cuándo puedes decir

С какого момента можно говорить "я выучила этот язык", а не "я его учу"? Что нужно уметь? Иметь С1-С2?

@темы: испанский

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SCP: Каин, Авель и около

Раз англосайт SCP пускает не всех, текст будет здесь.

Beneath Two Trees

In the age after the great Yeren fell on the Day of Flowers, in the days before the Flood, there was a man who lived in the West of the world, in the region between two rivers, and his name was Adam. He was chief of his tribe, and was considered by all to be a fair and just ruler, wise in word and admirable in deed. His tribe was barefoot and dust-bitten, herding their humble flocks between the ancient monolith-cities of the West. They were a hardy people, withstanding many trials and hardships, defeating mighty monsters and working glorious deeds in the name of the All-Mighty.

When Adam was thirty-five years old, having reigned as chief of his tribe for fifteen years, he came upon a hidden valley, which was fertile and abundant with life. His people, tired of their wanderings, asked that they remain there in the valley and live then in peace and prosperity, and to this request Adam agreed.

Within the valley, amongst the many animals and fruiting plants that lived there, two trees stood in the center of the garden. These trees were the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge, and they were watched by their twin guardians, the brother and sister who had stood guard since the time of the First Children of Yesod, many ages before even the Yeren.

The guardian of the Tree of Knowledge was Nahash, the Serpent, who was later named the Adversary, who kept watch over its secret power. He spoke of all the wonders that might be accomplished with the Tree’s power, and would test man’s skill and spirit.

The guardian of the Tree of Life was Hakhama, the Great Voice, who was later named Sophia, kept watch over its gifts. She taught the proper use of knowledge, and methods by which life might be extended through copper and bronze, and would speak often the directives of the All-Mighty.

Here Adam now reigned as chief among the People of the Two Trees. He interpreted the edicts of the Voice for his people, and was gifted with the fruits of both, as was his wife, Hawwah. The two bore three sons, whose names were Hevel, Qayin, and Seth.

Hevel became the protector and champion of the People of the Two Trees and carried with him the Tumbling Blade, which was both mercy and justice. He was a simple man who spoke little, but he was greatly skilled in combat and he defended the valley and the People from the beasts and demons that wandered the desert.

Qayin his brother was gifted in magic and storytelling, and became a great shaman. He would one day become chief of the tribe, and was held in high regard, equal to his brother Hevel.

Seth was often forgotten by the passers of stories, for he was a humble man and never rose to the prominence of his brothers. He turned his mind away from martial glory and magical prowess, focusing instead upon the natural philosophies and the service of the poor.

Now the Serpent, who guarded the Tree of Knowledge and knew the secrets of deep magic, had looked to the East, and saw in those regions a brewing shadow. A new power was rising within an ancient kingdom, a power that swallowed all in its path. Old gods had been uncovered, and all their terrible rites now knew public practice. Most horrible of all, the Serpent saw the Scarlet King rising from the depths of the Abyss, rising to consume all of creation. The Serpent saw this, and, frightened at how the All-Mighty could permit such a thing to exist, then acted of his own will. He wished to strike first, to cut down the shadow of the Daevas before it could spread too far, to cut off the reaching hands of the Scarlet King before they could spread their foul influence further.

The Serpent approached Hawwah, for she was wiser than her husband, and spoke to her of the dangers to the east, and of the greatest gifts of the Tree of Knowledge that might be used against the Daevas. But she refused the gifts, for she could see the cost that would come of it.

The Serpent spoke then to Qayin, warning him of the shadow in the east and revealing the secret knowledge to him, teaching him the most powerful magics and potent spells. He was to lead the march against the shadow in the east.

This knowledge proved to be too great a burden for Qayin to bear: in truth, it would be too great a burden for many of the gods. Qayin’s mind frayed under the strain of his hidden knowledge, and he lost that which he had once possessed, the eyes of a child and an uncovered spirit. He became withdrawn, eating little and sleeping less, and was filled with despair at the torment he now knew. His brother Hevel, at the urging of their mother Hawwah, spoke to him on this. An argument broke out over innocent words, rising in intensity until, in a fit of rage, Qayin struck down his brother Hevel with a stone.

