#[ shatter; proton ]

[pureheartsandrainbowwings]

[ When it came to parenting, the Executives weren’t exactly perfect… ]

[ this isn’t relevant to the current arcs i just wanted to put them here :> ]

[crying-fantasies]

Love fantasy

Masterlist

It all started as a normal cycle, he swears on his spark that it was an innocent and normal cycle.

"I interfaced with one of the humans".

Until it wasn't.

No bot can verify the fact but all are equally flabbergasted at the statement, humans are still a novelty aboard, it has been only a few earth years since they arrived to the starship and while friendships and primitive market of products are normal to see nowadays it still doesn't stop one or two glass cubes from shattering against the floor of Swerve's or the high grade that has gone down the wrong pipe by the mere words formed by Fizzle's vox.

No bot asked, no one even knew, no one really noticed him gone from the ship or when he came back but now they all have their attention at him even when he simply said it to the bot next to him, but gossiping, no matter species, is a big deal among sentient beings.

"You're lying"

"No!", almost sensing the others receptor audials over him he can only try to cover his EMF as close to his frame as possible, spoiler coiled near to his armor in a display of nervousness, "it was- it was out of this world, okay? And- and then she was-"

"It was a human femme?!"

Again, some were at their seats end, some again chocking on their drinks, others feeling their fans activate, everybot has seen for themselves how soft humans are, and even heard from the same humans that some are most soft than others.

Human femmes- er, woman and alike, were supposed to be the peak of softness, even human primitive communication devices (porn and magazines) said so!

"Primus dammit- do you want everybot to hear about it?", oh yes, please say more was something resonating among the processors of the most curious in the theme and the most deviant of them that had also thought of some organic colleagues in such a way, of course, Fizzle didn't had to know, and in some way it was his fault to talk about such a thing like a sparkling sharing secrets in a public area when the Lost Light was so big.

"Okay, okay, go on, what did she do?", there was silence, one that preceded the proton storm while Fizzle's spoiler raised back again in excitement to remember the exchange.

"...she played with my wires and with my spark"

If the two bots didn't know they were being eavesdropped before now they knew after a few bots cracked their glasses full of energon at the mere mention of the interface related activity, making they almost scape even when some bots wanted to keep hearing and asked them to come back, because it was the discovery of the century, well, almost, but it was still of great interest nonetheless for most of them!

"Wow, that was crazy, huh, Roddy?", Drift tries to ignore the other bots still remaining in the bar and their obnoxiously loud fans, hardly covering the growing charge on their EMF and now heated frames trying to seem as undisturbed as possible.

Even Rodimus, who stops as hard as he can his cooling fans, servos being negated of the littlest possibility to even shake at how hard his spark is pulsing, "Uhum".

First of the questions running around his processor is who was it? Fizzle doesn't even have any game going on or perceived by his optics to be able to drag along another mech on his habsuit, let alone a human that knows nothing about interfacing, which get to the next question running wild in circles around his processor: can a human do sparkplay? The idea is impossible but it doesn't stop his imagination where, in fact, it seems more than possible with those little hands and fingers running wild on a bot's spark chamber, he remembers the humans being taught cybetronian medic techniques, how they were so focused in healing illness and it isn't so hard to change the purposes of the delicate and sometimes rough way those little hands made their way around a spark and all the sensitive wiring around.

He ask to himself if the human Fizzle was talking about were to be, by any chance, you.

And he negates it, scratches it, deletes as far as he can any trace of the mere idea of it because it will break his spark in million pieces would be improper in everyway.

It is also improper to remember it when he is next to you while you read a datapad about once living creatures of Cybertron, little finger moving the page once in a while in your hunger for more information that gets his optics focused on the way your eyes move along the light and the glyphs on the screen.

Will your curiosity also extent to other possibilities? He has seen you go "woah" and "ahh" over simple things like the subtle communication between frames with wings and spoilers or the fair quantity of differences of one frame to the other, the image of your face looking with interest whatever you're reading and how you take notes on your personal datapad, little fingers moving along and pressing different places in the sensible screen while showing your obvious interest, your possible awe over his bared spark in front of you.

It's almost too easy, he only needs to change a few things, his open spark chamber is now the source of light reflecting on your eyes, a perfect miniature mirror of your actions as your fingers touch the sensible glass cover of his spark, he can almost feel the electricity driving away to your body to his waiting spark that welcomes it with a tremor as hard as lightning that spreads to his whole frame in electric pleasure, wires tensing at the movement around and all the pressure, trying to make give accomodations to every little electric pulses your body can send to his most sensible component.

"Roddy"

It's way too real, way too hard, and it gets worse when your fingers get replaced with your soft looking lips and tongue, lapping above the connections before sliding to his tensed wires, making a wet trail to his spark while he debates internally in his own fantasy, he is supposed to concentrate, to not come undone or look because he is sure it would be JUST. SO. HOT.

"Rods"

It doesn't even end there, he can hear your voice along it, processor and cooling fans working overtime while he can only focus on the possibility, on the maybe that lingers above, it only takes so little to have you kiss with tongue his spark and he can't take it-

"Rodimus!" Oh, now, that's his designation, the fantasy is shattered in pieces and he soon realizes one of his digits is above his spark chamber, you are looking at him, maybe confused, obviously worried, it's enough to make him let go of the digit between his dentae and feeling his spike depressurize- "why are you so hot?", nevermind.

"... I'm hot?...", a wicked grin blended with happiness is forming on his faceplate as his words trail on slowly, almost as he is tasting it.

"I mean", you correct yourself, you really didn't need to, "heat is coming from your body, are you going flames on again? Are we under attack again?"

"What? Nah, just...", daydreaming about impossibilities, about a weak porn, like humans call it, without basis, heated romance and passion he isn't even sure you share with him, impossibilities that drag his bleeding spark over every movement and word of yours that he clings on with greedy servos, it's so embarrassing and he is sure he'll offline by pure mortification if you ever get a word about his attraction to you just to be faced by any degree of disgust coming from you, "it's getting cold in here, wouldn't want you to freeze those little fingers to dead", he doesn't even offer his servo but it is almost a natural response when he sees you approaching him with fear on your steps by any possibility of being another normal day aboard the Lost Light, he doesn't even stop and let's you settle on his lap like the security protocols indicated.

Fear washes away quickly when you register his words, there is curiosity on your eyes, looking between him and your hands, before finally look at him in the optics again, "Oh, didn't know you heard about the effects of excessive cold on the most distant phalanges, I mean, it's something that only happens while in extreme freezing conditions in harsh environments or controlled ones in closed lab experiments-"

Rodimus really didn't get what you were talking or the whole deal you were explaining to him, but seeing you feel secure next to him, taking seat above him showing the full confidence and trust you put on him while your hands move to explain your point, putting the warm palm against his armor from time to time.

"Everything you touch is bound to fail anyway", harsh words pang among his memory archives while he touches a side of yours to prevent a fall, but he silenced it, preferring the sound of your voice that now was about something called homeostasis.

He wouldn't trade this moment for anything, not when he offers you a digit and you hold it immediately, well, maybe a kiss if you could be generous enough, but he will get there soon, he hopes so.

.

