#“you are a tar pit” has been ruined for me by its use as a zinger

[honestlyvan]

TBH I am sympathetic but unconvinced by the idea that we should be more permissive of people being cunts online, and that there's actually limited utility to complaining about an artist being an asshole when we can simply ignore and unfollow them and never have to deal with their unpleasantness. Y'know, live and let live and all that good stuff.

The problem I see with that attitude is twofold though. For one, "your ability to swing your fist ends where it meets my face", to paraphrase the saying. Yes, majority of online negativity is nontargeted and harmless and it's up to every one of us personally to ignore things that make us feel bad, but negativity doesn't have to be targeted to be harmful. There are a million funnyperson accounts on social media whose whole online presence revolves around finding posts to dunk on for such significant crimes as "being inarticulate" or "being overly sincere" and "not being politically aligned or convinced by the commentator's politics" and most of the time when this happens, people will turn on the OP for daring to be like "hey if you have nothing nice to say don't say anything at all", for daring to want to be left alone.

This forwards the idea that bully logic like "if you don't want to be picked on then don't have qualities that can be picked on" and there's a real risk that being permissive towards accepting asshole behaviour when we don't like the target means that it's almost impossible to call out the same behaviour when it's done at someone who doesn't deserve it. Self-justification is a hell of a drug.

And for another, rewarding people for bad coping is not a victimless action, either! I have yet to see a single person who is just fucking mean all the time not be in some kind of a state of distress. I've talked before about how people on Tumblr have a really bad habit of feeding people's anger issues, literally rewarding meltdowns and lashing out with positive attention in the name of supporting someone's "righteous" anger, but also rewarding people's cool zingers that put them at an emotional high ground of being less invested has the exact same effect, punishing sincerity and rewarding emotionless posturing and facetiousness.

There's just... a real misunderstanding about what kind of treatment actually enables people to "act badly", and a real lack of understanding about how feelings and affect work. Someone being negative all the time is making themselves miserable -- if they're constantly rewarded for their negativity with attention they're going to make themselves more miserable.

[bonefall]

Honestly? I was a certified Nightheart hater but you've made me come around: apart from the usual Misogyny in Warriors, I think if it wasn't for that and if the Erins realized he's driving his clanmates away I would actually like him. If him joining ShadowClan and proclaiming he was Sunbeam's mate behind her back was actually treated as a flaw and their relationship imploded, it could've been really interesting! Kinda makes me wonder how Dovewing would react to him, because I can see her being understanding until he critfails their conversation by going 'I don't think ANYONE suffered as badly as I DID in ThunderClan. >:(' <3 No king, DON'T make Dovewing revoke her speaking to her priveledges from her- king why, you forced her paws! She's walking away!!!

YEAAAAHHH MANNN!!!

It's COMPELLING!! They could have done something BANGER here! This drama is juicier than his silly little rotisserie chicken and if you can just wade through the Certified WC Misogyny(tm) then there could be a really fun character there!

Like, imagine a story where all this was on purpose;

Nightheart ruins all his own relationships, can't take responsibility for himself

Bramblestar, guy who ALSO does this, becomes his best friend... and uses him, too.

The only person he could bond with was the person who was a liar. The person who never told him no.

Connect to the part earlier where Nightheart lamented how his dead father would have understood then... he only likes the people who aren't really there for him.

How Nightheart defies orders, puts himself in danger, freaks his family out, and then he treats their concern and exasperation like hatred

AND THEN HE LEAVES

And goes to ShadowClan and thinks all his problems will be fixed

Forces himself into Sunbeam's life, in the MIDDLE OF A WAVE OF POLITICAL TENSION...

Sunbeam, petty queen, who can never say no ever, letting situations spiral out of control constantly to disastrous effects: "ummm"

Berryheart: "What is this?"

Nightheart: "HER BOYFRIEND!"

Berryheart: "What... that's-"

Sunbeam (SUDDENLY SEEING A WAY TO SPITE HER MOTHER): "MY BOYFRIEND."

But then this EXPLODING because he's looking for something to fix him, and she can't. No one can. HE'S THE PROBLEM

But that doesn't mean he deserves the TREATMENT that Berryheart gives him

And it all ends up coming to a head, with Tawnypelt sick of him, Dovewing laying it out that he's a tar pit, and Berryheart moving on him...

LIKE... He's REALLY GOOD as a kid who needs to learn to confront himself. He's fun as someone who makes things worse and has the absolute worst timing ever. The DRAMA... it drives me.

Isn't that what WC really is, at its best? A cat soap opera toeing the edge of being a political drama? You HAVE to have your messy, unpredictable little brats. That's the BEST

I'm gonna have a BLAST when I get around to him, man. I've got so many succulent little berries to work with here;

Dovewing revoking his privileges. Most damning thing in the entire universe is when she just gets up and walks away from you.

Having Nightheart have to examine that he's the problem in his own life.

And yet, he's in active danger, since Antfur is going to be dying in ASC instead of TBC, as a result of Berryheart's violent group.

Berryheart, in general. I've got ideas, man. I love the evil educator idea, I hope that Fringewhisker stays in ShadowClan so I can go with that idea of Heartstar spitefully making her the next educator.

Berryheart's got Don't Hug Me I'm Scared vibes, lmao. "Now let's all agree to never be creative again!"

And on that note... she survived the Kin, that day, because her executioner intentionally let her go. Looked over their shoulder, saw Berryheart swimming away, and said nothing.

The idea that Berry tells a story for sympathy about escaping, and uses it to justify her xenophobia, when it was a Kin cat who SAVED her life but she leaves that detail out... effervescent.

And that's not even getting into anything I could do with StarClan, with the last arc in BB ending in the end of Skystar, a shattered purgatory, and the quiet revelation that Ashfur had accomplices.

It's gonna be fun!

[pine-lark]

Ooh trap him somewhere either very hot or very cold?? :D

Oh.

Oh.

This is a perfect excuse to write an old daydream from my childhood. Well, there's two-- Arion on a grill and Arion in a box. I chose the box for this one but I may be tempted to write the grill at some point. I haven't written The Box before now because it doesn't exactly... fit with the plot of the actual story, but I mean...

Alternate Rescue AU, coming right up, Anon. (Also sorry I'm like, infinitely late haha. School threw me into a hell pit and I've been recovering. I'm back now ((though I'm not sure for how long, things might change in a week or two... we'll see.)) For now, I'm working on a lot of Arion stuff that will hopefully pop up within a few days! Cheers!)

CW: Tiny whumpee, some blood, cold/hypothermia symptoms (duh), cages/referenced captivity, briefly implied forced nudity from said captivity, brief reference to a past fever and resulting vomiting, referenced/implied physical abuse, water/rain/storms/being submerged in/splashed with water, thoughts of dying (of the "I might die" and "Am I dead?" and wishing to be put out of misery type), crying, (thinking about) needles, short (kind of) graphic description of a bird being run over, brief religion references

-

His legs still ache from running.

Arion sits in the cardboard box he found on the side of the road, huddled in the corner, shivering in the dark. Although he tries to clamp his jaw shut and stop it, his teeth chatter and his shoulders quiver. It feels like the frozen autumn air has grasped him entirely in icy claws that shake him violently in an inescapable grip. It reminds him of being trapped in Heston’s hand, shaken, body tossed in every direction until his head pounded and his eyes watered.

It’s colder outside than it used to be in the garage. But it’s better out here. No one can hurt him here.

As long as they don’t find him.

He rubs his hands over the goosebumps on his arms, hoping to warm them up and calm down the wild pain buried deep in his skin. As he does so, blood smears along the path he touches. It’s still gently creeping out of the series of cuts etched into his forearms. With it, the image of Heston’s glinting eyes surfaces in Arion’s memory. He buries his head in his shaking knees with a wet sniff. But he’s done it, he reminds himself. He’s escaped. Finally. Chewed through rope, slipped through an unlocked door. Heston's gone. For now.

Please, please don’t come looking for me.

A dog barks somewhere in the distance. He jumps. It sets off an echo of shivers all the way down his spine as his hair stands on end.

A raindrop falls on the cardboard roof. Then another, and another. Thunder claps harshly overhead.

Arion shuts his eyes tight, bites back the frustrated tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. He curls up tighter, hugging himself, doing all he can to keep any scrap of heat he has close to his body. A storm might just do it. Might just kill him. A storm means wind. Freezing wind. And freezing rain. The last thing he needs right now is rain. It can’t rain. He presses his body closer to the cardboard wall, knowing it might not be standing there much longer if it rains.

And it does. It pours.

He sees the rain splash into the road before him. The storm swiftly grows. It’s ferocious and feral and cruel. The temperature around Arion drops. His tiny body shakes uncontrollably, as if it weren’t his own. It reminds him of the terrifying fever he had, long ago, in the confines of his red cage just weeks after being taken from his home. He’d been throwing up and twitching and having the most horrible, vivid dreams (on the occasions that both Heston and the illness let him sleep). The fits of shivering drove him mad, the endless teeth-chattering and flashes of uncomfortable warmth and sticky sweat made him feel even worse. It's like that, he thinks. Except, now, as he shivers, he’s unbearably cold.

An involuntary whine fights its way out of him. When he swallows, his throat feels stiff and achy. Snot runs profusely down his lips and no amount of wiping it away with his bleeding arms is helping it slow. Water has thoroughly and entirely drenched the cardboard, at this point. Has crept through the floor and the walls, and, gradually and persistently, has started to drip through the sagging ceiling. For a moment, Arion remembers he has toes, and that they’ve been numb for awhile now. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, his feet haven’t felt like anything either, and when he tries to move his fingers, they only twitch. They feel heavy and prickly. He feels prickly all over. Like Heston had shoved a thousand frozen needles into a thousand different places all over his body. It hurts to breathe. There’s no way to get warmer. Nothing to hide under, not even something as decent as clothing. No way to escape, nowhere to run to, even if he had the energy left to try. He lets out a miserable sob.

And then the ceiling falls through, in a blur of collapsing cardboard and splashing waves of water that crash over his head and the rest of his body.

Arion tumbles out of the box, drenched. He coughs up water through jittery movements. For a second, he chokes on a mouthful, and he briefly he thinks he'll never breathe again, before his chest jerks and with another cough, the water falls out of his mouth. He tries to get his arms and legs under him, to stand or even crawl, but his limbs fail him and he crumbles face-first back to the harsh surface below him. The rocks mixed in the road’s tar are sharp. They cut deeply through his nose and cheek and the shoulder that followed his face in the fall. Arion winces against the fresh, sharp pain and the beads of blood that begin to form where he’s been hurt. His breaths come in ragged heaves.

He sniffs. Tears drip from his eyes. He lays helpless in the middle of the little road, in his mind begging to no one that a car doesn’t come along and crush him. Under any other circumstance, he’d love to be put out of his misery. But he’s seen a bird been run over before. Under a truck’s tire. And the memory makes his stomach churn. Flattened face, open stomach, popped like a bubble in a stream.

Briefly, Arion thinks of himself in place of the bird. He thinks of the smear of red underneath his empty, open eyes. He thinks of the way the headlights might look as they would suddenly appear right in front of him. The horrid, mind-numbing honk of a horn. The image he creates in his mind of those headlights, his last moments, is vivid. It’s so vivid that he thinks it might be real, or maybe hypothermia is setting in and beginning to ruin his mind.

It’s just his imagination, he thinks.

And then he smells exhaust from a car.

And the screech of brakes.

And for a second, whilst his body is numb and bright white light is all he can see, he thinks he might be dead.

“I swear, if I keep stopping my car for every mouse that sits in front of it, I’m never going to get anywhere.”

That voice drifts from the car stopped in front of him.

Not dead, then.

Almost, he thinks.

“Can’t help it though. What else am I supposed to do, run them over? Just vet instincts, I guess. Huh, Jasper.” There’s a meow in response. Arion’s breath hitches. The voice says, “Me-ow. I know, I know. I’ll be right back.” A car door shuts. Then there’s heavy wet footsteps. Boots clopping over puddles and asphalt. Panic floods Arion’s chest as a shadow cuts through the blinding white light from the vehicle. The outline of a human lowers, kneels in front of him. His breath stops. His mind goes blank.

“What…”

A moment passes. Something touches him. He flinches hard, but trying to run isn’t an option. His body is completely, entirely, wholly exhausted and far too numb to move more than flailing back a couple inches.

“Oh, geez, that’s-- not a mouse. Okay.” Her head turns in a way that Arion can see her face. A young woman with red hair, watching him with a warm but frantic gaze. “Okay. Okay okay. Oh, God, you’re injured pretty bad, little buddy. Your arms are all… cut up. That’s not good. Um.”

Arion stares blankly ahead. Suddenly, freezing to death isn’t something he feels like putting too much effort into avoiding.

“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” the girl continues. “I’m gonna bring you into my car where I can see you better, alright? Then I can help you. It’s gonna be okay. Here. I’m picking you up now, ‘kay?”

The feeling of a warm hand washes over his body. It’s both terrifying and incredibly welcome. The sting of cold seems to seep out of his skin, albeit very slowly. Quickly, though, burning prickles replace whatever comfort the touch brought him.

“Oh, you’re freezing, little guy. You must have been out here for a long time. That can be really dangerous… I’m glad I found you. I’ll get you all warmed up in the car.”

Arion whimpers against the hands that carry him to somewhere warmer, where he hears the faint, deep sound of a large beating heart. For a second, he wonders if this is God. And then the car door opens and creaks, and the girl curses under her breath, and Arion remembers he’s an atheist.

Still, as the stinging in his warming skin subsides, the warmth of her hands starts to feel… nice. If his mind were still intact (instead of shattered into vague, useless fragments as it is now), Arion would have done anything and everything to get away from any human or other predatory beast in sight. But with his head swimming, he leans into her touch, and compliantly accepts the soft feeling of some kind of cloth being wrapped all around him.

Words are spoken to him, but he can’t listen. To him they sound broken up and blurry as the insistence of sleep becomes more desperate in the back of his mind. As he gets warmer, his muscles relax, and his eyes get droopy. His vision darkens, and the girl’s voice hushes.

Just before he drifts off into a far overdue, deep and restful sleep, he thinks to himself, vaguely, that he hopes this human is different. He hopes that when he wakes back up, it won’t be in another cage.

-

Tag list because this ended up being a full drabble:

(Also, let me know if you'd like to be removed from the tag list. No hurt feelings! I know it's been a long time and if you've lost interest that is A-Okay, friend)

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@whumping-every-day, @deluxewhump, @sola-whumping, @haro-whumps, @inaridriscoll, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @kiretto-laorentze, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @ahorriblebimess, @whump-me-all-night-long

[shyflameweasel]

My attempt at writing something that is not a pseudo essay nor a stream of consciousness.

A notebook covered in blood and viscous black substance is found. Dark footprints lead away from the scene. All but a handful of passages are illegible. 

It was supposed to be a normal day. Another day working under the Auditor; trying to survive the hellhole that Nevada has become with all the crazies roaming around. Lunch was supposed to be chili dogs since our site found a ton of canned food not too far out. Some of the folks two floors down were setting up an empty room for Harry’s birthday tomorrow.

Instead...instead the alarms went off. Not the normal ones for those crazed bandits or the pockets of resistance. It was a alarm we all hoped never to hear, Wimbleton was on his way if not already in the building.

The higher ups pulled a runner. Doesn’t mean I’m not angry at those lucky bastards for cutting their losses. Although, wouldn’t be too surprised if the rest of Wimbleton’s group haven’t already tracked them down.

The Engineers on the upper floors grabbed a few of us before we went to our death. There was no pretending that we weren’t cannon fodder. We’re just meat to the grinder in what would be our slaughterhouse. Apparently they have sensitive data that has to get to the other bases for an ongoing project. Said that it was some kind of transportation tech but wouldn’t tell us more since it was ‘more than our pea brains could handle’. Well fuck you too guys, especially you Gerould.

They wanted a backup plan incase they couldn’t forward the data in time. Said backup is to use us as guinea pigs for said experimental tech with a notebook of data. For smart guys they sure are dumbasses. Apparently they’re out of options as most of the Agents are dead, the Soldats were fighting him off and our one MAG agent is now just a torso and head.

Whatever the hell they were working on failed and now I’m stuck in a place that looks like a tar pit with no clue as to where the others are. According to the notes sometimes a full transfer doesn’t happen right away and people get stuck. Whoop-de freaking do. So now I’m stuck here for who knows how long.

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I have no clue how long it’s been. Time’s kinda just stopped. Guess the silver lining is that I haven’t been hungry the entire time. I’ve looked through this stupid notebook and all I can get is that no one’s ever been here for more than a few minutes. I’m gonna go for a wild guess here and say that I’ve broken the record for being in a hellhole. Well, a different one. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a promotion for getting more data for those guys. It’ll even have a nice cushy chair.

Started walking, not much else to do. Quite a site if I do say so myself, sludge to the left of me, goop to the right, and tar as far as the eye can see! Hopefully walking will help get me out of here.

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I miss the sky. Heard that a long time ago it was blue with a bright light called the sun. Same with the ground, used to be green.

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Either I’m going crazy, or something’s here with me. I get the felling of being watched constantly. And faintly I keep hearing this soft sound. Can’t really make it out. 

Walking hasn’t done anything. Everything looks the same still. Not even tired and I can’t tell if its a good thing or not anymore.

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Never thought I’d say this but I miss other folks. Sure they’re a pain in the ass but its better than this.

The feeling hasn’t gone away and I swear to god if that sound doesn’t stop I’m gonna loose it.

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Why was I the unlucky bastard? Why couldn’t it have been someone else.

Should have just stayed back at the base. A painful death is a whole lot better than nothingness.

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Damn the AAHW and fuck Hank. If I ever get out of here I’m getting as far away as possible from all this.

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Getting harder to write. Has the notebook always been this small?

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Shit. Found one of my team. Mutated. Tore out a chunk of me. Killed them.

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It’s singing. 

It

won’t

stop.