Adam could not bear to see his second son killed. Qayin was banished from the valley, cursed, and left to wander in the desert.

Hevel’s spirit returned to his body after five days, for in those days the perilous Ways between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead could still be walked by the heroes of men. But his return was not met with rejoicing; he remained distant from his family and friends, and was of dark demeanor. The entire People, seeing that their future chief banished and their champion now trapped by despair, and hearing rumors to the east of the Daevas growing ever stronger and reaching ever further west, cried out in pain.

When the shadow of the Daevas could no longer be ignored, Hevel took up his sword, and went east. There he fought the Daevas for three and thirty years, until he was heard of no more. Seth too made actions of his own, building mighty bulwarks and defenses around the valley out of Hahkama’s copper servants, and raising from the People an army to defend their home.

Years passed, and news of a great army from the east emerged, a final army, sent out to conquer the entire west, and at its head was the Butcher, Ab-Leshal, fiercest of the Daevite generals, endowed with frightening strength and terrifying sorceries. Many of the People fled, scattering themselves to the wind and the mercy of the outside,

Qayin, hearing of the doom that was to come to the People, returned to his home, and was met there by the Butcher. Here, Qayin saw with horror that Ab-Leshal was in truth his brother Hevel, who in vanity had sworn himself to the dark gods of the Daevas and drunk deep of their black magics. Qayin once more took up a stone to slay his brother, and for this Ab-Leshal tore off his arms, first the right, and then the left.

Ab-Leshal then set upon the valley and the People with his legions and sorceries and war-beasts, and all the might of the Daevas was shown. The People were slaughtered, even the elder Adam and Hawwah. Hakhana, the Voice Who Spoke For God, was shattered, her body broken and looted. The Tree of Life stolen away, and the Tree of Knowledge set to flame. Nahash the Serpent fled, first to the space-tower at Babel, and later on to the Library, where he remained in penance for his part in these things. The garden in the desert was reduced to ash, and those who were not killed were placed in chains, led back to the slave pits of the Daevas.

Seth, forgotten by all, remained, protected by the last of his shattered defenses, and watched the ashes cool. He saw ahead the destruction of the world, and the victory of the Scarlet King, looming as if clouds on the horizon. And he was greatly afraid.

Seth prayed for hope, and he was answered. He was shown the path the future would take. There was to be a Flood, until such a time when the Scarlet King might truly be destroyed. A period of safety within Yesod, where magic was hidden, and the King was trapped in his hellish realms. The war would be fought in secret, until such secrecy was no longer needed.

By the instructions set before him, Seth gathered thirty-six men and women to him, and established of them an order, forever hidden. In absolute humility would they serve the world, passing their mantles from one generation to the next in secret, unknown even to themselves, until the end of all things. They would be the ones to set the world right.

The Thirty-Six scattered to distant nations, and there they waited, as doom came to Daevon in the east.

Ab-Leshal had returned in triumph, but it was not to last. That part of him which was Hevel, who had played in the shadow of the Trees, who had loved his brothers and protected the People, still lived in his blackened soul, and this drove him mad. He struck back against the Daevas whom had enslaved him, and with rage and fury cut down their idols, and slaughtered their priest-kings, and brought ruin to their city. The god Moloch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, stood to face Hevel-Ab-Leshal, and he too was defeated, rendered a sickly shade of his own power. Elsewhere, the subjugated peoples of the world, who saw the end that was at hand, struck back at the Daevas, to sow the world with Daevite blood.

Hevel, son of Adam, who had cast down the gods of Daevon, raised his voice in challenge to the Scarlet King.

And the Scarlet King answered him.

Hevel, son of Adam, took up his sword, and the floodgates of the sky opened up with a Flood that would wipe time itself clean.

And in doing so, the All-Mighty called upon the world, for the first time since the Word was spoken.

And the world was called upon to witness.

This is the history of mankind, fourth and final child-race of Earth, from the Finding of the Two Trees to the Flood.

