big one I have with the State Fair is the fact that they have this thing called the 'extreme park' or something along those lines. It's the area of the extreme rides, such as rock-climbing and the human slingshot. It sounded like the kind of place where I'd waste my time, especially after seeing people being flung up at 5 G's in said slingshot. However, as I pulled out my tickets, I noticed that this ride didn't take the regular ones. No, this took extreme tickets, which were red and huge, because we all know tiny blue tickets are for pussies. So I pulled out my fifteen bucks and walked over to the extreme ticket booth, all the while imagining what it would feel like to be flung up into the air at 5G, climbing four stories at a rate of less than a second.

...Then I saw the price. They were having a sale that day: 4 extreme tickets for only... (drumroll please)... ten dollars. The Human Slingshot took five tickets, and it was also on sale. A one-and-a-half minute 'ride' for the low sale price of $12.50, mathematically speaking. The rest of the extreme rides were just as bad. So I was like, "NO. SCREW YOU", which probably would have gone a lot better, were it not for the fact that the shiny blue cap, deep jeans, and transition glasses I was wearing made me look kind of like Miley Cyrus... and the fact that it was a thought and I didn't tell anyone specific about my feelings. So I missed out on the extreme rides, but I got to go to the arcade and waste the last of my money, watch some guys kick *** without gum on DDR, and passed by some other guy who won the jackpot on a game that had been building up the prize for so long that it was well over two or three thousand tickets. He ended up having to shove them all into his backpack by the time the count got to 600, just to have somewhere to put him. I wasn't the only person who cheered when the count ended, and who stood by to watch as the machine actually ran out of tickets and had to be refilled in the middle of dispensing by an attendant. I got some Silly Putty with my tickets. This guy probably bought the arcade.

In other good news, though, I finally got off my lazy butt and made a friend here--

flufflenecharka

. Which is kind of weird, seeing as it took such a short time to befriend people when I first got onto DA. Everything's easier there... and yet, their ads bother me and the Message page keeps going non-responsive on me. C'est la vie. I guess I should be grateful that I still have time to delete angsty entries before people notice, and leave fanfics on cliffhangers for unruly amounts of time.

Though, for now, I'm off to go spam people's journals, read up on communities, and try and fix this right-alignment thing my journal has taken to that I don't like at all. Later, then.

~agent ed

THE MOCKERY, Part 2

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:29:07 GMT

No dramatic text this time, kiddies. Only FANFICTION.

.

Meanwhile, back at camp, everyone was standing in silent impatience around the log-tree thing. A few of the dumber children shuffled around nervously, and Oleander stared at his Timex. They were waiting for the arrival of the mysterious, run-away, unexpected new kid. Oleander’s speech had already been finished some hours ago, but the children were not allowed to sleep until at least the first cutscene had been played.

“This situation has acquired a vacuum-like property and is also blatantly homosexual,” Bobby said, in an attempt to keep himself awake. From beside him, the sleeping Benny just nodded slightly, before being forced awake by ten thousand volts of electricity shooting through his veins via a remote-controlled neurovirus. While Benny let out tiny noises of pain, the Dark Lord Sasha (as the campers were told to call him) smirked and pocketed the remote again. It was set to several settings: one for every camper and ‘mysterious and unknown psychic prodigy child that I’ve never heard of’, as well as all the councilors and Santa Claus, because everyone knows Sasha despises Santa. Duh.

“Relax, darling. I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Milla smiled, displaying possibly the only line that wasn’t blatantly out-of-character since the Skull Bus incident. This moment was ruined, though, as she crouched down and murmured darkly to herself, “Or so help me I’ll beat him half to death with a stick, pour alcohol and battery acid and salt into all his wounds, then devour him alive and send his remains to a pack of wild beavers to be made into a dam.” At the children’s stares, she stood back up, smiling brightly and giggling.

Just then, from up above, hidden in the needley bows of one of the many pine trees scattered aboot camp, there was a rustling noise. This was followed by impatient mumbling and the falling of a few needles. Finally, after a few more seconds of struggling, a voice spoke up.

“Alright, alright, I’m here. Thanks for waiting, meat bags,” a familiar, evil voice spoke. “Are you done with the speech thing yet? ‘Cause I’ve got, like, fifty million needles stabbing into my ass. Seriously, why couldn’t we put the setting in a deciduous forest? Is it really that hard to—” Oleander had had enough. As the other camp goers watched, he gained an evil grin and kicked back one boot-clad foot.

“Welcome to camp, shrimp,” he muttered to himself, then gave the tree one large kick. Instantly, a tiny form and a bucketful of needles fell down from the tree, screaming like a bunch of young girls. Even the needles were screaming, but that was because the mysterious new kid had threatened to skin them alive if they gave away where he was. As it was, though, he just lay there on the ground, barely conscious and groaning. This was when Bobby stood up, pointing an accusing finger at the new kid.

“That remarkably undersized neophyte child with the megalomaniac complex has befouled the sacred sanctum of Whispering Rock Not-A-Secret-Government-Training-Facility Super Happy Fun Time Camp for Dumb Children!” he exclaimed loudly, attracting the attention of the other kids. He brought his voice down to a low growl and said, “Destroy him.” Needless to say, all forms of individuality were lost in the group of children (even in Phoebe, who had snuck back to her seat while everyone was distracted with the new kid). They quickly let out a Spartan battle cry, raging forward to mob the evil youngster, who quickly regained full-consciousness and began screaming, this time in terror.

“Oh boy, oh boy!” The Dark Lord Sasha giggled happily and OOC-ly, watching the new kid be viciously beaten by the old kids. “This is the best day ever!” He made to jump forward into the fray, but Ford suddenly swooped in and held him fast.

“No, son,” he said, in a voice that was very Yoda-esque, “that is not our way. We must let him earn his rank among the other experiments, alone.”

“But I wanna’ beat up something, too…” Sasha pouted, tapping his fingers together shyly. Ford just glared at him.

“No, son. Besides, everyone knows you’d just kill him. You’re evil like that.”

