Telekinesis - Blog Posts

It bothers me that I will only ever be myself and no one else and I will never be able to touch another person's mind with my own and how I perceive the world will be based solely off of myself and I can never truly be with or apart of something because there is such a huge disconnect between what I think and feel and why and how and what other people see think and feel and there can never be true togetherness because we are our own and isolation is the price of intellectual freedom from a unified consciousness

I finished the Rena one!

I was rewatching X-men: First class and I need Michael Fassbender as Albert Wesker

“I was never really welcome here, was I?”

The darkened study was lined with bookshelves against three of the walls, with a stained-glass window on the far wall from the door providing red, green and blue light across the room in an image of the virgin mother. In front of the window was a desk of polished ebony. The atmosphere in the room was tense enough to cut air, and the man leaning over the desk, short and squat, with white hair and a priest’s frock, laughed bitterly.

“Of course not, you stupid boy. You may have your father’s power, but you have your mother’s naivete.”

The boy, dressed in a white shirt, a leather jacket and blue jeans, looked normal enough, but he was positioning himself to flee if he had to. In his hand he clutched the locket containing the greatest secret his mother had ever kept – one known only to a few. The priest before him was one of them.

“Why? If all this time you meant to kill me then why haven’t you done it?”

The priest drew a cross from his belt and said solemnly, “We weren’t allowed to kill you in the womb. Papal sanction. We weren’t allowed to kill you as an infant – for you seemed normal enough. But as time wore on, I knew your father’s influence would get to you – and that would be our demise. But it seems there is still time to slay you before you betray us. Still time to do the right thing.”

From the door sprinted two younger priests, each gripping one of the boy’s arms. The priest approached, holding the cross at arms-length towards the boy, and drawing from the desk’s top drawer a pistol. He got to within an arm’s length of the boy, and held the gun to the boy’s forehead. “God forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He said coldly, pulling back the hammer of the pistol with his thumb.

It was then, for the first time, in a moment of rage and panic, the boy felt his father’s presence in his soul, and the power within his body. With a shout somewhere between a scream of anger and a growl, the gun was thrown backwards from the priest’s hand, through the stained-glass window that was the only source of light for the room. Clear light poured in through the hole.

Like a surge of adrenaline, great strength and powerful instinct over took the boy, as he threw the two grown men pinning him bodily against the bookshelves on either side of the room, knocking them apart. Books fell on the ground, scattering the floor with ritual literature and apocrypha. The priest backed away, knocking into the front of the desk and holding the cross at arm’s length still, beginning the Litany of the Saints.

At this the boy laughed, a harsh bark that sounded only vaguely human. “Old man,” he said in a guttural tone, different from the voice of the boy who had spoken moments ago. He waved his hand, and the cross flew out of the priest’s hand, into a pile of broken and splintered bookshelves.

He raised his hand, and the priest’s did likewise, gripping himself by the throat. As the boy clenched his fist, the priest gagged and choked as he strangled himself. The priest’s last moments were as pathetic as a dying fish’s, kicking and squirming on the floor as he fought for air. Once the priest had ceased moving, the boy relented, and the strange power faded from him.

The boy looked at what he had done. The dead priest, laying against his own desk, his aged hand still gripping his own throat. Against each wall were another priest, either unconscious or dead, he could not tell.

He went behind the desk and searched through the drawers, finding the things he was looking for. Another pistol, this one set in silver, and a pile of cash. He ran back, out of the room, and into his room in the orphanage. Gathering a bag of clothes, he sighed, and let reality sink in. It really was true. He was… he was…

He looked at the amulet again. Gripping it tight, he slipped it into his pocket. He’d think on that another time. For now, he needed to get far away from here. Once he had as many of his things as he could carry – it wasn’t much, nor, he figured, would much be needed – he ran for the door, and out of the orphanage.

He ran down the street, and didn’t stop running until he had made it across town, to his ‘friend’s’ home. A well-built two-story on the more affluent side of town, he knew his friend could help. He knocked on the door, a steady banging until the person he was looking for answered. “What’s up, Daelyn? You look like you’re… wait, is that… blood?”

Looking down and silently cursing himself, he saw that he did indeed have some small portion of blood on his shirt, from either the priests he sent flying across from the room or somehow from the man he had choke himself to death he did not know. “Zeke, I don’t have time to explain. I need a shirt, and I need to get a fake ID or two. Out of state ones, too.”

Zeke looked scared. As well he should, Daelyn supposed. How would he respond if one of his friends showed up on his doorstep, drenched in sweat and bloodstained.

