(A quick word. Written 09/15/26)
Hello, reader!
Thanks for checking this page out! I don't tend to write anything especially graphic, but there is definitely blood, death, guilt, and the exploration of somber topics in some of these works as well as foul language. With that in mind, please do not read the works here or in my Google Drive (which does contain the pieces here as well) unless you are 15+ and willing to possibly run into such things.
Thank you.
- WindsweptSkies
(Half of an intended full work. Completed 09/10/26. 1456 words)
"It's unlike you to be so far from the others, my friend."
Noob doesn't respond, opting instead to crack open what seems to be their third Bloxy Cola. In other circumstances, they would take this as a sign to leave the other be for now, but the little they can see of the slightly glassy gaze in Noob's eyes, the vacancy in their expression... it strikes too close to memories Two Time would rather not think of. They pad closer.
"I understand if you do not wish to speak. But..." They trail off a moment, searching for anything that might feel like the right words. "While I admit you would likely find more comfort in another coming to ask if you are well, the Spawn would–"
They doubt it's intentional, but they notice Noob flinch. It ought to have been no surprise; it's always that. Mention the Spawn, and others get uncomfortable. The darting gaze, the pinched face, the sudden excuses of needing to do menial tasks... none of the others wish to hear of Him.
Some days, such behavior would irk them. It would be remiss to say today isn't one such day. Yet, at the same time... today, their fellow survivor is suffering enough. They backtrack.
"...my apologies, friend. I only mean to say that I am concerned for you. But if you rather me leave you be, I can offer that much as well."
The swig of soda taken in seeming response sounds almost too loud, but the silence that follows after is somehow more deafening. Their tail is halfway done trying to curl around their own leg before they catch themself. Idle fingers worry away at the edges of their scarf. But there is no dismissal, nothing that tells them to make themself scarce; Noob simply hiccups.
"And," they add after a bit longer, slowly sinking down to kneel beside Noob on the sand, "I am here to listen, if perhaps you'd prefer that to drowning your sorrows in drink."
The other survivor hiccups again, finally turning their head a little as their gaze flits away from the lake's surface.
"Y'don't have to, Two Time." Noob rubs their eyes with a sweater sleeve. They might've even tried to smile reassuringly. But with their still-damp eyes and puffy face, the attempt looks more pitiful than anything else. "I just was–I just was thinking about an old f-friend."
An old friend, whose memory sparks grief. Two Time's fingers carve shallow grooves in the sand. "But you've not done this before, at least as far as I've seen."
"Um... yeah. I, um–I hadn't." Noob sniffles. "I thought I made my peace. And–and maybe I did? I just..."
They trail off, drawing their knees close as their eyes dart back out over the lake. But perhaps the reflected rays of an eternally dying sun offer them the words they seemed to lack; before Two Time finds it in themself to fill the silence instead, Noob speaks up again.
"I just thought, if we–if we ever did see each other again, we... we would be able to talk, or... something. That I could say sorry for how I said everything. That–that I really just wanted her to be safe, and he didn’t have to change anything to make me proud." They wrap their arms around their legs. The can, still clutched tight in Noob's hand, starts to visibly tremble. “But–but now... h-how am I supposed to do that? I could barely... I-I didn't recognize them, 'til they screamed. But when they did, all I could think of was...”
They make a noise between another hiccup and a choked sob. Watery eyes meet Two Time's again, and their breath catches in their throat at the sight of the endless guilt before them.
"All I could think of was how I left him. I left my best friend when she needed me most. But knowing they were slowly killing themself with their scripts... after they hit me when I c-confronted them... how could I have stayed? How could I? But if I knew that this would happen to them if I left, I would've–I would've still tried to do something!" Noob buries their face into their knees. "I would've gone back. Maybe... maybe not right then, b-but... I would have reached back out sooner. He's still the best friend I ever had. I still... I still care..."
As Noob starts to sob, Two Time becomes acutely aware of the fistfuls of sand they've made. They loosen their fingers and wipe what remains on their pants; sand sticks to their hands anyway. Still, despite the grit, Two Time clasps them together as if to pray–and pray, indeed, is what they wish they could do.
They want to ask the Spawn to grant Noob relief from their sorrow. They want to ask that He give them rest and comfort and freedom from this terrible, aching loneliness–all that they wished they had after that night. They want to beg for forgiveness, for once again lingering on feelings tied to simply doing what They have asked of them. But the words do not come freely, instead rattling in their lungs and closing their throat like the memory of petals born of such heresy.
It must be heresy, too, to almost envy the suffering of their fellow survivors–first with the hacker and his child, now Noob and the nightmare beast they still call their best friend. However, the heart cares not for heresy or cruelty or even sense; it simply hopes for the same. And hope, no matter how much it aches to harbor… what else is there left to keep them going?
Two Time draws a shaky breath and tries to put back the smile that had begun to slip.
“My friend, I know it aches deeply now, and words can do little to soothe the pain… but understand that the trials we go through do not come without a silver lining.” Of course, it feels a stretch at times to even themself, but they try to keep their voice reassuring. "Though we suffer at the hands of many tormenters, some bearing the skin of those cherished... we are also blessed with endless time. If there is even a slight hope that your voice can again reach the heart of your friend, no matter how beastly their state... you have an eternity to find a way."
Noob is quiet; for a moment, Two Time worries they upset them. But after a shaky breath, Noob wipes their nose. "O-or... or an eternity to fail."
"Maybe," they agree. They fold their hands on their lap. "But we cannot be certain."
The other survivor rocks slightly in the sand as they seem to consider this, their shoes making little grooves into the beach. The motion reminds them of a childhood long past of trying to piece together what they could have possibly done to upset their parent, what they could have done better. But those days had been surrounded by grass and daisies, all idly pulled at as they fretted and hoped things could be better this time.
Yet it never did get better–not until they left that place–but leaving is not a luxury any of them have here. They have some comfort, certainly, but their sanctuary in this torment is their faith. Perhaps to speak of hope is easier than it may be for their fellow sufferers; perhaps it’s just as painful to them as outright anguish. But before they could even start to say anything on that matter–to apologize for their presumptiousness–Noob speaks again.
"Y-you know… You're not, um... you're not usually like this.” They clap a hand over their own mouth, as if they hadn’t meant to voice that thought. Their expression then shifts into something sheepishly soft. “I-I mean! It's, um, nice. B-but it's just... not really like what I would've... expected? I guess?"
What an odd thought. “Pray tell, my friend: what could you mean by that?”
"You're just usually kinda, um... creepy, actually, haha."
They feel their cheeks flush slightly. Two Time averts their gaze. "...oh."
Even looking away, they can see that Noob raises their hands as if to placate. "A-and that's okay! Most of the o-others kinda scare me anyway. But, um... you'd also go on some sorta spiel on–on the Spawn, y'know? Like you're trying to convert, um... anyone, really, who'd listen to you. But... you're not d-doing any of that. And I appreciate it. I really, really do. I-I just don't... get it. Why are you being so nice?"
"...I, ah..." Two Time swallows the lump forming in their throat and holds the smile. "I just... know how it is, to lose someone so incredibly precious."
(The Artificer loses another child. Originally posted on my RP blog for a writing meme. Completed 07/20/24. 472 words)
Her body still hasn’t fully recovered from being atop her pup’s the god-pup’s structure when he had collapsed. It might just be her age catching up; her joints ache, old bones creak. She is not nearly as nimble as she once was. The cold bites sharper through her fur than any lizard bite, too, leaving her a shivering mess at even the shortest excursion. But she is still functional as a hunter, at least, still able to get her fill before the snowstorms became too cold for even the fire in her stomach to keep her alive.
She is still functional enough, she thinks as her hind legs scrabble at the torn pieces of metal for purchase and the drone blinks lazily by her head, to still act as his mother the god-pup’s citizen. He is in far worse a state than she, barely a shell of his former self. It is the least she can do to fulfill some of her supposed duty and offer some warmth while she can.
The Artificer hauls herself over a little lip in the sheer ledge-side of the shattered remains of his chamber and pauses for breath. The wind howls loudly as ever, the sound almost magnified in the otherwise-silence.
