#I already went in and deleted my ancient account from them

[walks-the-ages]

Hey nanowrimo, what the fuck does this mean. What is this article about.

Why do you have an article that sounds like an angry tumblr post that is *clearly* about some incredibly serious allegations, but you're trying to sidestep them by..... acting like people questioning your endorsements of clearly shitty people/company is somehow the same thing as belittling the romance genre or people who became published authors after starting out with fanfic??

Full text from September 2nd, 2024 so they can't edit it later:

"I can't believe NaNoWriMo is endorsing a person/company who does ______________!"

3 days ago Updated Not yet followed by anyone NaNoWriMo is not in the business of telling writers how to (or how not to) write, taking a position on what approaches to writing are legitimate vs. illegitimate, or placing value judgments on personal decisions that are a matter of free choice. Opinions about "correct" ways to write or "right" vs. "wrong" kinds of writers should not be brought into our spaces. Our priority is creating a welcoming environment for all writers. There is no place for that kind of virtue signaling within NaNoWriMo. This position extends to our partnerships with sponsors and affiliates, with authors who we invite to write pep talks or serve as camp counselors, and to people who we invite to participate in events. NaNoWriMo is a global community of more than 550,000 writers who we fully expect to have different values, different needs, different preferences, and different curiosities. Because Wrimos are not a monolith, we don't cater to a specific author archetyope or ideology.  We take this position firmly, and we take it seriously. NaNoWriMo is a 25-year-old organization with staff that has been in the writing community for a very long time. We've seen tremendous harm done over the years by writers who choose to pick at others' methods. We've seen indie authors delegitimized by traditionally published authors, highbrow literary types look down their noses at romance authors, fanfiction writers shamed for everything from plagiarism to lack of originality; the list goes on. Not only is this sort of shaming unnecessary and often mean. It's proven itself to be short-sighted. Some of the most shamed groups within the writing community are also the most successful (e.g., Romance is one of the highest-grossing genres; an increasing body of data shows that indie authors do better than trad-pub authors, and some of the biggest names in publishing started out in fanfic). NaNoWriMo's mission is to "provide the structure, community, and encouragement to help people use their voices, achieve creative goals, and build new worlds—on and off the page." We fulfill our mission by supporting the humans doing the writing. That means not judging them and not allowing judgmental dynamics to enter into our spaces. 

this just reads like an angry, desperate attempt to downplay a serious issue by pretending people are just being misogynystic or looking down on indie authors when clearly that's not what they're responding to lmao, considering probably 99% of Nanowrimo's participants are aspiring writers who probably started out with fanfiction and are probably going to be self published?????

[ancha-aus]

..hi :) Are these "Ask me soemething" privat or will it be on your account for everyone to see? I'm a little bit shy and doing this for the first time hehe..

Because I really wanna know how do you plan your Storys :3

is the Idea just born of one drapple..

Is it just one moment in this story you really wanna write and everything else comes on the way till there

or just based from a ship you wanna read

or you wanted to know what happend when you put all the charakters in a world you create..

(or you wanted to create a world where Nim is a great parent to drream and night..-ah this is ofcourse not a hint that i plan to write to and need a little bit of guidence for the very beginnig. I have many ideas but unsure ..^^")

..äh that was all.. for now ..NO!

Did you make a checklist for everthing to happend (becuase that did i now) or create the world first or decided who will play a role?

Is this not the same like above?... ah.. Better go now.

Thank you^^

They are open and will be visible for everyone as... euh... you can see. hihi.

At least the way i answer them now. but if you ever feel nervous about being seen and stuff you can press a button that is pretty much ask as anon. (also if you want this deleted after you read the answers just let me know okay? I cna always just make a new post with just the answers and without your name or anything :) )

As for your answers? A bit of everything.

For me personally it depends very heavily on what story i make. Ancients and Champions started purely because i wanted to see more fics with SansXNightmareXError. Turns out I tend to write slowburns and I ended up needing a plot of somekind. I picked the stars as antagonists because it fit and it was easy to go from there. Eventually it grew as i got more ideas for characters and lore bits came to me with other ideas.

Remember, that story? I wrote for it for over a year before i even started uploading it. It was my little project that i just kept playing with and changing things with. It may seem like i started with a goal but i didn't. It was a process of "oh this would be fun." or "ooooh I had a great idea for a scene!" how i went from plotpoint to plotpoint? I just kinda... let the characters interact. The more you write a character the better you get to know their like 'voice' and thoughts. It becomes easier.

And well... even a bad story can work as long as you have good characters :) It is why we love fanfiction to begin with. we love the characters.

As for how I go about world building? I build what i need. I know, sounds strange coming from me with my lore and everything. But in the end... the characters only know so much. I create what they would realistically know. Why would i figure out the whole line of government of a neightbouring country? When my characters would never use it or mention it? As for how i do world building. I just do what makes sense to me. I spend some time thinking about it and use that.

That is another thing that may surprise you. I spend a lot of time just thinking and daydreaming about my stories. even more time than i actually spend writing it. This does have as result in know my things rather well. (though i still have a cheat sheet for my BIG fic. just with a few years and numbers in case i forget)

the other way around. Real Age Au. That is just a drabble series. it means i get an idea and just kinda. write. I don't worry about the over arching plot too much. I write a scene i want to write and call it a day.

The main point of all of my writing? I am playing. and I treat it as playing. I am playing with the characters and see how they react and how that progresses. I start a scene to play it out. I make a world and see how the characters react/change.

It is all about having fun and playing. That is why i can keep up with all the stories i have and ideas i have. because i still see it as playing :)

hihi. as for your little last point? :3 Well. You already have the most important part. You have the fact you want Nim to be a great mother to Dream and Nightmare. It means you have three interesting characters with personalities. and you have the main bond between them. a parent who loves her two sons and, as a great mother, would protect them.

That is your main point at the moment. that is your starting building block. That dynamic. and that can give you nim's main goal, being a good parent for her sons.

From there? You jsut start throwing stuff at the idea and see what happens. You have the villagers who are always a great antagonist, espeically if you want to write baby dream and baby nightmare and protective single mother nim.

You have the bigger universe if you want to use adult dream and nightmare.

It all depends on what idea you want to play with. and it is perfectly okay to only want to write for yourself. Hell knows I wrote Ancients and champions for myself and at first dind't even have the plan to post it.

I have finished two more stories which i do plan on posting but i am also writing another one i may never post.

RealAgeAU as a whole is just drabbles. my playing with prompts and ideas.

hihihi sorry. this got long so i will quickly answer the last part.

Did i write a checklist? Nah. at most i wrote tiny bullet points with random ideas.

I cna give you one tip though! to make it easy to keep a going an have an aim. If you want a longer story with multiple arcs and stuff. never finish a storyline before starting a new one.

example: The goal of the group is to find a gem. setting: in the cave of the gem they meet a mysterious stranger that speaks in riddles before disappearing. next: they find the gem.

What now? They foudn the gem? ... well... you set up a new start. a new mystery to explore.

That is how i made my story keep flowing. I tried to introduce or hint at new important characters or aims before i finished up the arc i was writing on.

This may be a bit hard to get down or come easy :) Matter of practising and feeling out what feels right to you :)

I will shut up now but if you have anymore questions i will try to help!

[dcforts]

[week 4: selfie together]

1.7k, post-canon, non canon compliant.

Three days to impact (moving out with Cas and a bunch of hunter nerds settling into the bunker to set up the Network), and Dean was still elbow deep in messy drawers, sorting through his stuff in one of the research rooms. He couldn’t believe he had managed to hoard that much crap when he spent there not more than six months every year.

Sam had already taken care of most of it and thrown away a lot of junk when he had moved away with Eileen a year or so ago, so Dean had thought that he would be packed in less than a day with what was left. He was wrong.

He was tackling a bunch of phones and chargers all tangled up together, trying to figure out which ones were still working. Between him and Sam they had probably gone through a hundred or so phones, without counting the burners, their dad’s and those of other hunters, passed on after their deaths.

You had to keep them on, check the messages, write down the contacts – for a long time it was the only way to keep the network going and to make sure that no call for help would ever go unanswered.

Hopefully the Network, with Charlie fancy digital system and stolen tech from the Brits, would make things a lot easier. The bunker would become the hunter HQ that it was always meant to be. And Sam and Dean would still go there from time to time, but it would become more like a workplace than an actual home.

Magazines apparently said you had to keep them separated and all that. So, they were trying.

He wasn’t even halfway done when he found his old phone. It was not too ancient or anything and he used to like it just fine, but for Christmas Claire and the girls had gotten him a new one (“not for work!!” said the note attached to it) so he had just dumped it in here.

It had no SIM card, but there were some police contacts (useful) and the Candy Crush app (not useful). He went on to check the gallery and was surprised to find still some pictures in it.

He snorted, seeing one of the last taken – Sam, drunk on Christmas Day, a paper crown askew on his head, trying to focus enough to play Jenga with someone who was out of the shot. Dean didn’t remember who it was anymore. Sam had the most incredible face on.

Oh, there were pictures from when they went to visit Garth! He had taken them at Frontier Stables in Frederic and Dean and Gertie had possibly been equally excited about riding a horse. There were a bunch of pictures of that day, including one Garth had taken of him where he looked like an absolute dork.

Wow, they must have been at least a year or so older, he had totally forgotten about them. Now, he couldn’t just put the phone down and resume his work. He debated with himself (very briefly) if he could afford a break or not and then flopped down on the floor covered in cardboard boxes to look through the rest of the gallery.

Most of the pictures were cases related, articles and crime scenes, then a bunch of landscapes, an amazing looking burger from that joint in Texas.

There was one with Cas that he had taken one night. Dean’s face was on the foreground, on the left, and he was making a funny face, his index finger to his lips. The red couch was visible behind his shoulders and Cas was by his side, his face turned towards the television screen and lighted by it.

They had been cooped up in Dean’s cave for nearly four hours and all that time Sam was freaking out because he didn’t know where they were and he couldn’t find them. When Dean had checked his phone, he had found fourteen missed calls and a bunch of texts. He had sent him that picture back and written shh it's movie night.

Sam had come bursting through the door two seconds later and bitched at him for fifteen minutes for having his phone on silent and then stayed and watched Back to the Future III with them.

This was before he and Cas even got together – well, officially at least.

It felt like so long ago, back when they were all: fingers brushing, intense gazing, losing track of time when alone together. They were so clueless.

It had sorted itself out though. A couple of weeks after that, Dean had fallen asleep on Cas’ shoulder and Cas had spent the rest of the night holding him and he had done that every night since.

Dean smiled and scrolled down, back in time.

More photos on the road, book pages, his car against a pretty sunset. Then a group selfie that they sent to Jody for her birthday. Sam and Eileen were still living at the bunker then and Sam was holding the phone, on account of having three feet long arms. They were standing in the kitchen, Eileen right next to him, under his other arm and Dean next to Eileen.

Cas had appeared on the door as they were getting in position so Sam he had told him to hurry up, get in the frame and he had come to stand next to Dean, stiff like a statue. Sam had said, a little closer, so Dean had slung an arm around his neck and pulled him towards him.

Right when Sam had been about to snap it, Cas had grabbed Dean’s hand, that was dangling over his shoulder. So of course, in the picture Dean looked like a total idiot, with his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted in surprise. He had even stopped breathing a little and Cas next to him had the audacity to look totally oblivious. Dean zoomed in on his face and cackled at himself. God, and what was up with that haircut he had, did he even look at himself in the mirror.

He went on.

A few rows below there was another selfie. It was just him this time and it was terrible, the sunlight making the picture look all wrong, like there was a filter on it. It was a vertical shot that showed just about his face and shoulders.

It had been early in the morning, he was bleary-eyed and there was a little wrinkle in between his eyebrows because he had been in the car waiting for Sam to come back with their coffee for twenty minutes.

Cas had texted him out of the blue, Can you send me a picture of you? and Dean had snapped it and sent it without thinking and then he had written, what do you need it for and Cas had written back, I just miss you. Dean had almost dropped his phone, then put it away and not looked at it until late that night. Yeah, it hadn’t been one of his best moments.

Finally he had managed to pull out the conversation again. He had typed and deleted miss you too and same and same, man about a thousand times and then ended up writing your turn now.

He remembered that Cas had been quick to reply with an even worse shot than the one he had sent. Some blurry picture he had taken under a streetlight, his face wearing an intense expression, as if he needed to focus to tap once on a screen. Still, Dean had looked at it for an hour before he had gone to sleep. What a sap.

Thinking of that photo reminded him of another one. He wondered if? It took a while to find it, but it was there, almost at the end of the gallery, right after a picture of Jody in a ridiculous sun hat from when they all went to the beach for the weekend.

It was there. Their first selfie together. He snorted out loud.

He had been pacing in the map room, cursing at his phone that was stuck with the camera open. He was trying everything and it just wouldn’t close.

Cas had come look over his shoulder while Dean had been furiously tapping, and that was when the screen had frozen and flashed and the result of that was a picture of the two of them from the most unflattering angle, frowning down at the phone. Two half faces, Dean on the right, Cas on the left. Dean thought it was hilarious.

Cas had said, “I think you took a picture,” because he was a great help as usual and Dean had said, “Yeah, no shit Cas,” and eventually had to restart the phone to make it work again.

He couldn’t believe that had happened more than two years ago.

“I’m done with the inventory of the herbs. Are you done in here?” said Cas, poking his head in from the hallway. Dean very obviously wasn’t done, but he was still smiling, so Cas said, “What is it?” and came to crouch beside him to peer at his phone and the infamous selfie, “Why did we take this?”

Dean laughed, “We didn’t. My phone was acting up.”

"And you kept it?"

"Yeah, of course I kept it," Dean said, tilting his phone away, as if Cas would jump him to delete it.

Cas had other priorities. He kissed his temple.

"Okay," he said amused, then, "Do you need help? Charlie is coming over in an hour to set up the - cables."

There were no cables. Cas clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, but Dean had no idea of what Charlie was supposed to do either, so.

"No, just - wait, let's take a picture," he said, grabbing his sleeve before he could get up. Cas settled once again next to him and Dean opened the camera and held his phone up, then got his other arm around Cas’ shoulders.

The light was not great, like anywhere else in the bunker and they looked exhausted after a day's work but still, not a bad sight, if Dean could say so himself.

He focused on Cas on the screen, the little smile on his lips.

He grinned. He was gonna spend the rest of his life with that face, he thought. Jesus.

"Dean?" Cas called, after another moment of nothing.

"Alright, alright," he said and snapped the picture.

@bend-me-shape-me said #deancassummerprompts21 and I said YES

[missmaxime]

1, 3, 12 and 15 pls 😘😘😘

Thanks babe!  😘 😘 1. Who’s your celebrity crush? I think Christina Hendricks is already fairly obvious, so aside from her Imma say Sandra Bullock. Some part is because she’s one of those actresses I really grew up with, who starred in a lot of defining movies for me. Listen, I don’t care what anyone says about Practical Magic, but that movie awakened my gay heart, okay. Definitely had a crush on her as a teen. But I just think she’s hilarious and The Proposal omg, that’s one of my favorite comedy’s of all time. 3. Rant, just do it ok, so one little rant about my folks (who are lovely and adorable and I love those idiots very much). But they are also members of the (often) Careless COVID  Boomerclub and it’s driving me absolutely up the walls!! My dad has asthma and a million other things he takes pills for and I’m like. NOOO. NOO NO VACATION FOR YOU. I’M SORRY BUT NO CARAVAN TRIPS!! They did go. But THANK FUCK returned when there death rate went up a bit. They’re definitely not the worst, but I’m just super worried about about them. 12. What’s the most interesting schools gossip you’ve ever heard? It’s been a while, but let’s go back to the years 2000-2006, when I was in high school. This was a time where people were still pretty new to computers, especially teachers. But we did had a school message board, moderated by our biology teacher (who probably got said job because with his 24 years he was the youngest teacher). At the time I was around fifteen or sixteen when that message board really took off. Almost everyone was posting under their own name, but on one day the user ‘Lord Voldemort’ popped up. Replying to serious messages, advice asks, anything completely in character. I remember distinctly their autograph line was ‘Wizards and witches call me Lord Voldemort, but Mudblood call me.. ahhh ohgodplease don’t hurt me!!!11!1!’ Everybody wanted to know who this mysterious Lord Voldemort was. Of course, first suspects were all the goth kids. Who else would sacrifice an ungodly amount of time trolling the boards? When that fell through everyone started accusing each other of having a double account. Yet all this fun came to an abrupt end when the teacher send me a private message telling me to reveal myself or they’d delete my account! And any I’d restart after that. Sadly, I had to quit playing Lord Voldemort, and the board died of inactivity within three months. 15. what’s a question you constantly get asked? Yes, well also on the same angry train as @sothischickshe about people asking me shit they could have googled in the time they walked up to me (also: schools should teach kids about computers/the internet again – I had those classes – also yes I’m ancient but the amount of interns we have that have none to limited skills is staggering). “Did you colour your hair?” is one I get super often. Little do people know my hair is just stressed out from twenty years of box-dye (or if it’s lucky, from the hairdresser), and it also lightens in the sun, giving me all kinds of new-looking highlights while it’s probably just screaming for help.

