#and his lack of communication is STELLAR

[lets-try-some-writing]

https://www.tumblr.com/lets-try-some-writing/768522286265417728/have-you-seen-the-humans-are-space-cats-tag-i

Just saw this post; how many times do you think a human snuck aboard a cybertronian ship simply because they diddnt have anything to lose on earth or just wanted to start a new life.

How would the cybertronians react to their stowaway?

You know what? I love this prompt so take a lil fic thing to go with it. Partially inspired by @nova--spark's Earth101 writing.

Human Stowaway

Report from: OSCD (Organic Study and Comprehension Division) - Expeditionary crew of The Illuminator.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

During out last scientific expedition to the planet Earth, we followed proper procedure and the tests we ran went as they were meant to. However, it was only once we were already en-route to Cybertron that we discovered a little... souvenir from our planetary assessment.

An organic, a human specimen that calls itself Mah-Ark Hah-Rt, snuck aboard our vessel. We were aware of the phenomenon of humans abandoning their world in favor of sneaking onto Cybertronian vessels. But we did not anticipate a human deciding to take up residence on our ship. We are just a science vessel after all, and more often than not, reports of human stowaways come from private ships and small visiting groups of younglings attending tours of Earth for educational purposes. Those humans are usually returned or taken in by the vessels they board. But in both cases, there are certain contingencies already in place for such an event.

We do not have any such contingencies. And so as soon as we discovered Mah-Ark, we opted to take care of it until we arrived on Cybertron and could send it to Captain Bumblebee, the designated liaison to Earth. With all that said, our interactions with Mah-Ark have been interesting to say the least.

Scans and close assessments using our knowledge of humanity have indicated Mah-Ark is a human male. It, (or as Mah-Ark prefers to be addressed) he appears to not be much older than two stellar cycles of age, nineteen by Earth solar standards. Despite our studies of human languages, communication has been difficult. Mah-Ark speaks only a little of Earth's major language of trade and instead primarily speaks the Earth dialect of 'Russian'. We have no idea what he is saying most of the time, but we've learned to largely read him.

So far, we've managed to figure out why he's here based on a few scattered 'memes', various pop culture references, and through having him draw things. He used quite a few English curses along with the name of several planetary leaders on his homeworld, so we assume he has been dissatisfied and tried to escape elsewhere. He also drew a rather devastating scene of several human shaped figures being hit by a vehicle, so we've come to believe he may be without a clan to lean on. With that in mind, his abandonment of his planet makes more sense.

After we pulled Mah-Ark out of the vent he was hiding in, we discovered quite quickly that humans have needs that must be met. After his internals made very concerning sounds and he proceeded to pull out a can of mushed... stuff, we concluded that we needed to get supplies. Mah-Ark needed to fuel first and foremost, and we lacked the necessary resources. Mah-Ark brought enough supplies to fuel himself for roughly an Earth week, but we had to take a detour to try and find alternative fuel for his organic frame. We would have returned to Earth, but by that point the effort would have been wasted due to travel constraints. In the end, we took a path past a techno-organic world where we used some excess funding to purchase an array of fuels.

The techno-organics inhabiting the world were kind enough to offer suggestions, but presenting the fuel to Mah-Ark was informative and annoying in equal measure. Mah-Ark was unable to use his mouth bones to pierce the thick shell of many of the nuts we purchased, and even when broken, he was still incapable of digesting many. The few that we concluded were soft enough to be consumed did not often appeal to him. He purged them from his systems soon after or otherwise was unable to keep them in his frame. We attempted to offer fruits from the techno-organics as well as a few of their other organic crops, but most were rejected by our stowaway. We checked everything and confirmed it to be close enough to Earth plant life to be consumed safely, but Mah-Ark had opinions and flat out refused a great deal of it.

Analysis of human customs, specifically 'Russia' and its surrounding territory revealed a more meat and carbohydrate based diet. Once we discovered this, we made another detour to a similar planet and spoke to the organics there for guidance. With their aid, and after confirming Mah-Ark would be safe to wander, we had our human properly outfitted for long term space travel and gathered supplies suitable for him. He greatly enjoys meats rich in fats along with various baked goods. The organics we took him to found him quite endearing and supplied us with enough to make it to Cybertron and longer, just in case. We considered purchasing H2O, but thankfully, as a science vessel, we have machinery to gather 'water' and produce it for Mah-Ark.

With his fueling and hydration concerns addressed, housing Mah-Ark was a whole other affair. Humans are complicated creatures. The mutterings from other crews with humans make it seem as though their humans are totally comfortable anywhere. While this is partially true, Mah-Ark did not enjoy many of the places we put him. The vents were too dark for his liking and we often found him crying when left alone there for long. The loss of water from his system was concerning, so we moved him to other various alcoves. He was not found of high places for fear of falling while in recharge (we were unaware humans moved so much while recharging). He disliked the space beneath the command console where there was a heater. He muttered something about 'boiling' and we quickly got the picture after assessing his liquid loss.

Even when we found a place in our Captain's quarters for Mah-Ark to reside, the human was not happy being so far from the crew. Humans are also social creatures, and thus we devised a system to keep Mah-Ark from losing too many fluids to stress. Every time Mah-Ark had to recharge, he warned us with a 'yawn' and one of the crew would hold him in their arms. Or if the crew was also set to recharge, one of us (usually decided by a randomizer), would take him to berth with them. Each of us created a small makeshift location near our berths for Mah-Ark. He liked being able to see us.

We also found that soft things were greatly appreciated by our resident human. Mah-Ark hoards things that are soft, and so we ended up shredding one of our emergency thermoplastic sheets for him to use as bedding. He seemed to appreciate it, especially once one of the crew carefully fluffed up the torn substance into a nesting material. Mah-Ark was surprisingly resourceful and wove the provided material into a surprisingly solid berth in each of the crew's quarters. Since his various berths have been created, Mah-Ark has been noted being exceptionally cheerful, at least based on body language and the abundance of 'laughter'. It was a bit difficult to adjust to Mah-Ark's frequent need to recharge, but we have learned to adjust.

By the time we had all of this figured out, Mah-Ark had been with us for almost two Earth weeks. Around the third Earth week, Mah-Ark expressed a severe amount of restlessness. Observation led us to believe he lacked enrichment. And it was through our attempts to handle his needs that we discovered just why other crews enjoy having humans around.

Mah-Ark brought various devices that were rendered useless in deep space, and so we devised a few new things for him to watch media on. Most of it was in Cybertronian, but Mah-Ark began to learn through watching out media. Before we knew it, Mah-Ark was making noises akin to glyphs. It was incredibly slurred and almost indecipherable due to his organic biology, but he learned some of the easiest terms and we soon found ourselves watching him speak like a sparkling. He learned to point out energon, various parts of the frame, and several important parts around the ship. Once we confirmed he was able to comprehend pieces of our language, we began to guide him.

Humans are quick learners.

After almost two Earth months with us, Mah-Ark spoke enough broken base Cybertronian to be understood. We learned that he enjoyed engineering, specifically working with heavy machinery. Our resident medic took the chance to see if it was possible to train a human in a useful Cybertronian skill, and to our surprise, Mah-Ark learned and became a very useful tool to scan to for micro fissures and other small issues in our frames. Mah-Ark, so long as he was properly guarded in armor and body suites, was quickly able to figure out where small errors were located and even begin helping to weld and stitch things into place.

He has made a useful medical aid indeed. Additionally, he learned to help maintain our ship and, after a few close calls with pipes, became proficient in assessing the internal wiring of the command console. His small size has made him beyond useful in many regards.

Aside from his useful application, Mah-Ark has... endeared himself to us. He has interesting insights and takes such joy in things we know to be commonplace. His short life means he had seen next to nothing of what we have. It brightens our cycles to show him all that we have discovered and learned and watch him awe over it. In turn, he tells us of his life on his homeworld, at least as much as he can. His existence is simple, but his descriptions and illustrations of his life have made him more than interesting. He's a companion. He is, despite being so much smaller and far more fragile than us, a thoughtful member of our crew.

Every day he learns more and speaks more of our language, albeit a version we have dumbed down for his benefit. He has even begun trying to create various tools to travel around the ship faster, in order to match the speed of the rest of us of course. He loves to watch and ask question. He enjoys being held in our servos. He is... more than a pet. He is a friend.

In light of all of this, the crew of the Illuminator would like to make a formal request to keep Mah-Ark Hah-Rt as part of our team. We would also like to request permission to correspond with other vessels with human crew members to learn of their ways and possibly get Mah-Ark a few of his own kind to associate with. We lack information on medical care for humans along with various other niche subject matters regarding his care. It would be amazing to have access to further resources, or even a call with Captain Bumblebee or others who are familiar with Earth.

We care for our human. No matter how small he is or how short his time with us will be. No matter how complicated it is to learn of his needs. We want to keep him. The crew of the Illuminator make this request fully acknowledging the difficulties ahead, but this stowaway is ours, and we intend to keep him if possible.

[typewritingyip]

Arcturus Negative One

Part Two - The Soundwave Problem

”If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.” - George Orwell 

Moments After Breakdown Enters the Bathroom

—

Time was frozen in that moment as they stared at each other, both running through the scenarios and trying to think of what to say next. 

Prowl stood there, staring down Soundwave in Jazz’s habsuite. The numbers had been against him when inviting the head of communications over, but desperate times called for equally desperate measures.

Even in Jazz’s habsuite, he thought that it would be fine, the numbers would be wrong because every time he ran them and the humans were involved they were rarely quite accurate. Their lives were too wild and inconsistent, he was lacking valuable information even after six stellar cycles with Jazz.

Their lives were short but affected him so greatly, and caused at least 28 percent of his stress at this point. At the moment it was sitting at 48 percent, his optic twitching. Growing higher at the moment with Breakdown in the refresher and two other humans just behind the berth-room door. Hopefully asleep, but that likely was falling every moment. 

Soundwave kept staring for a long moment, “Prowl: explain.” Honestly he thought of voicing his opinion through some of Hound’s colorful human swear words, “Soundwave, the organics are safe here. In Jazz’s hab, it has been redesigned for their safety.” Slowly nodding, Soundwave looked over his shoulder at the refesher, “Soundwave: curious. Organics: require suits, meaning, odd pilots?” Prowl felt like slamming his helm into the wall, especially when the door opened again and Breakdown stepped back out in his suit.

This was far from ideal.

Soundwave hummed, turning to face Breakdown, “Breakdown: is organic?” His hand landed on Breakdown’s shoulder, “Breakdown—“ but the door back to the berth-room opened again. He really wanted to slam his helm into the wall, Hound coming out, rubbing his face tiredly. Soundwave’s gaze slid over to there and hums, “Organic.” Blinking in the light, Hound groans, “For fucks sake. Prowl, what happened to not having anyone not in the know over?” Venting deeply, Prowl had to prevent himself from slamming his face into the wall, “Emergency.” Humming, Hound moved towards the refresher, which Soundwave blocked, again.

Though this was Hound he was looking down on, and Prowl could hardly suppress the wince. Taking Soundwave’s shoulder, he shook his helm, “Soundwave,” But Hound just climbed over his ped and went into the refresher. All three of them stared as the door closed again.

“Ah, yes, they’ll do that.” Prowl vented slowly, even the soldiers had a hard time taking orders from their direct commanders. Which Soundwave was nowhere in their chain of command. Stepping back, he glanced at Breakdown, “Why don’t we sit and talk?” Slowly, carefully, they all moved to sit.

Soundwave folded his servos carefully and leaned forward, staring intensely at Breakdown, “Breakdown: organic?” Straight to the point as always.

Shifting a bit on the couch, Breakdown shrugs a bit and looks back at the refresher door as it opens again, Hound coming out and sitting down, “Soundwave, what is said in this room, will not leave it.” Already shaking his helm, Soundwave clears his vocalizer, “Negative. Command: has the right to know the truth.” Shifting in his own seat and shaking his head, Prowl clears his vocalizer.

“97.2 percent likely to react with anger, 86.9 percent likely with violence, another 93.4 percent chance of reaction of disgust, a 99.8 percent chance of concern, 73.4 percent chance of sudden disregard for the lives of the pilots; though that primarily lies with one commander. A 92 percent chance of dealing with a sense of betrayal, following a 87.5 percent chance for a demand of a complete disregard for their privacy. And last, a 93.4 percent chance of dismissal from battle. Which then leads to a 72.8 percent chance of a conflict between us and the pilots and a 98.9 percent chance that we lose the war.” His voice was almost raw at the end, the numbers painful.

Hounds visor had darkened, not completely off, but dark, clearly in thought while Breakdown had rested his helm in his servos. Soundwave was slow to nod, looking at the pilots then Prowl, “Prowl: is not incorrect.” And Prowl thought of punching him, but disregarded, 76.2 percent that the thought was stupid, another 54.5 percent that it would end with a bad fight, though a 21.3 percent that it would be incredibly satisfying but another 89.9 percent that the pilots would join in on the fight. 

“I assumed that the numbers would not lie. It is why I have kept their secret and why I must ask for you to do the same, even from your wards.” Darkening visor, he could tell Soundwave was scowling. Shifting, Prowl sits forward, “I mean it Soundwave, their safety is the only way to ensure our own.” Glancing to Breakdown and Hound, he tried not to worry his derma.

The hab, Jazz’s hab, was one of the few places where he wasn’t stiff. Where he felt like himself and didn’t try to block out everything other than his battle computer. It had at one point been just his and Jazz’s place to relax, of course now it was more the human's habsuite than just Jazz’s but he’d always see it as Jazz’s. Even when the organic was gone and someone else would eventually live here, this place would always be connected to Jazz. 

Soundwave nodded slowly, “Soundwave: understands. But: is wondering if this was your idea or the humans?” Hound hummed, “Ah, I forget, sometimes you think we’re all deaf.” Prowl shot a look at Hound even as Soundwave tilted his head, he really wanted to hit his helm against the wall, “Well, we have audials, don’t we? Translators so we can understand what you’re all saying.” He scratches lightly at his jaw, swearing quietly. 

It left his mouth dry, Jazz had talked about the same often, “We can hear the conversations about organics, we know that we’re not safe outside these suits for more than one reason.” Soundwave hums, nodding slowly, “I’m sorry.” With a shake of his head, Hound sighs, “It’s fine, we understand it.” He shrugged a bit, “We’re small and different, by a lot, and organic or at least techno-organics have been horrible to you and yours.” Prowl couldn’t help but feel glad Hound was here, even if his helm pounded with every word.

Nodding again, Soundwave bowed his head slightly, “Soundwave: thinks your society makes more sense with missing context.” Hound snorts and Prowl smacks his servos against his face.

“Believe me, I think it does too. But no, our secret is very important to us. Our kind, we’ve put our short and rather fragile lives on the line for this and we know,” He gestures between himself and Breakdown briefly, “That we won’t be able to win this war on our own and if we reveal ourselves,” His voice falters off and Prowl hums, “A 78.4 percent chance they are, uh, quote unquote left out to dry.” Hound gestured towards him.

Venting, Hound nodded, “And that is not a risk that I or any of my pilots are willing to take. So we stay in our suits and deal with overuse, so that we can end this war together. So, Soundwave, you think you can keep our secret?” Breakdown nods a bit, “It would be greatly appreciated if you could.” Soundwave’s visor lightened a touch, there was a clear thought, one full of mischievousness. Prowl often saw this look on the cassettes and during the war had assumed it was more mature than nurture, how wrong he had been. 

With a vent, Soundwave hums again, “Soundwave: understands, but makes a suggestion.” Nodding some, Hound tilts his head, which Prowl had witnessed a dozen or more times. Often reminding him of the various cyber-animals that sparklings would keep as pets, or even his own beloved Green. 

“Of course, we’re all audials.” Soundwave’s smile was visible even behind the mask and visor, “Soundwave: suggests that romantic attachments be alerted of organic state.” Hound stared blankly, “Uh, what?” 

And the door to the berth-room opened again to reveal the very hungover Jazz, who was rubbing at his face tiredly, dreads piled on his head in the clear sign of sleep. He blinked painfully in the morning light, “Prowl, why did you leave?” His faceplates grew hot rapidly, clearing his vocalizer, “Uh,” Jazz was pouting, “I have a hard enough time sleeping as it is, without you I don’t sleep.” And his spark ached, standing and moving over quickly.

Soundwave watched with an overly bright visor, more than likely recording the interaction. Yeah, he wished he’d slammed his helm into the wall after all, that would be significantly less horrible blackmail. Though the consequences are more immediate. Carefully, he offers his hand to Jazz, his Jazz, and lifts him up. Jazz, even without the magnets in his assistance suit, clung with ease. 