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Its in my lungs and Im coughing up sludge.

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let me out  let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let mE OUT LET ME OUT  LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT

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soothing melodies

the way is clear

ill get them all

it will be fun

to rip and tear

so very happy

This is where the notebook ends. Almost all of it is ruined by the substances. The illegible portions must have been the aforementioned data and part of the ramblings. Whether intentional or not it was just about useless. Hank pocketed the book anyway. Maybe 2BDamned or Deimos could have a better time at figuring out the ramblings to see if this project really existed? Or it could have just been another crazy. Hank didn’t really care, he had work to get back to.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Epilogue: Ja Mata, Friends

I finally finished the Main Story Quest Rewritten Series! Yaaaaay! *Kermit Flail!*

Erii settled down on her knees and opened her little red suitcase. She wrote down on the paper notepad that she was supposed to be going to Korea to start a new life, but you notice that she didn’t pack very much. 

Your body still aches terribly to the point where you wanted to puke. Your eyes rolled with fatigue. But Erii was showing you her things and writing down her words in her way to chat with you even though you could only stare blankly.

You were in the middle of a graveyard of bones. The cooling effect of the broken canister of liquid nitrogen mixed with the spring air and created a dense fog in the Red Well. But you could still see the outlines of ribs, femurs and skulls among the pile of debris. Charred skeletons embraced each other in battle and deadpool remains mixed with human remains. It reminded you of a scene in an ancient fossilized tar pit. Over hundreds or thousands of years, countless animals and people fell into the pit and died together. Archeologists discovered them but their bones were all mixed up.

Erii showed you her Roman shoes, her white strapped shoes, her hairpins, stockings and ribbons all neatly packed. Then she showed you her little toys. Then she showed you her postcards.

“On April 24th, I went to Tokyo Sky Tree with Sakura. The warmest place in the world is on the Sky Tree.”

“On April 26th, I went to Meiji Shrine with Sakura. Someone held a wedding there.”

“On April 25th, I went to the amusement park with Sakura. The haunted house was scary, but with Sakura there it wasn’t so scary.”

You blink sleepily and suppress a yawn to avoid the pain of stretching your bones. “Hmm… at Christmas, I will take you to see Siberia.”

She nods seriously as this is a solemn vow to her.

Erii quietly took out some of her clothes and pressed them against your skin. The battle had ruined the last remnants of your wedding dress. She opened a blouse and slid it on your arms, pausing when you flinched and hissed in pain, only to continue when you relaxed. Then she buttoned up the front for you. She handed you her skirt and slipped it over your body. 

A soft noise, like a stone rolling down a hill made you sit up in alarm. Erii pressed one hand to your shoulder to keep you from standing. She wrote in her notebook. “Sakura is here.”

You blink at an approaching, staggering human shaped shadow in the fog. For a second, you think it’s Z and your heart lifts. In a few more seconds, Lu Mingfei came into view. Erii with her amazing hearing had already sensed his approach. That explained why she had dressed you and covered you up.

The man looked exhausted and soaked to the bone. At the sight of Erii’s wave, he relaxed to near collapse. “You’re here!” He exclaimed.

Lu Mingfei stumbled the rest of the way into her arms. He hugged her tightly and after a long time, he quietly began to cry. You watched them embrace, feeling happy for them at first, and your eyes grow dull.

Chance was gone. Ruri Kazama was gone too. He fell asleep in the mind of Chime and you would never be so greedy as to use the clapper on him to bring him back. Chime was off somewhere with his brother. It was uncertain if you’d ever see him again. Somehow, you’d seen the world, been wooed by the most beautiful men of Tokyo and still had ended up alone with no one to hold you and cry. 

Lu Mingfei had arrived in a black Mercedes and that’s what you took to get out of this place. You fell asleep on your way there.

You woke up days later to an IV in your arm in the comfort of the luxury suite. You stare up at the princess canopy. You’re surprised. How could it be that this place remained untouched throughout the whole disaster? Ruri Kazama knew your room. Perhaps by his fierce order, all the Devil Clan members knew not to destroy the bedroom of his precious love.

“MC…” A familiar voice speaks out of the dimly lit corner. You sit up. 

Renata was sitting next to your bedside. Her long blond hair was down over her bare shoulders. She wore a frilly blue lace top and a light yellow skirt with a white obi belt at her waist. A black knee brace interrupted her silhouette. For a moment you stare silently into each other’s eyes, expressionless. 

“Is there still a bug in this room?” You ask.

“I had Fingel remove it.” She said, standing and sitting next to you on your bed.

You finally wrap your arms around her, rest your head in her chest, and the tears roll down your face. Renata doesn’t cry but the strength in her arms as they hold you, so firm and so tightly, conveys her thoughts. You slept for twenty years and traveled all the way across the world. You’d fought with monsters and devils, gangsters and gods. But you still managed to find each other in the end. In this secret hide away in the dark, you could hold each other again. You press your ear to her chest and listen to that strong heavy heartbeat and hear her breathe in and out. “Renata… I loved you back then.”

“I thought so too. I was too embarrassed to say anything about it. I was afraid of getting in trouble with the nurses. But please. Continue to call me Zero. It’s more than my new identity. It’s who I am now.” She pulled away from you slightly. “Do you know about… him?”

You know she’s talking about Z and you nod. “A little.”

“Please keep it to yourself.” Her eyes were gentle, but her voice held a command. “There are things that are still far beyond that we cannot understand. But if you stay useful to the end, he will not leave you.”

It takes three months for everything to settle and, in the meantime, you stay with the men in Takamagahara Night Club. Your bloodline test returns completely clean and you are installed as a full member of Cassell College.  You don’t tell them how it happened, that you were bitten by the Light King parasite and filled head to toe with its fetal blood. When Erii embraced you, the effect was the same. She bathed in the blood of a young dragon and her bloodline issues resolved. In Caesar’s report, he simply states that your bloodline problems were clerical errors and you were never a dangerous hybrid.

In those months, the club Takamagahara was fully restored. Though Tokyo still lies in ruins, a great final performance has been arranged. You settle in your seat next to Zero and she looks at you and smiles.

The curtain was slowly opened. Caesar’s fingers ran across the keys of a piano, Chu Zihang blew out the first note on the saxophone and the applause rolled over like a tide. The spotlights swayed over them and the banners that read “Love Sakura!” “BasaraKing forever!” and “Sacred Ukyo!”

Zero huffed to your right. “Someone should stand behind Lu Mingfei before he faints.”

Erii sat next to you on your left and held up a sign. “Go Sakura!”

Tonight is his debut show and the farewell show for the three of them. The theme is ``Goodbye, Ikemen Team.” The TV regrettably announced that BasaraKing, Ukyou, and Little Sakura would be returning to the United States due to their expiring contract. Tonight is their last performance. They would also be ending their careers as performers, so this was truly Sayounara.

All the tickets were sold out in advance. Not even VIPs could get a hold of them. Whole bar fixtures were removed to accommodate more guests. The dance floor was full of women, young and old. Everyone was dressed in costumes from shiny sexy short skirts to dignified long black sleeves. In order to ensure safety, the Metropolitan Police Department temporarily activated traffic control measures and everyone had to walk to the Takamagahara.

Apparently, Cassell had pulled some sort of mass brainwashing. All the people who witnessed the raging deadpool in the club suddenly didn’t remember it that way at all. They only remembered you and the boys protecting and helping people during the storm and that was it. Cassell was scarily efficient at hiding the truth of the world from the world.

Lu Mingfei stepped to the microphone and looked at Erii and sang a shaky little “Sayounara.” He picked up the champagne on the piano cover and drank.

You only understand the word Sayounara in the song. It’s all in Japanese. Lu Mingfei might not have the best voice, but he does have the best Japanese of the three. You quickly pick up a handkerchief. “Erii… don’t cry! Come on, you have to give your support! You can still chat over Line tonight.”

There was no more fear that Erii would rage out of control and kill everyone. So she was free to express sad emotions like this. Now her red eyes ran with tears. “I want to go to the US with Sakura.” She wrote.

“And you will! You will! Eventually… Don’t despair okay?”

The best theater speakers in Tokyo were tuned to the use of the Takamagahara. The sound from the subwoofers burst like ten thousand cannons. Caesar’s piano skills were handed down to him from the world’s top masters and flowed into the sound system. Chu Zihang’s saxophone was also very good. The musical emotional refrain climbed higher and higher. And then when the hall seemed to no longer be able to accommodate such surging music, the top of the hall suddenly opened letting in the moon and starlight.

The spring had turned to summer and the warm air of the seaside city flooded in. You look up at the star strewn sky and grin. Your hand tightens on Zero’s hand. “Make a wish.” You whisper.

Caesar got up from the piano and Chu Zihang put down the saxophone. They all walked to Lu Mingfei’s side and the three took each other’s hands and bowed deeply. 

Cries and applause swept the stage like a storm. And the enthusiasm can't be contained. Women rushed the stage to embrace the young men who were leaving but the stage was too high to climb. So they throw roses, thousands of roses until the stage is covered with bright red, pink and white.

“Ukyou! Ukyou! BasaraKing! Basaraking! I love you! Don’t leave!”

It was time for the final rankings of the performers. At this moment, the spotlight suddenly came on to Lu Mingfei. Whale who had lost an arm in the disaster strode onto the stage. “According to Takamagahara practice, whether Little Sakura stays in our warm family depends on one thing - love! That is, your love!” Whale shouted. “Only the flower tickets of your love can get him to stay. So vote for him. Waiter! Please reveal how much love did LIttle Sakura get during his internship?”

A waiter came with an envelope on the platter. Whale tore it open with his teeth and shouted “320 flower tickets!”

“Oh…” You wince. Poor Lu Mingfei. Chu Zihang and Caesar and easily gathered over 900 ticket buyers in a few days. And after months here Lu Mingfei couldn’t gather half that.

But Whale continued. “In addition to the flower tickets purchased before the show, the total is 100,320 flower tickets! Congratulations Little Sakura, you passed the internship period and you are now a member of our Takamagahara club family!”

Whale took a check from his pocket. A projector enlarged the check until it was the whole background of the stage. It was a check for 100 million yen. Lu Mingfei stood in stunned silence. The check was signed by Erii Uesugi.

Erii had stood up at the end of the show but now she held up a new sign with a sad silent face. The sign read clearly. “Sakura, please stay.”

“Oh… Oh Erii…” Your heart was moved by this. You reach out to her.

Zero takes your arm and whispers urgently. “You have to go now. Or else you’ll miss them.”

You hesitate. Erii doesn’t look at you or shift from that spot. Lu Mingfei stares at her over the crowd but the curtain goes down in front of him. Zero is pushing you now and you have to go.

Erii still stands there even though the curtain is down.

Zero drags you out a side entrance to a waiting Alfa Romero Sports car.

“You can comfort her later.” Zero says as she shuts the door of the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“Yeah…” You buckle up and then do a double take. “Since when did you learn how to drive?”

“Since forever ago.” She turned her head and backed out of the alley and sped down the street so fast you were pressed into the leather. 

The helicopter was parked in a large parking lot two blocks away and the eight executive members of the Hydra lined up to send the Cassell team off. After this incident, the Japanese branch was established again, but a new agreement was signed. Anjou gave up his personal control over the branch, though he still holds the highest decision making power.

The last surviving member of the original family was Nanami Sakurai and she was promoted as Minister of Japan and the new acting director of the Executive Bureau. Chisei and his brother were missing in action and assumed dead. But before his disappearance, Chisei had left the leadership to Mrs. Sakurai. Caesar and Anjou spoke to Mrs. Nanami and she was impressed by their words enough to let you have a special internship and training as a White King bloodline operative and you would be handling all matters when it came to the Devil Clan and unstable hybrids.

“These small gifts left by the clan chief are not quite high end,” Crow gave sunscreen in glass bottles to Casear, Anjou, Lu Mingfei, Zero, and Fingel. “They’re his whole collection. He was really serious about going and selling sunscreen.”

“I’ll smear it on the prettiest girl’s back for him.” Caesar said.

“That would make him happy. That’s what he looked forward to the most.” Crow said.

Your heart aches slightly, thinking of Sakura Yabuki. You wondered where Chisei was now. You hoped he managed to find peace somewhere with his brother.

Caesar approached you. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

Your lips curl upward. Then you dip your head and delicately remove your contact lenses. Your eyes are glowing golden, permanently. One didn’t just brush up against the experience of being a dragon king and not be left with some sequelae. “Caesar… Are you going to be alright by yourself?” You ask in a sly voice.

Caesar averts his eyes. “Okay, okay, point taken.”

You replace the contacts in your eyes. “I’m no Caesar Gattuso, but I think I can hold my own here.”

Caesar’s eyes soften. “We’re going to look for him.”

Your smile fades. “Don’t look too hard.” Your chest aches again. “Chime needs time. And so do I.”

Caesar pulls you into a tight hug. You inhale deeply and focus on the bright sweet scent of tobacco. “Don’t forget to text me when you get in. And tell Nono I said hello.”

“I will.”

You approach Lu Mingfei. His eyes are dim and he doesn’t look up. You shake your head. You’re living because of this guy, so you can’t punch him or threaten him too badly. You tap his nose and he looks up at you, looking irritated. 

“Better step up, pretty boy. She went through a lot for you.”

“I know… I... “ Lu Mingfei rubbed the back of his head.

“Don’t say anything! I’m having the hardest time not dragging you back to the Takamagahara right now. It’s 100 mil yen man… come on.” You suddenly hug him tight.

“Ow! Ow! Have you been working out or something? Geez you’re gonna leave a bruise!” He whined.

“Text her.” That’s the last you say to Lu Mingfei.

You approach Chu Zihang. He looked down at you with golden eyes hidden behind black eyed contact lenses. Even now, you didn’t feel particularly close to him, especially not close enough to hug. Chu Zihang was holding a long white wood box that contained Chisei’s swords anyway. He nodded once to you.

“I will be following your progress closely.” He said.

Principal Anjou was blowing out a puff on his cigar as you approached him. He handed you a small white card. “This is your official Cassell Credentials. You’ll be on remote study, but given your performance, you can study at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Principal. I would like to learn Japanese, and how to drive faster than Zero.”

Zero looked up from where she was about to board the helicopter and rolled her eyes at you, but there was a trace of a smile on her lips.

The helicopter took them up into the sky and you watched as its white light disappeared like a shooting star flying into the distance, taking your friends away across the ocean to the United States. 

You turned back to Crow who bowed deeply until he was horizontal. “Mrs. Chief. Forgive my bad English, but your car is ready to go to your new accommodations at the Hydra headquarters in Genji Heavy Industries.”

You grin flashing your white teeth at him. “Arigatou.”

[mushykat]

i am failing 4 classes

I’m sick and I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t like how it hurts to wake up. I don’t like how the feeling of hearing damage is the only thing grounding me to a plain of nothing but heartache and tragedy. I hate how much I’ve let myself spiral. I’m tumbling down a black spire that I’ve built for myself. What lays at the bottom will hopefully kill me when I connect with the waters below. 

Sometimes I want to draw. The picture I want to use to express the swirling mass of razors and burnt scraps of thoughts that plague my consciousness never turns out how I want them to. I don’t want to sit down and put time into something that I cannot love. It’s why I refuse to try and dig myself from the pit laden with the shreds of memories I hold on to in order to justify the horrible things I see. 

I don’t want to write as a career. A career path means choosing a secondary school, and it means going and applying myself to something. I can’t put the effort into keeping myself afloat in the sea of that of which troubles me, and yet I’m expected to weigh myself down with books full of repeated sentences that will suffocate me with a bad credit score and the inability to apply for a loan. 

I don’t want money to be spent on me for college. I’m going to do bad and eventually give up, like I always do. I never apply myself to anything like I should. I know better. As I sit and write, and let the crisp feeling of the screen sear the exhaustion ridden pupils I’ve tormented as such the night prior, I have assignments I haven’t turned in. If I can’t bother to not fail an 11th grade math class over my own impotence, then how am I supposed to swallow down the poison that is higher education. 

What’s the point of using flowery language to cover the corpse of what I write? What will the sprouts of tulips and daisies do against the rot of myself. Why must I try and work every word into an intricate tapestry to illustrate the images my hands refuse to draw. Why do I try to form the pictures my mind refuses to accept of what I see of myself. Why am I fucking sick? 

I can feel the rise and fall of my chest, and yet my lungs always feel empty. I can feel the beat of a heart cradled behind the intertwined digits of marrow that tuck it away in a forest of fleshy fat, and yet I wonder if I am truly living. Is this all life is to be? Am I expected to carry on in the future. Carry on and carrion are easy to mix up, I presume. But what a simple mistake for such a bloated carcass such as myself.

I feel like if I try to chase after the fleeting ideological wisps of smoke that arise from the coals I smother, and do in fact explore writing as a career, I fear I will run out. I think the only mirrors I can truly accept are the ones others have pointed towards me. The only thing I can see anymore is warped and distorted by the heat of a long burnt-out inferno that ate away at the only thing I could hold dear to myself. 

These little mirrors sit behind my eyes, and reflex off of each other. They shine beams of light to one another, as some sick paradox that I am too shaded to partake in. I want to see the light, but I fear what I may see if I allow illumination into the crevices of where I hide. The dark is cold and safe, and lets me shelter away from that which wishes to harm me. 

The world isn’t out to get you, after all. The only mantra I can remember clearer than the burning gazes of reflected disdain directed towards me. Are the shattered mirrors that try to piece my reality together warped from the heat of myself or others? I think I know who ignited me, but I would rather let the coals die away as I wish for myself. I envy the carbon lumps sitting in the sludge pooled at my feet. 

I am one of the ants that get burned alive under a child’s magnifying glass. I can still feel the heat enveloping me, and can taste the smoke as it hangs around my throat in a familiar noose. I welcome it, even. Why else would letting the smog from burning leaves powder kisses of slime and tar across my lungs? I relish the taste I’m left with. It is impure.

