#Language Erosion

[tmarshconnors]

Destruction Of Words.

In an era where sound bites and social media blurbs often substitute for meaningful dialogue, it is easy to romanticise the past. We look back to a time when men and women communicated with a grace and eloquence that seems all but lost today. Figures like Sir Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, and Martin Luther King Jr. crafted speeches that not only conveyed their messages with clarity but also resonated deeply with their audiences, leaving a lasting impact on history.

Take, for instance, Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. In a mere 272 words, Lincoln managed to encapsulate the essence of democracy and the enduring spirit of the nation. His words, chosen with precision and care, continue to echo through the corridors of time, reminding us of the power of succinct and impactful speech.

Consider also the speeches of Sir Winston Churchill during World War II.

His rousing addresses, such as "We shall fight on the beaches," were masterpieces of rhetorical skill, instilling courage and hope in a nation under siege. Churchill’s mastery of the English language and his ability to galvanise an entire country stand in stark contrast to the often vapid and disjointed rhetoric we hear from many public figures today.

In today’s fast-paced world, communication has become increasingly truncated and superficial. The rise of social media platforms like Twitter, with its character limits, encourages brevity over substance. This shift has given rise to a generation of public figures who often struggle to articulate their thoughts coherently, let alone with the eloquence of their predecessors.

Sound bites have replaced well-considered arguments, and sensationalism often trumps sincerity. The art of debate, once a cornerstone of democratic societies, has been overshadowed by the spectacle of shouting matches and personal attacks. This decline in the quality of public discourse reflects a broader cultural shift towards instant gratification and short attention spans.

We have singlehandedly destroyed the beauty of words. It often reminds me of a quote from the film “1984” which goes like this “It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.” However it’s NOT a beautiful thing. The erosion of language can and has lead to a decline in the richness of human expression and communication.

Words are powerful tools for conveying ideas, emotions, and knowledge. When we reduce their complexity, overuse certain terms, or allow language to become a tool for manipulation rather than enlightenment, we risk losing the depth and diversity that make communication meaningful and impactful.

[transingthoseformers]

Cybertronian culture must have things that have complicated and wacky origins. Like, in humans the love heart symbol comes from an extinct flower that was used as an aphrodisiac (and it's extinct for that reason yeah). the words nachos and nazis come from the same root word, same origin as the name Iggy. We're Still fuzzy about the origin of fuck. The color orange is named after the fruit, before it was just called Yellowred. Some english words are Exactly the same as they were in latin. There is a mountain whose name when fully translated is just Mountain four times.

They Have to have glyphs with weird origins or that evolved from inside jokes, especially since the great Cybertronian war happened i mean I'm just correct. So many glyphs had to have entered their vocabulary that come from different alien languages with little to no translation. Glyphs that evolved and gained innuendo solely through translation errors and misspellings. Glyphs that come from a pun about extinct animals and long forgotten races among the stars. Glyphs that originally referred to some long forgotten dude who's been offline since the original predacons were alive.

[21st-century-minutiae]

"S'up Dawg" is a very casual phrase in the English language meaning "hello." "S'up" is a shortening of "what is up" which is a rhetorical question used to say hello. "Dawg" is a vocative address, from the word "Dog." It implies a level of friendship and informality.

"Konichiha" (spelt with an "ha" at the end when written in English letters by japanese, but pronounced "wa" for linguistic reasons associated with the grammatical structure that is the topic particle "ha"), is a Japanese phrase that means "good day." In English transliteration it is usually written as Konichiwa. It is usually translated as the closest equivalent of "hello," thought, like "good day" it is seen as less appropriate in the early morning or evening. The equivalent phrases for good morning and good evening will be used instead at the appropriate times. The phrase literally translates to something like a sentence fragment drawing attention to "this day" (this is the grammatical role that "ha" particle that is pronounced "wa" assumes) without actually completing the sentence and leaving it implied.

A "Chihuahua" is a small breed of Mexican dog. Like in "Konichiha" the "hua" is pronounced more like a "wa" in English. The "Chiha" almost perfectly overlaps phonetically.

So, Konichihuahua is a mixture of the two, taking advantage of both spelling and phonics to make a nonsense word that is a pun. This is an example of a pun.

