#as underpaid as anything with a wish to harm

[justmewondering56]

[northwest-cryptid]

Limbus company brought more eyes on project moon and got more people interested in the games that's probably one of the best things that can happen to a a game company

It also resulted in them firing a key member of their staff due to sexism in the workplace/from those eyes that got brought to it.

It also resulted in Wonderlab becoming lost media because the artist decided to cut ties with Project Moon.

It also resulted in the CEO being exposed as a total prick who underpaid and overworked staff, is generally weak willed and gives in to sexism, and values money over just about anything. Threatening to sue people for boycotting.

It also expanded the fandom/community from a tight knit fun group to an oversized mess of differing opinions that are generally hostile but that's not really too important over all, just sad to see it happen. I miss the days when the community didn't bicker and argue and fight and complain and shit. That's just how things go when a community becomes bigger, bad for the individual good for the company I suppose. It is what it is.

It also resulted in a boycott for the said horrible things the CEO did.

Like, look we're not arguing here; you don't have to hide behind anon I'm not gonna bite or some shit. I mean hell what do you think I could even do if I knew your URL? Like realistically there's nothing I could do to you anyways not that I'd want to, like why do you think I'd wish you harm? Because we have differing opinions? I agree it financially was very good for the company, but it's the worst thing to have happened both in how the general community around the company shifted, and in how much came to light about the shady business going on at Project Moon and how weak the company was to actually protect their own people, because they don't care about their people.

Project Moon is a company I had a lot of respect for, and it's why I'm very critical of them. I want them to be better, but I don't see that happening, because in spite of ALL of the shit that happened, Limbus is successful and now the CEO knows he doesn't need to worry about doing all that shitty stuff.

Anyways, yea Limbus Company is the worst thing to have happened to Project Moon, this time; I really will not elaborate. I shouldn't have to. I'm not attacking you, I'm criticizing a company for their shitty behavior and actions, primarily that of the CEO.

We have differing opinions on the matter, that is fine. No harm done here my friend. That's just part of being human, we're not always going to agree on stuff.

[hajimehinata]

i gave you all i had, i did

day 5 : sacrifice ( from @adfaugust )

all he’s ever done, he did it for this family.

tyler’s long been used to hours of work with little reward, underpaid for hard labour and chalking it up to his family name. the world’s out to get him, he’s always known it, has been told so time and time again by the holt matriarch. and he knows better than anyone that sharon wouldn’t lie, has been an honest woman from the day she was born. if she ever was dishonest, it’s cause she had to be, cause she wasn’t given another option. but ma’s honest, gets her way through respect built from her steely and admirable nature. sharon, impossible not to respect with her fingers poised elegantly around a cigarette. lord knows tyler gladly picked up that habit for a few stolen seconds of her company. always wishing blindly to soak up her presence, as if it would somehow cure him of his own inferiority, childishness she frowned upon. he always feels adult standing next to her — ’cept for when he don’t, when he feels like he’s quakin’ in his boots just being near her. tells himself it’s because he loves her, because he can’t stand the thought of her coming to harm. knows that he’s her protector and that’s all he is, and for a holt, that’s a blessing. no higher honour than to be at sharon’s side, making sure their shitheel of a pa don’t try anything. 

never strikes him that he might be thinking backwards, that the person he’s afraid of is the very person he loves the most. so wrapped around her finger he can’t see it for what it is, embraced into her perfumed storytelling, lies that sound like the truth, until tyler can’t help but believe in her. she’s his ma, and she needs him, everyone does. shoulders heavy burdens so she don’t have to, under the firm belief that he had a choice, but that no sane man would choose the other option.

what man would leave his ma to suffer all alone? none that are mannerly or polite, none that really care for her. tyler’s signed away his life, all twenty-five years of it thus far and whatever rest of it that cruel fate gives him. quickly revises the thought, since he oughta be grateful for what he has — the opportunity to be there for his ma, for his brothers. 

still doesn’t stop the white-hot jealousy from bubbling up in a weary chest when he sees how easily dale and jay are awarded with ma’s attention. don’t know the last time she called him sweetheart — or if she ever has. keeps blindly charging forward, since he knows why dale’s got ma’s heart; no one could hate a face like that or deny him a thing. and jay… as much as he don’t contribute, as much as he ain’t really one of them ( as much as his sensitive nature is rewarded when tyler’s was long stamped outta him, told time and time again that he’s the eldest and real men gotta keep their upper lip stiff ) … sharon’s affectionate towards the golden boy because he reminds her of that sister of hers. that woman who got herself knocked up and imposed herself on her charitable sister, only to wind up dead and leaving her screaming kid behind for sharon to care for like he’s hers.

( and if tyler had to pick up those motherly responsibilities, it’s cause ma obviously couldn’t, not after her own sister had died, and no one could have expected her to be well enough to take care of a kid or her three-year-old and certainly not her seven-year-old little man, the nickname brooke gave him as she pinched a solemn cheek still ringing in his head — )

— but ain’t he the same as brooke, now? running off to save his own skin when dale’s … a sharp pain lancing through his chest, solid evidence of how he’s failed the family. still feels the sting on his cheek when ma told him clear as day — he ain’t got this, he wasn’t responsible enough, never good enough. and selfishly he wonders how long he has to sweat and toil for … her approval, but he’d never say that. sharon don’t give out praise that ain’t earned, and tyler never earned it a day in his life. no matter how hard he worked. no matter how little he slept. no matter how kind he was to his charity case of a cousin. 

and he’s doing everything he can, even if ain’t good enough, even if it ain’t perfect. tells himself this is the best he can do for the ones he’s lost — protect himself cause he’s the only one left to protect her. when dale’s gone, pa’s in some hospital after his act of cowardice, and they had to leave jay behind when the cops were too close for comfort. he’s the only one left, and sharon’s safety’s all that matters. they come up with a plan, her and her only child, and there’s an unspoken understanding that passes through ‘em. the knowledge that they’re all they’ve got anymore, that they have to stick together. 

it’s everything he wanted. least, he thought it was. until jay shows back up on their doorstep and tyler’s left to stare. a brother back from the dead and the short-lived attention from his ma itching at the back of his ribcage. forced to think horrible thoughts, wondering if it was jay all along who took this from tyler. if sharon’s affections were only doled out to the youngest boys because that love’s finite, and because jay just had to be difficult, ruin things by taking that book and killing dale, the sting of a motherly slap across the cheek still smarting. can’t accept that he wants more than he’s got, so it’s jay’s fault. that festering itch getting worse until it’s damn near unbearable. it’s jay on the doorstep of the cabin and not dale, not his baby brother who sat on his lap and babbled to him in half-formed sentences, who didn’t leave him ( didn’t leave the family, comes the mental correction ) to go galavanting off in the woods. 

still, tyler takes first watch. is used to staying up and expects that neither ma nor jay will wake up for a second watch. maybe he’ll catch an hour or two, but he ain’t counting on it. more important that sharon gets her rest, and it’s not like tyler trusts jay to stay up and keep an eye out. not after he found out about brooke, the long-kept secret that shoulda been told to him long ago, so he could understand why he’s gotta make it up to the family more than ever. if anything, he thinks maybe jay’ll try to slink out and talk to him. the lie weighs heavy on his chest, but it’s the most sensible solution. ma needs to go on the motorcycle, and jay can survive out here in the woods. if tyler stayed ( and his chest constricts at the mere thought ) … he’d die. still, even though ma knows that, it’s still his duty to stay back. even with this busted leg, even with his lack of familiarity of the bush of two rock. when jay wasn’t around, the solution was simple. now, it’s staring him right in the eye. his imminent death. the same fate as dale. loving jay, then dying for it. 

the door creaks open, and tyler’s heart squeezes in his chest seeing it’s ma. it ain’t rare for her to seek out his company, whether it’s to unload some stresses or just cause he’s smoking at the same time as her, but that weary heart still jumps when she does. hard and clear evidence that he’s doing something right. but that brief hope gets squashed like an insignificant insect as soon as the words leave her mouth. can we talk about this canada thing? 

shoulda known she was coming out to ask about it, silently curses himself for not realizing sooner. remembers the other mistake he made, telling jay about his real ma, and braces himself for a scolding that thankfully never comes. sharon’s not a petty woman, and she’s moved onto more pressing matters. wondering why jay can’t have the prized seat next to her on the bike. wondering all that when she’s whip-smart and definitely smart enough to know tyler’d die if he stuck around back here. and it all comes flooding out. a juvenile confession, practically sobbed out. a desperate begging for love he’s always thought he was above. is it so wrong to want to live? is it so wrong to want a shot at life even when it’s long over? all his life, he’s given her ( the family, he hurriedly corrects, because even now, he can’t stop the helpless fawning over her ) everything he has, everything he is. and here he leans against the cabin post, staring up at the consequence bearing over him like a giant. finds himself scared and utterly alone in the face of this insurmountable beast. 

he just wants to live. and if that’s gotta mean just surviving from here on out, he wants that. if his fate was never to live his life, he’ll mourn it and bury it alongside dale. clenches his fists and jaw and tries not to let the grief consume him, crush that bad leg before he’s even got a chance to try to keep going. wouldn’t dale have wanted him to live? wouldn’t dale have wanted… and it feels blasphemous to even think, but wouldn’t dale have wanted his happiness? couldn’t sharon have loved him enough to want that for him?

but it can’t be about dale and it certainly can’t be about sharon, so it’s about jay, the boy who got everything tyler wanted just by being. who whines and gets his way, the eternal favourite and the one dale eventually left tyler behind for. but tyler knows he can still win. he’s just gotta convince jay to stay back. and he does. feels that affection he always had for the kid come back full force, all babyish smiles and hints of wisdom he don’t think even jay knows he has. tyler will miss him. he gets that now. wishes blindly and with all his heart that there were three seats on the motorcycle, even if the thought of sharing ma with jay was nauseating just an hour ago. 

tyler trudges back to his world, leaving jay to his own. greets sharon with a weary look, disillusioned like he hasn’t been in a long time. no longer is he excited to be the only one left. misses his brothers, both of ‘em, like hell. but at least he’s got ma, his sole purpose for as long as he can remember. something nettles him about that. maybe it’s just that jay taking off didn’t make him feel any better. 

that’s what he sticks with until one night at the church turns into two, and then three.

and tyler lays with his cheek pressed against a dilapidated floor and wonders. do we get what we deserve?

[jeanm3]

Run To You

Notes: I was listening to Run To You by Whitney Houston and I thought how fitting it is for a pinning and sad Draco. It's perfect. So here a flow of thoughts. It's not a real fic, I hope you still enjoy it. WARNINGS: pinning and sad Draco hours

I know that when you look at me There's so much that you just don't see

Draco has so many colours and aspects of his personality that he doesn't show. Underneath he is just a scared boy, who regrets all the mistakes he had made and now he has to face a new world that doesn't welcome him with open arms.