[janearts]

This was such a sweet message to receive aSDLGKJADSKLG thank you I am having a good day! Your memory is absolutely spot on; Bodran was raised by the monks at Weynon Priory.

I totally forgot that Bodran’s backstory disappeared when I deleted my Skyrim RP account! I’ve dug up some ancient artwork that I once used to illustrate his past. I’ve also written the excessively melodramatic and exceedingly angsty backstory that I had for him. (NB: I’ve tagged this post for mentions of sexwork, abuse, and suicide.)

Early Childhood

The story goes that Bodran’s mother was once a noblewoman from Narsis who fell in love and who, when she announced herself with child, was deserted by her lover. Feeling cheap and used, she renounced her world and fled to Cyrodiil. There, she turned how she felt about herself into reality. 

The bitterness that was already so keenly felt by Bodran’s mother was augmented by one unfortunate circumstance: Bodran took after his birth father in appearance. The sharp ears, the glaring eyes, and the downturn of his lips into a perpetual pout echoed perfectly the features she once found so handsome in his father. Bodran’s mother was raising a permanent reminder of her past happiness and, to rub salt in open wounds, the sole person who ruined that happiness for her. 

The feelings Bodran’s mother held towards her only son vacillated wildly between the extremes of love and hate; she viewed him at times as her saviour, at others her ruin. Bodran often had trouble reading his mother's volatile moods and while those moods were punctuated by periods of lucidity, those moments could not undo the verbal and physical abuse the child suffered at the hands of his mother. The demands of the brothel also meant his mother was by and large unavailable to her young son. Bodran was alone. 

The condition of Bodran’s mother continued to worsen until her death. In her last two weeks alive, she tolerated only the company of her son and the matron who had taken her in all those years ago. Bodran was the one who found her after she had taken her own life as well as the short note addressed to him.

With the death of his mother, Bodran’s stay at the brothel had come to an end. The matron sent him on to Weynon Priory and with that, Bodran went from a house of sin to a house of god. 

Weynon Priory

The brothers at Weynon Priory took Bodran in and formally educated and trained him as a monk. When Bodran was taken to the priory, he could not read. So each monk took it upon himself to teach Bodran the subject with which the monk was most proficient. Precentor Fortunatus—the gentlest and most patient of the brothers—taught Bodran the basics of reading, writing, and music. When Bodran ‘graduated’ from Fortunatus’ tutelage, Berengar the sub-prior taught the boy such things like rhetoric, logic, theology, and ecclesiastical Cyrodiilic grammar. The prior Mordane taught the child magic and history. Tiburce who managed the grounds was in charge of Bodran’s physical regimen—training in fist-fighting, horseback riding, and fieldwork—as well as astronomy. Venantius, the obedientary, taught arithmetic and geometry and Bodran learned a little about cooking from observing Venantius at work.  

The seventy-five years that Bodran spent at Weynon Priory was arguably the happiest time of Bodran’s life. It was a period of stability and tranquillity for someone who had experienced neither. He had regular meals, a routine sleep schedule, plenty of fresh air and exercise. Most important of all, the brothers at Weynon Priory gave him a sense of belonging; he felt loved and wanted. He felt valued and valuable. For their love, he repaid them tenfold in loyalty and devotion. Bodran stayed at the priory while each of these brothers lived. When all were in their graves, Bodran set off for his homeland. 

Morrowind

Bodran first travelled to Morrowind in 3E 414 when Vvardenfell was opened up as an Imperial Provincial District. The timing was perfect for a Dunmer keen on reclaiming his Dunmeris heritage. He travelled via the mainland, joining other Dunmer eager to settle on the great island. As he travelled, he cultivated his image as a native, changing his accent, the words he used and their inflection, the way he behaved and thought.

He nurtured this reputation by throwing off any and all signs of foreignness. He joined the Great House of his mother, House Hlaalu. He cast away his years at the priory and joined the Temple in Balmora, where he zealously took up worship of the Tribunal. His physical prowess and his quick fingers caught the eyes of the Thieves Guild in Balmora, who took the amateur thief under their wing. In Balmora, Bodran successfully put on the mask of a native.

Bodran, however, came into trouble when he committed an act of terrorism in an attempt to prove to the Camonna Tong that he was no foreigner and that he shared their xenophobic agenda. He was, of course, taken to the Imperial Prison as a citizen of the Empire. However, the Tribunal Temple in the city of Vivec claimed that Bodran’s trial deserved to go to the Temple courts rather than to the secular, Imperial ones. As an officiate of the Tribunal Temple, Bodran’s discipline was an ecclesiastical matter belonging to the Temple and the Temple alone. Besides, the crime had been committed on Morrowind soil, so the Dunmer people had a say in Bodran’s sentence.

Bodran then was taken from the Imperial City’s prison, first by carriage and then by boat, to the east, to Morrowind… again.

[lgbtyrus]

this storm knocked out our wifi but I can finally post this! thank you @swingsetboys for organizing this!

happy valentines day Kate @homosexualearthworm!!! I was super excited when I saw that I got you because you’re one of the coolest people on this website! Writing this for you was fun even if I couldn’t figure out a plot to save my life. 

So have some large amounts of Tyrus, extremely bitter tarty exes, some angst, and sprinkles of bandi all set in an AU where they’re around 25ish, TJ is a librarian, and they live in a city.

Words: 4,526 

Pressed Flames

Putting in his bookmark that was just really a polaroid of him and his ex-boyfriend, TJ closed the book he was reading and looked up to see who the front bell had made noise for. The library in their city was barely busy, but there was always the soft vibration of whispers and the smell of pages that made it feel like a money-making lucid dream.

The man entering smiled at him before walking off again into the history book section for the third time that month. If he did the same thing he did last time, TJ was going to have to look up their library’s policy for checking out books. The main librarian was out for the month, and he had no way to contact her over “a man who checks out 15 books a week.” If the weekly limit wasn’t 15, TJ was sure he’d take more of them.

TJ surveyed the library. Two twin girls that were in middle school were sitting on the red bean bags by the teen lit section, an old couple were looking through history archives, and a mom and her two little kids were looking around. TJ smiled at the little kids who were on their best behavior, looking over at TJ in fear every time they said a word too loud. TJ would wave them off with a smile, and they’d go back to trailing behind their mom like little duckling.

The people in the library that day made TJ miss his hometown where his twin sister and mom were. The man who had a thing for checking out a million books a week, had a cute smile that reminded him of ex-boyfriend while still managing to trap TJ in a bubble that said, “Look at me only.”

TJ went back to his book, waiting for anyone to go up to him. Managing a library alone with a coworker here and there was surprisingly easy, so his freaking out about the main librarian leaving him alone for a month was in vain.

“Hey,” the man placed a stack of thick history books on the counter, startling an unsuspecting TJ to the point that his polaroid fell down to his feet.

“Hey,” TJ looking down at the floor, his ex’s smile taking over the photo before looking up at the man who was giving him the same smile.

“I’ll be back with more,” the man took a deep breath, placing his library card on the counter before walking away again.

“O-okay,” TJ nodded, the man already not being able to hear him. TJ bent down to pick up the polaroid and stuck it back into his book. He picked up the library card and for the first time, looking at the name.

Cyrus Goodman

He’d remember that. He started checking out the books, placing them in a neat pile before Cyrus came back with the rest to complete the 15. Cyrus quietly waited there, not saying a word to TJ like always. TJ felt like asking him what he was doing with so many textbook-like novels. None of them were even from the same era, but by the time he was done checking out the books, he still didn’t know how to ask a question.

TJ handed back the library card and told him, “Here ya’ go. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus smiled, his eyes moving to the name tag pinned on his shirt, “TJ.”

“No problem,” TJ said, watching Cyrus take the large tower of books outside the library door. He turned over to look at the twin girls who were giggling, sinister smiles that reminded him of his twins glowing from across the room. They had been watching whatever spectacle that was the whole time. He simply rolled his eyes and went back to reading, the smallest of smiles resting on his lips.

-

Cyrus closed the passenger car door, leaning back in the seat as Buffy turned on the car.

“Did you talk to him?” she asked him.

“I just got his name,” Cyrus frowned, clicking his seatbelt. “I even purposely made two trips and left my library card with him, so he’d have a chance to look at my name.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t think so,” Cyrus sighed, leaning his cheek on the car seat, looking out the window to the old brick building, shadowed by the new complexes in the city. “You’d think that he’d ask me by now why I need all these books.”

“You’d the think the library would’ve called the cops on you by now,” Buffy laughed, pulling out of the parking space she technically wasn’t supposed to be in. “You officially have 45 books.”

Cyrus turned to look at one of his best friends, “Hey, I’m only doing this for you and Andi. Usually, I wouldn’t care if the library thought I was a weirdo checking out all these books at the same time, but you happen to want to start Operation Propose to Andi at the same time there’s a cute new librarian.”

“Gertrude Millers isn’t there anymore?” Buffy asked him.

“I haven’t seen her, but her photo is still up,” Cyrus said. “She’s probably just taking time off.”

“I should go in and try to check books out, too,” Buffy joked. “I doubt your librarian lover has seen the list of people who are banned.”

“First off, his name is TJ,” Cyrus told her, his nose burning red, “second of all-,”

“TJ Maxx?”

“Buffy,” Cyrus whined, making her giggle, “second of all, you’re going to have to do that without me. I’m not trying to get arrested for sneaking in a felon into the library.”

“You accidentally burn a section of the library and suddenly you’re a criminal,” Buffy smirked. “That happened like, 10 years ago.”

“9 years ago,” Cyrus corrected her, “but Gertrude has impeccable memory.”

“She’s going to outlive me and personally spit on my grave before they burry me,” Buffy joked, “you can count on it.”

“How did Andi fall in love with you again?”

“I’m really funny,” Buffy smirked. “Also, pretty romantic. Who else would’ve come up with this idea of pressed flowers?”

“Me,” Cyrus said, “only I’m never going to get married, so you can claim the idea as 100% yours.”

“I guess you did contribute,” Buffy smiled. “Anyways, who knows, that TJ guy could be your soulmate.”

“You’re only so optimistic because you already found yours.”

“Damn right I did.”

-

It was Friday again, and TJ was waiting for Cyrus to walk through the doors again.

He was reading a different book now, same bookmark. His twin sister would be heavily disappointed if she knew he still had that photo. He had burned everything from his ex with her before he moved out into the city to start going to school again. The polaroid was in a book he had left half read, and he didn’t discover it until he started unpacking. Amber had done most of the work when burning the things the first (and second, third, and fourth) time, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. If Amber hadn’t blocked Marty for him on all of his social media accounts, blocked his number, and deleted his phone number that she knew he’d never remember again, TJ was really sure of the fact that he would’ve sent him a photo of the polaroid saying, “Look what I found :-),” on Snapchat.

TJ fumbled with the polaroid between his thumb and index finger as he read, blurring out the people in the library. One of his coworkers was walking around, fixing things on shelves, so he exactly set on people watching that day. He was just watching out for one person.

Then Cyrus came in, and gave TJ a wave, making his heart race in his chest. He felt like his leather jacket was rising up and setting down with every pound of his heart. TJ gave him a smile and quickly moved his eyes back down to his book as Cyrus disappeared into the science section of the library. He had already cleared out the big books from the history section, and TJ knew that his coworker was going to watch this average height man somehow carry a large stack of books in one trip.

After 20 minutes or so, there was a pile on the desk, and Cyrus’ voice asking, “Who are you reading?”

“Michael Nava,” TJ answered stiffly, setting his book open on the counter. “Can I see your library card?”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said slowly, carefully eyeing the open book as he took out his wallet from his jean pocket. He handed it to him, and TJ quickly began scanning the books.

“You like his Henry Rios stories I’m assuming,” Cyrus asked him, trying to make conversation.

“Did you sneak in an extra book?” TJ asked him, a smirk on his face.

“What?” Cyring furrowed a brow. “Why makes you think that I’m a criminal?”

“I mean,” TJ laughed, “you come in here every week and check out 15 big books, and you never make conversation. Luckily for me, the computer tells me when you’ve hit 15, so I don’t have to count.”

“I’m honestly just trying to make conversation with you,” Cyrus defended himself, a cheeky smile on his face. “Checking out all of these books is a long process.”

“Tell me about it,” TJ smiled, typing away on the computer. “But if you wanted to get extra books, I could override the system for you and get you an extra 10.” He had read the library guidelines. They were ancient and there was no limit to how many books Cyrus could have in total. Just fifteen a week with exceptions to scholars. Gertrude didn’t have to know.

“Maybe next week,” Cyrus said, getting his library card back, once again eyeing the open book. “I don’t think I can fit them all in my friend’s car.”

“See you next week then?” TJ asked.

Cyrus nodded and picked up the tall pile of books, “Next week.”

-

“He’s gay,” Cyrus said as he shut the door to Buffy’s car for the fourth time that month.

“Did he tell you?” Buffy raised a brow as she started the car again.

“He was reading a Michael Nava novel.”

“King.”

“Not only that,” Cyrus sighed, leaning his head back, “he had a polaroid of his boyfriend as a bookmark. I can’t even get mad,” Cyrus groaned. “That’s super cute.”

“I want to see how he looks like,” Buffy said as she pulled out of the parking lot, Cyrus hurrying to put his seatbelt on.

“He’s cute,” Cyrus sighed, “like, really cute.”

“So I’ve heard,” Buffy laughed.

“He said he could get me an extra 10 books if I needed them.”

“So, he flirted with you?” Buffy raised her eyebrows.

“I hope not,” Cyrus said.

“Yeah you do.”              

“Buffy, please,” Cyrus turned to look at her, a frown set, “that would be really unethical and inappropriate considering he has a boyfriend.”

“Give him your number.”

“Stop it!”

“Ask him if that’s his boyfriend.”

“Buffy!”

-

TJ tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. All he does is look forward to Friday’s now simply because Cyrus would go in to check out a ridiculous amount of books. He didn’t even know how he was going to return them all one day. He still didn’t know what they were for and as he rolled on his twin-sized mattress in his studio late at night, he fought over the idea of asking him.

Even if Cyrus wasn’t gay either, it would be nice to make some friend. He had made a few acquaintances in his classes, but a lot of the people were four or more years younger than him which made him feel a standoffish. He cursed Marty for making him want to move so far away from everything he loved- for holding him back.

“Hey, TJ,” Cyrus walked in, a big Ross bag at his side. “I’m going to take up the offer for the extra 10 books,” he said and disappeared right into the science section again. TJ felt like every time he blinked, he missed him. He looked around the rest of the library at that moment. The same twin girls were watching him carefully and there was a couple of high school boys looking through movie archives in the back. They had all taken a liking to TJ and always liked to fill him in with cheesy high school drama that reminded TJ a lot of his hometown. City kids were strange, too, he guessed.

Cyrus came by with the first few books and set his library card on the desk, “No book today?”

“My eyes and head have been hurting, so I’m waiting on my glasses to come in,” TJ admitted, scratching the back of his head with one hand as he reached over for the card.

“I have never seen you with glasses,” Cyrus commented, a smile on his face.

“Exactly why eyes and head have been hurting,” TJ laughed it off, starting to check out the first book. Cyrus simply let out a small chuckle before going back to retrieve more books.

He came back and set the remaining amount on the desk, TJ typing away on the computer, “This is last time bothering you with all these check outs.”

TJ stopped typing for a split second before continuing, gulping as he asked, “Why is that?”

“I have enough books,” Cyrus told him. “Finally.”

“I’ve never asked you,” TJ tried to sound as casual as he could, “why have you been checking out all these books?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Cyrus grinned, making TJ smile a little. “My best friend is proposing to our other best friend, and we all like pressing flowers here and there to sell phone cases and necklaces and stuff, so she’s going to fill this room full of pressed flowers and write ‘marry me’ out of them.”

“She?”

“They’re gay,” Cyrus shrugged.

“Ah,” TJ nodded and somehow let the words slip out of his mouth, “same.”

Cyrus gave him a grin and asked him, “The guy in the polaroid. Is that your boyfriend?”