“But—”

“No. You know the rules; no killing campers on purpose while camp is in session. Only before and after camp.”

“But he’s not a camper!” Ford, at this, blinked.

“You’re right.” He turned to the new kid, who was under a mob of kids. “Hey, new kid! Want to be a camper?”

“I’m bleeding!” The new kid screamed back, obviously in pain. Ford smiled.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now get up onto the log-tree and introduce yourself.” Then, as if ordered by a higher power, all of the kids simultaneously stopped beating up the new kid. They froze, staring blankly at Ford. The new kid, meanwhile, shakily got up, wiping off the blood on his everything and somehow managing to avoid serious damage, other than crooked goggles, a black eye, severe internal bleeding, and ripped clothes. Oh, and the fact that he was now missing his wallet and had a fatal, incurable STD. However, he still managed to limp reasonably coolly to the log-tree. Once having arrived to it, he crawled up onto the platform, then stood up and spread his arms out all dramatic-like.

“My name… is… uh…” he paused, frowning, then pulled his arm back and gazed at his palm, “is…”

“Starts with an ‘A’!” Oleander interrupted, looking triumphant in his mind reading prowess. The new kid frowned at him.

“…No. No it doesn’t.”

“Oh.” Oleander paused for about two seconds, thinking, then announced, tentatively. “starts with a ‘B’!” The new kid put his head in his hand, sighing.

“No. Not that either.”

“…Starts with a ‘C’!”

“You’re just going to go through the whole alphabet until you get it, aren’t you?”

“Stop me if I get it.” The new kid muttered something unrepeatable and lengthy. Five hours after he started this unrepeatable mumble, he finished off the last word of it, then spoke. All the councilors were waiting for him, and most of the campers had fallen asleep, so that not even Nein’s neurovirus could wake them up.

“Alright, you’re so pathetic I might as well just tell you. My name’s Razputin.” There was a pause, then…

“OH MY GOD HE’S REINCARNATED AND COME BACK TO CURSE US ALL!!” Oleander screamed, throwing a platoon of rocks at Razputin while speaking. They had the same effect as the bee jar did to Phoebe; that is to say that they bounced off with squeaky noises. Only, with so many rocks being thrown, it sounded more like a loud, constant squuuuuuuuuek-uh.

“No—” Razputin began, cutting off quickly to be hit by another rock, “it’s—spelled—with—the—letter—Z—it’s—a—different—word—though—I—will—eventually—kill—you—all—just—for—giggles.” He stopped, gasping for air, as the platoon stopped.

“So… you’re not Gregori Rasputin, self-proclaimed monk and magic healer from the olden days who wooed the Czarina Alexandria with his ability to help her dying son and was later poisoned, stabbed, and then dropped into a river and drowned?” Milla asked cautiously.

“……………………………………No.”

“…Okay, let’s just call you Raz. It’s less confusing that way,” Oleander called.

“But that’s not my na—”

“Silence, Joey.” And, with that, the worst camp adventure ever had begun.

...THE END! Damn, I forgot how massively frustrating Vista and LiveJournal can be when it comes to LJ cuts. Remind me to never use one whenever I can help it. Bleh. Well, at least it's over now.

~agent ed

THE MOCKERY Part 1

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:25:03 GMT

...Because I love you all enough to keep putting these things on here. I love each and every one of you, you hopeless, dumb children. Except that guy in the back. He has to go. The rest of you, though, you can stay, and partake in this wunderval little story that has no connection at all to the one on the previous post that ended on a disturbing cliffhanger. None. Ever. Ever.

...Well, okay, they're both Psychonauts fanfics, but come on. In the raging war for attention on LiveJournal, writing even a poorly-made, sleep-deprived (aren't we all?), hyperactive (see previous parenthesis) tale like this one is far better than EMOtional scribblings about my everyday, even-more-boring-than-yours-mayhaps real life in the desolate countryside of Wisconsin. And you might as well face it; I don't think anyone's on here because they want to hear about real life. So don't be silly. The blue pill is not for you. Take the red one, quit your yappin', and start reading some fanfiction.

Name: The Mockery
Genre: Humor/Gore
Rating: Teen; for strong language and violence
Summary: Basically a remake of the first intro cutscene(s) to Psychonauts, only... not. It's a story in which Whispering Rock is no longer a psychic summer camp, but a human slave and medical research... place. Purely nonsensical, the ~~film~~ story contains much sadistic humor and erratic characters, from an evil megalomaniac whose name "starts with an... 'A'...", to the Dark Lord Sasha and his bipolar sidekick, Milla. If the experiment is a success, then it will be hilarious. If not, then I will gouge my eyes out with a rusty spork and sell them on Ebay. Rest assured, whatever happens will be awesome.

Please note that the definition of 'success' is relative, with a less than .05 percent chance of The Mockery being a failure, ever.

And here it is! Lucky Stars Studios are proud to present...

The Mockery

It was a remarkably gorgeous and awesome day at Whispering Rock Not-A-Secret-Government-Training-Facility Super Happy Fun Time Camp for Dumb Children. Kids walked down the sparkly pathways and smiled brightly at the sun. The sun smiled back. The kids gained horrified and disturbed expressions, eyes twitching, then looked away because smiling suns are bad.

Suddenly, its tires squealing and driving up great, jagged chucks of gravel—which all proceeded to stab into and horribly maim a conveniently-placed Oleander—the unlicensed and illegal-in-47-states-and-Mexico Skull Bus plowed into the driveway. Instantly, the easy slide-open door was kicked open by a pair of mighty cleats, and an author insert cleverly disguised as a teenage bus driver stormed out. In her scrawny but powerful arms, she held two children known as Nils and Vernon to their parents and ‘filthy human meat sacks’ to everyone else.

“I have brought more long po—I mean, children,” Nami (the bus driver) proclaimed to Sasha, who had taken the time out of his power struggle with Russia to come to Whispering Rock that day. He looked over the two terrified meat sacks with a critical eye or two, then nodded curtly to Nami.

“Zey look weak,” he announced in a heavy German accent. “Annihilate zem.” Nami saluted with the arm holding Vernon, sending him flying off into the woods, never to be seen again, with the motion.

