Jack: You better be happy on Saturdays!! If ur not then i’ll kill you. i wont really. im a nice person. I’d never kill anybody. *giggles* go to
Reading Your Comments Live time stamp 1:59. This boi wants to get us so hype that we explode.
unacceptable nsfw: straight people havingn nasty sex but its in an Artistic way
acceptable nsfw: pictures of people in full body fetish gear standing in a corn field in the middle of nowhere and theres a time stamp from 2003
I think at this point, everyone understands that when Noctis sees Ardyn on the train and attacks “Ardyn”, he’s actually attacking Prompto. The bait and switch that makes the chapter interesting. Something I think a lot of people didn’t catch is that you don’t save the train with Prompto, you save it with Ardyn.
Here we have Prompto, getting attacked by Noctis after Ardyn’s bait-n-switch.
Shortly after, Noct falls unconscious, but when he wakes up, Prompto is there. Initially I had the assumption that Prompto had just reverted back to his normal appearance, but this isn’t the case.
We know that this isn’t Prompto, first there’s a few queues in the lines that follow
While I can’t include Audio in this post directly, this is the first line he delivers that is both oddly formal in phrasing and tone. Robbie Daymond does a great job of changing his annunciation for this line, and sounding much more formal. (audio)
Next suspect lines are during the battle… these changes are subtle, but they differ from Prompto’s character in some interesting ways.
First of all, what an interesting battle to introduce an ENTIRELY NEW Battle banter that we’ve never heard before, and never hear again. If you listen throughout the battle, you won’t notice any of his normal battle banter, at least not nearly as much. All the dialogue that really remain the same are his techniques
Second, we’ve always known Prompto to be a little bit timid in battle, though he’s brave when the time is right. However, Prompto has never been one to be overconfident, and he’s never been one to joke about the prospect of death. If you listen to the way these lines are delivered in english, they’re entirely nonchalant– not delivered in his usual anxious sarcasm.
On a frigid winter night, a man wearing two coats shuffles into a brightly lit brick restaurant in downtown Madrid. Staff greet him warmly; he’s been here many times. The maître d’ stamps his ID card, and the hungry man selects a table with a red tablecloth, under a big brass chandelier.
The man, Luis Gallardo, is homeless — and so are all the diners, every night, at the city’s Robin Hood restaurant. Its mission is to charge the rich and feed the poor. Paying customers at breakfast and lunch foot the bill for the restaurant to serve dinner to homeless people, free of charge.
It’s become Spain’s most sought-after lunch reservation. The restaurant has poached staff from luxury hotels. Celebrity chefs are lining up to cook once a week. For paying clients, the lunch is fully booked through the end of March.
The restaurant opened in early December, and is run by an 80-year-old Catholic priest, Ángel García Rodriguez, whom everyone knows simply as “Padre Ángel.”
God, our faces look young. Mark, your goof-smile, teeth overlapping your bottom lip, belying how incredibly smart you were—how tinged with genius, and yet unhinged.
Your eyes, not looking into the camera, but down and to the left. Watching the floor. Were you planning your untimely exit, even then?
Your arm is around Christine. Ah, Chris. You’re staring right at the camera and there’s no fixing your red-eyes. You’re looking at the guy taking the picture, my then-boyfriend.
Patrick. Your now-husband. Looking at my easy grin, looking forward to the after-grad party at Jim’s house, not realizing Pat had already fallen, and you had fallen back, with him. My eyes can’t see the
energy between you. How could they? How could any of us see what would happen next? Chris, your arm around me, my pink graduation dress, gladiator sandals, my eyes a happy mixture of box-wine in a flask and the promise
of a back-seat dry-hump with Pat later in the evening. My eyes and smile time-stamped at 6:43 p.m., May 3rd, 1987—our moment, thinking back at the confusion in my eyes Mark must have seen, the tremble in my lips at the party
when Mark told me, goof, gone from his smile, that you and Pat had left the party together. No good-bye. Then me, fucked up on pot and shots, fucking Matt Wells in the back of his karmann ghia,
and what a fucking trick that is, if you know anything about those cars, to feel better. To not think of Pat’s promises to you, instead of me. You wrote in my yearbook,
I don’t ever want to hurt you. I read that, and thought it a testament to our friendship. How could I know it was a preemptive mea culpa, a “sorry, not sorry,”
even back then. Pat didn’t write in it. Was that a show of dignity, or cowardice? I smile into the camera, but my eyes are green, not red. It’s funny, Chris, the import I placed for so long, on your red-eyed image, after graduation night.
As if the camera pronounced you “demoness” for me, while my tear-stained cheeks stared at our group for weeks after, smiling, hats still on, tassels on the right side of adulthood at last. And then you, Ted.
Teddy. Your arm around me. Your eyes didn’t have green or red. Brown eyes, soulful, your smile subdued. Yours didn’t look left and down like Mark’s did. But both of you were gone by 1990.
Both of you had forgotten our promise to stay friends forever. Forever friends, a promise as sacred as I do, but only as hallowed as the hearts that vow. Mouths lie, hearts don’t, and they don’t always know what the other has planned, do they?
We can’t be friends forever when you’re dead, Ted. Mark. You broke your word. Fuck you both, for leaving me to watch the cans tied to Pat and Chris’s getaway car as they started their new lives, law school, together, Oregon.
Fuck you both for leaving me alone, and Teddy, fuck you for not telling me you loved me when you had the chance. Fuck you, Chris, for telling me you did at all.
But that was ages ago, wasn’t it? Pat is my Facebook friend, now, how many years later? Too lazy to do the fucking math. Thirty years, Yeah. Something. Chris, you aren’t. And that actually feels pretty honest.
I have that photo in with a bunch of other promises, sacred vows, in our senior yearbook with the “keep in touches” and “have a great summers.” And the message from you, Teddy, telling me to “stay cool and cute.”
I didn’t do either, Ted. I became jaded and sucked at promises, too. Three marriages later. Maybe I’ll get this one right. And I sucked at finding my way in the world I wondered, still wonder,
time and again, the way you and Mark chose, and why. Well, I guess you found something you didn’t like, maybe, and that’s why you just stopped looking.
I guess we never promised to call when we wanted to blow our brains out, huh, Ted? Never promised to “keep in touch” with a fatal necktie around our necks, did we, Mark?
God I loved you both. I fucking miss you. And fuck you. And fuck me, too.
I close the yearbook, and indulge. I look Pat up on Facebook. I look at pictures of Chris and wish she’d gotten fat. (She didn’t. She hasn’t. She isn’t.) Then I remember how I told my kids that high school
is no big deal. Trust me, I’d said, it’s a tiny blip on the screen of Life. And it won’t matter one day, all the high school shit. Not even friends who you thought were “forever.”
I told them that, and I tell myself that, too. I tell myself that, and so many