#I may repurpose the old idea when I remember it for someone else

[bonefall]

Super interested in how you plan to write Leopardfoot! I feel like both fanon and canon tend to make her into a sweet mom(tm) who’s super sad that Tigerstar is evil, very similar to how Goldenflower is usually treated. What’s her thoughts on Pinestar and him leaving? How did she influence Tigerstar? What are her political beliefs?

Society has progressed past the need for sad moms who stare tearily at their evil sons and boohoo about all the murder. It's MOTHER AGENCY TIME

BB!Leopardfoot was FEROCIOUS. Her father was the indominable Adderfang, and he taught her about the importance of honor and glory. When Tigerpaw was given to Thistleclaw as an apprentice, she was proud of it. It felt perfect to her-- that her father's apprentice was now her son's mentor.

For his brief rule, she supported Sunstar completely. It helped that he came after the disastrous and embarassing exit of Pinestar, which ruined the legacy that she wanted him to give her son. Pinestar was a damn coward and a codebreaker... and she assured Tigerkit that he was more HER son than his.

She even gives him a life, for Legacy, in defiance of StarClan

She was friends with Bluemoon for a time, but after ascending to StarClan, she learned about the Forget-me-nots.

This changed her opinion of her. Leopardfoot supports Thistle Law, STRONGLY so.

She supported THISTLECLAW when he tried to forcefully void the Queen’s Rights. If Bluemoon hadn't broken the code, then what did she have to hide?

She backed off when Thrushpelt leapt to her defense though, "She didn't reveal it because she doesn't love me are you happy now??"

Leopardfoot: *awkwardly turns away feeling like an asshole now, tea SPILLED, her friend's dirty laundry EXPOSED, thought she was crusading for the law but she just dug up drama*

Towards the end of Pinestar’s reign, he was getting exhausted. He wanted peace. Leopardfoot wanted kittens around that time, and figured that there was no better cat than the son of Oakstar, architect of the infamous Crusade Era.

If Pinestar had no children, a glorious bloodline would have died out. She wanted it for her kits. Pinestar agreed on the condition that he would be their Mi, which she happily accepted.

So when Pinestar left, she jumped into the nursery to take over and had to explain to her kits where their Mi went.

She drove it home to them that he abandoned everything, because his weakness took over. They would never be like him, she promised.

Mistkit died very young. Nightpaw made it to apprenticeship before she also succumbed. Tigerclaw remembers very well how hard it was to lose his sisters.

Leopardfoot herself was taken shortly before TPB, in Spottedleaf's Plague. Her death causes Tigerclaw to have a bit of a moment.

After the trial in Bluestar's Flowers, Leopardfoot leaves StarClan along with a bunch of other Thistle Law supporters, including Thistleclaw himself. She joins the BOTTE at the end of OotS, fighting to the end with her son.

She misses him a lot, and remains in the Dark Forest to the current arc. She chose her path; and has the dignity to walk it.

She does miss StarClan sometimes though, and will tell you stories about it if you ask.

In terms of demon friends, she's somewhere in the clique between the harsher and softer spirits.

She dislikes Morningstar, Cloudberry, and Ryewhisker on the softer end, and has come to resent Thistleclaw and Finchflight on the other, but likes Darkstripe, Leopardstar, and Silverhawk.

Gets along with a range of "mid" level demons.

In particular I imagine she hangs out with Darkstripe a lot. Taste test buddy, he asks her to try his experimental recipes because she's honest but not mean. One of the few Thistle Law supporting cats he hangs out with after the double-death of Tigerstar.

He calls her Lefty. Her official nickname is "Left" but he calls her Lefty.

(Clanmew: her name is Saorpwyyar. Others call her Saopr. He calls her Sapyy.)

Her mom and dad Swiftbreeze and Adderfang are here too, following Thistleclaw like she did, but she's been minimizing her contact with her dad. She feels like she is owed an apology somehow but also doesn't have the emotional intelligence to know that it's what she wants.

She just knows that she feels really bitter talking to him, and that's unpleasant.

She used to be VITRIOLIC with Pinestar, who is also here, even going after him physically when he chose to join in with the Dark Forest trainees. But now... honestly so much shit has happened, she just doesn't like seeing him. She wishes he wasn't here.

I write her being very dignified. She doesn't like to admit publically she was ever wrong and speaks with confidence, quietly backing off and not wanting to speak about her mistakes. She loves her children and her family, but explores the world in a very "self-centric" way, trusting her feelings and personal judgement over anything logical.

A reactionary sort of person, if that makes sense.

Her Land Mar has to develop over time because she is an ex-StarClan migrant (damned souls get theirs instantly after judgement), but it's called the Fence Cliff. It's a picket fence that blocks off a sheer drop, making a sharp turn down the cliff face and acting as a walkway. Follow the fence down the slope, and you can access the Dark Forest's town biome.

[windlion]

I’m going to blame this on the Discord - but some of it, some of it’s just Author Three’s own doing.  Mind the knives.

The OTHER way that Liu Sang has a brother:

Liu Sang was not an only child.  He'd known that since he was four years old, and his stepmother had returned from the doctor beaming.  Later they'd been even happier to report a boy, and Liu Sang had adjusted to the idea of being an older brother.  He would have a didi.  He had been nearly as excited as the parents when his brother was born.

It took a few years for him to understand what was really going on.  Things that had been his were repurposed.  Space that had been his was taken.  Time and attention came grudgingly, as if stolen straight from the mouth of his younger brother.  His didi was just as confused as he was, and Liu Sang hoped he never had the same horrible realization: he'd not gained a little brother; he'd been systematically replaced.

Liu Sang wasn't an only child, and he wasn't a wanted one, either.  He'd known that well before the back of the truck and the tears that wouldn't stop until he'd run dry.  When he tracked down his father years later, he wasn't expecting a warm welcome home.  He'd been disposed of, rendered obsolete, sold on as secondhand goods, and garbage never went back to where it had been thrown out from. 

He didn't give a warning.  He just waited for an opportunity to catch his father alone.  When his stepmother and her siblings left for some social event, he let himself in.  The lock wasn't exactly a challenge any more.  He walked through the downstairs, deliberately making noise as he went. 

The layout of the house had changed; over there was where the living room used to be.  There, the side window that he escaped out of into the narrow alley between the houses.  It had been updated: windows bigger, brighter, the decoration now modern and bland.  It reeked of middle class keeping-up-with-the-neighbors.  He didn't know if it was better or worse that nothing lined up with his memories.  Not a single sign of smoke damage remained.

It didn't take long for the man to come out from his office, heartbeat raising.  Liu Sang kept his distance while he waited, lingering by the single cabinet of art on display. He appraised the art out of habit: only one piece looked like a good quality reproduction, and several others were just offensively tacky.  Worthless.

Liu Fu took in the presence of an intruder, long hair and hoodie, and barked, "Who are you? What are you doing in here?"

Liu Sang put the vase down and turned. He'd seen the pictures, he knew what Liu Fu looked like now.  It shouldn't have been a shock.  What hit him harder was that the voice was the same.  He could still hear the father he remembered underneath the years.  Liu Sang's breath caught, and he forced himself to stay calm, tracing the edge of the dusty shelf with slightly shaky fingers.

"Do you remember? I used to live here."  Liu Sang flicked his hand to indicate the modern open layout,  "Before you remodelled."

Liu Fu was taken aback, already fast heart rate rising. "A-Sang?"

Liu Sang tipped his head in as much of a bow as he was willing to make. "Hello, father."

Liu Fu's heart skipped again, then he gestured hard towards the back of the house.  Away from the windows, and where his wife or son may come home.  Liu Sang could have told him if anyone was coming, but the kitchen suited him fine anyways.  He didn't have as many memories tied to there.  (Tied. Ha.)

Liu Fu took down a cup and poured himself tea, movements sharp and purposeful.  He made no move to offer anything to Liu Sang.  He sat down at the head of the table, one hand curled knuckle-white around the porcelain, even though the steam meant it must be close to burning hot.  Liu Sang waited for him to collect himself, to speak, morbidly curious.  What did he have to say for himself, after all this time?

What he started with should have been predictable.  Liu Fu stared at him grimly, "If you think that you can show up here to blackmail me. . ."

Liu Sang cut him off, sharp, "I don't want your money." 

That made Liu Fu's heart skip in a way that was familiar to him now.  Fear.  Liu Sang held the eyes of the man who could have been his father and went on, "I want to know about my mother."

Automatically, Liu Fu waved dismissively, "I don't know anything."

"You know more than I do." Liu Sang prompted, "Her name?"

"Wang Ming."

Liu Sang pulled out his notebook and pen, shoved it across the table. "Write it.  Where from?"

Liu Fu complied, flipping the notebook shut and pushing it back with his fingertips like it was distasteful.  "I don't know, somewhere west.  She travelled a lot--part of the job.  She was a sales representative.  She liked Xuancheng.  Said that her hometown was tiny and too old-fashioned for her, and Beijing was too noisy and big."

Comparing Beijing to the rest of China, that didn't really narrow it down much.  Liu Fu could see his frustration, and barked a laugh, "I told you. It was almost twenty years ago.  I don't remember a lot of details." 

Liu Sang wanted to reply, it was seventeen, but if his father couldn't remember how old he was, then that wasn't going to make much of an impression anyways.  "What about physical records?  Paperwork, photos, anything?"

Liu Fu rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. "Nothing.  She didn't leave anything behind."

"Liar."

Liu Fu scoffed, "There's nothing left now."

Not lying. Damn.  If there had been any clues they were likely thrown away years ago.  Like he had been. (Or burned, a corner of his mind whispered, also like him.)  That made too much sense.  Liu Sang tried to prompt again, "What else?  Nothing about her stood out?"

"I don't remember anything else."

Almost relieved, Liu Sang pounced, "Lying."

Liu Fu snorted derisively, "And how would you know, anyways?"

Liu Sang unclenched his jaw enough to respond, tilting his head in his father's direction. "Your heart rate increased."   He narrowed his eyes, listening to that beat jump and skitter.  "There's a flutter on the right atrial valve that becomes more pronounced under stress.  You should take care to not overdo it."

Liu Fu's heart jumped again, then steadied as he seemed to reach some sort of decision.  "You do have her eyes.  She was a bitch when she was pissed."

Liu Sang didn't trust the look on his face as he relaxed, the way he went still and easy like the worst bullies did before delivering a blow they knew would hurt.  When they wanted to watch it hit, watch you bleed. Liu Sang was already out of arm's reach, but he kept the table between them, hands clenching at his side preemptively.

Liu Fu spoke slowly, carefully.  "I had good reason to think she cheated, though I didn't really put it together until after she was gone.  She never let me go to the doctors appointments with her.  Told me she wanted the child to be a surprise, however it was intended."

The way Liu Fu stared at him then, he made it clear that had he known what was coming, he wouldn't have chosen it.  Dimly, Liu Sang remembered how attentive his father had been during his stepmother's pregnancy.  How he had taken her to appointments.  Ultrasounds.  Been there for the birth.  That was why.

Liu Fu's heart rate was still fast but damnably steady as he went on, "I thought then she was just being sensitive about how big she was getting.  Now I think she damn well knew what she was doing."

Liu Sang could feel his own pulse in his palms with how hard he was clenching his fists.  It made it difficult to track the steady rhythm of his father's, unwavering.  "What do you mean?"

"I think you were the runt."  Liu Fu rose to his feet, not breaking his gaze.  "Wang Ming travelled light. She never wanted anything unnecessary, and never wanted second best."

Liu Sang couldn't speak. 

Liu Fu took one, then another step closer, confident that he was delivering the finishing blow.  "She took what she wanted, and she left me you."  He sneered down at Liu Sang, hot breath against his face.  "When you weren't even mine."

When Liu Fu shoved his shoulders, Liu Sang rocked unsteadily backwards.  Too off balance to react more than to raise his hands in self-defense.  Instead of hitting him, Liu Fu opened the back door behind him, and held it wide, his voice gone cold and heavy with the weight of finality.  "Get out, and don't you dare come back."

This time, Liu Sang was expecting the rough shove that followed, and ducked out the door so that Liu Fu's hands only brushed air.  Liu Sang pulled himself away, not daring to turn his back, and bit out without thinking, "Don't worry, you're dead to me." 

He dropped his voice low, something vicious rising in him as a parting shot. "What should I burn for your grave?"

Liu Sang caught the way Liu Fu's eyes flicked desperately to the house around him.  His own gorge rose at the sense-memory of heat-gasoline filling his nose-the way the crackling pervaded everything around him. Before it even hit skin.  Something perverse made him ask, "Do you think it would take better this time?" 

Liu Sang watched the man stumble back, that stressed heart fluttering hard.  The slam of the door rang in his ears, and he almost couldn't hear his own bitter laughter as he left.

He didn't look back.

(When he found out the house burned not even weeks later, he laughed almost hysterically.  It probably sounded unhinged, but if ever there was kharma waiting to be served, that was it.  Who knew if someone helped it along.  He didn't care.)

(Wang Can was told to clean up some loose ends that might start to fray.  Wang Can was good.  Thorough.  Didn't leave anything to chance.  And though the mission parameters were unusual, well, wasn't like it was hard.  He wore the clothes he was given.  He was deliberately sloppy and let the neighbors see when he came back for the evidence.  He looked straight back at them as he blew the ash off the audio recorder.  One might have fainted.  He didn't know why, maybe it was the terrible taste in fashion.  Whatever.  Orders were orders.

The Wang clan knew what they were doing: directing the future.)

[heartofsnark]

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter One): I'll let you in if you say it's okay

Notes: So, I’m taking inspiration from more than one lifepath start for my V and overall, I’m not sure how I feel about this first chapter. I’m not as confident in it as I have been in some of my other works and it’s undergone some heavy rewrites. But I’m officially sick of looking at it, so lets go. Still getting a feel for writing the cyberpunk characters too, tbh.

Word Count:  13083

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Internal Feels and struggles, (Aidan/V is very conflicted and struggling), Morning after sex

If you haven’t yet, please read the prologue: link here

Four years, a million miles, and a new alias later, not Aidan but V is standing in a motel bathroom, fresh from the shower. There’s a bruise forming on her chin from what she can’t remember. She touches up the two shaved slits in her left eyebrow, a pointless aesthetic choice given she wears a mask, she knows. But, she likes it and that’s what matters most. She pulls her bleached blonde hair back into a little ponytail, before brushing her teeth and changing. 

She fastens her mask, a repurposed scav mask that she uses, not only to hide from her former family but to help her function in this world. No longer the green with red and pink faces the scavs use, it’s now black with white x-d out eyes and a wicked toothy grin. Vaguely cartoony and ominous, not her choice, but she’s far too nostalgic to ever change it. 

Data and logistics flash across her vision, optic tech coming to life now that the mask is on. Finally, she puts in her hearing aids,  the noise of the world coming back to her, the hum of a broken AC, the beat of a song coming from the radio, and a woman’s snoring drifting through the paper-thin walls. V pulls up her hood before she leaves the bathroom, ready to begin, her throat tight as she thinks of what the day holds. 

I saw in you what life was missing

You lit a flame that consumed my hate

I'm not one for reminiscing but

I'd trade it all for your sweet embrace

The radio plays an old song from Ava’s favorite band, V knows the heavy drone of them anywhere, though she never can quite recall their name or song titles, only reminded of the days she pretended to give a shit about them in hopes it’d earn her at least a pity kiss. Why the hell the radio still plays music that old is beyond her.  She turns her hearing aids volume down a little lower. 

Music brought down to a hum, V’s attention turns to the bed, a woman who’s name she can’t remember is tangled in the sheets. Sun streaming through the window to shine on a bare freckled shoulder, the woman is around V’s age, maybe a year or two older with a pixie cut of dyed lilac hair. She fits in well with V’s track record of bedmates; unable or unwilling to give even half of what she got, leaving the nomad to take care of herself. But, as much as she’d appreciate an orgasm from something other than her own hand, she gets what she wants from them in the end; a glorified body pillow that helps her sleep. 

“Mmm,  you up?” The woman asks, stirring from under the blankets, she pushes a hand into her hair. She blinks her eyes a few times, before taking in V’s outfit, “you’re leaving already?”

V’s mask optics quickly reads lips, giving the world subtitles, essential when she wants to forgo hearing aids. The tech is far more advanced than the human eye when it comes to lip reading. The only downside is the mask requires someone to be facing her as they speak. So, the hearing aids are still necessary unless people are kind enough to accommodate her; which they never are. 

“Gotta get back on the road,” V signs, a modulator translator in her mask speaks it in a monotone AI voice. 

“You don’t wanna get breakfast or…?” 

“No time,” V crouches down beside the bed, so she can properly meet the woman’s eyes and, “you remember what I told you, don’t you?” 

“About not telling anyone what you look like or whatever…?” 

“No whatever’s to it, if anyone comes around asking about me, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?” 

“Yeah yeah, crystal clear, asshole.” The woman groans, not liking the aggressive tone V’s picked up, but it’s a serious matter. Most people get it, everyone nowadays seems to have enemies, but apparently not everyone understands. More flies with honey as they say. 

“I’m sorry,” she signs, “it’s just important to me, life or death. I’ll order some room service for you before I go, sound good?” 

“Hmm…I like pancakes.” 

“Alright, I’ll put the order in then head out.” 

“Okay…I won’t tell anyone, about you, promise.” 

“I appreciate that,” V signs, putting in the room service order on the tablet provided. 

Thankfully, pancakes are enough to earn the woman’s silence on the matter. The less people who have a bone to pick with her, the better. Though, she still hopes The Herd can’t follow her where she’s going anyway. Dufflebag thrown over her shoulder, V leaves the motel, stepping out into the dry heat of California. Even in the early months of 2077, the desert is burning hot, though it will be freezing by nightfall. The joys of the Badlands. 

Yucca is a little nothing town south of Night City, surrounded by long agonizing stretches of desert. Not a place she’d give another thought to if not for her vehicle breaking down. The cargo in the trunk, locked up so the mechanic can’t get nosy, is meant for a client in Night City. The job came with forms and docs that’ll get her past the border. 

She rolls up the metal garage door to the shop, seeing the older man in a trucker hat and flannel working over her car. The old Thorton Galena “Rattler”, bought off a Bakker nomad, who thankfully had no idea who her birth family is. It’s put together with rust, duct tape, and luck, bought for fifty eddies because it’s a walking tetanus trap; but it’s hers.  

“Hey…drifter…” He greets her with a weary expression. 

There’s two kinds of folks in these small towns that are scattered across  the country like stars. Those who are weary of outsiders, know the dangers that lurk across the Badlands and have their guard up the moment someone they don’t know shows up. And for them, her refusal to show her face or speak with her own voice only adds to the suspicion. 

And then there’s the other ones, the ones like that lilac haired girl still curled up in dusty sheets, eating shitty motel pancakes. The ones who see her, the people like her, the nomads, the drifters who travel the country and they see someone who can bring a moment of excitement to their dull little lives. The ones bored to tears with watching tumbleweeds all day and will climb in bed with V and their own preconceived notions of who she is just to have a night of excitement. 

Each sees danger when they look at her, chaos in human form, someone who may just disrupt the status quo of their piss-pot of a town. An idea that terrifies or excites them. Then the realization hits that she’s just breezing through, a ghost without a trace. And for a moment they’ll be relieved or disappointed, then they’ll forget she was ever there. 

“You got my car fixed?” she signs before she rolls the garage door down a foot or two shy of the ground. 

“Not quite, electric coupling module is shot to shit.” 

“You said it was an easy fix.” 

“Guess I was wrong,” he turns to face her, arm crossed over his chest, “you could always find a new shop, find someone else who won’t question some scav lookin’ nomad why she’s hugging the border.” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ scav, move,” she signs before shoving him away from her car engine, if he can’t get this thing up and running, she’ll do it her god damn self. She needs to get to Night City, yesterday, she’s already frustrated and him acting like he’s doing her a favor by staring at her engine for an hour isn’t helping. 

“Got any idea what you’re doing?” Condescension drips from the mechanic’s words. 

“Gonna, rig a hotwire, bypass the coupling.” She switches out some plugs, trying to find something, anything that will save her heap. 

“Compressor will run on and on, could seize up.” 

“Better than standing around scratching my head.” 

She walks around her Rattler, pulling open the driver side door and climbing in. Please, any god listening right now, don’t fuck this up for her. V presses down the ignition and tries to rev the engine; sputters but doesn’t start. 

“It’s like I was telling you,” the mechanic grumbles, so she tries again and another sputter. 

“Fuck off,” she signs, wishing the tone of the AI voice would better convey her frustration as she begs her car, her baby, to start. 

Come on baby, she thinks and her hands twitch to sign, her voice catching. Her desperation nearly making her verbal. Her rattler, her baby, her beautiful heap of rust and luck has carried her through three years in the Badlands. Just a little further, into the city, and V will find her a decent mechanic to give her vehicular child the treatment she deserves. She presses the ignition and revs the gas. 

And that engine roars to life and it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard, her baby lives, she fucking lives! V can’t contain her smile, thankfully hidden behind the cover of her mask, she could scream. She’s starting the next chapter of her life with her baby by her side. 

“Not too shabby, question is how long will it last you,” the mechanic rains on her parade as he shuts the hood. 

“Better than whatever you were trying.” 

V rolls her eyes and gets her walkie talkie radio out, hooking it to a jack in her car to try to boost a signal; she needs to let her client know she’s coming into the city, so they can prepare to pick up the cargo. 

