#[as stated in my rules:

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

There’s a bloody and battered Steve Harrington on Phil Callahan’s couch. 

There’s also a somewhat shellshocked (but otherwise perfectly fine, thank God) Eddie Munson passed out on the other side of it, having refused to leave after dragging Harrington to Phil’s front door. 

Hopper and Powell both are unable to be raised via radio, dispatch is being cagey and keeps insisting they know nothing (but also cannot send an ambulance his way due to ‘unusually high call volumes’, what the fuck) and being that it’s now 3 am, Flo has long left the station.

Which leaves Phil as the last adult standing, slumped in a chair and quietly wondering if this is how the apocalypse starts. 

(Given the ER has apparently been overtaken by some sort of government task force to deal with a “gas leak and related poisonings” --suspicious quotation marks very much implied-- it kind of feels like it might be. 

“There are men in containment suites here. The big bulky white ones you only see in movies.” 

The nurse he begged through back channels to talk to had hissed on the phone, voice low and frantic. 

“There’s talk they’re going to quarantine the hospital. Do not bring that kid here. If you think he’s worse tomorrow, drive him to St. Peters in the morning, but otherwise just keep an eye on him.” 

St. Peters, the next closest hospital, is a full hour and a half drive away--and that’s if Phil takes his cruiser and keeps the lights and sirens on.) 

Callhan alternates between watching the clock and the rise and fall of Harrington’s chest as he breathes. Contemplates when his small town, boring life started going completely sideways. 

The nurse had assured him Steve probably just had a concussion and a few fractured ribs. The head wound had already closed by the time Phil checked it and it likely won’t need stitches unless it reopens. 

They are living out the best case scenario here. Steve’s (probably) going to be fine. He just needs to take things easy for a while, which Phil himself will be insisting he do, since that kid will not be going home to an empty house.

Not when he knows Steve's parents are gone and as helpful as Munson’s been, Phil can't ask him to watch Harrington.

For all the chains, swagger, and dumb habit of stealing Phil’s cowboy hat, Eddie Munson’s still a kid himself. 

Nevermind that Phil’s pretty sure the two aren’t even friends, let alone friendly. 

Sure Munson’s been spotted at a couple of Harrington’s parties, and yes there’s definitely rumors the brat's started dealing, but unlike most of Steve’s crew, Munson knows to bolt long before the cops show up. 

Definitely isn’t the type to play sports, in the same way Steve isn’t the type to stage large scale lawn-flamingo heists. They just don’t cross paths much. 

Plus it’s just downright irresponsible to even think of asking Munson and okay, maybe as a cop Phil himself has a responsibility to the city of Hawkins, but the city isn’t currently bleeding all over his couch. 

Add on the little fact that Steve had repeatedly said that he didn't want to be left alone…

(That he hadn’t realized how bad off he was until he was already behind the wheel of his car, chasing down a half-remembered promise of help Callahan had once offered. 

Phil would bet his last dollar that was why Munson hadn’t left yet. 

That he’d watched the way Steve had clung, first to Munson and then to Phil,  wrecked and shaking, his voice splintering as he pleaded, “Please stay, I don’t wanna die alone, I--sorry, please--”

Phil had been in a full-blown panic trying to reassure the kid he wasn’t about to keel over and he was a cop, for fuck’s sake!

Munson, who had once famously melted down in middle school over animal control’s attempts to put down an injured possum and tried to start a riot?

Even if he hadn’t needed the extra hands, Phil would’ve let the little brat linger, if only to head off the inevitable nightmares this whole screwed-up mess was bound to leave behind.) 

No ones going anywhere until Phil has answers or orders. 

The clock chimes in the background, a reminder of the late hour and he uses it to shove all thoughts of death and teenagers away. 

Attempts, once again, to walk through what he’ll do if the next call he gets is about an evacuation, or a curfew, or some other government issued order, and he still can’t get a hold of Hopper or Powell. 

If the hospital closes they’ll need to make a statement. Call some sort of town hall about what to do, where to go in case little Suzie or Bobby eats shit on their bike. 

Calm some people down in case the gas leak thing gains traction. Starts going around causing the same panic Benny’s death and Will Byers disappearance had. 

Wouldn’t be hard, given those two incidents happened last year.  

