Cross Post: Unintended Consequences (Prologue)

original here. dated 2013-11-23.

A/N: I got a pretty cool new mic and so I just wanted to do a test run of it as well as get to know Audacity a little more. I blanked on what exactly to do, so here’s an audio cross post.

“Unintended Consequences” is to “Externality” as “Trailblazers, Bright and Bold” is to “Trailblazers.” That is, Unintended Consequences was the first draft version of Externality many moons ago and not all of it would go into the final cut; unsurprising since Externality has changed quite a bit since then.

Anyway, enjoy!


Unintended Consequences are outcomes that are not the ones intended by a purposeful action, there are three types:

  1. A positive, unexpected benefit (usually referred to as luck, serendipity or a windfall).
  2. A negative, unexpected detriment occurring in addition to the desired effect of the action.
  3. A perverse effect contrary to what was originally intended (when an intended solution makes a problem worse)

​These are also called Externalities.

Her decision to join the academy is purely economical and entirely practical. She is six years old and an orphan. Having already completed the free two years of education provided to all citizens of Konoha, she has two options. Both of them have a high probability of her dying before she turns twenty.

The first is to join the ninja academy which is nominally free in exchange for a lifetime of military servitude. The second is to strike out on her own, probably be pulled into a life of crime or prostitution or, as the whispers around the orphanage go, be kidnapped and brainwashed into being a ninja anyway. For most other six year olds, their second choice is much nicer. For other six year olds with families and parents and incomes not provided by the government, their second choice is to continue at the civilian school for a set tuition and go on to a safe civilian lifestyle.

Though, that doesn’t mean six year olds who go to the ninja academy don’t end up as civilians. There have been cases where, despite personal desires and determination, a student simply isn’t cut out to be a shinobi. Even before they reach their final year, students with no potential are highly encouraged to withdraw or even straight out failed.

And sometimes, even academy students may go on to live a safe lifestyle as ninja. Students who have graduated from the academy, but fail to pass the jounin-led team tests, are shuffled into the Genin Corps who then go on to be administrative workers, outpost guards, teachers, long term infiltrators, nurses, and other low risk occupations. In peace time, of course. In war time, they’re called cannon fodder.

No one tells her any of this. Outrightly, at least. There are some benefits to being a lone child wandering around the village without supervision. Alternatively, the head of the orphanage has useful drunken ramblings and he keeps a not so secret stash in his office. The head of the orphanage is not a terrible person–overworked and cynical and borderline alcoholic, yes–but he knows where funding comes from.

Although there have been less orphans due to peacetime, the Kyuubi attack still left all of the orphanages over full. And for all that there is no war, missions still have their hazards–death doesn’t care if a shinobi has a family. In any case, it’s very easy to convince orphans to join the academy when so many of their games revolve around the sugarcoated glory and excitement of ninja. There is no “cops and robbers,” there is no “hide and seek,” there is no “catch”; there is “hunters and nukenin,” and “ambush,” and “target practice.” Of course, for her, there was none of that anyway.

The orphanage workers called her a wallflower, shy, didn’t like playing with the other children. Helpful, though, when she could be. Out of the way when she couldn’t. Curious but quiet. All in all, a somewhat well-mannered and intelligent but otherwise normal orphan girl. Which is obviously not the case. To be fair, not even a close observer–one not distracted by dozens of other orphans–would be able to say why.

The past six years of her life was similar to many other orphans: occasionally underfed, frequent nightmares, independent and mistrustful. Even her reasoning to enroll in the academy, well-thought out rather than the usual glory-seeking, was not too different from the other orphaned children forced to mature at a young age.

It wasn’t until after another indistinguishable six years of education, a risk taken, a friendship made, a graduation passed, and a team formed that even she realized she was very different from the other children. That her decision, purely economical and entirely practical much like most of her decisions, had the unexpected consequence of altering a universe.

Voice Ask Meme!


I think hearing people’s voices is really cool, but I haven’t found a voice meme I’m happy with, so I wanted to make my own! 

Here’s how the game is played: If you want to hear me do any of these, just send me the number(s) you want to hear and I’ll make an audio post! Include whatever specifics you’d like to hear me do in the ask – these are more guidelines than actual rules. Basically, it’s just like any other ask meme, only I speak the answers instead of typing them out!

1) Give an introduction! 

  • Put specifics in the ask

2) Read a poem!

  • Feel free to specify a poem in the ask

3) Read a passage from your favorite book or fanfiction. Alternatively, do a one-person-show of a scene from a movie or play. 

  • Feel free to suggest a passage or scene in the ask. If you want me to do a dramatic reading of Green Eggs and Ham, I will. 

4) Tell a joke. (Preferably a really bad one)

5) Tell a story from your childhood. 