I totally offer this one to @archie-sunshine and @pinkanonwrites by their glorious work of overheating and teasing Rodimus, I love it to the moon and back to hear about one of my faves even when he is mentally unstable and runs hot most of the time, it's his own charm, specially their newest works that relate to Roddy so much.

[eebydeebyderby]

Can We Talk?

A one-shot in which reader tries to comfort Egon after a lab accident leaves him shaken and a bit injured.

Inspired by this post for Whumptober for Day 1: Apology, but it leans much more towards hurt/comfort than true whump. Thank you for your patience as I start getting back into writing <3

General info:

Egon x Reader, established romantic relationship, hurt/comfort (Egon gets got), minor injuries, gender neutral reader

~1.8k words

The trap clatters to the ground when you regain consciousness, smoking and hissing at Egon's feet. You shake your head a bit, trying to clear your head, regain your bearings as you slowly look around. The lab is in complete shambles around you: papers scattered and fluttering about, tables turned over, equipment thrown on the ground, an overhead light is shattered and sparking.

You turn around to find Egon looking intently at you from just a few feet away, proton gun still buzzing in his hand, the trap still smoking at his feet. He's completely disheveled, his glasses askew and his hair a complete mess. His face is expressionless, completely blank except for the tears burning in his eyes as his fingers slowly ghost over the side of his face, the stinging handprint on his cheek painfully red and already beginning to swell into an aching bruise.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach and you gasp. “Egon, what happened?”

He stays quiet.  

You start moving towards him but freeze when he sharply recoils away from you, backing into a bookcase and knocking several books to the floor around his feet, startling you both. 

Your heart starts pounding in your ears and your chest tightens, threatening to stifle your breath. “Egon, I'm scared. What happened?”

He just stares at you, blinking rapidly. 

“Can you tell me what happened?”

             Nothing. 

Then, finally, he shakes his head. His breath catches behind the lump in his throat and he struggles in vain to try and swallow it down, his entire body trembling from the tension building in his chest, threatening to burst.

You slowly, very slowly, walk towards him, broken glass and equipment crunching beneath your shoes. He all but flattens himself against the bookcase, but still lowers his proton gun as you approach, halting just a few feet from him.

With delicate, deliberate movement, you reach towards him, making sure he sees and knows your intent.  

When your hand is about an inch from him he squeezes his eyes shut. Your hand grazes the uninjured side of his face and he sucks in a breath. His eyebrows knit together and he tries to keep his breathing steady, but he's unable to bear it and flinches from your touch. You yank your hand back, accidentally knocking a large thermos off a table. It hits the ground with a harsh, resounding clang, startling you both once again. His gaze fixates on the thermos as it rolls along the floor behind you. You keep your eyes on him.

“I'm sorry; I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry,” you sputter. 

Complete silence falls between you two. The only noises you hear are the sparking of the broken light fixture and your own heart pounding in your ears. 

"Egon, whatever happened—I'm so sorry; I would never want to do anything that hurt you. I'm sorry. Whatever I did back there, I’m so sorry." The words spill from your mouth before you can process them. You open your mouth for a split second as your mind scrambles to find something else to say, anything, but it draws a blank and you remain quiet. Then, you mutter, “I love you. I never want to hurt you.” 

His gaze snaps up to lock onto you, and it breaks your heart to see the tears welled in his eyes, so close to spilling over as he uses all of his willpower to hold them back. Egon is never one to express emotions openly, always keeping them guarded behind a shield of polite detachment. But, here you can fully see the sorrow etched on his tired face, the hurt and vulnerability and conflict and, something else, something you can't quite place—

He breaks eye contact and swallows. "I th—” His voice cracks and he clenches his jaw for a moment. “...I think it would be best if we separate for now." His voice is strained and unsteady. He swallows again, avoiding your eye. Then, he manages to eke out, ���I…I need space. Please.”

His request hits you hard and you feel your own emotions swelling in your chest. You force yourself to take a deep, slow breath and you're grateful that your wildly beating heart calms down a bit.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I'll be upstairs in the bedroom.”

The room is dark and quiet when you walk inside. The sky outside is beginning to lighten with the dawn approaching over the city skyline, bathing the room in a faint blue glow through the window. You sit down on the foot of his bed and think, think, trying to recall what happened before you regained consciousness in the wrecked lab. 

The two of you were alone in the firehouse. You remember helping Egon tinker with a live trap—the mechanism for releasing the entity into the containment unit was malfunctioning, and the two of you were trying to fix it. There was a loud bang, a flash of light. You remember yelping, then dropping your screwdriver, then crumpling to the ground, then—

Nothing. 

There's a tentative knock at the door, tearing you from your thoughts. “Come in,” you say.

Egon slowly opens the door and walks inside, his entire body still trembling. The bruise across his cheek is swollen and darkened into a splotchy red. “Can we talk?” he asks quietly, his voice thick with congestion. 

"Of course."

He sits down on the bed next to you and you have to suppress the urge to wrap your arms around him. You're facing him, but he faces the floor, arms slung over his knees and his hands clasped tightly together, trying not to meet your gaze. He sighs, unable to keep himself from shaking with nervousness. "I…don't know where to start."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

“It…The entity, it…” The lump in his throat seizes up and he quickly becomes overwhelmed. He sighs, starting to get frustrated with himself, and shakes his head. 

“That's alright,” you mutter. “It's alright.”

Silence falls between the two of you. You stay quiet, wanting to give him as much time as he needs. Your gaze wanders over to the window; the horizon over the city skyline now glows with the faintest hint of pinkness beneath the cool blue dawn. The street outside the firehouse is quiet, but you still hear the faint noises of traffic from the city. It's still too early for the birds to be awake, and you wonder if—

"I know it wasn't you.” His voice nearly startles you, and your attention immediately snaps to him. “It wasn't. I know it wasn’t, but I just…” He lifts his head to look at the ceiling, hands clasped firmly together in his lap, and you see the tears burning in his eyes. He clenches his jaw, trying to stay grounded. 

“Egon, can I touch you?”

He nods hesitantly, still shaking like a frightened dog. 

You stand up and slowly bring your hand up to the uninjured side of his face. He braces himself, squeezes his eyes shut, fearing a strike he knows isn't coming. “Hey, it's okay,” you coo. “It's just me.” Your fingers graze his face and he tenses, clenching his jaw as you gently stroke his cheek with your thumb, feeling the light scratch of his stubble. Your hand gently cups the side of his face and you delicately tilt his head up to plant a kiss on his forehead. 

The tension gripping his entire body finally bursts. He exhales sharply and gasps as tears flood down his face and you immediately pull him into a tight hug, cradling his head against your chest. Sobs spasm in his throat and he wraps his arms tightly around you, trying to pull you as close to himself as he can, despite his glasses going askew and digging sharply into his skin. His breath comes in short, abrupt gasps that rack through his entire body. 

“Oh, Egon…” you mutter, running your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I-I know it…it w-wasn't you,” he sputters between gasps. "It—...You would n-never say th-the things it said,” he swallows, struggling to force down the lump in his throat that’s stifling his words, and his voice steadies a bit, “or raise a hand to me, but it...it weaponized things that…that only you would know, things that I-I confided only to you and it—...I know it wasn't you attacking me, I know it wasn't.” 