English speakers in the early twenty first century would likely be familiar with "S'up Dawg," "Konichiha" and "Chihuahua," despite all three being from different languages. This is in spite of native English speakers seldom being trilingual. The pun would be well understood by these people.

How do you say “S'up Dawg” in Japanese? 

Konichihuahua

[patalanagamanchilada]

[pebblegalaxy]

Reclaiming Language: The Dilution of 'Awesome' and the Power of Words

What is a word you feel that too many people use? In the ever-evolving tapestry of language, there exists a word that has woven its way into the fabric of our daily discourse. A word that, like a viral contagion, proliferates with reckless abandon, infecting our conversations and diluting their true essence. This word, my weary compatriots, is none other than “awesome.” Once upon a time,…

[twirlytumblfluff]

OK but ... these are groynes:

Manmade barriers on beaches to help control/prevent erosion.

Much, much less commonly used a word than, you know, where granddad gets hit with a football on America's Funniest Home Videos, but still a word!

EXTRA FACT: Anatomically, the groin isn't even the crotch, it's the sort of crease between abdomen and leg, that goes from your crotch up to your hip. It's not even naughty! When you're going into hospital they take a swab from there to check you don't have MRSA.

brother what

[headspace-hotel]

gazing in wonder at the wikipedia page for meander

Out of all the terminological categories in the English language, geological terminology is the most intensely poetic; who could fail to be moved by metamorphism and orogenesis? There is something awesome and mythic about it.

Anyway as I was reading this article I recalled a dim, possibly inaccurate memory of Chinese mythology where four dragons transformed themselves into the four rivers that flow through China.

I've been taking walks beside the creek. The creek has "an erosion problem" as it was once described to me. I notice on one bank the creek cuts underneath the roots of the trees and threatens to collapse the bank, and on another it deposits a low, broad beach of broken stones and mud.

The recent history of humankind would mislead us to think that erosion is a linear process of degradation, but the article for meander tells me that rivers move, the loops in their channels steadily rolling along the river's length, like the slithering of a snake over a time scale of thousands of years...

A river is a kind of dragon.

[fear-is-truth]

IN NOMINE PECCATI — charlie mayhew

tags — mature content﹒porn with plot﹒doctor + priest charlie mayhew﹒fem!reader﹒cnc﹒somno﹒oral (f!receiving)﹒unprotected p in v ﹒wc : 1.5k

a/n: english is not my 1st language but im trying. p.s : “in nomine peccati” means “in the name of sin” in latin

THE DOORKNOB TURNS, allowing a sliver of yellow light to slip into the quiet house as charlie mayhew steps inside. with practised ease, he hangs up his coat and sets his keys down without a sound, as he’s done countless times before. his eyes fall on you, lying sprawled on the couch, bathed in the blue flicker of the television. you’re wearing nothing but a grey t-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of your bare thighs, one arm draped across your stomach, the other lying beside you. he notices the familiar band logo stretched across your chest—you’re wearing one of his shirts, hanging loose over your frame.

the sight tugs at something deep inside his chest, an ache tempered by affection.

an infomercial flickers on the tv, with over-excited voices and pristine images of miracle kitchen gadgets that promise to “slice, dice, and change your life!” charlie reaches for the remote and lowers the volume, careful not to let it die completely—its glow is enough to keep the room from sinking into total darkness. he treads lightly toward you, feeling a bit like an intruder in his own home as he crosses the room. when he finally stands by the couch, looking down at you.

he takes a moment to study you—no, admire you. your face is slack with sleep, lips parted slightly, lashes casting faint shadows across your cheeks. a loose strand of hair has fallen over your face, and he carefully reaches down to brush it away, fingers lingering against your skin as he cups your cheek. he drinks in the sight of you in the eerie blue light, noting every rise and fall of your chest, the slight flutter of your eyelids. there’s an ethereal quality of your slumber, a serenity. so lost in dreams, undisturbed by the world around you.

his sleeping beauty.

