#and never listened to the entire system message. apparently.

[fooltofancy]

whyyyyy is my car payment coming through as like $700 instead of the normal $350 when i paid last month WHY

[witchofthesouls]

I do think it's a good thing to point out: violence is always the answer to violence when it's the system that creates the violence.

Megatron in every continuity was right that it needed to be a violent overthrow because the upper castes would not listen and would not change.

The title of Prime is a god-king status above the caste system entirely, but it does beseech its own violence just by existing.

Even if Optimus is a good person, that doesn't erase the damage and cruelty Primes are apparently known for. He is patient and he is imperfect and the tragedy of it is, does he even know that he's changed? How much of the difference is he aware of from his time before the Maxtrix to what he's become as a direct result of it?

Skyquake said he'd never side with a Prime. Not that he'd never side with Optimus, or the Autobots, but A Prime. The idea. The symbol. The Decepticons are fighting to be free from the shackles of a lineage of god-kings endlessly creative in their cruelty who, by some irony, they are compelled to follow by the nature of the relic.

Ratchet is a very good example of the hypocrisy. He was medical- upper middle to upper caste- and in TFP, we know Iacon hoarded a lot of resources. We see his prejudice plain as day just from how he describes Orion Pax and Megatronous. Hell, I'd say he flat out hated Megatronous for teaching a young Orion to speak his mind. He doesn't understand the righteous anger that the gladiator carried, and I don't think he cared.

Tl;Dr: there's a reason the Decepticons are more appealing, honey, most people just don't want to think about it too hard

Uh, I don't know if you're new here, anon, but yeah? Keep on cooking!

I don't know if this is a response to the reblog from nukeli about shattered glass, but under my 'analysis' and 'tf headcanons' and 'gladiator soundwave' and 'cybertronian culture' tags, I do talk about the roles of violence and how it's cemented within Decepticon culture as well as the 'appropriate behaviors' of low-caste vs high-caste of the Golden Age, especially between Orion Pax and Megatron and how it essentially fucked them up after the disaster meeting. Plus, I have posts about the potential cultural damage caused by the Quintesson occupation on Cybertron since they were the ones to implement the caste system.

Ratchet is such a great example of the show's use of unreliable narrator and how he encompasses a higher-caste sensibilities, especially when you take in his background. Compared to Orion Pax, who literally bypassed all the regulations and went from uneducated bumpkin from the middle of nowhere to a cushy and prestigious position underneath Alpha Trion, Ratchet had the correct frame and went through the right channels, so he never had to deal with the kind of discrimination others would speak about. I think of him like that prideful, racist grandpa who the "but you're not like them" locked and loaded. There's a lot of those instances across the show, but I really enjoy it since it fleshes out the story and the character. Ratchet isn't subtle. Not at all. And no one calls him out on it, so it's super telling on what kind of society Golden Age Cybertron was.

Personally, I thought it was really interesting when Skyquake had said that, especially with how Aligned/TFP done the Thirteen since Megatron literally took his name from Megatronus Prime, the direct opponent of Prima, and had tried to legitimize the movement with the Primacy. That's how I read Megatron's demand since it was proof of real change, but there was no way the High Council was going to allow that. Instead, they decided to take advantage of Orion Pax as a way to break the Decepticon movement and send a message to everyone else. Orion wasn't meant to be a Prime. He was just a figurehead, a token of empty promises, until it went off the rails, and he actually unearthed the damn Matrix.

Going back to Skyquake, I guessed that the TFP!Decepticons do have devotees to outlawed sects along with atheists as Megatron has no issues with getting Primal Artifacts, even if he needs to commit corpse desecration to a Prime of the fucking Thirteen to use the Artifact. (Which is another wild event under that mech's belt. It's a good thing they don't have balls because nothing could carry his.) So Optimus was basically barking at the wrong tree. But a majority of the Decepticons would be like that since Optimus represents Prima's reflection of a Prime and civilization. That distinction is really important because after the death and exile of over half of the Thirteen Primes, very few were actually left to guide the fledgling societies. Each Prime represented different Aspects and Domains, so with none able to challenge Prima... is it really a huge surprise it went wayside?

Prima was the Firstborn and Eldest. He was literally the God-King as the Prime of Light. Megatronus Prime was the only one who could truly challenge him, but he laid down his weapons and chose self-exile, and with death of Solus and Liege Maximo, Onyx, Micronus, and Thirteen joining the Allspark to kickstart it, Nexus separating himself, and Quintus, Amalgamous, and Vector leaving... Alpha Trion and Alchemist weren't enough to stand against Prima, who had a vision on how Cybertron should be.

My point is that the Decepticons stood against Prima's Champion by fiercely declaring their own leader. Megatron would have been an uncrowned Prime, a call to return to the long past before city-states, or a symbol a future without them.

[vintageseawitch]

this is what i think of when third party voters go around acting morally superior because they don't want to get their hands dirty like the rest of us. they're toddlers having temper tantrums because instead of using the system in a way that could benefit them in the long term like the extremist Republicans have been doing for decades, third party voters refuse to participate in local civics & then claim the entire country is already fascist. they're so cute in their naivety if they think the US can't get any worse.

what the fuck do you think will happen if you try to protest against a government with a military as massive, lethal, & expensive as ours. who do you think will be sacrificed first? oh what's that? crickets? thought so. i'm a white woman but i will absolutely use my voice to point out leftists can be racist as fuck & the anti-blackness in your spaces can be absolutely fucking wild. not everyone leftist is white, but many that are can be pretty problematic.

if you think i'm selfish then fine. if you state that you would gladly exchange my life for a Palestinian like one of you said in a comment to me a few weeks ago then fine. i'm out here fighting to make sure the people who live here in this country don't experience our own Holocaust.

if you have a problem with people wanting to fight this while claiming you're anti-genocide, you're a fucking liar & a hypocrite. you won't know what the fuck to do in a true fascist country. i don't doubt there are pockets of fascism already existing here but you thinking it's already the worst it can be is as infuriating as people who think the government is creating their massive hurricanes using weather machines. you sound just as childish & delusional. you already sound like children because you will never take responsibility for your choices if it ends up helping him win.

jill stein's campaign is a sham. she is deliberately running as a spoiler. she's a wealthy white woman who lives in a mostly white affluent neighborhood. she's going around lecturing black people about white supremacy. she is getting funds from Republicans as well as help from trump's lawyers. Lockheed Martin has given her money. she's involved in shady as fuck index funds for companies that harm the environment. she only started talking about Gaza during this election cycle to hit you in the feelings so she can bank on it. she made a whole stink about needing a recount, raised a bunch of money for that, & then that money disappeared who knows where. do you all hear this? do you care? no, you're just like maga with their orange Jesus. you don't give a FUCK about stein's red flags because she's "different."

if Harris loses & you blame anyone but yourselves, you're cowardly traitors who threw us regular Americans to the wolves because of your precious fucking principles. history has shown time & time again that protest voting typically allows something worse to take control. it's hardly ever beneficial to the people. you're vile. you don't want to make this world a better place by allowing so many near you to suffer & die. if both sides are the same then please tell me you're okay with another trump presidency. or just shut the fuck up.

i look forward to more potentially heartwarming messages saying that my life doesn't mean shit from people who allegedly are against the death penalty & are pro-human rights 🥰

please vote, don't stop talking about Project 2025, etc. i hope enough of us vote in a way that these pathetic third party voters don't gain any kind of traction. at this point i'm just angry at their hypocrisy when they don't even listen to other protestors who live here & are begging them to not vote third party. i refuse to listen to y'all not take responsibility for your part. Project 2025 will hurt us all but apparently you're okay with that or you think it's already here. smooth brain takes all around. anyways good luck & stay safe to anyone who votes blue 💙

[constant-mason24]

The Android Sent By EarthGov - Chapter 1 - Into Darkness

The repair crew aboard the USG Kellion arrives at their destination. Connor realizes something is wrong before the shuttle even lands.

Next Chapt

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Systems rebooting…

Model RK800

#313 248 317 activating…

All Systems Online…

Welcome, CONNOR

The android’s eyes fluttered open, LED light flickering on and spinning a bright golden yellow. 

Objectives: 

Speak to Captain Hammond

Speak to Kendra Daniels

Assist in Ishimura Repairs

[REDACTED]

The LED on his temple switched to a softer blue as the machine moved to sit up from his slumber. Taking a quick scan of the area, Connor noted that the USG Kellion was getting close to its destination. He rose from the seat he had powered down in and entered the cockpit of the Kellion. He noted one of the engineers, Isaac Clarke, watching a holovid of his girlfriend. Connor took the empty seat beside him, glancing curiously at the screen the other man watched. Just as he was about to speak to the man, Kendra Daniels entered the cockpit and spoke instead.

Now, Connor knew he wasn't the most… socially adept android. He had been created with specific purposes in mind, and the social behavior of humans wasn’t a priority in his programming. That being said, he had learned many tips and tricks for interacting with humans better, as he had been scolded and reprimanded by his living coworkers many times in the past. Connor was aware that Kendra Daniels was not fond of him; she had already snapped at him once for speaking up in a conversation she apparently did not want him included in. For the sake of preventing unwanted tension between his crewmates, Connor opted not to listen to Daniels’ conversation with Clarke. He turned his hearing sensitivity down, focusing instead on his own tasks and objectives. 

The shaking of the ship alerted Connor to their arrival, and he opened his eyes once again to see the Kellion slowing to a stop in front of Aegis VII. Turning his hearing up to a more suitable level again, Connor glanced at the atmosphere around the ship, the broken-up planet floating in pieces around them.

“Imagine six months staring at that chunk of rock,” Clarke spoke, leaning to get a better look out at the debris. 

“To an independent miner, that’s paradise.” Hammond crossed his arms, moving away from the window. “Aegis VII is one of the richest finds in CEC history. Some prospecting team’s set up for life. Now where is she?”

“I believe the Ishimura is just ahead,” Connor spoke up, drawing most of the crews' eyes to him. “I will attempt to make contact, with your permission.”

“Go ahead,” The captain nodded, and Connor’s eyelids began to flicker as he connected himself to the ship's communications systems. The crew continued to chatter on around him, but his attention was entirely focused on the task at hand.

Establishing connection to USG Ishimura…

Connecting…

Connecting…

Connecting…

Communications Error.

Failure to Establish connection.

“That’s odd.” The android looked to the Captain. “There seems to be an issue with the ship's Comms systems. I can’t connect to the crew.”

“Are there any androids on board you could communicate with instead?” Daniels suggested. “Maybe they could pass a message along.”

“It would seem something is jamming my signals. I can’t get any read on both signs of life or technology aboard.”

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” 

“That ship should be full of people and technology.” Clarke shook his head. “I’ve never heard of anything blocking signals that widespread. If the android can’t connect, something’s really fucked down there.”

“Maybe we’ll have better luck through the Kellion’s comms systems.” Hammond placed a hand on Chen’s shoulder. “See if you can establish a connection.”

While the crew attempted to make contact again, Connor ran a self-diagnosis to check if he was the problem. All of his systems and programs came back perfectly fine. Whatever was causing this had nothing to do with him. 

“Something’s coming through.” Chen’s hands flew across the ship's controls, bringing up the audio recording. 

“Maybe the android is just broken,” Daniels muttered, glancing over at Connor.

“I’ve already checked myself over. All of my functions are fully operational. The problem isn’t me.” 