His voice thickens as emotion swells in his chest and fresh tears drip off his jaw. He pulls away and looks up at you with red, swollen eyes, absolutely exhausted, markings dotting the areas around his eyes and on the bridge of his nose where his glasses were digging into his skin. You slowly bring your hand up the side of his face again and this time he leans into your touch as you stroke his cheek. He sighs and closes his eyes, relishing your touch, allowing himself to start gradually relaxing, fatigue weighing heavily on him. 

You look intently at him, reading the emotions etched plainly on his face, and you recognize the one from earlier that you couldn't quite place. You scowl a bit. “What's the guilt?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you, a bit befuddled. 

“Egon, come on. I've done things to you that would patronize Babylon the Great. I can tell when you're keeping something.”

He smirks briefly through his tears, the half-smile that is so delightfully Egon. It quickly fades and he sighs, trying to keep his breathing steady. “I should've been more cautious. It's my fault the entity broke containment.” 

Your brain scrambles between saying, ‘why do you say that?’ and ‘no, it isn't’ and you blurt out, “Why do you isn't?”

“I knew you'd disagree.” He pauses,  and you see a slight glimmer of humor return to him. “At least, I think that's what you're attempting to do.” He lies down on the bed and gestures for you to follow. You're more than happy to oblige and lie down with your head on his chest and your hand on his collarbone. He slings an arm around you and sighs deeply, sinking into the bed and allowing drowsiness to start taking control. 

“I think we should put some ice or something on your face,” you say, curled up against him.

He shakes his head. “Ice only works to temporarily replace one form of discomfort for another. It does nothing to actually aid healing.” He’s quiet for a moment and yawns deeply. “The lab is in complete disarray,” he mutters. 

“It's always in complete disarray.” 

He snickers. “You know what I mean.” 

“How about we worry about it later?” 

“Alright. We'll worry about it later.” 

[real-team-luster]

Concealed Pasts ask game

// hey y'all it's mod kirby here wth another ooc ask game. though you could also ask these in character if you wanted, i doubt most muses would answer them lol. the questions themselves however will be phrased as if addressed to the character for maximum immersion.

washout further ado... letsa-go mario!

Atom - A secret you swore you'd never tell.

Proton - A great memory you haven't shared.

Electron - A bad experience you want to stay forgotten.

Flux - A mistake you made that won't let go.

Halo - A truth which shattered your worldview.

Nova - A face you don't ever want to see again.

Antimatter - A face you wish you could see again.

Spectre - A fear you can't fight against.

Leviathan - A regret long since lost to the waves.

Apocalypse - An object, person, anything at all really that you want with you when it's all over.

[dogdaysareover365]

you know what? Screw it! I’m going to give you a snippet from all three

(I’ll do the Beetlejuice fic at the end since it contains Beetlejuice Beetlejuice spoilers).

title: I Don’t Do Sadness (Just Don’t Need It in My Life)

fandom: ghostbusters

day: 3 (shared trauma)

Phoebe felt her heart shatter at that confession. Phoebe let her proton wand fall to the side. This ghost wasn't a threat. She was a victim. "I'm not going to hurt you," Phoebe promised. "I can help you. I've helped ghosts move on before." "Pheebs, where are you? Have you found anything?" Phoebe saw the look of fear on Irene's face. "It's okay, mom," Phoebe called. "I have it." "You promised you wouldn't blast me," Irene muttered. "And I won't," Phoebe promised.

Surprise surprise. Phoebe is getting emotionally attached to another ghost girl.

title: Build a Better Self

fandom: ghostbusters

day: 15 (loss of limbs)

He wasn't dead.

No. He can't be dead. His body had only died. He couldn't reenter it, no matter how hard he tried. He refused to accept that he was gone. His family had a funeral for him, but he'll be back. He will find a way to come back.

He just needed new parts.

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice spoilers below

Title: Let's Feel Together

fandom; Beetlejuice

day: one (alternate prompt - “If you weren’t around, I’d be long dead by now...”)

Given that Lydia's job, which she had just sent her two weeks in for, involved finding ghosts, whether someone was breathing or not was a big indicator. Even before she got that job, she'd stay up late when Astrid was a baby, watching the small rise and fall of her chest.

It was a reminder that not everything was dead. Lydia had managed to create life. Life that Lydia had found so precious, and had promised to protect. Astrid was proof that not everything around Lydia was dead.

Now, all of these years later, Astrid was now sixteen, and Lydia was once again watching the rise and fall of her chest.

[no-truth-left]

2.003 - Bend

CW: Body horror/mutilation

The path curves in on itself, breaking at a sharp angle both left and right yet still continuing forward. Chie follows it, twisting her spine to match the curve and arching her legs into the folded shadows. Her nerves send electric pulses through her, rending pain screaming the wrongness. She steps back from them, letting the pathway properly mold their new shape. Once nerves are no longer nerves, the pain dissipates and is no more.

Her head tilts back, tilts back, tilts back and into her lower back, pushing aside skin, flesh, bone like a curtain. A sharp twist, a crack. The back of her head nestles against the front inner part of her pelvis.

This is nice, she thinks, staring up through her shoulders. She can see the nebula above. It twinkles at her, reminding her of a newborn baby’s eyes.

The path vibrates. She sways. She moves.

Corpses coming out of head-on collisions were less mangled than she was, coming out the other end of that path. But, really, what does that shape mean out here? There are no cars, no corpses. She and her body are most certainly not human here.

And then she's made it. The nebula. It pulses erratically, shining and aching with life. When her eyes break down into their base parts, she can see the bonds forming, reforming, nitrogen and carbon passing electrons to and from the hydrogen bonds.

Her own molecules vibrate. Move, they demand. Protons whine with the need to be more than this. Electrons buzz. Noble gasses, more volatile than the solid irons and carbon within her, cajole them into a bond that will last a second but feel eternal.

Who is Chie to stop them? What is she, when the multitudinous sum of her parts desire to be elsewhere? To be elsewho.

The humming parts inch to the edge of the path. Intersecting lines cut into her, pockmarking what used to be skin with impressions of stars, leylines, and the shadows in between. As the nebula’s arm swings down, low and slow across infinity and eternity, it smashes into her and shatters her to pieces.

[c00kiejar]

This song...

I've never really made a proper post before, just shitposts and the occasional art thing. I want to make one to properly express how I feel right now and why this song represents it perfectly. I will warn you first, however, that this mentions a certain YouTuber who was recently completely destroyed on Twitter and my personal experience as a viewer, and may delve into some not-too-happy thoughts

Still here? Let's dive in

It all starts way back when I was still a kid. I was navigating the wonderful site known as YouTube, trying to find videos on videogames and, specifically, I think it was Super Paper Mario. I had no idea how to beat Chapter 2-3 (the Ruby debt one), and I needed help. That's when I stumbled across a YouTuber called Chuggaaconroy (a.k.a. Emile). The way he provided all the information I needed in one video was exactly what I needed. I couldn't subscribe to his channel because I didn't have a Google account, so I just periodically checked his channel, eventually learning he uploaded every day at 5 PM, perfect for younger me. I'd watch his videos when they came out, loving every single one. I eventually discovered his collab channel, The Runaway Guys, and loved that channel even more. He, Proton Jon (Jon) and NintendoCapriSun (Tim) entertained me for YEARS with their content. I even branched out into Jon's streaming community, becoming a semi-regular artist on the booru for a time (you can still find my stuff there under the name TehSm1tty. Not my best work, but I still like some of it). Years come and go, and I have my fair share of mental health troubles, but I'd always find Emile, Jon, and Tim there to brighten my days.