But if you would only take the time I know in my heart you'd find A girl who's scared sometimes Who isn't always strong Can't you see the hurt in me? I feel so all alone

He's loleny. Except for his mother, Pansy and Blaise, no one wants to have anything to do with him. He can't find new friends, somebody who'd love him seems an impossible task.

I wanna run to you (oooh) I wanna run to you (oooh) Won't you hold me in your arms And keep me safe from harm I want to run to you (oooh) But if I come to you (oooh) Tell me, will you stay or will you run away

His heart aches with longing, wishing he could just run to somebody and be held and told that everything would be alright. Potter saved him once, maybe it could happen again. And if nights bring wishful dreams of strong arms and a warm solid body hugging him, mornings shine on the bitter truth.

Each day, each day I play the role Of someone always in control But at night I come home and turn the key There's nobody there, no one cares for me

Every day he puts on his cold and unbothered facade, styling his hair perfectly and dressing in elegant clothes to hide the mess inside him. He goes to work, an underpaid gig at the Ministry where no one of his colleagues really talks to him. He feels alone at work and so does he at home, an empty and quite flat. No one to greet him, to say goodnight to.

What's the sense of trying hard to find your dreams Without someone to share it with Tell me what does it mean?

He wonders why e's trying so hard. For who? Himself? Not really. Most days he doesn't even have the force to get out of bed. He sees all these people making plans for the future and it always involves a lover. Maybe he will never find someone like that, but he still needs to think about his mother, so there's that. It must be enough, even if his heart disagrees.

I need you here I need you here to wipe away my tears To kiss away my fears, no If you only knew how much

I wanna run to you (oooh) I wanna run to you (oooh) Won't you hold me in your arms And keep me safe from harm I want to run to you (oooh) But if I come to you (oooh) Tell me, will you stay or will you run away

Passing another night alone, hugging a pillow to his chest, silent tears fall from his eyes. How would it feel to have someone wipe them away for him? He pictures big kind hands and green eyes staring back at him. He still sees Potter a the Ministry, always with one or two of his friends. They don't knowledge each other presence. It's almost like he doesn't exist anymore in the eyes of the man. Which hurts more than being hated.

One morning he is in the elevator, going to work like every other day, alone because people tend to avoid him if possible, even if it means to arrive late at work. He's looking down at his shoes when the elevator stops and someone gets on.

"Hello, Malfoy." Nobody ever greets him, so when his eyes meet green fields all the air in his lungs gets punched out.

"Hello." He manages to say, voice stable enough to not vocalize the turmoil inside him. He can taste his heart in his throat.

They don't share another word, riding the elevator in silence. When Potter comes to his stop he gets off. But not before looking at him again. "See you around, Malfoy." He doesn't have the time or the force to say anything back, as the doors close in front of his face.

If he fantasizes about running into Potter's arms it's only between him and his delusional mad heart.

[scribbleboxfox]

This Weekend’s Dumpsterfire and The Future of TLRH

Putting under a readmore for courtesy.

By now, most of us have seen what went down this weekend with a bunch of former Rooster Teeth employees coming forward about how they were treated by the company. @anneapocalypse worded it better than I ever could on Twitter, but none of this is news. RT has always been like this, and they’re not going to change. I hope they crash and burn permanently this time, so the malicious behavior of both HR and their higher-ups never hurts anyone again. I hope the underpaid employees, both current and former, are properly compensated for the work that they’ve done. And I hope Rooster Teeth is sued into the fucking ground.

I stopped watching their content (sans RvB) back during my sophomore year of college. I wish I could say it was because of some sixth sense that I had before I became aware of all the bullshit behind the scenes, but truth told, I just outgrew them. And now, with the full picture of the harm RT has caused coming into focus, I don’t think I want to be associated in any way with their content.

So what does that mean for The Long Road Home?

Well, considering the amount of work I’ve put into the damned thing, it’d be a waste to not finish it. I started writing TLRH because I had a gut feeling that the story I’d come to love wouldn’t be continued; that loose ends would never properly be tied up. Thanks, Apollo, you bastard.

I want to emphasize that I am, and always have been, writing this fic for myself. And I think I want to finish writing it for myself.

That being said, I need to address some hard truths;

I don’t think I can illustrate every chapter anymore. Right now, the thought of drawing the characters from a show that helped form the foundation of Rooster Teeth sickens me. I’m hoping that will change, mostly so I can keep building my skills as an artist. If I do illustrate the next few chapters, those drawings will likely only be of the original characters I’ve inserted into the fic.

There’s a real chance I might cut certain future mini-plots I had planned so I can finish the fic sooner and wash my hands of the whole ordeal. Anything that gets cut will be addressed in the Notes of the final chapter.

Once this fic is finished, there is a very real chance I will never write anything for this universe ever again.

I might need to extend my hiatus till the end of the year.

When I first started writing TLRH, I estimated that it would take me roughly 7 years to finish it. We’re now on year 5, and my estimate is looking to be accurate. Now that Arc 2 is finished, and we only have about 2-3 LFC’s (Long Fucking Chapter’s) left at the beginning of Arc 3, it’s going to be easy going from here, relatively speaking.

In short; I can probably post chapters faster. Which means I can get this thing over with sooner.

Don’t be alarmed, the story I’m trying to tell is still going to have all the nuance and love and whatnot that I intended originally. I might just need to take some time before I can find the drive to keep going. I’ve been falling out of love with RvB for a while for a number of reasons, but this is the final nail in the coffin. Still, like I said, I’m going to finish TLRH, and I’m going to do the story and characters justice. If only to say that I did.

TL;DR: Fuck Rooster Teeth, I genuinely hope this kills the company for good and that all the people it hurt are properly compensated. I’m going to finish my fanfic with flying colors and then probably never touch Red vs. Blue again, but some changes to the formatting will likely be made.

Stay safe, stay hydrated, and for the love of fuck, stay off Twitter.

-Scribs

[jonthethinker]

After a long day of truly cursed thoughts, I’ve come to the determination that the Cerberus Assembly can act as a sort of Exandrian analog of our world’s Silicon Valley, and I hate it. I hate hate hate it.

The more I think about it, the more it just sort of melds into my mind as fact. I can’t escape it. This is where I live now.

You’ve got this collection of self-proclaimed super geniuses, unbounded by modern social mores and determined to invent a new sort of ethics, with an intent on shaping history and sagely guiding the world into a better future. This is despite the fact that most of the ideas they have inevitably end up making the world worse, and the only thing “new” that they really bring into the world is a bunch of actually very old ideas coated in fresh circuitry/magic.

But let’s dig a little deeper and start getting specific.

They both have these images of fiercely independent, creative bodies desperate to remain free from government control, and sometimes even as a check on that very government. The heads of the Cerberus Assembly outright say their intent is to act as a check on the Crown, and are known to have many secrets the Crown is, to their knowledge, totally unaware of.

Tech companies, particularly in America, have this outward facing very libertarian outlook on things, saying they don’t wish to interfere in the very important process of democracy and free speech, while simultaneously feeling it is their responsibility to fact check those in power and hold them to account, with their “serious vetting” of political ads and the like on their platforms. They also lobby heavily against any and all regulation of their various products and services, preferring to let the “invisible hand” of the market provide the service of keeping them in check, much as the Cerberus Assembly prefers to handle its own problems internally.

But when you really dig into the details this is all bullshit. The Cerberus Assembly, for all intents and purposes, IS the Empire. They run the secret police, for goodness sake. The two are so interconnected, and the Assembly as an institution is so dependent on the infrastructure and manpower, and of course money (because the fancy clothes, giant towers, and expensive sets of material components don’t pay for themselves) of the Empire to accomplish its goals, it can’t serve as a real check on Imperial forces possibly “overstepping”, and it also has no material interest in doing so; the more power and control the Empire has, the more power and control the Assembly has; the less freedom the citizens have due to authoritarian “safety” measures implemented by the Crown, the safer the Assembly itself becomes to pursue it’s morally dubious work and experimentation.

The same goes with Silicon Valley and the various tech companies that fall under its ethos. They will expound continually on the necessary freedom from government control they must have to truly change the world in the ways they think are best, but the primary source of money for most of these companies are governments. They either primarily contract with governments for most of their actual profits or to use its already established infrastructure, as is the case with Amazon, or depend heavily on publicly funded research for their innovations, which is everyone from Apple to Google to Microsoft and dozens and dozens of smaller companies besides. They then even get to patent these publicly funded innovations and hold a monopolized stranglehold on their use. This is not even to mention the starter capital necessary to form many of these companies in the first place itself was provided by governments, with the rather, shall we say “morally questionable” Kingdom of Saudi Arabia being among the top contributors to such start ups.

Even when either of these groups claim to be self-made, it’s all bullshit. So many of our famous tech overlords that supposedly built themselves from nothing started at the upper reaches of society, with more than enough capital and connections to insure they were never at any real risk of failing in the first place. Most even went to the same elite institutions of learning that provide the vast majority of the political leadership of the United States, institutions they had access to due to their wealth and familial connections, not their brains. Elon Musk’s family owned an emerald mine in Zambia for God’s sake, one his family would have never owned without the British Empire being a thing.

The same can be said for the Assembly. The upper classes of the Dwendalian Empire are lousy with mages and magic users. If they don’t have a place to climb among the nobility, they work for the Assembly, and hope to climb there. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that the only poorer mage recruits we know anything real about all were sucked up into the service of the Scourgers, one of the few arms of the Assembly known to regularly interact with societies lower reaches and not so positively at that, and had their familial identities obliterated in the process. Both of these groups are of the upper reaches of society and serve the upper reaches of society, and we should never think anything less.

And this brings us to the ideological framework both of these groups think with. They are both full to the brim with people who are individualists to the extreme. They all believe they are singular actors in the great tapestry of history, who got where they are by hard work and dedication, and anyone who isn’t there just didn’t do enough. The folks living in the tent city outside Zadash? lazy layabouts who simply have not applied their mind to be something greater, or perhaps their veins are just full of bad blood. Poor former factory workers in Detroit whose jobs have been moved to places where labor laws are weaker and wages are lower? If they’d only taken their education more seriously, they could be where I am! Or maybe they just never tried to be an Uber driver or delivering for Grubhub, because that’s how you really pull yourself out of poverty.

Meanwhile, most of the groups consist of people who have never once known real adversity and certainly not the hardship of poverty nor the lack of social and political power that position entails. They are blinded to the reality of most people in the world outside their rather small one, and thus have no understanding of the material hardship that most people experience during their everyday life.