Jazz’s smile was bright, even as he squinted, “What did I miss then?” Humming, he turned and turned Jazz carefully to face Soundwave. They stared at each other for a moment, “Ah fuck.” Jazz hangs his head, “Almost. Almost six years without dying, the first time I get drunk in all that time, one of you fucks let’s out the secret. So, who did it?” He looked up and Prowl’s spark hummed, smiling at the angry look on Jazz’s face. Hound held up his hands, before point to Breakdown, “Technically it was Breakdown.” Which caused Breakdown to shove him.

“Oh great, thanks, ratting me out. Real team leader there.” Hound shrugs, “I am just being honest. He asked.” Breakdown scoffs, “It is always the big man that gets blamed,” Shaking his head, Hound points up, “I don’t think that you can pull that one here pal.” Breakdown scoffs again.

Prowl moved carefully, setting Jazz inside the refresher again before closing the door behind him. Turning, he paused at the look on all their faces, scowling, Prowl crossed his arms, “What?” Soundwave glanced at Hound, humming, “Inquiry: how to define Prowl’s behavior in your language?” Nodding, Hound’s visor lightened, “The halfway point between a lovesick cyber-pup and a creator-hoverboard.” Prowl took several long sections to process before the translation made sense. His scowled deepened as Soundwave chuckled.

Stretching, Breakdown stands and starts to shuffle, “Well, I am going back to berth. Wake me before I die.” Waving him off, Hound chuckles, “Yeah, whatever you say. Get some sleep you lightweight.” Shaking his head, Breakdown points, “You’re the one who only had one cube. I had six.” Hound chuckled, “Because what we were drinking was bright pink and looked toxic. Clearly, I wasn’t far off.” While grumbling, Breakdown disappears as Jazz reappears, draping his arms casually around Prowl’s shoulders, “So, had this all been hashed out? The keeping our secret or we kill you thing?” Soundwave hummed again.

Seeming content, Jazz leaned his head closer to Prowl’s, whose hand came up and held it there contently.

Hound shifted to look at Soundwave, “So, why did you come here then? Other than to talk with Prowl?” Soundwave’s cold gaze slid over as he stood, brushing off his plating, “Off limits: not for human audials.” He turned and nodded towards him, to which Prowl returned, “Thank you for your discretion, Soundwave.” Nodding slowly, Soundwave glanced around, “Human allies: important. Prevent: physical distress among soldiers. Prevent mental distress among partners.” Jazz snorted even as Prowl’s face burned again. Gaze flicking to Hound, his head was tilted slightly again.

That mech was thicker than Skywarp and Skywarp was… Skywarp.

Soundwave glanced around again, nodding, “Prowl. Jazz. Hound.” Before turning and leaving the hab. Once the door slid shut, he watched both humans sag in their suits and he felt himself relax too. Even if just for the moment.

He just wished he had known the headache that were coming, mainly the Lord Protector staying with one of the few mecha that knew their secret for over a quartex and having to put up with Soundwave because of it. 

They were a pain, but when Jazz’s helm leaned back close, just because he knew Prowl liked it, they were at least his pain and he’d handle it. For Jazz.

Hound climbed back out of his suit, rubbing the spot on the back of his head where his so-called implants rested before climbing down, “Jazz, you hungry?” With a hum that vibrated straight through to Prowl’s spark, Jazz shrugged and tightened his hold on Prowl, “I could eat if you’re cooking.” Chuckling, Hound nodded and padded towards their garden, “Yeah, you cuddle and get past the headache. Jerk.” Jazz was quick to flip him off with a practiced ease.

And people wondered why Prowl loved him.

Smiling very faintly, he turned to Jazz, “It was impractical for you to consume so much high-grade.” Shrugging a bit, he slid over the back of the couch and next to Prowl, “Yeah, well, it's new.” Nodding a bit, he took Jazz’s servos. Jazz’s visor brightened and he moved in close, sighing, “I’m gonna put the suit back, then we can hang.” Prowl squeezes his servos again before letting go, watching Jazz return to the refresher. Venting deeply, he offlined his optics.

98.9 percent chance they’d lose the war without the pilots, but a 96.2 percent chance one or more of them would die fighting for Cybertron. They weren’t chances he liked, the door to the refresher opened and Jazz came back out still in his assistance suit, he didn’t like those chances at all. 

———

A/N

So I am hard at work on the next part of Arcturus Three which I want to have up tonight, but if not tonight you’ll get it tomorrow and maybe another part of Arcturus One on Friday. :)

TAGS

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @sirassban @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscrapheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @thetrexartist @naaaafam @elegantmantaray @emichusai @waterlilykitty @diabolichare @ham4ponyo @osqindaxend @sunnyvibesanddoodles @ratatatata248 @ijustneedausernaneplease4444444 @sprook-children @fooolisher 

And once again thank you to @Keferon for this amazing AU

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass |

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt x fem!reader

Word count: 11k

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

Notes: There’s a little Easter egg in this chapter for any Hamish fans…let’s see if anyone clocks it.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Crickets were the first to make a sound.

For days, that speck of an island was silent. Birds either flew away or hid in their nests. They didn’t chirp, or caw.

Bees slowly began to appear again too after a week.

Flowers began to open.

Months passed and finally things looked almost as they used to.

Buildings repaired, town cleaned up.

Only now the island looked abandoned during the day.

You had never liked summer. Too hot and humid. You still didn’t like it.

John was used to hearing the Crockett Island community wander the island every night.

He was used to the occasional sound of your screams, too.

It wasn’t often, but sometimes your fortified house lacked, and you were forced to run into the night and hide until sunrise.

John pursed his lips bitterly the first time he had stopped them from finding you on the abandoned spit on the west side.

They claimed they just wanted to help.

Wanted you to be at peace and be a part of the community again.

Those words stung like poison; hearing his own justification used back at him.

He’d seen you run past him on one of his walks, not even knowing he was there as he stood amongst the skinny trees. Eyes like little pinpoints in the darkness.

A predators eyes.

A wolf’s eyes.

When he had only wanted to be a Shepard.

Though of course that had been the issue. He would have had to have wanted to be a fellow sheep for him to see just how wrong his actions were.

Now there he was, just one of the wolves watching their token sheep run for her life.

You were so resilient. Determined to stay alive. Hope incarnate. But you were not delicate or wispy like most imagined hope to be; a foolish thing. Your hope was bruised and battered and exhausted from having to get back up again after surviving another night.

You still prayed.

He heard you at night when he would walk past your house and listen close to one of your boarded windows. It was mostly to check that you were alright.

It was a little because he found your heartbeat soothing.

But hearing you pray was what helped him continue. That you hadn’t lost your faith. He didn’t care who you prayed to…just that you had faith.

And that faith had you.

You tasted copper as you ran.

It had been months since they had last managed to get inside your house, and you had begun to get comfortable with the couple knocks at night and the pleading to come out. But over the last week, the knocks had turned to pounding, and tonight the pounding turned to splintered wood and you bolting across Crockett as fast as your exhausted body would carry you.

The best shot at safely was the thick woods on either end of the island. You used to keep a boat in the Uppards for emergencies, but they had found it and taken it one night.

Now you had become stellar at losing them, but tonight something felt different. You had noticed clear medical baggies of blood in trash cans just a few weeks following…following that night. You assumed they used Sarah’s medical connections to have shipments of blood brought to the island at night.

You wondered who Bev had to bully to have that done. Not like it was hard.

But you wondered now if perhaps the latest shipment wasn’t received, and now the islanders were…antsy.

Not that the reasoning mattered to you greatly as you passed by one of the abandoned buildings. What mattered was that they were closer to you than usual, and you hadn’t slept properly in weeks. That, and your terror that they winged bast might still be prowling around looking for a new body to drain.

You pushed yourself to go faster but you couldn’t put distance between you and them. That feeling of fear began to creep back into your tissue. It was only natural; it didn’t matter how at peace you were with death. A lamb being hunted was a lamb being hunted.

And wolves never stopped being terrifying.

John sat, book in hand inside the rectory.

Collarless.

He heard your heartbeat from a half mile away, and it was fast. Too fast.

He stood, and walked to his door and opened it to step out onto his porch. You didn’t usually come this way, but as fate would have it - or your great misfortune- you did. John could hear feet following you- a few sets by the sound of it.

John walked out into the middle of the cemetery.

He waited.

Sure enough, a few minutes later you came up the hill; your adrenaline being the only thing that kept you going.

John called your name.

It was the first time since Easter that you had heard his voice. It made you take such a quick breath that you stumbled a little. It felt like you had been sprayed with ice water.

He looked down the road where the small militia was chasing you, then back to the rectory- door wide open. You stood there for a moment, and you wanted to keep running. But those footsteps were close and you figured it would be easier to fight off one instead of several.

You could feel your rage start to rear its head over the fear, but you knew it would only get you killed.

You ran towards him, and he began leading you inside. The warm glow of the rectory enveloped you, and John shut and locked the door as soon as you stepped onto the floorboards. He closed the curtains and turned off most lights aside from a reading lamp, and began taking you to the far end of the house. As you approached you stopped short and shook your head.

“What are you doing?” You whispered, eying him wearily.

He knelt down and lifted a part of the carpet in his room and lifted a small door.

You stared at him hard.

And he stared back. “It was built for me decades ago for storms.” He said simply, and calmly.

You were apprehensive. Even more now than just being in his presence.

Uneasy.

Terrified.

Cold.

“Please…they won’t find you.” He whispered a little harsher- you couldn’t hear them but those footsteps were getting closer now. Just cresting the hill.

You might have resented the monster before you more than anything, but you did need help. And you didn’t have a plethora of options. You walked over to him and sat down on the edge of the opening- feet hitting the steep stairs. “I don’t trust you.” You said, staring down into the dark room. You could see a lamp there.

“I know.” He nodded.

You blinked, and didn’t look at him as you began to lower yourself. John grasped your arm to help you, but you wrenched it from his grip, “Don’t touch me.” You snapped.

He immediately dropped his hands, and had to almost sit on them to keep himself from reaching out to you to help.

As you hit the ground, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small fishers knife to show him.

“If you don’t let me out, or try anything I’m killing myself and braving Hell, Father.” You shot at him.

Again, Father Pruitt only nodded in understanding, “The lamp is fully changed. There’s a blanket on the shelf.” He said, then looked suddenly back towards the front of the house.

You flicked the light on, and when you stared back up at the preist, he quietly shut the door.

You watched it for a moment, then slowly took in the space. A very small room that looked more like a bomb shelter. There was a small bed and a shelf with some canned food. And indeed there was a thick blanket there. You sighed, and went to settle in only to jump a little when you heard voices. You stayed still and tried to listen as close as you could…but then it went quiet, and you only heard one pair of soft footsteps.

John opened the door to see a handful of fairly new parishioners standing there on his stoop.

“Evening Father…she ran past here a few minutes ago did you hear anything?” One of them asked.

She.

You didn’t even have a name to them anymore.

John sucked on his teeth, “I’m afraid not. She’s quick.”

Another one nodded, “G’night Father.” They mumbled and began walking away- eyes scanning the trees and brush.

He watched them for a moment, then walked back inside and locked the door again. He might have gone out that night for a walk or to visit someone in the community. While he didn’t fully count himself as a priest anymore, he was still the guide to many of his flock. They were even more lost now than ever.

After that first night, many turned to the church for help. His heart ached that still his parish turned towards God for help; that he hadn’t driven them away from their faith entirely.

Many resented him.

He didn’t hold any blame towards them.

But still, when he held Mass, many came. Many still confessed to him. Many still asked for his aid.

But John Pruitt was less of a person now, and more of a symbol.

A tool.

He kept to himself- accepting his passive segregation.

Unwanted, but needed.

With no need for food, John felt a sudden panic when he hadn’t given you anything fresh. He strode back to the little door and gently opened it; the lamp was still on, but even in the low light he could clearly see you sitting against one of the walls breathing deep, heart rate slow.

You hadn’t used the blanket, he noticed. John knew you were strong willed, but he didn’t know how stubborn you were. Perhaps a trait you hadn’t discovered until he ripped your life apart.

John carefully lowered himself down into the little cellar, and crouched down in front of you. He gingerly eased his arms under your knees, and pulled you to his chest, then hoisted you up and carried you back to the main level.

John didn’t care if the others heard your heartbeat. He didn’t care if they came to his door. He knew they wouldn’t dare try to get you while he was there. He had been turned for longer than them, and was much stronger, and much faster. For the ones who were present when Sturge had shot Sarah, they knew he wasn’t incapable of beating a man bloody.

He laid you down on his bed, and slipped your boots off carefully; he caught the knife that fell from your left one, and rolled it over in his hand.

He had pushed you to violence. Self-defence, but violence all the same. He tarnished that ray of sunlight he had seen that first day he returned.

John smiled bitterly. He supposed it was only fitting that you were sunlight and he would die if he touched it.

You were so limp as you slept- your exhaustion taking over and forcing your body to rest. John brought the blanket over you, and left you there to sleep.

The bed laid unused most days.

It wasn’t as if he truly slept anymore.

The first thing you were aware of was the great sense of comfort that enveloped you.

The second was how that feeling horrified you.

You knew you had slept in an uncomfortable position, so why was there a pillow under your head and a blanket over you.

The third was how well rested you were.

You instinctively reached for the knife you kept in your boot, but then that came to your forth realisation: you weren’t wearing your boots.

You bolted up, and took in your surroundings. You were back in the rectory. You felt fear start to creep back into your flesh as you realised just how deeply you had slept. Your hand instinctively reached for your neck and shoulders so ensure you didn’t have any marks. You checked your arms and then you saw the flicker of metal out of the corner of your eye- your knife sat comfortably beside you on the bedside table. You snatched it up, and slipped your feet down onto the floor as quietly as you could-

“I made you some coffee if you’d like it.”

John called to you; he had heard your heart rate spike as you awoke. In an effort to not spook you too much, he waited to speak from his place in the living room until you were fully up.

You crept to the door, and tentatively pushed it open, knife clutched tight as you surveyed the room.

The curtains were all drawn, and two lamps were on. If it weren’t for the man who lived there it might have been a very inviting home. But you saw the man in question sat at his desk, writing.

John paused, and looked up from his paper to you.

“How are you?” He asked, genuinely wanting to know. It was a loaded question- he knew- but he truly wished to know any ounce of your mental state that you would provide him with.

You looked around once more- ensuring you were alone.

“Don’t worry, they all think you’re in the Uppards.” He said, turning a little towards you.

You stood there. And stared at him. You didn’t even know what to say to him.

“A shipment was late.” You finally said.

His brows perked up, “Yes.” He nodded, “Yes there…there was an issue. Has been pushed back but it’ll be here by tonight, not to worry.”

You nodded.

John sucked in a breath and exhaled, “I’m sorry-“

“You’re not ashamed of what you did, Father?” You cut him off, voice breaking more than you would have liked. Finally meeting his eyes properly for the first time in months.

Father Pruitt placed his pen down and leaned onto his knees, staring up at you, “I believe I…I do feel shame yes. For my actions, but even the good intentions that I attempted were misconstrued, I never meant-“

“But it happened,” You shot back - eyes starting to sting, “You were selfish. You just…assumed everyone would want what you wanted.”

He nodded solemnly and stood slowly, and suddenly you were a little more afraid. You didn’t know what he was fully capable of anymore, and you did not want to find out. As if he could sense your apprehension, John backed away and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“You’re welcome to stay if you have questions-“ he started, trying to give you an open space.

“Questions? I don’t have any questions, Father,” you did. But you wouldn’t admit that yet, “I am alone, and I will live alone and I will die alone. I don’t need to know much more if it won’t change that.” Your voice shook.

He nodded and looked down- brows pinching together as he began to feel the weight of your burden, “I’m so-“

“Please don’t.” You said, tears forming in your eyes.

John raised his gaze to look at you, and he pursed his lips that you once thought were so pretty. A moment passed as both of your gazes were trained on one another.

John watched your beautiful eyes well up the longer you looked at him, and he clenched his fists to stay put lest he try to comfort you. He had only just gotten you to open up the tiniest bit to trust him for a few hours that night, he didn’t want to take one step forward and three back. So he didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t try to make you stay or understand.

He hoped there would be a time when he could, but he knew that it wasn’t time yet.

You took a shaky breath, and turned to the door, and left.

Once upon a time you might have looked back and maybe would have waved goodbye. Might have said that you'd see him tomorrow.

Might have wanted to stay longer.

Might have flushed in his company.

But you didn't look behind you. Not anymore.

If you had, you likely would have caught sight of the preacher in the window where one of the curtains was pulled back a sliver; you might have seen how he let the sunlight fall over his face; how he let the sun burn him as he watched you.