(Would the county send the stupid staties if Phil was the one to call in? Say he can’t get a hold of his own people? 

Would they care about the lowest guy on the force panicking, or would they think him a small town moron and ignore him until it was too late?

What if this really is the fucking apocolypse and Phil’s the only cop left around? 

‘Can I survive the end of the world with two teenagers in tow’ is not a thought exercise he’s ever entertained.

If he had, King Steve and Menace Munson would have been his last possible pick for the role, definitely not with one of them injured, and oh, dammit, he’s catastrophizing again--) 

Running on caffeine fumes and sheer panic, Phil’s thoughts loop relentlessly, the clock chiming again and again until the first light breaks through the windows and Steve finally stirs. 

Finds he must have fallen into some sort of half-asleep trance because he’s jerked to full awareness when Harrington moves to get up and ends up falling back down, loudly hissing and clutching his head. 

“Easy, easy.” Phil mutters, up in a shot, coming to hover over Harrington like the kid’s a nervous horse. “You’re with--uh, Officer Callahan? At my house.”

Then, like Steve might not know, adds;  “You’re pretty hurt, kid.” 

“Oh.” Steve says, squints up at him, holding his head in both hands. “Alright.”

That's a dramatic under-reaction, and Phil’s instantly worried about brain damage as Munson starts to come alive next to them. 

He crouches down next to Steve, hands hovering uncertainly. “You remember what happened?”

Steve stares at the floor, then at Phil. 

“Sort of?” 

“Waz’ goin’ on?” Munson says, blinking rapidly into awareness. 

“Go grab an ice pack for Steve,” Phil says distractedly, as he reaches out, telegraphing his movements. Begins gently combing through Steve’s hair to get a look at the cut. “Top shelf, left side of the freezer.”

He earns a foggy stare and a grunt that might’ve been “Sure”--or possibly, just a default teenager noise, before Munson tumbles upright, staggering off like a baby deer. 

Phil might’ve rolled his eyes and made a comment on teenage zombism, if Steve didn’t flinch every time his fingers so much as brushed against his skull. 

“Scale of one to ten, how bad’s the pain?” He asks, only just remembering to keep his voice down.

“It’s throbbing, man.” Steve replies, which isn’t as concerning as the fact he’s allowing Phil to manhandle his entire head without complaint, despite the pain. 

Thankfully, Phil’s prepared.

“Let’s fix that, then. Pick a hand, any hand.” He jokes lamely, as he fishes in the pocket of his pants, finally pulling out the little pill bottle he’d retrieved earlier. 

“Uh…” Steve stares at him uncomprehendingly until Phil holds out his palm and shakes the pill jar, two pills bouncing down. 

“Oh.” Steve says. “That hand then.” 

“This will make you a little loopy, but it’ll help with the pain.” Phil warns, handing them over. “I’ll get you a glass of water to take it with.” 

Not that he apparently needed to because Steve’s already popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them dry. 

“Hope that’s because of the pain and not because you’re used to doing that.” Phil chides sarcastically, rising to his feet. Water will do Steve good anyway, he could barely get any down the kid last night. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Steve tosses at his back, the first real sign of his usual attitude. 

Which means the kids’ definitely going to be okay, at least. 

Phil rolls his eyes, fighting the urge to show relief as he passes Munson, the older teen now looking far more awake despite his hair looking like a rat made its home there. 

“Munson?” Steve says, startling loudly when Eddie drops down next to him on the couch. “Shit I thought I hallucinated you.” 

“No such luck, your majesty. Here, ice pack,” The older teen still sounds like he gargled gravel.  “Put it on your head.” 

Phill grabs a water bottle for him too. 

He returns as Eddie manages to wedge the ice pack into Steve’s limp hands, holding two bottles of water himself; one for Harrington and one for Munson,  who sounds like he could probably use it too.

“Do that, drink this, then,” Phil says, trying not to push but needing answers as he hands out the water, “Start talking. What the hell happened?”

Harrington presses the ice to his temple, and meets Phil’s eyes.

“How much do you know?” 

And nope, no, fucking no, that is not how this is going to work today, thanks!