You see this most clearer in the manner in which they try to solve what they see as societies great problems, with no clear thought put into the consequences of these particular solutions. In our world, this is particularly obvious. Uber is painted as an innovative means of transportation on a budget, when in reality it’s just a fleet of untrained, underpaid, non-unionized taxi drivers using their own personal vehicles at their own expense. Elon Musk is seen as this super genius when his solution to LA traffic wasn’t a more robust public transportation system or slowly reconstructing the city to be more pedestrian friendly, but instead to build a massive network of single car elevators under the city to zip cars to key hot spots faster in a manner people less anxious than me would still call risky at best. I mean most of these people think the key to ending poverty is teaching people to code or giving them STEM education, even when in a capitalist economy the only thing a sudden flooding of new coders and STEM educated folks would insure is that the jobs that require those skills will see a sudden massive drop in pay and benefits as the pool of prospective employees becomes over-saturated and individual workers no longer have any bargaining power to protect their once rare jobs. You already see this in animation and video game design, and you’ll certainly see it elsewhere.

For the Assembly, despite being praised as the brightest arcane minds of Wildmount, seem to get most of their ideas either by stealing them from others or digging them up out of the ground. But this is just the nature of empire; it’s always easier for an empire to consume than it is to create. So as little as they think of the Dynasty, they are eager to steal every little bit of knowledge they’ve discovered about Dunamis, and without the faith and moral sense the Luxon-based religion imposes, they will never be forced to put the use of this rare and dangerous magic into perspective. Imagine what harm they can cause with gravity and time magic when they don’t have that religious pressure to consider the value of life and choice. But this makes sense when their main sources of inspiration are the wizards of the Age Of Arcana; you know, the wizards whose hubris nearly destroyed the entire world and spurred an apocalyptic war that sent society into a dark age in which the gods themselves abandoned them? A+ inspiration material if you ask me.

Even the culture of these two groups in regards to how they regulate themselves is so eerily similar. Think of Delilah Briarwood. Member in good standing of the Cerberus Assembly. Also, worshipper of Vecna and talented necromancer. Only expelled from the Assembly after involvement from the Cobalt Soul, even when you know every other member of the Assembly almost certainly had loads of information on this lady.

It just makes me think of all the weird, right-wingers and Nazis who occasionally get expelled from the heights of Silicon Valley whenever some journalist exposes them, and how quickly their colleagues are to condemn them even when so many of them either knew this person was this way well before they were exposed or actively agreed with them and still do. I mean, think of how protected Bill Gates is, because of how much his philanthropist image has served to insulate and protect the gross consolidation of wealth and power in the hands of so few, even when his fortune was built on stolen ideas, military funding and research, and a hardcore software monopoly for well over a decade or two. Also, his philanthropy has done nothing to help African people build their own institutions of power independent of European and American influence, and have help distract us from the damage really caused to the entire continent by earlier colonialism and later capitalist imperialism.

This is to say as bad as our world is, I now definitely don’t want to live in Wildemount. I don’t want to live a world where Mark Zukerberg can cast Disintegrate. Not ideal. I guess I’ll just have to work that much harder to fix this one and not depend on learning Dunamancy to just put us on a different path. Bummer.

[snickerl]

I am reblogging this because I don’t know how or why the last part and thus the closure of this ficlet was missing. It’s in italics at the end if you want to find out how Ahab’s and Maggie’s conversation went on after “Did you ever...”  Instead of finishing the sentence he bit his lower lip.

Mom’s The Best

A collection of XF ficlets

I started this collection of stand-alone ficlets from Margaret Scully’s POV a while ago because she’s always been one of my favorite characters. This particular chapter has been sitting in my “yet to post” box for the longest time because I wasn’t sure if anybody would be interested in reading it. Anyway, today I decided it was time to post it and just find out...

So far, the collection contains the following ficlets:

PEPPERMINT TEA APPLE PIE ROOT BEER PEACH PUNCH CHOCOLATE COOKIES

APPLE CRUMBLE

"Hey Starbuck, have you decided which offer you want to take yet? I heard Johns Hopkins is interested."

Bill Scully, Sr. had just swallowed the last piece of roast. He was dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin and popped the question casually at his younger daughter who instantly stopped chewing. His wife sucked in her breath. Maggie somehow knew this wasn't a good after dinner topic. Dana had been avoiding to talk about what to do after her graduation from medical school lately whereas Ahab had hardly been talking about anything else.

Maggie knew he loved all his children but Dana had always been his favorite. Since the day she was born, she had been the apple of his eye. It had put her at the receiving end of his fatherly affection like none of her siblings but it had also put a lot of pressure on the girl to cope with. When she had been admitted to medical school, Maggie had seen her husband almost burst out of pride, Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. sounded like a melody in his ears. Therefore failing or, God forbid, dropping out hadn't been an option for Dana. It had turned her into an ambitious, tenacious, and determined young woman with an incredible amount of stamina who would do anything to not disappoint her daddy. To her mother's dismay, enjoying life had fallen a bit by the wayside in the process. Well, her older sister and younger brother had compensated for it more than enough.

Dana was putting the cutlery down in slow motion, then dabbed her lips thoroughly. She squinted her left eye for a brief moment and looked at her father.

"You heard? From whom?"  

Maggie noticed a sensitive undertone in Dana's voice her husband obviously missed because he continued unwaveringly.  

"Daniel told me."

"How did you get around talking about me with my boyfriend?"

Dana was tensing up noticeably. Maggie held her breath.

"He's as interested in your career as I am. Your move into the medical field needs to be well considered, and Daniel says Boston is offering the best opportunity for you to go into cardiology."

"Oh? Daniel says? I see." Dana chewed the inside of her cheek before she asked tight-lipped, "do I get a say in this, dad, or have Daniel and you already submitted my application?"

Bill's eyes widened at his daughter's harsh and open irony. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dana let out an annoyed chuckle. "Does it even occur to you that I might have other plans?"

"You're not talking about that crazy FBI idea, are you? That's absolutely out of the question!"

Bill shook his head. Ever since Dana had first mentioned that she had been approached by an FBI recruiter, he refused to even talk about it, always wiping the topic away with a dismissive wave of his hand, just like he was doing now.

"Bill, please," Maggie cut in as she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

The family dinner which had started out so nice and enjoyable was at the brink of turning into a veritable family argument. They hadn't been together like this for quite a while because the final exams of med school had accounted for all of Dana's free time. Now that all the tests - written, practical, and oral - were taken and they were waiting for the results, doubting not even for a nanosecond that her marks would be anything but excellent, their daughter finally allowed herself to spend an evening away from her textbooks at her parents' house.

"It's my life we're talking about here, dad, and not that many graduates get recruited right out of medical school by the FBI. I would get the chance to specialize in forensic pathology and might be teaching at the Academy later on. That's really something I can see myself in."

Maggie noticed how Dana's tensed-up body posture relaxed a bit, how exhilaration took over. It showed clearly how excited she was about this. Unfortunately, her husband wasn't this sensitive, for he exclaimed indignantly, "pathology? A medical doctor saves lives and does not cut open dead people who can't be helped anymore. It's stupid!"

"Stupid? Pathology is a medical specialty like any other. It isn't about some morbid slicing and dicing, it's about getting to the bottom of why and how a person died. It's science. Forensic pathology is a substantial part of solving criminal cases and convicting murderers. I would be saving lives by keeping potential victims from harm by killers that I helped to put behind bars."

Dana's passionate advocacy of forensic pathology didn't impress Ahab one bit. He didn’t seem to listen to her at all actually, Maggie noticed. Instead, he was pulling another ace from his sleeve; or so he thought.

"You really want to be a Fed, Dana? Lowsy pay and small reputation included?"

"This is what this is actually all about, isn't it? Pay and reputation." It wasn't meant as a question. "Your daughter being an underpaid federal agent wouldn't be anything you'd be comfortable talking about in your old boys' circle, would it? Your offspring performing open heart surgery though would be something else, something you wouldn't hesitate a second to let your friends know. Right, Dad?"

Ahab took a step backward. Was he perhaps impressed in some way by Dana's accusatory tone, Maggie marveled. There was a kernel of truth in it somewhere, for sure. Her husband had always loved letting his environment know how well his beloved Starbuck was doing. Dana had hit a blind spot with her angry words, she read from the change in Bill's whole demeanor and facial features. He had not only taken a step away from his daughter, not towering her anymore, but his whole body posture collapsed. His arms, which he had been fidgeting with, were hanging limply all of a sudden, his chin, which had been lifted challengingly, had sunken to his chest, and his eyes, which had been boring through Dana's just a moment ago, were avoiding hers now. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw pushed through visibly. Maggie had very rarely seen her husband searching for words; this was one of the times.

"It's just...Daniel...well, he says you're really good at it and that you'd have a bright future in cardiology," he eventually tried to defend himself, but Dana didn't want to hear any of it.

"Daniel? Daniel says? And what Daniel says is necessarily right? You don't trust me to make my own choice? To know what's good for me?"

Ahab tried to fend off the accusations he had been showered with a feeble, "you're getting it all wrong, Dana." Maggie almost felt like stepping up and pairing with him to form a consistent parental entity. It was what they had always done when serious arguments with their children occurred, she was wondering why she was somehow reluctant to do so now. Before she got to the bottom of the motivation, or rather lack thereof, Dana's voice filled the room again.

"I don’t think I'm getting anything wrong here! It's so typical for men to believe they are to make choices for us women. I mean, did mom ever had a say in whether she wanted to pursue her career after you got married?"

Maggie's heart skipped a beat and she realized that her daughter was unconsciously rubbing her nose into what was keeping her from backing her husband up in this matter.

"Your mother knew what it meant to be a Navy wife," Bill said without even looking at her as if the woman he was talking about wasn't in the same room standing just a few inches away from him.

"That does not mean she wouldn't have liked to keep working. She loved being a teacher, didn't you, mom?" Dana exclaimed, her glaring eyes meeting her mother's.

"I, uh-," Maggie started but was interrupted instantly by her husband.

"She was happy to be a housewife and mother."

"You didn't even let her answer herself just now, for Christ's sake! Was she allowed to have an opinion of her own back then? Did you even ask her or agreed upon what was good for her together with grandpa, just like you are doing for me right now with Daniel?"

Without even taking another breath Dana turned to Maggie and implored, "mom! Don't you have anything to say to this?"

"Watch your mouth, young lady! I am not to be spoken to in this tone by any of my children. And neither is your mother." Ahab's words came out of his mouth like shots out of a machine gun. Sharp, cold, deadly, but Dana would not let herself get intimidated.

"I'm an adult, dad! I'm not a kid anymore you can force to take piano lessons just so she can play Mozart to your party guests for their entertainment and your sick fatherly pride."

"How dare you-"

"Stop it! Now! Both of you!"

Maggie had been listening to what was being said about her with a mixture of shock, anger, and regret until she drowned the gamecocks in a high-pitched voice. She knew that if they went on, they would be saying something they regretted later. They had never been in an argument like this, mainly because Dana had always been a child trying to please her father, always wanting to make him proud of her. These times seemed to have come to an end. She was obviously ready to disobey his wishes, and Maggie secretly believed that it actually wasn't such a bad thing. Even though she herself had been pulled into their fight, she knew that right now was not the time to voice her own feelings about the whole FBI matter. Right now she had to protect father and daughter from getting themselves into a rage and saying something so hurtful the wounds left behind would be difficult to heal. Ahab and Starbuck had always been so close, if they tore themselves asunder over this, it would break both of their hearts; and Maggie's own heart along with it.