“Antennae on this heap don’t look like it packs much of a punch, doubt you’ll hear much.” 

There was a broadcasting comms tower outside of the town, she saw it as she made her way in, she’ll get in and boost her signal with it. Should be fairly easy. She just wants to make it into the city, her chance at a new life. Seventeen years with The Herd, under her father’s thumb. Three years running, never able to settle down, never knowing when her family would find her when she’d be put down. Years wasted, she’s ready to live, to really live on her own fucking terms. 

A flash of khaki fabric, visible through the opened gap in the garage door catches her eye and a chill runs down her spine. Trouble. Black cybernetic hands catch the bottom of the metal door and roll it up; an older man in a sheriff’s uniform with a cowboy hat comes strolling in. 

“Hey, Mike, didn’t know you had a customer…” He draws out, looking over V as if she was carrying the plague. 

“Just rolled in a few hours ago, I, uh, thought she would have told you.”

“Now, don’t you worry, we’re gonna hash this out,” the sheriff says, strolling over to her, he puts an arm up on her car roof, leaning against her open car door  and looming over her, “Don'tcha know you owe the sheriff a word when you pay his town a visit? To tell him what brought you here, maybe even over a cup of coffee.”

“You that hard up for dates?” She signs in return, catching a muscle twitch of annoyance, and she smirks behind her mask. Five seconds in and she’s getting under his skin. 

“Names Andrew Jones, you probably heard of me.” 

“Can’t say that I have.” 

“Served in special ops in the last war, silver shoguns, ring any bells?” 

“Can’t say that it does.” 

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “don’t like to get along, do you?” 

“Can’t say that I do.” 

He scowls at her as he shifts his weight off her door and moves to walk in front of her vehicle, looking it over. His foot raises up, dirty boot now on the grill of her car and she wishes nothing more than to just drive forward and run his dumbass over. She doesn’t have fucking time for this; her client is waiting. She doesn’t even want to be in his dumbass little town; she already fucked the only good thing here and found nothing but disappointment. 

“That a nomad vehicle? I might have figured. Scav mask, nomad car; what that make you?” 

“You got a problem?”

“I’ll tell you what my problem is, nothing boils my blood like a fuckin’ stray. Where your clan pitch camp?” 

“No camp, no clan, just little ole me, aren’t you lucky?” 

 “Don’t buy it, nomads always stick with their pack.” 

“Got no pack, they don’t suit me much.”

“Makes you an outcast among outcasts.” He sneers at her, looking down his nose at her, like he’s something special and she’s gum stuck on his shoe. 

“Let me guess, you’re the type of guy who believes every line of shit the corps feed you, that nomads are the world’s greatest evil.” 

“No, I’m a man who respects order, corps brought us that order-”

“The corps pay you and have you on a leash like a dog, you know that?” 

“And you don’t wanna see me bare my fangs.” 

“Try and I’ll put you down,” V’s fingers move before she can give another though, no interest in making peace with this asshole. 

“You threatening me, girl?” 

“No more than you are me, stay out of my way and I’ll get out of yours.” 

“Big talk coming from a misfit.”

She lets out a short laugh, the sound layered with her modulator, making it louder and doubled.  

“Look, I’m not scared of some shithole town’s sheriff who thinks a badge is a crown,” she signs, hands moving so quick and hurried that the sound of skin hitting skin rings out, “I want to leave your town, you want me gone, move your ass and I’ll make us both happy.” 

“Get going,” he moves out from in front of her car, “I got no mind to see you drifting around these parts.” 

“What part of this conversation made you think I want to?” She finishes signing before slamming her car door shut. 

“What was that drifter?” His voice fades away as she guns it out of the repair shop, rolling her eyes behind her mask. 

Though, maybe breaking into the communications tower is technically drifting, but she needs to radio her client. Sinclaire will need to know she’s coming into the city, so they can meet up, exchange eddies for cargo, and she can figure life out from there. She takes a road that goes north and cuts through the desert, her Rattler practically born for off roading as she takes the heavy bumps of the sand dunes and drives through cacti, pulling up to graffiti covered bumpers just outside the fenced in tower. 

It's an amalgamation of latticed rusted metal with satellites on top, graffiti decorating the buildings and chunks of the tower itself. It clearly hasn’t been used or maintained in years, but it should still boost her signal. V climbs out of her vehicle, trying to open the door to the fencing. It doesn’t budge at all and she pouts, then kicks it as hard as she can. Her steel toed boot works as well as a key, making it swing open. 

It’s a quick little journey, two little flights of stairs she jogs up with ease. Then it’s a ladder, the peeling yellow paint sticking to her palms. And then she’s as high as she can reach, transmitter box in view. But with the view around her, wind whipping through, she takes a moment to peel off her mask and breathe. Sun beating down and warming her face, the breeze cools her skin under it’s rays, wicking away sweat that sticks to her brow. 

A deep inhale of air before she forces herself to move again, the rusted front of the transmitter box breaks at the hinges when she opens it, she pays no mind and throws it aside then jacks in her walkie-talkie radio. V leans against the tower railing, radio in hand, but not ready to let go of the quiet. 

The smell of rust and paint surrounds her as she takes everything in. She’ll miss this, she realizes, the open road and the Badlands have always been her home. But it’s not safe, not really. The Herd has shown no signs of letting this go. For four years, she’s dodged her sister and Ava; the two tasked with being her trackers, repeated close calls over all this time. They’ve interrogated and demanded answers from the folks in these sleepy little towns she breezes through. The mask has helped, but every day the feeling of them nipping at her heels gets worse. Her stomach churns at the lengths they’ve gone to. V’s father wasted no time in turning her sister against her, turning Eira into a weapon to do his bidding, to put down the defected child who never should have made it past nine. 

He’ll kill her for not falling in that same line, for refusing to be his soldier. Forced to choose between death or conformity, practically one in the same, she tries to seek a third option.

Night City has its own rules, laws, restrictions; a city completely controlled by corps. It’s disgusting in its own right. But The Herd isn’t allowed in the city, border control of Night City has strict orders to keep all known or identifiable members of the Raffen Shiv clan out. Corps hate Nomads, as a general rule, but they really hate The Herd. A Nomad family with no respect for anyone else’s laws, a strong anti-consumerism, anti-cyberware, and anti-corp attitude; The Herd might as well send a personal fuck you to Night City.  Its not perfect, not even good,  a crime infested corp run cesspool, but it’s the safest option. More security, more boundaries, more faces so V can blend in.  Even if Eira and Ava make it into Night City, which she’s not naïve enough to believe impossible, they’ll have six million folks to work their way through. Nomads stay in pack because groups provide safety; a sea of city faces is just an extension of that. 

But that safety comes at a cost. It means no more open spaces, no more serenity, no more campfires with burnt marshmallows, or driving down dirt roads as fast as she can with her windows down, and screaming out in excitement as she takes on every bump and turn with reckless abandon. 

There’s no perfect choice, every decision carries a sacrifice, but if the cost of staying in the Badlands could mean her life, her freedom, her identity… the city is the better option… she thinks…

A pessimistic or perhaps realistic part of her can’t help but feel like he’ll get his way, her father will have her head on a pike, will slaughter his own daughter like cattle. And his power over The Herd will only grow. After all, if he’d go this far to put down his own child for an act of betrayal, how could anyone else ever think to be spared his wrath. The already loyal army of followers will be further forced into submission by fear. 

Maybe this is all a waste of time, she wonders, often does. Maybe it’s just dragging out the inevitable. Hell, a part of her wonders if she’d be better off begging for mercy, if he’d offer it just to maintain control. Would she be safer if she just gave in? Is she really the kind of person who needs to be half of a whole to function, to feel safe?

But, is it wrong to want something more? To be able to look back at her life, no matter how long or short it may be, and know she lived, that she gave it all she had. That she stayed true to herself, whoever that is. To prove that she doesn’t need them, that she isn’t a burden depending on others to carry her weight. She can make something of herself in Night City, can live on her own terms, even if only until the inevitable comes knocking at her door. It will be a bit of breathing room, a chance to just be, instead of constantly looking over her shoulder.

Family was meant to be her security, her safety, but were they ever really? V shakes her head, if she goes down every thought pattern, every reason, every doubt, every feeling; she’ll be here forever. 

She pulls her mask back down and radios her client after another moment of soaking in the breeze, it's odd they didn’t go through a fixer, but frankly she doesn’t care. A middleman who takes part of the cut isn’t ideal for her either. She’s looking for the past possible new start and the more eddies in her pocket, the better that’ll be. 

“V?” Sinclaire speaks her alias once she gets through. 

“Speaking,” she signs, as always thankful her mask spares her voice in moments like this. 

“Where the hell are you?” 

“Hit a snag, but I’m on my way into the city now.”

“That’s what I like to hear, once you’re through the border radio me and we’ll talk meet up.” 

“The docs you sent,” she signs, thinking to the falsified passport docs he had sent out her way, “they should get me through border check.” 

“Absolutely, border control barely checks ID on customs, but that little pamphlet will breeze you through.” 

“Okay, just checking.” 

“Don’t worry V, this is a piece of cake. You’re gonna love Night City, I’m telling you.” 

“Yeah? That so?” 

“Mmhmm, once we finish the trade off, I’ll show you around. There’s a place in Wellsprings with synth steak to die for, I’ll treat you.” 

“Sounds like a plan, I’m heading out now.” She agrees easily, it’ll be better to have more connections in the city, people she gets along with well enough and know the place better than her. 

“See ya soon.” 

Her client doesn’t know her exact clan, just knows she needs papers to get into the city. There’s more than one group of Raffen Shiv that aren’t allowed in city limits; hell she’s pretty sure Wraith’s aren’t.  Though, corps make special deals to let them in when they need work done. As shitty as they are, The Herd has yet to whore themselves out to that degree, one thing she can still respect about her father. She fiddles with the leather cuff bracelet around her wrist, that hides the small crown shaped brand that he placed on her skin as a child, his way of marking his blood family. She’s considered taking a knife to it, but some part of her isn’t ready to.  

V’s steps are hurried as she leaves the comms tower, heavy boots stomping over metal as she makes the quick journey back to her Rattler, the red beast of a car waiting where she left it. She climbs into the vehicle and twists the vehicle around. She follows the dirt road back out to the highway, headed out to the city. 

She races back through the little town, picking up as much speed as she can, wind whipping through the open windows. Yucca is a blink and its gone, V having cruises right through the nothing town and continuing down the highway. Empty stretches of desert decorated with cacti as she races down the expanse of roadway. 

Then the signs warn her of border crossing, nearing the city, her heart rate picking up as she grows closer to changing her life. A border checkpoint, enclosures and offices with an overpass above the divided lanes of the highway. Each lane leads to a border control officer with holograms labeling what each lane is for based on why someone is coming into the city; whether or not they have cargo to check. She slows down, so she can pull off her mask, the less suspicious she looks the better. Border guards aren’t going to stand for being questioned by The Herd, so its minimal risk. 

She switches over to the lane for customs check, pulling up to the raised blockade, beyond it another car coming through is scanned. An armed border guard not far away and she waits as the vehicle is giving the go ahead to leave; blockade coming down and guard ushering her to drive forward. V drives that little bit forward; cement yellow blockades raise before and behind her vehicle. Locking her into place makes her uncomfortable, like she can’t escape. 

“Stay in the security check area,” a guard tells her over the intercom, like she would have tried to drive through the blockade without his warning. A beat i silence, a minute or two passes as the scanners run along her car. 

“Would the owner of the vehicle please report for further questioning.”

V grabs the falsified passport, manifest marked LOA, and the bribe chip for good measure. She keeps her head down as she gets out of the vehicle, makes her body language small as she walks into the office building. Maintaining a non-threatening demeanor in order to ease any friction that may come her way. The door automatically opens, a waiting room of people and a desk behind bulletproof glass where a worker stands. A map of the New United States across one of the walls. 

“If  you’re armed, leave your weapon here.” The worker behind the desk calls out and V unholsters her revolver, allowing him to check it and put it in a drawer, “report to room two.”

She nods, feeling naked without a weapon on her hip, but she knows this is the way of things. V turns the corner, finding the door with a two marked next to it. She opens the door and a lump forms in her throat. It's a small cramped little excuse of a room, a guard already at the rinky dink desk and a chair in front of it. She takes small timid steps to the chair, discolored with either dried blood or rust, she can’t be certain. The man is dressed in a neon vest; some sort of either goggles or optic implants over his eyes that scan her over as she sits down. He wastes not a second in lighting a cigarette and her nose wrinkles as smoke billows to fill the small room. She can already feel the stench of it clinging to her clothes and wishes she could snatch it from his hand. 

“Papers?” he asks. 

She hands over the manifest, her falsified passport, and the credit chip without a word. Metallic implant augmented fingers put the cred chip aside to look over the little blue document, then he places the paper over the cred chip, hiding it from prying eyes that may peek into the office. Meanwhile, V tries to maintain her most innocent of expression, puppy dog eyes primed if any issue arrives. Small and adorable has few benefits in this world; but she plans to take advantage where she can. Being underestimated, assumed to be weak or docile, as much as it hurts does have perks. 

“What are you transporting?” 

“It’s all in there,” she signs in response, because frankly she has no idea what she’s transporting. Some corp crap. 

“Hmmm, tell me, who do you ride with?” 

“Bakkers,” she lies through her teeth, her car was bought off one, so it seems like an easy enough excuse. 

“They stop installing personal links?” He asks, puffing out a plume of smoke, his gaze on her linkless palm. 

“Religious reasons, most of the clan has them, but my mom raised us to stay ‘ganic, god given, ya know?”  She signs, a practiced excuse for when she’s asked about her lack of implants. Same as the excuse laid out in the passport. 

“Is that so…” he takes a deep drag off his cigarette and V bites her lip not to say anything she’s hit with another face full of smoke, “you know, times like this I’m so glad not to be on the other side of that table.” 

“Feelings mutual,” she signs before she can even consider stopping, aggravated by this man’s entire existence at this point. She gave him all the documents, this should be done with by now. 

“Go on now.” 

She jumps at the chance to be excused, taking in a deep fresher breath of air when she’s released from the smoke box of an interrogation room. V runs a hand through her hair as she turns the corner. There’s another armored guard standing beside the desk now, his eyes doing a lazy look down of V’s frame.

“Don’t forget to collect your personal items.” The worker behind the desk tells her and she stops there, giving him a raised eyebrow before he goes to collect her gun, “be careful with that toy and welcome to Night City.”

As much as she’d like to gripe about the toy comment; as if she’s a child, she can’t help but find herself smiling at the greeting. She’s finally here, finally getting into the city. A life on her terms; a little breathing room between her and the clan. V holsters her gun, grin playing on her lips.

“Those little shits all imagine Night City to be some sort of paradise,” the armored guard comments about her, but not to her, looking over her to the worker behind the desk.

“What are you gonna do they’re all young, naïve, which is just another word for ignorant.” The worker replies and V’s grin has died, maybe that’s the case for others, but Night City is exactly what she needs. Her situation isn’t the same. She doubts those young ignorant kids they’re talking about were running from their own death.

She shakes her head, not worth the effort it’d take to respond, V leaves the building. Her Rattler a short distance away, she’s nearly bouncing as she rushes towards it, climbing into the driver’s seat. Even the overpass above her has words welcoming her to the city, she’s sure she won’t find paradise, but there...she’ll make this life her own.

There’s barely a blip of distance between her and the border check when she sees them. Black corporate vans coming towards her, her heart jolts into her throat and sweat edges along her skin. 

“Fuck!” V curses out loud, border fucker tipped off the corp.

“Stop the vehicle! You are transporting corporate property!” A voice rings out from the vans and V takes a sharp turn off the road, her baby is meant for off roading after all. 

“I repeat, stop the vehicle!” The corporate voice yells out again. 

“Stop the vehicle,” she murmurs in a whiny voice to herself, mocking the corpo, “give us back our stuff, stop committing crimes, wah, wah, wah.” 

 She rolls her eyes, amused by her own bullshit as she punches in the keypad of her Rattler, starting up the automated turret attached to the roof. It’s not the most high tech system, but it has a lock on function and should get the job done.  The sounds of bullets pinging off metal creates a cacophony around her as she careens through an abandoned rural area, taking sharp turns to try to shake them. V takes out her hearing aids to stop her forming headache and focus on what she’s doing. The rumble of her turret shakes the car as it fires, letting her know its still working fine. Glass break out of the back of her car, a bullet piercing through, her back sprayed with the shards. She’ll be digging a bullet out of her dashboard later, she’s sure. 

A bright flash of orange, flames enveloping a van as her turret hits a gas tank the right way. One down, two to go. She keeps the pedal to the floor, speed topping out as she races away from the approaching vans. Another sharp turn and she watches as a van crashes into a wall, one last stubborn fucker. 

There’s a slight tense to the vibration of her turret overhead, bullets hitting the top of it, aiming to disarm it, as she goes through another turn. A shot bursts through her side mirror, assholes, do they have any idea how much it’s going to cost her to repair this heap. More than it’s probably worth.  

The vibration that shakes her car settles down over her head, turret no longer firing, but the van is still chasing her. It fucking jammed, her turret fucking jammed again, of course it did. V hauls off and punches the roof of her Rattler, right beneath where the turret is, used to this issue at this point. As always, the hard punch manages to spur it back on and it fires up again, blasting at the last van at full speed. 

A bullet hits the corpo van’s front tire, knocking it off path; final one down. 

“Suck my dick, Arasaka!” She screams out for no one else to hear.

She’s grinning as she finds a collection of abandoned trailers and garages, pulling into one, she’ll need to call her client, figure out a meeting place. They may want her to lay low for a bit until Arasaka calms their tits about this. But she’s in Night City, finally, what could go wrong from here. Cut out a nice living for herself, solo work or maybe something else, who knows. Get herself a place and do whatever the fuck she wants from there. She slides on her mask, puts her hearing aids back in, and rings her client. 

“Sinclaire?” 

“V, you make it over the border yet?” 

“Yep, out just south of Pacifica according to the GPS, little run in with the corps but I shook them. When and where you wanna meet?” 

“Little China, you know where the old Club Atlantis is?” 

“Not remotely, but ping me the coordinates and I’ll find it.” 

“Sending it to you now, think you can get there by three am?” 

“Yeah, no problem, prefer to do this under cover of darkness?” 

“Much prefer, see you soon, V.” 

V hangs up the call and punches in the coordinates he sent, GPS map firing up to tell her where to go. She pulls out of the abandoned garage and gets herself back out on the road, driving further into the city. 

She doesn’t like driving in the city. V determines about a minute into being into the actual bulk of the city. There’s neon signs and adverts everywhere she looks; most displaying someones ass or tits.  She wouldn’t consider herself a prude, far from it given just how many people she’s spread her own legs for, but she does appreciate some decorum… These are sleazy, dirty… 

And there’s traffic. Even at the late hour, people are on the roads, and they’re slow. So, fucking slow. Move, your asses. A motorcycle might be a good investment, she’d be able to just ride between traffic or weave through the other cars.

She manages to reach the spot before three am, though she wants to scream by the time she arrives. The building blends in easily, just another large shuttered up structure with graffiti covering its outside; symbols for the Tyger Claws, because correct spelling is a bad look for a gang, apparently. 

V lets out a huff of air as she gets out of her car to wait;  examining the little bloody scratches on her shoulders and arms where the glass hit her. Nothing serious, a splash of rubbing alcohol to disinfect and she’ll be fine. But there is a slight sting to the injuries that make moving her arms and shoulders uncomfortable. Corpo fucks. V leans against her car, taking in her new city. 

And she shouldn’t be amazed, she knows that. The traffic drove her nuts and she’s been in landfills that smelled nicer. But despite it all, she finds herself impressed at the buildings that stretch on into the heavens. The bright lights and neon against a dark sky is gorgeous; a high vantage point and she’s sure it’d look like something out of a movie. She finds herself in awe as hope nestles its way into her chest. 

Not perfect, nothing ever is, but she can work with it. She can build something here. 

A sharp honk gets her attention, disrupting her moment of reverie. The street and road have been abandoned mostly; only her and the limousine coming to a stop next to her. She gives a slight wave to the driver, then forms a V with her fingers, as if they needed any more indication of who she is. 

The driver is not her client, instead a big bulk of a man with gorilla arms implants, black metal for fingers, he gets out of the driver’s seat and a similarly sized man steps out of the back seat. Her client’s got muscle around him it seems, maybe he just wants to make sure she doesn’t get squirrely and try to pull something. 

Both guards out, they open the backseat door close to the street and her client finally emerges. He’s not a particularly tall man, though as with most adults, he is taller than her. Sandy slicked back hair and unnaturally bright green eyes; likely optics. 

“V, darling, nice to see you in the flesh, you got the goods?” 

“Right here,” she signs before moving behind her car, opening the trunk so he can see the Arasaka cargo crate.

“Fantastic, load it up, boys.” 

“Woah, woah,” V signs and sits on the crate before the two bodyguards can grab it, “eddies first, then you take the cargo.” 

“Oh, V, honey…” His voice drips with condescension and a chill reverberates down her spine, “you did good work, only a shame you’re so naive.” 

“The fuck do-” 

Pain cracks through her skull, knocking V off the cargo crate and onto the ground. Another sharp thwack of pain across her head and back; something blunt striking her before she can get up. She groans out as she rolls over onto her back, looking up at the bodyguard who’s holding a baseball bat, what looks like blood staining it. Her head and back hurt; her head spinning and she’s unable to get her bearings.