TJ’s eyes went wide open and he shook his head as quickly as he could, “Nope. Never.”

“Oh,” Cyrus shifted a little where he was standing.

“Anyways,” TJ did a fake yawn, “when is she proposing?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s in two months,” TJ said as he eyed the calendar in the corner.

“We know. We have to be extra prepared.”

“Also, did you really need this many books?” TJ asked him.

“Well I mostly listen to audio books, and my friend Buffy can’t take her and her future fiancée’s library down without her noticing. Obviously, we turned here,” Cyrus said. “Also, we’re going to need a lot and a lot of flowers.”

“Well,” TJ handed him back his library card. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus smiled at him. “Also,” Cyrus said as he started putting the books carefully in the bag, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re from around here?”

“I am not,” TJ shook his head. “I’m from a small town called Shadyside.”

“How’d a farm town kid end up in Oak City?” Cyrus asked him.

“School,” TJ said. “I’ve been putting it off for a while, and I finally decided to come to Heartland U.”

“Go pirates,” Cyrus smiled. “What’s your major?”

“Child development.”

“Nice,” Cyrus smiled. “If you want, I can give you my number, and we can hang out if you ever get lonely.” TJ couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stood still for half a second before jumping back into reality.

“Uh, yeah,” he nodded, looking around the desk for a sticky note and pen. “That’d be great.” He handed them to Cyrus who wrote down his number for him.

“Here you go,” Cyrus slid it back over to him. “See you later, TJ.”

“Bye, Cyrus,” he nodded softly at the other man. When Cyrus was out the door, TJ’s eyes immediately went to the source of background giggling. The twins were smiling, and he couldn’t help but smile back at them.

He took out his book from under the counter and without hesitation, threw Marty’s polaroid in the trash to replace is with Cyrus’ number.

-

They had been texting back and forth for a week, and TJ hadn’t felt so warm in such a long time. He finally got the motivation to build the frame for his bed and decorate his kitchen with random things from Marshall’s that Amber had bought him. It was a nice feeling to go home to study and sleep in a place that felt a little homier. Cyrus was planning on organizing a hangout soon so he could meet the rest of his friends.

Then a Tuesday night, at 2AM, TJ got a phone call. It was an unsaved number but seeing as he was still half asleep and his eyes couldn’t translate the numbers to his brain, he answered.

“Hello?” TJ yawned.

“TJ,” someone frantically said on the other line, “please don’t hang up! Please listen to me.”

“Marty?” TJ’s heart dropped, this time to his stomach, and it instead of butterflies, it created one of the most nauseating feelings he had felt in a very long time.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Marty choked, sounding as if he was about to cry. “TJ, I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” TJ felt like he was in a state of déjà vu. He had heard this before. He had heard this same sob story over four times.

“He’s going to keep using the same lines because they always work,” Amber told him as she burned the first love letters Marty gave him in a camp fire. “That’s why the next time you hear them, you have to stop listening, TJ. He doesn’t love you. He just needs you.”

“Marty,” TJ sat up in his bed, looking out at the window. It was pitch black and not even the moon could offer comfort as it hid away in the darkness of the city. “Save it.”

“T-,”

“Don’t you get tired, Marty?” TJ asked him, a deep frown on his face as the conversation aged him. “I did. We didn’t work out, Marty. It’s been taking me so long to get over you, and I think I finally am. Please just leave me alone.”

“8 years, TJ,” Marty reminded him, sobbing on the other line.

“We broke up 10 months ago, Marty,” TJ ran his hair through his fingers, pulling on the top of his scalp. “If you really love me, Marty,” TJ sighed, letting his hair go, “never call me again.”

TJ hung up the phone and laid back down, immediately rushing his hands to press on his eyes, trying to stop himself from crying over him again. He had a good four-month streak of not crying, but he guessed it’d be a good time to break it. He turned over on his stomach as his phone continued to ring, and he screamed into his pillow over and over, muffling out the sound as much as possible as he let the phone ring. He wished he could’ve recognized at least the area code number. He would’ve known. He knows he wouldn’t have answered.

The ringing stopped after who knows how long, and TJ didn’t even remember falling asleep. But when he finally felt a brief moment of peace, it got shattered as his phone started ringing again. Furiously, he sat up and answered the phone in a very brief and fuzzy moment.

“Can you stop fucking calling me before I block you for good?” TJ yelled at the other line. His chest was icy from how exhausted he felt, and he could feel the wetness brim the corner of his eyes.

“TJ?” Cyrus answered. TJ’s eyes landed on the rising sun outside the window, the pink skies decorating Oak City as he realized his mistake.

“Oh god, Cyrus, I’m so sorry,” TJ muttered, trying to remember how to form coherent sentences.

“No, I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, “it’s like, 5 in the morning and I woke you up.”

“Wait, what’s wrong?” TJ asked him, trying to shove all his memories of Marty to the back of his mind. Her wished Amber could’ve set those on fire, too.

“I was going to ask you for a huge favor, but I don’t think this is the time.”

“My ex called me at 2 in the morning, and it upset me,” TJ told him bluntly. “It’s nothing life changing. What can I do for you?”

-

“So, you’re TJ?” Buffy shook his hand as Cyrus finished setting down the last few books in his studio.

“The one and only,” TJ smiled, shaking her hand back.

“Look, I know we’re just strangers, but I really appreciate this a whole lot,” Buffy told him. “Andi has almost seen these books about twelve times, and our other option bailed on us.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” TJ told her, looking at the piles of books set neatly against the wall. “I like the old page smell.”

“You’re a real life saver,” Cyrus said to him, grinning widely. TJ felt his cheeks grow rosy and from the corner of his eyes, he knows Buffy smirked.

“I’m just hoping this gets me an invitation to the wedding, honestly,” TJ joked.

“Oh, you’re definitely coming,” Buffy smiled before checking her watch. “Cyrus I gotta get to work soon. We better leave now, so I can drop you off.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” Cyrus told her. “You’re already late, I know it.” Buffy smiled and said her goodbyes before rushing out the door and closing it behind her.

“I can take you,” TJ offered.

Cyrus turned to look at him and said, “No, it’s alright. You’ve already done so much. You should really go back to sleep.”

“I’m not going back to sleep after all that happened in this span of four hours,” TJ chuckled. “I’m wide awake for my 8AM. Let me take you,” he insisted.

“Fine,” Cyrus smiled.

“Coffee first?”

“Please.”

-

“So how long were you and your ex together?” Cyrus asked him as he sat across from him, stirring his coffee.

“8 years,” TJ said, staring down into his own drink. He looked up when he heard Cyrus gasp. “On and off, though. Like, a lot. Maybe there’s like two years’ worth of months that we were fighting somewhere in there. I’m over it. I’m way over it.”

“Is that why you came here to Oak City?” Cyrus asked him. “To get away?”

“Yeah,” TJ nodded. “I wasn’t doing anything back home besides small work here and there. Nothing important. Now here I am, helping secure a future gay wedding. My mom would be so proud of me.”

Cyrus laughed, “I bet. Buffy really appreciated that you’re keeping the books. Like, a lot. We tried both my place and another friend’s place but living in the same complex gets tricky.”

“I bet,” TJ smiled. “If her proposal is like this, I can’t wait to see the wedding.”

“Me, either.”

-

Cyrus knocked on TJ’s studio door on the night of February 14th, asking, “Hey, TJ? Are you home?” Cyrus didn’t bother calling before going over anymore. He knew TJ’s schedule by memory and showed up whenever he wanted, sometimes with Buffy and Andi (who didn’t question who a librarian had so many books), sometimes with more people, sometimes alone. They immediately adopted TJ into their friend group, and TJ felt like Oak City was his home now. Cyrus made everything better with his smile and intuitive knack for comedy. He definitely had a crush on him, and he didn’t know what to do with himself sometimes.

“Coming,” TJ rushed to open the door. He flashed a smile at the shorter man a smile and said, “Hey, Cy, come in.” Cyrus walked in and hastily handed TJ over a book and box of chocolates tied together with a ribbon.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” Cyrus said, TJ looking wide eyed at the blushing man.

“Cyrus,” TJ whispered setting down his present on the kitchen counter, “thank you.”

“I’m sorry if you think it’s weird,” Cyrus started apologizing, “I can totally take it back and pretend it never happened.” Without saying anything, TJ walked up to Cyrus and hugged him, wrapping both of his arms right around him. Cyrus stood still for a moment before hugging him back.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” TJ whispered. “You’ve done so much for me, honestly.”

Cyrus pulled away slightly and looked up at TJ, a smile on his face, “I’m really glad we chose to go to Little Red’s Library.”

“Why?” TJ gazed down at him, his eyes studying his features for the millionth time since they became friends. He’s never had him this close up, and he was sure Cyrus could heard his happy heart beat at that proximity.

“Because,” Cyrus smiled, making TJ’s breath hitch slightly, “I got to meet my favorite librarian.”

“I really want to kiss you right now,” TJ caught himself blurting out.

“Then do it,” Cyrus told him. TJ gave him a small grin before bending down to kiss Cyrus, moving one hand up to cup his face.

“Wow,” TJ whispered, placing another firm kiss on his lips, “I’m so glad I moved here.” Before Cyrus could kiss him again, his phone started ringing, and he frantically pulled away.

“Oh man, it’s Buffy,” Cyrus started jumping around excitedly. She had been in the process of proposing for the last few hours. TJ, Cyrus, and her worked on the proposal project for eight hours straight one weekend.

“Answer it!” TJ urged him. Cyrus answered the Facetime call and when they showed up, all they saw was Andi’s hand and a ring.

“I did it!” you could hear Buffy on the other line.

“Congratulations!” TJ told them, waving behind Cyrus.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for this moment for almost two decades,” Cyrus smiled, putting his hand over his heart, “I’m so happy for you two.”

“Thank you, Cyrus,” Buffy smiled, turning the camera to them.

“I can’t believe you all managed to keep this from me,” Andi laughed.

“Team work makes the dream work,” Cyrus winked. “Let me know when you guys start planning!”

“Probably next month,” Buffy shrugged, “I don’t know. What are you guys up to.” Both Cyrus and TJ instinctively bit their lip and Buffy raised a brow, smirking at Cyrus as TJ walked away from the camera’s view. “I think I got it. Happy Valentine’s day you two.”

“Happy Valentine’s day,” Cyrus smiled before hanging up. He put his phone away and looked over at TJ who was looking at the new Michael Nava book he had bought him. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” TJ nodded before walking over to him, and carefully pulling him in, “but I think I like you a lot more.”

“I know I like you a lot more,” Cyrus smiled before standing up on his tippy toes to kiss him once more.

[sonicrevival]

Ultimatum- Chapter 3 of 5: Headspace

Sorry I missed the update yesterday, was busy with something else.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18500557/chapters/44004130