Both were staring at her, flabbergasted by her temperamental, forceful outburst. They weren't used to her speaking up, reining people in so openly. She usually tried to appease, to sugarcoat cracks and to smooth out disagreements within the family. "Don't look at me like this!" she said. "Did you even realize how you were yelling at each other? This is not how we talk to each other in this family!"

Maggie had a distinct need for harmony and every family member relied on it. No matter how severe the dispute was, everybody knew she would later arbitrate between the parties and make them reconcile again. Throughout her married life, she'd played the mediator between her husband and his children as well as between the siblings many times, had always tried to be impartial, to not take one side but make them see the other's point of view, to understand each other. It had always worked best like this. Until today. Today she would leave her neutral position and speak up for the person she believed had a reason.

"Dana is right, Bill," she said and was surprised about how easily the words were leaving her mouth.

"What?" her husband retorted, apparently dumbfounded by the statement which was so openly in conflict with his own opinion on this matter.

"What?" Dana whispered, equally caught off-guard like her father but in a more positive way.

"She's right. It's her choice to make, not ours."

Here she was again, Margaret Scully, a loyal wife to her husband, joining him as a parent by calling it their choice when as a matter-of-fact it had been just his. It was fair enough though, to not push him in the corner and blame him alone because if she was honest, she would have to admit that she was also not fond of her daughter's idea to join the FBI, but for totally different reasons.

Ahab's face turned red, anger creeping through his body. "What's going on in your minds, you Scully women? Very well, then," he spat but knew better than to start another argument with his wife now. He let out an exasperated huff, turned on his heel, and took a beer out of the refrigerator and mumbled under his breath, "I'm outside."

"Great," Dana hissed right after the porch door had been closed with a loud 'bang' seconds later, "now he's mad at me and you."

"That's alright, sweetheart. He's going to calm down again. We let him have his beer and give him time to think."

"I'm a disappointment for him because I'm not taking the career path he wants me to."

Maggie gasped. It hurt to see Dana being so hard on herself. Children weren't determined to fulfill their parents' dreams, they should aspire their very own goals.

"It's your life, Dana. You have to decide on your own. You've already signed the contract, haven't you?"

"No, but I really want to do this, mom."

"Yes, I can see your determination, but I always thought it was medicine you wanted to work in."

"I've never given anything else much thought until the FBI approached me."

"What is it with law enforcement that interests you so much?"

"It's not law enforcement per se but the opportunity to specialize in pathology. That's science, mom. Searching for the cause of death in a dead body is scientific work. It will challenge my intellect in many more ways than doing one heart catheter investigation after another. You remember that I wrote my undergraduate thesis about Einstein, don't you? If dad hadn't pressured me into medicine, I might've as well graduated in physics. I love science, mom."

"I know you do, but all this time you spent in medical school...you worked so hard for your degree, sweetheart. Are you willing to throw this all away?"

"I'm not throwing it away. A pathologist is a medical doctor like any other, and if I find out that the FBI is nothing for me, I can start as a resident at a hospital in cardiology or pediatrics any time. Johns Hopkins won't give me another chance probably but there are enough renowned hospitals in America." She looked at her mother with tears in her eyes, searching for some understanding. "I really want to give this a try, mom."

"You've already made up your mind," Maggie realized.

"Yes. I have an appointment with HR at the FBI headquarters this week. Field training will start next month."

Maggie tensed up. "You're going to be out in the field?"

"It's not intended. I get trained in forensic pathology and will work in the morgue and the lab mainly. Any time later, I might also be teaching at Quantico."

"Not intended? Does that mean it might happen nonetheless? That you have to go out into the field to track down criminals?"

"Mom, it's the FBI after all. I mean, it's part of the training and I have to do what I'm assigned to. If they need my expertise out in the field one day, I might be partnered up with someone. You know how it works in a federal institution, people are not asked but ordered."

Yes, being married to a naval captain, Maggie knew how it worked. Her family had been ordered to relocate to a different Navy base on short notice more than once, and her husband had been commandeered to dangerous missions around the globe never ever taking into consideration whether his wife was pregnant or his children had just made new friends at school. She also knew what it was like to worry about a beloved one on a daily basis, how to cope with the constant fear that something might happen to them. Maggie knew all of this and she wasn't sure how she was supposed to get through it once again. When Ahab had eventually retired from active military service and started working behind a desk, assuming a consulting role at the base, it had taken months until she had learned to not expect a compassionate Navy officer tell her something happened to her husband behind every nightly ring of the phone or urgent knock at the door. And now it would start all over again. How she wished her daughter would spare her dealing with this kind of fear.

She was fearing for Bill, Jr. already, her oldest son, who had followed his father's footsteps into the Navy. But he was tall and strong. A man. Dana was so small and fragile. Not any less fierce than her older brother, probably even more tenacious than he, but wouldn't she easily be outrun and overpowered by a muscled male criminal? Wouldn't she be bullied as a woman in a male-dominated environment? Maggie knew the FBI was as much an old boys' club as the Navy. Her daughter would have to fight herself through the system day in and day out. What a tough path she was choosing for herself.

Maggie sighed quietly but wouldn't voice her inhibitions. She would swallow her fears down and would resist the temptation to ask Dana to stay in the medical field just so her mother would be able to sleep more peacefully. Her daughter had every right to do whatever she wanted. It was her life, her career, her choice, and in a way she admired her guts. She would stand up to any man who underestimated her like she had stood up to her father today. Who would have thought that the tiny rosy bundle she had held prematurely in her arms all those years ago after a complicated pregnancy and difficult childbirth would grow up to become such a powerful and strong personality.

"I'm so proud of you, Dana," Maggie said, working hard though to mask her underlying worries.

"Thanks, mom, but you're the only one I'm afraid. Dad's never going to accept it."

"Don't underestimate your father. Give him some time to get used to the idea."

Dana shook her head. "Let's face it, he's disappointed in me."

"You have to go on your own way, Dana, not on the one your father wants to see you on. He will understand eventually."

"Do you really think so?"

"He's your father, and he loves you no matter what."

Maggie was sure of it. His love for his daughter was infinite. One day he would be able to swallow down his pride and see Dana's choice for what it was, an autonomous decision by his grown-up daughter. Something else was on Maggie's mind though. Her father wasn't the only dominant male figure in Dana's life.

"What's Daniel's reaction to your decision?"

Dana looked away. It took her a moment until she answered her mother. "I'm going to break up with him, mom."

"Oh. Because of this?"

"No...yes...well, I guess it's the straw that broke the camel's back. He's been so patronizing lately. He's not only planned my residency but has also more or less outlined my whole career after that. Can you imagine? I mean, who does he think he is that he acts like my goddamn guardian?"

A wave of relief was rolling over Maggie. She'd always thought that Dana's relationship with Daniel was not sufficiently based on equality although she had never mentioned anything to Dana, Dana was old enough to decide who she dated.

Daniel was Dana's teacher in medical school. He was an accomplished man, married, which bugged Maggie in particular. Not because she saw Dana as an adulteress - it had been the man's own decision to leave his wife and teenage daughter to get involved with one of his students - but because he used her, bathed himself in how she looked up to him. He enjoyed the role of her mentor, both in the medical field as in how to lead her life. Of course, he wanted her to do her residency under his wings in his hospital. It would give him the perfect opportunity to guard her furthermore, to mold her into what he saw in her.

A clear cut was maybe for the best. A completely clean slate. Another professional environment, another city, another man eventually. Maggie would hate to see her independent-minded, self-assured, and autonomous daughter permanently with someone who didn't treat her as an equal. There had to be men out there who saw her inner height and didn’t mistake her for a little girl just because she was petite. But Maggie also knew that Dana loved Daniel, that she had thought not long ago she would share her entire life with him. Breaking up wouldn't be easy.

"I better get going, mom. I don't think dad is coming back inside as long as I'm here."

"But what about dessert? I made your favorite." 

Even if it was a bit silly to believe there was even the slightest chance the three of them would be sitting at the table together having dessert, Maggie tried.

"Apple crumble with vanilla sauce and whipped cream?"

"Uh huh," Maggie confirmed.

She had even made the vanilla sauce herself this time. She hadn't done that in a while because of the time-consuming work involved, but the ones you could buy consisted more of sugar and artificial flavor than real bourbon vanilla, and that was what Ahab and Dana liked the most.

"Especially for your father and you."

"You're the best, mom." Dana flew into her arms and hugged her tightly. "I'm so sorry I ruined the evening, but I had to tell dad sooner or later. As much as I love your apple crumble, I lost my appetite. I don't think I can get anything down now."

"Take some home, dear. You can have it later, or tomorrow. I made it this morning, it'll persist a few days."

Dana gifted her one of her warm, genuine smiles. "I'd love to."

After Dana had said her goodbye with two Tupperware boxes in her hand and the front door closed shut behind her, Maggie stepped through the screen door out on the patio behind the house. Ahab was sitting in one of the deckchairs. His eyes were closed but he wasn't sleeping. There was an empty beer bottle on the floor and one half-full in his hand. He put it to his mouth and took a swig.

"Has she left?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yes. She told me to say goodbye."

He chuckled condescendingly. "There were times she gave me a hug before she left."

"Well, you didn't really make the impression you wanted to be hugged tonight."

He snorted, sat upright, put the bottle to his lips and emptied it in one gulp.

"Shall I get you another one?"

"Are you trying to appease after having stabbed me in the back?"

"I haven't stabbed you in the back, Bill. I just spoke out what I thought was right."

"It's not right that she throws away her medical degree and goes into law enforcement instead. The FBI, for heaven's sake, Maggie! She'll spend her time in a dull governmental building behind a utilitarian desk. She'll have to fight with the audit department over expenses more than she'll take criminals into custody. She'll waste years accomplishing nothing until she realizes she made a mistake." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe the money we paid for medical school was all for naught."

"Haven't you listened at all? She told us that she would specialize in forensic pathology."

"She could be a heart surgeon but wants to become a pathologist? That doesn't make any sense! Why doesn't she see what Daniel is offering her?"

"He might actually be part of the problem."

"Huh?"

"Daniel is part of the problem, Bill," Maggie repeated with more emphasis. "Can't you see that Dana wants to stand on her own two feet? That she wants neither her father nor her partner to tell her what career path to choose? Is that really so hard for you to understand? She wants to make her own decisions."

"You mean she's doing this to get one over on me?"

Maggie sighed. "No, Bill, this has nothing to do with you. Or Daniel. That's exactly the point."

Bill shook his head and put the bottle to his lips to take another swig. Realizing it was empty, he snorted. After contemplating for a moment, he popped a question which had obviously been bothering him for the time he had been out on the patio.

"Uhm...Maggie...what Dana said..."