“Load the cargo into the car.” 

“What do you want us to do with her?” One of the guards asks Sinclaire and he looks down at her, like a cockroach. 

“Eh, no one will come looking for her. Might as well throw her away with the trash,” he kicks her side, sneering when she grunts in pain, “give her another hit for good measure.” 

“Got it,” the guard nods and starts to raise the baseball again, high above his head for a hard swing and she instinctively twists to give him the back of her head again. 

“We’ll scrap the car, ge-” 

And then the bat comes down on her, a rush of pain before consciousness slips from her grasp. 

Time loses all meaning when the world is blacked out, but eventually the light filters back in and her senses return. She can feel her hearing aids still in and its reaffirmed by the sounds she hears, the faint murmur of people. The smell around her is awful, disgusting, and she can feel stuff around her. Plastic bags scratching at her skin, something wet touching her arm. Her mask shifted and she forces herself to move, she pulls it back in place, blinking. 

Garbage bags, some intact and others shredded. He actually had her thrown into the trash, that son of a bitch. V pushes the trash bags off of her, city lights starting to glimmer through, neon against a black sky. She finds a metal edge of the dumpster and pulls herself up, body still aching in protest as she emerges from her would be grave. Cold air hits her bare arms, the city far colder in the early months than the Badlands. She’s in an alleyway dumpster and she hears gasps of shocks, turning to see civilians shocked to see someone climbing out of the trash. She’s be ashamed if she weren’t so furious.

V punches the side of the dumper, feeling it reverberate with the force, this was supposed to be her shot at a new life and now she’s in a god damn dumpster. 

She’s going to kill Sinclaire, she’s going to fucking kill him, son of a bitchfucked her over and he’s going to pay with blood. But how the hell does she even reach him? He never gave her details of where he spends his time or let alone where he lives. Hell, she doesn’t even know where she is. She needs her car back and her luggage from it, she doesn’t even have a change of fucking clothes as it stands right now. 

“What time is it? Where am I?” she signs at the civilians, still straddling the edge of the dumpster, maybe they can be some help. 

“Uhhh, like 10pm? And Heywood…?”

So, he dragged her away quite a bit, so...maybe he frequents the area. Still doesn’t tell her much, she needs to find him. And she needs to find her car, but how the fuck does she accomplish that?

“Don’t suppose you have any idea where I could find Luke Sinclaire, do you?” 

“Uh, no,” the stranger kind of raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the whole situation, “but uh, you could always talk to Padre. He’s the local fixer.” 

Of course, she’d have to get a fixer involved, not using one is probably what got her in this mess in the first place. Sinclaire knew she had no ties to her Nomad family, new to the city, and no fixer involved. He basically had license to do whatever he wanted without fearing someone would come for him or come looking for her. V touches the back of her head, fingers coming back red, dried blood matting her hair. He meant for her to die, she’s sure, but the blunt trauma wasn’t enough to do her in. 

“Where’s Padre?” she signs, she doesn’t have money to pay a fixer but maybe they can work something out. She doesn’t want to lone wolf it and end up in a dumpster again. 

“He has his own parish, but he’s usually at the El Coyote Cojo right about now, might be able to catch him if you hurry.” 

“El Coyote Cojo, which would be…where?” 

“Bar a little north of here, you really aren’t from around here, are you?” 

“Thanks for your help and stunning observational skills; I’m off.” 

She pulls her hood back up over her head, hiding her bloody matted hair as she leaves the alley way and goes vaguely north. New chapter of her life, she’s injured, alone, broke, and smells like garbage. 

Honestly, sounds about right for her luck. But, she’s far from given up. She navigates the Night City streets, stopping to ask a stranger where the bar is again before she finally finds it. She keeps expecting to get weird looks, like the ones that were usually sent her way in the small towns she’d visit on the road. But even with her mask, no one pays her much mind. And why would they?

V passes at least four more outrageous looking strangers along her way to the bar. People’s who’s entire body is made of gold cyberware, a woman with skin that looks like plastic, a cowboy with cybernetic arms and legs, and a girl with what looks like cat ear implants on top of her head. Things that make her stop and give a second glance, but no one here even minds. Night City has its own weirdness limit and her mask doesn’t even come close to hitting it. There's an anonymity she’s never known before and its kind of nice. Even bloody, mask on, trash covered; she’s just one face in a sea of millions. 

El Coyote Cujo is a lowlit bar with traditional Mexican decorations across it and as expected in the evening, it has a fair number of patrons bustling around. People shooting pool, downing tequila, and chatting amongst themselves. And for the first time, she finds eyes landing on her. Not necessarily weirded out by her masked appearance, but more so wary of a stranger. She pays them no mind, employees here should know where Padre frequents or if he’s still here. There’s two she’s able to find right away; the bartender and a busboy. She starts with the bartender, walking herself over to a stool, he’s an older man with dark hair and a golden arm. He walks over to her once she’s sat, a smile bringing out the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. 

“A new face, what can I get for you?” 

“I’m actually trying to find someone,” she signs, “someone told me the local fixer, Padre, is a regular here.”

“Ah, he’s probably at his usual table upstairs, not sure he’s interested in taking on any new clients though.” 

“I’ll see if we can figure something out.” She steps away from the bar and heads upstairs, its mostly vacant, making her task just a little bit easier. 

Her gaze is drawn to an older man with sparsely any hair and age spots along his skin, a gold cross around his neck. A few men in tacky gold jewelry around him.

“Padre?” The AI modulator voice calls out and she sees the older man’s eyes land on her. His guards around him seem to tense, prepared for if she sends up being a threat. 

“I’m not sure, I know you,” Padre comments, looking over her disheveled appearance. Being beaten and thrown in a dumpster doesn’t do much for your looks. 

“You don’t, but I’m looking for a fixer, need help if you’re interested in hearing me out.”

“Come, sit.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she signs before sliding into the booth seat across the table from him. 

“How can I assist you, child?” 

“So, a guy named Luke Sinclaire contracted me to smuggle corp cargo into the city, I go to meet up with him and he tricks me. Stole the cargo, sent my car to be scrapped, and had his gangoons drop me.  I need help finding him so I can get the cargo, my car, and my dignity back. Maybe kill him too, depending on how I feel, but we’ll see.” 

“You didn’t use a fixer, I take it?” He raises an eyebrow with the energy of a dad chiding a child for making a stupid mistake. 

“No, I was desperate and it bit me in the ass, so I’m doing what I should have done in the first place.” 

“And I’m to assume, you have no money with which to do this either?” He says, having read her like a book. 

“I’m sorry to be asking favors the first time we meet and I don’t expect you to do this for nothing, of course, but I was wondering if we could work out an arrangement instead.”

“And what sort of arrangement would that be?” 

“I’ll do a merc job for you, your choosing, I’ll take no cut of the profit; a completely free job in exchange for you helping me with this.”

“And how can I trust you to do this job well, I do not know you or your work.” 

“Well, I’d do the job for you first, so if its crap you could not help me. I fully expect to get back what I put in, if I do quality work, you do it in return, I’m desperate here.”

“Come with me, Marcus, get the car,” he tells one of the bulky men who walks off. 

Padre stands and follows behind Marcus, V follows suit as they leave down the stairs and out of the bar towards a dark little alleyway. Marcus pulls up a car and parks it for them. Once parked Marcus gets out and comes back to one of the backseat doors, Padre gets into the back on his own, Marcus opens the door for her. He silently beckons her in and she does what she’s asked, sliding onto the leather seat. Marcus shuts her door before going back around to the driver’s seat, 

“Embers, pull up to the back where the ramp is,” Padre instructs Marcus of where to go. 

And then the car pulls out onto the road. V fiddles with a curl of hair, fidgety and unsure of what to do, why they’re driving out away from the bar. Padre has a far away look in his eye. 

“You’re new to Night City, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah…” 

“And what is your name, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it earlier.” 

“V.” 

“V, I’ve lived in Heywood all my life, it’s roots are strong and watered by blood. Family is what pulls us through, no one is purely independent. The city is ecosystem, each individual playing a vital role that impacts those around them. The relationship between fixers and our mercenaries is an important one, not only is it mutual beneficial, but we keep each other safe. A lesson you’ve had to learn the hard way.” 

“Can’t really argue with that…” 

“People who-“ 

Padre pauses in his words looking out of the window and through it, V can see a car coming up alongside them. The car begins honking furiously at them. Nerves alight and chills slinking up her spine; she has a bad feeling about this. It has to be someone with a bone to pick with Padre. 

“Shit!” Marcus curses, the first word she’s heard him say. 

“Stop the car,” Padre says, with a calming hand on Marcus’s shoulder. 

“What’s this?” V signs, worrying speeding up her hands. 

“Business, you carrying?” 

“Yeah….” V checks her waistband and her revolver is gone because why did she think Sinclaire wouldn’t take her gun, “No.” 

Padre blinks, surprised she’s sure, because who the fuck would be unarmed in Night City. Marcus pulls to a stop, the car once beside them pulls around to park in front of them and a man comes out. He’s dressed in what appear to be green fatigues with a bullet proof vest. As he comes close to V’s window, she sees his gold implants catching the neon lights. 

“Sebastian Ibarra,” the man says in a low voice, as V’s window is rolled down by Marcus, “looks like it’s my lucky day.”

The stranger leans into the window, his left hand is carrying a gun and he casually puts it into the window. Both arms are metal in nature, but they look far from top shelf, at least from her glance. 

“What do you want?” Padre asks him. 

“To settle our biz, once and for all. Got an offer for you, Paddy, so listen up. Get the fuck out of Vista, pull your boys off the street! I’ll give you the Glenn, done deal. No more restless nights, see how generous I can be?” 

A beat of silence and V gives a glance at Padre, he seems far from amused with the man’s bullshit. 

“Well, Paddy?!” 

V lurches at his impatient yell, she doesn’t need this wannabe soldier turned gangbanger fucking up her deal. Her right hand grabs the back of his neck, below the base of his skull and her left grabs the gun. She slams his head against the car roof, his forehead gushing blood at the impact, the shock and pain makes his grip loosen and allows her to steal his pistol before letting him go. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses as he stumbles back, seeing stars and touching at his forehead. She aimed for the soft flesh just before his golden mohawked implant began, blood now steadily streaming from the wound, “you’ll fucking pay for that.” 

She points his own pistol at him, cocking the gun, asking the silent question of if he intends to be shot today. 

“It seems our conversation has come to a close,” Padre speaks calmly, but when she turns she can see the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Careful Padre, never know who’s got a barrel at your six,” he threatens with blood coating his face like paint, “you neither shitbucket!” 

“Now, I’m armed,” V signs to Padre, as she watches the man climb back into his car, defeated for the moemnt. 

“Marcus, please.” 

The driver pulls out and away, getting them back on the road, as if the exchange had never happened. There’s a moment or two of silence, as V tucks her new gun into her waistband. If Padre takes her up on her offer, she may need it, plus you can generally never have enough firepower. 

“Many people come through the city,” Padre speaks after a beat of silence, “little shits who’s spines go soft the moment they’re looking down the barrel of a gun. And sometimes you get the odd soul, one who can truly hold their own.” 

“Who was that?” She asks, unable to help but smirk behind her mask at the compliment. That she’s one of the odd souls, different from those little shits, that she can hold her own.  V is far from incompetent, even if some shitbird got the jump on her. 

“No one important, he’ll be gone in a week’s time. Another will take his place.”

“The ecosystem will take him out?” 

“People who don’t know their place, soon find themselves without one. He’ll pay for what he’s done. You… paid for your misdeeds, for your misstep, but you’re finding your place now and within it you may thrive.” 

“You got my place in the ecosystem all figured out?” 

“Here,” he hands her a screamsheet, a magazine with an animated ad for a car, high-end The Legend of Aerondight, “only four in Night City.” 

“That so?” It looks slick, she guesses, though certainly not her aesthetic. Its that weird rich person sort of design where it’s oddly shaped and proportioned, perhaps to be aerodynamic. All sleek silver and black, no character to it. She’d take her Rattler over it any day. 

“First belongs to the Rayfield regional direction, second belongs to mayor Rhyne, third to a rental service. And my client aims to be the fourth.” 

“Klep the car and you’ll help me?” 

“Yes, I have a contact who works inside the parking structure near Embers, a club the current owner likes to frequent. He’s there tonight as well. My contact will cut the security camera feed and open the security gate for you.” 

“Current owner, anyone I need to worry about?” 

“An Arasaka corpo,” Padre informs her, because apparently, she hasn’t fucked with Arasaka enough in the past day or so. 

“So, just hotwire it or?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’s hotwired a car, but fancy ones like this usually have a more complicated security system. Usually takes more than a knife and luck, which is her usual method. 

“Not quite,” Padre pulls a little gadget, a silver and black device that he hands to her, “this should work like a key for the car, matches the ones used by Rayfield tech. Should open the lock and bypass identity authorization.” 

“That sounds convenient…”  Too fucking convenient, she resists adding. 

“Kabuki has some excellent tech workers, but I won’t lie, it is a risk. I assume one you’re willing to take?” 

“Got it, I’ll get the car.” 

“Marcus, pull up here,” Padre tells the driver and they come to a stop, “you can jump down below, and before you go, take this V.” 

He hands her a card, marked with his name and phone number, golden in color with a sword surrounded by roses.  She rubs her thumb over the embossment, glad for her first contact within the city. Connections help. 

“Your number?” She points out the obvious, not sure what else to say. 

“Bring the car back to El Coyote Cujo and call me when you arrive, if all goes well, I’ll have your intel by then. And, I may just call on you for work down the line.” 

“Understood, I’m off then.” 

“Go with God, V.”  

The guardrail drags along the side of the highway but there’s a breakage where it allows her enough space to easily jump over. Peering over it leads to an alley way, a closed dumpster just below. She hops over, dropping down onto the dumpster, she intends on last night being her last trash nap, so she’s more than a little thankful for it being closed. She hears a civilian let out a little exclamation but pays no mind as she jumps down onto the pavement. A quick walk down a graffitied alleway leads her to yellow road signs cutting across an open structure. Glowing vending machines beckon her to spend ennies she doesn’t have on energy drinks and burritos, a turn past them brings her to an elevator. 

Slick glinting silver encompasses her as she steps into the alleyway; impressively clean compared to the absolute grime of the city.  Likely to impress any corpos who come this way to get their cars. A quick tap of a button and the doors shut, elevator rattling as it descends down to the garage. 

A beat of silence and the elevator opens up to a hallway; black, gunmetal gray, and teal accents. The wall declares which sector she’s in and an arrow on the far wall tells her where to turn, as if there were anywhere else to go. The turn around the corner puts her directly in front of two large black double doors; PARKING over them in clear bold lettering. 

They slide open when she gets close and open up to the large parking garage, lights coming on as she sees all the slick fancy corpo cars. Sleek blacks and eye popping reds, none with any taste for design if you ask her. But nomads and corpos have...different aesthetics. 

“Eh, something I can help you with?” A male voice rings out, bringing her attention to the little station next to the blocked off exit for cars. The contact, she presumes. She comes over to his open window, the man dressed in uniform. 

“Padre sent me…” she signs, keeping things vague just in case this person has no idea why she’s here. 

“Gotcha,” he hits a button, “cameras are blind, you got twenty minutes.” 

She nods and goes looking through the cars, it’s the glow of neon that brings her to it. A parking spot marked off in the vivid blue glowing lights, they frame the Rayfield, and spell VIP on the wall behind it. 

Time to test the tech, she holds the device next to the door and presses its button, a blue light flashing. And then the Rayfield’s door opens, sliding back and up in one fluid motion, exposing the deep burgundy leather seats. Shit may actually be going right for once. 

She climbs into the driver’s seat, feeling wholly out of place in the plush designed car. The seat automatically adjusts to accommodate her, no doubt shorter than the owner, and the blacked-out windshield and window turn to crystalline clear glass. All that’s left is bringing the baby back to the bar and then she can get her intel on Sinclaire. 

A red caution symbol flashes in the windshield and her body tenses; a bad feeling creeping in. No, her luck can’t be running out already. 

Then the door opens and there’s a gun in her face. 

“Get the fuck out!” A Mexican accented voice yells out. 

If there is a god, he personally hates her, there is no other explanation, and she will fist fight him for his shenanigans. She looks up at the man standing before her, barrel at her forehead. He’s leaning down against the car, not unlike how the sheriff did to intimidate her back in Yucca. However, unlike the sheriff, this guy has the build to pull it off. He’s easily over a foot taller than her and wider than most doorway, all pure muscle with dark hair in a top knot, gold cybernetics adoring his face. She puts her hands up in mock surrender for a moment. 

“Nothing personal, jaina, just biz.” 

V goes to gun it, to stomp her foot down on the gas, but before she can the man has the back of her hoodie and is unceremoniously ripping her out of the vehicle. 

“You fuckin’ deaf, chica, fuck out of the car, now!” He’s able to manhandle and pack her around like it’s nothing, like carrying a housecat. 

She grabs the hand on her hood and digs her fingernails in, swinging her foot out to kick him while her other hand goes for her gun. 

Then there’s a steady rev of engines, tires squealing and growing ever closer. Confusion coloring her assailant’s face and he drops her, looking around. 

“The fuck…” 

He starts to say and then there’s two police cars rushing into the parking lot, skidding to stops in front of them. And its fucking overkill, if she rang 911 because she was shot, they’d maybe send an officer out in three weeks. One fucking corpo has someone break into his car and it’s the end of the universe, need a full brigade. 

The headlights of the cruises are blindingly bright and she struggles to adjust; putting her hands up as police officers come out with guns at the ready. It’s a car for fucks sake. 

“Don’t move!” 

Her attacker carefully slides his gun across the cement, to show he’s not a threat and maybe she’d consider doing the same if she cared; but she doesn’t. 

“You’re under arrest!” 

“Stay where you are!” 

The police continue barking orders, as if the two hadn’t piece together what was happening or what was being asked of them. They’re not stupid. 

“Hands where I can see them, nice and slow!” 

He can already see them, why must they go through the rigamarole. She doesn’t have time for this shit. 

“On the ground motherfuckers, right now!” 

V is able to watch for a second, as a female cop cuffs and pushes the big guy onto the ground. Then in the next second she’s down there too, but they don’t cuff her like they do him. The officer only holds her hands down to the pavement, maybe they think because she’s smaller they don’t need the cuffs, at least not yet. 

“Jackie Welles, my old pal from the hood,” a voice rings out, “See you haven’t grown an ounce wiser.” 

“Hey,” big guy, apparently Jackie, responds and she shifts her head against the pavement to see him being held down in addition to the cuffs, “argh, Detective Stints, been a while, huh?”

“Inspector Stints,” the man responds now stepping out where he can be seen in front of the bright lights, he picks up the gun Jackie put down. 

“Same shit,” Jackie says with a laugh. 

“But you, you’re new,” Stints comments as he walks over and crouches down in front of her, looking over her face.

He waits, anticipating her to say something, but she talks with her hands and they’re currently pinned behind her back. And sure she possesses the technical ability to speak, her vocal chords do function. But she doesn’t, unless she’s alone or highly emotional. She used to talk to her mom, sister, and Ava…but those days are gone. 

“Spit it out? Cat got your tongue?” Stints taunts and she still remains silent. 

“Think her voicebox might be broken, Stints,” Jackie comments, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Pfft, probably just another piece of Heywood trash, another termite who’ll live and die here. Just like you Welles.” 

“Fuck off, just tell us what you got planned,” Jackie grumbles. 

“Gonna be booked, gonna do a stint, heh, get it?” He says with a grin. 

“C’mon Stints, cut us a break, huh? You lock us up, we’ll just jerk off till trial and then what?”

She has no intention on jerking off anywhere, but alright.

 “Worst case,” Jackie continues, “we get a few months, standing room only nowadays. In el bote. Hell, we’ll probably be out early.” 

“These the thieves? Ordinary street trash,” a heavily accented voice comments, a Japanese man in a shimmery golden colored vest comes walking over. 

“Shit, he’s here,” Inspector Stints groans before standing, “got them in custody Mr. Fujioka. We’ll be taking them, now.” 

“It’s a waste of effort, I have no time to testify or play at an investigation.” 

“Suggesting we let ‘em go, sir?” 

“I’m suggesting you throw them in the sea; cuffed, legs broken, so this trash doesn’t float.” 

And with that the man starts to walk away, making his way back to the club, she’s sure, continuing his night of debauchery as if he hadn’t ordered the murder of two strangers just because he could, because he didn’t have time for a trial. And god, she knows she probably has no room to judge anyone else’s morals, but just fuck corpos. 

“You heard him,” the inspector says, because corpo cash pays his salary, she’s sure. 

“Fuuuuck….” Jackie curses as they start to drag him up on his feet by the cuffed hands and she her own arms are wrenched back and cuffed. 

V gets her feet back under her, moving with the pull as they manhandle her off the ground, she kicks back at the officer behind her. Her foot connects with their calf, causing them grunt out in pain as they’re knocked off balance loosing their grip on her wrists. She jumps as high as she can and brings her cuffed hands under her feet to her front. 

Jackie follows suit, kicking the officer off of him, but with his size it knocks them flat on their ass. He shoulder checks another pig as V makes a dive for the Rayfield, it’s door still open amongst this chaos. She lands herself in the drivers seat and hits the ignition. 

“Stop resisting!” Officers yell, fingers on the trigger, and no, that’s not happening. 