Impurity is the only state I know. Disgrace and dissidence is the only way for me to view myself through the shattered lenses that have been scratched and dulled with age. I wish I could pry them out of my skull with the screwdriver that sits in the drawer on my desk. Maybe if I slipped them out of my head and gave them a good rinse, I could have a clean look at the world around me. Maybe I could be happy. 

What’s to say they aren’t responsible? Holding tender orbs with a sheen of slime from the crevice they reside, smeared with the crimson shame that comes with self mutilation. I wonder if I could view myself with such an event. Could I get a good look? Could I watch myself desecrate the corpse that I walk in? 

Maybe my eyes aren’t the problem. The ants nibbling behind my eyes made my sight throb, as if what I’m viewing of the world is wrong. It’s never right, though. Maybe the ants are just more noticeable when I decide to grace them with acknowledgement. But they’re not real, of course. The idea of something being out of place would require something to be wrong, which there isn’t. I know because you told me. :)

I hate writing. It’s horrible and I’m disgusted with anything I read from myself. I do not approve of the venom that drips from my lips, and yet I refuse to pull my fangs. Maybe I could shatter the rest of my teeth while I’m at it. I could run my tongue over the raw indents where the abused shards of enamel I refused to care for would be. But since when do I care about taking care of myself? I’m scared of what I write. Every word is a little sliver of the mirrors that have cracked behind my eyes. The tears that fall hold shards of the reflective glass, and lands upon the scarred hands with which I type. I’m scared that the mirrors will be gone, and I’ll be forced to see the reality of what is before me in its entirety. And yet, I’m more scared of running out of escaping sorrow.

Why would I pursue a career in writing when I don’t know of what I write? Why would I try to make money off of a skill I do not have? What’s the point of humoring the idea that I can write? The illness that lets the steady drip of sickly ichor flow through me is the only reason I can type as I do. It’s the one who puppeteers this horrid poppet of flesh bound sinew and bone. If I am not sick, then how will I write? 

I cannot write. There is nothing to write about. Any of the scorch marks sitting heavy in my chest, and any of the burns lingering against my face from the reflected magnitude of the heat of the abhorrence of the mirrors others hold are from fault of my own. I am the reason I am sick, and I am the reason I refuse to get better. The feeling of the keys popping under my fingers is proof enough that I am not dead, and yet I let myself make allusions as to why I can only experience a dullness in place of stimulations. 

Every time I try to sit down and write like this, I try to crack a piece off of the mirrors. They’re melted into a grotesque putty, and it’s not delicate work to try and pry shards of it apart. I can swing and shatter the mass of heathenry, but then I would have to stare into the space between the shards. The spaces where I can see. 

How long can I chisel at a deformity before it is gone? Doesn’t the idea of writing to clear my mind imply that there's an end goal. That perhaps I can someday empty myself of the acid that eats away at the tissue behind my eyes. Doesn’t that mean that I’m the reason I’m ‘sick’? I don’t have the right to be upset. I know this. It’s my fault. 

The way others see me is the same, even if they claimed to have shifted their realities. Is it so easy? Why haven’t I done it for myself? I know why. I am lazy and prefer the glorification of necrophagous fantasies over the reality that the only rot in me is my own. The only poison that reaches me comes from inside. The bed of soil I rest in is free from mites and grubs, and yet I wrote. The only desecration is my own. 

As I write and try to put these pathetic ideas against a sickly backdrop of a fake shade of white, I can’t help but yawn., It seems to be tiring to do the most basic of tasks. Sometimes I wish that I could lay amongst the blankets marred with the imbecility of myself and not be roused. I want to slumber for the rest of time, and let the roots overtake me. Maybe as my flesh is eaten away and my bones are dissolved by a hundred rains, I could finally rest. 

I wish that I could bash my head against the wall and shatter everything going on inside of me. If it was in pieces, maybe it would be easier to weep under the rug. I want to hide it from myself. I don’t have anything wrong with me, I am just a hypochondriac that has done too much research. I know seven people who could agree with me. I live with three of them. Even if stories change, the words that linger are the ones that left bruises. Lying can’t fix the purple and yellow that litters my mind. 

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t like this. Sometimes I wished I was loved. But why would it change anything? I would be loved and broken. I would be shattered and adored. I would be coddled and ruined. What difference would circumstances make when I’m the one who sets the table against me? I’m the reason the betting is so low. I picked the numbers, and I knew what I was doing. I’m aware of the horrible things I do, and yet I do them. I know I’m failing classes, and yet I write with blurry vision to try and alleviate a fake weight keeping me from breathing. 

I don’t like school. I wish I didn’t have to go. But what else would I do with my day? I’m stupid. I’m tired of being told I’m not. I don't know the things people think I do. I only know things I can remember, and things that I care about. Neither of those apply to much. My mind’s empty enough that the few thoughts I can hold are the only thing keeping me from falling back into the static burning the edges of my subconscious. 

My neck hurts.

[wyrm-wolf]

Could you listen to I'm not supposed to love you anymore by Bryan White and write a sterek fic on that with a happy ending?

First of all how dare you, second of all HOW DARE YOU!! This hurt a lot! Third off all, this took me a while because my muse suddenly said ‘Let’s add a plot twist!!” Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Angst, Feral Behavior

~~

Derek has only cried a few times in his entire life. Enough that he can count it all on one had. When his family was burned alive, Boyd was killed, getting married to Stiles and then getting his heart torn apart by Stiles.

Looking down at the photos taken on their wedding day, Derek feels like he’s on the verge of crying. He tosses them back into the shoebox and shoves that under his bed. Having the box under his bed isn’t the wisest choice. It feels like every time he walks into the room the box is haunting him; reminding him of the days when he was happy when things were better, when Stiles hadn’t… A tear slips down his cheek, and Derek rubs at his so furiously that his cheek starts going raw from the harsh rubbing. Standing up he leaves the room so he doesn’t get the urge to open up the box and pull out the shirt Derek stole. 

It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

Keeping a shirt that Stiles use to wear all the time around the house, the human wore it so much his scent is practically ingrained in the piece of fabric. He should just throw it away. Maybe burn it. But the moment his fingers touch it he’s rendered useless, his wolf whines and howls for Stiles to come back. It makes him go insane with want and yearning. The feeling of being slowly buried alive. But Stiles isn’t coming back, he’s moved on with his life while Derek’s stuck in time. Like a dinosaur who walked right into a pt of tar and is slowly dying of starvation until they finally just drown in the pit. Stiles may have moved on, but Derek was stuck. He couldn’t move on. He was stuck still loving Stiles because they were-

They were-

He can’t even say the word without breaking down.

Sipping the now cold tea he left in the kitchen, Derek gets lost gazing out the window. After the divorce, Derek made himself vanish from everyone’s lives. He couldn’t go to pack meetings without thinking of Stiles, couldn’t talk to Scott or the Sheriff to help out with the most recent monster of the week without thinking of Stiles, infant he couldn’t be anywhere near or around Beacon Hills without thinking of Stiles. The pain was too much for him to handle. So he chucked his phone off a bridge, moved to some remote location in the woods and wolf his car. He just wanted to be alone after all that happened, living seemed too much for him so now he was here in his cabin. Stuck. Crystalized forever.

He’s not supposed to love Stiles anymore. 

Stiles made his peace after they divorced, after he broke Derek’s heart. No. That’s to light of a way to put it. Too gentle, makes it sound like what they had was a high school romance, but that’s not what it was at all. At least not too Derek. Stiles didn’t break his heart, he demolish-annihilated his heart. There was nothing to pick up once Stiles had slaughtered him, and he woke up to an aching gap in his chest. When Derek thought too hard about the ache he thought about the last conversation he had with stiles before vanishing.

They had been sitting in the house they had bought together, signing the divorce papers. Derek struggling to even finish writing his name as his hands trembled with hot white anger. When he finished with the last paper, Derek had thrown the pen across the room watching the thing shatter against the wall, ink splattering against the tan wall.

“Dude! We still have to sell this thing, don’t damage it.” Stiles snapped at him.

“We? There is no ‘we’ anymore Stiles. I don’t care about the damage. It’s yours. Everything’s yours. Just take it all with you, or throw it away, it’s not like it matters to you anymore.”

Sighing, Stiles reached out to place a hand on Derek’s shoulder, only for the werewolf to recoil from he touch. If Stiles had touched him he wouldn’t have fought anymore, he would have folded in half and break down right in front of the human. Stiles made him weak. He made him human. But apparently Stiles didn’t seem to care about any of that, now did he?

 “You were the only person I could trust, Stiles.” Derek growled half heartedly, the anger burned inside him but the pain wasn’t easy to ignore. The wolf inside of him felt like it was tearing his insides apart, leaving him wide open. He left after that, slamming the door hard enough he could hear the wood shake beneath his fury. 

Sighing, Derek set the tea down and looked over to the couch where it was stacked with chains to hold him.

It was the full moon tonight and Derek didn’t know if he could hold the wolf back anymore. Last full moon he almost lost himself too the animal, but now as the moon begins to rise he thinks, ‘Would it really be so bad?’

He’d be ok with loosing himself. Stiles would have been dissappointed in him for giving up, but Stiles isn’t here anymore. Stiles doesn’t care anymore. This time when the moon rises, Derek lets the animal loose. He goes feral, claws and teeth shredding his last bit of humanity as he cries to the moon. Being a wolf is freeing; the ache is still there but he doesn’t think about it as much, can’t think of it was much when all the wolf want’s to do is run and hunt. So he let’s himself get lost, he forgets his life as a human, he forgets his name.

But most importantly he forgets Stiles.

~~

3 Weeks Later

The Wolf smells something strange in his territory. It growls and snaps at the air when it’s nose picks up the scent too close to his den. The wolf does not remember much. It thinks it had a name, or perhaps lived somewhere else. But the wolf knows that if he tries to remember that bad-pain-ache-hurt-no comes back and the wolf does not enjoy the unfamiliar ache in its chest. It growls and tracks the scent hoping to scare off whatever is rummaging in his den. When the wolf gets a few feet from its den it growls sharper when it smells another wolf, ‘bad smell’ the wolf thinks to itself. Not good.

The rummaging stops and then a two legged creature comes running out of the wolfs den. He has seen these weird things before, the two legs are tall but easy to scare once they see him, so he snarls and snaps. But the two leg does not run. Instead it shouts and makes strange noises the wolf does not understand. A noise catches his attention and he snaps his head to the side to bare teeth at the other wolf, strange-wolf-who-walks-on-two-legs seems confused by his warming and tries to flash red eyes. They seem familiar to the wolf, but the strange-Alpha-two-leg doesn’t deter his hackles from rising, he has no pack-at least not one he remembers.

Loud-two-leg takes a step closer which get Alpha-two-leg to make a noise that sounds like a warning. But Loud-two-leg is either braver than it looks or stupider. The wolf gets ready to pounce and maul the two leg when he catches wind of the scent.

It makes his body freeze up because he knows that scene. The wolf sleeps on a soft bedding made from that scent. That scent brings along bad-ache-pain and makes him feel weak and upset, but this same smell makes him feel things too hard to comprehend as a wolf.

“Derek? Derek are you in there? Give me a sign, please, anything?” Loud-two-leg says to him, the wolf understands simple words and the sound it makes brings back that ache.

The wolf whines when Loud-two-leg gets closer, he can’t fight back, all his instincts scream at him to lick two-legs face or bury himself against that scent. So he does neither and watches as the Loud-two-leg gets closer and closer, a strangely flawed hand reaches out and when he thinks he’s about to be attacked the wolf is frozen when the hands are gentle to touch. 

Hands.

Yes. That’s what they’re called.

Loud-two-leg continues to gently pet and caress the wolf until his hackles have lowered and he’s found himself pressing closer into that touch. When Alpha-two-leg tries to step closer he snaps and snarls, pushing Loud-two-leg behind him so he can protect that good-ache-smell. Loud-two-leg squawks and makes another sound that sounds like a wolf pup yipping. Maybe Alpha-two-leg and Loud-two-leg are packmates, but the wolf does not care, Loud-two-leg is his! 

Alpha-two-leg walks away after exchanging strange sounds with Loud-two-leg and all the wolf can think is, ‘Good riddance.’ He waits for a time until he’s sure the other wolf is gone before whipping around to push Loud-two-leg down on the ground and roll their scents together. Loud-two-leg huffs and says something but again the wolf does not understand the strange noises Loud-two-leg is making but he feels comforted by them and presses his muzzle against the two legs throat to comfort it. The two leg sighs, a hand reaching up to scratch at the wolf’s fur while continuing to make the noises. The wolf ignores the sounds enough that they become a buzzing sound to him, like when he listens to the woods at night and only hears the chirping crickets, the owls hooting and some of the nocturnal animals moving about.

“Derek.”

The wolf startles at the noise-no, the name. The wolf knows it was something other long ago, once it even understood the noises Loud-two-leg are making right now, but that one word strikes a chord. It makes him…remember…That aching feeling comes back and the wolf-Derek-wolf-Derek-it hurts! He snarls and jumps off Loud-two-leg-smell-good as he feels his skin begin to crawl, bones creaking and his teeth grinding in pain. When his body is done shifting and changing the wolf-Derek; his name is Derek and he…

Derek growls, blue eyes flashing at Stiles who is still sitting on the ground with his mouth open like a fish out of water, “What are you doing here. Haven’t you hurt me enough. I was just fine-“

“Fine? Holy shit, Derek, the little cabin you ‘lived’ in is in ruins. I had to track you by your car-which you sold three towns over, and then Scott heard something about a wolf living out here. He followed your scent to this shit hole, and when we find you your feral! Derek you didn’t even know who I was-how long-how long have you been out here likes this?”

“Does it matter?”

Stiles glares, “Of course it do-“

“Does it?” He snaps, claws extending and fangs begging to drop. Derek knows he would never harm Stiles, but he can’t stand being around him for long or else he becomes human again. “You wanted the divorce re-“

“Derek! That wasn’t me!”

What?

“What?”

Scrubbing at his face, Stiles breathes out through his nose before explaining, “A shaman kidnapped me when I was coming home work and kind of Harry Pottered us by making something that was like polyjuice, and was living as me for months. And then Peter came by after hearing we divorced to kill me, which ended up being how the pack found out it wasn’t me when he found the man changing from me to himself. He was trying to destroy our pack, and almost did until Peter came.” Stiles huffs, “I’m actually-and don’t tell him this, or I’ll ban sex forever-but I’m actually really grateful he came to kill other me when he thought we divorced.”

“How long?” He grits his teeth, “How long has he been you, did you-“

“Derek, if I really wanted a divorce would I have spent the last week spending every second of the day looking for you? Would I have dropped everything all together the moment I heard what the shaman did to you-to us? Just to come here and find you-”

Without waiting for Stiles to continue Derek leaps at the man, teeth clacking as they kiss, Stiles making a noise that goes from startled to pleasure when Derek swipes his tongue against the inside of his mouth. They lay like that for a while just kissing and touch, Derek’s primal need to rub his scent all over Stiles until those other strange scents aren’t driving him crazy, or Stiles just running his fingers through Derek’s too long beard and commenting how the werewolf could be the next Tarzan. They’re interrupted when Scott comes back and chokes as he sees Derek shoving his tongue down Stiles throat, “Seriously guys? Can we go now?”

“Fine. Fine.” Stiles mentions off handedly, before pointing a finger at Derek, “When we get back home we’re having so much sex. I mean all the sex.”

“Ok, Stiles.” Derek grins, stopping as he follows them back to the car to run back to the house and pull out the shoebox that he kept. He sighed in relief when he found all the contents still inside and intact. When Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Derek opened the box to show him the wedding ring and photos he kept.

“God, you massive sap. I love you so much.” Stiles tells him, tears in his eyes.

[pckarchives]

beneath the cut , you’ll find random tidbits of info that i thought up at unholy hours of the night. took all day but tbh ..... this was therapy. i really said, “i’ll make my own damn self happy,” and it shows.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍��� 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟏.     ›     alicia marie levesque boyd-whitley.

► hobbies ➔ painting and decoration, primarily. for the most part, this is due to the nostalgia of doing it with her moms. she’s not awful at it, but she’s not van gogh levels of good, either. it’s just for fun, as all things should be. she’s also incredibly creative, so things like renovation ideas come easy to her. she did ballet for several years, but dropped it before she moved to beacon hills. ► social media handles ➔ she’s aleesha on just about everything. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ mostly conventional, with a series of emojis attached to every name. ► favorite color ➔ green. but sea foam-ish green. ► favorite video game ➔ animal crossing new horizons. she’s a simple bitch; she sees cute animals, she plays the damn game. ► favorite song ➔ style by taylor swift. ► favorite scent ➔ pumpkin spice! not to be totally cliché, but that scent is unbeatable. she has a million candles with that scent alone. ► favorite band/artist ➔ taylor swift, of course. ► favorite place to be ➔ nana’s house! ► favorite season ➔ winter! she had so much fun with lucy over this past winter and if that’s the way lucy acts every year for christmas, then alicia looks forward to it! ► favorite word ➔ squishy. ► favorite meme ➔ maybe so.gif ► if they were an animal ➔ cheetah! ► if they were a color ➔ beige. no longer the pure white she once was, but not the tar pit that she could have been, either. a beautiful mixture of purities and imperfections. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *going through the five stages of grief* HHHHHHHHH !!!!! someone just slid in my dms and *voice cracking* this is what they said.... *sobbing* gIRL.... *sniffle* HNNNNNN..... you should sell hoT DOGs.... ‘cause you know how to make a weiner stand. hNNNNNN.... HNNNNN!!!!!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ shake it off. ► aesthetic ➔ paint-stained overalls, tear tracks covered in glitter and flower petals, crooked fingers snagging the last slice of pizza out the box, thick-framed glasses with the lens popped out, it’s for the aesthetic, sharpie’d converse kicks and open hearts doodled onto the palm of your hand –– darling girl, someone will really love you one day. ► motto ➔ “it really do be like that sometimes.” ► theme song ➔ lights up by harry styles.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟐.     ›     amari rose kent.