Fast forward to sometime last week. I've been pretty inactive on Twitter aside from my alts, but I decided to see what was popping on main. I log in and get recommended a post with the hashtag "WeStandWithChugga". I had no idea what was going on, so I looked into it. I won't go into detail here, but the jist of it is that Emile was a total creep to many women and even drove wedges between himself and good friends because of this weird behavior. There's a lot more to this than just that, but the point is that it shattered my view of him. I knew he was pushy and that always kinda annoyed me, but the extent of it broke me. For a few days now, I've been having a rough go of it. I mean, my childhood YouTuber just got outed as a complete creep and has some serious allegations of being at least a lolicon, at worst a pedo. I've been down and out for days, and it just wouldn't stop. That is, until I found out that Tim has a Reddit account. I never knew this (or, well, maybe I did and just forgot. Idfk), and was amazed to learn that Tim's been keeping Reddit updated on what he's able/willing to share. Turns out Emile's getting the help he needs at a legit mental hospital and that he's ok. That's what made everything stop. Hearing he's ok. After all the shit Emile has done, he's still a human being and doesn't deserve to have the whole internet turn on him in a fraction of a second. Hearing a fellow human is ok made me feel better. I'm not letting him off the hook, and I do not believe he should ever be forgiven for what he's done, but if he is willing to better himself and become a better person, I am more than willing to believe in that Emile.

Now to come to roughly 40 minutes ago. I decide to boot up Satisfactory and play a bit, but I have no idea what to listen to while I do. I put on a song but quickly get bored of it, and then I see "OMORI | Do You Remember? | Extended" in my recommendations. I put it on and instantly, as if I were splashed in the face by water, I wake up and feel better. I was still stressed about everything going on (I'm set to go to college in September, AND my folks are headed to Mexico in about a week, so I'm stressed from those too), but with the first note on the piano, everything faded. All my swirling negative emotions were replaced with a somber peace. I'm still hurt by the last week's revelations, and I'm never going to truly recover (who could?), but I'm moving on. I think my comment on the video describes how I feel best; "The sad yet peaceful feeling this song evokes in me... It's pretty much how I feel today. I feel at peace... or, well, mostly. There's still pain, and there always will be, but I can move on and I'll live. In the future, I'll look back on this last week and feel sad, but that'll be in the future when this is all over with for good, so I can also look back at before it and be happy that those good times happened. Nothing will ever be the same, but such is the way of the world. Saying goodbye is saying hello to the future, and we all need to do that eventually. Who knows what the future may hold? I, for one, can't wait to see. Hello future, and goodbye sadness".

Chuggaaconroy was an inspiration and a light in the sea of darkness for so, so many, and these revelations have snuffed the light he provided out. What I hope is that Emile takes a long, long break from the internet to become the person we all believed him to be, to truly become that bright light in the dark, rather than just another dark figure holding a flashlight. I don't hope for that as a supporter of him as I don't support who he is right now (as if I haven't said it enough), I hope for that as a fellow human who only wishes to see everyone become the best version of themself.

I think this post was exactly what I needed. I've finally gotten everything out in a cohesive (maybe?) and healthy manner, and I'm ready to become my best self. I will be beginning work on YouTube videos tomorrow, and will hopefully be posting Thursdays at 5 PM (in honor of DatPags whom has not uploaded in a long time).

To anyone who finished reading this post, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Please, go become your best self, but do not do so by putting others down. Better yourself and acknowledge your flaws, overcome them, and do not repeat Emile's mistakes. Learn from those around you.

Yours truly,

Cookie_Jar of Tumblr dot com

[dominustempori]

TWO MORE MONTHS, PEOPLE!!!

Quick thoughts to follow up after my post on the teaser trailer (SPOILER WARNING!) In honor of March the 22nd…I’ll go for 22 observations/opinions.

1. Slimer’s back!

2. JANINE IN UNIFORM! WITH A BLASTER!

-Definitely a call back to 1) one of the ORIGINAL storyboard designs for the backpack/neutrona wand in the first movie, and 2) the IDW comics when Janine and other “new ‘Busters” take over when the OGs disappear.

3. Definitely another secret society/cult that must’ve worshipped Garraka ( hidden room with the demon’s horns/frozen eyepatch guy that shatters in the supposed flashback scene..?)

4. If that’s Coney Island where the big ice storm is coming ashore…then THAT could very well be a throwback to the RGB episode “Collect Call of Cthulu.”

5. GB’s got a new van! Ecto 1c?

6. Research lab? AWESOME!

7. Big question- what’s the connection between the arrival of Garraka and the red light on the containment unit? Is it coming after GBHQ to get more power (much like Gozer?)

8. OK…James Acaster is NOT a grown Oscar…damn. I’m sure his researcher character is gonna be brilliant though. Poor guy…frostburned hand? Eesh.

9. I REALLY hope they explore more of Callie (and therefore, Egon’s) background story. That scene where Trevor’s in that attic…aw.

10. DRONE TRAP!!! Next level! Fans lost their minds with the RTV…someone will surely try to build a model of a freaking FLYING ghost trap.

11. Modified proton packs? Makes sense now, that thing can FREEZE the positron stream! WHAT!?

12. Grooberson’s driving Ecto 1! F*ck yeah, Paul Rudd!

13. LIBRARY GHOST IS BACK!

14. So how does Kumail Nanjiani’s character come into possession of that mysterious golden orb? I’m still thinking it’s his apartment with the secret door.

15. Imagine being an old time NYC firefighter and seeing men frozen to death, in fear. When did NYFD form, I wonder?

16. Patton Oswalt is the new Ray…love it.

17. Bill Murray…still got it, man.

18. Swear to god that’s his old orange jacket from the first movie.

19. OK…on one hand, Gil and Jason are probably not counting the GB Video Game as part of the canon, and yet, the IDW comic universe IS built on some plot points of the game. So…does the PCOC exist in Frozen Empire? Is Peck mayor? Perish the thought?

20. Bring on the mischievous Mini-Pufts! Evidently some survived the “Summerville Massacre.”

21. PLEASE have Egon’s unknown life history be in the story somewhere, PLEASE Gil and Jason! It’s almost 10 years since the world lost Harold Ramis…PLEASE pay his beloved character some more tribute.

22. I have to admit…I do like Annie Potts back with not just her red hair, but those new blue-frame glasses. Good nod to the animated series, I will bow to that piece of fan service, not sorry.

TWO MORE MONTHS!!!

[dutchessofcaladan]

Ghostbusters: Soul Resurgence

Chapters 1-7

Chapter 8! Hope you guys enjoy and as always a big thank you to @phantomoftheparadise0002 for beta-reading this!