“Uh-uh, you answer first!” Phil snaps, arms crossing over his chest. “All we have established is that you showed up here looking like you went ten rounds with Michael Myers and then tried to drive afterwards.” 

He’s been balancing on the knife’s edge of panic all night, and now that Harrington’s finally stringing full sentences together, it’s starting to show. 

Phil needs something here, he’s beyond desperate.  

Even if it’s just normal dumb teenager bullshit. 

“No, like, how much has Hop told you?” Steve clarifies hesitantly. “About the--the stuff? With the lab?” 

Which just makes things worse, since all roads seem to circle back to them.

(He knew that lab made evil space lasers and shit!) 

“I'm sorry, who's asking questions here? From the top, Harrington.” He raises his hand in the air, just in case Steve needs visual representation as Phil’s anxiety grapples with him. “Pretend Hopper hasn’t told me anything. Right now, you can pretend he doesn’t even exist.” 

Harrington squirts at him disbelievingly under the ice pack. 

Mutters; “I forgot you get bitchy when you’re upset.” 

Which is rich, coming from a Harrington. Their entire family turned being bitchy into an inherited skill set!

“The hospital says there’s a gas leak happening.” Phil prods, tone tight despite himself. “Is it from the lab? The government?” 

Was this a weapon that got away from them? Did they have Hopper? Is that why he wasn’t answering his damn radio!?

Phil knew they were on a time limit here, with the meds, but he hadn’t exactly anticipated Harrington starting off by talking about the lab. Selfishly thinks he’d have held off for a second if he had known this was related to whatever the hell was happening in town. 

“You kept mentioning the junkyard and some kid named Dustin.” Munson interrupts, hanging his elbows on his knees and peering at Steve. “You said you were going to be pissed at him if you died because he was being stupid.” 

Phil resists the urge to shush him. 

Unfortunately Harrington grabs onto that and runs with it, launching into a rambling, half-baked story involving babysitting, Hargrove being one of the kid’s racist stepbrother (unsurprising, Phil’s met his jackass of a dad), fighting with loose dogs and helping Hopper in the tunnels. 

Every mention of tunnels and dogs is delivered with sharp little glances at Phil, like he’s supposed to be in on something here. 

Phil isn’t, which he does not like, given the overall feeling of impending doom. 

Fortunately for Harrington’s head, but tragically for Phil’s sanity, the meds kick in after just twenty minutes.

On an empty stomach, ill-advised as that is, they hit even faster.

Which means any good information Phil might’ve squeezed out gets steamrolled by Harrington’s slow-motion nosedive into delirious nonsense. 

The kid’s answers grow less filtered and more disjointed, stopping part way through one sentence to start another. Phil makes the mistake of asking about the lab again right as Steve drops the word mindflayer, and suddenly Munson is firing off questions like it's a pop quiz on some weird board game.

Wings his hands in the air and drops back down in his chair as he mentally writes off getting anything when it dissolves into an argument over what a ‘demogorgon’ looks like. And sure, maybe he shouldn’t have expected too much, but then, he’s running on zero sleep himself here. 

 He turns on the TV with a frustrated sigh and flips it to the news station, keeping the volume down as low as it’ll go. 

Half-heartedly tunes in just enough to catch Stacy Whitherspoon droning about the weather, while listening for anything that might signal their impending doom. 

“--I’m telling you man, I don’t care what the kids say, it doesn’t have claws--” 

“Were you fucking there? No you weren't, cause you woulda seen the claws coming through the wall--” 

Eddie keeps throwing side-glances towards Callahan, like he’s checking to see if Phil’s clocking all this, and Phil mostly ignores it, because it’s more fun to watch Munson think Steve’s serious about actually seeing a monster. 

(Considers it payback for all the lawn flamingos that the brat’s stuck cowboy hats and sheriff badges on, and then splashed dramatically with red paint.)  

Of course Steve can’t just stick to the monster shit, and apparently, takes a jump into ‘whoops I may have given him too many pills’ land when he abruptly stops talking to just stare at Munson. 

“Dude,”  he says, with a thunderstruck expression, “did you know you have like, really pretty hair?” 

“Thanks, your majesty.” Eddie snarks in return, but it's too soft to be a reprimand. 

“Can I touch it? I wanna touch it.” 

Yeah, the drugs have definitely kicked in.

