Diaries from the Multiverse: Game of Thrones

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By Allen

(Diary of Dietrich Windsworn)

299 AC

It’s always too hot here. With no ventilation or blasted windows, it’s just sixteen hours a day of that infernal ball of heat beating down on your face like so many drops of water. Water. W-A-T-E-R. I don’t really have much reason to write that word in Dorne. Prince Doran, bless that old coot, wouldn’t dare send us a droplet in times like this. With family coming in and out of Sunspear, once can’t help but feel like the Martells are busy these days.

But enough about the royalists and big shots, let’s talk about my day. I got up with the sun as usual, and set off to work collecting food. I headed down to the market, and Delia sold me a bundle of olives for half price because she said I have a “cute little face”. What she doesn’t know is I’ll be a man grown soon, and then she’ll be all out of things to call cute and/or little. So I did that. Later, I brought Hump with me to the watering hole, and we enjoyed a quick dip and sip before those damn guards with the pointy stabby things told us to “move or be moved.” Ugh, jackasses. Sometimes, I wonder if I could be a guard for the Martells. If it means getting to see Arianne and the Snakes every waking day, sign me the hell up. I swear, that family was just born with good genes. I suppose you reap what you sow.

I’m still torn up about Oberyn. The man always had nice things to say about the common people. He would bring his sister Elia into the streets, and they would dance topless as a newborn child for a while, until the inevitable peasant tried to cop a feel on the lady herself. I just can’t respect a fellow street dweller who insults our beautiful leaders in such a deeply personal way. It gives us all a bad name, and it’s not like we need more crap from the folks upstairs. I’ve always referred to the palace of Sunspear as “upstairs”, not necessarily because there are stairs inside, but because it feels like it’s always watching us, like parents in their rooms upstairs. Always watching, never interfering. At least it’s better than what I hear goes on in Westeros. One of the books I read mentioned how kings would have people brutally killed for simply getting too close. I complain about the heat and the hard living, but I like Dorne. I feel like we’re on the cusp of a big political shift, and if that means we don’t have to get involved in any wars overseas, count me in.

Anyways, back to my day. So I get my water, save some drops in my pouch, and head back home with Hump. The bastard gets a little feisty, and nearly drops me face first into a shockingly large puddle of shite. It was quite the experience. After that, nothing interesting really happened. I brought back the food and water, went running down to Hazzad’s house, and we kicked an old bundle of rags around for a few hours. Mama says I’m getting lazy, but anything is better than Maya’s typical day, which usually consists of: sleeping, bathing, flirting with men on the street, more sleeping, and more eating. Hey, it’s a living.

And then I came back inside, enjoyed the fruits of my labor, fed Hump, and sat down to read a book. I love having this time to catch up on things, but I miss being more busy. Ever since Baba left, I was supposed to be the man of the house. Turns out being the man of the house just means cleaning up after a shit-stained camel and lugging food back and forth.

But hey, I’d do anything for the family. I’d die for them.

Oh, and I polished my bow today. Both curves have a good angle now, and the string itself has excellent give and throw. I think I’ll bring it with me on the Meereen trip in a few days. I hear the Mother of Dragons is in town. I swear, I leave one hot place and head to another. Just once, I wish we took a trip to The Reach or Winterfell. I’ve always loved sailing ever since Baba brought us here so long ago. He said we were “getting back to our roots.” I dare you to find one actual living root in Dorne that doesn’t belong to a disgusting plant or parasitic creature. May The Smith guide my hand, The Father my decisions, The Mother my family, The Maiden my sister, The Crone my mind, and The Stranger…well, remove him from my bedchamber and bar him from our home. Time to do it all again tomorrow. Life goes on.

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Diaries from the Multiverse: Super Crate Box

Super Crate BoxThis installment’s trans-dimensional transmission comes from a troubled individual, a Sisyphean figure trapped eternally in a wartime purgatory, sandwiched between the fires below and the hordes of murderous enemies above. Join us, won’t you, as we step into the world of Vlambeer’s 2010 freeware platformer, Super Crate Box…

By Magellan

(Diary of Salvador Crowley, Year Unknown)

I woke up on the girder again. You know the one, propped up on beams and straddling that inexplicable, bottomless furnace. This makes…well, to be honest, I lost count a long time ago. As far as I know, it’s been years since I’ve woken up on anything that wasn’t that girder, on anything warm, or soft, or safe.

The fire is still warm, I can tell you that. I jumped into it again yesterday morning (of course, it’s always light out, so who knows what that word means anymore), to see if it would kill me. No such luck, as usual, only another morning with my face on cold metal. There was that nice moment of empty blackness in between jumping in and waking up where I forgot how to think, but that was mostly the unimaginable pain of burning alive that helped clear my mind. It’s therapeutic, I guess, but it’s not enjoyable.

Today I think I’ll fight for a while, stay sharp, y’know? I’m itching for a good scuffle, besides, and this time I think I can beat my record. Plus, when you fight back, you don’t know when the pain’s gonna come. I still haven’t decided if that’s a good thing or not.

What am I fighting for, anyway? Is it pride? Is it entertainment? Do I still think I can escape? Do I just want to avoid the pain? What is existence without an end?