Summary: When the spirit of Sumerian sorceress Ahassunu, daughter of Vigo, possesses Alexis, the Ghostbusters must band together to determine the fate of the world

TW: Some language

Translation for Sumerian: Eru rimanus isu zag ki’am

I will have my throne

Utuk xul barra

Evil spirit begone

After the chaos had settled, Alex made her way around the counter, helping Ray into a standing position, checking him over, ignoring his muttered “i’m fine”s.

“Ray, you just got glass thrown at you. I'm just making sure.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that caused her to freeze. Walking to the shattered window, looking at the light emitting from the direction of the firehouse.

“Ray.” Her voice was laced with fear.

Coming to stand behind her, Ray stared at the geyser of spirits that flew from the light, flooding the streets.

“Dear God.” Ray gripped Alex's shoulder tightly.

The Ecto came to a halt in front of the shop, followed by Winston’s Mustang.

“What the hell happened?!” Alex questioned, distressed, wind whipping around the now empty street.

“The Containment Unit failed when the blackout hit.” Seeing her eyes go wide, Winston added, “We were able to contain Garakka for now.”

Alex nodded. “This is it.” She muttered. “We figured out how to re-trap Ahassanu. We can restrain her using our proton packs, then we open the orb.”

“But we don’t even know where she is.” Trevor stated, poking his head out of the window of the Ecto. “Are we just gonna wait here for her to come to us?”

“No.” Said Alex sternly. “We all have packs. We’re going to stay in our teams, protect as many people as we can, bust as many ghosts as we can.”

With that, everyone grabbed a pack from the Ecto, returned to their vehicles, taking off down the street.

Speeding past the firehouse, a bolt of electricity hit the building in front of them, glass and ruble spraying the street.

Looking up at the two electrified ghosts, Ray shouted “The Scoleri Brothers!” as another bolt hit the street, nearly hitting the Ecto.

Grabbing the particle thrower on her and Elis’ pack as he swerved to avoid another blast of rubble, Alex yelled to Trevor, telling him to power up the drone trap.

After Alex had successfully gained control of the brothers with the proton beams, Trevor positioned the trap under them, capturing the ghosts.

Dropping the trash can he’d been eating from, Slimer watched the team zoom down the street, trying to trap another ghost. Grunting with indifference, he picked up another can and continued eating.

As the trap containing Muncher closed, Ahassanu appeared down the street, holding up her hand, causing the team to screech to a halt.

“There she is.” Ray breathed, heartbeat increasing slightly.

“Alexis.” The sorceress’ distorted voice spoke. “Eru rimanus isu zag ki’am.”

“Think again.” Alex smirked as everyone aimed their packs at Ahassanu.

The sorceress chuckled, a wave of ghosts flooding the street behind her.

“Get out of my city you Carpathian bitch.” Alex spat as she fired the pack, the others doing the same as Trevor positioned the drone trap, the orb balanced atop it.

As they crossed the streams, Alex shouted “Utuk xul barra”, opening the orb and sucking Ahassanu inside, along with her army of ghosts. As the orb closed, the team stood there for a moment, catching their breath.

“You still believe what your dad told you about us?” Alex asked, causing Elis to furrow his brow.

“What?”

“You told me that your dad said that we were full of crap and that’s why we went out of business in the 80s.”

“Oh yeah. I remember you now.” Winston smirked.

“I thought that kid’s name was Jason.” Ray’s brow furrowed.

“When I published my first paper, I decided to go by my middle name. Dr. Elis Cristiano has a better ring to it than Dr. Jason Cristiano.”

Ray and Winston nodded as news reporters crowded around them, all shouting questions, silencing as Alex began to speak. “We’re the best! We’re the beautiful! We’re the only…” Looking into the camera, she finished, “Ghostbusters.”

[pureheartsandrainbowwings]

👀

“You know he’s going to leave you.”

“What will you do then, Silver? Giovanni ran. Archer lost his mind. Proton got caught. Petrel ran out of the country.”

“What will happen when Ethan finally realizes you’re nothing more than another experiment that Team Rocket failed to kill? What will happen when Lance sees that you will never grow as a Trainer, that you’re still that pathetic kid who got abandoned?”

…I’ll… I’ll fight to keep them?

“Are you so sure about that?”

I…

‘I’ll live. I’ve survived worse.’

“That’s good. That’s very good.”

[chounaifu]

Something like a VHS funeral, a eulogy on cassette tape, the way his thoughts play out, day after day, the endless ebb and flow of reality meeting delusion, it repeats— and at least the entity that lords over his brain is courteous enough to press rewind, for better or for worse.

Give the war dog a more powerful emotion than his disdain for heaven, perhaps then he’ll bear his teeth in a smile, instead of burying them into somebody’s bone marrow.

That atomic shadow burnt into his subconscious has no potential to fade, but it does know how to stand on invisible feet and venture into the psyche, and it is starving.

They tell stories of memory ghosts, repeating their actions just moments prior to death; peering through the right lenses, you can pretend that their purgatory is a dinner rehearsal. The plates will be set soon, and they can drink deeply of whatever tempting ambrosia the beasts are going to bring out.

Proton knows plenty of starvation, with how his fingers wrap around knife and dagger, the same reverence of a priest holding the host, although the son of god’s blood is not the libation, and the sustenance he craves is anything but holy.

Give him purpose. Give him a fix. Twisted system malware in need of something to infect. Something to infect. Something to infect. Something to infect.

Nobody is sick if everybody is terminal.

He pauses, eyes flickering to his reflection on the window of the subway. And when his lips twitch into the most strained smile, he swears the glass is going to shatter.

That thing is going to come out and get me one day.

He slaps a hand over the side of his face, and rubs at it as if he were trying to bring warmth to a cadaver.

[silverwings22]

Caught in the Crosshairs: Chapter 42: Shatter Me- Lindsey Sterling

Series warnings: Smut, mind control, canon typical violence, childhood trauma, language, chronic illness

Chapter warnings: The horrors of war, injury, disability, violence, discussion of death

Previous Chapter:

Next Chapter:

"They're tracking us." Hunter's voice was low as the Imperial ships swept low, searching for them as darkness fell. The three renegades were hiding in the rubble, resting between sweeps and a flurry of rushed sprints.

"They'll be monitoring comm channels." Miria nodded, leaning against Wrecker’s knees. "We can't risk them overhearing us."

Hunter nodded, touching his comm. "Tech. Plan Double Zero."

"We copy." Was the only reply. 

"I'm not familiar with that plan, dear." Miria wracked her brain for the countless plans she and the Batch had numbered and outlined. Had she forgotten something? Was she losing her mind along with her strength? 

"Radio silence. It's a code phrase, not a plan." Hunter assured her when he heard her breath sharpen. "Something we came up with as cadets."

Wrecker snorted. "I remember that one. Cross said the two zeros looked like boobs, and that was the only thing that could shut him up."

She wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. Oh, that was just like her Crosshair… She pressed a hand to her chest plate. "I see."

Wrecker put a hand on her head. "I miss him too."

She nodded. "I know."

"Sweeps gone. Next dash." Hunter nodded. "I think the ship's over the next ridge."