Before Daniels can retort, the audio from the Ishimura plays over the ship's speakers, a strange low grumbling sound. It doesn't sound like anything in Connor’s database. 

“What the hell is that?”

Clarke answers, “Sounds like their communications array is busted. Maybe a broken encoder? Daniels and I can handle it in forty-eight hours, max. Less if we employ the android.”

“Hey, that gives you plenty of time to catch up with Nicole.” Connor’s LEd flickers yellow at Daniels’ words, but before he can give it any thought, Hammond orders the pilots to bring the Kellion aboard the planetcracker. 

As the shuttle begins to land, the gravity tethers pulling the Kellion aboard begin to go haywire. The shuttle is shaken about, and the humans aboard begin to scuffle over what’s going wrong and how to fix it. As they begin to close in on the Ishimura, Connor feels something inside of him begin to expand, to the point of snapping.

Multiple System Errors.

Unable to Diagnose Errors.

Computing…

Computing…

Software Instability.

System Rebooting…

Before the machine can warn his crewmembers about his impending shutdown, his system logs off, and his eyes slide shut. The last thing he hears before shutting down is the rumbling of the shuttle and the panicked yells of the repair team.

[perecreate]

Paprika: An Explosion of Imagination (Revision)

Dreams, free of all physical forms and logical thought system, is an unpredictable yet imaginative experience that occurs in bits of our lives. The film Paprika released in 2006 is a masterpiece directed by Satoshi Kon, as it jumps back and forth on the boundaries of real and imagined worlds. Following the sight of Paprika, or Dr. Chiba Atsuko (Megumi Hayashibara), we get to witness different dreams of many characters as their minds rip away from reality, and dive deep into a complex conspiracy.

Launched by Dr. Chiba and her colleague Dr. Kosaku Tokita (Toru Furuya), the dream device DC Mini is invented and in development for purposes of dream psychotherapy. DC Mini gives those who are connected to the device the ability to enter one’s dream, which allows the patient and therapist to be in the same dream created by the patient’s subconscious mind. Such a therapy method was introduced in the beginning of the film, when policeman Konakawa and Paprika dives into his dream relative to his pursuit of a criminal.

Interestingly to say, Paprika’s motif on the topic of dream and reality penetrates throughout the entire film; the boundaries of reality and dreams are meant to be the reflection of one’s self, the outer mind and inner mind. Neither can be dismissed.

Let’s observe Chiba Atsuko and Paprika, they originate from the same person, which is Chiba herself. But the way they talk and interact is apparently distinct from each other. Chiba is an attractive woman that speaks stoically. She barely smiles, and tends to distance herself away from everyone else except Tokita. Her dark blue hair is clipped up as she always walks fast like the wind. Ever before the end of the film Chiba stands as the definition of permanence. Same suit, same High heels, same attitude to almost everyone around her. If anyone were to be the “antonym” of Chiba, it would be Paprika. She exhibits an expressive kind of beauty, making her a lovely and friendly woman just from her appearance; the color of her bright red blouse t-shirt makes her someone attractive and a tolerant figure like the sun. But is it really possible to say that they are not the same, and should be judged as two different figures?

Paprika: “Leave that irresponsible fatso!”

Chiba Atsuko: “Why won’t you listen to me? You’re a part of me!”

Paprika: “Have you ever thought that maybe you’re a part of me?”

Here comes the paradox, Paprika and Chiba are different people, but similar enough to call each other the reflection of themselves. Just like what we previously said, Paprika originates from Chiba, nevertheless, Paprika prefers to be identified as herself, and not Chiba. In fact, Paprika never once says that she is part of Chiba, and she sees Chiba as another individual: “If anything happens to Atsuko, use the…” is what Paprika tells Dr. Shima (Hori Katsunosuke) in dream of finding Tokita’s consciousness. Therefore, Chiba and Paprika both sense the difference between them, and does not consider their existence presents because of the other’s presence; they live with their own minds.

The lack of logic is perfectly explained by the imperfect yet powerful imagination of dreams. Which eventually concludes a paradoxical message regarding dream and reality. They stand as two sides, having their pros and cons, and inseparable of one another.

Feel free to check out my personal film blog site: https://perecreate3.wordpress.com/

[the-masked-ram]

Don’t Ignore Me- Dabi x Fem Reader

CW: implication of stalking, dub-con, kabedon dark content style, mature content, fem reader A/N: One day I will find my way back to this style ---- You probably should have been more aware that night. Probably should have been listening to the steady thud of the boots behind you because he sure wasn’t trying to cover up his footsteps. Instead you were to focused on the glow of your phone and taking slow drags from your cigarette. Letting the nicotine lovingly caress your lungs and shoot of shocks of endorphins through your system. Even with the stress relief you still managed to regularly cuss out the messages appearing in front of you.

           “Stupid, fucking…,” you muttered, probably a bit too loudly, because a choked back laugh sounded and that’s when you realized that those steady beats had been the noise of someone following you for close to twenty minutes.

God, you were dense. Your steps became less harried, but you didn’t stop instead you kept your phone in front of you and your eyes flicked to each side to take in your surroundings. Fuck, you were lost. How unlucky could you get? The one night some creep decides to follow you and you get so sucked into your friend’s misfortunate choices that you take a wrong turn into some seedy part of the city.            

“Don’t act like you don’t know I’m here, doll, it hurts my feelings,” the sweet tone to his voice was followed by a chuckle.

You didn’t engage, you couldn’t let yourself fall into his trap. But apparently your admirer…or stalker? Did not appreciate being ignored, because the next thing you knew you were being shoved up against the rough brick of a near by building, hands stopping your from falling face first against it and in the process losing your access to nicotine. All followed by the sound of a heavy palm slamming above you, causing your head to snap up to it.

“There we go, such beautiful eyes when they are wide and nervous, doll face,” his voice was gruff and rubbed across your senses tauntingly.

His breath feathered over your nape, and he scoffed, “Fragile little things like you shouldn’t be out at night on their own, you know? There are some nasty people in this part of town.”

His teeth nipped at your ear lobe, and you shuddered, though you couldn’t tell if it was from revulsion or from the heat coiling in your stomach. You turned your head just barely and when you met no resistance you shifted to your back.

The gaze that met yours was so impossibly blue, and a mix of dulled pain with a deepness that would drown you if weren’t careful. His skin seemed to be held together by staples and there were obvious seams where scars made his skin into patchwork designs. This man, you’d seen him on the news.            

“You’re…” you swallowed as his other hand came up to the side of your head.

You were scared, nervous, and burning hot in the way that made your thighs ache to rub together. He just radiated arrogance and power; it drew you in like a moth to his blue flames. You knew you’d burn alive as soon as you touched them, and sadly, you found your self-preservation slipping even more.

“What, doll? Who am I?” he grinned toothily, dull eyes sparking for a moment with sadistic pleasure.

“You’re the Blue Flame…,” you said with hitch in your breath.            

He clicked his tongue, “Yes, but you can call me Dabi. We are after all, about to get to know each other quite well, aren’t we?

You tilted your head, “Are we?”

His smirk was back, and he gripped your chin, “Oh, a bit of the brat is back, is she? That’s fine, I can take my time making you beg.”

He rubbed his thumb along your lower lip, dragging it down before lapping lightly at it with just the tip of his tongue, watching the entire time with those intense eyes. When your eyelids fluttered traitorously his lips pressed to yours, rolling and brushing against the softness of your skin. Teasing tiny touches, never pushing deeper and then when you whined, he responded by gripping the back of your neck tight, forcing your head to tilt up as he licked into your mouth when it fell open on a moan.

The stud on his tongue blazed a distracting path along your palate. And you could just barely keep up, because honestly you were still stuck on the fact that not only was this man a villain, and a big one. You also didn’t know him; and he’d been following you. Yet here you were, unable to do anything but whine and whimper into his mouth because he kissed like a fucking gift from god.

“Don’t worry, we got all night. And I plan to make use of every second.”            

[the-decaying-ramskull]

Don't Ignore Me- Dabi x Fem Reader

A/N: Was originally written for @rougekithes was back when CW: mature themes, stalkery Dabi, kabedon Dabi style, dub-con, descriptive kissing, smoking ----

You probably should have been more aware that night. Probably should have been listening to the steady thud of the boots behind you because he sure wasn’t trying to cover up his footsteps. Instead you were to focused on the glow of your phone and taking slow drags from your cigarette. Letting the nicotine lovingly caress your lungs and shoot of shocks of endorphins through your system. Even with the stress relief you still managed to regularly cuss out the messages appearing in front of you.  

“Stupid, fucking…,” you muttered, probably a bit too loudly, because a choked back laugh sounded and that’s when you realized that those steady beats had been the noise of someone following you for close to twenty minutes.

God, you were dense. Your steps became less harried, but you didn’t stop instead you kept your phone in front of you and your eyes flicked to each side to take in your surroundings. Fuck, you were lost. How unlucky could you get? The one night some creep decides to follow you and you get so sucked into your friend’s misfortunate choices that you take a wrong turn into some seedy part of the city.            

“Don’t act like you don’t know I’m here, doll, it hurts my feelings,” the sweet tone to his voice was followed by a chuckle.

You didn’t engage, you couldn’t let yourself fall into his trap. But apparently your admirer…or stalker? Did not appreciate being ignored, because the next thing you knew you were being shoved up against the rough brick of a near by building, hands stopping your from falling face first against it and in the process losing your access to nicotine. All followed by the sound of a heavy palm slamming above you, causing your head to snap up to it.

“There we go, such beautiful eyes when they are wide and nervous, doll face,” his voice was gruff and rubbed across your senses tauntingly.

His breath feathered over your nape, and he scoffed, “Fragile little things like you shouldn’t be out at night on their own, you know? There are some nasty people in this part of town.”

His teeth nipped at your ear lobe, and you shuddered, though you couldn’t tell if it was from revulsion or from the heat coiling in your stomach. You turned your head just barely and when you met no resistance you shifted to your back.

The gaze that met yours was so impossibly blue, and a mix of dulled pain with a deepness that would drown you if weren’t careful. His skin seemed to be held together by staples and there were obvious seams where scars made his skin into patchwork designs. This man, you’d seen him on the news.            

“You’re…” you swallowed as his other hand came up to the side of your head.

You were scared, nervous, and burning hot in the way that made your thighs ache to rub together. He just radiated arrogance and power; it drew you in like a moth to his blue flames. You knew you’d burn alive as soon as you touched them, and sadly, you found your self-preservation slipping even more.

“What, little mouse? Who am I?” he grinned toothily, dull eyes sparking for a moment with sadistic pleasure.

“You’re the Blue Flame…,” you said with hitch in your breath.            

He clicked his tongue, “Yes, but you can call me Dabi. We are after all, about to get to know each other quite well, aren’t we?

You tilted your head, “Are we?”

His smirk was back, and he gripped your chin, “Oh, a bit of the brat is back, is she? That’s fine, I can take my time making you beg.”

He rubbed his thumb along your lower lip, dragging it down before lapping lightly at it with just the tip of his tongue, watching the entire time with those intense eyes. When your eyelids fluttered traitorously his lips pressed to yours, rolling and brushing against the softness of your skin. Teasing tiny touches, never pushing deeper and then when you whined, he responded by gripping the back of your neck tight, forcing your head to tilt up as he licked into your mouth when it fell open on a moan.

