Coda is in a kitchen--large, filled with all the newest appliances, though right now nothing is clean and shiny. They’re contentedly full, and perhaps feeling a little bit tired (the turkey will do that every time), but their attention is currently focused on the sink full of dishes. Behind them, others bring more dishes in from the dining room table.
There’s a shiver that runs up Coda’s spine, the air around them seeming to go cold all at once. Someone clears their throat behind their back, before a short woman with red hair and red eyes walks over to join Coda at the sink. Her arms are blood-stained up to nearly her elbow, fingers tipped with black claws, but Coda has no fear reaction to this; they’re used to the sight of blood on this changeling’s hands. It’s a metaphysical mark, not a literal one.
“Normally only members of the Winter Court stay to clean up and do dishes after my Thanksgiving feasts.” The woman’s tone of voice is even, but as her gaze lingers, the temperature seems to drop further, until it feels like those frigid winter mornings where it hurts even to breathe. Coda’s pulse starts racing; this is their opportunity. Maybe they can play it cool?
“Is that so?” It comes out with more wavering static than intended, betraying how nervous they are. Damn it all, they wanted to sound cavalier.
“Are you asking to join my court?” The redhead raises an eyebrow.
It’s now or never, Coda realizes, and they set the plate they were scrubbing down, nodding. “Please, Dame Lucrece. I would like to be a member of the Winter Court.”
The redhead, Dame Medea Lucrece, weighs Coda with her eyes, but the worst of the icy cold in the air seems to fade. “Very well. Kneel.”
Coda sinks to their knees, bowing their head. In their heart, a fierce, quiet exhilaration thrums like a bird flapping its wings. They’re worthy, they’ve been accepted. They won’t have to face everything alone. As Medea places a hand on each shoulder, the Winter Court’s mantle settles upon them, marking them, the cold spreading down their arms and settling in their fingers.
“Welcome to the Winter Court, Coda.” Medea sounds proud, and that lingers too, deep in Coda’s heart.
There are thirty silver-toned Art Deco chandeliers on the ceiling of the ballroom, five rows of six. Coda’s counted them several times already.
The room is packed with changelings, all in their best clothing. A tall, lithe woman with branches growing from her head which almost resemble antlers walks past, her dress a wine-colored gossamer thing that looks like it came from a Waterhouse painting. She jingles softly as she walks, bells on her anklet. Nearby, an insectoid man with compound eyes, dressed in a grey embroidered suit, is laughing at a joke made by a literal mountain of a man with grey skin that looks to be made of stone.
Coda’s standing against the wall, near one of the punch bowls (spiked liberally several times over by tricksters from all different courts), the weight of a hat on their head, torso gently squeezed by a corset. The outfit’s not uncomfortable--and honestly, they feel more confident in it than a lot of outfits they wear. But it’s still strange to allow themself to be so eye-catching.
As their gaze rakes the room, they make eye contact with a man whose skin is coated in brightly-colored feathers, mostly green but with a red patch down his chin and throat, his suit in a deep royal purple tone. He walks over toward them with a nearly inhuman grace, seeming to slink like a panther, a swirl of dry brown leaves unseasonably blowing around his feet in a wind otherwise unfelt.
“Code-monkey, you can’t be a flower on the wall all night.” His amusement comes out clearly in his voice, as he gestures to a nearby window almost completely feathered over by frost from Coda’s mantle. They blush warmly at being called out.
“I don’t...it’s easier to watch.” The words feel heavy in their mouth. They’ve been with the Freehold for over two years now, but sometimes they still feel on the outside of everything. And this is especially true with the man in front of them, Colibri. He and his motley are central to a lot of what goes on in the Freehold; many of them have strong seasonal mantles, a stronger connection to the Wyrd--the source of fae magic. They’re powerful, important people. And Coda’s not.
Colibri considers their words for a moment, then sighs. “Easiest isn’t always best, Code-monkey. Fear’s a thing to face.” Coda almost rolls their eyes at this comment; it’s such an Autumn thing to say. But when they see Colibri extend a hand, offering a dance, they only hesitate for a couple seconds before accepting.
And it’s awkward, sure. Colibri is compact, but moves with inhuman precision and speed at times, living up to his namesake, while Coda’s uncoordinated and has little sense of rhythm. But for a moment, in his arms, they feel like they’re a part of this mass of people, flowing, laughing, talking, dancing...not just an observer.
An email from Davey. Coda almost doesn’t open it--the other video game designer and them had fought a few times in recent months, and Coda had stopped sharing their work with him altogether after Davey had told them that they needed to share with more people, get a more nuanced view on what other people thought of their work.