"Yes, dear?" she said warmly. She had an idea of what was on his mind. They had never spoken about it, not even once since they were married, and she found it ironic in a way that one of their kids had to bring the topic up.

"What she said about you...uh, you giving up teaching," Ahab continued stammering.

"Yes?"

"Would you have rather continued working? Instead of...I mean..."

"Being there for you and the kids?" she completed his thought and added with a smile, "no."

"Hmm," he grunted apparently not fully convinced.

"Times were different then, Ahab. Today, it might have been possible for me to be a teacher and a housewife and mother, but not back then. You were right when you said that I knew what it would be like to be a Navy wife, and I chose to be one. I loved you, and I wanted to have children with you."

"Did you ever..." Instead of finishing the sentence he bit his lower lip.

"Regret it? No. Not a single day." "Hmm," Bill gruntled again, staring at the empty beer bottle in his hands, peeling the label off. "Why does Dana have to be so stubborn?" "Oh, Bill," Maggie laughed good-naturedly, "because we raised her to be an emancipated woman with an independent mind and a strong will. When has Dana ever been inconsiderate or unreasonable? Huh, Bill? I'm sure she's given this much thought, and I'm also sure that the feeling she's disappointing you is hard for her to handle. She adores you, Ahab." "Weird way of showing me," he mumbled, softening a bit. His shoulders, which had been tense were slowly descending, his brows returned to their original spots, and the wrinkles on his forehead were fading. He breathed in deeply and let the tension flow out of his body with a prolonged exhale. Maggie seized the moment to go for his soft spot again. "She's still your Starbuck." His special nickname for her, being the only person allowed to call her like that, never missed having an effect on him. He was relenting even more. "Yes, sure. Of course, she is." Maggie took the empty bottle out of her husband's hand and put it on the floor next to the other. She pushed the second deckchair right beside his, placed herself in it, and intertwined her fingers with his. After a while, she asked, "are you ready for some apple crumble for dessert?" "You made apple crumble?" "It's Dana's and your favorite. The plan was to spoil you a bit tonight." "Did you buy that sugar-sweet sauce again?" "No, I made it myself. Following your mother's recipe." Bill Scully smiled lovingly at his wife and squeezed her hand tenderly. He pulled it up to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on its back. "I don't deserve you. I'm sorry the evening turned out like this. I know how much you like to have your children around. They drop by seldom enough." "It's okay, darling. You said what you had to say. Just don't be too strict with her. She's doing what she feels is right. She's not doing it to purposely contradict you." Bill left it at that for a moment. "I can't believe the money we spent on medical school," he said again and groaned. "Well, you never know, Ahab. Dana will be a medical doctor, one way or another, and who knows what the FBI has in store for her. She might become the Bureau's first female director," she said with a smile. He let that sink in for a moment, and although the fact that his daughter would not become a heart surgeon was still bugging him, this new idea soothed him a little. Maggie could imagine what was going on in his mind. If there was a woman capable of achieving this seemingly unreachable position for a female, it would have to be his Starbuck. "You did give her some dessert to take home, right? She loves your apple crumble." "Sure." Maggie smiled. Despite all the grievances Ahab had aired this evening, he cared very much for Dana. Inside the strict Navy captain was a devoted father; devoted to all his children but particularly to his younger daughter. And even if it seemed to Dana that he had been a dominant husband, having pressured her into a life as a housewife and mother, it had been her own wish to be this exactly, a supporting wife to her husband and a loving mother to her children. Maggie knew Bill treasured her, that he had never even thought of anyone else but her to share his life with. He had always been a loyal husband and family man, and she had relied on him to provide for her and the kids in return. She never had the feeling she had missed or lost anything because she had once decided to marry him. On the contrary, he had given her four wonderful children and a sheltered life. For that, she was infinitely thankful. She loved him.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Ooh, 68 or 79 for Garcy?

Post-whatever, PG-ish, and also on ao3.

“I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

He falls in love, and then he waits.

It's never the right time. They're in the middle of a war, and Lucy is having approximately five simultaneous personal crises, and he will not become another one. He is content in their friendship, in the half-second-too-long looks and the occasional nights she doesn't want to be alone. He has scars too, and the thought of moving forward is still foreign.

Above all else, he can't put that weight on her. He's convinced he'll die before this is over, and he knows too deeply what it is to lose someone one loves, and he cannot bear to think of what that would do to her. She of all people doesn't deserve to drown like that.

And then the war ends and they win and somehow, Flynn is still alive and all the promises he made about what he would do once it ends - what he will do, now - come back to haunt him.

They get one night to adjust. In the morning, the debriefing process apparently starts, and he does not expect that's going to be a good time for him in particular. The overall narrative does show he was right, and he hopes the rest of the team will confirm that he caused no further problems once that was made clear, but that doesn't mean some underpaid drone from whatever agency gets stuck with this project is going to listen. The best case scenario, as far as he's concerned, is any that ends with him alive and not trapped in another concrete box. More than that would be a miracle.

One last night. He has to do something, because this may well be the last chance. He's just not sure how.

At the very moment he starts running through options, how he might want to confess feelings that have taken up the good parts of his heart for years now, the door opens. Lucy doesn't knock anymore, just lets herself in because she's here so much anyways and he's never turned her away. Never even wanted to, and that more than anything else reveals how much he likes her. Over the past few months, she's seemed more comfortable within his room than anywhere else. Tonight, though, she stays by the door and she looks so broken and-

"What's wrong?"

"I wanted to say goodbye. Properly." She sounds like she's about to cry. He hopes she doesn't, but it wouldn't be the first time and he can deal.

"We'll see each other again," he murmurs, crossing the distance and wishing he could actually promise that instead of saying pretty lies to calm her down. He doesn't actually know if they will, if he'll be allowed to, if she would even want that. But he wants, wants so desperately, wants-

"Not like this. It'll be different. I… I have three years to catch up on. You have more than that."

"That doesn't mean we can't still be friends." It comes out more bitter than he intends - he would be fine with staying as they are, he swears, and yet-

"It'll be different," she repeats as she reaches for his hand and entwines their fingers. They've gotten comfortable with gentle physical contact over the past few months, comfortable enough that he knows he will hold her for a while before she leaves, but the smallest actions still send flutters through his skin. "Not like…"

Oh hell. Last chance, he reminds himself. Might as well take it while he's conscious of it.

"I want to be more than friends with you, if…"

She digs her fingernails into his skin, and he can tell that was the wrong way of saying it and maybe not the impeccable timing it had seemed like.

"I'm not ready," she murmurs. "I need… I need time, Garcia. And we have that now. I'm not saying no, just not yet. I don't trust myself enough."

"Alright. I'll still be here, when you're ready."

"I know." She pushes herself up on tiptoe and kisses his cheek, and even this is not a new action but it feels different now. "I do want you. But if we happen… I want…"

"You don't need to be scared of me, Lucy." She never has been, and that was the first reason he fell for her, but still.

"I want to be sure I won't destroy you. Is that enough?"

"Of course." And perhaps he himself should be scared of the same thing, but he knows better. He's spent too much time with this woman, knows her too well. She is the only person, in all of time and space, who he trusts is completely immune to the worst of him. No harm will come to her by his hand, he has made promises and vows that he will tell her about someday and-

"I love you too," she murmurs, shifting again and resting her body against his. "I'm just a little too much of a mess to do anything about it."

[rephaela-blog]

Nov 30th.....

I am not blogging for attention, I am blogging for awareness. The names of the people in this blog have been changed, but the facts have not. 

My life changed for the worst after Nov 30th, 2017. Little did I know, everything that I worked hard for my car, my apartment, my possessions will be ripped away from me. Why? Because I wanted to be the Dandelion that grew through a crack in the pavement. I've been through a lot as a child, more once I became a teenager. This is why I am as passionate as I am about children. I couldn't picture myself doing anything other than my job as what they refer to as a Residential Advisor or Residential Counselor. The state of Maryland and their "Therapeutic" names. I know some of you may be confused what does either job have to do with children? Well a lot, a Residential Advisor or Counselor is a direct support staff that assists in rehabilitating at-risk teens. Also known as an OVERPAID BABYSITTER. Well, we were truly underpaid, considering all the crap we had to deal with. To add insult to injury we worked 16 hours sometimes 4-5 times a week but that is a different story for another day. Let's go back to Nov 30th, 2017, I was working for the State of Maryland at the notorious Cheltenham Youth Facility. Before my shift, there was a riot. They had 4 boys on seclusion. Of course, those boys were the ones who enticed the group disturbance. For once, seclusion was done right, they had a nurse come around every hour to make sure the boys were okay. Same for the shift commander and of course I was assigned to observe them every couple of minutes. Later that night after all of the boys on the unit finished showering, ate and took their medication The male who was working with me, was called to another unit. I was alone talking to one of my close coworkers on the phone, making my rounds, waiting for my relief. One of the boys who were on seclusion earlier started to complain of stomach pains. Me being concerned about the child, notified the nurse on duty. The nurse on duty expressed that she was the only one in the nursing station, she was unable to come to the unit. She explained the meds he takes, are known to be hard on the stomach. If I could get someone to come to the nurse's station, she will give them crackers to give to the youth to help relieve his pain. Soon after I got off the phone with the nurse I called the Shift Commander to get someone to get the youth his crackers. I am only assuming due to staffing and laziness this is why It took hours for this child to be tended to. Mind you while we waited, I called both the Rover, Master control and the Shift Commander to figure out the status of this child cracker. The Youth appeared in extreme pain, detained or not, he is still a human and someone's child. He shouldn't have to sit in agony for hours. His actions toward me did not surprise me at all. When the Shift commander finally bought the cracker, as I was giving them to the youth, he attempted to push me out of his way. I was not sure of what his intention was, I can only assume he was trying to get to the Shift commander, therefore I had to restrain him. While restraining the youth, I heard a pop in my shoulder, but I couldn't let him go, I had to get him back in his room so no one would get hurt. Once I got him in the room, the door closed behind me. We are in a secure facility, therefore I was locked in the room with the youth. The youth didn't harm me, he stood his ground the only thing he said is "now you understand how it feels being locked in a room". It felt like I was in his room for hours before the shift commander let me out. Once I got out, and my adrenaline ran out. I tried to write the incident report, but I couldn't my arm was completely numb. After the numbness it was a pain I wish I could describe, I couldn't write. I called my coworker back, who told me to report it to the Shift Commander, I was hesitant. But I informed the Shift Commander, she said okay and went about her business carefree. My coworker called me to tell me she was leaving, I was confused if I was just injured why is she leaving before me? I called Master Control to figure out if my relief was coming down. I told Master Control I was injured, they informed me the Shift Commander never told them. I was furious as I sat on the unit for an hour, in pain waiting for my relief..... TO BE CONTINUED...

[gaytog]

We're probably going completely destroy the teaching profession from a combination of lack of money and the sheer amount of abuse teachers are meant to endure, so I'm sure you'll get your wish soon enough. And until then, you can keep being sympathetic to kids who terrorize people who at some point, before they were totally broken, actually wanted to help them learn!