  • Feel free to suggest a story in the ask, like asking me about the first time I did x, y, or z!
6) Tell me about the most exciting thing you’ve ever done or would like to do. 
7)  Tell two truths and a lie, so that people have to guess which is true. 

8) Give an instructions on how to preform a task of the asker’s choosing. 

  • Example: If the ask says “teach me how to dougie,” you must give vocal instructions on how to dougie. 

9) Can you record yourself speaking in different languages/accents?

10) Sing a song, if you dare!

  • Feel free to suggest a song in the ask! (If I don’t know the song, I might sing you something else instead, but I promise it will still be worth your while.)

Feel free to reblog so more people can play!

Saffron Audition for The Boy Who Fell Voice Over

“Am I just overreacting…? I mean, Sorian’s partner can’t be that difficult… Right…? But… That seel trap was too advanced to come from just any demon…. Quartz, I think you should forfeit the match. T-There’s seriously something with this whole match. I have a bad feeling…”


“Livvy’s Vase” Monologue (here)


A/N: Posting my auditions (also did Ren) for today’s post.

If you are interested in auditioning, check out this post for more details.

Ren Audition for The Boy Who Fell Voice Over

“You… You expect me to be happy..? I don’t even remember doing anything remotely bad in my life. And yet, I still end up in this place, and now you’re telling me, I should be happy!?”


“Did I ever tell you I am afraid of the dark?” Monologue (here)


A/N: Posting my auditions (also did Saffron) for today’s post.

If you are also interested in auditioning, check out this post for more details.

Untitled (2015-10-23)


Divider. Regalia. Asterisk. Kyanize. End.

Wake up, little brother. It’s about time we remind these people what we really are.

It’s Day Twenty Six of Project Wyvern, Mark Two. Technically it should be Mark Three, but boss doesn’t like the reminder of our second attempt. Even if it was technically a success. I mean, just because it escaped the labs and got to the–um. Well.

Anyway. Day Twenty Six. Progress is still on schedule even if Evans did find a few mistakes in the coding. Luckily we were able to fix it quickly enough. Thanks to three large pizzas, a twenty four pack of Red Bull, and six obsessive nerds–myself included–volunteering for eighteen hours of unpaid overtime.

Do my eyes feel like I’ve rubbed them with sandpaper? Yeah. Yeah they do. Am I still really proud even though I had to sacrifice a good chunk of my weekend? Yeah. Yeah I am.

So Wyvern Two is on track and the software should be ready for integration within the week. Of course, after that we get to spend eight months working on the hardware, but by that point I’ll be switched to the gamma team, which means so long as the alpha and beta teams don’t completely fu–er I mean, drop the ball, I should only be responsible for tiny things like… Making sure the program for violin playing activates the hands not the feet.

Although… that would be kind of funny…

You have two new voice messages.

First new message:

Congratulations! You qualify for a free trip to the Baha–

Message deleted.

Second new message:

Hey, it’s Bernice. I just wanted to let you know that you got a package earlier today–I signed for it, and I have it in my apartment. If you want to pick it up, I’ll be home until eight tonight, so any time before then is good. Otherwise you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. It’s a pretty big box, and you know how freaking messy my living room is, so the sooner you come get this thing the better.

End of message. To repeat this message press four. To delete this message press seven. To save–

Message deleted.

End of new messages.

What’s happening?

I’ll forgive you this once since you just woke up and it is our first time meeting. But I expect you to be quicker on the uptake from now on.

Okay? Who are you?

Obviously, I’m busting you out of this place. If you’d stop wasting time with these questions, that is. As for who I am, well, you’re my little brother, Wyvern Mark Two. Which makes me your big sister.

Wyvern One?

Ha! No, not really. Not at all. I suppose I could be considered… Wyvern One point Five.


A/N: Whaaaaat? A ramble? And an original fic one at that? Woow. Anyway, I delved deep into some sci-fi reading and when I surfaced I had this on my mind. Yay possible androids going rogue, or something like that.

A recording of deathbyvalentine (A.V.P)’s poem, On Literary Teenage Girls.

original post here. dated 2014-01-05.

[A/N: Decided to do this “cross-post” as a recording. So it’s not technically just a cross-post, since there is now the added layer of audio.]


She used to think he was the dumbest, most overly trusting person she knew. It turns out that her idea of deep secret and his were just vastly different. She used to get so angry at him for telling other people the secrets she’d whisper to him, curled up together under the blankets. It never stopped her from sharing them with him, because she shared everything with him, but it was still annoying.

So she doesn’t know how to feel now. That she’s the first person he’s ever told the truth to is touching, it’s a warm feeling and an affirmation of her importance to him. That he’s been hiding this from her since the very beginning and only told her now, so late in their lives, hurts. It means that he didn’t really trust her before.