“Wait up, chica!” Jackie yells out and she hits the button to open the passenger side door; he’s an asshole, but she’s not leaving him to be thrown in the fucking ocean. 

He throws himself down in the passenger side and she guns it, doors shutting on each side as she takes the turn out the parking exit. She watches from the corner of her eye as Jackie, who’s barely able to fit in the bougie car, brings his cuffed hands down as low as he can. He grunts and curses, not quite as flexible as she is. With effort and twisting, he’s able to get the chain of the cuffs under his foot and then he stomps down while yanking his hands up. The little chain doesn’t stand a chance, breaking into pieces and pinging about the interior as it does so. 

“Much better,” Jackie comments, looking at his wrists which now just have the manacles of the cuffs. 

She rolls her eyes, bringing her attention back on the road and she expects to see sirens chasing after them, but it never happens. Are the cops not chasing them? They should be chasing them? Is she not getting in her second high speed chase since coming here?

“Honestly,” Jackie starts to talk again, he talks a lot, “I was just gonna let Stints free us, but I like the way you think, this way we get the Rayfield too.” 

“What?” She takes a hand off the wheel to sign. 

“Oh shit, you’re actually….my bad…” He awkwardly apologizes for asking if she was deaf earlier because, yes, yes she is. 

“What do you mean, free us?” 

“Stints is a softie as far as pigs go, got Heywood in his blood, would never throw us in the fuckin’ ocean cause some corpo said. And, you can slow down, he won’t chase us, chica.”

“Oh…okay,” she signs, pulling up to a curb, something else to take care of. 

“We stopping here?” 

“You are,” she signs before pulling her gun out and pointing it at him, signing with her other hand, “get out of the car.” 

“Really, chica?” He rolls his eyes, like he didn’t pull this shit on her five minutes ago. 

“Wouldn’t have let you in if I knew Stints was a softie, I got a job to finish, get out.” 

“A fixer line this up for you?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Padre?” 

“Yeah…are you gonna get out of the car or…?” 

“Listen, I was gonna klep the car and then find a fixer to sell it for me, but if you already got Padre involved, we’ll go halfsies.” 

“You pointed a gun at me!” 

“You’re pointing a gun at me, right now!” 

“You did it first!” 

And he laughs and she does too, because they sound like children bickering over who pushed who on the playground. Its dumb and ridiculous and why does she like him? His smile is warm and kind, something about him, welcoming. She drops the gun, tucking it back in her waistband. She press her hand under her mask, trying to suppress her giggles. The tension that’s been clinging to her has snapped. Her body feels lighter, like she can breathe a bit better. She closes the passenger side door, he may be chill, or she’s just easily charmed. But, she’s still going to fuck with him, just a little. 

“Okay, fine, we’ll go halfsies.” 

“See, now you’re making sense,” he grins as they pull out back onto the road, “Jackie Welles.”  

“V…it’s…nice to meet you? I think?” 

“Heh, not from around here, right?” 

“Nah, but, from the sounds of it you’re a local.” 

“Heywood in my veins, chica,  where we meeting Padre?” 

“El Coyote Cujo.” 

“Of course.” 

“You  know the place?” 

“I’ve heard of it,” he says, grinning wide, a joke she’s clearly not in on, “Ah, I got a good feeling about this.” 

“About what?” 

“Us, you and me got chemistry.” 

“Do we now?” 

“Oh, don’t give me that, you feel it too, heard that laugh.” 

“Sure, whatever you say,” she teases as she pulls into the El Coyote Cujo parking lot, pulling the slick corpo car into a spot, “got a phone on you?” 

“You don’t?” 

“I literally have lost everything I own,  alright? Call Padre and put it on speaker.” 

“Fine, fine,” Jackie gets out his phone and calls Padre, phone in one hand and the other stretched across the back of the seats. 

“Jackie? To what do I owe the pleasure.” 

“Here with your newest find, V, we got the Rayfield.” 

“You helped her out?” 

“Well…” 

“He pointed a gun at me and nearly had me thrown in the ocean.” 

“Seems like I have a car and a story waiting on me, I’ll be there shortly.” 

A pain aches in V’s head, migraine spreading across her temple as Jackie hangs up. She rolls the car window down, allowing the chill of the winter night seep in, hoping the fresh air will ease her pain.  V wants a shower, there’s still blood in her hair and she’s sure she still smells like trash. Though, no one’s been cruel enough to point it out. But, she has no idea where she could grab a shower. Why the fuck does her head hurt so much? The pain a steady throb across her entire head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, it didn’t even ache this much when she first came too in the dumpster. 

“You alright V?” 

“Head hurts,” she signs, before turning off her hearing aids, hoping that shutting out the city sounds will help. 

“When’s the last time you ate, chica?” Jackie says, making sure to stay in her eye line as he leans over the middle console, though his biceps nearly touch her even when he isn’t.  Her mask reading his lips to give him subtitles. . 

When was the last time she ate? She didn’t eat all day because she was in a dumpster passed out. The day before was the smuggle run and she didn’t eat before she left Yucca.

“Two days ago.” 

“Fuckin’ for real, no wonder your head’s wonky, once we finish the deal we’ll get some grub.” 

“What made you think that was why?” 

“Ah, my mama gets those migraines when she stops eating from stress, Vik and me keep telling her to take care of herself, but she’s too busy taking care of everyone else.” 

“You and your mom close?” V can’t help but ask, thinking about her own mother for a moment. 

“Oh yeah, family’s important, gotta have people you can turn to out here.” 

“Yeah…” 

“What-”

Headlights shine in through the back glass of the Rayfield, bring their attention to Padre pulling into the parking lot.  His arrival ending whatever question Jackie was about to ask, which may be for the best. She’s not ready to answer questions about family. Not when her head is throbbing, she’s filthy, and her stomach is empty. Padre’s driver comes to a stop and they see Padre gets out of the back. V turns her hearing aids back on, knowing it will make the conversation flow easier as her and Jackie get out of the Rayfield. Her arms collecting goosebumps from the air. 

“Jackie, it’s nice to see you again, how have you been?” He greets Jackie warmly

“Ehhh, can’t complain, same old same old, making new friends,” he says with a grin, nodding his head towards V.

“Never can have too many of those. It’s always nice to chat once business is done.” 

One of Padre’s bodyguards has already climbed into the driver’s seat of the Rayfield. Enging revving up and then fading off into the night as he leaves. Officially finishing up their business. 

“Uh,” Jackie raises an eyebrow, “you getting senile on me, Padre, this is usually the part where eddies change hands.” 

V’s smirking and trying not to laugh behind her mask. Padre gives a look at V’s direction and she looks down at the ground, pursing her lips so she doesn’t laugh. 

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you mean.” 

“Ah,” Jackie nods, like he gets it, “no worries, V agreed to go halfsie with me on the Rayfield gig.” 

“Halfsies?” Padre raises an eyebrow, smiling at V, he seems to find her joke at least a little funny. V can’t help the giggle that spills out.

“Am I missing the joke here?” 

“Well, I’m afraid, this was an unpaid job for V here.” 

“What?” Jackie shoots her a sharp look, disbelief coloring his expression. 

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she taunts. 

“Fuck you!” 

She bursts out laughing, holding her stomach as she cackles behind her mask, the sound echoing strangely through it. But, she can’t stop. 

“You stole a million eddie car for free!? The fuck is wrong with you!?” 

“No, no,” she furiously signs, “I needed info.” 

“Speaking of which, I have your intel here,” Padre says, handing her a shard.

“Give me a moment, my lungs hurt.” 

“I’m glad you're entertained, that info better make you a billionaire.” 

“Nah, personal shit,” she collects herself, “thanks, Padre, it means a lot.” 

“You’re a good kid, make him pay, V.”

“Oh, I will,” V confirms, slotting the shard into a little opening on her mask, info displaying across it. 

The name of a chopshop that rumors say had a nomad vehicle come in, her Rattler no doubt. Sinclaire’s address and regular hang outs, exactly what she needs. Hopefully, he hasn’t had time to sell the cargo yet. If so, she’ll axe him and klep all his shit. 

“What happened?” Jackie asks. 

“Well,” she signs, before taking the shard out, “Sinclaire contracted me to transport some cargo, no fixer, so he fucked me over the second he got a chance. Bashed me over the head, threw me in a dumpster, scrapped all my shit, and took off with the cargo.” 

“So, that’s what that smell is?” 

“I will throw you,” she threatens, but she’s rolling her eyes and smiling. 

“I’d love to see you try, chica.” 

“The chop shop won’t be open until morning and it’s late. It’s up to you, but I’d recommend resting for the night.” 

“Yeah…” She signs, but she can’t help the slight pout. She has no money, no clothes, no food, no shelter. She’ll be sleeping on a bench or something tonight, not much rest. 

“You did good work V,” Padre pats her shoulder as he leaves,” I’m sure I’ll have more jobs for you in the future, paying ones, of course.” 

“Thanks again, Padre.”  

She rubs a hand down her face, migraine still thumping around in her head. Between not eating and having her hearing aids in all day, her head feels on the verge of exploding. 

“So, what’s the plan, jaina?” 

“My plan, why do you wanna know my plan?” 

“Because, you and I both know you’re up shit creek without a paddle here, V. No home, no family, no one to turn to. Night City ain’t a place that will let you get by on your own. Need people you can turn to, if you wanna survive.” 

“And what, you wanna be my friend?” She raises an eyebrow, taken aback by just how kind and friendly he’s really been. 

“Told you already, we got chemistry,” he grins again and it makes her smile, “be a crying shame to waste it.” 

“Okay, friend, what do we do now?” 

“You like chili?

“As a concept, sure.”  

“Settled then, get you a hot meal, change of clothes, a shower ‘cause you fuckin’ need it, and crash with me tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” 

“And tomorrow, we teach that pendejo a lesson, sound good?”  

“Sounds good to me.”

They’re all grins and smiles as they leave the parking lot, knocking shoulders together as they go, walking side by side down the neon lit streets. And she can feel it returning, that little buzz of hope she had in her chest when she first came here, the one she thought was beaten out of her by Sinclaire’s goons, it’s back and brighter than ever. Though not half as bright as Jackie’s smile as they turn a corner towards his mother’s house. 

[solarpunkcast]

SPAW Tech To-Do’s

I figured I’d use my own professional skills as a start to help with with solarpunk action week. My #1 recommendation?

Switch yourself to Firefox

They’ve been committed to Net Neutrality and privacy laws since this fight began. They’re going to be the first browser to give DNS over HTTPS by default which will protect your privacy against prying eyes (including your ISP). Check that link to take the steps on making sure this function is enabled.

Next thing after installing Firefox is to go to “about:preferences#search” and set your Search Engine: remove all of them but DuckDuckGo then head on over to Ecosia to add that to help plant trees. DDG can piggyback on google by adding !g to the end, and Ecosia does the same but with /g

ADDONS: Extremely important. Firefox has built in tracking and adblock protection, but you’ll want to go a bit further.

Electronic Frontier Foundation’s Privacy Badger Raymond Hill’s ever-free, no-compromise uBlock ORIGIN Mozilla’s own Facebook Container if you absolutely have to use Facebook

With these addons and being wary of downloading or installing programs/torrents/files, you should not need an antivirus. Any “free” ones are using your tracked info to sell.

These are the basic privacy steps you should take to replace chrome on your devices, or at the very least the device you use the most.

Now for account security. Having trouble keeping up with all the data breaches? Can’t remember which passwords to reset? Don’t remember what accounts you actually have?? Firefox has you covered! Search your email address(es) on Firefox Monitor to see any accounts that were breached from that email address.

If you sign up for a Firefox account, Monitor can alert you in real time, along with Mozilla having the same sync function as google–but with less bullshit!

Another amazing resource for checking your data privacy and safety is “have i been pwned?” which is a- the best gaming jargon and b- the only opensource, free password+email checker.

Lastly, buying and recycling. Whether it’s a new, secondhand, or repaired device there is an inevitability of needing to purchase technology. By making better spending habits, you can both cut down on e-waste and keep your devices longer. When secondhand or DIY repair won’t work, how do you do that? Tons of good info under the cut!

Buy wired devices whenever you can. The convenience of wireless comes at a cost of many, many batteries over the device’s life. If it’s rechargeable, that battery often can’t be removed to even be replaced, and is another point of failure that can’t be repaired. If you’re using bluetooth headphones, they will cause your phone battery life to shorten quicker because of the constant connection needed. Wired devices are also always cheaper, which means more money for bills, food, pets, hobbies, etc.

If your old/broken electronics aren’t worth trading/selling/scrapping to someone else, then you should make sure the e-waste is given to a recycling program so the materials can be reclaimed properly.

Here’s a quick idea of how reclaiming e-waste can help us: “According to the EPA, recycling one million laptops can save the energy equivalent of electricity that can run 3,657 U.S. households for a year. Recycling one million cell phones can also recover 75 pounds of gold, 772 pounds of silver, 35,274 pounds of copper, and 33 pounds of palladium.

On the other end, e-waste recycling helps cut down on production waste. According to the Electronics TakeBack Coalition, it takes 1.5 tons of water, 530 lbs of fossil fuel, and 40 pounds of chemicals to manufacture a single computer and monitor. 81% of the energy associated with a computer is used during production and not during operation.“

Your state may have an e-cycling program (if it’s broken, check Home Depot)

Terracycle repurposes all sorts of trash, and also does e-waste

The EPA has a list of retailers that offer recycling for products they sell

Call2Recycle has a nice phone and battery program and may be at the retailers linked above

Freecycle is a network of local reuse groups against (e-)waste

Earth911 has a search by zipcode for all sorts of recycling

There are also associations that are building a reuse and reclaim network to prevent corporate and consumer e-waste. These can be helpful for training, information, and advocacy towards e-cycling in your workplace.

Institute of Recycling Industries (ISRI)

Coalition for American Electronics Recycling (CAER)

European Electronics Recyclers Association (EERA)

Electronic Products Recycling Association (ERPA, Canada)

I understand a lot of these resources are US-centric, with some retailer overlap spilling into Canada, so feel free to add or send me non-US organizations!

[catflowerqueen]

In one of my many earlier posts, I mentioned that the Infinity Train, realistically speaking, is going to have to change at least a little bit due to the repercussions left in Amelia’s wake. On thinking of it further, I have to wonder how often that sort of thing happens. Like… how often does the train “update” itself? (Aside from the creation of new cars, which probably happens pretty regularly) Does it ever update itself? Because surely there have been other people who were suffering with the same or similar problems to Amelia. Tulip even mentions some parallels after watching her tape. So, the question then becomes… why was Amelia the first (or at least, the first we are aware of) passenger to actually be able to unseat One-One as the conductor? In all the time it has been around and with all the passengers that had to have boarded it, I find it very hard to believe that no has at least considered it before her. But then I thought… maybe it isn’t that others haven’t wanted to, but that it wasn’t until Amelia that anyone could actually be able to. What if the train doesn’t do regular updates on itself?

Consider the technology we’ve seen on the train so far. Disregarding the specific “themes” inside the cars, they all seem to run pretty much the same—there are orbs underneath the floors and behind the walls that control the scenery, and such things can be changed and accessed through the porters and stewards and changed and manipulated via disconnecting and changing some wires around. Furthermore, the steward can be controlled via specific tones and frequencies. Now, consider what Tulip and Amelia were able to do all throughout book one—they could use coding and engineering to manipulate the train and cars. Amelia used phreaking not only on that one telephone, but all throughout the book. But consider this: She mentioned in her tape that this ability was a new one, implying that it had only recently been figured out. And think about some other technology the train utilizes—while the memory robots and number machine are pretty cool and futuristic, what are they storing the memories on? VHS-looking tapes. As in, an older form of technology.

What if the only reason that One-One hadn’t lost control before is that the train had that sort of technology from the beginning, but humans are only now catching up? I mean, if the train can change its appearance so drastically to lure on passengers (look at how different Tulip’s and Grace’s first look at the train was!), then who is to say it even always looked like a train? All we know about it is that it has been running for at least a century—and as the industrial revolution shows, a lot can change technology-wise in a single century. And the train itself might inadvertently be contributing to that. If people come out of watching movies like Star Wars wanting to create lightsabers, then I find it very hard to believe that no one would have stepped off that train and then immediately started to recreate some of the technology they saw in the cars.

If that’s the case, then it’s highly likely that something like Amelia was always going to happen. If it wasn’t her, it would have been someone else. And they may have managed to screw things up and make even more of a mess than she did, considering all the new technological leaps that have happened in the meantime since she’s been on the train. Again, consider Tulip and all she managed to do. Amelia presumably had to do all her work from the engine car, at least initially, but Tulip was able to repurpose and reprogram things all the way from the ball pit car.

There’s a saying that at a certain point technology can become indistinguishable from magic—and I think that humans are or will shortly reach that point in regards to the train.

And in a way, it might be a good thing that Amelia and Tulip arrived when they did and shook things up, and that One-One actually got the chance to personally interact with and help a passenger—and that it was Tulip who he interacted with. Think about some of the after-effects—now the passengers actually get a video telling them what they are supposed to be doing when they arrive on the train. I’m pretty sure that the main reason One-One recorded those is because of his memories of how lost and upset Tulip was in the beginning, and how her lack of knowledge about the number and what was going on contributed to that. And even if there was some sort of video before Amelia took over, we know that the ones we saw in book two have to be new given that One-One introduced himself as One-One, rather than his old name of “One.” And now that he’s met Lake, and seen that it’s possible for passengers to re-board the train, he will be able to make even more changes to help things run more smoothly and adapt.

And speaking of Lake and Jesse… consider the fact that Jesse brought his cell phone on the train, and was using it to take pictures. Humans only would have been able to do that fairly recently, all things considered. Jesse’s phone may have been destroyed, but what about some of the other people boarding the train? Would the images stay on their phones after leaving? Could their phones automatically upload images to the Cloud even while on the train? How much of Jesse’s early issues with his number stemmed from the fact that his watching that video of his brother over and over again might have made it even harder for him to start to move on—much like the way in which passengers who watch their own tapes risk getting trapped in their memories?

For that matter, why are they even still using VHS tapes to begin with? Is it just for the ambiance or something? I mean, I can see how it might be necessary to have them on physical tapes initially, given the way the passenger farm works, but why can’t the porters convert that all to digital and store it on flash drives/straight into the mainframe afterwards? We know they use computer technology! Amelia was messing around with it when she sent Tulip’s door away! …And are there just a bunch of cars dedicated to holding all those tapes somewhere on the train? Because that’s a lot of tapes to accumulate over time.

Anyways… I guess my point is that the train has its own journey to make in regards to how it functions, and it probably needs to be more active about it, just like the passengers. The world is changing, and it needs to change along with it to remain helpful and grow. And it’s something that was always going to happen from the start.

…I think I might have had something else I wanted to expand on with this idea, but I’m too tired right now to try and remember what it was.

[savannahsdrabbles]

Encounters - Part One

rating: G summary:  How April met the ROTTMNT turtles. notes: 6k fluffy turtle tot fic with just a touch of angst.  Part two can be found here, and Ao3 link here

“Okay, my sons.  It is time,”

           Despite his hushed tone, Splinter’s voice swelled with importance as he turned to face his charges. The maroon hoodie he had scrounged up fanned around him almost comically as he moved, speaking to the fact that it was clearly designed with someone much taller than he in mind. Even so, there was still an air of confidence and gravitas to his manner – this was not the first time that he had stood before an audience, nor, if he had anything to say about it, would it be his last. “As you know, this is an important mission. I am aware that you have been through this before, but it still remains pertinent that you remember the rules. Recite them for me, please.”

           Three of the four hooded figures before him immediately straightened to attention, their voices also hushed but still quivering with excitement.

           “Pay attention!”

           “Stay close!”

           “No talking!”

           …

The last response, rather than being delivered with confidence, was replaced with silence punctuated by the steady drip drip drip of a leaky pipe above them and the droning rumble of cars in the distance. Tiny rivulets of water streamed from a crack in the metal tube directly over their heads, running together and condensing into a single droplet that swelled and drooped under its own weight before silently dropping into a puddle of its brethren at their feet.

The pause dragged on for a few more seconds, and Splinter couldn’t help but roll his eyes upwards in a silent plea for patience as he sighed. “Michelangelo?”

“Oh!” The last and smallest figure in line immediately stood up straight, his focus snapping away from the growing puddle and turning towards his father. “Stick to the shadows!” The young turtle scrunched up his snout and leapt forward, landing on one foot and raising his arms into the air as an attempt at an action pose. “Like ninjas – HA!”

The gesture might have been threatening, were it not coming from an eight year old in an orange hoodie. However, it definitely sufficed to distract those around him. The three other turtles giggled, their concentration broken as they immediately began hopping around and striking their own grand poses. “Yeah – ninjas! Like Lou Jitsu!”

Splinter blinked slowly, a small smile teasing at his lips despite himself. “Right… like ninjas. If ninjas were loud and unfocused.”

That caught their attention. All four turtles immediately fumbled to a stop and forced serious expressions onto their round faces. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Hm.” The rat hummed, his gaze moving over the boys one last time before nodding. “Alright, let us go.”

***

Even with his years of training, Splinter still couldn’t help but be impressed by the relative ease with which he was able to lift manhole covers. Perhaps there were a few advantages to this new form - however, now was not the time for him to crow over his abilities.

Tonight was a gathering night.

Still holding the cover a few inches above him, Splinter peered around the alleyway. His ears rotated atop his head, listening for any sign of danger before he finally pushed himself up and out of the pipe. Once he was on solid ground, the rat sniffed the air and nodded slowly. This would be a good spot for the night.

