#Perseverance Crisis

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the same way that this blog has given you something to hold on to and look forward to, seeing these comics has given me something to hold on to and look forward to in some bleak times too. Thank you for sharing your art and your journey and your commentary and your jokes. They mean a lot to me and I’m certainly not the only one. Keep “”””””poorly”””””” drawing <3

Thank you so much for joining me on this journey of trying to get by, and learning to stay silly and hopeful.

[bossuary]

you get lost in thoughts without room for two but when you're ready to leave, i'm right beside you

[yeagrave]

✨

[terriblespy]

man I wasn’t on this webbed site for like a couple weeks and now there’s these fucking new buttons. what the hell man

[philosophybitmaps]

[fordarkisthesuede]

Fangs of Ouroboros - Chapter 4 - Looking into the Lion's Mouth

Whelp, the world is fucked. Now, more than ever, we need some nice distraction. And now that I’m back from my always-unscheduled-but-somehow-yearly-and-much-needed break from social media, let’s just see what I missed! …oh. Uh. Lotta ‘yikes’ around here… Lesse, people obsessed with a baby hippo… Some WolvPool… Whole lotta blog notes, though, that’s nice… (Mostly for Journal 3, go figure…) Let’s just check the ol’ mailbox…

WOAH NELLY! I’ll, uh, have to sort through all that later... First thing’s first - I gotta take care of my batjokes girlies. My sweet Telltale cheesies. My good time pals. For all those who stuck around, and for all those who will continue to walk with me through this valley of whatever-the-fuck: I hope this makes things just a tinsy bit better.

Last time, in a way better universe than this one:

Bruce followed the next step in Joker's murder game, discovering more clues to the odd mystery in the form of a man's expensive ring and maps of Gotham cemeteries. With John's strange intentions burning in the back of his mind, he met with Iman and Agent Blake at W.E. only to learn that Victor Fries has escaped and very likely sitting somewhere in Gotham...

Now, let's rejoin Tiffany and John on their way to Blackgate Prison...

[ start ] | [ prev ] | [ Read on Ao3 ] | [ next]

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Tiffany muttered, trying not to look as nervous as she felt walking behind the prison escort.

John seemed too confident. But she had to admit that with the navy blue pinstripe suit, metal framed glasses, and orange bowtie, he did look like a lawyer. One who had no issue with making the visiting request, bullshitting his way through the approval process (which was made easier since Tiffany had already snuck both of their fake names into the system), and striding down the hall like he had business to attend. 

Then again, she supposed he was used to this kind of thing, having been in Arkham and St. Dymphna’s. He probably knew all the red flags they would’ve looked for in a visitor, attorney or not. 

“It’ll be fine,” he whispered with an encouraging smile, “We’ll give it five, ten minutes tops.”

She was more concerned about what to say. When she interrogated criminals, she was always direct, like Bruce, and sometimes had to use physical intimidation. But now she was out of her element and without her armor.

John tilted his head, and as if sensing her distress, leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he added quietly as the door to the visiting room opened for them, “Everybody’s a victim.”

Only two other people were visiting, but for such a large prison the number of cheap, worn-down wool seats were slim. The lighting was bleak, even for the early morning, with no windows and only white LEDs here and there, making everything feel clinical. There was a strange smell, too. It reminded her of when she and Luke had once stumbled upon an old couch sitting alone on a sidewalk by the garbage cans, and they’d been young and dumb enough to pull up the cushions to see what was underneath. 

John took a seat, an open seam on the bottom pushing out a wad of stuffing with the force. He patted the one next to him as if Tiffany already hadn’t thought of sitting there.

Tiffany caught sight of her reflection in the plexiglass. The makeup made her face look longer, and the fake half-moon glasses dangling from the faux-gold chain around her neck almost added a flair of sophistication. It was like looking at a sibling she never knew. One with her father’s nose, her mother’s eyes, and a stranger’s flat-ironed hair. 

She held her breath as the prison entrance opened on the other side of the center with a metal squeal as Mary Dahl was guided in. Tiffany peeked at the dossiers she’d brought along from the BatCave as if it would help her nerves settle. The female guard who had removed Mary’s handcuffs added what looked like the world’s flattest pillow to the seat in an attempt to give her a boost.

She let herself breathe out as Mary sat across from her, a mere three-foot-eleven. Her blonde twin ponytails were droopy and half-heartedly held up by two different colored rubber bands. The normally baby blue eyes looked gray and dull, with dark circles underneath. Her nails looked stubby and worn as if she’d bitten them, and the orange jumpsuit sagged so much it made her look even smaller.

Mary waited until the guard left to pick up the phone on her side. The phone was heavy and worn with hundreds of hands before Tiffany’s, reminding her of her of the ancient payphone stuck out in the hall of her grandma’s old apartment. “Hello,” Mary greeted, almost making Tiffany jump in her seat. She had a surprisingly normal 30-year-old-woman’s voice. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Uhm, we haven’t,” Tiffany mangled, darting her gaze back at John’s handwriting atop the folder in her lap. “We’re from Moore & Morrison , LLP; I’m Nancy Bolton .” Mary cast a sideways glance at John. “And this is my senior colleague, Joe White .”

Mary gave a little nod, but said nothing.

“We had some questions about your case.” Tiffany flopped open the thick manila folder again, tilting her head to keep the receiver to her shoulder and being mindful not to let Mary see the load of blank paper underneath the important pieces on top. She blinked down and realized she had forgotten she was supposed to use readers. “Certain, um, evidence was recently brought to light.” 

Some life came back into Mary’s round face. “Uh-huh.”

Just as Tiffany adjusted the fake glasses on her nose, the prison door squealed open a second time.

Waylon Jones was a behemoth at what was probably seven and a half feet tall and full of muscle, but unlike Bane, he carried a lightbulb-shaped silhouette. Green scale tattoos ran from the top of his head to the backs of his knuckles, barely leaving any skin below the bumpy browline untouched. Small bulbous implants were raised in rows like a mohawk in place of hair.

Tiffany had seen his picture, but to call him ‘intimidating’ in person was seriously undercutting it.

Mary turned to look, too, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Crocy!” she squealed in delight.

Waylon’s shaved eyebrows rose. It kind of looked like he said her name, but Tiffany couldn’t hear.

Mary practically bounced in her seat as the guard led him next to hers. Instead of taking his handcuffs off, the guard went to the opposite corner to cross his arms and keep his eyes trained on Waylon’s back.

“How are they treating you on the other side?” Waylon asked, his voice rough and raspy. Tiffany could see that his teeth had all been filed down into points.

“I’m alright,” she answered, still talking in a higher register than before, “My cell-pal Mariam looks after me pretty good. What about you?”

Waylon shrugged and picked up the receiver for John’s side. “I’ve been better. What’s this about?”

“I was wondering the same thing! Pulling us out together after five years…” Mary shot Tiffany a look. “The old crowd stopped visiting after the first six months. Our lawyers after the first year.”

John positioned himself to still lean towards her somewhat while talking into his own phone. “As my junior was trying to explain earlier, there’s new evidence in your case,” he explained into the receiver, adjusting his fake glasses as he crossed his legs. “And we’re here on behalf of a…third party who brought it to our attention.”

Mary didn’t seem to have heard that as well.

Tiffany thought back to all the detective shows her mom would watch on summer afternoons during her childhood. Unlike in books, they usually went through the crime step by step before solving it in the climax. It felt like a good way to jog her memory.

“Yeah, as I had said earlier, your case has new evidence.” Tiffany pretended to skim over the paper in her lap. “According to your statement, you hit Mr. Uslan with a whisky decanter?”

“That’s right,” Mary answered in her normal voice. 

“You claimed self-defense, but they still charged you with murder-two.” She took off the glasses. “Can you walk me through what happened?”

Mary stared at her. “Isn’t it all in there?”

It was. Attempted sexual assault, self-defense blow to the head, running for help and solace, covered up the murder the best way they knew how to preserve what they could of their lives…

She could hear John next to her:  “Such a strange thing, not pleading temporary insanity for you… It’s not like there aren’t other cannibalism cases in Arkham. I’d have thought your line about ‘not wanting to waste meat’ would’ve been a cincher. I guess the media’s shock-and-awe story really pulled one over on you, huh?” 

(Ah. Treating him like a victim.)

“I know what the police wrote happened,” Tiffany said, “I know what the journalists scraped together. And I know what you told the court, Mary,” she added softly, “But you also tried to take the blame for everything at first, even after Mr. Jones tried to do the same for you. I need to know exactly what happened so this new evidence makes more sense.”

Those blue doll-like eyes welled with something like hope. “Do you think,” she mumbled into the receiver, “I might…be innocent? I could get out?”

She felt bad getting her hopes up like this when there was an ultra-slim chance she could even do anything. Maybe if she got a confession out of the real perpetrator, it would mean something, but… “It’s…possible,” she answered, “Our, er, client has, uh… What you’d call a ‘reputable stance’ with the justice system.”

Mary’s eyebrows rose, and she darted her eyes over to Waylon and the guard in the corner, then at the inmates on the other side of the room. “Are you talking about The Batman?” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

She sure as hell wasn’t going to answer that. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Mary searched her face, but couldn’t seem to get anything from Tiffany’s expression. “Okay,” she pouted, her ponytails almost seeming to droop, “I get it. Client confidentiality and all that. I mean, I’d be surprised if it was; he probably would’ve busted us up too, back then… Even worse than the cops. I hear all kinds of stuff about him around here.”