“Ja, mein furher!” she commanded, then commenced devouring the living flesh of Nils just like she was taught in kindergarten. With that being said, the obligatory comedic bus scene was completed, and with only two and a half casualties. But that’s okay, for they respawned at a previous save point, with naught but a point reduced from their scores and their weapons being confiscated for energy swords.

“Dammit, I hate it when this happens,” Nils groaned, then began the 1,678 mile trek back to Whispering Rock Not-A-Secret-Government-Training-Facility Super Happy Fun Time Camp for Dumb Children, Vernon following in pursuit while mindlessly babbling about one time at Band Camp.

“Alright, soldiers, listen up!” Oleander demanded. He was standing on top of the amazing half-chopped tree of Lazybumlumberjackia, telling an amazing speech to all of the dumb children that had been recruited for slavery and medical experiments for only $79.95 (plus the ten billion percent Wisconsin tax). “I’m only going to say these ridiculously intricate instructions once, so if you don’t hear something, you shall be brutally murdered and devoured by the Skull Bus driver. Except she’ll only really eat your jugular veins and hearts, she says, because she’s already eaten one child today, and that constitutes for a ‘two-course meal’ on the Slim-Fast diet. Rest assured, though, you’ll die in agony. Oh, and there is no God, you were adopted, and your parents were all aliens. Got it?”

“I fracking knew it!” an over-exuberant voice screamed from the back row, belonging to an insane child named Chloe. While everyone else shot her glares (but not Death Glares, because they hadn’t earned their merit badges for that yet), Oleander just rolled his good eye, while his glass eye kept… freaking… staring.

“Except for you, Barge. Your parents were drunken alcoholics who liked beer and drank a lot.” Ignoring the quiet “aw…” that emanated from the log benches, Oleander continued with his lesson.

“Now, remember, dumb children. There is actually a remarkably simple and quick way in order to get through this entire camp session without getting hurt, maimed, eaten, experimented on, or killed. In fact, you will end up having lots of fun and getting candy and sacks of money every few minutes. All you have to do is…” He paused, his good eye having caught sight of the pink suitcase Phoebe was currently residing on. The good eye bulged at a rate beyond possibility, becoming inflamed and half the size of Oleander’s head. The bad eye just rolled around in lazy circles.

“Wha… wha…?” he stopped, frozen stock-still. There was a tiny crack sound, and then he screamed: “What the hell is that?! Oh, God, it’s a mental item! I fracking knew it—the Psychonauts traversing into the mental world so many times has caused an imbalance between reality and mentality, causing a rip in the space-time continuum and sending mental items into the REAL WORLD!! Oh mah Gawd—what if items from the real world go into the mental world next!? What if PEOPLE do!? CHILDREN FIRST, CHILDREN FIRST!! AUGH, KILL IT WITH FIRE!” He then proceeded to use a very advanced and very illegal form of pyrokinesis on the baggage, incinerating it—and Phoebe—into cinders. The screams of agony were masked by Oleander’s screams of paranoia, Dogan’s screams of terror, and Milla screaming just because everyone else was and she didn’t want to be left out.

1,678 miles away, Phoebe respawned, sighed, and pulled out a thumb… from her hand, like a normal thumb, not like a gory, handless digit out of, say, her back pocket. Unlike Nils and Vernon, she knew how to hitch-hike, and did it often for fun and profit after reading How to Learn to Hitch-Hike for Fun and Profit by Raz S. Dad.

Suddenly, not half a second after she held out her thumb—as if summoned by the mighty digit—a log truck pulled up. She grinned widely and… unnaturally… fully expecting a quick ride back to Whispering Rock Not-a-Secret… ah, screw it, you know what the name is by now.

She did not expect, however, for another, more familiar ten-year-old to open the door closest to her (the passenger side) and shoot her a Death Glare. The begoggled child looked less than happy to see that they had stopped, and instead turned to glare at the driver, while Phoebe let out a silent sigh of relief that she hadn’t been deadened by the deadly Death Glare.

“I told you to stop for no one, filthy human truck controller! Do you even care about the bee!?” As if to demonstrate the life-endangerment of said bee, the strange kid pulled out from below his booster seat a tiny, glass jar. Inside of it, just below the gold-colored, hole-strewn lid, a tiny bumblebee was darting around, hitting the glass, and just generally being kind of cute and annoying. The truck driver, however—a big, beefy man with long, greasy black hair everywhere, gang tattoos, rotten teeth, and dark, tattered biker clothes—just gasped, looking horrified.

“No! Not the bee! They’re an endangered species!” The mysterious and enigmatic goggled kid cackled at this.

“Then I suggest, meat sack, you bring me to Whispering Rock!”

“…Not-A-Secret-Government-Training-Facility Super Happy Fun Time Camp for Dumb Children,” Phoebe quoted unconsciously. This proved to be the wrong choice of words, though, as the other kid reared on her, looking very vengeful.

“SILENCEBITCHTHETRUCKISMINE!” he screamed rapidly, flinging the trapped bee jar at her head. It hit her skull and bounced off with a tiny squeaking noise, much like one of those dog chew toys. Phoebe just stared blankly. The truck driver, though, gaped, then let out a girly squeal of delight as the jar hit the dusty ground, broke open, and released the bee.

“Yay! You’re free, tiny Chico, you’re freeeee!” he clapped his hands and closed his eyes in sheer joy, not noticing as the tiny bee was instantly swallowed whole by a passing sparrow.

“…My peanut,” Captain Jack Sparrow announced, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

Back at the location in that one place, the mysterious kid with the goggles and helmet gave a long, exasperated sigh. The truck driver was still clapping his hands, unaware of his obviously-evil passenger… in a booster seat. Let’s all point and laugh at him while he’s not looking past the Fourth Wall.