If you’re right, then no, I will not get my wish or anything close to resembling my wish. To be clear, my wish is not to see teachers rot in hell. It’s to live in a world where everyone’s bodily autonomy is respected and all interactions are made on the basis of mutual, informed consent.

If I think you need help, but you don’t want me to help you, then my job as a responsible citizen of the world is to say “Okay!” and not press the issue. Forcing you to accept my help would be decidedly unhelpful, no matter how good my intentions. At best, it would be rude and intrusive; at worst, straight-up violent; for if I decide that you need my help no matter what, but you refuse to cooperate, then what can I do except turn to violence?

I have sympathy for teachers. Both my parents spend most of their waking hours planning, teaching, or grading papers, and they come home stressed every night. They’re underpaid and overworked. They get shit from administrators who’ve never taught a day in their lives. They get shit from anyone with an iota of anti-union sentiment, and even people who are normally pro-union manage to muster a hatred for teacher’s unions. Believe me, I know.

I know that being a teacher sucks, and I also want to live in a world where everyone’s bodily autonomy is respected and all interactions are made on the basis of mutual, informed consent. I think it’s morally repugnant to use violence, threats of violence, and other forms of coercion to bend people to your will. And I think “everyone” and “people” are categories that necessarily include children. To quote an older post:

Children learn how to act from the older people in their life. For as long as adult/child relationships remain hierarchical, authoritarian, and violent, children will reproduce those behaviors in their other relationships. Therefore, it’s impossible to maintain any progress toward a less authoritarian, less violent world unless we shape up and start treating young people with respect. 

To put it another way, children will not respect other people’s bodily autonomy or consent unless we respect their autonomy and their consent.

And yes, I have sympathy for people who meet violence with resistance. Not every act of resistance is morally justified. I’ll give you that. Children, like all humans, are capable of doing real harm. But resistance in and of itself is not a moral wrong.

[eclectic-existentialist]

Masterpost of swaggy reminders that have helped me in life.

Word combinations I’ve collected over the years that are just really fantastic, in no particular order. Some I came up with myself, but most are from various walks of the internet.

Note: This post will be updated whenever i find another reminder that helps me. Feel free to reblog at any time.

DO GOOD RECKLESSLY.

DO NOT TAKE YOUR WRITING SERIOUSLY. IT’S WAY MORE FUN THAT WAY BABEY.

U ARE SEXCEE AS FUCK.

UGLY AS FUCK IS EPIC SWAG. UGLY AS FUCK IS THE GATEWAY TO EXISTENCE.

DO NO HARM, BUT TAKE NO SHIT.

PRACTICE RADICAL SELF LOVE.

LOVE BEING YOURSELF.

CURATE YOUR ONLINE SPACE.

PRACTICE SETTING BOUNDARIES.

INCOHERENCY IS PARAMOUNT.

YOU DO NOT OWE ANYONE ANYTHING.

WEAPONIZE SELF LOVE.

FAILURE IS NOT ONLY NECESSARY, IT IS SACRED. FAILURE IS EXCELLENCE, FAILURE IS POSITIVE, FAILURE IS LIFE.

I DO NOT DREAM OF UNDERPAID LABOR, NOR DO I WISH TO WORK TO BE ABLE TO SURVIVE.

MAKE YOURSELF HARD TO KILL.

YOU ARE INFINITE, YOU CONTAIN MULTITUDES, YOU ARE EVERYTHING.

ONE PERSON’S OPINION IS NOT SACRED. IT DOES NOT HAVE TO AFFECT YOU OR SWAY YOUR EXISTENCE. THEY ARE JUST A PERSON, SAME AS YOU.

KEEP IT SIMPLE. IT’S OKAY.

NOTHING WILL EVER BE PERFECT. HUMANITY IS REALITY, AND REALITY IS CHAOS. IT IS HARD, BUT IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THEY���RE DOING. YOU ARE NOT ANY LESS THAN ANYONE ELSE. WE ARE ALL HUMAN.

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO BE SAD, AND SOMETIMES, YOU NEED TO BE SAD.

YOUR BODY IS YOURS TO DECORATE. TATTOOS, PIERCINGS, CLOTHES, MAKEUP, THE WORKS. THIS IS YOUR AVATAR. THIS IS YOUR HOME.

ALWAYS STAY ON THAT BULLSHIT.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO KNOW ANYTHING, NOR DO YOU HAVE TO HAVE AN OPINION ON EVERYTHING. IN FACT, SOMETIMES IT IS BETTER TO STSY QUIET AND LET OTHERS SPEAK, BECAUSE OTHERS HAVE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE, AND THAT IS OKAY AND TO BE EXPECTED.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO LIMIT YOUR LOVE. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO HAVE A FAVORITE OF ANYTHING. YOUR LOVE HAS NO PEAK CAPACITY. YOUR LOVE IS INFINITE.

SINGING AND DANCING ARE NOT, AT THEIR BASE LEVEL, SKILLS; THEY ARE HUMAN BEHAVIORS AND THEREFORE CAN AND SHOULD BE DONE BY EVERYONE WITHOUT JUDGEMENT.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE PRESENTABLE IN ORDER TO EXIST IN A SPACE WITH OTHERS.

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO TAKE UP SPACE.

YOUR SINGING VOICE IS GOOD FOR SHOWERS AND STAIRWELLS, FOR MORNINGS IN THE KITCHEN AND DRUNKEN NIGHTS WITH FRIENDS AND SOFT, SIMPLE LULLABIES. YOUR VOICE IS GOOD. YOUR HARMONIES ARE FULL OF HEART. SING BECAUSE YOU CAN, BECAUSE IT’S FUN. SING FOR YOURSELF, FOR HEART, FOR SOUL.

DUEL YOUR GAY LOVER IN A TACO BELL PARKING LOT.

IF YOUR OUTFIT ISN’T GETTING DIRTY GLARES FROM CONSERVATIVE OLD PEOPLE, WAS IT EVEN WORTH IT?

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO REMOVE YOURSELF FROM A SITUATION IF IT IS NOT GOOD FOR YOU.

CHASE WHAT SERVES YOU.

THE EARLIER YOU GO TO BED, THE EARLIER YOU CAN WAKE UP AND HAVE A DELICIOUS MORNING COFFEE.

INVOLVE YOURSELF IN COMMUNITY.

IF IT’S CHAIN, IT’S FREE REIGN. ALSO, STEAL FROM HOBBY LOBBY, THEY’RE HOMOPHOBIC.

HUMAN EXISTENCE SHOULD NOT HINGE ON THE PRESENCE OF MONEY, AND THE FACT THAT IT DOES IS THE SOURCE OF OUR DESTRUCTION.

HUG AND KISS YOUR HOMIES.

LOVE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE CATEGORIZED.

RESPECTABILITY POLITICS HAVE NOT, DO NOT, AND WILL NEVER SERVE TO LIBERATE THE OPPRESSED.

PEACE, LOVE, UNITY, RESPECT (PLUR).

I DID MEET SOME OF THE MOST INSUFFERABLE PEOPLE. BUT, THEY ALSO MET ME.

ANTIFA SOUP FOR MY FAMILY.

(LGBTQ+) ALPHABET MAFIA <3

YOUR ANGER IS THE PART OF YOU THAT KNOWS THE WAY YOU WERE TREATED IS NOT ONLY UNFAIR, BUT WHOLLY UNACCEPTABLE. YOUR ANGER KNOWS YOU DESERVE TO BE TREATED WELL. YOUR ANGER IS A PART OF YOU THAT LOVES YOU.

THINK ABOUT WHO YOU WANT TO BE IN SIX MONTHS.

LOVE RECKLESSLY.

IN ORDER TO DO THE RIGHT THING, YOU CANNOT ALWAYS BE NICE.

YOU CAN IMBUE ANY OBJECT WITH MEANING. SIMILARLY, YOU CAN TAKE AWAY MEANING FROM ANY OBJECT.

PRACTICE SELF-AGGRANDIZING.

DRINK MORE WATER THAN YOU THINK YOU NEED. ESPECIALLY WHEN GETTING HAMMERED.

IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY, IT’S WORTH IT.

CRINGE CULTURE IS DEAD.

LEARN TO RECOGNIZE WHEN AND WHERE YOUR TIME AND EFFORT WILL BE APPRECIATED. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WASTE YOUR TIME ON PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT LISTEN.

LEARN TO RECOGNIZE GASLIGHTING.

WEAR IT BECAUSE YOU LIKE IT, NOT BECAUSE IT LOOKS GOOD. SOMEONE MIGHT LOOK HOT AS FUCK IN A CROP TOP, BUT IF THEY DON’T FEEL SAFE OR IF IT DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT OR GOOD OR COMFORTABLE, THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE TO WEAR IT.

HOLD MEN TO A HIGHER STANDARD.

LISTEN TO TRANS WOMEN, ESPECIALLY TRANS WOMEN OF COLOR.

JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND SOMETHING DOESN’T MEAN IT ISN’T VALID.

NEVER IDOLIZE POLITICIANS.

RECOVERY IS NOT LINEAR.

SOMETHING IS ALWAYS BETTER THAN NOTHING.

THE MORE YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, AND WHAT YOU WANT, THE LESS YOU LET THINGS UPSET YOU.

CONSTANTLY REMIND YOURSELF THAT OTHER PEOPLE ARE IN FACT PEOPLE, JUST LIKE YOU (SONDER).

IF YOU CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY SOMEONE WOULD DO SOMETHING HORRIBLE, IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT LIKE THEM AND THEREFORE CANNOT FOLLOW THEIR REASONING, IF THEY EVEN HAD ONE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

WITH GROWTH COMES CHANGE. EMBRACE IT.

SOMETIMES, YOU CANNOT BE STRONG. SOMETIMES, YOU CANNOT POWER THROUGH. IN THESE TIMES, REMEMBER THAT LIMPING THROUGH IS ENOUGH. BEING ALIVE IS ENOUGH.

[southeastasianists]

JK Rowling, Paul Kalanithi, John Grisham, David Baldacci, Bill O’Reilly. These people have a few things in common: they are the authors of Amazon’s five best-selling books of 2016; they all made millions of dollars for their publishers; and they are all from English-speaking countries. As English becomes ever more predominant as the world’s lingua franca, works written in English increase their stranglehold on the global literary scene.

It is acutely difficult for a ‘foreign’ author to break into the English-language market, where only 3% of the published works are translations from other languages. Even the world’s fourth most populous nation is struggling to have its voices heard: despite Indonesia being Southeast Asia’s most prolific literary nation, producing tens of thousands of books per year, its most renowned authors remain relatively unknown to the wider world.

Yet before Indonesians can even contemplate access to the vast English-speaking market their books need to be translated – and that is often where the problems begin.

“I think there’s a critical mass of very good writers [in Indonesia] who deserve much greater exposure, but they are only going to get that exposure if their work is translated well,” says Gill Westaway, a freelance translator and editor who lives on Lombok island, Indonesia.