he reaches down again, brushing a thumb over your cheek, a featherlight touch as he marvels at the smooth softness, in juxtaposition to the harshness he’s known all day. you stir slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but he holds still, waiting until you settle again. unable to resist, he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, lips warm against skin. then he climbs onto the couch, carefully positioning himself above you with his forearms braced on either side of your body, his weight held carefully. his face hovers inches from yours, his gaze tracing every detail—the slight curve of your mouth, the way your lashes fan across your cheekbones, the softness of your expression in sleep.

carefully nestling himself between your legs, charlie’s mind drifts (a bit morbidly) back to the icu, the patients lying motionless in their beds, tethered to tubes and machines, barely clinging to life. hours spent witnessing the slow erosion, orderlies turning over comatose bodies to prevent bedsores—wipe, clean, repeat. he’s grown cynical about them over time, but here, with you—your skin soft, alive, bathed in coloured light—he feels the difference.

fingertips trace your collarbone, meandering through the valley of your breasts,delving to your stomach and finally their destination in between your thighs. no panties, that have been your mutual agreement.

in your dream, there’s warmth, first. heavy and unyielding, a heat that settles over you like fire, burrowing into your skin like ultraviolet rays. your senses wake slowly, your cheek brushing against something coarse, unfamiliar. dark fabric clings to you, wrapping you in heavy folds, thick wool scraping against your neck and wrists like penance. your eyes open to an unnatural red glow that bleeds across the vast, vaulted space, spilling from the stained glass in vivid torrents. it bathes the walls, fills the air like smoke. shadows stretch and twist across the stone, curling toward you as if drawn by some unholy force. the air reeks of incense—an earthy, heady scent invades your lungs,

and then, there’s him.

above you, a figure looms, like a dark angel descending. his face is half-shrouded in shadow, lit only by the crimson light that paints his regal features in blood-red relief. a white collar gleams against the black of his robes. a priest’s collar, you realise.

charlie is dressed as a fucking priest.

your eyes meet, and the face of your lover is a study in contrasts, softened by the lurid red light but edged with shadows that deepen every line, every trace of restraint he’s barely holding onto. hands frame your face, roughened palms warm against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours, a kiss that is equally reverent and devastating, as though he’s whispering a prayer between your lips.

his weight presses you down, rooting you to the altar, cold marble biting into your back and only feeding the heat pooling low in your stomach. his mouth captures yours, lips parting to coax you open. when his tongue slips in, it’s unhurried but intentional, roving over your hard palate and tracing against your tongue. his hands cradle your face, thumbs grazing along your cheekbones, grounding you in an act that feels like the quiet theft of something sacred.

charlie pulls back, lips parting from yours which leaves you breathless and aching in the sudden absence. his gaze holds yours for a moment, then he shifts, hands trailing down your sides, fingers pressing gently against your hips, before he slips down from the altar entirely, lowering himself onto the floor at your feet. his hands rest on your ankles, thumbs tracing over the sensitive skin there as he looks up at you, his eyes darkened in the crimson light. from where he kneels, he seems to take you in entirely, a reverence in his gaze that skirts the edge of blasphemy.

fabric clings to you, unfamiliar and restricting. you glance down, catching a glimpse of black, long and heavy against your arms. the realisation dawns slowly, seeping in with the blood-red light: you’re wearing a nun’s habit. heat coils through you, unsettling, molten desire dripping into your loins like honey. you know what you share right now is both holy and desecrated.

your head drops back against the altar, cool stone pressing into your scalp and your spine arches in a slow, involuntary curve. skilled fingers curl in a languid manner, breaching that sweet spot inside you. a broken moan slips past your lips, and the last vestiges of your willpower dissolves under his touch, leaving only the warmth pooling low in your belly and the faint tremble in your breath. charlie continues to devour your forbidden fruit, claiming it without guilt or hesitation. each swipe of his preachers tongue in and out of your searing cunt carries reverence, as if he’s sampling something holy yet wholly his.