Green dumpsters lined the gap between Eastman’s Donuts and Laird Apartments, each giving off a variety of odors that ranged in levels of pleasantness.  The alleyway he’d chosen tonight was one they frequented due to its abundance of cover and wide variety of resources. He always made sure to schedule their gathering nights shortly after garbage day, so that any food placed in the bins would still be relatively fresh and untouched by whatever else was dumped in with it. Years of gatherings told him that the dumpsters on the opposite side of either building tended to be less fruitful, but both alleyways held Salvation Army drop boxes that sometimes held clothing or other small items that could be repurposed for their needs.

“You may come out, boys. Silently.”

To their credit, his sons were decent at following commands when needed. One at a time, the four boys peeped their heads out of the drain and then scrambled over the edge.

Raphael led the way, his shell bumping against either side of the pipe as he pulled himself through. Even at eight years old, his biggest son stood slightly taller than his father and was showing signs of growing every day. Splinter was already dreading the day that they would have to change gathering routes in order to find manholes covers more accommodating of his size – that, or he would have to risk leaving his tenderhearted son alone at the lair during missions. The latter idea already hurt to think of.

Donatello and Leonardo were next, somehow managing to hold a silent shoving match as they ascended the ladder and attempted to pull themselves out of the ground. His purple son eventually emerged victorious, scrambling to his feet a few seconds ahead of his brother and immediately ducking behind Raph to smile smugly. Leo stuck his tongue out in protest and opened his mouth as if to say something, only to catch a warning glance from his father and snap it shut once more.

Michelangelo was the last one out of the sewer, clambering up the ladder with ease and bouncing excitedly next to his brothers as Splinter pushed the grate back into place. When he turned back around, the rat nodded in approval at the way the other boys had closed rank around their brother, making an unspoken shield. Despite the fact that the turtles were all the same age – or at least, had mutated on the same day – Mikey remained the smallest of the turtles and therefore held the honorary title of baby brother. While he hoped the boy wouldn’t one day grow to be resentful of the fact, Splinter was grateful to have three extra sets of eyes trained on the actions of his most distractible son.

Speaking of eyes – Splinter turned towards the mouth of the alley and took several steps forward. The four boys stumbled after him, small hands brushing his tail and the edge of his hoodie as a guide. His vision nowadays was not what it used to be – a trait he could only assume was a result of his transformation – so he had come to rely heavily on scent and color when moving about.  Nevertheless, his ability to navigate in the dark remained the strongest of the small band of creatures he now called family.

Once he was completely satisfied that they would not be seen, Splinter reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small bundle of meshy fabric. After a moment of unwinding, he distributed a small reusable bag to each of his sons and jerked his head at the bins. “Red, I will need you to hold a bag for me while I look in the larger bins.” Raphael swelled with pride, and Splinter then turned to his three smaller sons. “You three, go ahead and start gathering. Remember to not eat anything you find until I have had a chance to look it over.”

The boys all nodded obediently as they set about their tasks.

***

“Check this out!” Leo whispered excitedly, drawing his brothers’ attention from their searching. Their scavenging through the cardboard boxes at the edge of the alley hadn’t been particularly fruitful so far – only a few unopened fortune cookies from someone’s takeout and a half-crushed box of crackers. Mikey could feel his stomach grumbling in protest as he rocked backwards on his knees and squinted in the direction of Leo’s voice.

“What’s’it? Something good?”            “Yeah – a remote! See?” The blue-clad turtle shuffled closer on his knees and held out a small rectangular object in his hand. “And it still has batteries in it – I think I can use the recharger we found last time to juice them back up!”

“Oh, cool!” Donnie leaned forward until his head almost bumped into Mikey’s, causing the box turtle to scooch back to allow him a better vantage. “I needed some batteries for my flashlight!”

He reached for the remote expectantly, only for Leo to hurriedly stuff the item into his tote bag and shuffle away. “No way – finder’s keeper’s!”

The soft shelled turtle scowled and reached out again. “Dad said finder’s keeper’s is only for toys and stuff – we have to share tools!”

“Well, then this is my toy.”

“A remote isn’t a – “

“Guyssss I’m hungryyyy. Let’s just go back to looking!”

“Boys!”

The three turtles’ mouths snapped shut, eyes flickering towards the area where Splinter and Raph were and then back towards each other. They waited for a moment, half-expecting to be berated for being too loud, and then heaved identical sighs when no lecturing came.

“Really guys, I’m hungry,” Mikey whispered as he dramatically dropped his head onto Leo’s shoulder. “My tumbus wants food.”

The red-eared slider patted his youngest brother’s head sympathetically, and then gently pushed him off. “Me too. Let’s keep looking. Maybe we can find something good, like… like pizza!”

Mikey could feel liquid immediately rushing to his mouth at the thought of pizza. “Mmm, yeah! A whole entire pizza!”

“As if someone would throw out a whole pizza,” Donnie scoffed as he turned back towards his pile and started searching again. “It’s too expensive.”

           Leo rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what do you know about money?”

“More than you.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yuh-huh.”

           And with that they were off again, attention set on each other as they continued to whisper-argue. Mikey sighed. Sometimes he swore those two were twins, what with how much they bickered with each other. Dad had said it was impossible due to their difference in species, but that didn’t stop Mikey from imagining his middle two brothers holding a shoving match even from within whatever egg they had hatched from.            Mmm… Eggs.            The small turtle shook his head as his stomach growled once more. Nope, can’t be thinking about food right now. Gotta keep searching. Gotta not think about yummy scrambled eggs or hot, tasty pizza with cheese that stretched off the crust whenever he bit into it. Can’t think about the intoxicating aroma of tomatoes and spices and mushrooms that was so good  she could almost taste it -

Wait.

Mikey sniffed the air.

That smell wasn’t just in his imagination – he was actually smelling pizza!

Scrambling to his feet, Mikey closed his eyes in concentration and focused on the scent. He slowly turned on his heels, inhaling deeply and trying to zero in on the source of the wonderful aroma until he faced the direction it seemed to be coming from. When he finally opened his eyes, the turtle felt his heart drop.

The mouth of the alley loomed before him like a sideways set of open jaws, warning him not to step out onto the sidewalk lest they chomp down and never let him go. Dad had warned them never to venture past the alley’s boundaries, where they were cradled in shadows and safe from any wandering eyes that happened to turn in their direction. And yet the smell of pizza and other good things drifted from just around the corner like a siren’s song, calling him out into the open.

Surely it couldn’t hurt to just lean out and grab the food, then duck back to his family? Mikey could already imagine the proud look on his father’s face as he returned with a whole box of hot food – a rare delicacy in their family. Certainly he would forgive his son for going just a tinnyyyyy bit further than he was supposed to if it meant being able to feed everyone for the night, right?

Glancing back at his family to ensure that their attentions were elsewhere, Mikey stepped closer to the edge of the shadows and listened. He could hear young humans’ voices chattering and laughing in the distance, and the ground vibrated slightly as an occasional car rumbled down the next street over. Taking a deep breath, Mikey poked his head out of the alley and allowed the tip of his nose to be lit up by the towering street lights. The boy hesitated, half expecting to hear Donnie or one of his other family members hissing for him to come back, and then looked to his left.

A row of hedges lined the front of the apartment building they were next to, and served as one of the few natural sources of green on the heavily brown and red bricked street. Mikey could almost imagine the scent trails winding through the leaves of the bushes and down the alley on the opposite side of the building. Maybe he could just sneak through those bushes and around the corner without even stepping onto the sidewalk- so technically he would still be staying in the shadows. Like a ninja.

Before he had a chance to change his mind, Mikey darted around the corner and cleared the small gap between the edge of the building and the first of the bushes in a single leap. The leaves closed around him like a protective cocoon as he ducked into the foliage, shielding him from the street lamps’ lights and serving as the perfect tunnel to crawl through on hands and knees towards the smell. He hesitated for a moment when he reached a slab of concrete that created a gap in the foliage – the front porch that served as the building’s entrance. This opening as a bit more nerve-wracking than the initial dive into the bushes had been, because there he had at least had the option of turning back.

Mikey glanced over his shoulder and back through the bushes, listening. Splinter had still made no sign of noticing that his youngest was missing. He guessed it was now or never.

The young turtle scrambled forward, fighting the urge to yelp as the front porch light fully illuminated his body, and then threw himself the remaining few feet back into the cover of the bushes. His arms trembled with nerves as he collapsed onto his still aching stomach, and he lay motionless for a moment until he could catch his breath again. Ok, ok. Still safe. His knee stung a bit from where he’d apparently scraped it on the concrete, but other than that he was in one piece.

Better yet, the smell of pizza was almost overwhelming at this point.

Swallowing the drool that threatened to escape his mouth, Mikey pulled himself back onto his hands and knees and closed the distance between himself and where the edge of the bushes met the mouth of the next alleyway. He heaved a small sigh of relief as he could finally emerge from the bushes and dive into the dark alley – safety.

The small turtle’s legs shook like jelly beneath him as he plastered himself against a shadow drenched wall and tried to calm his frantically beating heart. It was odd to think that his family was just on the other side of this building, maybe three or four dozen yards away, and yet it felt as if he had just crawled a mile and was now utterly alone.  Mikey shivered at the thought. Okay, so maybe this hadn’t been as great of an idea as he had initially thought. But it was all going to be over in just a second – all he needed to do was grab the pizza and then crawl back through the bushes. Problem solved!

Lifting his nose again, Mikey crept towards one of the closest bins – a large green dumpster with the lid propped up against the wall of the apartment. The smell of hot pizza was nearly overwhelming, and Mikey felt another shiver run through his body as he imagined biting into the cheesy goodness. Who in the world would throw away such an amazing thing?

But… how to get to it?

Raph and Master Splinter usually had to work together to get the rat high enough that he could lean over the edge of the bin and toss things out. And while Mikey was a good climber, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to scramble up the vertical metal wall without help.

Glancing around, Mikey’s eyes zeroed in on several cardboard boxes like the ones he and his brothers had been looking through in the other alley. Maybe if he stacked those together… yes, perfect!

With a smile of determination, the small turtle set to work creating a staircase along the side of the massive trashcan and then scrambled up to the top. It wasn’t the perfect height, but if he stood on his tiptoes from here he could peer over the edge of the bin.

“Whoa,” he whispered as he pulled himself up to the lip, “This thing is enormous!”

Sure enough, the trash can was about six feet long – nearly triple his height – and almost as tall. A few trash bags lined the bottom of the bin, the plastic on some drawn so tight that they threatened to burst and spill their contents into the rest of the garbage. Several brown glass bottles littered the top of the bags, clearly thrown in by a drunken passerby rather than bagged up safely. But in the center of it all, perched atop a particularly large bag of trash, was the pizza box.

Mikey couldn’t help but let out an excited giggle. Based on the smell and where it sat, someone had to have just thrown the box in a few minutes ago – how in the world had he gotten so lucky? Now he just had to reach it.

Using his arms, the turtle pulled himself up on to the edge of the trash can and balanced on his plastron as he leaned forward to reach. His right arm stretched out into the air above the bin, grasping for his prize while his legs kicking legs served as a counterbalance.

“Almost…. Come on…” Pursing his lips, Mikey waved his stubby arm in the direction of the box. Nope. Not working. He rocked sideways to switch arms and then extended the left one in a second attempt. His fingers brushed the tip of the cardboard, and Mikey felt a grin stretch across his face.  “Almost… almost…”

Then, as if suddenly taunting him, the box slipped and slid out of his reach. Mikey yelped in frustration and lunged forward, fingers outstretched –

-only to find himself falling head over heels.

The child squawked in surprise as he tumbled forward, arms pinwheeling as he attempted to grab the edge of the can and keep himself from falling into the veritable abyss, but gravity was not on his side. The turtle fell heavily, arms barely coming up to shield his face as he dropped like a stone and faceplanted into several swollen black trash bags.

Immediately he went into panic mode, his arms flailing for purchase on the shifting floor. Mikey struggled to push himself up onto his elbows and looked around his new surroundings in fear. “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no,”

His heart pounded against his ribs as the turtle rolled onto his back and attempted to clamber to his feet, only to succeed in slipping and sliding on the slick plastic until something sharp bit into the bottom of his foot.

All goals of remaining quiet were forgotten as Mikey yelped and leapt backwards from the broken glass, his shell hitting the back of the bin and causing a loud, warping echo to rattle through the metal. Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the lid wobbled on its hinges and slammed down, plunging the turtle into perfect darkness.

[arcanalogue]

Notes on the Tetractys: Vol. 1

I have promised to do some writing about the Tetractys, so here it goes.

The first time this symbol blipped onto my radar was in 2009, when I learned about the it via somebody else’s artwork. At that point I had studied a bit of Greek philosophy and a heap of that Hebrew-adjacent mysticism that modern occultists appear to have bet everything on.

There’s literally no end to the amount of information out there about all of my favorite subjects, just waiting to be learned! This is why it’s so daunting for beginners who want to connect to certain magickal traditions: you want to know your shit, but we’re talking about areas of study which are notoriously difficult to access, and in many cases have been selected against in the great evolutionary arms-race of education. And then there are the gatekeepers upon gatekeepers upon gatekeepers...

The internet is an amazing tool for educating oneself, but there are so many ways to use it, and not a lot of instructions (just endless corrections). It takes a dexterous and inquisitive mind to exercise its potential in any focused way — to know what there even is to search for in the first place, and then how to search for it, how to dig into the crevices you find between related subjects and mine them for additional information... which informs future searches, etc.

But we still have it so much easier than anyone who came before us! Reading about the ways in which knowledge was passed down from teacher to student, from generation to generation, during the times of Pythagoras and other Greek philosophers is just fascinating to me. How did they manage to keep the chain from breaking? 

Then you realize how many chains did break along the way. Those we have access to are just the ones which gained a critical mass of interest, or happened to be preserved, or managed to survive all the historical incidents that have wiped out massive amounts of history. 

We gradually realize that at virtually any point during its existence, a thing can be lost. Sometimes these things are lost on purpose, other times they slip through our fingers as we reach for other things. And then in some rare instances, a lost thing can be found again. So there’s often a continuity in a thing’s existence that isn’t evident in our historical record — which, from a distance, could probably be visualized as a string of lights blinking on and off again as various things (ideas, objects, people) are lost, forgotten, rediscovered, and then lost again, blipping across humankind’s awareness and then retreating, over and over across centuries.

Basically we humans are playing a giant “don’t let the balloon touch the floor” game with our own history, except with billions of people and balloons in play at once, and some of the players unfairly seem to be armed with pointy sticks. It’s an absurdly clumsy scenario, and no matter how well we try to play together... suffice to say, there will be casualties.

The Greeks knew this. They’d already seen it! Which is why some of the traditions you read about were so strict, or so eccentrically intense. These teachers knew their entire body of work could go up in smoke, literally anytime. In many cases they’d observed it firsthand. In some instances, they’d personally wielded the torches! Since the very dawn of technology, probably pre-dating language itself, humans have been engaged in informational warfare.

This is one way that teachers, inventors and explorers actually manage to change the course of history: by determining who can be trusted with emerging information. That’s why security and access remain central to conversations about technology to this very day. What is beneficial to keep secret, and what should be made available to the public? 

Some make these choices wisely, others choose unwisely, and everything we see around us is basically the grand result of all those choices.

Wait, wasn’t this supposed to be about the Tetractys? 

*bops balloon back toward ceiling*

There’s a reason why certain symbols and designs from antiquity remain in play today, thousands of years later. It’s the same reason that creators are constantly trying to create new ones, or in some cases just scooping up old symbols, dusting them off, remixing and repurposing them for a new mission.

Symbols and patterns are sticky. We like looking at them, thinking about them, playing with them. Remember how you did this as a child, over and over: encountering a new symbol, you would draw it, repeat it. As a product of embedding it in your own memory, you leave it where it may be found by someone else. As a technology, symbols are uniquely equipped for longevity in the human world.

The human eye and brain are linked in a way that’s predisposed to recognize patterns, and pattern recognition is key to learning (among many other things) mathematics.

Mathematics (which I’m terrible at, so don’t worry, this isn’t about to become a math blog) will always the key to understanding the reality we inherited, and to seeing its potential as we gradually fabricate a new one.

The Tetractys is both a symbol and a pattern, which makes it especially sticky and especially fun to play with. With very little explanation, its layers of meaning begin to unfold in the mind. It teases, it reveals, it obscures. The Tetractys nudges us new toward thresholds of awareness, echoing the cascading effect of reality’s formation described in the Tetractys itself.

As such, it remains its own best recommendation. Is it any wonder that Pythagoreans flipped their collective lids over it?

The author at Organelle writes:

“What [Pythagoras] was gave us is nothing like what it at first appears to be. This is why people were swearing by his name for having brought this simple diagram into the world of human experience: a toy which none could own, and anyone with a stick and some dirt could instantly play with. It requires no manufacture — it cannot not be stolen or co-opted, and ‘giving it away’ causes the giver and the gifted to become ‘exponentially more wealthy’ — in ongoing progressions.“

As early mathematicians fleshed out new concepts, and invented new symbols to represent their discoveries, they were basically just skipping stones further down the stream, packaging ideas in ways that other humans would be able to recognize and access and build upon. Sometimes this was done in full public view, but often they worked in secret, because their bodies of work (as well as their actual bodies) were vulnerable to being dismantled by anyone who found them threatening.

The reason I chose to begin writing about the Tetractys this way was to highlight that there are many different forms of information, many forms of teaching, many forms of learning. And, as we have finally proven, the world is also full of different kinds of human intelligence, capable of many different things. We’re slowly digging out from preconceptions imposed on us by minds that were overly concerned with ideals; any deviations from the ideal were considered to be of lesser value, selected against.

That’s one consequence of hierarchical religious thinking, and it’s not hard to see how even the Tetractys — with its depiction of reality cascading downward from a perfected “monad” state to an earthly “tetrad” — could end up appearing to confirm earlier humans’ preconceptions about what human perfection ought to look like, sound like, be like. Contemplating the pure language of mathematics, or seeking the pure spiritual experience, we crave to reform ourselves and our world to reflect this pursuit. 

Science and religion were conjoined for so long in our ancient history, it’s not surprising that notions conflating scientific purity and spiritual purity still turn up everywhere you look. We’re hooked on them! You see it a lot in New Age thought, and the desire to find confirmation of our spiritual beliefs in “natural” phenomena; the dreaded quest for “authenticy.”

I wanted to start by pointing out that I am not qualified to teach others in the formal sense. I have no accreditation. My academic pedigree is limited to... well, words written in a blog post, however thoughtfully I manage to string them together.

To learn tarot and other various practices, first I had to learn how to learn. For the most part, my education was missing this crucial step. I’ve always been quite naturally absorbent, but the moment my curiosity in any subject was satisfied, I considered my work done. 

That’s probably how most people function when left to their own conclusions... unless survival dictates otherwise. But some of us discover we simply have to keep evolving, keep looking for answers, in order to endure. How do I adapt to survive in this world? What are its qualities? Where are its boundaries? What am I actually capable of?

Taking responsibility for my own education in the longer term is one of the greatest accomplishments in my life. I never thought so before; it’s been too easy to focus on everything I’m still lacking. But now that I’m looking back from my forties, I see a surprising amount of continuity and steady progress. By now I’ve also noted the way knowledge fades when it’s seldom-used, so that means I’m often stuck with the humbling, non-glamorous chore of re-learning everything that used to be right at my mental fingertips.

The Tetractys flickered in and out of my awareness back in 2009, and then lit up again years later when I was working on a series of instructional posts about the minor arcana cards. 

This was the phase in my own practice when I began to leave the Tree of Life and other Qabalistic studies behind; the deeper I’d dug into them, the more I had to admit that my questions weren’t being answered — and in the meantime, I was being inundated with information that I had no practical use for. And as a non-Jewish person who reads and discusses the tarot quite often, I became uncomfortable relying on concepts related to the Hebrew alphabet that had been passed down by Western occultists.

At best, I had to admit that it was no longer helping me survive in this world.

Researching the overlapping history of the Tree of Life and the Tetractys, I realized this was a much firmer basis for my own personal investigations. The history of numbers and of symbolism has no direct path! But it’s very easy to end up sticking to the most well-trod path, even if it’s not going exactly where you’d hoped.

The Tetractys jewelry I created with Azamel was a way of marking that commitment with a reminder to keep learning, to question and refine my own interest in the subjects that appeal to me. I must be willing to adjust course, even if it means wandering through grass higher than my head. That feeling of ignorance and vulnerability is reminiscent of being child again, and comes with all of the wonder and discovery of childhood, as well as the requisite bumps and mistakes and redundancies.

In upcoming posts, I will share some of what I’ve learned from the Tetractys and how I’ve reinvested that into my tarot practice. I’m not “teaching” you how to use the Tetractys in your tarot practice, but I’m happy to help give the balloon another bump, and point to sources that might give you that delightful cascading sense of awareness. 

By now I know many of you personally (even if just a bit!) and I know that our love of that feeling is one that knits us together. It also unites us with all the teachers and students of past traditions, many of whom made tremendous sacrifices just to be able to pursue and relive that feeling.

Thanks for reading! And special thanks to those who snapped up this bit of jewelry early on, it has meant the world to have SOME small thing to show for the long months sitting here in the vast semi-darkness of 2020. Developing the consecration ritual for the Tetractys jewelry, I felt almost like I was visiting people, imagining their surroundings, their cards, their questions.