John listened to your heartbeat fade as you walked further away and out of his sight. His chest ached just as his skin did. And that ache churned and curdled down into his stomach and out into his fingertips. He felt that thing that he had once been so thankful for not feeling- guilt. It felt like so long ago that he had sat across from Riley and told him about how God had moved through him and how remorse had never come after Joe...Now he felt sick when he dwelled on his delusion. So selfish he had been. So utterly desperate.

Sometimes he could still hear that record you had played for him...how you had reminded him of his youth. Your vibrance had overthrown him, and drawn him in. That memory alone made him feel younger than the blood he drank.

The warm summer air immediately made you feel sticky. Humidity filled your lungs as you took a few settling breaths. Then as you reached the bottom of the hill, you finally allowed the tears in your eyes to fall. You sobbed quietly as you walked past the general store. It was an unwritten rule that they kept out of there- that was your space during the day. Most of the time they abided by the understanding.

Sometimes someone got hungry and waited to see if they could sneak a bite of you.

You had to laugh a little though- it was always a dead giveaway if it wasn’t safe to enter the store. All you had to look at were the windows.

Covered: not safe.

Uncovered: safe.

They kept the store stocked enough for you. Sometimes you felt ill at the thought of them just doing it to keep you alive. You bet they thought it was a mercy. You wondered if they fought over it; end the food supply to make you starve and beg them to turn you vs. keep you alive because you didnt deserve their fate.

You went to the shop everyday knowing that one day you wouldn’t have food stocked. Shelves and fridges empty.

Waiting for the day that they finally broke and had enough of keeping you alive.

You passed by more houses...Scarboroughs and the Flynns, and you didnt dare look up at the buildings. You never did anymore. It hurt too much.

The families you knew well used to leave you things…food they made out of boredom…flowers…Annie used to write you the odd letter. Then after a while they stopped.

Back in the later spring sometimes someone would be stupid and run out of their house to try and grab you...The smell of burnt flesh was still engrained in your nose.

No one tried anymore.

You wondered who was still there. You wondered if Ali was still there... you wondered how he was. You wondered how Leeza was and if her family was okay. You wondered if Bev was pulling the strings.

You missed that routine you used to treasure. You missed seeing your friends and neighbours. You missed talking.

It was like some sick joke that the first person you had spoken to in close to 6 months was the very man who had done this to you.

When you finally reached your house, you felt your heart sink even lower as you took inventory of the damage. The broken doorframe and smashed windows were going to be an issue.

You sighed and walked to the small shed at the back of your house to retrieve tools you had accumulated and set about fixing your home. Hours passed as you tried and tired again and again to make sure everything was fixed and strong. But the longer you worked, the lower the sun settled, and the less time you had to ensure you would be safe. But as twilight began to set in, you sighed; you were done. The inside of your house was almost pitch black with all the windows boarded up over the broken glass. You stretched and locked your doors, then began up the stairs to wash yourself after the previous night. But then as you walked past the spare room, you stopped breathing.

You had missed a smashed window.

The wind blew against your face as if it was taunting you of your mistake.

Your gut tightened as you began weighing your options.

You didn’t have many.

And the most feasible one made your eyes glaze over as you contemplated every life choice you had ever made.

With one look out that window, you knew you didn’t have time to think of anything else. So against your better judgement, you grabbed a large bag from your room and began shoving anything you might need, showered and bolted out your door within ten minutes with your hair still wet.

You weaved through the island's foliage and kept off the main road lest anyone be watching from their windows. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know where you were going. As you crept through the trees past the marsh, you crouched down and stared up at the rectory in the distance. There was a warm light coming from the building like a beacon; your gut clenched at the memory of Easter... how you had thought the exact same thing for St. Patricks.

The sun was just a sliver of light now on the horizon, and you knew you had to decide quickly if you were going through with this or finding a tree to hide in tonight. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath.

I’m here to help

Those words of his…they still rang in your ears from that first day. He was sick. Selfish. Egotistical and manipulative and…

You sniffled.

You had really thought he was a kind man. You had let him in and he had made a home of your soul. Healed you and guided you and aided you, but all for himself.

You pursed your lips. You hated that you needed his help. But you did.

With another deep breath, you began stalking up the grass, and hurried a little more when you heard voices down the road. You hadn’t even noticed it was properly night time and worry spiked in you as you stepped up to the door and went to kno-

“Come in.”

You jumped at the sound of his low, soft voice calling out to you from inside. You slowly opened the door, and took a tentative step inside.

John Pruitt was stirring a cup of tea by the kitchen counter, and looked up at you- a weak smile on his face.

“Twice in one day, to what do I owe the pleasure, young lady?”

You clenched your jaw at his honeyed words. So gentle and honest-sounding.

“They destroyed my house. I didn’t have time to repair it completely. Didn’t feel like being dinner.” You murmured, then looked at the cup he seemed to have forgotten he was holding.

John followed your gaze, and nodded, “I heard you come up through the trees 10 minutes ago…I hope you don’t mind, but I made it for you just in case.” He extended the cup out to you, and you eyed it wearily.

You didn’t see him make it. Anything could be in it.

John knew that look. The same one you had given him when he ushered you inside the previous night. He retracted the offering and placed it on the counter.

“I apologize for their brutality …many of them don’t know better. I will speak with them tonight at Mass. They won’t harm you again.” He assured you like he used to when you thought his last name was Hill. “It’ll be fixed by tomorrow.”

Your gaze snapped up to his, “Mass?” You asked.

He nodded in realisation that you likely weren’t around when service happened, “I- it’s…well…it wasn’t my idea…it’s- everyone is so lost and they need something to hold onto…I cannot undo what I did. And I know they will never give me forgiveness, but many of them are still very close to God and some have become closer in their…confusion…and I’m just…I try to keep them on the right path. The path I should have been on..stayed on. Your path.” He pushed his hands towards you as he spoke so sincerely.

You pursed your lips as you listened. You wanted so badly to believe him…but the last time you did it had been the worst decision of your life.

The silence stretched between you. You didn’t want to ask for his help, but it was too late to not ask-

“You are welcome to stay here again.” He added, trying to get you to engage. Like he needed you to speak to him.

You nodded, “My warning still applies.” You reminded him of how he’d better play nice or you’ll be dead before he can do anything.

John sighed and nodded. His brows pinched and his eyes drooped, “Of course- I- Mass is in a couple hours…but I can stay-“

“I’d rather you weren’t here, Father.” You said quietly, looking down as guilt started to creep into your gut. He was so wonderful at making himself seem small. Non-threatening. You forced yourself to remember how easily he had restrained you in the church; how his hands had held you without making a mark yet you couldn’t pull away…

“I understand.” He muttered, then something seemed to catch his attention outside as he almost jerked up from the counter and looked towards the front window. You twitched at his reaction, and already knew there was someone nearby before he said it.

“Come on, let’s get you settled.” He said almost to himself as he began back towards the small door in the floor.

You followed behind him, and gripped your bag’s strap a little tighter as he crouched and opened the hatch. He shifted away a little to make room for you to get by, but you saw how tightly he clenched his fists. Whether it was to keep himself from reaching out to help you or to grab you, you didn’t know.

As you descended, you noticed that it was far cleaner down there, and had an extra lamp.

“Knock twice if you need anything.” He said softly. Earnest.

“I won’t.” You stopped looking up at him as that guilt started to return.

“I’m sure you won’t. But everyone needs something sometimes.” He finished, and offered you a tight little smile.

You stared up at him, and neither of you moved.

“Goodnight, little one.” He murmured.

The endearment made your stomach flip upside down and your throat constricted; you ached from how much you missed...well...everything. You missed being called "Hun" by the fishermen and being hugged by Annie and walking Leeza to church and sitting among the pews and enjoying your morning walks and you missed your life.

Before you could say anything, he closed the door, and you heard him lay the carpet over top. There were no footsteps though- not for a few minutes. You listened close, and felt your eyes unfocus when you heard him muttering a prayer over you.

You almost shouted up to him to stop it.

That you didnt need his protection.

But your mouth went dry when you realized that you did.

Why else were you letting him hide you?

Several minutes later, you heard his long strides move throughout the rectory, then the door shut, and you were left in silence.

Mass.

Sadness flooded you in mourning of your beloved routine, but jealously quickly took its place when you realized you were the only one being deprived of your time of worship. The jealousy startled you. Anger was understandable, but jealousy was new.

You closed your eyes, and focused on why you were there. Safety.

The feeling slowly left you, and as you calmed, you turned on the lamp. It was cold, and with no extra warmth, you shuffled onto the cot and grabbed the thick blanket that sat folded there. As you settled in, cocooning yourself in it, and laid your head on the pillow, you felt your eyes start to droop. You found yourself breathing in the smell of the blanket, not even noticing that it was the smell of the man keeping you hidden that you were inhaling. It comforted you…like smelling your mother or father. Somehow familiar.

It was early when you awoke the following morning, not that you could have told that by your surroundings. Your sleep could have been five minutes for all you knew. You laid there for a few moments, listening. The last thing you wanted was for it still be night and for Pruitt to have a visitor. You paled at the thought of Bev being there. But when a few minutes turned into several, then you were certain there indeed was no additional company.

It was silent.

You gingerly raised yourself up out of the bed, and made your way up the ladder- bag in tow over your shoulder. You didn't even make it up to the top to knock before you heard shuffling and footsteps above you. The door was pulled open, and you stood stock-still for a moment as fear clutched your heart for a moment. The light from the lamp below you caught his eyes and made them glow in the darkness of the bedroom. Indeed it was dim in the space around him which only seemed to accentuate his dark features and made him appear as more of a creature than a cursed man. You swallowed.

“Good morning, young lady.” He greeted you with a hand outstretched.

You clenched your jaw, but took his offered hand tentatively, and he pulled you up with far more strength than he should have had. You got your footing, and noted the light illuminating the drawn curtains- it was bright enough for you to leave.

You didn’t say anything, and chose instead to dig your nails into the palm of your hand.

“They put in new windows and fixed your door…I’m so sorry that happened…I spoke with them and they will do better.” He murmured gently, as if he didn’t want to scare you away.

You nodded; mouth clammed shut. There once had been a time where you would have bared your heart to him, and poured your soul into his hands, but now you found yourself unable to find much more than a few words to utter to him.

“Did you manage alright? I know- I know it’s a bit cold down there…” His voice was a low rumble as you adjusted your bag.

“Just fine.” You whispered, looking away from him. You couldn’t stand that he cared.

“I can-“

“I’m fine, Father.” You snapped. He looked like you had slapped him; to his credit he also looked like he understood it. “Thank you.” You added when the pain in your chest twisted unbearably.

He nodded, seeing your unease.

"Goodbye." You whispered as you gathered yourself and headed to the door.

He so deeply wanted to tell you to stay and let him explain everything, but he supposed if he needed to force you to say, then his apology would be hollow and selfish.

Days passed quietly again. A few knocks on your door was the most disturbance you got. Things had calmed considerably.

He must have been right…that shipment did come.

Something itched in the back of your mind as you sat in your fortified house one night. It had been over a week since you had last been hiding in the rectory, but something he had said stewed inside you.

He still held Mass.

You wondered if that had been something agreed upon by everyone…they must have felt so lost…

It had been close to midnight when Father Pruitt had left for Mass that night…and it was just past midnight now.

You wondered if…if you could just climb up one of the trees and listen. If he still preached with the same vigour as he used to you were certain you could hear a little. It was silly and dangerous- you knew that- but it had been so long with just yourself and your thoughts…you craved just a little bit of something else.

You slowly walked downstairs to your front door and listened. It was silent outside.

You very slowly undid your several locks, and gingerly pried it open when you still heard nothing.

Indeed, there was not a single person in your field of sight- not that there were many who ever came down your way that far down the island. You opened the door a little more, and stepped out into the night air. It was refreshing when you weren’t running for your life.

You shut the door just as carefully as you had opened it, and quickly knelt down to check that you had your knife in your boot before starting to walk as softly as you could towards the bushland. The tall grass that had been bleached by the summer sun rose up around you the further you walked and helped to hide you while you trekked across the island and through the marsh and into the skinny trees that slowly grew thicker until you were on the same hill that you used to walk up everyday.

You could see the back of the church, and the bright light that shone through the windows. You had been right- you could hear them sing. It would have been so easy for you to just go back home, but you moved without thinking, and began towards one of the older trees behind St. Patrick’s and jumped up to the lowest branch, and began to climb.

As you grasped each branch, climbing higher and higher, you began to sing along; your throat was tight as tears threatened to fall, and you let them.

John felt a little tick in the back of his head that made him twitch slightly as he began down the aisle. Something off. Something he wasn’t used to during church. The people around him sang their hymn, and as he listened closely, he recognised a sound that he hadn’t heard in so long.

Your singing. Broken by your cries.

John’s sinuses stung as tears rose that wouldn’t fall, and he nearly stopped service right then to go and find you, but he was stuck.

You sat above the church, and leaned your head against the trunk of the tree as you listened to the preacher. You could have sworn he was louder than he used to be… though he wasn’t so much about revival, as he was about reconciliation and guidance. His words no longer made you uneasy. You didn’t want to admit it, but it did indeed sound as if he just wanted to help. Finding the light in the dark.

Mass finished, and you watched the islanders leave slowly…and saw the tall figure you knew wellstand at the front to bid everyone a blessed night. It was so strange to see it all from your viewpoint then- truly a stranger looking in. You perked up when you started to recognise some faces and felt your throat grow tight all over again. Your eyes burned from the tears that wouldn’t stop.

The church grew empty, and John waited until he couldn’t hear footsteps before finally turning back inside to shed his chasuble. His thoughts preoccupied him as he moved quickly and placed the fabric onto the table in the vestibule and walked out the back door. He hoped he wasn’t too late…that you hadn’t left yet. Then as he stepped into the chilled night air, he knew you were still in your perch.

That sweet smell of your skin…the gentle thump of your heartbeat.

John slowly followed the sound, and stared up at the trees until he spotted you. He stood down at the bottom amongst the roots, and cast one last look behind him then back up at you and extended his hand for you.

You stared down at him, and while he was the last person you wanted to help you down from that tree…he was also somehow the exact person you wanted, too. His sermon had made your hardened shell break a little, and you gradually climbed down to him. You sat on that last branch, and tentatively took his outstretched hand; he closed his fingers around yours and you jumped.

Your feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and you quickly looked around out of habit.

John still held your hand in his, and he gazed down at you so softly that you thought he might weep. Instead, he slowly brought his free hand up to your cheek and wiped away the remains of your tears.

“God loves you…” he whispered earnestly.

You felt your nose sting, and your lips pulled into a small, bitter smile as a tear fell and caught the corner of your mouth, “Just not enough to save me.”

The man before you pursed his lips at that, and looked down at your hand in his. He didn’t show it, but you felt a single drop of water on your thumb.

So he could cry.

And he did.

His eyes were red from holding them back once he did finally look back up at you.

Neither of you said another word before you took your hand from his grasp and left him. You took off into the brush and kept low, and didn’t look back even as you felt that prickle on the back of your neck like you used to after Mass.

September brought with it a crisp wind.

Colder weather meant you prayed harder that no shipments were delayed or you would have to hide out in the cold if they got inside your home. The autumn that you once loved was now a marker for your extreme isolation. You knew snow would eventually come, and winter storms that would knock out the power.

There was one night when you were delirious with loneliness that you actually walked into the main town. You walked along the beach. You knew most islanders would be at Mass, so you strode to the marina and sat on the shoreline. You stayed there for hours, and found yourself not caring when you heard voices of people passing by on the road. It wasn’t until you heard a couple familiar old voices that you looked up at the doc. Leeza and Warren were standing at the edge of the platform looking out over the water.

It was Leeza who stopped talking first. She stalled, and looked down sharply and you stared up at her. She looked as if she saw a ghost, and you didn’t blame her.

You were practically like a unicorn on Crockett.

You watched her elbow Warren when he asked her what was wrong, and he looked down at you with the same expression. You waved slowly, and offered them a small smile.

They looked behind them, then back at you and waved back.

They didn’t come down to see you. And they didn’t tell anyone where you were.

You stayed and watched the slow approach of the Belle that they now used for shipments. It tore through the waves of the Atlantic, and you watched as it docked. You wondered how easy it would be for you to sneak aboard, but you knew that was next to impossible. You didn’t know who sailed it, you didn’t know who intercepted the shipment…for all you knew you would be offering yourself up on a platter for Bev to serve to the community.

The sky began to brighten, and you still remained where you were as the boat sailed away.

You almost started waving your arms and screaming for them to come back.

Almost.

