A few days back on AO3 I found an unfinished, two chapter spideypool fanfic that was cute and had lots of potential and was also last updated two years ago. Two whole years! And it had only three comments, all of which on chapter one, none on chapter two. I enjoyed the fanfic, despite it being far, FAR from being finished and the chance of it ever updating again anytime soon was just about zero. So you know what I did?
I wrote a damn comment. On chapter two.
And I made sure that fucker was long and had a small theory of where I think the author would take the fanfic in the future. I let the person behind the fic know that I friggin LOVED the two chapters I got to read! That I would LOVE to see more! That I’d jump out of my skin in happiness and virtually hug them half to death if I saw that they updated it.
Let me remind you this fic wasn’t updated in two YEARS! I was the first to comment on it in a year. And the first to comment on chapter two! And you know what happened today?
I got a reply.
From the author of the fanfic.
And the author said how I gave them life for a project they had loved (still did) and that they were now working on a third chapter.
After two YEARS of not updating. Of not writing. And it makes me so friggin happy seeing what I did. What I caused.
With a single. Damn. Comment.
All that it took for me was to think a bit about what I wanted to tell the author and the comment it. All it took was one comment. And suddenly this person was inspired to continue a fanfic they had abandoned for TWO YEARS!!
I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t be more proud.
Comment on people’s fanfics. No matter how few chapters there are. No matter how many years have passed since their last update. Comment. You like a fanfic? Comment on it. It’s that easy.
Yo prefería las espinas, a las rosas, porque las rosas sólo me seducían con su belleza efímera, sólo me mostraban delicadeza y fragilidad, sólo me expresaban fantasías y sueños que morían al atardecer.
Su hermosura podían confundirme, hacerme creer de que su existencia sería para siempre, nadie quiere creer que algo hermoso pueda morir así de rápido, pero así era, moría. Las espinas en cambio, me mostraban lo que son; espinas, no podía ir y tocarlas precipitadamente o con rudeza o saldría lastimada. No importa desde donde las vea, son intimidantes, aún después de muertas siguen siendo lo que son; espinas. Nada de fragilidad, nada de sencillez, nada de morir en una tarde, la escencia de lo que son perdura por mucho tiempo.
Nunca olvidarás cuando fue la primera vez que te pinchaste con una.
Of all the institute’s weapons, the greatest is terror. Terror of the unknown, of the creatures that steal human faces, of the shadows that hunt people in the night and vanish by daybreak, leaving behind only scorch marks and corpses.
What did they do at University Point to merit such annihilation? No one knows. University Point is silent, and the corpses give no answers. Only the crows know what the settlers saw.
Coursers, the Institute calls them. A thing made to run. (The Institute is in the business of turning people into things- see how they turn murder into ticking a name off on a list?)
Coursers, these synths call themselves. They bear their title with pride. The other synths are not trusted to obey, to leave the Institute or carry weapons. Only the coursers are special, only the coursers have been chosen. That is what the needle tells them, and who are they to disobey?
(A secret, one held tightly even within the ranks of that very elite: the coursers are not unaware that they could flee. They know. But this is what it means to be a courser, more than murder or weapons or black leather: a courser is devoted.
It is devotion which sends them out into the ruined world, and devotion that calls them back.)
X6-88′s memory is impeccable, photographic. He has seen the file with all the data the Institute finds relevant about him; he knows his test scores, his missions, the day he was created, the day he is due to be destroyed. The Institute prefers to keep their weapons freshly made.
(It worries him, sometimes, that distant future. He is not supposed to think. But sometimes, when the endless rounds have grown too repetitive, his control slips. He begins to worry- for the scientists, who know so little about the wasteland, and for the survivor, who knows too much. Who will keep order when he is gone? Who else is willing to give as much as he is? No one.)
X6 kills a man. Then he kills the next one. He chases desperate raiders, fights deathclaws, retrieves runaways. He takes the shortest path through the boston ruins, leaping easily from building to building. Pain, gravity, time; all these things are irrelevant. Day blurs into night, mission into mission, one long breathless run into the next. The world is his playground, and he is required to do only that which he loves best: to run.
He finishes the last steps of the dance, as he has a thousand times before, and returns to the Institute, where Dr. Ayo is waiting to give him his next assignment.
“Davielle Lemaire, the sole survivor of Vault 111, mother of the Director. Accompany her on her travels.”
Davielle is not afraid of X6, but X6 learns to be afraid of her. The brotherhood, the railroad, the gunners, the Institute; sooner or later everyone dies or pledges allegiance to the new director. X6 watches and worries. This is not the Institute he fought for. (He is not the courser he once was. There is something like terror in his heart. Everything he has fought to preserve is changing.)
The new director has many titles: survivor, empress, agent, general. It seems as if she has taught the whole world to bow at her approach. Even an incursion to the minutemen stronghold does not provoke violence. Instead, the wastelanders step away. They remove their hats. They watch respectfully as she advances, Curie and X6 standing at her side.
“The one in black,” someone whispers. “What is it?”
“A courser,” one whispers back. “The fist of the Institute.” A shudder runs through the crowd. Some go pale. Some begin to edge away. Some do not believe. X6 continues his slow advance, waiting on the signal from the director. The guards are watching him, just as he is watching them. They know where the violence will begin.
A man in a brown hat approaches the group.
“Preston,” the director says. “X6, this is Preston, my surface liason. Preston, this is X6, my courser. I think it’s time we stopped hiding from each other.”
Preston holds out his hand. Curie whispers instructions to X6.
“Let go of your weapon,” she says. “Open your fingers. Shake his hand.” It would take nothing more than a twitch of his hand to turn this whole gathering into violence, X6 knows. The men in the audience are brimming with fear. He has killed a hundred such men, and could easily kill a hundred more. A single shot would end the director’s unwise project and restore the Institute to it’s former course. But he does not shoot.
(It is not in X6’s nature, to turn from a difficult course because he is afraid.)
X6 lifts his hand from the holster of his weapon and shakes Preston’s hand.
No vayas por ahí, creyendo que lo has visto todo, que lo has hecho todo, que lo conoces todo, aún no me conoces a mí, y de todo lo extraño, de todo lo raro, de todo lo increíble aún falta llegar hasta mí, de todo eso yo soy lo último que queda.