The problem was, a lot of what they’d shared with Davey was their most personal work, little single-level experiences that were more like diary pieces, exploring their emotional state and where they were in their head (spoilers, not always good). They weren’t meant to be played, as such--more just opportunities to work out certain thoughts. Some were about inadequacy, about the struggles of the creative process. Some were about gender identity, and what they might say to their younger self about the process of figuring that out, if they’d been able to without the interruption of the Fae. A few were about imposter syndrome. Davey never seemed to understand that, though--he insisted that there wasn’t a point to making games, if they weren’t playable, if they weren’t being put in front of an audience.
The subject of the email was I was right, and Coda dreaded what that could mean. But all that was contained in the email was a link to a Steam game page.
Coda clicked it. And what they saw made their blood turn to ice in their veins--the screenshots were all from their diary pieces, their most personal games. Davey had packaged a bunch of those levels into one collection, and published it for the whole world to see. Reviews were mixed, with some people commenting on how incomplete these levels were, how they didn’t feel like real games. Others were commenting on identifying with the creator, with the feelings. Some were theorizing about what each of the levels included meant.
They stared at the screen until it blurred, eyes stinging with tears. Exposed. Everything they felt, everything they thought was now exposed, in front of hundreds of people. They had no privacy left. It felt incredibly unsafe, like every single player was staring through the screen and looking at them naked. They could feel the eyes on their skin, and it made them itch.
With a primal sort of a yowl, they grab the monitor of their computer and throw it across the room. Something breaks. They think it might be their heart.
Deep male voice, smoky and commanding: In two hours, you'll rearrange the walls in the rat maze and run subjects 613 and 1024 through it again. Record their times and report. Coda's voice, but lacking most emotion, and perhaps more modulated, robotic: Subject 613 is still recovering from the effects of testing chemicals on him. The male voice, even, but with a sharp, threatening edge: I don't care if he's dead, you'll run him through the maze again. Coda, after a pause of a couple seconds: I will run him through the maze again. The sound of footsteps. Male voice, low but closer, almost purring out the words: You're lucky that I don't send you through the maze yourself. But you're special, aren't you? I allow you to assist me--as long as you continue to function. You don't have the luxury of failure, unlike them. Coda, quietly, the faintest quiver in their voice: I will not fail you, Doctor. A silence of a few seconds, then a low masculine chuckle that bears no warmth or mirth. It has the same threatening tone as a lion's yawn. Male voice: Good. Add subject 5413 to the test as well. I want to know if the recent surgery to its legs will affect its mobility. If nothing else, being chased by 5413 might motivate the other two.
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timeasmymeasure
Thanksgiving, 2016
Date: 2021-03-04 06:21 pm (UTC)There’s a shiver that runs up Coda’s spine, the air around them seeming to go cold all at once. Someone clears their throat behind their back, before a short woman with red hair and red eyes walks over to join Coda at the sink. Her arms are blood-stained up to nearly her elbow, fingers tipped with black claws, but Coda has no fear reaction to this; they’re used to the sight of blood on this changeling’s hands. It’s a metaphysical mark, not a literal one.
“Normally only members of the Winter Court stay to clean up and do dishes after my Thanksgiving feasts.” The woman’s tone of voice is even, but as her gaze lingers, the temperature seems to drop further, until it feels like those frigid winter mornings where it hurts even to breathe. Coda’s pulse starts racing; this is their opportunity. Maybe they can play it cool?
“Is that so?” It comes out with more wavering static than intended, betraying how nervous they are. Damn it all, they wanted to sound cavalier.
“Are you asking to join my court?” The redhead raises an eyebrow.
It’s now or never, Coda realizes, and they set the plate they were scrubbing down, nodding. “Please, Dame Lucrece. I would like to be a member of the Winter Court.”
The redhead, Dame Medea Lucrece, weighs Coda with her eyes, but the worst of the icy cold in the air seems to fade. “Very well. Kneel.”
Coda sinks to their knees, bowing their head. In their heart, a fierce, quiet exhilaration thrums like a bird flapping its wings. They’re worthy, they’ve been accepted. They won’t have to face everything alone. As Medea places a hand on each shoulder, the Winter Court’s mantle settles upon them, marking them, the cold spreading down their arms and settling in their fingers.
“Welcome to the Winter Court, Coda.” Medea sounds proud, and that lingers too, deep in Coda’s heart.
New Year's Eve, 2017 (into 2018)
Date: 2021-03-04 06:22 pm (UTC)The room is packed with changelings, all in their best clothing. A tall, lithe woman with branches growing from her head which almost resemble antlers walks past, her dress a wine-colored gossamer thing that looks like it came from a Waterhouse painting. She jingles softly as she walks, bells on her anklet. Nearby, an insectoid man with compound eyes, dressed in a grey embroidered suit, is laughing at a joke made by a literal mountain of a man with grey skin that looks to be made of stone.