It’s comforting to be surrounded by so many who are still searching, still learning. I do not believe this ever ends, even after death.

[raionmimi]

Do you have any oc's? I always love hearing about people's oc's

I do but I’ve been neglecting them these past few years

Honestly for the most part, I just use the same damn design and alter it to fit whatever series I want a persona in. Timeline and OC details under the cut, and fair warning I ended up talking a lot more than I had intended because I keep remembering stuff 

2000: Lumina

I once read a kid magazine in my school and it featured something with a sneak preview of the Sonic Shuffle game. I really liked the character’s name (Lumina) and always used it when I played games with my best friend (her character was Danny). We really were out there larping our raw ocs with each other

2008: Yumi

My best friend in high school insisted that I have a Japanese nickname like her (She is half Japanese but still a huge weeb. Her nickname was Kisa) and even had a list of names for me to choose from. I ended up picking Yumi from my head and to this day I have no idea where I actually got the name from. Our senpai, a Chinese girl nicknamed Yue, who helped me with my art told us the animals we represented best, so Kisa got a tiger, and I got both a bunny and a lion since Yue couldnt decide which was better for me. 

I made up “blion” and attached the name Yumi onto it. She became my persona and rapidly took on my chaotic gremlin personality. I decided Blions were a species that devours souls in order to heal/revive others, but it had to be an even balance otherwise the creature would die. When they’re weak, blions turn into a small rabbit with puffy chest fur like a mane (basically picture eevee tbh) with a long lion-like tail. The gem on the end of the tail is where the souls are stored.

2011: Torola Olébul

When we were all huge Homestucks, my friends and I decided to make fantrolls of ourselves so Yumi became repurposed into Torola. Same personality, so not much difference. I eventually redid her so she was nothing like me. She became extremely shy and basically Babey. She’s the ox/cow in my set of Chinese zodiac fantrolls (I have designs and personalities for all 12 but I’m not gonna post them here, I already wrote so much) She’s a sylph of heart, her weapon is pinwheelkind, her chat handle is apothecaryBovine, and her lusus is obviously a giant cow. She’s an amber blood troll (in between rust and bronze) who used to live with a teal blood and acted like a little messenger girl. After the teal blood was murdered by indigo bloods, Torola was forced to escape and live in the middle of a forest, where she was pretty much adopted by a herd of hoofbeasts. Torola has a dancestor Pazvea/The Actress(??) and Torola’s ancestor self is The Guardian. 

Torola is the predecessor to Coryla, which was a fuschiablood.This one is just one huge Little Mermaid reference because she falls in love with a man who doesn’t love her back since he goes for someone else

2015: Onyx

Onyx was a short lived OC compared to Yumi and Torola and I didn’t do a lot of art of her. She’s kind of like a spy/surveillance guard because her gem extends out like bat ears. The other gem on her head is actually fake but she has it there so she looks symmetrical. It stores data though, so it has an actual use and she can remove it. She has wings that fold up on her back, and she uses it to check out a location. Since she’s extremely bat-themed, she uses sonar to check for other gems and stuff.

I also made her companions Sunstone and Obsidian, which make Bloodstone. Sunstone is a very laidback gem that spoils Onyx rotten, so she thinks she can get away with everything. Obsidian is the brooding type that complains whenever Onyx causes mischief. Bloodstone is a bounty hunter that uses Onyx’s surveillance abilities to aid them. They used to live on Homeworld, but they eventually came to earth long before Steven dealt with the diamonds. They have never interacted or met with Steven himself though

2011/2017 or 18: Riya/Tau Kiniun

I once drew a raionmimi character because I was thinking “Hey what if Yue had said I was just a lion instead of a bunny.” I didnt think much of it at the time and only doodled her once. She was a literal black lion that turned into a black lion cub but like with a mane to represent her hair. Years later, I dont know what possessed me to revamp her, but I did. Since I wanted to get away from having fandom shipnames as urls, I decided to go with Raionmimi which is literally “Lion Ears” and used Riya/Tau as my new mascot.

OCs that werent in the chart because I forgot lmaoooo

2011: Euphoria

She’s the oc I had to make for an animation class. We were instructed to make a superhero character to animate on the computer and also with claymation. The art is super bad, but she was supposed to be a terrible hero because she had no intentions on saving anyone!! She’s actually a deity of life that’s come to earth because her brother, the deity of death, is causing problems. Whenever she stops his plans, people praise her for being a hero. It wasn’t her attention at all. She’s expressionless 99% of the time and doesn’t really care much about humanity. Ironically, her brother thinks humans are pretty neat. Her name is actually one of my favorite words of all time, and that’s why I used it for her!

2016: The Witches

I totally forgot about them until now, but I have a set of triplet ocs. I use them for D&D and Pathfinder sometimes. They’re little witch girls that run a potion shop. Euphoria (yes, I repurposed the name from my superhero oc), Celeste, and Cheshire! Hopefully you can kinda read my handwriting to get their personalities

2018: Socks and the succubi

One of my fave monster girl species have always been Succubi, so I made different sub-species of them! I think I may have posted them a long time ago, but I dont remember. Socks is also my mascot for my old lewd art tumblr blog that I abandoned eons ago because having side accounts takes up too much energy for me. I kinda want to make a webcomic about Socks but I haven’t gotten around to it. She’s a platonic succubus who feeds off of intimate energy, and she befriends an agender, asexual college student (I guess you could imagine Haruhi from Ouran)

[vengeancect]

you like making rpg maker games right? are there any reoccurring characters or themes that show up in them? who or what do you take inspiration from?

it’s a very weird surprise that anyone cares or knows enough about me to even ask this, like you’re genuinely that interested. i don’t think i can answer your questions, at least allow myself to answer them, but i can explain to you what the two games ARE, hopefully in the driest most neutral way that won’t make the audience in my head cringe    oh wow this didn’t go very well FUCK

i made the first one (skull island) i think starting on august 31st 2016. i stopped making it somewhere around late november. i made it purely because someone had kindly gifted me the program, and i felt like i’d be ungrateful if i didn’t make something with it. my initial idea was to just throw some awful 15 minute long thing together, use some “random” humor, show it to some people, they’ll laugh and forget about it and i’ll be free from this. but as it went on i felt compelled to put more things in it. my internet was going out often back then so i’d just be left alone working on it for hours on end. i made a starter area and then a hub area and then the 3 main areas and their respective secret events. as it went on, i had ideas and understood i wouldn’t be able to fully realize them due to my nonexisting talent. it was this very strange exhausting tightrope between shame and irony. i went from making areas to trying to draw my own assets, an extremely infuriating experience. i made a school, a city area leading into a park leading into a lab, and a night-time highway leading into a tunnel leading into my patience running out and me getting sick of this and just ending the game. everything about it is completely unbalanced. i went through the trouble of designing enemies even though i could never figure out how to make most of them attack during battles. i incorporated real chat logs and things i’d heard about in the past into their own “levels” and events. the “main character” was still just a stock rpgmaker sprite even though i had gone through the trouble of editing other sprites for characters to make them semi-original. very uncomfortable dialogue was written. you could get a whip as a weapon, from an NPC who tells you “you look good with it”. or something. the bgm for that area was text to speech voices saying “you were always sick, i was always sick”. it stopped being a joke, but it wasn’t serious, it instead became nonsense. there are no themes. there’s no inspiration. nothing could justify this.

when making it i remembered this text file i had from back in 2014, where i detailed areas and the plot of a game i wished i could make but never even tried to. it was about the world disappearing, the protagonist being the only human left alive. his name was mori. he’d find other characters eventually including a little boy who liked watching stars. i put no thought into how it would work, i guess i just unconsciously knew it couldn’t realistically be made without a lot of knowledge, hard work and talent. i thought it would be funny if i tried bringing those characters and areas into life ayway, into this stupid half-joke clusterfuck of a game. the stargazing kid does nothing but despair about how his existence is tainted, how he wants to “go back”, ie. go back to being an idea of something good. parts of that old text file flash by the screen constantly in the background. i made roleplay scenarios from when i was 13 into “””gameplay”””. like “follow this red line in a void, you are then led to a house (that is just a blue rectangle), go up the stairs and meet this naked faceless boy with a suicide note written into his body, who then blows up in a shower of blood and gore.” a random battle happens just before the final stretch of the game. it appears to be a mound of scrap metal and junk with an old TV sticking out the top. this is a reference to another character that appeared in the old concept. a “cool” bad boy character with a TV for a head. i guess that’s how you can tell it was written in 2014. the final boss is Mori, who talks about “leaving this world” through death. in a horrendously drawn replica of my bedroom, you find the original synopsis for the 2014 game, in the end it asks “what happened?” over and over again. the final bit of gameplay in the game is a calm scene with a character talking to you about how all of this was meaningless and you shouldn’t worry about it. you walk by a bunch of graves. the final screen is 3 graves, one for Mori and one for the stargazer, and one open grave for you. you jump in it and the game ends. a quick joke that could have gotten a laugh out of someone turned into a 3 month long self-indulgent masochistic shameful project of fetishized inability, then recorded and put on youtube to satisfy my digital hoarder compulsions.

OKAY NOW FOR THE OTHER ONE in 2017 i tried my hand at making some assets and characters for a game, another fucked up grand concept like the 2014 one and just as impossible to implement. shame got the better of me this time and i gave up. near the end of march 2018 a person i know had made a joke game on Unity just to get acclaimed to the engine. this one was actually successful, short, and made me laugh. i thought it would be funny to one-up said person and make a game myself. and then i tried. and then i learned i couldn’t do it and immediately lost interest. but for some reason i didn’t stop

instead i made safe room, which i developed for all of april and released late may this year. so i made it in less time than skull island, even though both games are just about an hour long, and with this one i had used almost entirely original assets. huh. i repurposed the characters and areas i drew in 2017 and made up a new “””story””” involving them, though some of the usual self depricating “hahaha wasted ideas asshole” humor came through in this one aswell, nowhere as much though. a young boy is stuck in the basement of some mysterious man who had presumably kidnapped him from somewhere. his condition is a mystery and so are the motives of his kidnapper. there is this smart-mouthed, incessant, gameplay interrupting voice constantly coming in and deriding him for everything, but at the same time almost empathizing with him. the voice is confused about it’s own existence. you have nothing to do but watch time go by mercilessly, dreaming to try escaping from your situation. there are no battles in this one. there are two puzzles except they don’t work. i couldn’t figure out how to make them work. i also didn’t care. i stole a lot of music, because in skull island i was terrified that someone would copyright me and hastily cobbled together a bunch of ear-splitting bullshit. at this point i was begging to just stop. stop doing this kind of shit. it’s not funny. it’s not cool how i made this despite not wanting to, despite having years of free time and infinite resources and tutorials on how do anything at my fingertips. this is just shameful. this time there’s 4 “levels” except one of them is like 5 minutes long. i wanted to go a little further with this barely-a-concept i made up. laziness had something else in mind, however. again the “inspiration” is taken from the strange internet interactions i had in the past. fake stories from other people. one trick pony. you go from a forest, to a small house in the “woods”, to a snowy, corrupted mountain taken from a stupid dream i had years ago, to a creepy museum. it’s more…polished than the last one? i guess? it has an unique text box. the main character’s sprite is edited. there’s a place where you have to jump to platforms. sometimes there’s “animated” sprites. i suppose it’s an improvement. the best, nicest looking thing in this game wasn’t made by me. you could play this with your eyes closed, though that’s absolutely not to the game’s detriment.

“You are locked in a room. Some time has passed, enough for you to start doubting everything. You have to escape, you guess, but it’s hard. It gets harder to do anything the more time goes by. You’re forced to depend on him, the person who brought you here in the first place. Most days, there’s nothing you can do. In the middle of all this, I came to exist. Let’s figure this out together, okay?“ this is it’s official description

oh god i hate this. oh man. oh wow what a fucking idiot i am. i can’t even tell if this is ignorant or just narcissistic. i’m just gonna leave this here and go away

[shintowitch]

FORGOTTEN OBJECTS

TSUKUMOGAMI

Tsukumogami are a relatively well-known type of yokai (unearthly creature/“monster”) from Japanese folklore which I would define loosely as “old/forgotten object spirits.” It was once commonly believed that all things have an inner spirit, and these tend to become more powerful with age. Superstition has it that tools, utensils, instruments and other man-made items that have reached 99 or 100 years of age become powerful enough to become sentient and self-aware, and gain supernatural abilities.

Through being forgotten, abandoned, broken, replaced, or otherwise treated poorly, angry and vengeful tsukumogami can manifest. It has also been said they can manifest if an object has witnessed or been in the vicinity of a terrible crime or great spiritual impurity. Two of the most commonly depicted tsukumogami in Japanese pop culture are umbrellas and paper lanterns – not surprising given how often and easily they break.

Most tsukumogami are relatively harmless, and there are even folk tales of some friendly tsukumogami enjoying playing games with children. Others, however, can be disruptive and even dangerous and bring about a great deal of trouble. It all depends on how they were treated. The longer these objects are left untended, the more negativity can build up around them.

PREVENTING NEGATIVITY

🏮 The easiest preventative measures are not glamorous witchery, but they are important. Repair, recycle, repurpose and regift rather than thoughtlessly throw items away or leave to rot. This has the added bonus of being environmentally friendly and sticking it to the hell-pigs running this bloated consumerist culture of ours.

🏮 Be mindful of where every component of everything you own comes from, and grateful for what they do for you. Give thanks and blessings to the objects you use day by day. Those who give offerings to and maintain a relationship with their house spirit/s – you may have this covered.

🏮 When something you own has irreparably run out the course of its life and must be disposed of, be sure to show appreciation in whatever way makes sense to you. There are still jinja ceremonies held in Japan today to pacify the spirits of forgotten or broken objects such as Hari-Kuyo, the Festival of Broken Needles.

🏮 Dispose of items responsibly – take responsibility for your belongings and your actions! If you toss a refrigerator into a river to save yourself some trouble, frankly, you might just deserve to get a bit haunted. 

MANIFESTATIONS

🏮 In visual mediums, tsukumogami have historically been depicted as looking similar to the object itself but becoming monstrous, sprouting eyes or mouths or limbs or other human/animal features. This could be symbolic of the items “coming to life,” of course, but then who knows what your things get up to when you’re not looking? (Toy Story: a cautionary tale of demonic possession?)

🏮 A rotting smell that comes and goes, a creaking or jangling or scraping of rusty spokes, flashes of imagery, or perhaps just a sense that touches on the back of your subconscious that speaks of corrosion and decay. Everyone’s intuition is different, but almost anyone can pick up on these things if they pay attention.

🏮 The actions of malevolent tsukumogami in folklore run the gamut from simple mischief (hiding and moving things, minor illusions) to iller omens (nightmares, attracting ill fortune), and in extreme cases can get into the dangerous.

🏮 Even small and seemingly unimportant objects can become powerful tsukumogami under the right circumstances. It is not the object itself but the spirit that is the factor in this, especially in terms of age and negative experience. Don’t let expectations misguide you.

🏮 It is a widely held belief that electronic devices cannot become tsukumogami as the electrical energy drives spirits away. However, depictions are becoming more common (perhaps the idea is that spirits are adapting), and once an item is broken and no longer powered by electricity, it likely isn’t protected that way any more.

MAKING AMENDS

If you believe a tsukumogami is causing problems and you wanna witchcraft your way out of it, logically, the easiest starting point is to find out which object it has manifested from. Older objects are much more likely to manifest in ways that are troublesome, being more powerful, but there are other factors that can also bring about a manifestation. Discern and study. Find the source of the issue. And then?

Remember what’s forgotten. Find what’s lost. Fix what’s broken. This is all a witch’s work, or part of it. What, you were hoping for a lightning-throwing demon fight rather than what sounds suspiciously like household chores? If you can’t get to grips with this part of the work, you’re not ready for spirit work. That’s right. I went full Mentor.

Sometimes, though, it’s more difficult to figure out exactly what the spirit wants or needs. Discernment skills and common sense are your best friends here, as is any means to communicate with spirits that you may have. I mean, it could simply tell you what it wants and you could strike up a deal to end the trouble there and then. Perhaps you’ll learn something interesting from it. Don’t doubt the advice a lowly watering can might give you…

If the tsukumogami is angry and not in the mood to resolve things for whatever reason, typically the next step is to try and appease it. This can be done through ritual, through remembrance and prayer, through offerings – there is no one-size-fits-all approach. By all accounts, a bit of improvising/adapting to account for the foibles of each spirit is always involved, and it will depend on you and your practise too.

Banishment is the last resort, to be used only if the spirit seems inconsolable or is too powerful for you to walk back. Do not just drop kick the affected object into the nearest trash compactor – you are either passing on a bigger and angrier problem to someone else or setting yourself up for some Bad Vibes, a stain upon your soul, a hex upon your house! Holding a “funeral” bound by some spellcraft is a nice, gentle way of laying an object and its spirit to rest, and the jinja ceremonies I mentioned before are typically framed like funerals.

Less nice and less gentle means may be necessary sometimes, but forcibly driving a spirit out of a “possessed” object is something I won’t go into it here. That’s not a game… if sources are to be believed. Just fix your shit!

REMEMBRANCE

Some lost or forgotten objects are worth finding, keeping and cherishing. Some can find new life with a new owner, or be broken down and used for parts for something new. Others need laying to rest. From a bicycle rusting away in a ditch to a hand-me-down with an uncertain history mouldering in one’s attic, the man-made things that surround us are as part of this world as the natural and they are our responsibility. You are beholden to the tools that improve your life – we are all beholden to our shared environment.

These items came from nature one way or another, as everything does, but they were shaped anew by humans. Alchemy! Why wouldn’t they bring a spark of their soul along? Some negative tsukumogami can be dangerous, but it is often the neglect, carelessness or arrogance of humans that create the “worst” tsukumogami in the first place.

Our planet is reaching critical mass with the amount of unnecessary products being created and churned through production lines, corporations, consumers and then into landfill sites. Tsukumogami have long since been regarded as monsters and demons in folk tales and superstition, but perhaps in a way we need them now more than ever…

(Disclaimer: like all folklore, there are many variations and interpretations and ideas surrounding these stories and occurrences. I’m just writing down some of my own research, experience and UPG with a touch of the lessons I personally take away from these folk tales. Peace!)

[merciattire-blog]

Spring Cleaning: 7 Steps to Creating Your Dream Closet

It’s springtime! I think we all know what that means – time for spring cleaning (or, for some, time to do everything possible to put off spring cleaning). Yes, I realize it is nearing summer, but there is a probable chance that there is one spring cleaning task you haven’t yet completed: your closet.

Personally, words like “cleaning” and “organizing” are like music to my ears. I literally have goosebumps right now as I type this introduction. Anybody else with me on that? I sure hope so. Otherwise, please disregard this short paragraph.

Nonetheless, whether you love it or hate it, cleaning and organizing your way to a fresh, revitalized wardrobe is the perfect way to start out your summer of style. In today’s blog, I am going to take you through my 7 steps to an insta-worthy closet. That’s right, it’ll look (and feel) that good.

Step 1: Prepare.

Okay, you’re not just wiping down a counter here, this is cleaning out your closet and everything in it. If you’re anything like me, this is going to sound like a pretty daunting task. Where do you even start?

A wise Benjamin Franklin once said “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail”. Now, I’m sure Franklin was referring to something a little more life-changing than cleaning, but it works. So, let’s start the preparation!

· Schedule it. Ideally, you should give yourself about a day to do this. Of course, this is coming from someone who gets WAY too easily distracted… and picky. However, knowing you have at least a few solid hours can’t hurt. No one likes to feel rushed.

· Get motivated. This one doesn’t have to be incredibly difficult, just go ahead and search “closet” on Pinterest. If those beautiful photos alone don’t make you want to get your stuff together, then I’m not sure how else to help you. Maybe look up some motivational life quotes or something?

· Tune it up. Now, make an awesome new playlist that will get you super pumped up. Blast it as loud as you want (without upsetting your neighbors, of course). Here’s a great list of upbeat songs from Popsugar.

· Get comfortable. Go ahead and grab yourself a coffee, energy drink, glass of wine (preferably white— we’re dealing with clothes here), whichever you fancy. You’re probably going to be here a while. In fact, you should probably get some snacks on board as well. Snacks make everything better. Pretty sure that’s a scientific fact.

Step 2: Take. Out. Everything.

Yes, I realize that this sounds incredibly counterproductive. Nothing says spring cleaning like tearing through your closet like a human tornado. However, hear me out on this. As busy human beings, it’s totally normal to get a little lazy, especially when we are taking on a task like this. For example, if a shirt is hanging in your closet, it’s far too easy to tell yourself “this doesn’t take up that much room, it can just hang out here for a bit longer” instead of taking the time to walk yet another shirt into the “no way” pile. It’s like having an old bag of spinach in the back of your refrigerator that you’re honestly a little scared to check on. It’ll be fine for another couple of days, so you leave it for your future self to deal with. Is that just me? Oh, okay. Anyway, my point here is that by preemptively removing everything from your closet (or refrigerator, apparently—my metaphors aren’t the greatest), you’re more likely to get rid of the items that’ll never see the light of day and to keep only the ones that will serve their purpose in the future.

That being said, it’s time to strip your closet and throw everything on your bed. Every shirt, dress, pair of jeans, pajamas, shoes—everything. Don’t forget to also empty any storage container or shelf, as well. If you want to save yourself a little more time in the future, its best to separate them into categorical piles. We can’t go all “Gatsby throwing Italian-made shirts onto Daisy” on this and create an even worse mess. While you’re at it, grab your vacuum, rag, and spray bottle and clean that sucker.