Miria pulled a set of binocs off Wrecker’s hip as they darted across an open space and darted up the ridge. "Afraid not. But there are Imperials."

"They're setting up a perimeter." Wrecker grumbled. 

"How many explosives do you have?" Hunter cocked his head. 

Wrecker shook his head sadly. "Only a couple smoke bombs."

Miria nudged his hip and passed him the binocs. "What about those?"

A low, rumbling laugh started deep in Wrecker’s chest. "Separatist tanks? Hell yeah!"

Miria smiled faintly. "Quickly, then. Before they start closing the perimeter in."

The three of them quickly started skidding down the ridge side. 

Wrecker and Hunter quickly climbed into the tanks, trying to get at least one running while Miria kept watch on the Imperials. "They're coming around. Hurry." She whispered. 

"This one's dead." Hunter groaned. "No good." 

The Jedi hissed as a bolt of plasma narrowly missed her head. "Wrecker!"

"This one's dead too. But give me that battery pack!"

Hunter nodded. "I'll cover you."

Miria ducked under his arm as he opened fire on the approaching Imperials. The battery Wrecker needed was half stuck in a broken tank chassis, and even with her braces she couldn't get a grip on it. "Hurry!" Wrecker yelled.

Miria swore under her breath again and pulled the knife from her thigh, using it as a pry bar to finally pop it free and throw it to her demolition expert. Then she backed up with Hunter to shoot. 

"I do hate fighting clones." She muttered unhappily. 

"Me too."

Finally, just as she was certain they were going to be overrun, Wrecker got the tank's anti-aircraft gun working and started absolutely destroying everything he saw. 

"Bet you ten credits he kisses that gun when we're back on the ship." Hunter snickered.

"I don't gamble." Miria tried not to laugh. Wrecker would absolutely kiss the gun, like he'd kissed the large proton torpedo on Bracca. "Especially not when I know I'll lose."

They stepped back and let Wrecker have his fun, following his newly cleared path to the ship. 

"This old bird never looked so good." Wrecker grinned. 

"Let's just hurry and get the others." Hunter grumbled. "Tech, transmit your coordinates."

"Sending them now."

Miria sat back with a groan into her chair, wrapping an arm around her middle. 

"You okay, Miri?" Wrecker frowned. 

"I will be." Her response was automatic, uninflected, and concerning. "Just as soon as I see the others safely on board."

Hunter and Wrecker exchanged looks before taking off for the coordinates. 

Tech was limping. Miria's heart went straight to her throat when she spotted her genius leaning heavily on Echo, Omega trailing behind with a sad look on her face. "Tech?!"

"Fractured leg, General. That is all." He said almost sheepishly. "I will be fine."

"Wrecker, help him to the med bay." She swallowed tensely as the other half of the team made it aboard. When her eyes drifted out to the woodline, she spotted a gray-haired man watching them. "Omega, love. Who is that?"

"He helped us. He's one of the survivors." Omega explained, wrapping her arms around the Jedi. "We offered him help too, but he said no. He's trying to stay, and rebuild their way of life. Art, culture… and he gave me this." She held up a kaleidoscope. "He said something that makes you happy is worth more than jewels… we didn't get anything from the war chest, so I guess this is still something good?"

Miria nodded, giving the man a wave to show she was no threat before following Omega inside. "He's right, you know. Credits can't buy happiness."

Omega smiled faintly, glancing at Echo on the bridge. "Yeah…"

Miria sighed. "You should talk to him, dear. There… may be more to the story than what we overheard."

Omega nodded and headed over to Echo, and as Miria headed for her bunk she overheard the corporal saying what Omega needed to hear most of all. "Rescuing you from Kamino was the right decision, Omega. I'd do it all again, given the chance… you're not the reason things are tough right now. You're probably the only reason we're not working for the Empire."

Satisfied there was no lasting damage between siblings, Miria retired to her bunk and hung up her armor, lifting her shirt to inspect her ribs. They were an ugly shade of black and blue, but it seemed nothing was displaced. Her frequent coughing was just going to hurt like a charging mudhorn for a while. 

"You okay?" Hunter walked in from tending Tech in the med bay. 

"Just tired." She dropped her shirt.

"You always say that."

"I'm always tired." 

Hunter sighed and sat in his bunk, across from hers. "You know we have to talk about this."

"An unpleasant inevitability." Miria shifted onto her knees, sliding all the way back to the durasteel wall. Hunter watched her with a look of resignation… she still slept like she was waiting for Crosshair to get in bed next to her. He'd always insisted on sleeping on the outside, as if protecting her from whatever came in the bunkroom door. For Miria, his presence was like a secure door shutting the rest of the galaxy out of their little bubble. Facing him, holding onto each other, they forgot the storms of war and mortality. Nothing mattered, when Crosshair was there, but love.

But that door wasn't closing again, leaving her painfully exposed to whatever judgment Hunter had. 

"Tell me the truth, Miri. What are you planning?"

She closed her eyes. "Nothing at the moment. At least nothing of action… I've only made a few contingencies for after I'm gone."

"Going? Where the hell are you going?!" He didn't mean to sound as harsh as he did, but the idea of her running off alone terrified him. She was their friend, their sister just as much as Omega. 

"To a grave." She met his force with a soft voice. "You know what's happening. I know you do, you can smell blood across the ship. We always knew it would end this way."

"Not like this, Miri. You're a fighter, you can hold out till we find a cure."

"There isn't a cure, Hunter." She whispered. "This is it. This is what it's going to look like… the medical device Tech made isn't helping anymore. I can't use my hands without the braces.” 

“And you still want to fight.” He sighed. 

He felt it when her jaw tightened, an unfamiliar hitch in her breath that sounded a lot more like anger than the edge of tears. “What I want won’t ever be mine.” Her voice started so low, soft but building like a storm gathering strength. “I wanted to build us a home on Naboo. I wanted to keep our team together after the war. I wanted to live!” Her voice cracked, splintered in her throat. It didn’t sound like Miria. She was soft spoken and gentle; she didn’t sound like she was about to collapse in the way that stars did, and take everything around out in the aftermath. Other than one night in 79’s, when she’d been far from sober, he’d never seen her lose control 

Bang.

Hunter’s eyes darted up. Miria’s metal-braced fist had slammed into the small shaving mirror magnetized to the wall next to her. Her eyes were narrowed sharply, body frozen into the position she’d stopped when the punch landed. That wasn’t Miria’s face. That wasn’t Miria’s patience and kindness that Hunter knew so well… that expression was hot rage with nowhere to go but outward. Those were the eyes of someone who’d been scared for so long that they couldn’t tell the difference between fight and flight anymore.

For a split second, before her blood welled up and started running crookedly down the shards of mirror and her wrist, Hunter didn’t see Miria at all. He saw Crosshair. 

Miria’s eyes slowly widened, the woman snapping out of her outburst as quickly as it had come over her. The broken glass made an unpleasant crunching sound when her hand dropped away and she dropped back from her knees to her ass on the mattress. 