Coda’s standing against the wall, near one of the punch bowls (spiked liberally several times over by tricksters from all different courts), the weight of a hat on their head, torso gently squeezed by a corset. The outfit’s not uncomfortable--and honestly, they feel more confident in it than a lot of outfits they wear. But it’s still strange to allow themself to be so eye-catching.
As their gaze rakes the room, they make eye contact with a man whose skin is coated in brightly-colored feathers, mostly green but with a red patch down his chin and throat, his suit in a deep royal purple tone. He walks over toward them with a nearly inhuman grace, seeming to slink like a panther, a swirl of dry brown leaves unseasonably blowing around his feet in a wind otherwise unfelt.
“Code-monkey, you can’t be a flower on the wall all night.” His amusement comes out clearly in his voice, as he gestures to a nearby window almost completely feathered over by frost from Coda’s mantle. They blush warmly at being called out.
“I don’t...it’s easier to watch.” The words feel heavy in their mouth. They’ve been with the Freehold for over two years now, but sometimes they still feel on the outside of everything. And this is especially true with the man in front of them, Colibri. He and his motley are central to a lot of what goes on in the Freehold; many of them have strong seasonal mantles, a stronger connection to the Wyrd--the source of fae magic. They’re powerful, important people. And Coda’s not.
Colibri considers their words for a moment, then sighs. “Easiest isn’t always best, Code-monkey. Fear’s a thing to face.” Coda almost rolls their eyes at this comment; it’s such an Autumn thing to say. But when they see Colibri extend a hand, offering a dance, they only hesitate for a couple seconds before accepting.
And it’s awkward, sure. Colibri is compact, but moves with inhuman precision and speed at times, living up to his namesake, while Coda’s uncoordinated and has little sense of rhythm. But for a moment, in his arms, they feel like they’re a part of this mass of people, flowing, laughing, talking, dancing...not just an observer.
Late September, 2019
Date: 2021-03-04 06:22 pm (UTC)An email from Davey. Coda almost doesn’t open it--the other video game designer and them had fought a few times in recent months, and Coda had stopped sharing their work with him altogether after Davey had told them that they needed to share with more people, get a more nuanced view on what other people thought of their work.
The problem was, a lot of what they’d shared with Davey was their most personal work, little single-level experiences that were more like diary pieces, exploring their emotional state and where they were in their head (spoilers, not always good). They weren’t meant to be played, as such--more just opportunities to work out certain thoughts. Some were about inadequacy, about the struggles of the creative process. Some were about gender identity, and what they might say to their younger self about the process of figuring that out, if they’d been able to without the interruption of the Fae. A few were about imposter syndrome. Davey never seemed to understand that, though--he insisted that there wasn’t a point to making games, if they weren’t playable, if they weren’t being put in front of an audience.
The subject of the email was I was right, and Coda dreaded what that could mean. But all that was contained in the email was a link to a Steam game page.
Coda clicked it. And what they saw made their blood turn to ice in their veins--the screenshots were all from their diary pieces, their most personal games. Davey had packaged a bunch of those levels into one collection, and published it for the whole world to see. Reviews were mixed, with some people commenting on how incomplete these levels were, how they didn’t feel like real games. Others were commenting on identifying with the creator, with the feelings. Some were theorizing about what each of the levels included meant.
They stared at the screen until it blurred, eyes stinging with tears. Exposed. Everything they felt, everything they thought was now exposed, in front of hundreds of people. They had no privacy left. It felt incredibly unsafe, like every single player was staring through the screen and looking at them naked. They could feel the eyes on their skin, and it made them itch.
With a primal sort of a yowl, they grab the monitor of their computer and throw it across the room. Something breaks. They think it might be their heart.
Time without time...
Date: 2021-05-04 04:51 am (UTC)Coda's voice, but lacking most emotion, and perhaps more modulated, robotic: Subject 613 is still recovering from the effects of testing chemicals on him.
The male voice, even, but with a sharp, threatening edge: I don't care if he's dead, you'll run him through the maze again.
Coda, after a pause of a couple seconds: I will run him through the maze again.
The sound of footsteps.
Male voice, low but closer, almost purring out the words: You're lucky that I don't send you through the maze yourself. But you're special, aren't you? I allow you to assist me--as long as you continue to function. You don't have the luxury of failure, unlike them.
Coda, quietly, the faintest quiver in their voice: I will not fail you, Doctor.
A silence of a few seconds, then a low masculine chuckle that bears no warmth or mirth. It has the same threatening tone as a lion's yawn.
Male voice: Good. Add subject 5413 to the test as well. I want to know if the recent surgery to its legs will affect its mobility. If nothing else, being chased by 5413 might motivate the other two.