Nathan Explosion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onehundredbeers) wrote2011-02-27 04:54 am
onehundredbeers) wrote2011-02-27 04:54 am
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shifted_prompts - binary system
VERSE:realityshifted
WORD COUNT: 1471
A delicate balance had been struck between all of them: it wasn't something that ever needed saying or elaborating on when in the company of each other, but it was there. It bound them together with invisible chains, the kind that couldn't be cut through or even simply shrugged off. They were a cohesive unit, and they only achieved remote functionality as said unit. It was a fact Nathan knew about; when he met Pickles, he felt it. He felt it with the rest of the band- he even felt it with Charles. Just this nagging at the back of his head that these were the people he was meant to be with.
Synergy.
That was it, that was the word. Synergy. Perfect fucking synergy that made them a force to reckon with. Alone, none of them had much power. Together, they could (more or less) make countries bow to them, make armies defer to them, make gods kiss their hands in reverence. They had endless power at their fingertips and god it was great.
But the synergy broke for bits of time now. He knew that as well. On the plane, standing amidst the stars, the ties that bound them were severed as if they were nothing. He didn't have power there, not by a long shot. He was a regular jackoff, a normal human being there. Or as normal one could be in the middle of space. There was no influence to be had, no one to admire him, no one to respect him or fawn over him or proclaim how much they loved him.
He hadn't really experienced that since when he first started out, playing in failures of bands, living with whatever bandmates were willing to let him stay with them. Those were bitter memories mixed with some disgusting smear of idealism; the naivete of youth and the passion of someone brimming with creativity. That part of him was all but dead, but in return, he had a place, a purpose. One that switched off and on now.
Feeling that synergy die every time he left home was odd, to say the least.
Nathan twisted a pen in his hand. Things were shaping up different now, though, weren't they? There was Toki. There was Charles. Things were ending up how they were supposed to- him with his family, with the people who made everything just fucking work. He wasn't one to typically leap at mysteries or get intrigued by anything at all, but he couldn't resist thinking about shit when he wasn't otherwise preoccupied.
He had been told that the selection of people was random. There was no control over it, there was no way to pinpoint who could come and who couldn't. But within like, a month or two, it wasn't just him anymore. He had been fucking alone for ages and then suddenly, he wasn't. The synergy was back in a crippled form, but it was there; it's pulse thready but alive. That was Toki. It was almost like when he first met Pickles.
And then Charles, and the pulse went from thready to stable.
How the fuck could that be random? Nathan clicked the pen as he thought to himself. Maybe- maybe they were overriding it. Whatever it was. They were Dethklok, after all, and things eventually always went their way; even if it was crazy space technology that flagged people from multiple universes to go out into space. Nathan had wanted it to do as he wanted, and finally the randomization must've bowed to him. Oh yes, Mr. Explosion, the error of our computerized ways has been realized, we'll get right on getting your family up here.
Nathan mulled over it. That sounded like absolute shit, that couldn't be what it was, but hey, no randomizer randomed itself like it was doing now. That shit had to have been rigged. Someone in charge was rigging it, that was it, that was totally it. His first thoughts went to Roe- she knew that even though he had his moments of absolutely fucking hating his band mates, he wanted them up there so they could hang out.
But it wasn't her.
He was sure of that much. She wouldn't have lied to him, no way, not her. And even then, he had been peeking in the shop off and on; he hadn't seen her in ages. He hadn't seen much of the twins that hung around either, which was bizarre. He had mentioned it to Irving in passing: why the fuck would they leave the store unlocked if no one was there? Who the hell left their valuable shit just laying around where anyone (Nathan) could steal it if they felt so inclined?
He flung his pen at the wall. It didn't matter, did it? He didn't give a shit about them (he stomped his feelings for Roe with his boot then and there, he didn't feel like thinking about some dead girl he may or may not have wanted to take out on a date); what he gave a shit about was getting what he wanted, and it seemed the universe was lining things up just so. Nathan could accept that, fuck, he would accept that. It was how it ought to have been from the start. Him and the band and also Charles.
Synergy.
That was what mattered here. The balance had to be reestablished somehow, not left swinging all over the damn place without any care for where it was going. Nathan was prepared to mull things over for a bit longer when the thought dropped from his head entirely. All at once he felt like he had managed to turn off all his thoughts, and in that thoughtless stage, he wandered off to where he kept the blank book (now just a notebook for his half formed lyrics to be written).