“If you let Callahan put the ice pack back on your face you can. You keep taking it off.” 

“Nooooo.” Steve whines pitifully, “It’s cold!” 

“Jesus Harrington, you really hit your head.” Eddie chuckles, now looking outright panicked as he coughs and looks pointedly at Phil, doe eyes seemingly sending out both ‘Are you hearing all this?’ and ‘Hello!? SOS!’  

“I gave him some Percodan.” Phil finally admits. “He’s fine, he’s likely just a little loopy from it.” 

He does not mention the pills are his own, left over from a minor surgery and not something all cops just happen to have on hand. 

He also does not comment on the fact that Munson looks instantly relieved, like he knows what a Percodan is. 

“I’m only loopy because Hargove cheated.” Steve grumbles in complaint, one foot in the conversation and the other off in space. “He hit my head. With a plate. Which is cheating.” 

“With a plate?” Munson and Phil both blurt out, nearly in unison. 

“With a plate!” Steve repeats with a bitchy undertone. “He tried to attack Lucas!” 

Another disbelieving scoff, much like the King Steve persona Phil’s grown familiar with.

“Lucas is like,” Steve pauses and looks down, counting on his fingers. Pauses again, then looks back up at them. “Maybe ten?” 

It’s stupid to even ask, but Phil can’t help himself. Steve had never truly clarified anything in all his rambling, and the Hargrove part had mostly focused on Steve’s worry over the kids, and the fact that the guy apparently had some sort of hard-on for bullying Harrington. 

“Is that where all your injuries are from? The fight with Hargrove?”  

He kind of hopes Steve says yes, if only because that’s normal shitty behavior. 

Phil can deal with normal shitty. He knows exactly what to do with normal shitty!

(Government agents in hazmat suits taking over the hospital is crazy shitty and he has zero idea how to even approach that mess.) 

Steve raises a hand, wobbily tilts it side to side in a ‘sort of’ motion. 

“I mean half was Billy, half was the demo, the dem, the dogs.” He struggles, before making a comically upset face. “An’ the tunnel. Fuck those tunnels, man.” 

Then corrects himself by saying, “Language, asshole.” 

“Steve,” Eddie says, and Phil can tell he’s struggling not to laugh. “You’re the one that said it.” 

“Oh.” Steve’s face untwists, taking back on the overall confused air. “I shouldn’t do that. Hey,” 

He tries to sit up, lean forward. “Did you know you have really pretty hair?” 

This would all be way more entertaining if Phil didn’t still need actual answers out of Harrington. 

Lesson learned: next time Harrington needs meds, he’s getting a pill. As in one, as in singular. 

“You should let me--like,” Steve trails off for a moment, apparently fighting the drugs and his messed up head both. “Like..style? That’s not the right word…” 

“You can play with it later. You have melted ice on your face.”

Steve is horrified instantly. “I have mice on my face!?” 

“No.” Eddie's struggling not to grin, and it's so easy to tell it's a real one when Phil has seen every shade of fake on that brat’s face.  “Here, let me get it.” 

He bats Steve’s hands away when the other attempts to ineffectively wipe at his cheeks, pulling out one of the black hanky’s he’s been sporting since about fifth grade to help and Phil freezes, because this one is different. 

This one he recognizes, because it’s from a specific bar in Indiana. 

“Just remember when this is over that you're mad at Callahan, not me.” 

“Why would I be mad at you?” 

“King Jockstrap, accepting help from the Freak? You tell me why that'd go badly.” 

A specific, special bar. One he himself visited a couple times, first on a dare and next out of curiosity, before he met Tracy and got engaged/married/divorced. 

It’s the kind of place with blacked out windows and multiple exits. Where he had made damn sure no one in there knew he was even associated with the police, let alone training to become a cop. 

Steve sounds downright hurt. “I gave all that stuff up. I gave everything up.” 

“What, being King Jockstrap?”

“Bring King of anything.” 

Phil felt that intuition of his kick in again. The one that said things like a Darcelle XV’s handkerchief weren’t exactly something a teenager just casually found. 

Definitely not in a town like Hawkins. 

(Absolutely not a kid like Munson.) 