Sonic: Revival- Ultimatum Chapter 3 of 5: Headspace With Eggman gone and Mecha Sally paralysed, Sonic’s small team were left alone on the ice with Silver and Emerl, waiting for Nicole’s return. None of them said anything, the five content to let the faint howl of the wind go undisturbed as they took in their victory. Mecha Sally was safely in their care, and Nicole was already undoing Eggman’s work, while the mad doctor himself had lost his latest machine and been forced to retreat. He hadn’t made it far, thanks to Emerl, and it would be a while before he recovered from the setback they had dealt him. As far as Sonic really cared, this could be filed under ‘Mission Accomplished.’ “So, Tails. I think you and Nicole have got a bit of explaining to do,” The blue hedgehog finally spoke up, glancing at Emerl. Tails nodded, looking over at the robot for a second, and cleared his throat. “Well, Nicole isn’t here right now, so I’ll do it,” He said. “Uhm, what did Nicole say your name was?” “Emerl.” “Right, well, Emerl here is a Gizoid. They’re a sort of extremely powerful warrior robot. Paradoxically highly advanced and very old, ancient, even,” Tails began. “Hey, I’m not old!” She protested. “Your body is approximately three thousand years old,” The fox replied. “You’ve been asleep for most of it.” “If her body is that old, why is Nicole compatible with it?” Amy asked. “Well, that’s partially due to the modifications we made while we were working on the body when we found it, and partially because we believe that the technology that was used to make Nicole was reverse-engineered from the same technology that made Emerl, that of the Fourth Great Civilisation. She’s something of a bridge between us and them.” “What were they like?” “We don’t know. We only know they existed at all from a few scraps and fragments, and the occasional account from another contemporary civilisation. We only know their language because archaeologists found a stone that happened to serve as a translation between Nocturnian and Ancient Echidna, which we know significantly more of.” “Huh, interesting,” Sonic said. “So, what about more details regarding our new friend here?” “We found her while you were in space, and she became something of a group project. Everyone played their part… until Fiona joined the team,” Tails continued. “Ugh, her.” Amy groaned. Tails gave her a look for a moment, then resumed speaking. “Well, Fiona actually knew what it was that we had found, and explained that the Gizoid was actually incredibly dangerous. Reportedly, a single Gizoid had gone berserk and practically wiped out the Nocturnus themselves, at least managing to cripple them enough that their empire collapsed.” “Wait, one of me did all that? By itself?” Emerl asked. “I didn’t think we were that strong...” “I’m still somewhat dubious as to whether I trust the story,” Tails admitted. “Still, we tried to find a way to ensure activation would be safe, but there were no guarantees. Ultimately, we decided that the risk was too great to activate the Gizoid, and gave the access codes to the lab to two people: Sally and Nicole. It was only be to used in the most dire situation, one where adding a berserk city-destroying robot to the mix wouldn’t make it worse than it already was. Nicole decided that this was the right time, apparently, and I think she made the right choice.” “I’ll say,” Sonic nodded, looking over at the wreckage of the Egg Beater. “You’re pretty strong, Emerl, if you were able to do that.” “Well, I’m no more powerful than anyone else here,” She shrugged. “I’m just not tired, and having a metal body lets me go all-out for longer and hit harder. My damage output is exactly the same as that of the ability I copied. If you were as fresh as me, you’d have had no problems with that.” “Well, I’m still glad you showed up,” Sonic grinned. “Thanks for the help.” “Don’t thank me yet, we’re only part of the way done. Now it’s all up to Nicole…” *** Sally’s processor being a mess was something the lynx should’ve expected. She just wasn’t expecting it to be this bad. Everything, including Mecha Sally’s functions, her passive systems, and, hopefully, the trapped consciousness of the real Sally, had been compressed into half the space it needed, which went a long way toward explaining why she was so slow. Not that Nicole was moving quickly, of course. With the density of the code and Eggman’s own shoddy work, she felt as though she were forcing her way through a dense pit of sludge, forcing her way deeper and deeper into the depths of the computer. Moving through some systems, she had discovered, felt like flying. She could float wherever she needed to go, almost unhindered. Others were more like swimming. There was some resistance, and she had to push herself, but still easily manageable. She assumed it was manageable anyway, she’d never personally done any swimming, as far as she knew, so she didn’t really understand her own comparison. Certainly, Sonic wouldn’t agree with her. This was more like crawling. As if the code around her was solid and unyielding and she had to pull herself along, battering her way through the layers of programming. Fortunately, the Doctor’s overconfidence was on her side. Barring the Power Ring Matrix, there were no defences within Mecha Sally. She didn’t want to think about fighting a firewall or an antivirus with her movements so sluggish. Finally, she felt herself speed up a little, as the broken tides of coding at long last formed something she could interact with. The ground gave way beneath her, and she found herself falling toward what looked like a wall of some sort, Eggman’s grinning logo emblazoned upon it, extending well past her range of sight, into the darkness. She flew up to the wall, inspecting it closely… There was a seam of some sort, roughly in what she assumed to be the middle of it. Not a wall, then, but a gate. That made things significantly easier. A wall would have to be torn down or punched through. A gate? That could simply be opened. Nicole pressed her palm against the steel-grey structure, green glow enveloping her, trails of emerald light spreading out from her fingers, forming an intricate lattice as they spread across the gate, separating out into more and more strands, moving in straight lines, turning only in right angles. A cluster of them encircled the Eggman logo, stabbing into it, as the eyes of the logo turned green, before the whole thing vanished, replaced with a simple glowing orb. An emerald glow shone through the seam, brightening as, with a low rumble and a heavy groan of metal, the gate slowly slid apart, steam pouring out of it, before she flew through it, landing on the solid ground she found on the other side. Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she jumped back and upwards, dodging the incoming attack. She looked down at the program, which resembled the original form of Mecha Sally, before Eggman’s modifications, brandishing its glowing crimson claws as it stared at her with red optics. “I thought I’d find you in here,” Nicole said, landing again. In a flash, a rectangular shield of light formed on her left arm, a short sword with a triangular blade in her free hand. “Where is Sally?” Mecha Sally gave no response, charging forward again, swinging her talons at the lynx. It slammed into her shield, pushing her back for a moment, before she shoved back, overpowering the program. She primed to take a swing at her, but paused. What if this was Sally? What if the new version of the Roboticizer also converted the victim’s mind fully, rather than leaving them awake and imprisoned. If she deleted this program, would she be deleting Sally? Sensing her hesitation, the mechanical squirrel shifted, grasping the sides of the shield and pulling it down, another pair of arms appearing on her shoulders and lashing at Nicole’s face, clawing into her avatar. She yelped, as all four of the robot’s arms pulled her shield free, then slammed the edge of it into her chest. She fell back, bouncing over the ground, as Mecha Sally lunged at her, bringing her heel down on her stomach. “Beginning virus infection.” The program finally spoke, stabbing her arm into Nicole’s chest. She screamed, watching a web of crimson code spreading its way across her avatar, wrapping around her limbs and constricting her body, pinning her to the floor. She strained, struggling against the weight of the robot, and the pull of the coding trying to contain her. “You have lost. You will become a part of the Eggma-” The robot never finished her sentence, as a glowing blue blade erupted from her chest. She froze, her voice sticking for a moment, before she exploded into a cloud of data shards. The red bindings evaporated from Nicole, and she lifted her head up to meet the eyes of her rescuer. “You looked like you could use a hand.” Sally smiled down at her, holding out her left, the right clutching a sword. Nicole grabbed it immediately, standing up and hugging the squirrel. She was here, free of the programming’s influence. She looked like hell, bruised, battered and bleeding, hair messy, jacket ripped, and boots barely holding together, but she was here. “I’m so glad you’re okay!” Nicole cried out, tears filling her eyes as she felt Sally return the embrace. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve done something sooner, I should’ve saved you faster!” “Nicole, it’s okay…” She said, holding her closer. “You’ve been through a lot, you can’t be blamed for getting caught up in that. You still made it here in the end.” “Have you been fighting it this entire time?” Nicole asked, separating from the hug, looking the squirrel’s battered form up and down. “Mostly, yes. It’s been… tiring,” Sally sighed, picking up her sword again. “That program wasn’t alone, there’s a lot of them. I had hoped that by deleting them all, I’d be able to break free of Eggman’s influence. Unfortunately it seems as though any that I destroy get replaced. I’ve found where they’re coming from, but I can’t destroy it by myself. I’m not really used to existing digitally, and his grip is tight enough that I can’t be as powerful in here as you are in your own mind.” “Well, now that there’s two of us… I think we can handle it,” Nicole smiled, reforming her weapons. Sally grinned back, and began to walk forward, leading Nicole behind her. “Alright then, it’s this way,” She announced, as they picked up their pace, crossing the empty plain toward their destination. More of the Mecha Sally programs appeared, flickering into their path with a cloud of pixels, charging toward the pair of them. Sally charged forward first, slicing each of the drones apart. Nicole followed her lead. Now that she knew that none of these things were really her friend, she needn’t hold back, she could just delete them with ease. “Sally, how aware of what’s going on outside are you?” She asked, a green pulse launching from her fingers and exploding in the face of the nearest droid. “I know all of it. I’m still aware, I still have access to my memories, even if I’m not the one currently experiencing them. I know what happened to Antoine… and that Naugus took over… and I know you activated the Gizoid,” Sally replied, kicking a drone down and stabbing it through the torso. “Bunnie also left, and Rotor resigned from the council,” Nicole admitted, slamming one into the wall with her shield, cutting it in two. “Rotor refused to be a part of them after Naugus convinced the rest to exile me, and I think Bunnie’s searching for a way to help Antoine. That’s why it was just Sonic, Tails, and Amy chasing you.” “Well, looks like we’re going to have to do some cleanup when we get out of here,” Sally sliced another in half. Eventually, they cleared out the drones, cutting their way through to the source, a large domed structure, factory machines audible from inside. A door at the front opened, and more of the droids began to flood out, reaching out with claws at the two Freedom Fighters. “That’s a lot of them,” Nicole braced herself. “I know, that’s why I couldn’t get in before,” Sally replied. “But we can do this now, together.” “Right,” Nicole nodded. “Let’s go, then.” The lynx moved first, racing forward with her shield raised, barrelling into the column and bashing the Robian figures out of the way, sword lashing out to cut down those beside her. Sally followed, covering her other flank and rear. They pressed further on, cleaving apart the avatars of Eggman’s virus, never giving them a chance to push back, as Nicole’s avatar began to glow brighter and brighter. “Nicole? What’s with the glow?” Sally asked, cutting another apart. “I’m cooking up something bigger. On my signal, jump, and try to land on my shield.” “Right!” She nodded, averting her eyes and slamming the pommel of her sword into the head of the nearest drone, kicking it back and stabbing her blade through it and into the drone behind it. The drones exploded, allowing her to move the weapon again, sweeping it in a wide arc, tearing more and more of their code apart. “Sally, now!” Nicole’s voice shouted behind her. She crouched and launched herself upwards, flipping over backwards and landing directly on top of Nicole’s shield. The lynx was crouched, with the square of light held above her head, and she sprang upright, propelling herself and Sally into the air. She released her shield, allowing the momentum to carry it, and her friend, higher and higher. “Aim for the door!” Sally crouched again, pushing off from the shield and lunging for the door of the factory, arcing over the heads of the hostile programs. Nicole herself dropped down, slamming her now-free hand into the ground, roughly in the centre of the throng of enemy programs. A shockwave of jade light exploded from her palm, rippling through the army and deleting all of them, just in time for Sally to land just where the outermost ones had been standing. “We’re all clear!” Sally beamed, as the duo regrouped. “Well done, Nicole.” “Thanks, now let’s get rid of this thing and go home.” “Of course.” Heading into the factory itself, they found only a few active drones, most of the others inside being still under construction. A few gathered at the outermost end of the assembly lines, but otherwise, resistance was minimal. “This place is rather simple for one of Eggman’s factories…” Sally mused as they pressed on. It was true, the interior of the dome seemed to be little more than a circle of assembly lines making drones, spanning outwards from a central control area, far easier to navigate than the warren of corridors and dead-ends that the dictator normally filled his buildings with. “Probably because it’s not really a factory. It’s just the part of your programming that is producing the infected control code. This is just what our minds are perceiving it as, a most logical form for it. Since the systems aren’t exactly the most complex, it takes a more simplistic shape,” Nicole explained, as they walked up to the central column of the whole structure. “We’ve already dealt with the worst of the defences, now we just have to deal with the source, which we'll more than likely find in here.” “Ah, alright,” Sally tightened her grip on her weapon, taking a deep breath. “Ready?” “Yeah. You?” “Yeah.” Nicole sliced the door open, and stepped into the void on the other side. For a moment, the entire area was empty, before Sally followed her in and the room took shape. It looked like the old control room in Robotropolis- A bank of computer screens on each wall, and a throne in the centre of the room, rising out of a pit, the gap spanned by a quartet of walkways. The dim lights were red rather than green, however, and the Roboticizer was absent. “Self-destruct timer overdue. Detonator not responding. Weapon systems offline. Servos offline. Thrusters offline. Unit is disabled. Attempting system reboot.” A voice, very much like Sally’s, but devoid of emotion and with a faint grate in it, spoke up from the throne. “There, that’s the source…” Nicole whispered. Not quietly enough, it seemed, as the throne turned toward them, exposing a figure identical to Mecha Sally’s modified form, save for the Eggman logo emblazoned on her chestplate, and her hateful crimson optics. Wires and cables extended from the throne itself into her body, and as she opened her mouth to speak, her entire muzzle split open, exposing a row of fangs. “Infection located. Purging systems before attempting reboot.” She separated from the throne, the wires retracting into it as she stalked forward, moving more like a predatory animal than a Mobian or a robot. Her ‘hair’ pulled back slightly, but rather than a weapon, it exposed a baleful optic, glaring down at them. Red blades extended out of her arms, as another pair extended from her shoulders, and she lunged at the two friends. Nicole stepped forward, bringing her shield up and bracing for the impact, but it never came. The robot leapt over her head, aiming her weapons at Sally herself. The squirrel jumped aside, letting her counterpart hit the ground as Nicole slashed at her back, two of her arms blocking the strike. Mecha Sally stood upright, rounding on them both. She stepped between them, right arms lashing at Nicole, the left at Sally. Neither side found its mark, locking with the organic’s sword and crashing against the AI’s shield, pressing against each other for a moment. Mecha Sally withdrew her blades, causing her two attackers to overbalance, before spinning her torso section, holding out her arms as her blades became a wheel of scarlet light, shrieking through the air between them. Both reeled back, avoiding any damage, but held at bay by the continuous spin. The robot glanced between them, then took a step toward Nicole, pushing her back. The lynx growled, struggling to hold her shield up against the constant barrage of blades. Sally followed, trying to strike under the wheel, but something else struck her in the stomach, cutting into her and throwing her back. Mecha Sally stopped, and thrust all four of her blades into Nicole’s shield, penetrating it and tearing it apart. At the same time, six barbed metal tendrils, tipped with spikes, extended from her upper back. One of them had hit the Princess, who carefully climbed back to her feet during the brief pause. Nicole let the remains of her shield fall, taking her sword in both hands and doubling its size and weight. She bodily swung the weapon at her opponent, knocking her off-balance for a moment as its blades struggled to block the heavier weapon. She pressed her attack, holding the greatsword over her head and swinging it down, forcing Mecha Sally to use all four of her own to block it. Yet, as Nicole began to turn the tide, Sally wasn’t faring so well. The tendrils snaked out toward her, curling past her attempts to block them, forcing her to dodge. As the robot shifted to try and evade Nicole’s strikes, so she backed her own counterpart toward the walkway. The barbs nicked at her already-injured form, cutting and grazing her skin, never quite hitting home, but hurting all the same. Finally, she made that crucial mistake. As the tendrils arced toward her, pincering from both sides and thrusting forward, Sally stepped back out of their reach, and onto the narrow, railed platform. Her blade severed one of them, getting just the right angle to slice it apart, but the robot wasn’t deterred. She stepped back, giving herself room once more, and lashed out at Sally. There was no room for her to dodge anymore, and her metallic counterpart was too close for her to just back away. The first wrapped around Sally’s sword, wrenching it from her grip as it grasped her arm too, three more grappling with her remaining limbs, as Nicole looked up and realised, too late, why the program hadn’t been focused on her. “Sally!” She cried out, trying to juke around Mecha Sally, only to meet her blades again, blocking her path. The final tendril plunged into Sally’s chest, the other four driving into her back as a pulse of crimson rippled down each of them, and the princess screamed. When the red flash faded, the tendrils retracted, and a second Mecha Sally stood on the bridge, looking identical to her actual form in the outside world. “You should not have brought her here. That was the last of her mind. Now it is a part of me.” The first Mecha Sally stood over Nicole, as the lynx stared at her friend in horror. “You have failed. This unit will not be taken from its Master. Surrender and be assimilated.” “Never!” Nicole growled, thrusting her sword forward once more. “So be it.” Sally stood on the bridge, unable to move. She looked out at the two other programs through a red haze, but focusing on the whirl of blades proved impossible. Her mind was occupied, but with what? She’d been hurt, that thing had stabbed her, but it wasn’t that… she didn’t feel a pain in her chest or her back, but in her head. But why did she have a headache? Robots didn’t get headaches. And her sister-unit hadn’t stabbed her there… She focused her attention on the ache in her processor and finally realised what was happening to her, as she felt the same corrupting code that filled the other Mecha Sally was now writing itself into her. Burying her under another layer of obedience to her hated enemy, one that even Nicole wouldn’t be able to breach. But that wasn’t her. These weren’t her thoughts. None of this was part of her, and she refused to let it have its way. She refused to let Eggman’s virus claim her. She wasn’t a robot, and she wasn’t going to accept being one. The red haze faded from her vision, and she moved, arms sliding open as blue energy blades slid into place along her forearms. She jumped from the bridge, and launched herself directly at her monstrous counterpart, driving her swords into its back. Mecha Sally let out a modulated scream, arching back as Sally’s weapons tore through its armour, destroyed the mounting points for its tendrils, and poked out through its chestplate. It staggered sinking to its knees as Sally looked over the top of its head at Nicole. “Are you okay?” She asked, as the AI’s face broke out in a giddy smile. “I should be the one asking you that!” She called back. The robot wasn’t done, however. Her head snapped around, locking optics with Sally, as all four of her arms reached back and pulled her attacker away from her, before flipping Sally overhead and slamming her into the ground in front of Nicole. Sally fired the engines in her feet, launching herself across the ground and bowling her counterpart off of her feet. Falling forward, the droid’s chestplate was torn away by Nicole’s blade, exposing a blazing scarlet orb inside, pulsing rapidly. The program climbed back upright, blocking a second strike from the lynx, before launching herself after Sally. All four of her swords thrust toward the squirrel, only to miss their mark as she twisted herself around and cleaved through the second pair of forearms, severing them. Mecha Sally roared, swinging out wildly and clipping her opponent’s thruster, sending her into a downward spin. As she paused to recollect herself, however, Nicole snatched Sally from the air and brought her to a safe landing on the bridge. “Thanks, Nicole.” Sally smiled as much as she could with a metal face, standing herself upright and scooping up the sword she’d dropped earlier, as the two looked up at the hostile robot. It howled with rage, and charged down toward them. Jumping aside, the two separated as she flew between them and ripped the bridge apart, descending into the pit a short distance before arcing back upwards, soaring above their heads. It locked onto Nicole, snarling at her as it dove toward her. “You die first! You brought her here! She will be converted once you are dead, but you are first! You will die!” It howled, drawing its blades back for the attack. Nicole responded in kind, racing up toward the virus, greatsword primed to drive forward. As they drew close, she took advantage of her weapon’s greater size, thrusting it directly upwards and into Mecha Sally’s gut, cleanly impaling her. The robot’s flight stopped immediately, stunned, as Nicole continued to push upwards, allowing herself a smile as she saw Sally rising into her flight path and beginning to fly down toward the pair. “You missed! Failed! Failure! You’re trapped!” Mecha Sally screeched, raising her weapons again. “Did I miss?” Nicole asked, smirking slightly, locking eyes with the incoming Robian, who shot the same look back at her, brandishing her sword. “My core still burns! I still function! You will still die!”” “Behind you!” “What!?” Mecha Sally’s upper torso snapped around, just in time for the two entangled opponents to collide with the real Sally, as her blade tore through her mutated counterpart’s open chest cavity, impaling her flickering core and erupting from her already-ravaged backplate. Mecha Sally’s optics went wide for a moment, and she let out an ear-splitting shriek, before her core exploding, a bright red fireball ripping through the room and throwing both Freedom Fighters into the walls with a heavy thud. When the light faded, the red aura was gone from the room entirely, replaced with a softer blue. Sally slowly clambered to her feet, stumbling slightly before Nicole caught her, and enveloped her in a tight hug. “Thank you, Nicole… for everything,” She sighed, returning the gesture. “Me? You’re the one that did most of the work!” Nicole replied. “And I couldn’t have done any of it without you,” Sally smiled, letting her sword fall to the ground, before she released her friend and turned toward the throne. “Only one thing left to do now…” Sally walked forward, striding up to the seat, and sat herself down on it. The wires snaked out of it once more, plugging into her body as she closed her optics and tensed herself for a moment. Then, with a brilliant flash of azure light, the dark control room was washed away, fading into the aether as the throne room of the old Acorn palace, the same one that Sally had lived in as a child, took its place. The sun shone through the windows, birds chirping outside, as Sally, restored to her organic form, no sign of the cuts and bruises she’d accumulated over her time trapped in her own head, rested on the seat, smiling warmly. *** Outside, on the frozen tundra, the five Freedom Fighters still stood, waiting quietly. Sonic paced back and forth, while Tails distracted himself by looking over the schematic hologram that Emerl had created. Silver stood nearby, still focused on the Robian, ready to move at a second’s notice if she became active and hostile again. Amy and Emerl just waited, the former looking more apprehensive than the latter. Then, Mecha Sally jolted, as her locked joints disengaged once more, and she began to stumble forward, steadying herself before she could trip. All five looked up at her, expressions a mix of expectant and fearful, before she stood upright, Nicole appeared over her shoulder, and both of them smiled. “Hello, everyone.”