He stalked down the hallways and slammed the door open to the room, then immediately flopped down in the chair at his desk. Nathan grabbed the book and flipped it open, rubbing one of his temples. He had to take one of his way way way earlier thoughts back: turning off thinking wasn't as fun as it may have seemed, because now he was caught in a minor struggle to pull enough cohesive sentences together to form paragraphs and complete concepts. Why the fuck did he have to stop thinky my god in heaven what was wrong with him.
"Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what am I in here for," he said, staring down at the book in his hand. "Okay. Book. What the fuck do I want this for. I don't feel like writing. I can't fucking read it. It's a fucking door stop and paperweight and absolutely fucking useless."
Nathan flipped to a blank page and stared wordlessly at it, as if somehow his willpower alone could make words appear. Of course, it couldn't, and the blank pages just stared lifelessly up at him, mocking him for thinking he could make words appear. With willpower. Everyone knew books didn't work that way; you had to be a moron to think they did.
But he grabbed a pencil regardless, and without much thought, he began to sketch on the page. It wasn't anything specific, just some old remembered sigils ascribed to demons and the like. Runic imagery, things one might expect to be on a movie set where a summoning ritual was being enacted. Just simple things, things to keep the page from being blank. Soon it all spiraled into itself, weaving together into some cohesive, combined image that he still couldn't quite make out.
He kept on, mostly just to keep himself busy. He wasn't an artist, but sometimes it was fun to do something other than write lyrics. Though he couldn't quite describe this as fun, it was more just... there. He felt no compulsion to do it, but no real reason to stop. If it could be described as mediocre, he would have described it as such. Unfortunately, the word didn't apply, and he was left thinking (ah, there we go, things are firing up again) on what the proper word was.
All he could think of though, was a different word. One single, solitary word.
Synergy.
Synergy between the band and Charles.
Synergy between the images on the page.
There was something going on, he could feel it, but he couldn't pinpoint it. This was part of it somehow, he thought as he dropped the pencil to the floor. Whatever he was doing was done; the picture was completed. Though he couldn't make heads or tails of it. The things that looked like summoning diagrams merged with demonic sigils merged with runic inscriptions in one gigantic - but combined - mess.
Nathan stared blankly at what he had drawn in the book.
Somehow... he got a feeling he had only managed to waste precious time. And he wasn't quite sure what that meant.
shifted_prompts - binary systemVERSE:
realityshiftedWORD COUNT: 1471
A delicate balance had been struck between all of them: it wasn't something that ever needed saying or elaborating on when in the company of each other, but it was there. It bound them together with invisible chains, the kind that couldn't be cut through or even simply shrugged off. They were a cohesive unit, and they only achieved remote functionality as said unit. It was a fact Nathan knew about; when he met Pickles, he felt it. He felt it with the rest of the band- he even felt it with Charles. Just this nagging at the back of his head that these were the people he was meant to be with.
Synergy.
That was it, that was the word. Synergy. Perfect fucking synergy that made them a force to reckon with. Alone, none of them had much power. Together, they could (more or less) make countries bow to them, make armies defer to them, make gods kiss their hands in reverence. They had endless power at their fingertips and god it was great.
But the synergy broke for bits of time now. He knew that as well. On the plane, standing amidst the stars, the ties that bound them were severed as if they were nothing. He didn't have power there, not by a long shot. He was a regular jackoff, a normal human being there. Or as normal one could be in the middle of space. There was no influence to be had, no one to admire him, no one to respect him or fawn over him or proclaim how much they loved him.
He hadn't really experienced that since when he first started out, playing in failures of bands, living with whatever bandmates were willing to let him stay with them. Those were bitter memories mixed with some disgusting smear of idealism; the naivete of youth and the passion of someone brimming with creativity. That part of him was all but dead, but in return, he had a place, a purpose. One that switched off and on now.
Feeling that synergy die every time he left home was odd, to say the least.
Nathan twisted a pen in his hand. Things were shaping up different now, though, weren't they? There was Toki. There was Charles. Things were ending up how they were supposed to- him with his family, with the people who made everything just fucking work. He wasn't one to typically leap at mysteries or get intrigued by anything at all, but he couldn't resist thinking about shit when he wasn't otherwise preoccupied.
He had been told that the selection of people was random. There was no control over it, there was no way to pinpoint who could come and who couldn't. But within like, a month or two, it wasn't just him anymore. He had been fucking alone for ages and then suddenly, he wasn't. The synergy was back in a crippled form, but it was there; it's pulse thready but alive. That was Toki. It was almost like when he first met Pickles.