(c) scp-wiki.wikidot.com/beneath-two-trees

Из текста как-то между строк читается, в чём был грех Хавы (Евы), её уступка соблазну. Убитый братом Авель воскрес не сам по себе — его вернула к жизни мать, использовав запретное колдовство, которому научил её Змей. Хава не смирилась с потерей сразу двоих сыновей, решила вернуть хотя бы убитого, если не убийцу... но Авель вернулся, как водится, не таким. Побывав на том свете, он слишком много узнал и был теперь мрачен и холоден к близким. Запретное воскрешение оставило на нём следы, за которые потом зацепились жрецы дэва, чтобы поработить его, сделать своим орудием. Как-то так:

“Arise, Hevel-Ab-Leshal!” A new song threads its way through his fractured skull, washing over his mind. He has never heard a song like this before, a subtle undercurrent in his mind, always.

And then it gets louder, and louder, until he could ignore it no longer.

Abel gasps and opens his eyes, and realizes he is floating in a pool of blood.

Over him stands a tall woman, far taller than anyone he has ever seen before. Taller even than him. Her skin was so pale she could have been a ghost, and when she looked at him, he saw her eyes were black as pitch, with no whites or iris. Just blackness.

The song is there, in the back of his head. Thumping against the inside of his skull and outside his skull and all around him, sung by the woman and her myriad of accomplices all around him, each of them varying in shape and size, with blood red eyes and horns and sharp little teeth—

Hell. Abel is in Hell.

The woman grins, and bares her needle-like teeth at him. “Welcome back, Ab-Leshal.”

---

Hevel-Ab-Leshal sings a song of his own. A great melody of destruction across the continent to the tune of the screams of his enemies. Men, women, children. It didn’t matter. Each would rise and join the chorus in turn, a song of agony and conquest—the song of the Daevic Covenant. His was merely an instrument, a tool to be used to get the melody just right.

He can feel it lapping at the edges of his consciousness, driving him further and further to the edge. The song and the collar and the weapons attached to his shackles with chains. An instrument for the Daevic Covenant’s grand orchestra.

And whenever he falls, they sing him back to life. Guiding his soul back to his mausoleum, where he would wait in his coffin until his body was ready, an instrument being crafted anew. And then he would play again for the empire, pushing the incursion ever deeper into enemy territory.

(с)

@темы: SCP

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Добрый и злой: нюанс

Когда Каин, сын царя Адама, убил своего брата Авеля (Хевеля), весёлого светлого парня, доброго, Каину за это ничего не было. Его лишили права на трон и изгнали из земли адамитов, долины Двух Древ, но зато наложили такие заклятия, что ему мало что могло угрожать.

Потом к границам страны адамитов подошли злые дэва. Они воскресили Авеля, поработив его силой ада древних богов, и сделали его своим военачальником. Звали его теперь Хевель Аб-Лешаль, что значит Мясник; и воевал он соответственно.

Будучи рабом преисподней, Аб-Лешаль был, конечно, злой.

И вот, когда Каин узнал в Мяснике своего покойного брата и подкрался к нему, чтобы опять размозжить ему голову камнем, Хевель Аб-Лешаль оторвал ему руки. Сначала правую, а потом левую.

Каин ходит с тех пор без рук, с протезами. Аб-Лешаль же отчего-то вызывает у меня симпатию.

Источник: scp-wiki.wikidot.com/beneath-two-trees

@темы: SCP

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В связи с ФБ обсуждают новый квест

— реверс (любой текст по мотивам визуала).

А я как раз прочла фик по известному SCPшному фанарту, на испанском. Арт:

(с) i.pinimg.com/originals/f1/86/43/f186438663c23ad...
(Каин убил Авеля и был за это проклят неуязвимостью, так что теперь всякий раз, когда Авель пытается отомстить и убить его, снеся ему голову, наземь падает его, Авеля, собственная голова. Но он не сдаётся. Упорный.)

Фик по арту:
archiveofourown.org/works/48947044

Там бы ещё Библию тэгнуть как канон, оно очень библейское.