► hobbies ➔ writing, mostly out of spite. in middle school, she had a meeting with the principal, during which he told her she was at risk of being expelled, due to how many teachers had issues with her. this was the same principal who told her she would never get anywhere, hanging off of tate’s coattails, so she wrote a 50-page paper in the span of one week, shaming the school for its discrimination and unethical practices when it came to students. instead of giving the paper to the principal, she submitted it to the board of education and got the man fired. not only did the essay make it onto local news, it also got her a scholarship to devenford prep; lucky, since tatum had already been offered a scholarship and was on the verge of turning it down because she wouldn’t go without amari. though she hasn’t spitefully written anything that huge since, she is still not afraid to thinkshame. also dabbles in poetry and collage-making. ► social media handles ➔ amari_rose on twitter and instagram. she surprisingly does not have a snapchat! ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. at best, she’s giving nicknames. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ she doesn’t play video games, so she doesn’t know. ► favorite song ➔ bad guy by billie eilish. ► favorite scent ➔ not to kinkshame, but.... leather. ► favorite band/artist ➔ billie eilish, she is not ashamed! ► favorite place to be ➔ wherever tate and owen are, honestly. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ bullshit. ► favorite meme ➔ thA’TS MY OPINION !!!! ► if they were an animal ➔ panther. ► if they were a color ➔ silver. black is a hard color to obtain and she hardly comes close. she’s got all the darkness she doesn’t need, but the world put that in her. still, she’s close to light, too; close to breathing in sunlight. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ to the mIDDLE SCHOOL TEACHER –– yes, YOU, you know who you are –– who said EYE would never be shit, LOOK AT ME NOW, WHORE ! LOOK AT ME NOW .... not shit. and HOW YOU LIKE IT ? *twerks belligerently* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔  sad beautiful tragic. ► aesthetic ➔ messily chopped hair in the bathroom sink, tongue poked out to lick ketchup off of nimble fingers, rushed words in a lost diary, a bottle drifting out at sea, cigarette smoke and tequila-coated daydreams, harsh breaths in and out and in and out, bruised knuckles and bleeding lips, we’re not done here. ► motto ➔ “chin up, chest out.” ► theme song ➔ all the good girls go to hell by billie eilish. alternatively, kiwi by harry styles.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟑.     ›     camden wesley layton lahey.

► hobbies ➔ he took up woodworking a few years back. therapy and whatnot. he likes making little birds and figurines out of wood, keeps a box of them in his nightstand. ► social media handles ➔ he’s not on social media! he’s old, leave him alone. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ very conventional. again, he’s old, leave him! ► favorite color ➔ grassy green. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s always going to be a sucker for mario party. that game is unfairly frustrating, but he would ride or die for it. ► favorite song ➔ i of the storm by of monsters and men. ► favorite scent ➔ peppermint! it used to make him sick, because it’s such a strong smell, but it’s now his absolute favorite thing in the world. ► favorite band/artist ➔ gorillaz. ► favorite place to be ➔ he honestly prefers closed spaces? tight spaces where he can see every corner, every entrance, every exit, every tile on the floor. whenever he starts panicking, he will sneak away to the nearest closet or something. ► favorite season ➔ spring. rebirth, babyyy. ► favorite word ➔ dammit. ► favorite meme ➔ it’s free real estate. ► if they were an animal ➔ german shepard. ► if they were a color ➔ light pink. this strange mix between the pure white of being a blank slate and the awful red of having spilled more blood than he can even remember. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ AWWWWWWW 😍😍 awww, i’m gonna die alone 🤗🤗🤗 awww !!! i’m never gonna know what it’s like to be LOVED, AWWWWWW !!!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ holy ground. ► aesthetic ➔ sweat-dotted skin, racing heart, jingling dog tags, checking the locks on the door once and then again and then again and once more just to be sure, hesitant hands and wet eyes, a smile that’s easy even when nothing else is, sunlight pouring in through a cracked window, a step closer to an answer, five steps back. ► motto ➔ “sure, jan.” ► theme song ➔ clint eastwood by gorillaz.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟒.     ›     charles gerard argent.

► hobbies ➔ someone should tell him that working out isn’t a personality trait, but it really is his hobby. your depression can’t catch up to you, if you’re getting these gainz. ► social media handles ➔ he’s charliecharlie on everything, because he’s funny. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ it used to be creative, but man, that depression hit him hard and he switched to conventional. ► favorite color ➔ white. ► favorite video game ➔ fortnite, shut the fuck up, liam, he doesn’t want to hear it. ► favorite song ➔ perfect ruin by kwabs. ► favorite scent ➔ salt water. ► favorite band/artist ➔ clairo. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the beach. he takes frequent drives up to the closest beach, ► favorite season ➔ summer. beach time! all the time! ► favorite word ➔ yeet. ► favorite meme ➔ y E E T. ► if they were an animal ➔ raven. ► if they were a color ➔ a myriad of colors; there are so many facets to charlie and until he figures out exactly where he is in life, he’s going to keep creating a puddle of colors. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *dancing and singing to the tune of under the sea* ptsd 🤪 anxiety 🤪 crippling depression, there is no question, you should kill me !! let me be with HARAMBE 😤✊ i feel like shit every day ! i’m asking nicely, do it by drowning, under da sea 🌊🌊 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ getaway car. ► aesthetic ➔ that damnable water’s edge, the view from the top of a mountain, gnawed fingernails and scraped skin, 11:11 and back again, holstered knives and picturesque smiles, droplets of blood spilled into cold coffee, palm grazing the door to happiness but not quite opening it yet ––– another day and you might just make it. ► motto ➔ “que ce sang protège ceux qui ne peuvent se protéger.” ► theme song ➔ broken bones by kaleo.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟓.     ›     cora vienna hale.

► hobbies ➔ lowkey has a love of mechanics. she doesn’t trust anyone else to repair her bike, so she learned how to do it herself. also learned how to fix cars, because scott is always messing his up. also still plays soccer when she has the time. ► social media handles ➔ she’s just corahale on everything. it’s more “professional” than what she had before. which was... a series of expletives that made lydia blush. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, unless she really hates you. then she can get creative. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ detroit: become human. ► favorite song ➔ hold on just a little while longer from d:bh. luther snapped. ► favorite scent ➔ pinecones. ► favorite band/artist ➔ bryson tiller. ► favorite place to be ➔ the hale house. it feels good to be able to go there again and not be assaulted with all of the reminders of what she lost. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ buttercup. look her in the eye and tell her it’s not the cutest word you’ve ever heard. exactly, you can’t. ► favorite meme ➔ looks into the camera like she’s on the office. ► if they were an animal ➔ lion. ► if they were a color ➔ gold. pure and beautiful; maybe not innocent, maybe not for everyone. but royal and bold and unrelenting. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ sO... .i just went to starbucks and i got my iced coffee and i was standing in line and these little girls were looking at me. *sniff* and i was like, “okay, funny joke.” so i, um, i’m s–– i’m waiting for my coffee, uh, at starbucks, and these other little girls were just, like, LOOKING AT ME and they kept on staring and then this DAD kept on looking and then he kept on staring. and *uncomfortable laughter* ....... *more laughter* ..... *turns on music* *keeps laughing* *turns music off* what kind of sick fucking joke ? .... *uncomfortable shrugging* ...i EXIST ? *more laughter* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ clean. ► aesthetic ➔ a horrid red fire meets a river of blue, gasoline stains on faded tees, an unexpected smile on a rainy day, the way the forest breathes after a rainstorm, skintight dresses and haughty gazes, a smirk that rests for no one, the innocence of a white wolf in a prom dress. ► motto ➔ “flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo.” ► theme song ➔ big god by florence and the machine. alt. the man by taylor swift.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟔.     ›     daniel nahele mahealani.

► hobbies ➔ he no longer loves hacking or music, because... whew, high school killed everything he cared about. mostly sticks to being lydia’s dress up doll. ► social media handles ➔ he’s d-annyboy on all things, because it’s easy! ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, unless he’s trying to hide something from jackson and lydia. lydia is not afraid to go through his phone, which he genuinely doesn’t mind, that’s why she knows all of his passwords and stuff. but he does not need her to know how many guys he’s fucked that she didn’t like, he’s not here for the lectures. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ wii sports still outsells, he is not taking criticism or debate on this topic. ► favorite song ➔ magic in the hamptons by social house. ► favorite scent ➔ hot chocolate. ► favorite band/artist ➔ childish gambino. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the risk of being gay, wherever theo is. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. ► favorite word ➔ pack. he loves feeling loved, sue him. ► favorite meme ➔ kermit spreading his asshole. ► if they were an animal ➔ elephant. ► if they were a color ➔ orange; just on the cusp of happiness, but always holding back. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ hEY GUYS, i’m just really co–– really confused, ‘cause what does fall have to do with fuckboys 🧐🤔 ‘cause I’VE been fucking boys .... EVERY MONTH, winter, fucking februarymarchaprilmay, june, december... dULY ... *someone taps on the trunk of the car* *looks back* ...that’s my dad *frantic zoom-in* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ afterglow. ► aesthetic ➔ scar-littered skin and callused hands, abandoned hobbies and hopes and dreams, all stashed to the back of the infamous closet, dimples cheeked and optimistic eyes, high school jerseys folded in the drawer, letterman jackets treated like sacrosanct, the memory of when things were simpler and the rain didn’t last so long.  ► motto ➔ “this could be worse.” ► theme song ➔ clementine by halsey.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟕.     ›     derek alexander hale.

► hobbies ➔ book collecting. as their lives continue to not make sense, he collects books on any and every odd ‘myth’ out there and just waits for the day it comes in handy. ► social media handles ➔ lydia has made him dhale on everything, because he’s boring. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ very conventional. he now has a lock on every app in his phone, because fiona and lydia will happily break into his phone to change his contacts, if he’s not careful. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ he doesn’t often play video games, but he will school these youngsters in a game of yahtzee! ► favorite song ➔ when doves cry by prince. ► favorite scent ➔ something baking in the oven. ► favorite band/artist ➔ prince. no, he is not talking about it. ► favorite place to be ➔ the hale house, when the entire pack is there. close second is the loft, when everyone is there. he’ll complain until he’s blue in the face, but everyone knows he’s secretly weak for that. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ no. ► favorite meme ➔ blinking white guy. ► if they were an animal ➔ i... a wolf. ► if they were a color ➔ tree bark brown; steady and stern and stable. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *standing at the bathroom door, glaring* if it breaks. one more time. don’t ––– shut your mouth. if it breaks while i’m sleeping, i will grab you by the neck and shove you down the shower drain. *continues to glare* ......... i’m going to take my shower now. *slowly and threateningly closes the door* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ daylight. ► aesthetic ➔ shattered handcuffs, ashes spread across the floor, delayed inhales and painful exhales, a pool of flowers at your feet ––– begin again. ► motto ➔ “no.” ► theme song ➔ sinnerman by nina simone.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟖.     ›     dominic joseph kim.

► hobbies ➔ yoga, meditation, brewery, skin and haircare routines, and swimming! a king stays busy. ► social media handles ➔ he’s domkimi on snapchat, instagram and twitter, but he’s baddiebbarbietingz on reddit. he has a tumblr account, but he refuses to tell the pack what his username is. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative. feel free to look through his phone, but good fucking luck figuring out who is who. ► favorite color ➔ gold. ► favorite video game ➔ sims 4. he gets the chance to actually build a sustainable life? with a family? in a house? with cheat codes? and love? and aliens? and lovers who become plants? sign him the fuck up. ► favorite song ➔ would you mind by prettymuch. good form by nicki minaj is a close runner-up. ‘cause he do, in fact, be the baddie b barbie tingz banging body b, everybody be on his d, cause he gotta be in reality–– ► favorite scent ➔ pizza! if it’s not good for you, why does it smell so good? make it make sense. ► favorite band/artist ➔ prettymuch. ► favorite place to be ➔ tate’s lab! it’s where he and owen do most of their brewing, aside from their field trips to the greenhouse to get more ingredients. it’s basically where dominic does his best and calmest work. close second is his own apartment, because he does yoga in the living room each morning. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ cecelia. ► favorite meme ➔ who said that.gif. ► if they were an animal ➔ a turtle! specifically, one of the turtles from finding nemo. ► if they were a color ➔ blue. calm and collected. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ so i said i’m a switch on tiktok, right ? and now all these ladies are comin’ out of the woodwork like, “hey, i got a strap-on and a dog collar with your name on it ! ” 😳😳 and i’m like... you put my name on it ? 😍👉👈  /// alternatively: theee necklace my boyfriend bought me just came in the mail *zoom in on necklace* ....I’M my boyfriend ! i bought this for myself ! EEE *excited grin* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ style. ► aesthetic ➔ the push and pull of a tidal wave, a dash of eyeliner here and a bit of mascara there, collared shirts and wrinkled jeans, overrated pop over a bluetooth speaker, a fascination with milkshakes and musicals, a heart that beats out of rhythm but never misses a step. ► motto ➔ “the birds work for the bourgeoisie.” ► theme song ➔ good thing by zedd and kehlani.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟗.     ›     elliot james aldridge.

► hobbies ➔ aside from his bathtub poetry and crime, he has revived his love of cooking and music. is masterful at the piano, guitar and harp, dabbles in cello and flute. he likes his music pretty, okay, sue him. ► social media handles ➔ redacted by the fcc. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ depends on how much he likes you! if you’re kosher, you get a creative name. if not... you get your own name. ► favorite color ➔ blood red. unironically. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s a poker man, but if he has to choose a video game, meet him in super smash brothers. ► favorite song ➔ say so by doja cat. ► favorite scent ➔ blood. ► favorite band/artist ➔ hozier. ► favorite place to be ➔ no offense, but the french quarter in new orleans. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ self-care. ► favorite meme ➔ why would you say something so controversial, yet so brave? ► if they were an animal ➔ hyena. one of the asshole ones from lion king. ► if they were a color ➔ red. he’s not hiding that. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’mnotfallingi’mnotfallingi’mnotfalling, i’m not f a l l i n g, i’m not FALLING, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not fALLING....... !! *deep breath* oKAY, i’m falling. /// alternative: the oNLY reason i have not destroyed the world is because i have not had ice cream in a while, i want some ice cream. but tRUST ME, when i get some ice cream ? your ass is grass and i’m the lawn mower ! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ ready for it? ► aesthetic ➔ a hoop of sterling silver, initials carved into dying trees, tempting eyes and a charming smile, cufflinks left on the nightstand, a prison cell and a funny story, top three buttons left undone, far too aware for his own damn good. ► motto ➔ "excuse me, i'm new in town and it gets worse." ► theme song ➔ sunlight by hozier.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟎.     ›     erica juliet reyes.

► hobbies ➔ tracking deucalion and peter, for one thing, but that’s more of a job than anything else. does raving count as a hobby? she’s officially taken up rock climbing, by the way. a huge slap in the face to her epilepsy. ► social media handles ➔ she changes her handles frequently, because she’s indecisive, she can’t decide–– but she’s currently reyofsunshine on everything. shoutout to fiona. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative and often explicit! ► favorite color ➔ sand brown, don’t @ her. ► favorite video game ➔ until dawn. understand the palm of my hand, bitch.... jesus hot sauce christmas cake.... what were you tweeting, hashtag there’s a freaking ghost after us? your fave could never! ► favorite song ➔ hot girl bummer by blackbear. ► favorite scent ➔ lucy or fee’s baking. she’ll come home just for that. ► favorite band/artist ➔ blackbear. ► favorite place to be ➔ at a party. she’s very into raves. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ motherfucker. ► favorite meme ➔ respect the drip, karen. ► if they were an animal ➔ a horse. enticingly beautiful but will also kill you. ► if they were a color ➔ gold. not as pure as cora’s gold, but twice as inviting. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ all i’m gonna say is that i didn’t take ap classes in high school, escape the friend zone, graduate with honors, get cheated on, go to college, mentally deteriorate, become addicted to nicotine, sign a year lease, drop a sorority, fail chemistry and dye my hair purple, just to cry over the frat boy leaving me on read that smokes weed for breakfast, lunch and dinner 💁🏼 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ false god. ► aesthetic ➔ push-up bras covered in black lace, smeared lipstick against the bathroom mirror, jeans that leave nothing to the imagination, a wolf that lies in wait and fears no god, the epitome of poison. ► motto ➔ “meanwhile, back at the ranch...” ► theme song ➔ needed me by rihanna.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟏.     ›     fiona evelyn porter.

► hobbies ➔ baking, pinterest, cheer, volleyball and softball. truly depends on the season. ► social media handles ➔ feezypeezyporter stays true to her brand. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative! her contact ids are indecipherable, the only people who can understand them are katie and cass. dom gave up. ► favorite color ➔ light green and light pink! ► favorite video game ➔ beat saber! ► favorite song ➔ love again by carly rae jepsen. ► favorite scent ➔ is.... is it gay to say cass? ► favorite band/artist ➔ carly rae jepsen. ► favorite place to be ➔ the loft! it really is her happiest place. alternatively, wherever cass is, ‘cause that’s home, babey! ► favorite season ➔ spring! baby sticks to her brand. ► favorite word ➔ braggadocio. how on EARTH is that a real word? ► favorite meme ➔ let me see what you have. a kNIFE! NO! ► if they were an animal ➔ cardinal. ► if they were a color ➔ green. the color of grass, covering everything, everything, everything. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *crying and sipping tea* it... is ver .... very b... bold of you to assume ............. ! *pained smile*  /// alternatively: ONE OF YOU FAT BITCHES UNFOLLOWED ME !!! *manic laughter* i’m not mad, but like...... *climbs onto bathroom sink and leans in very close* what was the last straw ? ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ me! ► aesthetic ➔ bare lips passing over green leaves, a lullaby to a struggling orchid, spanks and sweat drops and a desperate need for approval, a digital scale blinking red numbers back at you, pills of white and blue and yellow, maybe tomorrow you’ll be happy again. ► motto ➔ “team work makes the dream work!” ► theme song ➔ work this out from the high school musical 2 soundtrack.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟐.     ›     hayden louisa romero.