[doctaskull]

QUICK HIATUS

[ Okay okay, this one is quite the big change. But it’s for the best. With no futher do: I’m trasnforming this URL into a multimuse blog: the “Inter-Dimensional Outpost”! All my other blogs (@theflamesofjustice​ and @wilyrobots​) will be archived, I won’t be deleting them. I will be permanely moving to @doctaskull​ as my multimuse blog, I like the URL of it so I won’t bother changing it.

OH!

Almost forgot ‘bout it!

I have a muse list, I plan to include all of them at some point so here we go:

Dr.Wily (Mega Man series. He’s packed in with all the verses you already know and more!)

Fire Man (Mega Man series. Probably won’t be receiving many verses if I’m being honest.)

Konro Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man and Bass 2. A game about nobody played or knew about.)

Yoku Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man Unlimited. Surprisingly he’s actually classified as a “public use” character.)

Flash Man (Mega Man series. I will be pulling out a lot from the Megamix characterization, I love the crazy flavour he have there.)

Pirate Man (Mega Man series. Expect a good ammount of Pirate slangs and swears.)

Tank Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man Unlimited. A die-hard Wily loyalist and second-in-command regarding land forces.)

Sky Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man 42. The personal bodyguard of Wily, if anything he’s on the levels of competitiveness as Bass but not without a ego to match it. Even without his hammer he can and will try to kick your ass.)

Ring Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man 4. Again, Megamix inspired, he being a detective is both the most ridiculous and best thing to come out of that comic.)

Ombuds Man (Mega Man series, straight out Mega Man 42. A workolic office worker, he takes care of all paperwork of Wily or in whatever company he works at. He’s also great at roles of administration, such as a CEO or an secretary.)

Rico Rodriguez (Just Cause series. World’s Top Dictator Overthrowner, used to work to the FBI, but quickly enough he discovered all the unruly shit happening under the covers. Currently he works to no one but Liberty, you will find doing what he’s born to do, help resistance win against dictators. He’s going to be in with a bunch of verses to match his crazy life.)

Papyrus (From Undertale. This skeleton fella might seem just a over-the-top joyful and pure guy, but don’t be mistaken! He’s strong enough to beat you, but even more to forgive you and support you. I think my characterization and interpretation of his character will be very different from your usual Papyrus, I hope yall like it!)

Guos (A Hollow Knight OC. A lost vessel, born not from Hallownest, but definitely void-linked. He searchs for a home he lost, and for the parent he don’t remember. The only reason he know he lost something is because of a picture he carries together with his trusty bow and trustworthy knife.)

Forge (A Minecraft OC. Ever thought of how would a Patheon of Gods formed of the Minecraft Mods would look like? No? Because I did! This fella is the father of the whole of mods, the only one above him is the Vanilla, godification of Minecraft itself.)

Mustafa Savvas (A Original OC. Not going to say much about him, but he’s a traveller of worlds, he gets a new form to match the worlds where his original appearance doesn't fits in. If anything the most Multiverse character one can wish for.)

Vrammir (A Metroid OC. A lucky Zebesian who got his claws in a ancient Power Suit, he’s not as good as Samus, but if you have his trust he he’s just a determined and heroic.)

Nenqreid (A Metroid OC. Member of the High Command of the Space Pirates and Field Marshal for the entirely of the Zebesian Troops, he’s one of the most powerful forces before Ridley. Mess with him and you will have a storm coming for ya.)

Rusty (From the Steamworld series. Used to be a lumberjack, but as circumstances arrived he leaved his old job and went to claim the mines of his uncle. Now a miner he wonders what awaits for him. Will be packed with fundamental verses, for SWD1 and beyond.)

That’s about it, and don’t forget to bring our threads to my new account in @doctaskull! ]

[arcticmonkeysaf]

Translation of Alex Turner’s interview in ICON magazine 

Alex Turner, leader of Arctic Monkeys, the biggest rock band of the 21st century, and perhaps its last hope

"What the hell is this?"

We've just arrived at the location of our interview with Alex Turner, leader of Arctic Monkeys, who is absolutely awestruck. It's the first floor of the Bethnal Green Town Hall Hotel in London, an ancient Edwardian building with touches of art deco, converted, of course, into a hotel. In a room of the first floor, a photoshoot has just taken place.

"Well, I don't know, I think the people are getting married," says the press agent, attempting to explain some of the excitement it's provoked in Alex being in the space, without getting too carried away: we still have a job to do. Alex begins to run through the hall, the site of council meetings of the Bethnal Green since 1910, when the building was constructed. Nearly all civic government buildings in Spain are smaller, and certainly not as lovely as this place.

The writer of Fake Tales of San Francisco has already seated himself in the chair we suspect belongs to the mayor.

"What do you want? A fine or a wedding?" he jokes.

The press agent leaves, but the leader of the band formed in the era when teenagers no longer wanted to form rock bands can't keep still. He runs between the benches until he's standing in the spot meant for the speaker.

"A hundred pounds! Look here's £100!" He procures two rosy £50 notes. I suggest to him that we should keep them. He laughs. I decide not to insist. I say instead we should start the interview, after all we are here to talk about Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, the sixth album by the band, not to get married or chat. He stops laughing. It's a shame that Alex Turner becomes such a timid person, careful and cautious, when the tape recorder starts. Before he assumes the role of frontman of the group that launched AM four years ago and made it the best selling vinyl record of the 21st century, he permits himself one last question.

"Would you get married here?" We look around - myself still thinking about those £100 - while we get cozy in two benches in the last row. I answer no, that's it's all very interesting, but not at all romantic.

"I agree. Motion denied," he decides.

Rising to fame in the middle of the last decade, Arctic Monkeys have become a phenomenon thanks to a handful of songs a friend converted into mp3 - they say that they, despite being part of the digital age, had problems even turning on a computer - which soon began to spread on the Internet. It was the raucous, intelligent, and British response to The Strokes. Seeing them on the stage in those early days, before the premiere of their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not, which would see the light of day in 2006 and would become the fastest selling debut album ever in Britain within in its first week of release, was a tremendously peculiar experience. Four kids at 3 a.m. making a spectacular noise in the Sala Razzmatazz in Barcelona, but who could barely reach the bar counter to order a drink.

More than a decade has passed and they've recorded four albums more. A brilliant sequel (Favourite Worst Nightmare), another risky, rapturous and rocking (Humbug, recorded en the California desert with Josh Homme), a delicate and underrated return to pop (Suck It and See) and a million-dollar beast, a sex-soundtrack record called AM. And then, they stopped.

"When we stopped touring in 2014, nearly everyone in the band was about to get married, or having kids, or another kid. The end of those concerts was much like the end of another chapter. We were all 28 or 29 and it felt like everything was about to change. During this neverending tour I thought that record would be with me forever. It was the longest tour we had ever done. Now I think we extended it because we knew that when it ended it would be the end of something bigger than just a series of concerts. I expected everything to change, well, I felt that even though the numbers said the opposite, in the end we had less than we started with," remembers Turner, about the final days we would see the band together in public.

Now all living in the U.S., each of the band members went on his own path. Alex returned to The Last Shadow Puppets, a band loved by Arctic Monkeys devotees. There Turner splits responsibilities with his friend Miles Kane, a guy with impeccable taste but with terrible ideas. In 2016 the pair played the mainstage at Primavera Sound, where they were the headliners. That performance was grotesque. The image of Turner, who looked like a mix between an actor in Rebeldes and a finalist in an Elvis impersonators competition, had only a semblance of Arctic Monkeys of AM. In that context he made a bit of a joke of himself. Compared to the boy who, as an adolescent, was rejected by a second-hand clothing shop in Sheffield because he was too shy, it had gotten out of hand.

"That was..." His words are halting, he speaks very slowly, he leaves sentences unfinished and even stops a joke short if he finds the punchline isn't as funny as he'd thought. "I think what I wanted to say with that image and that attitude have been said. It's over."

Now Turner sports long hair and a beard which has been the object of controversy among his fans, who even launched a Change.org campaign for him to shave it.

"There's a lot of scrutiny around our next step, I know. We've always tried to be discreet with what we do, where and with whom. It's normal, but I don't think we do it on purpose. In this age, it's hard to keep secrets. With this record we tried and even just getting to the studio, the sound engineer goes and posts a picture of us. Everyone is so crazy these days, they act like they're Columbo. 'I saw this, I spotted that guy...'" explains Turner when asked how it's possible that a band as big as his, who will be the headliners at Primavera Sound and at MadCool, has managed to make sure that, even with only a month left until the record's launch, no one knows absolutely anything about it.

"I don't know if not getting involved in social media is something we do on purpose to protect the band, but it helps," says Turner, introducing the topic of being offline. "Maybe it's not in our DNA to expose ourselves. I've put so much into the music that I don't know what more I can do with that. I can't open a Twitter account because I think everything's there, in the songs. I'd make a fool of myself if I started tweeting. See, social media doesn't bother me, truthfully, but when you become the version of yourself you've created in the virtual world there's something there that allows people to do their worst against you. And you can also do your worst against them. The consequences of that I can't even imagine, but I don't want them."

We've had to listen to Tranquility Base in a version that downloads and is scheduled for automatic deletion the next week. The band have asked us not to ask anything personal, days after an encounter Alex had with a journalist from The Times. There is no single before the release, but there is a new logo for the band's image. The only photograph of Turner is the one taken by a guard in an airport days before this meeting and which has reactivated the fierce debate with respect to the Sheffielder's beard. It's a record release like the ones before, but Turner hardly seems like a global superstar. I tell him that one time I interviewed Beyoncé and they sat me at one end of a massive table and told me that I shouldn't even think about touching her, and that, on another occasion interviewing Chris Cornell, I had to go into a hotel room that was completely dark and had to confirm that the voice answering my questions was actually the grunge singer's.

"Would you like some water?" Turner interrupts, and, before I can respond, fills my glass.

During the hours after our meeting, the first new photo of the band is made public (they look as though they're dressed for a wedding in December of 1972 in Iceland) and they publish the details and tracklisting of their latest record, which was recorded in Paris, London, and Los Angeles, where the band members now reside. But what most strikes me is the first line. "I just wanted to be one of The Strokes, now look at the mess you've made me make," sings Turner on “Star Treatment”, a gem of a song that marks the tone of an album destined to confound all those who expected something bombastic, expansive, and hormonal. The LP has songs with titles as fabulous as The Ultracheese, Batphone, or The World's First Ever Monster Truck Front Flip. Imagine Richard Hawley going on tour with comedian Andy Kaufman and performing only in Sheraton hotels located in state capitals, or Scott Walker in the pub, singing after a Sheffield United match. It's deliciously decadent and promises to polarize the opinions of millions of their fans. Is [Turner] nervous? And, more importantly, is he confident?

"Let's see, I think I remember feeling a bit like that with this last record. I wasn't sure if it was the right album. Are we going down the wrong path? It always happens. When I showed the first songs to my manager, to the people from the record label and my colleagues, a lot of the reactions were 'It's very unique.' I thought it was unique, but not that much. I doubted whether it was the right record for the Monkeys. So, Jamie came to my house and stayed with me for two weeks while we recorded. His enthusiasm for the songs confirmed to me that it was the right choice. If this is what comes out of me, that's what it is. I think we can do what we want to do, it's our band. So there's no reason to worry about whether it's a hit or not," he says about a record that, from time to time, evokes loneliness.

"Yes, a little bit," concedes Turner. "There's always been something in me that has made me isolated in life. But until now, I don't know why, I've avoided touching upon that on a creative level. The words passed through a very long process of refinement. It's been complicated getting here. For example, that first line about The Strokes. I fought hard against it, I wanted it but I didn't want it. I thought, "Hell, I'll leave it, because I know I'll change it because it's impossible that I'll end up saying this nonsense." And it got to a point that I thought, "If I feel like this, why not say it? I should be honest."

[justavengeit]

search term: tuna star

or how bucky learned to stop worrying and love shipfic; side b to this post about pining bucky barnes writing winteriron fic, please read first for context

Bucky watches with a kind of shocky horror, flushing hot with shame and cold with terror in waves, as Tony turns to read his writing plastered up on the screen for the entire world to see. The world presses in, too bright and sharp to be entirely real, dragging by like he’s a fly trapped in molasses.

This is all Tony Stark’s fault, he thinks very calmly, vaguely aware of Natasha taking note of his enhanced response. It’s just his shitty luck that she’s the one sitting with him for this one - it was supposed to be Wilson. He could have fooled Wilson.

–

He’d always known that public opinion would be a problem - but he hasn’t accounted for the fans. He’d thought of himself as a soldier, as an operative. He wasn’t prepared for the ridiculous lengths that the Avengers’ public relations team was willing to go to to integrate him into the team whether the governments of the world liked it or not.

“But why,” he’d asked and they’d looked at each other and shrugged and said, “because Tony Stark.”

Oh, Steve had been pissed about it. He hates the whole dog and pony show of it, and Bucky doesn’t much care for it himself, but that’s more because he never knows what to do with himself than because he finds it humiliating the way Steve does. And the outreach aspects are nice. That he can be a source of inspiration, rather than a tool of fear. It feels like a lie that some of the kids love him so much, but they’re utterly unimpressed with his logic and reasons.

“Mom says if you’re sorry for it, an’ you try n’ do better afterwards, then it’s okay,” a boy had told him matter of fact. As if it’s as easy as that.

It’s not that easy, but it’s a start.

And of course, since he’s being worked so hard to make him palatable to the public, he ends up in a lot of the same places as Tony Stark, who does more PR work than actual crime-fighting these days. He doesn’t look like he misses it one bit, for all that he does incredible work when in the suit. He watches Tony with the spider kid, watches on whom Tony’s eyes linger, and figures out that Tony wants to settle down with someone. Retire from the superhero business. Call it quits.

It sounds like a beautiful pipe dream. He should have realized that heroes never get to call it quits.

Bucky finds himself watching Tony a lot. It’s not like Tony notices. He’s so used to being scrutinized that he’s a duck and the clamoring of the people, the media, the fans - it’s all the water he bobs along atop with a jaunty little flick if his hand and a smirk on his face. It’s less that he thrives on the attention and more that it’s his home territory. Bucky watches him effortless seize control of situation after situation, turn back cruel barbs and send off his own.

And it gets cruel, especially when the media gets wind if the fact that there are average, normal people writing stories about celebrities and the Avengers and anyone else that catches their eye. Tony is hardly the only target if their vitriol, but he does get the worst of it. It all gets shaken off with a quirky joke, Tony prodding at it and daring: is this the best that you can do?

The crazy fuck.

Bucky investigates in case this is another thing like the fan letters cum letterbombs. A whole new world is opened to him. Several sleepless weeks are spent buried in the internet, trying to make heads or tails of what he’s found. Apparently people just write things for fun. Things like dime store novels. He finds himself even enjoying some of the more benign ones - the stories where the Avengers show up and save the author’s life. Go to space. Fight ancient magical beings. And it’s all free, is the thing.

Bucky had forgotten that he likes reading fiction.

And of course there are people who are writing about him - about the Winter Soldier. Bucky avoids these fics for some time, until one night, several hours after Tony tears through a fic ‘bashing’ him on a show that features a few other celebrities reacting to fic written about them, Bucky finally gets the nerve to open the most popular Winter Soldier fic and read it. And he doesn’t stop reading them.

They’re wrong, is the thing, Bucky decides - that’s why he keeps reading them. There are several fics that have serialized the mission reports released on the internet. Most fics about him deal with that in what other fans refer to as a 'true crime genre’ manner. But they’re wrong. They don’t understand. The atmosphere of the fics are all wrong, even the ones that get it close, and they don’t understand Bucky at all.

His therapists keep telling him to keep a journal.

Bucky decides to write fic instead.

It’s easier, surprisingly. He only chooses the missions that reports for exist on the internet in a mostly unaltered state. He doesn’t add in any details that only the Winter Soldier would know - he doesn’t want to attract attention from anyone who might suspect that he’s the real Winter Soldier. It’s not like keeping a journal at all: Bucky writes the missions like they happened to someone else - to a fictional 'him’ - and the nightmares ease their wretched grip. And his stories gain a bit if a following, which is the oddest, least comprehensible aspect of the situation.

And then, thanks to Tony Stark, Bucky ends up straying from the 'gen’ genre down the rabbit hole of shipping. It takes one stray comment from Tony about how his fictional representation is a 'ho,’ and that’s where Bucky’s life starts to go wrong again. He searches for Tony Stark shipfic. It's… an eye opening experience.

Tony really, honestly seems unperturbed by the amount of porn that has been written about him. The most perturbing thing about it to Bucky is how little the people writing about Tony seem to actually understand him. It’s like the Winter Soldier files all over again.

He can probably do better, Bucky thinks, and signs his own fate.

–

“Really,” Natasha says, watching him.