The stud on his tongue blazed a distracting path along your palate. And you could just barely keep up, because honestly you were still stuck on the fact that not only was this man a villain, and a big one. You also didn’t know him; and he’d been following you. Yet here you were, unable to do anything but whine and whimper into his mouth because he kissed like a fucking gift from god.

“Don’t worry, we got all night. And I plan to make use of every second.”            

[missfay49]

To my Alma Mater: to America

A message to Wellesley College and the people of America broadcast from Chungking on June 13, 1942, on the occasion of the awarding of the degree of Doctor of Laws to Mayling Soong Chiang (Mme. Chiang Kai-shek) at the 64th Commencement of Wellesley College.

President McAfee and friends: I find it difficult to thank you adequately for the foundation fund and the personal tribute being paid to me today.

Although primarily speaking to my fellow alumnae I realize that my voice is reaching all my American friends who are listening in. My words are meant equally for them, especially for those who are holding luncheons today in my honor. But I own that I am apprehensive as well as gratified because those conferring high honors have a right to expect that they should be borne worthily. From those to whom much is given much is rightfully expected, and although I would not knowingly betray their trust I feel a chill of doubt whether my frail shoulders can support such a weight of honor.

Still I gladly embrace this opportunity of thanking you for your belief in me and I realize that yours is a genuine and spontaneous expression of friendship and good will, not so much for me personally as for China's womanhood, and is intended to testify to your admiration for the consistent and unfaltering devotion shown by the women in China in our resistance against aggression. Furthermore your complete sympathy for our common aim and your desire to symbolize our oneness of purpose is thereby manifested.

Your confidence in me makes it easier to tell you frankly and unreservedly things passing in my mind. True friendship is based upon knowledge of each other's thoughts. To our friendship is based upon knowledge of each other's thoughts. To our friends we can express our innermost thoughts freely and thus reach perfect understanding. Therefore, I open my heart to you.

39

On July 7 China is entering upon her sixth year of war. You are no doubt wondering how our outlook has been affected by five years of intense struggle and strain. I can assure you that the Chinese people are confident of their ability to hold on in the face of apparently insufferable difficulties if China is given the necessary equipment now. The morale of our people has been the main factor of its resolute determination never to admit defeat but to plug on in sheer dogged resistance.

Their resolution was buttressed by the belief that, after the war, there would be a new world society with a sure foundation of freedom, justice and equality.

Remember that China has never claimed to possess a mechanized army comparable in equipment to that of the enemy and capable of meeting him in pitched battles. Lacking such an army, we were compelled to adopt our magnetic strategy. By forcing the enemy to conform to it we kept him at bay. We have not been conquered nor shall we be. Our ill-equipped army has held the foe back for all these years. We shall throw him back as soon as we are given the badly needed war planes and artillery that we lack.

The people of China recognized throughout our war of resistance that they were fighting for freedom of body and soul and this not for themselves alone. I personally during these years encouraged them to believe that after victory was won the world system could be entirely altered; that we would all be free peoples and that nations strong or weak would deal fairly and squarely with each other. If our people and army had not been induced to believe this the war, as far as China is concerned, would have been over long ago.

Just pause for a moment to consider what that would have meant to the other Democracies. Recently Japan conscripted all males of nineteen and upward for military service in the puppet state that she has established in Manchuria. Supposed China had not elected to fight her war of resistance or had collapsed. All the manpower of this nation of 450,000,000 people and the resources of a country larger than the whole of Europe would have been thrown into the scale against the United Nations instead of being on their side. Even if this had not spelled defeat for the United Nations it would certainly have lengthened the war by at least several years.

40

At first when the Chinese people were told that there would evolve a new world order after victory they remembered 1931 and were skeptical. It was evident that promise did not always mean performance. When the invasion of Manchuria took place I confess that I myself was bewildered because, although China's sovereignty and territorial integrity has been guaranteed by international treaties, none of the powers signatory to those treaties took any effective action.

America, however, through Colonel Stimson warned Japan against her aggressive policy and endeavored to awaken other nations to the necessity of preserving the sanctity of treaties. Diplomatic representatives of some powers loftily explained to me that their countries were only responsible for not breaking the treaties themselves, they were not international policemen.

In other words, if it was some one else who set fire to a neighbor's building and thereby incidentally endangered your own homes nearby, it was not for you to stop him and you were not morally obligated to do so. This reductio ad absurdum attitude had its tragic but logical consequences.

Notwithstanding the Manchuria disillusionment, China's leaders urged our people to fight on assuring them that a new era of international justice was certain to come when victory was won. Upon that I personally staked all my hopes of being of service to my country in the future. Consequently if, after the war, the world is allowed by the Democracies to lapse to the outworn ideology and system of the past the Chinese Army and people will feel that I have misled them and that they have suffered and bled and died in vain. They will conclude, and rightly, that those of us who believe in the Democracies and who have given assurances of a better order had deceived them, in which case we shall not be able to justify ourselves before our own conscience. We hope and believe that we shall not be called upon to face the charge. To err is human, and who is not human? To progress, however, we must acknowledge and rectify our past mistakes and not repeat them.

Let me continue to be frank with you. What we must have in the new era is a concrete implementation of the principles we uphold, not empty slogans. We must not allow our fervor to exterminate aggression and willingness to make sacrifices for the common cause to subside after victory is won. There must be international policemen just as in ordi-

41

nary life there are policemen to see that lawbreakers and brought to justice. Nations who break the law should be no less liable and subject to punishment and it is the duty of every nation to participate in active maintenance of peace and order.

Unless nations which offend are brought to book they will repeat their crimes whenever opportunity offers and the world will be compelled to undergo an endless succession of devastating wars. Gangsterism does not change its nature because a gangster is a nation instead of an individual and it should be similarly dealt with.

After all that China has sacrificed for the common cause it is certain that those who believe in impartial justice will insist upon her having an effective voice at the after-victory peace conference in the remodeling of the new world system. As she was forced to take up arms against aggression, her advice and experience will be of value when the implementation of the principles for which we are fighting comes to be discussed and new international machinery set up.

In this new world society we must all be indeed our brother's keeper and act accordingly. Then stronger nations will help the weaker, not patronizingly as before but as elder brothers in whom trust can be felt, guiding the younger ones until they are able to stand on their own feet.

I recall that Dr. Sun Yat-sen, the Father of the Chinese Republic, said that all the world races started from the same metal and that it is a moral duty of those more advanced to help those not so far advanced.

Child prodigies seldom succeed in after life to achieve the distinction in the broader world that they had received in the model sphere of home and school. Nations similarly will not succeed whatever their potentialities unless they harness their abilities not for self-seeking but for the common good.

The time has passed when we can determine a man's status or his nations by the color of his skin or the shape of his eyes. We must create a world society to fit the need and requirements of all races instead of adopting the procrustean method of lopping off a nation's territories and liberties to fit that nation into the existing order.

I have faith that from the crucifixion experienced in this war the Democracies will learn the lesson that prevention is better than cure,

42

that it is better to prevent wars than to win wars. But war can only be prevented if world society is so constituted that all races are given equal opportunity to develop their native genius not hampered but aided by the stronger and more advanced races.

It is paradoxical but true that nations like individuals can only permanently enjoy privileges and rights if they are willing to share them with others. If they attempt to reserve them solely for themselves they will lose them. History has illustrated this time and again. Exploitation, imperialism and all the other anachronisms of pre-World War society must be swept out of existence.

Therein you can render invaluable help. Hundreds of my American friends have written me asking how they could be of service to China and the world. By marshalling all your power and influence to see to it that America helps to confer upon all races the freedom, the justice and equality that America herself enjoys. You would thus also help me because this is the vision I have held out to our people.

Before I conclude I would like to say a few words expressly to my Wellesley friends. I am not speaking figuratively when I say that I am with you in spirit today. I often recall with abiding affection my happy college days and you my friends whose problems and ideals I shared. We have greater and graver problems confronting us in these days when freedom is fighting for survival, but I am convinced that we will carry on the fight with serene courage and bring to the lasting good of mankind with rich fulfillment of our Alma Mater's ideal, "Not to be ministered unto, but to minister."

43

[chorusfm]

Keane – Hopes & Fears

There was something in the water in 2004. Not every year delivers even one classic debut album; 2004 was serving them up like it was going out of style. Hot Fuss; Franz Ferdinand; Funeral; Bows + Arrows; The College Dropout. Not all of those albums have aged well, but they all left an indelible mark on music, and most of them delivered at least one iconic hit – the kind of deathless single that will live on forever and ever on wedding dancefloor playlists or supermarket sound systems. I have, at one time or another, loved all of those albums. But in 2004 proper, if you’d have asked me which brand-new artist I was most excited to follow over the course of their career, I would have answered Keane, and I’d have done it without hesitation. Keane were never going to be cool. They were pitched as the heirs apparent to Coldplay, which is probably a pretty big “strike one” for most tastemakers. They also made big, grandiose soft rock that wore its heart on its sleeve; there was no wit or irony here, just uber-emotional songs about unrequited love and the pains of growing up. Probably fair to call that strike two. And perhaps least cool of all, Keane were a rock band with no guitars. Even Coldplay, as wussy as their reputation would suggest they were, still had songs with Big Ass Guitars. Keane were a three-piece with a singer, a drummer, and a keyboardist, and the pianos were front and center in every single song. Do I even need to say it? Strike three; get outta here! While those three things may have caused a lot of people to turn their noses up at Keane, though, they were all extremely attractive to 14-year-old me – especially the piano thing. Growing up, I wanted to play the guitar. I was the classic “raised on rock music” kid, who thought there was absolutely nothing cooler than a person standing on a stage and playing a guitar extremely well. In an alternate universe, maybe someone gives me a guitar for my 14th birthday and I devote my entire life to mastering it. In this universe, though, I spent my childhood suffering a form of eczema that caused my hands – and especially my fingertips – to dry out, crack, and bleed. My fingers were such a problem that I couldn’t hold a pencil the normal way growing up, much less try to play an instrument notorious for tearing up your fingers. And so, I learned to play piano instead. That sometimes hurt, too, and I definitely bled on the keys once or twice (the things we do for our art!) but it was a hell of a lot easier than trying to push down metal strings. Needless to say, I didn’t get a guitar for my 14th birthday. What I did get was a copy of Keane’s Hopes & Fears. Seeing Keane emerge and turn into a big fucking deal was, for Craig the piano player, a formative moment. It’s not that I wasn’t aware of piano’s status as a rock ‘n’ roll instrument; I’d obviously heard my parents listening to Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel and Elton John over the years, or my brother listening to Ben Folds Five, or the likes of Five for Fighting or (again) Coldplay playing on the radio. But Keane coming up just as I was starting to take ownership of my own musical journey was different somehow. Maybe it’s because it felt like I was discovering them for myself; maybe I just liked the songs better. Whatever the reason, when “Somewhere Only We Know” started cropping up on radio playlists and in TV commercials, it sent a message I’d never really heeded from any other music before: You could play piano and still become a rock star. I’d been taking piano lessons for five or six years at that point, but I’d never invested my heart into it. I dutifully practiced every day, and I took on the classical pieces that my teachers assigned me, but there wasn’t much passion there. Hearing Keane got me thinking about piano in a different way. Soon, I was bringing my own ideas into piano lessons, taking pop and rock songs in and telling my teachers that this was what I wanted to learn. And before long, I was learning how to play and sing at the same time.… https://chorus.fm/reviews/keane-hopes-fears/

[yarns-and-d20s]

Something I find especially difficult is explaining to others (*cough*allistics*cough*) the way being pushed "outside my comfort zone" is a thoroughly zero-sum game. It either works, or it doesn't. And just because it looks like it's worked doesn't mean it has; that's just outside perspective, not what's going on inside me. I know I can pin this directly on the rigidity and inflexibility that autism gives me.