“I can’t do it and help the kids. Jonathan and Nancy are both--” Steve cuts himself off. Starts again. “They keep telling me it's just me and. I don't want them to feel like they're…”

“Alone?” Eddie finishes for him, voice soft. 

Steve hums. 

“Yeah.” 

Phil only went a handful of times and he doesn’t recall what all the colors for the hankey’s meant, but staring at it, he’s hit with the same feeling he gets when he helps Flo complete a puzzle, or when he has one of those moments where he helps someone, instead of making their day worse. 

It doesn’t take much to change an entire worldview, but processing it? 

All the interactions Phil’s ever had with Munson, the complaints, the rumors?

 It’s like watching an explosion in real time, everything falling into place so fast it almost hurts. 

“Hey. If you're uh, if you're actually not mad at me, after this? I wouldn't mind continuing to make sure you're not alone.” 

“What's that mean?” 

What that means is Eddie Munson is going down in flames in real time, directly in front of the straightest kid Phil's ever met. 

Well. Okay. He's seen the hairspray, maybe not straightest ever, but…

Phil takes one long breath as the situation recontextualizes itself, then follows his gut and barrels over whatever clearly ill-advised, teen-crush filled nonsense Munson looks ready to blurt out.

“I went to Darcelle’s a couple times, when I was in my early twenties.” 

Phil has to talk to the ceiling, because he really doesn’t want to see Munson’s face right now. 

Harrington’s either, but Harrington likely won’t remember shit later. 

“I wouldn’t be let in if I went back now, not unless I pretended I wasn’t an officer, but.” He swallows. Tries to think on how much he wants Munson to know, and what actually would be a reassurance, here. 

Realizes, in that weird, back of the head sort of way, that offering reassurance is what he’s trying to do. 

“It’s a cool place.”  He finishes awkwardly. 

Dead silence meets his words and after a moment Phil pulls his gaze back to Harrington. 

Who is half leaning into Munson’s hands like a cat, completely unaware of the conversation happening around him, while Eddie stares frozen at Phil in a sort of mute horror. 

Silence stretches uncomfortably between them, long enough that Phil’s gearing up to say something really stupid to get himself out of this, when Eddie whispers; 

“Would you go back?” 

And shit, he hadn’t known Munson knew what a whisper was, let alone how to get his own voice to do it. 

Phil thinks honestly on the question though. He started this, he’s the adult here and he knows damn well he’s being asked something else. 

“Yeah.” He says, and can’t even tell if he’s lying or telling the truth. Figures it doesn’t matter, so long as Munson understands what Phil’s actually saying back. “Yeah I think I might. After the uh, divorce finalizes.” 

Eddie carefully extracts his hands and hanky both from Steve, fiddling with it in his hands. 

“I really want to go there again.” It’s spoken like a secret spilled, a careful thing Munson’s still unsure that he wants out there, attached back to him. 

Phil nods. Feels a weird lick of fondness he probably shouldn’t have for him, given the way the brat seems to enjoy being Hawkins PD’s self-assigned pain in the ass, but, well. 

He already opened his door for Steve. 

What’s another wayward kid? 

Except this one he recalls, isn’t as wayward as he seems, or at least, not anymore, and he feels a little guilty as he remembers that Wayne Munson both exists and might be worried about where his nephew is. 

“You’re a good kid, Eddie.” He says, and watches as that seems to hit the teen harder than not-quite admitting Phil’s been to a gay bar. “Phone’s in the kitchen. Go call your Uncle, he should be home by now. Let him know where you are.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Eddie says, and then actually goes to do so, like a proper citizen who listens to adults and authority figures instead of a semi feral rugrat.

Which just leaves Phil with Steve, who’s slumped sort of sideways on the couch. 

“Hey Callahan?” The kid says quietly, drawing Phil’s attention to him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks.” 

The knee jerk response Phil has is to ask What for, but drops the idea the second he realizes the kid’s eyes are drifting shut. 

Internally curses himself for apparently deciding to half-adopt teenager asshole’s while he himself is barely in his 30s, but fuck it. 

“Anytime, Harrington. Anytime.” 