@темы: SCP

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Достижение разблокировано:

я читаю рассказы на испанском и пишу комментарии.

Читать я могла и раньше, ещё в прошлом году, но теперь мне уже не надо держать в соседней вкладке словарь. Могу просто читать и наслаждаться текстом как литературой, набрала для этого словзапас.

@темы: испанский

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Бгг

Мне нравится этот модер, у неё есть чувство юмора. (Нет, отвечают не мне.)

Впрочем, продумываю сюжетик, набрасываю заметки, и главные антагонисты там группа товарищей — друг другу; никому больше они не товарищи — облечённых властью и от власти + безнаказанности совершенно охуевших. Так вот я поймала себя на том, что списываю их поведение с модеров холиварки. "Закроем всех кроме себя", партлиния, веник, прикрытие "своих" преступников (кейс Дейдары Роджерс) и т.п. Социум в миниатюре.

Вряд ли из этой истории что-то выйдет, там нет середины и финала, только затравка. Но будем посмотреть.

@темы: холиварка

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По поводу "Слуги тигра" к авторам таки набежали

ficbook.net/authors/13131/blog/271664#content

Там ещё было, уже снесено. Набег с холиварки, конечно, там вбросили ссылку. Но это даже не важно. Дофига таких паразитов, уверенных, будто чужие и посторонние человеки-писатели им, паразитам, что-то должны: должны писать, причём хорошо, редактировать, выкладывать книги бесплатно, расшаркиваться с идеальной вежливостью в отзывах, да ещё и отказываться от публикации, если условия оной чем-то не нравятся паразиту.

Прямо как будто бы паразит заключил с каждым писателем договор и оплатил ему все эти дорогущие услуги (нет).

Я, кстати, оплачивала, и не раз. Платила за написание текста, который хотела прочесть. Не скажу кому и за что, но результатом довольна. Это не дёшево.

@темы: дегенераты, фэндом, холиварка

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Организации мира SCP

На русском: scpfoundation.net/groups-of-interest

Мне это напоминает мир Ехо Макса Фрая. Ордена, странные чудеса и ужасы, миры внутри миров за мирами, магия и т.д. Джуффин Халли с его Малым Тайным Сыскным Войском вполне схож с Фондом своей (а)моралью и играет ту же роль в сюжете.

Можно было бы снять роскошные сериалы, и по Фраю, и по SCP... если бы мы ещё были в нулевых. Сейчас, надеюсь, пиндосы уже не возьмутся.

Кстати, кто ещё мог бы экранизировать хорошо и то, и другое, это японцы. Аниме. Но им чужого не надо, у них полно своих историй.

@темы: SCP

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Фик по Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: "Under the Knife"

archiveofourown.org/works/55556476

Текст соавтора по моей идее. Немного сюр — или много — о том, как Дукат пытается признаться в любви Кире и через неё всему Баджору, но дама настроена скептически, что и демонстрирует.

@темы: Стар Трек

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SCP фэндом, странное

Где фики?

Они есть, но мало. И гета мало — не считать же персонаж/читательница за гет — и слэша. Где все эти сомцесучные, несомцесучные и антисомцесучные макси по Авель/Айрис и Авель/Брайт и Клеф/Брайт (Клеф спасает беднягу Джека от злого Авеля, НЦстольконеживут, пытки, изнасилование, смерть основных персонажей, эндгейм хэппиэнд, свадьба, удочерение 166й и домик за белым забором)? Где стёбные и серьёзные повести о спасении несчастного непонятого 682 из рук эссипишных садистов, о психотерапии для Скромника и тэ дэ? Это же всё должно быть? Оно ж напрашивается. И где?

@темы: SCP

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Поела печенья с травкой

Теперь легально и продаётся рядом в магазине. Съела штук 5-7 небольших печенек. Неожиданно эффект таки наступил: всё чуть отодвинулось и захотелось спать. Легла. Часа полтора провела в полудреме, потом уснула часа опять-таки на полтора и видела сон, в котором я по сюжету плохо соображала и двигалась из-за этой травки. Не в реальности, во сне.