I was terrified of roller coasters that... go upside down. I don't know if there's a technical term for this. Has loops? Whatever, you know what I mean. When I was an entire adult in my early 20s, my older brother bullied me into "finally" going on one. I fought tears the entire time; it's possible I fully left my body, I'm not entirely sure. It was awful. I've never been on another roller coaster, even one that doesn't have loops. So, I survived it, yeah, I didn't throw up, but I've never been able to make myself go on a roller coaster.

There are other times that I've pushed past my comfort zone and succeeded. Music was one of the hobbies I gave up in exchange for being able to read more because You Can't Write If You Don't Read Voraciously(tm), but I was a really fucking good musician. But playing alone, without others accompanying, with more people than just my parents listening to me? I thought my music teacher had thoroughly taken leave of her senses.

It was fine. It was great, actually. I didn't screw up once. I went on to do solos many more times. I enjoyed it.

But beyond being able to provide specific examples, I don't know how to explain to the non-autistic--or another autistic person, even, but that's only because it's never come up--how this all feels. How just because it looks like everything went fine, it doesn't mean it was/is. It doesn't mean that the next time I'm shoved outside of my comfort zone, it'll just get easier. I don't know how to explain to them what's going on not just in my head but in my entire body when I keep being forced to do the thing again and again and again. Because it is a whole-system experience for me.

This can be anything from outright fears (eg, the roller coaster thing) to pushing me into doing seemingly very mundane things the way I don't normally do them. The way I clean, the way I write fiction, the way I cook, the way I bake, the way I crochet.

I have found myself so thoroughly disgruntled because I wanted to make soup but was being helped and things were being done out of order that I had to stop, put everything away, take a break, and then come back and do it properly.

For an entire lifetime, I was pushed to go to celebrations/parties even though I didn't want to. People would make faces and disappointed noises and oh they wanted me there so badly (whatever I might have wanted be damned), and I forced myself through it again and again and again. Finally, this past October, my brother (same one who bullied me onto a roller coaster, yes, I only have one brother) called and left a message about a Christmas party at his place the weekend right before Christmas. I started having panic attics in early November.

That is the price I pay for being pushed outside my "comfort zone" again and again. The more I'm forced to do things I don't want or like to do, the more I'm forced to do things in ways that don't make sense to me or outright feel wrong, little pieces of me just... wither up and die. Until I'm left an absolute wreck. Until I'm being pushed into panic attacks, meltdowns, shutdowns.

I did something a couple weeks ago that was entirely outside my comfort zone. It took me a dreadfully long time to accomplish, and the entire time I was doing it, it felt like walking barefoot on Lego while fondling a microfibre cloth and listening to someone chew with their mouth open. My skeleton wanted to walk away from my body. And I absolutely hate the result of being pushed like this. It might have actually been good; apparently what I made while I was being pushed like this was good, but I can't see it. I don't like going back to it. It hurts me.

And I'm being pushed to do it again and I... can't. I can't make myself do it. It's actually due today. I can't do it.

But I don't know how to explain any of this in a way to make the allistics understand. I don't know how to make them not say "oh, you just need to keep doing it, it'll get easier!" I don't care if they're trying to be encouraging or if they actually believe it or anything like that; if that happens, it'll feel like being badgered and nagged, just like my brother and the damn roller coaster or his fucking party.

[metacosmchronicles]

Battle 451

R.D.S. 52,376 FFC

“Planetary distress!”

The signal had screamed through the K-band into every Ranger vessel and every control room in ten systems. It originated from high elven outpost Ba'hari, a science facility studying ways to marry magic and technology to stabilize red giants.

Elements of the dark elven hegemony had been claiming systems in a clearly defined Ranger space, using never-before-seen battle cruisers equipped with a weapon apparently capable of firing massive blasts of dark energy through space. The vid clip accompanying the signal had given them that, but not much more.

Fleet Captain Gorian leaned against the console, staring at its readout hard enough to leave afterimages of shaped light in his vision. He rubbed his eyes, listening with half a mind to the bridge crew chattering around him; calling out coordinates, time-frames, systems status, messages from other ships. Part of him, long-trained and cybernetically-enhanced, followed and logged data points. It would have been comforting under normal circumstances, but not today.

Gorian's Mercy was lead vessel in Battlegroup 861, in transit to join and assist the high elven Lawgivers in a desperate holding action. The 861 was one of the first battlegroups outfitted with a new invention: null shielding, a quantum device powering itself by swallowing whatever was fired at it.

A jump countdown reached his ears. He tensed in preparation for the unnerving feeling; one never really did get used to the universe squeezing down to the size of a pinhead around oneself. As they came out of it, surrounded by splashes of light generated by the immense energy of the jump, Gorian was already shouting commands.

“All ships, Apocalypse formation!” He punched the comm for the weapons deck; “Fire at will!”

Near a Creator-damned year the Chosen had debated, letting the dark elves take system after system, all across one arm of this entire galaxy. It would take them decades to clean up. Only after threatening the high elves and projects, like the red giant conversion, that could be beneficial on a universal scale, had they determined that the dark elves' actions threatened the balance.

His hands tightened into fists. Once the first innocent life had been lost, that was when it had upset the balance. He understood the concept of the balance as far as “live and let live” went – if evil wanted to kill and torture each other, hey, he was fine with that. But no matter how much 'the balance' claimed it was the Creator's will, any preventable death of innocents was beyond his capability to rationalize.

He glanced at the viewscreen in time to catch the full might of the dark elf fleet bearing down on the high elven Lawgivers. Though it was more of a flotilla than a cohesive fleet, made up of thousands of sometimes mismatching and ill-maintained smaller vessels and triangular temple-ships, between sheer numbers and the new weapon, the Lawgivers were being eaten alive.

With grim horror, he watched one ship disintegrate, ripped apart in a spectacular display of destruction …

***

A ripple of pain awoke Spiraea.

More curious than alarmed, she coalesced from the state she spent most of her time in – a thin, even extension of her self across all corners of the metacosm that natural life existed. It was a sort of dream-state, thus she considered pulling her consciousness together in one spot to be an awakening.

The universe spread beneath her, waves of a pond lapping at the shore. In this place that wasn't, all things existed; things to be, that had been, that never were and never would be. Time being relative to an Ascended, she followed the line of pain in through spinning lights no more substantial than a thought. These were not her thoughts, but the Creator's.

The universe expanded around her like an explosion as she descended into it. Tiny lights became constellations, became the metaverses, became galaxies and systems, yet she felt no motion. The battle was frozen in time as she approached it, but the closer she came, the more things returned to the speed they were occurring at within the physical realm. Brief flashes of fire and detonations of kinetic impact, the awful internal rumbling accompanying the dark energy tearing through space, fighters careening around, chasing and being chased … it all made up the cacophony of action that unfolded before her. The sleek golden high elven ships beat a hasty retreat, falling back behind the incoming Rangers' forward line. The dark elves were too close, and it was too late.

Spiraea cringed at the destruction of the first ship. Souls screamed in agony as the dark energy consumed them in black flames, leaving nothing. Though in her current form she required no breath and could not cry, many years among the little lights left her wanting to gasp and shed tears.

Once a soul was destroyed, it was forever gone. However many bodies that individual had inhabited, whatever knowledge they had gained, whatever impact they may have had on the future – snuffed out in an instant. It was not easy to do so, and stood as one of the most heinous of crimes.

The Rangers poured forward as a wave. More high elven ships succumbed to the damage they had taken before the cavalry arrived, or took direct hits from the dark energy cannons. More souls shrieked into oblivion. Finally the Rangers closed around them, and the dark elves engaged them directly. Arrogance at having taken so many systems made them cocky; Spiraea could see the shift in the minds of those aboard as -- rather than tearing into the Rangers' vessels the way it had the high elves' -- the dark energy spiraled into a vortex of itself at point of contact, became a pinpoint of phased energy, and lanced into its originator. The Rangers came within firing distance and a hail of death descended upon the dark elves. The lead ships were torn to pieces by gauss cannon fire and the reflective effect of the null shields, and fear cascaded through the rest of the aggressors. They didn't put up a fight for much longer.

They turned to the last bastion of the coward; suicide tactics, driving cruisers at breakneck speeds into the Rangers' line. One dreadnought had a massive hole in one side from these attacks. Souls floated aimlessly in the dead of space like flotsam in a listless tide. Spiraea reached out to them, offering comfort and a guiding hand back to the life-stream of a nearby life-supporting planet. It brought her a moment of solace, but only that.

The Creator would not allow itself to aid its beloved creations, and so it had created the Ascended, to be its arms and hands and fingers … but she, Spiraea, was still bound to its rules. Spiraea existed as nature incarnate, and thus had no place on a battlefield. No matter the brutalities perpetrated, it was not her domain to interfere.

 As nature incarnate, Spiraea mourned the taking of any life, even if survival required it.

But, this was not survival. This was slaughter.

With the loss of a large portion of their force, the dark elves went to run, but this tactic was anticipated. A series of null bombs detonated to their rear and flanks, leaving them unable to take any further action.

Spiraea jerked with the pain of millions of lives ended at once.

An aeon-class in the far rear had been just beyond the null bombs' range. The dark elf Matron that was its captain had sacrificed every living slave aboard and poured their lives into the ship's shield to keep the Rangers at bay. Using the stolen lives, the aeon-class sped off.

Towards the wobbling red supergiant, already unstable due to the premature burning of all of its hydrogen and helium. The star that the high elves had been studying.

Spiraea tried to cry out, but she had no voice.

The Ranger ships desperately tried to catch up – failed – escape pods and portals fired in rapid succession – nearby planets were warned to run, run now! – ships winked out as they initiated jumps, but they had no time – the dark elven ship built dark energy in its core, preparing for one hell of a coup de grâce – 

A flare of light blinded even Spiraea. Blown back by the sheer energy released in the supernova and resulting catastrophic domino effect, she pulled back.

Frozen in horror, she watched the supernova, pregnant with crackling dark energy, eating a tumor into the arm of the galaxy. The howling of billions of souls devoured by nothingness overtook her in a tornado of agony. She seized as it tore at her, denied even the release of screaming. For an Ascended, there was no escape.

The aria to something worse than death faded and left her in the awful silence. She focused on the gaping hole in the galaxy, fraying at the edges with grief. Whole systems taken apart at a quantum level, their life-streams permanently shattered. Souls that weren't gone or irreparably damaged floated aimlessly with no purpose or future.

They were lucky – it would take much time and energy, but she could rescue the survivors and urge them to nearby systems with intact life-streams.

Grief metamorphosed to a terrible rage, the boiling of clouds on the horizon signaling a killer storm. Nature could be unforgiving, and its duality was reflected in her temper. A battlefield may not be her domain, but the ushering of souls was, and the dark elves had spit in her face for the final time.

***

Alarms and flashing red lights barely cut through the dense smoke filling the deck, and Fleet Captain Gorian's lungs. It burned his eyes and throat, but with the system fried, he'd had to manually eject the last few pods. He closed his eyes and sunk down against the console, coughing and praying.