Phew! That was the most strenuous step, good job. Doesn’t a clean slate feel nice?

Step 3: Sweet emotion.

If clothes and shoes are as important to you as they are to me, this is probably going to be an emotional process. Now, not everyone is going to go through this road block and in that case, feel free to jump to step 4. As for my fellow emotional souls out there, maybe you’ll relate. Here are my two most prevalent thoughts I encounter whenever I consider letting go of wardrobe pieces and how I move past them:

Guilt.

You know that dress you bought months (maybe even years) ago that you were sure would come in handy someday, but you still haven’t even considered wearing it? Alas, you still feel the need to keep it because otherwise it was a total waste of money? Yup. It’s that feeling. We’ve all been there. I’ve had shirts remain in my closet for YEARS that I didn’t wear once, simply because I would have felt guilty getting rid of them.

It’s okay, it happens! Everyone has tried on something in the store dressing room and felt fabulous, only to impulsively buy it, bring it home and wear it only once or not at all. There may be several reasons for this. Maybe it just doesn’t fit right, doesn’t look right with your skin tone, or one of your high school friends mentioned that it reminded him of the color of vomit (that’s right, true story). If you know that it wasn’t meant to be, let go. To feel a little less guilty, maybe give the item to a friend or, if it was an expensive item, try taking it to a secondhand cash-for-clothes location such as Plato’s or Style Encore. There’s also the option to sell it online.

What if?

What if one day I’ll be able to squeeze back into those shorts I’ve been storing in the back of my closet for the last 3 years? What if one day those lime green heels will come back in style? I think you see where I’m going with this. My tip here is to simply be realistic and prioritize when it comes to these particular items later on. Also, keep in mind that if you haven’t used something within the last year, odds are that it just isn’t worth keeping. If you must, just keep these “problem child” items tucked away in the deep, dark depths of your closet.

Step 4: Back to the basics.

Alright, let’s get down to business. Firstly, there are some clothing items that should remain to rebuild the foundation of your closet. These include basic outfit pieces, as well as clothing that will never go out of style. You can find my list of 12 pieces you should always save room for in your wardrobe in my previous blog.

Step 5: Sort, sort, sort.

Ready to make some piles of clothes and shoes? Here they are:

Keep

The rock stars of your wardrobe get VIP access to this pile. These are the items that you truly love and wear on a regular basis. In a sub-pile, place seasonal items to store in the back of your closet or in storage containers (see ya in the fall, suckers).

Donation

Go on, start a pile for your next trip to Goodwill. If you’re not completely ready to let go, one thing I have been doing through the years is giving my outgrown clothes to younger family members. I remember getting clothes from my older cousin that I looked up to when I was young and I loved it. Nowadays, my younger cousins go through the same excitement when I give them clothes. One even went on a hunt for superstar Adidas with her mom because “those are the shoes Paige wears”. It made my heart happy. Apparently they think I have style and I am beyond honored.

Trash

These are the items that are damaged to the point of no repair and probably won’t serve a purpose to anyone. However, if possible, you should consider repurposing some of these items. If you’re feeling crafty, here are 11 Innovative Ways to Repurpose Old Clothes.

Maybe

So, what to do with the remaining clothes lying on your bed? Item by item, ask yourself these questions:

· Does it fit?

· Have I worn it in the last year?

· If I saw this in the store today, would I buy it?

· Does it have sentimental value?

If your answer was “no” to 3 or more of these questions, odds are that the item can probably be donated. As for the extremely sentimental ones, it doesn’t hurt to tuck away a few things. You’ll come back to them next closet cleanse. Yay for handing off responsibilities to future you!

Step 6: Organization nation.

Now it’s time to put everything back into your closet. Ready to channel your inner Monica Geller? Here are some closet organization ideas that are bound to catch your eye.

Step 7: Treat yo self.

Go ahead and treat yourself to some ice cream. Or shopping.

Happy Cleaning!

(Photo by Freepik)

[leonawriter]

Of Non-Appearance Not Meaning No Plot Importance, And Other Matters.

Okay, so. I had these thoughts yesterday while I was out, and continued having them, and every so often I’m reminded of how these are, in fact, important thoughts!

Let’s start with Keith.

S4.1 starts us off with showing us both where Keith is in the team, and where he is going to be for a while. It shows him being distanced, by his own volition, from the other Paladins, and when people - both people he respects, mind! - try to talk him into coming back and being a bigger part of things, he refuses to budge, for his own reasons (forcing Shiro back into his role, for one thing).

Thing is, although it’s a hard thing to come to terms with, because damn if it doesn’t hurt seeing Keith go through that (“I... didn’t mean for it to happen this way” comes to mind), and it was hard seeing him at odds with these people, but the events were, like it or not, necessary.

So, Keith leaves the team. Which leaves us and Voltron seeing a figuration which hasn’t, actually, occurred before! Shiro in Black, Allura in Blue, and Lance in Red. Which is interesting for interpersonal dynamics as well, but that’s for later.

But this means we have three episodes with no Keith, not even on a screen anywhere. But wait! There’s also the fact that in Reunion, it’s mainly Pidge’s story, so all we see of any of the other Paladins anyway is Shiro, Lance and Hunk on a screen right before she leaves. Allura isn’t even mentioned, as far as I can remember, and Voltron is not formed. So this is an episode that Keith wouldn’t have been in anyway! 

Which leaves us with two episodes, one being - rather curiously - the one where the Paladins find out that Lotor is now a fugitive of the Galra Empire. This means that we do not see Keith’s reaction to this. Keith, who has spent S3 and the first episode of S4 acting on the assumption of ‘Lotor is behind everything that is put in our path’, is vacant from the episode where that assumption might be put into question. I have to assume that he gets told about this development later, however. But it is thematically interesting.

The other one he’s absent from is The Voltron Show, and... to be honest, while I was watching it, I kept feeling like he’d never stand for any of the performance stuff, he’d be frustrated, he’d probably cause arguments more than not, and it would disrupt the flow of what the writers were after, regardless of my own feelings on the episode itself. Plus, he’s constantly referred to and mentioned, what with Allura ‘taking his place’.

So, that leaves us with Nacxela, and the next time that Voltron and the Blade join forces again in a big operation. Where Keith is with a Marmora strike team, Voltron is on Nacxela, and the Castle of Lions is... half a galaxy away, according to Coran. Voltron gets stuck in Nacxela’s artificial gravitation/repurposed terraforming, and Keith brings the rebels to bear on Haggar’s ship, and Lotor saves the day.

Let’s back up a bit.

Let’s assume that Keith wasn’t there, because something that either Shiro or Allura had said stuck. Let’s assume that maybe one of the other Paladins took him aside and talked to him, and got him to rethink things. Maybe in this reality the other Paladin would have understood Keith’s idea and made the split simply go smoother, but for the sake of hypotheticals let’s say he stays.

So, a few episodes later, we have to try and imagine where Keith might be. He would be, I would imagine, in either one of two places - he’s either remained a Paladin and retaken a Lion, in which case he is stuck in Nacxela along with the other Paladins on the mission, with another Blade on the mission he’d been sent on in canon. In this case either Lance or Shiro are probably still back on the Castle. If it’s Lance, then Lance never gets to tell Allura to try her space magics, and they don’t break free to tell everyone that Nacxela is a bomb. If it’s Shiro, he might just be stuck back on the castle like he was in all missions previous to regaining Black’s trust, unable to do anything.

The other option is that Keith himself is on the Castle, with the S4 Voltron formation still being the same as it was in canon. In this case, Keith is - as Coran said - half a galaxy away, and unable to reach Nacxela in time to do anything.

Because here’s another interesting thing, is that Keith seemed to notice that something was wrong with the mission when he had no reasonable way of knowing this. Other people have said it before, but Keith has a weird sixth sense. We saw it in the first episode, and various other times after that. This comes into play here as well.

Either way, Keith is out of the equation if he is not with the Blade, on that mission! By being where he is, he is near the action, close enough that he can grab a small, manoeuvrable fighter ship, and lead the remainder of the rebels back into the fight.

And without Keith saying “hey, don’t ask me why, but we need to go back and keep fighting, something feels wrong”, leading them out.... something happens. Or rather, doesn’t happen.

There’s no rebel/coalition presence attacking Haggar’s ship, which is what is causing Nacxela to be a bomb in the first place, since that part of the ship contains the room where Haggar is performing her ritual from.

And if nothing else, those forces were doing one major thing, something that Keith in particular is emphasising - they’re painting a massive target on that one cruiser, for one person who they don’t even know is coming.

That’s right - Lotor. 

If the rebels hadn’t been firing on the cruiser and showing Lotor where the shield was, to know that there was something especially important under that shield, then Lotor wouldn't have known where, exactly, to fire. Nacxela may even have blown up with everyone still in the vicinity.

All of which means that Keith’s non-presence and lack of appearance in what essentially boils down to two episodes of being missing was, in fact, highly necessary.

As Lance said, “this isn’t a participation game, this is war.”

....and while I’m on the subject.

Let’s talk Lance.

Which should go quicker because we’ve already covered a fair few of these points!

Now, some people have noted how at one point when the pillars on Nacxela begin to rise, Lance says that he doesn’t like it, let’s get out, and - as others have stated - gives a direct order, as is his right as second in command, for Pidge to plot a course out of there. Shiro ‘doesn’t listen/dismisses’ him, and because of Shiro saying ‘lets’ see what’s going on here first’, they end up trapped, causing a lot of the conflict of episodes 5 and 6.

Again, some people have been calling Shiro out on ‘not listening to/dismissing’ Lance, and I can see where they’re coming from, given that Lance’s suggestion of getting out of there was a good one, and in a sense, Shiro could be seen as undermining some of the authority that comes with being the second in command of Voltron.

And yet two other things have to be considered here.

One is that Shiro is, after all, the head of Voltron. His decision to take a few more moments to figure out what was going on wasn't necessarily a bad one - think of how in the first episode not everyone wanted to stay and fight, and some wanted to leave, and how at the beginning of S4 waiting just a few seconds more could have saved lives and also could have lost them. It was Shiro’s call as leader to say “No, let’s see what’s going on here”, and he knew the risks. It’s not the first time they’ve had to fight something much large and deadlier than them, or been in a trap (see: their return to the Balmera).

The other thing is, as I explained above with Keith’s situation, narrative causality. 

Let’s take a look into one of Slav’s alternate realities and see what would have happened if everyone had listened to Lance!

First, let’s assume they even get up high enough and fast enough to reach freedom before the barrier completely covers the planet. Okay, they’re free, but do they know what’s going on? They can see that the planet is covered with a shield that won’t let anything in or out, but do they know why? Do they know what makes this dangerous?

Let’s assume they realise that it’s dangerous. Because them not realising it’s dangerous is both a) unlikely, it happened as a result of Galra interference and they’re smarter than to ignore it, and b) depressing, because then everyone would end up dead. 

Voltron tries to contact Coran, but according to Coran’s own readouts in the episode, he can only tell that it’s got a massive gravitational field. It’s possible that he and Allura might recognise Altean terraforming technology, but she doesn’t refer to it as such until they’re right in the planet’s core, and so I can’t say for sure that they’d recognise it from above.

So now we have Voltron trying to figure things out from the outside, Keith having a weird feeling about something and probably still bringing the Rebels back to fight again because of that, but since Allura hasn’t said ‘this is old Altean terraforming tech’ Hunk hasn’t figured out that it’s a bomb rigged to blow and they’re on a time limit... things are going to get confusing.

We’re going to have Voltron maybe figuring out where to start attacking on Haggar’s ship, but - as someone else said - we don’t know if they’re capable of forming the sword without Keith, if that is what’s needed. We don’t know if they’ll be attempting to break the shielding on Nacxela to get back in. We don’t know what Keith’s fleet will be doing, but if there’s no certain knowledge that if they don’t destroy this thing right now, everyone will die.

And then along comes Lotor, who knows that this are is forbidden because of an explosion, who may have a clue as to where to fire, but as things are, it stands to reason that the rebel fleet and Keith’s near-attempted suicide mission give him, as stated above, a bright red target so he knows exactly where to fire. And without that, the coalition is no more. Bye, bye, Voltron. Bye, bye, Blade of Marmora. And you know what? Let’s also say farewell to Lotor himself if that fails, because yeah, he’s also in the blast range, or so I have to assume.

Another thing that strikes me on a narrative level is that if Lotor had arrived and Voltron had already done the hack and slash and bang and shoot at Haggar’s ship before he got there... where would that leave him?

Voltron, or Voltron’s forces, destroying haggar’s ship and saving the day is what’s expected. Everyone congratulates them on a job well done, because at the end of the day, defeating the Galra is just What Voltron Does. If Lotor showed up after that, then perhaps they might ask why he was there, perhaps he would still be able to negotiate, but there would be none of the same willing to listen as I have to assume is going to be there, suspicion and cold diplomacy aside, in canon.

Lotor destroying/firing upon Haggar’s ship is, for Voltron at least, entirely unexpected. He has gone from just ‘Son of Zarkon, Prince of the Galra Empire, person who messed about with them and played with them like it was a cute cat and mouse game and then got fired on for Imperial Politics not working in his favour’ to ‘that one guy who saved all of our lives, and the very existence of this coalition at all’.

Lotor now has the ability to say “Here, see what I did, I saved your lives, I have worth, I am someone you want to keep around, I can do that when no one else could, I am worth something to you alive.’ Which is what he’s after really, if you think about it - he went through the entirety of the time since being declared an enemy of the empire on the run and being fired upon every time he wanted to try and rest for a moment. He needs, at bare minimum, a bolthole. Somewhere safe.

And you know what else this tells me? I firmly believe that the writers want the Voltron Coalition to see him in a better light because of this. It would have been easy for him to come to them and for everyone to be automatically and realistically suspicious, but because of this, a narrative choice, Lotor has a chance with the coalition that he can either use as leverage to ensure he has somewhere to go, people to be his allies, or mess up for whatever reasons later become apparent, which would have to be fairly hefty reasons, given how he would prefer to die on his own terms (an unstable star, flying into a zone forbidden because of an upcoming explosion) rather than face Zarkon, his father, again, and be at the man’s non-existent mercy.

In short: Keith being away didn’t actually take all that long, and was very necessary so that the plot would go forward, and everyone survived. Lance’s idea of getting the hell out of dodge, while reasonable, needed to be shot down in order for the plot to carry on as intended, and arguably so that everyone could survive. And Lotor needed to save the day, which seems to be the writers’ way of giving him a way of being even somewhat more trusted by Team Voltron, which further suggests that the writers are probably not going to have him take advantage of this and waste that trust.

[howaminotinthestrokesyet]

How Music Stuff Works: Sampling

For quite a few years, I have dabbled in creating mashups on my computer. I will take rap acappellas and combine them with instrumental versions of popular songs. I will then post this music for anyone that wants to hear on SoundCloud. In my mind, everything that I was doing seemed relatively harmless. Yet, I learned that I was committing copyright infringement because I did not have clearance. For the most part, the only thing that would happen to me was that my music will be taken down. I remember one time I got an actual email from the representatives of Jay Z for using one of his songs. Yet, I began to think about these questions about copyright, samples, and how it actually got to be this way. This would be a good exercise for me anyway, so I do not start doing something with my mashups that might take me to court.

Let me start at the beginning before I get too far ahead of myself. The first use of sampling was in the 1940’s with a technique called musique concrete. This was a technique where an artist would record sounds to tape, splice the tape, and then rearrange that tape to create what was called a sound collage. Composers began to experiment further with the technique, which led to the release of the first fully electronic soundtrack for the film, Forbidden Planet in 1956. These early sampling techniques were also used quite a bit to create soundtracks for television shows like Doctor Who. In the 1960s, music producers like Lee Perry began using samples, where they would utilize pre-recorded reggae sounds, then DJ over it. If Lee Perry sounds familiar to you, then you probably heard his name in a Beastie Boys song. They were always making references to early figures that influenced hip-hop. The beginning of sampling as we know it today really began with the introduction of the Fairlight CMI Synthesizer, which was released in 1979. The interesting thing was that the term sampler was meant to describe the technical process of how the machine worked, and not what it was being used for. The reason why the Fairlight was such a big deal emerged in the fact that it now made sampling music simple. In my personal opinion, this had the same affect as the cotton gin did in the south in the 1800s. Soon enough, other synthesizers were coming out that were significant improvements and much cheaper.

Sampling has influenced almost every genre of music, but it was hip-hop in the early 1980s that it influenced the most. Everything that hip-hop aspired to become was complemented with the use of samples. DJs and MC’s would like to take old funk and R&B records to create tracks. The reason for this was the presence of drum breaks in those albums. At first, artists were only taking little bits and pieces of the music from the past due to the fact that there was a limitation on the technology. In 1988, the Akai MPC was released, which probably had the single most impact on anything in hip-hop throughout its entire history. This instrument allowed artists to now use entire songs as samples, instead of bits and pieces. The other reason why this was so groundbreaking came in the fact that you did not really need any music knowledge to create the music. Anyone could do it.

Throughout the 1980s, sampling became increasingly more and more popular with major artists. One of the first to do it was Stevie Wonder in 1979, while the band Big Audio Dynamite introduced sampling to the main stream in rock and pop in 1985. Big Audio Dynamite was led by a former clash member Mick Jones. Artists in hip-hop begin to create albums composed entirely of samples. One of the most popular samples used in the 1980s was John Bonham’s drum beat in the song “When The Levee Breaks.” This was used in the Beastie Boys track “Rhyming and Stealing.” One surprising fact that I learned was that Fab Five Freddy, who used to host Yo MTV Raps, created the most commonly used sample in the 1980’s. Another sample that was used quite frequently emerged in the Amen track. NWA used it quite prominently in Straight Outta Compton. The original artist was never compensated one cent for the use of the sample. In the early to mid-80s, sampling was much like the wild west, where everyone was taking original music for their own repurposing. At first, sampling was not this out of control because they had certain unwritten rules about what you could use and what you could not use. For example, you could not use anything that was currently released and on the charts. Yet, the thing that happened was artists began to get younger, and they began ignoring the rules because there was lots of money to be made. One of the first artists to release an entire album filled with samples was the Beastie Biys with Paul’s Boutique, which people today call groundbreaking and visionary. The funny thing when asked about the samples on that album a few years ago. Mike D said that it would probably cost $1 billion to make that album today. The reason for that was that the original creators of the samples were now looking for compensation as record companies began to realize money could be made from hip-hop songs.

Using someone else’s work as your own has legal implications obviously. The interesting thing to me was that it took the music industry so long to actually start to take people to court. If you want to use a sample, you need to get legal permission from that artist in what is called clearance. The first lawsuit that occurred was when the Turtles sued De La Soul for using a sample from one of their songs. The case was settled out of court, but it signaled what was to come. In 1991, songwriter Gilbert O’Sullivan sued Biz Markie for using material from one of his songs. The court ruled that Biz Markie had infringed on his copyright, which meant Sullivan had a choice, either money or removal. He chose the latter, so Biz Markie’s record company had to remove any copies of the albums from stores. Some people have said that sampling in hip hop is the equivalent of a guitar to rock ‘n’ roll. Some writers have further said, this decision was as if a musical instrument had been removed from the hands of the artists. Some artists outside of hip-hop would argue that you cannot take away a musical instrument from someone who doesn’t know how to play one. This moral, philosophical argument would go on to dominate hip-hop for its entire existence. Hip-hop still struggles with this question of whether or not hip-hop artists are musicians. As time passed, hip-hop artists found it increasingly more and more expensive to use samples in their songs. Today, the only artist that can use significant portions of established songs are popular ones because they can afford to do so. New artists are faced with the question, which some say has become a case of asking themselves what can I use and what can I get away with. If a hip-hop artist thinks he can get away with something because the original artist has passed away, then just look to the Marvin Gaye example. His estate did not allow Robin Thicke any leniency. Experts argue that it has completely stifled for creativity. Some practices today have been used as workarounds for copyright infringement. One such artist that has taken advantage of a workaround is Chance the Rapper. He has used streaming services like Spotify and SoundCloud to use songs with uncleared samples, but he is able to get away with it as he is not receiving any royalties for the music. This has become one of the things that new artists have to do. They give away their music for free, but then make all their money through their live shows. Another workaround is when an artist records their own sample of a song, then samples the cover. This would be a great idea, but the problem is there is absolutely nobody in hip-hop that knows how to play an instrument. I am not being critical here, but only speaking the truth. Sadly, there has been absolutely no incentive whatsoever within hip-hop to learn how to play music. As far as legal challenges to samples being used in songs, the number of musical notes it takes matters very little. I remember hearing about one case where it was four or five notes. I guess Vanilla Ice was very lucky that “Ice Ice Baby” was even allowed to be released. That is in a way funny, but very true.