“Great. Thanks a lot, slutty-slut-slut-whore-slut-bitchy-whore-whore-slut-bitch-whore-whore-whore-bitch-slut-bitch. Now I have to find another foolish human truck controller… and possibly another bee. Do you know how hard they are to come by? They’re an endangered species, you know.” He paused, thinking, then shrugged grandiosely. “Aw, whatever. I’ll just power-walk.” He then proceeded to lean over in his booster seat (the one with the gray outline, ‘Y’ seatbelt with a giant release button, and Sanrio ducky pattern) and push against the burly driver, who was still busy with clapping his hands and singing. Suddenly, with all the force of a remarkably tiny child at work, the three-hundred-pound man was abruptly thrust out of his reverie, seat, and slammed through the forced-open door. Now, it should be noted that the log truck was stopped. This being said, the truck driver still had absolutely no regards for the laws of motion and physics and, as such, was sent screaming and careening down the road in a river of bloody gore, as if the car were going somewhere around one-hundred-seventy-five miles-per-hour, according to rough mathematical estimate.

“That’s—” Phoebe began to comment on the incident, but the evil kid cut her off, for he is evil.

“Shut up. I own this human transport vehicle now. I have one star badge yellow shape vague Grand Theft Auto reference thingy already, and my dad said I wouldn’t last long in jail.” He attempted to reach for the wheel at this; however, the booster seat’s safety belt held fast. Instead of grabbing the wheel and driving away from the murder scene, as he intended, he just stretched out a pair of tiny arms and hands towards it, straining against the belt. He still couldn’t reach, though, and was forced to sit back down, cross his arms, and pout.

“You wouldn’t last long in jail because of your height, or the fact that you can’t figure out the complex construction of a seatbelt?” Phoebe asked sarcastically, somehow using logic and knowledge in a place where they DO NOT BELONG and getting results, like using fire to roast penguins. Mm… roast penguin…

“…Fine. You can drive. You do know how to drive a jerky and rusted-out stick shift at an excess of a’ hundred miles per hour at only ten, right, slutty-slut-slut-whore-slut-bitchy-whore-whore-slut-bitch-whore-whore-whore-bitch-slut-bitch?” The mysterious kid asked, wrestling in vain with the seatbelt and not noticing the giant bright-red release button. Phoebe beamed.

“Can I ever!” She leapt into the driver’s seat, somehow managing to have her hands on the wheel, feet on the brakes, and the full ability to see out the windshield, despite the fact that the truck was built for adults, which she was one not of am. The mysterious boy, meanwhile, shrugged and curled up in his booster seat, pulling up a fluffy wool blanket and stuffed Sanrio puppy plushie in the process. The radio played some song by some band that you’ve never heard of and never will because you’re too lazy to go to all the effort of looking it up on YouTube and I’m too lazy to fabricate an emotion without resorting to implanting emotional music.

Oh, and we’re out of milk.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Aaaand, with this note here, the worst camp adventure ever has ended. Thank you and have a nice day. Until next time, kiddies, this is Ari, signing off.

~agent ed.

Possibly the Worst Fic I've Ever Written, Really

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:12:41 GMT

Wow, two journals in one day. Aren't you a special bunch, kiddies? This one is better than the other, though; instead of chatting about some jerkwad and the loss of him, we're going back to where I belong. No, we're not going to talk about Paranormal Science here... yet. Better--I'm going to tell you a story. Not just any story, either, but one of my this-one-you-can't-find-on-fanfiction-dot-net Limited Edition Platinum EPIC FANFICS. Yes, you are a very lucky bunch, dumb children.

Ah, it feels good to get back into a routine. No more moping over love and loss for me, nope! I. AM. ~~IRONMAN~~ NAMI ARIGAWA. AGAIN. So, in that case, let's get to writing. *Cracks knuckles* Satisfying. Oh, and this idea for a fanfic came from a weird daydream I had while plotting out the next steps in Life After Breakdown. Somehow I mixed the fanfic with a real story I'm doodling with, Children of Blood (gory vampire/ghost/psychic/everything fic--YAY), and this was the result.

Summary: Sort of resemblant to To Break an Agent, in which Raz suddenly finds himself with a gun, a timer, and a desperate mission: a series of bombs have been planted throughout the city, set to go off in sixty seconds. He has that much time to assassinate Sasha Nein, or else thousands will die. Thus the question becomes: can he find it in himself to murder someone he's always idolized, or will an entire city explode in a dynamic clip not seen since Live Free or Die Hard?

Raz was running. No, actually, 'running' is an understatement. Raz was positively sprinting down the rain slick alleyways and nigh-abandoned roads of Specter city, Sector 7. This small but vastly-developed section of the thriving metropolis was where both the Psychonauts HQ and the series of apartment complexes where most of the agents usually lived were at; however, to someone who didn't know better, the entire area was a central station of some kind of big 'Paranormal Research and Development' office. To Raz, they were the Psychonauts. To, say, Billy Billerson, they were Pepperjack & Steve Offices.

However, Razputin had no time to mull over the absurd irony of being claimed as such a field of science, as he was far too busy staring at his watch and struggling not to burst out in uncharacteristic sobs. The rain poured down on his head in great droplets, plastering his auburn hair to his scalp and hiding a few stray tears that had already slipped down his cheeks. He wiped it away from his eyes, then from the green, gently glowing screen of the watch. He was allowed a split-second of vision into what the fuzzy display read; just enough for him to gasp in shock and be forced to clench his teeth, in order to prevent more grating cries of anguish.

0:51, the watch read.

Raz quickly shook the sopping wet sleeve of his deep purple bomber jacket over the downwards-ticking numbers, unwilling or unable to stare at them for more than a half second. The numbers were burned into his memory, though, and the green light still managed to bled slightly through the thick--but not at all warming--material of the jacket. As such, he was unable to relieve himself of the filthy, smooth, and calmly melodious voice that purred on in his head, just like the way the wanted criminal had crooned his evil plan into his ear not ten seconds ago.

Fifty seconds left, child, the voice crowed sadistically, altered slightly from the original statement, which had first said 'sixty'. The inner voice chuckled at Raz's miserable desperation, continuing on. forty-nine... forty-eight... forty-seven...