Praying that they would make it, that the overloaded null shields now just barely keeping the supernova at bay would give them a window of escape … that his death would be quick. He sobbed his next cough. He didn't want to die. 

But the shields were holding. Wild hope blossomed in his chest. Maybe he could make it to the ketch. He struggled to his feet, wracked with coughing, and stumbled in the direction he thought was the door to his ready-room. The smoke cleared, as though beckoning him towards his salvation – then the ground buckled and threw him off his feet – ear-shattering metal squealing and crackling overtook his senses – then light, and pain – 

And it should have been nothing, but as his body was incinerated to ash and cosmic dust, the pain intensified to a searing agony. Dark energy hurtled past and through him at a pace that threatened to rend his soul to ash as well. He writhed in futile effort to escape it, caught in a tempest that would soon unmake him.

Then – the promised nothing.

Though curiously, sensation remained.

A warm glow enveloped him. Tentatively, bruised and tattered, he opened his senses and looked upon a beautiful elven face. She smiled.

Spiraea? He asked, awed.

Yes, child, she responded, voice like a gentle rain. Come. It is not yet your time. I have a task for you.

Movement, though no feeling of motion. The impression of breathlessness, without the need for breath. He gazed down upon the universe in its full splendor at the behest of the Ascended who still held him in her thrall, but only for a moment.

Decoalescing, Spiraea shifted her view to the idyllic dark elf homeworld. Had she a face any longer, she would have sneered. The anger within her clutched her core in a vice of single-minded, sharp focus. She would not let this be. Such evil did not deserve a world that catered to them.

She reached out to envelop the planet in her will. Processes flashed before her; the planet itself awakened in curiosity, and then alarm. But her power over Nature was complete. Poison boiled up from the depths, belching from newly-formed cracks as the earth shuddered and shifted beneath their very feet. It filled their atmosphere, swirling in great clouds that she cemented in place with a power older than magic. Quakes ruined the land, continents tipped half into boiling ocean and half thousands of feet into the air. She pulled back, grimly regarding her handiwork.

Once the ideal for humanoid survival, their home would now reject and crush those it spawned.

The white-hot vengeance in her not yet spent, she spread herself to all corners of the metacosm and swiped every dark elf soul, pulling them through space and time to be deposited on the ruined shell she had created. Caught in her rage, she smashed every dark elf ship, leaving them abandoned to their fate.

A fitting end for those who believed themselves above all others. Though the restrictions on Ascended rankled at times, she was not entirely without power. The atrocity of the acts just committed gave her leeway enough to punish, and she would take any backlash with head held high.

She felt the Creator's gaze on her, hot and piercing, but it was not forthcoming with its opinion on her tantrum and said nothing.

Gorian played silent witness to the punishment wrought upon the dark elves.

Spiraea turned to him when she was finished, her eyes burning – he feared to meet them.

Go, she said. Tell them what has befallen the dark elves. Tell your story. Do not let history be forgotten, lest it always repeat.

He blinked in sudden sunlight, her voice echoing around him.

He was standing in a white square, flanked by trees and startled passersby. And surrounded – by elves wearing organic armor and pointing bows cautiously at him – by Rangers doing the same with a variety of firearms – floating mages with grey robes but no faces under their hoods …

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to. 

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows. 

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets. 

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later. 

Then came The Witchers. 

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see. 

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live. 

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly. 

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus. 

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person. 

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings. 

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again. 

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. 

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived. 

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off. 

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands. 

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming. 

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train. 

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable. 

It was surreal. 

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time. 

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent. 

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck. 

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either. 

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications. 

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.” 

[bubblegumbeech]

My first Phic Phight fic!

For @ecto-american’s prompt

His name was Danny.

That was the first thing he knew for sure was true, when he had first woken up it was what everyone called him, and it fit just fine, wasn’t something off or uncomfortable so he let it settle over him before he tried to speak.

His voice didn’t come at first, and it hurt to try so the nurses made him promise to take it easy for now, to sit back and listen. So he did.

He listened as the people around him spoke at length about how much they missed him, about how they couldn’t wait to get him home again, about how glad they were he’d survived.

The loudest and most talkative of the people that visited him and called him Danny, was a large man in an orange jumpsuit that went on long enthusiastic tangents that Danny had long stopped paying attention to. He was almost always with a smaller, authoritative woman named Maddie, who insisted He call her Mom. They told him they were his parents.

They told him they loved him.

And then they told him everything else.

The first time Danny remembered something it was with excitement, he was still in the hospital room and between the visits from the men in the starched white suits, his parents, and the doctor, he had been wrestling with the feeling that something was missing.

It had only been when Maddie had finally taken off the hood and goggles of her jumpsuit had Danny gotten a flash of familiar red hair and asked, “where’s Jazz?”

His heart buzzed at the question, sure, so sure that it would get answered, that he had remembered something.

But both Jack and Maddie had just looked at him, disappointed, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask again.

Eventually, once the doctor declared him competent and unlikely to slip back into his coma, his parents had taken him home.

There were streamers all over the house and a giant party banner that read “Welcome Back” in thick black lettering and Danny forced out a small smile as he looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Maddie walked up behind him and he flinched, his body acting before his brain could catch up.

She had frowned at his reaction, and when Danny, stuttering, tried to apologize she said it was okay, and with a tightlipped smile, she pulled him into a hug.

He forced himself to relax, frustrated with himself. This was his mother, there was no reason for his instincts to be so afraid. Jack had joined the hug and eventually Danny found himself relaxing for real, sure maybe getting his memories back was a slow uphill climb, but at least he wouldn’t do it alone.

Eventually his parents let him go and told him he was free to walk around the house and reacquaint himself with it. His room was the first door on the left upstairs, the bathroom was down the hall and the basement, apparently, was off limits.

So Danny went upstairs into his room. It looked something like a teenager’s room he supposed. There were the posters hung haphazardly on the walls and they were torn at the corners as if someone had ripped them all off the walls before hastily taping them back up. The bed was made too, and there was a lot less dust than he was expecting after being gone for a whole month.

In fact, it looked like he’d cleaned and organized the whole room before he’d fallen into his coma and Danny didn’t know why, but that thought set him on edge. Maybe he was just an organized person?

It was just… he didn’t feel very organized.

He kept looking around. There was that feeling that something was missing, something important to him, and he walked over to the nightstand by his bed. Placing a hand on the polished wood Danny fought the flash of a model spaceship that appeared in his memories. It wasn’t here though and Danny frowned. Was that something else he’d thrown away and simply forgotten?

Shaking his head Danny headed back downstairs, maybe he should just ask Jack, er, his dad? He should really get used to calling them mom and dad. But before he headed down he went to the room across from his and knocked.

Maybe he was being foolish, but he had expected someone to answer, had a name even come to mind. When no answer came he opened the door himself only to find a storage room, nothing but shelves and boxes and Danny scolded himself for the painful ache he felt in his heart.

It was another week before Danny had another memory, and just like the last two, it didn’t fit quite right. Like a piece from another puzzle jammed where it shouldn’t fit. So he’d asked Maddie.

“Sam?” she’d said, a carefully blank look on her face, “Oh! I remember Sam, she was an old friend of yours you used to talk about her all the time. Shame she moved away.”

And just like that, he’d had his answer as ill fitting as it was. Sam was a girl he knew that moved away, the memory he’d had, of her crying face screaming at him to stay awake just stay awake damnit, was probably from a long time ago. The pain he felt in his chest -just to the right of his heart- at the thought of her not being near and that he’d probably never see her again? That was nothing important.

It was another couple of weeks of sleeping in that house, waking up and going downstairs to eat with his parents, to chat about memories he didn’t have and tell stories he never resonated with, before he woke up screaming for the first time.

Maddie had instantly run into his room, Jack not far behind and Danny scrambled away from them both. His mind filled with images of painful green light and the ominous glint of red goggles twisting his reflection in their lenses as they looked down on him.

His parents had pushed past the barrier of pillows and blankets he’d made and pulled him into their arms, rocking him and shushing him until eventually he’d tired himself out from crying and fallen asleep again. The nightmares returned.

Eventually Danny stopped asking questions about his memories.

Either they were incomplete, fragments of something real that had been twisted in time, or they were wrong entirely, figments of his own active imagination. He’d never had a sister, they insisted. It was his mother, Maddie that had stayed up late some nights to help him with his homework and bake him safe, edible cookies as a reward. Tucker was a kid he knew at school, yes, but he’d moved away years ago and they hadn’t spoken in person since.

He had blue eyes, when he looked in the mirror, not green.

It was frustrating, being unable to trust himself- his own memories. If it was anything more than broken, incomplete fragments he’d have argued, insisted they were real.

But then again, he also had memories of Maddie leaning over him, scalpel in hand to cut away at his flesh. And he knew that couldn’t be true; the woman that smiled every time he came downstairs, called him sweetie and kissed him on his forehead every night, wasn’t the monster in his dreams. She couldn’t be.

So he ignored them.

He ignored the moments of instinct when Maddie or Jack went for a hug or a kiss and he flinched, ready for an attack. He ignored how he never seemed able to give a straight answer when they asked about his day, even if he hadn’t done anything interesting at all. And he ignored his nightmares, stuffing towels under his doorframe to muffle the sounds of his screams. There was no reason to keep waking up his parents like that.

But no matter how much he ignored, he compartmentalized, or he forced himself to smile, to hug back, and to spend time bonding with his parents, he never felt safe. Maddie insisted that he was, of course she did, this was his home. But even as he smiled and agreed and let her hug him again, he wanted to leave.

This time his dream wasn’t a nightmare. No scary, well lit labs with beakers and glowing buttons, or disgusting, painful flowers shoved into his mouth. Instead there was the ticking of clocks, rhythmic and constant. A gloved hand gently soothed his hair back, and Danny’s fear seemed so far away.

It was the first full night of sleep he’d had since he’d gotten “home”.

That morning he’d asked for an analogue clock. His parents had been confused, but they acquiesced easily and took him to the store to pick one out. The one he’d ended up choosing was a large ornate antique with little clockwork gears and a loud tick. He was excited to put it up in his room, right above his bed.

He slept better after that, and some of the tension that had been building in the house eased.

His dreams were still mostly nightmares, attacks by inhuman ghostly figures were the most prominent. But they didn’t leave the same bitter aftertaste, fear and uncertainty as the ones with the table, the scalpel, and the round, red goggles.

But now they were interspersed with better ones, fuzzy hugs and fields of blinding white, sitting in a garden pruning flowers as a soft, familiar voice gave him instructions, playing video games as the player character, confident and excited with a familiar presence at his back. And his favorite ones, the ones in the clock tower with the hooded figure and his soft smiles. The ones where he felt safest.

The ones that couldn’t be real, not if what his parents told him was true.

The next time they went out as a family after that Danny had wanted to go to a garden, and while at first Maddie was hesitant, Jack had insisted the great outdoors were perfect for helping him recover properly. Danny had been thrilled and hugged both of them in thanks, their answering smiles were soft and Danny had the thought that it had been some time since he’d seen those smiles reach their eyes.

Danny had a video game he apparently liked to play called Doom, and he was pretty good at it, judging by the level of his character. When he tried to message either of the two friends he had on his contact list though, the game glitched and his info got deleted. Frustrated he tried to reboot the system but the game itself had somehow gotten corrupted and there was no hope in recovery.