[doesthebatfamknowpopculture]

Sebastian Ives has seen Blade Runner

Tim Drake has seen Blade Runner

[soybean-official]

Welcome to D.M.C

[vyeoh]

(The Washington Post)

For those who don't know, the US Supreme Court just ruled that states are allowed to enforce trans healthcare for minors. Undoubtedly, this will trigger a wave of other states that either hope to pass or have already passed policies to do the same. This is going to kill children, and harm more in long-lasting ways.

So, how can you help?

FUCKING VOTE. I don't care if you don't like Biden, he's not the only one on the ballot. Vote representatives into your city council who will turn our city into a sanctuary city. Vote for governors and state reps who will, even if they don't pass new protections, oppose bans being pushed through. Chsllenge and kick out conservative incumbents who are banking on their races being obscure enough for people to not vote in.

Anyone telling you voting is useless is either lying to you or grossly uninformed and think saying this is the edgy new take that will make them look hip and informed. Yes, the system is broken. But short of burning the whole thing to the ground (which personally I'm not a fan of as I quite enjoy having like. Roads and the FDA) what we can do is to change it for the better, by starting with the local races and working our way up.

[hinamie]

domain expansion

[random-cockroach]

Satellite - Lena

[pb-dot]

The opening to Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is a very efficient and emotionally charged piece of story, but it bears remarking that it also is the single most french thing I have ever experienced. Like we have barely had any time to get to know our dreamy-but-sullen tousled-hair protagonist before he meets up with his young... ward(?) who is dressed in the frenchest outfit I've ever seen, and they go to meet an ex of his who is going to die in a fatalistically bleak but beautiful way, and she is somehow dressed even frencher. Tears of beauty and sorrow are shed and he then immediately goes to Fantasy "War Is Hell" Normandy.

[vnknownmc]

I've seen a few small discussions in the fandom about headcanons of how the brothers treat each other and I want to throw my hat into the ring quickly.

I do believe that the brothers are like, pretty violent with each other. they've shown that they're completely okay with hitting, suplexing, tackling ect each other (and whatever fucking medieval torture methods Lucifer dishes out to mammon) while still loving each other with little actual hard feelings.

Demon culture is much harsher then human culture- probably has to do with the fact that demons are way tougher beings so it's not as traumatizing to be like- smacked up side the head by a parent so while demons can still definitely be abused and consider such things abusive, I think averagely demons treat each other rough.

I don't think the brothers would consider what they do to each other to be truly abuse. Like mammon. Obviously he doesn't like being punished but mammon doesn't think of Lucifer as his awful abuser. He thinks lucifer as his stuck up older brother that he definitely still kind of looks up to and loves dearly. Same with Satan, all that crazy shit that he experienced in his childhood was just what happened, he's never stated to be angry at Lucifer because he chained him up and suffocated him with a pillow a few times (that was no biggy, Lucifer's done far worse things like being a arrogant ASSHOLE) , that was just a product of growing up as not only a demon but the avatar of wrath.

At the end it mainly has to do with intent in devildom and the brothers would never try to genuinely abuse each other.

[morrigans-umbrella]

i ship jupisquall but like i don’t want them to date or have a solidified relationship i want them to continue like they are and occasionally hatefully make out until one of them dies

[wiisagi-maiingan]

My neighborhood is under new management (yes, that is possible) and they've officially banned ANY vegetable gardens at all and will be doing surprise yard walkthroughs to enforce it 🙃

[sandgold]

this is sabbadin @ the late pope for taking his best friend bellini away btw

[doux-amer]

[fernsproutxx]

GR96

@fusionspruntcityjournal

So how do you produce electricity with living plants? Simply by using the natural processes that already occur. In short: the plant produces organic matter via photosynthesis. Only part of this organic matter is then used for its own growth. The rest is excreted via the roots. Around the roots, bacteria feed on the organic matter and they release electrons. If you’re able to harvest the electrons into an electrode, you can couple the first electrode to a counter-electrode and build an electrical circuit, like in a battery. The electrons flow back into the natural system via the counter-electrode, so it’s completely circular. Because we use the natural processes around the plant, nature is not harmed. It works day and night, summer and winter. It only stops when the plant and its surroundings completely dry up or freeze over.