"SHUT UP!" Raz screamed to no one in particular, resuming his mad sprint towards... no, not the apartment complexes, but another building, slightly larger than the rest, in the limited actual housing district of Sector 7. He knew he'd be able to make it in maybe a little more than thirty seconds if he bolted all the way. That wasn't the problem. The problem was... could he do this?

This is a dream, he rationed, kicking up pools of water as he darted down the middle of the lonely highway. The storm was building into a world-class monsoon, and all travelers were ordered to stay indoors. A few foolish drivers still attempted to get to somewhere that was far more important to them than their lives, though, but they were few and far between. As such, Raz could go down the center lane without cause for concern... not that he cared so much about his life, now, anyway.

Suddenly, as Razputin was unraveling his sleeve for another look at the watch, he became aware of one of these said drivers and their existence. The light from a pair of headlights shot into his eyes like a spotlight (he had a sudden and ridiculous thought that they knew about the murder he was running towards, and were coming to haul him off to jail and leave the city to die), and the sound of a blaring horn and running tires stung at his ears. He dived out of the way just in time; a Mercury barreled past his stunned form, its driver shaking his fist at him and giving him an awful glare.

"Damn idjet kid, git offa' the damn road!" he swore, his voice rising as the car approached Raz, then falling as it sped off into the night. Raz allowed himself one second of shocked staring and gasping for air, his breath hitched and tearful, before he forced himself to keep going. He had a job to do, after all, and to do it, he'd need Sasha Nein.

*********************************************************

Ah-CHOO! Sasha Nein sneezed, telekinetically pulling up a tissue in the nick of time. He daintily wiped his nose with all the delicacy of a queen, then TK'd the offensive piece of cloth-like material into the nearest trash bin. He didn't actually have a cold, though, and as such was able to relax calmly in his favorite, beige chair and return to his book, Coloro Pluvia. However, he didn't have a chance to relax long, as the doorbell started ringing. It wasn't just the typical one ring, either; it was a constant sound, as if whoever was on the other side was holding down the button. This being said, Sasha obviously rushed to answer it, if only to stop the hideous noise.

What he saw on the other side, as he wrenched the door open and planned to tear away whatever was leaning against the doorbell, was Razputin. He was no longer trying to hide his misery, but had broken down and into full on tears upon arriving. The rain helped mask some of it, but his shoulders still shook, his lip still trembled, and his eyebrows were corkscrewed up in a heart-breaking caricature of utter sorrow. Not to mention that his head was pointing towards his shoes in a sign of shame, but his eyes were peering up through their lashes at Sasha, as if pleading. Sasha could read his body language to tell that something bad had happened, and probably was at least somewhat to be blamed on him. It must have been truly horrible, though, to make the tough and enamored boy cry like this.

"Razputin? Mein Gott, what happened? Hang on; let me see if I can find you a coat." He turned around slightly, searching the room while at the same motioning for Raz to come on in. The boy didn't, though. Instead he stood there, struggling to form a word or two around the clump in his throat.

"A-Agent Nein..." he mumbled, his voice croaking and strained. Sasha cut him off, yanking a brown coat off its hanger in a nearby closet.

"In a moment, Razputin. Let's get you dried off and warmed up, first, then you can explain what caused you to run through monsoon weather to my house." Raz still didn't leave his spot. Instead, he carefully removed his classic tan-and-red backpack, flipped it open, and began shuffling through his items by hand.

"I'm sorry..." he sniffled, quickly finding what he was looking for and grabbing it by the handle. "I'm so, so sorry... please forgive me... I don't want to do this..." Sasha paused, already heading back to the door frame, which Raz stood just outside of.

(A/N: LOLOLOLOLOLOL ENDING A SENTENCE WITH A PREPOSITION IS FUNNEH!!ONE!)

"Do what? Raz, what are you talking about?" Sasha asked. He stepped out onto the porch and into the rain, and Raz, frightened, retreated back about three steps. This continued for a bit longer, until both were standing out in the rain. Raz kept holding whatever was hidden inside his backpack with one hand, keeping the pack suspended with the other, and Sasha just kept looking at him with curious eyes. This gaze fell measurably on Raz's expression, then the backpack, then the timer on his arm, which now read 0:15. Finally he asked, "What are you holding?"

Raz, in a sudden fit of determination and fear, tore it out, thrusting it forward and against Sasha's chin.

It was a gun. It wasn't even some fancy, psychic-death-ray gun, either, but just a light pistol. It was deadly enough to... be deadly... but not enough to make the user look in any was emasculated. Still, the point remained that Raz was pointing a gun at him, and the barrel end was close enough so that he couldn't shield from its blast. Either Raz was remarkably lucky in his assassination attempt, or he wasn't the one behind it... and, somehow, Sasha didn't think the young psychic could come up with the murder incentive on his own. Still, he was yet without an evasive plan.

Raz was sobbing wretchedly. The gun shook crazily in his hand, nearly whacking Agent Nein into unconsciousness, and his backpack fell, unattended, to the dirt. From on his wrist, the lightly glowing numbers 0:10 could be seen just through his sleeve. Sasha could tell; he didn't want to do this, to say an understatement. As a matter of fact, he looked like he'd rather die. Sasha couldn't offer his condolences, though, as he was too busy staring in shock.

"Razputin, what...? Why?" he asked, even knowing that the despondent Psychonaut wouldn't have time to answer, if the watch was anything to go by. Raz just sniffled, keeping his teeth gritted tight to keep from screaming.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice more dreadfully insistent than before, "but I have to. Don't be mad, please."

"Raz...." Sasha began, uncertain of what to say. Raz, however, knew. He clamped his eyes shut, giving the look of someone about to be flogged.

"Sorry, Sasha, but your time is up." And then, as the watch's timer struck 0:02, he squeezed the trigger. And Sasha, so surprised and unable to believe that this was happening, didn't even try to dodge it.

Even from far away, on the very fringes of Sector 7, people could hear the odd sounds that followed. There was a loud, explosive bang, followed by the mournful wails of a child whose heart had been broken.

To Be Continued...

Aaaaand that's all for now, folks. Stay tuned for the next installment, coming... uh... sometime! Bye for now!