Her ear twitches.
That’s not right. That can’t be right. He always plays his silly little pearl’s music. He would never let it be silent.
But no, silence is all that seems to remain.
She can feel her heart lurch. She scrambles to where he should be.
Only a cold pearl and a body dusted in snow are there to greet her.
Distantly, she hears something like a whimper as she nudges the still figure of Five Pebbles. But he does not respond. Nothing flickers, nothing moves, he is freezing against her nose like he was nothing more than a corpse left out in the storm.
The whimpering becomes a howling wail, a noise that tears out her throat. But even that is drowned out by the sound of the wind, just as thunder stole the sound the first time she ever cried so. Still, she cries and sobs and screams to the sky until there is nothing left of her voice to give and he still remains unmoving.
Her eye stings. Her body feels stiff. It’s cold—it’s so, so cold—but she cannot bring herself to care about that. Slowly, painfully, she sinks down to curl around him as if he were only sleeping, letting him leech away at what little warmth still remains in her body.
Her drone blinks some sort of warning for her to seek shelter. She does not move. Her eye flutters shut and she rests her chin atop her pup’s head, as if they were just going to sleep.
She wishes she does not have to wake from this one.
(A reflection on perfectionism during a time I struggled with it badly. Originally written for a creative writing club meeting. Completed 03/24/21. 607 words)
It tastes so delightfully sweet.
That’s why people say it’s so dangerous, it’s addictive—a drug in all but name. You might’ve had a taste of it when you were young; someone you looked up to likely gave it to you first, but those little bits aren’t usually harmful. Not like that.
Yet, like anything else, eventually the small tastes become mundane. It doesn’t taste as good, feels less sugared on the tongue. But it’s all the same, isn’t it? Why can’t you be sated by this much? You had been fine with it before. You can live with this much.
And maybe you’re right. You live happily with what you have. You don’t need any more of it. It’s just a nice treat to indulge in on rare occasions, like a glass of fine honeyed wine.
If that’s really the case for you, you’re lucky. A lot of people aren’t like you. They want to taste its glory just as vibrantly as before, but the small pieces they grew up with no longer offer that joy and relief. So they start indulging; they want more, they need more.
For a while, it’s enough to sate their appetite, but eventually it won’t be enough. They’ll continue to consume more until they can’t stomach any more or it kills them. Some—some realize what they’re doing around this point, but oftentimes, by the time they understand how destructive this is, they’re too far ensnared in the drug’s sticky, honeyed embrace to shake themselves free. They’ve grown dependent.
And, oh, to try and escape from this point! It feels so hopeless. Or perhaps that’s the withdrawal speaking; many victims tend to suffer from depression and despair, breaking into tears or panicking when they’ve missed their regularly scheduled taste, or even finding the world futile and wishing death upon themselves when kept from it. It likes to breed anxiety, too—a worry that you won’t be able to get to next time. But it makes it oh-so wonderful when they do get to feast! Nothing can beat that feeling.
It’s terrible, really. But a lot of so-dubbed “good students” are on it, you know? Not that most people care. They just want to see that shiny end result—an A, usually, or as close to 100% as the student can muster. That’s probably a big part in why they end up addicted, too.
It’s so unhealthy. It drives you insane—slowly, yes, but yet it still manages to look like it’s helping. It motivates you to do well. It makes you work harder.
But then you slip, and no one will give that special delicacy to you. Oh, yes, people will offer something else instead—they’re nice, but not that kind of wonderful, blissful taste, a pale facsimile at best. Those are healthier. You probably know that. You’ve tried again and again, trying to shake yourself free from its thrall and only managing to end up even more constricted. Even the thought of no longer having it makes you shudder.
You have friends who want to help you. You know this. They’ve been doing their best to give you alternatives, things that are better for your heart and mind in the long run.
But what you have—what you want to have… it’s perfection. You can’t get anything better than that.
And though you may hesitate at the edge, hum to yourself how this isn’t good for you, it doesn’t matter. Eventually, you will once again fall under the spell of its call and dip a finger into that delicious jar of insanity for another taste, repeating the cycle yet again.