Most Indonesian authors realise that the financial rewards of being translated and ‘making it’ in the English-speaking world are limited – the vast majority of Western authors also struggle to make a living solely through writing books – but the benefits of the increased status for authors and the country’s literary scene in general are incalculable.

“I think it’s very important [to get translated] because there aren’t many potential Indonesian readers compared to those who read in English,” says Ratih Kumala, an Indonesian author who has written six works of fiction, including a novel that was translated into English as Cigarette Girl. “Indonesia is a small country in the world, and nobody knows the Indonesian language unless you have lived here for a long time.”

Leila S. Chudori, an experienced journalist and author who has written several anthologies of short stories and last year had her novel Pulang translated into English and titled Home, also advocates for reaching more people but cautions against writing for the wrong reasons.

“If you think you want to write because you want to be read in America or Australia and want to be translated into 20 languages and want to win the Booker Prize… I’m afraid it will be contrived.”

Perhaps the greatest showcase to date for Indonesian authors came in October 2015, when the country was the guest of honour at the prestigious Frankfurt Book Fair, which attracts more than 7,000 exhibitors from 100 countries and up to 10,000 journalists from around the world. First and foremost, this stimulated Indonesian publishers, who realised they might be able to sell rights abroad, and it also resulted in hundreds of translations into English and German.

Yet business has reverted to something like normal. There are hundreds of publishers operating in Indonesia, most of them tiny, and it is increasingly difficult for them to survive in a market where a large print run is 3,000 copies of a book and profit from sales barely offsets production, promotion, distribution and marketing costs.

According to many Indonesian writers at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival (UWRF), there are numerous paths to achieving the status of ‘published author’. Some had been picked up directly by a publisher, others had self-published, and many had been approached by Indonesian-speaking Westerners interested in translating their work. Meanwhile, online publishing on-demand is also becoming a key avenue for Indonesian authors, who send manuscripts directly to such a company, which then prints copies to order – whether one or 1,000.

The two publishers that stand out, particularly for authors looking to break into the English-language market, are Gramedia and Lontar. “Gramedia go for the media with a mass commercial appeal, because that is going to bring in the money – even though there is not a lot of money in it. Whereas Lontar go for a more literary bent – not necessarily trying to capture the big market. Depending on your raison d’etre, there are different criteria for which books get chosen,” says Pam Allen, associate dean at the University of Tasmania and a widely published Indonesian-to-English translator who works with Lontar.

Gemi Mohawk, an Indonesian poet who ghosts around the UWRF wearing his trademark all-black clothing and hat, had his second collection of poems published as a book titled Indonesianus by an individual benefactor who simply loved his work. Prior to this serendipitous meeting of minds, however, Mohawk had received short shrift from the local publishing industry.

“When I tried to publish my book through this major publisher, it was rejected because I hadn’t published any books before, and because I am not a famous person. But how could I publish a book if I cannot publish my first book?” says Mohawk.

According to John H. McGlynn, the American co-founder of Lontar and someone described at the festival as the “godfather” of literary publishing in Indonesia, similar problems persist for authors who wish to step onto the international stage. “Almost no foreign publisher will publish, without financial subsidies, translations of anything other than best-selling or award-winning novels,” he explains.

Nevertheless, there have been breakout stars. The current international poster boy for Indonesian literature is Eka Kurniawan, whose first novel, called Beauty is a Wound in English, has been translated into 28 languages. His second book, Man Tiger in English, was named on the 13-book longlist for the Man Booker International Prize.

Yet even Kurniawan’s route to the pinnacle of contemporary Indonesian literature was a fateful combination of many factors, including undoubted talent, perfect timing and first-rate translation – while an endorsement from legendary Southeast Asia scholar Benedict Anderson, and the presence of a noted literary agent, Pontas, did no harm either.

“Indonesian literature is kind of obscure in, say, a global literary scene, so it’s not easy,” he says, pointing out that his first two books, which have received glowing reviews in the West since being released there in 2015, were actually written 14 and 12 years ago respectively. “It took a very long time until finally there was one publisher from the UK who wanted to publish [my work].”

Jennifer Lindsay, a translator for the weekly Indonesian magazine Tempo and former lecturer in Southeast Asian literature at the National University of Singapore, says the clamour for marketable works is not only counting out certain novelists, it is creating an environment in which the very best Indonesian writers are being ignored completely.

“The novel as a form is such a European fixation, and it’s not necessarily where the best writing is. It skews what kinds of things are translated, it skews people’s view of the variety of writing in other languages,” she says. “I would say that a lot of Indonesia’s best writing, really good writing, is in short forms and also in plays… not necessarily the forms that are going to get them the big attention in the Western world.

“To turn the whole thing around, if English wasn’t the dominant language, who the hell would have translated James Joyce or any of those experimental writers? They wouldn’t. They’d think: ‘Who the hell is going to read this stuff?’”

Even for authors whose work does eventually find a home with a Western publisher, often the struggle has just begun. Any work of literature that is translated, in any language, is doomed to lose something of its original essence or meaning. However, most authors at the festival, from international success stories such as Eka Kurniawan to localised talents like Gemi Mohawk, seemed to agree – some more begrudgingly than others – that it is a price worth paying for a potentially larger audience.

Ratih Kumala remembers the deep anguish she felt over the translation of her book Gadis Kretek, which became Cigarette Girl in English. The problem, for her, lay in the treatment of the word kretek, a particular type of cigarette flavoured with cloves and intrinsically associated with Indonesia.

“I was a little bit disappointed actually,” she says. “I wanted to keep the name kretek, or clove cigarette, because this is a very special type of cigarette in Indonesia. But my editor and my translator wanted it just to be titled Cigarette Girl. Deep down in my heart, it was just – it’s not the same! It’s not the same. But in the end I had to let go.”

Perhaps the largest problem faced by Indonesian authors seeking exposure beyond their own shores, however, is that the general standard of literary translation in the country remains very low.

“A high level in the quality of translation is and will always be the single most important factor in Indonesia’s success as a source of international-quality literature,” says McGlynn. “Unfortunately, not only are translators dreadfully underpaid; by and large, their skill is rarely recognised.”

Indeed, the art of translation is massively undervalued in most cultures, and it is rarely acknowledged that a good translator needs to have literary flair of their own. Add the fact that Indonesian is far from a commonly learned language in the Western world and, suddenly, finding someone who combines the requisite literary flair in their native tongue with fluency in Indonesian – and is willing to undertake a huge task for relatively little remuneration – becomes rather difficult.

Even Gramedia, the country’s largest publisher, is struggling. One translator at the UWRF, who asked to be quoted anonymously, described the majority of Gramedia’s translations as “appalling”.

There is, however, only so much that Indonesia’s private publishers can do without concerted support from the government. Recognition of the importance of the creative industries is undoubtedly lacking in Indonesia – and even more so across the majority of its Southeast Asian neighbours.

“It needs the country’s hands there. It needs the involvement of the government, because this is serious… First, governments should think that literature is important. If you don’t think that literature is important, nothing will be done. Second, writers are important, and third, translators are important,” says Kadek Sonia Piscayanti, an Indonesian author who started her own independent publishing company. “So, if these three sit together, I believe that there are so many talented writers… [but] you cannot do it yourself; you have to be helped by a systematic structure.”

According to McGlynn, the government can take two tangible steps to promote Indonesian literature: set up a committed and long-term programme to fund translation, and ensure Indonesia is represented at overseas literary festivals and book fairs – an exercise that is prohibitively expensive for most Indonesian publishers and authors.

Until something changes, it seems that even the country’s most successful contemporary author, Eka Kurniawan, is destined to see overseas success as something of a surprise, and not readily attainable, even for a country with such rich storytelling traditions.

“I think it’s more like a bonus for me,” he says. “Of course, there are many, many readers outside Indonesia, but I still write stories, first and foremost, for Indonesians… It’s not easy to translate literary work, but I think that just because it’s not easy we cannot give up on this. It’s very important.”

[schultz290]

Gamers, Stalkers, the Zone, and Escaping

One of the most striking scenes in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker occurs not long after the film’s trio of characters arrives in the Zone. The Stalker, the guide leading the other two characters in with his esoteric expertise, is overwhelmed emotionally by arriving in the Zone. He asks for a moment alone, and absconds to a nearby clearing. Once there, he collapses into the tall grass in ecstasy, with a palpable sense of relief and pleasure washing over him. The film’s sparse soundtrack comes in as he holds and sniffs the grass and drinks the air, and the Zone seems to respond as the wind picks up and all the plants begin to gently dance in the breeze. The Stalker lays on the ground in a sort of trance as the Zone breathes around him, and he lets little insects crawl gently along his fingers as he lays blissfully upon the blanket of thick green grass. The scene has no words but communicates a great deal about the Stalker’s relationship with the Zone. He’s been marked by it, and in doing so has become a part of it. He knows the Zone (as much as any human can know) and the Zone knows him. For him, the Zone is a refuge from the outside world, a hopeful escape. The other characters find the zone terrifying and alien, but the Stalker has mentally made his home here. At his most hopeful and excited he even considers literally upending his life outside to resettle his wife and daughter inside the Zone.

Upon watching Stalker for the first time, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I wasn’t even sure if I liked it necessarily, and upon repeat viewings I remain sort of coldly fascinated with it and its themes rather than having any warm feelings towards it. However one thing jumped out at me: how much I personally related to the Stalker himself. That moment of blissful solitude, while seemingly a characteristically bizarre action of a generally strange man, is to me one of the most human moments in the film. That feeling of sensory and emotional joy, of escaping the horrid grey world “outside the barbed wire” struck home for me: It was the feeling I have when I sink into an hours long session of playing games. I become dead to the outside world and to stimuli outside the game, drinking in the sights, sounds and feelings of play. I breathe a sigh of palpable relief every time I sit down at my computer knowing that I’m about to disappear into a digital Zone all my own. The world outside is ugly, hostile, anxiety inducing, and depressing. Just as the world in which the Stalker lives with his family is a ruined grey industrial wasteland, the world I live in with my family is a continuously worsening garbage fire of greed, hatred, and constant violence. The Zone and gaming both provide a place of vibrant colors and joyful escape, a home precisely because it is away from my actual home.

However, in comparing video games as a hobby to the Zone I cannot ignore the differences between the two. The Zone is by it’s very nature wholly alienated from the rest of human existence. Guarded by soldiers, barbed wire, and a great deal of fear of the unknown, the Zone is a place devoid of human activity and indeed is a place that violently rejects such activity if it is sufficiently disruptive. Video games, on the other hand, are a medium of art like any other. Like all mediums of art, they are a site of human activity and a product of it rather than a space alienated from it. I cannot play games without recognizing that as colorful as they are, they were produced in my grey world by overworked and underpaid dev teams and producers hostile to unionization. They are in communication with the broader culture, both reinforcing our worst tendencies of justifying violence and critiquing them, both attempting to say something while also frequently attempting to obfuscate the existence of cultural problems at all in service of good clean fun. The most vocal hobbyists of video games have proven themselves time and time again to be entitled white men with a chip on their shoulder and a death threat flying from their fingertips. Nazis and centrists alike defend gaming as a zone of alienation where the outside world of “politics” cannot be allowed to intrude, and will go to any lengths to try and maintain the nonexistent wall of barbed wired between gaming and reality. The escapism that brings me and so many others beaten down by our crapsack world so much joy is also for many a dangerous reactionary impulse, and becomes a toxic possessiveness of the medium.