Встала и вроде всё как обычно.

Чёт меня травка не очень берёт.

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Мой ретеллинг "Белоснежки"

Выложила на ао3:
archiveofourown.org/works/55536289

На английском. Я его когда-то написала для семинара в универе.

Чую, было бы нелишне продублировать все мои тексты на ао3 или Автор.Тудей, но лень. Пока гром не грянет, не шевельну пальцем.

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испанский, сетевая речь

Комментарий к видео о спасении семьи опоссумов: youtube.com/shorts/6f4wb9Z3PC4

Las zarigüeyas son unas madrazas como la mayoría d los animalitos hay q respetar y proteger toda vida d los animalitos q dependen d las personas gracias por rescatarlos

"De" и "que" сокращают до начальных букв. А "madrazas" тут, видимо, "madres" после автозамены.

@темы: испанский

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Интервью с создателем Авеля

scp-wiki.wikidot.com/interviewing-icons-kain-pa...

Чутьё меня не обмануло: Авель изначально был белым, со светлыми волосами. Таким он придумался автору. То, что он смуглый и "семитской внешности" — рерайт, причём не от его создателя. Создатель теперь говорит, что рерайт персонажа улучшил; не знаю, насколько можно верить в искренность этих слов, учитывая, чем грозила бы невосторженность в данном случае.

Но я сама тоже думаю, что так лучше. Это, вот, исключение из моих анти-вокных правил. Р — реализм: житель ближнего востока 10000 лет назад не мог быть светлокожим, как нынешний европеец. Правда, и до семитской внешности ему было далеко, эта семитская внешность ещё не сформировалась как тип. Серые глаза, смуглая кожа, тёмные волосы самое то. Как-то так, только глаза светлее:

Кто интересуется реконструкциями внешности древних европейцев, может просто задать запрос "древние европейцы" в поисковик. Они были смуглые и светлоглазые. Лола, например, темнокожая темноволосая голубоглазая датчанка 6000 давности.

@темы: SCP

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У Хару-Ичиго и Евы С. выйдет книга

"Слуга тигра" будет в бумаге:
ficbook.net/authors/13131/blog/271664

С попкорном жду жопного зарева холиварочной фашни, которая ненавидит Хару-Ичиго за то, что она антифашистка.

Книга вот она:
ficbook.net/readfic/018e38fb-3faf-71cc-a525-26c...

(Что за дурацкие у Фикбука эти новые ссылки. Ощущение, что хозяин бессознательно пытается угробить сайт. И угробит, вероятно — он же барин.)

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Duo dice: злая овечка

"В одной жаркой далёкой пустыне жила опасная и жестокая овца. Её боялись все львы, и это было ненормально."

Да что вы говорите

А продолжение, продолжение где? Дали задел на сюрную сказку и не кончают.

@темы: испанский

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Этот самый рассказ

Я так поняла, для россиян этот сайт нечитаем без впн, так что скопирую-ка сюда. Пусть будет.

(Предложение оценить уровень страданий по шкале от 1 до 10 очень западное, пиндосское. Самая мякотка. Господь, жги. Автору удался серьёзный критический реализм.)

Prometheus and the Eagle

Able is deep, deep down, and dreaming.

His mouth and nose fill with seawater, choking and cold. He tries to spit it out, but it’s all around him, stinging his eyes. His blood pounds in his ears, rage singing through every limb. His fingers scrabble at the cold walls of his prison, but he’s disoriented. It’s too difficult to tell which way is up, and whether that matters. He scrapes and claws at the walls until his fingernails tear out at the root and tangle in the cloud of long hair floating around his head, little white pearls hiding in strands of black kelp. He keeps going until the fingers are bloody stubs, but he’s moving slowly now, and his ears start to ring. Or perhaps that’s an alarm, the one he knows so well.