► hobbies ➔ she has a love of sports. got into lacrosse before her imprisonment, though she was a little too fragile to play a real game. was a soccer star as a kid. also puts on glamour shows for the kids and the dogs, if they ask. ► social media handles ➔ she doesn’t have social media. imprisonment tingz. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. at best, you get an emoji or two at the end of your name. ► favorite color ➔ ocean blue. ► favorite video game ➔ will forever be weak for pokémon. ► favorite song ➔ 1985 by bowling for soup. timeless. ► favorite scent ➔ french vanilla. ► favorite band/artist ➔ she’s getting into melanie martinez. ► favorite place to be ➔ bias goes to being with the ito pack, but the preserve is pretty much paradise. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ covenant. ► favorite meme ➔ and i oop––– ► if they were an animal ➔ manta ray. harmless babey. ► if they were a color ➔ prism clear. a maze of reflections, but so fucking breakable. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ you mess with ME ? w ..... ! y...... ! *vague hand movements* you probably aren’t gonna experience any problems, because i’m afraid of confrontation !! /// alternative: *struggling to place lamp inside of another lamp* i JUST TOOK A TEN HOUR NAP ??? *panic* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ it’s nice to have a friend. ► aesthetic ➔ scars lifted among tanned skin, wary glances to read every room, crop tops floating above your belly, a lack of cares for a world that cares a little too much, marked skin and glossed lips, wanna make a deal with an angel? ► motto ➔ “my priority is me.” ► theme song ➔ i know by pink sweat$.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟑.     ›     judith wendy mayer-argent.

► hobbies ➔ biking! she does it primarily for work, but she also does it for fun. also, huge gamer. and protestor. baby keeps busy. ► social media handles ➔ mayerjude. she can make so many jokes out of her own last name, don’t tempt her. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative! unless it’s someone important or authoritative. then they get their own name. ► favorite color ➔ sunshine yellow. ► favorite video game ➔ fornite. ► favorite song ➔ sunday candy by donnie trumpet and the social experiment. ► favorite scent ➔ cupcakes! the frosting! the delicacy! ► favorite band/artist ➔ maroon 5. ► favorite place to be ➔ in the middle of a protest, rally or march. if she’s not in action, then what is she doing? ► favorite season ➔ spring. ► favorite word ➔ audit. ► favorite meme ➔ surprised pikachu. ► if they were an animal ➔ dolphin. ► if they were a color ➔ sunset orange. no, i will not elaborate. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *walking down the street* so we were peer reviewing papers in one of my classes aaaand this girl goes, “you use some FANCY LANGUAGE ! ” and i was like, “what word ? ” and she was like, “perpetuate.” .........on GOD, we gon’ get you a dictionary. ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ don’t blame me. ► aesthetic ➔ sunflowers pushing up from freshly dug graves, a smile away to keep the doctors away, sprained wrists wrapped in inappropriate laughter, bruised knuckles and black eyes, drink in hand, swinging your hips to that voicemail left by your toxic ex-boyfriend. ► motto ➔ “just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...” ► theme song ➔ modern love by david bowie.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟒.     ›     kali kaira laghari.

► hobbies ➔ knitting. she has abandoned all of her self-care and therapy ideals, now knits and talks to ghosts. mind ya business. ► social media handles ➔ she’s not on social media, either. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. she has no times for games. ► favorite color ➔ red. she’s a scorpio, what do you expect? ► favorite video game ➔ not to be controversial, but she’ll take mortal kombat any day. ► favorite song ➔ nintendo game by alessia cara. ► favorite scent ➔ tea! ► favorite band/artist ➔ alessia cara. ► favorite place to be ➔ aside from wherever rohan is, she prefers the bookstore. confrontations aside, it’s a very small space, quiet and relaxing. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ goddess. and yes, for exactly the reason you think. ► favorite meme ➔ as a treat. ► if they were an animal ➔ scorpion. ► if they were a color ➔ smoky grey. everything’s a little hazy with this one. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *staring at the food on the table, slowly losing her mind while everyone else argues over murder* *holds head in hands* *bangs hands on table repeatedly, screaming* WHAT ARE WE THANKFUL FOR !!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ i did something bad. ► aesthetic ➔ cross-legged sitting in the middle of the road, waiting for a new thrill, fingertips grazing the harsh blade beneath your skirt, popcorn and wine with a man you could’ve loved if you were both a little less fucked up, a question that should never be answered, a world-view that should never be defiled –––– and you did it all. ► motto ➔ “i don’t need permission or advice; just help.” ► theme song ➔ simmer by hayley williams. you should see me in a crown by billie eilish.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟓.     ›     kira fuyuko yukimura.

► hobbies ➔ she trains to keep herself calm. often talks with her fox nowadays; she wants to build trust. and given that kira is doing fuck all to deal with her issues, she needs someone to talk to her. she and her fox get along a lot better these days. she also runs, practices lacrosse maneuvers on her own and plays with lightbulbs.  ► social media handles ➔ she’s a simple woman: kyuki. cut the fluff, cut the extraness. also, kyuki is what she’s named her fox.  ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, save for people who warrant a creative one. aka those whose names she doesn’t know. you would be surprised at how many there are. ► favorite color ➔ purple. ► favorite video game ➔ also a fan of animal crossing! ► favorite song ➔ ahead of myself by the ambassadors. ► favorite scent ➔ cinnamon. ► favorite band/artist ➔ the ambassadors. ► favorite place to be ➔ it’s dorky to say, but she likes being with her parents! they’re still in new york, so she doesn’t get that chance as much. however, her second favorite place to be is.... her bed. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. ► favorite word ➔ poppy. ► favorite meme ➔ guess i’ll die.png ► if they were an animal ➔ truly a fox. ► if they were a color ➔ steel blue. baby is electric. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i might be a BIG, DUMB, GAY BITCH ................ !! *smirks at camera* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ cruel summer. ► aesthetic ➔ a thunderstorm in your bedroom, leather gloves pulled over dainty hands, quick footwork and sly gazes, untied shoe laces dragging across the floor, leggings beneath skirts, quiet meditation before bed, sharp teeth poking into bruised lips. ► motto ➔ “yeah, this isn’t weird at all.” ► theme song ➔ fall in line by christina aguilera and demi lovato.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟔.     ›     liam stephen dunbar.

► hobbies ➔ lacrosse no longer counts as a hobby, considering he made it his entire life. does training with allison count as a hobby? does texting gwen bad jokes count? ‘cause that’s all he does, my guy. ► social media handles ➔ he’s dvnbcr on everything. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, until fiona gets her hands on his phone and changes his ids again. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s that guy who plays all of the 2k nba games. like, he has to stan. ► favorite song ➔ i don’t care by fall out boy. ► favorite scent ➔ turf. he’s a loser, what do you expect? ► favorite band/artist ➔ fall out boy and kendrick lamar are tied. ► favorite place to be ➔ the lacrosse field. he does not stray from his brand. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. lax season! ► favorite word ➔ shit. fuck is a close runner-up. ► favorite meme ➔ i’ve won.... but at what cost? ► if they were an animal ➔ rhinoceros.  ► if they were a color ➔ gray; that perfect intersection between white and black, good and bad, wolf and bomb. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *talking to his mom while she’s watching tv.* hey, mom? will you pause that? you know that guy i’m talking to is 6′4″? can’t wait to get my shit wrecked. so you are a bottom. ...wait. okay, i.... that’s not what you’re supposed to say! what am i supposed to say? don’t –– not that! *goes to sit next to her* i’m 👏 not 👏 a 👏 bottom 👏. bullshit. *confused look of betrayal* is this legal? have you ever done anything for anybody else? no, you’re a taker. /// alternatively: *trying to start a fire* hope so ! you gonna let the fire breathe or you gonna fuckin’ suffocate it ? i will end your goddamn short ass piece of shit useless life. ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ this is why we can’t have nice things. ► aesthetic ➔ a rage that you can never quite tame, hand broken from too many punches, the green of fresh cut grass, car mileage piling up, miles and miles and miles left to go, bashful smiles and reddened skin. kid, you’re not nearly as bad as you think you are. ► motto ➔ “i blame scott.” ► theme song ➔ dr. whoever by aminé.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟕.     ›     lydia charlene martin.

► hobbies ➔ sewing clothes, throwing parties, picking up new languages, ruling the world, saving this pack from falling apart, doing everything in this goddamn house! ► social media handles ➔ queenlydia, but who’s surprised? ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ convention meets creativity in lydia’s phone. everyone has their first name, with a lord/lady/duke/duchess/etc. attached to it. jackson is the only one with king, obviously. you know you’re in trouble when she attaches peasant to your name. good luck climbing your way back up the ladder. ► favorite color ➔ pink. ► favorite video game ➔ not to be controversial, but dead by daylight is that bitch. ► favorite song ➔ honey by kesha. ► favorite scent ➔ strawberries. ► favorite band/artist ➔ kesha. ► favorite place to be ➔ in jackson’s arms, she is not taking that back. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ throne and jackson are tied. ► favorite meme ➔ why are you booing me? i’m right! ► if they were an animal ➔ swan. ► if they were a color ➔ purple. royalty is not a game, kids. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ not a vine or tiktok, but yes, it’s me 💅🏽 & you guys are mad about it ohmygod i make y’all feel that 🤢 well, i just wanted to pop up here & show y'all how i'm doing ! i'm doing great. i'm looking great, i'm feeling great, y'know 💇🏽 i'm obviously over here very booked & busy, while you bitches over here are still looking raggedy & not doing shit ! hahaha ! WOW ! 💁🏽 but anyway, um, i just wanted to let y'all know i'm not going anywhere. so talk your shit, you shitholes ! you can't defeat a bad bitch ! you just cannot do that ! i rise above that ! EW 🤮 so i just wanted to say hey ! & that i'm here to stayyy ! & you gon' be mad everydayyy ! HAHAHA ! SUCCESS ! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ paper rings. ► aesthetic ➔ a crown that fits just perfect, newly manicured nails, breakfasts at tiffany’s and on decorated balconies, the picture on the altar, damp curls and loose braids, tight dresses and sinful heels, brave but never fearless. ► motto ➔ “i’m lydia fucking martin.” ► theme song ➔ okay, okay by alessia cara.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖.     ›     scott lucas mccall.

► hobbies ➔ video games! he also likes helping the pack renovate whenever they decide to. though he has put fiona on a limit. after she redesigned her room five times in two weeks, he finally had to put his foot down. ► social media handles ➔ he is the most disorganized of the bunch. he’s scootermccall on snapchat, scottymccall on instagram, scotthewmccall on twitter because he’s weak for whatever fiona asks. it’s a mess, but he’s not changing. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, but with lots of emojis to show he cares. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ he wants to say mario kart, because that’s his and lucy’s thing and, um, he’s in love with her. but other than that! life is strange. he hasn’t figured out how to win yet, but gosh dammit, that’s not going to stop him from trying.  ► favorite song ➔ dna by lia marie johnson. ► favorite scent ➔ lucy’s perfume! ► favorite band/artist ➔ panic! at the disco. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the vet! he’s so happy when he’s around animals and it feels good to know that he’s helping these animals get better? ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ lucy. ► favorite meme ➔ i’ll be honest, i can’t read. ► if they were an animal ➔ golden retriever. ► if they were a color ➔ yellow. speaks for itself. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i had an essay that was due at 11:59. instead of being a smart, responsible student, i decided to wait until 11:40 .... to START my essay. i finished the essay on time. but the gag is............. it was a five-page essay. and i got it done in sixteen minutes. *dancing* they gon’ hate me regardless, that’s why i do what i do ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ state of grace. ► aesthetic ➔ a lighthouse drawing in the lost, the open door of a sunken ship, wrongly buttoned plaid shirts, clumsy fingers and stumbling feet, saddened eyes that follow healing hands, the suspension of disbelief ––– whatever that means. ► motto ➔ “everything will work out!” ► theme song ➔ only the young by taylor swift.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟗.     ›     tatum coretta bellfleur.

► hobbies ➔ nanotech mechanics! she learned as a way to make things for owen and amari that they couldn’t afford to buy. won a few competitions, got a few scholarships, got into programs that taught her how to do greater things than she’d ever imagined. took up baton twirling at devenford, but gave it up when she got to college. fiona is trying to convince her take it up again next year. ► social media handles ➔ she’s tatertot on everything, courtesy of one judith mayer. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. keep it simple, thanks. ► favorite color ➔ silver! it’s so pretty. ► favorite video game ➔ death stranding. no, she will not elaborate. ► favorite song ➔ mo money mo problems by notorious b.i.g.  ► favorite scent ➔ flowers! ► favorite band/artist ➔ tupac. yes, she is that bitch. ► favorite place to be ➔ her lab. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ free. ► favorite meme ➔ you know i had to do it to ‘em. ► if they were an animal ➔ doe. ► if they were a color ➔ white. no matter how much she hates being protected, she’s the picture of purity. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *sitting in front of a mirror.* maybe.......... i’m the problem 🤨 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ out of the woods. ► aesthetic ➔ a blanket of snow covering the grime and pain of yesterday, contained explosions and soft humming, tight ponytails breaking cheap rubber bands, tongue poking out the side of your mouth, the sun peeking through the slits of your blinds, wondering where you’ve been these last couple’a days. ► motto ➔ “i’ve lived through this before, i’ll live through it again.” ► theme song ➔ 100 years by florence and the machine.

[navigatorkyle]

A Day in the Life

War has changed. In the 33 years since the first rulebook for Warhammer 40k was released, the rules of engagement have undergone countless iterations of revision and rewriting. Today, players use the 8th edition rulebook: hitherto the most beginner-friendly and accessible version of the game. Simply talking about the game is not enough to capture its appeal, so I decided to venture out and transcribe the events of a game with a friend, in a time-honored tradition of recording the results of matches, called 'battle reports.'

Battle Report: The Ether Conflict

In the Northwestern corner of the galaxy, at the fringes of human space, renegade factions battle each other for resources. Raiders harass supply lines, fortresses are built and destroyed, and fleets slink about, searching for ripe targets. Traitors to the empire of humankind, these lawless vagabonds are collectively known as the followers of Chaos- but they are anything but united. Today, two factions prepare to do battle for one reason or another. Ian Cushman has brought to the table the vile Death Guard, a faction dedicated to the worship of a god of disease, who are just so happy to get the whole galaxy sick. I have decided to command the Gravewalkers, a group of sorcerers with the capacity to raise the dead to serve them.

After a beer and a chat about the backstory of the match, Ian and I set up the table. 40K regulation tables should be 6 feet long by 4 feet wide, and festooned with all sorts of terrain. We use home made cardboard buildings, and various bits of 3d-printed goodies like tank traps, concrete barricades complete with ragged bullet holes, and decrepit squat buildings. A good board will feature lots of large terrain pieces to block line of sight so that armies with a lot of long-range firepower won't dominate the match. The goal is the arrange the board so you can't see from one side to the other. Once the sprawling, ruined cityscape of a board is arranged, the game type can be selected. There are a great many ways to play the game: one can set up objectives that need to be taken and held, points can be gained from destroying enemy units, the list goes on. There are even decks of objective cards for each faction that can be employed to add an element of randomness- high command could issue you an order to hunt down the enemy one , then turn around and tell you to sit tight and hold your gains the next. Ian and I settled for a mission called “The Relic,” which is essentially capture the flag. We set up a little piece of 3d printed plastic in the middle- a miniature arcade cabinet our mutual friend Graham printed for fun. Our armies will battle to get into contact with the arcade cabinet, and whoever is in possession of it by round 5 wins.

Before we settle in for the game, I carefully consider my options. Ian's army is slow and ponderous, but incredibly durable. He has a strong artillery contingent which can hang back and belt out awesome firepower, but if approached at close range it becomes useless. Furthermore, his line infantry consist of mobs of mindless zombies, which excel at distracting and bogging down more important units in fruitless melee. His army, in a nutshell, is an anvil. It relies on absorbing punishment effectively, and wearing the enemy down slowly. My army is quite the opposite. My units lack the resilience of the Death Guard, trading defense for lightning-fast offense. I've forgone artillery in favor of monstrous, close-range cavalry. My infantry are fragile, but pump out a lot of mid-range damage. If I'm to win, I must take care not to let my important units get tied up before they can shut down his artillery, and I should ensure my troops remain intact long enough to make off with the arcade cabinet.

After some more idle chatter, we set up on either of the long table edges, and fetch the only essential tools of the game: dice and measuring tapes. Distance in the game is measured with inches, and so having a measuring device longer than a foot is imperative. Furthermore, everything else is decided with dice rolls, and so having a lot of dice on hand is a good idea. It's bad luck to hold onto a set of dice for longer than one edition of the rules, but they're very cheap and so replacing them isn't bad. Ian and I finish up the first round in short order, and the board changes significantly.

Each player gets one turn per round, and each player turn consists of a movement phase, where you move all your troops, a psychic phase, where all the magic literally happens, a shooting phase, where you can fire any ranged weapons you have, a charge phase, where melee units get to grips with the foe, and a fight phase, where models duke it out in close quarters with sword and rifle butt. I had gone first, as settled by dice roll. Lacking long-range options, my turn was simple- monster and mercenary alike moved as quick as they could, forgoing shooting, toward the enemy. I had to ensure as much of my army as possible closed with the enemy, or I'd be whittled down before I could secure the arcade cabinet. Ian's turn was more lengthy, setting up fields of fire for his artillery, and organizing his cannon fodder to better defend against a charge from my monstrous, beast-like war machines. A few cursory shells were fired off, but my machines shrugged off the damage.