Sedum Oviferum

Sedum pachyphyllum is a ground-hugging succulent that spreads by rooting fallen stems and leaves. The succulent also goes by the names “Cerise Moonstones” or “Mauve Pebbles”. The short and stumpy round leaves have a light silvery-purple color; positioned at a right angles to the stem and curve upward, which in the wintertime, the tips of said leaves will turn into a notorious red.

Sedum Oviferum is a succulent that is very easy to grow and maintain. It is a resilient plant that can tolerate drought, moist and dry soils, and when given adequate exposure to sunlight and sufficient water, Cerise Moonstones will thrive outdoors. The Sedum Oviferum succulent grows at its best with regular exposure to sunlight. If Mauve Pebbles are planted in an area in a garden that gets plenty of sunlight per day, you will be rewarded with bright coloured leaves and flowers. In winter and early spring, Cerise Moonstones actively grow and produce blooms featuring red-orange petals and sepals that have the same pigmentation as the leaves. The flowers produced by Cerise Moonstones have a bell shape and a sugary fragrance.

Subterranean Clover

Trifolium subterraneum is also known as the subterranean clover (often shortened to sub clover), or subterranean trefoil. The plant's name comes from its underground seed development, a characteristic not possessed by other clovers. It can thrive in poor-quality soil where other clovers cannot survive.

This species is self-fertilizing, unlike most legume forage crops such as alfalfa and other clovers, which are pollinated by insects, especially honeybees. It is also grown in places where the extreme ranges of soil type and quality, rainfall, and temperature make the variable tolerances of sub clover especially useful.

Functionality

GR96 are powered by any plant of choosing on their back pod (the one we are going to discuss has a giant Sedum Oviferum and multiple sub clovers to operate) which is held in place by five strong suction cups. They’re manufactured for community gardens (strictly only one per garden), but they can also be bought by high class citizens for private properties, though at a way bigger cost since they’re financed by the city.

They can use their hands as scissors, shovels, and for watering (hence the big forearms, for storing the water), the latter which they do by dipping their hands in a bucket, opening the valve on their forearms so they can fill them up and releasing the water from the pinholes on their palms. Their “eyes” are actually a screen that can show plenty expressions, but the two circles above that peripheral screen are the real environmental sensors. They also have the same sensors on their ankles for inspecting the lower plants and ground without the need of kneeling, and their feet are shaped in a way so that weight is evenly distributed, lowering the chances of damaging a plant if they were to step on it. The ear like protrusions are small solar panels, used as backup energy (they don’t have any communication properties). Their speaker aka their “voice” is the mohawk-like structure on the top (which also has their series barcode 128 on the lower back), but when they speak there are these strips at the sides of the face mask that light up with the volume. The mask (non removable) has a set of pipes that are used for analyzing the air quality and humidity of the area surrounding them.

[nixotinix]

if multiple requests are allowed.... Could I ask for a new52 Jonathan. I do like him and I feel he get's to much hate in fandom, but I like it it changing slowly. I envy your talent ❤️

hehe of course!! always happy to take a request from one of my fave moots <3

nix out here feeding the scarecrow fans yet again,, how does he do it??

[tanadrin]

re-listening to season 10 of revolutions, since i never finished it the first time around, and the retrospective on the emergence of socialism in the 19th century is probably the most interesting part so far. it seems to me that 19th century "liberalism" (which was scarcely worth the name) is really a very different beast than 21st century liberalism, which has in its more left-liberal strains incorporated a ton of criticisms of 19th century socialists, and is in many ways actually a pretty good synthesis of both political heuristics. certainly not perfect, and certainly still wedded to capitalism.

but a lot of early socialists were, even if they were social scientists, first and foremost utopians. it was easier to dream what might lie in the possibility-space of useful ways of organizing an egalitarian society when very little of that space had been explored, and the burst of 19th century utopia-building was part of an attempt to explore that space and put many unabashedly utopian ideas into practice. but many of the most ambitious ideas like proudhon's anarchism just weren't super workable in the end, either in the conditions that then prevailed or in the conditions that have prevailed since. liberal democracy--especially as it was refined into something actually worthy of the name--proved both durable and flexible enough to be quite egalitarian in some respects (e.g., it supports universal adult suffrage just fine! and consolidated democracies are pretty robust and quite stable, compared to competing systems). it feels similar to the high-flying hopes of early science fiction becoming tempered as we learned more about what the possibility space of future technology would really look like across the 20th century, you know?