But oh—it tastes so delightfully sweet.
(Backstory for one of my DnD characters, who is a Circle of the Moon lizardfolk druid. Uses campaign lore that isn't explained much. Completed 07/26/22. 776 words)
Dry winds rustle the palm leaves; shadows dance along the riverbank. Just beyond the shelter of the shade, the sun sears the sands, turning every grain into its own tiny ember. It would be a few more hours still before outdoor work is feasible, but playtime seems to be an entirely different matter; a little child shrieks in glee as fistfuls of sand continue to trickle between her claws and back into the hole she dug for herself.
Stars glitter starkly against the darkness of the sky as moonlight washes over the world below, coating everything with an ethereal, almost silver hue. The child–a little older now–turns her head in every direction, soaking in the sight. Still, her wide-eyed admiration does not stop her from looking at her sister as the older lizardfolk softly chuckles.
“They said my mother thought this was the most wonderful sight in the world, and so she gifted me their memory,” Moonlit Sands says. “And you seem to agree with the sentiment.”
She nods vigorously. “Beautiful! Like you!”
Her sister laughs–a lovely sound, she thinks–before picking her up.
“You were named for a similar sight, you know. Starlit Oasis–a mirror of the heavens, a bringer of life...” Moonlit Sands taps a claw against the child’s nose. “And I think that’s more beautiful.”
“Nooooooo,” she protests, and her sister smiles.
“Perhaps you’ll be convinced when I tell you about the secrets of the stars…?”
The nights are cold, colder than she remembers it being when she was younger. Perhaps it’s less the temperature than it is the indistinct whispers drifting through the village, or the heavy blanket of dread draped over predictions of the coming harvest. But whatever it is, the crackle of the hearth only chases away so much of the chill away; her claws feel sluggish as they try to shape the clay into the desired–the word leaves a bitter residue in her mind–result.
As she continues to struggle with her craft, voices drift from the other room, not quite intelligible yet still clearly heated. She pauses–then against better judgment, creeps closer to listen.
“...know what happened to those who tried in the other communities,” their aunt says.
“Of course I do,” she hears Moonlit Sands hiss. “But the harvest will not be able to feed all of us this year. There isn’t another choice.”
Silence follows, but when it finally breaks–her sister again–her voice is softer. “Please, think of the others.” A pause. “Think of Oasis.”
“I am, child. I am.” Their aunt sounds more defeated than anything else. “But if something were to happen to you, I fear the worst for her.”
She does not hear what follows. She does not need to.
With clay still caked on her claws and carrying the only weapons she had, she slips out of their home and looks up to the stars, hoping that she remembers enough of their secrets to find a way to food.
The air tastes of blood–more of hers or her prey’s, she’s not entirely sure. But she is alive and it is not, and that is all that matters; she heaves herself back onto her feet. The beast is hefty–larger than her, it seems–and she does not have to try moving it to know she wouldn't be able to take it far, let alone the two-some days of travel it took to get here in the first place.
But she won’t go home empty-handed. She yanks the dagger out of the beast and begins to work at the meat.
“You could have left it to someone else,” her sister chokes, clutching her close. “You could have gotten yourself killed, Oasis. You were wounded.”
“But I didn’t die, and I brought us food.” Her tail sweeps the ground. “I can get us more food, too.”
“What of the Schitrists, then? What if they catch you?” Moonlit Sands shuts her eyes. “Starlit Oasis, if you continue with this and get killed, I…”
Her sister trails off, but she doesn’t need the rest of it. “But we’ll starve otherwise, won’t we? So I’d still die.”
Moonlit Sands doesn’t respond–not immediately. But then her sister backs up a step, hands still on her shoulders. Her gaze is mournful, but her voice does not quaver when she speaks.
“At least, then, train with a better weapon than the dagger–I’ll make the blade myself if I must. I’ll find a way to teach you how to best survive out there, and–and I’ll do whatever I can to help you gain the stars’ guidance.”
And she wonders–if she had been a disciple of the stars, as Moonlit Sands was, would she have lived?