“mghm.. charlie…”

charlie’s head lifts at the soft sound of his name murmured from your lips, breaking the silence of the room. a slow smile spreads across his face as he watches you, noticing the way you shift, lips parted, fingers curling faintly as if reaching for something just beyond reach. licking his arousal-coated lips, he leans in, carefully easing himself back onto the couch, moving with a quiet intent. his legs nestle between yours, fitting into place as he settles. the t-shirt has slipped off your shoulder at one point, revealing the delicate curve of your clavicle. charlie dips his head, letting his lips brush against your temple. fingertips lightly graze your side, tracing the hem of your shirt, feeling the steady beat of your heart.

somehow, miraculously, you’re still asleep. carefully nudging your legs wider apart, he tilts his pelvis to the precise position. charlie bites down on his bottom lip to silence a groan as he eases himself inside you, inch by agonising inch until he’s fully sheathed inside you.



lashes flutter, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he bottoms out, a tingling sensation spreading from the base of your spine to your thighs, his cock nestling deep within you. filling every inch of you with a sacred fullness.

charlie buries his face into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, placing languid kisses up the column of your throat as his hips rock steadily against yours. the glorious stretch coupled with the way his hands and lips are all over you—fondling your breasts and nibbling at your earlobe coaxes out another mewl from you, tightening your grip on his shoulders and leaving pink, crescent indentations. he pauses mid-thrust to mumble an “i love you,” against the corner of your mouth.

velvety walls pulsate around him, milking out charlie’s orgasm as he succumbs to the white-hot pleasure, hips stuttering before he spills himself inside you, warmth spreading low and deep, radiating from your core like an ember kindling to life. waves of pleasure flows through you—a blessing you’d missed, returning to you as if by divine grace.

all around, the shadows seem to swell, the red light growing deeper, darker, as though hell itself waits just beyond the cathedral walls.

MASTERLIST

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[rocketbirdie]

YOU. You are correct about Cloud Strife. Everything you say about him is CORRECT

Hi I'm going to use your ask as an opportunity to go on an unhinged tangent about him below the cut.

I believe that EVERYTHING about Cloud Strife as a character makes total sense once you realize: it's autism.

Here's a character whose entire arc revolves around the erosion of his identity and his desperate attempts to adhere to an ideal image, at the expense of his own wellbeing; and how self acceptance is the thing that brings him back from the edge of despair.

Youtube theorycrafters waste hours of their lives trying to piece together Cloud's psyche, when the answer is just... autism. It really is that simple. I will die on this goddamn hill.

In Trace of Two Pasts, we learn that even as a toddler, Cloud really was just... like that. Unemotive and awkward. And the entire lifestream sequence in the OG shows us a young Cloud who behaves in baffling ways. Tifa and her friends invited Cloud into their group, but he rejected their friendship while simultaneously harboring a seething jealousy. How the heck does that work, huh?

Viewing this through the Autism Lens™️, his approach make way more sense. Fearing his own inability to read and reciprocate their intentions, he pushes them away, and the resulting loneliness crushes him. He mistakes that loneliness for anger. He turns that anger outwards and gets into fights. Because the other kids don't understand him, Cloud sees them as stupid and immature. It's the perfect recipe for disastrous distrust. The tragic result is that, when Tifa gets into her accident, Cloud is immediately blamed by kids AND adults. He's seen as inherently dangerous and unpredictable, even though he did nothing wrong. It's like they were already looking for the perfect excuse to hate him.

The worst part is, because he struggles to articulate his own thoughts and feelings, he starts to just... accept what other people say about him. He's a pain in the ass. He's a selfish brat. He could try being a bit nicer. Any attempt that he makes to argue, backfires and proves their points even more. He's being childish. He needs to get his shit together. Nothing's ever good enough for him. He stops fighting it and lets people drag him around and violate his boundaries, because no matter how loud he yells or how intelligently he argues, nothing he says ever reaches their ears. He trims away more and more of himself to try and appease others and nurse the constant emotional pain. (And that's not even addressing the entire traumatic *waves hands* everything that he's gone through by the time he reaches Midgar! That would have to be its own tangent lol.)

It's hard to watch as a player; the secondhand embarrassment of Cloud's social blunders is immense. Some people don't like Cloud as a video game protagonist, which is perfectly valid. But a lot of times, they justify their opinion by perpetuating the same damaging language. He's an asshole, he's a weirdo, he hates people. The irony would be hilarious if it wasn't so frustrating. I know Cloud is just a fictional character, he doesn't need to be defended from harsh criticisms. But I can't help but wonder what these players think about the "weird people-hating assholes" that they meet in real life.