Bucky stands. “I’m going to go throw myself off the roof,” he says, turning and walking away from the TV.

“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry,” Natasha calls after him.

It’s not like half the team hasn’t decided that Bucky has been nursing something like a crush on Tony, to put it mildly. He thinks that’s ridiculous. He just - admires Tony, really. Anyone would, if they only paid attention. And maybe he’s written twelve fics where they’re a couple but that’s just because his fans love it - they love how he writes himself and Tony and their relationship. It… it seemed harmless enough. It’s not like Tony Stark would ever have Bucky’s fic thrown in his face because it’s such a small ship compared to all the ironcaptain and blackiron and ironhusband ships. No one in their right mind -

Except that’s just happened. Bucky is going to throw himself off the roof in apology and shame and purposely not land on his feet. If life is merciful he’ll get amnesia - there’s no roof nearby that’s high enough to actually kill him - and he can start anew. Tony is too nice to hold shipfic against an amnesiac.

Thank God Bucky had been too self conscious to post the porn. He’s scum just for writing porn about Tony, if he’d posted it-

Wait, he can’t brain himself in the sidewalk until he deletes that, and all his browser history, and changes his passwords to an incomprehensible string of letters not even FRIDAY could crack. He can do it. All he needs is some stand-ins from one if the languages they don’t have on record for him.

Bucky had already been in the roof for some time by the time a brightly colored sporty car pulled up at the Compound entrance. Tony, of course. Oh god, he would know that Bucky had been watching, he came all this way to talk about it probably. At least he’ll be nice about letting Bucky down, inform him with an off color joke that it’s creepy to write yourself into a romance with your teammate, no matter how much you admire them: normal people just don’t do that. Well, better to get it over with, honestly. It might be more awkward and painful if Tony were to just pretend that the whole thing had never happened. The others will definitely take notice because Tony cracks jokes about their fictional relationships all the time.

As if Bucky couldn’t get a clue from the fact that Tony never joked about it with him, despite the number of fics that exists about them now. He doesn’t even read winteriron, when he’s even read the one pairing him with Justin Hammer and Tony doesn’t even like Justin Hammer. He read the bashing fics before he read winteriron.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says as soon as the door to the roof pops open and Tony flails out onto the roof. He sounds like he was in a rush, but Bucky wouldn’t know for sure without looking at him and that’s not going to happen.

“What for,” Tony says, and, “please don’t jump. That will scar me forever.”

Point. Bucky probably should have jumped a few minutes after Tony went inside if he were going to jump at all.

“I thought if I landed on my head just right, I could forget this ever happened,” he says pensively.

“Well, that is one way of responding to this,” Tony says, “so is that a 'no’ then? Only I hear the real thing is better that your wildest fantasies.”

Alright, maybe Tony wouldn’t be so kind about letting him down. Bucky can hardly hold that against him. He deserves it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats into the palms of his hands. “If I knew it was going to get thrown in your face that way, I never would put it out there.”

“Okay, wait,” Tony says, approaching, “you sound like you think I’m angry, which makes me think - did they not ask you before they put that on television?”

At that, Bucky has to look - and Tony definitely doesn’t look mad. He looks bright and flushed in a way that isn’t entirely due to exertion, sharp and engaged in a way he doesn’t get with people unless he really likes them. This is… not the first time Tony has looked at him like that. But not with an almost giddy air. No, the giddiness is new. Strange. Exciting.

“You know what they think of people who write fic,” Bucky says, honest. “Of course they didn’t ask.”

“Huh,” Tony says, and oh, that quirk to his brow is trouble. But whatever he thinks of that is is discarded in favor of saying, “so I take it you took off before I finished reading it.”

Bucky scowls. “I know how you feel about people who write fic about you.”

“Well, those fics weren’t very good,” Tony says, giving him a look that ties Bucky’s stomach into an uncomfortably pleasant knot. “I also accept sonnets.”

“I’m shit at poetry,” Bucky protests. He’s not quite ready to give up on the fear and shame that drove him up onto the roof in the first place, but his face hasn’t gotten the message yet. Tony looks pleased and mirrors the grin on his face right back at him.

“Well, it doesn’t have to rhyme,” he says generously, and extends his hand. “Now come away from the edge of the roof, please. You’re looking more skittish than a stray cat and it’ll really ruin my day if I startle you off the edge when I kiss you.”

After this, Bucky is going to have to stop giving his fellow writers shit about their characterization choices. He’s always written Tony as the skittish one.

Tony is right though - the reality is better.

–

��Smutfic is also a thing I accept,” Tony tells him later. It’s clearly just a tease, but something must show on Bucky’s face, because Tony’s eyes get wide and then he starts grinning in a way that makes him look unhinged. It’s unfairly attractive. “You have written smutfic! Where is it? Show to it me. I demand tribute.” Then, in response to whatever face it is that Bucky is making now, he says: “if you let me read them, we can do your favorite scene.”

“Hng,” says Bucky, reaching for the computer.

–

At Tony’s urging, Bucky goes on to write an autobiography in the style of a biography, relating the whole long and awful story. It’s a best seller for weeks.

He titles it 'Who the Hell is Bucky?’ and finally the past is put to rest.

–

[vorchagirl]

Re: Reylo. I'm not sure if you were around during the early 2000's fanfiction(.)net or the massive moral panic takedown that happened during that period, but christ almighty. It's history repeating. I'll just be sitting on my front porch with a "Your kink is not my kink and that's okay" sign. Hope this passes quickly.

*joins you in your rocker*

Oh. I remember. They were dark days.

I was deep into the DBZ fandom back in those days and they deleted every single one of my NC-17 stories - regardless of whether I’d edited the smutty content out or not.

Worse. When I reposted the stories again - yes, with all the smut edited out - someone with a grudge reported them and the brave moral panic soldiers at FFnet deleted them all again without bothering to check if the complaints were valid. AND my account was banned - so without warning, I lost all of my stories. Most of which I did not have backed up. I complained, but because they’d deleted everything already there was ‘nothing they could do’.

I had to start again and I went from being a fairly popular popular DBZ author at the time, to struggling to find my old readers again. And of course no one was intetested without the smut and FFnet started censoring emails so people couldn’t even ask you to send it to them.

I ended up over at Mediaminer.org - the other big Fanfiction site at the time.

But yes. Moral panic and the idea that fiction IS reality, that writers and readers can’t tell the two apart, and that writers and readers should be attacked over the content they create and consume as though they’re guilty of the crimes the characters consume is very odd.

Even weirder is that people think they can tell another what to ship, what to enjoy, what is right and wrong. People *know* what’s right and wrong - but exploring those darker topics is the same reason the ancient Greeks wrote plays about them in their Greek tragedies. It allows us to explore the fallacy of humanity, to reach what Aristotle called catharsis after reading about dark or emotional deeds. Humanity has always done this. If people don’t like that, that’s cool - not everyone likes a greek tragedy. But don’t get upset at the people who do.

[velcro-rave]

post-emoji movie Trauma

WARNING: the following text contains spoilers and can be considered disturbing to some readers. especially my brain, because it’s leaking out my ears after typing this.

This is the first movie ever I’ve gone to see on opening night. And let me just say that, for the record, I’m glad I went to watch with friends. Without them, I would have most likely calmly exited the room, climbed up to the roof, and dived straight off.

I’m honestly fucking terrified of how much this shitty movie has pushed me to the edge. I’ve never felt more ANGRY in my life and at the same time wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep. This is so fucked up. What made it possible for this level of psychological warfare to be used so casually by Sony? Why did they decide this was ever a good idea to present to the public? I’m still shaking (and not from the overpriced Coca-Cola I was sold). Whether it’s out of rage or fear, I don’t know. Not even throwing myself into the deep fires of hell can attempt to restore the intrinsic warmth I felt before I witnessed this crime of a movie. They say that there’s a special place reserved below for people who cause enough pain to humanity, and it is at this point where I pose this question to the following:

Tony Leondis. Eric Siegel. Mike White. Michelle Raimo Kouyate.

Why?

Did you want this to happen to me? Was this the plan all along? To destroy everything you could possibly love in the process of creating this film, to make the audience suffer without any remorse? You got PATRICK FUCKING STEWART as a voice actor, and what is it you do?

Yeah, you make him play A WALKING PILE OF SHIT!!!!

Someone could’ve ran up to me after I left the theater, put a shotgun directly up to my forehead, pulled the trigger, and that would have still not come close to how much my mind had been blown at the shocking reality that this movie, this spawn, could exist in the known universe and continue to be shown to innocent people. There were kids there. Hopeful, happy, young kids with iPhones who thought it was a great idea to head off to the movies and watch a funny relatable movie about emojis without a care in the world. Communicating ideas without the use of words is the “staple” of their generation, as the movie so proudly portrays (even comparing it to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics!), and there’s no reason a family shouldn’t agree to bring their children to this beautiful, heartwarming adventure, right? WRONG.

Nothing could have prepared me for the horrific amount of groan-worthy jokes this movie tossed out. I’ve been wracking my brain for an entire hour trying to remember the most potent ones, but they were so easily forgettable that I can only recall a few offhand. They were tragic. Whenever an opportunity for a shitty pun showed itself, you can bet your ass the writers took it and ran with it to lengths beyond the realms of humor. From the character known as Hi-5′s nonchalant Bye Felicia! to his two puns about snapping (as if one wasn’t enough), I wanted to get up and scream at the ceiling in the hopes that my cries of agony would disrupt the structural integrity of the building and have it fall on top of me, finally freeing me from the slow-cooker of torture that is The Emoji Movie.

At a certain point, Hi-5 (by the way James Corden, I thought you were cool. I thought you were here for us, for all of us as an entertainer, but you just had to take part in ruining me and the world as we know it by accepting this role. I will never forgive you.) mentions something about his heart beating. His… heart? This walking, talking hand has a heart? Does he have lungs? What other internal organs could fit in there and be capable of being slapped around constantly as a result of his stupid ass decisions? Why doesn’t he have arms like Gene or Jailbreak, does his body somehow take into account that he’s already a living appendage? This movie is making me sit and contemplate the anatomy of a fucking animated HAND, and that’s not even as preposterous as a thought can get while watching.

On multiple occasions throughout my viewing experience, I had to take a break to just lean back and sigh, both in anguish of what was happening onscreen as well as the sheer exhausting aspect of it all. The voice acting couldn’t have been more unreliable. Every other line it was a gamble between it being a poorly executed pun delivered so flatly that not even the 4-year old up front let out a little giggle, an obvious statement about what they’re planning to do next, or the most unremarkable snippet of backstory ever revealed. I’m sure all those scenes between Gene and Jailbreak where they gaze at each other were meant to be construed as romantic, but her blasé response to each of his approaches because she “isn’t some princess waiting for her prince” or how “women are deserving of more respect” completely knocked the mood off whatever pedestal it was stepping up to. I get it, these are actual important themes that need to be recognized, and I would be more than happy to see this acknowledged in a movie built on as many metaphors as Zootopia, but the timing of her commentary was the worst I’d ever seen. The constant interruptions made it seem like her words shouldn’t be taken seriously at all!

Unsurprisingly, character background was virtually (unintentional pun. I’m incredibly sorry.) nonexistent, and everything that’s possible to be wondered about the universe could pretty much be answered with a big shrug. For example, why does Hi-5 have a band-aid? Did he get stabbed or something? When did Gene begin to show signs that he was capable of other emotions? Was the Just Dance girl deleted after the trash bin emptied itself out? We didn’t see any signs of the characters going back for her after Hi-5 had to shake off the troll, so did they just leave her there to die? If Jailbreak had been working for a long time to get out, why didn’t she use more of her hacking skills? She pulled up her hologram window things maybe three times total to escape or hide somewhere, does she seriously not have anything else in her repertoire that could potentially help Gene and Hi-5 get to where they need to be quicker? There’s so many questions that don’t even get passively explained. Then again, I’m arguing against the same people who genuinely advocated for the setting to be called Textopolis.

AND WHOSE FUCKING IDEA WAS IT TO MAKE THE MAIN CHARACTER “MEH”??

The ONE emoji with zero interesting qualities and the most monotone parents that, for some fucking batshit insane reason, were given more than the minute of screentime they deserved. I understand for a quick gag, their emotionless response to everything could be funny, but their conversations would just stretch on and on and on. As for Gene, I trusted you, T.J. Miller. I can’t believe you betrayed me, especially after such a hilariously perfect role in Deadpool. Never in my life have I felt so disappointed in a single person. There is no justifiable reason for you to be proud of what you’ve done here. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I astral projected at least three times as I struggled to repress the memory of this trainwreck before it even ended. When I wasn’t desperately clawing at the armrests mid-convulsion, I was staring vacantly at the center of the screen, wondering how this week could have gone so wrong.

This was basically a 91-minute long advertisement. The whiplash of traveling between product placement to product placement nearly made me throw up, which was ostensibly the only thing that could’ve made this worse. Dropbox, Spotify, Candy Crush, Just Dance, YouTube, Facebook, and the almighty Twitter, I hope you’re happy with what you’ve wrought. The “emoji-pop” dance assaulted my eyes so suddenly, acting as the unnecessary cherry on top of the feel-good ending; I think that’s when I officially lost all hope in enjoying the rest of my night.

It’s honestly taking every ounce of my being to hold onto the little bit of life that I have after the Emoji Movie ripped my soul to shreds. The amount of violation I felt as my ears were subjected to endless pop culture references that were relevant years ago, nightmarish depictions of the content of each app on Alex’s phone, and the fact that the god damn Eggplant was in the Unused Emojis room when everyone knows that’s not the case is indescribable. I now have to live with the fact that every time I switch keyboards on my phone, those blank yellow faces will serve as a dark reminder of what I’ve gone through. To any of you reading this that have also watched The Emoji Movie, I am so sorry. I know how difficult it is to process. My recommendation to each and every one of you who haven’t had the chance to witness this sickening spectacle is to KEEP IT THAT WAY. Don’t give in to the peer pressure; this abomination parading itself around as an endearing motion picture will wholly and truly rattle you to the core. My only solace was the complete absence of dabbing or whipping (apart from hearing the song), and I’d like to thank every deity above and below for that small act of mercy.

Here’s to you, Sony. Thanks for ensuring that I not only sink deeper into my depression, but for forcing my mind to house the images I’ve seen today for as long as I live. I wish I could physically bring myself to chuck my phone in a garbage fire, but my entire body has gone numb. Here’s to you, and to all the writers, producers, and directors of this movie that made me sit in a corner pondering how I can possibly live in a future where this monstrosity exists.

Gravely, sincerely,

fuck you, and goodnight.

🖕

[scottyallenw]

𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉 𝙄𝙎 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝙐𝙍𝘾𝙃 𝙂𝙊𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙏𝙊 𝙂𝙍𝙊𝙒 𝘼 𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙍

(2,219 words)

Not long ago a female member of my extended family posted on social media the claim that President Trump fits the definition of a demagogue perfectly. I know that God has anointed Trump to shake up the Washington establishment, remove trade barriers, ignite political firestorms and prosecute widespread corruption. So I reacted angrily to the post. Fired up, I immediately typed the following comment on her post:

“Yes, Yeshua HaMashiach (Jesus the Christ) fits the definition perfectly. He went out of his way to piss off a large portion of the populace, sorry ass religious leaders, lawyers and politicians. Yeshua knew what he was doing; he knew what his enemies would do. The rest is history: the Roman proconsul, afraid of a large angry mob, turned Yeshua over to his soldiers for execution. Then he washed his hands of the whole thing. Today we have a President who like Yeshua is taking a wrecking ball to the political establishment, hurting people’s feelings and with his Twitter feed exposing hypocrisy. In my opinion we need more people like Yeshua and Trump, turning the world upside down.”

Shortly after this, the woman deleted my comment. I was saddened, and asked myself if I was too brutal. But no, it is the truth that is brutal. Having thought it over, I had no remorse.

But does Scripture reveal Yeshua's true character? Absolutely. Yet Yeshua is widely misunderstood to be simply an easygoing advocate of love and peace, making no demands of His followers. My reading of the gospels recognizes a Yeshua not only with a prickly side, but a Messiah with a fighting spirit. His actions and remarks often cut into the hearts of His adversaries. He was and still is a soldier in a war against hypocrisy. Some day Mashiach will return and put the wicked out of business. But I'm sure the Master would prefer His people finish the job first.

To properly appraise Yeshua's character one must study the man in action. Consider the following account in Luke 6 where Yeshua encounters on the Sabbath a man whose hand is withered. He wants to heal the man, but He also notices scholars and Pharisees nearby hoping to accuse Him of working on Shabbat.