The sun was still down when you stood up and brushed off your pants. You sighed and turned to start back to your house for a needed cup of coffee, but when you looked up to the main road, you went still.

His dark eyes bore into you. Father Pruitt stood on the edge of the road staring down at you. You wondered how long he had been standing there. You hadn’t heard him.

He had that same pained expression on his face that he seemed to have every time he saw you. Like you were even more of a reminder of his sins than the turned islanders.

You stared back, and shivered when a wind picked up. You could feel the sun start to rise behind you, and you wondered if he was going to stay there looking at you until he burned.

It seemed like he wasn’t quite ready to face his wrongdoings as he slowly turned and began to walk away. You stood there alone as the day came and embraced you.

And once again, the island was silent.

Another day alive.

Another day alone.

November was cold. So cold.

During the day you could sometimes see sheets of ice floating on the top of the shore. Frost on the trees. Complete silence.

You had been trying for weeks now to map out the arrival and departure of the Belle and who sailed it, how long it stayed, if there were any moments when it was left unattended. Anything.

You could feel yourself start to lose yourself. You looked at old recipes you used to love making, and considered trying them out…but your shoulders would sag when you remembered you had no one to feed and a shortage of ingredients. You listened to every vinyl in your house and had started several books. Your internet connection was horrible as it always was but you tried to learn something new when you could. You were jamming your brain full of information so you could ignore the hole in your heart that grew everyday.

You knew you couldn’t stay like this forever, but if you were honest you didn’t know what else to do.

You were afraid.

John pulled his long coat a little closer around his collar as he began his trek back up to the rectory. He waved at a family as they passed him, and he found that he now received small smiles from people instead of grimaces. That change alone had him humming a little as he ascended the hill, but before he even started, he stopped short.

Those sensitive ears of his prickled as he picked up the sound of a rapid heartbeat.

He listened carefully to see if it was just an animal in the trees, but it was much too strong. He began to follow it, but after only a few strides, a sense of dread filled him.

It had to be you.

And you hadn’t come this way in months.

With your heart beating that fast, you were either terrified or exhausted. Or both. Neither was a wonderful option. John hurried his steps and walked up the pathway to the rectory when he slowed again just shy of the steps.

John had to steady himself.

The stench of blood confronted him like a wall, and he felt that repressed hunger inside him rise, but the last bit of goodness in him beat it down like a heathen. It was then that his sharp ears picked up the sound of several pairs of feet walking on gravel…perhaps 50 meters away. They were coming that way, fast.

John stepped up to the door, and noticed then that the door was ajar. He never locked it- it wasn’t like he needed to. But it wasn’t the open door that made him even more compelled to move quickly, it was the drop of blood there on his doorstep.

You were actively bleeding.

John pushed the door open, and scanned the dark home. It was so still inside. If it weren’t for his heightened senses, he could have missed what was wrong. The Monsignor, however, did know very well that there was something or someone in his room. The man slowly made his way back to the dark room, and his eyes lowered to the floor at the edge of his carpet.

Little bloody fingerprints were imprinted on the floor and smudged onto the fabric.

John knelt down and gingerly gripped the edge of the hidden door, and pulled. If it weren’t for his stellar sight in the dark, John wouldn’t have seen a single thing in that cellar. But as he stared down, he remained calm and refrained from making any sudden movements.

You were there against the furthest wall, curled in on yourself, eyes just barely visible in the sliver of dim light from up above; blood soaked your visible clothes and you trembled terribly.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” You cried in a strained voice.

You were in pain.

“What happened?” He asked gently, crouching a little more to get a closer look at your shaking form.

“You lied that’s what happened!” Your voice was strong despite the tremble from fear and pain.

“How did I lie?” He asked. The Father tried to keep his voice as level as he could without begging you to tell him who did this. However, he took a very slow, very cautious step down onto the stair and that was not the right move.

“I said-…I said don’t come closer!” Your edge was lost as fear began to take over.

He held his hands up and knelt there on the first step, “You’re clearly hurt, I just want to help-“

“That’s what you said before! And the time before that! But if you had meant what you said about telling everyone to leave me alone then I wouldn’t be here!” You were almost crying- throat growing tight and heart beating faster as anxiety set in.

Father Pruitt felt his fingers itch with want to carry you up to his home and care for you, but he couldn’t risk scaring you before expressing his submission. Disbelief settled in as he looked over your tattered and bloodied clothes.

“They did this…” he said aloud to himself as he came to terms with the carnage, “I told them very clearly that you weren’t to be bothered I promise you-“ he started.

“Even i-if you’re not lying they didn’t listen…” You curled in tighter on yourself. Your weakening voice strung at Johns heart.

John swallowed and made to take another step down to you as he tried to quell his rage.

“Hey- shh…okay. I’m- listen to me sweetheart I’m-“ John paused then. He could hear those same footsteps he had heard before now just outside the rectory and he had a sneaking suspicion that he had what they were seeking, “I’ll be right back.” He whispered and lowered the door again.

John slowly straightened himself up and stood to his full height; he began walking to his door, but as he grew further from you, his calm walk turned into a determained stride that was in no way welcoming and anything but docile.

He wrenched the door open and without missing a beat he stepped out in front of the small group of islanders who were now half stumbling back from him.

Johns nostrils flared and his eyes lacked any semblance of the gentle man he was. His eyes glinted in the light from their lanterns, and his shoulders hunched slightly like he was ready to attack. In that moment, John was thankful that you couldn’t see him in such a state- he was certain he would never lay eyes on you again if you did.

“Did I not say that that young woman was off limits?” He bellowed, teeth bared as he snapped, taking another step forward off the porch.

There was a small gathering there, but not a single person had been prepared for the Father to burst in such a way. The attack on you had seemed like such an insignificant thing for them- like they were trying to catch a stray cat.

“Hey now! I-we- well you know how- I- it was-“ the man at the front floundered.

“I gave you all specific boundaries to abide by. I might as well have said nothing because now I have the last creature on this island that deserves Gods grace, and she is halfway to meeting her maker.” John paused and looked down at the stomach of the man then back up at his face. There was a large bullet hole there just above his bellybutton that had a ring of blood surrounding it, “Did she do this?” He asked, still seething, cold and direct. His tone quieted as he spoke now.

The man nodded, “Y-yeah she blew me right off-“

“Good.” John nodded and shifted back up to his full height, “You know what this is good because now you all know the consequences of disobeying your limitations. Daylight is one of your limits, and this girl is now too. Get that through your heads or god help me I’ll hand her the gun next time myself.” He didn’t wait for a rebuttal before he was slamming the door and locking it.

John barely broke stride as he turned and marched right back to the door in the floor and opened it back up to peer down at you. You were still there, and still cowering in the corner.

“I’m so sorry…They’re gone…I- please let me help you…I can keep you safe here but you’ll bleed to death if you don’t let me help you.” He pleaded with you.

John watched you for a few very long moments. When you didn’t respond, he felt a jolt of dread spear his chest and he was suddenly flooded with the memories of his sister on her deathbed; how he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. It only intensified when memories of Sarah’s limp body flashed in his mind.

He had lost his sister.

He had lost his love.

He had lost his daughter.

Now his eyes blazed as he decided he was going to help you whether you let him or not.

You were not going to die.

Johns eyes prickled as he pushed those memories away and leapt down the remaining steps to you and gathered you into his arms. You weren’t completely limp, but you weren’t doing well. You must have gone into shock from the attack, coupled with the freezing cold night and your lack of proper clothing.

As he pulled you up with him and gently laid you on his bed, he finally saw why you had come to him.

On your shoulder was a very deep bite. Whoever had done that to you had not wanted to let go- looked as if the perpetrator had almost taken a chunk of flesh right out of you. John felt that anger in him start to seep into his veins as he thought of someone maiming you so brutally- he nearly considered finding that man who had done this to you and-

No.

No he was better than that. That man would meet his fate when it was the right time.

John sucked in a breath despite not needing to, and went to his small bathroom. He searched frantically for a small medial kit he remembered he had there, and almost tore it open to find what he needed. He took a moment to gather himself as well. Certainly he was well stocked with blood, and he wasn’t hungry, but there was always something about fresh blood that made that beast inside him claw at its bars.

But this was you.

And he would be strong for you.

When he returned to you, your face was buried in the blanket there, hugging it to yourself. John pursed his lips, and ripped open the disinfectant wipe and gauze. He wetted the material in the sink, and began dabbing at your wound.

“Holy Spirit, please come like a dove…Shield and protect now the one that I love. Cover her wounds with Your grace feathered wings…Shield them from sorrow, breathe hope songs within…”

John’s voice began to shake as your wound came clean; as he prayed for you, all he could think of were how many times he was unable to stop Gods plan of taking those he loved. How he was perhaps still foolishly trying to stand in His way.

“Tend with Your goodness the pain that she bears. Heal now her sickness with miracle care. Carry her high far above till she sees...”

He pulled your night dress down over your shoulder to clean the rest of the dried blood. He swallowed as his mouth began to ache. His teeth itched at the sight of such fresh blood- flesh already broken…so easy…

But he pushed it away.

“Your rainbow of promise, real hope lies ahead. I love her so dearly, so help me to be. All that you, would give out through me.”

John gazed down at your sleeping form and felt his chest tighten. His last little piece of hope. His ray of sunshine that burned him to touch but he couldn’t let go. Even with your skin clean, your clothes were still sodden with blood and sweat. He knew that if you stayed in them you could risk getting ill, and worsening your recovery. He sobered at the thought.

John looked up that the cross on his wall, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh God, in beautiful ways, you created and redeemed mankind. Give us steadfast minds to resist the allurements of sin so that we may attain the joys of eternal life. Hear us, Oh Lord. Amen.” He muttered quietly, and slowly as he focused on the words, he found that his thirst ebbed away slowly and the ache in his mouth dissipated.

After a moment, John carefully unfurled you from your position and pried your hands away from the blanket. Then as tactfully and quickly as he could, he gripped the edge of your dress and pulled it up. He kept his eyes glued to the fabric in his hand, then once it came away, he stared only at the wound you had; to keep your warm, he pulled one of the blankets you had bled on up over your body. John wiped and dabbed as gently as he could, chastising himself when he would accidentally watch one of the droplets of bloody water run astray and trail down your collarbone over your clavicle. Your skin was coming clean, but there was still the grime and sweat on you.

John hung his head- his forehead touching your arm.

“God help me…” he murmured. If you got a fever because he didn’t clean your wound and body fully then he would fret and stress even more than he already was. It would torture him just as it would torture you.

After contemplation, John made the decision to hold you under a gentle shower steam- just something to wash you a little better. If he had dwelled on the idea a little longer he might have talked himself out of it and spiralled for a while, so instead he chose to act quickly. He strode into the little washroom and turned the tap. Waiting until the stall was filled with steam that would warm you up.

John stared down at you for a long minute- wondering if there was some other way to do this. When he didn’t come up with anything, John trained his eyes on a point on the wall to keep from accidentally seeing your bare skin, and gathered you into his arms as gently as he could, and carried you into the shower. As soon as he stepped in, the water began to drench his clothes. The warmth permeated the small space and cocooned both of you as the water soothed your filthy body. John was mindful to not constantly hold you under the direct spray; he slowly let your legs down to hang limp and he dangled your arms around his shoulders as he swayed with you under the spray like a doll. With his height, your feet didn’t even touch the ground as he held you, and it seemed to make things easier as he could manipulate you enough to rinse off most areas of your skin without needing to jostle you too much and cause more bleeding or wake you up.

The longer he stood there with you, he began to realise that there was something so tranquil to stand there with you in his arms. Relaxing and hypnotic - the warmth of the steam invading his senses. The intimacy of having someone’s body against his. John found himself humming, and his thumb drew small circles on your back. It was selfish to say he enjoyed it. Sinful too. But he did. He could feel your soft breath on his neck, and your heart beat against his soaked chest.

He felt young again.

Human again.

John basked in the rejuvenation.

After several minutes, he carefully stepped out with you, and cradled you to his chest as he grabbed his towel from the back of the door. He sat with you on the lid of the toilet and did his best to wrap you in the towel while barely looking at you. He praised God for the halted bleeding, and while he was still dripping he walked back into his room with you.

John positioned you on the bed, and rubbed the towel against your damp skin until he was satisfied. He then pulled any hair away from your shoulder and placed a large bandage over your wound. He paid attention so as to not irritate any small cuts from the bite. It would scar, but you weren’t going to turn.

Then as he pulled away, John could feel his soaked clothes cling to him, and he stood quickly to not get the bed any wetter. He needed to change you, but if he was going to keep you dry he needed to deal with himself first. He grabbed whatever he had folded on the edge of his bed and went back to the washroom to change. As he removed his shirt, he paused when it clicked that now he had to dress you while you were completely bare. He swallowed thickly, and quickly settled into the mindset that you were his patient, and he was giving you care. Nothing else.

If he was honest he wished the earth would swallow him up.

What time was sunrise?

Maybe he could go for a walk and just disappear forever in the wind. The thought was fleeting but so tempting at that moment when he straightened and quickly changed. Even the dry clothes didn’t fully dissipate the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

The Monsignor returned to your side quickly albeit timidly now. He eyed you wearily as he gathered some clothes for you, and had to muster up some courage to continue. He stood there just feet from you, and watched you breathe for a moment.

You looked so calm.

Serene.

Beautiful.

But he couldn’t stand there forever. And he knew it would be so much worse if you woke up in the current state you were in versus dressed.

He bowed his head and crossed himself as he muttered a prayer, then inched over to you and gingerly sat beside you. Father Pruitt slipped an arm under your back and rolled your torso into his lap. He focused on the top of your head as he fiddled with the shirt he was now getting over it, and cursed to himself when he had to look for your hands to bring them through the shirt. His ears would have flushed pink if he had been human. He told himself it wasn’t his fault for catching sight of your nipple. It was his fault for noticing that it had become pert in the cold.

John finished with your top as fast as he could, then he guided you back further onto the bed and rested your head on his pillow before glancing down where the towel was draped over your legs. He gripped the sleep pants in his hand like a vice and he gulped down the saliva that pooled on his tongue. The good Father’s hand shook as he took the towel away and instantly looked down at your feet where he started to hook the pants onto you, slowly sliding them up. Up, up, up until he had to finish the last of it a little roughly as he looked away.

The intimacy of it all had his head dizzy. It had been such a strained relationship with you for months now that having you in a state like this made him feel like a perverted old man taking advantage of your state. Of course he knew he wasn’t and that he was just taking care of you, but the guilt remained.

John looked down to inspect his work, and sighed with great thanks that the stressful task was over.

You were washed and dressed and you weren’t bleeding out as badly.

The Monsignor carefully placed a small towel under your head for your damp hair, and brought the thick blanket up over your body; he retrieved an extra one for good measure and laid it over you too. He petted your head for a moment- smoothed his thumb over your forehead to draw an invisible cross there, and read a prayer for your health and forgiveness. He was well aware that he was undeserving, but they prayers came out of habit, and soothed his anxiety of what he had done.

John then pressed a kiss to your temple and left you there to sleep. Your gentle breaths filled the room, and the Father sighed. No doubt you would be spitting fire at him tomorrow, but for now he could admire how innocent and peaceful you looked.

He cast one last look at you as he shut the door, and his mouth twitched into a small smile.

Sunshine.

Hours passed. John watched the sun rise and began writing, then read, then he checked on you, then prayed. Then began the cycle over again. If your shortness of breath and rapid heartbeat was any indicator when he had found you, you must have ran very quickly across the island…that coupled with your blood loss must have exhausted your body. You needed rest.

He had stood guard outside the rectory until twilight began- hand clenching and unclenching. Digging his rosary into his palm. The scales were out of balance, and he hadn’t wanted to rectify that so badly until now. Wanted to find the man likely still healing from the bullet hole in his stomach and make him feel the same fear you felt.

John briefly wondered where you had gotten a shotgun from. A pistol wouldn’t do that damage. Though he supposed it wasn’t entirely foreign that you had one.

He heard you stir and move from inside, and abandoned his post to return to your side; wetting a new cloth to lay on your head.

Now, he was sat on the small couch, and waited. He filed away several passages from the Holy book in his hand- ones that he may enlighten you with should you need it. There he remained until he heard your heart rate pick up again, and the blankets start to rustle. John slowly placed the Bible in his lap, and stared at the pages as he waited. It took a while until you slipped from the bed and your bare feet hit the cold floor. He really should have put some slippers there for you.

He heard you scramble for a moment, most likely grabbing something to throw at him or something to defend yourself with. He understood both. The last thing you likely remembered was laying in his dark cellar as you bled. Now you were in his bed and changed.