It also makes me wonder if they were even paying attention. I think the games make it pretty damn obvious what's going on. He's an asshole because other characters treat him like one before they even get to know him. He hates people because he doesn't understand them, and they don't even try to understand him. He's a weirdo because he has a strange way of showing how deeply he loves and cares, and he's afraid that his love will be misinterpreted like every other emotion he's ever dared to show.

The autism is everywhere. It permeates his entire being. It's in his silly responses when he takes things too literally. It's in his painfully practical way with words. It's in the stiff expressionless look and the flat tone of voice. It's in him constantly adjusting his gloves, shifting his weight, looking down at his feet. It's in his questionable idea of what you're supposed to do with your body at a yoga session. It's in the half a dozen flustered high fives, it's in the motion sickness. It's in the contagious eagerness with his special interests in SOLDIER and materia and chocobos.

It's in the moments where the facade crumbles and we get to see the real Cloud, the one that Aerith knew was in there— the one that Tifa finds in the lifestream— the one that Zack gave his life for— the Cloud that cherishes the whole world. He's got so much of everything inside of his heart, and he doesn't know how to get it out. You'd be a weird asshole about it, too.

[inkcurlsandknives]

The generational trauma of displacement was only compounded when many in our grandparent's and parent's generation decided they didn't want to disadvantage their children by teaching us, lest we risk speaking English with an accent

I hope all those white boys shocking waiters by ordering in [asian language] all collapse into a black hole singularity

[lizbethborden]

Something I think is fascinating is the way predators have absorbed language around identity, psychology, self-help, well-being, and therapy, and taken it to convince people, especially women, that what we see, feel, think, and experience are not real. Because they don't come right out and say that rape is inevitable particularly for women and sexualized minorities, male desire is to be prioritized above all, crimes against women don't happen and if they do happen they weren't crimes and shouldn't be punishable and same for crimes against children, etc. their posts and writings and etc get circulated endlessly and any challenge to what they've said is painted as low, emotional, animalistic, "carceral," "fascist," "being a cop," and so forth. Nothing has changed in 3,000 years in the cultural schemas that ennoble and idealize the oppressor and paint the oppressed as base and brainless. Not only are emotions valuable and important sources of information and not to be discarded, but victimized/oppressed people can ALSO utilize their intellects to argue and theorize. Condescending efforts to infantilize and belittle only highlight the fragility of the dynamic between oppressor and oppressed and emphasize how that oppressor's inner security is built on this tottering construction, which they must shore up and shore up against the constant erosion of basic factual truth, to wit: they're not the only person in the room with a brain.

[transingthoseformers]

Okay but this has me thinking about the various reasons why the Autobots and Decepticons have different alphabets, and I'm betting different vernaculars in general as well. All the inside jokes that became frequently used idioms, typos getting copied so much that they become an actual spelling, certain acronyms becoming so commom you forget they were acronyms. Loanwords and calques from various other alien species that perhaps the other faction didn't interact with.

Linguistic drift

[novlr]

I've read your post on manipulative characters, and it helped a lot! Could you explain how to write manipulated characters?

Creating a character who is under the influence or control of another is a challenging feat for any writer. To effectively portray this dynamic, it’s crucial to understand the manipulator’s goals and the methods they use to exert their influence. Let’s explore how a character’s dynamics might change when they are being manipulated.

Behaviour

Behave inconsistently with the decisions they would usually make.

Second-guess themselves or hesitate before acting.

Gradually change their behaviours to align more with the manipulator’s interests.

Show confusion or self-doubt.

Rationalise or defend the manipulator’s actions even when they are harmful.

Suppress their true desires to please the manipulator.

A declining interest in hobbies or activities that they once loved.

Signs of stress or anxiety, especially when the character is around the manipulator.

Increasingly isolating from their support network.

Making excuses for the manipulator’s behaviour to others.

Interactions

Unequal power dynamics, with the manipulator often interrupting or speaking over them.

A lack of reciprocal communication – the manipulator talks, the character listens.

Physical touch that seems controlling or guiding rather than comforting.

They are asked to keep secrets or lie on behalf of the manipulator.