(A chapter near the climax to a theoretical work I never really wrote. Completed 06/30/21. 660 words)
“What the…”
It can’t be the library—there’s nothing left of the village to salvage—but the cold white replica in front of him screams familiarity as he takes his first step inside, all the way down to the faint sound of humming. The melody is the same as the one he remembers, but the voice is different, closer than Popola’s office and far more boyish in its timbre.
But different never meant unrecognizable, and even if it had, black stands out against white like ash upon snow. Nier’s fingers tighten around the shaft of his spear as the figure sitting on the second-floor railing let his swinging legs still and his humming die away. Though his uniform is more torn and dusty than the last time Nier saw him, his blindfold missing and his smile gone frigid, there’s no mistaking who it is.
“Can’t say I was expecting you to arrive first,” 9S says, “but I’ll take what I can.”
He slips off his perch and lands with an inhuman grace, gaze never leaving Nier as he begins to circle the young man—just out of easy range of his spear but still close enough for 9S’s sword to be a danger—and Nier turns in kind to keep 9S in sight. But as their gazes lock, the hairs along Nier’s neck prickle; had the android’s eyes always looked this hateful? This… hungry? He adjusts his grip on his spear.
“We don’t have to fight,” Nier tells him.
9S doesn’t stop circling, but his smile curls into a snarl. “Funny hearing that from the Destroyer.”
The blood in his veins chill slightly. There’s a familiarity to the title, but one he neither can nor wants to remember. He grits his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah? Guess those thousands of years really did a number on your memory.” 9S’s eyes gleam. “You should’ve seen the documents they had on you in the Bunker—Nier, Replicant. Destroyer of humanity. Never thought twice about the people he cut down like dogs. Only had one goal: protect those he loved.”
9S spits out the last word like venom. Nier doesn’t flinch—he can’t afford that—but he can feel his hand growing clammy inside his gloves. Still, the android hadn’t finished speaking.
“But they died, too! All the humans died because the Gestalts went feral.” He stops in his tracks, sword gleaming mercilessly behind him as he turns to glare at Nier. “So—where did that leave the androids?”
His silence lasts a little too long, it seems, for before he could speak, 9S’s voice already rose to a shrill scream.
“Where did it leave us?”
“It…” He takes a breath, steadying himself. “It left you with no purpose.”
“Right.” The tip of 9S’s blade dips slightly. “That’s why they scrubbed it out of history. They said the humans fled to the moon when the aliens invaded. They made us to combat the aliens’ stupid machines, reclaim the Earth for our gods—for mankind. But that’s obviously a bunch of bullshit, so you know what? We YoRHa units were always meant to be disposable. Thrown away when we were just making progress.”
9S takes a step towards him, then another. The tip of his sword scrapes against the floor, gorging a groove as it runs alongside its owner.
“That’s why we’re here,” the android breathes. “You’re the reason any of this happened. You’re the reason she’s dead. A2 might’ve dealt the killing blow—and trust me, she’ll pay for that, too—but it’s your fault it ever happened.”
“It’s not that simple,” Nier says, taking a step back as he raises his spear’s point. 9S watches him in silence for a moment, gaze drifting over the weapon in Nier’s hands, before finally speaking.
“It isn’t,” he agrees, “but this is all that matters to me.”
The android raises his own sword, and his eyes flash red.
“I can’t wait to have your head gored on your own fucking spear.”
(Short start to an incomplete work about Shuriken getting critically injured while out as Silver Shadow. Section completed 08/21/26. 236 words)
Oh, it's bad.
Everything feels foggy, but even then, Shuriken can still tell things are so, so bad.
Not from any lack of trying. He really did do all he could to bind that stab wound. And sure, it wasn't a good replacement for any real medical supplies, but the wraps around his arms were the closest things he had to bandages on hand. Not a huge deal; if he lived, he can deal with an infection later.
But that's only if he lives. The blood continues to steadily soak through the wraps and into his costume. It can't be much longer before it can't absorb any more. He's not sure what happens at that point, but the way his fingers come away a dark, awful red from just trying to tighten the wraps a little more make him think maybe it's not going to be great.