And then Charles, and the pulse went from thready to stable.
How the fuck could that be random? Nathan clicked the pen as he thought to himself. Maybe- maybe they were overriding it. Whatever it was. They were Dethklok, after all, and things eventually always went their way; even if it was crazy space technology that flagged people from multiple universes to go out into space. Nathan had wanted it to do as he wanted, and finally the randomization must've bowed to him. Oh yes, Mr. Explosion, the error of our computerized ways has been realized, we'll get right on getting your family up here.
Nathan mulled over it. That sounded like absolute shit, that couldn't be what it was, but hey, no randomizer randomed itself like it was doing now. That shit had to have been rigged. Someone in charge was rigging it, that was it, that was totally it. His first thoughts went to Roe- she knew that even though he had his moments of absolutely fucking hating his band mates, he wanted them up there so they could hang out.
But it wasn't her.
He was sure of that much. She wouldn't have lied to him, no way, not her. And even then, he had been peeking in the shop off and on; he hadn't seen her in ages. He hadn't seen much of the twins that hung around either, which was bizarre. He had mentioned it to Irving in passing: why the fuck would they leave the store unlocked if no one was there? Who the hell left their valuable shit just laying around where anyone (Nathan) could steal it if they felt so inclined?
He flung his pen at the wall. It didn't matter, did it? He didn't give a shit about them (he stomped his feelings for Roe with his boot then and there, he didn't feel like thinking about some dead girl he may or may not have wanted to take out on a date); what he gave a shit about was getting what he wanted, and it seemed the universe was lining things up just so. Nathan could accept that, fuck, he would accept that. It was how it ought to have been from the start. Him and the band and also Charles.
Synergy.
That was what mattered here. The balance had to be reestablished somehow, not left swinging all over the damn place without any care for where it was going. Nathan was prepared to mull things over for a bit longer when the thought dropped from his head entirely. All at once he felt like he had managed to turn off all his thoughts, and in that thoughtless stage, he wandered off to where he kept the blank book (now just a notebook for his half formed lyrics to be written).
He stalked down the hallways and slammed the door open to the room, then immediately flopped down in the chair at his desk. Nathan grabbed the book and flipped it open, rubbing one of his temples. He had to take one of his way way way earlier thoughts back: turning off thinking wasn't as fun as it may have seemed, because now he was caught in a minor struggle to pull enough cohesive sentences together to form paragraphs and complete concepts. Why the fuck did he have to stop thinky my god in heaven what was wrong with him.
"Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what am I in here for," he said, staring down at the book in his hand. "Okay. Book. What the fuck do I want this for. I don't feel like writing. I can't fucking read it. It's a fucking door stop and paperweight and absolutely fucking useless."
Nathan flipped to a blank page and stared wordlessly at it, as if somehow his willpower alone could make words appear. Of course, it couldn't, and the blank pages just stared lifelessly up at him, mocking him for thinking he could make words appear. With willpower. Everyone knew books didn't work that way; you had to be a moron to think they did.
But he grabbed a pencil regardless, and without much thought, he began to sketch on the page. It wasn't anything specific, just some old remembered sigils ascribed to demons and the like. Runic imagery, things one might expect to be on a movie set where a summoning ritual was being enacted. Just simple things, things to keep the page from being blank. Soon it all spiraled into itself, weaving together into some cohesive, combined image that he still couldn't quite make out.
He kept on, mostly just to keep himself busy. He wasn't an artist, but sometimes it was fun to do something other than write lyrics. Though he couldn't quite describe this as fun, it was more just... there. He felt no compulsion to do it, but no real reason to stop. If it could be described as mediocre, he would have described it as such. Unfortunately, the word didn't apply, and he was left thinking (ah, there we go, things are firing up again) on what the proper word was.
All he could think of though, was a different word. One single, solitary word.
Synergy.
Synergy between the band and Charles.
Synergy between the images on the page.
There was something going on, he could feel it, but he couldn't pinpoint it. This was part of it somehow, he thought as he dropped the pencil to the floor. Whatever he was doing was done; the picture was completed. Though he couldn't make heads or tails of it. The things that looked like summoning diagrams merged with demonic sigils merged with runic inscriptions in one gigantic - but combined - mess.
Nathan stared blankly at what he had drawn in the book.
Somehow... he got a feeling he had only managed to waste precious time. And he wasn't quite sure what that meant.