“Miri…” Hunter started to reach out, focused on the smell of blood. He had to check her knuckles over, remove any embedded glass, and clean her up. Then he could pick up the broken glass, and everything would be fine… it was a checkless of needed actions, something he could put his hands on and make everything better for her-

When he touched her shoulder, she flinched like he’d burned her and buried face in her hands. Blood smeared down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me…”

“It’s okay. Let me see your hand-”

“Don’t touch me.” She kept pulling away as he tried to help, retreating til her back was against the durasteel wall and she’d tucked her head under her arms. “I… I’m so sorry, Hunter. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s just a mirror, Miri.” Hunter said gently. “We can get it fixed or replaced.”

Miria slowly shook her head. “It’s not just a mirror, Hunter… something’s wrong with me… I’ve managed to fight the dark side off since I was six years old, even if my body was failing… but now it feels like it’s in my mind.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so scared, Hunter…”

Hunter kept creeping forward, inch by inch, until he was sitting on the foot of her bed right in front of her. “Me too.” He admitted. “But we’ll get through this together, okay? Let me check your hand. Please.”

The woman slowly let him pick up her wrist and bring it over to rest on his knee, averting her eyes while he inspected and bacta-sprayed the ugly gash that split deep between her first and second knuckle. Then he pulled off her brace to bandage the limp hand below, and cleaned the crimson off the durasteel before putting it back on her. “Thank you.” She whispered, head down on her knees.

“Look here. There’s blood on your face.” He leaned over with a bacta wipe and cleaned up her stained cheek. “That’s better. It’s gonna be okay. We can fix it.”

Miria just hugged her knees tighter. “I hope you’re right…” 

[goldemas1244]

Do you think Zhask died of a broken heart?

Inside of you there is a darkness. The darkness bears young, two indiscriminate youths: The Abyss, and The Emptiness.

The Abyss is a thing that grows. It's a blooming wildflower in the midst of a desert. It feeds on the fear and longing, the passion and perfection. It disgusts, it brings sorrow, it kills.

But The Abyss stares back. And sometimes it answers.

The Emptiness is a void. It's a black hole twisting shapes into protons and plasma yet splitting atoms into pieces. No light may enter, yet no light can exist. It's a paradox, it's a sentiment, it's a blind man's sight.

The Emptiness is a hole in the heart. It tears the strings and leaves you breathless.

A man may acknowledge The Emptiness only when The Abyss has fled. Every canyon is filled with water once, every chasm can be filled.

To pine and want and love and reciprocate... those are blessings brought on by The Abyss. But what if The Abyss is filled? The Emptiness takes over.

But The Emptiness?

No man survives that wasteland.

---

How can I answer this question? To be fair, I've never lost a love before. I've lost friendships, I've been discouraged, but no, not really.

But I have yearned.

When it all ends, with a kiss and a ring, does he still kneel? Does he sit back, lean against a wall, breathless? Do tears stream from his eyes as his teeth clench? Does he twirl the gold in his hands, aching for a world where he and his love were together? Where he was perfect?

Does he curl up? Does he beg?

A poor man with want of looks, losing to one much better than him, yet much worse than him. And no matter his prayers he can never change, despite all that is required of him. Everyone else is Dr. Jekyll. He is Mr. Hyde. A twisted sack of flesh in a lab nobody dares enter. A fool. A monster.

I've felt that. It's a rib-shattering feeling. You think you've gotten a footing but then you slip and fall yet again. And when it happens I kneel and I yearn. I yearn for a life different from one I've led. I yearn for what I've lost, what I've gained. I yearn for another chance.

But I don't yearn for long. The hours pass and I am never alone. The room is filled and I have to push the heart aside to make room for the mask. I calm down. My heart doesn't break. I HAVE to live.

But the Phantom? He is alone. He isn't like me, with daily calls to my mother, or a favourite person to look forward to, even if there is still a glimmer of hope Christine will return to him. He isn't like me, with so many tasks to do I give up on them. He isn't like me at all.

He's alone. With nobody to latch onto anymore. An outcast, with no connections. While the Opera has much to offer, there is nothing he can live for. No new singer can replace the burning of his unrequited passion. No new event, nor manager, nor chance at life.

And so he pines. He pines and pines away until at last his heartstrings can never bear the pressure. The loss of a love is a harsh one. Science can back it up. Too much pressure and a heartstring will snap. Oxygenated and deoxygenated blood will mix. You will drown in your own blood.

A man of the stage is mad. Mad in love as in grief. A man of the stage knows how to act.

But how far will it go? Before the mask breaks and the true, raw horror commences?

He has nothing to live for.

If he doesn't hang or slit himself, then his heart will do it for him.

The point of no return is a one-way ticket. All he has to do is board the train.

---

But I wouldn't be surprised if he lived.

Remember The Emptiness. It kills us all.

Yet it also helps us forget. And we often do not weep for the past if we forget, now do we?

He stands up. He dusts himself off. It's Yve's choice, not his own. A woman is not a toy, she has feelings. And if her feelings desire another, then so be it.

He walks over to his mirror and takes off his mask. He takes a good look at himself.

If this be his destiny then so be it. If Yve returns then so be it. If he lives or dies so be it.

There's no use grieving what you never could have.

---

And my answer is, "He's a phantom. By definition he should already be fuckin' dead."

But no really, yes, he dies heartbroken. And he will reunite with Christine in her grief, always singing from the heavens above, a true angel now. He will be the one to invite her into the light, no matter how long it takes to wait.

And in the meantime, whenever she thinks of him, he'll sing for her. At least if he can't in body, then he may in spirit. Truly her Angel of Music, forevermore.

[linuxgamenews]

Experience the Chaos: A Gentlemen’s Dispute Game Preview

A Gentlemen’s Dispute slapstick party brawler is due to release on Linux and Steam Deck with Windows PC, plus a Demo. Thanks to the creativity of Blast Furnace Games. Due to ignite and make its way onto Steam with its mayhem. Ready to prove who’s the classiest brawler in the room? A Gentlemen’s Dispute is an old-school, slapstick party brawler where you and your friends battle it out to see who’s the last gentleman standing. You’ll get to wield some seriously ridiculous items and stack wild perks to cause total chaos. Whether you’re trashing private islands, gardens, or fancy ballrooms. Since the goal is to show off just how “gentlemanly” you are—by absolutely wrecking everything in sight. Oh, and native support is coming too.

We can absolutely release a Linux build. The game already runs great on Steam Deck, so it shouldn't be a problem at all. I'll let you know when it's live. Our game is made with Unity.

Thanks to Blast Furnace Games’ email reply, it’s clear they fully intend to bring A Gentlemen’s Dispute to Linux. Even better, Steam Deck support is already in place, which is a great reason to jump into their current demo with Proton.

Bring Your A-Game to the Fight

Time to throw down! Whether you’re playing online or relaxing on the couch, A Gentlemen’s Dispute lets you go head-to-head with up to 8 players online or up to 4 locally. The real fun starts when you grab all sorts of over the top items scattered around the map. Want to smack someone with a baseball bat? Sure. Blow them up with a bomb? Absolutely. Lay traps, drop explosive mines, or even celebrate your win with a bottle of champagne (you can also toss it at a friend’s face).