Zeke looked around the neighborhood, the empty street, and then sighed. “Get in the house, dumbass.”

“I never really was welcome here… was I?”

On August 17, 2000, residents of Carlin Street in Chamberlain, Maine witnessed a phenomenon that still defies explanation…

Rain of Hail phenomenon caused by Carrie’s powers in a deleted scene - 2013 movie. This was in the book as well.

Man I really wish the 2013 Carrie had included scenes of the town destruction, supposedly the church scene, and the White Commission scenes. These would have been cool to see on screen.

A better picture of Mesmer and Darius. I'm thinking about giving Darius ice powers??? But I wanna do it in a way where it doesn't feel like he's some Elsa clone y'know?

american horror story: the seven wonders

I was designing a little magic system for a game project I'm planning once I finish Brawlmentum and I had some trouble with telekinesis: how do I make it not overpowered? It's one of those powers where even as a kid watching superhero movies or reading comics I always had in the back of my mind things like "why don't they just telekinetically grab the guy's heart and rip it out of his chest" and whatnot. So to that my solution is "it's just not that precise and you kind of have to intuit a general area of what you want to grab; but then the other problem: how to limit the weight of what can be picked up in a way that doesn't seem entirely arbitrary? So I deliberated on that for a bit and came up with what I think is an easy solution and even kind of doesn't break physics as hard as usual telekinesis does: whatever force you apply to the object gets applied in reverse to you, spread over your whole body or parts of it so you can lift up a small rock no problem, it's just gonna feel a bit heavy on your arm - but if you try to lift up a boulder, it's either not gonna work at all or you'll collapse into a puddle. Which in turn also means that I have a good excuse to have incredibly jacked up wizards - the stronger you are physically, the more you can lift with magic, too

The normaliest conversetion in the pinky-beige void ☕

My submission for Equestria Daily's Pinkie Pie Day. Pinkie becomes a unicorn! What happens next?

Earth 42 Miles x Telekinetic Autistic (Black) Reader

Notes: The Reader was inspired by Carrie. Why? I wanted to do a black reader with super powers, but I didn't want to write her like other black readers have been written with 42 Miles. I just can't relate with how they speak or the situations. This isn't to say she will be a sweet, precious thing, just odd.

You had a bunch of issues. First, you were a target for harassment, verbal most of the time. Vandalism was rare, but it did often happen. Your locker would be painted with unkind words, and a pencil would be missing from your pencil case and you could never point out who took it but you always had a suspicion. It wasn't too bad, depending on who you compared yourself to, but it still hurt. It was still bothersome.

You had to wonder what made you such a great and easy target in the first place. Your habit of wearing the same clothes everyday, sleeping in class, and taking things too literal. Even worse, you were too gullible. A genius would've just said these were your autistic traits, but too bad you didn't know that at the time. The many times you attempted to be different didn't work out, always setting a standard. So you gave up, counting the days until graduation. Hoping that it would come sooner than expected.

There was only one worthwhile thing in school and that was art class. Not too many people present. You weren't amazing with drawing or art in general, fairly decent, but it was the only class with any peace in it. The least judgemental lesson. In every art class you sat behind Miles Morales, and you would find yourself staring at his back. At his pretty braids.

You always liked boys with long hair, and Miles was no different. This day was no different, quiet as always and slow. It would be most preferable if you didn't make your crush obvious.

"Are you going to keep staring at me or are you gonna look away?" You heard him speak. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder.

You blinked hard, "Hmm?"

"You're staring. Stop." he didn't sound angry from what you could hear, but his tone wasn't pleasant either.

You immediately did as he asked. You tried to focus on your sketches, drawing pictures of magical girls from your favourite childhood cartoons, then drawings of more serious things. The Prowler had been on the news again, reporters painting him in good and bad light. He saved two teenagers from a burning building, others say he caused the fire. But teenagers always did stupid things, and you would know from being one. Just thinking about it made the windows crack a little.

"Look at the windows!" one of the boys spoke, pointing.

Everyone else, except Miles, either got up to have a closer look or sat in wonderment from their seat. You feigned surprise as best as you could, you've long since learned that you weren't good at faking expressions. The teacher ordered everyone to start packing up, safety being the number one priority. There was no reason for the windows to break by themselves, and you contemplated if you should stop.

As you stared at the window you slowly started packing your equipment, watching the cracks reach the corners and edge until every single one of them smashed entirely. It was like lifting an eyebrow, some could do it naturally and others couldn't.

"Alright, everyone out!" the teacher called.