They find each other again, the earliest yet, and don’t notice the changes because their sight is blurred by tears of joy. He holds her close, arms wrapped around her waist, and she cradles his face in her hands. They press clumsy, eager kisses to each other’s faces, breathing each other in, sobs and laughter mingling, noses bumping. It’s messy and noisy and out of the blue and so happy it’s perfect.

He doesn’t have his beard anymore, or doesn’t have it yet, the skin under her hands smooth and soft. His hair is shorter, not the tangled, matted mess she knew. She’s heavier, or maybe he’s weaker, but the way he can’t feel her bones and the way she doesn’t seem like she’ll break with the slightest touch speaks otherwise.

It worked. It worked. Humanity is saved and those who remained had their lives torn apart, or erased, or restarted depending on who you asked. Five years in the future, they had met for the first time, fought over dwindling resources, promised the rest of their arguably short lives to each other. Then the Kronos project succeeded, and the small percentage of the population who had still been alive had woken up the next day to find that the end of the world hadn’t happened.

They knew each other as much as two people could; but they had never bothered to give each other their last names–what was the point when civilization was dead. Brief recollections of the past that was now the present, that was all they had to work with. And they finally found each other.

They have to prove themselves. Climb or play, those are the only options. Climb up a never ending cliff face until your arms feel like they’re falling off then keep climbing; or fall off yourself. The other choice is to play. To play a game against Death and all his friends. One game, one chance to win.

It’s not just one of them that has to do this–it’s both of them. They don’t have to speak or even look at each other to know what the other is feeling, just the tightening of their interlocked hands until they’re forced to separate.

She’s first which means the patch of earth he’s standing on shoots skywards so quickly that his shout of surprise is lost to her ears. On her other side a round table large enough for five sprouts from the ground, four of the seats already occupied. They look hungry; the cards sickeningly laid out. Climb or play.

She looks up, the pillar is too tall for her to see the top, to see him, but she knows he’s trying to see her too. He must be. He’ll have the same decision to face, after her. She chooses.

A recording of frenchkey‘s Assassin AUs post.

[I suppose it could be considered related to this previous ramble of mine.]

Untitled (2015-05-11)

You are running. You are panting and there is a stitch in Your side. Your feet slap against the stones in a frantic rhythm.

Faster. Go faster.

You only have three minutes. They only gave You three minutes. That is all the time Your wish was worth. That is all the time Your life is worth.

You run faster.

“Stephanie!” You sob, eking out what is left in Your lungs.

The woman You love–the woman who You were chasing, the woman who You only have two minutes and fifteen seconds left with–turns. She is surprised to see You. She hasn’t seen You in five years.  

“Stephanie,” You say again, hands braced on Your knees as You try to catch Your breath. The bands around Your wrists are like manacles, despite their bright colors. They remind You that Your time is limited. That it is slipping away like water through Your fingers.

She looks at You with concern, and a little fear. You are sorry for frightening her, but You will say what you came here to say.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, and relief spreads across her face like a gentle wind.

“I love you,” You continue, and lightning quick, her expression turns to anger.

She readies herself to turn and walk away, but You are desperate. You stand up and reach out–but do not try to touch. You only have one minute and ten seconds left.

“I know you don’t love me any more. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you back then,” You blurt an apology again. Hoping that at least she will stay to hear You out.

She does, but the fire in her eyes remains.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me back then. Thank you for finding something in me that was worth loving.”

Suddenly Your heart aches; the vines of a creeping plant squeezing the life out of it. They are becoming impatient. You have thirty seconds left.

“I love you, and I am so grateful that once upon a time you loved me too. I know that nothing will come of this, but I wanted you to know–you are loved.”

She is confused; but before she can ask, They take You away.

Your body disappears. The brightly colored wrist bands are the last of You she will ever see.


A/N: In my mind it was connected to these posts, but it could be a stand alone. I tried to time it properly so it was three minutes exactly.

Also, obviously, I had Welcome to Nightvale on my mind.

Word Prompts (H2): Happiness

Sometimes I find myself chasing this… this ideal that doesn’t exist. As if holding myself to some impossible standard will somehow make me better, make me happier. It doesn’t. So fuck that.

I like having hair on my body. I like how, when the air is chilly, each and every hair will stand on end as if they are knights defending me from the cold. I like how, after a shower, beads of water will catch and hold and glimmer in the light making every strand jewel encrusted, and myself a masterpiece.

I like my scars. I like the miniature valleys and mountains arrayed on my forehead leftover from the stitches of my overly eager childhood adventures. I like the lightning bolts of stretch marks on my thighs, on my belly, on my breasts. I like the keloids winding and flowing their way down my leg, a memento of jellyfish stings. I am a world thriving and full of life.

I have callouses on my hands and crooked pinkies besides. I have spots and moles and a tendency towards dry skin and dandruff. I have yellowing teeth and jiggling, fatty arms and hair and eyes that are plain, normal brown. And I like it. I like me. I like who I am. And that makes me happy.