Receive subtle threats or backhanded compliments from the manipulator.

Show an obligation to tend to the manipulator’s needs.

Are willing to compromise their morals under manipulative influence.

The manipulator may use personal information against them to keep them in line.

Have other characters note changes or express concern about their changed behaviour.

Have moments of realisation or clarity that are quickly squashed by the manipulator.

Body language

Closed off, with crossed arms or averted gaze.

Physical withdrawal or flinching.

Display nervous habits, like nail-biting, or fidgeting.

Make themselves smaller or trying to go unnoticed.

Have trouble maintaining eye contact.

Forced smiles or laughter to mask their true feelings.

Physical tension that doesn’t ease, even in supposedly relaxing environments.

Mimicking the manipulator’s body language subconsciously.

Physical exhaustion due to emotional strain.

Contrast in how they act around the manipulator versus others.

Attitude

A gradual erosion of the character’s optimism or hope.

Displays unwarranted hostility towards others.

Is overly apologetic, especially for things not their fault.

A shift from self-assuredness to self-deprecation over time.

A sense of helplessness that they struggle to overcome.

A fatalistic or defeatist outlook on their future.

A growing reluctance to make decisions independently.

Show internal conflict between their beliefs and the influence of the manipulator.

Repetition of the manipulator’s opinions as if they were their own.

A lost sense of identity through a disinterested or detached demeanor.

Positive story outcomes

An eventual recognition of manipulation as a moment of empowerment.

A journey towards reclaiming agency and self-worth.

Forming new, healthy relationships that contrast with the manipulator’s treatment.

Using their experience with manipulation to help others in similar situations.

The development of stronger personal boundaries and assertiveness.

Creative or professional achievements as they break free from manipulation.

Gaining insight and wisdom from their experiences.

Finding support systems that validate and uplift them.

A renewed sense of hope and direction in life post-manipulation.

Finds resilience and new strengths.

Negative story outcomes

Continued struggles with self-esteem and trust issues.

Setbacks and challenges in the aftermath of manipulation.

Potential for downward spirals as a result of the manipulative relationship.

A lasting impact of manipulation on the character’s relationships with others.

A psychological toll, such as anxiety or depression, that may linger.

Becomes wary of future relationships, romantic or otherwise.

Inadvertently emulates manipulative behaviours learned from the manipulator.

Might sabotage their own success due to ingrained beliefs planted by the manipulator.

Struggling to regain autonomy and make independent choices.

Increased tendency to isolate themselves to avoid being hurt again.

Helpful vocabulary

Coercion

Gaslighting

Subjugation

Compliance

Devious

Subtle

Undermine

Exploit

Domineering

Manipulate

Discredit

Influence

Contrived

Obedience

Suppression

Dependency

Guilt-trip

Intimidation

Passive-aggressive

Psychological warfare

[linguisticdiscovery]

The unequal proportion between the number of languages and how many speakers those languages have

The median number of speakers for a human language is only about 5,000 people.

From the incredibly good book, When languages die: The extinction of the world’s languages and the erosion of human knowledge.

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. On your way home from work, you encounter an injured superhero. You have seen his secret identity. Now what will he do about it?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x reader, (maybe a why choose with Dick Grayson as well?? Idk tell me what you guys want)

Warning: Adult language, verbal abuse, parental abuse, severe injuries

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it 

Part One: Is that Trash or a Man?

There is calm chaos when working in the emergency room. You get used to the cacophony of beeps and alarms. Of moans, crying, screaming, and arguing. You get used to being on your feet all day and moving from task to task, from patient to patient. You get used to it because there is no other option. People need care and they need it now. You either step the fuck up or switch to a different unit. Or move to a calmer, cleaner, less crime-filled city. Calm wasn’t really my vibe. Maybe externally that’s what I portrayed, but internally my mind craves the chaos of the ER. It craves the chaos of Gotham. And the Gotham ER was an entirely different beast.

I finished nursing school about a year ago. A lot of my peers used it as an out. They went to more stable cities in New Jersey that had better funding and less chance of getting knifed in the staff parking lot. I was one of the only ones that stayed. I definitely was the only one that worked in the hospital. I couldn’t deny the demand for nurses was high, and the paychecks were even higher at Gotham General Hospital. And maybe some small pathetic part of my brain wanted to make the world a better place. I wanted Gotham to be a better place. Every day I worked. I convinced myself that how matter how shitty it got; I was making a difference. Even if it was only a handful of people in the grand scheme of things. 