Yeshua defiantly leads the man to a place where everyone, but especially His potential accusers, can get a good look. Yeshua asks the man a question that He really intends for the ears of the religious leaders:

“What is correct on Shabbat: to cause good or to cause harm? To rescue life, or to harm?” Yeshua “looked around intently at all of them,” before healing the man.

The scholars and Pharisees “were wild with rage...” It is exactly the reaction Yeshua intended to incite. Perhaps Yeshua even relished the anger directed at Him. He knew they would plot His crucifixion. With the Shabbat healing He had handed them as it were the hammer and nails to do the job. But He also knew His time had not yet come, and so He slipped away through the crowd.

John 6 relates an episode that epitomizes the notion that Yeshua, like Trump, was born to offend. It involves a vast crowd which has grown about Yeshua during a series of the Master’s signs and miraculous healings. Yeshua understands that most of the new followers are fake. The masses care only about the spectacle of signs and wonders. They also want to declare Yeshua King. They lack any interest whatsoever in obeying His commands or hearing His interpretation of the Torah.

Yeshua conceives a shrewd plan to thin the crowds. He recognizes that Jewish familiarity with Torah is widespread, particularly its prohibition against consuming blood and human flesh. This is abhorrent to all Judeans. So Yeshua turns to the crowd and makes this startling declaration:

“Amen, amen, I say to you, if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you do not have life within you.”

The people are stunned by HaMashiach’s words and begin to murmur. Yeshua’s assertion strikes many as repugnant, and even the Master’s close followers are confused. The crowd begins to disperse. As Yeshua fully expected, little more than the core group of 12 disciples are left. Unlike many 21st century mega church pastors, Yeshua is less interested in numbers than in devotion. By deliberately offending the masses, Yeshua is left only with the loyal few.

Matthew 23 describes another public demonstration of Yeshua's remarkable choice of words: it involves the Messiah’s fiery confrontation in the Holy City with His favorite target audience—hypocritical religious leaders. The passage is popularly known as the Eight Woes. Most Christian translations quote Yeshua’s string of rebukes with these words: “Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, because you...”

The original language of the New Testament is widely understood to be Greek. However scholars now believe the book of Matthew was originally written in Hebrew, and early manuscripts are being studied. The original language of Luke is also believed to be Hebrew and some scholars believe the entire New Testament was originally written in Hebrew.

A few years ago I was seated among a Grand Rapids, MI, congregation whose senior pastor had a background in Hebrew studies. The pastor explained what he regarded as a more accurate rendering of the Eight Woes passage. Yeshua's words are commonly translated from the Greek, “Woe to you...” Properly translated from Hebrew, Yeshua actually said, “GOD DAMN YOU, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites...,” (emphasis added). The pastor’s congregation was stunned by the language, as was I. The fighting words Yeshua used permanently altered my perception of the risen Savior.

Now imagine if you will a society in which ancient truths and assumptions once thought to be self-evident, are questioned and finally tossed aside. This of course is not hard to imagine; it is the current state of American society. Its citizens are told a man can be a wife, a woman can be a husband. and a man can bear a child.. Americans are even told an OB-GYN can treat a person with male genitalia—assertions which only decades ago would be thought absurd.. Such reckless claims are now accepted by a majority as fact!

The United States Declaration of Independence states: We hold these truths to be self-evident... Will these once-cherished convictions be among the next batch of truths to come under attack, and finally discarded?

The following few paragraphs will hopefully add clarity to what is at stake. High school geometry students are taught they must accept certain common sense assumptions on which to build a mathematical framework of theorems. Each of these are proved by a chain of reasoning. For example, students will readily accept the claim that two parallel lines will never intersect, even if the lines extend towards infinity. Widespread rejection of this common sense assumption would make the teaching of traditional geometry impossible.

College mathematics offers students a different perspective of not only geometry, but the nature of truth. A course called abstract geometry is built on a set of counterintuitive assumptions. To pass this course students must for several hours each week discard all notions of common sense. One proposition in this mathematical model is that two parallel lines will always intersect as they extend to infinity. If this is assumed along with other absurd truths, an entire universe of theorems can be proven. It works beautifully. I enjoyed the course. But after final exams we students set aside this nonsense and rejoined the real world. We realized abstract geometry is just mental acrobatics. It can't work in a functioning society. Could the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan have been built using this kind of math?

Abstract geometry is a type of an Orwellian world. It is similar to what our own society is becoming. Highly educated and experienced jurists have in recent decades rejected the bedrock truths of Mount Sinai in favor of new ideas that now enjoy widespread public acceptance. From the legalization of sodomy, these judges concluded by a chain of reasoning that same-sex marriage is a constitutional right. From the assumption that a human fetus is not a person, jurists rule abortion is a constitutional right. It's all perfect logic, but the proofs are based on false assumptions. Consider the following scripture:

“You shall not move your neighbor's boundary mark, which the ancestors have set...” (Deuteronomy 19:14)

Jewish sages explained long ago that this admonition has a metaphorical meaning in addition to its literal interpretation. It is a warning to elders and jurists: never overturn principles that have been widely accepted and have governed society for centuries, let alone millennia. One by one the courts have within less than an average human lifespan, torn down many of America's boundary markers.

Local school boards in California are already mandating indoctrination of children in Islamic and LGBT ideologies. Boys of believing parents possibly will be taught using artificial body parts how to sodomize another male. Officials are also talking about forcing believing parents who homeschool their children to do the same.

It's time for the Church to flex spiritual muscle. Our model is the biblical accounts of the Master Himself. Yeshua never allowed adversaries to force Him into a defensive posture. He stayed on offense. When accused, Yeshua responded with on-target scripture, a clever parable or pointed questions. He was unafraid to follow up with accusations of His own.

We live in an age when the ACLU regularly sues conservatives, Christian cake makers and flower arrangers for supposed anti-LGBT bias or religious expression in the public square. The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) for the same reason puts churches and other religious organizations on its well-circulated list of hate groups. Both of these organizations want the public to believe they stand for justice, civil rights and goodness. In reality these are wicked people who are relentless, full of hate and attempting to oppose the Church's every positive move in America.

Why is it the ACLU and SPLC rarely get sued? It's time for the Church to fight back. Let's force the enemy onto the defensive for a change. For that we need generous believers who have money, lots of it.  It's time for wealthy believers in Yeshua to step up. The Church needs its own version of George Soros.

“No one would remember the Good Samaritan if he'd only had good intentions; he had money as well,” Margaret Thatcher (the Iron Lady) said years ago.

While big money is needed, the most important battles will involve our own interactions with others, especially on social media. Many of our best soldiers regularly get kicked off these platforms. Others suffer more serious consequences for standing on God's Word.

Ruach HaKodesh (the Holy Spirit) will give us just the right words to powerfully respond to enemy attacks. I was seated once again years ago with that Grand Rapids congregation listening to the same pastor. This time he read the English translation of an ancient Roman court transcript from the time of the early Church. This was a time when the Roman Empire clamped down ruthlessly on the Church, putting many believers to death.

The case involved one of the believers in Yeshua whom the Romans placed on trial for his faith. The man knew the Romans were about to sentence him to death. He addressed the judge and prosecutor with chilling words that brought his modern listeners back nearly two millennia. It was like we were in that courtroom with him. The brave man’s statement, as recorded on the transcript, went something like this:

“A time will come when you will be sorry for what you have done here today. Both of you will stand in a courtroom much like this one. You will be on trial for your lives before a prosecutor and judge, just as I am today. And standing off to the side you will see me, quite alive and well. I will be there to testify against the both of you.”

In his six-volume memoir of the Second World War, the former British prime minister Winston Churchill recalls the dark days of Germany’s relentless bombing campaign against London and other large cities. For an extended period early in the war the cities were all but defenseless, there being no anti-aircraft weaponry available. But eventually large numbers of anti-aircraft

guns were placed throughout the populated areas. War-weary British citizens huddling in bomb shelters heard not only the explosions of German bombs—they were exhilarated by the overpowering blasts of countless heavy guns firing back at the German bombers. The knowledge they were finally fighting back against their merciless enemy did wonders for British moral, and contributed to bringing about eventual victory.

Is the Church up to the task of confronting the forces of evil in America? Will the job require a leader in the mold of Churchill? My choice rather would be a great spiritual leader in the mold of Yeshua Himself. We must view the conflict as Churchill early on wanted his people to view the Nazi threat looming just across the English Channel: “regard the menace of invasion with a steady gaze.” ##

* 𝙔𝙚𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙙

[heyalexturner]

HEY how's gal a predatory rape apologist? i dislike her for she's pro palestinian genocide but i've never heard of this.....

One of her friends posted an article about how Gal had shamed and bullied her when she got raped. She had posted it on Medium but it got deleted for some reason. I don't know her name but here's the deleted article: Recently Gal Gadot tweeted that bullying is unacceptable.Her hypocrisy is deeply wounding. The shame and blame she instilled into me after I was raped was deeply traumatizing.Gal is more than a bully; she is a predator who enables predators.This is my story.Thirteen years ago, I shared an apartment with Gal Gadot for two months in Milan, Italy. Several young girls lived in the building, all under contract with the same modeling management company.Shortly after we met, Gal invited me to share space in her room. Gal’s roommate Maya* was going back home to Israel. Maya was 15, and only spoke Hebrew.Maya was about to leave for the airport. Her bags were packed. The expression on her face was vacant. Tears were in her eyes. It was clear she was in deep pain.Gal calmly told me that the girl had been raped, and that the experience had put the girl in the hospital.Gal said the girl was stupid — for going to the wrong club, and for trusting the man who brought her there. I felt sorry for Maya, but I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t speak her language. I didn’t realize that meeting her would foreshadow my future.Gal had been in Milan for a few weeks. She said she would show me the ropes and who could be trusted. Her confident strength made me feel safe, protected, and loved in a way that I hadn’t felt before. Gal taught me to trust her. I was 18 and she was 19.Gal told me about men who followed models around to casting calls. They were paid by clubs to convince models like us to join them at these clubs in exchange for expensive food, drinks, publicity photos, and VIP treatment. Gal told me to never trust these men, because they rape.Gal’s previous roommate had been tricked by one of these men, and the underlying message was clear: trust Gal. I felt safe with Gal. I did not realize then how little I knew about rape, predators, and the culture that supports them.Gal and I spent most of our free time together. We shared food, clothes, and makeup. We went to the gym. We went shopping and tanning together. We went on photo shoots together. I made her a mix CD. I sang her to sleep. I watched her smoke constantly out of the window. We shared body insecurities, and she shared sex stories. She made sure to appear confident, knowledgeable, and successful — even then. She fed me information about Israel. Whenever she discussed Palestinians, she showed deep hatred.Gal set us up on dates with men who expected sex in exchange for the lavish meals they fed us, although we never slept with them. She would pick smaller men, and threaten them after dinner. They complained and she chased them off with more threats. She would laugh about it later. She used sex as a weapon.Several weeks into my stay, she took me to meet her Israeli friends including her best friend Ayala*. Ayala and her boyfriend Yaniv seemed very close. He appeared to dote on her, and they seemed very much in love.Gal, Ayala, Yaniv and I went out each weekend, sometimes with other friends. The four of us quickly became a core group. We went to clubs to spend time in the spaces reserved for celebrities.Hidden behind the historic exteriors of Milan’s ancient architecture were sensory-overwhelming nightclubs, decked out like palaces. These places were teeming with swarms of people feeding off of manufactured prestige. I was a sheltered child from a small town, and was utterly unprepared for the dark side of the modeling and nightlife industries.A short time later, Gal and I spent a weekend at Yaniv and Ayala’s room inside another shared apartment. Gal and I shared a pull out couch while Yaniv and Ayala slept in their bed. The room was close and intimate. We spent the evening laughing, watching movies, smoking, and drinking. Yaniv commented on how I could not hold my alcohol, fully aware I had no experience getting drunk.A week later, Ayala left for a modeling gig in Greece while Gal was in Ireland for a weekend shoot. Yaniv invited me out to dinner alone. Over dinner, we talked about our significant others, his travel around the world, and his time in the Israeli Defense Forces. I didn’t realize that his intentions were anything other than honorable. After dinner, his friend invited us to a new club.Yaniv asked if I had ever drank wine, knowing I had not. He bought me several drinks with dinner while telling me that I needed to try different varieties. It’s hard for me to remember what happened after that. I assume he drugged me.To this day, I have never been inebriated in that particular way, especially after only drinking wine. I was in and out of consciousness, and my body felt limp. I kept falling over. My brain felt like it was shutting down. Yaniv called his roommate Ofir to help carry me home. I couldn’t walk. I was dead weight. I remember odd pieces, like him repeatedly asking me in a sick, almost playfully malicious tone of voice if I thought I was smart.I remember thinking that we were going home so that I would sleep on the couch, as Gal and I had before. I woke up in Yaniv’s bed, naked. He had removed my clothes when I was unconscious. I remember him climbing on top of me. I could just barely say “no”, and “this isn’t right”. Then I blacked out.I woke up again while he continued raping me. He was restraining my arms so I couldn’t move. It was violent. There was pain. I will never forget how he looked in that dark room. I will never forget the absolute panic I felt. It was terror. I thought he would kill me next. His rape was full of hate. He did not look at me.I woke up the next morning, groggy and delirious. I asked Yaniv what happened. I wanted to hear him say it.“We had sex,” he said, and shrugged. “I thought you knew.”“I told you no,” I said, quietly.“You told me no but your body told me yes,” he said. That line still haunts my mind, 13 years later.I couldn’t get out of his bed, even though I wanted to leave. I was physically sick; not only still intoxicated from the aftereffects of whatever I consumed, but also bruised, shocked, and traumatized. As I lay in his bed, I listened to Yaniv call a friend and brag about having sex with an 18 year old. His conquest; an accomplishment; a notch on his belt.He told me that no one could know, because Ayala would be too hurt. Soon, he began ignoring me.I was disoriented and traumatized. I had absolutely no context to process what had happened. I had no sex education, and certainly no understanding of predators or the culture that supports them. I had been taught a woman should be a virgin until marriage.I thought sex was about love. What I experienced from him was not love. It was hate and disgust. I didn’t have the language to call this rape. Rape was something to fear from strangers while walking alone down the street. Rape was not committed by a friend.I thought he was my friend.I was used, discarded, and alone.Almost alone. At least I had Gal, I thought. She came home two days later. She knew something had happened by looking at me. I wonder if I reminded her of her previously raped roommate.Gal immediately began interrogating me. I could see no compassion in her eyes. I told Gal something had happened between Yaniv and I.She took me down to the basement. It was cold, mechanical, and frightening. We were alone. Then her anger exploded.She stood over me, intimidating and loud, blaming me for what happened. Her eyes were fire. I had already felt small and violated, but she shamed me into feeling obsolete. I felt extremely dirty. Already in shock, I disassociated from my body. I can’t remember most of her words. I remember being in utter terror of her anger.She was furious for Ayala and “what I had done to her”. Gal pointed her finger in my face like a weapon. She asked me how I could do this, and that I needed to make this up to Ayala. She made me feel ashamed, that the whole event had been my fault, and that I had brought it upon myself by being so naïve.After that, I feared Gal. I spent nights out as long as I could, hoping to avoid her. When I did see Gal, she would speak of nothing other than her conviction that I needed to speak with or write to Ayala. She would not let up. She was obsessed. There was absolutely no understanding from her. I don’t know how she could not have seen how the rape changed me. I was no longer the same person.On my last night in Milan, Gal made one final attempt to get me to submit to her demands. She brought me downstairs to a computer. Gal put her hands on me and forced me into the chair. She made me open my email account and write Ayala’s address in the address bar.Standing behind me and above me, Gal held my shoulders down with a terrible pressure, preventing me from escape. She attempted to dictate what she called my “confession and apology”. I could not do it. I was crying, and my head seemed to break apart. My heart felt like it was bleeding out. My stomach was in awful knots. I began disassociating from my body. I could not speak. I could not write her lies.She referred to the rape as “your mistake”.After what felt like several hours, Gal eventually gave up in disgust. It was late at night. She made me promise I would write the letter to Ayala. I never wrote the letter.I returned home confused, silent, and ashamed. Later Gal returned to Israel for her military training. I ended my modeling career as another young woman assaulted, used, and disposed by the industry and its enablers. I did not think I would ever see Gal again.When I was getting my degree in Women’s and Gender Studies, Gal showed up on Maxim in a bikini and heels, the cover girl of their issue on the women of the Israeli Defense Forces.When I saw her face, I had an immense panic attack. I had no idea how much she would upset me. My rape came flashing back. I could feel Gal’s hands pushing on my shoulders. My throat closed up and my heart raced. The nightmares continued to haunt me every night.After I graduated, I worked as the director of the sexual assault services program back in my hometown. I spent many years helping survivors to validate their experiences and process emotions, yet I still deeply struggled with my own.Yaniv Nahoum is responsible for drugging and raping me. That was not Gal’s fault. But her confidence and her power in blaming me opened up a part of my brain, and filled me with an all-consuming shame. I can still feel the pressure of her hands pushing down on me.The trust she built with me was a gateway to my total devastation.Predators gain trust in order to exploit it for their advantage.Gal has succeeded in a predatory industry because she is a predator. She is unafraid to destroy others in pursuit of her ambitions. Like any strong predator, she knows how to target, destroy, and consume the weakest and most vulnerable.Highly skilled predators in our society manage to land roles where they cultivate public trust.Bill Cosby put on a sweater and built trust as a Huxtable.Gal Gadot put on a breastplate and became an icon for women.A predator in a costume is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.When Gal Gadot says that she supports sexual assault survivors, do not believe it. Her actions speak louder than words.*not her real name

