#gloria roche

i thought i’d change up glori’s hair just to be cute and something in the mod reset her appearance, wiped her scars and also for some reason made nick’s ‘i fucking hate you’ talk play like i’d killed somebody. erm. anyway here’s her new bun

what the hell is happening back there

god only knows

hello hello! my toils continue but this quest for a sequel is a long one. in the meantime, if you want some of that miserable noir action here and now here’s a part lifted from the scene where nick and DiMA meet. appreciate the patience! ( ᐛ )و 

It had a broken-mirror face; fractured, familiar and carrying a whole heap of bad luck. No movement it made was involuntary. When it turned to look at Nick it craned at precisely the angle it needed and no more. It unhooked a cable from its neck with a thunk. It did that and only that. Didn’t carry an arm funny from an old injury, didn’t roll its neck, didn’t stretch like a person ought to, dropping that weight. It stood there. Quiet, inscrutable, and more patient than Nick could ever hope to be. It was an open book but all the pages were gone.

There was a hot, tight grasp around Nick’s throat, around innards he didn’t have anymore. This sealed it. Whatever he was, he was alone in it. There was no speculating, no wondering, no half-dreaming at night over the fire while Gloria snored. He had his godawful answer to his godawful question. It was a big, bold, unlikely universe. He was always, always alone in it.

“In all the time we knew each other,” it said, “I never told you my name. I didn’t have one. With only two of us, ‘you’ sufficed. I saw no point in complicating things. It’s strange to think about. A time when even your own name is too complicated a problem to grasp. Ah… But you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

It paused a moment to allow Nick to speak. Then a few. Then a whole handful. Nick didn’t budge even when this thing pelted him with moments.

“‘Direct Memory Access’,” it continued with the faintest, dullest edge like it was put-out. “It was a placeholder, initially, as I thought about what to call myself. I gave it a great deal of consideration. I created itemized lists. I ranked suitability, personal meaning, aesthetic appeal. I combed through dictionaries and practiced saying them aloud. Is this me? What about that? What will you call yourself, DiMA?”

DiMA chuckled.

“And I had my answer. Could you indulge me for a moment? Did any of that… Did it mean anything to you?”

“No,” Nick replied.

That face looked familiar, too. It looked like a good imitation of hurt. “You always… I see. Thank you for your honesty.”

“My pleasure,” Nick gruffed.