Your classmates were already rushing out of the room, but only Miles remained sitting while you stood looking at the broken glass on the ground.

"[LN], Morales! Time to go!" the teacher called.

You left the room, but halfway through the door you heard Miles say behind you, "Serena had a party last night."

You started fiddling with your top, dreading what he would say. "Okay."

"What were you doing that night?" he asked coolly.

That party. That damned party.

"I got invited, and then I left." that was the truth.

"So you weren't there, when Jordan..." he grabbed your arm, "Threw his drink at you."

That's not all that happened. They threw food at you, and your clothes became stained. You dressed special for that day, hopeful, unfortunately expectant.

"I..." you tried to pull your arm away.

"How did that fire happen?" he turned you to face him. You averted your eyes. Miles' eyes were beautiful but the way they bore into your soul was most unkind.

You had heard that artists were weird. They either did weird things or had something weird about them. Maybe this was another occasion. You tried to forget about these powers. Even though you have embraced that there was something wrong strange about you.... you couldn't help the need to be decently normal deep down. Now these powers just had to bite at your behind.

"What fire?"

"Don't play stupid, you've seen the news. Serena and Jordan are now in the hospital, the others might still be in a coma."

"How is that my problem?" you asked, your cruel side demanding attention.

Miles was mildly impressed with your response, the grip on your arm loosening. "It isn't," he admitted, "I just know the fire wasn't natural."

"I don't know what happened to them."

He let go of your arm, "Fine."

You walked away.

If you ever wanted to grab the attention of Miles Morales, you didn't want to grab it like this. You weren't sure if your classmate suspecting you of arson should be something to worry about.

"I can't blame her if she did do it, I mean I don't think I should go around killing my classmates, but can you believe they decided to live stream it?" Miles removed the screwdriver from his claw.

Miles' uncle, Aaron, sighed, "Kids as old as you run wild, boys most of all. Girls are different, they go out of their way to plan stuff. I don't know what to tell you."

"I worry about her, tio. She really didn't do anything to... warrant that behaviour."

This, Aaron knew what to say to. "Sometimes people don't need a reason to do something, they'll just do it. That hazing thing was a classic example of that." he tossed a drill to Miles, "Was there a chance she got any clue what they were planning?"

Miles shook his head aggressively, "I don't think she understands basic human interactions even if she tried, I've seen how she is. All they did was smile in her face when they invited her. Smiles are a good thing, and it takes her a while to pick up on the fact that she's getting made fun of."

"Look out for her, then. If she really has something to do with that fire like you suspect, then this could turn bad. Women can be crazy, Miles."

"Okay. I will, tio."

Some days passed since the minor interrogation with Miles, and though he seemed to pretend you no longer existed, you could feel his eyes on you. You tried to be on your best behaviour, and you've had better control of your powers ever since he brought up the incident. You didn't want to be suspected of a single crime.

Upon this suspect-tion came sleepless night, which led to sleeping in class.

"[Name]." sounded faint, like the screams that only felt regret from fear and not guilt.

"[Name]." it was louder this time. A warning for your attention. You search through the heat for where it was coming from.

"[Name.]" This time there was no mistaking it, this voice was not from the dream.

Wherever you were, there was no escaping that fire. Although you had gotten so used to the dreams, you couldn't help your eyes tearing up. You made sure to turn your face away from whoever had shook your shoulder.

You weren't sad or scared, but you couldn't help it. Something about being unable to regulate your emotions.

"[Name.]" the person hadn't left, and now that you were no longer as sleepy you recognised whose voice it was.

"Hey, Miles."

"Hey." he greeted.

He hadn't moved back to his seat, so you looked up to his face, waiting for him to potentially say more, this time not averting your eyes.

He did have more to say, "You're a Tokyo Mew Mew fan." he looked down at your sketchbook, which was still open.

You quickly covered it with your arms, glaring at him. Daring him to say something about your long lasting interest.

"I'm going comic con this Saturday. Do you wanna come?"

His face, and his eyes, were kind. But you couldn't help suspiciously being on edge.

"I don't know." left your lips quicker than it usually did.

He didn't appear disappointed, judging by the lack of expression on his face. He glanced to the side, "Class finished five minutes ago, by the way."

So that's why it was so quiet.

"Can I walk you to lunch?"

Yes. No. What was the correct answer?

"I don't know." you couldn't come up with a better response.

For whatever reason he smiled, or smirked(?). For better or for worse.

"Come on, I'll make sure you get there safely."

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Feeling cute, might do a part 2.