Animal panic makes it hard to think, to plan; lack of oxygen makes it worse. Time passes, but strangely. Finally, he can’t fight the urge to inhale; he pushes seawater in and out of his lungs in painful, burning heaves that make his chest feel like it’s been crushed in with a cinder block. It’s dark, but he can’t tell whether or not that’s because his vision is starting to go. Before he stops feeling, he convulsively vomits up a mixture of seawater and bile, which he reflexively sucks back into his lungs. It is some small relief when his body goes numb.

It happens again.

It happens again.

It happens again.

Because he doesn’t remember the time in between, his experience is that of a constant struggle to breathe that never ends. It’s infuriating. Even through the red haze of rage, he wishes he could inhale just a single mouthful of air. A drowning man will sometimes doom his rescuer, forcing him down into the depths, in a bid to get his own head above water. Able is here alone, but he struggles with that same feral desperation. When his muscles start to slow, he presses his mouth against the ceiling (or, equally likely, the floor) and sucks, looking for pockets of air. He usually vomits up quarts of swallowed seawater when his stomach becomes full.

Honor is a long-lost memory, here.

There are times when he thinks he sees sunlight dappling the water and swims up, up, only to collide with the wall of his prison instead of breaking the surface. The false hope only makes him angrier, frothing with hate. So, too, do the voices he hears, soft and muddled. He hears a troop of soldiers marching, marching, their voices just out of earshot. He hears them laughing and joking, on the other side of the steel walls. He imagines their camp, with canvas tents and yak stew over a fire pit. The smell of smoke is thick and rich. He wants only to wring their necks, if he could just reach them. He would kill them for taunting him.

Xаалттай, says a voice, clearer than the others. There is a distant flicker of light in the darkness, like a spear catching the sun. The men are going out on patrol, on their horses. Able almost forgot he was not with them. His eyes shut slowly. Ride and ride, scimitars twirling. Dust kicks up and gets in his nose along with the oily smell of horse, but the thunder of hooves matches the beating of his heart. He knots his fingers in his horse’s mane. His Second catches his eye and laughs, arm raised high, exhilarated. Sweaty strands of hair have fallen about the man’s scarred and sunburnt face; sweat forms tracks in the dirt clinging to his neck. When it is done, they will drink kumis and shout battle hymns to celebrate their victory. Behind his eyelids, Able can see their enemies screaming. Their grain-fed horses are falling into the mud; they try to pull back, but it is too late. It is a good day for blood. A good day indeed!

Able wakes up.

When he beats and kicks against the barrier this time, bleeding and enraged, he hears a woman’s voice calling to him, soft and soothing, as though she were speaking to a frightened child. This one is the worst yet. It makes his mind prickle, white-hot and screaming, as though his palms were being held to a flame. She seems to taunt him, sounding near enough, flesh and blood for him to cut and kill, but just out of reach. Always just out of reach. Put that down. You don’t know your strength, she says. Able, come inside and eat your breakfast. And wash your feet. Boy, you are filthy. He can’t see her face, but he can see her eyes, dark and kind. The saltwater has his throat feeling scoured raw. He shouts at his captors, railing at them, knowing they must see him with their little metal eyes. But he is unable to push the water out of his lungs with enough force to do much more than gurgle. “No more do you hear me no more inu inu inu šabarrane!”

The weakened steel wall groans and starts to split under his unrelenting assault. Without anything to brace his body against, getting this far has been a challenge. Able moves to push himself through the gap in the metal and gets an electrical shock that curdles his blood. Able, says the voice, sounding stricken, as delicate black-and-white patterns flutter behind his eyelids.

As he starts to lose control of his body, limbs heavy like driftwood, sometimes he flits in and out of consciousness. He is suspended between the two parts of his strange existence, neither alive nor dead, drifting back and forth. He sinks, head coming to rest against his coffin. But he is feeding the goats, feet bare on the earth, the sun beating on his back. And he sinks. The air smells thick with spring, with green and growing things. It will be time to go in soon, to cluster about the hearth, to give thanks for the evening meal. The evening is a time of great peace, when only the insects are around to chirp at him.