Round two begins, and I'm just able to slip my heavy armor past the tar pit of misshapen zombies, but it'll be a turn yet before Ian's big guns are silenced. My sole sorcerer bolsters the defenses of my infantry, to hopefully prevent them from being removed before they can attain the relic next round. Finally, some firepower is exchanged between my infantry and Ian's, and the number of grunts on the board is shaved down. In his turn, Ian responds with a brutal barrage, his cannons removing one of my three war machines and cutting down a number of fodder infantry, while shuffling closer to the objective. I'll now have to consider spending firepower to delete the zombies before it's safe to move in and snag the arcade machine.

Round three makes things considerably bloodier. My monstrous machine-beasts make contact with the enemy back line, but his heavy infantry are far enough up the board to affect the battle. Troops engage in melee in the center of the board, in between buildings and around the central objective. I'm at a disadvantage here, the enemy should have been cleared from the area. I'd underestimated my opponent's resilience, or overestimated my dice luck. Despite being on the back foot tactically, I'm looking forward to a potentially interesting situation, wherein his commander unit and mine look to be about to brawl on the right flank, between my war engines and the rest of my army. His commander is superior, statistically, and on paper he would win a duel. But I won't back down- fortune favors the bold, and glory isn't earned through cowardice.

Come round four, the game is mostly decided. My war machines managed to bring down the artillery, but the zombies looped around and caught up to them, rendering them too bogged down with fodder to help my main force. Ian's victorious commander and his elite bodyguard rip through my infantry with ease, deleting my sorcerer and neutering my ability to coherently resist. Ian and I shake hands, and we share another beer over discussion of what we could have done differently, or what units might have been better to take. In essence, I'd lost sight of the bigger picture- the objective. I'd been too busy hunting down problem units to protect my own means of securing the victory. Furthermore, I had underestimated the sheer resilience of the Death Guard. A tactical maxim of tabletop wargames goes something like “Shoot what you can kill.” I'd failed to target those units I was likely to remove in one go, and suffered for it.

The depth of strategy for games like this is astounding, and this game could have gone any number of ways had I made a different minute decision for each trooper in my army. The endless replayability of the game draws me back every weekend, to test my mettle against friends in a galaxy rife with conflict.

[semblanche]

Neeks and Four Leaf! Sleepy Son and Twister!

They've been walking so long. They've been walking so long, and Neeks is so tired.

He'd be tired anyway, no matter how long they walked, no matter how far. But today is worse. Every day is worse. His knee throbs beneath him, burns like someone lit a match under his skin. The bone itself feels seconds away from splintering.

He leans against his cane and sighs, a shaky breath that hisses like steam through clenched teeth. They're in an alley, that much he can see, but - are they safe? Can they stop here for the night? His knee screams yes, but -

"Are we there yet?" Four Leaf asks, one arm slung around Neeks's shoulder. His words are slurred, eyes half closed. The extra weight definitely isn't doing any favors to Neeks's less than stable knee, but Neeks would sooner cut the whole thing off than shrug Four Leaf away.

He moves so Four Leaf can lean on him better. His knee flares in protest, but he ignores it, running his fingers carefully through the thick golden curls.

"We're not going anywhere, honey," he says.

Four Leaf frowns, eyes shifting to focus on him blearily. "What about mom and dad?"

"They kicked us out, honey."

Four Leaf frowns again, nose scrunched as if trying to remember, then gives up. "I'm tired," he says plaintively.

Neeks runs a hand through his hair again, taking care so that the honey gold strands won't get caught in his rings. "You just woke up."

"I did?"

"Five minutes ago."

Four Leaf once again falls silent, lost in thought. Or maybe sleep. Neeks lets him and scours the area again, taking in their surroundings with a grain of salt. Six trash cans (good for hiding), two seemingly empty garbage bags (in case it gets cold), an empty brick wall (unmarked gang territory)...

"I'm sorry," Four Leaf says, and Neeks blinks down at him, startled.

"What do you have to be sorry about?" he says. "It's not your fault my mother is batshit insane and we don't have a place to stay."

Four Leaf winces a little at that, but doesn't refute it. She's both their mother, technically, the shared force linking them with a thin strand of blood and tissue, but it's also clear that Four Leaf has gotten nothing from her except his name.

("Four Leaf," their mother had cooed, cradling the small bundle in her arms like she never wanted to let go. "My lucky little four leaf clover."

It was before she'd stabbed Neeks in the knee and their father had suggested, sheepishly, that maybe they find some place else to stay a while.)

Neeks looks like her. They both know it. Dark eyes like olive pits, dark hair like tar. Even when he smiles, it shares the same lazy tilt to it that drives the boys insane. He likes to thinks he's made it all his own. His mirror begs to differ.

"It's my fault we're so slow," Four Leaf says, jolting him out of his troubled introspection. "You'd travel faster without me."

"A nice thought," Neeks says, nodding at his knee. "Once again ruined by my lovely mère."

"I'm always sleeping." The words are spoken through a yawn, only pieced together through Neeks's force of habit. He laughs. He can't help it.

"I'm fucking crippled. Who am I to judge?"

"I'm not there when you get in a fight."

"I don't fight." A wink. "I love."

Four Leaf's eyes are drooping now, his body growing heavier on Neeks's shoulder, but still he strains to stay awake, to finish what he started. Neeks's hand in his hair is probably not helping, but he makes no move to push it away.

"I'm never - there for you," he says. "Half the time, you're ... alone."

"I'm not alone," Neeks says sharply. He abruptly straightens up, stopping Four Leaf's half limp form from crumpling on the ground. His knee, temporarily soothed to a dull throb, flares up again, sending spikes of pain shooting through it like stars. He bites his tongue just hard enough to drown it out. "I'm not alone, and I don't want you saying that ever again. I don't give a shit if you're asleep half the time. You're the only thing keeping me sane the other half - and God knows I need that. I don't want you saying that shit again, alright?"

"'m sorry," Four Leaf says, a yawn biting into his words.

Neeks just shakes his head. The sun is setting soon, and he knows they need to catch it before it's gone completely. This alley might have to be their home for the night.

He sets himself down carefully, teeth still digging into his tongue as his knee sparks in agony, and then pulls Four Leaf down with him, nudging his head onto his shoulder. Four Leaf lets him, a puppet in his hands. It almost gives Neeks chills.

"I'm not alone," he repeats. "And neither are you. Alright? We're one fucking mess of a pair, but we're here, and we've got each other's backs. Okay? Four Leaf?"

"Mmm," Four Leaf says, and his eyes are closed. Neeks shakes his head again.

"Sleep well," he says, half rueful, half fond. Four Leaf hums a note that could be a thank you, love you, or even a you too. Neeks's guess is as good as any.

Above them, the sun has slipped down behind a building, just a faint halo of red against a sky of gold. Four Leaf's hair shines in its light. Neeks toys with it absently.

You're alone, the sky sings. You're alone.

Sleep well, he thinks back. Sleep well.

[667-darkavenue]

pressurized (part two.)

Catra/Adora | (part one.)

“Today just keeps getting better.”

“Hang on, I saw a flashlight,” Adora mumbles in the dark.

She scoots along the edge of her seat and feels around for the excursion kit she first opened. It takes a while, but she eventually manages to fumble it open and seek out the familiar shape of a flashlight. Adora flicks the switch and the beam shines directly at Catra, who hisses and flings an arm across her eyes.

“Whoops! Didn’t see you there. Obviously.”

“Okay. Adora, get up.” “Uh, why?”

“You’re sitting on something I need, just switch with me.”

Adora complies, pivoting over to sit on the other crate while Catra drops to her knees in front of the box with the parachutey thing. She leans forward to watch, holding the flashlight with the beam pointing upward. The cockpit is so small that this narrow beam alone does a half-decent job at dimly illuminating the area.

Catra gives her a dry look. “You gonna point that over here and help or are you gonna tell me the story of the Weeping Princess?”

There’s couple seconds of confusion before Adora realizes what she means. The beam from below must be lighting her the way Lonnie held a flashlight beneath her chin when she told ghost stories at night.

She points the flashlight to the crate and suggests with a snort, “I have lots of new princess stories you’ve never even heard of. They’re super different from the ones we had. A nice, non-spooky variety.”

Catra opens the crate with a disinterested hum.

“There’s this one I just can’t get out of my head... It takes place way before the Princess Alliance was formed, when the realms were still establishing themselves. These two neighboring princesses, Melodiance and Lumina, were at war over—”

“Adora, this is so fucking boring.”

“No, shh, you’ll like this one—”

“Does a princess die?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Okay, fine. Go.”

“Ugh, you made me ruin the ending!”

“Tragic.”

“It is! Basically, the two princesses meet for the first time on the battlefield. Melodiance stabbed her enemy and secured the victory, but…”

The word ‘stabbed’ actually gets Catra to look up from what she’s doing and pay attention. Adora makes sure to put a little extra ‘oomph’ in her retelling, going out of her way for dramatic pauses in all the right places.

“The moment Lumina collapsed into her arms, Melodiance said she saw a kindred spirit—another brave kid, proud and driven for glory. But Melodiance was so absorbed in proving herself that she realized it one crucial moment too late. She never married and spent the rest of her life writing about Lumina. Even though her reign was hundreds of years ago, her realm today is still packed with more monuments and memorials to Princess Lumina than to anyone who actually ruled.”

Catra laughs quietly, a little huff of breath through her nose. “You think I’d put up a statue of you?”

“That was not the point of the story.”

“It’s the point you ended on. A statue’s a little much, but I guess I could be generous when I tell your story for the princess books.”

Adora rolls her eyes, an action that surprisingly ticks Catra off during a moment Adora’s been assuming to be playful.

She prickles, ears pointing back. “What, you don’t think I could be a kind ruler?”

Adora has an answer she’s pretty sure Catra doesn’t want to hear. A long silence stretches between them.

It ends with Catra clicking her tongue. “I could be as fair as any princess alliance.”

“Then act like it.”

Catra gives her a look that’s disturbingly familiar and triggers some kind of flight-or-fight response at the back of Adora’s mind. It’s the look that suggests she understands something Adora doesn’t.

Whatever it is she knows, she keeps to herself. All Catra says in return is, “Hey, they killed their own kind on the battlefield.”

“That was not the point of the story.” Adora’s gaze floats down to what Catra’s taking out of the crate and she raises an eyebrow. “What’s that for?”

“This,” she unzips the front of the hazmat suit, “is the only way out of here.”

It looks sort of like a old space suit. Or sort of like something that belonged an old deep sea diver. Knowing Entrapta, she may have cobbled it together from a frankenstein mix of both things and any number of other things Adora wouldn’t even identify.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s the only thing in here that can handle a little tar.” Catra shuts the crate’s lid again and drapes the suit over it. She tucks the helmet under one arm.

A chill drops like an ice cube running down Adora’s spine. “There’s only one.”

Catra looks her dead in the eye. “Yeah.”

She swallows hard, the inside of her throat suddenly feeling full of cotton. A spike of panic rises behind her ribcage, followed by a sharp drop of regret. After all they’ve been through, they’re going to kill each other over a fucking suit? Adora’s adrenaline pulses, preparing for another fight like the one when she first jumped in this tank. One with no interruption this time.

Then Catra adds, simple and sharp, “So, get in.”

The complete certainty in her stare shakes Adora to her core. “What…?”

“Put the suit on, stupid.”

“But,” Adora looks at the hatch, then up at the black windshield. “If one of us tries to open that hatch, the tank fills with tar, stupid.”

“You said you could push through it as She-Ra.”

“I mean, probably. Still, you can’t survive long enough for me—or, I guess, the Horde—to come back.”

Catra narrows her eyes. “Yeah, no duh. And how long can we keep re-breathing the same air in here before we both pass out and die? We’re not in a bunker. There’s a real short time limit to how long we can stay here.”

Adora hadn’t thought of that. They need to conserve air. She’s conscious of every breath, suddenly. She tries to hold her next inhale in just a few seconds longer before letting it out in a measured exhale. She can’t concentrate on this enough to keep it up while her mind scrambles for a quick fix. The flashlight’s beam roves wildly around the dark cockpit.

It does a double take over the compressor tank that caused the nasty bruise on her forehead. “There’s the huge air tank! Set it up and we’ll take turns breathing.”

Catra barely reacts to the revelation. “That’s not oxygen.”

“What?”

“This,” Catra shakes the suit’s sleeve to demonstrate, “is a HAB suit.”

“Um, what’s—”

“High-altitude balloon. Entrapta sends ‘em up for some kind of research. That’s the helium tank.”

Adora shakes her head. “Okay—Doesn’t matter.” She must look like Light Hope when she’s stuck on a loop, because she can’t seem to stop shaking her head. “No. I’m not—I’m not gonna—I can’t just—”

Catra lets out a long exhale that sounds a lot like a prayer for patience.

“You got my permission this time. You can go, for the sake of saving the world, or whatever.” The way she says it is stilted, each word painfully and reluctantly plucked out of her.

“If you cared so much about saving the world, why haven’t you been on my side?” Adora’s voice rises, not even trying to downplay her distress anymore.

“I don’t, okay! I don’t care. People suck and the world’s still gonna suck whether the Horde or the Princesses are in charge.” Catra’s arms cross over her chest. “Only reason I got so invested was to make a point. A point that becomes worthless if you die in a tank at the bottom of a tar pit.”

“You said your plan was to kill me.”

“Not like this.”

“More like…” Adora’s fingers reach out to brush their knuckles against Catra’s hand. “Melodiance?”

“Shut up.”

Beneath the grazing touch, Adora feels her hand unclench its grip around her own bicep. She takes the opportunity to slip her fingers underneath Catra’s. Catra lets Adora gently pull her hand away to hold it against her chest.

“Let me be the hero I’m supposed to be and you put the suit on,” Adora whispers, pleading.

Catra’s mouth twists and her brows furrow. “Yeah, and what about your big mission? Saving the princesses?”

“It doesn’t have to be me.” She clutches Catra’s palm between two trembling hands. “If I’m not there for you to go against, what will stop you from making the right choices?”

“Oh, Adora. You always think the world revolves around you.” Catra’s hand comes up to hook around Adora’s neck and slowly shift up the back of her head. “But you are, unfortunately, the one literally destined to save the princesses.”

“But you—Why are you doing this now?”

“The world’s bigger than the two of us. I can’t be the only person you look out for.”

Having her own words thrown back in her face like this cracks Adora’s resolve. The levee breaks and the tears well up. It’s a cruel wonder for this to be the time and place Catra takes her words to heart.

Catra goes on, “I already told you I don’t actually care what happens to the stupid princesses. I don’t even really care what happens to the Horde anymore. Maybe I want Hordak to eat shit.”

Adora nearly asks, What do you care about, then?

On second thought, the answer is obvious.

Catra’s fingers wind around Adora’s ponytail and use it to pull her forward. Their foreheads touch. Their eyes lock.There’s something secret, something heart-vexing, in Catra’s gaze. Adora hasn’t seen this look since they separated. They haven’t held each other in so long. They stay like this for a while, close enough that their eyelashes brush against the sides of each other’s noses. Bow calls that butterfly kisses.

Catra’s right, Adora realizes in a terrible lightning strike of self-honesty. She can’t do this to Bow. She can’t do this Glimmer. There are so many people counting on her to fix everything. People she cares about more than anything in the world. Yesterday, she was training to kill Catra.

Adora doesn’t need to speak it. Catra seems to have understood it long before she did. Catra’s the first to pull away from the embrace. She gets Adora to step into the suit. Helps her put it on. Zips her up, pulls her gloves on, hands her the helmet.

Blue eyes, still rimmed with shimmering tears that refuse to spill, stare down at it. “I can’t do this.”

Catra takes her face in both hands.

“Hey.” She forces Adora’s chin up. “Yeah, you will. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not, really.” Catra holds her face still for the kiss she presses to her lips.

Adora makes a soft, wounded noise in the back of her throat.

“Okay,” Catra pulls away, panting—Almost sniffling? “C’mon, it’s time. Put that on.”

“Wait.”

“You can’t keep waiting.” Catra takes the helmet from Adora and attempts to put it on herself.

Adora bats it away. “Seriously, stop!”

The abrupt shout alarms Catra enough for her to actually pull back.

Gloved hands fumble with the suit, fighting to tear it off. “Take this—Get this off me—”

Catra stands still. “What is it?”

“The balloon! We have a giant balloon.” Adora’s out of breath, struggling to peel the gloves off without any help.

“Okay?”

“We—listen—We tape the bottom of the balloon around the hatch—and we fill the cockpit up with helium—”

“The balloon’s not big enough to float an entire war tank out of a tar pit.”

Adora grabs Catra by the arms. “It’ll make a little tunnel through the tar for us. We just need to hold our breath and crawl along the bottom.”

“That… Huh.” She watches hope dawn on Catra’s previously resigned expression. It’s beautiful. “We can do that.”

Catra swings around and flings open the HAB crate. Adora takes a minute to get out of the rest of the suit before bolting to the excursion kit and snatching the roll of black tape.

“Can’t believe I didn’t think of this,” Catra mutters to herself as they tape down the rim of the balloon all around the hatch door.

Adora snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause it was, like, so obvious.”

Together, they heave the helium tank beneath the balloon. Catra takes a deep breath and plugs her nose while Adora twists the handle to open up the flow all the way. The gas spills out with a loud hiss. Next, she drags the discarded HAB suit over to her and reaches inside for the gas mask. Adora holds the mouthpiece up to her face and—”Ouch!”

She cringes at the flare of pain when it touches against the gash across her nose. Holding it in front of her more gingerly this time, she takes a deep inhale. Exhales. Inhales, and holds it. She beckons Catra over and passes her the mask. Catra does the same. Inhales, exhales. Inhales, holds it, and passes the mask to Adora.

While Adora breathes, Catra crawls back beneath the balloon. It’s like disappearing behind a curtain. Adora hears the latch click. Catra grunts and metal creaks. In the next instant, the balloon is seemingly sucked up and out of the tank’s open hatch. Catra stands at the door, blinking in astonishment.

“Can’t believe that worked,” she says, but in the voice of a chipmunk.