[nightcoremoon]

i love that you referred to someone in the nation of islam as 'that muslim dude.' you clearly have no idea what you're even talking about so just don't comment? no one needs your racist ass butting in.

using adjectives to refer to people by their race when no other information about them was present in the original post other than them being rude to a white girl is racist now, wild. I don't know anything about him besides his gender and religion, and out of the relevant parties in the post, there was the white wife, the presumably black presumably non-muslim guy who married her, and the muslim dude. what, is "dude" offensive to muslims? if it is then I'm sorry for every single time I've referred to any muslim ever as "dude". I use it as a gender neutral catch-all for any and everybody. should I have said "the dude who won't break bread with the quote white bitch unquote" instead because it's a little more typing but I'll do it if it prevents someone getting offended by d*de, which I'm gonna start censoring in case it's a slur too. I'm just a fucking moron who doesn't know shit so I'll just go out of my way not to step on anyone's toes. unless asterisks are racist too in which case I'm just fucked six ways from sunday and really wanna know what it is I can do to not be racist, or at least prevent the amount of racism I am by as much as physically possible. and at this point I'm not even being sarcastic anymore, I'm just physically at a loss to the long list of things that are racist for white people to do, since clearly I've offended you for calling a muslim dude a muslim dude.and it's not racist to acknowledge that the dude was muslim, dumbshit. go fuck yourself, you straw grasping sack of moldy potatoes. I had a turkey coma and now I'm fully awake and I'm not sad and self pitying anymore, I'm just tired and confused instead. how dare you nitpick things out of context to try to make me look bad. and I'm literally trying to apologize for something racist I said despite my white objections to it. my "~racist ass~" already butted in a year ago, and now I'm doing damage control because it got found in someone's archives or something. maybe if people stop harassing me over shit that no longer reflects points of view that I have, I'd absolutely not talk about that discourse. i'd completely forgotten about it if y'all mother fuckers hadn't gone diving in the dumpster of my ancient notes just to call me racist and tell me to go fuck myself. I may have accidentally been racist but you're purposefully being a dick. it's your prerogative but I don't have to be nice back. besides, you're on anon so we're stuck with you sniping at me. that isn't gonna solve anything other than make you feel better about yourself because you triggered a massive guilt spiral in a young autistic girl over something she did in the past.and I hope you realize just how much worse I was so many years ago. I was incredibly racist during my teens. I never hated anybody of any skin color or ethnic background [although I was raised to be an islamophobe before I read up on muslim culture and stuff and realized it wasn't really a bad thing and that all the terror groups aren't real muslims anymore than the kkk are christian or the zionists are jews] but god damn was my political compass skewed to the right. I've unlearned so much bullshit and become such a better person in terms of race, and while I'm in no way perfect since again I still benefit from white privilege, can you cut me some slack? I can't be perfect, and when I slipped up and got called out, I recognized and apologized for it. I can't do any better than I did already. be more fucking specific with what exactly I said that's so incredibly horribly wrong other than using the word 'dude'.my assessment of the situation is: black guy marries white girl, muslim brother was asshole to her, op thought it was hilarious, I thought it was mean, a dozen or so months later a person saw me saying it was mean then justified it, I realized it was the muslim brother's prerogative to call the lady a bitch and let her know that he didn't welcome her into the family, and I went back and acknowledged that my comment was massively rude and out of line and I shouldn't have said it. HOW THE FUCK IS THIS SERIES OF EVENTS IN ANY WAY ACCURATELY DESCRIBABLE BY YOUR SHITTY MESSAGE??? HOW. PLEASE TELL ME. TEACH ME HOW NOT TO BE A RACIST PIECE OF SHIT FOR SAYING THAT I MADE A MISTAKE AND FOR CALLING A MUSLIM MAN A DUDE. I legitimately want to know what I can do to not be racist other than delete my account and kill myself.

[batterymonster2021]

The happy secret to better work | Shawn Achor

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/the-happy-secret-to-better-work-shawn-achor-4/

The happy secret to better work | Shawn Achor

After I was once seven years historical and my sister used to be simply 5 years historical, we have been playing on prime of a bunk bed. I was two years older than my sister at the time — I imply, i am two years older than her now — however at the time it supposed she had to do the whole thing that I desired to do, and i wanted to play conflict. So we had been up on prime of our bunk beds. And on one side of the bunk mattress, I had put out all of my G.I.Joe soldiers and weaponry. And on the opposite facet have been all my sister’s My Little Ponies competent for a cavalry charge. There are differing bills of what in reality occurred that afternoon, however considering that my sister shouldn’t be here with us today, let me inform you the genuine story — (Laughter) which is my sister’s a little bit on the clumsy aspect. One way or the other, without any support or push from her older brother in any respect, Amy disappeared off of the top of the bunk bed and landed with this crash on the ground.I nervously peered over the aspect of the mattress to peer what had befallen my fallen sister and saw that she had landed painfully on her fingers and knees on all fours on the ground. I was once frightened on account that my parents had charged me with making certain that my sister and that i played as safely and as quietly as viable. And seeing as how I had by accident broken Amy’s arm only one week before — (Laughter) (Laughter ends) heroically pushing her out of the way in which of an oncoming imaginary sniper bullet, (Laughter) for which i have but to be thanked, I used to be attempting as rough as I could — she did not even see it coming — I used to be trying hard to be on my first-class conduct. And that i saw my sister’s face, this wail of suffering and struggling and surprise threatening to erupt from her mouth and wake my mothers and fathers from the lengthy iciness’s nap for which they’d settled. So I did the one thing my frantic seven yr-ancient brain might feel to do to avert this tragedy.And when you’ve got youngsters, you have got seen this hundreds of thousands of instances. I stated, "Amy, wait. Do not cry. Did you see the way you landed? No human lands on all fours like that. Amy, I suppose this implies you’re a unicorn." (Laughter) Now, that used to be dishonest, due to the fact that there used to be nothing she would want more than not to be Amy the harm five year-ancient little sister, however Amy the precise unicorn. Of path, this alternative used to be open to her mind at no factor previously. And you would see how my terrible, manipulated sister confronted conflict, as her little mind attempted to devote resources to feeling the discomfort and suffering and shock she just skilled, or taking into account her new-observed identity as a unicorn.And the latter received. As an alternative of crying or ceasing our play, as a substitute of waking my parents, with the entire poor penalties for me, a smile unfold across her face and he or she scrambled back up onto the bunk bed with all the grace of a child unicorn — (Laughter) with one damaged leg. What we stumbled across at this gentle age of simply 5 and 7 — we had no idea on the time — used to be used to be going be at the leading edge of a scientific revolution taking place two many years later in the way in which that we look on the human mind. We had stumbled across whatever called optimistic psychology, which is the cause i’m here today and the motive that I wake up every morning. After I began talking about this study external of academia, with businesses and schools, the very first thing they said to in no way do is to begin with a graph.The first thing I need to do is with a graph. This graph looks boring, but it is the motive I get excited and get up every morning. And this graph would not even mean whatever; it’s false information. What we located is — (Laughter) If I bought this data finding out you, i would be extremely joyful, considering the fact that there may be a pattern there, and that signifies that i can get published, which is all that really issues. There’s one bizarre pink dot above the curve, there is one weirdo within the room — i do know who you are, I saw you earlier — that is no obstacle. That’s no obstacle, as most of you know, given that i will be able to just delete that dot. I can delete that dot because that’s clearly a measurement error. And we all know that’s a size error seeing that it’s messing up my information. (Laughter) So one of the crucial first matters we coach individuals in economics, information, industry and psychology courses is how, in a statistically valid manner, do we get rid of the weirdos.How do we get rid of the outliers which will find the road of high-quality fit? Which is incredible if i am seeking to discover how many Advil the average individual must be taking — two. But when i am for your knowledge, or for happiness or productivity or vigour or creativity, we’re growing the cult of the usual with science. If I requested a question like, "How speedy can a little one learn read in a classroom?" scientists trade the reply to "How rapid does the normal little one gain knowledge of learn in that classroom?" and we tailor the category toward the traditional.Should you fall beneath the average, then psychologists get delighted, due to the fact that that means you’re depressed or have a disorder, or optimistically both. We’re hoping for both for the reason that our business mannequin is, if you come into a cure session with one predicament, we wish to be certain you leave realizing you may have ten, so you keep coming again. We are going to return into your childhood if indispensable, however ultimately we want to make you ordinary once more. But typical is only average. And constructive psychology posits that if we learn what’s in simple terms usual, we will be able to remain only natural.Then instead of deleting these optimistic outliers, what I deliberately do is come into a population like this one and say, why? Why are a few of you high above the curve in terms of mental, athletic, musical potential, creativity, vigour levels, resiliency within the face of task, humorousness? Something it is, as an alternative of deleting you, what I need to do is gain knowledge of you. Since perhaps we will glean understanding, now not simply how to transfer folks as much as the ordinary, but transfer the complete usual up in our companies and faculties worldwide. The cause this graph is primary to me is, on the news, the majority of the expertise is not optimistic. In fact it’s negative. Most of it can be about murder, corruption, diseases, normal disasters. And really speedily, my mind begins to consider that’s the correct ratio of negative to constructive in the world. This creates "the medical institution syndrome." in the course of the first 12 months of scientific coaching, as you read via a record of the entire symptoms and diseases, suddenly you appreciate you’ve gotten all of them.(Laughter) i have a brother in-legislation named Bobo, which is a entire other story. Bobo married Amy the unicorn. Bobo referred to as me on the cellphone — (Laughter) from Yale scientific university, and Bobo said, "Shawn, i’ve leprosy." (Laughter) Which, even at Yale, is very rare. But I had no inspiration tips on how to console poor Bobo since he had simply gotten over an entire week of menopause. (Laughter) We’re discovering it’s no longer necessarily the fact that shapes us, however the lens by means of which your brain views the sector that shapes your truth.And if we can change the lens, no longer most effective can we change your happiness, we are able to trade each single academic and industry final result at the same time. I applied to Harvard on a dare. I failed to count on to get in, and my loved ones had no cash for institution. After I acquired a army scholarship two weeks later, they let me go. Some thing that wasn’t even a possibility grew to become a truth. I thought each person there would see it as a privilege as good, that they’d be excited to be there. Even in a lecture room filled with persons smarter than you, I felt you would be glad just to be in that study room.However what I discovered is, whilst some folks experience that, once I graduated after my four years after which spent the next eight years dwelling within the dorms with the students — Harvard requested me to; I wasn’t that guy. (Laughter) I used to be an officer to counsel scholars by means of the elaborate four years. And in my study and my instructing, I found that these pupils, no matter how completely happy they were with their customary success of entering the institution, two weeks later their brains have been centered, no longer on the privilege of being there, nor on their philosophy or physics, however on the competition, the workload, the hassles, stresses, complaints. When I first went in there, I walked into the newcomers dining corridor, which is where my pals from Waco, Texas, which is the place I grew up — i know a few of you already know this. Once they’d discuss with, they’d look round, and say, "This eating corridor looks like whatever out of Hogwart’s." It does, seeing that that was once Hogwart’s and that’s Harvard. And once they see this, they are saying, "Why do you waste your time learning happiness at Harvard? What does a Harvard pupil possibly have got to be sad about?" Embedded within that question is the important thing to working out the science of happiness.Considering what that query assumes is that our external world is predictive of our happiness levels, when surely, if i do know the whole thing about your outside world, i can only predict 10% of your lengthy-term happiness. 90 percentage of your lengthy-time period happiness is predicted now not by means of the external world, however by the way your mind techniques the sector. And if we alter it, if we alter our system for happiness and success, we are able to change the way that we can then have an impact on reality. What we located is that handiest 25% of job successes are anticipated with the aid of IQ, 75 percentage of job successes are predicted by using your optimism phases, your social help and your capability to see stress as a task alternatively of as a threat.I talked to a brand new England boarding college, commonly the most prestigious one, they usually said, "We already be aware of that. So every year, alternatively of just instructing our students, we now have a wellness week. And we’re so excited. Monday night time now we have the arena’s leading trained will speak about adolescent despair. Tuesday night it is tuition violence and bullying. Wednesday night time is consuming issues. Thursday night is illicit drug use. And Friday night time we’re looking to make a decision between dicy sex or happiness." (Laughter) I mentioned, "that’s most persons’s Friday nights." (Laughter) (Applause) Which i am completely satisfied you really liked, however they didn’t like that at all. Silence on the cell. And into the silence, I mentioned, "i might be glad to communicate at your institution, but that’s no longer a well being week, that is a ailment week. You could have outlined all of the poor matters that can happen, however now not talked about the optimistic." The absence of disease is just not wellbeing.Here is how we get to health: We need to reverse the method for happiness and success. Within the last three years, I’ve traveled to 45 international locations, working with schools and businesses in the midst of an economic downturn. And that i found that the majority firms and faculties follow a components for achievement, which is that this: If I work harder, i’m going to be more victorious. And if i’m more positive, then i’ll be happier. That undergirds most of our parenting and managing patterns, the way in which that we motivate our habits. And the crisis is it’s scientifically damaged and backwards for 2 explanations. Every time your brain has a hit, you just changed the goalpost of what success seemed like. You got just right grades, now you need to get higher grades, you obtained into a good college and after you get into a greater one, you bought a good job, now you ought to get a better job, you hit your sales target, we will trade it.And if happiness is on the reverse part of success, your brain in no way will get there. We have pushed happiness over the cognitive horizon, as a society. And that’s considering we suppose we must be triumphant, then we’ll be happier. However our brains work in the reverse order. If that you may carry somebody’s degree of positivity within the reward, then their mind experiences what we now name a happiness competencies, which is your brain at constructive performs vastly higher than at terrible, impartial or confused. Your intelligence rises, your creativity rises, your vigour levels upward thrust. In fact, now we have determined that every single industry final result improves. Your brain at positive is 31% more productive than your brain at bad, impartial or stressed. You are 37% better at sales. Medical professionals are 19 percent faster, more correct at developing with the right analysis when confident rather of bad, neutral or stressed. Which means we are able to reverse the formula. If we will have the option of becoming confident in the reward, then our brains work much more efficaciously as we’re ready to work tougher, faster and extra intelligently.We have to be competent to reverse this method so that they can begin to look what our brains are absolutely capable of. Considering the fact that dopamine, which floods into your approach when you are optimistic, has two functions. No longer handiest does it make you happier, it turns on all the learning centers in your brain enabling you to adapt to the world in an extra means. We now have observed there are ways that you may educate your brain to be in a position to grow to be extra confident. In just a two-minute span of time executed for 21 days in a row, we can certainly rewire your brain, allowing your brain to surely work more with a bit of luck and extra efficaciously. We’ve completed these things in research now in each manufacturer that I’ve labored with, getting them to put in writing down three new things that they may be grateful for for 21 days in a row, three new things every day.And on the finish of that, their mind starts to hold a sample of scanning the sector not for the bad, but for the constructive first. Journaling about one optimistic experience you may have had over the last 24 hours makes it possible for your mind to relive it. Undertaking teaches your brain that your conduct issues. We find that meditation permits your brain to get over the cultural ADHD that we have been growing by using seeking to do a couple of duties directly and makes it possible for our brains to focus on the undertaking at hand. And ultimately, random acts of kindness are aware acts of kindness. We get persons, once they open up their inbox, to put in writing one confident e-mail praising or thanking anyone in their help community. And with the aid of doing these routine and with the aid of training your mind just like we instruct our bodies, what we now have found is we can reverse the formula for happiness and success, and in doing so, now not most effective create ripples of positivity, however an actual revolution.Thanks very a lot. (Applause) .