Able opens his mouth and sings, loud and deep, voice echoing across the fields and through the valley. He sings for the pleasure of it, because he is good at it, because he can. Strange, but it seems as if it’s been forever since it occurred to him to sing. The hoe is rough in his hands, but he is weathered enough to deal with it, palms thick with callouses.

“You shouldn’t do that,” says one of his sheep, frowning at him. It paws restlessly at the dust. Able hushes it and rests a thick palm against its head. Its fur is coarse and woolly.

“Why?” asks Able. The sun will be down soon.

“Because you are dead,” says the sheep, swollen tongue lolling out of its mouth. Its coat is crawling with fleas, its eyes a filmy white. It stinks. “It does not matter now.”

Able wakes up again.

Sometimes, he sees a pale girl’s face, wide-eyed but determined, staring out at him from the darkness as he rails against his prison. A curl of blonde hair catches in the corner of her mouth, and she frowns at him, brow knit with deep disapproval. She moves her lips, but he can’t hear her. He doesn’t care what she has to say, anyway.

Go, he thinks. Be gone from me!

She shakes her head. She is incredibly disappointed, so heavily disgusted with him. Her hair swirls back and forth, back and forth, a straw-colored stream. She cries, a tinny whine of pain, and the noise echoes through Able’s head, burning into his brain. Her skin is blue-white; he can see the bones through it. It reminds him of a fish fresh out of the river, its little heart visible through its body when he holds it up to the noonday sun.

Go! Go, go!

He won’t tolerate the burning weight of her gaze. He reaches to curl his fingers around her throat, but all he manages is a lethargic twitch of the arm. He is too close to the end, his flesh giving up the ghost. That’s when they come to him, these phantasms, when the hatred in his heart is weakest and there is space there for ghostly things. She darts away, fast and sleek like a freshwater trout, and Able wakes up again.

The next time, she is gone. She is gone and he is alone again. His blood boils. Surely they are laughing at him, having left him alone now, with only the silence for company. They are laughing at his pathetic scurrying. They are laughing at how his coffin confuses him. Oh, how he hates them! This iteration, his strength seems to have waned. He is unable to fight as long or as hard as he must, as his body commands him to.

And this happens a second time.

And it happens a third time. His head swims. He breathes out all the way, empties himself, and sinks to the bottom of the box he’s locked in, drifting, dreaming. Just for now, and then he will fight his way out. Just for now, he allows himself a short rest.

But it happens that he remembers-

“You alright there, boss?”

Able looks up, perplexed. And annoyed, of course. He is in the cafeteria, eating with the team named after him. He has been “strongly encouraged” to do so.

“Why would I not be alright?” His interlocutor’s face seems to shimmer; it merges with the wall behind him, then pops back into clarity.

The man in black fatigues looks at him oddly. “I’ve never seen someone eat that fast before.” He catches the look on Able’s face and flinches, eyes wide. “Uh.” His face merges with the wall again; it scintillates faintly.

“You…are mocking me?” says Able, because it’s true. His own voice is strange and jerky, speeding up and slowing down. He’s not precisely angry, just extremely baffled, but he raises his voice just in case. He should never have agreed to eat with these fools. The director is trying to get them to bond, but they are tools, nothing else. The blue linoleum in the floor shifts to yellow and then back. This is all so familiar.

“I didn’t mean anything, really. It’s just soldier stuff. Giving each other shit.” The man is slowly recoiling, leaning away from Able. He looks like he expects to be disemboweled any minute for his slip of the tongue. Another man’s hand is shifting toward the panic button on the pager strapped to his wrist.

Able drops his fork. “I have never seen someone eat that slow before.”

There is a pause.

His men break into startled laughter. Someone lightly jostles his shoulder in a gesture of apparent camaraderie.

And then-

They’re gone. There is some relief here, something close to peace, when his mental faculties have gone enough that his rage is a thin, clinging veil rather than an oppressive blanket. Able finally inhales, brain sparking out, and wakes yet again.

This time, the girl is back, and another woman with her. He does not remember her name, either. Her hair floats above her hair in a slow-swirling column of grey. Seventy-six seventy-six seventy-six, she says. Rate on a scale of one to ten what is your why are you seventy-six please rate on a scale of did you are you feeling did are you experiencing pain seventy-six.