I am beginning to sound like a broken record, but the music business is incredibly complicated where nothing makes sense. This idea and question of whether these hip-hop artists should be allowed to freely sample anything they want is a tricky one. I understand that there is a certain artistry to doing rap songs and remixes. Yet, the thing I cannot wrap my head around is the fact that it is a reinterpretation, not completely new. Another analogy would be if you remember when Steve Fisher took over as head coach of Michigan basketball in 1989. He did win the national championship, but the one criticism was they were not players that he recruited. I see the same thing with these artists using other people’s songs. For me personally, I will always side with the original creator. I have written novels before and I am currently writing a new one. I would not want anyone using my words, characters, plot in any way, unless I agreed to it. If your primary instrument of making songs is something that essentially acts as a copy and paste button, then you may want to go into a different direction. The problem is that currently in hip-hop, producers and even the artist themselves, have gone the complete opposite direction of where it should be headed. I believe that hip-hop artists should learn to play music. Instead, all of these artists and producers have made the decision that creative and catchy samples are really not that important. For the most part, hip-hop and rap is suffering from an immense identity crisis right now. All their songs sound the same. And so it goes.

[youswiminmywater]

learning humanity from a pile of rocks

hello! i know i haven’t written in a long time, at least not here on tumblr, though i’m almost certain there isn’t anybody left that reads what i write here anyway, so this is mostly for my own benefit. writing on a keyboard just allows for me to get everything out a little quicker before i lose the thought entirely. i hope this doesn’t disturb anyone’s dashboard too much (i tend to write quite a bit when i do), but then again, i’m not all that concerned about that.

i’ve been thinking a lot about art lately, which, i understand, is a totally pretentious way to begin any conversation. it’s just been sparked by my bothering to pick up a book and read again, something that always helps me crawl out of periods of depression and sluggishness. it’s a form of self-care, really, and not something that people normally think of as self-care. sort of like how cleaning your room can make you feel better; giving your space to think about something other than your own life can, weirdly enough, make you feel a lot better about your life. oftentimes the best ways to care for yourself are doing things like this, doing things that don’t cost any money and just make you Feel Good, period. and then continue to Feel Good afterward, things that don’t have a bad aftertaste. cleaning your room is always a good example, it fixes a problem that you had and holds the promise of continuing to be fixed as long as you work at it, or at least vow to do it again in the future. 

anyway, i’m already getting away from my idea! so i’ve been reading plays, namely edward albee, because he’s my favorite playwright, and plays are, well, not easy to digest, but generally short enough to consume without losing your attention. and when reading a play, i might stop and go to the back of the book to see the sketches of the stage, and then try to imagine what it would look like to see the play performed, imagine the impact of where the actors are standing or how the set was designed. and then from THIS i might go online and try to find a video of the production, or at least a clip or a trailer or something, or i might go to the wikipedia and see what the playwright said about the play, or what the critics said, or what awards it won (or didn’t win), and yada yada, i go down a rabbit hole, right? and then i end up watching a video of the playwright just being interviewed at a college talking about whatever, creativity or writing or their opinions on other playwrights, and it just gets me more and more interested in learning about that world. same process could happen with anything! you could watch a video about sharpening knives and want to learn about that, or listen to a podcast about people talking about, i don’t know, sawing wood, and realize that there’s a lot more to sawing than you initially thought.

simply put, you’re exercising your ability to learn. not to be a parrot (thought there is some value in that, too), but in this talk albee said something to the effect of, the point of formal education is to teach you how to learn about things after the formal education is over and done with. which does make sense to me, and i get a lot of enjoyment out of learning, and a find a lot of personal value in it as well. it makes me feel like i’m growing as a person, and feeling like you’re growing, or working towards something, is what helps drag you out of dark periods of your life where you feel like you’re stupid, you’re nothing, you’re not producing anything of value or doing anything important. essentially wasting your life. there’s always an opportunity to climb out of it, maybe not forever, maybe not for very long, but it can be done, and it can be done quite easily.

i remember when i was in high school, we had one class called “theory of knowledge,” which i found to be a very interesting class. it was part of the IB program (international baccalaureate), which was kind of like AP i think, in which at the end, they’d test you on various things and then ship off your answers to sweden or the netherlands or somewhere and have an examiner there grade your work. well, on one such occasion, one of the examiners was in our theory of knowledge class giving a lecture about ART, or rather, guiding a classroom discussion about ART. just the basic, age-old questions What is Art? What Can Be Art? What Can Art Be? stuff like that. and it was a fun class that i still remember because it went on and on, everybody’s opinion could be challenged and we basically reached no conclusion. so it’s something i think about, from time to time, whenever i get an idea about what the conclusion could be. my answer is usually always different, and usually informed by something i had just experienced, but i don’t know how often i’ve written it down. 

anyway, on this edward albee interview video, there’s a comment that goes like this:

“ It's sad to see there's so few views of this. A cat sneezing gets 10 million views, this is partly what's wrong with people today.”

followed by:

“oh you nailed it!”

firstly, i think it’s kind of fun to read the second comment as sarcastic, though it probably wasn’t intended to be. a lot of albee’s interview revolved around being very precise and exact in your writing, all the way down to the punctuation, because it gives a different meaning when said or performed aloud. “oh you nailed it!” sounds very chandler-y, while “oh, you nailed it!” sounds more sincere, to me at least, maybe because the second one is closer to being correct english, i don’t know. even still, “oh you nailed it!” sounds even more sarcastic, but perhaps that’s just my perception. secondly, i, forever being a devil’s advocate (and an often intolerable stinker), read the first comment and wanted to challenge it a little bit, at least to myself. you see this kind of comment a lot on academic videos.

so, say you watch a video of a cat sneezing on youtube. what have you done, what has happened? it was funny, it was cute, you laughed, maybe you showed it someone else, or mentioned it at work a month later or had a period of deja vu when you saw a cat sneeze in real life. whatever. maybe you watched it a few more times and it was still funny, cute. maybe you watched it later and it wasn’t really that great anymore, lost its value. its life cycle ends at that point and you move on from it, and you likely didn’t change much from it. maybe it cheered you up or something, but even that fades away as life goes on, it’s just like a bodily function in your brain.

ok, so say you take this video of a cat sneezing on youtube and you show it to a classroom of film/visual media students. now it has been repurposed, hasn’t it? maybe now you show the video and you start dissecting it, you look at the setting, the way it was filmed, the timing of the comedy, the type of cat, the age of the cat, the length of the video, and you basically use it as a teaching device. you get other people thinking about it in a way that they wouldn’t normally think about it if they had just found it out on their own in a vacuum. and by doing this, you’re allowing someone’s perceptions to be altered, you’re making them conscious of something of which they were not previously conscious. 

i think that this is what Art Is, if i may be bold, and it goes hand in hand with teaching. that is to say, probably anything CAN be art, but it’s not always art in every scenario. if it lives and dies and doesn’t change anything in anyone, it’s wasted (which, now thinking about it, might not even be the case in the first situation i detailed, lol). it’s a hard concept to define, as usual. but this is the basis of a lot of Modern art, isn’t it? like, especially the art that people don’t really consider to be art. like if someone just piles up a bunch of rocks and then puts it into an art gallery. a lot of people look at it and go “that’s not art, that’s stupid, my kid could do that, i’m being tricked, this whole thing is a farce” etc etc. it’s not necessarily the piling up of rocks that IS the art, it’s the act of putting it into another setting that makes it art, “elevates it,” so to speak. while some people are going “that’s not art,” there will be other people who are thinking “surely it is, though?” and will start examining it more thoroughly to find a hidden meaning. they’ll think about details, about why the rocks were laid out in precisely the way that they were, the color of the rocks, how they were on display in the gallery, what the NAME of the piece is...maybe they’ll even go so far as to read the plaque or google the artist or talk to the artist, if they’re present, and try to make sense of it. maybe they’ll learn something or see something or pay attention to something they previously didn’t, and maybe they won’t. this is the way even a pile of rocks can become art. you can call it trickery, i suppose, but...i don’t know, i feel like this invites people to take this sensibility with them OUT of the gallery and examine other things in the same way. it is essentially teaching you a new way to think about ordinary objects in everyday life that you might not have known about, might not have practiced, and that’s where the art is. in the teaching how to learn. you can even apply this idea to things like how we judge other people, strangers, or the people we know and love. teach us to pay attention to people in different ways and be more compassionate, or at least more attentive to who they are and what they want. can a pile of rocks make people more compassionate? sure, why not. it all depends on perception too, and how deep into the rabbit hole you’re willing to go, and whether you end up anywhere that actually has any use or value anyway...

i’ve been thinking about this concept in respect to my own relationships, both the idea of learning compassion, and the idea of gleaning knowledge or growing from being around other people. i think i’m getting into kind of a heady space about something that already exists in simpler terms; for instance, i see posts on instagram all the time of people saying things like “if someone in your life is bad for you, cut them out. don’t waste your time on toxic people, don’t waste your time on toxic thoughts, do what makes you fulfilled and happy.” things of this nature, which are things that just make sense instinctively. i’m admittedly not that great at cutting people out of my life, and sometimes of even recognizing when people need to be cut out, and sometimes of even agreeing with the notion that people should be cut out at all. part of me believes that you shouldn’t ever give up on anybody, unless they’re very actively and obviously tearing down your self-worth or impeding your life as a whole. but this doesn’t really address something like a friend that just doesn’t make the cut anymore; it’s really a gray area, and kind of a moral dilemma. when is it right to cut someone out for being just so-so?

oftentimes, i’ll approach doing something with someone else like this: if we experienced something together, spent time together, and it brought us closer together in some way, it was worth it. it being time. even if the thing we did had no, let’s say, persisting value, like if we’re just consuming mindless media together, it’s still WORTH something because it added to our friendship. the thing we did is not the important part (the pile of rocks), it’s the fact that we spent time together that matters. it demonstrates that we care enough about each other to put aside time for one another, something that is very previous, and help each other de-stress or just socialize and feel like a Normal person that makes the whole thing Worth It. and in this process, it can sometimes go even deeper than that, like if you’re having an interesting conversation or helping someone process emotions or something, but i won’t go into all of that.

i find that one of the worst feelings, though, with this in mind, is hanging out with someone, communicating with someone, and feeling like it was a waste of time. like the thing itself had no value, and the act of doing the thing with someone else also had no value. i usually characterize this as “feeling lonely even when you’re not lonely.” getting the feeling that you’ve wasted your time with someone after being with them not only feels bad for the loneliness, but also because it feels like a very cold and Calloused™ way of thinking about other people. even writing about it makes me feel like i must dissociate with people all the time, just the fact that i sometimes think this way about people. i don’t know if it’s the right way to think about relationships or if i’m totally off the path and just overthinking, as i often do. i think i’m just trying to make sense of why i feel lonely in certain scenarios, or why i might get upset and lash out at people when they don’t see anything that should be wrong. the idea that you’re getting nothing out of your relationship is a very tough pill to swallow, and an even harder idea to make an acting decision on. 

but, it’s just been something i’ve been thinking about. i generally think of myself as an optimist, so even when i do think about things this way, my instinct is to say “surely this isn’t the right way to go about it. try looking at it from a different angle and maybe you won’t be so dissatisfied with some of the relationships you’ve put so much time into.” that’s another thing too, the idea that putting time into a relationship means it should pay off in some way. ugh, another ugly thought, something that i don’t even want to touch on right now. maybe it is indeed just a problem of perception, like a lot of things are, outlook. you probably never stop learning how to take care of yourself, or how to be a good person. it’s tough, man.

[bakurapika]

whiggitymacabee replied to your post

“i’m such a hypocrite i wonder why people get so defensive over their...”

i wanna hear more about the ocd tho

ok!!! so i’ll start off with the disclaimer that this is my own opinion as a person with ocd and some psych education, but it’s by no means actually definitive

and with ocd specifically, symptoms tend to vary from person to person--it’s more about a cluster of symptoms than a checklist that leads to a single definite diagnosis. it’s also relatively common to have ocd and related disorders (like trichotillomania [obsessive hair pulling], eating disorders, depression, and other mental disorders where you get stuck in a negative thought loop or perform rituals) comorbidly, when they happen at the same time to the same person. 

I’m mostly gonna be pointing out stuff that looks familiar to me and is usually associated with ocd; it’s not enough to diagnose anna, especially since I’m not a doctor

and a quick definition for those unfamiliar with it: obsessive-compulsive disorder (ocd) is loosely defined as a series of obsessions and compulsions. actual official diagnosis criteria is here. I’ll be copy and pasting parts of it and bolding relevant bits for emphasis.

Obsessions are recurrent intrusive thoughts that make a person upset--a classic example would be “Did I lock the door before I left home? I’m pretty sure I turned the knob, but I’m not positive. If I didn’t lock the house, someone could break in. I can’t get any work done or think about anything else until I know if I locked the door.” 

Compulsions are repetitive behaviors or thoughts that a person performs, usually to get rid of or alleviate the distress from their obsession, in a way that’s more extreme or done more often than would be healthy. A compulsion might be going back to your house over and over, turning the knob, leaving for work, and then going back home to triple-check the door lock.

Anna’s setting is one before these diagnostic criteria were identified, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t have ocd--it just might have been called something different, or gone unnoticed/untreated indefinitely.

and i’m basing this off of the ongoing Over the Garden Wall series, not just the oneshot where we see Anna as a kid. ok? ok!

Anna’s single most recognizable and defining character trait is the way she recites her couplets. Originally, she uses them as a mnemonic the way her mother taught her: an easy way to remember the various rules and dangers of living in the forest. But soon they morph into something else. Anna writes and recites these poems to herself for comfort. 

We don’t see her repeat the same poem multiple times, but in my subjective reading of the comic, it seems likely that she does repeat them off-screen. As mnemonics, they’re not meant to be said once and forgotten, after all. 

This definitely could be a compulsion of hers of a mental sort, with the definition of compulsions from the link above being:

Repetitive behaviors (e.g., hand washing, ordering, checking) or mental acts (e.g., praying, counting, repeating words silently) that the individual feels driven to perform in response to an obsession or according to rules that must be applied rigidly.

The behaviors or mental acts are aimed at preventing or reducing anxiety or distress, or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent, or are clearly excessive.

This line especially is what convinced me that Anna represents a person with OCD. OCD is made of arbitrary rules that a person follows to ward off disaster. 

Repetitive behaviors (e.g., hand washing, ordering, checking) or mental acts (e.g., praying, counting, repeating words silently) that the individual feels driven to perform in response to an obsession or according to rules that must be applied rigidly.

The behaviors or mental acts are aimed at preventing or reducing anxiety or distress, or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent, or are clearly excessive.

SHE EVEN CALLS THEM “RITUALS” FFS.

Another trait classically associated with ocd is the counting compulsion. A counting compulsion is when a person’s OCD rituals involve numbers--for me, I have to mentally count stairs when I go up or down them. A lot of people with ocd have a specific “lucky number” that they use--for example, if they turn around one time, they’d have to turn around three times for it to feel “right.” (This is related to a symmetry compulsion, where if they turn left, for example, they’d have to turn right as well, in order to feel “balanced” and “symmetrical.”) 

Anna writing her name three times at the end of her rules list makes no sense to me unless she’s doing it to make her list feel “right,” “balanced,” or “lucky” by using her lucky number 3.

This one’s not a classic ocd symptom, just a #relatableocdthing to me. If your brain makes your life dictated by arbitrary laws, you learn very quickly to become a sneaky lawyer.

I’m iffy about including the page above, but I think it should be discussed anyway. OCD is often related to hoarding, where a person collects useless objects and get anxious about the thought of throwing them away.

Hoarding disorder symptoms focus exclusively on the persistent difficulty discarding or parting with possessions, marked distress associated with discarding items, and excessive accumulation of objects. However, if an individual has obsessions that are typical of OCD (e.g., concerns about incompleteness or harm), and these obsessions lead to compulsive hoarding behaviors (e.g., acquiring all objects in a set to attain a sense of completeness or not discarding old newspapers because they may contain information that could prevent harm), a diagnosis of OCD should be given instead.

The panel above does not demonstrate a classic case of hoarding. Anna’s repurposing an object that she broke, turning it into something useful. This isn’t evidence that she hoards. 

But, I feel like this solution (and her repeated distress over her cup-breaking habit) would come more naturally to someone who gets anxious over the idea of throwing away objects even if they’re broken. 

More arbitrary rules Anna’s creating to alleviate distress.

Now this one’s also pretty subjective and not a symptom in itself, but Anna’s interactions with Jordan are interesting. She leaves the social situation quickly (despite constantly complaining of her loneliness) and later admits (above) that she left because of unjustifiable worries of Jordan’s trustworthiness.

OCD is associated with reduced quality of life as well as high levels of social and occupational impairment. Impairment occurs across many different domains of life and is associated with symptom severity. Impairment can be caused by the time spent obsessing and doing compulsions. Avoidance of situations that can trigger obsessions or compulsions can also severely restrict functioning. In addition, specific symptoms can create specific obstacles..... When the disorder starts in childhood or adolescence, individuals may experience developmental difficulties. For example, adolescents may avoid socializing with peers; young adults may struggle when they leave home to live independently. The result can be few significant relationships outside the family and a lack of autonomy and financial independence from their family of origin.

I’ll be honest though-- this is pretty clearly inherited from the Woodsman himself. He had clearly portrayed anxiety issues when Anna was growing up as well as some paranoid tendencies (leading to what you could argue was a case of agoraphobia or something related to it), but I wouldn’t say the Woodsman had ocd. However, ocd is considered highly heritable, and there’s evidence that a family member with a non-ocd anxiety disorder may increase a person’s risk factor for developing ocd.

I’ve gotta go to work now, so let me sum it up:

I don’t think all of Anna’s actions are dictated by having obsessive-compulsive disorder. She’s missing some of the most famous symptoms (specifically, preoccupation with religious rules or an obsession with cleanliness). But I think there’s more than enough evidence to support an interpretation of her character as a person that, in modern day, could be diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

[doberbutts]

Serious kinda question, feel free to delete if you don't wanna talk about this, but is it hard to be black and get into dog sports? Your one of the only black dogblr blogs I follow, and dog sports seem (imo) to be a really white dominated sport. I'm not saying like outright racist but in my experience white dominated spaces like that are just super uncomfortable and awkward for me (can I touch your hair q's, oh that's not proper grammar etc)

PT 2 I was wondering what your experience with being black and being in the like niche show/sport dog world was like? I want to break into this world but am a little apprehensive to join something that just seems to white dominated, it seems as if through all the awkwardness and subtle micro-aggressions it would take the fun out for me and my dog if we ever got competitive

It can really depend what crowd you run with, and you have to remember that people are multifaceted, complicated, and flawed by design. Also, it might just be because I’m not involved in that world, but weight pull seems black/latino dominated to me. My exposure to weight pull however has been from inner city programs to try an help adults and kids learn how to interact wth their dogs in a different manner other than fighting them, so that may simply be due to location/region.

But it can really go either way. Among my list of IPO friends there are a lot of Trump supporters, blue/all lives matter, vaguely racist/anti muslim/homophobic/transphobic, anti-millennial, conservatives. There are also a lot of vegan/vegetarian, liberal/far left, old hippy/protester, natural everything no chemicals anti vax, raw feeding tree huggers. There’s people who fall somewhere inbetween. It actually reminds me of a post last year from one of my FB friends asking liberals what their most conservative belief is, and conservatives what their most liberal belief is, and what was discovered was that the majority of her friends all believed in basically the same set of principles with wildly different reasons, opinions, and phrasing for such. I find that most of the tolerable people in the dog world fall into that category- decent human beings who just want the world to be a good and safe place, just that have many different ideas on what exactly that means.

(It’s kind of like dog sports itself in a way- I train with a bunch of Sit Means Sit guys and I don’t like how they treat their dogs and would personally not do such things myself, but I also rarely see anything that qualifies as actual abuse and when that does occur the mentor pulls them aside [or anyone else he catches doing such] and has a word with them on what he won’t allow in his field.)

If I went into this world being afraid of what it meant for me to be openly black, gay, and trans plus fairly liberal and agnostic, then I doubt I would have gotten this far. Head up, be you, and don’t apologize for being yourself. Don’t be afraid to say what you believe in, but keep yourself respectful and humble as well (since you’re a newcomer). There will be people who won’t even consider talking to you because you are black, or gay, or whatever, and those are people I don’t speak with. Case in point- the person who encouraged me heavily to get Creed is someone that I am avidly Not Friends (tm) with anymore after multiple racist anti-black posts from her during the upset in Ferguson. Actually, my FB cover is STILL the iconic “return to sender” image (of the guy with the American flag shirt tossing a tear gas canister fired by police) because of this. I’ve had a couple discussions with people who know for sure that certain unnamed breeders won’t even consider selling or speaking to a black buyer. People are racist. That’s how it is. You can’t change them, so you might as well just cross them off your list of “people I make nice with” and go about your day.

There are several racist undertones in the dog world. A lot of respectability politics, a lot of classism and sexism, and there’s even Nazism and KKK members lurking in some parts- obvious if you look hard enough for it, subtle enough to slip under folks with “I don’t see color” radar. 

Also, perhaps because I’m in dobes and dobe people know better than to approach/touch someone holding one of this breed without their consent, but I literally never get “can I touch your hair”. I do get the occasional sight of a thin blue line sticker or all lives matter shirt but then again I’ve never been overtly frowned at for wearing any of my black pride stuff either. I have seen someone get kicked out of an event for refusing to change his swastika shirt, though us folks with the German breeds working in German sports tend to have to deal with skinhead idiots the most often. There’s a lot of little things that would go over the heads of folks who’ve never lived the experience of not being white in this country, but once you point it out the good folks usually go #YIKES at it. For instance, when I pointed out the very racist KKK slogan being repurposed to albino dobermans (White is Right), most of the more decent folks on my friends list went “OH MY GOD I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT BEFORE EW EW EW EW” and yes it could be performative allyship but I’d rather that than “why should I care” attitude.