Just another thing that was apparently important to him that he’d destroyed or couldn’t find.

The worst was the time he woke with Maddie sitting next to him in his bed, she had a troubled look on her face and he didn’t know what it was he’d done wrong. Had he screamed in his sleep without knowing it?

“Danny honey,” she had said, looking over to him but not meeting his eyes, “do you remember what you dreamed about?”

He’d answered no, he hadn’t, which was mostly true. The only thing he really remembered about his dream was the feeling of safety and the ticking of a clock.

It took a month for Danny’s parents to feel comfortable leaving him alone in the house in order to go to work. He watched them walk out the door, fending off forehead kisses and muttered reassurances that they’d be home soon to check on him and that he should call if he needed anything, anything at all.

Once the door clicked shut however, the smile dropped off of Danny’s face and he set his eyes on the one thing he’d wanted… no, needed to do since he had that first nightmare.

He went to the basement.

The feeling of going down the stairs stumbled over a vague, blurry memory and Danny felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. This was just to be sure, just to prove to himself that all those dreams, all those nightmares he’d been having since his parents brought him home, were just that, nightmares.

He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, confused when there was no lock, no resistance at all. Hadn’t they said he was banned from being down here? Why wouldn’t they lock it? Even Bluebeard locked the door his wife wasn’t supposed to enter.

The basement was…

A basement.

There were no spooky ominous beakers of strange and unrecognizable fluids, no haphazard lab equipment lying around without safety devices, nothing sterile or blinking and there was certainly no large metal table to strap someone down on.

It was just a normal basement with boxes and a desk, some chairs, a couple of old pieces of random furniture and Danny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This meant that Maddie was right, they really were just nightmares, probably some subconscious latent fear of going home with strangers that he couldn’t remember. That was all.

So why did he feel disappointed?

The next week was full of Danny waiting for his parents to leave before exploring the house more thoroughly. More than once he’d gotten caught in a half remembered routine that didn’t actually fit with his surroundings. Like bracing for a fight every time he opened the fridge, or expecting another flight of stairs after the second floor. Once he’d even risked going outside for a walk, trying to find his school based on half remembered directions that only served to get him lost.

It was a new routine that Danny found himself thankful for.

Not that he didn’t love his parents, he did! But for some reason, when they were gone, and it was just him with his space posters and his ornate ticking clock, and the piles of modified schoolwork that was supposed to help him when it was time to reintegrate into school, he felt a lot more relaxed. More carefree.

That was why, when he’d found the picture, it had felt like his world had crashed around him.

His parents had come home to find him sitting in the middle of the basement, tears long dried, and with the picture clutched tight in his hands, crumpled now with how long it had been.

“You lied to me.” he accused once they were within earshot. He didn’t have the energy to speak much louder than a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the silence nonetheless.

“Danny-boy we can explain-”

“No!” Danny shouted, getting to his feet, “You lied to me .”

Jack flinched back and Maddie stepped in front of him, protective, as if somehow, out of the three of them Danny might be the threat. He growled.

“I trusted you to tell me the truth, I trusted you with my memories, memories that were lost to me . I had a sister! You had a daughter . She existed, she was real, she’s in this photo! Smiling! ” Danny couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, it was all too much. To know that the girl in his shattered memories, the one with the soft hugs and the floral scents, that baked him cookies and held him when he cried at night, was real. And that she was gone, erased by the people he was supposed to be able to trust.

He moved to storm past them, to go upstairs or maybe even outside and look up at the sky and try to make something of the twisting, knotted mess that was his emotions, his mind, his everything right now. But Maddie grabbed his arm before he could, tears spilling from her eyes.

“We didn’t want to hurt you Danny.” she said, voice soft and broken, “we didn’t want to give and then take away.”

She pulled him into a hug and Danny didn’t bother to struggle or try and break out of it, just let her cry into his shoulder as he stood there, waiting for his own tears to dry.

The next day Jack and Maddie left for work with more reluctance, neither one willing to leave Danny on his own again. But worry didn’t pay the bills and whatever it was they were doing at their job, it was clearly important. That was something Danny was starting to remember, all the things that were more important than him.

Danny went to the library this time, determined to start figuring things out on his own. His parents had said that his sister, Jazz, had died in the accident that had put him in a coma. They said they didn’t want to hurt him, or risk him not wanting to recover his memories if they were painful and that grief was difficult to deal with even without the head trauma and emotional conflict.

His parents said a lot of things, Danny was starting to realize. And almost none of it could be trusted to be true.

The first thing he did was look for a death certificate for his sister, Jazz Fenton. After hours of searching, reading every single name that existed in every obituary for this town in the entire month when his parents claimed the accident had happened.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

So next he looked up phone records. Any Tuckers or Samanthas he could find, but he couldn’t remember their last names at all, just what they looked like.

How they had been crying over him.

He didn’t know if he believed that they’d just moved away. Then again, it was becoming increasingly clear that he didn’t know what to believe, if he believed anything at all. By the time he’d gotten home it was late, and his parents were already there.

At first they didn’t believe he was just at the library “trying to catch up on stuff” but they calmed back down once he’d shown them his library card and snapped that if he couldn’t even do that much why did they bother bringing him back from the hospital at all.

Dinner had been a quiet affair.

It took another week of library visits and recurring nightmares of dissection tables and glowing ghostly figures that attacked him before Danny gave up on finding out anything about Sam or Tucker. But he still didn’t stop searching for Jazz.

There was something almost obsessive about his search for her, he just couldn’t let it go. He had to know where she was, and if his parents, against all odds, hadn’t lied to him about that ... Well that was something he’d have to come to terms with when he came to it, not before.

He started scouring the Internet for her name desperate to find something, anything on her. And eventually he did.

There was an old article, from at least half a decade ago, that had her picture under the title “Four Teens go Missing in wake of Fenton Investigation”.

Next to her were two equally familiar pictures. Sam and Tucker… and then Danny himself.

Scrolling, desperate to find something, anything to add up the memories he was getting into a clear picture, he began to read the article.

In wake of the Investigation into the Fenton‘s possible abuse, Danny Fenton (15), his sister Jazz Fenton (17), and two friends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley (15), have seemingly disappeared.

The discovery came shortly after Jack and Madeline Fenton were released on parol and allowed to return home to spend time with their children since no physical proof could be found of any alleged wrongdoings.

What could have caused their disappearances remains a mystery. The prevailing theory is that they were involved in a cult that may have demonized the Fenton parents due to their controversial occupation as “ghost hunters”. Another popular theory is that the children fled the results of the case, afraid of the alleged illegal experimentation. Other theories include kidnapping, witness protection, the possibility of murder, and tying up loose ends.

Will we ever discover the truth? It remains to be seen.

Ghost hunters …

Danny felt his stomach drop, a wave of nausea rolled through him and he had to fight off the urge to relive his lunch.

Experimentation?

Nightmares and half remembered memories started clicking into place, finally , and Danny couldn’t stand it. Why were the only answers that made sense the ones that hurt the worst?

Would it have been better if he’d just let it go? If his memories never returned at all? If he just kept living, eating homemade cookies and flinching from hugs until eventually the itch underneath his skin dulled and he could just be happy as he was.

He closed the tab.

There was no one home when he got there, and it gave him the chance to pack what little belongings he had that held any meaning to him at all. The motions were familiar and he had the faintest feeling he had done exactly this before.

Maybe he had.

He’d made it out the front door by the time his parents pulled into the drive.

There was the urge to run, to go back inside and hide and pretend he hadn’t been doing exactly what they caught him doing. But he was tired. He was so tired of feeling wrong and scared and uncertain and never knowing why.

So he held his head up as they got into the car and approached them with their hands raised, cautiously, like he was a wild animal they were afraid of spooking.

Was that what they thought he was?

“Danny, we can talk about this,” Maddie said, beseeching.

He met her eyes with his own. “Will you promise not to lie anymore? I don’t even know how old I am-”

“You’re fifteen son-” Jack interrupted, lying again.

“I was fifteen five years ago!” Danny yelled, his hand tightening into a fist, “I found the article! I read about the case! Five years ago.”

“Danno…”

Oh, he was crying. It was novel almost, Danny had thought he was too tired to cry, that there wasn’t anything more that could hurt him enough to create such a response and he didn’t quite know how to react to it.

He raised his hands awkwardly to scrub the tears away and stepped back, frightened, when Maddie tried to move closer to comfort him.

“Stay back! Stay back…” he looked at his hands, they were young hands, his reflection too, hadn’t changed from the picture in the article at all. Experiments. “What did you do to me?”

“It was an accident.” Jack said, before Maddie stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“We didn’t know Danny. How could we have?” She said, keeping her distance, cautious. “We tried to fix it-”

“Fix what? ” He hissed, “you haven’t told me what happened! You haven’t told me anything!”

“You!” Maddie finally snapped, tears falling heavy down her cheeks. “We were trying to fix you… but it wasn’t working and you just kept getting sicker… weaker… we had to stop.”

It was too much for her, and she turned away, leaning into Jack’s large frame as he comforted her. “We didn’t want to lose you, Danny.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You already did.”

Danny left his parents there, crying on the driveway of a house that could never have been a home. He had a clock tower to find.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 57: Text Message

As part of the Muggle Studies class, all of the 8th years received cell phones.

Draco didn't really understand all that much about it (and he hadn’t been listening especially carefully when their teacher had talked about it), but it did come with a little snake game that you steered the snake around to help it eat apples and avoid running into itself.

One of their assignments had also been to put in their peer's names in the phones with what seemed to be random coordinates. He wasn't entirely sure how that works either, if it was meant to transport you some how or something else entirely. He'd overheard Granger say something about it allowing you to essentially firecall someone, but he wasn't sure how that worked either.

He was sitting in the common room late one night (he didn't sleep well) playing around with his phone when he found a little button beside each of his classmates' names that opened up a little box that he could put words into.

It was like a little filing system for letters that Pansy would never be able to snoop through! Perfect.

Grinning, and thinking how cathartic it would be to get the words out of his head without the risk of anyone ever seeing them, he clicked on the bubble next to Potter's name and started typing.

Dear Potter, I know that you won't read this, which is why I feel like I can write it. I've wanted to say thank you for quite some time but haven't been able to work up the nerve. Thank you for saving my life, thank you for killing Voldemort, thank you for keeping me out of prison. I'm grateful, truly. And I know it's none of my business and it's not my place, but you've always gotten under my skin where you don't belong and I can't help it. You always look sad. You are always withdrawn and distant, even from your friends. It bothers me. Are you okay? I know that none of us are okay, but you know what I mean. Anyway, like I said, you won't read this but it makes me feel better to write it down. Best, Draco Malfoy

He tapped the little arrow button that would, he assumed, put it into the top part so he'd have it for later.

With that off his chest, he went back to playing his snake game until his mobile buzzed and pinged, startling him so bad that he dropped it.

Malfoy, you know i can read that, right?

Draco stared at the screen where a little box had popped up under his, uncomprehendingly.

Who is this? If this phone is even a horocrux, I'm done. Get away from me.

it's Harry. Harry Potter.

Came the reply and Draco thought for a moment that he was about to pass out.

don't freak out

Too late for that, certainly, he thought hysterically.

it's okay. this was nice, actually.

What was?

getting your text message.