She didn’t really want to let Batman’s name be dragged like that. He could be rough, but she’d never seen him do anything unnecessary. “I don’t think he’s so bad. From what I hear, anyway,” she interjected as casually as possible. “At least with his track record, I think he would’ve solved your case much faster. You might not have even been here for this long. Gotten assault and battery, maybe conspiracy.”

Mary looked much more interested. “This evidence of yours… Why would my little case have something new after all these years, anyway?”

In this case, honesty is the best policy, as her mother always said. “A print that came up in your case’s evidence log showed up elsewhere recently.”

Her little blonde eyebrows rose curiously, then settled into a furrow as she stared at the table between them. Her gaze shifted to Waylon. “Will it help Croc, too?” she asked hopefully.

She doubted that. But John had evidently heard that, or else could read her lips - he nudged her calf, and when she glanced over at him, he was spelling out ‘say yes’ with his fingers under the tabletop as Waylon said something about police brutality. 

“It could reduce Mr. Jones’ sentence.”

Mary smiled a fraction and jiggled like she kicked her legs in her seat. “That was his name in the circus, y’know - ‘Killer Croc’. Some southern guy called me ‘Babydoll’ once and everyone found it so funny they wouldn’t stop imitating him for weeks until it just stuck. Though,” she leaned back, smiling over at her companion, “you’re the only one who can call me that now, huh, Crocy?”

Waylon looked over at her mid-sentence, sighing with the type of mild annoyance that didn’t seem very heartfelt. “...you can’t just say ‘Croc’, can ya?”

Mary gave something of a giggle. “Cause I know you won’t stop me.”

“Only ‘cause if you were anyone else, I’d crush ya,” he rasped, making a squishing motion with his hands like he was crushing an oversized cola can, “like this, and throw ya into the bin where you belong.”

Mary beamed and giggled. It must have been some inside joke. (Though John was hiding a smile behind his hand, too.)

Tiffany really wanted to get to the point. “Um, Mary…”

“Oh, sorry - where was I? The circus! So you know I was hired on to be ‘the’ audience member. Any dangerous act - fire, electric eels, knife throwing - I was the pick a lot of the time. Crocy started before me,” she explained, her voice only going higher on the silly nickname. “Part freak show, part strong-man. He used to wrestle crocodiles in a pit.”

“Until those animal welfare assholes got involved,” Waylon grumbled distantly.

“Right. But we had our own trailers. Not much, but homey.”

“Waylon,” John interjected politely, “could you move the receiver between you two? I’d like to hear her side.”

Waylon gave a grunt that sounded a bit like an alligator’s, mouthing something like ‘fine’, his lip curling to show off the teeth filed down into points. But he moved the phone between the booths anyway.

Mary continued. “So I finish my volunteer act with the magician’s drowning trick, and I have to slink out with the audience members in case someone gets wise - and this guy follows me. At first I think it’s just some townie who’s trying to see if I’m my ‘real’ age, so I throw him off by visiting the stalls, going into the funhouse, stuff like that. But…” Her face fell. “He bumped into me on purpose. Picked up my popcorn and asked if my parents worked here. Said he liked my act and wanted to use it. I didn’t really know what to say.”

Tiffany supposed she wouldn’t, either. “Did you invite him to your trailer?”

“No,” Mary said sternly, “I ran away. I thought I lost him, but he followed me to my trailer and just strolled in like he owned the place, talking up some show he was making and how he could use a child actress who could ‘turn off the waterworks’. Said I could have a ‘great future in television’ if I played my cards right…”

Her face scrunched up into a dark, world-weary expression, and her voice had gotten quieter. “I told him what I was. Then I told him to fuck off. And then he tried to…you know.”

She understood completely. “I know. It’s okay.”

John made some gesture, and Waylon’s phone was pressed to Mary’s ear. “Had he been drinking?” he asked, seeming somewhat sympathetic.

“He’d helped himself to my whiskey.” Her voice was growing frail. “It was on my dressing table. He wasn’t the first to try it on with me… Just the first to…”

Waylon yanked the phone away from her. “You don’t have the right to ask that,” he growled, just audible over Tiffany’s line.

“Sure I do,” John said not very smoothly, “Any court-jockey fresh from the bar is going to ask her that. It doesn’t mean I think she lead him on or something,” he added with a barely disguised frown.

Mary tugged on the retractable cord, and Waylon reluctantly put it back in the middle. “He tried to pin me to the table. I wasn’t thinking about it,” she said softly, “I just grabbed what was closest and swung.”

She was silent for a moment. Tiffany felt it best not to press onto the next point.

“When I realized… I dropped the bottle and ran. I only got six trailers down when Waylon saw me.”

“I checked it out,” Waylon grunted. “He was dead alright. Bleeding right into the floor.”

“Did you see anyone else around the trailer park?” Tiffany asked as gently as possible.

Mary sighed. “I don’t think so…”

John bounced his crossed leg. “How about you, Waylon? Anybody you didn’t recognize? Or even anyone you did?”

Waylon grunted in annoyance, lip curling to show teeth, and leaned back to look at the ceiling. “It was five years ago, how am I supposed to remember?”

“Because you lived in a tight-knit community, and you know everyone – at least enough to recognize the crew and the regulars – and your friend’s just come to you in a panic,” John suggested, having leaned back and now tapping his fingers in a rhythm on the phone. “They killed a guy, and now all you can think about is making sure no one else saw it. So you race across the trailer park, panic thumping in your chest, eyes darting around each and every corner…”

Tiffany redirected her attention to Mary as Waylon screwed up his face in genuine thought. “What about before you entered your trailer that evening?” she tried. “You must’ve been looking out for that creep following you, right?”

Mary tucked her fist into her cheek. “I don’t know… I saw Stu, he runs the shooting gallery…”

Waylon sighed. “I can’t remember.”

John motioned for Tiffany to come closer. “Quick side-bar with my junior, won’t be a moment!”

Tiffany stood and followed his example of turning his back to the glass. “What? You heard them, neither of them remember.”

“Of course they don’t, we haven’t shown them the suspects yet,” John whispered, “Did you print those? I don’t have them in my little case.”

“No, I thought you said you would!”

John looked away with a low hiss as if he’d hurt himself somehow. “Oh boy. Failed on that bit of communication… But that’s okay! We can use my phone.” Tiffany bit her tongue to stop herself from asking just who had failed here. It would be dumb to argue in front of their ‘clients’. “They might get desperate and try to corroborate on the last one, so mix up the order when I pass it to you, okay?”

“Desperate?”

“They’re in prison,” he stressed with a raised eyebrow, “Around the clock monitoring, crappy living conditions, violent tension constantly boiling under everyone’s skin – and unlike Arkham, they don’t get to talk it all out with a licensed therapist. If you stayed here for several years and someone said there was a tiiiiiny chance you could leave, would you want to just let it go?”

…probably not. She didn’t want to imagine having to stay here in the visiting room much longer, let alone live there. “It certainly doesn’t seem to be doing them any good.”

“Exactly! Ok, round two,” he hushed with a smile and a little thumb’s up. “Alright, Waylon,” he said normally, pushing up the fake glasses as he resumed his seat. “I’m going to show you some pictures, and you tell me if anyone looks familiar.”

“Nope.” Swipe. “Hah, what a mug. He could be in my pit.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’...”

Swipe. “Hm… Dunno.”

Tiffany took the phone from him, careful not to touch anything to trigger it returning to home. (She didn’t care to see an almost naked Bruce like last time.) She decided to try the last picture first.

Mary’s eyes widened gradually until Tiffany was sure they would pop out of her face. “I’ve seen him before!”

But where? “In the trailer park?”

“He was in the audience,” she said with a growing excitement. She reached over and gently shook Waylon’s arm. “He sat right behind me!”

In a flash, the all-but-forgotten guard in the corner sprung into action and pushed them apart. His call of “No touching!” fell on deaf ears.

“The spotlights hit back there!” she said excitedly, her pitch rising. “I remember because he looked so bored!”

Tiffany looked back at the picture of Garfield Lynns. “Mary,” Tiffany thought aloud, “when you left the trailer, you didn’t check for a pulse, right? How did you know Ben Uslan was dead?”

Her excitement settled somewhat, but she still had the shining hope in her eyes. “He was still. Real still.”

“And he was bleeding? Was it pooling underneath him?”

“Um. I…” she trailed off, cradling her chin in the space between her thumb and index finger. “I don’t remember.”

Waylon snorted. “It’s like I said, lady, you could’ve gone swimming in it.”

“And Mary - you only struck once?” 

Mary nodded. 

So a calculated second strike from Garfield. Talk about tough glass… Or a lucky hit.

“Well, Nancy,” John smiled knowingly over at her, “looks like we’re going to have to make a call.”

Mary sat up and leaned towards the glass like they were friends having a private conversation at a restaurant. “Can you tell me - what’ll happen now?”

“Well, uh…” Tiffany fumbled for something. She couldn’t leave her with nothing - not when she looked like such a wreck, and she was innocent of murder - but giving her false hope felt wrong. “We’ll have to talk to our client…”

“But,” John added on his end, “we should be able to pass everything along through the system. The wheels of justice spin slow, as the saying goes! But you’ll probably get a hearing.”

He was making promises he couldn’t keep. She almost wanted to kick him. No board or judge would look at them and their rap sheet and just send them on their way!

“They do look at all records,” Tiffany stressed, closing the prop file. “They’re not exactly lenient, in our experience.”

John chuckled a little too loudly. “Ain’t that the truth! But I’m sure you kids will behave.” He glanced at his cell phone in mock-surprise. “Ooh, would you look at the time! Gotta run - people to see, cases to settle!”

Waylon didn’t bother with formalities, but Mary seemed to want to say something, so Tiffany waited.

“Thanks for seeing me about all this,” Mary said in her normal voice. “Things have never been easy for me. Especially here… But this…well, makes me think that something might turn around for once.”

Tiffany swallowed the guilt that came with Mary’s grateful smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Come on, Nance, we don’t want to be late,” John excused for her, trying to guide her away by the shoulder. The little click that came with hanging up the two-way handset felt strangely heavy. The feeling sat with her as she glanced behind her to see Mary being re-cuffed to be lead back to her cell.

John was practically vibrating with excitement, shaking her still-held shoulder the moment the visiting room door was closed. “We did it!” he squealed, pumping his fist, “We’re gonna nail this guy!”

How was he so excited? How did he deal with just lying to Mary’s face about their chances? Was it really all those years in Arkham…? Was it just experience?

John’s wide grin was not quite a face-splitter. “And you! You did great!” He slowed their stride a half step back from the guard in charge of walking them back and ducked his head down to her ear. “Bats is gonna be so proud of us,” he whispered.

Mary’s hopeful smile gnawed at her. It didn’t seem like anything to be proud of.

His arm slipped off of her. “Come on, kiddo, you just solved a five-year-old murder! Aren’t you excited?”

There wasn’t any point in lying about it, and she seriously doubted he would let the subject go. “Not really.”

“Hey, uh, is there someplace my partner and I can talk alone?” John asked the guard escorting them to the elevator.

“Yeeeah,” the guard grunted, “Outside.”

“Well, can you just give us a minute alone?”

The guard held up his card for the RFID reader by the elevator doors. “You got thirty seconds after the ‘ding’. That’s enough for you.”

John waited until the doors were closing to bite back:  “I bet your wife says the same thing!” The elevator gave a tinny ding as it began to descend. “Jerk. Okay, what’s wrong?”

“I just spent ten minutes telling a prisoner they could get out of there,” she answered, hearing the bite in her own voice, “when they don’t even have a chance.”

“Sure they do,” John puzzled.

“It doesn’t matter how much evidence we have, John, we can’t submit anything and magically get them off the hook! We’re not real lawyers!”

John hit the emergency stop button with a ballpoint pen, causing the elevator to jolt and stop with a hefty clunk. “You’ve been at this longer than I have,” he said coolly, staring down at her, “Do you actually want Mary to get free?”

She knew he wasn’t going to start the elevator back up until she answered. If it even could start back up. Either way, Tiffany was stuck.

Mary was technically innocent. And incredibly pitiable. A woman in a perpetually-seven-year-old body would have an extremely limited choice of career even without the criminal record. It was unlikely that anyone even vaguely familiar with those news broadcasts covering her case would forget them, rescinded charges or not.

Unlike her. Tiffany’s very real charges had been swept under the rug, all because Batman thought her worthy of a second chance. No one knew she’d killed the Riddler outside of their little group. No one at all knew how long she’d planned it for. No one knew how she’d gotten Barbara to give a tour of her ambulance for the sole purpose of taking some of the powerful drugs they stored for the occasional Arkham escapee, how much she’d researched them to find the most lethal combination, how she’d looked at the tranquilizer gun the dark web dealer had brought to her no-questions-asked and told herself that what she was doing was right.

She could’ve so easily been put into Mary’s situation, and she would’ve gone to as much effort to cover it up.

“Yeah,” Tiffany lamented, “I guess I do. But that’s not the point.”

John finally loosened back up and put away the pen he’d been clicking away at. “Then what is? Come on, Tiffy, you’re one of the four most intelligent people in the city,” he said as if he were scolding a kitten, “Life dealt her a bad hand, just like it did me. And you would’ve had it, too, if Batman weren’t around… But since he is, and we’re here for him now, I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Besides, since when has Batman ever slept on a weird murder case?”

Hah. “Never since I’ve known him.”

Tiffany’s balance shook with the elevator as the floor rattled under her feet with a dull thudding sort of boom. She steadied herself against the metal railing, bracing for a snapping sound or sudden drop, but nothing more happened than the lights blinking.

“I hope that wasn’t what it sounded like,” John grumbled from the corner he’d half-fallen into.

The elevator hadn’t moved, but the service light had turned red. They were stuck. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“...you want to go look?”

“Well we can’t just wait around here,” Tiffany stressed, putting her hands on her hips the same way her mom did when she wanted to take charge. “Even if it wasn’t an explosion, they’re bound to find out who we really are if we stay in here.”

“Good point,” John muttered. “I’d hate to think of what sentence I’d get…”

The access panel was sitting pretty in the leftmost corner, but Tiffany was too short to reach it and there was no bar to climb on. “You think you can get me up there?”

John eyed the panel. “Yeah. You want to be lifted up, or sit on my shoulders?”

Either way sounded embarrassing. “Shoulders.”

“Aha hee hee! What, you think I’ll drop you?” he teased, squatting down and pointing uselessly to his back, “I’ve carried Batman one-handed! Dislocated my shoulder, sure,” he continued as she took her position and tried to focus on the latch, “but even if I hadn’t done it so many times before, it was worth it!”

Tiffany’s head scraped the ceiling as she pushed and jiggled the stubborn latch. It didn’t appear to be used often. If ever. She wished she had some of that spray-on oil from her bike’s trunk.

“You know, we could tower over Bruce like this. Give him a good smack-down... Or just dunk on him, ha ha!”

Now there’s a thought. She slammed her palms into the corners of the door, finally popping it open with a metal squeal. “We smacked down a door, in any case.”

She climbed up onto the dusty metal roof, John holding her legs steady and only giving an oof when her kitten heel dug into his shoulder. It was dark up there, but she could see the door for the second floor and the maintenance button panel by the door. All they had to do was climb some. And pray a trigger-happy guard wasn’t on the other side.

“So, are you going to help me up, or…?”

“Naaah. I think I’ll leave you down there, get some quiet time,” she joked, squatting on the super-dusty roof. At least these aren’t my clothes, she thought. 

“Veeery funny, missy.” John propped one foot up on the slick metal wall as he grabbed her outstretched forearms, only looking mildly annoyed. “Leave the jokes to the professionals.”

She pulled, muscle straining as her shoulders and torso tried to bear the weight. She could lift quite a bit of weight for someone who was merely a computer-geek-who-occasionally-went-to-a-gym sixteen months ago, but holy shit, for such a thin guy, he sure felt heavy.

Tiffany barely managed to get him up, partially helped by John scrambling to get one of his legs through the hole. John’s landing immediately stirred up a swirl of dust.

It was easy to climb up the pole towards the door; the bolts holding them in place acted as decent footholds. 

“Ugh, surrounded by dust, rat droppings, and archaic walls,” he said between coughs as he followed her up on the opposing side, “Just like the old homestead.”

“Yeah, but at least the electronics aren’t as old,” Tiffany offered, patting the access panel door. “As long as the RFID scanner is hardwired in, I can connect to it and trick it into opening the door for us.” She pulled out her spool-keychain of cable connectors, gripping the old pole on the wall with one hand. “It’s why I never leave without my master key.”

John gave an appreciative ‘ooh’. “Neat! But, uh, wouldn’t it be easier to just try and pry the door open?”

Tiffany sadly pocketed her key cable. “...yeah, I guess.”

Thankfully she could reach her half without too much of a strain on her shoulder. John seemed to have no trouble.

“On three,” she said. “One, two…pull!”

The elevator doors squealed in protest for the first two inches, then slid open with a little thunk so fast that Tiffany almost slipped.

They were back on the third floor. The rude guard was nowhere to be seen.

“Everyone must have started running towards the noise,” Tiffany noted aloud amongst the eerie quiet, checking the walls for security cameras.

“At least we know they can’t take the elevator.”

Tiffany ducked her head as they left the empty shaft, trying to keep as much of her face away from the camera positioned above the elevator. “This prison has what, five stories?”

John turned his face towards the inner wall like he knew just what he was looking for. “Yeah, and according to Bats’ notes from this morning, it’s got a weird layout - the cell blocks are five stories high! And it’s split so the women’s block was put on the opposite side. Thankfully.”

“Wait, so the cells start downstairs?” Tiffany stopped. “That’s probably where the explosion came from!”

John gave a short laugh. “I don’t know about you, bird-girl, but I heard it from above. I’d bet a cell wall got blown out. And while everyone’s trying to patch up the hole and chase whoever left,” he explained, “it leaves the front door a bit more accessible.”

“That’s stupid, they’d still have to go through the guards!”

“Unless…” John paused, stopping in the middle of the hall to look up like he could see through the ceiling. “I think the medical center is on the fourth floor.”

“What does that have to…”

It hit Tiffany, suddenly, that the majority of focus would shift to wherever the explosion took place. It wasn’t about blasting open a wall to escape. 

“It’s a distraction.”

“Bingo! Nothing gets attention like a medical emergency!”

Tiffany whipped out her phone and launched the network scanner. As she had guessed, the network the nearby camera was on was under heavy security. It would take more time to chip at it directly than to crack into one of the on-network cell phones and piggy back on it. She turned on her sniffer application. “Security was on the second floor, right?” she asked, dashing towards the corner. Peeking around and seeing no one, she made a bee-line for the stairs and just turned the handle to open it a crack. 

Heavy footsteps and shouts echoed down with a blaring fire alarm. No one was rushing up towards them, but it sounded like people were running downstairs as well.

“Come on,” she whispered, slipping through. They wouldn’t guard the stairs, she thought, No one would be trying to go up instead of out. It should be safe.

She peeked over the railing - one last guard, struggling to tug on a riot gear vest, was following a line of people down. They were smart enough to try and cover their bases with the cell door now, at least.

John, who had the uncanny ability to walk as quietly as Bruce, looked oddly nervous as they made their way down. 

Tiffany stopped at the second-floor door. It was way too risky to go in, considering the likelihood of more guards, but the thick metal was stopping her signal.

“What are you doing?!” John hissed as she cracked open the door.

“I need to get access to the feed,” she answered in the quietest voice she could muster. “Otherwise we could walk right into them down there. And we can see who’s trying to break out.”

“We can find that part out on the news,” John muttered, unnecessarily holding onto a fistful of her jacket like she was going to try and make a break for it.

The sniffer program found a headway - someone’s cell phone was broadcasting bluetooth. Tiffany connected to it, running her script to bypass authorization and keep her own identifying addresses scrambled. Her packet sniffer hit gold:  pre-saved network ID and key in the settings, ready and waiting for her to take.

Now all she had to do was login to the network and fish around for a camera’s connection. Easy enough to do in her sandbox. She closed the door and started it up; John still looked like he was listening for the slightest reason to run.

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” John said in a hush.

“I doubt they’ll try and come up,” she whispered back, “And look, I got it!” 

Once she had one camera’s IP, it was easy to guess the rest. They were all in sequential order, and easy to flick through the visual feeds when you knew how - and Tiffany had long since perfected this. 

The fourth floor cameras showed a troupe of security personnel, guns at the ready, flowing through the floor in an effort to stop anyone from escaping. A frightened doctor and a couple of nurses could be seen planted against a wall like prisoners. Smoke was ebbing into view from the blast, which seemed to have taken out nothing more than one of the doors. A man pried open one of the elevators, flocked by more armed guards.

The first floor showed nothing at first. A quiet corner. An empty stair entry. A smeared streak of black. Nothing but three guards around B-block. Another smear of black, this time actively being sprayed on the screen.

And then chaos. Around the corner from what she presumed was another cell block was an all-out fight between several guards and prisoners, with guards’ riot shields being battered by what could’ve been a group of line-backers on a football field. Prisoners were snatching at what she could only hope were rubber-bullet guns.

Tiffany got a glimpse of the letter ‘C’ by the numbers on one of the jumpsuits. She didn’t recognize any of the faces.

Still. Two cameras being manually blacked out. That wasn’t good.

“Time to go,” John pressed, tugging her arm along.

“John!” She nearly tripped down the steps with him. “Let go! I can run!”

“Well then hurry the hell up!”

Noise hit them like a ton of bricks as soon as they entered the first floor hallway. Shouts. Gunfire. Thuds like people hitting the wall or floor.

John took the lead, uncharacteristically serious looking like he was channeling Bruce. (Or, knowing him, he was deliberately trying for Batman.) He flattened himself against a wall as Tiffany swiped between cameras trying to find themselves. “See anything?”

A guard with a completely vacant looking face was spraying something up at the camera lens to block it off. Tiffany very quickly swiped to the next one, showing the back of him just out of screen. A thin orange pant leg could be seen next to him. “These must be on the other side,” she noted aloud. “Someone is breaking out of the women’s prison!”

“Oh, great - but I meant near us!”

“I’m getting there!” She swiped again and again. “Whoever they are, they’re being helped by a guard.”

Finally, she saw the back of her own wig in view. One more swipe. 

She tugged him back just as a guard smacked down on the floor, a gunshot ricocheting off the walls and ringing in her ears. It had hit them in the body armor vest, stunning them - and the very real hole left behind told Tiffany everything she needed to know about the situation.

It was her turn to pull John along, the after-burn image of the prisoner aiming the rifle sticking in her mind’s eye. She ran as fast as she could while several more shots and a smarmy ‘How do you like me NOW?’ bellowed behind them.

John let out a laugh, which he very quickly stifled. “Bad time for theatrics!” he said among what she really hoped were nervous giggles.

Tiffany stopped to peek around the corner - the A-Block door was shut tight, with the red light above the lock remaining steady and no guard placed outside.

We should be circling back around to the ‘bridge’ separating the two halves of the prison, she thought as she tugged John along into the empty hall.

The squeal of old metal hinges pierced the air, causing them both to halt in their tracks. Someone had taken the other set of stairs down.

Before she could blink John had grabbed her by the back of her collar and yanked her through the nearby bathroom door. The automatic light flickered on before John could slap his hand over the automatic sensor.

Tiffany could hear her heart pounding like a drum as the light buzzed and went dark. It felt too much like a movie where the only candle on set was blown out. Only the setting was more like one of the lockdown drills she’d gone through in school:  lights out, take cover, keep quiet. 

But her mind drifted to the roster of criminals in Batman’s rogue gallery. Bruce had always drilled it into her head to be prepared for anything. So she sank to the floor, pressed her ear to the wall, and very slowly opened the door a crack.

 “Are you fucking kidding? We came all this way! This is our chance to really leave this piss-hole!”

Waylon. Tiffany froze. The glimpse she had showed he had broken the handcuffs’ chains from earlier and had stolen a rifle. Blood was lightly spattered on his rolled up sleeves.

“I can’t,” Mary’s voice answered slowly, not at all in her girlish pitch from when she talked to him before. “Then they’ll never let me out.”

Tiffany dared to widen the gap a little more, spotting Mary standing without so much as a bruise.

“Waylon,” she emphasized almost softly, “we finally have a real chance. One where we don’t have to think about looking over our shoulders or walking on eggshells every day. Don’t you want that?”

There was a moment of silence, peppered among distant ricocheting gunfire. Then a great sigh. “Maybe.” A short pause. “I really fucked things up, huh?”

“Just a bit. But it’s okay. I’ll just go back and pretend I was hiding.” Her voice rose into that childish pitch that matched her face: “I was soooo scared! I almost got trampled on! Waaaah!”

He laughed, deep and guttural like his nickname’s sake. “I almost forgot how good you were at that.” 

Mary giggled. Tiffany wished she could see better. 

“You should go,” he added. “I’ll go back up before someone sees.”

A loud shot and a thump came from further down the hall, accompanied by footsteps. “Ah, and there he is - just the man I was looking for! On your way out, eh, Waylon? Good thing I caught ya.”

Tiffany didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but Waylon said it clearly enough:  “What do you want, Oz?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Oswald “The Penguin” Cobblepot said smoothly in his weird British accent, “it’s about what we all want. Liberation. And we can’t get there without a little help from the community, can we?”

Tiffany heard more muffled gunshots from somewhere.

“And I’m thinkin’ - if you’re already on the way out, why don’t we all continue this little break out together? I could use a guy like you!”

“...no thanks,” Waylon answered gruffly, “I’m not really serious about breakin’ out.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Oswald said in annoyance. “You’re literally armed to the teeth. Are you really just havin’ a… Oh,” he suddenly punctuated a know-it-all way, “I get it. You got that visitor earlier. You ‘n’ your little partner in crime think you can walk. Who’d you get, Matlock?”

Tiffany could see that Mary moved to stand in front of Waylon.

“Just get out of here, Oz,” the tiny woman said casually, “We’re not about to squeal on you or the goon squad, so what difference does it make?”

“All the difference, sweet-’eart, when you’re fightin’ an overgrown rodent. Though, come to think of it… You could be quite an asset, yourself,” Oswald said contemplatively. “Yeah. Yeah, we could use you.”

“I’m flattered,” Mary said coolly, “but no thanks.”

Oswald had moved; Tiffany could just see his legs in view. “Oh, that’s cute. You think I’m askin’.”

Tiffany could only see a flurry of movement as several people scrambled into a close-quarter fight. Despite the fact that Waylon easily threw two of whom she assumed were the ‘goon squad’ to the floor, he still wound up freezing in place at Mary’s shriek.

“Oh-kay, here’s the deal, Croc, ol’ boy!” Oswald said, completely out of view, “You come along nicely and I won’t give the wall a new coat of paint with her brains. Sound good?”

Tiffany acted without another thought. The door pulled open several inches. 

“Don’t be stupid!” John hissed, slamming it shut with his foot. He kept it planted there.

“What am I supposed to do, let her get killed?”

“We’re not prepared for this, Tiffany!” he stressed furiously, “We’re outnumbered, out-armed, and not even supposed to be here! You’re a lawyer right now, remember?”

The truth wasn’t drowning out the instinct thrumming in her legs. “Bruce would go!”

“Just because he’s got a hero complex a mile wide- ugh, do you have any idea what he’d do if I let you get hurt?! He’d never forgive me!” 

As her eyes readjusted, she could tell he was no longer looking at her. Despite his fury a moment ago, it didn’t really match the crushed tone of his voice: “And I’d never forgive myself.”

Tiffany never felt more trapped. “What…are we supposed to do, then?”

John moved, the heels of his shoes clicking past her on the tile. “Wait.”

She didn’t want to. She was practically shaking with the urge to move. 

She felt like a child. She hated this whole shebang, from the pointless violence outside the bathroom door to her stupid trembling limbs in her ugly-ass suit. It didn’t help that John was running the faucet for some reason. Rush, rush, rush, like the adrenaline and guilt pumping through her veins.

It hit Tiffany that surely someone may hear the water, but there was no burst through the door. Outside of her pounding heart it was fairly quiet. 

The door handle felt gross as she slowly pulled it open to peek out. 

She saw drops of blood on the floor, likely from where Waylon had hit Penguin’s men. One body, not moving, but the lack of utter stillness that came with death said he was just unconscious. And bleeding a little.

The unmistakable bang of a gunshot reverberated from down the hall. 

No more waiting - she darted up and out, not caring if John followed, and practically skidded to a halt on sight of the front hallway.

A guard lay over the metal detector. The bullet had penetrated through the neck where the swat armor wasn’t quite high enough to cover. Blood had pooled under him. Tiffany now knew what Waylon had meant when he said she could’ve gone swimming in it.

What was worse was that another was lying in the doorway, slumped body wedged between the metal baseboard and frame, blood actively leaking from the glaring hole in his temple. The whole place stank of copper and black powder.

There came the strange sound of splashing water from behind her - John had followed and dumped a large bucket of something all over the hallway floor, carelessly dropping the bucket before darting back up to her.

“Don’t just run off like that!” John chastised, tucking his handkerchief back in his pocket like it mattered, “You really - oof, talk about a pain in the neck.”

Tiffany was about to tell him to shut up when rapid footsteps echoed up from the opposite side. She dragged him down to the floor by his sleeve as she ducked behind the guard’s stall, trying not to breathe in. 

It was a big woman with brown, straggly hair. She didn’t recognize her, but it was hard to miss the sock-and-buskin tattoo on her neck. Or the blood on her front.

The guard’s bloodstained belt was still loaded with gear. 

Almost on reflex, Tiffany whipped out the nightstick and flung it at the escapee’s head.

Time seemed to slow down before it made contact with a whap. The nameless False Face fell to the ground and made no move to get up.

“Woah! That’s some throwing arm you got there, Tiff’!” John praised with an unnervingly innocent smile for a man kneeling in a pool of blood. “And here I was, thinking you were reaching for the holster.”

“What?! I wasn’t about to shoot her! She wasn’t even armed!”

John’s head tilted like a curious dog. “You mean you didn’t see the piece she was carrying? Left hip pocket, couldn’t miss it.”

Tiffany decided to ignore that. “Ok, whatever! There’s been enough death already!”

She made for the door, looking over the body stuck there. Sure enough, the guard was the same one who had been blacking out the camera lenses. The handgun, pulled from his service belt, was clutched in his fingers. As if he killed himself.

Another shot echoed from somewhere far down the hall. It wasn’t the time or place to theorize.

“John?”

John stepped away from the unconscious woman he was kneeling over, dropping the riot baton and shoving the now-bloody pocket square back into the front of his jacket. “Right, sorry!” With the officer’s blood soaked into the knees of his pants he looked like he’d committed murder. She was very glad he wasn’t his usual pale self; she’d like not to think about Ace Chemicals right now. 

Tiffany had only leaned down to drag the body away from the door when he grabbed her elbow. “Tiffany,” he hissed, “fingerprints!”

Oh. She hadn’t realized until she looked, but her hands had gotten some of the other guard’s blood on them. He was right; if she touched the body, she’d leave a trace of herself.

“Keep the door open, then,” she instructed. “I don’t want the automatic locks to suddenly kick in.”

Tiffany didn’t have a pocket square. Instead the ugly yellow plaid jacket finally came in handy - she palmed the lining between the shoulders and armpits, hoping one of Jackie’s hairs had not somehow stuck in the weaves to transfer to the dead man’s legs as she gently pulled him out of the doorframe.

“Sorry,” she whispered to the poor man as she dropped his legs. She tried not to look at the bloody lump on the glass or the blood spattered on the cheap rubber mat as stepped around the crime scene.

The door shut behind them with a screech of hinges and the heavy thunk of a lock sliding into place.

The sounds of traffic in the distance was so normal. No screeching tires, no gunshots, no breaking glass - and the parking lot was quiet. Horribly, horribly quiet.

“You did good, kiddo,” John told her with a rough clap on the shoulder. “Seriously, you should’ve signed up for the Knights.”

Tiffany didn’t know how much more she could take. “Can you be serious for one goddamn minute?!”

John gave a wild kind of laugh. The kind that didn’t exactly settle her nerves. “Of course! What do you think I was doing back there, girl-wonder?” he grinned. “If it was just me, I wouldn’t have cared!”

She wanted to push him. And hug him. She did neither. “We should be running now!” she half-shouted instead, bolting for her bike as John laughed behind her.

Her legs couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Not when her feet pounded the pavement, not when the blue letters of Mad Machine shined in the sun from the motorcycle’s rear panel, not when she slammed her helmet over the wig, and not when she felt the motor rev to life between her legs. 

John’s weight settled behind her. If it wasn’t for him, she knew she wouldn’t have gotten out of there. 

She also wouldn’t have been in there in the first place, but they would’ve had even less evidence to go on. At least now there was something.

It was gonna be one hell of a long day.

Author Notes:

This took…so much…outta me… I had the first half done for ages and kept stumbling over the second like the world’s biggest klutz. I originally planned on having J+T’s talk in the parking lot, interrupted with the explosion, with John wearing his Reponsible Adult™ shoes trying to talk Tiffany out of rushing in. And she had the gall to listen to him, too. I tell ya, I would’ve had this baby done AGES ago if I didn’t go “but :( the audience will miss the dramaaa :(“. I love y’all too much to deprive you.

But it turned out for the better! One of the things I really wanted to do here was show the potential for Agent!Tiffany to make her return. You can only see John if both he and Tiff’ are on your side, but you can get Joker regardless of Tiffany’s allegiance. Naturally, you don’t see anything if Tiffany is imprisoned. But yes, this DOES mean you can see Tiffany interact with the villainous Joker! I tell ya, this is the only story where half of me is ITCHING to see the flipside. After all, John is always a great manipulator, isn’t he? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Those familiar with BtAS know of Babydoll and her whopping 2 episodes. Poor gal came in with one of the best and most critically praised episodes of the series and left with a boring redesign and a lucky bare mention or two in comics since. Croc, on the other hand, has been around for a real long time and is still used today, though his design and exact origins vary a lot. I decided to give both a good ol’ Telltale refresh, with Croc’s look very heavily influenced by a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not TV segment that has stuck in my head since childhood, and Babydoll’s stepping away from the Shirley Temple thing. I have little backstories for both of them, but that isn’t relevant to the story so it’d be mere bonus character bio material in the Batcomputer. Which, willpower pending, I might put at the very end of the story. But I’ll happily just tell anyone who asks.

Y’know the prison break plotpoint has been in the works for literal years? When S2 wrapped up in ‘18 and I sat in the den with my laptop that night, thinking over where the game could go next, I pictured an opening with black helicopters flying through the city as Jack Rider’s voice-over told us about multiple escapees from the latest breakout… But I knew that the story would lead us back to Arkham, which could involve fun new villains like Dr. Crane. My thoughts of all the previous games’ baddies running amok were put on the shelf after a while, as I felt the story would be difficult to steer there without making it the size of a coffee-table and I didn’t believe that I could pull it off. Not anymore, ‘cause here we are.

And man, I can’t write without making a joke. Comic fans undoubtedly did the looking-significantly-at-the-camera thing at John’s legal group since it’s a reference to Alan Moore and Grant Morrison (who have both created iconic Batman comics like The Killing Joke, A Serious House on Serious Earth, and Batman RIP). But John chose it because it sounds funny. And for my fellow mystery-readers, Tiffany’s fake name is a mishmash of 2 fictional teen sleuths, Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton. She def read ‘em growing up. I’m partial to the Nancy Drew PC games, myself; the puzzle solving has inspired bits in this series!

And…I know I say it a lot, but I really, REALLY love each and every one of you. The kudos and comments I received during my absence spammed my brain with enough heart emoticons that it would make a twelve year old fangirl tell me I need to chill out. And finding out I had some nice messages on here in my absence...gives me warm fuzzies. 🥺 I am giving you readers the warmest, softest, most loving hug through the monitor as I possibly can. Which I was going to do regardless of this week's...upset, but y'know. It's super, super tender now.

Thank you for enjoying my work, even after all this time. We’ll persevere together. ❤️

[bluesidedown]

.

[news24h]

The Story of Isaac: A Emaciated Man's Dream in Africa

In many regions of Africa, famine continues to ravage lives, robbing millions not only of their meals but also of their dreams. Amid this hardship, Isaac, an emaciated man with a heart full of hope, offers a poignant glimpse into the harsh realities he faces and his simple dream of a satisfying meal. Isaac lives in a small village in Ethiopia, where the arid land fails to sustain its…

[tayasui-mono]

I think my favourite concept in Dunmeshi is that... There is an urgency in most of us to sacrifice our peace of mind when push comes to shove. Perhaps to worry means that you care about the emergency at hand (whatever level of emergency that is subjectively) and we pinpoint focus on the task and everything else disappears. Our sleep and diet patterns change even though these activities are pivotal for our dopamine systems and functionally make us feel healthier and help us think clearer. It's self-punishing, the "grind" so to speak: to persevere we have to forget the self and think solely of the object.

But Dunmeshi doesn't let you get away with that. These people's friend is captive in a monster's body, their world is literally ending, and still they sit down to eat. To eat is to live. Only living things eat and it is the privilege of the living. Yes, there is a crisis. Yes they are upset and heartbroken and distressed. But they still focus on the food: the very thing that sustains you and gives you energy to think, to move, to keep going. A moment of gratitude offered to life by actually, consciously indulging in it. They aren't bad people for eating while Falin's suffering, no. It is simply unfeasible to give parts of yourself to a situation while hoping to gain twice as much back. Just take the time to make food, think about how delicious it looks, and eat. Even if you fail, you need to eat. Even if you succeed, you need to eat. You need to live life no matter what. You need to enjoy it no matter what. It is never "inappropriate" to just live your life.

[mephxles]

can you tell square enix and capcom have me in a chokehold

[luna-azzurra]

A List of (Positive) Character Traits / Strengths 

⊹ Loyalty ⊹ Kindness ⊹ Honesty ⊹ Courage ⊹ Patience ⊹ Generosity ⊹ Empathy ⊹ Humility ⊹ Integrity ⊹ Determination ⊹ Compassion ⊹ Forgiveness ⊹ Fairness ⊹ Gratitude ⊹ Optimism ⊹ Creativity ⊹ Resourcefulness ⊹ Wisdom ⊹ Self-awareness ⊹ Perseverance ⊹ Open-mindedness ⊹ Assertiveness ⊹ Respectfulness ⊹ Supportiveness ⊹ Confidence ⊹ Responsibility ⊹ Self-discipline ⊹ Adventurousness ⊹ Emotional intelligence ⊹ Dependability ⊹ Flexibility ⊹ Humor ⊹ Thoughtfulness ⊹ Tolerance ⊹ Passion ⊹ Willingness to grow ⊹ Leadership ⊹ Focus ⊹ Honorable ⊹ Protective ⊹ Strong moral code ⊹ Calm under pressure ⊹ Nurturing ⊹ Good listener ⊹ Gentle ⊹ Charismatic ⊹ Hardworking ⊹ Cooperative ⊹ Idealistic ⊹ Brave ⊹ Fair-minded ⊹ Hopeful ⊹ Curious ⊹ Tactful ⊹ Generative (inspiring, mentoring, teaching others) ⊹ Loyal friend ⊹ Protective sibling energy ⊹ Unshakable in crisis

@thelemonador5000 :)

[ranoshfamily]

🚨Emergency🚨

Help Rana’s family toleave Gaza before it too late

Hello humanities 🤗🤗

Please read this as if I'm a member of your family . maybe your sister, daughter or a friend and as if my family who's under death now is yours.

"I am a computer Engineer and Mom for 3 children from Gaza , Rana Hassan Alabsi, with a strong ambition and perseverance. Over the past 10 years, I've worked tirelessly, I've dedicated myself to my family, working hard, planning, building my career. Despite facing challenges, I became a well-known professional engineer in Gaza.

 

Unfortunately, my life has been upside down since Oct ,Since that particular day, thousands of innocent lives have been lost in Gaza, many of innocent people lost their works and the only source of income like me.

Me and my childrens 1 of them, he is10 years old with downsyndrom and need a safer place and health care to still a live, left our home under the continuous bombardment and artillery strikes, on foot, without carrying with us our personal supplies, clothes, or Even our money, heading from Gaza to Deir al-Balah. There in Deir al-Balah we lived the most difficult days of our lives in a shelter with scarce resources, sleeping on the ground.

Without covers, without drinking a healthy water, then we moved to Khan Yunis after the intensification of the strikes and bombing, Then we moved to Rafah in the hope that we would find safety there or find a way out of Gaza to a safe place that we dream of for the future of our children,Let us live a happy, safe life for us and our children, and keep them away from all this pain, destruction, and siege, and spare them from the miserable future that will await them if the situation continues as it is in Gaza.

I come to you with a heavy heart and an urgent call for help. My family are currently caught in the war in Gaza, facing the harsh reality of an escalating crisis. The situation is dire, and I am reaching out for your support to facilitate their safe passage to Egypt. In this moment of desperation, I share the situation where it has taken a toll on their well-being.

This urgent plea is not only for their safety but also for the health of my son, who is facing serious conditions that demand immediate attention.

My family is trapped in an environment where access to necessary medical care is severely limited. The escalating crisis compounds the urgency, especially considering my son's health conditions. Time is of the essence, and we are in a race against it to get him the vital medication and care he desperately needs.

My loved childrens are in a situation beyond their control. The fear in their eyes and the desperation in their hearts are indescribable. I implore you to be a beacon of hope for them, to be the force that guides them to safety. To be honest, the journey to safety comes with a significant financial burden.

We need the money to cover practical costs of transportation, documentation, a place to stay and shelter in and other essentials required for a safe crossing to Egypt. And so that they can take care of other needs once they cross safely. As of late April the evacuation fee ranges between $8,000 and $10,000 per person, before processing and transport fees, and we will pay the higher end of the range since Hayde doesn't have passport. Me and my family asking for 50,000$ based on the following breakdown: an evacuation fee at the Egyptian border of $8,000 - $10,000 per person , $4500 - $5000 per children as each day there is a different price for evacuation fee at the Egyptian border, plus a processing fee of $2,000 per person, $2,000 for transportation, and a 2.9% commission fee.

Any amount raised beyond the total will be used to supplement me & my family lives as refugees in Egypt. Your donation, no matter how small, will make an impact. You will be contributing to getting my family to safety. The funds will be used transparently and every dollar will go towards securing our evacuation.

Please share this campaign widely to help us reach our goal and bring my family to safety. Your support means more than you can imagine and I am incredibly grateful for any assistance you can provide during this challenging time. Thank you for your compassion and generosity. Together, we can make change and help my family find the safety and security they need".

instagram account : @help_my2024

My sweaty home before 7th oct

After 7th Oct

Vetted by:

Thank you very much 🌸🌸

@importantt-reblogs , see the Vetted Link

[lovelyzzzz777]

AstroRevelations – Vol. XXI. “The Mask They Admire: Midheaven Signs, Public Image & Career Paths” 💫🔮

Aries MC – The Trailblazer

Seen as bold, straightforward, energetic, even a little intimidating. You don’t wait to be chosen you go. People admire your drive.

Best suited for careers in entrepreneurship, athletics, emergency response, military, leadership roles, or anything fast-paced and high-risk.

Taurus MC – The Steady Star

You give off stability, luxury, and control. People see you as graceful, well-put-together, and dependable.

Careers in finance, beauty, real estate, design, fashion, or music suit your image of consistency and value.

Gemini MC – The Communicator

Perceived as witty, clever, and constantly in motion. Your reputation often revolves around words or ideas.

Fields like writing, media, journalism, teaching, translating, and social media come naturally. (and possibly influencer too)

Cancer MC – The Empathic Leader

You radiate warmth and intuition. People see you as nurturing, protective, and authentic.

Ideal for roles in caregiving, therapy, teaching, food, wellness, or working with children or families.

Leo MC – The Icon

Even when you’re quiet, people expect you to shine. You’re seen as magnetic, influential, and unafraid to be seen.

Public image thrives in entertainment, fashion, the arts, public speaking, or roles with status and visibility.

Virgo MC – The Analyst

Seen as capable, intelligent, precise. People admire your work ethic and calm attention to detail.

Perfect for careers in health, tech, editing, writing, wellness, research, or anything requiring structure.

Libra MC – The Charmer

You’re viewed as graceful, balanced, and diplomatic. You attract admiration without trying too hard.

Great at roles in law, art, fashion, beauty, design, PR, or any job that values aesthetics and fairness.

Scorpio MC – The Enigma

People don’t quite know you and that’s the power. You’re seen as intense, transformative, magnetic.

Careers in psychology, investigation, strategy, crisis management, finance, or anything under the surface.

Sagittarius MC – The Visionary

Public image screams freedom, knowledge, and passion. People see you as someone with strong beliefs.

You thrive in education, travel, spirituality, writing, activism, or anything with a global or expansive reach.

Capricorn MC – The Climber

Seen as responsible, professional, and composed. People expect results from you and you usually deliver.

You fit well in business, politics, finance, architecture, or any path requiring mastery and perseverance.

Aquarius MC – The Revolutionary

You stand out whether you try or not. People see you as future-minded, unique, and socially aware.

Fitting careers include tech, social activism, science, astrology, innovation, or anything that breaks tradition.

Pisces MC – The Dreamweaver

Perceived as creative, mystical, or elusive. You might confuse people , but also inspire them.

Ideal roles involve art, film, healing, spirituality, music, or anything that bridges reality with imagination.

[astroismypassion]

Scorpio Rising observations coming from a Scorpio Rising

Credit @astroismypassion Tumblr blog

Since Rising sign indicates first part of life, Scorpio Rising often had crises early in life. A lot of them and these events change their identity profoundly, resulting in "shedding skin". Psychologically, they become a new person.

They are shape-shifters, but not in a chameleon like way that Libra Rising is, but they shapeshift their energy. Not their emotions, identity, just energy. Usually is done out of self-perseverance and survival so that they could survive in dangerous, hostile or unwelcoming environments.

They have great intuition and gut feeling (when they listen to it!), but you can argue so does Cancer, Pisces etc. Which they do! Scorpio Rising seems to merge their subconscious with the darker undercurrents of a room or a person. And this makes them a great listener, psychotherapist, friend, counsellor or just someone who gives advice.

They often have this aura that sexually they appear very independent and free. Regardless of orientation, Scorpio risings often don’t conform to typical gender norms or sexual norms. Even if they are private or modest, people sense something primal or taboo around them. You could have hard time guessing what they are into sexually or at least would always be surprised. That's why they don't go for "types" in dating, but are open to a much bigger spectrum.

Early in life, they are pulled in situations where betrayal happens, not to them or Scorpio Rising doing it, but they witness it by parents, friends, other couples. They usually see the consequences of betrayal early on and it affects their character greatly, wanting to rise above it. Which is way a lot of them end up really strict with loyalty.

They often survive at least one major ego death in a lifetime. It was caused either by career, a significant relationship, marriage etc. They go through literal or symbolic deaths (a major loss, reinvention, identity crisis) that strips their personality down to the bone. They resurrect themselves repeatedly despite being painful and hard.

They have compulsion to control first impressions. They hyper-focus on how they appear to others, but not for validation, like Leo Rising, but for control. They like to appear unreadable.

They facial expressions reveal very little. That's why when they smile or try to be more expressive in their adulthood, it can seem forced at times. They were in hostile situations as children, where they had to show very little emotion on their face, because it would get them in trouble.

Many of their relationships are fated and karmic. Might have more luck much later in life, well after 40. They attract transformative relationships, even friendships, but mostly partnerships. People they attract force them to confront control issues or crack open their heart through betrayal or loss. They attract people who pull them into karmic, sometimes obsessive, relationship dynamic.

Every major relationship evolves or destroys them. So their connections are never light or casual. But there is also a huge lesson for them there boundaries are not betrayal. They are the preservation of sacred energy between people.

They love to control how they come across to others, but they have no problem not being liked. They are here to break the illusions and catalyze change in others.

Secretly, they crave the type of connection that is so intimate that breaks them open and rebuilds them. Rebuilds them into a kinder version, someone more joyful, calm, peaceful, content.

Scorpio Rising often feels exhausted by small talk or being in a shallow environment, for example where there is gossip. And they get bored in crowds or with social media very easily. They prefer real life interactions over social media with their friends and loved ones.

Others sense that being around Scorpio Rising means change. Some will avoid them because they're not ready for change. Others will cling to them as if they’re the only one who sees them.

Scorpio Rising often unconsciously hold the emotional baggage or secrets of their family, social circle or their partnership.

It's ironic though, how others vent to Scorpio Rising, but then end up resenting them.

They often carry emotional undercurrents people refuse to name, such as shame, rage or trauma.

Sometimes, they often experience something that has been a generational dysfunction in their family, such as drug, alcohol abuse etc., but they are forced to deal with it alone. But if and when they survive it, they end up being the healer for a community of people, not just their family.

Because their aura is so pure and magnetic, they often repel or attract people they haven’t even spoken to.

The downside, people fall in love with the idea of them long before they know them on a personal level. Which sometimes generates this projection-fueled partnership. So I think Scorpio Risings really needs to discern whether it's genuine attention or a projection.

To protect their image, control the narrative or hide emotional aspects of them, they often hide personal things and their feelings. But life always throws them a public exposure, betrayal or identity death so they have no choice but to end up being transparent. And this is from where their radical authenticity comes from, later in life, they become "seen" and "raw", but it makes them feel free instead of terrified.

They feel safe in crisis and unsafe in peace. Scorpio Risings are often most stable in chaotic or high-stakes environments, because they were taught to be alert, strategic and emotionally protective early on.

So when they are adults, too much peace can become suspicious. Almost like calm before the betrayal or mental breakdown. They are learning that not all peace is a trap. And they are allowed to let their nervous system soften.

Their eye contact is often weaponized. Their eyes can disarm a narcissist, a liar or seduce without a word. They may avoid eye contact in certain settings not from insecurity, but to avoid overwhelming or exposing someone else.

Despite appearing stoic, unbothered at times, they are emotionally still and often in deep observation mode, even if that means observing your emotions. They can appear ice cold, but not because they lack feeling, but because they digest experiences, people and events at a soul level, not a surface one. They are slow-burning empaths who just need to test emotional safety before revealing their warmth.

They are definitely not TRYING to be that intense, they actually are. Metaphorically or quite literally, Scorpio Rising was born at the border between death and rebirth. That's why they appear to always be so intense.

They are "hidden" from premature recognition just enough for them to become ready. They may not be “seen” fully for years — then suddenly, people start noticing, often during a personal evolution or spiritual awakening.

They may not be “seen” fully for years, then suddenly, people start noticing them, often during personal growth or spiritual awakening.

When Scorpio Risings are deeply hurt or betrayed, they don’t always lash out despite being ruled by Pluto, instead they emotionally withdraw and their gaze turns blank, icy and unreadable (even during breakup). This can devastate people close to them who crave emotional feedback or they think Scorpio Rising just doesn't care.

Scorpio Rising acts as a walking trigger for repressed emotions in others, such as jealousy, insecurity, shame, sexual confusion or rage.

When someone reacts strongly to them, it’s often because something within that person needs to be transformed.

They see self-destruction as rebirth. And they burn down their own life just to be reborn. Not out of chaos, but necessity. They destroy what no longer serves, even if it hurts. Once they trust this pattern, they learn that every loss is really a liberation. They might end a relationship abruptly, leave a successful job or disappear from a social media.

They can make people feel calm, on edge, sexually activated or emotionally exposed without saying a word. People look to them for cues on how safe or dangerous the environment is.

People who go through major life changes (divorce, awakening, death of an ego identity) often unconsciously seek out Scorpio Risings. And Scorpio Risings often don't even realize they're playing this role.

Their body stores deep subconscious and energetic undercurrents. They store them in their physical body, especially around the gut, pelvis and spine. They may experience mysterious body symptoms (tight jaw, nausea, pelvic tension) when exposed to unspoken tension, lies or toxicity.

Many are unaware that their chronic physical states (fatigue, stomach ache, lower back pain) are often somatic responses to overload.

Their eyes, bone structure and energy may resemble ancestors they never met. Or mirror the vibes of those who carried power, pain or secrets in the family lineage. People often say to them "Oh you remind me of...".

They may inherit traits or struggles (addiction, emotional repression, psychic sensitivity) that bypassed their parents.

Credit @astroismypassion Tumblr blog

[auren-zagarra]

I don't know if it would be possible considering how limited info wise we have of Malleus even after book 7 ending, but would it be possible to get an analysis of him?

Malleus Draconia: A Psychological Analysis

Disclaimer: Although this post is written by a professional psychologist, it is not intended to serve as a formal diagnosis. Rather, it is a character analysis of Malleus Draconia, created out of personal interest and passion for world-building. In psychological practice, accurate assessment should never be based solely on external observation.

Malleus Draconia is portrayed as powerful yet profoundly isolated. In canon, his aura and regal demeanor naturally intimidate others, so he seldom forms friendships beyond his guardian Lilia and a few like Silver and Sebek. In Book 7, Malleus' story reaches a breaking point: driven by intense anxiety about losing Lilia, he unleashes his signature magic to put the entire island into an enchanted slumber. He even proclaims a “wonderful future” in dreams - “Give in to slumber, and a thousand years will pass… you’ll become the protagonists of your own fairy tales” – rather than face reality. 

Personality

Malleus presents a study in contrasts. Outwardly he is aloof, reserved, and intensely formal. Descriptions emphasize that he speaks quietly and “doesn’t get too friendly,” even when conversing. His powerful, intimidating aura naturally pushes others away and most students avoid him, and even those who admire him (like Silver or Sebek) find it hard to approach. This suggests low extraversion and high conscientiousness: he is dutiful and poised, but he keeps an emotional distance.

Yet Malleus also has a naive, almost childlike side due to his sheltered upbringing. He grew up isolated in Briar Valley and was only recently exposed to technology and the outside world. As a result he often seems curious and earnest - even amazed by simple modern inventions - and can display genuine warmth once at ease. In short, Malleus embodies both a dignified presence and an innocent curiosity. Despite his fearsome reputation, he is shown to be kind and compassionate, with a strong sense of justice and a protective instinct for those he loves. Psychologically, his traits suggest high conscientiousness and openness (curiosity about new things) but also high neuroticism (anxiety about loss). In Erikson’s terms, Malleus appears to have a well-formed sense of identity and duty, but his extreme isolation implies difficulty with intimacy due isolation - since he struggles to form close bonds.

Coping Mechanism

Malleus copes with stress and loneliness through control, avoidance and fantasy. A telling example is his relationship with his virtual pet “Roaring Drago”: he repeatedly hatches and raises the pet to avoid accepting its limited lifespan. This repetitive behavior - a kind of perseveration on a beloved object - suggests denial of loss. More dramatically, when overwhelmed by Lilia’s declining health, Malleus resorts to his greatest power: he conjures a magical dreamscape to escape reality. He tries to solve his emotional crisis by controlling the world - rather than process grief or fear, he offers everyone a painless future in their dreams.

This reliance on magical or fantasized solutions is akin to Freud’s concept of denial and magical thinking. Malleus literally denies death and change by entering everyone into enchanted sleep. He tells his friends not to be “afraid” but to become “protagonists of your own fairy tales”, effectively encouraging them to live in a childlike fantasy rather than face real loss. In cognitive terms, this is a form of avoidance coping: instead of confronting painful emotions, he displaces the problem into an alternate reality. Bowlby’s Attachment Theory helps explain this: Malleus' anxious attachment (especially to Lilia) makes separation intolerable, so his coping is to fix the situation by force. In effect he behaves like a frightened child himself, using omnipotent-savior tactics. As the lore notes, this protective streak can be maladaptive: it drives him to extremes like the Book 7 slumber spell.

A Lonely Dragon

Malleus' life has been defined by solitude. From birth he knew little besides the company of Lilia. In fact, Lilia spent centuries chanting lullabies and telling him stories as he grew inside his egg. When he finally hatched, that support abruptly ended: “after hatching, Malleus was separated from Lilia, his only source of companionship”. His grandmother and tutors provided etiquette but no warm family environment.

Part of Malleus' loneliness stems from being rejected by others. His immense power and dragon heritage make him seem like a monster to classmates. This persistent social rejection - being feared or even hated - has become a self-fulfilling pattern. He expects that if he reaches out, people will flee, so he keeps distance. This is evident when even friendly students like Silver attempt to befriend him and still “fail to get closer”.

The long-term effect of this isolation is clear in the story. Malleus enjoys being alone, but the wiki explicitly notes he “shows signs of loneliness and a desire to connect”. He is socially inexperienced (often awkward with small children, for example) and emotionally inexperienced. Psychologically, extended solitude hindered his social development: he often acts more innocent or childish than his peers. According to Erik Erikson (I hate his name), lacking close relationships can stall a young adult in the Intimacy vs. Isolation stage; Malleus' narrative indeed portrays him as chronically alone despite craving connection. Bowlby would say that without consistent, responsive caregivers, he likely developed anxious attachment and a fear that others will inevitably leave. In practice, his long-time solitude has made him unusually self-reliant in some ways, but deeply vulnerable in others.

Repeated rejection likely fueled his defensive personality. Freud might interpret his regal aloofness as reaction formation - presenting a proud front opposite to any inner insecurity. Bowlby’s theory again applies: early experiences (his kingdom’s attack, being left in an egg) may have instilled a belief that relationships are unsafe. Psychologists might liken him to having an avoidant attachment style - he avoids intimacy to preempt the pain of being hurt. Over time, Malleus internalizes the stigma of being a “monster,” which may lower his self-esteem or drive perfectionistic safeguards. In short, being routinely shunned or feared has taught him to rely on himself, to the point that he nearly welcomes isolation as protection.

Sleep Well

In Book 7’s climax, Malleus casts a magic field of sleeping thorn vines, across Sage’s Island. Once the spell takes hold, every living creature falls asleep (except Malleus himself). He announces there is no need to be afraid, insisting that eternal slumber will grant everyone their heart’s desires. 

Psychologically, this mass-slumber is a dramatic case of denial and fantasy. Rather than face death or separation, Malleus creates a dreamscape where time (and pain) stops. He frames it as benevolent, invoking the bedtime stories Lilia told him as a child. In Freudian terms, he is using a childlike magical solution to an adult reality problem, a form of wish-fulfillment. From Erikson’s perspective on death and integrity, he refuses the natural cycle, trying to preserve a perfect world. Attachment theory would suggest this is a “protest” behavior in the extreme: instead of letting go, he forcibly tries to fix the situation for everyone.

This coping move also hints at possible delusional thinking: he genuinely believes the eternal-dream plan is a “wonderful future”. The narrative notes his fear, yet he willingly condemns everyone to an indefinite sleep to cope. In sum, by putting others to sleep, Malleus attempts to erase painful reality, illustrating the tragic extremes of his grief and denial.

Possible Diagnosis

His extreme anxiety over attachment suggests traits of a dependent or anxious attachment pattern. For example, his frantic declaration “Not losing you!” indicates panic at abandonment, reminiscent of Dependent Personality features (excessive need to be cared for, fears of separation). His tamagotchi behavior (refusing to let his virtual pet die) also shows compulsive attachment.

The Book 7 episode itself resembles an acute stress reaction or brief psychotic/mania-like episode. Casting a city-wide sleep charm and calmly rationalizing it could be viewed as a delusional coping mechanism. In DSM-5 terms, this might fall under an Adjustment Disorder with mixed disturbance of emotions and conduct (triggered by a known stressor, Lilia’s health). Some might even compare it to Borderline Personality (intense fear of abandonment, idealizing others, drastic emotional swings), though Malleus lacks the typical impulse behavior and identity disturbances of BPD.

Alternatively, one could see elements of trauma-related illness: he endured early-life trauma and this late crisis appears to be a pathological grief reaction. Malleus’ pattern - severe anxiety about loss, followed by an irrational, all-or-nothing solution - suggests an acute grief reaction or even acute stress disorder rather than a stable personality disorder. In any case, the DSM-5 would note his difficulty adjusting to the stress of possibly losing Lilia, manifested in extreme fantasy and avoidance (sleeping everyone). 

Autism?

Yes, it's possible to interpret Malleus as having traits consistent with autism spectrum disorder. That said, there are several behaviors and characteristics that align with known clinical features of ASD, especially in Level 1 presentations.

- Social Communication Differences

Difficulty forming peer relationships: Malleus is canonically described as being feared, avoided, or misunderstood by peers. Even though he wants to connect, few people approach him, and he often doesn’t know how to initiate or maintain typical peer interactions.

Unusual speech or tone: He uses formal, archaic speech that differs from his peers. While some of this is cultural (he’s royalty), it also makes him seem socially “out of sync.”

Struggles with understanding social nuance: Malleus sometimes misinterprets modern slang or jokes and needs others to explain things to him (e.g., technology or social situations). This could indicate challenges with pragmatic language or social inferences, a core trait of ASD.

- Restricted and Repetitive Behaviors or Interests

Special interests: Malleus is deeply interested in gargoyles, and he can talk about them in great detail. The way he focuses on this niche interest is consistent with the "circumscribed interests" often seen in autism.

Routine-oriented behavior: His repetitive habit of raising the same virtual pet (Roaring Drago) again and again could be seen as comforting repetition and difficulty with change or loss.

Literal thinking: He sometimes takes statements or metaphors literally, a trait common in autistic individuals who may struggle with abstract or figurative language.

- However, it’s important to note:

Malleus’s behavior may be explained entirely by his status: he’s royalty, raised in isolation, and feared due to magical power. His social awkwardness and speech may be cultural rather than neurological. 

His symptoms could also be interpreted as trauma responses and a lack of proper socialization. Yes, Chapter 7 could be seen as a meltdown, but it might just as well be his repressed emotions finally surfacing.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Every Corner of This House is Haunted

Pairing: Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: Fem!Reader, Marriage in Crisis, Angst, Profanity, Reader and Nanami are in their 30s, Not Proofread

Chapter III -> Masterlist if this Series

Listen to this for the full experience.

You sit in Shoko’s living room with puffy eyes and a glass of water still shaking in your hands. You have just stopped sobbing into her shoulder. An involuntary shudder runs down your spine every time your phone buzzes with a notification from your husband.

You look at the wedding ring on your finger, now just a jewellery that holds no real significance to it. Your head turns towards the sound of a phone ringing. Not yours, but Shoko’s this time. 

She looks at you. “It’s him.”

“Tell him you don’t know where I am.”

She nods and picks up the call. “Hello?” she says as she puts the phone on speaker.

“Hi, is Y/N there with you?” you hear Kento’s voice from the other side.

“No, she isn’t here, why, what happened?”

There’s a pause before he says, “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying, I don’t know where she is,” your friend insists.

“Spare me that,” he says as he cuts the call.

You and Shoko give each other a knowing look. “You think he’s gonna be here?”

Before she can get her answer out, the doorbell rings. You hesitantly move towards the door and peek through the peephole. How did he even get here so fast?

Going against your perseverance, you open the door to reveal a panting Kento– dishevelled hair, wrinkled shirt, half-done tie, and a desperate, unstable look in his eyes. You can barely recognise your husband; no one has ever seen this side of Kento as opposed to his usual prim and calm demeanour. You almost feel pity.

“Y/N,” he exasperates.

“No, Kento, stop.”

“Please,” he comes near you and you step backward, “I’m so sorry, love.”

“You could’ve at least told me.”

“I know I messed up, please.”

“You look pathetic.”

“I am pathetic, my love. Shout at me all you want, let’s go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

He stumbles forward and tries to touch your face but you back away. “Don’t say that.” His voice quivers as the words leave his mouth, his eyes all red and blotchy.

You hold your ground. “Leave me alone. Do this one thing right.”

“I won’t let you go.”

“Please, Kento. Leave.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you your space for now. Can we talk this out later?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Kento, I want to be alone. Please leave.”

He steps back slowly. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And if you don’t talk to me then, I’ll come back every day until you do,” he says as he steps out of the apartment. With the heaviest you heart has ever been, you slam the door on his face.

Turning your back against the door, you fall to your knees and begin to sob.

A/N: Not my best work tbh, I've had the worst migraine 😭

tags: @itsafairytalekay @qualitygiantshoepsychic @uzuimirika @coffeeandcrimeshows @lov3vivian @lady-of-blossoms @lavenderdaydream97