I could convince myself that I mattered. That everyone mattered. That these people deserve more. They deserve better; they deserve a second, third, fourth, fifth chance. If I stopped trying to convince myself of that I know I would give up entirely. Seeing gunshot wounds, stabbings, overdoses, mutilations, burns, crushings, poisonings, beatings, day after day is a lot like erosion of the soul. Little by little it wears you down. You become jaded and jagged with time. Empathy becomes blame. Hope becomes desolate. Love becomes anger. The only thing you can do is gaslight yourself into thinking you’re making a big enough difference. That you’re helping enough people. After all, the brain can’t tell the difference between truth and irony. You tell yourself so many lies, you can start to believe them, right? 

Gotham City: 16 Years Ago 

“Dad, when is mom coming home?” My small voice asked. I was scared to make Dad yell at me again. I didn’t like it when I made him yell.

“She’s got stage four fucking cancer she is coming out of the hospital in a body bag, y/n.” 

I fought the tears that burned behind my eyes. Dad would get even angrier if he saw them. It was stupid of me to even ask. 

I felt him turn to me. His eyes bored into my skull. Quickly, I looked down at his feet. 

“Have you tried again?” He asked. His tone clipped. I knew he expected a timely answer.

Involuntarily, my fingers ruthlessly picked the skin around my nails. The sting was grounding in a way. 

“No, sir. Well yes, I have tried, but I… I failed,” the last word felt like a hot poker being placed through my throat. 

“Look at me.” Breathing became difficult, but I looked up at my father. He leaned his face close to mine. I could smell Jack wafting off him. “What good are you? What good is having healing powers if you can’t heal your sick mother?”

The simple hangnail became a chunk of missing skin. I lowered my head. Fighting back tears. 

“Sir,” my traitorous voice wobbled as I tried not to cry, “I keep trying but… I don’t think my power is that strong. I can close cuts, fix broken bones, but tumors are… hard.”

My father tilted his head back and laughed. Hard. He grabbed my wrist as quickly as a viper, “If I could put your mother’s cancer in you I would. You’re about as useful as a wet match in a dark cave.” 

I couldn’t help the tears that fell down my cheek. It felt like I was involuntarily waving a white flag.

Gotham City: Present Day

I had to be stealthy with my gift. I couldn’t heal every one of the patients to full health right away. That would lead to suspicion. But if I could help it I could stop the major damage. I would heal internal organs. Replenish blood. Reduce ten fractures to two or one. It all depended on timing and if people were watching me. 

I was walking home from the hospital. I only lived about three blocks away. I got off shift at around 20:49. I didn’t start my next stretch for another three days. And I was milking my walk home. Stopping to smell the roses or whatever. That is normally not a very smart thing to do in Gotham at night, especially as a woman. But part of me didn’t care. 

Earlier, I looked at my phone and frowned when I realized the date. 

Thursday, May 19th. 

My mom died 16 years ago today. Waves of emotion flooded my senses. Anger at myself for not remembering. Sadness that she had been gone more of my life than she had been in it. Restlessness for what my father might do or say. Some years he likes to reach out. Others he doesn’t. But most of all I was feeling reckless. Like I wanted someone to give me a reason. Obviously, I would only hurt someone to defend myself or others. But there was so much anger living in my body, part of me hoped some idiot would try something with me tonight. 

So, I walked home. Slowly. 

Normally, you keep your head down and you keep moving. You don’t look or gawk. You listen out of necessity. I was listening just because I could. It was the normal stuff. Men smoking cigarettes and catcalling. Women were offering their nightly services. Random people either praising or damning superheroes. Drug deals. Graffiti artists. Fights. And of course, people who simply were walking home from work. Gotham had range and was never boring that’s for sure. 

But something picked up on the very edge of my senses. Despite my better logic, I turned toward the very quiet sound. It could have just been rats, but it sounded so familiar. It sounded like a death rattle. The thing you hear just before shit hits the fan and the patient codes. 