What's a "text message"?

this. what we're doing right now. we're sending text messages.

But how?

that was the point of putting everyone's numbers in your phone. that way we can call and text each other.

Interesting. You must get a lot of texts since everyone has your number. How have you managed to make time for little old me?

not really, actually. no one really texts me or talks to me for that matter. killing a person makes you unapproachable, apparently.

I find this hard to believe.

you can believe what you want. but it's true. you said so yourself.

So... are you okay?

He found himself asking, afraid of the answer but Potter hadn't hexed him yet. He wondered if it was possible to hex someone via text message.

none of us are. not really. but no. no i'm not.

Of all people, it seems you should be allowed to be not okay.

i literally laughed out loud. startled my poor owl out of her sleep. of all people, i am the least likely to be allowed to not be okay. no one wants to know me. they just want me to be who they think i am.

Well, if it makes you feel better people feel that way about me, too.

i know. but i don't feel that way. i wouldn't have testified for you at your trial if i did.

I ought to say thank you for that.

you already did.

Well, I ought to say it now that I know you can hear it. or read it, rather.

your welcome you're*** i'm not an idiot, i promise

Well, I wouldn't go that far.

ha. ha.

I mean, your master plan for defeating one of the most powerful wizards of all time was to use a disarming spell.

well it worked, didn't it? i've successfully murdered someone by the age of 18. wouldn't my parents be proud?

He stared at the text for a moment, processing, trying to understand what that was supposed to mean. Did Harry feel guilty?

It bothers you. That you killed him.

don't pretend it wouldn't bother you.

Potter, I would have strangled him with my bare hands if I'd thought it would have worked. I won't pretend to understand what you're going through but self defense and saving who knows how many lives, ought to give you a little peace.

There wasn't an answer for a long moment and Draco worried he'd overstepped. He sat there, tapping his forefingers against the mobile, waiting.

it gets hard to see the big picture sometimes. like rationally, i understand what you're saying but...

It's harder when you're the one who has to live with the consequences.

yes

I don't sleep well.

neither do i which is probably obvious since I'm texting you at 2:00am

He typed and erased the starts of sentences repeatedly. 'would you like to come and not sleep well tog-' 'I'm in the common room-' 'do you want to actually talk in per-'.

I'm at the astronomy tower.

I'm in the common room. Some of us can't afford to get caught where we don't belong.

it sounds silly but do you want to sit together? just it might be nice not to be alone ?

Come back to the common room.

He sent before he could change his mind. Then he began to slowly panic; what was he thinking?

A few minutes later, the portrait that guarded the 8th year common room opened and Harry came in, looking a bit windblown. "Uh," Harry said inelegantly. "Hi."

"Hello," Draco replied carefully.

Harry stared at him for a long moment before taking a few steps closer. "Can I sit?"

"Please," Draco replied, gesturing to the couch beside him.

Harry sat and pulled his legs up to his chest. "I don't really want to talk."

"Okay," Draco affirmed.

Harry glanced over at him, "Does quiet bother you?"

He gave him a little smile and shook his head, "Maybe we would just be quiet together."

"I'd like that," Harry whispered.

"Me too."

And that was the first of many nights sitting together quietly, and the first of many hard conversations had via text message.

-------

Day 56: Phone call | Day 58: Voicemail

[cardboard-aliens]

You're getting a big fat kiss too, blue. Adding Julie into the ring as well because like lol what does her death convey that wasn't already apparent? Her death doesn't add anything extra to Ryan killing the trees, especially when you have to use her recording to come up with a cure. It wouldn't be any different if she was alive giving you directions.

Diane at least gets more than three talking lines, but her existence is still just to get screwed over by the male cast. A majority of Ryan's comments towards her are direct insults and wanting to use her for a child and it gets so exhausting so fast. I know she's supposed to represent the population of Rapture's disillusionment with Ryan and falling for Atlas' lies. But you start to wonder what purpose finding her bloody corpse serves when you've also found Culpepper's, Jolene's, Andersdotter's, Lutz's, Langford's, and Denu's dead bodies after going through the same disillusionment. BioShock has never been one for subtly but its like. We got it. Message received. You don't even get to find Sullivan's corpse.

Even in BioShock 2 Nina Carnegie has to die tragically, sacrificing herself for others. When every woman has a dead body you can find it all starts to get grating--after all the men in the franchise get to be active players. They get to kill, betray and be heroes. The male characters making sacrifices always come in the heat of battle, while the women get to starve to death off screen. Or serve to make the men look cool when they get betrayed. Women in this franchise still serve to be brutalized eye candy. The best we get is Tenenbaum and I love her to bits, but she's far from a fighter and is always on the sidelines. She's powerless against player empowerment, and if you go against her to kill the sisters she won't pose a threat at all.

I think there's a bigger conversation you could have about Grace, especially with the mammy stereotype. But that's a whole other topic and it's hardly mine to discuss.

And like. This extents to Infinite as well. Lady Comstock only serves to be brutally murdered by Comstock, as if his sinister nature isn't clear. (It's almost embarrassing how Ken just wrote Jasmine's story again in Lady Comstock. If either had been more fleshed out they could feel like independent characters, instead of bad writing.)

Elizabeth is constantly brutalized and tortured across the story, and she's deemed the franchise hero with her death at Atlas' hands. Only allowed to be called an active player when she becomes another sacrificial corpse to tell us how evil Atlas is.

LISTEN THIS MAKES ME CRAZY TOO. Sometimes it feels like they want you to react to Jasmine as "Oh isn't it so sad Jack's mom is a stripper" and not "Oh it's so sad Jasmine was manipulated by Ryan into taking classes to make herself more desirable to him under the guise of making her a star. And then with that game guise he tricked her into moving to Rapture where she had no support system and was stuck hanging on Ryan's whims so he could abuse her knowing she couldn't stand up to him"

We spend the entire game learning about multiple men that defined Jack's life but there's absolutely nothing for his biological mother?? no remorse for the tragedy of her situation? How she was forced to sell her body in every way just to have financial independence. How she was constantly lied to, taken advantage of and insanely abused. Wouldn't it benefit Jack's journey of independence to look at Jasmine's situation? How many people fall victim to abuse and lose their independence? To mourn her properly as a victim instead of making her a footnote?

The game cannot happen without her, but there's hardly half a thought for her! Why do i get to hear more about how sad SULLIVAN is after murdering Jasmine's friend then Jasmine talking about her own situation. Her own relationship with Anna. You'd think this would be an intentional representation of how sex workers are silence from talking about their situation but nope! BioShock just hates its female characters.

It legitimately makes feel crazy how Culpepper exists only to prop up the male characters. She has one speaking line, and then every other comment on her existence is men insulting and killing her. Her death isn't about herself--it's to highlight Ryan's hypocrisy, Cohen's thin skin, and Sullivan's, her murder's, grief.

Maddening that we're supposed to feel bad for the cop who killed Culpepper, and then stole from his victim's home, and sympathize with his sadness instead of focusing on Culpepper's actual death. Her death isn't hers, more focus is given to the men in her story than her own thoughts and feelings. She doesn't exist outside of men, she doesn't even exist for herself. Her relationship with Jasmine isn't even in the game, it's something added in the book and even there, their relationship is only explored in male characters talking about them behind their backs. Never on screen interactions.

She's not a character in the story, she's a prop for the rest of the male cast, and this can be said for a majority of the female characters in BioShock.

[mourntheantagonist]

#HarringroveApril Day 16: Nostalgia

***

When Billy signed those discharge papers, piled into his dented Camaro and headed west towards the sunset despite the screaming redhead banging on the windows crying “please don’t go!”, with an aching chest both metaphorical and physical, he didn’t think for a second about looking back.

So how he ended up back in the same shithole he turned his back on ten years ago was entirely beyond him.

He had made a life for himself in California. He got his associates degree at the local community college and worked his way up from a nine to five teller position at the local bank all the way to branch manager, making an upper middle class salary. It was easy work. Boring work, unfulfilling work, but easy and worth every penny. He had a couple of friends, mostly coworkers, more so acquaintances than friends. He had a fancy apartment in the city, he went on dates, though they usually ended in one night stands where the other guy snuck out in the dark hours of the morning leaving Billy to sleep in a bed that was just too big for one person. But he was free from all of those forces in his life that always held him back and pinned him down, and each and every one of those forces just reeked of small town America.

He hadn’t heard a peep out of Hawkins since Max had given up on calling around eight years ago, or at least he hoped that she’d given up and something worse hadn’t happened to her. He regretted not answering those calls everyday. The guilt of leaving her behind like that weighed heavy like an anchor, but he did it anyway. Bad decision after bad decision he was surprised he made it to where he had today, and he just wished she’d call again.

But he also wasn’t sure enough of himself that anything would change if she did, and that phone would likely remain on the hook until the ringing stopped and she was left to the sound of his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Billy Hargrove. Leave a message.”

He wasn’t home the day she finally did call, which fortunately took that decision away from him. Her message was tossed in with a mix of telemarketers and employees calling in for days off, it could have easily been dismissed, passed over like every other piece of junk in the system if her voice hadn’t been exactly the same as it was the day he left her.

“Hey Billy, it’s Max. I know you probably don’t give a shit, but Neil died of a heart attack last night…” Billy stopped listening after the words ‘Neil died’ came over the speaker. He had to replay the message to hear the rest because by the time he’d gathered himself it had already ended. “...the funeral is next Saturday in Hawkins. Nobody expects you to come but I thought you should know anyway and that everyone would still like to see you. Call me back at…” Billy wrote the number on the back of a blockbuster receipt and set it flat on the counter quickly with a firm hand and a quick retraction, like it might burn him. Max’s name and a ten digit number below it in a blue ballpoint pen stared back at him and he just drummed his fingers on the counter and bit his lip trying to think everything over.

He looked at it for probably another thirty minutes while the rest of the voicemails cycled through in the background before he decided to make a call of his own. Slowly and shaking, he dialed the phone number and tried to even out his breathing while he waited for the sound of the pick up. He was partially hoping that it never came.

But it did. The click sound was followed by a voice that didn’t belong to Max, but one he still recognized.

“Hello?”

Billy took in a deep breath. “Hi. This is Billy.”

“Wow, I’m surprised you actually called.”

Billy huffed and if it had been ten years earlier he would have already hung up the phone by now.

“Who is this?”

“Lucas Sinclair. I take it you want to talk to Max?”

Billy tensed at the mention of her name, as if that hadn’t been the whole plan in the first place. “Yeah,” he said, a little bit of shakiness to his voice, “could you put her on?”

After a few short moments of silence and a little bit of movement in the background, he heard her.

“Hey Billy.” she sounded… glad… and it made Billy let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Hey Maxine.”

“It’s Max.” There was that tone, she hadn’t changed at all.

“Yeah, I know.” There was a pause, Billy twirled the phone cord around this index finger to the point it started going pink and then purple while he tried to get the question to leave the tip of his tongue. “So, he’s really dead?” he asked, blunt as ever.

“Yeah. I don’t expect you to want to come for the funeral, but I just thought you should know, and if you need a place to stay you can– hold on one second” Billy could hear muffled bickering and Max yelling ‘Lucas Sinclair’ through clenched teeth and it brought a smile to his face. It reminded him of all those times he’d eavesdrop on her phone calls with him just to piss her off, just to hear her yell at him through their shared wall before she’d chase him around the house. Those were good days. “As I was saying. You can stay here if you need. We have a spare room.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“I really hope you decide to come.”