Adora laughs, but the sound also comes out like a high pitched series of squeaks. It makes Catra laugh, just as high pitched, and now they’re stuck in a terrible feedback loop. Perhaps a little intoxicated with hope, they both share one last breath on the mask before they suffocate on helium. Adora, still in a giggle fit, struggles to hold that breath in.

Catra crawls out first, flashlight in hand. Adora follows, leaving the helium tank spilling behind them. Crawling inside the balloon isn’t at all like the fun play-tunnel experience she imagined. It’s more like being inside a water-wiggler toy. It’s squishy and warm on all sides, sort of collapsing around her. Feels gross, actually. Doesn’t smell awesome either.

Adora drags herself forward on her elbows, following the circle of light dancing ahead of her and the occasionally swish of Catra’s tail across her face. She can’t tell direction which direction they’re going in the pitch black balloon. Adora hopes they’re crawling along the floor of the pit and not like… up vertically, or else at the end of this they will find themselves still stuck in the middle of the tar pit.

The balloon seems to collapse more heavily around them the further they push forward. She hears Catra grunting as she tries to squeeze through the crushing pressure of tar all around her. Adora can’t even help push her, she’s stuck trying to wriggle herself forward. The water-wiggler experience turned into something more like seriously tight-space spelunking.

Out on the surface, the tar pit bubbles, seemingly undisturbed. A particularly large bubble rises up along the shoreline, then pops. A sword bursts through one side, a clawed hand on the other. Adora and Catra haul themselves out from the end of balloon, sweating and heaving.

They drag themselves a couple feet out over the soil and collapse at the edge of the Whispering Woods. Adora rolls onto her back, catching her breath. Daylight is painfully bright after the past hour or so of darkness, but she forces her eyes to stare up at the blue sky and white clouds. In a moment of bliss, her hand finds Catra’s and squeezes it.

“There you are!”

They both jolt upright at the shout from within the trees. Oh, no.

Branches rustle and a familiar face barrels out of the bushes. Scorpia runs at them with so much concentrated force that Adora reflexively braces herself for a tackle, fully expecting to be slammed to the dirt. That’s not what happens.

Instead, she swoops Catra off the ground and spins her around, hugging tight. “Iwasfreakingout, youhavenoidea!”

“Agh!” Catra tries to squirm out of the hug, but Scorpia seems way too adept at the art of hanging on.

“I followed your tracker and the location was in the middle of the Torpid Tar Pit!” She does set Catra back down, but only so she can use her free hand to point at Adora. “I thought this one threw you in!”

“She sorta did.”

“You wear a tracker?” Adora laughs. “What’s next, a collar?”

“Shut up, Adora.”

“Yeah, Adora,” Scorpia helpfully supplies. “The Horde search team I called will be here any minute now.”

Adora doesn’t wait for Catra’s permission to go this time. She hisses, “Fuck,” beneath her breath and darts into the trees without looking back. Scorpia lunges after her, but Catra’s arm across her chest stops her.

“She’s getting away. Again.”

“Just leave it. Don’t tell anyone she was here.”

“But—” She starts, then falters.

“Scorpia. I need you not to tell anyone she got away, so that I won’t have trouble.”

She’s already nodding before Catra finishes the sentence. “Well, yeah.”

“Cool.” Catra turns her face to stare at a nearby thornbush.

Scorpia’s been pretty good at keeping her mouth shut about momentary lapses in judgment when it comes to Adora. She’s lucky for that.

“Oh, wildcat,” Scorpia sighs, “you keep falling into the same old velvet ditches left and right.”

Catra’s sharp eyes snap to her. “Velvet what did you say?”

“A velvet ditch,” she repeats. “You know, a low place you fall into and don’t try to climb out of. Because you’re so comfortable there. It’s what my mom calls the Fright Zone.”

“I don’t fall into anything—Why’d you say ditches? Like I have more than one?”

“I think you do. But that’s okay. I’ll lend you a hand when you’re ready to climb out again. And I’ll help wash that tar off your arms.” With a spark of excitement in her eyes she adds, “It’ll probably take a while.”

Another thing Catra’s lucky for, is that Scorpia tells her the truth.

END.

[veridium]

Letters between Cassandra and Olivia

A collection of correspondences between Seeker Pentaghast and Olivia Sinclair, transferred and accounted for via Inquisition Scouts during the Inquisitor’s stationing in the Exalted Plains: 

Olivia,

It is strange to think I have someone to write to simply for the sake of writing and not reporting from the front lines. My instinct is to debrief you on the logistics of our travels, the intelligence gathered from Leliana’s people, or recount the possible dangers we have yet to face. It has only been a day since we set foot on our camp, and our initial explorations have left us less than optimistic. 

Rest assured that everything you sent along with me is safe and stored beside my cot or somewhere more appropriate. I have also taken note of your list of samples you wish to be passed along to the Scouts for gathering. 

If and when you do respond to this letter, do me a favor and tell me of lighthearted things. When we are out on the front lines, it is easy to forget life has simple pleasures and joys. I know you would be the best voice to ask for such a reprieve. 

My kindest and most sincerest regards, 

C. Pentaghast

--

Dearest Cassandra,

You cannot imagine the happiness receiving your letter brought to my heart. Clara and Felicity will not stop teasing me about how I seemed to jump down from the top flight of stairs in the tower to meet the messenger. I am relieved to know you have made it safely to your destination and have began the work you must do. 

Your heavy words seem fatigued -- I hope you are taking time to rest your mind and body. I will gladly do as you request, and speak of happy things. Here is an itemized list, since I know you appreciate conciseness:

1. Dorian and I had some great fun out testing my fire neutralizing powders. He seems to take joy in practicing. I doused an entire straw man in the stuff and it only slightly smoked when he attempted to set it aflame! Progress, progress, progress.

2. Josephine and I have agreed to secure shipments of pastries from the Capitol using a connection I have to a seller in the city. In exchange, I have access to the funds I need for more research.

3. I sleep in your bed almost every night, and rub myself all over the sheets and pillows with my tossing and turning. You won’t be able to escape my perfumes forever, I’m afraid.

4. Yesterday, I snorted when I laughed at a joke Veronica made. I haven’t done that in ages. 

My darling, I know you have a great deal to do, so I won’t keep you long. Just know you are wonderful, and I miss you with each aching day. Be careful, and do right by your conscience as best you can. 

Love, Olivia

--

Olivia,

Thank you for responding. It is a comfort to know you are better and more timely with such things than your friend, the Inquisitor, is. Your list brought me great solace, even the part where Dorian was entrusted with something haphazard. That must speak to just how bleak our time here has been. 

The splintering impact of the Freeman of the Dales and the Venatori have caused rampant discord here amidst the Civil War. Between the pyre pits guarded by Arcane demons, skirmishes with bandits and rebels, and resolving the fade rifts, it has hardly been a linear progression. The Inquisitor is tiring, not just from this mission, but from everything. We all are, even as we try to hide it.

You must forgive me, I am not the best or most eloquent writer. I am sure I sound less hopeful than I wish to be. 

Do not worry about sleeping in my bed, or taking up space. It only makes me wish you could be here to threaten me with your dares in person. Be safe and take precautions in your work, please. I wish to see you in one piece when I return. 

Kindest regards, 

C. Pentaghast

[READ MORE BELOW THE LINE]

--

Dearest Cassandra,

I have read your letter and also the corresponding reports from the front -- Leliana had made a copy for me so that I may provide any and all expertise on what you are going up against. I am afraid that I, along with most of the other Mages, are rather aggravated with the Venatori scum capitalizing on magic and the Arcane in order to cause violence and chaos. 

I am in collaboration with the Apothecary supplier to ensure you all have what you need. I am told we are also assisting restocking efforts for the Imperial army.

The tar traps are still in experimental stages but since Theia is there, I trust her to be able to utilize them around your encampments. They would provide another line of defense, something I know you can never have enough of. 

It saddens me to speak more of work than of personal matters. I know you must read more than your fair share of these kinds of correspondences. 

I wish I could kiss you

I hope you are safe and caring for your needs. You only have one body and mind, and they are precious to more people than just you. Take care, darling. 

Love, Olivia

P.S. Please tell Varric I am sending the wood oil in the next shipment of supplies, and give him my apologies for the delay. Bianca is a special patron, after all. 

--

Olivia, 

I keep telling myself to be more affectionate and personable in my letters, but somehow I always relent to my typical disposition. Forgive me for not being more artistic. Your letters bring me great comfort and respite from the long days in the heat and stagnation of the Plains. This region feels like a festering and aching wound, and it pains me to feel slightly responsible for its suffering. 

Today, we made contact with the Dalish clan reported to have been camped nearby. The Inquisitor was most diplomatic and cordial; she has always been so where elves have been involved. The moment was short-lived, however, as she and Solas were forced to neutralize a demon whom Solas once knew from his travels in the Fade. The resulting conflict was rather gruesome, and Solas has left us, presumably to mourn. We have no idea as to whether he will return.

Until then, we have sent word to have Madame Vivienne sent here to join us in his stead. 

Varric was most overjoyed when I told him your news. He is very fond of you, as is most everyone else; you seem to have softened up the entire Inquisition to your charms. It is a wonder that you chose me out of all the people you now have wrapped around your finger. Perhaps you should rethink your decision.

That was meant to be a joke. I am not the best at those -- please do not take it sincerely and find someone else to be with.

I should probably end this letter now, before I inadvertently ruin the one positive aspect of my life. Be careful, Olivia. Maker be with you.

C. Pentaghast

--

Dearest Cassandra, 

I wish you wouldn’t fret so much about your choice of words or topics in your letters; it brings me joy to read anything you write, regardless. You forget just what a privilege it is to be able to receive word from you, what with all you have to face. I consider it a blessing.

Theia has always been an egalitarian soul. It was one of the most admirable parts of who she was when we first met. I trust she is leading you well, and that progress is slowly taking shape. 

Your compliments flatter me -- I cannot say that I do anything of particular skill, besides show kindness and consideration to those around me. It seems those qualities are of exorbitant worth in these trying times. Although, I must say, it does grow tiring when you do not receive in the same quantities you give. Even just the other day, a grumpy soldier spat at the ground as I and another young woman walked by, cursing that if it weren’t for mage rebels like us, the world would be in better shape for the task at hand.

I hope you do not worry for my safety or happiness here, for they are both in abundant supply. It’s just a marvel to me how some people can cling to hatred even when such causes exist to unify us. It’s all silly, really, to adhere to prejudice like that. 

Times like these make me wish you were here to talk with, to refresh my faith in people’s ability to understand even if they cannot relate. Remember your talent for humbleness when you’re out there, especially when the idleness of men wears on your patience. We are all simply doing our best, us foolish mortals.

I miss you. I love you. Take care.

Love, Olivia. 

--

Olivia,

I appreciate your compassion and patience with me as I continue to refine my writing style. I admit, the more time passes, the more encouraged I am to be blunt and emotional with my words to you. I cannot decide if you would like me to be strong and confident, or honest. 

If I were to be strong and confident, I would tell you that we finally established all encampments, and that the regional fade rifts seem to be resolved for good. I would tell you that we have uncovered several sites of Elven ruins, and have been exploring them in order to understand what could possibly be empowering Corypheus. I would tell you of the most inconvenient bridge that we must return to ensure reconstruction.

But, if I were to be honest?

I would say that I miss you more than I expected to when we initially embarked. I cannot for the life of me explain why, considering we have been together for a relatively short time. I just feel as though nothing would bring me more happiness then getting to hold you, or wake up to stray strands of your long hair in my face. Waking up here is like waking up and sticking your bare hand in a bag of dagger blades. Your presence would be, as it always is, the one comfort that could make it bearable. 

We will be preparing to return to Skyhold soon, to see through the reconstruction projects. If I cannot fall asleep with you at my side, I can at least do so with the knowledge that it is in the somewhat near future. 

Please be safe, and know that I love you, even when I do not always show it in the ways I wish I could. Maker be with you.

C. Pentaghast

--

My Dearest,

Tonight I write this in a less-than cheerful attitude, and I apologize that I cannot be more uplifting with my words. Today, I learned that my cousin, one of my last known relatives whom I maintain connection with, passed away due to fever. I am so torn in my grief -- we haven’t seen each other since we were children, and yet, she always took the time to be kind to me in spare letters throughout the years. She was one of the few people I reached out to after I settled myself in Montsimmard. Mother does not even know where I am, and has not known for years now.

Life is so unfair to those who deserve nothing but justness and sweetness from it. I am at a loss for what to say, do, and feel. It makes me want to steal a horse from the stables and track you down, so that I may cry in your arms while you remain quiet and assured. Thankfully, Naomi is here, and knows how to be comforting in silence. I love Veronica, but sometimes, her love is too loud for me. 

Your love has always been the precisely right kind of volume I have needed. Oh, Cassandra, I am so upset with myself in missing you so. Your bed is a comfort, but it is not the real thing. It is not you, pulling me in one final time before you rise first in the morning, always first, while I sleep for another hour. It is not the way your skin feels to be held amidst the chill of the morning. It is not the way you kiss my neck when you’re half-asleep and craving my love. It is nothing like this, and thus is hollow in its solace. 

Hearing that you may yet return soon has allowed me to breathe a little more freely. I will eagerly await more news of it as the days wear on. 

I love you. I love you so much. Please return to me so that I may show you just what that means and looks like. 

Olivia

--

Olivia,

I send to you my sincerest condolences at the loss of your Cousin. Losing those we trust and love the most in this world is never easy, even if we have experience with its sourness. I trust that the Maker will protect her spirit and ensure that she knows true peace. She was fortunate to have such kind and genuine friendship with you.

Your words make me wish I could tear myself away from this cause, if only for a moment, to be simply yours and yours alone. There is so much I wish I could say and do to comfort you. Instead of fumbling with my ideas, I will simply say this: we depart for a return trip to Skyhold in two day’s time. The road will be long, but it will end eventually. 

When I have returned, I know I will be the same stoic person everyone knows me to be. However, I also know that for the first time, I will be returning to someone I love, someone who will deserve my uninhibited attention and devotion. I am overwhelmed thinking of how much you have changed my life in such a short time. 

Olivia, my love, take care of yourself. Take the time you need to grieve. Soon, I will be there to hold you, and everything else can wait.

All my love,

C. Pentaghast

[suffering-salutation]

You and them both reassured me nothing would happen. Both told me they were Asexual. Both said you wanted me to be okay. Now all i see is complete disregard for my well being and you both not noticing me spiraling more and more because you are blinded by eachothers love. You sre so happy and you deserve that. Im sorry it wasnt enough with me. Im sorry i fell apart. I know you guys will fuck and have already done everything else leading up to it. It hurts worse since i was told not to worry just for it to happen. I had a false sense of security and now i cant get the idea of both of you naked reliving the things we did when we first met. You say its not like im being replaced but every time i look you are looking at them, talking to them, and playing with them like we used to. Im shaking because as much as you deny it you're a goddamn liar. They're the new me and im the old model you keep around for reliability and safety but you dont wanna show me off. Why would you? Im ugly. Theyre sleek and new and shiny. You know ill never leave and you do love that im here for you but i would never be your choice if you had to pick. You will never let them go and you throw it in my face everytime that i couldve said no from the beginning and that wouldve been the end of it. I know. I know its all my fault. I know the dynamic changed because i thought i would be okay but when i wasnt okay. When i couldnt handle it. then what? No going back. I had my chance right? Im the fucking idiot that ruined everything. If i have a problem with things im the bad guy. This is the second most suicidal ive ever felt. I cant cope. I cant afford therapy. But if i die who will provide? I cant do that to you guys. I have to be strong like ive always had to be. I have to handle it on my own. Accept im alone. And that the bad only happens because i allow it to. I would never forgive myself if you guys split now because you both would never be happy again. How can i ruin the pure happiness for the ones i love? I cant. If my suffering allows you guys to be happy ill suffer. Ill get better at hiding it. You wont know til we are old and i die and maybe not even then. You would be broken if you guys didnt work out or if we didnt work out. Im stuck. I always will be and its my fault for stepping into the tar pit. Im gonna distract myself with anything i can to help deal with the lack of literally everything. Do you know why inside hit me so hard? Because i cant listen to anything without you two controlling my thoughts and inside has allowed me to feel like someone in the world understands a little bit the solitude i feel in my home. With my family. In my bed. This was a lot and probably doesnt make sense sorry for wasting your time.