What you can do in A Gentlemen’s Dispute

Perks That Make You Laugh—And Win

Between rounds, you get to pick perks that stack up, making your character even more ridiculous. Imagine spilling oil slicks for your friends to slip on, supersizing your traps, or launching yourself from cannons to surprise everyone! The A Gentlemen’s Dispute craziness keeps building with every round, so the game just gets more and more out of control.

Smash, Crash, and Win

The battle takes place in gardens, ballrooms, and private islands — all of which are fully destructible. Who needs luxury when you can’t even keep it standing? You’ll shatter chandeliers, wreck gardens, and even avoid a pet shark named Rufus as you brawl. Oh, and don’t forget about those hazards — like artillery cannons just waiting to launch you or someone else.

Key Features to Watch For in A Gentlemen’s Dispute

Up to 8 players can duke it out online, or 4 players locally, in some seriously ridiculous PvP action.

You’ve got 13 wild items to wield—get creative!

Choose from 19 unique perks as you build your perfect brawler with each round.

Trash luxurious, destructible environments to really put your stamp on the match.

Use hazards like cannons, chandeliers, and sharks to your advantage.

Customize your look with colorful coats and super fashionable hats.

Enjoy the glory of ragdoll physics as characters go flying through the air!

So, grab your hat and get ready to brawl in A Gentlemen’s Dispute — it’s time to show your friends who the real gentleman is! It's also a good time to jump into the Demo on Steam, when you Wishlist the slapstick party brawler. Which you can play on Linux and Steam Deck now via Proton, with the Windows PC build.

[rocket-sith]

The thing about Voyager is the writing was REALLY inconsistent. When Voyager was good, it gave us some truly amazing episodes. And there were a lot of them. But when it was bad - oh boy.

Sometimes, you got something harmlessly hilarious like Threshold. Other times, you got complete character assassination like Janeway psychologically torturing a member of her own crew as punishment in 30 Days, despite her literally acknowledging in One that isolation was psychological torture.

That ep still pisses me off TBH, and don't even get me started on the C7 debacle that can only be explained by someone losing a drunken bet in the writers room. And that one was extra bizarre, because otherwise, Endgame was a phenomenal episode - so why put that mess in there instead of using the time to show the crew actually getting off the ship and getting some friggen closure?

Voyager is still my favorite Trek. It gave us Relativity, Scorpion, Course Oblivion, Year of Hell, Latent Image (which hit all the same themes as Measure of a Man but was way more exciting to watch), Timeless, Equinox (which was so masterfully done it was even creepier than a good CriMi ep), fun goofy junk like Captain Proton and Shattered, and THE best holodeck episode Worst Case Scenario, and some really cool overall worldbuilding - especially with the Borg.

But when Voyager goofed up, it goofed up HARD. Like, HARD HARD HARD. And not even all Voyager fans can reach a solid consensus on which eps were the goofs.

Voyager is weird. But as Janeway aptly put it - weird is part of the job.

Say what you will about Voyager but you gotta hand it to them, they really trekked the most stars

[tradingmaps]

Life Poem

In memoriam Stan Dragland, 1942–2022

Life is language, I wanted to say. Only problem:

it isn’t. Not language exactly, not language

as such. Not a particular language either, though

it has a lot to say—in fact, no end of things

to say—and it can listen through the cracks, as every

language needs to do.

Is it something like a language? A metaphor

for language? Or is language a metaphor for it?

Of course, of course. But more like many languages

than one. Like what we call a language

family, which is to say, a swarm—a swarm

in time, in which the living keep on dancing

with the dead because the dead keep flying,

close beside the not-yet-born.

If it were one—the one and only living language—

life wouldn’t be alive, or not for long. But swarms

are acrobats in time. They grow, shrink, dodge, feint,     

scatter, and reform. They have the ears and wings

to do so. Ears enough to constitute a halfway

disembodied mind.

Life heard us coming and will be here watching closely,

hungry, wary, wounded, wordless, like the snakes

of Fukushima and the lynxes of Chernobyl,

when we go—but will not speak of us or curse us

or have any name to give us when we’re gone.

Life has been married to language so long that you

might think the two could finish or begin each other’s

somersaults and sentences. They don’t. It only seems

as if they do. Why? Life is Being discovering

speech. Which is to say Being discovering being.

Is language Being discovering life? It might

be so. Which does not mean that speech

and being are the same.

Language is a sign of life, like swimming, and a form

of life, like eels—but it’s not a way of living.

It’s also not the life that anything lives—

not even ideas. Your life is not a language,

and your language isn’t life. Yet languages

of some kind—nucleic and behavioural,

for instance—are everywhere you listen, look, or rest

your empty hand among the living.

Unspokenness is not life either, but it too

can be a sign of life—just not where there’s no hope

of being spoken. Your speechlessness might mean you’ve

dodged or leapfrogged death and come, in the desert of words

or the sea of language, to an island

or oasis of not speaking.

The sun’s chance in the great celestial darkness

is the snowball’s chance in hell. But there it is.

And there, impossibly far off and getting farther,

are the hundred billion galaxies of others,

younger and older, larger and smaller.

Not forever, no, but yes, for the entire

past and future, and for now.

That sun—just one of many, but the only one

there is that is the sun—rains days and nights

on spitted rock and shattered water. Underneath

those fists and hammers, grammars sprout. They crawl

like moss across a lexicon of elements. Not

the celibate elements, no. Not radium,

plutonium, or helium, or neon, and not

platinum or gold. The speech palette

and dictionary of life and life-in-waiting

consists of six or ten essential syllables

and twenty-odd occasional inflections.

Some of what-is, that is, is the engine, and some

of what-is is along for the ride.

It’s said those elements are lifeless. Yet they speak,

and they are spoken. They have, it’s said, a lexicon

and grammar all their own, spun and woven

of electrons, protons, neutrons, which are spun

of something more invisible yet. And is that

everyone’s and everything’s first language? Every

language’s first language? Many languages,

like this one, are intangible. Their phonemes

and their morphemes may be slow—slow as bristlecones, slow

as sequoias—but aren’t they still as weightless

as the particles of light?

The sun, in any case, rains down. Atoms bond where they

can bond, and grammars sprout where they can sprout.

Acids, sugars, proteins, fats, and other

phrases, clauses, sentences congeal and then repeat,

repeat. They say what they can say—and sometimes

something more than that. Dancing knee to knee

and toe to toe with others, they carve shapes in space

and time. The shapes are stories. With their borrowed mouths,

the stories drink and feed and lick their wounds and do

their best to reproduce.

And so a language not yet spoken, not yet written,

not yet thought, is caught, or not, between

the carbon and the hydrogen, the phosphorus

and sulphur and the rest of the short list

of what we are and maybe everybody is. And there

it learns, or not, to write, to sing, to talk.

In time, the ones who carry it and feed it start,

or not, to hear what’s sung, what’s said, to read

what’s never more than partly written,

and to talk to what they hear, to say

Yes and, Yes but, and No, and more than that.

And more than that.                                                            

                                 But acrobat

or not, when you have drowned out, hollowed out,

and starved out every language you could find, your own

included, life and death are left with nothing more

to say to you—and no choice but to say it.

Softly at first, in no language at all.

So softly and so plainly and so clearly you

might almost try at first to say it could not,

could not possibly, be you that they are                                    

talking and not talking to.