“We’ll see.” He was just about to hang the phone back up, but he stopped himself, “Hey Max?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice hearing the sound of your voice again.”

Billy wound up taking the week off and driving that same old Camaro, restored back to its former glory, that did the distance twice before, back over to Indiana, to the place he said he’d never go back to, and he really couldn’t figure out the reason why he didn’t just go into work. There was nothing to drive him to go but the weird feeling in his gut that refused to go away until he called in, and a little bit of that pressure was released.

For each freeway exit he came across on the over thousand mile journey he contemplated turning around, getting back on that on-ramp going the other direction and save himself from whatever hell he’d be walking into.

Because that’s what Hawkins was to him. Hell. There were monsters like his father, and then there were real, legitimate monsters as well and Billy wasn’t safe from either of them, well he was safe from one now. He couldn’t imagine why Max decided to stay in the shithole and not get out like he did.

Maybe that’s what makes him the coward.

The welcome to Hawkins sign gave him chills. He remembered seeing that for the first time, following behind the rickety Uhaul pulled by their beat up truck when Billy decided not to follow them into their next turn, and instead got lost on the “scenic route” of Hawkins which really meant “trees, trees, and more trees” when he hit the Quarry’s dead end and nearly went off the cliff into the water below.

At the time he might’ve thought it would have been better if he had.

A lot of things had looked to have changed about the town since the last time he saw it. Places that he remembered being nothing but vast forests now had neighborhoods and restaurant chains and the place that once had a natural canopy was now completely deforested and exposed to the sun.

But the Quarry was exactly the same as he left it.

From the beer cans crushed and scattered, to the sounds of gravel pieces bouncing up and chipping the paint on his car.

The continuities continued to add up when he stepped foot out of the car, pulling on that same old denim jacket he hadn’t worn in years after trading it in for a suit and tie. His boot hit the gravel path just like it always had, with that same stomp that demanded attention, like each time he got out of that car he had to play into the dramatics, put on the mask and play the part he chose for himself. The breeze and the smell, it was all the same as before, as if the industrialization just several blocks north hadn’t had any effects on this little corner of the town where the birds still sang their songs in harmony and the smell of nature was pungent. It felt like no time had passed at all.

But it had been the sound of a rumbling BMW rolling down the crushing gravel that made him feel exactly like he was back in highschool again, the same rotten kid who used fists as forms for problem solving, the kid who as an adult had worked on his impulsivity, standing there, staring up the gentle slope with his fists clenched so tight his fingernails left marks on his palms. All that work, all that progress he thought he’d gone through, thrown straight out the window at just the mere sight of something from his past.

The BMW pulled up beside him, and the quarry apparently wasn’t the only thing that hadn’t changed. Steve still had the same big swooped back hair and that same exact look on his face when they made eye contact through the passenger window, the same exact look he had the day he told him he was leaving, and screamed at him to get out of his hospital room.

That was the last time they spoke.

Steve got out of the car without a word and just leaned against the door, looking him up and down, and Billy didn’t feel like he had any right to say the first word, considering he’d had the last one.

“It’s good to see you Billy.” Steve broke the silence, and it was almost startling, with both the sudden change of volume, and the sound of that voice he’d almost forgotten singing in his head like a song he didn’t remember learning the lyrics to.

“Is it?” Because it felt like it was all just a formality coming out of his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting an answer to that, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when Steve changed the subject. It was oddly refreshing seeing Steve write the script this time, steering the conversation his way.

“Looks like we both kept our old wheels,” he said, slapping the top of his car twice, maybe a little too hard. The sound of a hand against metal echoed through the trees. “though there’s not as many dents from what I remember.”

“I had it restored.”

The majority of Steve’s body was hidden behind the car that separated the two of them, but he could see in the way that his shoulders moved that his hands had found his own hips, doing that same stance of a mother who just caught their kid in the act of something naughty. “Some good memories happened in that car.”

“Some bad ones too. Or do I need to remind you how the dents got there in the first place?” Billy crossed his arms over his chest, as if the thousand pound chunk of metal that served as a barrier wasn’t enough to protect him. Because it felt like Steve could see directly through him with the way his head tilted when Billy threw his words back at him. Because they both knew that it was horseshit. Memories of whatever happened between Steve and the Camaro existed only in the dents that remained and the neck pain that still lingered. He didn’t actually hold any grudge about that, and he never did.

Because Steve was right. There had been good memories in that car, some he didn’t remember until seeing him again, some that still played in his mind when he went to sleep at night. Maybe that was the reason he kept it around for so long, that one piece that contained all of those few good times, all of those times with Steve.

“You were always so good at that.”

“What?”

“Deflecting. Pushing people away.”

Billy opened his mouth to defend himself, but there was nothing that came out but his own breath, but Steve filled that silence anyway before Billy would have even had the opportunity to speak.

“You cut your hair.”

It was like he was being interrogated.

“Company policy, they practically had to strap me down and take the clippers to my head themselves.”

Steve actually laughed, and it seemed genuine at least. Billy pulled out the pack of red that he always kept on the seat like it was muscle memory. His hands would only ever stop shaking when he had that little stick between his fingers, and they were only shaking more since Steve got out of that car.

“You still smoke?”

Billy put the cigarette in between his lips and lit up, pausing for a nice drag before bothering to answer Steve. Just letting his eyes fall shut and experience just a short moment of relaxation.

“Some old habits never die”

Steve pursed his lips. Every single one of his mannerisms were exactly the same. This one meant that he wanted to say something that he didn’t know if he should.

“Was I just an old habit too?”

“Steve–”

Steve just kicked the side of his car with his knee, sure to leave a dent of his own. The sound was loud enough that the consistent stream of chirping birds transformed into a cascade of flapping wings as the birds on the trees flew away from the scene. He walked around to the front of his car and the physical object that once created separation was gone, and suddenly Steve was within reach and he couldn’t breathe.

“Glad to know it’s harder to quit nicotine than it was to quit me!”

Billy chucked his lit cigarette at the ground and scuffed it with his heel into the gravel. “Who told you it was easy?!” He had a finger pointed to Steve and had closed their distance a few feet more, less than an arms length apart from each other.

“You left!”

“Because I had to! You know I did!”

“You didn’t have to leave me!” Steve practically screamed that final word, his face was now just inches away from Billy’s and he was nearly foaming at the mouth and from an outsider's perspective, Steve looked about two seconds from either kissing him, or killing him.

He did neither. He took a step back and recollected himself with a dramatic clearing of his throat. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”

“And you don’t think I regret that every fucking day of my life?” Billy’s voice broke, trembling throughout the sentence like he was containing a ticking time bomb. “Why are you even here?”

Steve just rolled his eyes at the steer. “Max sent me.”

“Of course she fucking did.”

“She cares about you y’know.” Billy scoffed, because how could she? After all he did to her? He could still hear those palms banging against those windows and her muffled screams for her to stay every time he got into that car. “Why are you here?”

“Did she not tell you the part where my dad died?”

“I know damn well you didn’t come all this way to pay your respects.”

Billy let himself drop to the ground and sit on the rough terrain with his back against his tire, unable to continue standing, his legs were ready to betray him.

“I have no idea why I’m here, okay? I just am.”

Steve nodded his head, and he didn’t say anything, no quip back in his face, he just followed Billy to the ground.

“Are you upset he’s gone?”

Billy let out a groan and tried to rub the growing migraine from his temples.

“I’m feeling a lot of things, but I don’t think ‘upset’ is one of them.” Neither of them said anything after that. They just sat there on the ground and enjoyed the silence together like they used to do. Looking up at the clouds and arguing over what shape they were. There’d be none of that today though, and it had nothing to do with the overcast skies. “You still keep a six pack in your trunk?”

Steve laughed and got up from where he was seated and popped the trunk. He was right. Some old habits never fucking die.

Steve tossed a can over to Billy and sat back down on the gravel, maybe a little closer than he had been before. Billy took a long swig and swallowed the bitter taste down. He hadn’t drank much since he was a teenager, he traded in his Coors for Cola and he doesn’t understand how he used to enjoy the taste of it before.

“Why did you stay in Hawkins?”

Steve dug his heel and pushed a pile of rocks forward, kicking a plume of dust into the air.

“Nobody ever gave me a reason to leave.”

Billy wanted to ask if he would have even come with him had he asked him to. But he opted against it, instead just taking another drink from the can and a genuine “I’m sorry.” passed his lips.

“You know I followed you?”

“What?”

“Yup. Made it all the way to St. Louis before I turned around.”

Billy was just staring at him at this point, unsure if he’d just heard him right. He just sat there with his mouth agape, catching flies and waiting for Steve to say more.

“I knew that you needed to go. I knew that you were hurting and it took me almost ten hours on the open road to realize that you needed time to heal.” Steve’s eyes looked glossy and his cheeks flushed but he kept his smile on. “So I came back home, and I waited here for you to come back. I wanted to make myself easy to find when you needed me.”

“You waited for me?”

Steve inched his hand over to where Billy’s was propping himself up and let his fingers gently trace the back of his hand. Steve’s touch was everything. It made his heart start racing and his palms start sweating and it felt just like 1985 all over again.

Billy took Steve’s hand in his own and entwined their fingers together and Billy let out a long exhale as they did.

“Billy,” Steve said softly, scooting his body just a little bit closer, less than a foot of separation now between the two of them, and he looked Billy in the eyes. Billy had almost gotten entirely lost in those pools of deep brown before Steve had the chance to speak again. But he heard it, loud and clear. “I’m still waiting for you.”

He waited.

Waited ten fucking years.

Billy wasn’t going to make him sit there and wait for a kiss too.

Billy closed the distance at the moment the penny dropped, sinking all of his weight into the kiss in a frantic and uneven pace just like they were eighteen again trying to squeeze both of their bodies into the backseat of the Camaro, refusing for even a second to separate themselves from the one point of contact that sealed them together like glue. The kiss felt just like their first. In the same spot, instead under the stars and the two of them both drunk off their asses, and that time Billy tasted of only blood and liquor.

But it was that same feeling. That desire to never pull away, that fear that it would end and that it would be the last time. He had that fear with everyone of Steve and his kisses, that each one might just be their last.

So he made a point to savor all of them.

They kissed until they physically couldn’t anymore. Out of breath with swollen lips and an inability stop the smiles that peeked through every couple of seconds. They sat there with their foreheads touching and their clasped hands still intact, relishing in the heat that was each other’s breath on their faces. Billy was crying, just streams of tears paired with a smile that Steve gently wiped away with his thumb, the brush of contact making him shiver.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

Steve cradled Billy’s head in his hands and peppered a few short kisses to his lips.

“I missed you too.”

“You think this is why Max invited me here?” Billy asked. “I can’t imagine she’d actually think I would want to come to this thing.”

Steve laughed. “No. She’s not an idiot. She figured you’d want to crash the funeral.”

Billy immediately got up from his place on the ground and held his other hand out for Steve to grab onto. “Well you wanna join me while I go piss on my old man’s grave?”

Steve took his hand without hesitation and let Billy pull him up off the ground.

“It would be my honor.”

Hawkins made a lot of bad memories for Billy, most of which he locked somewhere far away, but the good still remained. Right there in the look on Steve’s face with the way he looked back at him.

And he was happy to make a couple more.