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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Hello?  Navi?

She's free!

Finally won the final level of Rez on the PS2, in Final Form. Eden is healed of viruses, and free. Been a while since a game victory felt that triumphant -- I actually cheered!

The words, "Thank you, my saviour... " fade into view after the credits roll; they all of a sudden reminded me of a dream from nearly a year ago. It was so vivid, I awoke with my chest burning and ashes in my mouth -- stumbled to the keyboard to set it down, barely conscious but with the clear certainty that failing to record it, failing to remember this one, would have been a betrayal. I dug and finally found the notepad file, and I really, really had to fight myself not to clean it up and make it read better. Fuck it, this is what it was, this is what I wrote. I release it to you now, unedited. It seems right to send a dream aloft with Eden.

(Waxing a bit poetic about a game, I know. What can I say? I really like Rez. The final level is amazing.)

(I don't know why the title is "Jennifer," I don't remember calling anyone by name in the dream.)

Jennifer 5/9/06, 6:35 am.

She is picturesque. Like Reese Witherspoon, long blond hair, only a little longer in the face a little more human, a little more real. Vastly intelligent; her ability to reference historical situations, long dead theories, protein clusters, all of these things are frightening, and she does frighten many people away. It's insecurity.

I cannot remember the color of her eyes, save that they were pale, arresting.

The world is a frightening one; we work for an Agency. I remember the color of the world through the scanners in the suits they give us for outside work; it is green. Upon our return, we exchange words, she from her wheelchair on the second floor landing above me, through the banister. There is a "girl's mother" or "shopkeeper" presence behind me; another adventuring comrade (a friend? my brother?) is to the left. Outside... no immediate danger, just the ever present tension. Zombies? What is the threat we face?

She exchanges pleasantries with my companion, and then to me, we are making farewells, for we have brought her back safely -- a letter is handed to me. As it is, I catch a glipse of her eyes, rimming with tears, and my horrible heart stings and leaps at the same time.

It is a profession; a love letter. Nakedly vulnerable, yet unafraid, for all that we are professionals battling against a threat, for all that the Agency has access to read such things, for all that I myself might find it foolish or girl-like; her intelligence, her insecurity, force her to make these written qualifiers. Still, the line, "You are beautiful!" among others, leaps out.

I cannot read it in depth at a glance; I at first want to take it away, to read privately, for now's not the place or time, we have to go. Secondly, a cat begins to distract me. This is the first moment at which the traitorous world begins to intrude; for although we were standing a moment ago, ready to take our leave, now I am lying supine, and the cat is clambering on my chest. A friendly fellow, but keeps trying to climb up and rest uncomfortably on my upper chest or neck, which I only thought amusing before, but now recalls my phantoms of sleep paralysis.

She rescues me by scooping away the little breath-stealer finally; she's hanging down the landing above, having pulled herself down from the wheelchair to lie on the landing and stretched down to haul away the whiskery menace. We smile at each other; it gives us a moment more to speak. I want to let her know that she's not alone; that she doesn't have to be as afraid anymore. That she isn't just a thinking machine, nor a cripple. That her letter stung my eyes, made me glad, made me giddy. I want to say a lot to her.

The daylight that rips the world apart across my eyes feels like nothing less than a betrayal. My ceiling. My room. The world. I never got the chance to tell her. A scream dies to ashes under my collarbone, and though I shut my eyes immediately to force my way back, I already know with sickening certainty that I will never be able to return.

Jennifer 5/9/06, 6:35 am. KB.

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I never got the chance to tell her. A scream dies to ashes under my collarbone, and though I shut my eyes immediately to force my way back, I already know with sickening certainty that I will never be able to return. <-- PWNED! Seriously tho, sometimes I wish I had the power to send people back to their carefully fabricated moments in time. Not so much to help them, but so they can bring back secrets from the dream world for me.

All secrets are belong to Vega!


What a beautiful portrayal of human longing and love just blooming. So vivid and lush with emotion without once feeling trite or faked. And yet, while being deeply personal, manages to connect the reader to the timelessness of this moment. To be aware of the archtypal nature of the scene; how to feel loss. It connects all humans on a fundamental level, in that was intensely individual is now profoundly universal.

I tip my hat. For my heartstrings it did tug.

I would beg an encore, that I might read it, but not that you would have to feel that again.

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