[orbemnews]

As spring thaws the Minnesota ice, a new pipeline battle fires up Originally built in the 1960s, the Enbridge Line 3 crude oil pipeline snakes 1,097 miles from the tar sands of Canada to Superior, Wisconsin. Of the roughly 340 miles through Minnesota, the replacement pipeline includes new sections and added capacity and is cutting through some of the most pristine woods and wetlands in North America. In little camps along the way, a small-but-growing group of protesters is out to stop them, driven by ancient prophesy and the promises of a new President. In Ojibwe tribal lore, an environmental moment of reckoning was predicted in the time of the Seventh Fire, when “the light skinned race will be given a choice between two roads,” one green and lush, the other black and charred. A wrong choice, it was warned, would “cause much suffering and death to all the Earth’s people.” The Ojibwe are of the largest groups of Native Americans north of Mexico with tribal members stretching from present-day Ontario in eastern Canada all the way into Montana. As a half-dozen female tribal elders sing and pray alongside the frozen Mississippi, it’s obvious that for some bands, the fight is sacred and eternal. The question is how many will join them in the face of tougher legal challenges, increased pressure from police and the limits of the pandemic. “There have been over 130 people arrested so far in just the last few months,” tribal attorney and activist Tara Houska told CNN. Some are physically arrested at construction sites, but police also watch social media feeds to identify trespassing protesters and send summons in the mail. Before we walked the frozen river, Houska attended her hearing with a judge over Zoom and was ordered to post $6,000 bail. “They seem to think that it’s going to deter us from protecting the land. They are fundamentally missing the point of what water protectors are doing, which is willing to put ourselves our freedom, our bodies, our personal comfort on the line for something greater than ourselves,” Houska said. After living in Washington and fighting Dakota Access and Keystone XL, she is now hoping this movement helps convince the Biden administration that the Army Corps of Engineers and Environmental Protection Agency during the Trump administration were shoddy in their environmental impact studies and too hasty in issuing permits. But Canadian pipeline giant Enbridge insists that it passed every federal, state and tribal test. The company has been rushing to complete the pipeline before politics or the courts can stop it. Of those 340 miles cutting through The Land of 10,000 Lakes, more than 40% is already in the ground. “Line 3 is not like the Keystone XL pipeline,” Enbridge Chief Communications Officer Mike Fernandez told CNN. “It already exists. And it already is an energy lifeline for literally millions of people in the US and in Canada. And the reality is, even as we see great growth in renewables, we’re still going to need some fossil fuels 40 years to come.” But since Biden has built the first White House with a climate agenda at every agency, the biggest argument against the pipeline may be over the kind of energy running through Line 3. Unlike liquid Texas crude hidden in pockets of rock, Alberta’s oil is part of the Canadian soil under the boreal forest. It can’t be pumped unless it is steamed. As a result, it is the dirtiest and most destructive fossil fuel after coal. A trip to the tar sands boggles the mind with its scale. Massive, man-made pits crawl with massive dump trucks, filled with what feels like sticky cookie dough and smells like asphalt. Tens of thousands of tons are moved into massive processing plants each day where the goop is boiled and blasted with Athabasca River water heated with natural gas. To separate the flammable bitumen from the dirt and clay, it takes six gallons of fresh water to produce one gallon of tar sands gasoline and the lakes needed to hold the resulting toxic waste are among the biggest man-made creations in history. The sheer amount of energy required to turn sticky earth into liquid fuel not only makes Alberta tar sand more expensive, it produces 15% more planet-cooking carbon pollution, according to the Union of Concerned Scientists. But to the workers building Line 3, pipelines are safer and cleaner than moving oil by truck or train. And if you stop Line 3, they argue, it does nothing to stop the world’s voracious demand for the kind of fuels that burn. “I think, frankly, people have been drawn to pipelines because it’s easy to fight pipelines,” said Kevin Pranis with the Laborers International Union of North America as cranes lifted 25,000-pound pipes as long as city buses. “The truth is that the carbon emissions aren’t coming from pipelines. They’re coming from cars. And so if you really wanted to go directly to the source, you can protest car dealerships, you can protest gas stations. But the problem is, people like car dealerships and they like gas stations and they would be pretty angry about that.” While most of the 5,200 people building Line 3 are from oil states like Texas and Louisiana, “some 400 will be Native Americans,” Fernandez told me. “We met with all of the First Nations along that pipeline. We listened, and as a consequence there are 320 or so route modifications.” Enbridge’s tribal relations suffered in February, when two men working on Line 3 were caught in a human trafficking sting set up to protect underage Indigenous girls. “The two individuals that that were arrested have been fired.” Fernandez said. “We don’t tolerate that kind of activity or behavior and it’s prompted us to go to one of the contractors to say ‘This is our expectation, that they be trained to a certain level.'” Follow the pipeline route, and feelings can change by the tribe or the mile. “You think that people that are scrambling at home, running out of gas with no heat, are thinking about climate change?” said Jim Jones. “They’re thinking about how they’re going to heat their home and put food on the table.” As a member of the Leech Lake Band of the Ojibwe and a former expert in cultural anthropology for the state, Enbridge hired Jones to walk the pipeline route and ensure no violation of Indigenous spaces or ruins. “I’m at peace that I’ve done the best I can to protect what’s important to us,” he said. “And I can honestly tell you, as of today, nothing of historic context has been unearthed or disturbed.” After the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa struck a deal with Enbridge to run a part of Line 3 through their reservation, tribal leaders said they were put in an impossible position. Some tribes worked with Enbridge on the route, while others like Winona LaDuke of the White Earth Band of Ojibwe have nothing but scorn for Enbridge. LaDuke laughed when told of Jones’s promise. “He’s looking for pot charts and arrowheads. We’re live people.” LaDuke is a longtime environmental activist who twice ran for vice president on Ralph Nader’s Green Party ticket, but after fighting for Indigenous rights against extractive energy companies for years, she never imagined the fight would come to her. “Enbridge wants to criminalize us,” she said. “I’m a grandmother, you know, graduated from Harvard, ran twice for vice president, at what point did I become a criminal? I’m just asking, ‘How much risk should we as Americans take so a Canadian multinational can get a little richer at the end of the tar sands era?'” She helped convince a sympathetic local to sell them a little piece of land where the pipeline intersects the Mississippi and as the weather warms, the protesters hope their number of tents, yurts and fly-fishing shanties will grow faster than Enbridge can drill under the frozen Mississippi. “Our people say ‘Don’t pick a fight with Mother Nature. You can’t win, and we’re getting we’re getting pounded. So why would you pipe the equivalent of 50 new coal fired power plants with this?” LaDuke said, pointing at Line 3. “The tar sands is the gun. This is the trigger.” Source link Orbem News #anewpipelinebattlefiresup-CNN #AsspringthawstheMinnesotaice #Battle #fires #ice #Minnesota #Pipeline #Spring #thaws #us

[dipulb3]

As spring thaws the Minnesota ice, a new pipeline battle fires up

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/as-spring-thaws-the-minnesota-ice-a-new-pipeline-battle-fires-up/

As spring thaws the Minnesota ice, a new pipeline battle fires up

Originally built in the 1960s, the Enbridge Line 3 crude oil pipeline snakes 1,097 miles from the tar sands of Canada to Superior, Wisconsin. Of the roughly 340 miles through Minnesota, the replacement pipeline includes new sections and added capacity and is cutting through some of the most pristine woods and wetlands in North America. In little camps along the way, a small-but-growing group of protesters is out to stop them, driven by ancient prophesy and the promises of a new President.

In Ojibwe tribal lore, an environmental moment of reckoning was predicted in the time of the Seventh Fire, when “the light skinned race will be given a choice between two roads,” one green and lush, the other black and charred. A wrong choice, it was warned, would “cause much suffering and death to all the Earth’s people.” The Ojibwe are of the largest groups of Native Americans north of Mexico with tribal members stretching from present-day Ontario in eastern Canada all the way into Montana.

As a half-dozen female tribal elders sing and pray alongside the frozen Mississippi, it’s obvious that for some bands, the fight is sacred and eternal. The question is how many will join them in the face of tougher legal challenges, increased pressure from police and the limits of the pandemic.

“There have been over 130 people arrested so far in just the last few months,” tribal attorney and activist Tara Houska told Appradab. Some are physically arrested at construction sites, but police also watch social media feeds to identify trespassing protesters and send summons in the mail. Before we walked the frozen river, Houska attended her hearing with a judge over Zoom and was ordered to post $6,000 bail.

“They seem to think that it’s going to deter us from protecting the land. They are fundamentally missing the point of what water protectors are doing, which is willing to put ourselves our freedom, our bodies, our personal comfort on the line for something greater than ourselves,” Houska said.

After living in Washington and fighting Dakota Access and Keystone XL, she is now hoping this movement helps convince the Biden administration that the Army Corps of Engineers and Environmental Protection Agency during the Trump administration were shoddy in their environmental impact studies and too hasty in issuing permits.

But Canadian pipeline giant Enbridge insists that it passed every federal, state and tribal test. The company has been rushing to complete the pipeline before politics or the courts can stop it. Of those 340 miles cutting through The Land of 10,000 Lakes, more than 40% is already in the ground.

“Line 3 is not like the Keystone XL pipeline,” Enbridge Chief Communications Officer Mike Fernandez told Appradab. “It already exists. And it already is an energy lifeline for literally millions of people in the US and in Canada. And the reality is, even as we see great growth in renewables, we’re still going to need some fossil fuels 40 years to come.”

But since Biden has built the first White House with a climate agenda at every agency, the biggest argument against the pipeline may be over the kind of energy running through Line 3. Unlike liquid Texas crude hidden in pockets of rock, Alberta’s oil is part of the Canadian soil under the boreal forest. It can’t be pumped unless it is steamed. As a result, it is the dirtiest and most destructive fossil fuel after coal.

A trip to the tar sands boggles the mind with its scale. Massive, man-made pits crawl with massive dump trucks, filled with what feels like sticky cookie dough and smells like asphalt.

Tens of thousands of tons are moved into massive processing plants each day where the goop is boiled and blasted with Athabasca River water heated with natural gas. To separate the flammable bitumen from the dirt and clay, it takes six gallons of fresh water to produce one gallon of tar sands gasoline and the lakes needed to hold the resulting toxic waste are among the biggest man-made creations in history.

The sheer amount of energy required to turn sticky earth into liquid fuel not only makes Alberta tar sand more expensive, it produces 15% more planet-cooking carbon pollution, according to the Union of Concerned Scientists.

But to the workers building Line 3, pipelines are safer and cleaner than moving oil by truck or train. And if you stop Line 3, they argue, it does nothing to stop the world’s voracious demand for the kind of fuels that burn.

“I think, frankly, people have been drawn to pipelines because it’s easy to fight pipelines,” said Kevin Pranis with the Laborers International Union of North America as cranes lifted 25,000-pound pipes as long as city buses.

“The truth is that the carbon emissions aren’t coming from pipelines. They’re coming from cars. And so if you really wanted to go directly to the source, you can protest car dealerships, you can protest gas stations. But the problem is, people like car dealerships and they like gas stations and they would be pretty angry about that.”

While most of the 5,200 people building Line 3 are from oil states like Texas and Louisiana, “some 400 will be Native Americans,” Fernandez told me. “We met with all of the First Nations along that pipeline. We listened, and as a consequence there are 320 or so route modifications.”

Enbridge’s tribal relations suffered in February, when two men working on Line 3 were caught in a human trafficking sting set up to protect underage Indigenous girls.

“The two individuals that that were arrested have been fired.” Fernandez said. “We don’t tolerate that kind of activity or behavior and it’s prompted us to go to one of the contractors to say ‘This is our expectation, that they be trained to a certain level.'”

Follow the pipeline route, and feelings can change by the tribe or the mile.

“You think that people that are scrambling at home, running out of gas with no heat, are thinking about climate change?” said Jim Jones. “They’re thinking about how they’re going to heat their home and put food on the table.”

As a member of the Leech Lake Band of the Ojibwe and a former expert in cultural anthropology for the state, Enbridge hired Jones to walk the pipeline route and ensure no violation of Indigenous spaces or ruins.

“I’m at peace that I’ve done the best I can to protect what’s important to us,” he said. “And I can honestly tell you, as of today, nothing of historic context has been unearthed or disturbed.”

After the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa struck a deal with Enbridge to run a part of Line 3 through their reservation, tribal leaders said they were put in an impossible position. Some tribes worked with Enbridge on the route, while others like Winona LaDuke of the White Earth Band of Ojibwe have nothing but scorn for Enbridge.

LaDuke laughed when told of Jones’s promise. “He’s looking for pot charts and arrowheads. We’re live people.”

LaDuke is a longtime environmental activist who twice ran for vice president on Ralph Nader’s Green Party ticket, but after fighting for Indigenous rights against extractive energy companies for years, she never imagined the fight would come to her.

“Enbridge wants to criminalize us,” she said. “I’m a grandmother, you know, graduated from Harvard, ran twice for vice president, at what point did I become a criminal? I’m just asking, ‘How much risk should we as Americans take so a Canadian multinational can get a little richer at the end of the tar sands era?'”

She helped convince a sympathetic local to sell them a little piece of land where the pipeline intersects the Mississippi and as the weather warms, the protesters hope their number of tents, yurts and fly-fishing shanties will grow faster than Enbridge can drill under the frozen Mississippi.

“Our people say ‘Don’t pick a fight with Mother Nature. You can’t win, and we’re getting we’re getting pounded. So why would you pipe the equivalent of 50 new coal fired power plants with this?” LaDuke said, pointing at Line 3.

“The tar sands is the gun. This is the trigger.”

[aardvark-123]

Gensokyo Festival Day 19: The Faces of the Eastern Wonderland

By the time I realised the prompt was meant to be about Japanese culture and its bearing on Touhou, it was too late. Instead, here’s an essay on the unique culture of Gensokyo, exploring whether or not it’s secretly a horrible place.

Gensokyo is a land of wonders, of magic and miracles, of gods and youkai, of fairies and magicians, of tea parties and late-night drinking, of close friendships which can very easily be interpreted as romantic, of fierce rivalries which can also be interpreted as romantic, of colourful dresses and poofy sleeves, of wings and horns and tails and strange weapons. "Eastern Wonderland", they call it; a wonderland steeped in eastern culture and myths, nestled between mountains at the heart of the Land of the Rising Sun. But what is at the heart of Gensokyo itself?

One of the first things a Touhou fan will notice is danmaku. In the games, colourful glowing bullets rain down from the top of the screen. A succession of women unleash attacks with weird names like Dream Sign "Omnidirectional Dragon-Slaying Circle" and Cheap Gimmick Sign "There's No Way That Actually Hit Me, You Dirty Cheat". In the fighting games, the characters hurl bullets right at each other's faces, yet none of them suffer anything worse than torn clothes and a bruised ego.

These bullet-heavy attacks are called "spell-cards", and their exact nature is tricky to pin down. They come as fast, powerful attacks which clear bullets off the screen, or as slow, infinitely frustrating attacks where you have to dodge a deceptively beautiful barrage while shooting at somebody. They can use anything from potatoes to anchors to spinning cat-girls, and they are EVERYWHERE.

There is a good reason for spell-cards to be everywhere. Gensokyo was founded as a sanctuary for youkai, who cannot survive without the fear of and/or rivalry with humans. The youkai needed a way to cause Incidents while allowing the relatively weak humans a way to fight back. Thus, a certain shrine maiden came up with the spell-card rules, allowing grace and skill to take the place of raw power as the life-blood of Gensokyo.

And so began a golden age. Almost two hundred Touhou characters are free to cheerfully shoot one-another with non-lethal bullets. Day by day, as they face one-another on (well, hovering above) the field of battle, close bonds of fellowship and sisterhood are forged. Taverns and food stalls are filled with the laughter of youkai and Incident-resolvers after a hard day's danmaku, and everyone is happy.

By that logic, we could easily paint Gensokyo as a paradise. And why not? Everyone is young and cheerful (not to mention cute), and nothing truly catastrophic ever seems to happen. There is only one real villain, Seija, and she's easy enough to handle. So surely everything is perfect?

Well, yes. If you're a lesbian fluent in Japanese with magical powers, Gensokyo would be the ideal place to live. With good food, good company, plenty of fresh air and no danger of boredom, you'd have a marvellous time. Don't worry about youkai, either; as long as you have a few spell-cards, there won't be anything for you to fear.

Therein lies the biggest problem. Youkai NEED fear, hence they need a decent human population to be afraid of them. To provide that fear, a single village of humans, with the imaginative title "the Human Village", is secretly safeguarded by the youkai.

The humans there live in fear of the night, of the terrible demons who would (they assume) happily devour their children and put their houses to the torch if they had the chance. Few of the villagers ever get the chance to have tea parties and spell-card duels. Instead, they live in fear of the very youkai who protect them and sell them stuff at the market.

Youkai tend to be pragmatic, and their leaders terribly ambitious. Thus, as well as protecting and frightening the villagers, youkai also ply their trades while disguised as travelling merchants and court the favour of the villagers. The tengu, the kappas, Mamizou's merry band of tanuki and at least two other factions are desperate to win their hearts and minds, to the point where the Human Village is a battleground of ideological warfare. And none of the villagers have a clue that it's happening.

It is not easy to escape the simple, superstitious life of a villager. A small number of villagers have been able to learn the truth, and one of them even managed to join Reimu's gang of damsels who danmaku. However, it is just as easy for a villager to grow closer and closer to the world of youkai until they become one, at which point they will be summarily executed.

It is here that the most terrible duality of Gensokyo is laid bare. While youkai are free to maraud, albeit within reason, and powerful Incident-Resolvers are free to do likewise, ordinary humans are little more than cattle. Kept ignorant and frightened, with only a slim chance of escape from their lives as walking fear generators, the humans are forced pay for the merriment of the youkai with their own suffering.

That is what a pessimist would tell you. We have to ask ourselves, though, how badly are the villagers actually treated? Obviously, keeping a whole population ignorant and frightened should only ever be done as a last resort, but we never see any evidence that the villagers are suffering.

In "Forbidden Scrollery", we see Kosuzu living happily enough at her family's book-rental emporium. Youkai do make plenty of mischief in the village, but no-one is maimed, no-one has to hide under the bed all day because they're too afraid to go outside. The closer you look, the fewer acts of cruelty you'll see perpetrated against the villagers.

The village is not defenceless, either. Between Keine, the Incident-Resolvers and the village guards, they have enough protection to keep marauding youkai at bay. And why would any youkai decide to maraud through the village? Without humans, there can be no fear, and most of the youkai know it. That is why they keep the village safe from natural disasters, as well as from each other when they have to. The human villagers aren't just cattle, they are a vital and cherished part of Gensokyo.

One has to understand that Gensokyo is, first and foremost, a youkai sanctuary, created because the advancement of science in the Outside World meant that youkai could no longer find welcome. When humans stop believing in and being afraid of youkai, youkai stop existing, and so much is lost. As far as we know, Gensokyo is the only refuge for youkai in the world, and it's worth preserving. Keeping a few thousand humans relatively miserable is a small price to pay to keep the beauty and wonder of Japanese mythology alive.

...Isn't it? Perhaps, if I lived in the Human Village, I would feel differently. But then again, if I lived there with complete knowledge of the Outside World, perhaps I would still think it was worth it.

Or I might lure Reimu into a tar pit, turn myself into a youkai and kickstart the human rebellion. But then we'd probably consume all of Gensokyo's natural resources and ruin it forever, and Reimu would be sad because she's hopelessly stuck in a pool of hydrocarbon goo. Nope, not worth the effort of finding a suitable tar pit.