Without thinking I ran down the alley toward the sound. At first, it was nothing. Just trash and rats. But then I saw it. He almost blended perfectly in with the shiny black garbage bags. His cape was the same color but reflected the light less. 

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” I walked hesitantly forward, grabbing my pepper spray just in case.

The man did not answer, he only garbled and coughed. My work brain took over my fear. Instantly I rolled the man over and began assessing him. I suppressed a gasp when I rolled him over and a familiar cowl mask came into view. It was cracked down the middle. His face was bleeding from an unknown location. His breathing was labored and staggered. 

Calmly, I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against his chest. 

Oh yeah. Batman was dying. He had several broken ribs. A pneumothorax. A bruised liver, kidney, and pancreas. His cardiac output was a joke. The man had no perfusion. 

I didn’t think. I didn’t hold back like I do at the hospital. I just healed. And healed. And healed. I healed him down to his bone-on-bone knees, sprained ankle, and fractured wrist. 

God, this guy had a lot of injuries. 

I was close to passing out by the time I was done. I had done too much, ate, and slept too little. My powers were demanding when it came to energy. If I didn’t eat or sleep within 30 minutes I was about to pass out next to bat boy himself.

I gave him one last assessment. After double-checking that he would live and that I didn’t miss anything I finally looked at his face again. 

This time I gasped. Batman was the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne? I shook my head like I was clearing cobwebs. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Much like Batman, I didn’t want people to know what I could do. The last time people knew…

Just as I turned and took a few steps I rolled my eyes at my nagging thoughts. 

What if someone sees him before he wakes up?

Reaching into my tote bag I pulled out a black medical mask. I not so gracefully MacGyvered it across his exposed face so that it was covered. And with that, I made my way home.

My cat, Hashbrown, eagerly greeted me at the door. I nearly fell asleep locking it. I bent down to pick her up and gave her a kiss on her perfect little cat head. I ripped my gross work scrubs off, threw them in the wash, and crashed on the couch in my underwear before my brain could process what happened.

I healed Batman. 

I healed… Bruce Wayne?

Part Two, Part Three

[rosemorningstar]

Alright so

Boethiah “the font of inspiration” who calls upon mortals to leave their mark upon the world no matter the form.

Hircine “who is half the conscience of men” meaning the half of mortal minds that follows instinct and the drive for survival.

Malacath “who speaks all languages sideways” meaning he is a universal entity whose name and purpose has become distorted over time. Alternatively, he twists words to inspire rage.

Mehrunes Dagon “whose mistress is the blazing sun” meaning he was created by and serves the will of the Magna Ge who brought him forth.

Sheogorath “the comforter of men” meaning he who facilitates dissociation or a break from reality; taking mortals away from the pains of the world via madness. It’s a comfort to be free of reality but the side effects vary.

Molag Bal “whose breath is most foul” meaning the commands he speaks upon the mortal realm are palpable yet undesirable; a domineering root of suffering.

Namira “whose works works endure forever” meaning her design for existence is inescapable and inevitable aka entropy and decay.

Mephala “who threads the needle with the hair of wives” meaning she manipulates the bonds of loyalty to her ends.

Clavicus Vile “who always answers” meaning he’ll make a deal with anyone but the terms won’t necessarily be fair.

Nocturnal “whose touch is mink” meaning her blessing is soft, concealing, and expensive to attain.

Peryite “who’s foundation is falling rock” meaning his power is based in the same forces that move erosion and the passage of time. Incremental but nonetheless potent.

Azura “the rim of all holes” meaning her power is what facilitates transformation and dramatic change on a singular level. The movement of an object or being to dramatically different circumstances. A goddess of exodus and transmutation.

Meridia “who contains the plenum” meaning her sphere is one of wholeness and abundance. Something she offers at a high price.

Hermaeus Mora “who holds the paper to the light” meaning he reveals the hidden truths beneath the surface.

Sanguine “who tastes the shaven fruit” meaning he consumes mortals at their most vulnerable; when they’re inebriated or at the height of their pleasure.

Vaermina “weaver of the panoply” meaning she designs mortal delusions; the fantastical fears we react upon in reality.