And for God’s sake, what are they building here?! Seriously, I’ve been jumping around all over these platforms like a drunk monkey for years now and I’ve seen thousands of monsters, but never a single construction worker. This must be quite a blemish on this city, to have towering skyscrapers for blocks and blocks, and then some half-finished framework of a building crawling with beasts and heavy weaponry. If I lived in this city, I’d write a letter to my councilman or something. Lord knows these bazookas aren’t free, and I’m throwing them away left and right like Kodak disposable cameras. If that’s not a misappropriation of taxpayer dollars, I don’t know what is.

And that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the questions I have about this place. Like, where are all of these monsters coming from? Obviously, I know they’re dropping down from the opening in the sky, but how are there so many of them? Is there some kind of green beast assembly line feeding them down to me from a breeding farm upstate? And why is it that they can pass through the fire unscathed (empowered by it, in fact) and I can’t even touch the stuff without surrendering to ungodly agony?

What if they’re conscripted infantry? What if, like me, these poor creatures are being bound by forces beyond their control to relive the same inscrutable torment, day after day, year after year, facing inevitable death at the hands of a gun-toting lunatic? What if I, after all of this, I am the monster, the beast that serves as the engine of their eternal Hell?

What if – oh crap, I just shot myself with my own disc gun. That…that’s pretty embarrassing. I uh…you forget how much it hurts to be bisected by a razor-sharp metal disc until it happens to you. It’s really quite a shameful way to go. And…yup, I woke up on the girder again.

If you enjoy Super Crate Box stay tuned to the Pop Modern YouTube channel, where this week I’ll be starting a series of streams of my run-throughs with miscellaneous commentary, called “Super Crate Talks.”  

 

Diaries from the Multiverse: Blade Runner

Brade Runner

Here’s the first of our new “Diaries from the Multiverse” series of articles. At the Pop Modern studios, located at the exact triangulated center of our three current abodes, we like to write fiction in our off-time. Not every article needs to be a detailed critique of a genre or piece of art, and this new column showcases that we are more than just critics. Sometimes, it’s just fun to take the role of an unmentioned or underdeveloped character from a famous fictional world, and explore a period of their life in these strange landscapes. For this first installment, we’re heading to the gritty urban jungle that is 1982’s Blade Runner…

By Allen

(Diary of Alexei Stephenson, 2019)

What a day. Police sirens blaring outside my window all day, and they still expect me to sleep eight hours a day. Only a few more months of this dead-end job and I’ll be cruising along the highway by summer, with nothing to distract me from the open road. It’s so dark outside, I can’t even see the ground beneath my apartment. It’s been too long since I’ve stepped out on the town. Every time I consider it, I see another news story about those weird clone guys taking out a police vehicle, or gunshots coming from the market down the street. Another day, another dollar I guess…

The next evening…

So, speaking of gunshots, I heard a bunch just now. Four to be exact. And lots of glass breaking. I’m guessing a police chase through the market. If I were a criminal, I wouldn’t run through a crowded place filled with things to trip on and get shot through. Nah, I’d go somewhere with more cover, like the subway. Down there, I could just grab a hold of the Metro line, and be on my merry way. Not that I’d ever commit a crime in my current state of mind. Those damn cops are too good these days.

I met a girl today! She had this wild mess of blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a taste for the exotic. We met at a bar on the Lower East Side. She looked at me from across the bar, with a look that could either by interpreted as madness…or lust. Probably both. Either way, I decided to ask her out. We went for a walk on the town, which she suggested because she wanted to see all the crazy people that are out at 2 in the morning around here. I obliged, but only after packing some heat. With a city like this, you can never be too safe. Anyways, we walked down the street until we came across a massive golden pyramidal building. “My lovey, Ned? He was born there! Can you believe it? I sure can’t. He’s such a doll, Mr. Batty.” So…she has a boyfriend. I should have known. You can never trust these wild acrobat types. One day they’re in your arms, the next they’re in your best friend’s pants. But such is life, I guess. I never talked to Pris after that. Hell, I didn’t even give her my number. I never give people my number. Keeps you tied down, you know? That feeling that someone could call you any minute, and you’d have to answer.

One week later…

If I jumped out of this building, would I survive? I’d get a nice view of that Tyrell Building that Pris showed me last week. That’d be nice, as sort of a final bit of wonder before the life leaves my body. I don’t exactly think about suicide a lot, mainly because I don’t consider myself to be a depressed kind of guy. But all these murders and double homicide nonsense on the news just makes me scared, you know? Hell, of course you know. You’re my diary, all snug under my bed every night. And that’s where you’re going soon, if I ever get to work. Boss has got me reading up on those crazy “Replicant” whoosewhatsits for an article. Something about what it means to be human in today’s world. I’ve never really thought about it before. I just kind of assume that all the people I meet are normal-ass humans. Everyone I don’t meet, and everyone I don’t want to have met, those are the Replicants if you ask me. They’re just so different. Sure, they look and talk like us. But I like to think that I could spot one if it stood in front of me right now. Anyways, enough naval-gazing for one night. Time to do some real, honest to goodness research.