It's fine though. The civilian ended up getting away safely, and...
Well, he's not sure if the criminal is still breathing at this point. But even if they're dead, it was justified. He's got bigger things to worry about, anyway--like getting home. Once he's there, it'll be a mess. It'll be fine, though. Sling and Vine wouldn't just let him bleed to death on the living room floor. He'd get the chewing out of a lifetime after, sure, but he'll survive.
He just... has to make it home first.
(Smattering of thoughts of Mirage from 2-S having some sort of access to the main part of the game. Completed 02/04/24. 736 words)
I’ve been having weird dreams recently.
It’s not every night that has them. But when it happens, it’s always the same stuff.
Fall down an elevator shaft. Get tossed into some crazy fray of freaks out for blood or death or something.
It really bothers me. I don’t know why this even started. The only interesting thing that happened to me recently is bumping into that guy on the way to sc
Her pen catches on the journal’s page; ink blots the paper, a permanent dark blemish on pristine white and otherwise gorgeous handwriting.
“Fuck,” she says.
And now that’s yet another page to tear out and crumple. The resulting ball lands atop a heap of similarly ill-fated entries in the bin and tumbles onto the floor. As much as she’d like to leave it–makes the whole place feel a little more lived-in, a little more real–it’s getting to be a clutter.
Besides, it’s not like most of the issues in the bin won’t happen again.
The cat on the windowsill stirs as she stands from her chair, blinking open its eyes to look at her.
She pauses to rub its fluffy cheek. “Having a good nap, Kitr?”
Kitr trills sleepily and shuts its eyes again.
“That’s what I thought. Lucky bastard.”
The heap of old nihilism and strange dreams now successfully–and unceremoniously–dumped into the garbage bin by the road, she dusts off her hands and heads back inside.
She catches a glimpse of herself in the window as she passes by. Her reflection stares back, chestplate bare and the blades of her wings glinting gold in the dying light.
…wings?
She rubs her lens and looks again. Her reflection stares back in equal bewilderment, very much clothed and decidedly wingless.
“...I’m going insane.”
Her gaze wanders the incidental patterns of the popcorn ceiling. It’s a lot like searching for constellations she still can’t find in the night sky–just a mindless task trying to distract from the inevitability that is sleep.
But the thoughts still remain. She knows what she saw earlier in her reflection; she’s seen it plenty of times before in those dreams.
No doubt she’ll see it again tonight.
She doesn’t really want to. It’s the weekend, too, so there’s nothing really stopping her from staying awake. But skipping rest will definitely catch up later–and then what? She’d just delay this shit for practically nothing.
Might as well get it over with.
She turns over. Kitr jumps up beside her and nestles in the crook of her arm; she pets the cat until the gentle rise and fall of its sides lulls her to sleep.
It’s almost mockingly calm after the last few nights–just her, the revolver in her hand, the fake night sky overhead, and the soft whispers of a piano that’s probably equally fake as the sky.
But it’s still such a gentle noise.
She leans against the bridge’s railing. Water falls down into the yawning void underneath. If this is what the rest of her dreams could be, things might not be so awful after all.
Too much to hope for.
There’s someone else here. The image of her reflection here’s ingrained deeply enough to recognize they, too, looked like her–just a little bulkier, and violently red.
But they were also there and gone in but a blink of the eye. No shots were fired, either.
She doesn’t know what to make of that.
There is a gun pressing against her head.
There is a gun nestled against theirs.
Their gazes are locked. Her finger is on the trigger. She doesn’t doubt they have it the same way, tying them together in a promise of mutual destruction. The only sounds to break the standstill are the gentle lapping of water against their ankles and the steady dripping of blood.
She’s not exactly afraid of dying. Not in the same way she used to be.
More blood trickles down from V2’s head. She can hear their internal mechanisms whirring.
Though she still doesn’t want to die, of course.
There is a tiny, tiny shake in their aim.
But, ultimately, it’s like what the guy said: the only thing that matters in life is what you choose to do with it, that you pursue what you want.
And she does not want to take the life of someone who so clearly fears death.
She lowers the gun.
V2 doesn’t pull their trigger.