~agent ed

Paranormal Science With Dr. Ed, Episode 1

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:09:46 GMT

Alright, dumb children, listen up. Today is your lucky day, for today we shall be talking about science. Not just any science, either, but Paranormal Science. This is the officially unofficial scientific field I specialize in, being an unlicensed, untrained, inexperienced, possibly illegal Paranormal Investigator. It is here, in this field that I have become God. Or, if God position is unavailable, than Buddha or liege or janitor.

"But, Nami," you might be saying now, "Paranormal phenomenon aren't science! They're a LACK of science, made to convince dumb children like me that there really are ghosts in our closets." Well, dumb child, that is where you are wrong. SO VERY WRONG. So, if you have managed to somehow refrain from killing yourself because you suddenly realized just how very, very wrong you were, then come with me and partake in science, in the rather futile hope that you will someday grow up to be less of a dumb child and more of a strange and possibly volatile adult.

Firstly, I must quickly point out that there are many, many fields of this science (see how I have stopped using the über font? This is SERIOUS WORK WE DO) that are very... uh... science-y. Believe it or not, not everyone who's a BUH-LEEVAH is a remarkably gullible hippie. Just because you believe in the paranormal does not mean you're convinced that every fuzzy photograph and subliminal message in your alphabet soup is a sign from the aliens (and, regardless, this entry is more focused on psychics, not ET and friends). Then, somewhere along the line of separating what cannot be explained from a coral reef, science begins to take hold. There's actually a lot of knowledge and whathaveyou in psychic research, ghost hunting, or extraterrestrial contact. You have to study on the history of it, find connection points between fables, develop equipment and determine if it would really help or hinder, blah blah blah ET CETERA. So, now that you are aware that there is science in psychics, allow me to tell you a theory I've been working on as to how psychic powers could work. See, I'm not an equipment technician or a historical researcher. I'm what I'd like to call a probability researcher and idealist specializing in supernatural phenomena and legends. In other words, I'm a para-phile who likes coming up with ways to make things like spoon-bending and other-worldly contact actually possible. I also write fanfics. Nice to meet you.

With that safely out of the way, I'd like to now spread my theory on how psychic powers could (and may) work. This was brought on somewhere around the fifth or sixth playthrough of the Most Excellent Game Psychonauts, of which I am admittedly addicted and loving to. However, this is a sado-masochistic relationship, as it chooses to psychologically break me and bruise my thumbs repeatedly with the final level and anything and everything involving the use of telekinesis. I counter this by horribly mutilating the disk by any means possible for cruel entertainment, whether by using cheats to try powers and abilities too soon in the game to monitor results, accidentally leaving the disk in dusty or foot-prone areas, or messing with the deep, internal data via Psychonauts Explorer. This craving for psychic knowledge was furthered still when I began delving into fanfiction writing, and the need to know the inner quirks of a power and whatnot became desperate. However, it wasn't until I really got into the Psychonautical forums and started work on my tenth fanfic (when I fangirl something, I do so HARD) that the craving reached fruitation.

Somewhere along the way, as I carefully explained the process of how a Dream Fluff heals psychic wounds in an early chapter of Situation Critical: Coloro Pluvia, I realized that I had achieved enlightenment. I now had a fully workable, logical, and complex theory as to how, exactly, psychic powers worked in the game, in my mind, and, maybe someday, in real life.

So now, may I present to you...

A Relative Theory on the Uses, Causes, and Capabilities of Psychic Powers in Double Fine's Psychonauts, and How They Could be Applied in Future Genetic Splicing and/or Evolution

Or, to keep things short...

A Paper.

Now, the theory starts with a small leap of faith that must be taken by the believer (or, as is more commonly possible, a non-believer who just wants help with their own fanfiction), and that is that you must believe that the 'psychic' part of the mind (unofficially entitled the Insolitus Animus, which is Latin for 'unusual strength') is somewhat isolated from the rest of your brain.

YOU MUST BELIEVE THE POWER OF TIM COMPELS YOU.

Anyway, this isn't to say that the IA is just floating around in cranial fluid--your skull isn't roomy enough for that. Yes, that was a compliment. I'd recommend you print it out and hug it every night before you go to sleep, because you'll probably never get another one from me ever again. Ever. In any case, the IA is still attached to the brain via the usual clumps of tissue and synoptic fiber, and still gets a regular dosage of pulsing blood and brainwaves (which is why the drug Moses works--from another fanfiction of mine). However, it is treated even more separately than another organ entirely, with its own brain-wave patterns and a separate blood flow courtesy of the four-chambered heart. (with some exceptions) It is because of this as to why no animal other than the alligator, when affected with psitanium and forcefully bred into being psychic over generations, can fully control their powers to as much of an extend as humans do. Due to the blood being not as seperated by a two- or three-chambered heart, the IA in a psychic animal is more responsive to emotions and insticts than in a human or an alligator, both of which have four chambers.

However, the IA is attached by neural pathways to the motor cortex, the cerebellum, and, most prominently, the basal ganglia. It also has small links to many other parts of the brain, making it more like a spiderweb upon the various undulations than another, tinier brain. These connections allow somewhat of a psychic response when prompted by emotions or movement; but still, the IA is mostly used via a separation 'summoning' of its functions after learning the particular way to use them. It is fully possible to use certain powers, if you contain the IA, without training, but they are difficult, if not impossible, to control, and often result in disaster. Likewise, certain more advanced powers demand a vast consumption of 'psychic energy' known as intracognitve energy and outercognitve energy, or ICE and OCE. This being said, a rookie psychic cannot use much more than basic powers until, with practice and the careful consumption of OCE, they grow into a powerful psychic and are able to use much more demanding techniques. Practice makes perfect, don't cha' know?

Focusing on the ICE and OCE, this was a section of the theory first introduced in Coloro Pluvia, and later worked on in Cheating Death 101, among others soon to come. I see no reason to expand upon this idea any further than what was mentioned in said fanfics, so I'll just mosey on over and use copy-und-paste, mm-kay?