and so i think it's natural that a lot of that early revolutionary energy went into doing politics in a liberal-democratic framework; it turns out to be a very useful framework for liberatory social projects (much more useful than either the halfhearted liberal constitutionalisms of the mid 19th century or the reactionary monarchies they usually contrasted against). but it also seems to me that a ton of the discourse in the rump left that has resulted is stuck in a very early 19th century way of thinking.

and maybe some of this is ideological distillation, with those sufficiently convinced by the virtues of the modern liberal-democratic system naturally falling out of coalition with those who aren't, so the remainder is a concentrated nucleus most likely to see fundamental continuity between the proto-liberalism of the 1800s and the more fully realized liberalism of later eras like the 2000s. plus people who are simply never going to be on board with, say, any system that is capitalist in its arrangement, no matter how prosperous or free it manages to be otherwise. but also i wonder how much of this is because for like 70 years you had a major militaristic, hegemonic state, the USSR, which was really very like the militaristic, hegemonic system it was opposed to in important ways, but which for reasons of its legitimating ideology needed to portray what differences did exist in the starkest possible terms. and the solution to that was to portray liberal democracy as of the 20th century as being functionally indistinguishable from the liberal constitutionalism of the 19th, while making themselves out to be the sole inheritors of the more egalitarian thinkers from the left. despite the fact that the USSR was pretty conservative in a lot of ways, and was basically authoritarian in a way that i don't think any of those original utopian socialists would have endorsed.

so maybe you have to keep 19th century political categories static and unchanging in order to make the dichotomy that supports your state still have meaning. even if, once you have established yourself as the ruling class of a large, powerful state, you act in ways that are actually pretty darn similar to the ruling class of other large, powerful states. and of course trying to maintain those categories even as the world continues to evolve, including the faction you have opposed yourself to (and the third leg of what is really a trichotomy, the actual, unabashed reactionaries, also continues to evolve) leads to further tensions and absurdities, which is why the most ardent defenders of the USSR like the tankies tie themselves into knots of campism and conspiracism and even frequently back directly into bog-standard reactionary ideology, because the framework they are trying to use to understand the world hasn't been updated since the 1840s, and was already having to be heavily distorted by the 1920s to make it work.

[aibidil]

Trump administration not following court orders—what now?

If you're not paying too close attention to what's happening in the US government right now (good for you, we all need to protect our mental states), the important thing to know right now is:

Federal courts are working overtime to halt Trump's illegal executive orders and the actions of Trump/Musk. There have been multiple court orders to stop him.

This is how the system is supposed to work. Check out these updates from the NC Attorney General Jeff Jackson, one of the democratic attorneys general doing god's work right now:

But now we come to the fun (not fun) part: the Trump admin isn't following the court orders. This is simply not something presidents do. One article I read said it hasn't happened since the Civil War. So what happens now?

Example: Trump ordered a spending freeze on federal grants. A federal judge ruled on January 29 that Trump can't simply stop the dispursal of funds that Congress has already authorized. (In the US, Congress has the sole constitutional authority to authorize spending, and these funds have already been approved.) In the ruling, the judge ordered Trump to release the funds. Weeks have passed and the funds haven't been released. Yesterday (Feb 10, 2025), the judge issued a follow-up ruling ordering Trump to comply with his previous ruling. The judge didn't find the administration in contempt of court—which is likely the next step—but stated unequivocally that they were not following his order of January 29 despite it being within their power to do so.

Even before this ruling, Vice President Vance (ew I can't believe I just typed that) ominously posted on Twitter:

The fact that he's wrong (it's the basic checks and balances American kids learn in civics, and it's Marbury v Madison) is unimportant. What's important is that he's setting the stage for the Trump admin to deny that the courts can constrain their actions.

This is the "constitutional crisis" people keep referring to. The law/Constitution means nothing if it's ignored. And when it's ignored, it's the job of the courts to call that out and issue orders to stop the unlawful/unconstitutional action. But if they don't listen to the orders..... What next? There's no clear answer. It doesn't seem likely that the military will enforce the federal courts' orders against Trump, does it?

This is such a breakdown of the rule of law that the American Bar Association issued this statement yesterday: