#Pre-programmed cooking settings

[coelex]

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[bibliosims]

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[juuuulez]

📰 | prologue: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes-less chapter (sorry!), Negan x Daughter! Reader, pre/start of apocalypse, violence and minor gore, morally grey reader, mentions of child abuse/neglect.

summary: When the apocalypse breaks loose, you find yourself in companionship with your sport teacher, Mr. Smith.

THIS was so much fun to write!!!! Genuinely my favourite chapter I’ve done so far. Let me know what you all think, because I’d love to do more little tidbits that stray from the original story. But with that in mind, this instalment IS required to understand parts of the fic going forward. Prologue is mandatory…..I’ve just finally done it.

Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4 are already out! 5 will return to our regularly scheduled program of Carl and (Y/N) bickering.

You valued consistency.

Doing the same thing, every day.

Even if your life was shit, at least it was consistently shit.

You always knew how to behave. What could just go unpunished. How to enter the house without making a sound. The perfect patterns to ensure your location wasn’t given away. What exactly to say to avoid being hit.

It was routine, comfortable. You permanently lived on the edge, waiting. Listening, watching. Observing those around you.

As routine, you were late. It was becoming quite the pattern, but you couldn’t help it. The bus ran late. Or, you suppose… if it ran late every day, then it was on schedule. Maybe you should start catching an earlier bus.

Whatever, it didn’t matter.

Second period, Tuesday.

Sport.

Now, you didn’t necessarily dislike sport. But you didn’t really love it, either.

The uniform always made you feel insecure. Which, at the ripe age of 13, doesn’t seem to be an emotion your peers are experiencing yet. Or maybe they are just better at hiding it than you are. It’s also incredibly performative, sport, which you hate. Being singled out, going one by one, choosing teams. All of it was terrible.

You didn’t mind your teacher.

Which, went a long way, considering you disliked most people who resided within these buildings. Teachers and students alike.

But Mr. Smith was nice. To you, at least. And to everyone. He was loud, had too much energy, but you didn’t mind. It just meant that he cared about his job.

You absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your shirt, the fabric wrapped around your arms to make up for the breezy garment of the girls tank top. It made you look different, set you apart. You hated that.

Regardless, you fall in line with the others.

Baseball.

Granted, you’ve never played baseball before. Sure, you’d watched it, on the small occasion that you were allowed to stay with a friend. It was a vivid memory. Watching from the hallway, over her father’s shoulder, whilst she was asleep.

You wished that your father liked sports. Or maybe cooking. Or collecting things, cleaning things, fixing things. Anything.

It’s almost the end of class, you’re standing at the back of the line. Three kids, then two, then just one. You. The others are standing on the bleachers, already collecting their equipment, preparing for break.

“Batter-up.” Mr. Smith says, though you don’t understand the colloquialism. Nonetheless, you move forward, accepting the bat from the previous student. Another is further down the field. Bowler, you presume.

The metal bat is cold between your fingers, clenched in your dominant hand. It’s heavy, but not an unmanageable amount, just enough to keep you aware of it. There’s weight to the swing, weight on your arm, shoulder. It takes a moment to find your footing.

But when you do, the other student has already thrown the ball. It’s hurdling towards you, faster than comfortable. Spinning through the air with a distinct whizz, perfectly curved, heavy. Dangerous.

It’s instinctual. Your body twists, landing a hit on the spherical object with laser accuracy, the impact ringing in your ears as it soars away, towards the end of the pitch.

Your head snaps in the opposite direction, recalling the match you’d silently observed years ago. There are beige bases in the grass, thin plates. The bat falls from your grip, hitting the ground with a thud, and you move to start running.

It only takes a few steps before reality clicks in, and you realise the feat is pointless. Nobody else is playing. There is no-one to catch your ball, to cheer and clap. Everybody has already begun to leave. They didn’t watch you, didn’t continue the game. Three seconds tick over before the bell rings, releasing the crowd of children awaiting their freedom.

Suddenly the summer breeze is too hot, the sleeves of your shirt itching, sticking to your skin. The tank is too tight. It hugs your body in the wrong way, vulnerable, at their mercy. And yet, you are unseen in a similar manner, and there’s an inkling of you that wants to be judged, simply to say you’d been recognised.

You’re collecting your things, and by that, putting your muddied sneakers into a plastic bag and slipping on new ones. There are footsteps behind you. Heavy, easily identifiable as an adult. You have impeccable hearing.

Before he can announce himself, you’ve turned. There’s always been respect in your tone when conversing with teachers, well aware of the authority they hold, despite your frequent disagreeable on their methods.

“Never mentioned you were good at baseball.” Mr. Smith quips, already packing up the equipment left behind from the lesson into a large bag. Those concrete-hard balls, the plastic bases, the metal bats.

“I’ve never played, sir.” You tell him, flashing that usual, awkward smile that doesn’t really count as a smile, but just the pursing of your lips. An attempt at civility from somebody too irreversibly damaged for their age.

“Well, we’ve got a team running,” He continues to speak whilst organising, and though he does not look at you, your attention is drawn. “Could come find you later, give you the permission slip.”

That bursts your bubble. There’s no chance in hell that you could persuade your father to sign it. There was forging the signature, but this game would run in after-school hours, an extra curricular. You wouldn’t be allowed.

“I dunno,” You shrug in premature defeat, slinging the bag over your shoulder, coming to stand at the feet of the bleachers. “Not really a team player. Wouldn’t fit in with the older girls.”

Though there’s no visible indication, it’s obvious that Mr. Smith disregards this as a valid excuse. Which, it definitely isn’t, but it’s the little statement you tell yourself in order to feel less shitty about missing an opportunity.

“How about I get you the slip, and then you’ve got the option?” It’s said as a question, but clearly isn’t, as he’s then reaching into the duffel bag and pulling out one of those heavy, metal bats.

He holds it out to you, and you have no choice but to take it.

“Get some practise in before the weekend.”

Then Mr. Smith is leaving, and you’re left standing there, on the muddy field. The second bell rings out.

You’re late.

Now, this habitual lateness may not be all so coincidental.

Tardiness was handled rather vigorously in the seventh grade, for whatever reason. You didn’t understand.

But it hasn’t taken too long into the year to crack the metaphorical code. Detention was mandated for wrongdoings, ergo, another hour before you had to be home.

You’d take detention over home any day of the week.

So it was unsurprising when you ended up there this afternoon, settling into your usual spot near the back. There were a other kids, the typical troublemakers, and a few poor souls who genuinely had misfortune befall them.

Mrs. Hagerty, the librarian, overlooked detention. She was old and slow, grey hair, grey lips. Grey… skin. Well, she looked half-dead, which was saying something. You weren’t surprised, though it was a little suspicious how she hadn’t chastised you for bringing the baseball bat into the room.

It sat propped up against your desk.

Despite your adamancy against pointless procedures, public humiliation, gossip, and assholes in charge, you were quite good at school. English, primarily, was your strong suit. Reading, writing. All of it.

The peace that you’d carefully crafted was interrupted roughly halfway into the lesson. Or, babysitting session, as Mrs. Hagerty was yet to look up from her desk. Talk about worlds easiest job.

You still remembered that day, even now. Years later.

At the time, Mr. Smith was nothing but your sport teacher, someone with authority who you detested less than most other figures. A reasonable constant in your life, so far.

Now, he was Negan. Everything to you, in a way. Alike to how you were everything to him. Though you didn’t know it then, this was the day that he’d consume an entirely different part of your mind, forging a new identity that would terrorise, ravage, and torment communities.

But in the same breath, protect you, help raise you, construct an entire empire with you as the sun. Though you’d never succumb to the hive mind, you were not Negan. But you certainly were his.

Nonetheless, it all started within that room. The detention room.

“Permission slip.” Negan announced, placing the small pink paper on the desk in front of you. He attempted to keep his voice hushed, mindful of the other students who were meant to be studying, but appeared more to be sleeping.

Now that it was out of school hours, and he was likely printing, Negan wore reading glasses. Later, you would mock him for these, making comments about him being old.

It always awarded you with that same distinct look of warning. Yet, it never made you feel threatened, but appreciated. Seen.

You slide the permission slip closer, reading the small black writing. In the same motion, you fish out a pen, jotting down cursive letters in the underlined section.

You slide it back.

“I can’t take this,” Negan points out with a sign, gazing down at the signature that is obviously not one of your parents. “You’re really making me go back, and print another one?”

This causes you to roll your eyes, “So I can take it home and do the same thing? That just wastes both of our time… our you could take it now.”

However, he won’t budge. “It’s policy. Go home, get it signed. I don’t need to know how.”

Though you feign annoyance, the insinuation made you want to smile. Turns out, Negan knew more than he was letting on. Gossip spread across faculty quickly, and it didn’t take a genius to deduct your… poor living situation.

The long sleeves, the turtle necks, the gloves. Jeans in summer. Never a parent to attention parent-teacher conferences.

He’s about to turn and leave, when there’s a slight commotion at the front of the room.

One of the younger students, Jasmin, is talking to Mrs. Hogarty in a hushed voice. Goody-two-shoes.

When she gets no response, the student only continues talking, trying to elicit a reaction from the teacher that has otherwise remained silent. In an irreversible mistake, Jasmin reaches out, gently waving her tanned hand in front of glazed over eyes.

Mrs. Hogarty lunges at her, finally in motion, chubby hands gripping at the forearm of the girl and taking a bite from plush skin. Blood spurts from the wound, Jasmin screams in horror, alike to the rest of the few misdemeanours in the room.

Everyone is in motion. Some try to help Jasmin, others flee. You’re stuck. Truth is, though you boast agility, you’ve never been in a situation like this. Your mouth gapes like a fish, open, closed, searching for something to say, to do. A reaction befitting of this complete, disgusting travesty.

“C’mon, up. Let’s go.” Negan is talking to you, you realise. It’s like everything finally clicks back into motion, the water no longer clogging your ears, making everything muffled and distant. This is reality.

You scramble from the chair, grabbing books, pencils, hastily shoving them into your little brown bag.

But there’s a hand on your shoulder, urging you forward, towards the exit sitting towards the back of the classroom. “Leave it, no time.” Negan is telling you, helping you off the floor. Before the two of you can make a break for it, your hands clasp around the metal baseball bat.

It swings at your side as you leave the building, feet padding against the concrete of the pavement. It’s strangely… desolate. There is no increasing urgency, nobody around. It almost makes you question whether what happened was real. But you’re still walking, forward, away.

“Shouldn’t we help her?” You ask, to which Negan finally stops to look back at you. His brows furrow, confused, so you clarify. “Jasmin.”

“No, no, there isn’t any helping her,” He clarifies, talking slowly to try and get the idea in your head. “I read about this shit online, it’s in other countries. Europe. They aren’t people anymore.”

You don’t quite catch on, understand the severity of his words. But it makes sense. No person would act like that. Your feet begin to move again, travelling the familiar path.

“Hey, where are you going?” Negan calls out, and it’s only now that you become aware of the distance between you. Your head snaps into the direction of the bus stop, a silent answer, and Negan seems to deduct your intentions. He nods in the opposite direction. “C’mon.”

You obey, needing to skip in order to catch up with his longer strides. The bat is still clenched in your dominant hand, cold metal occasionally making contact with the side of your leg. It’s heavy, but you’re getting used to it.

As you approach the car park, the sun beats down, warming the asphalt. A few paces away is Negan’s truck, but before that, another person you quickly identify as an older student.

Stringy hair, grey skin, dull eyes. Arms reaching out, wandering aimlessly. The animated corpse seems to have some semblance of consciousness, as it spots you, limping over.

Preemptively, you take a step back, that familiar feeling of panic flooding your system at an unavoidable danger. Luckily, Negan appears to be significantly more composed than you are, as he’s reaching back for something. Extending a hand to you.

When you don’t react, he whistles, a high-pitched noise that instantly gets your attention. You did not know it yet, but this would become a familiar constant in your life. Nonetheless, you catch onto what he meant, letting the metal bat fall into his extended hand.

“Are you gonna…?” You don’t finish your question, as you’re unsure what exactly you think may happen. There’s a small part of you that doesn’t want to know.

Luckily, Negan provided little answers. “Go around and get in the truck.” He tells you, instructs you, and you listen simply because you trust him. Which, in this day and age, is dangerous.

You busy yourself with the seatbelt in order not to watch, able to mentally fill in the blanks as to the measure that Negan was taking. It made sense, you supposed. They weren’t alive anymore, couldn’t feel. Only wanted to hurt other people. Therefore, they needed to be put down.

There’s a clang as he places the baseball bat in the back of the truck, getting into the drivers seat and starting the engine. You watch this interest, unable to remember the last time somebody drove you anywhere. Never, if you recall correctly.

Thankful, Negan opts to ignore the way you inspect his every movement, like a little bird. Or a startled cat.

“Your address?” He requests, already making a start down the street that he would presume lead towards your house. It snaps you out of the little daze, face scrunching up.

“No, gross. I can’t give you my address,” You say in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the idea of completely insane. “You could be a predator, for all I know. That’s private information.”

Negan gives you that look again, the same one when you’d forged the signature. He can’t quite understand you. “Why would I work in a school if I was a predator? Tell me, how would I get that job.”

You shrug, “Maybe because that’s exactly what you want.”

He becomes fed up with your inane accusation, rolling his eyes. Yet, despite the attitude you’ve adopted, he does not get frustrated with you. “Address, now. I’m takin’ you home.”

There’s a large part of you that doesn’t even want to go home, yet you obey, providing Negan with your address to which he turns down the proper street. Luckily, you don’t live too far from school… or, unlucky, you suppose. For it isn’t long until you’re pulling into your driveway.

You get out, footsteps cautious against the pavement. A few meters away is an older lady, half alive, clinging to the path with desperate hands despite the concave appearance of her head. Your neighbour. She groans upon noticing you, but her legs are broken, and cannot move forward.

Remembering earlier, you move backwards towards the truck, fishing out the metal bat. It’s shiny metallic end is caked with reddish blood, stringing bits of decomposing guts hanging from it.

You can only make it a step forward until Negan is holding your shoulder again, pushing you in the opposite direction, towards the house. “Nope. Just leave her, she ain’t hurting anyone.”

Usually, you would detest being controlled. Told what to do. The shadow of an adult so close behind you, watching, letting their hands intrude on your space. But you didn’t feel threatened by Negan, which was odd. You weren’t going to complain about it, that’s for sure.

You ascend up the shallow stairs, coming to a stop in front of the door. When you reach out, pressing on the doorhandle, you’re shocked to find that it simply swings open, already sitting ajar. Dread fills your body.

It’s not that fearful, sickly dread that you get when you know you’ve done something wrong, and are awaiting the inevitable consequences. No, its.. different. You’ve felt it very few times before. Concern, worry. Knowing that something is wrong, and you cannot stop it.

Nonetheless, you enter the house. It’s in its familiar state, which provides a slight comfort to you, but Negan finds himself taken aback. It’s practically a mess. Every surface has something on it, whether it be pointless junk, or the garbage of bottles and cans. A few areas remain spotless, like the kitchen counter, and the bin remains empty and carefully tucked away.

It’s clear that you upkeep the small areas which you require for your autonomy. The rest of the place? Not your problem. It’s no wonder you don’t like being there.

As you pat further down the hallway, Negan draws his attention to the entrance. There’s a large bookshelf, though the books are dusty, likely long since actually used. A few slots are unusually empty, indicating that you’ve taken some to keep elsewhere.

But it’s the top shelf that draws his attention. Two photographs, positioned around thirty centimetres apart, with two respective urns behind them. One significantly smaller. Mother and daughter, he recognises. Mother and baby, actually.

It’s apparent that this is the home of a family that’s lost half of its inhabitance. He can’t help but wonder, is this the fate that will befall him, come Lucille’s death? Hopefully not. Nothing like this.

“Dad?”

Negan regains his sense of reality, curiosity piked as you’re speaking down the hall. He moves further into the space, standing in the kitchen as he observes you, there on the porch.

You stand near the doorway, that bat still hanging from one hand. In front of you, a figure, sitting down. Next to him, a half-empty case of beers. Part of Negan becomes increasingly alert, aware, prepared to avoid letting any harm befall you. A harm that you’re likely accustomed to.

There’s no response.

“C’mon. Just say something.” You urge, sounding utterly defeated. And yet, your father gives no response, despite the impending doom blanketing the situation.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand. The vicious, red welt on your fathers neck gives it away, jagged and seeping blood that stains his already unkept shirt. It’s a matter of time, at this point. You’d like to extract at least one, genuine conversation. Absolutely anything before he disappears forever.

That isn’t seeming very likely.

Your eyes drift around the yard, welling with tears not of sadness, but frustration. This is it? You are to become an orphan, the world is ending, and your piece-of-shit father won’t even look at you? In this moment, you wished he was angry.

You wished he would yell at you.

Pin you against the wall by your neck.

Bruise you. Beat you.

Anything other than this.

“I made the baseball team.” You tell him, another futile attempt to elicit any sort of reaction. Pride, maybe. Congratulate his young daughter for her achievement. Even the smallest hint of recognition would go a long way, pull you from this spiral you’ve begun to succumb to.

And what does he do?

He scoffs.

His arm lifts, taking another swig of the near empty bottle.

Finally, you’ve gotten your sign. A signal, a hint. The divine intervention that sets everything straight, reminds you of your place in this world. Just enough attention to keep you subdued, but satisfied. Complacent.

Anger overtakes you before you’re even aware of these emotions, wielding a surprising amount of strength for a pre-pubescent girl. You want to scream and shout and hurt him.

So you do.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, really. Unplanned, messily executed. But would you have done it again? Certainly.

You cannot feel remorse for causing pain to a man who’s soul died long ago. Died with your mother, died with your infant sister. Tried to kill yours along with it all.

It’s already happened before you can understand.

There’s a distinct soreness in your shoulder, strained from swinging the metal baseball bat with such force. There are little blisters forming on your palms from how tight you’re gripping, clawing, clenching around the handle. The movement has shifted your whole body, but you don’t look down.

You don’t acknowledge the mess you’ve made.

Blood splattered across the wooden porch, some even hitting the adjacent fence. Skull broken, concave. Oozing sticky red.

The glass bottle rolls down the steps. Clink, clink, clink. It hits the plush grass, silenced.

It was inevitable, anyway. Whether to the virus, or your own hands, your father was going to die.

It was a mercy-kill, at best.

Vengeance at worst.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because when you turned around, he was there.

Negan.

Standing in the kitchen, watching you through the open door. He didn’t appear horrified, or disgusted. Maybe unsettled, sure. There was a darkness within you that he recognised, understood. Sure, he didn’t put it there, but over the years he would cultivate it, guide you. Raise you as somebody who would never be taken advantage of again.

Untouchable.

[falconearring]

Hello Falcon, first off LOVE you're AU and designs, their so unique. I was just curious and I don't think anyone's ever asked this but.. What did everyone do before the Apocalypse? Aside from Scar which you already answered. :)

Hi hi! So happy to hear you're enjoying! I think here and there I've mentioned bits and pieces of some character's pre-apocalypse lives, but never all at once. Here's a comprehensive list of everybody's prior occupations, with some supplementary info for the characters that I've thought about the most.

Etho worked on an industrial farm. He was mainly tasked with planting and harvesting vegetables, and other miscellaneous labor tasks. When he wasn't working, he spent much of his time with Cleo and Bdubs. He's notorious for leaving his flip phone on the kitchen counter in his apartment when he goes out for the day, so it can be a bit difficult to get a hold of him. In general, he's pretty content with his life, and enjoys the routine his job offers.

Joel sort of just goes through the motions. He works a number of minimum wage jobs during his adult years, and doesn't really do much else. It isn't until the apocalypse, when he starts to meet new people and he realizes being lonely sucked. If you ask him, though, he's never felt lonely in his entire life-that would just be silly.

Grian spends his late childhood learning how to cook in a local restaurant. The owner and staff look after him best they can, but despite their hospitality, he resolves one day to grab as much cash as possible and head to a seaside town to start his early adult life. There he finds a small funeral home, and lands an apprenticeship only because they could really use the help and the owner themselves isn’t particularly concerned if they have to cut corners. It isn’t long before his inexperience starts to cause problems, and he takes off yet again when it comes to light the name he had been going by was stolen from an obituary a few cities over. He continues as he was, from place to place and name to name. It’s become somewhat routine for him to cheat every person he comes into contact with, in some way shape or form.

Scar, as we discussed in this post, has an extensive criminal history. Him and Grian somewhat deserve each other in that regard.

Cleo does a lot of crafting in their free time. I don't think I ever decided what she does for work, but on the side she does jewelry making, pottery, crotchet and a bit of sewing. She often sells some of what she makes, or gifts it to friends.

Bdubs does a trades program and is just starting out doing construction work. He takes up drawing as a hobby, mainly life drawing. His two best friends are his whole entire world, baby! He somewhat struggles with his independence, and usually wants to spend his time with Etho and Cleo.

Martyn is a hypnotherapist who specializes in past and future life progressions/regressions. He also claims to be a surgeon, but it's unclear what kind or when exactly he got a PhD.

Bigb was a racecar driver. Later in his career, he switched from cars to offroad motorcycle racing. He fell in love with modifying bikes and became a really knowledgeable mechanic.

Tango was a paramedic. Not much time for anything, but when he can he usually would meet up with some of his buddies to play board games.

Ren worked at the saw mill where Etho's friends are set up. At the time, he was living in a cabin in the woods not far from his work. He was somewhat of a hermit, and he has all sorts of woodsy knowledge and equipment at the ready.

Impulse has a bachelors of engineering and worked as an electrician for a few years. Loved his job, loved having to take out all his piercings most days a lot less. He's always been very close with his brother, Skizz, and they meet up often.

Skizz worked a 9-5 office job, and genuinely could not be any happier about it. He's the type of person to make extra time to exercise, or wake up early just to have some quiet time.

Pearl was an art student on exchange from Australia. She has a passion for installation pieces and painting. Some of her work is a bit strange.

Mumbo was a programmer. What did he program? I don't know. I'm sorry Mumbo fans. If it's any consolation he is so disoriented and so scared and so stressed.

Jimmy lived on a small farm with his family. It was all he knew growing up, and it was all he really knew going into adulthood.

Lizzie had a part time job at an aquarium in her town. She gave tours and sometimes did workshops with the kids where she did aquatic themed arts and crafts.

Scott.... I have a hard time imagining what he was up to before everything happened. Who can say for sure what he did in his spare time? (<- the guy who is writing the AU and can't think of an answer)

Hopefully this is helpful! Sorry some of it is more sparse than other parts. Take care, thank you for reading ^_^

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Vil Schoenheit - Apprentice Chef Vignette

"Master Chef"

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Vil Version ～Let's Make Chocolate Cake 1～

Ghost Chef: I know you said you wanted to take the Master Chef course so you can appear on a cooking show…

Ghost Chef: But I can only teach you how to cook. I don't know anything about television programming.

Vil: I completely understand that. My purpose here is only to strengthen my cooking prowess.

Vil: As I learn the proper techniques and gain experience, each movement I make will start to naturally refine, wouldn't you say?

Ghost Chef: I get it. I feel a bit better after hearing that, Vil-kun. Alright, let's get started on a Chocolate Cake!

Vil: A classic pastry, everyone's favorite. I suppose I should pre-heat the oven.

Ghost Chef: Oh, nicely done. Set it to 180°C.

Vil: Set it for 180°C and… It's now pre-heating. So then, I'll start the prep now.

Ghost Chef: Crack open the eggs into the bowl, then add the granulated sugar. Mix it thoroughly until it's white and thick.

Vil: I understand. Now that I'm taking a look at the ingredients before me, I see that we'll be using a lot more granulated sugar than I had expected.

Vil: It reminds me of the first time I made dressing, I was taken aback by the amount of oil needed for it…

Vil: Unless you make it yourself, there's no telling what kind and how much of certain ingredients are in a dish.

[mixes batter]

Vil: I've been stirring and letting it take in oxygen… It's starting to become fluffy and white.

Ghost Chef: Look at you, moving your hands and speaking at the same time. Is that something you'd have to do on those TV shows?

Vil: That's right. If all I do is cook silently, that would be completely uninteresting, wouldn't you say?

Vil: On top of that, my own pride wouldn't let me appear as though I lack the know-how.

Ghost Chef: Hmmm, that's pretty rough… Alright, go ahead and stir in the cocoa powder and wheat flour.

Vil: I see they're already mixed together. Now I'll just sift it properly so there are no lumps…

Ghost Chef: Nice, well done. Mix it all well together with the rubber spatula as if you're trying to slice it.

Vil: I just need to scoop the batter from the bottom of the bowl and make sure it evenly blends together… Baking cake is much more laborious than I thought.

Vil: Everything has been tidied up, and I've finished making the apricot jam for the cake.

Ghost Chef: The cake sponge has probably cooled enough by now. Try popping it out from the mold.

Vil: Right. …The cake slid out of the mold just like the recipe said it would. Very nice.

Ghost Chef: Alright, now pour the apricot jam you made earlier onto the surface.

Ghost Chef: And spread it evenly across all sides with a palette knife.

Vil: So a thin layer of the jam is spread over the sponge-like surface, to help smooth it out.

Vil: This is exactly how it would be preparing to apply makeup.

Vil: Especially if I think of the jam as the primer, and the chocolate as the foundation.

Ghost Chef: Ahaha. That's an interesting way to put it. Now, let's make the chocolate glaçage.

Ghost Chef: Put the chocolate in the bowl and melt it by immersing the bowl in hot water.

Vil: And then I stir it with the rubber spatula like so… It's starting to melt from around the edges.

Vil: As the chocolate warms, its sweet scent starts to pervade the air.

Ghost Chef: Heh, maybe that aroma will even be trailing out of this kitchen.

Ghost Chef: Oh, looks like the chocolate has all melted. Next, immerse the bottom of the bowl in cold water.

Vil: We just melted it, and now you want me to cool it?

Ghost Chef: Yep. By applying heat and cold repetitively, the cocoa butter in the chocolate can crystallize.

Ghost Chef: When you temper in this way, you can make a velvety rich chocolate glaçage.

Vil: I understand. I'll make sure that this cake is enveloped by the most gorgeous chocolate glaçage you've ever seen.

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Vil Version ～Let's Make Chocolate Cake 2～

Vil: So, we lower the temperature of the chocolate by immersing it in cold water… and then warm it before it hardens?

Ghost Chef: That's right. And don't let up on the stirring. The slightest change in temperature can affect it.

Vil: I can't allow myself to get distracted one bit, hm. I need to be able to continue conversation even while concentrating on the task at hand.

[tempers chocolate]

Ghost Chef: Wow. Tempering is a pretty difficult task, but you did pretty good for your first time!

Vil: Temperature management is just as important in potionology, you see. Even a 1°C difference can transform a potion into poison.

Ghost Chef: I see. I guess your potionology knowledge came in handy, then.

Vil: There's also the way the recipe needs to be fully understood and followed to the letter and the ingredients need to be carefully prepared, measured and mixed in…

Vil: As well as how everything needs to be thoroughly blended together until the desired outcome is realized… Potions and baking have much in common.

Vil: Those who have a penchant for potions and poisons could have what it takes to be a pâtisserie.

Ghost Chef: I-I think it's a little scary to think about how the ability to craft poisons could help bake sweets.

Vil: Joking aside… How does the chocolate glaçage look now?

Ghost Chef: Perfect. That's all you'll need for the tempering. Time to finish the cake!

Ghost Chef: The trick here is to take the palette knife and spread the chocolate before it cools and hardens completely.

Vil: To present a beautiful cake, the chocolate must be uniformly spread over the total surface.

Vil: I only need to think of it as though I am applying foundation after having used primer on the face already.

Vil: Alright, I'm ready to pour the glaçage now.

Vil: The cake sponge is now completely covered in the glaçage. Now I'll use the palette knife as if it were a make-up spatula…

Vil: …LIKE THIS!

Ghost Chef: A-Amazing! Usually, we'll get amateurs overusing the palette knife and leaving lines everywhere, but…

Ghost Chef: You've not a single wasteful movement! What a beautiful display…

Vil: Heh, done to perfection. This is my masterpiece, combining techniques from both make up and potionology.

Ghost Chef: It looks so smooth and shiny and beautiful. It would be a shame to cut into it.

Vil: I fully agree… But I suppose we must head to the judging venue momentarily.

[Cafeteria – Judging Venue]

Idia: I thought I'd just order a choco cake to get a quick sugar high but then… Next thing I know, I'm dragged into this mess...

Vil: So, my judge is Idia, I see. I'm rather surprised you ordered the chocolate cake.

Idia: HIEE! N-N-N-NO WAY, VIL-SHI!?

Idia: Th-There's no way I'm getting out of this without an earful no matter what I say. I'll just smash the like button, so can I go…?

Vil: Stop thinking and tell me what you honestly think. Here, have a taste.

Idia: I-I just need to eat and get this over with… [chew, chew]…

Idia: …I…I g-guess… it's good…?

Idia: Tho this is just a singular opinion… It in no way guarantees or endorses the actual flavor of the product…

Ghost Chef: Uhh, right, so I guess that's a passing grade then. Good job, Vil-kun.

Vil: Indeed, thank you. But more importantly…

Idia: Y-YOU'RE THE ONE WHO ASKED ME TO JUDGE, WHAT DO YOU MEAN MORE IMPORTANTLY!?

Vil: I wonder how I looked while cooking. Let's check the camera footage.

Ghost Chef: …Ah! You recorded yourself with your smartphone while cooking!? I didn't even notice!!

Idia: His eyes are just glued to that video… Despite deleting my comment from his IRL feed…

Vil: There doesn't seem to be many issues with how I do any of the basic techniques, like breaking eggs, or mixing the batter.

Vil: The issue is with tempering. I was so focused on the task that I couldn't spare a single glance towards the camera…

Vil: My conversation level dropped immensely. It seems I still have much to improve on.

Vil: Not only do I need to present my food beautifully, but myself as well.

Requested by @sakurakudo and @dare-to-walk-alone.

[artbyblastweave]

i dont know anything about fallout except its a wild west postnuclear survivor game and there’s a jaunty lil dude who’s always giving you a thumbsup? Anyway i would love to know your thoughts on water collection/distribution and/or the economy of mended stuff.

sorry your brain is on the brink

In the context of fallout? The post-nuclear Water economy is the backbone of three different games; the plot of the first involves you getting kicked out of your fancy underground Bunker City in order to find replacement parts for the water filtration system, and the rudimentary post-apocalyptic society you explore uses a currency backed on the water standard (in lieu of the Gold Standard- one bottlecap for one bottle of water.). Water Merchants (those with access to water towers, etc) are power players in the nascent political ecosystem. The (not-very-well-considered) plot of the third game involves trying to get a widespread water purification program working for the DC area. And the central conflict of New Vegas (sometimes referred to as "the really good one,") consists of the local powers brawling over control of the still-functional Hoover Dam due to the control it would provide over the regions freshwater and electricity supply.

I liked New Vegas's take on the scavenged-equipment economy the best. The setting shift to Nevada (previous games by the same writing team being in California) is in part meant to reflect that people back west have simply run out of old-world materials to scavenge, and are now back to living in actual cities that they build out of novel materials, eating food they grow and cook- which makes for a boring place to set a game, hence the shift to the "frontier" of Vegas, where you'll encounter neo-western "prospectors" (scavengers) looking for new claims to tap for pre-war resources to supplement what re-industrialized society can produce. Many of the weapons and armor-sets you use and fight against are encountered in a mad-max style environment, but many of them aren't implausibly-still-in-use antiques- they're being manufactured by a largely off-screen 21st-century-styled liberal-democratic society that's rebuilt enough to redevelop mass consumption and arms conglomerates, the negative externalities of which are spilling out to affect those on the frontier.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Sunday Service

First Lady of Private Garden Instagram AU

Liked by jackharlow, saweetie, theestallion, urbanwyatt, jaysontatum, druski2funny, privategarden, and 1,286,004 others

y/ninsta: I'm Backkkkkkkkkkkk. Did you miss me? Sunday Service dropping Friday. Pre save it now! 😘💕

normani: well it's about damn time! saweetie: we stan. what paprika gonna say about this one? blancahood: PAPRIKA?!?! HELPPPPPPPPPP theestallion: can't wait for this, I know my good sis is about to EAT y/ninsta: saweetie you are a hot ass mess and you know it lmao dualipa: glad to see that jackharlow is letting you out the house more these days jackharlow: now why am I in it? dualipa don't start with me today, my kids got me stressed out enough and you are NOT helping claybornharlow: produced by the one and only little baby saweetie: y/ninsta I call it like I see it. We make pretty bitch music and there's nothing but talent on this end. can't say the same thing about her. Tryna throw shade and I'm about to throw the whole damn rainforest. don't come for my bestie who isn't thinking about you jackandy/naremyparents: MUVA is backkkkkkk!!! dualipa: jackharlow send them my way and I guarantee you that they are about to be on their best behavior jackharlow: dualipa not with the youngest one starting to bite people y/ninsta: jackharlow AHT AHT! she was probably hungry and we know you can't cook. not too much on my youngest now. druski2funny: I knew from the beginning that those triplets were going to be problem children y/ninsta: druski2funny leave my babies aloneeeee the only problem child I have is jackharlow jessicakelce: saweetie said what she said and ate and left no crumbs y/ninsta: saweetie only one of us is going to be here for the long run and it's the one who's married to jackharlow 😜 allthingsy/n: talk yo shit mamas, at least we know you can back it up jackharlow: everyday I stray further and further from knowing what peace feels like and not you calling me a problem child smh saweetie: y/ninsta OOP let her know! between her and the girl that has a daddy with no neck, they coming for the wrong person urbanwyatt: saweetie NOT THE DADDY WITH NO NECK quiiso: 😭😭😭😭😭😭 y/ninsta: jackharlow love you smush 😘

Liked by jackharlow, urbanwyatt, taylorrooks, saweetie, 2forwoyne, cardib, sza, and 2,065,139 others

y/ninsta: every time yall book me with them hoes it's gon be big drama 🤭🤭

blancahood: here for the pettiness and the pettiness only y/ninsta: blancahood I'm innocent sis saweetie: y/ninsta well I'm not. STREAM SUNDAY SERVICE!!!! 2forwoyne: GET IN THE BOOTH BITCH theestallion: hard work and grinding pays off. what a luxury it is to shoot up the charts by being a tik tok rapper without actual talent. when I see her imma tell her to freestyle on the spot. jessicakelce: theestallion don't set yourself up to be disappointed like that lmao cardib: yall messy in these comments and I'M HERE FOR IT allthingsy/n: one thing's for sure and two thing's for certain, y/ninsta's girls are always going to have her back sza: now we all know y/ninsta can fight and I would never want to be on the receiving end soooo good luck with that lol y/ninsta: sza that is the old me! I'm mature now! jackharlow: y/ninsta this morning you tried to fight the delivery guy because he dropped your package y/ninsta: jackharlow he damn near threw that shit. it had FRAGILE written on it and he was acting like he couldn't read. not my damn fault. he was asking for it. jackharlow: ladies and gentlemen, my wife y/ninsta urbanwyatt: y/ninsta I fully support your actions jackharlow: urbanwyatt DON'T ENCOURAGE HER claybornharlow: y/ninsta I support you too, forever and always y/ninsta: the people love me, jackharlow get with the program jackharlow: y/ninsta just terrorizing me since day one smh y/ninsta: jackharlow would it help if I told you that your money paid for what was in the package? jackharlow: beat his ass

Liked by jackharlow, saweetie, neelamthadhani, urbanwyatt, normani, champagnepapi, theshaderoom, and 2,816,002 others

y/ninsta: when you ask your husband to send you a selfie because you miss him. Look at my pookie 🥹

I love you long time big baby 😘💕

jackharlow: 🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈 jaysontatum: he knows where home is y/ninsta: jayson, don't you muthafuckin start with me urbanwyatt: the girlies are fightinggggggggg druski2funny: wait, what about me?! y/ninsta: keyword: HUSBAND. as in he's MINE. go and find yall own smh jackharlow: y/ninsta remember that one time you told me to try and return you without the receipt? the receipt being our marriage certificate that you tried to set on fire when you were drunk? y/ninsta: jackharlow that is my past and therefore I do not live there anymore saweetie: lmaooooooooo urbanwyatt: all I remember is her having matches and running with them as jackharlow was jumping over couches to try and stop her. good times. jackharlow: urbanwyatt you would encourage this smh urbanwyatt: jackharlow that's my bestie and imma stick beside her jackharlow: urbanwyatt AND I'M NOT? urbanwyatt: jackharlow you are, I just love to see her terrorizing you jackharlow: smh it be your own first born y/ninsta: two more days until I get to see my big babyyyyyyy jackharlow: you better be ready for me 👀 y/ninsta: jackharlow if you stay ready, you ain't gotta get ready 👀

Liked by jackharlow, urbanwyatt, cardib, taylorrooks, generationnow, shloob_, softtcurse, blancahood, and 1,843,951 others

y/ninsta: oh look, it's my husband 😍😍😍

You are such a dad now and that's what the outfit is giving lmao jackharlow 🤣🤣

jackharlow: these damn kids got me fighting for my life smh y/ninsta: jackharlow and yet you want more? jackharlow: y/ninsta we're having a basketball team y/ninsta: jackharlow in what universe and with whose vagina? saweetie: you gonna fold one way or another. you always do. y/ninsta: saweetie don't encourage him urbanwyatt: the fact that he was almost late because of baby number three y/ninsta: urbanwyatt she is the no limit soldier lmao jack can't tell her no because she looks like him, but acts like me dualipa: y/ninsta if you need me to save you, blink twice jessicakelce: dualipa lmaooooooo jackharlow: dualipa you, y/ninsta, claybornharlow and my kids be the reason I'm stressed all the time and I don't like it claybornharlow: I am literally just sitting here minding my business jackharlow: claybornharlow THIS TIME and this is a rare occurrence y/ninsta: cut it out you two! smh, I'm already raising enough children between my triplets, jack, my pets, and pg 2forwoyne: now what did we do this time?! y/ninsta: 2forwoyne idk, but I'll find out soon enough because I always do jackharlow: y/ninsta not you calling me one of the children again y/ninsta: jackharlow a mother's job is never done, maggieharlow BACK ME UP maggieharlow: y/ninsta I did what I could with him, and he's your responsibility now lol jackharlow: not yall throwing me under the bus smh saweetie: jackharlow they more so catapulted you lmao

[strangegutz]

i still don't 100% understand how much one is allowed to put their blorbos into the Heartbreak Gulch-verse, but. what sorta rules would there be for making a CompanDroid character. if other people can even make one. asking for a friend

I'll write up a more formal rundown eventually, but I'll warn you, if you make a CompanDroid, there will probably be something that comes up later that'll negate what you made!

First off, they're uncommon. They were very expensive, and haven't been made for roughly 60 years. Eddie is a pretty old ComDro at 83, he was pre-ordered and number 13 off the line. He's also in great working condition for his age, part of turning to crime was a necessity to afford repairs and maintenance.

There's 26 set models, 13 men and 13 women, one for each letter of the alphabet. A male, B female, so on. Not all are planned out, so there's your wiggle room for design. They were modeled in pairs, and modeled after various celebrities. For example, Model E's, which is what Eddie is, were modeled after a heartthrob Mexican actor, and the Model F counterpart was a Mexican Miss Universe winner. G and H are older folks, G taking the likeness of a children's programming host, and H a cooking show host. I haven't pinned down specific roles for others, but have looks in mind, like A & B being very Ken and Barbie looking bombshells. They range from young adult to elderly.

There were standard and deluxe editions. Standard models are unable to eat, drink, smoke, have sex, other bodily functions. Deluxe versions add all of that. Some models did not have a deluxe option. Deluxe upgrade kits were also available- Eddie himself had an after-party upgrade.

ETA: There's some variations in hairstyles as well- for example, Eddie looks different than a base Model E because his buyer paid extra for an option to have him resemble a role his face-sake played in a western film- hence the very cowboy facial hair

That's all I can think of for now! Run wild and free with your blorbos, just keep in mind how little I've put out there and how much can change haha

[lets-try-some-writing]

has optimus ever been horribly sick before? (other than cybonic plague)

Short answer. Yes. I am primarily an angst writer, of course my dear blorbo has suffered from illness.

═════════════════

Before and during the war as a general rule, Optimus never really got sick. His health was always kept as a top priority while he served under Alpha Trion and he was swarmed by medics enough during the war to ensure most plague could not touch him. That said, there were two instances where he was ill that were worthy of note, one pre war and one during.

Back when he was not yet a Prime, Orion only travelled to secure locations if he travelled at all. He was an archivist, he did not go into the dark and gritty parts of Cybertron. If he made journeys, it was to other archives across Cybertron to collect and corroborate data. His firewalls and immune systems were specialized to handle the viruses found amongst the middle and high caste mecha. He could quite easily walk off a software attack, system glitches, and all sorts of other viruses intended to weaken the fine and sensitive parts of a mech. But the things that targeted hardware and the frame as a whole? He was not at all prepared for those when he made his trip down to Kaon for the first time.

He was so focused on speaking and coming to agreements with Megatronus that when his venting started to sputter and he felt cold, it came as quite a surprise. He tried to ignore it, being far too enthralled with speaking with the mech he had been looking up to that when he finally collapsed after attempting to get up, he was left in shock. Megatronus saw the signs of ventilation failure and thankfully booked Orion to the nearest medical center with Orion offering paperwork as needed to allow the gladiator to move as needed.

By the time Orion actually made it to the hospital, he was already beginning to suffer from full ventilation failure. He spent the next three cycles confined to a berth hooked up to both a heater and a set of ventilators. His frame was unable to regulate its own temperature as his immune system fought off the virus attacking his systems. It was its own form of agony and he could barely move without feeling as though he were cooking alive or being frozen to death. There was no comfortable middle for Orion Pax. Thankfully Megatronus came to visit him in the hospital after forcing his way in. The gladiator apologized for Orion's situation to which the archivist laughed. Orion should have known better than to visit a new city state without getting proper firewalls installed. He made that quite clear, and soon enough, despite Orion feeling like total slag and hardly being able to speak without wheezing, he and Megatronus has a pleasant time discussing everything and anything as they were before Orion grew ill.

Orion had to wear a ventilation filter over his vents and had a heater strapped to his back that was similarly fitted over his vents for a stellar cycle afterward. However it was of little consequence as the situation repeated itself but in reverse around a vorn after the incident when Megatronus came to visit Iacon and got a nasty case of protocol override virus attacks. The gladiator was lift reeling and Orion was there all throughout to converse with him and make light jokes regarding his own prior stint will illness in Kaon.

During the war there was no such levity when it came to illness. Optimus was a Prime and fitted with enough firewalls from the Matrix to keep just about any virus for touching him. But of course, as the Decepticons began their biological warfare program, old firewalls were rendered useless. Optimus was on the frontlines when it happened, and thus he was one of the first to be rendered bedridden by the prototype cybonic plague. It most certainly wasn't lethal, but the mecha who had it were left purging their tanks unable to keep energon down and left in agony as their very energon was corroded. To handle it their energon had to constantly be drained and replaced via IV's to ensure they survived. It was a form of torture, but one Optimus took fairly well all things considered.

He continued to move around and work once the worst of it wore off and merely carried a bucket around with him so that when his systems demanded a purge he could walk off for a moment and do what needed to be done with a degree of grace. He was miserable, but he was functional and carried around an IV and energon pack hooked up to his fuel lines as he worked on internal affairs' as he recovered. All that made the situation better was Bumblebee, who was still very young at the time, drawing Optimus pictures and making him 'get well soon' cards. It was sweet and made enduring the suffering of the prototype virus easier to bear.

[draculas-secret-blog]

Pick my next fic

Hey! Decided I’d write some fics for the borderlands fanbase, figured I would let you guys choose what comes first! (They’ll have short little blurbs with more info under the cut if you want some!)

Rhysothy- I have a tftbl alternate au where news doesn’t get out that Jack is dead and that the Hyperion board has decided it would cause less issues for the company to bring in a body double. When Rhys gets the promotion he deserves and ends up working right under ‘jack’ he starts to notice that some things are different about the guy.. for one he’s absolute trash at programming and hey wait.. when did his eyes switch colors?

TLDR: Timothy is a shitty jack double

Gaigel- finding out that Angels mom was likely a Jakobs thanks to borderlands 3 i have cooked up a sweet au to go along with my living!angel one. They’ve been off planet for a tiny bit, Angel just needing to get as far away from pandora and euridium as humanly possible. They loop back for their annual check in with the crimson raiders and suprise! They get a wedding invite.. a little bit late and a little bit blood stained. Wait, huh? Why is it adressed ‘my dear niece Angel’? And why does the rsvp have the Jakobs gun manufacturer emblem?

TLDR: Gaige never asked her girlfriend her last name, whoopsie

Moxxi/Tannis- I think they should make out and that it would be totally cool and stuff.. just saying. Maybe it can even be a pre sequel fic as a treat with some canon divergence and a dash of ‘I have two kids and my crazy ex boyfriend and my family are trying to kill me. We should raise these kids together’

TLDR: Milf Moxxi and her Antisocial nerd girlfriend, yippie!

Mordibrick- Tina had her fake wedding, hammerlock and Jakobs had their real one.. Maybe it’s time that Mordecai and Brick get married too. I mean, they are dating, right? They established that clearly, right? They haven’t just been coparenting for years on accident while everyone just assumed they were gay. Totally not. And this wedding was totally not a surprise to them at all.. totally not.

TLDR: the game of gay chicken went too far in this one

Axton/Salvador: have not played their DLC yet, don’t kill me, BUT they give me old married energy when they call my echo. Like they’re trying to invite me over to have dinner with them or something. Anyways they flirt and narrate their shitty little death race and then light stuff on fire and flirt some more. Maybe claptrap gets bullied a little (a lot), we’ll see what happens. maybe a surprise Gaige cameo

TLDR: those two old guys kiss, the end.

Axton/Zed: this is the most original thought I think I have ever had personally. This au is inspired by two things: 1, my loyalty and parasocial friendship I had with Zed during my Gaige playthrough and 2, that one au here on tumblr of Axton being Gaiges adopted dad. I think Gaige trying to set Axton and Zed up together and Zed using his medical malpractice and four braincells to flirt would be great

TLDR: someone kiss that dilf with the silly little gun robot!

[rachelbethhines]

Things That I Use To Help Manage My ADHD and Executive Dysfunction

1. To Do Lists

I know, I know.

Making a list is boring. I lose the paper. I forget to make the to do list.

Believe me, I know.

I've been there, but trust me it does help once you get into the habit.

Here's some tips on how to get started

Try making your list in a digital app or a document file so you don't lose it

Sticky notes in a place you're sure to see them

An erasable board like a marker board or a chalkboard that you keep up in a specific place and never move. Like on the wall or the fridge.

Put "make 'to do' list" on the to do list so you don't forget to do it

Set aside a certain time to fill out or check off the list each day. Consistency is key.

Use calendars, alarms, and timers liberally to keep track of appointments and to manage your time so you don't hyper-focus on something to the determinant of more important things

But be flexible for things that don't have deadlines or appointments. Don't beat yourself up if something doesn't get done, just add it back onto the list for next time

2. Randomizers

Part of the problem with executive dysfunction is being overwhelmed by choice. So I keep a few randomizer websites booked marked that I use regularly

Wheel pickers

List randomizers

Random number generators

Like I keep my list of projects on a wheel picker app. And my chores that I don't have deadlines for on another. When making my to do list I'll spin the wheel to pick the project or chore that I'm going to work on that day.

I do the same when picking out albums to listen to or movies to watch so I don't go doom scrolling while wasting time deciding.

3. Meal Planning

Similar to the above, I take one day out of the week to draw up my meal plan for the next week.

Use this time to take stock of your pantry and fridge. What needs to get used up?

Anything special you want to fix over the week or weekend? Save the recipes to a document or leave a bookmark in your cookbook

Overwhelmed with choices or just don't know what to do with certain ingredients? Try a randomizer or an app like supercook to come up with ideas.

After you've taken inventory of your kitchen and figured out any special recipes you want to make, go ahead and fill out your grocery list

Set aside time on your to do list for shopping, meal prep, and cooking through out the week.

Pre-plan what days/times you are going to eat out or get takeout and work that into the meal plan/budget

Budget not only your money but also your time. How long will this recipe take to prep/cook? How much effort will it require of me? Is there any shortcuts I can take to make things easier, like buying my veggies already diced?

Try using an app to keep track of your meal plan, grocery list, and recipes so that they're all in one place

4. Mental Health Apps

I like Booster Buddy, but it's no longer supported for newer devices. I have also used Finch. But at the end of the day it doesn't matter which app you choose.

The point of having a program dedicated for mental health is to have a handy way to check in on yourself and see how you are feeling. Many apps will offer visual cues to allow you to break down your motivation and energy levels.

This will help give you a guideline for the day so you don't stretch yourself too thin.

A good app will also offer little suggestions and tips to help improve your mood or provide genteel reminders for small things that help with self care.

But most importantly it will help you spot patterns over time so you can better notice ongoing problems or see gradual changes as you get better.

5. Finding and Avoiding What Triggers My Dissociation

This is the hardest one.

I suffer from Maladaptive Daydreaming on top everything else which only makes my ADD and Executive Dysfunction even worse.

For others it maybe obsessive compulsion or a tendency to hyper-focus.

Things that I found that can be triggers are boredom, anxiety, isolation, health/dietary complications, and even the weather.

So here's some things I noticed that help

Set aside a certain time during the day to read/watch the news and then ignore it for the rest of the day. Yes be informed, but don't obsess.

Get your news from actual reputable news sources and not social media! Avoid algorithms feeding you negativity.

If you want to be more politically active schedule time for it, get involved with actual charities or political organizations, and then go about your regular business afterwards

Limit social media time. For me it's mornings before work for about 30mins, and then maybe an hour after work.

Curate your online experience. Block what you need to. Unfollow who you see fit. Social media should be fun not stressful.

Talk to other people! Make plans to hang out on weekends or call/text someone during the weekday. Try to make contact with another human being in some form everyday for at least a few mins, even if it's just online in a discord chat.

Have a book or notepad handy for when you get bored at work. Read, write, or draw during your downtime so you don't start staring off into space.

Keep a short list of fun things to do handy if you feel bored at home.

Set aside time to daydream/worry/plan/meditate/decompress. You need to mentally unwind at some point. The goal is to have that time per-planned so that it doesn't distract from other needed tasks. Getting into a routine with that time will also help.

Eating enough iron/vitamin C/protein ect. Food is energy and you need energy to focus. Meal planning will help with this.

TAKE YOUR MEDS!!!

Sometimes the weather will make you groggy, irritated, or anxious. There's not much you can do about this other than to accept it and just try your best.

You can however plan for bad weather ahead of time. Go to the National Weather site to find out about upcoming weather in your area and to figure what you need to be prepared for it. Try getting into the habit of doing this regularly.

[nitewrighter]

I Got Thyme

I saw on twitter that it's currently Yeehan Week! And one of the prompts for this year is plants! It made me think back to my whole "Watchpoint Garden" headcanon, and I realized it would be a really fun thing to explore for pre-relationship YeeHan. Did you know contact with dirt can raise serotonin levels?

Oh, also this is part of my fic continuity, so if you're new here, you'll want to check out Family Reunions and First Impressions for context.

----

"Do you attempt to break all new recruits with hard labor?" Hanzo asked as they walked.

"Look," Cassidy was rubbing his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, "If you stay here, you gotta help, and you're not exactly in a position to go on missions yet."

"I assure you, I would be more competent against Talon than at least half this Watchpoint."

"No one's sayin' you ain't good at killin'. But part of keeping this whole watchpoint moving means having food, and man does not live on shitty RTE's and shelf-stable dry goods alone."

"I am not a farmhand," said Hanzo.

"And what's wrong with bein' a farmhand?" Cassidy was giving him a raised-eyebrow, half-lidded look that told Hanzo to choose his next words very carefully.

Hanzo narrowed his own eyes at Cassidy. "I simply do not believe this is the best use of my time, or the best use of me as an asset,"

"You know 'probationary period' means we're still figuring out if we want you as an asset," said Cassidy.

"Somehow I doubt your organization can afford such exclusivity."

"Well, we certainly can't be picky when it comes to farmhands, I can tell you that much," Cassidy adjusted his belt as they walked.

A growling 'hmm' rumbled deep in Hanzo's throat as they approached the orange trees bordering the watchpoint garden.

Hanzo soon quickly regretted the ‘hard labor’ and ‘farmhand’ comments as it became immediately clear that whoever was available and not on a mission or working on some other immediately technically demanding task around the Watchpoint was working in the garden. He recognized a few faces from the night of his arrival. Satya was over near one of the few spaces of wall not covered by an orange tree, setting up a lattice. Ana was pruning back some ornamental perennials they were presumably using for pollination and pest control. Orisa was rearing back on her hind legs with some large shears, trimming away dead branches on the orange trees. Hanzo watched as her head swiveled at him and her optical sensors narrowed. A part of him knew he would have to apologize to her, if he was going to start getting any respect and traction from the rest of this group (but did he really want it?) and yet at the same time he was still so frustrated by this ridiculous 'probationary program' that they had clearly cooked up because of his presence and had not had as an established longstanding policy, that he didn't want to dignify the concept of having to earn this Watchpoint's respect.

An almost equally large, blocky robot was tilling up a new patch of soil. Hanzo's brow crinkled at the sight of the bastion unit. He knew it was on the watchpoint from his preliminary recons on the watchpoint--in truth, its presence had only made him more suspicious of Genji's organization. What kind of people would keep something that had caused such horrific devastation? But seeing it now threw him off. It was making chirruping beeping noises as it worked, in some eerie imitation of humming, as a yellow bird dizzily circled its head and tweeted tunelessly along.

"Yeah, Bastion gets that reaction a lot," said Cassidy, and Hanzo snapped out of his focus.

"Why would you keep something like that around?" asked Hanzo on reflex.

"Bastion's Torbjorn's..." Cassidy hesitated.

"Pet?"

"...buddy," It was clear Cassidy had some skepticism himself on the matter, but was far more used to Bastion's presence.

"Does it go on missions as well?"

"Not that often. We've brought it along on some missions outreaching with omnic communities, some non-combat ecology missions. I can think of like, maybe two missions where there was actual combat but that wasn't really planned. Other than that, it's a bit of a homebody."

"Non-combat missions?" Hanzo arched an eyebrow.

"Yup."

"That is a gun with legs," said Hanzo.

"Well, it doesn't want to be a gun with legs. It wants to be a gardener, and we're more than happy to help it with that."

"So happy you could join us, Cole," Ana stepped up to both of them and Hanzo felt himself tense at the words 'Join us.'

"Well, I figured y'all could use a little extra muscle," Cassidy demonstratively put a hand on his own shoulder and circled his arm with a grin.

Ana's gaze shifted Hanzo with a deliberate slowness. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "So you're really going along with Winston and Jack's plan, then?" she said, her eyes flicking back to Cole.

Hanzo hated being referred to as a 'plan.'

"Just helpin' where I can," said Cassidy with an easy shrug. He bumped his shoulder into Hanzo's, "And he's here to help, too."

"You all... seem to have the. matter well in hand--" Hanzo started, glancing around awkwardly.

"Trust me, we're playing catch-up. I'm sure you'll find something," said Ana, before looking over at Cassidy, "In fact, Cole, we were hoping you could take a look at the irrigation Satya and Torbjörn have planned for the new plot, seeing as technically you have more experience with those systems than a lot of people here."

"Ah hell, I was just a teenager," Cassidy itched at the hair poking out under the brim of his hat.

"That experience is still worth something," said Ana.

A prickle of realization went up the back of Hanzo's neck.

What's wrong with bein' a farmhand?

Of course... Hanzo thought grimly, watching as Cassidy pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and followed Ana over to the area that Bastion was digging up. Hanzo moved to follow over, though he wasn't exactly sure what he would do, when he heard a polite, "Excuse me?"

"Hanzo, right?" a voice piped up next to him and Hanzo glanced sharply over and down at a round, pleasant face, with sunlight catching in glasses.

"We haven't met yet. I'm Mei, would you like to help me in the greenhouse?"

Hanzo's brow crinkled.

----

It really wasn't enough of a 'house' to be called a greenhouse. More of a green 'shed,' or a green 'shanty.' Hanzo frowned over the seedlings in the egg carton before glancing up at Mei, who was carefully cutting out her selections from their egg carton with some shears. He glanced over at several seedlings growing out of cut up cardboard tubes. For one of the leading scientists of her time, Mei wasn't picky when it came to seed containers, and apparently neither were the plants.

"Just separate out the bigger sprouts from the littler ones," said Mei, "We want the most viable plants for the new plot. If you see an extra sprout in the cell, you can just clip that one short. We don't want to risk damaging the roots this early. we want about 6 plants each of tomatoes and peppers."

"I... see..." said Hanzo, who was still helplessly watching her hands as she worked and feeling even more foolish to be afraid of using gardening shears after decades of skillfully handling deadly weapons.

"We've been wanting to expand the growing area for a while," Mei was talking, "It's just, we knew that would mean re-doing the irrigation, which isn't that hard, and honestly it really is now or never with these seedlings looking the way they are. It's just one of those things people easily forget about with all the missions and with their own things..."

She had, as she had explained for most of their time in the greenhouse, been back in China researching aquifers in Shanxi when he first arrived on the Watchpoint. Hanzo wasn't sure if she had been briefed on all of the events of his arrival, and was stuck in the annoying limbo of, 'Does she not know or is she actively choosing to ignore all of that?' as Mei spoke. There was a pause and Hanzo realized Mei was waiting for him to respond.

"And... Shanxi was... your business?" Hanzo said slowly, feeling like an idiot. The more time he spent here, the more he heard people talk to each other, the more he realized how few and far between his interactions with people over the years since leaving the Shimada clan had been.

"Honestly, I think water tables are everyone's business already, or at least they should be," there was a giggle in Mei's voice, "But, some work you do with Overwatch, and other stuff... well, you can't."

"Because Overwatch is operating illegally," Hanzo said flatly, cutting away at a cell which seemed to have a strong seedling.

"Er... yes," said Mei, tucking some hair back, sheepishly, "But, even when I'm on my own, I like to think I'm doing the same work I was doing with them 9 years ago, even if a lot of things are different now."

"And... you are not a soldier, but a scientist."

"The amount of times I've heard that!" said Mei with an eye roll.

"So... you are a non-combatant as well? Like... the Bastion unit?" Hanzo clipped a stray sprout in its cell, and felt oddly guilty in doing so.

"It's not 'the bastion unit' it's just 'Bastion,'" said Mei, easily clipping away at her own seedlings, "But... no, I fight."

"You fight?" Hanzo repeated incredulously.

"Well it's not usually that direct, it's more like the cryo-gun has a lot of applications that can help my team. Raising barriers, creating platforms to get us to higher levels, sometimes creating temporary fixes to unstable structures... it's not all guns blazing all the time!"

"...clearly," said Hanzo, looking at his own seedlings.

"Well, I think we're all set for the tomatoes and peppers!" said Mei, with their selected seedlings all lined up.

"What about this one?" Hanzo held up one of his own seedlings, not wanting to admit that he was a little hurt that she seemed to favor her own selections over his.

"Well, we only have limited space in the garden and these guys are going to get a lot bigger--but you can just keep that one for yourself, if you like? I'm sure we have a spare pot lying around..."

Hanzo glanced at the seedling, and then looked at Mei. "...why?"

"Plants are good for you! I honestly think the Watchpoint could use more green outside the garden. Think of it like... a welcome gift!"

"I am only here on probation," Hanzo said flatly.

"Oh..." Mei said quietly.

"But... I do not know when I will be leaving so... I will see that it is taken care of until then."

"Oh--um, good," said Mei.

A long pause passed between them. Mei was awkwardly sweeping spare bits of dirt off of their worktable.

"Hey, so... you weren't trying to hurt anyone when you came onto the Watchpoint, right?"

So she does know, Hanzo thought sourly.

"No," said Hanzo, "But... I apologize for damaging your security drone."

"What security drone?" Mei tilted her head and a half-sphere-shaped robot suddenly hovered to her side, making a quizzical whirring sound. Okay, so she hadn't heard everything, apparently.

"Eh--" Hanzo stammered at the robot. How many pet robots do they have? he thought, bewilderedly.

"Oh, sorry! This is Snowball! Snowball, Hanzo." Mei gestured at Hanzo to her robot, "But sorry, you were saying about a security drone?"

Hanzo remembered, at this point, how he had managed to make everyone who had confronted him that night hate him by referring to Orisa as a security drone, and he had simply referred to her as a security drone in that moment because he was too frustrated with the concept of apologizing to someone whom he was just meeting now for something she hadn't even been here for to remember Orisa had a name.

"There was--" Hanzo started, but then there was a creak of the greenhouse door opening and Ana leaned in.

"Mei, do you mind if I borrow him for a bit? We're shelling the last of the broad bean harvest."

"Do you mind?" Mei looked at Hanzo.

Hanzo minded a lot of things about the current situation, but now was in a position where he wasn't sure if he was more annoyed at Ana talking as if he didn't have a choice in the matter, and Mei talking to him as if he did. Where was the damned discipline in this place? But instead, all that came out of his mouth was, "...beans?"

---

Both Hanzo and Ana sat at a temporary hard-light table with hard-light chairs in the shade of one of the orange trees. Each of them had a small bowl in their lap to catch the beans as they shelled them. A large bowl, slowly being filled with shelled beans was between them, and a slowly growing pile of empty bean pods was at their feet. Hanzo hated to admit that he liked this work far more than working with the seedlings. In a way it reminded him of crafting his own arrows, in a more menial, mindless way.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," said Ana, tossing down a

"You shot me with a sleeping dart."

"You broke onto the watchpoint and attacked both Orisa and Cole."

"They attacked me--"

"Did they attack you, or did they talk to you first?"

"...they... told me to lower my weapon."

"The weapon you had at the ready while breaking onto our Watchpoint."

"...yes."

Ana was giving him a steady, tired-but-patient look. "You're very used to doing things on your own terms, aren't you?"

Hanzo returned her gaze with a mild glower.

Hanzo wasn't exactly sure how long he would keep up the glare, but the moment of tension was abruptly ended when Bastion clunked up to them and gestured at the bean pods at their feet with a questioning chirrup.

"Yes, dear, thank you," said Ana as Bastion scooped up the bean pods and clunked off again towards the compost pile.

"...you fought in the crisis, didn't you?" Hanzo asked.

"I did," said Ana.

"And you have no issue living with a Bastion unit?"

"You seem a bit hung up on that."

"I have no issues with omnics, I've worked with many in my travels, but that is clearly not a typical laborer unit, and I am trying to understand why it is here."

"Why 'it' is here..." Ana repeated musingly and Hanzo felt the back of his neck burning.

"If it does not fight..." Hanzo trailed off.

"Not everything is about combat," said Ana.

Hanzo gave Ana a skeptical look.

"Overwatch was initially formed to combat the omnic crisis, this is true, but many believe that our greater contributions were in our relief efforts, in our scientific research and advancements," Ana looked over at Bastion, turning over the compost pile with a rake, "It's taken some getting used to, but I think I like what Bastion's presence represents to me."

"And that is...?"

"That we are more than the battles we fought. That we can shape ourselves beyond the circumstances we were made in."

"To be... gardeners," said Hanzo, watching as Bastion took up a shovel-ful of more broken down compost and clunked over to where Cassidy was hoeing up an extra square foot onto the end of their new intended plot. Hanzo's eyes lingered over Cassidy and the way the plaid of his shirt stretched taut over his back muscles, the way his belt stood stubborn over the movement of his hips. Cassidy pushed himself up to his full height, tilted his hat back with his thumb, and wiped the sweat from his brow, his gardening gloves leaving a smudge of dirt amidst the salt and shine, the topmost buttons of his shirt straining with his breath.

"Among other things," said Ana. Hanzo instantly gauged that she could tell where he was looking and shoved his eyes down to the bean pods in his lap.

"It would be more efficient to just attach a hard-light plow to the OR-15 unit," Hanzo muttered, shelling beans faster than usual.

"There's not really enough space for that. Although, you're welcome to try and put a plow on Orisa," Ana said with amusement.

Hanzo's lips just thinned and he shelled in silence. Eventually, though, his eyes did trail back to Cassidy.

"...I should have asked you, how are you two getting along?"

"He... worked on farms prior to this?" said Hanzo, watching as Cassidy guzzled from a water bottle to the point where it was running down his neck. Not realizing he wasn't really answering Ana's question.

"We were able to find some temporary working documentation with a few agro-corps in his records when we first recruited him. He doesn't like talking about it much, but he does have some skills in that area," said Ana. She paused. "He's not a thug, by the way."

"What?" said Hanzo.

"That's what you called him your first night here. A 'thug serving the word of whomever's most convenient to him.'"

Hanzo's shoulders shrank a little.

"He didn't have a lot of say in the matter when he first joined us either," Ana went on, "But he's been one of our most loyal agents over the years, even knowing us at our worst. He knew when we were doing wrong, he knew when things were going rotten, but we were all he had so..." she trailed off, "I don't think he's ever done anything out of 'convenience.'"

Hanzo watched as Cassidy struck down with the hoe once more, jamming a booted foot on top of it, apparently working with a particularly rooty, hard chunk of earth.

"I... spoke more out of emotion than recognition of my environment that night," said Hanzo, "It will not happen again."

"It always happens again," said Ana, "To everyone."

Hanzo gave her a sidelong glance and turned his attention down to his beans. "I can't afford that sort of misstep. And I can't see how you all can sit around gardening and shelling beans when, if Genji is to be believed, you stand on the brink of annihilation from Null Sector and Talon."

"What do you think Genji and the others are doing right now?" said Ana, dumping her own bowl of shelled beans into the larger bowl between them, "There is always the fight, but there's also the garrison. There's making sure there's a place to regroup, to recover, to strategize, to assess the threats present to us" she demonstratively shook a bean pod at him, "To eat."

Hanzo snorted softly.

"You have been alone for a long time," Ana said quietly, casting an empty bean pod to the ground.

"I have," Hanzo admitted, "And... I am not sure if I am capable of helping build what you are describing."

"According to your dossier, you're, in theory, a highly proficient strategist and organizer."

"That was for criminals. This is..." Hanzo trailed off.

Ana just shrugged and continued shelling. "You know," she said, "In the military, there's two kinds of people--well, it's more of two ends of a spectrum, really. You have the people who joined because they like the concept of order, both having discipline put in their lives, and being able to have order over others--the ability to say something, and then see others put your words into action. Then there are others--they join for their own reasons, they don't take to the authority as well, but they prove themselves highly adaptable in combat. No one is 100% of either, and you need people who have a well-balanced mix of all those attributes, or a good mix of people who lean more towards one or the other, to have a successful team. A team that's too dependent on falling in line can't adapt when things change, and things will change, and a team that's full of self-declared mavericks can't pull together as a unit."

"Why are you telling me this?" said Hanzo.

"I don't think I've ever met someone who is such a thorough mix of both those aspects in a way that completely bites them in the ass before you," she paused, "Well, except maybe Jack."

"And you can make this judgment when I've only been on the Watchpoint several days?" Hanzo didn't look up from his own bean pods.

"I've been doing this a long time," Ana said easily.

Hanzo glanced back at Cassidy. "And which type was he?"

"I'll give you one guess," said Ana, and Hanzo gave an amused huff.

----

The shadows were long on the watchpoint by the time they had the irrigation completely set up and all the little seedlings planted at their respective plots. Bastion tweeted as it spread out mulch and raked up stray dirt and clippings. Most of the gardeners dispersed to put away equipment or prep for dinner in the mess hall.

"Whatcha got there?" Cassidy asked as they both walked away from the garden.

"It's...nothing," said Hanzo, holding the small seedling at his side away from Cassidy.

"Doesn't look like nothing," said Cassidy, craning over Hanzo's shoulder to get a better look. He smelled like sweat and crushed leaves and orange rinds and sweet earth.

"It's a plant," Hanzo said flatly, "It was a gift."

"Look at you, makin' friends already," said Cassidy, pocketing his hands, "So what do you think? Now that we all ain't in pajamas and pointing guns and bows at each other?"

Hanzo kept his eyes fixed forward. "I am still trying to understand how you organize yourselves. I came here under the impression that this was a mercenary group, but actually observing you..." he trailed off.

"It's not all gardening, obviously," said Cassidy, "There's maintenance, inventorying, surveying watchpoint security 'n where we need equipment, whether we can whip something up on-site, other means of acquisitions and what-have-you, Winston keep sending out these 'team morale evaluations,'" Cassidy used finger quotes at this, "Yup. I think this was a pretty lucky day to see the Watchpoint like this, t'be honest. And you can bet the old Overwatch wasn't exactly keeping itself fed with a victory garden either—I mean aside from what they'd have for Ecowatch photo-ops. We do what we can to teach each other different jobs. 'Course everyone has different areas of expertise, but you figure out ways to carry each others' loads. Somehow shit pulls together. The wheels haven't fallen off yet." 

"Fewer resources and personnel means a more fluid hierarchy," Hanzo murmured to himself.

"I guess," Cassidy shrugged, "You think about what you want out of all this?"

"What do you mean?" said Hanzo, managing to suppress the question of 'What is there to get out of all this?'

"I mean like... You talk about wanting to fight alongside us---"

"I want to fight because I won't have the only family I have left dying for you."

"And that's great! It is! I mean, I want to think it's great. Again--you're still on probation--"

"You don't have to keep telling me."

"But I'm asking about you. Your plans. We all make it through this, what are you going to do? Are you just going to keep following Genji around? Go back to Japan and try and take that big ol' palace back? Ride off into the sunset?"

Hanzo's jaw set grimly and he didn't answer. Cassidy watched him for a few seconds in silence. Hanzo's eyes met his only briefly, expecting contempt but not finding it. Instead, Cassidy's face had softened. Pity?

"...You don't have to answer that," said Cassidy, a bit too late.

"What about you?" asked Hanzo.

Cassidy just pocketed his hands and fixed his eyes forward. "Ride off into the sunset?" he said again, shrugging, then after a beat he said, "...maybe turn myself in. Get a lawyer. Say my piece. Do my time if I have to. Hell, maybe the system'll be working then."

"...You don't know if you're going to make it out of this alive," Hanzo said quietly.

"I'm just more worried about getting everyone else through this alive," said Cassidy, "You included, believe it or not."

Another long silence passed between them as they walked.

"Don't tell the Captain that, though," said Cassidy, "She fusses over me enough as it is."

"I can tell," said Hanzo. For once the corners of his mouth were pulled in something that was not a frown.

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[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

also since i wanna rewrite it to fit with a redone worldbuilding tidbit heres like. some slightly older lore from when i wrote about the unique outfits and motifs everyone from train has. putting it under the cut cause its long

in general the system of ‘fast fashion’ has kind of collapsed and instead there’s a huge focus on durable/magically enhanced materials and also generally, having knowledge of sewing and other misc haberdashery type shit. i’d compare the importance and prevalence of it to a skill like cooking i suppose? i imagine there’s just a lot of redistribution of old fabrics with weird patterns and whatnot, which people often just integrate into existing clothes of theirs. getting into this more extensively in a second but on the flipside there’s also a lot more revere toward tailors and anyone who produces custom outfits on demand, so people who aren’t skilled with customising their own clothes often seek out this manner of purchase… there are also some small stores that sell ‘pre-made’ items of clothing with precise patterns and motifs, though these are usually seen as ‘tacky’.

another thing is like. what i’ll call the habit of characters just wearing the same outfit seemingly ‘all the time’ — which at first was kind of just meant to be a play on the weird time dilation presented on the train, but i’ve taken it as a canonical in-universe thing. that is to say i imagine everyone has like a ‘main costume’ they wear in their day-to-day life, and technically speaking i imagine it involves owning multiple copies of the same outfit lol. but it’s basically someone’s most important, most presentable and most epitomic outfit that’s supposed to put on display their chosen motifs

to properly focus on the idea of ‘motifs’, they are also an acknowledged construct with a lot of cultural importance! motifs are basically ‘signatures’ a person has to identify them and set them apart from others, with most people having two. motifs can basically be anything from plants to animals to patterns to like. really obscure iconography like soundwave diagrams to alchemical symbols and whatever. motifs are often combined with a ‘skeleton’ of an outfit — often part of a job ‘uniform’, such as a waiter’s suit or boilersuit, though globally most workplaces keep dress codes lenient and open to customisation. this both further adds ‘panache’ and ‘depth’ to a daily outfit and often gives a person a good starting point for their daily outfit. also perhaps it sounds a bit too dramatic but i’ve been loosely rattling around the idea of calling daily outfits ‘paradigms’ and will continue to refer to them as such because it’s a shorter word lol.

anyway another important aspect of paradigms, and clothing in general, are colors! due to the whole scrapbook nature of fashion in the 22nd century, it is indeed more about loose color groups than like precise hex codes and shades, but people often associate themselves with one or two particular colors and try to incorporate them into many outfits. though not as important as motifs, with some people forgoing strict color ‘loyalty’ altogether, many do appreciate consistency!

motifs have a huge social aspect to them. in general. like quite loosely there’s the attitude i implied about certain motifs being seen as ‘generic’ and hence, a signal of unoriginality. for example anyone with a stars motif or a leafs motif, without any further specification or interesting secondary motif, is often seen as extremely boring! prime example of this is lusine, who’s clothing style is quite generic and involves a lot of ‘ready made’ clothing… it itself was often too preoccupied with programming to care much for its appearance, thus the very general motif — literally wearing ‘stuff you’d find in a store.’ conversely valerie has a very simplistic but unified paradigm, intentionally playing on first-view assumed minimalism — although her pants have very meticulous heart inscriptions at the bottom, which is kind of her just flexing her sewing ability, and the ribbon in her hat has a wire in it twisted to maintain a heart silhouette, etc though it isn’t as gaudy and evident as someone like marjolaine or olzhas’, it quietly displays a lot of ‘tricks’ that signify her prowess at design. which is deemed very very cool. to go over the aforementioned ‘gaudy’ two: marjolaine’s outfit has a lot of subtle symbolism such as the necklace, use of gold and boot patterning, alongside subtle design choices like the dna belt embroidery, the carved clover pattern on the monocle, and the general clover pastiche in the neck/sleeve/skirt frills, but it’s like such an involved outfit that it basically says “oh you’re very rich and you paid a tailor to make all this for you.” she didn’t literally, having summoned it via object-pullers, but it still has very strong connotations to wealth and ‘showing off’ that anyone could easily detect lol. like it seems too busy and ‘pre-made’, so to speak. conversely olzhas has a very focused pattern on the apron, seen as a rich person thing again, but it’s balanced by the cool factor of balancing 4 separate colors on a paradigm and having them look nice… alongside this there’s a lot of subtlety in the harlequin pattern being repurposed as ‘diamonds’ repeatedly and the harlequin costume-based shoes, alongside things like eir shades and dress hem harkening to the blockiness of brutalism, which is just seen as good use of composition. in short e has some touches of the same ‘trying too hard’ habit that marjolaine has, but it’s offset by seen ‘tastefulness’ and personal effort in coordination.

alongside having some reputational significance, motifs are also often important when it comes to romantic relationships! upon getting engaged or married, people will often start to ‘share’ their motifs in certain ways. this can be generally done by just exchanging clothes or sewing things onto paradigm components… but a more subtle and momentous marker comes in the form of ‘marriage tokens’ — iterating on the idea of wedding rings, but with the scope growing to ANY kind of ornate accessory worn by someone that is decorated with their partner’s motif. people often go all out and splurge on customised items, and as opposed to things like engagement rings, a couple will decide on matching items together AFTER a proposal has already been made. it’s often common to get ornate rings with carvings of motifs (as is the case for beatrix and marjolaine; marjolaine owning a ring with a stylised star, beatrix with a ladybug one) or earrings with motif shapes (eventually the case for olzhas and isel — olja wearing a sun-shaped earring on one ear, and isel wearing a diamond-shaped earring on the opposing one) to more involved things like pins/badges, ribbons, etc. honestly there’s less strain about ever losing marriage tokens because often, people will choose to ‘renew’ them anyway to keep up with paradigm changes over the years.

thiiis brings me to a digression which is that motifs can be freely changed! of course! and there are three major causes for it; either it’s teenagers who are already given this ‘grace period’ to experiment with motifs so it’s not a big deal; or it’s a couple who chooses to ‘swap’ motifs entirely, kind of seen as an insanely romantic gesture often used as a trope in fiction; or it’s a personal change often done after a grand event in one’s life, seen as a quite serious and gravitous ordeal. i have two examples for the lattermost one; isel abandoning his old marigold motif in exchange for the bobolink one, to mark his acceptance of his life on the fornax train; and peixin modifying its general digital audiovisual motif into the older historical devices one to signify its connection to fornax and its visions, and its feelings of time displacement as a result.

to get back to paradigm changes upon marriage, i’m bringing back the thing about colors! these are also often incorporated into outfits upon a union, whether with someone just wearing clothes containing the other’s main colors — such as cas and lanuola, with cas’ makeup and boots utilising lanuola’s blue (if you’re wondering, cas’ presence in lanuola’s outfit actually presents itself as a restructure mostly related to shape instead of color lol. she did not wear that multilayered cape beforehand and it intentionally mirrors cas’ dress) — or people ‘tinting’ their main colors with their partner’s. the latter is extremely evident with olzhas, whose main color used to be blue, though e changed it to eir current purple by attempting to inch it towards isel’s marigold yellow! (and again for contrast, isel later just ‘stole’ the purple from olzhas wholesale as his secondary color, and later transformed it into his classic pink by he himself attempting to inch it to freya’s red lol. which is to restate that partners do not necessarily mirror each other’s motif/color incorporations via the same method, and also to state that motif/color matching is NOT necessarily romantic, and i guess more precisely a simple signifier of a deep emotional connection, which can indeed be platonic. also note that isel technically stole a color that had a basis in his own outfit, which comes across as mildly egotistical to people who are very precise about color sharing lol!)

in those examples also it’s important to state that both pairs actually changed their outfits before getting properly engaged, which is seen as kind of immature and overzealous — to a degree there’s this attitude about ‘being responsible’ for your motif and, if you’re old enough, not changing it arbitrarily for anyone and only doing so for a serious commitment lest you remove the ‘honor’ from the act… and perhaps there was too much eagerness involved, since both pairs literally knew one another for no more than a month before they decided to be all involved about it lol but it’s fiiiine.

conversely another interesting example comes in the form of beatrix and marjolaine, who kind of convey a disjointed sharing of color? marjolaine’s main colors used to be, simply, red and green though the red became relegated to a tertiary/accent color in the wake of incorporating yellow, completely just taken from beatrix. conversely beatrix used to have a LOT of red on his outfit, which he quickly kind of ‘scrubbed’ by the time he boarded the train — kind of adding insult to injury, regarding the whole ‘entering the train just to divorce my terrible wife’ thing… he incorporates it into his skirt again by the time dalisay arrives to the train but it’s much more barren compared to the frequency of it prior, kind of commenting on the unbalanced nature of their relationship… marjolaine’s fully preserved beatrix’s color and still has it overtake her former colors, kind of as a ‘show’ of dedication, but beatrix doesn’t buy it and keeps her own incorporation of marjolaine’s color kind of degraded, more or less showing he’s visibly reluctant about it… frown

children have a ‘bridge’ motif between their parents motifs (never finished elaborating on this lol)

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Idia Shroud Chef Apprentice Personal Story: Part 1

"Master Chef"

Part 1 (Part 2)

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Idia Version ～Let’s Make Stuffed Peppers 1～

Ghost Chef: Alright, well, I'll have you start by making the Stuffed Peppers… Idia-kun, have you ever cooked anything before?

Idia: Eh….........Ah…......Ah…...I haven’t.

Ghost Chef: Oh my, are you nervous? Don't worry, this program is aimed towards amateurs like you. You don't have to tense up like that!

Idia: N-No, this is my default setting…

Idia: Ugh, actually… It's a pain to try to explain it, so I'll just let him think whatever.

Ghost Chef: Idia-kun? Are you alright to continue?

Idia: …Kk.

Ghost Chef: First, prep the sweet bell peppers. Cut off the stem and use your fingers to take out all the seeds and the white bits from inside.

Ghost Chef: It might be a bit hard to remove, but it won't be as tasty if they're left on. Make sure to take them all off.

Idia: What, they want me to cut a round object on a flat surface…? Urrgh, it's not sitting still.

Idia: I don't wanna get hurt in an elective like this. Gotta hold it firmly… Carefully… Carefully…

[chop]

Idia: …Whew, that was scary. K, next is to take out the insides with my fingers, I guess. Urgh… This squishiness suuucks…

Ghost Chef: Take your time and be gentle so as to not damage the produce. However, there is still much more left to do, so don't take too much time.

Idia: Wh-Which is it…!? Do you want me to take my time or hurry up!? Eek, the seeds are stuck to my fingers… This is the worst…

Ghost Chef: Once you've taken out all the seeds, cut the pepper into round slices, 2 cm thick.

Ghost Chef: Make sure to cut them evenly, keep an eye on the thickness of each slice.

Idia: …If you're gonna be that adamant, shouldn't you should pick something other than a knife for this!? A newbie'll definitely make mistakes!?

Ghost Chef: You don't have to put that much thought into it. It's just something to keep in mind.

Idia: Oh, so it's just gotta be close enough? Then say that from the get go…

Ghost Chef: ―Next, you need to make the stuffing that'll go inside. We'll measure out each ingredient as per the recipe and put them in a bowl.

Idia: The stuff I need to measure out are… 1/4 cup of breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoons of milk, an egg… "a pinch" of salt and pepper?

Idia: There it is… "a pinch." Instructions that leave it to the experience and tastes of the one making it that has no repeatability…

Idia: That so frustrating. Let's say I was a pepper aficionado, wouldn't that change the size of that "pinch"???

Ghost Chef: Hmmm. For this recipe, maybe just three shakes of the pepper is enough. All it needs is a "pap, pap, pap" with a quick flick of your wrist.

Idia: Now you're just using sounds to describe it!? Huh, but there's so many ways that could introduce error into the equation, just by the way you snap your wrist; how much force you put into it, your physique, and whatever else.

Ghost Chef: I-I never thought there'd be this many questions about something like this.

Idia: …Haah, whatever. It'll be annoying if I have to stay here longer than I need to, so I'll just shake it however…

Ghost Chef: Still, you sure do notice the smallest things. Are you starting to gain more interest in cooking?

Idia: Uh, no…? Eh? Where'd you get that idea…?

Idia: Uh… I don't really think about food to begin with. Honestly, I tend to forget to eat…

Ghost Chef: Ehh!? I'm sure that would worry your family.

Idia: Well… Yeah, I guess. My kid brother's always trying to push those nutritional health apps…

Idia: When I decided to take this class, I think he said something like, "I hope this'll get you more interested in cooking～"

Ghost Chef: That's a nice brother to have. And? What do you think, now that you're taking the class?

Idia: I get it now, after actually standing here and doing this. It's so inefficient to cook for yourself.

Idia: Just eating's a chore, so cooking on top of that's just a waste of time. Yup, nothing can stand up to those pre-packaged complete nutrition meals.

Ghost Chef: Oh no, did this Master Chef course just backfire!? Oh but, hey look, there's been a ton of recent advances in cookware, you know!

Ghost Chef: There are even pots that'll finish cooking for you if you throw in the necessary ingredients and seasonings!

Idia: Eh… If a pot that useful exists, then why's it necessary to learn how to cook from scratch?

Ghost Chef: No, no, you still need to cut the ingredients, or measure the seasonings yourself, obviously.

Idia: Why's that the only thing that's still gotta be done by hand, then? We can rely on those cooking appliances even more, I'm sure!

Ghost Chef: Do you think so? I think it's already pretty amazing.

Idia: If we're going to have "automated cooking," then it's be great if it'd at least also prepped the ingredients and measured the seasonings.

Idia: Like, just throw everything in the pot, cover it with the lid, wait a bit, and then ta-da, all you gotta do is put it on the plate, that'd be great.

Ghost Chef: If there ever is such a pot, then that might put me out of a job.

Idia: If I were to create an Idia Shroud Cooking Appliance (name pending)… First, I'd make sure to spell out what a "pinch" of something is.

Idia: And to do that, I'll need to collect more data on the actual cooking process.

Idia: And if I'm going to make something to collect that, I'd rather have a pro craft it for me…

Idia: Chef, I'm going to collect the necessary data in order to put together my own cooking appliance, so can I have you finish up the dish?

Ghost Chef: Of course not! I'm pleased that you're starting to get fired up, but you need to finish what you started!

Part 1 (Part 2)

Requested by @rotattooill.

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2023-08-21

If we're being honest, the first show I go to in Europe being a South African band is probably the only way I was going to get the ball rolling.

Listening: Ruff Majik is doing their Europe tour so I dragged a friend along. If I had a nickel for every psychedelic surf rock fantasy themed band from Pretoria I'd have two nickels. The two accompanying acts were Rocky and his Bootlegs, and Olaf Olafsonn and the Big Bad Trip.

Rocky was apparently doing their first show, solid performance although they did make the decision to spend five minutes in the middle of a song doing sonic landscape bullshit on their pedalboards and then come back in with a dubious closer. That's what we go to live shows for though so I can't complain. Literally cannot find hide nor hair of these guys online, which is a shame because I liked some of their stuff.

Olaf Olafsonn and the Big Bad Trip is a metalish themed psychedelic rock band who performed in some really good masks. Do you like really stupid loud guitar and a synth in there for some reason? This is for you. I do not yet speak Czech so I did not catch the names of any of these songs. Here's something I picked at random.

And Ruff Majik, I'm finally going to link their song "She's Still A Goth" which they are so so proud of. It is incredibly self indulgent. It is not by any means their best song.

Reading: Finished up The Will to Battle, moving on to Perhaps The Stars. The Will to Battle went in broad strokes as I expected, it's the build up, but it is of course still weird as hell. I enjoy the closer look at the despair that surrounds the Utopians, and the reveal that Mycroft has been hallucinating a cast of corpses at all times really makes me wonder what was fictitiously cut from the earlier books by 9A.

I'm sure that Palmer has at least a good chunk of the pre-edit version of those histories written out somewhere. I am much less clear in my vision of what Perhaps the Stars might be like.

Watching: I will link this video of a guy building a nightmare capacitor bank and popping a 500A fuse.

Dudes Rock

Making: 3D printing on hold until I get a sealed bag to store the filament I bought, because my house is so extremely humid all the time and I don't want to ruin a kilogram of filament. I'll invest in a dryer at some point but for now just having sealed dry storage is a must. I've been sketching a lot of designs out though, direct air coolers for my laptop, mounts for taps, filter holders and other camera stuff, etc.

I also started writing a program to help me generate components for building frames out of rod stock and 3D printed mounts. I found a hobby shop within easy reach that stocks steel, aluminium, carbon fibre and brass rod and tube stock which is so extremely handy.

Playing: Breath of the Wild- Yuzu handles emulation admirably. I suspect that being less good at the controls is helping me enjoy the cooking system more. If I was good at this I could probably Dark Souls a lot of these fights, the parry mechanic is pretty robust. Instead, I floundered at the face of the Moderate Test of Strength and, instead of Dark Soulsing it, I went away and decided it'd be more fun to hone my skills elsewhere and come back with better gear, more control, and some extra hearts.

I set up gpu-screen-recorder to do replays which has so far yielded these two.

Tools and Equipment: Ikea Bags are pretty handy. They're the biggest bags that fold flat that you can probably easily get. I use one now to handle shuttling laundry from my washing machine to the line, which is way more convenient than the old collapsible bucket I used to use, while also being smaller.

I also used an Ikea bag to haul my 3D printer home from the post office when the courier couldn't find my address for some reason. It's less than a kilometer but it would have been miserable to heft 10kg of box with no handles.