Stalker confronts and interrogates the Stalker’s escapism near the end of the trio’s journey through the character of the Writer. On the threshold of the legendary Room that supposedly grants the wishes of those who enter it (and is thought by some to do so in a monkey’s paw esque cruel and harmful fashion) the group breaks down mentally. No one quite has the ability to actually cross the threshold, and each attempts to articulate why. The Stalker never planned on entering the room in the first place, as he says that he cannot as it is another one of the Zone’s mysterious rules. The Professor states a desire to destroy the Zone and the room to keep their power out of the wrong hands, and has brought a nuclear bomb to do so. Upon hearing this, the Stalker loses all composure and desperately attacks the Professor. The Stalker shouts “He wants to destroy your hope!” as he struggles with the Professor and is then thrown to the ground by the Writer.

As each man pants with exhaustion and drips with filthy water in the dirty little antechamber to the legendary room, the Writer begins to castigate the Stalker:

“I see right through you. You don’t give a damn about people. You just make money using our… anguish! Its not just the money. You’re enjoying it here! You’re like God Almighty in here! You, a hypocritical louse, decide who is to live and who is to die… Now I see why you Stalkers never enter the Room yourselves. You revel in all that power, that mystery, your authority! What else is there to wish for?”

The Stalker stammers and sobs pitifully as he replies:

“You’re right, I’m a louse. I haven’t done any good and I can’t do any good. I couldn’t give anything even to my wife. I can’t have any friends either, but don’t take mine from me! They’d already taken everything from me, back behind the barbed wire! So all that’s mine is here, you understand? Here. In the Zone. My happiness, my freedom, my self respect, it’s all here. I bring here people like me, desperate and tormented. People who have nothing else to hope for. And I can help them! No one else can help them, only I, the louse, can! I’m so happy to be able to help them I want to cry. And that’s all, I don’t want anything more.”

We often discuss how video games provide a “power fantasy” for the user, usually meaning that games allow players to perform actions digitally that they never could in real life. However, I think this dialogue from Stalker captures how games provide a different form of empowerment as a hobby. The empowerment games provide is that of mastery, of the possession of esoteric and obscure knowledge. Just like the Zone, games function on strange and arcane rules that to outsiders seem capricious. To see this effect, one need go no further than simply hand a controller to someone who has never played a game in their life. The person will struggle to move their character or comprehend what’s happening on screen, in a way that seems infuriating and baffling to an experienced player. But from an external perspective it is easy to understand that games are something learned through experience and practice, if only because their rules are so divorced from reality. Think merely of the amount of terminology and jargon that can suffuse a conversation about a game that is utterly nonsensical without context.  In a world where even some of the most privileged of us are powerless as individuals to change, shape, and sometimes even comprehend our reality, the ability to so thoroughly master the complicated systems and rules of games is a universal form of mental empowerment.

Mastering these arcane rules and systems is a joy all its own, but a special glee is reserved for the ability to guide others and demonstrate that mastery. Let’s Plays are often structured around this happy sharing, a frequent format is a two person playthrough in which one person has played the game already and another is starting it fresh. Games have even introduced features allowing players to explicitly take on the role of teacher and guide, such as Team Fortress 2′s coaching system and Destiny’s high level “sherpas”. The joy is both the vicarious joy of witnessing a person experience the game you loved for the first time, and is as well the joy of demonstrating just how well you can guide them through it.

“I bring here people like me, desperate and tormented. People who have nothing else to hope for. And I can help them! No one else can help them, only I, the louse, can! I’m so happy to be able to help them I want to cry. And that’s all, I don’t want anything more.”

The film Stalker ends the Stalker’s story with him returning home distraught. Neither the Professor nor the Writer entered the room, and their questioning of his understanding of the Zone and role as guide has shaken the Stalker. He complains about their non-belief bitterly, and overall seems deeply depressed that he’s had to return to reality at all. He shows little warmth to his wife and daughter, and definitely doesn’t display the ecstasy we saw when he entered the Zone. He seems totally detached from what happened, and tries to cling bitterly to his perception of the Zone as a place of hope for mankind. His wife puts him to bed, and he is visibly feeble and implicitly infantile.

This final vision of the Stalker as an embittered and lonely soul hopelessly cursing those who just don’t understand doesn’t have to be reflective of video game hobbyists, but it usually is. Just as the Stalker hates the Writer and Professor for their perspectives on the Zone and the Room, gamers frequently despise those who try and emphasize the continuities between the Zone of gaming and the grey world behind the barbed wire. “Get your politics out of my video games” is to this day a constant refrain even four years after Gamergate, the seeming high tide of white male gamer resentment. A quick glance at the comment section of any politically charged content can quickly find dozens of detractors who argue that even invoking the outside world is unnecessary and harmful. These bitter people want to alienate gaming from the reality around it as a way to avoid acknowledging the cruel fact that doing so is impossible. The escape to the Zone is always fleeting, one must always return in the end to one’s home and one’s bed outside the Zone in that hostile grey world. All of one’s mastery of the Zone and it’s laws is reduced to meaningless esoteric trivia, and the conventional powers that be are still in control and still hold the power to “take everything” from you.

But games serving as an escape does not have to be toxic. They aren’t and shouldn’t be an escape just for the lowest common denominator of white dude. As Cameron Kunzelman wrote for Waypoint: “The power fantasy, then, is a contested space, and I don’t think the discussion should be centered on whether they should exist or not. Instead, the discussion should be focused on who gets to feel powerful? Who gets access to digital representations of their dreams, especially in the AAA game or blockbuster space?” There is nothing inherently wrong with enjoying the power that mastery over games provides or the experience of guiding someone else through them. Like in the Zone, there is a fundamental beauty to games that everyone should experience, and they hold a great deal of hope as an artistic medium even though they may not save mankind. Though it is often in spite of their explicit content, marginalized people can derive a great deal of joy from escaping to the lush vivid greenery of the Zone of gaming. It is always crucial, however, that we avoid becoming the Stalker who worships the Zone without questioning it or his feelings about it. We must be the Writer, always self criticizing and mulling over what it all means. And we must also be the Professor, wondering about the dangers of the Zone and what dark power it could have in the wrong hands. We can derive joy from our escape, but we must always accept with grace the reality that we must return to our home, and must understand that the grey and brutal world is the real one that we owe our loyalties to. There is hope in this real grey world, but only if we act to change it from within it. To attempt to escape from and ignore the world’s problems is to be complicit in them, and we must not allow ourselves to become the impotent Stalker who curses his lot from his bed.

[porcelain-village-blog]

I'm not going to lie it's been quite a stressful December.

With Christmas shopping, work, losing a best friend, trying to help mend a damaged but working relationship and getting fucking sick, I have resorted to just sleeping my life away in the day time. My room's a mess, I have no motivation to clean, draw, or work out, my diet has been shitty and I have to wait until Wednesday to buy more groceries that are vegan and gluten free because my thyroid disease won't allow me to digest the foods I have been eating... I've just been so depressed and exhausted emotionally and physically. I'm trying to stay strong for my family and my boyfriend but honestly I just want to starve myself for 10 days straight and slit my wrists open. I am recovering so I know this is also just a mental withdrawel depressive state from detatching myself to habits that were unhealthy but habits that also made me feel psychologically better and alive.

But that's not living.

And I know one day I will have it made one day. Next year I will start practicing driving and hopefully more tattoo business starts coming in from the "new year, new me" holiday junkies that can't get enough of that superficial kind of validation all because the clock strikes midnight on one very specific time of the year. I just don't really know how long I can keep going. I feel suicidle and depressed. I feel so fucking tired of this life, these pains, not having really any friends, and the friends I do have live across the state or they're too busy to come iver and chill. This world is falling apart piece by piece and all I can do is not contribute to it's abuse but working where I do contributes to it. My addictive cigerettes contribute to it. My family, my friends, my bad habits all contribute to it and part of why I wish for death is because I'm terrified to stick around when the world finally goes to shit.

Cutting won't fix any of that but it will give me something comforting to focus on. Starving won't fix that but I can at least save money and be proud if something I'm doing.

I'm just slowly falling apart and I used to get mental break downs and cry my eyes out until the head aches started and I became too tired to cry... But now I've just started to accept that things don't seem to ever get better and they probably never will. I can only continue to follow this shitty routine of waking up, going to a job where the employees are underpaid but the advertisements make a lot more money than we do, coming home and binge eating on junk food to give me some type of temporary happiness, feeling so fucking guilty after every meal I eat, go through numerous debates in my head of "starve" or "it's fine, just eat healthier tomorrow," try to not cut myself because of the overwhelming guilt I feel constantly, sleep at some sort of ungodly hour in the eveing like 3 or 6pm and then sleep again anywhere between 1am to 5am. Nothing is getting better. Cigerettes and my thyroid disease are probabky going to be what finalky fucking kills me and instead if stopping any of these habits I continue them because why the hell should I stop? What's the fucking point? Either these choices will kill me and I can be another casuality of bad life choices that led to my death, or I can wait until I can no longer out up with anything in my life anymore and I can just do it myself. I don't know which is more scary... or which is more appealing.

I made this new blog to "start over" because I didn't want to follow pro ana blogs, self harm blogs, and drug abusive blogs. I started over because I thought "these new blogs full of healthy tips and self care tips will maybe give me the push I need to start treating my body better." But it's not that simple and I was honestly really naive to even think that. I've had depression since I was 12 and an eating disorder since I was 17. I don't think I can change because this is simply who I've become as a person. I can't even offer goid advice because all I can think of is how superficial everybody is- how temporary they are to me and their problems are to me. My thought process has been the same since I developed depression and I have tried so many times to change my fucking mind set but nothing ever works. Pills never worked, "body positive" shit didn't work, talking only opened up the wound and crying made it sting and burn. Mentally... I don't have any time left. Now I just float here on this giant dying rock in space as a dead but breathing physical form that doesn't even want to exist anymore. I feel like the people who don't want me to commit suicide or hurt myself are the selfish ones because they'd much rather see me suffering but still going than dead and finally at peace and one with the ground. They only care anyways if I've either cut myself recently or I've lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. Even this stupid status- it's not fucking getting me anywhere but at least I can vent for 20 seconds and get this shit out of my head for a moment.. I guess that helps a small bit...

Guess it's time to go back inside and continue this shitty routine.