He wants her to drown, but she is breathing seawater, her body as translucent and slippery as a minnow’s, her coat fluttering open around her. Please rate your distress, she says. Please rate your distress. One to ten, please rate your distress. Are you experiencing anxiety please rate please seventy six. If you are uncomfortable using English we will locate a translator one to ten.

Fire. Guns. Crushing. Stabbing. Anything else, something to fight against besides the slow failing of his own body - and perhaps his mind. These are the only things he can’t strike from existence.

The blonde girl floats an inch from his nose, face blank and yet attentive. Her eyes are luminous and white and weeping. Able wonders, dimly, where the rest of her team is. There were more of them. Were there more of them? Does the passage of time feel like a steady flow does the passage of time feel choppy and broken up please answer the question seventy-six why does his death bother you does it bother you. Please rate your distress.

Time is choppy, slow and then fast. Slow and then fast. As it has always been.

Seven, mouths Able.

Two.

Nine.

And he wakes up.

(с)

@темы: SCP

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Этот рассказ меня травмировал.

(к предыдущему) До такой степени, что я не смогла заснуть прошлой ночью.

Это об отношении к некоторым особо удачным выдумкам. Разум более чем различает вымысел и реальность, но у чувств своя позиция. Или не чувства, что-то другое. Оно применяет свои критерии.

Теперь мне нужен фик о том, как Авель, освободившись, находит членов Совета 05, которые обрекли его на этот ад, и топит их в бассейне, одного за другим, медленно.

@темы: SCP

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Чёрная книга SCP это здесь

scp-wiki.wikidot.com/prometheus-eagle

О том, как Авелю сидится после его неудачной попытки к бегству. Это один из квази-канонических текстов на основном сайте канона, а не фанфик какой-нибудь.

Оно ещё и отсылка к Гуантанамо, где пиндосы держат мусульманских террористов и партизан, и принятой там практике пытки ватербордингом. Авель же у нас "человек ближневосточной \ семитской внешности", разве только глаза серые.

(На самом деле это внешность древнего европейца до побеления — смуглая\тёмная кожа, тёмные волосы, светлые глаза — и не имеет никакого отношения к семитам. Семиты, как и другие расы — продукт последних 4000-5000 лет, а Авелю минимум 10000. Просто пиндосы, которые описывали его для SCP, про древних европейцев не знали и проассоциировали в меру своих представлений.)

Кстати о так называемых его злодействах. В кадре они заключаются в том, что Авель вырывается из камеры, где пиндосы держат его бессудно и незаконно с попранием всех конвенций о правах человека, и мочит своих тюремщиков — а с определённого момента и палачей, которые обрекли его на бесконечную агонию; а ещё эти люди иногда кормят чудовищ маленькими детьми, просто в виде эксперимента.

То есть Авель в кадре убивает охуевших беспредельщиков, делая мир чище.

Не вижу в этом ничего плохого.

@темы: SCP

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Чистое неподдельное насилие, comic edition

В который раз залипаю на видео

Бой Авеля с ящером, которого трудно убить ТМ. На испанском. Это одна из нескольких (!) мультэкранизаций классического фанфика по SCP. Сага о SCP буквально состоит из фанфиков, официального было \ не было не существует, что, ввиду модных тенденций, не может не радовать.

Мне чем-то очень нравятся фигурки в этом мультике, эдакие бумажные силуэты —

Дизайн цепляет. И для фантазии остаётся много работы, это как раз моё. Не думаю, что дорогая экранизация со всей (бывшей где-то до 2014) мощью Голливуда — или даже нынешнего Болливуда — мне зашла бы больше. Я не любительница подробной мясной расчленёнки с потоком крови с экрана. Здесь бой в большой степени символичен — простор для домыслов. Авель правильно нарисован, вканонно высокий и худощавый, безо всякой горы мускул. И отличный визуальный юмор.

На английском:

Другие видео по этому сюжету находятся по запросу scp 076 682.

@темы: SCP