Johns suspicions were proven correct when he felt a pair of scissors fly at his head and nick his ear.

He didn’t blame you for a second.

“Good morning.” John murmured calmly as his flesh stitched back together.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear @vintageglassheart02 @ethanhoewke @dancingisdangerouss @cherrysugarx @daisychainsinknots @thesoundresoundsecho

[lizzybeeee]

the language being stripped of lore specific terms made it so much worse in retrospect. fr tho Davrin calling Eldrin "Uncle" Eldrin instead of Hahren, like it's okay Davrin you can use elvish around my Rook I won't judge :( I haven't romanced him does he at least call you vhenan??

I could get the use of 'uncle' if Davrin was trying to explain it to Rook who was not elvish (since all elves in this game seem to just instinctively know elvish) since it would make sense to make a connection between the dalish role and familial role for an outsider:

Rook - "Who are we seeing?" Davrin - "Hahren...Uncle Eldrin." Rook - "Hahren?" Davrin - "It's elvish - they're storytellers and caretakers in the clan." Rook - "So...not your uncle." Davrin - "Close enough. He raised me."

Does Davrin call you 'vhenan'? I could have sworn he did in the final love/petting over clothes scene but I did a look up because I couldn't remember...apparently its just my wishful thinking - but don't quote me, maybe it's only in a specific dialogue option? :(

That fact that I can't recall it off the top of my head is telling -> Solas calls Lavellan 'vhenan' so much its burned into my brain, the same with other endearments from other romances. I played as a shadow dragon elf so I was hoping to be able to say 'amatus' - didn't get to do that either.

Which is one reason that the romances in this game really fall flat for me. I loved how different characters had different endearments for you, it made it feel more personal! Bull with 'Kadan', Dorian with 'Amatus', Solas with 'Vhenan', Leliana with 'My Love', and Sera had a 'pick your own' that wonderfully reflected her character!

I assume they were trying to make the language more accessible for new players, but it was never a barrier for me in any of the other games? If anything it always made me more interested/curious in what was going on when I encountered a phrase that I didn't understand. It added to the idea that these characters were from different nations and cultures - they had their own languages and phrases that reflected that -> the world felt bigger because of it!

Even if I didn't understand something, the voice work was always so stellar that even if the exact meaning wasn't understood, I got the intent that it was being said with.

Best examples being Solas and the Arishok - I understand certain words and phrases of each language, but I'm not a translator like some very talented people on this website. Even if I didn't get what was being said I absolutely understood the intent from the emotion and nuances in voice work. Top tier example is Solas and Sera in DAI:

Solas: Our people used to be here. Sera: Pfft, you say that everywhere. Solas: It is more true than you want to believe. Sera: I bet, right? Who wants to think about stepping on dead elves. Solas: Din elvhen emma him? Sera: Oh, you felt that one.

The way that line was delivered was incredible. Didn't understand a word but you could absolutely feel the repressed fury of what Solas was saying - his disgust at what Sera said. Once again, Gareth David-Lloyd coming in with incredible voice work! <3

It's such a strange choice to just...remove that immersion - to have so little of it in-game. Does it require extra work to make certain that the characters language reflects their history and culture? Yes! But what it adds is so immense to the world. I can't imagine not having Solas call Lavellan by elven endearments or having Andrastian characters not say 'Thank the Maker!' or 'Maker's breath!' It was cool worldbuilding! Just like how we say 'oh my god' there's a Thedas equivalent that communicated the very same idea!

Hearing lore specific words and phrases makes me know that I'm playing a Dragon Age game. Playing DATV which severely lacks in those words and phrases made me realize I'm sitting on my swivel chair and looking at a computer screen.

[hazard-c-horror]

What is this? A weird-god child like-creature-spawn thing??? Well Your gonna love it!

I made a new oc! Their name is seraphim!! And Yes, it’s Paragons child This is just one them, there’s many more. Paragon created them to be their successor along with its siblings. They aren’t an Astral being and isn’t related with star power, but they are connected and communicate with other celestial beings. They are immortal but it’s still a baby. They have powers but have not yet in their full potential, after all they’re a baby. They can’t do any harm……..Yet

They absolutely are very curious. One thing they like to do, They love exploring and bouncing between realities :) While going through different worlds beyond, they stumbled upon a living world full of organic life and discovered humanity which they became so obsessed with. They were obsessed about the living world called ‘earth’. The earth was filled with so much life and they were so fascinated by its life, culture and especially its humans. They grew very fond of humans because they were intelligent life, and took it upon themselves to learn more about them. They desire to learn about the human beings and to know what is life like as a human being. They want to be human. They tried to copying bodies but due to lack of understanding gender, they are unsuccessful.

They are very sub-conscious about their appearance. Sometimes they will hide their faces to avoid prolonged attention or eye contact. They are kind of shy but still very friendly.

Here’s a power list

Astral Manipulation

Astral Projection

X-Ray vision

Mind linking

Infinite digestive system

Invisibility

Clear Sight

telescopic vision

Phantasm Manipulation

Spirit Barrier

Spirit Magic

Spiritual Aura

Spiritual Awareness

Spiritual Force Manipulation

Spiritual Form

Spiritual Negation

Teleportation

Flight/ levitation

Restoration

Energization

Hypnotization

Telekinesis

Magical telepathy

Gravitokinesis

Spatiokinesis

Realitokinesis

Mind reading

Healing

Purification

Memory magic

Stellar flight

Stellafication

Inter-stellar travel

Illusion awareness

Camouflage

Invisibility

Wing manifestation

Eye manifestation

Thought detection

Polymorphing

Transmutation

*gasp* Modrolith’s one weakness!

Children

Sorry for the late response I was gonna make a small sketch for this but got distracted by other stuff, and didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer

With that being said Modrolith will absolutely adore Seraphim, cooing and nurturing. Just a complete 180 in his personality. He offer some parenting advice to Paragon, and or lecture Paragon of the most important things to do when taking care of a child. He’d also offer to babysit anytime Paragon wants. Perhaps even teaching/helping the children with a few selective powers.

Hazard would probably try and help the child with some of their abilities. Knowing how hard it is to control and learn something new. They be able to help immensely with the shapeshifting, and I’m sure Seraphim would love their lack of eyes. Unless they can see Hazard’s cameras. I think it would be fun if they did watch parties together, since Hazard also likes observing.

I do love the design a lot. I love the color and eyes especially. The wings are also really nice as well. But those eyes i absolutely adore <3 <3

[yfere]

House MD's Stellar Wardrobe

I wrote this pretty much solely for @i-exist-solely-for-fandom, who has sucked me into watching the show again for the 10th, 12th, time! Shame on you!

Anyway! House MD in general excels with making characters feel real and distinct in all sorts of small, nuanced ways, but today let's talk about Clothes and what an amazing vehicle they are for characterization in this show -- how House MD as a show cares about clothing as a vehicle for personal expression more than most shows of its kind. Keep in mind that I am not by any means a fashion expert and a fashion expert would probably give you a much better and deeper analysis

The Big Three

1. House

I mean, this one is the most obvious one, but he is The Most Striking Example, intentionally so, of characterization communicated through wardrobe. The way he chooses to dress and the message it sends to others is the *first* subject of conversation he has in the show. He is literally introduced in the pilot as the doctor who refuses to wear a lab coat (like a doctor is supposed to) because he doesn't want to look like a doctor, the one with a cane that makes people mistake him for a patient, who is both combative towards authority and nonconforming in dress -- the perpetual scruff, the wild hair, the sneakers, either straight up t shirts or casual (un)buttoned shirts with the most tragically chewed-up collars and never-been-ironed wrinkles you have ever seen. He is disheveled, fairly irreverent in style, and what small nods he makes to business dress with slacks or an open suit jacket he is liable to withdraw at any time. It's not that he doesn't know how to clean up -- watch him on a date night or a charity event and he's as sharp as anyone could ask for -- but he prioritizes his own comfort and fun, and more importantly, is overtly contemptuous of authority markers in fashion. He wants to embody the janitor medical expert he met in Japan, he wants his being Right to supersede everything that would make him otherwise offputting or looked down upon. So he straddles the line between the sort of punk rock casual wear he favors and business casual, endures pleading from Wilson to please for the love of [Medicine] wear a tie to court, negotiates with Cuddy over fundraising dress, engages in epic power struggles with Vogler over the lab coat. And so on.

2. Wilson

Wilson, naturally, designed as he is to be House's odd couple counterpart, is fastidious, careful, and conventional in his appearance. He blow dries and styles his hair, uses a dry cleaner, wears his lab coat, tie, and a collection of basically decent but also fairly unimaginative shirts and slacks*. He's not actually very knowledgeable about fashion writ large (House can identify shoe brands, Wilson can only vaguely tell the difference between looking "nice" and not, and his version of dressing up is just wearing a different color shirt or tie) nor does he have a Style in the way that Foreman (the most couture character) does. In short, his wardrobe is very much lacking in personal investment and personality, as he tends to disinterestedly wear Standard Professional Attire. He's not stiff, though -- he is the only character whose natural state is with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which besides his own personal comfort has the effect of making him seem warm, approachable, and down-to-earth. (and he is warm and approachable!) He keeps and can be more than once found wearing his McGill sweatshirt, which communicates his inclination to sentimentality as a character. He holds on to his university sweatshirt, he holds on to the toys and artifacts of all of his patients, he holds on to the little artifacts that Amber leaves behind. He self-flagellates by not wearing a coat. That's the kind of person he is, and it's indelibly also part of what he wears.

*a few of his ties are quite nice, but his failure to be nice consistently makes me doubt his ability to appreciate the bigger picture, frankly

3. Cuddy

The person who inspired me to start pontificating about wardrobe! Cuddy has her own brand of transgressive style, with a wardrobe that is an interesting meditation on her relationship with wielding power and authority. House makes fun of her for it excessively, but it is a fact that Cuddy does frequently delight in wearing the sexiest clothing possible, within the negotiable boundaries of professionalism. It's tasteful, confident, and very intentional -- this is a woman who through grit, tenacity and cleverness succeeded as the first and only female Dean of Medicine, the one holding the reputation of Princeton Plainsboro and House's leash in her hands. She's there to play fast and loose with the rules when she needs to, is confident and authoritative, and has nary a visible chink in her armor -- and all of this is bound up in and communicated through her dress. Her outfits say, "Don't worry, I'm not a stickler," at the same time they demand you take her seriously or fear for your life. Far be it from her to hide femininity -- rather, she revels in it, takes pride in her body, will happily wield attractiveness or discomfort like a cudgel, like any other tool. Who she is and what she looks like is everyone else's problem, to accept or reject (or, as they should, appreciate) -- she's just out having a ball with it. I imagine that this attitude towards fashion is one of the reasons she and House hit it off so well, though she is notably more flexible than House and will comfortably lean on both sides of the scale as the situation requires.

This is already quite long without me getting into any of the fellows, but I could!!! I definitely could

[blogtaculous]

I really want to give a shout-out to the Mobile Frame Zero community for the really, really cool work they’ve done since the following work was made possible by their efforts.

So, I watched all of Evangelion and was like “wow, mechs vs monsters is so sick like for real”

So my next Lego project is going to be mechs vs monsters in a micro city, thus continuing my trend of projects that stretch my collection instead of building on it.

While Brikwars shenanigans continue I have been building the mechs.

Here they are, a handsome little collection.

I wanted to write this post to expand on the lore of each machine but also to give credit to the excellent mech and frame builders I copied from. I think I have a real talent for castles and landscapes but machines and space builds still don’t feel right, so I’m thankful for others who have paved the way.

From left to right:

—

W-024 “Ancient Ode” is one of the original War Class mechs before the expansion of their battlefield roles, and is now one of the last to operate. It owes its longevity to numerous upgrades given its stellar combat record across conflicts and operators. It keeps its original colors, an homage to the Army it used to serve.

This one is based on principles from Josh's Super Chub Marines, though I've multiplied the legs and made some significant changes to the arms and shoulders. This mech was originally going to be a melee focused machine, but the super chub legs have some balance problems when posing, and I was frustrated by the lack of articulation in the ankles.

The solution came to me in a dream (Armored Core VI). I doubled the legs for a quadrupedal design, inspired by the success I had using them against Sea Spider. Now it stays upright effortlessly and I could also use more sand green (one of the best Lego colors). In general, the four legs allow for beefier body parts and the back-mounted rocket launcher.

“W-class” refers to a time when mechs were first used for warfare instead of construction or manufacturing. Today, Ancient Ode would be referred to a BL-Class (Battleline), but owing to its service record the original classification sticks. Ancient Ode is the Ma Deuce of battle mechs. I enhanced the build with stickers from the Avatar sets, though I was disappointed when the sand green on the stickers clashes with the brick color.

—

A-094 "Distant Oath" was one of the first artillery class mechs produced, as such the it was outfitted with a now-obsolete shoulder-mounted heavy cannon. While heavy cannon mounted in this manner such as the LM-15 Ultra Sonic have gone out of fashion in favor of much larger cannon or shorter range missile pods (a precursor of which is mounted on the right shoulder), it has been impractical to repurpose A-class mechs like Distant Oath.

Distant Oath is heavily based on the MF0 frame Uhlan Marine by skroberto on Flickr. I had to figure out most of it from his photos and other resources on the MF0 Facebook page. It's a great frame, but I made some internal changes to make it suitable for physical construction. Unfortunately, it is the least stable mech in the collection because the “knee” joint is a round tile using opposite anti-studs to hold the legs together.

Given the stability problems and its size I decided it would be an artillery piece. I added some stickers from a Mindstorms set, and the “A” in “A-class” was derived from the stickers. The cannon has one that says “Ultra Sonic” so that’s the name of the cannon. Distant Oath was almost a shade of blue, but I was using Orange while I designed it and decided I loved it too much to change.

—

S-62-2 “Wild Eyes” is a strike/support class mech designed for air superiority missions. These machines are among the newest frames produced, with boosted legs for softer landings and a lighter exoskeleton to let the booster engines really shine. They are useful for sustained flight and boosting directly into engagements.

This is a combination of concepts from -SuspendedAnimation-'s Rigel II and Andromeda MFO frames that use their X-11 core.

Wild Eyes is a strike/support class because I’ve decided that machines that are smaller and more mobile can have so many different roles that it would be impractical to classify them all different. The color chosen for the only soft blue that includes the chest piece and the shoulder bricks. Wild Eyes is a little lanky after I modified the arms to be more posable and it looked very “flight” to me so I gave them a real set of boost engines designed to fly around and harass.

I used more mindstorms stickers since they are transparent, but I was able to find some for the fund that say “Danger, Jet Blast” in a Marvel jet I could cut apart to fit.

—

S-973 No Survivors is a strike/support class mech designed for sustained ground operations. It's outfitted with stronger than standard armor and a booster engine for mobility to offset the additional weight. Additionally, it's equipped with a utility launcher for tactical munitions or a short range pile driver. Often, this style of S-class mechs carries a melee weapon, and No Survivors wields an RES (Rapid Energy Sword).

This one is a modified version of -SuspendedAnimation-'s Comanche core. I changed the shoulder and elbow assembly because I don't like how fragile modified tiles and taps are, something I also did for Wild Eyes and Ancient Ode. The rifle is their design as well.

Once again, the mech’s numerical designation is derived from the stickers. This one uses several unmodified from a Marvel jet. Like Distant Oath, No Survivors has last resort munitions in the chest. The RES isn’t a static blade like a lot of other mech settings, as that would be impractical when trying to fight in between buildings. It operates a little bit like a lightsaber, activating when necessary, and the energy isn’t all that stable. It explodes out from the handle and is closer to a giant lighter than a true sword.

—

I’m excited to get the city built for the mechs to romp around in. I have a few buildings mocked up already, but I don’t have space for more until I can block out the roadways. I love how AC6 cities are laid out and will be taking lots of inspiration from there. I also want to do some retractable structures like Tokyo-3.

Anyway, have a good day, thanks for checking out my work.

[madlificent]

Hello! I'm Maddie!

I am a transgal who makes digital illustrations, often focusing on characters from my husband and I's creative passion project, Crystal Heart! I tend to represent myself via one of my oldest OCs, Sorochi! I've been drawing for as long as I can remember, tbh. In college, I started to shift my drawing pursuits into character and comic artwork, working to develop my style for an eventual graphic novel project. This is where Crystal Heart was born, but it wouldn't really get far before college burned me out. I took a five year break from making artwork and instead turned to miniature painting, which I have since set on the back burner as I dive full force back into drawing and creative writing.