There are two types of mental energy in this world: intracognitive (ICE) and outercognitive (OCE). ICE resides in a psychic’s mind, and is a type of manipulable force with the ability to disguise itself as any other type of energy (i.e. kinetic) with the right amount of itself. Roughly, it takes 7 units of psychic energy to make one unit of kinetic, but only one to make light, the type of energy closest to itself in value.

An experienced psychic can make an exact measurement of the amount of psychic energy needed, resulting in nothing but the type of energy they want being issued. However, an inexperienced psychic often goes either too little (resulting in no or little energy being dispersed) or too much (resulting in the remaining amount of energy being transferred into light energy—a psychic ‘hand’ or ‘levitation ball’—or too much energy being exerted on the field, if there is still too much to be transferred into less than a brilliant flash). When ICE is out on the field, yet has not become another type of energy, then it is OCE. OCE is created by using up ICE in psychic powers, or by exhaling.

Outercognitive energy wants one thing—to be back in a mind. It manifests itself usually as hate grenades (it’s a cool word), confusion grenades, or Dream Fluff energy, depending on how it was used (Psiblast-hate grenade, Confusion grenade-confusion grenade, other-Dream Fluff energy). Psychic arrowheads do not belong here, as they are really just free ranging psitanium. And rock.

Dream Fluff energy shares the same manipulability as ICE, and is naturally dispersed into the air and ready to be absorbed into the mind by being breathed in, where it turns back into ICE. This keeps the ICE balance in check, but affects how long it takes to use a certain, more or less draining power. For example, it takes about five to ten seconds to recharge from invisibility, but only about one for shielding.

When a psychic takes damage, their ICE can be used to help prevent serious damage by energizing the white blood cells in their body. This can help prevent death in certain, normally fatal situations, but if the body becomes hurt enough where the blood cells cannot fix it on their own, excited or no, the ICE system fails, and it will not repair them. In this case, sensing the shut down of the ICE, a Dream Fluff will automatically turn itself into ICE energy and use itself to suture all wounds, restoring the psychic and starting back up the ICE system. However, this will only occur once the ICE system completely shuts down, unless the energy is manually inserted into the psychic by eating, injecting, or smoking (it is rumored that the last one has no hallucinatory effects, though, so put that bong down). It then becomes health energy, while the remainder becomes ICE for the mind, or is dispersed back into OCE by exhaling. By keeping this balance of gaining ICE through breathing in and eating Dream Fluffs and absorbing grenades (a staple part of every psychic’s diet!), then expelling it through breathing out and using psychic powers (less is breathed out the more the psychic uses their powers), a healthy body is maintained.

The ICE and OCE are stored for use in a section of the IA known as the Insolitus Navitas Deposita, or strange energy storage, also in Latin. This part is weaved throughout the IA, in order to allow the most amount of mental energy to be exposed to the powers. This is useful when powers are needed, but often results in an inexperienced psychic releasing hecka lot of power on accident. I lose more pets that way...

Though the IA is with a psychic child as long as their brain is with them (meaning that it's there in birth and gone with the use of super sneezing power), it will never develop EVER. No, I lied. It'll be fully developed; however, as an ingrown safety feature, the IA will not start taking in ICE or releasing OCE--instead storing up to its limit of OCE so that the body won't take in any more and firewalling inquisitive parts of the brain--until the child had reached a development point of about six or seven years old. This is so to prevent the improper use of the powers (imagine being psiblasted every time Junior got diaper rash), until the host is presumed mature enough to avoid unintentional murder or property damage... most of the time. As any and all knowledge of psychic prowess was ignored and destroyed over being 'witchcraft' or just 'odd' in earlier times, it is unknown for how long this firewall has been implemented, or if it always was. As such, the presumed limit of time passing before someone is forced to admit to being non-psychic is just before turning eight years old. As such, the minimum age requirement for any child to participate in the fun and happy ~~training facility~~ summer camp known as Whispering Rock is eight. This was upgraded to nine after an event in 2003 regarding a boy named Timmy T. Timmerson, who, shockingly, suddenly showed signs of psychic ability three months after his eighth birthday party. Timmerson currently holds the record for longest psychic regression, beating (to death) some kid named Billy Billerson by three months and one day.

NOTE: Names may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent or at least marginally not-guilty.

Thus, I have since proved that baby seals are, in fact, invaluable as clubs to beat children and senior citizens with. Right next to the club made of drugs that drug-dealers beat drug-abusers druggily with DRUGS.

...I think I need to go home now.

IT ENDS.

~ agent ed

(P.S. It should be noted that I blame the origins of this entirely on my first energy drink I've ever drunk--Vault--being vastly consumed mere minutes before I was told to go to sleep, resulting in a hyperactive whirl of mental stimulation and excitement and artistic desire, the likes of which I've never seen until at least last Tuesday. As such, I feel all crashy right now, and my humor levels are zapped dry. Duuuuuuuudeeeee... -Passes out-)

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:07:46 GMT

Well, so... here I am. About to carve open history at the seams, tearing open all laws of time and space as we know it and spreading a new apocolypse across the entire world of Earth and others, then crawl out from the wreckage once known as Maple Nest, Wisconsin, like a termite, then build a new world empire via this journal and free soap samples. Well, let's get this started. *Cracks knuckles*

Intro time. My psuedoidentity is Nami Arigawa, a teenager from the barren country wastelands of Wisconsin who enjoys the stereotypical things most teens on this site enjoy: reading, writing, art, and hanging out with friends. (Before you ask, no, you're not my friend.) I enjoy many other things; most importantly, video games and the paranormal. However, with great lists of stuff that's the shizzy comes great lists of stuff that, frankly, make me want to beat a kitten to death. However, neither of us are here to listen to me prattle on about either end of the optimisim-pessimisim scale (from "OMGTINYBUNNIZ RTEH<3!!!" to "Lifeth is the agonith"), so I'm going to gradually ween you onto my likes and dislikes throughout the course of this journal, whether that shall be a month or until I die from blood poisoning from a penny-eating contest at the age of 127.