The main content I post is for Crystal Heart, a sci-fi mixed writing and graphic novel project that my husband and I have been working on with more focus in the past year. It began in college, but at the time I lacked the dedicated creative input of my husband (who is stellar at macro-level concepts and themes) and enough life experience to really know where I wanted to take the project. Fast-forward five years and now I am a proud autistic transwoman who has a lot to say on her own personal journey and the world at large in her late twenties. My husband, a transman, has tossed his own personal struggles into the pot to create what will be a very queer story of finding one's place in the world and building up communities under the boot of authoritarian capitalism. Crystal Heart's first Act has been fully roughed out and is currently under review by our peers!

My Tags: #maddieart - all of my artwork will be tagged with this. Best way to just see what I make. #crystal heart - all art pertaining to Crystal Heart, be it memes, character designs, writing, etc. #maddiewrites - this will hold any writing posts I end up slapping in here

And finally, a bit shameless plugging! I opened a Patreon account earlier this year and have recently started to put a focus on dropping behind-the-scenes content into it. My main passion is illustration and developing Crystal Heart and my autism makes it very difficult for me to hold onto conventional jobs, as they often lose their hold as I learn all that I can and fall into repetition. So, if you like the art you find here on my blog and want to support what I do, I would very much appreciate even just sharing this post and/or the Patreon link below. I really want to make art my primary focus and every little bit helps that goal! I also have provided my linktree if you would like to follow me on any of my other accounts. This and my Patreon are by far my most active sites these days, but I do still post on the others from time to time! Support me on Patreon!

Linktree

[jepheraeth]

Difference? DIFFERENCE.

In Japan Oscar was straight up saying and fans were screaming crying throwing up with " I'm fast, I'm fast, I'm fast" when in telemetry it was clear Lando was fast, only that he was managing and was not pulling away( so much so that even Stellar came around to say that out loud to media) and everytime Oscar came even a little close he was pulling away( Bro if you are fast like you said 9 times on the radio with all the 'two corners and I do it' then… do it? Catch up? He couldn't )And even then people were screaming with " swap swap swap". Oscar couldn't even catch Lando how would he even catch Max?

Today, Lando was clearly faster on fresher tyres, he came on the radio and said it himself that he ain't asking for a swap he's just saying that Oscars tyres and gone and that they should think about it…There was radio silence… Not the team, not the fans and non-fans, no one, ( except a few throw away comments by commentators) Why? Because if he was faster then he could catch up Oscar too and HE DID but somehow oi that logic was never there in Japan?…Lando was faster and in three laps coverever up and caught up fine. Even then the gap was too much and it increased because of their fight and Max couldn't be caught after that at all. No one was gonna say swap swap swap, no? All because it was Lando.

Just double standards… And nothing else. Double standards, recency bias, blind hatred and hypocrisy.

Also I'm sure no one's gonna even say a word about Oscar whooshing p1 like a pro to Max , again, known fact.

Also did y'all notice how the McLaren lacks pace and Redbull is faster only when Oscar says so? When Lando says it and even has the data to back it up he's only bluffing, because of course the driver who relies on the other drivers' feedback for car setups, still munches his tyres, knows better, and fans? Why would be look at the data they just wanna say ' Lando breathed, he is wrong.'

Beautiful community we have.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A link-clump demands a linkdump

Cometh the weekend, cometh the linkdump. My daily-ish newsletter includes a section called "Hey look at this," with three short links per day, but sometimes those links get backed up and I need to clean house. Here's the eight previous installments:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

The country code top level domain (ccTLD) for the Caribbean island nation of Anguilla is .ai, and that's turned into millions of dollars worth of royalties as "entrepreneurs" scramble to sprinkle some buzzword-compliant AI stuff on their businesses in the most superficial way possible:

https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2023/08/ai-fever-turns-anguillas-ai-domain-into-a-digital-gold-mine/

All told, .ai domain royalties will account for about ten percent of the country's GDP.

It's actually kind of nice to see Anguilla finding some internet money at long last. Back in the 1990s, when I was a freelance web developer, I got hired to work on the investor website for a publicly traded internet casino based in Anguilla that was a scammy disaster in every conceivable way. The company had been conceived of by people who inherited a modestly successful chain of print-shops and decided to diversify by buying a dormant penny mining stock and relaunching it as an online casino.

But of course, online casinos were illegal nearly everywhere. Not in Anguilla – or at least, that's what the founders told us – which is why they located their servers there, despite the lack of broadband or, indeed, reliable electricity at their data-center. At a certain point, the whole thing started to whiff of a stock swindle, a pump-and-dump where they'd sell off shares in that ex-mining stock to people who knew even less about the internet than they did and skedaddle. I got out, and lost track of them, and a search for their names and business today turns up nothing so I assume that it flamed out before it could ruin any retail investors' lives.

Anguilla is a British Overseas Territory, one of those former British colonies that was drained and then given "independence" by paternalistic imperial administrators half a world away. The country's main industries are tourism and "finance" – which is to say, it's a pearl in the globe-spanning necklace of tax- and corporate-crime-havens the UK established around the world so its most vicious criminals – the hereditary aristocracy – can continue to use Britain's roads and exploit its educated workforce without paying any taxes.

This is the "finance curse," and there are tiny, struggling nations all around the world that live under it. Nick Shaxson dubbed them "Treasure Islands" in his outstanding book of the same name:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780230341722/treasureislands

I can't imagine that the AI bubble will last forever – anything that can't go on forever eventually stops – and when it does, those .ai domain royalties will dry up. But until then, I salute Anguilla, which has at last found the internet riches that I played a small part in bringing to it in the previous century.

The AI bubble is indeed overdue for a popping, but while the market remains gripped by irrational exuberance, there's lots of weird stuff happening around the edges. Take Inject My PDF, which embeds repeating blocks of invisible text into your resume:

https://kai-greshake.de/posts/inject-my-pdf/

The text is tuned to make resume-sorting Large Language Models identify you as the ideal candidate for the job. It'll even trick the summarizer function into spitting out text that does not appear in any human-readable form on your CV.

Embedding weird stuff into resumes is a hacker tradition. I first encountered it at the Chaos Communications Congress in 2012, when Ang Cui used it as an example in his stellar "Print Me If You Dare" talk:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njVv7J2azY8

Cui figured out that one way to update the software of a printer was to embed an invisible Postscript instruction in a document that basically said, "everything after this is a firmware update." Then he came up with 100 lines of perl that he hid in documents with names like cv.pdf that would flash the printer when they ran, causing it to probe your LAN for vulnerable PCs and take them over, opening a reverse-shell to his command-and-control server in the cloud. Compromised printers would then refuse to apply future updates from their owners, but would pretend to install them and even update their version numbers to give verisimilitude to the ruse. The only way to exorcise these haunted printers was to send 'em to the landfill. Good times!

Printers are still a dumpster fire, and it's not solely about the intrinsic difficulty of computer security. After all, printer manufacturers have devoted enormous resources to hardening their products against their owners, making it progressively harder to use third-party ink. They're super perverse about it, too – they send "security updates" to your printer that update the printer's security against you – run these updates and your printer downgrades itself by refusing to use the ink you chose for it:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

It's a reminder that what a monopolist thinks of as "security" isn't what you think of as security. Oftentimes, their security is antithetical to your security. That was the case with Web Environment Integrity, a plan by Google to make your phone rat you out to advertisers' servers, revealing any adblocking modifications you might have installed so that ad-serving companies could refuse to talk to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

WEI is now dead, thanks to a lot of hueing and crying by people like us:

https://www.theregister.com/2023/11/02/google_abandons_web_environment_integrity/

But the dream of securing Google against its own users lives on. Youtube has embarked on an aggressive campaign of refusing to show videos to people running ad-blockers, triggering an arms-race of ad-blocker-blockers and ad-blocker-blocker-blockers:

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/where-will-the-ad-versus-ad-blocker-arms-race-end/

The folks behind Ublock Origin are racing to keep up with Google's engineers' countermeasures, and there's a single-serving website called "Is uBlock Origin updated to the last Anti-Adblocker YouTube script?" that will give you a realtime, one-word status update:

https://drhyperion451.github.io/does-uBO-bypass-yt/

One in four web users has an ad-blocker, a stat that Doc Searls pithily summarizes as "the biggest boycott in world history":

https://doc.searls.com/2015/09/28/beyond-ad-blocking-the-biggest-boycott-in-human-history/

Zero app users have ad-blockers. That's not because ad-blocking an app is harder than ad-blocking the web – it's because reverse-engineering an app triggers liability under IP laws like Section 1201 of the Digital Millenium Copyright Act, which can put you away for 5 years for a first offense. That's what I mean when I say that "IP is anything that lets a company control its customers, critics or competitors:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

I predicted that apps would open up all kinds of opportunities for abusive, monopolistic conduct back in 2010, and I'm experiencing a mix of sadness and smugness (I assume there's a German word for this emotion) at being so thoroughly vindicated by history:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/04/01/why-i-wont-buy-an-ipad-and-think-you-shouldnt-either/

The more control a company can exert over its customers, the worse it will be tempted to treat them. These systems of control shift the balance of power within companies, making it harder for internal factions that defend product quality and customer interests to win against the enshittifiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

The result has been a Great Enshittening, with platforms of all description shifting value from their customers and users to their shareholders, making everything palpably worse. The only bright side is that this has created the political will to do something about it, sparking a wave of bold, muscular antitrust action all over the world.

The Google antitrust case is certainly the most important corporate lawsuit of the century (so far), but Judge Amit Mehta's deference to Google's demands for secrecy has kept the case out of the headlines. I mean, Sam Bankman-Fried is a psychopathic thief, but even so, his trial does not deserve its vastly greater prominence, though, if you haven't heard yet, he's been convicted and will face decades in prison after he exhausts his appeals:

https://newsletter.mollywhite.net/p/sam-bankman-fried-guilty-on-all-charges

The secrecy around Google's trial has relaxed somewhat, and the trickle of revelations emerging from the cracks in the courthouse are fascinating. For the first time, we're able to get a concrete sense of which queries are the most lucrative for Google:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/11/1/23941766/google-antitrust-trial-search-queries-ad-money

The list comes from 2018, but it's still wild. As David Pierce writes in The Verge, the top twenty includes three iPhone-related terms, five insurance queries, and the rest are overshadowed by searches for customer service info for monopolistic services like Xfinity, Uber and Hulu.

All-in-all, we're living through a hell of a moment for piercing the corporate veil. Maybe it's the problem of maintaining secrecy within large companies, or maybe the the rampant mistreatment of even senior executives has led to more leaks and whistleblowing. Either way, we all owe a debt of gratitude to the anonymous leaker who revealed the unbelievable pettiness of former HBO president of programming Casey Bloys, who ordered his underlings to create an army of sock-puppet Twitter accounts to harass TV and movie critics who panned HBO's shows:

https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-features/hbo-casey-bloys-secret-twitter-trolls-tv-critics-leaked-texts-lawsuit-the-idol-1234867722/

These trolling attempts were pathetic, even by the standards of thick-fingered corporate execs. Like, accusing critics who panned the shitty-ass Perry Mason reboot of disrespecting veterans because the fictional Mason's back-story had him storming the beach on D-Day.

The pushback against corporate bullying is everywhere, and of course, the vanguard is the labor movement. Did you hear that the UAW won their strike against the auto-makers, scoring raises for all workers based on the increases in the companies' CEO pay? The UAW isn't done, either! Their incredible new leader, Shawn Fain, has called for a general strike in 2028:

https://www.404media.co/uaw-calls-on-workers-to-line-up-massive-general-strike-for-2028-to-defeat-billionaire-class/

The massive victory for unionized auto-workers has thrown a spotlight on the terrible working conditions and pay for workers at Tesla, a criminal company that has no compunctions about violating labor law to prevent its workers from exercising their legal rights. Over in Sweden, union workers are teaching Tesla a lesson. After the company tried its illegal union-busting playbook on Tesla service centers, the unionized dock-workers issued an ultimatum: respect your workers or face a blockade at Sweden's ports that would block any Tesla from being unloaded into the EU's fifth largest Tesla market:

https://www.wired.com/story/tesla-sweden-strike/

Of course, the real solution to Teslas – and every other kind of car – is to redesign our cities for public transit, walking and cycling, making cars the exception for deliveries, accessibility and other necessities. Transitioning to EVs will make a big dent in the climate emergency, but it won't make our streets any safer – and they keep getting deadlier.

Last summer, my dear old pal Ted Kulczycky got in touch with me to tell me that Talking Heads were going to be all present in public for the first time since the band's breakup, as part of the debut of the newly remastered print of Stop Making Sense, the greatest concert movie of all time. Even better, the show would be in Toronto, my hometown, where Ted and I went to high-school together, at TIFF.

Ted is the only person I know who is more obsessed with Talking Heads than I am, and he started working on tickets for the show while I starting pricing plane tickets. And then, the unthinkable happened: Ted's wife, Serah, got in touch to say that Ted had been run over by a car while getting off of a streetcar, that he was severely injured, and would require multiple surgeries.

But this was Ted, so of course he was still planning to see the show. And he did, getting a day-pass from the hospital and showing up looking like someone from a Kids In The Hall sketch who'd been made up to look like someone who'd been run over by a car:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53182440282/

In his Globe and Mail article about Ted's experience, Brad Wheeler describes how the whole hospital rallied around Ted to make it possible for him to get to the movie:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/article-how-a-talking-heads-superfan-found-healing-with-the-concert-film-stop/

He also mentions that Ted is working on a book and podcast about Stop Making Sense. I visited Ted in the hospital the day after the gig and we talked about the book and it sounds amazing. Also? The movie was incredible. See it in Imax.

That heartwarming tale of healing through big suits is a pretty good place to wrap up this linkdump, but I want to call your attention to just one more thing before I go: Robin Sloan's Snarkmarket piece about blogging and "stock and flow":

https://snarkmarket.com/2010/4890/

Sloan makes the excellent case that for writers, having a "flow" of short, quick posts builds the audience for a "stock" of longer, more synthetic pieces like books. This has certainly been my experience, but I think it's only part of the story – there are good, non-mercenary reasons for writers to do a lot of "flow." As I wrote in my 2021 essay, "The Memex Method," turning your commonplace book into a database – AKA "blogging" – makes you write better notes to yourself because you know others will see them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

This, in turn, creates a supersaturated, subconscious solution of fragments that are just waiting to nucleate and crystallize into full-blown novels and nonfiction books and other "stock." That's how I came out of lockdown with nine new books. The next one is The Lost Cause, a hopepunk science fiction novel about the climate whose early fans include Naomi Klein, Rebecca Solnit, Bill McKibben and Kim Stanley Robinson. It's out on November 14:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/05/variegated/#nein

[narrans]

Stellar Allies | Part Four

GT July | Stellar Allies | Part Four

Words: Sweet Tooth, Honey, Gamble

Plunged into darkness once again and aching from head to toe, Ol’oih stayed crouched in the corner of the box with his addon curled around him. His one shot had failed and now all of that energy had been lost. It was a miracle that his addon hadn’t broken, fractured, or, worst case, amputated instantly.

That boy had grabbed him so fast. He was so powerless. There was nothing he could do to try and defend himself. The experience was a jarring one, and he had no idea whether his plea for open communication would be answered.

Ol’oih curled in closer and continued heaving in breath after breath. He was starting to get drowsy. The heat was starting to have an affect on him and the lack of sustenance was making him weaker by the moment.

How could I be so stupid! I waisted my one chance. I shouldn’t have rushed. I should’ve just stayed calm. Just that one touch was probably enough. I could’ve tried harder to demonstrate what I was about to do. I rushed and now they’re probably going to end me.

Ol’oih flinched as he heard the sounds of stomping pass by.

They’re probably going to experiment on me. There’s no doubt. I caused harm, so they have every right to do the same. Oh Ove! Juthez! This is bad! This is so bad for me!

Ol’oih leaned over and laid down on the makeshift cot the humans provided which he thankfully had pulled over to the corner where he was huddled. As he laid there, he cleaned off the bits of skin from the end of his addon.

If this is the end, I’m not going out as a monster with blood on my hands or my addon.

Slowly, his eyelids were starting to get heavier and heavier. Ol’oih didn’t even bother illuminating his surroundings. It would take too much energy to do so, and he couldn’t spare it. All he could do there was stay prone and hope that his end would be quick and merciful.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. What he did know was the sound of footsteps approaching disrupted his rest. The sound of muffled voices nearby told him that those same two boys were nearby and possibly alone, keeping him in a precarious situation. If there was someone new, he could maybe prove himself to that new person. Those two boys, however, had probably already made a determination about Ol’oih’s demeanor and would proceed from there.

Once again, the light flooded into the box and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust as he looked up into the faces of those same two boys. His entire body thrummed, making him nauseous, but the one thing he clung to from his observation was the fact the boys didn’t look malicious. If anything, they looked determined and calm.

Moments earlier, Jax and Cliff had approached his room and had one last verification of the plan.

“So, give him the food and water, talk, and then hopefully not get poisoned or controlled by the alien leading to the domination of our species. Super simple,” muttered Jax.

“Yeah, super simple,” echoed Cliff. He sighed and started to remove it when Jax got his attention with a nervous cough.

“You know… it’s not too late. I’m not trying to chicken out or anything, but this feels like something that is way over our heads. I just… are you sure you want to try this again?” asked Jax.

Cliff sighed and stared at his bandaged, throbbing hand, part of it coming loose from him tugging at it. “Yeah, I think so. The other option is calling the government or some other authority. I’m not ready to do that, so I’ll take my chances.”

“Okay, but just to make sure he knows, maybe make it clear that we’re not messing around?” proposed Jax.

“You want to threaten the six inch tall alien?” asked Cliff.

“I mean, yes and no? Dude, I just don’t want to see you get hurt again,” said Jax. Cliff closed his fist and bumped his friend on the side of his leg.

“I don’t think it’ll happen, but thanks man. Now, let’s stop being chickens and let’s get excited. This is for science! Commence Operation: First Contact. Well, Operation: Second Contact. At the very least, I might go down in history as the first person to be kill murdered by an alien in our day and age.” Cliff’s attempt at a joke was ill received as Jax’s face fell. As Cliff led the way into the room, he heard his friend behind him.

“Not funny,” Jax grumbled as he led the way into Cliff’s room. Together, they entered the room and crouched once more by the sealed plastic box to attempt communicating once more.

Ol’oih, now once again face-to-face with the human boys, leaned his back against the hard edge of the container behind him. He didn’t have the energy to fight anyway. His body thrummed nervously and, sadly, his emotions were easy to read. He noticed his ciferi shifting from color to color with every emotional whim his mind and body experienced.

The one boy who had grabbed him turned his eyes away for just a moment, looking at something Ol’oih couldn’t hope to see, and turned his attention back to him. There was something in his hand and, instinctually, Ol’oih curled in tighter to himself, shying away from the arm extending down into the box a few inches from him.

What’s he grabbing? What’s he grabbing! He didn’t seem malicious. Neither of them did. Juthez! Was I wrong?

His fears, however, shifted cautiously to curiosity and relief as he saw that what the boy had in his hands was some kind of cup with a clear liquid inside of it.

Water!

The glass came up to Ol’oih’s waist and was more than enough to drink for the next few days. The boy quickly removed his hand, leaving the cup behind. Ol’oih scrambled up to his feet and approached the glass, gazing at the life saving liquid, when he stopped short.

These boys… what if they’ve poisoned the water? What if they tampered with it? I can’t take the risk. Not without testing it first.

Jax and Cliff watched, entranced and fascinated, as the alien paused for a moment as he eagerly gazed at the water before stopping himself. Then, from one of the pockets in the flight suit he was wearing, he pulled out a rectangular box and dipped it into the water, careful not to get any of the liquid onto his skin. He reached into a different pocket and pulled out some other small item which he poured into the water.

Then, he sat and rocked the box back and forth, swirling whatever he poured into the box with the water.

“Are you… testing the water?” asked Jax suddenly, making the alien jump a little.

Yes, not that you can hear me. It’s a basic test. I don’t mean offence by it, but I need to know you’re not trying to kill me. Wow… devolving into talking to myself. I guess it does happen faster than you think. I shouldn’t have besmirched all those stories they made us read in basic.

After a minute of swirling the solution around, Ol’oih examined the water and saw no change in color.

It’s pure, and it’s not been tampered with. Thank Ove!

With that, both Jax and Cliff watched in surprise as the alien grabbed onto either side of the cup and plunged his head directly into the substance.

“Wait… hang on! Cliff, he’s not drowning himself, right?” asked Jax as he went to reach into the container to pull the alien out of the water. Just as he did, however, Cliff reached forward and grabbed Jax’s extended hand.

“Wait! I don’t think so. Look. The water level is going down. I… think he’s just drinking,” stated Cliff. Jax scrutinized the water levels further and saw his best friend was right. The water levels were merely going down and, after a few more seconds, the alien pulled his head out of the cup.

Water dripped down his shoulders and over his body. He reached up and slicked back his liv, looking completely relieved, before turning his attention back to the two teens. Already, he felt rejuvenated. With water, he was sure to last twice as long compared to the few meager days he might’ve had without rations.

I can’t even thank them, thought Ol’oih, feeling a bit disappointed.

“Good?” asked Jax. He looked into the alien’s face and noticed how the coloration of his scaled skin had slowed dramatically and was hovering between the blues, grays, and blacks now. “Well, we hope you like these then. Sorry in advanced. We… had to guess. We didn’t know what you’d like, or what you could have.” Jax reached over to the tray once more and grabbed the five little dishes he and Cliff had prepared.

Unsure of what this or any alien would eat, they had a healthy debate in the kitchen and settled on five different items: tiny slices of ham and turkey, cream of wheat, honey, Greek yogurt, kale. It covered most of the main food groups and offered variety. Also, at the very least, the two teens thought that it would show they were trying to be considerate.

And Ol’ioh was beginning to get that impression.

They don’t know what I eat, so they brought a few things. At least they were up front about their intentions, and he even apologized for not knowing; not that they would. What… is this? Did they tamper with this? They didn’t tamper with the water, but perhaps that’s meant as a false sense of security?

Better safe than sorry.

Ol’oih pulled out a different testing container from his side pocket and approached the cream of wheat. Though the substance was foreign to him, it did look sustenance he and his crewmates had eaten for years in basic training. From consistency to scent, it was something he was most likely to trust.

Once again, he scooped a little into one of the containers and poured a mixture of solutions over it, swirling it around for thirty seconds until he was satisfied that it wasn’t contaminated. He crouched by the dish and, as he’d done all his life, scooped up a portion into his hand and smeared it onto his head.

Both Jax and Cliff’s jaws dropped as they watched the little alien take a handful of cream of wheat and smeared it into his hair.

“Wait! Ah, man. Does he think it’s meant for cleaning?” muttered Jax, which interrupted the alien briefly.

Is this… not how humans eat? Ol’oih wondered. Then what’s that stuff on their head? Are they not receptors for nutrients?

“I… no. Woah! Look,” Jax said as he pointed to the side of the alien’s head. “Cliff, I think that’s how he eats. See? It’s being absorbed. It’s drying out and vanishing. That stuff that we thought was hair has got to be something else.”

“I guess that gives the whole saying ‘brain food’ a whole new meaning,” grinned Cliff. “So, are they more like villi then? But more intense?”

“Then what’s his mouth for?” Jax wondered aloud.

Great… a couple of funny guys. I know enough about your language to know you’re poking fun at me. At least you’re making a joke about how I’m eating. And what is a “mouth”? That thing you keep using to disrupt the air waves around you? Ol’oih remarked quietly to himself. Though he thought the two boys gawking at him replenishing himself, he wasn’t about to complain outwardly. They’d found sufficient nutrients for him, which was more than he could’ve hoped for given their first interaction.

He was starting to get a better sense of these boys and honestly starting to believe that their first interaction was simply a misunderstanding. The nausea was finally starting to subside, much to Ol’oih’s relief, but there was a scent that he was detecting that was beyond pleasant to his senses.

Leaning forward, he extended his senses and inhaled deeply, realizing it was coming from the golden liquid in the center of the nearby dish. He approached and inhaled again as a sense of nostalgia hit him.

Ucos! Dear Ove! How did they get a hold of this? We haven’t had this for years back home. Ol’oih gazed at the golden, viscous substance longingly. They guessed right for this. Amazing. Even between our worlds, there are still similarities.

I wonder if it’s the same. The scent is the same, but what about taste? Ol’oih reached back and snagged his testing equipment once more. The edge of the tube was almost touching the surface when he paused. A thought occurred to him, and it was a risky one.

If I test everything, they will think I don’t trust them, which I don’t. At least, not entirely. I need to show them I’m willing to trust. It will do so much for opening a dialogue between us. Actions speak louder than words, and consuming something without testing it will show they’ve done something good. If this ends me… well… so be it.

Cliff felt his heart skipping in his chest like a stone across water. He watched the alien reach for that little kit that was in one of his flight suit pockets, nearly use it, and then deliberately put it to the side before leaning over the dish filled with honey and, like before, taking a handful of it and smearing it into his “hair.”

The sticky substance slowly vanished after a few moments of being on the alien’s head, and suddenly he looked like he was feeling better. When they first reopened the container to give the alien food, the little guy looked a little unwell. Maybe the food was doing that, and maybe it was because he wasn’t supposed to be in complete darkness for extended periods of time.

Whatever the case, the little alien looked like he was feeling better.

Whad’ya know. This little guy has a sweet tooth Cliff thought.

Now was the moment of truth. Their plan of giving food and then attempting to communicate again was onto the second part. Cliff prayed silently the whole third part about world domination and possession wasn’t even a possibility. Putting his trust in his instincts and in his scientific logic, he broke the silence that had settled over them.

“Feeling better?” asked Cliff. He watched the blues that dominated the alien’s scales shift subtly to the grays and blacks again, fragments of yellow flaring from time to time. His guess was that the alien could understand. Cliff hoped so anyway. He was going off of everything he’d witnessed so far and was relying on his intuitive leaps to guide their interactions. Now Cliff was stepping out on a limb with his conclusions, putting his own body on the line, and was eager to know if he was right.

When there was no response from the six inch tall alien, Cliff decided to continue, knowing his nerves would get the better of him if he were to stop now.

“I hope so, and I hope you’re not hurt or anything. I’m… well… we’re really sorry about our first interaction. We didn’t mean to hurt you and grab you. We were just a bit startled… and scared. We didn’t know what to expect, so we’re sorry about that,” apologized Cliff.

Sorry? What does… Ah! Apologies! It must mean apologies. They’re remorseful about everything that happened. Ol’oih thought, feeling cautiously optimistic as he looked between the two boys. He watched the one moving his head up and down, which he could only assume was a physical confirmation or agreement with what the speaking boy was saying.

“Honestly, I’d like it if we could start over. You know? We got off on the wrong foot and we want to apologize for our actions. We didn’t mean to hurt you and I’m sure this all has to be pretty scary all things considering,” stated Cliff. “And, if you want, we’d like to try and talk to you again. So…”

Cliff inhaled shakily as he pulled the bandage free from his left hand. The little plug where the alien’s tail hadn’t quite stopped seeping yet. If he was lucky, it would be a cool scar for years to come. If he was unlucky… well… he didn’t want to think about that.

Looking back at the little alien and then to his hand, he once again splayed his fingers and lowered his hand into the base of the plastic container as he said, “Hello, my name is Clifford Neilson, and this is my friend Jaxon Warner. It’s nice to meet you.” Cliff’s heart was pounding harder with every passing second. His eyes were fixated on the figure, whose breathing had seemingly increased, just like his. Cliff suspected he was nervous, and Ol’oih had every right to be.

The last time he’d approached the boys and attempted communication, he’d ended up flung in the corner of the box he was in and could have lost his addon. A great many things could’ve gone wrong, and yet they didn’t.

They could’ve ended me before, and yet I’m still here. They apologized, which makes me a little less nervous. It could be a trick. The food and water could’ve been something to lead me into a false sense of security.

At the same time, they obviously have the power and strength to not care. The food and water is a gesture of good faith, and they’re trying intentionally this time to communicate. They know how it happens this time, and they’re willing to try it again. Ol’oih glanced between the two boys and, try and he might, didn’t sense anything malicious from them. They were being genuine.

I’m here as a liaison. My specialization is communication. I studied their language for years for a moment like this.

Just as before, Ol’oih raised his hands in an almost surrendering motion. He kept his eyes specifically on the one whose hands were out of the container, considering it was that one who had grabbed him. His body thrummed with increasingly intensifying emotions as he approached the human boy’s hand. 

If he was right, the human was just as nervous as he was because of the jittering Ol’oih noticed in his fingertips. A surge of guilt came over him as he stared at the puncture wound he had left of the boy’s hand from before and saw the considerable plug that his addon had taken when he was forcibly removed. 

It gave this moment all the more significance. 

I’m getting a second chance. I have to be patient and slow. I can’t rush this. At least they know a bit more about what’s going on this time and what I intend to do. Juthez! This is bad if I mess this up twice. I’ll definitely be an experiment if that happens. I have to take the gamble though. I have things I need to find out and questions that need answering, and they are probably my best chance at the moment.

Ol’oih was once again inches from the boy’s fingertips. Just like before, Ol’oih’s addon curled around and in front of him. He continued to make eye-contact with the human boy as he pressed the tip of his addon against his flesh. This time, he paused and looked to his addon and then back to the boy for confirmation, which he received with that same up and down shaking motion of his head.

Here it goes. 

Ol’oih stepped forward and placed his hand on the base of his addon before pressing it further into the fleshy part of the boy’s hand, twisting to follow the ridges on the end. The boy audibly winced, making Ol’oih second guess his decision, but felt like the connection was secure. He saw the place where his addon had torn a hole out of the boy and guilt compressed his chest. Sadly, he couldn’t think about that now.

Now that he was here, he finally had his words sorted. That was what mattered.  

He was ready to talk. 

Cliff, in the meantime, winced again as he felt the pencil lead like tail tip push its way into his hand, but this time he was absolutely determined and kept his hand still as he watched the little alien secure his tail and then step away, hands once again raised in surrender. A weird sensation tickled the back of his mind before, after a moment, that sensation developed into that same voice he’d heard before. 

“I, too, would like to apologize for my actions.” 

Cliff’s eyes widened and every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Jax glanced at him anxiously, but Cliff gave him a subtle thumbs up with his free hand which he hoped the alien couldn’t see. 

“So, it was you who I heard,” said Cliff, speaking aloud. “Do… do I just think back to you? Or do I have to speak out loud?” Cliff started thinking really hard about saying “if you can hear me raise your right hand,” but nothing came of it. Instead, the male alien voice returned in the back of his mind in a direct, clear tone. 

“I do not know. I think you may not have the ability to path back to me, so speaking aloud is your only option, as pathing is the only option for me to communicate to you,” Cliff heard the alien say in the back of his mind. 

“Woah,” he grinned, already feeling his scientifically geared mind coming up with question after question. 

“What? What did he say?” asked Jax. 

“He said he thinks that me talking out-loud is the only option to communicate with him, just like this, what did you call it? Path? Well, this ‘path’ method is the way he can talk to us.” Cliff felt weird being a translator, but his excitement was overriding the awkwardness of the situation. He couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear at this fascinating experience.

“That is correct term. Path. That is what we call it. But I digress. I want to apologize for injuring you. It was not my intention. My eagerness to communicate and overrode my reasoning and I acted irrationally. For that, I am sorry,” Ol’oih pathed. “I should have better communicated my actions so you were not alarmed.”

“What did he say?” asked Jax. 

“He’s saying he was sorry for hurting my hand. He was just eager to try and talk to us and jumped the gun,” said Cliff as he directed his attention back to the alien. “I don’t think you said your name. We… kind of interrupted you before. You said something about Ensign?”

“Yes! Right. Apologies. I should have started with that,” Ol’oih pathed as he gave a customary dip of his head before snapping to attention as he’d done so many times before during his basic training. “My name is Ensign Ol’oih Namniels. I am a linguistic specialist, specifically analysis and translation, and am here on an informational expedition on our ship, the Rielkoh. I also did not thank you properly for finding me and my escape pod.”

“Ol’oih?” echoed Cliff as he thought about how the name perfectly reflected the little alien.

“Wait, how do you say that?” asked Jax under his breath. “Phonetically I mean.”

“I think it’s pronounced ‘all-o-ee,’ right?” asked Cliff as he glanced over at his friend and then back to Ol’oih, who nodded in agreement as he attempted to copy the human boys’ movements to better adapt to their communication style.

“The pronunciation in your language is a bit different than our home world, but translated to your tongue you said it perfectly,” pathed Ol’oih.

“Thanks.” Cliff felt a swelling of pride in himself as he glanced to his friend and then back to Ol’oih, whose sleek black eyes continued gazing up at the two boys. Cliff’s mind was whirring with dozens of possibilities now that they had reliable communication with Ol’oih, but the alien beat him to the punch as his voice once again emanated from the back of his mind.

“I… do not mean to sound ungrateful and am more than willing to answer your questions, if you have any, but could I ask you some direct questions? I… need to know a few things,” pathed Ol’oih. He hoped the boys would be compliant and helpful. They had opened a dialogue after all.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll try and answer them if we can,” replied Cliff.