In short, all you need to know about me is this: video games and all fan-fiction/-art to do with them and the paranormal are very, very good conversation-starters.

If you insult Psychonauts I will hurt you. Badly.

No, I still don't want to meet you in a secluded area around 7:30 standard-pacific, ever.

I love pretty much all video games, from Kirby 64: The Crystal Shards to Bioshock. However, I haven't played anything older than the original Super Smash Bros. and have no plans to own a PS3. I do own a Game Boy, two Game Boy: Colors, a Game Boy: Advance, a Game Boy: Advance SP, a Nintendo DS, a Nintendo 64, a Playstation, a PS2, a Gamecube, an X-Box, an X-Box 360, and a Wii. It's a collection.

If you continue to insult Psychonauts, even your great-grandson will be born sterile.

I hold a serious belief in paranormal entities here on earth. I also believe that a room in a building in my yard is haunted by a rather wimpy poultergest who is scared of anyone with stronger willpower than him. (It's really a cool story.)

I'm not, in any way, a rabid fangirl... unless it is hinted that, somewhere, Psychonauts is being made fun of. Then all bets are off.

I like many 'emo' bands, among other depressive things. However, I'm eerily optimistic.

I'm Republican and support Mr. McCain fully, and will fight you to the metaphorical teeth to sway the tides in his favor.

...Okay, I said that'd be shorter, but I had much more fun writing that than I expected. It must be a vanity thing, but I enjoy talking about my own interests, hates, and quirks almost as much as I enjoy writing fanfiction. That is to say, I love it with a passion. So, in that case, it's doubtful that this thing will lie unused for any significant period of time, with the exception of the next five days, as I am grounded. It's a long and pointless story... I drank a soda when I was told to put it in the fridge because it was already open and would get flat if left overnight and got caught, THE END. Well, there's more to it than that, and it makes me out to be a horrible, horrible person, but I'll leave it at that. I still have some marks on my arm, after all, and I want to put the incident behind me. Besides, it's connected to a lengthy and intricate story I'll put up later called The Curse of Evil Tim. Kudos if you understand the vague reference in the title.

...I think I'm going to work on some Psychonauts fanfiction now. I have to finish up To Break an Agent, after all.

I'm at the point right after Raz and Milla are murdered by Damian, where Sasha somehow eludes death. It explains the murders and how Sasha escaped in detail, then I'm planning to switch to an emotional funeral scene. Then, the actual epilogue, with a Lucas Arts game cameo. 8D

For now, for your viewing pleasure, I bring you the original TBaA, taken straight from Fanfiction.net for your reading enjoyment. I have to say, it's my favorite story so far, aside from possibly Cheating Death 101 and Situation Critical: Coloro Pluvia. Well, it's my favorite one-shot, in any case.

One-Shot (Wun-Shawt) (n):
1. A short story, usually only a few paragraphs to a few pages in length, detailing a quick problem-and-conclusion situation, thus named because of its common anovel (only one chapter, or 'shot') status. A general term, it can be used for any story genre, and is often only loosely held by the 'one chapter' rule. However, it is concerned inaccurate and novice to refer to a sotry with more than one chapter as a one-shot.
2. A small, fan-written story based off, but not directly quoted from, another, usual lengthier form of media. It can take place at any point in time before. during, or after the time point of the parent media, and can be either accurate to it ('canon') or somehow altered to the one-shot writer's choosing ('non-canon' or 'AU').

See Also: drablet, short story, fanfiction, two-shot

...Well, okay, it's technically a drablet, based on the fact that what was originally going to be the epilogue is turning quickly into a second chapter. Enjoy the story, still.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4306776/1/To_Break_An_Agent

Ha. HA HA.

...And that's all I have to say. For now, I'll see you tomorrow (provided nothing comes up to change that fact), with more tales and cuts and general randomness to help make this end of the Internet just a little more exciting. This is Paranormal Investigator Nami "Ari" Arigawa, signing off. Good day, and may chaos be with you, always.

~Nami~

P.S. Ignore the fact that my username on here is "Agent Ed", would you kindly. My name's Nami (or Ari, if you prefer). I just did that because "Agent Ari" was taken and "Agent Nami" and "Agent Arigawa" looked weird. Plus 'Agented' sounds like a cool new word. "How are you today, Billy?" "Oh, a little agented." "That's nice. Now go wash up for dinner. I made long pork." "YUM!"

Okay, So That's All Set...

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 18:06:17 GMT

And now, to force upon you all a massive spam-dumkpage of jounrals previously deleted, the likes of which no man, woman, or child may have seen before! To bring back a legacy previously unknown, and to write again ancient scriptures of ye times olde.

All this and more begins... in the next jounral. Prepare yourself.

Also, my old layout is back. After so long of that old, crappy one, this feels almost like coming... home.

~agent ed

Y HALO THAR.

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 18:12:44 GMT

A few weeks back, I had the brilliant idea to convert my LJ into some form of sketchbook diary/comic emporium, hence the random delete of all previous entries and the complete layout switch like some form of online reincarnation. Then I remembered that I have a slightly neglected DeviantART account with a preset and rather trendy layout, making the idea of posting drawings on LJ ridiculously redundant.

Luckily for me, I couldn't bear to part with that much writing and science and whatnot, so all my previous entries are currently resting comfortably on my father's computer. I now feel that they truely do belong here and WHY THE HELL DOES LOGGING ONTO LJ ALWAYS MAKE ME WANT TO TALK LIKE SASHA NEIN WHAT WHAT. Anyway, expect them to get up as soon as I'm done coloring in my own entry sheet for DA hosted Escape From Nevara original character tournament. I won't disclose specifics just yet, but suffice to say he's going to kick all your pansy asses and getting references for his costume involved intence mental scarring on my part because mimes are scary as hell. I'm beginning to get those 'evil clown' jokes. They're based in truth.

Goals for today: 1) Finish coloring and editing Piro's character sheet 2) Post lots of sketches and crap on DA to make up for random lull 3) Put up old LJ journals 4) Remember to eat. OOOOOH YEEEEAAAAAAAAH.

Your pal,
Agent Ed