“He has questions? For us?” asked Jax. “We’re not even going to do the ‘you ask one then I ask one’ scenario?”

“Seems only fair that he gets to go first,” shrugged Cliff. “Olive branch and all that.” Jax huffed a bit, but relented. Cliff knew immediately that his friend was feeling left out of the conversation, but it couldn’t be helped. Ol’oih only had one tail to use for communication and it wasn’t like they had a splitter they could use.

Jax will get a turn, Cliff thought. I’ll make sure of it.

“Okay, what are your questions?” asked Cliff. Ol’oih, for a moment, almost looked like he was bracing himself for what he was about to ask. Body thrumming all over, Ol’oih had one primary question that he was terrified to know the answer to but knew it took priority over all others.

Nervously, he looked to the ground to stabilize himself before looking back up and asking, “Do you know what happened to the rest of the crew?”

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

@gianttol #gtjuly #gtjuly2024

[nikethestatue]

honestly i'm tired of SJM and her bs. she's not grrm and acotar isn't the cultural reset that asoiaf books are. authors aren't machines and they deserve a break but that's not the case with SJM coz she's had a long break now and the thing is even when she does have the opportunity to give something, just anything, to the fans she doesn't. she writes a book that she hyped up so much and it's just some rubbish slop giving the fans none of what she promised.

you're telling me we had 173929 moments of nesta having mommy issues and rhys yelling at her like a crazy man but we couldn't have gotten a single elriel crumb? a ship that's gonna be canon next and have a book for them didn't even make an appearance in a very hyped up crossover?? what stupid marketing is this? idk but as a fan who's been looking forward to these characters and their stories i feel like i'm being clowned now. is nesta vs the world all she can give us now? i'm sorry but nesta has already had her story told and her conflict with rhys serves literally no purpose in the story anymore. they both ended on a good note in ACOSF so what was the point of unnecessarily dragging this nonsense again instead of giving readers something that actually makes them invested in the series? like it infuriates me that HOFAS was such a nothing burger. we didn't even get any sweet nessian moments just nesta being the rebellious emo child getting scolded by a rhys. if anything it makes these characters look less appealing now and if that's her purpose then she's definitely won coz cassian looks like a loser to me now who can't stand up for his mate, nesta looks stupid and dumb and rhys extremely insufferable. sorry for the rant but i just think that SJM is being really cheap now.

Listen Anon, it's not like I am gonna argue with you!

It's extremely frustrating. Extremely. Not the lack of book--the know how long it takes sometimes and considering the stakes with this one, I would imagine they'd want to do the best possible job with it (hahaha), however, absolutely no communication about anything is bullshit. No updates, no timelines, no newsletters, no nothing. Even about the HOFAS paperback. It's crazy behavior.

I was happy to see Nesta and Azriel in HOFAS--the only parts of that craptastic book that I managed to read--but SJM made them look less than stellar. Like stupid Bryce who couldn't figure out that Danika's been lying to her for 5 years is just so stealthy and smart that she could steal Azriel's TT, outsmart them all, understand all the carvings on the walls and bypass the beasts? Please. It's so stupid it hurts my brain.

Frankly, they ALL look like losers. Rhys is this unhinged screamer, Azriel is a bumbling idiot, Elain and Feyre don't exist, Amren knows how to read apparently, and SUDDENLY remembers all this info that she somehow didn't share with anyone for the past 500 years, and Cassian who? I think Nesta mildly showed up, but not much.

The whole thing is incredibly frustrating.

And the funny thing is that no one is talking about ACOTAR anymore. I follow a couple of bookish creators, and I've not heard any mention of ACOTAR from them in months. Other than like a vague 'if you liked Rhysand, read this book, because the MMC is even better!'

So I don't know what she and BB are thinking but clearly it's not very wise.

[racefortheironthrone]

sorry to send an ask about such an old post (loved it by the way!!!), but do you have any citations for charles' education history? (tumblr dot com / racefortheironthrone / 650366189549338624)

its kind of become a running joke among charles obsessives (theres dozens of us! dozens!) that he's actually just adding degrees to a list whenever he needs to seem qualified 😭 bc he's always assigned this long list of degrees, but its so hard to find individual confirmations of them in the text! and even when you think you've found one, there's a detail that contradicts a different supposed confirmation. but he IS clearly, to reference your stellar phrasing, superfluously educated

thanks! + thank you for sharing a perspective on 616 charles that is interested in who he is as a person — we desperately need more of that 🥲

Hi, not a problem - always happy to chat about Xavier and X-stuff.

I got the info about his educational background from the Marvel wikia (which is a very handy resource for anyone who's into X-stuff, btw), so I would look to the footnotes there.

It's possible that Xavier's engaged in credential fraud; that happens quite a bit in elite higher education. As I said in the post, however, I think it's more likely that:

"Charles has difficulty with social interactions, because he didn’t have much in common with his chronological peer group and spent a lot of his life in a bubble of other academics."

As a coping mechanism for his social awkwardness, he became a perpetual student and then a perpetual academic, so that he could stay in his bubble and avoid having to grow as a person by interacting with people with different backgrounds and life experiences.

And this tendency is quite common in the Marvel Universe: T'challa has 5 PhDs, Hank McCoy has 6 PhDs, Reed Richards has 18!

Now from a Doylist perspective, this is just due to the fact that comic book writers don't understand or care about the economics of academia and are just looking for a simple way to communicate "this character is a genius."

But from a Watsonian perspective and an insider perspective, it suggests a lack of self-confidence and sense of direction, such that rather than going out on the job market, getting a job and having to show their intellectual community that they can drive a coherent research agenda, these people just want to stay in the psychological womb of studenthood where they can keep trying to "find themselves" with disconnected dissertations in different fields.

[justafandomfollower]

Next Five Fic Recs (#19)

New fics!

9-1-1: build me up, break me down by dumbdpaus / @ayotofu. Ongoing work, currently over 5k, M, Creator Chose Not to use Archive Warnings. The absolutely stunning beginning of a sequel to the absolutely stellar sweet child, you are a blessing (poor child, you have been cursed).

Dead Boy Detectives: The Case of the Fantastic Box by @jeff-yoshi. Ongoing work, currently under 1k, T, Graphic Depictions of Violence. An intriguing work with a unique format starting off as a casefic.

Dead Boy Detectives: Case Officially Closed, Job Officially Jobbed by Mayarenerose / @acediscowlng. Single drabble, G, No Archive Warnings Apply. Humorous case fic aftermath in a hundred well written words.

Chronicles of Narnia: save him all his suffering by sara_wolfe / @forlorn-kumquat. Ongoing work, currently over 1k, T, Creator Chose Not to use Archive Warnings. A rewrite - nearly twenty years later! - of the author's absolutely stunning AU wherein Edmund was the first to enter Narnia.

Stranger Things: only i must wander by Aslee. Technically an updated fic, but as I haven't rec'd it before, it's going in the new fic list! Ongoing work, currently over 120k, E, Graphic Depictions of Violence. A Stranger Things-Grimm fusion (not a crossover), wherein Steve is a Grimm and certain members of the Hawkins community are Wesen; a post season 2 fic.

Updated fics!

Dead Boy Detectives: got through chapter 5 of (I Just) Survived In Your Arms Tonight by @ahyperactivehero.

Re-reads!

Psych: Thanks For the Memories (Or Lack of Them) by EclipseWing / @shadow-of-the-eclipse

[augment-techs]

My less than stellar feelings about The Return #4. Oh, and SPOILERS.

-Is this...disgust...I'm feeling? I mean, I get wanting to keep the kid safe, but wow, Kim; tell us how you really feel.

-FLIRTING. Flirting in SUITS.

-But pray, dear child, HOW DID YOU GET THE DAMN MORPHER BACK??

-Oh, good, she got the impulse control--or lack thereof--from both of her parents.

-Okay, this is new. A member of the family that gets right to the point~

-Why...why does this make me so uncomfortable. I don't understaaaaaaand. Q_Q

-Nevermind, this answers that question. Tommy and Olivia BOTH look like Kim's kids. And I am suddenly having flashbacks to poor Clone Tom, what the fuuuuuuuuck.

-In what dimension does the COMMUNICATOR do the teleporting? Great execution for a heart to heart, but now the teleportation bullshit from the moon to Earth pisses me off more.

-I sincerely hope that Zack and Billy go home together after this and sleep for a year. Jason can take Tommy out for his first beer, and Kim and Olivia can have a conversation about the pressures of being the only girl on a team of men that all think they somehow outrank her. This is a soft snapshot, but only if you don't think at all about anything afterward.

-Nope, nope nope nope. No. No more mystery mongering bullshit. Fuck Off.

[thomasthewest]

RPGs, Imsims and You(r player character)

Part 1

I dislike genre discussions for video games.

Mostly because half of it is dogma. If a game is branded by a community or developer as something, it’s that something forever. Genre isn’t a discussion about its gameplay content or design, it’s about how fans vibe with an idea of a genre.

Specifically, it’s a pet peeve of mine how the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is treated. It’s not my favourite game, or even my favourite Elder Scrolls game, but some people have taken to bashing it for not being an RPG.

It's an odd thing to bring up, since there’s plenty to criticise the game for. Yes, it does lack a lot of the technical fidelity of its predecessors. Yes, the writing is inferior. But why is Skyrim (and its immediate predecessor the Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion) treated like this? What’s great about the third title of Morrowind that everyone hails as a cornerstone cRPG? What is about Morrowind that makes it an RPG and everything after it a not-RPG?

The truth is, nothing.

Morrowind is my favourite Elder Scrolls game, and one of my favourite games full stop. Its archaic, rough around the edges, and has its fair share of warts. But it has stellar writing and has one of the most engaging settings I’ve ever played.

I’m half-blinded by nostalgia but it is genuinely a great game and a great example of adventure in games done right.

But the gameplay differences between it and its successors are superficial. Many Morrowind fans are probably chomping at the bit right now, seeing red over how one could suggest the masterpiece that is Morrowind could ever be compared to the Toddslop that is Skyrim or Oblivion. But the truth is, while some of Morrowind’s features were streamlined in later titles, the core gameplay remains the same in every TES title since Morrowind.

Morrowind has plenty of technical fidelity. There are lots of ways to kill things in the world and move through the world. It’s fun. It’s great. But having more ways to kill or move doesn’t make something an RPG (or at least I would hope so, otherwise the definition for an RPG would also include Skyrim).

Morrowind’s capacity for character roleplaying is pitiful. Choices And Consequences are some popular buzzwords cited for why Morrowind is better in RPG discourse. This is a meaningless argument in favour of Morrowind, even when compared to the Choices and Consequences available to players in Skyrim.

For the first encounter available to the player in Morrowind, you meet an elf who is missing his ring. The big catch: you picked this ring up in the tutorial!

Okay, good so far. You can do something selfish and tell him you don’t have it or do the right thing and return it. It looks like you already have a little bit of the first C in those Choices And Consequences we were talking about.

Now, in the local pub nearby, you can meet a guard. This guard is an absolute prick, he wants you to find out where the elf hides his gambling winnings and take them for himself. Okay, we’ve already made a choice before, there should be an obvious option to defend the elf and do something about this corrupt guard, if that’s what we want our player character to do, right?

The game certainly gives us a choice: finish the guard’s quest or don’t. The choice here is do the quest or do nothing. It doesn’t really sound like much of a choice at all, does it? Do something that doesn’t fit your character or just skip out on content. This is the rule for most of Morrowind’s quest design.

Some people might kick up a fuss, saying I want my character to be able to do everything on one character, like a stupid Skybaby, but I want the opposite! I want to be locked out of certain outcomes, I want to suffer consequences and weigh up opportunity cost. I want my precious Choices And Consequences.

But Morrowind doesn’t give them. The choice is to follow a thread to its conclusion or don’t. That’s not an actual choice! There’s no actual opportunity cost; it’s all or nothing, that’s a terrible opportunity economy.

On the surface, Morrowind has more choices to make, like how you can kill anyone you want, while Oblivion and Skyrim have a pesky system that doesn’t let you kill NPCs tied to quests.

You may think this makes Morrowind the clear winner for having more Choices and Consequences, but the actual outcome for killing people is usually nothing happening. Related quests can’t be completed, and you might get a bounty, but that’s it. The only consequence is that you now have less stuff to do. It’s a false choice, just like the quest above.

Now, there are some examples of quests and encounters where you still can make choices! However, from a design perspective, there was not a studio-level convention for quests to provide those choices. It simply wasn’t a priority for Bethesda Softworks in 2001 to provide that. Or in 2006. Or in 2011. And probably not in 2030 or whatever year the Elder Scrolls VI is releasing.

By design, Morrowind’s game engine was not designed for this. Having been a modder for the game for many years, I can say firsthand the game’s dialogue system was not built for handling complex decision trees that react to your actions. It’s possible, but when you try and implement it, you can see why Morrowind’s team prioritised single-choice encounters that start at point A and end at point B.

Morrowind’s design simply doesn’t value those Choices And Consequences, and that’s fine. That’s not what it’s trying to do.

So why does a game like this get the RPG badge and Oblivion and Skyrim don’t? A lot of fans might point to the different skills available to the player. Morrowind has 27 skills, while Skyrim only has 18! Surely that means Morrowind has better roleplaying?

A lot of those skills are just flavour. That isn’t a bad thing, but optimal martial builds in Morrowind are decided by what kind of high-level weapons there are available for a weapon skill, not for any strategic reasons. Whether opting to become a swordsman or an axeman is generally a matter of preference than one that would offer a significant strategic advantage or disadvantage.

Some weapons hit faster, and some do more damage, but hold on…that’s something embedded in Skyrim’s combat as well. Except that Skyrim removed a lot of its weapon skills in preference to a one-handed two-handed weapon skill dichotomy, which had more mechanical significance than the differences between long blade, short blade, blunt, axed or polearm weapon skills ever did.

It is fair to lament the comparative lack of technical variety with Skyrim’s magic system, but this is partially made up for with other toys players can use in combat. And Skryim still preserves some of the fun of magic, and if anything, gives players a lot more combat flexibility to mix and match weapons, shields, and spells in their hands.

My point isn’t to decry Morrowind as a bad game, but to highlight its lack of narrative and role-playing fidelity. Again, if all it takes for a cRPG to be a cRPG is to have a player with variable stats and different ways to kill or move, Skyrim should be an RPG.

Which brings me back to my main point of why I dislike this genre dogma in gaming. Morrowind is lauded as this shining example of what cRPGs should be. While I think Morrowind is a great adventure, it’s an adventure that reads from left to right and then it’s over.

Morrowind writer Douglas Goodall even remarked on Morrowind’s lack of roleplaying fidelity[1]. The game puts words in player characters’ mouths, it doesn’t let you create your own character outside of how it kills and travels. The world isn’t built to react to your actions in any meaningful way, as it simply wasn’t designed to do that.

You can see it spelled out in old RPGCodex discussions. At one point Morrowind was Skyrim to Daggerfall fans! What changed except for the community’s attitude?

To try and make a point out of all this bellyaching, how can we make better role-playing experiences if we can’t get a baseline down? How do we learn from this? Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but people criticise Bethesda Softworks for the degradation of their game design and writing, but Morrowind was the first TES game to have one ending![2] People were so happy with Morrowind and its lack of player agency in storytelling that Bethesda has been rolling with it since.

And now that it’s apparently too far gone, we’re all scratching our heads wondering how this happened. Why do people get in all of a huff when the history is there? You can very clearly see the lineage of TES gameplay when you look at the progression from Morrowind to Skyrim.

We seem to be sentimental about what an RPG is; sometimes it might just be games that make you feel clever, or games that you played as a child seem to be the ones you give those labels to. To be an RPG is a good thing, and it makes you a smart or good person for playing them. Games you personally don’t like aren’t RPGs, because if they were it would mean you wouldn’t be as smart/cool/clever for just having played other so-called RPGs.

I think this double standard between Morrowind and its successors bothered me less so about how similar all 21st century TES games are, but moreso about how much we lack a baseline for what an RPG is. Is it a boring and reductive method to try cramming RPGs to a definition? Or does ‘RPG’ just need to be a sort of axiom for other relevant video game discussions? I’m not sure but I am not satisfied.

[1]: It’s well worth the academic interest to look at the interview with Goodall. Apart from the interesting takes on Morrowind’s writing, it gives a very honest and personal account of working in the games industry.

[2]: Perhaps slightly unfair to bring up, Morrowind’s development timeline was short and the fact the main quest had one ending was more due to time constraints, than an active design decision. However point being, people accepted this and still think Morrowind is a shining example of RPG storytelling despite it (and almost every questline in-game) having only the one ending.